My brother who sang before he spoke sits at the piano coaxing beauty from the ivory keys. The haunting melody drifts up the stairwell filling the entire house.
People listen when he plays.
It’s like the heart that he wears on his sleeve flows down to the tips of strong fingers, ringing, singing a message through black and white keys. The key to hearts is storytelling, and his fingers tell the story.
He plays and the tears threaten, heart throbbing. Fingers fly and the heart surges, elated.
So much power contained, proclaimed in ink and measure and signature, rhythm and cadence and rest and run and chord. Power to heal the human heart through expression and retention.
Praise and lament combine in heartfelt stanza. The Creator gives to us a way to give back a creation of our own.
He plays and for a moment, I enter the most sacred place, treading holy ground. I meet God in a moment of brilliant storytelling.
I want to tell the story too.
I sit at the Baby Grand that survived a 1,500 mile ride from the East Coast, carefully wrapped in many blankets, cocooned in a trailer. His melody rings in my ear as my fingers trill and run and stumble and try again. I grasp for words that do not come easily because I want to tell the story too.
There is a story to tell about a king and a kingdom, “of a feast and a wedding and the groom in his glory when the bride is made ready” (A. Peterson, Carry the Fire).
How will you tell the story today?