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Miss Barrett’s Hoax

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I listen to the beautiful music as I consider a suitable subject on which to spend time tonight, but the music intrudes. No. Intrudes is not the right description. It’s more as if the music enters the stream of thought and hijacks it, carries it away. But, I always listen to music when I write, having started the habit many years ago. I was just a junior in high school…
Miss Barrett understood teenagers. By that, I mean that she realized that most of us had a healthy disdain for poetry. But, she was an English teacher and the curriculum makes a requirement of an English teacher: she must instruct her classes in the hated art form. For us, it was a fate worse than death to receive an assignment which included any hint of the word “poem”. The groans would begin with the first mention of the vile thing and would increase exponentially with each subsequent repetition of the word. Because of that, although I would assume that her preference might have run to the classics, she had determined to take a path which was crafted to draw in our sixteen and seventeen year-old minds and coax us into enjoying poetry, waiting to spring the trap until no retreat on our part was possible.
The spinster teacher invited us to bring our favorite popular recordings (why yes, they were vinyl records!) to listen to while we worked in class. Then, sneakily, she would begin to talk about the lyrics of the songs being played, asking us to discuss the meter and the rhyme, along with the overall theme of the poe…Oh, I almost said the dirty word! Well, you get the idea. Before we knew it, we had worked our way through lyrics of James Taylor and Jim Croce, to say nothing about David Gates and his band called Bread. Linda Ronstadt and Three Dog Night, along with the Beatles and Carly Simon soon were tackled. More followed and still more. Before the end of the year, that lady had us asking to talk about poetry!
I remember taking one of my wandering treks through the surrounding countryside sometime during that year, quoting and singing the lyrics to several of the hit songs which that band called Bread had recorded. I memorized poetry! Not because I was forced to do it, but because I wanted to. Surprisingly, the other day when one of those songs came on the “oldies station” as we drove down the road, I sang the words right along with Mr. Gates. Forty years later, I still remember the lyrics! That sneaky Miss Barrett made me like poetry! Worse, she made me want to commit it to memory.
But tonight, the song I am listening to ends and I am jerked back to reality. I thought I was safe, listening to classical music. I chose one of my favorite pieces, the Piano Concerto #2, by Sergei Rachmaninoff. It is, in my opinion, one of the most hauntingly beautiful pieces of music written. Surely no lyrics would intrude into this! But just the same, there are words going through my head…”All by myself, don’t wanna be all by myself anymore…” I first heard the pop song in 1975, having no idea at that time that the melody was based on this spectacular work, written by the composer around 1900. As I listened tonight to the masterful treatment of the piece by the pianist, accompanied by the gorgeous tonality of the strings and wind instruments in the orchestra, I couldn’t keep the words from injecting themselves at the appropriate (or inappropriate) place. No doubt, this is still the work of that sneaky English teacher, Miss Barrett.
I will readily admit that finally, as the years have passed, I can openly enjoy poetry. It doesn’t even have to be set to music, although that helps me to remember the words. The good lady’s tactics worked. She took a poetry-hater and made me enjoy poems. An examination of her scam, her stratagem if you will, gives us some instruction for use in other walks of life. She took that which was odious to us and hid it inside something we loved. No one had to ask us to like the pop music of the day. We were already hooked. What she recognized was that we would sit still for lessons seemingly built on the foundation of the music we loved. All the while, unbeknownst to us, construction was underway on a very different foundation–the foundation of literature. Through a simple ruse, a little sleight of hand, the deed was done and we were hers.
But, the device works both in constructive and in destructive ways, does it not? The pet is ill, so we hide the medication in a piece of meat, a Trojan horse of sorts, to deliver the death blow to the illness inside. None the wiser, the pet devours the proffered treat, easily swallowing the pill which would have been next to impossible to force down the animal’s gullet otherwise. Thus, the cure is achieved. But on the other hand, the casino in the neighboring town offers luxurious accommodations and gourmet meals at bargain prices to lure the patrons in, enticing them further with visions of easy money and grand winnings. The eventual result is disappointment for many and outright disaster for quite a number, leaving them impoverished. The sugar-coated offer hides a price which is much too high for all of them.
The same tactic. Vastly different results.
I can’t help but be reminded of the words spoken by the Teacher, as He sent His disciples away. “I am sending you out as sheep among the wolves.” If He had stopped there, we might wonder at His cruelty, leaving them to be consumed by the evil ones they would find in the wide world. He continued though, “Be as wise as serpents, but harmless as doves.” They are words for us to live by today also. We are to be on our guard against the Trojan horses, the artifices of those who would entrap us, all the while seeking no harm to them.
Like Miss Barrett, we seek ways to teach and to win the trust of those around us, to do good for them. All the while, we must be on our guard against those who are only out for their own good and for our harm.
I promise that I will try to stifle my urges to quote song lyrics to you. But if the music to “If” by Bread comes on the radio, you’ll see (and possibly hear) me bellowing out the lyrics right along. Who knew poetry could be so much fun?
“Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way.”
(from “Mary Poppins”~Walt Disney film~1964~Robert Sherman/Richard Sherman, composers)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Savory Speech

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Blaaaaaat!” The obnoxious sound of the old car horn caused me to jump as I stood and worked behind the counter at the music store. I looked out the front door to the parking lot and my heart sank. The object of my dismay wasn’t so much the battered late-sixties model Mercury that sat there with its motor still running; it was the driver of the old jalopy. Kelly was, as the Lovely Lady’s mother would have put it, “the bane of my existence”. At least, for a period of time, he was. The old fellow loved vintage cars and country music, which meant that he needed someone to keep the ancient stereos in the decrepit vehicles functioning. He had discovered that I had a knack with the tired old tape players, so life for a time was a constant parade of the rusty flivvers and their eight-track players needing attention.
The players weren’t so much of a problem, although I never really enjoyed working on them. The eight-track player was probably one of the worst conceived inventions ever, but I understood the theory of their operation and could usually coax the ones Kelly presented me with back to life, at least enough to spit out a few more hours of what he called music. Whenever I worked on the players, I would always have to shove a jumbled mess of tapes aside…tapes by the likes of George Jones, Lynn Anderson, and Merle Haggard. One day, as I shoved such a pile across the seat, a loaded pistol appeared from underneath the miscellaneous hodge-podge. I jumped out of the car and shouted for Kelly, but he calmly pocketed the gun and told me not to worry about it. I did anyway. I also repaired that player in record time.
The real reason that I wasn’t happy to see Kelly on this day was that I knew he was going to tell me how he was doing. You know–you usually greet folks with a polite “How are you today?” I had long ago abandoned that phrase with Kelly, simply because he assumed that I really wanted to get the full answer–and I do mean full answer! “Well Paul, the doctor had to open up my sinuses the other day and drain them. You never saw such a mess!” He would then proceed to describe the mess, the like of which I never saw and never wanted to see, much less hear described. There was always a different story, each one more fantastic and gory than the one before. I amazed myself with my own brilliance one day and just decided to quit asking him how he was. It worked the first two times. After that, he began responding to my “Hi, Kelly!” with, “Well Paul, The doctor had to cut open my skull last week to relieve the pressure that was building up…” I really began to dread his visits.
It’s been many years since Kelly graced me with his company and I’ve had a while to think about the cause of his behavior and conversation style. It seems to me that it is possible to miss being the center of attention as we age. By all accounts, Kelly was a fireball of a man in his younger days and with his love of fast cars and guns, there was no dearth of attention paid to his exploits. In his old age, he became just another old man, driving his old cars around town and going home to his elderly wife when the day was done. No one gave him a second look anymore. In the absence of admiring compliments, or even any heed given whatsoever to his activities, it seems that he decided to grab the attention once more by shocking the few people who would acknowledge him. It had the opposite effect, instead driving people away that might have become friends, but who were repulsed by the obvious lies and exaggerations.  
It’s becoming easier for me to put myself in the old man’s place these days. When we are young, there is no end of the attention paid to our exploits and accomplishments. Just by achieving goals, we inspire comments. “Oh! He’s so talented! And, so young!” As the years pass, the excitement dies down and we get an occasional pat on the back, along with a half-hearted, “I really enjoyed that.” The same activities undertaken in the silver years don’t even seem to move their spirits at all. The attention has turned to new recipients, more energetic and more fresh. Thus, age leads to obscurity. Not all men can abide the unfamiliar lack of attention. Like awkward teenagers, anxious to acquire the regard of others, they become “class clowns”, performing their act for anyone who will acknowledge them. Some, like my friend, don’t know when to stop and so, ostracize the very audience they are attempting to impress.
Well, you’ve waded through the cautionary tale, and worked to decipher my psychobabble in this attempt to explain an old man’s foibles. Will it make any difference to you at all? Maybe not. I’m actually talking to myself mostly, I think. The realization that I could easily become Kelly drives me to consider the actions necessary to prevent this fate. I don’t have to look any further than the words I learned as a child in Sunday School. “Let your conversation be always full of grace…” Words intended to shock are not full of grace. Statements crafted to turn attention to myself are not full of grace. Comments which inflame the passion of the listeners are definitely not full of grace. I really like the phrase that follows the one I quoted above. “…seasoned as with salt…” Conversation that has a generous amount of grace sprinkled throughout will not anger and disgust, nor will it entice illicit emotions. “…so that you will know how to speak to every man.”
So, these days, I’m working on including a copious dusting of grace with the words that come from my mouth. I’m thinking it will be hard to go wrong as long as I keep that goal in sight. 
But someday, if I start to talk with you about the procedure the doctor performed on me last week, you might want to jog my memory a bit.
They do say the three primary signs of old age are forgetfulness, and…and…Oh, never mind. Just stop me before I tell the story.
“Speech is oft repented, silence never.”
(Old Danish proverb)
“Let no corrupting (decaying, rotten) talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up…”
(Ephesians 4:29a~ESV)

 © Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Bear Down

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The red-headed lady of the house wasn’t in any mood to be sassed.  Today was cleaning day and already, the servants were revolting.  Especially that young loud-mouthed one.  The tow-headed boy appeared once again in her presence, this time with a complaint that he knew would do the trick.  “Every single one of us has tried to clean that spot and it just won’t come out.  Can’t we just move on to something else?”

The woman hadn’t lived to her advanced age (all of thirty-six or so) without learning a thing or two about cleaning.  She grabbed the scrub brush which the youngster was holding and marched over to the bucket, dipping it a time or two into the sudsy water.  Kneeling down and holding tightly to the handle, she plopped the brush onto the floor and, bearing down, began to scrub.  Magically, the stain, which “every single one” of the unpaid staff had attempted to remove, was gone when she again lifted the brush from the surface. 

“Wow!” The boy’s voice was a mixture of awe and disappointment.  Awe, because he really had tried to remove the stain himself before offering the complaint; disappointment, because he now realized that he would have to continue with the unhappy chore.  “How did you do that?” 

The lady’s answer was limited to just two words–two words which didn’t clarify the issue at all for him.

“Elbow grease.”  She dropped the brush into the water again, stood up and demanded, as she headed back to her command station in the living room, “Now, use some yourself and get back to work!” 

It took another hour or two, but the floor was spot free and ready for the wax, which the next crew was to apply.  The fun part of the job, polishing the floor by sliding on it in stocking feet, would come hours later. 

The boy was still curious, so he headed for her location.  Approaching the recliner in the living room, the question on the tip of his tongue was blurted out.  “Mom, what is elbow grease?” 

She muttered something about it just being hard work and using the muscles that God had given to you.  It wasn’t a satisfactory answer, but it was all he was likely to get.  He headed out for the orange trees to snag one or two of the brilliantly colored and sugar-sweet spheres off the low-hanging branches and promptly forgot about the subject.

But, I still want to know.  What is elbow grease? 

Oh, I’ve heard about the jokes played on young apprentices; the journeymen telling them to get a container of the stuff for them, only to laugh at their naivety as they seek for it earnestly, like someone searching for the non-existent snipe in the forest.  I’ve used the term myself for years, to mean just what my mother indicated…hard work.  But the word-nerd in me wants to have a definitive answer.  Where did this obscure phrase come from?  What strange brain concocted such a term? 

As it happens, the answer is so simple, I should have thought of it myself.  One has only to go to the “New Dictionary of the Canting Crew”, published in 1699, to find the meaning.  The Canting Crew refers to ruffians and thieves, the real source of slang and street language in those ancient days. The entry therein for elbow grease reads thus: “Elbow grease, a derisory term for sweat.”  There is nothing further.

Sweat.  Of course! 

When you do physical work in your shirt sleeves, you perspire and the sweat runs down the smooth surface of your upper arms to your elbows, lubricating them, almost annoyingly so.  Elbow grease. As happy as I am to finally have the answer, I am embarrassed that I couldn’t work it out for myself long ago.  Ah, well.  Ofttimes the answer stares us in the face for a lifetime and we still don’t discern it.  I now know it, anyway.  I am content. 

As my father-in-law used to say, in his quirky manner, “Well, I learned something new today.  Now, I can go back to bed.”

I’m thinking tonight about how important elbow grease is to our lives.  Oh, we have labor saving devices, better lubricants, and stronger cleaning agents, but we still have to, every once in awhile, find the elbow grease and just power through the task in front of us.  Life wasn’t intended to be easy, we weren’t meant to achieve easy victories.  Sometimes, we have to scrape the paint or scrub the sidewalk, with nothing but a basic tool and our muscle. 

We work up a sweat and get the job done.  Two things happen when we do that. 

First, we learn that hard work gets the job done. It’s not about talent, or good looks, or our social station.  Hard work pays off.

Second, we have that feeling that nothing else can inspire in us; the feeling of achieving our goals for ourselves.  I would call it pride, only some wit will retort that “pride goes before a fall” and try to take away the God-given sense of accomplishment.  This is a different sort of pride, the sort that leads to more hard work, and more achievement.  I’m thinking that it is indeed, a good thing.

The young man stood in front of me at the music store the other day, showing me his sore fingers.  He had his guitar with him and wanted me to repair it.  “It hurts my fingers when I play,” was the complaint. 

I examined the guitar, finding it to be properly adjusted, with a set of strings which were well suited to the beginning student.  I handed it back to the boy and said, almost hardheartedly, “It’s supposed to hurt your fingers when you play.  Keep working at it.” 

You see, the only way to become a guitar player is to work through the discomfort and the softness of disuse, developing calluses on the tips of the fingers.  Practice, practice, practice isn’t only a phrase in a joke, it’s the way of life for any aspiring musician.  Hard work…elbow grease, is required for any achievement worth talking about.

I’m not sure, but it is possible that the words the Creator spoke to Adam, as his punishment was meted out for disobedience in the Garden of Eden, could be paraphrased from “By the sweat of your brow…” to “Everything you need to accomplish to live on this earth will be done with elbow grease.”  I finally comprehend the red-head’s words, nearly fifty years later.

Couldn’t quite conquer that problem that faced you yesterday?  Try it again today, only this time, use a little more elbow grease.  You’ll get it done.  I’ll keep working, too. 

Let’s bear down!  There is still a lot to accomplish.

“By the sweat of your brow will you have food to eat until you return to the ground from which you were made. For you were made from dust, and to dust you will return.”
(Genesis 3:19~NLT)

“Both tears and sweat are salty, but they render a different result.  Tears will get you sympathy; Sweat will get you change.”
(Jesse Jackson~American civil rights leader)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Home to Roost

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The plumber glanced up from his prone position under the sink.  “I’ll have this done in a minute.  Oh, and I got that other problem fixed for you!”  The tub upstairs had been draining painfully slowly, so we had asked him to auger it out, while he was installing our new downstairs plumbing.  “There was something solid in the line, but I shoved it on down.  I don’t think it went out completely, but hopefully, you’ll never have another problem.”  That was over ten years ago.

I thought about the plumber’s comment two years ago, just for a moment, when the upstairs sink refused to drain anymore.  Drain cleaners did not good, so I eventually got a light duty plumber’s snake and shoved it down the line until it hit something solid.  After a good bit of grunting and shoving, it moved on down the line beyond my reach.  The sink drain worked as good as new.  There was a thought in the back of my mind then…”You don’t suppose the plumber didn’t take care of the problem permanently?”  But, everything was working just fine, so I put it out of my thoughts.

A couple of days ago, the downstairs toilet refused to flush and all that my efforts with the plumber’s helper did was to force the dirty water up into the bathtub.  I cast about for an answer and found it when I ran a borrowed heavy-duty plumber’s snake down the vent stack on the roof of the house.  It went down for many feet and then hit something solid.  The thought from a couple of years ago is now screaming in my head.  It has to be!  This is the same something solid which troubled the plumber over ten years ago.  It has never been removed at all, just shoved on down the line to cause problems at some different place and at a different time.

“The chickens have come home to roost.”  I hear another of Mom’s favorite sayings in my head, along with the accusatory thoughts.  I never really considered the picture, but I can’t avoid it tonight.  The idea is that evil deeds (or even careless ones) which are done will invariably come back to haunt us.  In my fertile imagination I see a hard man, knowing that it is the reason they have raised them, demanding that his wife kill the chickens for supper while he is out working that day.  The tender-hearted woman can’t bring herself to do the distasteful deed, so as soon as he is gone, she shoos the squawking birds out into the woods.  Knowing that her husband will expect chicken for supper, she acquires some from the meat market and prepares them.  Unfortunately, while the man is enjoying his meal that evening, he first hears and then sees the parade of the hens as they head for their accustomed roosting spot in the chicken coop.  The lie is evident and can no longer be hidden beneath the web of deceit. The chickens have come home to roost.

So it is with my plumbing problem.  Each time the issue has been addressed, it has been dealt with in a haphazard way, not at all intending to complete the task, but simply to achieve the desired result.  Clogged drain?  Make it work.  Will there be problems later?  Oh well.  Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.  We’ll deal with it if it comes up again.

It doesn’t make sense, does it?  The car leaks oil, so we buy more oil and pour it in.  But the problem is not that the engine didn’t have enough oil in it; the problem is that there is a seal leaking.  Pouring more oil in will temporarily keep us driving down the road, but the only thing that will permanently resolve the real issue is to repair the seal.  In the same way, if you look around, you will see evidence of an amazing array of half measures with which we “solve” our problems (buckets under leaky faucets, tape on glasses, etc.), all the while knowing that we haven’t solved anything, but have simply put off addressing the issue.

You will, no doubt, have realized by now that I am not actually worried about leaky engines, or faucets, or even clogged sewers, and certainly not poultry returning home for the night.  Our lives give evidence of so many areas in which we have merely given a “lick and a promise”, but have never fulfilled that promise.  Don’t you think it’s time that we actually solve some problems and set things right?  Perhaps we should start by learning which are symptoms and which are causes.  Yelling at your kids?  That’s a symptom.  Lying to your wife?  That’s a symptom.  Gossiping about your friends?  You got it…a symptom.  If all we do is to shove the problems down the pipe a little way, they will certainly show themselves in a different place again, and soon.  It’s time for us to deal with the heart of the issues. Funny. That’s exactly where most of these problems are to be found–in our hearts.

I like a verse I found recently in Ezekiel, where God says, “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you.”  Better than that, He says that He will remove the something solid that we have been pushing around in an attempt to fix it ourselves.  “I will remove your heart of stone…”  No more shoving and working to fix symptoms.  No more hoping that the issue will not show up again.  What should have been done in the first place is accomplished.  See!  All things have become new.

Oh, in case you wondered, I’m pretty sure that I’ll have to use the plumber’s snake at my house again sometime.  I just shoved the something solid a little way further down the pipe, so the bathroom fixtures would drain.  Time will tell.

Chances are, the chickens will be home to roost again soon.  I can hardly wait.

“For all that is secret will eventually be brought into the open, and everything that is concealed will be brought to light and made known to all.”
(Luke 8:17~NLT)





© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Finding the Pearl

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“If it was easy, everybody would be doing it.”  The sales representative and I were shooting the breeze about the music business, late this afternoon.  I agreed, a little more quickly than I intended to.  We commiserated awhile about the difficulties of our chosen field; he wrote a small order for me and then he was gone.  He wasn’t the first to voice a similar sentiment today.
The middle aged couple were looking for a few accessories, but as is common, had spent some time in browsing.  When I asked if the few items they selected was the extent of what they needed today, the gentleman responded with, “No, I need a lot more, but I just can’t afford it.”  When I offered, tongue in cheek, to accompany them to the bank to acquire a loan so they could purchase the entire music store, the fellow retorted, just as tongue in cheek, “No thanks!  There’s no money to be made in the music business!”  I responded, again a little too quickly, “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t known for the last thirty years!”
“If it was easy…”   A few months ago, the Lovely Lady and I stood in the middle of a plowed field that stretched for many acres in all directions.  Standing expectantly under the scorching sun, we held an assortment of trowels in our hands and I carried a small cloth bag.   Along with a number of other folks, we wandered along the furrows with their clods of dirt strewn hither and yon until we found a likely looking piece of ground and began to attempt to reap the crop which this field was famous for growing.
We were in the famous Crater of Diamonds diamond mine in central Arkansas.  It wasn’t at all what I expected.  It was, quite literally, a field.  The report that diamonds are lying on the ground waiting to be picked up was greatly exaggerated.  Oh, I don’t dispute the fact that some people have found diamonds there, even valuable ones.  But, they were the exception, not the rule.  We found nothing worth mentioning, except some sunburn and a lot of dirt.  “If it was easy…”
I almost felt a kinship with the participants of the gold rushes of the nineteenth century.  Driven by reports of gold just lying around, waiting to be picked up, thousands sold everything they had and went west in the late 1840s.  The only people who got rich were the very lucky and the merchants who sold the foolish treasure seekers the necessities for living…until their money ran out.  It wasn’t much different with the Klondike gold rush at the end of that same century.  One hundred thousand people headed for certain riches.  Only thirty thousand of them arrived.  Of that number, less than ten percent found gold.  “If it was easy…”
We want things to be easy.  We watch skilled craftsmen who make their jobs appear effortless and think, “I could do that!”  We view sports events and see the apparent ease with which the athletes achieve their goals and believe that it comes naturally to them.  I have sat in numberless auditoriums and marveled at the incredible talent of the musicians, imagining that with the right breaks, it could have been me up on that stage.  What we don’t see, and certainly wouldn’t desire to endure, are the endless hours of effort and the incredible self-discipline which these “prodigies” invest in their craft.  They work at being the best, day after day, week after week, year after year, just so that we can admire the results, all the while believing that all it takes is the right break, knowing the right people, or being in the right place at the right time.  What a joke!  “If it was easy…”
Hard work pays off.  It’s just that sometimes you have to sift through a ton of dirt to get to the diamond.  If you have a dream, you won’t reach it simply by starting on the path to it.  You have to persevere.  You have to work through the hardships, the ineptness of inexperience, sometimes even the discouragement of people who say it can’t be done.  The accountant who told me to stay out of the music business because the “numbers don’t add up” didn’t have the dream to follow.  Even today, the numbers don’t add up sometimes, but I’m still following that dream. 
Last summer, as the Lovely Lady and I drove up the highway, away from the diamond field, I was amused to see the signs advertising the crystal mines nearby.  Their boast was that every customer was guaranteed to find crystals, an obvious swipe at the disappointing diamond mine we had just left.  Well, sure.  It’s not hard to settle for a shiny crystal.  You have to work, and dare, and sweat for the diamonds. “If it was easy…”
Whether you want to achieve some great physical task, or are pursuing some lofty humanitarian goal, or even seeking to reach an honorable spiritual ambition, you’ll never attain it if you don’t give everything you have for it.  Anyone can do an average task.  That’s why they call it average.
“If it was easy, everyone would be doing it.”
“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant on the lookout for choice pearls.  When he discovered a pearl of great value, he sold everything he owned and bought it.”
(Matthew 13:45,46~NLT)
” Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life.  I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and led them well.”
(Theodore Roosevelt~26th President of the United States~1858-1919)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Spontaneous Dents and Walking Plates

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Usually, when we speak of ‘dents’ in an instrument, we are speaking of damage which has been done by someone, Ma’am.” I had taken a quick break to eat a very late lunch and, wolfing down the last bite of my PB&J sandwich, was headed for the sales area in the music store, when the patient voice of the Lovely Lady spoke the words. Actually, I heard just a hint of frustration, but that would not be evident to anyone else. The lady with whom she was speaking was adamant. “No. The dents are just appearing. She doesn’t know how. There are just more of them all the time.”
I kept my mouth shut (miraculously) and let the conversation play out. The lady agreed to bring the horn by soon for us to be able to assess the amount of damage and offer our opinion on why the dents “just keep appearing.” We have had these conversations before. The child stands and shrugs as his/her parent asks, “How did this happen?” Normally, before the discussion is over, the truth comes out. The horn has been mishandled, or had a chance meeting with another child’s instrument, or once, even been smacked over a little brother’s head. There is always a reason, always a culprit. Never have we discovered such a thing as a spontaneous dent. It just does not happen.
Day after day, they come in. Parents. Requesting a new book for their child to use in the band class. “Someone stole little Jackie’s.” Hah! It’s never, “Jackie lost his book again. He has no sense of responsibility, because I refuse to hold him accountable.”The latter is much nearer to the truth than the former, but I have never heard it said.
As I write, I can’t help but hear my Mom’s voice, out of the dim and far-distant past. “Well, it certainly didn’t grow legs and walk up here by itself!” She had been missing a dinner plate for several days; a circumstance very close to a disaster in our family. With seven people who ate at each meal, there weren’t many extra dishes. She needed that plate. And, wouldn’t you know it? The plate was found under my bed. “I didn’t put it there!” came the plaintive cry from my lips. It was a futile attempt, I knew. Mom’s reply cut through all the argument which could have ensued, pointing out the obvious. It was my bed; the plate was underneath it; the responsibility was mine.
I won’t waste your time with all the subtle arguments and distinctions which could be brought to bear here. Sure, there might have been more to the story. A brother might have slid the plate over under my bed with his foot as the search was in progress. Or he might not have. It makes little difference. The fact is that someone put it there, as my mother said so perceptively. Things like that don’t happen in a vacuum.
It is imperative that we take responsibility for our actions. I won’t moan about the latest generation and their lack of accountability. It was true in my generation also (and in yours). We did our best to wriggle out of blame for anything which we had done. Never mind that we knew that “confession is good for the soul”. Even though we had learned that lesson the hard way again and again, the next time we were caught in a fault, it was every bit as difficult to extract a statement of culpability as the time before.
As it turns out, every generation for which we have a written record has reacted in a way which attempts to deflect responsibility to someone or something else. Adam blamed Eve and, indirectly, God. “The woman (whom You gave me) tempted me.” Wow! Not my fault. Hers. Yours.No wonder we have gotten so good at it.
Did I say that confession is good for the soul? I don’t want you to think that if we suddenly start to follow our conscience and admit out faults, it will be smooth sailing from then on. Confession requires restitution. Oh boy! Now I did it! I should have issued the disclaimer first! Here is the disclaimer then: I am not talking about God’s offer of salvation; not disputing grace, which comes through faith, and is not of works. I am speaking of how life works, of what is required for us to claim to be responsible people. It is a practical thing, not intended to address our spiritual condition (although in many aspects, our spiritual condition will govern our responses in this area).
In our dealings with friends, and family, and any other person in the world, we are required to follow up a statement of confession with actions of restoration. “I broke it. I’ll pay for a new one.” “I stole that, and I accept the penalty.” “I hurt you. I’m sorry and will work to restore our damaged relationship.” Statements of confession without intent to restore are empty and void. They mean nothing, just as if we had denied responsibility altogether. Speaking words with our mouth does not absolve us of the necessity to make amends with our actions.
Dents don’t appear by themselves. Plates don’t grow legs and walk upstairs. We are responsible for our own behavior, and integrity of character demands that we confess our faults and make restitution to the best of our ability. If we don’t help our children to see this and live this, we rob them and doom them to a life of blaming others and rationalizing their every action.
It’s how we grow, how we mature. I just wish I hadn’t had so much experience in saying, “My fault.” Oh well, if confession really is good for the soul, mine should be getting quite healthy by now.
I wonder after all, where those dents did come from?
 
“None but the well-bred man knows how to confess a fault, or acknowledge himself in an error.”
(Benjamin Franklin~American Statesman, philosopher, and inventor~1706-1790)
“When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long…Then I acknowledged my sin to You and did not cover up my iniquity…”
(Psalm 32:3,5a~NIV) 
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

One Thin Dime?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My bank cheated me out of nine cents last week. It’s really not such a big deal. It is less than a dime; hardly worth bothering with, but sometimes the principle is as important as the value. Maybe I’ll give them a call tomorrow…
How did my bank cheat me, you ask? They didn’t do it knowingly, but it happened nonetheless. Earlier last week, I had the Lovely Lady pick up several rolls of coins from the financial institution while she was making a deposit there. Buying coins is a common occurrence for us, since our cash register is always in need of change. Then yesterday morning, I noticed that the dimes in the cash drawer were running low, so I grabbed that five dollar roll of the thin coins and dropped it into the bin, opening it when I needed a dime to add to a customer’s change about noon. But last night, as I was counting out the register to finish the day, I noticed something weird.
I was counting the dimes when I thought that there was a flash of some coin a little different color. Since they all had fit uniformly in the stack of coins I held in my hand as I counted, I wasn’t concerned. Later, however, I thought about that single, dark dime. Strange–dimes weren’t usually brown. I went digging in the bin for it and pulled it out. Aha! It wasn’t a dime, but a penny! But wait! Pennies don’t fit neatly with dimes. They are larger in diameter. How was it then, that the stack of coins was so uniform, so consistent? A closer look at the coin in my hand revealed the answer. Some joker had very carefully filed off the edge of the imposter coin, removing the raised rim all the way around. It was almost exactly the same diameter as a dime, therefore fitting neatly into a roll and, as a consequence, costing me exactly nine cents.
For just a moment, I sit and visualize the scenario. The young man holds the contents of his broken piggy bank in his hands, counting his dimes. Forty-nine! He’s counted it three times and every time, it comes out to forty-nine. He needs fifty dimes to make a five dollar roll. Then, his eyes light on the handful of stray pennies lying nearby and an idea comes to him. Moments later, after putting down the file, he holds fifty coins which will pass muster as a complete roll of dimes and he is off to the bank. They don’t even look at the coins as they are loaded in the automatic counter, dropping down into their individual slot to be stacked and covered in the prefabricated paper roll. No one ever looks at that odd coin, not actually a dime, but no longer just a penny. It certainly doesn’t belong here, but it will take someone with eyes to see before that can be determined. By then, the young man is long gone, enjoying the hamburger and fries his five-dollar bill purchased for him at the local burger joint.
And me? I’m still nine cents short! The coin is an imposter, a pretender, and it’s not worth anywhere near what its value should have been. I’ve been taken in by a fraud!
Funny. The penny has a proper place. It also should normally come to me in a roll of coins from the bank, to be opened and dropped into a drawer in my cash register. I buy pennies all the time. In fact, the Lovely Lady picked up a few rolls at the same time she acquired this roll of dimes the other day. It’s simply that I only pay one cent apiece for these coins. They have a different purpose and belong in a different location. There is no place in either drawer for this marred coin now. I’ll probably throw it away, someday…
My mind goes back nearly forty years. The skinny boy has slipped out from his parent’s house, sneaking away to a dance with his friends. The music is loud, the girls are attractive, and one of his friends has a bottle of who-knows-what to share around. They have a drink and some of the boys are brave enough to ask the girls to dance, but the skinny boy isn’t having much fun. He realizes that he doesn’t belong here. He is not one of these guys, not at all who they think he is. It doesn’t help that just about then, the cover band playing on the little dance stage starts into their rendition of Three Dog Night’s “Mama Told Me Not To Come.” The skinny boy knows when he is beaten. He heads for the exit.
Now, you need to read this very carefully. I am notmaking a statement about whether drinking and dancing is acceptable. This is not a discussion about that at all. The statement is about who the skinny boy was. His parents had taught him that dances were not a proper place for him to spend time, had assured him that drinking was not the way to prove his worth to his friends. He was out of place, simply because he wasn’t supposed to be there doing those things.
Here in the south, we would say that the skinny kid stuck out like a sore thumb. You know how it is. You hit your thumb with a hammer and it hurts like a fire burning. Then every time you bump it against anything for the next few days, you feel that awful pain once more. It doesn’t matter how you baby the sore digit or try to protect it; you’re bound to bump it again and again. The sore thumb doesn’t belong there; won’t fit in until it is no longer sore. As long as it is what it is–sore–the thumb won’t blend in.
I have tried to blend in where I had no business being on any number of occasions. I was uncomfortable years ago as I attempted to sell vacuum cleaners, and again that time when I was standing in the garage with all the guys swapping filthy stories. More recently, I was out of place in the coffee shop surrounded by teenagers texting each other, and I was even ill at ease as I sat on a church board. Some of those places, it was just wrong for me to be in; others simply weren’t the correct fit for me. Oh, I tried to file off the edges; tried to change my shape a bit in an attempt to keep folks from noticing. But, sooner or later, the shape you are determines the space you will fill.
It doesn’t make sense to try to be something you are not. It is not profitable to try to fit into a round hole, even though you are unmistakeably square. We are not intended to live our lives pretending. We will wear ourselves out with trying to conform where we have no business being at all.
Do you want to accomplish great things? Do them in the space in which you were intended to fit. We misunderstand the meaning of the phrase “great things” if we only think that they are those things which attract attention, the things which gain notoriety. Sometimes, the small things we can accomplish using the tools and talents with which we have been blessed will be the great things we always were intended to do in the lives of others.
It’s time to quit trying to pass myself off as a dime, when I’m nothing more than a simple penny. I think I’m going to keep circulating for awhile longer. Maybe you’ll come along with me.
Oh! The places we’ll go…
“What I do, you cannot do; but what you do, I cannot do. The needs are great, and none of us, including me, ever do great things. But we can all do small things with great love, and together we can do something wonderful.”
(Mother Teresa of Calcutta~Albanian missionary and Nobel Peace Prize winner~1910-1997)
“This only have I found: God created mankind upright, but they have gone in search of many schemes.”
(Ecclesiastes 7:29~NIV)
“I seen so many things
I ain’t never seen before
Don’t know what it is
I don’t wanna see no more.
Mama told me not to come…”
(“Mama Told Me Not To Come” by Randy Newman~recorded by Three Dog Night in 1970)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Through The Fog

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

There it was again.  The noise of the vacuum cleaner in the sanctuary roared in my ears, but I was sure that I heard hammering.  I stuck my head in the door and shouted at the Lovely Lady, beckoning her, when I finally got her attention, to turn off the motor on the noisy thing.  She did, looking quizzically at me.  “Did you hear something banging?” I asked.  “No…can’t hear a thing over this,” she made a motion with her foot to get back to her work, but I held up my hand.  There it was again, coming from the side door of the church sanctuary, where we were fulfilling our weekly task as the church custodians.  Someone was banging on the wooden door.  No one ever used that door.  I wondered who it could be?

By the time I got to the door, the man was halfway down the steps, but I opened it anyway and asked if I could help him.  He made his way unsteadily back up the stairs and stood there, swaying back and forth.  He was quite obviously inebriated, but he asked what he had come to ask.  “Can you give me some money?  I need to get home.”  It is a question that gets asked at the church doors across this nation a thousand times a day.  I answered him honestly.  “I don’t have any money, sir.  I’m sorry.”  I didn’t add the thing I really wanted to say.  “…and I wouldn’t give you any if I did.”  Typically, cash given to a drunken person only aids in making them more drunk.  I’m not sure this man could have managed much more in that direction, though.  He was definitely well past the point of caring.

He muttered something about no one wanting to help him and staggered off the church steps toward the highway.  I stood there a moment, eyeing the man as he wove first one direction and then the other.  I really had nothing in my pockets.  The Lovely Lady and I didn’t just clean the church every week because we had servants’ hearts.  We needed the money.  With two children and a business which was barely scraping by, there just was never any extra cash after purchasing groceries and paying the bills.  I was standing there in self pity, considering my plight, when I came to my senses about what the old man was doing.  The highway he was headed for was a really busy one, the second most active port of entry into the state of Arkansas.  Semi-trucks and cars streamed past, one after the other, every once in awhile one of them honking its horn at the fellow.  He was struggling to walk on the shoulder, but was failing miserably, instead wandering into and out of the lane of oncoming traffic.  I ran after him and pulled him toward the ditch. 

“Can I take you somewhere?”  He named a town miles away, but I didn’t have that much gas and told him so.  He thought for awhile and then he had it!  “Just take me down to the railroad tracks then,” the man said thickly.  “I’ll hop a freight train and be home real quick.”  I laughed out loud, but he was dead serious.  What could I do?  I couldn’t leave him to get killed on the highway.  I turned him around and we walked back to where my old pickup truck was parked.  With much effort, he pulled himself up into the cab and we started across town, in the general direction of the railroad tracks.  As I drove, I thought about what I was doing.  If the highway was dangerous, the railroad tracks were suicidal.  I made a turn or two toward the north, hoping that he wouldn’t notice.  He didn’t, falling over against me as I turned the corners.  After a mile or two, I pulled to a stop and told him, “Here we are.”  We were in front of the police station.  It was the only thing I could think of.  They would give him a place to sleep off the liquor and then, if he was still determined to ride the freight, he could find his way himself and wasn’t nearly as likely to kill or maim himself.

The man looked at the building and then at me.  “Why you @#%&@!  I’ll kill you for this!”  I think it’s the only time anyone has ever threatened to kill me and it took me a little by surprise.  I explained to him that I just couldn’t let him hurt himself and that at least he’d have a place to sleep for the night.  He thought about that for a minute, letting his whiskey-pickled brain work its way around the thought.  “Okay.  Let’s get it over with.”  It took a few minutes to explain to the police officer at the desk what was going on.  They weren’t any happier with me bringing him to them than the man was himself, but they finally said that they would figure something out and I left.  I never saw him again. 

I look back on the occurrence, twenty-five years ago, and I still wonder.  What did I accomplish?  Why was he so angry with me?  Why were the police unhappy with me? 

I had done the right thing, hadn’t I?  My only intent was to protect the man’s life.  Wasn’t that what the police were supposed to do, also?  “To Serve and Protect”  That’s their motto.  They just didn’t seem so keen on helping this old guy.  I’m not sure I’ll ever figure out their response, but I’m pretty sure that I’ve finally got a little insight into the old man’s thought process.

The longer I ponder on the event, the more clear it becomes.  He was happy with the way things were going.  Unaware of his danger on the roadside, he would have gone his way without a care until that last sudden impact.  He didn’t know, and he didn’t care.  When I pointed out his jeopardy, he chose a different path, this one just as fraught with danger as the last one.  Again, he would have been perfectly content for me to drop him off at the tracks, awaiting a chance to jump for the passing freight. Perhaps he would have made the leap.  Then again, perhaps he would have fallen short and had the consequences of that foolish action to deal with.  He was completely willing to put himself in danger, and may even have been unaware of the peril he was in, but either way, he certainly didn’t want me to save him. His angry reaction took away all doubt I might have had of that.

I continue to ponder on the strange event, realizing that there is more to learn.  As much as I want to deny it, the old drunk is a picture of you and me.  Oh, we may not be found in that inebriated condition, but we certainly are just as stubborn, and frequently just as bewildered.  We think we know what we are doing, our befuddled minds assuring us that we have made good choices, and all the while, we are heading for a precipice, about to jump off.

You know, I seem to have a knack for explaining the obvious.  I think this may be where I get off tonight.  You will, no doubt, be able to work out the details of this enigma yourself.  I will leave you with just one last thought.  There is a Savior, who will not force you as this clumsy young man did to the old fellow many years ago.  The current danger is clear and it is present.  But, you get to choose.

I’m hoping you won’t choose the train tracks.

 “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
(C.S. Lewis~Irish novelist and Christian apologist~1898-1963)

“How often I have wanted to gather your children together as a hen protects her chicks beneath her wings, but you wouldn’t let me.”
(Matthew 23:37b~NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Said The Spider

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The email I opened today began with these words: “This is to inform you of a very important information which will be of a great help to redeem you from all the difficulties you have been experiencing in getting your long over due payment…”   Skipping down to the bottom of the note, I was amused to see this warning:  “Any action contrary to this instruction is at your own risk.”  I laughed at the audacity of the author and deleted the post. I get these missives on a daily basis.  You probably do too.  This one appeared to have originated in Nigeria and, like all the others of its ilk, was nothing more than an attempt to gain information about those recipients who are foolish enough to reply to the email.  What promises to offer personal redemption is actually an attempt to enslave you.

Photo: Evelyn Simak

Most of us would never be so foolish as to be caught in one of these traps, but a number of greedy people have. A few of them are still digging out of the financial hole left by the scam.  Most people are naturally skeptical of these too-good-to-be-true offers, because they understand that there are unscrupulous people just waiting for willing victims to walk into their webs of deceit.  We have been warned again and again about these crooked schemes and are constantly looking out for them.  We are wise to do so.

But, I can’t quit thinking about that audacious sentence at the bottom of the email.  “Any action contrary to this instruction is at your own risk.”  I see warnings like these on a regular basis.  Band instrument manufacturers insist that their product will only function at its best when you purchase and use their lubricants to maintain the valves and keys.  I can’t count the number of times that customers have come into my store, requesting these proprietary products by brand, insisting that their instrument will suffer if they don’t have them.  The sad fact is that most of these companies purchase their products from the major distributors and re-label them with their own name and trade-mark, marking them up many times the actual value.  They often are inferior products, rather than superior ones.  I do my best to gently guide these misguided folks to the other quality products, but there are some who insist.  A similar warning is there about power supplies for electronics, replacement heads for percussion instruments, tuning machines for guitars, and any number of other products.  All are scams to produce ongoing profit for a company which was only owed the profit for the original item, but has figured out how to guarantee a return for the life of the instrument.  Like the writer of the Nigerian email, they understand that many will be foolish enough to take their bait.

But, again, I think about the audacious warning.  “Any action contrary to this instruction is at your own risk.” I’m thinking that there actually are times when such a warning needs to be heeded.  I remember the time the next-door neighbor kids didn’t.  It cost them a lot of expensive camping and hunting equipment, to say nothing of the fact that they almost burned down the neighborhood.  The simple instructions on the side of a can of charcoal lighter fluid should have averted the entire affair.  “Do not spray contents on an open flame. Combustion will occur!”  A rather simple principle, one would think.  It wasn’t simple for these boys!  They had pitched their tent in the middle of the semi-wooded lot, leaning their .22 rifles against a nearby log, and started a fire.  Supper was prepared and eaten and they settled in for the evening.  It was still light out, but there wasn’t much to do except sit around and talk.  Bored, one of them, probably Mike, got the idea that it might be fun to shoot a little lighter fluid on the smouldering campfire.  It was.

Within seconds, the flames were leaping higher, and each subsequent squirt from the metal can was infinitely more exciting, as the flames began to chase the liquid up toward the young man wielding the can.  Finally though, the real combustion occurred, as the flames followed the liquid up and jumped to the lighter fluid soaked hands of the screaming boy.  Mike dropped the can, banging his hands on the ground to douse the flames that seemed as if they would burn away his flesh.  Seconds later, Mike and his brothers were fleeing the conflagration, as their campsite–tent, guns, and all–went up in flames.  Within moments, what started out as a simple campfire was a raging grass fire that threatened to consume not only the trees and dry grass nearby, but the homes bordering the area, also.  I know. We stood and frantically sprayed our property with a garden hose as the fire department worked to extinguish the main fire.  It was a scary evening. All because a few boys didn’t know to pay attention to the warnings.

Somehow, it is in our nature to ignore words of warning.  “Hot!” we tell the child, yet he has to touch the burning stove to find out for himself.  “Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear,” states the admonition on the automobile mirror, but again and again, people move into the other lane too soon, forcing vehicles behind them to brake suddenly or be hit.  Stop signs are ignored, lifeguard’s instructions unheeded, warnings from doctors merely laughed at.  Of course, you know that it is indeed in our nature to ignore instructions.  One of the earliest stories I learned in Sunday School was the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.  Their Creator said, (and I paraphrase), “Any action contrary to this instruction is at your own risk.”  The serpent planted the suggestion, but the pair determined their, and our, course.  Again and again as a child, I wondered why in the world they would ignore the warning.  How could they ruin it for all of us?

But now, I look deeply into my own heart and know, beyond any doubt, that I would have made the same choice.  I still do, even today. My guess is that you do also.

Do you suppose that we might be better off if we would heed warnings which are desperately vital, but ignore the others?  The false ones, the ones primarily intended to impoverish and to harm us are fairly easy to spot.  Just as easily, we can determine the warnings that actually do demand our attention and our obedience.  And, the most important of these have to do with our very being, not just with physical safety.

You see, there is an instruction manual.  It was not written by some scam artist in Nigeria, nor by an ad writer on Madison Avenue.  Truly, we ignore these instructions at our own risk.  Contrary to popular belief, this manual actually contains a lot more encouragement than warnings.  It would be well worth spending some time with.  I bet you already have one of these volumes somewhere. It is the best-selling book of all time.

“Any action contrary to this instruction is at your own risk.”

I do like the idea of being “redeemed from all the difficulties”, too.  That day really is coming…

“‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider to the Fly,
‘Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy;‘…
‘Oh no, no,’ said the Fly, ‘To ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.‘”
(The Spider and the Fly” poem by Mary Howitt~1799-1888

“Subtlety may deceive you; integrity never will.”
(Oliver Goldsmith~Irish poet/author~1730-1734)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Sorting

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was one of the most popular of the prizes the Lovely Lady offered to her piano students.  They would practice for at least twenty minutes every day, a fact attested to by their parent’s signature on a weekly form.  In return, the children would receive something the Lovely Lady called “music bucks”, one for each full practice session.  These little pieces of paper were photocopied facsimiles of money, not unlike the paper with which you buy and sell property in a Monopoly game.  The kids loved to earn music bucks!  They practiced like never before.  Never mind that in the end, each scrap of paper was only valued at something around three cents. You see, when they had acquired a significant number of the music bucks, they could shop through the gift counter at the music store, a veritable treasure trove of cheap Chinese-made items, each of with some connection to music.  Pencils with pianos or music symbols embossed on them, erasers in the shape of musical notes, treble clef shaped key rings…these and many more were there for them to purchase with their hard-earned music bucks.

Of the many prizes they could redeem with their little pieces of paper was one that a lot of students worked tirelessly for any number of weeks to claim as their own.  It was a little piano shaped bank.  The see-through plastic gizmo actually sorted coins for you!  You would drop in a coin and it would roll down the chute, stopping for an instant at one end before rolling back the other direction.  In the process, it would roll over a series of tubes, eventually dropping into the appropriate sized one.  The dime dropped into the first and smallest one, the penny next, then the nickel, and then the quarter.  The quarter had the furthest to roll, since it was the largest and couldn’t drop into any of the previous tubes.  Many times, I would place the bank out on top of the counter to demonstrate it for a student week after week, as they dreamed of the day when it would be theirs. “Plink!”  The penny would drop and roll down to its proper tube, tumbling to rest at the bottom of the second one.  “Plink!”  There went the quarter as it rolled on down to the very end, like the penny, tumbling to lie flat in its tube.  Every time, the sorter worked its magic, never allowing the penny to fall down the dime tube, nor the nickel to come to rest in the penny’s place.  We had to be sure that there were always plenty of these around to satisfy the demand.

Nifty little tool, huh?  I had a complaint with the system, though.  You see, the sorting method for this little bank was flawed.  How, you may ask?  It only used a single criterion for determining which coin dropped into which tube–its size.  Drop a Canadian penny into the slot and down the chute it rolled, right into the penny slot.  Then if you took those pennies to the bank to cash them in, the teller was likely to refuse to accept the Canadian coin.  It didn’t matter to the little piano-shaped bank if the coin were Japanese or Mexican, or even if it were a legal tender coin at all.  If the round disc you dropped down the slot was similar in size to an American coin, it would be deposited into the slot that matched that size and nothing else.  You might end up with a coin worth significantly less that the others in the same tube, or even with an object worth nothing at all.

Even worse, you could really cheat yourself if you made the error of dropping both of the coins above into the top of the piano-shaped-object.  “Why in the world would that matter?” you may ask.  It matters because of another criterion which the little bank couldn’t determine.

If you were only able to determine the size of the coin, you would make an error costing you many times the value of that quarter you think you see.  The coin on the right in both pictures is one minted after 1965…what we call a “sandwich coin”.  The silver content is negligible and the quarter is worth just twenty-five cents in legal exchange.  The one on the left however, was made in 1964 and is made of silver, about 80% pure.  Its real value today is over six dollars.  Yet, the little bank, with its limited scope, simply rolls it down to the last slot and cavalierly drops it down with all the twenty-five cent ones.  And, until someone with a keen eye and some sense of the value of silver comes along, anyone who looks at the stack of coins will evaluate it by simply multiplying the number of coins by the face value.

We live in a society, really in a world, which does the same thing as that little coin bank.  We determine the value of people with limited criteria, judging by skin color, or economic status, or even by geographic factors.  In the South, “Yankees” are scorned for their lack of sense and civility.  Conversely, to a Northerner, all Southerners are “rednecks”, ignorant and uncultured.  I grew up in a school system, as did many of you, where children were sorted into schools by their skin color and surnames.  Laws prohibit that now, but there is no reduction in the number of ways in which we pigeonhole each other individually and as people groups.

On a more personal level, we have measurements, usually unwritten and unspoken, by which we judge each other.  If any of us were asked, we would protest that we never would even consider doing such a thing.  But daily, I see the ways in which we do exactly that.

I remember a particular gentleman, who a few years ago, stood in front of me in my music store.  He needed a bath and as he spoke, gesturing passionately with his hands, my vision took in his fingernails on both hands, almost entirely consumed with fungus.His acne-scarred face was smiling at me, but his eyes showed the hurt, as he told me how he was treated in many of the local business establishments.  Most people refused to treat him with respect, or to deal fairly with him.  Although his mind was clear, and his communications skills adequate, because of his appearance,he was rejected and scorned.  My mind went back to Biblical times and the way that lepers were cast out of society.  His is not an isolated case.  I’m sure you know of many just like him.  Do you shake hands with them?  Hug them?  Treat them with respect?  Offer them the same recognition you would give to anyone else?

How do we determine the value of a human being?  The longer I consider it, the more I am forced to come back to the reality that our evaluation cannot be anything less than that of the One who created them, and us.  There are no circumstances under which a person of a different color is worth more, or less; no evaluation to be made by a body shape, be it slim or obese; no separation to be forced because of social status or financial situation.  We constantly look on these outward manifestations, but our Creator looks on the heart, seeing the pure silver, as well as the sandwich coin, and determining that both are of great worth to Him.  And, to all, He offers His grace and His love. How can we do any less?

Clink!  The coins still fascinate, as they roll down the chute.  But, I will no longer be lulled into thinking that the evaluation of worth based on size is the final word.  Perhaps, it is time for all of us to reconsider the other evaluations we hold dear as we walk along this path of life together.

However, if you have any silver quarters lying around, you are welcome to bring them by and drop them in my bank anytime…

“Then Peter replied, ‘I see very clearly that God shows no favoritism.  In every nation, he accepts those who fear Him and do what is right.'”
(Acts 10:34,35~NLT)

“One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that the cat has only nine lives.”
(Mark Twain~American author and humorist~1835-1910)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.