She and I were sitting in the vestibule.  She's at that fun age where she's constantly making noise and moving at Mass.  So, there we were.  With a sweet, older woman to our left, and two loud chatty women to our right (but that's a vent for another day).  I was singing one of the songs as the priest prepared Communion, was feeling such great peace.  All of a sudden this woman was standing before me.

"Why are you not in the choir?"

"Ma'am?"

"Why are you not in the choir?" 

I pointed to the cuteness personified sitting on my lap.  "Because of her," I laughed.

"Oh, don't let that be an excuse.  We can work around that."  (Trying not to get offended at that.)

"Well, thank you, ma'am.  I have another little girl, too, so I just feel more needed in the pew." 

"That voice is a gift.  Don't waste it."

When I was in middle school, my voice was enough to offend cats.  It was horrible.  I don't know why.  But, it was.  By high school, it was alright, so I joined the choir.  I have always loved to sing.  I sing in the car, while cleaning the house, walking through the grocery store with my girls.  They love to hear me sing.  Sometimes, when we are home, I will sing Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" with accompanying stage antics, much to the girls glee. 

"O-gain!  O-gain!"  Mary giggles
"Again, Mommy!  Again! " chimes Elizabeth. 

And I do.  With great joy. 

In the grocery store, I've been stopped by people and told to audition for American Idol (whatever.  That's for REALLY good people!).  I've received the advice before about joining the Church Choir.  I don't think my voice is that great, but apparently it's improved since middle school. 

But, thing is, I don't want to be in the Church choir.  I don't want to audition for those shows.  Some people were born to sing in front of the congregation.  Some were meant to sing in front of millions.

Me?  No.

I was born to sing next to tiny beds.  I was meant to sing over a bassinet.  I don't need fame out there.  I have it at home.  I have my small audience right there, that loves my crazy stage antics, that cheers while I sing. 

When my oldest girl was an infant, she would scream for over twelve hours a day.  A horrible, gut-wrenching scream.  Colic.  My all-time nemesis.  I would put her on her tummy across my thighs while rocking her.  I'd put her tiny aching belly across the boppy on the floor and rub her back.  I'd put her in bouncy seats and swings.  I'd hold her, talk to her.

Nothing worked.

Except for one thing.  Singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."  I started singing it once when she was just days old, when I was out of my mind crazy.  And she stopped.  She stopped screaming, and just looked at me.  And for the first time since her birth, I felt a connection.  She was hearing me.  I would sing it for hours, sensing the comfort.  Sensing the connection.  I still sing it to her.  She loves it, requests it.  It makes my heart happy. And hers, too. 

No.  I do not wish to sing in front of hundreds.  I do not want to sing in front of millions.  I just want to sing for the little souls with which God blessed me with.  That is fulfilling enough for me.