Piano Man's Daughter

My father was in the piano tuning and repair business for most of my childhood. During the summers I often got the pleasure of traveling with him all over East Texas as he took on various jobs. I don't know what I loved more...seeing all the beautiful countryside or meeting new people. The chance to have alone time with Daddy was mainly the driving force behind me begging to go every time he picked up his tool box. I never knew whether we would end up in someone's home or at an old country church but either option promised adventure and a front row seat to a concert heard only by a few.

Church pews, choir lofts or baptismal rooms always offered such great surprises. The treasures ranged from crayons to buttons. Blankets left by elders served as tents, capes and Mary's veil. Sometimes I pretended like I was a cold grumpy church lady who was mad that her blanket had been moved.

Then of course there was the pastor's pulpit saved for the last few minutes because I had been told once to save the best for last. A piece of advice that had served me well up to that point so I enforced upon myself to satisfy my craving for wisdom. The pay off always took my imagination on a mystery adventure to discover the sub-concious thoughts of the choir director and the preacher as they were leading the flock. Trinkets such as chewed gum placed neatly on the underside of the pulpit, cups half full of water, tic-tac boxes, guitar pics, visual aids, post -it notes, pens, sermon notes and Bibles. A few times I would find things that baffled me like a pair of flip flops and a toy car.

Daddy would always go through certain steps when tuning. He would play the piano, then go through a process of adjusting the strings. Next were the tuning forks that he would bounce off of his wrist and then hold to his ear as he tightened or loosened the string. When he got to the finer tuning he would place as strip of felt between each string and then tune some more. I always knew when Daddy was winding down when he started removing the felt one string at a time.This was usually when I searched the pulpit.

When he pulled the last piece of felt out I would go sit by him and start packing up his tools being careful to put them exactly where he showed me once before. He played... first a few songs most piano fans would recognize and then onto pieces no one had heard before and no one since.

So imagine for a moment a man who outwardly looks like farmer Santa with his long beard, a fully round belly and a smile that could make anyone chuckle. Now picture him tickling the keys of a piano just as relaxed as someone talking on the phone. When Daddy played he was so full of peace, passion and joy. There is nothing that makes a child feel more secure than to see their parents at peace.

So for months and even years after my father left this world I had the hardest time listening to anyone playing the piano. It was not a sense of utter devastation like one would imagine but more of a disconnection. When I saw my father play he was instantly elevated above all the muck of the world surrounding him and lost in a world of grace, adventure and peace. He was a child again... one who had never lost connection with His creator. Playing music was his prayer language ... not just listening, although that is a joy all its own, but playing. It was a physical way expressing all the things his heart felt but could not divulge. It overwhelmed me to see another soul pour out before God. I needed to disconnect so that my heart would not get swallowed up.

The very thought of touching the piano stirred a sense of fear and awe. I laid down every instrument I had attempted to grace with my insecure fingers. Daddy had always pushed us to play some sort of instrument and detecting his passion I attempted the flute. In vain I tried to make my playing sound as glorious his. Even after he passed I bought myself a flute in order to honor the spirit of my father. Yet sold it years later because I felt I was chasing a hopeless thought.

This road to eternity has had some rather dark valleys. Being young, naive and undiscerning I charged through some of them with sense of adventure much like I did in back road church. Some I am not sure I ever really got out of. Yet, always in the back of my mind, I knew where my Daddy was because I heard Him. I knew when it was time to pack things up and enjoy his concert. Now that I am married.. have a few little ones of my own the darkness of this dark world does not seem like just a valley. Darkness is much darker when you have little ones to protect and a marriage to keep sacred. So dark to me at times I couldn't even hear my Father's music...
So I sat down...in the dark too petrified to cry out because it my be the end of all I hold dear. It so happened that I bumped into my guitar...(another instrumental attempt to embrace my father's passion). The need to reconnect with the heavenly Father was so great that even the sound of mangled guitar offered hope to my soul. Surprised by that I plucked its strings... and plucked until peace vibrated on my heart like the sound on the strings. It was a strange sound at first but as my fingers began to make sense of those different sounds so did my heart. Before long I figured out that several strings together made chords... then several chords made a song. My hands became the key to open up my heart.

The moment I closed my eyes to focus on the sound of peace the light became so bright that my eyes watered from the warmth of it. Praise pours out of my mouth with the greatest ease. Music has become a prayer language to me and sometimes the only way I can speak of or to the One my heart was created to desire.

If you were to listen to me play and not know my heart you probably would be relieved when I am done. But in the quietness of my soul I am playing chords of peace, joy, and love to my Heavenly Father and to my father in heaven.