Anne's piano.

My husband, Mark, dashed into the convenience store trying to shield himself from December's cold blasts. We were on our way to the airport, headed west to speak at a medical convention, anticipating the warm weather and the excitement of the big city. Mark returned from the store with a small brown package in his hand and, to my surprise, a shivering elderly lady at his side.

What a contrast the two of them were--Mark "dressed for success" in a gray wool pinstripe suit, and the stranger clothed in a green polyester coat with two missing buttons and a tan stain on the front. Her 10 half-frozen toes peeked out from timeworn sandals.

As the determined lady struggled into the back seat of the car, she flashed a tender smile my way. "My name's Anne," she announced boldly. "I understand you folks are headed down Kentucky way."

Anne's husband, it turned out, was a patient at a nearby nursing home, and was not expected to survive through the Christmas holidays. The two had married late in life, never had children, and when their small monthly allotment dwindled, Anne often hitched a ride to the nursing home. Like so many Appalachian women of her generation, she was fiercely independent--a survivor. She usually stayed at the nursing home all day. Even though her husband was in a hopeless coma, the facility was warm, the food was good, and there was a piano in the day-room, where she could while away the hours and her cares at the keyboard.

As we approached the small brick convalescent center, I remembered the cache of calling cards in my brief-case. I handed my ivory linen card to Anne. "Don't hesitate to call us if we can ever give you a lift to the nursing home," I said. Anne smiled, thanked us for the ride, then confronted the unyielding wind, her thin coat blowing wildly. As we drove off, our thoughts shifted to the activities ahead.

When we returned home, baking, buying gifts, and an endless array of holiday errands consumed our days. Anne called a couple of times to chat, but it wasn't until Christmas that our paths actually crossed again.

"Did you take Anne anything for Christmas?" Mark asked late Christmas night. How could I have forgotten?

We scurried about the house gathering some remnants of Christmas for Anne. Surprisingly, as we approached her tiny frame residence, the porch light was still burning, a beacon in the dark night. We rang the doorbell and waited. Soon she opened the door and invited us in, saying she just knew we were coming for Christmas.

"This is Honey; she's an alley cat plus a better breed," Anne announced, stroking the animal's soft fur lovingly. "And Honey and I have a special Christmas present for you." As we stepped inside the living room, our eyes took in Anne's short-sleeved cotton dress, the tattered sofa and chair, and rugs taped around each window to protect her from the harsh December weather. A light bulb dangled from a ceiling wire.

Anne picked up a xylophone and methodically plunked out "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" on its rusted, paint-chipped keys. "I picked this up for a quarter last summer at a rummage sale," she said proudly, "and I've been saving it for just the right occasion. Got this dress there, too. A real bargain for a dime, and a perfect size 14 at that."

"Do you have a piano?" Anne queried. I nodded, feeling uncomfortably materialistic about the concert grand in our living room at home and the nice clothes flooding our closet. Christmas was nearly over, and in my busyness I hadn't even played a Christmas carol.

"Could you ... would you go home and play 'Silent Night'? You could hold the telephone next to your piano and I could celebrate Christmas one more time," Anne pleaded. Then she shared with us her Christmas dream of acquiring a piano, preferably an old upright model like she'd played as a child. She had little money, but had faith that God would send one her way.

After the holidays I began to search the classified advertisements in hopes of finding a reasonably priced used piano for Anne. It soon became apparent, though, that all the bargains had been quickly snatched up by the area piano dealers. There was clearly no new piano available within our budget. I tried to compensate with other small gifts--a pretty blouse, an African violet, a tin of talcum powder.

On Valentine's Day, Anne barely noticed the candy I brought her. "My piano will be here soon," she revealed. And throughout the rest of thhe winter her faith intensified. Her strong faith amazed me, and amused me. I feared disappointment rather than a piano was coming her way.

Later that spring Mark and I again dropped by to visit Anne. We alone shared a wonderful secret. Some family members were moving and had sold their home. The new owner's sole request was that the heavy upright piano in the basement be removed from the premises.

"Can you think of anyone who could use that old relic?" they asked. "They could just have it if they'd move it." Could we ever!

Anne ran to meet us when she spotted our car. "My piano ... it's coming." Mark and I could hardly contain our joy, but Anne was baffled--not that a piano was coming, but that we were surprised. She had been joyfully expectant since Christmas night, when she put her faith into action. "I've been playing my piano already in my mind," she explained.

And ever since the massive, oak upright was rolled into Anne's living room, music hasn't stopped flowing. Her artistic expression hasn't been limited by advancing age, debilitating arthritis, or glaucoma. Anne's husband has since passed away, and Honey had to be put to sleep. But music -- all types of music -- connects Anne with the world. She plays regularly at her neighborhood church and has recently joined a senior citizens' band. Anne doesn't read music, but listens to tapes, the radio, and other musicians, and beautifully emulated what she hears.

Before I met Anne, I understood faith in my mind; now I understand it in my heart.

Roberta Messner, R.N., Ph.D., writes from Kenova, West Virginia.