Driving home from North Charlotte, I considered veering off I-485 to make a side trip to Concord, to look for a guitar store I had wanted to see for years. My deliberations were conflicted, for Jo-Jo, a buddy of mine, told me the owner of this shop was really grumpy, did not like for you to look around much, wanted you to “just go ahead and buy what you came for, and get out the door.”
There was another obstacle: some vaguely Calvinistic presence which questions anything I want to do, just because I want to do it, built on a philosophy that “work is good, play is bad, and there is no middle ground.”
Trying to decide whether to go, or not to go, I missed all the exits to Concord, then looked for alternate routes—until I had driven all the way to Pineville .
“Beltways move in a circle, Nimrod,” came the thought . “So since you have been going in a circle, why could you not expect to have ended up half-way back to North Charlotte?”
I did not answer, but veered onto the Matthews exit, took the Pineville-Matthews road to 74 East and home. I was very disappointed that I had put off my decision too long.
Returning from North Charlotte two weeks later, I noted several of the Concord exits, but in the midst of the same indecision, I just kept driving. Finally, when I saw the exit for Highway 73, I felt impressed to to make the turn, took a deep breath and veered onto the exit road to the Davidson-Concord Highway.
When I reached Concord, I ignored my natural aversion to asking for help, and pulled over to consult my cel phone, by typing in the name of the guitar shop, to be given a phone number for the Guitar shop, and a map. I opted for the map, and perhaps fifteen circuitous minutes later, finally walked into the shop.
“I just came by to see your store,” I said to the teenager behind a counter.
“Let me know if you need help,” he said.
“I had a hard time getting here, could you tell me the way the quickest way back to Wingate?”
“I can’t,” he answered. “But the owner, at the service bench back there, can.”
“Thanks,” I said. I found rows of really nice Fender electrics, then some more modest acoustics as I walked two aisles with guitars on either side. Getting ready to leave, I walked to the back, where I saw the owner, who I’ll call Jim, at his work bench, with a ten thousand dollar Martin D-28, and a two thousand dollar Taylor, lying —sans strings—before him.
Jim looked up, and smiled.
“This one came from a big box store,” he said, “but its owner brought it to me to lower the strings so they wouldn’t hurt his fingers.” He pointed to the Martin. “I buy a lot of old guitars, like this,” he continued, “but when I get them ready, I keep them in the back.”
He paused. “You ever have anything you want to sell?”
“As a matter of fact I might,” I said. “ You ever owned a guitar that never did suit you?”
“I have.”
“You liked it, sort of, and had it worked on, but never loved it?”
He nodded.
“It’s just like anything else,” he said. “If you don’t like it, keeping it around will not make you like it any better.”
“I got several of those,” I chuckled.
“Bring them to me,” he smiled. “Let me see what I can offer you for them.”
“I might just do that,” I said.
After some forty-five minutes, I decided I had taken enough of his time.
“Not at all,” he said. “I love to talk.” He looked at the two guitars on the bench.
“I love working on guitars,” he continued. “They say ‘I need my neck straightened,’ or ‘I need the saddle of my bridge filed down,’ but I also like a break to talk to guitar guy’s too.”
I nodded, then asked for directions home; after he gave them to me, I thanked him, and said “goodbye.”
“I don’t what Jo-Jo was talking about,” I said to myself, as I walked out the door. “This guy would climb a tree to be nice. I am really glad I came to see his shop.”
On the way back, I made an inventory of some guitars I might bring for Jim to see. When I got home, I played one of them for a couple of hours, then got up, perhaps to get a drink of water. At the bookcase, a red paperback seemed to call out “You need to pick me up.” So I pulled “The God I Never Knew,”and opened it at the page where Robert Morris wrote words like these:
“There are two aspects to the will of God—His general will, and his particular one.”
“If I were choosing a mate, “ he continued, “I would follow the Bible, because it contains God’s general will for me, to look for someone who loves God and tries to please Him.”
“But the Bible does not tell me God’s particular will for my specific situation,” Morris continued, “because His Holy Spirit is the one who tells you whether it’s Betty or Susie. All you have to do is listen, sometimes to actual words.”
“That is what happened to me,” I said. “I didn’t hear “Look for that Guitar shop,” as I drove down 485, but I did feel a strong impression to do so—on two different occasions. The first time, I dawdled until I missed the opportunity. The second time, when I followed that impression, met a man who does not meet a stranger.”
This experience showed me that it is possible to know God’s will—as to whether I should visit a guitar store. And so, if that is true, how much more significant this information must become when I face a decision which could change , not my afternoon, but my entire life.
Had three possibilities, this one, Monkey Eggs, and Uncles. Believe I was led to write this one.