Thankful For "Her Hands, His Music, Our Song"

Happy Thanksgiving.

“It is good to give thanks to the Lord, to sing praises to Your name, O Most High;
to declare Your steadfast love in the morning, and Your faithfulness by night.”

What am I most thankful for this thanksgiving?

In terms of “stuff” it’s the arrival of My mom’s Piano

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Growing Up in a House of Holy Music

I grew up in a home where the presence of God floated in the air long before I had the words for Him. It wasn’t in sermons or devotions or lectures—it was in the music of my mom.

The piano.
The organ.
The steady stream of students who sat beside her bench, learning not only notes but reverence, discipline, and joy.
The early mornings when she practiced for Mass.
The evenings when she prepared for Protestant worship.

My mom lived at the intersection of keys and Kingdom.

And she taught me—without ever needing to say it—that music is one of the ways God breathes healing into the world.

She told stories about it:

“John, I don’t just play songs. God uses the notes.
Somebody out there always needs the sound of healing.”

Her hands were instruments.
Her feet were messengers.
Her music was prayer.

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A Final Conversation, A Final Ache

One of our last conversations is etched into me like Scripture.

She was lying on her couch—weak, thin, worn down from chemo. Her body had fought, but the strokes had taken her vision. And with her sight…went her playing.

She looked at me—eyes cloudy, heart clear.

“You know, John… what’s worse than dying?”

“No, Mom. What’s worse?”

“I can’t play anymore.”

Those words were the sound of heartbreak—the moment when the world’s suffering tries to silence a worshiper.

But then, in the quiet of that sacred room, she whispered:

“Renee… would you play?”

And Renee sat at her beautiful Yamaha, Mom’s favorite, and began to play “On Eagle’s Wings.”

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“And He will raise you up on eagles’ wings, bear you on the breath of dawn…”

Those words were more than lyrics in that moment.
They were a prophecy.
A promise.
A hand from heaven reaching down into a living room in the middle of suffering.

Mom couldn’t play anymore.
She couldn’t see.
She couldn’t move much!

But God still lifted her.
Still bore her up.
Still wrapped her in the melody she loved more than her own breath.

The Lord Himself became her music.

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Advent, Silent Night, Eagle’s Wings — Mom in Every Note

Now—whenever I sing the songs of Advent,
whenever Silent Night moves softly through a sanctuary,
whenever Eagle’s Wings rises like incense,

I see her hands.
I hear her heart.
I remember how she worshiped.

Her music shaped my faith.
Her songs shaped my calling.
Her sacrifice shaped my understanding of God’s tenderness.

Her absence has not diminished my love.
It has deepened it.
It has clarified it.
It has made it eternal.

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The Piano That Wouldn’t Sell

When Dad held the estate sale and the piano had to be listed—my heart broke again.

But God has a way of guarding the things meant for holy work.

Time passed.
The piano didn’t sell.
People looked, but no one claimed it.

And then—quiet as a whisper—the Spirit spoke:

“John… you are Heritage.
Heritage needs a piano.
Why shouldn’t your mother’s song continue there?”

So I called the Piano Gallery.
And I bought it back.

Not for nostalgia.
Not for sentiment.

But because God wasn’t done using her music.

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A Holy Moment: Mom’s Presence in the Sanctuary

When they moved the piano into the church, I knew—
I knew—this was sacred ground.

Renee sat down again.
Her hands touched the same keys my mother had touched thousands of times.

And she played Eagle’s Wings.

And as those notes began to rise—

I swear…

I felt Mom.

Not in a ghostly way.
Not in a melancholy way.
But in a holy, resurrected, heaven-is-near way.

Her notes.
Her worship.
Her blessing.
Her presence.

It was as if she leaned in and whispered:

“John… keep preaching.
Keep singing.
Keep sharing Jesus.
And let the music heal them like it healed me.”

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A Son’s Love That Only Grows Stronger

I miss her.
Oh God, I miss her.

Healthy grief has a strange way of becoming gratitude.

The more I live,
the more I preach,
the more I hear that piano ring out in Heritage—

the more I understand what my mom lived for.

She lived to worship.
She lived to heal.
She lived to let God’s love move through her fingers.

And now, in her absence, I love her more deeply, more truthfully, more eternally than I ever could when she was here.

This piano—
this gift—
this touch of my mother in every note—
is God’s reminder that nothing done in love is ever lost.

Her song continues.
Her ministry continues.
Her legacy continues.

And through that piano, she still leads the church in worship.

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A Benediction for Her Legacy

May the God who raised us on eagles’ wings continue to raise up the music in our souls.

May the notes of a mother’s faithful worship echo in the sanctuary of our hearts.

May the love between mother and son continue to rise like a hymn that never ends.

And may every note played on that Yamaha—every chord, every melody, every whisper of grace—be a reminder that love is stronger than death,
memory is stronger than sorrow,
and Jesus Christ still brings resurrection
to every story of loss.

Amen.
And amen.

He Will Raise You Up…

Rev. John Roberts