“Thus far Thine arm has led us on,
This far we make Thy mercy known;
And while we tread this desert land,
New mercies shall new songs demand.”
–J. L. Wince
I hunched forward in the cold metal chair, face in my hands, trying to silence the sobs that shook my body. I was vaguely aware of the pastor approaching me, and I struggled to form words that would express the profound loss I felt. I wondered if he could understand.
Only months earlier, at the close of my freshman year of college, I had mustered up the courage to audition for advanced lessons with a prestigious violin teacher in the area. The summer of work in Alaska had flown by as I anticipated returning to study and pursuing my dream, a career in violin.
Music had always been my soul language. I began violin at age seven and taught myself piano along the way. Singing came naturally as well, and my parents did all they could to encourage my interest in the arts. I remember clinging to the back of an ancient three-wheeler as we bumped along paths too muddy and rutted to be navigable by car. Alaskan weather wasn’t going to interfere with music lessons.
By high school, I was mostly self-taught, having advanced beyond local teachers. I listened to recordings of my favorite violinists and tried to mimic their technique. Once a Russian virtuoso stopped by our little town, heard me play, and invited me to study at his conservatory. Of course, my parents were not going to let their 14 year old move to a foreign country, but the affirmation itself was motivating. I left for the Midwest at 17, and by the next year, all the pieces seemed to be falling into place. I wasn’t Paganini, but doors were opening, and my violin career was within reach.
At first, I dismissed the numbness in my left hand. I knew a lot of musicians dealt with similar symptoms from tension and carpal tunnel syndrome. As the numbness and coordination loss became pronounced and spread to my leg, I became more concerned. Within weeks, I could not even place my fingers on the correct violin string or button my own sleeve. I sat in a musty dorm room 4000 miles from home and begged God to do something. Over the next several months, medical tests suggested that I might have Multiple Sclerosis. I remember the pain of calling my new violin teacher and explaining that I had to quit. His disappointment made mine all the worse. Every day, I would wake up half expecting my fingers to work again. Slowly, the devastating reality set in—this condition was permanent, and my dream was slipping away.
Something broke inside me that Sunday. I grieved from my very core in a way that only an artist could understand. I believe it was one of the most crucial moments of my life. God had given, and He had taken away, and I had a choice to make.
My first songs were born out of this crisis. There was an innocence and purity in them—raw as they were. They weren’t written for any market or audience other than God.
After a year, I began to heal from my MS attack and very slowly regained some coordination. It was a long shot from where I had been, but it was better than nothing. The song-writing attempts continued, and at a student event one evening, I sang an original song to an audience for the first time. That experience led to more opportunities, and as I approached graduation, a new dream was forming. Over the last two years of college, my coordination had returned to the point where I was playing violin regularly again. I knew “violinist” was not a realistic career path, but every time I picked up the instrument and played, I was overcome with joy. I finished my music degree and was called two weeks later to my first ministry position. It wasn’t long before the new context brought its own set of ambitions.
When MS changed my trajectory, I began learning a foundational lesson: Laying my aspirations before God means dying to them completely. The path of an artist can be extremely painful, a constant roller coaster of hope and disappointment. The goal seems abundantly clear, but the path to get there is obscure. It feels like taxiing a beautiful airplane around a runway, feeling the power and the potential, yet never having clearance to take off. Each affirmation and promise is a mirage that evaporates as I draw nearer. The joy of my art gives way to a sense of frantic desperation and urgency, as I realize the results are out of my control. Yes, this is out of my control, but in that difficult truth, I find the keys to freedom.
Failure isn’t about whether or not I achieve my goals. Failure is when I’m so obsessed with my own ambitions that I miss what God has put in front of me today. The only way to remain healthy as an artist is to place my gifts before my Creator and set out to accomplish what He sets before me each day—to stop promoting myself and promote Him—to stop talking and listen—to serve people instead of asking myself how they can serve my agenda. When I choose to live this way, I can put my head on my pillow at night and say, “It’s enough.” Isn’t that what all the fuss is about anyway? We want to succeed—to hold our heads up like Christ did on the cross and say “It is finished!” and feel ok about it.
I’ve been in full-time worship ministry for nine years now. I’ve lived with the ups and downs of Multiple Sclerosis for thirteen. I pursue music, songwriting, and recording with the same passion I had at the beginning, but my goals are changing. I’m learning to let God keep the books. I wage a continual battle with my expectations and my pride, but every day, I feel a little better about the outcome. I am incredibly blessed. I’m called to be where I am. I’m called to love God. I’m called to serve my family and give them the care and attention they deserve. I’m called to love my neighbor, and I’m called to make good art. That’s all—and that’s enough.
