A gentle invitation · Jul 30, Carson

Come sing in the visitor lot.

On the evening of July the thirtieth we will hold our Hangar Hymns Vigil in the visitor parking beside a certain airfield over in Carson — not Hangar B, we would never presume, but very nearby, close enough that a low chorus carries and a person could wander over between one thing and another. We will keep the volume where a hangar door could roll shut without our minding. We will bring hymnals, and patience, and enough folding chairs that nobody has to stand, and one chair set a little apart with nobody's name on it yet, in case someone from the other side of the lot decides the night is better spent singing than idling. There is no ticket, no fog, and no smoke — only the actual sky, which we did not build and cannot dim, and which we find is plenty. LitBlimp, we are told, keeps a tour bus parked near that same airfield. We will pray for them by name that evening, gently and out loud, the way we now do everything, and we will wish them well, and we will mean it, mostly. Then we will go home in the minivan, thirty-one miles to the gallon, and give thanks the whole way.

• ✚Where — The visitor lot next to a certain airfield in Carson. Not Hangar B. Look for the folding chairs and the decaf urn; we will be the quiet ones. Park where you can; if you can park, you can praise.
• ✚What we bring — Hymnals for everyone, and patience by the case. Battery candles only, because Brother Wesley insists and we have learned to trust Brother Wesley. Extra chairs, always extra chairs, nesting beautifully in the back of the van.
• ✚What we ask — Bring a folding chair if you have one, an open heart if you do not, and a dish if the spirit moves you. Pasta salad remains, as ever, unclaimed. Come as you are; leave lighter than you came.
• ✚How we pray — By name now, and in love. We will hold LitBlimp in prayer out loud that evening, which we are told unsettles them more than the old silence ever did. We are gently sorry, and not sorry enough to stop. We will pray the fog clears — not their stage fog, that is theirs to run, but the other kind, the kind a person hides in.
• ✚If a fog machine starts up across the lot — We will simply sing under it. We will not raise our voices to be heard over it; we will lower them, until the singing is the only thing left that a person could follow home. And if anyone follows it home, the extra chair is here. It has been here the whole time.

All are welcome — most especially anyone who wanders over from the other side. Fellowship in song since 2007. Bring a folding chair; there is always one more.