An Actor's Letter to God

Dear God,

I'm sending this to you at the last minute because I've been at rehearsal until midnight every night this week and this is the first chance I've had to write. I just want to say, as the hours tick by, inching us ever closer to our inevitable 7:30 curtain, that whatever else happens tonight, please don't let me go on stage with my zipper down.

Amen.

P.S. I have a confession to make.

You know how I've complained to my friends about all the stuff our Captain Ahab of a director has thrown on us at the last minute? The new staging, the new choreography, the new sets, costumes, and props? Well, just between you and me...I kinda like it.

Does that make me a huge hypocrite?

My friends and family wonder how I can do this. Why on earth should I put so much of my own time and so much of my own money, not a cent of which I will ever see again, into a show? And not even a professional show. A community theatre show. How can I justify taking a day and a half off work? After all, they're the ones who pay me. They're the ones who keep me fed. They need me to file papers and make copies. How can I do this to them?

I guess there are two possibilities here. #1, because I'm certifiable. Bonkers. Crackers. Coo-coo.

Or #2, because I love the theatre. Because I honestly can't imagine being really happy doing anything else. Because it matters so much to the other cast members. Oh, they're not brilliant. Most of them aren't even any good. They drop their lines, they don't know the words to their music, they miss their entrances, they fall over one another during the dream ballet in act two...

...But, every now and then, you see a little glimmer. Maybe one of them gives a particularly good line reading. Maybe one of them sings that high note really well. Maybe one of them eagerly volunteers to move set pieces off stage so another actor can focus on their quick change.

And isn't that what it's all about? All those little glimmers? All those perfectly ordinary people; lawyers, housewives, and file clerks dressing up in ridiculous costumes and working together, staying at the theatre until after midnight, getting bruises, stumbling around in the dark because there's not enough glow-tape, clashing with egos the size of Cleveland...and for what?

To tell a story. That's all we're doing. We're not doing anything terribly important for the world. We're not feeding the hungry or setting killer whales free. All we've done is climbed a mountain together. We've overcome outrageous obstacles together. You look at these people during notes at the end of the evening and think, as strange as it seems, "I think I'm really going to miss them when it's all over."

I snuck into the theatre to watch one of the ensemble numbers in act two. They had been working on it for weeks and here, at final dress, we'd all given up hope that it would be less tragic than the Hindenburg disaster. I sat down in the back row and watched. The pianist plunked away at lightning speed. The ensemble made their entrances in full costume. The lights worked. The microphones worked. They all knew their words and they all hit their marks.

The number finished and I realized...

...I had been smiling the whole time and didn't even know it.

That's theatre.