The place was a zoo!

The Lovely Lady had said she would be back to help me open up the music store, 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 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, I 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 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 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 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 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 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 myself.

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.

It’s 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 with the woman, it’s with me. The truth is, I’m offended by her actions because I see myself when I think about her.  Down deep inside, I know who I am.

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 month 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.

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.”

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved. 

During the morning church service, the beautiful little girl sits on my leg and moves her crayon confidently from one point on the page in front of her to the next.  As she slides the brown-colored wax stick from number to number, the outline of a picture appears, clearly depicting a shepherd with his sheep.

It hasn’t always been like this.

A year or two ago the little tyke, one of my four favorite grandchildren, would have asked, in her version of a whisper (meaning: loudly enough for all nearby to hear clearly), “What do I do here, Grandpa?”

Grandpa would have explained that she needed to start on the number 1 and draw a line to the number 2.  A little squiggly line that wandered off to the side and then back again would have been drawn tentatively.  At that point, the crayon would be lifted from the page and the question repeated, possibly even a little more loudly.

Eventually the picture would be visible, although not nearly as neat as today’s, nor with as straight of lines from number to number.  Clearly, she has learned to connect the dots much more skillfully in the intervening time.

The services are notably quieter too, since she has learned to whisper a little better, as well.

I smile as I think about the beautiful little girl and how she is growing.  And learning.  But, as I think, my mind wanders.  Those dots remind me of something else.  They make me think a little about other types of connections.

Human connections.

They’re not so different from connecting the dots, are they?

I had a conversation with some friends the other day about being connected with family members.  One of my friends mentioned the spoons which her family uses in their home.  They once belonged to her grandmother.  My friend has made sure that her children know where they came from.  It ensures that they remember the lady, even though she is gone. When they use the utensils for a meal, they all feel a connection to an absent family member.

She is helping her children to connect the dots, pointing out numbers represented by various events and aiding them in seeing a clear picture of family.

I thought about those spoons and couldn’t help but see in my head numerous items in my own house.  One in particular which I have written about before is my great-grandmother’s sugar jar. It had, years ago, become my grandmother’s sugar jar, passing then to my father, who gave it to me.

We use the jar daily.   Nearly every time I twist the lid off to scoop sugar out, I see, in my mind’s eye, the faces of all the preceding generations who have used the jar.

By passing the jar on to me, my father was simply helping me to connect the dots.  Someday, I’ll do the same for the next generation.

As I write, I realize that the pictures drawn by my words here all have fairly tangible connections.  Numbers written in sequence and placed in the correct position on a piece of paper make a viable art project for a six-year old.  Relatives who have been a part of our lives and have already made their mark on them are remembered by objects we can hold in our hands, as we employ the items in everyday tasks.

But, what about other connections, not so easily seen?

If we can’t see them and haven’t actually experienced them, are they even real?  Do they make any difference at all?

On a recent evening, I sat in my easy chair and relaxed, letting the stresses and busy-ness of the day fall away.  Nearby, the Lovely Lady read from a book she held on her lap.  Things were as they should be–I lazing for awhile, and she getting ready to fill the hours with crafty activity, crocheting or sewing, or whatever it is she does with those needles and yarn.

Just a typical evening in our household.

But, then again . . .

Gradually, I became aware of a shift in emotion in the room.  I know I’m only a man.  It takes me awhile to get a clue.  But something was obviously different.

I looked over at the Lovely Lady.  She was unhappy.  Almost distraught.  As she looked up from her reading, I think I may have seen tears in her eyes.  It could have been my imagination.

Nonetheless, she was emotionally moved by what she had read.  I remembered then that she had found an old book of her family history while cleaning at her parent’s home (both of them deceased).  The book had been compiled about her mother’s side of her family.  It was full of information from the nineteenth century.

Great-grandparents, and great-aunts and uncles, none of whom she had ever known, filled the pages of the narrative.

She looked at me and, realizing that an explanation for her emotion was in order, spoke the words.  “Life was so hard for my family.”

Then, thinking that more information was needed, she added, “I would never have been born if they hadn’t survived these troubles.”

The words on the pages before her had come to life in her being.  These were her people, her family.  She is, in part, all of them.  The hardships they suffered–the wild fires they survived–the horrific living conditions they endured–all of them happened to her.

To her.

Connecting the dots.

Dots she never knew existed.  It didn’t mean they were not there.
__________

My young friend, Grace, is studying photography at the local university.  She takes photos of what she sees. It is what photographers do. One of her photographs stopped me in my tracks yesterday.

The photograph will likely need some explanation.  Then again, perhaps not much.

The news has been full of events in Ferguson, Missouri for months.  Last week, riots and looting broke out as the racial anger boiled over and the filters that, in ordinary circumstances, would prevent such action were lost or discarded.

Windows were broken. Fires were set.  Property was destroyed.  Guns were fired.

Many words have been spoken and written about the situation since then–words which are hurtful and angry.  My own emotions have surged as I have seen the images and have heard the angry words from many different perspectives.

I have stood in despair and wondered why those people would be so angry and destructive in their actions.  I have listened in horror and wondered why those other people would be so angry and hateful in their words.

Those people.

Photo: Grace Ellen Nast  Used with permission.

My young friend went to Ferguson. Herself.  Standing in the place where the horrible violence occurred, she took a picture of her feet.

That’s right.  Her feet.

On the ground.  In Ferguson. In the middle of the bricks and the ashes.

I glanced at the photo and shrugged mentally.  Big deal.

Then it hit me.

Those same feet, the ones in the blue sneakers, walked into my music store one afternoon last week.

Funny.  Her feet–the ones in the blue sneakers, on the ground in Ferguson– they stood on the ground in front of me just last week.

It’s the same ground.

Connected.

Suddenly, the miles and the man-made divisions seem insignificant as I begin to grasp the reality.   These are not someone else’s problems, occurring in a different world than the one in which I live and move.

These are my people.  What happens to them, happens to me.

To me.

In my mind the arguments pile atop each other; the evidence of connections between me and those people is overwhelming.

I want to convince with logic.  Perhaps, if I can overwhelm the reader with scientific proof of our shared ancestry, of DNA, of common history–perhaps then we’ll embrace each other.  Perhaps then the violence, the slurs, the hatred can stop.

It won’t happen.

The words I would say have all been said, the arguments made again and again.  The human heart is turned to evil and deceit, and only God can change it.  It has always been so.

But today, for me, sitting on the knee of the one true Artist, I see the connection.  Like my granddaughter, the skill at recognizing those points of connection may increase with maturity and practice.   

It may.

I want it to be true.

Maybe we can help each other.

We are connected, after all.

“We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.  Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”
(Martin Luther King Jr ~ American pastor/civil rights leader ~ 1929-1968)

“Be joyful.  Grow to maturity.  Encourage each other.  Live in harmony and peace.  Then the God of love and peace will be with you.”
(2 Corinthians 13:11 ~ NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

“You know how to work one of those, don’t you young man?”

The kid couldn’t have been older than six, and he had a streak of curiosity a mile long.

“What’s that?  Why is it hanging from that hook?  Does it make music?  I bet my Dad could play it.”

He moved on from the harmonicas and over to the table with thousands of guitar picks on it.

“Wow!  I like that color.  Does that go on your finger?  Is it for scraping stuff?  Why are there so many of them?  Grandma, I need one of these for my guitar at home.  Buy me one.”

Then it caught his eye.  The jar of kazoos.  The table covered with picks was forgotten in a second.

“I can play that.  Can I have one?  Please Grandma, please!  I’ll put the guitar pick back. Please!”

Grandma knew a good deal when she found one.  The kazoo cost less than the expensive pick the lad had selected.  As an added bonus, she was sure that the boy’s mother and father would be driven crazy when she sent the kid home with the noise maker.

“Okay.  But, the pick goes back.”

The boy quickly complied, returning immediately to the kazoo jar.  A green kazoo was selected forthwith and he held it in his hand gingerly, considering his next step.

Knowing that the logical thing which would happen next would be for the boy to place the little plastic instrument to his lips and blow as hard as he could, I attempted to assist with a little education.

“You know how to play a kazoo, do you?”  I was pretty sure he didn’t.

He was pretty sure he did.

“Sure.  You put it in your mouth and blow.  The music comes out the end.”

If you ever had a kazoo, you might know how disappointing that plan could have been for the boy.  I’ve had to dispose of any number of kazoos (before they ever left the shop) after that path of action was ventured upon.  The air pressure produced by blowing into the little plastic toy can perforate the little plastic disk which vibrates to produce the kazoo’s signature tone. Humming is the only thing which produces the desired result.  The only thing.

“Oh, don’t do it that way.”  I was quick in my response.  “Try humming instead.  You know how to hum, don’t you?”

Seeing the question mark in his eyes, I hummed a little children’s song aloud for him.  When I stopped, the look in his eyes was no longer one of curiosity, but of sympathy.  Obviously, the clueless adult in front of him was in the first stages of dementia.  He couldn’t even remember the words to the song!

“When I do that song, it has words.”

I explained that humming was really singing without the words and that he only needed to close his lips around the end of the kazoo and hum loudly to activate the vibrating resonator.

With that explanation from me, the little boy was finished.

He would not perform today.

The outgoing, loquacious kid fell almost completely silent, looking at the floor and shoving the bright green kazoo into the pocket of his jeans.

“I’ll do it when I get home.”

No amount of wheedling on my part would convince him.  His grandmother almost begged him.  He remained adamant.

“When I get home.”

I never heard a single note from the little instrument.  Not a note.

Overcome with embarrassment, he waited quietly by the door for his grandma to complete the transaction she had come to make.

I feel robbed.  I wanted to enjoy his discovery of the music that was already inside of him.  I love watching the kid’s eyes light up as they realize what they are capable of.

Robbed.  By a six-year old.

What good is a kazoo stuck in a pocket?

Two questions.

Just two.

What are we hiding that could bring joy to people around us?

Why would we not take it out and accept the offer of expertise from someone who can help us to use it?

The Teacher suggested that the residents of a city built on the side of a hill are wasting their time if they are trying to hide the light of the city.  He also wondered what would be the good of hiding a lantern under a basket.

Kazoos are made to be raucous and joyous.

And shared.

I’m thinking it’s time we empty our pockets.

“You are the light of the world.  A city set on a hill cannot be hidden; nor does anyone light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house…”
(Matthew 5:14,15 ~ NASB)

“Your talent is God’s gift to you.  What you do with it is your gift back to God.”
(Leo Buscaglia ~ American author/motivational speaker ~ 1924-1998)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

The seven year old in front of me stared at me, open-mouthed.

“No! I don’t look like my Dad.  I’m not bald!”

The lad’s mom stopped by to pick up a few music accessories.  I couldn’t help it.  The young boy stood there playing with his Nintendo (“It’s a DS.  Don’t you have one?”), and I looked down at his winsome face, wearing his new glasses and concentrating on beating his current level, and I saw his father.

“Did anyone ever tell you how much you look like your Dad?”

The shock was genuine.  He couldn’t believe how naive this old person was.  Couldn’t I see that he had all his hair?

How could he look like his dad if he had all his hair?

The more he looked at me with that surprised look on his face, the more he looked like his father.  I started to explain, but he was already back to his game, oblivious to my confusion.

That’s funny.  I don’t remember his dad being bald.

Is he?

How is it that the young man and I see such different things when we look at his dad?

I see a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a quick smile, partially what I noticed in the boy’s face today.

He sees a head without hair on top and sides shaved to match.

We’re both right.

We’re both wrong.

At least, we are if we think what we see is the whole picture.  The danger of focusing on one attribute of a person is that we almost always pigeon-hole him into a certain category–a category which cannot ever fully describe the person.

We see what we want and no more.

Tunnel vision.

There is none so blind as he who will not see.
__________

I mentioned a shared acquaintance to a customer the other day.  I wanted to talk about musical talent.  He wanted to talk about ancient history.

“Why would you even have anything to do with that tweaker?” (A tweaker is the common description for one who is addicted to methamphetamine.)

I stopped short.  It took a moment.  Then, the light dawned.  I do remember a time when there were rumors that the man used drugs.

I thought carefully about my answer.  “He described himself to me with different words.  His words were believer and follower of Jesus.  He talks about grace, too.”

My friend hemmed and hawed a little, but he kept coming back to the drug issue.  It was all he could see when he looked at the other man.

Tunnel vision is a kind of blindness.

There is none so blind . . .
__________

There is a man I know who has led an exemplary life, his complete life given to service and ministry.  Well, almost complete.  A few years ago, I learned about a moral failing in his life.  I was disappointed.

Still today, when his name comes up, I can’t think of anything but the morality issue.  Seven decades of his life are as if they never happened.  One sin, one failure, defines him in my mind, and it will forever.  Or, so it seems to me.

Am I so different than my customer with the long memory?

Tunnel vision is blindness.

There is none . . .
__________

I hear the pharisees–those hypocrites–whispering already, their voices repeating the mantra again and again, until it is all they know.

Guilty in one part, guilty in all.  There can be no argument.  It is in the Book.

Once used drugs? It’s who he is forever. Tweaker!

Served faithfully for a lifetime, but stumbled at the end?  All of his life is erased and the label of adulterer replaces the title of servant.

Suddenly, a new label jumps to mind–one which hangs about my own neck.

Pharisee–arrogant, boastful judge of others.  Not those hypocrites. 

Me.  This hypocrite.

I wonder if I’m the only one?

No, I suppose not.

I know of at least one customer and one young man who share my problem (although we could probably overlook the boy’s error).  There may be one or two more who will read these words and hear in them a familiar note.

I wonder though…

Suddenly–as suddenly as that personal label, the one hanging around my own neck, came to me–the light shines brilliantly into the darkness I’ve created.

To label myself is no different than labeling others.  Good or bad, the label is applied to just one part, one tiny segment, of who the person is.

With our bad eyesight, we can never see the whole person.  Not without corrective lenses.  Or, better yet, not without surgery.

I’m struggling with the application of this truth tonight.  I want to pound home the lesson, but it hurts too much personally.

I do remember that there is One who sees the whole person–the secret parts, too–while we see only the obvious, public image.  I remember too, that He gave sight to the blind.

That’s me.  Blind.

I wonder if He’s still any good at restoring sight.

Can I leave you to find your way to the end of this subject yourself?

You see, it would only be a blind man leading blind people, so I think it’s only prudent.

We wouldn’t want to waste the evening in a ditch, would we?

“How many colors are there in a field of grass to the crawling baby unaware of ‘green’?”
(Stan Brakhage ~ American filmmaker ~ 1933-2003)

“Hear this, you foolish and senseless people, who have eyes but do not see, who have ears but do not hear.”
(Jeremiah 5:20 ~ NIV)

 © Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.

The words are familiar to many.  So is the cynicism with which the words are often greeted.

That most famous of journal-keepers, Anne Frank, recorded those words at about the time she and her Jewish-German family were discovered and transported to Auschwitz, the infamous World War II concentration camp.  She would die there less than nine months later at the young age of fifteen.

Her words echo in my head tonight.  The optimistic syllables are set against a backdrop of gunfire and burning buildings, along with the sound of an angry mob.  One person started by throwing a brick at a police car, and within moments the car was destroyed and burning.

Color me cynical.

The mob will destroy and loot, and possibly kill, all because they follow their leaders.

Can any good come from the actions of a mob?
__________

Last Saturday was just an ordinary Saturday morning at the music store.

Well no it wasn’t, actually.  I was exhausted.  And disgusted.

I had gotten up almost three hours early that morning to run in the local Turkey Trot 5K race, held every November.  A really late night spent standing at my work bench tending to instrument repairs for customers had shortened my usual five hours of sleep to less than four.

I hadn’t even won my age division in the race.  I had expected to do that, at least.  Some old guy I had never seen before walked off with my medal around his neck.

My medal!

I hadn’t won anything in the drawings that followed the race.  No turkey.  No free Subway sandwiches.  Not even a milk shake from Barnett’s Dairyette.

Besides that, it was pouring down rain outside by then.  That’s what it felt like inside, too.  Pouring down.

Nobody loves me.  Everybody hates me.  I’m going to the garden to eat worms.

The morning dragged on.  So did my mental meal of wriggly worms.  Ten o’clock was followed by eleven o’clock and then eleven-thirty finally slid on past.

I was (reluctantly) waiting on an old friend when my self-pity feast was brought to a screeching halt.  The nearly empty parking lot suddenly began to look different as, one by one, cars started pulling into the waiting spaces.  Smiling people got out of each car and, still shaking off the raindrops, walked in the front door.

One of them, a young man something over twenty years old, carried in a huge sign and a couple of glass jars. He set the jars on the counter in front of me, leaning the sign against its front.

“I need to just leave these here for awhile,” he said, through a grin the size of the Mississippi River.

I wondered, but I was working on a microphone stand for my friend/customer, so I turned back to the task at hand.  People continued piling into the store.

I finally looked up, wondering how the Lovely Lady and I were going to serve all these customers at once.  Suddenly, it hit me.

They each wore that Mississippi-sized grin on their face.  Something was up!

Two hours later, I was still stunned.  They all came for one thing.  Just one.  They wanted to give us money.

Give.  Us.  Money.

You have to understand.  I sell things.  Musical instruments.  Recordings.  Lesson books.

I sell things.  People trade their money for the things I sell.  Always.

Not on that afternoon.

These people had heard I wanted something.  Something big I couldn’t afford.  Well, at least, I couldn’t justify spending the kind of money it would take to get it.

A few weeks ago, I purchased a guitar from a customer.  Thirty-seven years before that, he had walked out the door of this same music store with that very guitar.  That was only a month after I started working in this store.  I felt a strange connection to the beautiful, ruby-red gem.

As I negotiated to purchase the instrument, he shared a bit of information which told me that this was actually one of the first guitars ever sold by this second generation family-owned store.  My Father-in-law had sold this guitar as one of his first ever transactions after launching the business in 1968!

I was in love.  The beautiful guitar, originally sold for less than five hundred dollars in 1968, would cost me thousands of dollars to acquire, but I had to have it.  After a couple sessions of dickering and bargaining, the transaction was finalized.  The gorgeous thing hangs on the wall behind my sales counter.

I want it to stay there forever.  The problem is that I can’t afford to invest thousands in anything that is not for sale.  I don’t have that kind of money to spend on sentimentality.

My friends, on the other hand, did, it seems.   They had all gathered for one reason.  They wanted to buy the guitar.  For me and the Lovely Lady.  To keep forever.

By the time I had shaken the last hand and hugged the last neck, there was almost two thousand dollars in the jars on that counter.  To say that I am humbled and grateful is less than an understatement.  I am still stunned.

But, the guitar stays.

It stays.
__________

I’m imagining the looks of confusion on the faces of those reading this.  By now, the reader undoubtedly wants to know what the story of the guitar has to do with my opening statement.

I suppose a little perspective might be in order.  I’ll do my best.

My friends had a name for what they did for me on Saturday.  The name was written in big green letters on the sign the young man had leaned against my counter.

Cash Mob.

That’s right.  A mob.  A group of people that feeds off the example of others around them and follows their lead.

I asked the question earlier.  I ask it again.

Can any good come from the actions of a mob?

I’m still a cynic.  But, on Saturday at least, a day that started out wrong turned out right.

I’m also remembering another mob that gathered one night.  It was over two thousand years ago.  A Man died because of that mob.  The course of history was changed because of it.

Could any good come from that?

The answer speaks for itself.  Only the greatest good mankind has ever encountered.  Only the opportunity for us to experience what could never have happened without the actions of that unruly and vicious mob.  In the strangest manner and from the worst circumstances–Grace and Life!

I don’t see the end of the actions of tonight’s mob.  I honestly don’t see how it can come to any positive conclusion.

Perhaps, I’m not the right person to ask about it.

Are you talking to the right Expert on mobs?

I’ve got a few questions I’m going to be asking Him tonight.

You too?

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”
(Genesis 50:20 ~ NIV)

“It’s a wonder I haven’t abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical.  Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.
It’s utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos, suffering, and death.  I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness; I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too; I feel the suffering of millions.  And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better; that this cruelty too shall end, that peace and tranquility will return once more.”
(The Diary of Anne Frank, entry July 15, 1944 ~ Anne Frank ~ German Jew/Nazi victim ~ 1929-1945)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

“What are you training for?”

The middle-aged man leaned forward on the bench he occupied beside the running track.  I had just finished running my three miles and was stretching against the wall nearby.  For the last two and a half miles, he had been in the same spot on that bench every time I ran past.  Twenty-five times, I ran in front of him and he hadn’t moved from the spot.  In fairness, his attention was on his son, also running laps and a few wind sprints.  It turned out he had noticed me going past him all those times, too.

As I considered the answer to his question, a few drops of sweat fell from my face to the floor below.  I laughed nervously, hoping he wouldn’t notice–it is hard to act suave and cool when you’ve just run thirty times around the track as fast as your legs can manage.  As if a little sweat mattered.  Still, I quickly passed my sleeve over my forehead, forestalling any other droplets with the same destination in mind.

What am I training for?

The easy answer is that I want to run in the annual Turkey Trot 5K race coming up this weekend.  But, come to think of it, that’s not why I’m running tonight.

It’s not why I ran a couple of nights ago.  Nor, why I ran the night before that.

I would run if there weren’t a race for another six months–or a year.  I’m not training for some trivial little five-kilometer run along the city streets.

I took the plunge and attempted an explanation.

“I’m training for the rest of my life.”

There.

Let’s see what my new friend had to say about that.  It was as close to the truth as any answer I had, anyway.

“Oh.  One of those.”  He sighed.  “You’re a health fanatic, aren’t you?”

I’m not!  I won’t be known as a health nut!

Anyway.  We batted the details of my fanaticism around for a few moments and I took my leave, walking my sweat-infused body out into the twenty degree wintry night.  I almost didn’t notice the chill, so wrapped up was I in the argument which was brewing inside of me.

Well?  What am I training for?  Come to think of it, what is he training for?

What are we training for?

He sits on the bench and watches other people run.  He’s training for something–not the same thing I’m training for, but he’s training for something. 

The implications of the thought are staggering to me.  Every moment, every second, I am in training.  Every step I take, every bite of food I put into my mouth, every minute I spend in bed–all of it training.

For good or bad, we are all training.

And no, this is not the fanatical voice of a health nut you are hearing.

I said the implications were staggering.  They still are.  The realization that I’m training physically with every move I make suddenly broadens to include all of life.

All of life.

Physical.  Emotional.  Spiritual.

When I snap at the Lovely Lady because I am unhappy with the way things are going,  I’m training.  When I ignore that man who needed me to notice his contribution to our conversation, I’m training.  Even when no one else is looking and I sneak a glance at that scantily clad woman on my computer screen, I’m in training.

Oh.  Is that more information than you wanted?  You didn’t need to know that about me?  Sorry.  It is part of what I’ve been training for, though.  All of my life.  You too?  Maybe not the exact same thing, but there is that one issue…

What are we training for?

I train physically nearly every day because I want to be in condition every day.  Not just on race day.

Every day.  For the rest of my life.

I’m suggesting that we need to train spiritually for every day.  Not just so that, like the old Christmas carol requests, Jesus will “…fit us for Heaven, to live with (Him) there.”

Every day, we need to be ready–to act, to speak, to think–as if we were already fit for heaven.

Right here.  Right now. 

What are you training for?

Is there any sweat dripping from your face?  Are you feeling a little out of place with the spectators sitting around, staying cool and fresh?

Good.  It’s a start anyway.

They’ll call us fanatics.  Maybe even nuts.

Perhaps that much will be true.

Tomorrow is race day.  And the day after that.  And the day after…

Time to get fit.

“A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart.  For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.”
(Luke 6:45 ~ NIV)

“…when I train in the gym now, I am not training to be strong or handsome–just better than I was yesterday.”
(Jean-Claude Van Damme ~ Belgian actor)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.