Behind the Curtain

‘Behind the Curtain’ 

I have spent a lot of my life behind the curtain. Not literally, of course. But sometimes it feels that way. 

I am married to a man who knows how to walk boldly onto a stage. He steps confidently into the light. He smiles. He waves. He speaks, and people listen. His name is announced and cheered from the crowd. People line up afterward to shake his hand, get a warm hug and to tell him what he has meant to them, to thank him for the work he does. Thank him for listening. Thank him for caring about them. And I stand somewhere just beyond the light, watching. Proud. So incredibly proud. 

Because I know the man they are applauding. I know the years behind the moments they see. I know the work, the sacrifice, the doubt, the long days, and the dreams that existed long before anyone else knew his name. I knew him before the applause, before the stage, before the lights found him. I knew the dream when it was still fragile enough to be whispered. And I believed in 

him. 

Because I love him, believing in him was easy. Believing in him brings me joy.

There is something sacred about knowing someone so deeply that you can see who they are becoming before the rest of the world sees it. There is joy in looking at someone you love and seeing possibility in them. Joy in saying, Go. I believe in you. Joy in watching them take one brave step and then another. Joy in watching confidence replace uncertainty. Joy in seeing them fall completely into their passion and discover that beautiful place where their gifts, their purpose, and their heart all seem to meet. 

Sometimes I watch him standing beneath those lights and think, There you are. There is the man I always knew was inside of you. There is the man God has always seen. 

There is something holy about witnessing someone you love become who God created them to be. Maybe that is one of the greatest privileges of loving someone. We get to stand close enough to see the becoming. We see them before the applause, before the confidence, before the success. We see the doubt and the sacrifice and the questions. We see the dream before anyone else knows it exists. And then one day, we get to stand in the shadows and watch that person walk into the light. 

And there is joy there. So much joy. Because love does something beautiful to our hearts. It allows another person’s happiness to become part of our own. His joy spills over into mine. His dream coming true brings me joy. His becoming brings me joy. And because I love him, being behind the curtain brings me joy. 

But behind the curtain is complicated. Behind the curtain is also where someone makes sure the timing is right. Someone checks the clock. Someone makes sure the curtain rises, that the music starts, that everyone is where they are supposed to be, and that the pieces come together so seamlessly that the audience never has to wonder how any of it happened. 

And when the show is over, the work behind the curtain continues. The lights go down. The curtain closes. The crowd begins to leave. And someone stays behind to clean up. 

I think I have spent years being that someone. I have stood behind the curtain making sure life keeps moving while he travels, works, serves, succeeds, and builds the life he was called to build. I have adjusted schedules, changed plans, held things together, waited, carried responsibilities alone, and managed the things no one sees. I have learned to clap from the shadows. 

And sometimes that is harder than I know how to say. 

Because when you spend enough time behind the curtain, you can begin to wonder if anyone remembers that you are part of the story. They see the person standing beneath the lights, but they don’t always see the hands that helped pull the curtain open. They hear the music, but they

don’t see the person who made sure it started on time. They experience the show, but they don’t see what happened before it began or what will need to happen after everyone else goes home. 

Perhaps one of the hardest moments is standing quietly in the background after the show, watching people line up to meet him. Watching their faces light up. Hearing his name. Seeing their admiration. And knowing that I am proud of him, too. Immensely proud. 

That is what makes the feeling so complicated. Because my joy is real, and so is the loneliness. My pride is real, and so is the ache. I don’t want to take away his light. I don’t want the applause to stop. I don’t resent his success. I want to be the loudest person clapping when he walks onto that stage. 

But sometimes, while I am clapping, there is a quiet part of me whispering, Does anyone see me? 

Not because I need his stage. Not because I need his applause. But because sometimes I would like someone to look behind the curtain. To see the woman standing there. To recognize that supporting another person’s dream requires something of you, too. 

There are dreams I have rearranged. Moments I have missed. Lonely nights. Responsibilities carried alone. Pieces of myself that learned to wait because someone I loved needed room to run. There is a strange loneliness in being essential to a life that can sometimes make you feel invisible. 

But I am beginning to understand something. 

I am not invisible. 

Because God sees me behind the curtain. 

In all the years I have wondered if anyone noticed me standing there, God did. He saw the sacrifices. He saw the waiting. He saw the lonely moments. He saw the things I carried that no one else knew I was carrying. He saw every time I stepped aside so someone I loved could step forward. He saw me clap from the shadows with a heart overflowing with pride while another part of that same heart quietly wondered, Will there ever be a moment for me? 

And God stayed. 

God is standing next to me behind the curtain. Maybe He always has been. Maybe in the moments when I thought I was alone in the shadows, He was right there beside me, watching the same stage, hearing the same applause, rejoicing with me as someone I love became the person God created him to be. 

But while I was watching him become, God was watching me become.

And that may be the greatest surprise of being behind the curtain. Behind the curtain is where I am becoming, too. 

All these years of standing just beyond the light have been changing me. Watching him find his passion has made me search more deeply for mine. Watching him believe in his gifts has made me wonder about the gifts God placed inside of me. Watching him step confidently into the light has awakened something that has been quietly waiting inside my own heart. 

A fire. 

At first, it was only a flicker. A quiet voice beneath the applause whispering, What about you? Not with jealousy. Not with resentment. But with invitation. What are you becoming? What has God placed inside of you? What would happen if you stopped believing that your only place was behind the curtain? 

And slowly, that flicker has begun to burn brighter. 

Being behind the curtain is igniting a fire within me. Because after years of watching someone I love step into his calling, I am beginning to understand that I have one, too. His light does not diminish mine. His success does not mean there is less room for me. His moment does not mean I missed my own. 

Maybe I simply wasn’t ready for mine yet. 

Maybe behind the curtain wasn’t a waiting room. Maybe it was my classroom. 

Maybe while I thought I was simply holding everything together, God was quietly putting pieces of me together. Teaching me. Stretching me. Deepening me. Showing me what courage looks like from only a few feet away. 

Maybe God wasn’t wondering why I hadn’t stepped through the curtain yet. Maybe He knew there were things I needed to learn in the shadows. Strength I needed to find. A voice I needed to discover. A fire that needed time to ignite. 

So He waited with me. 

And He is still waiting. 

Not impatiently. Not pulling me through the curtain before I am ready. Just standing beside me as I gather the courage to believe that there is a place for me beyond it. A place that isn’t his. A place that is mine. 

I imagine God standing beside me behind the curtain, His hand gently resting on it, a sliver of light slipping through the opening. And maybe He is whispering, Whenever you’re ready.

Because I think God knows I am getting closer. Closer to believing that the gifts He gave me were meant to be used. Closer to believing that my voice deserves to be heard. Closer to understanding that humility does not require invisibility. Closer to trusting that I can deeply love another person’s calling without abandoning my own. 

God is waiting with me to find the courage to step out—to leave the safety of the shadows and allow myself to be seen. He is waiting with me to step up—to stop shrinking from the things He has placed inside of me and to accept responsibility for my own gifts, my own dreams, my own becoming. And He is waiting with me to step into—into the woman I am becoming, into the work that is mine to do, into the life that has been calling quietly to me from the other side of the curtain. 

And maybe that is another gift my husband’s dream has given me: the courage to dream again myself. 

Because I have watched what happens when someone believes in what God placed inside of them. I have watched him walk through the curtain. I have watched him take his place. I have watched him come alive. And now something inside of me is saying, It’s your turn to believe. 

I don’t want to leave the place behind the curtain angry. I don’t want to push past him or fight for his light. I don’t want his moment. I want mine. 

I want to walk through the curtain carrying everything those years behind it have taught me—the love, the sacrifice, the patience, the humility, the strength, and the joy. I want to remember all those years I stood there believing in him and finally offer myself that same belief. 

Go. You’ve got this. This is who you were meant to become. 

And when the time comes, I will step beyond the curtain. Not into his moment. Into mine. Not onto his stage, but into the place God has been preparing for me all along. 

Perhaps I will look back at those years behind the curtain differently then. Not as the place where I disappeared, but as the place where I discovered myself. The place where I learned that another person’s applause doesn’t make my life smaller. The place where I learned that joy does not always have to have my name attached to it. The place where I learned to love someone else’s dream. The place where I learned to believe. The place where I watched someone I love become—and, without even realizing it, the place where I was becoming, too. 

Because I love him, believing in him brings me joy. Because I love him, his dream coming true brings me joy. Because I love him, being behind the curtain brings me joy. 

But now I understand that behind the curtain was never meant to be the end of my story.

God sees me behind the curtain. God is standing next to me behind the curtain. And God is waiting with me as I gather the courage to step out, to step up, and to step into everything He sees in me. 

Maybe one day soon, I will feel the curtain begin to move. The light will fall across my face. And I will look one last time at the place where I spent so many years standing in the shadows. 

I won’t hate it. 

I won’t regret it. 

I will be grateful for it. 

Because behind the curtain taught me how to love. Behind the curtain taught me how to believe. Behind the curtain taught me how to find joy in someone else’s becoming. 

And behind the curtain prepared me for my own. 

Then I will take a breath. I will step through the curtain. And I will finally understand: I was never invisible. I was becoming. 

And God was standing beside me the entire time.