Turning Point

Did a couple brave things last Tuesday night.

For starters I drove through the snow into the city. Roads were awful. Slid into a bank before I even got to the interstate. Once I hopped on, Google told me to peel off the next exit.

So I listened.

Called Karry to let her know my circumstances.

Candidly, part of me was hoping she’d tell me to just come back home.

Give me an excuse not to go through with the second brave thing.

“You should stay on the interstate. It’s gonna be better than the side roads.”

She’s so much better than Google.

It was the wisest counsel, from the person who’s been pointing me in the right direction for too many Tuesdays to count.

So I got myself turned around. Limped back onto I-79. Kept going.

Sent a text letting ‘em know I was gonna be late.

“That’s OK. You’re on last!”

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On a whim I had submitted something for Story Club Pittsburgh’s monthly live gathering.

Something about the theme — Turning Point — caught my eye. Made me think of something I’d written but never shared. A story about Grace. About Karry and her uncompromising standards (she don’t play). About how she makes my mess fit.

The following day Kelly their producer emailed me back, “The Spotlight slot’s yours if you want it.”

Eesh.

After I said yes Kelly informed me that the stories had to be under seven minutes.

Over the next few days, violent editing ensued.

By the time I’d gotten in my car Tuesday to drive into the city, I still hadn’t quite limbo’d my story under the bar.

Crawling along the interstate afforded me extra practice time in the car. Must’ve run through it a half dozen times trying to find places where I could chop.

Seven minutes seemed like both forever and not nearly enough time.

As I drove I reminded myself I was last, so I’d have some time once I got there if I needed it.

Arrived while the emcee was still on stage and before the first storyteller.

Other than the spotlight slot at the end, the proceedings are open mic. Anyone who wants to tell a story drops their name in a hat — from which they pick seven names to go on stage.

As I grabbed a chair, the voice inside me said I owed the brave humans on stage my full attention … the same gift I would soon be asking from them.

The greatest gift in the world as far as I’m concerned.

They made it an easy gift to give.

The first person shared a brave and beautiful story about a person they stayed in a relationship way too long with, and what their hopeful but misplaced optimism had taught them. An older gentleman spoke about losing a best friend in high school and how he’s tried to live for both of them. Another person relayed an amazing daisy chain of grace from law enforcement that allowed him to essentially walk on water all the way from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. There was a story about a rat in an apartment and another about a snake on a trail. And a lawyer told a tale of tracking down a client who met him not with a handshake, but a shotgun pointed at his chest.

Before I knew it, the emcee was calling my name.

By which point a good 90 minutes had passed since I’d taken my seat.

Since I’d last thought about my story.

I’d been picked as a Spotlight Storyteller once before, about a year ago. But I got sick and couldn’t be there in person. Made arrangements to share virtually from home. Had my notes on a second screen just in case, which made it easy.

This time, it was just me.

No notes.

The lights made it hard to see the faces of the people in the audience.

As I started in from memory, my mouth felt dry.

Was about a minute in … when I felt my words sliding to the tip of my tongue.

Got a little over halfway through.

And lost my way.

In the spotlight.

Alone on stage.

In front of a pretty full house.

With the clock ticking.

Stuck.

But then …

… something amazing happened.

A few people in the audience started snapping.

A couple clapped encouragement.

And a wonderful soul in the front row … one of the few faces I could see in the lights … repeated the last couple of lines I had said … back to me.

A roomful of humans that was already offering me their greatest gift, did their best to point me in the right direction.

To help me ... make my mess fit.

Grace.

It was like bein’ in a roomful of Karrys.

Took me a moment, but I got myself turned around.

Limped back on the interstate.

Kept going.

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On my drive back home, it occurred to me that had I spent those 90 minutes before I stepped on to the stage going over my story, I would likely have avoided my embarrassment and delivered a better performance for the audience I was there to serve.

But that would have come at the expense of giving my full attention to all the other wonderful storytellers that came before me.

It would have required withholding my most valuable gift in the world.

So I refuse to regret my choice.

I accept my stumbling as a fair price to pay … for the gift of bearing witness to their stories.

Maybe even a bargain.

Because had I not stumbled, I would not have experienced an audience of strangers reaching out to steady me.

And the traveler writing these words would be much the poorer for that.