There is a core of who I am that is tangled in music. I grew up going to symphonies, playing in some of the best bands and orchestras in the state. I was through and through a clarinet-playing, band geek.
My house has a nearly constant musical score running underneath.
My husband is forever noodling on his guitars. I write to music and sing snippets of Broadway, Mother Goose, Louis Armstrong, Simon and Garfunkle, and even “Uptown Funk” to my kids.
Music draws pictures and speaks words I cannot always form coherently. You know what I mean?
The fun thing is to watch my kids as they enter into music.
My daughter is twelve and plays the oboe. It isn’t just me who says she has a natural talent. All her teachers have been impressed with how quickly she’s taken to it.
But like most activities, there are level of equipment. Every time we’re at a lesson, her teacher mumbles in frustration over her current oboe—it isn’t pitched correctly, doesn’t have all the keys she needs, etc., etc.
And she has a scholarship audition coming in a few weeks.
Our girl needs an upgrade, a very expensive upgrade for basically two silver keys. A very expensive upgrade that isn’t in our budget.
Enter Parental Sacrifice
My husband plays electric bass guitar. He loves his guitars…his expensive, collectible, hand made guitars.
Yesterday, he sold one of his guitars and shipped it out. He gave half the money to my daughter to buy a better oboe.
Be still my heart. I wish I had taken a picture of her face when he told her. She kept saying, “You don’t have to do that, Daddy!”
And he said, “It’s what I want to do for you.”
You all, it was one of the first times I’ve seen a real-live image of what our good father does for us. His genetics give us talent. His authority gives us place to use our gifts. And his generosity provides at the precise moment we need it.
Never forget he is “able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us.”*
*St. Paul in Ephesians