his beaten guitar
August 5, 2009
*A journal entry on the train bound for Chicago*
It was a beautiful sight. The case had wear, tear and signs of age. The man carrying the guitar looked the same. He sat with the guitar on his lap, refusing to part with it. I thought that if anyone had asked to hold it he might have killed them then and there. I wonder if the man can play that guitar. It is a bit of ridiculous question, but maybe he can’t, maybe he just loves the way the strings feel on his fingers, or the way he is the only one with that unique guitar. I wonder, should anyone be deprived of anything if they have a love for it? The guitar is a magnificent instrument, even with the scrapes and bruises. Some might consider it ugly and discard it, but I would cling to it like that man. I wonder if the man knows that God loves him like he loves that guitar. Does he know how beautiful he would be if he only let God hold him, tune him, and make wonderful music with him? Music that tells of love and compassion. Music that would burst out of his scars and fill the cracks of his soul. What keeps me in the seat? Why can’t I get up and tell that man of God’s love? I hope this trip makes me braver.
