I asked Mama if she wanted to go to worship rehearsal with me tonight. She looked confused. “Where?”

“CHOIR PRACTICE,” I translated, and yes, she wanted to go.

She enjoyed listening to us work out some Christmas music. But when it was over, she spoke to the pastor (aka drummer & guitar player) — the one who always gives her a hug and a kiss when he sees her — the one that’s her grandson — and said, “That blond-headed piano player you have up there has a piano at home, but she never practices. I think you need to get a new piano player, but don’t tell her I said so.”

Later, as I was putting her to bed, she piped up. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to mention to you. You don’t ever play the piano downstairs.” So, I explained that my seven-foot grand is in need of tuning & repair to the tune of about six grand, and since we’ve had house guests for about 6 months in our upstairs bedrooms, I’ve taken down the Yamaha P-150 electric piano to give the guests a little more living space. “Well. I knew you must’ve had a reason. I’m just glad to finally know what it is.” So, I musta hit a few octaves worth of wrong notes tonight for my own mama to tell her grandson to fire his only mama from a volunteer job!