Reader Voices: Part of the ward choir

Some people can sing like a bird, giving actual life to the words and melody in a heavenly strain of continuous, angelic sound. The kind of song that makes mortals weep at the beautiful notes from a trained voice, that even a tough motorcycle rough with grease under his fingernails would put down his big wrench and sob.

I sing like a metamorphic rock.

Actually, I sing worse than a metamorphic rock. But I wanted an excuse to see my teenage daughter who plays the piano for my Mormon ward's choir. She is getting older, preparing herself for college where I will never see her. She is ready to leave the nest — just pop right off like a baby peeper, and Papa Redwing is not happy with her vacant spot at the dinner table. I took action; I decided to do something about it; I followed the simple command to "Do It!"

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