Love begins

Tonight I met the first real challenge of volunteering for MOC. My mother tried to warn me about it two weeks ago, but I did not think it would come. At least not yet.

Tonight is the first night when I do not feel anything.

"Oh, yeah," you may be thinking, "That's a quick shift from the post you wrote the other day about the burden of too much feeling." True. I don't know what's worse: too much or too little. It's a constant debate.

Sixteen rooms requested music tonight, which is a relatively big number according to my guide. There weren't any less bravos than all the other nights, everyone was appreciative, and a few people were even so chatty that my guide had to come into the room and rescue me. But by the time we finished, I didn't feel like I really played for anyone. My mind was blank.

This was exactly what my mother tried to warn me. "There is going to be progressively less applause, and as the excitement of 'making someone's day' wears off, all of this will feel like routine," she said. "Then you need love to keep going."

"Love is patient, love is kind...it does not boast, it is not proud...it is not self-seeking." (1 Corinthians 13: 4-5) I once knew a girl who loved her spotlight. She would not admit it, but boy, did she love attention! The highlight of her life was to dress in a beautiful evening gown, walk briskly onto a stage with overwhelming applause, enjoying everyone's gaze and hearing "bravo" over and over again. She secretly took pride in knowing that all the little boys and girls who asked for her autograph wanted to be like her, and that no one dared make a sound in her concert because she was "that good".

That girl died seven years ago with a hemorrhage. Today, I walk with a cane in one hand and my violin and bow in the other. Instead of walking onto a stage lit up by spotlights, I walk into dark hospital rooms. Instead of showcasing months of practice to a well-dressed and admiring audience, I try to serve those who never expected to hear anything pleasant in a hospital except for "everything is fine, you are perfect...you can go home now".

Yet I am happier now than I was back in my performing days. I know that I am not playing for my own glorification, and I know that in a small way, my music is making a difference. Love keeps going when reward ceases and applause ends. It does not matter that I did not feel excitement tonight. That is not the reason why I play.

God is giving me a love for those I have never met and whom I will likely never meet again. When the time comes, I pray that He would let me do much more.