that’s a wrap

I stand by the doorway of a small meeting room inside the Hjemkomst Center, a museum built around a wooden Viking ship, built in a nearby small town, that made a voyage to Norway in the 1980s. It is also the venue where Micah and his eleven castmates will perform the play, Little Shop of Horrors.

Most of them are gathered here, waiting until it’s time to go backstage and mic up. A few girls sit at a table and apply eye makeup. The nervous energy is palpable; I overhear one of the leads talking about the butterflies in her stomach.

Five or six small to medium-sized colored bags line the countertop I’m leaning against. I’ve learned this is what theater kids do…they exchange gifts with each other on opening night.

One of the lead singers, M., approaches me. “I had Micah’s name,” she says. “Will you look inside and make sure he can have everything in there?” I am touched by her concern. Most of the kids know, after five weeks of being around Micah, that he has type 1 diabetes.

Later, after the performance, I will thank her, assuring her it’s all fine: the M & Ms (good for blood sugar lows), the Spiderman comic book (even though the scene on the front is a bit violent), and especially the impressive picture she drew of nine different superhero emblems.

A director peeks into the room and announces it’s almost time to go backstage. Good time to quick use the restroom across the hall, I decide.

But then, as I turn to leave, I hear my son’s deep loud voice.

“Um…excuse me. I’d just like to say a couple things.” He has stood up from his chair in the back. The room goes quiet.

My chest tightens, I hold my breath. Oh no…what is he going to say? Is he going to make some kind of acceptance speech like they do at the Oscars or something? I wonder if he’s going to mimic a character he’s seen in a movie. He’s so good at taking words actors have used and applying them appropriately in everyday life.

“Well, I just want to say that I’ve really enjoyed meeting all of you and thank you for helping me. And, P., I’d especially like to thank you for letting me play that video game with you…you know the Frozen one? But mostly, I really want to wish all of you good luck tonight.”

I exhale and watch as everyone smiles back at him, thanking him in return, wishing him good luck too. He sits back down in his chair, smiling.

I will savor many moments on this night and then again during tomorrow’s performance. I will feel proud watching Micah deliver his lines with perfect timing, in his loud theater voice, enunciating just like we practiced. I will thrill when I see him put his whole body into the choreography. I will laugh when he ad libs with an exaggerated wink at the audience when he asks the character, Mushnik, if he can “break a hundred.” I will feel my heart swell after the second performance when a younger boy singles Micah out and tells him he was his favorite.

But, more than any of those snapshots, it will be his short, impromptu speech that will stay in my mind for years to come. My boy, different in his abilities yet very similar in his desires. Thankful to be included, thankful to be around these new friends, wishing them well, yearning for connection.

Be still my heart.