A Song for the Lord By Sarah Zeidel '02 Uppers Chanta Smith (left) and Sarah Zeidel (right) discovered, in Zeidel's words, "one song, one story" when they wrote about each other's spiritual lives for an English 310 assignment. The Academy bell tolls the end of Wednesday classes. Students file out of brick and ivy, spilling into the quad and P.O., and disperse into dining halls and dormitories. I am running, perhaps for the first time in my life, to a church. For those activities which fit into boxes on PEA schedules, Phillips Church feels as normal to me as Phillips Hall. My presence here today invokes neither genres of recollection. Even as I open the familiar wooden door, I step into the unknown. Today the wooden floor creaks under my feet. The grand piano commands center stage; notes float into the vast expanse of church around me. Students mingle in the chairs surrounding the piano, laugh and chit-chat. They pull photocopied music out of overstuffed backpacks. Early rays of afternoon light fall in pools over the pews. I explain to the boy sitting at the piano bench that I will be observing the rehearsal. Chanta arrives moments later, already greeting her singers before she has laid down her load of books and binders. "Just give them a few minutes," she assures the students who have arrived on time. "Some people might be late, so just 'talk amongst yourselves.' " I follow Chanta into Reverend Thompson's office, where she hurries to make photocopies. The machine spits out sheet after sheet; Chanta glances at her watch, tapping her foot and glancing back at the pile in the paper tray. The radio is tuned to a Christian station-the chorus is one prolonged 'Jesus.' Rev hums along to the refrain, but Chanta knows the verses by heart. She finishes the last of her photocopies and points to two hymnals, her sources. "We use The New National Baptist Hymnal, but we also take a lot of our songs from The A.M.E. Hymnal." (A.M.E., the cover reminds me, is "African Methodist Episcopal.") Chanta, eyeing students who have arrived at the other end of the sanctuary, begins rehearsal at the piano. "We're gonna run through 'We've Come This Far by Faith.' Take it from the beginning, before y'all walk in." Michael, the boy who has been sitting at the piano, sings the opening solo. The rest of the choir processes in from the side door, two rows moving as one. Invisible robes swish softly as they walk. The choir joins together at the altar and turns to face the congregation just in time for the refrain. Their sound fills the sanctuary. We've come this far by faith Leaning on the Lord Trusting in His holy word He's never failed me yet. Singing ohhhhh-Can't turn around now! We've come this far by faith. Chanta taps her foot on the floor to keep the choir in time. She stands off to the side because she does not need to stand in front; her presence is felt. Her hand rests on her chin. She frowns slightly, listening to what the choir cannot hear. The students look immediately to Chanta for approval, concentrating on her face instead of on the closing bars. "It sounds good," she assures them right away. "But we have some things to work on. First off, y'all were late. You have to listen to Mike, 'cuz he's setting the tempo for the song. Remember to emphasize the word 'come'; you're coming up here to sing for the Lord. So sing out!" Her hands point to the rafters. "Even if you're not sure of the note, sing out." Having reiterated the essentials, Chanta describes a vocal technique to improve the quality of the sound. Like all good teachers, she poses a question instead of an answer. "Do y'all know how to breathe from your diaphragm?" A few students motion vaguely to their stomachs. Chanta tries another tactic. "You know those ladies who sing opera and have big stomachs?" Chanta smiles at the choir; they chuckle. "They use their diaphragms!" She places her hands on her stomach, asking the choir to do the same, and exaggerates a "hiss." I place my notes on a chair. The group holds pointer fingers at arm's length and blows out candles until all the air is exhaled. "You should feel your breath on your finger. Now you can use your diaphragm to improve the sound. Vicki, show us a yawn, and then trap it." Vicki yawns and closes her mouth. "Try it, y'all," Chanta says, examining 10 trapped yawns. "Do you feel the space in the back of your mouth? Keep that open so the air and the sound can pass through. Let's try 'We've Come This Far' again from right before your entrance." When the choir steps into the sanctuary, one sound reverberates, thick and heavy, deep enough to fill a soul. Notes lift off the pages that lay scattered on the piano. With the cohesion of a team and the enthusiasm for an art uniquely created in space and in time, the PEA Gospel Choir arrives at the altar. I shudder, shaking anxiety off my shoulders, goose bumps forming on my arms. I am breathless, soul-shaken. Chanta beams at her choir, nodding her head to the beat and listening to their voices, aimed skyward towards the rafters. Even as they finish, the song echoes in my head like a thousand voices praising God.

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