At the age of nineteen, Kenneth Null, the boy next door in Bells, Tennessee, showed great promise as a concert violinist. Then tragedy struck. Ken was involved in an automobile accident that cost him the use of his right arm. Everything possible was done for him.
Doctor after doctor was consulted, but always it was the same story; he never would play again. Friends and relatives tried to interest him in another career, but he wouldn’t listen.
He insisted he would play again. “I will play again,” he told me one night when we were alone. “If I didn’t believe that. I wouldn’t want to live.”
Suddenly I, too, believed. I told myself I was being foolish, but it didn’t keep me from sharing his hope. A few weeks later, on June 5, 1948, I heard the violin at midnight. ken was playing again.
The music was heavenly. “Wake up,” I called to my sister, Lydia. “Ken is playing his violin, and he’s home alone. He will need someone to share his triumph.”
We raced across the lawn, putting on our housecoats as we ran. The front door was unlocked, so we stepped inside and stood listening. Ken was playing in the den. Never had we heard more beautiful music.
Then the music stopped. We burst through the door with tears and shouts of joy, but Ken didn’t answer. He lay motionless on the couch with his beloved violin pressed against his heart.
The doctor later told us that when we found him he had been dead at least two hours from a cerebral hemorrhage. My sister and I didn’t argue.
Dead or alive, ken had played again, for himself and for the two people who still had shared his hope and faith.
Gastonia, North Carolina