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I collapsed into a padded, fold-down auditorium seat. Could this concert help me relax for one brief evening? Could it rekindle a flicker of zest in my life?
I felt insignificant, unappreciated. I’d poured myself into “little” tasks, the behind-the-scenes jobs that keep homes, businesses, and volunteer organizations running smoothly. Ordinarily I enjoyed life. But lately anonymity had lured me to self-pity. Does my life count for anything? I wondered. Do I make a difference in this world?
The lights dimmed. An accompanist, muscular, bright-eyed, seated himself at the grand piano. A young page turner seated himself on a chair beside the pianist’s bench. Brilliance spotlighted a slight, mustachioed gentleman bearing a violin to center stage.
The applause stilled. As bow flew across violin strings and fingers danced on piano keys the magic began. The strains of violin and piano blended so perfectly that it seemed as if one soul played both instruments. No wonder the duo had earned international acclaim. The music flowed delicate and full. It danced. It soothed. It excited and relaxed.
While enthralled by the exquisite music, somehow that evening my attention turned to the page turner. He was a musician, too. A local teenager who loved piano, who planned a future in piano. I’d enjoyed many concerts where this young man turned pages for a pianist. Though he’d always performed his task perfectly, that night I pondered the embarrassment he’d feel if somehow he missed a cue, if he caused a flaw in the perfect music pouring from these instruments.
Perhaps it was my own sense of insignificance that urged me to contemplate this young man’s task. For whatever reason, I continued to watch page turner and pianist as music washed over me soothing my tired soul.
Several songs later the improbable happened. The pianist nodded gently. The page turner, not noticing, sat erect, rapt attention on the music. The pianist’s hands flew across the keyboard. He nodded urgently.
The violinist, oblivious to the drama at the piano, danced bow across strings.
Color drained from the pianist’s face. He nodded intensely, desperately. The page turner sat as if frozen. The pianist hit discordant notes. He missed bass notes. His left arm flailed toward the music, half turning the page. More missed notes. Scarlet rose in his face as his left hand finally laid the page flat.
Suddenly, the page turner’s face paled.
Just one page not turned at the right instant—such a small matter. But it interrupted the flow of exquisite music. It took the listener’s mind away from the violin and piano notes dancing together in perfect harmony and balance. It allowed stress to crowd in on beauty.
Fortunately, the page turner did his job perfectly dozens of times that evening. The concert continued flawlessly. The music flowed delicate and full. It danced and soothed. It excited and relaxed.
I’ve forgotten the specific strains of the music that evening. But I remember the message of the page turner—that the success of that concert by an internationally acclaimed duo depended partially on an unknown, unapplauded, high-school pianist who turned pages. That even when I work quietly in the background, my faithfulness makes a difference. My humble tasks are vital to the harmony of humanity.
