The young man did everything just as he was ordered.  He waded through the rice-paddies and crawled on his belly in the jungle with the poisonous snakes and gigantic insects, carrying his pack on his back, with an M-16 slung over his shoulder.  The M-16 saw a good bit of use in firefights with the Viet Cong, who looked a lot like the local residents.  He killed the people he was told were his enemies and he saw many of his new friends (and some old ones) killed or maimed for life.  When they got a break from action and were permitted leave, he went with the buddies who were still alive and they drank and did things that he doesn’t want to talk about.  Come to think about it, he doesn’t want to talk about any of it, and never did.  It happened over forty years ago, when he was a very young man, just out of high school.

When his tour of duty was completed, he was discharged and suddenly it was all over.  He was back at home with the boys who didn’t have to go and fight.  They were attending college and going on dates, driving cars that parents had given them while they talked a mile a minute about the latest Steve McQueen movie.  He realized with a shock, that during all of his traumatic time in a place where he could have died at any moment (many did), nothing at all had changed here at home.  Life went on as before; no one had the slightest inkling of the nightmare he had lived.  Furthermore, no one cared and they certainly didn’t want to hear about it.  The things which had been absolutely essential to his existence just days before–stealth, alertness, interdependence–all of these were absent, almost non-existent.  He was confused and hurt.  But, he tried to fit in, leaving the last couple of years behind, in the darkest corner of his memories and dreams.

It would be many years later that the acronym PTSD would make its way into his vocabulary.  By then, the nightmares, the uncontrollable outbursts of anger, the headaches had all taken their toll and he was unable to function without medication and counselling.  Many have scoffed, calling the diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder a fad, dismissing it as a ploy to escape work and responsibility on the part of those who claim the “fake” disorder.  In some cases, they may be right, but certainly not in all of them.

What happened?  Well, beyond the horror and the terror of war, the young man experienced what we would call a paradigm shift (another fad term).  The word “paradigm” simply means an example serving as a model.  His paradigm had been the example of war.  Because of the example, his entire life for two years was wrapped up in alertness, and fighting, and being terrified and on edge.  When he was suddenly removed from that example of war, the model immediately changed drastically also.  We humans don’t deal well at all with drastic change.

Perhaps an illustration which will hit a bit closer to home will help.  It seems unlikely that most of you, if you haven’t already served in a military conflict, will ever experience that drastic a paradigm shift.  But, most of you have gone to college.  Do you remember your freshman year?  Perhaps you were better prepared than some, but many first-year students simply crash and burn.  They have spent the eighteen years prior to this in the protective cocoon of their parent’s paradigm.  “Time to get up, honey,” turns into the buzzing of an alarm clock, easily silenced.  “No TV until you’ve done your homework!” is instantly the freedom of setting your own schedule.  Are the guys going out to play Ultimate Frisbee?  “Who cares if there is a paper due tomorrow?  Sure, I’m going!”  With no one to guide and no one to set boundaries, the Summa Cum Laude high school scholar becomes a  popular Frisbee player with a one point grade average at the end of his first year (and perhaps, his last) of college.  

It happens again and again in our society.  We work at doing something, only to move onto a different playing field.  And, it feels like the ground has dropped out from under us.  We strive mightily to achieve some goal and, achieving it, don’t know where to go from here.  College graduates experience it; new mothers experience it; empty-nest parents experience it; just-retired senior adults experience it.  Everything that has been familiar ground has disappeared.  We don’t recognize the landscape in front of us.

So, where do we go?  How do we cope?  I wonder if too many of us have lost our footing simply because we have forgotten the bigger plan.  We have allowed ourselves to become so tied up in what we do that we forget who we are.  Maybe you need time to read that sentence again.  Go ahead, I’ll wait…

I told someone the other day that I wasn’t ever planning to retire from my job.  I actually said to them, “This music store is who I am.”  I repent of the words.  If they are true, then my claim to be a follower of Jesus is false.  Who I am is a believer and a disciple.  Integrity demands that I be who I am, no matter where I am or what I do.  The apostle Paul told us that he was content wherever he was, implying that we should do the same.  If the bottom falls out and I lose my business tomorrow, I will still be who I am.  I will still be the person who loves God with everything that is in me.  I will still be one who loves those around me with a love that is as intense as the love I have for myself.  At least, it is to be hoped that I would continue to practice those things that spring from who I am. I don’t really want to find out.

If you are still with me at this point, I admire you for your tenacity.  I promise to bring this to a conclusion.  Soon.  

The Preacher said in the opening words of his search for meaning in life that everything was actually meaningless.  Many have dismissed the whole of his essay on life in Ecclesiastes because of the seeming incongruence of those opening words with our belief that hard work and determination are Godly endeavors.  We miss the larger point that he is making as he tells us that we will work and strive and die, and the world will go on, nonetheless.  

I think that tonight, I am saying the same thing (and maybe being just as preachy).  Regardless, it’s time for us to make the main thing the main thing.  The other stuff…our jobs, our education, our hobbies…they’re all peripheral.  They will change; we will move on to other things.  They are not unimportant, but if they don’t contribute to the integrity of our purpose, we have missed the boat.  And, when any part of that other stuff comes to an end, it doesn’t mean that we don’t still have the main thing to achieve.  The foundational ideals continue unaltered by disaster, by war, by business failure, or by the death of loved ones.  

The Preacher offers the conclusion of the matter himself.  I certainly can’t say it better myself, so I won’t attempt it.

“Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the duty of all mankind.”

Too simplistic?  I can’t answer that.  But, perhaps the next time you find yourself at a loss for direction, you can give it a shot and let me know how it works out.  I’ll do the same.  We’ll just have to pull up our big-boy (or big-girl) pants and do the things we know to do.  

I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that it will suffice.

“Life is a series of tasks that you absolutely must get done before they don’t matter any more.”
(Robert Brault~American freelance writer)

“All is change.  All yields its place, and goes.”
(Euripides~Greek playwright~480-406 BC)

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

I had not planned to write today.  I’m still not sure that I want to write.  But I am driven tonight to put into words the musings which were planted in my head earlier this evening.  The Lovely Lady and I sat at a dinner table with good (dare I say, old?) friends and laughed uproariously as we always do.  They too, as we, have had their losses and sadness, so there were also moments of thoughtfulness.  But none so sober in my mind, as when their son, whom I have had the pleasure of seeing grow from infancy to maturity, spoke.  The children played and laughed nearby, undeterred by our serious conversation, as the moments flew by.

We had talked of many things when our conversation turned to the young family’s experience in eastern Africa where they work with a camp that serves many of the African young people and families.  The country in which they live has been decimated by violence and civil war for generations and there are thousands of children who have no parents or who have lost siblings to the bloodshed.  Our conversation did not extend much to these children specifically, but they nonetheless figure into the equation which this post hopes to cipher out with you.

Not many words were said, so I have drawn conclusions from the discussion which may or may not be completely accurate from the perspective of those who were there.  I will welcome correction if it is offered.

The first picture, which is etched indelibly in my mind now, didn’t take place in Africa, but occurred immediately upon the family’s recent return to the States.  The young man and his father, along with another family member, went to a local building center.  That’s all.  No big deal to most of us.  They simply went into a place which sells lumber, and appliances, and…and stuff.  But, after just a few minutes in the store, our young friend had to leave.  The abundance, the excess (if I may use that word), was overwhelming.  Aisle upon aisle of plumbing fixtures, light fixtures, appliances, tools, electrical supplies, plumbing supplies…the list could go on and fill this page…all of it was too much for him.  Where he lives–in a country with real needs–they have no choices like this, no overabundance of anything.  If you go shopping with a project in mind, you might be able to find what you need and then you gratefully use it; or, lacking the exact item, you adapt the materials which are available and you use them; or, lacking anything at all which will serve your purpose, you change the idea you had in your head and you move on to other pursuits which may be accomplished.  The concept of not only enough, but more than enough, is not present there.

Then, as we spoke of the actual work they do, he spoke of the attitude of the people who came to the campgrounds and, under pressure from us, he admitted that they had very different expectations than people in the same circumstances in our country.  When things break or don’t work (and, in those conditions that is almost a constant), the folks merely shrug and find another activity.  If the electricity is interrupted–again, more of a certainty than a mere possibility–they shake their heads and move on to something which doesn’t require that luxury.

I will admit to you that, as I read the words above, I think to myself that there is little personal impact to them.  I have described a typical third-world country.  But, I think that is exactly my point.  These folks have so little and demand less.  We, on the other hand, who have so much, demand more and more.  Does that make sense to you?  Does it make you want to shrug your own shoulders and say, “So what?”

I have spoken before of my thoughts about money and possessions.  We are given these things which, by the rest of the world would be called wealth, to use as tools, nothing more.  Money has no other logical purpose than to leverage whatever it can affect.  To hoard it is to do nothing different than what buying truckloads of hammers would be for a carpenter. Foolishness!  As I spoke momentarily about this concept this evening, one person asked, “Do you think that it does any good to tell people this?  Will it change how they live?”  Sadly, I had to answer in the negative.  “No.  I’ve never seen anyone change because the words are spoken.”  We refuse to live as servants, but instead want to live in comfort and dominance.  I include myself in the description, although I wish to deny it.

The more I have, the more I want.  It is a part of being human.  As The Teacher suggested a path for the wealthy young ruler, one of giving away his wealth to free his heart, the young man became sad, because he loved his things and his money.  Am I any different?  Are you?

But, the person who asked the question about merely talking about the concept also had a suggestion, although it seemed to be a weak one in the moment.  “I wonder if we just have to live lives which demonstrate the concept ourselves.  Maybe that’s the only way to bring about change.”  The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that she actually has a very powerful idea.  She wasn’t the first one in history to suggest it.  Nonetheless, change does come from the inside.  One by one, we determine to do what is right, regardless of what others around us are doing and, one by one, others are won by example where words will not suffice.

I watched a television commercial for one of the giant cellphone companies and realized that we begin to teach the concept early to our children.  On the screen, the man interviewing four youngsters asks, “Would you rather have a bigger tree house, or a smaller one?”  Obviously, the children answer, “Bigger!”  When he asks them why, one young lady suggests that you could have a disco in a bigger one.  And, a little boy, not to be outdone, suggests that you couldn’t have a big-screen TV in a small one and describes the inconvenience of having a small television.  Oh yes.  They are listening to our actions, regardless of what our mouths are saying.  Bigger is better than small.  More is much better than less.  Fast is superior to slow.

I am not suggesting that we foolishly rush to give everything to people who have less than we.  History has shown the folly of that path.  What I am suggesting is that our hearts should be bigger than our houses, than our bank accounts, bigger even than our churches.  The Teacher also taught that where our treasures are, our hearts will be there also.  If we treasure what we can gather together of this world’s wealth, our heart will have no room for our God’s love.  It is clear that we cannot have faith in both money and God.

Are you looking to build a disco in your tree house?  I’m thinking that there is room aplenty to dance in the wide world that the Creator has given to us.

The moon makes a much better sparkly pattern than that disco ball anyway.

Are you coming to the dance?

“We are not cisterns made for hoarding; we are channels made for sharing.”
(Billy Graham~American evangelist)

“Don’t be selfish and eager to get rich–you will end up worse off than you can imagine.”
(Proverbs 28:22~CEV)

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

“Wind’s in the east, mist coming in. 
Like somethin’ is brewin’ and ’bout to begin.
Can’t put me finger on what lies in store,
But I fear what’s to happen all happened before.”

The words, delivered in the horrid faux-cockney accent of Dick Van Dyke, are only an interlude in the opening song of the classic children’s movie, “Mary Poppins”, but they prove to be prelude to a morality play which is the undercurrent of the story. Indeed, the events (leaving out the incredible exploits of the title character) are common in every era of history; a husband and wife too busy for each other and growing apart, with no time for their children who keep misbehaving to gain their attention.  In short, history is repeated.

But, does history really repeat itself?  Are we indeed doomed to take paths which have been traversed before?  I want to answer with an emphatic, “No!”  I don’t think I can do that honestly. We seem to be locked in an eternal time/space continuum, living lives and performing actions which mimic those already undertaken in the past, either by ourselves or previous generations. Don’t believe it?  Check your friends’ comments; listen to them as they age.  “I opened my mouth the other day and my mother came out!” alleged one middle-aged friend of mine just a couple of days ago.  Read the ongoing arguments in child-behavior articles of nature versus nurture.  They’re all talking about the same thing–history repeating itself.

Deja vu.  It’s another French word which has made its way into our everyday usage.  It means simply, “already seen”.  We use it to describe the feeling that an event we are experiencing has happened before.  You’ve had it occur, haven’t you?  You walk into a room and, looking at the people and listening to the conversations, think, “I’ve been here before.”  You haven’t really, but certain things just trigger the memories in your head.

I experienced this deja vu strongly, on an occasion some years ago.  The Lovely Lady and I had been married a short time and we took a business trip to St Louis, Missouri one very hot July.  One of the events we were to attend was a concert introducing new Christian artists.  As we waited for the doors to open on the opera house where the concert would take place later in the day, I felt the need to find a restroom.  The doors were locked!  What to do?  Glancing around and across the parking lot, I saw the big bus station nearby and headed over.  As I walked in the entrance off the street, I took a look around and was hit with the strongest feeling of having already been here and done this.  I knew, without seeing any sign, where the facilities were and headed down the stairs to my right.  As I descended, I racked my brain.  How would I have the slightest memory of this place?  Surely, I had never been here before!  Then, climbing back up the stairs, I looked across to the doors leading out to the bus garage, and a vivid memory took form.

In my mind’s eye, I saw a group of teen-aged boys and girls, standing and sitting with pillows and transistor radios, waiting for their huge chartered Continental Trailways bus to be cleaned in the middle of another hot July night.  The bus was parked in that very garage.  As they stood, there came a scream from the garage and a gray-haired African-American woman charged out the open door of the bus.  One of the boys in the group (not me. I promise you!) began to chuckle and, under pressure, admitted that, coiled up on his seat in the bus, he had left a rubber snake which the unfortunate cleaning lady had, undoubtedly, come upon unawares.

The vision faded.  I stood again, an adult, in the same place where I had stood with that youth group from South Texas years before as we had headed to a conference in Wisconsin.  I tell you, I had never expected to enter the St Louis bus terminal again.  Even if you had asked me, I would have averred that I would never do so.  Yet, from my home in northwest Arkansas, I had made my way here to the city and into that bus station, though I didn’t want to go there at all.

I find that there is repetition in all of life.  There are tasks we complete again and again.  There are things we do again after years of not doing them.  Even in the bigger context of human history, it is true.  The names are different, the trappings have changed, but the interactions continue.

It all seems a bit futile, doesn’t it?  If we are doomed to repeat history, why should we think about changing or worry about maturing?  But, I believe that the fact that we do so often repeat history is actually a good thing.  I have told you before that I am grateful for second chances.  You see, the second chances aren’t just intended to be a reprieve from the penalties incurred by our bad decisions the first time around; they are for getting it right the next time we find ourselves in that situation.  Grace extended isn’t intended to be a free pass to misbehave a second time.  It assumes that we will be careful to avoid the mistakes of the original run-through.

A group of men met at my church last night.  I handed each of them a piece of music and, after a few introductory notes from a piano, we began to sing.  It was awful!  We didn’t know the melody.  When we split off into parts, the tenors were off on their notes.  I heard a few guys come in when no one should have been singing.  The basses and baritones were wandering around in one section without a clue to the intervals they should have been hitting.  In short, a disaster!  It’s a good thing no one was listening to us.  We would have been taken off the schedule for Easter morning immediately!  But, that’s not the end of the story.

We ran through the song three more times, stopping to work on notes, having the men on the individual parts listen as the pretty red-headed pianist played through their trouble-spots.  When we did our last run-through before disbanding for the night, it was not perfect.  It was certainly not ready to perform.  But, no one would have covered their ears and run for the exits, so we had made progress!

In a few days, we’ll meet again. I wonder, do you think that it will sound just the same as the first run last night?  “What a stupid question!” you may suggest.  And, you would be correct.  But, that is exactly what many of us do with the opportunities we have to improve upon our last attempt at whatever activity we are replaying.  Again and again, we make the same errors, never deviating, never improving.

Yes, history repeats itself.  It is up to us to make sure that we change the result on our second, or third, or fifteenth attempts.  To continue doing the same thing is not only stupid, it is crazy.  In fact, the popular definition of insanity is just that; doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result.

Sometimes, we end up in the same places we have been before through no fault of our own.  Taking different paths (as I did to the St Louis bus terminal), we arrive at the same point, nevertheless.  These chance arrivals are interesting but not earth-shattering.  The repeat visits which devastate are the ones which come with regularity and which have the identical negative response, no matter how many times we pass by.  We have to determine to make changes, to have our mind set on better things.

We would think him an incompetent musician, who returns to rehearsal, only to repeat the mistakes he made the first time he saw the music.  We say that “practice make perfect”, yet we belie the truth of that adage when we make no effort to improve the results in our own lives.  The sins of the fathers don’t have to be repeated in their children, but it takes considerable effort to effect change.

So…how about it?  Are you ready to get to work?   We’ve been practicing for a good long while.  We haven’t yet reached the end of the practice session.  Maybe, the next run through, we can begin to hear some beautiful music.

Time will tell…

“My brothers, count it all joy when you fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith works patience.  But, let patience have her perfect work, that you may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”
(James 1:1-4~NKJV)

“What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again; 
there is nothing new under the sun.” 
(Ecclesiastes 1:9~NIV)

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

Twenty-nine years!  Mr. Onoda could have been living with his family and friends for almost thirty years!  He might have married and had children, living to enjoy their company in his old age.  Instead, he hid in the jungle, believing that he was following orders and would one day help to win the war for his beloved motherland.  Tonight, I think I may have a clue, just a little one, into what he felt like.

You see, World War II ended formally in the Pacific theater on September 2,1945.  But, it wasn’t until March 9, 1974 that Hiroo Onoda finally was officially relieved of duty by his former commanding officer (himself, a bookseller by that time), since it was obvious that the holdout Japanese soldier would never believe that his beloved country could do the unthinkable and surrender.  He was determined to fight until he was commanded to stop.  Holed up in the mountains of the Philippines, he lived in poverty and needless hardship for twenty-nine years after all of his compatriots had given up their arms and taken back up the tools of their civilian trades.  They lived in relative ease, while he sat in the jungle wondering when the war would be won for the Empire of the Sun.  Peace was his all along, he just never possessed it.

I too, have sat in the wilderness for almost thirty years when I could have been living in the lap of luxury.  You think I’m kidding, but I speak in relative seriousness. The comparison with Mr. Onoda is a bit far-fetched, but it doesn’t feel it to me.  You see, I have owned my own business, with the Lovely Lady, since the mid-1980s.  In that time, I have suffered beyond what a business-owner ought to be expected to bear.  There has never been a single day that I had a place where I could retreat to have privacy; never a room where I could invite an associate, or a contractor, of even a friend, to sit and visit.  I have sat night after night, pecking away at the keys on my computer as I write these posts, in full view of the passing public, a number of whom have felt it their privilege to come and tap at the front window simply because they could see me there…sitting at my desk.  Numerous times, I have been confronted by the local police force who, I know, are only doing their jobs, but it has been a burden nonetheless.  You may have read my version of the events on that summer night a few years ago, when they even scaled the fence into my backyard, greeting me with a blinding beam of light in the eyes and a pistol trained on me when I ran out to investigate the racket.  I have suffered!  I feel a kinship with old Hiroo, because I too, have lived life in a jungle of my own making.

I speak in hyperbole (and more than a little tongue-in-cheek) to make a valid point.  You see, over last weekend, I cleaned out a room (a room I have owned for many years) and made space for a private office for myself.  I am writing this from the solitude of that retreat, out of the view of prying eyes, safe from knocks on the window and, it is to be hoped, intrusion from an overeager police crew.  The office is not plush; the furniture, not new.  There is an old oak roll-top desk and a comfortable leather love-seat (should I need a moment to nap).  I’ve even hung a couple of paintings on the bare wall, but more decorating should, and will, be done.  That said, I feel as if I’m in the promised land.  No longer do I need to heed every creak of the roof or every set of lights that creeps down the road outside in the early morning darkness.  Even in the busy-ness of the workday, there is a place to which I may retreat to rest for a moment and an out-of-the-way space to invite a visiting sales rep to sit and show me his latest wares. I have finally arrived!

But, last night, as I sat and reveled in the privacy and the affluence of having my own private office, the truth hit me.  I have owned this business for nearly thirty years!  I could have had an office at any point in that time.  This private space was within my grasp for all of the long years; each of the stretched out months; every single one of the interminable days. It was mine all along!  I own this place!  All I ever needed to do was to clean out the riffraff and take possession of my office.

Do you see my point?  Do you understand my regret and my feelings of camaraderie with the Japanese soldier, sitting in that tropical jungle for all of those years?  I shouldn’t be proud of cleaning out a room and moving in some furniture.  I should be disgusted that I didn’t do it many years ago.  It was mine; I just never possessed it.

I also can’t help but think about the lessons I learned in Sunday School, so many years ago.  I always loved hearing and reading about Moses and the exodus of Abraham’s descendents from their life of slavery in the land of Egypt.  It was only a short journey of a few months, at the most, to their destination.  They had a place to call home. The Children of Israel owned the Promised Land.  It had been promised to their ancestor and to them.  All they needed to do was to cross the river into the land and possess it.  Yet, they wandered for forty years, because they couldn’t bring themselves to take what was theirs.  They stood by the Jordan river and gazed over at it.  Theirs.  But they couldn’t bring themselves to go and clean out the riffraff.  Their home, they just didn’t possess it.

Have I bumbled around long enough on this subject?  Is my point obvious enough for you?  There are things in this life to which we already have the right, but of which we refuse to take possession.  Promises have been made and contracts drawn up.  I will abstain from defining them clearly to you tonight, because many of you already have taken possession of much that is yours.  An enumeration of the properties would, no doubt, include many you have moved into, but it would also miss a number which are still to be occupied.  I will leave it to you to consider carefully what is rightfully yours and what steps you will take to enjoy the benefits.  You may need to consult the Contract to reacquaint yourself with some of the more obscure or forgotten assets.  There is almost certainly a copy on your bookshelf, although the dust may be a bit thick on its cover.

I will reiterate though, that it is good to have my own place; to be out of the jungle finally. While I have without question, taken leave of my senses long ago, I have only now taken possession of this space in which to practice my madness and will defend it tirelessly.

As the explorers of old, here I set my flag and make my claim.  Possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know. 

“For once I can say: “This is mine, you can’t take it.”
(Frank Sinatra~”For Once In My Life~written by Ron Miller & Orlando Murden~1967)

“Now give me this hill country that the Lord promised me that day.”
( Caleb, upon entering the Promised Land~Joshua 14:12a~NIV)



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

I talk to myself sometimes. Okay.  Not just sometimes.  I talk to myself a lot.  Oh, it’s not always aloud.  You might not know it to look at me, but even when I work silently, the conversation continues unabated.  Frequently, there are outbursts; periods of unruly audible admonition.  The words are intended for me alone, but those around are privy to my thoughts, whether they intended to be or not.  I am talking to myself tonight.  If you think you can stand it, you may feel free to spy for a few moments.  You may regret taking the chance.

This particular conversation began yesterday and continued into this afternoon, as I packaged up the contents of my “hoarder’s room” in preparation for making it into a private office.  She calls it that…”hoarder’s room”.  Sometimes, she has insights into the nature of things which bring clarity to my confusion, sanity to my lunacy.  I have known husbands who resent such events, but it is a good thing and I wouldn’t want it any other way.  So, the hoarder’s room is going away, string collection thrown into the trash, random pieces of cardboard following close behind.  I will no longer have to sit and write late into the night in full view of passersby and the local gendarmes, who feel the need to shine their spotlights on me as I peck away at the keyboard into the early hours of the morning.  I have mixed feelings about my ability to write in total seclusion, but I’m willing to give it a shot.

Now…where was I?  Oh yes, the conversation with myself.  I was cleaning up the various heirlooms from days gone by and found myself sorting through boxes and boxes of old music and other paper goods.  I hate old paper products, simply because of the effect they have on my breathing process.  Paper is the perfect material to collect dust, and decomposing parts of bugs, and even mold, if it has been where it is damp.  I had only sorted a short time when the sneezing began, followed closely by the coughing.  Then came the tears.  I will deny that the tears were due to having to dispose of my old treasures.  They came exclusively because of my reaction to the invisible allergens contained in the old boxes of music.  That’s my story and I won’t be moved from it.  Such tiny particles, not possible to see at all, but they had a deleterious effect upon me, without question.

Then again this afternoon, as I labored, I finally reached my old photography backdrops against the back wall.  No, I have never been a photographer, save in the most rudimentary of senses.  Sales of musical instruments on the internet some years back required that the potential customers have the ability to view the products being offered, so I presented the merchandise as attractively as I was able.  This entailed using backdrops of different colors to set off the various finishes of the guitars, or trumpets, or piccolos; a process in which I employed colored pieces of cloth material to achieve my goal.  I have not used them for a couple of years, but still they hang draped over the lattice frame.  Today, as I pulled one of them down to put it away, the Lovely Lady gasped.  “There’s a brown recluse spider!”  Almost before I could drop the cloth to the floor, she had her shoe in her hand and was ready to smash the vile thing. I’m not easily frightened, but I was shaken.  He (or she) had been right beside my hand as I handled the cloth, potentially able to strike my hand without me being any the wiser until after the fact.  We saw several more of these frightening spiders before the job was completed, all invisible to the eye until items were turned over or around.  It gives me pause to think…How many were there that we didn’t see?

Funny, isn’t it?  Beautiful, expensive instruments with a backdrop of color…all hiding a nasty secret.  I wonder if the folks would have spent their great sums of money for those guitars, had they known that just inches away there was an ugly, dangerous thing like that.  Do you suppose that they might have placed a different value on the item they were viewing?  I’m not positive, but I think it likely.

This afternoon, as I readied myself for the job, I had entered the room worried that I would spend the whole time sneezing and with teary eyes, as was the case yesterday.  The minor inconvenience of the allergy attack quickly faded into insignificance as I realized the danger I had faced without knowing it.  A recluse bite is horribly painful and potentially crippling.  Their venom doesn’t enter the bloodstream and paralyze, as the black widow spider’s does, but it slowly and inexorably rots the tissue around the bite, causing the area of dead flesh to spread unless the process is halted with medication or sometimes, surgery.

“But, what of your conversation with yourself?” you may ask. And, it’s a fair question, since I brought up the subject to start with.  This afternoon, I was reminded anew of what is hiding behind the personal facade I have left up for many years.  Oh, I want you to believe that they are just small problems, issues which are nuisances at worst.  A sneeze here, a cough there.  Why anyone can wipe the tears from their eyes and keep going.  And, speaking honestly, I do have a number of those minor issues with which I am concerned and on which I am actively working.  I will not try to hide them from you.  But the other, more serious faults; the dangerous ones which lurk behind the pretty picture I want you to see?  Those, I wish to hide.  Those, I will even deny if you mention them.  The result of these issues can be much more serious.

Don’t let the carefully tended image fool you.  I have sins with which I struggle, faults which can and will cause great harm to those in my vicinity (and further) if they continue unchecked.  My inner conversation goes on. But, I hope it’s a conversation which you have with yourself also.  We need to constantly be vigilant to keep the ugly recluses from hiding behind the fabric of our lives, but just as much as that, I believe that we need to be ready to expose the ugly things for what they are.

I’m reminded again of the Great and Wonderful Oz, who really wasn’t either.  “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!” is bad advice, both when we are the ones hiding there and when we are the ones seeing what others are hiding behind their pretty fabric.

Time to pull down the backdrop.  My inner voice tells me that it will hurt, that you might not like what you see in me.  It doesn’t matter.  The facade must come down.  And, little by little, I’m starting to listen to what my heart is telling me.

I only hope that’s not a shoe in your hand…

“Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary, the devil, walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.”
(I Peter 5:8~NKJV)

“…I was talking aloud to myself.  A habit of the old; they choose the wisest person present to speak to; the long explanations needed by the young are wearying.”
(Gandalf~from “The Lord Of The Rings”~J.R.R. Tolkien)

“Oh, my aching back!”  The red-headed lady was at it again. The young scamp reading a book on the couch across the room looked up, concerned for a moment that his mother was in pain.  As he gazed at her, reading her magazine, it was immediately evident that this was not the case, so he quickly went back to his novel.  But, as he perused the paragraphs, his mind was at work on the phrase he had just heard instead of the words on the page before him.  After a few moments, he ventured the question.  “Mama, does your back really hurt?”  “What?”  the lady looked up from her reading material. For just a moment, she appeared to be at sea.  “What are you talking…..Oh!  No, my back doesn’t hurt.  It’s just an expression; a phrase I use when I’m disgusted about something.”  It would not be the last time the young urchin heard that phrase, along with many others.

The household in which he grew up was actually one which eschewed empty language.  There were no acceptable by-words for the common curse words, as most families used.  Never was the word “heck” substituted for “hell”, nor was “darn” acceptable in conversation, unless one was mending socks.  You get the idea without a recitation of the myriad of words in common use today.  The husband of the red-headed lady called such words “minced oaths” and enforced the rule which prohibited their use stringently.  In this home, words meant things and were to be used accordingly.  Well…with the possible exception of the sayings which the red-headed lady used.  They’ve been discussed before in similar posts, so we’ll not give you a recitation of those either.

The brat who was reading the book, now mature, still remembers the hard lessons of learning to use words correctly.  An encounter, at five years old, between his mouth and a bar of soap is still a vivid picture in his now middle-aged mind, said encounter resulting from the repetition of one of those “minced oaths” after he had been asked to desist.  To this day, he stops and thinks about the meaning of those words, if one happens to slip out in his conversation.  Words have meaning.

But, “Oh, my aching back!” and its kinfolk need a bit of attention.  In part, my mind drifted to this as I began to write tonight because my back actually does ache.  A moving adventure this evening (for which I wish there were photographic proof) with a roll-top desk making the journey from the upper floor of the Lovely Lady’s brother’s house to the ground level below, has left me with a definite pain in the lower back.  You wouldn’t believe the tale of tipping the heavy oak desk over the side of the upper balcony and down to the deck around the pool below, before clambering down via the rail to lower it, so I’ll just save you the incredulity.  I will simply repeat that my back is indeed, aching.   It will recover, no doubt, but the trip back along memory lane had already begun and the road had to be traveled once more.  I hope you don’t mind.

We use similar phrases to describe people or things which annoy us, don’t we?  “He’s a pain in the neck,” is a commonly used description.  We also talk about a pain in the back.  Other parts of the anatomy may or may not occur to you to be used in that sentence, but in the interest of good taste, I’m going to stop with the neck or back.  We simply mean that we are burdened with that persons actions and attitudes.  We don’t really have any physical pain, but we’d rather not be bothered.  Why don’t we just say what we mean?  Why do we have to speak in euphemisms?  I wonder if, like Dr. Seuss’s lovable elephant Horton, it might not be better if we said what we mean and we mean what we say?  Of course, Dr. Seuss may not be the best example here, since he loved to write in analogies. But, you do understand what I’m driving at, don’t you?

Words have meaning.  We often talk just to hear the sound of our voices.  At least, that’s the way it appears, as we babble on and on.  The phrase “talking through his hat” comes to mind.  Although there are a number of ideas for where that phrase comes from, I tend to think it’s just a variant of “talking off the top of his head”; meaning that one speaks in an ill-prepared manner, just saying whatever comes to mind.  In spite of my upbringing, I still make this error frequently and it gets me into trouble, almost as frequently.  Our words should be chosen with care rather than tossed out haphazardly; thought through with deliberation instead of being spoken in haste.  Often, the words we say in a rash and glib manner are remembered by our listeners as serious and literal.  It’s all the more reason to make every one count, to speak each of them in complete sincerity.

You know, I begin to find myself running out of appropriate words as I write this.  To continue would only mean that I would borrow from the habits against which I am warning.  It must be time to find a conclusion to this activity for today.   I’m sure that most of you will concur.

I am speaking plainly when I say that communication is one of the most important tools we possess as human beings.  With our words we build…relationships, families, organizations.  With our words we can (and often do) destroy…the very same things.  It can only be helpful for us to be circumspect in our choices of words and phrases as we communicate with each other. 

I promise that I am not talking through any hat when I tell you that I am headed for home and bed now.  Perhaps this old body will feel better after a few hours of sleep.

Oh, my aching back!

“But I tell you that everyone will have to give account on the day of judgment for every empty word they have spoken.  For by your words you will be acquitted, and by your words you will be condemned.”
(Matthew 12-36,37~NIV)

“I have been a believer in the magic of language since, at a very age, I discovered that some words got me into trouble and others got me out.”
(Katherine Dunn~American novelist/journalist)

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

“…now look at yourself. You’re not even a has-been. You’re a never-was.”  The quote, from a comedy in the nineties called “The Mighty Ducks”, gives me pause.  It even inspires a sigh of resignation from time to time.  You see, if you’re going to hit the skids, you have to start from an elevated position in the first place.  You can’t be a has-been if you never were anybody to start with.

I posted a joke the other day (what day don’t I post a joke?) for my friends and acquaintances to enjoy.  It was actually a loose quote of something the comic Lily Tomlin once said.  The joke suggested that I had always wanted to be somebody.  It went on to say that I guess I should have been a little more specific.

You see, most of us want to make it.  We hope for (secretly, mostly) the fame that comes with making it.  Like Thurber’s Walter Mitty, we imagine that we, more than anyone else, deserve to be the hero, the dashing leading man or lady.  The only problem is that real life and real people keep getting in the way.  So, like Thurber’s protagonist, we must content ourselves with at least imagining a hero’s romantic death if we can’t live the hero’s exciting life.  Sure, we’ll face the firing squad.  It’s better than dealing with the unrelenting stress of everyday relationships and life as we know it.

Why is it that we crave notoriety; that we covet the spotlight?  We certainly do some odd contortions to gain that goal, including name-dropping.  Why, I want you to know that I once touched the hand of Major Nikki Rowe, a decorated Vietnam War hero!  It was something I bragged of when I was eleven years old, the year the parade was held in his honor when he had escaped after five years of being held captive and tortured by the Viet Cong.  His convertible moved slowly out of the gates of the stadium and he touched the outstretched hands of those along the way, mine included.  Does that not impress you?  Well then, how about a closer and longer brush with greatness?  I played in my high school band with a young man named Mike Fossum who, only last year, spent six months on the International Space Station, after many years as a NASA astronaut!  He’s a real American hero!  Never mind that we weren’t close friends in school.  He did sit in the row behind me!  I’m sure that I said “Hi” a time or two to him.  Even if it is a weak claim to fame, I will do my best to borrow his honor by dropping his name whenever the opportunity presents itself.  Perhaps, some will rub off.  I just don’t want to be a never-was.

Sad, isn’t it, that we feel our lives so lacking that we must envy those who live the so-called good life and those who have gained fame by their exploits?  The thing is, I have finally, after years of living among them, realized that I’m already surrounded by heroes in my life.  Contrary to popular belief, they’re not exclusively the ones who save lives and property; not only those who bravely put their own well-being at risk for people in distress; not even just those who give up their private goals to work for others as public servants.  Sure, those folks could be described as heroes, but the folks I’m talking about walk past me every day on the street.  They take my order at the restaurant, repair the mechanical problems with my car, and even run the rooter machine down my sewer when it’s clogged.

The heroes whom I refer to are the ones who do what they’re called to do.  Period.  They don’t stand in the spotlight; they don’t take home the big paycheck.  They simply do what they have to do.  They teach.  They clean.  They build.  They pick up trash.  They are faithful, day in and day out, to the task for which they are gifted.  I have known such people.  I can name them, one by one, if need be.  How would that be for name-dropping?  My claim to fame is actually friendship and kinship with such heroes.  I hope that someday, my claim to fame will be to be counted among them, as one of their peers.

Many of the famous ones–the wealthy, arrogant ones–call these folk the little people.  But, when the rubber meets the road and it’s time to choose who we spend our lives with, most of us would (and do) choose to live with these “little people”.  The rich and famous are all about image…and they do look good.  But, as my father would say, “The proof of the pudding is in the eating.”  I have seen dishes on the table which appear to be delicious, but when the spoon is employed and the concoction is brought to the mouth, a grimace appears and the sputtering begins.  Good taste never comes from appearance, but always from the ingredients and the process.  If it looks good, as well, all the better.  Again and again, we find that many of the famous look wonderful, but leave a horribly foul taste in the mouth.

So, how about it?  Are you a has-been?  A never-was?  I’m wondering if there should be a third category.  Perhaps, we could call it an always will-be.  That’s the kind of person I could spend my life with.

I’d like for it to be the kind of person I’m becoming.  Time will tell.

“A hero is someone who understands the responsibility that comes with his freedom.”
(Bob Dylan~American folksinger/songwriter)

“Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful.”
(I Corinthians 4:2~NIV)

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“Honey, this is a beautiful painting, isn’t it?  That bridge over the water is spectacular, and the buildings are so detailed!”  She is standing about six feet away from me as she speaks.  Funny thing…I’m looking at an oil painting with a bridge over a river which has buildings in the scene as well, but I have a sneaking suspicion that she must be looking at a different painting.  The one I’m viewing is all disconnected lines and fuzzy images.  The colors are vivid, but I just don’t see any sharp detail at all.  Not from where I’m standing.

I glance back and, sure enough, she is looking straight at the painting I am examining.  I’ve told her a time or two that she needs glasses, but perhaps now is not the time to reiterate that thought.  I back up to where she is standing.  As I focus on the artist’s work once again, I am astounded to find that I now agree with her assessment.  When I see the whole picture, I don’t notice the fuzziness, nor the disconnected lines.  The structure holding up the bridge is easy to see; the bridge itself a masterpiece of design.  The buildings in the distance look as if they could house families just like ours.  I begin to wonder if I am seeing things, so I move right back up next to the work of art once more.  Nope.  Fuzzy lines and color, nothing more.  This one is definitely a poser.  Exactly what is happening here?

It is not my intent to give a lesson in art history, but the explanation for what I am seeing is tied up in that subject.  The painting we are viewing is one of a genre described as “impressionist”, originally dubbed this by artists who were critical of its unfinished, sketchy style.  To them, it wasn’t a real picture of the object, it was merely an impression of it.  The name stuck and a new art form was established, changing the art world beyond recall.  I will confess that I am not quite a fan.  While I grudgingly admit to the genius of the style, I prefer more clarity, more detail, upon which to focus my attention.  Still, the ability to make a picture appear clear and finished from a distance, only to dissolve into lines and colors when in close proximity, takes a talent which I admire greatly and still do not understand.

I wonder if this is the reason that art museums often have velvet ropes up in front of their art work.  The ropes force us to keep our distance from the precious oils and water colors.  Is it possible that they’re not just trying to keep us from touching and soiling the work, but that they want to be sure we see the paintings from the correct perspective?  I don’t insist on it.  It’s just my theory.

You know, I’m not so sure that we don’t see the world in an impressionistic way as well.  It might be a good thing when we’re viewing art, but I have my doubts as to its usefulness in real life.  Again and again, I am shocked as I learn of acquaintances who are going through crises in their personal lives.  I looked at them from across the room just last week; saw their post on one of the social media outlets only a month ago.  From a distance, everything looked just fine to me.  How is it possible that the lines have become disconnected, the picture so fuzzy?

Perhaps, the message of the fuzzy lines is that we need to be sure and stay close to those we love.  Possibly, we should hold them tight and not lose touch.  It’s not a bad proposal.  From the perspective of a friend and family member, it’s actually quite a good one.  We should do that.  As people who want to serve, we are actually required to be in the place where we can do the most good.  It is an excellent and noble goal, which deserves our attention.

But, I have a sense that there is a more personal message, one of warning, which the idea of disconnected lines and fuzzy focus teaches.  You see, other people are not the only ones who have issues which need to be addressed.  The temptations and anxieties of our world are very real in our own lives, too.  We find ourselves working hard to keep up appearances, making sure that the picture from the outside looking in is one of control and focus, all the while knowing that the lines are stretching and becoming disconnected.  Instead of seeking help and admitting our problems, we work all the harder to repair the image–the facade of well-being, hoping against hope that no one will look closely at our situation; knowing all the while that it will never stand up to close inspection.  If only we can keep them at arm’s length, we are confident that we can make them believe all is right in our world.  All we need achieve is the impression of wholeness, not wholeness itself.  It is a juggling act which will invariably wear us down, a plate-spinning spectacle which is destined to end in disaster.

The impression of peace is not the reality of the same.  The impression of goodness is not the same as actually doing good. We need realism, not impressionism.  I am, of course, speaking about real life, not art.  You may enjoy what you will in the art world, but in our lives, in reality, truth trumps imitation every time.  We owe it to each other; we owe it to ourselves; we owe it to our God, to be honest and to drop our deceptions.

I still have more than my share of fuzzy areas and quite a few disconnected lines.  I’m working at connecting the dots, but I’m thinking that I need to let people get a little closer, too.

Perhaps you believe that it’s time to take down the velvet ropes as well.

Time will tell if the critics agree.

“Therefore, having put away falsehood, let each one of you speak the truth with his neighbor, for we are members one of another.”
(Ephesians 4:25~ESV)

“From a distance, we all have enough 
And no one is in need. 
There are no guns, no bombs, and no disease 
No hungry mouths to feed.”
(“From A Distance” by Julie Gold~American songwriter)




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