piano: n. A percussive keyboard musical instrument, usually ranging over seven octaves, with white and black colored keys, played by pressing these keys, causing hammers to strike strings.
The piano has been a fixture my entire life, both literally and figuratively. It held court in my parent’s living room from the time it left the music store until it was moved into mine.
“Place it on an inside wall,” they were told. I followed suit in my own home. Inside walls are not subjected to temperature changes in the same way as an outside wall, an important factor in protecting the piano’s strings.
I began taking piano lessons when I was five. I begged my parents repeatedly for the opportunity, and they purchased a piano just for me. They were simple, country people who were not wealthy. A piano was a major purchase for them. Neither were they prone to giving in to a child’s pleading. As I look back, it must have been an act of faith on their part. Five-year-old children aren’t known for will and resolve.
Mom and Dad had one condition: “You’ll have to practice.” At the ripe old age of five I understood and made a commitment to do whatever was necessary.
I wanted to learn how to play. The passion and drive were real.
I abruptly quit lessons when I was seventeen. I’m sure I broke the heart of Mrs. Jacobs, my piano teacher, though I never considered that then. She was a talented teacher, and I suspect she had high hopes for my future. My repertoire consisted mainly of classical music, with a standard of perfection. The joy in playing was gone.
I continued playing in church for several years but stopped when my life became overwhelmed with depression and life’s lessons. I could not continue giving of myself. There was nothing to give.
I did not play for over thirty years. The piano took up space, another piece of furniture I dusted. They say, “If you don’t use it, you lose it.” It doesn’t get lost, but it sure does get buried. A resurrection took place when I returned to my piano bench eight years ago. My son asked that I play for him as a birthday gift, and I consented.
The passion and drive have never left me; they are a part of me. I’ve wanted more—direction and insight from another set of ears. Piano teachers are expensive; $75 per hour isn’t uncommon. I also knew I did not want intense instruction, but guidance.
Jennifer came into my world when she asked me to do some cleaning. The room where the grand piano stood was the first room I cleaned.
The thought was God-given: “Would you consider taking me on as a project?” I asked. I asked if she would consider trading cleaning for piano instruction. The answer was “Yes.”
I had my first lesson yesterday with input of tempo, how to practice and make the song better--and the importance of relaxing rigid shoulders. The music fills my being as I practice, play, and live out my day.
God is so good. I did not become the classical pianist Mrs. Jacobs had hoped for, but I am grateful He opened these doors. The joy has returned.
Many years ago, my Heavenly Father promised He would lead me and guide me in the way I should go. Some roads have not been direct. Some have taken a detour or two--this one was over sixty years in the making. But He knows the destination. That’s what counts.
“I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go;
I will guide thee with mine eye.”
Psalm 32:8 NRSV
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