This week’s letter has been written by Gabrielle “Gabby” Maes. We hope you are blessed by her thoughts this week.

An organist buddy of mine told me about a great church music workshop held for two weeks at the height of summer, at Shenandoah University—a regal, 150-year-old college tucked away at the foot of the Shenandoah Mountains. I had gone the year before and loved it. The intense two-week, twelve-hour-a-day workshop focused on choirs and the many techniques used in church music, especially from the perspective of the singer. We rehearsed for hours—Negro spirituals, hymns, anthems—joyously singing our hearts out in the evening summer heat with a group of Quakers in a 300-year-old church with no electricity, sweat trickling down our legs. (My fondest memory.)

Some of the greatest leaders in liturgical music came from all over the U.S. to share their gifts with us, and this year would be no different. The focus, however, would shift to the other end of the spectrum: conducting. I was thrilled to return.

Instead of staying in the dorms, I rented a small cabin in the woods called “Bears Den Cottage,” about half an hour from the school. I planned to bring along my little travel pal, Kits, my very ordinary orange cat. Our abode was tucked half a mile down a wooded path from the parking lot. Kits, my faithful hiking companion, followed behind me, meowing in protest, her belly swinging side to side as she darted through the brush. The cabin was almost camouflaged by the surrounding forest—a rustic, woody space that gave off strong 1935 vibes. An old-fashioned white refrigerator and microwave broke the illusion, but water had to be carried in. I made frequent trips down the trail, hauling jugs while Kits lay curled in a ball, snoring after long days of mousing.

Over the next two weeks, moths attracted by the light bumped steadily against the windows, and Kits, like a tiny mountain lion, skulked through the underbrush chasing toads and other small night creatures.

Shenandoah University was established in 1875 by Reverend Funkhouser, a passionate educator and a bit of a pioneer in his time. He envisioned a place where young men—and later, young women—could receive a proper cultural foundation. That vision not only bloomed into the renowned liberal arts university but also helped establish the public school system that made education accessible to every child.

On the first day of the workshop, I kissed the orange huntress goodbye and headed uphill to class. I looked forward to seeing my former colleagues—other like-minded eccentrics I had met the year before who, like me, delighted in bells, sung psalms, organs, and bad choral music jokes. We were overjoyed to see each other again.

Our main location was the chapel: vaulted ceilings, a state-of-the-art organ, a concert grand Steinway, and floor-to-ceiling windows encased in post-impressionist-stained glass. Every morning began with a half-hour liturgical service that we created ourselves—each one themed to a different part of the liturgical calendar. One day might feature Christmas

carols blaring from the organ, the next Lenten hymns or sung psalms accompanied by instrumental trios. Afterward, guest speakers were at our disposal. For a week, we lived and breathed music—conducting children and adult choirs, practicing bells, and engaging in deep conversations about the work we were doing and our roles as leaders in the churches we served.

One particularly sweet moment was when we were invited to participate in a service at Trinity Episcopal Church in Upperville, Virginia, nestled right in the heart of horse country. The evening included an organ recital followed by Evensong—a traditional Anglican service rooted in the monastic offices of Vespers and Compline, combining scripture, prayer, and music. Our group was to sing the service, joined by a remarkable Russian violinist and an excellent organist.

The drive there was breathtaking. Rolling green hills, bales of hay dotted across the landscape, cows and horses grazing lazily, and the sun high but golden in the sky. The car bumped over cobblestones as I arrived at what looked like a small Gothic village. The clock was donging, and I felt transported to another time.

The stone church, lovingly restored by native craftsmen, reflected the beauty of its surroundings. Inside, the architecture was both monastic and quietly resplendent—hand carved pews featuring native plants and flowers, emerald-blue stained-glass round like the earth, almost Byzantine in design, and grand stone archways that conveyed a sense of greatness while maintaining a humble integrity. It smelled faintly of a horse. We rehearsed briefly—the sound ricocheting warmly off the high stone walls—then a young prodigy gave a stunning recital. It ended in a flurry. We had a lot of music to perform and not much time to practice.

Afterward, everyone headed to the local pub—a cozy English-style tavern in the sleepy town of Upperville (population 69; probably 68 now, as most residents were well over 50). I skipped the pub to make it back to my cabin before dark. The 45-minute drive home looked different with the sun now casting golden reflections across green wheat fields, occasionally shadowed by passing clouds. As I looked up, I saw a triple rainbow. My heart swelled with gratitude—to be here, now, in this moment. On this magnificent planet. In this remarkable place. And somehow, to be a part of it all, in my own small way.

Back at the woods, the sun was setting. A warm, dim light lingered. As I walked the path to my cabin, a dark figure appeared before me—it was a deer. We stood still, eyes locked, until the trance broke and she darted into the trees. I continued on, finally reaching the familiar shanty in the forest. Kits greeted me with her usual growly mews of hunger and complaint. I swear, if she were human, she’d be a three-pack-a-day, trailer-abiding dame—and oh, how I love her so.

I made a cup of tea and sat on the picnic table on the balcony, watching fireflies flash like mad, listening to the soft swishing of the trees, as the sun extinguished its final light.

In Christ’s Love,

Gabb