Will He Give Him a Stone?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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)

A Close Shave

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m not sure if we were supposed to be in the Junior High band room, but there we were.  The Three Musketeers…Randy, Paul, and Mike, hanging out before school, acting like we belonged there and were kings of that particular mountain.  Come to think of it, at that point in our development, we might have been more like the Three Stooges, but no matter.  There we were, 3 band geeks, with the jocks and brainiacs locked out of our territory, so we hadn’t a care in the world. 

The problem with locking the perceived problems out of your world is that you can never lock out your real problems, the ones that you carry around inside of you.  Mike, Randy, and I were good buddies.  We got along great, until some little minor tiff escalated into an all-out row.  This morning, all it took was a little ribbing.  Naturally, I started it.  Randy had a cleft in his chin and I started teasing him about how he was going to be able to shave when his beard started to grow.  Randy was a little touchy this particular morning and he was hurt, so he went for the jugular.  “How about that acne?  How you gonna shave around that?”  He had a point, but at thirteen, I was more than a little touchy about my problem.  “Well, my pimples will go away, but you’ll always have that cleft”  I’m still amazed that such a little, stupid flap could grow into a major altercation, but before we knew how it happened, we were trading blows right there in the hallway leading to the practice rooms.

Back and forth, we went–smacking each other on the body with our fists, until I stopped short.  “I’m not doing this,”  I stated as I turned away.  “What’s wrong with you? You chicken?” came the mocking reply from Randy.  “Maybe you’ve had enough.  You know I can beat you up!”  I retorted, “No, that’s not it, but I’m not fighting with you!” 

Now before you get in your heads that I stopped from some noble flash of discernment, realizing that I was destroying a friendship, you need to understand that no such thing was true.  I just knew something that few others knew about Randy and it was enough to make me put on the brakes and back away from the physical brawl.  When Randy was born, he had a congenital heart defect, a hole between the chambers of his heart which allowed the blood to flow from one chamber to the other, instead of being pumped out to his whole body.  When he was a toddler, an operation had been performed to repair the hole, but he still had the scar in his chest, and he was never allowed to participate in sports or physical education classes.  The only thing that stopped me from pummeling him as long as I had strength, was the picture I had in my head of Randy on a stretcher, headed to the hospital because some coward caused his heart to stop working.  Now, I know it was highly unlikely that anything like that could have happened, but then, I was scared to death.

“Why won’t you fight me?” he asked.  “I just won’t,” I replied.  Within minutes, he was crying, because he realized that I had stopped as a result of his weakness, not mine.  It was an interesting feeling, to know that I had defeated him by not fighting…not a great feeling, but a little eye-opening to be sure.  Randy and I patched up things and went on being the Three Stooges…er…Three Musketeers, along with Mike for a few more years, but that day still stands out in my mind as a reminder that there are better ways to win an argument than physical domination.

I learned that lesson about the physical aspect of domination, but it was about the same time that I started to come into my own with the verbal arguments.  I had learned to argue early.  Well, being the youngest of five children, you could hardly expect me to handle it otherwise.  I’d love to tell you that my verbal problem was solved while I was still young, but I still struggle with it.  Perhaps that’s the reason that the inscription from Proverbs, which my Father wrote on the fly-leaf of the Bible he and Mom gave me as a graduation gift, says: “A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger.”  Mom and Dad knew well the mayhem I could cause with my motor mouth.

Maybe someday, the transformation will be complete, but the lessons learned along the way keep shoving me that direction.  I still don’t always get the muzzle on in time, but I’m working on it.  The reminder that the spiritual heart can be damaged by verbal brawling is every bit as powerful as the lesson I learned about physical brawling in the band room with Randy that day so many years ago. 

It seems that maybe instead of using fists or mouth, it might be better to put a fist into our mouth until the moment passes.  I think I’ll try that next time…

“Discussion in an exchange of knowledge; An argument, an exchange of ignorance.”
(Robert Quillen, American journalist and humorist, 1887-1948)

Looking back to see if I was looking back to see…

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

So, now come the cold days of January, days which I am reluctant to face, but am resolved to get through.  The teeth are already chattering, feet are frigid, and the heater is working overtime, but this month will be outlasted, one way or the other.  If you follow my writing regularly, you will know that I’m no fan of the winter months, but I’m learning to endure, if not to conquer.

I was intrigued when I was informed the other day that January was named for the Roman god of doors and passages (including bridges).  In their mythology, Janus is depicted as having two faces, one looking behind and the other ahead.  I find it interesting to think about the concept of this, the first month of the year, being a time for us to look ahead and behind, to consider our history and our future.  We do, in fact, often take time to do this at the beginning of the year and even to resolve to do better in fulfilling our goals in the coming 12 months.

Just a side note…one person noted that this two-faced Janus character was much like many politicians we know, to which I can only reply, “Yes, but they have their two faces on either side, so they can neither see where they’ve been, nor where they’re going.”  Probably, the same could be said of all who live their lives in hypocrisy, never quite sure if their next lie will be the one that exposes who they really are deep down.

In a way, this blog has provided a means for me to do what this mythological being does…look to the future without losing sight of the past.  I’ve enjoyed (and mean to continue) dredging up events that I’ve muddled through, but I never want them to overshadow the reality of what is ahead.  Memories are great, but aspirations are better.  If the past does not help us to be better people as we move forward, perhaps it would be better if we could let it go.  My hope for myself (and all reading this) in the coming days, weeks, and months is that we can become more of what God wants for us, moving with eyes wide open into the future, while applying the lessons gleaned from the past.

It is possible that, as one would-be comic put it, the only thing we learn from history is that we don’t learn anything from history.  If that’s true, I’ve embarrassed myself again and again for nothing.  Whichever it is, stay tuned for more awkward moments in future missives!  Of course, that assumes that the cold days of January don’t freeze anything too important to the process…Pray that the heater keeps working.

“History doesn’t repeat itself.  At best it sometimes rhymes.”
(Mark Twain)

Hard pressed, Not Crushed

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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)

Mysteries and Money Trees

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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?

Tamales and the Old Neighborhood

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Supper was a feast of memories tonight.  It seems like that happens more often these days, especially during the holiday season.  Tonight was different because the Lovely Lady and my sister spent yesterday evening and this morning making tamales.  And no, you don’t say that word the way the lady in the old commercial did years ago, “Look Harold, Mexican Tah-mails!”  The word is in three syllables, pronounced “ta-ma-les”, with the “a” sound being “ah”(as in father) and the “e” sound being “eh” (as in egg).  Okay, so much for the Spanish lesson, but I don’t want to hear any more mutilation of the name of this manna from heaven.

I’m not going to go into the recipe for this wonderful self-contained dish, primarily because I wasn’t around for any part of the process, but I’m told that tamales are made in several steps, with each taking a good bit of time and some taking a good bit of effort.  The meat is cooked and prepared with spices, the doughy covering, called “masa”, is mixed with more spices and then all of it is put inside of dried cornhusks (which have been soaked to make them pliable again) and steamed for 2 or 3 hours.  The result is a wonderful meal that you can hold in your hand and savor to your heart’s delight.  Although I think I could have eaten more, 4 of them were adequate to satisfy my hoggish appetite this evening.  As I ate them, I was transported to Christmastime many years ago in south Texas.

The Gonzalez family lived a block from us and Christmas was a special time for them.  All year long, they had raised the pig, fattening him up for just this day of the year.  Christmas Eve day found the men slaughtering the hapless animal and dressing the carcass.  During the evening, they built a wood fire outside to cook the meat, including the amazingly good chicharrones, which were the pork rinds.  The odor while cooking wasn’t pleasant, but oh, the finished product!   I’m sure it was a heart attack waiting to happen, but the fresh crispy pork skins, cooked over the wood fire were simply incredible.  Those plastic bags of pork rinds you can buy in the grocery store don’t even come close to the flavor and consistency, nor the ambiance of eating them while standing around the fire.

After this, the men could go to bed and sleep soundly to arise on Christmas morning, but not Mrs. Gonzalez, nor her daughters.  The entire night was spent cooking, mixing, wrapping, and steaming tamales.  The recipe my Lovely Lady used today specifies that the finished product is to be placed in freezer-proof bags and frozen to be eaten later, but that was not to be the fate of this all-night labor of love from the Gonzalez ladies.  First thing in the morning on Christmas day, the packages of finished tamales, with the wonderful aroma emanating from the wrappings, were delivered to families in the neighborhood.  From the year-long task of raising the pig, to the day-long task of slaughtering, preparing, and cooking, right down to the night-long task of preparation and steaming the assembled products,  it was all done to be given away!

Their Christmas gift to the neighborhood was not just a wonderful dish to be enjoyed by all, but it was actually themselves.  To this day, it’s very difficult for me to taste a great Mexican tamale (and, yes, there are many variations on the theme, but only one that tastes right to me) without remembering and admiring this once-poor immigrant family, first generation Americans who worked tirelessly to make a life for their offspring.  They spent several years as migrant agricultural workers, then started a construction business, turning it into a thriving, profitable means of income for the entire family.  Throughout this, they never forgot their friends, sharing whatever they had, and always enjoying the people in their lives.  It was a privilege to grow up as neighbors and friends to these fine folks and a joy to have them brought to mind by such a simple, but tasty dish.

We spend our lives following the antics of the rich and famous, the rude and depraved elites, and striving to be close to them.  What we really need to understand is that those people are to be pitied rather than emulated.  The very real people who we meet in our neighborhoods, talk to in the grocery stores, and sit beside at the sports events, these are the folks who matter.  I’m not talking about helping those less fortunate, although that’s an important thing for us to do.  I’m talking about what our Lord reminded us of when He was asked what was most essential to God.  In it’s most simple form, He answered that number one, we are to love God and, coming in a close second, we are to love our neighbors.  In taking care of the second part, it seems that we could certainly take a lesson from my old neighbors.  I know many who do, but there’s still room for improvement.

I know I still need a little practice.  I’ll get on that, right after I finish this one last tamale…

“For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.  For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.”
(Audrey Hepburn)

The Best Gift

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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…

The best gift that I ever got
Didn’t really weigh a lot.
It didn’t have a ribbon ’round
And it sometimes made a terrible sound.
But, best of all, it seems to me
It wasn’t ‘neath the Christmas tree.
And yet, I guess I’d have to say
It made all the other presents twice as gay.
The best gift that I’ve ever known
I’d always wanted most to own.
Yet, in my dreams of sugar and spice
I never thought it could be so nice.
The best gift that I could ever get
Was sometimes dry and sometimes wet;
Was usually pink but oftentimes red
As it lay so innocently in its bed.
The best gift of the year to me
The one I hold most dear to me
A gift that simply drove me wild
Was a tiny new-born child…

(Barbra Streisand, 1978)

The Sound of Music!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was just moments ago that we took their coats as they arrived and now they’re putting them back on to leave.  “We’ll do it again next year,”  the words come easily to our lips, just as they did last year and the year before that.  Why is it that some traditions seem burdensome, but some are pure delight?  The hours fly by as we enjoy the easy company of old friends, most of whom we have known and loved for a lifetime.  Come to think of it, that lifetime seems to have slipped by just as effortlessly as the last two hours have.

Christmastime means so many things, but the one activity that just cannot be ignored is making music.  The music of the season is marvelous and varied, with some tunes that set the toe to tapping and the young ones to dancing, others that inspire reflection, even introspection.  We sang through a pretty comprehensive range of those songs tonight, from “Jingle Bell Rock” to the “Hallelujah Chorus” (that one, we had to do twice) and even a few unfamiliar ones which we’ll have to remember for next year.  The Lovely Lady sat at the piano, frequently with a grandchild on her lap as she played and we called out our favorites, with a smattering of the experimental songs tossed out by the adventurous folks in the group.  I’m guessing that for some readers, this experience would have been pure torture, but for us, it was a taste of paradise. 

The annual “singing and snacking” included a fair amount of snacks, most of which I won’t describe here, since I’m not sure if my doctor is reading this.  I’ll put it this way; there wasn’t much health food there.  But, in fact, the food was secondary to the company.  I’ve described the old friends, but we were blessed as always with a good number of young friends (who are still old friends, except not actually old, if you take my meaning).  Every year, I’m amazed that they are anxious to be included in the fellowship, since we don’t really do contemporary music at this event.  But these young folks love being part of the joyful celebration of the music of the season and the celebration wouldn’t be the same without them.  Each year sees more children and I think we’re doing a good job of indoctrinating them into the joy of this wonderful heritage of great music.

Certainly the highlight of the evening was when the little angels (and a couple of imps) came in with us as we sang “Go Tell It On The Mountain”, a song many of them learned for a pageant they put on a week ago.  I don’t want to be too sentimental, but seeing those beaming faces and hearing their young voices raised in joyful song is enough to bring tears to my eyes as I write this.  A close second to this was the enjoyment of hearing one of the young adult ladies, a friend I’ve had the enjoyment of knowing from the day she was born, sing the beautiful and haunting “I Wonder As I Wander” in her pure, clear voice as we listened and contemplated the wonder that “Jesus the Savior did come for to die, for poor ornery people like you and like I.”  

The evening passed too quickly, the goodbyes were said too soon, but we plan to do it all again next year.  If past years are any indicator,  it won’t seem like any time at all.  What a wonderful season of the year!  What a joy that God not only gave the gift of His Son, but He gave the gift of friends old and new, along with the additional largesse of wonderful music to commemorate the amazing event!

“Go, tell it on the mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere.
Go, tell it on the mountain
That Jesus Christ is born!”

                                            

Failure to Plan!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The Christmas Rush is over.  That’s not true in our “brick and mortar” store, but in our online store the onslaught has subsided and we’re starting to breathe a sigh of relief.  Oh, there have been mistakes made, packages misdirected, and defective products discovered.  It hasn’t all been fun or stress free, but we’ve survived another Christmas season in the accompaniment track business.  The requests for “O Holy Night” and “Mary Did You Know?” have given way to the more mundane, familiar titles, which run the spectrum of music genres, from Gospel to Contemporary Christian to Traditional.  I am starting to breathe easier, believing that we’ve done a respectable job of satisfying customers, but something is still keeping me on edge, there’s still a niggling fear running around in my brain.

Why should that be?  How is it that I’m still anxious?  The truth is that this is the week that the procrastinators come out of hiding.  There are still Christmas Eve programs at which to perform.  The day after Christmas, there will still be soloists who are expected to sing at Sunday worship services.  And, they’ve all realized that there are only two shipping days left to order their product.  That’s still plenty of time to make it someone else’s fault if they don’t have a track to sing with.  They can still call the toll-free phone number to somewhere far away and give this problem to some voice on the telephone.   I’ve cringed every time line number 2 has rung in the last couple of days, knowing that the chances are good I’m going to have to explain the high cost of overnight shipping, or explain why UPS doesn’t honor their transit-time guarantees the week before Christmas.  And, I’ll still have to figure out a way to get the product to them in time!

Do I sound bitter?  Am I looking for sympathy?  Actually, I was thinking I would just vent a bit, but as the lines are being written, I realize that I’m describing myself (as the procrastinator, not the unfortunate salesperson), which may explain why I dislike these people who put things off until the last minute.  They’re so much like me!  We live in a virtual world where we expect instant gratification, therefore, it is acceptable to wait until the week before the holiday to make your holiday purchases.  There should be no reason for disappointment.  Obviously, this doesn’t take into account the physical realities of the tangible world in which we live.  Greatly increased quantities of items which need processing result in slowdowns and greatly increased quantities of errors.   Fewer days in the process take away the possibility of redemption, of making right any errors and delays.  As a professional procrastinator, I understand this, having been under the gun with a project, only to make a critical mistake right before a deadline, insuring the failure of timely completion of the task.  Somehow, when I give the job to someone else, I forget that aspect, knowing only that it is now someone else’s problem.  And, I expect perfection from those I pay to cover my deficiency.

I love the sign that used to hang in the repair shop of our instrument technician.  It read, “Failure to plan ahead on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine!”  Even though I agree wholeheartedly with the sentiments of that sign, I feel a kindred spirit with my customers who call and beg for me to insure that they won’t be left high and dry.  I do everything humanly possible to make them happy, simply because I know that I will be depending on someone else in the next day or two to do the same for me.  I don’t believe in “Karma”, but I keep hoping that if I do my best to help, someone else will do their best to help me.  Most of the time, it doesn’t work that way.  Frazzled and worn out from bending over backwards for my customers, I make my requests of my potential benefactors, only to find that they have the same sign over their desk as the repair technician.

If you’re a procrastinator, you’ve read this with understanding, nodding your head in sympathy.  You know that this is our week.  These final days before Christmas are the ones we wait for all year long, the ones in which we either are deliriously happy that we got that last minute gift, or are casting about desperately for the appropriate words to explain the tardiness of the present that won’t arrive in time for the day.  If any of you find yourself in the situation, may I suggest that you face the facts, accept the responsibility, and enjoy the season anyway!  True, there’s a lesson to be learned, but there’ll be time for that later.  As you’ve read here before, the spirit of Christmas is love and redemption.  This week, there are people to enjoy and a Savior to contemplate.

Oh, and a last minute trip to Target or Walmart may just set the other things right anyway.  There’s always hope!  And, just a hint…probably, wrapping a brick with a picture of the item taped to it isn’t the best way out of your quandary.  At least, it wasn’t the last time I tried it…

“Christmas gift suggestions:
To your enemy, forgiveness.
To an opponent, tolerance.
To a friend, your heart.
To a customer, service.
To all, charity.
To every child, a good example.
To yourself, respect.”

(Oren Arnold, American writer 1900-1980)

Not Just Another Wise Guy

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Tonight, I read once again the old Christmas classic short story, “The Gift of the Magi”.  Written by O. Henry, who was ironically a convicted embezzler and an alcoholic, it remains, in my mind at least, one of the best stories of true love that I have read.  Every year around this time, the cynics come out, clamoring of the foolishness rather than the wisdom of the two protagonists.  In spite of the misanthropy of these detractors, I find amazing hope in the story, choosing to believe that it is a better thing to give up something we love for someone we love, in spite of the chance that the result will be other than we would wish.

I grew up receiving an annual gift from my father, one that I was never happy to receive.  You see, we didn’t celebrate Christmas at our house.  Oh, my parents were Christians, but my dad had spent hours of research and had determined that because of the pagan roots of the original holiday celebrated at this time of year, and the fact that a number of the practices had been “borrowed” by the church as it replaced the pagan celebrations, he and his family would not be celebrating Christmas.  To a young child growing up, it was not a happy situation.  Since we attended a church which celebrated the day, we were surrounded by friends who expected us to enjoy the season.  I guarantee you, we did not!  Other children received presents galore.  We didn’t.  Other families spent the holiday with family.  We didn’t.  Other people enjoyed Christmas caroling and times of fellowship afterward.  We didn’t.

I’m not seeking sympathy, because the gift from my father was irreplaceable and given in love.  To this day, I treasure and value it.  His gift to his family was the courage to stand for his convictions.  No matter how unpopular they were, he stood on those principles in which he had confidence.  And they were unpopular.  He was accused of not being a Christian by some, and outcast (at least for the month of December) by others.  It was pretty unpopular from our point of view also, since we had to face the kids at school, either with explanations or lies.  I’m ashamed to say that many times, my choice was the latter.  It was easier for me to reply, “Oh, I just got clothes,” to the inevitable question of what I received for Christmas, than it was to explain why I didn’t get any presents from my family.  But as I have matured, my admiration for the stance my father took, regardless of whether you view it as wrong or right, has grown immensely.  He believed what he said and was willing to pay the price for it.

As an adult, I have not retained the viewpoint my father had regarding Christmas.  While it’s a much larger conversation than I want to have here, let’s just say that I see many areas in life wherein we have utilized the tools available to us to do God’s work, in this case, a time of celebration in which we have the opportunity to spread the good news of God’s love.  But the lesson of standing firm for what you believe is not lost on me, and my stubbornness nearly matches my father’s in a number of areas.  If you don’t believe me, ask my children, or the other men who are Elders in my church.

What sort of gifts are you giving your children?  It’s a sure bet that the lion’s share of the toys you buy will be forgotten long before they reach majority.  They’ll have dim memories of the expensive decorations and elaborate feasts.  But, they will always remember the things that matter to you, the principles you are willing to stand for in your life.  As you wrap all those presents this week, take some time to think of the gifts you are giving which will last for a lifetime.  Make sure they’re the things you want to be remembered for.

The O.Henry story is a great romantic tale which brings tears to the eyes and a short-term rush of sentimentalism, leading unfortunately to no real, lasting transformation.  The stories of who we really are and what we really believe in, on the other hand…Those are the stories that can shape lives for eternity.

Make sure your gift is a wise one…the true gift of the magi.

“The greatest gift is a portion of thyself.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

“As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
(Joshua 24:15)