The Hallelujah Chili Supper

My father-in-law asked me to be the musical entertainment at a boy scout chili supper because the band he hired couldn’t make it. The guitar player’s parents had grounded him.

Because I’m a pretty good musician; I can play and sing at the same time, I agreed to do it.

I immediately broke into a cold sweat. I’ve been playing for a long time but I didn’t play in front of strangers very often.

My father-in-law was asking me to do this at the last minute. The chili supper was in 2 days. So I put a fistful of song lyrics in a folder, stuffed them in my guitar case and hoped for the best.

The event was being held in an echo prone cinder block community center. I set myself up on a carpeted landing. I had a folding chair, mic stand, music stand, guitar stand and my little amplifier.

It was chaotic. Lots of little boys and girls and their parents getting chili and settling themselves. I didn’t know when I should begin.

While I was thinking about it my wife told me she and her mom were going shopping. Her justification for abandoning me was that she had heard all my songs before. Which wasn’t true. She didn’t like my songs. In case you were wondering, that was a long time ago and we are no longer married.

Now that my wife had gone shopping my father-in-law was the only one I knew at this shindig so I thought about packing up and leaving before it began. My wife wasn’t there to complain about me breaking my promise. But my father-in-law tracked me down and made me get on stage.

I’m not a professional musician so I didn’t know what song to start with, nor did I even know which songs I wanted to play.

My mind churned. I thought about playing ‘If I Had a Boat’. Kids loved it because it’s about the dreams of a little boy growing up in Texas, but it has the phrase “kiss my ass” in it. The next song I thought about playing was, ‘Don’t Bury Me’ by John Prine and, I swear to God, ALSO has the phrase “kiss my ass” in it. I was afraid to play anything in case every song I knew had “kiss my ass” in it.

So I improvised. I played various 12 bar progressions with chord voicings and the people seemed to enjoy it. In the end I didn’t really want them to pay attention to me, so I would hang on a chord. It just means I tinkered around on one chord, playing different voicings. It was kind of like elevator music: background noise.

A couple of times boy scouts would ask if they could use my mic and amplifier to make announcements. The building had a PA system and a podium with a microphone but they thought my mic stand and amplifier was cool.

From time to time I’d take a cigarette break and think about packing up my stuff. I wasn’t having a good time, but my father-in-law kept his eye on me and held me to my word. He got the idea I was a flight risk.

I told him my dilemma over the “kiss my ass” lyric and he said, “Screw ‘em, play what you want to play! Tell ‘em all to kiss your ass!”

That helped, but it didn’t help me figure out which songs to play. I killed time thinking about what to start with by hanging on a chord, when out of the blue this guy scoots back his chair and says loudly and angrily, “He doesn’t look like shit!”

He was looking right at me when he said it, so there was no question as to who he was referring to. The implication being that, since I didn’t look like shit I must sound like shit.

I said to hell with it and started playing songs I liked. The loud angry guy was mollified and everyone just ignored me for the most part.

Since I no longer cared what the audience thought I decided to play a song I was still learning. I didn’t know the words or the chords very well so I had to put the music stand in front of my face.

The song is called Hallelujah. It’s by a guy named Leonard Cohen. It’s a sad, dark love song; about lost love. I really loved the chord progression because it was a challenge.

The music stand blocked my view of the audience which helped me concentrate on my performance.

It starts off, “I heard there was a secret chord, that David played and it pleased the lord, but you don’t really care for music, do you?” That verse, being the first, fools people into thinking it’s a religious song.

It was at that point that I saw the face of a little boy looking up at me from under the music stand. He was laying on the carpeted stairs. In a few moments there were dozens of boys and girls leaning on the stairs, staring up at me as I played that melancholy love song.

When I got to the chorus, which is simply, “Hallelujah” sung four times, the kids sang it with me. It surprised me.

I had forgotten why that song would be popular with kids. I suddenly remembered that it was in the movie Shrek. Hallelujah plays while we see scenes of Fiona preparing to marry Farquad and Shrek sits at home alone, his heart all busted up.

Now that the kids were paying attention I thought ahead to what the coming lyrics were, just in case Leonard Cohen had snuck in a “kiss my ass” while I wasn’t looking.

I realized I should skip the fourth verse which has the line, “Remember when I moved in you,” which is quite literally about making love to the woman he’s singing about. I didn’t think the kids would understand it but I knew the parents would and I didn’t want them to get mad at me.

By the time I got to the last chorus everyone in the building, including the loud angry guy, was singing along. "Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" It gave me goosebumps. It was the most eerie and touching thing that had ever happened to me.

When the last note faded away they burst into applause. It was the first and last time that night.

That was my cue. I packed up my stuff and put it in the car. I quit while I was ahead.

Since it was a chili supper I went and got myself a bowl. I had been tempted to eat before I went on stage but I already had butterflies in my tummy and I didn’t wanna shit my pants in front of a hundred people.

My father-in-law came by where I was seated and told me I was awesome. Little boys and girls came up and gave me high fives. People patted me on the back while I ate my chili.

Eventually my wife got back and we got in our car to go home. She asked me how it went. I said, “It was alright.”

A Miracle Every Time.

Before my son was born my wife and I had had two miscarriages. Both times the baby’s heartbeat stopped sometime in the sixteenth week and she had to continue being pregnant for awhile before she could be induced: she had to give birth.

I don’t remember much about the first miscarriage except that I wrote in my journal, “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.” I wrote that I cried my eyes out that night.

Both of us had kids from a previous marriage. We called them all together to tell them about what happened. I got choked up trying to think of how to tell grade school kids about the death of one of their siblings.

My wife, who was less prone to excessive displays of emotion, said bluntly, “The baby died.”

The girls burst into tears and one of the boy’s got red eyes but the other, the eldest, didn’t cry at all. He didn’t seem to be affected by the news. Then, while I was tucking them all into bed, I discovered him quietly sobbing: he had been brave for his little brother and sisters.


When my wife gave me the news about our second miscarriage I was just numb. I felt horrible. It was the same situation as the first time: about a week later they would induce her. I was so drained.


On the appointed day one of the grandma’s stayed with our kids while we went to the hospital to deal with another heartbreaking birth.

The hospital put us on the maternity floor because it would be a baby doctor that induced her. It would be a doctor who was dealing with happy events as well as our dismal affair.

Our room was down a dark hallway. Everyone spoke in whispers. The rest of the floor, where happy events were taking place, was well lit. People spoke in loud, jubilant voices while women grunted, groaned and cursed their impregnators.

My wife’s sister-in-law came to the hospital with us, this time. It was such a relief. It meant I could go cry in the hall when I felt overwhelmed. I didn’t have to keep a stiff upper lip and suffer the glare of my wife who had to be thinking, “Just grow a pair, already.”

From time to time a skittish middle aged lady nurse would come in and check on my wife’s progress. I moved slowly when she was in the room because I thought she might faint if I startled her. Her voice quavered when she asked my wife how she was. That poor woman did not want to be our nurse on that day.

When she was done with her duties she would stand there looking at my wife and wringing her hands until I told her it was okay to leave us.

Giving birth to a child is a long and boring process for a man. Inducing labor for a child that you won’t have to raise is even more so: we were only concerned with the mom.

I spent a lot of time between our room and the coffee machine in the nurse’s lounge. I wanted to stroll down past the rooms on the brightly lit side of the floor but was afraid it would make me cry.

I was strolling back and forth down the dark hallway when I saw our nervous nurse make her way to our room. I followed her in thinking I could catch her before she hit her head on the floor if she happened to faint.

In her quavering whisper she asked my wife how she was doing. Then she went about checking my wife’s vital signs. She also had to check the place where the results of our time spent in that room would end up. Sometimes she would change the pad that was laying there.

When that poor nurse lifted up the blanket she burst into tears. Through her tears she blurted, “it’s happened.” Sure enough, on the pad placed there for its arrival was a still, perfectly formed little human. It could have fit in the palm of my hand.

Dry eyed, my wife asked the nurse to hand it to her and it fit in the palm of her hand. I patted the nurse on the back and told her it would be okay. “There there,” I said.

After our nurse could breath normally again she dabbed away her tears and said, “I have to check its vital signs.” It was a ludicrous thing to make that poor woman do, but she was eventually able to put the stethoscope to its tiny chest.

Arrangements were made for the baby’s remains. I followed the nurse out of the room. She stumbled towards the well lit nurses station and I leaned against the wall and got in my last cry before getting another cup of coffee.


While getting that last cup of coffee a young black man came in to get one as well. He was dressed very nice and he seemed to be glowing. I was feeling small and shabby in my faded jeans and concert t-shirt, but he greeted me effusively just boiling over with joy.

“Oh man,” he said, “I just can’t believe . . . it’s so beautiful!” I gathered that he had come from the light side of the floor and had just watched his first child being born. “Man, I know it just, I mean, it happens thousands of times a day, but it’s a miracle every time!”

I had gotten so used to our skittish nurse, the whispering doctor and that unlit room at the end of the dark hallway that this man’s voice was a shock to my system. His boundless joy blew through my aching bones. I could feel the blood pulsing in my veins. I could see my children playing and their grandma getting them snacks.

It embarrassed me to be so sad in the presence of his boundless joy.

I knew this young man thought I was here for the same reason he was and I didn't want him to know the truth. I didn't want him to know I had come from that dark hallway.

So I made myself smile and allowed myself to cry a little, knowing he would think they were tears of joy. I put out my hand and he shook it.

"Yes it is," I said, “It's a miracle. Every time.”