Early Sunday morning, Christine, the girls and I trekked roughly 45 kilometers through the country side to find Ipswich. For some reason, instead of trusting my instincts and listening to that innervoice (like Sir Alec Guinness resounding with incredible reverb in Luke Skywalker's ear: "Trust the force, Luke) I inevitably consult my phone for directions. Perhaps its residue from getting lost every other day for the first months of being here, cursing the early pioneer's road planning abilities by making sure that every road has at least ninety-seven curves and four different name changes, or perhaps it was because Christine was behind me in the other car and I knew that she was carefully watching me to see if I would stray from the course.
I did.
I did hear about it when we arrived.
We weren't exactly late for church, it was more like being tantalizingly close. Christine's cousin, Milton, was being installed at the morning service and we didn't want to miss out, but by the time we entered the worship space, the only available seats were the Chairs of Shame: right near the front. All good Lutherans who show up at least ten minutes in advance have pasted themselves to the back row pews preparing for the short nap that will occur during the sermon only to be awakened by an elbow jab when the offering plate is passed.
The installation was a typical service although one of the older women sitting near us (elderly would be closer to the truth, but I hear that it's a slam to call anyone 'elderly' these days) apparently was protesting the choice of music by pursing her lips together, folding her arms across the front of her 1970's floral patterned dress and refusing to sing.
"We aren't singing any hymns this week," she said.
The man next to her had been singing at the top of his voice, the 'contemporary' songs from the 1990's flowing melodiously from his being. "All of these are hymns," he said. "They have the same amount of verses, a chorus, a message. Hymns, all of them," he stamped his foot as if to impress her.
She shook her head. It was evident to her that a hymn necessitates five or six verses sung in a range only the BeeGee's could reach and is accompanied by an organ (the older the better. The foot pumping ones would still probably best. "Save on electricity, you know," she was probably thinking.)
Lutheran services, while full of history and meaning, often fall short of excitement - I don't think I'm speaking out of turn here. As a Lutheran pastor, I can certainly think of worship services that seemed to have been reapeated from 1925, maybe a new liturgy instead reminding us that we are 'trespassers' rather than '... a poor miserable sinner confessing to Thee all my sins and iniquities which I have offended Thee and justly deserve Thy punishment in time and in eternity." Now that is the type of 'get up and go' service that is really going to draw the masses of young people. Who knows? The Spirit works in mysterious ways.
Anyway, I like the Lutheran service Australian style. They pronounce their words so properly and sing with what might be considered conservative gusto. If they get too loud, they look around to see if anyone heard the syllable, wave a hand as if to say, "Sorry, about that. I'll try and hold back next time." The sermons are deeply theological and often kept around fifteen minutes, or at least that's when my Lockrosians start looking at their watches.
So Anyway, as my Grandma Matthias says to start any conversation... It was Milton's installation; his day to be in the spotlight, exactly where all Australian Lutherans avoid. It's humorous, at times. I even had a discussion during my sermon last week with one of the members who wanted to say that Americans no how to be more affectionate and loving because it's more part of their cultural identity. Australians don't do that kind of stuff. I love those moments in sermons, really, I do. It means they are listening and if they have an understanding that Americans have the ability to love each other easily, he obviously doesn't watch TV that much.
I digress.
After the service, I had an opportunity to chat with some of the relatives. Christine's cousins had come, some of whom I'd only met once; one of her brothers and his family were there, Christine's sister and her family came...
And, of course, my mother and father in law.
I really dig my parents-in-law albeit I'll probably catch a lot of grief for this post. Standing in the shade of the roof of the basketball court, coffee in hand, some sort of breakfast muffin in the other, I shared some space with Robert. He's taller than I am, as I have posted before, and like most of the Smyth men who have been in positions of authority, has an air of confidence. When I showed up at his house for the first time in 1997, he showed me his gun collection.
That's the kind of confidence I'm talking about.
About a nine months ago, no doctor can really figure out what has happened, Robert lost the ability to use his right hand. It has been a real nuisance (as he is right handed) and you never really realize how much you need both hands to do lots of things. Robert and I chatted for a few minutes and then he said to me, "Oh, Reid, I've got to show you something." He maneuvered about for a few seconds and then said, "I hope I can get this out of my pocket with this sunshining hand." He didn't really say that, he would never say that, but I knew he was thinking it.
While he was rummaging around trying to get his right hand into his pocket, all I selfishly think of was, "Please don't let him ask to reach into his pants pocket." Can you imagine how that would look? Son-in-law at a church gathering, looking up at the sky rummaging in his father-in-laws pocket like a raccoon reaching inside a log.
Fortunately, it didn't come to that; his hand found its way in and then, as if pulling forth the golden capstone to the ancient pyramid of Egypt, he pulled out the object.
It was not what I was expecting.
After he first showed me his gun collection when I entered his father-in-law space fifteen years ago, I had this flash of Dirty Harry, "Are you feeling lucky tonight?.... Punk?" So, anytime Robert says, "I want to show you something," I have to squash that image of Dirty Robbie (I'll probably verbally absused for even thinking of calling him Robbie).
It wasn't a gun, or even anything that could cause me harm. It was the mouthpiece for his trumpet. I had completely forgotten that Robert, because of the hand malady, had swithed instruments. Being an incredible saxophonist (which, of course, requires two hands to play well), Robert had been missing out on music, but for his birthday he had received a trumpet. It was a really cool gift, but I truly wasn't expecting him to pull the mouthpiece from his dress pants.
Robert got this really quirky smile on his face.
"I've been practicing a lot. It's a lot different than playing saxophone. You have to make a tooting sound with your lips." He put the mouthpiece to his lips and began making a high pitched Pbbbbbbbbbb sound. A few people looked around, but if he was embarrassed, he didn't show it. "I've been practicing all the time even..." He looked around to see if anyone else was listening closely... "Especially in the mornings on the toilet."
It was at that point when I wasn't sure if he was serious or not, but I couldn't hold my laughter in. I immediately had visions of Judith, hanging up the laundry outside of the house, near the toilet window listening to the strange sounds emanating from the toilet and thinking to herself, "I can't remember what we had to eat last night. Beans? Bacon? Brussel sprouts?"
Robert stood in front of me, proud as a peacock with his trumpet mouthpiece playing away for all the world to hear and I had to take a step back in amazement, proud of my father-in-law, the world had given him lemons and he had turned it into bathroom symphony.
Most people don't have the guts to push through difficult times; some stop trying because they are afraid they will fail. Rober and Judith have simply said, "Here's another stage in life that we might not have been expecting, but let's make some different music."
And so, they toot away.
I'll probably get quite a few e-mails from friends and family, but I don't care.
It's good to toot your own horn.
Lutherans should stand up and listen.
