Beginner band practice was done for the day. I slowly packed up my saxophone, hanging back while the other kids went off to the next class. When it was all clear, I timidly approached Miss Hall, the director.
“What is it, Brian?” she asked, smiling down at me from behind the podium.
“I want to quit,” I said. “I just can’t hack this.” Small for my age at 12, and with asthma, I’d said the same thing about the sports my friends were so interested in. But I’d started band with high expectations.
For one thing, I really liked music. I’d already learned to pick out tunes on my older brother’s sax before I started lessons with Miss Hall. Here, I thought, was where I would shine. I thought I’d found my niche.
Turned out, band wasn’t as easy as I thought. I couldn’t just noodle around till I figured out a tune. I had to play with the other students. That meant reading music, something I didn’t have a knack for. Miss Hall was a patient teacher, but as I watched the other kids catch on one by one, I felt like a hopeless failure.
Just because you liked something, I realized, didn’t mean you could automatically do it. “Just tell Miss Hall,” one of my friends had advised that morning. “I did and she let me off the hook.” Band wasn’t mandatory.
So here I was, facing Miss Hall, ready to give up. “I can’t read music,” I explained. “I have to quit.”
Miss Hall looked genuinely upset. She came around from behind the podium and put her hands squarely on my shoulders.
“Brian,” she said, “when you have to struggle for something you want, it’s all the more satisfying when you get it. If you quit now, I know you will regret it later. You want to succeed here, and I know you can do it.”
Miss Hall seemed to see something in me that I didn’t yet know about myself. I wasn’t sure she was right, but if she had such faith in me, how could I let her down? I looked at the floor. “I guess I’ll stick it out a while longer.”
So I was back in band the next day, trying to make sense of the music. While everyone else was taking a break, I fumbled with my instrument, trying to match the notes with the keys.
Miss Hall tapped her baton on the podium for attention. “There is a test everyone must pass to go on,” she announced. “It’s not difficult, but it’s very important. It’s a breathing test.”
Great. An asthma kid taking a breathing test. Why hadn’t I quit when I had the chance? God, show me a way out without hurting Miss Hall’s feelings.
“All you have to do is breathe from your diaphragm,” Miss Hall explained. “The diaphragm is a muscle and you need its power to sustain your notes. Shallow breathing won’t allow you to hold a note for very long, and you’ll wind up panting. Your stomach should expand when you inhale and contract when you exhale.” She demonstrated. “Who would like to try it?”
One boy ran up front. Miss Hall held a pencil in front of his stomach. “Okay,” she said. “Breathe.” When the boy breathed in, his stomach bobbed out and touched the tip of the eraser. “Well done,” said Miss Hall. “You passed the breathing test.”
She gave each student a turn. When she held the pencil in front of me I pulled a big breath into my chest. My stomach contracted. It was nowhere near the pencil. I’d failed. “Don’t worry,” said Miss Hall. “You all have as many chances as you need to pass the test. Practice at home, and whenever you’re ready you may ask to try again.”
Over the next few weeks my band mates all succeeded in passing the breathing test. I still couldn’t do it. I sat in my place in rehearsal one day thinking how wrong Miss Hall had been. Whatever she thought she saw in me wasn’t there, and I was going to prove it to her.
When rehearsal ended I raised my hand. “Miss Hall, may I try the breathing test again?” I asked.
Miss Hall took out her pencil and held it in front of me. “Ready?”
I nodded. Ready to fail. I inhaled a big gulp of air and sure enough, my stomach contracted instead of expanding. You see? I thought. I don’t belong here.
“I have an idea,” Miss Hall said. She tilted my chin up. “Don’t look at the pencil. Look at me.”
I did. “I know you have a bright future ahead of you,” Miss Hall said. “I believe it will involve music. You love music and it shows. That’s a gift. I can see that gift as clear as day.”
Her soft voice relaxed me. I imagined myself playing saxophone, performing songs that were too hard for me now, confident and assured. I imagined the sound of my instrument. I imagined the beautiful music I might make. If only I didn’t quit. I pulled in a long, slow breath. I felt something lightly touch my stomach.
“Brian,” Miss Hall said. “You have just passed the test.”
I looked down. My stomach was pushed out to the pencil tip. As I exhaled it contracted. I inhaled again and touched the pencil. I could do it! Miss Hall was right all along!
“See, Brian,” Miss Hall said. “And this is just the beginning for you.” This time I believed her, and I started to believe in me. I’d get the hang of reading music if it took me forever.
I had to admit I was getting better at it, just not as quickly as I’d hoped. I’d just have to struggle—and struggle some more. Whatever it took. Until I got it down, I’d concentrate on other things. Like how well our band was beginning to sound—with me in it!
Miss Hall got married the following year and left the school. I moved on to high school band. When it came time for college I set my sights on the best band around: The Citadel Regimental Band and Pipes. I auditioned on the saxophone to get in, then learned to play bagpipes for the Band. It seems I had a knack for all the wind instruments.
Miss Hall was right about my future with music. I play flute at our church, jam on the saxophone with my kids and even break out the bagpipes on special occasions. “It must take a lot of air to keep those pipes going!” people always comment. “How do you do it?”
Easy. I relax, breathe from my diaphragm and concentrate on success. And I never ever quit.
Read more stories about heavenly angels and angels on earth.
