The Present is King

Having a child is so different than wanting to have a child. As I write this, my first and only daughter is lying on my chest, her warm body melting into mine, her little lungs softly breathing freshly upon my skin. Only a week ago, this same daughter was driving her parents to near insanity, crying out for more food in a language we could not understand. What is wrong with us? We are capable, intelligent, perceptive people who at the seemingly imperceivable cry of an infant are operating at our wits end and no sleep.

When I imagined having a child with my wife, I imagined the stories we would tell of growth and hardship, triumph and strength. I surely didn't realize how scary it would be to have the doctor tell us

Dead Body, Grieving Body

John died thirteen days ago on a Wednesday from Leukemia, a disease he had been battling for the last ten years. He was fifty-five years old with a wife, a son and a daughter. I didn’t know John, but I had prepared music which his family selected as “some of his favorites” for me to sing at his funeral the following Monday. I spent some of the morning rehearsing the unfamiliar music and as I sat occupied in the front pew - reviewing the lyrics in my head, humming to myself to warm up my vocal folds, and glancing at the bulletin to see when my turn would be – it was only slowly, with sporadic awareness, that I noticed where I was, that this was not merely another gig or performance.