Playing piano.
It’s one of my favorite things to do in the whole world.
Tickling the ivories, and sometimes pounding them, gives voice to my thoughts and emotions. When I sit down at the piano, especially when I’m playing for worship, it feels as if God is right there with me on the piano bench. His presence feels close. Real.
Some of my most joyful piano memories come from big, meaningful moments — like touring years ago with Pastor Doug and Donna Fagerstrom and a group from Wooddale Church while performing The Witness. The music was so dynamic and fun, the message full of hope. It was one of those this is the best ever moments.
But my favorite place to play the piano has always been in worship, whether that’s in my church, my living room, or gathered with a small group. The music that flows from those black and white keys offers a peek into my heart.
Sometimes the music leans heavily into the minor keys. Notes that carry melancholy, mystery, grief, and gray tones. You can almost hear the tears behind them.
Other times, the music bursts with major chords — bright, energetic, full of joy and hope. Yellow-sunshine notes that feel like they’re laughing out loud.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the music my life has been listening to and playing.
There are moments when God’s goodness is easy to spot. We see it in worship, in the beauty around us, in a good book we can’t put down, easy laughter, and time with friends who remind us we’re not doing life alone.
And yet, there is also real heaviness in our community. Confusion. Tension. Anger. Weariness. It can feel overwhelming — like an orchestra where only the tubas, bass drum, and sharp percussion showed up, all playing loudly, but not in harmony.
Sigh.
Here’s what I’m learning.
If we play, or listen to, only music in the minor keys, our hearts stay locked in the gray. The grief. The fear. The weight. There’s no musical resolution, no hint that something better might still come.
And if we listen to only the pep-band, major-key music, we risk ignoring reality. We miss the pain that our neighbors, families, and communities are actually carrying.
A full life requires both.
We learn to live, and play, in the major and the minor keys, often at the same time.
It’s not two separate songs. One for joy. One for sorrow.
It’s a single piece of music that brings both together, giving our hearts permission to say, “Thank You, God,” and then, sometimes in the very next breath, “Please, God. Have mercy.”
The prophet Habakkuk understood this kind of music when he wrote:
“Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.” (Habakkuk 3:17–18)
Habakkuk didn’t ignore the devastation around him. He named it plainly. And at the same time, he chose trust. Minor keys and major keys showing up together. Lament and praise held in the same faithful song.
That’s the invitation for us, too, isn’t it?
We’re not asked to dismiss the sadness and horror, ignore the chaos as if it doesn’t exist, or pretend our way into happiness. Instead, we ask God to hold us steady, to carry the heavy notes and lead us through them.
So, this has become my prayer:
Lord, show me how to love my neighbor during the minor stretches. Help me respond with a love that acts, even when doing nothing would be easier. Don’t let my own anger or frustration get in the way of loving people I disagree with.
And Lord, remind me to notice—and not miss—the moments of goodness.
The bright chords.
The grace notes.
The joy that still breaks through.
And always, help me keep my eyes on you.
On Sunday, I get to sit at the piano as our church community worships, grieves, celebrates, and prays together. Some of the music we offer will sound hopeful and bright; some will carry the ache. Both belong in our shared songs right now.
God is good.
And life can be hard.
And even when life is hard, God is still good.
