"Harp Strings and Heart Songs" by Vernell Strecker

I was born in 1938, and from the beginning, it was clear I wasn't the boy my father had hoped for. In our family, boys were prized—a tradition going back generations. My father was child number eight, with four sisters and four older brothers before him. He always imagined having sons of his own, and when I came into the world, he had to pivot. But he did it with love—and with a harp.

You see, my father adored harp music. He asked every woman he dated if she'd learn to play. None said yes. So when he married my mother, she made a counteroffer: she'd give him six children, but not the harp lessons. Instead, their firstborn—me—became the harpist. On my 14th birthday, he gave me a concert harp. That instrument became my lifelong companion, my calling.

The first vivid memory I have is from when I was three. It was winter. I went out to play, and an icicle fell from the roof and hit me squarely on the forehead. Blood, pain, panic—but our dog barked until my mother came to the door. I needed stitches, but I survived. That kind of pattern followed me: hardship, grace, and rescue.

Our family moved around before settling in Maine in 1946. We had two horses, and taking care of them taught me responsibility. We carried buckets of warm water out to them before school, learned the value of hard work, and understood that love is shown in small, daily efforts.

When I entered high school, a teacher admitted to our class that he didn’t know the subject he was hired to teach. That did it for my parents. They decided I deserved better and arranged for me to attend high school in Portland, Maine. That change, along with the harp, led to my acceptance into the Cleveland Institute of Music. I studied harp, but the five-hour daily practice caused infections in my fingers. Eventually, I had to stop. But music found another path for me.

I discovered Dalcroze Eurhythmics—a way to experience and teach music through movement. It lit something in me. I became a teacher, working with children, using music to help them grow. I had my own school, at one point with 138 students, teaching in the basement of a church.

But my personal life was less smooth. As a teenager and young adult, I lived recklessly, had many boyfriends, and carried a deep ache I didn’t understand. Even though I attended church all my life, I never heard a clear message about being "born again."

That changed when I was 39. One of those old boyfriends had come to faith and shared the gospel with me. It shocked me. I had been in church every Sunday, sat through countless sermons and Sunday school lessons, yet no one had told me I needed to be born again. That message hit home. I was miserable, though on the outside it looked like I had it all together. Through prayer, Scripture, and the support of Christian friends, I surrendered. On April 30, 1981, I opened my heart to Jesus. It felt like heart surgery. God lifted out the junk and placed in me His Spirit—full of grace, love, and peace.

From that day on, everything changed.

I came to understand that no earthly credential—not even playing the harp—could earn me a place in Heaven. Being born again was the only way. I realized how religion without relationship is hollow. Jesus wanted my heart, not just my attendance.

I’ve faced opposition for my faith, even from my first husband, who never accepted my conversion. That marriage ended. But both of our children came to faith, which is my greatest joy. Then came Hubert.

Meeting Hubert Strecker was a blessing orchestrated by God. He was a German businessman who became friends with my father through the paper industry. Though I hadn’t met him during his many visits, I finally did when he came to my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. We married eight months later. Hubert had also come to faith through a Christian retreat in Germany, where both he and his first wife gave their lives to Christ. When she passed from cancer, and he later married me, we built a beautiful life together.

We lived in New Jersey and then moved to Washington, D.C., where I was part of a music ministry called the National Psalm Singers. We traveled and led worship, and I taught Dalcroze. Later, we moved to Germany to be near Hubert’s children, though they never fully accepted me. When Hubert died at 96, his children gave me just ten days to leave the apartment. I returned to the U.S. in 2024, grieving but grounded in faith.

And here I am today, living with my sister, as we promised each other we would when our husbands passed. It's been one year since I moved in, and it feels like God's kindness all over again.

At 86, I still play the harp. I bring it—or its smaller version—to nursing homes twice a month. I sing, I sit in a wheelchair, I roll from room to room. And I worship. Because that's what I was made to do.

How do I want to be remembered? As a worship harpist. As someone whose heart beat for Jesus. The harp is part of my identity, but not my salvation. Harpists don’t get into Heaven for playing well. Only those who are born again do. But I’ll say this: there are no harps in Hell.

So if you hear my story and wonder what matters most, it’s this: Jesus is near. He’s knocking at the door of your heart. Don’t confuse religion with relationship. Don’t mistake good deeds for grace. Open the door. Say yes.

And if you do, tell me. Or find me in Heaven. I’ll be playing the harp—but only some of the time. There are many other wonderful things to do there, too.