One for the History Books1:18 PM
|Tell us where the treasure be or I'll feed your gizzard to a crow!|
And that's all folks. Night at the Wax Museum entertained four packed (and three full) houses and was thunderously applauded and laughed at all throughout. Now it's ancient history.
If you've worked with over sixty other people for almost six months in close quarters, that last day is a little bittersweet. We organized impromptu hug-fests and whined about never seeing each again and gave out more hugs and said our goodbyes and gave out more hugs -- and you get the point, I'm sure. (Did I ever mention homeschoolers are awesome?)
|Come on, fellers. We've got us a couple of no good rats.|
I spent three days of the play in silence. Luckily I missed getting the cold that went round our house a couple weeks ago, but it was only waiting until I had to perform to knock my voice out. So the only thing I could do was drink throat coat tea, stick my head in steam and create a secret sign language. They wouldn't let me talk.
It was miserable.
And I had to sing a duet, too. The last night I could barely talk, much less sing, and it sounded exactly like a sick person trying to be amazing. It was a hard blow -- the first two nights every other patron would take my hand and compliment me on my gorgeous voice. The third night (as my voice spiralled out) only a few people mentioned it. The last night nobody mentioned it at all.
But as I lay in bed on that third day, wondering if I could miraculously recover in the two hours I had before going onstage, I learned something: God is glorified even when His perfectionist daughter isn't perfect. He got me through four rehearsals without passing out, throwing up or completely losing my voice -- it just didn't sound Broadway worthy at all.
I had to be okay with that. I had to be okay with that, because there wasn't anything else I could do. I took every single herb, drank every single concoction, followed every single tip and trick in the world to get better in two hours -- but my life wasn't in my own hands. My voice wasn't, either.
God likes to put in little extra lessons in my life to remind me that I'm not Him. Perhaps if I'd listen to Him now and then, they wouldn't have to be so dramatic.
Even then, He showed grace. My amazing ballerinas and fellow actresses gave me hugs and pitying looks every time they passed -- they sat with me in silence -- they gave high fives and "good lucks" every time I went on or off the stage. It's not every day you stumble into such perfect friendship.
|Perhaps someday people will wonder what we did with some of the stuff we have.|
I'll miss it. I'll miss being Heather Fairchild and running away from pirates and outlaws and breaking out into organized dance and song. I'll miss wearing the same clothes I wore every Thursday since March and living life according to a script and maybe I'll even miss getting my temple burned by the curling iron.
Well, maybe not too much.