by Myrna Tetz           

Some years ago, in some irrational moments, I dreamed about becoming a serious musician. In my car on the way to an appointment, I heard an orchestra on a classical radio station. In my mind’s eye, I could see the members of the orchestra—the violinists moving in rhythm with their bows; the percussionist moving from one timpani to another, then bending her ear close to the instrument to tune it during a pause; the trumpet players adding their clarion call. I wanted to experience the inner excitement of playing an instrument. I also wanted to play in an orchestra for a different kind of excitement—for the group experience, engaging in the rhythm, in the majesty, in the beauty of classical music.         

But how would I accomplish this? For one thing, I’d have to decide on an instrument—a violin maybe. I’d have to dedicate myself completely—take lessons, practice hours every day.         

My husband was born with a musician’s talent, so it occurred to me to ask him for advice (Does he think two hours of practice each day will be enough? What instrument does he think I should purchase?), but then I began to come back to reality, and I realized I already knew what he would say. There might be a term of endearment as he began—to kind of prepare me for what was to follow.         

“Honey, I don’t think your dream will come to very much. You really don’t have any musical talent. I mean, you have none. I mean, you probably won’t even be able to sing in heaven. I mean, it would be a waste of money, time (not only yours), and talent. And besides, I’d have to be away from the house when you practice.”         

After that return to reality, I remembered that when I was in eighth grade, my parents let me take violin lessons. The lessons didn’t last long because I couldn’t tell if the strings were in tune or if my fingers were in the right place at the right time. After that, I joined the chorus in high school because that’s where my friends Nancy, Martha, and Geraldine were. I stayed until the director asked each of us to sing a phrase individually, and after listening, she suggested I drop the class. Then my parents purchased a saxophone for me because with that instrument, you pretty much get the right note when you put down the correct fingers. Of course, someone else had to help me tune the instrument each time I played. No doubt because my father was college president, I was allowed to stay in the band in college. But eventually I caught on that singing congregational hymns in church wasn’t such a good idea. If I sat or stood too close to others, they would deliver sidelong will-she-ever-get-on-tune glances.         

So I have accepted the fact once again that I need to recognize my deficiencies and accept them. I should ask the Lord to help me know and accept what I can do best for Him. The longer I mourn because I can’t sing or play, the less time I will have to accomplish something productive that does fit my abilities.         

Jesus told the story of the talents. One person had five, another two and another one. I’ve noticed it’s the same today. Some have five talents—music, artistry, skiing, a sweet disposition, and good judgment. Others have just two—maybe organizational skills and the ability to work well with people. And some may have just one—perhaps the talent of loving without judgment.         

With the help of family and friends, I realized that it probably would be a good decision for me not to attempt to be a concert violinist. Probably a better method to fulfill my desire to communicate to others the love of God would be to concentrate on a talent or two that I do have.         

But, that wasn’t very easy either. Somehow, it seemed a bit of a pride problem to say, “Oh, I’m a gifted artist.” Or, “I have a talent to be a dynamic preacher.” Or, “l can show you how to repair this car’s brake problems.”         

Maybe this recognition of talents comes by trial and error (as in my inability to become a musician). Or, maybe better stated, by trial and success.         

For instance, I didn’t know that I could write other than for my own gratification. But, when I wrote an article, sent it to a magazine and it was accepted, I thought, “Maybe I can write.” And writing became a passion, a choice—but only by trial and success.         

When I decided on teaching as a career choice and my students wrote notes of appreciation, I decided that teaching and interacting positively with people was another talent—but only by trial and success. Eventually I even figured out that my culinary skills weren’t all that crude, but only after family and friends would assure me that the meal was delicious. Again, trial and success.         

The recognition of talents, and the decision to strive to develop each one to the glory of God, must be the goal. Spending time and energy on something for which I am not suited will not yield a productive outcome. Developing the gifts God has given me is the route both to success and true satisfaction. When I utilize the talents I do have, I can say with Paul, “I can do everything through him who gives me strength” (Phil. 4:11, 13).          

Myrna Tetz is a freelance writer and editor living in Durham, North Carolina. For another view on the same topic, consider 1 Corinthians 12, written by the apostle Paul.