I have good memories of playing it. Musical chairs was a rowdy chance to smash yourself into the closest spot when the music stopped. There was no warning about whether the lilting tune would end. When I was young it involved lifting the needle off a vinyl record, but eventually it meant pushing the pause button on a boom box. There were parties when people plopped on one another's lap, or crowded beside a friend. Then we laughed and sorted out who was eliminated. Exclusion was short lived. Nothing personal. 

 

The other day a friend was describing an abrupt and messy end to his job. It encompassed a wide range of emotions, from regret and rejection, to relief that the conflict might be over. 

 

"I guess this is what it feels like to be divorced."

 

I was stunned. In the face of a painful event he was able to feel compassion. The door flung open to understanding life from someone else's chair. A surge of love for this man filled me up, both in the uncertainty and the grace.

 

Having a mother with mental illness, and a son with autism helps me see life from other perspectives. Since I was born with acceptable characteristics, I mostly avoided being the target of prejudices. But in loving Mom, and Benjamin, I witnessed the ways people who are different can be sidelined. 

 

I wonder if God is the musician behind it all, inviting us to jolly along until we are abruptly plunked in someone else's chair. Then we might discover what being ostracized feels like. Which is very personal indeed. Plus  exclusion can last a lifetime.