On Saturday, the women from my church gathered for dessert to discuss our women’s ministry. I had been asked to lead our singing time, and this time I decided to accompany myself with a guitar. Normally when I sing, I find an accompanist. Not this time. Why not save someone the effort and take care of it myself, I thought.
I played guitar for years, but I turned to vocals only later in life. Here and there I’d pick up the guitar, and for a while I played for the children during my Sunday School class. (I think I will start doing that again.)
Out of practice — yes.
This photo shows my preparation for the dreaded changing of the guitar strings. The job was necessary as the strings were old and dirty, and sounded dull. One hope I had was that I would avoid poking an eye or slashing my face with one of those long, sharp-ended, steel strings. I can recall the pain from past pokes and slashes like they happened yesterday.
The other hope was that I would be able to lead those ladies in a time of love for God through song without flubbing a chord.
All went well; my friends are forgiving, and I tamed the rogue strings.