the Baptist, Missionary, and Education Conventional Choir

One Sunday afternoon this past July, Foster and I went to a concert at First Baptist Church, East Nashville, for a reunion of the “Baptist, Missionary, and Education Conventional Choir.”  I wish you could have been there. 

The choir was organized in May 1972, with the idea of keeping young people in the church, off the streets, and having them do service by performing in other churches.  A pool buddy of mine, Deborah Smith, joined when she was in her 20’s. At one time, there were 200 people in the choir.  Fifty years later, the choir was having a reunion, “One More Time.”  Thirty-some odd came back to sing. 

Foster dropped me off at the imposing steps at 601 Main and went to park the car. Thank goodness for strength training.  I hustled up those steps, never once thinking that there was probably an entrance at the back that was handicap accessible.  I got in there to find people dressed to the nines.  I’d thought I was dressed up until I got into the sanctuary.  I remembered then that I’d been to a previous reunion about 15 years ago.  That time I saw a lot of big hats. This time, no hats. 

I chose a pew about three rows back.  It had people in it, but there was room, and they moved aside to let me in.  One lady saw that I didn’t have a program, and she gave me hers. 

We’d been afraid we’d be late, but Foster had time to park the car and come in.  It just so happened that he got in the line of the processing VIP’s, but they paid no attention to this white man processing with them.  We may have been the only white people there. 

It was hot. The air-conditioning wasn’t up to all those bodies.  One of the ushers came down the aisle passing out funeral home fans, just like the ones we had in the Donna Methodist Church when I was a girl—a squarish cardboard with the name of the funeral home on one side and a religious scene on the other, stapled to a popsicle stick.

I could feel the love in the room.  Foster felt it, too.  No one was in a hurry.  This was not a performance.  It was a get-together.

The choir dressed in red and black.  I knew Deborah had to be in there somewhere, but I couldn’t see her, my eyesight being what it is.  The conductor was precise, and they sounded just like you’d want a gospel group to sound.

Some of the older soloists couldn’t stand, so they sat in pews near the front.  When it came their time to sing, one of the younger members would come and get them and take them up so they could sit close to the microphone.  I was especially impressed with one older man who had to have help shuffling to the front.  It seemed like it took forever for him to get up there, but apparently, I was the one who was impatient. It was that casual way that blacks have of giving the man his due and letting him process at his own pace. The fact that he was there at all was a miracle.  And he sang with authority.

About an hour into the program, I got tired and thought I’d better leave, so we ducked out. People smiled at us as we left. 

Afterwards I talked with Deborah.  She was so grateful we’d come.  She said she and her sister had been there right in front. Maybe I should have done a Mr. Magoo and gone down closer to see where Deborah was standing.  I told her how much we’d enjoyed the concert and confessed that I couldn’t see her.  “That’s all right,” she said.  “I could see you.”