It was a fairly quick slide into nerd-dom for me. The desire to craft (my drug of choice being cross-stitching) and the inability to slow my mind enough to do one thing at a time (games on a cell phone have been the best invention EVER), prompted me to contact my boy and ask what show I could be binge-watching on my new get-those-funky-“stations”-where-you-don’t-have-any-commercials toy attached to my old, non-HD TV.
His suggestions: Sherlock and Doctor Who.
Right, I confess: I’ve never watched Doctor Who.
Well, I flew through Sherlock, only to end in a rage along with the rest of the BBC watching world when I found out the next new episodes won’t be until 2017. I could re-watch the entire series a hundred times by then. So then Doctor Who was next. I didn’t go back to the sixties, but started with the relaunched version which began in 2005.
And life as I knew it was over.
I. Had. No. Idea.
I thought it was just a cheesy little Brit sci-fi show. And, actually, it IS a cheesy little Brit sci-fi show. But oh so much more. My daughter and I were having a discussion about books being plot-driven or character-driven and how much we both prefer character-driven. That helped me understand why this show sucked me in so much. And why I cry when the Doctor regenerates (ain’t gonna splain – you’ll have to watch yourself).
And, in keeping with life’s goal to find God in the stuff of life (see the blog sub-title), as I’ve blown through these episodes, there have been moments that have just stopped me in my cross-stitching tracks. One in particular has stayed with me and continues to echo through my mind.
The Doctor and his companion are at a cell which holds alien slaves. While watching them, he closes his eyes and, strongly affected, comments on their song. Donna (the companion) looks confused and admits she can hear nothing.
“Do you want to hear?” he asks her. She nods, and he puts his hands on the side of her face. Suddenly her eyes widen and then tear up.
“It’s a song of captivity,” he explains.
She only listens a moment, then with tears streaming, she begs him to take it away. “I can’t bear it,” she says, as he quickly puts his hands on her face again and silences the song.
I’m looking out my front window as I type this at the houses of my neighbors. How many songs of captivity are being sung in those homes? That lady who just went by with her dog, that mailman driving from box to box… Am I the Doctor, listening with compassion and a desire to help, or am I Donna saying no, no, no, I can’t bear it. Because whether I’m willing to hear it or not, it’s there. Even with my head in the sand, it’s there.
As I walk or cross-stitch my way through my little life of God-given freedom, the song of captivity is being sung all around me.
And God used a cheesy little Brit sci-fi show to place His hands on the sides of my face and help me hear.