The field was strewn with bright red fragments of a piano, along with a few good sized shards of mirror.  It was a sight to see, not at all what you expected to find out here in this pastoral setting.  From a nearby barbed wire fence, a meadowlark warbled his distinctive call.  Across the field, several cows sheltered in the shade of an old elm tree, gazing at us with curiosity.  Imagine!  First this gaudy thing went tumbling noisily across their field late one night, then the next day, these crazy people stand and stare at the wreckage, annoying the bovine residents during their nap time.  Nothing to see here, humans!  M-o-o-o-ove along!

Just a few days before, these pieces of brightly painted wood and glass had been a complete piano, albeit an unusual one.  I don’t even remember how we acquired the thing, but it was an albatross around our necks from the start.  What’s that?  Where does the albatross reference originate?  Well, that comes from a famous poem, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, written back in the eighteenth century.  Ordinarily, the albatross was an omen of good luck if it followed a ship, but in this case, the mariner shot one which was following them.  As punishment for his evil deed, the rest of the crew made him wear the dead bird around his neck, hoping that there would be no curse to cause problems for their voyage.  It didn’t work out so well for the crew, but that is the way of most superstitions anyway.  Suffice it to say that sometimes we make bad decisions which have a way of following us for awhile.  The purchase of this piano-shaped-object was just such a decision.

Some brilliant thinker had decided that the once-drab natural exterior of the piano would benefit from a make-over, so he found a large quantity of spray cans of fire-engine red lacquer and emptied their contents over the outer surfaces.  You would have thought that he would be content with his desecration of the instrument at that point, but, one thing leading to another, he installed a mirror across the entire front surface of the upper body.  I’m thinking that his wife hated the “honky-tonk” decor and demanded its removal from her premises, but regardless, we acquired the loud (in more ways than one) piano to try to sell in our store.  The ridiculous instrument sat, first near the rear of our piano showroom for a few weeks, and then, in an attempt to quiet the non-stop smart-aleck remarks, it was relegated to the back storage room.  After a couple of years back there, we decided it was finally time to get rid of the rotting carcass of the albatross, so to speak, and we moved the eyesore to the local consignment auction to be sold the following Friday evening.  It sold for the paltry sum of twenty-five dollars, but we were more than content.  Whew!  We were finally rid of the thing!

Just a note of caution.  Albatrosses have a way of resurfacing.  This one had just one more swan-song to sing, if I may use that particular phrase.  On Saturday morning, the report came.  The fellow wanted his money back.  It seems that he had loaded the huge upright piano, all four hundred fifty pounds of it, into the bed of his pickup truck on Friday night.  “Aren’t you going to tie it down?” queried the auction staff.  “Nah,” came the curt reply.  “It weighs so much, there’s no way it’ll move from there.”  He reached the first sharp curve in the rural highway and took the left hand curve at about forty miles per hour.  The piano made a quick exit off the right hand side of his truck, rolling its way to the resting place in the field…now just a jumble of wood and broken mirror.  (Hmm…seven years bad luck to boot!)  The auction refused to give a refund.  So did we. 

Thinking about that amusing episode lead me to recall a not-so-funny incident which had occurred a few years prior to that.  It was before I was married to the Lovely Lady, so I was sitting in the laundromat that Sunday afternoon, waiting for my jumbled (completely unsorted) load of clothes to dry.  I noticed the pickup with the big old piano in the back go by slowly, but didn’t really think much about it.  Moments later, there was yelling outside and a man rushed in screaming for someone to call an ambulance.  This was in a days before cell phones, you remember.  There were only two or three of us in the building, but we all rushed out to see the horrible scene.  There was a man lying on the street, with the huge piano lying partially on top of him, his head gushing blood.  Once again, this piano had been loaded on the back of the truck, but the difference this time was that they had the “foresight” to have one of the volunteer movers stand and hold onto the top-heavy instrument as they proceeded across town with it.  When they rounded the corner a little too fast, he attempted to stop the tipping of the piano, only to be thrown over the side of the truck by its weight and then was struck by the full measure of its mass as he lay on the pavement.  As we watched in horror, the ambulance came and the paramedics ministered to him, then transported him to the hospital, siren screaming.  He was in grave condition for weeks, finally recovering from the frightening ordeal, but not without lasting effects.  It was an incident I will never forgot.

I spent thirty years moving pianos.  We frequently recruited help from young men in the store who were happy to earn a ten or twenty dollar bill just for doing a little lifting and going for a ride with us.  Our instructions to them always had the two incidents mentioned above in mind.  “If the piano starts to fall over, don’t try to stop it!  Get out of the way!  Pianos, I can replace; people, I can’t.”  Even when it’s observed in someone else’s life, experience is a very effective teaching tool.  I’ve seen what can happen when gravity or centrifugal force starts to move one of these hefty objects, and I don’t advise trying to counteract that force.  Newton’s First Law of Motion states, “Objects in motion tend to stay in motion.”  I’ve broken a few laws in my life, but laws of nature like that really don’t break easily.

The lesson learned here is one which applies to all of life, which is to say that it’s one I have yet to master.  We need to think through what we start, from beginning to its conclusion.  Actions have consequences.  Words spoken bring resulting reactions from the hearers.  One thing leads to another.  And, as much as possible, we need to think about the effect of our actions and speech on those around us before we act and speak.  Oh, I know we can’t always accurately predict what unpredictable humans will do in response to us, but there are quite a few things that are under our control and we need to do just that; control them.

Tie down the piano when it’s moved.  Don’t sit next to it in the back of the truck.  Our lives are replete with correlations.  We just need to use our common sense a lot more than we do.  I used to think that getting older would mean these things get easier.  Now I think it’s more that we don’t undertake quite so many foolish tasks.  For some reason, I still get into trouble with the ones I do undertake.

Maybe one day, I’ll look back and see the progression from hard lessons to complete wisdom.  I’m not there yet.

“Mama says, ‘Stupid is as stupid does.'”
(Forrest Gump)

“Don’t begin until you count the cost.  For who would begin construction of a building without first calculating the cost to see if there is enough money to build it?”
(Luke 14:28~NLT)

I have come to realize that more than a scattering of my posts here have consisted of a few decent ideas and a lot of griping on my part.  I was discussing that fact with my young friend Andrew a couple of weeks ago and he offered a brilliant bit of wisdom, which I have decided not to adopt.  As he helped me with some of my many “grunt” jobs (e.g., cleaning instrument cases, tuning guitars, sorting invoices, etc.) he opined that since it was my blog, I could just tell you that “It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To”.  On its face, that seems to be good advice, but after further thought, I have decided that I won’t be putting this policy into practice in the foreseeable future. One thing my years in retail business have taught me is that I have to give the public what they want, or they’ll just go somewhere else.  It’s no good crying if there is no one to listen to me, so I may just have to entertain a bit, too.  I’m not sure how successful I’ve been at that, but if you’ve stuck with me this long, perhaps you’ll hang around a little longer.  It may get better.

As I was pondering how best to entertain you today, my mind ran through another recent conversation I had with Andrew.  This young man has become quite a musician, finding himself playing a number of “gigs” of late, both by himself and with other, older players.  He has been initiated into the world of performing and so, we talked a bit about the consequences of entering that world.  Over the many years I have performed and talked with others who perform, I have come to a conclusion about performing and performers.  I wondered if this young, un-jaded  musician had any thoughts on the matter, only to find that he had come to almost the exact conclusion that I have.  It took me fifty years to puzzle it out, while he has a firm handle on it, being still in his teens.  I must be a really slow study.

Our conclusion?  Performers thrive on attention, perhaps more to the point, on approval.  That’s not really news.  The intriguing (and sometimes sad) part of it is that as we perform, we need more and more of it.  I would describe it as much like a drug, which offers a sense of euphoria, a “high” if you will.  The first few times you perform, the acclaim and the positive reinforcement is stunning.  The feeling cannot be understood until you’ve experienced it.  The sense of accomplishment, of triumph, is palpable.  The next time it happens, the same feeling takes control, and the next time, and the next.  Over an extended period though, something happens.  Actually two things.  The folks who encouraged and slapped you on the back early in the game, now have elevated expectations.  You wowed them for a little while, now they anticipate improvement, with you stretching to a new level as a performer.  The “atta boys” don’t fall from their lips as easily because they sense a need in their being for something bigger and better.  The second thing that happens is that for the performer, the same level of approval isn’t enough either.  We need more…more acclaim, more excitement, more widespread approval.  It’s a vicious circle, drawing both performer and audience into its snare. 

You don’t need the depressing litany of the names of performers…artists…authors…stars, who have succumbed to the demands of the public and, eventually failing to measure up, chosen to find their fulfillment in drugs, liquor, and even self-inflicted death.  The list grows longer daily, and we demand more and clamor for better, all the while tossing aside the gifted human beings who have failed to satisfy our lust for entertainment.  Gifted, did I call them?  How did a horrible affliction like that come to be called a gift?  Is it not rather a great burden instead?

What’s that you say?  Depressing subject?  Oh yes!  I did say I was going to entertain you, didn’t I?  But, therein lies the problem.  What I mean to say is that, at times I see myself here as a performer, providing entertainment for the reward of your acclaim.  But, as I’m reminded (and have reminded you today) of the heavy cost of this mindset, I also realize that, as the Lovely Lady suggested gently to me recently, I don’t write this blog for you.  I write it because I need to – for me, and more to the point, for my Creator.   I don’t mean to be presumptuous.  It’s not my intent to say that God called me to write.  What I do know is that He calls each one of us to do everything, every single thing we do, to the best of our ability and to do it for Him. 

Do you sing? Paint?  Wash windows?  Sell used cars?  Play alternative rock guitar?  Teach?  Fill in the blank yourself.  What you do is important to your Audience.  No, not that audience that demands and screams your name, only to forget you when you can’t wow them anymore.  Our Audience of One knows us, knows our weaknesses and still is well pleased with what we offer.  I’m pretty sure that when we get our priorities straight, that other audience will still be there too.  Only, this time, our performance isn’t dependent on their reciprocation…just on sharing our gifts.  Oh yes…they are indeed gifts, and not burdens. 

So, no pressure…but, I think you’re up next on stage.  Break a Leg!

“Come to me if you’re weary and burdened.  I’ll give you rest…My yoke is easy, my burden,light.”
(Matthew 11: 28, 30)

“Work while you have the light.  You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you.”
Henry Frederic Amiel~Swiss writer~1821-1881)

FREQUENTLY, WHEN I START TO WRITE, I LOOK UP AFTER A FEW WORDS, ONLY TO NOTICE THAT THE CAPS LOCK ON MY KEYBOARD IS STILL ON.  THEN I HAVE TO REACH OVER AND click it off, normally backspacing to the beginning to make corrections.  Why, you ask, is the caps lock on?  It is because much of the time at my computer is spent in processing orders from the online store we operate, on which we sell music CDs.

unfortunately many of our customers have not realized that an order is not a text message so they never capitalize anything nor do they insert any punctuation except sporadically in, the wrong’ place  when we get their orders we have to make corrections so the post office and ups dont reject the addresses and return the packages to us with additional shipping charges due  im struck with the inconsistencies of our language usage today and the ways in which it impacts some of us while others never have a clue

Annoying, isn’t it?  Although we don’t use any, I understand that there is software on the market to correct the errors which are caused by folks who either don’t know or don’t care about the rules necessary to get parcels from one region in the country to another.  I don’t want you to read this and to expect a page-long diatribe against texting and its residual effects on our communication.  What has actually happened is that my eyes are being forced to focus on the bigger picture.   The writing is on the wall, if you will.  My generation communicates differently than the one currently reaching majority.  Although you wouldn’t know it to look at my handwriting, we were taught penmanship in elementary school and graded on it into high school.  Many of the children coming through our schools now will spend one semester or less in third grade learning to write cursive letters. It will not be a requirement for them to use this skill at any further point into their schooling.  Frequently, even today, college students have problems reading documents which are hand-written, simply because it is not a skill they themselves have practiced.

I hear the purists now exclaiming that it is a shame and that our children are being robbed of a life-skill they will need as they mature.  They may or they may not be being robbed, but given the present usage of technology in communication, it’s a skill which they’ll never miss.  And, even as I hear those voices clamoring, I remember that my generation was not schooled nearly as extensively in the art of writing as was the generation preceding.  Our teachers were content to produce students who could fill the page with legible material.  The taskmasters in the schools the generation before us demanded perfection in forming letters, with sweeping tails and open strokes which were a thing of beauty, not a utilitarian skill intended simply to allow basic functional technique.  My father’s handwriting is still a work of art, a masterpiece of which to be proud, while mine is crabbed and messy, a tool to get me by when I have no keyboard on which to store my memos.  The progression in handwriting, or more accurately, the regression, follows a logical path, with the technology replacing human labor more and more as the skills deteriorate.

I think that the change I see in communication styles is a good part of the reason for my enjoyment of writing this blog.  Little by little, I see conversations being reduced to ten word sentence after ten word sentence.  Many of the “threads” of interaction I see between friends are filled with ten word corrections for the improperly understood former ten word sentences, but there are no changes made, no real expansion of the dialogue.  For conversation to be properly understood, the language must be utilized more fully.  Frequently, uncommon words are called for, since they express the ideas better than those in common use.  I have enjoyed the process, the daily task of selecting words, hopefully the right ones, to communicate the ideas which are in my head and need an avenue of expression.  Even more, as I see the interplay between friends and groups shrinking in on itself and becoming almost trivial, I am driven to continue my nightly quest.  I will grant that a number of the subjects I have chosen have been in themselves trivial, but at the very least, those ideas are no longer trapped in my already overburdened skull, gumming up the works for other, more important, tasks.

I guess I’ll keep at it for a little longer.  I hope you’ll keep reading once in awhile.  Who knows, you might find one gem amongst the mountains of coal.  I’ll do my best to get the capitalization correct and the punctuation kept under control.  It’s the least I can do.

“The more elaborate our means of communication, the less we communicate.”
(Joseph Priestly~English chemist and clergyman~1733-1804)

“You may not be able to read a doctor’s handwriting and prescription, but you’ll notice that his bills are neatly typewritten.”
(Earl Wilson~American athlete~1934-2005)

I wonder if it would be appropriate to ask for a moment of silence.  I’m never sure what the correct procedure is for these occasions.  I’m feeling a sense of loss today.  It was so unexpected, so unforeseen.  You see, today a lifelong illusion died for me.  My mother’s family has spoken for years of their heritage, their bloodline and a rumored participant in the family history.  My maternal grandmother was born into the Lee family.  The family story for some time has been of the direct relationship to General Robert E. Lee, the famous leader of the Army of the Confederacy.  Truth be told, I rather enjoyed the thought that I might be a direct descendant of such a great and respected leader.  Regardless of your background, whether from the North or the South, the historical record of this man is one of an impeccably upright man, a man of character.  I would have been proud to be heir to that fine tradition.  Alas, I have at last been disillusioned.

I wasn’t looking for the truth today.  I was simply looking for a cousin on Facebook.  Not finding him listed there, I took my search to the wider net cast by Google.  How was I to know that the lifelong source of my childhood daydreams and adult pride in heritage was going to be scuttled – shipwrecked with the click of a button?  I merely clicked on a result in my search for my cousin and was taken, unsuspecting, to a genealogy of my maternal family lineage.  Imagine my shock at seeing my own name listed first on the page I was directed to, along with brothers, children, cousins, and aunts and uncles.  Excitedly, I went back, back, back through the pages of the lineage of my Mom and her siblings, great aunts, grandparents, and great grandparents.  The list ended with a fellow named James “Bud” Lee of North Carolina, born in the mid 1700’s.  Nary a mention of the famous man…Not a single reference to him at all.

Oh, he can be found if one were to follow the lineage back a generation or two and then trace a different branch on down through the Virginia Lees.  He was a very distant relative of my ancestor, James “Bud”, but it could hardly be said that his blood is coursing through my veins.  The death of my illusion is complete.

It’s not an earth shattering discovery.  I have known for years that it was not certain, even possibly unlikely, that the great man resided in the same family tree with me. That said, it’s easy when you want something to be true, to simply put your fingers in your ears when there is a hint that it may not be so and hum at the top of your lungs.  It was an intriguing fantasy, which now will have to be cast away.  The reality is that this fantasy was never a guiding light for my life choices.

So, no moment of silence; no time of reflection.  The daydreams will dissipate into the ether, nice while they lasted.  I have come to realize that, although family and history are an important part of who we are, they are not what determines who we will be.  I have seen people overcome tragic family circumstances to become incredibly influential and upright individuals.  Conversely, I have also known individuals who have failed miserably in becoming honorable human beings, while their parents were unassailable in their integrity.  It’s up to each of us to determine, and have the discipline to become, the persons our God wants us to be.  Our family history cannot walk the pathway, nor live out the adventure which is put in front of us.  We have to do that daily.

I’m also struck by this immutable fact, made clear by my unexpected discovery today;  Truth will be made known, whether we are seeking it or not.  Although sometimes it doesn’t seem that way to us, eventually all will be laid open for everyone to see.  It may not come in the time frame we anticipate or desire, but lies cannot forever hide truth.  In a way, instead of being disappointed by this, I’m encouraged.  It seems to me that knowing a thing is false is better than believing mistakenly that it is true. 

Of course, this situation also lends a little credence to my father’s position on the family legend that one of his ancestors was sent to this country as an envoy of the Queen of England.  To hear him tell it, the guy was actually a horse thief, and the Queen banished him to the Colonies to rid England of him.  I’m not sure that I want to know the facts in this one either.  Both stories hold their own appeal.  I guess you pays your money and you takes your choice.  I’ll let you know if that mystery ever gets solved.

 “Truth will come to light…in the end, truth will out.”
(The Merchant of Venice~William Shakespeare)

“You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
(John 8:32)

Most you know that I have spent a good part of my life confused.  Just when I think I’m getting a handle on the English language, out pops a “lay” when “lie” was the proper term.  I think I understand the vernacular spoken around me, only to find that “sick” is a good thing, as in “insane” and “crazy” (or even “crazy insane”).  Now, the last couple, I might accept, since I’ve thought for awhile that those words describe more than a few people I know and love, too.  But, more about that later.

The dilemma I find myself considering today is this:  How is it that the things our parents taught us were appropriate actions are now considered to be signs of emotional illness?  “Wash your hands!”  they demanded, over and over.  It was with good reason, too.  There could be no doubt that those hands had been in some unbelievable places.  It was entirely possible that the same hands which had cleaned the morning’s catch of fish went right to the dinner table without the advantage of soap and water.  We picked up anything and everything to examine it closely while outside in the fields and wooded areas.  Bugs, feathers, dogs, cats, ponies, perhaps even the droppings of some unknown critter…they were all within the purview of the young explorers that we envisioned ourselves.  Wash hands?  Bah!  That was for sissies!  A little good honest dirt never hurt anybody!   But our parents insisted and slowly, we fell into line, becoming conscious of germs and their effect on our immune system.

Today, every sink I pass in the house or at work has a container of antibacterial soap next to the faucet.  They are used every time I walk outside and then back inside.  Can’t have the germs from the puppies on my hands, should I happen to touch my nose or eyes.  For insurance, there is a pump bottle of hand cleanser right near the cash register in the store, which I use between customers, just to be sure, you understand.  Before long, there’s an obsession with washing the hands, even though they have touched nothing which would actually transfer germs.  So the habit which was forced upon us as children becomes a burden and for some, a mental compulsion, symptomatic of an illness.  I will admit that I am not there yet, but am watching for the tell-tale signs.  It does seem to run in the family.

I do have my foibles in related areas, too.  I used to go with the Lovely Lady when she was grocery shopping.  It was something I wanted to share with her, instead of expecting her to take all the responsibility for bringing home the necessities for the week.  I would push the cart while she checked her list and handed me items to drop into the basket.  Well, that’s the way she does it.  When I do it, the boxed goods are neatly arranged in their corner, the fresh vegetables piled away from the canned goods to avoid damage from the same.  The refrigerated items are kept separate, so they’ll keep each other cool and be put into the same bags to take home.  “A place for everything and everything in its place.”  Isn’t that what my third grade teacher, Mrs. Brunson taught me?  (Come to think of it, she wasn’t so normal, occasionally running down the row between desks to put her head on the desk and sob, when some young man (mentioning no names) had pushed her to the breaking point.)  Nevertheless, the grocery cart is organized when I’m in charge of the process.  I don’t understand it though.  Recently, the Lovely Lady has taken to scheduling her trips to the grocery store while I’m otherwise occupied.  “Sorry, honey.  Maybe you can go next week,”  she apologizes tenderly.  Hmmmm.  I wonder…

Then there is the perplexing issue of the potato chips.  When there are chips on my plate, for some unknown reason they end up in two piles before any are eaten.  One pile has pristine, complete chips, the other, the broken pieces .  The broken chips are then eaten first, with the much more flavorful complete ones (anyone knows a whole chip tastes better than part of one) being savored as they are eaten last. 

Oh, and the M&Ms!  Sorted by color and then eaten, usually leaving the same number of each color in the hand as they are consumed (first three, then two, then one of each color).  The symmetry is a beautiful thing to behold!  And, when we prepare for guests who come to dinner, silverware is set on the table exactly so; the forks on one side of the plates and the knives and spoons on the other, placed exactly the same distance away from the edge of the table.  No, children are not allowed to play with silverware in advance of dinner!

You laugh.  The term that comes to your mind is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, commonly known as “OCD”.  I joked recently that I call my particular illness “CDO”.  It’s the same thing, but the letters are in alphabetical order, like they’re supposed to be!  Again you laugh, but I beg you to turn your attention to those things in your life which would be amusing to outside observers.  There are the clothes that have to be folded (or ironed) just so, the toothpaste that is rolled from the end, never squeezed in the middle, the shoes placed in the closet in perfect order.  Collections are organized perfectly, spices in the spice rack alphabetically, beds made with hospital corners.  We all have areas of our lives about which we are compulsive or obsessive.  That is normal.  Oh, mine may be more amusing, or more unusual, but they are just foibles, nothing more.  I have been known to eat my potato chips out of the bag, a broken one first, then two whole ones, then a broken one again.  It doesn’t upset me to do so.  I eat M&Ms (peanut, of course) in the dark, never worrying about the symmetry or color.  I do this without my pulse increasing and my breathing growing shallow and quick.

We don’t need to label things as diseases unless they really are.  There are people who really suffer from OCD and are dangerous to themselves and others around them.  These folks really can’t control their habits and thought patterns.  We live in a society which is searching for the bad things.  I have to admit that I enjoy the absurd and amusing habits I see in myself and others around me, simply because they are actually indicators of our normalcy, rather than our deficiencies.  It’s a lot more healthy for us to laugh at ourselves and with others than to worry and fret about the minor differences.  A lot more fun, too.

So, don’t sweat the small stuff.  Do you see real problems that need to be dealt with in your life?  Admit it and start working on them.  Get help if you need it.  But learn the difference between an illness and a peculiarity.  Peculiar is good.  And, a lot less boring than everybody being “normal”.

If you tell me that my chip sorting thing is “sick”, I’m going to assume that you mean that it’s “crazy insane”,  which is a good thing, right?  Oh, I’m still confused…

“There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.”
(Francis Bacon~English lawyer and philosopher~1561-1626)

I wish to issue a disclaimer.  It should be clearly understood before we go any further, that until the event under discussion today, this flatlander had never piloted even so much as a rowboat in the dry, level territory at the southern tip of Texas where he was reared.  That said, it could be my fault, so I’ll just give the facts and let the reader decide. 

My pastor had the bright idea.  “Wouldn’t it be great to have a father/son outing?” he asked one otherwise fine spring day.  “Let’s go on a float trip down the river!”  The river he was referring to was the Buffalo, our nation’s first river designated as a National Waterway.  It is a beautiful, scenic stretch of water, moving unfettered by dams or any man-made obstacles for the 135 miles it wends its way through the beautiful Ozarks of Arkansas.  Turns out, it might have been nice if there were something to slow it down a little bit.  That’s only from my perspective that beautiful day some 22 years ago.  I think my son might agree.

The Park Service’s website for the river says, “Water levels will vary during the year based on rainfall activity.”  What they don’t tell you is that the speed of the current varies comparatively; I would say almost exponentially.  Again, that’s just my opinion.  In the couple of weeks leading up to the outing, the rain came almost daily, raising the depth of the water considerably and increasing the speed of the water by a commensurate amount. The five-almost-six year old boy in the canoe with me didn’t understand the physics, but he did know that he wanted out before the end of the “float” trip.  It seems that in our case, “float” was truly descriptive of what we would be doing, only without the canoe under us.  Life preservers were worn…and used.

You see, every time the river changed course, the man in the back of the canoe (that was me) would run the wayward boat right into the bank immediately in front of the craft instead of following the path that the waterway took.  Twice, the nose of the aluminum vessel stuck in the mud bank, allowing the canoe to overturn in the swift current, both times trapping me and the boy under it for a few anxious seconds before we could struggle free.  After the second time of being dunked, the son part of the team asked the father part if he could ride with Pete.  Pete, in a canoe by himself, was having no problem at all navigating the difficult waters.  A couple of times, he went through the rapids backwards, just to prove he could do it.  Shamed by my lack of boating ability, the exchange of the passenger was made and the young boy stayed dry for the balance of the trip.  How did I manage?  No comment.

I have been very careful to make sure that you understand that none of this was my fault.  My excuses?  Lack of opportunity, river condition, weather leading up the day…  Generally, anything but admitting that I wasn’t up to the task.  It seems that this is a common problem with humans in general and men in particular.  We don’t find it easy to say, “It’s my fault.”  I can find all kinds of reasons for the failure of the boat to stay upright that day, but admitting a deficiency on my part isn’t one of them.  You see, I like for my boat rides to be smooth and uneventful.  None of this whitewater and sharp turns in the river.  Give me a placid lake on a calm afternoon any day.  I remembered that nightmare canoe ride and realized again how much I love the calm when a few people came along to rock my boat this afternoon.

Oh, the little ripples aren’t all that bothersome.  I navigated my way through refunds and forgotten reeds and even string changes today, with nary a sign of tipping.  But, as the afternoon wore on, a few folks who were in the boat with me stood up and demanded attention.  I had to change my schedule for them!  I had to adjust my evening to achieve what they wanted!  As the waves mounted in intensity and velocity, I felt the urge to shout with Nicely Nicely Johnson in “Guys and Dolls”, “Sit down, Sit down, Sit down!  You’re rocking the boat!”  I find that I like it a whole lot better when people let me do what I want when I want to do it.  But, for some reason, they’re always messing things up, asking me to do what they want when they want it done.  So, it’s not my fault, but theirs.  Well, that’s the way it seems to me most of the time.

I think I’m finally starting to understand something, though.  Yes, the boat is mine, but I’ve invited others along to share it.  The boat sails on a fast moving, busy waterway, which I agreed to navigate.  If I don’t want my boat rocked, I’ll have to find some little, quiet, out of the way pond, with no chance of extra passengers.  I’m pretty sure that what I’m describing is the existence of an emotionally withdrawn, selfish human being who has chosen an unhealthy and unsustainable lifestyle, devoid of love and joy and fellowship.  It doesn’t seem the kind of place to which our real Pilot would have us guide our craft.

Again and again, I’m realizing that I kind of like the boat I’m in.  I even enjoy the company in the boat.  They come in all shapes, from kids both short and tall who show varying amounts of respect for the captain of the ship, to adults of different sizes and ethnic groups and social backgrounds (who also show varying amounts of respect).  Some of them rock the boat, some of them help to steady it.  I’m working at learning how to keep the  little vessel on an even keel, frequently now avoiding many of the snags that used to upset the craft. It is a work in progress, but the shoreline is slipping past and the goal is closer than it once was.

If you do decide to take a little ride in the boat with me, try to keep seated though.  There are already enough people rocking it for me.  Oh, you might want to wear your life jacket, too. 

“Anyone can steer the ship when the sea is calm”
(Publilius Syrus~Roman author~first century B.C.)

“God promises a safe landing, but not a calm passage.”
(Bulgarian proverb)

“Well, you can just sit there and cool your heels for a little while!”  My brother and I had been caught in some misdemeanor again, so Mom pulled out another of her little obscure phrases and tried it on us.  “Cool your heels?  What does that mean?”  The words were spoken as an aside to my brother, so as not to poke the already buzzing hornet’s nest again.  The intent failed.  “You just sit there and keep still!”  thundered the weary lady, already well past the limit of her patience for the day.  We kept still.

I really hadn’t thought about that phrase again until the other day as I walked out to the back yard where a couple of my grandchildren were sitting on the park bench.  I approached from the rear, so they were unaware of my presence.  I heard their little voices talking with each other about some mundane subject which I don’t remember.  What I do remember is the four little feet swinging in the air.  As they sat, unworried by the passing of time, they “cooled their heels” and enjoyed life.  Hey!  This is one of those AHA! moments, isn’t it?  Almost fifty years later, I finally get it!  But, these kids have a much better way to wait than my brother and I.  We sat angrily, awaiting the words that would set us free from our prison.  There was no carefree, happy-go-lucky air to our countenance.  We couldn’t wait to get up off the seats we were on and back into trouble again.  I think that I like their waiting better than mine.  Now that I consider it, I still wait with a case of the grumpies.  Rather than taking advantage of the momentary respite to consider the joys of life and to count my blessings, I tend to count the passing seconds as wasted time, never to be recaptured, muttering under my breath the whole time.

Many of us are not good at filling the “in between” times, the periods in our lives when we don’t have a clear directive.  We call it “marking time”, “passing time”, or even “treading water”.  They’re not encouraging descriptions, the last even implying that we’re in the throes of a drowning incident.  It all reminds me of the British sit-com entitled “Waiting For God”, which the Lovely Lady and I watch periodically.  As you might expect, the story is about old people, no longer of any use to society, who are just passing time, waiting to die.  What an empty and sad concept!  I have to admit that the idea is not entirely foreign to us in this country either.  Many of our aged parents and grandparents sit in wheel chairs at nursing homes, with nothing at all to fill the time except to stare at television screens and wait for mealtimes.

I do know one lady who is the exception to that rule.  The Lovely Lady’s mother is now in her eighties, having suffered from crippling rheumatoid arthritis for close to forty years of her adult life.  But this is one lady who is not passing time.  Even with her misshapen, contorted hands, she plays the piano daily.  Frequently, she plays for song services in the lobby of the home where she resides.  She writes letters to friends and family; her scrawled missives, although becoming harder to read, a testament to her devotion to others.  An avid reader all of her life, she continues that practice daily.  Most evenings find her with one or more family members in her room playing a couple games of Scrabble, at which she remains quite formidable (I won’t even attempt a match!).  She’s ready for God, but she’s certainly not waiting for Him.

I’m reminded of playing music many times over the years with different bands and ensembles, mostly in the classical genre.  Frequently, the director of the group will call our attention to the last note in a piece, reminding us that it’s a grave mistake to just play the note passively or to let it die out.  “It’s as much a part of the music as is the first note!  Give it life!  Make it exciting!”  We never just hold a final note.  It’s either building or softening, moving and still full of life.  The piece is not yet ended and we keep communicating that until the very last beat.

Are you thinking that you’re done?  You’ve played your part and moved off the stage, so you’re waiting for who knows what?  I want you to know that you’re not finished until the last breath is drawn, the last word spoken.  You may be waiting right now, but you can do so joyfully, and with anticipation for the next act, whenever that may commence.

Why don’t you just pull off your shoes and socks and cool your heels a little while?  It seems to work for the kids.  I’m going to try it too, the next time I have to sit and wait.  My guess is that their method sure beats my normal case of the grumpies.  Maybe we’ll find out together.

“You usually have to wait for that which is worth waiting for.”
(Craig Bruce)

“But those who wait upon the Lord will renew their strength.  They shall mount up on wings as eagles.  They shall run and not grow weary.  They shall walk and not faint.”
(Isaiah 40:31)