A Piano’s Sacred Journey
🇭🇷 Pročitajte na hrvatskom / Read in Croatian
Where Our Lady Leads
From Sinj to Southampton
By Silvana Dugandžić Penavić
• • •
“U pismi te tražit”
In a song, I search for you.
— from “Uvik ću te svojon zvati” by Denis Batinović Pekma, performed by Klapa Sinj
The Music My Parents Loved
My mother loved the music in the churches of Croatia. Growing up in Hrvace, near Sinj, she was raised under the protection of Čudotvorna Gospa Sinjska—the Miraculous Lady of Sinj—whose image has held the central place in the hearts of her people for centuries. In 2024, Pope Francis declared that beloved church an official Basilica, honoring what the faithful of that region have always known: this is sacred ground.
My father grew up in Vionica, Župa Međugorje in Herzegovina — a man who stood tall and always told me to do the same. He was raised near the place where the apparitions of Our Lady would one day draw millions of pilgrims from around the world. Both of my parents were shaped by places devoted to the Blessed Mother.
The sound of music filling those sacred spaces was never just music to them—it was prayer made audible, a conversation between heaven and earth. My mother carried that reverence in her heart her entire life. When she came to visit me in America, she would light up at the sound of church music, as if it carried her back to the stone churches of her childhood.
I built my life in America, but some things cross every ocean. The faith my parents planted in me, the love of sacred music, the devotion to Our Lady—these traveled with me. Perhaps it is no coincidence, then, that the piano I chose to release from my hands found its home in the Basilica of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary. Our Lady has been the quiet thread running through my family’s story—from Sinj, to Međugorje, to Southampton. From one Basilica’s spirit to another Basilica’s home.
When my mother passed in July of 2025, I felt that silence the way you feel the absence of a heartbeat. Something vital had gone quiet. I didn’t know then that she was already guiding me toward filling that silence in a way I could never have planned.
The Instrument I Chose
In 2009, I purchased a Yamaha G3 grand piano—a six-foot-one masterpiece, handcrafted in Hamamatsu, Japan. I remember the moment I first heard its voice: deep, rich, warm, powerful. It was not just an instrument. It was alive. I knew immediately—this was the one.
The Yamaha G3 served my family beautifully for years. Its sound filled our home, accompanied our celebrations, and carried our sorrows. But when life shifted and I moved to Florida, the piano went into storage on Long Island—carefully packed, stored on its side for four years in a climate-controlled unit in Bay Shore.
Four years of silence for an instrument built to sing.
The Phone Call
In early February of 2026, I picked up the phone and called my friend, Dr. Kalina Mrmevska—an award-winning concert pianist who made her debut at the age of nine and has performed across Europe and the United States. Critics have called her “a pianist of enviable power” and “an artist of clear and vivid vision.” We had both studied at Stony Brook University, and over the years our friendship had been built on a shared love of music and faith.
I said to her: "Kalina, remember my beautiful piano? I really want to donate it. Maybe you can help."
What I did not know—what I could not have known—was that Kalina had become the Music Director at the Basilica of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary in Southampton, New York, just three months earlier, in November of 2025. And she had been looking for a piano for the Basilica.
I called to offer a gift. She had been praying for exactly that gift.
Within days, everything fell into place. The piano was in Bay Shore—fifty minutes away, directly on the highway, ground level storage. I gave them the information and stepped back. Two weeks later, the piano was in the Basilica.
Some will call this coincidence. I call it God’s timing.
Letting Go, Letting God
Lent is a season we often think of as giving things up—fasting, sacrificing, denying ourselves. But the deeper invitation of Lent is not about deprivation. It is about discernment. Recognizing what we are holding onto that belongs somewhere else. Surrendering what is precious to us so it can serve a higher purpose.
That is exactly what happened with my piano. I felt my mother’s hand in it—gently, unmistakably. The woman who loved church music in Croatia was guiding her daughter to place a grand piano in an American basilica. A basilica dedicated to the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary—Our Lady, once again, at the center of everything.
Ave Maria
The day they assembled the piano in the Basilica, Larry, a master piano technician, held up his tuning fork to test it. After four years stored on its side, by all reason it should have needed serious work. But Larry was stunned — the piano was almost pitch perfect.
Kalina sat down at the keys. She played Ave Maria.
Even untuned, the sound was heavenly. I could feel it filling the Basilica — that deep, rich Yamaha voice rising up into the sacred space, touching every wall, every pew, every corner. Here was a concert pianist — a woman whose hands have graced stages across Europe — playing a prayer of gratitude and respect on my piano, in a house of God. The perfect first words for an instrument beginning its new life.
I recorded that moment. It is one I will hold forever.
The Sound I Heard
Later that afternoon, Larry tuned the G3 to its full glory — nearly three hours of meticulous work by a master's hand. And when I heard it during Mass through the Facebook live stream — from my home in Florida, thousands of miles from that Southampton sanctuary — I was astounded.
The sound was heavenly yet human. Rich. Powerful. Full. Every note carried the depth and warmth that made me fall in love with that instrument in 2009. But now it carried something more—the resonance of a sacred space, the prayers of a congregation, the spirit of a gift given freely.
Before the piano left my care, I touched it gently one last time. I told it: " Do your best in serving the Basilica. Proudly represent my spirit, my name, my family."
And it is doing exactly that.
A Name on a Plaque
There will be a plaque bearing my name—Silvana Dugandžić Penavić—on that piano in the Basilica of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary. Not for vanity, but for legacy. So that my children and grandchildren can walk into that church and know that their mother, their grandmother, gave something beautiful to God’s house.
From the Basilica of Čudotvorna Gospa Sinjska where my mother’s faith was born, from Župa Međugorje where my father stood tall before Our Lady, to a Basilica on Long Island where a Yamaha G3 now sings every Sunday—this is an unbroken thread. A thread of faith, of music, of devotion to the Blessed Mother, carried across an ocean by a woman who follows her heart wherever God speaks—with bravery and courage, and a trust that never wavers.
• • •
This Lenten season, I invite you to ask yourself: What am I holding in storage that belongs in a sacred space? What gift has God placed in your hands that is waiting to fulfill its true purpose?
You don’t have to donate a grand piano. But you do have something—a talent, a resource, a piece of your heart—that is meant to serve beyond yourself. Lent is the season to listen. To discern. To let go, and let God.
And in the sound of my piano filling that Basilica, I have found you, Mama.
I am certain she is hearing every note.
And if you, too, want to hear the song that started it all...
🎵 Listen: Klapa Sinj — Uvik ću te svojon zvati (U pismi te tražit)
Hear the Piano
You can hear the Yamaha G3 during Mass at the Basilica of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary in Southampton, NY, and through their Facebook live stream. Visit their Facebook page to experience the sound for yourself.
