By Casey Brady
“Many people lose the small joys in hope for the big happiness.”
– Pearl Buck
Note after note, sound after sound, the grand piano echoes my movements, reverberating with the resonance of eighty-eight unique singular noises, all combining and mixing in ways unseen to create whatever piece my heart desires. The pedal squeaks beneath my toe, and the blend is increased to a smooth weave of quieter sounds, the grand piano relaxing as I allow it to slow. My body relaxes, and I am at peace on the piano bench.
My eyes close, and I allow my fingers to play on their own, dispelling the last stresses of a long day. A sad, minor sound creeps into the recesses of the humming music as I recall the depressing times of my day, and I feel my hands slide to a higher point on the keys, creating an almost bubbly sound, as I remember my happy moments. My left hand falls deep to the bottom notes and a loud, angry minor sound echoes as I remember my worst moments, yet then I shift back up to a quieter sound, releasing myself into the piano, enjoying the wonderful bliss of nothingness and contentment on the piano bench.
I vaguely acknowledge that my dad has come to sit and listen, but I refuse myself the leisure of performing for him. Right now I am not performing, but letting the sounds created by my fingers wash away all my stressed parts and thoughts. Perhaps my father is enjoying the musical cleansing himself, but he cannot have reached full contentment simply by listening. The only way to truly listen is to be on the piano bench.
Now a shout breaks the reverie, and my fingers miss a note. The call for dinner slices apart the hum of the keys, and I finally allow my fingers to come to rest. My dad has gotten up and left, yet I cannot leave until the piano is finished. The final sounds echo to silence, flushing the last bits of tension from my body, and I stare for a second into the convex reflection of the polished, hardened wood. Releasing the pedal, I stand, and the piano bench creaks in protest. I know I will return tomorrow. The contentment held for me inside this magical instrument continually draws me back, and there is no way to resist the happiness I enjoy on the piano bench.
My oldest son, Casey, wrote the above essay for his college applications last summer. His writing transferred the emotions of “the bench” so well, I hate to add anything here that would subtract from the reader’s ambience.
I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!
Terri Brady
Guest Blogger Casey Brady is a senior at Wake Christian Academy, heading to North Greenville University this fall to study Sports Management (business). His soccer abilities can been seen on the current North Carolina state champion team, TFCA 96Boys. Though he enjoys music and blesses others through it, he plans to keep it as a hobby as opposed to a profession. He is a wonderful big brother, piano teacher to the young (including his sister!), friend to many, and recently became a National Merit Scholarship Finalist. I am blessed to call him my son, because of the way he lives out his life verse, Proverbs 1:7.
A special thanks to Casey for letting me share his talents!
The following video was his last recital with his Michigan teacher four years ago (age 14-ish). My! How he’s grown since then – on and off “the bench”!
Related Links
less than your desire for a goal. Besides, your team needs you!” I said as I dutifully washed the bumps in special soap, put some Calamine on it and gave him Benedryl.
the night of the wedding. She sat down on the bed and removed her heels and nylons. Opening a drawer, she put in her glasses. She then continued and took off her eyelashes, putting them in the drawer. She took off some special padding, a hairpiece, and a girdle and put them in the drawer too. Her Invisalign, her Spanx, and other paraphernalia filled the drawer. The man looked, stunned at what was left of who he thought he had married and said, “Maybe I should just make love to that drawer!”
the question: One night in my sleep, Chris proposed to me using a plastic “mood” ring. In the dream, when I hesitated in shock over the type of ring, he quickly switched to another…and another…and another. “You don’t like it? Do you like this one better?” he said, nervously showing me another ring of many colors out of his pocket. In his typical fashion (even in my dream), he had me laughing out loud, and telling him, “I love it,” with every one, but when he took out the sixth one (a pearl – Finally! One color!) I yanked it from him and said, “It’s perfect!”
When my daughter Christine was 2-yrs-old, my little butterfly loved attention of her three buffalo brothers. Once while buckled into her car seat in the third row of our Ford Excursion, she asked Casey (then age 9) to sit next to her. He said he wanted to sit one row forward, so he could more easily exit when we arrived at his practice. She broke into tears and wailed to me, hoping my ears in the front seat would recognize her desperation two rows behind me. “Mooooooommmmy!!!! Casey won’t make me happpppyyyyyy!” she sobbed.
of caller ID, he would call my house, ask for me, and then hang up as soon as I got to the phone.) Once I cracked the case of the mystery phone-hang-up artist, my older brother called the guy and told him the familiar poem of the 70’s: “If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it is yours. If it doesn’t come back to you, it never was.” Except, my big brother, … in my defense, … being the sweet, protective big brother he is, …said in a threatening tone, “If you love something, let it go. If she comes back to you, she’s yours. If she doesn’t, and you call again, I will hunt you down and rip you apart with my bare hands.” The suitor never called me again.
“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage!” I sang hundreds of times in the jump rope game of my youth. The song’s principles are not always the case these days.
Letters to Lindsey 