Roll the Credits

Or, Turning 39 and seeing how small my role in the story is

My ten-year-old, Cannon, has a thing with the closing credits at the end of a show. Specifically the PBS kids shows. Specifically Daniel Tiger episodes. Specifically the one where Miss Elaina and Daniel are pushing one another off of stool for the honor of sitting next to their friend Chrissy–a scene which Cannon likes to re-enact with his siblings at home and classmates in school whether or not they want to participate, which has resulted in no shortage of scuffles and phone calls–but that is a whole other story. 

This story is one of a young boy who notices the people who deserve a little acknowledgement, and who reminds me to do the same. 

Quite often, Cannon will pause the end of his show on the various screens of the closing credits, and he’ll come find me and say, “Read it, mommy.” So line by line, we go through the titles and names of everyone it took to make that 15 minutes of joy come to life for my son. The Executive Producer, Executives in Charge of Production, Head Writer, Story Editors, Writing Coordinator, Research Director, Storyboard Artists and on and on. It takes a lot of people–from my estimation reading the credits, over 100–using their gifts to make an episode of Daniel Tiger. And the thing is, they are just doing their job, making the art they love, researching the components they want to get right, or simply showing up to work even on bad days because they still need a paycheck. But there is a real sweet boy with autism, whom life is not always easy for, and he never has and never will meet one of these people, but he comes to life every day because of what they make, the work that they do.

That is pretty cool, I think. 

After months of watching Cannon stop and pause and rewind the closing credits–again and again and again–I really began thinking about what he is doing, how he is seeing the world, the practice he is actually living: stop, pause, read their name, acknowledge the many many ways something happened for you because of other people. A very good practice in my opinion.

It’s both a gift of humility and awe to recognize the scaffolding God has put in my life, down to the smallest of details.

Like Robin Arzon, who has become my favorite Peloton instructor because she makes me want to show up and work hard for her and I love a well-timed coaching swear. She’s the one who said, “I don’t care what you are willing to do one time, I care what you are willing to show up and do 10,000 times, because that is who you are!” and “The intervals don’t care if you’re ready. You go anyway. And that is preparing you for life. Let’s f-ing go!”. She has provided countless moments of free rage therapy for me and my favorite have come when she plays Limp Bizkit’s “Break Stuff” (I know all you millennials get it) or Andy Mineo “You Can’t Stop Me” in the middle of a real hard climb. I understand Robin’s classes may not be for everyone. But in her efforts to show up for her job, to put together just the right level of challenge in her class, to pick the music that would match the energy, to study and prepare how to coach her fellow riders, they all added up to something profound for me. She will never know that a single mom on the other side of the country got through some pretty painful moments on the bike with her, but I did. 

Or Morgan, my favorite barista at my favorite local coffee shop, who never ceases to say “Hey, Katie, great to see you!” even if the line is too long and the orders are backing up. She’s got my coffee order down and still, a year later, makes the best iced decaf vanilla latte on earth. I spend too much money at this shop, I know. I mean, I have six children and this shop doesn’t even have a drive-thru and I still rarely get coffee anywhere else. Whenever we drive by, my toddlers say, “Hey, there is Mommy’s coffee shop” and I kinda love that they think I own it. But it gives me such joy to be known in a place like that, and to walk out with something so simple in my hand, but something that genuinely makes me so happy.

And the people who thought of, created, and now work for the Voxer app. Whatever company that is. The hours and hours and hours and hours of actual lifeline conversations that little app provides for me could never truly be captured. My mastermind/sister group talks every single day–from “I’m getting divorced” to “I signed with an agent!” to “I’m going to Costco”–because someone shows up to their desk to write the correct code or manage or the technical stuff that I don’t have a clue about that keeps that little walkie talkie running. Another friend/spirit animal/sister sends me fifteen minute messages about the things she is learning and how she is praying for me and the encouragement she wants to pass on to me about who I am. I keep in touch with friends all over the country seamlessly with short or long moments of story sharing. All because of Voxer. Work and laughter and prayer and tears and gifs and life are shared every day on something that someone else entirely keeps running. 

There are my kids' teachers, the paraeducators, the volunteer coaches, the inventor of Legos, our pediatrician, the chefs who make the wood fired pizza at my favorite restaurant, the authors of all the books on my shelves, the woman who came up with the recipe for black bean brownies, the people working for Instacart who deliver my groceries so I do not have to take six kids into the store.

And of course, there are my parents and my children and my friends, whom I could not possibly say enough about, who are the only reason I’m turning 39 still on my feet, who I could not even attempt to write about yet without a puddle of tears and a far too long word count. 

My life is my own, of course, with the agency and free will God wired into all of us. It is up to me to keep running my own race, to stay diligent and faithful, to keep putting one foot in front of the other. But it is also not my own. Someone else paid for it with his life (1), which is still the only thing I become more and more confident in with each passing year. But it’s more clear to me than ever that my ability to show up for even 15 minutes takes a long list of Executive Producers, Executives in Charge of Production, Head Writers, Story Editors, Writing Coordinators, Research Directors, Storyboard Artists and on and on. I’m such a small part of a story that is so big. So redemptive. So utterly undeserved. At times confusing, but I think that’s just because I need to keep reading, because I do already know the ending and it’s really, really good. 

This year was hard. Even writing that feels like the understatement of my life. And I know you don’t just arrive in a new place with a healed heart and a clear mind ready for the rest of your life; I know God walks you there step by step until heaven. But still, the closing credits on my 38th year is longer, richer, more diverse and full of heaven-sent people than I even know. Today I’m letting that list roll out in my mind, to stop, pause, read their name, acknowledge.

Mary Oliver wrote, “Think of Sheba approaching the kingdom of Solomon. Do you think she had to ask, ‘Is this the place?’” That’s me, rolling the credits. Do I even have to ask, “Are you still here, God?”

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(1) Jesus, if you were wondering who I meant.