They call me their Singing Angel. We have the most undefineable of relationships. The one clear relationship among them is Auntie Alice, my grandmother’s sister. But the rest are just the parish women and men. And I get up once a month to lead the singing. I put my heart into it. At first, it was because I love to let my voice soar across a high note and know that it is clear and strong and reaching. And because I like to do things right. But now it’s for them too. Because I am their Singing Angel.
But you see, Jake’s wife died on Sunday. Yesterday, I suppose, for whatever yesterday means in grief. And the funeral is this Friday. And it would mean a lot to Jake if I would sing at the funeral. It’s inconceivable to refuse. In all the realities in all the multiverse, this Friday has one option. I didn’t know his wife. I don’t know what his favourite songs are and he might not be able to articulate a preference right now. So it’s up to me to find my strong voice in the midst of grieving. To sing these songs of comfort for whatever they can offer in this. The songs break me down at the best of times, and I don’t know how to walk into a room full of grief and pull out my guitar.
I have to believe that God is sending me to make a difference. That I will be an instrument of comfort. This isn’t about me; it isn’t about my struggle. This isn’t self-pity. This is the prayer of a singing angel who must keep her voice.