Author: Paul Phillips

I finally found my keys….

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We moved the piano in last week.  I would call it a “new” piano, but it was actually built in the nineteenth century, over one hundred and twenty years ago now.  It was a spur-of-the-moment purchase I made about nine years ago.  A small Steinway upright, it was bought for a song (pun intended), but the real investment began immediately.  A full day was spent traveling all the way up to just south of the Iowa state line and then back, with this unbelievably heavy piano-shaped-object  bringing up the rear in a trailer.  A small breakdown while flying through Kansas City, MO slowed us down and then we were home, tired and discouraged.  We could already see that a lot more investment was to come, both in cash and sweat; that much was guaranteed.

It wasn’t a pretty thing, although what little we could see of the burl walnut wood gave promise that it could be.  It didn’t sound nice at all, although its heritage reassured us that it had that potential also.  But when it arrived in our town, you would have had to be a starry-eyed dreamer to imagine that this mass of blackened wood and rusty metal could ever again be a musical instrument, worthy to be called a piano.

Within weeks, new strings and tuning pins were purchased, waiting for the day when it would be ready to be restrung.  The piano was completely disassembled, from the action all the way down to removal of all the case parts.  You really wouldn’t have looked at the heap of wood and known that there was a fine musical instrument lying there, and for several years, it wasn’t anything approaching that.  After the initial commotion of tearing down and stripping off old finish, our interest lagged, other projects called, and the Steinway languished in the old shop for a number of years. 

Then earlier this year, the piano called again.  I wasn’t up to answering the call (I thought it was really a wrong number), and was all for ditching the whole idea.  But my brother-in-law is a dreamer, and an old hand at seeing the potential in all sorts of hopeless, once-beautiful-but-no-more projects.  This visionary was anxious to make that pile of miscellaneous parts into a restored piece of art that could also make beautiful music again.  Little by little, the piano took shape.  Restringing, along with installing new tunings pins, was only the start.  Rebuilding the action, a real challenge because he was working with century-old technology, then led to the next procedure of staining and finishing.  Step by tedious step, the work progressed, until one day a few weeks ago, he called and said.  “I think we’ve got a piano.”

The piano is still a work-in-progress.  It needs a few more tunings before it will really stay in tune.  There might even be a few of the action repairs that will need to be tweaked a bit.  But this is a beautiful piece of century-old craftsmanship, now renewed and revitalized, and ready to play through the next century or two.  I’m not intending to be around to play it that long, but there might be a grandchild or two who takes a shine to piano playing before it’s all said and done.

What a joy!  To know that the sadly neglected and useless instrument is once again in it’s full glory, bringing forth beautiful music and inspiring the elation that comes unbidden from hearing the sweet melodies and beautiful chords, is nothing short of exhilarating.   If I wasn’t sure that I would severely try your patience, I would sermonize a bit about how much that resembles us in our sorry state and the result of the “touch of the master’s hand”, but I’m pretty sure you have already comprehended that parallel.

For tonight, I’ll just say that I’m grateful for craftsmen in this world who never quit dreaming, for a God in heaven who never quits extending His grace to sinners, and for music that allows us to have a little of heaven right here on earth.

“Pianos are such noble instruments – they’re either upright or grand.” 
(anonymous)

Let your yay! be yay!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

She meant it as a compliment, but twenty-some years later, I can still get a little annoyed when I think about it.  Why is that?  What is it about words that makes us carry them around in a niche at the back of our minds and take them out sporadically, only to founder in the bad feelings they evoke?  I’ve decided in my adult years that I disagree vehemently with the old children’s doggerel that we heckled each other with, years ago…”Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”  Since I know there are human beings in atrocious conditions that I could never comprehend, I don’t want to this to be too sweeping of a statement, but it seems to me that bones will heal. Conversely, I’m also convinced that the pain of hurtful words may linger for a lifetime.  If hers had actually been intended as hurtful, I might be writing this article from a completely different perspective.

When I tell you what she said, you’ll laugh at how thin-skinned I was.  I really never was angry at her, but it just irked me to hear it.  As I contemplate more, I think that the reason the comment comes back to me now is more about the truth (or potential for truth), than it is about the hurt. As I age, I find that I am examining the things I do more and more to be sure that I am leaving a legacy.  No, not the same kind of legacy that Presidents and public figures seem to be so obsessed with.  This is not about fame or public honor, but about the knowledge that I’ve fulfilled my purpose in life.  I really don’t want to get to a point where I look back and decide that I’ve wasted all the opportunities that I’ve been blessed with, especially after it’s too late to redeem the time.

What did she say?  Well, over the years, I have had the privilege of preaching at a number of services at my church. On the occasion I’m reminiscing about today, this elderly saint heard me preach for the first time.  I’m sure it was just that she hadn’t pictured me as a preacher, or even a public speaker, but as I greeted individuals at the end of the service, she gripped my hand, smiled sweetly, and blurted, “What are you doing wasting your time in that dinky little music store?”  I stuttered out a reply, which must have been satisfactory, since the dear lady remained my friend until she passed away some years later.

She meant it as a compliment!  She wanted me to know how excited she was to have heard me preach!  I think she was even saying that I had done a good job.  But all I heard was, “You’ve wasted your whole life doing something completely worthless!”  How do you deal with that? 

The Lord knew I needed an answer to that question because a short time later (a few weeks, maybe), I was speaking with my Dad on the telephone and he asked if we could pray before we said goodbye.  As he prayed, I heard the words, “…and bless Paul in the ministry you’ve given him there in the music store.” 

Wow!  How’s that for a contrast?  On the one hand, the thought that preaching would be so much more worthwhile than the profession I was in, and on the other hand, the statement that we are ministers wherever we find ourselves in life.  I’ve got to tell you, the light bulb went on!  I was put in this very spot for a purpose!  I don’t have to reproach myself for missed educational opportunities, or for my past lack of achievement in professional endeavors.  I can make a difference right here, right now.

My dad used to love this hokey little song that our choir sang many years ago.  I can’t remember the whole tune.  I don’t even have all the words at the tip of my tongue, but the main thought was, “Bloom, Bloom, Bloom where you’re planted!” (Told you it was hokey!)  And, that’s what I’m doing. You may think that I’m really just a bloomin’ idiot, but I’m pretty sure that the Good Lord wants us to buckle down and work right where we are.  He may move us somewhere else, but we do the same thing wherever we land…Settle in and bless those around us!

Oh!  And, let’s be careful how we compliment others.  A backdoor compliment isn’t how we bless them at all.  It’s more like the sting of nettles than the sweet aroma of a beautiful flower.  And it’s a sting that might be felt for a long, long time.

For he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of waters,
which brings forth fruit in its season,
and whose leaf also shall not wither.
Everything he does shall prosper.
(Psalm 1:3)

Keep your hands to yourself!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

How well I remember the conversations from the back seat:  “He’s touching me!”  “You did it first.”  “Did not!”  “Did too!”  “Did not!”  “Did too!”  Another voice, this time from the front seat, injects itself into the back and forth of the argument.  “Both of you, get back on your side of the car and keep your hands to yourself!”   Immediately, all is quiet, until a few moments later when you hear a plaintive voice from the back seat again, “He’s looking at me!”

Any of you who grew up with brothers or sisters close to your age remember those days.  Someone was always getting into your private space; someone was always making you uncomfortable and breaking up the relative peacefulness of your life.  There was no telling when one or another of the siblings was going to push the boundaries, either real or imaginary, just to see if they could add a little piece to their territory, especially if they could tear it from your grasp.  I’m just amazed that we all grew up without hating each other, in fact, actually loving and respecting each other.  But adulthood also brings with it a different, and just as confusing, set of problems.  The thing is, they have a striking similarity to those of childhood…

One evening, close to 20 years ago, I got a call from an elderly friend, a widowed lady, whose middle-aged son was visiting for awhile.  His marriage was in trouble and he had left home for a little thinking time.    His mom asked me if I would “counsel” him.  I’m not sure why she picked me, but she must have been under the mistaken impression that I had some store of wisdom that could help his marriage.  I agreed to spend some time with him, but it would be so he could have someone to talk with, not as a marriage counselor.  In getting acquainted with him, he mentioned that he would like it if we could talk some about the Bible.  I knew a bit more about that subject than marriage counseling, so I agreed that we would do a Bible study and suggested that when we got together the next time, he should bring a passage that he had a question about.

As we sat down at the table, he hit me with it immediately.  Ephesians 5:22 was the verse.  In it, the writer says, “Wives be submissive to your husbands…”  No sooner had I read it out loud than he burst out,  “That’s my problem!  She won’t submit and let me be the head of our home!  That’s why we can’t get along! How can I make her do that?”  Well, that stumped me for a few seconds.  The obvious answer was that he couldn’t!  That’s why he was here in Arkansas and she was in California!  But, that’s not what he needed to hear.  So of course, the next thing I told him was, “Get back on your side of the car and keep your hands to yourself!”

Okay, what I really did was to ask him a question.  “Does that statement give instructions to someone specific?”  “Well, yes,” came the reluctant answer.  “It tells wives how to act.”  “Well, unless you’re a wife, it’s obviously of no interest to you.  Move on.”  So down we went to the verses below that.”  He read verse 25:  “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church.  He even died for it…”  He looked at me as if I had punched him.  It wasn’t necessary to ask if he got the point.  It was pretty clear that he did! 

It seems that most things are like those letters I get with the directive printed on them, “To be opened by addressee only, under penalty of law.”  When the instructions are targeted at me, I should do my best to follow them, otherwise, I need to leave them alone.   I really can’t make anybody else live the way they’re supposed to, so it’s unproductive to try.  That’s not my job! And, it does more damage to relationships than any benefit that I’ll ever achieve.  I’ve also finally begun to realize that if I follow the instructions I’m given, somehow it becomes a whole lot easier for the people I’m with to do their own part, but as far as obedience goes, I’m only responsible for me. 

“Get back on your side of the car, and keep your hands to yourself!”  Turns out, Dad’s instruction for feuding siblings was also great advice for most relationships.  If we take care of ourselves, we won’t be getting  into spaces that aren’t ours.  I’m still not sure he ever figured out how to take care of the “He’s looking at me” problem.

“Child…I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”
(Aslan, in “The Horse & His Boy” by C.S. Lewis)

 “MYOB.”
(common anagram used in text-messaging for “Mind your own business”)

Dinner is Served!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A gentle nudge is sometimes all it takes.  Other times, more drastic measures have to be resorted to, but we eventually get to the car to head home.  I can’t help it.  I’m a last minute conversation guy.  We’ve been at the church since before 9:00 AM, but now it’s noon and there are still people to talk with.  I’ll never understand the folks who dash out the door immediately after the last “Amen”.  I understand that not everybody is put together like I am (thank goodness!), but these visits with friends are some of the best moments of the week.  We catch up on children and jobs, even exchange a short joke or two, but we love spending time together.  However, the lovely lady is nudging again, so we say our last goodbye and head out.  Oh, one or two more conversations along the sidewalk crop up, but we have to keep moving.

What’s the hurry?  It’s just another Sunday afternoon, after all!  You say that and think you mean it, but you must not understand the meaning of Sunday Dinner.  We don’t eat “lunch” after church.  We have Dinner!  There are important people coming to share our table with us today and we have to get ready.  The list of dishes was made earlier this week before the visit to the grocery store yesterday.  Roast chicken and dressing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and spinach salad are on the menu today, among other things.  The lovely lady was up well before I was this morning, making the dessert and preparing the meat for the oven.  Important events like this take planning  and preparation!

We spend the last hour working feverishly.  I arrange the dining room and set the table, making sure that everything is just so for our VIPs.  She puts together the salad while making gravy, rolls, and the vegetables.  You understand that her role is much more difficult.  I do one thing at a time, while she multi-tasks, stirring this pot, cutting up that salad green, mixing a bowl of ingredients for another dish.  She knows better than to push me.  I’m hard pressed to remember which side of the plate the fork goes on, much less, not to forget the homemade peach jam. But, we get the work done; me, step by lumbering step; her, gracefully and efficiently.

As the last push comes to get dinner on the table, the important guests begin to arrive.  The lovely lady’s mother, accompanied by her brother, comes in first.  Great-Grandma lives at the local rehab/nursing center, but she is sharp as ever, noticing a different piano in the living room right away.  Brother-in-law plays a few chords on it for her and then, I’m back to the kitchen for some more last minute jobs. Then the doorbell rings again and in come the grandchildren, all calling out “Hi Grandma!  Hi Grandpa!”, with varying success in forming the words, but still entirely successful in letting us know they’ve arrived.  They are, not coincidentally, accompanied by our daughter and her husband.  Bringing up the end of the procession is our son, who also lives in town.  His arrival is met with cries of “Steben!” by the kids, who all adore him, although he pretends to be aloof. 

With much ado, and very little organization, the dinner commences.  Arguments about seating arrangements are par for the course, with the coveted position being the one adjacent to the lovely lady.  Those differences settled and drinks having been distributed, we ask the blessing, holding hands around the table.  When I was a child, the blessing was a prolonged affair, taking into account the leaders of the country, our missionaries, the heathen in darkest Africa, and various and sundry incidental requests, but, knowing the attention span of those in attendance, we keep ours confined to thanks for the food, and a quick request for showing love to each other.  Even with the abbreviated blessing, the next to the youngest manages to get a loud “Amen” out before I can finish, much to the amusement of all at the table.

Dinner is a boisterous affair, with conversations going on at all points of the compass, jokes told, and a few severe instructions issued (“Eat your green beans or no dessert!”, “No, you can’t get up.  You haven’t been excused yet!”).  Since Great-Grandma is a little hard of hearing, we have to speak up when addressing her and this doesn’t help the level of the din much.  Still, good food and good conversation are the order of the hour.  Most of this time is spent sharing the events of the week, both trivial and momentous.  We laugh, we cry, and the time speeds past.  After it’s all done, one by one, the groups of visitors head out, goodbyes and last-minute conversations finished as we stand at the door, with Uncle Steben leaving last after we’ve shared a bit of football time in front of the TV.  After some cleanup (not an insignificant task), peace reigns again.

That’s it?  That’s what your great Sunday Dinner was all about?  Your VIPs were just some family members getting together and eating food?   You bet!  When we can, we include other family members and friends from church.  This is a sacred time.  Oh, we don’t spend a lot of our time discussing theology (although that enters into most conversations), but the time spent with family, both old and young, is priceless.  Memories are being made.  Young minds are learning the respect that is due to those advanced in age by seeing it in practice and they are discovering how we interact with other people.  These are occasions that every single one of us will keep in our memories for years to come and treasure for all of our lives.  Some of my best memories from childhood are the times when we got together for meals with grandparents, with cousins and aunts and uncles.  They were more rare in my experience than they have been for my children and grandchildren, but that doesn’t make them any less cherished.

Family traditions don’t always just happen.  Some traditions you have to nourish and labor for.  We make this important, because we need this. Our parents, our children, and grandchildren need it.  Would it be easier to chuck it and go get dinner at KFC or some local restaurant?  You bet, much easier!  But, the time we spend nurturing each other and our memories will one day be the subject of the “remember whens?” and even some “when I was young” conversations for their children and grandchildren.  All the work (and even leaving church earlier than I want) is a small price to pay for the dividends all along the road.

Oh, and after the hub-bub and cacophony of dinner is finished, the lovely lady and I get to settle into the den for some “down time” (nap for me, stitching for her).  It seems that there are other family traditions besides Sunday Dinner that are just about as important.

“After a good dinner, one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.”
(Oscar Wilde~American poet)

Breathe In, Breathe Out!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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’m 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 got one more piece of advice to add to it.

Exhale!

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

Selah! *

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Did you cry today?

Over the last 24 hours, the world has watched as 33 men, trapped for 69 days a couple thousand feet under the earth’s surface, were brought up one by one to be reunited with family and friends who have waited anxiously for those two long months, never having absolute confidence that they would hold each other again.  I’ve seen countless news stories, almost as many Face-book posts, and had several conversations in my business about the ordeal as the rescue continued today.

But, it wasn’t until this evening, when a friend passed on a photo of one of the rescued miners and the tee-shirt he was wearing, that I was struck by the incredible wonder that these men had not only survived, but thrived spiritually while trapped in that huge tomb, so deep under the earth.  The shirt has a quote from Psalm 95:4, which says, “In His hand are the deep places of the earth; the heights of the mountains are His also.”  After that, they’ve added, “To Him, is the Honor and the Glory.” 

This quote from one of the trapped men, earlier in the ordeal, also gave me pause.  He said, “Under the earth there is a ray of light, my path…and faith is the last thing that is lost…”

Yeah, there are tears in my eyes, too…

The media can and has talked about the incredible cooperative effort that went into this operation.  They’ve discussed at length the things that the engineers, the doctors, and the politicians have done right.  And, they’re not completely wrong to do so.  So many people have worked for weeks to make this rescue happen.  The NASA guys from the States were there, as well as a drilling team.  Many other countries lent their expertise to see the success of this particular enterprise.  But  we’ve seen these disasters before when all the effort of the skilled rescuers was ultimately in vain.  Men don’t control events.  We are not captains of our destiny.  It seems evident that these miners know who really protected them, who really sustained them through this seemingly interminable night spent underground.  I love that the testimony of their faith has been broadcast to the world in a positive way, not in the anger of “holy war”, not in the advancement of self-indulgence, but in the simple faith of men who needed to be rescued, believing that there was One who would answer when they called.

One of my favorite sayings for several years has been this, attributed to Thomas a’ Kempis, “For man proposes, but God disposes.”  We are an arrogant race (the human one, that is), taking credit for that which we have not done, believing that we are masters of our universe, but just as The Preacher in the Old Testament, we must eventually make the same judgment he did when he said, “This is the conclusion I came to:  We must fear God and obey Him, for this is the complete duty of man.”  Sooner or later, we will realize that it’s not about man and what we desire, but about God and His will.  Those thirty-three men are alive today at the pleasure of His will and I’m guessing they know it.

The old adage tells us, “There are no atheists in foxholes.”  I wonder how many there were in that collapsed mine, way down in the depths of the earth. 

 Soli Deo gloria!
(To God alone be the Glory!)

*From the Psalms, meaning something like, “Pause and let it sink in.”

Let’s Not Burn These Behind Us…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The walls are covered with paintings of bridges.  I’m not sure why.  Call it one of my foibles, or call it an obsession if you want.  Doesn’t matter…The bridges keep arriving from distant places, England, Canada, New York, California.  The list goes on.  I don’t really know how this got started, but I have this fascination with bridges.   What’s really incredible is that my lovely wife also thinks it’s a wonderful way to decorate, so I’ve not had to hide this obsession away in a private room. 

The first bridge painting we purchased came from a great little antique shop in Tulsa and was acquired for a very small amount of cash.  A watercolor by a famous artist, it was a wonderful find for us.  Of course, the artist was famous for his comic book art, not watercolors, therefore it’s not worth any great amount of money, but we wouldn’t part with it anyway, so it’s just as well.  Many others have followed from different sources, flea markets, antique stores, eBay, and garage sales.  I’ve given away one or two, but most of them are too valuable to me to be parted with and even though there’s no room available for all of them to be hung at once, some of them sit in a corner, awaiting their turn on the wall.

What’s so special about bridges?  I see people in big cities and in the country alike, drive over them like they’re just another scrap of road.  I’ve done that myself.  One day, not too long ago, the lovely lady and I made the long trek to Cotter, Arkansas, some 135 miles away, just to dawdle a bit under the gorgeous rainbow bridge that crosses the White River there.  After a great afternoon spent wandering the trails under and around the bridge, we pointed the car toward home.  We hadn’t taken notice of any other notable bridges on our way over, but on the journey back, we noticed a small side road that obviously crossed one of the many streams and we decided to turn off the highway there.  As we doubled back beside the highway and eased along the unbeaten lane, we looked back at the road we had left and were surprised to note that we had just passed over a beautiful little stone bridge, which could only be seen from the side angle we had chanced upon.

Day after day, the cars speed past, the passengers inside never dreaming that beauty lies just beneath them.  To them it’s just a road, a means of transportation from one place to another.  But we live in just such an era, when the destination is all important, and the journey is simply an inconvenience.  For us, a chance decision, a fortuitous turn, changed the ho-hum journey into a reminder that surprises lie around every turn, and beauty will be found in the most unlikely places.

What is special about bridges?  It’s an intrinsic factor, the very reason they are built in the first place.  Bridges are the triumph of men over the elements.  In a place where no traffic could pass, the connection is made, from one side of a deep gorge to another, from one bank of a mighty river to the other.  Even in the most simple of bridges, a rock laid across a stream, the possibility exists to move goods, and livestock, and people from home to market and back again, without the dangers of raging waters or slippery passages on rocky creek beds.  The beauty of bridges lies not just in their splendid design or simple usefulness, but in their conquest of the very environment around them.

I no longer speed from one dot on the map to another, unaware of the road that lies between.  There are so many places along the way where men have struggled and conquered, where beautiful examples of craft and art make our journey possible.  It’s true, many of these elegant behemoths have been sacrificed for plain-white-wrapper, generic concrete spans, but that doesn’t detract anything from the original visionaries, who saw the need, and took action, leaving a legacy of craftsmanship, architecture, and grace in their wake.  Take a little time to admire what remains of their workmanship and dreams the next time you head for some far-off destination.

I guarantee you, all of life is better when you pay attention to what’s on the fringes and enjoy the journey.

“There’s a bridge to cross the Great Divide.
There’s a cross to bridge the Great Divide.”
(Point of Grace~The Great Divide)

Something’s rotten in the den, Mark!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m fascinated by odors.  Wow!  Is that a strange thing to admit or what?  I hope you won’t get the wrong idea and think that I go around sniffing the air all the time.  I do have some odd habits, but the Gollum act is not included in the panoply of weird symptoms you will observe in me.  It’s just that I seem to notice aromas even more now than I used to.  Perhaps it’s because odors have such an evocative effect on the brain.

I smell bacon and eggs, and I’m back in the breakfast nook at Grandma’s, waiting for an early morning meal after a Friday night spent at her house.  I catch a whiff of Pine Sol and I can still see the bathrooms at Crockett Elementary School where long ago, I spent 6 long years (in the school, not the bathrooms).  I know, that number of years just speeds by for us as adults, but honestly, don’t you remember waiting for the final bell at 3:30 every day?  The last five minutes were as interminable as any hour that came before in the day.

One of the most vivid odors I smell on a regular basis is that of burning bone.  I frequently have to cut bone pieces for guitar parts, such as bridge saddles and fingerboard nuts.  As the Dremel cutting wheel spins along the surface, the odor emanates in billows from the material, filling the atmosphere in the music store.  Along with it’s completely obnoxious stench, which is suffocating in its nature, I have to suffer with the image of sitting in the dentist’s chair while he drills in preparation for a filling.  You folks who’ve had cavities, you know what I’m talking about.  It’s all peppermint and flavored rinses until, BOOM!, that stench fills your mouth, throat, and nasal passages and you start to think that maybe a pureed diet wouldn’t be so bad after all.  My better half has requested that the bone cutting take place after business hours, when I’m working by myself.  Unfortunately, in my situation, although “misery loves company”, apparently that company doesn’t have much of an urge to consort with misery.

I’ll leave some of the other odors to your imagination, just to be sure that we don’t get a PG rating for this missive.  Suffice it to say that I don’t work in a sterile atmosphere.  Evidently, varying opinions exist regarding the satisfactory standard for cleanliness in public, so the levels of pungency also vary greatly from time to time.  Sometimes, I find it difficult to even concentrate on the task at hand, much less to remember that all of God’s creatures deserve respect, but that’s what has to be accomplished.  Odd, isn’t it, when you really consider the idea?  I’m fairly certain that we assault God’s nostrils with our stench continuously, yet He tolerates the smell and even calls us His sons and daughters and holds us close.  So, I work on, careful to show respect and honor, even as I recoil from the emissions!  If He can stand it for all time, I figure I can deal with it for a few minutes.

As I consider all these aromas, while there are some that I think I could do without, I’m struck by how amazing is the world we’ve been given to live in.  Some odors warn us of danger, like solvents, or natural gas, and burning food (never happens at my house!).  Others lure us into situations we should avoid.  No I’m not thinking about perfumes and scented candles (although that could be problematic, too).  I’m thinking about the delightful aroma of baking cookies, a perfectly cooked roast beef, or any number of foods that, while quite pleasant to experience, leave their manifestation for years of discomfort to come.  What an amazing assortment of signals and informative details are brought to mind by the simplest of smells wafted gently (or not so gently) to our noses everyday.  And, what a drab and dangerous world this would be without this very simple gift.

I’m still fascinated by odors…

But for tonight, I’m headed home and going to bed very soon.  I think I’ll be careful to take my shoes off in the bathroom…

“Best way to get rid of kitchen odors?  Eat out!
(Phyllis Diller)

Don’t Act Mechanically!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It wasn’t the best road trip we had ever taken.  We were on our way to visit my family in the Rio Grande Valley in Texas, a trek of some 850 miles from our home in Arkansas.  The fellow who had sold me the 1965 Chevrolet (an old car even then) told me it was a “cream puff” with low miles and a motor in top condition.  Now though, the suspicious tapping noise coming from under the hood belied his description.  As we slowed down in the sleepy little town about 60 miles from our destination, the severe vibration from the motor further inflamed my suspicions that this was not the babied little old lady’s vehicle I had been led to believe.

We limped the final miles at half speed and finally saw the end of our journey.  A couple days of trying to pinpoint the problem under the hood got me nowhere, so I broke down and took the car to a local garage (a serious blow to my ego and checkbook).  Their ace mechanic found and repaired the problem in less than 24 hours, with the admonition that the issue could rear its ugly head again without any advance warning.  Since “forewarned is forearmed”, I took the opportunity before heading home to read up on the problem and its various remedies.

Sure enough, we had only been on the road home for about an hour and a half when we experienced the same problem.  It was a Saturday afternoon and we assumed we were sunk.  But as we rolled unsteadily north, we spied a garage with its overhead doors open and turned in.  Oh, there were mechanics here, but they were finished for the week and were simply socializing with each other.  As we explained our problem, they leapt to the inevitable conclusion that we would be spending the weekend in the local motel.  The repair couldn’t be done on the spot, but the motor would have to be disassembled and the part sent to Kingsville, another 30 miles up the road.  But a little knowledge is a great confidence builder, so I asked for a pry bar and a piece of rope, if they could also provide the valve spring I needed from their junk yard out back.  Thirty minutes later, after a fair amount of exertion on my part and none at all on theirs, the problem was repaired and we were back on the road home. 

I have to admit that even today, I want to gloat and remember the looks on their faces as the repair was effected.  As we left, I asked for a couple of extra springs and the rope, which they gave to me, telling me that “anyone who could do that repair with a rope could have it for nothing!”.   I showed these pros!  Nanny, nanny, boo, boo!  But, that attitude assumes that my victory was over the mechanics standing around that day and it would be the wrong conclusion to draw from the experience.

My conquest that day was not over any man, even the irritating gentlemen standing around making snide remarks.  It certainly didn’t hurt that they were silenced by the feat, but the enemy was ignorance, not people.  If I had paid my money to the first mechanic earlier in the week and trusted to dumb luck, my family would have been stranded in a strange town with nowhere to go (and very little money).  Preparation paved the way for success, even in a field for which I have no affinity.  I do not aspire to be a mechanic and that’s a good thing, since I hate being dirty.  But, if I had not studied the problem, I would have had no idea of the cure and would have taken for granted that the best minds around (that shop anyway) knew the proper procedure for rectifying the issue.

Now, lest you get the wrong idea, let me disabuse you of the fallacious notion that I systematically prepare for life’s problems.  I find myself constantly at a disadvantage through my penchant for rushing in with no study or rehearsal.  In the week in question, I just acted enough out of character to achieve a resounding success and even though the life lesson is inescapable, I still fall flat on my face frequently. 

The life lesson?  First of all, preparation and learning make success possible, even probable.  Way back in the 16th century, Francis Bacon said, “For also, knowledge itself is power.”  Secondly, and just as importantly, arrogance directed at those who don’t share your experience sets you up for a fall.  Those mechanics weren’t ignorant, they just had tunnel vision and couldn’t see other solutions than what they had been taught.  If they were following Mr. Bacon’s advice, they also needed to know that the Apostle Paul had these words for men in similar situations, “Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed that he does not fall.” (I Corinthians 10:12 NASV)

We live in an incredible era, when knowledge is literally at our fingertips.  When problems assail us, the answer is seconds away.  This doesn’t mean that we’ll never need a professional, it just means that we can face the pro with the added leverage of a little knowledge of our situation.  Take advantage of the opportunities  which are afforded to expand your brain.  There’s always more to discover!   We can never stop learning, never stop seeking knowledge.  Oh, and never, never assume that someone else won’t come along and show us up for the ignoramuses we really are.

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself, any direction you choose.”  (from Oh The Places You’ll Go by Dr Seuss)

Ifs, Ands, & Buts

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

If weekends meant a reprieve for me in any way, I would have been asking, “Is it Friday yet?”, right about four o’clock this afternoon.  Bad day?  That’s like asking if GEICO makes funny commercials.  For disastrous days, this was ranking right up there with the best of them.  Promises I’d made couldn’t be kept because of ineptitude by suppliers, and every order placed by customers had a problem to be chased down and sorted out (okay, not every one, but enough to seem that way).  Even before that, at 4 minutes before opening time, one guy actually had the audacity to blow his horn outside the front door!  Not sure, but it might have been the fellow returning a non-functioning product.  We got that sorted out, only to have him return a few moments later, with the replacement not working!  As the day wore on, a rep from the inept supplier actually had the nerve to lie to me about a shipping date when I was staring right at the shipping record on my computer.  I had opened the doors at 12:00, and by 4:00, I felt it was time to close.  I was done!

But…!  I like that word:  But!  Although it’s a small word, it turns around what came before and gives it a different direction.  It has been a favorite word for me since childhood.  When I was a kid, I used it to argue with everyone in sight.  My big brother said I sounded like a motorboat going, “But,but,but,but,but,but…”   Mom’s phrase was, “You’d argue with a fence post.”  I spent most of a lifetime using the word to give the declarations of others a negative twist, to prove that I was superior.  I wish it were not so, but it is true, nonetheless.  I remain cognizant of my bent to arguing and I strive with the urge constantly, sometimes to emerge victorious and just as often to be humbled by my failure.  The fight goes on…

Tonight though, I put the word to different use.  The day had been horrible, but…!  I love the conversion from the negative to the positive that “but” gives to the sentence, the repentance that marks the turning from darkness to light.  This very dark day had a “but” in the middle of it.  A good friend walked in the front door of my business with the means for me to keep my promise!  I don’t want to be maudlin, but I can think of nothing more encouraging than having friends who rise to the occasion when I cannot.  And, make no mistake, I could not rise.  I had no “outs”, as they say in the game of Poker, but this friend had the very card I needed up his sleeve.  I think he was embarrassed by my gratitude, but I had been drowning and he threw the much needed rope to save me.

The “but” in the middle of the afternoon revived me, and still the day made one more attempt at bringing me back to my knees.  A last minute call from a customer far away ensured a labor intensive job which had to be completed this evening.  Fortunately for me, Thursday evening is always Macaroni and Cheese night at our house, so even the threat of this drudgery wasn’t as crushing at it might have been.  Nevertheless, the discouragement of the day hung on through the meal of comfort food.  After supper, we were off to a benefit concert for some young missionary friends, an appointment that my day had made much less attractive as it wore on.

But…!  (Did I tell you I really like that word?)  What a refreshing time!  We spent the evening visiting with old friends, many of whom we hadn’t seen for a long time.  It was energizing to visit while enjoying the great Bluegrass music (and some good coffee too).  But this time spent among friends, reminiscing, catching up on current happenings, and just enjoying each other, simply reinforced the lesson I learned earlier today;  Self-reliance is desirable.  Skill is to be sought after.  Even fortitude in the face of adversity is laudable.  But this I say without fear of any “but” to follow:  Friends are a gift!  And, I stand firmly with James in the Bible when he states that every good and perfect gift comes from Above.  May we all be blessed throughout our lives with many such gifts!  And may all our bad days be interrupted by the “but” of one of those gifts arriving to redeem the time for us.

“Old friends, Lord, when all my work is done,
Grant my wish and give just one old friend, at least one…
Old friend.”
(from the song “Old Friends” ~ Roger Miller)

A friend is always loyal, and a brother is born to help in time of need.
(Proverbs 17:17 ~ New Living Translation)