Finding The Music

 Almost seven years ago, when my best friend died, a part of me died too. 

I suppose everyone who's lost a loved one would agree in some way. 

When the entire picture as you've known it changes and you find yourself trying to envision a life without someone who meant everything to you, there are things about you that are never quite the same. A version of yourself left with them the second they passed or the moment you got the news that you had to say goodbye. What that looks like varies person to person but everyone who has suffered loss can point to something that changed within them from that point onward and has never been what it was since. 

For me, this looked like stepping away from playing the piano. Even though music wasn't a big part of what my chosen brother Alex and I shared for so many years, it became a side effect that symbolized the loss I felt. For some reason, every time I'd sit down to play as I had for many years prior, all the emotions would spill out and I just couldn't bring myself to hit a note. Playing as always been a spot of release for me through the years but this just felt different. I continued to teach my virtual piano students but that usually requires me to minimally play, so I didn't have to face the potential breakdown when I instructed them. It was only when I was there alone and tried to play something that the grief would hit me like a ton of bricks. 

And so I didn't really play. 

For over six years. 

People would ask me when was I going to do a special at church or would I play for something, but I turned it down and just said I had too much going on. Was too busy to play. But the truth was, I was grieving too much to play. My heart hurt. And I wasn't certain I could ever find the music again. I would turn down taking on in person students because I was afraid that, in playing with them, the emotions would hit again. Safer just to do the bare minimum and hope there'd be a moment later on when I might be ready to try again. Maybe. But maybe not. 

Enter a young military guy at my church who decided his New Year's resolution was to get back into music again. Having had piano lessons as a kid and then also playing in his high school band years before, he wanted to rediscover his love of music and asked if I would be his piano teacher. We've developed a great connection in the year or so he's been stationed here, so I wasn't concerned about us working well together. And I also knew his musicality would be a great advantage to his learning curve. Rather, I was wondering what this would look like for me - to get back on the horse again and face the music. To find the song again. 

For any grieving person, the hardest part isn't always accepting that they're gone - it's figuring out how to create a new life without them. What does the next chapter look like when all you want is to have the old one back again? When the future feels so unknown and empty and all your memories are built around what was known, comfortable, and felt so permanent, how can you start over and make room for a loss you didn't want - for a goodbye you wish you never had to say? All the things that are part of beginning again... dating, making new friends, traveling, doing activities you once shared together, going places they loved without them, finding new hobbies or interests... it all feels like a massive betrayal of their memory and a cruel reminder of what is no more. 

Time and again, I used to try and sit at the piano and play. But each time it just felt like a slap in the face. It made me feel like if I could play again, it meant everything was okay and back to normal. And I didn't ever want to go back to normal. Life would never be normal again without my big brother and best friend. Being able to play again felt like it was an indication that I had erased my loss and returned to who I used to be before it happened, and I knew that could never be true. So I just kept putting it off... putting it off... putting it off. Said I didn't feel ready. 

Now, I had a choice to make: would I open my life again for someone new and allow my heart to find the music once more? 

And so I did the brave thing. 

I said yes. I would teach him. 

But in the days leading up to our first lesson, I was nervous. Conflicted. Struggling. 

This would be a big step for my healing. Would I take it, or would I back out? 

Lesson day arrived... and our hour working together sped by. It was one of the easiest first lessons I've ever had with a new student. The presence of God met me there as I placed my hands once again on the keys. Did it feel strange in a way? Of course. But did it also feel like a quiet rebellion against grief stealing all of who I was before I lost Alex? Yes. And did I feel stronger for having taken the leap? Indeed. 

And then it hit me... 

My Alex was a Texas boy through and through. He loved his hometown in the Lone Star State. He loved pickup trucks and boots and rodeos and Mexican food and everything Texas to the core. My newest student was raised in Texas. So much about him reminds me of Alex in the way he cares for people, loves all things country and cowboy, and is passionate about serving in the military. And I realized that God had taken me full circle: I lost my best friend - a Texas boy - but I'm gaining another. Just because life looks different now without Alex doesn't mean it can't still be good and there aren't other stories to be written. The grief will never leave and the pain will never go. But there can still be joy here - new life built upon the ruins of what was. 

Perhaps the music won't be exactly the same but maybe the song can still be beautiful and my fingers can play again. The Psalmist once spoke of having a "new song" put in his heart following God's rescue out of his troubles (Psalm 40:3) and just maybe that is what I'll find along the way as well. That the hymn of praise that follows suffering is, perhaps, the greatest song of all.