Giving the little I have

I gathered my things, hurriedly put them into my bag and logged out of the computer. Reaching under the desk I pulled out my violin case, which sat by my feet the whole day with all the dust balls down there (Poor baby). I briskly said goodbye to everyone, humming myself out of the office doors. This week went by especially quickly, knowing that I was scheduled to play at a hospital downtown that evening. I couldn't wait.

But wait I must. For some reason (possibly the week-long General Assembly meeting at UN that's been causing traffic restrictions), the bus took forever to come. I stood at the bus stop, watching people getting closer and closer to the central lane, mumbling and stretching their necks to catch a hopeful glimpse of the bus, ignoring the cars whooshing by. My delightful anticipation gradually turned to anxious impatience, knowing that I would be 5, 10, 30 minutes late. If there's one thing that makes me "lose it", it's being late. The guilt of being unfashionably late is just too much to bear for me.

The bus finally came waddling by, completely packed. I found a seat, and for the next 40 minutes (which naturally felt like hours) tried to move it with my mind power. It was useless. The giant bug moved a couple of inches per minute, interrupted by sudden brakes that sent those who were standing accelerating violently forward, backward and then forward, like tall lumps of human jell-o.

Two bus and one cab rides later, I finally arrived at an hour after my scheduled starting time. My guide was graciously waiting and told me that we had an almost-record number of rooms to play for that night. With no time to waste, we hurried upstairs to the oncology floor without a chance to catch my breath. I sure hope that I have some music in me that hasn't fallen out of the bus on my way over, I thought.

As soon as I started playing in the first room, the exhaustion from a day's work and the ordeals of coming over flew right out of the windows. Feeling the music flowing through my fingers and hearing the melodies that have never before entered my head, I was in awe of how much and how little God asks of us. In the Books of Mark and Luke, it was written that Jesus watched the crowd putting their money into temple treasury. Many rich people gave large amounts but it was a poor widow who caught Jesus' attention by giving two small copper coins. Jesus said to his disciples, "I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything--all she had to live on." (Mark 12:43-44)

I may not have much to give at this point in my life, but all that I can give--my time, my music, and everything else--comes from Him to whom all good things belong. God never asks for too much; He only asks for all we have. "You should have called and cancelled," my guide told me repeatedly, concerned that I would be too tired to do the entire program for the night. But I wasn't tired at all--not when I could be Christ's hand extended. The blessing one receives in the process of giving is truly beyond imagination. I have received so much more than I gave, and I wasn't going to let a couple of inconveniences take away that blessing.