The old Steinway piano isn’t well.  Not at all.  I’m thinking about putting it out on the curb in a couple of weeks when the next community clean-up comes around.

Well, that’s grabbed the attention of at least one of my readers!  My most faithful editor and resident pianist comes to mind instantly.  Perhaps others may be shocked to read of my piano-disposal fantasy, but the Lovely Lady would be most unhappy.

But, it is just that—a fantasy.  I have labored too long and often on the old instrument, as have others (some no longer living) who I know and love.  Still, I don’t savor the times when the case parts are lying on the nearby couches, and the action, held securely in a purpose-designed cradle, rests on the dining room table awaiting my periodic repairs.

The old piano is nearing one hundred fifty years old now.  I sometimes wonder if Steinway of the nineteenth century had a scheme similar to the auto industry in the late twentieth century (and cell phone manufacturers of the twenty-first, seemingly)  in place.  The popular name for it a few years ago was built-in obsolescence—a scenario designed to sell future models when the current model quits working after a year or two.

We’re not participating.  I’m sure the folks at Steinway haven’t noticed at all, but we are still proudly utilizing the cutting-edge technology of 1879 in our living room on a daily basis.

Just not this week.

It’s happened before.  I told you it was sick, didn’t I?  I believe this old piano has what we call a chronic illness or condition.

The dictionary defines chronic as persistent or recurring often.

The definition fits this old thing to a T.  Several times a year (more often than my chronic asthmatic bronchitis rears its ugly head), I have to pull the action, setting it on the old dining room table (stretched out a bit to accommodate the length), prepared to reglue flanges and make adjustments to the action’s action (if you will), adding spacers and bending damper wires—sometimes even replacing worn out and broken jack springs.

Chronically sick.

We don’t tend to keep things that are chronically defective in our homes anymore, do we?

Come to think of it, chronic defects are the reason our little town offers its residents the semi-annual clean-up week I mentioned in the first paragraph above.  We have too many items lying around that don’t perform up to their original capability and we replace them without much more than a moment’s consideration. Washing machines, microwaves, computers, furniture—you name it, we will throw it away and replace it in a heartbeat if it fails to meet our expectations.

This is not a diatribe against our contemporary society; more than that, it’s a statement on our human nature.  We don’t have the patience to deal with deficiencies.  We want dependability.  Anything that doesn’t conform has no place in our day-to-day realities.

I wonder if the reader is aware that we’re not just talking about our stuff anymore.  It is the way these conversations seem to go, is it not?

One minute we’re clearly talking about an old piece of furniture and suddenly, we seem to be caught up in a deeper discussion than we ever considered.

Perhaps we’ll just go with the current for a moment or two.

May I make a bold statement?

Our Creator doesn’t believe in built-in obsolescence.  He never has.

From the beginning, His plan was for redemption.  For renewal. For lifting up.

We seem to be advocates of the Nancy Sinatra school of deportment, promising that one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you. All the while, our loving Father promises to seek the lost, bring back the strayed, bind up the injured, and strengthen the weak (Ezekiel 34:16, ESV).

We, who follow Christ, are specifically told to follow suit.  It’s not a suggestion, although we often treat it as such.

 Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted; forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you. (Ephesians 4:32, NLT)

And, Peter came to his Master, asking Him how many times he had to repair that old Steinway piano before he could toss it out. (Matthew 18:21, NLT)

And, the Teacher replied that he should do it as many times as the notes wouldn’t play in tune or refused to make any sound at all (or even if it was only the sustain pedal that was malfunctioning).

Okay.  That’s not actually the way the conversation went, but the reader will get the general meaning.

God didn’t make any trash.

While we were broken and refusing to make His music, He sent His Son to die for us.  To redeem us.  To lift us up.  To fix what was broken.

When that Steinway is repaired and tuned, it makes lovely music.  Music that will bring tears of joy and previews of Glory.

I’ll be here again sometime soon.  Making repairs.  You can count on it.

The issues are chronic.  But the response to treatment is glorious.

Music will be heard.  Again.

Beautiful music.

 

Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter,
Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;
Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness,
Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.
(from Rescue the Perishing by Fanny J Crosby, 1869)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.