The point I'm making is that I have a near-daily opportunity to remember the object lesson from kindergarten of not putting the cart before the horse. I ended up at a city-wide gospel sing last night and was encouraged to jump up and do a song for the gathered Methodists, Brethren, Baptists and Pentecostals. My initial inclination to re-enter this game with a low profile was losing steam fast. I declined, politely, but was flattered by the attention.
I heard a bell choir for the first time in decades and it was, surprisingly, moving. I'd been working at home on a song I'd heard on a video and was able to scratch out a passable arrangement on the piano. I had tucked it in my briefcase along with my Bible and a songbook. When I arrived, one of the ladies asked if I was moving in. I told her, good-naturedly, that if she'd ever been to church with My Pappy, she'd carry a suitcase into church, too.
I learned years ago that if you're given to the speaking, singing, playing of anything among Pentecostals, you need to be ready on a moment's notice to get up and do your thing or suffer the slings and arrows of having missed the Spirit's (and the sisterhood's) wooing. My Pappy and his train of pastors thought nothing of turning to me pre-, mid- or post-service and saying, "Tommy! Sing something!" On many occasions, one of the pastors would collar me on the way into church and explain that "The Lord told me you had a word today." That's Pente-speak for "You're preaching and I hope you prepared." I got to like the spontaneity of the opportunities and thrived on being blindsided. So...I don't go anywhere without one passable sermon, one good song and a book of options.
I still get the nagging feeling, though, that My Pappy's years of admonition to "Know those who labour among you" is in play here. No one has called on me yet - at home. That will come. I have the autobiographies of each Clinton on my mantle, flanking Al & Tipper Gore's book. I have a framed photo of Bill and Al at the 1996 Victory Night celebration with a form-letter thank you note attached at the bottom, including my name, for helping with the campaign. Armistead Maupin's complete works are on the bookshelf, along with most of Rita Mae Brown's writings and an autographed copy of The Front Runner. The piano is laden down with gospel music. The bookshelf is a Stonewall memorial. There's a small wine rack next to the piano. This will all be taken in when The Visit occurs.
At Sunday night's sing, I had gone without the intention of contributing, but was prepared, as I'd learned to be. I had learned the song "He Saw It All", which I'd first heard sung by The Booth Brothers a few days earlier on a CD. It was cocked and loaded, but my powder wasn't quite dry, as we say. I sat through several enjoyable contributions of talent and felt more and more comfortable in my environment. I thought the lyrics of the song I'd been preparing would fit the scene. The song tells the story of a man who bumps into someone who just witnessed the healing of the lame man, the mute man and the deaf girl. It's catchy - and meaningful.
I sat on my hands, figuratively speaking, for an hour or more until a lady got up and played a song on the cassette player. I wasn't sure you could still get cassettes - and that's not being funny. She is a shy woman who lit up like a Christmas tree as she signed (American Sign Language) and ran around the podium to the Cathedrals' "Standing At The River". Next up was a young blind man who sang a song that I can't recall. I can't recall because I had a muscles spasm in the back of my head that felt like I'd been hit. I figured if a deaf girl, a blind man and a slap on the back of the head weren't enough of a sign to get up and sing the durned song, I probably didn't need to be playing church. So I sang.
I got invited to join the Methodist, the Baptist and the Church of the Brethren congregations after the service. That was nice of them. And it was affirming. But again, I had the nagging feeling that we were moving quickly down the road of minor celebrity without anyone having uncovered or spilled the beans yet. And I know that changes things. We haven't come THAT far, baby. So I tempered my excitement and was silently grateful for one more chance to indulge myself in what I've missed so desperately for so long. I felt a little more whole afterwards.
And I thought that the two-week hiatus from My Therapist was a little short-sighted. I'm thinking that I may take the summer off instead. I haven't felt the need to completely subordinate myself to this experience in church like I did in the past. Not yet, anyway. The incorporation is going rather nicely. Maybe that's maturity. Then again, maybe it's willful and inexcusable naivete. Time will tell.
"My friend, if the burdens and struggles you carry
Are heavy and dragging you down.
You've tried everything you can possibly think of,
But there's no relief to be found.
That very same Jesus who altered the future
Of the blind man, the deaf and the lame;
Is still reaching out in your hour of trouble,
One touch and you're never the same." -- He Saw It All, by Daryl Mosley
That's where I come from. That's part of who I am. I'm cleaning the closet all the way out this time.
I may need a cart and a horse.
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