Courage, and the Spirit

Please click on the music, then scroll down to read this piece by Rich Day at The Power of Introverts.

Both of my daughters, Christine and Shannon, took up the piano, along with all the lessons, the hours of practice, and the nervousness of performing at recitals.

In particular, the performance aspect of piano was an act of courage for Christine, who is quiet and reserved, but she did very well. She’s an enigma in her quiet ways, a girl who will not be held back in spite of some discomfort.




This true story takes place at their first piano competition.

The aspect of competing added a new layer of nerves, and they practiced their pieces for months before heading off on a Saturday morning for the event.

I will say, my younger daughter Shannon performed beautifully. In fact, she won second place in her division, and we were so proud of her! This story, however, is only about Christine.

The competition was held in a large auditorium, with a stage at the front, one grand piano, and a single seat. The stage, positioned in front of a sea of people, looked to me like a very lonely place to be, and I couldn’t help but feel comforted by the fact that I would remain in the spectators’ seats.

At times like these, you hope for some measure of luck; and as we read through the program, we saw that Shannon was to be the “lucky” girl, the one who would perform first in her division. Fortunately, there was no one else playing her piece.

Then we looked at Christine’s division. It was a very crowded group. Three other performers besides Christine were playing “Clair De Lune,” and she was to play last. My nerves instantly multiplied like breeding rabbits.

So I sat back and listened as each competitor played “Clair De Lune.” What I heard was very competent and precise performances. These kids were very good!

Each time the piece was played I looked towards the judges to my left. They sat in a row, three of them, and I could only see the face of the judge closest to me. After each performance her expression was implacable, not even showing a hint of emotion.

As I wondered why she seemed so stiff, I realized this was a woman who had no doubt heard this piece played hundreds of times before. She was just hearing the same song played three more times.

But, for me, hearing these kids play, and the manner in which they played, took me back to a moment weeks before, as I listened to Christine practice. She played the piece exactly how her competition was playing it here at the competition: competently, skillfully hitting every note with great precision.

As she practiced, I got up, stood behind her, and asked her to show me the music. She pointed at the page and, to my mind, what I saw was a jumbled, complicated sheet, containing indecipherable notes. So I asked her again, “Show me the music.”

Christine didn’t understand what I was asking, so I explained myself in a different way.

“You do realize that this sheet music is nothing more than the best road map this composer could give you to find his music. This music was born in his heart, he found it there, and the only place you can find it isn’t on this page, but in your own heart.”

*Memory interrupted*

My flashback is interrupted by the cold sound of hearing Christine’s name over the loudspeaker as she’s called to the stage. She was to be the very last person to perform.

Christine made her way up to that most lonely spot, a single seat in front of hundreds of people. I can’t imagine how nervous she must have felt, because even my nerves were hard to control.

Then it began. Christine bowed, sat, and started to play.

Well, kind of.

Instead of “Claire de Lune,” what came out was gibberish. She played a few random notes, then stopped.

A hush came over the crowd. There wasn’t a single sound, except for a gasp or two.

She started and stopped like this three times, each attempt sounding the same – a few strange notes were played, nothing more. The music had disappeared from her memory.

Every fiber of my being wanted to go scoop her up off that stage and carry her away, but I stayed seated and waited – for a miracle.

The courage Christine displayed next was a moment of bravery I can’t even imagine. Because I, in no way, share the same degree of fortitude she was able to call upon in that incredibly intense moment.

As she continued to survive through her stumbles, Christine stood up, paused for a few seconds, sat back down again, and — please forgive me as I add some imagination to the story — a spirit walked on stage to join her.

As Christine stood there, her eyes on the crowd, the spirit said, “Christine, don’t look at them, look at me.”

He then took her hand, placed it over his heart and said, “Let me show you my music.”

Slowly, they sat down together, side by side, and he began to whisper in her ear, “You see, Christine, there was moonlight and a girl. And…”

Instantly, she began to play again, notes that were as soft as the spirit’s whisper. What was to follow was a song the audience had not heard all morning.

“Christine, this next passage is about the way the moonlight played on her hair,” the spirit continued to whisper.

She continued, each note being played just as beautifully as the one before.

Then the music began to build, and the spirit continued to whisper through his tears, “Christine, this was my longing for her.”

The tears, those of Claude Debussy, moved me deeply; because, in that very moment, I too began to cry. No, not a single errant tear – these were great sobs!

Quickly, I pulled out the mental man-corks we men keep in the shirt pockets of our minds and tucked them carefully into my tear ducts, but I couldn’t stop the shaking of my shoulders! The notes were descending on all of us, falling upon our ears, like the tears of Debussy, with such beauty, such longing.

I couldn’t understand what was happening. But I did wonder if it was possible that I was hearing with a father’s ears. So, because I was unsure as to whether or not I was the only person in the building struck with emotion, I looked over to my left to find that judge, the one with the implacable stoic face, but she wasn’t there. In her place was a different woman, one with shaking shoulders, and tears flowing freely down her face, without concern for how she may appear to those around her.

My beautiful little girl, my sweet Christine, had moved the emotions of an entire assembly, not with a bold, excitedly intense performance that’s commonly known to attract applause, but with a QUIET, songful whisper that came in the form of a brave, young woman I’m proud to call my daughter.

We went to this competition hoping our daughters would do well. We thought we might find a trophy or two. Instead, Christine’s survival in song awarded us with so much more:

Courage, uncommon courage … That was the prize of our day.

Even now, as I sit here and write this, I cry, yet again, without concern for how I might be perceived by those who are reading this.

Why? Because my heart is filled with joy over this memory’s song.