I never tire of this tale originally shared in this venue in 2011. It seems so appropriate for the Easter season.
We’ll be celebrating Easter at the beach next week. As such, there will be no Weekend Inspiration until April 9th. Blessed Easter wishes to you all.
It has been said that if you call your troubles experiences, and remember that every experience develops some latent force within you, you will grow vigorous and happy, however adverse your circumstances may seem to be.
What follows is a true story that is a testament to that statement:
In 1877 a baby girl was born into a talented family of musicians. As such, at an early age she became a musical prodigy. Raised in a devout Christian family, she loved playing classical church melodies on the organ. She was not interested in dolls or games that other little girls her age were attracted to. She loved playing and composing hymns more than anything and she would spend hours daily doing so. However, tragically, while still in her youth, she developed a severe case of arthritis that permanently withered all of her limbs and confined her to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Her affliction robbed her of the ability to make music, but not her artistic talent or tenacity. Instead, she channeled her musical soul and considerable energy into writing poetry. To accomplish this she would struggle to grasp a pencil in each of her badly deformed hands. Then, using the eraser end, she would slowly type the words one letter at a time. The joy she received from creating verse far exceeded the considerable pain she endured from her effort.
In 1921, as she later described it, while attending a local lecture, “I suddenly felt filled with light and inspiration.” Within 30 minutes what would become her most renown work, “wrote itself.” She felt it was a gift from God, and, hence, did not merit her name being attached to it. So she signed it “author unknown” and sent it as a submission to her church news bulletin. The piece was immediately embraced and spread from parishioner to parishioner, then from town to town, then nationally. Finally, several years later, the poem was read at a religious international convention and was attributed by the reader to “author unknown.” Suddenly, a young man stood up and shouted, “I know the author, and its time the world did too! It was written by my mother, Myra Brooks Welch.”
From that point forward Myra Brooks Welch became known worldwide as the rightful author of not only this, her most famous, but also scores of other beautiful works of poetry:
The Touch of the Master’s Hand
It was battered and scarred and the auctioneer,
Thought it scarcely worth his while,
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
“What am I bid, good folks?” he cried.
Who’ll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar…now two…only two…
Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?”
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three”…but no!
From the room far back a grey-haired 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 an angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, “What am I bid for the old violin?”
As he held it up with the bow.
“A thousand dollars…and who’ll make it two?
Two…two thousand, who’ll make it three?
Three thousand once and three thousand twice,
Three thousand and gone,” said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We do not quite understand…
What changed it’s worth?” Swift came the reply,
“The Touch of the Master’s Hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred by sin,
Is auctioned cheap by the thoughtless crowd,
Just like the old violin.
A “mess ‘o pottage,” a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He’s “going once”, he’s “going twice,”
And “going…almost gone.”
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd,
Never quite can understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought,
By the touch of the Master’s Hand.
Myra Brooks Welch was a prolific writer of prose throughout her long life. She passed away at the age of 82 in 1959. All of her poems were replete with the rejoicing she had in God’s love. Despite being battered, scarred and crippled for most of her life, despite being denied the ability to express her talent in her beloved music, she continued through the years typing her joyous expressions on the wonders of life, one painful letter at a time – with a pencil eraser!
Our human frailty too often entices us to embrace self-pity and swallow the pill of bitterness whenever we face a daunting challenge. Few would have blamed Myra for doing so. But she, buoyed by her strong faith, well understood that bitterness imprisons life while love releases it. Additionally, it is not when we embrace defeat, but when we triumph over it that we truly savor victory. Myra Booth’s affliction may have had others see her as a battered and scarred old violin with little to no worth, but, while accepting the reality of her condition, she saw herself and her ultimate value quite differently. In her later years, a friend who was visiting her house one day, recalled Myra patting the arm of her wheelchair and saying, “And I thank God for this!”
Myra Brooks Welch was truly touched by the Master’s Hand.
Have an AWE-full weekend!
William “Bill” Bacque