Violin Stories for the Soul

By Kirk McLendon

Violin Stories for the Soul is a collection of three short stories: The Blessed Violin, Fiddle In The Fog, and The Maker On The Mountain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483511603

Book preview

appreciated.

The Blessed Violin

Prologue

I can still remember how awareness crept slowly back into my thoughts. First there was the sensation of cold, wet earth pressing against my cheek. Then the throbbing in my head. Nausea welling up from deep within. The unmistakable odor of leaf mold. Awareness was accelerating now. My body was horizontal under a blanket of cold, wet leaves. There were others near me. Finally I remembered the bear, the grave stone and the other events of the night before.

Beginnings

The mountains run through my veins. I was born in the mountains. And I grew up in the mountains. My family has lived here for as long as anyone knows. When I was a child the mountains were my brothers, sisters and friends. As an adult I have roamed the country following this job and that. But I keep returning to the only place that feels like home.

When I was a child I used to listen to the mountains’ symphony. It was epic. I knew that even then. I would lie on my back in the leaves under the towering oaks with my eyes closed trying not to make a sound. I would pick up the symphony in progress-the rustling of dry leaves, the call of a whippoorwill, the sound of a whitetail deer halting dead still to listen, the crack of a breaking branch, the cascading sounds of the branch careening toward ground, followed by unexpected silence.

You know some people say music is as much about the spaces between the notes as the notes themselves. A grand conductor orchestrates all the parts and all the players. And if you can spare time to lie there long enough and if you can manage to shut everything else out, you may just barely begin to glimpse the pattern.

The mountains perform this never ending symphony to tell a story. It’s the story of everything they have seen since the beginning of their days. And these are not young mountains. They are ancient giants standing watch. And they have seen much: births and deaths, rises and falls, comings and goings. They’ve seen good and they’ve seen bad. They’ve seen love and hate. And they have seen renewal. They have seen circles and cycles. And everything is revealed in their never-ending symphony. You can hear it any day or night, just listen … in any kind of weather. There are no cancellations.

The wisdom of those mountains! And their wisdom is a constant thread running through this grand symphony. I was weaned on their wisdom. They were my professors and my mentors. And I was their young charge. Now when I leave them I feel out of place. And I always return. Hopefully this time for good!

My grandmother used to tell me bedtime stories about the mountains. They were in her blood too. There was one story in particular that I begged her to tell again and again. Partly because I loved the story and partly because the story haunted me. What haunted me most were my fruitless wonderings as to whether the story might be true.

My grandmother said her mother told it to her as if it were true. Nevertheless it is a good story. A story worth telling and worth hearing and Grandmother was a true storyteller. If I closed my eyes I was there. I will try to remember her words as best I can but this will be a pale telling in comparison.

Josiah’s Story

Once there was an old mountain man named Josiah. He lived alone on the side of a mountain near a small village. Josiah was a kind but shy man who kept mostly to himself. Although everyone knew of him, no one knew him well.

He was a wood worker and a very clever one by all accounts. He made tables, chairs, wagons, and toys. From time to time when someone needed something they would go to Josiah and he would build it. That way he made just enough money to keep going. He had a small garden near his house and he also did a bit of hunting and fishing. Josiah got along alright even if he was alone.

But as he grew older Josiah began to worry that he had wasted his life. That he had not done anything really worthwhile and had not used his God-given talents wisely. After all he had no children. He had no wife. Had he really made a difference in anyone’s life? When he passed away would anyone remember him besides the mountains? How would he be judged?

Josiah had never been a religious man. Oh, he believed. But that was about it. He rarely attended the small stone church in the village. He rarely had much to do with anyone. He did not really matter to anyone and no one really mattered to him. This began to play on Josiah’s mind and he had a lot of time to think. He lay awake at night thinking about it. He thought about it as he worked his garden. He needed some comfort. He found it in his old, dusty Bible—unread for so many years, but waiting patiently on the shelf. He read the parable of the prodigal son.

Surely there is hope for me too, Josiah thought. The son in the parable had wasted his inheritance and his life but his father forgave him gladly and welcomed him home with a loving embrace.

Josiah’s hope grew with reading and remembering. He began to pray for the first time since his younger days. He asked forgiveness for what he considered his wasted life and for a chance to make amends. Was there something he could do? Anything?

"Guide me in my final days Father. Take my hand and