Girl in the Song

by Chrissy Cymbala Toledo

  “Ooh, can I have some pineapple juice with my cookies, Rina?”

  “Of course, my leetal princess,” she answered.

  Rina and her husband always kept a guest room ready for us, with a bed for Dad to sleep in as well as a makeshift bed for me on the floor. I loved staying overnight at Rina’s when Dad decided to work late because it was such an adventure. I would run all over the building, exploring every corner. And even better, I got to be with Rina, a person I adored.

  I finished up my snacks, changed into my cozy pajamas, and lay down on the fluffy blanket that was spread out on the worn shag carpet. Rina shuffled into the room and kissed me goodnight, turning off the lights so that I could settle in. I lay there in the dark listening to the noise coming through the slightly opened window—far-off sirens, honking horns, and blaring music blended together, sounding like a crazy song. Starting to doze off, I heard laughter—Rina and her husband were talking in the kitchen. I loved my world.

  As I slept, Dad would usually work late, sitting alone in his office down the hall. The reality of what he faced every day as the pastor of this church must have crowded his mind. The problems seemed somehow veiled when I was with him—his distraction, a four-year-old girl who loved being with her daddy. But now, in the stillness, pangs of doubt must have entered his thoughts. It had been almost a year since he’d resigned from a promising career at American Airlines to take this church in an area where heroin was as easy to buy as a carton of milk.

  There was absolutely nothing appealing about the neighborhood or the building that might draw people to this place. The Brooklyn Tabernacle was not in a good situation. Collections taken on Sundays were sometimes stolen before they could be counted and the few people who attended could barely support themselves, let alone a struggling church. The wood-like paneled walls of that second floor office must have felt like they were closing in on Dad that night. To me this was an adventure; not so for him.

  Suddenly on this night I woke up, startled by screaming sirens speeding by the building. I looked toward the empty guest bed. Where’s Daddy? I got up and tiptoed through the kitchen, then out into the hallway. A small light shone from the office, the door slightly ajar. I quietly approached, peeked through the opening, and saw something that was not unusual to me. Dad was praying. But he was not just praying . . . he was listening. Even as a little girl, I knew that’s what he was doing because his eyes were closed and his face looked like someone who was looking at something beautiful.

  THE NEXT MORNING WAS CRISP AND COOL, a breeze catching the scent of Rina’s breakfast on the stove, wafting it my way. Jumping up, I grabbed the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around me.

  “Leetal girl, do I hear you up?”

  “Yes, coming!” I spotted a pair of her shoes and quickly stepped into them, half tripping, half dragging my feet to the kitchen.

  “It’s almost ten o’clock, and your daddy’s ready to go. I will feed you and get you ready,” Rina said. I glanced out into the hallway and heard my dad on the phone, the faint fragrance of his cologne still in the air. Rina had offered him coffee earlier, but he had already gone to the diner down the street for a cup of coffee to go—with lots of cream and sugar, just the way he liked it.

  Although Dad would pray and study his Bible for hours a day, he didn’t like to wait very long for things. That was why we spent the night at the church, so that he could avoid getting stuck in rush-hour traffic between New York and New Jersey.

  “Daddy, are we going through the tunnel again to get home?” I asked as we crossed the street toward our car.

  “Yep, we are,” he assured me. “But we need to get to Manhattan to go through the Holland Tunnel.” The view as we drove over the Manhattan Bridge that day was amazing, with the skyline glistening in the late morning sun. You didn’t have to wear seat belts in those days, so I knelt beside him and put my arm around his neck while we drove down the ramp onto Canal Street.

  “Hey Chrissy, look over there,” Dad said, pointing toward the other side of the street. I giggled at a Chinese man waving a large purplish squid in one hand and an even bigger red fish in his other hand while the crowd of customers pressed around him, elbowing each other, trying to snatch the delicacies. As we drove through the center of Chinatown, the streets became narrower, the buildings were closer, and the people seemed to be packed together like a box of crayons. Bright red and gold signs covered crowded storefronts, and the satin coats and scarves hanging outside reminded me of a beautiful rainbow.

  As soon as Dad began to roll down the window, a strong stink flooded the car, making me squeeze my nostrils shut. Fish!

  “I don’t like fish, Daddy, especially the way Rina eats them with the eyeballs still in them!”

  Dad laughed. “But what about what Lorna makes—Jamaican ackee and saltfish?”

  “I like that, Daddy, ’cause there are no eyeballs!”

  Jamaicans, Puerto Ricans, Filipinos—these were just some of the different cultures surrounding me as a little girl. My world was so exciting and fascinating because I had the advantage of growing up in a family that didn’t see a person’s color. I never thought about the fact that we were the only Caucasian family in our church. I simply learned how to love people by watching my parents.

  “There’s the tunnel, Chrissy.” Dad began to slow down, merging into the single line of cars.

  “I can do it, Daddy! Can I throw the change?” Going through the Holland Tunnel was like being on an amusement park ride for me.

  “Okay, but remember: Aim for the middle.” He held on to me while I reached across and tossed a quarter into the toll basket.

  The music of the tunnel now began. The distinct sound of the cars’ engines as they echoed off the walls was a new melody to my ears. I began to hear music everywhere, from the echoes in the tunnel, to the rumbling of the subway, to the rhythm of my footsteps on Rina’s hardwood floors.

  We drove another twenty minutes before arriving at our home in Maplewood, New Jersey. Our house was cozy and nicely furnished. Sometimes I thought about that man who lived on the street, sleeping outside our church. I wondered what he thought about his home, because I loved mine so much. Did he like sleeping on the sidewalk? Did he have a mommy and daddy like I did, and did they worry about him?

  We parked in front of our small yellow house on a quiet, tree-lined street. Dad opened the huge door of our brown sedan and I jumped out, dashing onto our large front yard. The springy grass looked like a green carpet under my feet, making me want to twirl until I got dizzy and fell to the ground. I lay there looking up at the clear blue sky, watching the birds fly back and forth, perching in the tall, sprawling trees.

  I saw Mom looking for us from the big window in the living room, and soon she was at the door, smiling through the glass pane. I scrambled to my feet because I couldn’t wait to be near her. She was beautiful. Her hair was thick and long, and when it wasn’t flowing down her back, it was in a pretty bun on the top of her head. She was the picture of someone who was warm and down to earth and always made our home a comfortable, inviting place.

  My mom was also really funny and often made us all laugh because she wasn’t too proud to act silly. One time when my younger sister and I were disobeying her and being really naughty, Mom grabbed a broom and chased us around the dining table. She was having fun running after us. We weren’t sure whether to laugh or cry!

  She moved through life with a grace and ability to keep things light in the midst of the most pressure-filled times. No doubt it was one of the things that got our family through those early days in ministry. She could have struggled with the whole idea of her husband leaving his comfortable position in the business world for something that would require so much from them as a couple. She could have pressured my dad to give her the American dream after they were married. But she didn’t. She had a sensitive heart to do what she felt God wanted her to do. The adventure my family was on meant taking this church in Brooklyn, and Mom was all for
it.

  Besides the gift of laughter, Mom had another unique gift. She could play songs on the piano without any music in front of her. Beautiful music. While dinner was simmering on the stove, she would sit at the piano and turn single notes into elaborate chord progressions, naturally flowing from her fingertips.

  “Chrissy, come here. I want to play something for you!” she called up to me one day while I was busy coloring in my room. The truth is, because I was always hearing music in my head, I was always tuned in to the songs she played, wherever I was. It was the special bond my mom and I had. When she was playing, I’d often sit on her lap and stare at her hands or hold her wrists as she touched the keys, pretending my hands were making hers move.

  Now, as Mom’s fingers moved effortlessly across the keys, she said, “C’mon, let’s sing, too. ‘O come, let us adore Him, O come, let us adore Him.’”

  Mimicking her sweet tone, I sang along: “O come, let us adore Him, Christ, the Lord!” The song ended and she paused, then suddenly without warning, she started playing what sounded like circus music! “Christmas is almost here, and that means your birthday is almost here”! In the funniest of voices she began to sing, “Happy birthday to Chris, she’s giving me a kiss, her mommy’s so silly, hap-py birthday to Chris!”

  She grabbed me and smothered my neck with kisses that tickled. Giggling, I begged, “Do it again, Mommy. Again!” And she would, over and over again, to my delight. Love and music permeated our home. When Mom wasn’t working on a melody at the piano, she would be singing or playing a record album. My parents’ collection was diverse in style, with one thing in common: All of the records had songs that moved the heart.

  As Dad pulled our overnight bag out of the trunk, Mom opened the door. “Jim, hurry! I need to show you something!”

  “Carol, just give me a second while I bring our things upstairs.”

  “No, please, Jim . . . come here—you won’t believe this!” she exclaimed.

  Dad and I followed her into the kitchen, where my mom pointed at the table. “Late last night, the doorbell rang,” she began. “I ran down from our room wondering who would come to the house unannounced so late in the evening. When I opened the door nobody was there, but there were these four bags of groceries on the front steps. There wasn’t a note or a car in front, nothing at all. Jim, it’s everything we need for the next few weeks. It’s a miracle!”

  Mom paused, eagerly waiting for my dad to say something. I was surprised when he hung his head down, and when he began to speak, his voice sounded funny, as if he were going to cry.

  “Carol, you won’t believe it, but late last night I sat alone in my office and was crying out to God with the bills in my hands. I sat there feeling surrounded by His presence. God felt so near, and it was as though I could hear Him say, ‘Just trust Me. I will take care of you.’”

  While my parents hugged and kept talking, I climbed onto a chair and started pulling out boxes of cereal and cookies. It was totally normal for me to hear about God and the amazing things He could do. I had a front-row seat to watch genuine faith being lived out.

  One morning, while Mom was vacuuming the living room carpet, I came and pulled on her sleeve.

  “What is it, Chrissy?”

  “Mommy, how can I get Jesus into my heart? I want Jesus in my heart.”

  Mom turned off the vacuum and sat on the old tweed chair. She looked me in the eyes and replied, “You just have to invite Him in.”

  “I want to now, Mommy.”

  She didn’t hesitate, but took me by the hand and led me up the stairs to the guest room, where she knelt down at the side of the bed. I knelt down next to her, trying to reach the top of the mattress so I could rest my folded hands under my chin. She smiled and put her arm around me and said, “Repeat after me. ‘Jesus, I believe that You are my Savior and that You died for my sins.’”

  With my eyes closed tightly, I repeated every word. “Please come into my heart and stay.”

  My heart was beating a little faster when we got to the end of the prayer. “Amen.” Amen! Mom explained to me what had just happened in words that made sense to me. Then she gave me a big hug.

  That night while I was lying in my bed, my eyes scanned the framed prayer that hung on my wall. My great-grandmother had embroidered it and given it to my mom when I was born. Mom had read it to me so many times, I slowly whispered,

  Now I lay me down to sleep,

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

  If I should die before I wake,

  I pray the Lord my soul to take.

  Up until now, the prayer was just something that I said every night and it always seemed to calm me for sleep. But tonight its meaning captured me because I knew my soul was His.

  ALMOST TWO YEARS HAD PASSED and things weren’t really changing in our little church on Atlantic Avenue. We moved to Brooklyn to be closer to the people, thinking that might help, but the situations that came through the doors on any given day were getting more severe. From week to week, my parents had no idea what would happen next—like the time when my dad found out that an usher had “sticky fingers” while counting the offering in the ushers’ room. My parents were gifted people, but gifting, goodness, and even sacrifice weren’t making much of a difference. People trapped by drugs and alcohol came looking for help, but more often than not, they couldn’t get free of what controlled them. I was oblivious to how discouraged my parents were since they never let the problems at the church affect our home life or me in any way. My world felt safe and secure. It was perfect as far as I was concerned.

  One summer morning, Dad brought me to work with him, and while he was busy in the office, I was busy too—playing in Rina’s closet, trying on all her shoes. I loved the fact that she wore a size five and a half, because everything she had almost fit me. I put on a pair of white sandals with a T-strap that wrapped around the ankles and walked awkwardly into the living room. I edged my way to the couch, climbed up, and pulled back the sheer floral curtains so I could see what was going on outside. With hardly a cloud in the sky, the sun seemed overly bright, making everything look extra dirty and grimy.

  I heard Dad’s footsteps going down the hall and then down the stairs, so I slipped out of the shoes quickly and ran barefoot to see where he was going. I stayed out of his sight as I followed him. He disappeared into the church’s small sanctuary and approached a man who was standing there alone. I recognized him as someone who had been helping out around the church for the past couple of weeks. When I had first noticed him in the building, I had asked my dad why the man was there.

  “I’m trying to help him out, Chrissy, so maybe he’ll get better.”

  That’s what Daddy does, I thought at the time.

  I decided Dad wouldn’t mind if I came into the sanctuary right then. Skipping down the middle aisle, I jumped up onto the stage while he was talking to the man. I ran a finger along the side of the pulpit, then walked over to the organ, sat down, and pretended to be my mom. Reaching my small hand to one level of keys and pressing down on the lower level of keys, I wished my toes could could reach the pedals. The organ wasn’t on, so I wasn’t disrupting Dad’s conversation at all. I enjoyed dancing my fingers silently on the instrument, hearing Mom’s beautiful music playing in my head. Then another sound caught my attention.

  Someone’s crying.

  It was the man next to Dad. Tiptoeing toward them, I saw tears running down his cheeks. I had never seen a grown-up person cry like that before. The man handed the broom he was holding to my dad and said he had to leave. I could tell by the look on his face that Dad was sad. The man didn’t come back to the church again, one of the many people who wanted to get off the streets but couldn’t.

  Sometimes the things I saw made me afraid of “sin.” If you asked me what it meant to sin, I would probably have said “It’s doing things that make you sad.” I saw a lot of unhappiness around me as a little girl, right outside the window of Dad’s office. Our neighborhood was wher
e a lot of sadness made its home. The man who slept on the cardboard mat outside of our church looked sad. The lady who got in and out of different cars looked sad. The man with red marks up and down his arms, whom Daddy was trying to help, looked sad.

  Something started happening inside of Dad when he just got tired of the situations surrounding him. He began to get really desperate. Reading about times in church history when great things—even miracles—happened in particular places sparked a fire in his own heart. Every story he read had one thing in common—people got together and began to pray.

  So Dad made a decision. It was a Sunday morning when he announced it to the congregation: “Before we depart on this beautiful day, I want to announce that starting this coming Tuesday night, we will be adding a new service to our weekly schedule. It will be the most important service of the week. We will gather to simply pray. Please greet one another as you leave today, and I look forward to seeing you all here this Tuesday night!”

  It was a year later on a muggy summer weekday morning when Rina and I walked from the church to the subway station to catch the Q train. She practically had me in a headlock as we moved with the stream of people hurrying down the steps, trying to catch a train to Manhattan.

  “Rina, where are we going? What’s the surprise? Please tell me!” We watched a petite businesswoman yell at a man twice her size who was trying to push his way in front of her at the turnstile. She managed to squeeze through first and ran through the station, her briefcase swinging. It was the end of the morning rush hour, and most of the commuters were late for work, which was the perfect reason for some rude New Yorkers to be even more rude.

  We made our way to the platform and I took a deep breath, catching the scent of ladies’ sweet perfumes mixed with the mustiness of the run-down station.