Girl in the Song

by Chrissy Cymbala Toledo

  “Today, leetal girl, I am going to buy you some Chinese slippers. I’ve been wanting to take you for some time now.”

  Rina knew that I had been dying to own a pair since the first day I saw them. They were the new fashion trend in New York City for women of all ages—a black fabric shoe with a thin, eraser-colored rubber sole and a small silver buckle on the side.

  “Oh, thank you, Rina!” As I wrapped my arms around her, I noticed some young women walking by. One girl wore purple bell-bottom pants and the other was in jean shorts and knee-high socks. Both of their outfits were finished off with Chinese slippers!

  They’re so cool. Now I was beginning to panic. “Do you think they’ll have them in my size, Rina?”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she said, laughing. “They have every size and lots of them!”

  When the Q train pulled to a stop in front of us and the doors opened, Rina did a little shoving herself to get us into the crammed subway car. There were no seats available, so Rina inched us to the closest pole so we’d have something to hang on to. It was ninety degrees outside and about one hundred and ten degrees inside. The only air that came in was when someone opened the door to go to the next car, letting a breeze through that would provide a bit of relief. A businessman in a three-piece suit stood above me, holding on to the same pole I was. I glanced up and watched as sweat started to roll down his face and fall to the floor like raindrops, missing my head by inches. Rina held me tightly with one hand clasped under my arm, facing her, and when the train lurched to a stop she half pulled, half scooped me off the train.

  Canal Street! The steps that led to the street level beckoned me; it took everything in me to keep from running ahead of Rina.

  As we emerged from the stairwell, it started to drizzle. The light rain felt refreshing after the steamy subway. Being in the car with Dad and driving through Chinatown was one thing, but walking through the crowded streets was another. The smell of fried food and raw fish, mixed with the overflowing containers of trash that lined the sidewalks, was overwhelming. The search for my pair of Chinese slippers had begun.

  Rina stood close by while I grabbed every pair of shoes that looked remotely close to my size. “I think these will fit, Rina!” I squeezed my little feet in them, hoping she wouldn’t notice that they were a size too small for me. “I love them! Let’s get them!”

  “Slow down, sweetheart. Let’s get you the right size first,” she said, rummaging through the tower of boxes. “Here, these should work.” By now, the drizzle had turned into rain.

  Rina haggled a bit on the price with the seller, paid what she had hoped for, and we started to quickly make our way back to the subway station.

  We hadn’t walked half a block when I asked, “Can I please put them on now, Rina? I can’t wait!”

  “Okay, okay, just a minute.” She opened the bag and pulled out the cardboard box, helping me put on my new shoes. My first grown-up pair of shoes! I was so thrilled that I couldn’t stop admiring them. Suddenly, the breeze turned into a strong wind, and the light rain became a downpour. We were running toward the entrance to the subway and trying to avoid the puddles . . . when my shoes became soaked. I looked down and gasped—my white socks were turning blue from the dye!

  “Will my shoes be ruined, Rina?” I asked, nearly in tears.

  “Don’t worry. If they are, I will buy you a new pair. ’Cause you know I love you.”

  Yes, I do know.

  In some ways, I guess I was the daughter Rina and her husband had never had, and she made the most of every moment we had together. Having them in my life was truly a gift to me, and I felt like I was a gift to them.

  Around 7:30 later that Tuesday evening, while napping on the vinyl couch in my dad’s office, I was awakened by noise coming from the sanctuary below me. For a minute, I was confused. Did Daddy leave without me? Then I realized that the sound was music and people singing. I went into the hallway and saw there wasn’t a light underneath Rina’s apartment door. It was time to investigate. As I hurried down the steps, the noise started to get louder. It was a prayer meeting night.

  I walked into the sanctuary, which was barely lit. There were twenty people there, some kneeling at their seats and some standing with their hands raised toward the ceiling. I never understood why the lights were always dimmed for this service, except for the ones shining on the platform. But Dad wasn’t standing there. He was sitting on the front row, and Mom was playing the organ off to the side.

  Dad had his eyes closed and looked just like he did when I’d peek at him in his office. Even though he was leading the meeting, he wanted to blend into the congregation, too. I think he did this so that God would be in charge of the meeting.

  Looking around at everyone’s faces, I could tell that Mom’s playing was touching their hearts. There was something about her music during prayer meeting that would make me aware, even as a seven-year-old girl, that God was in the room with us.

  “Bless the Lord, oh my soul,” Dad began to sing, and one by one the voices joined him, “Bless the Lord, oh my soul . . . and all that is within me bless His holy name.” As the small group continued, it seemed as if the singing was bringing God closer and closer.

  The sounds, the feeling, the comfort I felt was like being wrapped up in the warmest, softest blanket possible. I walked quietly from the back of the sanctuary down the middle aisle, and slipped into an empty seat next to one of my friends.

  Dad told us to join hands with the person next to us and pray. Even though I had done this before, this time something happened. A warm sensation permeated my whole body, and I started to cry. As the sounds of the people praying filled the room, in that moment it was as if I were being hugged tightly yet gently at the same time; so loved that it brought tears of joy to my eyes.

  When we finished praying, the woman next to me said, “Chrissy, did you feel that?”

  “Yes, I did!”

  For the rest of my life this presence of God—God coming so close that you feel like you are being embraced by perfect love—would both haunt me and compel me.

  MY DAD’S PASSION FOR PRAYER molded our church, but it was my mom’s music that filled it. Mom would inevitably make a mark on our church with her incredible gift for music. It was just a matter of time. She decided to start a choir at the church, even though there was no hint whatsoever that there was any real potential. Little did we know that twenty-five years later, she and I would find ourselves on the way to the Grammy Awards. . . .

  Our flight to LAX was two days away and Mom handed me a hundred-dollar bill. “Go to Macy’s, Chris . . . they’ll have something nice for you to wear.”

  I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door, then stopped. “Mom, shouldn’t you be finding a dress for yourself? We leave on Friday!”

  “I’ll find something tomorrow, honey. Don’t worry.”

  I drove down the hill and then made a right on Northern Boulevard, heading to the department store I had been to a hundred times before, all the time thinking, I’ll look, but I doubt I will find the right dress for a hundred dollars.

  Pulling into Macy’s, I immediately headed to the dress department and pulled every formal gown in a size four off the rack. After trying on the first five dresses, I began laughing out loud in the fitting room. How tacky can these dresses possibly be? My chances of finding a last-minute dress were becoming more and more slim.

  Then I pulled the last one over my head. It was floor length and sleeveless with a high halter-type neckline, beautifully embellished with just the right amount of silver beading. It was perfect. And the price was fifty dollars on clearance!

  I changed quickly, grabbed the dress, and ran for the escalator as if I were afraid another shopper might wrestle me down to the ground for it. Halfway down, I was immediately lured by the shoe department. Browsing the sale racks, I found the most stunning pair of black strappy satin stilettos. I paid $34.99 for them and was on my way, with change to spare.

  It
was a beautiful early evening in Los Angeles, and we deliberately got out of our yellow cab away from the crowds. My mom and I giggled like two girls, knowing that we were probably the only invited guests who hadn’t hired a limousine for a grand entrance. We walked around the Staples Center holding up the hems of our gowns so that we wouldn’t catch and ruin them. After showing our gold-leaf invitations to security, we finally stepped onto the red carpet—my mom first and me following, giving us the perfect view for taking in all that was happening.

  The glitz and glamour was almost overwhelming. Hundreds of lights were flashing, as fans and paparazzi were massed together, trying to glimpse the next star on the red carpet. As a reporter pulled Mom aside for an interview, I stood amazed at how far her pure and beautiful gift of music had taken her. Anyone who knew my mom would tell you that she was shy and unassuming, preferring to blend into a crowd, rather than be front and center. But after multiple invitations to the awards in past years, our family and the music staff had finally persuaded her to come tonight to accept the award in person on behalf of the choir, if indeed they did win. The choir’s three previous awards had been announced with no one there to accept them. Would she bring home a back-to-back Grammy tonight? It was time for the answer.

  Finally the nominees were being announced. “The nominees for best gospel choir of the year are . . .” The names of the other choirs barely registered in my head.

  “And the Grammy goes to . . . the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir!” My mom stood amidst the crowd of thousands, a picture of grace and beauty, as she walked down the aisle and onto the stage. I proudly stood and applauded.

  Mom was handed the award and walked up to the microphone. “I thank all those who made this Grammy Award possible, but most of all, I thank my Lord Jesus. He is the only reason we sing. The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir is made up of people with stories of how His power transformed their lives.” As she raised the gilded gramophone, she ended with, “I give Him all the glory today.”

  An hour later, Mom and I were seated in the second balcony, watching the rest of the televised program live. Madonna emerged from a glittering, silver limousine to sing and dance through her Grammy-nominated song, “Music.” I was just waiting for Mom’s cue. Halfway through the show, she whispered in my ear, “Want to leave?”

  “Yep.”

  We ran down the steps of the Staples Center carefully, gathering up our long gowns and chuckling the whole way. I think we had more fun that night at our own personal after-party than we did at the event itself. We enjoyed delicious teriyaki chicken at a cozy Japanese restaurant. At one point, I noticed Mom with her head down, playing with her food.

  “Chris, I don’t belong at an event like that.”

  “Actually, Mom, you do. Even the world is recognizing the fact that your music is special,” I told her honestly. A myriad of thoughts filled my mind. I couldn’t get over the fact that Mom couldn’t read music but had written so many incredible songs. I thought about those early days on Atlantic Avenue when she first presented to our little church the idea of starting a choir.

  “If anyone is interested in being part of our church choir, come see me by the piano before you go,” Mom announced following the service one Sunday morning. Only nine people responded, and she invited them to the first choir rehearsal that Friday night.

  Several months later, I was sitting in the propped-open doorway at the top of the steps leading to the backyard of the church. This was my favorite place to sit on Friday nights, with the breeze blowing by me into the sanctuary where Mom was working with the choir. The yard had been overtaken by weeds and was surrounded by a chain-link fence. Clotheslines that were strung across the block like Christmas lights connected the rusted fire escapes of the run-down apartment buildings.

  As a seven-year-old, I loved this time of night at church, with the sounds of the city in one ear, and in the other, songs about hope and love. I heard Mom’s voice. “Okay, altos, I’ll sing the part, and then you just repeat it back to me. Sopranos and tenors, I’ll get to you in a moment.” Mom’s gracious and encouraging attitude made untrained singers feel as though they could sing anything.

  That particular night she taught them a song called “He Loves You.” After sitting outside for a while, I came in and sat on the sidelines, watching Mom put it all together.

  After about two hours, she had everyone stand. She began to wave her arms to direct them, trying to make the song actually come together. The choir began to sing and the sound they released was one of the most imperfect but beautiful sounds I had ever heard. Some choir members started to raise their hands in worship, and tears began flowing down other people’s cheeks. As I looked at them, I thought about what Mom had told me the previous Friday on our way home. I had asked her if the people were sad when they were singing.

  “Those aren’t tears of sadness, Chrissy,” she said, smiling. “Those are tears of joy because of what God is starting to do in their lives.” There was something holy about the music and the words of the songs Mom taught that moved me very deeply. It was one of the reasons I went to choir practice every week with her. I wanted to be where that music was. But the other reason was because it was a lot of fun.

  One moment the group would be serious, singing and reaching out to God, and in the next moment, they could be laughing hysterically and acting crazy. When Mom sensed the tenors were about to start goofing off, she would try to nip it in the bud. “Now choir, I need you to focus; we’re almost done, I promise.” If they were too far gone, she would jump right into the fray, acting silly too. She just couldn’t help herself; just like at home, Mom loved opportunities to break out and have fun. Although she’d lose the rehearsal for five to ten minutes, it was well worth it, because the comic relief not only unburdened the choir members but also bound their hearts together. After facing a hard New York City week, the choir knew they had a place to call home.

  The love that was born out of the choir released something special in our church. Even as a child, I could feel love calling people in from the streets. There was something about hearing people of different ethnicities—Puerto Rican, African American, West Indian—sing together that really showed what love “looked like.” Despite the racial unrest at that time across the country, once we were inside the doors of the church, the walls that divided people seemed to crumble. We hadn’t belonged to each other before, but now we belonged to each other because of love.

  That love came to me not only from my Rina but also my Lorna too. Lorna was from Jamaica, and she was also one of my favorite people in the world. None of our relatives lived in New York City, except for my dad’s parents. But because of my grandfather’s drinking, I didn’t spend much time at their home, so people like Rina and Lorna became my family, like aunts to me.

  “Lorna! Lorna! Do you want to hear the song I can play on the piano? I can play chords now!” I said, jumping onto the stage when choir practice had ended.

  “Of course I do, my darlin’,” she said with her lilting Jamaican accent. Tugging insistently on her hand, I drew her to the upright piano. I focused intently on the keys and began to play chords on my right hand while playing single notes on my left.

  “Oh my goodness . . . and my baby memorized this?”

  “Yes!” I said excitedly. “I hear it in my head and then I play it.”

  With a big smile, she said, “You are reminding me more and more of your mommy every day.”

  Just then, Mom walked over to the piano, and Lorna said, “Carol, may I tell her?”

  My eyes lit up. “Tell me what?”

  Mom grinned and nodded.

  “Chrissy, I have a special surprise for you.”

  “What is it?” I said, jumping up from the wooden piano bench. Lorna had planned with my mom the week before that I could spend the weekend with her, and Mom had secretly packed an overnight bag for my visit. I absolutely loved going to Lorna’s! While we were driving to her house, I asked her again, “Please tell me what my surpris
e is!”

  “Be patient, darlin’. You’ll see when we get there.”

  What could the surprise be? Was it a toy? Shoes? Clothes? We pulled up in front of her house, and when we got inside, Lorna asked me to close my eyes, leading me by the hand to her room.

  When I opened my eyes, I gasped. There on the bedspread were two beautiful dresses, with matching shoes next to each one. The first dress had a high collar, puff sleeves, and layer upon layer of powder-blue ruffles. The next dress was just as pretty, a pale yellow chiffon with a light pink flower print. A wide sash tied in the back, with the bow’s ends hanging to the middle of the dress. I ran my fingers over each dress, so happy that they were my own. “Oh Lorna! I love them! Thank you so much.”

  “I’m going to make you look extra special for Sunday. We’re going to curl your hair with rollers and put on that pretty yellow dress.” I could hardly wait!

  Early Sunday morning we sat across from each other at the breakfast table eating saltfish and ackee with plantains. Lorna had big, bright-colored rollers in her hair, covered with a floral scarf tied around her head, keeping them in place. I felt like such a big girl with my own rollers and scarf tied around my head. There we were, a lovely dark-skinned woman with a little fair-skinned girl, laughing and enjoying a native Jamaican breakfast on a quiet Sunday morning. Another reason to love my world.

  “SUNDAY, MONDAY, HAPPY DAYS . . .”

  Happy days. It was the theme song of my eight-year-old world. I had parents who loved each other, who loved me, and whose ministry filled my life with beautiful color, glorious sounds, boundless laughter, and happiness even in hard times. It also happened to be the theme song of my favorite television show.

  Eating dinner as fast as I could, I hurried upstairs to take a bath and get my pajamas on. The nightly news was giving the weather report, which was my signal that I had fifteen minutes before the show started. I stepped out of the bathtub and looked down at my skinny, undeveloped body. I sometimes wondered if it ever would begin to change. Some of my friends were already wearing bras, and my body surely didn’t look like my mom’s.