Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh!”
A toddler at a neighboring table let out an aboriginal scream, so her parents paid little attention. Two guys at the counter apparently decided their blue plate specials warranted more attention than Seth’s dramatics. Chesca flushed Pepto-pink, but she was still laughing when Janet hustled over with their dessert.
“That was quick.” He lowered fist and voice.
“Anything to shut you up.”
“The cantata begins with ‘Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee’—perfect for the Triumphal Entry, don’t you think?” Chesca sipped the coffee she hadn’t ordered.
“You want the cantata to cover all of Holy Week?” He pulled a small clipboard from his coat pocket and made a note. “Including Palm Sunday?”
“Yes. Pastor Hoke surprised me when he said he hadn’t planned anything special for the actual Palm Sunday. I thought the children could wave palms, approaching the altar as the choir sings.”
“We’ll stick Jesus and some disciples in, too.” He scrawled again.
“Who will play those parts?” She loved the idea of a flesh-and-blood Jesus, but this sounded complicated.
“I know a college student who’ll do great. I’ll draft my football friends for disciples.”
“Do they attend Christ the King?”
“No.” He ran a big hand through his hair. “We want guys who look and act like fishermen, right? Maybe a sleazy tax-collector type, too. Or a Simon the Zealot/mugger guy who slips knives under people’s ribs—”
“More coffee?” Janet interrupted Seth’s cast of thousands.
“Hey, you’re a tea drinker, aren’t you?”
He remembered. Chesca gestured toward her cup. “Yes. But this is extra good.”
“Janet serves only the best.”
A smile crept across the waitress’s face as she filled their cups. Seth bent over his illegible list, muttering. Three deer heads eyed Chesca from the opposite wall as she reviewed her very traditional song list. What other surprises did Seth have in store?
The delicious coffee, her first in years, might present the least of the changes she would encounter this spring.
Chapter 4
S eth had tried to wiggle out of attending Chesca’s choir practice, but no dice. She said no CD could substitute for a live performance.
Boy, she was right. Sitting in the balcony of the dimly lit sanctuary, Seth listened as his mechanic, a Walgreens clerk, his former pediatrician, and thirty more people he thought he knew sang as if they performed on a public TV station’s opera night. He had no idea the choir sounded so professional. The church had hired Chesca right out of college, but she knew what she was doing. This evening she corrected her singers umpteen times, and their final rendition of “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” made him want to rise to his feet and praise God.
Their expressions, however, didn’t match the incredible sound. More like “Wooden, Wooden, We Will Bore Thee.” Several buried their heads in their music. They laughed and talked between songs, but when they began “‘Tis Midnight and on Olive’s Brow,” faces froze, and the singers looked as if they were about to play in a national poker tournament. Dare he suggest to Chesca that her choir could use a face-lift—the kind that had nothing to do with surgery?
He wished he could see her expression as she directed, but he liked watching her hands. They moved like a potter’s, shaping music like clay. Sometimes she seemed to pull songs from people, drawing them like water from thirty-five wells.
When the choir began “God So Loved the World,” he
had
to see her face. He crept to the balcony’s right side, hoping the dimness would prevent his distracting her or the choir.
She hadn’t seen him. Her intensity made him wonder if she would see him if he fell over the rail. Her movements wrote a praise poem. Her eyes looked past the choir to heaven.
Worship
.
Recently Seth had learned to worship God with a new heart. But this woman? Her very nerves seemed to touch
A toddler at a neighboring table let out an aboriginal scream, so her parents paid little attention. Two guys at the counter apparently decided their blue plate specials warranted more attention than Seth’s dramatics. Chesca flushed Pepto-pink, but she was still laughing when Janet hustled over with their dessert.
“That was quick.” He lowered fist and voice.
“Anything to shut you up.”
“The cantata begins with ‘Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee’—perfect for the Triumphal Entry, don’t you think?” Chesca sipped the coffee she hadn’t ordered.
“You want the cantata to cover all of Holy Week?” He pulled a small clipboard from his coat pocket and made a note. “Including Palm Sunday?”
“Yes. Pastor Hoke surprised me when he said he hadn’t planned anything special for the actual Palm Sunday. I thought the children could wave palms, approaching the altar as the choir sings.”
“We’ll stick Jesus and some disciples in, too.” He scrawled again.
“Who will play those parts?” She loved the idea of a flesh-and-blood Jesus, but this sounded complicated.
“I know a college student who’ll do great. I’ll draft my football friends for disciples.”
“Do they attend Christ the King?”
“No.” He ran a big hand through his hair. “We want guys who look and act like fishermen, right? Maybe a sleazy tax-collector type, too. Or a Simon the Zealot/mugger guy who slips knives under people’s ribs—”
“More coffee?” Janet interrupted Seth’s cast of thousands.
“Hey, you’re a tea drinker, aren’t you?”
He remembered. Chesca gestured toward her cup. “Yes. But this is extra good.”
“Janet serves only the best.”
A smile crept across the waitress’s face as she filled their cups. Seth bent over his illegible list, muttering. Three deer heads eyed Chesca from the opposite wall as she reviewed her very traditional song list. What other surprises did Seth have in store?
The delicious coffee, her first in years, might present the least of the changes she would encounter this spring.
Chapter 4
S eth had tried to wiggle out of attending Chesca’s choir practice, but no dice. She said no CD could substitute for a live performance.
Boy, she was right. Sitting in the balcony of the dimly lit sanctuary, Seth listened as his mechanic, a Walgreens clerk, his former pediatrician, and thirty more people he thought he knew sang as if they performed on a public TV station’s opera night. He had no idea the choir sounded so professional. The church had hired Chesca right out of college, but she knew what she was doing. This evening she corrected her singers umpteen times, and their final rendition of “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” made him want to rise to his feet and praise God.
Their expressions, however, didn’t match the incredible sound. More like “Wooden, Wooden, We Will Bore Thee.” Several buried their heads in their music. They laughed and talked between songs, but when they began “‘Tis Midnight and on Olive’s Brow,” faces froze, and the singers looked as if they were about to play in a national poker tournament. Dare he suggest to Chesca that her choir could use a face-lift—the kind that had nothing to do with surgery?
He wished he could see her expression as she directed, but he liked watching her hands. They moved like a potter’s, shaping music like clay. Sometimes she seemed to pull songs from people, drawing them like water from thirty-five wells.
When the choir began “God So Loved the World,” he
had
to see her face. He crept to the balcony’s right side, hoping the dimness would prevent his distracting her or the choir.
She hadn’t seen him. Her intensity made him wonder if she would see him if he fell over the rail. Her movements wrote a praise poem. Her eyes looked past the choir to heaven.
Worship
.
Recently Seth had learned to worship God with a new heart. But this woman? Her very nerves seemed to touch
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