I must have been seven or eight when the dream was born ... and almost killed on the spot. Perhaps it was after I taught myself to play "Silent Night" on my aunt's organ. I thrilled to hear my fingers producing music and to figure out the notes by ear. That awakened a longing to learn more. As my mother folded laundry one day, I asked, "Mom, can I take piano lessons?"

            "And where do you think we could put a piano in this house?" she answered crossly. 

            I never asked again. Not even at age twelve when we moved into a house ample enough for a piano. In fact, my mother bought an organ, but it was the pure lilting tone of a piano that my fingers itched to produce.

            My family was not musical, despite the organ, which my mother played only sporadically. We never owned a stereo or even a cassette player. I rarely heard music and never learned anything about good music, though I longed for that. School provided little background, too. It consisted of Mr. Kaine standing at the front of the room with his pitch pipe, leading the singing of "Edelweiss" and "To Dream the impossible Dream." 

            But one magical moment in sixth grade stands out. Watching a film explaining how a particular symphony worked, I was transfixed by the language of music, a language that seemed to be the wordless language of the soul spoken through a wonderful array of instruments.

            My dream of learning to play the piano never died. My fingers still twitch whenever I hear someone play. I attend concerts occasionally and a church in which there is a piano, not an organ. Tears come to my eyes when I hear our accomplished pianists play. I have been somewhat ashamed that at my age I didn't know anything about music. 

            Last year I began working through The Artist's Way (Tarcher Putnam, 1992) by Julia Cameron and Mark Bryant. This book is described as "a course in discovering and recovering your creative self." What emerged as I studied shocked me. The exercises opened a deep grief over music. I recalled the time when I was singing lustily as a youngster and my dad said I was like him--tone deaf. I believed him then. Now I question that. Can I be tone deaf when music moves me deeply and my fingers ache to move over a keyboard? My dream began to gather energy as I got in touch with my childhood feelings about music. But we live in a small house; where would we fit a piano? How could we ever afford one?

            I am learning that certain longings are gifts from a God who loves to delight his children! My piano dream turned out to be one of those. God decided to brush aside all the obstacles shortly before my fortieth birthday. My husband came home one day and said, "Someone wants to give us a piano." 

            I stared at him. "You're kidding. Just give us a piano?" (I can count on my fingers the times anyone has given me something valuable.)

            "Yes. They'd even pay to move it."

            I looked around our living room and my heart sank. I echoed my mothers words, "Where would we put a piano?" But as soon as I heard myself, I knew I would find a way. "Of course!" I told Gene. Then I rearranged furniture, my mother's words ringing in my ear. 

            The day the piano arrived, I went on errands so I wouldn't be in the way. At the library I found a video that teaches the essentials of piano and felt God smiling. When I got home, there it was! Sitting down on the bench, I plunked away, not knowing the first thing about what to do. Later I studied the video. Within two days I knew the notes on the keyboard and was already practicing scales.

            My fingers move over the keyboard now as if they have found their home. It's a thrill when I recognize the wrong note and can find the right one. Learning to play one of my favorite hymns, "God, All Nature Sings Thy Glory" to the tune of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" is pure joy! A piece of my soul, missing for all these years, has fallen into place. 

            Long ago God placed a dream in my heart that I couldn't explain. He kept the dream alive in spite of my circumstances, and at the right time fulfilled it through the generosity of Christian people. I am playing the piano at age forty--when I least expected that to happen. 

            This longing fulfilled is like a tree of life for me, bearing fruits of joy. I'm learning at last the language of the soul. At the piano I find release in learning new songs, making up my own, practicing scales, or goofing around with my children as they dance. It's probably the only thing in my life that is sheer fun.

            The kind of dreams that express a longing of the soul are gifts from God. Too often they're stifled by ourselves or by others. But God does not stifle. He creates life-bearing trees. He produces fruits of joy. 

            Perhaps there is a dream still whispering to you from long ago. Listen to it. Believe that God himself planted that seed. Ask him to fulfill it. Some day, some way, you too will bask in the shade of a fruitful tree.