The phone behind our front counter died today.  I don’t think it was a natural death, but I didn’t kill it (even if I have threatened physical harm to it in the past).  One moment it worked (too well), the next it was lifeless.  It was, in fact, so lifeless that it started sucking the life out of the other phones on the system.  Perhaps the static on the lines and flashing LEDs on the other units was their way of honoring their comrade’s passing.  Whatever it was, the moment I unplugged the extinct culprit, the other sets straightened up their act and got back to their normal annoying ways.  You know, the love/hate, can’t stand you/got to have you status, which is perpetual with telephones and me.

Earlier today, I would happily have committed murder of the now-deceased phone myself.  The morning, as happens most days, was full of noisy activity.  The cleaning crew was working, with their vacuum roaring and brooms swishing, when we arrived; the phone already making its presence known with its incessant clamoring.  Stock orders (the Lovely Lady having labored on them into the waning hours of Tuesday) needing to be completed and transmitted, were vying for my attention; emails were wiggling their beckoning fingers from the Inbox.  Please don’t think that I’m attempting to arouse feelings of sympathy in the reader, but this is my normal day.  It is also the reason that the doors of the music store remain locked to walk-in customers until noon daily.  They’re not any happier to be put off than are any of the other distractions.  All morning long they whip into the parking lot, only to notice the darkened windows and shade pulled down on the door.  Some take the time to read the posted hours, others just exclaim with frustration (sometimes in words I cannot report here).  There are numerous black tire marks on the pavement; mementos of pent up anger finding outlet in the accelerators of powerful machines leaving the lot rapidly.  I have learned to take it in stride and am determined to do my best to calm the troubled waters when they return later during business hours.

Did I get off topic again?  Well, no, not really.  You see, the now-dead telephone and my threat to commit a violent act upon the handset are closely related to opening time.  It seems that almost daily, the notion to call the toll-free line (which comes in on that phone) hits some clueless person at about ten minutes before time for us to face the angry mob.  When I say clueless, what I mean is a person who either doesn’t understand what it is that we sell, or who can’t make a decision between the many titles available to them.  Noon usually finds me explaining what a “back-ground vocal” is, or the difference between accompaniment and karaoke tracks (for the twelfth time).  There’s no hope of getting off the phone to turn on the “Open” sign, or to unlock the door for the guy who is there for the third time today, needing a clarinet reed for his daughter’s twelve o’clock class at school.  Somebody please tell me, why that couldn’t be the time that the telephone died?

The crisis over and tempers soothed, the afternoon rolled on, with a few speed bumps, but overall a pretty normal day.  Just moments before I had to leave to examine an instrument in a customer’s home, the passing of the telephone was discovered.  Almost before I had time to feel any satisfaction and gratification for the death of my tormentor, I realized that I needed that phone desperately.  Without it, someone would be leaning across my desk continuously to answer calls there, instead of the phone up front.  Two lines ringing at once will mean someone has to leave the sales floor to take the second call in the back office.  And what if I’m here by myself and the second line rings?  The expired unit was the main telephone, containing in its circuitry the ability to shift calls to an “auto-attendant”, who was nice enough to inform customers that we couldn’t take their calls, but would be happy to call them back.  When the phone kicked the bucket, so did the auto-attendant.  I’m not really sad for her/him, but the customers now think we’re ignoring their calls.  And, I have done that purposely before, but only after consulting the now defunct Caller ID screen, another victim of the calamity.

I need this phone!  I can’t live without this phone!  Amazing isn’t it?  A moment before, I wanted that olio of integrated circuits, batteries, and wires dead.  The moment I had my wish, I realized my great need of it.  And once again, I was faced with the incongruity of human nature. We fail to appreciate the very things which give us the ability to perform necessary tasks.  We focus on the aggravation, never concentrating on how essential are these tools which we wield so thoughtlessly.  We are blessed beyond belief with conveniences which our parents and grandparents never dreamed possible, and we dismiss them as annoyances.  But oh, how we miss them when we don’t have them. 

I can’t avoid the picture in my mind of a young Tom Sawyer, lying on the ground under Becky Thatcher’s bedroom window, thinking, “They’ll all be sorry when they find my cold, dead body lying here.”  Of course, the cold, dead body jumped up rather quickly when someone opened up a window and tossed out a pan full of water on him.

If only I could throw water on this unresponsive telephone, now fit for nothing but recycling.  Nothing I can do will revive it, so I have ordered a new one, just like the dearly departed unit.  It should be here within 36 hours and I can be miserable again.  Or, ecstatically happy. 

Oh well, as a wise friend of mine often says, “You pays your money and you takes your choice.”  I’m paying my money, and then I’m going to work a little harder at appreciating the little things.  They seem bigger when they’re gone…

“I find my familiarity with thee has bred contempt.”
(Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra~Spanish author~1547-1616)

I checked my blood pressure at the grocery store the other day.  Yes, you read that correctly.  At the grocery store – well technically in the pharmacy section of the grocery store – but still in the same place I go to buy groceries with the Lovely Lady.  I sat and slid my arm into the cuff up to the bicep, steeling myself to the throttling pressure I knew was to come.  The cuff ballooned up and then slowly, very slowly, released it’s strangling grip.  I could feel the thump, thump, thump of the pulse in my arm as the compression dropped past the upper threshhold, the systolic reading; diminishing until it vanished completely at the lower calculation point, the diastolic reading.  An acceptable reading would be something less than 120 systolic over something less than 80 diastolic.  Mine was higher on both counts.  I’m not telling how much.  What a place to be ambushed by cautionary information; right before shopping for items which could be beneficial or detrimental to the rehabilitation of acceptable readings upon the next visit.  I much prefer those of the detrimental ilk, truth be told.

I’m not going to talk much about health issues, although it is, I’m told, the area most people my age excel at conversationally.  If we’re not bragging about our exceptional grandchildren, we’re sitting around participating in “organ recitals”; who had a heart attack, which friend is about to have a gall bladder removed, and what the doctor is insisting we do this week to get our cholesterol down to acceptable levels.  I’ll pass, thank you.  There are better things to talk about.  Well, better things than the medical predicaments.  The grandchildren?  Give me a minute and I’ll find the pictures I want to show you.  They’re right here on my cell phone…

Now, where was I?  Oh yes, blood pressure!  I’ve decided that stress is the biggest factor in raising mine, although I couldn’t prove it.  “What kind of stress?” you may ask.  As I age, I’m finding that noises cause me more stress than anything else.  I still take pride in allowing customers (and their children) to play the instruments in the music store, without asking them to turn down the volume, but that is increasingly costing me in terms of my emotional well-being.  I’m convinced that the amplifiers are louder, the drums more reverberating, and the banjos are definitely more twangy than they were years ago.  I attribute it to better technology, but most likely, it could be chalked up to aging.  Today for instance, a couple of customers were playing guitars, one acoustic, the other electric, when a young man walked in and sat down at the drum set.  Within moments, I was ready to pull out my hair and run screaming into the street.  You’ll be proud when you hear that I stayed put and waited them out as I labored at the string replacement I was performing on a guitar belonging to one of these fine young men. 

Within moments, all was calm except for the acoustic guitar player, whose guitar I was working on.  The acoustic guitar is easy to listen to most of the time, but sometime during that noisy uproar, he had found a high fret on the guitar he was playing.  I can’t explain it, but the principle is universal; if you find a high fret on a guitar, you have to keep playing the defective note over and over again.  Never mind that there are an average of 120 notes on the acoustic guitar (not counting harmonic tones).  That leaves at least 119 notes which may be played without once hearing the rattle of the high fret – giving fair odds, you might reckon, that you could safely play most any song you would desire on the instrument without hearing the dreaded rattle.  You would lose that bet every time.  I’ve never known a guitar player who could play even four or five notes on the instrument without returning to that defective note again…and again…and again.  If the blood pressure was elevated before, it was soaring now!  I completed the work on the young man’s guitar and headed him out the door as quickly as possible; reveling again in the renewed peacefulness of the silence.

Why is it that we can’t leave the negative alone, even when we have an overwhelming prevalence of positives?  The guitar principle isn’t only true in music, but in everything else I know.  The room has been flawlessly painted, but our eye is drawn to the one little spot on the wall with a run.  The cook has prepared innumerable dinners before which we raved about, but let us have one bad meal and we never darken the door of that establishment again.  A friend has been at our side without fail for many years, but let there be one slight, one misstep, and a rift in the relationship appears; often to be the death knell of an otherwise wonderful, lifelong friendship.  We can forget a multitude of excellent experiences, but we can’t forgive even one transgression.

I don’t want to be Pollyanna-ish, but we need to change perspectives.  We need to practice seeing the good things, not the bad; to make a habit of enjoying the amazing plethora of wonderful experiences God has blessed us with, instead of focusing on the few times of testing and unhappiness that come our way.  As usual, I know a verse that reinforces this principle.  In the Phillips translation (Paul’s, that is) we’re told;  “Think about the good things, whatever they are.  If they are worthy of praise, those are the things you should focus on.”  You’ll find the real words below, but that’s about the size of it.  Is it good stuff?  Let that be your focal point!

Play the notes that sound good!  The Repairman will take care of the rest in good time…

“And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.”
(Philippians 4:8~New Living Translation)

“Goodness speaks in a whisper.  Evil shouts!”
(Ancient Tibetan proverb)

I have developed the annoying practice of speaking in adages.  That shouldn’t surprise you, since you know that I tend to be a conformist.  Opting for the course with the least amount of speed bumps, I often speak glibly and  impulsively.  These traits lead me to use common phrases and not give them a second thought.  See there!  I just did it.  “…give them a second thought.”  Why would I not say, “…think carefully before speaking”?  I am actually having to be judicious in my words as I write this to avoid more banalities, which I tend to gravitate to in my writing style also. 

I thought of this the other day, as I spoke with a customer.  He was describing a problem with his guitar, a vibration in the neck, which seemed to be happening with more frequency as time passed.  I talked about the serious issues which can be the cause of such a vibration, downplaying them a little as I spoke, but then reiterating the seriousness with these words, “…but, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”  As the words left my lips, I wished I hadn’t spoken them.  First, the problem was actually likely to be less drastic than the extreme case I had described, and second,  it sounded really stupid!  Where there’s smoke, there’s fire?  What does that have to do with a guitar neck?  And is it true, anyway?

I remember a time when I was happy that saying wasn’t factual.  In our early years of owning the music store, we were renting a space in a shopping center which I’ve spoken of before.  I told you of the progression of poorly vetted renters next to us, with a wall between that stopped short of the roof, allowing sounds and odors to travel freely between the spaces.  I hadn’t remembered the short term renters who moved in one week, late in October one year.  The trite saying falling from my lips the other day brought the memory back with a rush.

One of the junior civic clubs at the local high school decided that they would like to host a haunted house for Halloween that year.  Someone in the club knew someone else, who knew someone else, who knew the owner of the building.  I’m thinking he would have gladly rented to them without the elongated network of acquaintances, but it got them what they wanted, so they set to work.  For days before the scary night, they pulled up after school each afternoon, with furniture and building materials in the back of SUVs and pickups.  The noise and smells of construction continued on day after day, until the night of fright.  We left about the same time the cars were arriving that night, wondering what we would find the next day when we returned.  We didn’t expect to return as soon as we did.

About 11:00 that night, the phone rang at our house across town.  The voice on the other end informed me impassively that there was an emergency at my store and I needed to get there as quickly as I could.  I sped the mile from home, imagining every possible scenario, but was not quite ready for the vista that met my eyes.  I think every fire truck in town was in the parking lot, as well as any number of cars and trucks from the volunteer firemen who were utilized in much larger numbers in those days (the town was much smaller then).  As I ran past them to the front of the store, I realized that there were firemen on the roof, one of them standing near the front parapet holding a circular saw.  The next thing I noticed was the burly fireman next to the front door holding a sledge hammer, looking as if he was disappointed to see me.  As I unlocked the door and stepped back, several of them rushed in with respirators on their backs and masks covering their faces.  The smoke billowed out in great clouds, as the men with hoses stood ready to direct the stream of high-pressure water into the building.  Moments later, the men came out one by one, informing us that there was no fire to be found.

My relief was immense.  As I approached the door again, I sniffed the air and realized that the pent-up smoke was made up of nothing more than exhaust fumes.  I have smelled that odor many times when using a chain saw or power trimmer; the smell of burning oil from a two-cycle engine.  It seems that the kids running the haunted house had the bright idea of running a chain saw inside the building to frighten the patrons who were foolish enough to pay good money to wander through their maze of horror.  Too much oil mixed into the gasoline made for a very smokey mixture coming from the exhaust.  They evidently thought nothing of it, closing the building and turning out their lights when they were finished.  The problem is that the smoke-laden air forced its way into our space, which was lighted, making the black fumes visible from outside.  Some good citizen, noticing the smoke, called in the alarm; prompting the routing from bed of all involved.  I still think the fellow with the sledge hammer and the one on the roof with the saw were both extremely disappointed to see me arrive with my keys, since I nullified their chances to break down the door and cut a hole in the roof.  They were so hoping for the practice, too.

I’m grateful that sometimes when there’s smoke, there’s just smoke.  We look at situations where we believe an emergency exists, only to find that a high-velocity fan will fix the problem just fine, thank you.  Frequently the fire-hose can be folded back up without the need to flood the scene.  Would that we always had the wisdom to recognize those situations.  I’m thinking that a moment or two to check the facts can often alleviate the damage done by over-reacting.  I’m talking to myself as I write this, but you may listen in if you think it applies.  You know, if the shoe fits…But, there I go again…

Oh, the guitar?  Yep, nothing but smoke, either.  The fellow brought it to me; I fitted a wrench to the truss rod on the neck and gave it a turn or two.  The rattle disappeared instantly.  And I had the sledge hammer all ready, too.  Oh well, maybe next time…

“Man’s mind clumsily, and tediously, and laboriously patches little trivialities together and gets a result…such as it is.”
(Mark Twain~American humorist and writer~1835-1910)

“He wrapped himself in quotations – as a beggar would enfold himself in the purple of emperors.”
(Rudyard Kipling~English poet and author~1865-1936)

It’s late.  Maybe, more to the point; I’m late.  I look around me and see the stacks of work yet undone.  The yard, in which I had intended to work this weekend, remains unkempt.  The scooter, which was to have been repaired before the advent of this Spring, has not begun to be re-assembled.  The gutters…what shall I say about them?  Oh, the list goes on and on.  Things undone, which I had imagined in my mind would be done by now.  I hope you don’t think I’m depressed again; down on myself and the world because of faults, real and imagined, that I see in myself.  I’m just attempting to be pragmatic in my assessment of my life.  I’m late.

The Lovely Lady and I took a drive this afternoon.  Temperature in the low 80’s, with the sun shining and Spring bursting out all over.  I would chalk it up as a perfect day, but the wind was blowing up a gale, which promises to make the night quite stormy.  It is April.  But, as usual, I digress.  As we drove down the road, my eye was caught by a sign advertising the business which it stood in front of.  I exclaimed to my passenger about the sign and then looked again, this time reading it correctly.  “Imagine Hair Salon,” read the words when viewed carefully.  For a moment there, I had read it differently, but in a way which might have been much more to the point.  “Im Aging Hair Salon” was what I saw at my first glance, and I thought it more appropriate for much of the activity which goes on behind those doors every business day.  

Funny how a mistake like that can set your mind to working.  Some people, as they observe the ravages of time, strive (with varying degrees of success) to stop the clock, perhaps even turn it back a few years.  The millions of dollars spent on hair color, wrinkle cream, and other snake-oil remedies are testimony to their fervor.  Others are proud of their graying hair and wrinkled skin, believing that these are proof of their wisdom and that they demand respect.  While we are instructed in the Bible to give honor to the gray-haired, some of the actions I have perceived by the aged lead me to believe that the young have no corner on the foolishness market.  The best I can say for them is that at least aging has made it more difficult to get as deeply into trouble as once was possible.

One thing I have observed almost universally, is the fact that as we age, we start to think seriously about the things we deem important in life.  We question whether we have accomplished enough.  Depending on our perspective, the things we want to achieve may run the gamut from financial matters, to the adventures we dreamed of, and if you’re like me, you start to contemplate the spiritual goals you have had.  The metrics may be the visible, gifts given, counsel offered, lives changed, but the thought is of those beliefs I claim to hold most dear.  Unfortunately, if I held them most dear, it has remained a secret to many around me, because it seems that like many of my temporal tasks, they remain unfinished. My zeal as a young man flagged as I entered my middle years, only to languish as other business slowly took over my priorities.

I think I’ll keep my goals to myself, thank you, but I hope to be more diligent to work on them.  I’ve still got a day or two left, if the Lord is willing, (maybe even a few years) and I’m going to keep plugging away.  My frustration is that I’ve waited so late to re-assess.  But, I’m hoping some of my younger friends will be encouraged to be zealous without tiring.  I’m reminded of the old hymn (which we never sing anymore) which encouraged us to “Work, for the night is coming, when man works no more.”  Or, if you prefer, the old Gaffer in the Lord Of The Rings used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope (and need of vittles)”.

I think I’ll take the correct reading of the sign and imagine what can be done, instead of sniveling about the fact that I’m aging.  There’s still some daylight left.

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

“Perseverance, dear My Lord, keeps honor bright.”
(William Shakespeare~English playwright~1564-1616)

I’ve never been good at puzzles.  But, I’ve told you that before.  I guess the visual acuity may be at fault, but really, it’s more a problem with perception (and maybe stubbornness).  I’m always trying to fit the square peg in the round hole, always “getting a bigger hammer” instead of finding the right part. 

I saw a little of myself in the third grandchild the other day as she worked on a puzzle.  As I sat and assisted with the jumbo pieces (the only kind I’m borderline competent at), she kept trying to pound the pieces together.  Despite evidence to the contrary, she was convinced that any piece could be made to fit in any spot.  It took a little sleight-of-hand to get the correct pieces in front of her without letting her see that I was removing the ones she had placed down, ready to force the bewildering tabs into the perplexing holes.  I for one, understand the problem completely and would readily advise that all the puzzles in the house be destroyed, if it weren’t for her grandmother hovering nearby.  I live in a puzzle milieu, surrounded by the confusing contrivances, and I’m not likely to escape them soon.  Also, the children love them, so I may have to tolerate them; may even have to participate in the madness occasionally.

Again, last weekend, I saw myself briefly in the youngest girl, as we built a tower of plastic interlocking blocks together.  These are toys from our children’s early years, still surviving and still being loved by young children almost thirty years from their first appearance.  Something like giant Legos, they  have two tenons side by side on top which go into the matching receivers on the lower side of the next block up.  The sweet little girl understands the basic concept; she just lacks the engineering theory to understand the fit and finish.  Because of this, she consistently attempted to connect either the tenons to the tenons, or vice versa.  After endeavoring unsuccessfully to demonstrate and instruct in the proper method of construction, I found it easier to use a similar sleight-of-hand as with the puzzle to turn them around as she pushed them together.

On Sunday afternoon, as I was privileged to stand in terror before the kids at church, the Lovely Lady assisted as I demonstrated this principle once more.  I stood with the clarinet, she with her flute, and we told the children of her desire to play clarinet music, instead of flute music.  As they listened with increasing distaste, we both played the instruments using the same music.  Soon, many were covering their ears, while others grimaced and still others looked at each other exclaiming at the awful cacophony.  The two similar sized and shaped instruments are not tuned to the same pitch, making it essential that they use different music from which to play.  Like the puzzle pieces and the building blocks, the similarities are deceiving.  They are not designed to perform the same part, nor can they successfully be made to do so.

Well, a fine lesson for children, you may say, but what has that to do with us as adults?  I’m not sure about you, but I’ve made a lifetime vocation of attempting to fit different pieces into the same holes, both with myself and with others.  I’ve worked at jobs that were a horrible fit, as well as at one in particular which remains a perfect fit.  I tried to push my children into places that didn’t work for them, learning (slowly) that while they may have some of my features, they are very much their own persons, with their own ideas and vision.  I’ve felt the need to convince many within my voice to share my opinions on any number of matters, only to realize that I interact best with those who have come to their conclusions through their own experiences and intelligent discernment.

Does this mean that we don’t fit in with others who aren’t just like us, that we need to keep to ourselves? No, not at all!  The orchestra can only make its best music when all the divergent instruments, with their various shapes, methods of generating sound, and different keys, come together as a group, each playing their own part and not all reading the same notes.  The music is sweeter and fuller for having the amazing diversity, with each taking responsibility for their role in the whole.  The tower is built as the different parts fit together and not at all if like is placed next to like; the puzzle makes its beautiful picture as very different shapes meld into one large entity, each piece fitting with others next to it.

Just as the body is made up of many parts, so unlike that they would seem completely foreign if we weren’t so familiar with them, so our families, our communities, our churches are formulated.  Just look at the foot and then at the ear.  Do you see any resemblance?  But, if the ear doesn’t do its job, the foot takes us into dangerous situations, likely to achieve great harm to the whole body.  We need each other and every one of us is important to the whole.  Is that just some feel-good mumbo-jumbo; just me being maudlin?  No, it comes straight from the Bible and is borne out again and again in our experience.  Even in our faith, we have different gifts, different parts to play.

Find your part and play it.  Don’t play off of my music; it’s probably not in the right key for you.  But I’m hoping I can play in harmony with you.  It will sound much better that way.

“…so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other.  If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.”
(I Corinthians 12: 25, 26~New International Version)

“Where there is unity, there is always victory.”
(Publilius Syrus~Roman author~1st Century BC)

Yesterday’s post conveyed my terror at being accosted in the night last weekend.  The strain of sudden fear and shock should have been enough to last me through the next decade.  I only wish that had been the case.  Sunday afternoon, I again had to face a period of anxiety that nearly did me in, this time in a totally different way.

What could possibly compare with the shadowy figures in the night and the possibility of physical danger, you ask?  Well, you’ll understand completely when I tell you of the horror that awaited me on Sunday afternoon at the AWANA children’s club at my church.  It was the worst!  I had to stand up in front of two different groups of children and attempt to share some of my supposed knowledge with them!  Oh, the apprehension; the mental distress that I experienced!

The Lovely Lady had agreed to help me with an object lesson, so there was a certain degree of mitigation, but she wasn’t the one standing in front of the masses (all 15 of them) and speaking for 15 to 25 minutes.  The little angels filed in, the preliminaries were dealt with, and then “Mr. Paul” was introduced.  I stood in front of the children, who were all sitting in their seats expectantly and I was transported back to school.  Once more, in my mind’s eye, I stood in front of the class with a poorly prepared report, stuttering out my words and turning redder by the moment, knowing that my face and neck were beet red and that knowledge only making it worse.  But here, there would be no teacher to prompt, to try to be helpful, and failing that, to say sympathetically, “Okay, Paul.  You did a nice job, even though you couldn’t remember the name of the main character in the book.  You may sit down now.” 

I’ve stood and preached forty-minute sermons to two hundred fifty or three hundred adults!  I’ve played my horn with a brass group before more than a twelve hundred people in a packed cathedral!  Not once in my adult life have I felt the trepidation in standing in front of a group as I did before this small gathering of children.  Even now, I’m struggling to explain the cause of my nervousness, the reason for my distress.

It should come as no surprise to you that the children did magnificently.  They were attentive, but curious, raising their hands to ask pertinent questions.  They wanted to make comments that linked their experiences to the subject I had come prepared to talk about.  The clarinet I used as an object lesson was of great interest, as were the horrific noises which came from it as I attempted to blow on it.  And, as the lesson came to a close, they were rapt as the Lovely Lady came and played a duet with me, beautifully (her part the beautiful one, mine barely adequate).  When the first group was done, my heartbeat was almost back to normal, my breathing patterns as regular as they get these days.  The second group came in and I had even longer to speak to them.  I wasn’t perfect in my delivery, but was definitely more relaxed.  Again the kids were great, and we got through the presentation just fine.  Whew!  The relief is almost indescribable!

What a joy!  After the fact, I will report gladly that I was delighted to have the opportunity to share with these, the future leaders of our churches, the future doctors, scientists, and teachers, some of whom might be teaching me and practicing medicine on my old body in the days to come!  I actually think that this may be the reason for my stress as I prepared and anticipated standing before them (besides the classroom thing).  The adults I’ve preached to before have all the tools to listen critically.  They are able to think independently and can (and will) argue about points with which they disagree.  Children, on the other hand, are often like sponges.  While they will argue if they have developed a point of view, they will frequently accept a certain idea simply because it has been advanced by an adult they know and respect.

I firmly believe that the onus on teachers of children is greater than on any other group.  I think that Jesus was making this point when He drew the very compelling picture of having a millstone hung around the neck and being thrown into the sea, saying that would be better than to be the one who makes a child stumble in his faith.  Reason enough to be nervous?  I’d say!  And, my eternal gratitude to mothers who love and guide these most valuable of treasures, to the teachers who instill knowledge and life skills, and to volunteers everywhere who are willing to face the terror and the fear of sharing themselves with the future of our society, our churches, our government, and our families.

Having said all that, I think that it will probably be some time before I can screw up the courage to stand in front of them again.  Maybe next year…but, only if they can’t find someone else to do it by then.

“Children are like wet cement.  Whatever falls on them makes an impression.”
(Haim Ginott~teacher and child psychologist~1922-1973)

“I take a very practical view of raising children. I put a sign in each of their rooms: “Checkout Time is 18 years.”
(Erma Bombeck~American columnist and humorist~1927-1996) 

I think he had a gun pointed at me, but I really can’t be sure.  The flashlight was shining full in my eyes, blinding me to all else.  As I stopped running toward him and stood stock still, another form catapulted the fence into the backyard.

Another one of my stories from childhood?  Maybe an escapade when I was a young adult?  Unfortunately, neither of those is true, although I think I might have weathered either of the two better than I did when it happened two nights ago.  Somehow, at fifty-something, the adrenaline rushes don’t seem to have the same affect as they used to.  I remember exciting, frightening situations making me and my friends laugh a lot, maybe even scream out a rebel yell in exultation.  This wasn’t remotely like that.  My heart was pounding, seemingly trying to escape from my chest; my stomach was churning violently, and then my head started pounding to match the heartbeat.  Not at all an enjoyable sensation, as I consider it, sitting now at my desk in the late night quietness of the music store, with the acoustic guitar music flowing from Pandora to the speakers of my computer.  Come to think of it, that’s just how it all started on Saturday night!  Oh no!  Is it going to happen again now?

Okay, I’m fine again, so I’ll not leave you in suspense.  The Lovely Lady was gone, spending the night with two lovely young ladies who seemed to need their grandmother more than I did, so there I was, sitting at the computer once more, this time with a purpose.  The day had been horrible from a business standpoint.  The host for our website’s shopping cart had a server crash, so they spent the entire day backing up data, with the result that we lost nearly 24 hours worth of income from our online store.  I’ve talked with you about technology and it’s foibles in the past.  Our dependence on this amazing media is frightening, but I’ve learned to take the rare failures in stride.  So it happened that I was conversing with our web services provider, when I  heard a noise at the front of the store.  I listened for a moment and heard a woman and a man speaking in low tones.  This is not unusual, since there are window shoppers at late hours frequently and I thought little of it.

That all changed in an instant.  There was a commotion at the rear corner of the building and almost instantaneously, our family mutt, Strider, began barking ferociously from behind the store.  I arose immediately from my chair and started toward the back door, only to hear someone banging loudly at the front window.  I thought for a second, deciding that this might be a diversion to keep me from exploring what was happening out back.  Confident that whoever was in front of the store was not likely to kick in the door, I continued out the back door, turning on the light as I exited.  I rounded the corner into the back yard (you know, where the future garden is planned), only to see a man’s form behind the blinding light of a powerful flashlight.  I went a few steps further into the yard, before he told me to stop.  Inured to fear for the moment, I demanded to know who he was and what he was doing in my yard.  As the question left my mouth, another shadowy form came over the fence into the yard, but with the light in my eyes, I could tell nothing about either man.  I shouted the question again.  “Who are you and what are you doing on my property?”  This time, the man told me he was with the Police Department and firmly requested that we move to the front of the store.  I started to object, but thinking better of it, turned and moved into the light by the back door.  As I glanced back, the man lowered his arm, and I couldn’t be sure, but it appeared that the flashlight wasn’t the only object to be replaced on his belt.

By the time I reached the front door, where two other officers, one male, one female were waiting, the shock was hitting me.  I could have been killed!  What were these idiots thinking?  Did they really imagine that I was going to calmly answer the door of my retail store at eleven PM, when there were invaders in my backyard?  The questions came tumbling into my mind, but I couldn’t ask any of them.  The only thing I could say to the officers was, “Am I supposed to feel safe? Because, that’s not what I’m feeling right now!”  That was an understatement!  I stood there, heart pounding and stomach churning and all the officer in charge could reply was, “Really?  We’re just here to protect you and your property!”  Yep!  That made me feel better!

Turns out that a strange car was parked beside the building in the alley and someone who was familiar with me didn’t recognize it and also saw a person inside the store.  They called the police, telling them they thought the store was being robbed.  The police came immediately, noticing the desperate thief working at the computer, but were still convinced that their skills were needed.  Instead of calling the emergency number we have on file with them at the police station, they thought a more direct method was called for in dealing with the obviously violent criminal seated there.  I’m still not feeling very safe tonight.

I don’t want you to think that I don’t respect the policemen and the danger they endure on a daily basis.  I do.  But, Saturday night, they made some foolish decisions which could have resulted in a calamitous conclusion.  The very people I depend on to protect me almost hurt me.  It’s a shock to realize that the things you have counted on all your life are not infallible.  The people you rely on to make good decisions sometimes make bad ones.  The only disaster this time is that my confidence is shattered.

From a human perspective, I have to wonder if that’s the way it will always be.  We count on people, organizations, even technology to take care of us, only to find out that they can’t, that they make poor decisions or fail at the most inopportune moments.  And, when that awareness hits us, we no longer feel safe and secure.  More to the point, we feel small and unprotected, even vulnerable and frightened.  Maybe this is a good time to reflect about what we depend on; a time to determine that we will put our faith in only those things that really are secure, really are infallible.  In all of this topsy-turvy world,  I only know one Person who fits that description and I know He holds me firmly in His grip.  If a bullet comes out of the darkness, if a bolt of lightning comes from the sky, it won’t be a surprise to Him, nor an accident that shouldn’t have happened.

And considering that, I feel safe again. How about you?

“If you are out of trouble, watch for danger.”
(Sophocles~Ancient Greek playwright)

“Piglet: ‘Pooh?’
Pooh: ‘Yes, Piglet?’
Piglet: ‘I’ve been thinking…’
Pooh: ‘That’s a very good habit to get into, Piglet.'”
(A.A. Milne~British author)

I’ve waited all my life.  You probably expect a sentence that starts out that way to have a little more to it.  For example, …to hold my first grandchild…to go on a cruise to Alaska…to go deep-sea fishing.  The list for folks my age could go on and on.  We have plans.  Plans for happy endings; plans for security; even plans for service.  Many of our peers have waited until they were financial stable to find a place to do volunteer work, go to the mission field, or maybe even just help out at the local food bank.  All these things are admirable, all of them worthwhile.  But, I hadn’t planned to finish the sentence in any way other than it came out.

I’ve waited all my life.  When I was a baby, I waited to be fed, waited to have a diaper changed, waited for someone to play with me.  I really don’t remember that, but it’s true nonetheless.  As I grew, I waited to get up from my nap, waited for a cookie and some Kool-aid at Bible school, and waited for my brother to outgrow his bicycle so I could get rid of the girl’s bike on which I started out.  Then as I arrived at my teenage years, I waited for my first date (highly over-rated, by the way), waited to get my license, waited to go out on the marching field with the band, waited for the judge’s ratings in the music contests, waited when my mom forgot to pick me up after the contest (because I was still waiting for my license), and waited to graduate.

I imagine that right now, you’re waiting.  Waiting for me to end this tedious litany of anticipation for the next event.  I’ll put you out of your misery on that account, but I hate to be the one to inform you that when you finish reading this blog, you’ll still be waiting.  Oh, not that you won’t be doing anything while you wait.  We’ve become experts at that.  I go to the doctor’s office for an appointment and….I wait.  But while I’m waiting, I watch people.  Laptops, books, cellphones (for talking), cellphones (for texting), cellphones (for game playing), cell phones (for checking and posting on Facebook), and here and there, one of the inveterate magazines which I refuse to pick up in the clinic’s waiting room.  There are sick people all around, you know.  But not many of us sit and do nothing.  We fill the time, while we are waiting; in the waiting room; to be moved to another waiting room.  Ah well, you know the drill, so I’ll move on.

The Lovely Lady has the waiting thing down to an art.  When we travel, the craft bags always get packed first, but they go in the car last and are kept with us wherever we are.  One never knows when there will be some moments not filled with activity, so the backup plan is in place, with needlework always likely to appear.  For my part, I have to admit that I actually like waiting.  While I also have succumbed to the lure of the “smart phone” in recent years and have been known to carry a book under my arm, causing a few interruptions to the waiting, I do often pretend to read the book while daydreaming or people watching, maybe even catching a catnap.  Don’t tattle on me to the Lovely Lady, okay?

When we get old, we have other things to wait for; the meals-on-wheels person, the home health care worker, our children and grandchildren.  There is a television program on public television, one of the “Britcoms” about old people in a retirement home.  The name of the program?  “Waiting For God.”  And, while, on this program, they don’t actually talk much about God sensibly, the title they have selected is, in fact the true name of this entire waiting game, isn’t it?  We plan and hope to act, He opens (or closes) the door.  We hope and wish for, He answers our prayers.  I’ve told you before of one of my Dad’s favorite quotes, from Thomas a Kempis several centuries ago.  “Man proposes, God disposes.”

So, we keep waiting, and planning, and doing, all the while waiting for what’s coming next.  I’m amazed at all the living that goes on…while we wait.

I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago,
and people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet and voices at the door. 
(JRR Tolkien)