Four Weddings & A Surprise Concert

It was the tender moment in all weddings. The bride swooshed her way up to the altar, gossamer veil floating behind her with the twinkle of hand sewn crystals trailing after. The tall handsome groom in his pristine black wedding suit and shiny shoes delicately led his bride while being careful not to tread on the soft satin of her dress. The air was scented from the gardenia's in the brides bouquet and the beeswax candles lit around the altar. The priest was smiling while holding the holy water to bless their golden rings and holy union of marriage.

Across from the back of the pews a rumble was heard. The sound was building. Heads swivelled with perplexed frowns. Bodies swayed right and left seeking the sound. The rumble kept building and crashing over the top of the string quartet playing Bach. Bach could not stop it. Nobody could stop it.

I jumped up from my pew and started following the next rumble building to its source. The sound kept taking me further and further back into the church. My steps slow, falter, as I realize where I am headed. I pass the door to the gardens outside and the little goldfish darting under lily pads in the pond. I pass the door to the confessionals where sins are laid to rest and forgiveness eases pain. I pass the door to the music room where Ave Maria can be heard sung on some cloudless summer day. I reach the last pew in the church and behold a middle aged man laying on his back with his mouth open singing his own brand of song. The air is scented with Johnnie Walker and the hard life of living on the streets.

I cautiously walk over to him and whisper to him loudly, 

"Sir, you need to wake up."

One bleary bloodshot eye cranks open and tries to focus. The other eye struggles to come open. His dirt smudged hand raises to rub his eyes and run through his hair but gets entangled in the uncombed knots. The snoring has stopped with the reluctant opening of one eye. He moves to sit upright but gravity does not come easy.

"Sir, you need to move out of the church. There are some benches outside."

The man reaches down and finally grabs his bottle after four attempts. He tosses his travel weary backpack over his shoulder and stumbles out of the church into the sunlight, headed for the nearest bench. I watch him practically collapsing on the bench, his body sagging with relief from having to hold itself up too long. His head drops on the paint chipped wooden bench as his fingers release the half empty Johnnie Walker bottle onto the grass. His backpack never made it to the bench. It is forgotten on the cement walkway. I walk over and move the backpack by his bottle, hoping he will remember it when he reaches for the bottle on his next move to somewhere.

Unfortunately, this will be the "funny story" that happened at the wedding but for me, it is the sad story of our society. The Mission attracts transients like ice cream to chocolate sauce. We keep open our doors every day for everyone. I wonder how much longer we will be able to do this...