I used to wonder how my piano teachers knew: how they could tell which note in a complicated chord was wrong, how they could tell when I wasn’t keeping properly relaxed wrists.
Now a piano teacher myself, today I notice that I notice those things, too.
It’s a learned skill — like the things that went into learning how to play the piano in the first place. It used to boggle mind to think of reading treble and bass clefs simultaneously, of having my ten fingers doing their ten things on those eighty-eight piano keys while my eyes stayed glued to the page.
Now I sit to the side, attempting to watch the notes on the page, and listen to the music as it’s played, and watch the student’s hands to be sure she is playing correctly with the correct fingers, and watch her arms for tension, her shoulders for posture, her eyes — to be sure they’re on the music — and her foot as she pedals.
Here’s my confession: I don’t notice all of those things at once, and it often seems that I’m tuned in to the wrong things at the wrong times. But I do notice more than I used to think was possible, and that is encouraging.
Go back to that list, though, and consider: to attend to all of that at once sounds somewhat overwhelming. But our God attends to infinitely more, and attends perfectly.
He knows the motions of my ten typing fingers better than I do — not simply that they move, but how — and simultaneously He knows each particle in the furthest-distant stars and hears billions of prayers.
Each grain of sand is counted and accounted for in His consciousness, each water molecule on its separate path from sea to cloud to rain.
He not only numbers the hairs on our heads, but also knows how they grow, knows where they fall.
His attention is infinite. There is nothing outside His notice. And for all of that grand noticing of everything, He notices — and He loves — us.
©2014 by Stacy Nott