THE TOUCH OF THE MASTER'S HAND. Pts. 1-2

I have often watched early 20^th century video segments of crowd scenes on YouTube and social media.

A crowd of men, women and children cheering on their WWI military heroes; shortly after their return from Europe. People going about their business on the streets of New York City. Teddy Roosevelt making a speech during a ‘Bull Moose’ political rally.

And I cannot watch these pieces of celluloid footage without thinking,

“They’re ALL gone now. Every one of them. Even the children.”

(and)

“They were busy living, and breathing, and moving, and loving then; when they were, and we were not. Now we are, and they are not. And one day, some yet unborn person will say the same thing about us.”

My employer, the owner of a small construction company, salvaged a few hundred bricks from the demolition of an ancient city street. He keeps one of them in the shop. Jeff has told me that he has found fingerprints on some of the bricks; left there by whomever first formed them. Those hands that are no longer tangible, and have no ability to touch anything, and will never do so again.

Somehow, this kind of notion strikes me rather poignant, and calls to mind that old poem about the dilapidated violin entitled, “The Touch of the Master’s Hand.”

As a counselor, I have often used rather graphic terms when referring to my ultimate demise, and have prefaced various statements to my clients and interns with,

“Long after I am moldering away…”

We simply can’t stay here. And it behooves us to leave something of ourselves behind.

Those brickmakers of which I alluded left bricks. My father was a talented landscape artist and amateur genealogist, and he left paintings and family documentation. I am a writer, counselor and mentor, and I will leave something of myself behind in the persons of those whom God has providentially decided to set in my pathway.

I love a phrase I once heard at a graduation exercise.

“My students are living messages to a time that I will never see.”

One of my former interns once gave me the greatest gift I have ever received when she said,

“Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll go for you when you can no longer go. I’ll speak for you when you can no longer speak. I’ll reach, teach and keep people in your name long after you have gone on to your reward.”

And with this in mind, I intend to

…leave something behind.

by William McDonald, PhD. McDonald's Daily Diary. Vol. 82. Copyright pending

Pt. 2

'Twas battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,
"Who starts the bidding for me?"
"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"
"Two dollars, who makes it three?"
"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded 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 the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"
As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"
"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"
"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
"We just don't understand."
"What changed its' worth?"
Swift came the reply.
"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

"And many a man with life out of tune
All battered and bruised with hardship
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.

                                                         
                                                                     The Old Violin

- Myra Brooks Welch