I recently asked my dad the key to his happiness.

He is, no exaggeration, one of the most cheerful, positive people I know.

"What makes you happy Dad? How do you stay so upbeat?" I queried.

He thought about it for a minute, and then said, "You know Tiff, music really makes me happy."

I should have seen that answer coming. We had just finished lunch at an Italian restaurant where Dad kept remarking on the Italian arias playing over the speakers. He's a hospital executive, but when it's someone's birthday, he has the entire board serenade in both English and Italian.



This is the dad who came home from work every day and sidled his way over to the piano to plunk out a melody playing in his head. This is also the dad who once got a speeding ticket because an Eagles song came on the radio and he got carried away in the moment.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the power of music. I grew up in a home where music was central to everything we did. My parents weren't performers themselves, but they adored music. They talked about it: the different artists and the songs they sang. We went to concerts a lot. And from the time we could walk, we were singing together, listening to song tapes and playing instruments.

These are traditions I've wanted to keep with my own family, particularly the instrument part. Like so many others out there, I quit piano after five years, violin after one, dabbled in guitar for a bit, and have nothing to show for it but my one hymn on the piano and any song on the guitar that uses C, G, D, and A chords.

So of course I've vowed that my children will not be like me. They will stick with it, even if I have to drag them kicking and screaming through Beethoven and Chopin.

The only trouble is, it seems that every day I am dragging them kicking and screaming through Beethoven and Chopin. Music lessons, it turns out, are not for the faint-of-heart parents.

While some children are born, like by older brother, with music coming out of their fingertips, most are not. And those who are not do not want to sit at a piano for 30 minutes each day. Piano benches are hard, playing is unnatural. Curving your fingertips and floating your wrist delicately, just so, is pure agony.

So as a parent, you have to be stronger than all the forces that combine against you.

You have to steel yourself against the tears, and practice some patient breathing as you remind your child, once again, that middle C is in the middle of the piano -- just like it was the last time. And that's a half note -- hold it. And All Cars Eat Gas, and Good Boys Do Fine Always (except when playing the piano). And listen to the rhythm of my hands -- don't speed up -- clap the rhythm. And sit up straight. And curve those fingers. And don't cry -- just one more song and you're done. Phew. We could fill a small reservoir with the puddles of tears created under our piano bench.

Music lessons are also a tremendous time investment for the entire family. There is the shuttling back and forth to lessons, the concerts, and, while the kids are still young, the constant supervision during practice. I spend an hour each day sitting on that piano bench, guiding my boys through their lessons.

So why bother?

Well, I've always had visions of my four boys in some sort of honkey-tonk quartet: one boy dancing his fingers up and down the strings of the upright bass, another pulling his bow across the fiddle, one switching back and forth between banjo and guitar, and yet another moving up and down the keys of the piano. It's this vision that keeps me going. Also, I've been to enough congregations throughout the world to know that a missionary who can play the piano is priceless.

Plus, even while my kids complain, I sit next to them on that piano bench thinking: this is so good for them. It promotes good posture, patience and concentration, goal-setting, and development of both sides of the brain. It is the foil to the electronic media of today.

And of course there is the spiritual aspect of music. Heaven is the closest when I am lifting my voice in song. I want my children to feel that same power when they participate in music making.

Like most good things, getting there is the struggle. How my parents endured the years and years of piano, voice, violin, trumpet, cello, guitar, and drums, is something I am just beginning to understand. They loved music. They believed in the vision, even if it meant hundreds of hours just supporting our musical habit, thousands of dollars in lessons and equipment, and a home that nearly always sounded like a junior high band room.

Early last week I awoke to George Gershwin's "An American in Paris" playing on my clock radio.

The familiar melody was so captivating, I lay in bed for 15 minutes, just listening. It played through my head for the rest of the day and kept me dancing on my toes.

Dancing long enough that when I sat down at our old brown upright to help my sons with their daily piano practice, I remembered why we were there.