the house that hums

so here’s another city and here’s another lesson about life and its juxtapositions.

i now live a spitting distance away from a church. not that i spit on the church, mind. but it’s thatclose. furthermore, considering that it is sunday today, the walls of the house reverberate with the crescendo of the choral introit.

and i realized something that i took for granted in all my days running around spreading hellfire and hellion in my wake: i am descended from a long line of ministers.

the realization dawned on me during one conversation i had with my mother while we had supper one evening in this new city.  she was, as she said, “talking shop”. and she was describing one bible study she facilitated where the discussion centered on the apostles and how they were chosen by christ. and she was quoting biblical passages.

i think i’ve already mentioned it sometime in the cafe that since i turned sixteen i’d lived separately from my family and that it was only last year that we lived together again under the same roof. so, i still have a lot of getting used to with how a minister worked full time.

that evening while my mother talked shop, i, being more acclimated with the “darker” side of life, was taking in what she was telling me (bible quotes and all) with some discomfort.

“you seem to be converting a lost soul here, ” i said with a chuckle of unease when she mentioned yet another passage of paul’s letters to the corinthians (or some other old-world city).

“no, i’m just talking shop,” she replied. “your mom’s a minister, don’t you remember? if i were a brain surgeon, you’d be hearing about the gray matter and maybe how i sliced open a person’s skull. or i’d be spouting legalese if i were a lawyer.”

so there. over a meal of rice and fried chicken i got reacquainted with my ancestors’ vocation. yeah, my father was a minister before he went on and permanently donned a while gown and sprouted wings (to sing halleluiahs while perched on a cloud), my mother is a minister, and one of my great grandfathers was a bishop by the time i was born.

but before you switch over to another far more interesting read for fear that this is going to be a scheme to evangelize your lost soul, o dear reader of mine, let me assure you that i would not be converting (unintended pun) The Broken Coffee Cafe into a fount of salvation and redemption (not unless absolutely necessary and if i am under duress).

with that aside, let me go back to the point i was trying to make: about life’s juxtaposition and all that mushy bit. living next to a church – in a parsonage – is quite similar to living in an apartment smack in the middle of a city’s red light district and right next to a nightclub.

music still shakes the walls of our house. and although most of the members of the congregation are not from the same economic and social strata as those heavily made up ladies and men i encountered in another lifetime, they are somewhat the same in essence.  and most days, this place where i am currently staying is where lost souls still flock in – seeking meaning, seeking redemption, seeking acceptance, seeking solace, seeking the divine.

there.

i will not burden you today with too much philosophical musing.

have a happy sunday.

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