My Story

I grew up on the North side of St. Louis County in a small house with my parents, two sisters, and my brother. Like most families, we had our share of challenges, but we also shared a lot of great times—so many incredible memories. I discovered early on that music fascinated me. I loved it. The theme song from Hawai 5-0, literally moved me. I ran, jumped off the furniture and did somersaults!  I started collecting 45s, albums, and cassette tapes filled with all kinds of music that moved me.

While in high school, that fascination grew into a passion for drumming. I spent hours practicing and playing along with my favorite records. I attended countless concerts and was inspired by every one of them. I got to see some of the greats. Eventually, I joined a band and started playing at parties. Music quickly became more than just a hobby—it became a core part of who I was and how I experienced the world. Music was moving me.

A few years after high school, I joined a band, hoping to earn a living doing what I loved. But after our very first gig, in a small town in Illinois at 2am, my life changed forever. I was struck by a drunk driver—the front end of his vehicle T-boned the driver’s side of my car. The scene was described as horrific. I was unconscious, trapped in the wreckage, and had to be extricated by the fire department. I have no memory of the crash—but those who witnessed it never forgot. Over time, they shared the details with me, piece by piece, helping me understand the night that nearly took my life.

I was rushed to the hospital and immediately taken to surgery. My heart stopped beating during the operation. In a desperate attempt to save my life, a surgeon cracked open my chest and manually pumped my heart. My spleen had ruptured and was removed, and shattered ribs punctured my left lung, requiring partial lung removal. I was placed on life support, where I remained for six days—suspended between life and death.

The injuries were extensive: a traumatic brain injury, internal bleeding, a broken collarbone, a fractured pelvis, a shattered left arm, a broken jaw, and several broken teeth. My family endured an agonizing week, watching me lie in a coma—intubated, lifeless, my skin gray and still. At one point, it was so dire that clergy were called in to administer Last Rites.

Some staff members quietly urged my parents to consider transferring me to another hospital, even though the attending physician advised against it. As my condition continued to decline and jaundice began to set in, my parents were faced with an excruciating decision. After much prayer and agonizing deliberation, they chose to discharge me and transferred me to a hospital in St. Louis—clinging to God, to prayer, and to hope.

Two days after the move, I woke up—just hours after undergoing surgery to insert a rod into my left humerus. I was disoriented and confused, unable to remember the accident, the gig, or even the six months leading up to it.

But I was alive. And I was deeply grateful.

I thanked God for my life, for the love and support surrounding me, and for hope. I knew the journey ahead would demand strength, patience, and humility. I prayed daily, asking for the courage to face each new challenge. While still hospitalized, I began intensive therapy—daily sessions of Respiratory, Speech, Occupational, and Physical Therapy. After four weeks, I was discharged but continued outpatient rehabilitation for another six months.

Then, I began loving life again. I was still down nearly twenty pounds and physically fragile, but the music continued to move me. I found my way back to the drums, and little by little, I reclaimed the rhythm of my life. Each day felt like a gift.Eventually, I returned to the stage—a moment that once felt out of reach. It was a dream realized. I did it. We did it.

I am forever thankful—to God, to my family and friends, to the other patients who worked through their own rehabilitation journeys alongside me, and to the incredible team of therapists who helped restore my life.

For the next three years, I worked, exercised, ran, played gigs, practiced, and wrote and performed original music. Although the injuries from the car accident remained a constant challenge, I kept playing live as often as I could. And I continued attending concerts, and being inspired by some of the greats.

The physical pain never fully went away—some days were harder than others. Most of it occurred in my back and along my side, where my lung and heart had been accessed. I struggled—but music moved me. I found purpose in it. Playing wasn’t just for my own healing; it became a way to help others feel better too. “I saw it over and over—people moving to the rhythm, their faces lit with smiles, their hearts stirred by memories that only music could awaken. In those moments, the room felt alive! Through music, I discovered that I was part of something vast and timeless, something so much greater than myself.”

But after three years, tragedy struck again—this time in the form of a tumor on my spine. My doctors agreed it needed to be removed right away. They didn’t yet know if it was cancerous, but they warned that if it continued to grow, it could affect my ability to walk—and my ability to play drums. The surgery was extremely risky. There was a very high possibility of the surgery causing a spinal cord injury, which could result in permanent paralysis in my legs.

Once again, I turned to God, to prayer, and to hope. But the fear was overwhelming. The thought of waking up unable to walk, run or play drums again was terrifying. The fear that it could be cancer was equally frightening.

The surgery happened in less than a week. The good news was the entire tumor was removed and it was not cancerous. The bad news was that my left leg was paralyzed. I was unable to move it. I was unable to feel it. I did have some slight feeling in my toes.

The Doctor of Physical Therapy who had treated me four years earlier came to visit. She explained that the future was uncertain. The best we could hope for was that the swelling would go down—and that, with time, sensation and movement might gradually return. Still, she encouraged me to start therapy right away. So I started the following day.

This time, it was different. Same hospital, same halls, even some of the same staff—but the injury was unlike anything I had faced before. The first time, it was broken bones, bruises, scar tissue, and nerve damage. Difficult, yes—but all things that could be repaired over time. This time, I couldn’t move my leg, foot, or toes. I knew how to move them. I could picture it clearly in my mind. But nothing happened.

I then learned what it was like to be in a wheelchair—unable to stand on both legs, completely dependent on the wheels for mobility. The following week, during a therapy session, I was able to swing my left leg forward using my hip muscles and pelvis. It was a huge victory. Shortly after that, I began getting around with a walker, using my arms to support myself and dragging my left leg behind me. I still couldn’t bend my left knee or move my foot, but  there was progress. Each new movement felt like a major milestone. My therapists celebrated with me. They always pushed me and celebrated with me.

A few weeks in, I was ready to try using a cane. That was a tough one—but we did it. And we celebrated with something special: a practice pad drum set was brought into my room at the hospital.

“Sitting up straight was a battle—let alone lifting my arms to hit the drums. Pain radiated through my back, a constant reminder of the nerves, muscles, and tissue cut during surgery. Playing with three limbs instead of four felt strange, even disappointing at times. Yet each time I sat behind the kit, I reminded myself how fortunate I was to play at all. Through music, I found myself moving forward.”

Before I knew it, I was being discharged. Although I was still experiencing pain, intense muscle spasms in my left leg and had very little control over my leg and foot, I was cleared to go home. I promised to return to therapy three times a week—and I kept that promise.

After a few months, I was able to walk—slowly, without the cane. I wasn’t very steady, but I was thrilled! I was also spending more time behind my drums. I even managed to partially open and close my hi-hat cymbal with my left foot. The pains between my shoulder blades continued to linger. I worked with therapists and was eventually fitted for a brace. It helped—with posture, and with the pain.

I added cycling to my rehab, since running was no longer an option. The rides helped me tremendously—lifting my spirit while rebuilding strength and endurance. I’d turn up the music in my earbuds and crank the pedals, grateful for every mile. On the streets I rode for distance and speed, and in the woods I fought through climbs, working on balance and coordination, building strength in both my upper and lower body. Each week I set new goals, and with every ride I grew faster, stronger, more confident.”

That growing confidence carried me back to the stage. Awkward as it was, I hauled my own gear, wobbling on balance that was still far from perfect. But once again, I found myself part of something so much bigger than me. The energy surged, people moved with the rhythm, their faces lit with joy. The music wasn’t just sound—it was connection, healing, a vital part of life itself.”

It was during this season of life that I got my first guitar. I had always loved to sing—but rarely on a stage. And I had never played anything but a drum. With my new guitar, and just four chords, I started writing songs. I wrote the lyrics and melodies and sang them myself. It was amazing. I couldn’t stop writing. There was so much to say—so much gratitude to share. I sang about life, challenges, victories, pain, progress, forgiveness, hope—and  about God. A lot about God!

Very early on, I set my sights on getting these songs recorded. And with the help of one of my lifelong best friends, we made it happen. Together, we recorded and produced an 8-song EP.

It was at that time that I began volunteering at church, where I got involved working with students. I played drums and helped lead small groups and activities.

Not long after, I started working full-time with adolescents in a psychiatric hospital. It was there that I was introduced to some of the most inspiring people I had ever met. Most of these kids had been through—and were still going through—extremely difficult times. I was part of a team committed to helping them heal, find hope, and move forward.

I would sometimes bring my guitar or a drum to work. During free time, we often talked about music. It didn’t take much to spark a lively conversation—just a mention of Kurt Cobain, Tupac, or Britney Spears, and suddenly everyone had something to say. Sometimes we explored lyrics; other times, we wrote our own. Music moved us closer together. It broke down walls. And more often than not, it brought smiles and laughter.

Ok, back to the songs I was writing and recording—I decided to dedicate all of it to helping people. As a way of giving back, I committed to sharing my music at no cost. Every recording was completely free for the listener.

Each time a patient was discharged, they were offered a copy of my latest recording, complete with printed lyrics. The cover art for the first EP was created by a patient during her hospital stay—adding a layer of authenticity and uniqueness that made the project even more meaningful.

As time went on, I began to see just how much impact this music was having. Patients often shared how the songs helped them with their faith and with their self esteem. Through music, they found comfort and strength. Music was moving me in a new direction. Music was therapeutic. It was life changing.

Things were progressing at church, too. My commitment to therapy was paying off—I was able to rehearse and play right alongside everyone else. I wasn’t pain-free, but I was doing much better.

I found myself really drawn to the music we were playing. The lyrics were worship-driven—we sang about the love of God, about hope, perseverance, and faith. This happened week after week, at almost every gathering. But I started to wonder: Was it making a difference in the students’ lives? Was it making a difference in mine?

So I picked up that guitar of mine and started learning worship songs. I was a slow learner, and playing hurt my back—but I stuck with it. The music was moving me, again.

And soon, it led me exactly where I wanted to be—in a circle, acoustic guitar in hand, leading worship and having real conversations about the lyrics. It was an incredible place to be. Together, we were helping one another experience the power of music and the depth of what we were singing. Friendships were made. The music brought us together and the music moved us.

I’m going to go ahead and fast forward a bit. The next 30 years of this journey have been amazing. Eventually, my volunteer work at church opened the door to something more permanent—I was asked to join the church’s main staff. I started out as an assistant A/V tech and stagehand, all while continuing to volunteer in Student Ministries. Before long, I was offered the role of Worship Leader in Student Ministries. It was a wonderful opportunity. I accepted the position!

Throughout the years I spent the majority of my time working with students. We met for weekly band rehearsals. Our rehearsals prepared us for playing music at our weekly student gatherings. We also practiced for playing at camps and fundraisers. These rehearsals were so incredible. Not only were we playing music, knocking out new tunes and eagerly picking new songs, we were becoming like family. We were sharing in each other’s celebrations and helping each other through struggles. Through music, we were moving! Moving through life, through hardships; we were strong.

That trust extended beyond the stage. I was often invited by parents to step in when students were having difficulties at home or school. I was honored to be part of their lives in such a meaningful way.

I was on staff there for 17 years. I am forever grateful.

After that, I accepted a new role as Music Director and Worship Pastor at another church, where I served for 11 years. I had the privilege of working alongside some of the kindest and most talented people I have ever known. Over the years, I met and became friends with countless families and individuals who deeply enriched my life. These friends grieved with me and offered comfort when I lost my father and later my mother. In turn, I was honored to walk with them through their own losses, leading music for many funerals and celebrations of life. Good people truly are the salt of the earth, and being the “music guy” has allowed me to meet so many of them.

Over the years, I never stopped writing, recording, performing, and distributing music. I've been incredibly fortunate to have opportunities to teach, to lead, and to create. One of the greatest joys of my career has been writing and directing a few musicals with students. Another has been planning and producing Christmas Productions with friends.

The pains, the disability, and the lingering effects of my injuries have been with me through all of my accomplishments. They serve as a constant reminder of how close I came to never playing music again. And a reminder that music is also a gift

That’s what makes Music Moves Us so personal, and so important to me. It’s more than an outreach—it’s the natural continuation of everything I’ve lived, survived, and believed in.

From getting a red sparkle snare drum in grade school to playing St Louis’s own Mississippi Nights at age ninteteen, … from lying in a coma to playing live shows again, from a wheelchair and a walker, to a drum set and a guitar —music has been the thread connecting every season of my life. It has helped me heal. It has helped me lead. And now, it’s helping me give back in a way that feels both powerful and deeply personal.

Music Moves Us exists to bring that same kind of connection, healing, and hope to others. We will come to treatment centers, recovery programs, group homes and hospitals, bringing live music, meaningful discussion and open hearts. We’re not there to perform—we’re there to participate, to share, to listen, to create atmospheres of peace, hope and expression.

This mission is rooted in everything I’ve experienced: pain, recovery, growth, and purpose. And I’m grateful for every moment that led here. The road hasn’t been easy—but it’s been meaningful. And it’s far from over.

Music Moves Us was born from my story, but it’s not about me—it’s about all of us. It’s about what happens when music meets people right where they are. It’s about presence, connection, and reminding people that they are not alone.

Whether you’re a musician, a supporter, a listener, or someone still fighting to find your voice—there’s room for you here. We believe that music can be a lifeline. A bridge. A spark. And we’re committed to showing up with it, wherever it’s needed most.

If this story resonates with you—if you’ve experienced the healing power of music, or if you simply believe in the beauty of bringing hope to others—we’d love to connect. There’s still so much more to come.

Let’s keep moving. Together.