Steve and I seem to be drawn
to geeky, nerdy things. Or so we have been told. To us the things we enjoy do
not have such labels, but we tend to get labeled cheesy for many reasons.
Often we dress alike, and
most of the time it is not intentional. We enjoy the same kind of movies and
books and events. The last major event of our vacation most likely qualified for
every tag I just mentioned. Steve and I, however, have wanted to go to one of
these events long before we met or married.
I am not sure what I expected.
I am not sure if I even knew exactly what I expected. The event asked us to be
there an hour earlier than our dinner time, so we complied. That hour gave us
ample time to peruse and shop at their many vendors in the great hall of the
castle. They moved what would have been the village sellers inside the
building. The market owners (souvenir sellers) milled around the keep hawking
their wares. I am almost sure that this is what burst my bubble.
I realized I was expecting a
very real and authentic experience. I wanted a castle with rushes on the floor
and a fire in the fireplace and Irish wolf hounds sprawled beside the tables. I
wanted the castle to be dimly lit, if not by real wall torches then at least by
simulated ones. And I wanted a crown, but certainly not the paper one they
handed us—one with tabs to attempt to make it fit any head.
I was disappointed.
Until.
Until the falconer entered
the hall.
No one seemed to notice him.
Perhaps the other guests were put off by his austere demeanor. The falconer was
dressed in monochromatic colors: blacks, browns and grays. He matched his bird.
Menacingly fierce. Haughty and
aloof. Silent and observant.
They mirrored each other—eyes moving to and fro. Watching. Compressed energy. I approached the
falconer even though everything in his body language expressed for me to do
otherwise. I was curious. And curiosity often gets the better of me. I fought
the urge to reach out and run my finger down the bird’s curved head. Actually
if he had asked if I wanted the bird on my arm I would have agreed with
absolutely no hesitation.
Apparently in my enthusiasm I
invaded the bird’s personal space. In a hard tone the handler eyed me.
“He’s not a friendly sort. He
doesn’t like strangers.”
I stepped back. I had been
warned.
For that few moments I experienced
something unexpectedly authentic. The bird was real. Very real. It had been
trained. Its hood dangled and its talons curved around the falconer’s arm. It
swiveled its head and peered at me. Had I reached out to touch him I believe he
would have snagged a chunk of flesh out of my hand. His handler may have been playing a character
role, but this was his bird. It followed his commands. It listened to his voice
and submitted to his control.
This interaction changed the
evening for me. After this I ignored the many anachronistic details of the
whole production. Instead I looked and searched for what was real.
The horses were real. One
horse, sent to the ring alone, performed while its trainers were in the corners
of the arena. Galloping and prancing
into the fog. Silvery white—a flash. The great white horse danced. Elegant and
graceful. Such contained power.
The feats of skill of the six
knights were real. Their spears hit the targets; the relays were quick and
fast. The lances pierced the centers of rings. They had the ability to not only
ride a horse, but to command one. One knight’s horse decided it did not want to
cooperate. Our heads turned following the rearing hooves and the shaking head.
Our eyes were riveted on the drama, but the knight’s patience was visible and
after a tug of war he prevailed; the horse at last obeyed. The jousting caused
you to wince. The lances shattered when they hit the shields, splinters of wood
sprayed across the sand of the arena.
The frustration of the acting
knights was real. When one missed his target you could see the drop of his
head, the muttering and mouthing of words perhaps better left unsaid.
The food was real. The serving wenches brought us tomato bisque
soup and poured it steaming into our pewter handled bowls. No spoons. Then they
carried out enormous platters of chicken and potatoes. They placed half a
chicken on our plates—succulently roasted and perfectly seasoned. The potatoes
were steaming hot with a smattering of herbs crusted on the top. We ate the
food with our hands, and the heat burned our fingers. And I smiled. We eat
chicken fingers and fries with our hands all the time, but so much of an experience
is about context isn’t it?
I searched for what was real.
During the tournament there were
many other things that were real: my husband holding my hand under the table,
his arm across my back, his gentle squeeze on my shoulder, his smile and wink,
my daughter’s gasps of awe, her smile at me in the faint light of the arena and
her willingness to do this nerdy thing with us—all that was real.
Gratitude washed over me, and such a sense of raw contentment and spontaneous thanksgiving bubbled up inside
my spirit.
The gratitude, contentment
and the thanksgiving were very real.
God is teaching me in every
arena of my life, every arena, to
search for what is real. Through his Holy Spirit he is enabling me to find what
is authentic
At the medieval feast (and in
other places) I learned that sometimes my vision is impaired because the only
things I see are the details that are not right or the elements that don’t fit.
Sometimes my experience is warped by my expectations. Sometimes I don’t see the
real because my attitude is out of line. Sometimes I miss the real because I am
searching for the wrong things often in the wrong places.
But if we ask Him, if we just
ask, he will give us our until moment.
And when he does—
Oh! When He does...
1 comment:
Once again, thank you.
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