This story begins in a dimly lighted church sanctuary, where a bedraggled team of musicians rallied their last ounces of strength to carry on into the night. They had been practicing for a concert every week without wavering, and this final practice, the culmination of all their hope, had endured for nearly four hours and driven most of the team unto exhaustion. Happiness, that capricious and feeble partner, had deserted them long ago. Some had resigned that their death would take place that exceptional twilight. However, the fate of the concert—and perhaps the world—lay in their aching hands.
They were a motley band, led by a young man of unmatched stature no older than eighteen. He bore himself with all the calculating nobility of manhood and the unfettered, wild ambition of youth. The band had grown closer in skill and purpose under his thoughtful tutelage. While he was a deeply respected leader, he sacrificed whatever was required to pursue his cause with every piece of his heart—even the affection of his followers. They had learned to not stop at what they were able to do; but to do whatever was necessary.
As vigor and optimism faded with the night, one man— a trumpeter and a beloved father of three dignified sons—turned his thoughts to his youngest child, who was scarcely more than an infant. He approached their leader.
“I have to go change a dirty diaper,” the father stated.
The leader glanced at him with concern and replied, “I didn’t know you wore a diaper.”