Stage Smile
20-odd years ago, I dreamt that I would awake in the middle of the night to a room full of people angry that I had missed rehearsal. I would hear “5, 6, 7, 8” and barely pull myself out of bed to practice again and again only to hear the alarm go off. Brain exhausted, but body somehow slightly recovered from my night of “sleep,” I would head to the real final dress rehearsal before the recital.
Now, I grade in the lobby while my daughter rehearses. My favorite principal dancer walks past me. She doesn’t know that she’s my favorite. Doesn’t know me. I know her name from the programs and the backstage conversations and the little girls who look up to her. Her left arch isn’t perfect, particularly after multiple turns, and sometimes her extension doesn’t hit, but she’s beautiful.
As a teenager after a show, I stand in the lobby and greet people, stage smile still plastered across my face alongside the stage makeup. An older gentleman walks up to me and tells me, “You danced beautifully,” followed by an “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.” Accolades flow from every direction, mainly in the vein of “your smile was the truest,” or “it’s obvious you love what you do.” I don’t know how to take this. Loving dancing isn’t the same as being good at it. Is this a compliment or a kind way of saying “bless your heart” as my future Southern home would chime?
Years later, a language I once spoke fluently escapes me. Many of the French ballet terms have packed up and vacated my memory until I hear them on my daughter’s tongue after rehearsal. Then, this dancer pauses in front of me while I grade college papers. She looks back and forth, unsure of whether to stay or go. I want to tell her, “By the way, you’re beautiful. You light up the stage. When you dance, it’s obvious you love what you do.”
But I don’t know how to tell her in a way her teenage self will understand. I don’t know how to tell her that one day, all she’ll have left are bunions and misshapen feet, a quieter walk than most, and random French words. One day, she will be an outsider in the one place that was her world. One day, the words will slip like the periodic table or the presidents. One day, she’ll twist her daughter’s hair into a bun and about twist her heart out with it.
But I keep quiet. How can I tell her to “enjoy it while it lasts” without sounding like another mom giving the same trite advice to the next generation? So, I smile and return to my laptop, an outsider in the world I once owned. “Mommy!” disrupts my contemplation, “I finally learned how to jete!” “I’m so proud of you, baby!” I muster and swallow a lump the size of a boulder. Or, perhaps, the size of a pointe shoe. ◆
On a Shelf
Emily and I agreed on nearly everything until Romance and Fantasy Literature. Our college English Literature paths had largely aligned, but once we encountered Arthurian Literature, she finally found it. Her thing. The genre that made her heart skip a beat and her eyes sparkle in class discussions. I found it too. The type of literature I loathed more than any I had experienced to date. When we walked to class together, her clutching The Once and Future King tightly to her chest and jabbering on about knights and symbolism and other things in Olde English, I found myself wondering how two people otherwise so similar could disagree so adamantly.
Years later, after we had graduated and worked to keep in touch among our various responsibilities, I found a beautiful copy of Le Morte d’Arthur at a used bookstore. Its olive-green spine gave way to a cover with etchings fit for a knight’s crest, which I’m sure it was, but I didn’t care to research. I snatched it up and, hardly containing my excitement, told her “I found your birthday present!” “Birthday present?” she cackled, “I don’t think my mom would even know she’s pregnant with me yet.” I wasn’t sad to hold onto the pretty book and could hide it in plain sight while time passed.
The problem was, I missed her birthday, or forgot, or got her something else. The book blended too well, and before I knew it, I was packing to leave my roommates for a husband. I came across the book and texted her, “I have a gift for you! I’ll give it to you at the movie night.” But she couldn’t make it. Life continued to happen, and at every turn, our paths repelled. Less than a year later, my husband and I packed to move cross-country. I never did see her again.
In the last decade, I’ve lived in four states. Some moves required that we only bring what few belongings could fit in suitcases in the back of our vehicles. I’ve made hard decisions, but each time, Le Morte d’Arthur made the cut. Emily moved out of state as well, pursuing a trying career. In the past few years, we’ve forked on more than just literature. She would disapprove of my life and likely assume that I disapprove of hers. I stand in opposition to all of her progress—a wife, a mother, and a Christian educator; I represent shackles to her newfound freedom.
My husband coaches college women. We had them over for dinner, and they found their way outside to see our farm animals—all but one. I could tell Anna wanted to talk, but didn’t press the matter, instead busying myself with wiping down the counters and other interruptible matters. She made her way over and, after a few pleasantries, got into the meat of it. She’s depressed. She misses home. She feels responsible to her teammates but worries she made the wrong decision coming here. John and I were surprised she stayed on as these were concerns she had last year as well. She’s not a Christian and as I slowly moved the conversation to faith, she seemed open. The rest of the team flooded back inside, disrupting our peace. Wiping pending tears, she shuffled back into the fold.
Anna’s freshman year, she brought us a gift from her home country—a mug filled with chocolates and treats. I still have the mug, and it is in a three-day rotation for my morning coffee. The handle’s chipped, but it was too lovely for me to give up. Once the team left, I told John I wanted to commit to praying for her every time I used the mug. I knew daily likely wasn’t sustainable, but the mug could remind me and would be at least twice weekly. Some days, these are full on pleads to God that He will use her time here to soften her heart—that I could help plant seeds, even if I never see the harvest. Some days, all I can muster is “Show Anna your love and comfort today.” He knows.
Every Friday I water my plants. I have a string of hearts succulent that sits atop a lovely olive-green hardcover book. Being a succulent, it doesn’t require much attention, but it has propagated many little baby string of heart plants. I spy one during work calls behind a friend in another state. One decorates the background of an international ministry podcast. Some propagations were intentional, but most happened because of breaks. With small children and animals, I can’t promise that my house is the safest place for a plant, so when strings break off, I place them in water and hope for the best. The plant is resilient, but a trained eye can see the healed bit. I am sure to water this one carefully so as not to overflow the pot and make a watermark on the book that holds it.
Today, I shuffle through the house, watering can in one hand and coffee mug in the other. My thumb rubs the exposed ceramic under the chip in the mug handle as I water, thinking of Anna. Thinking of Emily. My in-laws are visiting, and my father-in-law surveys my shelves. “I didn’t think you liked Olde English” he comments, pointing at the olive text. “Oh, I hate it,” I laugh. “So, did you just buy it because it would look pretty on a shelf?” “No, I bought that for a friend many years ago. She may never come back, but it’s always waiting for her if she does.” I feel a quick prick in my eyes and continue watering. ◆
Kaitlyn Newbery (MA ’17 and PhD ’24) is an adjunct English professor at University of the Cumberlands. She enjoys exploring questions about her faith through metaphors and storytelling. Her works have been published in places such as Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, Sunlight Press, Neologism Poetry, Thimble Magazine and ONE Art.
Pensworth 