THE MUSICAL JOURNEY THAT MENDED A BROKEN HEART
The power of melody
It takes an extraordinary woman to help her husband recover from the grief of losing his first wife. But through the power of love and music, that is exactly what Lyn Richards has done
On Christmas morning, before we visit our grandchildren, I will sit in our local church and listen to my husband, John, play the organ for the congregation. It will be an extraordinary ending to a story that has seen him rise from the depths of grief and despair to the heights of Westminster Abbey. As I listen to the carols and reflect on our journey together, I will feel so grateful for his music, which has saved us both.
When I first met John, I had recently divorced, and moved to Cardiff with my three children. We crossed paths at the leisure centre where John challenged me to a badminton match, and that was the start of our friendship.
We’d known each other around 15 years when I heard that his wife, Barbara, a music teacher, had collapsed and died of a brain haemorrhage at the age of 50. I didn’t know her well, but I knew what a loss this would be for John and their son and daughter, and I went to visit him to see what I could do.
He was a broken man, almost incoherent with despair. As the weeks and months passed, he remained utterly traumatised, and his condition only seemed to worsen. He became incredibly anxious around other people, afraid to leave the house. Although he went back to work as a civil servant, he would sometimes leave in the middle of the day because he couldn’t cope. He was put on medication for high blood pressure, and became obsessed and paranoid about his health. He had always been such a fun, friendly, outgoing person, but now when anyone spoke to him, he would disintegrate, unable to respond. It was terrible to see.
I had experienced the vulnerability and isolation that comes with suddenly finding yourself on your
I saw the man I had known begin to emerge again – I saw happiness
own. I understood what John needed and I knew that, over time, I could help him.
A CHANGE OF SCENERY
Everyone where he lived knew John and what had happened. I could see he needed to get away from all of that and find a new way to live. John had always loved walking, so I took him away for short walking breaks. Every trip had to be a surprise, otherwise he would feel terribly anxious beforehand, so I arranged everything and just gave him directions when he sat behind the wheel.
Over the years, we spent more and more time together, and our friendship developed into a romantic relationship. I could see he still wasn’t happy with himself, but we were getting there. We married in 1995 and began our life together, but there was something my new husband was still missing.
I knew John had had piano lessons as a little boy and had taught himself to play the organ at church and for weddings. He loved playing at home, too, but when Barbara died he stopped and refused to play any more. I felt this was because he knew, deep down, that music would reach the parts of his grief that he was afraid of, and he didn’t want to disturb those emotions. But I was certain that music could help to heal him; that it would flow through him and touch the parts that were still hurting. The walking had helped, but I felt music was a vital part of the jigsaw for making John feel whole again. So I developed a plan.
I decided that for one of our walking breaks, we would travel to Blenheim Palace, where I had been amazed by the famous huge Willis organ. I wrote to the archivist and managed to arrange for the Duke of Marlborough to grant John permission to play it. John had no idea of what I had done.
The big day arrived and we walked through the palace, admiring the splendour, until we came to the Long Library, where the organ was. John walked towards it, but stopped when he saw an envelope sitting on it, addressed to John F Richards. He turned to me, openmouthed. Inside the envelope was a letter from the Duke of Marlborough, granting John permission to play. He suddenly became very anxious, so I suggested he just put his fingers on the keys to see how it felt. Then he panicked that he didn’t have any music with him… I reassured him I had some in my rucksack. John sat down at the organ, and soon was absorbed by the music and oblivious to the world. He played non-stop for two hours. I was very choked up and overwhelmed. I saw the man I had known before begin to emerge again – I saw happiness. It was a wonderful moment. That was the turning point. After that visit, John started practising the piano again. From then on, every time we went on a walking holiday, I would find out if there was a cathedral nearby and write ahead in secret to get permission for John to play there. For John’s 60th birthday, I arranged a This Is Your Life party, with surprise appearances by friends from his junior school, old colleagues and friends. The final surprise was a letter from Westminster Abbey. A few weeks later, surrounded by the grandeur of that historic building, John sat at the enormous organ and played while I listened, bursting with pride. This boy who had taught himself the organ was playing in Westminster Abbey!
Cathedral after cathedral, all over Wales, England and Scotland, John’s confidence built, and the man I had known emerged. I asked his friend to invite him to play badminton again, and he grew fitter and healthier. John’s independence grew, and he went from being terrified and breaking out in a sweat at the thought of buying a pint of milk on his own to being self-reliant. The pain was healing.
Our musical journey has taken nearly 20 years now, and I have watched John play in every cathedral in the country – 94 in total. He played in the final cathedral, in Inverness, in July and when I took my last photo of him at the organ, just as I had every time, I was overwhelmed with emotion at how far he’d come. When others say that this is down to me, that I have selflessly given him a gift, I don’t see it that way – it’s just a great relief that John has found a way to live with his grief so that we can be happy together.
We are now in our 70s, and I have trained to offer support to families whose loved ones have been murdered and to help victims of domestic abuse. John supports me in my work now, just as I supported him. When I hear him play the hymns in church on Christmas morning, I will let my thoughts roll back over the years and the cathedrals. As the chorus soars, so too will my pride in the man I love. My favourite carol is In The Bleak Midwinter, and I am always struck by the poignancy of the final lines, ‘Yet what I can, I give Him: give my heart’.
He knew, deep down, that music would reach the parts of his grief that he was afraid of