Psalm Sing, Christmas Day

Now Playing: "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" soundtrack, by Harry Gregson-Williams. Track 2, "Evacuating London". My father gave this CD to my mother for Christmas. This scene, where the Pevensies' mother tells them good-bye at the train station, is the one scene where my mother felt like crying, at least that's what she said. I like the clicky little song that plays while they're on the train. Princess suspects that the two children who share their compartment are the children of the young woman who played Susan on the BBC production (they have her last name, Cook, and they look a little like her).

Disclaimer: In this post I list all the Psalms we sang along with the families that requested them. In some cases, I have listed a specific person from a family as requesting a Psalm. These specifics are educated guesses, based either on seating order or on handwriting. As a result, they may not be entirely accurate. However, the families will always be accurate since I have my father's sheet on which the requests were made, by family.

Last night, at 7:00, my family hosted a Psalm sing at our house. The Ws came early, for supper. After supper, everyone pitched in to prepare for the Psalm sing. My father rinsed dishes, while I screwed the lids on the jelly jars and the salad dressing and put them away. While my mother finished up the dishes, she chatted with Mrs. W. They shooed me away when I reentered the kitchen: they said that they were talking "girl talk", and immediately began to discuss my sweater, until I turned tail and scuttled off, thinking, "I must not be a girl!", with a sparkle of laughter. My father and Brother1 arranged a conservative ring of chairs in the living room, heeding my mother's dour predictions that no one would come because they would all be too sleepy from their afternoon naps. Brother1 carried the two plastic tubs of toys down from the schoolroom and put them in the dining room, where the tables had been pushed to the sides of the room. Melissa teased Brother1 and asked if the toys were hers. "Have at it!" he replied. My mother set out the tea things beside an enticing collection of desserts in the dining room: fudge from Princess's family, a rainbow of cookies from the F family, and mints from the Ps. We sat around in the living room, waiting for people to arrive.

When people did come, it was all at once, just after seven: the entire C clan, a troop of Ss, and a zoo of Fs. Brother1 and I scrambled about, scrounging up more chairs. Princess, Marigold, SwanElf, Katie, and Beth ended up sitting on the hearth, while various little girls crowded onto the sofa, and Brother1 roosted on the piano bench. Mr. C and Mrs. C sat near me, and Emily, their new daughter, sat beside me, for a little while--until she spied the toys. Then Mrs. C carried her off to play with Fric, Frac, and Sis in the dining room. Dani and Mrs. C kept a careful eye on them throughout the Psalm Sing.

Everyone was talking and laughing so loudly that my parents, the leaders of the Psalm Sing, had a difficult time making themselves heard. They had seated themselves near me, at the head of the living room, with rather the air of a king and queen on a dais. My father gave us selections from "The Life of Christ" in the Psalms to sing first.

During one of the selections, I noticed Mr. C making strange hand signs to Brother1, who merely stared at him in confusion. My mother noticed it, too, and interpreted the signs to mean that Brother1 should turn on the lamp on the piano. Mr. C chuckled, because this was not what he'd meant. Watching with amusement, I saw that William, Mr. C's oldest son who was sitting in front of Brother1, had a baseball cap dragged down over his eyes. "Do you want Brother1 to take off William's hat?" I whispered to Mr. C. "Yes." So I succeeded in catching P's eyes and made more hand motions at him. He stared at me like a befuddled owl until I glared at him, and then he whipped off William's hat. He grinned at Mr. C.

After singing part of "The Life of Christ in the Psalms", we moved on to selections from the congregation. My father had passed around a sheet of paper with each family's name on it, and each member of a family wrote their selections under their family name. The Carrolls were first with 100A, stanzas as dependable and unchanging as Scottish hills. We sang 119X, courtesy of Ruth. The little children clattered happily behind me. Fric made her plastic men converse, while Emily carefully lined toy cars along the back wall.

We sang 39B, which seemed to jar a bit with the holiday mood. As my father said, though, it shows just how broad a range the Psalms have by reflecting not only holiday joy but also a time of spiritual drought and despair. We sang 80B (courtesy Princess's family), the stirring words a battlecry for God's justice. We sang 99C, courtesy Melissa's family. People constantly jumped up in the middle of a Psalm, or between Psalms, to grab styrofoam cups and moisten harsh throats. SwanElf, who'd gotten up to pour herself a drink, came and took Emily's vacant seat beside me. We sang alto together on 116A, which was requested by Brother2, but we were so loud that it rather drowned the sopranos. My father joked that 98A, which is a perennial favorite, had "dropped off the charts" and was "no longer going to be played on pop radio" because no one had requested it--quite unusual.

We sang 146B, thanks to the Cs. Then came 84A and B, the first courtesy of the F Family, the second from the Ws. SwanElf and I giggled together about how happy we were that we were going to sing these--and then burst out laughing because neither one of us had requested them. 84A dragged so sluggishly that my mother had to start presenting, marking the beats with one hand so that people would move more briskly. My father called everyone to stand up for 84B. SwanElf, Princess, Beth, and I perched on the hearth, joking to Mr. W, who was standing in front of us, about having "heavenly voices" pealing in his ear. "Advancing still from strength to strength!" we sang joyfully.

The Ss requested 125 next, and then, of course, one of the Carrolls chose 105D. Mrs. W teased Mr. C that it fit his personality: the tune is in a dismal minor key, and Mr. C is always half-seriously, half-jokingly complaining about the joyful celebration of birthdays and holidays. The tune kept creeping sharp, despite Mrs. F's and my mother's best efforts.

I was surprised and a bit disappointed when my father announced that 105D was the last Psalm.

After the Psalm Sing, Princess gave me my Christmas present: six sheets of pretty, pastel scrapbook paper and a sheet of vellum friendship stickers (which I've been wanting for some time). I said that I'd finished almost all the paper SwanElf had given me for my birthday, except for the two sheets on which was printed an elegant, dreamy seascape. "I can't find any pictures pretty enough to put on them," I complained. "Well, go find some prettier friends!" someone exclaimed, and we all laughed. SwanElf put her hands on my shoulders and bounced up and down enthusiastically, talking about the youth retreat next weekend. I helped Mr. F search for three missing Psalters--the inevitable difficulty at such gatherings, despite the fact that each family religiously labels their own Psalters.

After the Ws left, Violin, SwanElf, and Brother1 stood together, vigorously discussing Johnny Cash, while Princess and I stood and listened.

After everyone left, I chased Daisy upstairs for her bath. My parents and I cleaned up downstairs: wiping off the tables, sorting out the jungle of chairs, moving the tables back into place. "The Psalm Sing was wonderful! Thank you, A--," my mother said to my father. "It made my heart soar and my throat sore," she quipped.

"Can't close my eyes... they're wide awake..." sings Imogen Heap on the Narnia credits song. And that's how I was after my bath. Exhausted all day, wide awake at night, my mind busy with Psalms and stories and all the bright, strange, lovely things of daylight and half-light and starlight. "It couldn't be... anymore beautiful... I can't take it in...."