And they poured out their joy in song

She looked a little dowdy in her white Salvation Army shirt and blue skirt. Her guitar was too loud as she strummed it in plain down-strokes, but oh the joy in her face as she closed her eyes, smiled, and sang of her love for God in a clear, high voice that could have been an angel’s. Her name was Corrin. Her husband Nathan, a fuzzy-faced man also in Salvation Army garb, sang along behind me. The Holy Spirit was there, I swear.

Corrin was one of several acts at the Christian music festival and potluck held Saturday at First Presbyterian in Newport as a benefit for Inter-Christian Outreach. I was the opening act because I had to scoot to Sacred Heart to play piano for the 5:00 Mass. Like Corrine, I played alone. Getting our choir together for Mass is challenge enough; with their busy schedules, an extra performance requiring extra practices was not going to happen.

I played guitar and sang “Pescador de Hombres (Lord You have Come)” and “Alleluia! Give the Glory.” My voice was better at the dress rehearsal. My throat felt dry after the long wait for the show to begin. But it was all right. Used to singing from the corner or at the piano, I stood up on that polished wood altar in front of the fancy organ, the grand piano, and all kinds of sound equipment facing an audience of mostly Protestants and represented the Catholics. The words to the refrains for my songs appeared on giant screens behind me, and people sang along. We didn’t have as much of a crowd as I had hoped. The other performers made up most of the audience, but we all sang and shared the joy.

I introduced the next act, the group from Newport Christian Church, some of whom I knew from the monthly South Beach open mic. They had fiddle, bass, and guitar. Two women sang harmony in the middle. A tall barefoot woman sat on a box drum and kept the beat. None of them dressed up, but they led with a prayer and finished their songs with heartfelt amens. They were good. Tight. In tune. Filled with grace.

Even better was the group from First Baptist. Such harmony! They had several guitars, a young man on a box drum and another man on the piano. They sang without sheet music, one of the altos often raising her hand toward heaven. I didn’t know the songs, but I found myself singing along anyway.

Then came Corrin, followed by First Baptist’s Hispanic group, all dressed up in red and black, including a little girl who played a massive white tambourine. They had guitar and piano, too, with one man and five women singing. Their sound was a little shrill, but they too seemed to be filled with joy, the older woman closing her eyes as she sang.

As I left to play at my own church, four girls in flowy white costumes did a liturgical dance. I knew a collection and a sing-along would follow. Then folks would adjourn to the hall where plates of cookies, vegetables and fruit awaited.

It was warm at First Pres. I was sweating under Mom’s teal sweater and shaking a little as I snuck out with my ratty duct-taped guitar case, breathed in the cool air, and drove to Sacred Heart. As I put up the song numbers, Father Palmer sat in the back room hearing confessions. Gregorian chant played through the speakers.

Catholics are different. They are not comfortable showing their faith or talking about it outside of church. We don’t know the same songs the Protestants share. We do chants and our “services” are the same every time. We don’t do Christian rock songs that go on for 10 minutes. They don’t fit into the liturgy, and in Fr. Palmer’s view, they’re not appropriate. There’s comfort in the familiar routine; we always know what to expect, but sometimes I worry that we’re lacking the joy I saw in the others at the concert.

SB open mic 7917CThat joy doesn’t exist just in church. Yesterday we had our monthly open mic and jam session at the South Beach Community Center. A friend  of mine who tried it last month declared it too noisy, but I loved it. This month, we had two mandolins, a ukulele, a cello, two fiddles, three guitars and a saxophone. Renae Richmond, who announced her retirement as our leader, traded among her mandolin, flute and harmonica. We all sang and played on everything we could. Sometimes it came together beautifully. Sometimes it was just a joyful noise, not always in tune or in time but full out. My fingers and my strumming arm are weary. My vocal cords, too, but it doesn’t matter.

We sat in a circle around the green rug in the center of the hardwood dance floor. Spencer, the Beckers’ dachshund, visited everyone then dozed at Randy’s feet. We sang bluegrass, Jackson Browne, Keb Mo, Rod McKuen, a jazzy “Summertime,” old-time fiddle tunes, an original, “Worried Man Blues” and “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” It was raucous and wonderful. It didn’t matter if you screwed up. In fact, it was almost required.

Some of us just met while others have known each other since the turn of the 21st century. People have died, babies have been born, and marriages have begun and ended. We just keep playing. It’s never the same two jams in a row, and that’s the glory of it. Like a big soup into which you add whatever you have, whether it’s delicious or so-so, you can’t quite duplicate it ever again.

The South Beach jam takes place on the second Sunday of the month from 2 to 5 p.m. at the South Beach Community Center on Ferry Slip Road across from Pirate’s Plunder.

To find out more about Inter-Christian Outreach, click http://interchristianoutreach.org.

 

 

Don’t be afraid to sing. Whatever voice you have, it’s the one God gave you, so to Him, it’s beautiful.

 

Copyright 2018 Sue Fagalde Lick 

 

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Outside, wind and rain, but inside, it’s Christmas!

IMG_20151207_101213973[1]Wind and rain have been slamming against my bedroom window all night. In the thin gray light of morning, I rise with trepidation to see what has happened outside. The trees are rocking dangerously, the wind chimes clanging an alarm. Branches litter the lawn. The area around my garden shed is underwater, and I know the inside is soaked again. My garbage and compost carts lie on their backs, smacked down by the sound wind. There is no sign of the robins, jays, juncos and other birds that usually feed in my yard as gusts upwards of 60 mph roar like airplanes taking off.

Outside, it’s a black and white movie, everything in shades of gray. Inside, it’s a riot of Christmas color. After being forced kicking and screaming into Christmas music at my Friday jam (where I was the only one expecting to sing “regular” songs), I plunged into Christmas on Saturday, decorating the whole house and even starting my shopping. I got out my cards. Haven’t written any yet, but at least they’re out, right? Does anybody else do Christmas cards anymore?

IMG_20151207_101308126[1]This is the first year it didn’t hurt to decorate the Christmas tree. My late husband was such a Christmas lover. He couldn’t wait to go chop down a tree and decorate it while playing his massive collection of Christmas music. We’d always attend the Oregon Coast Aquarium Christmas festivities, walking through the spectacular light display, talking to the otters, the jellies, and the puffins. We’d sing and sing and sing.

Once Fred was gone, I didn’t enjoy Christmas anymore. I still won’t go to the aquarium this time of year without him, but on this seventh holiday season since he went to the nursing home and subsequently passed away, I’m reclaiming the holiday for myself. On Saturday, with a break between rainstorms and scheduled activities, I hung colored lights inside and out, set up my fake trees, and played the music loud. Now there’s a Santa on my office window sill, bright red against the rain-spotted window and the grayness outside. Garlands hang off the china cabinet. Santa swings in the doorway. It’s Christmas!

For a small, rural community, Lincoln County is incredibly busy during the holidays. I could not attend everything that was happening: bazaars here, there and everywhere, the lighted boat parade, breakfast with Santa, the Seal Rock holiday greens sale, Toledo’s Hometown Holidays, and so much more. But I did get to the Sacred Heart advent potluck and the Central Coast Chorale’s Christmas concert. I Christmased up the family site at the local cemetery, and I took myself shopping on the Newport Bayfront.

We locals often forget to visit the sites all the tourists see, but winter is perfect because it is not crowded. So what if light rain patters on my hair and trickles down my neck? Umbrella? Too windy. Hoodie? Can’t see. It’s okay. We’re Oregonians. I got more than half my Christmas shopping done in the friendly shops, exchanged grunts with the sea lions hunkered on the docks across from the Undersea Gardens, and avoided shopping malls and big box stores.

As I passed the Bay Haven bar, I peeked in the window where the the Sunday afternoon jam session was happening. Decidedly not Christmas music, but it sounded good. A nice-looking man with wild gray hair walked up and looked in.

“Good music,” he said.

“Yes, it’s the Sunday afternoon jam.”

“Ah,” he said. “I brought peanut butter.”

It took me a minute. Then I laughed. Peanut butter and jelly. I get it. “But you need bread,” I countered.

“Think they’d let me play?” he asked. He didn’t seem to be packing an instrument.

“Sure,” I said, tempted to go in and sit in the back corner where the sign on the door said it was warm. A little cocktail, a little music . . . but it was getting dark and I had presents to wrap.

He went in, and I headed on my way, swinging my shopping bag and humming a little “Jingle Bell Rock.”

This Monday morning when I realize I haven’t done any of my weekend chores because I was having so much fun with Christmas, it’s 9:15 now, but it’s still dark, wet and windy outside. Inside, it’s Christmas. Merry, merry to one and all.