I was sure-hearted at age twelve. And in spite of what the nuns had told me since first grade, I firmly believed that I wasn’t going to hell. As the only Episcopalian at St. Rose’s Catholic School, I did everything I could to fit into the flock. I learned my catechism, made my first confession, and reverently dipped my fingers in holy water, feeling sloshed by the Holy Spirit before processing into church. Thanks to my ballet lessons, I genuflected with a steady grace.

And after seven years of disciplined work, I was also steady and calm when seated at a piano keyboard. So, when Sister Mary Cecilia, the Directress of Music, asked me if I could play the organ high above the church nave for the daily mass, I did not hesitate to say yes, even though I had never played an organ before. We walked up to the organ loft together. This tall, stern nun, with a face like wrinkled parchment tightly wrapped in white, was fully encased in her black habit. She unlocked the instrument, watched me silently as I slid onto the organ bench. She placed the organ key next to me and glided back down the stairs without speaking.

I examined the three keyboards in front of me, wondering what to do with so many. I noticed the top one was different, slightly smaller than the ones below it. I pulled out some random stops closest to me and began to play on the lowest keyboard—the simplest of Episcopal hymns, a Doxology which I knew by heart. Praise God from whom all blessings flow.... The tune, “Old One Hundredth,” was solidly Protestant, from the 1500s. But new by Roman Catholic standards.

I tested more stops, pulling them gently to bring on the sound of a light flute, the nasal tone of an oboe, or the blare of a trumpet. I began to play the middle keyboard with my right hand while staying on the lower keyboard with my left, listening to the differences as the two keyboards’ tones sang together in the high church air, still smokey from that morning’s incense.

After I had learned the music of the mass, I was ready to return to my classroom, and I quietly pushed all the stops back in, putting them to rest. But I then remembered I had not yet tested the top row of keys. One of its nearby stops was labeled “chimes.” With some hesitation, I pulled it out. Placing my index finger on the “g” key, I was immediately surrounded by a ringing that was larger than any other note I had played that day. And as a concluding blessing, I returned to the Doxology and played its melody line reverently, waiting for each note to fade a bit before playing the next. Not knowing that the old Protestant hymn was pealing forth across our town from the Catholic church’s bell tower.

Kate Flannery

is an Editor-at-Large for The Journal of Radical Wonder. She lives in a small college town where she also practices law. Her essays, poetry, and fiction have been published in Chiron Review, Shark Reef, The Ekphrastic Review, and Pure Slush as well as other literary journals. She was a finalist in Bellingham Review’s 2022 Annie Dillard Award for Creative Nonfiction.