I tapped my foot, wondering how long we would be and when I would get a chance to clean before everyone came over tomorrow morning and if I'd be able to squeeze in a dash to the grocery store on the way home.
I fidgeted. I tried to focus. I surveyed the room full of graying hair.
And then a lanky man stood up with his guitar and started singing.
"We'll do some classics," he said with a grin, "so you just jump in when you can."
There was no projector, no hymnal number, no paper passed out with the words written down.
Just a group of eager people and a man with a guitar.
In seconds, a chorus filled the room. And we sang and sang and sang songs from much before our time.
I joined in when I could, hummed when I couldn't, smiled at the sound of a people coming together.
I'm not really sure why it struck me so much, why it seemed so poignant, why it still echoes occasionally in my head.
There is just something to be said, I suppose, in these days of confusion, of hard times, of wearing hope, of fraying faith of an unwavering belief that knows no bounds. A cry that wells out and up and intermingles with others' and a moment in which you know that this is all you really have and all that you can ever expect to know to be true.
It was an experience of nostalgia, maybe, for what was and for what will come, even, and a reminder that this big old world and its flashiness, its injustice, its sorrow and its bewildering disregard is not the end of the Story.
And though it hurts sometimes--it breaks, it cracks, it rips our hearts right open to dare to even believe it--there is some Truth in this world and even amidst our darkest hour, there is nothing new under the sun.
And I think that even now, part of me is still humming right along, searching for a way to say with certainty that yes, oh it is good enough for me.