The Pageant

Anyone who knows me knows that I am the least likely person to be in a pageant.
I do not like that kind of attention.
I could never imagine being a participant.
Yet in my late teens that is exactly what happened.

When my mother died in my fifteenth year, many people took me under their wings.
Many women tried ever so sweetly to fill that huge hole in my life.
I am grateful to all of them.
One woman from church took it upon herself to help in an interesting way.

July 1976 was a Bicentennial year.
Our township was having a pageant to celebrate.
I never remember the township having a pageant before or since that year.
Nothing like that remotely interested me.

Mrs. P from my church took me aside one day.
There is a pageant coming up to celebrate the Bicentennial…I signed you up!
It was a matter of fact.
It was a done deal.

For reasons I never knew, she took it upon herself to do this without being asked.
I tried to object, but she insisted.
Think of what it would mean, she argued.
Think of what you would be doing for the township.

What would I be doing for the township?
I couldn’t imagine the pageant being of any real importance.
Apparently, it was important to many people.
Apparently, there was going to be a parade.

I remember the pageant being soon after my junior prom.
I even wore the same gown I had worn that night.
My date was my soon-to-be-husband.
A whole entourage of friends came to support me.

The evening went by in a blur.
Many lovely girls from the area participated.
We each wore our long dresses, left over from our proms.
We answered questions and we told a bit about ourselves.

When it came time for the winner to be announced, I never expected to hear my name.
I remember the large bouquet of roses.
I remember the tiara.
I remember my friends coming back to my house after the event to celebrate.

The parade would be held soon after.
The entire court had to go to a costume shop and be fitted for colonial dresses.
We were to ride on a float with our large hoop skirts.
We each sat as we weaved around neighborhood streets, waving to the crowds.

What was to have been an exciting day was probably the most difficult for me.
I did not want to be there.
I did not want to wave.
I did not want to represent the township that evening.

Thirteen months after my mother died, my husband’s brother died in a car accident.
The two of us were knitted very quickly, first with attraction, and then with loss.
His brother had just graduated from college and was hoping to get a teaching job.
He was twenty-two years old.

The viewing was the same evening as the parade.
One of my dear friends was part of the court.
We went to the funeral home when only the family was there.
We hugged as I felt the palpable sadness that filled the room.

I remember apologizing that I could not stay.
I could not be there to support him.
I could not sit in the back of the room and pray.
I had to wave, and smile, and sit on a float during the parade.

It was such a warm evening.
The Scarlet O’Hara hoop skirt with the heavy material did not help.
How I wished there could have been two of me that night.
I wanted to be in both places.

Fast-forward about thirty-five years.
My youngest daughter and I were in a music store looking at the guitars and ukuleles.
A woman and her son kept looking over at us.
Every time I looked up, the woman was looking in our direction.

Finally, she came up to me and asked if I remembered the Bicentennial parade in 1976.
Yes, I remarked, as my eyes searched her face for recognition.
I knew I recognized you; your daughter looks exactly like you did at that age.
My daughter would have been the same age that I was then.

We hugged and reminisced.
She never knew about the circumstances of that night, or if she had, she had forgotten.
We caught up on our lives a bit right there in front of the musical instruments.
It was a unique time in our lives, a distant memory now.

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. (Psalm 147:3)

I have often thought of that night.
We go about our days with a smile and a wave and no one ever knows.
No one ever sees the pain that is just below the surface.
No one ever knows the heartache when everything appears to be fine.

That night, all those years ago, has made me a bit more aware.
I often ask, how are you? Twice.
It is the second time when I will really hear the answer.
We all carry burdens on our back each day that no one else knows about.

It is not that we should announce our sorrows.
It is not that we need to tell our life story to anyone who will listen.
It is enough to remember that what you see is only a fraction of the entire person.
There is so much more to each of us than ever meets the eye.

There is so much more behind our smiles.
There is so much more behind our wave.
How grateful I am to God who knows our whole story.
He knows our whole story and loves us anyway.

 

2 responses to “The Pageant”

1. So true. Appearances are deceiving. When I divorced my first husband, some people I knew were amazed at the pain and anxiety I had been going through. They said I looked peaceful, like all was fine. I had learned to put up a “good front”, not show my emotions. But God knew all that was going on inside my heart and held me up through the hard times, as He has all my life. I praise Him and thank Him.

   Reply

   • Sue,
     I am learning that we never really know what is going on beneath the surface of another person.
     This time in my life reminds me of that truth.
     Gina

     Reply