Oh. Ok, then.
So, pulling out my stacks of Ukulele music, I reviewed the sheets until I decided I was going to sing and play "Come Unto Christ," the youth theme for 2014. You can feast your eyes and ears on the original by clicking this link. I practiced for a while until I felt boned up enough on the piece to perform for sacrament.
Then, one of my residents heard my plan. All he said was, "Bishop told me I couldn't use my guitar for special musical numbers."
Shoot. That makes sense, given what I read about that very principle in the Blue Handbook way back when I was a branch president in Jamaica. Orchestral Instruments, I believe it said.
At this point, it was Saturday.
"All right all right all right," I said out loud. "All I have to do is teach myself the chords on the piano! Yeah!"
"Why are you talking to yourself?" someone asked as they passed me by.
Heading to the basement, I used my very stale knowledge of piano music and chords to teach myself how to play the proper chords. After trial and error, I decided to simplify the piece further by playing chords "G" & "Em7" as a simple G chord, chords "D/F#" and "Dsus" as a simple D chord, and chord "C2" as a simple C chord. I know that won't mean much of anything to anyone, but I relish in knowing some of you musicians probably cringed at that.
Still, though, I was only playing with one hand. When it finally came time for me to go to bed, I felt woefully inadequate. I still made a lot of mistakes, and I knew I sure as heck didn't look like I knew what I was doing. Tilting my head forward, I offered up a simple prayer.
I want to do this for You. I want to consecrate this performance to you. I want to touch someone's heart with this piece and give them something to ponder. I want someone to feel the Spirit. I do not want to make a mockery of Your sacred services. I want to shine the light and talent that you've granted unto me. Please. Please help me.
I resolved to head to church early the next morning to get some more practice in, but, upon my arrival there, discovered all the pianos were already in use. Sighing, I contented myself with the three hours of practice from the day before. My fellow ward members saw my name in the program and excitedly asked when I'd learned to play the piano. "I learned to fake-play it yesterday," I said.
"Fake-play it?"
"Well, you know, I'm only playing with one hand until right before the very end, my posture is terrible, and I'll be hitting the same seven notes over and over again with little to no variation."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
Despite my flippant attitude, I was nervous. Not only was I performing in front of people, a lot of those people were cute girls. My stomach was rumbling as the close of someone's talk marked the beginning of my long walk down to the front. Sitting down and spreading my pages out, I felt as though every eye was on me, judging for my flustered fumbling.
And then I began.
I barely had time to think on the quality of what I was doing. I was making sure I was singing loud enough to be heard over the piano, making sure I was slamming the right notes, trying to add some variety to the sound by fiddling with the pedals, and fruitlessly attempting to keep my poor right leg from violently shaking beneath me, a twitch I usually associate with anxiety-driven performances.
Of course, I finished. There's nothing worse for a musician than a silent audience following a piece. I knew no one was clapping because it was a church service, but as I nervously gathered up my sheets, I replayed all the mistakes I'd made in my head.
Then, sacrament finished.
I wasn't swarmed with a crowd of groupies, but many people came up and complimented me on various aspects of the piece. It was then when I allowed myself to remember the redeeming qualities behind my performance and let loose a smile.
I knew the Lord had answered my prayer.
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