The Hidden Season: Rain Before the Resurrection

“When do the bells ring for me?”

Tony Bennett asked that question, and I’ve whispered it more times than I can count. I’ve watched peers soar—touring the world, praised by professors, featured on programs. And I cheered for them, truly. But somewhere deep inside, another voice always surfaced:

When will it be my turn?

I went to Tufts. I wrote a symphonic choral poem that poured out my soul. I conducted Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade and Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations, and I did it with fire. I know the mantle I carry—I know I was born to lead great works by example, to restore the language of symbol, to shape worship through sound.

I was anointed for this.

But now? I’m lucky to lead a choir of ten on Sundays. I scramble to find sheet music that falls within our copyright license.

I’m not conducting orchestras or shaping generations—not yet.

And in the quiet moments, it’s easy to wonder:

Was that season of glory a glimpse… or a goodbye?

Am I being buried or planted?

Buried or Planted: The Pattern of the Promise

This ache is not new.

History is full of men and women who carried the weight of promise long before it looked like destiny would ever arrive.

We don’t talk enough about the in-between.

We don’t write songs about the middle chapters—the ones full of invisible faithfulness and unglamorous obedience.

David was anointed by Samuel while still a boy—but the next morning, he woke up back in the field with sheep.

For years he played music for a king who wanted to kill him. He hid in caves. He lived in exile. He gathered the unwanted and the forgotten.

He had the oil, but not the throne. David was anointed as king, but he would not wear the crown until after exile.

Joseph dreamed he would rule—but instead he was betrayed, trafficked, and locked away in a foreign prison to be forgotten.

His gifts bloomed in silence. His excellence meant nothing to those in power until the world was hungry and desperate enough to notice.

Abraham didn’t become Abraham until late in life. He left everything familiar. He waited years past the expiration date of possibility.

He was given a covenant before he had a child to carry it.

But God changed his name before He changed his circumstances—because identity always precedes fulfillment.

Each one was called early, but revealed late.

Each one was cultivated in obscurity before legacy was born.

This is the pattern.

You are not being left behind.

You are being formed.

Rain Before the Resurrection

The altar comes before the crown.

The quiet work is not wasted—it is the soil of sacred power.

“The land that drinks the rain falling again and again… in time, bears fruit—useful to those who cultivated it.”

The rain must come before the harvest.

The silence before the sound.

Rain is quiet. It’s unannounced. It doesn’t make headlines.

It falls in silence.

It nourishes the roots.

It prepares the soil.

And if you’re in that hidden season—if you’re wondering whether your former glory was your final chapter—I need you to hear this:

You are not late. You are not behind. You are not too old. You are the soil.

You are receiving the rain.

And what grows from that soil will nourish more than just your life.

It will bless those who tended you… and those who come after.

Remain Rooted

Water your craft.

Practice in private.

Rehearse when no one is watching.

Write the piece. Study the text. Refine the vision.

Because your resurrection—your revealing—will not be cosmetic.

It will be the fruit of rain-soaked roots.

And when the bells do ring, you’ll know:

They weren’t announcing your arrival.

They were echoing what heaven already saw.