The Revolution of Praise

Based on Psalm 150: Let everything that breathes praise the Lord.

The basement wasn’t much. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the old lino curled like it was trying to leave. The staff called it the “multipurpose room,” but everyone knew that was a generous term. Most days, it was where bingo happened, lukewarm tea was served, and on Thursdays, a man named Jack would take his trumpet out of its velvet-lined case.

Jack had lived at the aged care home for just under three years. He’d once been part of a swing band, long before knees went bad and fingers curled stiff with arthritis. Now his playing was hit and miss—notes sometimes cracking like a dropped mug—but he kept at it. The trumpet, battered and brassy, was one of the few things he hadn’t let go of.

In the weeks leading up to Easter, something shifted in the home. A new manager had come in, all smiles and clipboards, and suddenly everything was about quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful, just controlled. No singing after dinner. No impromptu poetry recitals. And definitely no trumpet in the basement.

Jack hadn’t made a fuss. He never did. But he stopped unpacking the trumpet on Thursdays. The velvet case stayed shut. Residents noticed, of course. They whispered over scones and custard, shared glances, but no one said anything.

It was Easter Sunday. Morning services had come and gone—streamed into the common room on a flat-screen TV where the volume was always just a bit too low. People sat politely, nodded at the right times, and returned to their rooms without fanfare. Lunch was lamb and peas. Dessert was trifle.

But Jack didn’t go back to his room.

Instead, he wheeled himself down the hallway to the lift, then to the basement, velvet case across his lap like something sacred. He hadn’t told anyone. He didn’t need permission. He simply went.

The room was empty when he arrived. Good. He had hoped for a bit of space. With slow, deliberate movements, he unclipped the case, lifted the trumpet, and turned it in his hands until the metal caught the light just right.

He pressed it to his lips. Took a breath. Let the first note rise.

It wasn’t perfect. His embouchure had faded over the years, and his breath sometimes wobbled. But it was enough. It was music. The tune was unmistakable. A bit jazzy in rhythm, because Jack didn’t know how else to play, but still clear:

Christ the Lord is risen today…

The melody wove through the stale air. Jack’s fingers danced across the valves. Each Hallelujah rang out like a declaration.

Somewhere above, a door creaked open.

He kept playing.

Then a voice joined in. Thin, hesitant.

Hallelujah.

Another voice followed. Stronger. Then another. They were walking in now—residents in dressing gowns, staff with name tags, someone still holding a spoon from dessert. They filled the room slowly, forming a half-circle around Jack. No one told them to come. No one stopped them.

Jack moved into the second verse. The trumpet caught its stride. The tune bent slightly under his breath but held firm. Now they were singing, fully singing. Some harmonised instinctively. Some just belted it out with enthusiasm and no tune at all. But they were together.

One woman began to clap. Another wheeled forward, close enough to tap her foot against Jack’s. Someone laughed—quiet and joyful, the kind of laugh that surprises itself.

They made it to the final line, a little ragged, gloriously uncoordinated.

Soar we now where Christ has led…

Hallelujah.

The room was full now—not just with people, but with something more. Not noise, not even sound exactly. It was joy. Not the kind that shows up in motivational quotes or tea towels, but the kind that sneaks in when the rules are turned down and the soul gets to breathe.

When the last note faded, there was silence. Not the tight, manufactured kind. This was the quiet that follows a holy moment.

Jack rested the trumpet in his lap. His hands trembled a little. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We heard you,” said a nurse. Her eyes were wet.

“I didn’t think anyone would,” Jack replied, voice soft.

“Well,” said an old man with a tartan blanket on his lap, “resurrection’s hard to ignore.”

No one moved to leave. They just stood there, as if afraid that walking away might break the spell.

Finally, Jack spoke again.

“Been playing that tune for sixty years,” he said. “Thought I’d lost the lungs for it. But you know… Hallelujah anyway.”

Someone chuckled. Then the chuckle caught, like fire on dry grass. Soon, the room was filled with laughter—light, giddy, grateful laughter.

Later, the manager would say nothing. The rule about quiet would quietly be forgotten. And Thursday afternoons found themselves mysteriously booked out once more.

Jack never said why he chose that moment, that day, to play. But those who were there knew. Knew in the deep way you know something without needing to explain it.

Because Christ the Lord was risen.

And in a basement that smelt of tea and mothballs, resurrection sounded an awful lot like a trumpet—and a room full of shaky hallelujahs.

The Revolution of Praise
(shorter version)

Based on Psalm 150: Let everything that breathes praise the Lord.

The basement wasn’t much. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the old lino curled like it was trying to leave. The staff called it the “multipurpose room,” but everyone knew that was a generous term. Most days, it was where bingo happened, lukewarm tea was served, and on Thursdays, a man named Jack would take his trumpet out of its velvet-lined case.

Jack had lived at the aged care home for just under three years. He’d once been part of a swing band, long before knees went bad and fingers curled stiff with arthritis. Now his playing was hit and miss—notes sometimes cracking like a dropped mug—but he kept at it. The trumpet, battered and brassy, was one of the few things he hadn’t let go of.

In the weeks leading up to Easter, something shifted in the home. A new manager had come in, all smiles and clipboards, and suddenly everything was about quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful, just controlled. No singing after dinner. No impromptu poetry recitals. And definitely no trumpet in the basement.

Jack hadn’t made a fuss. He never did. But he stopped unpacking the trumpet on Thursdays. The velvet case stayed shut. Residents noticed, of course. They whispered over scones and custard, shared glances, but no one said anything.

It was Easter Sunday. Morning services had come and gone—streamed into the common room on a flat-screen TV where the volume was always just a bit too low. People sat politely, nodded at the right times, and returned to their rooms without fanfare. Lunch was lamb and peas. Dessert was trifle.

Continue reading the full story here.