Down from the Cross (7 page)

“It’s not that! Mom is able to get herself something to eat when I can’t make it home.”

“Then why?”

Her gaze immediately went to her simple tank dress and chiffon cover-up blouse. “I’m… I’m not…”

He must have caught her concern. “Okay, we’ll go somewhere else. Maybe have a steak at one of Providence’s famous steakhouses. Would that be better?”

Seeing that he wasn’t going to give up easily, she glanced at her watch. “I have choir practice at seven thirty.”

His smile was devastating. “No problem. It’s nearly five. If we head out now, you should have time to do both.” He stepped toward her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

Ripples of joy coursed through her at his touch. To think that he—Keene Moray—would invite her—Jane Delaney— to have dinner with him was nothing short of incredible.

“Come on, Jane. Say yes. I get tired of eating alone. You’ll be doing me a big favor.”

“Well… I guess…”

“Is that a yes?”

She nodded. “I–I guess. If you’re sure…”

His hand went from her shoulder to cup her chin as he lifted her face to his. “I’m sure. Now put that walker in gear, and let’s go have a steak.”

A few minutes past seven thirty, when Jane arrived at the church, choir practice had already begun. She slipped into the seat next to Karen as quietly as she could, opened the folder lying on her chair, and pulled out a piece of sheet music, frantically searching for a word or phrase that would give her a hint as to which page they were on.

Karen leaned toward her and whispered with a grin, “You’re late. Page four, at the bottom.”

“Thanks.” Although Jane loved singing in the choir and learning new music with which to praise her Lord, she found her mind wandering back to the wonderful time she’d had at the restaurant with Keene. He was gorgeous, with such a striking presence it had seemed all eyes turned toward him when they entered. Something about him and his appearance commanded attention. He exuded confidence and an assurance about himself that few men did. She found herself still in awe of him. Apparently, others did, too. Several people came to their table seeking his autograph.

When the last note had been sung, choir director Ben Kennard smiled and held up a folder. “Okay, folks, you’ve got that one down pat. We’ll be doing it a week from Sunday. We’ll go over it one more time next week.”

Karen slipped the music back into her folder and leaned toward Jane. “You’re never late. What happened?”

“You’ll never believe it. I’ll tell you later.”

“Take out the music for
Down from the Cross,”
Ben told them, holding up a fairly good-sized book. “We’re coming along quite nicely with this. I am proud of all of you, but remember, we not only have to know
how
to sing the music, we have to sing it with feeling. Why?” He paused for effect, his eyes scanning the faces of the 150 members of Randlewood Community Choir. “Because we’re singing it for our Lord. Yes, there will be those in the audience each of the eight nights we perform
Down from the Cross
as a citywide Easter pageant whom we hope and pray will be touched by what we sing, but touching those hearts is God’s job. If we give Him the best we can, He will do the rest.”

“I–I have a hard time singing this cantata without crying,” Emily Stokes, one of the altos, said as she opened her folder. “The words really speak to my heart.”

“Me, too,” Gene Reynolds, the lead bass singer, boomed out. “God had to have inspired the man who wrote this music.”

Winnie Martin touched her handkerchief to her eyes. “Just thinking how Jesus suffered and died for us—well, I praise Him for… for…” Halting, she began to weep.

“It’s okay, Winnie. I think this cantata touches each of us in a special way.” Ben bowed his head and said softly, “Lord, each of us comes to You this night with our own special load of baggage. We ask You to take it from us, lift it from our backs. Cleanse our minds of all thoughts except those of You. May we praise You with each word we sing, that Your name may be glorified. We ask these things in Jesus’ name.”

“Amen,” the entire group said in unison.

Ben motioned toward an empty seat in the baritone section. “As most of you know, Jim Carter has been having some physical problems lately, and he’s asked for our prayers. I’m… I’m sorry to have to tell you, but they have determined he has throat cancer. He has an appointment with a specialist tomorrow to see how best to proceed. We need to continue to pray for him. The prognosis does not look good.”

Winnie stood to her feet, her eyes round with concern. “But he always sings the part of Jesus! What if—”

“If he can’t sing,” Sarah Miles interrupted, tears evident through her thick glasses, “will… will we have to cancel the cantata?”

Everyone waited for Ben’s answer.

Ben frowned, gripping the edges of his music stand. “At this point, Sarah, I would have to say yes, that’s a distinct possibility, but it’s in God’s hands. Easter is only eight weeks away. It would be very difficult for someone else to step in and learn the music at this late date. I know you are all disappointed to hear it, but
Down from the Cross
may have to be canceled. The church board will be making the final decision within the next day or so. Until then, I guess we’ll carry on as usual.”

“But—” Sarah began.

“Let’s not discuss this any further tonight. We need to get on with our practice. The best thing we can do at this point is pray for a miracle for Jim when he goes to the specialist tomorrow. We all know God is able to perform miracles.”

Karen leaned toward Jane. “We simply can’t do the cantata without Jim.”

Jane gave her a weak smile. The news had upset her as much as everyone else. Jim Carter, a professional performer who traveled most of the year with a Southern gospel quartet, had sung the lead baritone part in their cantatas for as long as she could remember. Although she had heard him many times over the years, his rich voice still sent chills down her spine, even in rehearsals. “I know. We’d better pray hard.”

After another hour of practice, Ben dismissed the group.

“Jane, can you stay?” he asked as she moved out of the choir loft. “I’d like to go over your solos again.”

“Sure, Ben. I’ve been working on them at home, and I could really use your help. But if
Down from the Cross
has to be canceled—”

“It hasn’t been canceled—yet.” He motioned her toward the microphone. “I’m wondering about the part on page fifty, Jane. Even if we have to cancel the cantata, I still want you to sing this part on Easter Sunday at all three morning services.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do.” He adjusted the microphone for her and then stepped aside. “Remember, you’re playing the part of Jesus’ mother. Before you begin to sing, think how Mary would feel. Put yourself in her place. Try to experience the same emotions she would have felt. Elation when she witnessed the miracles He performed. Sorrow when He was mistreated and falsely accused. An overwhelming grief as He was led to the cross.”

Ben’s words tore at Jane’s heart, and she found herself unable to speak.

“For these few minutes, you
are
Mary, the mother of Jesus. Be her. Respond the way she would respond. Weep as she would weep. Cry out the way she cried out. Forget about the audience. Do this for Him, Jane. Your Lord. Your God. The One who took your sins upon Himself and died on the cross for you. Think of His pain, His agony as He hung there on the cross, as Mary would have thought of it. Take on her personality. Her demeanor. And yes—her burden. If you cry— so be it! If you have to stop and compose yourself before you can go on—so be it! Become Mary, Jane! Forget who you are, and be who God wants you to be at that moment: Mary—the mother of Jesus—and sing it from the depths of your heart.”

Without picking up her book, Jane lifted the walker and moved one step closer to the microphone. She knew her part by heart. She had memorized it weeks ago. With a quick prayer to God, she nodded toward the pianist and began to sing. It was as if it were not her voice she heard but the voice of Mary, singing the way Mary would have sung it, and her heart rejoiced.
This is for You, God; I’m singing it for You!

“That’s it!” Ben rushed to her side when she finished. “That’s exactly what I wanted. Oh, Jane, that is the best you have ever done it. Surely God has touched both your voice and your heart.”

Tears of joy flowed down Jane’s cheeks later when she thought over the evening’s events while hobbling her way across the nearly empty parking lot to her car. “Thank You, Lord, for giving us Ben Kennard as a choir director. Surely, You sent him to us. Help me to sing the part of Mary as I did tonight, so souls in the audience may see their need of a Savior and turn to You. And please, God, be with Jim Carter. He needs your touch.”

“Well, did you make it to choir practice on time last night?” Keene asked when Jane entered his office at ten the next morning, fresh from a trip to the doctor’s office.

Jane smiled at him, holding out her leg, minus the cast. “Not exactly on time, but close.”

“You finally got that thing off. Congratulations!” He knelt and wrapped his hand around her slim ankle. “How does it feel?”

“Nude!” She laughed, shocked at the word she had used to describe the weird sensation of having her ankle exposed to air once again. Hoping to make him forget her ridiculous remark, she hurriedly added, “It seems a bit strange to walk on it, but it feels marvelous—absolutely marvelous—to finally be rid of that cast.”

“I’m sure it does. I’m amazed you’ve done so well with it.”

He followed her down the hall to his office. “So how did choir practice go?”

“Wonderfully well.” She wanted to tell him all about the things Ben had said to her, about becoming Mary when she sang the part, and how, because of his words and guidance, she had sung better than she’d ever sung before, but she knew he wouldn’t understand and kept it to herself. “We’ve been working on our Easter cantata for weeks now. It’s beautiful.”

“Easter cantata, eh?”

“Yes, it’s called
Down from the Cross.
The writer had to have been truly inspired by God.”

He waited until she was settled in the desk chair where she planned to work on his fan mail and then seated himself in the chair opposite her, resting his elbows on the desktop. “I don’t know about that. Think of all the wonderful works of music that haven’t been inspired by God. Many of them have survived the test of time quite nicely.”

She could not hold back a grin. Chalk one up for God! Keene trapped himself by that admittance and did not even realize it. “Haven’t been inspired by God? Does that mean you acknowledge His existence?”

He reared back in the chair with a hearty laugh. “Oh, you thought you caught me, didn’t you? That is not what I meant at all. I meant,
you
thought they had been inspired by God.

Not me!”

Somehow, singing the part of Mary in the strong way she had the night before gave her a new boldness. “What about Handel’s
Messiah?
Was it not inspired by God? Do you think that man came up with it all by himself? We’ve all heard the story of how that miraculous piece of music came to be written. Handel himself declared it had been inspired by God.”

“I think you and I could argue this point until doomsday and never come to a resolution.” He stretched his arms first one way and then the other. “Too heavy a topic for this early in the morning. Besides, I’ve got practicing to do, and you’ve got mail to work on.” With that, he stood and headed for the door. “I’ll call for pizza for lunch. That okay with you?”

She nodded, forcing a smile, fully aware he was dodging the issue. How could he be so blind?

Thursday and Friday went along routinely, with Keene practicing in his room and Jane working in the office. Occasionally, she would open the door a crack, listening to the voice she loved to hear, amazed at the way the two of them had been brought together. However, in her heart she felt like she was failing God. She had promised to be a witness to Keene. Now, all these weeks later, he’d come no closer to believing in God’s reality than the day they first met. “Lord,” she prayed in a whisper, “this is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. He has been kind, considerate, and gentle with me, yet each time Your name is mentioned, it’s like a wall goes up between us. I don’t know how to reach him. I need Your help, Your guidance. I don’t know what to do. Help me, please.”