It was all going so well — playing my clarinet in front of the large group of people sitting in the audience — until all of a sudden the wood of my instrument began cracking and splitting — right there, without any warning — followed by the reeds of my mouthpiece chipping and breaking in my mouth.

Everyone in the audience waited — in silence — as I frantically changed out my reeds. But every reed I grabbed was either chipped or split in two. What was I to do? My head began spinning and the sweat building up on my hands made it impossible to even hold my clarinet.

Just as my clarinet dropped to the ground, I woke up, realizing it was all just a dream. Thank goodness…

Little did I know that the awkward and uncomfortable mishaps of my dream would become a strikingly similar reality — very soon. 

It was Sunday morning and in just a few hours, I was to join my dad, brother, and husband up in front of our church where we’d play a song together. And unbeknownst to any of us, it wouldn’t go as planned or as we’d rehearsed.

But these unforeseen events would also open the door to something more beautiful and meaningful than anything I ever could have played on my clarinet…

And so with snippets of my dreams replaying in my mind and nerves lingering in my stomach, I walked into church that Sunday morning and slipped into the pew with my family. 

During a time of silent prayer, I found myself confronted with my desire for today’s song to go perfectly. I recognized that while there was nothing wrong with wanting it to go well, my desire for perfection had overtaken my thoughts — and nervous system.

Music had always been a significant way for me to connect with God — a language of its own, revealing my heart, especially when I didn’t have the words. Whether in moments of overwhelming joy or painful sorrow, I could share my heart through music. 

I was reminded during that silent time of prayer that I’d wanted this song to be an offering of gratitude from the depths of my heart — a heart postured towards the One who’d walked with me through so much. 

And so, in that moment, I let go of control and my need for perfection, releasing my anxious thoughts and allowing my mind and body to be filled with peace and gratitude.

Carrying that peace with me, I made my way up the front of the sanctuary, where I joined my family.

My dad started with a gentle intro and I stepped in with the melody. 

But when I got to the chorus and jumped up to a B nothing came out.

I played the note, but there was no sound. 

It was as if the note got stuck inside my clarinet. 

And so we started again, from the very beginning. When the chorus came around, it happened again. Embarrassed and confused, I made some adjustments to my clarinet, hoping it would reveal the answer to the problem. It didn’t help.

With the help of a professional clarinetist (yes, a true professional clarinetist who happens to be a part of our church family and was present that day) we were able to test a few possible issues. 

Thinking the problem was fixed, we started the song over once again. 

And like clockwork, my clarinet gave out at the same place, but this time, my family kept playing through the song. 

As I stood there, holding my clarinet, unable to play any of the notes in the chorus, I could pick up the faint sound of voices singing in the audience.

I joined back in at the end and together we finished the song early. 

Walking back to my pew, it took all the strength inside of me not to burst into tears. 

I bit my lip and tilted my head back to keep the tears from falling down my face. For someone who doesn’t like being the center of attention, this experience had pulled me into quite the opposite direction.

After the service, a number of people came up to me, offering gentle, supportive words of encouragement.

Those who had experience playing clarinet sympathized with the issues I struggled with during the song. Other musicians shared their own experiences with “things going wrong” on stage.

People shared how special the moment had been — everyone coming together to figure out what was wrong, supporting one another, watching me persevere and keep trying again and again. I felt overwhelmed with grace and love.

On the car ride home I looked over at my husband and said, “I hope that parents are having conversations with their kids right now — see, even grown ups make mistakes. And it’s ok, life continues on. We keep trying and persevere with patience.”

As it turns out, I’ve since learned that quite a few families have had that exact conversation. And I’ve been touched and extremely humbled by the stories that have come out of this experience that had certainly not gone as planned.

It’s not the story I would have written — my story would have involved fewer mishaps and less embarrassment — but there’s an element of beauty that grows out of imperfection.

I experienced the gentle presence of God in that moment — the kindness, grace, and love that I needed at this time in my life, at the start of this new year — something I needed more than applause or praise… or for even things to go well. As always, music brought us closer — it just so happened to be in a way I hadn’t quite expected it to.

The events of Sunday morning brought about more connection than I would have ever expected. A coming together of people who genuinely care about one another. People who are present — doing life together — messy and all.

And in these few days that have followed, I’ve been brought back to the challenging events of last year and reminded of the community that came around me in the messiness that was 2024. 

The gentle kindness and shared tears of those who surrounded my husband and I after we lost our babies in multiple devastating miscarriages. The strong, caring support that surrounded us when I was diagnosed with cancer and began treatment, stepping with me on my healing journey. We experienced so much love right there in the midst of hardship.

There’s something to be said about doing life with others. Helping each another. Supporting one another. Crying together. Encouraging one another. Singing the melody on their behalf when their clarinet won’t play.

If I could go back in time and start Sunday morning all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Dear friends, may you dwell in a place of connection, instead of perfection.

May you find peace in letting go.

May you find renewal in the transforming love of grace.