This last Wednesday, a week ago, in the midst of madness, I experienced a day full of the unprecedented grace and favor of God.
To begin with, it was the due date for my Faith Term Paper, the day before the early action II deadline for Biola and THI, and Don Rags(translation: quarterly meeting with teacher to go over progress in class, discuss my Term Paper for Shakespeare, and turn in fourteen pull questions[second translation: Informal handwritten essays]).
Being a procrastinator by nature, and given the ridiculous amount of work I had to do, my pull questions got pushed to the last minute. . .literally. I finished my Term Paper, did one pull question out of the nine I had left, went to worship practice, and then came back with eight staring me in the face.
And then I very foolishly took an hour to write out a song, entitled "The Terrorist's Love-Ballad"
Hey, when the Muse comes, she comes.
One thing was clear. there would be no sleep for me that night.
I tell a lie! Actually, I fell asleep on a Romeo and Juliet question at four o'clock. I woke twenty minutes later due to my dog Aslan scratching the sides of his crate and whining. Perhaps I'm being silly, but it seems to me that he was trying to wake me, seeing as how he stopped and wagged his tail as soon as I was visibly awake.
Anyway, I was still working on pull questions when my normal Torrey-day waking time-5:30-came around. I showered, got ready, and went back to writing pull questions.
And continued writing pull questions on the ride to La Mirada.
And before Faith class.
And during all of study hall.
And I finally finished the last one after everyone had already started walking to class, and ran sprinting to class.
A whole new meaning to "last minute"
Anyway, Don Rags went well(even if there weren't as many leaves falling to complete the picturesque scene). Though it's not required, I dressed up in slacks, shirt and tie. And here, friends, is where the madness ends, and the wonder and favor begins, and I must switch to a more narrative tone, and, I fear, embarrass my musically brilliant(and excessively shy and modest) classmates.
I stood outside during lunch, pulling slightly at the double Windsor knot of my tie as the day grew steadily warmer. During my panicked writing in study hall, I had been picked out to receive a free ice cream sandwich, and I was now munching contentedly on the frozen treat. I had been expecting to finish my snack in comparative silence, when everyone around me sprinted off towards one of the empty classrooms. I was soon told the cause of such excitement: MaryKate had found her way into a room with a piano.
It was an old, neglected upright piano, wretchedly abused, dented and thrust in the right angle formed by a glass window and poorly-painted wall. It sat there, more for the sake of practice than performance, catching sunlight in the deep scars scratched on it's once-glossy surface, collecting dust, going unplayed while the ivory slowly grew darker and darker, and keys refusing to rise back to their place.
After she finally unlocked the door and let us in, MaryKate was so adamant in her refusal to sound even one note for us that I soon abandoned all hope of hearing any music, when she finally returned to the bench and set her fingers delicately to the ivory.
Silent, we watched as she began to coax a gentle melody from the decrepit old thing, letting out a deep and profound sigh as she did so, as if there was some deep sadness intricately tied up in the action. She nodded gently with the music in this frightfully beautiful image of the commonplace and the angelic, very neat in her New Balance tennis shoes working the pedals, short curly hair in the sunlight, and music coming from an instrument that looked utterly incapable of producing it. The room felt completely still, as if no one dared make a sound to disturb the tranquility of the moment.
She finished, and all applauded, despite her protests. The group called for more music, and someone, of whose acquaintance I do not yet have the pleasure, played ragtime. I feared the old thing would shatter under the lively pounding. It survived however, and Mr. Christian Bearup sat down to play.
The familiar opening strains reached my ears; it was The Blues, by Switchfoot, played with more intricacy than drums and guitars could afford, a mingling of rhythm parts and melody that revealed the hidden glory of that song, which so often strikes the listener as sub-par, until the fifth or sixth listen when all the subtleties are discovered. Christian brought out all of these subtleties and displayed them, moving from verse to chorus to verse again, repeating, repeating, every time building in beauty if not in volume, layering intricacy after intricacy. Jon Foreman would have turned green with envy.
While he played, Gabriel leaned against the wall, his back to the piano and eyes to the floor, a look of pained study and rapture on his face, looking completely immovable. When Christian arose, I looked at Gabriel, wondering if he would give in to our pleas for him to take turn at the piano, seeing as how all the others had. His past denials made me doubt that he would, so when he moved towards the bench, Rafi and I(rather rudely) employed first shame, and then physical force to see him securely seated before the decrepit piano.
And then he played.
He jumped straight into a piece of unbelievable speed and intricacy, pure classical style, a perfect marriage of reckless madness and ordered precision. His arms and fingers danced rapidly over the keys as if of their own volition while he bent over them. Soon, his whole form was thrown into the piano, his head bending low over the ivory, his back going suddenly ramrod straight, and in the end, the intensity of the piece caused his labored breathing to be heard over the music.
A site administrator came to kick us out, but upon hearing him, was unable to interrupt him. She came in several times and exited; once, she raised her hand and opened her mouth, but closed it before forming any words, leaving in the same silence she had entered in.
When he finished,the long held in applause and wonder was warmly and loudly expressed. Given Gabriel's shyness, I shall not repeat any of it. . .but it was brilliant. Finally, we were ushered out of the room, marveling at the brilliant sounds skilled hands could coax out of that jumble of wood, wire, and ivory that once again, lay lonely in the still room, looking for all the world as if it had never been played.
