The Right Time

When I was in the second grade, my elementary school put on a Christmas play. I don’t remember being offered the option to be in the audience; apparently everyone in the class was voluntold they were participating.

Being intensely shy, I was relieved to be safely tucked away in the back in a chorus. Never mind that I couldn’t sing…although I’m pretty certain I was still under the impression that I sounded just like Karen Carpenter (that bubble burst the day I discovered the wonders of a tape recorder and heard my voice outside my head for the first time.).

The night before The Big Performance, my teacher called my parents. A girl with some speaking lines was sick (sort of a constant state of things in Butte, Montana in the winter) and was not going to be able to be in the play. They needed someone to learn her lines super fast and appear on stage the next night. Evidently that someone was me.

I was panicked but learned my lines anyway. I had them down by the next morning. And when I say “them” I mean I might have had a sentence…maybe two…to contribute to the holiday drama.

That night, with absolutely no rehearsals or experience being on the front of the stage, I stepped up to the microphone to deliver my solidly memorized lines and…completely froze. My mind was as blank as the fresh snowdrifts outside the auditorium.

I looked to my teacher off stage, huge eyes filled with terror. She fed me each line, which I delivered as fast as I could, vowing never to return to The Stage again. I've kept that second grade promise to myself. Until today.

Over the summer, I was asked if I would be interested in being in a skit during one of my church’s Sunday services. Rick has been heading up a resurgence of skits and holiday performances and musicals in our sanctuary. I have been very happily doing my part by attending the performances and clapping enthusiastically and laughing where appropriate. I’m a pretty skilled Audience Member.

Rick caught me totally off guard by his request, clearly not honoring my Second Grade Promise nor my gifting of being an Introverted Seat Warmer.

I started to give Rick my predictable “Thanks but no thanks” reply when I stopped. Instead, I uncharacteristically asked Rick to email me more information about the skit. Unspoken was that I had just gotten the very clear sense I was supposed to say yes. My Little Voice (aka the Holy Spirit) is really annoying sometimes.

I read the script. It was written by Beth, a 30-something in our congregation who loves theater and has a flair for writing. I loved the skit’s message about waiting for signs from God to let us know it is the right time to do something. I liked my character. The other two actors involved are friends. All signs, hints, and nudges pointed to “yes.” And so I obeyed. And spent most of the past two months dreading today.

We had two rehearsals, neither of which produced a perfect performance. I skipped an entire page of dialogue, Kari forgot to say words I was supposed to react to, I’m not used to projecting my voice aka yelling dialogue, etc. etc. Guy – who played Gary – is an experienced church skitter. He was ready to go and lead by example. Kari and I aspired to be like Guy.

Last night – as it was nearly 45 years ago – I had my lines down. I have been rehearsing them in the car, in the shower, on the exercise bike, lying in bed, in church when I was supposed to be praying. I’ve been very quiet and in my head for several weeks.

But somehow, knowing lines of dialogue in your head does not guarantee you know them in front of people. Even friendly people whom you know will love you even if you botch things up. Even people whom you know will be quick to forgive you because that’s how they roll.

Panicked that it would be Second Grade all over again, I decided to stack the deck. Last night I made my own prop – a menu that I was supposed to be glancing at in a diner. The featured entrees, sides, and desserts were my lines. Rick didn’t say it couldn’t be an open book test.

My abbreviated "The Right Time" script menu.
Oddly, as I memorized my lines I also memorized where
they were on each of the four pages...and when to turn
the page.  Putting them all together on two pages
wasn't as helpful as I assumed.

In a fit of nerves this morning, I started thinking about how this theater stuff would be a whole lot easier with monologues instead of dialogues. If I were in a scene by myself, I silently pleaded, I wouldn’t have to rely on other people remembering their lines so that I could say mine. Depending only on myself would be much less stressful. Acting is so unpredictable with other people. You know, in my vast experience in the theatre.

Just before show time, I finally got out of myself enough to pray for things bigger than just remembering my lines and for Kari and Guy to remember theirs. I asked that our performance do Beth’s words justice. I asked that the skit stir thoughts and ponderings. I asked that I be an example to the kids in our Youth Group about stepping into things that scare us and not letting fear dictate.

The skit went well, I think. I really don’t know because I don’t recall much about it. I remember saying my first lines, glancing at the Cheater McCheaterpants Menu, and then folding my hands on top of it in a moment of letting go of perfect.

At one point, Kari forgot her lines…lines I was supposed to respond to. She looked at me in a panic. And in that moment, I realized why I said yes to the skit.

I tried to make my eyes say “I got you” as I quickly sifted through my lines in my head, searching for the paddle that would get us out of the white water. The right words came at just the right time and we were back on track.

In that moment, I realized that acting is a lot like life done well. It’s about dialogues, not monologues. It’s about trust and relying on others. It’s about showing up prepared while letting go of perfect. It’s about riding the waves together and bailing each other out.

All from a little skit in a little church at just the right time.

You can tell it's a diner from the apron and
the coffee pot.