A Joyful Noise

This may be my favorite picture of Boy#3.

I don't know exactly how old he was, but I'm guessing he hadn't turned two yet. Old enough to be mobile, but young enough that his harried mother had dressed him in the first things she grabbed out of the drawer.

I love the chubby hands "playing" a hymn. I love the feet dangling above the ground. I love the cooking pot on his head. And oh, I so love the grin on his face.

Last night I found myself thinking of that kid with the pot on his head, banging on the piano and singing at the top of his lungs: Last night we watched this same kid walk out on the stage and present a junior recital.

Three's now a poised 21-year-old, handsome in his gray suit. He's been worried about whether he was ready for this moment on the stage, but he looked calm. He nodded at his accompanist, took a deep breath, and begin to play.

Within moments my face hurt from smiling. He would tell us later that he'd bumbled a few measures in the first piece, but none of us noticed. The music soared and whispered and tickled and blasted. It was demanding and rewarding, and he nailed it.

As they grew up, I watched the Boys perform and marveled at the potential. "Some day," I'd think, "some day this kid is really going to be good."

This was the day that fulfilled the prophecy, and this kid is good. This is a Boy who loves music, doing what he loves, and the results were purely joyful.