you just keep playing.
Earlier this week, my oldest daughter was practicing her violin, and let’s just say she was not pleased with how it was going.
“It sounds terrible! I’m no good at this. I feel like every time I practice I get worse!”
So I sat her down and offered her some pretty sage advice about practice and patience and the messiness of life. It was one of those rare parenting moments where I felt clear-headed and wise, capable of offering her both words of comfort and counsel. But as the conversation continued, I felt the Lord giving me a gentle nudge in my heart, a little wink as if to say, “You thought these words were just for your daughter? Think again.”
There’s a song I love called “Homeward” by Benjamin William Hastings, and every time I listen to it, something in my soul stirs. I feel like I could’ve written these lyrics myself:
I’ve asked You more than once to hurry up the plans
But what if where You want me is exactly where I am?
‘Cause what I learned from waiting is waiting never lasts
You didn’t bring me this far just to bring me back.
No, You’re too good for that.
So often I find myself arguing with God’s timing—sometimes unconsciously, sometimes quite consciously—asking for Him to speed things up or to try out my version of the plan instead. I know I’m not alone in this; it’s hard not to cling to our limited views and narrow mindsets, our insistent belief that we know best. It’s just our cute humanness taking over, that’s all.
I see it in my ten-year-old. I see it in myself. I see it in all of us. We are always in a rush to be better. We want to skip the struggle, reap the reward, and never look back.
I’m slowly (so slowly) drafting my new book. In fact, this is the slowest I’ve ever drafted a book before. Every scene takes its sweet time unfolding, stretching out each word with a yawn as if luxuriating in its own becoming. This is a new feeling for me; I don’t know what to do with a story that likes to crawl when I like to run. I find myself constantly thinking, let’s pick up the pace.
I’m trying to get my dormant exercise habit back in motion. I’ve even decided to start training for a half marathon. But with every run and each yoga session when my stiff muscles struggle to stretch, my mind likes to scream at me, why does this have to be so hard?
I’ve recently started going to therapy to work through some anxiety, and I keep finding myself wanting to rush through the process. I want to be “good at it,” like it’s just another thing I can ace. I’ve only gone to three therapy appointments, and yet I still find myself asking that same eternal question: am I better yet?
When I start to feel frustrated by my lack of progress in what seems to be every area of my life lately, I remember my daughter’s quivering chin and her big brown eyes full of tears. I picture her standing in her room with her violin tucked under her arm, glaring at the sheet of music in front of her waiting to be mastered. I think about how I sat on the end of her bed and gave her a knowing smile.
“Of course it’s hard, sweetheart. You’re learning. You’re trying new things. It’s not supposed to sound good—that’s what practice is for. And maybe one day, you play it great and you hit all the right notes. But maybe the next day you won’t, and it will sound like a disaster. All of it’s okay. It’s supposed to be messy. You just keep playing. You try again and again. That’s what a violinist does.”
Words from a mother to her daughter. Words from a Father to His daughter.
You just keep playing.
You try again and again.
That’s what a human does.
