Fall 2004

It’s fall, and I should be writing about brilliant leaves, cooling temperatures and the changing of the seasons. But I have something else in mind – something important I want to share with you:

            I’ve had a breakthrough recently. In order for you to understand the significance of my story, I’ll have to explain something about my innermost fears:

I have performance anxiety.

Terrible, incapacitating, knee-clattering, finger-sweating, performance anxiety.

Though I love music, nearly all kinds of music, I have an almost insurmountable fear of performing in front of an audience. I struggled mightily with this during the years I played worship keyboard at church. Eventually I managed the misery enough to focus only on the worship leader and my music stand. It was a difficult process, literally filled with sweat, tears and much earnest prayer.

            For the last six years or so, I’ve focused on learning to play the cello – a long, difficult process by anyone’s standards. Every spring, my teacher invites me to play at her annual recital. Every spring I refuse. No amount of encouragement will overcome the almost palpable terror I feel when I hold my bow in front of an audience. Until recently, I refused even to try.

            But this fall, she tried another tact. She began group lessons. These, she assured me, would not be actual performances, but rather a simple “sharing” of her students’ recent lesson music. In spite of my objections, she insisted I participate. “No one will be completely prepared. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to grow in your performance skills.”

            Considering I have NO performance skill, hers was a fairly reasonable assumption.

            Reluctantly, I gave in. On the day of the “lesson,” I drove to Tacoma with sweaty hands and serious stomach upset. You’d think I had a performance at Carnegie hall. Because of thick traffic, I arrived late, dripping from a heavy fall rain. I unpacked my cello and waited in the back of the room. Carefully, I surveyed my fellow students.

            I was the oldest student by more than thirty years!

Even I could play in front of kids, I told myself. When my turn came, I settled into my chair and began my part of the duet my teacher planned. In spite of my self-talk, the gentle vibrato of my left hand soon grew to a shaking sufficient to register on the seismographs of Mt. St. Helen’s. I was afraid, but I persevered. When it was over, I felt relieved, exhausted and I crawled back to my seat. Just as my heart settled back to its normal rhythm, my teacher called me back to the performance chair.

            This time, she grouped seven students around four music stands and handed us each a segment from a concerto. I was too nervous to notice the composer’s name. We were expected to sight read as much of this unseen music as possible, staying together, staying in tune, and overcoming any errors by catching up as needed. With her right hand, she counted a beat and set us off on our own.

            At once, I found myself focused only on the notes in front of me. My chair partner, a girl I guessed to be nearly twelve, struggled with the rhythm of the music. My ears tuned to her and to the other parts of the concerto playing around me. As I struggled to sight-read, I had only three concerns: I wanted to play my part accurately, to stay with the group, and to keep my cello in harmony with our little rag-tag chamber group.

            As I played along, a sudden understanding hit me with the force of an explosion. I felt my face break into a wide grin, even as I concentrated on the music before me. For the first time, I realized that I felt not the slightest trace of anxiety. My hand did not tremble. My fingers did not sweat. I had no awareness of anyone listening to my cello as I played. Instead of being self focused, I had become group focused.

            In the midst of the chamber music, I had completely lost my self-consciousness.

            My anxiety had been replaced by this incredible desire to stay with, to harmonize with, to contribute to the music of the group. In that moment, as I realized what had happened, I had the most exhilarating sense of freedom I think I have ever experienced. I could have continued working that way for hours – delighted to be at last free from the chains of my worry.

            At the same time, I realized something else. This is what God intended for us to experience when the Body of Christ works together. In the working Body, there is no room for self-awareness, no room for worry about how others view me. In the body, there can be no performance anxiety. In the Body, there is only room for harmony – for measuring how my work contributes the harmony to the rest of the work. In the Body, my only concern is to stay together with – in unity with – the other members of the body. Striving together toward the goal – not running off ahead, or lagging behind – but beat-by-beat, keeping pace with the progress of my family as we accomplish the task he has assigned us.

            Perhaps I will never overcome my fear of performing alone. It doesn’t really matter. But that one small glimpse of the Body of Christ will forever encourage me to continue to play my part. I want to live in the freedom of that same unity, that same harmony.

When my savior returns, I want him to turn to me, sitting in the last chair of the cello section and say, “Great Job, kiddo. Without your little cello singing out, it wouldn’t have been the same.”