Sonja taught me to play the organ in that lovely little chapel. On the day of my first lesson, I had shown up in blue jeans, only to have Sonja send me home to change into a dress.
“This is a place of reverence and worship,” she had said sternly. “We do not wear casual clothes when we enter the chapel!” .
Christmas was coming, and I was going to be performing ‘Oh Holy Night’ on the piano for the annual Christmas Eve service. Everyone in town came to the Christmas Eve service, whether they came regularly to church or not. It was the spiritual highlight of the Christmas season for townsfolk. The choir would perform sacred Christmas songs, Sonja would accompany them on the organ, and the bells would be rung. The story of the Christ Child would be read at the pulpit by Lawrence Mangelson, who possessed a rich, deep, orator’s voice. It was my favorite tradition, and my musician’s heart was overflowing with thoughts of debuting at such an event. I had taken piano lessons, Monday through Friday, for three years, and had yet to play for anyone but Doc, Sonja, and my family.
Originally, the church choir director, married to the aforementioned Lawrence Mangelson, had denied Sonja’s request to let me play in the special worship service. She was kind, but she worried that my ability at thirteen would not be worthy of the occasion. Sonja had taken me to Mrs. Mangelson’s home and insisted that she listen.
I played a powerfully moving and difficult rendition of ‘Oh Holy Night’ on the piano in her little sitting room, and when I finished, the sweet old lady humbly asked for my forgiveness, begging me to take part in the program. Mr. Mangelson said it would be the best Christmas Eve Service ever and suggested we keep my piano solo a secret.
Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday that year, and I attended the 9:00 a.m. church services without my family. Because the congregation would be returning that evening for the Christmas Eve service, the morning services were shortened. I had let my Aunt Louise and Tara in on my little secret, so later that afternoon, Aunt Louise came over and styled my hair, smoothing my natural curl into shining waves and applying light makeup on my eyes, cheeks, and lips. Sonja said musicians often perform in classic black but had thought white might be more age appropriate. She had driven to Provo, a city about an hour north of Levan, and found a simple yet elegant, long-sleeved, white, velvet dress. When I thumped down from my attic room, coiffed and wearing my new dress, my one foot in a heel and the other in a walking cast, thanks to my tumble down Tuckaway Hill, my dad’s weathered face softened and his lower lip trembled.
“You look like an angel, honey. I’d hug you but I don’t want to muss ya up.”
The night was cold and still, snow running in deep drifts along the edge of the poorly plowed roads. We made our way to the church which was lit up and welcoming in the moonlight. Sonja sat at the organ and played magnificent prelude music, softening hearts and moistening eyes before the program had even begun. We sat in our regular pew, with Rachel coming to join us to sit with Jacob. They were engaged to be married in the spring, and with Jared home from college for the holidays, we were all together. Everyone was scrubbed and solemn in their holiday best, hair slicked and ties tied.
The program began, and my stomach was in knots as it neared the moment of my solo. I was seated at the end of our bench to provide easy access to the aisle, which was a straight shot up to the stand where the piano was waiting, lid opened, choir members seated on the dais around it. Lawrence Mangelson’s voice soared with the spirit as he spoke of the angels that heralded the birth of the King. Suddenly, it was my turn to play, and I rose on shaking legs and walked to the piano. There was a murmur through the congregation. The service always stayed close to tradition with little variance in narration or music. This was a surprise, and again, no one really knew I played.
I sat down and closed my eyes in silent prayer, asking for the nerves to stay in my legs and not my hands. My knees could knock harmlessly without hurting my performance. Softly, I began to play, tuning into the beauty of the sound, the soaring reverence of the melody, the magnificence of the musical phrasing. The audience faded around me as I joyously submitted to the song, and when it was done I slowly descended back to earth. I rose from the piano on steady legs, having forgotten my nerves, and looked out over the silent congregation.
My dad’s face was streaked with tears, and my brothers’ faces shone with pride. Aunt Louise and Tara smiled broadly, and Tara even waved excitedly before her mother noticed and pulled her hand down. Sonja was dabbing her eyes with a lacy hanky, her horned rims in one hand.
Then, from the back of the room, someone began to clap. Mormons don’t clap in worship services. The chapel is a reverent place, and speakers end sermons with an ‘amen’, followed by an ‘amen’ from the congregation. When someone sings or plays, even ‘amens’ are not given. The choir or performer knows how well they have been received only by the level of silence and attention that is afforded them.
The clapping drew a little gasp from the churchgoers, and my eyes flew to see who was committing the faux pas. Towards the back of the church, standing next to the pew where his grandparents always sat, dressed in a white dress shirt and black pants, his hair pulled back off his face and secured in a low ponytail, was Samuel. He was clapping, his face serious and unashamed, and he kept clapping and clapping. His grandparents were seated beside him, their faces torn as to whether they should silence him or clap with him. Slowly, people began to join him, standing up around him as broad smiles broke out and the clapping became a roar.