The Upper Room
On my past and present selves meeting in New York; plus photos and videos from our visit and Alli's Upper Room concert
On Saturday, Ben and I drove from my mom’s condo in Maryland to my old apartment in Brooklyn, New York. We crossed the Verrazano Bridge into the city, listening to Taylor Swift’s “Welcome to New York.” But neither of us really like T Swift, so we switched to JAY-Z and Alicia Keys, “Empire State of Mind.” This took me right back to 18 years old, when I lived in Midtown and attended The King’s College. We met in the basement of the Empire State Building. We all loved “Empire State of Mind.”
The last time we drove across the bridge onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, we were not yet engaged. Ben had the ring with him, and he proposed the next day. On this visit, we are married four months and returning to the same people and places as the weekend we said yes to marriage, yes to where we are now.
We took exit 23 which dumped us onto 4th Ave. Only a few more minutes before we arrive and can surprise my best friend. On the corner at the stoplight, we saw a man in a tailored red suit, blue velvet sippers, and a King George IV crown. “We are officially in Brooklyn,” I said.
After finding a miraculous parking spot on 27th street, we buzzed up to the third floor. We knew it would be a flurry of activity up there, as Alli, her sister Emily, and others were prepping to load the car and set up for Alli’s first ever benefit concert. I was fairly certain Alli didn’t know we were coming. I’d been coordinating with Emily. Alli and I talked on the phone two days before, and I asked questions about the concert.
“How many people are coming?” I said. She replied that only ten people had bought tickets, but more always show up the day of. I felt confident that even if Alli suspected I was planning to surprise her, she would tell herself, no way. The suspicion and the doubt of the suspicion is due to the number of times we’ve surprised each other over the years after I left New York. Alli and I love a good surprise, as the people who have helped us pull off the surprises know full well.
We waited out front for ten minutes until someone could come down and let us in. We walked into the apartment that used to be mine, and saw Alli’s back as she walked into the bedroom. “Umm I hear there’s a concert happening?” I said. Alli turned and my analysis was confirmed. Her first expression was “Ah!” and then “aw!” We hugged each other for a long time. I haven’t seen her in person since Ben’s and my wedding.
“Did you guess we were coming?” I asked. She gave the exact response I had anticipated.
We helped load up the car and then opted for the long-ish walk to Park Slope from Greenwood Heights. We needed the movement after sitting in the car for so many hours. Along the way, we chatted with another old friend and the guy she’s been dating for a month. As we got to know him, we learned he’s lived in New York for three years.
“How long do you have to have lived in the city to qualify as a New Yorker?” Ben asked.
“10 years is what I’ve heard,” the new guy replied.
But I suggested that rule might be too simple. “C and I moved here for college when we were 18, so having those formative years in the city maybe qualifies you in a different way?”
I myself never made it to 10 years, but that was not of my choosing. I was planning on more time; life and external circumstances intervened. I was going on my ninth year and was 26 years old when I left.
It was chilly but sunny as we walked. Light down jackets and beanies were just right. We arrived at the church and saw Alli’s poster on the door. Up two flights of stairs and into a big room with high ceilings, white walls, beautiful woodwork, and stained glass ornamenting frosted windows.
We helped with set-up: chairs, and a merch table of Alli’s necklaces, pins, and patches. A man handed me tape for a sign. He was wearing shiny black dress shoes, gray trousers, and a black pullover sweater overtop a crisp white Oxford. I would later learn he was performing, but I wouldn’t put it past a New Yorker to wear that to attend a concert on any given Saturday.
I told him I liked his outfit, that I’m from out of town, but love taking in the New York style. He complimented my overalls. I told him I tried to bring Virginia with me.
As guests began to arrive, I spotted some old friends. They congratulated me on marriage, and we caught up on life. That’s part of the wonder of New York and these kinds of events — you never know who you’ll see after so many years of meeting and making friends. The possibilities are… kind of endless.
Emily called us all to order, raising her voice to be heard without amplification, and introduced the first musician, Sam Talmadge. He was tall, unassuming, with a floof of brown hair. He walked onto the stage, took a seat, grabbed one of his guitars, and with the briefest of introductions, started to play a traditional wedding march.
We were astonished into a deep hush. Sam held our full attention through that song and several more. He sang only with one. The rest were acoustic, but took us on a journey. His face hardly changed, except towards the ends of the songs where, as he built tension with a walkup, he would close his eyes and then smile ever so slightly at the resolution. He introduced his last song, “Kitty’s in the Guitar Case” by saying, “What you’re picturing is exactly right.” It delighted us all.
Sam was followed by a regal Kez. She’s here on work visa from Ireland. She started out a cappella with a haunting Irish ballad. As she performed, I leaned over to Ben and whispered, “I’m Irish star-struck. Do you think she’s seen Derry Girls?” More specifically, Normal People came to mind. The feeling of “only in New York” grew. Her last song about grief, written after losing a friend in the fall, moved me deeply. I hope she records and releases it soon.
Two artists in and the room was full. There had to be more than 50 people, but all were quiet. We came in from the hustle and bustle of the street. Phones stayed in pockets and bags, mostly, except for the occasional photo or video. It seemed to me that everyone in the room wanted to rest, wanted to be ministered to by the beautiful music in that ethereal quiet place above the noise of the city, our phones, our minds.
Emily read us two deep and thoughtful poems (publish, please!). Another Irish performer came to the stage, this time with spirit and humor and lots of hedging. “I won’t do this justice,” she said. But we all disagreed. She played the piano, some sort of pipe flute, and she sang. We tapped our feet and hands with the flute, and my husband cried at the traditional Irish song. Ailísh explained it, but it was in Irish. Yet I looked over and his face was wet with tears.
My heart swelled at her song called “úr.” She explained it as a song about how winter is coming to an end, but it’s not quite spring yet, which was appropriate for the day. As she played the song solo (it’s recorded here with other musicians), I was transported — to rolling hills, mist rising in the morning as the sun warms the dew on the grass, little girls running and dancing barefoot. The seeds of a dream in my own heart.
And last but not least, Alli O’Donnell, concert and event planner extraordinaire. I wondered if she knew, as she planned, how cohesive the acts would be. Not a single one was a flop or out of place. By the time she took the stage, we were ready for her unique, soulful, original songs. And a few covers.
To raise money, Alli offered to sing covers chosen by the highest bidders. Her sister chose “Shake Your Groove Thing.” Alli can make any song gorgeous:
I almost got outbid, so Alli drew names the week before. It was between mine and two other songs, and I won! She didn’t know I was coming, and so she thought someone would need to record it for me. She told the audience this song was for her friends from Virginia.
I chose “Kicking Up the Light” for several reasons. First, Alli and I love JOSEPH, and have seen them in concert three or four times together. Second, I thought she would make it sound beautiful. And she did. Third, the lyrics represent our friendship. We’ve been through deep pain and tragedy together, but we’ve come through to the other side with deep joy. And we laughed and dance in the midst of it all.
So here is Alli’s cover of “Kicking Up the Light” by JOSEPH:
Alli sang several other songs she’s written over the years, and one from the album she’s raising money to mix and master. I lived with Alli when she wrote a song and won the Mason Jar Music contest with it. She’s shown me many songs over the years, and I’ve seen many concerts of hers. It’s amazing to see how her songwriting has developed into something so original, beautiful, and profound. I can’t wait for her full album.
The whole afternoon was drenched in spirit, beauty, and light. “Lynchburg is so boring,” Ben whispered to me (we love you LYH! we’re sorry but NY is something else!). As we cleaned up, I watched him make friends with a couple who now go to the church I used to go to. They’re a little bit older, and Sean, the man, walked over because he’d enjoyed watching Ben watch Sam. They talked so familiarly that part of me wondered, does Ben know them from somewhere before? But no, they had just met and we would get to see them at church tomorrow.
Many of the musicians and close friends walked a few blocks away, wind now cold and biting, to a crowded bar. As we pushed through the people at the front, near the bar, to tables in the back, I again felt that feeling — only in New York. This is one small bar in Park Slope. Every other bar in New York on Saturday night is packed like this. In Lynchburg, our bars are big and empty. You may or may not see the same people every time. It reminded me of the sheer immensity of human life and activity stuffed into 300 square miles.
Once again, I watched Ben make new friends and also connect other people. He’s so good about getting phone numbers and following up. He’s genuine, and people appreciate it. I wonder if he would thrive here. I know he’s an introvert, but he loves the diversity.
As we drove out of the city the following day and watched people crossing the street in front of us, he said, “every single person is different here.”Every person everywhere is unique, and contains multitudes (per Whitman). But some places, it seems, like Lynchburg, the uniqueness is a little harder to spot. We have to get under the surface to see it.
Ben and I grabbed a late burger after the bar with our friend Nathan. We talked about the contradictions of his life, how he belongs to a progressive group but holds unpopular conservative ideas. I appreciate him for becoming more and more himself.
We take the bus — the bus! I never took the bus when I lived in Brooklyn, and man I was missing out — back to 27th street. It’s so easy to pay now. Simply tap your phone! No metro card required. Ben tells me about a more wild conversation at the bar with a woman who believes physical violence is a solution to financial, capitalistic violence. “Women pirates…” she says. Only in New York.
All of this happens in the course of 8 hours in Brooklyn. Those hours contained multitudes. The next day Ben said he doesn’t think he could live in New York, it’s too overstimulating. But he also recognizes that, when we’re here, we’re cramming everything in.
If we lived here, had an apartment, had quiet moments to ourselves, I think we would be okay. There are parks nearby, and climbing gyms in Brooklyn. There are mountains and hiking available via an hour train ride on the Metro North. We could do it.
The next morning, I awoke in the last bedroom I slept in when I lived in Brooklyn. It’s the bedroom where I received the most awful news of my life. My memories of it feel stiff, distant. I tried to remember waking up early to take the kids to school. Where did I take them?
I asked Alli later. She helped me put the picture back together. Even though my bed is the same, a white loft with Ikea curtains hanging down around it, since Emily has taken over, artwork covers the walls the previously empty white walls. The whole apartment has become overgrown. Each person who has lived there never fully left, hints of their occupation still visible.
I had wanted more time to live there four years ago and still sometimes do, but I’m grateful for my home and my life now and don’t want to leave. Can both be true?
Alli, Ben and I pile into the car and drive to the local coffee shop, Roots. It’s where Emily works, where Alli has played open mics and made many friends. Nathan worked there for a while, too. It’s our coffee shop.
Roots is wonderful, a real community hub. Artwork lines the walls, homemade goods are for sale, and posters announce a Wednesday screenwriting workshop, a Thursday writer’s room. We fill our arms with breakfast burritos, scones, and dirty chai lattes. Then we cruise FDR drive, the East River sparkling in the sun, to Apostles Uptown.
At Apostles, I’m greeted with big hugs and more congratulations. The last time we visited, Ben and I had gotten engaged the day before. As Pastor John preached, I glanced to my left. We were sitting by the alcove in which I was prayed over by pastors and elders on the Sunday after I received the news that my father had a growth on his pancreas.
“My portion, O God,” we sing. “You hold my future and my past. What wonder, O God. This inheritance that lasts.”
In that room, my pain-filled past. Memories of fear, uncertainty, grief. Of knowing I would be leaving soon. But now in that room, my hope for the future: a life with Ben, a life-long friend in Alli, and maybe, just maybe, someday returning.
“You have not abandoned my soul to hell. You make known to me the path of life. In your presence joy is full, it’s brimming full. At your right hand, pleasures multiplied.”
I have visited Apostles over the years, and it seems like my visits are bookmarks to important seasons in my life. I’m grateful that Apostles stays the same, with faithful leadership setting the tone: true worship, love of Jesus, following him and holding nothing back.
This visit felt especially important: Alli asked Ben and I to kneel and pray before communion. We prayed over our transitions: Alli awaiting news about acceptance to a graduate program, Ben learning about a potential new job, and me, knowing that some things need to change but lacking the power in myself to make it happen.
We stroll through Central Park after church to say goodbye. Ben teaches us about the trees. We talk about the older couple we met at the concert and saw again at church, how they moved to the city later in life. “Maybe that will be us,” I say.
Ben could work for the Central Park Conservancy. He could do tree tours of the park. He could lead outdoor excursions for city dwellers who crave nature. We could climb at Emily’s rock gym. It could be our second youth, after our kids are grown with lives of their own. But that’s assuming a lot. That’s a far distant dream.
I can’t understand the desires in myself. How New York City makes me feel alive, how much apart of me that place is still. Yet how I also long for the opposite: a life with my hands in the dirt, growing things to enjoy and eat, the quiet of the pasture, a warm coffee in my hand as the mists rise. Little people running around, a free and pure childhood in the woods and the creeks. And how that dream, one I’ve had since my college days, is closer than ever.
City and country. Urban and rural. These people and these places make up the two parts of me. (On the other hand, to be honest, suburbia has no place in my heart.) How will they, how can they, come together?