New Year’s Day.  The day after the last day of the former new year.  Well, if it can be the first day of the new year, it stands to reason that there has to be a last day of a new year too.  Just to keep from being argumentative, let’s just call it the first day of the year and leave it at that.  I’m not excited about a new year, but I’m not depressed either.  It’s 24 hours later than it was yesterday, another day to achieve goals and serve people.  “What a malcontent!” I hear the comments already.  (Well, all right, probably not your exact words, but “wet blanket” and “party pooper” don’t seem to have quite the same impact.)  I have to say that I won’t disagree.  For the last thirty-three years, New Year’s Day has been spent counting music books, drum sticks, and guitar picks, so I’m a little apathetic about the holiday itself.  I have long described it as the worst holiday of the year, but I’m coming around…

It is good to have a point in time to pause and reflect.  We reflect on the impact of events which have transpired in the past 365 days.  We remember the happy experiences and we consider the unfortunate and even sad occasions which have preceded this day of division between one year and the next.  For many, the day requires tearing the eyes off of a disastrous year and looking forward to the hope of better times.  For others, it is simply a time to give thanks and offer a prayer that the future will be as happy as the past.  I’ve been struck by the incongruity of varying statements made as we approached the holiday.  The optimistic statements which anticipate days of continuing comfort stand out in clear contrast to those which blacken the reputation of the year just past.  More than one of my friends today used the term “Good Riddance!”.  Another mentioned staying up until past midnight to be sure that the old year left. 

As we look to the future, we can’t help but think about the past, but I think we have to be realistic and neither starry-eyed, nor disheartened.  The year past has had its trials.  I’ve lost old friends to disease; vivacious, lovely souls, struck down before their time, seemingly.  Friends have lost unborn children and parents.  Old age has also crept up on our parents, causing the physical ailments and confusion which so often accompany the aging process.  On this, the last day of the year, a killer storm hit a little community close to us, devastating homes, to say nothing of the families and friends of the victims.

It would be easy to focus on the negative and draw the pessimist’s conclusion that we’re happy to see the backside of 2010, but that would be to ignore the joy that the year also has brought.  We’ve seen any number of new babies born this year, without question cause for celebration.  Weddings have occurred, with the joy of commitment for a lifetime by both parties.  Achievements by children and grandchildren, even the delight of everyday occurrences in  the lives of these dear ones is cause for enduring wonder.  Old friendships have been renewed, and new ones fostered.  Another year of living with the amazing Lovely Lady is cause for celebration for me, too. 

On balance, 2010 has been a year.  Just that: a year in our lives.  As with all years, there have been triumphs and tragedies, satisfaction and sadness.  When we believe that it is our right to have unmitigated happiness, we misunderstand what life is.  When we look forward to nothing but darkness and sorrow, we also misunderstand what life is.  Both have a part in making us better people; Both are schoolmasters teaching us to mature into what God wants us to be.

As we move from one year to the next, it can be a time of reflection, even of resolution.  But the recognition of reality and the proper response will better prepare us for the year than any sense of depression or of elation.  God, after all, is still in control.  Our times are in His hands.  And, for us to make events more than what they really are, simply milestones which we pass and learn from, is to take away from the glory that belongs to Him and the potential He has given to every one of us with each passing day.

I’ll try to keep that glory in mind as I’m counting those guitar picks tomorrow.   “156, 157, 158,  Oh No!  Was that one hundred or two hundred?  1,2,3….”

“Yet pealed the bells more loud and deep;
‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.'”
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

We all love a good mystery.  And, by that I mean we love it when it’s just a story and we’re not embroiled in it.  Mysteries are no fun when we’re smack dab in the middle of them.  None of us likes to be in a huge parking lot at a strange mall and have to solve the mystery of where we left our car.  We don’t think it so intriguing when we can’t figure out which house it is that we’re supposed to make a delivery to in the dark, nor do we enjoy the puzzlement of where we last saw our coat when we need to be leaving the house NOW and it’s 15 degrees outside.  Mysteries mean big audiences and bigger profits when it comes to novels and television shows, but not so much when it comes to real life.

From personal experience, I have concluded again and again that mysteries are nothing short of frustrating.  I want to know the answer, not to be in the dark trying to get the light to come on.  I want my car to start when I turn the key, not to have to try tapping on this wire or wiggling that lever hoping that it will work.  Believe me, I’ve had my share of enigmatic rattletraps which gave me the anticipation of lying under the car to start it or walking to my destination, and I much prefer the dependable, steadfast vehicle. 

More than once, I’ve actually had the experience of not being able to locate a house when delivering a piano and each time, the experience was humbling and discouraging.  Even after the proper delivery address was located and the task was completed, the feeling lingered on for some hours.  While it’s possible that others are put together differently and may actually enjoy a mystery, I have a sneaking suspicion that most of us like to see what’s happening.  We like to know what’s going on and not be surprised.  We don’t cherish walking in the dark, not knowing what’s coming beyond the next step.

While I’m thinking about it, I do have a couple of other mysteries that are a little less weighty that I’d like to see solved.  For instance, I’d like to know where pocket lint comes from.  I have never put that stuff IN my pocket, but I’m all the time taking it OUT!  Is it organic or synthetic?  Can something be made from it?  Or is it just a ploy by the pocket monster to keep me on edge constantly, wondering if someday I’m going to reach in my pocket, only to find no money, but a whole pocket full of lint?

I also want to know where the money tree is.  Oh, don’t tell me there’s no such thing.  My Father-in-Law told me about it many years ago and I’ve watched ever since.  Kids come in the music store and look at a book or some clarinet reeds, inquiring about the price.  When they’ve received the answer, they reply, “I’ll be right back.”  They walk out of the store and in mere moments, return with cash in their hands.  Even though I’ve never been able to locate it, I’m convinced that somewhere in the vicinity of my store, there is a money tree that yields a steady crop of one, fives, tens, and twenties, all the year round.

Aside from the tongue-in-cheek mysteries I speak of, and even more important than the trivial issues described above, I do find myself constantly frustrated and worrying about what is coming, both in the near future and in the years to come.  I make plans and they are thwarted repeatedly.  I promise results and circumstances change to make those results improbable, even frequently impossible.  I have a business plan, but no way to be assured that the economy will cooperate, or that I have made allowances for every contingency.  I want a crystal ball with which to see the future.  I even find myself wondering if those who follow astrology and seek advice from palm readers and fortune tellers might be onto something.  But just as often, I find myself realizing that even though I haven’t the abilities to solve the deep mysteries of the future, I know Someone who does.  I walk in the dark, but He does not.  What a relief that I’m not on my own, hoping against hope that things work out the way I want them to.  I have confidence that they will be worked out exactly as they should be.

But, just between you and me, I’m going to keep on looking for that money-tree.  It’s around here somewhere.  I know it is!

“Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear,
And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
(Civilla Martin~1905)

When does it stop being mostly-cloudy and start being partly-sunny?

Twenty-nine years ago, it was.  My first Christmas as a father.  Talk about overwhelmed and disillusioned!  I had been led to believe that babies were cute little things that gurgled and smiled a lot.  The truth was a far cry from the promise!  There was a whole lot more crying than smiling going on (it didn’t all come from the little girl,either) and I was just itching to get my hands on the idiot who coined the phrase “I slept like a baby”.  It was a tumultuous time in our little family and the initiation period definitely had it’s downside.

Having said that, I’ll be quick to assure you that it was probably the best Christmas in my life up to that time.  That precious little baby was the joy of our lives!  Yes, there were adjustments.  Yes, we had to make some changes in our lives and schedules.  But the wonder, the amazement at the miracle of new life was beyond anything we had ever experienced.

During the long nights when she didn’t sleep and being held was the only thing that would quiet her, she and I listened to music.  I would turn on the record player (yes, I said “record”) and listen to a wide variety of artists and styles, but that Christmas season, the one song that was my favorite came from the “Christmas Album” that Barbra Streisand had recorded a few years before.  In those quieter days before news and commentary was a 24-hour cacophony of noise and controversy, artists were known for the quality of their music, not the shrillness of their political tirades and Barbra has one of the finest voices I know.  I remember playing the record and holding the sweet little girl close as Barbra sang of “The Best Gift”, not one under the tree, nor wrapped with a bow.  That gift was a “tiny, newborn child.”  And, I understood the sentiment and agreed completely.

With amazement we watched the beautiful girl become aware of things around her; watched her make her opinions known in the only way she could, saw the perfection of the tiny hands and feet and realized that she was ours to raise.  One day she would move on to her own life, but for now, she was ours.  And Christmas has never been the same for us.

Isn’t it amazing that God decided it was so important for His Son to come into the world that first Christmas as a helpless baby boy needing parents to love and cherish Him?  What a great gift! As parents, we listen to the story and we actually feel the indignation of having to seek shelter in a dirty barn, the agony of the birth, and the wonder at the new life.  The joy and awe that Mary and Joseph felt can’t be much different than what we feel at the birth of our own children.  Well, except for the angels, shepherds, and wise men, but you know what I mean…

After all these years, I still think that one of the best gifts we receive in life is our children.  Of course, I also think the same thing about grandchildren, just with the added benefit of other adults who are actually responsible for them.  Either way, the season is improved exponentially by their presence in our lives.  Now, if there was just some way to install a volume control on them…

(Barbra Streisand, 1978)

The place was a zoo!  The Lovely Lady had said she would be back to help me open up, but she was running late.  As I unlocked, the customers began streaming in the door, each one with a reason to need my attention.  And, the phone was ringing…Two lines at a time, over and over.  With my usual aplomb, which is to say, nearly none at all, the customer’s needs were dealt with, the peals of the ignored telephone frequently eclipsing the conversations.  Since the customers were patient, each one was finally served and the Lovely Lady arrived, just in time to help the last of the rush.  We had a short reprieve and then did it all again, several times.  It was, after all, the last Saturday before Christmas.

Immediately following the third or fourth rush of the day, I noticed a bill lying on the floor directly in front of the counter.  It was a twenty dollar bill, so we assumed that someone would be missing it soon.  The bill went into a container we keep behind the counter to await its rightful owner, but no one came back or called.  After awhile, we thought that perhaps it would make sense to phone a few of the morning’s customers with whom we were familiar, so we started through the ones we could recollect.  Those we could reach responded in about the same way.  “No, we didn’t lose it.  Hope you find who it belongs to.  Christmas isn’t a good time to lose money.” 

I did think of one customer whose name I couldn’t recall, but we had done business with her before and I knew we had a number somewhere.  The Lovely Lady found it after a lengthy search, and we left her a message to call us, without giving a reason.  Within a few minutes the phone rang.  “You wanted me to call?”, the curious voice on the phone asked.  When I explained that some money had been found, she took a minute, ostensibly to check her pocket.  Coming back on the phone, she said, “Yes, I lost some money.  Can you just mail it to me?”  A little surprised, I asked her the amount she had lost and she said, “Well, five dollars.”  I replied that this wasn’t the amount we had found, so she called to her husband (obviously in the next room), “Did you lose any money at the music store?”  When she returned to the phone, she was sure this time.  “Yes, he lost the change she gave him.”  Turning to the Lovely Lady, I asked about the change, finding out that he had given her a twenty and received about six dollars in return.  “No,” I said.  “That wasn’t it.  It was a bigger bill.”  I assumed that our conversation was over, but she yelled at her husband again,  “Did you lose a big bill?”  This time, I could hear him talking, but couldn’t understand what he said. Nevertheless, she was back shortly.  “He lost a hundred dollar bill!”

I have to confess that each of these exchanges had made me a little more angry, since it was obvious that this woman had no claim whatsoever to the cash.  However, keeping my cool, I said calmly, “It’s pretty clear that this isn’t your money.  We’ll keep looking.”  The audacious woman wasn’t finished yet!  She readily admitted that the money wasn’t hers, but now she wanted to help me be virtuous!  “If you can’t find who it belongs to, you should donate it to a group that helps poor people…”

Absolutely stunned, I hung up the telephone.  I think I’ve just spoken to the Grinch who stole Christmas!  At least she’s done that for me.  I have written before, that I find most people to be honest in their dealings with me.  I want to believe that.  I’ll believe it again someday.  But right now, this one person has shaken my faith in humans.  Here I was, trying earnestly to find the owner of this money.  But this woman was willing to throw her morals aside for the sake of five, then six dollars, and then one hundred dollars.  And, if lying and attempted fraud weren’t bad enough, she decided that it would be appropriate to add hypocrisy to the mix.

It hit me today, as I fussed at the Lovely Lady while we prepared dinner;  I in turn was rapidly becoming a Grinch.  I was unhappy yesterday, as we visited a friend who had graduated from college.  This morning’s worship services (including communion) had been grudgingly participated in. And, the joyful anticipation I always have of family arriving for Sunday Dinner was mysteriously absent.  Amazing how one encounter with a liar, would-be thief, and hypocrite could affect me so.  But as I considered the cause, it became clear to me.  The true issue isn’t the woman, it’s me.  I’m the liar.  I’m the thief.  I’m even the hypocrite.  And, I desperately need forgiveness.  And, I deserve it no more than she.  It’s sad that I have to be reminded so frequently that forgiveness is offered to all who come, regardless of merit.

This week we celebrate Christmas.  The spirit of Christmas is forgiveness.  It’s love.  God’s free gift to us is redemption.  And, we get to respond in kind.  After all, the Baby in the manger grew up and taught us to pray, “Forgive us our transgressions, as we forgive those who transgress against us.” 

The Grinch after all, is just pretend.  But this Christmas thing…This is as real as it gets!

“Christmas began in the heart of God. It is complete only when it reaches the heart of man.”

There’s an article circulating in the social media these days that speculates about how many classic books most people have read.  Apparently, or so goes the text, the BBC believes the average English speaking person (I wonder if I qualify?) will only have read 6 of the 100 books on the list.  Aside from the fact that a number of the books could hardly be called mainstream or classic, it’s an interesting exercise.

Do you read?  What kind of book do you pick up when (and if) you do read?  I find myself intrigued by the question and its ramifications.  My friends are a diverse lot, so when we talk about their reading habits, the answers run the gamut, from science fiction to Christian fiction, from the classics (Melville, Kipling, etc.) to romance novels, and even from self-help books to Christian non-fiction.  I have been astonished to learn what books some people read and I have nodded my head and said, “I thought so,” when I discovered what others peruse.  I can honestly tell you that ,contrary to what we’ve been led to believe, I have been able to draw no conclusion whatsoever about one’s maturity level or spiritual journey from the books they read.

Personally, I love to read.  I’ve been castigated by some friends for the lack of spiritual depth of reading material, and by others for my disinterest in the so called “Best Sellers List”.  At one time, our store sold Christian books, and I was amazed at how easily people were sucked into fads and crazes.  In the 90’s, the self-help books were all about “codependency” and our customers bought them by the scores and even used them as discussion guides for small groups.  Why was codependency such a problem then, but of no concern now?  Was is a real problem which was written (and read) out of existence?  Or, has it just morphed into a different form and now is being repackaged into new self-help books about, say….love addiction?  The problem with most best sellers is that they have no durability or staying power.  That’s why they’re called best sellers and that’s the reason I shun them.

I even tend to sneer at the latest Christian non-fiction, although I’m not uninterested in becoming the man God intends me to be or having my church be everything that the functioning Body of Christ should be.  I just know that the “best seller” that matters here has been the best seller for the better part of  the last 400 years in the English language, in the book we call the “Holy Bible”.  That one, I own.  That one, I read.  I’m baffled that somehow believers are willing to get more excited about what a man or woman can write and have edited for them and put into a slick cover before being sold with slick marketing campaigns, than they do about what they claim to believe is Absolute Truth straight from God.

When I want to read something a little lighter, these days, I pull down one of my old favorites.  I’ve read and reread Tolkien’s “Lord Of The Rings” and “The Hobbit” countless times as an adult, with new lessons learned about human nature and courage each time.  “Watership Down” by Richard Adams is one of my favorites too, with the same type of lessons to be learned, this time from the perspective of …talking rabbits?  Yeah, I know.  Kind of strange, but if you’ve read the book, you’ll understand.  “Pilgrim’s Progress” offers great wisdom for the journey. Of course, many of my choices are simply for entertainment:  “The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn”, as well as “The Jungle Book”  (the one by Kipling, not the Disney version)  are old friends, too.  Oh, and if you get jaded by life, there’s no substitute for “Winnie The Pooh” and “The House At Pooh Corner” by A.A. Milne for simple lessons on how to get along with others and a wonderful pun or two thrown in along the way.

I love to read and I thank my parents for giving me that chance as a young boy.  No television in my home growing up!  “If I want trash in my living room,” my Dad would say, “I’ll bring in the trashcans and upend them myself.”  We had hours to enjoy books and the great outdoors.  Many days saw me up an orange tree with a book in one hand and a ripe orange in the other, happy as any young boy ever was with expensive toys and raucous entertainment.

If you’ve got children still in your care, give them the gift of reading!  Television and computer games are addictions which they will have every chance to develop later in life.  Read aloud to your children and let them see you enjoying books.  Get them their own good books and encourage them to spend time developing a love for the art of reading.  It’s an amazing gift that will last all of their life.  And, I promise you, they will thank you for it.  I have yet to hear anyone gripe that their parents “made” them read when they were young (unlike taking piano lessons!).

Oh, and it wasn’t 6 for me…I’ve read 23 on the list.  I’m not sure that there are many others there which I would choose to read, but maybe I’ll make the effort and hopefully, find some new friends along the way.  There are worse ways to spend a cold winter evening.

“The more that you read, the more things you will know.  The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.”
(Dr. Seuss)

“Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend.  Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”
(Groucho Marx)

Last Friday, the call came while I was at work.  “Paul, when can we pick up that cornet mouthpiece?  The concert is Sunday afternoon, you know.”  I searched my suddenly blank memory and then was reminded that I had received a text the preceding Sunday afternoon.  Unfortunately, the connection between the text received on my cell phone and the stock orders placed that week hadn’t been made.  Once again, the curse of the chaotic, hectic schedule that rules my life during most days has claimed another victim.  At least, that’s what I want to believe.  I prefer not to think that my brain is aging at the same pace as my body.

I find that I’m often faced with the reality that is a forgetful mind.  It’s probable that I’ve always been forgetful of some things, going back to my teenage years, maybe even earlier than that.  I admit, my absentmindedness can be selective, with those items which are important to me having a much better chance of sticking in the gray matter.  I also find that most people I know are faced with the same problem.

I listened with gratification as a friend of mine related a conversation he had some time ago with a student of his.  “Dr. P, do you remember…”, began the student, only to be summarily interrupted by my friend.  “Stop right there!  Was it more than 20 minutes ago?”  The student nodded his head.  “Was it less than 20 years ago?”  Again, the student replied in the affirmative.  The judgment came, “I don’t remember.”  I can so identify with his conclusion!

My short term memory is often limited to a very short term, but I remember events and people from 20 years ago as if it were yesterday.  A customer may have spent a couple of thousand dollars in my store within the last 4 or 5 months, and I can’t remember who they are, but let a patron who purchased a fifty dollar amplifier  twenty-five years ago walk through the front door, and I can remember not only his name, but often the brand of amplifier he bought from me.  It would be nicer if I could remember the more recent events, since my business is sometimes affected by the lack of recollection.  Let’s face it; everyone wants to feel important, and if an individual makes a significant purchase in my business, they want to be remembered.

When I talk about my lack of cognitive skills in this area, most of my friends want to offer advice.  I’ve been given a profusion of suggestions for remembering people and events, from memorizing facial features to mnemonic devices, all of which have proved useless to me.  My undisciplined brain can’t remember to employ the devices for the same reason that I forget things in the first place; The events come at me too fast.  Before I can hang up the phone and complete the task requested by the caller, someone is talking in my ear from beside me, while an email arrives, also demanding attention.  I’ve decided that the laissez faire approach to life serves well here.  The French colloquialism means, literally, “let them get on with it”.  So that’s what I’m doing.  I’m peddling as fast as I can!  Let the chips fall where they may.  We’ll probably all get by.

Once in awhile, I do have to apologize for my selective amnesia.  Although I don’t intend it, some folks may think I do it on purpose and be offended.  I don’t remember who they are and hope none of them is reading this today, but just in case…I’m still sorry! 

I know I started out to make a point with this blog, but right now, I just don’t recall what it was.  Tomorrow, I’ll talk about when I was a kid.  That, I can remember!

“Men are men.  The best sometimes forget.”
(William Shakespeare)

Sometimes I sit at the keyboard, move my fingers and the words just flow.  Other times, like tonight, there’s a struggle.  Oh, I have no shortage of stories; those go on forever.  I have lived over a half century, you know.  The problem is that I’m not ready to tell some of the stories for different reasons.  Some entail a lot more embarrassment than I’m ready to reveal, others seem too trivial to waste time with.  They’ll probably all come in time, but I need to be ready for them to come.

What to do?  Do I just close the program and go home?  It seems to me that it would be simpler to just write less often.  The Lovely Lady has given her permission.  “You don’t have to write everyday, you know,” she told me as I left the house earlier.  The day will come when I’ll take that advice, but for now, I want to persevere.  It took me such a long time to get up the courage to start that I’m worried I’ll falter soon and quit for lack of motivation or in discouragement.

I have been a quitter, you know…When I was quite young, our neighbors would invite us to go to the tomato fields and pick with them.  I agreed one day and rode the big flat bed truck out to the field…only to ride it back the first time it returned to the processing plant.  I had assumed that the day would be a lark, nothing more than an easy few hours of picking in the garden.  Boy, was I mistaken!  Suffice it to say that I was embarrassed by kids half my age and adults who looked so old that decrepit wouldn’t be a stretch to describe their physical prowess.  When I heard that the truck was coming back to town, I was climbing on in a minute, without a second thought.  Let them say whatever they wanted to…I was done!

A few years later, this time at about 13 or 14 years old, these same neighbors (who must have been a little forgetful) invited me to work with them in their concrete finishing business.  I made it a little longer this time, actually sticking out the job for 4 days.  Setting forms, cleaning concrete-covered tools, and digging trenches by hand in the nearly 100 degree heat and through the dry, sun-blasted soil, was incredibly tiring work, but by the third day, the sunburn I had started accumulating the first day was blistered and the motion necessary to do my work was not only exhausting, but also excruciating. So, once again I quit, walking home this time.

The list of things I have tried and quit abruptly includes not only a job or two, but various clubs, sports, and even a correspondence school.  I’m good at leaving things unfinished. A close examination of my workbench today will reveal at least 4 unfinished jobs, which may never be resumed.  Sometimes when we start things, we don’t count the cost, we don’t consider what the task really entails.  Then when we hit the brick walls, and it happens invariably, we “reassess”.  That’s what I like to call it anyway.  It sounds better than “waffle” or “renege”.  My mom had a colorful name for people like me, probably a bit politically incorrect.  She would say, “Oh, don’t be such a pantywaist!”  Well, when the going gets tough, the wimpy get going…the other way!

I will tell you proudly of my triumphs, although a closer examination of  them will demonstrate the influence of someone other than myself, a blessed marriage made easy by an amazing partner, a long term involvement in the same church, facilitated by fellowship with some of the best people I know, and my business, in which I have been motivated by enjoyment as much as by necessity.  God has been good and well I know it!  When I find myself disappointed by my shortcomings and failures, and they are many, I have only to look at His goodness and faithfulness to find encouragement and the stimulus to keep pushing forward.

The past is our school, providing us the tools to struggle back to our feet and get it right the next time.  Our whole life is a picture of grace and redemption, with second chances being the rule rather than the exception.  So, quit being a pantywaist and get going…in the right direction!  You’re surrounded by failures who kept at it until they achieved success.  Your turn is next!

“Age wrinkles the body.  Quitting wrinkles the soul.”
(Douglas MacArthur)

Up until sixth grade, I loved math.  I’ve since figured out that the reason is that math until then was actually basic arithmetic, with numbers which made sense to me and functions which were fairly consistent, such as addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division.  I actually remember a time when I thought that math was my favorite subject.  That all changed as we moved into the more theoretical fields and I rapidly lost interest.  Algebra was just okay and Geometry was one step beyond okay.  I basically blew off Geometry class due to a complete lack of interest in the subject.  It no longer was black and white, right and wrong.  We didn’t speak of adding and subtracting, but now had theorems and postulates, and questions such as: “State the theorem or postulate you would use to prove the following statement.”  I wanted to find the correct answer, not discuss why it was correct.

I should tell you from the start, that I’ll not be exploring any of the intricacies of the foreign language which is mathematics here.  I merely wish to set the stage for my little tale, to be assured of your understanding of my position, when I say that I had no interest in the subject.  You mathematicians (the Lovely Lady included) will gasp in horror, and the intellectuals among you will be convinced that your original impression of my lack of cerebral ability was correct.  You won’t change my stance.  I have no intention of becoming a “nuculer scientist”, and therefore will not be resuming my education in mathematics ever again.

For the college prep level of classes I chose to complete in High School, Geometry was a minimum requirement, so it had to be passed.  We had a two semester, four quarter system, with nine weeks in each quarter.  As I sat through my first nine-weeks of classes, my eyes rapidly glazed over as Mrs. Klinck discussed the basics of the class and my mind went into neutral for the duration of the first quarter, giving me a final grade for the nine-weeks of 68.  In those days, 70 was considered passing for the class, but you only had to pass the semester to move ahead, so the two nine-weeks grades were averaged together.  Mrs. Klinck was a good teacher, with a desire to see her students do well, so she arranged for me to come in for extra help before school.  I wasn’t alone in those early morning sessions, since there were other students who were of a kindred spirit with me.  At the end of the semester, with a little effort on my part, I achieved exactly the necessary minimum passing grade of 72.  My mind, which does simple division quite well, told me that the resulting averaged semester grade of 70 was completely acceptable.

For the third quarter, the eyes glazed over again, resulting in an abysmal grade of 62, the worst I ever had on a report card.  Mrs. Klinck was not amused at all.  “If you think I’m going to pass you with a 78 for the final nine-weeks, you’re sadly mistaken!”, were her exact words.  “If I don’t think you tried to do any more than just get by, I will make you take this entire class again next year!”  Now, Mrs. Klinck was one of the best looking teachers in high school and I think most of the boys in her classes had a crush on her, but another whole year of her Geometry class?  No, thank you!  I came in for the early tutoring sessions, applied myself to the hated postulates and theorems and finished the final quarter with a respectable 89 in the class.  I even came within a hair’s breadth of acing the final exam, missing only one question to achieve a very impressive 96.

I’d like to be able to tell you that this was a turning point, that I never again did the minimum necessary to fulfill a goal.  I’d even love to tell you that I always give one-hundred percent in everything I do.  I can’t tell you either of those.  Many times since that day I have waited for the last minute to finish a project, “phoning it in”, as the saying goes.  I have failed to remember the lesson of that hard year in Geometry on any number of occasions.  But, I can also say that over and over, I’ve thought of that year when faced with a task which I detest. On almost a daily basis, I see duties and responsibilities on which I would like to get a pass.  I have come to understand (even if not actually mastered) the need to achieve excellence all along the way.  I’m going to keep trying to make that one-hundred percent.  Mrs. Klinck couldn’t make me love Geometry, but she helped me to learn a valuable lesson which has stuck in my mind and heart for many years. 

Always do your best, even when it’s more than is required.  Whatever you do, do it with zeal.  We don’t work for ourselves, or even our favorite math teacher.  If we are followers of God, we owe Him our best efforts, even in the most menial of tasks.

“The difference between what we do and what we are capable of doing would suffice to solve most of the world’s problems.”
(Mahatma Ghandi)