Paste It, Daddy!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
Photo-montage created by Uwe Kils

The Grinch poked his head in today.  This has already been a Christmas season with a good number of ups and downs, but things seemed to be settling down.  I was starting to sense that contented feeling which has made an appearance in many of the previous years as items have been marked off of the “still ahead list”.  Christmas programs are mostly done and performances completed with tolerable competence.  The annual party with friends was a success.  Most of my tasks at the music store are shaping up and quite a few customers have been served successfully.  The goal is in sight and we’re just coasting down to the final, lovely gatherings in celebration of our Savior’s birth.

But, as I said, the Grinch poked his head in today.  I was sitting at my desk yesterday when it happened.  The thought came to me, as I drew in a breath of air. (I like to do that periodically, you know–breathe. I’m told that it’s good for my health.)  The uneasy question formed itself, as a little whistling sound intruded on the sultry tones of Karen Carpenter’s vocals coming from the speakers on my desk.  “What was that?”  I asked, of no one in particular.  And, wouldn’t you know it?  No one particular answered.  My brain did, though.  “It was you, knucklehead.  It happened when you just took that breath.”  The realization grew, as my spirits fell a bit.  Asthma.  My new, old friend.  I wished then that the visit would, hopefully, be short lived.  Time will tell, but more symptoms arrived today and I’m not feeling so hopeful about it.

You know, Dr. Seuss introduced his grumpy little green friend in the same year that I was born.  I will admit that I’m not a huge fan of the author, since I have an aversion to being manipulated to latent conclusions and the Dr. was definitely a master at that.  Nonetheless, the Grinch, I understand.  This unhappy creature wanted to share his unhappiness with everyone, so he tried to “steal Christmas”.  Today, my Grinch is the illness which my body is fighting off, not quite successfully, at this moment.

Funny how illness seems to play a part in so much unhappiness.  Many memories I have of unhappy times are also memories of illness.  There are a number of occasions which are brought to mind, as I contemplate this subject tonight, especially within my own family.  For some reason, my mind also intermingles parts of that classic Christmas movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life.”  I think that the “drafty old house” which the protagonist, George Bailey and his pretty wife, Mary live in helps to draw a parallel.  George blames the house (among other things) for his daughter’s illness, but he puts her peace of mind above his own. He sits by her bedside, greatly disturbed by his problems, but carefully shields her from any unhappy thoughts. He even tries to follow her instructions to “Paste it, Daddy” for her when a couple of petals fall off of the rose on her bedside table. Every time I watch, I feel a kinship with the character.

I’m actually thinking about a little boy in my own drafty old house who suffered frequently during his early years from the same ailment I’ve developed as a mature adult.  As the little guy gasped for breath upstairs and coughed so hard that it seemed he would injure himself, this real-life dad responded much as the screen father did in that movie–with desperation.  Illness is a powerful source of stress and unease, especially when someone we love is suffering.  At the same time, we want to protect and make things right for them.  I remember many nights when it seemed that my joy had been stolen away completely.

Over the years, I have begun to contemplate the reality of my faith and its effect on who I am a little more than I once did.  I understand that joy, the deep-seated sense of delight or exultation, is not dependent upon circumstances or events.  It is, in fact, closely related to grace, the two words coming from the same root in the Greek language.  If you, like I, are a follower of Jesus, you will understand when I say that we are instructed, not just to feel joy, but to exercise it.  It is used most often in the verb form in the pages of the Bible.  We choose to be joyful, even if we don’t feel it for the time being.

So, Dr. Seuss got it right for once, by some happy chance (and without ever understanding the true reason for Christmas). The presents and food mean nothing.  As hard as it is to admit, our health and our financial stability are also simply peripheral in their importance.  Losing the trappings of happiness strips us down to the bare bones of who we really are.  Joy lives deep in the heart of man, put there solely by his Creator and Savior.  It cannot be stolen away by any Grinch, be he real or imagined.

As I write, I don’t feel any better physically. But deep down, I realize that it’s immaterial.  I once heard that joy is similar to an iceberg.  The part you see above water–that’s the physical blessings we enjoy.  It’s the part that’s below the surface that really matters.  What you can’t see is what is really keeping the whole affair afloat. 

I wonder what’s really there, under the surface.  When the visible, the palpable, blessings are stripped away, what will be left for you?  For me?

So, even through my wheezing and coughing, I am working today to remember that the joy which comes from the King of Christmas is my strength.

That is something that no Grinch will ever be able to steal from me. 

“This day is holy unto the Lord. Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”
(Nehemiah 8:10b~NIV)

“Joy to the world, the Lord is come;
Let earth receive her king;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And heaven and nature sing.”
(Isaac Watts~English hymnwriter/theologian~1674-1748)

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

Panic!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Gone!  The shop-owner frantically scanned the area, lifting items on the counter to peer under them, shoving others aside feverishly.  He didn’t neglect the trash can nearby, but the lost article was nowhere to be found.  He had it in his hand just a moment ago!  It couldn’t have disappeared!  Desperate, he called out to his wife in the office.  “Have you seen that piece of paper I had up here?  It had all Dee’s credit card and address information.  I can’t ship her order without it!”  The pretty red-head left her stack of work and came to his side, making suggestions and lifting articles on the counter, taking a second to dig through the trash.  He snapped at her, “I already looked there!”  They continued to look, but with or without his ire, it was not to be found anywhere.

The shopkeeper admits that he doesn’t deal with stress well.  In these moments of emotional upset, he loses touch with reality and grasps at straws.  This event was no exception.

But wait for just a moment, will you?  We can’t go past that phrase “grasp at straws” without taking a short trip down a rabbit trail.  The word-nerd in me must lend some clarity to the old saw.  Why would one grasp at straws?  The image in my head is that of my grandson, coming around the corner with his little hand grasping a quantity of soda straws.  Of course, an argument is about to break out, since each one wants the blue one and there is only one of those.  There are plenty of yellow ones, but there is no demand for that out-of-vogue color. To settle the argument, we’ll…What’s that?  Oh, my apologies…I find myself following a completely different rabbit trail than the one we started down initially.  Where was I headed?  Oh, yes.  The young lad’s hand grasping the straws.  No, it just doesn’t fit.  There must be another explanation.

I search for the etymology of the phrase and learn that there is an old proverb, traceable all the way back to the fifteenth century author/monk/politician, Sir Thomas More, who wrote that “a man in peril of drowning catchest whatsoever comest next to hand, be it never so simple a stick.”  The phrase evidently became a well-used proverb, but was next quoted (that we know of) in the eighteenth century as “a drowning man will catch at a straw”.  The picture of this drowning man being swept down the roaring current of a swift river is a vivid one, as he desperately grabs at the reeds or grasses along the edge, knowing that none could possibly stop his passage.

And, now, rabbit trail followed, we find ourselves back at the shop-keeper’s dilemma.  To put it plainly, he panicked.  Probably a customer had picked it up from the counter top along with his or her purchase.  He racked his brain, but came up with only one whose name he could remember.  He made a desperate call to her brother, leaving a message on his voice mail to have her call the store.  Then he let his mind run rampant, unbridled and uncontrolled.  What was he to do?  He had lost important information.  That credit card number, coupled with the billing address on the same paper, would give anyone access to make charges with the card.  What a disaster!  He would have to call Dee and tell her to cancel her credit card.  Her son wouldn’t receive his Christmas presents.  She would never do business with him again.  His reputation would be ruined.  His mind spun the wild imaginations out dizzily.

After some time, cogent thoughts began to return.  Yes, he would call Dee if the paper couldn’t be located.  Yes, damage would be done.  They would face the consequences.  But first, they needed to go through the events of the last half hour to see if anything had been missed.  Amazingly, in his mind’s eye, he saw a notebook which had been on the counter before the last customer came in.  He immediately did the logical thing and found the notebook.  Opening it up, his eye fell instantly on the paper he was so desperately seeking!  He had closed it up when he moved the notebook aside.  It never really had been lost; there never was a genuine disaster.  The reprieve was almost too much for the man.  He simply sat down at his cluttered desk, running his hands through his hair and muttering to himself, and took a breather.  What a relief!

And we leave our pathetic shop keeper for a moment, as we attempt to make another point to this rambling tale.  Recently, the senseless death of children in Connecticut has grabbed the attention of our country.  Our reaction has gone beyond shock and sadness.  Many are desperate for answers, even questioning God.  But more than that, I see, all around me, people who have other problems too…big problems.  Jobs have been lost, serious illness has struck, relatives have passed away.  Many believe they are drowning.  Panic abounds.  Straws are grabbed at as unworkable solutions are suggested and argued.  As we rant and lament our fate, we just know that the current is carrying us to certain destruction.  What to do?  What to do?

I wonder if we stop to think that the foundation under our feet hasn’t left us at all.  I wonder if we actually believe that our Creator has no immediate interest in our circumstances.  Yes, the current of life is pushing us downstream, but there is still a river bed beneath us.  Curiously, when water runs fastest, it is usually the shallowest.  Experts recommend putting your feet down and finding the bottom when you are caught in a fast-moving current.  You may not be able to stand against the relentless torrent, but your feet dragging on the floor of the waterway can act as an anchor, slowing your progress (a lot more than those reeds at the edge will), and giving a chance to get your wits about you, possibly making your way out of the current to a more stable place.

 The silly shop keeper understands that it is foolish to give up hope before the disaster actually happens.  Many find, as they renew their trust in a God who cares more than they can know, that the overpowering current is just moving them to a better place.  Am I foolish enough to forget that some people actually do drown?  No, I’m not.  Loss is a part of our existence on this earth.  But after loss, we who are left go on.  We can allow ourselves to be paralyzed by past circumstances, or we can learn from them and turn to face what comes next.  It does not mean that we are not sad for our losses, that we do not mourn, but we remain resolute nonetheless, as we press on to the goal.

How about it?  Are you ready to quit grasping at straws like a drowning man?  I think it’s time we work together at keeping our footing in the swiftly moving current of life.  It’s bound to be a little tricky, but I’m confident that we’ll make it just fine. 

I’ll take the anchor over the straws any day… 

“If you fell down yesterday, stand up today.”
(H.G.Wells~English novelist~1866-1946)

“We have an anchor that keeps the soul
Steadfast and sure while the billows roll,
Fastened to the Rock which cannot move,
Grounded firm and deep in the Savior’s love.”
(Priscilla J Owens~American school-teach/hymn writer~1829-1907)

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



The Odor of Love

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He asked me to give him a hug.  Me.  A non-hugger if ever there was one.  Hadn’t I already given him enough?  Could I not even be spared this last and greatest indignity?  A hug.  Well, if it was going to happen, I wasn’t going to be halfhearted about it.  I reached out and pulled him to me, sweat, stale cigarettes, and all, in a huge bear-hug.  I’m not sure, but I think he may have had tears in his eyes as he headed out the door and up the street to get his supper.  I was left standing there, still wondering what had just happened.

What had just happened?  Well, for starters, I think that part of it was just God, letting me know that He too has a sense of humor.  Back a month or two (September 14th, “Another Chance To Shine”), I told you of missing a chance to help a man and then later, another fellow coming in who was hungry and in need of food.  I said then that in my relief to be able to redeem myself, I “could have hugged him”.  Perhaps, the Lord thought that there was still unfinished business, because the man who insisted on a hug today was that same fellow who provided my second chance back then.  I guess I should learn not to use idle words when I describe events, shouldn’t I? 

Actually, though, my encounter with the young man didn’t go all that smoothly today.  Mark came in asking for help once more and I almost sent him away without doing anything for him.  It’s easy to become jaded by all the contrived stories and the contortions being performed by people who are developing their skills in a marketplace which is rapidly becoming saturated by men and women, all doing the same thing.  His story needed work, but it was plain that Mark was hungry and had no way to get food until the local food bank reopened tomorrow.  He wouldn’t starve.  Perhaps, I could get away with refusing to help him this time.  Others already had today.  He was prepared to hear another rejection and would try at the next place down the road.

I’m glad that I didn’t refuse him.  I would have missed out on the hug.  And in missing out on that, I would have missed out on the bigger lesson, a lesson I desperately needed.

It is Christmas time…the time when we celebrate the coming of a Savior…the time when we reflect on a God who would leave His glory to live as a servant to men, knowing that He would die at the hands of the very people to whom He came to show love.  I read the words again last week, written by the Apostle to his friends at Philippi. “You should have this kind of heart, the kind that leaves behind its riches, its authority, and its glory, and reaches down to become just like the dirty, smelly slaves that populate the world He created.  That’s exactly how you should think, and live, and be….”

The paraphrase is my own, but it seems to sum up what is written there.  It certainly describes what happened on that first Christmas, so many years ago.  This was no romantic tale, no beautiful scene; there was no pomp, and certainly no regal birth.  He was born to be a servant, and by His example and His words–and His death, He showed us the way to live and serve, and to believe in Him.

Preti: Adoration of the Shepherds

Imagine, if you will, the Royalty of Heaven…touching and smelling and embracing, the dirty and the sick and the dying.  As I consider it, the stale smoke and the sweat on my young friend today would hardly be noticed in the world which the Baby King stepped into, would it?  Why, even the stench of the “filthy rags” the religious people of this world are dressed in would make my friend’s condition feel like the freshness of a spring day in comparison.  And yet, we think nothing of demanding His touch, His caress, His embrace, as our right.  I have to wonder: how do we smell to Him?

I hugged that man today and I am serious when I tell you that as I walked back to my desk, I imagined that the odor emanating from my clothes was like a bouquet of flowers.  To the King of Christmas, I think it might have been so.  Obedience is surely a sweet aroma rising up to heaven.  And, for a moment today, I think I understood just the tiniest bit of what He did for me. 

That understanding may be gone tomorrow, but I’ll keep plugging away at this obedience thing.  There will be more chances in the days to come.  Of that, I’m sure.

I’m also going to need more practice before I’ve got the hugging part down though.  Perhaps, if you come to visit, a firm handshake will suffice.

“Men greet each other with a sock on the arm; women, with a hug.  The hug wears better in the long run.”
(Edward Hoaglund~American nature writer~born 1932)

“They (your gifts) are a fragrant offering, an acceptable sacrifice, pleasing to God”
(Philippians 4:18b~NIV)

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

Worth Suffering For

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I lost a little blood again tonight.  Oh, it wasn’t a flood, but I did say “ouch!” when it occurred.  And, I learned a lesson as I stood and sucked on my finger to stop the flow of the red liquid.  It has happened before and you can be sure it will happen again as I repeat the activity.  One would think that I would cease and desist, but the result is an important one (to me anyway), so I’ll take my chances.

As usual, I realize that there may be a little frustration as you try to figure out what this old mutterer is talking about, so I’ll try to clear the matter up as soon as may be.  You see, after a long and enjoyable evening at home, I needed to come back to the music store and do a little task I had promised to perform for someone before morning.  The lady requested that I put strings on two guitars for her children.  Foolishly, I promised that they would be done today, not thinking about the possibility that my afternoon would blow up in my face.  It did.  The explosion doesn’t bear dwelling on, but at any rate, restringing guitars was the furthest thing from my mind as I finished out the eventful day.  Now, after midnight, the thought intruded once again on my mind, which explains why I was standing at my workbench, sucking on my finger.

Oh, it doesn’t explain it at all?  Okay…here’s the thing.  When I put strings on a guitar, they must be cut short to keep them from vibrating annoyingly while the instrument is being played.  The short ends of the strings, being a little stiff, tend to catch things which pass nearby and aerate them, so to speak.  My fingers, of necessity, pass near the string ends, thus they are frequently punctured.  It is not a necessity, but merely a probability.  I install strings, I poke my fingers.  I’m not saying that every guitar tech has the problem.  It is simply a reality for me.

“Why do you continue to install strings, if it always hurts?”  I can hear the question being asked by some curious reader already.  The main thing you need to understand about the job is that the end result of most repairs is the amazing experience of tuning up an instrument and running my fingers across the newly installed strings, and hearing the brilliant and harmonious sounds which are emitted.  Most of the time, these musical instruments are in disrepair when they arrive, or at the least, in horrible voice.  My ministrations, complete with blood-letting, result in beauty from ruin; glorious music from abject silence.  The annoying sting of the errant string-end is quickly forgotten as the echoing sound of the newly tuned instrument falls on my satisfied ears.  I am content.

Once again, the long and enjoyable evening comes back to mind.  Annually, the Lovely Lady and I spend an evening near Christmas with good friends, some of whom we have known and loved for over thirty years.  Over the years, we have shared in the lives of these friends and they in ours.  Our children grew up together.  Now our grandchildren are growing up together.  The gathering also includes these children and grandchildren.  It is a glorious, noisy, delicious mess. It is also one of my favorite nights of the year and has been for quite a number of years.

How does the bloody finger remind me of this occasion?  These friendships haven’t lasted for all these years without their share of pricked fingers and painful events.  True friendship lives on through the pain and the sorrow that the years bring.  The result is the glorious music which was made tonight, not just as we raised our voices, both young and old, in praise to the new-born King, but the harmony of friends simply enjoying the fruits of many years of hard work.  To my mind, this is the kind of music which comes from heaven above.

Am I being too sentimental?  Possibly.  But, I maintain that when the Creator said of his creature, “It is not good for him to be alone,” he was not merely speaking of the need for a marriage companion, but of the companionship which would result from the populating of the earth.  We need people…every single one of us.  After our relationship with our God, our bond with people comes next in importance.  The Teacher said it, when He reiterated the old Law…”Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”  What?  You think that happens in a vacuum?  You think we can love our fellow man from a distance?  Not possible.  We are intended, even designed, to form attachments with each other; attachments which will last a lifetime and beyond.

I have long maintained that our friendships are one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind, if not one of His oldest.  There is pain involved with nurturing these ties.  These bonds will undoubtedly lead us through times of sorrow and times of loss.  But, the path leads with unfaltering steps to joy, to companionship, to kinship which can last for generations.

So, here I sit, sucking my finger and listening to glorious music.  I’m thinking that it’s worth it after all.

I hope you do too.

 “But woe to him who is alone when he falls, and has not another to lift him up.”
(Ecclesiastes 4:10b~ESV)

“The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you.  You just got to find the ones worth suffering for.”
(Bob Marley~Jamaican singer/songwriter~1945-1981)

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

Really. It Was Nothing.

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I stole something tonight.  Well, it felt like stealing.  I’m not sure if feeling like you stole is the same as actually stealing, but there’s no sense in arguing semantics.  The fact is I didn’t earn it and I took it.  That is the same as stealing, isn’t it?  Perhaps, it would help if we had an explanation about what actually happened.  How about if we go back to the actual event and start from there, okay?

To start with, I will admit that I have a love-hate relationship with the Christmas season.  There are parts of this season that I love.  I love the time I get to spend with people whose company I enjoy.  I love the fact that people seem to soften up a bit at this time of the year.  I really love the music.  I love the excitement of the children’s programs, and the beauty of voices (both children’s and adults’) raised vigorously and harmoniously in praise to the new-born King.  As much as I hate winter, I will even grant a grudging nod to the prospect of a white Christmas.  All of that said, there is a certain amount of resentment because this holiday thinks it somehow deserves to be a dressy occasion.  Oh, I’m not talking about the clothes we wear, although we often must dress up for an event or two this time of the year.  No, the rancor is due to the fact that Christmas insists upon its own costume.  Lights on the houses, trees in the living room, garland up the staircase, and on and on.  The whole world changes clothes just for this one season.  And, it wouldn’t matter that much, except I have to help with the makeover.  This year is no different than any other year.

There is to be a gathering of our closest and oldest friends this week and the house is past due for its seasonal wardrobe change in preparation for the party.  The Lovely Lady transforms the old place into a wonderland every year, but this year I threw a monkey wrench into the works.  A few months ago, I placed a rather large piece of antique furniture right where the Christmas tree normally goes.  As the decorating progressed this evening, it became clear that the old oak secretary would have to be relocated for the time being.  Up to that point, I had managed to stay out of the process, but after that major chore was accomplished, I did (reluctantly, I’ll admit) help a little more; lugging a carton here and climbing that ladder to find those wayward ornaments back there.  The Lovely Lady worked for hours at the task, decorating and arranging long past the time when I would have wilted.  When the work was finally done, she was exhausted and so, headed for bed. I was grumpy, but I made a trip upstairs to check on her before coming over to write for awhile.

As I asked if she was okay and hugged her, she made a point of thanking me for all I did for her.  Me?  All I did?  For her?  I protested quietly, but accepted her thanks and said goodnight.  I’m sitting here now feeling a little guilty for doing it. I took something I didn’t earn.  It’s a little like stealing, but not really, right?

This had happened another time just recently, albeit not with her.  Last week, I was working in the music store, when a fellow came in the front door.  It was a young man who ran another music store in town.  I knew that times were tough for him and wasn’t too surprised when he told me that he was closing his business.  But then he said, “The real reason I came by was to thank you.”  I looked at him, the question mark clear on my face, and he continued.  “I wanted to thank you for your help and support over the last year.”  I protested a bit and then, uncomfortable, moved on to a different subject.  I don’t remember doing anything for him.  I’m not sure what he thinks I did for him.  The only thing I really did for him was to make sure that people knew that I wouldn’t talk badly about him behind his back.  A time or two, customers who thought they were trying to protect me from the new guy would come in saying derogatory things about him and his business.  I always made sure that they knew I liked the guy and that I had nothing bad to say about him.  On several occasions, he and I had talked about the music business in general and I had been open in making suggestions for getting through slow times.  But, I hadn’t done anything worthy of his thanks at all.  I took them anyway.

Perhaps, I am a thief, after all. I almost wish that our English language gave us the same rule that the Spanish language does when responding to the words “Thank You”.  In that language, to the spoken “Gracias”, the proper response is always “De nada.”  The grateful “Thank you” meets, not as in our language, the proud “You’re welcome,” but only the gently demurring “It was nothing.”  If I had that option, I could still hold my head high as an honest person.  In both of the cases above, it actually was nothing that I did to earn any thanks.

Who do you suppose I could speak to in order to get our rulebook changed?  We’ve taught and been taught that we always say “You’re welcome” in reply to someone’s spoken thanks, but perhaps we would be better served by the more apropos “It was nothing”, instead.  I never have quite worked out what the word “welcome” means anyway.  Why would we use the same word to tell someone that we are glad that they are in our home (You’re welcome here), as we do to accept their thanks (You’re welcome)?  Sometimes, I despair of learning the English language at all.

While I’ve been writing though, I have come up with a solution to my dilemma.  It may be a little sappy, but I think that I’ll just consider those thanks I didn’t earn as a loan, instead of feeling guilty about taking something which was not rightfully mine.  I’ll pass them on very soon to someone else.  My life is full of people who bless me in astounding ways.  Probably, if you look around, you’ll find the same thing.  We all have people who love us when we are unlovable, people who are committed to us even when we abandon them at the slightest provocation, people whose positive input into our lives is unmistakable and indisputable.  You may have some thank you’s stored up too; thanks you did not really earn, but that you accepted.  Perhaps, it’s time to pass those on now.  I’ll be working on it right along with you.

And, if you decide to tell me thank you for any little thing which meant something to you, don’t be surprised if I answer you in a different language.  It will just be my way of keeping from taking something which is not mine.

De nada.  It was nothing at all.

“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.”
(G K Chesterton~English born essayist and poet~1874-1936)

“Let your speech be seasoned with grace…”
(Colossians 4:6a)

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

Springs, Strings, and a Knife Edge

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“It’s really simple, you know. All you have to keep in mind is the need for balance.” For just a second, I realized that I sounded like a motivational speaker, but the moment passed and I was once more talking about the young rocker’s guitar, lying on the counter before me. The young man looked at me quizzically, not quite understanding how my words had anything to do with his request. “I just want you to change the strings,” he said again, nervously. (“Man! If this old guy is going to jabber on about the dangers of excess and overdoing things, I’m out of here! Just put the strings on already!”)
I suppressed a laugh; not wanting to make him any more uncomfortable than I already had. My explanation was quick and simple. “The strings have a certain amount of tension. The springs attached underneath have to match that tension. Otherwise, the guitar won’t hold its tune.” Oh! That, he understood. We talked awhile longer about the process we would go through to put new strings on the instrument and how long it would take to tune it, then he headed out the door, promising to return tomorrow.
Tonight, I’m once again thinking about balance. And tension.
I’m going to try to avoid too much boring technical detail, but I’d like it if you’d work your way through this with me. Hopefully, you’ll think the trip was worthwhile when we come through out on the other side. The cause of this whole discussion is that the young man has a guitar which utilizes a bridge system called a Floyd Rose. Many rock guitar players love these, but they are nightmares to guitar technicians.
I guess I should begin at the beginning to bring you non-guitarists up to speed. From the original fixed-bridge acoustic guitar, which played in tune most of the time, we moved to the electric guitar with its much lighter strings and its amplifier, which showed up every flaw in tuning and scale. To help with that, came the development of the Tune-a-matic bridge, boasting individual saddles, which allowed adjustment to each string individually. Guitarists had long before found that the lighter strings of the electric guitar were easy to bend, causing a tremolo, or whammy, effect, but that stretched the strings too much and shortened their life-span, so the tremolo tailpiece with its whammy bar was developed. Because the early versions of this bridge sat against the body of the guitar when they were at rest, the action only went one direction, loosening the strings to perform a dive-bomb effect. Enter the Floyd Rose tailpiece, which could go either down or up, depending on the player’s mood and inclination.
And, now you’re up to speed, so it would be nice if you could try to keep up from here on out, okay?
What many people aren’t aware of is the fact that there is a set of springs hidden in the back of many electric guitars. These springs work to bring the tension of the strings back to the original point after the distortion of either lowering them or raising them with the whammy bar. The tension on these springs has to be exactly the same as the tension on the strings themselves. The bridge, which is the central player in all this drama, has a knife edge which makes contact at just two points. The whole balancing act takes place in these two contact points, which are small metal posts embedded in the body of the guitar. Essentially, the strings place tension one direction, while the springs in the back of the instrument pull the other direction. Balance is achieved right at the knife edge of the bridge, which floats there–neither too far up, nor too far down.
I said that balance is achieved. What I did not say is that there is no longer any stress. There is, in fact, always stress. The tension must be maintained. Even in the primitive versions of the guitar, tension was essential to producing tones. The purest and strongest tones issue from high tension strings, stretched almost to their physical limit. But those most primitive of instruments required balance too…a careful equalization of tautness in the strings, and the strength of the resonant guitar. Too little tension and the sound is flabby and weak…too much and the brilliance of the tone is merely a temporary prelude to disaster, as the instrument submits to the physical forces which bring about its collapse. Balance is essential.
Do you get the idea that we’re not necessarily talking about guitars anymore? Hey! You are keeping up! You see, all of life is about balance, but never (much to our disappointment) about the absence of tension. Even in our training period, there is stress, discomfort, as we are being stretched and tuned for a lifetime of performances. The Technician is tightening, first the strings, then the springs, achieving the balance which is essential for the ideal tone and pitch, all the while making adjustments to the peripherals which will enhance the whole of the performance. At times, the tension seems too much to bear, but then, we realize that we are up to the task, holding our own against the forces which tug and stretch us.
Do I wish that life were not full of tension? You bet! But perhaps, it’s a good thing that we don’t always get those things for which we wish. You see, without tension, there is no balance. Without balance, there is no output. There will, indeed, be times when the tension lessens and we feel carefree and relaxed. My guess that these times of respite are actually periods when the Master Luthier is once again making adjustments, changing strings, and tightening the springs in preparation for another round of productiveness from His instrument. We were made to sing out with full voice! That won’t be achieved in the absence of opposition and stress. We perform at our utmost when we rest–hardship balanced with peace; uncertainty countered with faith–on the fulcrum of His grace.
Well, I’ve come full circle once again, causing me to remember that tomorrow will bring with it a little additional stress if I haven’t actually achieved some semblance of balance with the young man’s guitar before he arrives to pick it up. So, if you’ll pardon me for a moment or two, I’ll step down from this soapbox once again and deal with that little project.
Tension balanced with tension, resting on a knife edge! Who knew that beauty could come from such an environment?
Just make sure that knife edge is balanced on the right fulcrum…
“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
(John 16:33~NIV)
“We come into this world head first and go out feet first. In between, it’s all a matter of balance.”
(Paul Boese~American businessman and writer~1923-1926)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Garbage In…

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The house is taking shape again.  For awhile there, it was showing its age, but the ministrations of a few talented men have brought it back from the brink.  We actually enjoyed the rain last night, lying in bed with a certitude that the new shingles overhead would prevent a deluge into any internal part of the house–not that it had already happened–it was just the slight possibility that with an old roof, it could have occurred with the next rainfall.  I’ll be even more happy when the kitchen wing is re-sided and the new door installed, but perhaps not for the reason you might expect.

You see, my problem with the process right now is that huge pile of trash in the middle of the backyard.  Well, it used to be a huge pile.  The black monsters, believing that if it is in their yard, it is there for them to play with, have begun to spread the refuse around a bit.  Perhaps, more than a bit.  When they were smaller, all the experts told us that it was because they were puppies.  They would certainly grow out of it.  Now, they tell us that it’s because the little dears are bored.  “Get them some chew toys,” is the stock suggestion.  Somehow, for these lovable furballs, all teeth and tails, chew toys turn into lunch.  Again and again, the chew toys are torn to bits and then the bits are swallowed, one by one.  And now…the once huge pile of plywood and Masonite, along with a few bits of tar paper?  You guessed it…lunch for Tip and Tildy.

They know they’re not supposed to eat the stuff.  Every time I head outside, they jump up from their repast and head for their house, quite sure that I will be upset with them.  I gather the bits and pieces and pitch them back into the trash pile, only to find them scattered again when I check on them, sometimes just minutes after the last episode.  They know that they shouldn’t chew up the trash, but they don’t seem to be able to stop themselves.  My frustration seems endless.  That said, I love the pups and wouldn’t trade them for any well-trained lapdog in the world.

I will admit that I felt a little more kinship to the pups this morning as I sat in my doctor’s office and listened, with my head hanging just like Tip’s does, to the doctor lecturing me on the trash which I have been putting into my own mouth.  There are some serious effects which I now have to deal with, effects which could have been avoided altogether if I had complied with the instructions of many wise counselors over the years.  I listened to the list of forbidden foods, now expanded to include many items which would have been okay in moderation, before I caused such damage by my own recklessness and failure to heed the warnings.  No chocolate?  Spicy foods?  Citrus fruit and juice?  The list goes on and on, seemingly populated by all the things which I love to eat.  Even peppermint…well…that, I can actually live quite nicely without.  One could almost hope that mushy peas and creamed corn were on the list, but one would be disappointed in that hope.  No.  All the tasty things I like are on the list, but changes will have to be made.  All because I refused to heed the wisdom that suggested moderation and self-control.

How do I differ from the foolish animals in the backyard?  They don’t have any serious intellect and they depend on the training which they are given, but even so, the beasts have no obvious capability to reason out cause and effect.  I, on the other hand, pride myself in that ability.  My logical facilities seem to be reasonably well advanced at times.  It’s just the self-discipline which is lacking.

I was still chewing on that this afternoon (lacking anything else which I could chew on legally), when a customer shared with me her thoughts on television watching habits.  Did you know that the average child in the United States views over thirty-two hours of television every week?  Over one whole day!  And as adults, we aren’t much better, allowing the media, whether on television or over the Internet, to control our thoughts an average of three or four hours per day…more if you count time at work for many of us.  As we talked, my mind switched gears once again and I shuddered as I considered what we have done (and are doing) to our minds.

The inane, and outright sick, input from a world seemingly bent on self-destruction has found a conduit straight past all of our natural defenses and directly into our brains and hearts.  We spend hours accepting the opinions, the lifestyles, the very morality, of people who would never be physically welcomed into our homes.  These are the degenerates, the addicts, the amoral folks whom we need to be challenging with our faith and our standards, but instead, we allow them to influence our home life  and our relationships in ways that permanently damage the very foundation of our existence.  Like the dogs (and this glutton), we ignore what we know to be true and acceptable in favor of what we crave and secretly embrace.  And, just like the aforementioned fools, we will reap the very real consequences of our actions.

This is not a rant about television, nor even a rant about eating healthy foods.  It is simply a reminder that we have been trusted with the assignment of walking a straight path, of being examples, of taking personal responsibility.  In every part of our lives, the principle holds true:  Self-gratification and licentiousness invariably lead to decadence and disaster, while self-control and discipline consistently lead to stability and vitality.

I’m going to see if I can follow the instructions my doctor has given me for awhile.  He wants good for me, not bad.  If someone could convince the black monsters in the back yard that my intent for them is the same, I’d be eternally grateful.  For the rest, the control over what goes into our eyes, and ears, and mind…the jury is still out.  I hope you’ll at least stop to consider the content of that TV program, that movie, that book, before you agree to be influenced by it. I’ll be working on it right along with you.  You see, we also have a Master who wants good for us and not evil.  He has assured us of that in his Instruction Manual.

For now though, I’m headed home to eat a little snack before bed.  I wonder if doughnuts…?  No, probably not.

You know…Garbage in, garbage out.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the LORD. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”
(Jeremiah 29:11~NLT)

“If I wanted garbage in my living room, I’d bring the trash cans in and empty them out on the floor myself.”
(Harry E. Phillips [my father]~explaining why there would be no television in his house)

“Self-control is just controlling myself
It’s listening to my heart
And doing what is smart
Self-control is the very best way to go
So I think that I’ll control myself.”
(“Self Control”~from “The Music Machine”~Mike Milligan~1977)

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

A Note In The Wall

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I received a note today. Here’s what it said:
“Dear Reader,
You should have worn a different shirt. You also could lose a little weight. Hopefully you know Jesus so there’s hope that you can lose that extra weight & not look like Santa Claus. Try to be nice to someone now and then. You just look like someone that would be rude.
XOXO”
I don’t know who wrote the note. It was written to me. Of that, I’m sure. Otherwise, why would I have been the one to randomly look in the chinks of the old brick wall in the pizzeria to see if there were any notes left there? I’ve never even considered doing that before, but tonight as I helped the Lovely Lady put up some decorations in the restaurant, I just had the thought that it might be a neat place to stash a note and there, sure enough, I found the note written on a torn and rolled up table napkin. It could only have been meant for me.
First of all, let me explain the shirt. I was wearing a dress shirt, when I should have been wearing a work shirt. And, I did get the Sunday shirt dirty as I worked up at the ceiling in the lighting grid, hanging ornaments. My dad wouldn’t be proud of me, because this is clear evidence that as a child I didn’t learn the lessons he tried to teach me about changing clothes before going out to play. I will just have to trust that the Lovely Lady will be patient as she has to spray the pre-wash solution on the spots. This problem though, I can fix.
As to the weight which needs to be lost…the author of the note was not the first anonymous person to inform me of this fact today. Earlier, as I completed the online health assessment required by my insurance company, I was told in no uncertain terms that I should try to lose twenty pounds. The insurance people even had the gall to tell me that my waist was “dangerously large”, along with some gobblety-goop about the ratio of my waist to my hips, and then…well, you get the picture. Believe me, I didn’t need this note to tell me anything about my weight. That said, I think I may be able to take care of this issue, as well.
Santa Claus??? That’s it! I’m shaving off my beard tomorrow! I knew the white in it made me appear old, but…Santa Claus? Okay, so the comment was still pertaining to my weight, but I can shave the beard a lot faster than I can lose the weight. It’s a shame that all makeovers aren’t as easy as this one promises to be.
I’m not really sure that I want to tackle the last issue at all, but I will admit the writer does make a valid point. I can be rude.Just yesterday, the Lovely Lady suggested that it wasn’t appropriate for me to address every slow driver ahead of me on the two-lane road as an idiot. Of course, this was immediately after I had flipped my bright lights at the backside of the cars in front of me. They were, after all, going at least five miles per hour under the posted speed limit. The nerve!
I wonder what it is about me though, that told the note’s writer I might be rude. They were not wrong. I just want to know what gave me away. Of course, I know that when my face is set in a frown, as it seems to be more frequently these days, the message presented to the people who see me is the promise of a stinging tongue. Even Solomon knew that in his day. He suggested that just as the north wind brought the rain, so a caustic tongue would bring a bitter countenance, or appearance.
This last issue–the problem of being rude and unkind–will take much longer to address than the beard, or the weight, and certainly longer than changing my shirt. I think that I will need to pay close attention to this one. The cure is sure to be one which will take much care and diligence on my part. It is indeed, a heart matter. I won’t be able to tackle this on my own, but I already have the answer, it’s just a matter of making application. As the author of the note suggested, I do know Jesus. The grace with which I’ve been blessed is intended to extend to all I come in contact with. A new creature…that’s how we are described when we’ve experienced His grace.
Now, this is where the rubber meets the road and we get to see if I’ll allow the grace to flow to others. Time will tell. I really don’t want to be a rude person, or even to seem like someone who could be.
There may have to be more notes before this is done. I wonder where the next one will turn up.
I just hope it tells a different story.
“The north wind brings forth rain, And a backbiting tongue, an angry countenance.” 
(Proverbs 25:23~NASB)
“I know that my face ain’t no star.
But I don’t mind it, cuz I’m behind it.
It’s the folks out front that get the jar!”
(Anonymous)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Can I Sing You a Song?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Hey, man. Can I sing you a song?” I’ve heard the request before, but the circumstances are usually a little different. I nod my head and give the young man my full attention. Well, maybe not my full attention. You see, there are other people in the music store and they are bound to wonder what’s going on, so I’m a little preoccupied as I gaze at the boy and his too-small guitar.
The family had taken the place by storm just moments before, sweeping in and demanding that I put a new set of strings on the cheap Oriental-built half-size instrument. It was hardly worthy to be called a guitar. With a knife, someone had scratched the word “dorkville” into the finish on top of the shabby instrument. I noted that the bridge had been reattached to the body with “gorilla” glue, a slimy, expanding substance which the makers claim to be “made for the toughest jobs on earth”. I’m not a fan, simply because of the mess it invariably causes. On this instrument, it didn’t seem out of place. At first, I was tempted to tell the matronly woman who had requested my immediate attention to the task of replacing strings that I can’t work on such a sad example for a guitar, but my attention was drawn to the face of the boy who placed the instrument carefully into my hands. The tell-tale signs were there in his face…there was no question that the boy was mentally challenged. But, it was the pleading look in his eyes that got to me, almost as if he had anticipated my objections and was begging me to overlook the flaws in his beloved musical companion. I complied with the woman’s loud instructions, but truth be told, I simply wanted to make sure that the boy had a playable instrument when he left. I installed the strings.
As I completed the task, I gently handed the guitar back to the boy and took the lady’s money. One of their party headed out the door, but then the boy made his request. I could see an apologetic look on the two remaining ladies’ faces, but I encouraged the young “musician” to go ahead, so he launched into his song. My careful tuning of the guitar was of no consequence, I quickly noted. His left hand went to one position on the neck, carefully pressed down three strings into a non-chord and never moved for the entire performance. The right hand clutched a pick which was banged back and forth against the mono-tonal strings and the boy sang, rather appropriately, in about the same manner, a song which took about five minutes to unfold. The piece which he had memorized word for word, was a current hit song. It had crude language and he mispronounced many of the words, but he worked his way inexorably through it, never faltering as the phone rang behind me (I ignored it) or even as a customer scurried out the door (she didn’t want to be drawn into the odd performance, perhaps).
Throughout the boy’s recitation–it could hardly be called singing–his mother (perhaps, grandmother) gazed at him without a hint of embarrassment and without speaking. He finally finished with a flourish of his picking hand and looked at me. “Well?” I murmured my thanks and told him I was glad that he had his guitar back in working condition. He grinned at me and headed out the door. Not one of the customers in the store said a word more about the “performance”.
You know, recently, I’ve been thinking more about the way we respond to people. A friend mentioned this afternoon that he appreciated that I don’t make a habit of “qualifying” people in my store. We were talking about the sales technique of sizing up a customer before determining what to sell them, but he explained that the statement extended to my personal reaction to people too. I thanked him and told him that he was wrong. I do qualify people. We all do to a certain extent. I work at not doing it, but there is no doubt that our human nature inclines us to determine what we can get from the person standing in front of us, when we are deciding how we’ll treat them. Frequently, when we don’t think that we will reap a benefit, we dismiss the person. I know that I do.
As I pondered my friend’s remark, my thoughts ran back to the boy’s song this morning. It was a crude country song, with words which I will not repeat here, but the message struck me anew. Although you’d never recognize it, the song tells the story of the prodigal son, the singer going to exotic locales with money and friends, and coming home again because the friends desert him when the money runs out. I know that the story of the prodigal son is told for a different reason, but I wonder if Jesus didn’t have more than one conclusion in mind. As I consider tonight, I’m thinking that in part, the tale was intended to influence how we respond to people who have varying abilities to reward our attention.
We are naturally attracted to the beautiful, to the erudite, and to the well-off. We, just as naturally, find ways to avoid the poor, the dirty, and the illiterate. We may say that we don’t, and may even make an effort to include them in our interactions, but at the end of the day, we want to spend time with people who offer what we find attractive. We don’t want to spend time with those who can give us nothing and only take what we have to offer. I’m thinking that we can do better.
Today, I resolve to listen to, and be impressed with, the performances of those who cannot wow me with their talent. I resolve to spend just as much time with folks who will always be needy as I spend with those who fill my needs. I’m not sure how well I’ll do at it, but it is a goal to which we all should aspire. Our God, we are told, is no respecter of persons. How do we dare to be satisfied with anything less?
I hope the young man finds better material to sing. I hope that he will also find someone who can help him to learn a chord or two along the way. I somehow think that we all need what he needed today, which was simply to be accepted for who he is and to have his “gifts” appreciated without criticism.
I’m hoping that someone will be there someday to listen to my song, when I’m ready to sing it. How about it? Can I sing you a song?
“For God does not show favoritism.”
(Romans 2:11~NIV)
“Adios and vaya con Dios,
Going home now to stay…
Life is good today. Life is good today.”
(“Toes”~recorded by Zac Brown Band)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Oh The Places…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Do you folks have a reservation?”  The haughty young man looked suspiciously at us, quite obviously assured of the reply he would get.  We didn’t make him wait.  “No.  We heard that you had great food.  Will it be a problem to get a table?”  We glanced around.  There was not another customer in the Italian restaurant at this early hour, but he dutifully checked his chart before replying.  “No, I think we can get you in.  I just need to see which table would be best.”  In a moment, we were shepherded to a table in the back corner, clumsily situated in front of an alcove which held a shelf full of folded cloth napkins.  There was also an electronic keyboard shoved willy-nilly back in the little cubbyhole.

The sign at the entrance had stated clearly, “Appropriate dress is required.”  We, assuming that this was akin to the more common “no shirt, no shoes, no service” signs we were accustomed to, had walked right in–she in her blue jeans and I in my khakis, and both wearing reasonably clean shirts with no holes in them.  We’re still not sure, but perhaps this wasn’t what was intended by “appropriate dress”.  It could be that the corner was their way of shunning us, as well as hiding us from the other, non-existent customers.  At any rate, it was so dark that one needed to use the ambient glow of the cell-phone’s screen to read the menu (prices all in a simple numeral, with no dollar signs).  No one would notice us here, so we settled in to enjoy our meal.

Apart from an “excuse me” or two offered by wait-staff needing napkins from the shelf, we were largely undisturbed, except at proper intervals by our waiter.  She, while not hopeful of much from us, was attentive.  When we left, it seemed that her thanks indicated that we might have surpassed her meager expectation.  I’ve always prided myself in the practice of under-promising and over-delivering in the business arena, but that hadn’t been my intention tonight.  Alas, some things are simply out of our control.

I’m not going to give you a review of the food or the service at the restaurant; not going to suggest that you avoid going there if you are just plain folks like us.  I only mention the occasion to spend a few moments speaking of uncomfortable circumstances.  You see, I find myself more at ease in dining establishments where the waitresses call me “sweetie” and keep pouring coffee interminably into my empty cup with a “there you go, hon” and bringing the plastic pitcher to tip sidewise over the Lovely Lady’s tea glass, as they murmur a  “happy to help, dear” to her.  The light floods the tables and there are no dim corners or shadowy niches in which to hide unsavory characters.  On this night, I am as uncomfortable in this restaurant as the staff seems to be to have me here.

The Lovely Lady and I have taken a weekend to go to the city and “relax”.  I’d rather close the store and sleep late at home, but she knows that sooner or later I’d be back in the store working, so we go away.  It is the first of several uncomfortable things we’ll endure.  The meal in the dark corner is the last straw.  I’m ready to go home and the gloomy thoughts begin to buzz around in my head.  Then, I see him.  The piano player.  His name is Frank.  Frank gets to sit in the corner, too.  The odd fellow, about my age, slinks into the cubbyhole and begins shifting things around, after a few moments glancing apologetically at the back of the Lovely Lady’s head and then, looking at me, assures me that the speaker will be out in the hall, so it won’t be too loud for us.  I smile and tell him that it will be fine either way.  We like music.  The momentary smile on his face is gone as quickly as it comes.  He is uncomfortable here, too.

As Frank finally gets things situated and begins to play, his discomfort is made even more clear.  He sets his glasses on his nose, with lenses as thick as the bottoms of old-fashioned coke bottles. Since it is an Italian restaurant, he seems to think that he should begin with a song from that country.  As he commences, his music blows in the cold breeze which pushes through the corner every time the door on the other side of the partition is opened,  the lamp he has situated beside the piano illuminates the pages almost not at all, and he squints through his coke-bottle glasses to see the unfamiliar music.  After he struggles through the song, not skillfully, he almost angrily tosses the pages to the floor and then begins another tune, this time ignoring the necessity to stay within the geographical region of the world.  Ah!  Now the music flows from his fingertips, as he reminisces musically about his “huckleberry friend” and sails up “Moon River”.  And so it goes for the whole time we are seated there.  The obligatory Italian pieces are stilted and halting, pages of printed music blowing and slapped into place again throughout, and the music he knows and loves flows from his heart with no need of printed music, played smoothly and skillfully, as his fingers find their way unerringly to the right keys for the melodies and chords which make up the beautiful harmonies in the songs.

We walk out of the restaurant…I, amazed that I have avoided any obvious faux pas in the use of my silverware or napkin…the Lovely Lady probably happy about my avoidance of the same, and the music follows us out into the night.  Frank has reminded me that we all, every one of us, have things which must be done even though they are out of our comfort zone.  He had to play the unfamiliar and difficult tunes when he preferred the comfortable, old songs which he knew and loved.  It wasn’t easy.  He did it anyway.

Like our time away from our business and our visit to the posh restaurant, life is not always smooth sailing down familiar streams and river branches.  At times, we make our way, cautiously (and not a little frightened) onto the wide ocean to venture, not where we will, but where we must.

I have no great spiritual gems to share tonight.  Sometimes, all we have are the simple truths which have guided men for all of history.  Stagnant waters are that way because they never go anywhere.  Growth and progress occur as we move out of our accustomed paths, applying what we have learned and absorbing new lessons, to take on bigger and unfamiliar tasks.  The Teacher made it plain as He told His followers the story of servants who were faithful in small things.  Their reward was always to be given bigger and more difficult tasks, never to remain doing the small things again and again.

I’m not sure I like that a lot.  I’m working at applying it in my life anyway.

Push out away from the shore!  It’s what the Builder designed your vessel to do.  You’ll never realize your potential until you move out of the place of comfort and into the place of opportunity.

Oh.  You might want to keep your coat and tie or formal frock handy  to be able to get into the places you’ll need to go, too.  Sometimes, appropriate dress is required.

“The person who goes farthest is generally the one who is willing to do and dare.  The sure-thing boat never gets far from shore.”
(Dale Carnegie~American lecturer~1888-1955)

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

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