A small part

It was a warm summer evening. I was enjoying A Night in Vienna at the Sydney Opera House, quite swept away by the magnificence of the orchestra and the magic of the music.  It transported me back to the Imperial Palace in Vienna where I first heard the Hofburg Orchestra and fell in love with the music of Vienna.
 
As I watched, I noticed a man at the back of the orchestra. He was short, with greying hair and receding hairline. He sat quietly through a number of pieces of music and didn’t appear to have a part to play. Then, as the music reached its crescendo, the sound vibrating around the great Opera Hall, he stood, triangle in hand, and when the conductor indicated, he struck the triangle.
 
It seemed in that instant quite ludicrous, a tiny tinkle in that vast ocean of sound, but there it was, audible, harmonious and adding something very special.   

I thought about the man and his triangle as I walked home that evening along the harbour’s edge, the city lights reflected in the now-dark sea. I wondered how many people noticed him, how patiently he waited for his time, his small part, and what a difference it made. I wondered about his life and how he came to be playing the triangle in that particular orchestra.
 
As the music died away and the grandeur of the night receded, he stayed with me.
 
Sometimes when I feel that what I have to offer is insignificant and unlikely to make any difference, I think of him and I’m reminded that in the hands of the Great Conductor, every part is significant to the beauty and overall harmony of the music.
 
I’m sometimes guilty of wanting the big part, the significant role that makes a visible difference. Slowly (and what a slow learner I am) I’m learning that I was made for small things and my contribution will always be from the back of the orchestra but it’s no less significant.