April | 2024 | He's Taken Leave

“You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

No, it’s not one of the sayings I learned from the red-headed lady who raised me—she of the thousand-and-one adages. This one, I first heard from that other red-headed woman, the Lovely Lady, who lives at my house still today.

I understand the ladies with whom she does handwork (needlework, knitting, cross stitching, and the like) say it frequently when a project doesn’t turn out as perfectly as they’d like.

The words were spoken the other day as we finished up a job we’d agreed to help with at a relative’s house. We’d cut out the pieces we needed, drilled them, and driven an adequate number of screws to hold each one in place for the foreseeable future. Our relative, a recent widow, was happy with the work while admitting it wasn’t perfect.

“But,” she said, “You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

We all went out to eat a bite of supper before heading back home, the location of the restaurant requiring that we drive back by her house later. As we came up the hill toward the house, I couldn’t help remarking that this drive-by was remarkably like riding by on the back of that galloping horse.

We didn’t notice anything amiss as we sailed past.

Success.

Then, I sat in my chair and moped all evening. The Lovely Lady sat nearby, crocheting a lovely afghan, and looking over her glasses at me thoughtfully. She rarely misses noticing a good mope, that one.

I finally said it.

“It’s not good enough.”

Knowing exactly what I was thinking about, she immediately assured me that I had nothing to criticize myself for. Because that was what I had been doing. Not intentionally, but the result was the same. I was certain I hadn’t done enough.

Thinking she needed some clarification, I replied.

“But, it’s his house.”

There may or may not have been tears in my eyes as I said it. There are as I write this.

Grief is like that. One believes that time has done its work and the memories have become beneficent and pleasant, instead of painful. Then after an afternoon of working in the sun, here is sadness showing its unwelcome countenance once more. The pain is more than only the sore muscles I had anticipated.

Somehow, I feel I owe him more than just “good enough.” His carpentry and finish work was always remarkable—his work ethic, ever a pursuit of excellence. And he achieved it, again and again.

But, she is right. Those were his gifts. Comparisons are not helpful.

Mr. Shakespeare even suggested that comparisons are odorous. That was a century and a half after the writer, John Lydgate, said they were “odyous”. The words don’t mean quite the same thing. But, the result is inevitable. They stink.

It stinks for us to compare ourselves against others.

The Apostle Paul gave us the standard (which we ignore, it seems, time after time).

“Whatever work you do, do it with all your heart. Do it for the Lord and not for men.” (Colossians 3:23, NLV)

The folks in the Arts and Crafts movement in the twentieth century had a goal to do things better. Gustav Stickley, one of its major influences, stamped a phrase on all his pieces to remind folks of that.

“Als Ik Kan,” was what they said. The Flemish words for “all I can.” The words communicated that the maker had done the very best he/she could do.

The Lovely Lady reminded me on that recent day that we had done the best we were capable of.

And, it’s enough.

We walk in the light our Creator has given us in which to walk.

We reflect that light to the world around us.

Some of us will shine with a brilliance that dazzles. Overwhelming. Sensational.

Others of us will manage merely the flicker of a candle. Barely enough to see the pathway ahead.

Either way, it’s His light. His.

I promise to do all I can.

For Him. After all, it is His house we’re working on.

But, you may just want to keep that horse at a gallop for the time being.

“Everything comes from Him. His power keeps all things together. All things are made for Him. May He be honored forever. Let it be so.”
(Romans 11:36, NLV)

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
(Theodore Roosevelt)

“I like it that you are sometimes a contrarian—me too!”

One of my favorite readers (anyone who reads my words is a favorite, you know) made the comment on a recent post. I’m still trying to work out if her statement makes me happy or sad.

My first inclination was to refute her statement outright, but as anyone could reason out for themselves, that would effectively prove the words instead, so I fought off that impulse and kept quiet.

I wonder if there is anything harder than keeping quiet when one feels a need to clear the air. Well—maybe not so much a need as a drive.

We want to be accepted.

In whatever group we function, we want to be accepted. I know I do. And, to a great extent, I craft my conversations and writing to fit the norm in my tribe, my support group. Seldom (at least in recent years) do I venture out and express a contrarian opinion. Because I want to be accepted.

We want our opinions to be agreed with. We want to be respected when we offer a viewpoint.

We have a maxim in the English language—vaguely humorous, implicitly serious—that has been used since the 1400s to express these feelings.

Love me, love my dog.

The logic extends to all I care for.

Love me, love my truck.

Love me, love my wife.

Love me, love my writing.

Love me, love my music.

The reader will have his or her own objects or activities to insert. Regardless of who we are, we have a need, a drive, to be accepted or agreed with.

We choose our companions—our tribe—accordingly.

And, instead of being contrarian to our tribe, we are typically contrarian to the rest of the world. Strangely enough, we argue against the current trend in our world for what we call “cancel culture”, yet we do exactly that.

As I age, I have attempted, without complete success, to become less combative. I believe there has been improvement, but still, I am not satisfied.

At least, I wouldn’t start an argument with a fencepost, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to accuse. And yet, just last week, I was shown just how apt I am still to argue and defend myself at the drop of a hat.

The Lord allowed me to post a silly photo and accompanying text to a group online that I believed was part of my tribe. They describe themselves as dull men. I thought the description might apply to me, too.

I said the Lord allowed me to do all this. I believe we are allowed to experience things that show us our need for repentance and redemption from sinful patterns. (See quote from James 1, below.)

The silly post I made in the group was quite popular, topping out at 36,000 responses in a week. It was the worst thing to happen to me in a while.

Really. The worst thing.

These folks are not really my tribe. While most responses were complimentary, many others were not. They disparaged my knowledge (or lack thereof) of tree nomenclature and my usage of the English language. They even picked out an unrelated item in the photo and railed on that. Over and over, the criticism rolled in.

Initially, I answered every one of them. I was kind and patient at first, then abrasive and cynical as the comments continued.

I knew something was wrong. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was. And then it hit me. These folks—while not my tribe—are still the neighbors I am called to love, to respect, to care for. They’re not my neighbors because they agree with me; they’re my neighbors because I’ve been given the opportunity to interact with them.

I quit replying and began to let the criticism roll off without comment. I even stopped reading comments to ensure I would not respond in kind.

I may be dull, but I can learn.

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
(Romans 12:18)

Tweedledee and Tweedledum (another quote below) in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland fought each other over a broken rattle. A broken rattle!

Somehow, the things we find to argue about—on the Internet and in person—seem to me to be almost as important as that rattle.

I told you my friend was wrong when she wrote that I was “sometimes a contrarian”. I meant she was wrong that it was only sometimes.

I’d like it to be never. I want to speak the truth in love. I want it never to be argumentative.

I may never achieve it.

But, I’d like to die trying.

“Convince a man against his will,
He’s of the same opinion still.”
(Mary Wollstonecraft, in 1792)

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”
(James 1:2-4, NIV)

“‘Contrariwise,’ continued Tweedledee, ‘if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.’”
(from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Month: April 2024

Can That Horse Run Faster?

Contrariwise