Resonance

March 16, 2016March 16, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We’re on the same wavelength, aren’t we?

The man in front of me is a friend—a long-time friend. I always enjoy seeing his face as the front door of the music store opens. We share a love of music and the tools from which the music comes. I’ve watched his children grow, as he has mine.

Today, we talked about politics—a dangerous minefield in which to venture, if ever there was one. But, somehow his ire rose at the same time mine did; his anger was assuaged by the very same solutions I found to be comforting.

As if we were two strings vibrating on a musical instrument, we hit the same frequencies necessary to bring out the next tone in the chords of amity.

We were on the same wavelength.

It often happens. You’ve seen it. A conversation begins, and you’re drawn to a complete stranger immediately. It’s hard to explain—perhaps their vocal inflection—maybe the manner in which they consider each word before speaking—whatever it is, you’ve made a connection.

In the music world, we call it a sympathetic vibration.

It’s not always good.

Today, a young man brought in his banjo, exasperated because it wouldn’t stop ringing. Banjos do that normally too, you know—ring. It is what makes them sound like a banjo.

The problem is this one had a ring that wasn’t supposed to be there. Usually, when a musician tells me there’s a ring in his fretted instrument, I suspect a high fret which the strings bump against, causing an unwanted rattle of sorts, albeit a musical one. It wouldn’t be that simple this time.

I listened to his complaint and then took the beautiful instrument out of the case, striking the strings he spoke of. Sure enough, they had a strange overtone.

As I explored the strings a bit, I noticed a problem I could identify immediately. There actually was a string which buzzed on a fret all the time because of a string guide which sat too high. I could fix that easily, but I was more concerned with the other issue.

I explained to the young man (quite expertly, mind you) what the problem was.

There’s a sympathetic vibration in the instrument. Something else is vibrating when that string is plucked. It’s what all resonant materials want to do—vibrate with tones that are at the same wavelength.

This expert searched fruitlessly for nearly a quarter hour to find the source of the vibration. I finally gave up, suggesting a couple of general cures which might work. Might.

He had a question before he went.

Could you fix that one buzzing string for me? You know, the string guide thing?

A simple repair. It was done in three minutes.

I plucked the other strings one last time. I don’t know why I did it. I suppose hope springs eternal.

There was no more vibration. None. The strange ringing sound was completely gone. Really.

I stopped to think for a moment. Suddenly, it came to me!

The string which had been vibrating on the fret was at exactly the same frequency as the two other strings which were ringing. Exactly the same frequency. I had removed its capacity to buzz with my repair, so the rest of the problem disappeared.

I hope you’re not tired of my musical interpretations yet. You see, all the world resonates with music. Our Creator made it so.

Sympathetic vibrations are all around us. The four-wheel-drive monster truck that roars down the street in front of your house and rattles the windows, as well as vibrating the wall, demonstrates it. High-pitched sounds that break glass work on the same principle.

I want to tell you that my dogs, who howl loudly at the sound of an approaching ambulance or fire engine, exhibit the principle, but I think that might be something of a stretch.

Things which are alike, tend to exhibit the same characteristics as those similar objects around them.

Humans are not immune. We see it in every direction. As in the realm of music, it’s not always a beneficial thing.

Politicians vibrate with anger and name-calling, and their disciples soon resonate with the message of negativity and hatred.

Pastors embrace a radical belief and soon their adherents echo the tenets without consideration of the merits or demerits of the belief.

The bully on the playground selects a new victim and, within hours, the unfortunate soul is under attack from all sides.

All is not ugliness in the realm of resonance, however.

A properly tuned and maintained instrument, played well, resonates with sympathetic vibrations. The overtones complement the original melodies and chords, causing the listener to marvel at the beauty emanating from a single instrument wielded by a lone talent.

Master luthiers carve and shape, adding bracing here, sanding the surface there—all to increase the acceptance of good overtones and mute the presence of undesirable ones.

The whole instrument resonates beautifully with sympathetic vibrations.

I wonder if we have lost the true meaning of being sympathetic. We think sympathy is sadness, and the words that express our concern for that sadness. We believe that sympathy is an emotion to be dealt out at moments of great need and sorrow.

Did you know that sympathy is simply the state of being like-minded? It’s sharing what those around us experience—not as an onlooker, but as a participant.

The Apostle Paul begged for his readers to be sympathetic—like-minded. He wanted them to resonate with each other. (Philippians 2:1-2)

It is what folks in fellowship with each other do, almost automatically.

Our Creator, the Master Luthier of all luthiers, has made the whole of His creation to move in resonance with Him.

It is only as we change the tunings and introduce faults into the instrument that the overtones become louder than the fundamental notes. When the overtones are all that is heard, it is nothing more than mere vibration, a ringing in the ears of all listening.

Perhaps I need make no more application to the principle here.

It is likely these words have fallen on sympathetic ears, isn’t it?

What a beautiful thing it is, when His people live in harmony with each other.

Resonance.

I think when I was pretty young I got really into the tone of my instrument and I remember just playing one note for an hour to just kind of feel the resonance of the violin.
(Andrew Bird ~ American musician)

Finally, brethren, rejoice, be made complete, be comforted, be like-minded, live in peace; and the God of love and peace will be with you.
(2 Corinthians 13:11 ~ NASB)

A Little Off

January 29, 2016January 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

It’s a job I do almost every day. You’d think I know what I’m doing. Most folks would.

Alongside the Lovely Lady, I’ve spent most of my life in this little music store. Folks bring in instruments almost daily for me to repair. The most common request I get is to replace the strings on guitars.

Six strings. Take the old grungy ones off—replace them with shiny new ones. It’s an easy job—one I could do in my sleep. Or, so I have thought.

Today, as I finished up one such job, I learned that familiarity is not the same as expertise. One implies comfort, the other, attentiveness.

The old, rust-covered wires had all been removed, the fingerboard cleaned and oiled, and the bright, bronze-colored strings put into place. All that remained was to tune the guitar, a part of the job I pride myself on.

I’m good at this part! Bringing the slack strings up to tension, I can almost always tune them to pitch, without a tuning aid of any sort, within a quarter-step of standard. Then, with the tuning fork, completion of the job is a cinch, my sensitive ear enabling me to complete the job easily.

Do you note just the tiniest hint of pride in that last paragraph? Perhaps there is more than a hint. Funny. I hear the words clearly—in retrospect, that is—which a wise man spoke many centuries ago. Pride goes before a fall. (Proverbs 16:18)

I had completed the initial rough tuning and, with an electronic device attached to the headstock of the guitar, attempted to complete the job. Note I said attempted.

The results were somewhat less than stellar.

The first string settled into tune easily. Likewise, the second. When I got to the third string though—that’s when the problem began. Perhaps it was before; I don’t really know.

I must have been distracted. Or maybe, tired. It doesn’t matter.

I plucked the third string to listen to the pitch as I increased the tension. Twisting on the knob, I waited to hear a change in the sound. All that happened is it got really hard to turn the knob.

I kept twisting, wondering as I did if the gear inside was damaged. Suddenly, there was a loud BANG! and the knob became quite easy to turn. The other thing that happened was the immediate stinging sensation on the back of my hand as the tip of the broken string hit it.

Drops of blood rose to the surface immediately and I put the back of my hand up to my mouth to draw away the blood and soothe the sting.

There was nothing to soothe the sting to my pride, though. It was an amateur’s mistake. The fingers on one hand had plucked the third string repeatedly, awaiting change, while the fingers on the other hand twisted the knob for the second string.

There is only a space of about one third of an inch between the strings. One third of an inch.

Such a small distance. Such a disastrous result.

Perhaps this is the place I should end this little morality tale. I should talk about our sinful nature and how close we come to doing what is right. I could even suggest that the slightest deviation from the right path will lead to destruction. If we keep all the law, but err in one point, we are doomed. (James 2:10)

I don’t want to end the story there—mostly because that’s not where it ends. I didn’t leave the broken string on the guitar. I didn’t carry the offensive thing into my back room to await an ignominious fate in the distant future.

When the customer arrived to retrieve his fine instrument moments later, he picked up a perfectly beautiful (and in-tune) guitar. He ran his fingers across the strings and mused at the astounding depth of tone and beauty.

Every time, Paul—every time—I am amazed at the difference when the strings are changed!

With that, he was gone. The stunning instrument will be played on a stage this weekend. The audience will marvel.

Did you really think the story would end because one idiot got a third of an inch off? I suppose some could write that story. Not I.

I’m a believer in grace. Second chances. Broken strings which are replaced with new ones—and then replaced again—and again.

And again.

So, I’m a little off.

That is true for any human who can read these words.

Pain ensues. Blood flows.

Grace happens.

The music is still not finished.

The Master Musician is making a masterpiece, a work of art.

Grace.

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.
(Ephesians 2:8-10 ~ NIV)

Children of Jubal

December 3, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He’s not all that impressive a man in the history books. You’d have to look a long way to find any reference to him.

Once—just once, he is mentioned in the Pentateuch, and to my knowledge, never again is his name mentioned in the Scriptures.

Jubal, they called him. The father of all who play the harp and pipes. (Genesis 4:21)

Did I say he was never again mentioned in the Bible? That is not, strictly speaking, truthful. The name actually means trumpet in the Hebrew language. It is the root for the word jubilee, a word used again and again in the history of God’s people.

It is, almost certainly, where we get the word jubilation in the English language.

I needed a little of that today—jubilation, I mean. It has been a series of long, hard days stretching back for months now. Things are not as I would have them; my ducks refuse to get into the rows I have planned for them.

And once again, in the news today, we heard news of atrocities, of people dead and others injured, lying in hospital beds. The physical wounds are not all the damage which has been done; many still walking are wounded to the depths of their spirits.

Indeed, jubilation has been a commodity in short supply for too many in this damaged world.

Exhaustion and a lack of ready capital in the emotional bank are pushing multitudes to the raw edge of despair. I have approached that precipice myself a time or two recently.

Tonight, as I closed my business, I suggested that I might call the worship leader to let her know that I couldn’t be at our scheduled practice later in the evening.

I’m tired. I’ve got nothing left to give.

I didn’t make the call, instead determining I would fulfill my responsibilities. A fifteen minute nap would have to suffice to recharge the batteries. I could only hope to last the hour at my practice.

Again and again, I am surprised by it. I shouldn’t be.

Still, it takes me unawares, nearly every time.

I walked into that worship center dragging and forlorn. I wasn’t the only one.

We didn’t walk out in the same condition. Logic tells me we should have been even more tired after our efforts. The reality is that we were recharged and ready to face a sad and flawed world once more.

What happened?

We spent time with the children of Jubal is what happened. Music happened. The blending of individual’s gifts and talents into a single purpose and direction.

I have always believed that music is one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind. Oh, there are some better. I imagine a list could be compiled. But, there are not many more helpful in keeping us centered and headed toward the completion of our calling.

Music comes directly—directly—from our Creator. His very creation sings and gives testimony to His genius. It did so long before humans walked this earth.

Even before the earth was shaped, the stars and angelic beings formed one great celestial choir in praise of their Creator. (Job 38:4-7) We only continue in the steps of those who came before us.

I know some will say it’s a waste of time, even a slap in the face to those who still are in pain.

Surely, it’s simply a way to mask the pain, to escape reality?

I wonder; When a man has a cut on his arm, would you deny him the opportunity to put salve on it? The purpose of salve, or ointment, is not only to ease the pain, but to begin the healing process.

I can attest to the reality that music is the application of ointment to the whole spirit of a man or woman. It salves the pain of sadness, of loss, of despair. It heals the broken spirit and give courage to face the world once more, whole and strong.

Are you sick of pain? Wounded by death? Scarred by terror?

The prescription I recommend is to come away and spend some time immersed in the original salve. Better than Burt’s Bees or Gold Bond, this ointment leaves no unpleasant greasiness behind.

The poet tells us that musick hath charms to soothe the savage beast. I don’t doubt it a bit.

The children of Jubal still populate the world today. It’s a good thing. May their tribe increase.

Jubilate Deo!

Rejoice in God!

Even before we call on thy name
To ask thee, O Lord,
When we seek for the words to glorify thee,
Thou hearest our prayer;
Unceasing love, O unceasing love,
Surpassing all we know.
Glory to the father,
and to the Son,
And to the Holy Spirit.

Even with darkness sealing us in,
We breathe thy name,
And through all the days that follow so fast,
We trust in thee;
Endless thy grace, O endless thy grace,
Beyond all mortal dream.
Both now and forever,
And unto ages and ages,
Amen.
(Pilgrim’s Hymn ~ Stephen Paulus ~ American composer ~ 1949-2014)

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
(Psalm 23:5 ~ KJV)

One Off

November 5, 2015November 5, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It is one of my favorite musical instruments that ever has been carried through my doors.

I’ve never heard it play a single note. I almost certainly will never hear it play one.

And yet, I treasure it.

Without a clue to who made it, I admire its maker. Without any knowledge of its history, I envy the first musician to hold it in her hands, freshly rosined bow held at the ready to bring forth the first notes ever drawn from the hand-carved top.

In my fancy, I see the smile play on the lips of the fortunate violinist. The dust from the rosin-laden bow puffs from the strings as they vibrate with rich tones. The slim fingers fly along the fingerboard, feeling out the familiar tunes.

No finer performance ever emanated from a Stradivari-made instrument or even one touched by the famed Giuseppi Guarneri at the height of the golden-age of violin making. The room in which the musician stands is filled with light and sound—memories made for all the years of a lifetime, be they happy and full, or tortured and lonely.

Odd, isn’t it? The instrument I’m looking at as it rests beside my desk tonight is not valuable—at least not in the sense that comes to our minds.

It will never be a collector’s piece. No catalog will ever list it as a desirable commodity in the world of violin connoisseurs. No auction house will ever feature it in their offerings to the newly-wealthy seeking that signature piece in which to invest.

And yet, the violin is a one of a kind. A masterpiece of sorts.

There is not an identical instrument anywhere in the world. From stem to stern, the design and hand of the maker are in evidence. Except for the strings, two sad, rusted specimens which have seen the last bow ever to be drawn over their midsections, every part of the old fiddle—every part—was hand-carved by the maker.

Think of it!

Each plank of wood was hand-selected by the master for the color and grain. He planed, and carved, and sanded them, paying special attention to the curve of the top and the back, until they were exactly the right shape to be fitted to the side pieces.

The long narrow piece of maple was carved, a painstakingly slow and difficult task. Maple is a particularly hard wood, and not cooperative with the carving process. And yet, out of the hard, stubborn lump of blond wood, the scroll at the tip of the instrument took shape, curving down to the neck, then the heel where the neck joined the body.

Not to belabor a point, but the maker even thought it essential to carve the tuning pegs by hand, a task that must have exceeded an hour’s time spent on each one. Complete sets, machined and polished, sell for fifteen or twenty dollars in my store. Factory made bridges are not expensive, nor are the tailpieces. Still, this unknown master deemed it important that every single piece be hand carved.

Every single component. Made by his hand.

Unique. A thing of beauty.

And yet…

And yet, if I compare the aged violin with others in my store, this old fiddle doesn’t fare so well. There are rough edges where the others are smooth. The shape is not symmetrical, as is that of the factory built instruments. The hand-cut fittings—the bridge, the pegs, the tailpiece—are crude and not as sturdy.

Nothing shines; nothing gleams.

What a treasure!

And suddenly, as I gaze at the old violin, I see them.

I finally see them.

Every day, they come to see me for one reason or another. The reason is of no consequence. That they walk through my door is the hand of Providence. Nothing happens without purpose.

If I look closely, I can find defects in every single one. And once in awhile, someone actually points out the defects to me. After the person is gone. Always after they’re gone.

I have, to my shame, pointed out the defects myself.

And the Teacher stopped writing in the dirt long enough to suggest that any of them without defect could feel free to carry out the sentence in person. Then, squatting down again, He ran His finger through the dust once more, waiting for them to grasp the impact of His message. (John 8:6-8)

Do you suppose any one of the teachers of the Law missed the message of the dust he played with? How long did it take for them to remember what they were made from?

He never forgets it. How would He? He made us! (Psalm 103:14)

As with the old violin, the comparisons with others prove nothing. Each person who walks through my door is a masterpiece of unique design.

A one-off, if you will.

Every one, a treasure. Every single one.

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

I can almost hear the music again.

Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede.
(John Lyndgate ~ English monk/poet ~ 1370-1451

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.
(Psalm: 13-14 ~ NRSV)

Back to the Basics

September 29, 2015September 29, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.
(As Time Goes By ~ Herman Hupfield)

Life is complicated.

That’s what I hear from folks. It’s what I say myself, when I get confused about events in my life. Relationships get tangled; children grow up and have adult problems, or they grow up and have children of their own—which yields the same result.

Wherever I look, the rest of the world encroaches on the boundaries I was careful to set—for myself and for my family. Overwhelmed, I throw my hands up in surrender and declare it’s all too complicated for me.

Life is complicated.

Or, is it?

Perhaps, I could give an example or two from real life—my life—just today. Since much of my life revolves around music, the examples will too, but I promise to attempt to avoid too much technical detail in the telling.

This morning, two vehicles pulled into the parking lot at my music store at the same time. Out of one, my preacher friend exited, holding two to-go cups of coffee. From the other, another friend, about whom I’ve written before, alighted. They had been at the local coffee shop and decided they should share a cup and some conversation with me.

I always enjoy their fellowship, and today our conversation ran the gamut from memories of days long past to the preacher’s need for a rhythm instrument for his worship team. We also talked about music a little, while our other friend strummed one of the vintage acoustic guitars he had taken from its hook on the wall.

The conversation turned to guitar playing, the man strumming the guitar explaining his finger-picking technique. The preacher is also a guitarist, so we stopped our conversation to listen and watch for a moment.

As I watched, my mind began to race away on a tangent. In the nearly forty years I’ve worked in the music business, I have seen many changes come in the way guitars are played, not the smallest being the blossoming of alternate tunings.

I was taught that a guitar should always be tuned in a standard form. The chords I learned fit that form. The strings I install fit that form. The way I tune the guitars which hang on my wall fit that form.

Life used to be so simple.

Nowadays, anything goes. Drop the pitch on a single string, but leave the rest in standard tuning—Keep the intervals the same, but drop all the pitches a half step, or one step, or two steps—Add strings to the neck and use higher and lower pitches for the additional strings—Anything goes. If you can figure out how to play it, use whatever tuning you want.

I was just getting ready to suggest that playing the guitar was getting awfully complicated when the preacher brought things back into perspective. Apparently, watching our mutual friend play his complicated fingerings was more than he was prepared to contemplate any longer.

“The technique I like best when I play guitar,” he said, “is the one where I don’t drop the pick.”

I almost wanted to hug him. Almost.

In that moment, the light broke through the darkness of my confusion about playing guitar. The profundity of the preacher’s statement stirred a common note within me.

Guitar playing is only as complicated as you make it! When you strip it down to the basics, you play the chords and you don’t drop your pick.

All the rest is just fluff.

Sure, there’s some good stuff which may be played later on, but you get there by mastering the basics.

One would think that moment of clarity would be enough to last me throughout the day. One would be wrong.

I walked into the house tonight and, even before sitting down to supper, headed for the living room and opened up my French horn case. I have been invited to play in the pit orchestra for an upcoming musical at the local university.

Rehearsals begin next week. I don’t want to be embarrassed.

“This music is complicated!” I groused, as I pulled out the score. “Look at all those odd time signatures! I’ll never get this right!”

And, for the next forty-five minutes, I proceeded to prove my statement. Wrong notes were the least of my problems, as I fumbled my way through the music. To say I was overwhelmed would be like saying there are a few Razorback fans in the state of Arkansas. Overwhelmed doesn’t nearly cover it.

As usual, the Lovely Lady came to my rescue. As I explained my issues to her, she looked from me to the music, and then back at me again, smiling—you know, the kind of smile a teacher puts on when the solution to a math problem is as simple as one-two-three.

No really. That simple.

“You can still count, can’t you? So there are more counts here than you’re used to. Whether it’s two beats to a measure or ten to a measure, you still count it. Slow it down as much as you need to work it out. But, just count.”

Again the light came on!

Basics. Nothing but the basics.

I’ve got a long way to go on that music, but for now, I’m going to concentrate on the basics. I do know how to count.

I thought today about the Man the religious leaders of His day called Rabbi—Teacher—and how confusing must life have been during His days on the earth. One might think there were just ten laws to follow, but one would be wrong. The Ten Commandments had turned into a mountain of rules, depending on which sect you followed.

On the day I’m thinking about, the learned men—men who specialized in making life complicated for their followers—from two different sects came to the Teacher. Both tried to trap him in error. It should have been easy, given the convoluted maze of rules and regulations they had exaggerated from the original Ten.

The first group was silenced quickly and soon thereafter, the second gave it a shot. Almost as if they were holding out a deck of cards, they asked the Teacher to pick one.

“Make sure you pick the most important one,” they warned.

He did.

“Love God with every part of your being: Your heart and your soul, as well as your mind.”

Before they could remind Him that life is not lived on just one plane, He picked one more card.

“This one is a lot like the other. Love people the way you love yourselves.”

Is life complicated?

Perhaps it’s time to get back to the basics.

Okay, so it’s not as easy as falling off a log. Loving God involves learning what He requires of us. It involves putting that into action. And, loving people is one of those things—the major one. There will be action required there, too.

Sometimes, we complicate things ourselves.

I hope the light stays on for awhile.

While it’s on, I’m going to learn how to hold on to the guitar pick.

And, I’ll practice counting.

I may still be embarrassed as I take care of the basics. Both in life and at my musical.

Neither will be fatal.

He still knows that we came from dust. He still offers second chances.

Even if we drop the pick a time or two.

Truth is ever to be found in simplicity, and not in the multiplicity and confusion of things.
(Sir Isaac Newton ~ English physicist/mathematician ~ 1643-1727)

Hearing that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, the Pharisees got together.One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question:“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”
(Matthew 22:34-40 ~ NIV)

Jangling Bells

July 9, 2015July 9, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Forty years. Gone in a moment’s time.

The door of the music store opened with a jangle of bells, the ones hanging from the knob, and I looked up from printing orders to see who it was. The face looking back at me smiled broadly and instantly the years disappeared.

No, it hasn’t been forty years since I saw the face, but it was forty years ago that I began a new job with the man as my supervisor. I would learn more in that single fleeting year than in many long ones that came after it.

His lovely wife was at his side on this day and we stood and talked as old friends will. The present time flew by, but our conversation carried us back several decades as we told old stories and laughed about events nearly forgotten in the tumultuous progression of years since.

It was sheer pleasure.

As we spoke, he remembered how long we have actually known each other and our conversation went back, far beyond the forty years, to the first time he laid eyes on me.

The young family had walked into the old brick church—a dark-haired man and his red-headed wife, both about thirty years old. Trying unsuccessfully to be unobtrusive, four urchins—well, three noisy boys and their silent, shy sister—trailed their parents. Oh. There was one more, a baby—a big baby—held in the arms of the red-headed lady.

Yep. I was the baby. This man, the one who would seventeen years later teach me a number of life skills, has known me since I was that young.

And still, he likes me enough to stop by on his nearly 1,500 mile trip and spend an hour or two just reminiscing and catching up. Oh, the stories he could tell if he wanted to. Perhaps he has forgotten them. Let’s hope so.

As we spoke, I realized how our lives have been tied together. As a preschooler, I remember his father used to wave broadly at us each day as he passed our trailer house in his Tom’s Peanuts truck on the way to restock vending machines at the country club. Once in awhile, he would toss out a package or two of peanuts to us, standing barefoot at the edge of the road, and we’d marvel at how the wealthy man could be so generous. Later, father and mother both would be my Sunday-school teachers, and his aunt would play the piano while his uncle waved his arms, leading us in singing the old hymns.

In a thousand ways, it seems we grew up together, even though he is twelve years older than I. We have certainly grown old together, although the miles have gotten in the way a bit.

Old friends are the best.

But, I wonder . . .

My old friends and I had begun to say our goodbyes, when the door of the music store opened again, the bells jangling as they did before. Two men wandered in, faces smiling broadly.

They are friends I have met in my adult life. It has only been in recent years that I would even call them friends, knowing them before that merely as acquaintances. But, friends they are.

I introduced them, my old friends and new. For a moment, I felt the strange feeling of witnessing two worlds colliding. A meeting of folks with one thing in common: me. Then my old friend began telling my new friends a story and we were all just friends, neither new nor old.

I went that night and sank down into a comfortable chair at the local coffee-shop. With coffee cup in hand I would listen to one of my new friends play his guitar and sing a few songs.

It was sheer pleasure.

I sat listening, but also pondering the mystery of friendship. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the music, but I knew my friend would take care of his part. He’s an old pro. I was too overwhelmed just then with the realization of what it means for a man to have friends, both old and new.

Did I say friendship was a mystery? So it is, but more than that, it is a gift. And, not just any gift, like a tie on Father’s Day, or even a new toy on Christmas.

Friendship is one of the greatest gifts entrusted to us by a loving Father who gives only good gifts. I wonder that we don’t treasure it more. I lament that we don’t care for it better, allowing it to lie untended for years while the weeds of neglect take it over.

The Creator thought it important enough that He cultivated an intimate friendship with man in the garden, walking with him in the cool of the day. His Son selected twelve who would spend their years with him, walking and eating, and learning from Him. Others, He would grow close to as well—Mary, Martha, along with their brother Lazarus.

The red-headed lady who carried me into that church fifty-seven years ago taught me the principle, her words coming in the form of a platitude (that doesn’t make it any less relevant).

If you want to have friends, you have to be a friend.

I’m not all that good a friend. I am thankful for folks who have overlooked that and have been a friend to me anyway. I’m trying to do better.

Old friends. New friends.

They’re basically the same, with new friends eventually becoming old friends. I’m not sure when the transition is made, but I sat with people the other evening who I distinctly remember being new friends not all that long ago (if you can call nearly forty years not all that long). Definitely old friends now.

You know, I don’t really have anything I want to teach tonight.

I just needed to remind myself that sometimes a gift is given when we least expect it. I need to remember to be grateful to the Giver and to show my gratitude in the way I care for His gifts.

New becomes old, gaining value as it ages. More like a fine musical instrument, I think, than the drink with which it is usually compared. The wine is consumed and gone so soon, but a fine guitar or violin makes sweeter music the longer and more often it is played.

Gifts.

Care for them well, but utilize them often.

Sweet music will come, probably just like the dulcet tones I heard that night in my comfortable chair at the coffee shop.

Or, perhaps more like the jangling of the bells as the door opens to welcome another one in.

Sweet music.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down:
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maim’d among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.
(from The Old, Old Song ~ Charles Kingsley ~ English cleric/poet ~ 1819-1875)

Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!
(Ecclesiastes 4:9,10 ~ ESV)

‘Til the Music is Done

January 24, 2014January 28, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I flung up my hands, as if in surrender.

Surrender?

There are days when the lesson begins first thing in the morning and continues to day’s end.

Yes, only one lesson—all day.

That was today for me. I learned about surrender. And, a little about what comes after that.
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In the wee hours of this morning, I pulled the clarinet out of the case. A cheaply made instrument, I had opted to make the repairs myself, instead of sending it to the instrument technician who usually handles them. The customer has no money to pay for a complete repair, so I suggested a lick and a promise, if it could be done.

The bent key needed only to be returned to its original location. I have a pair of key-bending pliers, made just for such occasions.

The slight torsion I applied to the metal key was enough to break the solder joint loose, and the entire piece was suddenly hanging by a thin piece of metal slag. I gasped. I laid the clarinet back into its case.

I went home—to sleep.

Surrender.
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My friend walked into the store and sat down. He had nothing in his hands. He didn’t even look around at what was on the shelves or hanging on the walls. It was going to be one of those visits.

“People are asking me about the Lost Gospels. What do you know about them?”

It was a loaded question, leading to another and another, until finally we would speak once again about Saints versus saints and Grace versus works, and Confession versus confession.

My friend is a member of the Eastern Orthodox church. I am not. He knows what I believe. I know what he believes.

Point, meet counterpoint.

Finally, I asked him if we could switch places and he would argue the evangelical side, while I espoused the orthodox doctrine. He peered at me with a quizzical look on his face.

“Why would we do that?”

I explained that it made as much sense as each of us saying the same things we had said the last time he had been in for a visit. We are both evangelists for our respective faiths.

He was disappointed, but he conceded the wisdom and threw up his hands in mock surrender. We’re still friends.

It wasn’t exactly surrender, but more of a cease-fire—recognition of the stalemate.
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The grandfather of a piano student, his resolve to await her lesson’s end in his truck beaten by the outside temperature, wandered behind my desk chair. I looked up and nodded, an action he took as an invitation to make conversation. It wasn’t, but I politely answered his remarks about the weather, with a couple of sympathetic statements of my own, quickly turning to my work once again.

He wasn’t done yet.

“Yep, it’s sure cold, but we really need some rain.”

I almost snorted. It’s January! It doesn’t rain in January! I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut, but he wouldn’t let it go.

“I’m serious! The lake is down four feet!”

It really wasn’t something I was going to argue about. I just nodded my head and made a noise that could have either been a wise hmmmm of understanding or just me clearing my throat. One way or the other, I hoped he would move to a different subject.

He still wasn’t done.

“We really have to have some rain soon or we’ll be in real trouble!”

I’m not sure what made me do it. I think I just needed to concentrate on the project I was struggling with, so I simply asked the question that had been flitting around in my head from his first complaint about the weather.

Turning around to face him, I put my hand under my chin and asked, quite seriously, “What do you think we should do about the problem?”

He sat, motionless. Then he spoke.

“Well, I supp…” He looked right at me and said it, “I guess we’ll just have to leave it to the Good Lord, won’t we?”

His hands went up in the air as he gave up ownership of the weather to the only One who could ever possibly control it. (Matthew 5:45)

For some reason, he didn’t want to talk to me anymore. I really didn’t mean to be rude. But, sometimes, you just have to quit beating your head against that solid wall in front of you and admit that there is nothing to be done about it.

Surrender.
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She brought her guitar in last week for me to examine. Thought she only needed to have the neck adjusted. It turns out that the way she plays has worn the metal frets on the fingerboard almost all the way through. Three years old, the guitar is. Frets usually last thirty or forty years for most people.

She came to pick up the guitar today after I worked my magic on the frets, leveling and re-crowning them. I was prepared to rail on her about the way she plays the instrument, but I thought better of it. It’s her guitar; she can play it however she wants.

As she checked over my handiwork, I told her, “This is the only time we’ll be able to fix the problem this way. The next time, either you have to get a new guitar, or the frets will have to be replaced completely.”

She seemed sad. Momentarily, her hands started up into the air as the words I had said took effect. It was only a moment and her hands returned to pluck the strings tenderly. Then she looked at me and smiled.

“I bought it to play music. I’ll keep playing it ’til the music is done.”

Surrender. Plus resolve.
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And, the Teacher said, “Which of you, by worrying about it, can add a single hour to your life?” (Luke 12:25)

I’m with the young lady. I’m here to play music. I think I’ll keep playing ’til the music is done.

How about it? You want to play a verse or two with me?

The day is coming when the music will be silent, but it’s not today.

Let’s play on.

You can throw your hands up in the air while the music’s going, too.

Allow yourself to let go, surrender, and breathe in the beautiful world that is waiting for you just outside your comfort zone.
(Leigh Hershkovich ~ American writer)

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.
(Victor Hugo ~ French novelist ~ 1802-1885)

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Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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