For some reason Dayna thinks 20
years with the same flooring is long enough.
And you know how it is when you make changes in flooring: things that
have been sitting on that floor for 20 years come under scrutiny. “Hmmm.
Do we still need that? Can we get
rid of this? Do you think one of the
kids will take that?” Nothing is
safe. Our dog went into hiding.
Anyway, among the things that
didn’t make the cut was our piano. You
know how some of the stuff you have is just stuff—no real sentimental
attachment, maybe something you bought on a whim and regretted buying a hundred
times since, maybe something you have no memory of buying at all. “Now why did we buy that?” Dayna asks. And all I
can do is shrug my shoulders. Some of
our stuff is just stuff. But some of our
stuff is more than stuff—it’s personal; it’s got stories associated with it and
strings attached to it: strings to the heart and to the memory. Our piano is that kind of stuff.
When my dad died in 1987, he
didn’t leave much behind. But he did
leave us enough money to buy a piano for our five-year-old daughter who wanted
to learn to play. My dad met his
grandkids once. He wasn’t good at
relationships. But using his money to
buy this piano was a way for me to connect my dad to my daughter. She was five—too young to grasp the
connection. That wasn’t important to
her, but it was important to me. It just
so happened that we knew a piano teacher who knew somebody who was selling a nice
piano at a good price, and we bought it cash money.
I’m glad we did. Kristen had a gift for it. We got her hooked up with a great teacher,
Becky Morales, and she blossomed. It was
at that piano that she learned to play the Arkansas Fight Song, and dressed in
a Razorback cheerleader outfit Dayna had stitched together, she performed that
song at her first recital,. It was at
that piano that she would compose her first song, “Cat and Mouse”—the framed score
of which hung on the wall of our home for years. It was at that piano that she helped
transition from Greenwood, Missouri, to Hot Springs, Arkansas, as she began 8th
grade. God put a new teacher in her
life, Barbara Dodson, who challenged her in ways she’d not been challenged
before. It was around that piano that
she and her friends would gather and sing, filling our house with beautiful
music. It was at that piano that she
would sometimes play me to sleep as she practiced into the night, working on
songs she was learning and songs she was writing. It was at that piano that she would compose a
worship song that was published and used in numerous churches across the
country. That song even made her some
money for a few years. It was at that
piano that Kristen gained many of the tools she uses to lead worship these days
in her church in Texas. It was at that
piano where I watched a cute little blonde-headed girl become a strawberry-blonde
young woman who is beautiful inside and out.
It was at that piano where I watched how God-given talent combined with
practice and work can produce beautiful things for the kingdom of God and the
pleasure of those just listening in. See
what I mean? Some of our stuff is more
than just stuff.
But Kristen grew up, went to
college, got married, and moved away. So
the piano sat in its familiar place, silent.
Kristen might play a little on her rare visits home. And our grandkids like to bang on it when
they are around. But mostly it just sat
there. When she got a house, we asked
her if she wanted the piano. “I’d like
it but I don’t have room, and I have an electronic keyboard already.”
Dayna and I talked about giving
away the piano the last few years, but we just never pulled the trigger. The flooring change raised the issue
again. The flooring starts going in this
week. So last week I said, “You know, I
think I’ll post a picture on Facebook and see if anyone wants it.” Boom!
Much to surprise, several people wanted it. And one of them even had a plan to move
it. So last Tuesday night, some people
we know from our church, people who play the piano and love the piano and have
a son who plays piano came to pick it up.
Do we miss it? Not really.
And here’s why: giving it away to people who have an appreciation for it
gave me a chance to tell the piano’s story, to speak of the dad and daughter
connection, to remember again the joy it has brought to our family, and to
relish in the fact that this good old piano will make music once again and
become enriched with more stories and more memories for a whole other family. I know the piano will be happier. It’s not a museum piece to be looked at; it’s
an instrument to be played. And it’s
being played once again.
Some of our stuff is just
stuff. Some of it is so much more. That piano is more than stuff; it’s an old
friend. And it gives us joy to know that
piano is making new friends even now.
