As a guitarist, I play many gigs. Recently, I was asked by a funeral director to play at a graveside service for a poor, humble man. The service was to be at a pauper’s cemetery in the back country. As I was not familiar with that area, I got lost.
I finally arrived an hour late and saw the funeral guy had evidently gone, and the hearse was nowhere in sight. There were only the diggers and crew left, and they were eating lunch.
I felt badly and apologized to the men for being late. I went to the side of the grave and looked down, and the vault lid was already in place. I didn’t know what else to do, so I started to play.
And as I played ‘Amazing Grace,’ the workers began to weep. They wept, I wept, and we all wept together. When I finished, I packed up my guitar and started for my car. Though my head hung low, my heart was full.
As I opened the door to my car, I heard one of the workers say, “I’ve never seen anything like that before, and I’ve been putting in septic tanks for twenty years.”
Apparently, I was still lost.
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