The Unknown
Throughout this article I use the word "God." Please feel free to substitute whatever word best represents the divine, life, the universe, or that deeper presence for you.
I've been reflecting on my life these past few months and noticing just how little is actually predictable.
Sometimes that realization feels exhilarating.
Other times it can be downright frightening.
For nearly three decades, my career has been built around living in the unknown. Every morning I wake up not knowing what computer crisis, server failure, or emergency I'll be stepping into. It has taught me to think on my feet, stay calm under pressure, and accept that I rarely have all the answers before taking the next step.
Eventually, though, even chaos becomes familiar. We humans have an incredible ability to normalize almost anything.
Maybe that's one of the ways we find peace.
Lately I've found myself returning to one word over and over again:
Surrender.
The Serenity Prayer asks for the wisdom to know the difference between what can be changed and what cannot. Yoga reminds us, not me, not mine. Even the old proverb says, Man plans, and God laughs.
So before I rush into another day trying to control everything, I've started asking a different question.
"What would You have me do today?"
Or, if that language doesn't resonate with you,
"How can I best serve today?"
Oddly enough, that's where I find peace—not because life suddenly becomes predictable, but because I no longer have to carry it alone.
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My entire life I've wanted to write music.
The first song I ever composed was performed on my mother's pots and pans while my parents were out for the evening. I was probably six or seven years old. We were attending a wedding that weekend, so I proudly played my own rather enthusiastic version of the Wedding March... complete with lyrics that probably wouldn't have been appreciated at the ceremony.
Needless to say, my parents were less impressed than I was.
"Danny," they explained, "there isn't really a place for banging pots and pans at a wedding."
They meant well.
But something inside me dimmed just a little.
As life unfolded, music never completely left. I played in bands, spent years as a jazz drummer and singer, and had some wonderful experiences.
But I wasn't writing the songs I longed to write.
More than once I found myself asking,
"God... why won't You let me do this?"
Maybe the answer wasn't "no."
Maybe it was simply...
"Not yet."
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My father understood that better than I did.
He always wanted to be an author.
He published his first short story as a teenager and even wrote a book while serving as a young minister. But then life happened.
Three children.
A wife.
A mortgage.
Responsibilities.
He knew which eggs were fragile enough that they couldn't be dropped.
So he set the dream aside.
Not because he stopped loving it.
Because he loved us more.
I have never faulted him for that.
I admire him for it.
Then something remarkable happened.
When he retired at sixty-five, he started writing again.
And write he did.
Before health finally asked him to put down the pen, he had published more than fourteen books.
Sometimes God doesn't laugh because our dreams are foolish.
Sometimes He simply whispers,
"Wait."
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I suspect all of us carry something like that.
A dream.
A calling.
A desire that seems to have been postponed by fear, responsibility, timing, or simply the mystery of life itself.
Maybe that's why uncertainty can feel so uncomfortable.
We want guarantees.
Life offers invitations instead.
Lately I've been wondering if our greatest calling isn't always the one that receives the loudest applause.
Recently I happened to be at the yoga studio during an hour I'm rarely there.
A student began sharing her story.
I simply listened.
As she described the twists and turns of her life—motherhood, marriage, loss, change, growth—I found myself covered in goosebumps.
There wasn't a stage.
There wasn't a spotlight.
There wasn't a bestselling book or a platinum record.
There was simply a beautiful human being courageously living her life.
And somehow...
that felt extraordinary.
Maybe writing a bestseller sometimes looks like offering someone a genuine smile.
Maybe composing a hit song is making another person laugh.
Maybe giving an award-winning performance is helping someone discover a little more of who they truly are.
And right now...
that feels like enough.
To make someone smile.
To help someone laugh.
To inspire someone to pause and reflect.
Go ahead and laugh, God.
We're all learning to live in the unknown.
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One last thought.
Last year I finally found the time—and perhaps the courage—to write and release my very first solo album.
I listened to it again recently.
The farther I get from it, the more I find myself smiling.
Instead of thinking, "Look what I did," I found myself quietly saying,
"Look what we did."
And then.... I laughed
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Danny
The Emotional Driver
“Emotion Is the Note. You Are the Song.”
