What remains when something essential is missing
By Frances Drost
Last week, my piano went in for reconditioning…
And for the first time in 12 years, I found myself without it.
Not a sight I’m used to.
I’ve spent countless hours at that piano—
preparing for concerts,
hosting Notes & Floats,
writing songs.
It’s been a constant in my life.
So when the keys were removed…
and the worn hammers inside—the ones that have been striking those strings for years—were taken out to be reshaped and restored…
it felt strange.
Without the keys, it’s just a shell.
All the beauty, all the sound, all the music it holds…
completely inaccessible.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that…
I realized something.
I didn’t just miss the piano.
I missed what it gives back.
And that feeling…
felt familiar.
This week, I found myself thinking about my father.
His last holiday with me was Memorial Day… 25 years ago.
There’s a kind of absence that settles in over time.
Not loud.
Not always obvious.
But present.
Just like the piano without its keys…
something can still be there…
even though something essential feels missing.
And…
that’s not the whole story.
Because even without the keys, the piano still holds the music.
And even without my father here…
what he gave me is still shaping my life.
I see it in the smallest, most practical places.
Balancing a checkbook, for example.
I can still picture standing in line with him at our little bank in Newville—Farmers National Bank—getting to know the tellers, the rhythm of the place, the quiet dignity of doing things well.
What I love most is that he didn’t wait in the car and send me in.
He went with me.
He taught me something about relationships…
with him, and with the community.
At some point, he sat down with me and showed me how to balance a checkbook—right there on the back of the statement.
To this day, I still use that middle sheet they provide.
And yes… I balance it to the penny.
That was my father.
He even kept track of how many shaves he could get out of a razor.
And somehow… that same attention to detail found its way into me.
It’s served me for decades—especially in my music business.
I see him in other ways too.
In resilience.
My father had a steadiness about him that may be one of the greatest gifts he gave me.
No matter what came our way—
loss, illness, financial strain, drought, frozen pipes in the barn—
he just kept going.
With quiet strength.
And often, a smile.
And I still hear him in moments when I’m tempted to pivot too quickly.
I remember calling home from Oklahoma, where I was in a two-year program focused on Biblical Studies—not music.
When I discovered another school nearby that did focus on music, I was intrigued and wanted to switch.
It felt exciting. Artistic. Even logical.
But when I talked it through with my father, he gently said:
“I think you should finish what you started…
and then consider the next step.”
I stayed.
And I’ve carried that wisdom with me ever since.
And early this morning, while working in my garden, I thought of him.
I’ll use the wheelbarrow tomorrow to continue hauling mulch…
but for now, I put it back where it belongs.
Not just to keep it from the rain or prevent rust…
but because it’s a good practice.
Always put things away after you’ve used them.
I can feel his presence…
even as I grip the handles of the wheelbarrow
and place the shovel back in the garage.
My father was a master multi-tasker.
Between his work, the farm, and family life, there always seemed to be one more thing to finish before leaving the house.
And often… it all happened in the last five minutes.
I remember the quiet tension of those moments.
That same instinct still shows up—the pull to finish just one more thing before leaving.
When I was old enough to drive, I started leaving a little earlier on my own.
I was often preparing a piano prelude for church, and I wanted time to arrive…
to sit at the bench
to lay out my music
to settle.
I wanted to play from a place of calm, not hurry.
This year, I chose a new phrase:
“Raise the Standard.”
In every area.
I started with something simple…
Arriving early.
Building in space.
Creating margin.
Because when I do…
there’s room to breathe.
To notice.
To be present.
I think my father would approve.
My father is gone—
like the keys in my piano.
But the lessons he gave me…
they keep coming back.
They keep shaping the music I make.
In the spring of 2002, I was sitting outside by my George Washington lilac bush, doodling on my guitar.
I was missing him—he had passed away the year before.
And as I glanced up, I noticed something.
For the first time ever…
the lilacs were blooming.
Year after year, frost had taken them too soon.
But that year…
they made it through.
It felt like a gift.
A bouquet of lilacs in time for my birthday.
And in that moment…
I wrote a song.
Here it is, if you’d like to listen:
https://youtu.be/j13T6Vxe1tE?si=HN46IVnNYj8MBGmT
This video is simply a collection of family photos—memories that felt like they belonged with the music.
Leave a Reply