Reminders from an Organ

I was recently called as an organist for my ward (church congregation), to play during our main worship service (sacrament meeting). Would it surprise you that after I was issued the call, I went home and cried? It’s true, and not a little bit either. I’m not exactly proud of it, but this calling has proven to be not only physically difficult for me, but emotionally as well.

I associate the organ with my mom.

And she’s not here to help me figure out how to play it (so different from the piano), to advise me on prelude or postlude music choices (how do you smoothly go from one song to the next?), even to show me how to turn it on and choose the various settings, or what I should wear on my feet to play the foot pedals. Or to offer encouragement and be cheering me on, celebrating with me afterward. Which is plain hard, and uncomfortable. Grief-y. And I didn’t want to do it.

Whine, whine, whine.

Mom played and sang so beautifully. A love of music was probably the biggest thing I inherited from her, a special bond we always shared. She first taught me to play the piano, starting when I was very small and she would tape small colored circles on the keys for me to press and play simple songs, before I could even recognize letters. I have no idea how many clarinet competitions or recitals I participated in where she was my accompanist, or how often she helped me work out difficult rhythms, how many arrangements we wrote together for things like a duet with my sister, or playing with the ward choir. For years we practiced and performed with the same handbell choir. We played chimes at family gatherings or for church meetings. And on and on. I have so many memories of creating music together with my mom.

The first week after I was called I couldn’t even talk to anyone about the organ without tearing up. I had awful visions of getting in front of the ward to play and just starting to cry like a baby. How embarrassing! Plus not exactly conducive to the reverent spirit I hoped to invite with the hymns. Yuck.

And yes, there was probably some pride involved here too. I like doing things well, and this is something that I don’t really know how to do, much less do well. That lovely destructive inner critic in my mind started pointing out things like, “People don’t even notice if the organ is played well at church, they only notice the mistakes.” “You’re just a body filling a space, not someone needed specifically.” “You’re such a people-person, Suzanne, and this is a calling where you don’t even directly interact with anyone!” “You’re not good at the organ, this calling doesn’t utilize your actual talents and you’re only going to fail.” Or horrors, “What if I totally choke and just stop playing in the middle of a song?”

That’s not exactly without precedent. When I was a teenager Elder Richard G. Scott came to our area and held a regional meeting for the youth ages 12-18. Thousands of them. I was asked to play the piano for the meeting. No problem, right? After all, I played all the time for Young Womens and seminary, even occasionally in sacrament meeting. Except this time my nerves got the better of me, and I messed up on the second to last verse and then completely froze and didn’t play again. It was awful. And since then, I’ve had horrible performance anxiety (think full on shaking) whenever I play the piano (or organ!) in sacrament meeting. Chimes or bells, totally fine. But anything with a keyboard, not pretty.

So. Last Sunday I played for the first time, the prelude and postlude, opening, sacramental, and closing hymns. I spent all week practicing and mastering those foot pedals, experimenting with organ settings, and pushing past the pain of autoimmune related “bad hand and feet days.”

I didn’t play perfectly, but it was a wonderful experience. There was no question I received divine assistance. You see, with the sudden drop in temperature we had experienced the night before, the circulation in my feet was especially bad that morning. I actually couldn’t feel my feet, and it was painful for my hands to play, but somehow they (nearly always!) found the right notes and pedals.

And I was okay with not being perfect. That in and of itself says a lot about how far this former perfectionist has come in the past few years.

In fact, I’ve been able to see how this has all been therapeutic for me at a time when I have desperately needed it. As it has done before, playing the hymns for hours has been calming for my soul, drawn me closer to my Savior and His healing power. It’s been good for me to have been forced to carve out the time to do so. Especially at a time of year when PTSD nightmares can regularly interrupt my sleep, when flashbacks of horrible images or sounds can be intrusive even during the day, when my soul so often feels weighted down by it all as we once again move steadily toward March 24th.

I didn’t want this calling, but the Lord knew I needed it. And I think my mom is still helping me. Those hours I spent alone at the church practicing, I have felt her near. I know she wouldn’t want me to avoid making music just because I miss her. And I am grateful to be able to in this small way serve the people in my ward and contribute to our worship experience.

I had the opportunity tonight to share parts of my story with several people whom I have recently met, to bear testimony of the miracles I’ve experienced and how the Lord carried me and my family through some heavy and difficult times. I was reminded of so many evidences of God’s love there have been in my life, how clearly aware of me and involved He is with my struggles, what a privilege to have had these experiences that have meant I cannot doubt Him now. Even when life continues to throw curveballs and challenges that can seem insurmountable, or when I’m left having to turn it all over to Him because so much is out of my control and I know there is no way I can do this on my own.

Beyond heavenly help, I’m grateful that I’m not doing this alone. I have loved ones on the other side of the veil whom I feel are aware of and helping our family, the blessing of a supportive and loving husband here with me, family both immediate and extended, and such a wonderful wealth of friends to help carry the burdens with me. I know that I am very blessed.