Author: Paul Phillips

Hunting the Fox

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We were too old to play hide-and-seek, but we were certainly doing just that.  There was a rather large group of adults, both young and middle-aged, looking for the one who was “it”.  We did this same thing every Friday night during the summer months for at least a couple of years that I remember.  Unlike the times we played this game as children, we had not started with an hour-long game of “Not It”.  No, strangely enough, it was normal for the person who was going to hide to actually volunteer, sometimes even to demand the privilege, to hide first.  The game only got stranger.

We always started in a parking lot, standing around our cars.  Every single one of the vehicles had an extra antenna attached, indicating to the world that we were “CBers”.  The rage was in full bloom.  “Break one-nine for a smokey report,” or “Ten-four, good buddy!” were the phrases of the day, and we jumped in with both feet.  Cruising took on new interest.  No longer did we simply ride up and down the main drag, listening to the rock and roll tunes blasting from our 8-track players; waving at friends when we spotted them going the other direction.  Now, we communicated!  From one car to another!  You might say that we were racing, pell-mell into the communication age.  There were certainly no cell-phones and, before CBs, when we got into our cars, we were cut off from the world.  Granted, the range of the quirky units was limited, but we kept upgrading, buying signal amplifiers and whip antennas to extend the range.  And now, instead of chance meetings on the road, we located our friends and stopped for ice cream at the DQ, or for a Coke at the Town & Country.  It was cutting edge technology and we weren’t going to be left behind.

The group in the parking lot on Friday’s however…we were just there for fun.  This was our nearly grown-up version of hide-and-seek, but we called it the “Fox Hunt”.  The rules were simple; Only one person would hide and the others would look for them.  The “fox” had ten minutes to hide, car and all, within a prescribed area.  When he or she was hidden the best they could, they would transmit on the designated channel for one minute.  Every ten minutes after that, they had to transmit for another minute.  During this time, the hunters would drive around, checking their signal strength meters as the transmission was on the air.  Then the airwaves would be busy for several minutes as each person reported the reading they got from their location.  A stronger reading meant they were closer, so everyone would move toward the locale reported by the person with the strongest reading.  Then everyone would drive around that area, awaiting the next transmission by the “fox”.

The hunts could go on for a couple of hours, or they could end within a few moments of the start, depending on the skill of both the fox and the hunters.  Eventually, a few run-ins with the local gendarmes required a venue change and we moved out in the country.  The possibility that a suspicious (and well-armed) farmer might find us before the others did only made the wait in the parked car more exciting.  You may laugh, but when you were being hunted, the adrenalin would pump, the heart would pound, and it was as stimulating as anything most of us had done up to that point.

From my great vantage point of middle age, I can hear the voices even now, demeaning the game.  “How lame!”  “Why would you waste your time?”  Today, it is the voices of the younger folks I hear, disparaging the activity, with a shake of the head and a sniff, as if to assure you that they wouldn’t dream of doing anything so juvenile and primitive.  Almost forty years ago, it was the older folks who couldn’t understand why we would fritter away our evenings chasing around the countryside, grown up, but still children at heart.

In my mind, I see my grandchildren just last week, in a huddle back in the den, the oldest explaining the parameters of the game.  “We have to stay inside to hide.  We can’t hide where Grandma’s lamp is, or she’ll get upset.  I’ll be it. You guys hide now!”  The kids scatter, with the instigator staying put and counting to forty.  Don’t ask why forty.  It’s just the number he counts to.  The nice thing about this game is that the seeker always knows where to look.  The toy cupboard in Grandma’s sewing room can fit the whole group and since they don’t like to hide alone, they can always be found there.  Every time.  My guess is that they’ll figure out the point of the game soon enough, but for now, I like the version where they hide and get found.  Together.

And, as the scene in my mind shifts, I see teenagers as well as adults, both young and older ones, playing their version of “Fox Hunt” as they sit at their computers and experience the “first person” games, connected to friends and people they will never know, via the Internet.  They hide and they seek, the goal – to find their opponent and defeat him in the scene being played out on their screens.  The adrenalin pumps, the hearts pound, and the cycle continues.

I’m not sure what the persistent game of hide-and-seek shows about us, except to say this.  I have sat hidden and dreaded the moment of being found, almost as much as I knew subconsciously that I wanted to be found.  We always knew that eventually the seekers will discover our hiding place.  I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.  The few times the Fox Hunts ended by calling in the Fox, and admitting the defeat of the hunters, it was a disappointment.  On any given night, when the Fox was captured, we would all stand around their hiding place, talking and bragging about how close we had been, the Fox bragging about how long he/she had eluded capture.  Then we would head to Sambo’s for some coffee or to the Whataburger for a late-night snack.  On the nights we had failed, we went our separate ways, without the camaraderie of exulting and replaying the chase in repetitive, boring detail.  What a letdown!

I bet you know people who are hiding and need to be found.  I do too.  They hide deep inside their emotions, and sometimes in depression, but they are still right there, hoping against hope that someone will find them.  I see some of them hiding in their possessions, buying clothes and cars and useless stuff.  Some hide within anger and resentment, daring you to find them.  There are an amazing number of hiding places, including the church and the workplace, in the public eye and in the back alleys.  The addicts long to be found, as do the workaholics.  All hiding.  All needing the release of being found.

It’s up to those of us who have already been found to seek.  And, we almost certainly will have to be persistent.  Unfortunately, they won’t all be hiding in the toy closet. 

“The Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”
(Luke 19:10~NLT)

“Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”
(Zora Neale Hurston~American folklorist and writer~1891-1960)

Residence Evil

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The wind was howling, tossing the branches of the chinaberry trees around like feathers, and the rain was pelting the windows already.  The main storm wouldn’t arrive for hours yet, but the early effects of the hurricane were already in evidence.  Inside the house, all were on edge.  If you had asked the ten-year-old, the youngest of the five children interned in the residence, he would have assured you that he was actually excited.  A real hurricane!  Headed straight for them!  Secretly though, he was frightened.  What if the structure of the house wasn’t strong enough?  What if the flooding which was predicted came up into the building?  His Mom and Dad had taken the necessary precautions; the windows had been taped to keep them from shattering, there was plenty of food in the house, and even several gallons of drinking water.  What if it wasn’t enough? 

He didn’t voice his fears.  The bravado that regularly kept him from being the target of too much bullying by older siblings had been developed by long experience.  No chink in the armor of machismo could be revealed.  There were too many people eager to jump at any opportunity to tease and harangue.  He knew better than to blubber out his terror.  He wasn’t afraid, he was excited!  But, that didn’t keep him from listening to the radio as the announcers told of impending doom for the entire area.  His mother was glued to the little transistor set, when she wasn’t preparing sandwich material.  “You never know when you’ll have a chance later…”  On top of the stove, a large stainless steel pan of eggs was boiling, an essential ingredient to her famous egg and tuna salad concoction.  At the very least, they wouldn’t go hungry.

And still, the radio droned on.  “We’ll see the main storm slamming into the coast at about eleven-thirty tonight, with the eye coming ashore about three hours after that.”  For some reason, the eye seemed to be the thing to fear.  The experts always warned about that specifically.  “Never go outside in the eye of the storm.  It’s very dangerous!  Even though it seems calm, the winds will return, without warning, from the other direction.”  He imagined, erroneously, that this must have been where the term “evil eye” came from. It seemed to the young boy that any part of the storm bearing down on them must be inherently evil.

But, as was usual with four boys in the house, a fracas arose soon enough.  Perhaps the nervous energy was the cause, but more probably, it was just the fact that they were all cooped up…and it was what they always did.  This time though, it would escalate with alarming haste.  The cause of the altercation is long lost in the mist of the years, but within a few seconds, instead of just talking trash or hollering, “Did not!” to counteract the opponent’s “Did too!”, the youngest, standing near the sink in the kitchen had flipped a spoonful of warm dish water on one of the older boys.  The older boy grew visibly angry and chased the youngest around the dining room a time or two, both scattering chairs in their scrambling around.  As they ran, the older combatant spotted a means of vengeance, his only thought in that instant being “an eye for an eye.”  Water had been the start of it, and a source of water to repay his tormentor was at hand.  A moment later, without a second’s thought to the ramifications, a cup was dipped into the pan of boiling eggs on the stove and the contents were flung right at the abdomen of the oncoming youngster.

The fracas ended abruptly as screams tore the night, louder even than the shrieking wind around the edges of the house.  First aid was rendered, with the older boy assisting, all the while apologizing profusely.  The storm outside was forgotten as antibiotic ointment was applied, along with a mother’s sympathy (and a few stern words to both miscreants).  For some reason, the possibility of danger outside was not nearly as important anymore.  The very real pain of the burn on his body seemed to magically relieve the fear of the impending turbulence in the atmosphere.  The rest of the night was spent, not in terror of the wind and water, but in pain from the injury which had occurred.

There is a passage in one of the first books in “The Lord Of the Rings” trilogy, wherein one of the main character’s companions speaks his opinion of the bad situation in which they find themselves.  “The wolf that one hears is worse than the orc (goblin) that one fears.”  It fits the situation above to a tee.  The possibilities of danger from the storm completely occupy the boy’s mind until a more pressing thought takes over.  “The danger is inside here, right now!”  At that point, the imagined or predicted disaster is forgotten and reality shoves its way in.  How quickly, the perspective shifts!

The preacher is begging to come to the pulpit, moralizing about danger lurking in the place we least expect it, but we’ll keep him in the pew for today.  True, more could be said, but I’m confident that it need not be spelled out for you.  Your quick minds are already leaping to situations; memories are already replaying themselves in your heads.  My work here is done.

Sufficient for the day, is the evil which is already present therein. 

“Not half the storms that threatened me 
     E’er broke upon my head,
Not half the pains I’ve waited for 
     E’er racked me on my bed.
Not half the clouds that drifted by 
     Have overshadowed me
Nor half the dangers ever came 
     I fancied I could see.”
(Anonymous~circa 1900)

“So don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today.”
(Matthew 6:34~NLT)

*”The Fellowship Of The Ring”, J.R.R. Tolkien, originally published 1959

Overdrawn

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I have words to spend and sometimes spend them foolishly…squandering verbs and nouns, sending metaphors askew, and using similes like fireworks whose sparks often fail to flame…*

That descriptive language is the introduction to a book compiled of articles by a small-town newspaper editor, who was also a popular author of a number of books.

I wish I had said the words myself.

The problem is that, in spite of the claims, writers like the one who penned those introductory phrases seem to keep their words in a very efficient bank, making withdrawals at regular intervals, giving instructions to the bank teller to face the verbs all in the same direction, never having more commas in the bottom of the bank bag than will be needed, with none of the adjectives torn or taped together in the center.  When their words and punctuation are laid out on the page, they obediently fall into place without complaint, causing nary a note of discord.

My words are not so well put together, having been kept under my mattress for too many restless nights or hidden in the piano, the vibrations of too many early morning practice sessions causing them to settle into an disorganized mess.  (Some settling of contents may occur in transit.)

It is a chore to disentangle the active verbs from the passive, and for some reason, the modifiers will dangle.  I do have at least a few words to spend, but as I pull them out of my pocket, there seems to be more than a little fluff mixed in.  Most nights, I still manage to pull enough of them together to get by.

I had thought earlier of describing the words as disciplined soldiers, moving where they are directed, marking time at that pause, doing an about face at the end of that sentence, and holding a straight line as they march in step with each other.

I have no such words at my command.

It is true that, some days, the words come unbidden, awaiting their turn impatiently to drop onto the page.  On days such as those, these posts seem to write themselves, with only a small amount of supervisory vigilance.

Not tonight.

I sat at the computer earlier and shouted, “Forward, March!”

No response.  Nothing.  The soldiers all seem to be AWOL.

Maybe my Sergeant Major act was too intimidating for them.  Moving on, I searched under the mattress and found nothing there but a lot of whiny adjectives, and I certainly can’t use them all at once.  Incompetent and ignorant, along with a stubborn and idiotic mixed in here and there, would certainly make poor conversation, so they have been stuffed back under the mattress to await another day.

It would seem the jumble hidden in the bottom of the piano can yield no better, with way too many exclamation points making their way to the top.

No.  It’s safe to say the bank account is lacking in capital tonight.

Years ago, there was a description for wealthy folks who had lost their fortune. I remember hearing an older well-to-do widow say it once.

I think he is embarrassed.

Those words describe me tonight, and are applicable to more than just the state of my verbal bank account.

Sometimes the result of a stressful day is that there are not enough words which can be found to piece together anything suitable for the readers.  Today was such a day, with angry patrons and inept vendors, along with an error or two on my part.  On such occasions, perhaps it is better to defer to another time.

Tomorrow, possibly.

Maybe a few ideas can be squirreled away during the daytime hours, to draw interest until the next opportunity to invest them comes along.

I’ll be especially careful to save a few more conjunctions.  I always like the way they work together with other words.

I think I can even find a helpful adverb or two to spend, like happily and friendly.  I’m sure I can scrape together enough to do something worthwhile.

Can we make it a date, then?

You won’t need to bring anything at all.

It will be my treat.

 

 

 

The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.
(Mark Twain~American author and humorist~1835-1910)

A gentle word deflects anger, but harsh words make tempers flare.
(Proverbs 15:1 NLT)

 

*from I Have Words To Spend (Reflections of a Small-Town Editor), by Robert Cormier, published by Delacorte Books, 1994.

 

 

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

Vapor

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
My mind goes wandering and my heart tags along.

The old trite saying tells us that “home is where the heart is”.  Granting the general veracity of the adage, it seems that at times, the heart is a little confused about where it lives.  Perhaps it remembers a different home in which it once sojourned.  Perhaps it is looking forward to a future one as well.

It appears that moving past middle age into the “silver years” has led me to reconsider my youthful resoluteness that I rather like this earthly home.  I’m reminded that this mortal existence is not the final stop for any of us.  For a number of years, one of my favorite quotations has been these words spoken over sixty years ago by C.S. Lewis: “Nature is mortal; we shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each one of you will still be alive….We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendour which she fitfully reflects. And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life.”*  It’s an incredible and humbling thing to consider the import of the idea.  There is a different home in the future for all of us.  Our path and choices today will determine where each of us will spend those ages of immortality.
That’s not exactly what I’m thinking about tonight, though.  I really love the life I’ve been blessed to live right now.  After amazingly full days like today, perhaps there are a few second thoughts about how much I love it, but they soon pass and I consider how privileged am I to be involved in the lives of so many fine human beings (and a few not-so-fine ones).  Yet, time after time over the last few years I have sat and reminisced, both alone and with old friends, about days gone by.  There’s a certain yearning that pulls us back, perhaps remembering that the days were less busy, the hours less demanding.  It may be that the years color the memories, making them more pleasant than the reality of living them, but they are still enjoyable and enticing.
So, does that mean that my heart is still back there and not in the here and now?  Is the past really home?  The answer to both questions is an emphatic “No!”  I wouldn’t go back for all the treasure that could be offered.  You see, I’ve figured out that the beauty, the allure of the past, is that events have moved on.  I’ve lived through the disasters, the triumphs, and they are over.  But even today, my memory is not so bad that I don’t remember the frustration of raising teenagers, and of dealing with the emotion and childishness of family squabbles.  In my near senility, I have not lost the feeling of terror when accidents occurred, the sadness when death took loved ones.  The glasses I am wearing are not so rosy that I don’t see truth, but they are colored with the satisfaction of moving on, of coming through.  Emotions rise and I feel pride as I remember the generosity of my son as he shares with the whole family, and the tender heart of my daughter as she cries with me over my Grandma’s passing.  Those memories and many more like them color my consideration of loved ones in my life still today, because history is folded into the present and makes up who they are and who I am.
But time won’t wait.  We live in the present, with new experiences continuing to make us into who we are becoming.  What a wonderful gift, to be able to look back, enjoying the memories which are evoked by the glance behind.  And, what incredible anticipation is ours, as we look ahead to where the path is leading.  There are still a few more corners to turn, still a few more hills to climb before we arrive at our destination.  Of all the gifts, I’m thinking that I’m most thankful for the blank page of the day just ahead, awaiting our first step into it, our first words coloring the empty space.  Here is where the past and the future meet.  This is the place where we set the memories, about which we’ll reminisce in years to come, into the history books of our minds. 
That’s it for today.  No stories.  No moral.  No instructions.  Some days are like that.  We live, we love, we learn. 
We keep walking.  Together, I hope.
Photo by Sharafat Khan
“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; 
His mercies never come to an end;
They are new every morning;
Great is your faithfulness.”
(Lamentation 3:22,23 ESV)
“We all have our time machines.  Some take us back; they’re called memories.  Some take us forward; they’re called dreams.”
(Jeremy Irons~English actor)

*from “Transposition and Other Addresses” C.S. Lewis, published by Geoffrey Bles, 1949

The Art of Flim Flam

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“They stole a quarter of a million dollars from the kids!”  The television camera was focused on an angry father, standing in the midst of a mob of other parents, all of them just as angry as he.  The reporter illuminated.  “It appears that the travel agent who was entrusted with the job of arranging the Hawaii trip for these local band kids has disappeared with all the money.”  As the story unfolded, we learned that it was likely that the man had invested the money unwisely and was unable to produce either the cash or the tickets and lodging for the scheduled trip.  Three hundred children, disappointed and disillusioned, will not make the anticipated journey to the island paradise because of one man’s greed.

I’m angry, along with the parents.  But, as I listened to the newscaster, I was reminded that it happens all the time.  In the mid nineteen-nineties, the local Christian university was swindled out of two million dollars by a “philanthropic” firm who had claimed that the school’s investments of cash would result in significant increases due to donations from charitable organizations.  It turned out to be a “ponzi” scheme, netting the swindler huge sums of cash and leaving the university and many other organizations in serious financial straits.

As I continued to consider the situation, I realized that my frustration with scams goes back a lot further than even that relatively recent event.  I remember a day in the early nineteen-sixties.  The phone in the living room rang, to be answered by my oldest brother.  The voice on the other end of the line informed him that the call was from a local radio station and that our household had been selected as winners of the first prize in their current giveaway.  The prize?  A brand new color television!  Delivery details would be attended to by a popular appliance store immediately.  “Enjoy your new television!”  The caller hung up.  When my brother replaced the receiver, he turned to us in shock and repeated the conversation.  We were ecstatic!  A color TV?  We didn’t even have a black and white set!  A color TV!

Our elation lasted for days.  The next day, by chance, a station wagon, with the logo of a local appliance store plastered on the door, turned into the next door neighbor’s circle drive.  We were at the car in a flash.  “You want the house over there!  We’re getting the free television!”  The confused driver looked down at his paperwork and then back up at us, saying with a smile on his face,  “No, this is where I’m supposed to be.  I think someone is pulling your leg.”  We went home disappointed, but not discouraged.  For the next few days, we expectantly kept an eye on the road in front of the house, but the possibility that the man’s words might be true started to take root in our minds. Finally, after a week had elapsed, the skepticism was full grown and we admitted that we had been tricked.  Some teenager was just having fun at our expense.  It was nothing more than a prank call.  I think I was scarred for life.

Prank calls are supposed to be short and amusing.  “Is your refrigerator running?  Then, you better go catch it!”  “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?  You really should let him out!”  That’s the way prank calls are intended to work.  Ask the leading question and then spring the trap.  The victim is annoyed and the payoff is immediate.  There is no long term damage, no waiting for the conclusion.  This…this was diabolical!  The prankster could only have imagined that there was any mental anguish, could only hope that his words had the desired effect.  This one succeeded beyond his wildest dreams with the gullible children at my address, but he would never know it.  It has to be the cruelest of all phone pranks, with no payoff at all for the culprit, just a desire to cause emotional trauma and the imagination that it would succeed.

I exaggerate the mental anguish, but I still remember the feeling like it was yesterday.  I could not believe that there were such cruel people in the world.  Up to that point, the meanest humans I knew were my older brothers – and I didn’t want to know anyone meaner.  This though…this took cruelty to a new level.  I didn’t like the feelings of wealth, the joy of ownership, followed so quickly and conclusively by the assurance of abject loss and humiliation.

Although the reality is considerably different, I imagine that the feelings are the same for the kids in the band.  They were promised a trip to a tropical paradise and reveled in the plans they were making, the excitement of anticipation.  Today, they are derailed and inconsolable.  The conviction of good things to come has been replaced with certainty of disaster.  Not only money was stolen from them; their hopes have been pilfered from under their noses.  It is possible that some will be scarred for life.

The reality is that life is replete with con artists.  The truth is that we will all be scarred by these individuals.  Can I go one step further and tell you that you probably look at one of them every morning?  No, not the person you wake up next to, although they may be one also.  I’m referring to the person at whom you gaze in the mirror.  We all “play the angles”, making promises that we cannot (or don’t intend to) keep in order to gain something.  I’m reminded that I presented my best side to win the Lovely Lady’s heart prior to our marriage, but the dissimulation was dropped upon achieving the goal, as is often the case.  My guess is that there were a few moments (or possibly hours) of lost hope on her part, the knowledge of the entire flawed package bringing recognition of the flim-flam game which had been played on her.  To her credit, she has had the patience to work through those first disappointments and I’ve grown a bit more mature in making improvements on the original product.  There are still moments, though…

We could go into the causes and cures for the scams that continue throughout our lives, but volume upon volume has been written to explain both.  For those held in the snare and tight grip of hopelessness and despair, there are counselors who are much better prepared to help than I.  I will say this, though.  Sometimes, we need look no further than the con-man (or woman) in the mirror to determine much of the problem.  Unreasonable expectations are placed on many relationships by both parties, with greed entering the picture from both angles.  When I was a child, my greed for a prize of epic proportions outweighed my suspicions that I had been tricked.  Most scams cannot operate without the victims’ greed being a large part of the equation.  It has become anathema in recent years to “blame the victim”, but I can’t help but remember my Mama’s wisdom, when I would run to her for sympathy after being jostled or hit by a sibling.  She would say unsympathetically, “If you hadn’t been standing where you shouldn’t have been, you couldn’t have been hurt.”  While it is not always true (the band kids stand out as a prime example), most scams immediately fall on their faces without willing and greedy victims.

Check your heart.  Are you in this venture for yourself?  Are you in it to benefit others?  There is no guarantee of success either way, but if the latter is true, the damage to yourself will be minimized.  If I expect no personal gain, the failure of the venture simply encourages me to be more disciplined in the next attempt.  The crooks and liars can’t hurt you if you have nothing in the game to lose.  The best example of this I can point to?  None better than the Savior.  The wicked men who sat in judgment of Him didn’t kill Him.  He freely gave what they thought they were taking.  Long before that, without taking thought to His personal rights, He laid down  his position in Heaven to become like us and walk this soil as we do. 

Too simplistic?  It’s all I’ve got.  I’m convinced that it’s all there is.  When we give up our demands of what we desire, we give.  Period.  No more scarring.  No more disillusionment.   No more lost color televisions!

 I’m not there yet.  There’s still a good bit of that road in front of me.  But, the feet are moving.  I’m still alive, and there’s still hope. 

“Wherever your treasure is, there the desires of your heart will also be.”
(Matthew 6:21 NLT)

“If you’re not greedy, you will go far, you will live in happiness too, 
Like the oompa – loompa – doompity do.”
(from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” by Roald Dahl~British children’s author~1916-1990)

More Than Two Cents’ Worth

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Rain is falling and the lightning flashes periodically.  Rumbles of thunder resound, sending the black dogs under the storage shed seeking a hiding place.  I know that they have a good strong house, but for some reason, they aren’t reassured by the plastic structure with only two plastic flaps between them and the turmoil from the skies.  So, both cower in the dirt under the shed.  Maybe they’re the smart ones.
I wonder…Do we have a false sense of security?  How many times have we seen confidence shattered as the unsinkable, unbeatable, and invincible are swept away by circumstances and powers beyond our control?  Billions of dollars are lost as stock markets fall and money invested in “can’t miss” acquisitions turns out to be nothing more than speculation and fool’s gold.  A ship that can’t be sunk goes down on its maiden voyage, scuttled by something that was unseen until moments before the impact.  The greatest military might in the world is defeated by an upstart country of 13 small colonies and virtually no trained military men.
We even put our trust in men and women who turn out to be frauds.  More than that, those who have proven to be trustworthy for years and years stumble and founder.  Marriages fail after twenty, thirty, even forty years, destroyed by unfaithfulness.  People we respect lose their moral compasses, pursuing paths completely inconsistent with their past and their verbal affirmations.  Our faith in humans is shaken again and again.
Am I preaching?  It would appear so, since the tenor of this post seems to be pointing out our misplaced trust in all the wrong things.  Man-made things, whether they be structures or temperaments, buildings or character traits, are all flawed in their framework.  The idea that a thing conceived and made by a broken creature can endure in the face of the power and testing of the Creator is ridiculous in its foundational principle.  As the power of the forces pitted against it is unleashed, the cracks and flaws in the design and construction will always be brought to light.
When we trust in the might of men, we trust in a shadow, a puff of smoke.  It is here today, gone into the ether tomorrow.  My mind can’t help but be directed to our national motto, printed on our coins since the middle of the nineteenth century.  Much maligned in recent years; possibly on the brink of extinction in our current course, it is, nonetheless, still the only sane course for fallen man.  “In God We Trust.”
Francis Scott Key penned the words in 1814, and we know them today as our National Anthem.  The words which inspired our national motto read:
“And this be our motto: ‘In God is our trust.’
And the Star Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
Congress, in 1864, in the midst of the Civil War, a terrifying period in our history, with more than ample cause to acknowledge the erroneousness of trust in man’s institutions, shortened the phrase from that powerful verse and had the words “In God We Trust” stamped on the two-cent coin for the first time in U.S. history.  I have the privilege to possess one of these coins, and it never fails to move me powerfully when I hold it in my hand and think of that horrible time in our nation’s history, but also the simple faith of our leaders in an all powerful God, who values truth and justice above all of our petty desires.  The coin is worn and dirty, passed from hand to hand for a century and a half, with almost no monetary value, but the motto is still there, reminding that in spite of our shortcomings, our stupidity, and our arrogance, the Creator’s wisdom, and strength, and love trumps our weakness every time.  I don’t think I could part with it for any amount of money.
Had enough of the preaching?  Okay, I’m coming down from behind the pulpit in a moment.  Just one more reminder:  The psalmist knew whereof he spoke when he penned the words in Psalms 20:7.  “Some trust in chariots and horses.  We trust in the name of the Lord, our God.”
That said, I’m still headed indoors during this storm.  I do know enough to come in out of the rain…
“The illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths.”
(Alexander Pushkin~ Russian Poet~1799-1837)
“But courage, child!  We are all between the paws of the true Aslan.”
(C.S. Lewis)

Diversionary Tactics

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Where’s Goldbug?”  The two year-old was sitting on the edge of the step with the cardboard book open in her hands.  I smiled at the little blonde cutie with the intense look of concentration on her face.  For a moment, my mind went backwards about twenty-five years when the little blonde cutie holding that same book and uttering those very same words was her mother, or just as often, her uncle.  The book is by Richard Scarry, who has written many children’s books, each of them a joy to the eye for the child in each of us.  The particular book I refer to, though, has what I call a hook, meaning that there is one certain thing which captures the children and keeps them coming back again and again.

The artist has depicted all sorts of automobiles and trucks, both fanciful and real, and drawn them into a fun story wherein one reckless driver, Dingo Dog, is chased through the pages by the police officer, Officer Flossie.  I’m not sure if any of the children in my family (even the grown-up ones) could tell you what the plot is.  Each and every time they open up the book, the search is on.  You see, in every scene in the book there is a little character hidden, always in a different vehicle.  He is introduced simply as Goldbug and he is just that…a tiny gold bug.  On one page, he might be hiding in a car being towed away, eyes and whiskers barely visible in the side window.  Flip over the page and he is in his own tiny car, dwarfed by the big fire engines and buses, racing along so close to the ground that he is hardly to be found at all.  Goldbug is by far the tiniest character in the book, actually not playing a part in the plot at all.  He is mentioned a time or two, to remind the kids to keep looking for him.  They don’t need the reminder.

As I said, I’m not sure the kids in my life could tell you much of the plot.  I can’t either.  Whenever the book is in my hands, I’m surrounded by children, all of them vying to be the first to find the insignificant and imaginary little bug.  As soon as he is located and his whereabouts shouted out with excessive pointing and laughter, it is time to be on our way to the next page immediately.  We don’t read the text, don’t take time to examine the interesting-looking vehicles, like the Pickle Truck (a huge pickle-shaped thing) or the Alligator Car (yep, looks just like one); we must instantly flip forward to the following page, once more scanning the windows, the truck beds, or the convertibles for the by-now familiar shape and color.  “There’s Goldbug!”  I’m as anxious as they are to find him and claim the glory of yelling out the phrase.

I consider the experience I’ve had historically with this book and I can’t help but think that Goldbug is actually a “red herring”.  What’s a red herring, you ask?  The red herring myth was begun way back in the early eighteen-hundreds by a political journalist who related, in print, the story of using a red herring, which was actually just a smoked kipper, to draw hunting dogs off the scent they were following.  He used the term derisively about some fellow reporters who had mistakenly reported the defeat of Napoleon in a battle.  The problem is that the story of using the smoked kipper, the red herring, to train hunting dogs is itself false.  No such training method has ever been practiced.  It would seem then, that the red herring is itself a red herring.  Go figure.

The search for Goldbug seems to me to be exactly like the proverbial red herring which draws the juvenile reader (and occasionally, a more mature one) away from the plot of the story, keeping all of us from learning the lesson the author intended and frequently preventing us from even admiring the artist’s craft.  I wonder if that’s not just a little more like real life than we care to admit.  We are so easily drawn away from the pursuit of our goals and dreams, to follow shadows and imaginary prizes.  We have a destination, a purpose, and a plan to get there, but along the way the billboards point to exciting side shows and distractions.  “Stop and see the caves!”  “Visit the prehistoric ruins!”  “Eat our huge steak dinner in an hour, and it’s FREE!”  Enough distractions and stops, and we have forgotten why we started the journey in the first place.  We begin to believe that the side shows are the actual destination, the ultimate goal.  I’m confident that the Author has loftier plans and goals for us, if we’ll just read the rest of the book and keep moving.

The Goldbug search will continue in the years to come for the kids in our house.  I will encourage it.  In real life however, it is to be hoped that Officer Flossie will catch that reckless driver, Dingo Dog, and bring him to justice.  There are places we need to go!

I’ve got my Pickle truck polished up and ready to get me there.  Let’s see if we can keep on the right track together, moving on up the road. 

“Then Hopeful groaned in himself, saying, “Oh, that I had kept on my way!”
Christian:  “Who could have thought that this path should have led us out of the way?”
(In the castle of the Giant Despair from “The Pilgrim’s Progress” by John Bunyan~1628-1688)

“Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.”
(Will Rogers ~American humorist~1879-1935)

Non Cents

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Mister Whitmore, that piano you sold me won’t play.  You’re going to fix it, aren’t you?”  The exasperated voice at the other end of the phone line proved to belong to a youngish mom who had purchased the used piano from me just months prior to her terse call.  I didn’t bother to correct her use of the wrong name, since I’ve long ago learned to overlook that all too common mistake.  I’ve also found that pointing out errors doesn’t help to smooth ruffled feathers, either.  I asked her a few questions to try and ascertain the problem, but her answers led to more confusion than before.  She told me that the piano had worked fine at first, but that one by one, the keys had stopped working.  When they were depressed, there was a clicking noise and then they wouldn’t go on down to activate the notes.  I knew that sometimes the key bed of a piano could shift because of changes in humidity, but it didn’t make sense that it would happen one or two keys at a time, until most of them were unusable.  It was certainly a poser.  “This is not my problem, it’s your problem!  You sold us a piano that doesn’t work right!”  I assured the out-of-sorts customer that we would indeed rectify the situation for her and told her to expect our technician soon.

I gave the real Mister Whitmore a call and asked him to go out and look at the piano for me.  The Lovely Lady’s father had tuned and regulated pianos for almost fifty years by then.  I was sure that he could find the source of the problem quickly for me.  He chuckled as he heard my description of the issue and told me that he didn’t want to speculate, but he was pretty confident he knew what was going on.  A time was set up to visit the ailing instrument and I awaited his verdict.  The afternoon of his appointment, I was anxious to hear his report.  It was frustrating when he came into the music store, still chuckling.  I hoped that he hadn’t annoyed my customer by making light of her problem, but my fears were for naught.

“Well, all it took to solve the mystery was a little sense,” the old joker quipped.  I didn’t get the joke, so he explained.  It seems that, when the piano keys were removed, between each key was at least one penny…two or more between some of them.  There were a couple of young boys who lived in the house and they had found that the pennies from their piggy bank fit nicely between the ivory keys on the new piece of furniture. They egged each other on until they had no more pennies left in their banks.  Then, every time they were handed another penny or two, they made a deposit.  That explained the clicking sound, as well as what was keeping the keys from being depressed.  Pennies!  Worthless little discs of copper clad zinc were keeping that thousand dollar piano from working at all! 

I hadn’t thought about the episode for awhile.  Then today, I received an email from my amplifier technician.  He informed me that he couldn’t make a repair on a particular guitar amplifier.  The customer would need to pick it up and either replace the unit or get a new power supply and integrated circuit board.  I asked what had caused such extensive damage to the amplifier.  His answer?  A penny had been dropped down through the top of the amplifier case and had fallen across the high voltage circuit, shorting it out, along with several other components.  A four hundred dollar amplifier – ruined because of one single penny!

As I think about the incongruity of the situation, I’m reminded that most of our lives are like that.  The tiny, insignificant events that occur almost daily seem to control and direct the majority of our actions and feelings.  Oh, I’m aware that many of us have huge events which also affect our existence, but somehow, we seem to understand the magnitude of these episodes and do our best to cope effectively with them.  The little things now…those, we don’t attach nearly as much importance to and consequently, we are derailed by the most minor of occurrences.

I remember how, as kids, we used to put pennies on the railroad tracks, the common belief being that if a train were stopped, it couldn’t roll again if the penny were right under its wheels.  Failing that, we would get a wonderful smashed penny anyway, so it was a win-win for us.  The myth has proved to be wrong, but we liked the idea of a great big locomotive being stymied by a tiny, thin penny.  It would seem that what has been shown to be untrue for those inanimate machines, is actually accurate for the living, breathing human beings.

I’ve seen marriages which have fallen apart, piece by piece; destroyed by tiny issues piled, one upon another, until the two parties involved could see no way to resolve the problems.  Just as with the pennies in the keyboard of that piano, they waited until the music stopped completely to look for answers and by then, it was too late.  Churches can (and have) split apart over the most idiotic things (carpet color springs to mind);  businesses fail most often because of a preponderance of small blunders and not any one large event.  You see, a sense of urgency drives us to deal with the large problems immediately.  The small issues seem to present no real danger and are left to fester and eat away at the foundations, eventually leading to complete disaster.

I’ve said before that you shouldn’t sweat the small stuff.  I think maybe we should at least address it.  As it turns out, over time, pennies can actually cause more problems than dollars.

I may think twice before offering my “two cents’ worth” the next time.  How about you?  A penny for your thoughts?

“For want of a nail, the horse was lost;
for want of the horse, the rider was lost; 
for want of the rider the battle was lost; 
for want of the battle, the kingdom was lost.  
And, all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”
(Anonymous)

“If you are faithful in little things, you will be faithful in large ones. But if you are dishonest in little things, you won’t be honest with greater responsibilities.”
(Luke 16:10 NLT)

The Main Thing

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a 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 physical 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 was I to deal with that? 

The Lord knew I needed an answer to that question because a short time later (a few weeks, perhaps), 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.” 

Photo by Alex Brollo

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, maybe we should be a little careful in how we compliment others.  A backdoor compliment doesn’t bless anyone.  It’s more like the sting of nettles than it is like 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)

“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
(Stephen R Covey~American author and motivational speaker)

(Originally posted 10-20-2010)

Dis Concerted

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Come!  Listen to the pipe organ – the invitation was made.
Innocently, one would imagine, but in the words was laid
More meaning than could be expressed. 
Pain.  Annoyance.  Boredom.  Distress. 

I’ll go.  I’ll listen to the pipe organ.  I uttered the words. 
And reckoned that the sentence could be endured. 
It must be possible; Yes, it must be so. 
I’ve seen it done and…I can’t say no. 

At the back of the room!  That should be my locus. 
From there, on my snores, there can be no focus. 
But upon entering, I was without choice. 
Front row seats!  I had, clearly, no voice. 

We sat and waited.  Our arrival was premature. 
Perusing the program, one could only infer
That all hope indeed was gone. 
And the early mindset, completely spot on. 

Page after page mentioned organ and choir,
Enough for a week. I’d hoped for an hour. 
If those weren’t enough a grimace to bring,
In between each, the crowd had to sing. 

When dread was worst, the program commenced. 
My confusion did too.  A shift in spirit, I sensed. 
With every note, the heart seemed to take flight. 
Moments passed, darkest mood turned to light! 

Prelude and Fugue by Bach, led the charge. 
Up to the heights we stormed, but soon tears too large
To be hidden, coursed down from my eyes. 
I repent.  My words were all lies. 

No pain, but rapture.  Nothing there to annoy. 
No boredom was found.  No distress, but more joy
Was present than I ever had guessed. 
I don’t think I err when I say we were blessed.

In surprising places His joy can be found. 
It surely will be in the next place I’m bound. 
I borrow trouble. It ties me in knots
And keeps me from seeing the blessings I’ve got. 
 
Beauty lies around us.  It requires that we stop
And listen and feel.  And, sometimes shut up. 
The heart, when unfettered may actually soar
To heaven, or perhaps at least, to its shore. 

I’m back on the ground at last, for the night. 
If invited again, I think I just might
Stay home.  I’m not sure that I’m made
To soar to the heights, more than once a decade.

“…But now bring me a musician.” And when the musician played, the hand of the Lord came upon him.
(2 Kings 3:15 ESV)

“Music hath charms to sooth the savage beast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.”
(William Congreve~English playwright and poet~1670-1729)