Carfin's Choir of Comedy

     We all have this friend. You know the one, the special friend who gets herself into ridiculous situations on a regular basis. The one who starts fights in night clubs due to a "misuse of a ladder" or who gets put into hiding in the backroom of a homeless shelter because one of the clients mistook her for the "tart tha ruined me an ma mates! Ah no, cauz yous never fergit ah face!" whilst chasing her around the kitchen with a teacup (all true stories). Well, in my social circle I am this crazy person. And yesterday was just another typical day.

     This year is the 350^th anniversary of the deaths of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Louise de Marillac. To celebrate, the St. Vincent de Paul Society and the Daughters of Charity (who sponsor the VV program as well) hosted a large service at the Carfin Grotto, which is a replica of the famous Lourdes Grotto. A few hundred people were expected to attend, including many prominent Catholic leaders, such as the Archbishop who had ridden with the Pope in his Popemobile. As we pulled up I recognized one of the coordinators of the service (we’ll call her Karen). She must have spotted us as well, because before I knew it she was running in 4-inch heels towards the car. We had not even parked when Karen strutted up to the window and asked me to jump out of the car because she had a “special job” for me. Being optimistic on that rare, sunny day, I cheerfully (and naively) agreed and sprung out of the still-moving car.

Gardens of the Grotto, www.carfin.org.uk

     Through the throngs of people gathering, Karen led me to the center of the busy grotto where a stage was set up for all to see. Another man wearing an official-looking sash gave me a warm smile.

     “Ah, here’s the celebrity! And all the way over from America!” he teased. I laughed, and then realized we were standing directly in front of the microphone and our voices were echoing across the Grotto. We stepped away, and Karen quickly dove into the details as the official-looking man disappeared again.

     “We need you to lead the rosary during the opening procession,” she stated, her eyes scouring the growing crowds as she went through last-minute details in her head.

      I was a bit shocked, but honored as well. “Yes, ok, I can do that –“

     “Right, and we’ll be singing the hymns as well, so here’s the book,” she said as she shoved a large hymnbook into my hands, “and just keep singing until the procession is over.”

     As her eyes were still searching the crowds, she missed seeing my jaw-dropping state of shock. “But, I can’t –“

     “Great, thanks again!” And Karen ran off just as the bells began to toll, meaning the procession was to begin. I was left standing on a stage with nothing but a microphone and a hymnbook in my hands. I looked out to see over a thousand expectant pairs of eyes, and a scary realization made my stomach drop. These people had all heard the official man announce me as an international celebrity, although completely by accident. They were expecting the next Charlottle Church. And there I was, shifting awkwardly on stage and looking around frantically for someone to rescue me.

Mass at the Groto, www.carfin.org.uk

     The bells tolled again, and I could see the Archbishop beginning the procession, so I hesitantly started the rosary. Repeated prayers are easy enough, but soon I ran out of rosary beads. I could see Karen mouthing words to me, something about “SING!”, but I just held the hymnbook in my shaky hands. The silence began to grow, though, and I knew what I had to do.

     Lifting my eyes up to the skies and knowing that someone was having a good laugh, I started a hymn that looked easy enough. “Ave Maria, Ave Maria –“ Oh, wait! I have to sing it! “Aaaaaaa-vayyyyy MarIIIIIIaaaaa!” I looked around frantically. Surely, someone knew this song and would sing along so that I, the leader, could follow! But instead I only found very perplexed faces from the crowd. I tried again.

     “AAAAAAAAVAY! Ma-REEEEEEEAH!!!!” Nope, yelling didn’t help. Suddenly, I saw movement in the corner of my eye. Karen jumped on stage and grabbed the hymnbook from my hands. “Ahhhhh-VAY, ay, ay, Ma-ree-AH, ah, ah…” She smiled at me, but shook her head as I slowly backed away from the microphone. Sensing my escape, Karen, snatched my shirtsleeve and pulled me back to the microphone. Foiled again! For the remainder of those excruciating 30 minutes, I played back-up singer to Karen with hymns I had never heard, usually missing both the beat and tone.

     Afterwards, I was graciously thanked for my work. Perhaps it was the effect of the sun or the distraction of the grand procession, but no one commented on my failed performance, though I was not asked for an encore.

     All in all, I believe I get brownie points with the Man Upstairs for staying on that stage for Him. However, I don’t think I’ll be invited to join His choir of Angels.