Before I was able to expire of a sudden heart attack, I was informed that the situation wouldn't remain deadly for long. Movers would be here in the afternoon to move librarians' desks directly in front of all the pretty cables, leaving the librarians' office empty for construction. They were as good as their word; now the entire science fiction area is filled with desks and chairs, which do indeed block the front of the server. Of course, the backs of the machines are still just as fascinatingly perched enticingly above the picture books, just waiting for someone to pull out a power supply or two. Frankly, if that's all that happens, I'll be relieved. The image of a computer toppling onto a child's head isn't a pretty one, I imagine (with horrid detail).

Happily, though, the kids haven't been the least interested in spending any time in that are this morning. Why should they be, when great big bulldozers are digging humongous holes directly outside the windows of the children's room? The machines are excavating the new basement, and the sight of enormous mounds of dirt and rocks being ripped out of the ground has provided wonderful entertainment for all of the kiddies this morning. I must admit, I've rather enjoyed the sight myself. I've had to stay on my toes, however, for the excitement of the moment has had more than one child attempting to scale the bookshelves to get a better view.

Three weeks ago, we got the details in the mail. I scanned them, put the envelopes aside, and forgot about them. Eric hadn't seemed all that interested, anyway.

One week ago, we got a second phone call from the guy. Now, I'd been in a similar position before, when I'd gotten excited about a choir-singing opportunity, but after I'd already agreed for the both of us, Eric had decided that we would not do it. This time, I decided that the best way to handle it would be to let Eric take the call; if he said yes, then it was his choice, and I'd be free of blame. I was amazed when he hung up and told me that he'd agreed to join.

Yesterday morning, we went to the first rehearsal. After signing in, paying our music money, and getting our scores, we found a quiet place and sat down to look over the music.

"You know what this is, don't you?" he said, waving one book. "Cantata cheese - Sandy Patti stuff." Neither of us were enthused by the idea.

When rehearsal started, we began to see exactly how out of place we actually were. Mind you, I grew up in a church where worship included electric guitars, drumsets, and keybords, with half the congregation shaking tambourines. I was a Maranatha kid. While I may have been weaned on overhead-projected choruses, though, it's not something in which I have any interest any longer. It's just Not My Style; I'm done with that part of my life.

Therefore, when the conductor put on a tape of the music, and the choir began scooping into the notes in unison, clapping their hands and repeating the choruses over, and over, and over again, I heard a small scream begin in my head. I looked around, and saw that the alto section was dancing in its seats, some with raised hands and closed eyes. It was a perfect flashback to my childhood, almost unbearable in its closeness.

I glanced back at Eric. He gave me a look, potent with unhappiness. His childhood church was similar, though with markedly less tambourine involvement; he was raised in a Church of Christ, surrounded by blue-haired ladies and cries of "Amen, brother!" This sort of music was his church's typical Wednesday night fare, though, which he had always done his best to miss.

As we were walking out into the parking lot, I spoke. "You know, the only reason I can see for doing this choir is that it would please our mothers."

Eric agreed. After a brief conference, establishing our agreement, we walked back into the church and returned our music. The director tried to persuade us to stay, but we finally were able to make him see that our extreme discomfort with the style of music would prevent us from being able to contribute to the worship. We left the music money as a contribution, and departed with easy hearts.

As for our choir director, her name wasn't on the list, and neither was that of anyone else in our choir. We'll be speaking to her about giving out our names later.

Oh, and for your viewing pleasure, a rare picture of Boss-Zilla. The child in her lap is the daughter of our Tech Lady, who had to come in to assist with the furniture moving this morning. The poor little girl was completely overwhelmed by all the activity, so Boss-Zilla took charge of her to allow Tech Lady to complete her work. All of the staff shook our heads in happy disbelief; none of us had ever before seen this side of her.