My oldest son, Brent, and his South Texas Jazz Trio will be playing at Carnegie Hall on Wednesday, January 29. 
     I won't be there to hear him, but he has given me music to last a lifetime. Scales, and scales, and more scales; Chopsticks and Little Brown Jug; Christmas carols and church hymns; etudes, sonatas, and concertos mastered by hours 'sitting on a piano bench.'
     The black Kawai that he pounded the daylights out of for years, breaking so many strings that the company finally sent him a complete replacement set and told him not to contact them again, still sits in my home, mostly quiet now, reminding me of Zechariah 4:10 -

                    "Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord                                                         rejoices to see the work begin..."                                        

     I will be praying for Brent and his wife, Jessica, as they travel from San Antonio to New York today and for a clear memory, sure and flying fingers, and tons of joy as he and his band wow Carnegie Hall on Wednesday evening.



     I muse about Eve from time to time. You know, Eve, mother of all humanity. Most of what I know about her comes from the Bible, which despite the naysayers,  I embrace down to its last jot and tittle. I know she walked with God, lived in paradise, and for a time, had the perfect husband, but the rest I surmise from our shared experience as women.  
     I imagine her on that first fallen morning as she rises to escape Adam's ungodly snoring, adjusts her fig leaves, and stumbles to the water's edge to wash a strange and bitter taste from her mouth. She tries to run her fingers through her once flawless hair, but they get snagged in a mass of tangles. Peering at her reflection, she wonders if those are ripples in the water or wrinkles on her forehead, and cursed with her newly-acquired sense of dissatisfaction, she oversteps her natural boundaries once again and declares, "I shalt create bangs." 
     And thus is born one of womankind's peskiest dilemmas from that age to this. Wispy or heavy? Layered or blunt? Should I grow them out or keep them? 
     Recently, I asked my hairdresser, Tena,  if she could  cut my hair in a way that would let me have bangs when I wanted them and not have them when I didn't. She looked at me as if I'd suffered a blow to the head since my last appointment. "You know that's not possible, right?" 
     Oh, Eve. I'll bet it was possible before the fall. 


KarenGrace Reflections of an Invisible Woman