Silent Night at Soldier Field

In the summer of 1966, I was preparing to leave my home in Chicago for the first time. I was going to New York City to begin three months of training to be a teacher in Uganda, East Africa. In her youth my mother wanted to go to Africa as a missionary but my grandfather refused. She was living her dream vicariously through me.

This was a difficult time for my parents. They were proud of me for getting my degree and approved of my decision to join the Peace Corps but it was a big change to cope with. I would be 8000 miles away for two years which for them seemed like a lifetime. For the first time in my life, they wouldn’t know where I was or what I was doing. They wouldn’t be able to protect me or know that I was safe. It was especially hard on my mother. I was her only child, born when she was forty-two. Those last few weeks at home to had to be special. My father just wanted to spend time with me watching baseball or discussing current events. But I needed to do something special for my mother.

My parents didn’t really pay much attention to my 1960’s teenage musical taste. The Beatles, Motown and rock and roll in general were not real music according to them. Elvis Presley was a complete mystery. They loved big bands and big voices. Every New Years Eve I was forced to endure Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians playing “Auld Lange Syne” and “Good Night Sweetheart”. They loved Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Perry Como and Ella Fitzgerald.

There was one young performer who impressed my mother even though she could never remember the singer’s name. Whenever, I was listening to her records or watching this performer on a TV special, my mother would ask “Is that the girl with the voice?”, I knew who she meant. The girl with the voice was performing at Soldier Field and I planned an evening out with my mother. In those days concert tickets were actually affordable.

August 9th was a warm, clear evening. The air crackled with anticipation as we took our seats in the outdoor amphitheater. Spotlights danced around and the sound of a full orchestra tuning their instruments filled the stadium. And then the girl with the voice took the stage to thunderous applause. She was magnificent. Her voice was amazing. This was her last performance before taking time off for the birth of her child. For two hours she sang songs from her Broadway shows, albums and TV specials. She did every comedy bit and the audience loved her. Her glamorous designer gowns sparkled and shimmered. The show ended with one of her most popular songs. After exiting the stage, she came back for a one more song to the delight of the audience. After the encore, people began filing out and the orchestra packed up their instruments.

My mother and I sat chatting about the performance waiting for the aisles to clear. Suddenly the spotlight burst to life and the girl with the voice, Barbra Streisand, walked back onstage. She was wearing a reddish orange caftan and a small white dog trotted out and sat down next to her. The orchestra looked up in dismay and she motioned for them to sit down. Everyone froze in place as she stepped up to the microphone. As the last rays of the sun disappeared and twilight came, she sang a cappella one chorus and one verse of “Silent Night”. This young, pregnant, Jewish woman tenderly sang a Christian lullaby written about a young, pregnant Jewish woman from another time. No matter our social status or our faith or our gender or our race, we were all one in that moment. As the last perfect note hung in the air, she walked off the stage with her dog right behind.

The only word to describe that moment is exquisite. It is burned in my memory. My mother was wearing a pink dress with small white stripes, my dress was beige with matching shoes. I remember the man standing in the aisle next to me wore gray slacks, black shoes, a short-sleeved black shirt, black framed glasses and had salt and pepper hair in a buzz cut. I remember the look on my mother’s face and the hint of tears in her eyes. The audience was absolutely silent for a few seconds and then there was a deafening ovation that lasted a long, long time. It was a magical moment.

Over the years I’ve been to a few other concerts. In the past two years I’ve witnessed the highly choreographed spectacle of a Beyonce concert. I was able to scratch one item off my bucket list when I spent an evening with Earth, Wind and Fire. In a few weeks I’ll sing along in person with the Doobie Brothers. Each performance was special and meaningful but nothing matched that moment in Soldier Field.

The years after that summer have been eventful- ups and downs, successes, failures, gains, losses, joy and sadness. My time in Uganda changed my life in ways I never imagined. I’ve married, been widowed, become a parent, grandparent and great grandparent. When I’ve felt frustrated, overwhelmed or sad, I recall how I felt on that summer night.

I was excited about the adventure that awaited me. I was eager to see the world and learn new things. I shared a wonderful experience with my mother who had done so much for me. I witnessed the magic of music and how it speaks to everyone. Leaning on those memories gave me comfort in times of pain, courage in times of fear, hope in times of despair.

Soldier Field’s future is uncertain. It will most likely be extensively renovated or torn down in the next few years. The amount of money it generates doesn’t cover maintenance costs. That makes me sad but change is inevitable. In my mind it will always be a place filled with music and magic on a summer night.