Free Running Barefoot by Amy Harmon Page A

had even begun. We sat in our regular pew, with Rachel coming to join us to sit with Jacob. They were engaged to be married in the spring, and with Jared home from college for the holidays, we were all together. Everyone was scrubbed and solemn in their holiday best, hair slicked and ties tied.
    The program began, and my stomach was in knots as it neared the moment of my solo. I was seated at the end of our bench to provide easy access to the aisle, which was a straight shot up to the stand where the piano was waiting, lid opened, choir members seated on the dais around it. Lawrence Mangelson’s voice soared with the spirit as he spoke of the angels that heralded the birth of the King. Suddenly, it was my turn to play, and I rose on shaking legs and walked to the piano. There was a murmur through the congregation. The service always stayed close to tradition with little variance in narration or music. This was a surprise, and again, no one really knew I played.
    I sat down and closed my eyes in silent prayer, asking for the nerves to stay in my legs and not my hands. My knees could knock harmlessly without hurting my performance. Softly, I began to play, tuning into the beauty of the sound, the soaring reverence of the melody, the magnificence of the musical phrasing. The audience faded around me as I joyously submitted to the song, and when it was done I slowly descended back to earth. I rose from the piano on steady legs, having forgotten my nerves, and looked out over the silent congregation.
    My dad’s face was streaked with tears, and my brothers’ faces shone with pride. Aunt Louise and Tara smiled broadly, and Tara even waved excitedly before her mother noticed and pulled her hand down. Sonja was dabbing her eyes with a lacy hanky, her horned rims in one hand.
    Then, from the back of the room, someone began to clap. Mormons don’t clap in worship services. The chapel is a reverent place, and speakers end sermons with an ‘amen’, followed by an ‘amen’ from the congregation. When someone sings or plays, even ‘amens’ are not given. The choir or performer knows how well they have been received only by the level of silence and attention that is afforded them.
    The clapping drew a little gasp from the churchgoers, and my eyes flew to see who was committing the faux pas. Towards the back of the church, standing next to the pew where his grandparents always sat, dressed in a white dress shirt and black pants, his hair pulled back off his face and secured in a low ponytail, was Samuel. He was clapping, his face serious and unashamed, and he kept clapping and clapping. His grandparents were seated beside him, their faces torn as to whether they should silence him or clap with him. Slowly, people began to join him, standing up around him as broad smiles broke out and the clapping became a roar.
    I stood unmoving, not knowing quite what to do, until Sonja stole to my side and asked me to play Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’. I knew ‘Ave Maria’ by heart only because I loved it. I had never intended to perform it, but the continued applause encouraged me, and I sat back down on the bench and began the unplanned encore, inviting my audience to be seated and listen. When I finished the intensely beautiful and sacred number, there was no clapping. The silence was total and complete, the room hushed, as the congregation wept openly.
    Sonja told me later there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. I found my eyes returning to where Samuel had stood. His eyes met mine, and he nodded once, solemnly. I slightly bowed and walked back to my pew where my father waited for me with open arms.

     
    “You never told me you could play the piano like that.”
    Samuel and I were back on the bus again, the heat pouring out of the heaters under the seats, the smell of wet feet and rubber boots wafting up all around us. Christmas vacation was over, two weeks of freedom ended, and the kids were glum. I had not seen Samuel since the Christmas