Playing Second Fiddle

Richard Wayne "Rich" Mullins. I so appreciated who he was, both as a musician and as a man. I cried on that day back in September of 1997 when, just shy of his 42nd birthday, he died.
It was sad to think that there would be no more of the gifts he so freely gave to us through his words and his music.
Rich was passionate about his God and fully sold out to his Savior, Jesus Christ. After he died I did some research on his writings and in the process came upon a small volume of short pieces he had once written for a college newspaper, collected and published after his death by several of his longtime friends. The volume is titled: The World As I Remember It: Through The Eyes of a Ragamuffin. And through the eyes and the words of that Ragamuffin I have been able to gain inspiration along the path of my journey.
The chapter I am reading today, Playing Second Fiddle, focuses on....you guessed it...the fiddle. Rich writes:
"It is always important that a fiddle should remember (and, who would guess that it could forget?) that it is a fiddle-that it is wood and wire and polish and glue-and not much more than that-except, of course, in the caress of a fiddler. There, in that hand, on that shoulder under that chin-all of its lightness delicately balanced and its strings skillfully bowed, it becomes a voice. There, out of that hollow body and thin skin of this peculiarly shaped little box, the fiddler forges his music. There, in a sense, the word becomes flesh, the fiddler's idea becomes concrete, shimmering concrete reality. And this, of course, is what a fiddle dreams of at night, in the dark of its closet, in the stifling closeness of its case."
Further on in the chapter Rich writes:
"Now although a fiddle may never be fooled by the folly of human thinking, very much like us they have pain. Their necks are stiff and their nerves, their strings, are stretched. They feel the friction of the bow.....Their emptiness is for them (as it is for us) a nearly unbearable ache- an ache that is fitted to the shape that makes its tone. And sometimes a fiddle is tempted to fill that void with rags, or glass, or gold, even knowing that, if it should do that, it would never again resonate the intentions of its fiddler. It would never again be alive with his music. It would dull itself to the exquisite heat of the fiddler's will, the deliberate tenderness of his fingers....."

I want to be like that fiddle. I want to be stretched. I want to always believe that without my
Fiddler's hand, I can never make truly beautiful music. I will simply be a hollow instrument, unable to become a voice. If I stuff myself with the things of the world, I deny myself the privilege of echoing the beautiful song that is the Fiddler's intention for me.
I can visualize the angels enjoying Rich's music as he praises his God in heaven.

On the health front:
I am losing steam, which is not surprising given that my white blood cells are underperforming.
There was a disconcerting fever this morning and we await a call back from the oncologist's office to see if we're in trouble. I am adjusting to, but not enjoying fatigue and general weakness.
I am now one-third of the way through my last phase of treatment, and that's a good thing😊