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It had been one of the hottest Augusts on record in our small town, but the climate in our church ten years ago was decidedly chilly. A disagreement about worship styles had created a sad rift in our congregation. The choir director and about ten families departed suddenly—so suddenly that when we arrived for the first choir practice of the new season, there was a pinch-hitter directing. She was a talented and lovely Christian woman with advanced training—but it was in instrumental, not vocal, music.

Ellen promised to do her best to lead us, and she did. As autumn progressed, we learned more about reading music every week. Although there were now fewer than a dozen in the choir (down from our usual 30 members), we were able to perform the music adequately.

By late October we began practicing for Christmas. Should we attempt "The Hallelujah Chorus" from Messiah with only 12 choristers? We practiced it and the other Christmas numbers throughout November, and decided our efforts were modest but acceptable.

On Christmas Sunday, the choir rose for the anthem. As Handel's familiar chords rang forth from the organ, my heart began to soar. The congregation arose, as is the custom for this cherished piece of music. I drew in a large breath and began, "Haaaaaaaal … " Then I gasped.

The sound coming from all around our small choir was unbelievable, breathtaking, and impossible for 12 voices to produce. Oh, my! I thought. What's going on?

The music and the harmony swelled, climbed, and enveloped the sanctuary in beauty and worship. I could hardly catch my breath for the tears, but stayed the course for the sheer thrill of praising God in the midst of what felt like a full choir of angels.

Such harmony! Such joy! Such power!

And then it was over. The congregation applauded enthusiastically. I looked around to see if others had heard what I had heard. Some clearly had. Others seemed unaware.

Sometimes, on dark days when trials surround and threaten to overwhelm me, I think back to that miraculous gift our church was given during a troubled time. I recall how God took a few voices and their desire to worship and honor Him and allowed us to sing with the voices of heaven. I remember the day the angels sang with our choir.

Nancy M. Hunter, a retired nurse, is now a freelance writer from Rio, Illinois.

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