It's Amy, my dear friends. I'm sure you suspect that I've been stolen away and this is some impostor...but, no, a graver truth is to be realized: I have been too busy to even visit my own site, let alone write in it. :) I'm really am so sorry, dear ones.
In an humble effort at reconciliatory writing, I've provided quite a little story for all my friends here to read tonight. If you happen to have a few minutes, pull up a cozy chair and sit awhile to read some of the quiet occurrences of my life.
This tale comes from the last night I spent in Glasgow, a journey now many months distant from my present thoughts. The story tells a great deal of even more distant history in my life, however, and that is why I thought it just might bring you some pleasure. Enjoy the not-so-important recollections of my heart which, truth be told, are very precious to me... :)
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There was one more grace of Heaven that would find my soul, in the final hours before my dawn departure for home. I was allowed, at last, to find the birthplace of my instrument, the beloved violin that has sung the melodies of my soul for so long now. Crafted in Glasgow’s Hinshaw Street, in 1875, by John M. Crindle, the violin was priceless to me. It came to my hands only through God’s great mercy, and every day of my musician’s life has been spent in trying to return to my heavenly Father a small portion of the immense blessing He poured out on me. I desperately desired to be a faithful steward of the gift given. Thus, when the hour had grown late, the fingers were raw, and every joint was throbbing, it was still too little a price with which to repay the glory of God’s great goodness. Since the time I was a young girl, there was a friendship developing in my heart, a relationship of mutual appreciation with a “lowly instrument.” You see, my heart had songs still silent, and the instrument needed hands to help it sing. God has a mysterious way of putting people and things together in this life, but every union—no matter how colossal or commonplace—is always meant for His eternal purposes. Such was my story. The first time I ever saw the instrument that was “soon to be mine,” I remember having this dull ache of disappointment. In orchestra, every other child held a newly-made violin, shiny and fiery in hue of varnish. My violin was old and very dull in varnish, the color of the wood underneath being a simple mocha color. I even noticed that there were a couple of tiny dents and nicks in the wood, likely wounds from another lifetime. I’d never have let my face betray me, but it was with a sigh of resignation that I picked up the bow and made sure the strings were in tune. Before I even drew the bow across the strings or heard the first note, my hand went to grasp the neck, and I remember thinking “Hmmm…that wood’s incredibly smooth, how beautiful.” When the first note did come forth, that was the end of my silent struggle. In a single moment, God took a part of my heart and made sure the violin would never again leave it. That day, I went home, bearing a simple case in hand. It contained an instrument that was going to find its place in the world, its place in the great purposes of a loving Father. I did not then know that life would be a struggle. My youth was still with me; all was yet beautiful in my eyes, and I had barely started to know the heartbreaks of this world. Many a night was spent, pouring myself out to the Lord in a sacrifice of preparation for His use. So few ever know the hidden life of one whose worship is to be given through music. Slowly, I awakened to the realities, sometimes cruel, of living in this world. Though it sounds peculiar to others, I know what I say is true: within a mere chapter of life, an almost-overlooked violin had become one of my truest friends. If anything, the wounds in its wood were made only more beautiful, for they helped me not to feel so badly, when I let hot tears course down my face and over the instrument’s wooden one. I knew the violin had borne a few marks of the reality of life already. While I was yet a small girl, I started to dream of visiting the place in which this priceless gift had been created. To most, Scotland would have seemed a rather outlandish dream for such a young child, but a loving Father was looking down, and He did not think it so nonsensical a desire. By the time I’d grown to be a young woman, a little girl’s dream had become reality. I was standing quietly in the empty Hinshaw Street of Glasgow’s “Old Town.” This was the place in which had been birthed a friend, something with which my soul had been knit these many years in praise to God. Just steps away, mere wood had been humbly carved by a man who never knew the true worth of the task then at hand. Over a century before my birth, God was already preparing my way in this world…and I was standing in the place where a story of faithfulness first began.
********************
I hope you enjoyed the story. :) Until we are together again, may God richly bless all of you. Thank you for being such faithful friends... I'll try to visit with you more often, but remember always that each and every one of you are in my thoughts and prayers. :) God be with you, dear ones!
Blessings Always,
Amy
In an humble effort at reconciliatory writing, I've provided quite a little story for all my friends here to read tonight. If you happen to have a few minutes, pull up a cozy chair and sit awhile to read some of the quiet occurrences of my life.
This tale comes from the last night I spent in Glasgow, a journey now many months distant from my present thoughts. The story tells a great deal of even more distant history in my life, however, and that is why I thought it just might bring you some pleasure. Enjoy the not-so-important recollections of my heart which, truth be told, are very precious to me... :)
********************
There was one more grace of Heaven that would find my soul, in the final hours before my dawn departure for home. I was allowed, at last, to find the birthplace of my instrument, the beloved violin that has sung the melodies of my soul for so long now. Crafted in Glasgow’s Hinshaw Street, in 1875, by John M. Crindle, the violin was priceless to me. It came to my hands only through God’s great mercy, and every day of my musician’s life has been spent in trying to return to my heavenly Father a small portion of the immense blessing He poured out on me. I desperately desired to be a faithful steward of the gift given. Thus, when the hour had grown late, the fingers were raw, and every joint was throbbing, it was still too little a price with which to repay the glory of God’s great goodness. Since the time I was a young girl, there was a friendship developing in my heart, a relationship of mutual appreciation with a “lowly instrument.” You see, my heart had songs still silent, and the instrument needed hands to help it sing. God has a mysterious way of putting people and things together in this life, but every union—no matter how colossal or commonplace—is always meant for His eternal purposes. Such was my story. The first time I ever saw the instrument that was “soon to be mine,” I remember having this dull ache of disappointment. In orchestra, every other child held a newly-made violin, shiny and fiery in hue of varnish. My violin was old and very dull in varnish, the color of the wood underneath being a simple mocha color. I even noticed that there were a couple of tiny dents and nicks in the wood, likely wounds from another lifetime. I’d never have let my face betray me, but it was with a sigh of resignation that I picked up the bow and made sure the strings were in tune. Before I even drew the bow across the strings or heard the first note, my hand went to grasp the neck, and I remember thinking “Hmmm…that wood’s incredibly smooth, how beautiful.” When the first note did come forth, that was the end of my silent struggle. In a single moment, God took a part of my heart and made sure the violin would never again leave it. That day, I went home, bearing a simple case in hand. It contained an instrument that was going to find its place in the world, its place in the great purposes of a loving Father. I did not then know that life would be a struggle. My youth was still with me; all was yet beautiful in my eyes, and I had barely started to know the heartbreaks of this world. Many a night was spent, pouring myself out to the Lord in a sacrifice of preparation for His use. So few ever know the hidden life of one whose worship is to be given through music. Slowly, I awakened to the realities, sometimes cruel, of living in this world. Though it sounds peculiar to others, I know what I say is true: within a mere chapter of life, an almost-overlooked violin had become one of my truest friends. If anything, the wounds in its wood were made only more beautiful, for they helped me not to feel so badly, when I let hot tears course down my face and over the instrument’s wooden one. I knew the violin had borne a few marks of the reality of life already. While I was yet a small girl, I started to dream of visiting the place in which this priceless gift had been created. To most, Scotland would have seemed a rather outlandish dream for such a young child, but a loving Father was looking down, and He did not think it so nonsensical a desire. By the time I’d grown to be a young woman, a little girl’s dream had become reality. I was standing quietly in the empty Hinshaw Street of Glasgow’s “Old Town.” This was the place in which had been birthed a friend, something with which my soul had been knit these many years in praise to God. Just steps away, mere wood had been humbly carved by a man who never knew the true worth of the task then at hand. Over a century before my birth, God was already preparing my way in this world…and I was standing in the place where a story of faithfulness first began.
********************
I hope you enjoyed the story. :) Until we are together again, may God richly bless all of you. Thank you for being such faithful friends... I'll try to visit with you more often, but remember always that each and every one of you are in my thoughts and prayers. :) God be with you, dear ones!Blessings Always,
Amy
posted by Amy | 9:12 PM
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2 comments
