Song for Gregory

An utterly cheerful melody was seeping beneath the door, out into the street, causing a smile to spread across Greg Morris's face.

The tuba chugged; a bouncy banjo kept rhythm; some spry clarinetist soared in flights of fancy as he stood there listening, head bobbing to the music.

The smile grew into a chuckle of delight. Greg stretched an arm toward the door, which opened seemingly of its own accord.

Inside was a six-piece trad-jazz combo. Some of the musicians were standing and dancing, others sat tapping their feet. All were having a great time as they played away on their traditional-jazz instruments.

Man, these cats are good!

It looked like a rehearsal room, the perfect size, but not a lot of space for bystanders. Near the rose and gold-tinted wall a couple of battered metal foldup chairs stood empty. A man sat in a third chair, watching the band. He was dressed simply but elegantly in a woven tunic and blue jeans. Clean shaven, black hair falling to his shoulders, his rather large feet were wrapped in leather sandals.

With a twinkle in his brown eyes, he turned and looked at Greg. “Not bad, eh?”

Morris grinned. “That’s the best band I’ve ever heard.”

The man patted the empty chair beside him. “Have a seat, if you like.”

Greg stepped forward. “Thanks.”

The stranger somehow looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. As he approached, the man smiled and extended an olive-skinned hand in greeting. “My name’s Joshua. Good to finally meet you face-to-face.”

“I’m Gregory.” They shook hands and he took a seat. “You know me?”

“Know you?” Joshua chuckled. “You and I have spent a good deal of time together.”

Greg shook his head; cast his mind back over the 54 years he’d lived on Earth, trying to figure out who this friendly stranger was. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t remember you.”

“Sure you do,” Joshua prompted, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder. “You just knew me by another name, that’s all.”

“Were we in a band together?”

“Oh, lots of bands.”

“Which ones?” Greg asked, feeling flummoxed.

“All of them.”

His head snapped around to stare at Joshua. This cat was a real riddler. “Can you give me another clue?"

“Sure. You knew me by one of my other names: Jesus Christ.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “Uhm… Really?”

“Uh huh,” Joshua replied matter-of-factly. “I was there with you in spirit, Greg. Not the colloquial ‘think of me sometime’ kind of thing, though. My holy spirit has been with you since you were a kid."

Morris didn’t know what to say. The riddler did kind of look like some of the paintings of Jesus he'd seen. The man was definitely Middle Eastern. Greg had read some of the mysterious parables of the rabbi from Nazareth, and this fellow had a similar style of riffing.

The corners of Joshua’s mouth tugged upward in a comic smile. “Hey, would Jesus lie to you?”

Greg grunted. “No. I guess not.”

Joshua turned to look at the band. As he did so, the sound of the music increased, seemingly of its own accord.

Greg realized that when they had begun talking to one another, the volume of the music had lowered. He just hadn’t noticed at the time.

Talk about musical dynamics. Is this guy really Jesus?

The banjo player was on his feet now, doing a two-step while the trumpet man took a brassy, sassy solo. Joshua was bobbing his head to the music, threw Greg a glance. “You’re right, these guys are great!”

For the first time, Morris noticed there was a woman in the back of group. It was actually a seven-piece band. She was playing a small bass drum slung across her shoulder, dancing, hitting the drum with a pair of fuzzy-headed mallets as she grooved with the tuba’s bass line.

She was beautiful, ivory skinned, wearing a long, African-looking robe. Luxurious hair was piled up on her head in an artful design. She seemed to be around thirty years old. In fact, everyone in the band, including Joshua, seemed to be around thirty.

Greg stuck a finger into his mouth, feeling for the gaps where his teeth had fallen out in middle age. There were no gaps now—all his teeth were back.

He pulled the finger out, stared at the back of his hand. No wrinkles.

This Joshua guy might really be Jesus.

He stared at his profile while Joshua sat there next to him. He's definitely got a Jewish nose.

Turning his attention to the drummer again, Morris realized she also looked familiar to him. “Who’s that woman playing the bass drum, Joshua?” (He assumed he wanted to be called Joshua, seeing that’s how he had introduced himself.)

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” he replied. “And a very good musician—just like yourself. She even kind of looks like you, Greg.” Joshua threw him a meaningful glance.

Bells clanged in Greg’s heart and mind.

“Wait a minute: are you saying she’s my…my birth mom?”

“Yes, I am. The mom you never met. Until now. She wouldn’t have missed this rehearsal for anything. Told me she wanted to be in the band when you got here.”

Tears welled in Greg’s eyes…spilled over and ran down his cheeks as he watched his mom playing. When her eyes met his, he saw that they were glistening with tears also. Yet there was a radiant joy there, too.

Joshua leaned in closer. “The band’s going to wrap up the rehearsal after they finish this number. You can meet her then, if you like.”

Morris could barely reply, so much emotion was welling up inside. “I’d like that.”

“Good. I’ve got some other things to take care of, so I’m going to slip out of the room in a moment. The band and I will let you two have some privacy.”

Greg looked into his eyes. They seemed to be brimming with love at the prospect of the mother and son reunion. “You’re really Jesus, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “I am. Listen, just so you know: your birth dad’s not here yet. He’s still on Earth. But you will meet him someday. I promise.”

All this was so much to take in, almost overwhelming—yet it wasn’t. It was glorious.

The Lord leaned over and gave him a bear hug, then slapped him on the back. “Enjoy, my friend! I’ll talk to you later.”

“Thank you,” Greg managed.

As the song segued into the ending, Joshua got to his feet. He reached out and squeezed Greg’s shoulder, smiled reassuringly then turned to throw a wave at the band.

The final notes crashed to an epic conclusion as the Lord swept out of the room.

Greg sat there and exhaled in amazement.

He looked at his mother again, saw that her bottom lip was trembling as she unhooked the strap on the bass drum and put it down on the floor. A couple of colleagues stepped up to speak to her. It must have been encouraging, for her face lit up in a smile.

Suddenly Greg remembered that he didn’t even know his mom’s name. All he knew was that she came from Trinidad.

At the age of eighteen, he had really felt a need to know where his parents were from. He was a Black man with the desire burning within him to know more about his heritage.

Everyone had agreed it was a reasonable request. His foster parents and the adoption authorities consulted together, decided to give him the information. But they would not—could not by law—reveal the names of his birth parents. This was a request both of them made when giving him up for adoption.

It stung Greg deeply at the time, this business about his folks not wanting him to know them. Yet now, as he stood in a rehearsal room in heaven, there was no resentment in his heart.

He simply watched his beautiful mother in amazement as the other musicians wished her well. Some of them gave him a smile as they passed by; some were chatting with one another while making their way to the door. He could feel goodwill emanating from all.

As the last of them moved by like a marching band, he saw his mom bringing up the rear. She stepped slowly forward— almost hesitantly, as if she wasn’t sure how her long lost son would receive her after all these years.

She stopped about a dozen feet away and stood with hands clasped together at her waist, gazing silently at him. There was a questioning look in her eyes, but also love. He was sure it was love.

Greg didn’t know what to say. Didn't know where to start.

He was glad she spoke first.

“Hi.”

That was it. After 54 years, just hi?

It was a bit of a letdown.

Like a veil lifting, a realization hit him. She needs to know.

Forgiving had been a difficult process. He had worked long and hard to forgive and finally succeeded, thank God, at forgiving both his parents for giving him up.

She needed to know this.

“I forgive you, Mum,” Greg said, managing a smile.

She stepped a little closer, tears welling up. “I’m sorry for letting you go, Greg. I just couldn’t handle it; life came crashing down around me and I…I didn’t make a very good go of it.” Her gaze fell to his feet.

He moved forward a couple of steps. “It’s okay now, Mum. I really do forgive you.”

She searched his eyes, saw that he meant it, then crossed the remaining distance and threw her arms around him.

Greg began crying tears of joy. His mother was crying too.

“Thank you, thank you…for forgiving me,” she sniffled, voice full of emotion. “I didn’t know if you would or not.”

Greg blubbered on her shoulder, “It was hard, but I did it.”

The two of them hugged and cried for a long time.

When they finally pulled away from each other, he studied her face, touched her hair. “You’re so beautiful, Mum.”

She smiled. “So are you.” She paused, bit her lower lip. “Did your foster family treat you well? I hope that they did.”

“They were great. No worries.”

“I’m so glad.” Relief flooded her features again.

“Mum? There’s something I really need to know.”

She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “Of course. Anything.”

“What is your name?”

She stared at him in surprise a moment. Then both of them burst out laughing—the hilarity of two people who had just shared a profound reconciliation yet didn't fully know each other's names. The raucous, joyous sound of forgiveness-given meeting forgiveness-received.

When they quieted down and had caught their breath again, his mother reached out solemnly and took Greg's hands into hers.

“My name…my son…is Shanice.”

He was moved by the sound of it. “That is a beautiful name.”

“It means ‘God is gracious’.”

Greg nodded, thought of the grace that had brought them together again; of this most unexpected situation finding his mother in a trad-jazz band in heaven. It was fitting, seeing they were both musicians. God had truly been gracious to them both in so many ways.

“Would you like to sit in with my band sometime?” Shanice asked, almost shyly. “Joshua told me you became a musician, and a very fine one.”

Joshua likes my music. The realization brought Gregory Morris joy.

“I would love to sit in, Mum."

She beamed at him. “I’m looking forward to it. And I would be honored if you let me show you some of the sights, introduce you to a few people. Your birth father isn’t here yet, but his father is.”

Greg’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “My grandfather?”

“Yes. And go figure, he kind of looks like you. Would you like to meet him?"

"For sure."

"You'll like him, son. Come on.” She grabbed his hand, pulled him toward the door. Together they stepped out onto the gold-paved streets of heaven.

“This place must’ve cost a lot to build,” Greg remarked.

Shanice giggled. “We don’t use money here, so it didn’t cost a dime. The only currency that we live on is love.”

“Really?”

She stopped and turned toward him. “Would I lie to you in heaven?”

Greg looked at her, knew she was telling the truth. “I wish Earth was like this.”

“It will be someday. It surely will. Oh, we’ll still have trade and barter, all that stuff, but it won’t rule folks’ lives—love will. Big difference.”

He grunted. “When?”

“God knows. But he will help us get there.” She paused and chortled, hands on her hips. “Just as surely as we’re standing here in heaven, Gregory Morris, we’ll get there. How do you think the human race got this far without blowing the whole planet up?”

“Good point.”

“Let's go see your grandfather. He’s very excited to meet you!” She took his hand again, and they walked on together.