This past Sunday, we had our annual Christmas Church Feast. It was beautiful. Joyful. A merry time for all. We held it at a community center in a nearby town that I just love. It's beautiful because it has beams.
Them are some pretty beams.
This is mine and Stuart's third time attending the Feast. So I knew what to expect. I should have remembered. I should have been wise. Dangit, Shaye, why are you so forgetful!!!!!
We walked in in our jeans and “nice” sweaters. I felt pretty dressed up because I had my “going-to-town” boots on (they are pink at the top and, like, so uptown-cowgirl). I felt fancy. Until I remember that the majority of people dress formal for this spectacular feast. I mean beautiful dresses. Shalls. Suits. Ties. Polished shoes. Curls in their hair.
Now, Stuart and I aren't exactly fashion-forward. 98% of our wardrobe has been donated from our siblings or collected along the way. Truly, I am not kidding. For example, right now:
Shoes – Mine, gifted from Mom
Socks – Dad's
Pants – Brynn's
Tank-top – Brynn's
Sweater – Tye's
Needless to say, we felt slightly underdressed for the occassion. Everyone looked so pretty and fancy – plus, who doesn't want an excuse to look like royalty! It's fun to have a reason to dress up! Our worn jeans were a grave dissapointment to fashion police everywhere. I hid in the corner and cried.
Lucky for me though, I have a cute baby so people don't look at my torn pants. Or my snagged sweater. They just look at my baby. This distraction-technique works better when she is awake. Dangit.
Have you ever eaten 7,000 calories in one sitting? In the form of pasta, caesar salad, and bread?
Me neither. Who would do just a thing? No self control I tell you…
I feel that after all our years together with our Church family, it's time for me to make another confession. Aside from acknowledging that I am always shamefully underdressed for our special occassions. It is this:
I cannot sing in (on?) key (pitch?) to save my life.
Attending a church that sings psalms and hymns is wonderful. It's beautiful. I love to sing them. But usually the melody of the song is in the sopranos. And lemme tell ya something – this homesteader ain't no soprano. I am an alto. Or a tenor. Or a bass. I sing like a man, is what I am trying to say. A man that doesn't sing in (on?) key (pitch?). It's bad. Sometimes, when I am singing, I think about if someone was just recording my voice alone. It would be bad. I mean, really, really, bad. Like “who invited this girl” bad. Like “maybe you should just start mouthing the words” bad. I feel so bad for the people that sit in front of my and may catch wind of my awfulness. I can't sing high with the sopranos, but I am not trained well enough to pick out the alto part, which results in trying to hit a few notes in there somewhere that we all sing together. It's bad folks. And our Christmas feast was no exception. In fact, it might have even been worse, as it seemed particularly accentuated by the wonderful acoustics.
See these people? They know what they're doing. They have beautiful voices. Our church can sing like nobody's business. Beautiful harmonies. A joyful noise unto the Lord.
See how nobdoy is sitting too close to me? See how the chairs are empty? There's a reason. They don't want my awfulness to influence them. They aren't being drug down with me, man. They know a musical black hole when they see it.
Speaking of self control, did I mention that I ate so much dessert I almost blew up? I love that about church gatherings. Church women know how to bake. Like, big time. Who made that tiramasu anyway? My thighs hate you. But my belly loves you.
The morals of the story are this: Dress pretty when you have the chance, have a cute baby to distract people from your wardrobe malfunctions, put cheesy pasta on your favorite food list, sit in the back corner alone so no one can hear you sing, and eat tiramasu at every oppurtunity.
And celebrate the beauty of having a church family who loves you anyway. Even when you sing like a man.