December 21, 2025
This morning was our Christmas sacrament meeting. I sat in the audience next to Elise instead of in the choir seats, where I usually sit for our annual Christmas worship service.
To clarify: I am not much of a vocalist, a disappointment to my teenage self who longed for a show-stopping singing voice. I am, instead, the world’s okayest singer who is wholly inept at singing anything other than the melody but does not have the range of a true soprano.
When the melody gets too high, I basically fake it – a skill I learned as a flute player in my high school band. Back then, it did not matter how many times I practiced those sixteenth-note runs (which, to be true, was not that often); my fingers always betrayed me during concerts.
So, rather than play the wrong notes, I chose to pretend I was playing, arranging my lips to mimic the act of blowing air without actually blowing, and moving my fingers in sixteenth-note style. My band had close to 20 flutes, so they did not miss my sound, and nobody was the wiser.
But I digress.
I started singing in the ward choir when Greg was the choir director – a calling he held twice before serving as a bishop – and choir practice was at our home. He was begging for people to sing, even if they were not “singers,” a plea I could not ignore when all I had to do was walk to the living room.
So I sang and had fun doing it, even when I had to fake the high notes.
Then, he was released, and I kept going to support my choir director friends, knowing how hard it was to convince people to sacrifice their Sunday nap time to practice music. But as the choir shrank from 40ish members to a small group of 10-15, and people could actually hear my heartfelt but slightly embarrassing musical attempts, I was disinclined to acquiesce to the choir director’s pleas for more singers.
(Bonus points if you can tell me which movie features the phrase “disinclined to acquiesce.”)
A few months ago, I was called to serve as a ward missionary, which means I now have a missionary correlation meeting every week at the same time as choir practice. So, instead of singing with the choir today, I sat back and listened to their heavenly music.
For a split second, I was sad not to sing because Christmas music is my favorite. And because a part of me sometimes holds on to my childhood dream of being a show-stopping vocal performer.
But my momentary sadness was soon overshadowed by the majestic music created by the actual musicians. My heart sang Christmas praises with them even though my mouth stayed silent. And, all things considered, I think it might have been better that way.
After the program, Greg performed a quick dental exam in his bishop’s office for a missionary dealing with tooth pain. Who knew that a bishop’s office could double as a dental office?!? I will add this to the mental file entitled “Things you never thought you would do.”
And then, we pulled out my mini-tripod, which I carry in my car (you never know when you might need such a tool), and set a timer to take a family Christmas photo in front of the adjacent temple. The sun seemed brighter than usual (I was sweating in my Christmas sweater… thanks for nothing, Jack Frost!), and it was nearly impossible to get a photo with all our eyes open. Apparently, it is harder to look in the sun’s general direction if you have green eyes instead of brown – a truth claimed by the only green-eyed one in the bunch.
This is the result:
I hope it screams “Merry Christmas!” in a way only a sun-drenched, squinty-eyed, pretend-like-it’s-cold-enough-to-wear-a-sweater photo can.
We can only do so much.
**Read the rest of this series here.
