A Christmas Post

After all, there's only one more sleep 'til Christmas

Thank you, Muppet Christmas Carol.

For a long time, I put classical musicians on a pedestal. I mean, hours of practice, self-discipline and skill. What’s not to respect?

Also for a long time, I berated myself because I had the chance to become a skilled musician, but I didn’t take it. Like many a punk kid, I quit. Piano, viola/violin. I don’t blame anyone else for quitting (those lessons were tedious!), but I do blame myself. I’m not a quitter! Yet I quit. I’m constantly ashamed of my current level of musicianship. It could have been so much more.

A viola moment

Last Sunday I was set to play in a musical number during my church’s Sunday service. You see, I may not be great at violin but not many people play and quartets need second violins. So I practiced, pleading with myself to sound better and hopefully avoid the dreaded nerves—shaking hands and roiling insides—that always come when I play.

When the time came, I told myself to not worry about the audience, but my nervousness didn’t abate. I sat in my pew beside my family, awaiting the moment of doom. Before the Sacrament was passed, I asked my husband to say a prayer for me. Well. Little did I know, I was about to be granted peace.

I suddenly had a thought that I needed to forgive myself. I thought about it and realized that I needed to forgive myself for quitting private lessons. As I spoke to the Lord and to myself, sitting there on that bench in the congregation, I realized that I have been telling myself, for years, that I should be a better string player, that it’s my own fault that I’m not better at music.

I remembered that I was 13 when I quit. Does anyone make the best decisions at 13? I was young. I threw a major fit over it and wore down my parents. It was a bad choice, one that would have repercussions, but not a tragic choice. I had the impression as I sat in that pew that the Lord forgave me a long time ago and now would make up for my lack, not by suddenly giving me more skill, but by showing me that my offering, though imperfect, was still worthy to Him.

Aren’t there multiple examples in the scriptures of the Lord accepting whatever his very human children had to give, and making it work? The widow and her two mites, Moses and his slow speech, Hannah and her barrenness. He takes what we are and helps us be more when we walk with Him.

A load lifted off my shoulders. The time came and I played for Him, to give him my mite, my little drummer boy gift. I played with every nerve-laden ounce of skill I possess (because the nerves didn’t just disappear, but I didn’t mind them so much). It could’ve been more if I’d made different choices in the past but it wasn’t. That didn’t matter, it was enough. I’m so amazed that He accepts what I have to give though it’s imperfect, even though it’s my own fault that it’s less than it could be!

I actually messed up and took a whole line to get back on with the rest of the quartet, but I didn’t even feel upset. I just felt like I’d presented an offering and it was accepted.

Sue Monk Kidd, in her book Writing Creativity and the Soul, shared that she once heard Maya Angelou say about writing that you just need three things: 1. Something to say, 2. The skill to say it, and 3. Courage to say it.

Wisdom doth lie herein.

I believe I have courage. I have some natural talent for writing and have added to that years of study in the craft. So I’ve got a start on 2 & 3. But I worry about #1. It’s a major disappointment I have in myself, that developing plots is so challenging. Maya Angelou claims that this is the one that is most natural, but I missed this when picking up talents. I’m a writer that loves to manipulate words but isn’t sure what to say. Do I belong? Why do I think I can be a story teller if I’m not bursting forth with glorious, fully-formed stories?

I think that if the Lord is willing to accept my offering of meager violin/viola playing and let me be enough to play for him on Christmas Sunday, then he’ll help me in the story department. You see, He is perfect. He can help my stories grow.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say except that if He is helping me in one area of my life, I know He’ll help me in another. Again, He is a holistic God. He worries about all of me. He’s got me covered from my stubbed toe to my sins that eat up my insides with regret. He even cares about my art. And if I want to be a novel writer, He will either help me get there or He’ll help me find a different path that will bring me more joy.

See, that’s why I love Jesus.

Merry Christmas, my friends.