Jazz for Jesus

S and I have been trying to explore the city as much as possible since we moved. He’s much better at it than I am, however. He’s still not working – because they want people to have a Masters Degree to qualify for jobs like waiting tables. Wouldn’t your parents be so happy to know that you blew their life savings (or your own, I suppose) only to end up waiting fucking tables?!  I’m sure mine would kick my ass, but I digress.

Saturday, I got some writing done in the morning and then we went to the Farmers Market in the afternoon. My cousin and his wife, who live just across the Columbia River in Vancouver, but whom I haven’t seen since we moved here 7-months ago (don’t judge, when was the time you called me?), were in town that evening to celebrate his birthday. I had my 3 glasses of wine, as is customary when I’m celebrating someone’s birthday (add to that 3 cucumber martinis when I’m celebrating my own), and was home by 11pm.

Sunday was spent on the couch. There was no hangover involved in that decision, mind you.  Just a general morose mood that I’ve been carrying around with me for a few weeks now. These feelings are best suited for sitting on the couch, eating popcorn and watching bad action movies, or chic flics when I’m really desparate. By 4pm, S was able to convince me to leave the house.

He reminded me that I had told him I wanted to check out the church up the street (clutch the rosary!) because they had a sign out front that they do Jazz on the Third Sunday of each month at 4:50pm. Ugh…fine, I guess I’ll go brush my hair and put on a decent pair of pants.  As we’re headed out the door, he starts asking all kinds of questions that I don’t have the answer to…”how long is it” and “do we have to pay?”  In a huff, I retort, “Look, if you don’t want to go, just say so.”  Hurt, he replies, “I want to go, I was just curious.” Impatiently I reply, “there wasn’t any information on their website so we’ll find out when we get there.”

In typical Laura fashion, we arrived after the start of the performance.  There was a man at the door to greet us with programs titled Jazz Vespers…not a good sign…Vespers is the sunset evening prayer service in the Orthodox, Western Catholic, Eastern Catholic, Anglican, and Lutheran liturgies of the canonical hours. The word comes from the Greek ἑσπέρα (“hespera”) and the Latin vesper, meaning “evening.”

As we rounded the corner, into the sanctuary, I heard a French Horn, Bass and some drums….not too bad. And then SHE started singing…in an operatic voice, Sunday Hymns….Whaaa???? I took a closer look at the program and elbowed S, “I think this is an actual service!”

“No shit,” he fires back….vengeance is his today…damn it!  At that point, I start giggling uncontrollably, thinking to myself, “maybe S is onto something with this whole asking questions thing.” Then again, I wouldn’t have ever had the opportunity to experience Jazz for Jesus. We leave the church as swiftly as we came in. I turn to S and say, “you know I would have stayed if she was actually singing in the same jazz rhythm of the band. You just can’t mix opera and jazz.  That shit don’t work!”

“Indeed,” he replied. And this is why I love this man.