The Touch of the Master's Hand

I’m sure most of you are familiar with the poem “Touch of the Master’s Hand.” While this poem has meaning to many different people, for many different reasons, this poem hits home to me on a very personal level.

Let the story begin.

I was 10 years old when the music people came to my school. I was immediately drawn to the violin and couldn’t wait to get home and ask my mom if I could play. Unbeknownst to me, my great-grandfather and great-uncle were violinists. My mother didn’t hesitate to let me try my hand at the instrument.

When you signed up for music class, you were allowed to leave your regular class for an hour a day and learn the instrument. I remember loving my music lessons and looking forward to the time of day when we could go to the basement of the school and practice. Even at that young age, the music got a hold of my soul and I knew it was something that would be a part of me forever.

As I got older, I played with the school orchestras and quickly moved up the ranks (if you can call it that in middle school and junior high). I seemed to have a natural talent and the fact that I enjoyed playing the violin helped me. Unfortunately, I was never good at practicing. I just never felt like I “needed” to practice, since the music came easily to me. Like most of my school career, learning was easy. Music didn’t seem much different. Yes, my mother would always tell me how much more advanced I would be if I would just put in some practice, but I didn’t see the need. I was fine where I was. (Now, looking back, I see that she was right.)

When I was a sophomore in high school, my parents decided I needed a better violin. Violins are very expensive, but we began looking at different options. One day, my mom remembered the violin her grandfather had played. My mom’s grandfather passed the violin on to his son. The son played the violin, but had passed away several years earlier. After asking around, we found out that my mom’s uncle’s widow had the violin. My mom’s uncle passed away at a young age and his widow took the death very hard. My mom finally decided to just write a note to her aunt and ask about the violin.

And that was the last I knew about it. Until a few months later. My mom’s other aunt, the sister to the uncle who passed away, called my mom and told her she had the violin and it was mine if we wanted it. Of course I wanted it! I was so excited and couldn’t wait to get my hands on it. The excitement built and built until the day I finally received the violin.

I came home from school one day and there it was. The violin I had been waiting for. The case was old, tattered, and smelled like moth balls. I opened the case and remember breaking down into tears. The violin was ruined! The wood was warped, the strings were broken, and the bow had very little hair left. I was devastated. The violin I had been anxiously waiting for looked useless to me.

We took the violin to my teacher and she played it, warped and all. She told us that the violin had a beautiful tone and was worth having a professional look at. She recommended we go to Peter Prier, a famous violin maker in Salt Lake City. And we did.

Peter Prier was such a sweet man. I remember him being so kind and treating me so well. He looked at the violin and told us he could help. He told me the violin was made in the 1800s in Southern Germany and the bow was made of wood. (If you know anything about violins, you know that wood bows are very uncommon as most are made of fiberglass now days.) He took the violin and started the repairs.

A few weeks went by and we made a stop in to see how the violin was coming along. I, in my young mind, was hoping the violin was ready to take home. I think my parents knew it wouldn’t be ready yet, but they didn’t discourage me and took me to check on the violin. It wasn’t ready yet. The violin was seriously damaged and I’m sure a lot of tender, precious care was put into getting my violin “better.” But I had such high hopes that I remember being just crushed when I couldn’t take my violin home.

Dear, sweet Peter Prier saw how visibly upset I was. He took me in a back room and showed me a Stradivarius violin. A Stradivarius is the best violin around. They are very rare and have the most incredible tone. You cannot make a violin like this anymore. Peter Prier offered to let me play the violin. I was so awestruck, and also very shy, that I didn’t take the opportunity to play but the experience is one I have never forgotten.

Finally, the day arrived that I could take my violin home. And this is where the poem comes in. I truly felt that day that the “touch of the master’s hand” had worked in my life. Peter Prier had taken something that I initially thought was worthless and turned it into a beautiful violin. I’ve taken such care of my violin. I’ve loved that instrument. Every time I played, my eye caught a little something inscribed on the bridge… “Peter Prier.” I’ve never forgotten the love and care he gave my violin.

I’ve felt the presence of those who played this violin before me and I’ve felt the need to pass the violin on to my own children (hopefully) one day.

I’ve had some wonderful experiences with this instrument. I’m positive that my experience with my violin has drawn me closer to my Savior. I recognize what it means to take something that is a “piece of junk” and turn it into something beautiful. I’ve looked at my violin and compared it to my own life on several occasions.

There are days when I really just feel “broken.” Nothing seems to go right, everybody hates you, you’re just not good enough. Everyone has days like that. And yet, somehow, the Master comes and makes it all better. He molds me, fixes the warps, puts on new strings, reminds me of my worth and that the time He is taking to prepare me will be worth it, and somehow, I come out better than I started. Truly, my Savior takes something that some don’t value and turns it into something amazing. He certainly has done this with my life (although, I still have a long ways to go before I’m a fine-tuned instrument.)


Now, Peter Prier has Alzheimer’s. I’m not even entirely sure if he’s still alive. This past Saturday, I picked up my violin. I was tuning it when suddenly there was a very loud “pop.” At first, I thought the strings had broken. And then I saw it. My bridge, in three pieces, lying on the floor. I was crushed! There, on the floor of my music room, was my “Peter Prier” bridge. I felt like the end of an era had come.

The bridge is fixable and the violin will be back to normal before long. But still, knowing that the bridge that Peter Prier gave me was gone has been a bit of a loss. I feel like I’ve lost a friend…a friend that can’t come back. I know if sounds silly, but I feel like I’ve gone through a grieving process. And yet, just like the Master of our lives, someone who knows more than we do comes along and “fixes” what’s broken.

Thank you, Peter Prier, for such a valuable lesson in my life.