How a Violin Repairman Blessed My Socks Off

Last Tuesday, after my midwife appointment, I had an errand to run before returning home, so I drove to the east part of town, pulled into the driveway of a modest home, and parked my twelve-year-old minivan next to several clunkers that made my van look like a spring chicken by comparison.  "We live on the poor side of route 33," the voice on the phone had laughingly told me when I called for directions.  And sure enough, compared with the new fancy housing development on the other side of the road, this was indeed the poor side.

I was there to pick up David's violin.  Ever since Josiah had played it before he moved up to a larger instrument, the violin had needed some work:  a new bridge to replace the one that was warping, some lubrication for the tuners to make it easier to tune to--and hold--the correct pitches, etc.  But I had procrastinated and never quite got around to calling the phone number of the repairman that was recommended to me.  Until this past week--months, years!, after I should have.

I had dropped the violin off on Saturday, and, the repairs having been quickly accomplished, was there three days later to retrieve it.  I knew already that, despite the unpretentious home and the cluttered basement workshop, the man who had fixed the violin was gifted, not only in the area of instrument repair, but also in warmth and friendliness.  But I didn't yet know another exceptional aspect of his character.

"How much do I owe you?"  I had to ask.  Checkbook in hand, I was somewhat dreading his reply.  Money surely seems to evaporate quickly some days.

"Well, let's see," he began in his rambly way.  "I'd say...", my body was tense, as I listened attentively for his next words, "...twenty dollars.  Fifteen for the repairs on this violin, and five for the bow I fixed on Saturday for the other violin you brought along."

"Twenty dollars?"  I couldn't help exclaiming.  "Are you sure?"

"Yes," was his reply.  "It's like this..."  And then he began to tell me how he had been a house builder and had had a good business with that for many years...and then he had had a heart attack...and cancer...and how his dad is still living and is 93 years old...and how his dad never wanted to charge people very much for the work he did for them, and how his dad's needs have always been met...and how his own have been, too...and so forth.  He told me a story about his mother who, back in the days when he himself was an infant still in diapers, had a gas-powered washing machine but had run out of gas and the family had no money to buy more.  His mother couldn't even finish the laundry.  But just then, a red-tailed hawk had swooped down and alighted on a nearby post; and, there being a 50-cent bounty on red-tailed hawks in those days, his mother had gotten a gun and shot the bird, and a neighbor had taken it to town to turn it in for the bounty and then had used those 50 cents to buy two gallons of gas to bring home for his mother to use to finish the washing.  Through his drawn-out tale (the man does love to talk!), one thing exuded from his every word:

CONTENTMENT.

I don't know when I've last seen that much contentment pour forth from an individual, and it blessed me to no end.  Here he was, obviously not living high on the hog, but being in a situation where, by virtue of the fact that skilled violin repairmen are not exactly a dime a dozen around here, he could easily have been charging a much higher price for his work.  And yet he wasn't.  He was consciously making the choice to charge little, rather than much.

Everywhere I turn these days, I feel like folks are thinking, "How can I raise the price on this?  How can I charge more for the product I'm selling or the service I'm providing?"  It all feels like such a racket; and even when a price hike is legitimate, it's hard to trust it.

This man was different.  He made it clear that he knew very well that the most important thing in life was not money--maybe his health issues had taught him that?--and as long as his needs were met, what more could he ask for?

What more indeed?

He had, like Paul, "learned the secret of being content"; and seeing that lesson in the flesh was of far greater value to me than the new bridge on the violin or the easier-to-turn fine tuners.  I left his house that day a convicted, inspired, and humbled woman as the home I had considered so modest when I walked in the door turned into a sanctuary of the highest kind for me.

Ah, contentment, you are a beautiful garment!  May I be clothed in you, just like that old countrified violin repairman was last Tuesday.