West Michigan Christian News

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Always...
Sax by the tracks
by Bob Hartig
All kinds of things can happen when you
make a habit of practicing the saxophone
in your car out by the railroad tracks. How
many of you, like me, have found this to be
true? Raise your hands.
Hmmm…based on poll results, I probably
should acquaint you with the merits
and the drama of practicing by the tracks.
I’ll begin by explaining that, as both a
jazz saxophonist and a long-time apartment
dweller, I have for many years spared
my neighbors’ ears by practicing my horn
abroad. On the shores of Lake Michigan
and Gun Lake, I’ve played my sax to the
dance of the gulls and the light show of the
sunset. Down dusty sideroads, I’ve blown
bebop licks for rapt audiences of cows.
(Their hygienic indiscretions aside, cows
are some of the most appreciative jazz listeners
you’ll ever find.)
My most consistent practice venue,
however, has been along a stretch of railroad
tracks that runs past the airport and
onward through a broad landscape of corn
and wheat fields, forests, and streams on
its journey toward Lansing. Along the way
lie the towns of Alto, Clarksville, Lake
Odessa, Woodbury, Sunfield, Mulliken, and
Grand Ledge, as well as the little sidetrack
community of Elmdale.
I frequently park along these tracks and
practice my saxophone. It’s a wonderful
way to cultivate my skills as a musician
while indulging my love of both the
Michigan outdoors and trains. An eccentric
habit? I suppose you could call it that.
But we all have our eccentricities, don’t
we—strange quirks, oddly shaped knots in
the grain of our personalities that God has
embedded in us for reasons that need no
justification other than that it pleased Him
to do so.
I’m afraid that many of us repress our
interests because they serve no apparent
function in what we call the Christian life.
We’re far more of a killjoy than our heavenly
Father is. He’s the Handcrafter of the
color blue, of tree frogs that trill in the
night time, of whales and flowers, of stars
and starfish, and of the rich pursuits that
distinguish you and me as individuals. The
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things we love to do are, in
their own humble but important
ways, reflections of the creative
nature of our Father. I think He simply
enjoys watching us enjoy them. Yet
we never know when or how He’ll use
our hobbies and passions in surprising
ways, according to “the unforced
rhythms of grace.” (Matthew 11: 28–30,
The Message)
It was night and I was parked by the
railroad tracks where they angle across
the corners of Timpson and 60th Streets
outside of Alto. It’s one of my favorite
spots, a great place to watch for trains
while working out ideas on my saxophone.
Passers-by at this location still give me an
occasional, curious glance, but after many
years, I suspect that most of the locals recognize
me as something of a fixture.
I had been practicing for a while when I
noticed a figure walking along 60th Street,
emerging from the darkness into the dimly
lit sphere of the street light’s glow. The person
was making a beeline toward my vehicle.
“Uh-oh,” I thought, because you never
know what to expect in such circumstances.
As he drew closer, I could see it was
a teen-age kid. I rolled down the window.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I explained.
“Cool!” he said. He liked that I enjoyed
woodshedding my horn by the railroad
tracks. We got to talking. It was a pleasant
enough chat to begin with, but a world of
hurt soon began to pour out of this young
man. A broken home, painful living conditions…the
story is one that has been told
countless times, but for every person who
tells it, the struggle and brokenness are
unique.
“Look,” I said, crossing the comfort
zone, “hop in the car and we’ll talk.” He
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did, and we did. I did a lot of just plain
listening. I acknowledged the kid’s struggle,
the fact that life had handed him an
unfair blow. I reassured him that the Lord
was real and saw the circumstances, and
that in the midst of the difficulty and
pain, nevertheless this young
man was deeply loved by God. I
gave him my card, recommended
a church that I felt could be
helpful to him, and together we
prayed. It was a good conversation;
it was a God conversation.
When it ended and the teen
stepped out of my car, I’d like to
think he resumed his walk down
60th Street with renewed hope and a
sense that God really was looking out for
him.
That was some years ago. I never heard
from the kid, but I remember him and I
hope that things have turned out well for
him. On my part, I’m glad to have played a
small part in the grand scheme of his life.
The wonder of how we were knit together
in the womb continues to unfold
throughout our lives. We are marvels of
our Maker’s ingenuity, woven into the tapestry
of His purposes in ways we at best
barely comprehend. At a certain juncture
in time, God had a mission that only He
could orchestrate and only a guy who
practices his saxophone by the railroad
tracks could fulfill. In what ways, I wonder,
will He express His kingdom through
you as you watch for the simple, everyday
possibilities of being yourself?
Bob Hartig is a jazz saxophonist, freelance
writer, storm chaser, and the proprietor
of The CopyFox copywriting and
editorial services. He lives in Caledonia,
Michigan. Visit his jazz sax and storm
chasing blog at www.stormhorn.com/wp.
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