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No More Scribbling

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I sit and stare at the blank screen. Maybe this is the way it ends…just as it began. A couple of years ago, I sat one night in front of a blank screen and started to write. The next thing I knew, four hundred posts had made their way to my computer screen and thence, to the Internet. Perhaps a few have landed on your screen in the process. But, no more.  I sit and blink at the stark white surface, willing ideas and words to come. The elusive characters are not cooperative.
Panic hits. Perhaps, with the story of the skinny boy and the bullies, the well has gone dry. There will be no more stories, no more applications. No. I have been here before. There is more somewhere; I just have to dig a little deeper this time. My mind wanders, as I contemplate the blank display in front of me…
My concentration is broken by a frantic skritch-skritch-skritchingnoise nearby. I turn my eyes away from the preacher on the stage and glance over at the young man with the buzz-cut hair. All of five years old, he is sitting with his feet tucked under his legs and a composition notebook open across his lap. The ball-point pen in his right hand is nothing more than a blur. A noisy blur, but nevertheless… I reach over and put my hand over his, stopping the progression of rapidly appearing lines across the blank page. I whisper in his ear, “You know, that’s a little noisy. You can draw better if you slow down.” The boy, who reminds me a lot of someone I once knew (I can’t quite remember who now), smiles that big impish grin and replies, not so quietly, “But Grandpa, I don’t want to draw. I want to fill up the page fast!” The people nearby glance over, annoyed by the sudden laugh which the young artist’s grandfather is unable to stifle.
Tonight, I can’t stop my mind from pausing on that scene for a moment or two. The impatience of youth is an amusement to me from my vantage point, many years on, but it was nothing to laugh at once upon a time. There was not a moment to be lost! Adventure was waiting and every day was filled to the limit with excitement. I couldn’t wait for church to be over, or school to be out, or even for nap time to be completed. Why, I remember the time I…
Painting by Margaret Kirkpatrick
My reverie is interrupted by the intrusion of a voice that cracks as it fusses at me, “Can you stop that racket? I declare, you kids don’t know the meaning of quiet!” Grandma and Grandpa had parked their little Airstream trailer in our side yard a few days before and now she needed some time to create. Having five little imps around wasn’t helping. Well, quite possibly, it was only a couple of the imps who were causing the problem, but she took care of that with her authoritative manner. As she set up her easel, we watched with anticipation. Grandma was an award winning artist and we just knew that there would be a completed painting within the next few moments. Alas, it was not to be. As we watched, she began to cover the artist’s board with a layer of light-colored paint. Then, painstakingly, she began to draw, first one line, then another. After half an hour, there was still nothing to be seen on the board but a few lines. What a let down! We took off to find some other pastime, something exciting like tossing rotten oranges at the passing cars. Tiring of that, we wandered back. Still nothing we could identify. It was frustrating, so eventually we gave up completely. When the tiny Airstream trailer left a week later, there was no completed painting left behind. I don’t know if she ever finished it.
A year or two after my Grandma passed away, I spent a couple of hours exploring the garage at her house in California. There were piles and piles of paintings, all in various stages of completion. Some were still in the condition which the little imp I had once been saw that week, many years previous. Others were almost complete. My mind finally began to grasp the frustration that she must have felt at our lack of vision. Good work takes time. A stroke here, a line there, and a dash of color over there. Little by little, the painting would begin to look more and more like the image which she had envisaged. Patience and vision are essential attributes of the artist’s nature. 
As I consider the incredible task of starting with the blank canvas and, after many hours of painstaking labor, completing a beautiful work of art which compels those viewing it to marvel, my mind is drawn to a particular painting I possess. It is one which my grandmother did finish and then gave to my family many years ago. The painting of my grandfather’s mandolin has almost no monetary value to anyone outside my family, but we wouldn’t part with it for any amount. For one thing, my Grandpa’s instrument is immortalized in it, even though the mandolin itself has deteriorated beyond recall, many years ago. But more importantly, the care, and the patience, and the vision which my grandmother invested into this one project allows me to keep her alive and close in my thoughts. She as the artist, after all, is immortalized in this painting also.
Wow! Would you look at this? A page full of words.Just a few moments ago, it was blank; with not a thought in this writer’s mind. I have to say that I am gratified to know that this never was the case with the blank page with which each of us started. The Artist has always had a vision for the finished painting; the patience which He has shown as each line and shade has been added has been unending. There have been times, well more than once or twice, when I have grabbed the brush and, like my grandson in his haste to fill the page, scribbled indiscriminately. Perhaps you also have a stray line or two which you have added in your impatience. Not to worry.
In the big picture…and it is a big, big picture…those lines will be blended in, if we yield the brush back to its proper master, the genuine Artist. From blank page to finished work of art, He has never wavered in the vision and scope of the entire composition. Perhaps my namesake, the Apostle, said it best when he wrote, “I am confident of this one thing. He who began the good work in you will carry it through to completion.”
I don’t always understand the next sketched out lines; can’t always see the scene which is being filled in with variegated colors and shades of dark and light. I will just have to trust the Artist.
And, looking at the painting which is taking shape on the canvas of my life, I will pray that the Artist is clearly visible to those who bother to look. Maybe that is your hope also. 
We will have to follow Grandpa’s rule for drawing in church, though.
No scribbling allowed!
“Please be patient. God’s not finished with me yet.”
(Anonymous)
“Let nothing disturb thee;
Let nothing dismay thee;
All things pass;
God never changes.
Patience attains
All that it strives for.
He who has God
Finds that he lacks nothing;
God alone suffices.”
(“Poem IX”~St. Teresa of Avila~Spanish philosopher/mystic~1515-1582)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

The Bigger They Are…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The skinny junior high school kid was fuming. For one reason or another, this whole day, he had been on the wrong end of a thousand insults, or so it seemed to him. The cuts had run the gamut, starting with remarks about his weird, almost bowl style haircut, or his too-short pants (slacks, not jeans like everyone else wore), or his dorky glasses–you know, the ones with the black plastic rims, instead of the fashionable granny style metal rims. And this! This was just too much! The camel’s back was broken; one straw too many piled atop all the others.
Gym class on this day had been a disaster. The coach had become frustrated with the trouble-makers and made the whole class run laps. “Get out there and give me ten laps before you hit the showers!” The tallish, slender boy had dutifully run his laps, all ten of them and headed toward the locker room, only to be called back by the coach. The man was surrounded by several of the football players in the class, all of them attesting to the fact that the victim had run only nine laps, not ten. Obviously, it had not been wise of him to lap the jocks, as they lumbered along the track at their leisurely pace. They were out for payback and the coach fell for their story. “Get back out there and run five more! Nobody cheats around here!” the man roared, indignant that this skinny kid would dare to take any less than the prescribed number of laps. The kid protested, but it was to no avail, so he headed back out to run the penalty trips around the field’s perimeter. Before he finished, his antagonists were dressed and laughing at him as they sauntered past the field on the way to their next class.
It never seemed to change. He had been the butt end of their pranks for any number of years. It made no difference to him that lots of other boys were in the same boat. All he could think about was their constant hazing and cruelty to him. The boy just couldn’t imagine taking this for the rest of his years in school. He had to do something. Anything. The opportunity was not too long in coming on this fateful day.
At lunchtime, the kids finished up their cafeteria meals and went outside to await the next class. A group of the jocks were there, throwing around cutting remarks, as usual. They tormented the skinny kid one last time about his additional laps, asking him if he had enjoyed his “extra training”, before turning their attention to other matters. He stood there and decided that it was now or never. Picking out the biggest boy of the bunch, he ran up behind him and shoved him as hard as he could. The huge young athlete went rolling on the ground, head over heels. Picking himself up, he asked in a dazed voice, “What was that for?” The terrified kid answered, “Because I’m tired of you guys teasing me! What are you going to do about it?” In his mind, he was thinking about the beating that was coming, trying to tell himself that it couldn’t be any worse than the torment he had endured up until now. The boy looked at him angrily for a minute and then a smile came across his face. “Nothing, I guess. I’ll say this for you. You’ve got guts!” The other members of the football team were crowding toward the boy, ready to deal out retribution, but the big guy waved them off. “Leave him alone, fellas. He’s got a point. Nobody deserves to be treated that way.”
For the most part, it was the end of the bullying for this skinny, socially maladjusted kid. Oh, there would be other, more serious problems, but that phase of school life was effectively dealt with. You never saw a more elated kid in all your life. He walked on clouds the rest of the day and bragged about the feat to his brothers when he got home. “I took on the biggest one of the bunch and put him on the ground!” Never mind that he had to hit him from the back to do it. It had taken courage to finally stand up to those guys. 
You can bet that the event was reported to others in the school. For awhile, at least, it seemed that there was almost a grudging respect for the strange, skinny kid. He had made it clear that he was a force to be dealt with by choosing the biggest of his aggressors to take on. If he had picked the smallest one, there would have been a never ending succession of others about the same size wanting to prove that they could best him. The response wasn’t limited to the other kids alone. The young man, realizing that he had earned a respite from the torment, began to carry himself differently. He didn’t have to take the guff from anyone, and partially because of the day’s happenings, partially because of his new-found confidence, everyone started to treat him with less disdain. It wasn’t a bad feeling. The skinny boy could get used to this!
Do you have a pile of problems staring you in the face? Have they beaten you before you’ve even started? I have to admit that there are many days when I feel like that skinny teenaged kid. Oh, my problems aren’t living breathing tormentors in the form of athletes or peers, but I am still mocked by the perception of having failed. The evidence is constantly present. Stacks of unfinished…no, strike that...Stacks of un-begun tasks surround me, each job staring me in the face as I come to work (or even head home), laughing at me with that bullying tone. I have dreams which have never even been attempted. I have relationships to mend which have languished, as this terrified, aging man has admitted defeat. Constantly, my failures and should-have-beens mock me. You too?
Here’s a suggestion. How about…we mount a surprise attack on the worst job of all of them facing us? Pick out the one you dread the most, the one which terrifies the living daylights out of you, and take it on with everything you’ve got in you. Courage! You can do this! I’ve got my nemesis in mind and will be right there with you, knocking out the big, bad guy.
Okay, so the analogy doesn’t follow through completely. The rest of the things that are facing you won’t automatically fade out of existence. You’ll still have to deal with them. The thing is…now you’ll have one in the win column. And, it will be the most formidable one you have to deal with. It’s all downhill from here. Don’t stop until they’re finished; don’t let any of the rest tell you that you’re a loser or convince you that you don’t have what it takes. You’ve got a history! You know that you’re capable.
Does this sound like too much rah-rah cheerleader talk? Just feel good mumbo-jumbo? You might think so, if we didn’t have an Example to look to.
I’m reminded that when the Savior came to earth, he didn’t waste time getting rid of the false teachers, didn’t do the piddling revolutionary tasks that his followers wanted to see. He didn’t rid the nation of its Roman aggressors, didn’t waste time with shutting down the tax-collectors. No, he went for the biggest guy, that old serpent. He crushed the head of His enemy and by doing so, completed the job which had been waiting for ages to be finished. At exactly the right time, He defeated the one enemy that mattered.
So, saddle up and get ready to ride. Bullies come in all shapes and sizes. Every one of them has its weak spot and will fall. But you’ve got to get going first. Mr. Tolkien knew what he was talking about when he wrote these words, didn’t he? “It’s the job that’s never started that takes the longest to finish.”
Well, today’s the day we knock over some bullies. Let’s get going. I’ll tell you this from personal experience, though…
You’ve got to get a little head start if you want to see him rolling on the ground…
“We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed.”
(II Corinthians 4:8,9~NLT)
Mary Poppins: “Our first game is called, ‘Well Begun is Half Done.'”
Michael: “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Mary Poppins: “Otherwise called, ‘Let’s Tidy Up the Nursery.'”
Michael (to Jane): “I told you she was tricky.”
(from Walt Disney’s “Mary Poppins”)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Not Really a Joking Matter

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Eso si que es!”  This evening, the ages-old punch line to a joke came to my mind. It was almost fifty years ago that my father told me the joke, but I couldn’t help but think about the ancient gag tonight as I realized that, once again, communication has broken down.  The result is frustration and accusation, with a few recriminations tossed in for good measure.

Okay, first the joke.  The old Hispanic fellow walked into the Woolworth store (it was fifty years ago, remember?), where no one spoke Spanish, and he started looking for something.  The salesman tried to help, asking again and again what it was that the man needed.  Finally, as he wandered down near the shoe department, the old guy exclaimed, “Eso si que es!” (approximate translation: “That’s it!”) while pointing to the rack upon which the socks were displayed. The salesman retorted, disgustedly, “Well, why didn’t you spell it in the first place?”  I’ll leave you to work that one out (hint: you may have to pronounce the Spanish words aloud) and move on to the present reality.

The customer received her order today.  Her email to us tonight communicates her unhappiness very distinctly.  “You people ought to be ashamed!   I paid good money for nothing!  I will never order from you people again!”  I won’t go into the details of the order, because they don’t matter.  What does matter is that this lady thought she was ordering something which she did not receive.  Wondering if we were actually at fault, I went back and read the description of the product online.  It describes the item very clearly…to me.  What happened here?

When we set up our online catalog, we discussed and argued; we wrote and rewrote.  We wanted to be certain that the articles were described precisely and simply.  Then we went back and rewrote some more.  The catalog went live and weeks passed.  We kept track of the comments and questions.  Then we sat down again and discussed and argued; we wrote and rewrote some more.  We have done our best to make clear what we are selling.  But, every once in awhile, a customer will order something and then ask to return it because it wasn’t what they thought they were ordering.  Whose fault is this?  Who is not communicating?

Well, like the fellow in the tired old joke, sometimes we just don’t speak the same language as those with whom we are attempting to exchange information.  The written word can be a powerful thing, but it can also be an unwieldy tool; inflexible and limited by both its authors and its readers.  When we find a person with whom we don’t share a common vocabulary–and it’s not always a different language, but sometimes just a different environment and culture–we have to work to find a more universal understanding.  We will be doing that in the next day or two with our customer.  Because we don’t actually sell the product she thought she was ordering, we will probably not be doing business with her again.  That doesn’t change our responsibility to be civil and work out an equitable conclusion to our business transaction.  We will attempt to communicate in honesty and with compassion.  Time will tell if our efforts are successful.

Have you ever been on either side of this scenario?  Neither position is a pleasant place to be, is it?  Each party thinks he or she is right.  Depending on the temperament and reaction of both people, the situation can become tense.  Accusations can fly.  Tempers can be temporarily mislaid.  I know.  I’ve reacted wrongly more times than it is comfortable to admit.  Again and again though, the key to resolution is more and better communication.   The obvious conclusion of the matter is that, as long as the lines remain open, communication will eventually result.  Cut those lines and all hope of success is lost.

Having said that, I want to make another point that should be obvious.  It is better to communicate well in the first place.  We’ll be discussing our descriptive phrases in our catalog again very soon; of that, you may be sure.  Time and money, as well as goodwill, are lost every time a customer misunderstands what they are reading.  We need to speak with clarity and with precision to avoid misconceptions and errors.  As the old saw goes, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

So, how are your communication skills?  Do you work on them regularly?  Our relationships depend on good communication.  Husbands…“Huh?” and “Yeah,” don’t cut it.  Usually, communication requires complete sentences. Wives…“You don’t ever…” is not a good way to start a discussion.  If you think you’re not appreciated, talk about it.  If you’re overwhelmed, say that. And, don’t quit trying.  I guarantee you that silence will not be effective communication.  The other person in the relationship may understand that you’re unhappy, but they will never understand the reason, nor find the solution.  Keep talking!

And don’t forget the exhortation that the Preacher offered so succinctly so many years ago:  “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger.”  In your communication, remember that love and truth are to be intertwined.  Speak the truth clearly, but do it for the right reason.

With a little effort, the communication barrier can be broken.  Unlike breaking the sound barrier, no explosion will result.  But, like the sound barrier, you’ll never break the communication barrier if you just sit still.

It’s time we were up and talking!

“In the same way, unless you speak an intelligible message with your language, how will anyone know what is being said? You’ll be talking into the air!”
(I Corinthians 4:9~ISV)

“Men and women belong to different species and communications between them is still in its infancy.“
(Bill Cosby~American comedian and actor)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Another Day, Same Boulder

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My band director friend told me of his conversation with the school janitor.  The band director was working in his office one afternoon, long after all the children had gone home.  He had plans for a great halftime show and was hard at work making the charts for the positions on the field.  The door to the band hall opened and the hardworking janitor pushed his cart inside; beginning his preliminary canvass of the room by arranging the chairs into neat semi-circles.  There was trash everywhere, even though there was a large receptacle a few feet away near the door.  As the custodian worked, my friend could hear him muttering under his breath.  Not all of the words could be repeated here, but suffice it to say that he was unhappy.

“What’s wrong, John?” asked the director.  “Oh, these stupid kids!  They’re so lazy, they can’t even get their trash to the can.  How inconsiderate can you get?  All it does is make my job harder!”  The janitor unloaded on his questioner.  I can just see my friend, as the thought struck him in the midst of the unhappy worker’s tirade.  The corners of his mouth began to twitch and his eyes to twinkle.  Before the man was finished with his outburst, the director was laughing.  “What’s so funny?  Day after day they do this!  I’m tired of it!”  The frustrated man had expected sympathy, but never laughter.  The band director then said, as kindly as he could manage, “You don’t seem to understand, John.  Your job depends on these kids behaving badly.  If they start straightening out their chairs and disposing of their trash neatly, you won’t have any work to do and will have to find a different job.”  The janitor sputtered for a moment as he ran his hands through his hair a time or two.  “I suppose you’re right,” he said sheepishly.  “Well, I can’t stand around gabbing all day.  They do this in all the rooms, you know.”

I would guess that the janitor’s job is safe, but the words uttered by my friend were true nonetheless.  They still ring in my head every time I find myself complaining about the load of work under which I find myself.  If it weren’t for those pesky (and I use the term affectionately) customers who make demands on my time, I know that I wouldn’t have a business, wouldn’t have any income at all. 

All the same, I do sometimes feel like that Greek demi-god I learned about many years ago as we studied Greek Mythology in high school literature. This particular fellow’s name was Sisyphus (pronounced “sissy-fuss”). He had angered Zeus by claiming to be more clever than the chief deity on Mount Olympus himself. As punishment, Zeus had doomed Sisyphus to an unending task for all of eternity in Hades. He had to roll a huge boulder up a hillside, whereupon it would tumble back down to the bottom and the poor creature would have to begin the task anew, with exactly the same result every single time. Encouraging job, huh?
I would guess that we are all burdened with what could be described as Sisyphean tasks for much of our lives. The advantage we have is that we can choose the manner in which we approach the task. I have known many factory workers who have performed the same task innumerable times a day for many years and continue to do so with pride and enjoyment. That’s also what I see when our cleaning service crew comes to work at the music store. Like the kids in the band hall, we are not neat, nor even considerate. Yet these folks come week after week and straighten up after us. While they are here, they sing and joke. If I happen to be working at my desk, they stop and talk about what’s going on in my life, laughing with me about the amusing moments, and sympathizing with me about the sad events. Before they leave, they make sure to leave one or two pieces of candy on the counter for us to enjoy when we come back in the next day. They come in with joy and leave it behind them when they are gone. Never mind the horrendous mess they have to contend with in between.
No, I don’t think that either the factory workers or the custodians enjoy the interminable repetition of the single task they do day in and day out. But, they are able to look beyond that, to realize that their work serves a purpose in a bigger scheme. They are able to enjoy the company around them as they work. They are able to see the benefit their work is to their employers, their family, and to their community. In short, they don’t focus on the task, but on the reward. I’m not just thinking about the paycheck when I use the word “reward”, either. There is more to life than what we realize in a monetary way from our work. If all we work for is a paycheck, I’m thinking that the task becomes once more, a Sisyphean one. We have pushed the rock up the hill, achieving the goal of a salary, only to need it again tomorrow, and next week, and next year. There is no end in sight to the colossal monotony.
How do you view your work? Do you hate what you do? Try focusing instead, on who you are doing the work for. The Apostle suggests that we work for God. I’m pretty sure that as we work for Him, we will lose sight of the hardship and the boredom and can focus on the service. In the end, we are always happier when we serve those around us than when we are self-serving and completely focused on our own comfort (or lack thereof). 
Sure, you pushed the rock to the top of the hill today and when you come in tomorrow, it will be at the bottom again. That’s a good thing. You’ve got another day to learn, and to serve, and to grow. You might even be able to enjoy and encourage the people around you, all of them pushing their own rocks up the hill too. I’m pretty sure that we’re all better off as we find ways to help make the tasks and the days pass joyfully instead of in drudgery.
And now, I’m beginning to think that possibly my rock has reached the apex of its path for today. I’m headed for home and bed. Somewhere out there, some kid has broken a key on his clarinet…again. That and any number of tasks will be mine for tomorrow.
Around here, we call that job security.
“Work willingly at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people.”
(Colossians 3:23~NLT)
“To generous souls, every task is noble”
(Euripides~Ancient Greek playwright~480-406 BC)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

An Essay Test

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I hope you people have been paying attention to this. We’re going to have a test tomorrow. Be prepared for it!” Mr. Heston knew, before he said the words, that the reaction would be a collective groan and he was not disappointed. I think it was a little louder than even he had anticipated. It made no difference. The subject was torture for most of the students seated behind the tables spread horizontally across the room. Every student in the state of Texas had to have at least one semester of Civics and most of them were in this class only because they wanted to graduate. Not I.
I loved the class. The study of our government and political structure, along with the judicial system, was one of the few subjects that I really loved. The purpose for the class, of course, was to help us to understand where we as individuals fit into the whole puzzle. It was exciting to learn that the entire system depended on participation by each of us as citizens. It seems that we may have lost sight of that concept as the years have passed, but to this fresh young teenager, the realization of power was nothing short of inspirational. I was in! And, I was all ears, taking in the original concepts and the history, as well as the theory. I couldn’t get enough, taking copious notes daily as Mr. Heston, a short, compactly built man, looked at us over the top of his half-lens reading glasses to be sure that we were drinking deeply at the well of his knowledge. There weren’t many who did.
If the groans seemed loud as he announced the test, you should have heard them when he told us calmly the next day that the test consisted of one question. An essay question. “I don’t want to know if you studied the terminology in the text book; I want to know if you’ve been listening,” the quiet man explained. I read the question and set to work, writing line after line to elucidate the subject at hand. After a few moments, I realized that I was the only one still writing. A quick glance around told me that everyone else had written a sentence or two and then quit. I kept writing. This was good stuff! I understood this material and was in my element as I completed most of a full page in my messy handwriting in answer to the single question Mr. Heston had asked.
I was to hear the groans related to that test just one more time. The next week, as the short man walked around the classroom, depositing the papers in front of us with a flick of his wrist, the groans arose, this time just one by one, as each student saw the grade on his or her paper. I was almost embarrassed as I received my paper back in the same manner, but the teacher had a grin on his face as he flipped it in front of me. While most in the class had received a failing grade, the “A” marked across the top of my paper made me the odd man out. I didn’t care. The extra note scrawled across the bottom couple of lines was even better than the grade. “This is exactly what I’m looking for!” the man with the red pencil had written. It was a proud moment for me, even though I hid the note from prying eyes. I had few enough of these proud moments academically in high school and it felt good.
You remember your favorite type of test, don’t you? Multiple choice? Those were easiest, especially when the teacher used the exact wording from the textbook. Next came the true/false variety. Well, you had a fifty/fifty chance on those, so the odds of receiving a passing grade were still good. How about the fill-in-the-blank type? Not so easy, especially for someone like me, who sometimes has a hard time remembering the exact terminology. But last in the ranking for most? Most of my friends disliked, no…despised…the essay test. It was just them and the blank paper. The words had to come out of their brain, hopefully a brain that comprehended the subject. Frequently, they drew a blank and so, the essay was mostly white space. Teachers don’t like white space.
For me, the essay test is my top choice for any subject of which I have a basic grasp. Ideas can be formed with words, arguments tested, and conclusions drawn–all in front of the readers’ eyes and hopefully with the correct outcome. With the standardized tests, there was no room for discussion; you either knew the answer or you didn’t. My guess is that no one is surprised to learn that I found the test which required using more words to be desirable. Some things never change.
But, speaking of that, it seems to me that even the pattern of our lives is actually just one long essay test. Oh, I know that along the way, a true/false quiz creeps in momentarily. We need to know right from wrong and have an quick response. Sometimes we don’t know the answer and we guess and get the wrong one, paying the price for a period of time. Other times, we have a number of choices facing us and we decide which is appropriate, as the multiple choice tests in life come to pass. Again, the right answer can be elusive, but hopefully, we learn before the next of these comes along. And sometimes, we just look ahead and realize that we have to do something, to plan a course of action, and we fill-in-the-blank. But through it all, day in and day out, we live our lives, each moment writing some part of the essay. There is no stopping point, no juncture at which we lay down the pen and say, “I’m done.” From the day we arrive on this earth, until the day we stop breathing, we are writing. The progression of thought and action can be seen in one long, unbroken stream.
There are parts of this essay test upon which I would not want to be graded. They are there, none the less. It is of interest to understand that the very word “essay” is actually based upon a French word and originally meant: “A trial; an attempt.” And, isn’t that what all of life really is, after all? We try and fail, or we try and succeed; moving on to other trials, other attempts. All through life, we test, we push, we struggle. And in vying to do, to accomplish, we leave a record for others to heed, perhaps even to emulate. I’m not sure if my accomplishments warrant that yet. Eventually though, I hope that there is enough of the legible record which will be worth following. Like the Apostle, I’d like to be able to encourage others to “imitate me, as I imitate Christ.” I’m not there yet. The errant words still blot the lines, but I’m moving on. Every day is an essay, an attempt, to do better.
Maybe you’d like to be in my study group. I could sure use the help.
Then, what I’d really like, one day, is to turn in the completed essay to The Teacher and to be able to read at the bottom of it:  
“This is exactly what I was looking for!”  

“The master said, ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant. You have been faithful in handling this small amount, so now I will give you many more responsibilities.  Let’s celebrate together!'”
(Matthew 25:23~NLT)

“The difference between school and life? In school, you’re taught a lesson and then given a test. In life, you’re given a test that teaches you a lesson.”
(Tom Bodett~American humorist and author)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Barking Up A Tree

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment


They’re at it again. I had no intention of writing about them tonight, but they will not be denied. I have spent the last hour torn between attending to the upheaval in their little world and attempting to accomplish at least one or two tasks which are clamoring for attention in my own little world. It seems that the upheaval has won out again as the outlandish caterwauling begins anew in the back yard.
With an exasperated sigh, I lay aside my tools and head for the door, picking up a flashlight on the way. As soon as they hear the customary creak of the hinges, they fall silent, but immediately, they have a new objective. In a flash, I am surrounded, if you can call it that when there are only two assailants. Both of the black bodies are flung at my trunk and about my legs in disarray, as they jump and paw, each attempting to gain the advantage of the other in their bid for my attention. Presently, the huge male disengages uncharacteristically, to lope around the corner of the building, only to appear seconds later from behind the tool shed. I get the message and move that direction myself. Obviously, they have something they want me to see and I will get no rest until I see whatever it is.
No amount of shining the light at the grass will turn up anything, so I focus the light instead on my jet-black antagonists. They are no longer paying any attention to me, but are standing, looking expectantly up into the big mulberry tree towering above us. I shine the light up and see nothing…at first. Then, as I run the beam up along the biggest branch, I see it staring down at me. Yuck! I have never liked those scavengers—those overgrown rats—those opossums! They are not attractive in any way at the best of times, and to see one staring down at me from ten feet above my head, teeth bared like a ghoulish Cheshire Cat…I am immediately repulsed. The monsters at my feet are re-energized by the sight of their prey in my lantern’s beam and bellow out their disdain of the marsupial. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it a rodent, but that could just be my prejudice showing. I half-heartedly toss a rock or two at the beast, realizing that the only thing I will accomplish is to move him further up the tree. It does. So I do the only thing I can do in this situation.
I walk back around the corner of the building and find the dogs’ favorite possession. They cannot resist the squishy rubber chew toy and, within moments, are chasing it across the yard in the dark. Well, to be accurate, the male is chasing it. The female, either too lazy or too wise to chase it, awaits his return each time and then attempts to remove the toy from his mouth as he brings it back. Satisfied that I have distracted them adequately, I return inside to see if anything can be salvaged of my evening. I can’t stop thinking though, about the conundrum of the silly dogs and the wise opossum.
You see, the opossum is a survivor. These creatures can exist; even thrive, in most any environment. They bear huge litters, with as many as thirteen babies able to survive in each one. They carry their tiny young, called “joeys” in a pouch, just as their distant cousins, the kangaroos, do. Because of this portable nursery and ready source of food, the survival rate is fairly high. The species is resistant to disease, so they don’t tend to die out from rampant epidemics, as many other species do periodically. They are also what the experts call “opportunistic omnivores”, meaning that they will eat anything. Many of you know this firsthand, after seeing your pet food disappear, or finding your garbage containers upset and the contents strewn about your patio or yard. Most other feral species thin out when urban sprawl occurs. These hardy beasts thrive, with many more opportunities for ready-to-eat meals, as well as more hiding places in the form of various structures.
This particular opossum has one more advantage over the silly canines yapping down on the ground. He knows that the trunk of the tree he has selected to climb descends to the ground outside the fence which encircles the dogs. He can come and go with impunity, although their barking obviously disturbs him. Nevertheless, he has visited this particular tree a number of times in the past and he is fairly well assured of living to see another dawn, in spite of the would-be hunters below. You can almost imagine him thumbing his nose, as he sits on his high throne and looks down upon them with contempt.
And, what of the dogs…man’s best friend? One would almost wonder why we don’t make pets of the opossums, instead of these fickle, silly creatures. They have chased their prey through the treetops innumerable times and have yet to nab a single squirrel, or cat, or opossum, once it has gained the shelter of the tree limbs. Still they persist, barking incessantly as they sit and bluster with their empty threats. The squirrels tease them mercilessly, the cats actually stare right at them and sit unafraid, as they voice their ire at full voice through the fence, and this opossum ignores them as he walks the limbs above them night after night. Why do we care about these idiotic creatures so much and spend our fortunes on their care and comfort?
Once again, I’ve taken the long way around to come to a conclusion. You may object to the one I have reached, but, as I look at the parallels, it seems indisputable. We are so very much like those silly creatures that it begs the question: Why would our Creator waste His time on us? We bark and run in circles, chasing, not only our tails, but things that bedevil us which we will never be able to reach, nor affect in any way. We have tasks to do which we can accomplish, but we insist on obsessing about the ones which we are not even called to address. The cacophony is deafening.
Don’t believe it? Turn on the television news shows and listen to the bickering about who did this and who started that. Even now, I am threatening to abandon the social networking world until after November because of the incredible noise and rancor present there. Friends attack friends, or even folks they don’t know at all, simply because of a chance comment someone made. Or worse, assaults are made because a political figure (with whom we will never have personal contact) has said or done something to which we object. We turn on each other in our barking and snarling, but never move one inch closer to our real goal of serving, and healing, and befriending those who need us.
This is not about politics. This is about who we are in our heart of hearts. When it becomes more important for us to love our neighbors than we do ourselves; when we recognize that anyone we can put our arms around, or lend a helping hand to is not our enemy, we will at least have begun the move from the barking, threatening beasts in the backyard, to the human beings our Creator intended for us to be. There are many who will never make the quantum leap, but they don’t know the Master’s voice. I hope for better from those of us who do.
Well, I hear them going again. And since, strange as it may seem, the neighbors are already sleeping (at 1:30 AM, no less), I’ll see if a little distraction will do the trick again.
Silly creatures…the dogs, I mean.
“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.”
(Ephesians 6:12—ESV)
“Man is the most intelligent of the animals – and the most silly.”
(Diogenes~Ancient Greek philosopher~412 BC-323 BC)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Exchanging Words

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment


“Use your words, honey.” The little girl in her mama’s arms is crying and frustrated. She quite clearly has something she wants her mom to know, but Mama can’t make head or tails of the sounds coming from the little tyke’s mouth. As I listen sympathetically, I am carried back to a time when I wish some words had been exchanged.
I parked my old 1955 Chevy in one of the empty parking spaces on the side street and walked around the corner to the music store, half a block away. I was pleased with myself, since I had remembered to park over here, where not many people left their cars. The time was over thirty years ago, when the music store was located in the downtown area of our little municipality. The angled parking spaces on the major road in front of the store were at a premium; especially so, since the Post Office was directly across the street from the business. That was in the days when the Post Office was the number one destination in town, but that may be a subject for another time…
A day or two before, my boss, who had recently also become my father-in-law, had asked me if I could find a place to park which wouldn’t take up one of the spots where the customers needed to park. Even though I wasn’t happy about it, I could see his point and resolved to do better. And, for a few days, it seemed that I had found a good solution. The side street wasn’t convenient for most customers, so they didn’t use those spaces. Then, a few days later, I noticed something a little odd.
It took awhile to observe it, but I started to see the same car parked, all day, right in front of the music store. I wondered who it belonged to, but thought little of it until one morning, when I was leaning into the front display window as the car pulled in.  It came to a stop in the same spot it had been all day for several days before. I watched the man get out and as he slammed his door, he turned to glare into the music store, directly at me. I recognized him as the owner of a business on the corner up the street. Now, why would he be parking up here? And, why was he mad at me?
Slowly, the light began to flicker and glow. Moments later, I had it! He was angry because the parking space I was occupying on the side street was beside his building. Not in front, but beside. I wasn’t taking a customer’s space, but I was parked in hisspace! I thought about it for a moment. I even considered continuing to park where I was and letting him stay mad, but my Mama had taught me to “do unto others”, so I went and moved my car. There were three empty spaces beside it, but I made sure to move to a different side street, this time, in front of a vacant lot. By lunchtime, the car in front of the music store was gone and sitting in exactly the space my car had occupied early that morning. He never parked in front of the music store again. Come to think of it, I never parked in his place again, either.
Did I get the message? Eventually. Was I happy with the man? Not at all. I still find myself wondering, even after all these years…What if he had just asked me to move my car?Why didn’t he? I’m pretty sure that I would have stopped parking there the first day, if he had just walked into the store and said, “I’d rather you not park there.” Communication goes better if someone says words. What if my Mama hadn’t taught me to “do unto others”? What if I had just continued to park where I was and he had done the same?
I’m pretty sure that this is how feuds get started. Two people are equally intransigent as they struggle to get even with each other. Soon, a situation, that a few quiet words would have settled in moments, stretches out into a lifelong disdain and dislike for each other. Friends and family are dragged into it as the communication which should have been spent on the other person is wasted in telling a one-sided tale. Does this sound familiar? It happens again and again…in families, in churches, in workplaces.
Words. With them, we build, we create, we maintain. And, once in awhile, we say the wrong thing and we destroy. The key is to keep talking. If destruction has taken place, the worst thing that can ensue is for silence to fall. I’ve said before that hurtful words can’t be unsaid, that they can never be taken back, and it’s true. But, if the hurtful words are the last thing spoken between two people, healing will never occur. Dialogue has to continue for any chance of reconciliation.
I love words. I love to use them. I’m assuming that right about now, you’re laughing as you say, “Tell us something we don’t know.” So, I will. I worry about the words I use. I’m almost obsessive, as I go back and read the words I have written over the last two years here. You see, I have a purpose. I want to influence those of you who read these words—to be wiser, and kinder, and to avoid the errors I have made. If I fail in that, the words have not accomplished what I arranged them to do.
Am I preaching to the choir? I hope not. If all I have done is to simply have you nod your heads in agreement, again, I’ve completely missed the mark. As the old saying goes, “If we agree on everything, only one of us is necessary.” You don’t need me to say, over and over, the same things that you have heard all your life.
I’m reminded that God once used a donkey to get His message through to His prophet. And, there have been too many times in my own past when He has had to use inanimate objects, or animals, or babies, or shopkeepers who refuse to talk, to get the message through my hard head. I’d like to communicate the message with a little more clarity and a little less drama than many of those events entailed.  I have words to spend and I hope to invest them wisely.
We’ll see if I can do as well as the donkey. I’ll keep braying anyway. You can let me know if the message is getting through.
Use your words, please.
“Even lifeless instruments like the flute or the harp must play the notes clearly, or no one will recognize the melody.”
(I Corinthians 14:7~NLT)
“Preach the Gospel always; if necessary, use words.”
(Anonymous)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Ugly People

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Wally World!  The one day off I get in three months and I end up at Wally World.  I detest the place.  You know the place I mean.  That mega-store that tells you the lie that the way you’ll live better is if you save money.  What they really mean is that they’ll live better if you’ll spend more money there…but wait…If I go off on that tangent this early in the discussion, I’ll never talk about anything important.  Come to think of it, what I write may not be so important anyway, but I’m at least going to give it a shot.

The Lovely Lady and I had attempted to visit a new antique store, but today being a holiday, were met with locked doors and darkened windows.  Since we were already close and knew we needed dog food for the little monsters in the back yard, the evil-empire seemed a reasonable secondary destination.  It wasn’t.  It seems that thinking about how much money we need to save to live better makes all of us more than a little self-centered.  I lost count of the times people pushed their way from the end of a side aisle into the main one, without ever looking and never even muttering an “excuse me” or “sorry” as I had to stop for them or be run over.  Hands reached in front of my face as I waited for the Lovely Lady to find a grocery item and other carts bumped mine in the narrow aisles, but there was no sign of concern, not even a head nod to indicate a mea culpa from any of the guilty parties.  We all ignored everyone else as, for the duration, our focus narrowed in on our own needs and desires.

Mere moments into our little excursion, I was in much the same condition as most of them, angry and self-absorbed, intent on getting what I came for and getting out.  Then I saw her.  THE Wally World Shopper.  The young lady (she was indeed an adult) was dressed in the consummate costume for shopping in this zoo.  Below her mussed-up mop of brown hair, her obese body was stuffed into a too small spaghetti-strap tank-top covered with vertical stripes and a pair of colorfully clashing shorts (also too small).  From her shoulder hung a huge handbag adorned with brightly colored polka-dots.  Positioned as it was, beside the striped top, the picture was already ridiculous. The brown leather cowboy boots which came up to just below her calves were the last straw.  I was momentarily powerless to stop what happened next.

I took a picture of her with my cell-phone.  She didn’t know it, since I had the phone in my hand already.  It was a good photo, showing the “ugly” shopper in all of her splendor.  As I wandered on down the aisle, I clicked over to my Facebook page and tapped the “photo” button.  The picture was moved to the appropriate screen, ready to be uploaded for all the world to see.  I even typed the words below it, “Can you tell where I am?”  Laughing at my own wit, I reached my index finger over to click on “upload”, but something stopped me. I just couldn’t tap the screen.

I left the post on my phone without uploading it and caught up with the Lovely Lady as we checked out.  Happy to leave the madhouse, we escaped into the triple-digit heat and headed home.  As we drove, I showed her the photo and mentioned that I was going to post it.  She said just one sentence, “She’s somebody’s daughter or niece, you know.”  Nothing more. It was enough.

When I got home, I sat and looked at the picture and at my words.  My thumb touched the “cancel” button.  The question flashed on my screen, “Are you sure you want to cancel this post?”  Almost angrily, I mashed the screen where the “yes” button appeared, again and again.

I remember now why I hate television programs such as “What Not To Wear”, where fashion snobs shame people into becoming what those snobs think is acceptable.  I hate them because they reinforce the idea that we are better than people who are different than we are.  I hate them because they legitimize the laughter at someone else’s expense, simply because we believe that we are smarter, or better looking, or stronger.  I say I hate the programs like this, and yet I do the same thing.  Regardless of whether I made the right decision today, I think that way in my heart, in the depths of my soul. Why else would I have taken the picture, or written the words?

Now who’s ugly?  In my mind, I see the Teacher, sitting and drawing in the dirt with a stick, as the intelligent ones, the arrogant ones, slink away one by one, confronted with their own sin, their own ugliness.  “Let him who is without fault begin the punishment.”  I am one of those accusers, now faced with who I really am.  What will I do about it?

I don’t have the answer.  I know that the journey to any destination starts with just one step in the right direction.  Tonight, I take that step.  Tomorrow…I’ll try to keep going. It won’t be a short journey.

I’d like to have some company as I make the trek.  Do you see any reason you might be going my way?  Two are always better than one alone.

I trust you won’t mind being seen with an ugly person. Hopefully, it will only be a temporary condition.

“When evil men shout ugly words of hatred, good men must commit themselves to the glories of love.”
(Martin Luther King Jr.~American minister and civil rights leader~1929-1968)

“You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge the other, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things.”
(Romans 2:1~NIV)

“My psychiatrist told me I was crazy and I said, ‘I want a second opinion.’  He said, ‘Okay, you’re ugly, too.”
(Rodney Dangerfield~American comic~1921-2004)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Summer is Passing

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Don’t you have any seasons down here?” The elderly man was standing outside the Luby’s cafeteria in the South Texas sun, in his hand a handkerchief, with which he mopped his brow. It was January–by strict definition, the middle of winter, yet the eighty-five degree temperature belied the title. The long line at the cafeteria was populated generally by older folks, like this gentleman, from parts much further north. They suffered in the heat, while the natives who stood impatiently in the line with the Snow-Birds, as we commonly called these northerners, noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

I heard a man nearby reply laconically to the old Winter Texan’s (what the Chamber of Commerce wanted us to call them) query. “Yep. Two. Hot and Hotter.” He wasn’t lying. The temperate climate of the Rio Grande Valley, where I spent my childhood (I almost inserted “wasted”, but in fact, it wasn’t), was such that the trees and foliage were covered in leaves and blooms year round. The folks from the colder climes came year after year to spend their winters in a place where the snow didn’t blanket the ground, nor ice cover the streets. We commonly joked about the rubber-necking habits of the old folks, as they drove the highways and roads, exclaiming in disbelief about the plethora of fruit-bearing trees and the flourishing tropical greenery. It was the middle of the winter! How was it possible that everything was still growing? They thought it was a paradise, of sorts. I haven’t always agreed.

I left my childhood home at the end of my teen years, looking for a place to start out on my own. One of the prerequisites I had for the place in which I would settle was the presence of four distinct seasons. I wanted to experience winter. (Ah, the foolishness of youth!) I also wanted to see the blossoming forth of the spring. The summer season, I understood all too well, but I knew I could endure it. I even looked forward to the autumn, as the trees began to go into hibernation, pausing for a few weeks before that to bring out their finest adornments for one last fling. What an explosion of beauty, short lived though it might be!

The foothills of the Ozarks proved to be the perfect locale for experiencing all of the seasons, most of them fairly mild…the winters with just the right amount of cold and snow, the springtime not too stormy, but beautiful with new life, nor the summers unbearably hot. And, the autumn? Ah! The autumn did not disappoint, with brilliant colors and spectacular vistas. I, like the aforementioned Snow-Birds, thought it paradise.

It’s funny how the years can change your perspective. For the last decade, I have begun to dread certain seasons. At first, I thought nothing of it. Spring, I still love without reserve. New life–the earth is unfettered and fertile. How can one not love spring? And summer, with the kudzu covered hillsides, and its long lazy days easing into beautiful star-lit nights? Aside from those few with extreme temperatures and lack of rain, as this last one proved to be, I love summer and am always sorry to see it wane. And now, as the years continue on, I have begun to question the reason for my change of heart, because I am loath to see the beginning of fall and am downright rebellious about entering the winter.

At first, I blamed the autumn for its part in portending the chill and bleakness of winter. Winter itself, I despise because it makes me cold–Period. I do not enjoy being cold. I contend that anyone who pretends to love winter actually loves the fact that they can be warm in winter, either in the nest they have built for themselves, or in the multiple layers with which they wrap themselves to ward off the cold while outside. They don’t love cold, but simply the sense of conquering it. Unfortunately, it conquers me. And, it rubs it in. I spend my winters huddled in front of the fireplace, awaiting the return of my beloved springtime and the warmth it brings back to my old bones.

But, is it just about physical changes that occur? Or, is there some deeper meaning to my antagonism toward the two waning seasons, autumn and winter? I’m beginning to think there might be. The Lovely Lady and I sat and teased each other this evening, before I prepared to write for awhile. She spoke of our middle age and the fact that it was already in the past. I joked that I hadn’t yet enjoyed my mid-life crisis and might demand one. Again, she reiterated the fact that my chance for that was gone, since I would not see middle age again. She is right. I know not a single person who has reached the ripe old age of one-hundred and ten, so I can no longer claim to be middle-aged and must move semi-gracefully into my senior years. I’m not anxiously awaiting the autumn of my life.

And, now it becomes more clear. I understand that, at least in part, my objection to the seasons which show decay and then death are a reaction to a reality that is to come. In the spring and summer of life, there is little thought to what the future will bring. We are vital and strong, with a sense of invincibility. We ignore the warnings of older folks, all well-intentioned, who caution that the invincibility will prove fleeting. Educations are acquired, partners are chosen and offspring arrive. We build our little empires, ruling them with no thought that the future might find them any less impregnable than they are while we are in our prime. But, little by little as the years pass, we begin to realize that, like all flesh, we are edging inexorably toward the coming latter seasons.

Do you detect a sense of sadness, a note of gloom in my writing tonight? You shouldn’t. As life passes, I have come to realize that, although our human nature says that the coming autumn and winter are times to be afraid of, they are actually seasons to exult in. What season is more spectacular than fall? Nature displays its glory, unashamed and proud. And we, appropriately, applaud. The autumn of life is somewhat like that, as we think about what has been accomplished and enjoy the fruits of our labors. Our families are our glory, as grandchildren and grand-nieces and grand-nephews proliferate. What an exhibition! Friends gather close and the joy of fellowship is multiplied. What a great season of life!

The winter is coming. I’m not ready to celebrate it yet. But still, in spite of the cold and the seemingly lifeless landscape, preparation is being made for new life to come. Need I say more? Those of you who have entered that season will understand. Sadness and joy are mixed with expectation. I think that I may just enjoy winter also. We’ll see.

“To everything, there is a season.” The Preacher, for all of his rambling, knew it. I’ll take them as they come. Who knows? I may even get some new winter clothes this year, so I can actually thrive in that chilly season too. The fireplace will still be there if I need it…

Fall is right around the corner. I think that I’m going to enjoy it when it arrives this time.

“So it is with you
And how You make me new
With every season’s change.
And so it will be
As You are re-creating me…
Summer, autumn, winter, spring.”
(from “Every Season” by Nichole Nordeman~American singer/songwriter)

“Springs passes and one remembers one’s innocence.
Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance.
Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence.
Winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance.”
(Yoko Ono~Japanese musician)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Fixer-Upper

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The Realtor flipped her blond hair back and asked, “Well?  What do you think?” We looked at her, confused. What did we think? The house was awful! Where could we start? There was only a single bathroom tucked in behind the kitchen downstairs, and what a kitchen it was!  Horrible brown vinyl on the floor; open ceiling joists above, with electrical wires hanging hither and yon…in short, it was a disaster. And the rest of the house!  We didn’t have words to describe it. “I know it needs a little help,” the agent offered, weakly. “But,” she said, gaining momentum, “there is a lot of potential. It could be a great house!” I wasn’t sure that I saw it, but I looked over at the Lovely Lady. She looked back and me and nodded. We could handle this!

And, we did.  For the next 18 years, with a lot of help, we gradually roofed, sided, painted, re-floored, and replaced just about everything in that old house. It had potential! We helped it begin to realize that potential. The work was never finished, but we loved the old place and raised our children there until they were ready to fly the nest.

The old gentleman wandered in the store this morning and I asked him how he was doing. “I’d say there’s room for improvement,” was his cryptic reply. I’d like to think that I helped a little in the improvement department as I replaced the old strings on his splendid Martin guitar. He was smiling as he left, which hadn’t really been the case when he arrived.

His words gave me pause today, though. Room for improvement. As I thought about it, I realized that I like that condition. Actually, I like it better than “mint condition”. The thing about mint condition is that the way you find it is as good as it will ever be. From that point onward, the item will be deteriorating. The next time someone tells you that a car you are considering for purchase is in mint condition, understand that they are telling you in reality, “This is as good as it gets! It’s all downhill from here!”

I hope you don’t think that my viewpoint is a cynical one, because I certainly don’t mean it to be. I just like the idea that there is room for improvement. It applies to people, too.

When two people stand before the preacher and say their wedding vows, perhaps it would be better if he would say it like that. The words we hear should give warning, but many times we are too starstruck, our rose-colored glasses, perhaps, tinting the picture we see too much. “For better or for worse (he may not put down the toilet seat), for richer, for poorer (her credit cards are already maxed out), in sickness and in health (he whines when he gets a splinter in his finger), for as long as you both shall live (there will be room for improvement).”

All of us, every single one, are fixer-uppers. We all have room for improvement. Even for the best of us there is still a lot of potential. Our job is to help each other grow toward that potential. We will never, this side of heaven, reach that full potential. Our sin nature will guarantee that. The essential thing is to be moving in the right direction. Without spending a lot of time on doctrine (you know where to find the necessary instructions), we just need to know that God’s grace gives us the second chances we need, again and again. As we walk together, we need to be, not only ministers of that grace, but handymen and women, ready to help our fellow pilgrims grow and improve.

Funny thing about that old house. Our first glance at it was filled with ridicule and contempt. But, as we got personally involved and started to improve it, we began to respect the old place. Even today, we drive past and there is almost a reverence as we point out the things we still love about it. That’s the way it works with our relationships also. When we’re bystanders, seeing only the faults, we are contemptuous and disrespectful. When we have a personal stake, we see the potential, the things that can be and we learn to respect and love. And, it keeps getting better, the more involved we become!

We left that old house still with room for improvement. I’m happy to see that the subsequent owners have continued the process. The beautiful old place is still not as good as it gets. I’m glad that the Creator looks at you and me that way too.

I’d hate to think that there was nowhere to go but down.

“But encourage one another day after day, as long as it is still called “Today,” so that none of you will be hardened by the deceitfulness of sin.”
(Hebrews 3:13~NASB)


“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.”
(Anne Frank~German Jewish diary-keeper~1929-1944)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.