Savory Speech

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Blaaaaaat!” The obnoxious sound of the old car horn caused me to jump as I stood and worked behind the counter at the music store. I looked out the front door to the parking lot and my heart sank. The object of my dismay wasn’t so much the battered late-sixties model Mercury that sat there with its motor still running; it was the driver of the old jalopy. Kelly was, as the Lovely Lady’s mother would have put it, “the bane of my existence”. At least, for a period of time, he was. The old fellow loved vintage cars and country music, which meant that he needed someone to keep the ancient stereos in the decrepit vehicles functioning. He had discovered that I had a knack with the tired old tape players, so life for a time was a constant parade of the rusty flivvers and their eight-track players needing attention.
The players weren’t so much of a problem, although I never really enjoyed working on them. The eight-track player was probably one of the worst conceived inventions ever, but I understood the theory of their operation and could usually coax the ones Kelly presented me with back to life, at least enough to spit out a few more hours of what he called music. Whenever I worked on the players, I would always have to shove a jumbled mess of tapes aside…tapes by the likes of George Jones, Lynn Anderson, and Merle Haggard. One day, as I shoved such a pile across the seat, a loaded pistol appeared from underneath the miscellaneous hodge-podge. I jumped out of the car and shouted for Kelly, but he calmly pocketed the gun and told me not to worry about it. I did anyway. I also repaired that player in record time.
The real reason that I wasn’t happy to see Kelly on this day was that I knew he was going to tell me how he was doing. You know–you usually greet folks with a polite “How are you today?” I had long ago abandoned that phrase with Kelly, simply because he assumed that I really wanted to get the full answer–and I do mean full answer! “Well Paul, the doctor had to open up my sinuses the other day and drain them. You never saw such a mess!” He would then proceed to describe the mess, the like of which I never saw and never wanted to see, much less hear described. There was always a different story, each one more fantastic and gory than the one before. I amazed myself with my own brilliance one day and just decided to quit asking him how he was. It worked the first two times. After that, he began responding to my “Hi, Kelly!” with, “Well Paul, The doctor had to cut open my skull last week to relieve the pressure that was building up…” I really began to dread his visits.
It’s been many years since Kelly graced me with his company and I’ve had a while to think about the cause of his behavior and conversation style. It seems to me that it is possible to miss being the center of attention as we age. By all accounts, Kelly was a fireball of a man in his younger days and with his love of fast cars and guns, there was no dearth of attention paid to his exploits. In his old age, he became just another old man, driving his old cars around town and going home to his elderly wife when the day was done. No one gave him a second look anymore. In the absence of admiring compliments, or even any heed given whatsoever to his activities, it seems that he decided to grab the attention once more by shocking the few people who would acknowledge him. It had the opposite effect, instead driving people away that might have become friends, but who were repulsed by the obvious lies and exaggerations.  
It’s becoming easier for me to put myself in the old man’s place these days. When we are young, there is no end of the attention paid to our exploits and accomplishments. Just by achieving goals, we inspire comments. “Oh! He’s so talented! And, so young!” As the years pass, the excitement dies down and we get an occasional pat on the back, along with a half-hearted, “I really enjoyed that.” The same activities undertaken in the silver years don’t even seem to move their spirits at all. The attention has turned to new recipients, more energetic and more fresh. Thus, age leads to obscurity. Not all men can abide the unfamiliar lack of attention. Like awkward teenagers, anxious to acquire the regard of others, they become “class clowns”, performing their act for anyone who will acknowledge them. Some, like my friend, don’t know when to stop and so, ostracize the very audience they are attempting to impress.
Well, you’ve waded through the cautionary tale, and worked to decipher my psychobabble in this attempt to explain an old man’s foibles. Will it make any difference to you at all? Maybe not. I’m actually talking to myself mostly, I think. The realization that I could easily become Kelly drives me to consider the actions necessary to prevent this fate. I don’t have to look any further than the words I learned as a child in Sunday School. “Let your conversation be always full of grace…” Words intended to shock are not full of grace. Statements crafted to turn attention to myself are not full of grace. Comments which inflame the passion of the listeners are definitely not full of grace. I really like the phrase that follows the one I quoted above. “…seasoned as with salt…” Conversation that has a generous amount of grace sprinkled throughout will not anger and disgust, nor will it entice illicit emotions. “…so that you will know how to speak to every man.”
So, these days, I’m working on including a copious dusting of grace with the words that come from my mouth. I’m thinking it will be hard to go wrong as long as I keep that goal in sight. 
But someday, if I start to talk with you about the procedure the doctor performed on me last week, you might want to jog my memory a bit.
They do say the three primary signs of old age are forgetfulness, and…and…Oh, never mind. Just stop me before I tell the story.
“Speech is oft repented, silence never.”
(Old Danish proverb)
“Let no corrupting (decaying, rotten) talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up…”
(Ephesians 4:29a~ESV)

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

Bear Down

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The red-headed lady of the house wasn’t in any mood to be sassed.  Today was cleaning day and already, the servants were revolting.  Especially that young loud-mouthed one.  The tow-headed boy appeared once again in her presence, this time with a complaint that he knew would do the trick.  “Every single one of us has tried to clean that spot and it just won’t come out.  Can’t we just move on to something else?”

The woman hadn’t lived to her advanced age (all of thirty-six or so) without learning a thing or two about cleaning.  She grabbed the scrub brush which the youngster was holding and marched over to the bucket, dipping it a time or two into the sudsy water.  Kneeling down and holding tightly to the handle, she plopped the brush onto the floor and, bearing down, began to scrub.  Magically, the stain, which “every single one” of the unpaid staff had attempted to remove, was gone when she again lifted the brush from the surface. 

“Wow!” The boy’s voice was a mixture of awe and disappointment.  Awe, because he really had tried to remove the stain himself before offering the complaint; disappointment, because he now realized that he would have to continue with the unhappy chore.  “How did you do that?” 

The lady’s answer was limited to just two words–two words which didn’t clarify the issue at all for him.

“Elbow grease.”  She dropped the brush into the water again, stood up and demanded, as she headed back to her command station in the living room, “Now, use some yourself and get back to work!” 

It took another hour or two, but the floor was spot free and ready for the wax, which the next crew was to apply.  The fun part of the job, polishing the floor by sliding on it in stocking feet, would come hours later. 

The boy was still curious, so he headed for her location.  Approaching the recliner in the living room, the question on the tip of his tongue was blurted out.  “Mom, what is elbow grease?” 

She muttered something about it just being hard work and using the muscles that God had given to you.  It wasn’t a satisfactory answer, but it was all he was likely to get.  He headed out for the orange trees to snag one or two of the brilliantly colored and sugar-sweet spheres off the low-hanging branches and promptly forgot about the subject.

But, I still want to know.  What is elbow grease? 

Oh, I’ve heard about the jokes played on young apprentices; the journeymen telling them to get a container of the stuff for them, only to laugh at their naivety as they seek for it earnestly, like someone searching for the non-existent snipe in the forest.  I’ve used the term myself for years, to mean just what my mother indicated…hard work.  But the word-nerd in me wants to have a definitive answer.  Where did this obscure phrase come from?  What strange brain concocted such a term? 

As it happens, the answer is so simple, I should have thought of it myself.  One has only to go to the “New Dictionary of the Canting Crew”, published in 1699, to find the meaning.  The Canting Crew refers to ruffians and thieves, the real source of slang and street language in those ancient days. The entry therein for elbow grease reads thus: “Elbow grease, a derisory term for sweat.”  There is nothing further.

Sweat.  Of course! 

When you do physical work in your shirt sleeves, you perspire and the sweat runs down the smooth surface of your upper arms to your elbows, lubricating them, almost annoyingly so.  Elbow grease. As happy as I am to finally have the answer, I am embarrassed that I couldn’t work it out for myself long ago.  Ah, well.  Ofttimes the answer stares us in the face for a lifetime and we still don’t discern it.  I now know it, anyway.  I am content. 

As my father-in-law used to say, in his quirky manner, “Well, I learned something new today.  Now, I can go back to bed.”

I’m thinking tonight about how important elbow grease is to our lives.  Oh, we have labor saving devices, better lubricants, and stronger cleaning agents, but we still have to, every once in awhile, find the elbow grease and just power through the task in front of us.  Life wasn’t intended to be easy, we weren’t meant to achieve easy victories.  Sometimes, we have to scrape the paint or scrub the sidewalk, with nothing but a basic tool and our muscle. 

We work up a sweat and get the job done.  Two things happen when we do that. 

First, we learn that hard work gets the job done. It’s not about talent, or good looks, or our social station.  Hard work pays off.

Second, we have that feeling that nothing else can inspire in us; the feeling of achieving our goals for ourselves.  I would call it pride, only some wit will retort that “pride goes before a fall” and try to take away the God-given sense of accomplishment.  This is a different sort of pride, the sort that leads to more hard work, and more achievement.  I’m thinking that it is indeed, a good thing.

The young man stood in front of me at the music store the other day, showing me his sore fingers.  He had his guitar with him and wanted me to repair it.  “It hurts my fingers when I play,” was the complaint. 

I examined the guitar, finding it to be properly adjusted, with a set of strings which were well suited to the beginning student.  I handed it back to the boy and said, almost hardheartedly, “It’s supposed to hurt your fingers when you play.  Keep working at it.” 

You see, the only way to become a guitar player is to work through the discomfort and the softness of disuse, developing calluses on the tips of the fingers.  Practice, practice, practice isn’t only a phrase in a joke, it’s the way of life for any aspiring musician.  Hard work…elbow grease, is required for any achievement worth talking about.

I’m not sure, but it is possible that the words the Creator spoke to Adam, as his punishment was meted out for disobedience in the Garden of Eden, could be paraphrased from “By the sweat of your brow…” to “Everything you need to accomplish to live on this earth will be done with elbow grease.”  I finally comprehend the red-head’s words, nearly fifty years later.

Couldn’t quite conquer that problem that faced you yesterday?  Try it again today, only this time, use a little more elbow grease.  You’ll get it done.  I’ll keep working, too. 

Let’s bear down!  There is still a lot to accomplish.

“By the sweat of your brow will you have food to eat until you return to the ground from which you were made. For you were made from dust, and to dust you will return.”
(Genesis 3:19~NLT)

“Both tears and sweat are salty, but they render a different result.  Tears will get you sympathy; Sweat will get you change.”
(Jesse Jackson~American civil rights leader)

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

Home to Roost

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The plumber glanced up from his prone position under the sink.  “I’ll have this done in a minute.  Oh, and I got that other problem fixed for you!”  The tub upstairs had been draining painfully slowly, so we had asked him to auger it out, while he was installing our new downstairs plumbing.  “There was something solid in the line, but I shoved it on down.  I don’t think it went out completely, but hopefully, you’ll never have another problem.”  That was over ten years ago.

I thought about the plumber’s comment two years ago, just for a moment, when the upstairs sink refused to drain anymore.  Drain cleaners did not good, so I eventually got a light duty plumber’s snake and shoved it down the line until it hit something solid.  After a good bit of grunting and shoving, it moved on down the line beyond my reach.  The sink drain worked as good as new.  There was a thought in the back of my mind then…”You don’t suppose the plumber didn’t take care of the problem permanently?”  But, everything was working just fine, so I put it out of my thoughts.

A couple of days ago, the downstairs toilet refused to flush and all that my efforts with the plumber’s helper did was to force the dirty water up into the bathtub.  I cast about for an answer and found it when I ran a borrowed heavy-duty plumber’s snake down the vent stack on the roof of the house.  It went down for many feet and then hit something solid.  The thought from a couple of years ago is now screaming in my head.  It has to be!  This is the same something solid which troubled the plumber over ten years ago.  It has never been removed at all, just shoved on down the line to cause problems at some different place and at a different time.

“The chickens have come home to roost.”  I hear another of Mom’s favorite sayings in my head, along with the accusatory thoughts.  I never really considered the picture, but I can’t avoid it tonight.  The idea is that evil deeds (or even careless ones) which are done will invariably come back to haunt us.  In my fertile imagination I see a hard man, knowing that it is the reason they have raised them, demanding that his wife kill the chickens for supper while he is out working that day.  The tender-hearted woman can’t bring herself to do the distasteful deed, so as soon as he is gone, she shoos the squawking birds out into the woods.  Knowing that her husband will expect chicken for supper, she acquires some from the meat market and prepares them.  Unfortunately, while the man is enjoying his meal that evening, he first hears and then sees the parade of the hens as they head for their accustomed roosting spot in the chicken coop.  The lie is evident and can no longer be hidden beneath the web of deceit. The chickens have come home to roost.

So it is with my plumbing problem.  Each time the issue has been addressed, it has been dealt with in a haphazard way, not at all intending to complete the task, but simply to achieve the desired result.  Clogged drain?  Make it work.  Will there be problems later?  Oh well.  Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.  We’ll deal with it if it comes up again.

It doesn’t make sense, does it?  The car leaks oil, so we buy more oil and pour it in.  But the problem is not that the engine didn’t have enough oil in it; the problem is that there is a seal leaking.  Pouring more oil in will temporarily keep us driving down the road, but the only thing that will permanently resolve the real issue is to repair the seal.  In the same way, if you look around, you will see evidence of an amazing array of half measures with which we “solve” our problems (buckets under leaky faucets, tape on glasses, etc.), all the while knowing that we haven’t solved anything, but have simply put off addressing the issue.

You will, no doubt, have realized by now that I am not actually worried about leaky engines, or faucets, or even clogged sewers, and certainly not poultry returning home for the night.  Our lives give evidence of so many areas in which we have merely given a “lick and a promise”, but have never fulfilled that promise.  Don’t you think it’s time that we actually solve some problems and set things right?  Perhaps we should start by learning which are symptoms and which are causes.  Yelling at your kids?  That’s a symptom.  Lying to your wife?  That’s a symptom.  Gossiping about your friends?  You got it…a symptom.  If all we do is to shove the problems down the pipe a little way, they will certainly show themselves in a different place again, and soon.  It’s time for us to deal with the heart of the issues. Funny. That’s exactly where most of these problems are to be found–in our hearts.

I like a verse I found recently in Ezekiel, where God says, “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you.”  Better than that, He says that He will remove the something solid that we have been pushing around in an attempt to fix it ourselves.  “I will remove your heart of stone…”  No more shoving and working to fix symptoms.  No more hoping that the issue will not show up again.  What should have been done in the first place is accomplished.  See!  All things have become new.

Oh, in case you wondered, I’m pretty sure that I’ll have to use the plumber’s snake at my house again sometime.  I just shoved the something solid a little way further down the pipe, so the bathroom fixtures would drain.  Time will tell.

Chances are, the chickens will be home to roost again soon.  I can hardly wait.

“For all that is secret will eventually be brought into the open, and everything that is concealed will be brought to light and made known to all.”
(Luke 8:17~NLT)





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

Finding the Pearl

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“If it was easy, everybody would be doing it.”  The sales representative and I were shooting the breeze about the music business, late this afternoon.  I agreed, a little more quickly than I intended to.  We commiserated awhile about the difficulties of our chosen field; he wrote a small order for me and then he was gone.  He wasn’t the first to voice a similar sentiment today.
The middle aged couple were looking for a few accessories, but as is common, had spent some time in browsing.  When I asked if the few items they selected was the extent of what they needed today, the gentleman responded with, “No, I need a lot more, but I just can’t afford it.”  When I offered, tongue in cheek, to accompany them to the bank to acquire a loan so they could purchase the entire music store, the fellow retorted, just as tongue in cheek, “No thanks!  There’s no money to be made in the music business!”  I responded, again a little too quickly, “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t known for the last thirty years!”
“If it was easy…”   A few months ago, the Lovely Lady and I stood in the middle of a plowed field that stretched for many acres in all directions.  Standing expectantly under the scorching sun, we held an assortment of trowels in our hands and I carried a small cloth bag.   Along with a number of other folks, we wandered along the furrows with their clods of dirt strewn hither and yon until we found a likely looking piece of ground and began to attempt to reap the crop which this field was famous for growing.
We were in the famous Crater of Diamonds diamond mine in central Arkansas.  It wasn’t at all what I expected.  It was, quite literally, a field.  The report that diamonds are lying on the ground waiting to be picked up was greatly exaggerated.  Oh, I don’t dispute the fact that some people have found diamonds there, even valuable ones.  But, they were the exception, not the rule.  We found nothing worth mentioning, except some sunburn and a lot of dirt.  “If it was easy…”
I almost felt a kinship with the participants of the gold rushes of the nineteenth century.  Driven by reports of gold just lying around, waiting to be picked up, thousands sold everything they had and went west in the late 1840s.  The only people who got rich were the very lucky and the merchants who sold the foolish treasure seekers the necessities for living…until their money ran out.  It wasn’t much different with the Klondike gold rush at the end of that same century.  One hundred thousand people headed for certain riches.  Only thirty thousand of them arrived.  Of that number, less than ten percent found gold.  “If it was easy…”
We want things to be easy.  We watch skilled craftsmen who make their jobs appear effortless and think, “I could do that!”  We view sports events and see the apparent ease with which the athletes achieve their goals and believe that it comes naturally to them.  I have sat in numberless auditoriums and marveled at the incredible talent of the musicians, imagining that with the right breaks, it could have been me up on that stage.  What we don’t see, and certainly wouldn’t desire to endure, are the endless hours of effort and the incredible self-discipline which these “prodigies” invest in their craft.  They work at being the best, day after day, week after week, year after year, just so that we can admire the results, all the while believing that all it takes is the right break, knowing the right people, or being in the right place at the right time.  What a joke!  “If it was easy…”
Hard work pays off.  It’s just that sometimes you have to sift through a ton of dirt to get to the diamond.  If you have a dream, you won’t reach it simply by starting on the path to it.  You have to persevere.  You have to work through the hardships, the ineptness of inexperience, sometimes even the discouragement of people who say it can’t be done.  The accountant who told me to stay out of the music business because the “numbers don’t add up” didn’t have the dream to follow.  Even today, the numbers don’t add up sometimes, but I’m still following that dream. 
Last summer, as the Lovely Lady and I drove up the highway, away from the diamond field, I was amused to see the signs advertising the crystal mines nearby.  Their boast was that every customer was guaranteed to find crystals, an obvious swipe at the disappointing diamond mine we had just left.  Well, sure.  It’s not hard to settle for a shiny crystal.  You have to work, and dare, and sweat for the diamonds. “If it was easy…”
Whether you want to achieve some great physical task, or are pursuing some lofty humanitarian goal, or even seeking to reach an honorable spiritual ambition, you’ll never attain it if you don’t give everything you have for it.  Anyone can do an average task.  That’s why they call it average.
“If it was easy, everyone would be doing it.”
“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant on the lookout for choice pearls.  When he discovered a pearl of great value, he sold everything he owned and bought it.”
(Matthew 13:45,46~NLT)
” Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life.  I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and led them well.”
(Theodore Roosevelt~26th President of the United States~1858-1919)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Spontaneous Dents and Walking Plates

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Usually, when we speak of ‘dents’ in an instrument, we are speaking of damage which has been done by someone, Ma’am.” I had taken a quick break to eat a very late lunch and, wolfing down the last bite of my PB&J sandwich, was headed for the sales area in the music store, when the patient voice of the Lovely Lady spoke the words. Actually, I heard just a hint of frustration, but that would not be evident to anyone else. The lady with whom she was speaking was adamant. “No. The dents are just appearing. She doesn’t know how. There are just more of them all the time.”
I kept my mouth shut (miraculously) and let the conversation play out. The lady agreed to bring the horn by soon for us to be able to assess the amount of damage and offer our opinion on why the dents “just keep appearing.” We have had these conversations before. The child stands and shrugs as his/her parent asks, “How did this happen?” Normally, before the discussion is over, the truth comes out. The horn has been mishandled, or had a chance meeting with another child’s instrument, or once, even been smacked over a little brother’s head. There is always a reason, always a culprit. Never have we discovered such a thing as a spontaneous dent. It just does not happen.
Day after day, they come in. Parents. Requesting a new book for their child to use in the band class. “Someone stole little Jackie’s.” Hah! It’s never, “Jackie lost his book again. He has no sense of responsibility, because I refuse to hold him accountable.”The latter is much nearer to the truth than the former, but I have never heard it said.
As I write, I can’t help but hear my Mom’s voice, out of the dim and far-distant past. “Well, it certainly didn’t grow legs and walk up here by itself!” She had been missing a dinner plate for several days; a circumstance very close to a disaster in our family. With seven people who ate at each meal, there weren’t many extra dishes. She needed that plate. And, wouldn’t you know it? The plate was found under my bed. “I didn’t put it there!” came the plaintive cry from my lips. It was a futile attempt, I knew. Mom’s reply cut through all the argument which could have ensued, pointing out the obvious. It was my bed; the plate was underneath it; the responsibility was mine.
I won’t waste your time with all the subtle arguments and distinctions which could be brought to bear here. Sure, there might have been more to the story. A brother might have slid the plate over under my bed with his foot as the search was in progress. Or he might not have. It makes little difference. The fact is that someone put it there, as my mother said so perceptively. Things like that don’t happen in a vacuum.
It is imperative that we take responsibility for our actions. I won’t moan about the latest generation and their lack of accountability. It was true in my generation also (and in yours). We did our best to wriggle out of blame for anything which we had done. Never mind that we knew that “confession is good for the soul”. Even though we had learned that lesson the hard way again and again, the next time we were caught in a fault, it was every bit as difficult to extract a statement of culpability as the time before.
As it turns out, every generation for which we have a written record has reacted in a way which attempts to deflect responsibility to someone or something else. Adam blamed Eve and, indirectly, God. “The woman (whom You gave me) tempted me.” Wow! Not my fault. Hers. Yours.No wonder we have gotten so good at it.
Did I say that confession is good for the soul? I don’t want you to think that if we suddenly start to follow our conscience and admit out faults, it will be smooth sailing from then on. Confession requires restitution. Oh boy! Now I did it! I should have issued the disclaimer first! Here is the disclaimer then: I am not talking about God’s offer of salvation; not disputing grace, which comes through faith, and is not of works. I am speaking of how life works, of what is required for us to claim to be responsible people. It is a practical thing, not intended to address our spiritual condition (although in many aspects, our spiritual condition will govern our responses in this area).
In our dealings with friends, and family, and any other person in the world, we are required to follow up a statement of confession with actions of restoration. “I broke it. I’ll pay for a new one.” “I stole that, and I accept the penalty.” “I hurt you. I’m sorry and will work to restore our damaged relationship.” Statements of confession without intent to restore are empty and void. They mean nothing, just as if we had denied responsibility altogether. Speaking words with our mouth does not absolve us of the necessity to make amends with our actions.
Dents don’t appear by themselves. Plates don’t grow legs and walk upstairs. We are responsible for our own behavior, and integrity of character demands that we confess our faults and make restitution to the best of our ability. If we don’t help our children to see this and live this, we rob them and doom them to a life of blaming others and rationalizing their every action.
It’s how we grow, how we mature. I just wish I hadn’t had so much experience in saying, “My fault.” Oh well, if confession really is good for the soul, mine should be getting quite healthy by now.
I wonder after all, where those dents did come from?
 
“None but the well-bred man knows how to confess a fault, or acknowledge himself in an error.”
(Benjamin Franklin~American Statesman, philosopher, and inventor~1706-1790)
“When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long…Then I acknowledged my sin to You and did not cover up my iniquity…”
(Psalm 32:3,5a~NIV) 
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

One Thin Dime?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My bank cheated me out of nine cents last week. It’s really not such a big deal. It is less than a dime; hardly worth bothering with, but sometimes the principle is as important as the value. Maybe I’ll give them a call tomorrow…
How did my bank cheat me, you ask? They didn’t do it knowingly, but it happened nonetheless. Earlier last week, I had the Lovely Lady pick up several rolls of coins from the financial institution while she was making a deposit there. Buying coins is a common occurrence for us, since our cash register is always in need of change. Then yesterday morning, I noticed that the dimes in the cash drawer were running low, so I grabbed that five dollar roll of the thin coins and dropped it into the bin, opening it when I needed a dime to add to a customer’s change about noon. But last night, as I was counting out the register to finish the day, I noticed something weird.
I was counting the dimes when I thought that there was a flash of some coin a little different color. Since they all had fit uniformly in the stack of coins I held in my hand as I counted, I wasn’t concerned. Later, however, I thought about that single, dark dime. Strange–dimes weren’t usually brown. I went digging in the bin for it and pulled it out. Aha! It wasn’t a dime, but a penny! But wait! Pennies don’t fit neatly with dimes. They are larger in diameter. How was it then, that the stack of coins was so uniform, so consistent? A closer look at the coin in my hand revealed the answer. Some joker had very carefully filed off the edge of the imposter coin, removing the raised rim all the way around. It was almost exactly the same diameter as a dime, therefore fitting neatly into a roll and, as a consequence, costing me exactly nine cents.
For just a moment, I sit and visualize the scenario. The young man holds the contents of his broken piggy bank in his hands, counting his dimes. Forty-nine! He’s counted it three times and every time, it comes out to forty-nine. He needs fifty dimes to make a five dollar roll. Then, his eyes light on the handful of stray pennies lying nearby and an idea comes to him. Moments later, after putting down the file, he holds fifty coins which will pass muster as a complete roll of dimes and he is off to the bank. They don’t even look at the coins as they are loaded in the automatic counter, dropping down into their individual slot to be stacked and covered in the prefabricated paper roll. No one ever looks at that odd coin, not actually a dime, but no longer just a penny. It certainly doesn’t belong here, but it will take someone with eyes to see before that can be determined. By then, the young man is long gone, enjoying the hamburger and fries his five-dollar bill purchased for him at the local burger joint.
And me? I’m still nine cents short! The coin is an imposter, a pretender, and it’s not worth anywhere near what its value should have been. I’ve been taken in by a fraud!
Funny. The penny has a proper place. It also should normally come to me in a roll of coins from the bank, to be opened and dropped into a drawer in my cash register. I buy pennies all the time. In fact, the Lovely Lady picked up a few rolls at the same time she acquired this roll of dimes the other day. It’s simply that I only pay one cent apiece for these coins. They have a different purpose and belong in a different location. There is no place in either drawer for this marred coin now. I’ll probably throw it away, someday…
My mind goes back nearly forty years. The skinny boy has slipped out from his parent’s house, sneaking away to a dance with his friends. The music is loud, the girls are attractive, and one of his friends has a bottle of who-knows-what to share around. They have a drink and some of the boys are brave enough to ask the girls to dance, but the skinny boy isn’t having much fun. He realizes that he doesn’t belong here. He is not one of these guys, not at all who they think he is. It doesn’t help that just about then, the cover band playing on the little dance stage starts into their rendition of Three Dog Night’s “Mama Told Me Not To Come.” The skinny boy knows when he is beaten. He heads for the exit.
Now, you need to read this very carefully. I am notmaking a statement about whether drinking and dancing is acceptable. This is not a discussion about that at all. The statement is about who the skinny boy was. His parents had taught him that dances were not a proper place for him to spend time, had assured him that drinking was not the way to prove his worth to his friends. He was out of place, simply because he wasn’t supposed to be there doing those things.
Here in the south, we would say that the skinny kid stuck out like a sore thumb. You know how it is. You hit your thumb with a hammer and it hurts like a fire burning. Then every time you bump it against anything for the next few days, you feel that awful pain once more. It doesn’t matter how you baby the sore digit or try to protect it; you’re bound to bump it again and again. The sore thumb doesn’t belong there; won’t fit in until it is no longer sore. As long as it is what it is–sore–the thumb won’t blend in.
I have tried to blend in where I had no business being on any number of occasions. I was uncomfortable years ago as I attempted to sell vacuum cleaners, and again that time when I was standing in the garage with all the guys swapping filthy stories. More recently, I was out of place in the coffee shop surrounded by teenagers texting each other, and I was even ill at ease as I sat on a church board. Some of those places, it was just wrong for me to be in; others simply weren’t the correct fit for me. Oh, I tried to file off the edges; tried to change my shape a bit in an attempt to keep folks from noticing. But, sooner or later, the shape you are determines the space you will fill.
It doesn’t make sense to try to be something you are not. It is not profitable to try to fit into a round hole, even though you are unmistakeably square. We are not intended to live our lives pretending. We will wear ourselves out with trying to conform where we have no business being at all.
Do you want to accomplish great things? Do them in the space in which you were intended to fit. We misunderstand the meaning of the phrase “great things” if we only think that they are those things which attract attention, the things which gain notoriety. Sometimes, the small things we can accomplish using the tools and talents with which we have been blessed will be the great things we always were intended to do in the lives of others.
It’s time to quit trying to pass myself off as a dime, when I’m nothing more than a simple penny. I think I’m going to keep circulating for awhile longer. Maybe you’ll come along with me.
Oh! The places we’ll go…
“What I do, you cannot do; but what you do, I cannot do. The needs are great, and none of us, including me, ever do great things. But we can all do small things with great love, and together we can do something wonderful.”
(Mother Teresa of Calcutta~Albanian missionary and Nobel Peace Prize winner~1910-1997)
“This only have I found: God created mankind upright, but they have gone in search of many schemes.”
(Ecclesiastes 7:29~NIV)
“I seen so many things
I ain’t never seen before
Don’t know what it is
I don’t wanna see no more.
Mama told me not to come…”
(“Mama Told Me Not To Come” by Randy Newman~recorded by Three Dog Night in 1970)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

No More Scribbling

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I sit and stare at the blank screen. Maybe this is the way it ends…just as it began. A couple of years ago, I sat one night in front of a blank screen and started to write. The next thing I knew, four hundred posts had made their way to my computer screen and thence, to the Internet. Perhaps a few have landed on your screen in the process. But, no more.  I sit and blink at the stark white surface, willing ideas and words to come. The elusive characters are not cooperative.
Panic hits. Perhaps, with the story of the skinny boy and the bullies, the well has gone dry. There will be no more stories, no more applications. No. I have been here before. There is more somewhere; I just have to dig a little deeper this time. My mind wanders, as I contemplate the blank display in front of me…
My concentration is broken by a frantic skritch-skritch-skritchingnoise nearby. I turn my eyes away from the preacher on the stage and glance over at the young man with the buzz-cut hair. All of five years old, he is sitting with his feet tucked under his legs and a composition notebook open across his lap. The ball-point pen in his right hand is nothing more than a blur. A noisy blur, but nevertheless… I reach over and put my hand over his, stopping the progression of rapidly appearing lines across the blank page. I whisper in his ear, “You know, that’s a little noisy. You can draw better if you slow down.” The boy, who reminds me a lot of someone I once knew (I can’t quite remember who now), smiles that big impish grin and replies, not so quietly, “But Grandpa, I don’t want to draw. I want to fill up the page fast!” The people nearby glance over, annoyed by the sudden laugh which the young artist’s grandfather is unable to stifle.
Tonight, I can’t stop my mind from pausing on that scene for a moment or two. The impatience of youth is an amusement to me from my vantage point, many years on, but it was nothing to laugh at once upon a time. There was not a moment to be lost! Adventure was waiting and every day was filled to the limit with excitement. I couldn’t wait for church to be over, or school to be out, or even for nap time to be completed. Why, I remember the time I…
Painting by Margaret Kirkpatrick
My reverie is interrupted by the intrusion of a voice that cracks as it fusses at me, “Can you stop that racket? I declare, you kids don’t know the meaning of quiet!” Grandma and Grandpa had parked their little Airstream trailer in our side yard a few days before and now she needed some time to create. Having five little imps around wasn’t helping. Well, quite possibly, it was only a couple of the imps who were causing the problem, but she took care of that with her authoritative manner. As she set up her easel, we watched with anticipation. Grandma was an award winning artist and we just knew that there would be a completed painting within the next few moments. Alas, it was not to be. As we watched, she began to cover the artist’s board with a layer of light-colored paint. Then, painstakingly, she began to draw, first one line, then another. After half an hour, there was still nothing to be seen on the board but a few lines. What a let down! We took off to find some other pastime, something exciting like tossing rotten oranges at the passing cars. Tiring of that, we wandered back. Still nothing we could identify. It was frustrating, so eventually we gave up completely. When the tiny Airstream trailer left a week later, there was no completed painting left behind. I don’t know if she ever finished it.
A year or two after my Grandma passed away, I spent a couple of hours exploring the garage at her house in California. There were piles and piles of paintings, all in various stages of completion. Some were still in the condition which the little imp I had once been saw that week, many years previous. Others were almost complete. My mind finally began to grasp the frustration that she must have felt at our lack of vision. Good work takes time. A stroke here, a line there, and a dash of color over there. Little by little, the painting would begin to look more and more like the image which she had envisaged. Patience and vision are essential attributes of the artist’s nature. 
As I consider the incredible task of starting with the blank canvas and, after many hours of painstaking labor, completing a beautiful work of art which compels those viewing it to marvel, my mind is drawn to a particular painting I possess. It is one which my grandmother did finish and then gave to my family many years ago. The painting of my grandfather’s mandolin has almost no monetary value to anyone outside my family, but we wouldn’t part with it for any amount. For one thing, my Grandpa’s instrument is immortalized in it, even though the mandolin itself has deteriorated beyond recall, many years ago. But more importantly, the care, and the patience, and the vision which my grandmother invested into this one project allows me to keep her alive and close in my thoughts. She as the artist, after all, is immortalized in this painting also.
Wow! Would you look at this? A page full of words.Just a few moments ago, it was blank; with not a thought in this writer’s mind. I have to say that I am gratified to know that this never was the case with the blank page with which each of us started. The Artist has always had a vision for the finished painting; the patience which He has shown as each line and shade has been added has been unending. There have been times, well more than once or twice, when I have grabbed the brush and, like my grandson in his haste to fill the page, scribbled indiscriminately. Perhaps you also have a stray line or two which you have added in your impatience. Not to worry.
In the big picture…and it is a big, big picture…those lines will be blended in, if we yield the brush back to its proper master, the genuine Artist. From blank page to finished work of art, He has never wavered in the vision and scope of the entire composition. Perhaps my namesake, the Apostle, said it best when he wrote, “I am confident of this one thing. He who began the good work in you will carry it through to completion.”
I don’t always understand the next sketched out lines; can’t always see the scene which is being filled in with variegated colors and shades of dark and light. I will just have to trust the Artist.
And, looking at the painting which is taking shape on the canvas of my life, I will pray that the Artist is clearly visible to those who bother to look. Maybe that is your hope also. 
We will have to follow Grandpa’s rule for drawing in church, though.
No scribbling allowed!
“Please be patient. God’s not finished with me yet.”
(Anonymous)
“Let nothing disturb thee;
Let nothing dismay thee;
All things pass;
God never changes.
Patience attains
All that it strives for.
He who has God
Finds that he lacks nothing;
God alone suffices.”
(“Poem IX”~St. Teresa of Avila~Spanish philosopher/mystic~1515-1582)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

The Bigger They Are…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The skinny junior high school kid was fuming. For one reason or another, this whole day, he had been on the wrong end of a thousand insults, or so it seemed to him. The cuts had run the gamut, starting with remarks about his weird, almost bowl style haircut, or his too-short pants (slacks, not jeans like everyone else wore), or his dorky glasses–you know, the ones with the black plastic rims, instead of the fashionable granny style metal rims. And this! This was just too much! The camel’s back was broken; one straw too many piled atop all the others.
Gym class on this day had been a disaster. The coach had become frustrated with the trouble-makers and made the whole class run laps. “Get out there and give me ten laps before you hit the showers!” The tallish, slender boy had dutifully run his laps, all ten of them and headed toward the locker room, only to be called back by the coach. The man was surrounded by several of the football players in the class, all of them attesting to the fact that the victim had run only nine laps, not ten. Obviously, it had not been wise of him to lap the jocks, as they lumbered along the track at their leisurely pace. They were out for payback and the coach fell for their story. “Get back out there and run five more! Nobody cheats around here!” the man roared, indignant that this skinny kid would dare to take any less than the prescribed number of laps. The kid protested, but it was to no avail, so he headed back out to run the penalty trips around the field’s perimeter. Before he finished, his antagonists were dressed and laughing at him as they sauntered past the field on the way to their next class.
It never seemed to change. He had been the butt end of their pranks for any number of years. It made no difference to him that lots of other boys were in the same boat. All he could think about was their constant hazing and cruelty to him. The boy just couldn’t imagine taking this for the rest of his years in school. He had to do something. Anything. The opportunity was not too long in coming on this fateful day.
At lunchtime, the kids finished up their cafeteria meals and went outside to await the next class. A group of the jocks were there, throwing around cutting remarks, as usual. They tormented the skinny kid one last time about his additional laps, asking him if he had enjoyed his “extra training”, before turning their attention to other matters. He stood there and decided that it was now or never. Picking out the biggest boy of the bunch, he ran up behind him and shoved him as hard as he could. The huge young athlete went rolling on the ground, head over heels. Picking himself up, he asked in a dazed voice, “What was that for?” The terrified kid answered, “Because I’m tired of you guys teasing me! What are you going to do about it?” In his mind, he was thinking about the beating that was coming, trying to tell himself that it couldn’t be any worse than the torment he had endured up until now. The boy looked at him angrily for a minute and then a smile came across his face. “Nothing, I guess. I’ll say this for you. You’ve got guts!” The other members of the football team were crowding toward the boy, ready to deal out retribution, but the big guy waved them off. “Leave him alone, fellas. He’s got a point. Nobody deserves to be treated that way.”
For the most part, it was the end of the bullying for this skinny, socially maladjusted kid. Oh, there would be other, more serious problems, but that phase of school life was effectively dealt with. You never saw a more elated kid in all your life. He walked on clouds the rest of the day and bragged about the feat to his brothers when he got home. “I took on the biggest one of the bunch and put him on the ground!” Never mind that he had to hit him from the back to do it. It had taken courage to finally stand up to those guys. 
You can bet that the event was reported to others in the school. For awhile, at least, it seemed that there was almost a grudging respect for the strange, skinny kid. He had made it clear that he was a force to be dealt with by choosing the biggest of his aggressors to take on. If he had picked the smallest one, there would have been a never ending succession of others about the same size wanting to prove that they could best him. The response wasn’t limited to the other kids alone. The young man, realizing that he had earned a respite from the torment, began to carry himself differently. He didn’t have to take the guff from anyone, and partially because of the day’s happenings, partially because of his new-found confidence, everyone started to treat him with less disdain. It wasn’t a bad feeling. The skinny boy could get used to this!
Do you have a pile of problems staring you in the face? Have they beaten you before you’ve even started? I have to admit that there are many days when I feel like that skinny teenaged kid. Oh, my problems aren’t living breathing tormentors in the form of athletes or peers, but I am still mocked by the perception of having failed. The evidence is constantly present. Stacks of unfinished…no, strike that...Stacks of un-begun tasks surround me, each job staring me in the face as I come to work (or even head home), laughing at me with that bullying tone. I have dreams which have never even been attempted. I have relationships to mend which have languished, as this terrified, aging man has admitted defeat. Constantly, my failures and should-have-beens mock me. You too?
Here’s a suggestion. How about…we mount a surprise attack on the worst job of all of them facing us? Pick out the one you dread the most, the one which terrifies the living daylights out of you, and take it on with everything you’ve got in you. Courage! You can do this! I’ve got my nemesis in mind and will be right there with you, knocking out the big, bad guy.
Okay, so the analogy doesn’t follow through completely. The rest of the things that are facing you won’t automatically fade out of existence. You’ll still have to deal with them. The thing is…now you’ll have one in the win column. And, it will be the most formidable one you have to deal with. It’s all downhill from here. Don’t stop until they’re finished; don’t let any of the rest tell you that you’re a loser or convince you that you don’t have what it takes. You’ve got a history! You know that you’re capable.
Does this sound like too much rah-rah cheerleader talk? Just feel good mumbo-jumbo? You might think so, if we didn’t have an Example to look to.
I’m reminded that when the Savior came to earth, he didn’t waste time getting rid of the false teachers, didn’t do the piddling revolutionary tasks that his followers wanted to see. He didn’t rid the nation of its Roman aggressors, didn’t waste time with shutting down the tax-collectors. No, he went for the biggest guy, that old serpent. He crushed the head of His enemy and by doing so, completed the job which had been waiting for ages to be finished. At exactly the right time, He defeated the one enemy that mattered.
So, saddle up and get ready to ride. Bullies come in all shapes and sizes. Every one of them has its weak spot and will fall. But you’ve got to get going first. Mr. Tolkien knew what he was talking about when he wrote these words, didn’t he? “It’s the job that’s never started that takes the longest to finish.”
Well, today’s the day we knock over some bullies. Let’s get going. I’ll tell you this from personal experience, though…
You’ve got to get a little head start if you want to see him rolling on the ground…
“We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed.”
(II Corinthians 4:8,9~NLT)
Mary Poppins: “Our first game is called, ‘Well Begun is Half Done.'”
Michael: “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Mary Poppins: “Otherwise called, ‘Let’s Tidy Up the Nursery.'”
Michael (to Jane): “I told you she was tricky.”
(from Walt Disney’s “Mary Poppins”)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Through The Fog

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

There it was again.  The noise of the vacuum cleaner in the sanctuary roared in my ears, but I was sure that I heard hammering.  I stuck my head in the door and shouted at the Lovely Lady, beckoning her, when I finally got her attention, to turn off the motor on the noisy thing.  She did, looking quizzically at me.  “Did you hear something banging?” I asked.  “No…can’t hear a thing over this,” she made a motion with her foot to get back to her work, but I held up my hand.  There it was again, coming from the side door of the church sanctuary, where we were fulfilling our weekly task as the church custodians.  Someone was banging on the wooden door.  No one ever used that door.  I wondered who it could be?

By the time I got to the door, the man was halfway down the steps, but I opened it anyway and asked if I could help him.  He made his way unsteadily back up the stairs and stood there, swaying back and forth.  He was quite obviously inebriated, but he asked what he had come to ask.  “Can you give me some money?  I need to get home.”  It is a question that gets asked at the church doors across this nation a thousand times a day.  I answered him honestly.  “I don’t have any money, sir.  I’m sorry.”  I didn’t add the thing I really wanted to say.  “…and I wouldn’t give you any if I did.”  Typically, cash given to a drunken person only aids in making them more drunk.  I’m not sure this man could have managed much more in that direction, though.  He was definitely well past the point of caring.

He muttered something about no one wanting to help him and staggered off the church steps toward the highway.  I stood there a moment, eyeing the man as he wove first one direction and then the other.  I really had nothing in my pockets.  The Lovely Lady and I didn’t just clean the church every week because we had servants’ hearts.  We needed the money.  With two children and a business which was barely scraping by, there just was never any extra cash after purchasing groceries and paying the bills.  I was standing there in self pity, considering my plight, when I came to my senses about what the old man was doing.  The highway he was headed for was a really busy one, the second most active port of entry into the state of Arkansas.  Semi-trucks and cars streamed past, one after the other, every once in awhile one of them honking its horn at the fellow.  He was struggling to walk on the shoulder, but was failing miserably, instead wandering into and out of the lane of oncoming traffic.  I ran after him and pulled him toward the ditch. 

“Can I take you somewhere?”  He named a town miles away, but I didn’t have that much gas and told him so.  He thought for awhile and then he had it!  “Just take me down to the railroad tracks then,” the man said thickly.  “I’ll hop a freight train and be home real quick.”  I laughed out loud, but he was dead serious.  What could I do?  I couldn’t leave him to get killed on the highway.  I turned him around and we walked back to where my old pickup truck was parked.  With much effort, he pulled himself up into the cab and we started across town, in the general direction of the railroad tracks.  As I drove, I thought about what I was doing.  If the highway was dangerous, the railroad tracks were suicidal.  I made a turn or two toward the north, hoping that he wouldn’t notice.  He didn’t, falling over against me as I turned the corners.  After a mile or two, I pulled to a stop and told him, “Here we are.”  We were in front of the police station.  It was the only thing I could think of.  They would give him a place to sleep off the liquor and then, if he was still determined to ride the freight, he could find his way himself and wasn’t nearly as likely to kill or maim himself.

The man looked at the building and then at me.  “Why you @#%&@!  I’ll kill you for this!”  I think it’s the only time anyone has ever threatened to kill me and it took me a little by surprise.  I explained to him that I just couldn’t let him hurt himself and that at least he’d have a place to sleep for the night.  He thought about that for a minute, letting his whiskey-pickled brain work its way around the thought.  “Okay.  Let’s get it over with.”  It took a few minutes to explain to the police officer at the desk what was going on.  They weren’t any happier with me bringing him to them than the man was himself, but they finally said that they would figure something out and I left.  I never saw him again. 

I look back on the occurrence, twenty-five years ago, and I still wonder.  What did I accomplish?  Why was he so angry with me?  Why were the police unhappy with me? 

I had done the right thing, hadn’t I?  My only intent was to protect the man’s life.  Wasn’t that what the police were supposed to do, also?  “To Serve and Protect”  That’s their motto.  They just didn’t seem so keen on helping this old guy.  I’m not sure I’ll ever figure out their response, but I’m pretty sure that I’ve finally got a little insight into the old man’s thought process.

The longer I ponder on the event, the more clear it becomes.  He was happy with the way things were going.  Unaware of his danger on the roadside, he would have gone his way without a care until that last sudden impact.  He didn’t know, and he didn’t care.  When I pointed out his jeopardy, he chose a different path, this one just as fraught with danger as the last one.  Again, he would have been perfectly content for me to drop him off at the tracks, awaiting a chance to jump for the passing freight. Perhaps he would have made the leap.  Then again, perhaps he would have fallen short and had the consequences of that foolish action to deal with.  He was completely willing to put himself in danger, and may even have been unaware of the peril he was in, but either way, he certainly didn’t want me to save him. His angry reaction took away all doubt I might have had of that.

I continue to ponder on the strange event, realizing that there is more to learn.  As much as I want to deny it, the old drunk is a picture of you and me.  Oh, we may not be found in that inebriated condition, but we certainly are just as stubborn, and frequently just as bewildered.  We think we know what we are doing, our befuddled minds assuring us that we have made good choices, and all the while, we are heading for a precipice, about to jump off.

You know, I seem to have a knack for explaining the obvious.  I think this may be where I get off tonight.  You will, no doubt, be able to work out the details of this enigma yourself.  I will leave you with just one last thought.  There is a Savior, who will not force you as this clumsy young man did to the old fellow many years ago.  The current danger is clear and it is present.  But, you get to choose.

I’m hoping you won’t choose the train tracks.

 “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
(C.S. Lewis~Irish novelist and Christian apologist~1898-1963)

“How often I have wanted to gather your children together as a hen protects her chicks beneath her wings, but you wouldn’t let me.”
(Matthew 23:37b~NLT)

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

Not Really a Joking Matter

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Eso si que es!”  This evening, the ages-old punch line to a joke came to my mind. It was almost fifty years ago that my father told me the joke, but I couldn’t help but think about the ancient gag tonight as I realized that, once again, communication has broken down.  The result is frustration and accusation, with a few recriminations tossed in for good measure.

Okay, first the joke.  The old Hispanic fellow walked into the Woolworth store (it was fifty years ago, remember?), where no one spoke Spanish, and he started looking for something.  The salesman tried to help, asking again and again what it was that the man needed.  Finally, as he wandered down near the shoe department, the old guy exclaimed, “Eso si que es!” (approximate translation: “That’s it!”) while pointing to the rack upon which the socks were displayed. The salesman retorted, disgustedly, “Well, why didn’t you spell it in the first place?”  I’ll leave you to work that one out (hint: you may have to pronounce the Spanish words aloud) and move on to the present reality.

The customer received her order today.  Her email to us tonight communicates her unhappiness very distinctly.  “You people ought to be ashamed!   I paid good money for nothing!  I will never order from you people again!”  I won’t go into the details of the order, because they don’t matter.  What does matter is that this lady thought she was ordering something which she did not receive.  Wondering if we were actually at fault, I went back and read the description of the product online.  It describes the item very clearly…to me.  What happened here?

When we set up our online catalog, we discussed and argued; we wrote and rewrote.  We wanted to be certain that the articles were described precisely and simply.  Then we went back and rewrote some more.  The catalog went live and weeks passed.  We kept track of the comments and questions.  Then we sat down again and discussed and argued; we wrote and rewrote some more.  We have done our best to make clear what we are selling.  But, every once in awhile, a customer will order something and then ask to return it because it wasn’t what they thought they were ordering.  Whose fault is this?  Who is not communicating?

Well, like the fellow in the tired old joke, sometimes we just don’t speak the same language as those with whom we are attempting to exchange information.  The written word can be a powerful thing, but it can also be an unwieldy tool; inflexible and limited by both its authors and its readers.  When we find a person with whom we don’t share a common vocabulary–and it’s not always a different language, but sometimes just a different environment and culture–we have to work to find a more universal understanding.  We will be doing that in the next day or two with our customer.  Because we don’t actually sell the product she thought she was ordering, we will probably not be doing business with her again.  That doesn’t change our responsibility to be civil and work out an equitable conclusion to our business transaction.  We will attempt to communicate in honesty and with compassion.  Time will tell if our efforts are successful.

Have you ever been on either side of this scenario?  Neither position is a pleasant place to be, is it?  Each party thinks he or she is right.  Depending on the temperament and reaction of both people, the situation can become tense.  Accusations can fly.  Tempers can be temporarily mislaid.  I know.  I’ve reacted wrongly more times than it is comfortable to admit.  Again and again though, the key to resolution is more and better communication.   The obvious conclusion of the matter is that, as long as the lines remain open, communication will eventually result.  Cut those lines and all hope of success is lost.

Having said that, I want to make another point that should be obvious.  It is better to communicate well in the first place.  We’ll be discussing our descriptive phrases in our catalog again very soon; of that, you may be sure.  Time and money, as well as goodwill, are lost every time a customer misunderstands what they are reading.  We need to speak with clarity and with precision to avoid misconceptions and errors.  As the old saw goes, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

So, how are your communication skills?  Do you work on them regularly?  Our relationships depend on good communication.  Husbands…“Huh?” and “Yeah,” don’t cut it.  Usually, communication requires complete sentences. Wives…“You don’t ever…” is not a good way to start a discussion.  If you think you’re not appreciated, talk about it.  If you’re overwhelmed, say that. And, don’t quit trying.  I guarantee you that silence will not be effective communication.  The other person in the relationship may understand that you’re unhappy, but they will never understand the reason, nor find the solution.  Keep talking!

And don’t forget the exhortation that the Preacher offered so succinctly so many years ago:  “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger.”  In your communication, remember that love and truth are to be intertwined.  Speak the truth clearly, but do it for the right reason.

With a little effort, the communication barrier can be broken.  Unlike breaking the sound barrier, no explosion will result.  But, like the sound barrier, you’ll never break the communication barrier if you just sit still.

It’s time we were up and talking!

“In the same way, unless you speak an intelligible message with your language, how will anyone know what is being said? You’ll be talking into the air!”
(I Corinthians 4:9~ISV)

“Men and women belong to different species and communications between them is still in its infancy.“
(Bill Cosby~American comedian and actor)

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