A Ready Answer

I have no idea what got into me that day. I just thought it would be something fun to do, and I thought I could get away with it. I was in the seventh grade, and I was slated to have a one-hour piano lesson after school. My teacher, Mrs. Parmele, came out to her daughter’s house in the suburbs of Seattle three days a week to give lessons. The other two days she was at her studio in downtown Seattle. I had been taking lessons from her for six years, and we got along quite well, even though she was aware of my dislike for recitals. We lived about ten minutes from her daughter’s house, so my mother would pick me up after school, drop me off for the lesson, and then return at the end to pick me up. There was always another student waiting for a lesson when I finished, so I was usually able to get into the car without communication between Mom and Mrs. Parmele.

My classroom teacher that year was probably the best teacher I had prior to going to college. Mr. Van Zee (his Dutch parents had come to the US after the First World War) had a way with kids just entering their teens, and he was able to get even the most reluctant student to put forth an effort to learn. Those who did their lessons well and finished early were allowed to work on personal extra-credit projects related to our lessons during class.

Somehow, he left me alone all afternoon that day. And did I make use of my time! First of all, I thought up every question I could think of that Mrs. Parmele might ask me. I moved on to various comments she might make. For each of these, I prepared a hand-written answer/response of my own. I can only imagine that Mr. Van Zee didn’t notice what I was doing. Maybe he didn’t see me (he had lost his left eye to an errant BB from his older brother’s gun at age 14). Anyway, by the time school was out, I had my shirt pocket stuffed with slips of paper to be pulled out as necessary. The first one to be handed to Mrs. Parmele stated that I had a bad case of laryngitis, and could not talk.

The lesson actually went quite well. The next recital was months away, and I was playing mostly music that I really liked. But the occasional question or comment did come my way, to be followed by a pause as I went through my pocket looking for an appropriate slip of paper. She would read it, and we’d move on. Finally the end of the hour came; I picked up my music and headed for the car. I had pulled it off! Unfortunately, Mrs. Parmele decided to come out to the car to make sure my mother took me to the doctor for my laryngitis. Shortly thereafter I was encouraged to give her a profuse apology. Mom didn’t take to my prank very well.

Down through the years, my mother has frequently revisited this incident, both with my wife and, in their turn, my children (most recently during the past Thanksgiving break). I, too, have thought back on it a number of times, especially as I’ve gotten to know the Lord and the scriptures better. How diligent I had been in working on useless slips of paper that day. Since then, have I been as diligent in preparing to give answers to others as they ask about the hope I’ve learned about and learned to love? Do I still let Satan put things in my path that I’m quite willing to pick up and get distracted by? I am still learning and I hope that I never let him “give’ me laryngitis when the opportunity comes to let others know about our wonderful Savior.

“But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts, and always be ready to give a defense to everyone who asks you a reason for the hope that is in you with meekness and fear.” 1 Peter 3:15

Have a blessed day!

Dr. G