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