The Audition

Digit was a dog of mixed breed--thought to be primarily Golden Retriever and Golden Labrador--who never outgrew his puppy enthusiasm. If the front door opened for any reason, he was out and about in the neighborhood. My family and I were in the habit of holding his collar while answering the door. On one such occasion, he moved towards the door faster than usual as I grabbed for his collar. I had gotten only the end of one finger engaged so with just one jerk forward, he was out the door lickety-split.  "Ouch!" My entire hand went numb, my finger began to swell and turn a dark color. My doc., Melvin Knight, pronounced it, "Broken. Snapped clear through!" This was a big deal. A very b-i-g deal! I had commitments!

The wedding was scheduled in a week or so, for the only daughter of Bonnie Faucett. For the ceremony, the bride, Amy, had requested traditional organ music for the processional, her entrance--"Here Comes the Bride"--and the recessional following the "I do's". None of these were simple pieces to play, for me, a "pretend" organist, so I'd spent time, sometimes at odd hours, at the Sparks Stake Center, practicing...a lot. She also requested, piano background music throughout the reception and I would accompany the soloist--her brother, Mike, during several interludes. Amy had personally chosen much of the music for the event, enough to fill an inches-thick binder that I'd put together. This was a paid gig; I wanted smooth transitions.

The soloist was well rehearsed. I'd adjusted my work schedule to meet the needs of the bridal party, for that day and, I thought I could still play despite the splinted finger. Rheumatoid had, over time, demanded that I be quick to improvise during flares. I thought I could do the same with an injury but no, a few days before the wedding, I had to make that awful phone call to Amy to give her the news. There was a gasp, and then total silence for a few seconds. "I have arranged for someone else to take over," I offered.  Sue, a fellow pianist, graciously took my carefully laid out binder with all the music, the notes and instructions in response to my SOS call and I went home to have a good, old fashioned, cleansing cry.

For me, playing piano and organ meant more than just providing a sweet service or fulfilling a commitment. With RA running wild throughout my body, I was totally invested in keeping my hands conditioned and capable. I accepted every opportunity to play and felt grateful for remissions enough to be able to do it again, ... at that time, with almost as much freedom and skill as I remembered having in pre-RA days.

Weeks went by; Healing was slow. At work, I had become a pro at figuring out ways to type and perform other tasks, sometimes without the use of all 10 fingers but at the piano, the brace and the hurt finger were constantly in the way. Without the brace, the finger could not stand up to the pressure of pushing down a key, yet. As part of a Stake calling, I visited a Relief Society gathering in one of the wards. The Sunday meeting was about to start but no one had appeared to take care of the music so, somewhat out of habit, I found myself walking to the piano bench. The hymn was sufficient for our needs that day though I ended up playing but a melody plus a few notes with what fingers I had working. The additional notes and tones introduced had never before been associated with that particular piece of music, as the finger brace clicked along for the ride over the keys.

The Oakland Temple was re-opening after a period of closure for cleaning and repair. President Pappa--the Oakland Temple President--and his wife were to be featured speakers at a special fireside. I'd been working closely before the accident, with my Stake Presidency--Wayne Abbott, Don Johnson, Bruce Smith--and High Councilmen, preparing music and special numbers for this meeting. As we met the final time, they were pleased with my preparations but President Abbott said, "Of course, you've asked someone else to fill in for you on the organ."

"Actually, I thought I'd like to try to do it, myself." What was I thinking! The organ was a whole different process, requiring more finger dexterity and strength to depress and "crawl" over the keys. The organ has no sustaining pedal and sour notes stand out like a ... 'sore finger'.

As a personal friend,Wayne had always preceded his words of advice to me with, "You know I would never be one to tell you what to do, but...". This time, he didn't utter a word, in response. He knew there were others who could have taken my spot on that bench for this occasion. But President Abbott just smiled, then nodded. He knew how much I wanted to be the one at the organ for this special meeting and trusted me to figure it out. Me at the organ? It was not about performance. In my mind, it was always about reverence, prayer and an expression of spirit and heart, a testimony of sorts.

The meeting was tender. The Pappas were engaging, inviting and well received. I played that evening without a brace and, without pain or error. The meeting ended but the chapel was still humming with quiet conversation among small clusters of folks not quite ready to leave this peaceful refuge. As I gathered my music, Sister Pappa approached me. "Something new is being added with the re-opening of this temple," she said. "We'll have organ music played in the chapel and I'd like you to audition for that calling. But I must ask, how would you get there with any regularity, considering the distance?" "I don't know," was my reply. "Surely, there must be a way."

Driving to California was something I'd not done in a long time. The car I was driving at that time was a big, old, hand-me-down, bomber-of-a-station wagon that rarely, if ever, had brakes and tire-tread at the same time. My home-teacher, Allen Ross, had a friend, Rick Gardner, whose father owned a sell-it-yourself car lot. Rick managed the lot and was interested in selling his own car, an 80-something Honda hatchback with only 78,000 mostly open-road miles on it. I test-drove the car, the bank loan business was taken care of electronically from that lot office, so in very little time and one stress-free shopping stop, I had bought a car, the first on my own. The car came in right on the button, age-wise to qualify for a 3-year loan. Just what I had to have! Monthly payments were a dollar less than what my budget could bear! Divine intervention, making trips over the hill a possibility for me? You could say that!  A funny side-line of this sale was that several years before, I had dated Rick's dad, my first date in more than 20 years!

One of my dear high council friends, Don Whittaker, expressed great concern about me making this trip--four hours one way--alone. He wasn't the only one! Perhaps to ease his own mind, he and his wife, Virginia, invited me to their home one evening, laid out a large map and proceeded to draw out the best route for me to take, marking landmarks I should watch far and best ways to navigate California freeways. It was a sweet gesture.

So everything had gone according to schedule, the day I was to appear for my audition. I'd practiced and felt prepared. There was a sense of freedom I'd not had in a long time, out there on the open road, cruising along. I'd been a passenger many times traveling to Oakland and was familiar with the immediate landscape that surrounds the Temple, and was enjoying it, thoroughly. But suddenly, towering vegetation became golden rolling hills. I'd missed my exit! Well, it was late summer. Lush foliage had grown over the sign, totally obscuring it. Thank heavens for that map. I could see where I was and where I wanted to be. A-hah! Lincoln Avenue. That looked as though it would take me right to the front door of the temple so I began zig-zaging along city streets, making my way to Lincoln, not realizing at first that I was driving through parts of Oakland a woman alone--with a driver's-side door that would not lock from the inside--should not be in. This was made perfectly clear to me at one of the first stop lights as a drunk or druggie fell to the sidewalk, just missing my car. Another staggered across, in front of me, waving his arms, pointing his finger at no one in particular, and others sat or laid against store fronts. I prayed that no one would try to open my door. I prayed that my new car would carry me out of danger. I prayed for green lights for the rest of my journey.

When I reached the temple, I was ushered into the chapel with enough time to listen to a few auditions before my time came. "Oh my, what on earth am I doing here? These are Real, trained Organists." I was not. I'd never had a formal organ lesson in my life unless you count the times my first piano teacher took me to play hymns on the organ at her church, as a part of my piano lessons when I was six or seven. By the time I was 12, I was being asked to play the organ in Weston Ward. In the church, volunteers all, we are asked to do a lot of things we've had no formal training in. Sitting there, listening to others play in the Temple chapel that day, I felt I was totally in over my head, so to speak.  Then it was my turn. In all my years of performance, aside from a few nervous butterflies occasionally, I had not experienced stage fright. This was not a simple, butterfly moment. One look at the register of this unfamiliar organ, and I knew I was in trouble.

"You can have a few moments to set up or you can use the pre-sets", the temple matron said. I glanced at the panel of professional and papered musicians seated in the front row prepared to decide my fate and chose a pre-set at random. What else could I do? I recognized none of the set-ups and stops of this organ. I depressed a key just enough to serve as a bit of a sound check while trying to look like I knew what I was doing. "If they didn't suspect it before, the judges know now that I'm an impostor," I thought. I got the nod to go ahead. I was hoping I had chosen the best set-up for this occasion, but with the first chord, I heard that I had not. The sound was nothing like what I was use to on my Stake or Ward instruments so all my preparation and planning for dynamics or showcasing the melody line went right out the window.

Participants had been given the same three pieces of music, in advance, to arrange in any way they thought was appropriate for the temple. When I had finished, I didn't jump from the bench and run down the aisle. Instead, I sat, waiting to be excused, hands folded in my lap, trying to keep my composure. It seemed a long time to me, before the temple matron spoke, thanking me for coming such a distance and for my audition. "We hear a lot from local denominations about being 'spirit filled'. Sister South, you are spirit-filled. We can hear and feel it, as you play. Please, come and play the organ at the temple."

A schedule was worked out before I left that very day. I would begin at 8:00 AM and play for three hours without a break, on Saturdays, once a month. I was to be set apart for that calling on the day of my first assignment. Serving almost four years in this much beloved calling, I missed only two sessions, once because of stomach flu and again, when blizzard conditions closed the mountain before I could get out of the valley.

Meeting the challenges of a long distance commute, overcoming daily struggles of RA, remaining worthy of a temple recommend...this was a treasured and blessed time in my life. I'd like to share more of the experience in subsequent postings. Until then...