So often, I wish I could write poetry or music. There is so much feeling within me that it would be such a joy and a relief to craft it into something tangible. I received a gift from God today that I did not expect to receive and it just so happens that the gift he gave me provided its own way to express some of the joy and gratitude in my heart. I am, or at least used to be, a musician. I played the flute from age 9 through college. I’ve picked it back up in the last two years and it has been like finding a part of my heart I never knew I lost. I’ve reconnected with a beloved friend from my youth in practicing music again.

Although practicing is often the highlight of my day, it has also intersected with another old friend, only one that has always been around: pain. My flute weighs exactly 15.6 ounces. One pound. You would think that holding it up for an hour wouldn’t be that hard. When I first started back playing about two years ago, I could only manage 15 minutes a day because I got terrible back and shoulder spasms that became unbearable the longer I played. I pushed through, though, and finally developed the muscles I needed to support my arms from my core. Still, every time my back got irritated (arthritis will do that), I’d get muscle spasms that would set me back. Last Fall, though, things seemed to turn a corner.

I’ve never been quite sure how to ask God for little things, especially for myself. During that first year of painstakingly building back my technique, I begged God that I’d be able to keep playing and that I wouldn’t get hurt. I don’t remember exactly when I reassessed my strategy, but perhaps it was when I started studying the book of James. James says that the one who doubts should expect to receive nothing from the Lord, and I realized that I was not asking God in faith. I begged of God because I didn’t think he wanted to give me the freedom to play, free from pain. I begged because I didn’t want to accept the answer no. I was doubting the goodness of God’s will.

I don’t remember the first time it happened, but I found myself on my knees before God with my unassembled flute in front of me. My prayer this time was different. I no longer asked God for the ability to play. I asked God for the opportunity to express my joy in him and his creation by making music in the only way I knew how. Don’t get me wrong, I asked him this while confessing that my desire was simply for me. I wasn’t benefitting anyone but myself. Nevertheless, I prayed that, whatever he gave me, I would give back. And, a child trying to imitate her Savior, I prayed that God’s will be done, regardless of how it aligned with mine.

I have prayed this prayer every day for months and every day the Lord has given me time. Until the beginning of last month, I have spent an hour and a half of every day working, stomping around, and playing music for God. (Yes, I once got so frustrated at my rebellious fingers that I stomped the floor hard enough to knock something off of the mantle. Just in case you were getting an inaccurate picture of my holiness.) I fell back in love with my playing, and I rejoiced daily that this was God’s will. I did have to take a few weeks off at the beginning of the year to have wrist surgery, but I was elated that I was able to get back to playing so quickly. I was still having my normal problems with chronic pain, but they weren’t quite intersecting with my flute playing. Until March 11.

I remember the date – I wrote it down. I developed a terrible muscle spasm along my left ribs. It calmed down overnight and so I continued practicing. Day after day, I prayed and I played. I played until the muscles seized enough that I could barely breathe. When I started finding myself crying in the fetal position on the floor, I stopped. I’m not great at hearing God, but I figured that that was a loud, Rebecca, stop.

In the few weeks since I put my flute in the closet and tucked my music stand into a corner, I’ve noticed a couple things. I grieve the loss of my ability to express myself through music, even in this short time. I miss it and I am working hard not to worry that I’ll never play again. (It’s called catastrophizing, my psychiatrist says.) But the desperation and despair I’ve felt when my pain has stripped other precious activities from me isn’t there. Somehow, somewhere, in this particular situation, God helped me truly come to want his will and not mine.

So, we come to my gift. My mom told me today that she’s been praying that I’ll be able to get back to practicing. Somehow, this surprised me. I don’t think I’ve even been doing that. I’ve been keeping away from my flute because I don’t want to cause myself pain that will keep me from doing “important” things, just so I can have some fun. But is that what I’ve come to consider it in this short time off? Fun? Sure, it’s enjoyable, but it’s also work – frustrating, exhausting, and very fulfilling. So, back down on my knees I went. I prayed the same prayer I’ve prayed so many times before. And I realized that whether playing flute is a selfish pleasure or an act of worship is just a difference in the position of my heart.

I played today. I practiced a little, but mostly I just played. And, because I asked, because someone else had asked, my time with my flute today can be understood as nothing less than a gift from above. Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask again, I don’t know. Today, my ability to play brought me, and hopefully even God himself, joy. Tomorrow will worry for itself.

**Dedicated to another one of those old friends, who made all of the above possible with a gift of her own. Your flute drives me to always work harder and to always remember the good old days….