At choir practice on Wednesday night—before one of the mains crapped out, sending half the power down and turning on the emergency lights on one side of the sanctuary, before the really goofy stuff started to happen—it was discussed that chancel choir had Sunday off. Why? Handbells was playing … but that was going to be in a state of flux, because two of the ringers were sick.

“Oh, I can play if you need someone,” I heard myself say. “What the heck are you thinking?!” I screamed to myself.

So here I sit, five minutes from church, in white shirt and black pants, about to put on my black shoes, ready to drive over to church and see if I’m needed to walk in and pick up handbells for the first time in, what … two years? three? four? … and see if I can not make a complete fool of myself.

Oh, it got worse. “Yeah, not only did I ring, I actually directed the kids’ group for a while.” “Shut up!” Pat, who used to be at my old church, too, piped up, “Yeah, Geof used to do all sorts of stuff. I hadn’t thought about that in a while.” “Yeah, silly me, I even directed a children’s choir for a whi—” “Oh, really!” “Now you’ve done it!”

In for a penny, in for a pound.