The Choir at Three

I went up at three to lock, which is my hour when there is no service. The door from the yard was unfastened, as I had left it. I stood in the back and heard the choir. Four parts, the hymn we like in Lent, though it was not Lent. I know every throat in that loft and none of them were in it.

I am not a man who startles. I sat in the last pew on the left, which is mine, and I listened. They were not in a hurry. When they finished there was the little quiet that comes after singing, and then only the windows. I locked the door. I was late to supper and said so.

I do not think it was angels. I think it was the building remembering. I write this because I was told there is a place that will take a thing without making it a sermon or a joke. I was not afraid. The church has been a church a long time. It would be strange if it had nothing to say for itself.