A "This I Believe" essay (for a class, but this is real stuff in here!)
My roommate in the
living room could probably see it in the way I walked in, avoiding all
possibility of eye contact by taking a sudden, uncalled-for interest in the
kitchen wall. I had just come home from one of the worst days of my college
career—and certainly the worst day of the semester—with swollen, red eyes and
smeared mascara. Ordinarily, a baby grand would be a good friend of mine.
Today, the sleek, black paint and smooth, ivory keys were my enemy. I hated my
calling.
When the bishop had
asked me to be a ward pianist, he had become the instigator of my real-life
nightmare. Sure, I knew how to play the piano. Sure, I had even taught piano
lessons for a while. And yeah, I had played in sacrament meeting a couple of
times. But ward pianist was the absolute last calling, second to none (yes,
that even includes Relief Society president), that I wanted. For the first time
in my life, I felt completely unqualified for my calling. And no matter how
hard I tried or how many times I played through the hymns for the next day, I
could not master them.
So into my room I
retreated. I was so prepared to drop on my bed and wallow as no ward pianist
had ever wallowed before.
But when I turned on my
light, there was a surprise waiting for me. Streamers. Chocolate. A homemade
sign, still in place on my wall four months later, proclaiming: “Krista, you
are the bomb.com. Love ya!” Tears filled my eyes for probably the twentieth
time that night as I looked around. My roommates really knew how to cure a pity
party. They were the doctors I hadn’t thought I wanted.
People say that actions
speak more loudly than words. I don’t disagree. But I think sometimes, we interpret
that to mean that words speak very little or not at all. Show, don’t tell. Walk
the walk; don’t talk the talk. But what would we be if we didn’t tell or talk
or write? Probably the same place I would have been had my roommates not
written a simple note on a piece of 8 ½” x 11” computer paper: lost, confused,
and hopeless.
I believe in words. I
believe in writing them, speaking them, singing them, thinking them. I believe
in hearing them and sharing them, screaming them and sighing them. Most of all,
I believe in remembering them. I believe in remembering words. I didn’t toss
the sign to the trash and mutter that if they supported me, they’d sit at a
piano with me and show me what to do. I still look at that sign on my wall
every day, remembering what those words mean. Words don’t just lead to actions;
sometimes, they are the actions.
