It was the most beautiful object my 11 year old eyes had ever seen. In a musical family, there was no doubt that I’d play an instrument, but I’d crashed and burned at the expected piano lessons. Guitar was next choice, but this time it was my choice.

The guitars hung on a pawn shop wall and my parents waited patiently as I chose. My mother had played guitar for the Salvation Army, and she guided me with a suggestion or two, but it was the pride and pleasure in my father’s eyes that gave me the greatest joy. He knew, and even then, so did I, that this object would be a special part of his youngest child’s life for a very long time. It was … for 49 years. We chose a 1959 Gibson LG-1 that sounded sweet and just became sweeter over the decades.

I had to sell it last week.

This story isn’t about the sad piece. It’s not about the unexpected disaster a client faced getting a grant disbursement that, in turn, caused their check to me to bounce. It’s not about me scurrying any way I could to make sure my outstanding payments were covered, including the painful choice to sell something very precious to me. To understand what it is about, you do need to know how I sobbed as I played the precious guitar for the last time, talking to my long dead father, apologizing for what I must do.

This story, is about the miracle … about the magic of that guitar.

If you ever need to buy or sell a guitar, I highly recommend High Desert Guitars in Santa Fe. The owner was kind to me. He said he didn’t have the money to buy a guitar that day, but he would appraise it for me. While he did his magic researching serial number, price for similar instruments, etc. a man walked into the shop. He looked puzzled when he saw me, and I looked at him with the strange feeling that I knew him, but I didn’t.

“Do I know you?” the man asked, shaking my hand. He named some musical venue in Santa Fe and asked if I’d been there.

“No,” I answered, but you sure remind me of a good friend of mine, Andy Wilkinson.

The man looked shocked. “You’re kidding,” he said. “Andy’s one of my best friends.”

Keep in mind that Andy, an accomplished Western ballad singer/song writer, lives and works a few hundred miles from the shop where I’d now met a new friend. Jay was his name. While we waited, Jay picked up my 1959 Gibson LG-1 and made it sing like I had never achieved in all of my 49 years with that sweet guitar.

Jay bought it. Worked out a deal that made everyone happy, including a bit for the store owner to compensate him for his time.

Dad, that guitar is right where it needs to be.

I put a note in the little box in the case where picks and capos and other such truck can be stored. Amongst other things, the note said that my guitar was most likely in the original pawn shop because someone faced a financial crisis. It was time for the instrument to be loved by someone new. I figured it was just my time to pay it forward.

I did. I couldn’t be happier about the outcome.