Back when we were in the middle of Outside Mullingar, one of the other actors tossed me a script. Want to do this play with me?

I read the entire thing on a Sunday morning while the rest of the family was still in bed. A few pages in, I was crying so hard I had to set it aside for a few minutes so I could get control. Good grief, I thought. If I can’t read it without crying, how will I ever act it?

Jessica Dickey’s The Amish Project is a fictionalized account of the 2006 Nickel Mines shooting in which a local milkman entered an Amish school house and shot ten girls. The play was originally intended to be performed by one actor but has since been adapted for an ensemble. I play Carol, the wife of the shooter. (When the guy first mentioned that I do this play with him, I thought he meant the one-actor version and about blew my top. Put that on top of my then-current crazy and I would sail right over The Edge for sure.)

The play is about much more than the horror of the shooting. It’s about the underbelly of humanity, gut-wrenching suffering, and the power of forgiveness. No one is demonized, not even the shooter, and the result is a profoundly moving piece of art, raw and heartbreakingly beautiful.

The play opens a week from today and runs for one weekend. The house—a community center that’s being transformed into a black box theater—only seats about sixty people and fills quickly, or so I’ve been told. Last time they did a play at this location, they were turning people away fifteen minutes before curtain. Tickets are five dollars and reservations can be made here.

Note: for mature audiences due to disturbing content and some language.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.7.14).

The other day I came home to discover a box sitting on my computer. A piece of paper lay on top, a note scrawled in my older son’s horrific handwriting.

It read: 

What can I say. The boy gets me.

That writing group I started?

It was THE BEST THING I COULD HAVE DONE.

(Actually, I’m in two groups. There’s the main writing group that meets monthly, and then another smaller, side one—photographed above—a writing group spawn, of sorts, that meets weekly, just for the summer, and is more of a support team for this seminary-theater intern.)

The groups’ variety in writing style, content, and genre is tremendously invigorating, and the people are awesome: supportive, interesting, creative, funny, and smart. After each meeting, I am filled to the brim with creative juices and pumped to write. Success! 

The problem with having your writing desk next to your bed: the temptation to sleep instead of write occasionally wins out.

This same time, years previous: reflections from Kansas City, grilled flatbread, red raspberry lemon bars, simple creamy potato salad and French potato salad, and baked oatmeal.

It was a smaller gathering this year, thanks to a number of scheduling conflicts, but we still managed to whoop it up real good. People commented that the days seemed to go on forever, what with all the different activities, meals, and hosting locations (we moved between my parents’ house, my brother’s house, and our house). I took about a half million photos, and now that I have to sift through them, I’m overwhelmed. Serves me right, I guess.

The menu was low-key. Most foods were made ahead of time, so mealtimes didn’t feel like any big deal. And the dishes were simple and fairly light, so (for me, anyway) overeating wasn’t a problem. I did hear tell that the fresh donuts tripped a few people up….

Lunch: butter chicken and brown rice, greens with fresh lemon, applesauce, green beans, na’an. 

Snack: ice cream cones.
Supper: hot dog roast, bean salad, slaw, Moroccan carrot and chickpea salad, chips.
Snack (for those sleeping at my house, anyway): cheesy tortilla chips and salsa, apples, nuts.
Breakfast: granola bar (French chocolate, regular, pecan), yogurt, fresh and canned fruits, coffee.
Lunch: giant salads, donuts, coffee.

This side of the family is high-energy. Conversations are intense and people are always doing things, zipping from one activity to the next. (I, on the other hand, spent all of Saturday afternoon with my butt glued to the sofa, visiting with whoever plopped down beside me.) It’s fun to observe how things get instigated: someone says, Hey, let’s do… and, just like that, the forces are rallied.

Things that happened: a wax fireball, kickball, creek play, (dry?) fly fishing, card games, singing, frisbee, horse riding, water balloon fights, water balloon toss, photography, fresh donuts, tree excavation, a Trump appearance (’twas fairly traumatizing), baby holding, 5K, finger rockets, trampoline jumping, napping, pontificating, and so on.

Activities are fun and all, but it’s the togetherness that’s the real treat. For twenty-four-plus hours, we shared meals, cleaned up, argued, chatted, slept. That—simply being in each other’s space—is the heart of a gathering. It makes all the effort—the planning, cooking, cleaning, and traveling (I hope!)—worth it.

This same time, years previous: let’s revolutionize youth group mission trips! please!, French yogurt cake, butchering chickens, in their own words, raspberry lemon buttermilk cake, and angel bread.