Author: Paul Phillips

Some More Convenient Time

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The guitar sits in the repair section of my music store, waiting.  This procrastinator is completely flummoxed this time.  Three weeks ago, the electric guitar made its way, finally, onto my work bench.  When he brought it to me, the owner was unfazed by my suggestion that the delay might be two or three weeks.  He has other guitars and doesn’t need this one desperately, so a few weeks delay while a new pickup was installed wouldn’t be any problem.  That was six weeks ago.

When the guitar went on my work bench, it was because I realized that the deadline was looming.  Two weeks had passed, with a barely heightened sense of urgency.  But, three weeks…that was the promised delivery date.  So dutifully, a day or two before the deadline, I moved the guitar from its, by now, accustomed place on the back counter to the cluttered bench.  This job would be quick and painless.  It was neither.  Oh, the old pickup removal was fast and easy.  Screws removed, solder joints heated and wires taken loose, then the wire was pulled out of the cavity which led between the pickup and the controls.  It was out!  No sweat.  Then I realized, too late, that the cavity was crammed with more wires than is customary for its size.  The new pickup came out of the box and the truth really hit me.  There is no way this wire will fit through that cavity!  The diameter was much larger than the one I had just removed.  The cavity would have to be expanded.  This meant that all the other wires would have to be temporarily de-soldered and removed, the cavity drilled out, and then the wires could be repositioned and heated to solder them into place once more.  I don’t have the time to do this job.

The guitar sits in the repair section of my store, waiting.  Oh, I will finish the job, but just not today…probably not even tomorrow. Perhaps some more convenient time will present itself, eventually.

My mind is drawn back to a Saturday afternoon in South Texas, many years ago.  The fourteen year-old boy has decided that he needs to take a little more interest in helping his fellow man, so he has agreed to participate in a March of Dimes Walkathon.  He dutifully asks a few adults for sponsorships and receives pledges amounting to the staggering sum of twelve dollars.  He will walk some twenty-one miles on this warmer than normal October day, but it is a distance he is sure he will have no problem completing.  Although not a competitive event, he still has visions of finishing before any of the other hundred or so walkers.  The prospect of his name being mentioned on the local popular music station is enough to fuel the dream.  On the appointed day, the walk begins at the local high school, and a large contingent of older people are soon left far behind.  Along the way, four or five young men join together with our hero and they buy into the dream of the young man, jogging along with him in an attempt to be the first to finish.  Miles before the goal, most of them have dropped out, or at least slowed to a walk and are left behind.  Our protagonist outlasts and pushes past the remaining two of them to finish the course before anyone else that day.  The leg cramps and intense nausea he was experiencing took most of the glitter off the victorious moment, but his dream was realized and his name was announced as the first to complete the walkathon. 

One would think that it would be something about which a boy of fourteen would brag.  And, so I did…for a few days.  But, no more.  You see, the walk wasn’t completed until the goal was achieved.  The goal was for the funds to be put into the coffers of the March of Dimes, so they could be used in their fight against birth defects.  But there was no glory in collecting pledges from people, so I was derelict in accomplishing that.  Only after weeks of badgering by the school sponsor of the walkathon, was the collection complete.  It was even a couple of weeks after that when the money was finally handed over to the organization.  I couldn’t be bothered.  There would be no spotlight, no microphones being stuck in front of me by a DJ from the radio station, so the goal was actually reached many days after most had completed the actual purpose of the exercise.  I didn’t finish first at all!

One of my kid’s favorite childhood movies was about that astounding Disney nanny, Mary Poppins.  She introduced her young charges to a game she called, “Well Begun is Half Done.”  When he first hears of the “game”, one of her wards, Michael, mutters rightly enough, “I don’t like the sound of that.”  Though there is some truth in Poppins’ assumption, I would add (from long experience) that oftentimes jobs that are started without a proper resolve take even longer to finish.

I cannot begin to count the number of times that unfinished jobs have remained for months, even years, on my schedule.  I have perfected the art of procrastination.  That does not make it any more comfortable.  I am not satisfied with this pattern in my life.  I would tell you that it is going to change, if it’s the last thing I do, but that wouldn’t really be a step in the right direction, would it?  The habits of a lifetime are hard to break.  But, I very much want to have them broken.

So I resolve.  But, years of abandoned resolutions lie behind.  I still resolve.  Now, I don’t want to apply the Word improperly, but the Apostle tells us that “…He who began a good work will complete it until the day…”  He is speaking of righteousness, but I’m starting to grasp the concept that the whole man, with his whole witness, is involved in the work which is being done in us.  If God will not leave that work unfinished, it seems to follow that we need to carry our own work through to completion, also.

Who knows, that guitar may be back together in a day or two.  I started the job; I have confidence that it can be finished, too.  I’ll let you know…

“Brothers, I do not regard myself as having laid hold of it yet; but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on to the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”
(Philippians 3:13-14 NASB)

“It’s the job that’s never started that takes longest to finish.”
(Sam Gamgee, quoting his “gaffer” in “The Lord Of The Rings” by J.R.R.Tolkien)

Reaching Down Deep

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The babies were sleeping; one of them, simply because she just normally dropped off about this time of the evening; the other for some mysterious and miraculous reason.  It was after all, his common practice to stay awake half the night, demanding attention from either his mother or me.  Whatever the cause, there was no way that I wanted either to awaken at this moment.  But I needed to practice my horn.  A wedding performance was fast approaching and the preparation opportunities were few and were spread far apart.  I had to put in my time to be ready to play.  I knew what had to be done, but my brain rebelled.  “You’ll just have to use it,” the Lovely Lady encouraged me.  “I hate that thing!”  I blurted, bringing a rustle of bedclothes from the next room, as the infant in the nursery jumped at the sound of my voice.  Lucky for me, he settled back down again, but I knew my objection was for naught, and I soon found myself sitting in the kitchen, practicing silently…almost.

The hated thing was a practice mute.  My French Horn is normally not a quiet instrument, but necessity being what it is, I had purchased the mute a few months before for just such an eventuality.  The mute had a cork ring encircling the cone-shaped nose, where it was held in the bell of the horn.  The cork ring completely stopped any air from escaping, as the horn was played, effectively silencing the noise.  It was a device which was guaranteed to torture any horn-player.  You see, contrary to what parents of beginners on the instrument believe, the tones of the horn are amazingly mellow and inherently pleasant, with the pleasure increasing as the player improves his breath control and support of the air pushed through the instrument.  The practice mute ruins that completely.  The natural tone emanating from the mute is almost inaudible and amazingly edgy.  To top it off, no single note that sounds is in tune with the one played a second before.  It is a completely unsatisfactory experience, as the back pressure developed by the sealed up horn builds uncomfortably.

As I sat by myself, my chin dejectedly resting on the lead-pipe of the horn, I had a sudden flashback.  I remembered Mr Marlar, my horn teacher from years before, resting the back of his hand on my stomach as I played a passage for him.  I was surprised, to say the least.  Not one of my teachers had ever touched me on the stomach.  What he said changed the way I have played from that day, though.  “You think the sound of the instrument comes from between your lips and the bell of the horn.  It doesn’t.  The real tone of the horn comes from inside you.  It starts at your diaphragm and goes from there.  The throat, the tongue, the mouth…they’re all secondary to the support in your core.  The horn is even less important than any of them.”  He smacked my upper belly and said, “It all starts right here.” 

Now, a few years later, as the light dawned once more, I found myself concentrating, not on the sound from the blocked bell of the horn, but on the basics; support at the diaphragm, opening the throat, shaping the mouth.  I got a huge surprise!  The tone of that closed up instrument improved in an amazing way; the notes fell into tune with each other; I was quickly well on my way to being ready to play for the event.  A day or two later, when I was able to practice without worrying about the noise level, I got another surprise.  Without the practice mute, and still remembering the basics, with the tone of the horn coming from deep down inside of me and not merely from the horn itself, the improvement was almost miraculous and mind-boggling.  I don’t think I had ever sounded so good.  Who would have thought it?

Recently, the Lovely Lady and I sat and watched a televised performance of a legendary violinist.  Itzak Perlman is recognized by many to be one of the finest talents to come out of the second half of the Twentieth Century.  Perlman is Israeli born, having been stricken with polio as a child, necessitating the use of crutches for walking.  He is by now, an old man, and has earned the privilege of coasting through his golden years.  He does not.  If he were arrogant and condescending about his stature, no one could blame him.  He is not.  As we sat and took in the beautiful, emotion-ridden performance, I couldn’t help but be struck by one thing; This man plays from someplace deeper than his bow and violin.  The performance doesn’t come from his instrument.  True, he plays an incredibly costly Stradivarius violin, built during that legendary maker’s best years.  The bow which he draws across the strings of that valuable violin would cost well more than the most expensive instrument I have ever sold in my music store.  But, when this master plays, I believe that he could be playing on the cheapest of Chinese imports, with a warped and unbalanced bow, and lesser players would still rave at the resulting beauty.  The music comes from someplace deep down inside him.  And, it’s even deeper than the core that my teacher encouraged me to develop.  That was simply a mechanical function, learned by repetition and concentration.  When Mr. Perlman performs, the music is from his soul.  I watched his body, crippled as it is, move in concert with the strokes of the bow, in rhythm to the orchestra and its conductor.  Across his face, the joy that comes from doing that which he was created to do is unmistakable.  Soul and body respond to the call and the result is a pure delight, both to the performer and to the audience.  As the performance draws to an end,  and the crowd stands, as one man, to its feet, cheering wildly, I surreptitiously wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes.  I wouldn’t want the Lovely Lady to see and think me unmanly.  (I think she may already have noticed.)

I don’t believe that Mr. Perlman is the only person who performs from his very soul.  Not by a long shot.  I actually am confident that all of us do (or are meant to do) that very thing.  We certainly don’t have to be musicians to experience it.  We don’t necessarily draw the performance out in front of millions of adoring fans, perhaps don’t even have one adoring fan.  But, what is in our soul and heart will come out, because it is how we are put together.  My mind springs to the couple who faithfully teaches young children, year after year, loving every single one who is in their care, however briefly.  I’m remembering a pastor who preached and sang until just weeks before he left this earth, singing his beloved old hymns in his deep, bass voice.  There are teachers, and craftsmen, and even janitors who draw the joy in what they do from deep within.  I am also aware that many who work at jobs do so only to exist.  The job is not who they are, is not what is truly in their souls.  Even so, they find avenues to express their hearts.  I’m aware that the way in which our souls are expressed can also change drastically throughout our lives.  Many artists don’t ever lay brush to canvas until they are old; writers frequently blossom in their golden years.  In some ways, this harkens back to a subject I wrote about recently.  Gifts are given to us so that they may be shared; not hidden, nor hoarded. 

Our Creator has made us unique.  None of us is just like another.  I love the collage that the Great Artist is assembling.  Gifts that are as dissimilar as they are significant abound.  And, as His artists, we stand out as bright spots on the canvas.  A city on a hill cannot be hidden. 

Shine, then, as lights in the universe.  Show the world your soul!

“Ordinary riches can be stolen; real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.”
(Oscar Wilde~Irish poet~1854-1900)

“I believe that God has instilled in us a craving, a deep desire to run with Him on a fantastic adventure, yet many of us crawl along in life without even a glimpse of our hidden passion.”
(Bryan Davis~Author of Christian fantasy stories)

Back and Forth

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I’m a lover, not a fighter.  I kinda like it that way.”  I haven’t thought of the song for years, but tonight, I’m hearing the country twang of Skeeter Davis in my head, imagining her singing as she bounced along to the steel guitar, fiddle, and guitars.  You see, I picked a fight today.  No, not a fist fight.  But, actually, the way I feel tonight, it might just as well have been.

Earlier, I replied to a post by an acquaintance on one of the prominent social media.  He expressed a viewpoint with which I disagreed and, since it involves a pending referendum in my community, I thought he should know that not everyone agreed with him.  Now, after a number of hours, and a lot of words (most of them by yours truly), I’m wondering if there is a modified DeLorean automobile somewhere in the vicinity to which I might gain access.  I’d like to take a little spin with Marty McFly and turn back the clock on the last few hours of my life.  Can anybody help me with that?

Did I make any statements about which I am ashamed?  Not exactly.  Did I attack anyone personally?  Not at all.  It’s just that…how to say this?  I’m not the guy I used to be.  I guess that’s what I want to say.  I used to be the arguer.  I’ve told you that my mom suggested I would argue with a fence post and expected me to become a lawyer.  I even told you that my brothers called me a little motorboat, since every statement with which I disagreed was met with an instant, “But, but, but…”  I have sat on boards and argued, played in music groups and argued, even been in table conversation with my family and argued; all to the detriment of relationships and the general welfare of the forum in which I chose to be combative.  I’m not that person anymore.

Except that I am.  It’s been a little while since the motorboat was brought out for a spin, but given the right conditions, it sprung to life as if it had never been stowed away.  I can go through extended periods of time without standing next to a single fence post and gesticulating wildly while ranting.  But let someone push (or even brush) the right button and I am in full voice, brain racing ahead (barely) of my words, letting the unfortunate human have a large piece of my mind.  Most of you know all too well that I can ill afford to give away even a small part of my mind, much less a large piece.  I am an arguer.  Worse, I am frequently undisciplined in my control of my tongue.  In the New Testament, James talks about the tiny rudder that directs the huge ship, describing the tongue.   My problem isn’t the rudder of a huge ship, but just the little thing that guides that pesky motorboat.

Tonight, I repent.   REPENT verb (ri-`pent): To turn away from, as from sin; To feel regret for one’s actions.    I want to believe that I will not return to this activity again; I want to say that I am definitely NOT  an arguer.  I will never fire up the motorboat again; will never stand next to a fence post and talk until I am blue in the face.  I want all those things to be true and will attempt to make them so.

That said, I do, in reality, know what I am and who I am.  I know that I’m not man enough to tame this little piece of skin that’s right behind my teeth.  I’ve tried it on my own and failed miserably again and again.  For some reason, the picture in my mind right now is of some smokers I’ve known who tried to quit on their own many times, without success.  They can go for days, sometimes for weeks, without lighting up, but one day you meet them on the street and the little white stick filled with tobacco is smoking away between their lips again.  The Lovely Lady has a brother who was in that situation for many years, until he had a heart attack and the doctor told him that he was certainly going die if he didn’t quit.  Two things moved him from being a smoker to being an ex-smoker – the motivation of the potential death sentence, and the medication that the doctor prescribed, which took away the physical symptoms of his addiction.  His desire to continue the destructive habit was stilled.  With my problem, I’ve definitely got the motivation, but I need the medication.

I think I may have discovered the prescription.  I’m going to put the patch on my arm tonight.  I’ll let you know how it goes (or maybe you can let me know if it’s working).

What’s that?  The prescription?  Oh…James had it all along.  “…The wisdom that comes from Above…”  I thought it had to come from inside me.  Go figure!

“But the wisdom that comes from above is first of all pure.  It is also peace-loving, gentle at all times, and willing to yield to others.  It is full of mercy and good deeds.  It shows no favoritism and is always sincere.”
(James 3:17~NLT)

“I am not arguing with you.  I am telling you.”
(James Whistler~American artist~1834-1903)

The One

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Some days I almost think that I wouldn’t trade my job for anything!  That was the case a just over a month ago when I was able to acquire exactly the accordion that Leo needed, at a price he was happy with.  The “love my job” part isn’t about the money, but it’s about the nearly palpable joy Leo exuded as he headed out the door with his new toy.  Unfortunately, that joy was gone when he returned the instrument a couple of weeks ago, with a small problem.  I reassured him that we could take care of the issue easily, thinking that I was the one who would fix his problem and make his joy return.

Two weeks and a raft of phone calls later, some not returned, some completely unsatisfactory in their outcome, it is clear that I am not the one.  I thought that my “customer service” representative at the company that wholesaled the instrument to me might be the one.  It turns out that he doesn’t understand what his title means and I was passed on to the “customer service” rep at the manufacturer.  Are you starting to see a pattern here?

The manufacturer’s customer service representative failed completely in his promises and obviously wasn’t the one, so I turned back to my wholesaler’s district manager.  Perhaps, he was the one.  “Call the ‘real’ customer service rep”, was his reply.  Nope…not the one.  The “real” customer service rep (at the wholesale company), understood his title a little better, but he handed me back to the manufacturer again, so he’s clearly not the one, either.  When I called the manufacturer this time, the man who answered the phone was actually the fellow who determines the disposal of returned merchandise.  He, in fact, knew exactly what needed to be done.  “Wait a minute.  I’ll get you a return authorization.”  I was cautiously optimistic; hopeful that I had finally found the one!  Sure enough, in moments, I had the all-important authorization in hand for returning the product to them.  Better than that, he wanted to listen to what the instrument was doing over the phone, and he is positive that they can make the customer happy once more!  He is the one!  Some days, I almost think I wouldn’t trade my job for anything!

Somehow, we spend our lives looking for the one, that solitary individual who has the solution to our problem.  I remember a few years ago, when the Lovely Lady was suffering with acute pain in her shoulder.  Believing that the problem might be a functional issue that could be helped by physical manipulation, instead of being treated internally, she opted to go to a chiropractor.  That physician ignored her symptoms and signed her up for a year’s worth of back treatments, “…to get your spine correctly aligned again.  Then all your symptoms will be gone.”  I was reminded of the doctor who recommended a medication for treating a cold.  “You’ll be right as rain in seven days,” he promised.  “Well, what if I wait it out?”  the patient inquires.  “Oh,” comes the educated reply.  “Then it will take a whole week.”  The Lovely Lady cancelled her remaining appointments with the chiropractor (definitely not the one)and called a medical doctor (also not the one), who made an appointment with a specialist (once again, not the one).  Does this sound familiar?  Still looking for the one, the Lovely Lady was, at last, shuttled back to a sports physical therapist, who assigned her some simple exercises that focused on the calcium deposit in her shoulder.  In a week or two, the pain was gone and it was obvious that she had found the one.

Can you identify with these scenarios?  How many times in life have you waited for the one?  I cannot begin to count them.  Best friend, mechanic, pastor, team member, guitar teacher…the list goes on and on.  We are constantly on the lookout for that individual who is head and shoulders above all the others in the running.  Frequently, we think we have found him or her, only to be disappointed shortly.  We’ll not go into the argument about whether there is only one human in the world who is the one person we are intended to spend our lives with as our soul mate.  Whatever the final word is in that argument, we haven’t heard it yet.  Regardless, we look for the one and have varying amounts of success in the search.  I’ve told you before that I am pleased that I found the Lovely Lady (she says she found me), and am convinced that no one else would have put up with me  anyway.  She is, no doubt, the one for me, as is her similar claim for me.

I’m not going to spend a lot of words preaching to you tonight.  I’m betting that you are all reasonably intelligent individuals, who can connect the rest of the dots without all the numbers, who easily grasp the gist of the word pictures I’ve already sketched out here. Let me say it this way and then you’re on your own:  If you are looking for the one in a spiritual sense, there are an astounding number of wrong choices.  Every single one of them has a promise to make and every single one of them will disappoint utterly.  Every place you look, every credo you claim will leave you empty and searching, until you find The One.  And there is indeed, only One.

I think it’s time for me to stop for now.  You see, I’ve got an accordion to package up tomorrow.  Turns out, for that kind of work, I am the one.  It’s not my highest aspiration, but for today, I’ll accept the honor.  I can work my way up the ladder from there.

“Now to the King of ages, immortal, invisible, to the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever.  Amen.”
(I Timothy 1:17)

Morpheus:  “You are The One, Neo.  You see, you may have spent the last few years looking for me, but I have spent my entire life looking for you.”
(from “The Matrix” movie~1999)

Up From the Depths

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was a tragedy waiting to happen.  The boys were gathered around the concrete reservoir of the irrigation canal near the golf course.  What is it about water that attracts boys so?  They will wander for miles just to have a chance to dangle their feet in a tiny stream; will make stick boats to float in puddles that are more mud than puddle.  The bodies of water seem to call their name from miles away.  In that long ago time when the episode I’m thinking about tonight occurred, there weren’t so many restrictions placed on children.  They roamed their neighborhoods, building forts in groves one day and hiking across town the next.  Neighbors watched out for them; strangers corrected misbehavior.  It seemed, without doubt, a more innocent time.  There were dangers, nonetheless.

So, the boys played in the little reservoir, the place where that particular canal descended underground for at least two miles. As they dropped pieces of debris into the swirling water, every particle of the flotsam was drawn inexorably downward, to disappear under the road without a sign of return.  Even so, they had no fear.  The youngest boy was four, the oldest eight, and they were invincible.  The little vessels they floated into the water, however…they were doomed.  Suddenly though, in the midst of their revelry – disaster!  The four-year old got too close to the edge and into the swirling water he toppled.  He couldn’t swim; couldn’t even scream because of the water in his mouth.  The playground of water that moments ago had been swirling little bits of sticks and paper for his amusement, now had the youngster in its grip.  It sucked him down, deeper and deeper.  Within seconds, he was under water and in peril of being drawn underground to a certain death.  The oldest boy of the group thought quickly and jumped into the concrete canal, right before it descended into the reservoir, where he could stand without the water pulling him down too.  Reaching underwater as far as he could, he gripped the flailing arm of the little one.  There was no way he was letting go!  The water tugged hard, but he tugged harder, bringing the gasping small-fry to surface and almost flinging him onto the hard ground beside the canal.  The little fellow was half-drowned and bleeding from a cut on his foot, caused by broken glass at the bottom, five feet down…but he was alive!  The frightened little guy was soon delivered, dripping wet, to his horrified mother and peace reigned again.  Well, except for her ranting, and a few new edicts about appropriate play areas being issued…

It happened over fifty years ago.  I will never forget it.  Terror sticks in your memory.  So does gratitude.  But time also passes and circumstances change.  The older boy grew up, as did I, and he married young, going into the military immediately thereafter.  One might say that he jumped into the deep water of his own volition, but however you describe it, the current had him in its power.  One disappointment after another, with a volatile marriage, led him into deeper water.  He thought he saw something that would help.  The bottle was a false hope, but by the time he figured that out, he was caught in the tight grip of that whirlpool, too.  Alcoholism sucks everyone in the vicinity down to the bottom, inflicting wounds as it swirls them around.

I can’t count the number of times I have attempted to reach out and rescue my rescuer.  But, there was never a hand to catch onto; the man didn’t want to be rescued.  Then suddenly, after a number of years of disastrous living, aborted relationships, lost jobs, and court dates, he was at my door.  I felt his grip in mine.  Finally, I could rescue him!  It was a false hope.  Mere weeks later, he again succumbed to the siren song of the liquor and the draw of the dives, where most are also foundering, but still are able to convince their peers that it’s not really a bad situation at all; that no one is really drowning and all is well in their world.  Of course, every night, when he leaves the camaraderie of the drowning crowd, and stumbles into his own room, alone, the truth hits again and he is overcome.

He saved me.  Why can’t I save him?  I’ve struggled with that, lying awake in the dark for many nights.  I still haven’t found an answer with which I am satisfied.  I know that all of us have a free will, with which we make choices for our life path.  I know that until he chooses to accept the help offered, or makes his way out himself, he will suffer the consequences of the maelstrom.  I still live in hopes that someone will reach to him and find a hand ready to hold on for dear life.  I will keep praying.

Again and again, as I walk through this life, I have realized that many others agonize over the same issues.  We all have friends or family members who are lost in the maze of choices they’ve made.  If nothing else, I’ve come to recognize that I can’t fix life for any of them.  I am, by nature, a problem solver and allowing others to work through their issues is difficult, almost painful, for me.  I am learning patience.  I am also learning to have faith.  There is One who really can save, who actually knows man from the inside out.  His time-table isn’t always convenient for me; He doesn’t always seem to move in the same time zone in which I do.  Still, I think His hands reaching down into the chaos might have a better effect than my inept, clumsy efforts.

I’ll wait.  Maybe you can wait with me.

“He has made everything beautiful in His time.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:11)

“Faith is the strength by which a shattered world shall emerge into the light.”
(Helen Keller~American author and educator~1880-1968)

Of Helicopters and Parachutes

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I planted some dandelions today.  Oh, c’mon admit it.  You’ve done it too.  Who can resist the tantalizing wispy white head of a dandelion plant in springtime?  You hold the beautiful stem in your hand, gazing directly at the horde of delicate seeds gathered in a circle around the ovule at the top of the stem.  Their tenuous grip on their life source indicates their readiness to make the trip for which they were designed.  If you examine them closely, you’ll notice that each seed has a tiny, slender stem itself, the bottom of which is attached to the main plant.  At the top of that tiny stem is an umbrella, a parachute of sorts, specifically designed to carry the seed far enough away from its sire to multiply the species.

Careful not to inhale too close to the seed head, you take a deep breath and push it back out again, directing the stream of air right at the puffball.  The resulting explosion of little flying whirligigs is spectacular!  And, if you weren’t watching so carefully out of the corner of your eye to see if the neighbors were peering angrily from behind their curtains, you would laugh for joy to see God’s creation at work.  A common weed, we call it.  Ha!  More like a miracle in action, putting to shame all the complicated machines that our feeble minds can contrive to complete the tasks we deem important.  The simplicity, along with the amazing resilience, is so far beyond our imaginations that we can only marvel.  The process needs us not at all, as is evidenced by all the empty stems I see as I view the yard.  The strong storm winds have already spread the plant’s progeny to the four corners of my property (and maybe just a little beyond, truth be told).  The gentle rain that fell last week has already helped to press them into the soil, and even tonight, I imagine they are starting to germinate, putting down their stubborn tendrils into the damp earth, preparing for another bumper crop in a few weeks.

I hear the naysayers in my ear as I write this.  “Why would you allow this vicious weed to thrive in your yard?  Don’t you know it’s aggressive and ugly?  Aren’t you aware that it spreads to my perfect lawn?”  Of course I know that after I mow the lawn, they pop up and make it look as if I haven’t mowed at all.  I know that millions of dollars annually are spent trying to eradicate this “blight on the landscape”, but all in vain.  Ugly or not, I’m doing my part to protect the species, although they have no need of my protection.  I must admit, I have never dug a dandelion plant from my yard, never sprayed a drop of pesticide to control them.  They are, to me at least, one of Spring’s best gifts to the awakening world, with the wonderful maple helicopters running a close second.

The fantastic design of that maple seedpod is, without question, another source of wonderment for me.  This spring, the red maple in my backyard is covered with thousands of the odd winged vessels.  It is more properly called a “samara”, but I much prefer the descriptive name “helicoptor”.  Of course, the English have a fine name for it also; calling it a “spinning jenny”.  Every two years or so, the slender branches of the spreading tree almost sag beneath the weight of the seeds (as with this year), until the spring winds call to them, coaxing them off, first just a few at a time.  I like to think that the first ones are the adventurous type, not needing the company of the rest to know that this is what they were made for.  And then, before you know it, the slightest breeze fills the air with the spinning, gyrating seeds, headed by the hundreds of thousands to a resting place in the surrounding yards and ditches, awaiting their time to be pressed down into the soil and be watered; ready to spring up into saplings.  If we humans weren’t so intent on open spaces in which to do nothing, the hills would be covered with the beautiful trees.  Oh, I know…not all of the seeds would produce trees.  If they did, the forest would be so dense nothing could live.  But, as it is, I am particularly fond of the maple trees, with their large shade-providing leaves,  shaking and quivering in the storms, turning brilliant oranges and yellows before loosing their grip on the branches in the fall; only to be the earliest to burst forth again as the warm air triggers the life-cycle once more in the springtime.

I will grudgingly admit to the beauty of the autumn, and even the excitement of a beautiful snowfall in the dead of the winter, but spring is the season I love best.  I think it’s because my mind cannot fully contain the wonder of creation; cannot take in the fantastic design of the wonderful and diverse organisms surrounding us, from the flowering trees and bushes, to the pollinating hedges (covered with bees and flies to carry the pollen far away), to the amazing methods of regeneration afforded to all of the growing, thriving flora and fauna around us.  The intricate designs of a loving Creator overwhelm the intellect, as well as the senses, with each new bloom and every living thing that meets the eye.

It also might have something to do with the simple pleasures that spring affords.  I think that’s exactly the way our Creator intended it, too.  And, it doesn’t hurt that I love it when the children in my life are overjoyed as they plant dandelions along with this silly, aging man.  I can’t imagine a better way to spend a cool springtime evening!

“If dandelions were hard to grow, they would be most welcome on any lawn.”
(Andrew V Mason M.D.~American doctor and author) 

“Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.”
(A.A. Milne~English author)

A repeat of one of my favorite posts, which appeared on April 12, 2011.  Sometimes you just figure you can’t improve on your first take. 

Gotta Serve

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You’re going to have to live with rules for the rest of your life, Jack.  You might as well get used to it now.”  I didn’t say the words in love.  They came without forethought from my mouth, as I responded to the accusing tone of the six-year old standing in front of me.  Little Jack was a neighbor boy, who came to visit my children once in awhile, when they were also young.  On this occasion, he stood there in my living room, staring at me, speechless.  For just a fraction of a second, I felt remorse at the words, suddenly harsh-sounding and almost callow.  That feeling quickly passed and I thought that perhaps the young man might actually learn something from them.

Jack’s parents weren’t quite the disciplinarians the Lovely Lady and I were.  Being more lenient, they allowed the child to set most of his own limits.  We were happy to allow them that freedom as parents; he was, after all, their son and not ours.  But when he came to our house, we had rules which the children followed.  Rule number one?  Knock at the door before entering the house.  The first few times he visited, he walked right in, without being admitted.  More rules followed…We say “please”, and “thank you”, and “excuse me” at appropriate times.  On this day, one of my children had ripped a toy from the hands of the other.  In this situation, the rule of saying “I’m sorry” was enforced, to the incredulity of the youngster.  He had had enough.  Drawing himself up to his full three feet and seven inches, he got it off his chest.  “You have a lot of rules, don’t you?”  From a young father’s perspective, it was the wrong time for the question to be asked, seeing that I was disciplining my child.  Without thinking, I retorted the words which you read earlier. 

Jack stared at me for twenty seconds without speaking.  His eyes screamed his skepticism.  Surely, this grownup couldn’t be correct!  Who tells him what to do?  Who makes him obey?  His mouth moved, but he never uttered a word.  Without breaking his silence, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the house, slamming the door as he went (Another rule: Close the door; we’re not in a barn).  I’ve often wondered about the conversation as he arrived home.  What a monster must they have thought I was!  I also will admit that I have shared the anecdote a few times myself, just to get a laugh.  Over the years though, the lesson of the episode has been reinforced again and again to me, not always in pleasant situations.  I can only speculate about whether the young man had to learn the lesson the hard way, or if he remembers any of the words I directed in his direction that day.

On so many planes, we live out the truth I shared rather heartlessly with the boy on that occasion.  We choose to live in situations that demand compliance with certain sets of rules.  Our employment, educational institutions, churches, and even owner’s associations, all have rules within which we agree to operate, simply because we wish to live at peace with others in those groups.  No one bullies us to obey; we do so because we have opted to accept the benefits of the body.  We also live in a society which has laws by which we abide.  They are enforced if we step outside the boundaries, but overall, we can choose to live unmolested by not challenging the norm.  I won’t discuss at any length the issues of civil disobedience, but suffice it to say that sometimes participants in society disagree about the set of rules and either change them by breaking them or are broken themselves by them.  Even after this process, rules exist, nonetheless.

Without getting into a doctrinal argument, I wish to make this last point…I love the freedom that Grace provides for all of its recipients.  Oh, it’s not a freedom from rules, it’s a freedom to enjoy, to exult in, The Rules.  A friend today remarked on this and his comment brought an old song-title to my mind.  My friend’s reminder was straight from the Savior’s words, “If you commit sin, you are a slave to that sin.”  The song it reminded me of was called, “Gotta Serve Somebody”.   I was also reminded in a strong way that Grace makes it a joy to serve, to practice The Rules.  How could it be otherwise?

All of life has rules.  As a child, at times I was dragged, kicking and screaming (literally), to obedience.  As a teenager, more than once, I walked away in defiance.  Truth, though, has a way of removing all barriers.  And now, as I observe the battle many others are still fighting, I sometimes wish I could authoritatively state the obvious, as I did to that boy so many years ago.  It doesn’t work that way, though.  Frequently, the truth can only be learned in the school of hard knocks.  The lessons learned there seem to carry more weight than those handed us in times of ease.

Of course, I’d like someday to actually graduate from the hard knock course, myself.  Evidently, there are still a few more lessons this hard-headed student has to learn.  I’ll keep studying…

“But, as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
(Joshua 24:15)

You may be a preacher with your spiritual pride,
You may be a city councilman taking bribes on the side,
You may be workin’ in a barbershop, you may know how to cut hair,
You may be somebody’s mistress, may be somebody’s heir

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You’re gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody.  
 (“Gotta Serve Somebody”~Bob Dylan~American songwriter/singer)

Walking Tall

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I felt small today.  Twice.  The Tall Man called to tell me that he had the “perfect score” which he knew I would not be able to pass up.  As I began the phone conversation, the Lovely Lady heard me call him by name and she was immediately shaking her head and mouthing the word, “Don’t.”  I’m a sucker…an all-day one, it seems.  The Tall Man has been to visit me many times over the years; Every time he has the “perfect score”, it seems.  The only problem is that the man has a penchant for the cheap; for the bottom of the heap.  No.  That’s not absolutely true.  He loves nice things, but brings me the bottom of the heap things in anticipation that I will not recognize them for what they are.  He has visions of me opening the doors to my top merchandise and bidding him take anything he wants in trade for what he already owns.  It is not a likely scenario.

I suppose, I am the worst type of enabler.  I always believe that people can change.  I am always living in hopes that this time, their word is trustworthy; this time, they’ll come through.  So, when the Tall Man calls with news of a wonderful drum set, in “amazing condition”, which he wants to trade for “just one guitar”, I tell him I will take a look at it.  The address is given and found and he meets me at the door.  Once again, I am dwarfed by the physical size of the man; my hand is engulfed in his as he thrusts it at me to shake.  I am led to a bedroom, in which the “drum set” resides.  The disappointment is immediate, as he shows me a broken cymbal while apologizing, “I don’t want to mislead you.  This one isn’t any good.”  The other cymbals aren’t broken, but they’re no good either.  The top-brand set he promised is a Frankenstein’s creation, if ever there was one.  Only two of the five drums started out life together; mounts have been moved to avoid broken shells, and the “snare drum” is actually a timbale, intended for Latin-style music.  In short, this “perfect score” is a complete strike-out, with no value to me whatsoever.  As I patiently explain the reasons I cannot use the monstrosity, the Tall Man shifts uneasily before me.  He already knows every defect, every shortcoming.  He has put together this set from spare parts in the false hope that I will be ignorant of their lack of authenticity and offer him the valuable instrument he covets anyway.   My hopes for truthfulness and honesty in a man I know to be untruthful and manipulative are once more dashed.  I firmly demur, passing on the “perfect score” and head back for the music store.

As I drive, I turn on a radio news program to take my mind off the dismal failure my trip has been.  The reporter is discussing a well-known legal case which will be argued before the Supreme Court of the United States next week and is spotlighting one of the attorneys who will present the evidence for one side.  He casually mentions the man’s age and I realize, with a jolt, that the attorney is exactly the same age as I am.  This man–my peer–will be arguing what is possibly one of the most important cases to come before the Supreme Court in my lifetime!  Here I am, standing in bedrooms, explaining the demerits of drums to a man who will never tell me the truth, and this man is standing before some of the most powerful people in the nation, explaining the demerits of his opponent’s case.  The sense of disproportion is staggering!  Again, I feel small.

I’m not sure that the juxtaposition of these two events is an accident.  Sometimes, I believe that the sequence in which our lives unfold is part of the learning process.  I haven’t always connected the dots.  I still miss much of the topography, but this dichotomy is not lost on me today.  My mind jumps, as I write now, to the parable of the gifts that Jesus told to his disciples.  He told of a wealthy man who gave varying sums of gold to his servants and asked them to use it wisely.  Hearing the story as a child, my sense of fair-play, always overdeveloped, demanded to know why some got more than others.  I have come to realize that the significance is not the size of the gift, but it is in what is done with the gift.  That said, I still find myself time and again, focusing on the original gift.  I did that again today, as I coveted the gift of mighty influence, which the attorney in the news story has. 

Tolkien tells us that even a slow person can see through a brick wall, given time.  I stared at the brick wall in front of me today and I think that I am beginning to realize the truth.  I am not responsible to do more than what I have been gifted to do.  What is required of me is to work with the material I have in front of me.  I’m not a famous lawyer; I’m not the President of the United States; I’m not even the Mayor of my town.  That doesn’t make me a small man.  It means that I have been given different gifts.  My physical size has nothing to do with it, either.  The Tall Man, sadly, has chosen to exercise his gifts in a selfish way that tears down everyone with whom he interacts.  He’s put me in that frustrating position many times.  I want to employ my gifts so that lives are improved, so that the world I leave behind is a little better for my having walked through it.  There are days when I succeed in that goal. And, a few when I don’t.

Do you need a little encouragement today?  Here it is:  You are uniquely gifted to fill your place in this world!  How you use that gifting is up to you.  One of the characters in the parable I mentioned earlier hid his gift, thinking he was guaranteeing success.  He (and the world) lost because of his inaction and disengagement.  The gift you carry isn’t for you and you didn’t earn it, but it must be used to benefit those around you.  And, I’m not suggesting that you exercise a haughty pride as you walk, but you can walk tall as you follow the path marked out for you.  The gifts given to all of us actually obligate us and give us a task to fulfill.  No one is better than anyone else as they succeed in that function.  The gift isn’t the goal; its usefulness is.  

It’s a little gratifying to realize that our tasks in this life are neither more nor less important than are those that are carried out by people in the public eye.  There is no comparison to be made between us, except for this:  Did we use what we have in our hands to the end of our strength?  If not, will we make a new attempt tomorrow?  And the next day?  I love the idea of new beginnings and new chances daily.  I think that’s the reason that Grace draws us so.  The past is erased; the future awaits, clean and inviting. 

Morning approaches again.  I’m gratified that I don’t have to face it as a small man.  I’m no Paul Bunyan either, but I think I’ll settle for just plain Paul, working at walking tall.  There’s room here on the road for more than just one to walk.  You coming along?

“Now, it is required in a steward, that he be faithful.”
(I Corinthians 4:2)

“One must know, not just how to accept a gift, but with what grace to share it.”
(Maya Angelou~American poet)

Expert in Stupidity

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The gorgeous, new guitar that had left the store was neither, when I saw it again a few weeks later.  My perfunctory look at the soft case gave the “Cliff’s Notes” version of the full narrative that would be told when the torn, useless zipper was pulled apart.  The black cloth was pock-marked with holes that had white tracks leading to and from them, indicating that moving rocks had played a part in the plot of this story.  As the case was opened, a glance at the owner’s forlorn visage steeled me for the horror to come.  The fragments tumbled out en masse, leaving only the battered remains of the neck and top in the case.  I have to admit, I had expected a damaged instrument, but I was not prepared for the shattered, splintered mound of debris that gave scant evidence of the once beautiful instrument which had left my shop only weeks before.

Almost tearfully, the story unfolded.  Ready to load the guitar in the car, but finding the trunk locked, the owner leaned the instrument carefully against the back bumper, moving to the front of the car to hit the trunk release.  An unexpected interruption came and the errand to pop the trunk was forgotten.  Scant minutes later, backing out and hearing a strange sound for several feet brought the horrified recollection of thought, but too late!  A careless moment and a phone call at the wrong time…these had contributed to the early demise of a guitar that normally would have an expected useful life of 20 or more years.  It was gone in the blink of an eye.  And, as sad as the experience is, I guarantee you, this guitar owner will one day find a way to laugh about the disaster.  Will they ever quit regretting it?  Probably not, but they’ll get over it.  It was a sad moment, but the guitar could be replaced and music would flow again, as well as some jokes and good-natured kidding to go along with it.

That is probably not so, for the owner of another guitar I was handed a number of years ago.  The man had decided to sell the instrument and was seeking a fair offer.   I looked at the beautiful, antique Gibson electric guitar and thought, “What a beauty!”  In top condition, it was worth about $3000 in today’s dollars.  I was excited that I would have a chance to purchase it and make a profit upon resale.  But, as I turned the guitar over to examine the reverse side, my heart sank.  The back of the guitar told a completely different story than did the front.  It was mutilated, with a large, square hole cut, not broken, in the center of the wood surface.  What (or who) could have done such a horrible thing to this superb work of art?

It’s not my vice, so I have no personal experience, but apparently, too much liquor makes you do stupid things.  The sad story was recounted to me by the now, very sober man.  He had been the guitarist for a local band which played every weekend in one of the nightclubs.  As happened frequently in those days, there was very little actual pay for musicians, so the bar owner compensated the band with free beers while they played.  Of course, as a result, the quality of the music suffered progressively through the evening, but the bar patrons didn’t take any notice, since most of them had also deteriorated in like manner.  On the night of the incident, the guitarist noticed an intermittent problem with the signal from the guitar to the amp and eventually it failed completely.  Access to the pickups was difficult without the right tools, and not having much time to effect repairs, he did the only thing his inebriated brain could conceive. He reached into his pocket, took out the greatest tool ever invented and…opened his jackknife and cut a small hole through the wood back.  It wasn’t enough room for his hand, so he cut it bigger.  Still not enough…well, you get the picture.  As the story unfolded, I stood with my mouth agape, listening in disbelief that, even in that mental state, anyone could be so witless.

I purchased the guitar, but for a price that was a fraction of what it should have brought.  I’m also sorry to say, that, like the appraisers on the Antiques Roadshow, I made a point of telling him what it would have brought prior to his senseless mutilation of a fine, vintage instrument.  My guess is there will never be a day when this gentleman laughs about his loss.  For some reason, stupidity doesn’t seem to become funny over time, it just seems more stupid.

We all get absent-minded once in awhile, sometimes with disastrous results.  That’s not the same thing as stupidity.   In the words of one wag, “Ignorance is curable, but stupidity is terminal.”

I’m still hoping for a cure for whichever one it is that I’ve got.  While there’s life, there’s hope…

“Life is tough.  It’s tougher when you’re stupid.”
John Wayne

“Stupid is as stupid does.”
(Forrest Gump)

Originally posted as “Mama Says, Stupid Is As Stupid Does” on October 7, 2010

The Lump Paradigm

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Don’t sweat the small stuff!”  I’ve said it a hundred times to people around me.  The layaway payment is a few days late?  “Don’t sweat it!”  The shipping address for that order doesn’t match the Post Office database?  “Don’t sweat it!”  The young man on the other side of the counter doesn’t have quite enough cash to pay for his purchase?  “Don’t sweat it!”  Again and again, I encourage folks to let it go and not worry.  There are more important things in the world to think about.  Frequently, the folks with whom I am dealing are reluctant to let it go, uncertain about allowing a stranger to foot the bill and suspicious that there will eventually be a price to be paid, somehow.

One of my favorite writers is Robert Fulghum.  I find that theologically, I am as far from him as anyone I read, but this man does understand life.  How else do you explain the title, “Everything I Need to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten”?  So when I read this quote a few years ago, it stuck in my head and made me think.  “Life is lumpy.”  Well, yeah.  But what does that mean?  I get that it’s not all smooth sailing, that there are ups and downs in life, but what does he mean, “lumpy”?  Thankfully, he finishes the thought…“A lump in the oatmeal, a lump in the throat, and a lump in the breast are not the same kind of lump.  One needs to learn the difference.”  I wish I’d said that!  Admit it!  You’d think I was a brilliant philosopher if I had, wouldn’t you?  But, I didn’t.  That doesn’t make it any less to the point.

Why is it that we agonize over such minutiae as a misspelled word in the church bulletin, but turn our eyes away from the homeless person standing in the foyer as we leave the church?  Why do we become incensed about an overcooked steak and castigate our waitress mercilessly, never caring that she is worn out with concern for a wayward child who is in trouble with drugs?  It’s not always others that we aim our venom at, either.  Many of us internalize our anger and distress, blaming ourselves for sloppiness, for tardiness, for forgetfulness.  Before we know it, our worry and apprehension has gotten the better of us and all of life looks dark, with no hope of ever getting better.  Day by day, we tie ourselves up into knots over unimportant details, which have no lasting value of any kind. 

Mr. Fulghum recommends perspective to bring focus.  Sometimes, lifting our eyes from our immediate problem to view the big picture will bring clarity.  Sometimes, we just need a friend to give us a kick in the pants.  But always, we need to make the important issues important, and the minor issues minor.  Otherwise our mindset, our moods, our outlook on life will be skewed and we ourselves are the losers.

Today, it rained.  A lot.  I have a couple of black dogs that live in my backyard.  They have a shed to which they may retreat in inclement weather.  They’re not intelligent beings.  As they wandered out in the pouring rain, I fretted and got myself into a dark mood worrying about them.  I also knew, in a tiny spot in the back of my mind, that a friend of mine was going through some tests in the hospital to determine the cause of a heart arrhythmia, an irregular heartbeat.  I wasn’t in a black mood about him, just about the dogs out in the rain (of their own volition).  Late this afternoon, an email came, reminding me that he will be having a procedure to make repairs to his heart tomorrow.  The light flashed in my brain!  Important things need to be made important.  Minor things should stay in their place.

I have one more comparison, if you’ll allow it.  I have complained repeatedly about needing a break from work.  The load has been significant.  I’m not as young as I once was.  And, I find that I’m getting better at griping about it than most.  As I talked with one of my regulars today about my perceived problem, I was in fine form, commenting about being trapped with no way of escape.  I don’t care if it is job security, I’d like a little less, thank you!  The customer finally shoehorned a few of his own words between those in my diatribe.  I started listening and discovered that he had to quit his part-time job because of the pain it brought on from a very real injury.  Now, a couple of years later, he is fighting to keep a pension which barely allows him a subsistence.  If he goes back to work, he not only risks injury again, but he will lose the pension altogether.  He is not sure he is even going to be allowed to keep the pittance he draws every month as it is.  Again, the moment of clarity comes.  Again, I am chagrined.

Life is indeed, lumpy.  I have my share of lumps to deal with.  Some of them have been significant; some have not.  I am continuing to learn that inconvenience is not the same as emergency; that nuisance is not the same as tragedy.  Now, if I can just keep my eyes open and focused.  Sometimes, like the reminder on the rear view mirror of the car which reads, “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear”, the things I can see with my eyes are neither exactly as big, nor as small as they may seem to be.  Perspective needs to be kept at all times.  The class is still in session.  I’ve failed a few of the preliminary tests.  I’m hoping that I’ll do better on the latter ones.

I’ll leave you with one more piece of wisdom from Mr. Fulghum’s book that I mentioned earlier:  “…remember the Dick and Jane books and the first word you learned – the biggest word of all – LOOK.” 

I’m keeping my eyes open.  You?

“You blind guides!  You strain out a gnat, but swallow a camel.”
(Matthew 23:24 NIV)

“Clarity affords focus.”
(Thomas J Leonard~American life-coach and teacher~1955-2003)