My childhood and adolescence were a joyous outpouring of energy, a ceaseless quest for expression, skill, and experience. School was merely a backdrop to the supreme delight of lessons in music, dance, and dramatics, and the thrill of sojourns in the country, theaters, and concerts.
And books—big Braille books that accompanied me on streetcars, to the table, and to bed. Then one night at a high school dance, a remark not intended for my ears stabbed my youthful bliss: "That girl, what a pity she is blind." Blind! That ugly word that implied everything dark, blank, rigid, and helpless. I quickly turned and called out, "Please don't feel sorry for me, I'm having lots of fun." But the fun was not to last.
With the advent of college, I was brought to grips with the problem of earning a living. Part-time teaching of piano and harmony, and upon graduation, occasional concerts and lectures, proved only partial sources of livelihood. The financial remuneration was disheartening relative to the time and effort involved. This induced searing self-doubt and dark moods of despondency. My dismal sense of inadequacy was compounded by repeatedly seeing my sisters and friends go off on exciting dates. How grateful I was for my piano, where—through Chopin, Brahms, and Beethoven—I could mingle my longing and seething energy with theirs, and dissolve my frustration in the beauty and grandeur of their conceptions.
Then one day, I met a girl, a wonderful army nurse, whose faith and stability were to change my whole life. As our acquaintance ripened into friendship, she discerned, behind my shell of gaiety, my recurring plateaus of depression. She said, "Stop knocking on closed doors. Keep up your beautiful music. I know your opportunity will come. You're trying too hard. Why don't you relax, and have you ever tried praying?"
The idea was strange to me. It sounded too simple. I had always operated on the premise that if you wanted something, you had to go out and get it yourself. Yet, my sincerity and hard work had yielded only meager returns, so I was willing to try anything. Experimentally and self-consciously, I cultivated the daily practice of prayer. I said, "God, show me the purpose for which You sent me to this world. Help me to be of use to myself and to humanity."
In the years that followed, the answers began to arrive, clear and satisfying beyond my most optimistic anticipation. One answer was Enchanted Hills, where my nurse friend and I have the privilege of seeing blind children come alive in God's outdoors. Others are the never-ending sources of pleasure and comfort I have found in friendship, in great music, and, most importantly, in my growing belief that as I attune my life to divine revelation, I draw closer to God and, through Him, to immortality.