ORDER OF SERVICE

PRELUDE

He was a brilliant choirmaster, organist, and pianist at the cathedral. An unsmiling man from England, twice my age. A devout and pious servant of the church.

PROCESSIONAL

He announced tryouts for an exciting, contemporary cantata with full orchestra. Many came forward to sing for him, but he needed more sopranos. I auditioned. He chose me.

OPENING PRAYER

Rehearsals were exhilarating. Moved by his musicianship, I asked to study piano with him. He said yes, if I met his exacting standards. I prayed my years of playing meant I’d be good enough for him.

THE GLORIA

Rejoice! He proclaimed I had immense talent—but needed work. He believed with his guidance, and his alone, I could become a truly gifted pianist.

FIRST LESSON

I practiced incessantly, hungry for his approval. He offered mostly criticism, doling out just enough praise to keep me hooked. He expressed concern that my Midwestern upbringing prevented me from playing Rachmaninoff and Brahms with the requisite passion. You’re too rigid, said the solemn Englishman. I practiced harder.

OFFERING

After telling me I needed to perform with more emotion, he offered to take me to New Orleans to introduce me to the city’s sultry magic, its soulful music, the scent of jasmine. He promised it would loosen me up, help me play better. He’d pay. No strings attached.

HYMN #167: I WILL TRUST THEE

I was unsure about his invitation, but he seemed so respectable, so religious. Plus, several choir members had whispered that he had no interest in women. I had nothing to fear.

THE GATHERING

He picked me up in a shiny Porsche convertible, wearing tight black jeans and a gold chain. It was unsettling. He looked so different. Driving 100 mph on the highway, it took less than two hours to travel the 200 miles to New Orleans. I was terrified and pleaded with him repeatedly to slow down. He rolled his eyes and told me to lighten up.

ANTHEM

I expected Bach. Yet, his car stereo blasted hard-edged rock the whole way.

SECOND LESSON

When we arrived in the French Quarter, he whipped into a parking space outside a seedy oyster bar: music blaring, tires screeching, me flinching. He laughed and said I really needed to relax. Inside, he ordered two dozen oysters, showing me how to suck them down with hot sauce and crackers. He leaned forward and softly said they were good for the libido. I began to feel uneasy.

LITANY OF THE TABLE

That evening we dined at Galatoire’s on Bourbon Street. It was so elegant, all gold and mirrors and crystal. I partook of the wine and bread he offered, and the French Creole cuisine was exquisite, like nothing I had ever eaten. He put his hand on my thigh. I brushed it away.

SCRIPTURE: MATTHEW 7:15

Beware of those who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravening wolves.

THIRD LESSON

He told me he’d reserved two rooms, but when we arrived at the hotel, only one was available. A mix-up, he said. Once in the room, he offered me more wine. I declined. He asked me to undress. I declined. He said he had paid for everything and expected me to be appreciative. I reminded him he’d said no strings. In a low, angry voice, he said I was either very naïve or very stupid.

EXHORTATION

I took a deep breath and said if he put his hands on me, I would go to the bishop, the vestry, and anyone else at the cathedral who would listen, and tell them he’d assaulted me. He narrowed his eyes. Suit yourself. He lay down on the bed, fully clothed, and fell asleep.

CONFESSION

I had been a fool.

RECESSIONAL

I stayed awake all night. In the morning, he declared the weekend ruined and we drove the 200 miles back, even faster this time. In silence.

DISMISSAL

I said I would not be taking piano lessons any longer. Fine with me, he said. You have no talent anyway. A waste of my time.

And you, I shouted as I slammed the door of his precious Porsche, are a sleazy waste of mine. He sped off. I wept with relief. Then shame.

Sorrow periodically resurfaced, flooding me with regret that I’d trusted him. I wondered if I should have told someone. I wanted only to forget. And so I tucked this story away.

BENEDICTION

Shame only survives in silence. Today, let shame and judgment move into the light, the light of spoken words, of hope and healing. Freed from darkness, shame no longer has any power. Go now in peace, with an abundance of self-forgiveness and wisdom.

AND THE PEOPLE SAID AMEN.

“A Liturgy of Lechery” originally appeared in the Fall 2022 issue of Barren Magazine.

After that we stop asking for second helpings of meatloaf and gravy, stop asking for Twinkies in our Beach Barbie lunchboxes, stop swimming on blistering Arizona days when even the Saguaros look wilted. 

After that we refuse to wear shorts. Our mother has stumpy legs—we inherited them, she confirms. You don’t notice what you can’t see, she says, and you have pretty faces. We wear prairie dresses, Jordache jeans, smiles slicked with Maybelline. 

After that we buy Circle K snacks with our allowances after school. Ding Dongs, Nutter Butter, Oreos. We sneak vanilla ice cream, slather it with Hershey’s syrup, make forts in our bedrooms with the shutters closed, binge-giggle in the dark. We hide the evidence under twin beds. 

After that we invent a game called confession. Mother hears our sins at bedtime, we confess the Oreos. It’s important to tell the truth, she says. We tell her we think our friend Tiffany’s mom is prettier, and thinner. She cries. 

After that we say we’re sorry. Our repentance: Jazzercise at the YMCA, jogs down Ocotillo Lane in the August heat, desert dust kicked up behind our Nikes. To cool off, we swim laps. Our mother pays us to swim thirty or more. 

After that we are cheerleaders, best friends with the prom queen. Still, we can “pinch an inch.” We drink SlimFast every day at lunch, say vanilla’s our favorite flavor. We obsess over numbers on scales, the stumpy thighs mother gave us. We are never prom queen perfect. Never enough. 

After that we waste decades talking about our thighs. 

After that, we marry men who love our thighs, who love our curves. Men who love our minds. Men who ask, What’s wrong with your mother?

Years after that we have daughters of our own. We pack Dora the Explorer lunchboxes with peanut butter sandwiches, with tangerines and milk. With homemade snickerdoodles. We teach our daughters to make meatloaf and gravy. We do cartwheels in fresh-cut grass, inhale spring. Summers, we head to the cool Pacific, wear yellow bikinis. We hold our daughter’s hands, jump high over the waves, say, See what you can do?

C-sharp (#): Compositions in a minor scale, such as Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata in C# Minor,” can evoke a misty evening of sad contemplation, moody ruminations, even grief. When Michael lived with me before we married, I set a Type-A goal to learn the sonata’s three movements in five weeks at which time my piano teacher held a recital. Michael said, “I don’t like the plink-plink-plink of the piano.” I did most of my practicing when he wasn’t around.

D#: Perhaps divorce is the second note of this scale. It drips with instability. No one would conclude a musical piece on the second note, where disagreements over money, sex, household chores clang through the crumbling bond. Resolution comes from moving up the scale. Michael and I got mired in the second note, struggling to let go of our discord for our five-year-old daughter.

E: The third note establishes the moody minor scale. It’s a half step up from D#. Were this a major scale, the happier note would be E#. The minor third feels dramatic, the splitting of assets and custody of our girl. We could almost skip the E in favor of E# as we found a sweet working relationship where our daughter was concerned. Five months after I left him, Michael said, “Have I thanked you yet?” His acknowledgement that we were in fact miserable as marrieds. Yet the scale continues.

F#: This plink of the fourth note introduces more instability. Michael’s unexpected death from heart failure a year after our divorce shattered my world. As a musician used to resolution, I dangled on the precarious trapeze of the F#. Let me say this: most people don’t understand grief. His friends, many of whom rejected me after I left him, didn’t understand that a divorced me could grieve for Michael. Most had not a clue how dissonant life would become with a bereaved child—that she reverted back to toddler behaviors, that she couldn’t sleep by herself, that she’d play happily one moment, then drop into messy tantrums the next. I dragged myself through my full-time-plus management job, getting my daughter to school, arranging for a nanny to be an extra “parent” when I had late meetings, getting her to a counselor. I had yet to comprehend the constant, ever-changing cacophony of grief that had blared into our living space. 

G#: The “Moonlight Sonata” melody begins on this note, the so-called dominant note of the scale, moving to C# and then E. Its tempo is adagio, very slow moving; its dynamics mostly pianissimo (pp) for very soft. Grief is adagio, and for my outward face, I tried to maintain pianissimo. But inside, my belly raged with the fast and agitated (Presto Agitado) speed of the sonata’s third movement. I just wanted to get over the grief. But there’s no getting over a death like this. Grief experts recommend getting used to a “new normal,” but such a phrase seemed cruel within the belly of bereavement. The scale must continue.

A: G# transitions to A, the 6^th, as light returns in early spring. If combined with C# and E, I hear an A major chord instead of minor. Beethoven uses major chords to add complexity and interest. My heart found occasional joy as the trees sprouted verdant leaves between branches. I signed my daughter up for dance classes, something on my to-do list for 6 months. Only then did I understand how the shock of Michael’s death had affected me. Only then did I find moments where I could take a full breath and feel my own song again.

B or B#: The natural minor uses B as the 7^th note, while the harmonic minor uses B#. A choice point. Natural feels safe; harmonic brings drama to the scale. After three years of solo parenting, I craved change. Choosing B meant staying put—the job, the house, the drudgery. B# was my opportunity to move, to seek a new tune in a new city.

C#: The scale returns to the tonic an octave higher, a note of resolution. Once we settled into our new community, I landed a job as executive director of a small nonprofit providing grief support to children, teens, and adults. This is where my education about grief really began. This is where I got my daughter into a kids’ grief support group. This is where I learned to play the music of healthy grieving and to sit with others sharing a compassion that only comes from having my own loss experience. I’m proud that my daughter is now a healthy young adult living a full life. 

The Music of C# Minor: No musical score is just about the scale. Beethoven created something complex and beautiful—like love—through his use of space and chords that deviate from C# Minor. I sit down at my piano with that tattered old score and attempt to relearn the “Moonlight Sonata,” a retrospective of my life in this one composition. As I get deeper into the melodies, I see that the complexity of love and loss have made my life rich, like Beethoven’s masterpiece. 

“Sonata” originally appeared in Minerva Rising: The Keeping Room.