Entertaiment

I’m one of those freaks who not only does not fear public speaking more than they fear death, but who hopes that heaven is just one gigantic audience that never has to leave to use the restroom.

I love it. I love teaching. I love spending time with a crowd, showing them something new or telling them stories or just giving them someone to laugh at…er, I mean with.’ It really is the entire Mrs. Fields collection for my soul, minus the raisins.

And I honestly hope that every time I insist that whole flocks of people listen to what I’m saying, I’ll give them something that helps make some positive change in their lives. I’m of the opinion that it’s possible to walk into a room as one person, and 40 minutes later walk out as someone completely different. That’s the power, the high, of teaching.

In fact, I’ve been invited to speak in several different places over the next year, and I’m already mulling and pondering and writing and scheming. I want everyone in the room to be happy they were there. I want those who invited me to feel they got what they were hoping for. As you read this, I’m speaking at the Story @ Home conference with Meridian’s own Maurine Proctor, and we’re having a great time.

(At least, I assume we’re having a great time. The need to submit columns before publication and the fact that Maurine and I have never actually met means that I can’t be 100% certain that we’re having a great time. But either you’re at the conference with us, and not currently reading my column because you’re absolutely riveted by what one of us is saying, or you’re not at the conference and therefore have to take it on faith that I guessed right vis a vis the whole having a great time’ thing.)

One Sunday, however, I returned to Las Vegas after speaking at a blogging conference in San Diego. Like many of those events, I was inspired by much of what was said by the other presenters, and I came home excited to get my online copywriting business up and running. I spent the whole next week immersed in web design, content, driving my internet-savvy pal, Caroline, clean out of her skull, and generally doing five straight days of “DeNae for DeNae and All for DeNae.”

I got to church that next Sunday, and after defeating the organ in mortal combat over the tempo of “Let Us All Press On,” I wandered into Relief Society.

At the time I was the Relief Society pianist, and there was no question as to who was the alpha in the relationship; that particular keyboard instrument barely put up a fight.

(It was that blasted organ with its hateful foot pedals that kept trying to vanquish me week after week.)

As I was playing a little background music so the women in the room could prepare spiritually by yakking at full voice about important things like baby barf on microfiber couches, the chorister rushed up to the piano and whispered, “I’m so GLAD you’re back!”

She meant it, too.

This cute girl was new to the ward; at the time I didn’t even know her name. I could see, though, that she wasn’t me-hadn’t had my life, didn’t live my life. Nothing major, nothing to question, certainly nothing that was any of my business. Just little things that said in their quiet way, “I’m still getting used to all of this.”

And she was totally, pathologically terrified to lead those 25 women in a hymn every week.

So, at her request, I would help her.

As I played the hymn’s introduction, she stood at the front of the room, eyes locked on me. She wasn’t looking at the women. She wasn’t looking at her hymnal. She was watching me.

When it was time to start singing, I would nod my head. That was her cue to begin waving her arm in time, not with the beat, but with each individual word. She didn’t have much experience, and was so shy about her responsibilities she wouldn’t let me show her the ropes. “I’m just not musical,” she kept saying. “Really. You can’t teach me anything.”

So instead, she watched, and waited. And I would nod.

That’s all I’d do. I’d nod…

There were 125 people in that San Diego audience, about the same later that year in Seattle. That fall, I was with 300 or so in North Carolina. The response is always wonderful, the people in the audience gracious and encouraging.

And with all my heart, I pray that it was worthwhile to all of them.

But while I was traveling home from California on a Sunday afternoon, one sister was looking around the room, wondering where I was, worrying that I wouldn’t be there to nod my head and help her get through those three terrifying minutes.

There’s making a difference, and then there’s making a difference.

It’s not about me. It’s never, ever, ever about me.

It’s good to be reminded of that once in a while.