"God has you. Pray about it. Because I'm pretty sure that God did not say, 'Okay, you're done raising your kids, now you can rest on your laurels and do nothing with the rest of your life.' You’re done with that portion of your life. See what God has for you next, and shine."
Noah rolled his eyes at Mark's cheesy words, but he understood exactly what Mark was saying, and Mark was right.
Chapter 11
That afternoon, Noah left the shop for a little while after lunch so he could deliver the Secret Saint items to Mr. Peterson.
"You said this was from who?" Mr. Peterson said, leaning on his cane at the front door, looking at the bag of items that Noah carried in each hand.
"The Secret Saint. He's an anonymous person who donates to folks in town around Christmas time. You've heard of him."
"I sure have. But I don't understand how he knew that my children were coming in to eat, and I didn't have a lot of money to spend on groceries. How did that happen?"
Noah shrugged, waiting patiently until Mr. Peterson had rolled things over in his mind long enough, and then realized he was standing in the doorway.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Come on in."
"Thanks," Noah said, walking into the house. The living room was covered in photos of Mr. Peterson's late wife, who used to be the pianist at the church.
Maybe Mr. Peterson noticed Noah looking at the photos. "It sureupset me when I heard that we weren't going to have the community Christmas concert this year. My wife loved them so much, even the concerts that were a monthly thing there for a while back in the day. People gathered in the square, and I remember seeing it filled with people standing shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the music on the stage. My wife lived for those things. She picked the most popular music, and there was always some kind of spirit behind her playing, whatever it is that makes people sit up and listen and want more."
"I remember. She was really good, and I loved sitting in the yard. My parents would always do a picnic in the summer months. It was something we would look forward to for weeks prior."
"Me too. It's too bad they went the way things go. I guess that happens. Progress and change, they say. I don't know that I call it progress as much as I call it regress."
Noah had set the bags on the kitchen table and got the cold things out so he could set them in the refrigerator.
"People carry their music around with them on their devices now," Noah said, knowing that Mr. Peterson probably had an opinion about that. But that was why live concerts weren't really a thing anymore. That, and there weren't a whole lot of people who were learning how to play instruments anymore either. After all, why did one need to do that when, with a touch of a button, a person could have any instrument they wanted playing in their ear.
"That's sad. There's just something about a live concert that brings the community together. It gives everyone something to look forward to and a reason to gather together and talk to each other. We don't do that anymore."
Noah nodded, glad that they had brought the groceries, since Mr. Peterson's refrigerator was completely empty, other than a jug of milk that looked like it might have expired the week prior.
"It used to be that people loved doing those kinds of things. Anymore, all we do is go to sports games and watch people chasing a ball around on a field. Where's the class in that? Itdoesn't appeal to our higher side, it doesn't lift our spirits and bring glory to God. It's just a bunch of men grunting around."
Noah might not have agreed completely with Mr. Peterson, but the man was entitled to his opinion. And he was right about the arts being good for people and elevating them. Music did that in a way that he couldn't really explain.
Still, as he left Mr. Peterson's house and walked slowly back to his store, which he hadn't bothered to close—he'd just put a sign on the counter that said "Will be back in ten minutes"—he thought about how right Mr. Peterson was, and how... Maybe he could create something even better than what they used to do. Then it would be progress.
Chapter 12
Noah sat at his piano, the last piano student gone for the night. It was late, and he should go upstairs to bed. When his siblings were home, he'd kept a strict "no one up after midnight on a school night" schedule. But now that they were gone, he found himself wandering the house in the evening, or, more likely, doing what he was doing now—sitting at the piano, allowing the melody and the harmonies in his head to dance around, singing, playing, and capturing it all on paper.
There were programs that allowed a person to compose based on what they played on the piano. The computer would transpose and put the notes that were played on a staff. But Noah preferred to compose the old-fashioned way. It was in his head, teased out by his fingers, and then written down and fleshed out on paper.
He hummed the bar, then hit a few piano keys, adding a little embellishment, before going back and changing it a bit.
Then, another voice chimed in. They teased back and forth, like a conversation, a flirty one.
It went on like that for a long time, as he took the music down, completely in the zone. By the time he was done, he realized he hadbeen writing music for a violin and piano when he had been intending to write a piano composition.
He looked at the melody carried by the violin, and then picked up by the piano while the violin added depth and harmony.
He'd never tried to write a duet like this before. He had written some compositions for the violin to play with piano accompaniment, and even more compositions for piano itself, since that was the more popular thing if he were trying to sell it, but this... This was something completely different.
He looked over the music, hearing it in his head, humming along a bit, and felt satisfied.
Then a thought came to him as he closed up for the night.
