Staccato Conversation

I began to take piano lessons when I was six years old.
My fingers were just barely able to reach an octave.
That was the prerequisite for my piano teacher.
My piano teacher was British, her wavy gray hair always perfectly in position.

My mother drove me to her house every Wednesday for my 4:00 lesson.
Most times I came prepared.
Sometimes I had not practiced as I should.
My teacher always knew and I was always surprised.

My teacher stood next to the baby grand piano with her teacup and saucer.
Her tea was always there in the daintiest cup.
She stood next to the piano knowing each piece by heart.
Missed notes were obvious to her.

She was gentle but firm.
The only thing I regret about my many years with her was something she didn’t do.
She never focused on memorizing or playing by ear.
It may be a skill that some naturally have, but it can be learned.

Therefore, I always have to have music in front of me, almost as a crutch.
I may only look up occasionally, but I still need to know its there.
I improvise, which is something she frowned upon.
All these years later, that improvising has kept me playing, though less than I would like.

Being left handed, my bass notes were louder than the melody of my right hand.
That bothered her tremendously.
I would hear, Left hand. Left hand.
It was her polite way of saying, Tone it down a bit.

I often remember her using Italian words as directives.
Those same words were often noted on the music itself.
One, I remember was, staccato.
This is when a music note should be played separated from its neighboring notes.

Staccato was playing short notes, one after another.
It was kind of like popcorn popping in the pan.
It was always a favorite of mine.
I sometimes played staccato when I should have been playing legato.

I thought of staccato when I was with my three-year-old granddaughter.
She was staying with us for a few days, so her mommy could have time with the baby.
We had a delightful time together.
We read books, played on the swing set, and went out for lunch.

We went to her favorite place that tells us to eat more chicken.
She picked the booth we would sit in while we waited for our lunch.
She wanted to sit by the window.
The window happened to be next to the line of cars for the drive thru.

Grandma, look at the doggie in the window, she said pointing to a car.
Grandma, look at that car with no top, she noticed of the convertible.
Grandma, look at the picture of the cow on the road.
Why is the cow walking on the road?

Grandma, can I have ketchup with my french fries?
Grandma, where is your car?
Grandma, I see a lady in the car.
Grandma, do you think my french fries will come soon?

Grandma, what are we doing when we get home?
Will Pop-Pop be there?
I’m going to pre-school soon.
I have a yellow back pack with sunflowers.

My class is the ladybug class.
I don’t know my teacher’s name.
We will have blocks in my school.
I can draw pictures for mommy and daddy.

The entire time we waited for our lunch, there were staccato statements.
I was thoroughly amused at her verbal skills.
The direction of her thinking was on full display.
I just smiled as I listened.

Pray without ceasing. (1 Thessalonians 5:17)

Can you imagine God, our Father, as He listens to our staccato prayers?
Popcorn prayers.
Stream of consciousness prayers.
Heartfelt, I’m so weary I’ll say everything, kind of prayers.

And He listens.
And He follows our thoughts because He already knows them.
And He hears before we even utter a single word.
And He smiles because He loves us.

Staccato can often mean, disconnected.
However, in Christ, we have the Perfect Connector.
Our feeble attempt at expressing our heart is a delight to the Father.
My granddaughter’s words were precious to me; how much more our words to the Father.

When she was done her lunch, my granddaughter got up from her side of the booth.
She came over to my side and climbed up next to me.
She hugged me.
She patted my back so sweetly.

I love you, Grandma.
Sweet music to my ears.
I love you, Father.
Sweet music to our Father’s ears.