Choir Bells

Growing up, I sang in the children’s choir at my church. We would rehearse every Thursday night and sing about once a month in front of the congregation. We were cute and slightly tone deaf. And, like most amateur children’s choirs there was always at least one kid who took the term “projection” a little too seriously and yelled most of the lyrics. You know the one. But, for the most part, we were prepared and rehearsed for these events.

One performance in particular is engraved in my mind, much like all the other mortifying moments in my life. We had practiced a very special song, in which half of the choir was given hand chimes to play while singing. We were told that these chimes were fragile instruments and we must be very careful with them. I felt special to be awarded one of these chimes, as it meant the choir director felt I was coordinated enough to sing while keeping beat and playing my chime at the correct time. I took my chime playing very seriously. After all, I took piano lessons. I must be better than these other simpletons at reading music and playing on the correct beats.



After much rehearsal, the day finally came when we were to perform the chime song! We sat in the front row with our hand chimes and waited patiently for the announcements and hymns. Finally, the time came to shuffle out of the pews and line up in front of the church. I stood tall with my chime in hand, eager to begin counting the beats to my shining moments. The song began. My note was coming up, so I raised the chime in preparation. The moment came. I proudly brought my chime down with force…only to see the rubber ball meant to produce the sound in the chime fly off into the audience.



I hear some muffled laughter. As the song continues without me, I quickly walk over to where the rubber ball fell and try to re-attach it to the instrument. I walk back to my fellow choir mates and prepare myself for the next note. It comes and once again I raise my chime and bring it down, perhaps a little less forcefully. The rubber ball once again flies off into the audience. More laughter, louder this time.



Luckily, I am already insecure enough to respond to embarrassment or tension with laughter. I laugh and pretend I am ok with this. The song ends. I walk to my parent’s pew in shame. People grin at me in what I’m sure they think says “you are small and it is cute when you mess up,” but it is translated in my elementary school brain as “you are a failure at seemingly simple tasks.” And so begins my fear of audiences.