Can you sing? I can't. Does your bucket have a hole in it? Mine looks like it was used for shot gun target practice. Let me tell you about it. I was looking through an old photo album the other day and came across a picture of my youngest daughter, Elizabeth, singing with her high school chorale group. She even learned to read music.

Not me. I remember where I learned that I couldn't sing. It was in the sixth grade. We didn't sing much at our house. It was during the Great Depression. Somehow I was never selected to do a solo at school. I never wondered why. Later I learned why. Yes, it took me until the sixth grade to find out.

I remember like it was yesterday. Our class was to give a chorale presentation for the school Christmas program. Our teacher had a beautiful voice. She wanted to be proud of her class when our turn came. She knew how to put together a group of singers. That's what we were, “a group of singers.” More or less, that is. I fell into the “less” group.

To determine our voice range she had each of us, one by one, go into the closet, shut the door and sing a simple melody. Some beautiful sounds came out of that closet, but not from me. I sang the melody at the top of my voice, as loudly as I could. I thought that was what she wanted. Not so. She had me sing the selection again and again and again. Not knowing I sounded so inefficacious, I proudly repeated the tune. But not for long. Everybody laughed when I opened that closet door. I don't take kindly to being laughed at, but that is, as usual another story.

She determined that I would be best hidden in the soprano group. I later noticed that when our section of the chorale was highlighted, she was trying to counter my off key presentation by motioning us to sing louder. I sang louder, too.

You know, I never did learn what all those hand signals meant. I guess the chopping up and down is the beat of the music. What's that waving hand signal? With her hands, palms down, arms outstretched, she wants us to sing softer? Or what? With her arms outstretched, but palms up, she wanted us to be louder. I can do that. There were other flourishes in there as well.

After that, I shied away from any singing in school. It would be years later when my opportunity to sing came again. It was at a little country church in Michigan. I was new there. They asked me to join the choir. I was delighted and eagerly agreed to do so. I remember our first practice session. I didn't seem to be able to find the right key. I sang the selection in a variety of keys, just not the right one. They comforted me, saying I was probably nervous. It would go better on Sunday morning.

Not so. My being so far off key threw everyone else off. If it hadn't been so pathetic, it would have been funny. Yes, I did see a few snickers in the congregation. I knew what the problem was. I just couldn't sing. Our choir only sang that one Sunday. The leader decided it would be better for the church to sing as a group. It would have more meaning for them. Yeah, right. It was a diplomatic way of getting me out of the choir.

Fast forward to now. We have a Praise Team at Revival Vision Church of God. I have never been asked to join them. Knowing my past history with singing groups, I would politely decline and just mouth the words. Sometimes I do get brave and reckless and sing along. Clapping is another story.