Care Matters

On June 26, 2025, I was invited to a Phonograph Show—something a bit outside the usual rhythm of life, and exactly what my heart needed. One of the leaders, a dear friend of mine, extended the invitation, and I quickly rearranged my plans to be there. And I’m so glad I did.

The show was held in an old wooden building, dating back to the early 1900s. Music filled the air—warm, rich sounds from a bygone era. I sat there smiling, completely transported to a time that feels like home to my soul.

It had been a chaotic week (more on that soon in another post), and this night was a gift—full of peace, nostalgia, and joy.

As I drove home, something struck me deeply:

CARE MATTERS

The machines at the show—phonographs over 100 years old—sounded amazing. Many of the discs were just as old. These weren’t merely museum pieces; they were alive with music. And they were still working beautifully not simply because they were built well (though they were)—but because they were cared for.

That care made all the difference.

It got me thinking about how not all antiques are in such pristine condition. Growing up in Iowa, the antique market looked very different. Items were often more deteriorated—worn down by harsh weather, time, and travel. Fewer pieces were preserved because many couldn’t afford such luxuries, and logistics made preservation hard. But here in Pennsylvania, antiques seem to thrive. It’s a blessing (and maybe a bit of a curse for a lover of all things vintage like me!).

The reason these phonographs have survived and still sound so good is simple: they were cared for, maintained, and valued.

And it’s the same with people.

We need care, too. Thoughtful, intentional, consistent care. Like those phonographs, we might have beautiful “music” inside us—gifts to share, wisdom to speak, love to pour out—but without the right environment or support, that beauty can fade. Or go unnoticed.

And just like those machines, sometimes we break. We falter. But when someone knows how to care for us—gently, patiently, lovingly—we can heal. We can be restored. My friend knows how to repair those machines (seriously, let me know if you ever need a phonograph fixed!). In the same way, we need people around us who know how to walk with us through our brokenness and bring us back to life.

And if I’m honest, I’ve been on the other side of this too. There were times when I let myself sit in my brokenness—feeling discarded, uncared for, unwanted. I’ve pulled away from people because I was tired of being hurt. Maybe you’ve been there, too. But that’s not where you were meant to stay.

You were made for more than survival. You were not made to be in the dump or discarded like your not worth it.

You were made to be valued, nurtured, and loved deeply. The Right people will see your value and care for you, I promise you. I cannot thank my friends, like the one who invited me to this or those coming beside me in hard season or just those who laugh with me and see who I truly am, for being those people who see the value in me.

Just like those antique phonographs, YOU are something precious. You are unique, valuable, one-of-a-kind. And when you are cared for—whether by others or by God's healing hands—you shine. You sing. You endure. Just like the Phonographs that still have music dancing off them.