We all learn early on to play fair. A rulebook scrawled in childhood crayon warns us, “Don’t take more than you give.” It paints life as a duet where every verse needs harmony, a back-and-forth of voices that makes the song ring true. The sandbox has its chorus, the potluck its refrain, and we carry those melodies forward.

Yet sometimes, when life modulates so abruptly it seems the band has lost its place in the score, or when a family stares down a crescendo no parent ever hopes to play, the formula changes. In that unexpected bridge, the act of taking isn’t off-key or selfish.

It is survival itself.

In those moments, the giving — simple, steady, whole — is harmony, pure and resonant, carrying us forward through discord into the next movement: hope.

There is a song that has been playing for decades, written by the David Foster Foundation (DFF). It is a composition built on notes of compassion, each verse a lifeline, every chorus a joyful and motivating anthem of second chances. The secret? The best symphonies aren’t played on Wall Street. They are performed in classrooms, dorm rooms, libraries, and labs, places where futures are orchestrated.

Let’s start at the opening: the Give.

You might know DFF’s work by heart, or perhaps you’ve only heard of the bridge. Since 1986, their melody has threaded through hospital corridors and family kitchens, offering f inancial support beyond the medical ledger. Parking meters, airfare, rent in strange cities under fluorescent lights are paid in full by DFF. They don’t just help you through a verse of hardship, but want to see you to the coda, the point at which a family can breathe again.

But giving doesn’t end when the monitors fade and the last suture is drawn. Surgery may save a life, but the Foundation knows the real music comes after, the part where you write your own lyrics, pick up the melody, and carry it forward.

And right there, sharp as a change in tempo, comes the Take.

Here’s where the chorus soars. DFF offers annual scholarships of up to $2,000. Each scholarship is a note that can change the shape of a song, lift it into a new key, and open doors once locked in silence. This is a solo meant to be played. The Foundation wants you to take it.

Are you eligible? If DFF helped you during your transplant journey, and you have found a passion that could open a new notebook (enrolling in a post-secondary program, sharpening pencils for a trade, college, or certificate, for example), you’re invited to this jam session. No audition required; the only prerequisite is the will to keep playing.

Why take? Because you earned your verse in this song. You fought, you persevered, you made it to tomorrow. DFF wants to help you compose the rest, whether your tune winds through welding’s sparks, nursing’s gentle rhythm, or digital design. Maybe you’re the next great storyteller or the engineer building the bridges we travel across. The money is there for the taking: tuition, textbooks (heavy as a tuba), residence costs, or any other note in your academic score.

But like every songwriter knows, a song doesn’t appear unless you sit down and write it. You have to take the step, pen in hand, heart full, and apply.

Here the Give and the Take perform together, call and response, like echoes in a cathedral of compassion.

Donors step in, believing in a stranger’s melody, that a young person who faced mortality before facing their midterms could share the type of wisdom the world is starving for. Donors give so you can take. And when you do — when you claim that scholarship, enroll, and walk the stage to applause — you’re actually laying down the chorus for the next verse, giving hope back in ways that ripple outward, inspiring a new verse in someone else’s journey.

You become the proof that this composition works, a living note in a symphony of kindness. Your graduation, your success, your steady tempo through life tells donors the song keeps playing.

Now, let’s slide into the Bridge, where you’ll find what you need to join in.

Who gets to apply? If DFF supported you during your transplant, and you’re heading for, or are already in, post-secondary education, you’re part of this symphony, no matter your age or how many measures since your own transplant’s refrain.

How do you write your part? Gather your lyrics: proof of acceptance, registration, and receipts for expenses. Fill out the application and email it to families@davidfosterfoundation.com. The process is straightforward. No tricky modulations, just honest progressions welcoming every instrument.

Here’s the bridge I want to end on, swelling and full: Don’t leave this on the table. Don’t mumble, “Someone else deserves the solo more.” This verse is, absolutely, yours.

We often imagine charity as a downward arc – a diva’s solo – one voice above the crowd. But this program is a round, a folk song around a campfire, a call-and-answer which lifts everyone a little bit higher. DFF gives during a crisis, you take and survive. When DFF gives again, in the form of scholarship funds, you take and thrive. Then you go forward, compose your own life’s music, and the world listens.

That is the rhythm of a compassionate society. It’s not a one-hit wonder but a living album echoing through generations.

Donors, keep giving; keep fueling the next generation of dreamers. And recipients, take the scholarship. Let your chorus rise. You survived the hardest verse, now let us help you scale the heights of what’s next.

It’s give and take — an irresistible refrain — and this time, the whole world wins, humming along in harmony.