This is the story about a lost guitar that raised someone from the dead and restored a relationship. All in one moment.
When I start a new hobby or project I tend to jump into it full force. So when I decided to take lessons, I knew one guitar wasn’t enough. I bought three. I also tend to give up on hobbies and projects so that three perfectly good guitars ended up hanging in my spare bedroom.
So when I was out of town visiting my mother, and she led me to a back closet, in the corner of which was propped an old cheap guitar, I resisted her pleas to take this off of her hands. It was meant for a grand daughter who never tried to learn herself. The instrument had sat in the same place for two years.
“What do I need with another guitar”, I thought. My 350Z has enough storage space for two cats and a duffle bag. I would barely have enough room. Sometimes though , it is less important to listen to our own reasoning than to trust that certain events may have been placed in our path for a reason. So I loaded it up and took it back when I made my return to Orlando.
Now, I live on the second floor of a condo and I knew that new people had just moved into the space below me. I hadn’t met them yet but I assumed at a glance that it was a 20 something daughter and her whatever-something mother.
I get out of the car, just returning from my trip with this old guitar in tow and the mother said, “Do you play?”
” I wouldn’t call it playing. But I strum a bit.” I replied .
“Bring it here would you?”
So I figured she was at least curious. She held it in her arms and began playing it. She was pretty good too. But she wasn’t playing just any song. She explained that her husband, her daughters father, died a few years ago. He was a master at playing, according to her. He even had a nickname; Rockin’ Randy or some such name.
As I sat there, she played a few of his songs and the daughter sang along. They were reminiscing about their life in the past when Randy was around. You could see their countenance change and for a few minutes, Randy was with us, at least in their memories.
I asked her why she didn’t play more often, she was a good player in her own right.
“Money is tight right now, the last thing I could afford is a guitar” she said.
I knew what the guitar was for, It was never for me. I was simply the transportation of an instrument that would bring a soul from long ago, back to life and forge a tighter bond between a mother and her daughter.
The guitar never made it upstairs.
“Keep that one. It’s yours. It was always yours.”
The big things in our life ; the ones that we spend so much time and effort working for all of our lives, are only big to us. It is the small things, that require us to remain in a state of consciousness to see, that are really the important things. The happenings that truly make our life more meaningful and deliver a greater sense of being and accomplishment are, ironically, the simple ones and can be made manifest everyday.