Since I was tiny girl attending mass with my old dad,  crowded into a pew with my many siblings, I have watched the church organist with fascination and the utmost respect.  How do they do what they do?  They're up there at the front of the church, Sunday after Sunday, organized, full of confidence, hands and feet working the keys and pedals and clicking buttons to get just the right sound.  They made it possible for me to sing at the top of my lungs, giving me a chance to make up what I lacked in pitch, with volume.

How, I wondered, could they play like they did and turn their own pages?  And think of the commitment it must take to be there every Sunday morning.  Who decided which songs we would sing?  Were they often required to learn new ones?  What if they had too much coffee to drink before they got to church that morning?  I assumed they were a little bit closer to God than the rest of us.

One day, earlier this fall, when my friend Melanie, who just happens to be an organist, and I were touring Saint Paul, we spotted the socks on the organ player (well, we saw them - they were already spotted) at the James J. Hill House on Summit Avenue in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and I realized that organ players truly are as fascinating as I had imagined.  And maybe then some.  I think they may have secret lives.

God bless the organ players who keep congregations awake and singing on Sunday mornings.  Thank you for making it possible for us to rattle the windows and shake the holy rafters.