I’m a really quiet person… if you don’t know me.
If you hold the door for me, I’ll bow my head and whisper a thank you and smile. I’m pretty quiet in church.
Unless I’m singing.
There’s a high note at the end of the Gloria. It’s a G. I can hit it.
I haven’t heard anyone else in the choir try for it, so last week, I went for it. It made me nervous. I was loud. Maybe they didn’t want me to sing that note. Nobody said anything either way.
I didn’t know what to think this morning. When we got to the last part of the Gloria, this quiet, familiar voice said, “Come on, you can do it. Make me proud.”
So I hit that note again.
After mass, they asked me to cantor next week.
I was sitting outside reading a book, and I looked at the places in the garden where I just planted sunflowers. Little seeds. Little packages of biological instructions from God on how to grow and be beautiful and reflect His beauty.
I saw a little black beetle on his back in the hot sun, putting up a futile struggle to get back on his feet.
“Can you help him?” my Father asked. “He can’t get back up by himself. He’s thirsty.” (It was a he, I asked.)
What a tiny little thing I could do, something that probably wouldn’t make a difference to anyone…. anyone except that little bug and my Father. He made that little bug, too.
I found a little stick and gently flipped him back over onto his feet. He scooted away under a piece of bark.
My Daddy smiled.