I Became a Singer Unseen but Not Unheard
Long ago in the distant past of December 1975, I participated in a major musical tradition.

With other students and community members, I’d gathered weekly on Monday nights since mid-September, focused on learning Handel’s Messiah. The college auditorium wasn’t large enough to accommodate the expected crowds, so the orchestra and chorus boarded buses that took us downtown to the Civic Auditorium.
I’d already had adventures that night. It was one of those Decembers where snows melted during the daylight hours and refroze after dark.
My plan to leave the dorm via a ground level door rather than its stepped front entrance worked well. Until I hit the patch of black ice beyond the door. Down I went, three times. I scrabbled until I found footing, knocked the snow out of my score, and made for the bus.
Familiar with the seating area at the cavernous Civic Auditorium, I didn’t know the spaces backstage. From the stage, the only space in town large enough for the full orchestra, and the wooden bleachers for our 500 member chorus, things looked almost intimidating. I stood in the front row, on the stage floor, beside one of the basses.
When our conductor, Mr. Geerdes, led us through a warm-up, we bounced consonants off the projection booth high on the rear wall. As the first violins struck up the opening notes of the first chorus, we stood, remarkably quietly for such a group.
I drew a full breath, the man beside me opened his score, and Mr. Geerdes vanished.
The bass at my right stood well over six feet tall, and his robe had a wingspan to match. I became a singer unseen but not unheard.
Mr. Geerdes didn’t need to see me, and I discovered it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see him. What mattered was that I was heard. We sang on, from number to number, sending out the powerful words of Scripture to those who listened. When we reached the intermission, I discovered I hadn’t flipped any pages in my score since the first chorus.
With changes of directors in the years since then, the Oratorio Society now performs at chamber choir size, and I’m not needed there any more.
Maybe you don’t sing. Do you work out of the public eye, doing things that seem insignificant? I became a singer unseen but not unheard. You too need to be heard. What essential things are possible to say every day?
While scripture quotes don’t necessarily fit into every conversation, it’s my opinion that our society hears too many things spoken in hard, threatening tones, in words chosen to fragment and damage. I propose that “Thank You” be words that leave our mouths most often.
None of you here are so infected by political correctness that you fear to start by thanking the only Creator, sustainer, and Savior, and I’m glad. Whether you begin in the privacy of your minds, your homes and your vehicles, or openly in public conversations, know that thankfulness opens your eyes to increasing reasons for thanks.
Next, thank people at every opportunity. More than mere expression of good manners, another thing our wider society lacks these days, thanking people satisfies a universal need for appreciation. A well-timed expression of thanks defuses someone’s frustration, and keeps annoyance from spreading. Appreciated people do their work with greater enthusiasm and efficiency.
Thank you—two small words, spoken to store employees and lane cashiers will, over time, lead to better customer service and a pleasant experience for everyone in line. Anyone can say thank you. Will you?

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