And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit. 2 Corinthians 3:18 NIV
That afternoon I sang in a gorgeous, warm, intimate, wood-and-gilded 1891 hall named Carnegie. Not my first time there, but definitely my first time on stage. I listened and watched as the sound left our mouths and wafted high into the dome and the fifth balcony, swirling into patrons’ laps and dropping onto their faces with joy. We weren’t allowed to wear cologne, but someone’s shampoo smelled like orange blossoms. Resonance hung in the air with the scent. No one breathed. Perfect silence before the applause.
We were nobodies on that stage, but the hall and the composer/conductor wooed us into something bigger than ourselves. The hall was like a living thing, a willing ally covering our mistakes; an unseen collaborator warming and shaping our sound and spinning it into gold as it danced between rounded walls. And we happily believed the sound and the audience’s warmth bouncing back to the stage. We left the hall with that sparkling joy still glittering our hair and our faces.
Two mornings later it snowed, despite being more than a week after Easter and well into April. Gloom and depression fell along with thick, foggy, slushy flakes which couldn’t stick because the ground was too warm. Like the concert, the previous week’s hint of warmth was a tease of joy until reality crashed the party.