“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go…” — Psalm 32:8
Throughout the seasons of my life, I have worn many hats. Professionally, I have worked in law enforcement, in the legal field, as a computer and technology trainer, and as a historian. I have also taught in higher education as a History Adjunct. All of these shared one thing in common—a beginning and an ending. he Unlike these, one role remained constant throughout every season of my life—the God-given gift of music.
The gift of music began when I was a young child and has been part of every season of my life. And it began with a mother who saw something in her little girl and chose to nurture it with determination, sacrifice, and love.
When I was in third grade, our church orchestra included several girls who played the accordion, and I watched them with interest. So when a music company came to my school offering lessons, Mother was thrilled and immediately went to the pastor’s wife, who provided a mid-sized instrument to get me started.
But when I showed up for my first lesson, the company refused to teach me unless we purchased an accordion from them. Mother did not hesitate. She found a private teacher at Watkins Music Store and made sure I could keep learning. That was my mother—if she believed something mattered, she made sure it happened.
It was not long before I discovered I could hear a tune and “pick it out” on my own. I was quite proud of that ability and assumed my teacher would be impressed. She was not. This wise teacher insisted that I learn to read music, something I resisted at the time but later came to value deeply. Looking back now, I understand what I could not see then. God was not only giving me a gift—He was shaping it, grounding it, and preparing it for something far beyond what I could imagine as a child.
By the age of ten, I transitioned from accordion to piano. While I continued to play by ear, I also began what would become twelve years of piano lessons and classical training. Within the first year, I discovered something even more meaningful—that I could pour my emotions into the music in a way I had never experienced before. A few years later, I began playing for children’s Sunday School classes and youth meetings, not realizing at the time that these small opportunities were the beginning of something much greater.
Over the years, those early experiences grew into a lifelong role as a church musician, where I would play piano, organ, and keyboard in different churches, accompanying choirs, soloists, and congregations. What began as a childhood skill became something deeper—a calling I would only come to understand later.
There were many moments along the way when I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be. I remember playing the grand organ at George Air Force Base, directing a children’s choir and leading them in their first musical, and later joining an orchestra where I played keyboard and helped record an album. I had the joy of accompanying gifted singers, groups, and choirs, often “tearing up the piano” in ways that brought energy and excitement to the music.
Musically, I was in my element. Yet even in those moments, God was quietly teaching me lessons that had little to do with music itself and everything to do with the condition of my heart.
One such lesson came on a night I will never forget. I was accompanying a family trio as we ministered at a church. The group stood ready with their microphones, waiting for me to begin the introduction to a song we had sung countless times. But that evening, I sat down at the piano with the wrong mindset. Instead of offering the music, I wanted to impress. As I placed my hands on the keys, everything I knew about that piece vanished. I have never played so poorly in my life. In that humbling moment, I knew exactly what had happened—pride had taken the place of surrender. Silently, I spoke to the Lord and made a promise that has stayed with me ever since. I vowed that if ever I was in His house, ministering to His people, and His Spirit did not anoint my hands, I would not play a single note. From that point forward, music—especially worship music—was no longer about performance. It became an offering.
While it is always encouraging to hear, “I loved hearing you play,” the words that mean the most to me are, “Your music blessed me.” That tells me they were listening not only with their ears, but with their hearts. There is a difference—and it is always far greater when the music becomes a kind of duet with the Spirit.
Through every season, my mother remained my greatest supporter. When I was young—even into my teenage years—if we visited someone who had a piano, she would insist that I play, and then sit there, beaming with pride.
Over the years, that pride never changed. She loved hearing me play, whether it was the piano or the organ, and she took great joy in seeing me serve in church services and music ministry. Perhaps she even knew that the early sacrifices she had made were bearing real fruit.
In 1996, my mother passed away.
Even before her death, I knew I would play the piano at her funeral service, regardless of the emotional cost. I had played for numerous family members’ services over the years, but I knew this one was the most important—to honor the one who had started me on my musical journey. It was the last thing I could do for her. I had always known that the sacrifices she made were the reason I was able to play, and in that moment, playing for her was my way of honoring all she had given. God gave me the strength and grace I needed in that moment, and I know she would have been proud.
Years later, another loss came—more gradual, but almost as painful. As my eyesight began to fade, the music ministry that had been such a central part of my life seemed to slip away. When COVID came in 2020, I spent much of that year isolated and alone, with only my cat for company. I often sat at my keyboard, playing softly—sometimes through tears—wondering if that season of my life had come to an end. It felt as though something precious had died.
But God had other ideas.
After moving into my retirement community, I discovered a baby grand piano in the foyer. I began to play again, and whenever I sat down at the piano, residents would hear the music and gradually begin to fill the foyer, drawn by the familiar sounds of old standards, show tunes, hymns, and songs of praise. What began as informal moments grew into a Sunday evening time of hymns and worship for those who could no longer attend church. One day, as I was quietly grieving the loss of ministering in a traditional church setting, the Lord gently spoke to my heart: “Gwinnetta, bloom where you are planted.” In that moment, I understood. The setting had changed, but the calling had not. God had simply given me a new place, a new flock, and a new purpose for the same gift.
Today, although my eyesight presents challenges, the ability to play by ear remains. Once I find my place on the keys, the music is still there, just as it always has been. I may no longer see to read a score, but I have come to understand that what God placed within me all those years ago was never dependent on what I could see. It was something deeper—something He intended to use in ways I could never have planned.
Perhaps this is where my story meets yours. You may have something in your life that once felt central to who you were—a gift, a calling, or a passion—that now seems distant or changed by circumstances beyond your control. It may feel as though that part of your life has ended. But I have learned, through every season, that what God plants is never wasted. It may be shaped, redirected, or refined, but it does not disappear. In His time, and in His way, He brings it forth again—often in places we never expected.
Of all the paths I have walked, being a church musician has been among the most fulfilling—not because of the music itself, but because it has been a way to offer something back to the One who gave it in the first place. And even now, in this season of life, I am reminded that the calling has not ended. It has simply taken on a new form.
If this story resonated with you, I share much more of my journey in my memoir, He Ordered My Steps – From Shattered Dreams to Something Beautiful. It is a testimony of how God works through every season—both the broken and the beautiful—to bring purpose, healing, and hope.
You can learn more or order the book here: https://hopeinthejourney.com
Closing Blessing
May you recognize the gifts God has placed within you, even those that seem hidden or changed by time. May you trust that He is still ordering your steps, even when the path looks different than you once imagined. And may you find the courage to bloom where you are planted, knowing that your life, in every season, remains part of His beautiful and purposeful plan.