Safety scissors, a piano, and a load of laundry.
It was summer of 2012. I was 12 when my family decided to load up the minivan and start the journey down from Iowa to Florida for a vacation with our relatives.
Our bags were packed and stuffed in the trunk. The minivan had a DVD player that kept us kids entertained. I had always had a fondness for art, markers, and crafts, so my lap was occupied with a wide ruled notebook and a small bag full of various colored markers, pencils and a pair of safety scissors.
It was a few hours into the trip when my youngest sister — who was 6 at the time — called out to us that somehow her seatbelt had wrapped around her neck.
My dad instructed me, as the oldest sister, to climb to the backseat and help her. Somehow she had wrapped the belt around her neck twice. I tried to loosen it, but only made it tighter.
We were in the farmland of Missouri, with the sky a blend of blazing orange and soft blue, the sun making its way underneath the horizon. My parents pulled over to a stretch of gravel, parking and opening the trunk to tend to my sister. The three older kids went outside to stretch, leaving the mini van doors wide open.
A minute later, I heard my mother screaming in sheer panic, desperately telling my sister to breathe. I knew how tight the seatbelt was. I was suddenly very, very afraid. In my own panic, I looked up at the moon. It was white, shining brightly in the gradient blue sky as the sun continued to set in the distance. I began to pray. My voice broke as I said out loud, looking up at the heavens: “Please do not let this happen. Do not let my sister die.”
Suddenly, I felt something in my body, in my heart. An urgency, ignited like a red hot fire. Move! Run! Now!
Immediately, I sprinted at top speed to the car, finding the pencil bag and grabbing the safety scissors. I yanked back Mom’s shoulder and slapped the scissors into her hand. She took them without a word, and I ran away to the gravel. It wasn’t in my hands anymore.
Mom attempted to cut the seatbelt with the dull blade no more than three inches long. The scissors snapped in half with the pressure, and one blade fell to the floor. She shoved the remaining broken half to my dad. Without another thought, he grabbed them, and with sheer desperate force using broken scissors, he hacked through the seatbelt. My sister was free.
The aftermath was a blur. The paramedics arrived on scene, reassuring the huddled, sobbing mess of Mom and us children that all would be okay. My sister’s eyes were bloodshot, and her skin was speckled with tiny, red dots. I would later learn that the paramedic pulled Dad aside and told him that those dots indicated my sister was seconds away from dying of asphyxiation. She was lucky to be alive.
It was a solemn drive back to Iowa. I remember Dad making the call to my family in Florida, breaking down into sobs. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry like that.
The next day, back home, my youngest sister also cried when she described her near death experience. She had seen all of our faces in the sky, and saw the face of Jesus. Somehow, in that horrible moment, my 6-year old sister was reassured that everything would be okay. The entire family was in tears at this point. Dad said something I will never forget: “That was not her speaking,” he said. “That was the Holy Spirit.”A piano.
My grandmother gifted my family a small, 61-key digital keyboard. It was a standard children’s learning piano, with built-in songs and guided playing through a small LCD screen. I developed a fascination with the piano — spending hours hunched over the keys.
My parents noticed my interest and on Christmas of 2012, they lavished me with a Celviano–an 88-key professional-grade digital piano. They hid it in the basement bathroom, leading all of us downstairs on Christmas Eve to reveal it. I was ecstatic! I had no idea how much that gift would change my life forever.
About six months later after I got that piano, I experienced my first “heartbreak”… whatever that means when you’re 13 years old. The piano suddenly became therapeutic, and the chord of G minor caught my attention. And out of nowhere…a song spilled out of my hands, out of my heart, and my first original song, “Head Over Heels” came into existence.
That fall in orchestra class, I sat down at the school’s grand piano and played my new creation. My orchestra teacher perked up his ears… “Did you write that song?” he asked. I nodded yes. He was impressed. He proposed a challenge: if I could write sheet music for all parts of the orchestra by the last spring concert, he would let me perform my song in front of the entire school community.
I was thrilled. A challenge accepted!
The day of the concert came, just before our final number, my director glanced my way as he turned to the microphone and introduced me and my song. I took my place behind the electric keyboard in the middle of the gymnasium. I was a nervous wreck! My heart was beating out of my throat, and I just barely stopped my hands from shaking as I stood above the keyboard, a microphone at my lips.
Then we began. It felt like it was over in an instant. The audience roared, my director beamed with pride, and I was overwhelmed with joy. After the concert, a flood of parents complimented me and encouraged me to keep composing and performing. Every word added fuel to the artistic fire that had been inside me. That day, I made my decision: I would do everything I could to pursue music.A load of laundry.
As a high schooler, I dove deep into my newfound love for live music and performance. In the evenings, I would pour out my heart onto the keys and on pen and paper. My life as a teenager was documented year after year through pen, paper, and piano.
But as I documented my life… it also became more complicated. In 2018, at 18 years old, I experienced heartbreak beyond anything I had ever felt in my life — an earthquake compared to what I considered heartbreak at age 13.
I started college that fall and struggled with depression. I drifted around my classes and choir rehearsals, feeling like a lost spirit that nobody could see, hear, or feel. My songwriting became darker and heavier, and I felt lost in my loneliness. Music remained my tool, my outlet, my light in the darkness that was enveloping me.
Despite my struggles, I was gaining confidence as a musician, building a solid career as a solo artist with a steady lineup of gigs. My studies sharpened my skills, and I graduated college with a new path in front of me.
Here was the problem: My heart felt completely detached from my songwriting. I felt the mundane reality of adulthood starting to set in as I learned what it meant to forge ahead on your own. Each week I cycled through the downtown Des Moines bar district, trying to find something — anything — to reignite my artistic fire. It felt like I was going through the motions while my songwriter voice was withering away, and years passed without a new song or a real inspiration.
It all came to a head about a year ago with another heartbreak, where this time, I was the one causing the pain. I spent a week alone, grappling with my guilt, my anger at myself, and all the regret. I hit my emotional and spiritual rock bottom with–and this might sound a little weird, but it’s the truth–with a load of laundry.
It was at this point that God made Himself known to me again. I didn’t choose the moment, butGod did.
It was around 10 at night, and I was surrounded by the dull, beige walls of my apartment building’s shared laundry room. All was quiet. I felt miserable as I numbly piled T-shirts and towels into my laundry basket. In my sadness, with all my defenses stripped away, I began to pray, asking God to help me.
Right then, I got a text from an aunt I almost never spoke to. She was doing her best to consoleme: “Tell God what’s on your heart! Pray! He is with you right now!”
And just like that, I knew God had heard me. I broke down into tears over my laundry as I realized that I needed to find Him again.
My brother invited me to his church group, and I attended my first Bible study. Usually, I’m in front of the crowd, giving my energy… but this time, I was surrounded by the crowd who gave their energy to me. They placed their hands on me in prayer, and I collapsed to the ground, sobbing like a baby. In that moment I felt, but didn’t fully appreciate until later, how much my life would change.
Since that moment, the songs have been pouring out of me. I finally realized that my music and my faith were not as separate as I thought. As I stand before you today, I finally understand how my faith and my music are one and the same. I finally feel… whole.
At age 12, I heard the voice of God in a desperate moment of need.
At age 13, I discovered my musical voice, igniting my fire as an artist.
Sometimes I still feel like nothing has really changed since I was a kid standing on the gravel in Missouri, staring up at the bright moon. I continue to ask myself… am I really listening?
At age 26, I at least know I have put some of these pieces together. Whatever the future brings, I feel ready to become what God meant me to be.
To put it into musical terms, I feel like I just finished my opening act. Now I’m ready to step up as the headliner of my life. It’s time to share my full voice, my music, and my faith.
This “Hearts on Fire” story was told Feb. 10 as part of Tell It Like It Is: Iowa Storytellers Project, funded by the Hoyt Sherman Place Foundation in partnership with the Des Moines Register. These stories can be republished by any Iowa newspaper. The next storytellers event is “Search and Rescue” on June 2 at Hoyt Sherman Place. If you have a story to tell, reach out at [email protected]. Hoyt Sherman Place Foundation has donated a portion of the proceeds to help finance Register internships.
Lani Eclatt as told to Kyle Munson.
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