I’m a full-time musician. I belt out “Happy Birthday” in restaurants for forty bucks a pop. I sing for workers in the local malls while they fold t-shirts. I interrupt you while you eat at the restaurant down the street with “I’m here to serenade you.” Recently, I even tried my hand at writing, recording, and filming a jingle for Folgers. I don’t have a backup plan. I don’t have a family of my own. And tonight I rediscovered why I do what I do.
As I stared down the long black and white row of keys in a small piano room at Spring Arbor University’s music building, I finally felt like I was home. I didn’t feel the exhilarating pre-performance adrenaline rush flooding my veins. All my body could focus on were the ivory colored keys that my fingers dabbled on for an hour. I’m not a piano player who you’d sit down and listen to voluntarily, but someday I will be.
I’m not suggesting that I’ll be a great composer or a world renowned player someday. I’m only suggesting that tonight I rediscovered why I’m a musician. I don’t play to earn a paycheck. I play, sing, and write because when I do, “I feel God’s pleasure.”