Piano Players

"I am bold, spunky, adventurous, playful, optimistic, and free. There is no question about who I am. All my life's testimony is being truly put to test. Am I faithful? Will I withstand the temptations and be able to define myself as one who desires to do the Lord's will?"

(excerpt from Lindsey's high school journal)

Today marks one year since the day my little sister passed away. It has been a tough year but somehow it seems to have gone by quicker than I anticipated. The moments of sadness aren't as frequent and I don't have to force myself to smile. A smile comes much easier now.
As I look back at the experiences of the past year I have learned a lot about God's love and finding happiness despite deep heartache.
I came across an amazing article that put words to the grief and sorrow our family has felt in the past year. I come from a family of musicians, concert piano players to be exact, so maybe that's why this article seemed to ring true for me.

Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it's still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.

But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

You learn to play that piano. You're surprised to find that you want to play, that it's meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief -- together -- begin to compose hope. Who'da thought?

Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you're 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child's life mattered.

You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play.


So if my blog gets a little sad once in awhile or you see me acting unusually quiet or emotional, remember I'm probably just playing my piano.

click here to read the entire article