Today's post has nothing to do with my children, since in 2001 when I wrote it, Reece and I had only been married a year and hadn't met them yet! Back then, I'd never heard of blogging, but I did send out regular group emails to my friends and family in BC so they could get a picture of our small-town Saskatchewan life. I was looking through those old emails this week and came across this story, which is really too funny not to share again. Hope you enjoy it!
The Cacophonic Country Quintet Catastrophe
This Saturday, a missionary music group was scheduled for an eight o'clock performance at our new church. Because Reece and I thought we’d enjoy a good worship service -- and because we are the new associate pastoral couple, after all -- we decided to make an appearance. I was still putting the finishing touches on a poster for family camp when Reece walked over to the church saying he wanted to get some paperwork done in the last twenty minutes before the evening began. Once it was done, then he'd really be able to relax and enjoy the music.
I entered the church, poster in hand, just as the group was starting things off. I expected Reece to be saving a seat for me but couldn’t actually spot him in the audience, which, considering that the crowd was fairly small and consisted mostly of senior citizens, seemed kind of strange. Pastor Len suggested that Reece had probably run out screaming as soon as the first song started, and it didn’t take me long to understand why. Even as a person with no severe aversions to country music, I was in agony listening to the group. It was the corniest, sappiest, nasaliest, twangiest, warbliest country gospel music I had ever heard. Plus, it was boring and unenthusiastic. Even the lead singer looked liked he'd rather be fishing.
Thinking that Reece must be in another part of the church and wanting to see his reaction to the awful music when he came in, I took a seat in the back row with Pastor Len, close to the exit. After half an hour of waiting there, though, I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't care that "Jesus Loves Billy Bob Too" or that "Truckers Can Be Angels in Disguise." I just wanted to go someplace where guitars didn't twang and singers' voices didn't get stuck inside their noses. I asked Pastor Len if it was okay for me to leave in the middle of the concert, and he said something along the lines of, "Go! Save yourself!" I guessed that Reece must be at home by then, and I wondered what the story was behind his disappearance.
After walking home, I searched the whole house for Reece and still couldn’t find him. Then I saw the message light blinking on the answering machine. I pushed the play button, and a feeble voice emerged. "Please...You've got to help me...I’m think I'm in Hell!" Suddenly I realized what must have happened. Reece had gone into his office at the church and lost track of time. The group began their show while he was still working, and as soon as he heard them start playing, it was too late. Since Reece's office is at the very front of the sanctuary, right beside the stage, he couldn't come out without calling attention to himself and interrupting the concert. It was his worst nightmare come true -- he was trapped in a room full of bad country music, and he couldn't do anything about it!
Reece called again soon after that, probably hoping for a sympathetic ear. Of course, I was laughing much too hard to offer more than a barely choked out, "Poor baby." I advised him to stay calm and wait to see if there was an intermission at nine. If there wasn't, I said he should call me back, and I'd try to help him escape through the window. While Reece counted the seconds until nine o'clock, I naturally called some friends to share the hilarity. In the end, there was no intermission, and the window turned out not to be the kind that you could climb through. Reece was stuck in his chamber of torment for over two hours! In spite of the care package I brought to his window at nine (iced tea, a chocolate bar, CDs, and a walkman with HEADPHONES), Reece still came out of his ordeal a broken man. "You’re actually lucky," I said when it was all over. "At least you never had to go to the bathroom."
This Saturday, a missionary music group was scheduled for an eight o'clock performance at our new church. Because Reece and I thought we’d enjoy a good worship service -- and because we are the new associate pastoral couple, after all -- we decided to make an appearance. I was still putting the finishing touches on a poster for family camp when Reece walked over to the church saying he wanted to get some paperwork done in the last twenty minutes before the evening began. Once it was done, then he'd really be able to relax and enjoy the music.
I entered the church, poster in hand, just as the group was starting things off. I expected Reece to be saving a seat for me but couldn’t actually spot him in the audience, which, considering that the crowd was fairly small and consisted mostly of senior citizens, seemed kind of strange. Pastor Len suggested that Reece had probably run out screaming as soon as the first song started, and it didn’t take me long to understand why. Even as a person with no severe aversions to country music, I was in agony listening to the group. It was the corniest, sappiest, nasaliest, twangiest, warbliest country gospel music I had ever heard. Plus, it was boring and unenthusiastic. Even the lead singer looked liked he'd rather be fishing.
Thinking that Reece must be in another part of the church and wanting to see his reaction to the awful music when he came in, I took a seat in the back row with Pastor Len, close to the exit. After half an hour of waiting there, though, I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't care that "Jesus Loves Billy Bob Too" or that "Truckers Can Be Angels in Disguise." I just wanted to go someplace where guitars didn't twang and singers' voices didn't get stuck inside their noses. I asked Pastor Len if it was okay for me to leave in the middle of the concert, and he said something along the lines of, "Go! Save yourself!" I guessed that Reece must be at home by then, and I wondered what the story was behind his disappearance.
After walking home, I searched the whole house for Reece and still couldn’t find him. Then I saw the message light blinking on the answering machine. I pushed the play button, and a feeble voice emerged. "Please...You've got to help me...I’m think I'm in Hell!" Suddenly I realized what must have happened. Reece had gone into his office at the church and lost track of time. The group began their show while he was still working, and as soon as he heard them start playing, it was too late. Since Reece's office is at the very front of the sanctuary, right beside the stage, he couldn't come out without calling attention to himself and interrupting the concert. It was his worst nightmare come true -- he was trapped in a room full of bad country music, and he couldn't do anything about it!
Reece called again soon after that, probably hoping for a sympathetic ear. Of course, I was laughing much too hard to offer more than a barely choked out, "Poor baby." I advised him to stay calm and wait to see if there was an intermission at nine. If there wasn't, I said he should call me back, and I'd try to help him escape through the window. While Reece counted the seconds until nine o'clock, I naturally called some friends to share the hilarity. In the end, there was no intermission, and the window turned out not to be the kind that you could climb through. Reece was stuck in his chamber of torment for over two hours! In spite of the care package I brought to his window at nine (iced tea, a chocolate bar, CDs, and a walkman with HEADPHONES), Reece still came out of his ordeal a broken man. "You’re actually lucky," I said when it was all over. "At least you never had to go to the bathroom."
That is a funny story! Poor guy! (I have to admit that I like country but if this was as you described it...I don't think that was the kinds that I would have liked.) I have one question...are you still doing associate pastoral work?
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