My dad was a drummer. He grew up playing in church. There was a boy named Artie that watched him play. Artie played when my dad decided not to play any longer. My older brother Maurice played drums intermittently while Artie was the main drummer. Then, when Artie went into the Army, Maurice played drums. When Maurice went off to college, I played.
While all of the drum lineage was unfolding, I enjoyed every minute of it. It was so exciting to watch Artie come up to the drums with his dark-siders on and play. When he played, the atmosphere changed. I ate it up.
There was this one time at our church’s annual Christmas Play, that Artie wasn’t on the drums (and my brother was nowhere to be found). They were singing, “Why don’t you pray for me, sometime.” I grabbed the sticks and played my little heart out. It was the last song of the evening, so it was very short, but I was excited to play.
[I feel giddy just thinking about that moment.]
While it would be years until I finally got a chance to play for our church “full time,” I didn’t care. I enjoyed just being able to hear all the musical sounds in that place, as a kid.
I paid no mind of the time between Artie and me playing because I enjoyed it so much. Although it could be counted as waiting time, I didn’t care.
I was reminded about this childhood story, as I reflected on the part of my journey that has me frustrated nowadays. I have become somewhat impatient (I alluded to this in my last post: read about it here). The biggest lesson I have learned from “me” back then is to have fun while I wait.
Simply put: Wait your turn.
Until Next Time,
Love & Peace