A great moment here in the Wilt home. I began to pen a modern hymn at our keyboard, blending ideas of Trinity with the unimagined nature of God, with headphones on and singing at the top of my voice.
My other children find it quite easy to ignore the creative spectacle they’ve seen before them all these years, but my daughter Abigail doesn’t have the luxury. As I am singing the song, rushing to grab a pen and pad from the kitchen to mark down some of the lyrics coming to me, Abigail is bitten by the songwriting bug. She is susceptible in a way that they are not, it seems.
She begins to sing a very cool, new song about the incarnation I’ve never heard (she’s 13), oblivious to the fact that I’m trying to write one, trying to remember my melody and words as hers tumble in my ears. I look out of the kitchen into our den, and there she is, taking my place at the keyboard and writing with fury. And, I don’t mind telling you… it’s a good start.
In the end, I worked my song out, at least to start it off into the year process it often takes to finish one. As for her? She’ll keep messing around until I can convince her to start documenting these shared fits of creative splash.
It’s in the blood, I tell you. These things are just in the blood.
