The Music in My Hands

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For as long as I can remember, my mother has been a singer in my church. I would tag along with her each week to watch the worship band rehearse, and I can recall just sitting there, absorbing the music, with my eyes always fixed on the drum set. Something about those loud booms and cracks struck a passion in me that was in tune with my personality in an almost primitive sense. Soon after, I became an audacious little Tasmanian Devil, running around and banging on all the instruments, disturbing the entire rehearsal in the process. Eventually, I annoyed the musicians so much that they finally caved and taught me some basic drumming skills. Those men who taught me will never understand the impact they made on that little boy’s life. I felt music in my hands.

As I progressed through the years, music came easily to me, feeling as though I were made for it, and the older I got, the more I understood that. I spent nearly every Sunday after service practicing on the drums for countless hours, and in those moments I slowly attached weight and meaning to my passion, maturing both as a person and as a musician. By the time I entered high school I was sure that I wanted to be a musician for the rest of my life. Once I gave into my desire...

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