a long post in which I say a lot, but there are pictures for those of you who might not like to read so much

This is me and JR. And let me tell you what I like about JR. When most of us would start sweating (or itching if you happen to be me and instead of having the normal reaction to heat by sweating, you just start itching and yes, it's as fun as it sounds)--but when most of us are sweating because we have to call our Production Stage Manager and tell him that we are not going to be in the show that night; and though we have spent all the night before awake, composing a long diatribe of why we simply cannot perform, be it the ankle that was sprained, the hamstring that was pulled, the hip flexor that was strained, the throat that is sore, the high note that is just not there, or some sort of perfect storm that is a dreaded combination of all of the above, we still manage to feel like we are going into a battle lacking proper ammunition and what if he doesn't believe me? or what if he makes me feel so guilty that I do the show anyway and then develop nodes and my whole career is shot--all because when I called my stage manager to call out I ended up calling in because of the guilt?!?!

But not JR.

He doesn't have the time for such rigmarole.

And though he doesn't call out very often, when he does, he simply calls our stage manager and says four simple words.

Guilt free.

Excuse free.

Must be nice.

The words, you wonder?

I ain't coming in.

And there you go, easy-peesy, get her done. And I am pretty sure he's not sweating or itching but simply drawing a bath and looking forward to whatever book he's reading that night.

Like I said, must be nice.

---------------------------------

Now, I bet you think that the cast of A Chorus Line spends all our time at opening night parties and blah blah blah.

This is just not true.

Sometimes we go to birthday parties too.

And tonight there was a fun one with a MadMen theme and we were all encouraged to dress the part.

I like our color scheme, too. We make a nice palette.

And here I am with Ian.
Now let me be a little bit honest and tell you that I am going through a hard time right now. Being totally honest would be telling you that I crapped my pants in first grade, and not knowing what else to do, just walked around in my dirty, crappy pants. I then tried to pretend I didn't crap my pants by waving my hand back and forth in front of my nose as if to say P. U!!! and looking around for the offender along with all of my other classmates standing in line with me, coming back in from recess. My teacher, Mrs. Smith, eventually sniffed me out and no amount of avid and desperate hand waving in front of my nose could convince her sense of smell otherwise. She knew it was me and I knew it was me and that was that.

My punishment was a trip to the school's clothes closet which is a nice way of saying Ugly Old Clothes We Keep Around And Force the Kids Who Crap Their Pants To Wear.

It was Wilmington Christian School's own version of the Scarlet Letter.

And the fact that the particular pair of pants I was handed from the clothes closet were not only too short for my long skinny legs, but also the fly was busted and wouldn't zip(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), made it that much brighter and more noticeable of a scarlet letter, so thanks, WCS. Thanks a lot.

That would be total honesty, and I think that story is enough of that for tonight, don't you?

So I will simply be a little bit honest and say that I am going through a hard time.

A busted, stupid walk-around-with-crap-in-your-pants-and-not-even-that-could-compare hard time.

And my friends--well, they know it. Cause I've been a little bit honest with them, too, and told them.

And tonight, during the alternative scene in which we are all so worried for poor Paul who fell during the tap combination and oh no! is that the end of his career? and because we think that, we then start to think oh no! what would we do if we couldn't dance?

And the mood is generally introspective and sad and we all wonder how long our careers will be and how, exactly, one measures success anyway and since you might not be able to measure it so easily--at least not in the way you can measure one cup of milk when you are baking biscuits--then will we know success when we see it?

And sometimes people cry during this scene and sometimes Ian and I make faces at each other.

Yes, I just said that.

Oops, now you know.

But tonight, as I was expecting maybe a silly face as I looked across the stage in Ian's general direction, I saw something that surprised me.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

And all thoughts of silly faces were put to rest.

For the time being.

And then after the show we were talking and I asked him why he got so sad during the alternative scene, what he was thinking and all that. Cause no, it couldn't possibly be that the guy was acting!!! Okay, it could, because he is good and talented like that, but this time it wasn't.

He looked at me and said, I thought about you. I thought about how you are going through a really hard time and that makes me sad. That made me cry tonight.

And suddenly I was at once humbled and lifted up in a way that those who feel poignantly loved can understand.

And I like the part of the story when friends reach out to me with love and compassion. It does make things better.

Kind of.

another post about food and I don't even cook.

Once I went to Africa.

I had thought that the wildness of the land, the lack of paved roads and street signs, the potential for lions to be licking their large chops around any corner would be exciting.

But once I got there, it was really just scary.

At least for the first few days. Then I got used to it. I learned to trust that the old jalopy that wouldn't pass a test at the DMV if you bribed the attendant with stock in Google from way back when that they used to transport us would not fall apart or fall prey to some of the roaming herds that stood casually in the middle of the dirt roads. I decided that, after the first few days of visiting churches, orphanages, Compassion International, and Bible Colleges and always coming back, chances are that would keep happening: I would keep coming back.

So even when I was whisked off, by myself, to a tiny rustic church in a village that was no bigger than a few of the hallways of this sky rise hotel I'm now in, I just concluded that yeah, I'd come back.

But what I didn't factor in was the meal I'd be expected to share before I came back.

With two men, two pastors, actually. And just me.

They treated me with all the pomp and honor they could afford, though it was probably more like all the pomp and honor that they couldn't afford. They took me to a restaurant and in a country where only one meal a day is standard, they ordered me a meal. And not just a meal, but the works, from what I could tell.

We sat there, and when the first course came, I relaxed. It was bread. BREAD!!! And in my heart I greeted it like an old friend, only I never do eat my friends, old or young, so there was that. But bread I could totally handle. I could eat it anywhere, with the devil himself, if it was necessary.

Though I hope it never is.

I'm sort of counting on that.

We all dug in and have you ever seen a hungry person eat?

I mean someone who is truly famished, who probably hasn't eaten since yesterday, and carries the kind of leanness that has nothing to do with those size 2 jeans and everything to do with a lack of food.

These men ate with gusto. I tried to keep up and honestly I wasn't doing so badly with the bread. The bread that was like an old friend only not because I am not a cannibal and I think Hannibal Lector is one of the most frightening villains ever. Genius, but scary as all get-out.

But then out came the second course and Hannibal Lector himself might have gotten a little weak in the knees at the thought of consuming it. My heart dropped and I asked God for courage. It was a mash of some sort, green in color, mealy in nature and steaming with a smell that had never before presented itself to me.

Which was just fine.

The waiter placed it before each of us, respectively, and I gave my newest nemesis a good stare down. I sized up it's weakness and came up with a plan of action while the men beside me started shoveling the food into their mouths. Devouring it. Like it was the best thing ever. Like it wasn't a mash or green or mealy or smelly.

Oh man.

I picked up my spoon and started to follow suite. Only I had a trick up my sleeve; one rarely survives a house full of three older brothers without making sure to never leave home without one. Or never come home without one, for that matter. See, I vaguely remembered that the taste buds were on the tongue (remember? 3 whole science credits from college!) and I was hoping that they were on the forefront of the tongue.

My whole plan hinged on that, actually.

Cause I just tossed the mash into the back of my throat, bypassing the taste buds and going almost directly down the hatch (yes, hatch is totally the technical term. 3 credits, people, 3 credits!). And it worked. Kind of. Cause slowly but surely the food was disappearing from the bowl.

But not fast enough, I guess, because one of the men paused mid-feasting and asked me pointedly, Are you not hungry?

I thought about who I was talking to. That many of these villages do not have enough food for the people, that many of them live a pretty hungry life and that to be "not hungry" is a luxury that is rarely afforded.

I re-doubled my efforts right after I told them that I was hungry. And I ate that food, that awful food. Because I don't ever want to turn down somebody's kindness. I don't ever want to deprive anyone from the blessing that comes of giving out of nothing.

Nor do I ever want to be somebody who turns down a meal that others would devour.

I guess this came back to me because I went out for Indian food tonight with some friends. Two of these friends were so excited that I had never had it before and therefore wanted to show me the ropes, so to speak.

They ordered dish after dish, putting pieces of this and that on my plate.

And there I was armed with a fork and nothing to lose.

Did I love everything that I tasted?

DO YOU EVEN HAVE TO ASK?

Of course not. Not even close. I could go on and on about the cilantro that seemed to be the Indian version of salt and pepper, it was scattered throughout the dishes so generously; the potato that was (horror of horrors!) mashed and mealy and orange (and no, it wasn't a yam; please, I am not that lucky), the spicy bread that wasn't bread at all because isn't like one of the cardinal rules of bread that it be soft? And before you start telling me about crusty french bread and matzo bread and other hard breads that all you smart people can think of whereas I run out after only listing two, maybe I should rephrase it and say that it's one of my cardinal rules for bread.

That it be soft and IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?

It's not like I'm wanting it served on the tip of a unicorn's horn or anything extravagant like that. Sheesh.

But as I was saying, some of the food was hard to swallow. And that was after the very difficult part of chewing it and tasting it, so my strength was already a bit flagged by the time it came to actually swallowing the stuff.

But.

My friends were just so excited. They wanted to share their knowledge of Indian cuisine with me; they loved it and were happy to see cilantro brighten up my night too.

So I ate it. All of it. There was not one thing that I didn't try.

And we all had a smashing time.

And later on in the night, the waiter brought out some more bread. Soft bread this time. Delicious in all ways and here we go with me telling you how it was like seeing an old friend, unexpectedly.

Only, you know, in this scenario it doesn't end with me eating the old friend.

But I already explained that, I know.

And I guess my point is that sometimes there are just some things that are more important than a certain meal tasting good. Even when you're picky, even when you're me.

Oh, and some of the Indian food really was good; not every bite of it was simply for friendship's sake, if you know what I mean.

thick as thieves

Friends. And it's been that way for a long time now.

Erin, the beauty in the middle, I met in a rather unconventional way, I'd say. See, I was on the toilet. Yep, On. The. Toilet. But back up a bit, cause there's more to this story. I was maybe five years old and had some sort of digestive problem, to put it delicately. Basically the hairs that move the food along in the large intestine up and died on me (thanks a lot, hairs) and left me unable to go numero dos.

But since I didn't stop eating, I didn't stop trying, if you know what I mean.

So I spent a lot of time on the toilet.

And I guess my mom just decided to keep life as normal as possible for me while I was on that toilet. Thus she introduced me to the new girl, Erin, while I was on the toilet. Straining, if you must know.

And that was it. It sealed the deal for us, I guess, because we've been the best of friends since then. And tonight we spent a long time sitting down and talking, sharing our hearts; it was soul food, you know?

But no, I was not on the toilet.

This time.

And Christine, the beauty on the right? Well I don't technically remember meeting her. I think I might have been three years old or something. I do, however, remember her running around outside my house, tanned and tomboyish, and eating tomatoes whole. Like an apple. It made an impression on me, I guess.

And we've been together ever since, thick as thieves, as they say.

Actually, the three of us are thick as thieves.

And if you can say that ten times in a row I will totally give you a high five.

for christine

If you went to my facebook page, you would read that I have 654 friends.

This is not true, not even close.

I think it's not quite right that we employ the same word to describe someone who, after leaving me a comment, I have to click on their profile to try to remember just how it is that I even know them, and a person who has been a part of my life so long that it is just our parents' now who can even recall a time when we weren't friends.

Cause it's when we could still go outside shirtless, just one of the boys.

Even though we weren't actually one of the boys.

And I am hoping that it's just our parents' who can remember that, though I am pretty sure there may be some photographic documentation stashed away somewhere.

But see, it's my friend Christine's birthday today. And when describing our relationship, the word friend falls a little flat. But what are you going to do? I was born an American, with the English language as my only tool to articulate my heart, so there you go.

And yes, I could learn other languages, but does calling her mi amiga strike that much closer to the heart of what I mean? Probably only for all the many Spanish speaking people who read this blog, would be my guess.

I remember we were hanging out with some friends at a diner years ago, when I said, Christine is just like my Old Faithful or something awkward and unpoetic like that. Another friend quipped, Yeah, it's every girl's dream to be compared to a geyser! and everybody laughed.

But the truth is, she is.

Not anything like a geyser, as she is the picture of beauty and grace and never spontaneously spurts water if she can help it, but she is faithful. Always.

Like the time we were both at the Chautauqua Institute studying ballet and it must have been at least 105 degrees and well, I don't do well in the heat seeing as I was born without sweat glands, and unfortunately the cafeteria decided to serve some sort of unidentifiable gruel and mash combination that, combined with the aforementioned heat, made for a lethal combination, that, were I to be stupid enough to consume it, would kill me, I am pretty sure. Assessing the situation and understanding my pickiness when it came to anything gruel or mash-like, Christine came running to the rescue.

Literally.

As in she ran from our cafeteria all the way to the sub shop which was in town at least a mile away in order to procure a decent lunch for me, i.e. a sandwich that was neither mashed nor laden with gruel, and then ran back, sandwich in hand, and made sure I ate it--all in the 105 degree weather, mind you.

Wow.

I have never forgotten that, nor will I.

And then there was the time when I was two years younger than her (which still happens to be the case, amazingly enough) and she never once made me feel young or immature or silly for it. Not when I was five and she was seven or when I was ten and she was twelve or when I was only fourteen and she was super cool and basically grown-up driving around in her parents' car at sixteen, offering me rides all the time, happy to have me in the passenger's seat beside her.

And I could mention the long talks in which we never had an agenda because words between us come freely, easily, and without judgement; the mounds of Snyder's Old Tyme pretzels we've consumed between the two of us, singlehandedly keeping that company in business, no need to thank us personally, Synder's, the pleasure was all ours; the prayers and exchanges of our own growing views of who God is, always good, always here, though life might look less bright at the moment; our respective marriages to men about whom we had already logged many many hours dreaming of, talking of, discussing and projecting their height, the color of their eyes, and how happy they will make us feel...But all of those memories stand in support of simply who she is.

The kind, humorous, brave, talented, giving, and godly person whom I am grateful to call my friend.

To know her is to love her, and there is not a day that goes by that I am not so glad that I get to experience both knowing and loving her.

Happy birthday, Christine...You deserve the best!

peace

Drew.

Such a small word for such a big heart.

He's a lifeline to me.

A mirror that reflects me in a way that is far too generous.

He's not close right now, but he is, he is.

He's right here, safe in my thoughts, causing me to smile for a reason that to all the world is unapparent. He's the quick press of ten digits away; at work his voice is serious, his hey is a statement to let me know there are people around for whom and to whom he is responsible; in the car he is singing Jason Robert Brown or Coldplay or Seal and sometimes I hear a few of those notes as he answers and now he is free and happy in his jeep with the wheels that are taller than our nieces and nephews and he says hey with the promise of laughter in his voice; when he is home he is laying down, before sleep or right after, with a great orange cat mingling the sounds of purring with the soft tones of his voice as he calls me baby because now we are alone.

Or as alone as we're going to get with two phones and a fat cat purring noisily between us.

And I--

I am content.
I am not sure of a whole lot of things, but I think I have made a few good decisions concerning God and Drew and trying not to let my fear have the final word.

I think I have lucked into one of the best tribes on earth.
At least I'd think that if I believed in luck.

And though I find myself in all sorts of interesting places,
I can count on that tribe, my family and friends, to remind me of who I am.

And there is peace in all of this.
Lots of great gulps of laughter, too; but always, peace.