ENOUGH (JOE'S RECITAL) (2025/36)

 

"Mom, I can't do this!"

I heard the pointed whispers in the back of the recital hall.

I turned and watched my grandson Joe being scuttled out the back door by his mom. I quietly rose from my seat on the back row and tiptoed after them, trying not to disturb the student currently playing. 

Joe was whisper-yelling at Sarah, and she was trying to remain calm and at the same time firm.

"Joe, you know enough."

"No I DON'T!" He stomped his foot on the carpeted floor and turned away, wiping his eyes.

Apparently Joe had left his sheet music at our house in Farmington when they had come for Sunday dinner. To make matters worse, his Jr High Theatre teacher had insisted he attend a mandatory rehearsal, which caused the panic of rushing late to his recital twenty miles away. They had already asked that Joe play early so we could all get to his brother Timo's concert at the University, and now they were late. This is what May used to be, event after event for school kids. Now that we have University musicians the performances have moved to April. We had grandkid performances, sometimes multiples in one day, every day last week. But I digress...

I could feel Joe's anxiety boiling over. I ached for him. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and steal him away to get an ice cream cone and play on the swings at a park.

Sarah, to her credit, remained restrained yet determined: 

"Joe, pull yourself together and get in there and play whatever portion you know."

He kept insisting he couldn't. And, with the added backing of adolescent adult-resistant hormones, he  WOULDN'T!

I wrapped my floppy old Grandma arms around him and patted his back, hoping to calm his irritated racing heart. I whispered encouragement in his ear. I was walking the fine line between championing for the baby boy he remains in my heart and his mother, who knows him better than I and has a long term plan in mind for him. Grandmas run great risks getting in the way of this stuff.

To my amazement and surprise, Joe ended up wiping his eyes, which kept seeping anyway, and walking back into the hall and up to the Steinway in front of all those people. He adjusted the piano bench and sat, his hands hovering over the keys. Then, by golly, he let them fall and played the piece.

It wasn't perfect. He had to pause once or twice. But frankly, so did the other students there. A recital should be a safe place for students, playing before people who love them, showing what they had learned the last few months. Joe has had many, many recitals. When he stood, with his red eyes and furrowed forehead, he instinctively took a bow and walked off stage. His teacher met him and embraced him. It was lovely.

I thought back, as we were driving to Timo's recital minutes later, to when I was a young mother. I think I might have let my kid not do it. Maybe. I don't know. When I think of myself as a linear being, I discredit the power of the Holy Spirit that I know I needed as an "in the trenches" mother. I still need it. Sarah needs it too. She knows it and tries repeatedly to access it. Part of the great task of parenthood is deciding where to use logic and where to use what some people call instinct. To me, instinct is the manifestation of divine forces; unseen helpers surrounding us. Their job is not to overrule what we choose, but they travel with us, and if we allow ourselves to tap in, they can have powerful influence. These all fall under the workforce of the Holy Spirit. That's a snapshot of a whole complex spiritual panorama of how I see things.

 Joe sat in the seat behind me in the van, eating the other half of a subway sandwich we had stopped to get on the way to his recital. Hunger does not help in situations such as this. He talked like our Joe, happy and chatty, tapping the little mini-kettle drum we gave him instead of recital flowers. We applauded him for doing a hard thing. We asked him how he felt about it. We had good, healthy conversation that wasn't overstuffed with moral conclusions. 

I suspect somewhere down the road, when Joe is faced with something he feels wholly incapable of doing, he might find memories of this evening bubbling up. He may not recall the details, but something in him will confirm that he has done seemingly impossible things in the past. He has moved himself through discomfort to complete a task. He will also know that its not "all or nothing." Most times, imperfect is enough.