The service went the way services go. Call to worship. A praise song with Pastor Whitfield on the guitar and two high school kids on keyboard and drums. The congregation mostly stood and watched it. Some of them clapped politely at the end.
Prayer. Scripture. Sermon. It was a fine sermon. It was about seasons. About how God makes all things new, and how we have to let go of the old to make room for what’s coming.
My brother made a small sound beside me. I elbowed him.
Then the pastor stepped back to the pulpit.
“Before our closing hymn,” he said, “I want to take a moment. Many of you know that Mrs. Ruth Hoyt has served this church as our organist for many years.”
“Fifty-two,” somebody said from the middle of the room. Not loud. Just firm.
Pastor Whitfield paused.
“Fifty-two years,” he said. “Which is incredible. And as we move into a new season of worship here at First Methodist, this will be Mrs. Hoyt’s last Sunday at the organ. I’d like us all to thank her for her faithful service.”
There was applause. It was polite. It wasn’t much.
“And Mrs. Hoyt has chosen our closing hymn. So I’ll ask her to lead us one last time.”
My mother didn’t turn around.
She never does. She always says the organist’s job is to face the music, not the people.
She opened the hymnal on the music rack. She adjusted the stops. She put her hands on the keys.
And she played the introduction to “It Is Well With My Soul.”
I heard someone in the front row draw in a breath.
I looked at Pastor Whitfield. He was standing beside the pulpit with his hands folded in front of his robe. He hadn’t reacted. He didn’t know.
The congregation didn’t stand.
That’s not unusual for a closing hymn at First Methodist. People sing it sitting down more often than not. But it seemed to me, standing at the back, that the whole room had gone very still. Like they were waiting for something.
The first verse began.
My mother played it the way she always plays it. Not fast. Not slow. Every chord full and round, the bass notes on the pedals walking underneath like someone coming up the aisle. A few people sang. Most of them didn’t. They just listened.
Then she went into the second verse.
And in the third pew, Lois Ferris put both hands on the arms of her wheelchair.
Her daughter-in-law leaned over and said something to her. Lois shook her head. Darlene took one arm. A grandson came around and took the other.
And ninety-year-old Lois Ferris stood up.
She stood there in the third pew, holding onto the back of the second, with her mouth set in a line.
Harold Ferris. June 3, 1978. “Shall We Gather at the River,” because Harold fished.
Nobody said anything. The organ kept going.
Then, on the other side of the aisle, Dale Larson stood up. He is seventy-four. He has a bad hip. His wife, Mary Kay, stood up with him.
I knew why. I’d read it Wednesday night.
October 22, 2011. Funeral. Michael Larson. Age 34. Their son. Afghanistan.
The organ kept going.
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