“Oh, the weather outside is frightful…”

Those aren’t just song lyrics.  The whining, whistling wind of a winter storm blew past my ears as I ran my accustomed route yesterday evening, signaling a brief hiatus to my fitness program.  And, this morning, the cold monster up above began to slobber and drool, releasing ice and sleet to cover the ground and trees, as well as the roads.

When the tiny humans on the ground insisted upon continuing their activities, nearly unfazed (except for the temporary insanity of removing all the bread and milk they could carry from the grocery store shelves), the petulant storm shook its wintry head in frustration and covered the world below in a layer of white dandruff several inches deep.

We are sitting tonight, the Lovely Lady and I, by the fire, reminiscing about winters gone by.  Sledding and inner tubing, making doughnuts in empty parking lots with the old ’76 Chevy Nova, and even a ride or two on the upside down car hood being towed behind a friend’s old Ford pickup truck–all of these are wonderful memories from the past.

We’re staying by the fire, though.

It seems that the season of life when we need to make memories out in the cold, hard world has faded into the season of life when we enjoy said memories from the comfort of our little den.  I’m not worried one little bit about frostbite.  Even so, the memory makes me shiver from the cold.

It was the winter of my twenty-first year on this planet.  Winter was a relatively new sensation to me, having spent the first nineteen of them in the heat of the tropics.  The invitation to make a few trips to the top of a nearby hill seemed innocent enough.

Go down fast–climb up slowly–repeat.  What could go wrong?

We had no sleds, but sheets of thick plastic and huge pieces of cardboard from appliance boxes served to get us down the hill time and time again.  Then another twenty-something friend appeared with a huge inner tube from a semi-truck tire.  Wow!  This had promise!

The guys thought it would be fun to pile four and five deep onto the huge black doughnut and slide down the hill, and we did just that.  Two or three trips down the hill with just one or two of us rolling off on the way down convinced the young ladies who were there that it wasn’t dangerous at all.  The next thing we knew, there were three couples atop the bouncy homemade toboggan in a mass of laughing, teasing humanity.

At the top of the hill, the inner tube stuck tight, refusing to move until a couple of nearby onlookers were recruited to give it a push.  Slowly, the massive rubber craft began its descent over the well-worn track leading to the bottom of the hill and another routine trudge back up.  Only, along the way we got off the track.  Perhaps we had loaded one side more than the other, but regardless, the tube drifted rapidly in what appeared to be a collision course with a tree near the end of the slope.  Ready to roll off, and realizing that we were picking up speed quickly, we managed to steer the whole ungainly affair to the right of the big tree and we breathed a sigh of relief.

Too soon!  As we passed the tree we found, to our surprise and lasting discomfort, that there was a protruding root stretched out under the snow.  The resulting ramp which the packed snow formed launched the inner tube and all of its passengers high up into the air at a tremendous speed.  Our laughing ceased instantly as we found ourselves propelled through the air on the way to a certain impact on the snow below.

I won’t bother to describe the carnage.  I think most of us forewent the return trip up the hill at that point, electing instead to head for home and hot showers.  No one required a trip to the emergency room, but to this day, the Lovely Lady feels the effect of that one trip down the snow-covered hillside.

No.  We’ll stay in and enjoy the wintry weather in the comfort of a warm house.  Our advanced years and an episode or two like the one just described have taken away our need to experience the thrill and chill of the fresh snowfall firsthand.

Will you allow just one moral lesson from this little trip down the hills in my memory tonight?

It hadn’t been too many months before that wintry night when the Lovely Young Lady’s mother had stopped us at the front door as we headed out for a date one evening.  Her words seemed strange to me, but her intent was clear.  She was concerned, as most loving parents are, that lines might be crossed which couldn’t be retreated from and she wanted to make her meaning plain.

“You know, a toboggan starts really slowly down the hill, but once it picks up speed, it is nearly impossible to stop.”  She was actually embarrassed to say the words, but she didn’t want to wait until it was too late.

We got the point.

The lesson is true in many more ways than the application to youthful lusts which have led multitudes down disastrous paths.  I have seen innumerable ways in which it may be applied to daily life, even as I have matured.

No one gets over their heads in debt all at once, it seems.  Slowly it begins, a dollar here, ten there, and finally, hundreds and thousands of dollars later financial ruin awaits at the bottom of the hill.

The married woman accepts the invitation to coffee from the company hunk, thinking to herself, “It’s only coffee…”  The sled moves only inches, but it moves.

The businessman makes a sale of a few hundred dollars and pockets the cash, keeping it off the books.  The IRS audit awaiting down below seems so far away.

Hmmm…it seems that the toboggan principle applies to my writing also.  One moral truth has almost become a full trip down the hill to a sermon.

It may be time to roll off of this sled.

I could almost like winter from the vantage point I’ve got tonight.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

“…but the fire is so delightful.”

“I must cool myself and think.  For, it is easier to shout stop! than to do it.”
(Treebeard in The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist/educator ~ 1892-1973)

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
(Lao Tzu ~ Ancient Chinese philosopher ~ 604 BC-531 BC)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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The self-employed young father checked his bank account one more time.

Still no different than it had been for the last two months.  Not enough.  Not enough for the bills which were beginning to pile up in the basket on his desk–Not enough for the plans he had for his struggling business–Not even enough for new school clothes for the kids.  It was time for Plan B.

Plan B?  There was no Plan B.

He took another job.  Weekends.  He worked as a security guard at the local manufacturing plant.  Don’t be fooled by the title.  He was a greeter.  Yep.  Like the folks who used to meet you at the front door of your local discount store.

“Hey.  How are you today?  Have a great shift!”

After the three hundred fiftieth time in an hour, he was over it.  He asked his supervisor if there was something else he could do to make the twenty hours he was to work each weekend pass more quickly.

“Sure,”  the answer came immediately.  “You see that stack of work orders over there?  You can transcribe them to computer files.”

That job was dispensed with quickly and the young man was back for more.  Anything was better than waiting for the shift change and waving at people who walked by.  His next request netted him the additional task of rendering the materials inventory list from the old paper forms to the computer system.  When he was done with that, he had some suggestions for the IT guy about improving the program the company was using for these vital data lists.

The next weekend, he blew through the two tasks so quickly that he added the task of transcribing personnel progress reports to the burgeoning schedule of chores to be completed each weekend.  He was never bored.

Then he noticed something.  Notes were being left for him.

“Could you do…?”

“It would be nice if you would find the time to…”

“We really need to have this done by Monday.”

After a couple of months of increasing responsibilities which were completed each week, he opened his paycheck envelope one afternoon and it hit him.  His paycheck was still written for exactly the same amount it had been the first week.  He remembered his job the first day.

“Hey.  How are you today?  Have a great shift!”

It paid the same amount.

The next week, the stacks of paper reports remained piled against the wall.  The young man had brought a couple of novels with him, along with a CD player and ten hours worth of music.  The keyboard to the computer sat idle, as he did the same.  He wondered if they would notice.  They did.

“Were you not feeling well last weekend?  The work is really piling up.”  His supervisor seemed genuinely concerned.

“No.  I felt fine.  I just realized that my job doesn’t require me to do those things.  I’ll do them again if I decide to.  I’ll probably just sit here at my desk today, like you told me to when I first started.”

The storm wasn’t long in erupting.  “You’ll do no such thing!  I’d better see some progress on those reports when I come back in on Monday!  Sit at your desk!  Ha!  We’re not paying you to goof off here!”

He did the reports.  At least he wasn’t bored.
_______________________________

Photo: Meaghang

_______________________________

I thought today about a little book which was popular around the turn of this century.  It was written about a prayer in the Bible by a man named Jabez.  The man prayed that his territory would be enlarged.  God granted his request and gave him more.  The author of the book had some thoughts on how the prayer could be effective for us today.

By the millions, people bought the little book.  By the millions, they also bought into the idea that by praying this same prayer each day they could have more.  More money, more possessions, more power–you name it, they wanted it and demanded it.

I am wondering if the prayer was answered for many of them.  I wonder if they also learned what the young man did as he attempted to avoid boredom.

With additional blessings come added expectations of the one being blessed. 

The Bible says it this way:  “To whom much is given, much is required.”

Some days, I think that I may have asked for too much myself.  I almost wish that my territory wasn’t so large.  Just last week, I actually heard myself say the words out loud:

“Stop the merry-go-round.  I want off!”

How about it?  Any possibility that anyone else out there is feeling the same way?

Perhaps, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, you too have found that your eyes were bigger than your stomach.  She would say that when I put too large a quantity of a favorite food on my plate, thinking that I wanted all of it, only to find that there was no capacity for that amount in the place it needed to go.  The rule at our table was that you had to eat everything you put on your plate.  There were times when I hated that rule.

In recent days I’m working at putting a smaller portion on my plate–both at the dinner table and in the taking on of new responsibilities.  I want to do everything I can, but I also have to know my limits.

I’m still exploring the stretching capacity in some areas, but drawing in the fence rows in others.  You see, the grass isn’t all that much greener on the other side of that fence, after all.

No praying the prayer of Jabez blindly again and again for me.  I think I like the words of the Apostle in the New Testament a little better.

I’m learning wherever I am that I can be content.

What’s that?  More mashed potatoes?

No thanks.  I’ve had enough.

“He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have.”
(Socrates ~ Greek philosopher ~ 469 BC-399 BC)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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High fives from cute teenage girls!  How could you not like that?

Well, I’ll tell you, this old guy was certainly not immune to the little ego boost that came along with the invitation to slap the upraised hands of the smiling university coeds as I ran by.  The next lap or two around the track seemed just a little shorter, the effort to put one foot in front of the other a little less demanding.

It’s amazing what a little encouragement can do.

I detest exercising in the cold.  Really, you could remove the last phrase from that sentence and still have a truthful statement.  I don’t like to exercise much.  Period.  I do it anyway.  I guess you could say I like the result more than I detest the method of reaching said result.  I’m a little happier with the shape of that guy I see in the mirror these days.

That said, I can hardly force myself to leave the comfort of our home and go into the great outdoors when the temperature dips much below fifty degrees.  So it was, one evening recently, I found myself headed for the indoor track at the local university’s health center since I didn’t want to brave the nearly freezing temperatures that had arrived suddenly.  I laughed at the irony of driving my car to the gym so I could run, but I did it anyway.  Did I tell you?  I hate to be cold.

The running/walking track in the health center is on a mezzanine that circles the outer gym wall about ten feet above floor level.  When I arrived, I noticed a number of students crowding the track near the railing, looking down on a girl’s intramural soccer game taking place on the gym floor.  The entire inside lane was blocked by the spectators, but there was another lane in which to run, so I began my three mile ordeal anyway.  I had to dodge an unobservant kid or two during the session, but they stayed out of the way for the most part.

As I rounded the one-tenth mile long track for about the twentieth time, I came to another conclusion.

I detest exercising on the indoor track–nearly as much as I detest exercising in the cold.

I am not made to be an athlete.  I constantly have to concentrate on what my feet are doing, or they get tangled in each other.  If I’m not careful, I pound my heels on the running surface and the result is an aching back and shin splints that hurt for weeks.  My arms fly all akimbo wherever they want, making me look, for all the world, like a stick figure lurching down the track.  As I tire, I find my upper body leaning forward, as if the end of this torture might come sooner if I lean into it.

The poor design of the track I was running on only made my discomfort more intense, and the crowd of kids along the railing simply added to the misery.  Still, I was determined to complete the distance I had predetermined to achieve.  So I tried to ignore the spectators, even though their presence made me take a few extra steps every lap by having to keep to the outside lane.  I may even have frowned at them a time or two as I approached them.  I really wasn’t thinking about how they felt.

Selfish kids!  Didn’t they realize the track was for patrons to exercise on?

It turns out that at least a couple of them were thinking about how I felt.

I was startled at about the twenty-fifth lap to see a couple of the girls watching me as I rounded the corner at the far end of the track. I was even more surprised when they both raised their hands in the traditional invitation for a congratulatory high five hand slap as I approached their position.  My shock didn’t keep me from slapping both hands as I passed.

In my imagination, I heard a conversation between the two girls as I had run within their view on the other side of the gym numerous times.

“Would you look at that old guy go?  He’s really good at this!”

“Yeah, I’m amazed at how far he’s run.  And, he’s still got such great form!  I’m gonna give him a high five the next time he comes around!”

What really transpired was probably something quite different.

“Would you look at that old guy?  He doesn’t look like he’ll get around the track another time.  I hope he’s all right.”

“Yeah, I’m amazed that he’s lasted that far.  We should give him some encouragement.  Let’s give him a high five if he makes it back around.”

Regardless of their motivation, or their impression of my skills, the high five did the trick.  I was encouraged and felt better about running inside.  The remaining half-mile went by easily.  I didn’t trip myself and I’m pretty sure that I managed to run upright, instead of leaning forward like an old man running downhill.

It’s amazing what a little encouragement can do.  Especially when it comes from an unexpected source.

Last Saturday, I got to play with a few other people in a local music program.  The headline act was a professional saxophonist (who grew up here) and his band, who are all professionals as well.  My brass quintet did a couple of numbers on the program.  I played okay.  It was not a stellar performance, but it was a competent one.  I expected the hometown folks to tell me how much they enjoyed it.  It’s what people do.  I would do the same thing.

Imagine my astonishment when, at intermission, the keyboard player for the headliner walked over to where I was standing with a young lady who had sung in one of the earlier acts.  Shaking my hand, he specifically mentioned how much he loved hearing me play the French horn and made a point of complimenting my performance.  Then, turning to the young lady, he commented on the piece her group had sung, making sure to mention how beautiful it was.

If ever I have been genuinely encouraged, this did the trick!

First, that the man even knew what instrument I played was astounding to me.  Half of the hometown folks couldn’t have told you that.  They just know I play in the group and they like the overall sound.  He picked out the instrument and knew who played it, as well as being aware of the performance itself.  This from a man who should have been standing and letting us compliment him on his stellar abilities at the keyboard, while playing in that outstanding ensemble.  We never got the chance to return his encouragement before he was off to the next group he wanted to greet.

Do you understand what he did?  I wonder if even he understands it.  My guess is he does not.

Praise from someone you don’t expect it from elevates the spirit, freeing the one complimented to do even better.

I’ve heard all of my life about people who have the gift of encouragement.  I hear from them frequently myself.  They are the people who look for opportunities to praise, to prod to do better, to lift the spirits of all around them.  As a writer and musician, I appreciate them incredibly.  That said, I sometimes come to expect their input.  I don’t want to take away from what they do, because it is so important.

But, these unexpected bright spots, the glare of the spotlight which the unexpected compliment shines on achievement–Ah, that makes the spirit soar and give fuel to go the distance!

Are you an encourager?  Keep doing what you’re doing!  The world needs you and your kind words, as well as your exhortation to do better.

What if you’re one who is uncomfortable with encouraging others?  I wonder if you have any idea what one sentence from you will accomplish, offered at the right time?  You may be one of the young coeds offering the high fives.  You may even be the professional turning aside praise to offer it instead to others.

Like the uncomfortable zone I move into every time I exercise, or leave the warmth of my home to go into the cold world, you may find it frightening the first time you do it.  It may even be frightening the first one hundred times.  Do it anyway.  You never know who you will inspire to do better, to reach further, to stretch themselves out of their own comfort zone.

All it takes is a high five.  Or a kind word.

You can afford to give those away.

You’ll probably get them back anyway.

“The praise of the praiseworthy is beyond all rewards.”
(from “The Two Towers” ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ 1892-1973)

“So, encourage each other and build each other up, just as you are already doing.”
(1 Thessalonians 5:11 ~ NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved. 

I emptied the cookie crumbs out of my coat pocket tonight.  I have no idea how they got there.

The red-headed woman who raised me would have suggested I have a selective memory.  She always seemed to think I remembered the things I wanted to remember and forgot the things which were less convenient to recall.

She was right.

It is a common human trait.  I have related many memories which I have from my childhood and early adult years to you.  My siblings, who quite possibly follow my late night ramblings simply as a form of self-protection, often tell me they don’t remember events exactly as I have relayed them to my readers.  The interesting thing to me is that seldom do they disagree completely about whether an event occurred or not.  We simply differ in our remembrance of the details involved.

I have delighted in reaching back through the years to pull a memory out of the darkness of decades past, only to find we can still learn from the foolishness of youth, or the disasters which have overtaken us, or even the errors we make in our relationships.  Memories help us to keep strong ties with those we love, and to move on into the future, stronger and wiser for the experience.

This week, I read with dismay an article in a current science magazine.  The article suggested that memories are unreliable.  It even made the claim that science is on the verge of being able to erase and rewrite memories, as if this would be a good thing.  The article cited examples of wartime atrocities and childhood abuse as justification for the necessity of such a radical act.

I am terrified at the possibility that this “Total Recall” world might actually become reality.

Do I understand that some memories are horrible?  I do.  Do I have some of these horrible memories myself–memories so awful, so graphic, that I sometimes wish they had never been part of my experience?  I do.  Would I be happy to have these memories erased from my mind, as if those events had never occurred in my life?

I would not!

Before going any further, let me say that I don’t want to get into a contest to see whose memories are harshest.  I won’t try to prove I have more reason to wish my memories wiped away than anyone else, nor will I tell you mine are nothing but sunny and joyful recollections.  Neither position would be true.  There are people with images etched into their brains that I can’t imagine having.  I wouldn’t dare to burden you with some of mine.  That said, I cannot imagine having a single one of them removed from my consciousness forever.

Our experiences make us who we are today.  Our memories inform us and teach us, helping us to become better people.  They allow us to be sympathetic to people going through the same things and to be indignant about humans treating others in ways we know from experience are wrong and damaging.

Take away our memories and you take away our motivation, our responsibility even, to make this world a better place as we move through it.  If the memories of everyone who lived through the Holocaust had been wiped clean of that horror to make their later years more comfortable, we wouldn’t know that we needed to be vigilant to see that it never happened again.

In effect, if you wipe out the memory of an event, it didn’t happen.  As a consequence, it cannot be necessary to avoid its reoccurrence.

It is slightly apropos that I mentioned my mother when I talked about selective memory earlier.  You see, she is one who has little by little lost her memories.  I spoke with her some time ago about the house in which I grew up, her home for over thirty years.  She has no memory of the place–cannot see it in her head at all.  Many other memories have been lost to her, including the names of her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren.

I grieve for her lost years.  I am not alone in that grief.

Are there some memories she is better off without?  Possibly.  Is it preferable she have the bad memories, along with the good?  Undoubtedly.

It is impossible to consider the possibility of having memories erased without at least momentarily considering some specific events I’d like to never recall again.  I’d like to never see that lady’s face again as she died in the car wreck.  I’d like to forget the cruelty of certain childhood bullies.  I’d like to forget the pain on my father’s face as he sat and tried to talk about my run-in with the police.

But then again, no…

I don’t want to forget a single one of those occasions.  Not one.

They are part of the fabric of my life, the integrity of who I am, if you will.  Without every one of them, collectively, I would not be who I am, nor could I be of any use to others who are walking the path along with me.

And even as I write, I recall where the cookie crumbs came from.  I’ll pay for them later with an extra mile or two of running.  I’m still learning from the past, you see.

Good–Bad.  They are all memories that I need and use every day of my life.

I’ll keep them, thanks.

“Memories are the key, not to the past, but to the future.”
(Corrie Ten Boom ~ Dutch Christian & Holocaust survivor ~ 1892-1983)

“You see George, you’ve really had a wonderful life.  Don’t you see what a mistake it would be to just throw it away?”
(Clarence in the movie “It’s A Wonderful Life” ~ Frank Capra, director ~ 1947)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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Photo: Kenny Louie (Vancouver Canada)

The female voice at the other end of the phone line was terse.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Phillips.  The account is closed.  You can never collect that check.”

The call ended and I sat at my desk, stunned.  Eight hundred dollars!  Gone, like smoke blowing in the breeze!  Eight hundred dollars!

The couple had come in to buy the guitar and amplifier just days before.  Well, to be honest, they had come in separately, sort of like a tag team, on succeeding days.  The first day, the man came in–you know–to case the joint.  That’s what they call it in the movies, isn’t it?  He was a big, friendly fellow, showing an informed understanding of the guitars and amplifiers.  Before he left, he had selected an instrument and an amplifier that complemented the electric guitar he wanted.  After I gave him the total for the items, including tax, he headed for the door.  He would be back.  It was possible that he couldn’t make it, but his girlfriend would come to get them if that was the case.

He couldn’t make it.  She came in the next day, a quiet, withdrawn young lady who knew nothing about music, save that she needed to pick up the merchandise her boyfriend had set back.  She wished to pay with a check which he had already made out for the exact amount.  It was after banking hours, so I couldn’t call the bank to confirm the funds, but fresh in my mind was the picture of that big, likeable man.

Sure, it will be fine!  A pleasure to do business with you!  Thank your boyfriend for me, won’t you?

I had even helped her load the items in the trunk of the car.  Almost without another word to me, she backed out of the parking space and sped down the street.  I never saw her again.

I stormed into the County Prosecuting Attorney’s office the next week.  The lady at the desk laughed unsympathetically when I told her the name of the person against whom I wished to file charges.

“Get in line,” she quipped dryly.  “Those people papered the whole area.  They must really have been good at what they do.”

I never recovered a dime of that money and, because of the way the law reads, the merchandise was no longer mine to claim, either.  Eight hundred dollars worth of equipment gone!  It was a hard blow to take.

Insufficient funds.

I wonder sometimes if I haven’t been guilty of the same crime that couple committed.  Oh, I’ve never written a hot check, never forged a check, never tried to pass off a closed account as a viable one.  But, I have made promises for which I didn’t have the resources to follow through.

Let me see if I can explain.

Tonight I’m contemplating the debt I have piled up over the years of my life.  If you are a follower of Jesus, as I am, you will no doubt recall that the Apostle gave us instructions about which debts are acceptable for us.  Well, not debts (plural).  It is actually only one debt which we may legitimately owe.  That’s right.  We owe the debt of love to our fellow man.  The Teacher said that it was the second most important Law from God.  The most important is for us to love God with everything we have.  The second?  Love our neighbor as much as we love ourselves.

I like that.  Always have.  Simple.  Concise.  Love God, love each other.  Any questions?

Well, yes.  What do I do when the debt gets too much for me to pay?

I have spent a lot of time over the last few years lecturing my readers about our responsibility to take care of those who have need of earthly goods.  What I am coming to realize is that this is the cheap part of the repayment of our debt of love for our fellow man.

Money?  I can part with it.  Food?  No problem–take what you need.  Need a car for a few days?  Take mine.  It’s available.

I am coming up a little short of funds in servicing the love debt, though.  The part which is not so cheap has been coming due with more frequency lately.  I really don’t have what it takes to pay up anymore, at least not from my own resources.

I can pay the debt as long as I can keep those I’m supposed to love at arm’s length.  It’s what occurs when my neighbor needs me to hold them close and give of myself that costs more than I have to spend.  Again and again, the call comes to comfort, to serve, to hold people who are hurting.  They have lost husbands and parents.  They have children who are making horrendous life choices and are lost to them.  Many of them have even lost themselves in the hubbub and din of the world around them.

They reach out to me, but I have no reserves.  There is nothing left with which to love them.

It costs too much to love these people!

I owe a debt I cannot pay.

I think though, that I am finally beginning–just beginning–to glimpse the beauty of the system.

I remember the old preacher saying the words years ago.  I resented them at the time, because I thought he had an ulterior purpose in saying them.  He may have; it doesn’t matter.  The words are still true.

“God never orders anything that He doesn’t pay for.  When He tells us to do something, He has already written the check for the full amount.”

And, here’s the beauty of it all:  When we love Him with everything that is in us, He pours out His own love into our hearts.  Did you get that?  Pours out!  Love is not doled out as needed, not rationed as if there is a shortage of it in the world.  He pours it out into our hearts–for us to pour out into those around us.

The debt has already been paid in full!  Poured out till it runs over.

We are without excuse.  We still owe the debt, but the funds have already been set aside and made available.

Will we pay it?

“…Hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.”
(Romans 5:5 ~ NASB)

“I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”
(Mother Teresa ~ Roman Catholic Sister ~ 1910-1997)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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I have come to the conclusion that I am a fair-weather cyclist.

Over the last few years, I have begun to appreciate the joy of riding a bicycle through the country side–over hills, around lakes and streams, and between grassy fields full of livestock.  From my first attempts that were only two or three miles long, I have gradually extended the distance and increased my energy output.

I was thinking that I would continue that through the coming fall and winter months.  I may need to rethink my optimism.

Yesterday, I headed out for an afternoon ride in the sunshine.   The temperature was a brisk fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit.  I was dressed appropriately.  What I hadn’t prepared for was the even brisker wind blowing from the northwest.  The seventeen to twenty mile per hour breeze was surprisingly difficult to ride against.  Biking either to the west or the north slowed my progress substantially.

On relatively flat stretches of the road, I can normally average 15 to 20 miles per hour.  Imagine my surprise when I attempted to achieve those speeds yesterday, only to find that I could hardly reach them, much less sustain them.  What I found was that if I dawdled along at 10 miles per hour, I could ride almost comfortably, but over that, for each mile per hour I sped up, the effort required was an amazing amount.  If I reached 15 miles per hour, I was pumping so hard it felt as if I was climbing the steepest hill I have ever attempted on a bicycle.

I struggled for the whole ride.  To top it off, I was exhausted when I finished a relatively short ride, almost as if I had ridden uphill the entire route.  Arriving home, I shoved my bicycle into the storage barn disgustedly.

It may just stay there until spring arrives.

But then again, maybe I shouldn’t be so hasty.

I talked about the problem with a fellow rider today.  I call him a fellow rider.  I’m certainly not in his league, but he is kind enough to play along with my little charade, so we’ll leave it at that.  When I complained about the difficulty, he wondered aloud about my purpose in making the ride.

“Are you trying to go really fast, or are you wanting the benefit of the exercise?”

The answer was obvious.  “The exercise, of course.  What are you driving at?”

His quiet reply came, “You don’t have to ride any faster.  Go as fast as you can without causing distress.  You’ll get there when you get there.”

Need I say any more?

What task is in front of you today?  Does it get more difficult with every step, every mile?  Every time you try to speed up, does the difficulty increase exponentially?

I wonder if we focus too much on the wrong things.

We’ve heard it again and again–there is joy in the journey.  In.  Not after.  Not at journey’s end, but in the journey itself.

The destination is not the goal, but rather accomplishing the task.  The goal includes the enjoyment of taking each step along the way.

Slow down. But keep going.

You’ll get there when you get there.

Exponential is a good term here.  No, I don’t mean the difficulty–this time.  What I’m saying is I’m pretty sure the benefits to finishing well are multiplied many times that of the drudgery and effort.  But, we’ll never know if we don’t keep at it.

Yeah.  I even see another bike ride or two in my very near future.  I may be slow, but I’m determined.

I’ll get there when I get there.

Photo: © David Lally

“But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.  They will soar high on wings like eagles.  They will run and not grow weary.  They will walk and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:31 ~ NLT)

“Get a bicycle.  You will certainly not regret it, if you live.”
(Mark Twain ~ American novelist ~ 1835-1910)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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