She was four years older than me and a whole lot smarter. Maybe not “off-the-chart smart” but definitely calculus and rubrics cube smart. Maybe she got that way from all of the books she read. While most girls were in to dolls and dress up, Erin was in to libraries and bookstores.

Erin’s reclusive reading habits came in handy because when my parents were gone, she would predictably curl up with a stack of library books. The rest of us could wreak havoc as we pleased and Erin would get blamed at the end of the day. Because, after all, she was the oldest and was supposed to be responsible.

People sometimes confused the two of us. I never understood that because while we did have the same eye color, she was Erin and I was Danielle. We shared a room for years and that only brought out the differences: I loved to decorate and rearrange the furniture while she preferred the Spartan atmosphere. I liked the window open. She liked the window shut. And so on.

Somewhere along the way, Erin took an interest in piano. And when she was 14, she became our church pianist. Which, admittedly, was not so much because she was a child protégé as much as just the simple fact that she was the only person in our church that played piano. It was Erin or nothing. And Erin quickly became better. Than nothing.

Erin more than rose to the challenge, because that is what Erin does. She never met a contest too big; she never did things the easy way. If we were all making quilts, Erin made a king-sized, hand-stitched quilt with a million pieces to cut and four times that many corners to match.

Not me. If there was an easy way, I was going to find it and then make it even easier. Which I think is an under-appreciated skill. But I’m getting off track…back to Erin and the piano.

For years, Erin would get up at 5:00 in the morning and play scales and exercises on the piano. Allyson would be doing aerobics. And I was probably sleeping.

Erin practiced hard—four hours every day. She became very good. I know because she always went last at piano recitals. Of course, that might have just been because the “rest of the students” included me and a bunch of kids like me. But nonetheless, she did get good.

Toward the end of high school, Erin was selected to go on a short-term mission trip to Romania. Erin spent hours over the next year learning to speak, read, and write Romanian—all for a three week trip. Like I said, she was not one to just “get by” or do something the easy way.

After graduation, she decided to get a degree in piano performance—which figures, because as I understand, it’s one of the hardest majors. In addition to all of the regular studying a college student has to do, musicians have to practice for ungodly numbers of hours every day. Good thing she was already broken in on the 5:00 am thing.

After college, Erin went back to Romania for a few years as a full-time missionary. All of her hard work on language study was put to good use.

Then, she decided to come back and get her masters in piano performance. And because she is Erin, and because she never met a challenge too big, she decided to get her master’s in piano performance at Bob Jones.

Now, you may think BJ is good, bad, wonderful, terrible…all of that is beside the point. The point is, BJ is basically the mecca of conservative musicians. Kids in Greenville are born playing piano. They are proficient at violin by the time they are weaned. They do intensive music theory classes in Kindergarten. They have private tutoring sessions instead of recess. BJ is Julliard for the small but talented percentage of the world that doesn’t believe in the rock beat.

Majoring in piano performance at BJ is kind of like racing in the Kentucky Derby. Everyone is good. That is why they are there.

Erin was good, but she hadn’t had the support of a gifted music community like most of the BJ graduates. She hadn’t had all world-class teachers growing up. And, she had just spent several years overseas teaching. But once she had made up her mind, she went for it wide open.

If college piano performance was no joke, graduate level piano performance was probably the music equivalent of the Marine Corps. At the end of the program comes the “performance” part—the senior recital: an hour of memorized music that BJ professors deemed worthy of their stamp of music wizardry approval. Songs are picked a year in advance and then practiced until Fur Elise and Chopsticks feel like a nice break.

Erin selected her music and practiced literally until her hands couldn’t take it anymore. She is smart, and she worked hard, but I know that looming recital was not something she looked forward to. Even after years of church music and college classes ad nauseam, Erin was not a natural at performing. Perhaps it was become she is more the left-brained, smart analytic than the right-brain creative, artsy, performer. She is great at lot of things, and she had the skill and knowledge; she just wasn’t the showy type.

Somewhere along the line, I think it was suggested to her that she consider majoring in church music or piano pedagogy. Which, as I understand, was the same thing without the hour of music insanity known as the senior recital. But, as I understand, the difference between the two was also like the difference between being a college basketball coach and a PE teacher.

And it just wasn’t like Erin.

So she worked hard. Very hard.

Not all of my family could attend her recital. But I drove to Greenville the day before and spent the night with her. She is pretty even-keel, but like anyone, she was nervous about her recital. In fact, nervous doesn’t seem to be the right word.

The BJ standard is perfection. And most BJ students hit it or come so close that all but the pickiest of professors believe they did.

And even though she had poured her life into it the whole program, I think she knew she wasn’t going to be perfect.

Mind you, this wasn’t just a handful of family attending this recital. This was going to be a room full of professors and other piano performance majors who were required to attend. Many of them had ten or twenty years of lessons from world class instructors under their belt. Most were natural performers—because the rest had long since been weeded out. If you were just “one of the pack,” you went and found something else to do before you hit the senior recital for your master’s degree in piano performance.

Something else meaning home ec, elementary ed, or working at Chick-fil-A.   You ain’t nothing in Greenville just because you can play piano, violin, cello, tuba, and percussion. You have to be the next Dino Kartsonikis (who appreciates only Bach and Fanny Crosby).

And Erin, for all her virtues, was not Dino.

And the pressure would have put a lesser woman (me, for example) in the crazy house.

But not Erin.

I was very proud of Erin the next day. She looked nice. She had chosen difficult pieces. She played well.

And she made some mistakes. Several actually.

She just did.

But she didn’t make excuses. She didn’t blame the stiff piano. Or her hurting wrists. Or her years of service in Romania. Or her nerves. She didn’t make a point to tell everyone how long and hard she’s practiced. How many set backs she’s had. How many obstacles she had to overcome.

She had done her best. And she let it be that. She didn’t try to criticize herself just to hear people argue with gushy words of fake affirmation.

Erin told me she thought by BJ standards her recital was a disaster.

If anyone thought that, they were mistaken. Yes, if someone had come to nit pick or criticize, I’m sure they could have found something negative to say about the performance.

But not about my sister.

She was courageous. She was gracious. And I don’t know if I have ever been more impressed with her. Or with anyone.

Erin had just poured her heart into a goal because she believed that the process of working for it would make her a better pianist, a better music teacher, and more than that—a better worshiper. She went for it knowing it wouldn’t necessarily make her better than the people around her.

Erin worked to please an Audience of One.

I think she proved it that day. And I have every reason to believe that that One was pleased.

And I, for one, thought it was beautiful.

I could not have been more impressed. Not with Dino Kartsonikis.

Yes, Black Lives Matter

I’m a white girl. Glow-in-the-dark white.

I can’t even get a decent tan…just burn and peel. Burn and peel.

But I was raised just east of Los Angeles—probably can’t get more of a melting pot of humanity than LA. Okay, so there’s New York City. But just the same, we went to an all-Hispanic church, hosted Japanese exchange students, had Thanksgiving dinner with our Romanian friends, and my best babysitting clients were black. And I loved them.

One night a dinner guest asked my dad if he would let his daughters marry a black guy. The four of us girls were pretty young at the time. I don’t know why he asked that; the idea of marriage was distant and unreal. Almost a bit ridiculous. But my dad answered his question. And I still remember what he said.

We were not prejudice, but we did notice differences—strengths and weaknesses that tended to be true of different people groups. Our black friends were not just smart, they were FAST! They dominated the basketball courts. The Asian friends were not only smart, but hardworking and disciplined. The Hispanic friends were not only smart, but their culture took life at a much easier pace. Time was a suggestion. Family birthdays and events were big deals. Their all-day parties took us a little by surprise at first but we realized once you are considered family—you don’t miss one for the world.

So…we were all listening when my dad answered the question. Would he let one of his daughters marry a black man?

“It doesn’t matter so much the color of his skin as the color of his heart.”

I remember not only Dad’s answer, but I remembered the principle. And it wasn’t an isolated statement—it was consistent with the way my parents lived their lives.

They taught us to use our heads. They even taught us to use the “D” word—to be discriminating. The difference was, they taught us to be discriminating about things that matter, like character. Not things that don’t matter, like race. Even those general tendencies we noticed about people groups were just that—generalities. People are different; their skin color did not define them. You best evaluate people by their hearts—one at time.

Race has been in the news a lot this year. And unfortunately, in Charleston, we are now trying to navigate through an incident involving a white cop and a black shooting victim. But I wish all of the people out there who think that black lives don’t matter to white people could see what I see.

Because we care. We are ripped up. Because no one—black, white, or “other,” should be gunned down in cold blood the way that it appears happened in North Charleston recently. I’m glad there was a witness. I’m glad there was a witness with a cell phone. I wish the incident had never happened, but since it did, I’m glad that we can take the opportunity to show that our loyalty is to justice and not necessarily to the cops, the alleged criminals, the white people, or the black people. We want the facts to be brought to a jury –and the jury to do the right thing.

We care because black lives matter. But far more than that, we care because all lives matter—because they are lives, not black lives, white lives, or “other” lives.

I want the Scott family to know that we are behind them. No need for protests. No need for looting. No need to lose precious sleep to convince us that this is an important incident that should be given due process. We want it every bit as much as you.

I’m a white girl and I want justice.

But then, it doesn’t matter so much the color of my skin as the color of my heart.