Encore

My fingers stumble over the computer keys. A hundred words per minute on a good day, with an accuracy of ninety-seven percent.

Today is not a good day.

The Beethoven piano concerto—No. 5, 3^rd movement—plays on someone's desktop. The frantic pace, the runs—I remember it all. It sparkles and skips like a prancing pony, then digs in with intensity, pauses for the horns and violins, then gentles but flows like a brook. Tears dot my eyes. That passage in the middle going down, and the forever trills—I had worked on that for long hours to make it as smooth as possible. The cheerful, tinkling sounds mock and intensify the ache in my stomach. My fists clench and tremble above the keyboard.

Then . . . the false ending, over which I always paused with a smile, looking up at the conductor for the cue. Then a cavorting, rumbling over the keys to its finale, and up to rapturous applause! A bow or two, my long hair flopping with me, and a giant grin. Often I got a standing ovation, and shouts of “encore!” For which I'd play a somewhat easier but lively Mozart piece. I was only eleven.

“Marlene? Are you okay? Marlene?”

I look up to see my coworker Jenny, glasses falling down her nose, a wrinkle on her forehead.

“I—I'm okay,” I say, shaking my hands free from their tight position.

“Are you sure?” She draws out the last word.

Kind but persistent, that's Jenny.

“Yes,” I punch out the word. Jenny doesn't know about my show-stopping past, the tours in Germany and Switzerland, the banquets and medals. I can't tell her now. Work must go on.

~~~

“What'll you have today, Marlene?” The little raven-haired woman at the coffee-shop counter smiled, her eyes crinkling up into almost nothing. “Cinnamon bun, apple strudel donut, or iced raspberry tea?”

I slip my purse off my shoulder and into my lap, smiling in spite of myself. “You know me well. Cinnamon bun and iced raspberry, please.”

“If it were a Monday morning, you'd get a mocha espresso,” Gail notes as she pulls out the sticky bun with tongs.

I nod, taking the bun and biting into it before I get my drink.

“You okay?” Gail asks. “If it's none of my business . . . but you've been a shoulder for me to cry on a time or two.”

My eyebrows raise. “I'll be okay. Not my best day, but . . .”

“You can tell me, if you want. Not many customers today.”

As if to prove her wrong, the door whooshes open, and a bearded man walks in.

“Thanks, Gail,” I say, grabbing my drink and running.

~~~

Another traffic jam on Highway 50. I drum my fingers on my steering wheel. Timpani players in the orchestra would hurt my ears, but it was part of the fun, that crashing noise. Another stab to my heart.

Why is it getting to me so much? I inch forward close behind a dented bumper. I feel like that bumper—old, worn, ugly, not much use.

I brush my tears away impatiently. If I had a family, maybe: a husband, children. But no one had wanted me for just me. They wanted the high-paid performer, who soon lost her fame . . . and the charm that went with it.

~~~

“Father, You're the only One who knows my pain. You love me despite everything.” I swallow. “I've been feeling sorry for myself, when I have everything I need in You. Just some days . . . I feel I'm missing something.”

My eyes open and I thumb through the church bulletin from last Sunday. It had been a good service, but my thoughts had wandered during the message. An insert in the bulletin catches my attention, decorated with musical notes. “Heavenly Hands Piano Studio. Looking for Christian piano teachers for autistic children.”

My head snaps up. “Is this what I was missing?” It seems tailor-made for me—a purpose beyond a paycheck!

I quickly dial the number for the studio and set up an interview for the weekend. Saturday couldn't come fast enough.

~~~

The studio is small but cute, painted with ladybugs flying and sitting on musical notes. It ought to make children smile.

The man inside is gray-haired and wears a plaid shirt over his paunch. He nods as I come in. “Hello, I'm Steve Mattson.”

“I'm Miss Pfeiffer,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Good to meet you, Miss Pfeiffer. We've been expecting you.”

In his office, he introduces his wife, a plain woman, her mouth pinched. “We need a good teacher here, as one of our old teachers just moved,” she says. “Do you have experience in teaching piano?”

I bite my lip. “I never tried, but I can read music very well. I—”

“We need someone with experience. Have you been around autistic children much?”

“No, but I want to be a help to them and you.”

“It takes a special person to know how to be around them.”

“Now, Norma, maybe we should give her a chance.”

“Steve, we have two other applicants coming. They've taught piano before.”

I clutch my purse. “Please—”

“We'll give you a call if we should change our minds.” Mrs. Mattson gives me a dismissive smile.

~~~

Throughout the church service, I'm praying. Please. Please, Lord. May they call. Or lead me to another good opportunity.

I do hear a few words from the preacher. “We don't always get what we want,” he says. “But if our desires are to honor God, He will give us the best way to fulfill that desire.” Yes, I want that. Maybe I am selfish in my desires, too, wanting to feel needed. But the Lord wants us to use our talents for Him. And I think I can do that in this job, to talk to the children about the Lord as well as about music.

Let me be used for You, Father God. Any way you want. It is a hard prayer to pray. He might want me back in the typing pool, serving Him in a cubicle, reaching out to people there. I try, but they zip by me like hummingbirds most days. But if that's what the Lord wants, I'll obey Him.

Jumping in my car, I hear the Classical piece ringing on my phone. I fumble, almost dropping the device, but get it up to my ear. “Hello?”

“Miss Pfeiffer, this is Mrs. Mattson. A funny thing happened. One of the other applicants dropped out, saying they got another job. The other one asked if we had any other applicants, and when she heard your name—well, they said to hire you—that you were some kind of musical genius.”

My mouth drops open.

“I'm still not sure,” adds Mrs. Mattson, “but I'm willing to give you a try.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Mattson!” I wipe my eyes and breathe the prayer, “Thank You, Lord.”