If I remember correctly, I was nine or ten years old when I determined I was going to learn how to play the piano. I was somewhat foggy on the details of the master plan, but reading and playing all those notes on the page held an unshakeable fascination for me. I’d learned to read treble clef, but bass clef was first a mystery and later a source of frustration. Not knowing any better, I jumped in and began learning pieces way too hard for my inexperience level and after several weeks of study concluded that only the most brilliant and talented people could ever learn to play the piano with both hands! (I also thought that you had to be some sort of fantastic wonder-pianist to be good enough to play in church and that all composers were dead.) It’s a wonder I didn’t quit after a few weeks of all this, but I did continue to practice and must have made some sort of progress.
The first time I played in public was during a VBS closing at my local church. I had a hymn memorized and I was supposed to accompany a friend while she sang. I remember parts of it fairly vividly. (Most people do have vivid memories of traumatic experiences… ha ha.) I was twelve years old and had no teacher to prepare or support me. How did I feel? The word “TERRIFIED” comes to mind! In fact, if someone had asked me “Do you think the audience is going to eat you?” I would have in all seriousness answered, “Yes.”
I’ve never believed that the Lord will step in and supernaturally cover for us if we don’t practice enough, so I spent every spare second practicing. Although I knew better than to believe prayer would cover a shortage of practice, I was rather hopeful that prayer would take away that sinking, nervous feeling that grew in intensity as Friday evening approached. Perhaps at the age of twelve I could be excused for not fully appreciating the subtle difference between prayer and panicking in the hearing of the Creator of the universe, but in any case the fear was not so obliging as to disappear. When I sat at the piano in front of the congregation my hands shook like they never had before, and my mind was a near-total blank. (TERRIFIED!)
In the twenty-one years that have passed since that evening I’ve heard a lot of music. I’ve heard good, steady piano introductions and I’ve heard weak introductions. However, I can honestly say that I’ve never, ever heard an introductory disaster quite like the one I produced that Friday night.
I think it took about a measure and a half for me to forget everything I’d practiced. This was an especially sticky problem because the introduction was four measures long. I’m sure the whole process seemed to take longer than it actually did, but it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I attempted the introduction close to ten times before the singer was able to get started.
Oh yes, the poor mistreated singer… What kind of faces does a soprano make if her accompanist stops a split second before she’s supposed to begin singing? I don’t know because I wasn’t looking at her (I had my own problems!) but apparently they’re hilarious. There were definitely titters in the congregation. Of course, because I wasn’t watching the singer I concluded that people were laughing at me, which was not at all helpful. I reiterate: TERRIFIED!!!
Eventually we did get the song underway, and my friend the singer was amazing. Once she got started she kept going no matter how many parts I messed up or forgot. Huge chunks of the piano part were completely missing; more than half of the song ended up being a cappella. My friend forgave me for the multiple introductions (at least, I believe and hope so) but there’s no doubt that I was certainly very upset with myself for a long time!
I don’t remember anything that happened for the rest of the closing program. Honestly, I can’t tell you with any certainty whether or not the roof caved in. (I had the distinct impression it did, but that may have been wishful thinking.) When the closing was over and I was doing my best to vanish into the night, a well-meaning VBS worker tried to tell me he thought that the way I kept jumping back into the song after losing my place showed talent and the fact that I didn’t quit showed character. I, in my twelve-year-old wisdom, knew better: I was incapable of ever being a good pianist, and God was out to get me because He didn’t listen when I asked Him to miraculously take away my nerves. Also mixed in there was some thought along the lines of “I just went through the most awful, embarrassing experience and am going to DIE, and you think I’ll find it comforting that you admire my character?!” I’ve since come to appreciate that having character is far more important than playing an instrument well, but in spite of that fact there’s surprisingly little comfort in the phrase, “Your performance was a disaster, but at least you have character.”
Among the many things I didn’t know then was that although preparation and practice are the largest part of being comfortable at the piano, the fear diminishes (diminishes, not disappears!!) only with experience. I didn’t even know that fear would diminish with experience! As crazy as I was to play in public the first time, in retrospect I must have been even crazier to play in public a second time after what happened the first time! But there must have been a second time, although I don’t remember it at all. And a third time, and a fourth time; in fact, twenty-one years’ worth of times! And you know what? Whenever I have the opportunity to serve the Lord by playing the piano in church I may not be visibly shaking from head to toe, but I’m always just a little, eensy-weensy, teeny-tiny bit… TERRIFIED!!!
