As of this writing, I am on day 7 of a 6 week stint at a pulmonary rehabilitation facility.
Last night was an event known as “Coffee House.” It took place in a generic, over-lit cafeteria style room that was made all the more depressing by the tiny gestures of decorative cheer added by the well-intentioned staff.
An inspirational message taped to the wall.
A balloon tied to a folding chair.
Somewhere a Dollar Store streamer that wouldn’t stay in place, hanging limp as if injured.
All of us gathered there were quiet, standing around as awkward and vulnerable as children at a school dance. Those who were most profoundly ill, those for whom recovery was out of reach and who lived permanently in the residence, had been pushed up near a three-piece band that was getting ready to perform. These people sat in complicated, tongue-controlled wheelchairs, and at a casual glance appeared fused into the metal of their containers– their mouths open, faces rigid and untranslatable. The rest of us, those attached to oxygen tanks and those not, just looked lost and a little sad, like we’d long given up hope of being asked to dance. You felt what was missing rather than what was there—and it seemed as if in each breath we exhaled a shallow puff of loss, all then gathering together like a weather system to form a heavy, oppressive cloud that enveloped us.
It was heartbreaking.
The band, a kind of folk outfit that was comprised of a woman who looked like a community organizer on tambourine, a bongo player in a Toronto Blue Jays cap, and an electric keyboardist who tried to project energy by wearing a Hawaiian shirt, began to play. At first the music seemed like it was designed to be little more than sound, just a “something” to help fill the emptiness of the situation, but then the woman began to sing I’ll Fly Away. Her voice was beautiful and true, and everybody in the coffee house fell into it.
When the shadows of this life have gone
I’ll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly
I’ll fly away
And that voice, that song, it seemed to come out of us, too. And for a few moments we were all living beyond our mortal cages, we were all soaring– everything effortless, everything weightless, everything beautiful.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MNM0OO_iVI
Rachelle, my wife, had to work and was unable to make it. These are the text messages that she sent me over the course of the evening:
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Rachelle: Pickle, tell me, how’s dinner going?
Rachelle: Really? You’re giving it a C minus, maybe a D?
Rachelle: That’s strange.
Rachelle: Really? You’ve lost a lot of respect for the family?
Rachelle: Did they call you out for bringing half a bottle of wine again?
Rachelle: You have to stop doing that. It’s embarrassing!
Rachelle: It is.
Rachelle: No, I’m not embarrassing, you’re embarrassing.
Rachelle: Oh, I think I know what happened.
Rachelle: What did you wear out?
Rachelle: You wore your black turtleneck and that jacket, didn’t you?
Rachelle: I know you think it makes you look like Carl Sagan.
Rachelle: I know.
Rachelle: But I still don’t understand why you think that’s a good thing.
Rachelle: Look, I don’t hate the cosmos.
Rachelle: Or space exploration.
Rachelle: Just bad clothes.
Rachelle: Now come on, just tell me what happened.
Rachelle: Oh, sweet Jesus that’s hilarious!!
Rachelle: So, just before everybody was about to start dinner, Marston said, “Edgy Pastor, would you please lead us in grace?”
Rachelle: I love that girl.
Rachelle: No, she’s not full of herself.
Rachelle: She’s so clever, and she’s right, when you wear that outfit you do look like an edgy Pastor.
Rachelle: Yes, you do.
Rachelle: Yes, like some white dad who’s going to rap Genesis or something.
Rachelle: Oh honey, I would never get in the way of your relationship with God!!
Rachelle: There’s more?
Rachelle: Hannah said, “It looks like a jacket you mother might have bought you.”
Rachelle: It’s like that girl is my daughter.
Rachelle: And then she added, “At a store called For Your Son.”
Rachelle: “For Your Adult Son.”
Rachelle: Oh Lord!!! Tears are streaming out of my eyes I am laughing so hard!
Rachelle: And then Marston said, “And she paid for it with a coupon she clipped from a newspaper?”
Rachelle: Oh Pickle, you really are defenceless in the face of those girls!
Rachelle: So what did you do?
Rachelle: Oh.
Rachelle: Do you think that was a good idea?
Rachelle: Well, it’s just if you’re always pretending to have an asthma attack, people might not be very responsive when you actually do, that’s all.
Rachelle: See? I told you!
Rachelle: That is just too funny, I love that they all held hands and prayed for the edgy Pastor during your fake asthma attack!
Rachelle: Did you end up saying grace?
Rachelle: Well, I think you should have embraced the persona and rapped it!
Rachelle: Yes, your life is nothing but a series of missed opportunities.
Rachelle: Oh, I’ve got to go, work calls!
Rachelle: Well, my edgy, little Pastor, I’ll see you in two hours, may you walk with the Lord!
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