As a little girl, I watched from the edge of the living room as my mother played her violin, hours and hours a day. It was not "practicing" to her, but being absorbed into the music. Playing exercises, scales and difficult passages over and over again was anything but mundane to her. She was energized by it. Practice was not about how to play the notes better, but how she grew to love the music even more.
When she was practicing, she was in a different universe, oblivious to everything around her: dogs barking, my brothers racing through the house, even something burning in the oven. "Just give me a few more minutes," she would call out. "I'm almost done." But she rarely was.
As she practiced and subsequently performed, she heard sounds and patterns that none of us would ever be aware of. But she could also see, beyond our own vision of things, as I only found out after she had passed away. She possessed a neurological condition called synesthesia, in which she could actually see colors associated with the notes.
At first, I wondered why she never talked about her synesthesia. But one morning, I was suddenly struck by the realization that she never shared about synesthesia with me, because she must have thought everyone saw colors when they heard music.
From the time she was a little girl, being successful as a musician was how she was going to make it in this world. She came from very humble beginnings. Her father died after a long illness when she was still a teenager. Her mother kept food on the table by teaching piano lessons. Mom played live music on the radio to work her way through college. She turned down an opportunity to come to Nashville as a member of the Grand Ol' Opry radio show, because her sights were set on a bigger stage. She moved instead to New York City.
Through the years and four children and a few moves between Chicago and the East coast, God began using her music as her way of loving people. God provided her a different kind of stage and different kinds of venues. She kept her violin by her side and pulled it out in the most unexpected times and unlikely places to bless someone. She played in churches, nursing homes, hospitals, garden clubs, and elementary schools to encourage youngsters. (She would not ask children, "Do you play an instrument?" but "What instrument do you play?" Music was not an optional activity in her eyes.)
And when my dad was out of work for a long season, she taught violin to fledgling high school students in our living room, literally night and day. She never made much money at it, but she kept us going, and she loved a lot of kids through the angst of life.
When she passed away almost fifteen years ago, as I was going through her piles of papers, I came across an index card on which she had written, "I always wanted to be famous, but a lot better things happened because I am not."
I was reminded of that message this morning, when I read this passage of Oswald Chambers from the early 1900s: "We must never put our dreams of success as God's purpose for us; His purpose may be exactly the opposite."
What brings glory to God? Watching my mom, I learned that nothing is insignificant in His sight.
Today, December 29, would have been mom's 100th birthday.
May I be faithful to what she taught me about life, how she loved God, and the soundtrack of grace she engraved in the lives of so many.
One generation shall commend
Your works to another,
and shall declare
Your mighty acts.
Psalm 145. 4
Happy birthday, Mom!
