It had been an interesting weekend.  The Lovely Lady’s parents had decided to take a trip across our state to visit her aunt and uncle in Memphis.  The invitation seemed to be more of a summons, but since I was still doing my best to raise my esteem in the eyes of my mother-in-law, accepting it seemed to be the judicious choice.  We packed a bag and rode along.  In retrospect, they may have thought that they were on trial just as much as I.  Regardless, we all learned a bit about each other, living in close quarters for a little over two days.

I was twenty-one years old and would have told you that I couldn’t care less what they thought of me.  It wasn’t true.  I have admitted before to those of you who follow this blog that I struggle with needing the approval of people around me.  That trait was not any less in evidence thirty-five years ago than it is today.  The fact that I wasn’t the first young man that my mother-in-law would have picked as a life partner for her daughter wasn’t lost on me, although the words had never been said. Then.  Years later, with tears in her eyes, she would admit that she never understood what the Lovely Lady saw in “that brown-haired boy”.  I’m happy to say that they were tears of repentance, as she openly admitted that she had been mistaken.

But, that would be many years in the future.  On this weekend, it seemed that I was doomed to walk under a cloud all of my life.  I was trying too hard, and as usual, it led to a complete failure to impress.  The memory of details have faded, so obviously, it was a weekend to forget.  One event from the trip sticks out in my mind, though.

We had said our goodbyes in Memphis and headed back across eastern Arkansas.  Mid-afternoon, realizing that we hadn’t eaten since breakfast, we found a buffet just off the Interstate at which to stop and dine.  Looking at the offerings on the steam table as we entered, I was excited to see that they actually had steak and onions as one of the entrees.  I should have looked at the menu on the wall instead.  I love steak and onions, so I ignored the fried chicken, and the grilled pork chops, passing just as quickly on the fried catfish.  “I’ll take a serving of that,” said I, pointing at the pan down the way a bit.  The young lady behind the counter smiled and served up the biggest individual portion in the pan onto my plate.  I headed to my seat and after we had prayed together, I launched into the appetizing dish.

Under the steak knife, the meat felt a bit different than I had expected.  It was a little spongier, perhaps even a little too tender.  No matter.  Arranging a tidbit of onion on top of the meat with the knife, I raised the first bite to my mouth.  I should have noticed the aroma wafting on up to my nose, but I was oblivious to anything but the thought of that delicious steak.  The instant the morsel hit the taste buds on my tongue, though, I reacted almost instinctively.  “Blech!”  I almost shouted it.  Liver!  It wasn’t steak at all, but liver!  I hated liver!  The other people at the table stared at me.  “What’s wrong?” asked my father-in-law, worried that the food was bad.  I do have rare moments of being quick on my feet and fortunately, this was one of them.  The thought that ran through my head was how hard I had been trying to impress them all weekend.  Wouldn’t that be the crowning touch, for me to show them how fussy I was about what I would eat?  “Oh.  I think there must have been a bad spot in that onion.  It’s fine. Really good.”  I choked the words out, as I also choked down the bite of liver.  I spent the rest of the meal in agony.  Bite by bite, along with many drinks of tea and a few rolls to mask the taste, I managed to force down the lion’s share of the horrid, stinking dish.  I’m not sure they were as impressed as I wanted them to be.

It was many years in the past.  I have learned much about being a son-in-law along the way, although that particular skill is no longer necessary in my case.  I also have eaten many dishes I did not love since then.  The funny thing is that some of them have grown on me.  Just not liver.

“And, what am I…chopped liver?”  The question is asked occasionally of someone who is talking about an ideal they have in mind.  The person beside them takes offense at the slight, however unintended.  The question made perfect sense to me that day.  I wanted steak.  I got liver.  As I think back, I can’t help but feel for my poor in-laws who also wanted steak for their daughter, but got…liver.  Oh, time changed their appraisal, but at that time, all they saw was this kid with hair longer than their daughter’s, and not many obvious redeeming qualities.  They had been anxiously awaiting steak all those years, and she chose the liver.  Or, so it must have seemed to them.  And, for a time, although they never made the comparisons at all, the question loomed large in my mind as I imagined their disappointment.  “What am I…chopped liver?”

May I talk for just a moment about the principle of significance?  We all, every one of us, need to feel that we are important, even essential, to someone.  The principle holds throughout society, regardless of social status or financial condition.  Significance is the reason that street gangs form, the reason that social clubs are started, even the reason that we have so many churches in almost every town in this country.  Yes, even the more spiritually-minded among us want to be important, to have their own opinion and talents valued.  When they get tired of beating their heads against the brick wall of church hierarchy, they walk away and start their own fellowship, usually insuring that they are significant within the new hierarchy.  Nobody wants to be a nobody.  But, that leads to another concept I believe is important.

Nobody should be a nobody.  Does that mean that everybody gets to be the most valuable player?  Should everybody get a trophy, even though they didn’t win?  That’s not what I’m saying. What I am saying is that it’s time to stop making comparisons; of human beings, at least.  Comparisons diminish one of the parties under discussion. There is a desirable and an undesirable element in every comparison.  Steak – liver.  Prince – pauper.  Rich – poor.  All have an ideal, opposed by a flawed, choice.  It is impossible to make the comparison without denigrating the inferior choice. People shouldn’t be presented as inferior and unattractive.

It is a situation that should be detestable to we who claim to follow Jesus.  The Apostle makes that clear in his assertion that all the parts of the body are absolutely essential, albeit not as visible (e.g., foot & hand, ear & eye).  He concludes his metaphorical statement by reminding us that if one part of the body suffers, the whole body suffers as well. So it is with us in our communities.  Our comparisons, our claims to superiority, cause harm to us, as well as to those against whom we make the claims.

I am grateful for friends who have been there for me in spite of my obvious deficiencies.  The Lovely Lady has never compared me to her father, or a former boyfriend, but loves me for who I am.  When we refrain from comparisons and make the people in our lives understand how important they are to us, the results will be surprising.  I’m remembering an old television commercial for Imperial Margarine.  The person in the ad eats a bite of the product, and instantly, a crown appears on their head and they hear a royal trumpet flourish.  “Taste fit for a king,” the ads bragged.  Every person, regardless of who they were, experienced the regal treatment (and the surprise at getting the royal treatment).  I kind of like the idea.

And, if indeed, it’s “taste fit for a king” we’re going after, I’m pretty sure that liver isn’t on the menu.

 “Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede.” 
(“Debate Between the Horse, Goose, and Sheep”~John Lydgate~English monk/poet~1370-1451)

“And if one member suffers, all the members suffer with it; if one member is honored, all the members rejoice with it.”
(I Corinthians 12:26~NASV)

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© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

The skinny kid was absorbed in the basketball game, meaning that he was fighting a losing battle to be an essential player on the three-man team.  He was tall enough; he just didn’t have the coordination necessary to be much help.  It almost came as a relief to him when the man stuck his head through the gym door and yelled at him to pick up the phone on the wall.  He and his friends had been getting together for a weekly game at the church gym for awhile now, right at the same time that his new wife of three or four months was at the laundromat, washing clothes for the week. Since they only had one car, he had dropped her and the laundry off on his way here, promising to pick her up in about an hour.  He was sure it wouldn’t be her calling him. Wondering who it could be, he headed for the phone.

The young lady on the other end sounded, as she herself would have put it, frazzled.  It was indeed his bride and she was unhappy.  “I forgot the hangers and I’ve got shirts in the dryer which need to be hung up right now or they’ll get wrinkled.  Can you go home and bring them to me really fast?”  He hung up the phone and turned back to the gym floor where his friends were waiting.  Three on two really doesn’t work well, so they were taking a breather while he talked.  He considered.  They were just a few points shy of the score where they would be quitting anyway.  Another minute or two wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Ten minutes later, he sped out of the parking lot and headed for home, going well over the speed limit.  He worried about a traffic citation, but he was just a little more concerned about what his young wife was going to say.  Sure enough, as he edged through the four-way stop at the top of the hill above their house, he saw the blue lights of the police cruiser behind him.  Pulling to a stop in his own driveway, he opened the door and stepped out.  The officer informed him that he had stopped him for performing a rolling stop, which he knew very well he had done (along with some other things the officer had missed).  Immediately, the excuses began to form on his lips.  He gave voice to a trial balloon, just to see if it would fly…“You know, I just got married and we moved here only a few months ago.”  Of course, he meant they had moved to that house, but he was willing to let the officer think it could have been to the area or even the town, if he was so inclined.  To aid his case a little, he suggested that his wife really needed him at the laundromat immediately.  The policeman wasn’t swallowing any of it.  “Aren’t you the same young man I stopped for a rolling stop downtown over a year ago?  Yep, I’m sure of it.  Same yellow car–same long hair.  You made up some excuse about being late that time too.”  The skinny young man’s heart sank.

He signed the citation and plodded slowly into the house to get the hangers.  He wasn’t sure how he was going to tell the Lovely Young Lady that they wouldn’t be able to have their budgeted evenings out for a few months to come. There probably weren’t any believable excuses he could use on her either.  He didn’t even try.  And, the shirts were wrinkled, too.

I have lived well over half a century. Fifty plus years and I’m still making excuses for my actions.  “I didn’t have any choice but to be rude.  She just wouldn’t stop accusing me.”  “What do you expect?  I only got four hours of sleep last night.”  “No, we couldn’t make it.  We were just too busy with other things.”

Excuses.  We have come to expect them, from the top officials in the country all the way down to the salesclerk at the local supermarket.  Seldom have I heard about an auto accident from someone who caused it.  Almost never is it the student’s fault that they received a failing mark in a class.  We are masters at making excuses, although almost never ones which stand up to scrutiny.

The little girl came into the music store the other day, right at closing time.  She was out of breath and clutching her abdomen.  I say she was a little girl.  It’s just that I have known her since she actually was one and it’s hard for me to accept that she is an adult, even though the reason for her clutching her abdomen is that she is very close to a full-term pregnancy.  She is breathing heavily from the exertion of walking and wants to rest for a moment or two before going on.  The Lovely Lady and I talk with her, wondering how she’s doing and, remembering when she attended our church a few years ago, asking her where she goes to church now.  There is an embarrassed silence for a moment and it is obvious she is seeking the words she thinks we want to hear.  “I’m not going anywhere,” she eventually admits and then adds, “but, it’s because we don’t have a car.  I just can’t walk that far to go to church anymore.”  Given her condition, we nod understandingly and she smiles, believing that the excuse has been sufficient.

It is closing time so, rather than pushing her out the door, we offer her a ride to wherever she is headed.  I assume that she is going home, but she points up the street, away from her home and says, “I’m going up to the casino.”  It is not where we want to take her, but I have already offered her the ride and won’t back out now.  On the way, I ask her, “Do you work at the casino?”  knowing the answer.  No, she doesn’t have a job at all, but she just likes to hang out with her friends at the casino.  “I don’t gamble of course; I just drink…a…coke…and wander around with them.”  She is purposefully looking out the window as she answers, not willing to make eye contact with either the Lovely Lady or me any longer.

By this time, we have arrived at her destination. The casino is about a block past our church, where she once attended, but can no longer go to services, since she doesn’t have a car.  We’ll move on here, since the obvious fallacy of her excuse is becoming all too clear to you, without any further need for clarification.

I want to be sure you get what I’m driving at.  We are not discussing the merits of going to church, nor even the issue of frequenting the casino.  The problem is that we are not open with each other; that we are more concerned with saving face or avoiding any type of personal penalty, than we are with telling the truth.  I’d rather tell a lie  than have you know that I am not fulfilling my responsibilities.  We even live in a society where this is the norm, rather than plain, open truth being spoken as a matter of course.

What I’m saying is that an excuse is a lie.  If you need to split hairs, there is a difference between a reason (“My house was on fire, so I couldn’t go this morning.”) and an excuse (“It looked like rain and I just had my hair done.”)  That said, most of the rationale we hear for failures to complete our obligations are excuses – nothing more, nothing less.  And, they are dishonest.

In the passage we commonly call the “Sermon on the Mount”, Jesus tells us to let our “yes” be “yes” and our “no” be “no”.  He even says that anything beyond that is from the evil one.  I want to write another paragraph or two to explain that statement.  But, you don’t need the explanation, do you?  I think I’ll leave it at that and let you work out the meaning.

I am guilty of the anything beyond part.  Again and again, I find reasons to explain why I couldn’t have done that important thing, or attended this essential event.  A good friend once said to me, as I struggled to explain how busy I was (as if that explained why we didn’t have time for each other anymore), “Paul, we find time to do the things which are important to us.”  I was chagrined, but the lesson was (and still is) clear.  Speak the truth.  Do the things which need to be done.  When you haven’t done those things, you still speak the truth.  

Excuses are nasty things, a double evil, if you will.  They allow us to think that we have gotten away with the abdication of our responsibilities in the first place.  Secondly, they allow us to think that we have gotten away with lying about the reason for the failure.  Neither is acceptable.  Neither leads to relationships which are open and honest.

Just one more suggestion in closing:  Find the time to do the things you say are important.  Failing that, quit saying that they are important to you, because they aren’t.

Maybe, it’s time for me to declare a no excuse zone.  I’m going to give it a go.  If it doesn’t work, it will probably be because of those pesky customers who keep making unreasonable demands on my…Yeah, okay…I’m going to do my best.

“Well, the preacher, he’s too young and, maybe he’s too old.
The sermons, they’re not hard enough and, maybe they’re too bold.
His voice is much too quiet-like; sometimes he gets too loud.
He needs to have more dignity or else he’s way too proud.”
(from “Excuses”~Kingsmen Quartet)

“He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else.”
(Benjamin Franklin~American statesman/author~1706-1790)

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© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

“Steak knives!  What are we supposed to do with them?”  The Lovely Lady has opened up the mountain of packages which arrived today from our shipping box supplier.  One box contained a free gift from them, a reminder that we had spent a fair amount of money for the dwindling mountain of packages.  The company gives small, useless items as thank-you gifts if you only spend a small amount.  You have to spend a really large sum to get a large, useless thank-you gift, such as these knives.  “Oh, well,”  I remarked morosely.  “If we ever eat steak again, we might use them.”  My doctor has declared red meat off limits for me for the foreseeable future.  I’m confident that the knives will remain in their box for a good long time to come.

What is it about inappropriate gifts which we receive from companies with whom we do business, anyway?  I think that, if the box company would offer a back support as a thank-you, it might make sense.  After unloading the pallet-load from the tailgate of the semi-trailer today, it would have been a welcome find for me.  Perhaps, the doctor’s office, instead of sending home candy with the kids, could send a small bottle of aspirin instead.  The gas station could dole out packages of wet wipes to clean the gasoline off of my hands, which invariably splashes up when I’m topping off the tank.  You know, to ease up to the nearest even dollar amount.  You wouldn’t want me to stop at $32.79, now would you?  Well…you get the idea and will, no doubt, think of a few more appropriate gifts to take home from your favorite vendor.

I remember, as a teenager, wandering through the county fair in the spring.  We called it the stock show, but it was the same thing as the county fairs that draw crowds every year all around the country.  I had blown my money on the midway and was reduced to wandering the exhibitions with my parents.  As we ambled past ladder salesmen and  fruit dehydration demonstrations, I noticed a contest box.  You know the type.  The box is covered with paper and there is a slot cut in the top.  Obviously, that slot wants a piece of paper to be inserted there, so I looked around for an entry.  I didn’t look far.  “Enter to win a FREE sewing machine!” shouted the cardboard sign nearby.  I grabbed an entry form.  Scribbling my name and address, I laughed as I dropped the tiny piece of paper into the box.  “I’ll never win.  I never win anything!”  Wandering off to the stock exhibits, where my brother was showing a hog, I promptly forgot about the box or the piece of paper.

A few weeks later, I received an envelope in the mail.  I never got personal mail!  It looked important, too.  “Mr. Paul Phillips” was the name above the street address.  Not “To the parents of…”, not even “To our friend at…”!  I opened the envelope carefully.  The letter looked official.  “Dear Mr. Phillips,  We are pleased to inform you that you have won…”  I shouted it out to the whole household, “I won!  I won the sewing machine!”  Sure enough, my name had been drawn to receive this machine, for which I had no earthly use.  I was excited regardless.  The red-headed lady used the sewing machine.  I could give it to her.  I didn’t even have it yet and I was giving it away!  No matter.  I had won!  But then, I read further on down the letter.  “Before you claim your free machine, you must purchase one of the following cabinets from our stock.  We cannot deliver any machine without the completed purchase of a cabinet.”  The enclosed catalog listed any number of beautiful wooden cabinets, ranging in price from two hundred-fifty dollars, up to over five hundred.  I was crestfallen, knowing that I couldn’t afford even the cheapest of the offerings, and also, by this time, being adamant that I would never give this crooked business even a dime of my money.  First they offer me this “free” item, which I am going to have to give away, and then they insist that I pay as much for a cabinet as any normal concern would sell the entire outfit for.  The light has gone on, as I sit glumly and consider how quickly my fortunes have turned.  I have learned a hard lesson about what motivates businesses and their owners to make offers which are too good to be true.

A friend posted a message last night on her Facebook page.  “Nearly 40 years into this thing called LIFE, I’m ACCEPTING the FACT that almost NO one does GOOD simply because it is RIGHT to do so.”  Her note goes on, exposing the pain, I suppose, of being disillusioned by someone in her life. But, whether a personal friend or a business associate, I don’t know.  There are no details, nor do I need any.  It is a disappointment shared by most of us.  When we trust people, we are doomed to experience discouragement as our confidence is shaken again and again.

Here’s the really bad news.  Our discouragement grows as we realize that most people function in much the same way as do we ourselves.  We are honest when it pays to be honest; loyal when it pays to be loyal; caring when it pays to be caring.  It is inherent in our nature to be self-centered and self-serving.  We talk of integrity, even embrace the ideal of a principled life.  But, when the situation merits it (in our minds, at least), we discard integrity and dump principles in favor of advantage.  Still, like the sewing machine company, we wish to appear beneficent.  Consequently, we weave webs of deceit, smiling at our friends (and sometimes our spouses), as we slide the knife into their backs.

How about it?  What is it (if anything) that will motivate us to do good simply because it is right to do so? I would submit to you that the answer is love.  As usual, it may be too simple an answer.  I stand by it, nonetheless.  I offer no other support than these words; “Love does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking…”  If our actions demonstrate these two qualities, we may be sure that love is not our motivation.  Period.

And trust?  What do we do about that?  Once again, I offer exactly the same answer and the following in defense of the concept; “Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” We will, in life, be disappointed in our trust of others, again and again.  Still, we trust and we hope.  When we are hurt, we forgive.  And we go forward, in the company of other selfish, self-serving people who are just like us.  We go forward.  If we spend all our time looking back, we will see nothing but the missteps, the disappointments (both in others and ourselves).  The only way we will persevere is to go forward.

That same friend mentioned above recently posted this short comment of encouragement; “Love still conquers all.”  I don’t disagree.  But, as I consider, I realize that there is more.  Sometimes love simply wraps up its enemy in its arms and holds it close.  No winners–no losers.  “Love never fails.”

The package supplier will accomplish its goal, since I will buy more.  I understand exactly what their motivation is, but I still need their product.  Personal relationships are a bit more fragile.  Perhaps, we could work toward the goal of loving God and loving each other, instead of always working the angles for personal gain.  I know I’m going to try. 

In the meantime, I do have a really nice set of steak knives available, if anyone needs them.  

“And wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva…So tweasure your wuv.”
(The Impressive Clergyman from “The Princess Bride” movie~USA 1987)

“Someone who thinks the world is always cheating him is right.  He is missing that wonderful feeling of trust in someone or something.”
(Eric Hoffer~American moral/social philosopher~1902-1983)

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© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

The skinny kid shrugged on his plaid sport-coat, determined that he would look the part of the seasoned traveler he wanted to be.  Making sure of his tickets in his breast pocket, he squared his shoulders and headed out the front door.  “Be sure to call us when you get there son.”  The red-headed lady reminded him for the fourth time and he nodded his head, annoyed.  “Are you sure you don’t want us to drive you to the airport?” asked his dad.  He didn’t want to seem petty, but the boy could hardly hide his impatience as he replied.  “No!  I’ve got this!”  He felt bad immediately and turned back to them.  “I’ll be fine.  See you in a couple of days.”  And, he was gone.

He boarded the plane an hour later; his first time ever to fly. Gripping his armrest in a death grip, as if holding on so tightly to the airplane itself would help in an emergency, he wished that he had opted to drive instead.  But the plane achieved the speed necessary and left the ground as it was designed to do and flew him to the state capitol without incident.  Once a cruising altitude was attained, the craft sliced smoothly though the air, on its way to its destination.  Only a few hundred miles, yet it seemed like the other side of the world to him.  It was a day of firsts for him.  After his arrival, he hailed his first taxi, checked into his first hotel room, and ate his first really nice meal in a restaurant by himself.  He took care of his business the next day and couldn’t get on the plane home fast enough. Still wearing his plaid sport-coat, he again gripped the armrests on takeoff, a habit he still has, nearly forty years later. The flights (at least the smooth, uneventful ones) don’t bother him much, just the take-offs and landings.

We jump forward a number of years and our young man, still skinny, is now a young husband and father.  He is in the workshop of his Lovely Lady’s brother, helping him with a wood working project.  They have spent an hour or two cutting up lengths of wood and slicing them into smaller dimensions, and he is ready to get building the cabinet they are aspiring to make.  Surely, the small pieces of wood they have here will suffice to glue and screw together into the configuration planned.  But, no!  What is his brother-in-law doing?  He is gathering up every single piece of wood, the long as well as the short, and carrying it over to a power tool, he calls a jointer/planer.  It is a strange affair, with two lengths of narrow, flat steel table that are divided by a wide circular blade-like affair.  The two tables sit almost exactly level with each other, but one, the feed end, is adjustable.  The expert turns on a switch underneath the machine and a motor spins the blades with a threatening whirring sound.  Turning a crank, he adjusts the variable table a tiny bit lower than the fixed one. As the length of wood comes into contact with the rapidly turning blades, the chips begin to fly.  The odd thing?  Even though the table is lower than the next one, the wood slides evenly onto the second one without angling up or down.  The reason is that the blades take off exactly the right amount of surface on the bottom of the board, so that it rides onto the out-feeding table, the tiniest fraction of an inch thinner than when it entered the feed table.

“Cool!” exclaimed the skinny young man.  He set the board where his brother-in-law indicated and then repeated the action for all the boards, probably forty or so of them.  Now…they would be ready to assemble the cabinet.  But no…they repeated the action once more, with the blade taking off the same incremental amount again.  Every piece of the wood…fed through the blades a second time, and stacked, a second time.  “Why don’t you just move the blades as far as you need the wood to be taken down?” inquired the frustrated young man.  The other man shrugged and took a piece of scrap wood in his hand.  Cranking the table down the total amount, he proceeded to feed the scrap through.  Huge chips flew.  Then, holding the piece of wood so the curious fellow could see the lower surface, he showed him what happened when you get in a hurry.  Instead of the smooth, flat surface, the board was marred and scraped, with splinters of wood hanging all over.  “It works the same way with any type of plane,” he told the chagrined helper.  “Power or hand plane, if you try to remove too much at one time, it digs too deeply, splintering and tearing instead of cutting and smoothing.”  The lesson has never been forgotten.

Not many years after, the young man (not so skinny anymore and, come to think of it, not so young) was traveling by car with his family.  They had been to the West Coast, visiting the Sierra Madre mountains and the Pacific Ocean.  They had even made a stop at that magnificent hole in the ground in Arizona, which we call the Grand Canyon.  None of these landmarks could have been described as unadorned or commonplace; instead being grandiose and notable in their structure.  They were travelling through New Mexico and had just left behind the significant tablelands, with their imposing mesas towering over the highway.  The fellow had driven many miles already and was exhausted, but there was no way they were stopping until they were home.  A few hours of relief driving by the Lovely Lady helped, but he was still sleep deprived.  And, they were entering the plains.  No hills to speak of, no forests…in fact, not much except highway and fence posts were to be seen for miles.

There’s not much to say.  He yawned and stretched, poked and pinched, and sang and whistled, all to keep himself awake for the miles that the road extended out into the never-ending distance, the horizon never getting any closer.  They were plains all right!  Nothing at all for miles and miles.  Unadorned definitely was the word to characterize this place.  Hours later, the hills and his home were a welcome sight, especially since home meant a bed and sleep.

In recent years, the aging, slightly overweight man has been widening the scope of his interests.  Where knickknacks and photographs once graced the walls of his home, paintings have appeared.  There are oils and water-colors of several good artists, but his favorites are the landscapes, painted out of doors, in natural light and not in a studio.  Still-lifes?  He’s not a huge fan, preferring instead the reality of nature and a few of the imposing structures that men have erected.  He was amused to discover, some time ago, that this type of painting was known as “plein air”, the name coming from a french word meaning “open air”.  The genuine, unadorned character of this style of painting is attractive to him, pulling him away from the gimmicks and noises and gadgets of everyday life that surround him and anyone else living in this overwhelming culture which encompasses us.

Plein air.  Funny.  It sounds just like “plain” air.  Come to think of it, that is just what it is!  Nature without any extras, no makeup, no glaring lights, no clattering keyboards.  Quiet, clean, smooth.  Plain.

We seem to have come full circle.  You may be wondering what this is all about.  I’m not really sure myself, but this evening, I handed my smart-phone to the Lovely Lady and asked her to help me solve a word puzzle, one in which four pictures are displayed, all supposedly having one common denominator.  If you could figure out the common thing they share, you would have the answer to the puzzle We talked briefly about the concept, both how clever it was, and how frustrating, and, for some odd reason, my mind leapt to the little brass finger-plane I keep on my desk, which is in one of the pictures above.  I immediately thought of a number of similar words, having been primed by the discussion. You have been the victims of the result.  I hope you will forgive me.

There is another purpose to my meanderings, though.  You see, I keep that plane atop my desk for a purpose.  It is not only a fine example of quality craftsmanship, but as a tiny tool which smooths surfaces, it reminds me that the edges are best taken off little by little. Like the much larger jointer/planer, if the blade is extended too far, the result is a gouge instead of a smooth, level surface.  Slowly, carefully, the edges come down, eventually conforming to the shape they need to take. With little pain and less trauma to the wood, the goal is achieved and a smooth, uniform surface takes form. It works in life also.  As we help each other to be better people, we do it gently and lovingly.  The rough edges are knocked off without pain, without animosity.  The final result is the same; but the journey there is a lot easier.

Plane trips are, hopefully, uneventful after the ascent to the clouds and before the descent to the ground. The flat lands, the plains, stretch out in their fruitful, productive expanse; devoid of the barriers and the perils which the mountainous regions or the coastal areas contain.  The art produced en plein air is beautiful and uncluttered by superfluous lights and colors.  Nature is spectacular enough without the help of man’s technology and meddling.

Plane, planes, plains, and plein air.  Four different pictures.  One central idea.  Clean, unadorned, and smooth.  Sometimes I think life would be a lot better if we were all just plain folks too.  No highfalutin ways, no cosmetic surgeries to fool people into believing that we’re somebody else, just the unembellished truth, exposed for all to see.

How about it?  Do you get the picture now?

I was hoping it would be plain to you.

Don’t be concerned about the outward beauty of fancy hairstyles, expensive jewelry, or beautiful clothes. You should clothe yourselves instead with the beauty that comes from within, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is so precious to God.”
(I Peter 3:3,4~NLT)

“You–poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are–I entreat to accept me as a husband.”
(from “Jane Eyre~Charlotte Bronte~English novelist~1816-1865)

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The young man did everything just as he was ordered.  He waded through the rice-paddies and crawled on his belly in the jungle with the poisonous snakes and gigantic insects, carrying his pack on his back, with an M-16 slung over his shoulder.  The M-16 saw a good bit of use in firefights with the Viet Cong, who looked a lot like the local residents.  He killed the people he was told were his enemies and he saw many of his new friends (and some old ones) killed or maimed for life.  When they got a break from action and were permitted leave, he went with the buddies who were still alive and they drank and did things that he doesn’t want to talk about.  Come to think about it, he doesn’t want to talk about any of it, and never did.  It happened over forty years ago, when he was a very young man, just out of high school.

When his tour of duty was completed, he was discharged and suddenly it was all over.  He was back at home with the boys who didn’t have to go and fight.  They were attending college and going on dates, driving cars that parents had given them while they talked a mile a minute about the latest Steve McQueen movie.  He realized with a shock, that during all of his traumatic time in a place where he could have died at any moment (many did), nothing at all had changed here at home.  Life went on as before; no one had the slightest inkling of the nightmare he had lived.  Furthermore, no one cared and they certainly didn’t want to hear about it.  The things which had been absolutely essential to his existence just days before–stealth, alertness, interdependence–all of these were absent, almost non-existent.  He was confused and hurt.  But, he tried to fit in, leaving the last couple of years behind, in the darkest corner of his memories and dreams.

It would be many years later that the acronym PTSD would make its way into his vocabulary.  By then, the nightmares, the uncontrollable outbursts of anger, the headaches had all taken their toll and he was unable to function without medication and counselling.  Many have scoffed, calling the diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder a fad, dismissing it as a ploy to escape work and responsibility on the part of those who claim the “fake” disorder.  In some cases, they may be right, but certainly not in all of them.

What happened?  Well, beyond the horror and the terror of war, the young man experienced what we would call a paradigm shift (another fad term).  The word “paradigm” simply means an example serving as a model.  His paradigm had been the example of war.  Because of the example, his entire life for two years was wrapped up in alertness, and fighting, and being terrified and on edge.  When he was suddenly removed from that example of war, the model immediately changed drastically also.  We humans don’t deal well at all with drastic change.

Perhaps an illustration which will hit a bit closer to home will help.  It seems unlikely that most of you, if you haven’t already served in a military conflict, will ever experience that drastic a paradigm shift.  But, most of you have gone to college.  Do you remember your freshman year?  Perhaps you were better prepared than some, but many first-year students simply crash and burn.  They have spent the eighteen years prior to this in the protective cocoon of their parent’s paradigm.  “Time to get up, honey,” turns into the buzzing of an alarm clock, easily silenced.  “No TV until you’ve done your homework!” is instantly the freedom of setting your own schedule.  Are the guys going out to play Ultimate Frisbee?  “Who cares if there is a paper due tomorrow?  Sure, I’m going!”  With no one to guide and no one to set boundaries, the Summa Cum Laude high school scholar becomes a  popular Frisbee player with a one point grade average at the end of his first year (and perhaps, his last) of college.  

It happens again and again in our society.  We work at doing something, only to move onto a different playing field.  And, it feels like the ground has dropped out from under us.  We strive mightily to achieve some goal and, achieving it, don’t know where to go from here.  College graduates experience it; new mothers experience it; empty-nest parents experience it; just-retired senior adults experience it.  Everything that has been familiar ground has disappeared.  We don’t recognize the landscape in front of us.

So, where do we go?  How do we cope?  I wonder if too many of us have lost our footing simply because we have forgotten the bigger plan.  We have allowed ourselves to become so tied up in what we do that we forget who we are.  Maybe you need time to read that sentence again.  Go ahead, I’ll wait…

I told someone the other day that I wasn’t ever planning to retire from my job.  I actually said to them, “This music store is who I am.”  I repent of the words.  If they are true, then my claim to be a follower of Jesus is false.  Who I am is a believer and a disciple.  Integrity demands that I be who I am, no matter where I am or what I do.  The apostle Paul told us that he was content wherever he was, implying that we should do the same.  If the bottom falls out and I lose my business tomorrow, I will still be who I am.  I will still be the person who loves God with everything that is in me.  I will still be one who loves those around me with a love that is as intense as the love I have for myself.  At least, it is to be hoped that I would continue to practice those things that spring from who I am. I don’t really want to find out.

If you are still with me at this point, I admire you for your tenacity.  I promise to bring this to a conclusion.  Soon.  

The Preacher said in the opening words of his search for meaning in life that everything was actually meaningless.  Many have dismissed the whole of his essay on life in Ecclesiastes because of the seeming incongruence of those opening words with our belief that hard work and determination are Godly endeavors.  We miss the larger point that he is making as he tells us that we will work and strive and die, and the world will go on, nonetheless.  

I think that tonight, I am saying the same thing (and maybe being just as preachy).  Regardless, it’s time for us to make the main thing the main thing.  The other stuff…our jobs, our education, our hobbies…they’re all peripheral.  They will change; we will move on to other things.  They are not unimportant, but if they don’t contribute to the integrity of our purpose, we have missed the boat.  And, when any part of that other stuff comes to an end, it doesn’t mean that we don’t still have the main thing to achieve.  The foundational ideals continue unaltered by disaster, by war, by business failure, or by the death of loved ones.  

The Preacher offers the conclusion of the matter himself.  I certainly can’t say it better myself, so I won’t attempt it.

“Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the duty of all mankind.”

Too simplistic?  I can’t answer that.  But, perhaps the next time you find yourself at a loss for direction, you can give it a shot and let me know how it works out.  I’ll do the same.  We’ll just have to pull up our big-boy (or big-girl) pants and do the things we know to do.  

I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that it will suffice.

“Life is a series of tasks that you absolutely must get done before they don’t matter any more.”
(Robert Brault~American freelance writer)

“All is change.  All yields its place, and goes.”
(Euripides~Greek playwright~480-406 BC)

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I had not planned to write today.  I’m still not sure that I want to write.  But I am driven tonight to put into words the musings which were planted in my head earlier this evening.  The Lovely Lady and I sat at a dinner table with good (dare I say, old?) friends and laughed uproariously as we always do.  They too, as we, have had their losses and sadness, so there were also moments of thoughtfulness.  But none so sober in my mind, as when their son, whom I have had the pleasure of seeing grow from infancy to maturity, spoke.  The children played and laughed nearby, undeterred by our serious conversation, as the moments flew by.

We had talked of many things when our conversation turned to the young family’s experience in eastern Africa where they work with a camp that serves many of the African young people and families.  The country in which they live has been decimated by violence and civil war for generations and there are thousands of children who have no parents or who have lost siblings to the bloodshed.  Our conversation did not extend much to these children specifically, but they nonetheless figure into the equation which this post hopes to cipher out with you.

Not many words were said, so I have drawn conclusions from the discussion which may or may not be completely accurate from the perspective of those who were there.  I will welcome correction if it is offered.

The first picture, which is etched indelibly in my mind now, didn’t take place in Africa, but occurred immediately upon the family’s recent return to the States.  The young man and his father, along with another family member, went to a local building center.  That’s all.  No big deal to most of us.  They simply went into a place which sells lumber, and appliances, and…and stuff.  But, after just a few minutes in the store, our young friend had to leave.  The abundance, the excess (if I may use that word), was overwhelming.  Aisle upon aisle of plumbing fixtures, light fixtures, appliances, tools, electrical supplies, plumbing supplies…the list could go on and fill this page…all of it was too much for him.  Where he lives–in a country with real needs–they have no choices like this, no overabundance of anything.  If you go shopping with a project in mind, you might be able to find what you need and then you gratefully use it; or, lacking the exact item, you adapt the materials which are available and you use them; or, lacking anything at all which will serve your purpose, you change the idea you had in your head and you move on to other pursuits which may be accomplished.  The concept of not only enough, but more than enough, is not present there.

Then, as we spoke of the actual work they do, he spoke of the attitude of the people who came to the campgrounds and, under pressure from us, he admitted that they had very different expectations than people in the same circumstances in our country.  When things break or don’t work (and, in those conditions that is almost a constant), the folks merely shrug and find another activity.  If the electricity is interrupted–again, more of a certainty than a mere possibility–they shake their heads and move on to something which doesn’t require that luxury.

I will admit to you that, as I read the words above, I think to myself that there is little personal impact to them.  I have described a typical third-world country.  But, I think that is exactly my point.  These folks have so little and demand less.  We, on the other hand, who have so much, demand more and more.  Does that make sense to you?  Does it make you want to shrug your own shoulders and say, “So what?”

I have spoken before of my thoughts about money and possessions.  We are given these things which, by the rest of the world would be called wealth, to use as tools, nothing more.  Money has no other logical purpose than to leverage whatever it can affect.  To hoard it is to do nothing different than what buying truckloads of hammers would be for a carpenter. Foolishness!  As I spoke momentarily about this concept this evening, one person asked, “Do you think that it does any good to tell people this?  Will it change how they live?”  Sadly, I had to answer in the negative.  “No.  I’ve never seen anyone change because the words are spoken.”  We refuse to live as servants, but instead want to live in comfort and dominance.  I include myself in the description, although I wish to deny it.

The more I have, the more I want.  It is a part of being human.  As The Teacher suggested a path for the wealthy young ruler, one of giving away his wealth to free his heart, the young man became sad, because he loved his things and his money.  Am I any different?  Are you?

But, the person who asked the question about merely talking about the concept also had a suggestion, although it seemed to be a weak one in the moment.  “I wonder if we just have to live lives which demonstrate the concept ourselves.  Maybe that’s the only way to bring about change.”  The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that she actually has a very powerful idea.  She wasn’t the first one in history to suggest it.  Nonetheless, change does come from the inside.  One by one, we determine to do what is right, regardless of what others around us are doing and, one by one, others are won by example where words will not suffice.

I watched a television commercial for one of the giant cellphone companies and realized that we begin to teach the concept early to our children.  On the screen, the man interviewing four youngsters asks, “Would you rather have a bigger tree house, or a smaller one?”  Obviously, the children answer, “Bigger!”  When he asks them why, one young lady suggests that you could have a disco in a bigger one.  And, a little boy, not to be outdone, suggests that you couldn’t have a big-screen TV in a small one and describes the inconvenience of having a small television.  Oh yes.  They are listening to our actions, regardless of what our mouths are saying.  Bigger is better than small.  More is much better than less.  Fast is superior to slow.

I am not suggesting that we foolishly rush to give everything to people who have less than we.  History has shown the folly of that path.  What I am suggesting is that our hearts should be bigger than our houses, than our bank accounts, bigger even than our churches.  The Teacher also taught that where our treasures are, our hearts will be there also.  If we treasure what we can gather together of this world’s wealth, our heart will have no room for our God’s love.  It is clear that we cannot have faith in both money and God.

Are you looking to build a disco in your tree house?  I’m thinking that there is room aplenty to dance in the wide world that the Creator has given to us.

The moon makes a much better sparkly pattern than that disco ball anyway.

Are you coming to the dance?

“We are not cisterns made for hoarding; we are channels made for sharing.”
(Billy Graham~American evangelist)

“Don’t be selfish and eager to get rich–you will end up worse off than you can imagine.”
(Proverbs 28:22~CEV)

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“Wind’s in the east, mist coming in. 
Like somethin’ is brewin’ and ’bout to begin.
Can’t put me finger on what lies in store,
But I fear what’s to happen all happened before.”

The words, delivered in the horrid faux-cockney accent of Dick Van Dyke, are only an interlude in the opening song of the classic children’s movie, “Mary Poppins”, but they prove to be prelude to a morality play which is the undercurrent of the story. Indeed, the events (leaving out the incredible exploits of the title character) are common in every era of history; a husband and wife too busy for each other and growing apart, with no time for their children who keep misbehaving to gain their attention.  In short, history is repeated.

But, does history really repeat itself?  Are we indeed doomed to take paths which have been traversed before?  I want to answer with an emphatic, “No!”  I don’t think I can do that honestly. We seem to be locked in an eternal time/space continuum, living lives and performing actions which mimic those already undertaken in the past, either by ourselves or previous generations. Don’t believe it?  Check your friends’ comments; listen to them as they age.  “I opened my mouth the other day and my mother came out!” alleged one middle-aged friend of mine just a couple of days ago.  Read the ongoing arguments in child-behavior articles of nature versus nurture.  They’re all talking about the same thing–history repeating itself.

Deja vu.  It’s another French word which has made its way into our everyday usage.  It means simply, “already seen”.  We use it to describe the feeling that an event we are experiencing has happened before.  You’ve had it occur, haven’t you?  You walk into a room and, looking at the people and listening to the conversations, think, “I’ve been here before.”  You haven’t really, but certain things just trigger the memories in your head.

I experienced this deja vu strongly, on an occasion some years ago.  The Lovely Lady and I had been married a short time and we took a business trip to St Louis, Missouri one very hot July.  One of the events we were to attend was a concert introducing new Christian artists.  As we waited for the doors to open on the opera house where the concert would take place later in the day, I felt the need to find a restroom.  The doors were locked!  What to do?  Glancing around and across the parking lot, I saw the big bus station nearby and headed over.  As I walked in the entrance off the street, I took a look around and was hit with the strongest feeling of having already been here and done this.  I knew, without seeing any sign, where the facilities were and headed down the stairs to my right.  As I descended, I racked my brain.  How would I have the slightest memory of this place?  Surely, I had never been here before!  Then, climbing back up the stairs, I looked across to the doors leading out to the bus garage, and a vivid memory took form.

In my mind’s eye, I saw a group of teen-aged boys and girls, standing and sitting with pillows and transistor radios, waiting for their huge chartered Continental Trailways bus to be cleaned in the middle of another hot July night.  The bus was parked in that very garage.  As they stood, there came a scream from the garage and a gray-haired African-American woman charged out the open door of the bus.  One of the boys in the group (not me. I promise you!) began to chuckle and, under pressure, admitted that, coiled up on his seat in the bus, he had left a rubber snake which the unfortunate cleaning lady had, undoubtedly, come upon unawares.

The vision faded.  I stood again, an adult, in the same place where I had stood with that youth group from South Texas years before as we had headed to a conference in Wisconsin.  I tell you, I had never expected to enter the St Louis bus terminal again.  Even if you had asked me, I would have averred that I would never do so.  Yet, from my home in northwest Arkansas, I had made my way here to the city and into that bus station, though I didn’t want to go there at all.

I find that there is repetition in all of life.  There are tasks we complete again and again.  There are things we do again after years of not doing them.  Even in the bigger context of human history, it is true.  The names are different, the trappings have changed, but the interactions continue.

It all seems a bit futile, doesn’t it?  If we are doomed to repeat history, why should we think about changing or worry about maturing?  But, I believe that the fact that we do so often repeat history is actually a good thing.  I have told you before that I am grateful for second chances.  You see, the second chances aren’t just intended to be a reprieve from the penalties incurred by our bad decisions the first time around; they are for getting it right the next time we find ourselves in that situation.  Grace extended isn’t intended to be a free pass to misbehave a second time.  It assumes that we will be careful to avoid the mistakes of the original run-through.

A group of men met at my church last night.  I handed each of them a piece of music and, after a few introductory notes from a piano, we began to sing.  It was awful!  We didn’t know the melody.  When we split off into parts, the tenors were off on their notes.  I heard a few guys come in when no one should have been singing.  The basses and baritones were wandering around in one section without a clue to the intervals they should have been hitting.  In short, a disaster!  It’s a good thing no one was listening to us.  We would have been taken off the schedule for Easter morning immediately!  But, that’s not the end of the story.

We ran through the song three more times, stopping to work on notes, having the men on the individual parts listen as the pretty red-headed pianist played through their trouble-spots.  When we did our last run-through before disbanding for the night, it was not perfect.  It was certainly not ready to perform.  But, no one would have covered their ears and run for the exits, so we had made progress!

In a few days, we’ll meet again. I wonder, do you think that it will sound just the same as the first run last night?  “What a stupid question!” you may suggest.  And, you would be correct.  But, that is exactly what many of us do with the opportunities we have to improve upon our last attempt at whatever activity we are replaying.  Again and again, we make the same errors, never deviating, never improving.

Yes, history repeats itself.  It is up to us to make sure that we change the result on our second, or third, or fifteenth attempts.  To continue doing the same thing is not only stupid, it is crazy.  In fact, the popular definition of insanity is just that; doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result.

Sometimes, we end up in the same places we have been before through no fault of our own.  Taking different paths (as I did to the St Louis bus terminal), we arrive at the same point, nevertheless.  These chance arrivals are interesting but not earth-shattering.  The repeat visits which devastate are the ones which come with regularity and which have the identical negative response, no matter how many times we pass by.  We have to determine to make changes, to have our mind set on better things.

We would think him an incompetent musician, who returns to rehearsal, only to repeat the mistakes he made the first time he saw the music.  We say that “practice make perfect”, yet we belie the truth of that adage when we make no effort to improve the results in our own lives.  The sins of the fathers don’t have to be repeated in their children, but it takes considerable effort to effect change.

So…how about it?  Are you ready to get to work?   We’ve been practicing for a good long while.  We haven’t yet reached the end of the practice session.  Maybe, the next run through, we can begin to hear some beautiful music.

Time will tell…

“My brothers, count it all joy when you fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith works patience.  But, let patience have her perfect work, that you may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”
(James 1:1-4~NKJV)

“What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again; 
there is nothing new under the sun.” 
(Ecclesiastes 1:9~NIV)

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