GOD'S WAITING ROOM

Von Riege

There was no way I could possibly recall my mom’s favorite classic well enough to play a segment for this Sunday’s worship . . . or could I? I had wanted to do something special to honor my parents’ legacy. What better occasion than Father’s Day?

I tried to get my hands to cooperate, and create a melody I needed to hear—even while tears blanked out the notes on the music score. The harder I tried to stop them, the more tears flowed.

My mind went back to days of my teen years, when our whole family was home on a Sunday afternoon. Quite often, Dad would suddenly ask Mother if she felt like playing something on the piano. She would shyly just slip onto the piano bench and begin playing some of his favorite renditions. Sitting at the desk nearby, watching her hands back then, I was totally awed at the speed her fingers could hit those keys. An excellent reader of musical scores, she delighted in adding her own flair that literally spilled forth from her heart.

Now again, I returned to the keyboard. Placing my hands back on the black and white keys, I plunged ahead in reading the score of Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 by Franz Liszt. I kept going even though multiple simple notes were missed. I sensed an anger building inside me toward my inability to accomplish what I had set out to do.

Unbelievably crestfallen, my limp arms fell into my lap. I would have to wait awhile longer—then I would simply try again.

Walking outside to relax, the stark reality of where I had been lately began to impact my heart more clearly. I replayed the happenings of the past several months. Many events had nearly devastated my entire world. The beauty of hearing Mother play the piano had suddenly changed, now viewed with discord and disconnected interludes.

It all began when we had to move mother into a facility that could better meet her care needs. Dad could no longer keep track of her as she wandered off numerous times and could not find her way back home.

She adjusted well to her new surroundings at the health care center. She really graced the atmosphere there with her ability to sit at the piano and have perfect recall of some of her favorite hymns. She enjoyed having this "one connection" to the past.

Eventually my heart was also ready to accept the "new normal." We had done the right thing, and the timing was right as well. The interludes intermittently began to seem more harmonious.

Returning to my keyboard several weeks later, I was still trying to find the right chord that would allow my heart to express real joy through a rendition once again. It was difficult to imagine that something so near and dear could now be viewed from a distance as if some frightening task. Creating a melody seemed impossible.

As a pastor, I am often involved in funeral services and dealing with grieving families. Thus, when my dad had been found lifeless, obviously dying in his sleep a few months ago, I thought I could handle the finality of it in resolute manner. I had written Dad a letter to be shared at his memorial service. It allowed me to express my heart, and things seemed to be going along quite well. Mother was observed to be taking these changes of life in stride, which was a much-needed relief for me.

Adding to the complexities of my world, however, I dug my heels in and pushed onward. I nearly single-handedly sorted out all of my parents’ belongings from that little apartment which they both had shared earlier. The apartment was empty except for one larger item.

The last piece of furniture out the door was the piano.

Suddenly today, I reflected again on the sequence of events in my life. I am better able to see why the piano is something I have stayed away from. It has very little to do with my not wanting to follow in my mother’s footsteps as an accomplished pianist. It has nothing at all to do with my lack of ability to perform with impeccable technique. But, it has everything to do with my heart not being ready to bring forth a "true melody" from deep within.

Dust silently lingers on the old piano keys while my heart remains in "God’s Waiting Room." Renewed faith, hope, and joy must still be locked inside the cobwebs that encase my aching heart. Once released, the real melody will come forth—instead of one I have been desperately trying to create.

—Von Riege, Wakarusa, Indiana, has pastored for the Church of the Brethren for 11 years and, has seen many life changes, among them sending an oldest son off to college. Her recent writings have included articles concerning families dealing with Alzheimer-related issues.