Over time the two began to blend together and I wrote music, mostly worship songs. Right after my son's wreck I penned a few songs from a raw emotional state. And then I stopped. Music died. I didn't even want to listen to music much. My son had been a drummer and a song writer and an accomplished musician. It broke my heart to hear music of any kind; and sometimes it made me downright mad.
But over the last few months I have begun to return to that part of my heart and have a look around. I miss my son's music, but I was also missing my own. And I missed hearing Him sing over me.
Zephaniah 3:16 says this: