We sit. Each afternoon with the music before us. Metronome clicking out beats. He plays as I count and correct when needed.
He has a talent for this. This music. Yet we struggle. It’s not the easiest of talents for him. It has never been for me either. Not like his art that seems to flow so naturally.
I correct and he deflates. This child of mine so much like me. Taking the correction as a sign of imperfection.
He wants to give up. To quit. Thinking he’s not good enough so why bother trying.
Yet I push. Very little in his life do I push him in. I remember the pressure I put on myself to be perfect. How discouraging it was to fail at the first attempt. How I emotionally tore myself apart when I couldn’t perform without flaw. No determination to keep trying until I mastered something. No inner drive.
He doesn’t understand why I push. Why we spend hours a week practicing for his lesson. Pressing black and white keys, strumming six strings. I’ll find him sitting, making up his own songs. Knowing he enjoys the creating. He doesn’t like the discipline it takes to learn all the music can teach him. No one likes discipline. How do I encourage him to look at the discipline as growth?
So despite his complaints I push. Grasping at how to encourage and instill the determination without puncturing his self esteem. How to help him overcome the perfectionism before it paralyzes him. Knowing now that God gives us gifts that we must grow. Not simply giving up when the pains of the growing make us ache. Not understanding that through the pain He makes us stronger.
But all this struggling?
It’s a gift. It’s a grace.
So I give thanks. For the time to invest with my miracle child. To hopefully guide him in some way. Trusting and praying God will fill the void when my own insecurities tempt me to forget this is a gift.
For it truly is all grace.