The Man with the Guitar

I don't know why, but I will always remember a stranger I saw in the Miami airport on our way home from Jamaica.

For some reason, when we got there, we had to go through all the security again and we had to find our luggage and take it to our next flight ourselves. A lot happened in that short amount of time we were there, and I mostly remember feeling rushed and confused. We didn't even have time to grab dinner, so I bought a lunchable and ate it on the flight before I slept restlessly the rest of the way home.

But when we first got to Miami, I remember having to stand in a very, very long line, one of those winding back-and-forth lines that they have at amusement parks. I guess this was a way of "checking in" to the United States (customs?), because they looked at our Passports and everything. It was a constantly moving line, but it seemed to take forever to get through. A woman working there stood in the middle of it all and yelled at you if you weren't "keeping up" with the person in front of you or walking fast enough. Everyone looked grumpy, tired, miserable. What a warm welcome back to the States, right?!

A short distance in front of us was a man carrying a guitar. Because of the back-and-forth nature of the line, we would frequently pass him, then pass him again the other way, etc. When I say he was carrying a guitar, I don't mean he was hauling a case around. I mean he was playing it. Skilled noodles that he would repeat over and over. He did not seem to be trying; he was clearly talented, but not showing off either. He had a serene smile on his face; wavy silver hair tied back in a long ponytail; small hoop earrings in each ear; tanned, aging skin; and light blue, lively eyes. I don't remember what he wore, but I remember he looked a bit unconventional. He had a healthy, lean build and was not very tall.

I loved it. I loved listening to him, hearing that whisper of beautiful music coming from his tender, masterful fingers in the midst of the bustle and noise of everyone else. He strolled along, and when the woman yelled at him to keep up, to walk at a clipper pace, he just directed his gentle smile at her and nodded slightly. He completely ignored her commands and continued to walk at the pace he desired.

At the end of the line, there were a number of different "clerks" you could go up to who would check your passport and customs paperwork. Like a grocery store, there were small lines behind each one of those as well. Of course I chose the line with the man with the guitar at the end of it, and my friend Mark stood with me. Actually I may have followed Mark there, I'm not sure. Unashamed, I watched the man play and looked at him admiringly. When he saw me watching, I smiled at him and he smiled back, then he turned away again, lost in his own world. He visited the clerk and walked away forever. Mark commented to me shortly thereafter that he thought the man smelled bad, but I didn't notice.

I thought a man like the man with the guitar was completely out-of-place in a busy airport, but I relished his calm presence. I wish I could have spoken with him, learned his name, heard his story, but he was just like almost every other stranger I've ever seen: in my life for a moment, gone again. The man with the guitar is only a memory to me, but he is roaming this Earth somewhere, even at this moment. What can I learn from this? I have no idea, but I know I haven't forgotten the man for a reason.


God bless.