For Good

My buddy laughs a laugh I won't forget. Some people just have these beautiful laughs. Some people don't silent laugh as their shoulders convulse and/or snort through their noses like crazed donkeys as I do. Some people laugh and it warms your whole body through. My grandma was one of them. My buddy is another. I will miss every moment of not hearing that laugh--or being with the person behind it--when I am gone. She wrote a thing. Because, among other things like her laugh and her love for Jesus, she is an incredibly talented writer who, apparently, likes to torment people by making them cry. I love her. She asked if she could hijack my blog. She didn't ask me not to write a foreword. Big mistake. The following post is written by one of my dearest friends. Thank you, Abi Ririe, for sharing not only these words but also life, ministry, and theatre with me. I'll drive through a blizzard for Wicked tickets, but I'll drive through anything life throws at me if it means spending time with you.

I’d never seen a musical. 

Ok, that’s not true. 

I’d seen Grease on TV perhaps a hundred times. (The old one, you know, the good one.) It is one of those random shows that my husband likes. It’s weird;  typically he watches MLB, NFL, and Clash of the Titans (the new one, you know, the good one). But every now and then you realize he finds Groundhog Day hysterical, Maverick amusing, and Grease worth watching anytime it’s on TV… which is a lot. 

But I’d never seen a live musical. 

My buddy is a theater junkie. I would use the word “connoisseur”, but that fails to relay the threat level desperate she attains when theater deprived. (Dallas, Oregon if you do not have a proper theater in town, you might want to get on that.) 

So it was not appropriate that our friendship continue with me sans musical. 

In a driving blizzard that had kept the Salt Lake Valley hunkered in their holes, the cast of Wicked was prepping for their show. My buddy knew this because she’d gone two nights before with her son. She’d met them. They were tight. She knew things like Fiyero is “super tall”. And things about crown shenanigans going on with Jackie Burns and Kara Lindsay. 

I was very impressed. Stalking is a talent. 

Whilst snuggled in pjs against the cold outside, this text appeared: “I have a question for you, if you see this right away, and if you feel like being kinda crazy.” 

It just seems to happen whether I’m feeling it or not. 

So thirty minutes later she was driving through the snow to the Wicked lottery, and I was gussying up for the theatre. I mean we’re both good, godly, Christian women. We had prayed about this. Surely God would rig the drawing and let us win. (Insanity and legalism like long walks on the beach hand in hand.) After many prayers asking if she should turn around, after waiting out in the bitter cold, after someone named Laura Burnham (which is just cruel) won, I was starting to de-glindafy. Ah well. It was a nice thought. 

And then this text: “We didn’t win.” Obviously. “But I bought us tickets anyway.” 

After getting lost trying to find my house, getting stuck in the snow in a stranger’s driveway while turning around, and being dug out by my husband, we were off to Wicked. Well, Café Rio, and then Wicked. 

“I didn’t hate it.” I didn’t want to betray too much sentiment, while still seeming sufficiently grateful for her buying me tickets. I needed to process. I did process. All night. Instead of sleeping. And by morning I had a problem. I was in love with Wicked. My buddy had created a monster, Madame Morrible had zapped it with lightning, and Fiyero was dancing it off through life. 

How many times did we wait out in the snow for the chance at lottery tickets? Lots. We even considered the Sunday matinee shows, which would put us leaving church at 10:45 am. She’s a pastor’s wife. But I’m a proper heathen, so I could have gone. 

Okay, and all you super righteous folks, WE.DIDN’T. … we just talked about it. And some small part of us maybe wished we could. 

As we left empty-handed and broken-hearted, lottery after lottery, there may have been some small part of me that was pleased. Another day, another lottery, another hour hanging out with my buddy. 

She’s wonderful, you see. She would never tell you; because she’s so solidly a 1 that anything less than perfection is disappointment. But she is remarkable. 

She adopted a baby boy, which turned into legal, financial, emotional, and spiritual nightmare dragging on over a year. And then she turned around and adopted a girl. Except God had other plans, and she never got to hold Kate’s breathing body. And then she adopted Kate’s baby brother. Because she loved these children she had never met so desperately. Because she believes it is the right thing to do. Because God reveals and she responds, and she doesn’t petrify in fear because of the past. Because she is stronger than most of us. 

She’s wonderful because I know she is confused, frightened, imperfect, but still always faithful. 

She desperately needs everyone to like her. It’s the title of her soon-to-be autobiography, “I Need You to Like Me.” And while that is impossible, she is deeply loved. Thoroughly respected. Completely admired by all who know her. (Ok, maybe not by the meter-woman, who she mistook for a man, when we accidentally parked illegally trying to win Wicked tickets. I don’t think there’s much hope for that one.) 

She has challenged me, rejoiced with me, prayed with me, forgiven me, taught me, parallel-parked with me, worn crowns with me, and mourned with me. Like right now. She mourns with me now. And so does the heart of our God. He who sees the miracle coming, He who knows that great goodness awaits, but who still cries with His beloved. She shows me what the heart of God must be like. Full of life. Full of laughter. Full of wisdom. Full of goodness. 

It was the last performance for Kara Lindsay and Jackie Burns, my buddy’s new favorites (she’s seen Wicked before… a lot… she has a problem). One more lottery. 10 names called. You have to fill out the lottery card completely, or it’s put aside and another name is announced. 5 names called. Another card drawn. Not completely filled out. 6. 8. 9. Another card drawn. Not completely filled out. Another. Not completely filled out. And again. And another two after that. And then she pulled out the sixteenth name. The card had been folded in quarters then opened back up. The top edge was dog-eared. It looked strangely familiar. 

And then I heard my name. I later questioned if it was even my name, or if I had lapsed into a dream state. Most of my dreams have sharks. There were none. I must be awake. The nice lady holding my disheveled card looked at my driver’s license, the nice lady holding the door ushered me to the counter. The nice lady behind the counter… (I’m tempted to make some comment on gender and theatre, but I’ll save that for a professional… Buddy! I need you to comment.) Anyway, the nice lady behind the counter took my money, and slid over two Wicked tickets. For row B. That’s like, row A gets drenched with sweat when Fiyero flicks his head to the side, and Row B gets to see the vein on Kara Lindsay’s neck pop when she sings. 

It was a gift. Undeserved. Unexpected. Overwhelmingly appreciated. 

A gift for my buddy. A gift for me. A silly thing to share. And to recognize that our story is not unfamiliar. And that our Father’s heart is not indifferent to ours. 

As she embarks on a new journey, a new opportunity to defy gravity, she is unlimited. And now, remaining here, it is up to me. For both of us. “Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.” 

… 

… 

And also. Let’s just be honest. I totally made her popular. 

Hamilton

I'll be honest, when I listened to the Hamilton cast album for the first time more than two years ago, I didn't initially love it. I'd heard of the show because I was obsessed with If/Then which had been running at the Richard Rodgers Theatre. It closed and Hamilton moved in. I heard the hype and I kind of thought, "A show about Alexander Hamilton? That sounds maybe not amazing." Ever so slowly, I started reading about it. I started hearing the insane Tony buzz. I decided to listen to some of the songs on the Internet.

Hip hop and rap aren't my musical genre of choice, usually. It was Jonathan Groff, coming in at song number 6, that won me over. Jonathan Groff doesn't typically have to do too much to win me over. I mean, in Frozen he's singing to a reindeer for crying out loud and I'm riveted. I decided I loved that King George so much that I'd start over with more of an open mind.

Looking back, this is hysterical. King George's part is funny. It's like the cherry on top of the delicious sundae. But it isn't the sundae itself.

I fell hard. Within the day, I'd purchased the album. I was head over heels in love with Hamilton. Lin-Manuel Miranda is a genius. Leslie Odom Jr. has a voice like butter. The entire cast is incredible. I watched the Tony's with a great deal of interest and celebrated the wins. I soaked up the PBS special. I read interviews. I got really, very into it.

Two nights ago, I had the opportunity to see it from the 7th row. I could see the spit flying from the mouths of the actors. The sweat coming from their heads was visible. The show was fantastic. While I will readily admit that several of the actors just couldn't possibly live up to the original cast members (here's looking at you, Burr) I will also say that I certainly didn't expect them to. Three of the original cast members won Tony's for their performances. That's a tough standard to live up to. I was so impressed by the ensemble. I've never seen members of the ensemble working as hard as they do in Hamilton. It's like a marathon of never ending energy.

At intermission, I was texting my friend. She asked if I had cried yet. Truthfully, I had a few really annoying people around me. For the first act, the two people behind me felt the need to repeat every joke and then discuss it. Clearly they'd never heard the soundtrack and knew little about what they were seeing. Season ticket holders, maybe. At one point, after significant talking from them, the wife laughed. The husband leaned over and said, "What did he say?"

"Martha Washington named her favorite tom cat after him."

In my own head I imagined a scene in which I turned around and screamed, "FERAL! IT'S FERAL TOM CAT! NOT FAVORITE! IF YOU'D LISTENED TO THE SHOW EVEN ONCE BEFORE TONIGHT, MAYBE YOU WOULD NOT BE TALKING SO INCESSANTLY ABOUT EVERY FUNNY LINE!"

So, no, I hadn't cried during the first act because seated behind me were two chatterboxes. Strangely, however, I did get choked up during That Would Be Enough which is weird. I don't ever get emotional during that song. The staging of it had me thinking so much about unborn Philip Hamilton and that made me think of the later dead young adult Philip Hamilton and my eyes got misty.

Really though, despite my annoying buddies behind me, the first act was hugely enjoyable. We saw an understudy for Ham and he was phenomenal. Shoba Narayan killed it as Eliza. I found myself riveted to her character with a sentiment that, when I'm listening to the cast album, is usually reserved for Angelica. (Because, Renee Elise Goldsberry--come on. She wins at life.)

The neighbors behind me were much quieter during Act 2. I don't know if someone asked them to PLEASE SHUT UP or if there just wasn't as much to discuss. They'd really only talked about the funny lines and the second act has a lot less of those moments. Something happened, however, and the two people in front of me took over as the EVEN MORE OBNOXIOUS theatre patrons. For the entire act, the woman continually leaned over and told the man what was happening. In great detail. In a regular talking voice. As though she was teaching him a history lesson. This got so bad that I looked over, continually, at the usher standing next to us. She was somehow not distracted by this as she stood against the wall with her face enraptured with the joy of Hamilton. I would have to get up, walk over, and complain. And I wanted to be enjoying every moment of my show. At one point, the teenage girls next to me, who were delightful, were very visibly annoyed. It wasn't just me, is what I'm saying.

As for crying, I was actually kind of dreading It's Quiet Uptown. If I listen to that song, in my car, with my boys slugging each other in the backseat, during rush hour, I get choked up. I wasn't sure how I'd ever survive it performed live.

I have said many, many times, that I simply cannot imagine losing one of the children I have raised. The mere thought of burying a child I know, with all his personality and quirks and delights does me in. Because I've buried one I hadn't met and it was the most miserable thing I've ever been called to do.

There are moments that the words don't reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable

The moments when you're in so deep

It feels easier to just swim down

The Hamiltons move uptown

And learn to live with the unimaginable

I was crying before it even started. I was crying because Philip was dying and Alexander was holding him and I was thinking about Dear Theodosia. Then Eliza ran in and Philip died and Eliza screamed and the theatre was silent. Even the talkers weren't talking and you could have heard a pin drop.

I think of that phone call that changed everything for me, that phone call that took away my daughter. You hold your child as tight as you can, and push away the unimaginable. She was in my arms. Dead. The idea of her gone forever. If I lose Garrett or Matthew or Will, the scream will not just be heard throughout a silent theatre. It may, perhaps, be heard around the world. Tears ran down my face as they sang. I heard sniffing behind me. I wondered if I might let out an audible sob and I began to focus heavily on making sure that didn't happen. It wrecked me in a cathartic and theatrical way so that, in the wreckage, I found myself emotionally spent in, somehow, a good way.

A colleague of mine recently told me she thought Hamilton was repetitive and overrated. She hasn't listened to the entire soundtrack, mind you, but this is her conclusion. Fine. We're all entitled to our own opinions. I believe Lin-Manuel Miranda is a creative genius. I find his work to be neither repetitive nor overrated. She says hip hop and rap aren't her thing. Neither are they mine. But they flow into and out of his work in such a symbolic way that I am brought to a place of complete respect and utter enjoyment. She says she's just not a bandwagon jumper. Fair enough. But Hamilton is one bandwagon for which I am thankful to have jumped upon.

It is not just a piece of theatre. It is an experience. An experience I am so very grateful to have been able to have.