Small Things

*****

When I was growing up, I sang in the choir. I started at seven, and my mother took the vestments to my grandmother so she could hem them to be short enough. I processed in by myself, directly behind the acolyte, which was great until it was embarrassing, and I campaigned to walk in with someone else.

Sometimes I walked beside Marie Daniel. She was probably in her seventies, although she dyed her hair jet black. I don't remember much about her in general aside from her laugh and her deviled eggs (both amazing). There was one time, though, when it was time for us to stand up and sing a hymn, and Marie didn't stand up. She was resting her head against the wall and looked so still that I thought she was asleep. I jiggled her shoulder and then sat down to look at her, and she opened one eye at me and smiled. "Marie?" I asked her. "It's all right," she said. "I'm just feeling God today."

*****

Eva, yesterday while snuggling on the bed with me: "God is big...and God is small. And He likes to wear purple."


*****

Our choir director when I was growing up was ambitious and sometimes had us sing anthems in Latin. This was challenging-- after all, we were a couple of retirees, and a gaggle of Paula Deens, and a middle schooler. I remember my mother taking a pencil and writing "way knee yay sue" underneath the words in Cherubini's "Veni Jesu Amor Mi."


Westminster Chancel Choir, Dallas, TX

I think we sounded beautiful.

*****

This past year has been an intense one for me, spiritually speaking. As a friend wrote today on her blog, "I find myself wondering why other people aren't different-- then I remind myself that I have changed." And I have-- have changed, am changing.

Before Mr. Milkweed and I decided to try to have children-- that it, while we were still deciding when to try-- I was OBSESSED with trying to figure out the ideal time. It wasn't a question of whether it was time to fit it into our life narrative, but whether I was ready. And it wasn't as much a question of whether I was ready, I now realize, as a fear of the unknown. I looked at friends who were mothers and felt so clearly this dividing line between us. They were "over there" and I was "over here," and it was impossible to know what that was like unless I experienced it.

Over and over again in my life I've also sensed this them/me, over here/over there dichotomy betwixt myself and people I regarded as being truly immersed in faith. People who were so clearly in touch with the Spirit in ways that I was not. And I can't explain how it happened-- truly, I can't-- but I'm venturing out from the shallow end, and it's scary in here.

But I want to keep swimming.