Inner life of a traveling pipe organist

This morning I played pipe organ for my sixth different church of the summer.

(So far the list is: P-ville Reformed, Lyons Episcopal, Newark Episcopal, United Church of Phelps, Rochester Christian Science Church, Canandagua Episcopal) 

Each church and instrument is like learning a new language: how much intro people expect for the hymns, which sounds are available on that organ, which stops to avoid (the shrieking 2-foot, for example). There is nothing apologetic about playing the pipe organ: what you do is heard by all, should support all, and can bog down or enlighten a worship service.

I'd never been to this church before--the Episcopals in Henrietta--and arrived a full hour early to introduce myself to the instrument, play through Praise My Soul The King of Heaven (that thing is like hiking a few mountains across the pedal board), and certainly enjoy the quiet empty sacred space before it fills with other humans. That empty space I appreciate so I can settle in and test drive some of the organ stops, which can be a rowdy, if not down-right disenchanting, listening experience. Much better in private.


But this morning I climbed the steps to the organ loft and found a collection of choir members milling about up there. Nobody told me they'd gather at 9am to rehearse! So instead of spacious emptiness, I had choir faces peering at me, with no small amount of curiosity, over the organ console. But I decided to accept the spontaneity of the situation and managed not to deafen anyone as we rehearsed. "Shall we play through the sanctus number--" I began and was interrupted by a dear Linda who, as if she had just seen me, crowed, "Ohh! Your hair is so cute! Should we do that with our hair Sheryl? Oh to be young...." 

Having the choir up there in the loft with me, behind the organ--nay, resting on the organ console itself--meant they could cue me as needed, as they were facing the sanctuary and I wasn't. During the end of the communion hymn I had to stifle a laugh, because I look up and there is a set of three bobble-head choir members on my dashboard, all doing the International Play Another Verse Symbol, which is rotating one's finger about.


Situated outside the disquieting strip-malls and intersections that is Henrietta, the church was airy and woody inside, giving it a summer-camp and approachable feeling. And a large window in the back without stained glass meant I could sit at the organ and stare at the trees.  The passing of the peace was a veritable coffee-hour minus the coffee, which is a heart-warming thing to witness in a church. The people were so sweet, especially that original Linda, who saw me walking down the hall after the service (not sitting on the bench) and exclaimed "And you're so tall too! Tall AND adorable." I was also blown away by how much everyone said they enjoyed my playing. I could feel it, actually, that I was in a soulful and joyful space and this must have been coming through the music, too: enjoying the hymns and working with the stops and.... those trees out the window.


I had tested preset 5 and did know that it was so blasty and all proclaimy, full of horns and deep bass--brazen in fact--and wasn't planning on using it.  But my subconscious must have bested me because just before the Gloria (S-278, by the way Mother Robin, delicious fun! My first time playing it!) my thumb shoots to 5 and with surprise I hear what I have done but I can't change this and I don't want to and then realize we're raising the roof and every foot is like a fog horn and then we end on that huge final chord and I get a little shiver.  Mmmmm THIS is why I wake up Sundays.


~~~~


"Are you an Eastman student?" asked everyone.  "Nope," I would respond, and for helpful clarity on my music background I added, "I work on a farm."