It was back in 2010. My husband, Michael had recently died following a valiant battle with a brain tumour. My youngest daughter was singing with a small choir and I was invited to travel with them as their collaborative pianist on their tour to New York City. My daughter was excited that I could spend that week with her, and hopefully start to move through my grief.
We were scheduled to sing for a Sunday service at St John the Divine in Harlem. On the Saturday at the rehearsal I was taken up into the organ loft, and assisted by their organist. I had played organ over the years, although had received very little training at that point. This pipe organ was massive, and the thought of trying to figure anything out in time for the brief rehearsal and morning service terrified me. The organist, Bruce, was wonderful; full of encouragement, and he generously offered to pull stops for me. He just assumed that I could anything, and knowing that he was there to help gave me reassurance.
Sunday morning I again climbed the stairs to the organ loft, which is located about 2 floors above the nave. I could see the conductor through a video screen placed near the music stand. Bruce played for most of the service, except for the two songs which the young women’s choir presented and which I accompanied. As a professional musician, I am well aware that a flawless performance is incredibly rare. I am always ultra-critical of my performances, knowing that there are mistakes that just happen for no reason except perhaps a brief loss of concentration, or thinking too much, or sometimes for no reason at all.
That Sunday morning was the first time in my life that I knew that there was someone with me, giving me the courage and confidence to complete a flawless performance. I could feel Michael there with me, cheering me on. He was always so proud of me, and I knew he was at that moment too. That day I felt within arms reach of the “thin places”. It is a day I will never forget.
Reflections 