My wife and I were browsing pianos in a music shop yesterday. I’ve always loved music. But as the years go by, I find myself increasingly drawn to stripped-down versions of familiar songs, bare, honest arrangements where every note matters. I do play the guitar, though not very well anymore. The stiffness in my fingers has allowed time to quietly steal away my ability.
As I listened to the warm, resonant tones of a new piano, a thought emerged uninvited: one life is not enough; not enough to explore the vastness of music, not enough to fully express what stirs inside us. There are whole worlds hidden behind the keys of a piano, the strings of a cello, the breath of a flute. And no matter how we try, time is always shorter than we think.
I thought of missed opportunities. Of my younger self and the dreams, I shelved. The idea of playing “Brian Boru’s March” on a quality flute still lingers from my folk music days some thirty years ago. I’ve imagined reaching that soaring high G on the cello in Benedictus or playing that haunting saxophone solo from Hazel O’Connor’s Will You. But with age comes realism. Not self-pity, just honesty. Those days, for now, are gone; gone for this life, at least.
And yet, I’m not without hope.
The biblical figure Job—part poet, part philosopher—once asked a question that still echoes: “If a man dies, will he live again?” It’s the question at the root of every human longing, every song, every prayer, every ache of beauty we encounter. In his own answer, Job declares, “All the days of my hard service I will wait until my renewal comes.” He saw that life, in all its complexity, must mean more than dust and disappearance.
That longing makes sense to me. We love, we create, we grow into our humanity, we fill our minds with memory and learning and art—and what, only to vanish? That doesn’t add up. Not when the heart keeps reaching.
So yes, I have hope. In the Renewal Jesus promised, I believe I will play “Brian Boru’s March” on a perfect flute. I will pick up the cello and finally reach that high G—not just in music, but in spirit. Because Christ said, “He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.”
And that, to me, sounds like the most beautiful note of all.
One Life Is Not Enough
One Life Is Not Enough
My wife and I were browsing pianos in a music shop yesterday. I’ve always loved music. But as the years go by, I find myself increasingly drawn to stripped-down versions of familiar songs, bare, honest arrangements where every note matters. I do play the guitar, though not very well anymore. The stiffness in my fingers has allowed time to quietly steal away my ability.
As I listened to the warm, resonant tones of a new piano, a thought emerged uninvited: one life is not enough; not enough to explore the vastness of music, not enough to fully express what stirs inside us. There are whole worlds hidden behind the keys of a piano, the strings of a cello, the breath of a flute. And no matter how we try, time is always shorter than we think.
I thought of missed opportunities. Of my younger self and the dreams, I shelved. The idea of playing “Brian Boru’s March” on a quality flute still lingers from my folk music days some thirty years ago. I’ve imagined reaching that soaring high G on the cello in Benedictus or playing that haunting saxophone solo from Hazel O’Connor’s Will You. But with age comes realism. Not self-pity, just honesty. Those days, for now, are gone; gone for this life, at least.
And yet, I’m not without hope.
The biblical figure Job—part poet, part philosopher—once asked a question that still echoes: “If a man dies, will he live again?” It’s the question at the root of every human longing, every song, every prayer, every ache of beauty we encounter. In his own answer, Job declares, “All the days of my hard service I will wait until my renewal comes.” He saw that life, in all its complexity, must mean more than dust and disappearance.
That longing makes sense to me. We love, we create, we grow into our humanity, we fill our minds with memory and learning and art—and what, only to vanish? That doesn’t add up. Not when the heart keeps reaching.
So yes, I have hope. In the Renewal Jesus promised, I believe I will play “Brian Boru’s March” on a perfect flute. I will pick up the cello and finally reach that high G—not just in music, but in spirit. Because Christ said, “He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.”
And that, to me, sounds like the most beautiful note of all.
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