“I’ve got conviction.” I hummed a measure of one of our more popular songs. “I left her my card with an offer on it. Don’t worry. She’ll call.”
“Sorry we’re late.” Jimmy burst through the sanctuary doors like a locomotive full of steam, Marcus on his heels.
“You didn’t miss anything.” Dave tapped his drumsticks along the edge of the hi-hat cymbal.
Jimmy took his place behind the Yamaha keyboard set up to the right while Marcus plugged his bass into the amplifier.
“Let’s start with ‘My Maker and My King.’” I faced the empty rows of seats and imagined them filled with people wanting to lift their hearts to Jesus in praise.
Jimmy played the solo intro on the keyboard. On the third measure, I picked up the tune by plucking arpeggiated chords. Dave and Marcus came in on the fifth measure along with Tricia’s mezzo-soprano voice rising above all the instruments:
“My Maker and my King,
All praise to You we sing.
Seated on Your throne above,
We lift our hearts to You in love.”
In harmony, I blended my voice with hers for the next set of lyrics.
“My Father and my Lord,
Your grace on us You’ve poured.
Unworthy though we are,
You heal our wounds and bear our scars.”
Marcus hit two consecutive wrong notes. He tried to correct, but everything was off, and one by one we stopped playing our instruments.
“Sorry, guys.” He didn’t look any of us in the eye. “My bad.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Let’s do it again from the top.”
We played through the song twice more without a hitch. As the music washed over me, I could feel my center align. Things that had seemed so big and insurmountable before faded into the background.
This. Always this.
I prayed. Went to church. Read my Bible. But I never felt so connected to my Savior as when I lifted up my heart in song to Him. If ever my eye turned away from the Source of my praise and I sought to use my God-given gift for self-gain instead of as an offering to the Lord, then I prayed He’d take my voice away from me.
A hiss, then a groan sounded to my right, pulling me back from the intimate place I went when in song. Tricia’s shoulders hunched as she clutched her rounded belly.
In a fluid motion, I spun my guitar behind my back and raced to her side. “Are you okay?”
Jimmy reached her next from the other side, a cell phone already in his hands. “Who should I call?”
Tricia’s face pinched, but she put out a stopping hand. “No need to bother anyone,” she panted. After a second, she paused then straightened. “It was just Braxton-Hicks.”
“What’s that?” Marcus hadn’t budged except to use his guitar as a shield. As an only child, he probably hadn’t had much experience being around pregnant women.
Tricia gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s my body’s way of getting ready for the baby. Practice round, in a sense.”
His young face scrunched, but then he shrugged his narrow shoulders and pulled his phone out of his back pocket and starting messing with it.
“Why don’t we take a break,” I offered. Braxton-Hicks may’ve been natural, but they still looked like they hurt.
Tricia stretched her back. “I could sit for a minute or two, thanks. My feet have been killing me lately.”
