Facing the Music by Jennifer Knapp

complex music theory that came with them. I needed to find a way to stay after school and stay involved in all the fine art activities that were preparing me for college without the relentless, and usually disappointing, bartering with my parents.
    To them, this music thing didn’t seem all that important. They had invested in buying me a horn, but that was about the limit. I had hoped they would share in my enjoyment by coming to my various concerts and performances, but my parents didn’t seem to recognize the significance that music was having in my life. There were times when I wondered if they even noticed just how much their absence left me feeling empty and disregarded.
    I tried to explain to my father that all these things weren’t just busywork for me. I had shared with him my vision of going to college.
    â€œDad, this isn’t just something I want to do,” I shared, “It’s my future. It’s what I want to be.”
    His response was more practical than emotional. “Well, if that’s the case, then, you’ll have to take responsibility for it. Youwant piano lessons? You need to find a way to pay for it. More than that, you’ll need to get yourself there.”
    I don’t think he understood my dream of wanting to become a skilled musician or how much his support as a father mattered to me.
    Eventually, we struck a kind of deal. My parents would give me use of one of their old cars, keeping it insured and registered. In turn, I would do whatever it took to keep it running. That meant earning my own gas money, keeping up my good grades, and generally staying out of trouble.
    â€œYou can help around the house by chipping in with the bills. Pay for what you can. School books, music paper, gas money, movies—whatever,” my dad said. “If you want it, you’ll need to be able to afford it. Then . . .” he paused. “Well, that will help us save up for college.”
    â€œDone deal!” I took my oath and ran with it. I found part-time jobs that fit my busy school life and help to fund my passions. Whenever I felt the grind of not wanting to clock in for work or got bored with my school work, I reminded myself of the future.
    I acted as if there were not a minute to be wasted. If I wasn’t busy serving up egg rolls at the local Chinese restaurant, I was delivering pizza. When I wasn’t at work, I was usually in a rehearsal, a lesson, or performing. It was even better when I was performing and working at the same time.
    In the summer, I found work playing Haydn concertos at weddings. In the Advent season, the organist for the local Methodist church put me to work with all manner of challenging cantatas. I was even asked to be on call as a trumpeter for funerals at the local VFW. When the last report of the twenty-one-gun salute had fired, it fell to me to complete the honor by playing “Taps.” Playing at the funerals was strange at first. I didn’t know how to react while others mourned the passing of their loved one, but eventually found a kind of peace in offering the gift of music.
    So much of my performance work in the community was happening in sacred spaces. All that time, being a part of and witnessing the spiritual impact of music during the weddings, ­funerals, and High Church ceremonies filled me with a growing sense of reverence for Divinity. I recognized the hope’s longing that filled the hymns’ refrains. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of religion, but I couldn’t help but be moved by what seemed a distant, faint voice of comfort. Inside my chest, music and spirituality seemed to be made of the same stuff—as if sounding in the same voice. There were times when it felt like I was being called to. By who or what, I couldn’t say, and didn’t want to say. The idea of calling that sensation by a name—to call it “God” aloud to ­others—was too provocative