It seems to me that the older I get, the wiser I should become. Oh, I know. . . people are screaming that the President is too old to serve. . . the residents around me in the senior living facility where we’ve moved tell the same memorized stories at mealtimes, and three of my friends are in the hospital, the rehab center, or anticipating surgeries. . . lots of opportunities for grace and mercy here.
We took a friend to the symphony concert Saturday night and worried as she got into the car. She struggled with her sweater, coat, and cane and reminded us again that she can’t see at night. Was this even a good idea? Yes, it was. She enjoyed the concert and was thankful we’d invited her to come. Putting the shoe on the other foot, so to say, I hope someday someone will treat me that well if I become infirm and alone and isolated.
My daughter looked at my makeup yesterday and told me I had a blotch here and a smear there because I can’t see what I’m doing. . . and at dinner last night, I thought of Prufrock’s line, “Do I dare to eat a peach?” when I faced late dinner time menu choices. Would I regret a chili dog at 7:30 and the heartburn it could cause at 10:00?
This old- age thing seems to be on my mind right now. Yesterday was my sister’s eighty-second birthday; I’m fifteen months older, staring at eighty-four! Can it be possible?
I’m thinking, I need all kinds of grace and mercy. . .
Then, yesterday, we rushed out of church, grabbed chicken tenders at Arby’s, reached a the first rest stop south of Palm Bay on 95, tucked napkins over our white shirts, as if that would guard us like soldiers ‘armor from blood-red barbecue sauce, looked at the sky and said, both at the same time, pinky-finger style–“it’s gonna rain” as we munched our curly fries and downed our tepid tea. Married for fifty-five years, we often complete each other’s sentences or speak unison to each other.
Our deadline call time as volunteers for the Space Coast Symphony concert in Vero Beach was quickly approaching. Underway, again, we watched the graying skies, the wind whipping the trees, and hoped against hope that the audience would not be affected by the approaching storm. Saturday night’s performance was stellar. We coveted it for today’s audience in Vero Beach. Everyone on the world should hear this one!
Speaking of music, the car radio was playing “And the people sang, Amen, Amen, Amen, ” the repetitious chorus, over and ‘over again as contemporary Christian songs tend to do, grating on my sensibilities. Repetition is nothing new, of course in music. Composers repeat themes in eight measure regularity, sometimes not even changing keys. The Beatles, for heaven’s sake, repeated “Let it be, Let it bee, Let it be, Let it be. . .” One of those Amens, about the tenth. . . took me back to whether Mother Mary or God, or whatever, to So Be. . . makes it all memorable. Why would an artist fleetingly say or write or play or paint just a glimpse of an idea which would fade as quickly as it was uttered, or sung, or dashed on a canvas, or sung? Reiteration is memorializing it.
So, then my mind went to, “Oh, my gosh. It’s March already. I’ve gotta come up with a short story.
I saw a glint of an idea. Why not call it “The Story of My Life?” Too much like, “It was a dark and stormy night. . . ” Too “been there, done that?. . . hackneyed? . . . mundane?
Well, let me tell you about my weekend! Really. I couldn’t make this up!
It’s 5:55 Monday Monday morning. My usual morning routine: post a Bible verse to my family. Wake my brain up with New York Times’s infuriating puzzles: Connections and Wordle. Then, I post my blog, during Lent, I use my book , Restore My Soul Psalms, a Lenten Journey.” Today’s is grace and mercy. Great theme for the weekend I’ve just survived.
As we drove to Vero Beach Sunday for the Space Coast Symphony concert where we volunteer, rain was threatening, then coming,, first in sprinkles, then hubby ramped up the windshield wipers so we could see where we were going. I prayed, “Please Lord, don’t let the rain cut down attendance at today’s concert. . . everyone in Vero Beach will love it. . . the performance last night was stellar. . . standing ovation wonderful. . . for both halves. . . raving comments at intermission. . . rousing “Bravos” and delighted comments like, “I’m so glad I cam to hear “Afternoon of a Faun,” and “Carnival of the Animals,” and the commissioned piece, “Eagles,” and “I never knew a pianist’s hands could move that fast as he played that concerto!”
I wanted so much for today’s; audience to love it too.
Finally, after driving almost an hour, we arrived at the venue. Ev and I walked through the covered walkway, got almost to the door of Trinity Episcopal Church, and drama unfolded.
Grace and mercy needed, indeed.
Flashing blue and red lights, a notable police presence in the parking light, and we heard: “Put your hands on the wheel where we can see them!” We saw a black car, four police people, behind the car, two more patrol cars coming to a screeching halt, and heard the bull horned command. “Open the vehicle door, using the outside handle”. . .
I’m wondering how many gyrations it would take for me to comply with that order. . . not sure my eighty-three-year-old arm bends that way any more. . .
To my amazement, our principal violish, whom we know well, exits, puts his raised arms on the roof of his car until he is rather roughly frisked, his hands (I’m thinking musicians’ hands are precious! grace and mercy, please.) . . he’s put in handcuffs, roughly turned around to face drawn guns. What on earth is going on? He looks around, embarrassed that he’s in this position in front of colleagues from the orchestra, and all us volunteers who were preparing for the afternoon’s events.
Fearing a shootout and our sorry beings plastered all over the nightly news, and knowing that our friend spoke fluent Spanish and could be mistaken as an illegal alien or some such moniker, we hastened inside the church. Others, onlookers observing this dramatic moment, shared later that the police, alert to all crimes, of course, spotted the license number, a black car, and guided by computers, their AI or other secret license-plate readers or other wonderful device at their disposal, were reasonably sure this was a stolen car.
We, knowing the upstanding and wonderful citizen our friend is, knew that wasn’t at all possible. He would never do such a thing!
Once his registration documents were surveyed, they realized that someone had stolen our friend’s license plate and replaced it with the one displayed on his car. He was, of course, exonerated, drama over, he thought, we thought. . .
We talked with the police later, the ones assigned to the concert’s security, and thanked them for their due diligence, even though they scared us half to death.
But, the drama didn’t end there. More grace and mercy needed.
When we entered the auditorium, ready to set up for the concert, none of our materials–tablecloths, tickets, signs, programs, raffle tickets, water on ice for sale, will call lists, etc. — nothing was there.
Our Volunteer Coordinator was in the same parking lot, where the police presence was all too visible, hunkering down in her seat, hoping an imagined gun battle would not ensue. She had pulled into the parking lot just moments before, and was now part of the drama.
We, on the other hand, walked into the auditorium, only to discover there was ONE grand piano. The other one, necessary for the Saint Saens piece, had not arrived.
The conductor, trying to figure out how he’d do without his principal viola player, was frantically calling, as he’s watching the police drama ensue, “How soon can you get here?” “Where are you now?” It’s the second left hand turn. Go to the far left driveway, the police are in the near one. . . I’ll explain later. Why are you so late? Yes, we have people here to help unload. . . Guests are arriving already. . . I understand. . . just glad you’re here. . . cutting it kinda close, my friend. . . bye”
Meanwhile, as is usual in concerts with dedicated musicians, the piano tuner is here, checking the tuning on piano number one, the percussionist is tuning the tympani and his colleague is tuning the harp— how can they possibly do that at the same time? I’m wondering– and the team of ushers is meeting in the rear, hastily deciding who will man each entrance, put out the reserved seating signs, sell 50-50 tickets, all the while gabbing about the parking lot episode. We’re just a bit more distracted and harried than usual, and it is now thirty minutes before the event.
Police presence, threatening rain, increasing wind, early arrivers, programs needing stuffers inserted, everything we need piled on the tables–then removed so the tablecloths can be placed first. . . lots of grace and mercy needed just now.
Thankfully, we discover our orchestra colleague has been told the case of mistaken identity is closed, and mercifully, he can play the concert. . .BUT. . .all the way through the upcoming afternoon, he’s communicating with his insurance agent, who is in touch with a tow truck company. He cannot drive the vehicle! It has to be towed to his home in Orlando. That’s a far piece from Vero Beach! So now he needs a ride to Orlando. He needs transportation until this whole thing can be figured out. . .
I can’t help internalizing this whole thing. . . talk about needing grade and mercy!
Long story short, the piano arrives, the auditorium is filled to just a few seats behind the tympani player (he’s fascinating to watch, we discover). That where we sat for the piano concerto, the last piece on the program. We’d just finished our volunteer duties, counting tickets, counting cash, downloading credit card sales, filling out sheets for money deposit, packing the boxes, folding the tablecloths, and recording the count of people attending, finally putting the lobby back to rights.
It was a remarkable performance. The dual pianists played with amazing professionalism and flourish, the violist led the section through the entire concert with his learned behavior, never showing to those of us who knew the story and all those who did not, that his musicianship was affected by the harrowing experience in the rain in the parking lot with dozens of people wondering if he’d stolen a car or if the police would keep the handcuffs on his wrists. . . none of that mattered as the dulcet, mellow tones of his instrument sounded magnificent in spite of it all.
Standing ovation for the young composer whose piece premiered. She’d told her story of how the idea of eagles soaring precipitated the piece. The audience responded with bravos as she hugged the conductor and thanked the orchestra for its brilliant performance of her piece. I can only imagine her pride in the beautiful performance.
Bravos and standing ovations, the third during last night’s and today’s performances, resounded after the stunning piano concerto performance. It was brilliant. Many of the pianist’s friends from Vero Beach stood around afterwards to congratulate him.
Ev and I, were worn out at the will call and ticket sales table as hundreds of people chose to spend their rainy Sunday afternoon with us, and when it was over, the sun was out, everyone went to dinner or home, and the event was a rousing success. Grace and mercy prevailed.
MY PSALM 312 GRACE AND MERCY
Our Father Who art in heaven,
We bless You today for giving us forgiveness
Through the immense work of Your Son,
Jesus Christ our Lord.
For through His sacrifice, through Your love,
We have been forgiven and restored by Your mercy.
Like the rain that refreshes us on a hot summer day,
We welcome Your gift that takes us
From desperation to forgiveness to grace.
We did nothing to earn Your merit,
In fact, we’ve done everything wrong!
We have broken every commandment,
Reversed each Beatitude, neglected the Covenant,
And have wandered like proverbial lost sheep.
We’ve been the rich young ruler,
So in love with the world we couldn’t see Yours.
We’re still the prodigal son, or the elder one,
Seldom seeing true understanding of Your mercy.
We’ve shouted in the crowd, “Hosanna!”
But abandoned, betrayed You on the cross.
We’ve said, “I am a true follower of Jesus!”
But failed The Great Commission,
Your rallying cry, Your final message
To tell a stranger, or even a friend
About how You saved our souls and love them too,
That we own the Good News, the Keys to the Kingdom
Yet keep silent, not sharing Your message worldwide.
We trust there is more grace and mercy for us.
That You’re not finished with us yet,
You’ll provide Godincidences, opportunities
The very words to speak,
You’ll give us breath and life and strength to tell them
Ambassadors to nations, tribes, people, tongues
Or bloom us where we’re planted, raise family legacies,
Or send us on missions, at home, abroad, each day
We pray You’ll use us always, according to Your will.
We know You will restore excitement, the passion,
The fire and zeal we first had when we came,
In eager commitment, totally believing Your plan.
We sat at Your feet, learned of You, matured in the faith,
Made prayerful, heartfelt promises to do Your will
With vigor, intention, Your mission our pure joy.
Then life intervened, busy days, mundane excuses
And lost, lukewarm, we ignored Ascension Day’s words.
Give us grace and mercy, awake us, shake us, amaze us
With fresh insights, church without walls, innovation
Without reservation, to shout from rooftops,
Or whisper intercession to send forth the Message,
In words, songs, texts, messages, conversations,
Whatever means You reveal to this generation.
Today, this very day, we pray You will drop on us the dew
Of New-Day restoration, renewal, revival, intention
Walking deliberately each moment in Your Presence
Knowing You have brought us closer than ever
To our purpose, our privilege to share Who You are
To hasten Your Kingdom on earth where we dwell
Preparing for the moment when all knees will bow
Knowing You as I do, bringing Glory to Your Name.
Give us strength for the battle You’ve already won,
Send us where You want us, to Your Glory and acclaim.
We wait Your command to serve You, Jesus, Master. Amen, resounding Amen.
About the Author
