broken

I eat ibuprofen like a halitosis patient consumes tic tacs. I put frozen mixed vegetables on my wrists multiple times daily and sleep with bulky guards strapped to my forearms and hands. I loathe my laptop and curse its funky mouse of tendonitis.

My wrists are wounded soldiers, the victims of sloppy computer posture and guitar playing.

I’m the first to admit that this is lame, self-centered and whiny. It happened last winter, too, when I couldn’t play guitar for six weeks. I’ve played since high school, but last Wednesday night after the injury, it was like being 16 all over again. Wrong chords. Off rhythm. Scattered brain. Nervousness. Paranoia. I was a musical disaster.

I don’t know who to blame for the wrists, but I want to hold someone accountable—and it’s either me or God. Is the injury purely physical? A result of poor posture? Or is it spiritual? A result of pride? Lack of perspective?

Last year’s bout forced me to reevaluate why I love music.

Time for a semi-connected flashback:

I thought about how I only played guitar twice this summer in Europe—the first was in a train filled with the young, smooth classical guitar player from Argentina and the two beautiful girls from Italy, while the two Russian guys were preoccupied with slamming beers. To play that night on the ride to Barcelona was a miracle, even if I was shown-up by the Argentinean’s tunes.

The four of us were up until 4:30 a.m., shifting around the boxcar, flirting by propping our stinky feet on each other. The girls would say something in Italian I couldn’t understand. “It’s okay,” Julia said to me, smiling. “You can put your feet up.”

How romantic. Stinky feet.

Argentina and I got booted out of our car by the railroad ticket master and found a new car in first class. Argentina went back and got his lady friend and they went somewhere. I didn't ask questions and tried to sleep for a couple hours. Julia waited outside the train when we arrived in Barcelona. She showed me where to go and said she’d email but never did—I must’ve hit some bunk chords. Then again, if she wrote I may have never met Ms. Slovenia.

When I returned from Europe, I had to form new calluses on my fingertips, but something about being away from music made her sweeter than before. Music was no longer a given. It was a gift.

Now, months later, I venture into this band—a first since clumsily wailing on the cornet while marching in small town football games and parades—is an unexpected, welcome twist, more than I dreamed.

Yesterday I listened to Rob Bell speak to his church before the David Crowder Band came out to lead worship. I don’t attend church at Mars, but there was a reason I was there: Intentionally, to see Crowder; in reality, it was an affirmation of the real roots of music and why we sing.

Rob talked about “sanctuaries of word and sound,” how poetry and music can fill intangible places other mediums leave vacant. In many cases, only these "sanctuaries" effectively connect words to our guts.

Something significant happened during the worship, an exhortation from God down to me. Words and music both fail in description, but it was a reminder that He is good, He has created beauty, and wants us to partner with Him as we identify beauty in each other and in our world.

In the end, I know the wrists will heal, and again, I’m reminded that nothing in life is a given.