Playing with Heart

He eagerly reached for the guitar. “You’re going to teach me?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “By the end of today, you’ll have learned three songs.”

“Aw man,” he said. “My dad plays guitar. He’s going to be so proud of me.”

My ears perked up. This would be an easy student to teach. If his dad played guitar, surely he’d taught his son a thing or two.

My how I was wrong. Very, very, wrong.

He struggled mightily. His hands could barely reach across the fretboard. He kept trying to use his thumb to play the individual notes instead of the appropriate fingers.

But he wouldn’t quit.

And sure enough, at the end of the class, he’d learned three songs. It wasn’t the easiest teaching session, but he’d done it. He played each song for me without any guidance, proving that he’d actually learned them.

He gingerly handed the guitar back to me and motioned to the guard.

“They’re locking us up for count. You gotta go,” he said.

I thanked him for his time. I walked down the youth detention center’s bleak hallway alone, towing the guitars on a cart behind me.

I imagined the call he’d make later that night to his dad. Telling him what he’d done that day. Telling his dad that now he also knew how to play the guitar.

I imagined that his dad probably wasn’t too happy with him. His son was incarcerated after all. But that night, no matter what their relationship looked like, that boy could call his father and tell him that he’d done something good.

He’d learned to play guitar, just like his dad.

Please pray for the kids in our programs and their families.

God bless.

Spencer