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| Admit it. This scares you . . . |
I'm sitting, waiting for my Sunday
services to start.
I'm in a peaceful, wonderful place.
Quiet hymns are playing.
People are about me, speaking in
hushed, reverent tones.
My mind is centred on things spiritual.
Not.
Okay, everyone else around me is
probably having spiritual thoughts.
I'm remembering my most embarrassing
moment in church.
Does that say something about me?
Moving on . . .
In our church, the speakers every week
are chosen from the congregation itself.
Usually in threes.
There is a brief first talk.
A longer second one.
Followed by an intermediate hymn.
I should explain here, that this hymn
is usually something instrumental, played by a member of the
congregation.
Or an actual song, sung by said
congregation while standing.
In case anyone is getting sleepy.
Thus refreshed, everyone is ready to
listen to a third, and final, speaker.
My most embarrassing church moment
concerns the intermediate hymn.
And my one chance to shine.
Which I flubbed.
Let me tell you about it . . .
In an effort to include everyone, the
men who organize the Sunday services are always alert for hidden
talents.
I should probably point out that some
of them are hidden for a reason.
I had started taking piano lessons.
A smidgin of information my mother
proudly conveyed to said men within a few weeks of my first sitting
down at a piano.
And which immediately resulted in an
issued invitation to provide the spiritually uplifting intermediate
interlude for the next Sunday services.
Sigh.
I can sum up my feelings in one word.
Terrified.
But I had been asked.
I would do my eight-year-old best.
I practised hard all week.
I only had one song that would be
suitable and I needed to have it perfect.
My family probably got sick of hearing
it played over.
And over.
And over.
But they kept quiet about it.
Sunday dawned.
As Sundays do.
Disdaining my little music book, I
walked up to the piano.
Rubbing suddenly moist fingers on my
dress.
I took my seat and raised my hands in
the approved 'piano-playing' manner.
I took a deep breath and struck the
first note.
Then I let out my breath and played the
next.
And the next.
This was going to go all right.
Confidently, I played the fourth note.
Then my mind blanked.
I stopped.
I couldn't remember the rest.
I hesitated.
Then I started again.
Surely, my fingers would remember it
this time.
But they failed me.
I got stuck on the same note.
I tried a third time.
And met the same fate.
I put my hands in my lap. Maybe the
congregation would think that the first four notes of the piece were
all there were.
Maybe.
Okay, no.
Completely crushed, I stood up and
walked back to my seat.
The congregation, consisting mostly of
young families were, for the first time ever, silent.
I felt their sympathetic eyes on me as
I made my way.
And while I sat with head bowed through
the rest of the service.
I survived.
Pretty much unscathed.
I even played again.
Much later.
But never without remembering that
first time.
What is it about the power of an
embarrassing moment that makes you remember it . . . forever?
Do you have one?
