Chapter Text
My shoulders tense as the last note resounds into the sanctuary. The whole congregation looks confused as I shoot a knowing glance at Doris.
Doris giggles, waves me off, then corrects herself, finally hitting the right note. I am mortified.
The crowd lets out an awkward chuckle and shuffles into their seats.
So much for rehearsal.
Doris beams like nothing went wrong.
I've poured everything into this worship band. I scoured high and low for a decent drummer. I taught one of the deacons a few basic guitar chords. I convinced the nursery teacher that she had what it takes to sing the harmonies.
Despite my best efforts, Doris is simply unteachable. I spent hours coaching her—teaching her how the piano pedals work, explaining how to listen to the rest of the band to keep time. I guess you really can’t teach old dogs new tricks. Especially when they refuse to listen.
“Beautiful song, Phil!” Doris hollers as she struts back to her pew.
“Thanks, Doris,” I grimace.
Doris doesn't understand how much this means to me. It’s why I get up in the morning. I don’t think there's been a day in the last three years where I haven’t walked through these doors, putting my whole heart into it.
I let out a sigh of relief when I get to my seat and feel the eyes drift away. No matter how much I love singing and leading worship, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to those lingering gazes. Maybe one day.
As the congregation turns its focus to our pastor, the worries of the world melt away.
“Thank you, Phil, and band,” Pastor Thomas says, rubbing his temples before speaking, like he is already tired. “Always something unique for us.”
I groan internally. Unique is a nice way of putting it.
As the sermon deepens, I flip through my Bible, highlighting verses to study later. My mind drifts between the melodies and the red letters on the page. There's something beautiful about how music and faith intertwine through generations.
The congregation is beautiful.
To my left, I notice Sarah rocking her baby, shushing and offering a pacifier. I feel a swell of quiet joy for her. They tried for so long. All of their anticipation and prayer led to this moment.
Behind me, Mr. Lewis taps his pen to the rhythm of our last song. I let my shoulders relax to the sound.
I put so much pressure on making the experience perfect for everyone that I forget the people won’t worry about the little things like I do. They just want to worship—to be in the room.
In the pew in front of me, my best friend Mary laughs quietly at something her mom says, then glances back at me.
It is hard to think that some people wouldn’t find this place beautiful. Sure, the building hasn't been updated since the 80s, but even the burgundy carpet has a certain charm. The dark oak arches over the stage frame the pastor perfectly, and the vaulted ceilings carry every note.
“And so, I say to all of you here today…”
That’s my cue.
I walk back to the stage to welcome everyone to the altar, making my way to the piano before Doris has a chance to stop snoring in the third row.
“Love your neighbor as yourself. Love them even if you don’t understand them. You might be the only way they see Jesus today. Let’s pray.”
I play a familiar hymn to carry the congregation through the reflection time. It’s a wonder to see families praying together and lifting their hands in worship. I relish the simple beauty of God and people humbly coming to Him in such a vulnerable setting.
This is everything the church should be, and I am so grateful to be even a small part of it.
I close out the song—playing the notes correctly, of course—and the lights come on as the reflection ends. Back to the real world.
As I head toward the sound booth, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, Mary!” I say as she wraps me in an excited hug.
Mary is Pastor Thomas's daughter, and she plays the role well. Always giving, always humble, and always the buzz in the room. She giggles in her bubbly way and beckons someone over, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Phil, you have to meet my new friend! He started at the Art and History Museum and my boss had me show him around—anyway—he plays piano! And I mean, I know that Doris plays, and we all deserve to serve, but maybe he can help you, and I think Doris could use some help in the department of—”
“Mary,” I cut her off with a giddy smile, “if this guy can tell a C chord from his shoe, he's hired. Who is he?”
That’s when I see him stumble from the huddle of well-meaning churchgoers, all of whom are hoping to see him again next week. His face is bright red behind a mess of dark brown curls. He clutches a small notebook in one hand. He waves politely as he walks over to Mary’s side, sheepish but kind.
“Phil! This is Dan! Dan, this is Phil!” Mary squeals.
“Hi, Dan. Nice to meet you.” I reach out to shake his hand, and our eyes meet fully. My face goes just as red.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” he says, shaking my hand before stepping back slightly. “I heard that you might need someone to step in to play piano?”
My heart skips a beat.
Maybe Dan is an answer to prayer.