God respects me when I work; but God loves me when I sing. ~Rabindranath Tagore
I do not know what’s with December. In a non-Christmas celebrating country. In a cold-biting windy desert place. In a woman with no golden tune.
But this bathroom not-opera diva suddenly finds herself humming Church songs of long-ago, of her youth in the local parish church when people were still not embarrassed to follow the choir in loud voices, and in her adolescence with classmates during the First Friday Masses at the school gym. Later she is belting them out, the Our Father, and the Breaking of the Bread, the doxology and acclamation in the empty office. When she realize that her Christmas leave is just a week ahead, she starts to recall childhood Christmas carols in the vernacular, even searching the internet for lyrics.
I maybe getting senile, or crazy, or brain-frozen, but I feel good singing now. Not as melodious as the Choir, but not as odious as before. I just love singing with a purpose now: a purpose of praising and thanking God.