Many years ago, I was part of a very select choir with a renowned director. It was an honor and a privilege to be a part of this group of incredibly talented musicians, and when we went on a month long tour, the director's final tour, it was the experience of a lifetime. Because it was his farewell to the many supporters of his long and storied career, it was especially important to bring everything we had each evening to give the most skilled performance we possibly could. Our performance was a tribute to him, as well as a reflection of his directorship, and we wanted to do his stellar career justice.
The first couple performances were everything that could be hoped for, and we were feeling good about ourselves. Too good, as it turned out. Because on night number three, everything fell apart. The first song was bad, the second song was worse, and by the time we got to the third piece, it was a lost cause. The whole thing was a complete disaster.
There were mitigating circumstances, if the director had cared to excuse our poor effort. It was bitterly cold, and we had arrived in the middle of a blizzard. There were, maybe, 20 people in the auditorium, which had sold out all 500 or whatever seats, so that was disappointing. We were tired after a long bus ride, and two nights on the road already, with a workshop as well as two strong performances under our belt.
But the director chose to be a teacher in that moment, instead of The Renowned Director, and give us a life lesson that I, for one, have never forgotten.
He stopped us mid-song, which was confusing, to say the least, and not a good omen for us. He turned to the audience, and asked them to excuse us for moment, because he needed to speak to us. At that point, genuine fear set in, because you never quite knew what he was going to do. Then he turned to us, and with quiet fury, he uttered some words that have changed my perspective on performance for the rest of my life.
He pointed out that, to the people in the audience, it made no difference whatsoever that we had done a great job the night before, because they were not there last night, they were here tonight. It did not matter how many people showed up, because if only one person showed up, they still deserved our best effort because they DID show up. To top that off, the fact that they cared enough to show up in a blizzard should have inspired us to do even better, not to slack off and do worse. He was embarrassed for us, and made sure we were ashamed of ourselves, as well. It was a verbal shellacking I will never forget.
He ended his diatribe by hissing at us that we had better pull ourselves together and give a performance worthy of the people sitting there, or each one of us would be answering to him personally. Since we knew he would not hesitate to call us out in front of the group, I guarantee you he got the attention of each and every one of us, and pulled us up short.
Then he turned to the audience again, apologized on our behalf for the poor effort, told them we would be starting over and we would be doing our best work this time, and we restarted the concert. That was one of the most spine tingling performances I have ever been involved in. It was inspired. It was perfection. It was the ultimate musical feast. It was the performance we were supposed to give in the first place, if only we had cared enough to do so. And the audience responded with applause and a standing ovation that was heartfelt, if not entirely deserved. Grace in action.
There were many life lessons for me that night which I have taken with me on my life journey. It does not matter how well I lived yesterday, because today is a new day, and I need to bring everything I have to the table every single day. Coasting through life is not enough. God has given me this day, and I owe it to him, and to me, to be the best me I can be, each and every day.
But, perhaps even more importantly, when I fail, as I surely will, there is always an opportunity to stop, apologize for my failure, start over, and get it right. What a gift, to know there is always another opportunity.
To the best of my recollection, he never again mentioned that restarted concert. We gave 36 performances in 29 days, and finished in Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis with the second best concert of that tour. But the one that I remember best is the one in Montana with 20 eager people waiting to hear the performance of a lifetime. I am forever grateful we gave them what they came for, and what they were due. And I am even more grateful for the life lessons I received that night.
Grace sometimes comes quietly. Sometimes it comes at the end of a tongue lashing. The lessons learned were worth every uncomfortable second, and I am grateful.
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