In the Master’s hands

by Tami Rudkin
Tuesday, March 25, 2008 9:25 AM MDT

Do you ever fall into bed at night, as if you have been beaten and bloodied by your worst enemy?

Do you ever feel so old and worn out that you’re not sure you want to wake up in the morning? Do you ever feel that you have made so many poor choices that you are scarred beyond being “beautiful” or even useful again?

I think we all feel these kinds of emotions from time to time. Bad things happen to us, all of us.

The winds of life whip around us. They gust up, roughly rushing against us; destroying sometimes and disfiguring on occasion, but always wearing on us in some way.

I am acutely aware today that some in our midst, people we sit in church with or buy groceries from, have been unfairly abused in some way.

Sure, personal choices also have come into play, but somewhere someone initiated a series of events that have left them battered and broken.

For you, or your loved one, I tell this story, for good can still come from your life. I’m sure of it.

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Ole Bull was a Norwegian, self-taught violinist who had toured Europe and the United States in the mid-1800s. He was legendary for his extraordinary ability to make a violin sing.

One night while he was traveling in the forests of Europe, he got lost. He wandered for some time in the dark of night before he came upon a tiny log hut.

The old hermit who lived there invited him to stay. The old man sat him in front of a blazing fire, fed him and shared a few stories.

After a long pause in the conversation, the old man stood, shuffled across the dirt floor and picked up an ancient battered violin.

He sat down and picked some crude tunes. Mostly, they were screechy, ear-piercing sounds.

Ole Bull finally asked, “Do you think I could play on that?”

“I don’t think so,” replied the hermit with a shake of his head. “It took me years to learn.”

“Let me try,” Ole Bull responded.

He took the battered violin in his hands, and drew the bow across the strings. Suddenly, there was music -- beautiful music.

For an hour, Ole played the marred, beat-up violin, and the old man wept.

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Believe me when I say that all of us are like the old hermit’s scratched and scarred violin. No one is exempt.

However, the splendor of our lives does not rest in our ability to look good or to hold a tune, but in whom we allow to pick us up, embrace us in his hands and play us.

Over the years, I have seen many -- who have been abused, abandoned and those who have destroyed their lives one small decision at a time -- come to rest in God’s hands. And their transformation has been nothing but remarkable.

If you’re feeling a bit beat-up or worthless, just remember that in the Master’s hands, even the most battered among us can still sing with beauty.

(Larry and Linda Kloster sponsor this column.)

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