I spent the morning at the hospital, the afternoon and evening at the concert hall.

Somehow all the solos, all the low note attacks, all the stess of performance becomes much less significant when one’s daddy is in the hospital. Will I die if I miss a note? No, I won’t. Will I even cry if I miss note? Nope. And will I cry during the second movement of Beehoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto? Hmmm. I sure felt like it.

But crying on stage is … well … it’s just not a good idea. As moved as one might be, as stressful or sad as life might get, we are called to play for our audience and not get so wrapped up in our own stuff that we forget we are there to entertain, not wallow.

So no, I didn’t cry.

I just felt like it.

When I got home I saw that the “boys” (my husband and our younger son) had gotten our Christmas tree. It was cheery to see it sitting unadorned in our famiy room. We’ll get to the decorating later. Right now I’m just enjoy its fresh pine scent and, finally, putting my feet up.