When the Future Asks a Question

Sometimes, the future whispers to us before it ever announces itself.

It comes as a fleeting moment — a question asked in passing, a spark in someone’s eyes, a quiet declaration of what could be. And if we are not attentive, we miss it. We miss the direction. We miss the invitation. And then we find ourselves cycling again, trying to rediscover what was already shown to us.

About two years ago, a student asked me, “How old do you have to be to work here?” I answered the question politely and moved on. I didn’t think much of it.

But that same student — the one who once doubted themselves — slowly stepped into leadership. I watched their confidence grow. I watched their musicianship sharpen. I watched them begin to carry themselves differently. And I realized that question was never just about age. It was about vision. It was about possibility.

Over time, more students began asking similar questions:“What does it take to be an educator at Artfinix?”“How old do you have to be to teach here?”

Again, I would answer — but I wasn’t fully listening to what was underneath those questions.

Now, I see it clearly.

As the years pass, I’m not only witnessing growth in rhythm, sight-reading, and scales. I’m witnessing young minds become critical thinkers. I’m watching students become leaders. I’m seeing hearts expand. These are not just musicians in development — they are becoming beacons of hope.

This year, I’ve been speaking with the Artfinix staff about legacy. I asked each educator, “What do you want to be remembered for?” Music is my passion. Of course, I want to leave a legacy of excellence in musicianship. But if I’m honest, my deeper desire goes beyond music.

In a world where so many people struggle to understand their worth and their purpose, I want to be remembered as someone who helped shape hearts and minds — people who are healthy, confident, and grounded because they understand the magnitude of the value they bring into the world.

Each of us carries broken places. I do too. But our brokenness does not disqualify us. In many ways, it refines us. It deepens our compassion. It makes us more effective in reaching others. Because of that, I am committed to making every encounter an opportunity to spread hope — to remind someone that their life carries weight and meaning.

Lately, I’ve been in a season of reflection. I’ve been asking, “What is my next chapter?” There is nothing wrong — just a clear sense that I am being stretched toward something new. New faces. New impact. I don’t have all the answers yet. I don’t know exactly what it looks like.

But yesterday, I experienced another glimpse.

A parent approached me and shared that their child wanted to quit because they were struggling. The parent asked if I would speak with them.

In the past, I would have stepped in immediately to encourage that student myself. But some time ago, I decided something different. I decided to “call in the cavalry.”

The cavalry are the students who once struggled — the ones who wanted to quit but didn’t. The ones who pushed through doubt and found strength on the other side. I have watched them grow. I have watched them overcome. So this time, I initiated the conversation… and then I stepped back.

Something in me said, “Get out of the way.”

I let them lead.

While I debriefed with the parent, those students poured courage into their peer. When I returned to the room, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. One of the students was sitting in my chair. I didn’t rush to take it back. I simply sat somewhere else.

And then the question resurfaced — the same one from two years ago.

“Brandon, what does it take to be a teacher here at Artfinix? How old do you have to be?”

This time, I didn’t answer quickly. I paused and asked, “What do you mean?”

Without hesitation, the student said, “I can see myself teaching.”

As they spun gently in the chair, they added, “I know I want to be in music. I want to be on Broadway. Do you believe I can do those things?”

Without hesitation, I said yes. Of course I believe you can. And whatever I need to do to help you reach that goal — count me in.

This morning, as I was journaling and wrestling again with questions about my next steps, clarity began to settle in. My calling is not just to teach music. It is to recognize seeds of destiny when they are quietly planted. It is to water them. To nurture them. To speak life over them until they can see in themselves what they once only whispered as a question.

The legacy I am building is not confined to what I accomplish. It is carried forward in the lives of the students who will go further than I ever could.

As I water their dreams, they will reach spaces I cannot reach. Their impact will extend beyond mine. And that is the point.

I may not have the entire blueprint for my next chapter. But I do know this: when they speak about their future, I must listen closely. I must see what they cannot yet see. I must encourage what feels impossible to them but possible to God.

So today, I say thank you.

Thank you to the students who are unknowingly teaching me.Thank you for the questions.Thank you for the courage to dream out loud.

You are helping me understand my next chapter — and reminding me that the greatest legacy we leave is not in what we build, but in who we build.