Appreciating the Room

What do we notice before the performance begins?

Think local comedy night, Dear Loved Ones.

My hubby and I went to the Chandler Center for the Arts to see Leslie Jones in October 2024. Yet before the person we came to see ever took the stage, the room itself stole my attention.

Upon entering the main room, I became immediately enthralled with the grandeur. People moved around us—entering, talking, finding their way—and I found myself sight-seeing.

Looking.

Admiring.

Lingering within the space.

Wondering how many people actually took notice of what seemed to me like two main attractions in and of themselves:

An impressively gigantic, majestic painting curved along the wall—surrounded by equally stunning chandeliers composed of what appeared to be hundreds of individual glass vases or tubes, each shaped like a flower or star.

I sat excitedly on the floor—very possibly resembling a crazy lady, or perhaps a child—simply enjoying the space before beginning my search for the best angle from which to photograph it.

I asked questions.

I spoke with the workers near the entrance and information booth. They informed me the chandeliers were original to the building—which was completed in 1989—and were especially glorious because they had recently been cleaned.

They also said they were grateful not to bear that responsibility.

Understandably so.

I learned that cleaning them requires going up and down a ladder, repeatedly removing each individual glass piece, cleaning it, and carefully returning it to its place.

They said the process takes hours for each chandelier.

I shared this newly acquired knowledge with two women who were sensibly seated on stools—compared with me on the floor—and who may or may not have questioned my sanity. I found myself saying something like:

It goes to show that beauty comes at a cost. It takes time and dedication to keep something like this looking its best. Can you imagine having to clean one of these in your own home?

I certainly wouldn’t want to.

But what a beautiful sight for the rest of us, who merely get to stand beneath them—hopefully in grateful and appreciative wonder.

And perhaps that is part of appreciating a room:
recognizing not only what is beautiful, but the unseen labor that allows its beauty to remain.

How many people had stood on those ladders?
How many hands had carefully held each piece of glass?
How many performances, conversations, celebrations, and ordinary moments had unfolded beneath them?

And how easy—with somewhere else to be and something else to see—for any of us to simply pass beneath their glory without ever looking up?

But I couldn’t.

Perhaps others noticed each of these remarkably beautiful features—the painting and chandeliers—quietly. Perhaps they had seen them before. Perhaps they were simply focused on finding their seats or anticipating the performance.

I couldn’t know what anyone else saw—or what they appreciated without outwardly showing it—unless I asked.

Still, I was baffled then, and I remain baffled now, by how few people seemed to pause and take it all in.

Not because I believe everyone must experience beauty as I do, but because these pieces felt almost impossible not to notice.

— If only we would pause, Dear Loved Ones—what might we discover?!

True, we had come to see a comedian. Yet before the performance even began, the room was already asking me to take notice.

Fascinated by the room—and by the people sharing it with us—I took in the second masterpiece. Up close and personal. Then from across the room.

Captivated by a moment the artist captured, I took in the awe of nature—a painting so extraordinary for its beauty, size, and artistry that it held its own even in a room filled with stunning chandeliers.

Simply Magnificent!

Personally, I could have stared at either all day without growing tired of their beauty. I only wish I had thought to take a picture when we first arrived, before the room filled with people.

Next time!

Ever the curious weirdo, I cannot help but contemplate: What becomes available to us when we pause long enough to appreciate the room?

And then...
What might we be failing to notice of Adonai’s goodness when we move too quickly through the rooms He allows us to enter?

As well as what—or whom—we might discover within them...

In the company of strangers.

A room is not merely the space surrounding us. It is also the people temporarily sharing it with us—and the energy created among us.

As I talked with my delightful husband, the kind workers, and a few strangers, I couldn’t help wondering how unconventional—even crazy—I might seem, and how often I apologize for it.

I feel it is important, though, to connect with one another—even, or perhaps especially, with strangers. We cannot know who might need to feel a little less alone in this world.

Starting conversations with unknown people can sometimes feel awkward or even unusual now—though perhaps they always have. I find it interesting and even a little sad that we may stand or sit beside one another without ever learning who is sharing the room with us.

I, on the other hand, often chat with anyone willing to carry on a conversation, including the young woman whose seat was “lucky” enough to be next to ours. 🤣 She was a joy—joining in conversation and jokes as we got to know one another, if only for a brief moment in time.

I believe we impact one another, Dear Loved Ones. That moments matter. That we are meant to interact and reach out to one another. I cannot begin to know what any one moment might mean to another person, but I believe it can change a life—perhaps even our own.

Another woman that evening, in the restroom before the show began, shared how happy she was to be there—and proceeded to tell me why—simply because I engaged with her.

Another shared moment. A different stranger.
A connection that links us in time and space...

What might we all have missed had none of us taken the risk—nah, the opportunity—to connect with a stranger?

Such a delightful experience.

What connects us, Dear Loved Ones, if not our shared humanity?

I witnessed how a collection of individuals, couples, and small groups became an audience, when Leslie Jones took the stage.

People of varying backgrounds, affiliations, levels and forms of education, beliefs, and experiences—sharing an experience, joining in laughter, and perhaps even conversation.

Remember, this was October 2024. Meaning, just before the November election. The tension—and at times outright hatred—surrounding political parties and their rhetoric was sowing further division between coworkers and neighbors, friends and families.

A schism seemed capable of reaching nearly anyone and everyone, over almost anything and everything.

Those oppositions and discord did not magically disappear at the theater doors.

Yet there we were.

Whatever differences existed among us, we were also a roomful of strangers sharing a comedic evening together.

Isn’t it delightful to wonder, Dear Loved Ones, what might be possible within these shared moments and experiences?

To wonder how they might connect us to one another with greater compassion, understanding, grace—perhaps even because of the laughter?

And what might change if we carried that connection beyond the room?

If division can be sown, what might we choose to sow instead?