Finishing Strong

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

What’s in a name?  The question has been asked and then answered in as many ways as the number of persons posing the question. To many, it is a matter of extreme importance, with success in life riding on having the right name.  To others, their own names become curse words, epithets to be uttered in moments of embarrassment and despair.  Some make light of their monikers; many find nicknames and “street names” to be an adequate foil to the reality of an undesirable given name.  I have told you before of my dilemma, minor as it is; finding myself known by scores of folks in my town by my wife’s maiden name, since I’m the proprietor of a music store bearing her family name.  A few folks even call me by a completely unrelated name, drawn from who knows what origin?  I’m not sure it really matters. 

I won’t pretend to be in a position to settle the argument regarding the importance of a name, although I do tend to agree with Shakespeare’s Juliet when she reminds her boyfriend, Romeo, that she loves the person, not a name.  Her famous line sums it up for me (although not for others):  “What’s in a name?  A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.”  My belief is that we make our name into what it means, not the other way around.  If you take a moment to consider that, you’ll be able to come up with some names that prove the theory.  Abraham Lincoln, Adolf Hitler, Martin Luther King Jr., Orville and Wilbur Wright…These are just a few to prime the pump.  Narrow the process down to your personal experience and you’ll have more than plenty of names to chew on.  You know who they are.  All it takes is for someone to mention the name and you have a picture in your head.  Pastors, teachers, thugs, crooks…their lives have determined the aroma that wafts through the air as their names are brought to mind.

I sat with my father for a few brief hours a couple of weeks ago and he told me stories of my family I had never heard.  I knew that my family name only goes back a couple of generations.  My great-grandfather changed his name from that of his biological father to that of his mother’s third husband.  There was no blood relationship, but he liked the man better than the one who had abandoned his mother when he was very young.  I had heard a rumor that the name change was a ruse to share in some of the Phillips Oil fortune and it is probably true that my great-grandfather’s step-father was related to that family, but financial gain was not the motive.  If my father had stopped there in his narrative, I would have been relieved to finally put that old tale of chicanery to bed, but Dad then told me “the rest of the story”.

It seems that some time after my great-grandfather died, some of the relatives of the deceased man came to my grandfather, by then the father of two young boys.  I’ve told you that my grandfather was poor and worked long, hard days at manual labor to try and support his family.  The relatives came with an offer.  If the young man would change his family name back to what it had been originally, there would be a good sum of inheritance money coming his way.  It would be enough that he would never have to call himself poor again.  As my dad talked to me about the event, I could see the pride showing through.  My father is not given to “family pride”; not interested in bragging about the past, but I could tell that this was different.  He was sharing with me his father’s moment of triumph.  There weren’t many of those moments for my grandfather during his lifetime.  Without taking more than a few seconds to consider the offer, my grandfather turned it down.  “I’ve been a Phillips and been poor all of my life,”  he averred.  “I guess I’ll stay that way for the rest of it.”   Money couldn’t buy the man or his name.  Unlike Esau in the Old Testament, his hunger wasn’t great enough to entice him to give up who he was.  I will freely admit that I’m even a little proud of my Grandpa.

What’s in a name?  I’m thinking that we’re all still answering that.  As long as we breathe, we are defining who we are as human beings.  Mere months ago, the name of Paterno brought to mind a strong, bright builder of men; a coach who was a winner, both on the field and off of it.  When Joe Paterno died a couple of weeks ago, the name had become a curse word on many folks’ lips.  Now synonymous with weakness and lack of integrity, the aroma had changed with the knowledge of one event, probably almost forgotten by the man himself until fate brought it to light anew.  One event, one action, is all it may take to determine an infamous reputation for a name.  It takes a lifetime of choices, of self-discipline, to build a good name.  What was it that Mr. Aesop had to say?  Oh yes!  “Slow and steady wins the race.”  We’re not in a sprint, not even in a marathon.  This is a life-long event which will be finished by all, but only a few will win the prize.  I’d like to be one of those.

Call me what you want.  Phillips, Paul, Stephen, Christian, husband, father, musician, businessman…the list goes on.  I’m just hoping the air around me is filled with a pleasant aroma, and that whatever name sticks will be remembered by those I leave behind with fondness and yes, maybe even a small amount of pride.  I’ve still got a little time to work on that.

Oh!  And, there’s room for more than one on the road, so why don’t you come on along!  Slow and steady…it’s a winning pace!

“Not to the swift, the race.  Not to the strong, the battle…”
(Ecclesiastes 9:11a)
 

“The purest treasure mortal times afford, is spotless reputation; that away, men are but gilded loam or painted clay.”
(William Shakespeare~English playwright~1564-1616)

Still Feeling Groovy

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’d like to get three accompaniment tracks, please.  The last time, you sent me those new compact discs, though.  I need cassette tapes.”  The voice speaking to me on the telephone was obviously that of a mature woman, probably in her sixties.  I patiently explained to her that cassettes were no longer available, so she would need to buy the CDs and transfer them to cassette if that’s all she was able to use.  In spite of the fact that prerecorded cassettes have been unavailable for at least four or five years, we still get requests like this frequently.

Over the last few years, approaching my senior years myself, I have contemplated this phenomenon any number of times.  The lady described above is a Baby Boomer, as am I.  We were the hip generation, the in crowd!  We were never going to be like our parents, those old geezers.  As groovy chicks and dudes, there was no way we were going to be caught dead over thirty, in square threads, investing our dough in the Man’s system, and handing out downer lingo like, “We’ve never done it like that,” or “When I was your age…”. 

Now admittedly, not all of us in the Boomer generation were hippies, spouting the “make love, not war” mantra, and putting flowers in the barrels of the soldier’s guns.  The great majority of us were more conformist than otherwise, but the universal thought was that we would be “forever young”. Even now, I can hear the whining voice of Bob Dylan, along with the cheesy vibrato of the Hammond B3, as he invokes the blessing of the epoch, “May you stay Forever Young…”  When did we get to be old like our parents, stuck in the past, drawing imaginary lines in the sand over which we will not cross?  It happens to each generation in its turn, it would seem.

I readily admit to a love of nostalgia.  Recently, a friend sent me the text of a radio story about a museum for eight-track tapes.  I was immediately eighteen again, tooling along in my brand new 1976 Chevy Nova, with the stereo I had installed myself.  Radio?  Pah!  We listened to what we selected ourselves, on our extremely portable and wonderfully ill-conceived eight-tracks.  I realize “wonderful” and “ill-conceived” seem to be paradoxical, but that’s how I view the technology, in retrospect.  These tapes were a hodge-podge of genius and idiocy, held together by a generous dash of creativity.  The genius was the idea to use a movable head to read the information on the tape, its downfall the inability to keep the head in alignment, often resulting in double tracking (two songs playing at once).  It was genius to use a continuous tape, but idiocy to loop it in a circle that frequently tightened up on itself, making the music drag as if you had slowed a forty-five rpm record to thirty-three rpm.  Oops, sorry! Another reference to an obsolete technology.  Anyway, let’s just say the idea of the eight-track was brilliant in its concept, but completely impractical in its application.  We bought them by the thousands.

There are innumerable other obsolete gadgets which have come and gone in my lifetime.  The same could be said of my parent’s lifespan and of their parent’s era.  For some reason though, we form attachments to the familiar, the once useful accessories, and we don’t want to let them go even when they are replaced by superior technology.  Our parents did the same thing, as did our grandparents before them.

I’ve said it here before; I want to keep learning as long as I live.  That doesn’t mean that I won’t turn my nose up at a few non-essential inventions.  Right now, the e-book comes to mind, although I may embrace that idea one day.  But, I want to keep an open mind and a lively imagination that grasps new ideas and exciting developments for as long as I’m able to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time.  All of my life has been played out in an exciting era of innovation and discovery, with no period more so than right now.   What a shame it would be to miss out on it, just because I decided to get old.

I do still have a small collection of 8-track tapes squirreled away just in case they ever get popular again.  You never know…Hey! bell-bottoms and tie-dyed shirts came back…

“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.”
(Ecclesiastes 1:9)

“I could not, at any age, be content to take my place in a corner by the fireside and simply look on.”
(Eleanor Roosevelt~First Lady of the United States~1884-1962)

Originally posted 2/25/2011

Ooh, Pretty!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was a young boy’s dream.  Probably about ten years old, it was the first time I had been allowed to wander around the fairgrounds without an adult.  Oh, there was an older brother, but with three of them in the family, that wasn’t anything unusual.  Besides that, we didn’t slow each other down any.  Any trouble one got into, the other was bound to be up to the challenge of.  No, the real difference this year was that for an hour or two, we were free to wander on our own, without being held back by parents.  They wanted to go see the cows, and goats, and chickens, for crying out loud!  Every year the Livestock Show, the local equivalent of the County Fair, was set up in a neighboring town and we went…to see the livestock.  Not this year, buddy!  That was for the old people.  We were headed to the “Midway”!

I had a few dollars burning a hole in my pocket and it was a pretty sure bet that I would find someplace to spend them.  That was an understatement!  As we left the exhibition part of the show and started past the booths and rides, we were immediately assaulted with the noises and visual sights.  Confusion reigned.  Here was the booth where you could test your shooting skills.  “Hit the ducks and win a prize!”  called the pitchman.  As I hesitated, he lifted up one of the rifles to shove into my hands, but just a few feet away, the fellow selling chances at tossing the pennies onto the plates took up the cry.  “Just one penny on a plate is all it takes!”  Every time I wavered, another voice joined the chorus, confusing matters even more.  I really hadn’t planned to stop at any of these booths.  I wanted to ride the Matterhorn, with it’s loud rock music and flashing lights.  But, it was on the other end of the Midway and to get to the goal, I had to wander past all the “games of skill”.  To a young boy, they were ripe for the picking.  Of course, I could hit the ducks!  Without question, I could toss a coin onto a plate.  Balloons to be hit with a dart?  No problem!  My head spun with the possibilities.  What to choose?

We did make our way to the Matterhorn ride, after not much more than fifteen minutes in the pandemonium.  Once there, I stood and watched as my brother and a lot of other kids boarded the ride.  The music blared…the lights flashed…the cars swung and tilted as the ride spun around and around.  Up the incline, then down…faster and faster the ride went as the kids screamed and laughed.  As for me…I stood and watched, my pockets empty of the price of admission to the wonderful adventure.  In just those few minutes, as we made our way from the exhibits to the other end of the Midway, I had heeded every possible tempting challenge made by the carnival workers.  As I said, my head was spinning and the allure of their spiels was more than this young boy could resist.  They were experts in their craft; their assignment, the emptying of pockets of unsuspecting rubes like me.  Their job done, they turned their attention to the next victims who still had a dollar or two burning a hole in their pockets and I was left to watch other, wiser folks revel in the sensations of the scintillating ride.  “How could this have happened to me?” was the only confused thought in my mind, besides the disappointment that only a ten-year old boy could feel.

Just over a week ago, the fifty-four old version of that ten-year old took a trip out to California.  I was on my way to another carnival, but this was for business purposes.  This carnival goes by the name of “The NAMM Show”, the annual equivalent in the music business of the County Fair.  I had good intentions of how I would use my time as I wandered leisurely through the show, stopping to see the new products and talking with company representatives.  I would take notes and acquire new contacts; networking to maximize the reach of my business.  When I left, the success of the business would be guaranteed for at least the next year, due to a successful venture into the land of the trade show.  I can only report that the result was less than spectacular.

The show boasts well over one thousand exhibitors, each one with a product to sell.  Since it is a music show, most of the products make noise.  And, noise they did make.  The longer I was there, the louder the volume rose.  Initially, I made a few good contacts.  I have the business cards to show for it.  I even have some literature from the first several stops I made.  I’m still not sure what happened for the rest of the day.  About seven hours after I entered the hall, I exited with a splitting headache.  I was actually physically dizzy.  The noise level and the sales pitches all run together in my head.  One amplifier company after another with ear-splitting levels of music; one guitar company after another with heavy-metal artists who were all searching for eleven on volume dials that only go to ten, scantily clad models slapping brochures (with pictures of more scantily clad models printed on them) into your hand…it all runs together.  After I finally found my way out of the crowd and to the parking lot, I sat in my rental car for ten minutes before I could be confident of being able to drive safely to my motel.  Once there, I collapsed, exhausted.

It becomes clear to me as I consider the world in which we pass our lives, that we live in a great big carnival, surrounded by confusion and noise.  Throughout our lives, it is easy to be distracted from our purpose, to have our attention diverted from the business at hand.  Every step we take, someone is hawking their product.  Every time we turn a corner, the eye is drawn to a bigger and better activity.  The noise is deafening, the visual assault on the senses, almost irresistible.  I find that frequently, as I sit and consider what I have accomplished in life, I realize that almost nothing has come to fruition; few of my goals realized.  It is easy to be drawn off the long path to our destination, when we are bedazzled by the glitz, by the sheen of the attractive options available to us, right here and right now.

I remember a parable, now familiar to many of you, offered by one of my teachers many years ago.  The story is told about a young man who wants to be a farmer, and mounting to the seat of the tractor, he begins to do the easiest task he can think of…plowing the sod.  Arriving at the end of the row, he turns the tractor around, only to see the most crooked, wandering furrow he has ever seen.  The old farmer, to whom he wouldn’t listen before, offers just one piece of advice.  “Don’t look at the front of the tractor, young man,”  he recommends.  “Pick a fence post in the distance beyond the field you are in.  Head for that, never looking down or around you.  You’ll do fine.”  Sure enough, raising his eyes beyond his present position, he takes off again and, as he reaches the turn-around spot this time, he sees behind him a perfectly straight furrow.

A simple tale, but one we seem to forget, caught up in the present.  Noise, sights, fads, and people…all of these contribute to a crooked path through life.  We need a Point on which to focus, a North Star by which to navigate, or we are lost and our lives wasted in pursuit of first one inconsequential goal, then another.  I’d like to get to the end of my time on this earthen sphere and be able to look back, to see a straight line where I’ve traveled.

I’ve had the Point of focus picked out for many years.  Now if I can just keep my eyes on the goal.  I’m hoping there’s still time to straighten up the furrow.

“Set your course by the stars, not by the lights of every passing ship.”
(Omar Bradley~American Army general W.W. II ~1893-1981)

 
“…But, this one thing I do:  Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize…”
(Philippians 3:13,14)

Your People, My People

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Most Sunday afternoons, my seat is immediately to her left at the dinner table.  As the dishes are passed, I make sure that she gets a small serving of each item.  I cut her meat to a manageable size.  Move the glass closer to her so she doesn’t have to struggle with it.  The salad is topped with her favorite dressing.  While dinner is in progress, every once in awhile I’ll explain a comment someone else has made.  And then, even if she doesn’t finish her vegetables, she always wants dessert.  As the meal comes to an end, I even remove her bib for her.

It’s not who you think.  Yes, there are children at the table who need help, but they get that from their mom, or maybe their dad.  Often, even their grandma (the Lovely Lady, herself) helps with their care.  The person sitting to my right is the children’s great-grandma, my mother-in-law.  She was stricken with rheumatoid arthritis several years before I came on the scene and time has not been kind to her.  Gnarled hands, with fingers which are misshapen and bent to the side, sit at the ends of arms with artificial elbows and shoulders whose cartilage has now dissolved almost completely.  Her pain is constant; her inability to do the mundane tasks we take for granted, such as buttering a roll, leaving her dependent on the same sort of help required by the toddlers at the table.

I won’t go on about the hardships, nor will I dwell on the demands she makes.  Her life is now one of waiting for other people to fulfill her needs.  She can be a hard taskmaster.  I’ll gladly do my part.  Why?  She is my Lovely Lady’s mother.  More might be said, but it doesn’t need to be.

Recently, one of the cable television channels introduced a new program, with which they think a lot of people can identify.  They believe the audience will be agog with excitement each week as they air this show about spouses at war with their in-laws.  “Monster-In-Laws”, they call it.  Not only is their usage of the language incorrect, but the premise itself is odious to me.  I will not watch even one minute of this abomination.  Ever.  I know they will attempt to offer a solution as each thirty-minute episode winds down, but that’s not how they’re selling it to the potential audience.  On other fronts, too, I am sick to death of “mother-in-law jokes”; tired of the assumption that we have no choice but to do battle with our spouse’s parents.

I guess you know that once in awhile, I get a “burr under my saddle” about a subject.  I try to keep from taking it out on you folks.  But, I would be derelict if I missed the chance to urge each of you to show respect to your in-laws. Love them.  Care for them, just as you care for your spouse.  They raised that person you married, got them through school, provided for them.  In a manner of speaking, your mother-in-law, your father-in-law, is your spouse. They certainly are a part of their life, both past and future.  As you disrespect the in-laws, you disrespect your wife or your husband.  What?  That’s not an easy task for you?  Too bad.  It’s a debt you owe to the one you love, the one you promised to “cherish from this day forward”.  So, take the time; make the effort.  I’m still finding that, over time, it’s a debt that gets easier and easier to pay.  

My mother-in-law is failing physically, as she approaches the end of her time on this earth.  There is no way of knowing how much longer she will be with us.  But the Lovely Lady loves and cares for her.  So do I.   So will I.

“But Ruth replied, …Where you go, I will go.  Where you lodge, I will lodge.  Your people will be my people, and your God my God.”
(Ruth 1:16)

Life Is Hard And Then…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was a horrible job.  The young man wasn’t much more than thirty, but he had a wife and two young sons to support.  Each day he would head reluctantly to the sawmill to put in another ten or twelve hours for the few cents which manual laborers were paid for a day’s work in the 1930s.  The sawmill was powered by a self-fueled steam engine, with the boiler fed by the scraps and sawdust which the operation generated.  That wimp, Mike, of modern television’s “Dirty Jobs” had nothing on EJ.  This was no setup, with a few shovelfuls of dirt strewn here and there to make it look like it was hot, dirty work.  This genuinely dirty job entailed standing in a pit below the huge saw, with the sawdust and scraps dropping down from above, and shoveling the filthy stuff into the open door of the boiler.  The steam produced by the heat turned the huge gears and the long belt, which spun the saw blade as it sliced through the pine logs, showering still more debris on his head.  The humid, East Texas heat turned the hole into an oven down where the young man stood caked in sawdust and sweating from the heavy labor.  And, still the men who fed the saw up above, a job not much easier than EJ’s, called for more power.  The fellow cursed the heat, cursed the men up above and, on at least one occasion, cursed God and dared Him to blow up the boiler and kill him as he worked.  As he cursed, he fed it faster and raised the pressure higher than the metal tank had ever been tested to, even when it was made.  The tiny prison was almost more than the young man could bear, but day after day he returned to the job he hated, to leave after his shift, discouraged and angry at the world.

My father tells the story of his own father, and I feel the heat, and the anger, and the disappointment with life.  When I knew my grandfather, physically, he was a shell of his former self.  Hard work and hard living had taken its toll on the once strong and vigorous man, leaving him gasping for breath and moving slowly.  I would ride with him in the old 1949 Pontiac late at night, to wait for my grandmother who was getting off work from her job as a nurse’s aide at the local nursing home.  Emphysema had left Grandpa unable to work at all, so Grandma worked to supplement their meager pension.  I had always thought my grandfather was a little lazy, since he never worked in my lifetime.  I might have viewed him a little differently if I had known how hard he had worked to support his little family when he was younger.  But, as I listened to Dad tell the story, I not only gained a new respect for my grandfather, but I was struck with the dichotomy that was represented by the job he did for that sawmill so many years ago.

If he did his job well, the sawdust came down that much faster.  Think about it.  The faster he worked, the faster he had to work to keep up.  If he let the boiler get low on steam, the saw ran slowly and the debris which rained down on him slowed to a sprinkle.  But, if he purposely slowed down, the floor began to fill up around him and he would be hampered in his attempts to shovel it into the firebox.  The situation we commonly call a “catch-22” was his constant milieu.  Work harder, and you make more work for yourself.  Work less, and soon you can’t do your job.  Can you imagine the hopelessness that grew, day after day, knowing that your boss could never be satisfied, that you would never be able to look at your work and say that the project was completed?  The only reward for your hard work (besides a meager paycheck) was more hard work.

The Lovely Lady was peeling sweet potatoes for Sunday dinner one recent afternoon, and I noticed that quite a number of peels had fallen to the floor.  Being the sweet, considerate husband that I am, I stooped down and picked them up, only to have more fall as I tossed the first batch in the trash.  In her defense, she did make some comment about efficiency and picking up after the job instead of during.  It didn’t really matter, because my brain was already drifting elsewhere, to a time seventy years ago, and the feelings of that young man as he “cleaned up” while the workers above him inconsiderately made a perpetual job as he slaved away down in the pit.  No, I don’t want you to think that I deserve some kind of sympathy because of the peelings dropped on the floor;  it just made me think about it again.

“Life is hard and then you die.”  I remember my older brother telling me that when I was much younger.  He thought it was cute; that I would quit my griping about whatever little annoyance was irking me.  I don’t think he realized how true it actually is.  One might even say it is Biblical.  Genesis relates the words of the Creator to a sinful man;  “By the sweat of your brow will you eat your food until you return to the ground…”  Now, that’s something to look forward to!  But, you know, the longer I consider it, the more I realize that it’s not such a bad system.  We work to be given more responsibility, more work.  It seems that maybe that’s the way character is developed.  Solomon said it this way, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all of your might.”   If we don’t become discouraged and quit, the character we develop through hard work will shine through.

I’m not sure why our society tells us that the reward for hard work is the chance to do nothing.  I’ve heard about more people who become sickly and die soon after quitting their jobs to”retire”.  The more I think about it, the less I like this idea of working hard all my life, just to drop out and act like a bum for the final few years.  I think maybe my dad has the right idea.  At eighty-one, he is still hard at work pastoring a church full-time.  No tee times or fishing trips for him.  He’s hoping to do the work he loves until the day he dies. It seems like a good plan to me.

I think I’ll keep shoveling for another year or two and see if the work keeps dropping on top of me.  You never know either; I may rethink the retirement thing some day, as well.  Why don’t you check back in another fifteen years or so?

“Difficulties strengthen the mind, as labor does the body.”
(Seneca~Roman philosopher~First century AD)

“…If a man will not work, he shall not eat.”
(2 Thessalonians 3:10b)

Did You Just Call Me a Pantywaist?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes I sit at the keyboard, move my fingers and the words just flow.  Other times, like tonight, there’s a struggle.  Oh, I have no shortage of stories; those go on forever.  I have lived over a half century, you know.  The problem is that I’m not ready to tell some of the stories for different reasons.  Some entail a lot more embarrassment than I’m ready to reveal, others seem too trivial to waste time with.  They’ll probably all come in time, but I need to be ready for them to come.

What to do?  Do I just close the program and go home?  It seems to me that it would be simpler to just write less often.  The Lovely Lady has given her permission.  “You don’t have to write everyday, you know,” she told me as I left the house earlier.  The day will come when I’ll take that advice, but for now, I want to persevere.  It took me such a long time to get up the courage to start that I’m worried I’ll falter soon and quit for lack of motivation or in discouragement.

I have been a quitter, you know…When I was quite young, our neighbors would invite us to go to the tomato fields and pick with them.  I agreed one day and rode the big flat bed truck out to the field…only to ride it back the first time it returned to the processing plant.  I had assumed that the day would be a lark, nothing more than an easy few hours of picking in the garden.  Boy, was I mistaken!  Suffice it to say that I was embarrassed by kids half my age and adults who looked so old that decrepit wouldn’t be a stretch to describe their physical prowess.  When I heard that the truck was coming back to town, I was climbing on in a minute, without a second thought.  Let them say whatever they wanted to…I was done!

A few years later, this time at about 13 or 14 years old, these same neighbors (who must have been a little forgetful) invited me to work with them in their concrete finishing business.  I made it a little longer this time, actually sticking out the job for 4 days.  Setting forms, cleaning concrete-covered tools, and digging trenches by hand in the nearly 100 degree heat and through the dry, sun-blasted soil, was incredibly tiring work, but by the third day, the sunburn I had started accumulating the first day was blistered and the motion necessary to do my work was not only exhausting, but also excruciating. So, once again I quit, walking home this time.

The list of things I have tried and quit abruptly includes not only a job or two, but various clubs, sports, and even a correspondence school.  I’m good at leaving things unfinished. A close examination of my workbench today will reveal at least 4 unfinished jobs, which may never be resumed.  Sometimes when we start things, we don’t count the cost, we don’t consider what the task really entails.  Then when we hit the brick walls, and it happens invariably, we “reassess”.  That’s what I like to call it anyway.  It sounds better than “waffle” or “renege”.  My mom had a colorful name for people like me, probably a bit politically incorrect.  She would say, “Oh, don’t be such a pantywaist!”  Well, when the going gets tough, the wimpy get going…the other way!

I will tell you proudly of my triumphs, although a closer examination of  them will demonstrate the influence of someone other than myself, a blessed marriage made easy by an amazing partner, a long term involvement in the same church, facilitated by fellowship with some of the best people I know, and my business, in which I have been motivated by enjoyment as much as by necessity.  God has been good and well I know it!  When I find myself disappointed by my shortcomings and failures, and they are many, I have only to look at His goodness and faithfulness to find encouragement and the stimulus to keep pushing forward.

The past is our school, providing us the tools to struggle back to our feet and get it right the next time.  Our whole life is a picture of grace and redemption, with second chances being the rule rather than the exception.  So, quit being a pantywaist and get going…in the right direction!  You’re surrounded by failures who kept at it until they achieved success.  Your turn is next!

“Age wrinkles the body.  Quitting wrinkles the soul.”
(Douglas MacArthur)

Love Hurts

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Love hurts. 

At least, that’s what I’m told.  I think I understand it–almost. 

Loving someone guarantees pain someplace along the road.  Sad goodbyes are said as a spouse goes off to war and each is left to weep in the darkness, alone.  We hurt as the one we love goes through personal pain—the loss of a job, the death of a parent, the separation of lifelong friends as someone moves a thousand miles away. 

For some reason though, that’s not the kind of pain most of us understand from the original statement.  To most of the world, love hurts means we’re guaranteed the person we love will be the one who hurts us.  Anger will separate us.  Arguments will cause irreparable damage to the relationship.  Fights will make us forget why we cared for each other in the first place. 

Honestly, I’d rather neither view was correct, but I have observed both. Quite recently.

One day, not too long ago, I boarded a jet bound for Los Angeles from Houston.  The flight would  be completely full, we were told.  The airline on which I flew doesn’t assign seats, just a boarding order.  Each person sits in either a convenient seat or an obligatory one, depending on if they are lower or higher in the boarding order.  I was in the former group and opted for a window seat, with another gentleman sitting on the aisle seat nearby.  In the latter group, a man came down the aisle and sat in the middle seat of the row ahead of me.  Still later, a woman got on—unaccompanied, one would assume.  She sat in the middle seat beside me.  Quite soon though, it became obvious that the man and woman were together.  They fought the whole way from Houston to L.A.  Three hours.

“Honey.  Sweetheart.  What did you do with that forty dollars?” the man started.

“None of your business!  It’s my money, not yours,” came the sullen reply. 

Back and forth it went, with most of the talking being done by the man.  Each exchange was prefaced with, “Honey.  Sweetheart,” and terminated with him turning to the front of the plane again, shaking his head.  Eventually, the lady fell silent, unresponsive to the argumentative young man.

She did speak when the attendant came by to ask if we wished to have anything to drink. 

“Give me a Jack Daniels and Diet Coke.”

The response was instant from the seat in front. 

“Honey!  Sweetheart!  Please don’t drink.  We have to get a rental car when we get off the plane.”

She responded, “I’m not staying.  I’m going back as soon as we land.”

The young man didn’t simply shake his head this time, but actually head-butted the seat in front of him and was rewarded by a frightened yelp from the startled woman sitting in it. 

It was evident he had plans in Los Angeles and couldn’t accomplish them without her money and sobriety, neither of which, it appeared, were likely to be within his reach upon disembarking the aircraft.

I won’t burden you with every bit of their hateful conversation.  The woman had obviously spent a good part of the forty dollars in question in the bar at the Houston airport.  The Jack Daniels and Diet Coke didn’t help to sober her up any during the flight.  She stumbled out of the airplane and up the jet-way after we touched down, as he stalked ahead of her into the terminal. 

Love hurts.

Back in my hometown, while I was away, there was a memorial service for a lady who had passed away during the preceding week.  Lynda was born in this little town.  She married the love of her life forty-seven years ago.  For thirty-five of those forty-seven years, she suffered with Multiple Sclerosis.  The crippling disease had gradually taken away her ability to care for herself in any way.  She couldn’t walk, couldn’t feed herself, couldn’t bathe herself.  It didn’t matter. 

Jim, the love of her life, was there.

Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after….well, you get the picture.  Jim was there.  And, I don’t just mean he was there to take care of her at home.  They went everywhere together. 

Concert at the Fine Arts Center?  There were Jim and Lynda; she in her wheelchair; Jim beside her to make sure she didn’t need anything. 

Wedding of a friend?  They were there. 

Basketball game at the local University?  They were both there, cheering on the team. 

Picnic in the park?  Yep.  Wheelchair and all, Lynda was there with Jim at her side.

She got so she couldn’t sit up in the wheelchair, so they got one which allowed her to recline and still go everywhere she went before.  The little Volkswagon became difficult to get her in and out of, but they kept going places until finally, a friend let other friends know that they needed a specially equipped van.  Lots of people chipped in to get that van for them.  They put many miles on it and wore it out going places together. 

When Lynda passed into the presence of her Savior last week, Jim was at her side and she was surrounded by her family.  At home.  Tears flowed and memories were shared. 

Love hurts.

I can’t help but compare the two situations.  I do know that they seem so disparate, so unrelated.  Perhaps, it’s specifically that extreme which makes me need to view them side by side.

On the one hand, I see two selfish, damaged people intent on inflicting more pain on their partner.  Hmmm—maybe partner isn’t the right word to use there, since that implies two people working toward a common goal.  I see no hope for the relationship, envisioning only a termination of their cohabitation with one thing in mind: to forget the other person as quickly as possible.  Any memories left from that period will be unhappy ones, suitable only for putting out of mind.

But on the other hand, we see two people committed to each other, no matter what the personal cost.  If it had been Jim stricken with disease, I don’t think the outcome would have been different.  Their love was obvious to all.  True partners, who were all in with each other, holding nothing back. 

Was there pain?  You bet.  But, their love was greater than, their commitment superior to, the hurt.

Love does hurt.  Life is not always pretty, nor always fair.  Things get messy along the way. 

I wish I could say that I’m like Jim, instead of like our friend on the airplane. 

The ugly truth is that sometimes I want what I want.  Selfishness makes me do things I’d rather not talk about here.  That said, I constantly have in the back of my mind a quiet voice that reminds me of the words of our old friend, the Apostle Paul:  “Husbands, love your wives.  Give yourselves for them, just as Jesus did for the Church.” 

I know of another good example now, a man who also remembered those words and lived them for over thirty-five years.

Pain, joy, hard work—all go into a loving relationship. 

The result is a thing of beauty.  I’m pretty sure it’s worth it.

Joy comes in the morning.

 

 

Love isn’t finding a perfect person.  It’s seeing an imperfect person perfectly.”(Sam Keen~American philosopher and writer)

 

…if we love one another, God lives in us and His love is made complete in us.”(I John 4:12)

 

 

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

See Through

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Mailboxes.  I’m sometimes not sure if I like them or not.  When I was a kid, I always vied to be the first to get to ours after the postman headed on down the street.  I don’t know why, since I rarely got any mail myself.  Perhaps, not being sure if there would be something good in there was enough to prompt the rivalry with my siblings.  Hope springs eternal, you know.  I also remember one surreptitious nighttime trip down the street, around two or three in the morning, when we diabolically raised the flags on all the boxes in the neighborhood, imagining the frustration of the postman the next day, as he stopped at every single one of them to check for outgoing mail.  I only admit this, knowing that the statute of limitations has run out many years ago, and I won’t have to worry about the federal authorities knocking on my door to “ask a few questions”.

Later, as a young newlywed, I would dutifully (at the behest of the Postal Service) move the mailbox, post and all, from the street which backed up to our little house to the one in front of it.  New to the topography of this beautiful little town in the foothills of the Ozarks, I was surprised at the rocks which surrounded the post as I freed it from the original location.  I remarked to the Lovely Lady that it was smart of the folks who had installed it to use those rocks to hold it securely in place, little knowing the task which awaited me as I attempted to bore a hole at the new location.  The shovel was useless, as was a posthole digger I borrowed.  It wasn’t until I acquired a solid steel bar designed for demolishing the pesky rocks that I made any progress and finished the job.  The bar weighed about 15 pounds and I think I may have impressed my young bride with my physique as I worked.  Or not.  I also learned a never-forgotten lesson about the Arkansas soil and the rocks which actually seem to grow here about as quickly as the grass itself.

I’ve told you about an embarrassing encounter with a Postal worker, when I was frustrated and angry, another of my unhappy memories in dealing with mailboxes.  The argument was about the proposed location for the box at the home to which we were moving.  There’s no point in going into that again, but I guess you could say the road in my relationships with mailboxes hasn’t been all smooth.  There was one, though…

I saw the new owner of the house across the street taking it down from it’s place next to the front door.  I had admired it for several years and I wondered what he intended to do with it.  Needless to say, at the end of the conversation, it was mine.  Now, I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but it went into a closet to await it’s next opportunity to serve.  The wait wasn’t long.  We moved to the big Victorian two-story house within a year and stayed there for over eighteen years.  There was a perfect spot for the unusual mailbox beside the front door…and at this address, the mail was delivered right to our door!  The clear glass container was certainly a conversation piece.  The description was stamped right on the face.  “Visible Mail”.  What a great idea!  No more going to the mailbox, wondering if it was worth opening the door.  There was no mystery to the process.  You knew you had mail and opened it, or you knew there was none and went on in without stopping.  Of course, visitors to your home would also see the mail and could have food for thought as they waited for you to answer the door.  You hoped there was none marked “Final Notice” for them to contemplate.  And, it could be a little uncomfortable when a family member came to visit and noticed a letter from a relative who never wrote to them at all.  Overall though, the idea of visible mail is one which made a lot of sense.  I really loved that transparent container.

We no longer use the box, since there is no delivery to the door where we live now.  It sits, dejected, in a cupboard awaiting re-purposing once again, just as it did for those few months so many years ago.  I thought of the great little receptacle as I spoke with a friend today.  But, more came to my mind than just the aesthetic beauty, or even the happy memory of using it for all those years as we raised our children in that drafty old house.

I’m realizing more and more, as time passes, that we ourselves are a lot like mailboxes.  Inside of these receptacles of ours are messages which are important for folks around us to receive.  They are messages which have come to us from elsewhere; messages of love, of support, of correction, and even of reproach.  We have a responsibility to communicate these messages.  Our families crave them; our friends need them; our communities will falter without them.  It’s how we grow and mature; how we build relationships and teach our children.  The problem is, the messages are in closed boxes, with no indication whether they’re really inside or not.  We are not transparent, not even translucent, most of the time.  The intended receivers of the communications never know that there is anything for them to hear, or see, or learn.

We listen to the news and hear about “transparency” in politics, in government, in organizations.  Yet, we are not transparent ourselves, even in our personal lives.  We are closed boxes sitting next to closed boxes; all with undelivered messages inside.  I’m thinking that I’m about ready to put a message or two in the “Visible Mailbox” again, because I think there may be a few things I can help with.  I bet you’ve got some messages that I need, as well.   

Check the box when you get home.  You’ll see…

“As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.”
(Proverbs 27:17)

“Those who are absent, by its means become present:  It (mail) is the consolation of life.”
(Voltaire~French philosopher~1694-1778)

This Is Not Nuclear Science!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“What exactly am I being accused of…other than surviving a nuculer explosion?”  The words came out of Indiana Jones’ mouth, just as if he hadn’t made a fatal error in pronunciation.  I was delighted.  Our old action hero had just ridden out an atomic test blast inside of a lead-lined refrigerator in a scene which even the Mythbusters would find implausible without the need to attempt a re-enaction.  My delight comes from the other implausible sequence of interactions and conversations I have had today about just this word, “nuclear”.  As we sat in our little sanctuary, the Lovely Lady and I looked at each other and laughed.  And, just like that, it was fated that you should read a few of my thoughts about our language and maybe even society in general today.  Try not to act too bored…

I awoke this morning, as I frequently do, to a quip from a generally amusing and always witty “word nerd” on my smartphone.  He opined that there were numerous words in the English language which were difficult to pronounce, but that “nuclear” was not one of them.  The word was “noo-klee-err”, not “noo-kyoo-lerr”.  The responses from all the other word nerds, myself among them, were almost exclusively in support of his position and many pointed out an individual or two who misused the word continuously.  You can imagine that the conversation turned ugly and political fairly quickly.  The consensus was that anyone who used such an obvious mispronunciation could only be ignorant and foolish.  The venom engendered by the simple statement of correct pronunciation was surprising.  It should not have been.  I, myself, am an avowed “stickler” for proper usage of the language, inclusive of grammar, pronunciation, and punctuation.  My children will assure you that, as they matured, indiscretions during conversations were almost certain to give rise to correction, complete with sermons on the importance of the language in communication.  Tonight, I repent in sackcloth and ashes.

It was a busy day, but not so busy that my mind didn’t have time to ruminate on the early morning lesson.  In the dotage of my old age, I seem to be growing soft.  I argued with myself about the need to keep the language pure, the profit of an undiluted vocabulary.  I simply couldn’t escape the undeniable truth that we have never known such a language.  That’s because there has never been such a language.  All language is, of necessity, an evolving mode of communication, nothing more, nothing less.  One is not ignorant because they use it differently than we do.  To say that they are would be the same as insisting that someone who speaks a different language is stupid, simply because they don’t use the same words we’re used to hearing.  We do, to be fair, need to make certain that our population is educated so that we can have a common language and be able to converse in a way which exchanges ideas and facts accurately.  Any country which does not do so is inviting disaster and insuring a poor economy and the privation of its citizens.  That being stated, it could be also be said that anything worth doing well is worth taking to an extreme.  That seems to be the mantra for our society anyway.  It seems that we have a habit of educating our populace to the point of blindness, focusing on what we think we know to be true, to the exclusion of common sense.  Worse, depending on the region of the country in which we live (or identify with), we tend to label the folks from other areas as unintelligent or uneducated because they use a local vernacular or colloquialisms which don’t roll off our own tongues comfortably.  It is becoming clear to me that nothing could be further from the truth; that it just makes sense to use the language which communicates best to the company with which we are conversing.  This holds true in whichever part of the country or even the world we find ourselves.

I’m sure there are a few “Language Snobs” out there right now who are fuming.  I’ve been in that position myself.  I have told you that I am a stickler.  I want words used and pronounced correctly, too.  It’s just that we live in a world of shifting language.  To deny it would be foolishness.  It has always been so.  To my dismay, a quick check of dictionaries tonight revealed to me that both pronunciations for “nuclear” are now acceptable.  If you don’t believe it, you may check for yourself.  What I am starting to understand, in my advancing years, is that many things are unassailable fact, but language is not one of them.  When I was a child, if I held my hand over a candle, it burned my skin.  As an aging man, if I hold my hand over a candle, it still burns my skin.  Some things don’t change.  Our language does.   

Another one of those things which doesn’t change seems to be our need to disparage people who are different in some way than us or the company we keep.  I remember a day when many white folks in this country hated Martin Luther King Jr.  And, no, I don’t think hate is too strong a word to use.  Today we celebrated the legal holiday dedicated to his memory.  As I read the many short tributes to him in the social media today, I thought back to the day when he was speaking those words to crowds and to reporters.  I won’t repeat the epithets I heard back then, but suffice it to say the people I knew weren’t inspired by his words.  He represented a danger to the life they knew and had grown comfortable with.  Much like Abraham Lincoln, in his fight against slavery a century before, had represented a danger to the life the citizens of this country knew, the future to our parents (and therefore to us) looked unsure and frightening in those days of the civil rights movement.

Change is unsettling.  It is uncomfortable.  It is also inevitable.  It shouldn’t make us lash out, shouldn’t make us rude, shouldn’t make us attack.  I don’t believe that a change in our language is the same as civil rights, but the principals seem to be related.  Sometimes we have to give up comfort and ease to gain progress and to move toward the goal.

I’d like, at least, to be flexible enough to consider moving on up.  I’m just glad it didn’t take a nuculer blast to get me motivated.  You coming?

 “I’ve decided to stick with love.  Hate is too great a burden to bear.”
(Martin Luther King Jr.~American pastor and civil rights leader~1929-1968)

“A new command I give to you.  Love one another.”
(John 13:34)

Horse and Cart

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Dad, why don’t you shut down the store and just sell stuff online?  You can make more money.”  The young man standing in front of me is a bright and knowledgeable high school student.  He remembers the lean years…the times when I wasn’t sure there was any future at all in selling musical items.  That has been the case for most of his short lifetime.  He also knows computers and the Internet; it is the field in which he intends to spend his life.  And, he is right.  There is money to be made in the fledgeling marketplace.  He has the facts on his side and he has seen the very real results of my efforts over the few months previous to this conversation.  How do I respond?

“Daddy, why we don’t see you at home in the evenings anymore?”  The pretty young lady is sitting at the table as we eat supper, right before I head back to the store to work a few more hours.  It is her last year in high school, for all I know, her last year at home…ever.  I readily admit that I have been spending more time at work than ever before.  It has been just a few months since I discovered the online auction marketplace.  It was a wide open market and I waded in, throwing everything I had into selling online.  It was profitable.  It was also time-consuming.  The young lady certainly has a valid point.  What is to be my response to her question?

Life is short.  Our time with our children is even shorter.  While I would have described the first question, the one from the young man, as a “poser”; the second, from the young lady, seemed to be a “no-brainer”, one which required no thought at all.  My children are probably the most important projects I have ever worked on, if I may use such crass terminology.  With my world-view being influenced heavily by my faith and understanding of the Bible, I have always known that a man’s family is of principal importance.  It’s a responsibility given us by our God.  And, knowing that my family needed me to be there for them made the answer to the girl’s question an easy one.  I told her that I would figure out a different time to do that extra work.  I determined that my schedule after that day, until the day the kids really did leave home, would always include time for them.  My evenings remained free from then on.

I told you that the answer to my daughter’s question was a “no-brainer”.  That said, I have spent more than a few hours in thought about it over the last decade.  The thoughts had nothing to do with lost profit and everything to do with people I love.  Did my decision cost me?  That depends on your definition of “cost”.  There was probably less cash in the bank account; most likely even a disadvantage in building a customer base.  The payoff, though…I won’t ever be able to tally that up.  That’s the way it is with some decisions.  If you’re a plus/minus list maker, with the advantages going in one column and the disadvantages in another, I can’t help you there.  This list says family comes first.  Period.  No plus column, no minus column…just the big picture. 

What about the young man’s question?  You know how I answered that, don’t you?  Well…the music store is still going.  Yes, the Internet plays a big part in our business, but the doors are still open to people. Customers are still walking through the door, the phone is still ringing throughout the day, everyday.  I actually made that decision quickly, as well.  You see, not many of us are blessed with a profession which matches our idea of the perfect job, but this is as close as it gets for me.  I really don’t love counting money, don’t care as much as many do about profit or loss, although my banker has convinced me that the former is to be desired over the latter.  I’m certainly not looking to take over the instrument market from the huge Internet sellers.  I do, however, love being able to talk with the people who walk through that door; to provide them with whatever it is they need.  I don’t mind selling them that thousand dollar instrument if it’s what they need, but I’m also learning to be just fine if they walk out the door with nothing in their hands, as long as we’ve had the chance to serve. 

There is a legacy I want to leave to my children and my grandchildren and yes, even to my customers.  I pray that the legacy is not one of grasping for things, or money, or even public regard.  I want to serve…my family…my customers…my God.  And, even though I don’t claim to have learned how to do this to the exclusion of all things selfish, I am finally realizing that living a life of service is actually the way in which we can be completely fulfilled.  I find myself shuddering every time I hear the words, “First, you have to love yourself…”  A life of service always precedes the knowledge of lasting achievement, not the other way around.  “Me first” has never been the mantra of a successful, well-rounded individual, but it has been the lifelong motto of any number of grasping and selfish individuals who live out their lives in fear and suspicion of (and from) the rest of the world.

For many years, I pulled a trailer behind my truck when delivering pianos.  I was never worried while moving forward with the trailer being towed behind the vehicle.  It always followed just fine.  The worry started when I had to back the whole rig up.  The trailer is not a natural leader (thus the term trail-er), wanting to go first left, then right, and frequently, jackknifing to the side of the vehicle.  This is because of the distance from the front wheels, which determine the direction of the whole contraption.  When the guiding wheels are in the front, with the rest of the apparatus following, a straight line is easy to achieve.  The other way around, problems abound. 

The truck pulling a trailer is what comes to mind as I consider today’s quandary(s).  The truck serves, steadily and surely leading the way for the trailer of personal needs following along behind.  Again and again, through my life, I get the trailer leading the way, with disastrous results every time.  Side to side, and around in circles we go, the goal never coming any closer.  Trailers are made to be pulled behind, not to lead.  Some processes just work better when we get the order of things right.

I’m not sure if it makes my kids too happy now, but it is to be hoped that the real inheritance I leave behind is not a pile of cash, hoarded and guarded selfishly, but a legacy which will last a lot longer and do a lot more good.  Time will tell. 

“You can’t get unless you give.  And you have to give without wanting to get.”
(Theodore H White~ English journalist and historian~1915-1986)