“Now I lay me down to sleep…”

The words to the children’s bedtime prayer form in my mind and perhaps, even upon my lips.  But again, as always before, they flow no further.

I may possibly lay my body down in the bed, my head on the pillow which is hardened and packed down by many nights spent as this one seems likely to be–tossing and turning, but I will be pursuing sleep that is just out of reach.

My brain is full of questions.

I am not, as you might suspect, concerned about the things one usually considers likely to render a person restless and tense.  I don’t worry about unpaid bills.  I don’t lie looking into the dark and wonder if that pain in my chest is the first warning of a heart attack.  I’m not worried that the things I’ve worked for all my life are likely to disappear tomorrow.

No.  Weightier matters occupy my thoughts.  There are questions involving people I love, concerns about decisions made and consequences to come.  I wrestle with why and what if and the ever present if only.

I have to force my mind away from the things that hold it hostage and will myself to continue the little poem.  It will be, no doubt, merely a temporary respite.

“I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

Now, that’s curious.  Do I keep my soul in the waking hours and the Lord keeps it when I sleep?

Where does our soul go when we sleep?  It’s not the kind of question a grown man should ask.  A child, now…

My mind remembers a little pudgy tow-headed boy, asking just such a question fifty years ago.  His older brother, never one to miss an opportunity to string the gullible child along, might have suggested that it hung in the air over his bed–ghostlike–awaiting his return from that dark world of sleep and dreams.

A trip downstairs to put the question to his parents resulted in the stock reply.

“Don’t be foolish!  Your soul is with you until you die.  Stop asking silly questions and go back to bed!”

So, the little blondie trudged back up the stairs to lie in his bed once more, questions still streaming through his head.  Every once in awhile, his eyes would fly open to gaze into the darkness, wondering if he would see his brother’s soul floating ethereally above the bed across the room.

Why is it foolish to ask questions?

What keeps us from discussing the less weighty matters with our children?

Perhaps, if we did, they would be more likely to feel comfortable talking with us about the important things when they get older.

I have spent a lifetime not asking the questions.  What would you think of me, if you were to find I’m not rock solid about this doctrine or that theory, or even some popular political dogma?  If I keep my doubts and cockeyed ideas to myself, you may continue to believe I’m a pillar of my community and a man to be respected.

So, I save my questions for the night and the dark.

Why does he…?

Is it really true that…?

Why can’t I change this…?

The ideas are racing once more and sleep is no closer.

Once again, I force my mind back to the short little verse.

“If I should die before I wake…”

No.  I won’t think about that.  It simply cannot be countenanced.  These people I love and worry about–what would they do if I were to die?  Who else cares enough?  Who else will be able to fix them? 

And just like that, the realization comes over me in a wave, and my objections are quieted.  It’s as if the Man in the boat stood up in the storm and spoke.

“Peace.  Be still.”

The realization is of a sense of place that admits there was wisdom and intelligence before I came.  There will be wisdom and intelligence after any tiny influence I may have is forgotten and erased.  My arrogance and worry won’t change that in any way.

I will die.  We all will.  I will leave a legacy, partly good and partly harmful.  I pray the good will outweigh the bad.  Perhaps you hope for the same thing.

“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

There it is again.  That pesky soul that won’t stay put.  Now, the Lord will be not merely keeping, but taking it.  Come to think of it, that’s as it should be.

The Apostle said it in no uncertain terms, didn’t he?  When we’re absent from this body, we will be present with the Lord.

He will take it for me.  Faith in His grace has lead to an assurance of that.  But, before I let the thoughts begin to swirl once more, I remember the answer to one more question.

I don’t have to wait until I die for him to take it.

I certainly am no fit steward for such a thing, but He who holds the world in His hands, gives the gift of trust.  He cares for the flowers of the fields; is there any question He will watch over his own?

I wait for the storm of worry and questions to begin anew, as it invariably does.  Nothing.

Peace.

Time for sleep.

Now I lay me down…

“Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I shall die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
(From the New England Primer ~ 1784)

“Sometimes I stay up so late that I have my morning coffee before going to bed.”
(Anonymous)

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

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The framed engraving sits forlornly on my desk, awaiting the day when I have a spare moment to hang it above the Lovely Lady’s work station.  It is a distinctly romantic scene, probably more suited for the feminine eye than the masculine.

I like it, nonetheless.  Probably not for the same reason she does.

I am a lover of language.  I especially appreciate a phrase with a clever double meaning, skillfully rendered.  This beautiful print fits the description.

It may take a moment to explain what is happening in the old painting.  Let me transport you back over a century ago to a time more relaxed, a time with more personal interaction than our own day which is driven by technology, both in the practicalities and in the arts.

It was a day when you couldn’t pick up a smart phone and access the internet, sampling music, or settling intellectual arguments with a quick look at Wikipedia.  No, there wasn’t even a CD player, or a cassette player, or a record player–not even a crank-driven Edison reproducing machine.  Music was live or it didn’t happen at all.

Live.  Always a singer, or an instrumentalist.  Always.

Necessity being the mother of invention, the publishing houses understood they couldn’t sell songs which hadn’t been heard.  So, was born the song plugger.  Music stores actually had a position for such a person.  Usually, a pianist.  Always with the ability to carry a tune vocally.  George Gershwin in his early days in the music business was a song plugger, singing and playing other composers’ hit songs so the music store could make the sales necessary to drive the popularity of the next big sensation.

Earlier than that, on street corners and at fairs, vocalists carried the limp rags of the new songs (our crisp, glossy sheets wouldn’t arrive for decades) and sang the verses and refrains at the tops of their lungs to attract a crowd of passersby.  Then they hoped that both the performance and the song itself would help them to earn their living for that day.  If they went back to the publisher with the printed sheets still in hand, they made nothing for all their effort.

And finally, we arrive back at our point of departure, as we contemplate the engraving seen above.  Just such an event is depicted.  The attractive young lady singer stands at the curb on an obviously cold day, music in her hand.  Clearly, the song has been sung.  The crowd is still gathered around.

The transaction taking place is of interest to me, though.  There are two people in the picture who seem to play a prominent part.  The pretty young singer, certainly.  Her customer is the other–a young man holding what appears to be a carriage whip in his off-hand while placing money in the singer’s hand.

The title of the painting is simple.  A New Love Song.  That’s all.  A New Love Song.

Well certainly.  She sang the new love song and he liked it, so he bought it.  It was a new love song.  He would take the music home and someone there could play the harpsichord or lute and sing the words.  End of story.

I’m not so sure.  As I look at the scene in front of me, I see seven people.  The thing is, only two of them are involved in any kind of interaction.  They are entirely focused on each other.  Everyone else is just looking on.

A new love song?  Do you suppose it means more than just notes and words on paper?  Perhaps, a love song no one else in that little audience could hear but the singer and her young friend.

I do love a good turn of a phrase.
__________

You know I have more to say on the subject, don’t you?  I’ll attempt to be brief, but I make no promises.

My spirit laments the loss of personal interaction which has come with our modern age.

Funny.  We boast of our ability to communicate better than we ever have.  No longer limited as in former days to written messages delivered by post, nor even to telegraph or telephone messages, we can now look directly in the face of the person to whom we are speaking, half a world away.  Emails are sent by the millions daily, delivering their personal messages and even their commercial ones.  Entire commercial enterprises are built solely on electronic communications handled while never speaking verbally to another person.

The pitfalls of such a system are myriad.  I have my own collection of tales from personal experience in the business world.

And, proud as we may be of the ability to speak, virtually face-to-face, to family in lands far away, I would invite you to ask any grandmother who utilizes such a system if it is adequate for spending time with her grandchildren.  The answer will almost certainly be a resounding no.

Her arms ache to hold her growing grandchildren.  Virtually communicating will never–never–take the place of hugging and touching and snuggling with them in her arms.

The same is true of my business.  No.  I don’t mean the snuggling part–I mean the reality of face-to-face communication.  I have lost a number of customers with whom I have never had the opportunity to speak in person, but that number shrinks to nearly nothing when I consider the ones with whom I could not work out a problem when they were standing in my presence.

We are made to interact one to one, face to face, with other humans.  Our Creator made it so.  Our spirits are made to interact with others of shared experiences.  Friendships, real friendships, are developed as we walk and talk together–as we face problems and life’s disasters together.

We work through issues.  We talk through the misunderstandings.  We come out on the other side stronger for having the experience.  Together.

I love to listen to music.  Many of my online acquaintances post videos and recordings for others to listen to, some nearly daily.  I listened to a few of those tonight.

One in particular was gorgeous.  Yet, somehow, I was uneasy as I listened to it.  The recording was of a young man who used a popular recording technique, one I see frequently these days.  He had recorded himself singing a song which required eight vocal parts.  He covered every single part himself, adding video and audio feed as each part entered.

I figured out what made me uneasy about it.  The blend was flawless.  Flawless.

You wouldn’t think that would be a problem, would you?

Recordings of vocal groups are never flawless.  Really.  Never.  Voices have different timbres, different overtones.  Some are full and rich, while others are airy and light.  When a vocalist sings in a group, they have to work to blend in.  They listen to the subtleties of the others in the group, adjusting their singing to fit with the other members of the ensemble.

The result is a sound which has many aspects, many tonalities.  The difficulty of listening carefully, of responding to the nearly imperceptible disparities in pitch and rhythm, increases the beauty of the whole.

One voice, singing all the different parts, can sound spectacular.  It’s no big thing.  There is nothing different with which to blend, no hardship to overcome.

I wonder, do we practice blending with each other?  Harmony in music is not so different from harmony in living with other humans.  If all we do is make sure we interact with others who have the same voice we do, we’ve accomplished nothing we were intended to accomplish.

The Teacher, when He taught His followers, talked about a table set for many which was mostly empty.  The instructions were not to find others just like the ones who were already seated at the table.  He didn’t suggest that messages could be sent to family and friends.

“Go out.  Out into the hedges, into the back roads, into the paths you’re not familiar with.  Show them a reason to come to the table with you.”

I wonder.

It’s been awhile since I’ve sung on the street corner.

I’m thinking there’s still a new song or two left to sing.

How about it?

Maybe it’s time to plug a new love song.

“In the end, we shall have had enough of cynicism, skepticism, and humbug, and we shall want to live more musically.”
(Vincent Van Gogh ~ Dutch artist ~ 1853-1890)

“It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.”
(Albert Einstein ~ German-born American physicist ~ 1879-1955)

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

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“Go to jail.  Go directly to jail.  Do not pass Go.  Do not collect $200.”

You’ve been there.  Family game night.  You’ve rolled the dice.  Moved the little cast aluminum top hat six spaces ahead and you see that you’ve landed on Community Chest.

This could be nice!  Community Chest!  Most of those cards are good.  Collect money from each player for one thing or another.  You may have even won second place in a beauty contest!

Confidently, you draw the card.  How much will you get?

A long sigh escapes your lungs as you read the message above.  Jail.  Nobody wants to go to jail.  What a rotten turn of events.

Resigned to your fate, you move the shiny little top hat to the prescribed corner of the board and await your next turn.  What to do?

Pay a fine?  Surely not.  You need that money to purchase Boardwalk.

Try to roll doubles?  That’s a possibility.  What are the chances you’ll roll doubles in the next three turns?  What if the fellow with the little dog buys Boardwalk in the meantime?

The answer is obvious.

You will use your Get Out Of Jail Free card.  You drew it an hour ago and have kept it untouched until now.  It cost you nothing, since you didn’t have to work for it.  You can still buy that fabulous property coming up on the other side of the board.

Get Out Of Jail Free.
__________

I saw it happen in the park one day not long ago.  I was stopped for a moment to adjust my fitness program’s tracking since the Lovely Lady had sent me a message saying she couldn’t tell where I was.  (I need her to know where to send the ambulance if I keel over).

Not far away from me, I saw a couple of teenage girls sitting on a bench.  As they talked, one of them gestured frantically toward a figure approaching from a distance.  They looked at each other and grimaced.  Obviously, they didn’t want any interaction with this other girl, but what could they do?  She was coming directly up the sidewalk toward where they sat.  They were trapped!

Almost immediately, one of them had a brilliant idea.  She punched a message into her smart phone, I suppose, sending it to the other girl.  At any rate, she too grabbed her smart phone and began to type.  Heads bent over their phones, they never gave any indication to the young lady walking up the sidewalk that they even saw her.

She passed by without a word.  They were safe.

I thought about the Monoply game.

Who would have imagined?  Smart phones are get out of jail free cards.

It even happens frequently to me.  I don’t blame them.  I am a strange man.

As I walk or run through town on my nightly exercise sessions, I look ahead along the pavement.  A block or two in front, I see a woman coming toward me.  She sees me; that much is obvious.  Suddenly, as I get close, the phone comes out and the fingers begin to fly across the screen.

I’m not offended.

They simply need a get out of jail free card.  Otherwise, they might feel obligated to return my wave or friendly hello.  I understand.

But, I also think about the old wild west movies.  You know.  One of those where the town ne’er-do-well is walking up the dirt avenue downtown.  The society matriarch raises her head another couple of inches and, nose pointed toward the sky, crosses the street to walk down the other side from the undesirable outcast.

There is no need to sully her person with unwanted contact.  She utilizes her own primitive get out of jail free card.
__________

I hope you’ll stick with me through one more narrative today.  The event occurred just a couple of days ago while I worked one afternoon.

I looked out the front window of the music store and realized with a sinking feeling in my stomach that I had drawn the go directly to jail card again.

My cellmate was coming in the door, carrying a beat up old guitar.  I don’t mean the vintage collectible kind of beat up old guitar, either.  It was a piece of junk.  I knew that I didn’t want it.

I sighed and, resigned to my stay in jail, awaited my next move.

The young lady spoke.  “The pawn shop wouldn’t buy this.  Will you?”

Hey!  My get out of jail free card!  She had handed it right to me!  If the pawn shop didn’t want it, I certainly couldn’t be expected to have any use for it.

I started to tell her as much.  It was actually what she had expected.  She knew the guitar was worthless.  It would never play a note of music again.  I began to explain why I didn’t want it.

Well?

I was just playing my get out of jail free card.  Do you blame me?

Suddenly, in mid sentence, I stopped talking and looked at the lady.  Head bowed, she was resigned to her fate.  She came in with nothing and would leave with the same nothing.

I took my card off the table.  I asked her what she really needed.  I listened to her story.  She left with what she needed.  She took my get out of jail card, too.

At least, I imagine that’s what it looked like to her.

Funny.  Sometimes, we’re so anxious to escape the place and people we perceive as undesirable that we don’t realize the prison we remain in is so much worse.

Can I remind you of something you already know?

A long time ago, Someone else had a chance to use a get out of jail free card, but didn’t.  Instead, He gave it to me.  He gave it to you, too.  This week, I got to share it with that young lady.

I don’t know if she’ll use it wisely.  That’s not up to me.

I bet you’ve had some chances to share yours, too.  There will be more.

I wonder.  Will we be too busy texting on our smart phones?  Or, crossing the street?

Want to know something else?  When you’re generous with your get out of jail free card, it still gets you out of jail, too.

Strange, huh?

Grace is funny that way.

“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.”
(Ephesians 4:32 ~ ESV)

“Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage…”
(“To Althea, From Prison” ~ Richard Lovelace ~ English poet ~ 1618-1657)

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

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“What spectacular beauty!”

I stood, almost scratching my head, as I gazed up into the old walnut tree.  It is, indeed, a beautiful tree due to its age and tenacity.  Growing right beside an alley that sees too much traffic and hanging over the rear of my music store, it has had more than its share of hardship.  In spite of the abuse and neglect, it stands tall and drops a copious crop of black walnuts to the ground below it each fall.

I scratch my head because walnut trees are not known for their full, green foilage.  Their leaves are the first to drop in the autumn and the last to appear in the spring, merely a filmy layer to give the impression of a covering for the naked old giant.  The London Plane tree at the other side of the property would laugh itself silly, had it the ability to do so, at the pitiful showing this walnut tree normally makes each year.  Not only is the covering barely adequate, but the size of the leaves would be dwarfed by any the tall and stately Plane tree possesses.

Not this year.

I am astounded at the display of greenery covering the branches of the elder statesman in my yard.  Never have I seen it so resplendent.  Huge leaves hang from every surface, creating a beautiful sight and a wonderful shade for any passersby.

What has happened?
____________________

My mind wanders.

You knew it would.

I remember another similar tree in the city in which I spent my youth.  The old hackberry tree was just as stately and tall at one time as the walnut tree.  It was a wonderful climbing tree, just the confederate a young dreamer needed in his days of coming of age.  To climb the limbs of the old gnarled tree was an easy task, even while toting a book in my back pocket.  Hours later, having traveled to a far off land and a long ago time and back again, this young man would descend reluctantly to the ground, and then only because dark and supper were at hand.

A hurricane, of which I have spoken before, pushed the entire tree onto its side one fall. The incident left the roots firmly attached in the earth still, so we let our old friend live out its days reclining against the ground.

It too, was a tree with an unusual covering, rendering it amazingly capable of shading the ground below.  You may also remember a story I shared previously of the beloved morning glory my Mom had tended and coaxed up into the tree over a period of many years.

The morning glory met an untimely end.  At my hands.  That, however, was a story for another day.

When the morning glory was still in good health, it lent its support to the hackberry tree, sending out tendrils and vines to cover the branches with huge green leaves and, in their season, beautiful purple blossoms, new every morning.  We climbed into the branches of the old tree, unafraid of anything, plucking the blossoms at will to put in a shallow glass dish on the dining room table.

No one objected.  There would be more tomorrow.

New blossoms every day.
____________________

Suddenly, I am back in the present, gazing suspiciously at the too beautiful tree.

I walk closer.  Something is not right here.

My skin begins to tingle.

I know those leaves!  They are most definitely not walnut leaves.

All at once, two things appear to me at the same instant.  Several huge vines are growing up from the ground, attaching themselves to the trunk and winding up out of sight on the branches above.  But, before I foolishly reach out to touch the vines, I also see the pattern of the leaves.

Leaves of three.

Poison ivy.  Covering the entire tree.

Beautiful?  Well yes, but it is a deadly beauty.

Poison ivy does not, to my knowledge, produce a blossom worth description, but even if it did, I would not venture into that tree to pluck the most beautiful flower that could be found there.  There is not a spot on the trunk or branches above upon which I want to lay my hand.

It is in the nature of poison ivy that, even should the huge vines be removed and the leaves be allowed to shrivel and crumble off, the tree will remain unapproachable for seasons to come.  There are even some who suggest that the poisonous vines cannot ever be rooted out.

Time will tell.

I said that my skin tingled while I stood beneath the tree and discovered the deadly beauty thereof.

The hair on the back of my neck is standing again now, as the lesson of the vines becomes all too clear to me.

I am aging.  A recent birthday has once again reminded me that this world spins too fast and the days fly away too soon.  The roots of the tree have long since been sent down into the soil, the Source of life chosen and made known.

But, what of the covering?  What of the vines that have been allowed to take root nearby and lend their aid?  Choices have been made and are being made.  The reality is that what we see as beautiful and even comfortable can actually be poisonous.

Too often, we have seen this evidenced in those from whose lives we anticipated great things and strong finishes.  I know of a number of famous examples whose exteriors were shown to be toxic, beautiful to look at, but treacherous to all who are touched by their lives.  The world is anxious to expose the toxins, to point fingers at the departed trees, and dismiss every facet of their existence.

I have also become aware in recent days of others, not famous at all, who have done the same thing.  Long and powerful lives of honorable service are slowly being choked out by poisonous vines which have been allowed to spring up and entertwine themselves with the trunk and branches.  Seemingly minor and insignificant choices are rapidly leading to catastrophic endings.

Can they recover?  I believe it is still possible.

Time will tell.

I reminded you of the morning glory earlier.  Do you know that before I unwittingly did that vine in, it was covering a tree which was mostly dead?  Trees, alas, are not created to recline and cannot live forever in that position.  But, even despite the decay and decline of the tree itself, the covering more than made up for the old giant’s lack of leaves and rotting branches.

The leaves of the morning glory thrived and covered a multitude of faults in the tree underneath.

And still, every day, the blossoms came–purple and glorious.

New every morning.

Remind you of anything?

“It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.  They are new every morning; great is Thy faithfulness.”
(Lamentations 3:22,23 ~ KJV)

“The perception of beauty is a moral test.”
(Henry David Thoureau ~ American essayist/philosopher ~ 1817-1862)

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

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