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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’ll never play the stupid thing!  I don’t know why I’m even bothering to spend the money.”  The disgruntled man stood before me, the picture of a successful businessman.  Expensive clothes, immaculate haircut…even the alligator wallet he held in his hand shouted, “Money to burn!”  I knew the man and believed the story his physical appearance was telling.  The words coming from his mouth, on the other hand, gave lie to the outer aspect of the man.  This was indeed a poor human being, poverty-stricken of spirit and impoverished to his heart.

This time of year, I think of Charles Dickens’ famous opening lines to “A Tale Of Two Cities” and almost want to make it my motto.  “It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.”  While the meaning of the famous quote is still argued with respect to the story, when I say it here, it symbolizes the dichotomy between  enjoyable commerce leading to financial success and fulfilling a distasteful task.  The months of August and September in many music stores, mine included, are filled with nearly maniacal activity, selling band instruments and accessories almost as fast as they can be taken from the walls and shelves. But, with the good also comes the bad.

“The best of times…”  I love this time of year, first of all because I get to fulfill the dreams of a lot of children (and to a large extent, their parents also).  The kids come in wide-eyed, knowing that they will be leaving with a gleaming, complicated piece of equipment, which will be their ticket to making music with their friends.  Most of them have never been entrusted with such an expensive “toy” in their lives.  Many of the parents are just as excited, because they never got this chance as a child and they are delighted that their own progeny will have opportunities which they didn’t.  To a much smaller extent, it is the best of times in the music business simply because the worries that normally face me as a self-employed businessman are only a shadowy memory for these few months.  Because of the large number of transactions, the bank account is healthy and there are no worries about invoices coming due.  I can concentrate on the customers and their needs.

“The worst of times…”  Some other part of me dreads this time of year, mostly because of parents like the one you met in the first paragraph above.  As the “band season” peters out, parents will be straggling into the store at the last minute, many even after the deadline set to have an instrument.  Some of these will be parents who don’t have the finances to purchase a nice instrument and who will settle for a less-than-beautiful horn in order to assure their children a chance to pursue their dream of playing in the band.  I feel their disappointment and strive to give them the best value for their hard-earned money.  Even as they leave satisfied with their purchases, I’m still cringing, knowing that the other parents are still going to be putting in an appearance any time now.  These folks have the money.  They just don’t want to spend it on something as stupid as a clarinet, or flute, or trumpet.  Most of the time, like our friend above, they don’t have any faith in the ability of their child to learn the skills necessary to succeed in music.  I’m not good with parents like this.  I have to admit that I’d like to shake them.  I’d like to remind them of the people in their own lives who believed in them when they undertook impossible tasks; who cheered them on in spite of misgivings.  But, I don’t.

That fellow we met a few paragraphs ago had come in to see me on the last possible day.  “That idiot band director says he’s going to put my kid in choir tomorrow if she doesn’t have a horn.  Sell me the cheapest one you’ve got.”  I suggested, not too subtly, that she would do better if she had a better quality clarinet, but he was not to be deterred.  “She’ll never play the stupid thing anyway.  Just let me take the cheapest one!”  He whipped out his Gold Card to pay for the hundred and fifty dollar purchase, glancing at his fifteen hundred dollar watch impatiently.  As he walked out the door, he repeated one more time, “She’ll never play it!”

The door closed behind him and I turned to the Lovely Lady.  “I guarantee it!  She will never play the horn.”  Oh, I had faith in the performance capability of the instrument.  It was a perfectly playable clarinet.  I just understand that our children will live up to our expectations of them nearly every time.  He believed she couldn’t play it and it was almost a sure bet that she wouldn’t.  My heart ached for the little girl, who I never saw.  How sad to have a father who was so wrapped up in himself  and his own toys that he couldn’t see the permanent damage he was doing to his child.

This is a truth which is not limited to the treatment of our children.  Respect and high expectations directed at those with whom we interact result in pride of accomplishment and success more often than not.  Will some of the kids who are encouraged and praised eventually be counted in the attrition rate that is inevitable in an organization such as band?  Sure.  There will be some who don’t have what it takes to make it in music, just as there will be in any endeavor.  But, the success rate is always higher when there is a positive, loving attitude in evidence from those on whom we depend.  I’m not talking about cheerleader-style sloganeering, either.  If we really believe in those we love, we’ll be in their corner, pulling for them all the way.  And, the human spirit responds in a powerful way to such evidence of confidence and love.

This week, for the most part, will probably be “the best of times” for me at work.  Already, the first two days have resulted in exhaustion for both me and the Lovely Lady as we’ve waited on as many customers in two days as we usually see in a fortnight.  I look forward, albeit wearily, to the days that follow in this week.  Starting next Tuesday though, I anticipate a different experience, as “the worst of times” makes its annual appearance.  I’ll do my best to keep on an even keel and to treat every customer with respect, but I hope you won’t think poorly of me if I vent a bit as time goes by.  Better a gripe or two here, where it does little harm, than a finger poked in a customer’s chest as I give in to my indignation. 

If you’ve got a spare “atta boy” or “hang in there” lying around, you could even send it my way this week.  Maybe the same principle that works with the kids will get me through my worst of times still to come.

“Children are an heritage from the Lord.”
(Psalm 127:3)

“Correction does much, but encouragement does more.”
(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe~German playwright and novelist~1749-1832)

“How did you get so good at this?”  The query is posed by the young teenaged girl who is preparing to start marching in the local middle-school band.  We’ve done nothing special; simply helped her with the gadgets she needs to move from being a stationary musician to one with a little more mobility.  Nevertheless, she is impressed and has a look of respect in her eyes, a look that unfortunately, she will learn to mask as she grows older and more worldly-wise.

I admit, I am stumped by her question and obvious fascination.  What I’ve done is a small thing and not impressive at all in my eyes (and quite possibly, not in yours), but the question is already before us.  How do you get good at what you do?  I’ve had the inquiry made by a number of curious folks over the years, related to my work; mostly in response to the repairs to musical instruments which I have executed in the course of my work at the music store.

I wish I could offer a wise response.  “Well, child, it’s a combination of education and experience over a lifetime of striving for excellence.”  That would suffice!  It would be arrogant, but the young lady might have left the music store with an even greater sense of awe.  No, I can’t say the words.  I have to consider this for awhile.

I go back in my mind’s eye many years, to the late 1970’s.  The skinny young man stands behind the counter and listens to the old man wax eloquent about the old violin to a customer.  “Notice the tuning pegs – how they are tapered.  That is so they have some friction when they’re pushed in slightly as they turn.  They’ll stay in place if they are set correctly.”  And again, as the young man rides in the ’67 Dodge van which was the store’s delivery vehicle in those days.  “We’ll have to come back later to tune this piano.  It takes some time to acclimate to its new home.  Tune it now and it’ll be out of tune again in a week or two.”  A different occasion, back in the music store and we see the old man demonstrating the principle of striking a harmonic on a guitar string, explaining as he shows how it’s done, that it’s all scientific and mathematical, with beats-per-minute, and sound waves, and nodes.  With just the lightest of touches, he sets the string to vibrating.  The clear, ethereal tone that fills the air is a never-to-be-forgotten exclamation point to the lesson, also never forgotten.

Fast forward a few years and I see the same young man, although now not so skinny, nor quite so young, as he waits for a clarinet to be repaired in the shop where the craftsman works his magic.  As the artisan holds the keys over an alcohol lamp, he talks of “seating” and “leveling” pads.  “The pads have to be perfectly aligned in the keys to achieve a seal.  You never want to take a shortcut.”  Again, the lesson is learned and added to the ever-expanding library of facts and techniques which the young man is amassing.

Tolkien tells us that “the road goes ever on and on”, and I’ll not argue at all tonight.  The years have been full of great sources of knowledge, many of them anxious (and a few less so) to share from their treasure trove of lessons learned, until we come to the present day, when that young man has begun to be known as the old guy at the music store.  The amazing thing (to me) is that it’s not the end, nor even approaching the end, of the story.  One young man now comes in for an hour every week to learn some of the almost-old man’s secrets, others come at less-scheduled intervals.  So it is that the knowledge passed on from the old man and others, now passes again from an aging man to younger folks.  There is a real joy in sharing the knowledge.  It was given me.  Why should I not freely pass it on?

How did I get so good at this?  If I am good at it, it was a gift.  Yes, there was some labor involved on my part, but I have profited greatly also.  Oh sure, the business has yielded an income, but the great profit has been the joy of seeing more than one generation of young musicians graduate from the childish infatuation with making music to a deep love of music that only years of learning and practice can effect.  I can’t imagine a better paycheck.

We’ve all been given gifts like this.  Obviously, not all in repairing instruments or selling musical gizmos.  Some of us repair cars, some build houses, some cook, some are artists.  I have nothing against those who have chosen to teach these things as a vocation (the laborer is worthy of his/her hire), but for most, the skills and knowledge can be shared freely and should be.  The reward is great, since it’s nothing less than immortality, if you’ll allow me to put it in those words.  I’m not talking about eternal life.  That comes from another Source.  The immortality I speak of is the legacy we leave behind us.  The young men and women to whom I pass my knowledge today are, in reality, learning at the feet of men long dead.  Recipes and patterns and lore from many generations before us are passed on as we share knowledge with our children and grandchildren.  Truly, the road goes ever on and on.

Oh!  I’m not finished with learning, either.  I still find that there are new lessons in the University of Life which come my way almost daily.  Why don’t you come by the store sometime and tell me what you know about fuel injection in the modern combustion engine?  I’ll show you all I know about playing harmonics on a guitar string.  I promise that one of us will learn something.  

“If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”
(Sir Isaac Newton-English physicist and mathematician~1643-1727)

 
“Docendo discitur”  
“Ancient Latin quotation meaning roughly, “By learning you will teach.  By teaching, you will learn.”)

The climb to the top was nerve-wracking.  I ascended clumsily, the equipment bag slung over my shoulder, searching for the right place to position my feet and hands, slowly passing one level after the other until finally I reached the plateau on top…of the construction scaffold.  We were working in a rubber factory, installing a fire and burglar alarm.  The emergency hatches at the top of the new building had to have automatic openers installed so they would open to vent poisonous gases out of the work area in the event of a fire or explosion.  That’s how the two of us came to be standing on the top of nine sections of scaffold, some sixty feet above the pit from which this precarious structure arose.  It was obvious to me that this was a poor position to be in.  Besides that, the scaffolding trembled with every move I made, obviously about to collapse at any moment.  In short, I was not happy to be here.

Fortunately, neither was I needed there, so my co-worker suggested that I could install the runs of signal wire which needed to span one long wall of the same building, while he finished up here.  I happily descended, one hand and foot after the other, gingerly moving downward toward safety, and a much more desirable job.  Or, so I thought.

The wall beam, called a “girt”, along which I would run the signal wire for the alarm system, was just over twenty feet above the floor, so I went out to the truck to take the extension ladder off the top rack.  It was a two section wooden ladder with large rubber feet which were self-leveling.  I had worked off this ladder many times and wasn’t worried at all about the height.  After all, nothing could be as bad as being up in the air sixty feet.  And, I had the wall right beside me, so what was there to be concerned about?

About halfway along the wall, there was an upright beam, which I needed to work around.  It was rather large, so I leaned away from the ladder to get my arms around it and pass the wire behind it.  That’s when it happened.  The ladder’s rubber feet lost their grip on the dusty concrete floor and the extended portable stairway slid out from under my feet so quickly that it was clattering to the surface below me before I understood what had happened.  My arms had been around the upright beam, and I quickly tried to grip it to keep from following the ladder the twenty feet to the hard landing awaiting me below.  I was only partly successful, as I slid along the upright steel structure, scraping my biceps and forearms on the way down.  After slipping about four or five feet, I caught an angled support going off to another lateral wall girt and stopped, hanging there something about ten feet off the floor, yelling  for help at the top of my lungs.  None was forthcoming.  My buddy at the top of the scaffold called to me, urging me to drop on down, but the ladder was on the floor below me and I wasn’t happy about that option.  Nevertheless, a few more moments of dangling from the beam support made it clear that I didn’t have the strength to hang here until help arrived, so I dropped, barely missing the ladder and falling to the hard concrete floor, in pain from the scrapes and subsequent fall, but more importantly to me, seriously humiliated by the entire situation.

Moments later, as I doctored my scrapes at the truck, my co-worker emerged from the building, perfectly happy to have completed his job without a hint of a mishap.  With his help, we completed the wiring job in short order and headed for the shop, with him smiling all the way.  Obviously, I had to explain the whole situation again later to my boss at the office, as he grinned like a Cheshire Cat at the incongruity of it all.  “So you were afraid of the height and took the easy job, only to get hurt, eh?  That’ll teach you!”

Life, it seems, just like that job, quite often delivers up just the opposite of what we expect.  We make choices based on what we believe we know to be true, but find that the path we have chosen is fraught with pitfalls unforeseen.  Who would have thought that a ladder leaned up against a wall would be more dangerous than sixty feet of steel pipe and wood planks sticking straight up in the air?  I certainly didn’t before that day, but I have thought about it many times since.

When we’re faced with decisions, the ease with which the job is to be completed is a poor factor on which to base our choice.  We need to face our fears, our lack of discipline (mental or otherwise), and push ahead.  Sure, we take precautions and avoid unnecessary risks, but the easy route is frequently more perilous than the difficult.  And often, not nearly as rewarding.  I have realized many times over my life that the hardest won victories are the ones I most love to call to memory.  Pride in a job well done is one thing; recalling a difficult conquest that we could have wriggled out of is sweet success!

Push yourself outside of that snug little box in which you feel safe!  You’ll be amazed at the results.  Yeah, failure is an option, but so is success.  I don’t want to get to the winter of my days, only to look back at the easy road traveled in the spring and summer, and wish that the route had led through more daring territory. 

I’m pretty sure that I’ve got a few more climbs to the top of the scaffold left in me.  How about you?  We’ll see what the view is like when we get there together, okay?

“This is no time for ease and comfort.  It is time to dare and endure.”
(Winston Churchhill~British statesman and orator~1864-1965)