I’d noticed him earlier, the slender man with the slightly disheveled hair.  I’d watched him as he walked laps around the perimeter of the room. Now he approached and stood directly in front of me, our faces barely a foot apart. Under most circumstances, it would have felt like an encroachment on my personal space, but I didn’t mind.

Not uttering a sound, he just kept staring intently into my eyes.

Although I was unable to give him the attention he deserved, I smiled at him and tried to hold his gaze for as long as I could. Admittedly, it was even more awkward because of my own task at hand. I was at the keyboard trying to focus on performing a song with my husband and our friend Caroline.

We are an acoustic trio. We’ve discovered our happy niche playing at senior care centers—nursing homes and assisted living and memory care facilities. We try to select songs the residents will remember and enjoy, and we’re always thrilled to see their smiles or have them sing along.

Last Saturday we played at a memory care center—our first time there which meant unfamiliar staff and residents.

After the first couple verses of “Shenandoah,” the man moved away from me and on to stand in front of Caroline.

She offered a smile as she sang, her eyes remaining locked with his for the duration of the song. Unlike some residents in the facility, he did not display the blank look of one with dementia. His eyes, Caroline noted, were the brightest blue she’d ever seen. His lips moved as if he were trying to sing along, “Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you … .”

He moved in closer and laid his hand on her music stand. Without hesitation, she tenderly covered it with her own hand. She sensed he recognized the song and was trying to join in. Although his lips were moving, the only sounds he produced were unintelligible grunts. His eyes began to well up with tears. As they began to spill down his right cheek, Caroline struggled to maintain her composure.

When the song ended, the magical connection did too. The man walked away, and we didn’t see him again.

I’ve thought of that emotionally charged encounter several times this week.  And I recalled many similar experiences we’ve had with music in other facilities. It’s not unusual for people at these venues to be overcome with emotion. In fact, they often approach us afterwards to share hugs or handshakes, their eyes shining through tears and smiles.

Music— I don’t understand the “how” of its impact.

I only know the “what” from my perspective.

Often undervalued, it is a thing of unfathomable goodness. It bridges gaps with the potential to draw us all closer to one another. It can transport us to other times in our lives, offering comfort and soothing in a way mere words fall short. It can be a conduit of energy or one of calmness. Though interest in genres varies, music in general, appeals to people of all ages and backgrounds.

We don’t take it for granted. Rick, Caroline and I are all extremely grateful for the opportunities we’ve had. We get to spend time playing music—something we love doing. Whenever we share it, we acknowledge the real possibility that it may create or strengthen bonds with others.

As it unfolds and we actually sense it happening, we know we’ve been a part of something sacred.

And for that precious gift we give thanks.