The Accompanist

 

It is much easier to be the loud voice,
The one who voices an opinion and others follow,
The one who is allowed to be a diva with all the volatile roller-coaster emotions attached.

It is much easier to be the soloist,
The one who gets to lead the music,
The one who decides the speed, and
The one who gets the appreciation.

It is much harder to be the accompanist.
It is much harder to let the soloist lead,
To slow down when the soloist does, to match the rhythms,
To be heard—-but not be heard too much.

It takes so much effort to support the melody,
To fit in and squeeze around the main attention,
To be beside and around and under the voice that is heard.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Elaine Brock was The Accompanist.

As early as I remember, she was a literal accompanist,
Playing organ and piano in church,
Accompanying both my dad and me when we sang solos in church.
She sat patiently beside Kelly and me as we learned to play all the basic notes on the piano.
She took her seat in the alto section of the choir, harmonizing and supporting the melody.

She was much more than a musical accompanist.
She was a figurative accompanist to the lives of many.
She was the silent work partner to my dad for several decades, his silent Accompanist.
She supported his larger-than-life personality and actions,
Quietly moving in the shadows,
But ALWAYS supporting, harmonizing, noticing the gaps, and filling in as needed.

She was The Accompanist to my mother as well.
She was a friend who listened, a friend who had raised her children and was willing to support a young mother with two young girls.
She was tickled with these two girls who played at her house with her antique stamps and with the Billy Goat Gruff bridge over the little creek,
She altered their clothing,
She listened to their stories,
And she loved.

She became a fixture in my life, my godmother just in case my parents died early.

I probably have a hundred pictures with the Brocks amongst my family—-at garage sales, in the VW van going to Daytona Beach, picnicking beside the interstate on the way to North Carolina eating sloppy joes with Joe (oh how funny my sister and I found this!), cleaning nasty refrigerators in rental houses, eating Biltmore ice cream, swinging on the swing at Lake Junaluska, and even putting up with my mom’s crazy idea to sled down the road in the snow.
She helped with canning, pickling peaches, fixing the trout for dinner, and puzzling over the pieces on the dining room table.

Once again, as I look at these pictures, 

The Accompanist cannot be seen in the forefront of the pictures,
But she is always there,
Moving amongst the melody,
Harmonizing, supporting, and lifting the melody to new heights.

As I grew older, and my life took unexpected twists,
I always knew that this woman would support me no matter what.
She may not have always understood my situation,
But when no one else seemed to be in my corner, she stood in a parking lot beside I-35 in Waco, Texas, and hugged me as I cried.
She arranged her spring vacation to witness my second chance at marriage—

And for decades, she has quietly changed out the flowers at my dad’s burial site—-and then again, at my mother’s.  She has spent more time at the cemetery quietly accompanying my family than I have been able to since 1993.

Although I did not know The Accompanist early in her life, I know she served as a
Beautiful accompaniment to her husband,
Supporting, listening, and being a part of his pursuits,
Whether it was stamping books at Bartow High, visiting people in the hospitals, listening to his Sunday School lessons, and playing hymns for the services.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I will miss her.
I will miss her accompaniment to my life’s journey.

She so effortlessly supported my melody,
She fit in and squeezed around,
She was beside me, around me, and lifted me up when I could not hear my own melody.

Beautiful Accompanist, your harmonies will forever be in my heart.
I long to accompany those I love the way you did to those around you.