A Writing Exercise

Sometimes you're in the middle of meaningful conversation. The back and forth of engaged dialogue, where no one feels left out, but everyone is enjoying this moment to share and be a part of something special. Other times you're the facilitator, the moderator, keeping the conversation moving, but never engaged or adding to the discussion. At Kristen's, I was always the moderator.

Politics, art, religion, music... The brunch crowd was always saying something provocative, trying to one up the person who just spoke. They'd say things like, "If Jesus were a woman who fronted a rock band people would cry themselves back to salvation every Sunday." What the hell does that even mean? After one too many bloody mary's, I excuse myself and step outside.

I light a cigarette and walk past the line of boutiques. Jewelry, cloths, knick knacks, all over priced for their recently gentrified clientele. The politicians have kept their promise; no more crime in the city. It's been pushed one zip code over. It's someone else's problem now. Our city is beautiful, "cleaned" up.

I walk over to Omar's, a small cart that sells used vinyl and draws a minimal crowd, the hipsters all choosing to buy their records at the new shop across town. Omar's selection is varied, mostly jazz and soul, the good stuff. Billie Holiday, Al Green, Otis Redding, Dizzy Gillespie... I slowly leaf through this week's collection of "new" records. Somehow Carole King's Tapestry found a home at Omar's. I grab it and give Omar a five, even though the sticker says fifty cents. Omar doesn't make much and he's always been fair. He's the kind of guy who does what he does because he likes interacting with the people who share his interests. He's the kind of guy you want to see succeed.

I walk the couple blocks back home and put the record on. A couple of scratches that add more character than I care for, but as the music starts I forget all about the static coming from my speakers. This is the anniversary of my move across country and "Home Again" feels like the right song for the occasion.

I decide to find a church with a Saturday service. The bar scene has worn me out and there're no good bands playing tonight. I walk slowly, looking for a quiet reflective place to pray and put my mind at ease. I walk past an abandoned looking building where I can hear a woman singing "Come Thou Fount" while banging on a piano desperately in need of a tuning. I step in and witness what appears to be a makeshift church service. It's beautiful and I begin to cry. There's nothing flashy or special about what I see in front of me, but the off key passion and honesty reminds me that God still hears. That this sound could only be pleasing to him, and I'm sure it is.

This is what I've been waiting all day for. A moment of pure beauty and reflection. Something honest and innocent in this city of people trying to gain an advantage over their neighbor. This was God in the chaos.