When Beauty Breaks In
On Sunday mornings, the brown frame building that housed the tiny Mennonite church burst at the seams with the sound of voices raised in song accompanied by an acoustic guitar. On the front pew, Jacob Fiddler sat hunched over his guitar playing like his life depended on it. From the pew behind him, I could see his back muscles convulse with every strum. The guitar suffered from his enthusiasm and consumed more strings than any guitar should. In mid-strum, a loud twang would sound as a string broke, but Jacob never skipped a beat.
The guitar was, to me, a comical instrument played by the uber-old, not relevant to me at all, and certainly not a source of beauty. But that changed one summer afternoon when a visitor to our home opened a guitar case, extracted a well-cared-for instrument, and began to play. I don’t remember the person, or what song he played, all I remember is the guitar, the sound was magical. Lost in the music, I came back to earth when he finished his song. Everything was clear now. I had to play a guitar—to move people like that.
It would be at least two years and nearly a hundred miles away before I first got my hands on a guitar. I discovered while I was exploring the dusty basement of a chapel in the woods. My heart skipped a beat when I looked it over. The smooth lacquer finish shone in the light. It showed wear and tear, but it was a guitar, and maybe it could be mine! But my heart sank when I played some notes, it sounded awful. Worse than Jacob, I thought. My dream seemed further away than ever. I knew nothing about tuning a guitar or about music theory, and the guitar was broken down so my disappointment was inevitable. It wasn’t until I was fifteen when my friend James loaned me his guitar. I found a chord book and went to my bedroom. Behind that closed door, I set my mind on playing the guitar.
After school each afternoon, I went back to my room and picked up where I left off the day before. I lost myself in music, and was terrible, then mediocre. Eventually I graduated to a level of mastery that let me play in front of others without undue embarrassment. Seeing that I had the ability to move people and to receive their appreciation in return was a balm for my soul. My teenage identity up to that point had been the class clown, a buffoon and possibly mentally deficient. Being seen as a musician was a major step up the social ladder!
But something much deeper was happening. Music was opening me to an aching longing for beauty and wholeness. It was giving me hope. Every strum of the guitar gave voice to the pain I’d felt as a child, to the nothingness I felt now. Sitting alone in my room, my heart was cracking open to the presence of someone, the same person I’d sensed as a four-year-old venturing outside safe boundaries to sit alone on a rock outcropping to watch the water dance. Beauty, longing, and presence surrounded me then, and enveloped me now as I let myself get lost in the music.
