Two feet too small to reach the floor,
a glance in search of needed praise
from eyes that leaped from keys to score,
I well recall those yesterdays,
when little hands so awkwardly
tried hard to play notes gracefully.
These memories return to me
each time my daughter plays.

And now, years hence, her grace and poise
no longer need a father’s praise;
the music bears its own sweet joys
as sacrifice and practice pay.
Rachmaninoff or Debussy,
the common thread I clearly see
in piano, prayer, and poetry
each time my daughter plays.

My spirit soars to hear the sound;
its purity of tone betrays
a birthright from celestial ground,
a dowry chance could never raise.
In her I see God’s grand design;
she is His child, as well as mine.
I glimpse that heritage divine
each time my daughter plays.

My daughters have all studied music. All play the piano to some degree of mastery. The process of writing this poem began on a Sunday afternoon while listening to and watching one of them play. The seed of divinity in each of us makes us capable of wondrous things. Music is a witness of who we are and our purpose in living. It is one of several media (prayer and poetry are two other) through which the Spirit of God touches and teaches our souls (not just the spirit, but the spirit and physical body combined). Although we certainly have spiritual ears, and the spirit hosts of heaven are certainly capable of singing their joy and praises to God, I can’t help but feel that making and hearing music as living souls will be one of the things we will very much miss in the Spirit World.