To Sing or Not to Sing?

My entire life, I have regarded traditional church hymns as unnecessarily strenuous and taxing. Reminiscing on the days of my Arkansas childhood, the most unpleasant part of every Sunday was exactly that - the part of worship that required me to take on yet another impossible melody. As it turned out, I was an atrocious singer (which as a side note, is precisely why I'm such an accomplished whistler. I had to be good at something musical). Yet somehow, it wasn't until the early United Methodist days that I came to that realization. Most Sundays, I'd get the look from those seated nearby - mostly children with their brutally honest, unable-to-produce-a-poker-face-innocence, but sometimes mothers and even elderly men (hearing aids not withstanding) - and I understood what it meant. Just what exactly is that noise? Make it stop. Oh, it's you. You sound awful. Shh! And so I would. I would stop actually singing, and transition into mouthing the words. A few in the congregation seemed onto my new trick, I knew it, and with this, it became a game, a hobby of sorts, and there was only one thing to do: master it. Each song brought on an unknown challenge, involving anticipated lip synched pauses, breaths, and of course, the notes themselves. It took years of practice, and I'm not afraid to gloat. At the green age of six, I made lip synching my bitch.  

Nearly twenty years later, I found myself put to the test. I was attending a funeral for my boyfriend (he didn't die; I was there for support), and to my horror, opened up the program to find many traditional hymns slated for this very service. I don't think I need to mention that I was sitting in a pew with his entire family and also surrounded in front, and behind, his extended family. But this situation seemed different. I wasn't at church as an elementary school child, I was at a memorial service for somebody. A service that honors the individual's life, and comforts those that are still living. The right thing to do, is to sing.

The piano struck the first chord of "Amazing Grace," I took a deep breath, and we all joined in. My voice was shaky, but it sounded tolerable. I pressed onward. Then, blindsided by an unexpected high note, the looks from the nearby family commenced. Rather than completely abort mission, I merely toned down the racket while simultaneously lowering my chin as to only be heard by myself. This stunt drew the attention from the boyfriend, during which I slipped one step further to that familiar place of lip synching. And that's exactly where I finished out the duration of his great grandmother's memorial. Better this way, than to be forever known as the deaf girl.

Perhaps I'll try whistling the hymn next time. Not sure how that would go over.

Nonetheless, the question remains: to sing, or not to sing: that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the outrageous cacophony, or to take arms against the sea of temptation and remain mute. Until the faire has gone settled, I bid thee well, my good men and good ladies.