Piano lessons

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” (John 11:21, 32). I’ve been thinking about that statement recently. Actually, it’s been swirling around and around in my head as I’ve tried to sort out hard things.

I function on the faulty premise that God must’ve missed this. “Lord, if you had been here, I know that you would have done something. Since you missed it, I’ll offer a great Plan B for you to answer instead.” This seems easier for me than admitting, Lord, you were here. You are powerful … and you chose not to.

Oh, the painful slowness! Fingers that won’t curve. Keys that clink down when only one was meant to strike. I imagine this is how I seem as I struggle with my unbelief.

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Now, I must wrestle with God’s apparent silence. The names of people burdening my heart and circumstances filling my mind are not trifle wishes and requests. I beg God for softened hearts and veils lifted from darkened lives (2 Corinthians 4:3–6). I assume these answers would bring God great glory and would accomplish much for his kingdom. But that’s from my perspective. I’m left with an immense hurt that the God who sees all things has allowed what makes no sense.

Recently, I decided that my two children were ready to learn piano. I was taught as a child in The Royal Conservatory of Music and even passed the Grade 8 examination. Surely, I could give back gratitude for my parent’s financial sacrifice by teaching their grandchildren!

I sat at the piano with my children beside me. Oh, the painful slowness! Fingers that won’t curve. Keys that clink down when only one was meant to strike. I imagine this is how I seem as I struggle with my unbelief. My brain trying to master the complexity of God’s sovereign symphony. My hands rigid and stiffly stuck in my own will.

What compels me to continue when tears blur even that which should be clear? A verse (though strange to hear as a comfort) has sweetly filled my heart. “The Lord disciplines those he loves” (Proverbs 3:12). Comfort from the firm hand of correction?

The squeezing, shaping humbling is a sign of my Father’s love, an assurance that he is working to conform me into his image. My quiet struggle with belief refines what it means to trust. God’s glorious plan is much larger than my momentary discomfort. His will is being fulfilled regardless of my assessment of rightness.

The development of my faith has been painful (as recorded in Hebrews 12:11). The pruning refines my beliefs about God through truths from the Scriptures. The God who disciplines is the God who binds my broken heart. The Good Shepherd leading me beside still waters. The God of all comforts granting peace that passes understanding. The Holy Spirit interceding in my weakness.

Here I sit on the hard, wooden piano bench with a raw heart, but proper posture. I am ready for my lesson, fingers curved. “No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it” (Hebrews 12:11).