Christ In Winter: Reflections on Faith for the Years of Winter.
One was earth, the other fire, one amateur, one professional, each completely authentic.
They were the soloists at the funeral of 108 year old Ophia Miller, the mother of my high school friend, Donna. I wrote previously about Donna and her mother and Ophia’s funeral in the columns for April 2-4.
The first was angular. Spring-blossom white, tall, thin, frill-less, rawhide. She simply stepped to the lectern, closed her eyes, and began to sing. No accompaniment of any kind. A simple song of how and when the world will end, a song of strange joy, when “the saints of every nation will lose their gravitation” and ascend into the heavenly sky. A clear, “high lonesome” voice. I shivered as I heard the sound of my Scots ancestors.
The second was full. Full brown, full smile, full figure, full color, full voice. She stepped to the lectern, pulled us in with her full smile, waited for a full orchestra on tape to give her an introduction, and then let her full voice soar like the angels telling about the heaven in which Ophia now fully resided. I shivered as I heard the voice of those who refuse slavery of the spirit even if they must endure slavery of the body.
A newspaper columnist said that Ophia was proof that you don’t have to live a small life just because you live in a small town. I heard that message in two very different voices that, despite their differences, were singing the same song.
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