For over thirty years, the man believed the lie.  Thirty years.

It was a small lie.  Perhaps it wasn’t even meant as an untruth.  Perhaps, the teacher who said the words assumed they were true.  It doesn’t matter.

The man believed the lie.

It all started the spring semester of his sophomore year in high school.  Fifteen years old was the age at which a kid could start on the road to independence, the age at which emancipation was finally within his grasp.  He was certain that all he needed was a driver’s license to achieve the goal.

It didn’t matter that he had no car; that gulf would be bridged when he got to it.  First, the little plastic card with his picture had to be in his grasp.  Minor details could be attended to in due time.

Driver’s education was the pathway he chose to achieve independence.  Friends would admire him, family members would count on him, girls would line up to be his date for an evening.  What could be disappointing about that?

Plenty, it turned out.  Let’s just say that the lectures, the scare films (remember “Death on the Highway”?), the hours spent in the driving simulator, were all endured without enjoyment.  It didn’t matter.  He was going to be driving soon enough.

The day finally arrived.  Two disappointed teenagers piled into the back seat of the specially marked sedan and one of them slid triumphantly under the steering wheel.  The instructor sat in the front passenger seat, with brake pedal securely under a heavy foot.  He would use it too!

Are you still waiting for the lie?  Bear with me just a moment more.  We’ll get there.

The young lady who was first in the driver’s seat was self assured.  She had aced the practice exams, had even scored well on the simulator.  She knew this was going to be a triumph, and she would show up the boys in the back seat.

It didn’t work out quite like that.  Time and time again, the instructor’s foot hit the brake pedal and brought the car to a halt, as he barked out instructions.

“Hands at 10 and 2!”

“Watch your mirrors!”

“Signal before you turn!  Don’t turn so fast! You’ll have us in the ditch!”

Then it happened.  The young lady was driving down a straight stretch of road, seemingly doing quite nicely, when his voice, this time more strained than at any other time in the lesson, was heard again.

“You’re going over the speed limit!  And, wouldn’t you know it?  There’s a cop over there!”

Sure enough, the police cruiser was parked at the side of the road.  The officer had the familiar radar gun in hand, pointed at approaching traffic.  That happened to be the learner’s car.

It was the first crisis that afternoon at which the instructor didn’t slam on the brakes.

It didn’t matter, because the young lady did it herself.  The boys in the backseat weren’t wearing seat belts and were thrown against the backs of the front seat; the braking motion was that strong.

“Just drive!”  Another first.  This time the instructor had shouted.

His shout had the desired effect.  The poor girl took her foot off the brake and stomped on the accelerator, zooming up past the posted limit almost instantly.  This time, the exasperated instructor applied his foot to the brake, slowing the car back down to the desired speed.

About that time, they passed the parked police car and the unhappy man in the passenger seat of the vehicle shrugged and threw up his hands in resignation.  The officer smiled sympathetically and waved the car on by.  A couple of blocks later the girl, clearly shaken and visibly trembling, pulled to the curb and asked to be relieved at the wheel.

As the car filled with young wanna-be drivers sat motionless, the instructor told the lie–the one which would live on for over thirty years.  Looking each of them in the eye in turn as he delivered his pseudo-wisdom, he delivered the fateful words.

“Don’t ever hit your brakes when you know you’re on police radar.  That locks the radar on you and, even if you’re in a crowd of cars, you’ll be certain to get picked out as the perpetrator.  Never hit your brakes near a speed-trap!”
_____

For thirty years, the boy followed that advice.

Thirty years, he sped along highways, noticing the Christmas tree of lights that resulted from the spotting of a patrolman up ahead.  Thirty years, he smugly refused to tap his brakes, opting instead to coast down to a speed which wouldn’t attract attention.

Every time he saw someone else get pulled over, he nodded his foolish head and sanctimoniously repeated the lie.

“Never hit your brakes near a speed-trap.”

Thirty years.  A lie that lived for thirty years, determining his actions, his responses.

Photo: Scott Davidson

Until that day, when he and his Lovely Lady were speeding home from a rehearsal one evening.  It was dusk, and he didn’t see the State Trooper sitting there immediately.  He did notice the brake lights ahead of him.  Smugly, he wondered aloud what those fools were doing and let his foot off the accelerator.

Smugly, he watched the trooper start his flashing lights atop the big white and blue Crown Victoria.  Smugly, he waited for the car to pass him and tag one of the drivers who had been foolish enough to hit his brakes.

Glumly, he pulled to the shoulder of the highway when the lights stayed on his tail without going around.  He was confused.  He knew, just knew, that his instructor had told him the truth all those years ago.  How could this have happened?

After the officer had given him the speech and written him a warning (thank goodness, not a ticket!), he felt that he had to ask.

“I know that hitting a vehicle’s brakes locks the radar on that car.  Why did you stop me?  I didn’t hit my brakes.”

It was the trooper’s turn to be confused.  But, only for a moment.  Suddenly, he just shook his head and laughing uproariously, turned and walked back to his car.

It was a lie.  A lie.

Thirty years he had known the truth, only to find that it was a lie.
_____

I wonder, how many other things we believe to be true are lies?  Lies told to us for various reasons, but all resulting in the same thing.

We believe a lie.

We act on that lie.

We repeat the lie, thinking we are telling the truth.

It changes who we are, changes the people around us, even causes people to shift course because they trust us to tell the truth.

I’m not talking about insignificant untruths, like not braking for a speed trap.

I’m talking about important things.

You’re no good and will never amount to anything.

Nobody loves fat people.

You’re so dumb!

If you’re good, you’ll go to heaven.

God couldn’t love someone as evil as me.

I’m not going to burden you with all the lies I have tumbling around in my head.  There are many.  Some were planted decades ago; some have sprouted up quite recently.

Maybe you have a few echoing in your ears, too.

Lies kill.  Lies cripple.  Lies destroy.

I wonder what else I think I know that is false.  Perhaps it’s time for a little fact-checking.  I may even tell you, in the days to come, about a lie or two I’ve accepted as truth.

It can’t hurt to shed a little light on the pathway ahead.

We’ll all travel more safely for it.

And, if that light turns out to be the brake lights of the cars ahead of you, perhaps you should find the brake pedal.

It might save us all some embarrassment.

“And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
(John 8:32 ~ NKJV)

“But he that sows lies in the end shall not lack of a harvest, and soon he may rest from toil indeed, while other reap and sow in his stead.”
(from The Simarillon ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English author/educator ~ 1892-1973)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved. 

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The pond is a large one, beside a major roadway.  Each spring, the rains fill it to overflowing, the excess water siphoning over the banks and making broad rivulets down the hillside. That fortunate overflow makes its passage to the river nearby, joining with the rest of the huge torrent as it shoves its way with abandon down the waterway, to join ever wider rivers, eventually making its way inexorably down to the sea.

Fortunate?

How could water be fortunate?  I suppose one would have to stay around for a few months to understand that point of view.

The pond, for a short time, is a beautiful sight, so much so that some optimistic folks have built park benches and even a dock from which to fish or swim by its banks.  During the rainy months, there is frequent activity for these improvements; romantic couples sitting by the water’s edge; children splashing and paddling in the clear, sparkling liquid that fills the reservoir.

But, the day comes–sooner than one might think–when no one considers even sticking a toe in this pond, much less gazing on it admiringly.  The water which was not blessed to make its way to freedom while still clear and refreshing, has turned a grotesquely green hue and is rapidly covered with a layer which defies any brave soul to violate its surface.

Presently, there are  no admirers, and the once-popular retreat is abandoned, bereft of visible activity of any kind.  The unfortunate water left behind in the rainy season is trapped in a putrid sea of green, stinky scum.

How could this happen?

What disaster has struck this beautiful body of water, to leave it so–lorn of appeal and purpose?

The answer is simple.  The rainy season has finished and the water that replenishes the pond comes sporadically, but not in a deluge as before.  When it does fall, none escapes over the side.  The new supply only goes into the depression in the ground, not out of it.  There is no flow, no moving current.  The biological eco-system produces nutrients, lots of them, upon which the algae feeds, and then it thrives in the bright sunlight.  Soon the green scum is out of control, making the pond useless for any kind of recreation.

I thought about that pond today.  A chance conversation with a customer drove my thoughts to that unattractive place.

“I’ve come to the point in my life where there are no expectations of anything from me,” he declared.

I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I prodded a bit.

He explained, “For most of my life, I’ve been engaged, and active, with other people.  I’m getting older now and I no longer have to interact with them.  I get to just enjoy the things I’ve learned and am learning.”

He expounded on his justification for this logic.  I was shocked to hear him invoke the forty years Moses spent in the wilderness, along with John on the Island of Patmos, as evidence for his right to withdraw from the mainstream.

It seems my friend believes he has earned this respite–that his God has given it to him as a reward for hard work.

I can’t help but mentally draw a parallel with the pond.  Of all the times when he should be sharing in copious quantities what he has learned, he chooses to become a hermit.  Satisfied to keep his knowledge and wisdom to himself, he will die happy.  I say his, but what I intend is that you understand clearly I don’t believe it is his in any way.

Every single thing we have is a gift; we have deserved none of it.

It not only should be shared, it must be shared.

To keep knowledge and wisdom to ourselves is to become thieves, not once, but twice.

We steal from those who are waiting downstream for the bounty to overflow.

We also steal from ourselves in that we prevent the interaction which keeps us vibrant and active.  Like the pond, what once attracted visitors now repels them.  We even suffer, as all activity moves deep under the surface.  Trapped in an eternal cycle, we regurgitate the same old things again and again, never interacting, never sharing.

Photo by Berit from Redhill/Surrey, UK

Stagnant.

It is a word we use to describe smelly, putrid water that is trapped and still.  It is also what happens to our souls when we move ourselves prematurely out of the current and flow of life.

Give me the white water of the rapids any day!

I want to be rushing to the sea, surrounded by others who are going the same direction.

The torrent of the raging river is alive and dynamic.

The backwater of the stagnant pond is instead, defunct and listless, going nowhere.

I think I’ll keep rolling along.  There is still a bend or two to go around before I reach the ocean.

 The company along the way has been a treat, too.  I hope you’ll keep moving right along with me.  We’ve got lots more to learn together as we go.

Besides, I really don’t fancy that scum-covered green water.

I also think I agree wholeheartedly with the always funny Erma Bombeck when she penned those immortal words, “Green is not a happy color.”

“If thou would’st have that stream of hard-earn’d knowledge, of Wisdom heaven-born, remain sweet running waters, thou should’st not leave it to become a stagnant pond.”
(Sir Frances Bacon~English lawyer/philosopher~1561-1626)




“For just as the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, yielding seed for the sower and bread for eating, so will my message be that goes out of my mouth–it won’t return to me empty.  Instead, it will accomplish what I desire, and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.”
(Isaiah 55:10,11~ISV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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“Hello darkness, my old friend.  I’ve come to talk to you again.”

The quiet duo, almost morose in tonality, began to sing in my earphones as I walked my accustomed route late one night recently.  I almost stopped short.

Oh, it’s not a new song, the recording having been made nearly fifty years ago; it’s not even as if I haven’t heard it a thousand times or more in my lifetime.  It’s just that I heard the words in the right setting for the first time on that night.

In the dark.

In a dark mood.

Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel wrote and recorded “The Sound of Silence” in the years just after the assassination of President Kennedy.  It was a dark time for many in our nation and they captured the fear and angst of a generation.

“In restless dreams I walked alone,
Narrow streets of cobblestone…”

The anguish is almost palpable.

I mention the setting simply to reiterate that both the writing and the singing come out of the darkness.  Mr. Simon admits to beginning with the words quoted above as he spoke them into the darkness of his bathroom, where he often sat and wrote in his early days of performing.

My writing will never achieve the stature of his, but often it too comes out of the darkness of night.  Frequently, it proceeds from the darkness of my spirit as well.  By that, I mean that there are places in my heart where all is not gaiety and party favors.

I think it would be an error to cast this darkness as always harmful or evil.

Sadness exists, in spite of our efforts to banish it.

I think that’s as it should be.

As I read my own words written in these times, I have to admit that some of the most powerful sentiments I feel come out of that same darkness.  Many of the essays, wrenched out of my forays into the dim, uncertain night are, to my mind, the most memorable.

You may not agree and that’s fine.  There is room for a different perspective.

For, you see, from the same mind (at times) comes lightness and exuberance.  Will you allow me to follow up for just a moment with another example from the writing of the artists I mentioned above?

Perhaps one of the happiest songs to come from that same era is “The 59th Street Bridge Song.”  With the goofiness of Hello lamppost, whatcha knowin’?  I’ve come to watch your flowers growin’, we’re just …kicking down the cobblestones right along with the carefree duo.

From the pen and mouths of the same artists who lived in the intense darkness, came this joy and exhilaration for life.  It seems possible that the sentiments of both songs took place on the same route, too.  Notice the narrow streets in the lyrics of the first?

Yep.  The very same streets of cobblestone that the duo was kicking down in the second song.

I thought about that on a sunny day recently, as I rode my bicycle with a couple of old friends.  We followed a lot of the same route I often walk (and run) at night.  You might say the difference was indeed, day and night.  Spirits were light as we talked and laughed, first one person riding ahead, then another.  When the road allowed we rode three abreast to share the enjoyment.

Carefree, the miles flew by.

We want to spend all our time enjoying life.  The fact is, just as half of our life is spent in daylight and half in the night, we will all experience our share of joy and pain.  Both are valuable and essential to learning and growing.  Both come whether we will them to or not.

Will we learn from the darkness, or will we become bitter and angry because of it?  Will we carry the joy of the light into the dark of the night, or is the night doomed to be devoid of hope?

We choose.  We determine the manner in which we face the darkness and silence.  It may indeed, become our old friend.  That said, it does not have to become our destiny and our hell here on earth.

One other thought hits me as I write this:  Friends are a gift from a beneficent God, are they not?  Even the dark times are lighter when they are around us.  I’m beginning to think that perhaps old age may be less onerous with a few of these fine people around.

I think I’ve still got a few sessions of kicking down the cobblestones left in me, too.  I’m even feeling a little like that carefree duo of yesteryear.  For the time being, at least.

We’ll have to work together on keeping it going.  Twenty years from now, we may still be singing those final words.

“Feeling groovy.”

“Everything has it wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.”
(Helen Keller ~ American author/educator, both blind and deaf ~ 1880-1968)

“But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night…”
(from “The Return of the King” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English educator/author ~ 1892-1973)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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The clock ticks away the seconds.  I lean back in my easy chair and listen as the pendulum swings.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…

The speed of the mechanical noise is quite fast.  And hypnotic.  Before I know it, three minutes have passed.  But, as I sit, another sound catches my ear, running almost concurrently with the ticking of the old mantel clock in the room where I’m lounging.

I listen to the newly perceived sound, recognizing that it is actually running a bit slower than the one which lulled me into inactivity a few minutes ago.  It is the sound of the old kitchen clock out in the dining room.

That’s funny.  That clock ticks more slowly than the mantel clock, but it runs faster.  That doesn’t make sense at all.  In addition to that, I habitually move the hands of the mantel clock forward by almost half an hour a day.  It’s the only way it will ever be close to telling the true time whenever I glance at the hands.

I never trust the tale it tells.

I continue to listen.  Slowly and steadily, the sound from both clocks falls on my ear drums.  It’s still a mystery.  The ancient clock in the dining room actually seems to be going more slowly, if I go by the sound.  But, I know that it keeps proper time.  Week after week, month after month, year after year, I can look at the time indicated on that clock and set all the other clocks in the house by it.

It is a timepiece worthy of my trust.

I wind the trustworthy clock no more than once a week.  Every seven days, twenty-one twists of the key–twenty-one, no more, no less–and it is prepared to run for the week.

The clock on the mantel?  I must wind it every three or four days.  Never the same number of revolutions.  Never.  Still, if I don’t wind it, it will stop.  But when I do wind it, it runs at the wrong speed.

The question comes to mind.

Which clock do I like better?

Well?  Which one do you suppose?

Another question immediately arises in my thoughts.

Why do I even keep that troublesome old clock around?

It certainly takes more effort to keep it going.  I have to fiddle with it every day.

Every day.

And still,  I can’t trust it.  At any given time, the errant timepiece could be off by two or even twenty-two minutes.

I can’t trust it.

I haven’t answered either question, have I?

I’ll tackle the second one first.  I keep the clock around because I think it just might, one day, run at the correct speed.  I have done everything I know to insure that, but in the dark recesses of my mind, I remember someone saying if you keep moving the hands of a slow clock ahead, eventually it will run faster.  I don’t know if that’s true or not (and I hope no one is foolish enough to check the Internet and tell me it isn’t).  I’m not sure I even care if it’s true or not anymore.  I’m just going to keep trying.

Which brings me to my first question.

You will probably be surprised to find I don’t like either one better than the other.  One keeps good time, the other one doesn’t.  It doesn’t matter.  I’m going to care for both of them.

I can’t imagine ever getting rid of either one.  The one that keeps good time is a joy and a blessing.  The one that can’t be trusted needs me.  I think possibly I need it.

Somehow–I can’t quite put my finger on it–I feel a sort of kinship to that messed up old clock.
____________________

I wonder if there is any point in writing more tonight.

Tears come as the truth I couldn’t quite put my finger on a moment ago becomes evident.  (I don’t only write for the benefit of my readers, you know.)  Memories of an ill-mannered child, a rude teenager, even an arrogant young man–all the same person–spill into my consciousness.  Deeds I will not recount in public are played out on the stage in my head, and the shame is overwhelming.

I can’t be trusted.

Still, the Master of the house keeps me in full view.  Daily–hourly–yes, even moment by moment, He has to fiddle and make adjustments.  He keeps me.

I get to stay.
____________________

Someday, I hope the old clock will function as it should.  I’m not giving up on it.

He won’t give up on us either.

We get to stay.

“(Love) always protects, always hopes, always trusts, always perseveres.”
(I Corinthians 13:7 ~ NIV)

“Many that live deserve death.  And some that die deserve life.  Can you give it to them?  Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement.  For even the very wise cannot see all ends.”
(from “The Fellowship of the Ring” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ British author/professor ~ 1892-1973

I was angry as I ran down the steep hillside into the valley with its idyllic stream and beautiful gazebos rising from the wooded lawns.  I live in a beautiful little town, but that wasn’t what I was focused on at this particular moment.

Photo: Diliff

“Every mom aspires to be the World’s Greatest Mom, and by some crazy quirk of logic, most succeed.”*

“Well?  What are you waiting for–an engraved invitation?”

Photo: Abhisek Sarda

The quiet young man glanced up at me, almost in embarrassment.  I was teasing, but he couldn’t be expected to know that.  Standing in front of the counter at my music store, the teenager looked almost frightened, but he asked the question anyway.

“Do you mind–would it be all right if I played it?”

He motioned toward the thousand dollar guitar hanging on the wall behind me, seemingly worried that I might refuse.  I had already told him he could take down anything he wanted to play, but this was different.  He wasn’t sure my blanket license extended to the instruments behind the counter.

I laughed.  “Of course you can play it.  I told you anything you wanted to play, didn’t I?”

Most of my customers know me well enough to see through my smart-aleck words, but this young man was new here.  He had only been in before with his dad, but on this day was on his own.  He wanted to be sure he played by the rules.

He waited for me to hand him the guitar, but I was busy with another customer and, jerking my chin in the direction of the hangers on the wall behind me, told him to get it himself.  He walked gingerly behind the counter and reached up to lift the beautiful instrument from its place in the row of better-than-average instruments back there.

Carrying the guitar as if it would fall apart in his hands, he rounded the corner to plug it into an amplifier.  I listened to the sweet chords and melodies that came from his ministrations to the pretty chunk of wood with strings attached and smiled.

This is what I live for.  Well, this and the odd bowl of ice cream once in awhile.

The young man, oblivious to the activity going on around him–a little girl swishing past, headed into her piano lesson, the postal person, toting an armful of plastic tubs to replace the ones full of packages she would haul out momentarily–sat and lovingly played that guitar for half an hour.  I still don’t understand what it is about music that carries one away like that, but, having felt the same thing myself countless times, I could only muse enviously as I went about my tasks.

He would have played longer, but his dad, a rough farmer who jumped out of an old pickup truck towing a stock trailer, stuck his head in the front door and beckoned impatiently to him.  Jerked back to reality, the boy reached down and, flicking off the switch on the amplifier, unplugged the precious instrument.  He then carried it, just as carefully as before, back to the counter.

The kid just stood there, waiting for my unspoken permission, finally given in the form of a head jerk, to go behind the counter again and replace the pricey guitar back in its accustomed spot on the wall.  Then he headed for the exit.  I told him to come back any time and he just ducked his head shyly.

A few moments later, I looked up from the job I was doing and saw him there again.  He was standing in the same spot he had occupied when I had made my smart-mouthed comment to him earlier.  As before, he waited for me to speak first.

“Well?”  I asked roughly.

“I just wanted to say thank you for letting me play your guitar, sir.”

He turned on his heel and was gone.

Did I say I lived for the moments when the guitar is played by talented hands?  I’ve changed my mind.

I live for moments like this.

We don’t talk about gratitude much, do we?  I sit now and wonder–why is that?

The answer comes back to me instantly.  Gratitude puts us in debt.  No.  It acknowledges we are in debt.  We don’t like that.  We like to think we are self sufficient.

We want to be in control in every circumstance.

Gratitude proves we are not.
____________________

I can’t consider this event without another story leaping to mind.  I’m sorry.  I spent my formative years in Sunday School.  How could I not think about it?

The Teacher was walking with His followers toward the big city, when He noticed a group of men who stood a long distance away, asking for Him to have pity on them.  It almost appears that He didn’t do anything for them Himself, as He jerked His head toward the temple and the men running it.  He told them to go and show themselves to the religious leaders.  Nothing more.  Go and ask the priest to look at them.

Every one of them went, ten in all.  As they went, their horrible skin condition was healed.

Nine of them, we never learn anything more about.  Nothing.

I wonder–were they grateful at all?  Do you suppose they gave credit to the Teacher for their recovery?  Did they brag that they had done it themselves by starting toward the place where the priest was?

I don’t know.  I do know they never said a simple thank you.  Never–at least, not directly to the One who was responsible for what happened.

Not a single thank you.  Well, there was one.  The odd man in the bunch, the shy one, the quiet one, the foreigner.  One thank you from the whole bunch.

He came back immediately and fell at the feet of Jesus, praising God.

Just one question further.  Which of those men owed a debt to the Teacher?  You know the answer.  It was more than one.

Yet, only one acknowledged his debt.
____________________

Day after day, people come through my door.  Any number of them push their way behind my counter to pull guitars off the wall.

It’s okay.  I tell them to do that.  They just never ask anymore.  One man  frequently squeezes behind me while I’m ringing up sales at the register.  When they get done, they hang the guitars back on the wall.

Almost never will any of them say thank you.  I’m okay with that.  I don’t insist on it, nor will I ever hold it against them.

But, it’s hard to keep from making the comparison, is it not?

Gratitude is a remarkable thing.  It enriches the thankful, as well as the benefactor.  I’m convinced of it.

Oh.  The boy was back two days later.  He came and stood at the counter again.  He said three words as he laid his hundred dollar bills down on the plate glass surface.

“I want it.”

I said two words to him as he walked out the store, carrying his beautiful guitar.

“Thank you.”

As the red-haired lady who raised me always said, turnabout is fair play.

It’s a debt I’ll gladly acknowledge.

Others will come to mind, I’m sure.

“Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.”
(from Winnie-the-Pooh ~ by A. A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

“Give thanks to the Lord, because He is good.
His faithful love continues forever.”
(Psalm 136:1 ~ NIRV)

© Paul Phillips.  He’s Taken Leave.  2014.  All Rights Reserved.

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