The Metronome & the Rocking Chair: Memoir of a Favorite Teacher
"I think you’ll like the new piano teacher," my mom said as we drove over in the car. "You should see her piano—a baby grand, right there in her living room!" The mere suggestion of any major change, as always, made my fourth-grade stomach churn. I had liked kind, soft-spoken Miss Thiessen. I didn’t want a new teacher, no matter how big her piano was.
And now, as I stood in Mrs. Steeble’s entryway, I was almost certain I was not going to like her. I remember that she was dressed in black, a striking effect with her softly teased silver hair and large brown eyes. Almost pretty, in an older kind of way. But when I walked straight over the mat onto the tile floor, she halted me with, "No, no, dearie, wipe your feet!"
Wipe my feet? I thought. But it’s not even raining outside. Red-faced, I returned and dutifully scraped my shoes across her mat.
My first impression did not improve much in those early months. My sister and I went to the house for our lesson each Tuesday and, rain or shine, were always admonished to wipe our feet on the mat. I remember sitting at the baby grand with butterflies somersaulting around in my stomach. Painstakingly I would play my little pieces, realizing too late that my fingering was all wrong or that I had been counting incorrectly. Mrs. Steeble would sit quietly by until I finished each one. From time to time she would offer a few words of praise. Then she would deal with my mistakes. Accuracy—in every detail—was to her what laughter is to a clown. Sometimes she would get out the dreaded metronome and make me repeat the piece with the incessant tick-tick-tick driving the rhythm. Often I couldn’t keep up with the strict beat, and my heart would plummet each time she said, "Let’s work on that piece again for next week, dearie."
Mrs. Steeble had something she called "party recitals." She invited only her students, not their parents. After everyone played a few of their pieces, she served snacks. My sister thought it sounded like fun, but I was not convinced. When recital day arrived, I could think only of how greatly I wanted to be anywhere else but there on the white floral sofa in Mrs. Steeble’s living room.
I was the last person listed on the program. Swinging my legs, I listened to the other students play while ripples of anxiety lapped at the edges of my heart. The boy right before me, a big seventh or eighth grader, stunned everyone with a flawless rendition of "Für Elise." The ripples turned into a tidal wave of panic as the last note died away. Now it was my turn, and, overcome with stage fright, I was frozen to the sofa.
I buried my face in my hands and started to weep. An uncomfortable silence flooded the room. Then Mrs. Steeble came over to me and held out her hand. "Come with me, dearie."
She took me back to a room I had never seen before. It was immaculate, like the rest of the house, and yet there was a homey feel to it. She sat down in the rocking chair near the door, and then, to my complete surprise, pulled me up onto her lap.
I’m not sure how long we sat there rocking, Mrs. Steeble stroking my hair and not saying a word. Slowly my heart stopped pounding, my breathing became even, and the tears dried from my cheeks. "Dearie," Mrs. Steeble said quietly, "I want you to know that you don’t have to play today. I would like it very much if you would. But I’m not going to make you."
The words were music to my ears. "I don’t want to play," I said quickly. She held me a little longer, and then we went together to the kitchen, where she seated me at the snack table and called the others in. But as I watched her serving her delicious butterscotch cake, an overwhelming sadness engulfed me. Now I knew that she loved me—and I had disappointed her.
I never refused to play at a party recital again. And I never forgot that day. Mrs. Steeble died of cancer about three years later. I still think of her every time I hear the word dearie. And as I think of her now, I realize what I didn’t realize then—how much she was like our Lord. Her high expectations made me a better pianist. But her love made me a better person.
Eileen Berry is an author for BJU Press.