music store

The Marketplace

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

There are times when you just know.  Beyond a shadow of doubt, you know:  This is why you are here.

This moment.  This person.

The Lovely Lady had first crack at her today.  The lady, like many others we see this time of year, is struggling with acquiring a musical instrument for her aspiring band member.  No money.  No knowledge of what constitutes a good instrument, nor how to tell if it is in good condition.  No one she can trust to be honest with her.

She does have a clarinet in her hands as she enters the music store.  She also has a discouraged look on her face.  I never heard the full story of how she came by the clarinet, but I do know she wants us to make it play correctly for her sixth grader.  She is not optimistic.

“I’m sure it needs a repad.  Can you do that for me?”

The Lovely Lady opens the case and looks over the horn, expecting the worst.  Since I am busy with another customer, I leave her to handle things by herself.  It is obvious she is a little confused, and I expect a call for help momentarily.  What I hear is her suggesting the lady is mistaken.

“Well, a repad is quite expensive, but I’m not sure that’s what you need.  Let’s wait for the expert.”  (She always says that, but it’s not really a good description of my abilities.)

As soon as I can break free, I head for the counter where the diminutive lady is waiting, still with an unhappy visage.  I’m prepared to point out the problem areas and make an estimate for the nervous mom.  Taking the individual pieces of the horn in my hand one after another, I look for something to point to.  Nothing.

That can’t be right.  This lady came in expecting big problems.  Surely I can find something.  

I look again.  Testing the sealing ability of the pads, I find no sign of any leaks anywhere on the instrument.  The corks are fine.  A little dingy, but completely intact.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with the clarinet.  

I have a dilemma.

The lady came in expecting to leave the instrument with us for repair.  She assumes there will be a sizable charge due when the repair is finished.

I’m in business to make a profit.  How hard can this be?

“Oh yes, Ma’am.  We really do need to replace quite a few pads here.  And, the corks—they’ll need to be changed also.  It won’t cost as much as a repad, but still, it will take a good bit to get this horn into shape for your daughter.”

So easy.  She would never know.  It’s what she expects anyway.  

The decision is made without hesitation.  It is who I am—who we are.  Now.

“No Ma’am.  The horn is in excellent condition.  What?  Oh no.  No charge.”

You would hardly have recognized the woman who walked out that door as the same lady who had come in moments earlier.  A smile shone across her face, the like of which hadn’t likely been seen there recently.

I felt good.  I felt bad.

It was almost the same feeling I had a day or two ago, when a girl and her mom had come in to purchase a small item.  The lady spoke no English.  None at all.  Her daughter translated every word for her as the transaction was made.

The two were still in the store when a regular customer of mine walked nearby shaking his head.  His eyes shot daggers at the two, as he spoke the words to me.

“I hate that!  Why don’t they learn our language?”

Do you know how easy it would have been for me to simply nod my head?  Just a nod.  No words would have been necessary.  

But, this also is why I am here.

I explained to him my admiration for folks who leave their land in search of a better life for their families.  Struggling to be at home in a strange place, they walk out of their door into a battleground every day.  I will not participate in the hatred of another human being.  

I say the words kindly to him, but he rolls his eyes in disgust as he walks out.

I may have lost a customer.  I hope not,  but I would do it again.

I felt bad.  I felt good.

This is why I’m here.  It’s why you’re where you are.  

To do the right thing.  Even when we’d rather do the easy thing.

To show a life that is different because of what God has done in us.  

It is how He works in this world—how He has always worked.

I don’t necessarily want this to be why I’m here.  Sometimes, I wonder why God won’t leave me alone to make a comfortable living like any other red-blooded American.  If that means taking advantage of folks who have their wallets in their hands, so be it.  If I have to walk on a few people to gain the approval of others, why not?

And then I remember a God who told His Chosen People that their scales were to be honest, their weights to be accurate, their measurements to be correct.

Thousands of years ago, He made it clear.  

The world has one standard: Every man for himself.  All is fair in love and war.

God has another standard, a standard which has never changed:  Love your neighbor as yourself.  Period.

The standard applies in our family life; it applies to our friendships; it applies in our churches.  And, no less than any other place, it applies in the marketplace.

opensignPerhaps, more.

The marketplace is where who we really are is on display for all to see.  It’s where our integrity comes out of the dark of night, and into the light of day.

It’s where our talk of following a Savior is proven, or else belied, by our walk.

Can I let you in on a secret?  I have kept my mouth shut too many times.  I have found myself letting folks spend more than they should on things they didn’t need.  

I don’t write about the two interactions above to draw attention to my stellar accomplishments, but rather to draw attention to who we need to be—who we must be in our marketplace.

We all fail in our determination to walk in integrity—I, as often as anyone I know.  

But.  Grace.

Grace is a wonderful thing; its beauty is in its resilience.  Failures become victories.  Timidity becomes boldness.

Selfishness becomes love.

The Teacher spent a good bit of His time in the marketplace.  

Doing good. Showing love.

Our turn.

 

 

I simply argue that the cross be raised again at the centre of the market place as well as on the steeple of the Church.
I am recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles; but on a cross between two thieves; on a town garbage heap; at the crossroad of politics so cosmopolitan that they had to write His title in Hebrew and in Latin and in Greek… And at the kind of place where cynics talk smut, and thieves curse and soldiers gamble.
Because that is where He died, and that is what He died about. And that is where Christ’s men ought to be and what church people ought to be about.
(George Macleod ~ Scottish minister/theologian ~ 1895-1991)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved. 

The Genuine Article

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We had wandered miles that afternoon.  Okay, maybe not miles.  It certainly seemed like miles.  As we are prone to do now and again, the Lovely Lady and I had taken an afternoon away from the mundane world of  lawn-mowing and assorted yard chores (for me), and laundry and music preparation (for her).  We headed for a few of the exotic, glamorous destinations we like to call flea markets.  Okay, again, maybe not so glamorous.  For us though, it is always possible to lose ourselves in the unusual and the vintage, and sometimes the just plain ludicrous, offerings to be found in the aisles of these modern day bazaars.  We don’t really look for anything in particular.  We just pick up items we find interesting and exclaim things like, “I had one of these, growing up.”  We love books and tools, furniture and dishes, even the odd musical instrument or toy.  It is relaxing and stress-free, and after all these years, we still enjoy each other’s company.  Strange, huh?

On this particular day, we had just looked hopefully at a set of century-old books and then decided that the price was a little steep, so we kept moving down the row of neat (and some not-so-neat) booths, giving each a chance to snag our attention with its hidden treasures.  All of the sudden, there it was!  The beautiful little painting hung on the wall in a cheap frame, matted with paper certain to be leaching acid into the artwork, and the back covered in brown kraft paper.  The price was affordable…fifteen dollars.  Examining the little painting of the Tower Bridge in London, England, we decided (erroneously, it turned out) that it was probably a water color, fairly well done, by an artist who was not familiar to us.  The price wasn’t much of a gamble, so we purchased it, along with a few dishes that had caught the Lovely Lady’s fancy.

Later that evening, I started doing a little detective work.  The artist, I found, was actually well-known for his limited edition prints, with most of them drawing a price of over thirty times what we had paid.  I should have been ecstatic, but I had a problem.  Like my strange fixation with books, I just can’t bring myself to sell an art item I have purchased.  I buy art.  I don’t sell it.  It was pleasant to discover that the little object was worth more than we paid, but I would never make a profit from it.  I also had another problem.  I don’t hang prints on my wall.  Yep, another strange foible.  I want original pieces of art on the wall, not copies that someone else has on their wall, too.  Upon removing the kraft paper from the back of this pretty little piece, I found an original label that substantiated my suspicion that it was indeed a limited edition print, valuable to be sure, but not an item I was likely to hang on my wall.

I hear you muttering.  “What a nut!  It’s a beautiful picture!  It might even be worth quite a bit of money!  How stupid can you be?”  You’re probably right.  It’s just that, there on the hand-written label on the back of this picture, I’m told that this is number fifty-seven of a printing of ninety-nine copies of this pretty little picture.  Ninety-eight other people in the world have this same picture hanging on their walls!  Ninety-eight!  Right or wrong, I decided long ago that I like original artwork, not copies.  The originals I possess may not have as much monetary value; they may even be uglier than most, but one thing is certain:  No one else has the same thing hanging on their wall.

Is there a point to this rambling post, you ask?  I hope so.  You see, I’m pretty sure that, if we can extend the analogy of paintings and prints to people, we were all intended to be originals.  Not one of us bears a label which declares us to be number fifty-seven out of ninety-nine copies produced.  Just yesterday, I had a conversation with the Lovely Lady about how strange each of us is in someone’s eyes.  I have no doubt that I have been labeled strange, or odd, or even weird, more times than I could imagine.  I gladly take ownership of those labels.  It means that I’m an original and I think that’s greatly to be preferred to the numbered copy label.

Why then, do we spend our whole lives trying to fit in?  We shove and squeeze and contort ourselves to become whatever is “normal”, never realizing that who we really are is much more important than who we can pretend to be.  We buy the “in” clothes, drive the “in” cars, and live in the “in” neighborhoods, all to meet someone else’s expectations.  I used to think that it was just those of us who grew up in church who “wanted to be clones”, as a semi-popular Christian song put it a number of years ago.  I’m confident now that making ourselves into copies is a universal problem, often with serious consequences.  The masks we wear and the facades we construct hide individuals, originals who were never intended to take on the different identities we are forced into.  Often, we force our children, our friends, and even our spouses into the molds we have constructed, simply because we have our own goals and aspirations for them. We never stop to realize that the individual inside of the mold is sure to break out sooner or later, frequently in a way which causes damage and pain to all involved.  Original is good.  It’s just not always comfortable, but it’s how God designed us.

Every single one of us is an original piece of art, intended by our Creator to be individuals and to achieve our own purpose in life.  We won’t all be an oil painting, or a wood-carving, or even a pen-and-ink abstract drawing.  Like snow-flakes, or fingerprints, not one of us is the same as anyone else.  Instead of ridiculing the odd, the “different”, why don’t we celebrate them?  I know I fit into those categories. I’ll let you in on another secret…I’m pretty sure you do, too.

It’s a good thing.

“Everyone in the world is strange but me and thee.  And sometimes, I’m not too sure about thee.”
(Anonymous quotation, probably of Welsh origin)

“Be yourself.  Everyone else is already taken.”
(Oscar Wilde~Irish poet~1854-1900)

Originally published 12/29/11 under the title “A Real Original”

 © Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

When Good Enough Isn’t

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“More spot-putty…”  Those hated words came easily to my brother-in-law’s tongue, but fell on my ears like a school-days’ detention sentence, signaling the beginning of an extended stretch in the miscreant’s study hall.  I knew we were in for more drudgery, more physical labor, and more delays.  And, to be quite honest, I wasn’t feeling up to the task.  I have said many times that I’m basically lazy and I constantly try to prove it, but it seems that someone is always holding my nose to the grindstone.  And so it was again.  We were reviving the old Chevy, pulling it from the brink of annihilation, but we had been at the job for many evenings and weekends, hours and hours of labor, and I was tired.  To my eye, the body panels were straight.  Certainly when compared to their previous state, they were perfection incarnate.  At least, that was my take on the subject, but my brother-in-law didn’t see it that way.

Perfectionists are a pain.  They are never quite satisfied, never happy with the result, always looking for one more tiny imperfection with which to find fault.  I had had it with my persecutor’s nit-picking and the words burst out without my permission.  “As far as I can tell, it’s perfect.  It’s my car and I’m ready to get it painted.  It’s good enough!”  It has been many years since this event took place, but I’ll never forget the reply.  “No.  It may be your car, but when you drive it around town, it’s going to have my name on it.  It’s right when I say it’s right.”  As much as I hated to admit it, the man had a point.  We started mixing more spot putty to level the tiny imperfections only he could see.  As I look back, I’m still astounded at his patience and attention to detail and my own inability to see the importance of the minutiae when it came to the finished product.

 My Grandpa’s old car, a rust-bucket if ever there was one, became once more a beautiful piece of machinery, little thanks to me.  The automobile is not with us anymore, having succumbed to time and an era when cash was not readily available for making necessary mechanical repairs, but the memory of the years we enjoyed it lives on.

When I think of that car and my learning experience as we toiled on it, I realize that the precept I gleaned that day has stayed with me.  Most of the time now, I’m reluctant to allow repair jobs to leave my business without being perfectly satisfied with them first.  I no longer am quick to say, “That’s good enough.”  Instead, I find myself examining the rest of the instrument, adjusting the string level, setting the harmonics, even polishing the finish, when all I’ve been hired to do is replace the strings.  “My name is going to be on it,” is my standard response to the urging to hurry up and finish the job.  The owner may tell their friends that I worked on that instrument and I want it to reflect my principles.  There is no such thing as “good enough.”  There is only a finished job or an unfinished job.  It’s not true in all areas of my life, but I’m doing my best to make it that way.

There have been other examples, not so commendable, of this precept which have also aided in the learning experience.  At one time, before I owned the music store, we had an itinerant instrument repairman who would come by the shop one afternoon every two weeks to take care of any jobs we needed to have done.  Doc didn’t have what you would call finesse, bending keys mercilessly to make adjustments, forcing screws into sockets with different thread patterns, and making some of the messiest-looking solder joints I have ever seen.  Oh, the instruments played when he got through…they didn’t dare not play!  But, this method of making things work, sans craftsmanship, earned him a bad reputation, especially within the music repair business.  I remember being in a different repair shop one day with two of the technicians talking about a certain clarinet.  “Doc has been working on this one,” said the one.  “Oh, how can you tell?”  queried the other.  “Well, the chain saw marks are still on it!”  came the not-quite tongue-in-cheek reply.  Evidently, “That’s good enough” actually isn’t when it comes to a reputation for excellence.

I have to admit that sometimes I feel like my old car, though.  I’m going along contentedly, confident that I’ve learned life’s lessons and am accomplishing things in the proper manner, but still, I keep getting scraped and sanded, holes being filled with spot putty, and more sandpaper being used.  Somehow, I’m imagining that God is saying, “My Name’s on this one.  It’ll have to be better than this…”  The process isn’t always comfortable and I certainly would like for the paint to go on soon, but I have a feeling that the shiny, finished product is still quite some time off.  The old saying is certainly true in my case.  God’s not finished with me yet. 

“More spot-putty…”

“The price of excellence is discipline.  The cost of mediocrity is disappointment.”
(William Arthur Ward~American educator and motivational speaker~1921-1994)

“Being confident of this: He who began the good work in you will be faithful to complete it.”
(Philippians 1:6)

It’s Not Rocket Science!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Innovation.  What is it about doing things in a new way that scares us to death?  For all of the history of mankind, the only way our lifestyle has improved is by finding new ways of accomplishing old tasks.  For instance, the introduction of the wheel into the enterprises of humans altered history with implements of war, to say nothing of the improvement in diet, in personal transportation, and in countless machines that improve the lot of mankind, but that wouldn’t function at all without wheels and gears in them.  Even today, as we sit at our ultra-sophisticated, technologically-advanced lap-top and desk-top computers, there are wheels inside which allow them to function, to be cooled, to open and close mechanisms.  The use of fire and subsequently, flame-less sources of heat allow us to live comfortably, to eat cooked food which offers less health risks, even to build mammoth machines with huge welders or minuscule circuit boards with the tiniest of soldering irons.  But to achieve any of these historical transformations, along with countless others, someone, or more accurately, a lot of someones, had to be willing to think creatively, to imagine what was possible, instead of only seeing the current reality.

I’m not such a thinker.  Many times, when I’m presented with a new, innovative apparatus, I look at how it works (I’m fascinated by mechanics) and say, “That’s so simple!  I could have invented that!”  But I never have invented anything.  My brain doesn’t work that way.  A case in point–I have complained for years that the digital tuners used for adjusting the pitch of guitars and similar instruments are useless in a room full of musicians, simply because they pick up each and every note being played in the room and cannot be made to focus on the instrument which is being tuned.  All this time, I’ve known about and used, piezo or contact microphones, which pick up sound transmitted through a solid instrument, for amplification.  In recent years, some visionary had the insight to see that the two could be married into a digital tuner with a piezo microphone built into it, which could then be clipped onto any instrument you wish, thus tuning only that instrument.  In a room full of ear-shattering music, the tuner is impervious to any sound but that of the guitar or banjo or bass to which it is affixed.

How simple is that?  And how could I not have been the one who combined the two very common tools, thus making a fortune?  I want to have a “Eureka” moment, want to be able to say, “I knew it would work all along,” but that doesn’t seem to be one of my gifts.  In fact, I often find myself looking down on the dreamers, the visionaries, as simply goof-offs…nut-cases who don’t have anything better to do with their time than sit and play with Frankenstein-monster devices that will never work.

I was proud of myself today, though.  Little Addison was here again.  You remember…the little girl and the puzzle?  Well today she was marching around the store banging on a child’s drum we keep for just such occasions.  I always like to show the young prodigies how to hold the drum and the ideal way to grip the mallet and then encourage them to hammer away at the drum, but today, I let Addison go.  She used the mallet for awhile and then, knowing that a guitar pick was also a tool for making music, relinquished her grip on the mallet in favor of a pick, trying one shape and then another on the head of the drum.  It wasn’t nearly as loud as the mallet, but the varying sounds she achieved captivated her, encouraging her to continue her quest, trying all the shapes, then different materials, until she had exhausted the possibilities.  Now, I know that you don’t play a drum with a guitar pick, but she doesn’t.  This little explorer hasn’t yet been told that you should only use the “right tool for the right job” and I wasn’t about to be the one to tell her.  I live in hopes that some of the young brains that come in and out of my business will one day surprise everyone around them with some brilliant device which will revolutionize music.  And the way it starts is with experimentation; with sounds, with textures, with manipulation. 

My days of imagining and innovating are long since past.  I have been a black & white, linear thinker for too long to suppose that I will be able to break free of this path.  But, I fervently and passionately believe that we can encourage the dreamers among us, instead of making fun of them.  We must find ways to channel their imagination and help our children to see that there are better ways of doing things.  It’s not easy for me to do, but I am resolved not to be the one who says, “We’ve never done it that way before.”

Long live the Addisons of this world!

 

 

“These are bagpipes. I understand the inventor of the bagpipes was inspired when he saw a man carrying an indignant, asthmatic pig under his arm. Unfortunately, the man-made sound never equalled the purity of the sound achieved by the pig.”

(Alfred Hitchcock)

When Good Enough Isn’t (good enough, that is)

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“More spot-putty…”  Those hated words came easily to my brother-in-law’s tongue, but fell on my ears like a school-days detention bell, signaling the beginning of an extended stretch in the miscreant’s study hall.  I knew we were in for more drudgery, more physical labor, and more delays.  And, to be quite honest, I wasn’t feeling up to the task.  I have said many times that I’m basically lazy and I constantly try to prove it, but it seems that someone is always holding my nose to the grindstone.  And so it was again.  We were reviving an old car, pulling it from the brink of annihilation, but we had been at the job for many evenings and weekends, hours and hours of labor, and I was tired.  To my eye, the body panels were straight.  Certainly when compared to their previous state, they were perfection incarnate.  At least, that was my take on the subject, but my brother-in-law didn’t see it that way.

Perfectionists are a pain.  They are never quite satisfied, never happy with the result, always looking for one more tiny imperfection with which to find fault.  I had had it with my persecutor’s nit-picking and the words burst out without my permission.  “As far as I can tell, it’s perfect.  It’s my car and I’m ready to get it painted.  It’s good enough!”  It was many years ago that the event took place, but I’ll never forget the reply.  “No.  It may be your car, but the bodywork and paint job are going to have my name on it.  It’s right when I say it’s right.”  As much as I hated to admit it, the man had a point.  We started mixing more spot putty to level the tiny imperfections only he could see.  As I look back, I’m still astounded at his patience and attention to detail and my own inability to see the importance of the minutiae when it came to the finished product.

 My Grandpa’s old car, a rust-bucket if ever there was one, became once more a beautiful piece of machinery, no thanks to me.  The automobile is not with us anymore, having succumbed to time and an era when cash was not readily available for making necessary mechanical repairs, but the memory of the years we enjoyed it lives on.

When I think of the car and my learning experience as we toiled on it, I realize that the precept I gleaned that day has stayed with me.  Most of the time now, I’m reluctant to allow repair jobs to leave my business without me being perfectly satisfied with them.  I no longer am quick to say, “That’s good enough.”  Instead, I find myself looking at the rest of the instrument, adjusting the string level, setting the harmonics, when all I’ve been hired to do is replace the strings.  “But, my name is going to be on it,” is my common response to the urging to hurry up and finish the job.  The owner may tell their friends that I worked on that instrument and I want it to reflect my principles.  There is no such thing as “good enough.”  There is only a finished job or an unfinished job.  It’s not true in all areas of my life, but I’m doing my best to make it that way.

There have been other examples, not so commendable, of this precept, which have also aided in the learning experience.  At one time, before I owned the store, we had an itinerant instrument repairman, who would come by the shop one afternoon every two weeks and take care of any jobs we needed to have done.  Doc didn’t have what you would call finesse, bending keys mercilessly to make adjustments, forcing screws into sockets with different thread patterns, and making some of the worst-looking solder joints I have ever seen.  Oh, the instruments played when he got through…they didn’t dare not play!  But, this method of making things work, sans craftsmanship, earned him a bad reputation, especially within the music repair business.  I remember being in a different repair shop with two of the technicians talking about a certain clarinet.  “Doc has been working on this one,” said the one.  “Oh, how can you tell?”  queried the other.  “Well, the chain saw marks are still on it!”  came the not-quite tongue-in-cheek reply.  Evidently, “That’s good enough” actually isn’t when it comes to a reputation for excellence.

I’ve got to admit that sometimes I feel like my old car, though.  I’m going along contentedly, confident that I’ve learned life’s lessons and am accomplishing things in the proper manner, but still I keep getting scraped and sanded, holes being filled with spot putty, and more sandpaper being used.  Somehow, I’m imagining that God is saying, “My Name’s on this one.  It’ll have to be better than this…”  The process isn’t always comfortable and I certainly would like for the paint to go on, but I have a feeling that the shiny, finished product is still quite some time off.  The old saying is certainly true in my case, “God’s not finished with me yet.” 

“If something is exceptionally well done it has embedded in it’s very existence the aim of lifting the common denominator rather than catering to it.”

(Edward Fischer)

Choices, choices…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The days are full of frenetic activity–phones ringing with questions to be answered and orders to be entered, the door jangling every few moments as folks come and go, and in between, the bustle of regaining equilibrium.  There is no time to get ahead of the game, no leisure to take a quiet break with a cup of coffee, so I take quick sips between periods of communication on the phone and entries in the database.  Lunch is a farce, the odd sandwich eaten, inhaled seemingly, between tasks.  I can’t remember when I’ve had an uninterrupted period of time during the workday to sit and dine, ruminating lazily while discussing the day’s schedule or current events.

I’m still trying to decide if this is how I want it, or if it’s just the way things have to be.  A wise friend once reminded me that we do the things that are important to us.  The arguer in me immediately answers with the perpetual “but” and adds reason upon reason why our lives are filled with activity and then, I’m reminded that every one of the activities is the result of our choices.  In our business, choices in products to be sold result in a certain level of customer interaction…hours of operation distribute the customers differently throughout the day…media choices determine the scope of engagement, with one line for the telephone demanding a small amount of time, more lines adding to that, and national toll-free lines multiplying the attention needed exponentially…even the choice (or maybe especially the choice) to utilize the internet as a business medium adds innumerable hours of labor to the already crowded days.

This freedom to choose extends to our personal lives, as well as to our families and friends.  We choose to live in a certain neighborhood, enforcing on us the necessity of keeping a nice yard, trimming the shrubbery, and raking leaves.  Owning our own home, forces the expense of upkeep, paint, and taxes.  Having relationships with family and friends coerces us into social events, birthdays, anniversarys, and other scheduled activities, as well as a certain amount of financial obligation, to say nothing of the emotional commitment.  All of these requirements are the direct and indirect result of those choices.

The beauty of our lives is that we have the option of making these choices every day.  I hear of people who feel trapped by their lives and the regimen that seems to entangle them.  I’ve felt the sense of being cornered more than once myself.  But overarching those feelings and the despair that helplessness can leave in its wake, is the knowledge that we are here by choice.  We could opt, if we wished, to abandon it all, walking away from the whole package, but we’re held here by the fabric of who we are, the totality of what we choose to believe, and life choices we’ve made because of what we believe.  I would submit that this fabric is our integrity and is a blessing and not a burden.

The very word “integrity” comes from the Latin “integritatem”, meaning oneness or whole.  The essence is that of a piece of  fabric, woven together with threads which fit into the pattern, each adding to the strength and beauty of the whole, until you have the completed product, the cloth.  Each choice we make is a thread which adds to the complete fabric, good choice upon good choice, decisions made with our intellect and heart, daily adding to the integrity of a life well lived.

We could choose to tear up the fabric and start over.  It’s been done many times.  But the result is chaos and pandemonium, not only for the one tearing up, but for those who have chosen to be a part of his or her life.  Our life choices always affect more than just ourselves, it’s impossible to live in a sealed vacuum.  We almost certainly will never know how many people depend on us and our availability, our steadfastness.  I am hopeful that all of you who chance to read this understand that you are needed and important.  You contribute to the larger fabric, the integrity of your world.  If you decide to drop out, I guarantee you’ll leave a hole.  And, guess what?  Where you leave a hole, there’s no longer integrity and the fabric around will suffer, and strain, and tear.

I’ll take the busyness, the frenetic pace, and the fatigue, thanks!  I look back on the choices, good and bad, the good ones showing as clean, solid lines in the fabric, the poor ones knotted and faded, but all of them making up the whole, the integrity of my life.  I’m not completely happy with it yet,  but I think I can see that it’s a worthwhile project.  And I believe I’ll keep heading the same direction.   My little patch seems to adjoin the patches of some very fine people as I stay the course I’m on.

“…Choose you this day whom you will serve…but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
(Joshua 24:15)

“To live is to choose.  But to choose well, you have to know who you are and what you stand for,where you want to go and why you want to get there.”
(Kofi Annan, former secretary-general of the UN, 2001 Nobel Peace Prize winner)

The print’s just fine, thanks!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I don’t read fine print,” were the words I read in the email, the second one from this customer that day.  It was the Monday after Thanksgiving and it seemed that it was going to be one of those Mondays.  I had arrived just before 9:00 a.m. to get the coffee made and pull the orders for the day, only to find an email from an irate customer waiting.  It seems that she had placed an order on Tuesday before Thanksgiving, requesting that the package be shipped to her by 3-day delivery.  Any idiot could count on their fingers and cipher out that three days from Tuesday would be Friday.  Yet, her package wasn’t scheduled to be delivered until Tuesday.  How is that possible?  “PLEASE REFUND MY MONEY!”, screamed the last line in the missive.

I politely replied to her email and after offering a solution which should have been acceptable, suggested that it might have been helpful, had she read the “policy page” as instructed, before selecting expedited shipping for her order.  The policy for the shipping company explained that there would be no deliveries on Thanksgiving or the Friday after, and those days would not count in the days-in-transit count.  It all made perfect sense to me, but the reply you see above was all that was forthcoming.  Don’t read fine print!?  How can you not read the fine print?  Life is precarious enough without encouraging problems.  Surely, there are no ignorant thrill-seekers left in this world who don’t read all the instructions before pushing the “make payment” key.  Don’t they know the tangled mess they make of the orderly systems we have in place to keep the wheels of commerce moving?  Fine print is the lubricant of the whole enterprise!  

Truth be told, the print wasn’t any smaller than that on the rest of the page, but let’s not argue about semantics.  She couldn’t be bothered.  And, it was obvious that the fault lay with us, not with her.  A phone conversation with her later in the day made clear that we were not going to ameliorate the problem to her satisfaction any time in this century.  We offered a full refund, including the purchase price of the product, as well as giving her the item to keep, but still she could not be mollified.  At wit’s end, I finally suggested that possibly we were not the organization with which she should be shopping for her music, since we obviously weren’t capable of performing up to her standards.  As you might imagine, my last suggestion wasn’t made without a fair amount of frustration (and maybe a little sarcasm) on my part, nor was it met with quiescence on her part.  Regardless, we went our separate ways, each certain of the merit of our own position, and each not having achieved our goal.

I hate unfinished business.  I want every customer to feel that she or he has gotten everything they have paid for and then some.  I also want everybody to like me, although by now, I’m convinced that this goal is impossible to meet.  Sometimes, our objectives are unattainable, our sights set just too high.  But still, it’s very difficult for me not to put this one in the loss column, hard not to say that I failed.  I look at the facts and know that I did all I could, but a bad result has to be tallied somehow, so I call it a loss.  Fortunately, as I count them up, the win column is still weighted heavily, but I wish that all of the occurrences which have made their mark in the loss column could be completely erased. 

“Hey, Paul!  This is John in Atlanta.  You know, I got a bad CD last week.”  The cheerful voice belies the words.  John isn’t angry, doesn’t want an apology.  He knows us by now and he’s confident that we’ll get a good product sent right out to him.  As a matter of fact, he wants to order five other items while he’s got me on the phone.  “You guys always treat me right.  Fast delivery and always there to help me when I need it.  Can’t ask for better than that!”  Wouldn’t it be nice if I could get him to call the earlier customer and help her to see what a nice guy I really am?  Oh well, that’s not the way it works, but man, do I appreciate customers who are such an encouragement!

It would be easy to get discouraged about the failures, but we constantly receive reassurance from customers.  A note here about the great service, a phone call there about how fast the product arrived, a new customer who tells me they contacted us because they received a glowing endorsement from a friend; all of these help to give the impetus to keep doing what we do.  The funny thing is, the bad experiences also help us to do that.  We keep plugging away, because we are convinced that we can do better.  We’ll adjust the fine print, maybe even insert great big red arrows to point the way to it, but we’ll try harder and keep as many marks in the win column as we can. 

It would be easy to focus on those marks in the loss column.  When we contemplate them, it does seem that they are written in much darker pencil than the others are.  The truth is, we just need to focus on the goal.  Looking back magnifies the failures, but moving ahead puts them in perspective and motivates us to transcend the past. I like what Tom Krause, a motivational speaker, has to say on the subject.  “There are no failures – just experiences and your reactions to them.”

“Success is falling nine times, and getting up ten.”
(Jon Bon Jovi, American rock musician)

Cash is Not a Collectible

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“First of all, Mr. Phillips, let me make clear that I am not authorized to sell you anything… Blah… Blah… Blah… so before we wrap up, do you think you’d be interested in investing in silver and gold mining today?”  I informed the young person on the phone that all the money I had to invest was wrapped up in my business, but thanks for the invitation, goodbye.  It wasn’t quite the whole truth, but by and large, I have presumed for many years, that it was in my (and my family’s) best interest that the music store not go belly up, so yes, we’ve sacrificed here and there to keep it solvent.  Consequently, there’s not much of a financial portfolio to boast about.

I’m not complaining, mind you.  Once in awhile a wide-eyed kid will wander in, gaze at all the instruments scattered around, and say earnestly, “Wow! You must be rich!”  Well, of course, I am rich, but not in the way their naive intellect understands.  I figured out long ago that I was in the wrong line of work if I was expecting cash to flow like water into my bank account.  Make no mistake, we’ve been blessed.  We’ve never missed a meal (being too busy to eat doesn’t count), never had a car repossessed, never had to face bankruptcy, so we have much to be thankful for.  But, by the distorted standard of this super-wealthy society in which we live, I’ve never had “money”.  Hence, it’s fortuitous that I haven’t developed the same expectations, so I actually can be rich in spite of my disregard for that standard.

On numerous occasions over the years, folks have made the assumption that my goal in business is to achieve wealth.  In my conversation with them, I always come back to a metaphor I’m sure I appropriated from someone else early in life.  I believe firmly that money is nothing more or less than a tool, an implement for us to utilize in achieving our goals.  The complete lunacy of making the goal simply acquiring money  should be obvious, but for many it is not.  If you’re a carpenter, you only need one hammer for the job you’re doing.   True, there are different hammers for various tasks, tack hammers, framing hammers, ball pein hammers,  sledge hammers, etc., and the tradesman would make sure that he had one good quality hammer for each task, but not more than that.  No carpenter I know has a house full of hammers.  I have known some tool-collectors who had a room full of tools, but they can’t use them.  Ask that collector if you can borrow his antique claw-hammer to pull some bent nails and see if his room full of tools is of any use for your task. 

Why do we honor the wealthy, the tool-collectors in our culture?  The tools they hold onto so tightly could achieve unfathomable good if freed to work as they were intended.  To be clear, I am not a socialist, not even an egalitarian.  I abhor government-coerced equity in goods and wealth, but I love it when those who have previously held tightly to their tools open their hearts and hands and let the tools work as they were intended.  It doesn’t happen often enough, but what a joy to see the miser become the benefactor.  It evidently is a difficult and painful transition, so not many make the journey, but it does occur.

So, no huge nest-egg, no fat stock portfolio, not even a mattress full of cash.  How then, could  I possibly consider myself rich?  Jesus told us that where we keep our treasure, that’s where our heart will be.  My true wealth lies in my faith, my family and friends, and in my mission.  Are you seeking true security?   You won’t find it in the alarms and steel walls of the bank’s coffers, but the grace of God through Jesus is certified, fail-proof security.  And, how can any man be poor who has a loving family and caring friends, with all the benefits and responsibilities that accompany them?  And, if my mission is to love God completely, and love others as I do myself, I’m fairly sure that I will never lack for opportunities to fulfill that mission.

The days are teeming with the wealth of His gifts and my cup is full to overflowing.  No hoarding hammers allowed!

“The rod of Moses became the rod of God! 
And with the rod of God, strike the rocks and the waters will come. 
Yes, with the rod of God, to part the waters of a sea; 
And, with the rod of God, you will strike Pharaoh dead. 
With the rod of God, you will set My people free. 

And so what do you hold in your hands this day? 
To what or to whom are you bound? 
Are you willing to give it to God right now, right now? 
Give it up, let it go, throw it down, down, throw it down.”

(from “Moses” by Ken Medema ~ Christian vocalist and songwriter)

Choked Up

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Too bad that guy can’t sing very well at all,”  came the lightly sarcastic comment from the Lovely Lady today as the CD version of David Phelps’ “Nessun Dorma” came to an end.  Setting the table with my back to her, I couldn’t make a reply, since I was afraid that I would embarrass myself by crying as I spoke.  I’ve always been like that.  Music evokes emotion that I don’t know is inside me.  I can watch a horribly sad scene in a movie without the slightest hint of discomfort, but add a couple of violins and I have to surreptitiously wipe the tears away, when I think no one is watching.  I hear Chris Rice’s “Untitled Hymn” on the car radio and have to pull over to avoid causing an accident. 

The scene was repeated this evening, as I sat at the computer, checking my emails for the day.  A friend had sent a link to a video of a recent incident at the Philadelphia Macy’s store.  The event was described as a “Random Act Of Culture” (click on the link to watch it yourself).  As the huge Wanamaker pipe organ roared out, 650 individuals from the Opera Company of Philadelphia and a number of other organizations gathered in the central atrium and broke into the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s “Messiah”.  The Lovely Lady heard the music and asked me why I was listening to that particular song (it’s not Christmas yet, you know) and again, I couldn’t answer for fear of my voice cracking.  

What is it about music that makes an ordinarily almost-sane man weep like a child?  How is it that random notes, which were arranged together and coupled with words and written on a page two hundred fifty years ago, can have the power today to move huge groups of people to spontaneous demonstrations of exultation, when performed by talented musicians?  I will freely admit that, after a lifetime of making music and being around musicians, I still have no idea what causes this phenomenon.  And, I’m not sure that I want to know.

I understand a fair amount about chord construction, key signatures, and rhythm.  We call this theory, and maybe there’s a reason it’s called that (beyond the obvious).  A quick check of Google sources will demonstrate that all the scientific  investigation up to the present has not been able to find any answer as to why we are moved emotionally when we hear different types of music.  I can’t speak categorically, but my suspicion is that they won’t ever be able to answer that question.  There are just some things that can’t be contained in a formula, can’t actually be held in your hand, but they just are.

Most of the time I spend at my untidy desk, I’m listening to music.  I’m moved by it, inspired by it, and sometimes, my work comes to a screeching halt as I am captivated by it.  While much of the beauty of life is visual;  Gorgeous, awe-inspiring mountain crags, or the white sands and roaring, roiling surf of the seashore, or the majesty of sprawling, verdant forests, I am delighted to know that we can travel in our spirits to a beautiful, enchanted place without ever leaving our drab, dingy workplaces.  We are moved by the timeless grace of one of God’s best gifts to mankind, the melodies and harmonies, both instrumental and vocal, that make up what we so simply call music.  Would that all art was so simple, yet so eloquent.

Oh, and if you tell the Lovely Lady that I get all choked up over music, I’ll deny it.  I’ve got to protect my macho image, you know.  She still thinks I’m the strong, silent type, and it might disappoint her to discover that I’m actually sensitive and artsy.  Let’s just keep this to ourselves, okay? 

“Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places of the soul.”
(Plato)

Shifting Gears

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I think I may quit this truck driving thing and start doing a stand-up comic/piano player act.”  The gentleman, whom I would describe as a senior citizen (anyone over ten years older than I) spoke the words in all seriousness as we talked in the store today.  I thought the statement might be part of his act and said, “Well, we’ll have to raise the piano keyboard first, or it will be a sit-down comic act,” but he wasn’t joking.  Just in the last three months, he’s put 30,000 miles in for the trucking company he’s now quitting, and he’s tired of that gig.  He loves music and is quick with the jokes, so he thinks he’s got a chance.  I say more power to him.

I have nothing but admiration for people who are willing to make a new start, take a gamble, and do what they have always wanted to do.  My own father left the Navy at 30 years old, not because he wanted to, but with an honorable discharge for health reasons (there’s a story there I may tell someday).  He went to work for the Post Office, working his way up through the ranks, only to leave that job at age 45, having to take a disability retirement because of contaminants there which nearly killed him.  Many men would have been happy to draw their pensions, golfing and fishing their way through their declining years, but Dad saw an opportunity to do what he had always had a burning desire to do and took it.  He applied to his church leaders for ordination as a pastor and started preaching full time.  Thirty-five years later, at 80 years of age, he’s still preaching full-time and will, if he has his way, almost certainly continue until he dies.

Adaptability.  What a great gift to have in your life.  The capacity to turn on a dime, exchanging one set of skills for another and accomplishing a completely different mission than the one you started with.  I’m not sure that I’m gifted in that way.  I’ve never had to do such a U-turn.  Oh, sure, I’ve had to seek out alternative methods for accomplishing my tasks.  We all do that.  Plan A doesn’t work out so we move to Plan B.  That’s not the same thing.  I’m referring, not to a Y in the highway, but to a dead end, compelling one to find a completely disparate route through life.  I say I’m not sure I’m gifted in that way, but I’ve never really had to find out.  I’m hoping I never do.

I jokingly say, once in awhile, that I’m still not sure what I’m going to do when I grow up.  Some days, I’m really tempted to take a stab at the bum idea, but I like regular meals and the comfort of a bed too much to go after that.  In reality, I’m hoping that the Good Lord will just let me keep doing what I’m doing, making small adjustments to keep things fresh, until the time I can’t do it anymore.  No stand-up comedy for me (you’d only groan at my jokes).  I’m also pretty sure that I wouldn’t do very well as a pastor.  I like to preach, but somehow, I get the idea that pastors work on other days besides Sundays.  

“Circumstances are the rulers of the weak, they are but the instruments of the wise.”
(Samuel Lover 1797-1868 Irish Songwriter and novelist)