I slowly glanced over to see if Mike was taking pictures of Sandip now that he had switched over from the sitar to the tablas. I managed to catch Mike’s eye. I lifted my arm and pantomimed pushing the button on a camera to indicate that he should take a few more pictures.Suddenly, I realized the music had stopped. The magic spell had been broken and was replaced by a room-sized electric tension. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as my fight/flight/freeze response kicked in.
I slowly turned my head to face front and center. My worst fears were realized. Sandip was staring directly at me. He did not look happy. None of the kids dared to turn their heads, but if it is possible to have a room full of middle schoolers staring at me without actually looking at me, that is exactly what was happening.
I opened my mouth as if to . . . what? Apologize? Explain? I shut my mouth.
Please, please, I prayed silently, Just start playing again. Please.
Finally, after what seemed like an interminable period, Sandip said –while looking directly at me “We shall start from the top. This time without interruption.”
Ouch.
In the past I've struggled with what it means to fear God. I have been told that -yes- it includes regular old fear but it also contains a healthy dose of respect. And then to make it all the more complex, we are supposed to fear and love him at the same time. Kind of a hard concept to wrap your head around. But last Thursday in the first floor music room, I think I came just a little bit closer to understanding The Fear of the Lord.
The performance ended. The students finally exhaled, and I got caught up in the flow of students heading back upstairs for third period.
And now comes the worst part. I absolutely positively know that my students are not going to let me live this one down.
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