-Bradley Dubos
How long can you hold your arms above your head ? It’s not as easy as it sounds. Just try to sit through an entire episode of your beloved Jersey Shore keeping your arms straight up towards the ceiling . It probably won’t turn out so well . In fact, even if you distracted yourself with quality entertai nment, chances are you’d get worn out quickly . To be fair, holding your arms up in the air isn’t a very marketable skill and there’s little reason to practice doing so. It’s also very uncomfortable and anyone observing you will probably assume you are a delusional maniac pretending to ride a roller coaster or you are gesturing toward something that doesn’t exist. In any case, there are a couple of reasons why one might hold his arm up for an extended period of time. Say, for example , if there was a puppet propped up on the other end.
The ministry team and I referred to my puppet as Conehead. He was a slim green figure with a huge cone - shaped head, if the name didn’t give it away. His orange hair was curved and pointed in two directions like a very impressive moustache, and his big circular nose, which was harrowingly close to coming unattached, was orange as well. Garbed in an ugly blue shirt with a neon swirl design, Conehead was not the most attractive puppet on the block. Nevertheless, he did his job, and his old and worn nature actually made for a more comfortable “broken in” feel. His body was very light and flimsy; the majority of his weight came from his massive head. It flopped around and hung droopily when my arm was absent , but even with this giant cranium he was relatively small and lightweight.
Conehead was part of a legion of colorful characters who entertained the kids going to Warren First Assembly of God. Puppetry was only one of the ministries my church - based team and I performed for children, but it was certainly the silliest and most fun. We brought songs with encouraging messages to life , with the puppets acting as our instruments and mouthpieces, the liaisons between toiling 2 volunteers and hyper, giddy kids. Not surprisingly, these shows caught their attention. I could hear them laughing, maybe singing along, altogether captivated by the magic of the performance.
Conehead had his own personality, bubbly and enthusiastic, as he came to life on my right arm. I’m not sure if that’s normal or not, but the other puppets also seemed to be having a good time while the puppeteers usually seemed cranky and tired, so I guess it’s a valid explanation. He danced around of his own accord, mouthing the words as dramatically as possible, the ultimate entertainer. Sometimes, against my firmest rebukes , he would pop up before the show began and perform some ridiculous maneuver, sparking a wave of giggles beyond the black curtain.
These shows were very low - pressure for the most part . Hidden behind the assembled stage with no visible ties to the action , there was no chance for criticism or correction, at least as far as our audience was concerned. Crouched uncomfortably close to the floor, a task fairly difficult for the taller of us, we would wait. Wait for the music to start, sometimes with no more than a beat before the lyrics began. The waiting was the worst of it because you could feel your legs going numb before the show even started. Soon, your arms would follow suit and you’d be nothing but a torso with four noodles for limbs.
The wobbly portable stage with which I was all too familiar enclosed us. It was a huge pain to assemble and disassemble at every practice, but after so many dozens of times the process became second nature and didn’t require much effort. Four adjustable poles acted as corners, the front two about shoulders - high and the back two much higher . Rods were screwed into place between each of the sets, and a dusty black curtain hung from each one. There were also smal l curtains for the sides to be sure it was virtually impossible to see any of us puppeteers. Otherwise, we would be unable to perpetuate the farce and would surely have a much harder time convincing these toddlers to accept Conehead and his entourage as reality. Yes, the complexity of the stage was a necessity.
Several of us were in the front section of the stage with puppets held high, the hot interior making our palms sweaty and our arms sticky. Two or three others were behind the back section, either making use of natural height or plastic stools, waving signs about to accompany the music. These signs were handmade with colorful construction paper and were made up of words, pictures, and other creative means of communicating the song lyrics . From song to song , you could be on puppet duty or sign duty, depending on which role you had learned. Signs were preferred by most of us , because being on puppets often meant awkward positions, endless cracking of joints, and, of course, sore arms . Bear in mind also that not every venue sported a fluffy carpet rivaling the comfort of a Tempur - Pedic mattress. Bruised knees were a familiar occupational hazard.
All petty complaints aside, these experiences were truly fun, and looking back the work we did was both amazing and beautiful . Hearing the kids ’ reactions was reward in itself. I especially would respect a rascal bold enough to run onstage and touch a puppet with his snot - encrusted hand before being chased off by a helper and reseated. Some of the songs required reactions and participation from the kids, prompting them to scream loudly at certain parts or perhaps jump and spin wildly. Of course, any respectable child of the supple K - 6 variety welcomes this opportunity without question. Although the curtain was not quite translucent enough to see the action and I would be committing a deadly sin by peeking over , the sounds made quite clear when a riot had ensued. The hyper youth would often get so excited as to abandon their seats for the remainder of the song. Even trapped in the claustrophobic stage, we could tell when we had hit our mark and successfully energized the twits. Tyler would pass me a goofy smile of triumph, or perhaps give a silent high - five to Mary - Beth, who I had a crush on for a rather pitiful length of time ( the exact number of years I don’ t care to divulge ) .
The bond I shared with my team of seven years was unbreakable . During our childhood , we had watched in awe as past volunteers, our role models, ministered to us. We were the ones in the 4 cushioned red seats, gazing at the puppets in delight. Overwhelmingly inspired, we were determined to commit to this path at an early age, joining the team and taking over its responsibilities as soon as we reached our teens. As we matured, our common drive to minister to children built us up, whether we were in the middle of a puppet show or playing an intense game of capture the flag at two in the morning. We spent hours together each week, preparing the schedule for Sunday services or practicing dramas and lessons for the next summer’s Vacation Bible School. Discipleship, the group’s formal name, was a huge part of my identity. Actively participating in it for so long made me very attached to the work I did and to the people I did it with.
Unfortunately , there came a time when the curtain was drawn for good. Circumstances out of our control ended the program. We wouldn’t be passing on the mantle to a new group of kids . The day when the news came out was devastating to me. I couldn’t wrap my mind around having performed for the final time, having finished my last year in Discipleship. The implications didn’t fully register until I looked to Heather, the children’s pastor. The tearstains on our leader ’s face cemented the moment in my mind and made it real. Against my every intention, this crisis has affected our friendships with one another. Once a tight - knit group, we now don’t see each other very often, and when we do it’s usually just in passing , maybe at a church service or a graduation party . We’ll exchange hugs and smiles, but words between us now boil down to small talk . We keep our Discipleship days at a distance , as if afraid to touch on such sacred subject matter. Deep connections have been uprooted, and now introspection is the only means of reminiscence. It’s a sad reality, but we still have good memories to look back on, and all we accomplished over those years.
Why did we do what we did? We wanted to give life to these children, just as we were breathing life into our puppets. We wanted to empower them and give them truth so they could grow up and go on to make their own decisions about life and faith. Words can’t describe what it is like to impact a child, even one, in a positive way. It made everything we did worth it: the often - painful hours of practicing, the times sitting together on the ground with craft materials sprawled out, the conflicts and obstacles, the maintenance of Conehead’s nose. We poured our time and energy into ministry for reasons that weren’t always clear, but consistently proved to be right. I’ll never forget what it was like to be confined in that stage, the puppet master, hundreds of little eyes entranced by my simple movements, team members to either side, goose bumps forming, all of us together fashioning a tapest ry of art and soul that could never be recreated through words. Then all that’s left is the dying of the music, the excited applause, and Conehead’ s final bow .
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