“Have you seen my Daddy?  I really need him right now!”  The little blond tyke was close to tears, but, not seeing her father anywhere in the vicinity, I asked if I could help.  She replied rather timorously, “I need to talk to him about the tornado.  Someone said there was a tornado coming and I really need my Daddy.”  It was a beautiful, starlit night and there were no storms anywhere to be seen on the horizon, so I explained that a tornado couldn’t be coming or there would be clouds and lightening and we would hear the thunder and the wind.  I pointed up to the amazingly clear sky, teeming with stars, as we spoke.  By the light of my flashlight, she looked at me rather dubiously and said, “I still want my Daddy.”

The occasion was a hymn sing under the stars at some friends’ place in the country.  We had enjoyed making music together as the daylight faded and then wandered out to the fire to roast some marshmallows and make ‘Smores.  The kids had all had their turn at roasting the puffy white bits of sugar and, bored with the fireside chat, had wandered off hither and yon to entertain themselves, apparently telling a ghost story or two, as well as throwing an imaginary storm into the mix.  She wasn’t the first child to ask where her parent was and I remember thinking a couple of times, as we sat talking and the children played, how different (and scary) the world was in the dark.  Evidently, the children thought so also and some of the older kids figured the darkness was a good place to frighten the younger, more gullible ones.  It was a rousing success for this little sweetheart.

After her rejection of my wisdom, I helped locate her Daddy and he reassured her as well as he could that there was no tornado loose in her world this night.  I found myself thinking about the big, dark world and how important are the strong arms that hold and comfort us in our confusion about its terrors, both real and imagined.

I talked on the telephone with my Mom tonight.  She didn’t know who I was.  As we talked, she gained a little cognizance and remembered names and places a tiny bit more.  She made a couple of strange remarks about events which never happened and I could hear my Dad’s voice in the background, helping her to remember what was true and what was not.  When we finished talking together, she handed the phone to Dad, saying,  “Here Honey, it’s…..  Oh, you talk to him!”  As he came on the phone, I could hear the pain in his tone of voice and realized how much it hurts him to see her like this.  But still, he cares for her day after day; preparing meals, washing laundry, making hairdresser and doctor appointments, and taking her to church.  And, when she’s afraid and the dark is closing in, she has strong arms to shield her from the imaginary evils that lurk unseen.

So, both ends of life have their terrors in the darkness.  I’m wondering about the time in between.  Surely, there are times of fear and darkness here too.  I’m convinced of it, because I’ve felt them; I’ve lived through them.  You have too.  The young father prays in the night as his child struggles to breathe, in a skirmish with asthma.  The young wife lies awake in her too-empty bed in the dark, wondering if her husband, fighting battles half a world away, will ever return to her.   The mom sits alone in her chair late into the wee hours of the morning, fearing that her teenage daughter may not remember who she really is, in the high pressure world of dating and physical attraction.  The list goes on and on.  We all face the dragon of fear in the dark.  Even as a middle-aged man, mature in many ways, I still long for the strong arms around me and the calming voice that says, “There, there.  Don’t you worry about a thing.” 

Time and time again, that longing has been met in my faith.  You’ll have to determine your own course, but the truth I remember is that we’ve not been given a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, and love, and self-discipline.  The strong and loving arms around us enable us to extend strong and loving arms to those near us who are in need of the same comfort.  No one can console someone in pain like someone who has already come through that same pain.

You can’t fool me into believing that there’s a tornado about to hit when the sky is clear!  I know how to recognize the danger signs, and I ain’t afraid of that boogeyman.  It’s just the other ghosts that I’m not always so sure of…

“There’s a somebody I’m longing to see;
I hope that he turns out to be,
Someone to watch over me.”
(Ira Gershwin~American lyricist~1896-1983)

“Remember, we all stumble, every one of us.  That’s why it’s a comfort to go hand-in-hand.”
(Emily Kimbrough~American writer~1899-1989)

“I wish I could have seen Strider again, Grandpa.”  The precocious five year old stands in front of me with a pensive look on his face.  His mom, like her mother and father before her, wants her children to face the truth, so he has not been lied to.  Our family dog was his friend, the beneficiary of frequent trips to the treat bag by this youngster, and also an eager participant in numerous games of fetch with the child.  I remind my grandson that we just won’t be able to see Strider again and he is satisfied.  I am not.

It was not my intention to broach the subject again, but as often happens, other events have brought the conversation to mind once more.  I told a friend a couple of nights ago, that I was done with the “dark” subjects that have been the focus of my writing on numerous occasions, and seemingly more frequent of late.  I have attempted to move to lighter subjects and still intend to keep my daily rumination moving in that general direction.  Just not tonight.

Friday afternoon found the music store a beehive of activity.  It seemed that the floodgates had opened and customers were almost compelled to pile into the place.  In the middle of that flurry of busy-ness, he came in.  The young man was a frequent visitor for the last number of years, usually just coming in to check out the stock and see what was new.  If he found something that caught his fancy, we would start a conversation; first about the “real” price of the item, then about the possibility of making a trade.  If I was lucky, he would find time during his visit to sit and play a guitar for a little while.  For his age, the boy was one of the best guitarists I have seen, employing some advanced techniques which many seasoned players would love to master.  He didn’t have them all mastered, but he was well on his way.  This was one of our lucky days and he sat and played a few moments as he waited for me, drawing the attention of others in the store, as he always did.

I had just traded for some items he wanted, which he brought over to me when I got a free minute.  He had no money to spend, but there were other items he could bring in to trade.  He asked me to hold the ones he wanted and promised to return soon with his trades, which he did within a short time.  We talked about business and almost nothing else.  Our transaction concluded, we shook hands and he promised to come back.  He never will.

I got word on Saturday night that yet another family had lost their son.  I don’t know all the details of his death, but I do know that he was far too young.  I wasn’t finished with our friendship yet.  There were things I would like to say to him.  Like my grandson and the dog, I wish I could have seen him one more time.  If only I had known it would be our last time, I would talk about something else besides the power rating of the amplifier and the battery life of the microphone.  God’s timing is perfect, but mine definitely is not.

As I write this, Memorial Day is upon us.  It’s a day for remembering and honoring those who have gone to their reward.  We mostly think about it in terms of the military men and women, but many families use it to remember those absent from their number, whether military or not.  From where I’m standing tonight, it seems a good day to think also about the living and to consider what we want our conversations to be with them.  That next visit may never come; the opportunity to say those words in our hearts may never present itself again.   Just a suggestion from a saddened and not-so-very-wise man, but today would be a great day to say the important words and to show the people you love that you do (love them, that is). 

Then again, maybe that should be every day.   Carpe Diem.

“I expect to pass through this world but once.  Any good, therefore that I can do, or any kindness I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now.  Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”
(Stephen Grellet~French Quaker missionary to the United States~1773-1855)

“Be very careful then how you live, not as unwise – but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil.”
(Ephesians 5:15,16)

“Let’s play Kick-the-Can!  Not it!”  It was a familiar suggestion on a summer’s evening, just as the blazing-hot sun lowered toward the western horizon.  We played the game even when it was just me and my brothers and sister, but it was best when the neighbor kids joined in.  Maybe the Wileys would be visiting from their mission down in Mexico and we’d get some of them to play with us too.  After the initial yell by the kid with the bright idea, the calls of “Not it!” from the rest would ensue.  The point was to not be the last one to call it out.  Of course, the problem with that was that either you could claim you had already said it and no one heard you, or the others, being bigger and more authoritative could claim that you hadn’t said it when you had.  Usually the youngest or most timid was “it” for the first go-round.  Yep, I was the youngest.

Kick-the-Can?  Surely you remember, don’t you?  It was either the best or the worst version of “hide-and-seek” ever.  The rules were basically the same, but with the additional thrill of having the base being a large tin can.  I’m sure there are many variations on the rules, but what made it so much fun is that, if a player had been found and was about to have “1, 2, 3 on _____” called on him/her (thus making them “it”), they could run to the base faster than whoever was “it” and kick that can as hard as they could.  The unfortunate kid who was “it” then had to find the can and return it to its proper position, hoping to still be able to see where the kicker was and get them out.  The reason I mentioned that it could be the worst version of hide-and-seek is that frequently I spent many hours chasing the can and looking for the big kids without ever beating one to the base.  Sometimes, they would tire of the game before I ever caught my first hider.  But when I wasn’t “it”?  Best game ever!  We spent many hours playing every summer.

My Mom tells a different story.  Her version is that we played a game called “Not it!”  You see, in the confusion of yelling to keep from filling that unwanted position, we would sometimes spend a good part of the dusky minutes as the sun set arguing about who had said it last.  Finally, in frustration, one of the bigger kids would start calling out “Eenie, meenie, minie, moe…”  No, the next phrase wasn’t that politically incorrect one you’re remembering, because our parents absolutely wouldn’t allow us to use it.  My dad wasn’t a civil rights activist, wasn’t liberal in any sense, but he just knew it was wrong to call any race by a denigrating name.  So it was, that in those days of the Cold War, the next phrase in our version of the child’s verse came, “…Catch old Khrushchev by the toe.”  It was popular back then to disparage the Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev (he of the shoe-banging incident), since the Soviet Union was undoubtedly the worst regime in existence at that time, in our eyes.  Anyway, by the time we got to “…my mother told me to pick the very best one and you are not it” part, all the older kids (understanding the pattern of the little ditty) had reshuffled and left me or one of the other clueless younger kids in the right place to be selected, so the result was the same as the “Not it!” game. 

The Lovely Lady recalls that one of the older residents in her neighborhood would frequently come out and pick up the can himself, carrying it into his house, to quiet the racket when their kick-the-can games went too late into the night.  Theirs were played under the street light on their cul-de-sac street while, over eight hundred miles to the south, we played ours in the light of the front porch in our circle drive after the natural light faded.  When the can was kicked far enough that it exceeded the limits of the illumination, you were in trouble.  Sometimes, even the hiders had to come and help look for the base, temporarily safe until it was located and returned to its  proper place.

Ah, but then came my favorite call, especially if I was still hiding.  The call would go up, “olly olly oxen free!”  We could move from our cramped hiding positions under the wheelbarrow or up in the trees, where we had hidden, fearing discovery at any second.  No more sitting with the Lantana blossoms brushing against your nose, about to make you sneeze any moment!  We all came in safe!  A truce between battling parties was called and there was no penalty, no one left to call, “1, 2, 3 on Paul!”.  No more being “it” interminably.  We usually came in happy and calling out to each other as the game ended and our heartbeats slowed to a regular pace after the excitement and anxiety of the game were behind us.  Joy and relief!  We came in safe!

I always thought the phrase of “olly olly oxen free,” came from the English equivalent, “all-y, all-y, all’s in free,” which would be just fine, but it seems that it may actually come from the German phrase, “”alle, alle auch sind frei,” which means literally, “everyone, everyone is also free.”  Either way, still a great descriptive phrase of the relief and satisfaction in the reprieve that ended the exciting game.

I find myself periodically wishing to hear that phrase these days.  Oh sure, I still like hearing it when the kids yell it out as they’re playing, but that’s not what I’m referring to now.  Life has gotten extremely complicated.  There’s more than enough sadness and distress to go around; economic problems weigh us down; the stress and aggravation in the workplace are overwhelming sometimes; even the joyous events of life are frequently accompanied by confusion and complexity.  Where’s the light at the end of the tunnel?  When do I get to hear the call, “olly, olly oxen free!” and relax?

I refuse to end an essay on children’s games with a sermon, so I’ll leave you to work through it.  Suffice it to say that the answer is in plain sight and the call has already gone out.  Just because we haven’t yet responded doesn’t negate the facts.  I remember a night when I found the best hiding place.  The large bougainvillea plants along the edge of the yard had thorns, but if you were careful, you could slip under them and be completely concealed by the viney plant and its large leaves and copious blossoms.  I guess I must have been too close to the road noise, or maybe I dozed off, but when I looked out after a long while, there was no one near the base, so I headed in to kick that can as far as I could.  Imagine my chagrin when the can was gone and no one came running to count me out either.  I looked around, finally poking my head inside the house.  There they all were, Kool-Aid glasses in hand, enjoying a cool drink, while I was still playing the game with vigor.  The call had gone out and I hadn’t heard.  I was annoyed, but a glass of grape Kool-Aid soon set that right.

I love summer!  I think I may save one of those old tin coffee cans and spend a little time with the grandchildren.  It may be awhile before they understand all the rules, but they’ll sure have a great time kicking the can.  I just might give it a tap or two, as well…

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
(Jesus~Matthew 11:28)

“Hide-and-seek grown-up style.  Wanting to hide.  Needing to be sought.  Confused about being found.”
(Robert Fulghum~”All I Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten”)

Everything is so loud now.  The cars that go by on the street vibrate with the “Boom-Boom-Boom” of the huge sub-woofers in the trunks.  At home, the television is adjusted to a volume that enables my ears to discern the conversation between the characters in a program, when abruptly, we’re at a commercial and the volume is suddenly blaring so loudly that I jump with alarm.  In my store, the customers come in to try out instruments, asking, “May I plug it in?”  I answer in the affirmative and help with the amplifier connections, knowing that I will regret it very soon.  And, I’m not disappointed, as the volume begins at an agreeable level and gradually rises through the middle decibel ranges where conversation is still possible, and finally on up to a painfully loud degree on par with sitting in the wall seats at a NASCAR event. This is especially true if there is more than one musician playing an instrument; each one vying to be the dominant voice in the musical conversation.

Even the trend in restaurant design is to make the dining rooms alive with sound.  It is no longer in vogue to have cozy, private corners to dine in peacefully, but we must be in the middle of the action, with cooks yelling out at each other as they mix and fry and bake.  The room is so live that you can hear the conversation of the couple on the other side of the establishment as they discuss what her boss did to make her angry today.  And the hustle and bustle of the wait staff!  Back and forth, to and from the open kitchen again and again, with trays and dishes and plastic desserts.

On the weekend, we go to church, which was once a fortress against the cacophony of the outside world.  Now the seven foot grand piano, designed with a powerful voice to fill a concert hall with beautiful music, has a microphone installed so that we can amplify it.  Where we who are singers used to stand close and listen to each other to achieve an ensemble sound, now we huddle around monitor speakers and hope that the technician in the sound booth has our microphone turned up enough so the crowd can hear us.

In every sector of our lives, each voice vies to be heard, the tumult growing ever louder, and the individual clamoring voices are soon lost in the din.  It seems that none of us will be content to stand silent and wait to be recognized, but must force our way into the conversation.  Every syllable, even every musical note is intended, not to contribute, but to dazzle; not to comfort, but to impress.  Even when there is no sound, and we sit at our computers to communicate, the way to be noticed IS TO YELL with our upper case letters.  None of us wants to be a wallflower, but unfortunately none of us will be heard in the resulting confusion.

Years ago, I sat on the stage at a Christmas concert, having completed my part of the brass ensemble prelude.  The organist moved to the huge pipe organ and began his part of the musical meditation…and the crowd noise grew.  He played a few more notes and the crowd talked louder.  We assumed that the man would simply finish his piece through the accompanying hubbub.  Suddenly, the music ceased in mid-phrase.  The organist turned off his light and moved to a chair in the choir loft and sat down facing the audience.  For a few seconds, the crowd noise continued unabated, but gradually it quieted down until finally, you could have heard a pin drop in that huge crowd of over a thousand people.  After a moment of this quiet, the musician stood and returned to the organ bench, turning on his music light and completing the piece he had prepared for the occasion.  The crowd sat speechless and attentively still until he was finished.

Why didn’t I think of that?  I would have continued playing, increasing the air flow to the reeds and adding pipes until they couldn’t help but listen.  The problem with that approach is that what they hear isn’t the music the composer intended to be experienced.  The distorted, roaring product presented would have been a far cry from the beauty of the piece as it was written.  And everyone would have walked away poorer; the organist in anger, the audience in distaste.  No, his method achieved exactly what should have occurred in the first place; the authoritative voice of the beautiful instrument speaking to the quiet anticipating ears and hearts of the hearers.

Why don’t you take a little time to listen for the Voice today?  Be still, and know…  Come away from the babble, the confused pandemonium of the noisy streets and workplaces, and sit quietly for just a few moments.

Rest.

“Here you are. Brought back to me by your wish mixed with mine.  Noise cannot touch us here.  I will try and make for you the calmest place there is within this loud and getting louder world.”
(Rod McKuen~American poet and author)



“The sound of ‘gentle stillness’ after all the thunder and wind have passed will be the ultimate Word from God.”
(Jim Elliott~American missionary & martyr~1927-1956)

We were finishing up our dessert after a wonderful meal, which had included the Lovely Lady’s delicious ham along with her amazing cheesy potatoes, when the back door opened with a rush.  The wailing outside drove out all the calm and quiet we were enjoying as we sat back to relax.  We could only assume that a visit to the emergency room was imminent, but the mother of the grandchild quickly calmed our anxieties.  “I’ll take care of it,” she said quietly, and headed for the door.  The crying increased in volume until she appeared to the child right outside the door.  “What’s wrong?” she asked, all businesslike.  The sobbing was interrupted at intervals as the words came pitifully.  “He (sniff) hurt (wail) my (bawl) feelings (howl)!  The crying ramped up in volume as the necessity for words lessened.  It was a good thing too, because the laughter in the dining room began an instant later. 

We should have kept quiet, because we missed the best part.  In her role as a peacemaker, his mom turned to the other young boy, sitting defiantly on his tricycle just down the sidewalk.  “What did you do?” asked Mom.  That wasn’t the question this young man wanted to answer.  He wanted to tell his reason first, and did.  “Well, he’s stressing me out!”  Oh, imagine the uproar that retort would have initiated indoors if we had heard it!  The idea of these two children, four and five years old, talking more like young adults than little kids about what their motivations were, is just too funny.  In a moment, the injured party, deciding that he wasn’t going to receive any reparations, declared adamantly, “I want to go home NOW!”

Two things strike me about the repartee and ensuing pandemonium, the first being just how mothers seem to know when there is blood and real pain involved, or when it’s just emotion and anger being expressed.  I’m told it has something to do with the tone of the crying, but as a father and now a grandfather, I never have been able to tell the difference.  I’m also reminded of another story, which my Mother-in-law tells.

It was some time ago, when the Lovely Lady had yet to achieve all the attributes which attracted me to her during her teenage years.  As a little girl, she was a prime target of her older brothers for teasing, since she usually rewarded them with a wonderfully satisfying display of howls and tears.  For example, there was the time when they and a neighbor boy buried the little girl’s bicycle in a puddle of mud…But I’m getting off track.  On this particular occasion, the underlying cause of which has been lost in the dim dark past, her mom and dad were inside the house, with windows open to let the breezes flow through.  All of the sudden, more was flowing through than the breezes, as a monstrous caterwauling arose out on the front porch.  Dad was up in a second, ready to rescue his precious sweet girl from injury and pain, but Mom put out her hand and said, “Just a minute.”  Then she called out from where she sat, “Are you hurt or mad?”  The two-syllable reply came loudly and tearfully from outside the door, “Maaaa-aaad!”  Moms just know, somehow.

The other thing that struck me about the angry exchange between my grandsons is how much like sponges children are.  That conversation didn’t come out of a four-year old’s brain, nor a five-year old’s head.  It came from an adult world.  We talk about stress and about how others affect the way we feel and all the while, the children are listening, filing information away for a lifetime of reactions.  We watch programs on television and don’t take the time to discuss the conversations we hear there with the children and they take it to heart.  Moms and Dads, Grandmas and Grandpas watch the garbage without contradiction to the falsehoods, so that must mean it is true and okay to act in that manner.  Admittedly, our children also pick up things from friends and neighbors, and even many of the things we do want them to learn are applied incorrectly in their heads.  It’s up to us to help correct that error and to model love and tolerance with each other.

The boys will learn to get along with each other, something they do often with great success already.  They’ll learn to put things in perspective, figuring out what makes the other one tick.  Along the way, once in awhile they’ll push each other’s buttons a bit, just to get a reaction.  It’s an age old story; one which I have lived through myself.

And, I haven’t yelled at a brother in many years, so I’m pretty sure there’s hope for these boys.

“An angry man opens his mouth, and shuts his eyes.”
(Cato the elder~Roman statesman~234 BC-149 BC)

“Oh, be careful little ears what you hear.”
Oh, be careful little ears what you hear.
For the Father up above, is watching down in love.
Oh, be careful little ears what you hear.”

He was back again today.  I’ve told you before about some of my “always with me” friends.  The reference is to what Jesus had to say about the poor being with us always.  Over the years, I seem to have collected a fair number of folks who know me well enough to feel comfortable asking for favors, or loans, or even a handout once in awhile.  There was a time when I believed they could all be changed with education and patience.  Call it cynicism if you like, but I have finally been convinced otherwise.

My buddy Thad, standing before me, is a great example of this.  In the late seventies, when I first started as an employee in the music store, he was also a young man; ready to take the world by storm, in much the same way as most of my generation planned to do.  And, he had the tools to do it, too.  Thad was an amazing guitarist and possessed a voice to match, causing a stir every time he let loose at the local bar or one of the frequent “benefits” staged for folks in need.  He was going places! 

Today, he came in once more, instrument in hand and asked me in a quiet voice, “Paul, if you could loan me thirty dollars on this old guitar, I’ll pay you back forty on the first of the month.”  It’s a scene that has been played out more times than I can count  over the last thirty-some years.  Oh, there has been a trip or two to Nashville and even a few recordings on the shelves at the local stores, but there was never really a chance that he was going to “make it”.  You see, Thad has been groomed from a very young age to fail in whatever endeavor he undertook.  He was taught, not in a malicious way, that the world wouldn’t let him succeed.  His parents loved him and treated him as well as they could, but his father was an alcoholic and his mother wasn’t healthy, nor very strong, so they went on government assistance.  For all of his life, the “first of the month” was payday, since that was when the government checks were delivered.  It was only natural for his adult life to be the same.  Even with every chance to succeed as a studio musician, any obstacle, any setback that came along was just par for the course, and only more proof that he couldn’t succeed.

Nerves and stress led to alcohol abuse, which led to drug abuse, the cumulative effect of which led to the nearly complete breakdown of his health.   Food stamps and disability followed, never enough to get his family through the month, necessitating visits to businesses like mine, selling first the nice instruments; later buying and selling, in an unrelenting cycle, the basic instruments he required to keep performing at small gigs, which kept a little supplemental income arriving at opportune times for a bender or maybe even more medicine for the incredible litany of afflictions which attacked more and more often.  I became convinced that his poverty is permanent and irrevocable a couple of months ago.  One day, out of the blue, Thad came in with cash (CASH!) and purchased a new guitar and a digital piano.  He had never done such a thing before and I remarked on it.  “Yeah!  I got a gig that paid me two thousand dollars for three nights work!” he exclaimed excitedly.  I was hopeful that he would use the money wisely, maybe even put some of it back into savings for future expenses, but that hope was scuttled by his next remark.  “I already went to the casino with it and won another four hundred dollars.  I’m going back to win some more tonight!”  He was back the very next week to sell me the guitar and piano.

Kind of depressing, isn’t it?  It’s even more so, when you multiply his story by hundreds in our town and thousands upon thousands across our great land.  Even so, I would argue that I’m blessed.  Blessed to know these folks, and blessed to be able to share with them even in a very small way from the plenty that I have been given.  It doesn’t always feel like a blessing, dealing with the sad continuous cycle, hearing the stories (many of them contrived) of hardship.  Even through the disappointment and dreariness, I think I’ll keep doing what’s required; sharing with them when the opportunity is presented.  I will also continue doing another thing which I have done for years now; praying for the folks I have been privileged to share with.  I pray for them to break free of the prison of poverty and feeling like victims.  I also share my faith along with the gift whenever they have time to listen, but many of them, like Thad, know the words and can immediately shift into piousness when prodded by any mention of God. 

Since it seems that I am already preaching, I will add that I urge you also to share of yourselves and your abundance. The bright spot in the blight of poverty and homelessness across our country is that the government can’t take away our opportunities to be servants.  The “cups of cold water” you share now…who knows?  They may bear fruit in changed lives and renewed spirits for some who have given up all hope.  They may not, but either way, we are blessed as we serve.

I slipped Thad a little something and told him to keep the guitar.  He needs it a lot more than I do.  I do have a roomful of them already, you know.

“There is no delight in owning anything unshared.”
(Seneca~Roman philosopher~1st century AD)

“A generous man will himself be blessed, for he shares his food with the poor.”
(Proverbs 22:9)