The City and the Sea

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I'm reading Emily Freeman's A Million Little Ways right now — so many good words and such a fresh perspective on life and living and grace and art. Created in the image of God, we are called to serve and give and create in a multitude of ways — ways that reflect His glory. The journey to discovering these callings is a personal one and as I read Emily's account of her story, I see pieces of my own journey.

"My life is the city but my soul is the sea."

These words practically jumped off the page when I read them.

We've all had those moments when life feels adventurous and exciting. We thrive on the hustle and bustle of those around us and we feel as if we're on top of the world. Life is big and grand like the intimidating lines and finely-crafted architectural detail of the early skyscrapers, built a century ago and still standing majestically along Main Street. There in the distance — our name in lights.

And then there are those days when we want to hide. When we drive to a place where no one will find us because stepping into the warm rays of sunlight that hit our front steps and facing the world seems too much to bear. Instead of attention and a desire to be noticed, to be known, we long for security, for peace, for stillness. Our souls long for refreshment and solitude.

Rochester is a mid-size city.

We say it's just the right size for us: lots of arts and culture; small restaurants with a cozy, neighborhood feel; and you can get anywhere in about 20 minutes. I've grown used to the refrigerated delivery trucks parked outside on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, the street sweeper, the beeping of the bus as it pauses mid-route at the stop around the corner. There's something comforting about it all — life being lived around you, people coming and going, a sense of community.

But then there are those moments when city life stops for a moment. There's a lull in the traffic on East Avenue. The only other person out walking is far in the distance. The only sounds are those of the birds happily chirping in the nearby crabapple and the wind gently nudging its branches.

I love these moments.

Instinctively, I take in a deep breath. I notice the pool blue sky, the white petals of the dogwood falling along my path, the fluffy peonies larger than the size of my hand. And then I remember that though my life is the city much of the time, my soul is the sea.

The Piano Teacher

Penelope is a bright-eyed, curly-headed girl of almost 8. She often skips into her lesson, singing me the song she composed that week. But one week, in the middle of playing through "Beautiful Dreamer," she fought back tears as she half-whispered, "No one wants to listen to my songs." I put down my notebook and pencil and moved to the bench to sit beside her. "My friends just want to play with me. They don't want to hear me play the piano." We talked about people and how everyone is different. We all like different things and are good at different things. Some people like to be with other people and others would rather be by themselves. "I like to be by myself," she said quietly. "Me, too," I said with a smile. She brushed away a tear from the corner of her eye and we went back to our lesson. Sometimes, it's more important to sit and talk for a minute than hearing every piece on the assignment sheet. Sometimes, lessons are more about building relationships and trust than playing and making music. As musicians, we know how much our emotions impact what we do. Creating music is a vulnerable act, a bearing of our very souls to those listening. Many times I've felt insecure about this and insecure about my abilities when they are not affirmed by others. Maybe you've been there, too. I want to be a teacher that acknowledges these struggles with openness and honesty. Someone who offer that affirmation and encouragement or at least lend a listening ear and say "I understand. I know what you're feeling." I believe this is part of what we are called to do as teachers. We listen when they're going through a hard time, encourage their pursuit of musical excellence, and celebrate their achievements.

We also laugh at their jokes and smile when they're being silly. Like when Graham, a sandy-haired, blue-eyed 1st grader asked to read me a comic he memorized from the New Yorker. At the end of his lesson, he sat on the bench and "performed" the comic for me with a different voice for each character. His mom said the first thing he told her when he got home was that he "made me laugh" with his story.

We are musicians and supporters, encouragers and facilitators, but we're also listeners and mentors, friends and confidants. We are piano teachers.

Sacred Space

"Space," I said as we stepped out into the cool, dark night, gesturing with my hands. I took a deep breath almost instinctively. We walked in silence for a while as we let the worship service sink in. The pace of the readings, the prayers, the music, created an atmosphere of rest and peace—a sanctuary, a haven where we were free to just be. There was a sense of timelessness in this service—neither of us had any idea what time it was and it didn't matter. As we turned our hearts toward worship, the things of this world faded.

We have grown accustomed to sound and noise as a backdrop for just about everything we do, but our listening is surface-level. We are used to having information at our fingertips, but we skim instead of reading. We are always connected via the worldwide web, but we are often disconnected from the present. No wonder our attention spans are so short! When do we give ourselves permission to do one thing at a time? When do we take the time to sit and listen, to put our phones on silent, to breathe deeply?

"He made the entire human race and made the earth hospitable, with plenty of time and space for living so we could seek after God, and not just grope around in the dark but actually find Him." - Acts 17:26-27

Our busy, fast-paced, impatient world does not often leave room for encountering space or dwelling in it for a short time, but worship is supposed to be different. It's supposed to draw us into God's presence, to create space for Him to move among His people. Worship is not instant or immediate—it's a process, of rendering, of believing, of trusting, of hoping, of listening.

"When life is heavy and hard to take, go off by yourself. Enter the silence. Bow in prayer." - Lamentations 3:29

There were two layers of space and time in this service: space in between elements (readings, hymns, anthems, etc.) and space in the elements themselves. Do you know how slowly you need to read before your spoken words really sink in for listeners? Pretty slow. Whether it's a Scripture reading or a written prayer, leave space. Let those final consonants linger for a minute. Let the richness of the text sit for a second before you move on.

"But oh! God is in his holy Temple! Quiet everyone—a holy silence. Listen!" - Habakkuk 2:20

Leave some space between the spoken elements of the service and the musical elements. Pause before beginning the hymn introduction.

"Silence is praise to you, Zion-dwelling God, And also obedience. You hear the prayer in it all." - Psalm 65:1-2

Take a deep breath and begin in a tempo that accommodates breathing. SD reflected later, "The tempo and phrasing was so in tune with my breaths that it felt like I was controlling the accompaniment—it was just right." There was space in between verses and in between phrases. The tempo not only facilitated good singing but also reflection on the text as we read the theology together.

This worship experience was transcendent, outside of the world in which we live. Go there. Go to that place where there's space and silence and room to breathe. Take it all in. Listen, sing, pray, and rest in the sanctity of this sacred space.