(If you missed Part 1 you can click here.)
“You want to make the Ruth and Boaz skit into a Western?” My choir director removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“It only makes sense,” I said. “Boaz was a rancher, or farmer at least. Ruth was a foreigner – maybe from Mexico.” The eye-rubbing intensified. “Costumes will be easy. Everyone has boots, Wranglers and a cowboy hat.”
Turns out getting permission was easier than I’d imagined – whether from divine intervention or the Music Minister’s desperation, I know not. Soon I completed the four skits that he’d approved, including our cowboy Bible-story. We met with the performance committee and read through the copies. What did they think?
“We only have nine microphones and there isn’t time for them to switch users between scenes. You’ll have to cut down the speaking parts.”
“There won’t be any curtain closing after this song. Scenery changes will be done in front of the audience, so keep them simple.”
“No downtime between scenes, either. If Ruth and Boaz are in every scene of their skit, they can’t change costumes.”
There was much that I’d failed to consider, but I enjoyed the education. My friends were passionate about producing an excellent performance, and I didn’t want to let them down.
The weeks flew by with rewrites, auditions and rehearsals. My husband patiently exhibited his listening skills as I came home night after night with excited updates on how it was all fitting together. I couldn’t wait for him to see it.
Although nervous, I invited him to watch the first dress rehearsal. What would he think of the production? What would he think about me directing? I’d never done anything like this before – and in front of so many people.
When I was on the stage working on the blocking with the actors, I’d look out on the nearly empty auditorium and wonder what he thought. Did he think it was cool that my characters were coming to life? Could he believe that they’d given me so much responsibility? Was he proud of me?
After three hours of rehearsal, we called it a night. I humbly waited for him to share his opinion, but by the time we were in the car my patience had given out. “Well,” I fished, “what did you think?”
“I’m not sure how you’re going to take this.” He patted my hand. “It’s only…I wish you’d worn jeans instead of those sweatpants. They are really saggy.”
I was speechless. I recovered. “You watched three hours of rehearsals and that’s all you can say?”
“Well, it was a distraction. Every time you got on stage I couldn’t think of anything besides how awful your butt looked. I wanted to go home and get you some decent clothes.”
I couldn’t believe it. “You witnessed a soul-stirring performance and the only thing you got out of it was that my butt looked bad?”
“That’s not the only thing.” He smiled. “I also got a part. The music guy asked me to be an extra, so I get to come to all the practices now.”
Not if I had anything to say about it.