Last night I had the privilege of attending the senior voice recital of a friend who is graduating this spring as a music education major. It was a lovely recital (and a pleasant opportunity to get out of the house without children!), and I was glad to be able to support her, along with several others from our church family.
It was funny, though, walking into that little recital hall: I was immediately hit with an overwhelming sense of belonging; though I went to an entirely different university, simply being in the space caused me to breathe out, "yes! This is what I do!" I watched the accompanist (for that is what I did) diligently and thought snide comments to myself about the page turner's mistakes and reminisced about the half-dozen or more recitals I played myself, even as I reluctantly acknowledged to myself that not a single formal gown still hanging in my closet would ever fit my post-baby body.
And then I looked around at the people I knew, all of them from church, none of whom knew me as a college student, and realized at once that "this" is no longer what I do. It was a rapid rush of emotions, ending rather unfortunately on just-slightly-embittered pride and an intense desire tobrag let everyone know what my life was like, nearly a dozen years ago. I've said this before, and it continues to be true: it's not at all that I dislike motherhood. I wouldn't trade what I'm doing now for a professional accompanist's life in a million years, though once upon a time I did dream of pursuing that particular goal. But I can say, fairly pragmatically and without too much of an inflated ego, that I was the queen of the recital hall in my last years of college. I was sought after and paid well and hugely appreciated and often gushed over, even in my secondary role at the piano. These are not the common characteristics of motherhood.
My own solo senior piano recital was victorious and depressing all at the same time. I'd done hour-long solo recitals every year since eighth grade, so the performing itself was nothing new, but the princess dress and the stage lights and the graduate-level sonatas and the audible sniffles as I encored a hymn medley I'd arranged myself conspired to make a magical evening. Later, as my roommates and then-boyfriend celebrated in my apartment kitchen, I sat in my room in my beautiful dress and sobbed. I knew, without a doubt, that that would be the last time I performed alone, at that level. The recitals would give way to church gigs and weddings; I would never again have that moment, all mine, in the spotlight.
Let me interject here to say that I fully understand that all of this is enormously prideful. I simply can't deny the fact that being good at something, and having everyone know that you're good at it, feels good. So it was with all of this running through my head that I stepped out of the recital hall last night, to mingle with a crowd of people who know that I play the piano but not that I once excelled at it, and failed miserably at resisting the urge to slip those half-dozen recitals from my past into conversation. [If you were there last night, and you're reading this, please do forgive my conceit.]
I felt a little yucky when I got home, knowing I'd seized on opportunities to brag when I should have been showering the soloist with compliments of her own. I'm still a little shocked at how strongly I wanted to be known, to impress and be impressive. It's even worse to think that I'm feeling all of this on the heels of studying 2 Corinthians (particularly chapters 10-12), in which Paul lists all of the reasons he could boast -- and all of the reasons he will boast instead of his weakness and the Lord's strength.
Maybe there's a good reason I never followed those professional dreams. Certainly motherhood brings with it a fair share of humility, and weakness, and reasons to boast only in the Lord. Not that it's impossible to be a sincere Christian and a performer, but I know I, for one, am spiritually much better off in my current occupation than I ever was in the spotlight. I may never feel as confident in my mothering skills as I did in my accompanying skills, with good reason: much more is at stake than a sloppy introduction or missed entrance! But that lack of confidence is only a push in the right direction, to depend on my Savior more than myself. Though last night was an emotional struggle, I'm glad for the reminder, that "it is not the one who commends himself who is approved, but the one whom the Lord commends" (2 Cor 10:18). May my attitude and my speech reflect that more truly in the future!
It was funny, though, walking into that little recital hall: I was immediately hit with an overwhelming sense of belonging; though I went to an entirely different university, simply being in the space caused me to breathe out, "yes! This is what I do!" I watched the accompanist (for that is what I did) diligently and thought snide comments to myself about the page turner's mistakes and reminisced about the half-dozen or more recitals I played myself, even as I reluctantly acknowledged to myself that not a single formal gown still hanging in my closet would ever fit my post-baby body.
And then I looked around at the people I knew, all of them from church, none of whom knew me as a college student, and realized at once that "this" is no longer what I do. It was a rapid rush of emotions, ending rather unfortunately on just-slightly-embittered pride and an intense desire to
My own solo senior piano recital was victorious and depressing all at the same time. I'd done hour-long solo recitals every year since eighth grade, so the performing itself was nothing new, but the princess dress and the stage lights and the graduate-level sonatas and the audible sniffles as I encored a hymn medley I'd arranged myself conspired to make a magical evening. Later, as my roommates and then-boyfriend celebrated in my apartment kitchen, I sat in my room in my beautiful dress and sobbed. I knew, without a doubt, that that would be the last time I performed alone, at that level. The recitals would give way to church gigs and weddings; I would never again have that moment, all mine, in the spotlight.
Let me interject here to say that I fully understand that all of this is enormously prideful. I simply can't deny the fact that being good at something, and having everyone know that you're good at it, feels good. So it was with all of this running through my head that I stepped out of the recital hall last night, to mingle with a crowd of people who know that I play the piano but not that I once excelled at it, and failed miserably at resisting the urge to slip those half-dozen recitals from my past into conversation. [If you were there last night, and you're reading this, please do forgive my conceit.]
I felt a little yucky when I got home, knowing I'd seized on opportunities to brag when I should have been showering the soloist with compliments of her own. I'm still a little shocked at how strongly I wanted to be known, to impress and be impressive. It's even worse to think that I'm feeling all of this on the heels of studying 2 Corinthians (particularly chapters 10-12), in which Paul lists all of the reasons he could boast -- and all of the reasons he will boast instead of his weakness and the Lord's strength.
Maybe there's a good reason I never followed those professional dreams. Certainly motherhood brings with it a fair share of humility, and weakness, and reasons to boast only in the Lord. Not that it's impossible to be a sincere Christian and a performer, but I know I, for one, am spiritually much better off in my current occupation than I ever was in the spotlight. I may never feel as confident in my mothering skills as I did in my accompanying skills, with good reason: much more is at stake than a sloppy introduction or missed entrance! But that lack of confidence is only a push in the right direction, to depend on my Savior more than myself. Though last night was an emotional struggle, I'm glad for the reminder, that "it is not the one who commends himself who is approved, but the one whom the Lord commends" (2 Cor 10:18). May my attitude and my speech reflect that more truly in the future!
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