Gospel Moment: The Piano Playing in Heaven

A few days back, I was driving along a quiet stretch of highway when the opening piano notes of “Blueberry Hill” drifted from the oldies radio station. That unmistakable voice — warm, rolling, full of joy — filled the car, and suddenly I was transported back to New Orleans in 2006. Memories came flooding in like the waters of Hurricane Katrina itself: I can still remember the devastated streets, the smell of rebuilding, and one unforgettable evening that I will carry with me forever.

At the time, I was working on a major project in New Orleans. Living in San Diego, I flew in weekly, and transportation was a challenge in the recovering landscape. I befriended a local resident who agreed to drive me whenever I was in town. One evening, he asked if we could make a quick stop at a friend’s house. I said sure. We drove quite a way out of the hardest-hit areas, eventually pulling up to a nice, newly built home. My driver stepped out and went up to the house while I waited in the car. A few moments later, he came around the corner and waved me up with a grin. With a bit of trepidation, I walked to the door not knowing what was going on… and next found myself shaking hands with the legendary Fats Domino — Antoine Domino himself.

Fats told me he had been born and raised in the Lower Ninth Ward, the neighborhood he had always chosen to call home, even after achieving worldwide fame. But when Katrina struck in 2005, that beloved area was devastated. He lost everything — his house, his Steinway piano, his gold records, nearly all his memorabilia. Yet here he was, welcoming me into his new home.

As we sat together, he gestured toward the beautiful white Steinway now in his living room and the shining gold records on the wall. “Steinway sent me a new one,” he said softly. “The record companies replaced them all.”

Then he looked at me with quiet honesty and said, “My memory is failing me. I probably won’t remember you after you leave. Sometimes I don’t even recognize my own children.” But right after that, his face lit up. “Yet I can still remember every song I ever sang.” He sat down at that piano and began to play and sing — pure, joyful, and effortless. Even at 80, he was still performing at the New Orleans Jazz Festival.

In that moment, I witnessed something sacred. Katrina had taken so much, and time was stealing pieces of his mind — but it could not take the music. The songs God had placed deep inside him remained untouched. The gift that had brought joy to millions for decades was still flowing freely through his fingers and his voice. Only an awesome and kind God sustains a man like that — holding onto the very thing that glorified Him most, even as other parts slipped away.

When I heard that Fats had passed away in 2017, I was sad — but I was sure that even as his health failed him, he was still embraced by the music he created. Those songs never left him, and I believe they carried him all the way home. I still have the photo he gave me of a young Fats Domino, which he signed, "Best of Luck." I treasure it.

This is the mercy we see again and again in Scripture: God does not always prevent the storm, but He remembers and preserves His own through it. He restores what has been lost and keeps the fire burning when everything else begins to fade.

As the Apostle Paul wrote from his own trials:

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair… always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies.” — 2 Corinthians 4:7-10 (ESV)

Fats Domino’s life became a living picture of that truth: a fragile jar of clay, yet filled with a treasure that failing memory and even death could not erase. The songs remained because they were never just his — they were a gift from the God who gives songs in the night.

May that same faithful God protect and sustain the gifts He has placed in you, no matter what storms come your way. He never forgets.

That’s the Gospel Moment.