The Lost Waltz

Late late wednesday night I stagger lazily to my room and close the door. I turn off the lights and put on my headphones. I sit on the verge of sleepiness, not yet ready to succumb to the sheets, but lacking the will to really do anything worthwhile. The sterile light of the computer screen adds the slightest glow to the room as I lean back in my chair, close my eyes and melt into the sound of Godspeed!YouBlackEmperor. I exhale slowly as the notes start to dance through my mind, and I begin to think back over the past week.

I. "I'm sorry, but we don't have a position for you," she says. I'm equally crestfallen and relieved. "We went with someone with more experience." She speaks with a slight impediment that flavours her words with a child like kindness, and makes any response but one of warmth unthinkable. "That's OK," I say, "I understand." Not getting this job makes my life less complicated since I had no idea where I would have found a car, let alone pay for it. But the work opportunities, let alone the life experience, would have been irreplacable. Relief mixed with meloncholy. "Everyone was really impressed with you and really liked you," she continues, "So I'd like your permission to forward your resume to Buffalo Gals and Frantic Films." No is not even a concievable answer for an offer to recommend you to the two biggest film companies in the city. She apologizes again for the lack of a position and reiterates how much they were impressed with me before the call ends. Perhaps this will work out better than my hopes for the internship. Maybe God has bigger plans and better paths.

II. "We would like you to come on with us a little more," he says. I'm equally glad and internally restrained. "We are losing Adrienne soon and would have more shifts for you." He sounds hopeful that I will say yes, but there is hint in his voice that he senses a repressed no. More shifts means money which I have so little of, but what little heart I had inclined towards this stepping stone has dwindled down to barely a spark. "Sure, sounds great," I say with encouraged exuberance, though I may have taken a moment too long in responding to sell it. I have hardly felt like a valued employee at Ignite over the past month's absence of contact, not to mention having my opinions and ideas brushed off with a smile. If my vision for what a christian radio station should be is completely perpendicular to theirs, I don't think I can work there. I hope that another job works out soon so that I don't have to depend on the station for income. Maybe God has plans for me there, but he will need to move my heart or the mind and mouth will hardly be willing.

III. "You're an artist," he says. I feel pride tinged with doubt. If only everyone judged art by childlike standards we would all be Da Vinci. The twisted and gapped teeth of of his seven year old smile show his honesty and adoration before he turns his face to lean his head on my arm. I'm not sure whether he is Jordy or Davey. He and his twin brother are so similar and I can never tell them apart. "Draw me an orc fighting a horseman next," he says getting another piece of paper ready. I finish off the castle I was drawing for him, take the paper he offers me and attempt to draw an orc. I sit with them almost every sunday morning in church to help them behave. They get me to draw them pictures. Recently their Star Wars fascination has been replaced by Lord of the Rings. "That's not an orc," he speaks louder than he probably should, "he's too small." I wish I could listen to the pastor. I'm honoured that they want me to sit with them, but why every sunday? But maybe this is better. "Don't stop the little ones from coming to me," Jesus said. Maybe by showing them love here and now I am doing something more important than listening to the sermon. Maybe I'm learning more than the pastors point from the pulpit. This is living out my faith instead of acting it.

IV. "Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer," I speak in unison with the rest of the congregation. My heart feels and peace and yearns upward. There is something about St Benedict's Table that feels right, that feels authentic. The smokey sweet smell of the incense wafts past me as we sing worship songs that feel thick with substance, and resound with rejoicing despite their solemnity. There is a respect and fear of God that is found in ceremony. The building feels as warm as the fellow worshipers around me. Afterward I run into long unseen friends who have also come to the service. We talk of life, work, the lack there of, and God's plans while we sip dark roasted coffee and nibble dry brownies. I like this place. I will come again.

I listen through the entire album enveloped in the warm womb of my dark room. It's late. Sleep will come easily now.