I have played the piano for 22 years. It floors me that I can say I have done anything for 22 years. I still remember being at Grandma Myrtle's--who is furious now that I just used her real name--when my Aunt Denise came over, gave me a squeeze, and said she would see me that week for my first piano lesson. Thanks for always being patient, Aunt Denise. And thanks for putting up with all my whining. When Aunt Denise moved, I started taking lessons from another teacher. Miss Kaedell is an amazing musician, and I was so fortunate to take piano lessons from her. She also didn't accept excuses, and held me accountable. Between those two wonderful ladies, and my dear mother who refused to let me quit, I took piano lessons for about 9 years.
This talent has served me many times over as an adult. I've supplemented my family's income by teaching lessons. I've served as pianist for numerous auxiliaries in the church. It even tried my testimony once. I was asked to accompany a ward choir, and apparently the choir director held some weight around those parts because she requested my immediate removal after one week, and she got her way. The finite details of the escapade are appalling, and if you're dying to know them you can ask. Most of you probably already know... I'm not shy about it. Although there was that one super stupid experience, almost all others have been superb. I'm also convinced that the best calling in the church is the primary pianist. I will openly campaign for that job.
When I received my endowment before being sealed to Dewy, I made a lot of promises. I take those seriously, and I meant every one of them. One of those promises was that I would use my time and talents where I was needed in the gospel. So when the bishop called me in and asked me to serve as the ward organist I knew I had to say yes. However, it was not a ready yes. Nor was it a confident one. Just because I played the piano, did NOT mean I knew how to play the organ. They are not the same thing. However, I had promised to give of my time, and to me that meant that I needed to put in as much time as I could to learn how to play the organ. So I did. I asked for help. I looked at books. And I practiced. And I practiced some more. And then I practiced a lot more. I spent hours on that stinking organ, and I still messed up. A lot. And more than once I leaned forward and muttered/murmured in the bishop's ear. We had plenty of talented organists in the ward. Why did I have to try and do it? Do you know how intimidating it is to play the organ when you don't know how in front of a congregation that includes a handful of skilled musicians? It is horrifying. I remember one week I scanned the congregation randomly before the meeting and that very choir director who asked for my release in a previous ward was seated toward the back. She came to hear a musical number being played later in the services, and when I saw her I reverted straight into PTSD. My eyes locked with Dewy and having seen how pale I was immediately looked to see what I had seen. When he looked back at me he grinned and gestured for me to calm down. He is kind of a gem. Every week as I sat down to play the prelude my hands shook like a leaf, so every week the first hymn I played was More Holiness Give Me.
More holiness give me,
More strivings within,
More patience in suffring,
More sorrow for sin,
More faith in my Savior,
More sense of his care,
More joy in his service,
More purpose in prayer.
I shed so many tears over that stinking organ. And every time I was ready to go ask to be released, a tender mercy came my way. Sometimes it was in the form of a text message from a random ward member who claimed they were just thinking about me and wanted me to know how grateful they were that I played the organ for them. Sometimes it was during a priesthood lesson that I found out about later where a brother shared a touching experience he had while he was listening to my prelude music in the hall. It happened when I found out my dad was diagnosed with cancer. The opening hymn was Where Can I Turn For Peace?, and I spent the entire week with those words going through my head as I practiced it over and over. I was so overcome with the spirit during that song that I couldn't see the music through my tears and yet still made it through. But every time, without fail, those tender mercies came. So I kept trying. I never fully felt like I excelled at that calling, and for my type A personality that was hard to accept.
I am still terrified that someone is going to call on me to play the organ again. I served in that calling for almost two years, and never once did I feel comfortable. One thing I learned, though, is there is no comfort in your growth zone. And no growth in your comfort zone. Looking back, I recognize that my serving in that calling was for my benefit, no one else's, and it is probably one of the biggest faith building experiences I have ever had. I was monumentally blessed for my service. My faith was strengthened; my testimony grew, and I was also blessed with a new skill. My weaknesses were not made into strengths, per se, but it did give me a foundation to build on. For now, though, I'll stick to working with the teenage girls. That is something I enjoy and have full confidence in, so bishop, if you're reading this... don't get any ideas.
This talent has served me many times over as an adult. I've supplemented my family's income by teaching lessons. I've served as pianist for numerous auxiliaries in the church. It even tried my testimony once. I was asked to accompany a ward choir, and apparently the choir director held some weight around those parts because she requested my immediate removal after one week, and she got her way. The finite details of the escapade are appalling, and if you're dying to know them you can ask. Most of you probably already know... I'm not shy about it. Although there was that one super stupid experience, almost all others have been superb. I'm also convinced that the best calling in the church is the primary pianist. I will openly campaign for that job.
When I received my endowment before being sealed to Dewy, I made a lot of promises. I take those seriously, and I meant every one of them. One of those promises was that I would use my time and talents where I was needed in the gospel. So when the bishop called me in and asked me to serve as the ward organist I knew I had to say yes. However, it was not a ready yes. Nor was it a confident one. Just because I played the piano, did NOT mean I knew how to play the organ. They are not the same thing. However, I had promised to give of my time, and to me that meant that I needed to put in as much time as I could to learn how to play the organ. So I did. I asked for help. I looked at books. And I practiced. And I practiced some more. And then I practiced a lot more. I spent hours on that stinking organ, and I still messed up. A lot. And more than once I leaned forward and muttered/murmured in the bishop's ear. We had plenty of talented organists in the ward. Why did I have to try and do it? Do you know how intimidating it is to play the organ when you don't know how in front of a congregation that includes a handful of skilled musicians? It is horrifying. I remember one week I scanned the congregation randomly before the meeting and that very choir director who asked for my release in a previous ward was seated toward the back. She came to hear a musical number being played later in the services, and when I saw her I reverted straight into PTSD. My eyes locked with Dewy and having seen how pale I was immediately looked to see what I had seen. When he looked back at me he grinned and gestured for me to calm down. He is kind of a gem. Every week as I sat down to play the prelude my hands shook like a leaf, so every week the first hymn I played was More Holiness Give Me.
More holiness give me,
More strivings within,
More patience in suffring,
More sorrow for sin,
More faith in my Savior,
More sense of his care,
More joy in his service,
More purpose in prayer.
I shed so many tears over that stinking organ. And every time I was ready to go ask to be released, a tender mercy came my way. Sometimes it was in the form of a text message from a random ward member who claimed they were just thinking about me and wanted me to know how grateful they were that I played the organ for them. Sometimes it was during a priesthood lesson that I found out about later where a brother shared a touching experience he had while he was listening to my prelude music in the hall. It happened when I found out my dad was diagnosed with cancer. The opening hymn was Where Can I Turn For Peace?, and I spent the entire week with those words going through my head as I practiced it over and over. I was so overcome with the spirit during that song that I couldn't see the music through my tears and yet still made it through. But every time, without fail, those tender mercies came. So I kept trying. I never fully felt like I excelled at that calling, and for my type A personality that was hard to accept.
I am still terrified that someone is going to call on me to play the organ again. I served in that calling for almost two years, and never once did I feel comfortable. One thing I learned, though, is there is no comfort in your growth zone. And no growth in your comfort zone. Looking back, I recognize that my serving in that calling was for my benefit, no one else's, and it is probably one of the biggest faith building experiences I have ever had. I was monumentally blessed for my service. My faith was strengthened; my testimony grew, and I was also blessed with a new skill. My weaknesses were not made into strengths, per se, but it did give me a foundation to build on. For now, though, I'll stick to working with the teenage girls. That is something I enjoy and have full confidence in, so bishop, if you're reading this... don't get any ideas.
And you my beautiful niece- teach me...
ReplyDeleteLove you,love this. Aunt D
I wish I could teach you! I'm not even good! I was a total fraud masquerading as an organist! HA!
Delete