Month: June 2012

I Can’t Hear Myself

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Hey, Mom!  Did you like my concert?”  The skinny boy was eager to hear what his mother thought about the high school band concert, but her reaction was less enthusiastic than he had hoped.  “I couldn’t see you at all,” the tired redhead replied, visibly showing her disappointment.  The teenager wasn’t upset about that.  After all, he did sit on the second row, behind the flutes.  “But, could you hear me?”  he plowed ahead, looking for some encouragement.  This query too, was met with a frustrating answer.  “No, son.  I guess I didn’t.  I just heard the music, not really any specific instruments.”  The boy was silenced for once.  What a letdown.  If she hadn’t heard him, neither had anyone else.  What a waste of his time!

It seems a lifetime ago that the exchange took place.  Many lessons have been learned and many concerts have been performed since that disappointing evening.  The boy, now an aging man, has wondered more than once if the road would have been any easier had someone told him that his mom’s experience was exactly what was supposed to happen.  He would have argued, no doubt.  But given time, he might have understood. Today, it all seems so elementary.

“Paul, I need to trade in this amplifier.”  The man speaking is no newcomer to playing the guitar.  He is looking wistfully at the large “half stack” amps in the store, while motioning to a mid-size combo amplifier which he has just carried in.  As I usually do, I ask a few questions about his situation.  What kind of music is he playing?  How big a room does he play in?  Any other musicians playing with him?  With all the relevant answers in mind, the next question is inevitable.  “Is there something wrong with the amp you have?”  You see, the amp the fellow owns seems to be adequate for the situation in which he is using it.  The answer comes, “No, except that I can’t hear myself playing.”

I have heard the scenario before.  Two guitarists and a bass player, all with amplifiers of their own, are playing in the band.  The drummer is already loud and needs no amplifier.  The group starts out at a reasonable volume, but in a few moments, the guitarist playing the lead part reaches over and turns up his amplifier.  For a few moments, the other players keep playing as they were, but eventually, the rhythm guitarist realizes that he is only hearing the lead player.  He reaches over and turns up his volume.  From there, it’s a free-for-all, until the moment that the fellow standing in front of me realizes that he is out-gunned.  His equipment is no match for the other players, who have bigger amps, and he is stymied.  He can’t hear himself playing.

“Mr. Whitmore, I need some really heavy drumsticks.”  The young man at the counter is serious.  He is almost begging me to have some super-sized sticks.  I wonder why, although I already have a pretty good idea.  Ignoring the fact that he has called me a name which is not mine, I voice my query.  “Why would you want enormous sticks like that?”  His reply is exactly as anticipated.  “I need to be heard.  My dad says that the other instruments are louder than mine.”  Like the skinny boy earlier, he would only argue if I tried to explain, so I sell him some really heavy sticks.  I hope he has someone who can help him to understand some day.

By now, you may be shaking your head and wondering what is happening.  I have pondered many times about how musicians can be so foolish with regard to the dynamics of playing in a group.  The problem is one of perspective.  Again and again, people are concerned first of all about themselves.  Again, like the skinny teenager, they are interested in being seen and heard.  The reason this mindset doesn’t work is found in the definition of what they are supposed to be doing.

Ensemble (ahn-sahm-buhl):  All the parts of a thing taken together, so that each part is considered only in relation to the whole.

Ah!  I see the light coming on now.  You begin to understand the problem.  You see, neither the guitarist nor the drummer had an equipment issue.  The skinny boy didn’t need to be on the front row, and he didn’t need to play louder.  All of these people needed to understand the foundational principals of playing in an ensemble.  What matters most in ensemble playing is the sound which the audience hears.  No one player should be louder than any other, unless he or she is playing a solo, and then they fade back into the group, to be a part of the whole as soon as the solo section is complete.  There can be no rivalry, and no domination nor capitulation.  Each voice is important in its own right and must carry its part, but must not impose itself in a way that draws attention.

Since the light has already come on, you will, no doubt, realize that there are any number of applications in the life of every one of us who lives in a community of any sort.  Whether that community is an actual town, or a church, or a business organization, the prima donna mindset can only devastate and tear down.  The superstar who thinks of himself ahead of others will destroy and not build; he will be out of tune and out of rhythm with the other members of the ensemble.  The result is a disaster, a cacophony of selfishness and envy.

The skinny boy learned eventually that all of the instruments play an essential part in the band.  He has played a solo or two and relished the momentary attention, but the joy of the ensemble is more satisfying still.  The discipline of complementing the voice of the trumpet, along with the trombone and the tuba, is made more sweet when the audience is visibly moved, not by the flashiness of a technical solo, but by the beauty of harmony and the integration of individual instruments into one voice.  Anyone with a little talent can play a solo.  It takes a special person to suppress the urge to stand out and to be a contributing member of a true ensemble.

Play your part!  Even if you only play the kazoo, you can hum along, blending with the oboes and bassoons (yes, it’s possible) and all of the other instruments in the band.

We can make some beautiful music together.  But, keep your hand off that volume control!

“If we were all determined to play first violin, we should never have an ensemble.  Therefore, respect every musician in his proper place.”
(Robert Schumann~German composer~1810-1856)

“…in humility consider others better than yourselves.  Every man should not take care of his own interests only, but also the interests of others.”
(Philippians 2:3b,4)

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

Hurt…or Mad?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
We were finishing up our dessert after a wonderful meal, which had included the Lovely Lady’s delicious ham along with her amazing cheesy potatoes, when the back door opened with a rush.  The wailing outside drove out all the calm and quiet we were enjoying as we sat back to relax.  We could only assume that a visit to the emergency room was imminent, but the mother of the grandchild quickly calmed our anxieties.  “I’ll take care of it,” she said quietly, and headed for the door.  The crying increased in volume until she appeared to the child right outside the door.  “What’s wrong?” she asked, all businesslike.  The sobbing was interrupted at intervals as the words came pitifully.  “He (sniff) hurt (wail) my (bawl) feelings (howl)!  The crying ramped up in volume as the necessity for words lessened.  It was a good thing too, because the laughter in the dining room began an instant later. 

We should have kept quiet, because we missed the best part.  In her role as a peacemaker, his mom turned to the other young boy, sitting defiantly on his tricycle just down the sidewalk.  “What did you do?” asked Mom.  That wasn’t the question this young man wanted to answer.  He wanted to tell his reason first, and did.  “Well, he’s stressing me out!”  Oh, imagine the uproar that retort would have initiated indoors if we had heard it!  The idea of these two children, four and five years old, talking more like young adults than little kids about what their motivations were, is just too funny.  In a moment, the injured party, realizing that he wasn’t going to receive any reparations, declared adamantly, “I want to go home NOW!”

Two things strike me about the repartee and ensuing pandemonium, the first being just how mothers seem to know when there is blood and real pain involved, or when it’s simply emotion and anger being expressed.  I’m told it has something to do with the tone of the crying, but as a father and now a grandfather, I never have been able to tell the difference.  I’m also reminded of another story, which my mother-in-law used to tell.

It was some time ago, when the Lovely Lady had yet to achieve all the attributes which attracted me to her during her teenage years.  As a little girl, she was a prime target of her older brothers for teasing, since she usually rewarded them with a wonderfully satisfying display of howls and tears.  For example, there was the time when they and a neighbor boy buried the little girl’s bicycle in a puddle of mud…But I’m getting off track.  On this particular occasion, the underlying cause of which has been lost in the dim dark past, her mom and dad were inside the house, with windows open to let the breezes flow through.  All of the sudden, more was flowing through than the breezes, as a monstrous caterwauling arose out on the front porch.  Dad was up in a second, ready to rescue his precious sweet girl from injury and pain, but Mom put out her hand and said, “Just a minute.”  Then she called out from where she sat, “Are you hurt or mad?”  The two-syllable reply came loudly and tearfully from outside the door, “Maaaa-aaad!”  Moms just know, somehow.

The other thing that struck me about the angry exchange between my grandsons is how much like sponges children are.  That conversation didn’t come out of a four-year old’s brain, nor even a five-year old’s head.  It came from an adult world.  We talk about stress and about how others affect the way we feel and all the while, the children are listening, filing information away for a lifetime of reactions.  We watch programs on television and don’t take the time to discuss the conversations we hear there with the children and they take it to heart.  Moms and Dads, Grandmas and Grandpas watch the garbage without contradiction to the falsehoods, so that must mean it is true and okay to act in that manner.  Admittedly, our children also pick up things from friends and neighbors, and even many of the things we do want them to learn are applied incorrectly in their heads.  It’s up to us to help correct that error and to model love and tolerance with each other.

The boys will learn to get along with each other, something they do often with great success already.  They’ll learn to put things in perspective, figuring out what makes the other one tick.  Along the way, once in awhile they’ll push each other’s buttons a bit, just to get a reaction.  It’s an age old story; one which I have lived through myself.

And, I haven’t yelled at a brother in many years, so I’m pretty sure there’s hope for these boys.

“An angry man opens his mouth, and shuts his eyes.”
(Cato the elder~Roman statesman~234 BC-149 BC)

 

 
“Oh, be careful little ears what you hear.”
Oh, be careful little ears what you hear.
For the Father up above, is watching down in love.
Oh, be careful little ears what you hear.”
 
 
 
 
 © Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012 All Rights Reserved.
 
Originally Posted  

Collecting Moments

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’ve never felt a more moving moment in my life.”  The man in front of me is not given to dramatics, but is a down-to-earth fellow, just taking a break from his 9 to 5 retail job.  Our conversation has run the gamut from a discussion of the merit of microphone stand designs to his dismal weekend of moonlighting as a Karaoke DJ.  Somehow the conversation moves to a recent trip he took to New Orleans, where the emotional experience mentioned above occurred.  As he speaks, his countenance softens and his voice, once loud and boisterous, lowers in timbre and volume.  He describes an early stroll through the streets of New Orleans, just before daybreak one chilly morning.

His steps took him through Jackson Square, past the statue of General (and later President) Andrew Jackson and up the steps of the Moon Walk to stand near the mighty Mississippi River.  As he stood, looking almost due east and welcoming the first rays of light from the rising sun, he realized that he wasn’t alone.  He glanced behind him and saw an elderly gentleman, wearing a hat and a long coat.  As the man, probably about seventy years old, approached, he stood for a moment looking at the rolling water and the sun’s rays reflecting gently off the shimmering surface.  Then, rubbing his hands together, he doffed his hat and dropped it onto the sidewalk in front of him and from somewhere under his coat, produced an ancient brass trumpet and put it to his lips.

As the sweet notes started from the horn, my friend recognized the opening passage of an old patriotic favorite, “America, the Beautiful”, perhaps better known to many as “Oh Beautiful, For Spacious Skies”.  He reports that the old fellow never missed a note, never searched for the next tone, but played through the tune with many a flourish and grace note, flawlessly.  As I listen to him tell of removing his cap and standing by the river’s edge with tears flowing down his face while the sun begins to rise full and bright above the water’s surface and the old musician plays on, I too feel the tears start to well up.  The beauty of the moment is enough to move even me as I view the scene through his misty eyes.  It is a moment to savor.

I have become a collector of moments.  If you’ve stuck with me for long, you already know that.  Most of the articles I post are remembrances of such moments.  I don’t want to lose them in the fog and mist of age, when memories dim and existence is limited to meals, and personal needs, and waiting.

I collected another moment recently.  I had heard that the momentous event called the “Transit of Venus” was occurring and had shrugged mentally, giving the obscure phenomenon only a peremptory nod with a joke posted on my favorite social network, and then retreated to “real life” once again.  I couldn’t help but notice though, late in the afternoon, that a fellow had pulled into the parking lot across from the music store and was setting up some sort of optical equipment.  Some time later, a phone call from a friend suggesting that I walk across the street to see what was going on was met with another verbal shrug.  Big deal.  A spot on the sun.  Then I remembered.  This event would happen once in my lifetime.  The next time it occurs will be in another one hundred and five years.  I don’t intend to be here still.  I made the walk.

Photo by snowpeak

What an eye-opening experience!  The gentleman with the telescope was happy, almost eager, to give me a view in the lens of his expensive equipment.  I inquired about eye protection, but he assured me that it was safe.  A filter was in place and would block out any dangerous light.  The view was breathtaking.  I had never in my life looked at the sun through a telescope, much less even imagined the sight of the tiny (when put in this perspective) planet Venus as it crossed between the Earth and the Sun.  A tiny, but distinct dot was really all that appeared of the planet, and my brain went into overload as I contemplated the immensity of the celestial body that provides us with warmth and light.  My thought immediately shifted to the realization that, if Venus is roughly the same size as the Earth, it follows that Venus’s comparison to the Sun is also the Earth’s.  The next natural step was to realize how small I am in comparison to the immensity of the Earth.  Right about then, this little speck on a speck started feeling mighty small in the grand scheme of things.  It was definitely a moment.

Still feeling small, I once again crossed the street to enter the front door of the music store.  As I entered the building, a young voice called out, “Hi Grandpa!”  One by one, other voices chimed in as they vied for my attention.  It was only for a short period of time, but suddenly, I felt huge.  I was important in their world!  There is nothing like the love of a child to put thoughts that have been skewed back into perspective.  Again, a moment to be collected and savored.

Certainly, the huge Sun still hung overhead; the tiny, yet immense, planet Venus continued its transit across the sky between Earth and that great ball of flaming gas.  But here, in my world,  we were all life-sized, living and loving, making a difference in the moments that matter to each of us.  Memories are being made and these moments will be gathered into the collection. 

Like all collectors, I will continue to enjoy taking out the accumulation of moments, both moving and eye-opening, joyful and heart-breaking.  The collection of a lifetime is all of these and more, ever growing and changing.  Thankfully, even in the midst of collecting thoughts of immensity and insignificance, I find again, in my collection, that moment of realization that One, who cares for every single part of His creation, loves this small, insignificant man.  And once again, I feel humbled and important at the same time.  What a moment that was!

 What’s in your collection?  There will be many moments today, even.  There is still plenty of time to gather a memory or two.  Maybe you could even share one with a friend like me.

I promise, I’ll try not to cry when you do…

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 
Old Time is still a-flying; 
And this same flower that smiles today, 
Tomorrow will be dying.” 
(“To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time”~Robert Herrick~English poet~1591-1674)

“Indeed the right time is now.  Today is the day of salvation!”
(2 Corinthians 6:2b~NLT)

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

Good, Honest Wear

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Is this an old guitar, Paul?  I’ll bet it’s just one of those ‘relic’ models, isn’t it?”  The young man was genuinely mystified.  I had hung the battered guitar on the wall just last night and already, it was drawing attention.  Instead of answering his question, I suggested a test.  “Why don’t you tell me?” I asked, as I handed him the instrument.  He was game and held it for a moment, feeling the weight, hefting it up and down a time or two to get the feel in his hands.  “It feels right,” he declared.  I encouraged him to play it for a minute, which he did.  “Yep, it’s really what it looks like, isn’t it?  How old is this thing?”  The suspicion in his face was gone; nothing left there but admiration for the vintage instrument which he now cradled carefully in his arms.

I told you the other day about the fifty year-old guitar which Art had retrieved from its time of service on the continent of Africa.  This is the same guitar.  After our conversation, Art decided that my music store would be a trust-worthy place where the instrument would be valued and well cared for, so I was able to acquire the wonderful old guitar.  I have spent a good number of hours over the last few days, cleaning and laboring on the necessary upkeep which has been lacking over the last few years.  Late last night, I put the finishing touches on the instrument as I installed new strings and then I tweaked the harmonics as it came into tune.  For all of its battle scars, it is a beautiful instrument, sure to be a desirable addition to some happy guitar player’s collection.

It has what I frequently describe as good, honest wear.  The edges of the body are battered and scraped.  In a place or two, it appears to have been dragged over the concrete floor.  On the top, I would almost attest that I can see the mark of a shoe, where someone has walked on the guitar as they moved across the room.  It is dinged and scratched, and the neck is worn bare of finish where many hands have rubbed it again and again up and down the scale.  The fingerboard is cupped and worn from hours and hours of the strings being squeezed down to its surface.  It is a beautiful sight to see, as it hangs on the wall.

As I considered my young friend’s response to the realization that this instrument was indeed one due his respect and admiration, my thoughts were drawn inexorably to another guitar I have hanging on the wall in my store.  It too, is a beautiful instrument, worthy to be played by most any musician.  The guitar functions quite adequately, with excellent action along the fingerboard, and a good set of pickups, which will emit great volume and pleasing tones.  Still, the reaction which any number of guitarists have shown as they pick up this instrument is far different from my young friend’s show of respect this afternoon.

The guitar is suspended on a wall hanger with perhaps twenty more, much like it.  Yet, it stands out in the crowd.  The others are shiny and new-looking.  The hardware gleams and the colors are undimmed by time, unmarked by clumsy usage.  This guitar though–it shows years of use, the edges scarred, the paint worn thin, apparently by wear from many jam sessions and more than a few times of being dragged in and out of a case.  The eye is drawn to it, as is the hand.  Many have removed it from the shelf, handling it with awe and care.  The respect is only a momentary thing, vanishing in seconds, as if the wind had swept it from the air.  “Oh, it’s just a fake,” is the phrase I have heard over and over with respect to this instrument, still a very fine piece of music equipment.  The disappointment is too great a barrier for anyone to get past, so the instrument hangs there after months on the same hanger.

As great as my discouragement at not being able to sell this guitar, my wonder at the reaction of the customers is greater.  Why, you ask, would one look at this instrument and disrespect it, when the other instrument demands honor and careful handling?  The first guitar, the one with the “honest wear” has earned its place of honor.  Years and usage have gained it the high esteem of one and all, while this second guitar has undertaken to circumvent the whole aging process and fails miserably in the attempt. The “bare” spots are simply places where the finish was never applied to the wood.  The scrapes?  Ditto.  The back of the neck is discolored simply by changing the amount of coloration in the stain which was applied at the factory.  This guitar was actually manufactured to give the appearance of age, a process now known in the business as “relicing” (pronounced rel-ick-ing).  As the genuine players know, this is a fake, a wannabe, attempting to seduce the guitarist to accept a lookalike, instead of working his/her way to the real thing by actually playing the same fine instrument for the years it takes to achieve the good, honest wear.

I have seen many guitars which were given this “relic” treatment by their owners.  They have hit the instruments with chains, scraped them with tools, even dragged them across the sidewalk in an attempt to achieve this look.  If you follow the antique trade at all, you will know that many buyers have been fooled by new items made to appear old by similar artifices.  The experts always tell customers to look for the user wear, not for the peripheral wear.  I tell my customers to do the same.  If there is a lot of wear on the edges, do the frets show playing wear?  Do the marks match the actual playing position of the instrument?  If the evidence of age is only around the edges, but not in the places that actually are touched when the guitar is being played, it is likely the work of a charlatan.

Are you fooled by the fakes in your world?  I have been…more than once.  In fact, I will readily admit that, at times, I fear that those close to me will discover that I am just such a fake.  For many years, I dreaded the time when the Lovely Lady discovered that I really wasn’t a knight in shining armor after all.  I now fear that she may have already discovered it, but am encouraged that she hasn’t acted on her knowledge.  I worry that the people in my church will discover that I have secret sins and habits which would disappoint them beyond imagination.  I fear that you will realize that I don’t live up to my little morality lessons again and again.  I don’t know about you, but I do the best I can to give the appearance of respectability in the attempt to bolster the facade I’ve built.  From a distance, I think I’ve succeeded.  But, take me down off the wall and get a feel for who I really am and…well, let’s just say it won’t be pretty.

The lesson here is twofold.  I am encouraged to leave off defrauding those around me, to come clean and show who I really am.  If all of us could do that, the astonishment might overcome us initially, but we would all be better off to know that each of us suffers from the curse of being a sinner.  We might be more caring, more patient, even more helpful to each other.  You never know.  

The second part of the lesson is for us to be careful of what we accept as honorable.  In the business world, we have a saying.  “Buyer, beware!”  Don’t be fooled by a little wear on the edges, a scrape or two across the surface.  Honesty goes to the heart.  Respect and honor are earned, not manufactured.  Esteem and trust don’t belong to the newcomer, the upstart, but to the veteran who has toiled and paid his dues.  The rookie will have time to prove his mettle, soon enough.   

Mr. Peabody, an old instrument repairman I know, used to have a sign in his shop that sums it up for me…“Good Work Takes Time.” 

It might be a wise thing to remember that the next time someone offers you a vintage guitar.

Buyer, beware!

“It is easily overlooked that what is now called vintage was once brand new.”
(Tony Visconti~American record producer)

“Rise in the presence of the aged; show respect for the elderly.”
(Leviticus 19:32)

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

Normal Like Me

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

October 1979.  The opportunity to be in the audience to hear a fairly new star in the classical music universe could not be passed up.  The pianist had won numerous awards and was touted as “one of the premiere concert pianists in the world.”  We arrived early and found good seats near the front and in the center of the fine arts auditorium.  Both the Lovely Lady and I are pianists (she has earned the title; I have purloined it) and were excited to have the chance to hear this fine artist.

The orchestra, mediocre but ambitious, began the evening with a piece or two before the soloist made his entrance.  We were impatient to hear the headliner, but tolerated the wait.  And, before we could become too impatient, the man himself was on stage.  The long tails and black tie which seem to be required dress for such occasions were present, the flipping back of said tails observed ceremonially as he sat, and we prepared to be dazzled.

photo by oldpianomusic

I must admit at this point that I have no remembrance of any of the pieces which were played.  I suppose they were well executed.  As we left the auditorium later, the words being tossed around were “stellar” and “remarkable”.  I couldn’t tell you.  I really don’t know how well the man played in that concert.  You see, shortly after the music began, I started hearing buzzing and humming noises, similar to what a child might make or what you might hear from a kazoo if the person were careful to be very quiet.  I looked around.  No one in the audience nearby seemed to be making the noise.  I wondered if one of the instruments in the orchestra could be malfunctioning, so I scanned the stage, just in case.  There was no tell-tale activity to indicate such a problem.  Perhaps the piano itself had something loose.  As I looked at the instrument more closely, I suddenly discovered the source of the irritating noise.

The pianist himself was making the noises with his mouth as he played!  The rhythmic sounds started and stopped as he pursed his lips and buzzed or opened them and hummed.  It was not loud, but noticeable; to me at least.  For the remainder of the program, I was alternately amused and annoyed with the sound effects.  Whichever, it was all I remember from the entire concert.  The great man made noises with his mouth!  What an oddball!

I was talking with my horn teacher a few days later and he, knowing that I had attended the concert, asked about it.  I immediately launched into a tirade about the strange man and his vocal accompaniment to his own piano playing.  After a moment or two, he stopped me and asked a pointed question.  “How was the music?”  I replied that I guessed it was okay, but that I hadn’t really paid much attention.  My friend was confused.  “What did you go to the concert for?”  I replied, defensively,  “To hear him play the piano.”  His next three words turned on a light for me.  “Did he play?”

Why hadn’t I listened to the piano?  It was much louder than the peripheral noises.  I’m told that it was amazing.  I wouldn’t know.  I went to hear Emanuel Ax in concert and I didn’t listen to his music!

Why do we center our attention on the negative?  How could I have missed the music and only heard the static?  I am struck that this is fairly often the human condition.  A lifetime of good is accomplished and we find a single bothersome issue to remember.  Tremendous success is achieved and we complain that it could have been better.  All around are examples of people doing what they should and we want to discuss the one idiot who chooses to be stupid.  You would think that with such tunnel vision, eventually we would center in on the good, but our lens doesn’t seem to focus well unless we are gazing at the bad.

For some reason, my mind is drawn to another piano concert I attended just a few years ago.  The pianist came to our church and performed on the poor quality piano we had on our stage at that time.  During the performance, one of the keys actually broke in two.  He kept playing, avoiding the damaged key.  I never once heard the unresponsive “thump” that his finger hitting that key again would have made.  The music was undiminished because of the missing note.  And later during his performance, at one point all the dampers in the bass section of the piano stuck, causing all those notes to ring incessantly.  Nonplussed, he skillfully finished the piece and, standing to acknowledge the applause, surreptitiously reached down near the tuning pins and, with a tiny motion, eased the dampers back down into place on the strings.

Afterward, I apologized to him for the poor quality of the piano.  He didn’t want to hear any apology, but graciously related the story of an occasion when, in a very poor village in a developing country, they had an ancient piano for him to play, but no bench for him to sit upon.  He was honored to perform the concert there while seated on a tree stump.  This man undoubtedly understands why he was put here.  He has the rare gift to be able to make beautiful music and the privilege of performing that music for people from all walks of life.  He isn’t going to let an insignificant problem like a broken piano key or a missing bench stop the music from being heard.

When we focus on the important things, we reap amazing benefits.  Let our eye be drawn away to the nonessentials and we lose sight, almost completely, of why we came. 

Alas, I missed the opportunity of a lifetime, because a man I thought would be bigger than life and twice as debonair, was actually kind of normal, like me.  I won’t make the same mistake again.

I hope.

“…whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable–if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–think about such things.”
(Philippians 4:8b~NIV)

“The only normal people are the ones you don’t know very well.”
(Alfred Adler~Austrian psychiatrist~1870-1937)

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

You Say Hello

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

He just turned eighty-two last week.  I called to wish him a happy birthday and to check in.  Maybe it’s because change happens gradually, but to me, he doesn’t sound any different than he did when I called him thirty years ago on his fifty-second birthday.  With a couple of changes, it could have been the same conversation.  He is busy with his preaching duties, visiting parishioners in the hospital, just done with a city-wide meeting in which he participated.  I tell him that the little girl is doing great, and growing fast.  Thirty years ago, it was a different ministry for him.  Then the girl was my own child, now she is one of my grandchildren.  Time marches on.

The thing that catches my attention is his mention of death.  I want to put it down to his advancing years, his realization that the count of years in front of him is narrowing, while the span behind is wide.  But suddenly, I think about our conversation thirty years ago and remember that we spoke of death then also.  He had laughed about his doctors and their pronunciation of a death sentence a few years prior, when he was in his late forties.  “They gave me three years at the outside.  I guess there is still a little more for me to do.”  Then, he was pleased to have fooled the medical minds for five years.  At eighty-two, he is still chuckling, realizing that he has now outlasted their predictions by some thirty-five years.  But there is a different, almost somber, note that tempers his light-hearted comments.  The knowledge that “it is appointed to a man once to die” is a sobering thing to an old man.  He is ready, but not anxious for the event.  “I think there may still be a little more to do, even now,” he reminds me before our conversation turns to other matters.

I have begun to realize, perhaps a little tardily you may think, that all of life is a series of goodbyes.  My young friend, Andrew and I spoke of that yesterday, as he worked on a guitar in the music store.  He is suddenly becoming aware that being a senior in high school means that many relationships which have been life-long will be coming to an abrupt end soon.  He is wise beyond his years.  At his age, I never gave it a second thought…couldn’t get done with school quickly enough.  It wasn’t until many years later that it hit me;  I haven’t seen most of my friends, the people who had been my whole life up to that point, since the day I walked across the platform to receive my diploma.  The separation was instantaneous and unqualified.  My young friend is aware of that coming reality and the prospect saddens him.  I remind him that such is life, and that new friends will be made all through its years.  He is not encouraged.

You see, we begin saying goodbye the day we are born.  At no time in our lives will we be so dependent, so completely wrapped up in our need of people.  But, each new milestone–rolling over, crawling, walking, eating with utensils–every achievement without exception, leads to independence, but it also leads inexorably and unfailingly to that time when we fly from the nest, declaring our emancipation and saying “Goodbye.”  In some ways, as children, we can’t wait for the day.  As parents, we dread the day, almost as much as we exult in it.  The goal is achieved!  The tiny baby, completely dependent on us for every single need to be satisfied, has, both physically and emotionally, achieved the stature which was intended, and for which we labored.  The goodbyes are unbelievably sad, but the satisfaction of completing our task is immensely gratifying.

In all of our relationships, we understand that the day will come when we either say goodby mutually, or one of us is left behind to say it.  It would be such a depressing subject, but for what follows the goodbye.  If you have left one place for another before, you will understand.  The feeling of loss is quickly replaced by the excitement of discovery as new friends are made, new places are revealed, and new memories begin to pile up behind us once more.

“Goodbye” simply means that “Hello” is on the horizon!

I remember hearing the quote in “The Sound Of Music”:  “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.”  I used to think that it was thin comfort.  That said, life’s experiences have shown that it is not maudlin at all, but immensely comforting to know that happiness follows sorrow.  We move forward in expectation of what lies ahead.  Our hearts may yearn for what has past, but reality demands that we push ahead.

Death is simply another goodbye in the grand scheme of things.  For the believer, it is a step into the eternity which holds no fear, but only the prospect of new hellos.  Is there sadness?  Obviously.  Even our Savior felt sorrow at the death of his friend, Lazarus.  But, we are confident that, like the other goodbyes we have said, hello will come again.  What a great hope!  I’m not anxious for the day when the goodbye I say to my father is the last one we’ll say here.  But, it is what he has been laboring for all of these years.  How would I want to keep him from that?

It does seem that goodbye has come to be such an abrupt, almost ugly, word.  Maybe we should add two words to it, two simple words, but they give a sense of promise and of hope.   

Goodbye, for now.

“Death has been swallowed up in Victory!”
(I Corinthians 15:54B)

God be with you till we meet again;
By His counsels guide, uphold you,
With His sheep securely fold you;
God be with you till we meet again.


Till we meet, till we meet,
Till we meet at Jesus’ feet;
Till we meet, till we meet,
God be with you till we meet again.
(Jeremiah Rankin~American pastor & songwriter~1828-1904)

“Why can’t we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn’t work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos.” 
(Snoopy~created by Charles Schulz~American cartoonist~1922-2000)

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