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.

Catching my Breath Again

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The problem started about five or six years ago.  Most people I know with this affliction have it when they are children and then it lessens in severity as they age, but leave it to me to wait until my waning years to acquire an infirmity that I should have outgrown instead of grown into.  I have asthma.  Oh, not the full-blown, struggle to inhale, think you’re going to black out, wheezing asthma, but enough to cause shortness of breath and an annoying tight cough, which can’t be relieved by regular cough medicines.

I’ve got my father to thank for it…well really, his father…come to think of it, I shared it with my son too, so there’s enough paternal blame to go around on this one.  Heredity seems to have played its part here.  My father had to take an early retirement due to respiratory problems brought on by allergens in the workplace.  Long before that, his dad (my Grandpa Phillips) was stricken with emphysema, a lung disease far more serious than my touch of bronchial asthma.

I thought about Grandpa recently.  I had helped the Lovely Lady with a reception for a friend of ours and was carrying boxes out to the car.  The extreme change in temperature from inside the building to the frosty air outside, was enough to bring on another attack and before I knew it, I was straining to breathe.  I felt a kinship with Grandpa that I had never thought about before, as I saw him in my mind’s eye, struggling to breathe from the exertion of walking 10 feet across the room.  He would stop and lean against a table, or chair, or desk, with his chest heaving, the over-developed chest muscles forcing air in and out of the diseased lungs.  I must admit that as a child, I didn’t empathize well.  This was just how he had always been in my memory, and I assumed that it was his own fault.  Grandpa had been a heavy smoker, first rolling his own and then as the hands became shaky, purchasing them in the pack–his brand of choice, filter-less Camels.  A he-man’s cigarette if ever there was one.  But for a person predisposed to breathing issues, as seems likely, the habit was a slow killer.  I’m not a smoker and my problem doesn’t begin to approach the gravity of his, but just for a few moments this evening, I felt an empathy, a bond with my Grandpa that I never considered when he was living.  And, I missed him again.

Grandma and Grandpa lived across the street from me when I was a kid.  What a great blessing, to be able to grow up so close to your grandparents that you can run across the street and sit with them on the screened-in front porch, or maybe watch  an episode of “I Love Lucy” or “Gunsmoke” on television with them. Two channels on TV then, with the signal literally coming through the airwaves and being picked up by a pair of “rabbit ears” on top of the tiny black & white set.  Every time an airplane would approach the local airport (we were in the flight path), the static and wavy lines across the screen would interrupt the program.  But the best thing was listening to Grandpa tell stories about people he knew.  He loved to talk–even talked about talking…“So, I says to him, says I, …”, was one of my favorite phrases I heard him use when describing a conversation with someone else.  If I weren’t such a language snob, I would incorporate that into my own speaking.  Maybe it’s best to keep that as a memory instead.  But I think I get my penchant for story-telling from him and, from where I’m standing, that’s not a bad legacy.  The reader is free to agree or not…

The asthma won’t go away, but I carry an inhaler with me when it flares up and a couple of puffs on it usually relieve the symptoms within a minute or two.  I’m not happy to have the problem, but tonight, I’m actually a little grateful for the walk down memory lane.  We’ve all got memories that live in our heads and hearts; some sad, like Grandpa’s ultimately fatal affliction, but also some happy ones too, like my memories of life with him so close.  There are times when I think it would be great if all our memories were like the latter, but then again, I’m reminded of a song I heard as a teenager which reminded us that hardships make us value the good times more; just as we cherish coming home because we had to be away in the first place.  I think memories are often like that, the bittersweet giving way to the heartwarming, actually making the happy occasions seem more bright.

In a day or two, we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving, another of the memory-fraught times of the year for most of us.  I’m going to be remembering my Grandpa’s dinner prayer as we approach this holiday.  “Our Gracious Heavenly Father, we thank thee for the many blessings which Thou hast bestowed upon us…”  When I was a boy, it was only remarkable in that the language never changed.  As an aging man, now a grandfather myself, the message of those words has lasted well beyond his mortal years and still resonates today.

“Many blessings” indeed.

“To live in hearts we leave behind, is not to die”
(Thomas Campbell, from his poem “Hallowed Ground”)

Edited from a post originally published in November, 2010.

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

Hands Open Wide

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I haven’t seen Iowans this excited since the night Frank Gotch and Strangler Lewis lay on a mat for three and a half hours without moving a muscle. Ooh! That was exciting!” The bumbling Mayor Shinn of River City delivers those incomprehensible words in “The Music Man”, a musical comedy I first saw some thirty years ago. I still don’t fully understand the statement. In the same breath, the old fellow described the most boring event I could imagine and then, still talking about the same yawn-inspiring wrestling match, calls it exciting. Talk about a non-sequitur!
What’s that? Oh yes. I see that hand back there…what is a “non-sequitur”? Okay, let me give this a shot. The word “sequitur” is from a Latin word, meaning “it follows” (as in a sequence). Sequitur is used to mean that one idea leads into the next. The addition of the negative “non” ahead of the word, simply means that the statement isn’t logical, since one does not automatically follow the other. If I were to say, “I hated the food at that restaurant. I can’t wait to eat there again,” you would call it a non-sequitur.
I can’t imagine a more unprofitable way to spend an evening than watching two grown men lying on a wrestling mat, entangled in each other’s limbs, not moving. It might almost be worse than a scoreless baseball game which is entering the fourteenth inning. Not what I would describe as a spell-binder. Certainly, if I were watching either event on television today, I would click the remote to move to a more engaging program.
And now, realizing that one would likewise not use the word “exciting” to describe this blog to this point, I’ll move on rather than wrestling with the words any further. But, now that I’m sure you understand the term, I do want to mention a seeming non-sequitur which occurred earlier today in an encounter with my son-in-law.
I had an argument with the man. I couldn’t be happier. Normally, it would not please anyone for me to argue with my son-in-law, especially my daughter. But I am, as they say, tickled pink. It was simply a joy to me that we had the disagreement. 
I can see the confusion written on your forehead right about now. If you follow my posts regularly, you will remember that I have foresworn arguing. Realizing that I often get carried away and cause pain, I am shunning the practice of verbal disputes to the best of my ability. This particular non-sequitur is almost disturbing, isn’t it? Okay–I’ll put you out of your misery and explain.
His phone rang right after lunch today. As I heard his side of the conversation, it was clear that someone needed assistance. After concluding the call, he simply asked me if I had a car jack he could borrow. I did, but I offered to come along with my floor jack to help, if I could, not knowing the people he was aiding at all. It turned out to be a young couple whom he had assisted before, and probably will again. One thing led to another, as they seem to do, and before we knew it, we were arguing about who was going to purchase a new tire for the couple. Oh, it wasn’t a violent, nor a combative discussion; each of us simply wanted to be the one to help.
The fact that this young man loves to help folks who are in need is not news to me. We have had many previous discussions about the ways in which he does this daily in his business and personal life. It’s just that I enjoyed actually being a part of the process today. We argued and I couldn’t be happier.
Who won the argument? We both did. Oh, just one of us purchased the tire, but we both won, because the young couple now has a working vehicle, so the man can go to work this week. They are struggling, but he istrying. It doesn’t matter who spent the money to help. The desire itself indicates the willingness to fulfill the basic instructions of our Lord. “You shall open wide your hand to your brother, to the needy, and to the poor in your land.”
Why am I especially happy to see my son-in-law with such a solid grasp on this precept? First, I am pleased that my daughter is blessed to be the wife of a man who seeks to live uprightly. Second, it virtually guarantees that the understanding of our responsibility to serve is going to be passed on to my grandchildren. And, I see very few things of more importance than passing on our faith and the practice thereof to the generations which come after us. I’m pretty sure that the youngsters can hardly miss out on this lesson.
Non-sequiturs aren’t always bad. Being a logical thinker in most areas, however, I’ll probably continue to work at keeping them to a minimum. I certainly won’t be describing long wresting matches, in which no one moves, as “exciting”. And I know that arguments which lead to both sides winning are few and far between, but I’ll savor this one for awhile.
I guess you might say that sometimes, iron does sharpen iron. 
Perhaps we’ll argue again. I’d like that.
“And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works.”
(Hebrews 10:24~ISV)
“Logic is a systemic method of coming to the wrong conclusion with confidence.”
(Anonymous)
 © Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Eaten Up

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Paul, this is a wonderful guitar…” It was only the beginning of a longer conversation with this excellent guitar player, I could tell. No doubt, there would be a “but” coming very soon. I didn’t have to wait long. “…But, they haven’t done a good job in grinding the frets along the edges of the fingerboard. They just tear my fingers to pieces!” It is a complaint with which I’ve become quite familiar in recent years. With machines doing the tasks which used to be done by manual labor, some of the rough edges remain, even on the most pricey of guitars. The ends of the metal pieces to which the strings are pressed down on the fingerboard can be pretty vicious, unless they are smoothed down with a file.
“Well, Jim…” I started with a grin and he knew he was going to be the recipient of some silly play on words, a trademark of many of my conversations. “…You see, that’s how it works. If you insist on fretting, it will simply eat you up.” I was definitely more amused by my wittiness than he, but he managed at least one polite laugh before launching into his complaint once more. We spent some time in serious contemplation of the problem, determining the solution before he left, but tonight, I’m left to wonder about the truth of my witticism.
I spent a few moments in research about the etymology of the word “fret” this evening. How did such diverse meanings come to apply to the same word? On the one hand, we have a simple arrangement of metal bars which determine the pitch of many stringed instruments when the string is pressed down upon them; on the other, a word which we take to mean worrying. As I searched, I could find no connection whatsoever between the two usages. When used in the latter sense, to worry, the word derives from an old English word, which actually means “to devour”. The metal pieces on a guitar probably got their name from what we also call fretwork, interlaced pieces of material which can form geometric patterns. At any rate, the origin of this usage is an old French word meaning “fetter” or “bound”. Both are pretty telling.
I have been fretting a lot recently. No, I don’t mean that I have done anything in relation to the guitar fingerboard. I mean that I’ve been eaten up, or devoured, with concerns. There have been many opportunities. The national election just passed has caused more than a normal amount of stress. The Lovely Lady’s mother has been doing poorly. We’ve had an unusually high number of folks through our doors in recent days who are in financial distress and hoping for help. There is never quite enough money in our own bank account to be assured that there is no crisis coming. The list goes on and on. It doesn’t help that I am having another medical assessment next week. I am keeping a list mentally…and fretting. I don’t intend to do so. It comes naturally.
Before we go too far down that road, you know, the discussion of the sin of worry and what we should do to have victory over the mindset, will you let me chase a rabbit for a minute? Who knows? We may never get back to this part of the discussion (or never have to).
I’m thinking that the guitar might be a better point of discussion anyway. Okay, all you non-guitar-nerds, bear with me for a little while. What I’m realizing is that the guitar is a great analogy for this discussion anyway. Here’s what I mean. When a person first begins to learn the instrument, there is a good bit of discomfort involved. The way you play a guitar is to push the strings down to the fingerboard at the correct fret, commonly called “fretting” the guitar. If done correctly, the motion produces a clear note from the string. Many students complain vociferously about the pain caused by this action. Some even quit because of it. I sell a largely unnecessary product called “Finger-ease” for just this complaint. Spray a little of it on the strings and it all feels better–for a little while. The problem is that, sooner or later, you have to work through the discomfort and toughen up the fingertips anyway. I think that perhaps a better method is simply to keep your eye on the goal. If all you do while practicing is to concentrate on the fretting, the pressure, of the strings, you will almost certainly be discouraged and drop out. Then again, if you realize that the pressing down, the temporary discomfort, is just that–temporary–and that the goal you are working for is the beautiful music which will come from the effort and the suffering, you won’t be discouraged and eaten up with concern.
I was also reminded just today that our problems, the ones which we think are insurmountable and therefore, worthy of fretting, are almost always relatively unimportant. The wake-up call came in the form of, well…a phone call. I answered the toll-free line this morning to hear the cheerful voice of one of our long-time customers, asking how I was doing. “Oh, just so-so,” I began, ready to unload on him, given half a chance. The chance never came. “I’m just happy to be able to call you today.” He replied. “I’ve spent the last ten weeks in the ICCU ward of the hospital and I’m so glad to be home!” Open heart surgery which hadn’t been as trouble-free as hoped was his problem. Mine? I have a sore throat. Then he stopped. “You said, ‘…just so-so.’ What’s going on?” My shame was palpable. “Nothing at all. I’m doing great! How can I help you today?” We completed our business and then I sat and counted my blessings for awhile.
So. Are your problems nothing? Do they not deserve consideration? That is not my message at all. I will simply say it this way. Our problems are just as much a part of the great masterpiece, which is being painted by the Master Painter, as are the tremendous blessings which we enjoy. But, if we concentrate on the pain and stress, we fret and lose sight of the bigger picture. A focus on the negative which comes on occasion causes blindness to the great good which is happening all of the days of our lives. (“Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me…”)
I think that I can do this. There is beautiful music to be made. I’m not fretting, I’m playing the melodies and harmonies which have been written on the pages of my life, long before I began to learn the tune. You’ve got a part to be played also. Maybe someday we can make music together.
May it be a sweet, sweet sound in His ears.
“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.”
(Romans 8:18~KJV)
“I was sad that I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.”
(Old Persian proverb)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Dead Weight

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The curious young man–we’ll call him Andy–is snooping through the back room at the music store. I’ve talked about the back room before, you know. It’s basically a combination of a hoarder’s stash and Aladdin’s Cave, except that you can’t get in by shouting “Open Sesame!” I reluctantly allow a few of my customers to wander through the stacks of old merchandise, once in awhile. It can be a little embarrassing sometimes.
Andy is having a great time–exclaiming admiringly as he picks up an old microphone from the seventies, and then wondering aloud about the purpose for a wood-bending iron, a strange-looking tool which heats up to aid in shaping the sides of a guitar under construction. I am amused as he digs into boxes and pushes aside empty cases to get at the treasure/trash behind them. Then he finds it. The box of old strings. No, not string such as is used to tie up things or put around fingers as a memory aid, but strings which go on guitars and violins and banjos to give them a voice. This box is a hodge-podge of different brands and sizes and types, mostly part-sets which started out as brand new merchandise hanging on the slat-wall, or peg-board (in the years before slat-wall). I would need a single string which was not in stock and, not having time to wait, would impatiently take one string out of a set of four or six or twelve, intending to replace the single string later, but I never got around to it. The box is crammed full of such amputated groupings of strings now, still visited occasionally in hopes that a string I am seeking may be found. It usually isn’t.
But, as Andy digs, he exclaims again. “Hey! This is neat! How old is that?” The young man holds up an orange and black box, at which I grin. “I don’t really know,” I reply sheepishly. You see, that box of strings, along with a few others in the larger box he is pawing through, has been around longer than I have worked here. This month marks thirty-five years since I went to work for the Lovely Lady’s father, and these strings were in the music store before that historic landmark in my life, so many years ago. I tell him this and he is amazed, as well as confused. “Do you ever sell any of them at all?” he asks. I shake my head. No. He is more confused. “Well, why do you keep them?” I shake my head again, this time in confusion myself. I don’t know. They are just here. I have sorted the box of strings any number of times, and searched through it for a necessary replacement many more times than that. I’ve never once considered discarding the package of strings, at one time a full set of six guitar strings, now, with only three of them left–an obsolete relic from the past which will never again be of any use to any guitarist on the face of the earth.
Don’t laugh. You’ve got them in your own space too. Oh, not guitar strings, but I know that there are remnants of your past in your closet, or back room, or attic. Canvas tennis shoes, from your youth, now gone beyond recall (the youth, that is). They’ll never be worn again, but you can’t discard them. I know a guy who keeps the steering wheel from his first car up on a shelf in his garage. It won’t ever guide a car down the road again, but nothing could entice him to dispose of it. I could name almost any common item and someone reading this will wonder for just a second, “How does he know what I have in my closet?” Can you tell me why it is that we hold on to our past and can’t let go of the mementos, no matter how silly?
I have to admit that, as I took a photo of the old string package this evening, I was carried back, all those thirty-five years, in my thoughts. I have a smile on my lips as I write this, the memory of my late father-in-law, as he taught me the rudiments of guitar repair and adjustment, bringing fond remembrances of my early days of working for him. Not all that comes from saving old things is bad.
But, then again, I don’t want you to miss the point that sometimes, collecting old memories can get in our way, too. It was only two days after Andy’s visit last week that I was again made aware of how stupid it is to keep junk hanging around. The Lovely Lady, in assisting a customer, needed an item off of the shelf in the back room. As she tugged the guitar strap out, first I heard her exclaim in disgust and then came the great crash of an object toppling off the shelf onto the floor. It took a long time to pick up the strings and put them back into a semblance of order in the box. Tonight, in my head, I’m weighing the benefits of keeping them against the disadvantages of discarding the entire box. There is a strong possibility that the strings will not be around to see the next thirty-five years.
There is something of a more serious nature for us to learn from this amusing anecdote, though. I’m wondering what else we harbor, perhaps not physically, but emotionally and spiritually, which has the potential to get in our way, to slow us down. I’ve shared many memories with you here, but there are just as many which are too painful, too ugly, to share. They still come to mind, again and again. Those memories have the potential to (and sometimes do) slow me down and cripple me. The guilt and the shame are very real to me, sometimes many years after the actual event. Sure, I know that forgiveness is mine as God’s grace has been extended, but in my thoughts, the individual actions weigh heavily and keep me from the joy that should be mine. Maybe that’s true for you too.
Here is the conclusion of the matter (as the Preacher would say): Just like the ancient and obsolete trash I have held on to year after year, the clear solution to our shameful memories is simply to open our hands and let them go. They are just as obsolete and useless as the physical junk sitting on the shelf in my back room and, truth be known, more harmful to us and those around us. I wonder if that’s what the Apostle was thinking about when he suggested that we throw off the weight which hinders us and then run the race which is set before us.
I think it’s about time that we get into training again.
But, I’m also wondering if the Lovely Lady might let me keep a few of those old strings around…just in case. No, I guess not. And, it’s probably just as well anyway…
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”
(Hebrews 12:1~NIV)
“The ideal is in thyself. The impediment too is in thyself.”
(Thomas Carlyle~Scottish historian/essayist~1795-1881)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Miss Barrett’s Hoax

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I listen to the beautiful music as I consider a suitable subject on which to spend time tonight, but the music intrudes. No. Intrudes is not the right description. It’s more as if the music enters the stream of thought and hijacks it, carries it away. But, I always listen to music when I write, having started the habit many years ago. I was just a junior in high school…
Miss Barrett understood teenagers. By that, I mean that she realized that most of us had a healthy disdain for poetry. But, she was an English teacher and the curriculum makes a requirement of an English teacher: she must instruct her classes in the hated art form. For us, it was a fate worse than death to receive an assignment which included any hint of the word “poem”. The groans would begin with the first mention of the vile thing and would increase exponentially with each subsequent repetition of the word. Because of that, although I would assume that her preference might have run to the classics, she had determined to take a path which was crafted to draw in our sixteen and seventeen year-old minds and coax us into enjoying poetry, waiting to spring the trap until no retreat on our part was possible.
The spinster teacher invited us to bring our favorite popular recordings (why yes, they were vinyl records!) to listen to while we worked in class. Then, sneakily, she would begin to talk about the lyrics of the songs being played, asking us to discuss the meter and the rhyme, along with the overall theme of the poe…Oh, I almost said the dirty word! Well, you get the idea. Before we knew it, we had worked our way through lyrics of James Taylor and Jim Croce, to say nothing about David Gates and his band called Bread. Linda Ronstadt and Three Dog Night, along with the Beatles and Carly Simon soon were tackled. More followed and still more. Before the end of the year, that lady had us asking to talk about poetry!
I remember taking one of my wandering treks through the surrounding countryside sometime during that year, quoting and singing the lyrics to several of the hit songs which that band called Bread had recorded. I memorized poetry! Not because I was forced to do it, but because I wanted to. Surprisingly, the other day when one of those songs came on the “oldies station” as we drove down the road, I sang the words right along with Mr. Gates. Forty years later, I still remember the lyrics! That sneaky Miss Barrett made me like poetry! Worse, she made me want to commit it to memory.
But tonight, the song I am listening to ends and I am jerked back to reality. I thought I was safe, listening to classical music. I chose one of my favorite pieces, the Piano Concerto #2, by Sergei Rachmaninoff. It is, in my opinion, one of the most hauntingly beautiful pieces of music written. Surely no lyrics would intrude into this! But just the same, there are words going through my head…”All by myself, don’t wanna be all by myself anymore…” I first heard the pop song in 1975, having no idea at that time that the melody was based on this spectacular work, written by the composer around 1900. As I listened tonight to the masterful treatment of the piece by the pianist, accompanied by the gorgeous tonality of the strings and wind instruments in the orchestra, I couldn’t keep the words from injecting themselves at the appropriate (or inappropriate) place. No doubt, this is still the work of that sneaky English teacher, Miss Barrett.
I will readily admit that finally, as the years have passed, I can openly enjoy poetry. It doesn’t even have to be set to music, although that helps me to remember the words. The good lady’s tactics worked. She took a poetry-hater and made me enjoy poems. An examination of her scam, her stratagem if you will, gives us some instruction for use in other walks of life. She took that which was odious to us and hid it inside something we loved. No one had to ask us to like the pop music of the day. We were already hooked. What she recognized was that we would sit still for lessons seemingly built on the foundation of the music we loved. All the while, unbeknownst to us, construction was underway on a very different foundation–the foundation of literature. Through a simple ruse, a little sleight of hand, the deed was done and we were hers.
But, the device works both in constructive and in destructive ways, does it not? The pet is ill, so we hide the medication in a piece of meat, a Trojan horse of sorts, to deliver the death blow to the illness inside. None the wiser, the pet devours the proffered treat, easily swallowing the pill which would have been next to impossible to force down the animal’s gullet otherwise. Thus, the cure is achieved. But on the other hand, the casino in the neighboring town offers luxurious accommodations and gourmet meals at bargain prices to lure the patrons in, enticing them further with visions of easy money and grand winnings. The eventual result is disappointment for many and outright disaster for quite a number, leaving them impoverished. The sugar-coated offer hides a price which is much too high for all of them.
The same tactic. Vastly different results.
I can’t help but be reminded of the words spoken by the Teacher, as He sent His disciples away. “I am sending you out as sheep among the wolves.” If He had stopped there, we might wonder at His cruelty, leaving them to be consumed by the evil ones they would find in the wide world. He continued though, “Be as wise as serpents, but harmless as doves.” They are words for us to live by today also. We are to be on our guard against the Trojan horses, the artifices of those who would entrap us, all the while seeking no harm to them.
Like Miss Barrett, we seek ways to teach and to win the trust of those around us, to do good for them. All the while, we must be on our guard against those who are only out for their own good and for our harm.
I promise that I will try to stifle my urges to quote song lyrics to you. But if the music to “If” by Bread comes on the radio, you’ll see (and possibly hear) me bellowing out the lyrics right along. Who knew poetry could be so much fun?
“Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way.”
(from “Mary Poppins”~Walt Disney film~1964~Robert Sherman/Richard Sherman, composers)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.