Years ago I memorized the song “Heart and Soul” on the piano; I have absolutely no clue what the actual notes are, I just play from memory. I have done it so many times that it is effortless and I sound like I know what I’m doing. Yet, if you put a new song in front of me I would make mistakes, play wrong notes and stumble around for a while. I would need to ask questions and count out loud. At a certain point, it seems, life itself resonates with this; we have our memorized routines and as long as nothing upsets these, we sound pretty good.

My day to day life often feels like I’m playing “Heart and Soul”, it’s an upbeat, if not redundant little song. I make breakfast, clean it up, go to the gym, run to the store, wash the laundry, post a pretty picture for work and meet the writing deadline. I’m programmed to drive through car line at pick up and rinse the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher. It’s a memorized routine that makes me look like I know what I’m doing. I can check the boxes off my list: clean the bathroom-check, forget to get the one thing I went to the store for and go back-check, post for work with the right hashtags-check.

Yet, sometimes I’m carrying a basket of laundry up from the basement and I have this feeling of sadness that seemingly comes out of nowhere. Now, if I was wrestling out the vacuum, this notion would be no mystery . . . but, I actually enjoy folding laundry. This feeling is not part of the song. It throws me off and I miss a beat. Did anyone hear that? Maybe I can quickly get back on track? But my fingers are off now and the rhythm is too slow. I’ll never get everything done at this rate. I’m very busy like all of us, so if I miss a note there aren’t clean towels for showers or butter for the toast in the morning. Work piles up like mail on an entryway table. Tomorrow or perhaps the next day I will open those bills, renew those subscriptions, hang those cards on my fridge.

For me missed notes are felt most in the rare moments of forced slowing down, like in the shower or driving; I perceive sadness like a chill in the air. It may feel slight and undedicated. If I keep moving I can stay warm. I can put on a sweater by turning on an audiobook in the car or playing the news into the hazy morning. A friend’s company can warm me like heat from a fire, but once I step away, the air around me can grow cold. The song grows faint and fades to the background.

My life is a song I play, and it has a rhythm that I know by heart. At times it is complicated with events and trials. We opened a small business and I didn’t even recognize the melody for a while. New people enter my life and add more chords, but my fingers return to the right keys. I can make my life look good on social media. I have access to all those great filters. I can brighten those shadows that follow me up the basement stairs, the fears that keep me up at night, the 100 things I would change about myself. And, I just keep playing.

But sometimes I play wrong notes. I stop in the middle and I forget the tune and it starts to unravel like sheet music blowing in the wind. I practiced. I memorized. But what about when we lose our place and can’t find it again? Our lives were on track and something went wrong. We wrote the novel and nothing happened, perhaps our marriage feels one-sided or our children have problems that we feel helpless to fix. No filter will smooth these disappointments. This song isn’t practiced and perfected until it feels smooth and people will dress up and buy tickets; it’s more like a late night jazz club where the tired musician is making it up as he goes and it just doesn’t quite come together.

The wrong notes for me are focusing on the painful parts. Stopping the music and letting the notes all fall down around me. The people I wish were still here, the let downs, the hurtful words and the places that I fail over and over again. It’s like I’m driving on familiar roads and suddenly fog blows across the street and I can’t see anything. The familiarity has vanished and I have to take the path one second at a time, just following the yellow line with gripped hands. An unexpected diagnosis, a job elimination, a best friend announces she is moving and then the song of your life has changed from a memorized waltz to a clunky jazz piece.

I believe there is a purpose to the wrong notes, but my answer is irregular and mathematically incorrect. The sadness that finds its way into my song will never be answered in this life. That feels like a terrible answer. Even a non-answer. I want a better solution, perhaps living a cleaner lifestlye or being a good positive person, focusing on my family or my art . . . surely these things can chase away the fog. I love the sweet melody they bring to me, yet the mist rolls in unexpectedly. For some of us, like myself, it’s occasional, but for others, it’s a relentless storm. I have always wanted my faith to answer, as in solve, this broken part of my life. I have wondered where is God in this? Why is He silent? Where are His promises?

I have realized, somewhat recently, that God has answered these questions. The answer is more like a symphony than a memorized ditty. Although, I feel His hand in my joys—in a well-written piece, in a child’s sleepy hug and in a friend’s kind words; I find I do not long for my Lord in these moments. I long for Him in the broken parts. When the sadness comes and I look at what I am missing. That’s when I need Him. I need to know deep in my soul that this isn’t it, that this life will never be enough. I have to look upward when the fog engulfs and it reminds me that I am not there, I am not home. I need to hear His voice when the notes are discordant, when I lose my way.

This post feels clunky to me, I abandoned it for weeks only to return to it and try to rework it, yet again. I cut out whole sections and added new paragraphs, trying to make all the pieces fit perfectly together. I have sat here and reread it and thought maybe I just can’t make these scattered notes play the same song. Other posts have felt seamless, like the words were in concord. Not this one—I suspect it has some wrong notes. But suddenly that felt just right for this piece. So I hand it to you, imperfect and broken in places; perhaps it’s just what you needed to hear today.

Write a draft about your personal wrong notes and how they have an effect on you. Have you ever shared them?

Journal about the parts of life that are like a memorized song, what happens when you hit a false note?