Back in high school, I attended a small church nestled in a tiny Indiana village. I call it a village because “town” felt too generous — it had only three streets. The church was old, and on Sunday mornings, many pews sat empty. But you could always count on the same familiar faces. It was a small, faithful group.

I started going because a friend invited me. That first Sunday, I didn’t know a soul. But by the time I left for Purdue, I knew nearly everyone. That’s not a boast — there were maybe 20 people in the congregation. They didn’t just teach me the words to Because He Lives — they taught me to believe them.

My friend and I were 16 at the time, and we brought the average age of the congregation down significantly. Most of the others could’ve been our grandparents or great-grandparents. You can imagine the joy on their faces when we walked through the doors. One woman even bought me a monthly devotional. Some lessons from that tiny book were so moving that I ripped out lessons I wanted to keep, and I still have them tucked away in a drawer today. 

Though I haven’t been back to that church in more than twenty years, there’s one woman I remember vividly.

Her name was Kitty.

Every Sunday Kitty would come flying in, barely beating the clock that hung at the back of the sanctuary. She played the organ with passion, filling the tiny church with sound that seemed to bounce off every wall. She sang as she played — loudly, confidently — and rarely glanced at a hymnal. Just as quickly as she arrived, she’d vanish after the service.

Sometimes, the minister would announce, “This morning we’ll now have special music from Kitty.” Then Kitty would rise to deliver it.

Though she was small, her voice was anything but. It was high-pitched, powerful and had a certain scratch to it — if that’s even a musical term. Honestly, her singing reminded me of a cat.

My friend and I would exchange glances, maybe a quiet giggle or an elbow nudge. We always knew what was coming.

Kitty’s music was … special.

But here’s the thing: I admired her. Kitty stood in front of that congregation and belted out her love for Jesus. It was genuine. It was bold. And let me tell you: it was loud.

One day, I was reading the paper and saw a face I hadn’t seen in years. It was Kitty — in the obituary section. I read about her life, her devotion to her family, her community and her church. She had been an organist for 47 years — not just at our church, but at several. She served the little church I attended for 20 of those years. Suddenly, it made sense why she always rushed in and out — she had other services to play, choirs to direct, Easter programs to lead. Kitty was a faithful servant through music.

I leaned back in my chair, thinking about my brief connection to her. I felt ashamed.

I was shamed that I ever giggled at her “special music,” because that music was her gift — her way of serving others. It was how she shared the talents given to her. Who was I, a 16-year-old who could barely plunk out Mary Had a Little Lamb, to smirk at her offering?

If I could go back, I’d stop Kitty after church and thank her.

I learned something from Kitty that week, through her tribute in the newspaper.

God gives each of us unique talents, gifts. Things we can do, create or give that no one else can.

Edwin Elliot once said, “By being yourself, you put something wonderful in the world that was not there before.” I believe that. There will never again be music in that church quite like Kitty’s.

So use your gifts. Every last one, regardless of what age you unearth it. Don’t shrink that talent down because it’s loud or bold. Don’t hide what you’ve been given, because no one else has it. 

Maybe that’s the whole point. Our breed is so full with varying backgrounds and beliefs, but you can share your gift — from the branding pen to the boardroom, the judging van to the calving barn. Just don’t let it go to waste.  

I’ve heard it said that the meaning of life is to find your gift, and the purpose of life is to give it away.

Kitty did. Every Sunday.  

Editor’s note: Lindsay Sankey is a freelance writer from Economy, Ind.