Keeping a song in my heart

Judy Wiff, Regional Editor, Second Thoughts Column

Long ago I learned that not only will I never be the soloist, they probably wouldn't let me sing in the choir.

Not that I ever aspired to singing greatness, but I'll admit to disappointment when my son poked me in the side one Sunday in church and then leaned over to whisper, "Mom, maybe you should just mouth the words."

At the time, I embarrassed him just by being there, but still ..

My husband has a very nice singing voice. My son sang solos in elementary school and later joined a male chorus.

But my family's lack of tune has been a standing joke. "We got it from our mother. Have you ever heard her sing?" snickered one of my sisters as another laughed along.

I had news for those two. Our mother had a perfectly nice singing voice before they were born. My brother and I were her audience as she sang along with the radio in the little kitchen in our old house.

Maybe nostalgia had improved my mother's voice, but even before my son's lapse of subtlety, I knew my own tones weren't dulcet.

So I compensated. I learned to admire well-trained, finely-toned female voices. That's what I'd sound like if I could sing, I'd think. Besides most of the time being just a member of the audience is easier and probably more pleasant than being the singer.

Shortly after she came to town, our new associate pastor stepped up to the pulpit. As the order of worship led into the pastoral prayer, the new minister broke into song. Actually she belted it out: Carly Kuntz never did anything half way.

Mouths dropped, but because we are a polite bunch, we quickly composed ourselves and went on with the service. It was great. Here was a woman willing to step off the path, and she could sing like nobody's business.

Each Sunday as the congregation sang, I listened until I could pick out her voice, strong and sure. It wasn't really envy, but I enjoyed her singing all the more because there was no chance my voice would ever sound like that.

But recently I have found my own fan.

One night at bedtime, my 2-year-old granddaughter and I talked about her new toy buffalo and the buffalo farm near our house. As we settled into the rocking chair, Abby said, "Sing a song about a buffalo."

I don't know a song about a buffalo. "Home on the Range" hardly counts.

But as Abby gripped her toy in her left hand and rubbed the edge of her soft fuzzy blanket across her nose with her right hand, I sang about a buffalo and a little girl, making up the words as I went along.

The rhyme was rough, the tune was off, but when I stopped, Abby insisted, "Sing some more."

My first encore. Beauty, I decided, is in the ear of the beholder.