The moment you know your life has been changed

I met him through an ad in the newspaper.  Now, before you say, "Nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say no more, say no more," bear in mind that it was not one of "those" ads.  No, this ad in particular stated, "Learn Biblical Storytelling with Michael Forestieri."  As a former copywriter and voice over artist in the wonderful world of radio, that ad piqued my interest.  I informed my husband, Tim, that I would be MOST interested in such a course.  He asked the question that is most important to any husband: "How much does it cost?"

He heard the reply that makes most husbands happy, indeed: "It's free!"

Plans were made and I was going to be on my way that very Saturday to attend a workshop that would determine what I wished to do with my life.  However, that workshop almost never happened for me.

That Saturday, for reasons known only to the "great cosmos", my alarm did not peal in its typically irritating buzzing way.  Either that, or I pushed the snooze button one too many times.  I blame the first reasoning for my awakening from my peaceful slumber with a start, realizing that I was going to be late to this workshop.

I leaped into my bluejeans haphazardly, scraped the brush quickly through my hair, tapped my feet impatiently while my waffle took what seemed like forever to toast, and rushed in a frenzy out of the door.

Now I must say that I am late to practically EVERYTHING, except my birth, which is another story all together.  It is the family joke that I will be late to my own funeral.  But, during this week, I was truly making an effort to be on time for something.  I said, "Please don't let me be late; well, don't let me get stopped by a cop" on the way there.  I arrived at the church in the middle of town, a big, imposing looking structure with grey walls that reached towards Heaven.  I felt small and uncomfortable as I trudged towards one of the big, imposing doors.  My steps echoed in the foyer of this massive building.  But the only sounds I did not hear were people.  I peered into one door; it turned out to be the church, itself, with bursts of color dancing on the floor.  But, no one was to be seen.  Suddenly, an elderly gentleman approached me like a ninja from behind, because his voice behind me made me leap and sharply draw in my breath. 

"If you're lookin' for the storytellers," said he, "you'll have to go upstairs." 

As I gratefully breathed "Thank you" to him and made my way to the elevator, he added, "Whoops, you'll have to use the stairs, the elevator's broken."

What's a few more minutes?  I took the steps two at a time,,, well, it started out that way.  The out of shape me burst through the door and was greeted by the turned heads of those in the class, seated semi-circle around the master, himself.  He was also wearing jeans, with his leg nonchalantly crossed over the other, with a shock of curly black hair and the most inviting, friendly smile one could meet.  He beckoned me with his arm: "Come!  Welcome to the class!" 

That was my first sight of Michael Forestieri.  One of the first assignments during the class was to show, without words, how we arrived at our destination -- the workshop -- that day.  I raised my hand excitedly.  He pointed to me, and I acted out my shock at the realization that I awakened late, my ordeal of getting there, and how I reached the room.  His laughter fell like a waterfall that coolly falls upon one on a hot summer day.  He taught the course with a perfect mixture of fun and precision.  He introduced us to the "star" and "wish" concepts.  He was so generous with his "stars" -- what he liked about a story that a person shared, that you willingly wanted to carry out the "wishes" -- items that needed changed in the story to make it run smoother. 

By the end, he encouraged me to get out and tell stories, he told me I was a natural.  But, I had issues of perfection and fears that I would never measure up.  So, the next year, I attended the same class; however, I made sure I arrived early to my destination.  This time, there was a dinner afterwards;  he sat across the table from me and asked me where I had appeared.  I told him I appeared no where, that I was afraid to do it.  After all, what if I messed up?  He looked at squarely in the face and said in all seriousness, that he did NOT want to see me back in a class of his until I told him I had told stories SOMEWHERE.  Did he not realize the power of FEAR?  He then paused, and, with a considering look on his face said, "Would you like to shadow me?  I will mentor you, if you wish." 

I lept at the chance.  In time, he became more than a mentor.  He became an older brother to me.  We talked about our respective families (he was most proud of his "Dr. Mom" wife, Jodi, and gorgeous daughter, Kathryn Rose), and would swap a story in every conversation, laughing at the inventiveness of the other, or pondering at the poignancy of a story.  Like a good big brother, he was there for me when something devastating happened to one of my children.  I knew he was always going to be there for me as a most dear friend, as I would be there for him in the same capacity.  Some friendships may not be the oldest, but they can be among the dearest a person can ever experience.

This past Saturday, I shared about my brother in storytelling at his funeral.  A voice seemingly stilled by pancreatic cancer, his voice still speaks to me.  I can hear him in the back of my head while writing this piece about him, asking me to tone it down about him; after all, he was a man who also questioned if what he was doing was able to reach and teach others the way in which he greatly desired.  There are moments in a person's life when they know that meeting another person will permanently change them for the good.  One of those moments was when I met Master Storyteller, Michael Forestieri; I will forever be thankful for that harried, chaotic moment.