
We wend our way through the show room.
Keys shine, ivory gloss and polished ebony.
They urge fingertips to sweep across them.
The ambience of the room casts a spell, makes believe that all one would need to do is begin to play with a flourish and concert pianist music would flow forth.
But I know better. My fingers are not musical.
Oh, I’m an appreciator of beautiful music and glorious instruments.
I love them madly.
Played by someone who is not me.
And while my daughter does not hold the hours or accreditation for the title Master Pianist, it doesn’t matter.
To me, she is anyhow.
Because love works that way.
Perhaps a 100K grand piano does carry a better resonance, rolling sound, wavering depth.
The greater truth is not found in the instrument, the make or model,
the brand name or price point.
The greater truth is found in choosing to make music at all.
Life holds hard left turns and unexpected right hand switchback curves for all of us.
Music masters or not.
Setbacks. Setups. Setdowns.
Upsets. Upsidedowns. Upendedness.
Knocked out. Knocked down.
Let go. Lost alone.
When make-believe melts away, we make music anyway.
Choosing melody in our mundane.
Finding songs through our sorrow.
Leaning into longing along with our lament.
Seeing Jesus anyway.
Noting the grace of today; naming the hope of tomorrow.
Finding healing in tears and offering friendship to fears.
Believing He knows best.
Receiving His relentless love.
Embracing the masterpiece He sees in each of us.
Because love works that way.
