Author: Paul Phillips

Con-Fused

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“There was a buzzing noise and then it wouldn’t work.”  The kid with the pierced nose and plugs in his earlobes stood dejectedly with amplifier-head in hand and told me his story.  His heavy metal band had been rocking out at a very loud jam session in the garage when disaster overtook them.  I was afraid to learn of what transpired after the buzzing and ceasing-operation part of the event, but I encouraged him to go on.  “Did you unplug it and bring it right in?”  It was no surprise when the young man sheepishly (How does one look like a sheep with a large piece of rubber in one’s earlobe?  One might well ask…) revealed to me that they had not chosen that path.  “We figured that the fuse had blown, so we put in another one.”  I suggested hopefully, “The same size, right?”  No such luck.  “Well, we just pulled one out of another amp that was sitting there.  When we turned it back on, it buzzed again and then smoke poured out of it.  It smelled awful!”

I checked the fuse and found that the little glass and metal device was marked 10 amps.  The notation beside the socket said to use a “2 amp Slo Blo replacement fuse”.  They had inserted a fuse that took five times the current which would make it fail into a circuit which had already blown out the standard sized one, thereby guaranteeing extensive damage to the rest of the amplifier components.  No wonder the young man was standing there looking “mutton-headed”.  Again and again, I have told my customers that if a fuse blows, there is something wrong with the unit, not with the fuse.  The vast majority of them still believe that the fuse is at fault, when it is actually the only thing saving them from having a much bigger problem.

Warning signs.  Why do we ignore them?  The little yellow light next to the fuel gauge came on in the Lovely Lady’s car this afternoon.  What do you think we’ll do about it?  Pull out the bulb and replace it?  Check the relay that sends current to that bulb?  No, of course not!  I’ll take the car to the gas station and spend an inordinate amount of money to put more fuel in the tank.  The light tells me that I’ve already ignored the other warning sign, the gauge itself, for too long.  Disaster is imminent.  The correct response is not to attempt repairs on the warning system, but to remedy the situation with actions which will avert the disaster.

How many times have we read of lethal fires in homes where the homeowner has smoke alarms installed, but they are sitting with almost dead batteries in them and the leads disconnected.  Oh, you’ve experienced the annoyance.  You were sitting in your easy chair and you heard a “beep”.  Moments later, the sound was repeated.  When you finally responded and looked for the source, you realized that the battery in the alarm was low.  How did you respond?  If you were smart, you inserted a new battery and forgot about it for another year or so.  If you weren’t so far-sighted, you just reached up and took the wires loose from the battery and promptly forgot about it for whatever length of time it took you to notice it again.  Well obviously, the battery being connected was causing the problem, so you cured that dilemma. That is, unless the genuine disaster occurred and then the absurdity of the so-called solution would have been revealed.

We’re surrounded by warning signs which we ignore at our peril.  Open doors which we left locked should be a warning of an intruder, not a sign of a defective lock.  Incoherence and loss of memory in a normally astute person should prompt us to call 911, not simply to disparage the lack of intelligence in the loved one.  A child who tells us that they have a tummy ache probably doesn’t need a bowl of Spaghetti-Os.  Most of us would not miss these signs, but we miss others which are just as, if not more, important, all the time.  In our personal relationships, in our private lives, we ignore the most obvious of signs and we lose our way.   I’m not going to tell you the alarms which I have going off with frequency in my life, because you’ll just be able to gloat that you don’t have those to deal with.  I’m also not going to speculate on yours; that would just give me cause to feel superior since they wouldn’t be my struggle.  Instead, I’ll invite you to think about the warning signs present in your life right now.  If you stop a minute and consider, you’ll know the ones I’m talking about.  Pay attention to them.  They may save your life, may save your marriage, may just keep you from shaming yourself.

The alarms are not the culprit; they simply let you know that something is wrong.  Today, I will be thankful for, and pay attention to, blown fuses and low fuel lights.  There just might be one or two others I’ll be heeding, as well.

“The first bringer of unwelcome news hath but a losing office…”
(“Henry IV”~William Shakespeare~English playwright~1564-1616)

“Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”
(My mother, along with a few others)

Getting an Education

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Hey, can you teach me to play the guitar?”  The teenager had been watching the twenty-something year-old man playing an intricately-fingered song on his guitar as both of them sat in my music store a week or so ago.  The young man looked at the boy in front of him as if he were an alien, just stepped out of a transporter field from an unknown planet.  At least, that’s what I figured the strange look meant.  “Nah…I don’t teach at all,” he replied; just a little too quickly, I thought.  As I watched (and listened), I realized that the look was something else.  Now, where had I seen that look before?  Oh yes!  It was what we like to call the “deer-in-the-headlights” stare.  Fear?  This guy knows his instrument like the back of his own hand!  He’s been playing since he was just a young boy.  What does he have to be afraid of?

A few days later, the young man was back.  Confidently, he took down a guitar and started playing a blues riff on a beautiful acoustic guitar; first playing it repetitively, until I started to have a thought that I could get tired of this droning chord/arpeggio pattern.  Right about then he added in a little melody line, keeping the bass and mid-range notes of the riff going as the new notes worked their way around the (by now) familiar minor rhythmic pattern.  Around, up, and down, the melody wove itself into the music, until you couldn’t tell the old from the new.  I love having talented musicians play music in the store, even though I rarely take part myself (no talent, you see).  Just then, I noticed another young man sitting on an amplifier back in the corner.  Not nearly as accomplished a guitarist, he was listening with obvious respect for the talent of the first player.  He did have a guitar in his hand, and his fingers were moving on the frets and over the strings near the tone-hole, but you could only hear the first man playing.  I watched to see what would happen. I was pretty sure of the pattern of events to come, but waited for them to play out on their own.

Sure enough, within minutes, the hesitant, almost inaudible chords of the second guitar started to grow in volume.  The young man watched the hands of the talented player as the music continued to fill the air and, as he grew a little more confident, began to “second” the lead of the other player.  It wasn’t great, but the chord changes grew a little less clumsy after a few moments and the song,which at first had seemed perfect, was augmented and became, if possible, even more satisfying.  I heard, as the novice player stumbled a time or two over a change, the voice of the expert coaching him on the upcoming chords.  The next time, the change went more smoothly.  Moving away to take care of a customer at the cash register, I still kept my ear attuned to the harmonies issuing from the guitar section.  Within the next few moments, a distinct change came over the music I was hearing.  Both the lead and the second, or rhythm, voices had altered quite drastically in character.  The lead part was coming from a different guitar and was now a bit choppy; it faltered once in awhile, while the rhythm part was fuller and more confident.  The two players had changed roles in the musical conversation, with the younger player being a bit less fluent in the language being spoken.  Patiently, the other man called out a note or fret number once in awhile, even stopping a time or two to show the necessary lick to the young learner.

I wasn’t anxious for the experience to end, but eventually it did, with one of the men having an appointment to get to.  I marveled at the episode, even though it’s not an uncommon occurrence at the store.  And, because I don’t want to spoil the opportunity for it to happen again with other inexperienced players, I didn’t point out the obvious to the accomplished young musician.  He is a teacher!  He says that he can’t teach and he believes that to be so, but the evidence speaks against his conclusion.  All that’s necessary for teaching (and learning) to occur is for a skilled individual to be concerned that another, less skilled individual not be left to stumble around in the dark.  After many years of doing similar extemporaneous education myself, I am finally admitting that I teach on a regular basis.  I too, have told many people that I cannot teach, but experience has led me to understand that this is a fallacy.  On any given day, as a non-teacher, I teach multiple students about their instruments, about technical details of playing, and even once in while…I can teach a few principals of music theory, although it’s more a case of the blind leading the blind when that happens.

You say you don’t teach?  Wrong!  All around me, I see teachers.  Kids teaching other kids how to do tricks on skateboards, athletes teaching other athletes the finer points of their specialty, hunters sharing tips on woodcraft and the art of field-dressing with their buddies.  Even the Lovely Lady learns (and teaches) new forms and techniques of various handcrafts from her co-workers as they visit together during their breaks.  The list goes on without end, because that’s how we learn.  Person to person, parent to child, expert to amateur, the gift of ideas and technical ability continues to be given again and again.  While technology has an amazing, ever-expanding ability to store and share data, it won’t ever eliminate the need for the exchange of ideas and the demonstration of both time-honored and new techniques from one person to another.  Some will argue with me about that, but I contend that machines simply don’t have the capacity to understand the ability of the learner or to change teaching methods to fit the situation.  Even if you are sure that I am wrong, I will have to be be shown the evidence in person to believe it.  And someone showing it to me will prove the point of my argument.

Throughout history, we have passed information and instruction from one generation to another.  There is not one of us who doesn’t teach in one form or another.  Some are incredibly gifted at it; some have developed their talent into a vocation by pursuing educational degrees.  But, I maintain that the carpenter, the auto mechanic, the musician, the seamstress…all have the same responsibility to teach, to insure that their knowledge doesn’t die with them.  It’s also how we pass on our belief system to the next generation, insuring that they understand why we believe what we do, what drives us to behave as we do, and how it changes us and gives us hope.  Many have abandoned teaching about their faith because “we have professionals to do that”.  Our children and their children are the losers.  The instruction to God’s people thousands of years ago still applies today in myriad ways: “Talk with your children about My words when you sit at home, when you walk along the road, when you lie down, and when you get up.”

Nothing has changed.  Teach!  It’s what we do.  Oh, yes…it can’t hurt to learn a little more along the way, too.

“Be an opener of doors for such as come after you.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson~American poet and essayist~1803-1882)

“Teaching should be such that what is offered is perceived as a valuable gift and not as a hard duty.”
(Albert Einstein~American Physicist~1879-1955)

Help, I’ve Fallen…

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I thought it was to be a normal Monday morning, which is to say, hectic.  I was pulling orders as rapidly as the constantly ringing telephone would allow, but was falling behind, nonetheless.  I noticed the beat up pickup truck pulling up to the front of the store, but ignored it as I always try to do before our doors are unlocked at noon daily.  Speaking on the phone to a customer who had not a clue of what she wanted, for once I was glad to be obviously occupied as the aging man peered in the window.  He stood there in his shirt sleeves, unfazed by the cool temperatures or by the sign on the door which clearly proclaimed the business hours:  Noon to 5:30 Monday through Friday.  I knew he was waiting for me to hang up the phone, but the woman droned on and on about her plans for the products she wasn’t sure she would be buying today.  Fifteen minutes later, with no sale made, I hung up the phone and glanced at the front window.  The man was facing away from me, deep in conversation on his cell phone.  I stepped away from my desk and made my escape to the back office to wait him out.

It was 10:30!  We didn’t open for another hour and a half and I wasn’t going to interrupt my busy schedule for someone to come in and “look around”.  A moment later, his conversation finished, the man noticed that I was no longer at my desk or on the phone. “KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!”  The loud rapping on the window resounded through the deserted building.  I ignored it.  Again, and again, and still again, the rapping sounded…the persistent fellow was not giving up.  Resigned to a confrontation, I headed for the door to tell him off.  Could he not read the sign?  There were good reasons why we left the doors locked as we worked in the morning!  I started in on him crossly, as the door opened a crack.  “Just a minute and I’ll explain,”  he interjected when I took a breath.  I bit my tongue and listened.  It seems that he had made a conscious decision to come before the customers lined up at noon.  He had something to talk about which was potentially embarrassing to me and the business and he didn’t want to discuss it in front of other people.

It turned out that a relative of his, who lived rent-free in a house which belonged to him, had sold some equipment he had stored in the garage at the house to me.  He didn’t want to file a police report and was willing to pay me back what I had laid out for the assorted electronic gadgets.  I apologized for my treatment of him, then I apologized for his inconvenience, and again for the fact that he was having to pay to get his own equipment back.  He didn’t have to do this!  He could have just called the police; filled out an incident report stating that he was filing charges against the young lady and they would have picked up the equipment in question, giving me none of the cash I had paid out for it.  It wouldn’t have cost him a dime to get his property back.  But, he didn’t want to leave me holding the bag for that money.  And, he hoped to keep from embarrassing the young lady, much as he was trying to help me to avoid embarrassment.

I am embarrassed.  Not because you now know that I bought stolen goods.  Not even because I was taken in by the young lady’s hard luck story, not once, but four times!  I am embarrassed because of my treatment of this man as he stood outside my window Monday morning, trying to save me trouble and loss.  My humiliation is made worse because a mere seven hours before, I had arrogantly written to you about my plans regarding how I intended to treat the “worn and tired folks” who would come across my path that day.  In the midst of my embarrassment, we made the financial arrangements and I helped him load up the items, apologizing again as he shook my hand warmly, obviously unaware of my discomfort and personal chagrin.

Disappointment in myself is not a new experience for me, so I gave myself a good talking to and determined to do better the next time.  I thought I was successful.  As one of my “always with me” guys came in with a guitar that same afternoon, I determined to treat this broken person as I had promised you I would.  I was gratified to hear him tell me that he realized how badly he was failing in his responsibilities.  Like the Prodigal Son of the scriptures, he was going home to live with his father and to get away from the negative influence his friends exerted on him.  All he needed was a few dollars for the bus ticket and, would I be willing to buy his old guitar “the first one he had ever owned”?  It was all he had left.  I talked with him about the wisdom of his path and encouraged him to stick with friends who would help him to get things straight, rather than enable him to return to his old ways.  Money was exchanged for the battered instrument, we shook hands warmly, and he was on his way.  I was proud of him and even a little proud of myself for encouraging him to mend his ways.

Today, a young man I have never seen before came into the store.  “Have you bought any guitars from ___ this week?”  My heart sank.  Yep.  That guitar.  It was simply one more con job, one more lie to get me to shell out a buck or two to keep him going.  Is he going home to his father?  I really don’t know.  A man who will sell you stolen goods and lie bald-faced to you while he’s taking your money, will lie about his plans for the future, too.

This week has brought one disappointment after another, as far as my faith in people goes…and it’s only half over.  People for whom I have had high expectations have failed dismally and some for whom I had high hopes have fallen short of my aspirations for them.  Not the least of these disappointments has been in myself.  Oh!  And the change to standard time has reminded me that the days are getting a lot shorter and the sadness that accompanies that phenomenon will be upon me soon.  “Nobody loves me.  Everybody hates me.  I’m going to go to the garden and eat worms.”   I think I’ll just wallow here for awhile.  Would that be okay?

Surprisingly, my spirit is not defeated, in spite of the discouragement of the last few days.  I am actually encouraged, as I look at the responses I have seen in those around me, and indeed, in myself.  Friends have been in agreement as we discuss the need to help each other, the need to forgive and support those who fall.  I am one of those fallen.  I’m realizing though, that when you hit the ground, all you have to do is stand up again.  I’m not saying it’s easy, just that it’s possible.  That last fall may make me limp for awhile, but I can still move ahead.  The exciting thing is that, knowing what I know about myself, if I can do it, it is reasonable to expect that others will be able to get up again too.

I am trusting that my friend, who has taken advantage of me more times that I can count, will one day make a new start.  I have faith that the young lady who sold me stolen merchandise will realize that she has already been forgiven and will allow Grace to work in her heart.  And knowing that Grace is already at work in my own heart, I am confident that I can (and will) continue to press on to the finish line.

Yeah, I’ll trip on another hurdle or two before that, but getting up is the key.  We can help each other with that, too.  Okay?

“Disappointment, to a noble soul, is what cold water is to burning metal; It strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it.”
(Eliza Tabor~British author~1835-1914)

“We fall down; we get up.  We fall down; we get up.
And the Saints are just the sinners, who fall down and get up.”
(“We Fall Down”~Kyle David Matthews~American songwriter)

Arm and Hammer

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I select the orange box with the familiar logo of the muscular forearm and strong hand gripping a hammer, taking it down from the shelf.  A teaspoon of the contents from the box is all it takes.  I mix it with three or four ounces of water, and a few swallows later my stomach feels relief from the discomfort of indigestion.  Recently, while working on the old blue pickup truck (you remember…my “pig in a poke”), I discover the need to clean up some battery cables which are corroded with the acid which is contained in the battery itself.  The corrosion makes it so the electric current necessary to turn over the engine can’t reach the powerful starter.  If there’s no current, the motor won’t turn and fire.  Into the kitchen I go, reaching for the same familiar orange box.  No, the problem hasn’t caused me to have an upset stomach.  I have another use in mind for the magic powder.  Contents mixed with water again, I carry the concoction out to the blue bomb and pour it over the terminals, plying an old toothbrush to remove the offending acid as the mixture does its work.  A few second’s labor, a couple of bolts tightened, and voila!  The motor is purring as well as any vehicle with almost three hundred thousand miles on it ever has.

The scene moves to a different kitchen in our little town.  The man reaching for the orange box is sick and in pain, just as he has been for more than two years now.  The cure for his illness isn’t in the box, but he believes that it is.  Taking down the box, he measures out a small amount of the powder, not into water, but into a plain white envelope with an address on the front.  Again and again, he measures out the powder, reputed for its curative and beneficial qualities.  Envelope after envelope receives its portion, until the job is completed.  He knows he will feel better when the task is completed.  He won’t.

The envelopes are mailed to their addressees, along with notes which are calculated to cause feelings of fear.  However, as the envelopes are delivered, it’s not the notes which cause the most trouble, but that little bit of white powder contained in the same paper pouch.  As the letters are opened, the recipients react first with disbelief, then with terror.  “What is this powder?  Is it poison?  Will it make me sick?  Am I going to die?”  Emergency procedures are followed, the hazardous materials teams swing into action, and offices, or banks, or schools are evacuated.  Family members are terrified and work is at a standstill, all because of that white powder.  The very same powder I use for an upset stomach.  The same powder used to remove the corrosive battery acid and its damaging effects.

“Lunatic!” I said the word myself upon reading the news of the repeated missives sent to individuals.   “Creep!” I read that description from a disgusted contributor to an online news source.  “Idiot!”  The epithet came up in conversations about the situation at my music store.  The nameless, faceless criminal who was perpetrating this atrocious act was all of those and more.  We waited for the local police and the county sheriff, along with the FBI, to nail the horrible man, sending him to prison for a very, very long time.

They arrested him yesterday.  The individual they have accused of the crimes is a man I’ve known for thirty years, who is married to one of the Lovely Lady’s childhood friends.  He is a neighbor to my mother-in-law.  He’s a real person. I went to church with him, discussed God and our responses to His grace with him, sang in a mixed ensemble with him.  As my initial shock fades away, my mind searches for an explanation.  I understand the facts…he worked for the same company for twenty-eight years; was laid off two years ago; is bitter because some who kept their jobs had less seniority and may not even have been citizens of the United States.  The facts don’t explain the actions, if indeed he is responsible for them.

If you’ll pardon a little rehashing of my last post, I’m pretty sure this man fits into the “broken” category.  Whether he is guilty of the crimes or not, his emotional turmoil of the last couple of years has left him a shadow of the person he once was.  I remember him as an outgoing, engaged person who held his own in any discussion, a man who was involved in his church and who led his household with vigor and energy.  The photo released by the authorities upon his arrest tells a different story, as do other folks who have tried to engage him over the last year or so.  The eyes are empty, the once clean shaven and well-groomed visage is covered by a bushy, unkempt beard and mustache.  I actually didn’t recognize the man in the photo until reading the accompanying news story.

Does my exhortation for us to care for broken people extend to this “lunatic”, this “creep”?  My perspective has been shaken by the news, but my heart tells me that he needs friends even more in this extreme ordeal than ever before.  Another friend reminded me this evening that the old Native American saying might apply here.  “Don’t judge any man until you have walked two moons in his moccasins.”  It would seem that we are in control of much less than we sometimes believe to be the case, and for us to condemn individuals who have broken under circumstances we have never endured is hypocritical.  I’m not sure that I would have made it two months in my friend’s shoes.  I really don’t want to find out, either.

I hope we don’t miss the lesson of the baking soda, either.  The powder which soothes and repairs also destroys and terrorizes.  Even the brand name embodies an image which is both helpful and destructive.  The hammer, wielded by a skilled workman, yields amazing structures…structures which a destructive person can decimate in moments with the same hammer.  In a person with pure motives, a steadfast focus on the success of a project is admirable.  When that single-minded focus is the attribute of a man bent on vengeance, it is lunacy.  When we work to right wrongs in a constructive way, we’re acclaimed as visionaries.  When tools which have potential for beneficial uses are turned into weapons of fear and stealth to show someone the error of their ways, a formerly law-abiding man becomes a despised criminal.  Good things can be used in horrible ways.  What once was respectable and upright becomes despicable and evil.

“There, but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford.”  The words, uttered by the sixteenth century reformer and martyr, remind us still today that our lives are not guided, nor controlled by we ourselves.  We stand upright, not because of our achievements, but because of One who sustains and upholds us.

Grace compels grace in its beneficiaries.  “As you have received, freely give.”

“It is of the mercies of God that we are not consumed, because His compassions never fail.  They are new every morning; Great is Your faithfulness!”
(Lamentations 3: 22,23)

“Grace isn’t a little prayer you chant before receiving a meal.  It’s a way to live.”
(Jacqueline Winspear~British/American novelist)

A Deal You Can’t Refuse

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
When they were finished, the Maugrabin paid him their price, even that which he sought, and taking the lamps, carried them to the khan, where he laid them in a basket and fell to going round about in the markets and thoroughfares of the city and crying out, “Ho! who will barter an old lamp for a new lamp?” When the folk heard him crying this, they laughed at him and said, “Certes, this man is mad, since he goeth about, bartering new lamps for old.”  
We’ve all heard the story in one form or another.  It is one of the classic middle-eastern tales which are related in dramatic fashion in “One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”  The story is a favorite because it recounts the rags to riches adventures of a young man named Aladdin, who finds a magic lamp, wins the beautiful princess, and lives happily ever after.  As a young boy, I loved the story and wished desperately that there really was a magic lamp and a genie who could grant wishes.  Who hasn’t wished that?  I’m fairly confident that such a lamp does not exist and also pretty sure that we wouldn’t really want it to.  Well, it would be okay if I were the one to discover it, but not if anyone else did.  I certainly don’t want to live in someone else’s fantasy world.  But I digress.

I’m thinking tonight of damaged goods.  I bought a guitar from a young man the other day.  He had taken the instrument to a pawnshop in our town, hoping that the proprietor would offer him a reasonable amount for the old battered guitar he had.  The man behind the counter took one look at the guitar and sneered.  “Did you dig that piece of junk out of a dumpster?  I’ll give you five dollars and that’s being generous.”  The guitar did look a little the worse for the wear.  It has scratches over most of the body, especially near the sound hole.  There are pits on the fingerboard and, at one point, a sticker was applied to the top.  Now removed, you can still see the round spot where the finish around it faded with light exposure, but that spot remains dark.  Forty years of dirt and oils have discolored the finish and it could never be described as good-looking.   I examined the guitar and determined that it had value to me in spite of its worn condition, so I offered the young man twenty times what the pawn shop owner had.  I’m positive that I can make a profit on the deal because I see the potential of that old guitar to make beautiful music.  Come to think of it, I might actually keep the aged beauty for myself, simply because it’s a wonderful instrument that feels like an old friend already. 

“New lamps for old”?  What kind of madness is this?  In short, the villain in the story of the magic lamp understood that the value of that lump of copper or bronze which Aladdin possessed wasn’t in its beauty.  The value was in what was contained inside the lamp and he was willing to pay a great price to possess it himself.  He may have traded away many lamps before he got the one he wanted.  But, he was willing to pay the price.  Of course, we all know that he came to no good in the end.  But then, this blog actually isn’t about a villain, is it?

The longer I live, the more I realize that we…and not one of us is excluded…we are damaged goods.  Some of us show it more than others.  While I see a number of folks who wear their brokenness out in the open, a lot of us are really good at hiding it, too.  We disguise it with our successes and achievements, with our braggadocio, and our arrogance.  We even conceal it beneath our philanthropy, our benevolence.  But deep down under the surface we understand, to our chagrin and lasting embarrassment, that we are broken and not a little ugly.  I’m pretty sure that what we really long for, despite our childlike desire for a magic lamp and a genie, is someone to come along actually calling out, “New lamps for old.”  We need someone to realize the value of what is contained inside, despite our worn and tattered exterior.
Many of you who read this have heard that call already.  Grace is an unbelievable thing, almost a mad thing, like the villain of Aladdin’s day.  (What kind of crazy God would make such an offer?)  But, moving past the spiritual aspect, I’m wondering how many of us understand how important it is for us to respond to our own undeserved redemption with a down-to-earth, physical concern for other broken people.  We don’t get to say, “I got mine, now you get yours.”  I’m not talking about giving money to poor people or sending boxes of clothes to faceless children across the sea (not that we shouldn’t do that, too).  Right now, I’m speaking of caring for people, our neighbors, where they are…broken by life, by disappointment, by depression, by loss.  Who better to care for broken people, but broken people?  We know where it hurts, and what it takes to make it better.  
Some of the finest, most valuable musical instruments I have found have been the most abused, ugliest things you would ever want to see.  Neglected and devalued by ignorant people, they sit in dusty corners and hot attics, awaiting the touch of a caring and loving hand.  The results have been astonishing, again and again. 

I’m going to try to look for the value in the worn and tired folks I interact with today.   A word of encouragement (and possibly a smile) may be all that is required.  It’s a place to start anyway.  After that?  Well, we’ll just have to play it by ear…




“Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.”
(“Rescue the Perishing” by Fanny Crosby~American hymn writer~1820-1915)

“…Many a man with his life out of tune, battered and scarred with sin, he’s auctioned cheap to a thankless world…”
(“The Touch of the Master’s Hand”)

A Sense of Proportion

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The savage little beasts in the backyard are at it again.  No longer do they yap in their cute little puppy voices as they did mere weeks ago.  Now they raise their big dog barks in unison and clamor with full voice at the intruder in their territory.  Any moment I expect to hear the death cry of a squirrel, or possibly even an opossum.  The cry never comes…just more barking.  It is after midnight and the neighbors may be trying to sleep (as strange as that seems), so I step out the back door to deal with the miscreant rascals and chase away the tormentor.  The terrifying intruder lies unmoving in the yard, illuminated by the moon and stars.  A branch.  That’s all it is.  A branch which has fallen from the mulberry tree days ago.

Earlier today, they were frantic about a different branch and would not calm down until it was removed; so, forewarned by prior knowledge, I dutifully discard this one as well.  With the offending trespasser banished, peace descends once more to the back yard and they go back to gnawing on bones, or burying them, or whatever it is that puppies do in the middle of the night.  Can someone tell me what it is about an out-of-place piece of wood that irritates a couple of young canines?  Are they so concerned that this branch is not where it is supposed to be?  We all know branches belong up in the air, attached to trees, but to get so worked up about one which is no longer keeping its place in the order of things is baffling to me.  Humans would never do such a thing, would they?  We’re much more reasonable creatures than a couple of dumb dogs barking in the middle of the night!

Are we?  I’m currently reading a great little book on punctuation entitled “Eats, Shoots & Leaves”, written by a stickler of a literary editor, an Englishwoman whose name is Lynne Truss.  I was lurking one day recently on Facebook and noted that a friend had recommended it to another friend and I decided to acquire it for myself (Thanks, Trish!).  The British humor is right up my alley, with plenty of puns and a fair amount of satire, so I have tormented the Lovely Lady by reading entire passages aloud to her for several evenings.  I find myself in agreement with the “Sticklers Unite” concept espoused in the pages of the little volume and wonder why more of the educated and literate folks I know don’t object vocally and publicly to the torture of our language, both spoken and written.  I have raved in my writings before about this and am likely to do so again.  But, as I perused the book and nodded my head in assent, I realized the danger I was (and am) in.  In the back of my head, I hear the barking of dogs at a limb which has fallen in the yard.  As I read about the “Apostrophe Protection Society” (no joke!  It’s a real group and even has a website to spread its message), I start to hear the whisper of “tempest in a teapot”, and “mountains out of molehills”.

I am committed to using the English language effectively and accurately.  I will place punctuation in the correct position, inasmuch as I have the ability.  I will even insist that the vendors with whom I do business correct errors on merchandise which they expect me to sell to the public.  That said, I refuse to carry stickers on my person which state, “This apostrophe is not necessary,” to place on offending posters or banners, nor will I make it my mission to point out errors on signs in businesses which are not my own.  I want our schools to teach correct usage and insist on its implementation.  My belief is that good teachers (and parents who support them) will be the best defense against a crumbling language framework and if our education system fails in that, I’m fairly sure that my insistent barking won’t make any difference at all.

Alas!  I see that I’ve actually taken a really long, roundabout rabbit trail this time, for I didn’t really have the English language in mind as my subject when I started writing tonight.  It does help to drive home the point I am trying to make with a fair amount of accuracy and weight, though.  We look at the dogs barking at the fallen limb in the moonlight and think, “What ignorant animals!”  We look at the folks in the Apostrophe Protection Society and think, “What a waste of time!”  All the while, we each have our pet peeves, our favorite projects that blind us to all else around and cause us to disrespect people, even to be cruel at times.  If something is important to us, it must be important to everybody else, or we will make it important to them!  As I write this, it’s as if I’m looking in a mirror instead of gazing at a computer monitor, because again and again, I see myself.  I’m really good a barking at fallen limbs.  Really good.

I recall many years ago, a lady who is a dear friend made reference to me in a conversation with someone else.  “The conscience of our church”, she called me, never expecting that I would learn of it.  It hurt when I did.  It hurt enough for me to make some changes in how I view other people’s opinions…enough to realize that I don’t have a corner on right thinking.  Oh, I still bark sometimes.  Hopefully though, all it takes is the voice of my Master to still my yapping and let the limbs lie where they fall.  I’m pretty sure that I can trust Him to order the world as it needs to be.  I’m happy to take some time off from fixing everything.  That’s a relief for all of you too, I’m sure…

I’m also thinking I may be a little smarter than my dogs.  A little.  You’re free to disagree if you like.

“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.”
(Henry David Thoureau~American essayist~1817-1862)

“Whoever said, “Let sleeping dogs lie,” obviously didn’t sleep with dogs.”
(Anonymous)

Some People!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I meant what I said and I said what I meant.  An elephant’s faithful, one hundred percent.”  The lovable elephant, Horton, made famous by Dr. Seuss, was making the statement to reassure the reader of his character.  Now, if I applied the rhyme to myself, I’m not sure if the second part of the doggeral would be accurate.  Still, it wouldn’t sound right to say, “…faithful, ninety-three percent.”  It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.  However, the initial assertion – I believe that I can stand by that.  I am fairly steadfast in attempting to speak exactly what I intend to say.  I even try to select the words carefully.  Unfortunately, some things don’t always work out the way we expect.  You see, words mean things…just not always what we think they do.

There is no question that, regardless of what I think I mean, someone out there can understand my words in a different way than I thought them.  A case in point:  Last week I posted a comment on a fairly popular site run by a fellow word-nerd (and when I say popular, I mean with other word-nerds).  The word-nerd in charge had requested that we send in examples of regional differences in terminology.  My mind immediately jumped to a running argu…sorry, discussion the Lovely Lady and I have had for years.  I grew up in Texas calling the writing utensil which contains a flowing indelible material within it, a pen.  Early in our relationship, she corrected me a time or two, instructing me that it was an ink pen, not simply a pen.  We have agreed to disagree, but frequently, I’ll poke a little fun and ask if she thinks I am writing with a pig pen if I don’t refer to it by her term.  Consequently, I used the pen/ink pen example in a post on the word-nerd’s site, calling attention to the difference between my (obviously) superior Texas vocabulary and the dialect of the “real South” (along with a few humorous examples of which pen could be meant, e.g., pig pen, state pen, etc.).  I expected that the entire post would be taken in the spirit in which it was offered, as an amusing observation of the differences in vernacular between different regions.  I was to be disappointed in that expectation.  Immediately, a true Southerner from a different state wrote a scathing attack on me, calling me “some people”, with the description following which lumped me in with many who think that they are intellectually superior and that all Southerners were ignorant.  I assure you that no such thing is true.  I believe that every region has a full complement of ignoramuses (should that be ignorami?), and the South has no edge on the competition there.  That said, it is evident that whatever it was the lady read, it wasn’t what I meant to say.  I wrote an amendment, but the damage was done.

It seems that every time I think I’ve gotten the language conquered…each time I sit back after writing a note (or even one of these posts) and read it through one last time with the sure knowledge that it says exactly what I intended, to my great chagrin, something like this episode occurs.  Communication, it would seem, is a tricky thing at best, possibly even a dangerous minefield in extreme cases.  As I write this, I begin to wonder why I’ve chosen to write so many times, given the peril in which I place myself each time I make another attempt.  Just my way of living dangerously, I guess.  Some men climb rocks, some jump out of airplanes.  I try to corral words into sentences and paragraphs, hopefully kept in line by correct punctuation and made comprehensible by lucid and logical placement of the words.  I’ve had a rough landing or two, but no long-term damage has been done.  So far.  I hope you’ll be patient with me.  I also hope you’ll correct me when I make stupid statements, or when I misspeak.  I’m happy that the Lovely Lady feels the freedom to send me an email once in awhile after reading these blogs early in the morning.  “Did you really mean…?  Shouldn’t that be a semi-colon?”  I hope you’ll feel the same liberty.  Clarification never hurts and frequently makes a good thought profound. 

While I’m contemplating elephants though, I can’t help thinking that their most storied trait is actually their astounding memory, not their faithfulness or communication skills.  Why just the other day, I heard about a couple of the gigantic creatures who were lolling in the local water hole when the older one spied a turtle sunning himself on a log.  Springing in action with an agility that belied his great size, he kicked the turtle a couple hundred feet through the air.  Returning to his comrade, he was met with the query, “Why did you do that?”  He explained that the turtle had bitten him on the trunk fifty years before.  “How do you remember that?” asked the younger elephant.  “Turtle recall,” came the emphatic reply.

Oh, now I’ll get letters from the turtle lovers.  I had better stop while I’m ahead, shouldn’t I?

“The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”
(George Bernard Shaw~Irish literary critic and playwright~1856-1950)

“The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean.”
(Robert Louis Stevenson~Scottish poet and author~1850-1894)

   

Putting Down Roots

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We lived in that little house for the first six years of our married life.

It was just a rental when we moved in, but after three or four years, we were happy to be able to purchase the two bedroom cottage.  By today’s standards, it was spartan, even a little rustic, but to us it was an estate, our fortress against the world.

Time has changed our standards in housing, but, thanks to those early experiences, I still think of home as a place of refuge, a sanctuary where we can be ourselves and let down our defenses.  We were happy, even as we struggled to make ends meet.

The pride of ownership pushed us to work at keeping up the large lot around the tiny house.  Not too much—just enough to be able to face the neighbors.

It was on one of the periodic workdays that we found the sapling.

Many of you who have done yard work know about volunteer plants.  Frequently, we call them weeds, since the volunteer classification includes dandelions and crabgrass, as well as many other undesirable varieties of plant life.

The reason they call the season spring is that everything springs out of the ground as if to make up for the lost time spent in the dark and cold soil all winter.  It’s a messy process, causing a lot more work than a naturally lazy guy like myself thinks is appropriate.

Regardless, this particular spring day, the Lovely Lady and I were clearing out the fence-row to allow the rose bush there to have some space to spread out.  We noticed a volunteer plant which was a little more substantial than most of the weeds being pulled.

Still, the little maple seedling had little to make it stand out from the multitude that popped through the earth every spring after the helicopters spun off the mature trees by the thousands.  I’ve mowed down more of them than anyone could count and never given them a second thought.

I reached for the loppers to chop  this one off at the ground, but, after a brief discussion with the Lovely Lady, thought better of it.  There was a shovel in the shed nearby, so I headed over and brought it back.  The shovel sliced neatly into the ground in a circle around the sturdy-looking sapling, standing about two feet high.

Freeing the roots from the ground, we looked for a more suitable place for it to grow.  Within a few moments, another hole had been dug through the sod in the middle of the open yard and the little tree was a volunteer no more.

For three more years, we tended to that little maple tree, giving it extra water when the summer droughts came, clearing the vines and grass from around the tiny trunk, being careful not to damage it while mowing.  It grew fairly rapidly and was a graceful (if a bit spindly) ten feet in height before we knew it.  Straight and proud, it seemed to claim that section of the yard as its own, becoming the focal point there.

The volunteer weed had become a tree, providing shade and adding beauty to the property.  But after a few years, our family had grown from just the two of us to an expanding household of four.  We had to find a bigger home, since two bedrooms were no longer adequate.

When we sold the house and moved our little family, I wondered what would happen to the young tree.  Would the new owners see its value?  Or, would they decide that it was an eyesore and chop it down to make way for some other bush or more flashy ornamental tree?  I needn’t have worried.

Numerous times over the next few years, as we passed the house, we were unhappy about what had been done to the house itself, but the tree flourished.  The trunk thickened and grew taller, the branches spread out and the leaves multiplied.  The tree still stands today.

mapleleavesI drove past the old place just last week and looked for my old friend.

There it stands, a mature thirty year old maple, reaching into the sky more than forty feet, covered with the beautiful distinctively shaped leaves, now changing to yellow, soon to be orange and even red.  The leaves will fall, leaving the naked limbs to face the harsh season to come.

But, the winter will pass (quickly, it is to be hoped).  The new season will see it preparing its seed pods, the helicopters, for their characteristic and prolific descent to the ground once more.

Perhaps one of those seed pods has a chance to become a beautiful, stately tree like its sire, thus keeping alive the heritage begun in that line of maples many, many years before we stepped in and aided in the process.

I used to think that our lives are something like a stone thrown across the surface of a lake, skipping over and over again; each point of contact with the water leaving ripples moving outward, some of them even reaching each other and causing more turbulence as the little waves collide.

The problem with that analogy is that the ripples eventually disappear, actually quite soon after the rock has rebounded for its last time, resting on the bottom of the lake.  I’m fairly certain that our lives are not that unimportant; that our passage through this world does not go nearly as unnoticed as that stone, forgotten almost as quickly as its movement is stilled.

The tree analogy now—I believe that’s a little closer to describing what our life and its impact is like.

We grow where we are planted, sometimes springing up in the hedges and fence rows, unnoticed by passersby, but still growing.

Sometimes we are transplanted to have an effect in a different part of the wide world in which we live.  Regardless, we impact our environment, whether the focal point of attention or fading into the scenery.

Throughout different seasons, we perform different functions, but we are always working to bear fruit, to do exactly what we were made for.

After we are gone, it is possible that no one will remember our names or what we looked like.

No matter.

For generations to come, season after season, year after year, the heritage will continue, the bloodlines will survive.  All because we are faithful today, doing what is required of us, be it drudgery or drama, taxing or trouble-free.

Sure and steady, we continue on the path set before us.

There are times when I wonder if it’s worth it.

Life is hard.  It requires discipline.

Sometimes, I watch others having fun and being irresponsible and I want that carefree life, without any obligations.  Then I remember that history won’t stop with me; the heritage I leave behind matters. 

I think I kind of like being planted and having deep roots.

And yeah, I’m pretty sure it is worth it.

I’m the wrong shape to be skipped across a lake anyway.  A hop or two and I’d sink like a . . . Well, you get the picture.

 

 

 

That person is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither— whatever they do prospers.
(Psalm 1:3 ~ NIV)

When you start about family, about lineage and ancestry, you are talking about every person on earth.
(Alex Haley~American author~1921-1992)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Essential Humor

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The old fellow apologized as he handed me the check he had just signed.  I had noticed as he wrote that his hand wasn’t as steady as most, but what was on the page was a little surprising.  The spidery signature was perfectly formed, the letters completely legible.  It was in fact almost a beautiful signature, a testament to penmanship lessons well learned.  Upon closer examination, though, I could see the jagged edges of little waves along the surfaces of every single letter.  Instead of the signature sweeping smoothly up and around and over and back, the letters bore the evidence a tiny, consistent shake throughout.  Every single aspect of these letters was influenced by the most regular and, until examined closely, almost imperceptible shakiness from the first upstroke to the final flourish.

The old gentleman looked at me, now wearing a wry grin and said, with a twinkle in his eye, “The doctor says I have an ‘essential tremor’…”  Then, leaning across the counter almost conspiratorially, he continued in a stage whisper, “…but I think I could do without it.”  I couldn’t help the smile that flashed across my face as he said it, any more than I can help the one that forms even as I write this.  What a great gift…the gift of humor in the face of affliction.  This octogenarian wasn’t fazed emotionally by the ravages of the years on his body, but welcomed the challenge, never losing his sense of humor and self-deprecating wit.

You know that I am a lifelong teller of jokes and puns, having brought groans to the lips of scores of friends, acquaintances, and innocent passers-by with my repertoire (mostly gleaned from others).  I have recently become aware of something else, though.  I don’t tell jokes when I’m unhappy, or when I’m under stress.  If some unfortunate event (or even a series of them) has stolen my joy, I loath humor; preferring instead to wallow in the feelings of self-pity, or anger, or even bitterness.  As a child, I can even remember becoming angry with my mother if she would attempt to cheer me up with levity while I was sulking.   Maybe someday, I’ll expound on the value of a good sulk.  Today, I’m thinking about the astounding ability of humor to raise spirits, to deflect anguish and discouragement…and my stubborn resistance to its effects.

I’m looking forward to the day when I am able, as my distinguished friend, to lighten a potentially awkward moment with humor which both calls attention to, and lessens the importance of an infirmity.  An infirmity, by the by, which could not have been hidden anyway.  I have a tendency to try to hide my weaknesses, my defects, for fear that someone will comment on them; might even tease about them.  A case in point:  Several years ago, I realized that, much like this old gentleman, I had a spot of shakiness myself.  One Sunday as I led worship at church, I discovered that I had a tremor in my right hand if I held the microphone in that hand as I sang.  Not in my left hand, just my right.  I was embarrassed by it and have never talked about it before today with anyone but the Lovely Lady.  It may have been a temporary issue, caused by too much caffeine (a distinct possibility) or a medication (less likely).  Nonetheless, I am always careful to hold a microphone in my left hand, so I have never chanced revealing the problem to anyone since that day.  I think I’m ready to face the issue now.  Besides that, I am realizing the potential for little jokes should the problem continue.  Think of the killer vibrato which could result! I realize that I’m on shaky ground here, but we might even work a version of Elvis’s “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” into the repertoire.

Shared by a friend on facebook.  Simple but effective.

They call it “gallows humor”.  Laughter in the face of a hopeless situation.  The man is led to the the electric chair and asks the warden as he enters, “Are you quite sure this thing is safe?”  Some would describe it as denial, the inability to believe that something bad is unavoidable.  Other would call it bravado, a false pride or even arrogance…not giving adversaries the satisfaction of victory.  It can be those things and if so, it is not really humorous and possibly even hurtful to those listening.  Thankfully, it can also be the desire to lessen the hurt, the mental anguish, of others looking on.  This is what I see when I remember my friend, along with others I know who do the same thing.  The hardship is not nearly as important to them as the desire to ease the pain of others, so they lighten the mood, effectively saying, “It is real, but nothing to be anxious about.”  I want to be able to do that.  In the midst of suffering, of mental pain, I want to think about those around me who love me.  I just haven’t gotten to that point yet.

I’m going to keep trying.  I’ll keep kicking myself when I realize how selfish I’ve been.  Hopefully, surrounding myself with people like my elderly friend above will yield the desired result in time.  Someday, you may even hear quips from me about my aches and pains (e.g., “My back goes out more often now than the Lovely Lady and I do”) and perhaps a bald joke or two.  I’m certainly not ready for the latter yet, though.

I may not have all my marbles, but I’ve still got most of my hair…so far.

“Don’t worry.  Be happy.”
(Bobby McFerrin~American singer/songwriter)

“No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man.”
(Mercutio, asked if a knife wound was painful~from “Romeo & Juliet”~William Shakespeare)

Like a Sack of Mail

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Hey man!  You need a ride home?”  It was a dumb question.  Of course, I needed a ride home!  It was either ride the bus (puleeze!) or walk the two miles carrying a stack of books, so I was obviously waiting around for someone to offer.  Leave it to my buddy, Tony to notice my glaring lack of transportation.  It was still a year until I would make my quantum leap to the 1972 Chevy Vega which was to be my first automobile, but Tony had wheels.  Well, Tony had wheels of a sort.  I will admit that today, in my advanced state of nerdiness, I think the vehicle Tony drove to school was totally cool.  It was a little different then, if only because any of his riders had to be willing to submit to a bit of embarrassment.  That, and a few contortions.  But, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

In the town in which I grew up, the U.S. Post Office (not yet the U.S. Postal Service) utilized a number of ways for moving the mail, but for years you could see little red, white, and blue three-wheeled carts zipping up and down the streets, delivering the mail to homes and businesses.  These handy little motorized trikes were made by the Cushman company in Nebraska and got great gas mileage.  As it happened, they could also tip over.  And they did.  More than once.  The mail carriers complained about the vehicles being dangerous and underpowered and eventually, the Post Office replaced them with Jeeps.  They sold off the unwanted and unnecessary little three-wheelers by the dozens.  My home-town Post Office was no exception and thus, Tony acquired his “wheels”.  It was a bit of a departure from the norm, but if you knew my buddy Tony, you would understand that it was the perfect vehicle for him.  Tony was no rebel, but he wasn’t about to fit anybody’s mold.  I got to know him in band, where he owned the only trumpet in a section full of cornets.  He was a strong advocate for his church’s tenets and we butted heads over those occasionally.  He was also a good friend.  We still talk, thanks to today’s social media.  I like the idea of not losing touch with people who impacted my life in positive ways.  But I think that I’ve once again followed a trail which was not in the original plan, haven’t I?

Where was I?  Oh, right!  Contortions and humility.  Well, accepting a ride from Tony in his three-wheeler meant that one had to open the sliding door in the mail storage section at the rear of the trike and clamber in.  We tried it once with both of us riding side by side on the front seat, but that was a little closer than we wanted to be for that amount of time.  Reputations and all that, you understand?  So, it was the mail storage for me, the whole skinny six feet of me, folded up and squeezed into the little cubicle.   Around corners, and over bumps, it was a little nerve-wracking and uncomfortable to be in that closed-up space.  I really don’t have a problem with claustrophobia, but in my memory, there was always a sense of relief at being released from the confining box.  It seems to me that, although I trusted Tony’s driving, I felt the need to see where we were going and to be able to do something about an emergency headed my way.  I was totally at his mercy while the ride lasted.  That said, like many of my childhood recollections, I wouldn’t give up the memory of those rides home for anything.

What is it about putting ourselves in someone else’s hands that shakes us to our core?  Self-reliance…that is our mantra, our armor.  It keeps us in control.  It keeps others from controlling us.  We don’t like giving up control in any way.  As I write this, my mind goes unbidden to my experience a couple of months ago as I lay helpless on the hard “bed” in the emergency room, unable to function on my own, the victim of a bicycle accident and resulting concussion.  The Lovely Lady answered questions for me, the attendants wheeled me through the halls to an examination room, where I was thrust into a machine…no, a torture chamber of electronics and metal and glass.  I cringe inside right now as I consider it.  My distaste is not only for the experience at the hospital, but for the hour and a half that I wandered the cycle path, attempting to return home without any awareness of where I was and what I was doing.  The experience is easily one of the worst in memory for me – not because of the pain or time spent healing, but because of the knowledge that for once in my life, I was not consciously in control of my actions or their result.  The sense of helplessness was (and is) intensely unsettling.

I could spend a lot of words here, reminding you of One in whose strong hands our very existence rests. Let me say only this:  Self-reliance is a myth, a web of deceit woven around us by our culture, and reinforced by our media and entertainment.  We are dependent from the day we are born, until the day we lie in our graves, but we fool ourselves and build walls and fences to maintain our sense of strength and self-sufficiency.  It will come as no surprise to you that I am unwavering in my faith in a Creator who holds our days, all of them, within His loving hands.  His Grace also is none of our doing, but a gift given to a race helpless to redeem any part of itself.  With that, I’ll cease my preaching and move on.

It would seem that a stint of complete dependence once in awhile can have a positive result, once the initial shock is overcome.  But even after granting that, I’m not anxious for another tumble from my bike anytime soon, nor am I expecting Tony’s arrival at my door in the little Cushman Mailster to be my chauffeur in the foreseeable future.  Some lessons are best learned from and not repeated. 

Thanks for the ride home, Tony!

“Let’s face it.  In most of life we really are interdependent.  We need each other.”
(Greg Anderson~American best-selling author)

“This is not your own doing, it is the gift of God.  It is not of works, so that no one may boast.”
(Epehsians 2:8b9)