Pre-Show

They spoke to me of stage fright--
that mouth-drying paralytic, that bane
of the would-be thespian.
"Don't drop lines. And if you forget,
just remember we all forget sometimes.
Just keep moving."

But it's not stage fright in my belly.
That windstorm of butterflies is composed of
other emotions entirely: impatience predominant,
the minutes until the manager calls "places!" ticking
so
slowly,
the minutes until the lights come up and I launch into
the speeches I've learned for two months, until
we move in the dance of theater, bringing another world,
another era,
to life for our living audience, who is taking far too long to sit.
And other emotions: eagerness, a tinge of fear--
I've never done this before. I don't think I'll mess up, but
what if?
Jitters, caused partly by my terrified analysis of my own state:
tell me I won't freeze up when the lights come up.

And then the magic word: "Places!"
Pitch dark, save for the glow-in-the-dark X taped to my first mark.
I step to it, listening to my fellow actors rustle to their own places,
still waiting, running through the opening lines in my head now.
And then
lights.

Unseen Ripples

We never really know what God is planning. We can always look back later and say, "Oh, that's what He was up to!" But usually, at the time, we stumble along in confusion, clinging to our Bibles and His promises, somewhere between hope and faith that He really does know what He's doing.

That is not to say I don't trust God. But there are days--admit it!--when I say, "I just don't see how this is to Your glory."

And then there are other days when you think you see His purpose, and your prayers are, "Lord, this is what You want, yes? Let me obey Your will, let me do what will please You...but I'm pretty sure this is it!"

I did a play recently, to help out a friend. Of the six other people in the theater for the play, one was a Christian. The director and one of the actors is Jewish, the other three seem to be mostly and cheerfully Heathen. And they all cursed like sailors, except for us two Christians. Nice people, pleasant to work with, not uptight, and capable of reining in the swearing (which they did when my little sister dropped by the theater). But they really don't believe in God.

I met the director, Jackie, last March when I did my first play. I ran into her again when I assisted with "Fiddler on the Roof" and she came in to advise the cast on some Jewish traditions. The second night she was at the theater, she and I and four others hung out for a few hours and discussed religious differences. At the end of the evening, I asked if she believed Christ was the Messiah. No, she said. The Messiah is prophesied to bring peace, and there've been an awful lot of wars since Jesus's time!

Either that night or after I joined the cast of the other play, I asked how literally she took Genesis, and then we debated evolution versus creationism. She emailed me, I emailed back, and we've been at it off and on for about a month now. (It's only half a dozen emails because I'm a lazy butt.) So far, our debates remain very friendly and inconclusive. We're both articulate people, both convinced of what we believe, and both willing to say, "We differ, but you're still a nice person."

Here's where the ripple comes in. Last night, the lead of our play asked how the debate was going. And it hit me that they're watching. I knew before--he's asked before and it's something of a joke among the cast. But last night, it occurred to me that our discussion might very well be repeated to others. It occurred to me how much this debate could matter. And I think it's about time to move from squabbling over scientific facts, which can be interpreted myriad ways, to spiritual topics.

I disagree with evolution because it reduces man to a clever animal, whereas creationism sets him as regent over creation, created in the image of God, and a soul destined for eternity. I doubt, too, that evolution adequately addresses the problems of evil and sin. But mostly, I believe that I have found truth, that the Bible is to be taken literally, that God tells no lies and has told us what we need to know about the state of the world, our souls, and our eternal destination.

I hope I can convey that to her.

I want a fandom house.

I want to be the crazy aunt with a slide from the second story to the first. The aunt whose front door is round and painted green and has a gold doorknob in the exact middle. Whose wardrobe has a secret panel leading to the playroom, whose blue door opens into a hallway, whose walls are painted with the maps of fantasy worlds. I want to be that crazy lady with tiny statues hidden in the garden, glass unicorns in the windows, fairy houses in the yard. I want a room under the staircase, with the first chapter of Harry Potter written on the wall. I want a room with armor and weapons covering one wall, a closet filled with fancy dress, a second wall covered with LEGO so they can build off it, a third wall that is nothing but window, and a fourth wall with trees painted on it.

I want a gigantic house with many, many secret passages and a huge pool with a waterfall and hanging seats and ten acres covered with trees and with a private brook that has no less than three bridges. It needs a log bridge, stepping stones, and a classic arched bridge.

I don't think this is a particularly realistic wish list. But it needs to be written out. Because that house? That house would be the most magical place to visit. To live in. To hold tea parties and duels and stay up late watching Disney and reading books.

Realistically, I'll wind up in a tiny apartment, with beige walls and decent dish ware. Realistically, any project like a fandom house would require my (presumed future) husband's agreement.

But unrealistically...among the mental stars and galaxies of my imagination...I have a giant house.

Realistically, practically, right now, I can create minor fandom pockets. I am going to paint the Tree of Gondor on my bedroom wall. I will collect all fantasy books that steal my heart. I will teach my niece and nephews to recognize a TARDIS by sight, and I will read to them the Chronicles of Narnia and The Hobbit. And I will dream of a giant house.