Dean & Simone Pt 7
Preston walked slowly through the hospital, needing a break from seeing his sister look so lifeless, his toes finally dry from being painted, but stopped in the empty lobby, used during business hours. The tall, live fir gave the room an ambient glow of white lights and poinsettia blooms sprinkled throughout the majestic branches while wide gold ribbon flowed through like a satiny river.
A grand piano sat, majestic, a mighty musical warrior, alone in the amber light of a closed lobby. His sister, and arguably one of his closest friends, had not gained consciousness in seventy-two hours. He didn’t know how to respond. Words couldn’t capture and validate his feelings.
But music could give voice to the grief and worry he hadn’t felt since his mom’s cancer. He looked around and seeing no one, headed for the piano, stepping over the velvet ropes that sectioned it off. Ignoring the sign that said “please do not play on piano,” he sat on the bench and studied the keys. He doubted anyone would say anything if he did. Afterall, the small sign next to the “please do not play” displayed his picture and the note “Grand piano proudly loaned to our hospital by Preston Watson.”
It had been bequeathed to him from his piano and harp teacher when she passed. There were no good storage options at the farm, so his dad arranged for it to be on loan to the hospital. He played several times a year at the hospital, but always through proper channels. He didn’t care that he hadn't gone through those channels. Tonight, he needed the support that the elegant, strong piano offered, a support he couldn’t find anywhere else. Hovering his fingers over the ivory keys, he closed his eyes and let them give his heart words.
The first notes sprinkled up, like a reverse rain, before gaining confidence and power. His voice opened up and the words came out with the song, the prayer that kept him going when they
all had to fight cancer, knowing now, they all had to fight Simone’s traumatic brain injury. This was his battlefield and he commanded it well, but outside of those velvet ropes, he felt inadequate, unsure and simply afraid. “Hold me Jesus, cause I’m shaking like a leaf. You have been king of my glory, won’t you be my prince of peace?” his tenor voice gained strength as the words reached higher, storming the halls and the emergency room waiting area.
He didn’t care, needing to bring his pleas to his heavenly Abba, desperate to do something. The prayer, the pleading, went into the second verse and the chorus, his eyes still closed. The hospital no longer held him in its sanitized prison, he felt free and floating even in his desperation. His tears burned his cheeks, but didn’t dampen his voice. He hadn’t cried while playing since he performed at his piano teacher’s funeral.
“And I've beat my head against so many walls. Now I'm falling down I'm falling on my knees. . .”
His tears came faster, hotter and he missed a note, but he recovered. “Hold me Jesus, cause I’m shaking. . .
A hand on his back preceded the feeling of someone sitting next to him as the last notes faded, a sob, louder and more passionate than the lyrics came out, choking him and the arms pulled him in tight, letting him cry. Sandalwood and orange broke through his nostrils and as the wave of emotion receded he opened his eyes.
He recognized the plaid of Rax’s shirt and sat up, wiping his nose with the proffered tissue.
“You’re not Jesus.”
“I never claimed to be. You have an audience.”
Preston looked up and saw people in scrubs, some in regular clothes watching in the door. He gave them a weak smile, unsure of what to say, if anything to them. Someone clapped and the clapping spread through them. One burly, hairy man gave a holler. The hospital heard him and he hoped Jesus had heard him, too.
“Are there any changes?”
Rax’s face looked sad and he shook his head. “No. But, with prayers like that, something has to happen soon.”
“I feel so helpless, Rax,” he said.
“We all do. Dean is almost sick with worry. He isn’t eating. You’re trying to be strong for everyone.”
“I can’t stand seeing mom and dad this worried. I don’t know how to do anything, except sing.”
He sounded bitter, but Rax rubbed his back. “Then sing. Don’t act like it’s nothing. Prez, your mad music skills bless and help so many. You put all these complex feelings into these beautiful melodies. God hears you. He knows your heart.”
“Hold Me Jesus” written by Rich Mullins. All credit goes to Jesus Christ, God, and Rich Mullins. Not using it to make any money, just to pay tribute to one of the best musicians to grace our planet.