Peace in the Storm

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

These days, I’m trying to walk the thin line between personal rights and being hospitable, that verge that separates personal space from the people who need me (and who I need).  Oddly enough, I’ve found that as the years have piled on, two divergent attitudes have developed inside me.  I have an inordinately strong desire to be left alone in whichever place I choose to settle, free from outside entanglements.  At the same time, I find myself more emotionally attached to family and friends, with reminders of family interactions or old pictures that elicit fond memories being enough to bring tears at times.  How can these two very strong, and presumably opposing mindsets, coexist inside one person?

Once more, I’m reminded that most of life is like that.  We want to do one thing and find ourselves doing the other.  Paul the Apostle had the problem, although arguably in an area which is a bit more weighty than my shallow issue.  He said, “Those things I want to do, I don’t do.  Those things I hate, I find myself doing.”  Like Paul, all our lives, we struggle to do the right thing.  The difficulty in my current dilemma is that it’s not about right and wrong, just about two different things that both seem really important.

I remember a conversation with my father years ago.  Some of his friends were angry to find out that he often turned off the phone at home, making it impossible to reach him.  His response?  “I put that phone in for my convenience, not theirs.  I can certainly turn it off anytime I want.”  Now, I don’t want you to think my Dad is an insensitive jerk, because he is definitely not that.  At eighty-plus years old, he still pastors a church and unselfishly keeps a daily schedule that puts me to shame, rising long before the sun to study, so that he can be available to anyone who needs him later in the morning, afternoon, and evening.  I have to laugh at the shift in habits however, because his phone is never turned off now.  When he leaves his office, he is careful to forward all his calls to his cell phone, never out of touch with those who need to find their pastor.

Recently, I’ve been thinking of that conversation frequently.  I also am never away from contact, either by phone, or email, or text.  I even keep a card in the Rolodex at the store so I can give the correct answer to the question, “How do I contact you?”  Cell, business, home, toll-free, and fax numbers all are near at hand, with the devices functioning continuously.  Daily, all around me, phones ring, buzz, and play popular tunes, with customers holding up a hand to stop our conversation and turning their attention to the people in their life with whom they cannot break contact.  While I’m describing products, texts are being sent back and forth, my sales pitch only a small part of the information flow these folks are experiencing simultaneously.

Is it any wonder I want to yell, “Stop the merry-go-round!  I want off!” frequently?  The cause of my need for solitude is the incessant barrage of communication, the constant stimulation of my brain with no let-up.  The need for separation from the “madding crowd” becomes absolute.  We are not made for constant activity and conversation, not suited for the frenzied pace that modern life demands.

Balance is good.  We need people, both family and friends; we need time away.  I’ve always loved that the Bible tells us to be still.  There are also plenty of instructions in there for actions, but we need time to detox as well.  The poisons of frenzy and urgency need to be cleansed away with the clear, cool water of re-creation; the spirit being refreshed and put back together.  Just as we have ministry to perform, we have the need to be ministered to.  But, not for too long.  If being still becomes a way of life, the balance gets off that direction too and we’re of little use to those who need us.

I’m going to work at heeding the two dichotomies, being there for the people who need me, but swerving out of the fast lane frequently to the side roads where I can putter along.  Both are amazingly rewarding when the proportion is right.

Who knows?  I may even start turning off the phones once in awhile, too!

Leave your message at the beep…

  

“You who seek an end of love, love will yield to business: be busy, and you will be safe.”
(Ovid~Ancient Roman poet)

“And He awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Peace!  Be still!”  And the wind ceased and there was a great calm.
(Mark 4:39 ESV)

(Yet another encore performance…originally posted 1-13-11)

Through

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments
We finished up the rehearsal and prepared to go home.  As one of the other guys and I talked over some logistical details, the young man came over to stand beside me.  “I wonder if we could think about doing a few things differently,”  he suggested.  The voice inside me screamed,  “You think you can tell me anything, kid?”, but what came out was, “What do you have in mind?”  A few well-reasoned suggestions later, he left to go back to his university campus; back to his classes and theories, and his youthful certainties of how things work.  I drove home, wondering if I am getting too old, too set in my ways, and too behind the times, to continue exercising my perceived gifts. I spent the rest of the day in a dark mood, or “brown study” as Arthur Conan Doyle would have put it in the Sherlock Holmes stories.
I use the term “brown study” because I don’t want you to think that I was just in a bad mood (although I was that).  Even though I am given to such mood swings, the one redeeming feature of the lows is that I actually tend, nowadays, to consider the cause and potential cure for the malaise in which I find myself.  In some ways, the progression from disappointment to resolution actually is positive, leaving me with a sense of purpose and a determination to improve.  Of course, sometimes the process leaves me thinking that I am not up to the task, but that comes into the discussion a little later.
On this occasion, I found myself looking at the suggestions the young man had made, first getting past my objections, then considering the benefits of the actions he outlined.  Some of the theoretical ideas won’t work in the real world in which I function, so they can be put aside.  But it is not advisable at any time to throw the baby out with the bath water, so I am still working through the ideas which we can use.  One thing that I have learned (and have had underscored in experiences of the last few weeks) is that I must listen to communicate.  This is an opportunity for me to do just that.  I’ll just have to keep working my way though that minefield.  
I know this is a little boring (or maybe extremely so), but I hope you’ll stick with me for a few moments longer.  After spending a good deal of the evening in thought, I went to bed, still not necessarily looking forward to actually leading the group today.  Then last night, we moved our clocks forward in anticipation of the change to Daylight Saving Time.  An hour lost!  Ah well, it was just one more straw on the camel’s back.  No need for worry.  The morning would be bright and all this would be behind me.
 I’d like to tell you that today was a picnic, with everything falling into place.  That would be untruthful.  To start the ball rolling, as the clock buzzed stridently this morning, I rolled over to see the sky pouring rain.  Grumbling, I got out of bed, only to be hit with a dizzy spell, the first one in over a year.  I held on for dear life to a nearby chest of drawers until it passed.  Practice and the Worship Service are a blur.  I do remember that the people in the church participated and were moved to worship; a bright spot in an otherwise dark day for me.  The headache which trailed behind the dizziness was overpowering, but still there were miles to go.  News that a relative has been diagnosed with cancer came right before the Lovely Lady’s mom had to be brought in from the car in the pouring rain, an umbrella held over her while I got soaked holding it.  Dinner for thirteen, with all the bedlam that accompanies it, and still the cleanup would follow.  As the Lovely Lady left to take her mom home, I thought seriously about dropping out right then.  The stack of dishes, with the remnants of dinner stuck to every piece, was more than I could face.  “Message to God:  I quit!  You’ll have to take this work and finish it without me.”  Then the truth hit me.
It was almost like a light coming on.  The problem is, I’ve seen this light before.  It burns dimly, like most of the truths we experience in daily life.  No brilliant light, turning the “darkness to dawning and the dawning to noonday bright”, as the old hymn describes.  This is just an everyday, ordinary truth that guides us through the darkness we stumble in.  The realization that the job of cleaning up the dinner mess would only be completed when the work is done is obvious to most of us.  But to a basically lazy person like me, it’s not the answer I crave.  I always want the easy way out. But the truth is universal.  Placing one foot in front of the other, one tired step at a time, we go through.  And, not coincidentally, this is not a punishment.  It’s a blessing, teaching us perseverance, helping us to grow up, making us stronger for the next event we have to face.  I don’t mean to be a pessimist, but you need to be aware that all of our lives on this planet will be spent going through.  Not over, not around, but through.  
So what does getting the dishes cleaned have to do with leading worship?  Funny you should ask.  I’ve been thinking a lot recently about quitting the job of leading worship.  “I don’t have the time.”  “It’s outside my comfort zone.”  “Others are more qualified.”  All the excuses are true.  But, for right now and at this place in my life, just like the after-dinner cleanup, this is what has been put in front of me.  I’m going through.  I’ll listen, I’ll grow, I’ll even do things in ways I’ve never done them before.  My hair may be gray before I’m finished.  I may even pull out a bit of it.  But the feet are moving and the resolve is set.
How about you?  Do you have a mountain in front of you that you wish would disappear?  Or, just a path leading into the unexplored wilds where you’ve never ventured before?  Take it from a perpetual procrastinator.  It doesn’t go away if you wait long enough.  Try putting one foot in front of you.  That didn’t hurt much, did it?  Try it again.
Now, you’ve got the idea.  Through.  It’s not only the method by which we complete the tasks in front of us, it’s also the word we use to exult when we have finished.  
Through!  
“…let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up.  And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.”
(Hebrews 12:1 NLT)
“Heights by great men reached and kept 
Were not obtained by sudden flight.
But, while their companions slept,
They were toiling upward in the night.”
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~American poet~1807-1882)

Un Abrazo

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Yesterday’s post told you to keep your hands to yourself.  I was thinking about that all day and realized that I didn’t want to leave you with the idea that I don’t think we need each other.  If today’s post leaves you feeling that I’m sending mixed signals, I’m really not.  Yesterday’s discussion showed that personal responsibility is necessary to insure that we function on a moral level.  Today, I’m thinking a little more about the emotional level.  

 The Spanish title above?  Oh!  I just think that “hug” sounds more manly in that language…

Appropriate touching is allowed here…

“I need a hug.”  The Facebook post was terse and stark in its naked honesty.  Below the post, the lonesome girl’s “friends” had made various comments informing the young lady that they were “there for her” and reassuring her that she was cared for.  A couple of them even made cute little stick pictures with various symbols on their computer keyboards, intended I’m sure, to look like hugs.  It is possible that the young lady felt better after the exchange of remarks and fake hugs, but I did not…Until I noticed a final reply, under all the other desultory entries.  “I’ll be there in a minute.”  Help, at last, was actually on the way.

There is nothing in the world that can replace a genuine, physical hug.  I don’t understand it.  The manly part of me wants it not to be true.  But, the act of putting your arms around someone else to greet, or console, or show affection, has no known substitute.  The touch of one human who cares about another is a powerful, and somehow mysterious, force.  Nothing really changes; the issues have not been faced and altered; not a single thing has been reversed, but suddenly the forces arrayed against us seem somehow less formidable. 

Human touch.  What is it about one person making physical contact with another that communicates so many things?  We touch the face of one who mourns, in sympathy.  Babies’ cheeks are squeezed by countless admirers.  Winners are slapped on the back. High fives and knuckle bumps suffice to celebrate a myriad of small successes.  And, of course, there is the ubiquitous handshake.  Friends greet each other with it; businessmen seal transactions; why, even opponents “shake hands and come out fighting”.  A universal sign of respect and honesty, the execution of the handshake varies from culture to culture; high art in the gang cultures, a mere slap on the hand in sporting events.  Some cultures tend to simply slide the hands together without squeezing, while such a handshake would be regarded in the rural areas of the United States as “fishlike” and as such, suspect from the get-go.  Regardless of the differences, the one thing that ties them all together, that makes the act significant, is the fact that one human physically touches another.   Respect, concern, joy, honesty…all are represented in the touch of one person to the other. 

Still, I’m realizing more and more, as I move past the years when I thought it embarrassing to be involved in one, a hug is hard to beat.  I think it might be because there are so many people from whom I want and need hugs that are no longer around to give them.  Some are just separated from me by miles, others by a more permanent barrier.  Loved ones and friends who have passed on are no longer able to encourage, to commiserate, to demonstrate love, with an embrace.  There is an empty feeling inside me as I realize that my arms will never go around these people again on this side of heaven.  There is also some regret that I didn’t let down my guard more often to hug and be hugged when they were here.  The older I get, the more my foolish masculine pride is left behind as I embrace old friends and family members.  Sure, sometimes to mask the beginnings of a hug, we reach out with the hand to be shaken first, before drawing the other one close to embrace while maintaining the grip on the hand.  I guess somehow, it give us a kind of “plausible deniability”. “Yeah.  We were just shaking hands.  No, it wasn’t a hug.  I just kinda put my arm on his shoulder too.”   No one believes it, but if it helps to get past the macho mindset that we’ve developed in this country, it’ll have to do.  I hope you won’t fall for the silly deniability argument, either.  It really is a hug.  And, that’s okay.

We need each other.  Our Creator made us to thrive in concord with other humans.  For some reason, He also designed us to function more efficiently when we have physical signals of affection, and respect, and support.

I kind of like that.  At least, I’m learning to.

“Greet one another with a holy kiss.”
(2 Corinthians 13:12)

“I will not play tug o’ war. I’d rather play hug o’ war. Where everyone hugs instead of tugs, Where everyone giggles and rolls on the rug, Where everyone kisses, and everyone grins, and everyone cuddles, and everyone wins.”
(Shel Silverstein~American children’s author)

MYOB

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

How well I remember the angry exchanges from the back seat:  “He’s touching me!”  “You did it first.”  “Did not!”  “Did too!”  “Did not!”  “Did too!”  Another voice, this time from the front seat, interjects itself into the back and forth inanity.  “Both of you, get back on your side of the car and keep your hands to yourself!”   Immediately, all is quiet, until a few moments later when you hear a plaintive voice from the back seat again, “He’s looking at me!”

Any of you who grew up with brothers or sisters close to your age remember those days.  Someone was always getting into your space; always making you uncomfortable and breaking up the relative peacefulness of your life.  There was no telling when one or another of the siblings was going to push the boundaries, either real or imaginary, just to see if they could add a little acreage to their own territory, all the sweeter for them if they could take it from your little corner of the world.  I’m still amazed that we grew up without hating each other, and in fact, actually loving and respecting each other.  But maturity also brings with it a different, and just as confusing, set of problems.  The funny thing is, this set of problems has a striking similarity to those of childhood…

One evening, close to 20 years ago, I got a call from an elderly friend, a widowed lady, whose middle-aged son was visiting her.  His marriage was in trouble and he had left home for a little thinking time.    His mom asked me if I would “counsel” him.  I’m not sure why she picked me, but she must have been under the mistaken impression that I had some store of wisdom that could help his marriage.  I agreed to spend some time with him, but it would be simply as a friend, not as a marriage counselor.  In getting acquainted with him, he mentioned that he would like it if we could talk some about the Bible.  I knew a bit more about that subject than marriage counseling, so I agreed that we would do a Bible study and suggested that when we got together the next time, he should bring a passage about which he had a question.

As we sat down at the table, he hit me with it immediately.  Ephesians 5:22 was the verse.  In it, the writer says, “Wives be submissive to your husbands…”  No sooner had I read it out loud than he burst out,  “That’s my problem!  She won’t submit and let me be the head of our home!  That’s why we can’t get along! How can I make her do that?”  Well, that stumped me for a few seconds.  The obvious answer was that he couldn’t!  That’s why he was here in Arkansas and she was in California!  But, that’s not what he needed to hear.  So of course, the next thing I told him was, “Get back on your side of the car and keep your hands to yourself!”

Okay, what I really did was to ask him a question.  “Does that statement give instructions to someone specific?”  “Well, yes,” came the reluctant answer.  “It tells wives how to act.”  “Well, unless you’re a wife, it’s obviously of no interest to you.  Move on.”  So down we went to the verses below that.  He read verse 25.  “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church.  He even died for it…”  He looked at me as if I had punched him.  It wasn’t necessary to ask if he got the point.  It was pretty clear that he did! 

It seems that most things are like those letters I get with the directive printed on them, “To be opened by addressee only, under penalty of law.”  If my name is not on the letter, I don’t mess with it.  Just so, in my daily life, when the instructions are targeted at me, I should do my best to follow them.  Otherwise, I need to leave them alone.   I really can’t make anybody else live the way they’re supposed to, so it’s unproductive to try.  That’s not my job! And, it does more damage to relationships than any benefit that I’ll ever achieve.  I’ve also finally begun to realize that if I follow the instructions I’m given, somehow it becomes a whole lot easier for the people I’m with to do their own part.  But as far as obedience goes, I’m only responsible for me. 

“Get back on your side of the car, and keep your hands to yourself!”  Turns out, Dad’s instruction for feuding siblings was also great advice for most adult relationships, too.  If we take care of ourselves, we won’t be getting  into spaces that don’t belong to us.

I’m still not sure if he ever figured out how to take care of the “He’s looking at me” problem.

“Child…I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”
(Aslan, in “The Horse & His Boy” by C.S. Lewis)

 “MYOB.”
(common anagram used in text-messaging for “Mind your own business”)

Originally published October 19, 2010

Inside Voices

~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

“Inside voice, sweetheart.”  The gentle reminder from her mom motivates a reiteration of the phrase just uttered by the tyke at ear-shattering volume, this time at a level commensurate with our ability to understand what has been said.  The little one is one-fourth of a quartet of rambunctious kids who love rowdy action and nearly constant conversation.  Her problem is that she doesn’t have the strength to instill her will with physical prowess, as do some of them.  The Good Lord has blessed her, however, with strong lungs and a voice that can be heard above the normal din.  She has learned to use her talent.  Now her parents are laboring together to help her work on controlling it.  It is a lesson we could all stand to learn.

I am, right now, in what might be called a time of epiphany; a season of discovery and eye-opening revelations.  They shouldn’t be so astounding; these are lessons I have studied before.  I am simply seeing an exhibition of how communication should have been working throughout my life, and might have been, had I been paying attention.  At my age, I now gather new ideas a slice at a time, rather than seeing the whole pie, and I’m sure I should remember more, but a helpful seminar at the local university just one week ago (thanks to SIFE at JBU) has started the gears to turning once again.  It is slow work and more grease is needed.  I did learn this one thing though;  Communication is not about talking as much as it is about listening.  From a business perspective, I want to sell a product (that’s talking).  But, if I want to reach the socially connected denizen of this culture, I will have to listen first to find out what they are interested in and to see if what I have to offer is relevant to them.  It’s a radical concept to this old-timer.

What I am discovering, as I wander through this epiphanal landscape, oohing and aahing over each new vista that opens up, is that the precept of listening to communicate did not originate in the field of sales, nor is it a new principle in any way.  It has always been true.  It’s just that bumbling oafs, such as myself, have traditionally assumed that superior intellect and higher volume will always silence the opposition.  The concept of superior intellect is present in my own mind only, you understand.  The higher volume component?  That one is universally accepted as one of my modi operandi (yeah, I had to look it up too, to be sure of the plural form).  I, like the aforementioned little princess, understand that superior firepower will almost always silence the battlefield.  The problem with my method is that silence doesn’t mean I’ve convinced anyone.  It just means that they’re not engaged in the conversation anymore.

The whole process has led me to think about this social media phenomenon a bit further.  I am astounded and dismayed by the growing rift I see between people with divergent opinions.  I am also concerned by how quickly a firestorm can get started and can grow out of control.  It seems that the same media which spawns viral information that can grow into concern and action (e.g. the current KONY 2012 campaign, viewed by almost four million people in two weeks), can also pit friend against friend as the volume is raised to a fever pitch in arguments about political or social issues (the recent Rush Limbaugh debacle springs to mind).  If we do not understand the power of our words and the strength of our reactions, we risk, not merely ostracizing our close friends and acquaintances, but, engendering larger disasters which may be waiting to occur.  Many hail the success of social media in ending the reign of terror in the Middle Eastern region in recent months.  I’m not sure that the media didn’t actually short circuit the time-honored process of negotiation and compromise, instead trading the peaceful (but slower) transition to a stable solution for a violent and unstable speedy conclusion, which promises to beget more conflict without a genuine resolution for the foreseeable future.  I don’t insist on that reading of the process, but am fearful that it may be so.

This wasn’t intended to be a political diatribe, but as you know, I do follow the rabbit into whichever hole it disappears, frequently.  My brain is still spinning with the truths which have quite possibly been evident for many years to most of you.  As I’ve said before (ad nauseum), I am a slow learner.  You may have to wait for me a moment or two while I catch up.  I resolve to listen more.  I will attempt to talk less.  The grey matter will, no doubt, continue to sift through the rubble and hopefully, the action that ensues will be rational and constructive.  Time will tell. 

Some of you may have noticed that there are not always comments made at the bottom of these posts.  I try to listen intently to the ones I receive in other media, as well as to you who have approached me in person.  Still, I do want to hear from you any time you are inclined to contribute.  To me, your voice is (and always will be) a vital part of the conversation.

The comment box awaits. Please, use your inside voice…

“Speak softly and carry a big stick. You will go far.”
(West African proverb~popularized by Theodore Roosevelt~26th President of the U.S.A.~1858-1919)

“A gentle answer turns away wrath.  But, harsh words stir up anger.”
(Proverbs 15:1)

Marketing 101: No Empty Wagons!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I love times like today, when a customer gets out and walks around his car in the parking lot outside my front door.  The anticipation of what will be pulled out of the back seat or the trunk is always a little exciting.  As I stand behind the counter and envision the treasure which will soon make its way into the music store, I remember my younger, more foolish days, when I would spend whole weekends searching through junk stores and pawnshops for those hidden treasures.  The enjoyment was what I described often as the thrill of the chase.  One never knew if the quest would prove fruitless.  It often did.  When that happened, the disappointment would overcome me and I would vow never to waste another weekend in such a foolish pursuit.  Invariably though, a few weeks later, the fever would overtake me again and off I would go to the jungles of Kansas City, or Dallas, or maybe even Memphis to stalk the prey once more.

I seldom go on the hunts anymore.  I no longer feel the call of the wild, since I actually acquired the best trophy I will probably ever bag several years ago (you may read about it here if you wish).  The thrill of the chase is now greatly diminished.  I’ve become more of a trapper than a hunter as I’ve gotten older and wiser.  It seems that the prey I seek actually will come to me anyway, if the trap is baited with an attractive enough prize.  The tantalizing aroma of cold, hard cash is what seems to work best, although I will admit that a fair number of the prizes I’ve taken have come with simply the offer of an in-kind trade; one of my favorite types of bait.  The latest trophy is carried into the store and left in my hands with the most painless of exchanges; a straight across swap.  Although, a cash sale is good, sometimes the swap, which achieves two things, is better.  First: our stock rotates, giving the impression that we sell more merchandise than we do; and second: frequently, the instrument which has been traded in may be sold for more money than the one which we relinquished in the transaction.  The customer has what he or she wanted and we are able to make a profit and live to hunt another day.  A win-win situation by any calculation.

Today, as I waited expectantly, the young man brought in a prize, a valuable, older guitar with a hand-carved top and beautiful abalone inlay all the way up the fingerboard.  I wanted the guitar, that much is certain.  As a businessman, however, I have to take certain precautions, and I decided that I should pass on this instrument.  He was disappointed, but may be able to take steps which will make a future deal possible.  As we talked, he inquired about what I would do with the guitar, should I ever acquire it.  I said casually that I might just stow it in the back room of the store to bring out at a future date.  Immediately, he brightened as an idea took hold of him.  “Do you have lots of guitars back there?  Can I go back and look at them?”  I laughed, and then had to disillusion him about the imagined treasure-trove of stored instruments in the back room.  The only instruments back there are the ones I don’t want to have in the sales area of the store because they are either too cheaply made or too badly damaged to ever repair.  They are only good to be hung on walls or stripped down for salvage.  The disappointed young man carried his guitar out of the store.  Even now, I can feel the twist it was on my emotions to let the prize slip through my hands.  Another day, I may have the chance to win that particular trophy.

Later, I considered the verbal exchange, and I was struck with a dichotomy.  As a business owner, I know that I have to have my wares on display, available for the public to see and to hold.  If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to sustain the business.  My father-in-law, who was my teacher and mentor for many years, always told me, “You can’t sell from an empty wagon.”  In our day and age, that saying doesn’t make as much sense as it did to him.  Many years ago, during the depression, he walked along with his elderly father, born during the Civil War, as he sold from a horse-drawn wagon.  The products, made by the Rawleigh company, had to be in stock for them to make any sales.  When you were sold out of items, you went home.  No one would buy on the promise of a future delivery.  They wanted to make the purchase and have the product in their hand as they walked back into their houses.  Today, almost a century later, I find that most customers prefer to walk out with the item they walked in to buy.  Special orders are sometimes made, but the vast majority of people want the gratification of being able to take their purchase home with them today.  You still can’t sell from an empty wagon.  You see, a special room in the back, with hidden items, simply doesn’t make sense from the standpoint of making sales.

With that said, here is the dichotomy.  I always wanted the shops I frequented on those hunting expeditions to have merchandise which no one else had been able to view.  Hidden merchandise could be a bargain and it might even be a trophy of epic proportions.  Interesting, isn’t it?  I wanted to be the best that I could be at marketing, but I wanted to buy from people who didn’t understand the basic principles of business.  It worked out well for me back then, but over the years, the market has changed and so have I.  So for now, I stay in my little store and put out the bait necessary to bring the prizes to me.  It frees me up to do a better job at other aspects of my work.

The world says, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it!”  While it is not their intention, they’re just espousing a Biblical principal.  Jesus said it this way, “A city that is set on the side of a hill cannot be hidden.  Neither do men put a candle under a basket.  No, they put it on a lamp stand and it gives light to all within its reach.”  Just like the merchandise in my store, our gifts are made to be displayed.  They are given to impact the world, not to be hidden.  Every time I hear the words “hidden gifts”, I cringe.  It is unprofitable at best, and maybe even a little selfish to keep gifts to ourselves.  Buried talents never multiply, never benefit even the talented, much less, fellow travelers.  Shine!  Like stars in the heavens, light up the night around you.

So, no valuable guitars hidden in the back room, no trophies hanging on the wall with “Do Not Touch” signs.  Some things are made to be out in the open and accessible.  I kind of like it that way.

While I’m thinking about it, if you’ve got a genuine Stradivarius violin hidden under the bed at home, maybe you could bring it by sometime.  I’ve got the perfect wall on which it can hang for awhile.

“This little light of mine, 
I’m going to let it shine.
Hide it under a bushel?  No!
I’m going to let it shine!
Let it shine, let it shine.”
(“This Little Light of Mine”~Children’s song~Harry Dixon Loes~1895-1965)

“Take your candle, and go light your world.”
(“Go Light Your World”~Chris Rice~American songwriter)

A Dish Served Cold

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Dessert came just before the end of a perfect time around the table. As usual, the delicious meal had been prepared effortlessly, it seemed, by the Lovely Lady.  The table was full, and soon, so were we.  Every dish was perfect, from the salad (complete with diced avocados), to the brown rice and basted chicken breasts, along with the cheesy spinach, which even the kids love.  To top it all off, the pretty chef appeared from the kitchen with a perfect New York style cheesecake, golden brown on the outside and creamy smooth on the inside.  A little homemade strawberry jam drizzled over the top, along with a cup of coffee on the side, and the meal was complete.  Perfection!

It hasn’t always been so.  Just let her appear at the table with a fresh-baked apple crisp, and the inevitable question comes, usually quite soon.  “You left out the garlic, we hope?”  It was in the dim, distant past, but the collective memory still recalls.  A strange flavor in the apple/cinnamon pie-like concoction led us to believe that she might have substituted an inappropriate ingredient.  We’ll never let her forget.

And, I don’t talk about it much, but there was a time, much longer ago that I still recall clearly…

We had been married three or four months.  The lovely eighteen-year old redhead was juggling the unenviable tasks of caring for an immature and demanding new husband and attempting to maintain her own high standards for academics at the local university.  This week, to top it off, an old friend of mine had called.  “I’m coming to the university to recruit for the ministry which I represent.  Can we get together for a meal?”  Without a second thought for my young wife’s well-being, I immediately insisted that Bob come to our home for supper.  It would be no skin off my nose.  I was working at the music store and would be happy to arrive home ten minutes before he came.  The Lovely Lady didn’t offer a word of complaint.  She just planned ahead and, during her lunch break that day, instead of eating, she prepared a tuna casserole for the evening meal.  It was placed in the refrigerator, to be popped in the oven when she arrived home after classes that afternoon.  She would have forty-five minutes before our guest showed up; plenty of time to preheat the oven and then cook the casserole for thirty minutes.

We sat down with our guest that evening in our tiny combination kitchen/dining area.  Bob looked at the salad and casserole and said, “Mmmm…Tuna casserole!  My favorite!”  After we asked the blessing, the portions were served and we set to.  The first bite was great!  Hot and creamy, just as we had expected.  Funny thing, though.  The further we went, the colder the temperature of the food.  By the time we dug into the center of the pile of tuna and noodles on our plates, it was as frigid as if it had just been taken out of the refrigerator.  The beautiful young housewife had made a small miscalculation.  Thirty minutes is the amount of time it takes to heat up the ingredients when they begin at room temperature.  This dish had chilled for several hours previous to that and would have taken twice the time to be heated through.

Whenever I think of that meal, I remember, vividly, several things.  The first thing is the graciousness with which our guest handled himself.  Ignoring the temperature of the dish (he couldn’t not have noticed it), he wolfed down his portion and asked for seconds, exclaiming about how delicious it was.  Not only did he not mention the problem with the food, he made sure that the cook knew how much he appreciated her work!  The second thing I remember is that, in spite of her embarrassment at the culinary faux-pas, the lovely young lady handled herself with aplomb and was the perfect hostess for the entire evening.   One final thing I remember, the thing I’m personally the most proud of.  For a wonder, the young lady’s husband was supportive as she transformed from the perfect hostess to the mortified teenage girl when the front door closed behind Bob.  I remember assuring her that it was of no consequence and reminded her that he had asked for and eaten seconds.  After a tear or two, we began to laugh as we moved past the embarrassed stage and I hugged her and told the beautiful girl that I loved her and still loved her cooking.

I passed the test!  As hard as it may be for you to believe, I have not always been so discerning, nor caring.  There have been any number of times in our marriage when I have failed miserably.  I am impatient and selfish, again and again.  I am thankful for the grace which she has shown each time.  But, on this one occasion, I realized how much she needed me to be supportive and sympathetic.  I’d like to think that it’s part of the reason I enjoyed such a perfect meal today, over thirty years later.  I may be dreaming, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.

I remember a pastor’s wife, in the church where I grew up, who refused to sing in public.  She would sit (or stand) with her mouth closed the whole time the congregation sang the beautiful old hymns of the church.  I never could figure out how anyone could sit without singing those great songs.  But, there was more to it than simply a person who didn’t like to sing.  It seems that her husband, the pastor, had on more than one occasion, publicly made fun of her and told folks that she couldn’t “carry a tune in a bucket.”  She believed him, or else was too embarrassed by his words.  Regardless, she refused to even try anymore.  Shame on him! 

I’d love to have you try the Lovely Lady’s amazing roast beef some day.  And her apple pie?  As the saying goes, it would “make you want to slap your mama.”  I know better than to take credit for any of the great food.  But, deep down inside, I think that I had a little (a very little, mind you) part in the development of a fine cook.  I won’t insist on it.  She may even have something to say about that…

This I do know; words spoken in encouragement build confidence and a resolve to do better; words spoken in criticism are destructive and build a resolve to quit trying.  I’d like to be the one speaking the words that egg people on to do good things.  I’m guessing you would too.

Another serving of tuna casserole, anyone?

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better.  It’s not.”
(Dr. Seuss (Theodore Seuss Geisel)~American author of children’s books~1904-1991)

“Therefore, encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact, you have been doing.”
(I Thessalonians 5:11)

Past the Edge

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The man listened as I unloaded on him.  I’m still having a hard time with my friend, the Mountain Man’s death, and with the permanence of the separation.  As we talked, the tears came again and my frustration showed through.  It’s not that I don’t know how life (and death) works.  I simply want it to work differently.  I won’t bore you with the details of the conversation, but this particular man (whom I’ve known for many years) is gifted at putting things in perspective.  He didn’t lie to me, but he was kind enough to leave me, along with the harsh reality, a ray of hope.  I’ll take it.  I knew it was there all along, but like so many of us, I tend to focus on the minutiae, and not the big picture. 

I’m not sure why I do that.  I find myself disturbed continually by having to live in the moment, without any glimmer of knowledge of future events.  I understand completely the consternation of the ancient explorers, who worked with incomplete maps, the borders of which left one to wonder what came next.  Supposedly, it wasn’t uncommon to see the text written on the margins of these maps which warned, “Beyond this place, there be dragons!”  It is easy to imagine the worst when we simply have no idea what to expect.  When the world was assumed to be flat, one never knew if they would fall off the edge of the planet if they ventured out past the known terrain.  Like the ancient pathfinders, I don’t enjoy having to put one foot timidly in front of the other, feeling for the pathway in the fog and darkness.  I desire clarity and illumination.  It doesn’t always come.

I appreciated the talk with my friend.  He helped to give me a sense of scope.  But, right before he left, he also gave me a glimpse of his own burden, as he talked about an unusual affliction with which his wife is struggling right now.  He told of doctors and tests, absurd recommendations by a doctor or two and a friend or two, and an upcoming appointment at a well-respected clinic.  He related his sense of helplessness and frustration, and his tears.  And, as he talked, I realized that this also is part of the bigger picture.  There are dragons beyond the borders of the terrain with which I’m familiar.  It was my turn to offer comfort and promises of prayer.  As the bigger picture comes into focus, I realize that we require help from each other to face the unknown, the mysterious and uncharted.  I’m not the only one who cries, not the only one who has questions.  But you know, I also realize something else.  The further I go, the more I find that I am content with the companions I’ve met along the way.  I’m in good company.

Now, as to the road map…I’m still trying to figure it out.  On my recent trip to the big city of Los Angeles, I used my smart phone as an aid to finding my way around.  It worked passably, but there was a good bit of frustration at the limitations.  I found that I could either have a detailed map which covered a very small area in scope, or I could have a big picture view of where I was headed without the kind of detail my brain needed to navigate comfortably.  I got by, but I really missed the Lovely Lady sitting by my side with the huge paper map spread out over her lap, telling me, “Now, you’re going to pass Disneyland in just a moment and then we’ll come to the Chapman Exit a little past that.  Get off there!”  The simple fact is that we work better when we have others to help read the roadsigns and the instructions.

Yes, companionship has its pitfalls.  We get to live with someone else’s dragons, we have to work through personality conflicts.  We could even have the sorrow of losing that companion to look forward to.  But, I’m confident that the rewards of the fellowship far outweigh the dark clouds that hover on the horizon and may never darken our sky.  It is a fine way to travel as we pass through this world.

I’m trying to look a little more at the Big Picture and I’m getting some help with reading the Map.  I hope that you will also find a trustworthy traveling companion or two as you wander the path you’re on.  Who knows?  I might even be able to help decipher a mile or two of your road for you.  I know you’d do the same for me.

Just watch out for those dragons!

“Two people are better off than one, because together, they can help each other to succeed.”
(Ecclesiastes 4:9)

“Digital clocks are…an infinite succession of “You Are Here” arrows, but nary a map.”
(from “The Song of Albion”~Stephen Lawhead~American author)

300? You Blockhead!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was a dark and stormy night.  Okay, I know.  It’s purported to be the worst opening line ever used in fiction writing.  I just happen to love the Peanuts cartoons in which Mr. Schulz had Snoopy sitting at the typewriter and trying out various first lines.  He always settles on the much maligned “It was a dark and stormy night” configuration, to the consternation of Lucy and several others.  I’m with Snoopy.  Go with what you know.

So, while the wind cracks and the lightning wails outside…no, no.  Scratch that…turn those around.  Anyway, I do want to spend a few moments in consideration of one or two more original thoughts.  Perhaps, I’ll even be able to get them arranged in a rational order as I peck along at the keyboard.  You’ll be the Lucy to my Snoopy and may critique away, as you choose.  I just realized that this blog is turning three hundred…posts old, that is.  Yes, ’tis true.  I’ve frittered away three hundred perfectly good late nights as I’ve regurgitated my thoughts and memories for you.  One of my favorite critics told me recently that he thought I had “hit my stride”.  For some reason, I’d always believed that I had actually hit the ground running, but now, I’m fairly sure that one or two (maybe even a hundred) of these posts have been more than a little clumsy and inept, much as Snoopy’s attempts at novel writing.  I’m grateful that you’ve stuck with me.

I never could understood why Mr. Schulz had Snoopy labor so hard at writing without success, nor why it was that Charlie Brown, again and again, attempted to kick the football as Lucy held it and pulled it away at the last minute.  He pursued the Little Red-Haired Girl without ever coming close to winning her, and pitched the baseball (badly) without success as his team deserted him and rain drenched the pitcher’s mound.  One would almost think that the Peanuts comic strip was written about losers.  But, as I consider it, I’m fairly certain that a comic strip about losers would never have had the popularity that the Peanuts series did.  Charles Schulz drew and authored the strip for over forty-nine years to continued popular acclaim.  Although he died in early 2000, the reruns of the cartoons still appear in countless daily newspapers to this day.  Just as the author himself identified with the characters he brought to life, readers still see their own struggles and defeats, as well as the courage to get up and do it all again tomorrow.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I have no illusions of greatness, no thoughts that my silly posts rival (or ever could) the import of those amusing and thought-provoking little cartoon characters.  No, I’m thinking that I’m more like Snoopy himself, dragging out the old Remington typewriter over and over, indefatigable in his intent to write.  Let the critics turn up their collective noses.  He wrote.  Again and again.  Certainly, he wrote badly.  I can identify.  But, he thought a little and wrote a little, then thought a little more before writing a little more.  As the complete sentence was born, he opined, “Good writing is hard work.”  While I can’t claim the “good” part of that, I can certainly attest to the fact that writing is hard work.  But, I’m taking my cue from Snoopy and keeping at it.  You will have to be the judge of the result.

You should be advised.  I will keep at this.  I have no great hope of becoming famous, which is a good thing.  I simply aspire to be like those lovable non-losers, Snoopy, Charlie Brown, and even Linus with his kite-flying fiascoes.  They stand as monuments to getting up and trying again. It’s a goal that should be within reach.

Losing a battle is not the same as being defeated.  The Apostle had it right when he described us as “struck down, but not destroyed.”  Where there’s life, there’s hope.

Fair warning:  Number three hundred and one is on the way…

“Yesterday, I was a dog.  Today, I’m still a dog.  Tomorrow, I’ll probably still be a dog.  [Sigh] There’s so little hope for advancement.”
(Snoopy~created by Charles M Schulz~American cartoonist~1922-2000)

“…but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles.  They will run and not grow weary.  They will walk and not faint.”
(Isaiah 40:31)

Beauty

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Debbie got out her trumpet and sat down to play with the group of old people.  The high school junior had been invited to be a part of the annual tradition in which some of these old geezers had participated for twice as long as she had been alive.  To say that she was a little nervous would be an understatement.  A time or two, she thanked them timorously for asking her to be part of the little brass ensemble, as if she wasn’t sure she belonged there.  The diffidence in her tone led more than one of the old guys to wonder if she would be up to the task.  After all, in a few short weeks, this group would be playing to a packed house of nearly a thousand people, not once, but on three consecutive evenings.  They needed a competent player, someone who could be counted on to hit the notes and to blend with the ensemble.  Perhaps, this wasn’t such a good choice, after all.  Then the young lady placed the mouthpiece to her lips and all doubts were removed.

The girl wasn’t a show off, she had no intention of flaunting her abilities, but you can’t hide a talent like that.  Quietly and inconspicuously, she simply played her part.  The smooth, mellow tone flowed from the silver horn as if there were no effort involved.  Whether the sounds coming out of the horn were in the low range or up to the highest reaches of the instrument’s limits, the control exercised over the tone and volume were almost beyond belief.  She actually changed keys when the printed music did!  Her ability to play with the ensemble wasn’t in question beyond the first page or two of the music they covered.  This girl could play!  The performances were approached with confidence by the whole group and the result was completely satisfactory, even, it appeared, from the audiences’ point of view.  As the last musical evening came to an end, she repeated once more, without a hint of ego, “I’m really glad that you were willing to let me play with you.”

I heard a few weeks later that Debbie had been selected to be part of the All-State band.  First Band, First Chair!  The epitome of placement for a high school musician in the state!  She was better than every other high school trumpet player in the entire state.  I congratulated her the next time I saw her.  She ducked her head and said quietly, “I think they must have made a mistake in scoring.”  I knew better.  She honestly didn’t believe that she was that good.  When the tryouts in her senior year came along twelve months later, with the same results, I reminded her of her words.  “You do know that this proves that they were right last year?”  I queried.  “I guess so,”  she replied.  “I’m still not sure, though.”  She wasn’t acting.  The young lady really didn’t want to claim the title of best trumpet player in the state.  She just did what she was created to do quietly and contentedly.  I can only look at the young lady, wise beyond her years, and be amazed.

I’m amazed because I remember a young man thirty-some years before who tried out for All Region Band and made it!  The fact that he was seated eighth chair in the Horn section of the first band didn’t dampen his spirits at all.  Everyone within earshot knew of his exploits.  The young man was the “eighth best Horn player in the region!”  There was no end to the braggart’s arrogance.  Again and again, he repeated the news of his own triumph to anyone who would listen.  Soon enough, everyone had heard about how good the young man believed himself to be and how the result proved it.  Eighth chair!  In the region!  Not the state, but just the region of the state.  I’m old enough now to be exempt from embarrassment at the teenager’s insolence, but not so old that I don’t still recognize that the foolishness of youth frequently follows one into his adult years.  I still struggle with this same problem, hoping for the approval of my friends and family, as well as all who are acquainted with me.  It seems likely to be a lifelong battle.  Oh!  If I recall aright, the young man flubbed a line in his music at the performance of the All Region Band that year.  Another reminder that pride goes before a fall.  Sometimes the lessons to be learned have to be assimilated the hard way. 

A friend today posted a (by now) familiar verse online.  “Let a stranger praise you and not you, yourself.”  I will attest that they are not easy words to live by.  We are, it seems, a boastful breed; seeking ways to exalt ourselves.  I recognize that the problem I struggle with is not familiar to me only, but is common to most humans.  Maybe we can help each other to do better.  I hope you’ll be gentle with me.  But, I trust that you will remind me when I need a subtle (or even, not-so-subtle) nudge.

The amazing thing is that there is a quiet beauty in humility, while arrogance always seems to be stridently ugly.  I’d like to be a little prettier than I am.  The makeover is taking a good bit longer than I had anticipated.  I’ll keep working on it.

“Humility is the only certain defense against humiliation.”
(Anonymous)

“Do not act out of selfish ambition or conceit, but with humility, think of others as being better than yourselves.”
(Philippians 2:3)