I have walked past the flattened carcass daily for more than a week now. And when I say flattened, I mean it’s thinner than the proverbial pancake. Hardly distinguishable from the pavement.
It still stinks.
I saw the skunk lying there one day early last week. Then, it looked almost like the cat you see in the photo accompanying this article. I thought it was a cat at first. Clearly, it was not.
That first day I walked past it, there was no odor at all. I knew that couldn’t last so I called the city and asked them to pick it up before the cars began the flattening process. I think they must have been too busy.
Thus, the aroma permeating the atmosphere.
On an earlier day this week, as I worked out in my yard, the shifting breeze periodically wafting the odor to my olfactory nerves, I wondered about the cat that turned into a skunk (only in my strange brain, you understand).
And, as often happens, my thoughts began to run to human nature and practice. Before I was finished with my task, I had formulated the question that follows:
“How is it that into our lungs we draw the sweet aroma of grace and mercy breathed upon us by our God, yet the atmosphere all about us is choked with the acrid fumes of our judgment and hate?”
I saved the words in a note on my smartphone, cogitating on the idea for a while and then, I moved on mentally. But, a conversation I read on social media last night brought it back to mind with a jolt.
As with many these days, the post was political/religious in nature. I agreed—mostly—with the premise, so I followed the conversation. That may have been a mistake.
Again and again, I am shocked at the vitriol coming from the mouths and keyboards of professing followers of our Savior. I shouldn’t be by now, but I am.
And then, there was this: “Christians are the worst!”
And, I find myself agreeing. We are. The worst.
The apostle, my namesake, said the words. I often feel them deeply, too.
“Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—and I am the worst of them all.” (1 Timothy 1:15a, NLT)
The thing is, we were never intended to continue being the worst of sinners.
Never.
When I’m flattened on the road of life, I want not to stink to high heaven.
Even if I’m flatter than that ubiquitous pancake when this world gets done with me, I’d like there to be a sweet aroma of grace and peace.
And hope. Especially, hope.
That’s my prayer for all of us.
Today and until Heaven.
“The Christian’s life is to be a thing of truth and also a thing of beauty in the midst of a lost and despairing world.” (Francis Schaeffer)
“And so blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth. Surely, my brothers and sisters, this is not right! Does a spring of water bubble out with both fresh water and bitter water?”
(James 3:10-11, NLT)
“Paul? Maybe you’d like to sing the baritone part instead of the tenor. Would you try it?”
The director of the combined university chorus/community choir didn’t have to ask twice. Well, except perhaps because I thought I might have heard him wrong. I hadn’t.
So I’m singing baritone. And, a little bass.
And, it feels like I’ve come home.
Do you ever feel like you don’t fit in?
You know—everyone else in the car wants to listen to music from the latest boy group, but you heard that Yo-Yo Ma recorded a duet with Alison Krauss and you’d like to listen to that. Or, you’re walking with a group of people on the fitness trail and you realize that they’re all synchronized on the left foot and you’re on your right foot. Or, the family members all want to go for tacos, but you want chicken.
I’ve felt like that all my life. If you really know me, you know I was the strange kid, always zigging when everyone else zagged. I’ve freely admitted in these little pieces I write that I’ve never felt completely at home, no matter where I’ve been.
My father-in-law used a descriptive phrase, many years ago, that I’ve always thought fit me to a T. He was a piano tuner and would often be asked to work on instruments that had been neglected for many years. When a piano is left to its own devices for too long, the strings tend to stretch, making the overall pitch drop. The result is an instrument that may be in tune with itself, but sounds horrid when played with another instrument at standard pitch.
He would say to me, “This one is playing in the cracks.”
I understood exactly what he meant. The piano didn’t play well with others (I think that phrase might have described me at many points in my childhood as well—and perhaps after).
I always had the image in my head, as he said those words, that the sounds the instrument made were what might have come from down between the ebony and ivory keys, instead of dead center on top of them.
I suspect I may have been playing in the cracks for most of my life. And for some reason, I’ve always thought I needed to be fixed—to be tuned up to standard pitch.
I’m beginning to think differently.
I’ve indeed spent most of my life singing tenor. But, I’m a baritone.
If you know vocal categories, you realize that often the baritone is left out in choral music. Music is written in SATB form (soprano, alto, tenor, bass), so there’s no place for the baritone to fit in easily. Many notes in the tenor part are comfortable and sound great when sung by a baritone, but when those soaring notes fly up above Middle C, the baritone voice begins to lose its luster. The same thing happens in the bass parts, except it’s in the lower range of that voicing that the baritone singer gets lost in the mix.
I still remember my pastor’s wife sitting in front of me in the choir during my high school years. Back then, the choir needed a bass voice, so I covered that part for them.
Mrs. Slaughter was always kind, always sweet. She’d hear me sing a bass line (that should have been full and deep, but for me, the notes were just barely audible) and she’d say, loud enough for the entire choir to hear, “Oh! Listen to that basso profundo!”
I don’t think anyone else in the choir was rude enough to laugh, but I did. Every time. I knew better.
I’m no bass singer. Nor am I a tenor.
I sing in the cracks between the two.
And, it’s finally okay.
Dr. Cho says it’s okay.
Can I make a suggestion? If you don’t fit the mold they’re pushing you into, stop trying. Be who you are. More than that—be who God made you to be.
The world will try to make you fit their standard. You don’t belong there. And, if you’re really following Christ, you’ll never fit in—never feel comfortable—singing in that key.
“This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through…”
Living in the cracks.
Until we finally reach home.
There, we’ll be singing in His key. With His voicing.
He—the Master Conductor—says it’s okay.
You know the music will be spectacular.
I hope you’ll sing with me. I’ll be the one singing baritone.
“I’m not asking you to take them out of the world, but to keep them safe from the evil one.They do not belong to this world any more than I do.Make them holy by your truth; teach them your word, which is truth.Just as you sent me into the world, I am sending them into the world.”
(John 17:15-18, NLT)
“Harpists spend ninety percent of their lives tuning their harps, and ten percent playing out of tune.” (Igor Stravinsky)
I noticed the post on a friend’s social media page earlier:
“Getting hard to breathe as CA fires blow our way.”
She’s praying for rain, while smoke makes it hard to catch her breath. Many others are too.
I didn’t expect it, but I got a catch in my throat as I read her message.
There are no fires near me, but I had an inkling of her misery today as I mowed my lawn. There has been very little rain for a few weeks and the soil under the grass is parched. With more than a few mole tunnels pushed up across the width and length of the yard, I knew I was in for a dusty job when I headed out to begin the task.
I did borrow a face cowl from the Lovely Lady before venturing out. I had no idea how much I would need it. As it turned out, I should have found some swim goggles to go with it.
Dust billowed out from my mower—by the buckets full, it seemed to me—and yet I sped on across the yard. I soon found that, if I rode along in a straight line, I could stay ahead of the murky haze of flying dirt. But eventually, I had to turn, always back directly into the hazy cloud.
The face cowl helped considerably. I could breathe, at least. But again and again, I was overcome by the dirt in my eyes, burning and stinging. It would go dark as I was forced to close my eyelids against the irritating dust. Each time it happened, I released the grab bars that controlled my forward progress and, sitting atop the roaring machine in the diminishing fog, would wipe my eyes, either with my finger or with a handkerchief dampened from my water bottle.
I felt a little like Pigpen, the Peanuts character who raised dust wherever he walked in the comic strip. I’m certain the neighbors were almost as relieved as I was when the task was finished.
But, on a couple of the occasions I had to stop the mower today, I did so in the darkness, caused not only by the dust but also by panic. Momentarily, I would be confused as to where (and into what) the machine and its rider were headed.
Was I going to hit a tree? A gas meter or water faucet? Perhaps the flowerpot that held the Lovely Lady’s columbine plant was in my path! I’m not sure a little dirt in my eyes would have sufficed as an adequate excuse for that damage!
Do you know what it feels like to lose sight of reality? Of the straight road you’ve marked out in front of you?
It was only an inkling. Merely the tiniest glimpse of what hopelessness could feel like.
But, while I was in the midst of it, it seemed to me that I might never breathe easily, nor see clearly again. I knew I would, but it’s easy to be overwhelmed when in the grip of an uncomfortable turn of events.
As I contemplated later, clean and grit-free in my easy chair, my thoughts went back several decades and I finally began to understand.
I remember standing outside that hospital with tears in my eyes. I cried again later that evening as I attempted to understand the darkness one had to feel to attempt to end their own life.
It was years ago—in the last century—if you must know. We’ve moved more than once since then. The names have faded into obscurity; the faces almost so.
The couple, not young, lived near us in a small rental house. Their lives hadn’t been easy, but there had been no events that prepared me for hearing the ambulance outside our back door. And, I certainly didn’t anticipate following the paramedics to the hospital with an inebriated husband in my passenger seat.
The wife had taken a lot of pills. More than a handful. In her mind, it was the only alternative she had in a hopeless situation. Her husband, incapacitated as he was, was no help. But, eventually, he figured out she was in trouble and called 911.
Thus, the trip to the hospital. I offered to take him since it was clear he was in no condition to drive.
The team at the hospital was able to save her life. It didn’t fix her problems. Nor his. But, she lived. They moved away just weeks later, so I don’t know how their lives have gone, except that I heard their marriage ended soon after that.
I’m not sure the darkness ever lifted for them. I pray it has.
Did I say there were tears in my eyes? One might wonder why. They hadn’t been great neighbors. They argued loudly late at night. When he had had a little too much to drink (which was not infrequent), he sang country music at the top of his lungs from the front porch of the little house. They borrowed tools—and money—and my old bicycle, and didn’t always feel the need to return them.
And yet, I cried. For her, and her blind despair. And for him, and how he was treated by the doctor at the hospital. Rudely and with no respect nor regard for his terror that his wife might die. All the doctor saw was his drunkenness and poverty, and he had no time nor sympathy to be wasted on the man.
And so, I sat tonight and wondered anew at how we look at each other—at our neighbors and strangers on the street corners. At friends who have lost someone and can’t get over it. At people who look different, and act differently, than we do. Addicts and mentally ill. Politicians and the spectacularly wealthy (or even poverty-stricken). The list is endless.
And yet, they are neighbors. Every one of them.
We all get the dust in our eyes at some point. And, it’s easy to give up hope. For ourselves. For others.
Still, we’re all part of the human race. We share a common condition—that of being part of Adam’s fallen progeny. Our shared ancestor’s blindness has come over every one of us who walks this earth.
I know the tiniest thing about the blindness and fear that can overcome us.
And yet, hopelessness is not what has been promised to us. Not at all. We have hope. In Christ, our hope is certain. And, we walk in light.
We do. We walk in Light.
The Light that shines in every dark place. And we have the astounding privilege to share that light, carrying it within our very souls.
The smoke will clear. The rain will fall and settle the dust. It will.
And, the Light will never be overcome. Never.
That’s a promise. (John 1:5)
So for now, we get to shine. In this house, in this neighborhood—be it hillside or valley, and in this world.
You might want to bring your goggles along, too. There’s dust in the wind that’s blowing.
But, the Light shines still.
“Satan, who is the god of this world, has blinded the minds of those who don’t believe. They are unable to see the glorious light of the Good News. They don’t understand this message about the glory of Christ, who is the exact likeness of God.” (2 Corinthians 4:4, NLT)
“Carry your candle, run to the darkness.” (Christopher M Rice)
I’ve spent more than enough time the last few days living inside my head. The passing of a friend—whose loss looms larger all the while I consider our experiences together—has darkened my thoughts more than a little.
Still, contemplation of life and its losses—along with its great gifts—is never time wasted. Never wasted that is, unless the time doesn’t come to an end with a declaration of resolve and renewed direction. If that doesn’t happen, we simply remain where we are, frozen in place. I don’t think I can be content to stay in the past, or even in this place of quiet reflection.
All of life is movement, isn’t it? Or, it should be.
Movement and change.
So, onward!
I sat, in my melancholy mood, this evening and listened to music as I contemplated the week past. Quiet classical music played on my Spotify station. It helps me relax without intruding. On most nights.
Tonight though, I suddenly found myself thinking about the house I grew up in. The red-headed lady who raised me was there, sitting in her easy chair wielding a crochet hook while she pulled yarn from a skein in the basket beside her. The Christian station played on the radio sitting nearby. A man’s resonant baritone voice emanated from the speaker.
Nightsounds. That was the name of the program. Mom listened to it most nights from 11:30 to midnight. I know; your mom didn’t stay up that late, but mine did. Nearly every night. So did I.
So do I.
Nightsounds? Now, where did that come from? Oh yes! I looked at my monitor and saw that the song playing was Beau Soir by Claude Debussy (published in 1891). For many years, Beau Soir was Bill Pierce’s theme music for the late-night program of contemplative music and quiet wisdom.
I haven’t listened to or thought about that radio program since the late 1970s—almost fifty years ago now. But on this night, just a few measures into the music, my mind was transported to those days, to the time spent and lessons learned at my mother’s side.
She was a woman who lived her faith, never wavering, not even when her mind was stolen away in her last years by dementia. I have written before of one of my last memories of her—sharing a hymnal and singing songs of God’s love.
I’ve done my best to stay true to the faith of my mother, following the tenets of the Word of God. I even still treasure much of the music I learned to love as a child—classical, choral, songs of faith.
But, that brings me back to earlier today. Something that happened, seemingly not connected, yet perhaps connected, after all.
I got the note from my neighbor while I was at the grocery store.
“Your mailbox is on the ground. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”
It was. On the ground. When I left to go shopping with the Lovely Lady, it had been on the post, as sturdy as you please.
When I got home, I could plainly see the tire marks in the mud leading directly toward the post that stood there, sans mailbox, which was lying in the grass.
I knew who the tracks belonged to. I even took photos of the damage and of the tire marks. That driver was going to hear from me! The driver’s boss was going to hear from me!
It’s important to take responsibility for our actions. It is.
My mother taught me that, as did my father. They would have contacted the company and reported the transgression. The wrongdoer should be made to answer for his actions. He needs to do better!
I looked at the photos I had taken. I looked at the mailbox lying on the ground before me. Resentment grew rapidly. As I thought about the effort and resources I had expended a couple of years ago when I replaced the post, cementing it into place, and affixing the mailbox atop it, my indignation mounted almost exponentially moment by moment.
Do the right thing!
It was what I was taught. I would only be honoring my mother and father.
Do you know what I did?
No. Not that.
I put my phone away and, going to my workbench, gathered up the tools necessary to return the mailbox to its perch. Finding a scrap piece of one-by-six, I cut it to length and, removing the old screws and broken mount, fastened it into place before setting the mailbox in position. Four more screws were all it took to finish the job. It didn’t cost me a penny.
The entire job took half an hour. Well, three-quarters of an hour if you count the lovely conversation I had with my neighbors across the street, an opportunity I don’t have as often as I’d like.
Then, I deleted the photos from my phone.
Even now, as I sit at my desk, I can look out the window and see the mailbox. There is a sense of accomplishment, of satisfaction at a job well done. The animosity, the annoyance toward that faceless driver is gone—completely disappeared.
And, as I sat tonight listening to the beautiful music, I thought of another way in which I honor my mother and father. Even though they are gone from this life, years past.
I certainly honor them by remembering the tenets they taught me. I even honor them by following their example in putting those lessons into practice.
But more than that, I honor them when I see ways those tenets can be applied more appropriately—and then do that in love and grace.
I hope you don’t think that I imagine I have earned any praise for this. What I’ve described is nothing more than an old man, nearly seven decades old, finally—finally—beginning to grasp the idea of “forgiving those who trespass against us.” (Matthew 6:12)
Finally learning to sit with the Teacher as He writes in the dust and says quietly, “Let him who is without sin throw the first stone.” (John 8:7)
Finally listening—and actually hearing—as the Apostle asks, “Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be cheated?” (1 Corinthians 6:7)
And, I’m only beginning. When it’s nearly too late. But, not too late yet.
I’m still alive. And, as Sam Gamgee’s old Gaffer used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”
I reminded my son earlier that it is every parent’s dream for his children to learn from him/her and then do better than they did. Because the right thing is what Jesus would do. Not what your parents do, or did.
I wish I could be like my namesake, the Apostle, who suggested that his readers could confidently follow his example, as he followed Christ’s. I wish.
But, we learn. And grow. Together.
Walking each other home. Honoring each other as we go.
Spreading grace and mercy freely along the way.
It is what He would do.
“I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.” (Abraham Lincoln)
“God blesses those who are merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”
(Matthew 5:7, NLT)
