Waiting for the Glue to Dry

1:00 AM…After a long day of answering bells and explaining the benefits of an education in the musical arts for 11-year-olds to skeptical parents, I find myself once more at work late into the night.  As I write this, I’m at a juncture in the modification of a mandolin where I’m waiting.  That’s right, waiting for glue to dry.  It’s the same old story…the purchase of a right-handed instrument for a left-handed player requires a metamorphosis which I have already discussed in an earlier post.  I’ll not continue my harangue against the needless defacing of a perfectly playable instrument, but suffice it to say, I’m not particularly happy about the process.

But, this is not just another gripey blog post.  I have come to realize over many of these late night work sessions that these are just little mini-representations of life in general.  We work; we play, we learn.  I used to view all of my work here as play, but that has changed over the years.  Repetition becomes drudgery after awhile if we let it, so the jobs I once took such pride and enjoyment from now are just another thing on my schedule to look forward to having completed.  It seems that it’s not so much the “joy in the journey”, but relief in reaching the destination.  I’m working on that, but it’s slow going.

The thing I do take enjoyment from are the little breaks I have, just like now, as I wait for glue to dry or a dirty part to soak.  I take a moment to look over the job, most of the time with pride in my craftsmanship, sometimes to see something that I have missed and need to add to the “to do” list.  I sit down for awhile, drink another cup of coffee, and enjoy the feeling of accomplishment.  The job is not done yet, but I’m making progress.

I’m finding as I age that I’m taking a few more symbolic breaks from the everyday humdrum of life, waiting for the glue to dry, so to speak, and looking over the progress.  Today is another good day for that, since the Lovely Lady and I are celebrating another year of living and loving together.  For thirty-something years (I could come up with the exact number, if pressed), we have enjoyed each other’s company and shared each other’s joys and sadness, triumphs and disasters.  We’ll spend a little time today looking over the past years of our shared history, a momentary pause as the glue of another part of the project dries, and then we’ll be back to the nitty-gritty of living.  And I’m content with that. It seems to me that the project is an exceedingly worth-while undertaking.

I’m pretty confident that hard work is a blessing, not a curse.  I know the “sweat of the brow” passage in the Bible belies that slightly, but I hardly think it means that our Creator never intended for us to break a sweat.  There are extra difficulties which weren’t intended to be put in our way, but we grow throughout the process, nonetheless.  It is up to us to find the lessons to learn and put them into practice. 

It would seem that the glue on this particular project is dry by now, so I’ll leave this enjoyable little break to get back to the drudgery…err, I mean…joy of completing the job at hand.  I hope you’ll join me again at the next break.

“Try to relax and enjoy the crisis.”
(Ashleigh Brilliant~English author and cartoonist)

“It is not good for all our wishes to be filled; through sickness we recognize the value of health; through evil, the value of good, through hunger, the value of food; through exertion, the value of rest.”
(Dorothy Canfield Fisher~American educator and author~1879-1958)

Get Back On That Horse!

The pain was instantaneous.  I was daydreaming, as usual; walking along delivering my papers as I did every week and hadn’t really been paying attention to the landscape.  We were supposed to walk up the drive to each house to place the paper on the door, returning to the street and up to the next house, but that was way too time consuming and involved almost twice as many steps as cutting across every lawn on the block.  As I meandered past the stand of oleander bushes in this particular yard, I was completely unprepared for the bared fangs that ripped into my calf, tearing my best blue jeans in the process.  The medium-sized dog seemed as surprised as I, turning tail and running around the house as fast as he could when I spun to face him.

I yelled.  The folks in the house were out on the stoop in a moment, wanting to know what had inspired the ruckus. By this time, I was in control of my faculties again and told them calmly that their vicious dog had mounted a surprise attack on me.  The blood was flowing freely and the ripped jeans were easy to see.  They quickly took me inside and helped to get the laceration cleaned up, bandaging it as well as they could.  The worried family insisted that I stay and wait for my folks to take me to the doctor, but time was a’wasting and I had a route to finish.  You may think that noble, but it was just that I knew I wouldn’t get paid if the papers didn’t get delivered.  Thus is was that, mere moments after being bitten by what was quickly growing in my mind to be a huge animal, I was limping my way down the road again.  I didn’t get far, because the worried folks called the newspaper, which in turn, called my folks and they picked me up within a few moments anyway.  So, all I got for my trouble was a scar on the back of my leg (and patched jeans) and a short paycheck for the week.

The next Tuesday, I was on my route again, almost as if nothing had happened.  Amazing how we heal up when we’re young!  What hadn’t healed was my fear of that monster dog.  As I approached the house, I began to watch for him, checking the bushes and even spying out the neighbor’s yards as I neared the fateful spot of my injury.  No dog.  I did hear a voice call out from the front steps of the house, though.  “He’s here, Mom!”  Oh no, I was going to be in trouble for cutting across the yard and surprising their sleeping dog, an error I was not repeating on this day.  But, that wasn’t it at all.  The lady of the house came out of the front door with a small, placid-looking canine on a leash, calling for me to come over to the porch.  I complied and she explained.  Knowing that I had had a traumatic experience there the week before, she thought it necessary that I get acquainted with my attacker, so we could avoid a repeat performance.  As I approached cautiously, the happy little creature lifted his head, sniffing of my hand and licking it.  I knelt down and patted him on the head and he responded by burrowing in close to me and begging for more of my attention.

We were good friends for the rest of the time I walked that route. What could have been a continuous sense of fear or dread every single time I approached that neighborhood, turned into a joy and the anticipation of spending a moment or two with a great little dog each week.  All because we got the issues taken care of quickly and without giving time for fear and dread to do its work. 

My good friend, Dave brought my bicycle back to me today.  My recent accident had done a little damage and I wanted to get it back into shape.  Dave loves to fix bikes and had a real knack for it, so he was the logical choice to make things right again.  After a few moment’s conversation, he left the bike in front of the music store as he departed.  I decided to put it away a few moments later.  I have never been afraid to lift my leg over the bar of a bicycle in my life.  This time as I began to swing my leg over, one of the more persistent injuries in my right thigh reminded me momentarily of the trauma my last ride had inflicted.  I walked the bike around to the storage building and pushed it inside.  I think there was a little cold sweat on my brow as I locked the door.  Maybe in a day or two, I’ll see if I can get reacquainted with the vicious machine.

As I remembered the story of the dog biting me when I was a kid, all kinds of other illustrations came to me.  There are so many applications to be made.  I think I’ll let you make your own connections this time.

I need a little time to learn the lesson anew for myself.   I’m hopeful that it won’t be long before I’m back in the saddle again.  I’ll let you know.

“There never was a horse that couldn’t be rode; never was a cowboy that couldn’t be throwed.”
(American cowboy wisdom~attributed to Will James~cowboy author~1892-1942)

“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-discipline.”
(I Timothy 1:7 NIV)

Finger in the Wind

A sideways glance was all I had time for, but it was enough for me to notice the young man at the back of the store talking with the Lovely Lady.  “I did have something to talk about with you all, but I’ll be back.”  The words gave no sense of foreboding, but it seems that we are seldom forewarned of the need to be on our guard.  I thought nothing more of it and kept working with the customers who pushed their way through the door in a cascade that morning.  Before I knew it, an hour had passed and the young man was back.

This time, I had a moment to spare, so I spoke to him as he wandered back behind a section of counter usually only accessed by personnel of the store.  He picked up a cell phone which was plugged into the outlet on the back wall, dialed a number, and put it to his ear.  I protested quietly, but the brash young man held up a finger to shush me and talked for a moment before placing the phone in his pocket.  Then, winding up the electrical charger, he came out from behind the counter smiling.  No explanation was offered, but I quickly understood that his question to the Lovely Lady earlier had been a request to charge his phone for awhile.  In the progression of our conversation, I was to learn that this was his “finger in the wind”.  You know;  the old pioneer trick of licking a finger and raising it above the head to learn the wind direction.  The young man simply wanted to find out what kind of people we were.  If the Lovely Lady had refused his request for a little free electricity, he would have been on his way without any more conversation.

It seems that no good deed goes unpunished, so, having passed the first test, we were ready for the next one.  He leaped into his story with both feet, telling me of children taken from him illegally by the Department of Human Services, and of the hoops they had placed before him through which to jump, along with the authorities’ refusal to honor any of their promises.  The tortuous path led past an auto mechanic and a wife’s van (with money owed for repairs), ending up with a request, almost a demand, for two hundred dollars to get his children out of the state’s clutches.  I am still unclear if the money was for the van with which to pick up the children, or for the ransom demanded by the evil DHS agents, but I wasn’t reaching for my wallet.  Not yet.

First I wanted to clarify some things, so I licked my finger and stuck it up in the wind.  Figuratively speaking, that is.  Just for a few questions.  Had he checked with any local churches?  Yes, he had talked with several pastors, but they were all selfish, un-Christian men who refused to help and sent him to the local agencies.  Well, what about them?  Any help there?  No, he had tried them, but he lived in a town about thirty miles away (the town where the bureaucrats he needed to assuage were located) and the local agencies in my town only help local residents.  Okay.  How about the agencies in his town?  Why was he here and not there making his case?  It seemed that he knew every agency I mentioned, all of them staffed by evil people who refused his requests and didn’t want to help.  As I heard about all those unkind people who were in cahoots against him my upraised finger detected, not just a breeze, barely felt…but a steady gale.  It was not a favorable wind.

Those of you who know me, know that I almost never refuse to help people in need.  It’s almost like I’m the character in a recent movie entitled “Yes Man”, starring that clown, Jim Carrey, as a loser who changes his ways (and life) by learning to say “Yes” to everybody.  I have never been able to sit through the entire movie, due largely to my allergy to stupidity and overacting (both common Carrey traits, it seems to me), so I have no idea of the outcome, but the premise is quite interesting.  It reminds me of the old Johnny Mercer song “Accentuate the Positive”, a catchy little ditty which reminds us to “eliminate the negative”, in addition to following the instruction of the title.  Oh!  And we can’t forget, “Don’t mess with Mister In-Between!”  It’s the same reasoning that’s been trotted out for eons as a cure-all for all that ails you.  Think positive thoughts, speak positive words, do positive things, and nothing bad will ever befall.  I like positive.  I try to keep a positive mindset.  Indeed, I “smile even though my heart is breaking” sometimes.  But even I know when I’m being scammed.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure that I can help you,”  the words came from my mouth as I moved toward the door, a clear indication that our conversation was at an end.  He got the message.  He did look a bit perplexed as he left.  Evidently he had miscalculated.  These people weren’t what he had expected at all.  The nice facade he had seen when the kind lady allowed him to use the power for his phone hadn’t been the reality he found when he returned to close the sale.

I’m never sure if I’m doing the right thing when I help someone with a handout of cash.  The flip side of that is that I’m not usually sure if I’m doing the right thing when I refuse to help someone, either.  I would far rather err on the side of generosity than stinginess.  I recognize that nothing I have is mine, nor do I believe that I deserve what I have been blessed with.  Having said that, I believe firmly that true stewardship demands that generosity and wisdom go hand in hand.  It was obvious that the supplicant in front of me this day was not telling me the truth, but rather was manipulating facts to fit his purposes. 

Why am I telling you this depressing anecdote?  It’s because I have been fooled before.  It will happen again.  Acknowledging that, I don’t want to knowingly waste a gift on a con-man when there are others who still genuinely need help.  I’m sure that folks pass your way everyday who need help too.  I would encourage you to be “yes men” when presented with the opportunity to help a fellow traveler.  But, generosity comes with a price.  The old stories tell of houses marked by the hobos in times past.  Those who shared what they had would be preyed upon until there was no more to give.  When you say yes to the opportunities to help others, you can be sure that more will come.  Give generously, but wisely.  In my experience, the storytellers are often the ones who have had lots of practice.  The world is full of tricksters who will happily take that which is intended for those with real needs.  Find the ones who need your help and help them.

“Yes” is a great word.  It’s a word full of promise, full of hope.  I love to say it.  But, I’m learning to be a bit more astute in my use of the word.  And, I’m practicing a shorter word.  “No.”  The better I get at saying the latter at the proper time, the more chances I’ll have to use the former when it is the right thing to say.

“I have had prayers answered – most strangely so sometimes – but I think our Heavenly Father’s loving-kindness has been even more evident in what He has refused me.”
(Lewis Carroll~English author and poet~1832-1898)

I don’t ask this often, but I’d really like to know what you think about this subject.  Am I right?  Am I way off-base?  Tell us why.  Better still, tell us your experiences.  Keep it polite.  Unlike what happens in Washington, expressing a varying opinion here won’t make us enemies.  It just helps us to understand each other better. 

An Irresistible Force

“I’m hawd to wesist!”  The little girl works to form the words she has just heard from her Grandpa.  We are in a popular eating establishment and, as I sit at the dinner table next to the adorable tot, it’s a job to keep from touching her golden hair, or tickling just the right spot to trigger her giggle reflex.  She knows it and tells the Lovely Lady that Grandpa is bothering her again.  Forgetting a child’s propensity to repeat interesting words, Grandpa’s reaction was to speak the phrase that she is now calling out repeatedly in a not-too-discreet voice.  The restaurant patrons nearby turn and smile at the cutie, amused at the advanced concept (which she, no doubt does not yet understand).  She certainly seems to enjoy the idea of being “hawd to wesist”, whatever it means.

My mind jumps ahead ten or fifteen years, and I immediately feel sorry for her Dad.  Grandpas that find teasing a beautiful little girl “hawd to wesist” are one thing; teenage boys pursuing a beautiful young lady are quite another.  How quickly the tables are turned!  It seems mere weeks (or was it months?) ago that her Dad was one of those who found my own beautiful little girl impossible to resist and my natural reaction was to protect her, as it is for any father.  All I can say is that the day is coming soon when he will understand his father-in-law a lot better!  I might even be there with him, helping to fight the animals off.  Thankfully, that day is still a long ways in the future and for tonight, I’ll stop borrowing tomorrow’s trouble, and will enjoy showing my affection to all my grandchildren without the need to resist.

There are things, however, that I find “hawd to wesist” which desperately need to be held at arms length.  My doctor will gladly provide you with a list of the foods from which he insists that I should abstain.  My dietary resistance is famously non-existent.  And, as I age, I am starting to find myself with a strong urge to become a recluse, withdrawing from contact with people except when necessary (e.g., Church, work, family meals, etc.).  Since I’m not ready to become a misanthrope yet, I’ll endeavor to keep pushing the Howard Hughes lifestyle aside in favor of a healthier outlook.  I could go on for paragraphs listing the things that snag me up, but you get the picture.  I hope that I’m not the only one with these kinds of problems, nor the only one who gives in again and again, but who realizes that the battle is ongoing and still rises to fight again and again.

Little girls (and boys) need their grandpas to dote on them.  I’ll not be trying to resist the urge to hug them, and praise them, and make them smile.  Strong doses of reality, they can get from their parents.  My job is to not try to resist the irresistible. The practice sessions are frequent and I am becoming quite proficient at this part of my job description.

I’m not so sure if my skills are improving that well in the resistance department for other areas of life.  I guess you could say that school is still in session.  I’ll work at becoming a better student.

“Work hard so you can present yourself to God and receive His approval.  Be a good worker, one who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly explains the word of truth.”
(I Timothy 2:15)

“Don’t tempt me.  I can resist anything but temptation.”
(Bob Hope~American actor and comedian~1903-2003)

Who’s Sorry Now?

Five late-night sessions at the keyboard.  I should clarify.  Five fruitless, frustrating, you might even say futile, attempts to kick start my nightly habit of sharing a little piece of my life and heart with those of you who choose to muddle through these sometimes light-hearted and frequently pedantic posts.  I have been trying to blame my recent failure on a bicycle misadventure which I managed to get myself into just over a week ago, but tonight, I’m thinking that may just be a convenient scapegoat.  Time will tell.

As I sat once more tonight and considered a subject appropriate for writing (and reading) about, I glanced over a couple of recent, unfinished posts and came across one with the title you see above this column.  Opening the field which should have yielded a clue to the actual subject for the aborted discourse, I found…absolutely nothing.  I still had nothing at all in the way of explanation of my original intent for the orphaned title.  My mind, like the blank field I found myself faced with, was empty.  Upon further examination of events of the last week however, I’m coming to believe that I may actually be a prophet.

The answer to the question above, of course, is “Yours Truly”.  After all, what seemed a spectacularly brilliant idea, night riding to avoid the intense daytime heat, returned a spectacularly dismal result.  Because of the nature of the accident, I have no memory of what actually occurred.  Regardless of the details, which may never be known, it was not a successful  implementation of a new regimen for staying fit.  Perhaps it was a case of poor research, resulting in a faulty conclusion.  It may have even been a great plan, but just poor implementation.  Either way, I will tell you the same thing the Lovely Lady reports that I blurted out to her, just before we headed for the Emergency Room:  “Well, that wasn’t such a good idea…”

A lifetime it seems, of Steve Urkeltype utterances (“Did I do that????) has, at times, led me to consider myself a clumsy, blundering oaf.  But tonight, I would actually like to propose that it is the Steve Urkels of the world (you know who you are…) who achieve the feats worth celebrating.  We clumsy, blundering oafs who pick ourselves up and go at it again will never, ever attain the status of the conquering hero.  If anything, we will be remembered more for our failures than for our successes.  That said, I’m finding (over and over) that it takes more determination and courage to keep trying when you’re not well suited for the task than it does for any talented and skilled superstar to do what comes easily to them.

So, if you’re thinking that the title of this post is about my accident last week, you’re mistaken.  The thing I’m sorry about is wasting time repenting of trying.  I’m sorry that I have felt (temporarily) like a failure again and again, when I’ve simply fallen short in a single event in the long marathon of my earthly sojourn.  There are other things I am sorry about…miscues in personal relationships, goals I’ve given up on, etc., but I’ll have to work my way through those one step at a time.  I hope you’ll stick with me through the process.  I couldn’t make it without you.

The bike riding thing?  I think I’ll give it another try after some equipment repairs and a new helmet.  Oh!  And a bit more physical healing!  I may regret it temporarily, but I’ll take that chance. 

“…one thing I do.  Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”
(Philippians 3: 13b, 14 NIV)

“How long should you try?  Until.”
(Jim Rohn~American entrepreneur and motivational speaker~1930-2009)

One-Way Traffic on a Two-Way Street

My first year in business and already I was a failure.  The man on the telephone was filling my ear full of his opinion of me and my business practices, and none of it was particularly complimentary.  The words I heard were “liar”, “cheat”, and I think there might have been an “idiot” thrown in there, too.  I was devastated.  And confused.

A few weeks before, I had taken a keyboard in on trade from a local music teacher.  I had allowed one hundred dollars on the trade, so that was the price I asked for the keyboard when it was placed on the floor for sale.  The teacher had informed me that he had paid two hundred dollars for the instrument, so it seemed fair to offer him about one half of the new price for it.  I did so without the aid of any “blue book” or other value appraisal.  In the intervening years, I have learned that some of my biggest mistakes are made when I “fly by the seat of my pants”, rather than finding corroborating information to support my assumptions.

An interesting thought, flying by the seat of your pants.  Originally used as a term to describe pilots who flew without the aid of a radio or instruments, it might have meant literally that when one felt the friction of the ground on the backside, it was time to pull up and gain a bit of altitude.  It was a term used to describe Douglas Corrigan, a pilot in the 1930s who gained notoriety for filing a flight plan for Brooklyn to Los Angeles, and instead, ended up in Dublin, Ireland.  He’s known to us today as “Wrong Way” Corrigan, one of the most infamous of the “fly by the seat of your pants” pilots. 

I felt like “Wrong Way” something, but I certainly wasn’t deserving of the excoriating language being directed at me now.  The man had come in and purchased the keyboard, perfectly happy to buy it at the same price I had allowed for a trade, leaving a trade-in item of his own and only paying a fraction of the cost in cash.  I thought the transaction was complete until he telephoned the next week.  It seems that he had found the same keyboard (now discontinued and being sold on clearance) at a shop in another town at less than my price.  Only, this one was new.  He was livid!  I was in his sights!  And, he pulled the trigger.

I did the only thing that I knew to do.  As calmly as I could, I told him that I had priced the instrument in good faith and he was welcome to bring it back and I would return his trade and cash to him.  He retorted that he would be in the next day and hung up without another word.  I nervously awaited his arrival, which thankfully, came at a time when no other customers were present in the store (actually a very common occurrence in those early days).  As I talked with him and made a receipt to document the refund, I tried once more to explain my quandary, but he was having none of it.  “Fine.  I’ll just call my lawyer!”  I was standing in front of him with his cash and trade-in instrument ready to hand to him, but he refused to concede that I was acting as honorably as I could.  I knew that he was a church-going man, so as he walked out of the store, I followed him to the door and suggested that as Christians, we shouldn’t leave matters in such a way between us and asking for his pardon, stuck out my hand to grip his in a handshake.  Ignoring my hand, he stalked out, saying that he would never trade in this thieving establishment again.

I was crushed.  And, still confused.  My assumption had always been that fair dealing and a quiet answer would turn aside the anger and acrimony of any issue.  I was doubly sure of that when we both shared the same faith.  I was wrong.  The depression I felt was palpable.  The Lovely Lady knows when to leave me alone and this was one of those times.  I moped for days before just sucking it up and moving forward.  Even today, I still wish that the ordeal had ended otherwise.  But, it didn’t.  There has never been a reconciliation.

It seems that there are just some people who want to bear a grudge.  They know that they are right and cannot countenance a miscalculation by the people with whom they deal.  I understand that; even understood it before this episode.  I just don’t want to live in that world.  It turns out that I do live in just that world.  What to do?

I’ve come to the conclusion that I, at least, have to live my life with integrity.  I will do my best to be aboveboard in all my dealings with my fellow humans, but more than that, when I learn of my errors, of my sins, if you will, I will make amends.  The rest is up to those folks with whom I deal.  How they respond, if I have done my part, is all on them.  Forgiveness and reconciliation between humans is a two-way street that doesn’t just allow, but requires, traffic from both directions.  I want the happy ending, the equitable outcome, but it’s not up to me.  And, in the end, I can live with that.

Too heavy today?  Well, I did preach at my church this past Sunday, so I must still be in that mode.  At least, I didn’t tell you the corny joke about the shovel and the octopus.  Pity the poor congregation!  Anyway, I can promise you this; lightheartedness will come again, along with more preachiness too.   

You’ll just have learn to take the bad with the good.

“If you have integrity, nothing else matters.  If you don’t have integrity, nothing else matters.”
(Alan K Simpson~American politician)

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
(Romans 12:21)

A Lick…and a Promise

After a hiatus of more than one or two days, and with a looming deadline past and met, I believed that tonight the words would flow from my head and heart, and the morning would find you with an impressive post to dig into.  I won’t be surprised if you’re more disappointed than impressed.

What is it about meeting a goal that seems to leave us empty and directionless for a period of time thereafter?  I have seen this happen more times than I care to think about; the most notable being university graduates who crash and burn after completion of their studies, their emotions drained and their physical “gas tank” empty.  Every goal that their life has been planned around to this point was achieved by walking across the stage to receive that diploma, and now they wonder who they are or will become.  Students no more, they have to make the very difficult shift to what we call real life with its treacherous tangle of potential traps and snags.  This happens on a much smaller scale with many workers who have finished a long-running project, only to be faced with the prospect of another and another, and yet another.  Although we tend not to be aware of each occurrence, I think it happens to all us on an even smaller scale throughout our lives.

For the last week and a half, I’ve had numerous times when ideas for a post would spring into my head unbidden.  Having no time to contemplate the subject, I told myself every time that I would have no problem remembering them and putting them into language suitable for your perusal.  No such luck tonight.  The creative process is short-circuited by the knowledge that the aforementioned project was successfully completed and the realization that I don’t have that to work on anymore.  Strangely, the realization evokes a feeling almost of disappointment.

When I was a child, my mother would occasionally take out the cleaning tools to sweep, mop, and wax the living and dining room floor.  At some point, she would find that either the desire or the energy were not sufficient to the job.  It would be at this juncture that the enterprise would be shelved, with the words, “Well, a lick and a promise will have to do for today.”

And, that will have to do for you, my readers, today also.  It’s not a finished product, but it will suffice until one comes along.  I took a half-hearted lick at it and my promise of better efforts to follow is all you will get tonight from this once-and-future blogger. 

Patience is a virtue, you know.

Hic iacet Arthurus, rex quondam, rexque futurus — “Here lies Arthur, king once, and king to be”
(from the tomb of King Arthur as described in Le Morte D’Arthur, by Sir Thomas Malory)

A Not-So-Glorious Morning

After awhile, being the laziest person on earth loses its appeal and changes have to be made.  Overcoming the inertia isn’t easy, but it is possible.  The weekend had come and the sixteen year-old boy was looking for a challenge.  The local newspaper had featured a picture of the smiling man, standing beside the sign that read, “Most Beautiful Lawn Award”.  Now, there was something to aspire to, the pinnacle of achievement for anyone who had ever pushed the old Briggs & Stratton around the yard.  It was to be a short-lived aspiration.

The property wasn’t well suited  for growing any good turf, so there was a mixture of St. Augustine and Bermuda grass, along with a fair representation of crabgrass and grass burrs.  I’ve realized in my later years that the Bermuda grass, which was cultivated and watered there, is considered to be a common weed by many lawn snobs, but in that hot climate, they didn’t have the luxury of turning up their noses at any grass that would cover the ground and thrive.  The grass burrs, on the other hand, were either a bane or a God-send, depending on your circumstance.  If you were inclined to walk across yards barefoot, they were most certainly a bane, causing considerable discomfort.  Conversely, if you were looking for ways to annoy your big brothers, the grass with it’s head abristle with prickly seedpods was perfect for picking a stalk and hurling it at someone’s back before beating a quick retreat out of reach.  The victim would be in pain for a moment and then would perform the most entertaining gymnastics and contortions attempting to remove the offending attachment from his shirt back.

No, the grass in the lawn wasn’t going to help win any awards, but the overgrown mess in the backyard was more of an immediate issue, so the young man started there.  Unfortunately, this would be the task which would short-circuit his good intentions of whipping the yard into shape.  With the help of a machete and a pair of hedge trimmers, he started to clear all the unsightly undergrowth below one tree.  It was a tough job, with the many vines which grew up into the tree and from there, into a couple of other trees nearby.  He hacked and hacked at the large vines, some of them almost like small tree trunks themselves, measuring close to an inch in diameter.  After a couple of hours of work, the boy was satisfied that the job was done and sat down to cool off and admire his work.  Drinking a glass of Kool-Aid and feeling pleased with himself, he noticed his mom peering out the back door.  Proudly, he got up and showed her the pile of debris which he would be carrying out to the brush pile later.  She didn’t seem to be very happy.  He even noticed that there were tears in her eyes.  Without a word, she turned away and went back into the house, leaving him standing there in disbelief.

What in the world?  Did she not know how hard he had worked here?  Where was the praise?  Where was the pat on the back?  He threw the implements back into the garage in disgust, carried off the trash, and was done with his aspiration to have the Yard Beautiful.

It was years later that the subject of his short-lived experience with clearing the backyard came up.  As they talked, he asked his mom if she knew how disappointed he had been with her reaction to his efforts.  She gently asked if he remembered the beautiful Morning Glory that had blossomed in the back yard for many years as he grew up.  “Sure,” the man replied.  “It was growing on….ohhhhhh…”  The light finally came on.  He had worked hard for those hours with the intent to improve the yard, but had succeeded in destroying a beautiful shroud of vines which she had been nurturing for the better part of fifteen years.  The brilliant blue blossoms could be seen in the early morning adorning the limbs of those trees, a perpetual veil of nature’s elegance; there because of those unsightly vines which rose in the air under the single tree from which he had chosen to “clean out the undergrowth”.  At last, he understood his mother’s tears.  She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so she turned away to hide her sadness at the loss of all those years of her work and loving sustenance of the amazing plant.  There were tears in her eyes again as they talked of it, as there were in his.

I still get a little misty eyed about the realization that I had killed my mother’s Morning Glory on that morning so many years ago, but more importantly, I am in wonder that she had thought it essential to bear it privately, without excoriating me for my carelessness.  What a lesson in selflessness, from a lady who was not given to an overabundance of such examples.  Mom was always teaching, expecting better, even demanding it.  This time, she chose to let the error pass, opting instead to keep quiet to achieve a greater good.  It’s a lesson I’ll never get over.

We’ve all known people who, like that young man, don’t think before they act.  Their intentions are good, but the result is still chaos.  It’s good that we have the examples of life experiences, like the one above, to help us to understand that sometimes we must show more concern for the motivation which drives the person than for the disaster which ensues.  Love, it seems, overlooks a multitude of wrongs.

These days, I always ask the Lovely Lady before cutting strange plants in the yard.  It appears that there were other lessons to be gleaned from that disastrous day.  Experience is a pretty effective teacher.

“Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.”
(Philippians 2:4)

“I want some day to be able to love with the same intensity and unselfishness that parents love their children with.
(Shakira~Colombian singer/songwriter)

Breathe In, Breathe Out (Take 2)

It’s hard to believe, but today’s post marks the two hundredth posting in the short life of this blog.  I somehow thought that I would run out of words long before this, but I think there may be more to say.  In spite of the uncharted territory ahead of us, it seemed to make sense to take this opportunity to select one of my favorites of the first two hundred and give you another chance to either love it or hate it, or even to say “Meh, still not interested…”  Either way, I hope you’ll forgive the regurgitation of old material.  I’ll try not to make it a habit. 

Breathe In, Breathe Out

Growing up wild in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas, I learned lessons as a youth (both good and bad) that still inform this soon-to-be senior adult of life’s truths.  When I say “growing up wild”, I don’t want you to infer that I was a carouser or a gang-banger.   I don’t even mean to imply that my parents didn’t have discipline, because they did have that.  We’re told, “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” and let’s just say that I wasn’t spoiled!  However, we did have full run of the neighborhood, and by neighborhood, I mean anyplace within walking, and later on, biking distance.  During summer vacations and after school, we ranged far and wide and discovered all the hiding places, the best locations for dirt clod fights, and climbing trees that were to be found.  We got into a little trouble too, but we’ll leave that subject for another day.

In those days, when the city hadn’t spread out into the local farmland, there was wildlife galore.  Garter and bull snakes were common, and lizards beyond count.  My favorite was a strange-looking creature that in those days of innocence, we called a horny toad.  One day, I’ll rant about how our language has been hijacked by double entendres and gutter-discourse, but suffice it to say, the round, tubby lizard was called that because of the myriad of sharp horns all over its sand-paper rough body and for no other reason.  It’s real name is the Texas Horned Lizard, with some tongue-twister of a scientific title tacked on, but we called it simply a horny toad.  These placid creatures, for all of their ferocious appearance, wanted nothing else but to be left alone.  They had no real defenses; they weren’t lightning fast like those we called racers (Whiptails), nor could they change their body’s skin hue to match the ambient surroundings, like those we labeled chameleons (Green Anoles).  They were doomed to lumber along amongst the grass and rocks and rain-parched earth, eating the big, red ants that lived in abundance on the ground and keeping an eye out for the passing coyote, dog, or snake.

 They did however,  have a couple of defense mechanisms that made them undesirable to predators.  The first one I observed on any number of occasions, since to these little critters, I looked like a predator.  When approached by their enemies, they would first try to flee.  Failing that, since they just weren’t built for speed, they would stop and turn toward the dangerous party, pushing themselves up away from the earth and then, puffing themselves up with air, would expand to a much larger size than they were originally.  I don’t know all the data, but I’m guessing that more than one young bullsnake, when faced with this “giant” lizard, would give up and move to easier prey.  It probably wouldn’t seem appetizing to think about that sliding down one’s gullet.  So, the little so-ugly-it’s-cute varmint goes on its way again, with one less danger to worry about today.  The other defense mechanism?  Well, I never saw it happen, but the books tell us that when the ruse of “Big” horny toad doesn’t convince the attacker, he can actually shoot blood out of the corners of his eyes at them.  The blood has a chemical which is unsavory to its attacker and discourages further confrontation.

I’m thinking that there are multiple examples in the animal kingdom who make themselves bigger to defeat their attackers.  Any number of non-venomous snakes threaten attack by spreading out and raising their heads as if to strike.  The cute little puffer fish, which has the same spiny appearance as the horned lizard, is perhaps the most famous of these pretenders.  He is not in any way equipped for sustained speed and so, is the target of many predator fishes in the ocean.  But not many of them want to swallow that spiny balloon when he’s puffed up in his intimidating pose. 

So, what is the point of this nature lesson, you may ask?  I’ve been thinking about the comparison of these natural responses in animals to our own response to perceived “attacks” on ourselves.  Speaking purely for myself (you are free to draw your own conclusions),  I know that when threatened with exposure of my inadequacies, my immediate reaction is to “make myself bigger” and do my best to impress the would-be attacker with my abilities.  Rather than suffer the exhibition of my true incompetent self, I will build an awe-inspiring facade to head off the embarrassment.   My puffed-up, spiny exterior will often keep the assailant at bay.  The real dilemma of using this sham to protect yourself,  even occasionally, is that in order to sustain the perception, you have to stay “big” more and more frequently, until at last, you’re wearing this false persona anytime you’re around people.

There’s been lots of talk about bullying recently, especially in our news.  I’ve been bullied, as have most of you at one time or another in your lives.  I remember way back, while still in elementary school, one kid was shoving me around on the playground, as he did on a regular basis.  I finally had enough and shoved back, prompting him to challenge me, “I’ll meet you across the street after school!”  This was the well-known code for arranging a fight off school grounds and I wasn’t about to back down (in spite of the fact that I’d never been in a fistfight).  “I’ll be there!”  I snapped and stalked off, hands in pockets to demonstrate my machismo (failing miserably, I was sure).   Evidently, the horny toad impression worked though, because 10 minutes later, he was back, mumbling, “I just remembered, I have to be someplace after school, so I won’t be there…”  So, no fight (whew), but a lesson learned, only to be used many, many times in my life, and not always for the right motives.  It’s a little discussed fact that many times bullies have been bullied themselves.  They’ve just learned how to make themselves big and they like the power it gives them over others.

I don’t have much advice on how to avoid this behavior, but sometimes, just recognizing what we’re doing that is wrong is the first step to recovery.  Additionally, I do remember reading a great little saying that Chuck Swindoll quoted in one of his books.
The sign was posted in a kid’s clubhouse for their house rules:   
Nobody act big.
Nobody act small.
Everybody act medium.

Pretty good advice.  I’ve just got one more piece of advice to add to it.

Exhale!

“The fool shouts loudly, thinking to impress the world.”
(Marie de France~Medieval poet)

Let another praise you and not you yourself…
(Proverbs 27:2)

Trust

The wide-eyed little two-year old stared up at me from my lap as the excitement passed.  “Let’s do it again, Daddy!”  Part of me, that tiny portion of my brain that still retained its own little kid spirit of adventure, agreed with the sentiment.  But a much bigger and older part shouted out (internally, at least), “No!  I don’t ever want to feel like that again!”  What came out of me in a quieter, shaky voice was, “I don’t think that would be good idea.”

My little family was traveling by air to visit the children’s grandparents in Texas.  Most of the flight had gone smoothly, with no problems from the children at all, as well as good conditions for flying.  All of a sudden, the “Fasten Seat belts” light had come to life and within moments we were in the worst turbulence I had ever encountered in my limited flying experience.  First a violent upward movement, followed by a rapid loss of altitude, then back up again, with the accompanying “losing the stomach” feeling.  This happened several times in rapid succession, with a few sideways tosses of the plane thrown in for good measure.  Terrified might be too strong a word, but we weren’t relaxed, by any measure.  As the plane leveled out and flew smoothly on, we expected the children to be frightened, but were relieved to be greeted by the words from our daughter, almost amused even.  We arrived at our destination without any other incidents and were happy to touch down.

I’ve thought of the occasion many times since that day, a lot of years ago.  My thoughts are captured, not by the turbulence we experienced; many travelers experience much worse on a regular basis.  No, my thoughts are held captive by the words of the sweet curly-headed tot as adults around her were gasping and recovering their equilibrium from what had been a frightening episode.  There was no sense of fear, no realization of danger; simply a knowledge that the sensations of the ride had been pleasant and a little exciting.  She wanted more of that!   I have come to a determination about the sweet girl’s response to the situation.  She was in her Daddy’s lap, being held in his strong arms.  How could she have come to any other conclusion?  What was going to hurt her there?  Her Daddy would never allow her to be harmed.

The grown-up perspective is very often a jaded, cynical one.  We mature, watching events unfold around us; seeing the horror, the destruction that is possible, and we lose our childlike belief, our faith in Someone who is bigger than we.  I’ve seen that.  I’ve even felt that.  But, I keep thinking about that little girl enjoying the journey, bumps and all, ready for whatever came, as long as her Daddy was there.

Like the little blondie’s thinking, the conclusion is obvious, not only in life, but also in this blog.  You don’t need me to carry this any further right now, so I’ll leave you to your own resolution.  For me, even though the trip gets bumpy now and then, there are strong arms holding me.  “Let’s do it again, Daddy!”

“Let God’s promises shine on your problems.”
(Corrie Ten Boom~Dutch Holocaust survivor~1891-1983)