Broken Pieces

BROKEN PIECES

Quiet your busy mind and harried heart. Be still. Do you hear it? It is the Teacher and He is sitting at your heart’s door inviting you to sit a while. Kick off your shoes of busyness and sit down at His feet. You notice His hands, the ones with the deep scars in the centers and in them He is holding a book, His Book. Ask Him to open it to you. He opens the pages and then you see them, the Words but these are no ordinary Words, no, these Words are alive and He looks deep into your heart; He wants to send His Living Words into your soul to take root. Are you ready? Stop and talk with Him about it and then open your heart to what He has for you. It may be tucked in the following pages or He may lead you in another way. Listen.

Ephesians 2:10 says, “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.’

We are God’s workmanship. Not just me or you but we – all of us who have put our faith in Christ Jesus – created in Him. Made new (2 Corinthians 5:17).

The music moved through the dusky streets as bustling people slowed their harried pace so they could take in every note as though they were fragrant flowers in a bouquet unseen by human eyes. The music entered an open window where a young mother rocked her newborn and she hummed softly as the gentle notes carried the infant to the land of dreams. The music continued on its journey as it entered through an open door where a father watched his daughter descend the staircase in her mother’s wedding dress. The music stirred his father heart and he extended his hand to her and father danced with daughter one last time before placing her in the care of another, the music painting a soft memory in their hearts of these treasured moments. On through the night the music traveled; causing heads to turn, voices to quiet, and hearts to hunger for something deeper than what the world around them offered.

The lobby door of an old apartment building opened and the sweet, deep strains invited people to come and rest. Tired eyes smiled and brows relaxed, letting go the tensions of the day as the rich notes seemed to carry burdens away to some distant place. Up the stairs and down a shabby, poorly lit hallway the music grew louder and sweeter; apartment doors stood propped open to allow the music entrance into their homes, into their very lives. At the end of the hallway where darkness threatened to overtake a single flickering light bulb that hung from the ceiling stood a door with peeling paint and rusted hinges; their shabbiness stood in sharp contrast to the beautiful music that poured from behind them.

The room was warm and welcoming and the music seemed to give it a light all its own. In the center of the room a woman with delicate features sat on an old stool with eyes closed as she ran the bow across the strings of the cello which seemed alive as it breathed the most glorious music; music that could not be purchased at the local music store, downloaded from the internet or learned in ten easy lessons. The pieces she played were original works but they were not hers. As the notes faded she opened her eyes and waited quietly in the presence of He who was the source. Her teacher nodded approval and her face took on a look of sheer delight as she bubbled over with praise, “What a beautiful piece. Thank you for allowing me to play it.” She finished softly. She glanced at the clock but quickly looked back to him, hoping he had not noticed her looking at the time or her hurried pace as she placed the cello in its case and headed out the door. If He did, He didn’t say so. Normally they would spend some time oiling the cello and tending to the strings but lately she had other things that seemed more pressing. She hailed a cab and gave the address to the driver as she told herself that soon things would slow down and she would spend more time maintaining the instrument; more time with the Teacher. Her hand touched the case that housed the precious gift the Teacher had given her.

She thought back to when she had first met Him or was it that He had found her; she wasn’t exactly sure. He introduced her to music but not the music she grew up listening to, no this music was different; music written by an unseen hand in a place that must be wonderful and she longed to go there; to live there. One day when she went to spend time with Him she found Him playing the most beautiful music. She was enthralled and it was then He taught her to play something He said His Father had written; she was never the same after that. It was soon after that He presented her with the cello as a gift. It had been so unexpected and she never ceased to feel humbled when she thought of it; ah, such a gift. When she was alone she would pour over the Teacher’s notes but her favorite times were the precious hours sitting in His presence – learning at His feet. She was brought back to the present when the cab stopped and she got out.

She hurried up the steps still thinking about the Teacher as she made her way through the double doors of the hospital. She had not asked Him specifically if she should accept the invitation to play but surely He would not object; she was playing for the terminally ill, it was a “good” thing she was doing. She hurried down the corridor to a multi-purpose room. She quickly pulled the cello from the case and winced as in her hurriedness she caught the base of it on a chair leg and heard a crack come from deep within it. “Oh no!” she thought to herself but there was no time to examine it now as the other musicians were already tuning up their instruments and patients had begun entering the room. Some walked in attached to IVs while others were in wheelchairs or on gurneys; their eyes told the story of their need. She took her place with the other musicians and turned her attention to the conductor and with a wave of his hand music filled the room.

Ninety minutes later found her kneeling on the floor placing the cello in its case; she needed to get home and do a thorough examination of the instrument and she wondered if she should have the Teacher look at it as well but before she could think that through there was a tap on her shoulder; it was the conductor. “You are quite good. Where did you go to school?” he asked. She told him the Teacher’s name but the conductor shrugged it aside as if it were nothing and went on to explain that he conducted a small symphony downtown and their cellist had been taken ill that afternoon and there wasn’t time to look for a replacement and would she be so kind as to step in. He could see the reluctance in her eyes and so he quickly added, “You would truly be doing us a great favor if you would play, just for tonight.” She looked at the cello and knew she should go take care of it but the conductor said, “Please, come.” The Teacher will understand, she said to herself, after all I’m just helping them out; they are in need and it is only one night.

One night turned in to weeks and in those weeks the times with the Teacher grew fewer and she kept putting off the maintenance time on the cello. Instead of being immersed in the writings of her Teacher she was distracted by the musicians of the City. She found herself practicing what the conductor gave her and she laid aside the music of the Teacher. Attendance to the symphony grew and it wasn’t long and they were invited to move from downtown to the largest music hall in the City uptown. That night as they played to a full house and the last notes died the crowd erupted in applause but as she stood to bow to the crowd the stem of her cello broke and it fell over, tears stung her eyes as she saw pieces of her gift on the floor being trod upon by the City’s musicians. No one stooped down to help her pick up the pieces so she quickly placed the cello along with the pieces into the case and hurried out of the room, out of the building, out of the noise.

The cab dropped her off outside her apartment building and she picked up her cello and walked through the double glass doors. She climbed the stairs; the shabby hallway seemed darker and so very still; there were no doors propped open; they were all tightly shut. She walked to the end of the hallway; the light bulb hanging from the ceiling had all but gone out and she had trouble finding the keyhole in the growing darkness and sighed with relief as she felt the key slide into the lock and it clicked as it turned and as she shut the door with the peeling paint and the rusty hinges behind her she thought of the music and the Teacher.

She placed the cello case on the floor and opened the lid. She hurried to her room and came back with the pages of music the Teacher had given her. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it appeared. She sat on the stool in the center of the room and laid the cello across her lap and then touched the bow to the strings but the notes were sour and her neighbor banged an annoyed hand against the apartment wall letting her know in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want to hear her sour notes any longer. It was then the knock came on the door, followed by the voice of the Teacher calling her name.

What should she do? She couldn’t let Him in. How would she explain what had happened; the distraction of the musicians, the lights, the approval of the crowd and then her eyes fell on the cello. She shook her head as what she saw with her eyes sank into her heart; the gift was ruined. He called her again but she knew she couldn’t let Him see His gift broken. She quickly looked around the room hoping an answer would present itself but nothing came to her and so she held her breath and pretended she wasn’t home. As she waited for Him to leave she realized hope had already gone and so when she thought the Teacher had left she laid the cello in the case along with all the music and she closed the lid. Closed the lid on the cello, on the music, on the gift, on her dream and she placed it all under the bed.

She lay face down by the bed feeling utterly discouraged when she heard it; the gentle voice of the Teacher. She groaned inwardly as she turned and saw the key in His hand, the very one she had given Him as she had told Him to come in anytime He wanted; “make yourself at home” she had said and here He was. He didn’t say anything; He simply took a seat on the floor next to her and waited. There was something very powerful about being in His presence and she sat very still and she turned to Him and poured out her heart right there in His presence and He listened to it all and then He reached under the bed and pulled out the case with one hand and lifted her up with the other.

As they walked the Teacher talked about His Father and told her wonderful things about Him, things she had never heard before. It was then that they arrived at a little shop. “Where are we?” she asked. “My Father’s shop” the Teacher said with a twinkle in His eyes. He opened the door for her to go in and there she was in the Father’s presence. She was speechless standing there. She knew what she needed to do, she opened the cello case and carefully removed it but as she did the broken pieces scattered everywhere and she was suddenly overcome with emotion and she wept aloud but the Son stooped down and He gathered all the broken pieces and He carried them to the Father on her behalf and they left it all at the feet of the Father and she walked out with the Son no longer burdened by the brokenness.

The weeks passed and she spent as much time as she could with the Teacher wanting to know everything about Him and the Father. She found that she was spending time with Him not because of anything He had given her or could teach her but simply because of who He was and it dawned on her then that He was the gift; the music had been icing on the cake. One evening she heard His voice calling her name and she eagerly opened the door and invited Him in for a cup of coffee (everyone knows He loves coffee with Toffee Nut creamer) and a heart to heart chat but He beckoned her to follow Him instead. She was surprised when they arrived at His Father’s shop and even more surprised when she saw the cello case with a big bow wrapped around it and there in the Son’s presence she opened it. What she saw took her breath away. The rich dark wood of the cello gleamed up at her; the gift had been fully restored. The Teacher directed her attention to the heart of the cello and revealed the Father’s work for He had taken all the brokenness and used it to make the instrument whole. The brokenness would no longer prevent the instrument from playing; oh no, it would make the tones richer, fuller and more beautiful.

The Teacher set a stool out on the sidewalk in front of the shop and she sat down. He brought her the cello and once she had it positioned He handed her sheet music. She took it and looked at it and then looked up at Him. The title caught her immediate attention, ‘Rebecca’s Song’ an original work and it was signed by the Father. She set the music on a stand and there before an audience of One as the stars came out one by one she touched the bow to the strings and out of the depths of what once was broken poured the most beautiful music.

Play: Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus by Michael W. Smith (stringed version)

As she played it seemed to her that creation itself bowed down to listen and as the final note was played thunderous applause erupted; she looked around startled. Were the stars applauding? The Son laughed at the look of surprise on her face and He nodded His approval and then drew her attention and it was then she saw Him; the Father and He was clapping. Glory!


Sweet one, you are precious to God. You have been chosen and called by Jesus Christ Himself. He has gifted you to touch the hearts of others and point them to Him and to the Father. You are an original work signed by the Father and sealed by the Holy Spirit. As you go about knowing Him and allowing Him to direct your steps oh the music that will pour out from within. It will cause hearts to hunger for more than the world around them can give. Brokenness will no longer prevent you from living the life God has for you. On the contrary, the music that pours through your life will be sweeter and more beautiful. The angels look on in wonder and creation itself bends down to hear and as you touch the bow to the strings of your life ahhh the sound. The approval of man is shallow and nothing compared to what is about to happen. As the last notes of your life song are played on this earth and you step across the threshold into Heaven you see Jesus and He is nodding hearty approval and then thunderous applause erupts and you see Him – the Father and He is clapping. Glory!

An Original Conversations at the Well

By Diana Morgan
January 3, 2009