In this new unexpected season, I decided to use some of the time to relearn the violin. I say 'relearn' because I took classes from 6th grade through my junior year of university, but I haven't played or done anything with it since them. It's been three years since I have touched my violin, which is sorely out of tune, and my hands are sorely out of shape.
However as I picked up the violin, a few things did come back quite quickly. Mostly memories. I had five different teachers throughout the years. The first was my elementary schools music teacher. She did extra curriculum classes after school and our group of novice violinists started out as 12 students. That dropped to two and we began practicing in the broom closet of an office she had. The other student was younger than I and truly terrified of the teacher, like convinced she would eat him or at least murder him and hide the body where it would never be found. She was definitely a character. When her health due to age became such that she had to retire, the new music teacher took over.
At this point the new teacher changed the extra hour after school to be a class, the school band. Or I guess orchestra, since we had strings. There was three violinists, two flutists, a saxophonist, clarinetist, someone on brass, and a percussionist. To quote a favorite movie, "we were pathetic." But we learned 'Pomp and circumstance' and performed at the eighth grade graduation. It was the only time I played with a group of people.
My skill wasn't good enough to get into a community group and my high school didn't have a strings group so I began private lessons after that. My first teacher here was a older white man who played old hymns at his Pentecostal church on Sundays and mariachi music with a young mariachi band for quinceañeras, weddings, and Mexican street parties. He invited me to join and be their gringo sister, if I could learn to play fast enough. We also did a bit of 'fiddling' to try to improve my speed. Unfortunately, he was diagnosed with cancer and had to stop teaching.
My next teacher was also my sister's flute teacher. The best, and most accurate, way to describe him was a groovy dude. With him I learned jazz music and how to improvise music. He found modern musicians and would teach me their music. He also began teaching me third and fifth position so I could play the very high notes that I found to be grating but were popular among some groups.
But then I had to move to university. The violin professor here took one look at the strange collection of styles that I had learned and the bad habits I had picked up and, internally sighing, asked if I could tune my instrument by ear. I tried to convince him that I was tone deaf and he tried to teach me to hear the music. When Covid closed the university early that year, I had gotten to the point that I could tell when I was out of key, but not necessarily what to do to get back into key.
Each teacher had their own method and style. Looking through the sheet music in my case is fun. It ranges from Blue Danube to Like a River Glorious to De Colores to Rosin Up the Bow to Face the Wall to Hallelujah. Each teacher also had their own rules. My last professor demanded that I keep my nails very short so to better press the notes on the strings. This was logical and necessary to play well, but it bothered me to no end. I hate having short nails and sometimes I would 'forget' to trim them, which would result in disappointed shakings of heads and I always made sure to trim them immediately after classes.
It was silly but to me, having short nails was such a sacrifice. Ultimately I had to decide if I wanted to play violin well or have 'nice nails'. Which was more important? Violin won, because having long nails was a very small thing and insignificant in the long run.
As a worker, goer, whatever you would like to call us, 'sacrifice' is a word that comes up often. And I, in no way, want to diminish what people give up to move and serve overseas. You give up being close to family geographically and getting to have significant moments together. You give up traditions, especially around holidays. You give up the food you are accustom to and maybe the fashion or clothes you like or feel comfortable in. You give up a lot of comforts. In some ways, you give up your culture as you commit to learning and living in a new one. You give up your competency as you learn a new language and bumble around unable to communicate and understand what is going on.
And given time, I could keep adding to that list until it is overwhelming and covers every aspect of life. But if I stop and look around, my focus shifts. I see the sky, vaster than I could measure. In the day I see the sun, hung a perfect distance from the earth to give light and life, warmth without roasting us alive. At night I see innumerable stars. I see things growing and producing food and a delicate ecosystem where so much life thrives. I see people who have the capacity to think, feel, develop relationships, love, worship. Everything is pointing to a Creator Father who is so much bigger than anything I can fathom. He gave life and sustains it.
When all that I am 'sacrificing' is put into perspective of all that He has given and deserves to be given in return, comparatively, it is almost as insignificant as being told to trim my nails. If my desire is to play violin well, my nails are a small thing and easy to give up. If my desire is to glorify the Father and help others to know and fall in awe and love with Him as well, anything I am asked to give up is a small thing compared to the greater weight of glory.
He is not asking me to not feel the loss of those things I give up. I think in many ways, feeling the loss allows us to know and understand all the more how much He is worthy. But recognizing again that He is worthy allows everything else to fall into place. My priorities re-align again and His joy floods into the places where there is loss and sacrifice.
So please excuse me briefly as I find the fingernail clippers and cut away another vanity. I should probably get back to practice.