My childhood and adolescence were a joyous outpouring of energy, a ceaseless quest forexpression, skill, and experience. School was only a background to the supreme delight oflessons in music, dance, and dramatics, and the thrill of sojourns in the country, theaters,concerts. And books, big Braille books that came with me on streetcars, to the table, and tobed.
Then one night at a high school dance, a remark, not intended for my ears, stabbed myyouthful bliss: "That girl, what a pity she is blind." Blind! That ugly word that implied everythingdark, blank, rigid, and helpless. Quickly I turned and called out, Please don't feel sorry for me,I'm having lots of fun. But the fun was not to last.
With the advent of college, I was brought to grips with the problem of earning a living. Part-time teaching of piano and harmony and, upon graduation, occasional concerts and lectures,proved only partial sources of livelihood. In terms of time and effort involved, the financialremuneration was disheartening.
This induced within me searing self-doubt and dark moods of despondency. Adding to mydismal sense of inadequacy was the repeated experience of seeing my sisters and friends gooff to exciting dates. How grateful I was for my piano, where—through Chopin, Brahms, andBeethoven—I could mingle my longing and seething energy with theirs. And where I coulddissolve my frustration in the beauty and grandeur of their conceptions.
Then one day, I met a girl, a wonderful girl, an army nurse, whose faith and stability were tochange my whole life. As our acquaintance ripened into friendship, she discerned, behind ashell of gaiety, my recurring plateaus of depression. She said, “Stop knocking on closeddoors. Keep up your beautiful music. I know your opportunity will come. You’re trying toohard. Why don’t you relax, and have you ever tried praying?”
The idea was strange to me. It sounded too simple. Somehow, I had always operated on thepremise that, if you wanted something in this world, you had to go out and get it for yourself.Yet, sincerity and hard work had yielded only meager returns, and I was willing to tryanything. Experimentally, self-consciously, I cultivated the daily practice of prayer. I said:God, show me the purpose for which You sent me to this world. Help me to be of use to myselfand to humanity.
In the years to follow, the answers began to arrive, clear and satisfying beyond my mostoptimistic anticipation. One of the answers was Enchanted Hills, where my nurse friend and Ihave the privilege of seeing blind children come alive in God’s out-of-doors.
Others are the never-ending sources of pleasure and comfort I have found in friendship, ingreat music, and, most important of all, in my growing belief that as I attune my life to divinerevelation, I draw closer to God and, through Him, to immortality.