One quiet evening many years ago, I was sitting on the screened-in porch of our old family cottage when I heard the music of bagpipes. Curious, I followed the sound, which me led as far as I could go, down to the shore of the lake. Somewhere across the water, I could hear the piper playing. The evening was quiet and the lake was still, and the sound carried so well that I could hear every haunting note with perfect clarity. Though I could not see him, it was as if he was playing right beside me.
I sat for a time to listen, quietly singing along from time to time as he played songs that told of the great deeds of Scotland the Brave, songs that yearned for The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond and, inevitably, songs that recounted God’s Amazing Grace. That night was only the first of many times he provided us with impromptu concerts, and the more I heard him play the more I grew curious to know who and where he was. One evening I finally decided to find this mysterious piper, so I got into my canoe and began paddling across
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