I played piano for the first time in a very long time. And I fully enjoyed it for the first time in forever.
I enjoyed every plink, sputter and clunk that naturally occurs when one hasn’t played piano in a very long time. I was patient with my pace. I rejoiced in the sounds of the intermittent melody that my fingers fought hard to create. And I felt absolute, undeniable, loving acceptance from my Savior that my offering–in all of its imperfection–was enough.
And then–amidst my joy–something strange happened. I cried. I teared up thinking of all of the plinks, sputters and clunks I’ve missed out on in my life. I don’t want to miss anymore.
So when–after questioning the prompting to start writing my novel again, with the argument that, “I don’t think I have the ability to write a really great novel.”–I was told, “Then write a really bad novel.” I thought, now that I can do.
And I plan to enjoy every plink, sputter and clunk of it.
