“Do you know me, Bert?”

I can hear the high pitched voice of Jimmy Stewart, as George Bailey, blurting out the words in one of the final scenes of “It’s a Wonderful Life”.  The classic holiday film is still a favorite in our house every Christmas season and we love to quote bits from it in our everyday conversation.

I’m not thinking about the feel-good stuff tonight, though.  Well, perhaps I am, but it’s a different kind of feel-good stuff.  Without going into the plot of the movie too much, let me explain.

The main character, when the quote cited above was delivered, was attempting to determine if his life was going to get back to normal, or if things were still very much awry.

He asked the question and then immediately starting recalling events which had happened before, as if they would prove his existence.  Digging in his pocket, he found, with great glee, the petals of a flower his daughter had asked him to fix earlier.

He also wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and declared, as if it were a discovery that brought great joy, “My mouth’s bleeding, Bert!”

Memories of the past.

They give us a point of reference.

We all want a place at which to shove a finger and declare, “I matter.  Because–that!”

I wonder.  Do you know me?

Perhaps, if I tell some more stories, the world will know who I am.  Like George Baily, my memories are both pleasant and painful.  They are a part of who I am.  There are, however, many of those memories which I would like for everyone to leave alone.  I don’t wish to be defined by those actions which have embarrassed and hurt others.

There are many of those.

No.  Perhaps, not the memories.

Maybe, I can find a document or two to show what I’ve accomplished.  It might be a diploma that hangs on an office wall to prove achievement in a chosen field, maybe even a certificate of appreciation from folks I’ve helped.  It is possible I could turn up a few of those.

Now do you know me?

I suspect that most other people have a few of those, as well.  Likely, many more than I.  They give a picture, of sorts, of what we’ve accomplished.  But, the documents can’t prove where we’ve been and what we’ve learned in the school of life.  There may even be a few testimonials that it would be best to leave in the drawer.  Not all of them would be glowing and warm.

No.  Probably not the achievement awards either.

Oh, all of the above are pieces of who we are, they simply do not give a complete picture of the whole person.

I’m still casting about for that thing to point to–that thing about which I can say, “I matter.  Because–that!”

As as I search among my files and papers, my mind suddenly settles upon the very thing!

It seemed that it might be one of those tender moments, one worth recording on the hard drive of my mind.  It happened just last Saturday.  I was helping to put away the laundry, a task I haven’t always been so vigilant about assisting with.

The Lovely Lady (who may change her mind about me, after reading this), leaned over near me as I picked up a pile of towels and spoke lovingly.

“I want you to know that there is something I really appreciate about you.”

I was ready for the earth-shattering declaration.  I guess I finally am getting the hang of this marriage partner thing.  I was already patting myself on the back in anticipation of learning the amazing character trait which had attracted her attention.

“What do you appreciate?”

She smiled and said the tender words.  “When you take off your tee-shirts, you make sure they’re right side out.  It makes doing the laundry so much easier.”

You’re laughing, aren’t you?

I’ll admit, it wasn’t quite what I expected either.  But, I want you to know the more I thought about it, the more I understand that this Lady knows me.  I get lots of tee-shirts dirty.  Running or biking five or six times a week leaves a heap of sweaty, stinky shirts.  Also, I’m a geek from way back and I can’t bring myself to wear a button-down shirt without a tee-shirt underneath.  Yep.  Another heap.

I’ve got to tell you.  A reference like that from the person who knows me better than any other human being is worth putting up on a billboard.  The small things make a huge difference when laid down, one after another, along the road we walk together.

I’m learning.  Baby steps, but I’m learning.

I matter.  Because–that!

A young friend introduced his brother to me in the music store today with the words.  I argued for a moment.  Only for a moment.

He said, “This is the finest man in this town.”

My young friend is, of course, wrong.  But then, I remembered that the Lovely Lady thinks so.  I do, after all, turn my tee-shirts right-side out before I toss them in the hamper.

I’ll take it.

I would be remiss, if I didn’t mention the most important thing to which we can all point and say those words, but you will, no doubt, already be thinking of the event.  Last week, as the group of people with whom I worship met for our Sunday services, we celebrated Communion.

It is a time in which we revisit the last meal the Teacher ate with His followers before His death.  The symbolism is powerful and moving every time.

Every time.

In the grand scheme of things, that event, the death of our Savior, is the one thing at which all of us who believe can point.  Together, we can say it, not because we’ve earned it, but because of the enormity of mercy undeserved.

“I matter.  Because–that!”

“A person’s a person, no matter how small.”
(Dr. Seuss ~ American children’s writer ~ 1904-1991)

“God’s mercy and grace give me hope–for myself and for our world.”
(Billy Graham ~ American evangelist/author)

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

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The old man sat inches away from the television screen, staring at, but not seeing, the figures flitting on the screen.  As always, the volume was cranked up to an excruciatingly obnoxious level.  Still, he didn’t comprehend any of the conversation coming from the speakers.

We went to the nursing home every Sunday.

Every Sunday.

We sang songs.  Dad spoke.  I’d say he preached, but his messages were never like the sermons you heard in church.  He talked to people about God.  He told stories that helped make sense of the sometimes obscure words from the pages of the King James Bible in his hands.

If I told you they listened, I’d be exaggerating for most of them.  They sat.  Perhaps, they enjoyed the music, but for most, the words no longer sank in.

I didn’t understand why we were there.

Before the singing and the talking, we went and found people who wanted to come and sit.  We’d gather them from the dining room and the common rooms where the televisions blared out their drivel and roll them in their wheelchairs or take their arms as they scooted their feet along the hard tile floor in a tedious and laborious imitation of walking.

I preferred the wheelchair people.

On the day I am thinking about, I had the bad luck to be the one sent after the old, nearly deaf man sitting with his nose next to the television screen.  A Hispanic man, Juan spoke only broken English, but he loved to hear the music and didn’t want to miss a Sunday.  I reluctantly (and resentfully) took the time to walk him down the hallway, his feet shuffling slowly all the way.

One of the other residents had the good fortune to have a family member with her that day, a beautiful young lady who sat and sang along with the hymns.  She also sat attentively and smiled throughout the entire talk Dad had prepared.

I know.  I was watching her the whole time.  What teenage boy wouldn’t?

The meeting over, I helped Juan back to his feet and the old fellow, in his eighties, looked over at the pretty girl and smiled.  She rewarded him with a beaming smile of her own and a little wave.

I turned the old fellow around and walked/dragged him back to the common area from whence we had come almost an hour before.  He wasn’t in a hurry.  He wanted to talk.  It was mostly in Spanish, but I understood a few of the words.

He talked about his wife.  And kisses.  I heard him say the word esposa and beso several times.  I looked at his face as he talked.

The old man’s voice was animated and his eyes danced as he spoke.  The young girl had reminded him of a happier time, many years before.

He remembered.

In his mind, he was back there again, back in the land of the living.  When I left him sitting, nose against the television screen once more, the smile she gave to him was still plastered across his face.

I realized on that day, why we were wasting our time on these old worn-out shells of humans.

There were people inside those shells.
____________________

Jenny Kiss’d Me

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I’m growing old, but add–
Jenny kissed me.

(James Henry Leigh Hunt ~ English author/poet ~ 1784-1859)
____________________

There aren’t often poems included in these little articles, but it seemed appropriate tonight.  Did you really read it? Perhaps it would be helpful to read it again before we go on.

I’ll wait.
____________________

Every day they come through my doors.  Every day.  Old people.  Lives over, but still wanting attention.  Bossy, know-it-all, ancient has-beens who want me to recognize who they were and what they’ve done.

I’m learning to see past the blue hair (or no hair), the physical impairments, and the wrinkles.  Finally.  I’m trying to see them.  The real them.

Like the old man at the nursing home, they have lived.  They’re still living, but circumstances limit their new experiences.  But, they still need folks around them to see who they are and to recognize their accomplishments.

I read the poem above earlier tonight and I couldn’t help but catch my breath as the truth I remember seeing in that nursing home over forty years ago hit me once again.

We don’t treat people well because they are useful to us.  We don’t give them respect because of their youth and vigor.  We don’t esteem folks for what they can do today.

We respect and honor people because they are people.  Human beings–made in the image of their Creator, just as all of us are.

There are real people in those shells.  Short or tall, thin or stout, gorgeous or plain.

Real people.

Who were kissed by Jenny.  Or Gabriela.

It still matters.

“It is lovely to meet an old person whose face is deeply lined, a face that has been deeply inhabited, to look in the eyes and find light there.”
(John O’Donohue ~ Irish priest/author ~ 1956-2008)

“And now, in my old age, don’t set me aside.  Don’t abandon me when my strength is failing.”
(Psalm 71:9 ~ NLT)

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

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“Do you know what you know?”

She stood in the doorway and stared down at me.  It was a trick question, no doubt.

She is a business associate and has watched me at work for almost fifteen years now–has seen and heard me demonstrate and explain any number of techniques, and usages, and applications.  She has witnessed my interaction with customers and friends.

She seemed to be serious in her attempt to discern the extent of my knowledge.  It didn’t matter.

I didn’t know how to answer the question.

I was even confused.  Did she want a synopsis right that moment?  The river of knowledge may be wide, but it’s not necessarily deep.

I suppose I know a little about a lot of things.  I am a collector of trivial bits of information about a wide range of subjects.  I think I know what I know.

But, I really don’t want you to know what I don’t know. 

Then again, if we’re talking about business principles and repair techniques–those, I have gathered in as one picks up coins lying on the sidewalk and throws them into an old coffee can.  The collection of facts and methods has grown steadily throughout my time in my chosen field.

I am beginning to become aware of what I know in that respect.

And with that thought, my confusion faded.  That was it.  My friend was simply complimenting me on my store of knowledge within the field of music and its accoutrements.

I smiled and nodded.  “I’ve learned a little bit in the last thirty-five years, I guess.  About time, too.”

The conversation ended and I was left to my own thoughts.  My euphoria at  her recognition of my abilities didn’t last long.  As often happens these days, my mind turned the words it had heard around and around, looking at them from first one angle and then another.

Do I know what I know?

I used to.  I certainly knew more when I was younger. 

When I was twenty, no one could tell me anything.  As a child, and then a teenager, I had soaked up knowledge like a sponge and was self-assured, almost to the point of cockiness.  Arguments were the rule, rather than the exception, likely to break out in almost any situation.  Parties, funerals, ballgames–all were prime locations for me to prove my expertise on almost any subject.

I didn’t care who I hurt.  I was obviously doing them a favor.  Surely, they would rise up and call me blessed, seeing that I was so concerned for them that I would share from my precious hoard of expert opinion.

I knew what I knew!

I am older now.

Not necessarily wiser, just older.

As I age, I find myself looking back more frequently.  I have discovered, to my chagrin, that the bodies I have left scattered in the path behind weren’t aided all that much by me sharing my wealth.

They were simply injured. Maimed, some of them.  I didn’t know that would happen.

I am ashamed that I didn’t know it.

I am beginning–just now beginning–to find ways to listen instead of always speaking.  I am a slow learner, as I’ve mentioned often before.  Perhaps, there is yet time for me to help to heal the damage I have done.

Still, I know what I know, don’t I?

At times, I still wax dogmatic about those tenets I have always believed.  I hold firmly to the faith of my childhood.  I know what I know about that, at least.

But, in the last few years, as I have watched others struggling with doubts and hard situations, questions–questions which I never asked before–have been raised, at least internally.  I’m not absolutely sure anymore that I know what I have always known.

And finally, in the last few years, with the moral failures of some of my strongest early influences, even the foundations have begun to appear a bit shaky.  The questions have become doubts at times, the searching–accusations.

For the first time that I can remember, I don’t know.

I don’t know.

But, I do want to know.

Funny.  It’s a good place to be.

One of my favorite characters in the Bible is Job.  He starts out a righteous man.  He ends up a righteous man.  In between, he begins to give instruction to God.  Seriously.  He tells God what He should be doing.  God’s answer to Job is to impress on him how much he does not know.  With example after example, Job begins to understand his lack of the knowledge necessary to be an advisor to God

Job finally admits that he tried to speak of things he had no way of knowing.  He begins to know what he doesn’t know.  And, in making that admission, he opens the way to be instructed once again.  We find that the end of his life was more blessed than the early years.

I want that.

I’m finally–finally–understanding that I know what I don’t know.  I don’t yet know what I know.  And that’s okay.

I’ll take it a step at a time from here.

Learning.  Growing.

I’ll need some company along the way.  How about it?

Do you know what you don’t know?

Perhaps that’s the beginning of wisdom.

We can find out together.

“I was gratified to be able to answer promptly, and I did.  I said I didn’t know.”
(Mark Twain ~ American humorist/author ~ 1835-1910)

“Don’t think you are better than you really are.  Be honest in your evaluation of yourselves, measuring yourselves by the faith God has given us.”
(Romans 12:3b ~ NLT)

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

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“It sounds like there are all kinds of nasty things going on inside of you!”

From her accustomed seat at the end of the sofa close to me, the Lovely Lady peered disgustedly over the tops of her magnifying lenses.

We were alone at last, but I could tell this was not one of those unforgettable romantic moments that seem to come along occasionally.  No, my silver tongue had not impressed the lady of the house at all.  In fact, it seemed that because of it, I was just as likely to be disposed of with the rest of the scraps left over from the wonderful Sunday dinner we had just enjoyed.

I have babbled on before about my enjoyment of the respite provided by Sundays–the enjoyment of time spent with others who believe as I do, with an hour or two spent in music, and in the Word, and in fellowship.  After that comes the Meal of the week, Sunday Dinner.  What can compare with friends and family–and grandchildren?  Noise and laughter, in tandem with food and good conversation–what could be better?

But grandchildren grow tired and their parents have trains to meet; friends have their own schedules to keep and Scrabble games to play.  Alas, all good things come to an end, and so it is with Sunday dinner.  The Lovely Lady and I have a tradition of chasing our guests out of the house without allowing them to help with the clean-up–our parting gift to them.  The practice also allows us the time to ease our way down from the mountain peak of commotion to a quiet plateau of teamwork, a pleasant place in which we reside most of the time.

We had finished our kitchen cleanup and our kingdom was once more in order–the puzzles picked up from the living room, the Star Wars costumes removed from the den to their storage bin, and the doll house closed up and pushed back against the wall to await the next visit.

She sat down to do a little needlework.  I just sat down.  I had no plans when I did it.  I certainly didn’t intend to embark on a private discussion with myself which would last for the rest of the day.  But, such is the result of making unthinking comments all too frequently, even when they are intended only to amuse.

” I wonder–should I sit here and take a nap, or should I go out and work off some calories with a long bicycle ride?”

I was half talking to myself, half hoping for some guidance.  But, as is common, the wise lady sitting nearby was having no part of the decision.

“That depends on what’s going inside of you today.”

She meant going on emotionally.  I knew she did.  I understand her pretty well.  But, I’ve always been a clown.  I almost couldn’t stop the words that her comment called forth.

“Well, inside of me, my heart is pumping blood into my veins, and my lungs are working to mix oxygen into said blood.  My stomach is at work on that delicious meal of ribs and baked beans, along with a little potato salad stuffed down into the cracks.  Right about now, it’s…”

She stopped me right there.  I guess she didn’t need the rest of the guided tour.  That’s when she made the statement I started with above.

“It sounds like there are all kinds of nasty things going on inside of you.”

I retorted, “No more than usual,”  and was silent.  I may even have dozed off for a few moments.

But, her comment really got my mind to working overtime.

If only she knew!  Nasty things.

Well.  Think of it.

You shake my hand and there is only the thin epidermis of skin between your own hand and the blood, the muscle, and the bone inside of mine.

You give me a quick hug and that same skin, along with a rib cage, are all that keep you from touching the organs and intestines–to say nothing of the material being moved along inside them.

Not a pretty picture, is it?

But, you know those are not the things my mind was working on, don’t you?  There are all kinds of nasty things at work inside.

If only she knew.

I shiver at the thought.  The anger I feel and surpress almost daily, the hatred of people and things I cannot abide.  There is the lust with which I wrestle nearly every day, and the pride which gets the better of me–also almost every day.

The list goes on without end.  Selfishness, gluttony, greed.  Lies and thievery.  Murder.  Well, not the physical act, but if wishing a person dead is the equivalent, that nastiness lives inside me, too.

If only she knew?  Ah, but she does.  She knows me.  She has seen all of those spill out, has lived with the evidence of those nasty things for the better part of forty years.

She knows me.  Still, she loves me.  Nasty things notwithstanding.

She loves me.

I am overwhelmed.

I said this wasn’t about romantic moments.  And, it’s really not.

I’m wondering if you recognize those nasty things, too.  I’m even curious to know if you have the same certainty that those nasty things are going on inside of you.

The Teacher wasn’t talking to the drunkards and the moral degenerates on that day.  The day He called His audience whitewashed tombs and hypocrites, He was talking to the religious men of the time.  He described them as beautiful on the outside, but full of dead men’s bones and impurity inside.

As I leaned back in my chair this afternoon and later, as I pedaled my bicycle all those miles, I couldn’t get that one phrase out of my head.

Whitewashed tomb.

Again and again, I returned to it.  There are nasty things going on inside of me.

But, I told you that there is a Lady at home who loves me.

Here’s something more important than that.

There is Someone else who loves me in spite of those nasty things.  He knows about them, without question. That same Teacher, the one who condemned those unrepentent religious men, paid the price for their impurities and dead men’s bones Himself.

And, here is the really overwhelming part.  His payment, His grace, is intended for every single one of us who has those nasty things inside.

Every one of us.  Me.  You.

He takes broken things and makes them whole again.

Not nasty.

Beautiful.

“…to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”
(from Isaiah 61:3 ~ NIV)

“Outside show is a poor substitute for inner worth.”
(Aesop ~ Ancient Greek fable writer ~ 620 BC-564 BC)

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

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