By CAITLIN HOFEN, Features Editor
Six months.
We had been working on the same six songs for six months. The same notes, phrases and harmonies. Two songs in languages none of us understood.
Each piece had a story, and somehow, we needed to find a way to relate their meanings to our own lives.
When I learned Northwestern Singers group had been selected to perform at the Oklahoma Music Educators Association Winter Conference, I felt excitement.
We’d worked for years on submitting recordings to be selected as an honor choir.
When we were given our performance music, it didn’t mean much to me.
It was August, and January was months away. We had three concerts before then, and I had an entire semester of classwork to get through.
Throughout the fall, I struggled to balance the workload of classes, work and music. Rehearsals felt monotonous, and I wasn’t finding joy in performance anymore.
In October, I tested positive for COVID-19. My symptoms were minimal, but I still missed almost two weeks of class.
In that timeframe, the rest of the choir moved on with the music. A new piece was introduced, and the pronunciation of our German piece was solidified.
I came back feeling more lost than ever. I played catch-up and got back on track, but the excitement was gone.
I trudged through the end of the fall semester. By then, most of our music was memorized, but there were no emotions behind the words.
I felt relief in knowing I’d get a month off from rehearsing with everyone else.
I listened to our rehearsal tracks every once in a while over break, but I still wasn’t enjoying the music or relating the messages to my own life.
Classes began in January, and I was determined to enjoy my time in choir again.
I went in with a positive mindset that we were going to sound even better than before we left. I wasn’t far off as we sounded rejuvenated, with a little more life in each piece.
We had one week to polish our set for Tulsa, and that week was the longest of my life.
We went over every song with a fine-toothed comb. We corrected rhythms, vowel shapes and worked our Icelandic and German pronunciations to perfection.
Extra rehearsals were scheduled, and hours were spent pouring over trouble spots. But I still didn’t think it would all be worth it.
Thursday morning, I pulled up to Ryerson Hall at 6 a.m. to load up for Tulsa. Almost all our plans for the week were changed because of COVID-19, but we were still going to perform.
As I pulled on my long, black dress and curled my hair before the performance, I realized we were finally at the end of the journey we started in August.
All we had to do was take the final step.
When we walked out onto the stage of the Tulsa First Baptist Church, emotions were high, and excitement was felt across the choir.
As we sang the first song, our sound filled the hall with the stories we were about to tell.
We took the audience on a journey, from praising the might of God to feeling lost and alone. Wonderment and hope were turned into pleading to be free from pain and suffering. Finally, the red knight of death ushered in the joy and peace found in paradise.
As the last note rang through the hall, my eyes filled with tears. It didn’t matter if millions of people were listening or a dozen. We told the story.
I felt the love I once had for performance return. A feeling I had missed so much.
The months of frustration, hard work and doubt were all behind us. Instead, feelings of accomplishment, relief and joy were felt as we walked off-stage to two standing ovations.
Hugs and tears were passed around as we realized it was all over. We accomplished what we had worked to do: to show that the little choir in northwest Oklahoma is capable of so much more than anyone imagined.
I think I speak for everyone when I say we left it all on that stage, and we aren’t looking back.
