Every day the addicts come in.  I can always tell the junkies from those who are just recreational users.  As I talk with the folks who have the monkey on their back, their eyes shift this way and that; they hardly hear a word I’m saying.  As they reply to my queries, they lose their train of thought and have to pause to rethink the question.  Then, in mid-sentence, they will stop short and, pointing in the direction of the object of their obsession, the words come out unbidden.  “I have to have it!  How much?”

I am, of course, speaking about people who are addicted to the musical instruments of which I am the purveyor.  To any number of folks who walk through my door on a regular basis, these are things which they crave, things without which they cannot live.  You who don’t suffer this affliction will laugh, but the need to acquire certain instruments is insurmountable to many.  I suppose that we might call it more of a dependency than an addiction, since the need is psychological and not physical, but nevertheless, it is a difficult thing to shake.

My mind leaps to a time, just a few years ago, when one customer began periodically bringing in guitars for me to either purchase from, or sell for, him.  They were very expensive guitars, some of them selling originally in the thousands of dollars.  I would look over the instrument and ask, “Are you sure you want to sell this beautiful instrument?  It’s perfect in every way!”  The answer came repeatedly, “I’m just tired of it.  I bought another one last week.”  Each time, the instrument would go for a fraction of its original cost, but he didn’t seem to care.  Nothing mattered except the latest acquisition.  “It’s the one I’ve always wanted!  This is the one!”  A few months later, he would return to sell the one, since another one had taken its place.  I made the mistake of calling his attention to the foolishness of his actions one too many times, I suppose, since his visits ceased one day without any explanation.  I hope he got some help, or at least stopped throwing away such great sums of money in that way.

Again, I hear the laughter of a few folks who can’t see how buying and selling instruments could be a habit which could require counseling.  I have indeed known of cases which required intervention.  There was one man with whom I did business many years ago who required counseling over a long period of time.  His psychiatrist advised him to cease buying and selling guitars altogether, since it had taken over his every waking moment (and even kept him awake many nights).  Quite a number of people I know are so driven to acquire instruments that they will risk damaging their family’s financial stability and even their marriages to do it.

It’s not always the beautiful instruments which control people either.  Only this afternoon, one of my regular customers came in to pick up an item.  While he was here, he walked back to where the PA mixers usually sit.  I could tell, without looking, when he saw it.  The sharp intake of his breath was audible to me even though I was around the corner and across the room.  I knew exactly what he was looking at, because I know him.  It was an old mixing board from the 1980’s.  He exclaimed, “Where did you get this?”  The longer we talked, the more agitated he became.  “My wife will be mad, but she’ll just have to tough it,” he exclaimed.  “I’m buying it!”  He already has at least three mixing boards at home.  He doesn’t need another one.  He knows this.  But, the desire to own this vintage board has him in its grip and he is beyond struggling to get away from it.  I talked him out of it today, but if it is still here the next time he comes by, I’m not sure that anything I say will keep him from purchasing it, regardless of whether it causes damage to his relationship with his wife or not.

Again, I’m confident that a few readers are still skeptical of the serious nature of what is under discussion here.  Let me move on a bit further and see if I can clarify.  Perhaps, if I select a subject with which others of you are familiar, you will see the problem.  I wonder…if we talk about lady’s shoes, could you identify?  I know people who are driven to buy every “cute” pair of shoes they see.  How many pairs are in your closet?  Ten?  Twenty?  Fifty?  One hundred?  Perhaps shoes aren’t your obsession.  Possibly you buy fishing equipment.  Anything from tackle to boats–there are plenty of things to be hoarded in this category.   Maybe you have to have the newest technological wonder out there.  The latest smart phone, the latest television, the latest laptop or notebook; if it plugs in or uses batteries, you need it.  For some, it will be artwork, or books, or even makeup and beauty treatments.

Without spending a lot of time preaching at you, I do wonder if we really understand the problem here.  We all, every one of us, are inclined to excess in our love of objects.  Whether guitars or shoes, cars or comic books, we attach an inordinate amount of importance to these objects to the detriment of our relationships, our reputations, and our religion.  Yes, our religion.  Our God tells us that we are not to put any other object of worship above our adoration of Him.  And, our obsession with things is diametrically opposed to the very idea of a God to whom we owe complete fidelity.  Jesus made this eminently clear when He taught that we cannot serve God and material things.  When things fill our hearts and minds, there is no room for love, for service, or for worship.

Perhaps it’s time that we determine that things will not come between us and our God; between us and our spouse, between us and our neighbor.  It is time for us to take whatever steps are necessary to shake off the monkey on our backs, whatever that may be.

Freedom from obsession brings freedom to love people.  Freedom from excess leads to freedom to serve God.  It’s time to break free from desire; to kick the habit of needing things.

Of course, I’m hoping that a few of you will still need some guitar strings or drum sticks.  If everyone stops buying stuff, I may have to find a real job. 

“You shall have no other Gods before me.”
(Exodus 20:3~NIV)

“A man with an obsession is a man with very little sales resistance.”
(C.S. Lewis~British novelist/scholar~1897-1963)

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

It seemed an insurmountable barrier.  I can’t count the number of mornings when, as a boy, I would vow to myself that this would be the day that the barrier came down.  I would pass the test.  I would enter the ranks of the conquerors over whom the barrier held no power, no authority.  No more would I heed the unspoken threat which said, “Danger!  This far!  No further!”  But day after day, I failed to live up to my own expectation.  Again and again, I attempted the trial, only to be rejected.  Ah!  But, the day on which I triumphed?  What a time of jubilation!  I will never forget it!

Boy!  That must have been some monster obstacle, huh?  Probably something like one of those huge wooden walls with the rope hanging down that you had to climb up and fling yourself over the top?  You’ll be disappointed when you realize that this unyielding obstruction, which foiled me on so many attempts to get past it, was nothing more than a simple nylon rope.  Standing on the side of the swimming pool at the boys’ camp, you would laugh as you viewed the insignificant, puny thing.  A nylon rope with miniature buoys attached to make it float on top of the water, and which divided the shallow end of the pool from the deep end.  Who couldn’t get past that thing easily?  Well, I suppose I could have gone under it anytime I wished.  Possibly, I could have jumped over it.  But, the camp director had clearly set out the rules at the beginning of the week and his minions (the teenaged junior counselors) had enforced them doggedly.  Until each camper had demonstrated his ability to swim the length of the pool twice without stopping and within the designated time period, his freedom in the pool would be limited to the shallow side of the rope.  Several valiant attempts on my part to pass the test were failures, and still the dreaded rope blocked any hope of ever reaching the other end of the pool.

What was so important about breaching that line across the water?  To this young boy, the most important single destination in the swimming pool was the diving board, and it sat smack dab at the other edge of the deepest part of the pool.  To use the diving board, one must first prove that he could safely propel himself through the water without sinking to the bottom of the pool.  Everyday, as I paddled around in the shallow end of the water, I thought of nothing else than being on the other side of that rope.  Even the rope itself drew us, like flies to carrion.  We congregated near it, sat on it, even balanced as we stood on it, but we could not violate the space beyond it without first passing the dreaded test.

The day I passed that test, I was ecstatic.  I had beaten the challenge, and conquered the pool; I was victorious!  That afternoon, as we went to free swim, I thought of nothing else than being in the deep water.  I would never bother with the shallow end of the pool again.  Deep water for me from now on!  After waiting an interminable amount of time for my turn on the diving board. I dove into the water; slicing down deep, almost to the drain at the bottom.  Then I shoved back up to the top of the water, to hear someone yelling at me from the diving board.  “Get out of the way!”  I hurried to the side of the pool and hastened to do it again.  As I repeated the process a few times though, I became aware that I was spending very little time in the pool, and most of my precious free swim minutes waiting to dive.  Realization hit me slowly.  This wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.  I enjoyed diving for a little while, but I wanted to swim.  I tried swimming along the side of the pool in the deep end, but soon found that there was no place to rest here.  Latching onto the ladder as I swam past, I hung there and caught my breath.  Suddenly, I realized something else.

Most of the people in the shallow end of the pool could swim.  They had passed the test long ago.  The rope was no barrier to them, but they understood something I hadn’t.  Having a firm footing under you, and the ability to put your feet down and rest from your labors, is nothing to sneer at.  Just because you can swim in the deep end, doesn’t mean that you must.  As with most things in life, balance is as important as excitement.

I learned an important lesson that day.  I’m still learning it. I have observed, over and over, as friends and family members have struggled to achieve some goal, only to see them crash and burn when they achieve it.  A diploma must be acquired and the focus is completely on achieving that quest.  A couple seems unable to have children and they try desperately to become pregnant, going from doctor to doctor and clinic to clinic to make it happen.  A better job, a bigger house, a long awaited trip…all are in sight, but just beyond the grasp, so we struggle to reach the goal.  Each time the goal, which has been the focus of the individual for a period of time, is reached, I have seen disappointment and depression take over, as the person comes to grip with the realization that the thing which they coveted and strove for is not at all what they had expected.  “Is this all there is?” one person asked me, just before he folded emotionally.  The question resounds in my mind still.

I have struggled with this idea, that achieving goals leads to disappointment, but it is true only because we humans are strange creatures.  We believe that if we could just achieve that certain status, could just complete that one special project, could just finish this last lifelong goal, we’ll be content.  It will be the icing on the cake and we can sit and admire what we have done. Alas, it never works that way. A wise woman once said to me, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”  Oh, many people had said it before her and many have said it since, but my Mom had a way with cliches’ which brought the words to life.  The first time I heard it, I’m sure I was confused by the imagery, but I soon came to understand the concept.

The longer I live, the more I realize that we make the cake and then we eat what we have made.  But after our feast we remember that the reality of life is this: As long as we are drawing breath, we will need more to eat, so each goal is followed by another one.  I don’t believe that our Creator ever intended that we should be able to sit and say, “I am done.  I have reached the apex and will try no longer.”  He put inside each of us the desire to go further and do more.

I remember the first time I realized that even the heroes in the Bible stories which we heard in Sunday School had this problem.  I was shocked as I considered Elijah’s amazing triumph over the prophets of the false god.  Against all hope, he bested them in the contest to bring down fire from the heavens, and they were wiped from the face of the earth.  What did the conquering hero do?  He went and hid in a cave and whimpered.  I am encouraged to realize that we share a common trait with this great man.  It means that there is hope for us yet.

Set your goals.  Set them high.  But remember, as you strive and work to achieve them, that there will be life after they are accomplished.  Plan for more; anticipate even loftier heights.  I love the thought expressed in one of Robert Browning’s poems, when he says, “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp; or what’s a heaven for?”  We reach further and higher, stretching ourselves as we do, growing to the stature that our Creator intended.

As we reach, we rejoice in what has been accomplished; it is admirable, and yet, still incomplete.

Keep reaching, my friend.  Where there’s life, there’s work to be done.

And, there is joy in the journey.

“…and forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth to those things which are before me, I press toward the mark, for the prize…”
(Philippians 3:13b, 14a~KJV)

“There is a joy in the journey
There’s a light we can love on the way
There is a wonder and wildness to life
And freedom for those who obey.”
(Joy In The Journey by Michael Card~American songwriter/singer)

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

She was frustrated.  A husband can tell, you know.  Especially when she says, “I’m so frustrated with this!” Her afternoon had been spent, at first making good progress, but as the time sped past, with ever longer delays in the actual project.

After another of her famous Sunday dinners, the Lovely Lady had sat down on the couch prepared to work on a craft project.  Her husband wasn’t aware of what was happening at first.  It is possible that he fell asleep for a moment or two.  There was, after all, a warm fire, and the recliner was in a position which made it more probable.  As I said, it was possible…Regardless, there she was on her couch, with a tangle of yarn in her hands.  She was frustrated.

She had struggled with the tangle for quite some time when suddenly she was making progress in pulling out  a few feet more of the yarn.  Perhaps this was going to work out after all.  Alas, it was a false hope.  A final tug proved that no more would pull out.  She sighed deeply and searched for her scissors.  Her husband wondered why she wanted the scissors.  “I have to cut the yarn, so I can pull it out the other direction,” she answered, realizing that he was a mere man and wouldn’t be able to work this one out for himself.  He decided to help her look for the scissors, but secretly he wondered why she didn’t just throw away the tag end of the skein of yarn.  The entire thing had cost less than a dollar.  There were quite a few more skeins sitting in that bag at her feet.  But, he knew better than to ask.  She doesn’t throw away perfectly good yarn.  Even if it is tangled up.  He is sure that he is right, but holds his tongue.  In a few moments and after a fair amount of labor, she has not one, but three smaller balls of yarn which have been salvaged and dropped into the yarn sack to be used in the future, as need arises.  He chuckles to himself.

Later that same night the man sits down to his desk and prepares to put a few of his random thoughts into words once again.  As he considers a subject worthy of his contemplation, his eye falls on an item near the back of the desk.  It is one of hundreds of odd items stacked (not neatly) on the workspace.  The old yellow pedal has been there for a year or more.  It doesn’t work.  Come to think of it, it may never work again.  A mass produced, cheaply made electronic guitar effect, it never was worth much to start with.  He should throw it away.  But he doesn’t.  Someone might be able to repair it someday.  Perhaps some of the parts might be salvaged to repair another one, closer to working condition than this one.  He is hard put to explain his reticence in disposing of the worthless thing. The value of the salvaged parts from it would be less than a dollar or two.  The Lovely Lady’s husband resolves to get rid of it tonight. He picks it up to toss into the trash and feels the weight in his hand.  No.  He sighs as he places it again on his desk and moves on to other things.  If she saw it, she would be the one chuckling this time.

One might wonder if this couple could be candidates to appear in an episode of one of next season’s television shows about hoarders.  Clearly, they need to get some perspective on setting priorities.  Almost certainly, these two are not indicative of the normal American family.  Or, are they?  I’m going to take a chance and tell you that these two are very much like most folks they (and probably, you) know.  They’ve been taught that you don’t throw away anything which has value.  They learned that you clean your plate at meals and save the leftovers for later.  “Waste not, want not.”   “A penny saved is a penny earned.”

I’m wondering tonight what would happen if we placed the same value on people that we do on things in our lives.  I’ve heard frequently from folks that they don’t expend effort on people who are broken.  Oh, they don’t say it quite like that.  One says, “I have to set priorities and deal only with people who don’t make too many demands on my time.”  Another posts, “Never waste time on people who think you don’t matter.”  Again and again, I have folks say that they won’t use up their energy to be friends with people who won’t make an effort themselves.  Does anyone see the incongruity here? We spend hours to salvage broken and used up things, but can’t be bothered to save a used up person.  We collect useless items in hopes that someday we’ll find a purpose for them, moving them from one place to another rather than dispose of them, but let a friend offend us one time and we shove them away, never to interact with them again.  We keep things, but we throw away people.

There is a piano which sits in my living room.  In appearance, the old piano is beautiful, but the sound it makes is dreadful.  I noticed as the Lovely Lady played yesterday that the notes almost sounded jangly as she worked through different chord combinations.  When played one at a time, the notes sounded just fine.  As she added thirds and fifths and octaves, however, the resulting sound almost caused me physical pain.  I couldn’t stand to be in the same room while she played.  I think we might have to throw the piano away and get a new one.  What do you think?

Idiocy, you say?  What’s that?  I should call the the piano tuner?  Yes, that might do it.  I’ll call him this week.  We can keep the piano.

The lesson of the piano is clear.  Many times, the easy thing would be for us to quit trying to make music together.  If there is a cacophony when we interact with other voices, why bother trying to make harmony?  The answer is that we are not made to be solo instruments, but we are made to function in concord with one another; we must produce harmony, each note blending with the others as it plays its part.  It takes work to keep the instrument in tune, but it make a lot more sense than throwing out the whole affair.

I’m pretty sure that we will, each one of us, always have our own silly things which are valuable to us, and that’s okay.  We need to be sure though, that we don’t allow those things to become more important than the people God brings across our pathway. 

He doesn’t make any throw-away people.  Not one.

“We should all be concerned about our neighbor and the good things that will build his faith.”
 (Romans 15:2~God’s Word)

“I keep a treasure or two near my skin, precious as rings to me.”
(The hobbit, Pippin in “Lord of the Rings”~J.R.R.Tolkien)

“We ought not to treat living creatures like shoes or household belongings, which, when worn with use, we throw away.”
(Plutarch~Ancient Greek Author~46-119)

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

The owner of the music store sits and thinks as the quiet music plays.  He is not at ease, nor is he contented, as on most nights.  It is the first time he can ever remember dreading the next workday.  Oh, there have been days when he was not happy about the events he anticipated on the day to follow.  There have even been a few people who caused him to cringe as they approached the entrance to his domain.  But, this is different. For once, he is at a loss to know what to do.

Reality hit him today as he worked.  It began with an ordinary phone call.  Those happen with regularity throughout every workday and are not normally threatening in the slightest.  This one was no different…he thought.  However, the events following would eventually lead to his present mental state.  As he answered, the male voice on the other end of the phone line asked if the music store were purchasing musical gear.  Specifically, he inquired about a particular type of amplifier.  Realizing that the amp was an older and non-collectible piece of equipment, the shopkeeper suggested that the man might do better selling it somewhere else.  The caller was not to be brushed aside and insisted that this music store was where the person selling the amps wanted to do business.  In an aside, he spoke to that person, asking what price they wanted to get for the amplifier.  The price named was much too high, so the store’s owner countered with a figure, one which was commensurate with the age and stated condition of the equipment, but which he was sure would discourage any further conversation.  Alas, the voice at the other end proclaimed that they would be at the store soon.  He kept his word, arriving within half an hour with the young female owner of the gear in tow.

The young lady had tears in her eyes as she took the money.  She hadn’t just brought the amplifier to sell, but had also carried in a vintage guitar for his consideration.  Although it was filthy and the electronics were not functioning, it was worth much more than the amp.  As she heard the price he was offering for the guitar, she began to tear up.  Apologizing, she explained.  First, she thanked him for the generous offer, considerably higher than she had expected for the old, dirty thing.  But the reason for her tears was that this guitar had belonged to her father, now deceased.  “What else can I do?” she asked, her voice shaking.  She was a single mother, with three children to feed and clothe, and she had no job.  She was grateful, but she was also heartbroken.

The shopkeeper murmured a few words of encouragement, and she thanked him as she walked away, still dabbing at her eyes. He  watched the young lady leave, a little heartbroken himself.  There was no time to dwell on his feelings, though.  More customers needed to be waited on, and the phone would need to be answered again.  More needy folks would come also.  As the afternoon passed, he felt a strange need to work on the guitar he had purchased from the young lady earlier in the morning.  It was covered with dust and bore the signs of having been played hard for nearly all of its forty-five years of existence.  Dirt and oil were caked on the fretboard, and the switches and controls were dirty and emitted nothing but static when moved.  He spent several hours cleaning and adjusting, repairing broken wires and straightening bent parts.  As he worked, he thought. They weren’t happy meditations.

“This is not what I signed on for.  I love restoring old instruments, seeing them brought back from years of abuse and neglect, but I’m not a pawnbroker.  I don’t want to be the last resort for people, giving them money for their family treasures when they’re desperate.  I don’t want to do this anymore.”

As he sits now and thinks, the beautiful, vintage instrument rests above his head, hanging on the wall.  It is, once again, a thing of beauty, almost a work of art.  True, it bears the telltale marks of use and age, but it is not anywhere close to used up or obsolete.  From filth and dysfunction have emerged usefulness and vitality.  He stares, almost unseeing, at the instrument and considers the lesson, wishing he could not see the truth before him quite so clearly.

He never should have let his father pray that prayer, many years ago!  They had been speaking on the phone, his Dad having called from miles away in California.  As the conversation came to an end, the wise man on the California end asked if he could pray with his son.  If only the son had declined, he wouldn’t be in this mess right now!  But, he had agreed, and the pastor/father had prayed those fateful words, “…and bless my son in his ministry there in the music store.”  His instantaneous reaction had been, at least mentally, “What?  Ministry?  No!  This was a business, pure and simple!  Sell musical instruments, take the money to the bank, that’s all!”  But the words couldn’t be unsaid, nor the prayer unprayed.  Oh, if only that idea had never been planted in his mind…or taken root in his heart.

Now sitting there, years later, the shopkeeper laughs, a humorless sound to be sure.  No.  He had prayed right along with his father, agreeing that his vocation would be his place of ministry.  And so it has become.  He will see it through, because it is a worthwhile task.  The heartbreak doesn’t decrease the impact one iota.  It may not be what he envisioned, but God uses people in the way He designs, to do His will.

Many years ago the aging music store owner, then a young man, had considered the truth of the words which the Apostle wrote…”For it is God who is at work within you, both to will and to do His good pleasure.”  Back then, he had accepted the challenge to want what his God wanted and to put into action what that entailed.  He’s not going back on that now.

Tomorrow approaches.  Too fast.  The businessman wonders if it will bring more of the same.  He hopes it will not.  But then again, the beautiful guitar hangs there on the wall, a reminder that from disaster comes triumph.  It is only as we persevere through pain that we emerge in jubilation. His prayer is that it will be so for that young lady and her children, as well as the multitude of broken people who will walk through his front door in the coming days. He prays that it will be so in your life also. 

Our Father does indeed, bring beauty from the ashes.

“He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds.”
(Psalm 147:3~NIV)

“Now I know I’ve got a heart,because it is breaking.”
(The Tin Woodman~”The Wonderful Wizard of Oz” by L. Frank Baum~1856-1919)

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

“Why don’t you sit and watch the game for awhile, Honey?”  The cute redhead was buzzing past in her quest for a bit of clean laundry, but I was engrossed in the Razorback’s basketball game.  The Hogs were winning, which will give you some clue of how many years ago this event occurred.  The Lovely Lady declined my invitation, partially because she had work to do, but I could tell that there was more to it.  Wondering if I had done something wrong, I asked her why she couldn’t take a minute to cheer for her team (she is a native Arkansan, you know).  Her reply evoked a burst of laughter on my part–not the best response from a caring husband, but I couldn’t help it.  She said, with a straight face, “If I watch them play, they’ll lose.  They always do.”  No amount of logical discussion about the physics of sitting on a couch in front of a television, and its lack of effect on a team playing in an arena miles away would shift her in her resolute refusal. I can’t remember, but I think the Hogs may have lost anyway.

Why is it that we expect to have unpleasant things happen when we want good things?  How do we become cynics about some things specifically, and about life in general?  I have to think that it is the human condition.  We talk about a glass half full, or a glass half empty, differentiating between optimism and pessimism, but it seems to me that, at one time or another in our lives, all of us are pessimists, anticipating and expecting that awful things are bound to happen to us.

I think back, and I remember another red-head sitting in the living room of the house I was raised in.  This lady seemed to have an unending supply of cliches’ on the tip of her tongue.  I find myself using them still today.

“Always a day late and a dollar short.”  
“Well, that’s par for the course!”  
“I just can’t win for losing.”
“I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired!”

I didn’t have a miserable childhood.  We didn’t have disaster after disaster in our lives; we simply had the normal everyday situations to be faced and put behind us.  Good things happened, too.  My father had a good job.  We had food and clothes.  We took vacations, went to the beach and went fishing with friends.  We loved and were loved.  As it does for all of us, life had its ups and its downs.  But, words like those quoted above tend to make you focus on the bad, to have an expectation that, every time things seem to be going well, you’d better be on your guard.  Bad things were sure to happen, because, as we all know, “nothing good lasts forever.”

How sad!  We focus on the potential for bad in the midst of the good that has been showered upon us.  We love distressing news.  We must.  It is what we crave from our news sources.  We sit enthralled for hours, as the story unfolds of a mentally ill man who murders his mother and then her school students and co-workers.  But, the story of  thousands of schools with no such incidents, where educators teach and care for and deal with special-needs students with considerable success?  That is no story at all.  We don’t want to know about success, just about failure.

Earlier tonight, I was rereading a few of the Winnie the Pooh stories.  What’s that?  To the grandchildren?  No…no, I was reading them because I enjoy them myself.  There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?

Anyway, as I was saying, rereading a Pooh story or two, I was suddenly struck with the truth about pessimism.  In the story I read, Eeyore is feeling sorry for himself.  He looks in the water at his reflection and declares it “pathetic”.  Moving to the other side of the river, he checks again.  “Pathetic. That’s what it is.”   It is his birthday, and no one has remembered him, but then, he expects that.  The expectation doesn’t keep him from being unhappy, though.  It is only at the end of the story as he realizes that his friend, Piglet, is unhappy about breaking the gift he was bringing to him, that Eeyore understands what must be done.  Turning his focus off himself, he seeks a way to cheer up his friend and in doing so, is cheered himself.  It is a universal truth.  We can’t lift ourselves out of self-pity and gloom by concentrating more on ourselves.  It is only as we consider others around us that we realize our circumstances aren’t bigger than we can handle.  As we see (and help fulfill) the needs of others, ours pale in comparison and soon become unimportant in the bigger picture that we now can see. 

It is to believe a falsehood to think that I can’t win for losing.  I am not always a day late and a dollar short.  Our God tells us about the plans He has for His people and promises that they are plans for good things and not for disaster; plans for a future and to give hope.  But, as long as our focus is on what we desire and not on what others need, we’ll be tied up in knots over our problems, both real and imagined. And that, my friends, is par for the course.

The little gray donkey serves as a warning and a lesson for our lives.  I’m all for looking up and around at those near me.  How about it? 

The view in the mirror probably isn’t all that great anyway… 

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life!  And, I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
(Psalm 23:6~KJV)

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun, still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

(“The Rainy Day”~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~American poet~1807-1882)

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

“Speak softly, and carry a big stick.”

You’ve heard the quote, used so often that it has almost become a platitude.  President Theodore Roosevelt, at the beginning of the twentieth century, coined the phrase, or at least brought it into common usage.  He meant by it, that you back up the words you say with visible strength.  On several occasions during his time in office, Teddy Roosevelt had the opportunity to test the veracity of the saying, each time, achieving success.

Without getting into a political argument, I’m wondering if we’ve gotten somewhat off course in our personal relationships by implementing the big stick theory in more areas of life than was ever intended.  It would seem that the big stick theory doesn’t hold true in every difficulty we are faced with.

“Grandpa, when are you going to put up the basketball goal?”  The young fellow with the twinkle in his eyes was itching to use the Christmas gift which he and his brother had received a few days before.  It was cold outside, but the young man’s enthusiasm for getting the project underway couldn’t be extinguished by a little chilly air.  “It looks like Saturday is going to be sunny,” replied his Grandpa, and the date was set.

The goal was mostly assembled indoors at Grandpa’s house, but the task of adding weight to the base, approximately three hundred and fifty pounds of sand, would have to be done outdoors.  Saturday was, indeed a sunny day, but the temperature never rose much above thirty.  The promise would still be kept.  Sand was purchased, seven fifty-pound bags of the gritty material, and the partially completed goal loaded into the bed of Grandpa’s old pickup truck for the trip over to the kid’s house.  Within moments of his arrival, all of the children, both boys and girls, were outside, several of them without their shoes, since they couldn’t be slowed down by the time-wasting task of putting on unnecessary pieces of clothing.  They were getting their basketball goal today!

Grandpa was almost as excited as they, but his fervor was short-lived.  The parts of the goal went together easily and quickly.  The sand was not so cooperative.  The instructions had said to pour the sand into the base.  They said nothing about whether to use wet or dry sand.  This was definitely wet sand.  It didn’t wish to be poured.  It wasn’t going to be poured.  A huge funnel was procured, but the aperture for pouring the material into the base was just over one inch in diameter, so the globby, sticky stuff had to be coaxed into place.  One helper suggested poking it down with a stick, so one was located rather quickly.  It was a slender, fragile looking thing and Grandpa soon tired of the anemic switch and went in search of something more substantial.  He returned with a longer and thicker stick, one almost the exact size of the aperture in the funnel.  It pushed down more material, but with each downward push, the stick itself stopped up the hole, preventing the sand from slipping into the base.  “No, Grandpa,” came the remark from one onlooker.  “That stick’s just too big.  We need to use the little one again.”  Watching the thin twig work its magic, enticing the reluctant and damp sand into the opening, he had to admit that the reasoning was sound.  This was one time that getting “a bigger hammer” wasn’t the cure for the problem.

Have you ever noticed what the shepherds in nomadic cultures carry in their hands when herding their sheep?  While the stick they use may be long, it would never be described as big.  The thin rod is used to guide gently and, if necessary, to flip the animals momentarily, causing a stinging pain which disappears quickly and inflicts no physical damage.  It does, however, leave a memory of the undesirable effect which straying has and encourages future acquiescence to commands. The goal of having individual lambs which do not stray into danger and certain injury is achieved, not by terrifying them or maiming them, but by gently urging them back into the way of safety.

I’ve mentioned before a friend of mine who many years ago used the big stick method to work with livestock.  It used to be common for farmers who worked with big animals, such as cattle, to keep a loose two-by-four somewhere near the place where they worked the stock.  One farmer explained to me that they sometimes needed to “get the cow’s attention.”  This particular friend used such an attention getter one day on an unruly beast, popping it once right on the forehead.  The thousand dollar beast fell down…dead.  A rod, perhaps, might have served the purpose better…

There is a point to my verbal meanderings tonight, and it’s not just about beasts and basketball goals.  I am thinking of my own approach to personal relationships; remembering the times when I have hit folks between the eyes with my verbal two-by-fours, just to get their attention.  Some of them don’t come around anymore.  I wonder why?

I have been told of churches that embarrass and demean people who are found in sin.  One infamous church sends its members around the country to stand at funerals with their big sticks, pointing fingers of blame and reproach at victims and soldiers.  This is surely not what the Teacher meant when He told of the master of the feast who sent his servants “into the highways and by-ways”; compelling people to come in and be fed.  But, I’m not speaking tonight of institutions and their misuse of the power they have.  I’m talking, mostly to myself, and maybe a little to you, about how we deal personally with other pilgrims wandering along the same road as we ourselves are.

When we smack people with the truth, it usually indicates a selfish motive on our part, showing our power and moral superiority, and belittling the person we have smacked.  But the words I read say that we are to speak the truth in love.  Power and moral superiority aren’t indicators of love.  They don’t draw anyone to the truth, but in fact, drive them from it.  Is it any surprise when people avoid us after they’ve been treated so?  Shouldn’t we, rather, be seeking ways to attract them, to teach them, to partner with them, as they try to achieve the goal set before them?

Big sticks may have a place in the world of politics and of diplomacy, but they’re fairly useless in dealing with sheep.  And that is what we are.  The psalmist had it right when he suggested that we are His people, just sheep in His pasture. 

A big stick causes injury.  I think that I’m finally ready to use the soft words, and see if we can accomplish better results with the rod which comforts.  It will be a welcome change to those around me, I’m sure.

Maybe you’re ready to give it a try, as well. 

“Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness.”
(Galatians 6:1~ESV)

“Your gentleness shall force, more than your force move us to gentleness.”
(from “As You Like It”~William Shakespeare~British playwright~1564-1616)

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

“I’m too tired.  I won’t be writing tonight.”  I have just left the Lovely Lady where she sits and works her magic with needles and thread.  The evening was taken up with the challenge of assembling a basketball goal for the grandsons (and their dad, truth be told), a Christmas gift from the Lovely Lady and me.  I shall pay the price tomorrow, as the old joints promise to mount their protest in their own good time.  I think the prize will be worth the suffering, both mental and physical.

“No blog?  That’s a disappointment.”  The Lovely Lady was being kind, but she hit a nerve with her words.  Like many creative minds, mine is partially driven by the response of my audience (or sometimes, the lack thereof).  I have thought, more than once recently, that I might cease in my nightly ramblings until there was a clamor of voices demanding that I begin anew (and surely, that would be the case!) and it seemed that this might be the week for that to happen.  No announcement, no mention of my intentions, just a sudden cessation of writing.   

I sat before the computer screen, dark clouds firmly fixed over my head, and thought about how you’d miss me when I was gone.  It was not long, however, before I was laughing at myself, as I recalled a paragraph from Mark Twain’s “Tom Sawyer”, in which the young hero plays out the same scenario.  He had been punished by his Aunt Polly for something he didn’t do (for once) and determined that he would make her sorry that she had mistreated him so.  Wandering across town to the beautiful Becky Thatcher’s home, he determined to die beneath her window, so that her eyes might be the first to alight sympathetically on his lifeless body in the light of day.  Here is the scene, in the author’s own words:

“And thus he would die–out in the cold world, with no
shelter over his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the
death-damps from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly over him
when the great agony came. And thus SHE would see him when she looked
out upon the glad morning, and oh! would she drop one little tear upon
his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little sigh to see a bright
young life so rudely blighted, so untimely cut down?
The window went up, a maid-servant’s discordant voice profaned the
holy calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr’s remains!”

I’m reconsidering my moping resolution to lie here holding my flower to my chest until someone takes notice of it.  I think that I shall continue to share my thoughts, even should there be complete silence from the other side of this large room we all live in.  If you’d like to cry a single tear, that will be acceptable, but I don’t think that I need the entire pitcher-full dumped over my head to bring me to my senses.  Time will tell.

Speaking of which, a thought hit me the other day (Hey! It does happen!)  I’ve noticed that sometimes the vendors with whom I do business have some quaint ways of expressing things.  One, which I noticed recently, seems to have some bearing on my thoughts tonight.  I realized that a few items I had ordered were not included in the package which had been delivered, so I quickly checked the packing list.  In the column beside those items, there were three letters printed.  “WIP” was all it said.  I cast about to think of any applicable acronyms, but couldn’t come up with any which made sense.  “Wasn’t in package” seemed inappropriate and “waltz in place” simply wouldn’t do at all.  Finally, I looked down near the bottom of the page and saw a glossary of the acronyms used in the document.  Running my finger along the list of possibilities, I had it!  WIP simply stands for “work in progress”.

What a great idea!  It’s not back-ordered, not out-of-stock, not temporarily unavailable.  It’s simply a work in progress!  When we’re finished with the process, you’ll have the item.  Don’t worry.  Don’t fret.  We’re busy making it happen for you.  WIP!

I’d like to believe that those letters describe us–you and me.  We are, individually and collectively, works in progress.  The finished product will stand before you someday, but until then, enjoy the WIP.  The tweaking, the molding, the shoving back into place…all of these are still happening and will eventually yield the desired result.  Wait a little while.  You’ll see.

But, unhappily, that does bring me to another acronym which I find frequently listed on our packing lists at the music store.  It seems that this one should be a happy phrase, seeing the letters which are printed there.  “POP”  It sounds kind of exciting, doesn’t it?  Reminds you of firecrackers in July or of bubbles being blown with gum.  It might even be a little fizzy, like our soft drinks.  But you would be wrong.  POP is the acronym for “permanently out of print”.  I guess you could say that it’s more like the sound of party balloons being instantly deflated after the gaiety and camaraderie is over and done.  (“Turn out the lights…the party’s over…”)  The company is saying, in effect, “This WIP never delivered on its promise and now it is POP.  We’re tired of waiting for results, so have determined that we won’t ask you to have patience anymore.  You may give up now.”  What a sad conclusion to a hopeful and promising beginning.

Work in Progress…Permanently Out of Print.  Both indicated by just three letters.  Three letters which mean either hope and promise or disappointment and failure.  Which is it going to be?

In large part, we determine the outcomes in this life.  I will be quick to acknowledge that our faith plays a key role, as does our environment and our support system.  But, in spite of the indisputable truth that our Creator has placed in each of us who are His children the ability to achieve and excel in the areas of our gifting and even gives His strength to enable us, He has also given us the choice.  We decide whether to keep moving forward and remain a WIP, or to give up on our dreams and hopes, simply becoming another POP, never to reach our goals in this life.

I’m a work in progress!  Sometimes, the progress is painfully slow; at other times, dizzyingly fast.  Mostly, I remain a slow learner, as I’ve mentioned repeatedly.  That said, progress is occurring.  Even the snail gets where he’s going eventually.  I trust that you’re going in the same direction, too…

Oh!  Just a warning…I’m thinking that even my practice of writing won’t be POP anytime soon.  Brace yourselves!

“The wisdom of the prudent is to think about his way, but the folly of fools is deceit.”
(Proverbs 14:8~WEB)

“The great thing in the world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving.”
(Oliver Wendall Holmes~American writer/educator~1809-1894)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

“It doesn’t have to play; it just has to look good.”  The man was completely serious as he handed me the guitar which had been his son’s first instrument.  I chuckled, but agreed to glue the bridge back on the little half-size instrument.  Not that it was ever a great example of the luthier’s craft, but, without question, it will never play a note of music again.  He doesn’t care; it’s going up on the wall as a decoration.  It wasn’t the only such instrument I have worked on this season.

The lady brought in the filthy old arch-top guitar about a week ago. She needed some work done before Christmas, since she wants to present the instrument to her husband as a “gift” (it’s actually already his).  She had a similar request to the man mentioned above.  “Go ahead and clean it up and put some new strings on it.”  I glanced at the collapsing top of the guitar, turning it around to look as the back as well.  Something clattered inside as I spun it around.  Peering into the F-holes on the top, I noticed long pieces of wood loose inside the body.  These were top braces which are normally glued securely onto the underside of the top, providing structure and keeping the arch from collapsing. Quite obviously, they had failed to do their job.  I had already noted that the old rusted strings were about five inches away from the top, but quickly saw the reason for this too, as I looked at the back of the guitar.  The back itself had come unglued from the neck block, causing the entire affair to lose its structural integrity.  This was a disaster!

I told the lady that her guitar couldn’t be repaired without extensive work, which would cost well more than the instrument was worth.  Her reply?  “It doesn’t have to play; it just has to look good.”  The old piece of junk was a family heirloom (of sorts) and she hoped that it would be put on a stand, so people could look at, and admire, it.  All she wanted was for me to clean it and replace the strings!  As if that would achieve the purpose.  Today, we put a little glue on the peripheral joints and clamped the whole affair together.  It will never hold the tension of a set of guitar strings again.  As long as no one runs their fingers across the strings, it may, perhaps, fool most people with its appearance.  It will, without a doubt, fool not a single real guitarist for more than a moment.

I remembered a young father (now an old man) telling me once about how he had received his discharge from the Navy, years before.  As a Petty Officer on a ship, he had a number of men under his authority.  One day, at sea, his Captain ordered him to have his men paint the ship’s hull before they got into harbor a few days later.  Doing a bit of quick math in his head, he suggested that it wouldn’t be possible to finish the job.  The Captain questioned his mathematical skills, declaring that there was no reason the men couldn’t slap on a coat of grey paint in a couple of days, to which the conscientious young noncom answered, “That’s true, sir.  But to do the job right, we need to scrape the rust off first and prime it, then paint it.”  The Captain insisted that he wanted his ship to look good when it came into harbor.  Again, the young Petty Officer demurred, saying, “This ship belongs to the American taxpayers, sir.  We need to do the job right.”  The ship didn’t get painted before it sailed into harbor.  The young Petty Officer, who had plans to be a career Navy man was handed an honorable discharge for medical reasons a few days later. “Chronic seasickness.”  So said the discharge papers, although the young man maintained that he was never sick a day while on board.  He left the Navy disillusioned, but with his integrity still intact.

It is a common practice, one in which we all participate at some point.  The practice I speak of is the intent to deceive, to cover up.  We know that the facade, the face, we are presenting to the people in our life is false and no more than skin deep, but we are more interested in keeping up appearances than in dealing with reality.  It has ever been so with humans.  We want to appear complete and perfect, much more than we actually want to be complete and perfect.  That is the entire story of mankind.

As we stand on the Eve of another Christmas Day, I can’t help but think that this is what Christmas is all about.  For all of history, man’s practice has been to cover up his folly.  Even the religious practices did only that…cover up, nothing more.  The Savior came for one purpose: to make us new and, thus, render the cover-up unnecessary.  The True Word became flesh and blood and lived with us, showing us the stark contrast between the genuine and the facade, the original and the pretender.  He lived among us and then He died for us.  Not so we could continue to cover up who we are, but so that we could be made new; made as we were designed in the first place.

The ways in which we choose to celebrate this holy day seem to me to be a continuation of our practice of dressing up broken things.  We decorate our homes and we cook and we entertain.  We sing and we watch movies about Santa and about BB guns that will “shoot your eye out” and about being left home alone.  We give extravagant gifts to our children and family members, but we don’t have more than a few moments that we can spare in contemplation of the real Gift of Christmas.  In many ways, our celebration of Christmas is just more pretty decoration to hang on the wall of our collective lives, but there is no substance to it, no reality.  The instrument on the wall won’t make music, it just looks good.

We have adopted so many traditions in the celebration of this day that we nearly miss the point entirely.  I’m suggesting that this Christmas, we might take some time to be quiet in the midst of the bedlam that has come to define the holiday, and consider the real reason that the King of all the universe lay helpless in that cow stall.  He came to offer hope and grace to all people.  His offer wasn’t just to make us look good, but actually to make us good.

The lady will pick up her guitar from my store today and will present the useless thing to her husband as a gift tomorrow.  They’ll look at the old instrument on display and think fondly about when it made music.  They’ll probably even tell a story or two about when Grandpa used to play it.  But, it won’t make music again.

I’m thinking that we don’t need to accept a pretty, empty shell when we can actually hear the beautiful music from the real thing.  Christmas is about things that are made new!

“Chords that were broken will vibrate once more!”

“And the one sitting on the the throne said, “See!  I am making all things new.”
(Revelation 21:5~ISV)

“Christmas began in the heart of God.  It is complete only when it reaches the heart of man.”
(Anonymous)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Tonight, I read once again that classic old Christmas 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 prize for someone we love, undeterred by the possibility that the result may be other than we would wish.

 I grew up receiving an annual gift from my father, one which 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 their extended 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 Lovely Lady, or even the men with whom I’ve served in the leadership of 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 your offspring 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 for which you are willing to stand firmly in your life.  As you wrap all those other 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, or lasting, transformation.  The stories of who we really are and what we really believe in, on the other hand–those are the stories that will 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)

Reprinted (with editing) from a post entitled “Not Just Another Wise Guy”, first published 12/21/10.

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.