I’ve been on the Internet several times this week in failed attempts to find myself a blog prompt. It’s amazing how illusive one’s muse can be at times. At one point, I had an empty word document open for 30 minutes. The only thing I managed to type was the date.
Today’s lunch break googling proved fruitful. I stumbled on a prompt that said something to the effect of “When someone does something embarrassing to the effect of humiliating themselves, do you sympathize and feel embarrassed too?”
It is time to take a trip down memory lane! In short, my answer is “Yes.”
I was thirteen or fourteen at the time. My older sister had a knack for making sure we got to church every Sunday. One Sunday morning, my little gang of church friends and I had taken our regular pews in the sanctuary. We liked to rush to the first two pews on the left side before the adults got there because those pews had first dibs on the flags, tambourines, and streamers. I was all about waving the purple, red, blue, green, and yellow flags while dancing around to the worship songs, and so were my friends.
We even had a name for ourselves, but I couldn’t tell you what it was; it was so long ago. They’d start worship with a few slow songs, and then the ushers would pull out the boxes of flags, hand held instruments, and streamers and start handing them out.
That’s when the music started to become dance worthy.
Once the last song drifted into its final note, the pastor would always introduce a soloist (sometimes a duet) from the congregation to lead the service into the sermon portion with a song.
That Sunday’s soloist was one of the pretty girls who was my sister’s age. Everyone wanted to look like her. She walked up to the mic, her hair a beautiful golden sheen. It was set in a perfect array of waves, and not a single strand was out of place. Her face was painted with make-up that flattered her sharp features. The dress she wore was just as perfect and lovely as the rest of her.
She started her hymn, and her voice showered the congregation with a pleasant sound…that was, until it cracked and hit a sour note. I remember her eyes growing wide as she missed the next note and the one after it. Tears welled up beneath her pretty eyes.
The poor thing stood before the mic in a frozen lake of tears. The song had been warped away, and she began to sob.
My stomach had tightened up, and I began feeling sick as though I was the one onstage, crying in front of everyone! I couldn’t help but stare at her in horror—not at the notes she missed, but at how she surely felt at that moment. I think my friends shared similar reactions; none of us would look at each other. Our eyes were fixed on her. I couldn’t imagine what that must have felt like. I just sat there like a pensive little rabbit with a nervous twitch.
After what seemed to be an hour (though, I’m sure it was only five minutes or less), the pastor came on stage, put a comforting arm around her shoulders, and told her she did a good job. The congregation erupted into applause, and I was glad it was over.
Thus ends today’s trip down memory lane. I get a knot in my gut whenever someone makes a mistake onstage and is unable to recover from it.
