“What exactly am I being accused of…other than surviving a nuculer explosion?”  The words came out of Indiana Jones’ mouth, just as if he hadn’t made a fatal error in pronunciation.  I was delighted.  Our old action hero had just ridden out an atomic test blast inside of a lead-lined refrigerator in a scene which even the Mythbusters would find implausible without the need to attempt a re-enaction.  My delight comes from the other implausible sequence of interactions and conversations I have had today about just this word, “nuclear”.  As we sat in our little sanctuary, the Lovely Lady and I looked at each other and laughed.  And, just like that, it was fated that you should read a few of my thoughts about our language and maybe even society in general today.  Try not to act too bored…

I awoke this morning, as I frequently do, to a quip from a generally amusing and always witty “word nerd” on my smartphone.  He opined that there were numerous words in the English language which were difficult to pronounce, but that “nuclear” was not one of them.  The word was “noo-klee-err”, not “noo-kyoo-lerr”.  The responses from all the other word nerds, myself among them, were almost exclusively in support of his position and many pointed out an individual or two who misused the word continuously.  You can imagine that the conversation turned ugly and political fairly quickly.  The consensus was that anyone who used such an obvious mispronunciation could only be ignorant and foolish.  The venom engendered by the simple statement of correct pronunciation was surprising.  It should not have been.  I, myself, am an avowed “stickler” for proper usage of the language, inclusive of grammar, pronunciation, and punctuation.  My children will assure you that, as they matured, indiscretions during conversations were almost certain to give rise to correction, complete with sermons on the importance of the language in communication.  Tonight, I repent in sackcloth and ashes.

It was a busy day, but not so busy that my mind didn’t have time to ruminate on the early morning lesson.  In the dotage of my old age, I seem to be growing soft.  I argued with myself about the need to keep the language pure, the profit of an undiluted vocabulary.  I simply couldn’t escape the undeniable truth that we have never known such a language.  That’s because there has never been such a language.  All language is, of necessity, an evolving mode of communication, nothing more, nothing less.  One is not ignorant because they use it differently than we do.  To say that they are would be the same as insisting that someone who speaks a different language is stupid, simply because they don’t use the same words we’re used to hearing.  We do, to be fair, need to make certain that our population is educated so that we can have a common language and be able to converse in a way which exchanges ideas and facts accurately.  Any country which does not do so is inviting disaster and insuring a poor economy and the privation of its citizens.  That being stated, it could be also be said that anything worth doing well is worth taking to an extreme.  That seems to be the mantra for our society anyway.  It seems that we have a habit of educating our populace to the point of blindness, focusing on what we think we know to be true, to the exclusion of common sense.  Worse, depending on the region of the country in which we live (or identify with), we tend to label the folks from other areas as unintelligent or uneducated because they use a local vernacular or colloquialisms which don’t roll off our own tongues comfortably.  It is becoming clear to me that nothing could be further from the truth; that it just makes sense to use the language which communicates best to the company with which we are conversing.  This holds true in whichever part of the country or even the world we find ourselves.

I’m sure there are a few “Language Snobs” out there right now who are fuming.  I’ve been in that position myself.  I have told you that I am a stickler.  I want words used and pronounced correctly, too.  It’s just that we live in a world of shifting language.  To deny it would be foolishness.  It has always been so.  To my dismay, a quick check of dictionaries tonight revealed to me that both pronunciations for “nuclear” are now acceptable.  If you don’t believe it, you may check for yourself.  What I am starting to understand, in my advancing years, is that many things are unassailable fact, but language is not one of them.  When I was a child, if I held my hand over a candle, it burned my skin.  As an aging man, if I hold my hand over a candle, it still burns my skin.  Some things don’t change.  Our language does.   

Another one of those things which doesn’t change seems to be our need to disparage people who are different in some way than us or the company we keep.  I remember a day when many white folks in this country hated Martin Luther King Jr.  And, no, I don’t think hate is too strong a word to use.  Today we celebrated the legal holiday dedicated to his memory.  As I read the many short tributes to him in the social media today, I thought back to the day when he was speaking those words to crowds and to reporters.  I won’t repeat the epithets I heard back then, but suffice it to say the people I knew weren’t inspired by his words.  He represented a danger to the life they knew and had grown comfortable with.  Much like Abraham Lincoln, in his fight against slavery a century before, had represented a danger to the life the citizens of this country knew, the future to our parents (and therefore to us) looked unsure and frightening in those days of the civil rights movement.

Change is unsettling.  It is uncomfortable.  It is also inevitable.  It shouldn’t make us lash out, shouldn’t make us rude, shouldn’t make us attack.  I don’t believe that a change in our language is the same as civil rights, but the principals seem to be related.  Sometimes we have to give up comfort and ease to gain progress and to move toward the goal.

I’d like, at least, to be flexible enough to consider moving on up.  I’m just glad it didn’t take a nuculer blast to get me motivated.  You coming?

 “I’ve decided to stick with love.  Hate is too great a burden to bear.”
(Martin Luther King Jr.~American pastor and civil rights leader~1929-1968)

“A new command I give to you.  Love one another.”
(John 13:34)

“Dad, why don’t you shut down the store and just sell stuff online?  You can make more money.”  The young man standing in front of me is a bright and knowledgeable high school student.  He remembers the lean years…the times when I wasn’t sure there was any future at all in selling musical items.  That has been the case for most of his short lifetime.  He also knows computers and the Internet; it is the field in which he intends to spend his life.  And, he is right.  There is money to be made in the fledgeling marketplace.  He has the facts on his side and he has seen the very real results of my efforts over the few months previous to this conversation.  How do I respond?

“Daddy, why we don’t see you at home in the evenings anymore?”  The pretty young lady is sitting at the table as we eat supper, right before I head back to the store to work a few more hours.  It is her last year in high school, for all I know, her last year at home…ever.  I readily admit that I have been spending more time at work than ever before.  It has been just a few months since I discovered the online auction marketplace.  It was a wide open market and I waded in, throwing everything I had into selling online.  It was profitable.  It was also time-consuming.  The young lady certainly has a valid point.  What is to be my response to her question?

Life is short.  Our time with our children is even shorter.  While I would have described the first question, the one from the young man, as a “poser”; the second, from the young lady, seemed to be a “no-brainer”, one which required no thought at all.  My children are probably the most important projects I have ever worked on, if I may use such crass terminology.  With my world-view being influenced heavily by my faith and understanding of the Bible, I have always known that a man’s family is of principal importance.  It’s a responsibility given us by our God.  And, knowing that my family needed me to be there for them made the answer to the girl’s question an easy one.  I told her that I would figure out a different time to do that extra work.  I determined that my schedule after that day, until the day the kids really did leave home, would always include time for them.  My evenings remained free from then on.

I told you that the answer to my daughter’s question was a “no-brainer”.  That said, I have spent more than a few hours in thought about it over the last decade.  The thoughts had nothing to do with lost profit and everything to do with people I love.  Did my decision cost me?  That depends on your definition of “cost”.  There was probably less cash in the bank account; most likely even a disadvantage in building a customer base.  The payoff, though…I won’t ever be able to tally that up.  That’s the way it is with some decisions.  If you’re a plus/minus list maker, with the advantages going in one column and the disadvantages in another, I can’t help you there.  This list says family comes first.  Period.  No plus column, no minus column…just the big picture. 

What about the young man’s question?  You know how I answered that, don’t you?  Well…the music store is still going.  Yes, the Internet plays a big part in our business, but the doors are still open to people. Customers are still walking through the door, the phone is still ringing throughout the day, everyday.  I actually made that decision quickly, as well.  You see, not many of us are blessed with a profession which matches our idea of the perfect job, but this is as close as it gets for me.  I really don’t love counting money, don’t care as much as many do about profit or loss, although my banker has convinced me that the former is to be desired over the latter.  I’m certainly not looking to take over the instrument market from the huge Internet sellers.  I do, however, love being able to talk with the people who walk through that door; to provide them with whatever it is they need.  I don’t mind selling them that thousand dollar instrument if it’s what they need, but I’m also learning to be just fine if they walk out the door with nothing in their hands, as long as we’ve had the chance to serve. 

There is a legacy I want to leave to my children and my grandchildren and yes, even to my customers.  I pray that the legacy is not one of grasping for things, or money, or even public regard.  I want to serve…my family…my customers…my God.  And, even though I don’t claim to have learned how to do this to the exclusion of all things selfish, I am finally realizing that living a life of service is actually the way in which we can be completely fulfilled.  I find myself shuddering every time I hear the words, “First, you have to love yourself…”  A life of service always precedes the knowledge of lasting achievement, not the other way around.  “Me first” has never been the mantra of a successful, well-rounded individual, but it has been the lifelong motto of any number of grasping and selfish individuals who live out their lives in fear and suspicion of (and from) the rest of the world.

For many years, I pulled a trailer behind my truck when delivering pianos.  I was never worried while moving forward with the trailer being towed behind the vehicle.  It always followed just fine.  The worry started when I had to back the whole rig up.  The trailer is not a natural leader (thus the term trail-er), wanting to go first left, then right, and frequently, jackknifing to the side of the vehicle.  This is because of the distance from the front wheels, which determine the direction of the whole contraption.  When the guiding wheels are in the front, with the rest of the apparatus following, a straight line is easy to achieve.  The other way around, problems abound. 

The truck pulling a trailer is what comes to mind as I consider today’s quandary(s).  The truck serves, steadily and surely leading the way for the trailer of personal needs following along behind.  Again and again, through my life, I get the trailer leading the way, with disastrous results every time.  Side to side, and around in circles we go, the goal never coming any closer.  Trailers are made to be pulled behind, not to lead.  Some processes just work better when we get the order of things right.

I’m not sure if it makes my kids too happy now, but it is to be hoped that the real inheritance I leave behind is not a pile of cash, hoarded and guarded selfishly, but a legacy which will last a lot longer and do a lot more good.  Time will tell. 

“You can’t get unless you give.  And you have to give without wanting to get.”
(Theodore H White~ English journalist and historian~1915-1986)

I’ve long ago learned to ignore the emails that start out with, “We are being very happy that this letter is finding you well doing.  I am having the honor of being the solicitor for the late President Quasi Modo…”, since these are obviously fictitious and written by unscrupulous people trying to steal my money.  But recently, I received an envelope through the postal system with a rather official-looking logo as the return address.  As I pulled it out, I noticed that the paper had a very nicely designed letterhead at the top which indicated that the letter was from the “Colombia Who’s Who Among Executives and Professionals” (not the company’s real name).  I was intrigued to learn that I had been selected from among my business colleagues to receive the honor of being included in the latest edition of this distinguished journal.  I excitedly read down the page to learn more.

It seems that I have shown the exemplary qualities which are necessary to set me apart from others in my field of endeavor and because of that, if I would fill in the included application and return it to them, I could have the distinction of having my name included in their next “Who’s Who” publication.  There was absolutely no charge for being included in this prestigious volume, so there was no risk whatsoever.  Needless to say, I was all aquiver with pride!  Little old me!  Someone has finally noticed my hard work and amazing talent and wants to honor me for it.  Of course, I did what any red-blooded, proud human being would do and filled out the questionnaire, mailing it in the envelope provided.  

I don’t know what I was expecting.  I haven’t done anything noteworthy in my life, unless it was the time I went a whole year without washing my car.  In the music business world, I’m no more than a blip on the radar screen, with similar blips appearing in hundreds of small towns all around the country.  I haven’t achieved any significance in the business world besides enduring when others haven’t been foolish enough to continue.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not being self-deprecating here, not talking down what I do.  I’ve done this long enough to realize that my business has significance when considered within its context.  My little town is arguably a better place because of its existence.  But, I’m not a standout in the business world, not an executive with star qualities and I know that well.  But, just for a few moments, it was nice to dream.

Several weeks later, I answered the phone one afternoon.  Me answering my own phone should have given the interviewer a clue about my real status, but she plowed right ahead.  The Who’s Who committee had reviewed my application and I was in!  All that I needed to do now was answer some questions to be included in my profile.  Moving steadily further into the trap, I replied to the questions as completely as possible, imparting my great wisdom to the responses to ensure that the adoring public was properly impressed with my knowledge and level of maturity.  After a few moments of this, the trap was sprung!  “We have several levels of membership, some of which actually include your own personal copy of the publication.  Would you like to be included at the top level?  The cost is only $995.”  I was momentarily struck dumb!  It was nothing but a sales pitch!  The whole elaborate set-up was designed to stroke my ego to the point that I would spend an astounding amount of money to prove my worth to my friends and colleagues.  I spent what effort it took to refuse (five times, I think) and then, having gained a modicum of my self-respect back, politely asked when and where I could view the publication to be sure my name was included at no charge.  There was silence for a moment and then the lady replied that it might be in the public library at a date that she could not specify.  I never heard from the company again.

I’m constantly amazed at how our human nature carries us down paths that we would never choose, given the time to consider the “big picture”.  Our vanity, our ego, drives us like no other master, causing all sorts of stupidity and tomfoolery which leads to extreme embarrassment in the long run.  Funny how something that starts out being about pride ends up in abject shame.  These are truly two extremes which are in a straight line from each other.  “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall,” is a much-quoted Proverb and is more often than not ignored, frequently to the chagrin of the arrogant bungler.

I have experienced that chagrin more times than I can count, but likely will repeat the offense again.  Some fools never learn!  I do however have a “Who’s Who” listing to add to my resume’, should I ever need to apply for a real job.  And, it didn’t cost a thing besides my self-respect.  I’m thinking that may be far too high a price…

“The truest characters of ignorance are vanity, and pride, and arrogance.”
(Samuel Butler~English novelist, 1835-1902)

“In heaven, I yearn for knowledge,
Account all else inanity.
On earth, I confess an itch for the praise of fools,
That’s vanity.”
(Robert Browning~English poet 1812-1889)

First published 1/17/2011

It’s one of my favorite passages in the Bible.  Oh, I realize there are some which are more important, spiritually speaking.  Why, just today, the social networks are abuzz with the correlation of John 3:16 with the statistics for a certain professional quarterback in a game which occurred over the weekend.  I am reminded by the mild uproar that it is a verse (entirely apart from the additional hype of the fan club) which is one of the most life-changing in the Book in its perspective.  That said, I still have my reasons for another favorite.

A couple of weeks ago, I related the circumstance of when I left home thirty-five years ago.  It was an emotional time, with tears from my father; a first for me to my knowledge.  What I didn’t do was to take you past that episode just a few hours and more than a few miles up the highway, and talk about my own tears.  I was leaving my childhood behind, leaving my parents, my friends, my whole existence up to that point.  In the excitement of preparing to go, that little detail had escaped me.  I’m not sure if it was symbolic or not, but I remember, very vividly, stopping at the roadside park just past the state line of the great state of Texas, where I had spent my entire life up to that point, and sitting in my car with the tears coursing down my cheeks.  I didn’t know why, but all of the sudden, I was alone.

The trip to that point had covered six hundred miles.  Six hundred miles without anyone to hear me ask, “Did you see that? That was amazing!”  Six hundred miles without anyone to ask me, “Are you tired?  Would you like me to drive?”  Six hundred miles without anyone to suggest, “Let’s stop for supper.  I’m hungry.”  The journey started with high spirits and hopeful purpose in the bright sunshine of the morning, but had dragged on until the dusk as the sun lowered to the western horizon on the left side of the roadway, with spirits flagging.  Then darkness fell on the world and on the heart of this teenaged boy, as I realized that I was alone and on my own.  Behind lay all that was familiar and comfortable; ahead lay the frightening unknown, and it stretched out just like the interminable highway in the darkness before me.  I was simply…alone.

The years have flown past since then.  There have not been many times of loneliness, and for that I am immensely grateful.  I am painfully aware that I was not made to be alone.  I don’t function well when I am alone.   The Lovely Lady goes to visit friends with our daughter and grandchildren…I sit in the dark, quiet house and wait for her return.  That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but not much.  Some would say that it is not entirely healthy, but I find that I need people around to function normally.  When they are absent from my life, I get a little weird (yes, even weirder than is normal for me already) and unproductive. 

So, at long last, we arrive at the short phrase which comforts me; those nine words which reassure me that God knows me.  I guess it’s a bit presumptuous to think that He was meaning me specifically when He said the words, but they do describe me.  In the first book of the Bible, God says, “It is not good for man to be alone.”  Sure, it describes most, maybe all of us, but I know who I am, deep inside.  I am grateful for a Creator who also understands that I need someone, not necessary to interact continuously, but to simply be with me.  I’m not foolish enough to think that this is true for me only, because it seems clear that we all have need of  this companionship.  Whether it is a spouse, or close friends, or even our parents and siblings, we are made to connect with other people.

I was reminded of this specific need tonight as we spent time with a young lady who was alone and more than a few miles from home.  We enjoyed her company as much or more than she enjoyed ours.  I don’t know why I should be surprised.  But, I have to wonder how much better off this world would be if those of us who know what it is to have been alone, but aren’t any longer, would share a little of our  time and ourselves with some who are lonely.  It doesn’t cost much to sit and talk, or watch a movie, or even just drink a cup of coffee, together. It is not good for humans to be alone.

It might be that, had that first man known the trouble he was in for, he would have chosen to remain alone.  I really doubt it.  But, that’s probably a discussion for another day.  Maybe, we’ll tackle it…together.

“The most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved.”
(Mother Teresa of Calcutta~Albanian-born missionary and Nobel prize winner~1910-1997)

“Alone, all alone.
Nobody, but nobody 
Can make it out here all alone.”
(Maya Angelou~American poet)

The night is cold and windy, but the two black dogs lie out in the yard on a dirty blanket.  They have a house.  It is warm and dry in their house.  The owner of these canines is such a soft-hearted pushover that he even installed a heated pad in the floor of the little structure.  But their blanket is out in the yard on the cold, damp dirt.  And, since they don’t want to lie on that hard heating pad on the hard floor of the house, they lie on the filthy soft blanket in the yard and they shiver.

You would expect that the dog’s owner would be intelligent enough to place the blanket in the house.  Over the heating pad.  You would even expect that it could be a clean blanket.  What dog lover wouldn’t want to do that for his furry friends?

Can I set your mind at rest?  The owner of these particular pooches has done just that.  Again and again.  Multiple times, every day, the blanket is shaken free of debris and refolded.  The owner leans down and tosses the soft cloth over the floor of the house, provided an inviting and warm bed for the dogs.  Attempts to secure the blanket have been made, but have failed, with the stubborn puppies pulling it outside nearly as quickly as it can be reinstalled in its proper place.  The owner’s Lovely Lady has laundered the blanket on frequent occasions, but a blanket dragged over dirt several times a day is never clean for more than a few moments.  So, the dogs shiver in the cold and damp on a filthy blanket when they have a great place to be warm and dry and the opportunity to lie on a clean bed.

They drag the blanket out of the place it should be!  Around the yard it trails after them as they fight over it, tearing holes in the material and soiling it.  Not happy with leaving it where it belongs, again and again, they move it where they think they want it.  Dumb animals!  That’s what we would call them.  It’s what I mutter under my breath several times a day.  Turns out, they’re not so much unlike their humans.

The young man stood in front of me at the music store the other day with a pained look on his face.  “I can’t believe that there are no jobs around here!”  came the exasperated outburst.  “I’ve looked and looked and can’t find a job I want.”  I thought about the last couple of words of his statement for a few seconds.  Then I asked him what he meant.  Did “can’t find a job I want” mean that there really were jobs available?  Little by little, and quite reluctantly, he told me what he meant.  It seems that there really were jobs, but they were either in food service or the poultry industry, and he wasn’t about to hustle pizza or shuttle dead chickens to the freezer.  I was tempted to laugh at him, but then I thought that maybe I could actually help a little.  “If those jobs aren’t good enough for you, what are your qualifications for other work?”  I anticipated that the young man might have other experience or at least some training for other work, but I was to be disappointed.  He had a GED and had never done anything else besides some part-time construction work.   But…he had a “go-getter attitude” and “a lot of self-confidence.”  His words, not mine.  I gently suggested that perhaps the pizza job might be a good place to start, while he is working at bettering his skill-set, knowing that the words would probably fall on deaf ears.  They did.

Mr. Aesop would remind us that the grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence, but it seems that we have to learn that for ourselves.  Never satisfied with the bounty we know, we seek for happiness in our own way, frequently becoming sadder but wiser.  I’m not advocating the absence of a dream; not even suggesting that we shouldn’t reach further.  You know by now that I believe that we need to always be striving to do better and aiming for goals in the distance.  What I am describing is the foolish rejection of provision which is ours for the taking, the gifts of a beneficent Creator, given to sustain us as we grow and mature (and reach).  But, like the dogs, or even like my young friend, we somehow think our wisdom exceeds His and we move our blanket into the cold, or reject the necessities in front of us, because that just doesn’t fit our notion of the proper order of things.  It’s a lesson I’m continuing to learn, well into my middle age.  I definitely feel sadder more often than wiser.

I’m going to head for home in a few moments.  I’ll stop by and return the blanket to the dog’s house.  They may be cold enough by now to leave it in there for the rest of the night.  I hope I can learn a lesson from the simpleminded little creatures.

It could happen…

“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not.  Remember that what you now have was once among the things that you only hoped for.”
(Epicurus~Greek philosopher~341-270 BC)

“Godliness with contentment brings a great profit.”
(I Timothy 6:6)

I find myself without many words tonight.  Exhausted and even a little overwhelmed, I feel the need for reassurance.  It seems that I spent my day reassuring.  “Sure, it can be repaired.  Don’t worry; it won’t be expensive.”  And later, “You need it tomorrow?  No problem.  It will be there!”  Again, and again, people needed to know that everything will be all right.  Gadgets they purchased weren’t as easy to use as they anticipated; strings were broken while they tuned the violin; their child no longer wishes to be in band and they have no use for the instrument we sold to them.  Each one is dealt with as patiently and as equitably as I have the ability to respond.  And, each reassurance from my lips, no matter how glibly or lightly the words roll out, costs me something in return.  Repairs take time and cause stress.  Rush orders push other, equally important tasks to the side, with the nagging realization that they will have to be finished also before my workday is done.  Instruction takes its toll as the effort to keep up saps my spirit.

I’m not complaining.  It’s just that I need someone to tell me, “Don’t worry, it will be all right,” myself.  I need to be reminded that it’s somehow worthwhile; that there is a payoff.  I’m not talking about financial profit, either.  Money doesn’t feed the spirit, nor does it fend off exhaustion.  I need to know that I’m hitting close to the bullseye of the target, that there is a reward for the labor.  Am I doing any good here at all?

There was one instance, a few years ago, when the reassurance came.  I wrote about it some time back.  A few of you have read the narrative below months ago, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I repeat it today, just to remind myself again…

Delivery to a Chicken House

“We’ll take the piano.  You’ll deliver it, won’t you?”  The heavy-set, unkempt man in front of me is not cut from the same cloth as most of my piano customers.  He’s what we would call “local color”, wearing his dirty overalls, one strap unhooked and hanging behind him.  The long, bushy beard looks wild and the dirty matted hair, even wilder.  Nevertheless, he reaches into his pocket to bring out a handful of cash and pays the price for the old upright piano.  It’s a good piano, but shows clear evidence of its seventy years of use.  We’ve done everything we can to make it function properly, but the darkened, almost black finish will never polish up.  His wife and daughter hang back nearby, and it’s clear from her demeanor that the girl is to be the principal beneficiary of the purchase.

The teenage girl is, like her father, carrying more weight than is normal for her height.  She’s also a bit self-conscious.  Her social skills are minimal and she looks to her father to answer every statement or question which I direct to her.  After a few unsuccessful attempts at conversation with her, I realize that I’m making her uncomfortable and turn my attention to the dad and the task of concluding last minute arrangements.  They live a good distance from my store, but have given me fairly complete instructions, so the date and time for delivery having been set, they depart, leaving a good bit of evidence of their visit behind.  The scented candle and opened door will rectify that little issue for us fairly quickly.

On the day of the delivery, my piano-moving companion arrives and the trailer is loaded quickly and efficiently.  We’ve done this before, so nothing is going to catch us napping, or so we think.  The first 15 miles of our journey pass uneventfully, but then we leave the pavement of the state highway for the gravel road.  Still no problem.  Next, following the instructions I’ve been given, we turn again into a dirt lane, along which we travel for several miles.  We realize that we’re in what is known as “the boonies”.  Of course, that word comes from the more common “boondocks”, which our military brought home from the Philippines in the early 20th century.   The word “bundok” from a common Philippine dialect means simply, mountain and came to signify any place away from civilization and hard to get to.  (Yeah, only a word-nerd would care.)  Wherever the word came from, we were in it.  The foothills of the Ozarks have many such places, but we seldom deliver pianos to them.

We pass old, tumbledown shacks with porches piled high with debris and multitudes of dogs piling out from under them to bark and snarl at us as we go by, the dirt swirling up behind us.  The one or two individuals we see don’t seem as friendly as the country folk we’re used to when out in most of the more traveled areas.  No raised hands in friendly greeting; no smiles in response to ours.  My faithful sidekick mutters from his side of the truck, “‘Deliverance’! It’s just like the movie all over again.”   Thankfully, following our homemade map, we reach the entrance to the driveway between the fence posts, as it has been described to us, and we turn in.  Just follow the driveway up to the house, the man had said, so we follow the winding course of the driveway, actually just a couple of ruts through the field.  It winds around the edge of the hillside and all we see before us is a couple of decrepit, tumbledown chicken houses.

Surely this can’t be right!  But, we follow the drive as instructed and are steered to a small tin building right between the two long-abandoned chicken houses.  This is obviously the shed where the poultry had been processed over the years, where sick animals would have been treated and feed might have been stored, but there is a car parked in front, so we pull up and go to the door.  The man greets us from inside and shows us where we are to place the piano.  A look around makes it obvious that the family is indeed in residence here, although I have never seen such accommodations.  The shed has a few bare light bulbs strung up on extension cords inside its one-room interior.  There is a wood stove for heat and an ancient, rusted refrigerator, along with an electric hot plate to cook on.  Other than that and a couple of beds in opposite corners, there is nothing but junk in the tiny dark hovel.  The piano is taken off the trailer and moved into the designated location and we prepare to leave, still reeling from the conditions that we have observed.  We are amazed as the gentleman bids us goodbye, just as jovial and pleased to be the new owner of this piano, as if it were the finest grand and we had just placed it into a well-appointed drawing room in his mansion on the hillside.

We are relieved to be out of the area and back onto the highway within minutes, but can’t get over what we have just witnessed.  But, as seems common with events such as this, as quickly as we arrive back at our pleasant comfortable homes, the plight of this family is all but forgotten, except to relate the tale to a few folks who express complete disbelief.

I didn’t think much about it again, until one day about two years later when the Lovely Lady returned from a high school music contest, which she had been asked to judge.  Because of her years as a piano teacher, she, along with a couple of other knowledgeable educators had judged the pianists entered in the contest.  The contestants played their prepared pieces on the Steinway grand piano at the performing arts center; for most of them, the first time they had even sat at a grand piano.  The Lovely Lady told me about one girl in particular, a heavy-set young lady, dressed unfashionably, who was reticent in her responses to the judge’s questions.  She sat at the piano, obviously in awe of such a fine instrument, and took several moments to settle down.  Then, she began to play.  Her playing was confident, the timing impeccable.  She executed the piece with feeling, starting quietly and soaring to a climax of emotion with great musicality, then back down again as the passion of the music ebbed, concluding the performance with beautiful chords and quiet melodies and counter-melodies spiraling down into silence.  As it was related to me by the Lovely Lady, it was not the most polished performance they heard that day, nor the most perfect, but without question, worthy of an “excellent” rating and a great surprise to those present who had been inclined to expect less from the backward young lady.

Yes, it was indeed that young girl who lived in the chicken house, learning to play on a rebuilt seventy-year old clunker of a piano.  In the midst of poverty and lack, accomplishment reared it’s lovely head.  I am still learning that appearances can be deceiving, and presumption is a dangerous path to follow, but this one was a real wake up call, almost a shift in paradigms (if I may use that trendy, trite term).  I have delivered beautiful pianos to astounding homes, the buyers only interested in the integrity of their decor, with no interest whatsoever in the quality of the sound or the touch of the keyboard.  I have also left some homes, having delivered the piano, only to be followed out the door by the whining tone of children asking why their parents bought that stupid thing.  But, I’m fairly certain that I have never before, nor since that day, delivered a more important instrument to a more important customer.  

I don’t know what she has done with her talent and skill since then, but simply to know that this young lady had in two short years developed the joy and confidence that she displayed then, inspires and motivates me to believe that no one, regardless of their environment or financial condition, is beyond hope or expectation of great things.  I pray that it is never otherwise.

Reading the story once more, I’m reminded that all it takes is one real success, in all of our attempts, to make our labor worthwhile.  I’d like to be the “spring of water” described in the passage from Isaiah below.  Yes, there are quite a few scorched places along the way, but the path leads through, so I’ll keep to it. 

Everything, after all, will be all right, so don’t you worry.

“Men in general, judge more from appearances than from reality.  All men have eyes, but few have the gift of penetration.”
(Niccolo Machiavelli~Italian writer and statesman~1469-1527)

“And the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water whose waters do not fail.”
(Isaiah 58:11 ESV)