Happy Tuesday, My Friend!
Today, I want to tell you about a rock star I once knew. His name was Johannes Dressler. Have you heard of him? He was born in Vienna, Austria, in 1924 but somehow ended up in Milford, Delaware. OK, so maybe he wasn’t a well-known rock star, but I know I’ll never forget him.
When we moved to Milford in the summer of 1993, Maria was entering the first grade, and I was pregnant with our third child. Sean was three and very ready for preschool. There was no internet at that time, so I called around to see what preschools were available in our new little town. There was one at the Methodist church—perfect! I made an appointment to go in and meet the director.
After a tour of the preschool rooms, she led me down the hall to the church sanctuary. Music wafted down the hallway. “As long as you’re here, maybe you’d like to see the sanctuary,” she said. Sure, why not?
We stepped into the large, beautiful room, and my head spun to take it all in: stained glass windows, wooden beams on the ceiling, rows of pipes from a pipe organ . . . And there he was—Johannes Dressler, Rock Star, seated at the organ. I soon learned that he simply went by “John.” Just John.
Holy Quarter Notes! Let me tell you about John! He was like if Ludwig von Beethoven, Albert Einstein, and Santa Claus got together and had a baby! Impossible, I know, but as I got to know him, I realized that’s who he reminded me of. I didn’t know it then, but I’d learned that he composed music and often played his compositions during church services. (Once, after Teddy was born and I wore him on my back like a backpack, I played the timpani in a mini orchestra in our church. It was one of John’s compositions, and I was thrilled he had asked me to do so. I’d never played a drum in my life, but I figured it out under his kind tutelage.)
There John sat at the organ, wild white hair askew. The preschool director introduced me quickly, and he waved and smiled. (I can’t picture Beethoven waving and smiling because he always looks so crabby, but would Einstein? Hmm, not sure. Santa? Definitely.)
Sean started at the preschool at that church, and Avenue United Methodist Church became our family’s church during our years in Delaware. As the months went on, and my stomach’s girth grew with Teddy’s growing body, someone told me about an opening in the handbell choir at church. They wondered if I’d like to play. Of course! Sounds fun! And Mr. Beethoven/Einstein/Claus is the director? Yes, please! And so, I took my place in the lineup, wielding their heaviest bells. My arms were strong back then, and I could handle it. I often wondered if Teddy could feel the vibrations as I dampened those big bells against my body after ringing them.
John’s wife, Charlotte (“Lottie”), was also in the handbell choir. She was the epitome of Mrs. Claus. She and John made the sweetest couple. Every now and then, though, Lottie would get irritated with John about something and an argument would ensue—all in German. I took several years of German in school, and my dad was a German teacher, so I picked up a word or two of their spats. They never lasted long, though. And all was well by the end of the rehearsal.
One day, I happened to be at the preschool, and I wandered/waddled down the hall to the music room just to peek in and say hi to John. There he was, in all of his amazingness, sitting at the harpsichord that he had built!! After our greetings, he told me to “just be careful.” He told me the music room had been broken into the night before. (There was a door on the other side of the room that led directly outside.) Someone had broken in through that door. My eyes widened, and I immediately looked at the harpsichord, his pride and joy. He read my mind.
“No, they didn’t touch this. I think it might have been kids. The only thing missing is the boom box.” Now, John would probably have had a pretty nice boom box. You know, the kind with two cassette tape decks!! I was instantly mad that someone would disrespect this kind, talented, brilliant person! Who steals from Santa Claus?! And then John said something that stopped me in my tracks.
“I just like to think that they needed it more than I do.”
Wait a sec—Hold on—Time out!
What was he thinking? Why was he still smiling? Why wasn’t he complaining about kids today or that nobody’s safe anymore? Why wasn’t he rolling his eyes and clucking his tongue? How was he so forgiving?
I think this was the first time I saw another human being be so blatantly and undeservingly forgiving. And they weren’t just words. You’d know he was sincere if you could’ve seen his face. He hoped whoever took it truly needed it more than he did. I had never run into that reaction to being wronged before. And it’s been a rarity since then.
And I wouldn’t have blamed him for cursing out the person who took his boom box. We’d consider that behavior “normal” or “expected.” It was the unexpectedness of John’s reaction that made such an impression on me.
It reminds me of a story in the Book of Matthew from the Bible (chapter 18). Peter asked Jesus how many times he should forgive someone who does him wrong. “Up to seven times?” Peter asked. I think Peter thought seven was being very generous. But Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times . . . ” Some Bible translations say “Seventy times seven.” So, 77 or 490. Either way, that’s a lot of forgiveness. In other words, so many times you can’t really count.
Way to go, John. Thank you for showing me how it’s done. It couldn’t have been easy, but you chose grace and forgiveness over condemnation.
Way to go, Jesus. Thank You for showing me how it’s done. It couldn’t have been easy, but You chose grace and forgiveness over condemnation.
Is there anyone around you who needs to see some grace today?
Written with love – – – Patti XOXO
“Forgiveness is not an occasional act; it is a permanent attitude.”
– Martin Luther King, Jr.