At the risk of boring you with the pedestrian details of my life (something too many other bloggers rarely hesitate to share), let me tell you about about my Saturday, a day made notable by the extremes apparent in two events.

The first event took place at Cary Church of Christ, a place virtually identical to the church I attended as a child except for one detail: It does not, as a matter of doctrine, believe that musical instruments have a role in the worship service. My church had a piano, but in every other regard — the baptismal font at the front, the style of communion, the disdain for hierarchy, etc. — it was identical to the Cary Church of Christ. Therein can be found the essence of the Protestant movement. One minor difference in belief and, bang! — a new church is created.

The lack of a piano made no difference in the quality of the music, though. The songs were a cappella, and were made all the more poignant by the circumstance of the gathering. It was a funeral service for my friend Weta Ray Clark, who died Nov. 29 of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She was 44 years old and left behind a husband, seven children and two grandchildren. Can the ways that this is tragic even be counted? Weta and I sat at adjoining desks at the Raleigh News & Observer, and the black girl from Texas and the white boy from Georgia were fast friends. I miss her already.

Now that she’s got the chance, maybe Weta can ask God to sort out this piano quibble among his faithful.

Six hours later, I found myself in downtown Raleigh for a Christmas party held by the estimable F.O. Finch III, a man whose name I fully intend to hijack someday for use in a novel (although I haven’t yet informed him of my intention, so this is just between us). F.O. is both the designer of and the technical genius behind this Web site. His party was consistent with his character: smart, sophisticated, stylish and endearing on all levels. It was held in the eclectic gallery filled with countless period pieces above Marsh Woodwinds — more on that in a moment — and it was a wondrous gathering of men in black tie and women in dresses designed to make a man happy to don a monkey suit just for the chance to see them clad so enticingly. I felt like I’d wandered onto the set of TV’s “Mad Men.” Just to accentuate that sensation there was a jazz trio present, and after just an hour or so two more musicians joined it after having apparently borrowed a trombone and floor bass from the music shop below — at least judging by the fact the trombone still had a price tag dangling from its slide.

The party was an antidote to the day’s beginning, but somehow a reminder of it, too. The most sincere celebrations seem to come immediately after you’re reminded that life is a fleeting gift.

I had hoped to see Rodney Marsh, owner of the music shop and a well-regarded local musician, at the party but I left before he arrived. I wanted to confess that I was wrong when I wrote a couple of years ago that there was little hope his new shop would somehow be more orderly that his legendarily cluttered old shop had been. You’ve got a fine space now, Rodney. But I’m still glad you didn’t ask me to help you move.

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