the work of play

“You doing all right?” I asked Mom. She sat in the pew beside me at the downtown Presbyterian church. The ceiling peaked miles, it seemed, above our heads.

“Oh, I’m calm,” she said. “I’ve helped him practice so often, I know this will be wonderful.”

She indeed looked composed, while I sat like a loaded arrow, my fingers twisting in my lap. Fortunately, Tim had found his seat on the other side of James, our son. When Tim is beside me and lights go down, he tends to tickle my knee. Shrieking and launching five feet in the air wouldn’t be the way I hoped to support Dad at his concert.

The room looked nearly full.

Mom said, “In all these years, I don’t think your dad or I ever spoke in a church this large.”

I swallowed and continued aiming for composure. The lights dimmed. Someone up front introduced the spring concert of the Gleemen, a local all-male singing group Dad joined some months ago. For several seasons Tim’s dad urged my dad to be part of their choir, and finally Dad agreed to try it. Watching all the men file onto the stage, I couldn’t decide if I should thank or scold my father-in-law.

Now Dad was up there, in his black tuxedo in the back row. There was Tim’s dad, smiling, across the risers. I was glad Tim’s dad had brought this about, though no one had foreseen that my father would end up trying out for the solo now scheduled at the concert’s end.

How would I survive through all the tunes on the program until then?

Strangely, a week before I had managed fine at the production my son was in of Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors. A little tense beforehand, I had waited for the show’s beginning in confidence that seeing James on stage expressing his art would relax me. At every one of his plays I have reacted the same way. This one last week proved no exception. The players took frenetic inspiration from the Marx Brothers in Duck Soup.

(Photos courtesy of Jessamyn VandenElzen. Click on them to “embiggen.”)

They were masterful. I had fun.

But this night watching Dad on stage, I wasn’t doing so well. Even while the concert opened with upbeat numbers from America’s past, and even while appreciating the informative introductions to each song, my nerves continued skittering the same way James’s troupe had acted out their characters.

What was my problem? Why did I feel like I held Dad up with my stomach muscles? He’s doing great, I told myself. But, my brain responded, what if he slips stepping down for his solo? What if his voice cracks? What if the sound guy messes up and the choir drowns him out?

Clearly, I could have used some form of psychological counseling. Someone to tell me how these extreme feelings might stem from growing up a preacher’s kid, watching Dad “perform” behind the pulpit every Sunday for critical congregants. Maybe that was the problem.

I knew, however, that Mom beside me was a preacher’s daughter, too. She was okay with this. Of course, her dad answered the ministerial call later in life. Grandpa wasn’t even assigned a usual, preaching pastorate until he neared retirement. And then, well, duh, Dad is her husband. She’s been a preacher’s wife all these years. She found her methods of separating from him. She dealt with these things as an adult.

But I’m still a child when I see Dad on stage. The kid in me worries. Maybe, a psychologist might counsel, I took on too much those years ago, imagining I needed to alleviate stress for my parents in their chosen religious service. Now I need to find ways to separate more: me from them, past from present, church from art.

The moment came, finally, for the last concert number. The presenter explained how this song, Ol’ Man River, became an expression of hardship not just for African Americans, but for all of us living life that can be tragic and confusing. Circumstances can be like a river, continually rolling along, not seeming to care. But life keeps happening.

I thought about Dad, growing up poor. He’s had experiences I can’t understand. He is a good singer, as each church he served learned, but moreso Dad is an individual with depth because of what he has been through. He was the perfect choice for this solo about the ol’ man river.

And then, Dad sang it. On and on the arrangement flowed, the choir behind him. Dad belted out the rich notes, from low to high, over and over. The lyrics were his, for the moment. He knew how to deliver.

My vision obscured by tears, I watched and listened in awe. At the end, I turned to Mom. Applause resounded. “Look behind us,” I whispered. “People are standing.”

On the way out, I listened to strangers saying the last song gave them chills. I told a few people, “That’s my daddy.”

I don’t know why, but to say so felt like something more. As if there had been a slight shift. I’m going to see how it goes from here. While I turn into whatever I will be these golden years, maybe a more healthy daughterhood will begin. It might just keep rolling along.