I slip through the door to the assisted living center's public meeting room as unobtrusively as possible, vowing yet again to match up the times of all the clocks in my house and then set them five minutes fast. I'm not so late the meeting has already started, but I am late enough to not get a seat on the couch with the other ladies from the Stake Relief Society presidency. Lynne motions vaguely to a truly massive wingback chair beside her, but it's facing exactly the wrong direction and I don't care to wrestle with it when there are plenty of empty seats nearby, even if they don't look nearly as comfortable.
Almost as soon as I sit down on the end of the front row, Sister Stewart shuffles up with her walker and takes the chair next to me. She's a frail-looking, tiny woman with a huge cloud of white hair floating above her head. There is a wrapped candy cane lying loose on the seat of her walker, and I vaguely wonder what her plans are for it and if it's been there since Christmas. She smiles at me while she hauls her heavy large-print manual off the walker and sets it beside her on the next seat. I ask her how she's doing. She says she's doing very well after I repeat myself a little more loudly.
The scent of cooking ham or sausage wafts out of the nearby kitchen, and through the closed door I can hear the cook smacking the edge of a bowl in a series of sharp raps over and over. My stomach growls. I focus on the organ music playing quietly in the background. The organist is blind, I remember.
Wait, the organist is blind! Why did I not think about this before? I guess I just assumed that of course a blind woman could play the organ for church because she's just that determined, and there's nothing weak about Sister Neal despite her inability to see. What does it take to play a keyboard without being able to see it? I wonder. The opening hymn is announced and I listen to Sister Neal hit a few notes to find Middle C. Then she plays a chord to figure out the right key, and then she's off into a simple introduction. She plays all the hymns from memory, obviously, focusing on the melody and adding a simple accompaniment.
Sister Stewart and I share the large-print hymnal between us. The only problem is that the hymn we are singing is obscure enough that even I, who was the ward chorister from the time I was 13 until I left for college at 18, am not sure of the melody. The large-print hymnals contain only the text of the songs, not the musical notation. Fortunately, Ada, who is sitting nearby on the couch, is singing loudly enough that by the second verse everyone is a lot more confident about the melody. We finish the fourth verse strongly, all 12 or 13 of us in the room.
When the meeting is over, I shake Sister Stewart's hand gently just in case she has arthritis. I've learned there's no call for hearty, bone-crushing handshakes in an assisted living center or nursing home. I shake hands and say hello to the other white-haired sisters and one brother who attended today, as well. They are all so kind, happy to see us and welcome us to their home. Then the other ladies of the presidency and I drive over to the nearby chapel, where we will attend another Relief Society meeting.
We've been sitting in the sparsely populated Relief Society room for a few minutes when I wonder out loud if this ward has a pianist, as no one is playing prelude music. Sure enough, the president gets up to start the meeting and announces that we will be singing a capella today. When I raise my hand and offer to play, she smiles with relief and gladly accepts. The chorister stage whispers a loud "Thank you!"
There's a spiral-bound hymnal already sitting at the piano, and as I flip it open to the right page, I think about how glad I am that I can see. I'm also glad I'm still young enough to walk unassisted and be able to take care of my family. I hope that when I have a cloud of white hair and am bent over my walker, my veins clearly visible through the parchment skin of the back of my hands, that I will still be determined to do as much good as I can. I hope I could even be brave enough to play the organ blind, if it came to that.
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