Hidden Treasure

It was the classic “last house on the street.”

It was late, and my companion and I were returning home from the far edges of our area, ready to call it a night. We walked down a long, slow bend in the road where there were very few houses. Even fewer showing lights or signs of life.

It was a poor area, typical of many third world nations: Corrugated tin roofs, walls made of plywood or cinder block, some patched with plastic. The homes that had electric light had it because they had a car battery hooked up to a single bulb -that, and a television. Go figure.

One house stood by itself, larger than many, and showing some signs of life. A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the flickering light of a lantern. I could see the small red glow of a cigarette in his hand. I greeted him in Spanish.

“Buenas noches.”

“Buenas.”

We walked over to his doorway and made small talk. He was willing to invite us in to hear a brief message.

His home was normal and nondescript. Two rooms – a front room that doubled as a kitchen, and a back bedroom. It was tidy. A picture of both The Holy Virgin, and The Beatles on the wall. (Funny how memories like that stick.)

The man was also nondescript. I don’t really remember much about what he looked like, or even his name – which might have been somewhat intentional on my part. He was polite, and referred to us respectfully as “Señores,” although we were young enough to be his sons.

We shared with him our standard introduction message of the First Vision. He listened, without asking any questions. I wasn’t sure if he invited us in because he was interested, bored, or lonely.

We closed the lesson with our testimonies, and tried to solicit an invitation for a second discussion. He declined. We invited him to pray. He declined, but asked that we would pray for him. We did.

As we rose to our feet, I shook his hand and thanked him for inviting us in. He thanked us in return, but didn’t let go of my hand. He looked at me with a very serious expression.

“Both of you work for Jesus. Correct?”

“Yes we do.”

“Then I can trust you.”

“Yes you can.”

“The sit back down. I would like to show you something.”

We sat back down and waited as he hurried off to the other room. From where I was sitting, I could see him reaching under his bed, pulling out boxes and things. He returned a moment later with a dusty, old, leather suitcase, that he put on the chair where he had been sitting.

From the suitcase, he removed what was obviously a very old violin case. He opened that case and gingerly removed a violin. I was excited, hoping that we were about to experience  one of those “Touch of the Master’s Hand” moments. Instead, he held it out to me and told me to put out my hands. I did. He laid the violin gently in my hands, and stood up, beaming.

I don’t know much about violins now. I knew even less thirty years ago. I could tell two things: It was old, and that he was excited. I glanced over at my companion and he looked as clueless as I was. I asked the man the wrong question.

“Do you play?”

“No, no I don’t.”

I could tell I was not reacting to this man’s violin the way he had anticipated. He looked disappointed. He excused himself and went back into the bedroom. I looked at my companion and said, “Do you want to hold it?” He shook his head and motioned to the doorway.

The man returned with a flashlight, pointed it inside the violin, and said, “Mira.” or “Look.”

Inside the opening to the violin, I could make our a sort of label that said the words “Antonius Stradivarius.”

I knew enough about violins to know that the name “Stradivarius”  meant something. My companion became suddenly interested and asked to hold the instrument.

For those who don’t know a Stradivarius violin is one of the finest in the world. One sold last year at auction over $2,000,000. (link) It is said there are less than 400 surviving violins made by Stradivarius.

I didn’t know all that at the time, but I knew the little instrument he was proudly showing us was the most valuable thing I had ever held in my hands to that point. My companion, the “KIng of Tact” chimed in.

“Why don’t you sell it and buy a better house?”

The man looked astonished. “I could never sell it. It belonged to my father.”

He went on to explain to us that his father had been a Russian soldier in WWII, and had “acquired” the violin during his service. He later emigrated from Russia, and took the violin with him. When he passed on, it was left to the son.

He seemed pleased by our “oohs and aahs” after we understood that we were actually looking at a real treasure, but seemed a bit nervous as well. Apparently, we were the only two people he had ever shown his treasure to. He was deathly afraid that if the word got out, he would be robbed or killed. He was probably right.

He returned the violin to its case, the case to the dusty suitcase, and the dusty suitcase to its spot deep under the bed.  He walked us out, and thanked us.

We were never able to make contact with him after than night. We were both eventually transferred away, and the story ended.

—

The moral of this story? Well that, my friends, is up to you. I think each of us could draw something uniquely applicable to our lives from this experience.  Perhaps something to ponder on a quiet Sunday afternoon?

Allow me to toss out a couple of questions to get you started:

• Which has more real value? A cruddy practice violin that gets played, or a million dollar violin that sits, unused?

• What treasures do I have that I keep locked away in a dusty box?

• Do I have talents that are never brought out into the open?

• Is my testimony hidden away because I am too afraid to share it?

• Have I learned to use the Gospel? Do I practice and grow?

• Is my faith something I know how to use, or do I only pull it out for emergencies?

• Am I aware that I already possess the greatest treasure Heavenly Father has to offer?