Life Lesson #3

For better or worse, I have a very tender heart. For the most part, it is a good thing. But every once in a while I get myself into embarrassing predicaments because my heart overrides my head. Recently while attending a school play it happened again. At the end of the play one of the students asked if the audience had any questions. No one did. He waited. We all waited. They had worked so hard and it seemed as if they really expected someone to ask them something so with absolutely no question in my head I raised my hand. All eyes turned to me. "What are you doing?!!" my brain demanded. My heart just beat wildly and I spluttered out, "Was Francis Scott Key really the scoundrel you portrayed him to be?" Blank stares from the students. Embarrassed silence from the crowd. Furious blushing by me. "What?" the student finally responded in confusion. The teacher took over. "Did you mean Sir Walter Scott?" she asked me. "That was who this play was about - Sir Walter Scott. Is that who you meant?" I knew that it was about Sir WS. I really did. It was because I spoke without thinking that I just plugged in the first old Englishman that came to mind. I felt like I had just dropped my lunch tray. I was so glad Jay wasn't there although it would have been such a comfort to spread the embarrassment betwixt the two of us. But the poor man has had to endure enough at my hands.

When we were first married people from my past kept popping up all over - at the grocery store, at the university, at the movie theater. The problem was that they WEREN'T people from my past. They were total strangers who resembled people I had known. But my heart always went charging enthusiastically in. Time after time I rushed up to a long lost friend only to learn that the only thing long lost was my pride, oh, and Jay's. The worst was when I raced over to this man after church and exclaimed, "Remember me?" (Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!) The poor fellow racked his brain. I helped out, "We dated. You took me to...." More racking while his wife looked me over suspiciously. "I'm sorry," he finally said, "I think you may have me confused with someone else. My name is..." Sure enough. Wrong name. Acute embarrassment and blushing by me. His wife continuing to look unamused. Jay quickly leading me away and later asking me earnestly, "Can we please, PLEASE, not do that again?"

There are so many of these unfortunate little examples. My head aches just remembering. But recently my son gave a wrong answer in primary and even though the correction was done very gently he felt mortified. I could see the tears welling up in his eyes. And I remembered a similar feeling from my college days - my worst heart-rushing-in experience. This is the story I later shared with him.

After London died I went back to school briefly. One of the classes I took was a private piano lesson with Dr. Bonnie Winterton. I loved her and learned a great deal from her. For part of my grade I had to play before a jury of my peers - other music majors. So every Wednesday afternoon we all met in a small hall to listen to each other - piano players, singers, and every other kind of musician. We were trained to confidently introduce ourselves and the music we would be playing and when we were finished, to bow. I had done two years of college before my mission but as a newly declared music major I was a middish twenties freshman surrounded by younger and far more gifted performers than I.

One day a young saxophone player stood up to play and informed us that his accompanist was sick. Was there a piano major among us who would accompany him? Silence from those of us in the audience. He looked around hopefully. So did I. Surely one of the more gifted pianists would step forward but no one did. My heart, traitorous thing, began to thump. "You should help him. After all, you are a very good sightreader," my heart said. My brain replied stiffly, "Yes, but this is not your Auntie Lou Lou's church solo. This is Bach!" The boy in front smiled a little and said, "Come on, someone, please!!!" Still nothing. Heart: "Look at the poor fellow. You can't just leave him standing up there." Brain: "Oh yes, you can and you'd better. Let's be conservative, just this once." But the boy in front didn't need conservative. He had a room full of conservative. He needed foolhardy. He needed impulsive. He needed rash. I raised my hand.

He beamed at me as I walked to the front and took my seat at the piano. As I began to spread the music out in front of me, I knew I was in trouble. "Idiot!" cried my brain. The music was made up almost entirely of 16th notes- no wonder his pianist was ill- and the tempo markings indicated a rollicking pace. We made eye contact and played the first note together and then he was off, screaming through the stanzas while I blinked at the music in front of me wondering if we were looking at the same song. Where had he gone? What the heck was he playing? Every so often I thought I might have found my place and I tried to re-enter the race. Those were painful moments. Soon I decided that my only hope was to turn to the last page of the song and wait for him to get there. When he finally arrived in a flurry of notes I very adeptly played the last chord and sat stunned and breathless at the piano waiting for the moment I could slink out the side door and run. But it was not to be. He bowed deeply while everybody clapped and then, "Oh, no!" I saw it coming. Oh, no. Oh, please no, he wouldn't, would he? He gestured to me. In a dreadful rush I remembered the protocol. He was, quite properly, acknowledging his accompanist. Reluctantly I stood and with my last shred of dignity and every ounce of courage I could muster I, too, complied with protocol - and bowed!

I have said and done thousands of foolish things and felt shamed and humiliated so often I should be accustomed to it but this was the Queen Bee of anguished embarrassment. All I wanted was a millstone to hang about my neck and a very deep pond.

Twelve years later Ronan and I laughed together about how difficult it is to make mistakes in front of peers and he seemed to feel better but I admit that this experience still haunts me a little. Later I spoke with Jenn Horne, dear friend and confidant, and told her that I still cringe when I think of my failure that day. She said something that brought comfort. I'm still wondering about it. "I don't think you were a failure. I think that moment was your greatest triumph," she said thoughtfully. "Whatever can you mean?" I asked. "I believe I played two correct chords the entire song - the first and the last. How can you call that a triumph?!" "You were the only one who had the courage and the compassion to try," she responded.
Maybe she's right and maybe she's wrong but as a result of her perspective I've moved on.

One of you recently commented that I have had lots of funny things happen to me over the course of my life. It didn't feel like a put down, nor did it feel like a compliment, it was just a statement of fact. And it's true. I've been thinking that over for a while wondering why it is that my life has been chuck full of odd occurrences. I've come to the consoling conclusion that probably everybody has a bunch of stories to tell and are just not remembering or knowing where to start. The other conclusion is much less comforting, in fact it's downright worrisome: fools rush in. But then again, maybe that's not so bad after all.