The six year old boy beside the easy chair has appeared, not quite silently, from the upper floor of the big old house.  It is well past the hour when he was sent to bed, and his parents assumed that he was asleep hours ago.  They are sitting in the living room, still commiserating about the same subject they had discussed with the children earlier that evening, when they heard his footsteps on the stairs, plopping down each one of the fourteen treads, one halting step at a time.  The young lad from the upper regions evidently wants to discuss the subject with them also.

Some parents keep their affairs secret from their children because they are afraid to burden them. They want their kids to have a carefree childhood, free from the problems of the world.  It is a viewpoint that is not without merit, but this family had determined some time before this that they would talk (and pray) about their problems forthrightly, in just the same way they rejoiced openly over their victories and blessings.  They had learned earlier in the day that a debt, which they hadn’t even realized was owed, would be due within the next week or so.  It was of significant size.  Rather than whisper about the issue, it was spoken of openly at the dinner table with the children present that evening.  The thought that either of the children would lie awake and worry about their conversation hadn’t occurred to the young parents, so they are concerned.

“What’s wrong, buddy?  Are you upset?” his dad asks.  The boy has a pensive look on his face as he replies, “No, not really.  I just wanted to talk with you about something.”  They are relieved, but know that more is coming.  It is not at all what they are expecting.  “I know you need money.  I have some I want you to use.”  As he speaks the words slowly, the little fellow is holding out both hands, one full of wadded up dollar bills and the other running over with pennies, nickels, and quarters.  The couple is dumbstruck for a moment.  The boy has emptied his piggy bank of every cent.  He is saving for a skate board and has been working at different tasks for his grandparents and parents to earn the money for it.  This is more important to him.

Struggling to hide the tears, and with his voice quivering just a little, the young dad takes the money from the boy and thanks him.  He then has the presence of mind to ask the young man if it would be all right if the money stayed in his piggy bank until it was time to pay the amount owed.  “That way, if enough money comes in from our other income, we might be able to leave some of this for your skate board.”  The boy thinks a moment, then smiles while he nods his little head and, hugging his dad and mom, turns to make the trek back up the stairway.  Unlike the trip down a few moments before, his steps are light and quick as he dashes back up to bed.

It was over twenty years ago, but the evening is burned into my head indelibly.  I do remember having two conflicting thoughts as the little tyke disappeared around the corner to go back to bed.  The first was an apprehension that we might have weighed the children down with more than they should be expected to comprehend at their young age.  I still struggle with that.  But, the second thought was a feeling of pride in the character of our young son.  In the face of  trouble, he gave selflessly of what he had to meet the need.  I was proud…of him.  Come to think of it, I still am.  You see, the emerging character in a young child, when nourished and encouraged, becomes the strong character of the grown man.

I told the story some time ago to a friend and he assured me that children learn character from their parents.   While I won’t insist on it, I actually think that in this case, the parents learn character from their children.  The selfless act of that little boy many years ago has inspired me on many occasions over the intervening years.

We do learn character from each other.  I’ve noticed recently that Liberty Mutual Insurance has a series of commercials running on television which really don’t sell a product at all, except by association.  I like the concept.  “People doing the right thing”, they say, showing case after case of individuals seeing one person helping another and then responding in kind.  I’m not sure that the world works that way, but it should.  It is what our Creator expects of His own.  “And let us consider how to spur one another on toward love and good deeds.”

I’ve never given everything I have to help someone.  Someday, I just might follow in that little boy’s footsteps. 

They’ll be hard ones to fill.

“While we teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about.”
(Anonymous)

“So encourage each and build each other up, just as you are already doing.”
(I Thessalonians 5:11~NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

What a debacle!  The gorgeous piano would still play beautifully, but the raw edge of bare wood on the front corner stuck out, as they say, like a sore thumb.  How could I face the owners of this fine instrument?  Surely they would be furious!  Perhaps I could shove the trailer, piano and all, over the side of the hill and claim accidental damage?  The thoughts running through my head were all akin, with a foundation in despondency and a framework of desperation.  As the gloom began to take control, I suddenly remembered that I had been in similar situations before and lived to tell about it, so I brushed away the swirling “what ifs”, squared my jaw, and told the rest of the crew to continue unloading the grand piano and we headed into the huge mansion to face the music.

I suppose that you might want me to back up a little and give a few details, but the prelude to this little drama has almost no bearing on the outcome.  The doctor had engaged our services to move his grand piano.  We had arrived at his home at the agreed upon time and, removing the pedals and legs, stood it upright on a dolly and loaded it in my trailer.  I had supervised the padding of the glossy black instrument, but had neglected to cover one very small corner, a spot of about three inches by one inch.  My memory has made it much larger, but it was a relatively tiny percentage of the entire piano.  No matter.  It rubbed on the side of the trailer the whole distance.  Upon arriving at the destination, some twenty miles away, we swept away the pads, to find the damage staring back at our dismayed faces.

Now, where were we?  Oh, yes.  Facing the music.  Well, as it turns out, the joke was on me.  There was no music to face.  Oh, there was consternation.  There was even a little frown on the good doctor’s face as I pointed out the damage, assuring him that we would have a furniture refinisher out as quickly as we could to make amends.  As I waited for the storm clouds to gather and the thunder to crash, he brightened and noticing my consternation, threw an arm over my shoulder.  “Don’t worry about it, Paul.  It still makes as beautiful a tone as it ever did, doesn’t it?”  I relaxed, but still felt the need to apologize again.  “I’m really sorry, but we’ll make it right, Doc.”  He waved away my apology with his hands.  “I already know that.  Nobody is hurt and nothing is broken.  How much do I owe you?”

As I drove home, mostly in silence in spite of the truck full of strong men, I couldn’t help but remember another delivery to a house just a mile or two away from that huge mansion, a couple of years before.

“The Unforgiving Servant” (Domenico Fetti)

I had agreed to help out some folks who were in financial straits, but who needed to move and had no way to deal with their old piano.  The old upright instrument had seen better times, appearing to be in it’s final days of usefulness.  Besides the functional issues, it had scrapes across the front where the bench had been tipped over against it, the legs were almost completely devoid of finish and the veneer was peeling away at a couple of spots.  Nevertheless, we loaded it into the trailer and padding the contact points, strapped it to the side as we always do.  Just as I got to the first intersection, at which I made a turn, I felt something shift in the trailer, so I stopped and went back to investigate.  The strap had slipped and allowed the piano to crash into the back door of the trailer.  There was a little damage to the piano, with a couple of fresh scrapes in the finish on that end.  I was unhappy, but not really disturbed, since the piano was already such a wreck.  Upon arrival at the house though, the owner of the piano didn’t see it in quite the same way.  As I apologized for the slight damage, which I had to point out to him, he raised his voice, exclaiming vigorously about my careless treatment of his property.  I was dumbfounded.  After agreeing to touch up the damage, I left without any pay, as I had arranged beforehand.  The slightly damaged piano had inflicted significantly more damage to my trailer, bending the door where it had impacted it.  Worse, I was angry and bitter about the owner’s reaction to the minor incident.  When the subsequent event described above occurred, it still rankled.

So, I drove home and thought about the difference in the two men.  In the place where I expected grace and forgiveness, there had been only anger.  Then, in the place where I anticipated nothing but fury, I experienced grace and peace.  I have thought about that on several occasions since.  I think I am beginning to understand the disparate reactions.

We all are presented with different paths to walk throughout our lives.  One of these men was wealthy, lacking nothing he wished, the other, impoverished and wanting.  That in itself couldn’t explain the reactions.  One would certainly expect a wealthy man to place more value in the things, while you would think that the poor man would place value in people.  Instead, the values were reversed.  The well-to-do man saw my distress and had compassion, understanding the higher value of a human when compared to a piano.  The needy man, however, saw only the tiny marks on his property, dismissing any concern on my part and demanding justice.  I have come to the conclusion that it is not his lack of physical goods that makes him truly poor, but his poverty of spirit.   By the same token, the doctor is wealthy, not because of his financial prowess, but because he places such value on his fellow man.

I thought of both men again this evening, as I contemplated the final sale of our piano moving equipment, including our trailer, today.  I do not expect to move pianos again.  It seems to me that it was a great gift to be given the opportunity to learn this lesson before the end of my piano moving days.

I’m sure more lessons will come from other endeavors.  I hope I will be a good student.

I’d certainly rather be a rich man anyway…in spirit, that is.

“Therefore, the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle accounts with his servants. As he began the settlement, a man who owed him ten thousand bags of gold was brought to him.  Since he was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt.  At this the servant fell on his knees before him. ‘Be patient with me,’ he begged, ‘and I will pay back everything.’  The servant’s master took pity on him, canceled the debt and let him go.  But when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a hundred silver coins.  He grabbed him and began to choke him. ‘Pay back what you owe me!’ he demanded.  His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, ‘Be patient with me, and I will pay it back.’  But he refused. Instead, he went off and had the man thrown into prison until he could pay the debt.  When the other servants saw what had happened, they were outraged and went and told their master everything that had happened.  Then the master called the servant in. ‘You wicked servant,’ he said, ‘I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to.  Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?’  In anger his master handed him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed.  “This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother or sister from your heart.”
(Matthew 18:21-35~NIV)
 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

The pizzeria was full, so we headed for one of the outside tables, to enjoy the evening breeze and the company outside, while waiting for a bite to eat.  At the next table, the youngster of about four years of age looked at me and then hid his face, whispering something in his mom’s ear.  A moment later, as we talked, his mom told me what he had said earlier, when he first saw me.  “Look Mommy!  It’s that man!”  His mom wondered what he meant by “that man” and asked him about it.  “You know.  That man from the stage at the church!”  We kidded about it for a little while, but the conversation started the wheels in my brain to turning.

The funny thing about the boy’s description of me is not that he is wrong.  Most of the time when he sees me, I am standing on the stage at my church, leading or participating in a song service.  The really amusing aspect of his statement is that his dad is the pastor, with whom I share the stage there.  In fact, he spends a bit more time on the stage than do I.  But, I dare say, if you would ask the young fellow who his dad is, he would have considerably more to say about his daddy than “that man from the stage…”

I chuckle as I think about the lack of scope in his young brain, remembering a person only in one place.  To his inexperienced mind, it might be possible that I actually live on the stage at the church.  Well, he never sees me anyplace else, so why should he have any other expectation?  After the lights are turned off, perhaps the people on the stage simply find a comfortable spot to await the next service, never leaving their roost on the stage, always in the place where he remembers them.  Sounds silly, doesn’t it?  But it brings with it some pointed questions–questions which touch fairly close to home.

My mind wanders to “Watership Down”, a novel written by Richard Adams, which I have read and re-read a number of times.  It is a fanciful, if not very cheery, account of a ragtag group of rabbits who flee their warren to escape a coming disaster, finding their way eventually, through many dangers, to a relatively safe place called Watership Down.  At one point the author describes, in detail, the down in the moonlight, reminding us that our natural thought patterns don’t make it easy for us to visualize a place in the darkness, but only in the daylight.  We believe daylight to be the natural condition of a place, not thinking that it is in darkness for nearly as many hours.  “We are not conscious of daylight as that which displaces darkness. Daylight, even when the sun is clear of clouds, seems to us simply the natural condition of the earth and air.”  The fact remains, however, that darkness is a natural condition of any place.  Simply because we don’t think of it that way does not mean it is not a facet of the place also.

I’m wondering tonight about how many people we fit neatly into a box, simply because we have always observed them in that box before.  A man utters words which I believe to be offensive, therefore he is offensive.  A mother snaps harshly at her child in the music store and I determine that she is a poor parent to that child.  I observe a man in a state of inebriation and assume that he is not a responsible human being, but is simply a drunk.  The homeless person is nothing more than just that–homeless.  No family, no feelings, and no worth to either me or society.  It seems clear that I am missing something here, doesn’t it?

There is much more to me than my ability to sing on the stage at church.  Yet, from that dear little child’s perspective, I am “that man from the stage”.  In reality, the offensive man probably has many other thoughts besides the ones that offend me.  The snapping mother also feeds and clothes her child and protects him or her from the dangers of the world.  The drunk is only that way when he drinks too much, but it is likely that he works and has a family, and possibly even believes in the same God as I.  The homeless person undoubtedly thinks and cries and laughs, and is embarrassed at his or her circumstances.  If I don’t see this, if I don’t consider the whole person, I am as naive as the little boy.  But, his viewpoint is caused by lack of experience; mine is caused by purposeful ignorance.  There is a difference.

Even though it seems a bit unnecessary, I will remind the reader that our viewpoint of our Creator is often just as myopic.  We see only the facet which we have experienced, doing our best to impress that aspect of our God on every other person we speak to.  Whether we believe Him to be Judge, Savior, Shepherd, Healer, Protector, Provider, or a host of other things which He certainly is, we focus on our experience and don’t seek out all of those other things which He wants to be to us.

The reason the boy at the pizzeria doesn’t see his father in the same light in which he sees me is that he has a different relationship to his dad.  He knows his dad; he just knows of me.  The knowing makes a world of difference.  And, as he spends time with his dad, his knowledge becomes more and more well rounded.  That’s the way it should be for us in our everyday relationships, too.  Instead of snap judgments, we need to be personally invested in the lives of those around us.  I’m confident that our perspective will change as our involvement does too.

This man on the stage thinks it’s about time that he go to his home and get a little rest.  A bed, after all, will be much more comfortable than sleeping on a hard pew in that big, empty church. 

“My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you.  Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes.”
(Job 42:5,6 NIV)

“There is none so blind as he who will not see.”
(Old proverb, first quoted in 1714 by Thomas Chalkley~Quaker missionary/preacher~ 1675-1741)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012 All Rights Reserved.

“That looks like it’s good enough, Mr. Phillips.  I can’t see any problem there at all.”  The grimy mechanic looked up at me with a crooked smile.  The sledge hammer in his hand belied any attempt he could make at pretending to be a craftsman, but still, he wanted my approval.  All I wanted was to be out of that shop, so I muttered, “Okay.  I guess I can live with it.”  I backed the van out of the bay and started for home, exasperated.

I had ordered a new set of tires for my full-size van from a catalog store with the understanding that they had a shop under contract which would install them for me.  When I arrived at the tire shop with the radials piled up in the back of the vehicle, it was obvious that they were unhappy about the arrangement.  From their perspective, they would only be paid for the labor, but the catalog store had received all of the profit from the sale of the tires.  I wasn’t going to get red-carpet service here, that much was certain.  A little worried, I still left the van and told them I would be back later.  I came back to find the van still on the hydraulic lift, in the process of being lowered to the floor, but I could plainly see that the van was sitting a little oddly.  The vehicle reached the ground and I walked around to the passenger side.  The mechanic had placed the lift arms under the aluminum running board, instead of the frame, when the van had been raised and the force of all the weight had bent it badly.  The sledge hammer was their answer to my instantaneous outburst.

Still angry, I drove away from the shop.  One block.  As I attempted a left turn at the first corner, I felt the tire on the front right side move violently and I was suddenly sitting with the front of the van askew, one side visibly closer to the ground than the other.  I stopped in the middle of the intersection and turned on my flashers, glancing momentarily at the tire sitting akimbo to the hub, missing four of the five lug nuts.  Angrily, I stalked back to the shop and told them to get someone out there to fix the problem.  As the mechanic jacked up the front end of the van, the owner of the shop explained that sometimes the nuts worked themselves off as the vehicle was driven down the road.  One block!  One block, the van had been driven and the nuts might have worked themselves loose and fallen off!  Did he really think I had been born yesterday?  As I stood fuming, the mechanic spun the lug wrench one last time, with a flourish, and headed for the jack handle, declaring,  “I think that’ll be good enough to get you down the road now.”

I don’t do business with that shop anymore.  They contracted to provide a service for me and demonstrated clearly that they weren’t interested in performing that service.  There was no interest in excellence, only in getting by.  “Good Enough” was their motto.  I don’t like their motto.

I hope you won’t think that this is just a rant about a tire shop.  I’m not even angry with them anymore.  It’s just that it seemed wise to begin with the ridiculous, so we could contrast it with the ideal. 

I sat this evening with the Lovely Lady, and in between a nap or two, I watched portions of the Antiques Roadshow with her.  A little fifteen-second visual and a coincidental verbal comment by one appraiser grabbed my attention.  The lady had brought in a table built in the early twentieth century by a man named Gustav Stickley.  Mr. Stickley built a form of furniture known today as the Craftsman style.  The whole rationale behind the type of product his shop turned out was to push back against the cheaply made furniture which was rapidly taking over the market in the early days of the industrial age.  He wanted to make top quality furniture which he could be proud to put his name on.  At some point, he adopted a phrase which was stamped, along with his name, on all of the pieces his shop turned out.  It was just a short Dutch sentence, “Als ik kan.”  Simply put, it means, “all I can”.  The Stickley company expanded on that a little, making it, “To the best of my ability.”  Mr. Stickley wanted to be sure that every person who ever used something which he had built should understand that the artisan had done everything in his power to make that piece correctly and with skill.  There was no “good enough” for this man.  He was all in, putting his best abilities into every single piece of furniture he ever made.

I like that short phrase, “All In”.  If you care about card games, you know that you will hear that phrase when a player is confident that he has the best hand–so confident that he is willing to put every single dime he has on the table into the pot.  He risks everything on one hand, holding nothing back.  I’m not a gambler and have never actually played, but I like the concept of being all in.

I’ve also heard the phrase used to describe someone who is completely exhausted.  They have given everything they can to complete a task and have nothing left to give.  To their own personal detriment, they have exhausted their physical reserves in the performance of the deed at hand.  As they reach the end of their strength, someone observes that they are all in, having given all they can to finish the task.

I should be quick to point out that I am not speaking of perfection.  Some people work all their lives at a job and achieve consistency, but do not excel.  If they have indeed put everything they have into achieving consistency, they have succeeded in meeting the standard I am suggesting tonight.  As with all subjects, we should understand that there are differing levels of ability.  Less talent does not diminish the reward of working persistently toward the goal.  I am frustrated and even angry with both those who would discourage folks from excellence by hand-patting and consoling with an “at least you tried”, as well as with those who insist that trying isn’t praiseworthy.  “Try not. Do or do not do. There is no try,” states the revered Jedi, Yoda, in the Star Wars movie of several decades ago.  What a horrible philosophy!  We try, with everything that is in us.  If we are blessed to do, it’s that much better, but not all of our efforts will succeed.  We try anyway.

If you have a Christian world view, as I do, the reminder that we don’t do anything for ourselves or even for the acclaim of men, but for our God, gives a new and motivating perspective on everything we attempt.  How would we be anything less than all in?  Holding back is not an option.  Success doesn’t come with half-hearted attempts, but with a commitment to give all.  Could you be satisfied with anything less?  Will He?

What kind of hand are you holding?  I think it’s time to go all in.  How about it?

 “And do all that you do with all your soul, as for Our Lord, and not as for the children of men.”
(Colossians 3:23~Aramaic Bible in Plain English)

“There are only two options regarding commitment.  You’re either in or you’re out.  There’s no such thing as life in-between.”
(Pat Riley~former NBA player and coach)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012 All Rights Reserved.

“I’ve never felt a more moving moment in my life.”  The man in front of me is not given to dramatics, but is a down-to-earth fellow, just taking a break from his 9 to 5 retail job.  Our conversation has run the gamut from a discussion of the merit of microphone stand designs to his dismal weekend of moonlighting as a Karaoke DJ.  Somehow the conversation moves to a recent trip he took to New Orleans, where the emotional experience mentioned above occurred.  As he speaks, his countenance softens and his voice, once loud and boisterous, lowers in timbre and volume.  He describes an early stroll through the streets of New Orleans, just before daybreak one chilly morning.

His steps took him through Jackson Square, past the statue of General (and later President) Andrew Jackson and up the steps of the Moon Walk to stand near the mighty Mississippi River.  As he stood, looking almost due east and welcoming the first rays of light from the rising sun, he realized that he wasn’t alone.  He glanced behind him and saw an elderly gentleman, wearing a hat and a long coat.  As the man, probably about seventy years old, approached, he stood for a moment looking at the rolling water and the sun’s rays reflecting gently off the shimmering surface.  Then, rubbing his hands together, he doffed his hat and dropped it onto the sidewalk in front of him and from somewhere under his coat, produced an ancient brass trumpet and put it to his lips.

As the sweet notes started from the horn, my friend recognized the opening passage of an old patriotic favorite, “America, the Beautiful”, perhaps better known to many as “Oh Beautiful, For Spacious Skies”.  He reports that the old fellow never missed a note, never searched for the next tone, but played through the tune with many a flourish and grace note, flawlessly.  As I listen to him tell of removing his cap and standing by the river’s edge with tears flowing down his face while the sun begins to rise full and bright above the water’s surface and the old musician plays on, I too feel the tears start to well up.  The beauty of the moment is enough to move even me as I view the scene through his misty eyes.  It is a moment to savor.

I have become a collector of moments.  If you’ve stuck with me for long, you already know that.  Most of the articles I post are remembrances of such moments.  I don’t want to lose them in the fog and mist of age, when memories dim and existence is limited to meals, and personal needs, and waiting.

I collected another moment recently.  I had heard that the momentous event called the “Transit of Venus” was occurring and had shrugged mentally, giving the obscure phenomenon only a peremptory nod with a joke posted on my favorite social network, and then retreated to “real life” once again.  I couldn’t help but notice though, late in the afternoon, that a fellow had pulled into the parking lot across from the music store and was setting up some sort of optical equipment.  Some time later, a phone call from a friend suggesting that I walk across the street to see what was going on was met with another verbal shrug.  Big deal.  A spot on the sun.  Then I remembered.  This event would happen once in my lifetime.  The next time it occurs will be in another one hundred and five years.  I don’t intend to be here still.  I made the walk.

Photo by snowpeak

What an eye-opening experience!  The gentleman with the telescope was happy, almost eager, to give me a view in the lens of his expensive equipment.  I inquired about eye protection, but he assured me that it was safe.  A filter was in place and would block out any dangerous light.  The view was breathtaking.  I had never in my life looked at the sun through a telescope, much less even imagined the sight of the tiny (when put in this perspective) planet Venus as it crossed between the Earth and the Sun.  A tiny, but distinct dot was really all that appeared of the planet, and my brain went into overload as I contemplated the immensity of the celestial body that provides us with warmth and light.  My thought immediately shifted to the realization that, if Venus is roughly the same size as the Earth, it follows that Venus’s comparison to the Sun is also the Earth’s.  The next natural step was to realize how small I am in comparison to the immensity of the Earth.  Right about then, this little speck on a speck started feeling mighty small in the grand scheme of things.  It was definitely a moment.

Still feeling small, I once again crossed the street to enter the front door of the music store.  As I entered the building, a young voice called out, “Hi Grandpa!”  One by one, other voices chimed in as they vied for my attention.  It was only for a short period of time, but suddenly, I felt huge.  I was important in their world!  There is nothing like the love of a child to put thoughts that have been skewed back into perspective.  Again, a moment to be collected and savored.

Certainly, the huge Sun still hung overhead; the tiny, yet immense, planet Venus continued its transit across the sky between Earth and that great ball of flaming gas.  But here, in my world,  we were all life-sized, living and loving, making a difference in the moments that matter to each of us.  Memories are being made and these moments will be gathered into the collection. 

Like all collectors, I will continue to enjoy taking out the accumulation of moments, both moving and eye-opening, joyful and heart-breaking.  The collection of a lifetime is all of these and more, ever growing and changing.  Thankfully, even in the midst of collecting thoughts of immensity and insignificance, I find again, in my collection, that moment of realization that One, who cares for every single part of His creation, loves this small, insignificant man.  And once again, I feel humbled and important at the same time.  What a moment that was!

 What’s in your collection?  There will be many moments today, even.  There is still plenty of time to gather a memory or two.  Maybe you could even share one with a friend like me.

I promise, I’ll try not to cry when you do…

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 
Old Time is still a-flying; 
And this same flower that smiles today, 
Tomorrow will be dying.” 
(“To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time”~Robert Herrick~English poet~1591-1674)

“Indeed the right time is now.  Today is the day of salvation!”
(2 Corinthians 6:2b~NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012 All Rights Reserved.

“Is this an old guitar, Paul?  I’ll bet it’s just one of those ‘relic’ models, isn’t it?”  The young man was genuinely mystified.  I had hung the battered guitar on the wall just last night and already, it was drawing attention.  Instead of answering his question, I suggested a test.  “Why don’t you tell me?” I asked, as I handed him the instrument.  He was game and held it for a moment, feeling the weight, hefting it up and down a time or two to get the feel in his hands.  “It feels right,” he declared.  I encouraged him to play it for a minute, which he did.  “Yep, it’s really what it looks like, isn’t it?  How old is this thing?”  The suspicion in his face was gone; nothing left there but admiration for the vintage instrument which he now cradled carefully in his arms.

I told you the other day about the fifty year-old guitar which Art had retrieved from its time of service on the continent of Africa.  This is the same guitar.  After our conversation, Art decided that my music store would be a trust-worthy place where the instrument would be valued and well cared for, so I was able to acquire the wonderful old guitar.  I have spent a good number of hours over the last few days, cleaning and laboring on the necessary upkeep which has been lacking over the last few years.  Late last night, I put the finishing touches on the instrument as I installed new strings and then I tweaked the harmonics as it came into tune.  For all of its battle scars, it is a beautiful instrument, sure to be a desirable addition to some happy guitar player’s collection.

It has what I frequently describe as good, honest wear.  The edges of the body are battered and scraped.  In a place or two, it appears to have been dragged over the concrete floor.  On the top, I would almost attest that I can see the mark of a shoe, where someone has walked on the guitar as they moved across the room.  It is dinged and scratched, and the neck is worn bare of finish where many hands have rubbed it again and again up and down the scale.  The fingerboard is cupped and worn from hours and hours of the strings being squeezed down to its surface.  It is a beautiful sight to see, as it hangs on the wall.

As I considered my young friend’s response to the realization that this instrument was indeed one due his respect and admiration, my thoughts were drawn inexorably to another guitar I have hanging on the wall in my store.  It too, is a beautiful instrument, worthy to be played by most any musician.  The guitar functions quite adequately, with excellent action along the fingerboard, and a good set of pickups, which will emit great volume and pleasing tones.  Still, the reaction which any number of guitarists have shown as they pick up this instrument is far different from my young friend’s show of respect this afternoon.

The guitar is suspended on a wall hanger with perhaps twenty more, much like it.  Yet, it stands out in the crowd.  The others are shiny and new-looking.  The hardware gleams and the colors are undimmed by time, unmarked by clumsy usage.  This guitar though–it shows years of use, the edges scarred, the paint worn thin, apparently by wear from many jam sessions and more than a few times of being dragged in and out of a case.  The eye is drawn to it, as is the hand.  Many have removed it from the shelf, handling it with awe and care.  The respect is only a momentary thing, vanishing in seconds, as if the wind had swept it from the air.  “Oh, it’s just a fake,” is the phrase I have heard over and over with respect to this instrument, still a very fine piece of music equipment.  The disappointment is too great a barrier for anyone to get past, so the instrument hangs there after months on the same hanger.

As great as my discouragement at not being able to sell this guitar, my wonder at the reaction of the customers is greater.  Why, you ask, would one look at this instrument and disrespect it, when the other instrument demands honor and careful handling?  The first guitar, the one with the “honest wear” has earned its place of honor.  Years and usage have gained it the high esteem of one and all, while this second guitar has undertaken to circumvent the whole aging process and fails miserably in the attempt. The “bare” spots are simply places where the finish was never applied to the wood.  The scrapes?  Ditto.  The back of the neck is discolored simply by changing the amount of coloration in the stain which was applied at the factory.  This guitar was actually manufactured to give the appearance of age, a process now known in the business as “relicing” (pronounced rel-ick-ing).  As the genuine players know, this is a fake, a wannabe, attempting to seduce the guitarist to accept a lookalike, instead of working his/her way to the real thing by actually playing the same fine instrument for the years it takes to achieve the good, honest wear.

I have seen many guitars which were given this “relic” treatment by their owners.  They have hit the instruments with chains, scraped them with tools, even dragged them across the sidewalk in an attempt to achieve this look.  If you follow the antique trade at all, you will know that many buyers have been fooled by new items made to appear old by similar artifices.  The experts always tell customers to look for the user wear, not for the peripheral wear.  I tell my customers to do the same.  If there is a lot of wear on the edges, do the frets show playing wear?  Do the marks match the actual playing position of the instrument?  If the evidence of age is only around the edges, but not in the places that actually are touched when the guitar is being played, it is likely the work of a charlatan.

Are you fooled by the fakes in your world?  I have been…more than once.  In fact, I will readily admit that, at times, I fear that those close to me will discover that I am just such a fake.  For many years, I dreaded the time when the Lovely Lady discovered that I really wasn’t a knight in shining armor after all.  I now fear that she may have already discovered it, but am encouraged that she hasn’t acted on her knowledge.  I worry that the people in my church will discover that I have secret sins and habits which would disappoint them beyond imagination.  I fear that you will realize that I don’t live up to my little morality lessons again and again.  I don’t know about you, but I do the best I can to give the appearance of respectability in the attempt to bolster the facade I’ve built.  From a distance, I think I’ve succeeded.  But, take me down off the wall and get a feel for who I really am and…well, let’s just say it won’t be pretty.

The lesson here is twofold.  I am encouraged to leave off defrauding those around me, to come clean and show who I really am.  If all of us could do that, the astonishment might overcome us initially, but we would all be better off to know that each of us suffers from the curse of being a sinner.  We might be more caring, more patient, even more helpful to each other.  You never know.  

The second part of the lesson is for us to be careful of what we accept as honorable.  In the business world, we have a saying.  “Buyer, beware!”  Don’t be fooled by a little wear on the edges, a scrape or two across the surface.  Honesty goes to the heart.  Respect and honor are earned, not manufactured.  Esteem and trust don’t belong to the newcomer, the upstart, but to the veteran who has toiled and paid his dues.  The rookie will have time to prove his mettle, soon enough.   

Mr. Peabody, an old instrument repairman I know, used to have a sign in his shop that sums it up for me…“Good Work Takes Time.” 

It might be a wise thing to remember that the next time someone offers you a vintage guitar.

Buyer, beware!

“It is easily overlooked that what is now called vintage was once brand new.”
(Tony Visconti~American record producer)

“Rise in the presence of the aged; show respect for the elderly.”
(Leviticus 19:32)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012 All Rights Reserved.