Strike — Week 1
By Margaret Lackey, Ordained Minister, Christian Comedian, Charlotte, NC
(Margaret also serves as the executive assistant to the administrative bishop in the Western North Carolina Church of God State Office.)

Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4:  “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven…a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…” (NKJV).

My dad, in heaven now, was a preacher.  Because of that vocation, my family was always, in a sense, up front.  My twin Martha and I learned to sing almost as soon as we learned to talk.  Earning a role in a school play or being cast in church plays was an exciting part of my life, and I’ve always enjoyed drama.

As an adult, I recently had the opportunity to perform in Steel Magnolias at the Old Courthouse Theatre in Concord (one of the few that still does family-oriented plays).  Theatre involves many things.  Sets must be built to create a whole new world.  Actors must rehearse again and again in order to perfect their lines.  With every rehearsal, they know it’s not perfect and wonder if it ever will be.  After weeks of preparation, a barren stage becomes a hometown beauty parlor where anyone could walk in and be transformed into the beauty queen she always wanted to be.  There’s the magic of opening night when everyone gathers in the “green room.”  Though no one would necessarily express it, everyone is hysterically happy and secretly scared.  The stage manager announces, “House is open, and it’s filling up.”

We were going on stage with an audience.  The lights came up and I was no longer Margaret Lackey; I was Clairee, the major’s wife in a little town in Louisiana with my Southern drawl even more exaggerated, engrossed in what was happening in the lives of dear friends in Chinquapin.

In every audience there is someone who is seeing a play for the first time; they paid the same price as everyone else.  So for them, we retell the story as if every night were opening night. 

But not every night is opening night:  One night is the final performance.  And after this performance is strike—which means we tear down the set.

Truvy’s beauty shop, that had become a real place for me, would turn back into an empty barren stage like Cinderella’s coach going back to a pumpkin.  Cast members who had become dear to me would go their separate ways.  We promised to keep in touch; but we would never be together just like this again.

At strike everyone works hard, but not with the enthusiasm of building the set and watching the magic happen.…  No, at strike you tear the stage down as quickly as you can.  Busy sounds of vacuum cleaners, brooms, and props dropping to the floor serve to drown out the empty feeling.  You just get it done so that you can get on with life.…

The end of December reminds me of strike.  Many despise the commercialism associated with Christmas—I cherish its true meaning and revere our Savior’s humble beginning in a stable.  With no disrespect, I do love the lights and the glitter; they remind me of the angels who lit the sky.  Each year the decorations come out a little earlier.  Getting them up takes days.  In the midst of the mess, I talk to God, thank Him for Christmas and for life.  Placing an ornament on the tree, I thank Him for a memory it brings.  In November, I open closet doors, plug in lights, and a tiny Christmas village comes to life.  The house comes alive with the sights and sounds, the taste of cinnamon and the smell of holly.  The enchantment and beauty bring with them the joy of the season, and again, I experience the wonder of it all.

The end of this season feels like strike.  Another year on the stage of life is over.  Gifts no longer enhance the beauty of the revolving tree.  The decorated table has been cleared, Christmas dishes put away.  The house, empty and quiet, no longer buzzes with the warmth of a friend’s soft laugher or the excitement in a grandchild’s voice.

I need to get up and put all these things away; it’s January.…

Site by WinWorld