Every single day you fight us, daughter, on these lessons. You fight until you hear the music come out the way its meant to. Last year and this, Daddy and I wondered how the recital was going to go. We wondered if there were to be tears over a forgotten note. We wondered if you’d just freeze when you see how many people, perfect strangers, are in attendance. Your teacher, Joanna, coaxes you into proper form during every lesson, reminds you of your bow hold. Reminds you to relax too. Daddy and I see the transformation that comes over you when the music starts and its pure joy for all of us.
Great Uncle Milt gave us the down payment on that violin for your birthday, blessed our socks off, and made this dream manageable. Then Daddy and I worked to get the instrument paid off. Nothing worth having is worth half as much if it comes easy. This is a mantra around here, isn’t it?
Its your violin now, Baby girl, your instrument; and you are God’s. Both of you are meant for beauty. When you stand in that college chapel of ours, there in front of the altar cross, Daddy and I, we realize again just how blessed we are. You’re wearing pearls and such a sweet smile and when you curtsy after Lightly Row, you look more destined for Camelot than our cookie cutter town home life. I look over at your Daddy, who has bravely walked toward the stage to get the important photo. His face says it so eloquently. Every single good gift comes from above, from the Father of lights, you my sweet girl, are one of the most precious gifts, He has ever given us.
Our Happy Dance 