He got out of his car and walked behind it, opening his trunk.  I never know if this is a good sign or not.  If he’s bringing in a guitar for repair, I’m not excited.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy rescuing disabled instruments, but more that I don’t really have the time to keep up with repairs these days.  Come to think of it, I guess if I enjoyed it more, I’d take the time, but that’s a discussion for another day.   He closes the trunk and comes toward the front door of the music store and I’m encouraged.  I recognize the case as one that should carry a nice instrument.  If he wants to sell that one, I’m definitely interested.  Not like the majority of the musical instruments which come through my doors on any given day.  Mostly, they’re sad economy models which should never have been manufactured, much less bought and sold.  But then, you’ve heard that complaint from me before, so, like the discussion of time management, that will wait for another day to be aired again.

I’ve never seen the man before, but he does want to sell the instrument.  New in town, he, like most of the others hawking guitars, has a hard-luck story.  Also like many others, the story involves a vehicle and the need to get it from one place to another.  I look over the instrument and start to offer him a price, when he reminds me that the guitar is American-made.  “They’re going on Ebay for a couple of thousand,” comes the claim.  I flip the guitar over and sure enough, there is the “US” in the serial number.  I see no sign of the dreaded “Made in Korea” lettering I had expected, so I’m ready to revise my offer.  He makes sure that I know he’s not going to demand book price for the instrument, since he just needs enough to get his truck out of the impound lot.  After hearing his price, I decide it’s an equitable amount to pay for a professional grade instrument and the transaction is completed.  He walks out counting his hundred dollars bills and I put the guitar on my workbench to clean it up for resale as I get a few free moments later.

After awhile, I find time to start on the clean-up and flip the guitar over on its face, much like I did when I examined the serial number earlier.  This time, I notice a sticker in an odd place and decide to remove it.  Much to my chagrin, when the paper finally comes off, I see some lettering that looks suspiciously like the end of the name “Korea”.  The rest of the lettering is obliterated by a substance that looks much like a glob of lacquer, no doubt placed there to eradicate the evidence that this guitar is, indeed not American-made, but the much cheaper oriental-built model.   My expectation of a reasonable profit margin for the guitar has flown out the window faster than the shyster had carried the instrument in earlier this afternoon.

It would be an understatement to say that I was angry.  But, it might surprise you to learn that the ire was aimed exclusively at one person…myself.   I tried to work myself up to blame the former owner, but realized that it was a lost cause.  I’m the one that should know better.  I’ve bought thousands of guitars by now and I know; people lie.  For whatever reason, they lie.  It may be to generate enough pity to convince me to pay more than I normally would, possibly to cover up that fact that they’re selling stolen or borrowed instruments (it’s happened a number of times), or as in this case, to misrepresent the model and extract more cash from me.  Whatever the rationale, I know that a fair percentage of the folks I buy from will lie to me during the process.  “Fool me once; shame on you.  Fool me twice…”  Yep, there’s no fool like an old…  But, here I go speaking in adages again and beating around the bush (another one?).  I want to trust folks, but I know better!  That’s why I keep books.  That’s why I have the internet to research the instruments I purchase.  There is no one to blame but myself. 

By now, you know that I readily admit to not being the sharpest blade around.  I’m starting to think that I make these mistakes habitually just to prove that I have nothing about which to brag.  My intellect falls short time after time, leaving me to make up the difference by hard work and God’s provision, the latter being far more dependable than the former.  On this day, as I was contemplating my ignorance and berating myself, a certain customer came to mind.  This young man is especially fond of the style of guitar I had just purchased, regardless of whether it happened to be made in the United States.  While he won’t pay more than such an instrument is worth, he can usually be counted on to be interested in those that I purchase.  As I mused about whether to call him or wait for him to come in eventually, a car pulled up in front of the music store.  I laughed in spite of my agitated state of mind.  It was that young man, arriving mere moments after I thought about calling him.  Of course, he was interested!  After trying the guitar out for a short period of time, he assured me that he absolutely wanted to buy it! Quite reasonably, I won’t be able to sell the guitar for what I once thought it worth, but I won’t have to “take a bath” on it either.

Did he arrive at that moment by chance?  You can make that call, but I know what I believe.  The old cliche “Our disappointments are God’s appointments” comes to mind.  I’ve reminded you before of my Dad’s favorite quote, “Man proposes, God disposes,” which he often used to soften the blow of ill-fated plans.  For some reason, I tend to think that just as often (maybe more often), the application can be made to the unearned successes which we encounter in our bumbling around.  And I’m grateful.

I’m obviously still having to work at keeping my wits about me on a daily basis, a task I don’t seem to take to naturally.  And, now that you know how gullible I really am, I hope there won’t be a rush to take advantage of that, too.

I can trust you, can’t I?

“You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you do not trust enough.”
(Frank Crane~American minister and columnist~1861-1928)

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord.  ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future.'”
(Jeremiah 29:11)

Today’s post is a repeat of one from last week.  I hope you’ll pardon the repetition, but a combination of things have made this a weekend of reflection and I’m not ready to put a lot of it into words.  A day of prophecy unrealized, with many thousands of people who are now disappointed and confused, along with a terrible night of death and terror for neighbors to our north were a big part of my reasons for the decision.  On a personal note, my faithful dog was suddenly struck blind this weekend.  Not a momentous event, in the scope of things, but one that brings sadness to me and my family, nonetheless.  A second reading of this earlier writing was helpful to me, so with an edit or two, I present it for your consideration once more.  I’ll try to do better tomorrow…


“Help me, Daddy!”  the terrified young boy screamed.  The family was spending the afternoon at the beach, but things were not going as planned.  The young father had made sure that all of his children learned to swim, at least enough to get out of most normal circumstances they would encounter in the water.  This, however was no normal circumstance.

As Mom and the older sister waded and looked for sea shells, the boys and their dad had opted to swim in the breaking surf.  It was an incredible experience for the boy of nine or so.  He and the others walked out twenty or thirty yards through the breakers; sometimes letting them hit him on the bare stomach; sometimes jumping up in the air as they approached, watching them go past with the white water swirling around his legs.  Deeper and deeper the water became as the shore was left behind.  Chest high, it would reach and suddenly, he would stumble as the ocean floor underneath him rose quickly and he was only knee deep again, yards from the shore.  And the waves!  One after the other, they came incessantly; water piling over on top of water.  Wave after wave pummeling his body, again and again, until he tired of it and just wished for it to stop for a moment.  But, more waves came, wearing the young boys and their father out.

They were spread out a little distance when the father called out to them to head in.  Normally, the call to quit playing would result in a bit of cajoling and coaxing to stay for just a few moments more, but there was none of that this time.  The tired boys headed for the shore.  And then, just feet away from the shore it happened.  The youngest of them suddenly felt the motion of the ocean stronger than he had felt it before.  He couldn’t stand up any longer as he was drawn away from the shore ahead of him.  The beach at South Padre Island is famous for its “rip currents” or undertow, and he was caught in one of those dreaded waves, moving under the surface much faster than it appeared.  The terror was instantaneous.  Along with his brothers, he had learned to swim and was pretty good at it.  Even at that, he was no match for this kind of power.  As his father attempted to swim toward him, he realized the now all-too-apparent phenomenon that accompanied the rip current.  To either side of the outgoing current, the water was still moving strongly toward the shore.  It was immediately clear that he couldn’t reach the boy in time, so he did the only thing he could do.  He yelled!  “Swim!  Swim to the side!  Swim toward me!”  It made no sense to the scared little boy, who was trying to swim directly into shore against the current that was pulling him away from that safe haven, but he turned to the right and swam for all he was worth.  It seemed an eternity that nothing happened, except that he was drawn further out, but stroke by stroke, inch by inch, the lad pulled out of the current and into calm water and safety.

Standing on the firm bottom and shaking from the experience, the only thing he could think about was that his father hadn’t saved him.  All the time he was sure he was drowning, the only thing his father had done was to yell at him.  “Why didn’t you try to pull me out?” he asked accusingly.  The father, no doubt terrified himself, didn’t try to explain his actions, but picked up the little fellow and carried him to shore and his mother.  It would be a long time before the boy understood what had happened that day.  But, he never forgot the experience.

You know, I’ve heard the poem and the song based on it, entitled “Footprints In The Sand” for years.  It’s a tear jerking piece of poetry that talks about a dream of seeing two sets of footprints and the explanation that they were God’s and the writer’s walking beside each other.  But all of the sudden, there is only one set of footprints and the writer accuses God of leaving, only to learn that at those times which represented troublesome events in life, God carried her or him.  All very beautiful and romantic.  And wrong.  You see, what actually happens is that throughout life, God is imparting his wisdom and knowledge specifically to equip us for the difficult times.  And, as harsh as it seems, when those times come, He knows that we have the tools to face them and get through them.  Truly, we often wonder where He is when the night is darkest, when we fear the worst that can happen.  No, I don’t believe that He leaves us to “sink or swim”, but we’ve been trained in the good times, learned the lessons, and His strength is adequate.  We can face the challenges before us and come through just fine.

As I write tonight, I’m grieving for families who have lost loved ones, suddenly and unexpectedly.  My heart is torn apart for them, envisioning the pain they are feeling and even possibly, the sense that God has left them in the riptide.  Right now, they may be drowning in their loss and emptiness.  My prayer for them is that they will recover with the strength and courage that He has already provided and prepared them with.  His strength is perfected in our weakness.  A Father’s love never fails and never deserts us.

I have never forgotten the terrifying experience in the waves, but sometimes I still need a jolt to be reminded of the real lesson there.  We are safe wherever we go, led by our Father’s strong and able hands. 

“…Be strong and courageous.  Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged,  for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”
(Joshua 1:9)

“Comfort and prosperity have never enriched the world as much as adversity has.”
(Billy Graham~American evangelist)

I love to tell stories.  Oh, I know I’m not always good at it; missing important details, muffing essential conversations.  But still, I have these memories in my head, and they want out.  So, I type them out, giving shape to the vague and not-so-vague snippets of time which still linger inside my head.  There are so many more that have yet to be told, but most them would be of no interest to you:  The neighbor girl who whined “Don’t step on my toes!” constantly as we boarded the bus behind her…The two high-school age brothers who had fist-fights frequently in their front-yard…There’s even Tony and his old three-wheeled mail cart giving me rides home after school.  All these and more are stories which remain in the musty files of my memory, perhaps to be trotted out and perhaps to stay put.  Time will tell…

But, it wasn’t my intention to talk about the true stories tonight.  Those are just narratives, a recounting of events as they happened.  I’m thinking about lies tonight.  A few years ago, when someone believed that you were lying to them, they would say “You’re just telling me a story.”   I don’t hear the word “story” used in this context quite as much today, but it’s safe to say that I’ve done my share of that kind of storytelling, too.  One of the best (or worst) examples I can think of came in first grade.  A rainy day had driven us inside the cafeteria to wait for the bus and as we waited, a couple of us went up onto the little stage to play around.  I happened to notice an inflatable globe on the floor under a desk which was shoved up into a dark corner.  The two of us played with the sadly deflated, glorified beach ball for awhile and then a voice yelled through the door, “Bus number three is here!”  As I grabbed my lunch box, I also grabbed that globe, in effect stealing it.  I remember thinking, “Well, it’s just lying on the floor.  Nobody wants it,” as I took it.

I boarded the bus and immediately, one of the fifth graders noticed the globe in my arms and grabbed it from me.  It was handed to the bus driver and word got back to the teacher the next day.   I got sent to Mr. Rhodes office pretty quickly.  Confronted with my crime, I had made up a story for my teacher, telling her that it had been a birthday present.  Consequently, she sent me straight to the principal’s office (some “pal” he turned out to be).  The lie, coupled with the theft, was enough to earn me a paddling.  As I walked back into my classroom, rear end still tingling, Mrs. Reid asked aloud, for all the class to hear, “Well, what did you figure out?”  Of course, you realize that this was in a day before sensitivity training, and different methods were used.  The criminal was expected to confess his crime publicly.  Well, this criminal wasn’t confessing.  In fact, the story was added to,  “It was a birthday present.  It must just look like one from the school. Yep, that’s it.  We decided that it’s mine”

Almost before the words were out of my mouth, she was talking to the office on the intercom system.  Back to the principal I went.  The paddle was plied once more and I made the long, painful trip back to the first grade wing.  This time when the question was asked, the facts were imparted, instead of the story.  “It’s not mine,”  came the words softly.  I refused to say anything else.  In one short sentence, the liar and thief was exposed.  It’s a lesson I will never forget.

Have I told other lies?  Absolutely.  Have I stolen anything else?  Affirmative.  I didn’t say the lesson was learned, just that I remember it vividly to this day.  Liars lie.  Thieves steal.  They get better at their craft or they receive more punishment.  But, it was a turning point.  I understood the shame of exposure and the pain of punishment.  I also understood what I was.  I never again argued with anyone about being a sinner.  I’m thankful that lying thieves are offered Grace.

You know, there’s something else about storytelling.  No, not the lying kind.  I’m back to the original ones now.  As I put down the words of this story tonight, I realized that for years, I have blamed Mrs. Reid for embarrassing me.  In telling the story, I’ve had a catharsis of sorts.  She was really doing what she believed was best for me and for the other students.  For me, because I needed to own up to my actions; that much is clear.  It didn’t hurt that the exposure before the rest of the class would curtail any other such actions by other class members when they saw the embarrassing result.  No, the only one to blame for this predicament was me.  After all this time, I see it clearly and that dear lady, certainly passed on by now, is finally off the hook.

So, you see; stories do have their benefits.  I think I’ll keep telling them.  The narratives, I mean.  I’d probably just have to “fess up” to the other kind, so I believe I’ll stick to the truth for the foreseeable future.

“Hamlet:  It is as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music.”
(William Shakespeare~English playwright~1564-1616)

“Life begins at 40 – But so do fallen arches, rheumatism, faulty eyesight, and the tendency to tell a story to the same person, three or four times.”
(Helen Rowland~English/American writer~1876-1950)

“Whatcha doin’, Don?”  The question is tossed out, even though there is no one named Don around.  I look over at the Lovely Lady, smiling at me from the couch.  Of course, I know the proper answer, so it comes unbidden, “Washing dishes.”  Quite obviously, the answer isn’t the truth, since I have just awakened from an evening nap in my recliner, but I have satisfied the requirements of the repartee and we lapse into our comfortable silence once more.  I wasn’t around when the little sketch was developed, but it has been a part of our repertoire for many years. 

The Don in question is a cousin of the Lovely Lady’s who spent a semester or two in his college years living with her family.  He was pestered continually by the much-younger cousins, who just wanted his attention.  Of course, they resorted to the time-honored, “Whatcha doin?'” to start a conversation.  Don, developed the response as a mechanism for communicating the idea that the question was a silly one.  The response would always be the same, whether he was eating supper, or studying, or tying his shoes.  The reply, “Washing dishes,” would invariably be met with, “No, you’re not.  You’re ____________!” followed by his retort, “Well, if you knew, why’d you ask?”  I’m guessing that such logic was lost on the two little girls, but it must have satisfied his exasperation at the interruptions,and the little tableau entered the halls of immortality in the Lovely Lady’s family, and so into mine.

Not my favorite activity, washing dishes.  I grew up in a family of seven, with the five children shouldering the washing up responsibilities as soon as each of us was able to reach the dish tub which was placed in the old chipped ceramic sink and filled with hot, soapy water.  Five children – five weekdays, so my day as the youngest was always Friday.  The weekends were on a rotating schedule which was always written on the calendar which hung on the back of the cupboard door nearest the sink.  My turns were marked with whining and carping, along with a bit of creative dirty-dish storage.  Under the sink worked for awhile, then behind the canned goods in the pantry took its turn.  The last straw was the time I hid the unbelievably crusty casserole dish in the oven.  The next day, the oven was preheated as supper was prepared, only to fill the kitchen and house up with the incredible stench and smoke from the smoldering mess.  The backside a little sorer, I took another shot at the dishes that day too and never tried that again.  Did I mention I don’t like to wash dishes?

Fast forward forty years or so and the situation hasn’t changed much.  My pleasure at owning a dishwasher cannot be overstated.  I still balk at loading the monster, since obviously I have no concept of the term “full dishwasher”.  I insert the glasses where the pans should go, and the plates take up twice as much space as necessary.  The pans?  Well, don’t get me started on that!  Needless to say, the Lovely Lady has graciously agreed to take the responsibility for this task, leaving me to rinse the dishes and place them on the counter, ready for her puzzle-solving abilities in fitting them in.  Why do I rinse the dishes (essentially washing them before washing), when we’re told that dishwashers clean them quite adequately without the added step?  Because it’s a lie, proven by the spots and little stuck-on particles which remain if they are not rinsed.  So, whether it’s considered “green” or not, I’ll continue “washing dishes” before they’re actually washed.  You’ll thank me, if you’re ever lucky enough to be invited over to enjoy one of the amazing dinners for which the Lovely Lady is famous.

One day when you have the time and you walk into the music store, finding me at my workbench restringing my umpteenth guitar for the day, and are foolish enough to ask what I’m doing, don’t be surprised if I answer with the foolish words, “Washing dishes!”  Well, ask a silly question…

“A question that sometimes drive me hazy; Am I, or are the others crazy?”
(Albert Einstein~American physicist~1879-1955)

“Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable?  Quite easily, I should think.  All nonsense questions are unanswerable.”
(C.S. Lewis~British scholar and novelist~1898-1963)

“It will grow out,”  I hear the words from the Lovely Lady’s lips as she talks on the phone with my daughter.  The pictures posted  earlier that day told the story.  Two boys, believing that they understood what their younger sister’s hair should look like, found the scissors and took care of the job themselves.  The result was not the picture of beauty they had envisioned.  To say that their mama was unhappy would be a slight understatement.  The little girl had spent two plus years growing the crop of hair she had and still had not yet had her first hair cut.  It was finally to the point that a barrette could be placed on the side of her head and elicit comments about the beautiful girl and her pretty hair.  Now, the uneven sides were joined by lopsided bangs and if you looked at the back, the scalp could be seen in places.  I think even Grandma may have had tears in her eyes as she listened to our dismayed daughter describe the fiasco.  It was a disaster.

What is it about hair that elicits such emotion?  My generation grew up fighting our parents constantly about the length and style of hair.  I remember a time when one of my brothers was angry enough to consider running away one night after a run-in with our father over hair and its acceptable length.  I even remember one of my most embarrassing moments which was precipitated by a bad haircut.  I realize that the picture included with this post shows what also should have been an embarrassing hair style (to say nothing of the amazingly fantastic slacks), but it was what I wore most of my years in school.  The haircut I’m remembering actually occurred very soon after this picture was taken.  I grew up with my parents cutting my hair, so this one was to be just like the multitude of cuts I had received before.  Dad must have been at work, so Mom took her turn with the barbering chores this time.  As she cut, she was careful to leave enough at the front that it could come down almost to, but not quite in, the eyes.  The problem came as she moved down from the top of my head to the sides, tapering the longer expanse on top to the shorter hair that would go down to the nape of my neck.  For some reason, she just couldn’t get the taper to come out on one side and the short area moved up that side further and further as she worked.  Finally, she said, “Well, it’s done.  Maybe a little worse than usual, but it’ll grow out.”  I took one look in the mirror and realized that it looked like she had laid a cereal bowl at an angle on the very top of my head and cut around it.  Long on top and immediately close cropped on the left side and a low fringe hanging down over the right.  There was no way I was going to be seen dead like that!

I returned to the chair I had just vacated.  “Cut it all off!”  I requested curtly.  Mom protested for a while and then complied.  The buzz cut had been a familiar sight on my  head in my earlier years, but the changing styles as I got older made that an unpopular option.  Nevertheless, it was what I requested this time and it was what I got.  In moments, all my hair laid in a circle about me on the floor and I was repenting my hasty decision.  I looked in the mirror, listening to Mom’s quiet reassurance once more, “It’ll grow out.”  It didn’t help any.

All I could see as I gazed in that unfriendly glass was the reception which was awaiting at school the next morning.  There was no doubt that the other kids would laugh.  My friends would be sure to pin me down and give me “nuggies” unmercifully.  Nuggies?  You know; when someone rubs your scalp roughly with their knuckles. Not only is it painful, but just the thought of the humiliation…Well, no matter.  I had a plan.  By this age, I had been wearing the “kicker” boots (pointed cowboy boots) for a couple of years, so I would just wear a hat to match.  I figured if I wore an old straw cowboy hat I had, no one would notice the haircut.  I had no idea!

In the morning, I stepped off the bus at the edge of the portico, where most students waited for the first bell to ring.  The concrete expanse was crowded and the hope that no one was looking was a false one as I crammed the old hat onto my stubbly head.  If I thought they would laugh at the haircut, that was nothing to the immediate reaction the ridiculous hat evoked.  The roars followed me back around the side of the building to the band room entrance, where I ducked in as quickly as I could.  Needless to say, the hat was relegated to the locker all that day and never made another appearance.  The wisecracks were endured, the nuggies borne and the following day, it was if the haircut had never happened.  How could I not know that’s what would occur?  What was all the angst about?

Isn’t that a picture of us all through life?  Every bad situation that comes up is the worst, causing consternation and stress.  Then when it’s past, we wonder what the fuss was about.  We jump the hurdle, the obstacle in our way and go on, stronger because of it, rather than damaged.  But, for some inexplicable reason, the next time such a circumstance is to be faced, we go through the emotions once again.  You would expect that we could learn from experience.  For some reason, it seems that we’re only really calm when it’s someone else going through it.  We glibly offer the words, “It will grow out”, “Don’t worry”, and the like, only to have them fall on deaf ears.  It appears that we each have to face our own embarrassments, our own hurdles, our own obstacles to get through to the other side.

That said, you may consider this my advice if you’re in such a situation.  It’s not original, but it bears consideration…Trouble will come to pass, but it will pass.  You will get through this.  Easy for me to say?  Don’t take my word for it.  “…Weeping may stay for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”  The words of the writer of Psalms give comfort and promise.  Bad haircuts aren’t life threatening illnesses; they aren’t the pain of separation.  But they do give us a clue as to the nature of our lives.  It will grow out.

“But that’s not all.  We gladly suffer, because we know that suffering helps us to endure; and endurance builds character, which gives us a hope.”
(Romans: 3: 4.5)

“Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life and repeat to yourself the most comforting words of all:  this, too, shall pass.”
(Ann Landers)