It was only a fly.  A dead fly at that.

It’s not the kind of thing I’d ordinarily choose for a subject.  Although I did write about the “trash bug” not all that long ago.  That was small (but not dead).

Still…

I lay on that table again, the one they strap me to, and then stretch my lower spine for ten or fifteen minutes.  Decompression, they call it.  I wondered the first few times if I would walk out a few inches taller than when I limped in.

I didn’t.  But I did feel better.

Now, where was I?  Oh yes.  The dead fly.  It had been there all those times before.  I’d just never concentrated on it.  This time was different.

Lying on that padded table awaiting the strapping-in process, I thought it pertinent to mention the creature in the light fixture above me.  The physical therapist glanced up and laughed.  I suppose she didn’t think it pertinent.

It was only a small thing.  No.  A tiny thing.

And she’s right.  It’s not important at all.  But now it’s stuck in my brain.  So, perhaps the reader will excuse me if I talk about it for a while—this tiny thing.

Come to think about it, I don’t really want to discuss the dead fly at length.  My mind has already leapt past that and is considering another tiny thing.

Do you know that the part of my spine that is defective is only three vertebrae in the lumbar section?  Just over three inches of my over six-foot total body height.

A tiny thing.  Compared to all the rest of me, anyway.

And yet, this tiny thing has brought the physical activities of my entire body to a screeching halt on several occasions recently.  Bending, squatting, lifting, and tying my shoes—all are undertakings nearly impossible during a flare-up.

I talked with a different therapist there this week, complaining that I am not improving as quickly as I did the last go-round.  He listened to my grievances, writing down notes as I whined.  When I finished, he raised his head and, looking into my eyes, asked the question:

“I suggested you should be taking an anti-inflammatory a few weeks ago.  Have you been doing that?”

I haven’t.  You see, I have read somewhere that these miracle drugs actually raise the incidence of dementia in older patients, if taken for too long.  Somehow, things seem to be slipping away at a worrisome pace without speeding up the process any.  And, I’ve certainly seen the catastrophic result for people who graduated to opioids when the body stopped responding to the weaker medications.

I like to look at the big picture.  The end game.  So I refused the recommendation to do that one little thing.

I could have been better already.  It was such a small thing that I needed to do for a very short time.

Small things.

A few decades ago, the policing community started talking about the Broken Windows theory.  It was the belief that small problems left unaddressed (like broken windows in an abandoned house) would breed more and, likely, larger problems.

Whether or not you agree with the criminologist’s theory, there is a truism at work here: small problems left unaddressed do breed larger and more serious issues to be dealt with later.

Lest you think I’m hung up on the negative, let me reassure you.  Just as the hurtful small things breed bigger problems, the beneficial small things that we do and practice habitually are certain to turn into significant blessings, either for us or for the recipients of our attention.

Jesus taught us the theory of small things—Replaced Windows, if you will.  The shepherd who left his 99 sheep safe in the sheep pen to search for the one who was lost in the wilderness.  The woman who searched and searched because one of her ten coins had been misplaced. 

Drinks of water for the thirsty.  Clothes for the destitute.  Food for the hungry.  Visits to the prisoners.

He didn’t stop with suggesting we practice the small gifts to those who would appreciate it, but commanded that we bless those with whom we are angry—perhaps even hate in our own strength.

“Carry their burden twice as far as required.  If they demand your coat, give them the shirt off your back.”

“As much as you did it to the least of these, you did it to Me.” (Matthew 25:40)

You who are musicians will understand when I say that all of music-making is small stuff.  From the length of notes to the tone and the intonation (tuning), from the speed and the rhythm, along with the key signature, the touch of fingers on a piano’s keys or the weight of the bow drawn across a violin’s strings and the velocity of breath directed across the tonehole of the flute, the tiniest of details accumulate to become the massive production of a symphony.

Or the quiet worship in a dark room at midnight.

Small things.  Minuscule.

In more ways than one, music is life. 

And similarly, life is a massive work of art painted one stroke at a time.

His love can turn our childish art project into an astonishing masterpiece.  And our banging on the keys into lovely harmony. 

If we will only yield the small things to Him.

I have a broken window or two that need attention.  And that other tiny part of my body, my tongue, has been at work too, making a wreckage of relationships.

It’s time to tend to the small things.  Again.

My back, along with a few other things, will surely be better soon.

 

“Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”  (Robert Brault)

“The master was full of praise.  ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant.  You have been faithful in handling this small amount, so now I will give you many more responsibilities.  Let’s celebrate together!'” (Matthew 25:21, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2026. All Rights Reserved.