In my younger
years, I played guitar in various worship bands. I was never much of a singer as I cannot
carry a tune in a bucket, but strumming and chords I can manage. My first guitar made it through my college years where
I would throw a journal and the guitar in my car and find a quiet spot in the
mountains to think, write, and sing my heart out in these secret singing sessions
from the soul. Not the smartest thing in
the world driving into the backwoods mountains alone, but to quote John Muir, “The
mountains are calling and I must go.”
These times alone in the mountains were the spots where my soul found
voice. Where I could sing off key with
no judgment and let the poetry flow from my pen and guitar. From this vantage point, those times look
like hippie loving freedom and glory days.
In all honesty, these were times of wrestling with God, faith, rage, and
grief. And it occurred in isolation outside of community.
My guitar moved on with me for a summer living in a Mexican tent city and participated in “jam” sessions with my fellow college interns around ginormous bonfires. Guitar playing was communal, almost tribal. We were banging on upside down 5-gallon buckets as drums and using other tools to contribute to the rhythm section. And it was here, in the Mexican tent city that the cries of my soul moved from wrestling to questioning. And it was here I met Karen who offered to step into the wrestling ring with me; who took the time to whisper love into my ears and turn my song from despair to hope (though she did not tell me hope and healing would be a rough journey! She at least offered to walk alongside me.)
My guitar travelled
halfway around the world to Vietnam.
Like in college, my guitar was my friend as I wrote and strummed the
rhythms of my soul, often minor chords.
Unlike college, I did not drift far from my rooftop balcony, but this
space became no less sacred as the mountains of Tennessee. I was naked before God. But like college, I reverted back to isolation and privacy. I was not to be seen or heard by my fellow human beings.
This guitar
stayed in Vietnam and continued making music at the hands of other musicians and
upon returning to the States, I bought a new, beautiful guitar. I played some,
but the hustle of life took front seat.
I continued to write and find hidden spots in nature to process
emotions, but the guitar eventually moved to the closet. Then kids . . . it stayed in the closet with very
rare moments of coming out and playing several verses of “Wheels on the Bus.” Once the kids moved past preschool years, the
guitar only collected dust.
Saturday
night, my now upper elementary children resurrected the guitar from the
closet. There was an old friend, my
companion who had once accompanied me as I wrestled with life’s deepest
questions. Three sets of eyes looked at me and asked how
to strum and make chords. Muscle memory
kicked in and I started plucking my way through fingering without the benefit
of callouses. Then my oldest asked if I
could play an old Taylor Swift country song.
After several minutes, I had the chord progression and the rhythm
started coming together. She grabbed her
iPod and started recording. I realized
for a moment I was “cool” in her eyes at which she quickly noted that I should
enjoy being “cool” because it probably will not happen again for a long time. I
could not help but smile – and I am still smiling two days later.
These last
several weeks I have thought and meditated on authenticity, vulnerability, and
connecting with others. The dark side of
me says I am can only be vulnerable alone in a controlled environment. But in this isolation, I have no
connection. Vulnerability is about
authenticity and sharing our WHOLE self with others. I may have felt naked before God in my
mountain hollers and roof top guitar playing, but it was private and isolated. No one knew this was happening. Saturday night, strumming (or more accurately
fumbling) through guitar chords, I was naked again. I had no idea if I could figure the song out,
or if I did, would it sound like it was supposed to. And I was figuring this out in front of an
audience of people whose opinions I cared about. But I took the risk. My old friend, guitar, helped me connect with
my family in a new way. I wasn’t “expert”
mom, but rather playful and honest mom willing to screw up my daughters’
favorite song and make a fool of myself. I felt my body loosen and I moved into the rhythms. A part of my started opening up in a new way.
Authentic connection made. The
risk was small but still there. The reward was definitely worth it.
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