Growing up, I was taught to play the piano. I enjoyed it well enough, but I wasn’t exactly passionate about it. I learned just enough to get by. I could accompany someone if the song was simple and I had a month to practice. But every time I volunteered to play in public, I became extremely nervous—my hands would shake, my stomach would churn, and it was hard to even focus on the notes in front of me. I much preferred playing alone at home, sticking to the songs I already knew.

Then, six years ago, the leaders of my local church congregation asked me to learn to play the organ. Seriously? The organ? I barely played piano at church, and even when I did, it was mediocre at best. After a long internal tug-of-war, I said yes. I bought myself a pair of organ shoes, got an organ hymnal, and found a mentor who was an experienced and gifted organist. The class was small—just three of us—and our instructor was kind, patient, and absolutely lit up when she played. Her love for the instrument was contagious, and over time, I began to loosen up and enjoy the challenge.

A year later, my kids and I moved across town. After just one Sunday in our new congregation, I was asked to join the rotation of organists. The request terrified me. But I knew they genuinely needed whatever I could offer, however rough, limited, or unpolished that might be.

Over the course of that next year, I learned a profound lesson about the Law of Rhythm—the natural law that teaches us everything in life moves in cycles. There are ebbs and flows, highs and lows, surges and retreats. We see it all around us in nature, and it plays out just as clearly in our personal experiences.

When I first started organ lessons, everything about it felt hard. I wanted to quit after just a few classes—ditch the shoes, toss the hymnal, and be done. But I stuck with it. Slowly, I started to gain confidence. My hands stopped shaking quite so much, and my playing started to sound more like music and less like a funeral dirge.

That same wave showed up when I started playing for church. The anxiety came rushing back—my hands trembled, my stomach lurched, and my fingers barely found the right keys. One night I even dreamed I showed up late to church, fresh from the shower and wearing nothing but a bathrobe! But I kept going. I kept showing up. Because the Law of Rhythm is always in motion, and because I refused to quit, I eventually found my rhythm—literally and figuratively. Over time, the fear faded and joy took its place.

Understanding this law has changed my life. I now recognize the natural cycle: things start hard, then become manageable, and eventually—often surprisingly—they become fun. With that in mind, I’ve stepped into more opportunities. I’ve taken classes, taught others, developed new skills, built meaningful relationships, launched a business, and explored multiple streams of work. I’ve learned that if I keep showing up and practicing, even the most overwhelming things eventually become easier.

Just last month, my 12-year-old son went on his first backpacking trip with his scout troop. He came home utterly wiped out. Every muscle hurt. A week ago, when he learned another trip was coming up, he turned to me, desperate: “Please don’t make me go. It was too hard. I barely survived the last one.”

With a smile, I pulled him close and said, “I know it was hard. But it won’t always be this hard. If you just keep going and never give up, it will get easier.”

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