The sob story.

Hearing one: The sob story (intro)

Maybe, application of the legal mind that I am so grooming might be helpful in this diagnosis. 

It’s a looking-at-life-now review I am writing; not necessarily a legal document for I would have studied it in legal methods, but it is one of the sort. I have to assess my living and see if  at the furthest point I see it so far (which is right now), it is beautiful. 

Liability. Compensation. Confession. Freedom. Capitulation. Total redemption.

 

The language of the law is English. The method of this type of legal discussion is story telling. Whether its substance is truth, I don’t know. I might see it differently all those years later. 

So, if It may please this honorable audience consisting mostly of me, I beg to proceed with the plot of the story. I ask that the bench may brace themselves for the purposes of hearing this one; it’s quite a sob story. 

At least in my head it is.

One Sunday some years ago I met John Tucker. The nice one. Not the Mr. Casanova movie character.  The one you looked at first at thought was the movie character type but in actual sense was way much cooler. 

It was a Sunday  unlike any other. The norm was the routine; waking up to play piano for the two services with probably like a Crown him with many crowns hymn to look forward to or whatever. Anyway, this Sunday wasn’t like any other because we had the Alumni service in the morning. That was something to look forward to. It also meant a special song at the least from the old girls. That was a big deal by the way.

The biggest deal however, was the food the school was obliged to provide as an act of hospitality to their Alumni. Ordinarily I wouldn’t even be in on this, but my big sister happened to head the committee for that year and so, I helped out with serving the sodas during that luncheon. 

That’s where it all began and this is why.

It’s because I was serving sodas that I had to carry the crates back to the shop right outside the gate that we got them from. It’s because that I carried the crates that I saw him in the blue shirt he was wearing when I returned from that errand. It because he was right below the stairs my friends and I used that they were able to realize he had a slight resemblance to a one presumed suitor I had at that time. Nevertheless, all I managed to catch at that time was his blue shirt. 

I couldn’t see his face. I didn’t see his face. I shrugged and followed my friends to help clearing after the luncheon had ended.

I also see it pertinent to address why this was kind of a big deal, I mean here is a blue shirted man in an all girl’s school.

Kind of self-explanatory.

 Every Sunday was the Christian Club fellowship. Once in a while they would invite groups and people to encourage the school in the practice and exercise of their spiritual journey. This involved preaching, ministry in song, dance and drama. It was one such Sunday afternoon. There was a lot to look forward to, thus my earlier averment- it was a Sunday unlike any other.

At the time it was to start, my friends and I took our seats fairly close to the stage and waited in anticipation. The team was from a renowned church. They started with ministry in song in a session commonly known as praise and worship. I also wish to bring to attention the fact that I was suffering from the common influenza cold, symptoms of which include hoarse throats and a running rose. I therefore couldn’t sing along in the session so I concentrated on listening and observing and coming before my God in a spirit that was glad to be in His presence. 

It was no hindrance that I could not express that desire in song and through singing. I didn’t mind listening.

 The session went on and hands were lifted in worship, hands were clapped in praise, eyes were closed in adoration and blessings poured down.

However, one of the last songs caused my eyes to be opened. I listened to the amazing sound of a particular song I had never heard before. The melodic tunes of the piano that accompanied it subtly in the orchestration just sounded and resounded.

John Tucker was looking straight at me. That’s when it happened. That’s when it all began. The moment. The heart of the sob story. 

Attentions from strangers were the last thing I needed especially under the cover of “outreach” and “doing the work of the Lord”  but here it came, embellished in the body of a handsome John Tucker, not to mention amiable, as I was later to find out. 

At the end of it all though, It turned out my sister played a rather foundational role. I simply mentioned to her that the gentleman in the blue shirt looked like a John Tucker. 
 

 Acknowledging my observation, she nodded, as if contending with my deduction and gently beckoned me to a walk through the aisle. I honestly and in good faith believed that we simply were using the front exit. However she suddenly made a sharp turn to the left and there I found myself looking straight at this John Tucker, with nothing to say.  

So  sold the best I had;  a klutzy attempt at faking a confident and non-nervous demeanor.

 No one bought it. 

My sister then introduced she and I to this blue shirted man and I accompanied my introduction with an over worked smile. I bowed my head in sign to depart but lo and behold, someone else had to mention that I played the piano. I hated things like that. If I wanted to impress him, trust me, I would.

Obviously intrigued by the idea of a 15 year old girl poking at ivory sticks, he asked if I could play him something. Even though I tried to refuse, I still can’t figure out why inwardly I wanted to.

 I sat down at the 1900 John Broadwood and flexed my fingers, readying myself to play the best I had to offer. At that time it was a poor mimic of “He’s my son” by Mark Schultz. 

For some strange reason he was in a sincere and earnest awe. He asked me to play him something else. I thought of some other thing from my maverick wannabe mind. I played as far as far as I could, then made the to- brag excuse “that I hadn’t the staff notated music” with me and therefore couldn’t finish the piece.

 He was besotted.

I couldn’t understand it. My mind went to assessing if it was pity? Mockery perhaps? It wasn’t anything like that. He actually thought I was good.

Time came and he had to leave. 
 

In a general analysis, it wasn’t anything articulately memorable or amazing. I was just thankful something had happened that I could journal about.

Some John Tucker look alike came to school and talked to me. Did I feel special? Was my head in the clouds? Was my heart whispering thing and things and things? Maybe, maybe not. Shrug.

 I got my bible and headed for my next fellowship.

I admit to this honorable audience of myself that I have dwelt a lot on the expression of sentiment that possibly clouds my objectivity in  the telling of this story. 

 But to reiterate the words of Jon Foreman; I am essentially not sentimental, this skin and bones is a rental. No one makes it out alive.

I also wish to remind this court that this is a sob story, so much so, I’m sobbing inwardly right now.

 I don’t know if at all it can be construed objectively as just that story. But I believe this court has the jurisdiction of these sorts of matters. I therefore leave it to them *read me* in their *insert my* wisdom to determine the proper way forward as presented by this cause of action, and literal sudden and overwhelming need for a huge and warm hug, preferably from my mother.

Otherwise, I rest my case... for now.

                                                       End of hearing one.