On a Tuesday night in Atlanta, Debbie and I sat at a table beside the stage. Dinner first, then Marc Cohn and his band. Up close. So close we could see his fingers on the keys, his hands on the guitar, his eyes closing when he leaned into a lyric. So close we could see the tremors of Parkinson’s—obvious, undeniable. But more obvious was the support. His band carrying him, his fans cheering him, all of us holding him up with our voices, our claps, our presence.

It was more than a concert. It was therapy. For him. For me. For us.

Marc’s music has been a soundtrack for my life. Songs carrying me through valleys, reminding me of joy, daring me to hope. Hearing them live with Debbie by my side reminded me that life is always lived at a table—sometimes a dinner table, sometimes a hospital table, sometimes a concert table. At those tables we eat and talk, we learn and listen, we weep and laugh. At those tables we find healing in meals, in words, in music.

Here are lessons from some of the songs:

“From the Station”

He opened with this. A beginning. A reminder that we all start somewhere. We’ve come from stations, from moments of departure, from places of waiting. My own station has been marked with health scares, scars, fears. But also with hope, with friends, with stories I still tell.

“Ghost Train”

What train are we on? Where is it taking us? I think of the tracks of my past—the mistakes, the regrets, the gifts, the grace. Ghosts remain, but the train keeps moving.

“Listening to Levon”

Some names and faces shape us. We become part of their story, and they become part of ours. I’ve had my Levons. So have you. We listen, we learn, we sometimes wonder why their song lingers in our heads.

“The Letter”

Covers tell their own stories. Marc chose to bring an old song to life again. Isn’t that what we do with our own letters, journals, sermons, prayers? We reread them. We retell them. They keep speaking.

“Perfect Love”

What is it, really? Not flawless romance. Not the absence of conflict. But love that stays. Love that forgives. Love that outlasts time and tears.

“Rest for the Weary”

I needed this song decades ago. I needed it this week. Maybe you need it right now. Rest is not a luxury. It is a necessity. A gift. A pause. It reminds me that weariness is not weakness—it is humanity. To admit we are weary is to open ourselves to healing. Rest doesn’t always come in a full night’s sleep or a quiet vacation. Sometimes it comes in a song sung on a Tuesday night in Atlanta, by a man whose tremors don’t silence his voice. That reminder—that rest is possible even in the struggle—was exactly what I needed.

“Silver Thunderbird”

He sang of childhood, of parents, of cars and memories. Songs like this remind me: life is fragile, family is complicated, death comes, yet there is something holy in remembering where we came from.

“Walking in Memphis”

Of course he sang it. His hit. His anthem. But he didn’t sing it alone. He invited us in. We all became part of it. One family, singing together. Isn’t that what church, community, music, and healing should feel like?

“True Companion”

Marriage. Vows. Endurance. The laughter and tears. The beauty and the pain. To sit with Debbie so close to the stage was a reminder that true companions walk through decades together, through uneven roads and surprising concerts.

“Things We’ve Handed Down”

I wrote a book with that title. Marc sang the song that inspired me. Things are always being handed down—memories, stories, songs, scars, traditions. I think of what I received from parents, friends, mentors, communities. Some things I treasure. Some things I wrestle with. And I think of what I want to hand down: faith, hope, love, honesty. Writing that book was my way of handing down lessons, stories, prayers. Hearing Marc sing those words reminded me that handing down is never just about genetics or traditions. It’s about soul. It’s about honesty. It’s about giving others the courage to live and tell their own stories.

“Walk Through the World”

Where have I been? Where am I going? How can I make a difference, wherever I am? I think of walking not just through places, but through relationships. Walking with people is always the greater journey. This song made me wonder about my own walk—the steps I take in airports, hospitals, sanctuaries, ballgames, classrooms. But also the steps of conversations, friendships, companionships. The world is wide, but true relationships narrow it down. When you walk through the world with people who love you, who challenge you, who forgive you, you never walk alone.

“One Safe Place”

What is mine? What is yours? For some, it’s a home. For others, it’s a memory. For many, it’s a song. That night, for me, it was sitting at a table near a stage with Debbie, with Marc, with his band, with strangers who felt like family. I thought about the longing so many carry to find safety, to find belonging, to find a place where they can finally breathe. Sometimes it comes in a church facility. Sometimes in a living room. Sometimes in the embrace of a spouse or the prayers of a friend. And sometimes, just sometimes, it comes in music—reminding us that no matter what storms rage inside or around us, there can still be one safe place.

I left the concert reminded that life is both fragile and beautiful. That tables matter. That songs matter. That companions matter. That safe places matter.

Marc Cohn gave us more than music that night. He handed down courage, honesty, endurance. And in the handing down, he invited us to hand something down too.

That’s part of my calling as a pastor and a writer—to hand down words, prayers, and stories. Through sermons, through books, through conversations at tables, I want to hand down reminders of faith, hope, and love. Marc hands down songs. I hand down words. And you, too, have something to hand down. May we all choose carefully what we pass along to the next generation, leaving behind more hope than hurt, more healing than harm, more grace than grief.