Grandmother reflects on siblings’ quiet support

Today's letter is being written from a grandmother's memory of something that happened 2 1/2 years ago.

The facts are not as important as the feelings. Glenn and I went to a Sunday morning worship service at the church our daughter and family attend. This was the first time their new worship band would perform the call to worship.

Their three oldest children were a part of the band that featured instrumentalists and singers for several verses of a new song that had been practiced for several weeks. Tristan, the oldest, was a high school sophomore who played his mother's acoustic guitar. Cohen, an eighth-grader, sat on a big black box called a cajon (pronounced Ka-hone) and thumped the front of it with his hands to produce a soft beat. Alice, a sixth-grader who had taken piano lessons for several years, stood behind a keyboard on legs.

Our family of seven members was seated in the third pew on the left side of the sanctuary. We took up the whole pew. A few people were seated in the second pew. The front pew was empty. The song was great, with a meaningful message sung by a boy and a girl who belonged to the band.

There were a few adults playing with the youth, who were well dressed. But something was wrong. Alice was playing her keyboard to accompany the group, but she was distressed. A couple times she turned around while she was playing and looked pleadingly toward Tristan. She didn't say anything — just kept playing and stressing with her smile growing fainter as the song continued.

Maybe there was a second keyboard. Alice kept playing, but she was upset about something. She had chosen her special dress and fixed her hair up into a bun with care. They arrived early and practiced their song. Everything was all set for the call to worship that happened in spite of Alice's stress.

After the morning worship service ended, we later learned Alice's electric keyboard had turned itself off. Maybe it did that automatically after not being used for a while. Maybe it took a while to "boot up" and be ready. At the time I only knew our sweet Alice was trying hard to hide how upset she was while standing in the front of the chancel.

After their song, all the kids left their instruments in the chancel and went around the corner to the exit into the hallway, which led to the stairs to the fellowship hall in the basement, where cookies and punch would be served after the service during the meet and greet time. Except Alice. Oh, how she wanted to run to her mother's arms, but that was not possible.

Instead, she sat alone in the middle of the front pew — except for her big brother Tristan, who sat beside her to her right — saying nothing. He didn't say anything, just sat there, close enough to touch her right shoulder and lean his strength and comfort into the touch.

That's how they sat together throughout the rest of the service. When it ended, Alice was finally able to tell her mother what happened or what didn't happen and shed a few soft tears.

Mother's Day has come and gone for this year. My message to our daughter is she has done well in raising her children, in the home and outside the home, teaching them the meaning of family.

Just the other day, she called us from her parked car. Tristan, who will be a senior in the high school marching band this fall, and Alice, who will be an eighth-grader in that same band, had been taken to the big high school for practice in preparation for marching in the Memorial Day Parade. Elizabeth had asked Tristan to make sure his sister did not get lost in that big building. When she called us, they had been practicing for a while.

When the two walked to the van, Tristan was carrying Alice's mellophone case, which weighs half as much as Alice does and is the size of a family cooler, while Alice was carrying his saxophone case.