He had watched the sun come up from his vantage point on the western bank of the rolling river, the Mighty Mississippi, while listening to the dulcet tones of the old trumpet player and, with tears still in his eyes, turned away to wander back into Jackson Square, just as the city of New Orleans was waking.  The restaurants were busy, the coffee shops crowded, but he hadn’t come to eat.  For two hours or more, he wandered the streets, finding exactly what he was seeking for.  He had forced himself out of bed while it was still dark just so he could listen to the street musicians and listen, he did.

No slouch of a guitar player himself, he was anxious to sample the varied fare this aged city had to offer.  There was no disappointment in the search.  From street corners and even in the alleys, the city is full of people with their talents on display.  Many do it for the love of their craft, others simply to have enough to fill their stomachs.  He was to find a third type on this day.

The seeker stopped for a few moments at one corner to listen to the two women playing classical music, a departure from the normal street fare in this city of Jazz and Blues.  Speaking for a moment with another man standing nearby, he learned that both were music professors in nearby universities.  He dropped a dollar or two in the open violin case and moved on.  Many of the musicians he listened to were not as well educated, but he avers that all were just as talented.  Except one.

The old fellow had a good quality guitar sitting on his lap.  The ancient Guild six-string might have seen better days, but it was a fine instrument.  Still, he never played a single chord.  Our friend wondered why this was so and walked a bit nearer to the bench the aging man was occupying.  It did seem to him that the fellow was old, but he really is not sure.  Living on the streets will age a person long before his time.  He might have been as young as thirty or as old as sixty.  It was hard to tell.  As he drew near, though, the tourist saw the problem.  While there should have been six, the old acoustic guitar only had three strings stretched out along the length of the fingerboard.  Even they were old and corroded.  The other street musicians had played for whatever money the passersby would toss in their hats or cases, but this fellow had a different tack.  “Say, could you give me the money to buy a set of strings?”  Our friend almost fell for the scam.  After all, what was five or six dollars?  Give the old guy enough to buy a set of strings so he could earn a living…how could that go wrong?  Then he had an idea.  “I saw a music store up the block a ways.  How about you and I go and we’ll get a set put on your guitar?  I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

The old guy wasn’t amused.  That was the last thing he wanted.  “No.  I’ll just take the money for the strings.”  The tourist talked with him for just a minute more.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the money would be used for.  There was never to be a new set of strings on the guitar.  It would never play a song on that street corner–ever.  The fellow with the guitar knew how to make money with his guitar, he just couldn’t play it.  The superbly crafted instrument, with the potential for making sweet music lifting the spirit to the heavens, or bringing tears to the eyes of hardened men who listened, was nothing but a prop for an act.  If it had strings on it, he couldn’t make a dime with it.  He wasn’t a musician at all, just a man with a scam, a fraud, to be perpetrated on every unsuspecting tourist who came by.  Our friend moved on, disappointed.

I listen to the story and my mind wanders.  I remember the fellow I gave a ride to one day recently.  I drove him twenty miles out of my way and handed him all the cash I had in my pocket, so he could make it home to his wife and kids by bus.  Two days later, as he wandered past my music store, it was a shock to realize that I had been played.  Then there was that other fellow I loaned money to, just until he got paid from his new job.  The job was a lie–so was the payback.  The stories, just like the street “musician” with his guitar–merely the tools of the trade, designed to achieve a purpose, but never to become reality.

Just as quickly, my mind shifts gears, and I wonder how many folks I have conned, in much the same way; people who have poured resources into my life, with the promise that changes would be made, never to see or hear a result.  How am I any different from the old fellow down in the French Quarter, with his beautiful guitar which never will make music?  Still, I show up time after time, with habits which need to be broken, sins which need to be repented of, steps which never seem to be taken.  And, no music is ever heard.

How about it?  Got a few broken strings yourself?  Have there been promises made of changes to come, with nary a hint of actual rehabilitation?  Do you come and sit on the same street corner every day, or perhaps every week, with the same broken strings; always with the promise to show up with a playable instrument the next time?

I’m guessing that if we look deep inside, we’ll all find the broken promises, the scams, the assurances which we don’t seem to ever quite fulfill.  Like the man on the street corner, we have figured out how to make the system work for us, always thinking that we’ll make it right–someday.

All right, I’ll quit preaching.  Anyway, I’m thinking it’s about time for a new set of strings to be taken down from the wall.  There’s a good bit of grime to be cleaned away before they can be installed, but the basic instrument was made well.  I’m confident that when the job is done, there will be some excellent music heard.

It’s just the process of cleaning and stretching, then cutting and tuning that I’m not real sure of.  It all sounds a bit painful.  Ah well, I know the Maker of the music, the Master Luthier.  I’m thinking the final result will be worth it all.

His work never fails to produce some gorgeous music.  Maybe it’s about time that I put my hat down on the street.

Why don’t you come too?  We just might make some great music together!

“Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter,
Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;
Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness,
Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.”
(from “Rescue The Perishing”~Fannie Crosby~American hymn writer~1820-1915)

“During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.”
(George Orwell~English novelist~1903-1950)

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

I set my coffee cup down as I prepare to write tonight and my eyes are drawn to the old CD I am using as a coaster on my desk.  I never noticed the title before.  Today, it feels just about right.  Perhaps I’m just feeling the residual effects of the “short walk” taken with the Lovely Lady earlier this evening.  When she called it that, she didn’t tell me that it would be pure torture for every inch of the abbreviated course.  I have been conscientious of late to keep to an exercise regimen, realizing that what little exertion is expended to reach the television remote from my easy chair could not fairly be called keeping fit.  That said, the pace the lady of the house set as we walked in the brisk evening air was something a bit shy of a trot.  I’m not good at trotting.

But no.  The reason I feel this way has nothing to do with the physical energy expended earlier.  My thoughts probably weren’t much affected by the long nap I took after supper, either.  I tend to enjoy that sort of activity more than I should, although the odd guilty twinge sometimes pokes me after a particularly long one, such as today’s was.  No.  Something else has put me through the wringer on this day.  It happened earlier, while I was at work at the music store, and perhaps actually much before that.  Let me explain.

Today, we made a business decision that appears as if it is likely to cost us a significant amount of income for the store.  It has been coming for a long time, but actually pulling the plug on the part of the business affected was an action which was almost more painful than that walk today.  (Okay.  I promise no more complaining about that–tonight.)  We have been in a business relationship with another company for several months.  The result has been a good source of cash flow for us.  Not a whole lot of profit, but sometimes just the movement of stock is beneficial.  That came to an end today.  The writing has been on the wall for a couple of months, but it became crystal clear today that the decision had to be made.

Without mentioning any details, the company with which we were working is asking us to do some things which we think are unethical.  In two distinct areas, we would have to compromise our principles to continue our relationship.  The feeling that we should end our relationship has grown stronger over the last few weeks, but I was reluctant to take action.  It’s funny how a confluence of events can force a decision, but today, as I was researching how best to withdraw our products from that marketplace, my telephone rang.  I didn’t recognize the number, and was surprised to be speaking with a representative of the company.  He said that he had called just to put the last straw on the proverbial camel’s back.  Well…he didn’t say that, but it was the effect of his call, as he informed me that the company was rejecting my request to make a change which would have rectified at least one of the issues for us.

Immediately after hanging up the phone, I stepped into the furnace.  Without delay, we made the decision to forego the cash income which was virtually a guarantee if we continued the relationship, and took action to end it right then.  It’s not an enjoyable place to be.  We can feel the blast of heat as we walk into the fire.

You do, of course, understand the comparison to the young Hebrew men in the fire?  We learned the story from Daniel as children.  The three men refused to compromise their ethics and chose a nearly certain death rather than deny who they were at the very core of their beings.  Please don’t get the idea that I think our sacrifice will cost us nearly as much.  It’s only money.  We’ll survive.  But, for all that, the fear is still present.

And the faith.  Don’t forget the faith.  We have always attempted to make business and personal decisions based on our firm foundation and what we know that our God demands.  And, like the men in the fire, now we get to leave the consequences to Him.

I know we’re not in this furnace alone.  Well, besides God, who walked around in that one centuries ago with the Hebrews, and does still.  What I mean is; I’m certain that there are many of you who make similar decisions everyday.  You know what is right to do and you do it, regardless of the personal cost.  Your boss insists that you lie for him or her and you refuse, at the potential cost of losing your job or being demoted.  Your friends urge you to go ahead and keep that wallet you found, but you turn it in, knowing you’ll never get a dime for it and you will lose your friends’ esteem, in spite of your honesty.  The lady at the tax agency suggests that you fudge a little on the declaration of what you paid for the new car, but you state the real number, even though it costs you hundreds of dollars.  The list of times you must make choices to act uprightly before God and man is endless, moment by moment, day by day presenting you with opportunities to take the easy (and profitable) way, or to do the hard thing, risking loss.

As I began to write this tonight, the song which was playing on my latest CD was one which really doesn’t have very deep Christian roots, but it speaks to me, nonetheless.  Mr. Phelps is again crooning the words, “Walk on though the wind; Walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown.”  I do feel the effects of the storm.  I don’t have to be here, but I choose to be.  I’m glad that you’re here, too.

Oh!  He’s here too.  Did I already say that?  Yeah, like the song says, “You’ll never walk alone.”

Through the fire.  Through the storm.

It’s still a safe place to be.

“When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high, and don’t be afraid of the dark.
At the end of the storm is a golden sky, and the sweet silver song of the lark.”
Walk on through the wind; walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on. Walk on, with hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone.
You’ll never walk alone.”
(Oscar Hammerstein II~American lyricist~1895-1960)

“For loving money leads to all kinds of evil, and some men, in their struggle to be rich, have lost their faith and caused themselves untold agonies of mind.”
(I Timothy 6:10~Phillips)

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

Once again, darkness comes, as night falls over the earth.  I feel as if I am already in the dark; another sad event has brought the blackness in waves to wash over me.

We came close to forming a business partnership once, he and I.  Bear owned a specialized music instrument company which sold vintage instruments online and we had done business before, but it was always me selling and him buying.  This time, the gentle, likeable fellow, about the same age as I, was ready to take another step forward in our business relationship.  He had been working out of his house and he needed a facility in which to restore the old instruments he was acquiring.  I had just bought a different building and he had hopes that we could come to an agreement.  After we talked about the income and growth potential for both of our companies and he looked over the physical layout, we agreed to take some time to think about it and then get back together to see if both of us were still interested.

It was fifteen years ago.  I think that was the last time I actually saw my friend.  I see him still in my mind, standing in the nearly empty back room, excitedly talking about the potential for a large workbench.  He looks out the door and wonders about adding on warehouse space.  It was not destined to be.  Both of us were independent (perhaps a little stubborn, even) and wanted to keep control of our own businesses, not a good basis on which to start a partnership.  A phone call a week later on my part, to decline, was met almost with relief, and by his kind and gentle suggestion that we should keep in touch.  Except for one occasion very soon after that, we haven’t talked in almost fifteen years.  I checked in on his website once in awhile and he seemed to be doing well.  In my head, he still stands there, strong and young, and ready to take on the whole world.

The other day, I came across an instrument I was sure he would be interested in.  In fact, I have been thinking of him frequently, as the last few months have brought a virtual influx of the vintage instruments he would have loved.  Today, I picked up the phone and called his number, excited to talk with my friend again and tell him about this horn and others I just knew he would fall in love with.  After a few rings, I heard a click on the other end and an old man, barely to be heard, answered shakily.  I asked if I could speak to Bear, certain that this would be his dad.  “This is he,” came the labored, painfully quiet answer.  I wasn’t sure I had dialed the right number, but we talked anyway.  I won’t bore you any more with our conversation, nor with the details of his illness and hospitalization.  He fears he will never again return home.  I’m confident he is right.  I miss my friend already.

But, then again, I stop to consider that we are not the masters of our existence on this planet.  I’m remembering a time, just over five years ago, when I was stricken with a serious case of vertigo.  After two days in bed with no remedy for the world-spinning dizziness but to lie still with my eyes closed, the Lovely Lady insisted that I see the physician.  I couldn’t even walk, needing a wheelchair to make my way down the hallway at the doctor’s office.  After my appointment, I was wheeled out again by the nurse and an old friend, who worked in the office there, caught sight of me.  Aghast at what she saw, and sure that I was dying, she called her husband to tell him that he needed to check on me right away.  “He’s really in bad shape!”  were her words to him.  Needless to say, I recovered.  My friend, on the other hand, was dead within a couple of months, an undiagnosed brain tumor wreaking its horrible damage before any treatment could save her.

You want guarantees?  There are none.  I laughed as a representative of my guitar supplier described the warranty for the guitars they just shipped to me last week.  “Iron-clad” are the words he used to prop up the backing they would grant for their product.  I think he expected the words to evoke the image of knights in shining armor riding to save my business reputation, should any problem with one of these fine instruments arise.  Alas, I have seen companies come and go in my time in the business and the true meaning of the words “lifetime guarantee” dawns afresh each time.  It is good for the lifetime of the company that backs it, not the lifetime of the customer buying the product, as most of us believe.  There is no such thing as an iron-clad guarantee made by man.  

Centuries ago, the strong-willed disciple, Peter, said the words, “All flesh is like grass and its beauty as the flowers in the grass.”  He wasn’t the first one to say it.  Others before him, just as cheerily, reminded us that the wind blows and the field which we bloomed in won’t even remember us.  Here today–gone tomorrow.  That’s our guarantee.  The only variable in the guarantee is the question of when tomorrow will arrive.  It could be fifty years away.  Then again, it could be in the next instant.

It is easy to sink into depression, to become fatalistic, isn’t it?  We’re all going to die anyway; what’s the use of even trying?  Perhaps we could just be like a weed, instead of a flower.  Not even a hint of beauty, nor joy.  If we can’t be happy, we’ll make no one else happy.

I’m wondering if there may be more to this life than simply existing, though.  Short-lived flowers though we may be, we have the opportunity, in this instant, to spread joy like an infection through those we come in contact with in this huge field.  The bees are buzzing around, ready to take the pollen we are producing to other parts of the field.   We can make a difference right now, right here.  But we must do it right now.  There is no time to waste in self-pity, no purpose to be served in staying in the shadows another moment.

I will admit that it is easy for me to become discouraged, to allow the blanket of darkness to wrap around and steal what time I actually do have away.  What a waste that would be if I (and you) actually gave in to those urges.  Out in the wide field of the world, the sun is shining and there is work to be done.

All is not dark; all is not gloom.  Sadness comes and it goes.  The great beauty which our Creator has instilled in His handiwork is not dimmed by the momentary darkness.

We even get a chance ourselves, to shine – here and there.  I think I’m ready to spend a little time in the sunshine for a change.

Did you pack your sunscreen?

“‘It is not so dark here,’ said Theoden.  ‘No,’ said Gandalf.  ‘Nor does age lie so heavily on your shoulders as some would have you think.'”
(from “The Two Towers”~J.R.R.Tolkien~British author/scholar~1892-1973)

“Work, for the night is coming,
Work through the morning hours;
Work while the dew is sparkling,
Work ‘mid springing flowers;
Work when the day grows brighter,
Work in the glowing sun;
Work, for the night is coming,
When man’s work is done.”
(Anna L Coghill~English poet/writer~1836-1907)

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

It had been an interesting weekend.  The Lovely Lady’s parents had decided to take a trip across our state to visit her aunt and uncle in Memphis.  The invitation seemed to be more of a summons, but since I was still doing my best to raise my esteem in the eyes of my mother-in-law, accepting it seemed to be the judicious choice.  We packed a bag and rode along.  In retrospect, they may have thought that they were on trial just as much as I.  Regardless, we all learned a bit about each other, living in close quarters for a little over two days.

I was twenty-one years old and would have told you that I couldn’t care less what they thought of me.  It wasn’t true.  I have admitted before to those of you who follow this blog that I struggle with needing the approval of people around me.  That trait was not any less in evidence thirty-five years ago than it is today.  The fact that I wasn’t the first young man that my mother-in-law would have picked as a life partner for her daughter wasn’t lost on me, although the words had never been said. Then.  Years later, with tears in her eyes, she would admit that she never understood what the Lovely Lady saw in “that brown-haired boy”.  I’m happy to say that they were tears of repentance, as she openly admitted that she had been mistaken.

But, that would be many years in the future.  On this weekend, it seemed that I was doomed to walk under a cloud all of my life.  I was trying too hard, and as usual, it led to a complete failure to impress.  The memory of details have faded, so obviously, it was a weekend to forget.  One event from the trip sticks out in my mind, though.

We had said our goodbyes in Memphis and headed back across eastern Arkansas.  Mid-afternoon, realizing that we hadn’t eaten since breakfast, we found a buffet just off the Interstate at which to stop and dine.  Looking at the offerings on the steam table as we entered, I was excited to see that they actually had steak and onions as one of the entrees.  I should have looked at the menu on the wall instead.  I love steak and onions, so I ignored the fried chicken, and the grilled pork chops, passing just as quickly on the fried catfish.  “I’ll take a serving of that,” said I, pointing at the pan down the way a bit.  The young lady behind the counter smiled and served up the biggest individual portion in the pan onto my plate.  I headed to my seat and after we had prayed together, I launched into the appetizing dish.

Under the steak knife, the meat felt a bit different than I had expected.  It was a little spongier, perhaps even a little too tender.  No matter.  Arranging a tidbit of onion on top of the meat with the knife, I raised the first bite to my mouth.  I should have noticed the aroma wafting on up to my nose, but I was oblivious to anything but the thought of that delicious steak.  The instant the morsel hit the taste buds on my tongue, though, I reacted almost instinctively.  “Blech!”  I almost shouted it.  Liver!  It wasn’t steak at all, but liver!  I hated liver!  The other people at the table stared at me.  “What’s wrong?” asked my father-in-law, worried that the food was bad.  I do have rare moments of being quick on my feet and fortunately, this was one of them.  The thought that ran through my head was how hard I had been trying to impress them all weekend.  Wouldn’t that be the crowning touch, for me to show them how fussy I was about what I would eat?  “Oh.  I think there must have been a bad spot in that onion.  It’s fine. Really good.”  I choked the words out, as I also choked down the bite of liver.  I spent the rest of the meal in agony.  Bite by bite, along with many drinks of tea and a few rolls to mask the taste, I managed to force down the lion’s share of the horrid, stinking dish.  I’m not sure they were as impressed as I wanted them to be.

It was many years in the past.  I have learned much about being a son-in-law along the way, although that particular skill is no longer necessary in my case.  I also have eaten many dishes I did not love since then.  The funny thing is that some of them have grown on me.  Just not liver.

“And, what am I…chopped liver?”  The question is asked occasionally of someone who is talking about an ideal they have in mind.  The person beside them takes offense at the slight, however unintended.  The question made perfect sense to me that day.  I wanted steak.  I got liver.  As I think back, I can’t help but feel for my poor in-laws who also wanted steak for their daughter, but got…liver.  Oh, time changed their appraisal, but at that time, all they saw was this kid with hair longer than their daughter’s, and not many obvious redeeming qualities.  They had been anxiously awaiting steak all those years, and she chose the liver.  Or, so it must have seemed to them.  And, for a time, although they never made the comparisons at all, the question loomed large in my mind as I imagined their disappointment.  “What am I…chopped liver?”

May I talk for just a moment about the principle of significance?  We all, every one of us, need to feel that we are important, even essential, to someone.  The principle holds throughout society, regardless of social status or financial condition.  Significance is the reason that street gangs form, the reason that social clubs are started, even the reason that we have so many churches in almost every town in this country.  Yes, even the more spiritually-minded among us want to be important, to have their own opinion and talents valued.  When they get tired of beating their heads against the brick wall of church hierarchy, they walk away and start their own fellowship, usually insuring that they are significant within the new hierarchy.  Nobody wants to be a nobody.  But, that leads to another concept I believe is important.

Nobody should be a nobody.  Does that mean that everybody gets to be the most valuable player?  Should everybody get a trophy, even though they didn’t win?  That’s not what I’m saying. What I am saying is that it’s time to stop making comparisons; of human beings, at least.  Comparisons diminish one of the parties under discussion. There is a desirable and an undesirable element in every comparison.  Steak – liver.  Prince – pauper.  Rich – poor.  All have an ideal, opposed by a flawed, choice.  It is impossible to make the comparison without denigrating the inferior choice. People shouldn’t be presented as inferior and unattractive.

It is a situation that should be detestable to we who claim to follow Jesus.  The Apostle makes that clear in his assertion that all the parts of the body are absolutely essential, albeit not as visible (e.g., foot & hand, ear & eye).  He concludes his metaphorical statement by reminding us that if one part of the body suffers, the whole body suffers as well. So it is with us in our communities.  Our comparisons, our claims to superiority, cause harm to us, as well as to those against whom we make the claims.

I am grateful for friends who have been there for me in spite of my obvious deficiencies.  The Lovely Lady has never compared me to her father, or a former boyfriend, but loves me for who I am.  When we refrain from comparisons and make the people in our lives understand how important they are to us, the results will be surprising.  I’m remembering an old television commercial for Imperial Margarine.  The person in the ad eats a bite of the product, and instantly, a crown appears on their head and they hear a royal trumpet flourish.  “Taste fit for a king,” the ads bragged.  Every person, regardless of who they were, experienced the regal treatment (and the surprise at getting the royal treatment).  I kind of like the idea.

And, if indeed, it’s “taste fit for a king” we’re going after, I’m pretty sure that liver isn’t on the menu.

 “Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede.” 
(“Debate Between the Horse, Goose, and Sheep”~John Lydgate~English monk/poet~1370-1451)

“And if one member suffers, all the members suffer with it; if one member is honored, all the members rejoice with it.”
(I Corinthians 12:26~NASV)

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

The skinny kid was absorbed in the basketball game, meaning that he was fighting a losing battle to be an essential player on the three-man team.  He was tall enough; he just didn’t have the coordination necessary to be much help.  It almost came as a relief to him when the man stuck his head through the gym door and yelled at him to pick up the phone on the wall.  He and his friends had been getting together for a weekly game at the church gym for awhile now, right at the same time that his new wife of three or four months was at the laundromat, washing clothes for the week. Since they only had one car, he had dropped her and the laundry off on his way here, promising to pick her up in about an hour.  He was sure it wouldn’t be her calling him. Wondering who it could be, he headed for the phone.

The young lady on the other end sounded, as she herself would have put it, frazzled.  It was indeed his bride and she was unhappy.  “I forgot the hangers and I’ve got shirts in the dryer which need to be hung up right now or they’ll get wrinkled.  Can you go home and bring them to me really fast?”  He hung up the phone and turned back to the gym floor where his friends were waiting.  Three on two really doesn’t work well, so they were taking a breather while he talked.  He considered.  They were just a few points shy of the score where they would be quitting anyway.  Another minute or two wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Ten minutes later, he sped out of the parking lot and headed for home, going well over the speed limit.  He worried about a traffic citation, but he was just a little more concerned about what his young wife was going to say.  Sure enough, as he edged through the four-way stop at the top of the hill above their house, he saw the blue lights of the police cruiser behind him.  Pulling to a stop in his own driveway, he opened the door and stepped out.  The officer informed him that he had stopped him for performing a rolling stop, which he knew very well he had done (along with some other things the officer had missed).  Immediately, the excuses began to form on his lips.  He gave voice to a trial balloon, just to see if it would fly…“You know, I just got married and we moved here only a few months ago.”  Of course, he meant they had moved to that house, but he was willing to let the officer think it could have been to the area or even the town, if he was so inclined.  To aid his case a little, he suggested that his wife really needed him at the laundromat immediately.  The policeman wasn’t swallowing any of it.  “Aren’t you the same young man I stopped for a rolling stop downtown over a year ago?  Yep, I’m sure of it.  Same yellow car–same long hair.  You made up some excuse about being late that time too.”  The skinny young man’s heart sank.

He signed the citation and plodded slowly into the house to get the hangers.  He wasn’t sure how he was going to tell the Lovely Young Lady that they wouldn’t be able to have their budgeted evenings out for a few months to come. There probably weren’t any believable excuses he could use on her either.  He didn’t even try.  And, the shirts were wrinkled, too.

I have lived well over half a century. Fifty plus years and I’m still making excuses for my actions.  “I didn’t have any choice but to be rude.  She just wouldn’t stop accusing me.”  “What do you expect?  I only got four hours of sleep last night.”  “No, we couldn’t make it.  We were just too busy with other things.”

Excuses.  We have come to expect them, from the top officials in the country all the way down to the salesclerk at the local supermarket.  Seldom have I heard about an auto accident from someone who caused it.  Almost never is it the student’s fault that they received a failing mark in a class.  We are masters at making excuses, although almost never ones which stand up to scrutiny.

The little girl came into the music store the other day, right at closing time.  She was out of breath and clutching her abdomen.  I say she was a little girl.  It’s just that I have known her since she actually was one and it’s hard for me to accept that she is an adult, even though the reason for her clutching her abdomen is that she is very close to a full-term pregnancy.  She is breathing heavily from the exertion of walking and wants to rest for a moment or two before going on.  The Lovely Lady and I talk with her, wondering how she’s doing and, remembering when she attended our church a few years ago, asking her where she goes to church now.  There is an embarrassed silence for a moment and it is obvious she is seeking the words she thinks we want to hear.  “I’m not going anywhere,” she eventually admits and then adds, “but, it’s because we don’t have a car.  I just can’t walk that far to go to church anymore.”  Given her condition, we nod understandingly and she smiles, believing that the excuse has been sufficient.

It is closing time so, rather than pushing her out the door, we offer her a ride to wherever she is headed.  I assume that she is going home, but she points up the street, away from her home and says, “I’m going up to the casino.”  It is not where we want to take her, but I have already offered her the ride and won’t back out now.  On the way, I ask her, “Do you work at the casino?”  knowing the answer.  No, she doesn’t have a job at all, but she just likes to hang out with her friends at the casino.  “I don’t gamble of course; I just drink…a…coke…and wander around with them.”  She is purposefully looking out the window as she answers, not willing to make eye contact with either the Lovely Lady or me any longer.

By this time, we have arrived at her destination. The casino is about a block past our church, where she once attended, but can no longer go to services, since she doesn’t have a car.  We’ll move on here, since the obvious fallacy of her excuse is becoming all too clear to you, without any further need for clarification.

I want to be sure you get what I’m driving at.  We are not discussing the merits of going to church, nor even the issue of frequenting the casino.  The problem is that we are not open with each other; that we are more concerned with saving face or avoiding any type of personal penalty, than we are with telling the truth.  I’d rather tell a lie  than have you know that I am not fulfilling my responsibilities.  We even live in a society where this is the norm, rather than plain, open truth being spoken as a matter of course.

What I’m saying is that an excuse is a lie.  If you need to split hairs, there is a difference between a reason (“My house was on fire, so I couldn’t go this morning.”) and an excuse (“It looked like rain and I just had my hair done.”)  That said, most of the rationale we hear for failures to complete our obligations are excuses – nothing more, nothing less.  And, they are dishonest.

In the passage we commonly call the “Sermon on the Mount”, Jesus tells us to let our “yes” be “yes” and our “no” be “no”.  He even says that anything beyond that is from the evil one.  I want to write another paragraph or two to explain that statement.  But, you don’t need the explanation, do you?  I think I’ll leave it at that and let you work out the meaning.

I am guilty of the anything beyond part.  Again and again, I find reasons to explain why I couldn’t have done that important thing, or attended this essential event.  A good friend once said to me, as I struggled to explain how busy I was (as if that explained why we didn’t have time for each other anymore), “Paul, we find time to do the things which are important to us.”  I was chagrined, but the lesson was (and still is) clear.  Speak the truth.  Do the things which need to be done.  When you haven’t done those things, you still speak the truth.  

Excuses are nasty things, a double evil, if you will.  They allow us to think that we have gotten away with the abdication of our responsibilities in the first place.  Secondly, they allow us to think that we have gotten away with lying about the reason for the failure.  Neither is acceptable.  Neither leads to relationships which are open and honest.

Just one more suggestion in closing:  Find the time to do the things you say are important.  Failing that, quit saying that they are important to you, because they aren’t.

Maybe, it’s time for me to declare a no excuse zone.  I’m going to give it a go.  If it doesn’t work, it will probably be because of those pesky customers who keep making unreasonable demands on my…Yeah, okay…I’m going to do my best.

“Well, the preacher, he’s too young and, maybe he’s too old.
The sermons, they’re not hard enough and, maybe they’re too bold.
His voice is much too quiet-like; sometimes he gets too loud.
He needs to have more dignity or else he’s way too proud.”
(from “Excuses”~Kingsmen Quartet)

“He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else.”
(Benjamin Franklin~American statesman/author~1706-1790)

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

“Steak knives!  What are we supposed to do with them?”  The Lovely Lady has opened up the mountain of packages which arrived today from our shipping box supplier.  One box contained a free gift from them, a reminder that we had spent a fair amount of money for the dwindling mountain of packages.  The company gives small, useless items as thank-you gifts if you only spend a small amount.  You have to spend a really large sum to get a large, useless thank-you gift, such as these knives.  “Oh, well,”  I remarked morosely.  “If we ever eat steak again, we might use them.”  My doctor has declared red meat off limits for me for the foreseeable future.  I’m confident that the knives will remain in their box for a good long time to come.

What is it about inappropriate gifts which we receive from companies with whom we do business, anyway?  I think that, if the box company would offer a back support as a thank-you, it might make sense.  After unloading the pallet-load from the tailgate of the semi-trailer today, it would have been a welcome find for me.  Perhaps, the doctor’s office, instead of sending home candy with the kids, could send a small bottle of aspirin instead.  The gas station could dole out packages of wet wipes to clean the gasoline off of my hands, which invariably splashes up when I’m topping off the tank.  You know, to ease up to the nearest even dollar amount.  You wouldn’t want me to stop at $32.79, now would you?  Well…you get the idea and will, no doubt, think of a few more appropriate gifts to take home from your favorite vendor.

I remember, as a teenager, wandering through the county fair in the spring.  We called it the stock show, but it was the same thing as the county fairs that draw crowds every year all around the country.  I had blown my money on the midway and was reduced to wandering the exhibitions with my parents.  As we ambled past ladder salesmen and  fruit dehydration demonstrations, I noticed a contest box.  You know the type.  The box is covered with paper and there is a slot cut in the top.  Obviously, that slot wants a piece of paper to be inserted there, so I looked around for an entry.  I didn’t look far.  “Enter to win a FREE sewing machine!” shouted the cardboard sign nearby.  I grabbed an entry form.  Scribbling my name and address, I laughed as I dropped the tiny piece of paper into the box.  “I’ll never win.  I never win anything!”  Wandering off to the stock exhibits, where my brother was showing a hog, I promptly forgot about the box or the piece of paper.

A few weeks later, I received an envelope in the mail.  I never got personal mail!  It looked important, too.  “Mr. Paul Phillips” was the name above the street address.  Not “To the parents of…”, not even “To our friend at…”!  I opened the envelope carefully.  The letter looked official.  “Dear Mr. Phillips,  We are pleased to inform you that you have won…”  I shouted it out to the whole household, “I won!  I won the sewing machine!”  Sure enough, my name had been drawn to receive this machine, for which I had no earthly use.  I was excited regardless.  The red-headed lady used the sewing machine.  I could give it to her.  I didn’t even have it yet and I was giving it away!  No matter.  I had won!  But then, I read further on down the letter.  “Before you claim your free machine, you must purchase one of the following cabinets from our stock.  We cannot deliver any machine without the completed purchase of a cabinet.”  The enclosed catalog listed any number of beautiful wooden cabinets, ranging in price from two hundred-fifty dollars, up to over five hundred.  I was crestfallen, knowing that I couldn’t afford even the cheapest of the offerings, and also, by this time, being adamant that I would never give this crooked business even a dime of my money.  First they offer me this “free” item, which I am going to have to give away, and then they insist that I pay as much for a cabinet as any normal concern would sell the entire outfit for.  The light has gone on, as I sit glumly and consider how quickly my fortunes have turned.  I have learned a hard lesson about what motivates businesses and their owners to make offers which are too good to be true.

A friend posted a message last night on her Facebook page.  “Nearly 40 years into this thing called LIFE, I’m ACCEPTING the FACT that almost NO one does GOOD simply because it is RIGHT to do so.”  Her note goes on, exposing the pain, I suppose, of being disillusioned by someone in her life. But, whether a personal friend or a business associate, I don’t know.  There are no details, nor do I need any.  It is a disappointment shared by most of us.  When we trust people, we are doomed to experience discouragement as our confidence is shaken again and again.

Here’s the really bad news.  Our discouragement grows as we realize that most people function in much the same way as do we ourselves.  We are honest when it pays to be honest; loyal when it pays to be loyal; caring when it pays to be caring.  It is inherent in our nature to be self-centered and self-serving.  We talk of integrity, even embrace the ideal of a principled life.  But, when the situation merits it (in our minds, at least), we discard integrity and dump principles in favor of advantage.  Still, like the sewing machine company, we wish to appear beneficent.  Consequently, we weave webs of deceit, smiling at our friends (and sometimes our spouses), as we slide the knife into their backs.

How about it?  What is it (if anything) that will motivate us to do good simply because it is right to do so? I would submit to you that the answer is love.  As usual, it may be too simple an answer.  I stand by it, nonetheless.  I offer no other support than these words; “Love does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking…”  If our actions demonstrate these two qualities, we may be sure that love is not our motivation.  Period.

And trust?  What do we do about that?  Once again, I offer exactly the same answer and the following in defense of the concept; “Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” We will, in life, be disappointed in our trust of others, again and again.  Still, we trust and we hope.  When we are hurt, we forgive.  And we go forward, in the company of other selfish, self-serving people who are just like us.  We go forward.  If we spend all our time looking back, we will see nothing but the missteps, the disappointments (both in others and ourselves).  The only way we will persevere is to go forward.

That same friend mentioned above recently posted this short comment of encouragement; “Love still conquers all.”  I don’t disagree.  But, as I consider, I realize that there is more.  Sometimes love simply wraps up its enemy in its arms and holds it close.  No winners–no losers.  “Love never fails.”

The package supplier will accomplish its goal, since I will buy more.  I understand exactly what their motivation is, but I still need their product.  Personal relationships are a bit more fragile.  Perhaps, we could work toward the goal of loving God and loving each other, instead of always working the angles for personal gain.  I know I’m going to try. 

In the meantime, I do have a really nice set of steak knives available, if anyone needs them.  

“And wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva…So tweasure your wuv.”
(The Impressive Clergyman from “The Princess Bride” movie~USA 1987)

“Someone who thinks the world is always cheating him is right.  He is missing that wonderful feeling of trust in someone or something.”
(Eric Hoffer~American moral/social philosopher~1902-1983)

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

The skinny kid shrugged on his plaid sport-coat, determined that he would look the part of the seasoned traveler he wanted to be.  Making sure of his tickets in his breast pocket, he squared his shoulders and headed out the front door.  “Be sure to call us when you get there son.”  The red-headed lady reminded him for the fourth time and he nodded his head, annoyed.  “Are you sure you don’t want us to drive you to the airport?” asked his dad.  He didn’t want to seem petty, but the boy could hardly hide his impatience as he replied.  “No!  I’ve got this!”  He felt bad immediately and turned back to them.  “I’ll be fine.  See you in a couple of days.”  And, he was gone.

He boarded the plane an hour later; his first time ever to fly. Gripping his armrest in a death grip, as if holding on so tightly to the airplane itself would help in an emergency, he wished that he had opted to drive instead.  But the plane achieved the speed necessary and left the ground as it was designed to do and flew him to the state capitol without incident.  Once a cruising altitude was attained, the craft sliced smoothly though the air, on its way to its destination.  Only a few hundred miles, yet it seemed like the other side of the world to him.  It was a day of firsts for him.  After his arrival, he hailed his first taxi, checked into his first hotel room, and ate his first really nice meal in a restaurant by himself.  He took care of his business the next day and couldn’t get on the plane home fast enough. Still wearing his plaid sport-coat, he again gripped the armrests on takeoff, a habit he still has, nearly forty years later. The flights (at least the smooth, uneventful ones) don’t bother him much, just the take-offs and landings.

We jump forward a number of years and our young man, still skinny, is now a young husband and father.  He is in the workshop of his Lovely Lady’s brother, helping him with a wood working project.  They have spent an hour or two cutting up lengths of wood and slicing them into smaller dimensions, and he is ready to get building the cabinet they are aspiring to make.  Surely, the small pieces of wood they have here will suffice to glue and screw together into the configuration planned.  But, no!  What is his brother-in-law doing?  He is gathering up every single piece of wood, the long as well as the short, and carrying it over to a power tool, he calls a jointer/planer.  It is a strange affair, with two lengths of narrow, flat steel table that are divided by a wide circular blade-like affair.  The two tables sit almost exactly level with each other, but one, the feed end, is adjustable.  The expert turns on a switch underneath the machine and a motor spins the blades with a threatening whirring sound.  Turning a crank, he adjusts the variable table a tiny bit lower than the fixed one. As the length of wood comes into contact with the rapidly turning blades, the chips begin to fly.  The odd thing?  Even though the table is lower than the next one, the wood slides evenly onto the second one without angling up or down.  The reason is that the blades take off exactly the right amount of surface on the bottom of the board, so that it rides onto the out-feeding table, the tiniest fraction of an inch thinner than when it entered the feed table.

“Cool!” exclaimed the skinny young man.  He set the board where his brother-in-law indicated and then repeated the action for all the boards, probably forty or so of them.  Now…they would be ready to assemble the cabinet.  But no…they repeated the action once more, with the blade taking off the same incremental amount again.  Every piece of the wood…fed through the blades a second time, and stacked, a second time.  “Why don’t you just move the blades as far as you need the wood to be taken down?” inquired the frustrated young man.  The other man shrugged and took a piece of scrap wood in his hand.  Cranking the table down the total amount, he proceeded to feed the scrap through.  Huge chips flew.  Then, holding the piece of wood so the curious fellow could see the lower surface, he showed him what happened when you get in a hurry.  Instead of the smooth, flat surface, the board was marred and scraped, with splinters of wood hanging all over.  “It works the same way with any type of plane,” he told the chagrined helper.  “Power or hand plane, if you try to remove too much at one time, it digs too deeply, splintering and tearing instead of cutting and smoothing.”  The lesson has never been forgotten.

Not many years after, the young man (not so skinny anymore and, come to think of it, not so young) was traveling by car with his family.  They had been to the West Coast, visiting the Sierra Madre mountains and the Pacific Ocean.  They had even made a stop at that magnificent hole in the ground in Arizona, which we call the Grand Canyon.  None of these landmarks could have been described as unadorned or commonplace; instead being grandiose and notable in their structure.  They were travelling through New Mexico and had just left behind the significant tablelands, with their imposing mesas towering over the highway.  The fellow had driven many miles already and was exhausted, but there was no way they were stopping until they were home.  A few hours of relief driving by the Lovely Lady helped, but he was still sleep deprived.  And, they were entering the plains.  No hills to speak of, no forests…in fact, not much except highway and fence posts were to be seen for miles.

There’s not much to say.  He yawned and stretched, poked and pinched, and sang and whistled, all to keep himself awake for the miles that the road extended out into the never-ending distance, the horizon never getting any closer.  They were plains all right!  Nothing at all for miles and miles.  Unadorned definitely was the word to characterize this place.  Hours later, the hills and his home were a welcome sight, especially since home meant a bed and sleep.

In recent years, the aging, slightly overweight man has been widening the scope of his interests.  Where knickknacks and photographs once graced the walls of his home, paintings have appeared.  There are oils and water-colors of several good artists, but his favorites are the landscapes, painted out of doors, in natural light and not in a studio.  Still-lifes?  He’s not a huge fan, preferring instead the reality of nature and a few of the imposing structures that men have erected.  He was amused to discover, some time ago, that this type of painting was known as “plein air”, the name coming from a french word meaning “open air”.  The genuine, unadorned character of this style of painting is attractive to him, pulling him away from the gimmicks and noises and gadgets of everyday life that surround him and anyone else living in this overwhelming culture which encompasses us.

Plein air.  Funny.  It sounds just like “plain” air.  Come to think of it, that is just what it is!  Nature without any extras, no makeup, no glaring lights, no clattering keyboards.  Quiet, clean, smooth.  Plain.

We seem to have come full circle.  You may be wondering what this is all about.  I’m not really sure myself, but this evening, I handed my smart-phone to the Lovely Lady and asked her to help me solve a word puzzle, one in which four pictures are displayed, all supposedly having one common denominator.  If you could figure out the common thing they share, you would have the answer to the puzzle We talked briefly about the concept, both how clever it was, and how frustrating, and, for some odd reason, my mind leapt to the little brass finger-plane I keep on my desk, which is in one of the pictures above.  I immediately thought of a number of similar words, having been primed by the discussion. You have been the victims of the result.  I hope you will forgive me.

There is another purpose to my meanderings, though.  You see, I keep that plane atop my desk for a purpose.  It is not only a fine example of quality craftsmanship, but as a tiny tool which smooths surfaces, it reminds me that the edges are best taken off little by little. Like the much larger jointer/planer, if the blade is extended too far, the result is a gouge instead of a smooth, level surface.  Slowly, carefully, the edges come down, eventually conforming to the shape they need to take. With little pain and less trauma to the wood, the goal is achieved and a smooth, uniform surface takes form. It works in life also.  As we help each other to be better people, we do it gently and lovingly.  The rough edges are knocked off without pain, without animosity.  The final result is the same; but the journey there is a lot easier.

Plane trips are, hopefully, uneventful after the ascent to the clouds and before the descent to the ground. The flat lands, the plains, stretch out in their fruitful, productive expanse; devoid of the barriers and the perils which the mountainous regions or the coastal areas contain.  The art produced en plein air is beautiful and uncluttered by superfluous lights and colors.  Nature is spectacular enough without the help of man’s technology and meddling.

Plane, planes, plains, and plein air.  Four different pictures.  One central idea.  Clean, unadorned, and smooth.  Sometimes I think life would be a lot better if we were all just plain folks too.  No highfalutin ways, no cosmetic surgeries to fool people into believing that we’re somebody else, just the unembellished truth, exposed for all to see.

How about it?  Do you get the picture now?

I was hoping it would be plain to you.

Don’t be concerned about the outward beauty of fancy hairstyles, expensive jewelry, or beautiful clothes. You should clothe yourselves instead with the beauty that comes from within, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is so precious to God.”
(I Peter 3:3,4~NLT)

“You–poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are–I entreat to accept me as a husband.”
(from “Jane Eyre~Charlotte Bronte~English novelist~1816-1865)

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