Robby was 11 years old when his mother (a single mom) dropped him off
for his first piano lesson. I prefer that students (especially boys!) begin at
an earlier age, which I explained to Robby. But Robby said that it had always
been his mother's dream to hear him play the piano. So I took him as a student.
Well, Robby began with his piano lessons and from the beginning I thought it 
was a hopeless endeavor.  As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone
and basic rhythm needed to excel. But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some
elementary pieces that I require all my students to learn.

Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed and tried to 
encourage him.  At the end of each weekly lesson he'd always say, "My mom's 
going to hear me play someday."  But it seemed hopeless. He just did not have 
any inborn ability. I only knew his mother from a distance as she dropped Robby
off or waited in her aged car to pick him up. She always waved and smiled but
never stopped in.

Then one day Robby stopped coming to our lessons. I thought about calling
him but assumed, because of his lack of ability, that he had decided to pursue
something else. I also was glad that he stopped coming.  He was a bad
advertisement for my teaching!

Several weeks later I mailed to the student's homes a flyer on the upcoming
recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked me if he could be in
the recital. I told him that the recital was for current pupils and because he had 
dropped out he really did not qualify. He said that his mom had been sick and 
unable to take him to piano lessons but he was still practicing. "Miss Hondorf...
I've just got to play!" he insisted. I don't know what led me to allow him to play
in the recital.  Maybe it was his persistence or maybe it was something inside 
of me saying that it would be all right.

The night for the recital came.   The high school gymnasium was packed with parents,
friends and relatives. I put Robby up last in the program before I was to come up and
thank all the students and play a finishing piece. I thought that any damage he would 
do would come at the end of the program and I could always salvage his poor
performance through my "curtain closer."

Well, the recital went off without a hitch. The students had been practicing and it
showed. Then Robby came up on stage. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair looked
like he'd run an eggbeater through it. "Why didn't he dress up like the other students?"
I thought. "Why didn't his mother at least make him comb his hair for this special night?"

Robby pulled out the piano bench and he began. I was surprised when he announced 
that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #21 in C Major. I was not prepared for what I
heard next. His fingers were light on pianissimo to fortissimo...from allegro to virtuoso.
His suspended chords that Mozart demands were magnificent!  Never had I heard 
Mozart played so well by a person his age.   After six and a half minutes he ended in a
grand crescendo and everyone was on their feet in wild applause. Overcome and in
tears I ran up on stage and put my arms around Robby in joy. "I've never heard you
play like that Robby!  How'd you do it?"  Through the microphone Robby explained:
"Well Miss Hondorf...remember  I told you my mom was sick? Well, actually she
had cancer and passed away this morning.  And well....she was born deaf so tonight 
was the first time she ever heard me play. I wanted to make it special." There wasn't 
a  dry eye in the house that evening. As the people from Social Services led Robby
from the stage to be placed into foster care, I noticed that even their eyes were red
and  puffy and I thought to myself how much richer my life had been for taking
Robby as my pupil. No, I've never had a protigi but that night I became a protigi...
of Robby's. He was the teacher and I was the pupil. For it is he that taught me the
meaning of perseverance and love and believing in yourself and maybe even taking
a chance in someone and you don't know why. 

(A footnote to this story)  After serving in Desert Storm, Robby was killed in the
senseless bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City in
April of 1995, where he was  reportedly....playing the piano. And now, a footnote
to the story.

This story has been passed around by e-mail. It has not yet been proven to be a
true story as no mention has been made of the exact name of the music teacher 
 nor of the boy.  The story proves that we all can make a difference.  We all 
have thousands of opportunities a day to help realize God's plan. So many 
seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice:
"Do we pass along a spark of the Divine?"

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