No Regrets? Yeah, Right!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“What have you to say that you did not say at our last meeting? Or, perhaps you have things to unsay?”  Two former friends are speaking together in Tolkien’s “The Lord Of The Rings” when the above statement is made. You will recognize, of course that the second question is simply an impossibility.  I was reminded of this imaginary exchange as a friend today remarked of very real regret and of words that cannot be unsaid.  His sadness led me to reflect.  I have a closet full of things I have said which I want back; a closet full of actions I have carried out which I want undone.  A few of them happened many, many years ago, but still I recall the moments and hours of anguish they caused.  After years have passed, I still see pain in faces and hurt in eyes.

My memories go back to early childhood and an encounter with a (then) young lady who was trying to get me and a brother to do what was right.  The young lady was slightly mentally handicapped, but she knew right from wrong and also knew our parents and what they expected of us.  I remember as she took us by the hands and led us home, how we used the flexible sticks we grabbed as we were led along to hit her on the legs and back.  I was four.  I would like to undo that.

I won’t bore you with the litany of cruel and thoughtless acts and words throughout my early life.  Suffice it to say that there were many.  Quite a few of them can be brought to mind without much effort, others come at odd moments, triggered by conversations and life situations.  Cruelty to kind teachers, to kids who were different, to siblings…all these memories still have the power to bring regrets and recriminations, though they occurred years ago.  I want to undo those stupid and senseless deeds.  They are accomplished and I am unable to erase them.

As an adult, the thoughtless acts and words have continued.  I recall events with my children, both in younger years and as they advanced through their adolescent stages, for which I would gladly issue a recall.  But, they are gone beyond recall; acts completed and words already formed and spoken.  Sarcasm used on young children yields hurt spirits, selfishness on my part forms bitterness and resentment.  I want all of those acts and words back, but I can’t snatch them out of memory.

Just last week at the dinner table, while speaking with my now adult children, in stubbornness I insisted that I was correct regarding a subject about which I knew nothing.  I would prefer that the conversation had never taken place, but it did.  In my memory, the words still hang out there.  I wish I could just pluck them out of the air and have them disappear.  It’s not possible.

Do you understand why my heart is pained as my friend makes two simple statements today?  “Filled with regret.”  And later, “Words cannot be unsaid.”  I want to fix it for him, to tell him what I know about forgiveness and grace, but I cannot.  I do know about forgiveness and grace.  I have experienced both.  Still, I feel the pain of failure, of relationships damaged.  God’s forgiveness and grace erase the punishment for sinful acts, but the temporal consequences remain.  Our lives are filled with regrets and sadness as a result.

Is it dark enough for you yet?  Do you feel hopeless?  That was not my intent.  You see, here is what I know beyond the regret.  Hurtful words spoken cannot be unsaid, but they can be overshadowed by loving apologies and by constructive conversations that follow such apologies.  Angry actions cannot be taken back, but they can be blended into a palette of loving deeds and a consistent walk that demonstrates the grace which has been shown to us individually.  Will we forget?  No.  It seems certain to me that the memory of pain we caused is much stronger to us than in the memories of those who suffered the pain, if we have taken steps to make things right.  I have spoken to my children at various times about the events that live in my memory and they assure me that either they have no remembrance of the events or that they are forgiven.  If others can forgive me, I should be able to do the same and let those painful memories go.  Not as if they never happened, but as if they are no longer a focal point in my past.

I’m not an artist, but I love paintings.  I enjoy watching artists at work.  They take dead, monotonous colors and, putting those individual colors onto a drab canvas, they blend and draw until a scene takes shape.  Have you ever seen an artist who has made a mistake?  They don’t throw away the canvas.  They don’t get a rag and wipe away the error.  They don’t even deny the existence of the flaw, but they use it constructively instead.  They blend the erroneous stroke into the painting, working in other colors and shades.  Before you know it, an expert couldn’t point out the errant stroke.  The finished work of art still includes the error, perhaps a raft of them, but its beauty is unmarred; instead incorporating those mistakes into the tableau, the completed picture.

That’s how life is.  Regrets and all, we take life as it comes, acknowledging our mistakes and sins.  As we build and repair relationships, the problems fade into the whole fabric, becoming in some ways, part of its beauty.  Not that our angry words and selfish actions are beautiful, but the whole has beauty because of grace, and forgiveness, and second chances to get it right.

No regrets?  Ha!  I have lots of those.  There will undoubtedly be more.  But I also have the joy of seeing those regrets fade into the background when we are forgiven and move forward to face the challenges of life.

Perhaps, it’s not the way I would have preferred, but it will do.

“To err is human, to forgive, Divine.”
(Alexander Pope~English poet~1688-1744)

“To err is human, but when the eraser wears out ahead of the pencil, you’re overdoing it.”
(Josh Jenkins)

Gateways

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

“Honey, that old gate is getting really bad.  Do you think we could get it fixed soon?”  The Lovely Lady’s voice had taken on an exasperated tone, so I knew better than to ask my stock questions in response.  “We?  Do you have a mouse in your pocket?”  No, this one required a response with a tiny bit more tact, so I replied, “It’s a nice afternoon.  I think I’ll take a stab at it today.”

The big gate sits between the front sidewalk of the music store and our backyard, so it gets a good bit of traffic.  I was sure ten years ago when it was installed that it would be trouble.  The sidewalk is really too wide for a single gate, but in the interest of aesthetics, one was built to span the entire width.  Now, after a decade of weather, falling trees, and ice storms…to say nothing of the people who wander through at odd intervals, the wood structure is tired.  However, it is much too important a point of ingress and egress to let fall into disuse (it is the entry for all of our back door friends), so I attempted a repair to extend the life of the swinging fence closure.  I must have been at least partially successful, because tonight, the Lovely Lady came in after covering the flowers to keep off the frost which is promised and told me that the gate was working much better, to which I replied, “Now, aren’t you glad we fixed it today?”  I find I’m much braver after taking care of responsibilities than before.

For some reason, it was a day for gates.  Well, actually…a day for gateways.  I worked for awhile this afternoon on a different type of gateway.  We have an e-commerce website, through which our customers may purchase products online using credit and debit cards.  To do this, our card processor requires us to maintain a relationship with a company called a “gateway”.  You see, we sell products.  That’s one side of the fence.  The card processor accepts the payment for the products.  That’s the other side of the fence.  But, to get from one side to the other, a gateway is required.  In this example, the gateway is another company that is the “middle-man” between our web store and the credit card processor, facilitating movement of the payment from the shopping cart on our site to the processor, who then deposits the money in our checking account (minus, of course, a little chunk from each transaction).  The gateway is a mutually necessary intermediary, set there to control the flow of information and money.  We can’t get along without it.  As I dealt with some mandatory changes to our gateway system this afternoon, I couldn’t avoid the realization that, here I was, mending gates again.

And, as normal, I also can’t help but harken back (that’s still a good phrase, isn’t it?) to my childhood days.  Frequently, we would help Mr. Cox move his cattle from one of his fields to another, trailing the thirty or forty bovine creatures out of one gate and down a country road, bordered on one side by an irrigation canal and on the other with wild brushland.  Cactus and mesquite trees made up most of the brush.  We only had to keep watch on the brush side of the road, since there was no chance the cows would be crossing the canal on the opposite side.  About two, maybe three miles away, there was another field surrounded by barbed wire (“bob wire”, we called it).  It had a gate, through which all the stubborn creatures had to be shoe-horned, so they could then spread out onto the better grazing awaiting them there.  The gate…Ah, there was a problem.  I remember on one of these semi-annual treks, that I was to open the gate before the impatient herders and their charges reached it.  It didn’t happen.

You have to understand “bob wire” fences.  They are cheap and effective, but the same men who save money by putting up the barbed wire can’t stand to waste money on an expensive gate.  The result of this thrift is a gate made of three strands of barbed wire with a gnarled post on one end that isn’t really attached to anything else.  It is held in place (and therefore, the strands of barbed wire are suspended where they need to be) by sitting in a loop of wire just above the ground and with another loop at the top, which must be lifted over the post.  After that loop is lifted, the gate may be dragged out of the way, opening the lane for the cattle, or tractor, or pickup truck to go through.  Sounds easy, right?  Lift a loop of wire.  What you have to remember is that the three strands of barbed wire are stretched tight, creating a pretty hefty amount of pressure of the post against the loop.  Lifting the loop entails putting even greater pressure on that wire gate to overcome the tension on the loop, allowing it to slide up and over the post.  Imagine my chagrin, as I struggled with the “putting greater pressure” part of that equation, to watch the cattle and herders pile up around the gate, awaiting my success, which never arrived.  I strove mightily, but made no headway.  My humiliation was complete as old Mr. Cox, in his sixties by then, came beside me and said, “You’ve got to put a little more oomph into it, Boy,” and squeezed gently, removing the loop easily.

In spite of that experience, I still like gates.  They lead from one limited area into new, uncharted territory.  While they control who and what is allowed to pass through, they do not deny entry.  If one is supposed to pass through, they grant access.  The lack of a gate, properly situated, causes problems; long treks around instead of through, clambering over fences never intended to be climbed.  Without them, access is denied and frustration levels increase.  When suitably placed and opened in a timely manner, tensions are eased and new vistas open up before us.

I enjoyed the word picture drawn by a college student the other day, as he was interviewing me for a class project.  “You don’t sell music…” he opined,  “…as much as just give people a way to get into music.”  I like that!  I like being a gateway to a world that might otherwise be closed.  I hope it doesn’t end with music, though.  As much as I love that thought, there is much more we are meant to do.  All of us have the potential to be gateways.  Gateways to all kinds of good things, as well as bad.  We can lead folks to emotional pain, sadness, and hurt.  Infinitely better than that though, is the possibility that we can lead them to joy, and love, and unity. 

I remember reading John Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” as a child.  How distinctly I recall the image of the Wicket Gate, where Christian enters the King’s Highway.  As he approaches, he is attacked by someone hidden and shooting flaming darts at him.  Not only does the gate open immediately as it should, but a hand is extended and he is quickly pulled inside, out of the fray and danger and onto the path that leads him to his glorious goal.  What a great picture of Grace!

I like gates.  The kind that function as they should.  The one I repaired today will fail again.  Maybe the next time, I’ll remind the Lovely Lady of that “bob wire” gate and see if she can just count her blessings.  Then again…maybe not.

“If you can find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn’t lead to anywhere.”
(Frank A Clark~Syndicated newspaper columnist~1911-1991)

“Enter through the narrow gate, for wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction.  But, small is the gate and narrow is the road that leads to life and only a few find it.”
(Matthew 7:13,14 NIV)

Calling in Sick

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I wanted to write a blog today.  Really, I did.  But, not feeling well and deciding that sleep might be a necessity, leads me to think that a re-run might be in order.  Looking back over the last year of posts, this one stands out to me, not because it was so good, but just because I like remembering people I loved. 

Give Me a Chance to Catch My Breath

The problem started about three or four years ago.  Most people I know with this affliction have it when they are children and then it lessens in severity as they get older, but leave it to me to wait until my waning years to acquire an infirmity that I should have outgrown instead of grown into.  I have asthma.  Oh, not the full-blown, struggle to inhale, think you’re going to black out, wheezing asthma, but enough to cause shortness of breath and an annoying tight cough, which can’t be relieved by regular cough medicines.

I’ve got my father to thank for it…well really, his father…come to think of it, I shared it with my son too, so there’s enough paternal blame to go around on this one.  Heredity seems to have played its part here.  My father had to take an early retirement due to respiratory problems brought on by allergens in the workplace.  Long before that, his dad (my Grandpa Phillips) was stricken with emphysema, a lung disease far more serious than my touch of bronchial asthma.

I thought about Grandpa today.  I had helped the Lovely Lady with a reception for a friend of ours and was carrying boxes out to the car.  The extreme change in temperature from inside the building to the frosty air outside was enough to bring on another attack and before I knew it, I was straining to breathe.  I felt a kinship with Grandpa that I had never thought about before as I saw him in my mind’s eye, struggling to breathe from the exertion of walking 10 feet across the room.  He would stop and lean against a table, or chair, or desk with his torso heaving, the over-developed chest muscles forcing air in and out of the diseased lungs.  I must admit that as a child, I didn’t sympathize well.  This was just how he had always been in my memory, and I assumed that it was his own fault.  Grandpa had been a heavy smoker, his brand of choice, filter-less Camels.  A he-man’s cigarette if ever there was one.  But for a person predisposed to breathing issues as seems likely, the habit was a slow killer.  I’m not a smoker and my problem doesn’t begin to approach the gravity of his, but just for a few moments this evening, I felt an empathy, a bond with my Grandpa that I never considered when he was living.  And, I missed him again.

Grandma and Grandpa lived across the street from me when I was a kid.  What a great blessing, to be able to grow up so close to your grandparents that you can run across the street and sit with them on the screened-in front porch, or maybe watch  an episode of “I Love Lucy” or “Gunsmoke” on television with them. Two channels on TV then, with the signal literally coming through the airwaves and being picked up by a pair of “rabbit ears” on top of the tiny black & white set.  Every time an airplane would approach the local airport (we were in the flight path), the static and wavy lines across the screen would interrupt the program.  But the best thing was listening to Grandpa tell stories about people he knew.  He loved to talk–even talked about talking…“So, I says to him, says I, …”, was one of my favorite phrases I heard him use when describing a conversation with someone else.  If I weren’t such a language snob, I would incorporate that into my own speaking.  Maybe it’s best to keep that as a memory instead.  But I think I get my penchant for story-telling from him and, from where I’m standing, that’s not a bad legacy.  The reader is free to agree or not…

The asthma won’t go away, but I carry an inhaler with me when it flares up and a couple of puffs on it usually relieve the symptoms within a minute or two.  I’m not happy to have the problem, but tonight, I’m actually a little grateful for the walk down memory lane.  We’ve all got memories that live in our heads and hearts; some sad, like Grandpa’s ultimately fatal affliction, but also some happy ones too, like my memories of life with him so close.  There are times when I think it would be great if all our memories were like the latter, but I’m reminded of a song I heard as a teenager which pointed out that hardships make us value the good times more; just as we cherish coming home because we had to be away in the first place.  I think memories are often like that, the bittersweet giving way to the heartwarming, actually making the happy occasions seem more bright.

Next month, we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving, another of the memory-fraught times of the year for most of us.  I’m going to be remembering my Grandpa’s dinner prayer as we approach the holiday.  “Our Gracious Heavenly Father, we thank thee for the many blessings which Thou hast bestowed upon us…”  When I was a boy, it was only remarkable in that the language never changed.  As an aging man, now a grandfather myself, the message of those words has lasted well beyond his mortal years and still resonates today.

“Many blessings” indeed.

“To live in hearts we leave behind, is not to die”
(Thomas Campbell, from his poem “Hallowed Ground”)

Tandem

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Do you ever have those days when you’ve got it all together?  Everything happens just the way you planned, all your ducks are in a row; in short, you’ve got everything under control.  Yeah, me too…sometimes.  Today wasn’t one of those days.  Oh, I put up a great front; probably even fooled most of the folks who crossed my path, but all day I was aware that I was far from in control.

For some reason, it seems that I’m far more likely to recognize my inadequacies on a daily basis than I once was.  The older I get, the more convinced I find myself that I am not all put together.  I don’t like it, either.  I remember the days of being cocksure, of being almost obnoxious…okay, not almost obnoxious, actually completely obnoxious in my assurance of being right.  If you are one of the ones I ran my steamroller over in those days, I sincerely apologize.  I was young…and immature.  Come to think of it, if it happened recently (and it’s not unlikely)…just immature.  I have warned you before that I am a slow learner.  But, I am slowly learning.

I’m also grateful for second (or sometimes third) chances to get things right.  This afternoon, as I worked in the office, a young lady came into the music store.  The Lovely Lady was there to talk with her.  I heard the voices, but wasn’t really listening.  All I know is that in a moment, the Lovely Lady was at the window asking if I wanted to buy a particular band instrument.  My immediate reaction was rude and unthinking.  “No!  You know we don’t buy that brand of instrument.  Besides that, it’s weeks after the time for us to sell it.  We’ll have it until next school year!”  I told you yesterday of our predicament with taxes and inventory and I was not about to let that happen again.  This was the start of the new me, the tough, disciplined me.  My mind was preoccupied with my own problems, so I completely missed the look on the Lovely Lady’s face as I replied roughly.  She however, didn’t fail to miss the look on the young lady’s face at the counter.  The disappointed young lady picked up her treasure, which had been her last chance to get the money she needed to meet an important deadline, and headed dejectedly out the door.

The Lovely Lady’s head was back at the window instantly.  “Couldn’t we give her something?  Twenty dollars?”  “Does she need it?” I asked stupidly (Duh!).  “She really does,” came the quick answer.  Okay, I’ll admit it.  I’m slow.  I know that ordinarily the question regarding the purchase of such an instrument would never have come to me in the first place if she didn’t think we needed to step up.  She wanted to give me a chance to do the right thing without being prodded.  But today I was tied up in my own problems.  Today, I thought I was the one who needed help.  By this time though, a light was starting to glow.  We needed to act quickly.  “Well, stop her!”  I said immediately.  Called back in from her car, the young lady was astounded with the unexpected gift.  Well, it was certainly unexpected after my initial reaction!  And, my Lovely Lady had the opportunity to remind her that it would be her turn the next time to share a blessing with someone else who needed it.

I’m already in enough trouble as it is for divulging this episode to you, so I’ll not compound my problems by getting mushy.  However, I will point out that on the days when I’m not already at my best, there is often someone else nearby who helps me to become my best.  There’s not a single one of us who can’t use that help once in awhile…or, if you’re like me, frequently.

Flawless performances pulled off in real life are seldom accomplished by a solo act.  Sure, there are times when I have to step up myself and get it right without prodding.  But more often, I’m thankful for the tag-team approach that allows me to step back from my snap decisions and take a second look.  I’ve said it before and this won’t be the last time I write it…I’m thankful for second chances – to get a  bad decision right, to make amends, to say the right words that help erase the stupid ones. 

Tomorrow is, in fact, another day; another chance to get it all together.  Lessons learned today can only help and she’ll still be at my side, so I’m good.  May you all be so blessed.

“…but you’ll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two.”
(“Daisy Bell”~popular American song~composed in 1892 by Harry Dacre)

“But, pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up.”
(Ecclesiastes 4:10b)

Counting

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

What a week!  I don’t mean that in a good way either.  Well, actually it was a pretty good week in the way of encounters and interactions with people.  I learned new things.  I accomplished some jobs which had been waiting for me for a long time.  But if the week were put into one of those old style balances, the kind with two platforms, one on either side of a fulcrum, I think the negative side would be hanging down a lot lower than the positive.

What happened?  Who’s to blame for this negativity, this pessimism?  If you must know, I’m pretty sure the blame lies with the guy typing these words out on his keyboard.  It seems that a few unwise business choices, more than a little procrastination, and one or two (or several more) instances of misguided benevolence may have converged to form a financial situation with which I’m not happy.  You see, last week we had to pay a sum of money to the government in the form of taxes.  That in itself isn’t such a strange occurrence.  It’s just that the amount we paid was much more than expected.  No, even more than that.  Thus, my dark mood.

What we discovered, to put is simply, is that we have too much junk.  Not too much money.  I’m not sure that could ever happen.  My memory goes back to the financial adviser who once stood in my church and made the statement, “I know just how much money every single one of you needs.”  As we stared at him in disbelief, he continued,  “A little bit more!”  And, of course, he was right.  We’ll always take a little more; will always believe that happiness lies just one pay-grade above us; will always convince ourselves with the myth that just that next step will be all we’ll ever need.  It will never happen.

No, I don’t have too much money, just too much stuff.  We bought too much inventory last year and the government thinks that an inventory gain is profit.  Now I’ve never known a bank that would let me deposit a trumpet like hundred dollar bills, but to the IRS it is the same thing.  Thus it was that we signed the checks to empty the bank accounts last week, surrounded by inventory which the Lovely Lady will never in a million years be able to make into a tasty enough meal to tempt me.  I would almost say that I am depressed.  Oh, not in a clinical way.  It’s just that I can’t make myself see a return on that money, can’t consider it an investment which will pay back any financial dividend.  I’m really not happy.

The thought of inventory in my store being the same as money got me thinking, though.  Many in the world think of all of us as rich.  Our culture counts riches as dollars in the bank.  The rest of the world looks at all the accoutrements with which we surround ourselves and considers us wealthy beyond belief.  We look at a number; a million, a billion, fifty billion…to determine how wealthy the man is.  Most people around the globe look at the belongings and marvel at our wealth.  Two sets of silverware?  What madness is this?  Many never hold a utensil in their hands.  Ten, twenty, fifty pairs of shoes?  Is it possible?  One pair, repaired and patched over and over again is all most can claim.  Walk-in closets packed with clothes for each season and every occasion?  Wealth beyond their wildest dreams!  Food to throw away after a meal?  Foolishness!  Their children go to bed crying with hunger and they themselves go without the nourishment they need, simply to keep those children alive.

I’m not writing this to make you feel guilty (it accomplishes that though, doesn’t it?), but simply to help us understand that sometimes a change in perspective can be beneficial.  I’m feeling sorry for myself because there are fewer numbers to look at when I glance at the bank statement today.  Funny…I had clothes without holes in them with which to cover my body this morning.  An amazing repast offered by the Lovely Lady weighed down the table at dinner time this afternoon.  I took a Sunday afternoon nap in comfort as I reclined in front of an entertaining football game on the big-screen TV (I think it was entertaining, but really don’t remember).  I could go on, but you get the picture.  Cars, clothes, food, stereos, cameras, homes…the list is endless.  Our wealth is astounding.  We are blessed beyond belief.

It’s trite, I know.  You have problems and don’t have time to be reminded that you’ve been blessed.  I don’t really understand why it is so much easier to focus on the negatives than on the overarching positives, but we do it continually.  I know I do.  Sick children, aging parents, errant pets, demanding customers; these and many other niggling problems weigh on my mind and rob me of joy every day.

Can I be trite for a moment more?  I love the advice that Bing Crosby offered in a musical way in the old movie “White Christmas”.  It seems stupid until you stop and get a little shift in perspective.  “When I’m worried, and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep.”  We are blessed beyond the wildest dreams of most of the world!  How is that not worth remembering?  And celebrating?

The government can have the dirty old dollars.  I’ve got the Lovely Lady.  And my children.  And grandchildren.  And friends (not just “close friends and acquaintances” on Facebook either, thank you!).  I’ve even got a brain that functions passably well (for now).  And, the grace of a loving Creator has been showered upon me and all who accept it.  I don’t have any stuff or any sum of money worth more than those.

I’m guessing you don’t either.

“The question for each man to settle is not what he would do if he had means, time, influence, and educational advantages, but what he will do with the things he has.”
(Hamilton Wright Mabie~American essayist~1846-1916) 


“The unthankful heart discovers no mercies; but the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings”
(Henry Ward Beecher~American minister~1813-1887)

Gutter Language

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

If there were gutter guards back then, we didn’t know about them.  Oh, you know what I’m talking about.  Those bumpers at the side of the bowling lane which are pulled up when children are bowling to keep the ball from going in the gutter every time it is sent spinning toward the pins.  Actually, the historical record shows that these modern contrivances came along in the 1980s, first as carpet rolls set in the gutter, then as inflatable bumpers, and most commonly seen today as pull-up fences which guarantee no zeros on the score card (oh sorry, overhead display) for any young, sensitive child.  But back in the 1960s, when I really, really could have used them, children were expected to learn the hard way, by experience.  So, no gutter bumpers.  It led to one of my most embarrassing memories.

My family went to a small church, with few families who had school-age children, so to get a decent-sized group, we did many activities with the high school and junior high school and even the elementary school kids all together.  This particular night, we were bowling.  With the restrictions many churches put on questionable activities in those days, I wonder that there were no eyebrows lifted at all those impressionable kids trooping into the bowling alley, with its bar along the back wall and the air so permeated with cigarette smoke that even a non-smoker could almost have made his own smoke rings in the space above his head.  But there we were, from the lofty and sometimes haughty seniors all the way down to a lowly third grader who was haughty in his own way, being positive that he was going to make a bucketful of strikes to impress said seniors this night.  It was not to happen in that manner, alas.  No, the night was destined to be one of shame and disappointment for the young lad.

I stood, as I had seen the others do, with my rented shoes on the arrows pointing the way to the lane.  The ball had been carefully selected for fit and weight.  It was held with the fingers of the right hand and resting on the palm of the left, then was lifted and swung back as I moved toward the point of release.  Exactly in the middle of the lane and, careful to stop before the foul line, I let go.  The ball hit with a gentle thump, rolled down the center of the lane for a few feet, then headed sharply right and smacked the side of the chute as it slid dishearteningly into the gutter.  What?  How could this be?  I was flummoxed for a moment, but recovered quickly, knowing that I had a second attempt to make at upsetting the ten pins way down at the end of the alley.  No matter.  They would all go down with the next roll.  The ritual was the same; stand, lift, swing, release.  Thump!  Down the lane the ball rolled and abruptly headed for the left gutter.  Zero!  Zip!  Nada!  I had netted not a single pin for my first frame on the score sheet.  Oh well…it was bound to get better, wasn’t it?

“Better” was not how I would put it.  In all of that game, one pin went down the entire ten frames.  One, single, lonely, mortifying pin.  If memory serves correctly, it was on a gutter ball too.  The ball rolled off the lane as it reached the pins and snuck back in to knock over the 10 pin.  I was crushed.  The older kids had a great time with it for most of the game, teasing and mocking as gutter ball after gutter ball rolled down toward the pin-setting machines (certainly not toward the pins!).  As the game progressed, however, the taunts and gibes lessened and the sympathy began to flow.  It was worse than the jeering.  I remember leaving the bowling alley and sitting on the front steps until it was time to go…just to get away from their expressions of understanding and encouragement.  I couldn’t get home fast enough that night!

Of course, you won’t be surprised to learn that I never bowled again and that I detest the game to this day.  Actually, I’m happy to tell you that I bowled many more times with the other young people from my church and I really enjoy the sport (I can call it a sport, right?) to this day.  No, the nature put into me and most of us, by the Creator is not the sort of spirit that quits when it is defeated.  If anything, we seem to be more defiant in the face of battles lost, ready to do better the next time.  Sometimes slowly, but often quickly, we improve, finding ways to avoid the embarrassing performance that lives on in our memories.  Failure is an amazing professor, teaching an abundance of lessons, from technique to strategy, from humility to perseverance.  I am suspicious of folks who have an easy time of life, realizing that their success is shallow, having come easily and without cost.  I find myself to be a great admirer of those who achieve success through hardship, overcoming failure time and time again to rise above the crowd and to excel.

I wish that I could tell you that this describes me.  It doesn’t…yet.  I’m still working on it.  In some ways, you might say that I’m a plodder.  I just keep working at it, giving up and then returning to the task, time and time again.  I may never rise above the pack.  And, that’s okay with me.  I love the old maxim, learned long ago in childhood days:  “Virtue is its own reward.”  We don’t do what is right because of the pay-off, or because of the glory.  We do it because it should be done.  Not a popular line of thought in today’s climate, but it still works.

Life getting the best of you?  Been knocked down a few times (or more than a few)?  Okay, it might be time to try a different plan of attack, but if you’re still breathing (and you probably are if you’re reading this), it seems to me that you still have time left to take another stab at it.  Embarrassment?  Disappointment?  Hurt?  Each one is just another hurdle, another opportunity to show your mettle.  The sympathy and encouragement coming from the bystanders are there to help, not harm.  Up and at ’em!  Folks who love you are right beside you!

I’m going to keep plodding.  I’ll keep learning.  I’m fairly certain that I’ll keep failing…and trying again.  There is still time for a few successes between here and there. Bring it on!

“To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence”
(Mark Twain~American author and humorist~1835-1910)

“There are no secrets to success.  It is the result of preparation, hard work, and learning from failure.”
(Colin Powell~American General and Secretary-of-State)

It’s Only a Scratch…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You realize this means that I’m going to have to sell all of my Johnson & Johnson stocks, don’t you?”  My supervisor looked at me seriously, but the twinkle in his eye belied his solemn tone.  “What do you mean?” I queried.  “Well, if you’re not working for us anymore, they’re won’t be making any profit on production of Band-Aids and the stock will go down the tubes,” he quipped, now beginning to chuckle.  It was my last week at the old job of working with the electrical contractor.  I chuckled right along with him, but I knew he was wrong.  The monster health-care products manufacturer was safe.  You see, as long as I have any jobs to do that involve manual dexterity and tools, I’ll be needing their services.  Frequently.

It was a long standing joke that the company’s shopping list always included a fresh supply of the little adhesive bandages while I was employed there.  I have told you before that I am a klutz, but when you add tools to the mix, there is every chance that blood will be involved.  Unless I burn myself first.  Soldering irons and hot-glue guns are also self-inflicted wounds waiting to happen in my hands.  My self-proclaimed mantra concerning the glue gun is, “There’s a reason they call it ‘hot-glue’.”  Why, just two evenings ago, the Lovely Lady asked me to help position a piece of cardboard for a project she was working on and I stuck my thumb right in front of the gun as she moved toward her first glue point.  Rule of thumb (just so you know and yes, pun intended):  You should always let the glue cool off before attempting to remove it from your skin.  Hot glue spread around only makes the third-degree burns cover a larger area.

Again, a few moments before I sat down to write tonight, I found myself scrambling for one of the ubiquitous bandages to stem the flow of blood from my fore-finger.  I understand how to use tools.  Really, I do!  I know the rules for safe usage of all the hand-operated implements in my work bench.  I just don’t follow them.  I comprehend completely that the item held in your hand is not a safe surface on which to apply pressure with a screwdriver, but placing it on the bench makes it harder to see (and takes extra time to clear a space), so now I have an inch long laceration on my finger which throbs as I type.  Somehow, it is easier to use a razor blade when you cut toward, rather than away, from your body.  The list goes on.  Files, hack-saws, pliers…all have contributed to the periodic blood-letting and frequent howls of pain.  Even the tape dispenser has played its part in the sad tableau a time or two.  No, the investors at Johnson and Johnson can rest easy.  Their funds are safe.

Why do I repeat the dangerous actions time and time again?  You have no doubt heard that one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, while expecting a different result.  I don’t really think my sanity is seriously in question (yet), but this does beg the question, does it not?   I cut corners to save time, but pay the price in pain.  I take the easy way to work on a project, only to spend the next few days wincing every time I move the injured appendage.  I’m just not sure how to modify my behavior after all these years.  Maybe I never will.

I’m not sure if it fits, but I recall a story another supervisor told me years ago about his shop teacher in high school.  The shop teacher was a stickler for safety, insisting on eye protection and hard hats when appropriate.  He was constantly correcting unsafe procedures around the table-saws and other power tools and giving instructions regarding the use of utility knives, awls, and hammers.  All of that was undone in a few seconds one fateful afternoon.  As the entire class worked on a project in the shop, the teacher spotted a retractable tape measure, with the tape extended and locked in place, lying on the floor.  Pouncing on it quickly, he demanded to know to whom the tape belonged.  As the unlucky culprit admitted ownership, the teacher launched into a tirade about how unsafe it was to leave the tape stretched out.  Someone might have tripped over it, it might have gotten caught in a power tool, and someone could even cut himself on it.  As he spoke, he released the lock.  The tape zipped back into its case, gashing the teacher’s hand as it slid past.  It took numerous stitches to close the wound, but no amount of time spent in the emergency room could undo the damage done to his reputation as a safety expert.  Sometimes, bad stuff just happens, no matter how careful we are.

I guess what I’m saying is that you’ll get no deep spiritual truths from me tonight.  No life lessons, no earth-shattering philosophies, just a casual shrug of the shoulders.  I’ll probably continue to muddle through life, with a cut here and a burn there.  The alternative is for me to sit and vegetate in my easy chair.  And, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, I like my easy chair.  Naps are good for the soul.  That said, I hope that the undertaker has to pry a tool of some sort out of my battered hands when they come to take me away.  Sitting in the easy chair is okay for a bit of rest and relaxation.  But, I’ve still got some living to do and there’ll be a good bit of work done before I’m finished.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I just hope the Lovely Lady remembers that we need some Band-Aids when she goes shopping later this week.

“Say, do you think they call it a “nail-gun” because it shoots nails?”
(Al, in “Home Improvement”~1990’s Television sit-com)

“Let us then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate.
Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labour and to wait.”
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~American poet~1807-1882)

vanilla

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We had an argument at the dinner table today.  Well, not so much an argument, as a discussion…No…it was an argument.  I’m assuming that some of you will want to weigh in, so you can get your keyboards and smart phones ready to make your comments.  We were arguing, strangely enough, about ice cream flavors.

I will admit to being no connoisseur of gourmet foods.  I am not a “foody” in any way.  I eat food.  Real food.  I’m not fooled by a little raspberry sauce drizzled around a dish so tiny you have to use the lowest section of your trifocals to find it on the plate.  Presentation has nothing to do with the meals I like.  Flavor and texture.  Those are the most important attributes I’m seeking in the materials that pass my lips.  For instance, corn on the cob, fresh from the garden, husked and boiled in water, with a little salt and butter added…now that’s real food.  Creamed corn?  Not at all!  While there is a slight corn-like flavor to the recipe, the dreadful mushy, slimy dish resembles corn not at all.  A fresh tomato is good for any number of things.  Eaten by itself in wedges?  Sliced and laid atop a freshly grilled hamburger patty?  One of a few select ingredients in a plain dinner salad?  All wonderful conditions in which to consume the enigmatic fruit/vegetable.  Stewed and breaded?  I think the Valley Girl of the Seventies said it as delicately as I can put it – “Gag me with a spoon!”

You begin to see a pattern here, don’t you?  I like plain food.  The honest flavors and natural textures of foods are a treat to the palate and need very little embellishment.  I think I’m what used to be called a “meat and potatoes” man.  I’ll eat those other dishes when they are on the menu; even enjoy them at times.  But, for comfort food, for feeling that all is right with the world, I’ll have the fried chicken with mashed potatoes, thank you!  Sure, a little white gravy will go nicely on the potatoes, but not too much.  I want to taste the food I masticate.

Vanilla ice cream.  It’s what I prefer.  Actually, what I crave, since it’s not really supposed to be in my diet at all now.  If you’ll promise not to tell the Lovely Lady, I will admit to having a serving of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla just this evening.  I passed on it at dinner today.  But, it called my name for the rest of the day, so I answered.  Just a little.  Vanilla is an amazing flavor.  If you must know, that was the reason for the “discussion” at the dinner table.  One of our guests refused the offer of this food-of-the-gods after the meal, with one word, “Yuck!”  It was her contention that vanilla is plain, a non-flavor, if you will.  While there was a day I would have agreed with her assessment, I will readily confess that I have seen the error of my ways.  My sister-in-law (aided by her husband) creates an incredible home-made vanilla ice cream, the memory of which will make you want to spit out any Cookies and Cream you taste thereafter.  I have had Butter Pecan I thought was really good, but one spoonful of Aunt Jan’s homemade recipe drove away any fond thought of that plastic flavor which remained.

I have thought of this phenomenon numerous times, while consuming unseemly quantities of the fat-laden nectar.  I’m convinced that when we start to add flavors to the original, we begin a journey down a path that leads to all kinds of excess which make us forget what we loved in the first place.  A teaspoonful of chocolate syrup added today, turns into a couple of tablespoons the next time and before you know it, you’re consuming some substance unidentifiable as ice cream, with a name like Chocolate Chunky Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Nightmare, and wondering how you could have sunk so low.  (You may press “send” on those angry notes any time you are ready now…)

What’s my point, you ask?  As usual, I employ the ridiculous to illustrate the plain truth:  It is so simple to leave the path of clean, straightforward joys, mingling them with gaudy, overpowering extravagance, and before we know it, we no longer recognize the original product as real, as desirable. “Plain Vanilla” we call it, implying that it is somehow lacking.  The concept holds true throughout our culture.  Clean cut, wholesome young men and women are replaced by Hollywood with surgically enhanced and painted caricatures with attitude problems.  A criminal record is a plus, not an embarrassment.  If pets are important to you, it is no longer acceptable to just have a dog in the backyard, buying dry dog food at the local supermarket when they run out.  We must shop at stores which cater to the pet’s whims, offering amazingly expensive toys, clothes (yes, clothes!), and food.  Don’t leave that poor pooch alone at home all day!  Doggie Day Care is the only loving way to treat Fido in this culture!  Families who enjoy the simple pleasures of spending time together playing at the park are replaced with the Madison Avenue image of the family who spends together at the amusement park, while wearing costly mouse ears and hugging imaginary princesses who have no interest in returning the adoration.  Bigger, better, more flavor, more excitement…all these are desirable; while plain, clean, pure,and simple are pejoratives used to poke fun.  The add-ons eclipse the original, making it seem obsolescent and passe’.

I’ll have two scoops of Vanilla, please.  I’m fairly sure that great things are more often accomplished by just plain folks.  Heroes are more likely to be normal people with simple values than they are to be the fake, embellished stars on television.  Honest and responsible young adults are reared in the homes of honest and responsible parents.

On second thought, make that just one scoop.  (Watching my calories and fat intake, you see?)  Still Vanilla.  It’s an amazing flavor…

“‘White,’ Saruman sneered.  ‘It serves as but a beginning. The white cloth may be dyed, the white page may be overwritten, the white light may be broken.’  ‘In which case, it is no longer white,’ Gandalf answered.  “And, he who breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.'”
(Lord of the Rings~J.R.R. Tolkien)

“‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free, 
’tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…”
(Simple Gifts~Elder Joseph Bracket~American Shaker songwriter~1797-1882)

Furless Felines

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Mom! I want to ride my bike in the front yard!”  The insistent young man had left the low branch of the tree, where he was performing an acrobatic trick we used to call “skinning the cat,” starting from hanging on the branch and then flipping up and over it, barely missing the other branches with his head as he spun.  Now, he sat impatiently waiting for his mother to move out of the way, but she didn’t oblige.  She had already told the preschooler that he wasn’t to take his bicycle through the gate, knowing that he had a huge backyard in which to ride safely, but he really, really wanted to ride his big boy bike (no training wheels!) outside the confines of the fenced backyard.  His mom stood her ground, so he backed away from the gate.  Still objecting loudly, he turned and pedaled off around the back.  Obviously, he understood that when Mom said “No,” she meant it.

Well, that’s the way it appeared to me, for just a moment.  The young fellow’s mom and dad stood outside the fence and we talked about everything and nothing, just enjoying the company.  A few moments later, I saw the blond head of the little guy poke tentatively out the front door of the house.  Pretty quickly, the little bicycle’s front wheel and handlebars were visible coming out of the door also.  Our conversation came to a pretty sudden stop as his parents became aware of his intentions.  The disappointed boy pointed his mount the other way and headed back once more to the dull and oh-so-tame backyard to pedal along the familiar paths worn by daily use.  I couldn’t help but be proud of the innovative lad.  I think he takes after his grandfather a little bit.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.  I had to grin as I thought of how it applied so accurately to this adventurous boy in more ways than one.  Once again, a familiar adage lights the way to original thought.  I have wondered why anyone would want to skin a cat, so I explored the origins of this well-known phrase, only to be left disappointed.  It seems that no one can point to a widespread practice of removing the hide from felines as the inspiration for the saying.  The use of the phrase is documented well back into the seventeenth century, so neither can it have anything to do with the aforementioned trick of flipping up over a gymnastic bar or branch of a tree.  The name for that maneuver doesn’t appear until well after the mid-nineteenth century.  To my amusement, I found another similar phrase which was also in use early on:  “There are more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cream.”  My disappointment at not finding any proof of a widespread trade in tabby pelts will have to go by the wayside.  I may, however, have to find a way to incorporate that newly discovered adage into everyday use.

As much as I would prefer that my grandson not use his intelligence to find ways around his parents instructions, I admire his quick wit and inventiveness.  We can only hope that his Mom and Dad find a way to guide his adroitness at finding alternative methods to more constructive and acceptable uses.  A ready wit and the ability to adapt are equally as useful in productive avocations as they are in delinquent acts.  Time will tell, but knowing his parents, I’m betting on the former.

The ability to think originally, to change gears and take another approach is a gift which will serve throughout life.  We hit barriers in life almost daily.  Many of us panic and stand petrified.  The tried and tested routine has failed and we have no idea how to proceed.  The innovators, the trailblazers…they have the innate ability to see alternatives, to think through the problem and come up with a different path which achieves the same purpose.  I would like to be one of them.  Oh, I have moments of brilliance…okay, these days more like nano-seconds of brilliance…where I can think “outside the box” as the overused catchphrase goes, but it takes longer and longer, the more set in my ways I become.  What a breath of fresh air it was to me today, to think about the future for the young rascal, as he learns to turn that bent for disobedience and selfishness into positive behavior.  The innovation and adventurous spirit turned to worthy undertakings will work to his advantage for his entire lifetime.

And, while it’s dark and no one is watching, I may just go out to the maple tree in my backyard and see if there really is more than one way to skin the cat.  Yeah…maybe not.  Probably the only one who would lose any skin would be this old man.  Maybe I’ll just rest up for tomorrow.    I’m pretty sure that there will be an opportunity or two to test out the old adage again then.

“You have a ready wit.  Tell me when it’s ready.”
(Henny Youngman~American comic~1906-1998)

“We must cut our coat according to our cloth, and adapt ourselves to changing circumstances.”
(William Inge~English priest and educator~1860-1954)

A Season and a Purpose

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The old vintage guitar sits gleaming in its case.  I am amazed at the condition.  Over fifty years old and it is nearly impossible to see any wear on the guitar.  The frets show no sign of erosion from contact with the strings, the back has no indication of any of the finish wear we call “buckle rash”.  As I examine the pristine instrument, the question grows in my head.  Where has this guitar been for the last fifty years?  It was not an expensive instrument, not a famous brand name.  No, it was a catalog store purchase, bought sight unseen for the purpose of being played, probably by some blue collar worker, or by one of his kids.  It was not the type of guitar you would baby: carefully avoiding scratching the pickguard, wiping the strings clean after use.  This guitar, you would play for all you’re worth, arms flailing, pick pummeling the strings at every up and down stroke, maybe even drumming on the big hollow body for effect.  It is not a high-bred instrument, dedicated to quiet studios and recital halls.  The working man’s guitar I hold in my hands shouldn’t have looked this nice for more than a few weeks after it was delivered by the postman and breathlessly torn free of its shipping carton and packaging.

Yet, here it is.  The finish is as bright as the day it was hung on the rack in the drying room at the factory.  True enough, there are the telltale signs of aging for which I have been disciplined to look.  There is the “checking” in the varnish, a trait common to the old finishes.  The metal pieces have some pitting from oxidation and a little discoloration from hands resting on them while playing.  But, the wear which comes with long hours of use, the evidence of the instrument having made beautiful music for all these many years…there is none of that.  I find myself almost sad, even as I realize that the condition is a boon to me as a reseller.  Sad, because this guitar…which should have already had many years of soothing spirits with quiet ballads, of exciting the senses with the pulsing rhythm of pop songs, of eliciting the wonder at the virtuoso’s touch on the strings while the dazzling classical melodies and counter melodies fill the air…this beautiful instrument, has evidently been sitting in its case in someone’s closet or under their bed.  What a waste!

The other day, a couple of ladies brought in a guitar they wanted me to appraise for them.  It was about the same age as this beauty I see before me today.  One of the ladies carried in the tattered chipboard case under her arm, since the handle had long since been torn off of it.  I opened the shabby top of the case, half-expecting to find a junky Oriental-made instrument, probably unplayable due to abuse and neglect.  It is what I usually find in old cases like this.  But when the battered lid was lifted, the open case revealed a fifty-year old Gibson electric guitar, beautiful in its own right.  The poor old thing!  The top had originally been a beautiful sunburst finish, bright red at the edges, fading to a lovely brownish yellow in the center.  There was no color to this top but a pale, sun-faded yellow…not a bit of red remained, except a faint pinkish hue right at the outside edge.  The frets were worn, the fingerboard scalloped by years of use, from some old guy’s gnarled fingertips pressing strings down again and again, perhaps to play the chords of the rhythm guitar part seconding the more talented lead guitarist’s melody.  Then again, who can tell?  This might have been the guitar which carried the melody again and again as old friends got together to make music and enjoy each other’s company.  The back showed signs of a buckle and more than a few shirt buttons rubbing against the finish as it moved with the player, the instrument and its owner both making beautiful music together.  The tuning machines had worn out and been replaced; the replacements themselves showing serious signs of fatigue, ready for a new set to step in and help with keeping the strings up to pitch.  The sight of this guitar made me smile, even gave me a warm feeling of joy at the success achieved by the makers of this fine instrument, now worn and tired.

The antithetical treatment of the two instruments gave me pause today, as I gazed upon the physical beauty of the pristine guitar and then remembered the sun-faded and scarred one I examined a few days ago.  To the collector, as well as to the casual observer, the owner of the unsullied instrument will appear to be the smarter of the two.  I will beg to differ.  A musical instrument which does not make music is simply a composite of different materials.  An instrument is not an instrument until it is used.  The word we have for that is “failure”.  The cloistered instrument has achieved neither the intent of the maker, nor the intent of the musician who purchased it.  It may be an object of art and a thing of beauty, but as a musical instrument it is an abject failure until the pure, clear notes progress from its structure and vibrating strings.

Many years ago, I visited in the San Joaquin Valley of California.  This is one of the most productive farming areas in the country, with the produce from this fertile valley being distributed in practically every state in the Union.  I was saddened to note, as we drove through the orange groves, that in several places entire groves of trees were being uprooted.  I commented on this and my passenger replied that this was something they did regularly.  “After a few years, if the trees aren’t yielding the fruit as they should, they are bulldozed out and new ones which will produce are planted.”   The trees were beautiful still, with full deep green leaves and strong, sturdy branches.  They weren’t fulfilling their intended purpose though, and that made them unprofitable, a failure for the farmers. 

I’m contemplating the sermon that could fill a whole lot of white (or blue) space below.  What I think I’ll do is just shut up.  You won’t fail to understand the lesson of the guitars or the orange trees, will you?  I’m trying not to miss it myself.  We’ve all been given gifts and have a purpose for being right where we are.  If we don’t even attempt to complete the process, all we’re doing is using up air and taking up space.

I’m hoping that the next owner of this beautiful guitar will help it to achieve its purpose at last, after more than fifty years of waiting and taking up space.  After fifty years of hanging around, I’m kind of ready to make some music myself.  How about you?

“Every branch that does not bear good fruit, is cut down and thrown into the fire.”
(Matthew 7:19 NIV)

“The purpose of life is not to be happy.  It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson~American poet and essayist~1803-1882)