I hear the din as I pass through the narrow hallway. Choir members fill the robing room and spill out toward me. Some wear street clothes, but most are putting on their robes. Black and silky, they exude reverence and authority. My linen blend robe seems homespun by comparison. I think of the possibilities for new vestments but turn my mind to the faces in front of me. I know the face above that robe, but not the one next to her. Our eyes connect and her mouth broadens into a smile. We embrace. The white stole on her robe bears a cross in some gothic style, not the new goth but the old. The hubbub widens as we cross the room and she introduces me to more black-robed singers. Their young director raises a more elaborate stole over his head. Worship beckons. We ministers of word and sound, costumed for our work, enter the Sanctuary.