Being a Church Lady Has Its Complications

Sunday, when I can worship Christ with His family and grow in my faith, is my favorite day of the week.

However, even a confirmed church lady occasionally experiences a Sunday that makes her wish it was Monday.

Those tough Sundays happened far more frequently during my years as a mom/church music director. One of the worst — er, most challenging — nearly resulted in my resigning both positions.

That unholy morning, my pastor met me at the door. He had changed his sermon topic on the way to church. Would I please restructure the entire service in five minutes? Thank you.

Half the choir music had disappeared. Who would steal church choir music?

The regular accompanist, who could find a musical key in her sleep, had left for a two-week vacation. Our elderly substitute could neither hear nor see the music. But she played loud, to make up for it. During practice, I sneaked a signal to our sound man, Dylan. Turn Aunt Minnie down.

Dylan had graduated from the church youth group (their credo: We Walk on Ceilings). Now married and a church elder, he did a great job. Dylan handed me my lapel microphone and little black box to attach to my suit. Our sound check went perfectly. Things were looking up.

Until my husband and children arrived. A trail of puddles followed our older teen daughter, her eyes still half-closed. Water dripped from her long hair. Either she had joined a denomination for mermaids, or she had just exited the shower. The younger daughter had continued her experimentation with Goth makeup. Our son wore clothes he had brought home the day before after a week at Mud Camp. When I pointed this out to my beloved, he answered, “Sorry. I didn’t know which clothes were clean and which weren’t.”

I escaped to the blessed solitude of a restroom stall. I was in no condition to open the song service with “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee.” Lightning had never before struck our sanctuary, but our unsuspecting congregation was in for more fireworks than they had bargained for if I did not repent and change my attitude. Fast.

I bowed my head. “I’m sorry, Lord,” I whispered. No one heard, as other mothers herded their hordes into the restroom for pre-service primping and potty stops. But I knew God has good ears. And a heart for grouchy choir directors. However, He also has a way of getting His point across.

I prepared to make my own restroom stop before heading downstairs to warm up the choir. Without warning, my microphone leaped from my lapel and dove into the toilet, followed by the clunk of the little black box. I screamed, clearing the room.

Did I really have to fish the mic out of the toilet? Eww. It resembled a slimy sea creature. The green light that indicated “on” no longer shone.

Instead of wreaking judgment on me through fire, God had, in His own unique variation of the Flood, chosen water. My critical Pharisee mentality had literally gone down the toilet. I dried the mic with paper towels. As I made my way to the sound booth, I pasted on a toothpaste-ad smile and avoided shaking hands.

What would I tell Dylan?

In a microsecond, I evaluated my fib files. None came close to explaining this. Besides, I could hear thunder beginning to roll outside.

“Dylan,” I said, holding out the still-damp, $200 device, “I dropped the mic in the toilet. I’m sorry.”

He stared, unbelieving, then whipped around to test a second mic. “We gotta hurry — only two minutes before service time.”

Dylan handed it to me. No threats of dragging me before the Inquisition. Or the budget committee. No offers to escort me to the nearest mental home. The little green light on this second mic shone like a candle of compassion.

I rewired myself, incredulous at his forgiving spirit, his maturity.

Even decades later, as I prepare to sing “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” as a choir member only (and loving it), I remember that complicated Sunday morning, when I wished with all my heart it was Monday.

Not so unholy, after all.