Act IV
Why is it that once we dare hope we’ve embodied the role of a lifetime . . . the scenery shifts?
Those once-trusty props? Whisked away during intermission. Our favorite costumes, removed; our former entrance lines, cut.
Even the set changes. For the story-in-progress at our place, think healing as boot camp.
Perhaps I’ve been auditioning all along for my current role—daily domestic triage—despite no discernible training, no talent for research, no medical skills.
You might be nodding in empathy, your life, or that of a loved one, re-cast in an unscripted Act IV.
It’s all-out improv.
Feeling alone onstage, you suspect the Director is occupied elsewhere. Singled out by the spotlight’s glare, you are exposed, reduced to mumbled ad-libbing.
Drop the curtain, somebody! Douse the lights!
If I ask you to complete this line, what would you add? “Lord, why can’t I . . .”
I am increasingly aware I can serve my loved one, try to salve all the sorrows. But God alone saves.
According to Paul, the Great Physician counts this work in us a pleasure.
Meanwhile, sidelined in the wings awaiting my next cue, I wonder . . . amid the pressure, can I dare enjoy small delights—without guilt?
Imagine this: a walk-on cameo role, perhaps in a garden at twilight. Nothing to memorize, no need to perform.
Ahhh. Moonrise. A few early stars. Hear that occasional drowsy cheep as birds settle into stillness? The splash of a fountain. Breathe in, absorb the tapestried atmosphere: perhaps threads of reverence surface, while running unseen (beneath a network of small knots), measured, orderly strands hold it all together. Not a sampler, but a story. Not a stage, but a sanctuary: the very air seemingly woven with prayers uttered, over time, layered here and there with a trill of merriment . . .
“Beauty tells us that we were created for joy and summoned to healing,” author Sarah Clarkson writes.
She urges us to embrace how healing it can be to savor the small and hidden—a surprising medicine amid brokenness.
“The way I tend and cultivate [small] things,” she adds, “which belong intimately to me in my ordinary sphere—home, body, friend, child, spouse, garden, table . . .” not only matters but becomes “more potent than we often imagine.”
Friends, no matter what role
you might be currently learning
or leaving,
Dreamer and I wish you
peace in the midst of longing,
abounding grace to lean into it, waiting,
and aerobic faith
for the leaping . . .
Father of Lights, may we
wake to your presence,
watch for your gifts,
wait on your grace,
walk in your ways.
Friends, in what ways are you praying for your own unexpected Act IV? Or, that of another?
“Let the loveliness of the Lord, our God, rest on us.” —Psalm 90: The Message
Unfinished tapestry photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash
Hands cupping spotlight Photo by max im on Unsplash
Google tells me Act IV is where loose ends are tied up, providing a sense of completion. Google mentions nothing about all-out improv! Unplanned, unscripted, unrehearsed…the un words. UNWELCOME. Except that the Writer of our story teaches us to welcome the unimaginable as our friend. I think of a line in a John Prine song;” What in the world’s come over you?” Seriously, this is Act IV? However shall these loose ends be woven into the story? And I am reminded, He is the Creator of the story. And it is His reassuring presence, coming and going, leading through the all-out improv; weaving those loose ends into the tapestry.
Blessings to you Laurie, and your Dreamer. May this ActvVI improve be your greatest work.
Roberta, I stand corrected. And thank you. Most plays I’m familiar with are one, two, or three act. Though there is Shakespeare. Always grateful to learn more. That said, thank you for your beautiful thoughts, filled with faith and so eloquently expressed—a great encouragement and blessing to me this day, my friend.
Felt like I was sitting in the audience of our Shaw Festival Theatre here in Niagara on the Lake, ON. Canada.
Watching the actors, seeing musicians in the orchestra pit, catching glimpses of stagehands.
Imagining my life playing out on the stage.
“Auditioning all along… daily domestic triage”
“It’s all out triage.”
“Lord, why can’t I…”
Thank you for asking.
You caused me to ask it out loud.
To honestly answer at a time coinciding with some deep soul work.
I know the passage referenced in Philippians quite well, personally.
But your phrasing it as, “the Great Physician counts this work in us as pleasure” – got my attention.
“Nothing to memorize, no need to perform.”
Yes.
Easier said for sure.
But worth doing.
Oops, I mean His… both to will and to do.????
“Not a sampler, but a story. Not a stage, but a sanctuary…”
A friend recently sent this simple verse to me at such a vulnerable time.
Sanctuary brought it to mind…Stand in awe, and sin not: commune with your own heart upon your bed and be still – Psalm 4:4
Thank you for letting us in.
Further allowing in our own healing journey.
I wish you well, dear Laurie.
You and yours.
Oh, Rick, that Psalm 4:4 verse speaks deeply to me today. Thank you!
And thank you for your honesty, and for your compassionate wishes,
You have mine as well, for you and for yours, for safe harbor and steady wisdom and peace amid deep soul work in a “vulnerable time.”
Thank you for always inspiring me, Laurie! Praying for you and Dreamer… ❤️
Dear Linda, thank you, thank you for these words. Your thoughts and prayers are a precious gift to us! Priceless.
Ah, you say it so well. True poetry in words and meaning, I’m rooting for you!
Aw shucks, darlin’ . . . I’m ever-rooting for you too! <3
I can only imagine your “all-out improv,” how each day must bring new, unexpected challenges. You and Dreamer are regularly included in my prayers. What a testament you give, however, to your grounding faith in God. And how wonderful he’s guiding you to the small delights of life worth savoring. Your wishes and that closing prayer open the way for us to experience more fully the presence of our Father of Lights. Thank you, dear Laurie.
Nancy, I am so grateful for your concern and for your prayer support. We are finding bike rides in the evenings a wonderful gift of freedom and breezes (high 90s here!) and the good kind of tired having worked the ole muscles.
I’m so glad the closing wishes and prayer invited you into God’s presence! Thank you for telling me.
And: I am so behind in reading the writings of others I admire — like you! — and suspect I’ve missed much richness in your weekly blog. Thanks so much for being here today, friend.
There’s a certain agony in those words. Maybe like an adolescence in reverse?
Hi friend, thanks for being here. What an interesting comparison. I have to think about that some more. We often feel dislocated and awkward. Unsure.
And yet, for each of us, in the face of the unknown, agony and fear co-exist with shared faith and unexpected laughter amid a whole lotta love.
How well you describe hidden sanctuary. Yes. Amen.
Sanctuary. There it is even in the most dire circumstances. Sanctuary. This is where I have found what matters to me. The immense presence of God in the smallest, the simplest. Things I now see have been here all along. I’ve been too distracted to see it. Losses are not causing me to lack. They are filling me in unexpected, unpredictable ways. Inestimable riches.
Such goodness and wisdom, the way you express the paradoxical inroads and outworkings of loss “filling [us] in unexpected, unpredictable, ways. Inestimable riches,” indeed!
Not to hold on to this truth. Or, more simply, be held by it . . .
O that we might more often rest into focused, loving openness to the Presence . . .
Beautiful beyond words. Thank you. May God surprise you with his goodness in the cultivation of small things and carry the weight of the large unknown.
Dear Colleen, thank you for the encouragement and, even more, for this wise and eloquent prayer. Some days I feel so small and helpless. So many unknowns. As I read your words about God bearing the weight, somehow the scale changes, my perception of the current proportions of things resettles . . . peaceably. Thank you!
I’m grateful you wrote and shared this with us today, Laurie. Many parts of it speak to me.
I’m continuing to pray for you and your family. I do hope you keep allowing yourself those moments of delight and beauty, even in, maybe especially in, such difficult times.
Bethany, what a gift to find your “voice” in my inbox this morning. I’m so grateful to read that portions of the post speak to you.
And I take to heart your encouragement to stay poised and receptive to beauty and delight . . . “maybe especially in such difficult times.” Thank you, friend.
Continuing to pray for you and yours . . .
Thank you, Laurie. I’m coming back to this post today to look for a bit of encouragement, and this I’m taking with me (amongst other delights):
“Father of Lights, may we
wake to your presence,
watch for your gifts,
wait on your grace,
walk in your ways.”
Continuing to pray for you guys. <3
Dear Bethany, I’m glad you’re finding a little boost here again. And my heart aches a little to think what might be drawing you back. I’m sorry I’ve been so silent. I’ve been through a pretty terrible health crisis these past three weeks. Got a diagnosis and am on waiting lists for specialists. The last three days have been a respite. I’ve been thinking perhaps I’ll write a post for August about a little of it. Our loving God can be so enigmatically faithful sometimes, trusting us to wait, wait, wait wait . . .
I am renewing my prayer for you and yours . . .
Thank you for your sweet comment and prayers, my friend. I’m so sorry you’ve been experiencing this health crisis for the last three weeks—and on top of everything else! I’m hoping this recent bit of respite continues on, and I do hope the wait lists open up soon. After I hit send here, I’m going to light a candle and pray for you and your Dreamer. <3
Praying for you and Dreamer each day. Please enjoy every little delight without guilt.
Oh sister-poet, thank you for those prayers! And for the sage, and freeing, counsel. So blessed to know you, though, for now, only from afar. Blessings on you!