Learning from My Own Characters; or Ringing the Bell Choir Blues

There are some things I am (relatively) good at: writing, teaching, giving talks, getting a lot of work done in a little amount of time.

There are other things I am (absolutely) terrible at: math, sports, cooking - and playing musical instruments in front of other people.

A long time ago I played in the church bell choir because ringers are always needed, and I consider myself to be a Helpful Person. I loved the practices - what's not to love about making music with your friends? But I dreaded the performances with a sick desperate terror and barely managed to get through them with paralyzing stage fright.

Here's the thing about bell choir. You are the ONLY one playing your bell, so if you don't play that note (and that note is in the melody line) - or if you play that note at the wrong time - or if you play the sharp of that note instead of the natural, or the natural of that note instead of the sharp - THE WHOLE PIECE IS RUINED, AND IT IS TOTALLY YOUR FAULT, AND YOU ARE THE ONE WHO HAS DISAPPOINTED ALL THE OTHER, MORE CAPABLE BELL RINGERS, AND YOU SHOULD WEAR A PAPER BAG OVER YOUR HEAD FOR THE REST OF YOUR DAYS!

Or at least that's how it seemed to me.

Finally, after a couple of agonizing years, I decided I could be a Helpful Person in other, less stressful ways and quit the bell choir. Luckily, my older son is by all accounts the star of the bell choir, responsible for playing as many as thirteen bells. So I felt our family as a whole was doing its bell-choir share.

But occasionally I'm called back to be a substitute when another ringer is off on vacation or otherwise unavailable.

"Can you find someone else?" I plead.

A search is made.

"I'm so sorry, but there is nobody else who can do it."

I gulp.

Then I say, "Okay."

Thus it happened that this past Sunday I played a D-flat and C-flat bell in "El Shaddai." And guess what? I messed up during the performance, missing several crucial melody notes (foiled by a page turn). I couldn't even make myself return to my pew afterward. Instead I fled sobbing to the parking lot. Yes, I was actually in tears over those missed notes.

Here's what makes my bell-playing trauma even more ridiculous. Fifteen years ago I published a book, Perfectly Chelsea, about a little girl in her church life. In the chapter titled "Make a Joyful Noise," Chelsea is playing in the bell choir, messes up during the performance, and totally falls apart.

Here's the illustration by Jacqueline Rogers where Chelsea looks EXACTLY like I did this past Sunday.

And here's how Chelsea reacts afterward:

"I played horribly!" Chelsea cried. "Every single note was wrong!"

"Oh, Chelsea." Mrs. Phillips led her to a pew and made her sit down. "Do you think God hears your mistakes?"

Well, if He wasn't completely deaf, He did. 

"Do you think God is saying, 'Chelsea Garing was supposed to play a C sharp in measure eighteen, and she played a C natural?"

Chelsea had no idea what God was thinking. Probably He was sitting up in heaven with His hands clapped over His ears.

"God is saying, 'Here's a girl who is trying her best to make beautiful music as a gift to me and to the whole congregation.' God doesn't hear the notes you play out loud; God hears the notes you play in your heart."

Chelsea hoped Mrs. Phillips was right.

Mrs. Phillips went on. "The Bible says, 'Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.' Sometimes the noise sounds like music, and sometimes it just sounds like - noise. The important thing is the joy."

Okay: the important thing is the joy. That's what Mrs. Phillips says, and I'm the one who created Mrs. Phillips and wrote those words for her to say. So I should know!

Apparently people in church liked the performance; a lot of them said they did. Maybe God liked it, too. Our new pastor, who is dragging us into the 21st century, put up a video of it on You Tube (you can't see me in it, fortunately; I'm in the second row; my son is the one at the end of the front row). I listened to it on my phone earlier today and could barely locate where my mistake was. Then I listened to it again just now on my computer, with fewer distractions, and yes, I heard my mistakes, and heard some other people's mistakes, too.

I also heard music played lovingly for the glory of God.

After Sunday's tears I vowed I'd never play in the bell choir again: never, never, never! But if I hadn't played, given that no other sub was available, 100 percent of my notes would have gone missing. Realistically, I probably just missed half a dozen, max. So I managed to offer up at least 90 percent of my notes as a gift from my heart.

If my characters (with my wise assistance) can learn important life lessons at aged ten, why is it so hard for me to learn them at age sixty-five?

Sigh...