I blended my gold eyeshadow with my finger and then started the search for my favorite white blouse. I pulled on my black cords with the hole near the belt loop on the right side.I finger over it and shake my head. Standing in front of the mirror, I look normal. My blouse envelopes me, my cords a little too wrinkly, my cheeks pale despite the Clinique I recently applied. I am a musician, and musicians never look perfect. I don't know why, but there always seems to be something….amiss about them. Sometimes it is obvious. Sometimes, you must observe most carefully to find it. All you had to do to find it in me was notice my skinny form and ghost face. I swipe my borrowed copy of Handel's Messiah off of the top of my dresser and head out the door.

We pick up my best friend on the way to the church, a sweet but modest vision in her pencil skirt and winged eyeliner. The air that night was crisp and the church seemed more inviting with the promise of heat and a marvelous performance.

The Messiah is quite a long oratorio, so our choir only sings about eight choruses. My friend and I sit in the front row with the other sopranos. Then our conductor, dress shirt untucked right now, tells us to turn to No. 15, "And the Glory". Before we begin, he says a choir our size has a tendency to get lost in the music, and encourages us to take frequent tempo-checks. "Meet me at the ictus," he says, referring to the downbeat of our part. He has a charming wit and dry humour about him, only ever meaning the best. Soon music fills my ears, my throat, my tongue and my stomach. My stomach muscles are quivering to control and spin my breath. I stagger breath the long ones and remember my soft pallet in the back of my throat. The choir is like a wind in my ears behind me. We all have one of those weird music marks on us somewhere, all 116 of us.

After our rehearsal, people pour in and fill up the beautful Catholic church. The royal blue ceiling is painted with numerous golden stars. We sit patietly and look over our big book of words and music. This is one of the best ways, to me, the story of Christ can be told.

A prayer is given at precisely 6:02. The conductor steps up after the last "amens" followed by a shower of applause. His tailcoat is on, shirt tucked, glasses righted. He looks at us all and smiles, making us laugh a little. Then he holds up his hands, and sure enough, with his downbeat, the musicians draw their horsehair bows over their strtings. The harpsichord chimes in in the background when it chooses with it's beautfully elegant tone. After a couple of solo numbers, we are asked elegantly by our conductor to rise. We rise in synchronization, strangeness and all, eyes glued to the conductor. We wait, breath taken in, each little golden star above us seems to be suspeneded in anticipation. We breath out in a glorious, ringing melody. We are full of passion and joy, proclaiming the stroy of Christ through the night, the music squeezing through our shoulders and rolling off of our back. It is all very beautiful, painted stars and all. I don't think 1,000 "perfect" people could have done what we did that night. Only people who have that air of mishchief of imperfection and devil-may-care about them. Those people can tune your heartstrings and play them too.