Playwright! Playwright!

Playwright! Playwright!

The LORD is like a father to his children, tender and compassionate. . . .He remembers we are only dust.

Psalm 103:13-14

For several years, it was my delightful task to write the annual Christmas musical for our four-thousand-member church. Actually, I wrote the play, and my friend Charlotte, a world-class musician, wrote the music. By mid-November we were building the massive stage and putting up backdrops, fake buildings, and props for the early December production.

As codirector, I learned several valuable lessons: Never underestimate the unpredictability of child actors. Never expect a donkey to walk up a hollow-sounding ramp. And never, ever try to fly an archangel over the baptistery. (I almost forgot that one, but it’s huge—really huge!)

All in all, though, the kids and the donkey didn’t bother me too much. Sure, we had the usual pouting, crying, and blaming tantrums. But I felt that as the director I was entitled to them.

The real problems began when the archangel showed up for final dress rehearsal in a flowing white robe made by Omar the Tentmaker. The entire host of angels could have fit into it!

Then Joseph arrived with a broken arm in a stark-white cast that extended a foot beyond his costume sleeve, and he couldn’t remember his lines because he was zoned out on pain meds.

The donkey would not go up the hollow-sounding ramp . . . again.

However, I’m happy to say that the musical came off beautifully, and the congregation loved it—except for the part when Mary tripped over one of the sheep and dropped the baby Jesus doll into the front row of the audience.

When the cry “Playwright! Playwright!” went up, I ducked out the stage door and drove so fast to get away that I got a speeding ticket. Sigh.

Father, please accept our paltry attempts to praise and glorify you. We really do try to do our best, in spite of the way it sometimes looks. We love you, Father. Amen.