Soft rain fell in the twilight. My husband held an umbrella over me as I stepped out of the car, and I ran a hand over my rounded belly.
Baby was quiet tonight.
I waddled onto the sidewalk and we wandered towards the throbbing downtown of the historic town of St. Augustine. However, we passed the soaring cathedral and our curiosity was piqued by a man who stood at the grand wood doors in a suit and tie, handing out programs to guests who entered. Golden light spilled onto the cathedral steps to where we stood. A sign propped on a tripod near the man proclaimed that a performer would be singing ancient romantic ballads this evening.
"Is this an open program?" I asked.
"Yes, and free," the man replied. "The concert has not started yet, but will start soon,"
My husband and I glanced at each other. We exchanged a look and a shrug that said, "Why not? Let's do it!" so we scaled the steps and the man handed us the programs. Although visitors from all over the world often toured this historic cathedral, Ghanashyam and I had actually attended masses and come to pray many times over the years not so much as tourists but as spiritual seekers. This evening's program, though, struck me as a bit out of place. Romantic ballads sung in a church?
We stepped into the cathedral; soft lamps lit up the rows of gleaming wooden pews and the soaring ceilings made me sigh with peace. I ran a hand over my belly again, as was now becoming a habit in my eighth month of pregnancy. I was very aware that my little one could now hear everything, especially my voice, and could even feel my feelings.
We sidled into a pew and sat down amidst the gathering crowd that softly chattered. I read through the program that the man had handed us at the door and felt, again, a flash of growing confusion and unease.
"Ghanashyam," I said, "these songs are about a man who becomes infatuated with a milkmaid who he marries, but then she cheats on him with another man in the village. Then he pines away and basically commits suicide out of jealousy and revenge. Why on earth would they be hosting a program like this in a Catholic church? Isn't this a place for worshipping God?"
"I don't know," he replied, shaking his head. "They probably rented out the space. It is a strange program,"
A man emerged upon the raised altar/stage area of the cathedral and the crowd shushed. He introduced the piano player and then who the singer would be, as she was also a scholar and had dedicated much of her life and career to translating and performing these songs. He also instructed us to only applaud after the third, fifth, and eleventh songs (I think). With a swell of applause, the woman swept to the center of the stage. She wore a low-cut satin evening gown, her hair swept into a loose bun. In her middle age years, she reminded me of a flower who had begun to wilt.
The woman's operatic voice spiraled into the air. Even though these songs were supposed to have been translated into English, I could not understand a single word, even taking into account the more dramatic singing style. The programs only gave summaries of the songs. So, knowing that I might be perceived as extremely rude, I looked up the lyrics on my phone, ducking my device under the pew. I found a translation - not the scholar/singer's, but it would have to do.
Now that I understood the words, I became increasingly repulsed by the progression of the story. The man pining away. The woman leading him on. Getting married, only to have her eye straying to another man. She cheated.
What's more, no one was applauding after any of the songs, possibly because we all felt a little confused by the protocol. At one point I just decided to applaud after what I thought was the correct song, and everyone followed suit (sometimes you just need to be that person who starts an applause) but a few songs later, the performer herself reprimanded us, "You are applauding at the wrong time. Applaud after the _______ song." (I still don't remember what the numbers were.)
No one applauded again for the rest of the show.
I glanced around at the magnificent setting of this cathedral and again felt a flash of confusion that this concert would be held in the house of God.
Somehow, we endured to the very end. When we left, I felt that we had just immersed ourselves in a sticky story of lust and jealousy and ego and despair. "Sorry, sweetie," I murmured, rubbing my belly again.
Two days later, however, my husband and I entered that same cathedral for Sunday morning mass. Hundreds of people filled the pews and the brightness of the morning lit up the soaring ceilings. We sat in one of the very front pews. I wore a white maternity dress that flowed around my ankles when I walked, and I received warm congratulations from almost every person who made eye contact with me. I received them all graciously, feeling blessed.
When the service began, an unassuming woman in her thirties stepped up to the podium. She wore a black, knee-length skirt and a simple cardigan, her hair pulled back into a bun.
Then, she sang.
Goosebumps rolled over my arms and my body as her voice illuminated the entire cathedral. She sang in soft, high tones, the Latin sung with serenity and clarity. Although it may sound cliche, she had the voice of an angel, truly. Her face remained calm and composed - she seemed to be almost oblivious to the beauty of her own voice. She was simply doing her service.
By the time this woman sang for the second or third time, sometimes in Latin, sometimes in English, tears poured down my face and my whole body seemed to weep with the beauty of the praise and prayer to God. I could not remember the last time I had experienced being so moved by anyone's singing.
I experienced the sharp contrast of the woman who had devoted her life to learning to translate and sing for her concert about the man driven mad with lust and jealousy over a milkmaid, the indecipherable singing and the confusing applause protocol. How her voice had ultimately dragged my husband and me down (maybe even our baby), and most likely many others as well, whether they were aware of it or not.
But in this very same place, another woman was using her talent to sing songs of worship to God. I reflected how her voice was lifting up hundreds of people to access a place of peace, prayer, and love within their own hearts. Maybe I was a little overly sensitive as a woman who was eight months pregnant, but I could feel the joy and beauty surround my little one.
After mass, I approached the woman, along with my husband, with tears in my eyes.
"Congratulations," she said with a smile, glancing at my belly.
"Thank you," I replied. "Thank you for singing so beautifully. I actually wanted to ask you something. You see, we are waiting to find out the gender of our child. But as you were singing I felt this desire in my heart to ask you for your blessings, that if we have a girl that one day she may sing like you in service to God,"
"Of course," she responded, "That is so beautiful," unshed tears shining in her eyes.
I extended an invitation and said, "If you like, you may touch my belly,"
"Really?" she said.
"Yes,"
And the woman reached forward with tender fingers and fell quiet, a smile gracing her face.
Although the Lord blessed us with a son, I am sure that that woman's blessing still reaches my child at its essence. Yes, maybe one day he will literally sing as a service to God. But, more importantly, is how he uses his God-given energy and talents in this world.
To degrade?
Or to uplift?
May the woman's blessing encourage my son upon the more fulfilling path.
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