Still Can't Strum

Once upon a time, I thought Green Day was the coolest band in the world, and I bought (with the help of my family) a guitar to become just like Billie Joe Armstrong.

I played for hours and hours every day, learning new songs and dreaming of being a rock star and standing for something (whatever that something would be).

As classes got harder and band and orchestra (oh yeah, I also played clarinet and violin) rehearsals demanded more, that guitar rested in its stand in my room, only to be picked up a few times a month to see what I could still do (which dwindled to almost nothing).

I discovered my love for teaching, and my dreams shifted from being a rock star to being a band director.

Later I went to college for a music degree. Whether it was classes or rehearsals, music consumed the majority of every day. People who shared my aspirations, some of whom would do anything to get to the top, surrounded me. Competition was fierce and a chronic feeling of inadequacy reigned my heart. Even as my technique improved and my knowledge grew, I still felt mediocre and self-conscious next to my peers.

As time went on, I discovered I love people more than I love music, and I started searching for career paths that would be better suited for my passions (i.e., music therapist, counselor, etc.).

Then I graduated and moved to Africa and brought a guitar with me. I was excited to start learning worship songs while being separated from the competitive music lifestyle I know so well.

But, I soon discovered that two other people on the ministry team also play guitar, and are way better at it than I ever was, especially now since I haven’t played in at least six years. There’s no way I could play with or in front of people who actually know what they’re doing. Besides, I left my chord charts and capo at home in the States, so I don’t even have the necessary tools to really play…never mind that the local music store is within blocks of my house and it doesn’t take a ton of effort to write out chords.

Months pass. The stress of this ministry starts weighing down on me. I journal and watch movies and read books to escape, but that actually does very little for my soul. Then, we get some hard news about the future of our girls, and I sink into a weeklong mild depression with no outlet.

That’s when I receive a package from my older brother back home, complete with eight three-subject notebooks and a pack of pens. Perfect for writing out songs and chords. On my day off, I walk to the music store and purchase an overpriced capo. And the work begins.

I start with four worship songs in my notebook (a grand total of six different chords) and play them over and over, experimenting with strumming patterns (spoiler alert: I don’t really know how to strum – I just make it up), and softly singing along. I copy down a few more songs, a few the girls know, and play through them a few times.

This is great, I think. I love this. I love playing by myself. No standards. No pressure. No judgment. And I can play whatever I want. I never want to be in a band or play for people.

I take my guitar to the girls’ home to get some extra practice, and before I know it, my bedroom is full of eight kids singing along and requesting song after song.

They’re not ignorant – they know I’m only learning and that I have a long way to go. They know when I play wrong chords and sing off key. But they don’t care. They just want to sing and have fun.

Sometimes I get annoyed when they request the same songs over and over and have no desire to learn something new.

But then, that’s how every relationship is, isn’t it? You go on for a while by yourself, and you think, Wow, this is great! I can do whatever I want! I can go wherever I want! I can buy whatever I want! I can wear whatever I want! Nobody will care if my clothes don’t match! Nobody’s going to judge me for only wearing underwear around the house! Nobody’s here to be better than me! Nobody’s here to tell me any different! I don’t have to share anything or listen to anyone!

That’s all great and grand for a while, then life gets a little lonely, so God drops a friend or roommate or boy/girlfriend or spouse or 16 African adolescent females on your doorstep, and that all changes.

Now you have to share stuff. Now somebody cares if you eat their peanut butter. Now it’s less okay to run around the house in your underwear.

Now somebody’s going to tell you want songs to play. Now somebody’s going to notice when wrong notes happen.

As their guardian, I have full right to say “no” when they request a song, and sometimes I do, or I suggest something different I think they’d like. But if I say “no” too many times, then they’ll stop singing along altogether. And what’s the point of that? Music, like peanut butter, is meant for sharing.

Two weeks later, I now have 39 songs in my trusty notebook (some worship, some Katy Perry, some T-Swift, some Mumford, and some in between), and I still don’t really know how to strum. But I play every day, and nothing fills my heart quite like Nadia knocking on my door and asking, “When are we singing?” before I’m even dressed for the day.

When I shared the news that I was moving to Africa after graduation, people would tell me how excited they were for me to share my musical gifts, because music has such a healing power.

I finally discovered that’s true, not because of how it’s healed the girls, but because of how it’s healing me.