“It’s no use.  You have a mental block.”

The skinny kid blinked his eyes and grimaced in frustration.  His aunt was, no doubt, a fine school teacher, but she hadn’t been able to get through to him on that winter afternoon.  He couldn’t comprehend the first thing about the algebra problems she had tried to explain to him.  

Nothing.

And now?  What in the world did she mean, mental block?

Mental block–him?  He didn’t even know what that was, much less whether he had one or not!

An hour earlier, they had finished one of their infrequent family meals at his Grandma’s house.  Somehow, as they talked at the dinner table after they were all stuffed, the boy’s Mom had let slip that he was having trouble in algebra.  A veteran math teacher at one of the high schools in a big city nearby, Aunt Jane was confident she could help.  She jumped at the chance to clear things up for him. 

It was a nice plan, but it hadn’t worked out quite so neatly.

Crossing the street to the old two-story frame house he lived in with his family, they sat down to the ancient nicked-up dining room table with his school books, along with a pencil and some paper.  From the outset, she had been patient and gone through the steps of the equations one by one.  She even reminded him gently of the rules each time he got hung up on one thing or another. 

The skinny kid had tried, really he had.  But, somewhere along the way, her voice, gravelly and rough from the years of speaking at high volume to her high school students, became nothing more than a grating and meaningless noise in his ears. 

His aunt explained again and again, but all he heard was the buzz, buzz, buzz of a Peanut’s comic strip adult, with a few intelligible words tossed in here and there.

“Wah wah wah-wah-wah.  Wah wah wah-wah.  Wah wah understand that?” 

The boy nodded his head each time the question was asked.  It was easier than admitting he didn’t.  The only problem was, she believed him, and kept going on to the next step of the problem.  He certainly didn’t understand the next step, nor indeed, any part which had preceded the question before the step.  Finally, she saw what was happening and made the statement you read in the first sentence above.

He wasn’t dumb.  He just subconsciously put up barriers to understanding what she was saying.  Until he made himself concentrate on the issue at hand, no progress could be made.

The boy is forty years past the event now.  While the memory of that study session remains crystal clear, he can’t remember if he ever got rid of his mental block to the algebra assignment. 

He is certain he still has problems learning other lessons he needs to remember.

As short a time as a year ago, he distinctly remembers some life lessons which were made clear to him.  He is sure he was paying attention.  As frequently happens, he even wrote down the gist of what he learned, so others could benefit from his experience.

There was something about second chances.  He is sure of that.  Perhaps, he even suggested that obedience in serving others is a sweet aroma that arises to Heaven.  The memory is a little fuzzy, but that seems to be what he talked about.

He wrote the words himself. 

One would believe he has grasped the precepts firmly.  It might be expected he would be clearly applying them on a daily basis.

He does not. 

Perhaps he has a mental block.

Perhaps he erected the mental block himself.  Maybe it’s easier if he doesn’t have to travel that road again.  Some experiences aren’t all that pleasant.
___________________

The ancient old luxury car turned into the parking lot almost fitfully the other day.  It was almost as if the driver wasn’t sure this was where she wanted to stop.  It wouldn’t take long for me to decide I shared the driver’s feelings.

They took their time getting out of the old vehicle.  The first person through the door was an odd young man, decked out in jungle fatigues, with carabiners (clips used for rock climbing and rappelling) attached all over.  The floppy-brimmedboonie hat that matched the fatigues hid his eyes, but not his wide, chubby face.  Close behind him trooped an old couple, crippled and leaning on canes, as well as two heavy-set younger women, one of whom appeared to be mentally challenged.

I smiled and welcomed them, asking if I could be of service.  Two things happened almost simultaneously.  First, they all began to talk at once.  Within an instant of the immediate hubbub, the stench hit my nostrils.  If I have described noxious smells before, this surpassed any of those.

I almost gasped with…

Wait!

I read what I have written above and I shudder as the words hit home again.

Months ago, I wrote the following, leading you who read my verbal wanderings to believe that I had learned the lesson:

          “Why, even the stench of the self-righteous filthy rags the religious people of this world are
           dressed in would make my friend’s condition feel like the freshness of a spring day in comparison.
          And yet, we think nothing of demanding His touch, His caress, His embrace, as our right.
          I have to wonder: how do we smell to Him?”

Do you see why I shudder?  Do you understand I have returned to the exact state I was in before my epiphany from months ago? 

You couldn’t have missed that as you followed my mental assessment of the customers in those paragraphs above.  I was careful to note the flaws, the defects, in fact, every way they were different that I could discern.  And, after I established they were nothing like me, I delivered the knockout punch. 

The cardinal sin–the ultimate offense against humanity!

They stank!
____________________

In my mind, I hear the old school teacher’s gravelly voice, patient and calm, but accusatory nonetheless.

“It’s no use.  You have a mental block.”

But no. 

I am working to shove the roadblock aside.  The road closed sign is not a permanent thing. 

I did hurry those folks out that day, but they came back the next week.  I had had time to remember by then.  Just a couple of days ago, the phone rang and I learned that they would be back again this week.

I’m glad.  They are people who need to be loved. 

I’m confident He doesn’t object to the same odors I do.  I’m still trying to learn to love the same things He does.

It seems likely to take a good part of my lifetime.

I’m just glad that algebra doesn’t seem to be high on His list. 

That, I’ve still got a mental block to.








“Sometimes it (the tongue) praises our Lord and Father, and sometimes it curses those who have been made in the image of God.  And so blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth.  Surely, my brothers and sisters, this is not right!”
(James 3: 9,10 ~ NLT)


“We must learn to live together as brothers, or perish together as fools.”
(Martin Luther King Jr ~ American preacher/civil right leader ~ 1929-1968)

“In real life, I assure you, there is no such thing as algebra.”
(Fran Lebowitz ~American writer/humorist)





© Paul Phillips.  He’s Taken Leave.  2014.  All Rights Reserved.

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He is alone.

Today, he says goodbye to his partner of over sixty years, and he is alone.  He should be surrounded by friends and family, all supporting and loving him, yet there he stands, alone.

No.

I have, perhaps, misstated his condition.  He is surrounded by friends and family.  They are and have been, supportive.  They are talking with each other, laughing their way through the pain of loss–remembering a mother and a grandmother who loved and lived, and helped to shape their world.

And still–from my vantage point away from the group, I see him, separate from the flow and camaraderie of shared memories.  In the center of the herd circled around to protect him, he stands silent with a confused look in his eyes.

Sixty years.

Sixty years, he was part of something.  Something bigger than the sum of the parts.  Tonight, he stands and realizes that the something has changed–fundamentally and without recourse.  The herd around him will protect him for a time, giving him a chance to adapt, to heal.  But, they will go on raising families, working at jobs, loving their spouses still by their sides.

He is alone.

Again I think I have, perhaps, misstated his condition.  He is alone in the sense that his companion is no longer beside him, but he has something else.  He spoke of it earlier to me.

He has hope.

He has assurance.

Both have their foundation in a faith nurtured for many years, a faith shared with his now absent partner.

He will need them both, as well as the faith.

Tough days are ahead of him.  His life will never–never–be the same again.  The hours of his days will stretch on in lonely minutes which he knows not how to fill.  His nights will be spent in sleepless dreariness and one-sided conversations with himself about the past.

But, he is part of something bigger.  Bigger than the binding of two people together in a lifetime of living and loving and growing together.  Bigger than the family they raised together.  Bigger than the fellowship they had with a local group of Christian believers.

The assurance is that one day a great multitude will gather together on the other side of that strange frontier crossing we call death.  The great hope, that he will be a part of that crowd, along with her, gives reason to move on from here.

Alone?

Yeah.  Kind of.

For now.

Still putting one foot in front of the other, though.  Still setting his sights on that day.

It’ll do.

“And the Lord God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone.”
(Genesis 2:18a ~ KJV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved. 

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It happens every week or so.  A customer asks to look at an item and we’re sold out.

Sold out?  There was one there yesterday.

There were six there last week.

I have to admit it is one of the tasks I dislike the most.  Stock orders.  Inventory must be checked.  Catalogs must be searched–perhaps online, perhaps in a print version.  Either way, when that is done, the order must be communicated with the supplier by whichever method works the best.

Every time I complete a stock order, I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Well, that’s over!”

It’s not.

In a couple of days, the boxes arrive.  Items must be unpacked.  Invoices must be verified.  Prices must be attached to each item.  The merchandise must be placed on display.

“Well, that’s over.”

It’s not.

In another day or three, a customer asks to look at an item and we’re sold out.

How is this possible?  We achieved our goal.  We placed the order.  We even processed the incoming merchandise.  We’re done, right?

I wonder if I’m missing something.  Perhaps the goal wasn’t just to complete the order.  Perhaps the goal wasn’t even just to get it on the shelf.  I have a sneaking suspicion the goal isn’t even just to have customers come get what they need.

Am I missing something?
__________

Perhaps a shift in scope might help.

Hey!

That’s exactly what we need here!

A shift in scope.

Scope is the extent of the area we are viewing in any particular subject matter.  I just need to see a bigger picture.  Instead of seeing each activity in my business as disconnected, I have to know they are all connected.  All of them–every single one–lead to a bigger goal, a larger thing to be accomplished.

I wonder if you’re ready for me to really stretch the parameters of the view with this next statement.

It has to be said.

There is nothing that you or I will do today which will achieve the ultimate goal for which we are striving.

Not one thing.

We have to widen our scope.
__________

The Lovely Lady and I were relaxing after our individual evening exercise sessions.  We had the television set tuned into some banal comedy.  An ad for one of those online universities came on and I listened with astonishment as a college student made an absurd statement.

“The most important thing I’ll ever do in my life is walk across that stage.”   She made the statement emphatically and proudly.

She was wrong.

Can I make an admission that may surprise many of my readers?

I did not go to college.  There.  I’ve said it.

I don’t say it with pride or with chagrin.  It is simply a fact.  I’ve thought about going to college many times, but have opted not to do so.  Why?

Walking across a stage and getting a diploma is not the most important thing I could do.  If it would enable me to achieve my life goals–if getting that diploma would put me any closer to doing what I’ve been placed here to do–I would do whatever it took to get that diploma.

Not to have a diploma to hang on the wall.

Not to brag to anyone that I have a degree.

Not to pat myself on the back and say that I did it.

The only reason in the world to get that diploma is to use it to move closer to the ultimate aim in life.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am not putting down a college education.  I would never suggest to a young person that they not get as much instruction as they need to move forward.  But, if the degree doesn’t help with that, doesn’t in some sense propel them toward their goals, it is useless and a waste of time.
__________

It’s time for me to move on.  I’m attempting to break the news to you gently, but I’ve got to get to it or we’ll be here all day.

Here’s the truth about these minor, picayune subjects we’re wrestling with tonight, and in fact, which we wrestle with every day.

We’re thinking too small if any of our goals–any of them–don’t lead directly to another, bigger goal, which leads to another, bigger goal, which in turn…

Well, you get the picture.

Too often in life, we make the mistake of thinking the next step is the one we’re looking for.

I can’t count the times when friends have said, “One more class session and then I’ll be done forever,” as if that is the end of that.

It’s not.

Which, incidentally, is the way life is supposed to be.  One step at a time, we put one foot in front of the other.  We walk through childhood on the way to maturity.  We walk through school on the way to a vocation, or ministry.  We walk through a lifetime of labor which leads to more labor, which leads to more labor.  We retire from one aspect of life, the work, to move on to another, the nurturing and caring for each other in our old age.

But, at no time, do we get to say, “I’m done forever.”

I remember putting the ceiling and walls up in the den of our house a few years ago.  It was a struggle to deal with those twelve by four foot pieces of sheet rock.  The heavy sections of drywall were bulky and awkward.  It was all the two of us could handle, and then some.  We had covered the ceiling, and then gone around all four walls, holding the sheet rock with one hand and a power driver in the other.  The job was exhausting.

Then, as we went to the stack one more time, my brother-in-law, who was the brains of the outfit said triumphantly, “Here’s the one we’ve been looking for all along!”

I had heard the gag before, but went along just to hear the words.  “What do you mean, the one we’ve been looking for?”

He said the words, more with relief than pride.  “The last one.  We’re done.”

Funny thing.  He was wrong.  We still had to tape the corners and edges.  We still had to put mortar or mud in them.  We had to sand them and then mud them again.  We had to do that several times to the ceiling, since it would be so readily visible.  The walls and ceiling both had to be primed and painted, and then painted again.

Then, the job of construction done, the real work began.  We use the room constantly.  It hosts family, and friends.  It is the playroom for our grandchildren and sometimes, their little friends.  It has to be cleaned and kept up.  Pictures are hung and moved.  Light fixtures have been attached (and removed).

We’re not done with the room.  We never will be.

We never intended to be.  There was always a larger scope than just hanging sheet rock.
__________

From the day of our birth, until the day we die, we are taught, and we work, and we love, and we teach.  The cycle goes on and on, not ending with us, but continuing with our children and those we influence in this life.

Generation after generation, we never find the one we are looking for, the last one.

There is no such thing as the last thing to be done.

Until one day, when our life here is completed.

I have a theory about what happens after we die too, but you may not wish to hear it.

Perhaps, just the widening of the scope for this life has been enough for one session.

Funny, we say that folks enter into their rest when they die.  Maybe that’s right.

But, I’m still not sure that God is going to let us waste all the time we’ve prepared for walking across that particular stage.  There may still be more.

One day, I’ll find out.

Until then, there is certainly more to be done here.

Time to get moving again.

“The master said, ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant.  You have been faithful in handling this small amount, so now I will give you many more responsibilities.  Let’s celebrate together!'”
(Matthew 25:23 ~ NLT)

“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a heaven for?”
(Men and Women and Other Poems ~ by Robert Browning ~ English poet ~ 1812-1889)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved. 

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“Dead air is something we cannot tolerate, Paul.”

“I just want to look at your guitars for a few minutes.”

The old fellow wandered through the doorway of my music store the other day.  I looked up from my stooped over position at the work bench and nodded a greeting to him.  The owner of the guitar on my bench was standing beside me watching my progress, so I continued with the repair.

The old guy—okay, he’s actually my age—moved out of sight into the guitar section of the building, the L-shaped design of the room acting as a natural divider.  I could hear him gently plucking strings on the instruments hanging from the wall.

It didn’t take long.  The fellow stopped at one instrument.  I didn’t see him do it.  I could just hear that the sound of the strings being strummed had gone from varying tonality to a uniform sound.  He ran his fingers over the strings one last time while the guitar hung on the wall, and then he lifted the chosen instrument down from the midst of the other candidates.

He had made his selection.  This was the instrument upon which he would perform that day.  Right there; right then.

The concert began.  From our position around the corner, the audience listened with delight.  The owner of the patient on my bench was happy with the diversion.  A guitar set-up is not the most hypnotizing activity known to man.  I wasn’t unhappy with the distraction either.  The old guy really is a good guitarist.

He played for five minutes. 

The music was beautiful.  Every one of the six strings on the guitar was employed as he played the melody intertwined with chords and arpeggios, first moving up from the lowest, bass-y tones to the clear, bell-like trebles and then back down again.  He performed an old pop song from the Seventies, followed by a contemporary Christian piece, almost without any pause in between.

The man played for another ten minutes. 

The guitar sounded great!  I was fairly certain the old guy wasn’t buying, but it didn’t matter.  His playing might sell the guitar to somebody else.  Besides, I just like listening to good artistry.  Musical instruments are designed to make music.  They’re no good to anyone hanging on a rack.

Then it happened.  I heard it the second it occurred.  One chord was struck in such a manner that there was the tiniest buzz.

The tiniest buzz.

I sighed.  “Well, that’s it.”

I muttered the words so that the man standing beside me heard them.

“What do you mean?”  he questioned.

“He’s done.  Just wait,” I replied.  “You’ll see.”
_____

Art imitates life. 

The idea can be traced back to Ancient Greece and further.  It is a truism, a self-evident truth which almost could be described as a duh statement.  You know what I mean.  Someone says the words and you can’t help but reply with a duh to show how silly it was to state the obvious.

The idea that art imitates life simply means that in our artistic endeavors, we tend to repeat what we see played out in everyday life.  Paintings are more realistic than not; songs describe emotions that are genuinely felt; stage productions and films depict events which are either believable, or at least could be imagined from our understanding of what life is.  There are, of course, exceptions.  I won’t argue about philosophy; it’s a conversation which would never reach a conclusion.

I’ll say it again though.   

Art imitates life.

My friend and I were about to receive a lesson in it.
_____

We didn’t have long to wait.

The music stopped abruptly.  The guitarist’s hand returned to the errant chord.

Throm, throm, throm.  

The chord wasn’t unpleasant, but there was that slight metallic sound, as one string momentarily touched the fret above where it was fingered.  As the string vibrated, it oscillated repeatedly against the offending metal bar.  Within the chord, it was not clearly obnoxious, but I was sure of what would follow.

With a final throm of all the strings, the guitarist’s finger moved unerringly to the guilty string, holding it down in the same position.  Now the sound changed again.

Plink, plink, plink, plink.  

The same action was repeated more times than I could count.  It was so annoying that even I ceased my work on the guitar and stood in vexation.  I willed the guitarist to stop, but he didn’t. 

Just about the time I was ready to speak up and ask him to stop, it seemed that he had come to his senses.  The music began anew.  Beautiful chords, utilizing the entire fingerboard and all six strings, rang out.  The melody was heard once again.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

Too soon!

Throm! throm! throm!  Plink! plink! plink! plink!   He had returned to the bad fret again.

Several times more, the melody was taken up.  Every single time, the result was the same.  A few seconds of music and moments of frustration.  Finally the old guitarist gave up.  We heard the sounds of him rising from the stool, sighing as he did, and hanging the instrument in its place with the others on the rack.

He walked around the corner, muttering as he came.

“You know that guitar has a high fret, don’t you?  It’s completely unplayable.”

I chuckled to myself, but verbally, I agreed with him and assured him that I would deal with the problem soon.  His face lit up again and, bidding us a good afternoon, he turned and headed out the door.

“That’s too bad,” the guitar owner consoled me.  “You can’t sell a guitar that’s unplayable.”

I looked at him with amusement.  

“Unplayable?  What do you think he was doing with the guitar for the first fifteen minutes he sat up there?”

We discussed the principle of little things and important things while I finished up his repair and then he too was on his way.
_____

Art imitates life.

Sometimes, the artist intends to imitate life.  He draws, or writes, or acts out life events so they can’t be missed.

Frequently though, art imitates life in a way that is completely unintentional by the artist.  

My old guitarist friend had no objective of teaching a life lesson on that afternoon.  He was genuinely entranced by the sound and feel of the guitar he had selected.  It was a season of beautiful interaction between the artist and his medium, the guitar.  His audience was the beneficiary of the artistry.

Then he found it—one tiny, insignificant defect.  And, with that, he was done with the beautiful instrument with which he had interacted and with which he had fallen in love.  A single vibration ended the love affair for him.

The legalistic part of me wants to side with the old guitarist.  I want to point out that one sin makes a sinner; one speck of contamination ruins the whole meal; one act of unfaithfulness destroys all trust in a relationship.

We reject the defects every day.  We walk away from churches because of one thing we don’t like.  We ditch relationships because we have suddenly become aware of a secret we never knew before.  We reject people because they don’t live up to the advertisement. 

The legalistic part of me nods agreement. 

This guitar is unplayable.

The part of me that believes in grace screams out that there is more to it than this. 

More!

Our Creator has always used broken media in His artistry to show us what life really is to be.  Even if you don’t want to go all the way back to the Book for examples (and there are hundreds there), all you have to do is to look around you.  Look at the most famous if you want.  You can think of more than a few. 

Look at the most common, too.  I’d even have to stand up if the question were to be asked. 

Imperfect product of His love and grace?  That’s me.  

I suspect it is any of us who have experienced that grace.

Still, beautiful music is being made every day.  Played on unplayable instruments. Instruments which are still fallible, still defective.

How about it?  Got a little plinking going on in life right now? 

Yeah.  Me too.

I remember the beautiful music I once heard.  Maybe it’s time to move on to the important things again.

God’s still working on me, too.

“Most important of all, continue to show deep love for each other, for love covers a multitude of sins.”
(I Peter 4:8 ~ NLT)

“God sees us with the eyes of a father.  He sees our defects, errors, and blemishes.  But He also sees our value.”
(Max Lucado ~ American pastor/author)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.