Nov
11
2016
The Master’s Hand
Posted in Prayer 2 Comments
There is such a thing as sneak attacks.
Sneak attacks are something that creep up on you and trigger a memory.
It may be a song, a smell, or an object that sneaks up on you.
Often the memory is lovely, but for some people the memory may be painful.
Thankfully, my sneak attack was quite lovely.
It happened as I was looking for a book on one of my bookshelves.
Something on the spine of a book caught my eye.
There was a clear piece of packing tape that was reflecting the light.
I pulled the book off the shelf and was instantly brought back in time.
In my hand was a volume of poetry that I had not looked at in a while.
The book was given to my by one of my aunts.
The book had been a volume of poetry that was very special to her.
I opened the book and on the first blank page was her inscription.
To my dear niece, Regina. (4-14-72)
My sweetest possession – may it be an inspiration to stay as sweet as you are.
Love, Aunt Marge
The book is very worn.
My aunt had placed the tape along the edge of the spine.
The book was loved by her.
The book is loved by me.
Tucked inside the book were some other treasures.
There was the printed copy of the wonderful Christmas story, The Gift of the Magi.
I remember when my mother read that story to me.
I remember being intrigued by the author’s name: O. Henry.
It was the story of a man who sold his pocket watch to buy his wife a set of combs for her hair.
It was about the woman who cut and sold her long hair to buy her husband a chain for his watch.
It was about giving away your most precious gift.
It was about giving away a part of yourself.
I held that precious story in my hands.
I could see my mother reading it to me.
I could see her holding the pages.
It was a lovely memory that made my heart sing.
I was just about to put the book back on the shelf when something fell at my feet.
It was another small publication dated February, 1966.
It was a small booklet with stories, poems, and quotations.
I remember why the booklet was placed inside this precious volume of poetry.
There was a poem my mother read to me.
It was a poem that touched my heart.
It was a poem that made my mother’s voice quiver as she read it.
It was a poem that can still bring a lump to my throat.
The poem was simply called, The Old Violin.
‘Twas battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.
“What am I bid, good people”, he cried,
“Who starts the bidding for me?”
“One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?”
“Two dollars, who makes it three?”
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,”
But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said “What now am I bid for this old violin?”
As he held it aloft with its’ bow.
“One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?”
“Two thousand, Who makes it three?”
“Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone”, said he.
The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
“We just don’t understand.”
“What changed its’ worth?”
Swift came the reply.
“The Touch of the Masters Hand.”
“And many a man with life out of tune
All battered and bruised with hardship
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin
A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.
But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters’ Hand.
The memory of my mother reading that poem to me was palpable.
I placed the booklet back in the middle of the poetry volume.
I realized that a love of stories and words was nurtured in me when I was very young.
The lilting sound of my mother’s voice and the touch of the book in my hand was a gift.
I went into the kitchen and turned on a selected Pandora station.
As one song finished, another came on right after.
The song was, Touch of the Master’s Hand, a song based on the poem my mother read to me.
I stopped and listened to every note, to every word, as a lump in my throat began to form.
What lesson did God have for me?
What was I to glean from the poem that literally fell at my feet and the song that followed?
Many would say, Nothing, it was a coincidence.
I do not believe in coincidences, rather I trust in God’s sovereignty.
I went about my day, not really looking for a reason for what happened that morning.
Until I pulled into the parking lot, ready to get my weekly groceries.
There he was; a man I see each week as he gathers all the shopping carts.
We have talked before after he commented on the school names on my back window.
Now he always says, Hello, and will even pull my cart back for me if he is nearby.
How are you? I asked as I walked past him.
A little down today, was his honest reply.
Shoot a prayer up for me, would you? He mentioned as he walked towards the carts.
We never talked about the Lord.
We have only talked about the schools my children attended and where they were located.
He told me once that he wanted to go to college and even told me what he wanted to study.
Life had other plans and those dreams were never realized.
He always seemed a bit sad.
It is even in the way he walks.
I was determined to see him smile.
Just once, I wanted to see him smile.
So I listened and told him that it is never to late to begin again.
It is never too late to see a dream come to fruition.
Maybe it was just taking the time or maybe it was something else.
Maybe it was an answer to a consistent prayer: Father, use me today.
I did pray for the man.
I prayed for him as I walked around the store.
I saw him when I was walking to my car.
I prayed for you, I told him.
Thanks, he said quietly as he walked away.
I turned around after he passed.
I noticed something.
The man had a spring in his step.
But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters’ Hand.
Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are Mine. (Isaiah 43:1)
Gina, I needed your “Whispers” today. I just opened my computer and your email was the second one I saw. I was looking for something and I found it! I have been “crying inside” this week because shortly we are making the five hour trip to see my sister in a nursing home. It may be the last time we see her. Although she has heard the Gospel message, we are not sure she knows the Lord. I have been told that she probably won’t even know us. I realize it is not up to us to determine this, but up to God. Please pray for Linda and the days ahead.
I let my tears flow after reading/listening to todays “Whispers”.
God Bless,
Jeff
Jeff, this song and the poem that inspired it, tends to affect people deeply. It touches something deep inside. No one is beyond the reach of the Lord Jesus. One touch and that life is changed forever. I have prayed and will pray for your sister, Linda. I pray for a glimmer of hope and for the light of recognition. Blessings to you and Barb as you travel.
Gina