Last week I started collecting numbers. In preparation for creating costumes for three dozen high school students who have elected to sink a chunk of their autumn hours into a production, I brought my measuring tape to rehearsal. As those tender years between fourteen and seventeen are notorious for self consciousness around size, I made light conversation while I encroached on their personal space.

"How was the field hockey game?"

"Tell me what part you are."

"How is senior year going?"

They were relieved to be distracted and chatted about team spirit, or just what kind of fox they hope to look like. 

There are always surprises, and disappointments, when the cast list is posted, and yet I can facilitate them becoming the most amazing hedgehog possible. The costume room has bins of glorious fabric, including fake fur, leather scraps, and feathers. I get to play Halloween all month long. 

After the last hip wrap I sat in the third row and watched them read through a scene. Aslan was saying goodbye to Lucy and Susan with exquisite tenderness, and facing his inevitable capture. Evil denizens entered stage left with the White Witch and her troll, cavorting gleefully at this victory over a lion. 

"Pussy cat, pussy cat, how many mice have you caught today?" they cackled. 

After a few minutes the director paused the scene. The minions fell out of character and into vulnerable teenagers again. This was the boss of the show and when he spoke to them, they listened. 

"Do you think they were absolutely sure of themselves? Did they have any doubts?" The kids thought about this. A brave one answered. 

"Not really. Part of them was still scared of Aslan."

"That's right. See if you can hold that uncertainty even as you mock him. It's called bravado. Trying to sound more confident than you feel."

This simple interchange moved me. He was inviting them into the experience of the folk tale, asking them to go further than just memorizing lines. 

I thought of the times I say the next right thing, without wondering why. This morning I fried eggs for the twins. Inquired what their day would be like. Said goodbye to John when he went out the door. Or didn't, I can't quite remember. 

Yet it is within my scope to wonder why we live under the same roof. Rekindle the feelings of wonder when each baby was born. Pause my life's show long enough to be present to it. 

My Director wants me to.