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The Shadow Valley Guitar: First You Cut Down a Tree

The Shadow Valley Guitar: First You Cut Down a Tree

 

mountainYesterday, this view was the backdrop for Sunday morning worship at family camp.

IMG_2642Beautiful guitar music accompanied the singing.

IMG_2626The beautiful guitar was made from wood cut from a tree that grew only yards away from where we gathered to worship.

Hiram guitarThe only missing link was Hiram, the man who made the guitar, unable to be present because of limited vacation time. But everyone in attendance was thinking of him and grateful for his gift to Shadow Valley Camp, the gift of music to a family who loves to sing.

To learn more about how the guitar was made, the story is online at First You Cut Down a Tree. As wife of the guitar maker I may be biased, but the process is fascinating. So take a look and if you like what you see, leave a comment at either blog or both. Both the guitar maker and his wife would love to hear what you think!

Crawdad Worship – Recycled

Crawdad Worship – Recycled

Since the end of spring break, our weather had been a pretty convincing reprisal of winter – cold, wind, snow, and sleet. You name it. We’ve had it. Longer days are the only evidence that this is late March and not February. Today’s post from a year ago is a reminder that spring is coming and that we’re not the only critters looking forward to it’s arrival.

Crawdad Worship

Thankfully, a few days of warm weather made short work of our snow cover earlier this month. As the snow piles shrank, huge puddles formed around storm sewers. Many of them were plugged with debris carried by the flowing water.

All that water made me wish for duck feet or a canoe during my morning walks. But I wasn’t the only critter trying to keep my feet dry while winter gave way to spring. One Sunday morning, when I skirted a storm sewer puddle, a stubby chunk of bark beside the puddle waved at me. I blinked, then bent to examine the talented bit of driftwood.

It wasn’t driftwood. It was a crawdad, with vicious claws clacking and slender antenna quivering in the sunshine. I pulled out my camera and took picture after picture of this first confirmation that spring was here to stay. When Crawdaddy curved his bony back and stretched toward the morning light, looking positively pentecostal, I wanted to raise my arms and dance along with my newfound friend.

I didn’t because worry pinned my hands at my sides. What if someone saw me dancing with a crawdad, my warm weather antenna quivering, my mind temporarily unhinged by the promise of spring? My respectable reputation would be tarnished, and that just wouldn’t do.

But now, whenever the sun warms my back or streams in my kitchen window or dissolves another snowbank, I think about my could-have-been dance partner. I wonder when the pure delight of worshipping the Creator of spring be more important to me than the impression I make upon others? When will the presence of the Son be my perfect satisfaction?

I picture Crawdaddy, his arms raised, his threadlike antenna quivering.  He’s worshipping his sun with abandon. Why am I afraid to let go and freely worship mine?