Seven years ago this month, I sat in a small room and, with every nerve I had stretched taut, played First Arabesque by Claude Debussy for my potential college piano instructor. My performance of a high school solo earned me a spot as a private student of hers rather than in a group class, and in my two semesters studying under her, I learned more about piano than I probably had in the previous five years. Studying piano at Northwestern College made music come alive for me, and I'll always be indebted to Dr. Juyeon Kang for making me the musician I am today.
Today I sat in another office not unlike that office from seven years ago with my future in piano once again on the line. The previous years have seen me transformed into a nomad with no real opportunities to further my piano career. The songs I learned in college have slipped away and I am left with the artifacts of an earlier time.
The job teaching piano lessons was already mine, but she wanted to hear me play something before I left. And so Debussy's First Arabesque it was. As I played, I felt as if my life was coming full circle. Ever since graduating college, I have avoided any full-scale commitment to music, resisting letting music define me. But now, with my passion for history slipping away in a beautiful sunset of a season of my life I will treasure forever, I realized how much music has always been there, and how much I want it to always be there.
I remember those countless nights when I'd make my way a fourth mile up that South Dakota hill to the church that never locked its doors. I'd go inside and sit down at the piano and let the music fill the room full to the bursting with the presence of God. I remember peace restored as I lay weeping at the altar begging God for wisdom and restoration of the broken pieces of my heart. I remember dancing through the aisles of that little church, singing "I Love You, Lord."
I remember Friday evenings at Northwestern College, when I'd go with my closest friends to the chapel and we'd sing praise songs for hours. I remember Emily dancing. I remember Sarah and I singing beautiful harmonies. I remember God's presence permeating the atmosphere, heaven on earth.
And then there was Georgia, and playing piano on my lunch break. That old Carnegie piano with badly damaged strings and keys that nevertheless fills the entire house and lawn with the strains of music, a music which I have witnessed restoring the peace of so many park visitors who for a brief time are able to forget the sadness that plagues them, the day-to-day stress that never ends.
I have the unique privilege of imparting to a few of the young people in my town a love for music. I am a piano teacher...such a ridiculous privilege. I feel so unqualified and undeserving...for so long piano was something I did only because I was forced. And now I get to guide students through the hard work of technique and theory and memorization to a place where music comes alive, sustains, and even connects us with the heart of God.
My optimism is foolish and naive, I know, but I wouldn't trade it in for a thousand doses of realism.
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