I am not entirely certain where the illustration came from originally, but I remember the time I first heard it.
My brother, five years older than me, and my dad were seated at the kitchen table, watching snow fall just outside the window, blanketing the fields in a thin white powder as it reflected the moonlight. The year was no later than 2016, and the call had already come in that we would not have school the next day due to the rare Virginia weather.
My sister was already asleep in our shared bedroom upstairs, so it left me in the living room, back to the hot fireplace, listening to the conversation taking place in the kitchen. These nights were some of my favorites- when no one noticed how late it was and I could be a fly on the wall of conversations I wanted to understand, but could not add to yet. My brother and dad were always highly intellectual, discussing deep topics whenever they both had the chance to sit down and talk, and I could not wait for the day that I might be able to contribute to those conversations.
I looked up to my brother, and this night was no different, as he shared with our father about a sermon he listened to recently. And what he described that night has stuck with me a decade later.
Think of a child playing an instrument. Chances are, the sound is unpleasant for quite a while before it becomes listenable. I recall taking piano lessons when I was four years old and, while I wasn't horrible at it for my age, I was still a four-year-old playing the piano. How good can it really get?
Still, I vividly remember my first "recital." I sat up straight at the bench, a pink sweater over a floral dress, and my much redder hair in a perfect bun. I may have even had a little blush and lip gloss on, which made me feel like a princess in the moment. The song I played couldn't have been longer than 30 seconds, and it was far from a real piece, but as I looked up into the crowd, I watched my family clap and smile, beaming with pride.
That winter night back in 2016 was the night my brother had described God's love and our action this way.
God does not treasure us because of what we can offer Him. He is not impressed or shocked by our human skills. The God of the universe has surely heard His angels sing songs much more beautiful than I can offer. There are certainly more gifted speakers, writers, athletes, and servants. God has had all of history to watch His creations, and there is nothing new we can sit at His feet-aside from ourselves.
He does not want us for what we can offer, but for who we are, being His. Consider the child playing the grand piano. The song is a mess of keys and poor rhythm, but the father values it nonetheless, because that is his child, presenting a song just for his father. What we bring to our Heavenly Father, then, is far from perfection, but He delights in it anyway.
The other parents at the recital probably had no care to listen to four-year-old Evie play her 30-second song, but mine did. Why? Because they loved me deeply, in a way that may have made my skill, or lack thereof, sweet to their ears. Not the song, but the child playing it.
I think of this now as I seek motion in life. It can feel daunting to really plan for the next chapters of life, as I want to make every choice perfectly. What if I am underqualified for this position? What if my health does not improve? How can I serve God perfectly in this situation?
The truth is that, while yes, our choices matter, our Father is not looking for perfection. He is not expecting it. He is not holding us up to a chart and comparing our talents or skills to others. Rather, He delights in our song when we play for Him simply because we are His.
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