Joe goes to 7:15 Mass at a nearby Carmelite monastery every morning before work. I've taken to keeping his schedule -- early asleep and early arise -- and I've come a few times now. The nuns are behind a grille to one side, mostly out of sight, and you wouldn't know they were there at first if you didn't hear them singing.
I don't know the name of this nun and her guitar, but at least one of the nuns behind the grille plays guitar, too. There is also the sound of a keyboards as they things their songs, modern and sometimes familiar ones, the 1970s compositions found in the Catholic hymnals.
The nuns do the Scripture readings as well. Tuesday's reader almost chanted as she intoned Paul's warning against Christians who seek lawsuits instead of reconciliation. Her voice was clear and soft and lovely, allowing admonitions and warnings to flow into praise as we laypeople in the pews sat and listened.
Thirty or so people come for the Mass, that they are like a family, gathering in bunches afterwards to joke about altar-server Dan and his love for Hawaiian shirts or to ask Joe about our honeymoon.