As I sit here in front of my screen and keypad, it is an early Sunday morning. Shortly, I will be packing my blue and white bag with music and heading to church where I will find my place sitting on the bench at a beautiful Steinway grand piano that at one time belonged to my mother’s childhood friend, Billie Davis Sexton, and the one on which she practiced as a child. It’s where you will find me most any Sunday morning. And I am grateful. But my story doesn’t begin here.
At the beginning of my third year in grade school, Mom and Dad sent me to Mrs. Jean Gossett out on Lake Joy Road. [I had already taken a year of piano from Mrs. Bedingfield who taught lessons in a little room/closet next to the stage in the Tucker Elementary lunchroom. I would forego recess twice a week and go to her instead.] Mrs. Gossett was a public school teacher who taught lessons in her home in the afternoons. She was also the organist at the Perry Methodist Church, AND she raised German Shepherds of which I was terribly afraid. Beth Davis Roper also took lessons, and because most families only had one car, our mothers would take turns driving us each week. Beth and I would alternately wait while the other took her lesson. Of course, the “waiting” was in the den with multiple German Shepherds staring at me through the sliding glass doors. (Did I mention my fear?) But as far as I knew, my musical abilities really progressed. I was playing Beethoven in no time.
Mr. Francis Nunn was the beloved music director at the Methodist Church for decades. I still attribute the singing congregation at PUMC to his abilities and leadership so many decades ago. He not only led, he taught us how to love singing and to sing joyfully. I vividly recall how he would stand before the congregation beating the open hymn book with the back of his hand keeping rhythm while we sang. Oh, how that man loved to sing. Mr. Francis was also the song leader for the Men’s Bible Class which was made up of all the elderly men in the congregation. For decades, the class was broadcast live on WPGA, the local radio station. Yes, LIVE. Every Sunday morning at 10:00.
On one of those mornings when I was in the FOURTH grade, Mr. Francis came up to my Sunday School class and said he needed me; they had no pianist that morning. It never dawned on me to tell him no, so off I went to the basement under the sanctuary where the Men’s Bible Class met. However, before making his way to me, Mr. Francis did stop at my daddy’s class to make sure it was okay with him if he asked me. Daddy said yes then ran down to the kitchen in the church fellowship hall and called Mom who was staying home with the twins and told her to turn on the radio because, “Nancy is playing for the Men’s Bible Class!” Then Daddy raced out to his car and turned on his radio so he could listen, while Mom listened from home, to hear his daughter play.
When I got down to the Men’s Bible Class, Mr. Francis asked me to choose the hymns. After all, I was only ten years old. I picked out The Star-Spangled Banner and The Awakening Chorus, the two most difficult songs to sing, and probably play, in the Cokesbury hymnal. Who knew? All I knew is that I loved playing them. He said the National Anthem was a no-go and suggested I select something else, which I did, though we did attempt The Awakening Chorus to everyone’s horror and embarrassment, I’m sure. I was told that Mr. Wendell Whipple who was leading the class on the radio was so disturbed by the whole scenario, he completely ruined the Lord’s Prayer, leaving out entire phrases. And my great-uncle Bernie (Vernon Tuggle), president of the Bank of Perry, who bought me my first piano and who had already suffered one heart attack, was so upset and nervous, he had to pop two nitroglycerin pills.
Me? I was as happy as a lark in a tree on a Spring morning. I had found my niche. My love. Even my calling, so to speak. Mr. Francis began having me accompany the sanctuary choir and even play for church services when needed. And here I am 55 years later, continuing that first call to “come play.”
I really do love what I get to do, but I still get stunned by it. I tell people all the time I am convinced that somehow God purifies the air waves and changes the notes to something holy. As Johann Sebastian Bach said, “I play the notes as they are written, but it is God who makes the music.” I couldn’t agree more. But I am also so very grateful to be a part of the equation.
But so was Mr. Francis. His life still sings each morning as I play for he is the one who saw me, believed in me, gave me opportunity. So thank you, Mr. Francis. God used you mightily in my life to shape me, to direct me, to stir a passion in me, and to fulfill God’s purpose in me. I will be eternally grateful. And one day, on that Awakening Chorus day, I will tell you so.
Until then, I will keep this before me on the piano each week:
I play my piano with the love of God.
God, be with me now as I call notes into being.
May they make real my work of love.
May they join the work of creation,
Called from nothing,
Uttered over chaos,
Bringing order.
Esther De Waal (adapted)
Let it be.
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