Nowhere but Up (17 page)

The walls are high, the walls are strong

I’ve been locked in this castle

That I’ve built for far too long

You have surrounded me, a sea on every side

The cracks are forming and I’ve got nowhere to hide

Now I see

The walls I’ve built are falling

And Your waves of grace are washing over me

Lord, please reign in every part

I give my life to You, I open up my heart

I want to be like You, I want to seek Your face

O Lord, please wash me in Your awesome waves of grace

As my son sang, I watched the two hardened men, men who had seen enough of trouble to somehow end up on the streets. I didn’t know their stories. I didn’t know how they got here. I just knew that something about the song touched them in a deep place. I saw tears well up in the eyes of one man. He was embarrassed by his display of emotion and walked away, just far enough that we wouldn’t see him cry. His buddy was also crying, though he didn’t seem to mind if he had an audience. My heart bled for these two men. I was moved by their show of vulnerability in the moment.

When Justin strummed his last chord, he looked up, tears flooding his eyes. His voice cracked as he said, “Jesus loves you guys so much.”

The men nodded. “We know, buddy, we know.”

My son then ran a few feet down the block and bought the two men something to eat with his busking earnings. When he hugged them goodbye he said, “God bless you.”

On the drive home, Justin cried. “Why can’t we take them home, Mom? I don’t want them to live outside,” he begged, huge tears flooding down his cheeks.

I put my arm around my little boy, my heart aching from the compassion coming from his heart. I was proud of him—not just proud of his talent but proud of the character that was starting to take shape in his heart.

As involved and engaged as I was as a mom, I still struggled with the depression I’d had since I was a teenager as well as extreme anxiety that had developed when I was around twenty-one years old. At one point, I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder caused by all the harrowing events that happened when I was younger.

Particularly when Justin was around nine to about twelve years old, there were periods of time when I was so depressed that I had to force myself off the couch to play board games with him. Waking up was a chore in itself. Oh, what I would have given to sleep all day. I tried to pull myself up by the bootstraps and suck it up as best as I could. Some days were better than others.

I suffered from debilitating anxiety, which was so bad I would get physical pains in my chest and throat. I remember countless times when I would curl up in a fetal position and rock back and forth, crying out to God and begging him to take the anxiety away.

I tried a slew of different medications to find the most effective remedy, meds that wreaked havoc on my serotonin levels. Over a period of about twelve years, I probably tried close to sixty different medications to see what would be the best fit. None worked as I’d hoped.

Every time I filled a new prescription, I’d be hopeful for a cure. That this would be the med that would cure my anxiety. Relieve my depression. Make me into a better person, a new person who had more energy and less crippling anxiety. That it would remove that cloud that hung over my head. Though some meds helped for a while, none worked long term. There was no such thing as a magic pill for me.

In spite of how I felt, though, I knew where my priorities lay. I provided. I still showed up. I was there for Justin when he needed me. I cleaned. I cooked (okay, Kraft mac and cheese counts, right?). I took whatever little energy I had and poured it into caring for Justin. And I held on to my faith during this time, gaining strength and courage from God. In fact, I truly believe that some of my deepest moments of faith came from this time. But it wasn’t easy.

“Mom, there’s a singing competition and I want to try out.”

Twelve-year-old Justin had just come home from school and thrown his bulging backpack on the yellow shag carpet in the living room. How I hated that carpet. But for $140 a month in rent, what did I expect? Marble floors?

I immediately noticed Justin was still wearing his boots. A glistening trail of dirty melting snow ran from the front door to where he stood in the kitchen.
If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a hundred times
 . . .

“Helloooo.” Justin annoyingly snapped his fingers in front of my face, trying to get my attention. “So what do you think? Can I try out or not?”

An audition? What on earth is he talking about? Is this about soccer? No, wait, didn’t he mention something about singing?
“Tell me about it,” I said.

Justin hopped up on the chair next to me, fiddling with the papers that covered the table. A small goldfish would have had enough room to swim in the puddle of melted snow that had dripped off of his boots. “It’s called Stratford Star. It’s kinda like
American Idol
. Once you pass the auditions, you sing every week against other kids, and then judges vote you off and stuff until there’s only three left.”

Sounded like a competition for older kids. Justin wasn’t even a teenager yet. “How old do you have to be?”

“Twelve to eighteen.”

Wow. That was quite a range. I couldn’t imagine a twelve-year-old competing with an eighteen-year-old. That’s six years of more training, more experience, and more skill. I was actually surprised Justin even considered auditioning. Outside of busking on the streets of Stratford and Toronto purely for fun, he hadn’t performed in front of an audience, certainly not onstage in front of people tasked with judging him. Not to mention that even though I knew he had a great voice and natural talent, he hadn’t taken a single voice lesson in his life.

I had my reservations, but looking at Justin’s eager face and seeing how he was dying for me to say yes, I decided to give him my blessing—just not before I offered words of caution. I didn’t want to throw my son to the wolves or set him up for failure.

“Justin, listen to me. I believe in you and I know you can do anything. You’re talented and smart. Whatever you choose to do, I know you’ll be successful at it. I just want you to be aware of some realities.” I walked Justin through a short tour of my involvement in the theatrical arts as a little girl. “I can’t tell you how many times I auditioned for school plays and even community performances. I would pour my heart and soul into the auditions. And many times I believed wholeheartedly I’d get the part I wanted. But if I didn’t, I was devastated. It broke my heart.” Justin eagerly nodded, hopping off the chair to stand up.

“This is just an audition,” I continued. “Whether or not you make it does not have any bearing on who you are or how talented you are.”

Though Justin’s eyes were locked with mine and I knew he was giving me his undivided attention, I was pretty sure he was rolling his eyes on the inside.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mom, I know. If I don’t win, who cares? Yada yada yada.

I wasn’t going to say yes before I finished saying my piece. “And another thing. You have to remember, you’re competing with people much older than you, as much as six years. That’s a big difference, honey. I’m sure these contestants, especially the older ones, have been doing this for a while. It’s probably not their first time. I’m sure they’ve had training and more experience and a ton of practice. You understand that, right?”

Justin stood there, impatiently anticipating my answer. “So that’s a yes, Mom?”

I smiled. “Yes, Justin. You can try out.”

“Yes!” he said, complete with a Tiger Woods fist pump.

But I still had just a little bit more to say. “And one more thing.”

This time Justin groaned out loud.

“You’re going to do your best, and you’re gonna be awesome. And don’t worry, if you don’t get in, we’ll get you some singing lessons, we’ll practice a ton, and we’ll get ’em next year!”

Justin took off to hang with his buddies. I made a phone call to find out more information and was told the auditions started on December 19, less than two weeks away.

Up to the day before his first audition, I prepared Justin the best I could. There’s a fine line between encouraging your child and giving him or her a reality check. Sometimes the line is practically invisible. I had total faith in Justin. He obviously had talent oozing out of every pore in his body. I just wasn’t sure he could hold his own against older kids who’d spent hundreds of hours practicing for this very moment.

We had barely two weeks before the auditions. We went into overdrive, asking my musician friends who loved and believed in Justin to help us however they could. Even though my son was a natural, he still had plenty to learn. Every day after school, Justin and I would drive over and practice in the youth center (not the Bunker), a drop-in place for teenagers in the community, which had opened its doors for any wannabe contestant who wanted to use their sound equipment and karaoke machine.

Justin wasn’t the only one preparing for the auditions. Practically everyone who planned on auditioning took advantage. By four o’clock in the afternoon, the place was packed with teens playing Ping-Pong and foosball, shooting hoops on the half-court with their squeaky sneakers, and practicing for the upcoming auditions. It was a madhouse.

My musician friends came with us a few times to teach Justin about the basics of performing—things like how to hold a microphone, how to develop stage presence, and how to sing and groove with the music so it looks natural, not forced or awkward. While Justin had to learn about the basics, he didn’t have to learn the “it” factor. I knew it. My friends knew it. People at the youth center who watched him practice knew it. Whatever “it” was, Justin had it.

When the kids who were practicing for the competition took their turns at the mic to rehearse, they battled against the chaotic soundtrack of noisy and obnoxious teenage chatter and bouncing balls. One of the youth workers noted that when it was Justin’s turn to practice, the room fell silent. Everyone stopped what they were doing. She commented how all eyes turned toward Justin.

My son practiced all the time, everywhere—in the car, in the shower, at his grandparents’ house. Sometimes he even practiced on the hockey bench when he was waiting to get thrown into a game or before he’d run some drills. Justin wasn’t even aware he was singing out loud most times. Once he was on the bench and his buddy whipped off his helmet. “Dude, you realize you’re singing, right?”

My son and I bonded during this time. Without an athletic bone in my body, I admit I had a tough time relating to his love for sports. But when it came to music and the arts, we definitely found common ground.

As Justin prepared for his audition, I was more nervous than he was. But he (and nine other competitors) impressed the judges enough to make it through the auditions. There would be three weekly performance days, on which the contestants would sing two or three songs a night, until the final three were chosen. Those remaining competitors would then sing for the final time on January 27, 2007.

Justin and I kicked it into high gear. Together we picked songs that showcased his unique sound—my son definitely had some soul in him—and that he enjoyed singing. The latter was the most important requirement. The songs we picked ran the gamut of styles and feelings—from the lullaby-like melody of “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan to the catchy pop groove of “3 AM” by Matchbox Twenty to the universal favorite “Respect” by Aretha Franklin to his first taste at rapping with Lil’ Bow Wow’s “Basketball.” We had a bit of everything, from pop to country to R&B.

When Justin took the stage for his rendition of “Angel” and I aimed the video camera in his direction, I was nervous, probably more than he was. I quickly scoped out the audience filled with kids and parents, contestants and supporters. I wasn’t the only anxious one in the room. The nervous energy was almost tangible. Some girls couldn’t stop talking or fidgeting and had to be shushed by their moms or annoyed parents around them. Some kids were visibly nervous and leaned into their parents, who protectively wrapped an arm around their shoulders. Then there were the serious contestants, the ones who appeared confident and calm, quietly staking out their competition.

When Justin grabbed hold of the mic at the sound of the first notes of “Angel,” he looked a little uncomfortable, at least not as comfortable as he would look a few performances later. And his outfit? Oh my goodness. Looking back, what were we thinking? We never thought to choose an outfit to complement his song of choice. There he was, singing this beautifully hypnotic melody wearing a huge sweatshirt, a baseball cap, and a pair of oversized sneakers, hip-hop style. One of the judges actually mentioned his outfit. “Pay attention to what you’re wearing,” he suggested. “Your wardrobe reflects your song.”

Once Justin started singing, however, his outfit was the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. He sounded amazing. His powerful voice echoed throughout the auditorium that was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. As my little boy sang the soothing tune, my heart melted. I could barely hold up the video camera. Do you know how hard it is to record when tears are welling up in your eyes? I videotaped every performance. I hated watching Justin through the lens and the videos are proof. They’re dark, shaky, and blurry. But hey, I got the footage.

Justin blew me away on this song, as he would every song he sang. I knew if the judges didn’t move him through that round, I would be just as proud. I stared at my twelve-year-old son onstage as he ended his performance with the sound of applause ringing in his ears. His smile was as big as the auditorium. It was obvious—he belonged onstage. It was home.

The truth is, Justin surprised me. He was the only twelve-year-old, the youngest competitor in the entire competition. So when he made it through, I was ecstatic. My jock of a son, who had never had a singing lesson, who had a late start preparing for the contest, who didn’t even know how to properly hold a microphone two weeks earlier, made it past the first round. I’ll never forget when it was the first judge’s turn to critique Justin’s performance. She was so overcome with emotion and tears, she had to wait a turn so she could compose herself and ultimately applaud his efforts.

The more Justin performed, the more his confidence grew. Each song was a little better. His body loosened up more. His personality started coming through. His presence got stronger. Even his outfits got better. And the audience started to fall in love with this adorable adolescent boy with the charming and contagious grin.

While some of the other contestants who remained in the competition week after week were better trained, had more experience, and were more polished, Justin had a certain je ne sais quoi. He had a raw talent that made his mistakes forgivable and sometimes even unnoticeable. The crowd certainly didn’t seem to mind how young and inexperienced Justin was. They were just blown away by his natural confidence on stage.

The judges gushed after his performances, aside from the one constructive criticism to choose an appropriate wardrobe. They called him a “natural born performer” and “Mr. Personality” and told him to “never lose that soul passion.”

And then there were the girls. There were always the girls. Not long after Justin’s first audition, word started spreading like wildfire across town about this cute kid who could sing. I remember walking into the auditorium one week and noticing more commotion than usual at the entrance. The closer we got, the louder the screams. With ponytails whipping in the wind like lassoes, a pack of preteen girls jumped up and down, invisible springs strapped to their feet.

As Justin passed, they squealed. Some of them seemed almost embarrassed at their bold enthusiasm, but when Justin smiled and waved and thanked them for coming, they screamed louder. There were only a handful of them, but I tell you what, they were loud. Even today, I am amazed at the sheer volume a tiny group of girls can make; three of them can easily sound like ten.

By the final week, the audience had grown so much that only a few empty seats remained in the place. There were more girls. More screaming girls. The screaming girls started bringing homemade signs that read in bright glittery letters “I love you, Justin Bieber” and “I vote for Justin.” What a taste of things to come. After one of his performances, one judge, amused by my son’s fans, joked, “I’ve been playing for twenty-five years and I’ve never had girls coming up to me like this.”

Before Justin took the stage and after he performed during the final round, the crowd would chant his name. Girls, mostly. Twenty or thirty of them. “Justin! Justin! Justin!” The rhythmic chant was hypnotic. The chanting alternated with the screaming, voices so loud the judges had to plug their ears. Outside of the proud mama feeling, I found the whole spectacle hilarious. But there wasn’t a doubt in my mind—Justin was the crowd favorite. (I know, I’m a little biased.)