The Hour

I just turned 45. I feel so young, but am also aware that my wonderful Mom only lived to be one year older than I am now. It has me thinking about purpose and how to use the time that I have here. It also reminded me of this post:

Tomorrow and Tomorrow:

In the dark theater, made darker by the wood paneling and Elizabethan flourishes, I prayed. Hard. I didn’t care about anyone seeing me, eyes closed, hands clenched tightly, lips moving quickly and noiselessly. What mom wouldn't understand my praying right now?

Jack’s class was about to take the stage at the Folger Shakespeare Library to perform an abridged version on Macbeth. Jack, who had just turned twelve, was playing Macbeth. It was almost more than my nerves could take.  “Please don’t let him forget his lines. Help him not to be frozen like a deer in the headlights and then run weeping from the stage. Help him!”

When Jack confided the night before during snuggle time that he was afraid of getting up on that stage, I dished out my regular fare. “Your nervousness just means you care about how it goes. That’s adrenaline. It will help you focus and do well. That’s always how it works with me,” said the woman who had never, ever graced a stage unless you counted delivering one line as Tiny Tim in a church basement production of A Christmas Carol “God Bless Us Everyone.” Indeed.

“God, please bless Jack. Now!”

The spotlights turned on. Jack hit every line and nailed his entrances and exits. He even had to go with a change of plans when time was short and change from one shirt to another on stage versus offstage.

Acting was Jack’s sweet spot.

Even though in conversation he spoke so quickly he was sometimes hard to understand, in acting he enunciated clearly. When I’d pick him up from school or a sporting event I’d find my mother heart asking, “How did it go?" but really meaning, "Was it a disaster?” but when I’d pick him up from theater camps, it was like picking up a mini rock star. “Hey Jack’s mom! Jack rocks!” counselors would yell across the parking lot.

We didn’t record the whole play, but Tim did turn on his phone to capture this famous soliloquy:

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”

Act 5, scene 5, 19-28

It guess it was Shakespeare’s version of our 1980’s mantra, “Life’s a bitch and then you die.” It’s tough to watch any movies with Jack in them, but even more so as he delivers such a depressing indictment of our short, meaningless lives, only 3 months before his accident.

I have the hope of heaven, and like many bereaved moms, I operate with one foot here and one foot there. Death holds no sting or fear for me at all anymore.

 

But what about now? But what about the in between time, when I'm charged with continuing on, with living? Did Macbeth get it all wrong? Is there meaning in this life? Is there vitality and spirituality and significance right here? Right now?

I believe there is. Our lives may be short, but they are not meaningless. I don't  know what I plan on doing with the rest of my days, but I know I don't want to just strut and fret my hour on the stage. And I'm guessing watching reality tv and eating ice cream, which are my current past-times, are not quite the meaning and significance I'm thinking of...

What about you?

What are you doing with your awesome, hard, significant hour?

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

In the dark theater, made darker by the wood paneling and Elizabethan flourishes, I prayed. Hard. I didn’t care about anyone seeing me, eyes closed, hands clenched tightly, lips moving quickly and noiselessly. What mom wouldn't understand my praying right now?

Jack’s class was about to take the stage at the Folger Shakespeare Library to perform an abridged version on Macbeth. Jack, who had just turned twelve, was playing Macbeth. It was almost more than my nerves could take.  “Please don’t let him forget his lines. Help him not to be frozen like a deer in the headlights and then run weeping from the stage. Help him!”

 When Jack confided the night before during snuggle time that he was afraid of getting up on that stage, I dished out my regular fare. “Your nervousness just means you care about how it goes. That’s adrenaline. It will help you focus and do well. That’s always how it works with me,” said the woman who had never, ever graced a stage unless you counted delivering one line as Tiny Tim in a church basement production of A Christmas Carol “God Bless Us Everyone.” Indeed.

“God, please bless Jack. Now!”

The spotlights turned on. Jack hit every line and nailed his entrances and exits. He even had to go with a change of plans when time was short and change from one shirt to another on stage versus offstage.

Acting was Jack’s sweet spot.

Even though in conversation he spoke so quickly he was sometimes hard to understand, in acting he enunciated clearly. When I’d pick him up from school or a sporting event I’d find my mother heart asking, “How did it go?" but really meaning, "Was it a disaster?” but when I’d pick him up from theater camps, it was like picking up a mini rock star. “Hey Jack’s mom! Jack rocks!” counselors would yell across the parking lot.

We didn’t record the whole play, but Tim did turn on his phone to capture this famous soliloquy:

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”

Act 5, scene 5, 19-28

It guess it was Shakespeare’s version of our 1980’s mantra, “Life’s a bitch and then you die.” It’s tough to watch any movies with Jack in them, but even more so as he delivers such a depressing indictment of our short, meaningless lives, only 3 months before his accident.

I have the hope of heaven, and like many bereaved moms, I operate with one foot here and one foot there. Death holds no sting or fear for me at all anymore.

But what about now? But what about the in between time, when I'm charged with continuing on, with living? Did Macbeth get it all wrong? Is there meaning in this life? Is there vitality and spirituality and significance right here? Right now?

I believe there is. Our lives may be short, but they are not meaningless. I don't  know what I plan on doing with the rest of my days, but I know I don't want to just strut and fret my hour on the stage. And I'm guessing watching reality tv and eating ice cream, which are my current past-times, are not quite the meaning and significance I'm thinking of...

What about you?

What are you doing with your awesome, hard, significant hour?

Big League Parenting

I went to a beautiful funeral service on Friday for the long-time mayor of our town. She was a lovely lady who lived a good life. There is so much about her that I admired-- the way she humbly used her leadership skills to help our town, how she poured herself into the unique interests of each of her five grandchildren, and of course there was the beautiful relationship with her daughter that I witnessed when I saw them around town, always together. It's how I imagined my mom and I would be.

One story from the funeral really stuck with me, and it makes me tear up to think of it.

One of her grown sons shared that when he was around 9, he was excited to finally get to play baseball on the "big" baseball field in town. He was accustomed to his games being at local elementary schools, on very basic, grassy fields, but the "big" field had real dugouts, an announcer booth, and even a raised pitching mound. He could barely control his excitement.

But though the little boy tried his best, his first game in the "big league" was a total disaster. In particular, his pitching was terrible, and he was inconsolable on the way home. Like many of us, he looked for something to blame, and the pitching mound took the brunt of his wrath. He claimed it had thrown off his pitching.

As I listened to this story, I thought about what I would have done as a parent. Would I have told Jack and Margaret to quit trying to place blame? Would I have told them to just get a grip? To work on sportsmanship and being a more gracious loser? Would I have used it as a teachable moment to have them consider that maybe, if they were this upset, this sport wasn't for them? I'm guessing those would have been the directions I would have taken, and they wouldn't necessarily have been wrong.

But that's not what happened.

And what that little boy's parents did had more of an impact on him (and me!) than any lecture on sportsmanship ever could.

In the silent church we all waited to hear how the story ended.

The son looked up from the pulpit, and instead of a fifty year old, I saw a nine year old again as he finished his story. "A while later I heard something in the back yard. It was my mom and dad, both with shovels, digging up the grass, making me my own pitching mound."

Wow.

I love this story.

In life we just want to be supported and understood. These parents used a simple, wordless action to say, "We love you. We hear you. We stand behind you. We believe in you. You can count on us."

Isn't it amazing how a seemingly small, unexpected action over 40 years ago, can still teach us so much? And I'm guessing that the end of the story wasn't an ending at all for that 9 year old boy, who now has three kids of his own.