Sometimes the only way to know what really matters most in our lives is have it taken away.

A few weeks ago my youngest son was hurt on the football field. He was running the ball and ended up being tackled by two defenders. Like a pinball machine, he ricocheted off the impacts, having no control over how his body struck the ground. His right arm took the brunt of the impact and he cried out in a way he never has before—a sound that scared me to death.

I rushed to the sidelines where the trainer and coaches had gathered. All the while he keep saying, “I can’t feel my hand. I can’t feel my hand.”

My heart stopped at that statement. The trainer did a good job of getting him to calm down, and finally figured out it was a “stinger” he had experienced not a broken arm.

“It’s in a weird place,” the trainer said, “but if he keeps trying to move his fingers, the numbness should wear off.”

Another parent who stood close by said, “Oh that’s good, he’ll still be able to play football next week.”

I could have cared less. His fingers weren’t moving. If the feeling never came back, would he still be able to play the piano?

Right then, I knew if it came down to it, I would rather he play the piano than ever play a sport again. Not that I’ll ever be able to convince him to stop. He was thankful that after three days his fingers could grip the ball tight again. I was thankful that after three days of struggling through piano practice, his fingers found their full range of motion on the keys again.