The Magic Piano

When I was a child, we had a wonderful children's radio program called "Record Man and Story Lady." When you're five, you don't even analyze the meaning of the syllables. It's just, recordmanandstorylady. It came on every day at five o'clock. I remember wonderful radio episodes of The Lone Ranger and Zorro: a melange of crisp, urgent dialogue, the sounds of hooves galloping, angry shouts, and pistol shots. I could never follow the stories for an instant. I loved it.

They read a story one time about a child who discovered a magic piano. As a piano student, he was mediocre. But when he played on this magic piano, he became a musical genius. He's playing Beethoven, Bach, he attracts adoring audiences and becomes a child prodigy. This goes okay until he begins to take credit for his success and act as if he really has talent. Naturally this all goes awry when the magic disappears and he is bereft of his success. I'm assuming, as the story line has blurred in my memory over the years, that this was related to his lack of humility.

My giving the presentation at work, in the SNF, about the fatal case I was involved with, with Dr. Waltman, reminds me exactly of the Magic Piano. I took credit for giving a talk smoothly, flawlessly, so eloquently that people clearly were moved. If it were just me speaking, without divine assistance, sure, I knew the story very well. But I should have said um, duh, erk, stumbled around. I recognize very well the spell that came over me, the spell of eloquence, and it was clearly divine assistance.

I've prayed since, prayed for forgiveness in taking credit for a performance that was supplemented by that mysterious power usually granted to other people. People who are maybe more worthy. But I was reveling in what it feels like to be seen as intelligent, capable, my inner qualities shining at last.

Just as long as I remember where that Help came from.