masterpiece

It’s a job I do almost every day. You’d think I know what I’m doing. Most folks would.

Alongside the Lovely Lady, I’ve spent most of my life in this little music store. Folks bring in instruments almost daily for me to repair. The most common request I get is to replace the strings on guitars.

Six strings. Take the old grungy ones off—replace them with shiny new ones. It’s an easy job—one I could do in my sleep. Or, so I have thought.

Today, as I finished up one such job, I learned that familiarity is not the same as expertise. One implies comfort, the other, attentiveness.

The old, rust-covered wires had all been removed, the fingerboard cleaned and oiled, and the bright, bronze-colored strings put into place. All that remained was to tune the guitar, a part of the job I pride myself on.

I’m good at this part! Bringing the slack strings up to tension, I can almost always tune them to pitch, without a tuning aid of any sort, within a quarter-step of standard. Then, with the tuning fork, completion of the job is a cinch, my sensitive ear enabling me to complete the job easily.

Do you note just the tiniest hint of pride in that last paragraph? Perhaps there is more than a hint. Funny. I hear the words clearly—in retrospect, that is—which a wise man spoke many centuries ago. Pride goes before a fall. (Proverbs 16:18)

I had completed the initial rough tuning and, with an electronic device attached to the headstock of the guitar, attempted to complete the job. Note I said attempted.

The results were somewhat less than stellar.

The first string settled into tune easily. Likewise, the second. When I got to the third string though—that’s when the problem began. Perhaps it was before; I don’t really know.

I must have been distracted. Or maybe, tired. It doesn’t matter.

I plucked the third string to listen to the pitch as I increased the tension. Twisting on the knob, I waited to hear a change in the sound. All that happened is it got really hard to turn the knob.

I kept twisting, wondering as I did if the gear inside was damaged. Suddenly, there was a loud BANG! and the knob became quite easy to turn. The other thing that happened was the immediate stinging sensation on the back of my hand as the tip of the broken string hit it.

Drops of blood rose to the surface immediately and I put the back of my hand up to my mouth to draw away the blood and soothe the sting.

There was nothing to soothe the sting to my pride, though. It was an amateur’s mistake. The fingers on one hand had plucked the third string repeatedly, awaiting change, while the fingers on the other hand twisted the knob for the second string.

There is only a space of about one third of an inch between the strings. One third of an inch.

Such a small distance. Such a disastrous result.

Perhaps this is the place I should end this little morality tale. I should talk about our sinful nature and how close we come to doing what is right. I could even suggest that the slightest deviation from the right path will lead to destruction. If we keep all the law, but err in one point, we are doomed. (James 2:10)

I don’t want to end the story there—mostly because that’s not where it ends. I didn’t leave the broken string on the guitar. I didn’t carry the offensive thing into my back room to await an ignominious fate in the distant future.

When the customer arrived to retrieve his fine instrument moments later, he picked up a perfectly beautiful (and in-tune) guitar. He ran his fingers across the strings and mused at the astounding depth of tone and beauty.

Every time, Paul—every time—I am amazed at the difference when the strings are changed!

With that, he was gone. The stunning instrument will be played on a stage this weekend. The audience will marvel.

Did you really think the story would end because one idiot got a third of an inch off? I suppose some could write that story. Not I.

I’m a believer in grace. Second chances. Broken strings which are replaced with new ones—and then replaced again—and again.

And again.

So, I’m a little off.

That is true for any human who can read these words.

Pain ensues. Blood flows.

Grace happens.

The music is still not finished.

The Master Musician is making a masterpiece, a work of art.

Grace.

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.
(Ephesians 2:8-10 ~ NIV)

It is one of my favorite musical instruments that ever has been carried through my doors.

I’ve never heard it play a single note. I almost certainly will never hear it play one.

And yet, I treasure it.

Without a clue to who made it, I admire its maker. Without any knowledge of its history, I envy the first musician to hold it in her hands, freshly rosined bow held at the ready to bring forth the first notes ever drawn from the hand-carved top.

In my fancy, I see the smile play on the lips of the fortunate violinist. The dust from the rosin-laden bow puffs from the strings as they vibrate with rich tones. The slim fingers fly along the fingerboard, feeling out the familiar tunes.

No finer performance ever emanated from a Stradivari-made instrument or even one touched by the famed Giuseppi Guarneri at the height of the golden-age of violin making. The room in which the musician stands is filled with light and sound—memories made for all the years of a lifetime, be they happy and full, or tortured and lonely.

Odd, isn’t it? The instrument I’m looking at as it rests beside my desk tonight is not valuable—at least not in the sense that comes to our minds.

It will never be a collector’s piece. No catalog will ever list it as a desirable commodity in the world of violin connoisseurs. No auction house will ever feature it in their offerings to the newly-wealthy seeking that signature piece in which to invest.

And yet, the violin is a one of a kind. A masterpiece of sorts.

There is not an identical instrument anywhere in the world. From stem to stern, the design and hand of the maker are in evidence. Except for the strings, two sad, rusted specimens which have seen the last bow ever to be drawn over their midsections, every part of the old fiddle—every part—was hand-carved by the maker.

Think of it!

Each plank of wood was hand-selected by the master for the color and grain. He planed, and carved, and sanded them, paying special attention to the curve of the top and the back, until they were exactly the right shape to be fitted to the side pieces.

The long narrow piece of maple was carved, a painstakingly slow and difficult task. Maple is a particularly hard wood, and not cooperative with the carving process. And yet, out of the hard, stubborn lump of blond wood, the scroll at the tip of the instrument took shape, curving down to the neck, then the heel where the neck joined the body.

Not to belabor a point, but the maker even thought it essential to carve the tuning pegs by hand, a task that must have exceeded an hour’s time spent on each one. Complete sets, machined and polished, sell for fifteen or twenty dollars in my store. Factory made bridges are not expensive, nor are the tailpieces. Still, this unknown master deemed it important that every single piece be hand carved.

Every single component. Made by his hand.

Unique. A thing of beauty.

And yet…

And yet, if I compare the aged violin with others in my store, this old fiddle doesn’t fare so well. There are rough edges where the others are smooth. The shape is not symmetrical, as is that of the factory built instruments. The hand-cut fittings—the bridge, the pegs, the tailpiece—are crude and not as sturdy.

Nothing shines; nothing gleams.

What a treasure!

And suddenly, as I gaze at the old violin, I see them.

I finally see them.

Every day, they come to see me for one reason or another. The reason is of no consequence. That they walk through my door is the hand of Providence. Nothing happens without purpose.

If I look closely, I can find defects in every single one. And once in awhile, someone actually points out the defects to me. After the person is gone. Always after they’re gone.

I have, to my shame, pointed out the defects myself.

And the Teacher stopped writing in the dirt long enough to suggest that any of them without defect could feel free to carry out the sentence in person. Then, squatting down again, He ran His finger through the dust once more, waiting for them to grasp the impact of His message. (John 8:6-8)

Do you suppose any one of the teachers of the Law missed the message of the dust he played with? How long did it take for them to remember what they were made from?

He never forgets it. How would He? He made us! (Psalm 103:14)

As with the old violin, the comparisons with others prove nothing. Each person who walks through my door is a masterpiece of unique design.

A one-off, if you will.

Every one, a treasure. Every single one.

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

I can almost hear the music again.

Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede.
(John Lyndgate ~ English monk/poet ~ 1370-1451

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.
(Psalm: 13-14 ~ NRSV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

A Little Off

One Off