When I went back to school, one of the first classes I took was Acting 1. I had taken it years ago at the University of Alabama and again at Birmingham-Southern, but the faculty at Montevallo wanted me to take it again with them. This is one of many reasons that I graduated with almost 200 hours, instead of the required 135 for a BFA!
I loved that class, mostly because of the professor and the fact that for most of the semester, we performed without words. We were given parameters and had to come up with individual scenes that fit those guidelines. We were allowed to be creative and act without memorizing anything!!
One of the favorite scenes I did the whole time I was in college was in this class. Tim actually helped me come up with the basic concept and I went from there.
The scene had to include knocking on something, sitting or laying down during the scene, and you had to remove some article of clothing. We had nothing but some folding chairs, a couple of black boxes and an empty stage. We had 3 minutes to tell a story.
As you can imagine, some of the scenes were funny, some were over the top, and some were confusing. I actually made one of my best college friends while watching one of these scenes, as I was startled and jumped practically into the lap of the guy beside me. We were great buddies ever after.
In my scene, I put on the garb of a homeless woman. The tattered layers of clothing were topped off with a knit hat. I carried a shopping bag full of everything I still had in life. In trying to escape the cold, I wandered into a dark church, long after everyone would have gone home. I knocked on the doors I passed, hoping to get no response. Hoping that if someone did answer, they would extend a hand of friendship, not a finger pointing me to the exit. I was unsure and frightened.
When no one seemed to be there, I looked around the large sanctuary, in awe of what I saw there. I removed my hat as the warmth of the space began to settle into my frozen bones. I curled up the shopping bag and laid down on a pew, the bag my pillow. As I closed my eyes, I suddenly jumped up and fell to my knees, overwhelmed with gratitude. I had warmth and shelter for that one night, I would deal with the rest tomorrow. Grateful, silent prayer before curling back up to get some safe sleep was the end of my scene.
A few years ago, our minister decided to add something new to our All Saints service -a cross of ribbons. The name of each member we had lost that year would be written on a ribbon. I am not sure if this was his idea, if it had been suggested to him or if he had seen it somewhere, but he gave his idea to a wonderful lady in the church and she contacted me to help her create this piece.
For the most part, I am a loner. Committees and meetings are not my thing. (I enjoy collaboration in theatre, but only to a point!) Luckily, I was paired with one of my favorite people to make this cross come to life. She was sensitive enough to know me and eventually leave me on my own.
After we decided how it should look and how we were going to do it, I bought ribbon, some I could write on and some that was just decorative. I was provided with a list of names and turned loose. I spent the afternoon at my kitchen table, writing each name. I then walked to the church where I looped each ribbon on to the wooden “cross” provided to me.
As I wrote each name, I thought about that person, prayed for them. It was astonishing how many of the names I knew, how many I didn’t. It caught me off guard when one of the names was Tim’s mom. Had it been less than a year since we lost her? It seemed longer in ways, shorter in other ways.
The first year it made its appearance on All Saints Sunday, I nearly cried. The inanimate object I had created seemed to come alive as the acolyte carried it around the large sanctuary. It blew in the wind and fluttered about, just as I hoped that each soul is swirling around us.
Each year since, I have continued to add the names from that year. It is an honor to be able to add to the cross, to spend time thinking of each individual, those I knew and those I didn’t. I try to add names to ribbons that already carry the name of a friend or a spouse or a child.
I always sneak over to the church to do this on a day that I have plenty of time. I hope that I don’t run into anyone. Selfishly I want time alone with the names. I don’t want to speak to the living, I want to concentrate on those who have gone on.
Just as my character in that scene years ago, I often feel unworthy to be in the space called church. I wait for someone to see me and point to the exit. And just as my character felt the urge to fall to her knees in gratitude that she has found shelter for that one night, that she is safe and warm for right now, she knew that tomorrow would bring its own set of troubles, I know that I too will eventually have to face the world later. But for right now, quiet. For right now, gratitude.
As I wrote each name, as I thought about where each one should be written, as I carried the cross back to its hiding spot to await the day it flutters around the sanctuary again, I felt the quiet surround me like a hug. I felt like my character, safe and warm if only for that moment. And I am grateful.
Grateful to have known these people, and if I didn’t know them, grateful to be able to at least know their name. Grateful to be included in honoring them. Grateful to spend time surrounded by the great cloud of witnesses.
As the number of names grows, so does the beauty of the cross. Each year I hope for fewer names, less people we have lost, less souls to remember one more time and then move on from. This year as I wrote 40 names, thinking there would not be enough room, I realized these ribbons are like the loaves and fishes, there is plenty of room and I can probably get 25 more on there. Some of those ladies I have had to add to the cross taught me that there is always room for one more person at the table, in your home, in the warm sanctuary.
I hope that they keep letting me add the names. I hope that they keep letting me find the warmth of friendship in that sanctuary, I hope I never forget to fall on my knees and be grateful for all of it.
