A few weeks ago, Satan finished what he started three years ago and stole my identity. I have packed up the last of my teaching supplies: sheet music, collections, method books, assignment notebooks, theory books, technique books, concerti, history notebooks, listening labs, computer disk theory games, stickers, rhythm instruments, home made music bingo games, magic slates with grand staffs permanently imprinted on them, even my old textbook How to Teach Piano Successfully. I have sent them on to a young piano teacher in Ohio, who is just starting out.
I had a weepy moment or two. This part of my life—35 years worth plus all those years learning--is definitely over now. There is no going back; I simply cannot see the music any longer. But I am happy to know that these things will be put to good use—that other little children will learn with them, and that a young preaching couple will have a bit more coming in to help out with a skimpy income. But for a moment the large empty space under my piano made me feel invisible.
I am no longer the piano and voice teacher in Union County.
I no longer open my doors every afternoon to excited little faces, making sure that grubby little hands are washed before touching the keys, but still picking up every ailment my students brought my way, including parvo once, for goodness sake! It must have been all the hugs.
I am no longer playing at weddings half a dozen times a year. I am no longer meeting with my fellow teachers once or twice a month, serving as association officer or chairman of this committee or that.
I no longer take a dozen students to various competitions, crying with them for their losses and cheering for their wins. I no longer spend hours on themed spring programs, gathering up suitable music, matching it to each student’s personality, then working out the details, including skits and grand finales.
I no longer present high school seniors in debut recitals with formals and tuxes, long-stemmed red roses, and a glittery reception afterward.
Satan has stolen all of that from me with this disease.
It could have been a real problem for me. I could have sunk into a depression difficult to come out of. Then I remembered my real identity.
Behold what manner of love the Father has bestowed on us that we should be called the children of God; and we are, 1 John 3:1.
Listen my beloved brethren did not God choose those who are poor in the world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom which he promised to those who love him? James 2:4.
But you are an elect race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for God’s own possession, that you may show forth the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light, 1 Pet 2:9.
He has granted unto us precious and exceeding great promises, that through these you may become partakers of the divine nature,
2 Pet 1:4.
The Spirit bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint-heirs with Christ, if so be that we suffer with him, that we may also be glorified with him, Rom 8:16,17.
I still have my identity, and so do you. It’s the one that counts, the one that Satan cannot steal, the one that will last forever.