So…not to get into a theological debate about this or anything but I really hope that St. Peter will be stepping aside for me to stumble through the pearly gates when I kick the can. If not, well…there is the other place.
I suspect that I experienced a little bit of “the other place” this afternoon, however. I attended my son’s junior high band concert. I did so in a foul mood because my pants were too tight and my stomach is now the same size as it was when I was five months pregnant.
As the screeches of the clarinets pierced the air, I realized that my own version of hell would be this: me, chained to a bench that provided no back support and forced to listen to “The Final Countdown,” “20 Christmas Carols in 2 minutes” and “Aria and Arietta” played by uninspired 8th graders.
Satan would add a little more insult to injury and have the band teacher stop between every song and provide its background, why he chose this song and any other little turd nuggets of information he deemed useful in order for his captive audience to attain the full appreciation of each musical piece.
Yet, I smile as my child comes towards me and, although I was unable to locate him in the greasy mass of teenage angst, I inform him that he did a wonderful job. I ask him polite and appropriate questions, tell him I love him, and give him a hug.
I will do so as I make a mental note that my next child will play a string — not a brass — instrument. I pray that he will have an natural affinity for Bach, Chopin or Beethoven. I will make a deal with the devil for the sound to be pleasing to my ears.