Rounding out our celebration week for our two daughters’ birthdays, I stand on the roof-top with a trumpet and play it to the heavens. I play it to the heavens, this old beat-up, dented horn, it belonged to my dad a long time ago.
I play it from the roof-top, celebrating and proclaiming the wonder of being a dad, and in particular, the father of two daughters. We have a son too, our middle guy, but with the birthdays this week, I sound the horn in the gentle breeze, out across the neighborhood, for the girls today.
An uneven and even unintelligible tune comes from the bell, maybe the only thing you can understand from it is the joy and the love, the louder each blast, the more steady, the more sure you can be of my feelings. My sense of responsibility and ownership and uncertainty and all the same steadiness, it’s infinitely more steady than the notes that play out to the world.
The sun shines, the trumpet sounds, my feet are steady high above the ground, sure I am of my purpose, and our girls, and our love for them. They are a wonder, is it any wonder I make such a proclamation, such a musical declaration? Let it sound from on high, “Happy Birthday, and God Bless, and We Love You!”
Feels so GOOD.