I was intended to be merely background -- unobtrusive fingers on the keys, plinking out simple accompaniment in musical support of the real star of the afternoon: my wife. She was the invited guest at the annual ladies luncheon of a small, inner-city church with which we have become acquainted. Ladies from the host congregation had heard Lori play her flute in a service at our own church and had been impressed. She is, after all, a woman of many talents. She has had a lot of experience playing her flute in churches, but never as the "featured artist". She has always been part of the accompaniment, never the one needing it, and so when she expanded the invitation to include me, it was easy to sign on. This was a delightfully special invitation. Together, then, we browsed through possible selections, settled on repertoire, and practiced. A lot. We thought we sounded pretty good. We were ready.
The day arrived on Saturday, and because I would be slipping in from another meeting, we wouldn't have opportunity to run through the two selections on the premises (insert danger signs here). When I arrived, the meeting was well underway -- boisterous, fervent singing, a lovely dance routine to a pre-recorded song by a young immigrant woman, scripture reading and prayer. And then it was time for the special music. I began the introduction, and almost immediately felt the terror of indecision. The piano -- exactly like pianos in countless church basements all over the world -- sounded terrible. To describe it as "catastrophically out of tune" would be an exaggerated understatement. An old friend would have said it was "supernaturally out of tune; nothing could be that tuneless without divine help." The more I played, the worse it sounded. If I hadn't been so mortified, I could have been satisfied -- what difference did it suddenly make whether I played correct notes or not? Every note was sour, no matter the intent.
What, then, to do? Play softly? Drop out altogether? My back was to Lori, so no eye-signaled communication was possible. We soldiered discordantly on through both selections (yes, 2 songs), trying fecklessly to hide each note somehow in the next one, as if anything could rescue the moment. Finally, mercifully, the music reached its double bars. We were finished. Lori had done beautifully, but how would anybody know?
And then something amazing happened. They applauded. Not politely, or primly or even, for that matter, exuberantly. They applauded, instead, affectionately, gratefully, honestly and lovingly. As if in a tender, corporate and profoundly genuine hug, their verbal interjections and hand-punctuated appreciations conveyed more heart-felt and spirit-filled appreciation than most artists ever have the privilege to receive. What we should have known all along was that they were more interested in Lori and the music of her heart than in the music of her flute. And no out-of-tune piano could possibly obscure what they were able to hear in her or receive from her -- nor what they were able to offer in return.
There, in a simple church basement, amidst folding chairs and wall posters, soup and some salads and few dozen women of faith, we came to realize we were standing -- and playing and, in an awe-filled sort of way, kneeling -- on holy ground.
The day arrived on Saturday, and because I would be slipping in from another meeting, we wouldn't have opportunity to run through the two selections on the premises (insert danger signs here). When I arrived, the meeting was well underway -- boisterous, fervent singing, a lovely dance routine to a pre-recorded song by a young immigrant woman, scripture reading and prayer. And then it was time for the special music. I began the introduction, and almost immediately felt the terror of indecision. The piano -- exactly like pianos in countless church basements all over the world -- sounded terrible. To describe it as "catastrophically out of tune" would be an exaggerated understatement. An old friend would have said it was "supernaturally out of tune; nothing could be that tuneless without divine help." The more I played, the worse it sounded. If I hadn't been so mortified, I could have been satisfied -- what difference did it suddenly make whether I played correct notes or not? Every note was sour, no matter the intent.
What, then, to do? Play softly? Drop out altogether? My back was to Lori, so no eye-signaled communication was possible. We soldiered discordantly on through both selections (yes, 2 songs), trying fecklessly to hide each note somehow in the next one, as if anything could rescue the moment. Finally, mercifully, the music reached its double bars. We were finished. Lori had done beautifully, but how would anybody know?
And then something amazing happened. They applauded. Not politely, or primly or even, for that matter, exuberantly. They applauded, instead, affectionately, gratefully, honestly and lovingly. As if in a tender, corporate and profoundly genuine hug, their verbal interjections and hand-punctuated appreciations conveyed more heart-felt and spirit-filled appreciation than most artists ever have the privilege to receive. What we should have known all along was that they were more interested in Lori and the music of her heart than in the music of her flute. And no out-of-tune piano could possibly obscure what they were able to hear in her or receive from her -- nor what they were able to offer in return.
There, in a simple church basement, amidst folding chairs and wall posters, soup and some salads and few dozen women of faith, we came to realize we were standing -- and playing and, in an awe-filled sort of way, kneeling -- on holy ground.
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1 comment:
Tim---it is priceless!!!THANKS!!
MD
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