Yesterday in church, one of the speakers (who recently moved to this area) mentioned what a coincidence it was to find Bart living here since they had gone to the same high school on the other side of the country and played in a band together.
I wondered how many of the congregation were surprised to hear that Bart was musical. (My suspicions were confirmed when one of Bart’s friends approached him afterwards and said his first thought was “OUR Bart?”).
It made me think about how strange it is when you move somewhere new or join a new group of people that they only know parts about you and have no idea that you have talents or hobbies or experiences that once were defining characteristics.
How many of my friends here know that I was a full-on theater geek in high school, playing the title role in The Little Prince, doing a big dance number in State Fair, or winning district recognition for a few short performances?
Who would guess that I was a serious speech and debater my senior year in high school? Would they ever guess I was the alternate for the national competition in Dramatic Interpretation or that I crushed opponents on both sides of an issue in Lincoln-Douglas debate?
How many know I can sew pleats, add an invisible zipper, or line any number of clothing articles?
Would they guess that my best friend and I were the first ones to finish the weekly 1.5 mile run each week in P.E.? (No. . . I’m now the world’s worst runner).
Who knows that I played the violin for five years? And piano for another three?
All of those are parts of my past – things I mention only occasionally – that defined me for years.
I was reminded again of this phenomenon a few weeks ago when we were hanging out with the Lauritzens and the topic of homeschooling came up. Until Bart told them, they had no idea I’d been homeschooled for eleven years. Why would they have known?
And who knows what I don’t know about the people I feel like I know well?