There is a story about my piano.
And there is a story about my mother’s piano.
This is a story about my daughter’s piano.
But really – this is a story about God’s faithfulness.
Little Lady loves piano. She loves music and movement and song. From a very early age, she has engaged with music in ways that have surprised me. I will never forget sitting in our traditional church service during pregnancy and feeling Little Lady lurch and squirm and wriggle every time the organist began a song. I will never forget when she began testing out her first steps on her own how she went to the piano to hammer her fingers down on the bass keys – or how delighted she was when we playfully sang Frosty the Snowman in a low, ominous tune to match her melody. I will never forget how she would rush up to the television every time the Gilmore Girls theme song came on so she could bounce and sway along to the music. She has two xylophones, this girl. She loves, loves, loves music.
On the evening of September 19, something beautifully amazing happened. Husband and I were sitting on the sofa chatting while Little Lady played on the living room floor. She went over to the piano and hoisted herself onto the ottoman we kept in front of it. Little Lady plunked the keys for a few minutes, playing a song only she knew. And then it happened. I hushed Husband and we listened, completely mesmerized, as our two-and-a-half year old began to sing, “one one baby go go baby go goooooo” along with her own two-handed piano playing.
OH my heart.
I just… I melted in that moment. My spirit cried out to Jesus for a piano for my daughter.
(You’re stopping the story here to ask me why I would ask Jesus for a piano for my daughter when my daughter was presently sitting at my piano. Can’t I share my piano? Does every musician need her own piano? To the first – yes, of course I can share my piano. To the second – it seems outrageous to say so, but I think yes – just like every doctor needs her own stethoscope and every writer needs her own pen [we’ll talk about Little Lady’s thievery of my pens another time] and every construction worker needs her own hammer and every chef needs her own knives. Maybe every musician doesn’t need her own piano, but certainly every pianist does. Now, I started this story by saying there is a story about my piano [and this, also, is a story for another time, thankyouverymuch, MaryHowes]. This story is about Little Lady’s piano. The short story about my piano is… more than a century old; cracked soundboard; tragically and terminally untunable; excellent character; excellent resonance, all things considered; excellent wood. But absolutely one-hundred-percentedly not tunable. And therefore, also, out of tune.)
So my heart melted and I prayed for Jesus to provide a piano for my daughter – something we could tune. It matters, you know. It really, really matters. Writing may be the only art form where you can practice poorly and still make something excellent. In music, the last thing you want to do is train your ear to hear wrong notes. So I sat there melting at my daughter’s beautiful moment, and praying that Jesus would somehow provide a tunable piano.
And I spoke that prayer to only Jesus. Not my mother. Not Little Lady. Not my best friend. Not my dog. Not even my husband (who hears considerably too many details of my thought processes, prayer processes, writing processes, digestive processes…). It was just that kind of prayer.
It’s worth sharing here, also, that mid-September was an excruciating time for my family. In the snowballing decline of my mother’s health over the past years, months, weeks, I had somehow found myself unsure how to pray anything. Most often, my spirit just ached out something like, “Please, Jesus,” or “I need You.” This prayer – for God to provide a piano for my daughter – was the first time in ages that my spirit brought a specific request to the Lord that my mind comprehended. I prayed it once and it was done. My heart rejoiced because I knew that the same God who provided a piano for me would be faithful to provide all my daughter needed to accomplish His plans for her life. For the first time in my life, I honestly spoke a request to God one time and completely believed that God had already provided the answer. And so I left it there. Exactly where it needed to be.
About a week later, I was in my home office working. My mom was having an exceptionally difficult day. Husband had taken Little Lady outside to meander in the yard, and I apparently texted him in struggle and simply said, “Remind me again that God is faithful.” He replied that God is faithful; that somehow He would see us through this difficult moment.
A couple hours later, when Husband and Little Lady returned from their excursion, I heard Husband answer a phone call. I wasn’t exactly eavesdropping, but I confess I was curious. I had no idea what the conversation was about, but Husband sounded thrilled (and if you know my husband, you know that he is an engineer and his brain works in science and math and cold, hard facts; “thrilled” is an enormous word for such a rationally-minded person, but I assure you – “thrilled” is the right word: Husband sounded thrilled). He totally interrupted my workday (don’t tell my boss) to tell me that Mister Larry had called from the church, asking if we would be interested in a used but tunable piano. Apparently someone was looking to rehome the instrument and Mister Larry and Pastor Daniel thought of our family. Husband said Mister Larry’s exact words were: Would that bless you? Would that bless your family?
I’m not even sure of the rest of the story, except that yes, Mister Larry – it blessed us. It continues to bless us. More than we can say.
Husband and I had several conversations about what to do with my piano – we landed on moving it to the office “for now” because I didn’t want to make any rash decisions. Quite honestly, I have said for years that I would never get rid of my Huntington – that I would take it apart and make a bookshelf of the wood or something – because I am truly in love with the piano; we have a beautiful history and a lovely story together. That story almost ended (along with my Husband’s life, in my anxiety-riddled imaging), when we were moving the old Huntington and Hubby said, “Let’s just open the basement door and push it down a few steps so we can turn that tight hallway corner.”
Seriously. Wife eye-rolling happening right here. I was like, “But honey, if you can’t lift the piano back up, you know I can’t pull it from the other side, right?” And Husband was like, “It’ll be okay. Trust me.” And so there was a very real tension between my creative brain that imagined a piano splattered all over my Husband’s body at the bottom of the stairs and Husband’s rational brain that knew we weren’t actually going to tilt the full weight of the piano onto him in the stairwell. We were just going to pivot. (Yeah, I went there.)
Hubby didn’t die that day. Just so you all know. The Huntington move happened without drama. But y’all need to know this – my mother helped us push the Huntington into the office one month before she went Home. That should tell you something about the woman. And I hope several of you remind my daughter of that in the years to come – that one of the last things her Oomah did for her in this life – was move a piano.
And there, folks – not a month after my daughter sang her first song at the piano – Oomah and I took Little Lady for a drive on the day her piano was to arrive – the last time Little Lady and I would get Oomah out of the house. I will never… never forget the look on Little Lady’s face when she saw the piano for the first time. Far more than the instrument itself, the joy on her face spoke to me of God’s faithfulness in answering my prayer.
And He is. So faithful.
Always know that, my Little Lady.
Always remember that your piano was an answered prayer.
Always remember that you sang before your mind understood music.
Always remember that your Oomah moved a piano for you before she died.
Always remember that your father pulled the weight of the Huntington down upon himself in the basement stairwell so we could make room for your piano.
Always remember that Mister Larry and some other men brought this piano to you.
Always remember the joy that swept over you – when you saw the instrument; when you felt the instrument; when you heard the instrument.
Always remember that we sang and played your piano for Oomah as her body shut down and her spirit prepared to go Home with Jesus – and always remember that this was often the only thing that settled her restlessness and calmed her in those final weeks.
Always, always, always remember the story of your piano, Little Lady, because it is a story of God’s faithfulness – not His faithfulness as a general idea, but His faithfulness as a personal steadfastness to you, His beloved child. And no matter how difficult the journey you walk, He has good things in store for you – not only because He desires to give you good gifts, but because He Himself is The Good Gift and He gives Himself to you freely. Of His goodness. Of His faithfulness.
And always remember, dear reader – God’s faithfulness is yours, as well. Freely given. It isn’t reserved for my daughter exclusively; it is reserved exclusively for all His beloved Children. That is you. And that is me.
Thank You, Lord. What a precious Gift You are.
From the shores of Wicket Lake;
