My husband, Michael, and I squeezed into our seats in the sanctuary at St. Rita’s School, just before the start of the annual Advent program.
I could see a few other eighth-grade parents down in front and knew they had arrived early, jockeying for the best seats, video cameras at the ready, not wanting to miss a daughter’s beautiful solo or a son stepping up to the microphone and reciting a Bible verse to the hushed crowd.
I had nothing like that to look forward to, no proud YouTube moment to e-mail friends and family. My daughter Elizabeth would be spending the evening hidden among the bell choir and the chorus, where even I couldn’t pick her voice out from the others.
I was embarrassed to feel this way. I didn’t want to be a stage mom. But I knew my daughter had so much more to offer!
She’d been a mystery to me ever since she hit her teens. The more I coaxed her to take a step into the spotlight, the more she insisted on fading into the background. She had a beautiful voice. She liked to read. She was a Girl Scout, played piano and did well in school.
Why was she so reluctant to share her talents so that others could appreciate them? Didn’t she realize how important leadership skills are? Just once I wanted her to have a moment to shine. But this was the eighth graders’ last chance to perform. Next year they’d be at the high school.
Some younger kids took the stage, waving to their parents, glancing nervously at each other. They looked so cute in their Christmas sweaters and dresses. I remembered when Elizabeth was that age, how she burst out in song at the least provocation. She hadn’t been shy about singing in front of others then, and she talked a mile a minute. Now she barely said a word when introduced to an adult. How could she have changed so much in a few years?
One of the little girls read a short verse. Her beaming mother popped up out of her seat to snap her picture. The girl stepped back to join the group in “Away in a Manger,” their tiny voices barely carrying to the back of the church.
I wanted to be that mother again, Elizabeth to be that child. I praised her. Encouraged her. Asked her about school all the time. This was only her second year at St. Rita’s. I wanted to be sure she was adjusting okay and making friends. But her responses rarely went beyond “Everything’s fine, Mom.” She practically lived in her room. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d helped out around the house without me asking her.
God, I’m not sure I even know who my daughter is anymore. But it was more a plaintive thought than a prayer.
The children paraded off the stage and the next group marched on. I thought about all the Christmas shopping I had to get done, the papers I’d brought home from work to read. I felt myself nodding off, and Michael poked me in the ribs. Finally there was a brief intermission. I stood to stretch my legs and overheard two women talking behind me.
“Don’t you love these programs?” one said. “It’s wonderful to see how much talent these kids have.”
“They always do a great job,” the other woman said. “It’s one of my favorite parts of Christmas. It won’t be the same when my son is in ninth grade next year.”
I wondered which of the solos or readings her son was doing. Of course she was looking forward to his performance. Was it so wrong for me to want to feel proud of Elizabeth in the same way?
The lights dimmed and we sat down. The bell choir took the stage. I strained to see Elizabeth, but my view was blocked by someone in front of me. Between numbers a young man read about the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks. The woman behind me leaned forward with her camera. Next up was the chorus.
From my seat it seemed like Elizabeth was barely moving her lips. Not that it mattered. The audience’s eyes were glued to the soloists. It felt as if every eighth grader had at least one starring moment. Everyone except my daughter.
The show ended to thunderous applause. I looked for the nearest exit but the aisles were already clogged.
The woman behind me smiled at me. “Wasn’t the program wonderful?” she asked.
“So you’ve got an eighth grader,” I said, dodging her question. “So do I.”
“What’s your child’s name?” she said.
“Our daughter is Elizabeth…”
“Elizabeth? You’re Elizabeth’s mom?” the woman said, her eyes wide with excitement. “My son talks about her all the time.”
I searched my memory to recall the names of any boys my daughter had mentioned, but came up blank. I looked to Michael. He only shrugged. Could she be thinking of a different Elizabeth?
“She’s always so kind to him,” the other mom continued. “She’s really helped him fit in.”
“Oh,” I said, finally understanding. “It’s your first year. Welcome to St. Rita’s. Last year Elizabeth was new. I’m sure she understands what it’s like for your son.” Slowly we snaked through the line to the middle-school classrooms, where we’d pick up our kids.
“No, that’s not it,” she said quietly. There was something in her voice that commanded my attention. “My son is autistic. While he’s gone here since kindergarten, and his siblings before him, as he’s gotten older it’s been harder for him to fit in. But this year has been a positive experience because of Elizabeth. She not only accepts him for who he is, she’s made a difference in how others see him. I’d really like to meet her.”
I saw Elizabeth waiting at the door of her classroom, her face unreadable as usual. I took a deep breath. Would this woman be greeted by the girl she thought she knew or by the uncommunicative teenager I lived with every day?
I turned to the woman and quickly introduced her to Elizabeth. I could hardly believe the change that came over my daughter.
“Hello,” she said, waving her hand. She smiled, stood up straight and made eye contact, without any coaching from me.
“I like your son,” Elizabeth said. “He’s got a great sense of humor. Sometimes he and I are the only ones who get the teacher’s jokes.” She giggled and added, “It’s nice to meet you.”
Then she hooked her arm into the crook of Michael’s elbow and tugged him down the hall. “Dad, I’m hungry!” she said, morphing from polite young woman back into typical unruly teenager. I turned to the woman, whose face was bright with happiness.
“You’ve got a good kid there,” she said. “She’s something special.”
“Thanks,” I said, nodding, slowly letting everything sink in. “You know, she really is.”
Interpersonal skills and the ability to see others’ God-given talents, weren’t those the hallmarks of a good leader too? I wished the other mom a Merry Christmas and hurried to catch up to my husband and my daughter, my own shining star.
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