How choral music got me home

            Scientific studies have proven that singing in a choir is good for your health. But I can now prove it’s good for international security, too.

            Bear with me. I owe my re-entry into the United States of America to my choir membership. I’m not making this up.

            Picture it: London’s Heathrow Airport, Sunday, Aug. 21, at the hairy crack of dawn. Your intrepid traveler is joining the masses, hordes and throngs whose sole aim is to board an aircraft. Trust me: NOBODY is more eager to go home than I am. After 67 mostly cloudy, chilly days away from Charleston, I am itching to get back to my house and into the spiritual and literal warmth of the Lowcountry.

            Don’t get me wrong. I had some extraordinary experiences this trip. Unfortunately, “summer” and “comfortable accommodations” weren’t among them.

            So by the time I enter the controlled chaos of Heathrow, I’m on a mission and heaven help anybody who stands between me and that American Airlines jet.

            No lines at the automated check-in kiosk. Got my boarding pass in record time. Sweet. This is a breeze, I thought. Next stop: The baggage drop-off.

            My heart sinks when I see the line -- at least 75 bag-laden passengers ahead of me. OK, remain calm, I tell myself. I’ve got plenty of time. Relax. Try to ignore the pain in your legs and back.

            Whoever came up with this new “time-saving” check-in procedure at American Airlines is clearly insane. They might as well put up a sign that says “Fly Delta! We’ll get both you AND your luggage there hassle-free!”

            But anyway, after about 40 minutes (during which time the line swelled even more), I finally make it up to one of the handful of AA agents manning the baggage drop-off desk. We exchange pleasantries. I hold my breath as she weighs my suitcase; I do a happy dance when it’s NOT overweight.

            Oh, boy, I’m home free!

            Oh, no, I’m not.

            “Were you asked any security questions this morning?” AA agent asks. I allowed as I hadn’t, figuring I was about to quizzed on whether I was carrying any weapons or pointy-shaped objects onto the plane.

            She begins her interrogation. Where have I been during these last two months?  What have I done?  Why?

            I answer truthfully. Life’s an open book, that’s me.

            Then she switches course. What do I do for a living? Oh, what did you do before you retired? Nonprofit fundraising? What does that involve? How did you do that? For whom did you raise money? What’s the best way to do it?

            I’m babbling by this point, wondering where she’s going with this inquisition. It occurs to me that I’m in a parallel universe – one in which I never get on that plane! Does she really want a mini-seminar in the principles of fund development? I mean, I could rant on and on, but it’s just too surreal to comprehend…           

Meanwhile, I can imagine that the Syrian suicide bomber in the line behind me is getting worried that his device is going to detonate before he makes it onto his own flight.

But if Girlfriend wants to talk about fundraising, and if it aids my own cause – GOING HOME – by jiminy, I’ll talk about fundraising. I launch into a scholarly discourse contrasting the benefits of cause-marketing versus major gift fundraising. I am now officially in Airport Hell.

Five minutes of my making the case for a donation of $10,000, and I’m certain one of two things are about to occur: A British security operative is going to materialize and cart me off to an underground bunker, or my spiel will appear in the next episode of “Monty Python.”

Finally, she seems satisfied with my qualifications as a fund development professional. I hold my breath. After all, the wild horses that were going to keep me from getting on that plane have not yet been bred. My ornery Inner McCarn (from Mama’s side) was just about to rear her ugly, stubborn head. Surely I’ve passed the final security hurdle.

No, not by a long shot.

“So, what do you now that you’re retired?” she asks. Apparently, she has all the time in the world – unlike the passengers in line, whose numbers have now swelled into the thousands.

“Well, I travel….” I cleverly offer. She is still looking expectantly. “I read a lot, and do a little writing.” She appears blank. “And I sing!” A chord has been struck (no pun intended), and she’s launched into an entirely new line of inquiry.

Where do I sing? What’s the name of my choir? What do you sing? “I sing in Charleston, South Carolina, with the Charleston Spiritual Ensemble. We sing gospel and spirituals in the African-American tradition, and yes, I realize I’m a white woman, but it’s a culturally and racially diverse group, and fortunately they let me in, and we sang our last two concerts in a Jewish synagogue,” is my earnest reply.

Meanwhile, the swarthy dude near the back of the line has used this time to recruit and train his newest ISIS cell of terrorists…And still I babble on, praying I actually make it back to Charleston in this lifetime.

I’m just describing myself as a choral music junkie when Girlfriend scrapes deep onto the bottom of the interrogation barrel to ask, “Where do you rehearse?”

“Second Presbyterian Church in Charleston’s historic district downtown,” I offer eagerly.

THAT must have finally done the trick. I must have passed the test. Hallelujah for the Presbyterians and choral music! She cranks up the conveyer belt, sends my suitcase on its way, hands me my passport and boarding card, and wishes me a good flight.

I nearly break out in song right there. How d’ya reckon the al-Qaida lieutenants still in line would have enjoyed a spirited solo version of “God Bless America”?

And that, friends, is how choral music helped avert an international security crisis!