I’ve never been the attention-seeking kind of person. You’d find me in the back of a classroom or off to the side in a meeting. I dreaded having to stand up and deliver a speech.

The night before, I wouldn’t sleep and the day of, I’d be so terrified I’d be sick to my stomach and shaking so hard my entire body trembled.

Yet for some reason I dreamed of being a teacher.

I knew that teachers stood in front of the classroom, after all, I’d sat in many growing up.

I knew that teachers spoke publicly and led discussions.

I knew that teachers performed for their students, joking, sometimes bursting into song, all to garner interest in the subject.

Teachers showed compassion for students, taking care not to humiliate even one. Or so I thought. Or so I convinced myself. And so a classroom was the one place where I felt safe.

That was my reasoning.

Later in life I decided to be a reader at my church. About once a month I stood before our small congregation and read the assigned portion of the Bible. At first, I was terrified, but each time developed a little bit more confidence. In time, I grew to love reading, loved imparting whatever passage I’d been assigned.

 After forty years of reading, I ma no longer terrified of standing up there, reading.

A few times now I’ve been brave enough to read a 3-minute selection of something I’ve written at a conference. I’ve been terrified each time. I don’t like the attention, but understand that reading before an audience is what authors do.

Many years ago, I joined the church choir. Not because I was a fantastic singer, but because I loved singing. Alone. In my car.

It was with great trepidation that I stood, with friends, at the microphone for the first time. It wasn’t so bad. So I returned Sunday after Sunday. And then it got down to me and a talented teacher from the parochial school. Worrisome, but still okay because of her powerful voice.

One rainy winter day I arrived at church prepared to sing. Found out she wasn’t coming. I figured I’d join my husband and sing from a pew. Nope. The choir director insisted I stay. I sang softly, but I sang.

I stayed with the choir for years after that, lasting longer then several directors. It was always me and others. And then one director asked if I’d like to cantor the Psalm. This meant going up to the ambo and singing a solo before the congregation.

I was terrified, but continued to cantor for quite some time. I didn’t even quit when the pianist played the intro to a completely different Psalm. I froze, feeling like that deer-caught-in-the-headlights, and not having the words to her version before me, shrugged and sang what I’d been assigned. Because she was an excellent pianist, she quickly switched to support me.

I quit cantoring when a different choir director chastised me publicly for singing a tad off-key. He was right, of course, but it hurt. I walked out of rehearsal and refused to return even when my friends tried to tell me he was joking.

That was twenty years ago.

I stayed with the choir through Christmas because I really wanted to sing the Halleluiah Chorus. As soon as the concert was over, I handed in my song binder and walked away.

***

Fast forward a whole bunch of years.

I’ve returned to college to complete my BA in English. I’d the oldest student in every class. All that youthful confidence is intimidating. They all think they know everything and try to outshine one another during class discussion.

I’ve changed since I earned my teaching credential at Holy Names College.

You see, I want to learn, to hear what the professor has to say, to easily see the white board, so now I sit in the front row. I don’t ask a lot of questions or wave my hand about looking for recognition, but I know that I am seen because when my papers are returned, the professors always give me a smile or a nod.

There are still some situations when I prefer to sit off to one side, or just to the left of the instructor. It’s not that I don’t want to be seen, but I want to have an exit strategy in case the material presented isn’t interesting.

At my age, I reserve the right to sneak away.

To blend into the walls and carpet and move stealthily to the door.

At my age, I don’t crave the limelight, but I do love it when friends and family congratulate me on something I’ve done or said.

My name will never be on a marquee, but I’ve rejoined the choir, since we now have one. It’s only been for two Sundays, but I love hearing how my voice soars above the men’s, the alto standing next to me.

I love singing songs in praise of our Lord, those mainstays of any Catholic Mass.

If asked, I will never be the soloist cantor. Too much pressure, too hard on my nerves. I don’t need the attention, the accolades. At my age, I get to choose where I sit, how I participate, what I do and don’t do.

Simple thoughts for a Monday.