Broken

“This guitar is broken!” I said in exasperation to the young man I was helping move across town.

“You can have it.” He said, looking nonchalantly at the tired old instrument with a large crack in the heel of the neck. I laid it in the back of my truck like a wounded soldier amongst the mirrors and pictures wrapped in moving blankets. This guitar had been neglected if not abused. I winced as I thought back to things that I had not cared for properly as a child.

I took the guitar home and surgically removed the dirty strings and cleaned it thoroughly. Under the light of my work bench I could see that the crack wasn’t all the way through, but still substantial enough to make the guitar unplayable. I felt like the doctor when they say things like, It may not work, but I am going to do my best to fix it.

I inserted wood glue into the crack with a needle and syringe and clamped the body and neck down to the work bench to hold tension on the crack. This will only hurt for a little bit. Then I turned out the lights and didn’t look at it for three days. When I finally came back to it I could still see a black line where I probably didn’t clean the crack sufficiently, but the joint felt solid. Now I just needed some strings. Before I took the time to take a trip to the Guitar Dungeon, I happened to be at a friend’s house as he was changing his guitar strings. I noticed that he had an interesting string removal ritual. I usually clip my old strings-which have been played to death, black with grime and riddled with divots and dents- with a pair of wire cutters, and then to avoid a finger injury from the sharp string end under tension, I unwrap the bit still attached to the tuning post with a pair of pliers. He was taking his time and unwinding the string gently from the tuning post, so the entire string was still intact. Then he carefully placed each string in a neat little line, as if he too could still feel the life pulsing in those sparkly bits of metal, just waiting to be touched so they could burst forth singing. It works out nicely because the strings could be reused if you break one of the new ones. He did poke his finger with a sharp string end and there was a bit of bleeding. As he took the last string off he tied the whole bundle in a single knot. That’s when I asked him if I could have them. And he obliged. I have a hard time throwing some things away. Or seeing things thrown away. And those strings had been watching me like a puppy at the pound.

The next day I put the used strings on the old broken guitar and gave each another chance at life. I decided to leave the guitar tuned down a whole step, because I wasn’t sure if it could handle the tension of standard tuning. I held my breath as I got the last string tuned, then I cautiously inspected the crack. It was still solid. I played an F chord-not the first choice of most guitar players. And not the easiest chord to play in standard tuning. But we weren’t in standard tuning, and the F chord seemed so natural now and it rang out beautifully, deep and rich.

I have wondered what to do with this instrument brought back from the gates of death. I can’t in good conscience sell it. Because it was a gift, and also because I feel like I need to stay close to it in case in needs further repair. And maybe no one would want to pay for a broken instrument. This instrument has already served its time in the heavy hands of a careless owner. It now needs the gentle touch of a seasoned musician. Someone who has lived enough to know what pain feels like. I feel like I want to keep this resurrected instrument where I can see it every day and be reminded of the many second chances that I have been given. I want to be able to pick it up and make sweet music with something that came so near being cast off.

A bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench: he shall bring forth judgment unto truth. Isaiah 42:3