“So…What are you going to be when you grow up?”  The question caught me by surprise tonight.  The Lovely Lady and I were sitting and relaxing after the usual tiring activities which go into making Sunday less of a day of rest than the Good Lord intended it.  I’m still trying to decide if I know the answer to her question, inspired by a television commercial.  One would think that after thirty some-odd years of doing a thing, you would realize that this is what you are going to be.  I still think it might be wise to keep my options open.

Not that I haven’t loved what I have done for the last few decades.  I can’t think of anything I would rather have worked at, of a better legacy to leave than one that influences folks to learn and enjoy music of all varieties.  The feeling of having a customer come into the store and remind me of “way back when” is hard to beat.  It happened again just a couple of days ago, as a familiar face came back through the door and the name popped into my brain at the sight of his features.  Roger was surprised when I called him by name (although he also called me by mine) upon seeing him for the first time in twenty years, and we spoke for awhile of things which were familiar in that era, but which are now lost in the blurry haze of progress and technology.  Eight track tapes, 45 RPM records, and Disco music topped the list.  Come to think of it, none of those would be worth bringing back anyway, especially the last item, so it may be a good thing we’ve moved on. 

I have enjoyed immensely, the experiences which I’ve lived through and the people who’ve gone through them with me, but as the Lovely Lady posed the question this evening, just for a moment I was tempted to explore the possibilities.  I’ve not ever been much of a “rolling stone”, having lived at only three addresses over the last 34 years (all within a mile of each other), so maybe a change is in order.  Truck driver?  Oil rig roughneck?  Maybe a deep sea diver?  Hmmm….  No, as I consider each of those, I’m reminded of the solitude, the isolation which each brings.  I don’t do well without other people to be with and with whom to talk.  Maybe, I could be a teacher!  That would be a job which has a positive influence on kids or even adults.  Nope…I am reminded of the short stint I spent teaching guitar students many years ago.  What a disaster, both for student and teacher!  “What?  I told you the fingering for that chord last week!  I’m not going to go through that again.  How could you not remember it after only a week?”  No, teaching wouldn’t be a good career path at this point in time.

My mind whirls through the possibilities…brain surgeon, astronaut, preacher, Secretary-of-State, sanitary engineer (garbage collector?)…the list plays on through my brain.  With each one comes a comparison to the person my past has actually made me into.  I find, the longer I consider the options, that I know the perfect job, the dream position I want to hold.  I would, first of all, like to be a husband, and a father, and a grandfather.  I would also like to work in a place where I could help people to do something I believe is really important; to facilitate a path of learning and growth.  No, I don’t want to teach, since that is a frustrating process for me, but I do want the people I serve to grow, and become more skilled, with the products I offer.  I’d like to offer products which span generations, not ones that are trendy and faddish.  I’ll be happy to find a profession which would allow me the freedom to spend time with people, talking and listening, maybe learning a little in the process myself.  I’m willing to get my hands dirty (once in awhile); willing to work a few more hours than the customary forty a week.  I wonder if that job exists?  Oh, I love music, too!  It would be nice if that could fit in somehow. 

Her question came out of the blue tonight.  It wasn’t a serious one.  Sometimes, though, you just have to stop and consider, “What if…?”  I’m really not done growing up yet.  And, I don’t want to mindlessly wander the path I’m on if changes need to be made.  Socrates said, many centuries ago, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”  Mind you, I know many people who never actually do anything because they are constantly examining and re-examining their choices, but I’m willing just once in awhile to stop and consider the alternatives.  That said, all the qualifications I mentioned above point me to one thing I should be doing right now.  Just what I am doing.  And, how great is that?  I get to go to work tomorrow, knowing that I’ll be doing something which is fulfilling and worthwhile.  At least at this point in my “grown-up” life, I’m where I need to be.

So, do I have a point to make for you readers?  I’m not sure.  All I really know is that the Lord has led me to do the thing which makes sense for who I am. I’m pretty sure He has a path for you to walk also.  It might just be right there in front of you.  Too simplistic?  I’ve been accused of that before.  I won’t argue.  It is how the path was laid out for me.  So far.

Next week, who can tell?  Perhaps the path will lead elsewhere.  Don’t worry.  I’ll let you know before I leave to be a jungle pilot in South America.

“To be is to do.”  (Socrates)
“To do is to be.” (Sartre)
“Do be do be do.” (Sinatra)

Fascination with human misfortune.  We’re all eaten up with it.  The other day, there was an accident on the Interstate that runs through this corner of my state.  The accident was in the southbound lane, with no wreckage or emergency vehicles impacting the northbound lane whatsoever.  Yet, the traffic in the northbound lane was backed up for four miles.  One has to wonder why.  Caution on the part of the drivers?  Drivers stopping to help?  No, the reason for the traffic pile-up was curiosity and the desire to “be there”.  You know…”Oh the accident on 540?  Yeah, I was there.  You should have seen that SUV!  It was upside down and the top was smashed completely flat!”  When it’s someone else’s misfortune, we want to see it and have it known.  That’s why the news media is inundated with disaster stories; why the great majority of their output is about the misfortune of persons of interest.

Why is it that we have a right to know when it is someone else feeling the icy touch of tragedy, but we want the right to privacy when the adversity is our own?  We do everything we can to shield ourselves and the ones we love from the exposure of public scrutiny, but we are happy to learn the gory details when the disaster doesn’t touch us at all.  I’m not sure that I understand it, but I certainly know it to be true.  You see, personal secrets are one of those very strange subjects that are viewed in such very different light, depending on the angle of one’s view.  I hereby declare my right to keep from you any secrets that I desire to remain hidden.  I will not confer on you the same right.  Secrets belonging to others should be exposed whenever discovered, right?

As a side-note, I will admit that the onus of secrets shared by others is sometimes an excessive burden for me.  It happened over thirty years ago, but I remember it as if it was yesterday.  The first week in December of 1979, Bernie’s girlfriend came into the music store.  “I need to get Bernie some drumsticks.  Do you know what size he always buys?”  Well, of course, I knew that!  Bernie bought sticks frequently, since he was a rather advanced and in-demand drummer, and even taught a few lessons to supplement his income from the low-paying gigs he was able to schedule.  I sold her the Regal Tip Jazz sticks ($4.50 plus tax) and she was gone, with a quick remark which I was to recall later, though not in a timely manner.  “He’ll be surprised.”   A week of so later, Bernie and his girlfriend were in the store again.  “Oh!  Were those the right sticks she picked up for you last week, Bernie?”  I blurted.  The knives in her eyes could have inflicted mortal wounds, but Bernie laughed uncomfortably.  “I think they were supposed to be a surprise, maybe?”

I wish it were the only gaff I could report in my history of keeping secrets, but there are others.  Alas, I suffer from a disease common to folk of my ilk.  I am a talker, a conversationalist, constantly in search of pertinent material to fill the empty spaces.  While thinking on one’s feet is a desirable trait for such talkers, wisdom in selection of the material shared is frequently not a strong accompanying trait.  While flipping though the mental files which are germane to the subject being spoken to, at times an important post-it note on said mental file is overlooked temporarily.  You already know that I am painfully aware that words spoken cannot be unspoken.  “I’m sorry,” won’t stuff the offending words back in Pandora’s box, no matter how sincerely intended.  I am finding, as I age, that I am finally developing a capacity to keep quiet about the really important matters entrusted to me, but the less weighty confidences are still a little like smoke in the wind.  I’ll keep trying to do better.

I would also like to be able to tell you that my penchant for revealing secrets is proof that I harbor no secrets of my own.  I would like to tell you that, but it would be a falsehood.  There are circumstances in my private life which I will not discuss, because there is potential embarrassment, potential hurt, potential damage to relationships.  There are also truths which are simply not for public consumption, and therefore, will remain private and guarded.  Knowing this about myself, I am not sure why I am surprised when I hear, as I have on more than one occasion within the last week, about deep secrets, unhappy truths in the lives of people I know and some I love.  I have accepted the facade, the public face for so long that the ugly truth that resides behind it is a shock when exposed.  It would be no different if you could see behind the curtain of my existence.  By now, it is cliche to quote that humbug of a wizard who has tricked Dorothy and her friends into believing his publicity, but it is the desperate cry of every one of us.  “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!”

I am coming to understand finally (I tell you, I’m not a quick study), that most of my friends have sorrows they never will share; many of my family members are hiding hurts they cannot put into words.  This knowledge is changing the manner in which I look at people who cross my path everyday.  I understand a little better that each has burdens which are unbearable, secrets which they fear will be exposed at any moment.  I don’t know specifically how to help with their burdens, but I have it on good authority that there is One who does.  I also understand that He left instructions for us to get some practice at helping each other with these wearying loads, in spite of our own personal needs.  I’m thinking that just realizing that the load is every bit as heavy for them as for me is the beginning of a change of heart on my part, of a desire to assist.  It turns out that the phrase I utter countless times a day to my customers is exactly what all of us need to be saying…just a little more purposefully.

“May I help you?”

“Come unto Me, all you who are weary and heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.”
(Jesus~Matthew 11:28)

“Carry each other’s burdens.  In this way you fulfill the law of Christ.” 
(Galatians 6:2)

The doctor said the “b” word today.  I was in for my annual “Wellness Assessment”.  Don’t you just love the deceptively innocent way those two words just roll off the tongue?  “Wellness Assessment”?  It might as well be called the “Malady Assessment”, given that the conversation always centers around what’s wrong with me.  As usual, our conversation ran through a variety of subjects – from blood pressure, to asthma symptoms, to vertigo.  I mentioned in passing that there was a mole on my back which the Lovely Lady had suggested “looked funny”.  Those words could be used to describe many attributes of my physical appearance, so I had not been overly concerned.  The good doctor, however, took a look just to be sure.  “That does look funny,”  he suggested.  I am used to people agreeing with the Lovely Lady, especially since she is so often correct, but I wasn’t happy about his siding with her this time.  “Set up an appointment.  We need to do a biopsy.”  Yep.  That “b” word…No, not with a capital “b”.  Well, I hope not, anyway.

I have to admit, I wasn’t at all disturbed by his use of the word, or even that I have to go back tomorrow and submit to the procedure, which is likely to hurt a little.  What I was really dreading today was the doctor’s reaction to my other vital statistics.  The cholesterol is still over the limit, the blood pressure a tad over the acceptable range, and the weight more than a couple of pounds over the norm.  I was sure a new diet (that would be the “d” word) would be discussed, or a program of exercise (the “e” word), or worst of all…the dreaded prescription (sorry, no letters for this one – I won’t even discuss it with him).  I dislike pills.  And no, it’s not so much about the unintended side-effects, even though I learned all about those from Alice.  You know, after she went down the rabbit hole.  I just don’t do well with pills.  At least, not long-term.  I start out with the best of intentions, religiously taking the proper dosage at the proper time, with the proper companion material.  Taken with food?  No food, but water?  Lots of water, but don’t lie down for thirty minutes?  All the instructions will be followed exactly…for two or three days.  After that, things seem to get a little fuzzy.  Did I take the dose at noon?  I didn’t drink all of the water.  Will it be okay?  I’m really not hungry now.  Can I wait to take the medicine until I want to eat?  Okay…that last never happens.  I’m hungry all the time.  But, you get the picture.  I don’t want to take medicine.  Give me a shot; let me endure the little bit of pain now and get it over with.  I hate things that are drawn out and require discipline.

Today, I was ecstatic that the doc didn’t rail on me about the “d” word, or the “e” word, or even the pills.  He suggested (gently) that I could get back to “e”-ing any time soon, but that was it.  I’m good to go!  Oh, by the way…come back again for the “b” word.  There was no urgency, but the lady at the desk says tomorrow at four is good, so I’ll see him again very soon.

My guess is that you’re laughing at my sense of priorities about now.  I’m not really worried about the possibility of the “C” word (yeah, it should probably be a capital “c” there).  I’m just fine with someone cutting something out of my back; I’m even okay with them checking that something they cut out for the “C” word, but I dread every appointment with my doctor where the “e” word could be used, leading to a little physical exertion on an ongoing basis.  And, the “d” word!  Any real discipline in what goes into my mouth on a daily basis would be disastrous!  I do play around a little with the “d” word fairly frequently.  Sure, I’ll pass up that bread, and maybe that dessert.  I’ll even skip the meat in a meal occasionally.  But if, on the spur of the moment, we have to select a quick meal, that Thickburger at Hardees will do just fine, thanks!  Sure!  Make it a large order of Curly Fries, too!  I certainly wouldn’t allow the “d” word to interfere with what’s really important to me.

I find myself shaking my head as I see the words (or letters) in b&w.  But, isn’t that how we are, all through life?  I think I may have mentioned my chubby friend from elementary school who, uninterested in running any more during our physical education period, hid behind a sapling half his girth and declared, while hiding his eyes, “I’m staying right here for the rest of the period.  No one can see me here, ’cause I can’t see them.”  Much like the fabled ostrich’s head buried in the sand (a myth encouraged by the fact that they really do lay their heads and necks flat on the ground to blend into the scenery when a predator is near), there is no safety in denying danger.  That path guarantees defeat.  That said, it is not necessarily safe to confront danger, either.  There is always the chance of defeat, of losing the battle.  But if we stand and face the peril, at least we have what is aptly known as a fighting chance. 

Have you ever been faced with a giant in your life?  My experience has been that bullies rarely (if ever) go away when you turn your back on them.  They can only be defeated by standing and resisting.  It will almost certainly hurt.  There may be pain involved, possibly extreme pain.  But, the long-term rewards are indescribable.  Then again, it is possible that the enemies you’ve faced were a little less significant.  Sometimes, the danger is as tiny as a thorn that sticks in the skin, wearing and irritating.  Left where it is, the result can be just as serious as the destruction induced by the giant.  Loss of function, infection, blood poisoning, even death can result.  But if we make the effort and take the time to remove the thorn and to repair the tiny amount of damage done, the relief is almost as indescribable as defeating the giant.

You understand that I’m talking to myself tonight, don’t you?  I’m happy that you’ve hung around with me as long as you have, and if some of the ideas are helpful to you, that’s great.  But, I’m psyching myself up for the long-term “d” word and yes, even for the “e” word program that is undoubtedly ahead of me.  I’ll go in tomorrow for the “b” word, too.  We’ll see how it all works out, but giants will be faced and thorns will be pulled. 

You can come along with, if you like…company is always welcome.

“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.”
(Chuck Swindoll~American pastor/teacher)

“…when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.”
(Ephesians 6:13)

With acknowledgment and thanks to Chuck Swindoll for the concept of “Killing Giants, Pulling Thorns”.

A pretty late meeting meant an even later dinner tonight.  My earlier promise to the Lovely Lady to bring home something from the fast food restaurant meant that at 10:15 I was waiting, along with a bevy of college students, for the guys in the kitchen to complete my order (#265, the girl at the cash register had told me).  I checked messages on my “smart phone” as I waited, but happened to notice that one of the guys back on the food assembly line (does that term make it seem like it would be a good meal?) was waving at me.  I looked up and recognized a young man with whom I have dealt on numerous occasions in the music store.  As I smiled and waved back, I noticed that another fellow working on further back on the line was a customer of mine also, so I acknowledged him with a smile too.

With all the college kids around, I was feeling a little out of place, but that was only going to get worse.  Within a few moments, one of those men in the kitchen walked up to the counter and asked, “Which order is yours, Paul?”  I gave him the number, curious about the reason for the question.  As he walked back to his post, he called out loudly, “We’re going to hook you up!”  Now, I will readily admit to being out of the loop as far as today’s lingo goes, but I know enough to realize that this phrase can mean a few different things, not all of them operations in which I want to be involved.  The kids nearby chuckled a little at my confusion, but one of them said to me, “You must be somebody special.”  I’m not.  I’m so not special that I wasn’t sure what to expect when somebody was “hooking me up”!  I must say that I was relieved when no young ladies came walking out of the kitchen to talk with me, since that connotation of “hook you up” certainly wouldn’t sit well with a certain beautiful lady waiting for her supper back home.  One man standing nearby, who was of my generation, commiserated with me, saying that he hoped it was something good if they were going to hook me up.  I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“There you go, Mister Paul!”  The to-go bags were plopped down on the counter with a smile and that was it!  The young man turned and headed back to his station; waving over his shoulder at me, along with his friend, as I thanked them.  I noticed that a few of the college kids were shooting darts at this old man with their eyes, since I had ordered after them, but was getting “hooked up” with my late-night supper before they did.  It was uncomfortable in a way, but I also felt a little honored by the special attention.  I shrugged apologetically toward the kids and headed out the door.  Upon arriving home, the bags were opened, to find that the guys had given me a couple of desserts, which I hadn’t ordered.  Oh!  So getting me my meal wasn’t all of it.  Here was yet another way in which the young guys had “hooked me up”.  I am grateful, but instantly, my brain is asking questions.  Were those really for me or had they made a mistake?  Those guys making minimum wage shouldn’t be spending their money on me!  Maybe they weren’t supposed to do stuff like that.  Would they get in trouble?  For a moment, I wondered if I should go back and try to pay for the extras.  That was about the time I remembered my Dad’s advice.

“Son, if someone wants to do something nice for you…let them.”  He said the words quietly, with the dinner check in his hand.  I was a proud thirty-something adult and the last thing I wanted was to let my father pay for the meal we had just enjoyed together.  I was prepared to argue until he was forced to give me the ticket, but something in his words stopped me in mid “But…”  After he paid for the meal, he explained as we drove home.  “I lost a friend a few years ago because of that very thing.  We had eaten out and he wanted to pay, but I insisted.  I won the argument.  He never spoke to me again.”

I have never forgotten the advice.  Oh, I sometimes slip up temporarily, but not for long.  I like my friends.  I don’t want to lose them over a stupid thing like pride.  And that’s all it would be.  I have thought long and hard about the principle at work here and there are two things I am sure of.  The first is that I don’t ever want to rob my friends.  Allowing them to do nice things for me is not robbing them, but taking that opportunity away from them is.  The second thing of which I am sure?  Pride breaks up more relationships than anything else.  For some funny reason, pride which refuses a gift incites pride (in the other person) which insists that the gift be accepted.  If an argument ensues, one of the combatant/friends will win, but both may lose.  Again and again, I’ve seen pride drive people apart, never to be reconciled.  The little two-letter word “No” placed in front of the words “Thank you” can be so much more damaging than the latter without any sign of the former.

I’m grateful for the friendship shown by the two young men tonight.  I don’t deserve it, but I’m happy to accept it.  Generous spirits shouldn’t be extinguished by the wet blanket of vanity.  May we never forget the great gift of graciousness.  With it, we increase the worth of others, with no damage done to ourselves.

Thanks for hooking me up, fellas!

“Every gift from a friend is a wish for your happiness.”
(Richard Bach~American writer)

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights…”
(James 1:17)

I have frittered away my time tonight.  No, I haven’t spent my time eating fried bits of batter, but I have spent the time unproductively.  The two meanings come from completely different roots, with the proper usage for my current condition being the one which originally meant “to fragment into pieces”.  Since there has been no cohesive thought which has sprung to mind, around which to construct a blog post, I will try to keep this one short (but, don’t count on it…).

My main problem this evening is the thought that perhaps I’ve fallen out of step with the folks around me.  It’s almost as if everyone has moved on into a different room while I was admiring the artwork on the wall.  Does that seem a strange concept to you?  It did to me at first, also.  I have said a few times that I sometimes feel I’m going through life unaware of my surroundings, unenlightened about the ebb and flow of the conversation of people in general.  It’s not always true, but I feel that keenly tonight.  It’s been coming on for awhile.

The last couple of weeks have awakened me to the thought that I am often clueless to the undercurrents.  I’ve told you of my disappointment in folks I thought I knew.  It seems that every new day brings a revelation of things happening which I am totally unaware of, in spite of my involvement in the process itself.  Friends, customers, folks at my church…many have situations in their private lives which are devastating to them or, on the other extreme, exciting for them and on both accounts I am blissfully uninformed.  Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be for me now, but I’m not sure I like it much.

We are fortunate to have the Lovely Lady’s mother come to dinner with us most Sundays.  Over the last year or so, we have noticed a distance growing in her interaction with the group at the table.  We have blamed it on her growing deafness, but I suspect that there are other factors at work.  It seems to me that the aging process moves us through seasons of life, seasons when we are sometimes more and then sometimes less engaged with those in our vicinity.  When we are younger, we have our finger on the pulse of many people around us; responding to their joys and their pain; jumping in to help when we see a need.  As time goes by, we seem to disengage a bit, perhaps seeking to feel the hurt less, perhaps just because our own problems seem to increase as we care for aging parents or ailing spouses and the ravages of time affect more of our long-time friends.  We even experience the sorrow of loss more with every passing year.  I have seen this in other folks of a certain age, but I’m not ready to move into that stage of life.

I don’t think any of us want to become irrelevant.  I’m also not sure that it’s a clear and present danger for me right now, but it seems that possibly we have to work to stay engaged, even as the milieu in which we find ourselves changes.  Our sphere of influence shifts continuously throughout life and we have to adapt with it.  I’m working through that in my head right now.

So, actually I suppose I am not guilty of frittering.  It doesn’t seem very productive at times, but just the awareness and seeking for direction can be a positive thing.  I hope those of you who have already made the move to the next room will wait a moment for me.

I’ll catch up as soon as I can.

“For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.”
(From “Morituri Salutamus” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~American poet~1807-1882)

I thought it was to be a normal Monday morning, which is to say, hectic.  I was pulling orders as rapidly as the constantly ringing telephone would allow, but was falling behind, nonetheless.  I noticed the beat up pickup truck pulling up to the front of the store, but ignored it as I always try to do before our doors are unlocked at noon daily.  Speaking on the phone to a customer who had not a clue of what she wanted, for once I was glad to be obviously occupied as the aging man peered in the window.  He stood there in his shirt sleeves, unfazed by the cool temperatures or by the sign on the door which clearly proclaimed the business hours:  Noon to 5:30 Monday through Friday.  I knew he was waiting for me to hang up the phone, but the woman droned on and on about her plans for the products she wasn’t sure she would be buying today.  Fifteen minutes later, with no sale made, I hung up the phone and glanced at the front window.  The man was facing away from me, deep in conversation on his cell phone.  I stepped away from my desk and made my escape to the back office to wait him out.

It was 10:30!  We didn’t open for another hour and a half and I wasn’t going to interrupt my busy schedule for someone to come in and “look around”.  A moment later, his conversation finished, the man noticed that I was no longer at my desk or on the phone. “KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!”  The loud rapping on the window resounded through the deserted building.  I ignored it.  Again, and again, and still again, the rapping sounded…the persistent fellow was not giving up.  Resigned to a confrontation, I headed for the door to tell him off.  Could he not read the sign?  There were good reasons why we left the doors locked as we worked in the morning!  I started in on him crossly, as the door opened a crack.  “Just a minute and I’ll explain,”  he interjected when I took a breath.  I bit my tongue and listened.  It seems that he had made a conscious decision to come before the customers lined up at noon.  He had something to talk about which was potentially embarrassing to me and the business and he didn’t want to discuss it in front of other people.

It turned out that a relative of his, who lived rent-free in a house which belonged to him, had sold some equipment he had stored in the garage at the house to me.  He didn’t want to file a police report and was willing to pay me back what I had laid out for the assorted electronic gadgets.  I apologized for my treatment of him, then I apologized for his inconvenience, and again for the fact that he was having to pay to get his own equipment back.  He didn’t have to do this!  He could have just called the police; filled out an incident report stating that he was filing charges against the young lady and they would have picked up the equipment in question, giving me none of the cash I had paid out for it.  It wouldn’t have cost him a dime to get his property back.  But, he didn’t want to leave me holding the bag for that money.  And, he hoped to keep from embarrassing the young lady, much as he was trying to help me to avoid embarrassment.

I am embarrassed.  Not because you now know that I bought stolen goods.  Not even because I was taken in by the young lady’s hard luck story, not once, but four times!  I am embarrassed because of my treatment of this man as he stood outside my window Monday morning, trying to save me trouble and loss.  My humiliation is made worse because a mere seven hours before, I had arrogantly written to you about my plans regarding how I intended to treat the “worn and tired folks” who would come across my path that day.  In the midst of my embarrassment, we made the financial arrangements and I helped him load up the items, apologizing again as he shook my hand warmly, obviously unaware of my discomfort and personal chagrin.

Disappointment in myself is not a new experience for me, so I gave myself a good talking to and determined to do better the next time.  I thought I was successful.  As one of my “always with me” guys came in with a guitar that same afternoon, I determined to treat this broken person as I had promised you I would.  I was gratified to hear him tell me that he realized how badly he was failing in his responsibilities.  Like the Prodigal Son of the scriptures, he was going home to live with his father and to get away from the negative influence his friends exerted on him.  All he needed was a few dollars for the bus ticket and, would I be willing to buy his old guitar “the first one he had ever owned”?  It was all he had left.  I talked with him about the wisdom of his path and encouraged him to stick with friends who would help him to get things straight, rather than enable him to return to his old ways.  Money was exchanged for the battered instrument, we shook hands warmly, and he was on his way.  I was proud of him and even a little proud of myself for encouraging him to mend his ways.

Today, a young man I have never seen before came into the store.  “Have you bought any guitars from ___ this week?”  My heart sank.  Yep.  That guitar.  It was simply one more con job, one more lie to get me to shell out a buck or two to keep him going.  Is he going home to his father?  I really don’t know.  A man who will sell you stolen goods and lie bald-faced to you while he’s taking your money, will lie about his plans for the future, too.

This week has brought one disappointment after another, as far as my faith in people goes…and it’s only half over.  People for whom I have had high expectations have failed dismally and some for whom I had high hopes have fallen short of my aspirations for them.  Not the least of these disappointments has been in myself.  Oh!  And the change to standard time has reminded me that the days are getting a lot shorter and the sadness that accompanies that phenomenon will be upon me soon.  “Nobody loves me.  Everybody hates me.  I’m going to go to the garden and eat worms.”   I think I’ll just wallow here for awhile.  Would that be okay?

Surprisingly, my spirit is not defeated, in spite of the discouragement of the last few days.  I am actually encouraged, as I look at the responses I have seen in those around me, and indeed, in myself.  Friends have been in agreement as we discuss the need to help each other, the need to forgive and support those who fall.  I am one of those fallen.  I’m realizing though, that when you hit the ground, all you have to do is stand up again.  I’m not saying it’s easy, just that it’s possible.  That last fall may make me limp for awhile, but I can still move ahead.  The exciting thing is that, knowing what I know about myself, if I can do it, it is reasonable to expect that others will be able to get up again too.

I am trusting that my friend, who has taken advantage of me more times that I can count, will one day make a new start.  I have faith that the young lady who sold me stolen merchandise will realize that she has already been forgiven and will allow Grace to work in her heart.  And knowing that Grace is already at work in my own heart, I am confident that I can (and will) continue to press on to the finish line.

Yeah, I’ll trip on another hurdle or two before that, but getting up is the key.  We can help each other with that, too.  Okay?

“Disappointment, to a noble soul, is what cold water is to burning metal; It strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it.”
(Eliza Tabor~British author~1835-1914)

“We fall down; we get up.  We fall down; we get up.
And the Saints are just the sinners, who fall down and get up.”
(“We Fall Down”~Kyle David Matthews~American songwriter)