Applause, Applause

Applause, Applause 

It’s that time of the school year when things are wrapping up. Lily, age 8 and in the first grade, participated in her first school-wide music program. She is of course excited, and a little nervous. We are excited too, but we’ve been to enough of these to know that it’s a long evening. The logistics of moving four or five or six groups on to and then off of the stage consumes most of the time, and your own kid is usually performing for about a grand total of 5 minutes. But it’s what you do as parents.

It’s a lot of kids to organize, and when we arrive at the performance hall full chaos is already in progress, with parents shuttling their little darlings off to the appropriate rooms. Bill and I are hardly rookies at all of this, and Bill navigates the sea of people smoothly, drops Lily at her appointed place, and rejoins Lewi and me in the lobby. Since we are not meeting up with anyone else we move quickly into the large auditorium, where it is not difficult to find three seats together, unlike the family groups who have invited perhaps everyone they know. I want to remind them that this is not their child’s debut at Carnegie Hall, but hey, maybe for them it’s a bigger deal than it is for us. Bill and I are older— we might be as old as some of the grandparents present—and all of our kids have had lots of stage time. We try to make it to everything we can, but we also know that at some point kids have to learn to perform without a parent present.

The first group of singers—Lily’s group—takes the stage and gets into position. Predictably, several parents stand and wave and shout and do everything they can to get their kids’ attention. The stage lights make it impossible for the kids to see into the audience anyway, and the parents block the view of those of us in the audience. More importantly, the teachers are on stage trying very hard to organize a hundred or so kids. The added distraction of waving parents does not help. I find this beyond annoying, but it seems to be pretty typical of the parents in our district. It doesn’t matter to them if they are disrupting the work of a teacher or standing in the way of another parent. It’s a crazy form of rudeness that I do not understand, and it happens every time we go to an event.

I see my beautiful daughter on the corner of the stage. I stay in my seat and shoot a few pictures. She seems calm and confident, and she seems to enjoy singing her pieces. She files off with her classmates and watches the show with them until the finale: the entire school on stage, singing “La Bamba.”

We make our way through the crowd to collect our daughter. On the way home, she seems a little disappointed, and she says, “I looked for you, but I couldn’t see you.” I assure her that we saw her, and show her the pictures as evidence. And I reminder her that when she’s on stage, it’s her job to be watching her teacher, not looking for us. She doesn’t seem especially happy with this advice, but I realize that she’s still learning—as we all are—about trust.

I want her to remember that no matter where she is, I’m out there, cheering her on. She may not see me, she may not hear me, and I probably won’t stand up and wave my arms, but I’ll be there with open arms when she needs me. Even if I’m not touching her, I hold her in my gaze and in my heart, always on her side, always expecting the best from her. 

And I remember that when all I can see is darkness, God is watching me, supporting me, expecting the best from me. The world is full of things that try to distract me from this one truth: even when I cannot find God, he holds me in his gaze.