When the Billy Graham Crusade comes to town, an at-large invitation is issued to join the huge choir. Sometimes hundreds of people show up for this wonderful occasion.
A man I used to know could sing beautiful tenor notes like an angel. He responded to the call for voices but arrived at the last second and was forced to climb around the bleacher seats until he saw the section of men in white shirts, ready to practice.
After much wriggling through and saying, “excuse me,” he plopped into the last vacant seat and a kind gentleman to his right handed him some music. He jumped right in, for about one or two bars, then stopped to listen to his section.
“Wait a minute,” he thought, “This just doesn’t seem right; these fellows are singing awfully low.”
Between songs, his neighbor confirmed his suspicion. These were most definitely the bass boys. The tenors were way on the other side of the sopranos and altos.
He leaned forward to gauge the distance and the challenges to arriving all in one piece, and then made a quick decision.
“I’ll just sing bass.”
Hearing the telling of it was hilarious as he scrunched his chin down to show how if one tries hard enough, a treble clef voice box can reach notes to the left of middle C.
“I think I hurt myself,” he croaked.
Could this be a bloom where you are planted story, or even an example of making lemonade out of lemons?
It could be about running late, being distracted and ending up in the wrong place -- but then staying because it was easier than the effort it would take to get to the right spot, a place in which he could lend strong support.
Any comedy of errors always provides ample food for thought. Some sermon illustrations taken from real life work just as well for one theory as the other.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter where we sing, as long as we sing in harmony. Then again, it could matter as much as life and death.