Story of Service Munger

The Threshold Choir

BY KATE MUNGER

The inspiration for the Threshold Choir came one day in 1990 while I was caring for my friend Larry, who was comatose yet restless, dying of HIV/AIDS. All morning, I washed dishes, weeded his garden, and organized his quilt fabrics. All afternoon, I sat by his bedside and sang the same song over and over again for hours. As I sang, we both became calmer. At the end of the afternoon, I was sure I had given him a gift—a gift that had come from the deepest and most essential part of myself. As I reflected on the experience, I wondered if other singers might want to give and receive that same kind of gift. After reaching out to friends and other singers, I discovered that there were, indeed, many who were interested in tending to the dying this way, and so began the Threshold Choir.

Today, as we approach our eighth anniversary, there are fifty-two Threshold Choirs across the country performing this healing service. These choirs honor the ancient tradition of singing at the bedsides of people who are struggling, some with living, some with dying. We sing for a diverse group of people: those who are feeble or in a coma, those with end-stage disease, newborns just opening their eyes to the world, and women who are incarcerated.

In December 2007, our Threshold Choir, headquartered in Inverness, California, was asked by an attending nurse if we could hurry over to a nearby home and sing for a family whose baby, named Violet, had just died at the age of two months.

“Yes, of course,” I said, and immediately called Pamela, who had sung with the choir five years ago and herself had lost an infant son. Then I called Laura, a lawyer and psychotherapist in San Francisco, who always seems to have the precious few minutes to share for the sake of our singing. When we arrived at the home, the mother, father, and uncle greeted us. The dad was Middle Eastern and the mom and her brother were from Germany. Baby Violet’s tiny body was in the bassinet in the center of the living room, wrapped tightly in a blanket surrounded by rose petals and soft toys. We sat close to Baby Violet and started with the St. Francis Prayer—softly, so softly.

“May I be an instrument of Peace....”

For more than thirty minutes, we sang the simplest songs at our softest tone. The family sat together on the couch, each one weeping and holding the others. The father’s huge tears tumbled down his cheeks. It was a tremendous honor to give this family a way to express their grief and to honor their baby and her short life.

As we finished, Mom asked if we knew Dona Nobis Pacem. She and her brother sang one part together, beautifully, and we sang the rest. I was so glad we were able to sing together. It was physically and emotionally satisfying to give them something that penetrated to the core of their grief. Three singers, a tiny baby’s body, and three grieving family members—intimate, deep, and right in the middle of daily life.

The human voice, our original musical instrument, is a true and gracious vehicle for compassion and comfort. When invited, we visit bedsides a few times a week in small groups and we invite families and caregivers to join us in song or to participate by listening. Our repertoire is chosen to respond to individual musical tastes and might include rounds, chants, lullabies, hymns, spirituals, and classical choral music. Our singing is our gift. Our choir’s mission: to provide a container for the grief and give room for the sacred.