Tonight

Tonight, there was this guy. He was standing one in from the end of the line of handbell ringers. The church was decorated perfectly for the holidays with little twinkly lights, candles, evergreen boughs and a beautiful Christmas tree at the centre of it all. The choir was dressed in their deep red robes and the handbell ringers had on bright white gloves. But there was this guy standing almost at the end of the line, in charge of three large bells and he was counting furiously away as they rang out Handel's Messiah. He was keeping time with his head, and his shoulders and his chest. In fact all of him seemed desperate to keep time. The choir stood silent and still behind him. The rest of the ringers only moved to extend an arm in a well-timed ring, certainly no one else was counting out loud. No one else was bobbing to the beat of Handel. As the piece went on this guy became more and more unsure of himself. He began to make these half-hearted ringing motions with the bell in his left hand. Shaking his head, he started to extend his arm and then pulled it back at the last moment, fearful to commit to making a noise.
I sat in the balcony of my church in my favorite jeans and favorite sweater all comfortable and safe and I thought, "I like that guy. That short, round headed bald guy counting out the beat, sweating to keep up."
I like him because he's me. If I was in a handbell choir I would be the one counting out loud trying to figure it out when every one else had moved on to the finale, eventually flustered to the point of immobility. I like that the rest of the church, the rest of the evening's performances were beautiful and flawless and that I kept thinking of that swaying, mixed up guy, all panicked about getting lost.
I wonder if he's at home right now, complaining to his wife about what a fool he made of himself. I wish I would have thought of finding him out and telling him how much I appreciated his music.