Strumming

One day this week, as I was buzzing around the house, methodically performing my daily
tasks, my ears perked up at the sound of something that has been missing from our home
for months: the sound of my husband's guitar.  I dropped my basket, ran into the den,
and gasped when I saw Shawn, strumming his beloved guitar.  Isabelle had wandered into
the room as well and immediately sat down in front of the drums, keeping time to her
Daddy's steady beat.

Strum, strum, strum with one hand.  And with each strum you feel more alive, more
like yourself.  With each strum, you believe that you will rise again.  As the sounds of
the Squier  noisily fill the room, you forget the quiet, dark hours that have stolen your
days.  You forget, if but for a moment, where you are and what has happened.  You just
do what you know how to do: you strum.  With one hand, you make do.  You create
something beautiful with what you have been given.  Because that is who you are.  You
are bound and determined to write a new song, to play a new tune, to strum your guitar
like you were born to do, one way or another.

And we were there to witness this moment.  Isabelle, with her natural gift of rhythm,
thumped on those drums to keep up with your sound.  "Keep going, Daddy.  You've got
this", she cheered you on.  Clapping, singing, arms held high: you've got this.
Keep strumming, you rambling man.  Your song is not yet finished.