“Hmmm…Plow won’t scour.” 

I turn my head and look to my right at the person who has spoken those words dishearteningly.  You would not be surprised if I told you that the speaker was a weathered old farmer, grown aged before his time by battling the unforgiving elements and the uncooperative earth.  It is the kind of phrase that such a person would utter. 

You could almost see him struggling behind a team of horses, fighting to keep the plow deep in the soil.  The old plow blade is no longer smooth and shiny as when it was new, but has seen better years.  The pits and creases lend their aid to the gummy clay dirt which clings stubbornly to the surface, refusing to slide up and over the top as the blade rives the soil.  Again and again, the old man has to halt his team, reaching down to clean the plow, performing the job which the action of plowing itself should accomplish.  What a frustrating task!

But the person on my right is no weathered farmer, simply a petite, retired piano teacher, her hands now unsuited for even the slightest amount of physical labor.  The object of her dismay is not a plow, splitting the dirt in a wheatfield, but a serving spoon, lifting rice from the bowl in front of her.  The sticky material is not cooperating, leaving clumps of the white grain behind on the spoon, making each successive trip to the serving bowl less productive.  She is not plying the spoon herself, but it is an annoyance she cannot abide.  I snicker a little as her hand reaches out with her own spoon to clean off the errant rice.  Satisfied once more, she allows the bowl and spoon to move out of her reach on down the table.

Plow won’t scour?

I will admit that I was confused the first time I heard the term from my mother-in-law’s mouth many years ago.  I raised my eyebrows and looked at her expectantly, knowing that an explanation would follow.  She told of watching farmers plow in the unforgiving soil of the Badlands in South Dakota when she was a girl.  Many times, they would have to stop the machinery to clean the blades, knowing that the time spent in cleaning the blades would pay off in time saved later on and a job done more efficiently.  In the unforgiving world of the farmer, it was foolishness to ignore trouble and put off finding a solution until the damage was done.  The furrows had to be clean and deep to allow the seed to take root and flourish below the surface, producing the crop that was essential for the farm’s success.  The way to make those furrows clean and deep was to keep the plow bright and sharp.

Probably the most famous use of the phrase is rumored to have occurred at the battlefield of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.  Immediately following the delivery of what was to become one of the most famous speeches in American history, President Abraham Lincoln supposedly turned to his bodyguard and told him that his speech, “like a bad plow, won’t scour.”  It is possible that he thought it a poor showing on his part, but time has certainly put the lie to that sentiment.  Many of President Lincoln’s opponents immediately held his words up to ridicule, but the intervening years have allowed us to see how cleanly and deeply the words have cut through the soil of our country’s experiences. 

Who among us is not moved by hearing the opening words to that short, but powerful speech?  “Four-score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”  I’m pretty sure that the plow still scours just fine, Mr. President.

I’m no farmer, but I understand how important it is that the rows in the wheat field run straight and true.  The whole process of growing a crop depends upon it.  Beyond the frustration and additional labor at plowing time, if the furrows are not uniform in depth and plane, the seeds will not be dropped in an even pattern, the plants won’t grow far enough apart to allow cultivation, and the crop will not be accessible to the combines as they move through the fields to reap the harvest.  At the very start, the plow must scour.

I get the feeling sometimes that I’m more than a little obvious in the morals with which I bring my stories to a conclusion.  If I say no more tonight, can I count on you to consider a minute or two longer the lessons to be drawn in our everyday life here?  Will you ponder, just for a moment, the importance of preparation, of diligence, of correction?  I’ll leave it with you then. 

Who knows?  The next time you’re eating dinner, you might even recall the lesson when the serving spoon starts to stack up with rice or cheesy potatoes, too.

Sometimes, the everyday examples are the best ones to help us to remember and to apply life’s deepest truths.

“You can’t plow a field by turning it over in your mind.”
(Old Irish proverb)

“‘Bright and keen for Christ our Savior’,
This our motto true.
We will try to live for him
In everything we do.”
(Christian Service Brigade theme song)

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

The Lovely Lady was in the dark.  In more than just one way.  She called her main trouble-shooter to solve her problem.  “Can you tell me why it’s dark in my kitchen?” was the query she started with when I answered the phone from the music store next door.  I’m pretty sure that she didn’t really think I already knew the answer–wasn’t suggesting that I had done something to the overhead light fixture, but I, being the genius everyone knows me to be, suggested wisely that there might be something wrong with it.  A few moments later, I was home and checking to find out exactly what it was that was wrong.  It just wouldn’t do to keep the Lovely Lady out of her kitchen.  I have come to enjoy my meals over the last few years and it is difficult to cook in a dark kitchen.

A few basic tests ruled out circuit problems, as well as a faulty switch.  There was certainly electric current to the wires up in the ceiling.  There had been no flashing as fluorescent bulbs will exhibit before failure, so that left one option:  the ballast.  I wrote down a part number and called an electrician friend of mine.  The part was delivered today.  I even took a few moments of my evening tonight to install it.  I believe that I may be favored with a home-cooked meal tomorrow.  Time will tell.  At any rate, the lights are shining brightly in the kitchen once more.

I have replaced more ballasts in my lifetime than most folks, simply because over the years, the fixtures in my different business locations have employed fluorescent lamps as a primary light source.  I will admit to a stellar lack of curiosity regarding the metal boxes with so many wires protruding.  You attach all those wires to the like-colored wires going to the lamps and the result is a circuit that works.  Tonight, for some odd reason, I have an inquiring mind.  What does that heavy box do?  And, one burning question is on my lips.  Why in the world is it called a ballast?

I know what ballast is; I’ve read about it with regard to ships.  It is the weight that helps to retain balance in sea-going vessels, causing them to ride deeper in the water than would be normal for an empty craft.  Sometimes ballast is useful goods, such as extra weapons, or building materials, or even food.  It also could be simply dead weight, such as pieces of iron or heavy wood.  Its purpose is to help keep the ship upright as it sails across the waves.  For obvious reasons, a light, bouncy craft is not easy to control, nor is it likely to fare well in heavy winds without a bountiful amount of weight to keep it stable.  Ballast can also be used in hot air balloons, to keep them near the earth and not soaring out of control into the upper atmosphere.  Only in extreme circumstances would one ever jettison the ballast, since it is impossible to replace it again, once the emergency is past, until the balloon has landed.  Ballast, then, helps to provide stability and control.

Photo by alwyn cooper

I have never before seen the correlation between the type of ballast which these great conveyances employ to assure a smooth journey and the ballast which is installed in the circuit of every fluorescent light you see.  A little light reading (my apologies) tonight enlightened (sorry again) me profoundly.  The ballast in this particular light fixture does exactly what the ballast in those vessels does; it provides balance, stability.  You see, the way a fluorescent bulb functions is that is contains gas and a coating which has fluorescent qualities, both of which are ignited by the electrical current provided as soon at the switch is flipped on.  So far, so good.  We have light.  The problem comes in the physical qualities of ignited gas, specifically that when it is excited by the electrical current, the resistance is reduced almost to nothing.  Without control of the current, the gas would glow brighter and brighter, and the current would be drawn in higher and higher quantities with potentially disastrous results.  Almost certainly the fixture would be ruined and quite possibly, fires and damage to other electrical components in the circuit would occur.

Enter the ballast, a box containing electronic components and a tar-like substance for noise insulation.  No, it is not named a ballast for its great weight, although that explanation had occurred to me.  What the ballast does is to limit the amount of current which can flow to the gas in the light tubes.  It allows a higher current to start the process and immediately, when it senses a larger than normal flow, chokes it down.  Because the power source is alternating current (it flows one direction, reverses, and flows back the other), this process occurs many times per second, but our eyes can’t actually discern the process.  Every time the current switches direction (60 times per second) the ballast does its job again.  No wonder the Lovely Lady’s kitchen fixture needed repair!  Think of how many times that ballast has performed it’s duties over the last ten years, since we installed the light.

Too much technical stuff?  Maybe we could switch gears for a moment then.  As frequently happens, my mind has jumped to the human condition…well, specifically to my condition, as I have written the words above.  How many times have I rushed ahead on a project I have visualized, my little craft speeding and skittering over the surface, only to meet with disaster as I skidded, out of control, into the barrier of reality.  The brilliance of the idea has stolen away my normal inhibitions, skirted my customary filters.  Knowledge is unleashed and the ballast of wisdom and experience are tossed overboard.  The questions of “what if?”, and “should we consider this for a moment?”, are shoved aside in favor of the “full speed ahead” order by the irresponsible captain.  Catastrophe awaits without ballast.  Balance and control, coupled with enthusiasm and exuberance, will accomplish an incredible amount of work.

I also believe that the ballast concept carries over into the arena of community.  I personally know many “idea” people.  They are the dreamers, the visionaries, who see what could be.  I tend, in community, to be ballast.  I ask questions and suggest potential pitfalls.  I see what might befall.  Together, the visionaries and the questioners make good time on projects, avoiding problems, and achieving the goals.  Alone, each of us is plagued with failure after failure.  Both are a necessity.  Too often, we glorify one and ridicule the other.  Perhaps it’s time that we celebrate the team, the body, if you will.  The hand is not the foot, but it needs that odd appendage to fulfill its purpose.  We are not alike, but we are linked inseparably, and without question, beneficially.

Ballast would not be the thing I would think to praise, if someone were to ask me what is most important in life.  It, however, is a vital part of our existence, both physical and spiritual.  Balance is essential.  I know.  I fall down when I lose mine.  In more ways than just one.

Knowledge.  Wisdom.  The bulb and the ballast that together give light with which to see and to live.  It might be a good time to check and see that both are in working order…

“In art and dream, may you proceed with abandon.  In life, may you proceed with balance and stealth.”
(Patti Smith~American songwriter/singer)

“‘Po-ta-toes,’ said Sam.  ‘The Gaffer’s delight, and rare good ballast for an empty stomach.'”
(from “The Two Towers”~J.R.R.Tolkien~British novelist~1892-1973)

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I didn’t know what to do.  

It was the second time in as many days that I was stumped to determine my next move.  The customer had been waiting for a couple of weeks for the parts and subsequent repair to the set of speakers he needed for his sound system.  He has a job this weekend for which he must have the system operable.  I had made him a promise.  “We’ll have it up and going today.”  I was, of course, depending on the delivery service to fulfill their promise (which they did) and was also assuming that I would have the time to effect the necessary repairs to the units (which I did, barely).  I was also depending on having made the correct diagnosis regarding the remedy for the issue (yeah…not so much).  I was still assembling the magnet on the speaker as he walked in the front door.  He was understanding and agreed to hang around until I could finish.  With the task completed, I reassembled the complete unit and, we plugged in a guitar to try it out.

It was a complete failure.  The anemic, distorted noise coming through the newly rebuilt speakers was nothing like the clear, punchy music we had expected to hear.  Quite obviously, there was something else wrong which I had failed to take into my calculations.  We were a sorry pair; me–the shopkeeper, needing to make a sale, but falling short of the mark and he–the customer, realizing that the necessary equipment for his performance this week was further out of reach than it had been when he walked in the door.  Neither of us had a clue as to our next step.

As I sat there on the speaker cabinet, I breathed a prayer for clarity of thought.  It may be no coincidence that in that instant, my eye was drawn to another speaker cabinet nearby and a thought hit me.  “Hey!  Did you know that I’ve got the matching cabinet to the speaker I sold you a couple of months ago?  Just this weekend, I bought it from the guy who built both of them.”  As he examined the speaker cabinet, the twin to his, his face brightened.  “I think this will work just as well as those would have!  Can I afford it?”  We negotiated a fair price, he purchased some peripheral items, and he went out a happy customer, thankfully, my last one of the day.  I was drained, emotionally and physically.

I said it was the second time I had been in the situation recently.  The first time was a little more frightening, but in a way, the result was the same.  We were about to finish up the singing time in our Sunday morning service.  The people had learned a new song and we were going through it one more time, to keep it fresh in our minds.  The congregation had done their part well and were singing enthusiastically…“For all your goodness, I will keep on singing.  Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find.”  In the middle of that phrase, I (along with most people in the church) had our eyes drawn to a strange movement in the center of the building, just behind the front row.  A young man, barely in his teens, leaned, turning as he toppled and smacked the concrete floor hard.  We kept going for a line of two more, but most had stopped singing and soon, the worship team did that too.  For a moment or two, the place was silent, as the health care professionals who were in attendance worked on the young man.

Photo by Leland Francisco

I didn’t know what to do next.  For a long moment we stood and then, I was praying into the microphone, asking for wisdom for the workers and a healing touch from the Great Physician.  It certainly wasn’t an eloquent prayer.  I’m not sure I know how to do eloquent. But, in just another minute or two, the boy was up and being helped out of the worship center to rest in privacy.  We were to learn later that he is going to recover just fine.  For a few moments there, it was a scary time.

Several people assured me that I had done just the right thing.  And, they’re right.  What they don’t understand is that, just as I did today when I was at the end of my wits, praying is the natural reaction for every human being I know, when confronted by a brick wall in front of us.  When we get to the end of ourselves, we turn to the One we know understands, the One who can actually do something about our circumstances.  Prayer is an admission of sorts…an admission that we are powerless and that we need help.  The difference is that believers know to Whom they are speaking in those moments.

I’m not going to spend a lot of time and ink here contemplating the effects and the benefits of prayer.  There have been volumes and volumes written on the subject.  There are even scientific studies which have undertaken to prove or disprove the benefit of prayer.  Certainly, there are other facets to prayer than the emergency, crisis-mode pleas described above.  All I’m saying today is that, when confronted with these kinds of situations personally, I would be paralyzed without a way to communicate with my Creator.  And, I am grateful.

I’ve never been great at thinking on my feet.  I need time to consider, time to weigh, time to revise and extend.  Some situations don’t allow for that.  It is a good thing to have One nearby who doesn’t need the time, but simply the opportunity, to act.

We’re in Good Hands.

“There are no atheists in foxholes.”
(attributed to Ernie Pyle~American war journalist~1900-1945)

“Funny how it seems I always wind up here with you;
Nice to know somebody loves me.
Funny how it seems that it’s the only thing to do;
Run and find the one who loves me.”
(from “Rainy Days and Mondays~ performed by Karen Carpenter~American vocalist~1950-1983)

“You’re rich in love, and You’re slow to anger
Your name is great, and Your heart is kind
For all Your goodness I will keep on singing
Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find”
(from “Ten Thousand Reasons (Bless the Lord)~performed by Matt Redman~British vocalist)

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As I took a “sick day” from writing last night, I found myself, while attempting to escape the concentration required in writing, reading from an old set of books containing the works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  It will be a long term commitment to complete all of the material contained therein.  My attempt to escape intense cerebral acrobatics failing miserably; I went to bed still with the headache which precipitated the evening off.  Regardless, I am happy to report that the late night study was not in vain.  I found myself surprisingly refreshed emotionally by, not only the poems I read, but also by the editor’s notes before each new grouping of selections.

Imagine my surprise (and delight) to read a note the poet himself wrote to his editor and included with a poem he was submitting for publication.  The note said that it was completed and prepared for submission at three thirty in the morning, and then finished with the words, “…and now, to bed.”  While I neither aspire, nor anticipate the opportunity, to achieve the greatness of Mr. Longfellow, I am emboldened in learning of his similar nocturnal literary labors.  For some reason, the creative flow in my brain seems to begin in the late night hours and continues on until the wee hours of the morning, but is virtually non-existent in the daytime.  I will count myself in good company as I continue my lonely toil through the time when most of my readers are abed.

I know that many consider the night a time of fear, of retreat behind safe walls (and for some, with good reason), but for all of my life, the night time has been a time of discovery and of education.  Certainly, there were times when I was a child that the darkness was a time for misdeeds and mischief.  The darkness offered cover for acts of meanness and trickery, and I took the opportunity more than once.  But the memories I have of learning and of awe in the darkness far outweigh those childish acts.

I have always had a love of reading and that love pushed me to spend most evenings after the sun set, and well past bedtime, deeply absorbed in any book I could get my hands on.  Some were read by the light of a luminescent praying hands nicknack which had spent the previous hours in the light fixture absorbing the energy needed to light up the space under the blankets.  Others were read while hiding in the closet and closing the doors to prevent the tell-tale beams from alerting the authorities downstairs.  The reading material was wildly varied.  Orwell’s “Animal Farm”,  Norman Vincent Peale’s “The Power Of Positive Thinking”, and “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” by Richard Bach were all read and questioned in the reading.  My reading material was usually considered in light of the Bible, which was also frequently on my reading list.  Then, just for fun, all of the Oz books were consumed by my fertile brain, followed by as many Tom Swift and Hardy Boys volumes as I could acquire.  I even read the Nancy Drew books, drawn to them after first reading “By the Light of the Study Lamp” by the same author.  The edition I read was one of the first 1930s era volumes, by then musty and brittle, but still fodder for a curious mind.  Books opened the path for imagination and the highway to learning.

There were a few nights that found me lying on the roof of the carport, the vantage point reached by crawling surreptitiously from the window in a dormer of the attic bedroom I shared with my brother.  Lying half on the flat gravel and tar roof, with my torso and head inclined onto the pitched shingles of the attached wash house, I reclined and considered the stars and the brilliant moon, imagining the possibilities that those vistas opened up to my young mind.

But, the music!  In those days of AM radios, sunset was the time when the low-powered local stations would go off the air and the “clear channel” stations would step up their power to beam to far-away places.  Exotic places like New Orleans and Chicago, cities only dreamed about in the hours of daylight, would stream their programs into my ear by way of the single ear bud, and I would be carried away.  On Saturday nights, from Nashville, the Grand Old Opry would bring the world of hillbilly and country music to me over the miles.  Then the stereo world of FM radio took my universe by storm, bringing such diverse styles as Deep Purple and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

It may be that I was just designed to enjoy the night time hours, or possibly a lifetime of breaking the rules has lead to this as a punishment, but I’m working at making the most of my opportunities.  I’m thinking that, as with many things, we needn’t be concerned so much with the peripherals, the time of day, the darkness, but with what we achieve with it.  Sleep is good (and necessary), and I do sleep.  But, I love the times of quiet and of space to dream and imagine, as well as to consider more serious and weighty matters.  And, the night has plenty of those times.

I found, as I read last night, some words that seem almost to be written to me and anyone who wants to impact their world.  In his “Voices of the Night”, Mr. Longfellow penned some autobiographical words about what influenced his work.  You’ll find an excerpt below.  The admonition to teach from our experiences and acquired knowledge seems to be apropos to our time, even though penned a century and a half ago.

And I can’t leave you without one slightly facetious thought that keeps intruding on my serious considerations.  My mind wants to leap to a verse in Ephesians that reminds us to take advantage of every opportunity.  The author of that book reminds us of the reason for his instruction…”Because the days are evil.”

“…and now, to bed.”

“Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay!
Ye were so sweet and wild!
And distant voices seemed to say,
“It cannot be! They pass away!
Other themes demand thy lay;
Thou art no more a child! 

 Look, then, into thine heart, and write!
Yes, into Life’s deep stream!
All forms of sorrow and delight,
All solemn Voices of the Night,
That can soothe thee, or affright,–
Be these henceforth thy theme.”
(from “Voices of the Night” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~American poet~1807-1882)




“I will love the light, for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness, because it shows me the stars.”
(Og Mandino~American Essayist~1923-1996)

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