Lay Down Your Arms.

“That’s brilliant!” I thought. “But how?!”

I was equally excited and confused. I had just read that the Berkeley Repertory Theatre was developing Green Day’s punk manifesto American Idiot into a stage show.

Living about as far from Berkley as one possibly could, I knew I wouldn’t be able to see it. So I read everything I found about it.

The show opened and closed. The decision was made to transfer it to Broadway. It opened on Broadway, won a few Tonys and a Grammy and closed soon after. I listened to the new cast recording on Spotify a few times. The new version was good. I enjoyed it, but it never entered regular Spotify rotation.

A behind the scenes documentary was announced–I was excited because finally, I would be able to see and hear parts of the show. It wasn’t a pro-shot, but it was as close as I was going to get to see it. When it was finally released on Amazon, I splurged and bought it instead of renting it. It would make a nice addition to my small collection of musicals.

It was probably sometime in the evening. The kids were all off doing their thing. Amanda was probably at a birth, so I had the TV and couch to myself. I pushed play.

So far, it had been worth the purchase price.

Then it hit the 41st minute. The cast is in the studio with Green Day recording a new version of 21 Guns. The entire mood shifted–and so did mine.

I had heard the original song before. But this time, I was hearing the words for the first time.

I was listening, captivated, something was building in my throat, but I wasn’t letting it out because I knew what would happen. Then I realized how every single stanza ends.

“You’re in ruins”

It saw me. In my ruins.

I was in the midst of intense therapy sessions–coming to terms with my upbringing, religious trauma, the relationship with my father that was slowly disintegrating.

My eyes filled.

It saw me. And it gave me permission.

Softly, gently, inviting me–no, telling me–that it’s ok to let go. To literally throw your arms into the sky.

There were moments, in praise and worship services from my youth, that people would raise their hands as they sang–a symbol of full surrender to god.

But this time, it wasn’t about surrendering to god. It was permission to just release. Not surrendering to god, but surrendering to myself.

Therapy had already been doing its job and loosening things. This was the perfect intersection of the work I was already doing with a moment I wasn’t expecting.

It wasn’t a pastor.

Not a therapist’s breakthrough moment.

It was Billie Joe Armstrong.

***

Watch the Broadway cast perform 21 Guns here.