Grace Abounds In A Home With Squeaky Floors

It's Guest Post Thursday!  Today's guest is Rachel of http://becomingrachelmeitl.blogspot.com/.  Rachel is a wife, a very creative interior decorator and cook, and most recently a new mother.  

Grace Abounds In A Home With Squeaky Floors - by Rachel Meitl

The gospel of grace calls us to sing of the everyday mystery of intimacy with God instead of always seeking for miracles or visions. It calls us to sing of the spiritual roots of such commonplace experiences as falling in love, telling the truth, raising a child, teaching a class, forgiving each other after we have hurt each other, standing together in the bad weather of life, of surprise and sexuality, and the radiance of existence. Of such is the kingdom of heaven, and of such homely mysteries is genuine religion made. Grace abounds and walks around the edges of our everyday experience. - Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel

A couple of months ago my husband and I moved into our "new" house (built in 1991) with a very pregnant belly.  A couple of weeks later we brought baby Audrey home.  Walking around the house the floors squeak and I'm starting to learn the spots.  I'm learning where to step and where not to step when tip toeing around the sleeping baby.

The baby is sleeping right now so I have some quiet time to do "me" things.  I'm working on a slipcover for a crummy old ottoman I got for $20 off of craigslist.  Walking around in the room with the ottoman I found a new squeaky spot and I smiled to myself.

This house immediately felt like home to me, and the squeaky floors are part of that.  They remind me of... home.  They remind me of the home I spent my first 18 years in and they make me want this to be the home baby Audrey spends her first 18 years in.

The squeaky floors remind me of my 5-year old self waking my mom in the middle of the night for a snack.  Sitting at the kitchen table with her, a little bit of pepsi, and some cheese crackers.  Loving that we were up while the neighborhood slept.  

The squeaky floors remind me of my 7-year old self racing through the house to the restroom in the middle of the night.  Racing, because I was scared of what lurked where it was too dark to see.  

They remind me of playing rummy by flashlight or candlelight when the electricity would go out.  

They remind me of dragging furniture from my room to my brothers room and from my brothers room to my room... weeks after he had gotten new wallpaper... now my wallpaper.  Blue, with little white seagulls I think.  They remind me of dragging the same furniture back to their original rooms months later. 

Waking up and tip-toeing to my dad's brown lazy-boy chair.  Curling up with my head on one of the arms and looking into the kitchen until someone noticed I was up.  My parents stirring their coffee and chatting.

The one window that always let in water when it rained.  At least it was the bathroom window!  I can even hear the sound of the wooden shutters that hung on the inside of that window.

Sitting on the back porch in a wet bathing suit, wrapped in a worn-thin beach towel, water dripping onto the floor from my dangling feet, eating a tomato stuffed with seafood salad, squeezed with lemon, and surrounded by triscuits.  

They remind me of my 9-year old self knocking on the shower wall, signaling my mom that I was ready for the towel that had been warming by the wood-stove.  Sitting with my back to that wood-stove to dry my long hair.

The squeaky floors remind me of my 17-year old self coming home late after everyone had gone to bed. Coming home to find a "mibb" warming the bed where my feet would go and a sweet note from mom on my pillow.  

The things that were normal and mundane have become the things that shape the memories of my childhood and they have become the things that bring to mind happiness when I look back.  

The squeaky floors in our new old house bring to mind happiness when I look back.  I pray that Audrey's normal and mundane experiences in this house become happy memories of her childhood one day.  I pray that she finds love in the ordinary things and I especially pray that she finds God in the ordinary things... that she recognizes all the blessings that so many of us tend to overlook.  

The Day the Music Shied

I love music – listening to it, singing it, performing it, even a little bit of writing it.  However, I realize not everyone shares my views.  For instance, when I was younger and would attempt to pump up the jam or express my happiness through head-banging, dad would get a low-frequency, sonic-induced bellyache.  It’s not that he dislikes music; it’s just that he prefers a different flavor of soul.  Together, he and I make a mean pair on the bass part of a song and if you happen to be standing in front of us in church and we’re singing out of hymnals, you best duck or hope your hairspray holds cuz you’re gonna get an experience.  But I digress….

Around the same time, I learned that this difference of taste extends beyond just human sensibilities and into the animal kingdom.

I was in the high school marching band from 8^th grade through 12^th.  This particular story takes place during my junior year, I think.  And this was probably in late August, early September and though the weather was technically cooling off, if you’ve spent any amount of time in North Carolina you know it doesn’t really start to “cool down” until mid-October.  So this was probably a hot day in late August, the humidity was heinous, and that year we had started using a nearby community baseball field for rehearsals.

The way the rehearsals would typically go is that after marching fundamentals each section would split off to various areas to warm up and go over their respective parts for the music – this is known as “sectionals”.  Then we’d all gather together in the performance arch, play through some music, then get to the marching drill (that’s where we make all the pretty shapes and do the cool marching moves).

Now, another thing to know about North Carolina, specifically the Raleigh/Durham area, is there are a lot of trees.  Where there aren’t deliberately cleared spaces for homes, fields, buildings, roads, there are trees.  Lots of trees.  Saying all that to say, the baseball field we used for rehearsal was surrounded by trees.  It’s like you step off the field and into the Forbidden Forest.

For the drum sectional we found a small clearing amongst some tall pines and oaks.  We lined up – tenors, snares and basses – and began to warm up.  We started with “8 on a hand” which is exactly what it sounds like: play eight beats with your right hand, then your left hand, 16 beats with your right hand, then eight again on your left, then right, and concluding with 16 on your left.  We’d start at a medium tempo and work our way up to a controlled frenzy to loosen up the hand and wrist muscles. 

Early in the season it’s not uncommon for someone in the line, at some point, to fall out of tempo; either dragging or rushing just a tad and we’d all do it and that was the point of rehearsal – to learn to play at tempo, in rhythm and in unison with each other.  However, at this point in the season we were definitely beyond that in warm-ups.  So it was a bit of a surprise when we started hearing random beats, way out of tempo, as we got further along with our exercise.

“Who’s doing that?” Richard asked after completing our first go-through.

Everyone looked at each other, exchanging bewildered glances.  Each of us knew we were all solid and on the beat, yet, the audible evidence was undeniable: someone’s drum had played a beat out of synch.  So we started back up and we noticed it happening again.  Normally, as we play, we stand at attention, but a couple of us broke attention to look and try and figure out what who the culprit was.

“Ow!” Kevin yelled.  We finished the exercise and asked him what was wrong.  “Someone’s throwing stuff!”  We looked around, expecting to find a rogue horn-player lurking in the trees but none was seen.  Then Eric hit his drum.  All eyes were on him and he threw up his hands.

“I didn’t do that!”

Then Richard beat his drum – except he didn’t move his hands.

“These woods are haunted!” he said.  And then we saw it: an acorn fell and hit my drum.

“We’re playing the acorns off the trees?” I asked.

“No – it’s squirrels….” Richard observed.

Sure enough, a squad of the furry little critters were running around the branches, about 30 feet up.

“Well, now that we have that settled….”  And we started again, at a faster tempo.  It was then we discovered a positive correlation between the tempo of our playing and the intensity of acornfire from above.

“Those lousy little…!”  Richard chucked one of his mallets upwards in retaliation hitting only branches and twigs.  Somewhere I could swear I heard a high-pitched, yet deep and ominous laugh.

“Come on guys; don’t give in to the rodents!” Dave yelled.

We fired it up again and the squirrels fired it down.  We kept at it for another few minutes, but the welts and wallops were more than we could bear.  Finally, we gave in and moved to a different spot.  Mother Nature won that day, but we won the war.

…that last bit really doesn’t mean anything, it just sounds good.

Hunchbacked Knuckles

Most everybody I know has either broken a leg, an arm, an ankle or something major that cramps their lifestyle and requires a cast, sympathy and a little TLC (healing by R&B).  Somehow in my 30+ years on this planet I’ve managed to evade any major breakage; I say “major” because I have actually broken two bones in my body, simultaneously. 

During the early part of springtime of my year in 7^th grade at West Cary Middle, everyone seemed to be “jamming” their fingers.  By jamming I’m not referring to creative ways of making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, nor inducing the short-lived fad of “Marley-Fingers”, but rather the condition described by Sportsinjurybulletin.com as the following:

In a typical jam, a finger joint is forced together, with twisting of the joint involved as well. This compression and torquing often leads to dislocation, which can resolve itself within seconds or might persist until medical attention is received.

I don’t know why it seemed to be happening all of a sudden, but during that time, all the boys were walking around with two of their fingers taped together.  The question would be asked, “What happened to your fingers?” and the response would be given in a mostly non-chalant manner with a dash of pride, “Oh, I jammed it playing [insert any given sport here].”  It was like they were part of an elite club or organization: the Afflicted Athletes.  It seemed to be that if you weren’t somehow injured while playing you were doing it wrong.

Eventually the wheel of fortune spun around to me.  It happened during P.E., playing basketball.  My team was on defense and the kid with the ball came my way; I tried to steal the ball.  Instead, I jammed my fingers.  I shouted in surprise and pain – this was a new, uncomfortable sensation.  The injured digits were my ring and middle fingers on my right hand.  I felt an odd mixture of pain and numbness and I couldn’t bend them.  I told the coach, he got ‘em taped up, and it was official: I was part of the club…for about a day or so.  Most of the other guys wore their tape for days on end.  I guess I wasn’t as intense or elite because my fingers were back to normal two days after the incident and I couldn’t write very well without Ringy and Middleman helping the effort (what, you don’t name your fingers?  I don’t either, I just wanted an interesting way to refer to them).

Well, I thought after that I had paid my dues.  About a week later, after school, some of us kids were playing basketball to kill time while we waited for our rides.  I was on defense again and a fellow named Dave had the ball.  We were under the basket, I went to steal it, but he was too fast.  Instead of my left palm going around the ball, the middle and ring fingers of my left hand hit it, dead on, perpendicular to the surface area.  The odd pain I had felt a week earlier had returned, but this time it brought some friends – that is to say, it hurt a heckuva lot more. 

Almost instantly, the knuckles below the distal phalanges on my left ring and middle fingers began to swell (I used to watch Bones – and I still use Google).  They didn’t turn black and blue; they just got big.  I didn’t get them taped up until I got home because there weren’t any coaches present with access to the “special healing tape.”

Now, even though the left-hand doppelgangers of Ringy and Middleman hurt a lot more than their right-hand counterparts, I figured it’d just be a couple days before they healed.  A couple weeks later, with a small reduction of pain and no reduction of swelling, I started to worry a little.

“Hey, dad, I think I broke my knuckles.”

“Let me see them.”  I showed him the hunchbacked joints.  “If they were broken they’d be black and blue.”

“They still hurt and look at them!” I persisted.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

At the time it didn’t really bother me, and to this day, it still doesn’t really.  But I have learned something from that experience that has followed me into adulthood: You’ve got to be your own advocate.  When there’s something you need, something you’re going for, you can’t count on someone else to stand up for you.  And to the Christians in the audience, I’m not talking about Christ’s advocacy for us, nor the Spirit’s intercession. I’m talking more akin to how Paul stood up for himself in Acts 22:25.

Sometimes someone will stand up for you, but you can’t count on that because you don’t know if anyone will.  If you’re in need of healing and you’re denied care, don’t give up; say, “Hey!  I’m bleeding through my band-aids here!”  Or, in another vein, if you’re pursuing a dream, don’t just give up at the first sign of resistance.  Going to college, fighting for a love, enlisting in the military – all such things are worthy and noble pursuits; and they’re usually not very easy. 

A few months later I was at an orthopedist’s office with my dad and sister (she was having a follow-up examination for a broken ankle).  While they were waiting, I went and found another doctor.  I showed him my knuckles and explained what happened.  Without hesitation he said, “Those knuckles were broken.” 

Now, if only I had persisted with my dad a few months earlier they could have been treated.  Granted, they’re distal knuckles; it really wasn’t a big deal.  But what about the next time I’d need to stand up for myself when it would be a big deal?  I have my hunchbacked knuckles, the deformed Ringy and Middleman saying, “Don’t just roll over and take it up the tailpipe; fight!!”

And that’s what I’d encourage you to do.  There is a line between being your own advocate and being a jerk, but for some reason our society has fought against standing up for yourself for so long and so hard that a great deal many of us are just jellyfish, floating along in the currents.  When Opposition says, “You’re just not good enough, okay?”  respond with that rarest of vocabulary beasts: “No.”

Stand up for yourself – you’re worth it.

If It Was A Snake It Would've Jumped Up and Bit Me!

Since 2005 I've made several attempts at starting up and maintaining a blog.  What you're reading now is the latest, and to date, most successful attempt - successful in terms of having a definite vision and purpose.  Today's post was originally written and put up on Sunday, June 19, 2011 at this same URL, but before the blog's mission was defined.  To a few of you, this is old hat; to others, this is brand new; to all, I hope you find it edifying and enjoyable.

Sunday - June 19, 2011

I believe it was three weeks ago to this day.  It was Sunday morning and I came in to church for Sunday School (if it’s a class that takes place before the service, it’s Sunday School, Godbless it) and I was still a bit groggy… “Groggy?”  Hmmm, I think I just made a mental connection before I’ve even gotten to my main point.

ANYWAY…

I sought out coffee from the church’s coffee bar.  There are typically 3-4 pots of different brews, each a variant of more than just “regular” and “decaf.”  On this particular Sunday there was a brew labeled “Highland Grog.”  I thought to myself, “What a clever name!  Coffee’s always notorious for being bad, and the worse it is the more effective it is in waking you up!  Verily, verily, here is a brew embracing that notoriety!” (I was operating under a paradigm I adopted from mid-1980s pop culture – specifically Garfield (And in church you gotta say “verily, verily” at least once every fortnight, but only if you’re going for real, ultimate holiness)).  Thing is, about halfway through drinking my cup of grog, I discovered I really enjoyed it.  I mean, it was tasty.  As Uncle Andrew says of Jadis in The Magician’s Nephew, this was a “dem fine” cup of coffee.

So then, that afternoon following the service I came here to my new favorite Columbushangout spot, Scottie’s Coffee and Teahouse.  Trying to stick to a budget, I decided to go for the normal brew rather than an espresso drink and to my surprise and delight I discovered they had the same brew - Highlander Grog!  “Surely the LORD has smiled upon me this day in providing this tasty, caffeinated delight!” I thought to myself (on Sundays you always think in Bible verses – but only on Sundays lest you want to risk people looking at you funny).  After my first cup I thought that perhaps this was just a seasonal flavor.

The next couple of times I visited Scottie’s I made the Grog my drink of choice.  Afraid I only had a limited time to partake of this roughly-named, lovely brewed…brew…I asked the barista about it.  Turns out this is a very popular flavor, in high demand, and it’s been around at least as long as belly button lint.  “Oh,” I said.  Then I returned to my table.

So I hadn’t discovered anything new.  I came to this country of taste thinking I was the first only to find a sign saying “Magellan wuz here, yo.”  It had been here all along and I had never seen it.  I had never been open to it.  I was just set in my mocha-swilling ways and right comfortable.  Only when I was jolted out of my comfort zone did I open my mind to new avenues of coffee goodness and discovered the joys of the Highland Grog.

I’ve been having a similar experience with grace.  Grace has been here all along, but I’ve been comfortable in my ways of works, in my ways of earning the approval of my peers and friends and family, never really tasting the goodness of being liked, loved and appreciated just as I am; with my friends, my peers, my family – and with God.  But then I’ve been jolted out of my comfort zone and all I can afford is the grace “brew” – and that’s cuz it’s free.  The resources I’ve spent on trying to earn an approval that’s been available all along could have been going towards, I dunno, building a life, pursuing a dream, you know, stuff like that.  But now that I’m acclimating myself to this good stuff, I can start putting my resources toward those thingsnow.  I reckon it’s never too late to get a move on so long as I still have something to move!  …and I do like to move it, move it.

How about you?  Are you still spending money on the espresso of earning approval or have you tried the grog of grace?  If you can’t find the grog in your current vicinity I suggest you try a new coffeeshop.

"Sirrah, Do You Need a Ride?"

Benjamin Marsh is the Pastor to Youth at Cary Alliance Church in Cary, NC. He has worked various and sundry jobs throughout his short life, including: Washington Director of the Dalit Freedom Network; SAT tutor; South Asia Analyst for the Institute on Religion and Public Policy; author; fry cook; pet owner (it is a job). He is married to Olivia Marsh (www.marshpatents.com) and the father of two little'uns, Aurora and Alice. His first book, Rules for Dating My Daughter, is available on Amazon.com and lulu.com.  Personally, I like to claim him as a really good friend I've had the privilege of knowing for several years now.  I think you'll enjoy his story.

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So there I was in India. It was my first time. It was quite a time, too. At the end of my ten-day trip I got such a bad case of food poisoning that I could not leave my hotel room. I had to cancel a few important meetings. I spent a great deal of time in my bed watching overdubbed Bollywood flicks. When I called the hotel to ask for a refund on the meal that made me sick (there were some unwashed onions in a curry), they sent flowers instead. And charged me for it...

But that is how India works. Everyone there is trying to make the extra Rupee by hook or by crook. Before I came I was warned of the White Man's Tax, a levee placed on every good and service by the seller to white folks from foreign countries. Where a napkin might cost ten cents to a neighbor, from me they asked two dollars. Bargaining is a way of life in India.

Scratch that.

Bargaining is THE way of life in India.

My rude awakening to this truth came when I took an auto rickshaw from my hotel to the place of my meetings, a distance of about five miles. I came forth from my (soon-to-make-me-ill) hotel with my chin held high and my chest out, ready as Alexander to conquer India. I was going to important meetings with important people to accomplish important things.

A diminutive older Indian man with a dirty white linen shirt and a red rag wrapped around his head walked to me, his head stooped. "Sirrah, need a ride?"

My chariot awaits!

I said I did and told him my destination. He quoted me 100 Rupees, a small sum by American standards. I nodded in agreement and we took off. 

I will save a full description of driving on Indian roads for another day because completeness requires words that far exceed the abilities of this humble author. Imagine a lone bird in flight. Now imagine that lone bird in flight in the middle of a pack. Now imagine the bird is going one way and the pack is going another. Add to that scene a pack of 747's flying in every which way around the wrong-way pack of birds into which you are flying. On top of all of that add a few flying cows (cast into the air, perhaps, by a trebuchet), and you have a fairly accurate picture of Indian traffic. 

I arrived at my destination having suffered only a mild heart attack and paid the man his money. 

Meetings came and went. Important things happened. I went home weary and slept the deep sleep of a champion.

The next morning I strode out from the hotel, my head held high and my chest protruding with pride. I had more important things to accomplish in this mysterious and ancient land.

"Sirrah, do you need a ride?" 

It was the diminutive driver from the day before.

"I do, indeed," I replied, looking over his head with some pride.

As we got into the car I noticed a black box affixed to the backside of his seat.

"What is that?" I asked my dear driver.

"Nothing."

"Is that a meter?"

He said nothing. He shook his head in the mysterious Indian way that means yes and no at the same time.

"Turn it on," I said.

He shook his head again and made to take off.

"Turn it on," I said again, louder.

He shook his head and said nothing. After a brief impasse I made a motion to exit.

"No no, OK."

He turned on the meter. Our hellish ride through the Indian streets proceeded as it had the day before. When we arrived at the destination, the meter read 43 Rupees, less than half of what I had paid the man in my "expert" negotiations the day before.

As I got out of the car and handed him the money, he looked at me with a massive grin. I was confused. He had made less than the day before. I waved him off. As he left, he called back:

"Yesterday you pay one hundred AH AHAHAHAHA!"

He grin had nothing to do with the little amount I paid him. It had everything to do with the fact that he would have a story to tell to his fellow rickshaw drivers, a tale of ripping off the man. He would lord over them with his extra 57 Rupees he culled from the soft fleshy hands of the proud white man from America.

My head sank to my chest. I was a stranger in a strange land.

A Less Than Bright Moment

So one night I took my mom’s van without permission to go see a girl in a nearby town.  We hung out for about an hour, walking around, talking and that was it; never heard from her again and that was okay.  On my way back, I stopped by a gas station – I mean, sure, I took the van without permission, but I wasn’t about to be a Proverbs 28:24 son.

As I was pumping gasoline, a black man named Joe approached me.  He had just finished closing up the adjacent Burger King and informed me that his car was busted and asked for a ride home.  My first inclination was to say, “no.”  But something…something inside made me think of Hebrews 13:2 and it occurred to me that perhaps this man in need of assistance was an angel sent by God to test me, to see if I would help out my fellow man.  Then, I thought what it would be like if I were in his situation and the greatest commandment came to mind; then I realized that didn’t exactly apply and remembered the second greatest commandment (duh, Cliff).  So I agreed to help him out.

Little did I know what awaited me and what grievous loss my mother would suffer…

So, Joe got in the van and he told me where he needed to go; it was going to be about a twenty minute drive to another town and he was actually looking for someone who could come fix his car.  At that point, something should have registered as sketchy – homeboy originally said he needed a ride home; once we were on the road it changed to finding a pal to fix up his busted car.  I didn’t say anything though – I was just happy to be doing my good deed.  I mean, had I not surreptitiously taken the van, poor Joe would be up the creek!  Surely what I intended for skullduggery God intended for good and this righteous act would atone for my heinous one.

We pulled into the neighborhood – it was a lower-income area.  Joe instructed me to park in one place and he’d walk up about a block or two to his friend’s house.

“Well, shucks, Joe, I can just pull up in front,” I offered.

“No, that’s alright, I’ll just walk; you stay here and don’t get out of the van, no matter what,” he said.  I obeyed and at this point was in full-on denial about the sketch-o-meter going off in my head with a five-bell alarm.

Five minutes passed…

Ten minutes…

Fifteen minutes and someone was coming towards the van.  My pulse quickened but then the moon reflected off Joe’s Burger King nametag and I relaxed.  I noticed Joe was carrying a small lunch bag.  He told me the friend he was looking for wasn’t home and we’d have to go somewhere else nearby.  Joe directed me to another neighborhood and gave the same instructions – stay there, don’t get out of the van, he’d be right back. 

After five minutes I wondered if I could figure out my back to the freeway.  After six minutes Joe returned – this time with a friend; Leon was his name.  Leon had a certain lope to his walk and a scent about him I would in later years learn was Crown Royal.  Leon sat in the seat behind me and Joe told me we had to go to Leon’s garage to get his tools.  As we drove, Joe and Leon were talking about people they knew, asking where they were, what they were doing, and in-between anecdotes Joe gave me directions.  All the while, it sounded like Leon just couldn’t get comfortable because he kept on shuffling around in his seat.

We arrived at the garage and, of course, it was locked up and Leon didn’t have his keys.  By this time it was nearing 2AM.  Leon suggested that Joe should try to jimmy the lock; Joe looked at me then burst out into laughter louder than what the situation called for.  After a moment Joe said he’d just go crash at a nearby family member’s house after asking me to take Leon to wherever he needed to go.  I was actually about to protest when Leon told me he lived only a few minutes away.  Joe thanked me for helping him out and Leon gave me some quick directions.  Sure enough, within five minutes we pulled up in front of a mobile home.  Happy to just have the whole situation done with, I watched Leon exit the van with what looked like a carry-on bag; in my haste to leave I didn’t realize that he didn’t get in the van with a carry-on bag…

I was home by 3, snuck back into the apartment and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep, and, some have speculated, lucky to be alive.  Personally, I think that’s a bit over-dramatic.  I mean, I stayed in the van – I was safe; no worries.

THE FALLOUT

Two days later mom asked if I had taken the van out late one night.  She didn’t sound mad, but quite inquisitive.  I told her indeed I had driven to Oxford to see “a friend.”  She asked if I had gone bowling.

“Bowling?”

“Yes.  You see, my bowling ball is missing from the van and if you borrowed it I’d like it back, please.”

My mind raced – Leon had exited the van with what looked like a carry-on bag…  I was able to suppress my shock and inexplicable mischievous glee.

“No, we didn’t go bowling – your ball is missing?  You sure you didn’t leave it in the closet?”

Of course she hadn’t.  And, well…sorry mom.  J

Moral of the story, think about entertaining angels, sure, but be a little discerning, too.

Nothing to Lose

If there’s one thing you’ll learn about me if we ever get to hang out is that I like making people laugh.  As far as I can remember, I’ve always been a ham and standing in front of crowds neither frightens nor bothers me.  And if I ever learned a new way to make people laugh, I’d become the best whatever it is to get the best kind of laugh out of people.  When I was five years old I taught myself how to burp on command.  For the following 10-15 years I was the burping king.  Now, well, if I’m not careful I’ll hurt myself.  Yep – I’m not as young as I used to be.  Yet, while my powers of intentional gastric manipulation have diminished, my affinity for the stage has not…clearly.

In high school I joined a drama group based out of Fuquay-Varina, NC.  It was called Christian Youth Theater (CYT).  Now, that name alone can tell you all kinds of things, but I’ll just let you know it was a lot of fun.  What they’d do is take stories and fairytales and give them a “spiritual twist.”  The year I joined, Beauty and the Beast was the production we’d be performing.

It was my sophomore year of high school.  Puberty and a couple years of marching band under my belt had been good to me.  I was 15 and had never yet had a girlfriend.  Joining CYT I learned that any artsy and/or religious activity will probably have a majority of female participants.  This was a fantastic combination.  Of course, this was not the reason I joined – I joined because I wanted to act; it just happened to be amongst several Christian-themed babes.

And then there was the play.  I had never been in any kind of production larger than a church play or choir performance with speaking lines (see: cantata).  At CYT we were going to have costumes, a set, and a program with our bios in it (!) – this was a big deal!  So when it came time to audition for the parts I would have just been happy to be the spiritual equivalent of Cogsworth or Lumiere; maybe Gaston because then I could be obnoxious with abandon (only onstage and in rehearsal, of course (of course)). 

So, I don’t remember what monologue I chose.  Around that time probably something from Star Wars…maybe something I had picked up from Shakespeare, but for my song, I chose to do an a cappella rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” in the style of the Temptations/California Raisins.  It’s a song I know very well, and it’s a style I love.  Again, I didn’t care what role I would get – I just wanted to be onstage and do whatever part I could.

I was cast as the Beast.  I was stunned.  It was great, it was fun; I got to carry on and roar and be mean and growl at people – in one performance I made a couple of little kids cry in fear – it was great!  I mean, in the end they were fine because the Beast turns into a man and is nice again, but still!

Anyway, the point is, I went into the audition with nothing to lose.  I knew I’d get a part (everyone is guaranteed at least that), and that’s all I wanted.  I was not invested in any role – I wasn’t going for anything in particular.  If I was cast in a supporting role or an extra for the village scenes, that would have been fine!  I just wanted to be in something where I could be onstage, sing, dance, do my thing. 

And that’s something that’s stuck with me from then until now.  When I’m not trying for anything, when I just show up to do whatever part I can, then I get everything.  When I forget myself and have a very narrow focus and must get a certain something, then that becomes my everything, and without fail I end up losing it.  Then I’ve lost my everything.  Quite frankly, that’s a rotten place to be.  The other place, where you have nothing to lose – that’s a great place to be.