The sound of music
I found the sermon that was used in your funeral today. I could not stop the tears from flooding through my face. Though there was sadness, it was mixed with gratefulness for being able to remember both the good and the bad. And I sensed a calm and peace in the midst of sadness over losing you.
And then I remembered: YOUR MUSIC.
You were always better at music than me. You always learned so much faster. But I remember I used to say you were too technical. You played with no heart. I remember mom commenting you rushed through pieces and we had to constantly remind you to slow down.
But then I remembered you playing the piano in the hospital. I remembered looking for cassettes with Christian music for you to listen to when no one was with you in your room. Come to think of it -- you had music around you for those 5 months.
You played the piano whenever you had the energy to get out of bed and walk towards the common room on your floor at Foothills Hospital. You loved to play. And I remember...you no longer played because you had to, or because mom forced you to. You didn't play because you needed to pass an exam, or because you needed to gain a skill. You played because you wanted to. You seemed to have understood something most of us still don't get: you enjoyed the sound of music. Because it was healing. Because it made people smile. Because it did something in you that all the drugs and treatments, and visits could not do. Do I want to even venture to say it was one of the languages you discovered God and you had in common?
Even in the midst of pain and suffering, you played...for as long as you were able to. Now I remember. You would cause people to pause and sit and just simply look and listen. As family members passed by they would stop and listen and smile. As nurses rushed from one room to another, you would cause them to stop and take a deep breath and listen to the sound of music.
The piano the ward had was an old brown upright piano. Nothing fancy. I don't even know if anyone else ever used it. But in the weeks you were there, you made sure the piano was used for a purpose. For those short weeks you minister to people through music. Perhaps you even gave comfort to those other cancer patients bed-ridden and unable to come out. I will never know.
You even took the time to make sure you give me a gift. I remember now. On one of those 'good days', you and I were in the lounge and you told me you had finally mastered "Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin". You had been practising all this time in the hopes to master it and play it for me. I remember now. You told me to sit beside the machines you were hooked to and enjoy it. "Just in case I don't get to play in your actual wedding" - you told me. It was wonderful. Beautiful. At that moment, I was not the one ministering to your needs. You were ministering me and leaving me a gift. You wanted me to remember.
This is part of Pastor Mat Kung's sermon on your funeral day:
"....I want to end with music because that is how Andy ended his life with us. A little over 3 weeks ago, on Sunday May 15th, I visited Andy at Foothills before entering the ICU. That day, he was well enough to get up and walk to the lounge to play the piano. Have you ever heard him play? I sat back and enjoyed the moment. Oh yes, perhaps you can find others with more musical skill, but playing in his condition was miraculous. It was indeed a rare moment. As a pastor I was not ministering to Andy but he was ministering to me. It was his silent testimony to all of us. In the midst of life's most intense struggle, a struggle that you and I would fear and avoid at all cost, there was music. it was not just any music. If you had a chance to hear, you would know it was an expression of what was in Andy's heart to those that were willing to listen. The music was peaceful, serene, grateful, hopeful. Andy communicated peace because he believed Jesus Christ as his Saviour. He had peace and hope in his God. He sang songs to Him and to us through the piano. If you think clearly, it was a song that Andy had been singing to us for the past 5 months. Sometimes, the music was sad because Andy was physically too weak and suffering from it. Sometimes, the music had strength and was full of joy and hope. From time to time you would see him smile Yes, smile in the face of unequal led suffering. Many times the music was simply beautiful. Andy was special not because he was our friend, but because he was chosen by God to give you and me a most precious message. Andy did not just deliver the message, he was the message for the past 5 months. Nothing can replace this. This is wonderful. This is holy..."
Thank you Andy for taking the time to leave us this gift. To remember to pause, to listen, to play and to give and to look beyond what we are all going through.
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