His hands glide gracefully over the keys producing more than just music—he makes the nine-foot Steinway sing, somehow transferring the message of his own heart and that of the composer’s into a delightful banquet of sounds—dark and foreboding one minute, and then an explosion of light the next. The music bursts forth with images of the pounding tide and then drops off into a gentle lullaby.
It’s more than just major or minor, melody and harmony, allegro and largo—it is heart and soul poured out through the keys, it is touch and tone flashing colors into the air, shouting and whispering, sobbing and laughing out the message.
I dare you to sit here and listen unmoved! Yes, he’s my son. Yes, I love music, and that certainly enhances this fine hour, but he is more than just my son—he is a passionate master of his trade, wielding this grand instrument with the skill of the expert he has become. He has honed his God-given abilities until his music pours forth like liquid gold, expressing with the greatest finesse all that each composer, from Bach to Ravel, has been inspired to preserve through ink and paper. Music—such a simple term for this complex blend of composer, performer, and audience.
Am I proud? Painfully so! I thank God for my son and the musician he is, but that will never come close to the pride and joy I hold in my heart for his diligence to become the young man, husband, and father that God has created him to be.
Blessed be the LORD my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight. Psalm 144:1