Taps
| I’m standing at the top of the stairs, in the exact centre of the last
pew, in the balcony, directly in front of the massive stained glass window.
I look down and see the choir, the minister, the special guests, the children,
and the congregation, all standing with their heads bent, in silence. I
focus my attention on the communion table, which is now covered with old
uniforms, badges, flags, and gear, all used by real soldiers in real wars.
With my gaze firmly fixed on the signs of wars past, I count. When I get
to fifty I lift my horn to my lips, eyes still firmly fixed on the display.
I take a moment to remember the presentation, the monologue Tom gave, dressed
in uniform, ending with the poem "In Flanders Fields." I take
a deep breath and play that first G. The note breaks through the silence,
and wavers slightly as the haunting tone of the note fills the silence
of the huge sanctuary, and brings us all back in time.
As I play, I can feel it. The power of the music wrapping around me, wrapping around the display as if it was interested, like a child, not sure what it all meant. Then going to each person, one at a time and feeling their pain, becoming that person for a moment, living their memories, then moving to the next person. As I play the last note, it’s as if I’m calling it back to me. Asking it to tell me what it has experienced, to become one with me, to share. I stand there, eyes always on the front of the church, silently experiencing Taps long after it was played. When the pipes are done playing the Lament, I begin Reveille, still experiencing the power, waking the congregation, yet my eyes were always open. The power is with me even after we’ve sat down. Finally I lift my gaze from the table and up to the cross and I wonder. We set aside one day a year to remember the thousands of men and women who died for our freedom. We take one day a year out of our busy lives to acknowledge the sacrifice of not only the soldiers, but their families, who are all very real. Who’s graves are found world wide, in most every cemetery. And yet, we gather once a week to not only remember one man, but to worship him, to lay down at his feel for saving us for our afterlife, which, no matter how much we want to believe it, we can not be sure even exists. |