Chapter 23

The Wilson children returned to school the Monday after Jacob’s dinosaur sing-along, still buzzing with excitement about their performance. They couldn’t stop talking about “The Dinosaur Parade” and their special parts in it—Michael’s velociraptor screech, the twins’ coordinated triceratops sounds, little Annie’s baby stegosaurus “meep.” They described Jacob’s song with such animated enthusiasm that their classmates soon began asking for demonstrations, turning the elementary school lunchroom into an impromptu prehistoric chorus and stomp.

What nobody expected was that one of their teachers, Emily Macmillan, smilingly shared the tale to a member of the school’s PTA—a woman named Maggie Habberman. She listened with great interest to her friend’s account of “this amazing dinosaur song that has the kids in the school roaring and stomping.”

Maggie Habberman was a force of nature—the kind of person who made things happen through sheer determination and an extensive network of connections. The wife of a famous Hollywood producer who had moved his family to Nashville for what he called “a more authentic lifestyle,” she approached community involvement with the same intensity her husband brought to film production. As the PTA’s fund raising chairwoman and a board member for Nashville’s Children’s Hospital, she was always searching for fresh ideas to engage donors.

“I have an idea. I need to hear this song,” she declared, already formulating plans. “And I need to meet the person who wrote it.”

Two days later, Maggie was knocking firmly on Jacob’s studio door, explaining her purpose with efficient enthusiasm. Nashville Children’s Hospital was planning their annual fundraiser for the pediatric cancer ward, and they needed something special—something that would engage donors on an emotional level while remaining hopeful rather than depressing.

“Mr. Whitney, would you consider performing ‘The Dinosaur Parade’ with elementary school children for our fundraiser? It would mean so much to the kids in treatment to see other children—and you—performing something so joyful for them.”

Jacob’s immediate instinct was refusal. Cameras, wealthy donors, attention—everything about it contradicted his carefully maintained privacy. Yet something about the cause gave him pause. Children with cancer. Children like he had once been, facing pain and fear beyond their understanding, needing moments of joy and normalcy.

“I don’t perform publicly,” he said finally. “Not like that.”

“That’s exactly why it should be you,” Maggie countered, surprising him. “These children are dealing with being visibly different every day. Their bald heads from chemotherapy, their scars, their visible IVs—they know what it means to be stared at, to be defined by their appearance.”

Jacob remained silent, the parallel undeniable.

“Your voice bringing joy while standing beside them—it would mean more than you can imagine,” Maggie continued softly. “It would tell them that visible differences don’t define who you are or limit what you can contribute to the world.”

This perspective—one Jacob had never considered—shifted something fundamental in his thinking. His scars had always been a reason to step back, to observe rather than take part. That they might instead be a point of connection, a silent statement of understanding to children facing their own visible battles, was transformative.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally.

What Jacob had intended as a cautious consideration, Maggie interpreted as agreement. Within days, she had arranged auditions at Nashville Elementary, scheduled an auditorium for rehearsals, and begun discussions with a costume designer who had worked on several of her husband’s films.

Jacob found himself drawn into the project through a series of incremental steps, each seemingly small enough to accept until he suddenly realized he had agreed not just to direct but to perform with twenty-four children from first through fourth grade at the hospital fundraiser.

The kids themselves proved to be his undoing. At his first visit to the school, they surrounded him with such genuine excitement and unquestioning acceptance that his usual defenses faltered. They didn’t stare at his scars or treat him differently; they simply wanted to know about dinosaurs and music and whether they could have special roars like the Wilson children had described.

“Are you scared to sing in front of people because of your face?” a small girl named Madison asked with the direct honesty only children possess.

“Sometimes,” Jacob admitted, surprised by his own candor.

“I was scared to be in the school play because sometimes I stutter,” she confided. “But my mom says being brave isn’t being scared. It’s doing it anyways.”

Out of the mouths of babes, Jacob thought, finding himself nodding in agreement.

What had begun as a simple composition for neighborhood children quickly evolved into something much more elaborate. Maggie’s husband Richard brought Hollywood production values to the project, hiring professional costume designers to create adorable dinosaur outfits for each child. A choreographer developed simple stomping dance movements that even the youngest performers could manage. Musicians from Nashville’s session player community volunteered to create a full instrumental arrangement of Jacob’s previously guitar-only composition.

Through it all, Jacob stood in the center around which this creative hurricane revolved—adapting the song to accommodate more children, working patiently with young performers who sometimes forgot their parts, maintaining the cheerful boisterous integrity of the piece for the kids while allowing it to evolve into a proper production number.

Most significantly, he was working on himself, preparing mentally to step fully into the spotlight he had always carefully avoided.

Maggie, who firmly believed in the “go big or go home” school of thought, had arranged for the fundraiser to be held at the Grand Ole Opry House, Nashville’s most prestigious music venue. As the day approached, Jacob found his anxiety increasing proportionally with the event’s expanding scope. What had begun as a small performance for hospital donors had grown to include live streaming, professional recording for a charity single, and a documentary crew capturing the process.

The night of the fundraiser arrived with the organized chaos of twenty-four children in dinosaur costumes, their parents, hospital administrators, wealthy donors, and a production team that would have been at home on a major television broadcast. Jacob stood quietly backstage, dressed simply in jeans and a button-down shirt, his guitar slung across his back, his scarred face illuminated by the harsh backstage lighting.

Maggie approached, genuine concern in her expression. “Are you sure about this? We could still adjust—have you partially hidden, use lighting to—”

“No,” Jacob interrupted, his decision firm. “They need to see me. All of me.”

Through a monitor, he could see the audience filing in, but more importantly, he could see the video feed from the children’s cancer ward. Young patients were being positioned in their hospital beds, many wearing dinosaur pajamas and soft dinosaur toys provided by the fundraiser organizers. Their heads were mostly bare, chemotherapy having claimed their hair. Some wore masks to protect compromised immune systems. IV poles stood beside their beds like silent sentinels.

Their eyes were bright with anticipation, with the simple childhood delight of dinosaurs and music and something special happening just for them.

“It’s time,” the stage manager called softly.

Jacob took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage, the twenty-four costumed children filing in behind him to form a colorful prehistoric chorus. The stage had been transformed into a Jurassic landscape, with stylized volcanoes and ferns creating the perfect setting for a dinosaur parade.