So, here I am, again.

Standing in the apse of my Angel's church.

They've replaced the outer doors since I last listened here. With modern insulated plywood doors, with narrow glass windows, allowing you to make sure you're not going to be slamming into someone on the other side, and the wide push bar for the mechanism. At first thought they might be steel doors, but you can see the plywood grain wearing out through its layer of paint.

Safer and more convenient than the old handle with the thumb lever, but somehow less noble, more plebian.

They redid the stairs and railings at the same time, a good and necessary thing, and fortunately did little to the apse other than lay in new carpet and oak baseboards.

The arched stained glass windows are still here. The low, winter sun glowing through the outer one,

donated so many years ago by a pioneer family. Their name too faded to read now, but it began with an 'F'.

The inner window is simple and dark, leading into the entryway of the chapel itself. Fortunately, they did not replace the inner doors. These are heavy and a healthy mahogany colour, with brass push plates and heavy brass hinges. Perhaps original to the building, I do not know. They no longer hang aligned, the right swinging out ajar below. Both doors swung slightly open from the breeze as I slipped into my silent listening place.

The congregation was reciting one of their longer creeds as I entered. Followed by prayers, including this one:

"Recent days have been filled with talk of war. May all the Nations of the World seek only Peace."

Amen.

Next came the offertory. And I heard my Angel's voice, strong and clear above me, announcing the offertory hymn.

Number 248.

And then she started. I leaned back against the wall, and felt my eyes begin to water.

"Here Iam, Lord" her voice sang out. Filling the room, filling the building.

Filling my heart.

It has been 6 months and 16 days since her thyroid operation.

It has been 6 months and 19 days since her voice swept out over a congregation.

It was as sweet and clear as ever, although the notes seemed lower to me. Has she shifted to another key or voice? Avoiding the higher notes? Or perhaps that is the way the hymn is written.

At first she seemed to hurry, leading the organist, leading the murmur of voices from the congregation. I worried she had lost the confidence to hold her notes long and true. But her voice rang out over all the others, leading them, lifting them up to a higher level. By the second verse, all were in unison.

But enough analysis. I pressed my head against the wall behind me, looking up at the white globed light above before closing my eyes, and just enjoyed the sounds.

The sounds of my Angel's voice lifting up again.

She didn't tell me she was going to try singing again until late this week. She studied the hymn book several times yesterday, and faintly sang the songs as she dried her hair this morning.

I didn't tell her I would be coming in, and she didn't ask.

For once the boys cooperated, and they got out of home early. Early enough that she wouldn't be rushed to get ready at church. May have helped that I cleaned the windows of the SUV, and got it warmed up for her. Don't know if she noticed I had also swept the Dodge's windows of snow, and the engine plugged in to warm.

After they left, a quick shave and ten minutes of shoveling the newest layer of snow off the walks (winter has finally come to our part of the planet). And then the masked heeler and I followed them in to town. Late enough that any late-comers to Mass would not find me waiting in their apse.

After more of their rituals and responses came Communion. And the double mahogany doors swung open. One of the ushers, a man I have known for over a decade, and the wife even longer. He was surprised to see me, remarking "Oooh it's warm in here." But even more embarrassed at being caught sneaking out of Mass. And explained that he had to pee (his words, not mine) and was taking the "long route."

Walking clear around the side of the church to adjoined buildings, rather than up the aisles to the front of the chapel.

He was soon followed by a young Hispanic mother, and her boy. But they headed out to the street and the parked cars.

My Angel announced the Communion Hymn, number 310, and began with the organ. No hurry in her voice this time, she moved in pace with the organist, with only a few voices rising from below. My usher friend came back in and hastily returned to his station.

A woman I know came quietly out, followed by her teenaged daughter. The same woman who snuck out early almost a year ago when I was last here. I wondered if this was her routine? Does she have responsibilities that call her out early every Sunday?

But that meant Mass was nearing the end. I listened to the sounds coming from the alcove above, wondering how such beauty could come from something so mortal. Just as I wonder how the song of a warbler, such a tiny little bird, can fill an entire valley.

I savored my Angel's voice until the end of Hymn 310, and then just as silently slipped out the outer door. By the time I reached the Dodge and the impatient heeler, the procession of acolytes and the priest, in his dark green robe, were coming outside at the conclusion of the service.

And yes, I pumped the volume of the radio in her SUV to the max before I left.