The time I expected popcorn and the limbo

About a week ago, I substitute taught in a middle school band class (LOL) where the teacher left The Composer’s Specials DVDs for me to play. So for four-hours per day over two days, I watched the riveting fictional accounts of the lives of famous composers.

Click on the photo to watch Bach's Fight for Freedom at your next social gathering. Sure to delight viewers of all ages.

Johann Bach and his feisty twelve-year-old sidekick, Fredrick, stick it to the man (the emotionally unstable/effeminate Duke Wilhelm Ernst) by composing concertos even after the duke explicitly forbids it. Then Fredrick dabs on Duke Ernst with a speech about living passionately and breaks Bach out of jail.

Franz Liszt takes a young gypsy violinist from rags to riches, frustratedly running his hands through his sexy, flowing blond locks all the while.

A poorly-wigged George Friedrich Handel hires ten-year-old vocal prodigy and local street urchin Jamie O’Flaherty to sing his new composition, “The Messiah.” Despite proving his trustworthiness to Handel countless times, when Handel loses his watch, he immediately turns his suspicion on Jamie. One minute and thirty seconds later, just as the dramatic tension has built to an unbearable level, a six-year-old street-dweller clears Jamie’s name, allowing him to sing Handel’s “Messiah” in the big show after all.

Almost didn’t see that one coming.

Each film ends with a sensational screen-freeze and dip to black: the composer and his child-colleague share a knowing smile, the dad who thought his son a thief/disappointment/useless dreamer embraces him through layers and layers of Victorian ruffle-front shirts, everyone triumphantly tosses their wig into the air, etc.

Watching these movies brought me right back to my own elementary school music class where our teacher often showed one specific Composer’s Special called Rossini’s Ghost.

Actual footage of me remembering the movie title

I couldn’t recall the name of the movie until I picked up the DVD case in band last week. Then it was brain-blast central: “oh my gosh the long-lost film that sometimes flashes scenes through my mind at random moments.”

Between watching those movies in band and reflecting on my expectations vs. realities from 2018 last week, I got to thinking about my experience in 1st-5th grade music class. (Reverie music and wavy mirror effect that shows we’re going back in time…)

Our music teacher, Mrs. Litzenberger, was a smiley woman who did a lot of hand motions that meant something about how our voices should sound, but I wasn’t sure exactly what.

Two days per week, we slogged across the playground to the portable where she stood outside the door—sometimes in the rain—ushering us into her not-so-sound-proof music haven.

We sang Patriotic songs, songs about the seasons, and an astonishing number of songs about dinosaurs.

Apparently they're called "boomwhackers." I like them even more now.

I loved “glockenspiel day” where everyone had the opportunity to plink away on tiny xylophones or tambourines or bongo drums. We also had these colorful tubes that, when banged against the floor—or another student’s head—produced certain notes.

Somehow, Mrs. Litzenberger directed 30-60 students at a time, age 11 and under, to create recognizable tunes with those little rubber mallets, multi-colored pipes, and our squeaky little voices.

What I remember most about music class though, probably much to the chagrin of Mrs. Litzenberger if she’s somehow reading this, is Popcorn Party day.

If we earned a sticker everyday of class for a month, we won a party complete with a sing-along movie, legendary air-popped popcorn drizzled with butter, and a straight-up crazy round of the limbo.

On party day, the classroom transformed into an WWE-energy-level arena, and each student into a professional hype-man, as we flung ourselves lower and lower to the ground against the background of the rhythmic limbo music.

I remember one girl in my third-grade class who could bend herself in half and levitate just inches from the floor to navigate beneath the one-foot-high bar. And when she’d made it all the way under and snapped herself upright on the other side, the class went wild like we’d all won free fish crackers and fruit snacks for life.

When I started 6th grade, Mrs. Litzenberger retired and Mrs. Huang-Bagaason replaced her.

6th grade (I'm 3rd row from top, 3rd from left, lookin fresh in my soft pink shirt and ghost beads)

Things remained much the same at first glance. We sang songs, though some of the lyrics to these new songs confused us (for example: “toomba” x7 “lie-lie-lie” x10 “ti-ta-ta-ti” x4 “hey!” or “I was passing by my brother called to me and he said to me you better take time in life…” or most memorable and cringey “I’m a little cookie, yes I am. I was made by the cookie man. On my way from the cookie pan, a little piece broke off me.”)

Mrs. HB introduced us to instruments we might like to play in the middle school band the next year; she did the same inexplicable hand motions as Mrs. Litzenberger; she exposed us to classical composers and “need-to-know” music.

She even told us that we could earn parties by collecting stickers each month just like with Mrs. Litzenberger.

But we faced quite a surprise on the day of our first party with Mrs. HB. I remember the day well because it was one of the first times that I learned about expectations—that I had them—and misconceptions—that not everyone else had the same expectations as me (and my classmates).

We rolled up to class that day, ready to rumble—like where the limbo bar at, pump that familiar song, and les get after it.

But when we walked in, guess what.

No limbo bar.

A murmur went through the crowd. One kid broached the subject: “so uh, are we gonna limbo today?”

“Limbo?” Mrs. HB replied in confusion. “No, we’re not doing limbo…” she said as if that was the most ridiculous idea on earth.

We quickly shook that off as we sat down on the floor in our usual spots, watching as Mrs. HB loaded a VHS in the VCR (yes, it was 2006 when pterodactyls still ruled the skies and parents dropped their kids off at school in foot-powered stone cars).

“So, what sing-along are we gonna watch?” another kid bravely piped in.

“Well, it’s not a sing-along, but I thought you guys might like Over the Hedge.”

At any other time, a movie about shifty animals who trounce some unsuspecting humans would have been not just an acceptable, but A+ film choice.

BUT IN MUSIC CLASS where we already didn’t get to crank that limbo…Soulja Boi, nah.

In that moment, we invented the phrase, “it’s lit.”

Uproar spread throughout the now Britney-Spears-level-insane 6th graders as we punched holes in the faux-ceiling tiles and searched for the colorful music pipes to whack against the floor in turmoil.

We held onto one hope—the precious boon of popcorn. But who would ask? Who would raise the question that could destroy the final vestige of The Great Popcorn Parties of Mrs. Litzenberger?

“Are we having popcorn?” I heard myself say.

“Popcorn?” Mrs. HB asked in confusion.

The complete pandemonium that already existed in the tiny portable transitioned into full-flung “weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

“Give us napkins with twisted corners and two handfuls of popcorn or give us death,” we hollered. In hindsight, we should’ve picked a shorter sentence to chant 😉

First world problems, am I right?

I had experienced disappointment before, but that day in music class was the first time I remember cognitively processing my own expectations, and reacting to them not being met. (Important side note: it's not that we disliked Mrs. HB--we grew to enjoy having her as a teacher throughout the year--we just missed the old Litzenberger party situation)

Now years and thousands of expectations later, I wonder how often I let the way I think situations should go shape my attitudes and responses.

Click to see sample on Amazon

In Discerning the Voice of God, Priscilla Shirer shares the story of Namaan, a Syrian with leprosy whose expectations of God cloud his ability to receive healing at first.

You can read the whole story in 2 Kings 5, but basically, Namaan, thinking of himself as the OG, expects God to work a grandiose, magical wonder to restore his body to full health. Instead, God sends Elisha to command Namaan to bathe in the inconveniently-located, dirty Jordan River seven times to cure his condition.

Shirer explains that ultimately God addresses both Namaan’s inward and outward illnesses—pride and leprosy—as Namaan eventually humbles himself to dip in the river.

As I heard the story, I hardcore related with Namaan. Hopefully I’ve grown since the 6th grade Popcorn Party debacle, but I know that I still often hold my plans closer than the Lord’s.

How often do I let my desires, intentions, and ideas get in the way of God’s FAR greater purpose?

The good news: no matter how many times we respond like disappointed 11-year-olds or self-absorbed Namaans, God invites us back to Himself. He forgives us when we ask, renews our hearts, and sanctifies us inwardly, and then outwardly.

When you face the unexpected, do you respond in fear, anger, and anxiety, or do you trust in His unshakable guidance?