The advertisement said that they were auctioning off a John Deere lawn tractor.  I was in love with the idea of owning a riding mower.  Well, I was 18, and as long as I was living in my parents’ house, it was going to be my job to mow the lawn.  And, I was tired of pushing a mower around that acre and a half.  I heard you could get used equipment for a lot less at these estate auctions, so I went, hopeful of bringing home a bargain.  When the auction was over, three hours later, I brought home an old recliner and a small bookcase in the back of the car.  No John Deere riding mower.  Well, what did you expect?  It was an auction.

I have been intrigued with auctions for most of my life.  When I was really young, Dad would take us to the livestock auction once in awhile and we’d watch the old farmers bid and we’d admire the cattle, pigs, and other miscellaneous beasts.  I don’t remember much about how it happened, but I do remember coming home with Goldie, a sweet old goat.  She was supposed to give milk and be bred, but she was never good for much more than being fed and watered.  Never gave milk, never had a kid. But, what did you expect?  It was an auction.

After my experience at the auction when I wanted to buy the lawn tractor, I stayed away from auctions for awhile.  But, right after I married the Lovely Lady, I saw an ad for an auction in our town and went to see if there was anything which would be useful for furnishing our little house.  I was looking for a sofa and love seat.  A few hours later, I came home with a leaky aquarium and a non-functioning blender.  Didn’t need either one.  Never used either one.  What did you expect?  It was an auction.

After other similar experiences, I’ve finally decided that I don’t do well at auctions.  The first rule of auctions is that you must know what you’re bidding on.  The second rule:  know your limit.  Decide ahead of time what the item is worth and don’t bid more than that.  Besides the fact that I couldn’t stick with the first rule, I certainly couldn’t follow the second rule because what makes auctions successful is the competitive nature of the activity.  The bid is entered and for a moment the item is yours.  The next thing you know, someone else has stolen your thingummy right from under your nose!  You can’t take that lying down, so you bid again.  Higher and higher, little by little approaching your limit, until there you are, right at the price you promised you wouldn’t go over.  But, the opponent has once again taken what was rightfully yours and for only one dollar over your limit.  Two dollars won’t break you!  So, you bid again, only to find that once you’ve exceeded your limit, it gets easier and easier to surpass it, with each successive bid.  Before you know it, you own the whatchamacallit (which you really didn’t want and absolutely don’t need) and have paid an astronomical amount!  I don’t do well at auctions.

A few of my friends and I used to go to a local consignment auction on Friday nights, just for fun.  One Friday evening, one of these friends decided that he needed a refrigerator and could get one for a good price while at the auction.  He looked them over and picked out the one he wanted.  Still unsure, he made the mistake of believing the auctioneer’s repeated promise: “working all the way” (everything in the auction was working all the way) and bought himself a beautiful, non-working refrigerator.  When he tried to return it, the staff at the auction pointed to the signs hanging all around the smoke-filled interior of the auction barn…the ones reminding you to “Buy at your own risk.  All items sold as is, where is.  Absolutely no returns.”  But, the staff suggested, it would be fine if he wanted to run the refrigerator through the auction again.  Sure they’d collect the commission again, but they could sell it!  They did one time before, remember?

Auctions have been a continuing life-lesson for me.  I’ve learned a lot about myself and my lack of self-discipline.  I’ve learned that putting myself in that kind of competitive situation only makes my common sense disappear into thin air, to be recovered at a later time, when I’m sadder but wiser.  Fortunately, these life lessons have come at a relatively inexpensive cost.  Many don’t learn the lesson until they’ve been defrauded of huge sums of money, all because they were sucked into the competition and didn’t make sure of the merchandise before it was purchased.

Come to think of it, much of life is like the auction.  Promises are made, which no one can be compelled to keep.  The price paid for those empty promises is much too high and frequently, the merchandise is faulty, even fake.  Most of us have jumped at those empty, wasteful opportunities at some point in our lives, only to repent of the venture, often too late.  Easy money, easy love, easy life.  All are falsehoods, with a price tag we cannot afford and a result that is incredibly inferior to the promised experience.  Yet, we rush headlong into the competition, confident of winning, assured of happiness awaiting us at the end of the bidding.  Life is littered by such experiences, which mar the journey, but too frequently the hard lessons are forgotten, and we leap at the next such opportunity, only to repeat the outcome.

Meanwhile, I keep getting these ads for auctions of music stores going out of business.  I’ve been thinking that I should go and buy some of the great instruments they list, but I’m pretty sure all I’d come back with is a box of guitar picks and a couple of junk guitars.  What else would I expect?  It is, after all, an auction…

“If somebody brings them, we’ll auction them.  We’ve got a license to sell pigs too, but we don’t.  They’re too messy and smell too bad.”
(Curtis Barfield~ Georgia auction owner)

I made a new friend tonight!  Well, I think I did.  The message I received said, “So & So has accepted your friend request.”  That means I’ve got a new crony, a new sidekick, right?  I’m still struggling with this.  Is this really the way friendship works?  I find the name of someone I knew years ago and click on the link which invites me to “add as friend”.  And, then I wait.  Not exactly on pins and needles, but I just gave someone the opportunity to reject me.  Can I tolerate it if they don’t want me in their friends list?  Do I really want to give them that power over me?  As time passes and no response is received, is this cause to be saddened or depressed?  Have I really been rejected, or is this just someone who never checks their account?  It’s a release when the message finally arrives.  I breathe a sigh of relief and send a message thanking them for their magnanimity.  After all, they’ve just given me access to a part of their life and I to them.  We’re Friends!

Again, I ask.  Is this the way it works?  Wouldn’t it be better if we could have the option to be Facebook acquaintances?  Honestly, many of the folks in my “friend” list could more accurately  be placed in that category.  I want to keep a relationship with them, but we’re never going to be best buds.  We’ll do the online equivalent of the nod or wave to acknowledge each other’s existence, just as I would if I met someone on the street, commenting on happy occasions and also on sad ones, but we’ll not be close.  We’ll not actually be “friends”.

Don’t get me wrong.  I really enjoy Facebook.  It has given me a chance to make contact with many people who had dropped out of my life, people who I enjoy knowing.  I count it a privilege to have grown up with many of them, but even as children, we weren’t bosom buddies.  We shared common experiences in school or church and have a history in each other’s lives.  I wouldn’t trade my past with them for anything and I’m grateful for the means to reconnect.  That said, true friendship normally runs a little deeper.  And, you don’t become friends with the click of a computer key on one end of the Internet and a reply on the other end.

The gift of true friendship is a rare one.  It is a gift and not something you request, as you would with a shopping list or a Christmas list.  Friends gravitate to each other for various reasons, but we stay friends because we share a bond, a love for each other that won’t be broken by time, or distance, or age.  There is a Proverb in the Bible that warns us that a man with many friends often comes to ruin.  Then it tells of the kind of friend that I want, one who sticks closer than a brother.  But, don’t think this is about someone who never leaves your side physically.

When I talk about true friends, I don’t necessarily mean people who are geographically close.  I don’t even mean that we have to have frequent communication.  I have one friend, with whom I grew up, who comes to visit from his home eight hundred miles away once every four or five years and I visit him just about that often too.  We don’t talk on the phone constantly or send emails even frequently, but when we get together, our friendship is unchanged from 10, 20, even 30 years ago.  We laugh, talk, even cry together, with no sense of discomfort, no reticence to speak openly about the things that close friends talk about.  We didn’t find this relationship by clicking on an icon (we’re not even Facebook friends), and our sense of closeness isn’t compromised by absence or lack of constant contact.  True friendships last.  They transcend the miles and the years, and they overlook the changes that inevitably come in our lives.

I’m not advocating for boycotting social media, not even wanting to slander it.  I am suggesting that we need to be sure we understand the important, even essential relationships in our lives and not cheapen them by an imitation, blowing-kisses kind of connection.  I’ll continue to click on the “request friend” button, but I’ll not be fooled into thinking that a friendship can be achieved as cavalierly as  that.

Give me a hand-shake and a bear-hug from an old friend and I’ll be content.   

“Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”
Pooh thought for a little. “How old shall I be then?”
“Ninety-nine.”
Pooh nodded. “I promise,” he said.
(A. A. Milne~The House at Pooh Corner)

The wonder in her eyes lit up the room.  The young lady, all of eight years old, received a new guitar for Christmas, so this week, it was off to the music store for an instruction book.  Her dad asked the location of the books with little interest in his voice and demeanor.  For him, this was just another visit to another store; money would change hands and he would be able to get back to his own diversions.  As I led the way to the rack of books though, the little lady’s glance swept over the column of relatively homogeneous books to rest on the bright pink volume about halfway up.

“Wow, look!  A girl’s guitar book!  I want this one!”  We opened the book and talked about the different features and particulars of interest only to adults and I suggested the possibility of other options, including DVDs and some more traditional books, but she was transfixed by the idea of a book for her!  This book was for girls!  And, it was going to teach her how to play the guitar!  In the end, her enthusiasm convinced her parents more than I ever could have, silver-tongued salesperson though I may be (or not).

The choice made, she continued through the store, exclaiming about guitars hanging on the walls and the sets of drums at just the right height to catch her eye (and imagination).  My jaded attitude, effected by too many complaints and too few really excited musicians, faded into a dim memory in just moments.  As I said, she lit up the room.  When she had completed her exploration of the store, she headed for the counter with a question for her mother.  “Mama, should I pay for the book myself?”,  was her query, asked in a voice that told anyone listening that she would be happy to do it.  Instead, her mom paid for the book and the little family went on their way, leaving a little sunshine behind.

In my mind, I stepped back 24 hours to the same basic situation.  The little family pulled into the parking lot, but the teenage son made it into the front door before his dad, carrying a violin.  “Before my dad gets in here, I wanted you to know, I don’t want to buy anything expensive.  I tell him one time that I might like to play a fiddle and he buys one for me for Christmas!”  The exasperation in his voice was unmistakable.  Before he could say any more, his dad and little brother stepped through the front door.  “He needs a book and some help,” came the gruff voice of the gift-giver.

For the next fifteen minutes, I gave some instructions on bow care and tuning, along with actually tuning the violin, the young man looking at me and rolling his eyes every time Dad wasn’t looking.  I suggested a DVD which was less expensive than the book he looked at first, so he snatched it from my hand, tossing it on the counter.  “You paying for this?” he demanded of his father, only to be reminded that he had his own Christmas money.  Sullenly, he started to fork over the cash and his father headed out the door with a ringing cell phone.  The door wasn’t completely closed when the young man started again.  “How do you like that?  He buys me this stupid thing and then makes me pay to learn to play it!”  The griping continued for a few more moments until Dad came back in wondering what was taking so long.  Out went this family, sucking a good bit of the oxygen from the room with them.  Some of the grumpiness I thought I had lost over my week of a working vacation washed back over me.

I’m not sure if the little girl will make it to Nashville in her lifetime, but I’m confident that her guitar is going to make some music.  She’s going to enjoy it, as least as long as her interest stays active.  And that’s what I love about what I do!  The poor violin, on the other hand, is sure to languish in the case, being dragged out only when the young man is forced to it, either by guilt or by threat of punishment.  I didn’t even enjoy the sound of the cash register as the sale was rung up for this one.

There’s probably a moral to the story, but for me, it’s just a reminder that we’re all different.  We don’t fit the same mold and it doesn’t make any sense to try and make everybody adapt to it.  Not everybody who walks through my door is excited about making music, in much the same way that I don’t want to learn counted cross-stitch, just because I venture into Hobby Lobby occasionally.

Communication is a great gift, too often forgotten in the rush to get on with life.  And, it involves both talking and listening.  I hope that I will one day discover which one to do at the right time.  For now, just to clarify…If you buy me that cross-stitch kit I once said was “interesting”, I’m not paying for any instructions or thread myself!

“Fathers, provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged.”
(Colossians 3:21 KJV)

New Year’s Day.  The day after the last day of the former new year.  Well, if it can be the first day of the new year, it stands to reason that there has to be a last day of a new year too.  Just to keep from being argumentative, let’s just call it the first day of the year and leave it at that.  I’m not excited about a new year, but I’m not depressed either.  It’s 24 hours later than it was yesterday, another day to achieve goals and serve people.  “What a malcontent!” I hear the comments already.  (Well, all right, probably not your exact words, but “wet blanket” and “party pooper” don’t seem to have quite the same impact.)  I have to say that I won’t disagree.  For the last thirty-three years, New Year’s Day has been spent counting music books, drum sticks, and guitar picks, so I’m a little apathetic about the holiday itself.  I have long described it as the worst holiday of the year, but I’m coming around…

It is good to have a point in time to pause and reflect.  We reflect on the impact of events which have transpired in the past 365 days.  We remember the happy experiences and we consider the unfortunate and even sad occasions which have preceded this day of division between one year and the next.  For many, the day requires tearing the eyes off of a disastrous year and looking forward to the hope of better times.  For others, it is simply a time to give thanks and offer a prayer that the future will be as happy as the past.  I’ve been struck by the incongruity of varying statements made as we approached the holiday.  The optimistic statements which anticipate days of continuing comfort stand out in clear contrast to those which blacken the reputation of the year just past.  More than one of my friends today used the term “Good Riddance!”.  Another mentioned staying up until past midnight to be sure that the old year left. 

As we look to the future, we can’t help but think about the past, but I think we have to be realistic and neither starry-eyed, nor disheartened.  The year past has had its trials.  I’ve lost old friends to disease; vivacious, lovely souls, struck down before their time, seemingly.  Friends have lost unborn children and parents.  Old age has also crept up on our parents, causing the physical ailments and confusion which so often accompany the aging process.  On this, the last day of the year, a killer storm hit a little community close to us, devastating homes, to say nothing of the families and friends of the victims.

It would be easy to focus on the negative and draw the pessimist’s conclusion that we’re happy to see the backside of 2010, but that would be to ignore the joy that the year also has brought.  We’ve seen any number of new babies born this year, without question cause for celebration.  Weddings have occurred, with the joy of commitment for a lifetime by both parties.  Achievements by children and grandchildren, even the delight of everyday occurrences in  the lives of these dear ones is cause for enduring wonder.  Old friendships have been renewed, and new ones fostered.  Another year of living with the amazing Lovely Lady is cause for celebration for me, too. 

On balance, 2010 has been a year.  Just that: a year in our lives.  As with all years, there have been triumphs and tragedies, satisfaction and sadness.  When we believe that it is our right to have unmitigated happiness, we misunderstand what life is.  When we look forward to nothing but darkness and sorrow, we also misunderstand what life is.  Both have a part in making us better people; Both are schoolmasters teaching us to mature into what God wants us to be.

As we move from one year to the next, it can be a time of reflection, even of resolution.  But the recognition of reality and the proper response will better prepare us for the year than any sense of depression or of elation.  God, after all, is still in control.  Our times are in His hands.  And, for us to make events more than what they really are, simply milestones which we pass and learn from, is to take away from the glory that belongs to Him and the potential He has given to every one of us with each passing day.

I’ll try to keep that glory in mind as I’m counting those guitar picks tomorrow.   “156, 157, 158,  Oh No!  Was that one hundred or two hundred?  1,2,3….”

“Yet pealed the bells more loud and deep;
‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.'”
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

We all love a good mystery.  And, by that I mean we love it when it’s just a story and we’re not embroiled in it.  Mysteries are no fun when we’re smack dab in the middle of them.  None of us likes to be in a huge parking lot at a strange mall and have to solve the mystery of where we left our car.  We don’t think it so intriguing when we can’t figure out which house it is that we’re supposed to make a delivery to in the dark, nor do we enjoy the puzzlement of where we last saw our coat when we need to be leaving the house NOW and it’s 15 degrees outside.  Mysteries mean big audiences and bigger profits when it comes to novels and television shows, but not so much when it comes to real life.

From personal experience, I have concluded again and again that mysteries are nothing short of frustrating.  I want to know the answer, not to be in the dark trying to get the light to come on.  I want my car to start when I turn the key, not to have to try tapping on this wire or wiggling that lever hoping that it will work.  Believe me, I’ve had my share of enigmatic rattletraps which gave me the anticipation of lying under the car to start it or walking to my destination, and I much prefer the dependable, steadfast vehicle. 

More than once, I’ve actually had the experience of not being able to locate a house when delivering a piano and each time, the experience was humbling and discouraging.  Even after the proper delivery address was located and the task was completed, the feeling lingered on for some hours.  While it’s possible that others are put together differently and may actually enjoy a mystery, I have a sneaking suspicion that most of us like to see what’s happening.  We like to know what’s going on and not be surprised.  We don’t cherish walking in the dark, not knowing what’s coming beyond the next step.

While I’m thinking about it, I do have a couple of other mysteries that are a little less weighty that I’d like to see solved.  For instance, I’d like to know where pocket lint comes from.  I have never put that stuff IN my pocket, but I’m all the time taking it OUT!  Is it organic or synthetic?  Can something be made from it?  Or is it just a ploy by the pocket monster to keep me on edge constantly, wondering if someday I’m going to reach in my pocket, only to find no money, but a whole pocket full of lint?

I also want to know where the money tree is.  Oh, don’t tell me there’s no such thing.  My Father-in-Law told me about it many years ago and I’ve watched ever since.  Kids come in the music store and look at a book or some clarinet reeds, inquiring about the price.  When they’ve received the answer, they reply, “I’ll be right back.”  They walk out of the store and in mere moments, return with cash in their hands.  Even though I’ve never been able to locate it, I’m convinced that somewhere in the vicinity of my store, there is a money tree that yields a steady crop of one, fives, tens, and twenties, all the year round.

Aside from the tongue-in-cheek mysteries I speak of, and even more important than the trivial issues described above, I do find myself constantly frustrated and worrying about what is coming, both in the near future and in the years to come.  I make plans and they are thwarted repeatedly.  I promise results and circumstances change to make those results improbable, even frequently impossible.  I have a business plan, but no way to be assured that the economy will cooperate, or that I have made allowances for every contingency.  I want a crystal ball with which to see the future.  I even find myself wondering if those who follow astrology and seek advice from palm readers and fortune tellers might be onto something.  But just as often, I find myself realizing that even though I haven’t the abilities to solve the deep mysteries of the future, I know Someone who does.  I walk in the dark, but He does not.  What a relief that I’m not on my own, hoping against hope that things work out the way I want them to.  I have confidence that they will be worked out exactly as they should be.

But, just between you and me, I’m going to keep on looking for that money-tree.  It’s around here somewhere.  I know it is!

“Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear,
And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
(Civilla Martin~1905)

When does it stop being mostly-cloudy and start being partly-sunny?

Twenty-nine years ago, it was.  My first Christmas as a father.  Talk about overwhelmed and disillusioned!  I had been led to believe that babies were cute little things that gurgled and smiled a lot.  The truth was a far cry from the promise!  There was a whole lot more crying than smiling going on (it didn’t all come from the little girl,either) and I was just itching to get my hands on the idiot who coined the phrase “I slept like a baby”.  It was a tumultuous time in our little family and the initiation period definitely had it’s downside.

Having said that, I’ll be quick to assure you that it was probably the best Christmas in my life up to that time.  That precious little baby was the joy of our lives!  Yes, there were adjustments.  Yes, we had to make some changes in our lives and schedules.  But the wonder, the amazement at the miracle of new life was beyond anything we had ever experienced.

During the long nights when she didn’t sleep and being held was the only thing that would quiet her, she and I listened to music.  I would turn on the record player (yes, I said “record”) and listen to a wide variety of artists and styles, but that Christmas season, the one song that was my favorite came from the “Christmas Album” that Barbra Streisand had recorded a few years before.  In those quieter days before news and commentary was a 24-hour cacophony of noise and controversy, artists were known for the quality of their music, not the shrillness of their political tirades and Barbra has one of the finest voices I know.  I remember playing the record and holding the sweet little girl close as Barbra sang of “The Best Gift”, not one under the tree, nor wrapped with a bow.  That gift was a “tiny, newborn child.”  And, I understood the sentiment and agreed completely.

With amazement we watched the beautiful girl become aware of things around her; watched her make her opinions known in the only way she could, saw the perfection of the tiny hands and feet and realized that she was ours to raise.  One day she would move on to her own life, but for now, she was ours.  And Christmas has never been the same for us.

Isn’t it amazing that God decided it was so important for His Son to come into the world that first Christmas as a helpless baby boy needing parents to love and cherish Him?  What a great gift! As parents, we listen to the story and we actually feel the indignation of having to seek shelter in a dirty barn, the agony of the birth, and the wonder at the new life.  The joy and awe that Mary and Joseph felt can’t be much different than what we feel at the birth of our own children.  Well, except for the angels, shepherds, and wise men, but you know what I mean…

After all these years, I still think that one of the best gifts we receive in life is our children.  Of course, I also think the same thing about grandchildren, just with the added benefit of other adults who are actually responsible for them.  Either way, the season is improved exponentially by their presence in our lives.  Now, if there was just some way to install a volume control on them…

(Barbra Streisand, 1978)