There are a lot of folks in the family who play the guitar.  My Dad is one of them and so were a few of my uncles. and other family relatives.  One in particular actually played for money and did pretty well at it.  That's me up front and center with the guitar and of course my Dad behind me and those are my brothers on percussion.  We use to have some pretty good jam sessions, me with my one chord and Dad who could make beautiful music with just three chords. I always loved hearing that my parents were visiting Mexico because Dad would always look and find me a small cheap guitar to play, usually with cat-gut strings and acoustic in the classical sense. I learned to strum those guitars pretty well with the pics Dad provided. I understood at a very young age how important music was, how it has this way of connecting people together that would otherwise never be connected and how it made my soul stir and believe that there was something greater out there, some mystery to solve, something that makes us humans distinct from all the other animals. I managed to learn a few more chords by the time I was 16 years old and then something happened.  I began going to a small Nazarene church near I-10 and the Youth Pastor started to show me things I could do on guitar that I never realized were possible.  It was always a challenge to learn things on his guitar and then later try them on those cheap Mexican guitars with their cat-gut strings. It just did not sound the same.  Fast-forward a bit to 1984.  I was 18 years old and was celebrating my 18th birthday soon after graduating High School.  My parents gave me a card which was standard that was usually laced with a few twentys, but this time it only had one.  I did not make a deal out of it and figured that maybe this year things were a little tight, but I soon realized why they only gave me twenty. After giving me the card, my Dad immediately walked back to his room.  Dad returned a short time later and descending from his right hand by it's plastic handle was a guitar case.  Not just any guitar case but the case for an Ovation guitar. I was truly surprised.  Upon opening the case I saw this beautiful thing, this lovely sunburst pattern with gold colored frets, shiny and near new.  I pulled that guitar out of it's container and started playing and quickly realized that I could do everything on this guitar that I could do on the church's guitar.  My parents had spent some real money on this thing and I was so happy. Later that week we had a party for the family to celebrate my graduation and all sorts of people came.  It was amazing there were relatives and friends and even my favorite principal from the school showed up.  There was also a special guest at my party. Someone I would take for granted to always be in my life. Someone, whom I had no idea would be gone within five years.  A guitar player.  A friend.  Someone who had devoted his life to expressing love to others.  My Uncle and God-Father, George Monterrey. That's me on the right with the curly sort of mullet haircut and George playing my new-to-me guitar.  He played beautifully and in the same tradition as my Dad, a few chords and mostly Mexican songs.  Uncle George told me that now that I had graduated from High School I could do anything I wanted in life, that my options were endless.  I almost believed him.  He had faith in me.   He looked me in the eyes and saw through the crazy hair, the thick glasses, and all of the other limitations I felt I had and he showed me what a real man is, how a real man behaves and how one loves. I got married a couple of years later and joined the military and was living in Mississippi when I heard the news that Uncle George was sick.  I figured at the time if anyone could beat this thing, my Uncle George could and would.  I prayed for him daily.  I had faith that I would see him again, and sure enough the next opportunity we got to visit we saw him again. That was when I lost my faith.  He no longer looked to be full of life and it was obvious that the disease had taken it's toll on him.  He coughed a whole lot and though he tried to keep his sense of humor he frequently had to rest.  When I left the house that time I was scared and frustrated and mad at the world and at God. How could this happen to such a good man?  I asked.  What of the prayers that all of us dutifully contributed to the great expanses of Heaven?  Was God listening?  Did he care? On February 22, 1988 we lost our beloved George to cancer.  He was 41 years old.  He left behind children and a wife, his brothers and sisters and mother and, well...  me. The picture above is a sort of treasure.  It's a gift really from George and God to me. It's a memory that I will not ever lose.  Ever since that day, whenever I pick up my guitar I do not take it for granted that God has gifted us to play.  God gave George and my Dad the gift, and he gave me the gift. Sometimes when I am playing my guitar in the living room I feel this warm presence sitting next to me and I imagine that it is my Uncle.  Still beside me, anxious to play, telling me "John, you can do anything you put your mind to." Here's a song that makes me think of George and others we have lost to cancer:  Casimir Pulaski Day (Cover) sung and played from left to right: Martin Turnidge(Guitar and vocals Me (Guitar and Vocals) and Carolyn Turnidge (Vocals) (song by Sufjan Stevens)