The Christmas Cello: A Gift for Worship

One autumn morning I was visiting our local music store to price a violin for my son when I noticed a cello next to one of the show cases. It was beautiful.  I mentioned the sighting to a friend of mine one day at lunch and told him I was thinking about buying it in hopes that my children and I would be able to have our own string quartet. He was surprised to learn that I had played the cello as a young boy in grade school. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, immediately after my sermon,  my congregation presented me with a brand new cello, bow, and padded case.  I couldn’t believe my eyes. 

Soon I was gathering as much information as I could find: sheet music, internet print-outs, vintage cello lesson books, and anything else that sounded like "help."  The first lesson I learned, though, was that all the “stuff” could not help me re-learn to play that beautifully lacquered noise box.  Unlike riding a bike, it didn’t  all come back to me.  This instrument screeched,  squawked, and screamed.  At times I would be so frustrated that I would vow to put it away and never bring it out again.

One day an article divinely appeared in our local newspaper that caught my attention. It was about a woman in a nearby community who played the cello.  My wife and I invited her over for an evening meal with hopes that she would offer me some encouraging words of wisdom. When I told her the story of how I had received the cello, she exclaimed, “What a wonderful present for a church to buy their pastor;  I’m impressed!” I  warmed up on a few scales and made a sappy attempt to play an old hymn before she graciously gave me her counsel: “Keep practicing.” My vain struggle to be a consummate cellist stretched out for over a year.

Learning to play an instrument was different when I was a child: I didn’t know what good music was supposed to sound like. I didn’t know if I was flat or sharp or if my vibrato was right or wrong and, as a child, I really didn’t care. But now (an adult), I was also a pianist, organist, and vocalist-- I knew what decent music was supposed to sound like. And no matter how I tried, I could not create an acceptable sound between that crop of horsehair and those four steel strings.

Finally, one day I prayed and asked God for wisdom. “Lord, I want you to be pleased. I want to glorify you with this music. My desire is not to be famous. Just let me play for you. Let me express my love to you as  I worship you with my heart, mind, hands and voice. I can’t do it with out you. Lord, show yourself strong in my hideous weakness and increase my skill for the praise of your glory.” 

I committed myself and my instrument to the honor of the Lord and set my hands to work. With renewed zeal, my attention was now on giving the Lord my best; henceforth, my best would require some discipline and labor. Soon, practice sessions became more frequent and my sensitivity to bowing habits and fingering techniques became a little more heightened. I practiced every time my wife and kids went to Wal-Mart, the grocery store, or the library. I played until my fingers hurt, my arms went numb, and my ears bled--well, almost.  The cello was no longer housed in its case, but left out in the open, to glare at me and beckon me throughout the day and evening.