“Well?  What are you waiting for–an engraved invitation?”

Photo: Abhisek Sarda

The quiet young man glanced up at me, almost in embarrassment.  I was teasing, but he couldn’t be expected to know that.  Standing in front of the counter at my music store, the teenager looked almost frightened, but he asked the question anyway.

“Do you mind–would it be all right if I played it?”

He motioned toward the thousand dollar guitar hanging on the wall behind me, seemingly worried that I might refuse.  I had already told him he could take down anything he wanted to play, but this was different.  He wasn’t sure my blanket license extended to the instruments behind the counter.

I laughed.  “Of course you can play it.  I told you anything you wanted to play, didn’t I?”

Most of my customers know me well enough to see through my smart-aleck words, but this young man was new here.  He had only been in before with his dad, but on this day was on his own.  He wanted to be sure he played by the rules.

He waited for me to hand him the guitar, but I was busy with another customer and, jerking my chin in the direction of the hangers on the wall behind me, told him to get it himself.  He walked gingerly behind the counter and reached up to lift the beautiful instrument from its place in the row of better-than-average instruments back there.

Carrying the guitar as if it would fall apart in his hands, he rounded the corner to plug it into an amplifier.  I listened to the sweet chords and melodies that came from his ministrations to the pretty chunk of wood with strings attached and smiled.

This is what I live for.  Well, this and the odd bowl of ice cream once in awhile.

The young man, oblivious to the activity going on around him–a little girl swishing past, headed into her piano lesson, the postal person, toting an armful of plastic tubs to replace the ones full of packages she would haul out momentarily–sat and lovingly played that guitar for half an hour.  I still don’t understand what it is about music that carries one away like that, but, having felt the same thing myself countless times, I could only muse enviously as I went about my tasks.

He would have played longer, but his dad, a rough farmer who jumped out of an old pickup truck towing a stock trailer, stuck his head in the front door and beckoned impatiently to him.  Jerked back to reality, the boy reached down and, flicking off the switch on the amplifier, unplugged the precious instrument.  He then carried it, just as carefully as before, back to the counter.

The kid just stood there, waiting for my unspoken permission, finally given in the form of a head jerk, to go behind the counter again and replace the pricey guitar back in its accustomed spot on the wall.  Then he headed for the exit.  I told him to come back any time and he just ducked his head shyly.

A few moments later, I looked up from the job I was doing and saw him there again.  He was standing in the same spot he had occupied when I had made my smart-mouthed comment to him earlier.  As before, he waited for me to speak first.

“Well?”  I asked roughly.

“I just wanted to say thank you for letting me play your guitar, sir.”

He turned on his heel and was gone.

Did I say I lived for the moments when the guitar is played by talented hands?  I’ve changed my mind.

I live for moments like this.

We don’t talk about gratitude much, do we?  I sit now and wonder–why is that?

The answer comes back to me instantly.  Gratitude puts us in debt.  No.  It acknowledges we are in debt.  We don’t like that.  We like to think we are self sufficient.

We want to be in control in every circumstance.

Gratitude proves we are not.
____________________

I can’t consider this event without another story leaping to mind.  I’m sorry.  I spent my formative years in Sunday School.  How could I not think about it?

The Teacher was walking with His followers toward the big city, when He noticed a group of men who stood a long distance away, asking for Him to have pity on them.  It almost appears that He didn’t do anything for them Himself, as He jerked His head toward the temple and the men running it.  He told them to go and show themselves to the religious leaders.  Nothing more.  Go and ask the priest to look at them.

Every one of them went, ten in all.  As they went, their horrible skin condition was healed.

Nine of them, we never learn anything more about.  Nothing.

I wonder–were they grateful at all?  Do you suppose they gave credit to the Teacher for their recovery?  Did they brag that they had done it themselves by starting toward the place where the priest was?

I don’t know.  I do know they never said a simple thank you.  Never–at least, not directly to the One who was responsible for what happened.

Not a single thank you.  Well, there was one.  The odd man in the bunch, the shy one, the quiet one, the foreigner.  One thank you from the whole bunch.

He came back immediately and fell at the feet of Jesus, praising God.

Just one question further.  Which of those men owed a debt to the Teacher?  You know the answer.  It was more than one.

Yet, only one acknowledged his debt.
____________________

Day after day, people come through my door.  Any number of them push their way behind my counter to pull guitars off the wall.

It’s okay.  I tell them to do that.  They just never ask anymore.  One man  frequently squeezes behind me while I’m ringing up sales at the register.  When they get done, they hang the guitars back on the wall.

Almost never will any of them say thank you.  I’m okay with that.  I don’t insist on it, nor will I ever hold it against them.

But, it’s hard to keep from making the comparison, is it not?

Gratitude is a remarkable thing.  It enriches the thankful, as well as the benefactor.  I’m convinced of it.

Oh.  The boy was back two days later.  He came and stood at the counter again.  He said three words as he laid his hundred dollar bills down on the plate glass surface.

“I want it.”

I said two words to him as he walked out the store, carrying his beautiful guitar.

“Thank you.”

As the red-haired lady who raised me always said, turnabout is fair play.

It’s a debt I’ll gladly acknowledge.

Others will come to mind, I’m sure.

“Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.”
(from Winnie-the-Pooh ~ by A. A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

“Give thanks to the Lord, because He is good.
His faithful love continues forever.”
(Psalm 136:1 ~ NIRV)

© Paul Phillips.  He’s Taken Leave.  2014.  All Rights Reserved.

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We had unfinished business to wrap up, so I wasn’t surprised to see my friend today.  I was surprised when he talked instead about a personal project.

“We got them out of storage on Saturday, Paul.  Man, they were filthy!”

I looked quizzically at him.  He grinned as he realized I was in the dark about what had been in storage.

“I went two whole miles yesterday!  Two!”

Again, the look of utter stupidity on my face gave the impetus for him to keep going.

“It’s the first time we’ve had the bikes out in over a year!”

The fog lifting, I came to life and began to understand his former comments.  He had gotten his bicycle out, cleaned it up, and ridden it for a couple of miles.  I was still a bit bewildered about why he was so animated regarding the accomplishment, but I thought I should play along and see if all would be revealed as we talked.

It was.

The middle-aged man turned to his friend who had come through the door with him and explained to him (and, unwittingly, to me).

“When I was in here on Saturday, Paul told me about his recent quest to get healthy.  He told me he was hoping to ride about ten miles or so that afternoon.  I decided if he could do ten, I could do two.  I was puffing, but I did it!”

His buddy was obviously impressed, slapping him on the shoulder and exclaiming good naturedly, “Way to go, man!”

I added my praise, but mentally, I was still assessing the situation.  I was the one who had ridden over ten miles.  Why was he getting the praise for his two measly miles?  But, even as my selfish spirit was grappling with that inequity, my heart was beginning to grasp two truths.

“Tandem” by Ramon Casas

First:  Those two miles were two miles more than my friend had ridden in over a year!  That was something to celebrate, if only in a small way.

Second:  I had something to do with that accomplishment!  He had come to report the good news to me, recognizing my part in it.

The selfish thoughts faded quickly into the jumble of my thoughts, as the magnitude of what was happening became apparent almost immediately.  I have talked many times about wanting to influence people around me to do good things, but this was almost mind boggling in its simplicity.

Two days ago, I mentioned to him that I was planning an activity and gave a sketchy background of what was driving me to participate in the endeavor.  I talked about losing weight and feeling better, not with the intent of convincing him, but simply to share the joy that has come along with the life change.

Today, he reported he had acted on the basis of that casual conversation, announcing further that he intends to keep going.  Time will tell if he is able to follow through.  I’ll keep checking on his progress.

The specific subject of fitness has almost nothing to do with the reality of what I learned today, though.  That reality is a lesson I believed I already knew.  It was actually just the day before I spoke with this man about my lifestyle change that I talked with another friend about what I have always believed was my purpose in life.  Almost with thinking, I said the words.

“I believe every person who comes through that door enters for a reason.  It’s not just to make a purchase, either.  I hope that I can influence them for good.  I almost think it’s a ministry of sorts.”

Those words have come from my mouth before.  I’ll say them again.

I don’t think I’ll say them with the same flippant attitude.

You have to understand the lesson I learned today.  It’s not just when I think about influencing people that I do it.  They are influenced by every word that comes from my mouth.

Every word.

Can I just stop there and let that sink in for a moment?

Every word–and every act.

Need another moment?

I am ecstatic that my friend went cycling.  I am amazed when some little tip I give to a customer leads them to develop a skill that I’ve never been able to master.  I hope that every positive thing I’ve ever said yields fruit in the life of the person to whom it was uttered.

I wonder though–what about the excuses I’ve made for poor behavior?  What about the snippy comments I’ve made behind people’s back to someone standing by?  How about that time I lost my temper completely and gave that fellow a piece of my mind?

I wonder, do those things influence folks too?

I don’t have to answer that, do I?  For some reason, my mind jumps to the name of the best-selling book, written nearly eighty years ago by Dale Carnegie, entitled “How to Win Friends and Influence People”.  I haven’t read the book, but the title itself gives plenty of food for thought.

I want to win friends.  I also want to influence people–to do good.  My problem is that I frequently make enemies and influence people to anger, or to cheat, or to lie.  Every word and every act, whether good or evil, wins and influences.  I don’t get to choose which ones have an influence.  They all do.

What I get to choose is how to act.  What I get to choose is how to speak.

I can’t help but remember the old television ads for the investment firm, now defunct, E F Hutton.  The ads all finished with the statement, “When E F Hutton speaks, people listen.”

What I’m saying here is that when I speak, people listen.

When you speak, people listen.

They act on what we say every day.

I wonder, will tomorrow bring another joyful revelation of positive influence for me?  Or possibly, the realization that a life has been ruined by words I said?

If I turn and face the years past, I can point to situations where, over and over, I wielded my influence for selfish, wicked reasons.  I cringe at the thought and the prospect that one day I may learn of the disaster wrought by my words and actions.

But, I’m reminded that there is One who influenced the world permanently for good by His entire life, and then by His death.  That influence covers mine today.  Grace and forgiveness for the past are found as His influence takes effect.  It will suffice.

Once again, I turn to the future.  Tomorrow is a new day, with nothing written on its clean page.

Yet.

Win.  Influence.

There is still work to do.  You’re coming too, aren’t you?

“If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them.”
(James 4:17 ~ NIV)

“We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why.”
(Stephen King ~ American author)

I have words welling up inside of me.  They have been spilling out for a couple of hours already tonight.  I am ashamed to say that I faithfully wrote them all down on pages in front of me–and then deleted every single one of them.

Photo: Jeannean Ryman

I’m a failure.

I never expected anything different.  All is just as I have always envisioned.  Some things were just destined to be.

Before you start sending those encouraging notes, before you put on your best there–there face, give me a chance to explain.

I’m a failure at being a failure.

“Now,” you say.  “Now, you’re just bragging.”

I don’t mean to brag.  It is an admission of failure.  I say it with contrite intent.  I intend it to be an apology.

The magnitude of my ineptness has become clear to me today.  The revelation began this morning.  I sat down at my desk in the music store and, as I frequently do, re-read what I had posted last night for my friends–those who are so inclined–to peruse and digest.  The further I read, the less I liked what I had written.  I became convinced that no one would think it worthwhile.  I assumed that over the span of the day, it would neither garner any attention, nor acquire any indications of approval.

I deleted the entire post.

Quickly.

Quietly.

You didn’t notice, did you?  Very few of you had any idea of my failure to produce a good article, since the evidence had disappeared into the ether.

I don’t want to be a failure.  Therefore, I will not allow myself to do things that will show me up as one.
____________________

The point was driven home again this afternoon as a customer laid the old guitar case on the counter of my music store.  Inside the case lay a gorgeous vintage guitar worth thousands of dollars.

“I want you to modify it for me, Paul.”  The aging man looked earnestly into my face.  “I know you.  You’ll take good care of my baby.”

I am torn.

On the one hand, my customer has confidence in my abilities to achieve the task.  It is an exhilarating feeling–being aware of the trust that another person places in your skill.

On the other hand,  it is a daunting prospect.  As I gaze at the beautiful instrument, lying in the case before me, my stomach tightens up and I can’t suppress a tiny shudder.  What if I make a mistake?  What if my drill slips?  What if I butcher up this wonderful old guitar beyond recall?

I may fail.

I’m not well equipped to deal with failure.  I’ll sulk.  I’ll mope around.  I may even lose faith in my ability to do other things I have been doing all of my life.  Just the prospect of failure is terrifying.

More and more recently, I find myself telling people, like my friend on the other side of the counter, that I cannot fit their needs into my schedule.  Well obviously, all they have to do is to look around them.  My business (and life) is stacked high with jobs which are waiting to be done.

But, time is not really the issue, is it?

I simply cannot abide the thought that I may fail.  I cannot be a failure.

I have, instead, become a failure at being a failure.  If you never attempt the risky undertakings, you cannot fail.

Problem solved!  No risk, no failure.  Ergo, I will not take risks.

I am safe.

You do see the problem, don’t you?  Safe is nice.  For awhile.  Safe doesn’t raise a ruckus, doesn’t rock any boats.  Safe is–well–comfortable.  You know, like house slippers.  Comfortable.

And, therein lies the problem.  House slippers are okay for lying around the house.  They even let me shuffle my way into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a cookie.  Okay, maybe a bowl of ice cream, too.

House slippers aren’t very efficient for hiking in, are they?  I’m not likely to wear them when I go for a jog, either.  The old comfy mules wouldn’t be my choice for riding the highway on a motorcycle, for that matter.

In short, the safe, comfortable house slippers won’t get me anywhere.

Funny.  Risk is all around us.  Even funnier–we never accomplish anything without taking risks.

Did I say that I wasn’t well equipped for failure?  It is not, of course, true.

Did someone say failure is not an option?  That also is a lie.  If we live, we will undoubtedly experience failures.  It is an option.  In fact, it is a certainty.

But, what’s not an option is sitting safely on the couch, never really living.  What’s not an option is lying about, defeated by one failure, when success is just as likely to be the result the next time we attempt the deed.

For, in achieving what we call safety, comfort, we really place ourselves in danger of the greatest failure we will face individually and corporately.

That danger is complacency.  Achieving nothing.  And, as certain as I once thought myself that I wasn’t equipped for failure, I am that much more certain our Creator did not design us to sit in complacency and safety, doing nothing.

I’m not sure about you, but I don’t want to waste the short time I have left on this planet.  I don’t want to look back and see nothing of note that has been accomplished.

Life is risky.  Life is uncertain.

There is much to be lost, but there is more to be gained.

Time to start moving again.

I think I’ll see what I can do with that guitar.

There may be other tasks needing our attention, as well.

Got your walking shoes on?

“Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.”
(from Henry IV, part 1 ~ William Shakespeare ~ English poet/playwright ~ 1564-1616)

“He who observes the wind will not sow, and he who regards the clouds will not reap…In the morning sow your seed, and at evening withhold not your hand, for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good.”
(Ecclesiastes 11:4, 6 ~ ESV)

© Paul Phillips.  He’s Taken Leave.  2014.  All Rights Reserved.

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I saw red again last night.

Many of you did, too.  You stayed up until the wee hours to stand in the cold night air and stare into the sky.  Well, some who are not so adventurous took an easier path and set alarm clocks for 2:00 AM and clambered out of beds to peek out their windows for a few moments before slipping between the covers again.

But you saw the red, didn’t you?

I was reminded it was during this very week only a year ago–this week that we who are followers of Christ call Holy Week–that we saw red of a different sort.  It was a week of acrimony, loud with the shouts of anger and accusation between brothers, between friends.  Red was everywhere as one side of the argument made their positions clear with symbols which they considered vital to their message.  Others took offense.  It was an ugly week, and felt not holy at all.

I thought of that, as I stood under the frigid sky last night, anticipating the red that I would see.  I wasn’t prepared for the message which would be written in the heavens for all to read.  Well, perhaps not many saw what I did.  Oh, the images they saw would have been no different, but their significance might have varied a bit in the mind of the observers.

The day had been cloudy and overcast, a dreary, dim span of hours.  But as the night approached, the clouds blew away, the whole expanse of the sky above was revealed and the full moon arose towards the south in the eastern sky.

It was a brilliant white, its rays almost piercing the sight.

As the dazzling lunar orb swung in its circuit across the sky to the west, almost it appeared that the astronomers had missed the date.  There was no dimming of the brightness, no sign of anything out of the ordinary that was to come.  Nothing, that is, except for a few fools who stood in the dark and cold waiting for what they believed with a certainty was to come.

And then it happened.

A shadow fell across the eastern sector of the huge, round body.  Seemingly, within minutes (it was longer, I know) the whole of the moon was in darkness, eaten up by that same shadow, which consumed it from east to west.

Before long, where moments before one had seen the radiant reflection of light from the surface, all was black.  That was it–black.

Not red.  Black.

They had been wrong.  This was no Blood Moon.  There was no red to be seen.  Just blackness, nothing more.

To one who had not dressed appropriately for the cold night, the wait seemed interminable.  Would the scene never change?  Was the anticipation for nothing?  This was it?  A black shadow?

Photo: Jeannean Ryman

No.  The watchers were not to be disappointed.  It was not long, a matter of minutes, until the shadow of blackness was replaced with a slight reddish glow.  That glow grew and spread until all the surface of the once bright white, then dark black, moon had turned to a blood red.

If the empty blackness of the lunar eclipse had made the blood run cold, standing there in the frigid darkness the  luminescent glow of the moon bathed in red  made chills run up the back.  I have written before of moments to be collected and saved in the memory.

This is one of those.

I won’t drag on through the rest of the event, but I do want you to consider, briefly, the sequence that ensued to return the moon to its accustomed state.

After the Blood Moon had hung in the sky for some time, the red began to recede and the dark of the original eclipse, the shadow, returned.  But, before you knew it, a matter of another few moments, from the darkness, the shadow, the brilliant white orb that we have always known and expect to see in the sky emerged again.

It was clean and bright, and devoid of any sign of the dark eclipse.

White.  Pure.

For one who loves imagery and parables, the occurrence of this breathtaking event during Holy Week is invaluable.  There are conclusions to be drawn from the imagery of the bright, and the shadowy, and the red moon, followed again by the pure, bright light.  I want to ramble on and on about it.

I’ll move on instead.
____________________

Tonight, I still see the red.

It’s a different kind of red, though. As I sat down to write tonight, my heart weighed down with the cares of this world, I realized that it is almost Good Friday.  I’m not quite sure of the historical accuracy of Friday being the day on which the crucifixion took place, but it is the day on which all Christendom pauses to consider the incredible cost of Grace.

The transaction of redemption wasn’t clean and neat; it wasn’t a simple contract signing in an office.  It was messy, and grotesque, and bloody.  That’s right.  Blood was shed.  The contract for Grace was sealed with the blood of the Son of God who said, in bright red, “For you.  So that you can be with me in heaven.  So that you can live in unity with each other here on earth.”

I’m seeing red.

This week, it seems that all of us who are followers of the Lamb who took away the sins of the world, could take some time to pause and consider what that means to us individually and collectively.  I suggest that we might bow or kneel or stand with arms outstretched to heaven and simply be grateful that God’s mercy has reached to us in the red, red blood of His Son who died willingly for us.

The red was–and is–there to give every one of us individually the opportunity to believe.  It is also there to demonstrate God’s great love for us collectively, so that we might live together in His love. Perhaps, as we kneel in gratitude, a petition that we can love our neighbors wouldn’t be out of place.

I’m seeing red tonight.  It’s a red of a different type than the red I saw last night–a different red than what I saw last year during this week.  And, my eyes still hurt as I consider the cost.

The tears come as I realize how far from being a loving disciple I have strayed, arguments and excuses on the tip of my tongue, as I seek to justify my sinful conduct.

I’m grateful that God sees the red, too.  It is all He sees, as His Son says, “This one’s mine.”

As we approach this, one of the high and holy days in the life of the Church, I am determined to live in a way consistent with that truth.  I pray that it will show in my conduct every other day, as well.

How about it?  Are you still seeing red too?

“In letters of crimson, God wrote His love
On the hillside so long, long ago;
For you and for me Jesus died,
And love’s greatest story was told.”
(“Written In Red”~Gordon Jensen~Canadian born song writer)

“Christ suffered for our sins once for all time.  He never sinned, but he died for sinners, to bring you safely home to God.”
(I Peter 3:18a~NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

Illumination comes at strange moments.

It was about seven this morning when I reached down to do something I have done thousands of times before.  In my semi-catatonic state (one might almost say I was in a waking dream), I suddenly became aware of the significance of what I was doing.

More to the point, I became acutely aware of a tool I had been using repeatedly, but had never acknowledged.  My hand jerked back from the door knob on the closet door, and I stooped down to look at it.

Astounding.

I have never before considered what an amazing thing it is to have a latch that is actuated by a knob on a door.  Any door.  But today, especially my closet door.

It’s not a pretentious doorway, not even a renowned one.  No famous person has ever, to my knowledge, opened it or even peeked through it.  Essentially one human being has utilized this doorway over the last ten years with regularity.

Me.

In all the time I’ve turned that knob, I have never written a tribute to it, never immortalized it in song, never even so much as mentioned it to a friend.  You would think that the brass-colored mechanism means nothing to me and that I wouldn’t care if it stopped functioning tomorrow.

You would be wrong.

I need that doorknob.  I depend on it in a way I depend on few things in my life.  Without it, I cannot reach through the doorway and select a clean shirt to put on in the morning.  I can’t pick up the pair of shoes that matches my activity for the day, and wouldn’t be able to decide whether I will wear khakis or blue jeans to cover my legs on any given workday.  In short, that doorknob is a necessity for life as I know it.

I don’t have to think about whether it will work the next time I turn it.  I routinely slam the door behind me, certain that it will latch and seal the doorway until I need it once again.  It simply does what it is designed to do, what it was built to do many years ago.

It is, after all, a very old doorknob.  Older even, than I am.

Still it functions, day after long day, night after dark night.

Turn–open.  Slam–close.  Turn–open.  Slam–close.  Again and again, it fulfills its purpose.

And, I have never once knelt down and talked to it, encouraging it in its labor.  I’ve never complimented it to anyone while in earshot, never reached down and patted it after I opened and closed the closet door to take out my clothes for the day.

I want to be careful how I communicate this next thought, for I fear it might be misunderstood.  You see, the lesson of the doorknob, the astonishing thing that I perceived in the fog of half wakefulness this morning, is one that I have yet to engage in my own life.

I know that I have a purpose.  I am confident of it.  I am also fairly sure I am in the process of fulfilling that purpose in life.  My problem is I don’t want to be used.  Not without being acknowledged.

I don’t want to be used.

Not unless you intend to praise me, or stroke me, or pay me.

The fear I mentioned of being misunderstood is a concern that folks who read this will think it incumbent upon them to stroke this scribe, to compliment what I do.  That is not the point I am making.  In fact, it is exactly the opposite.  I want to learn to do exactly what I have been placed here for without ever once expecting a compliment, without ever once craving a pat on the back.

I have mentioned before the mindset performers get into of needing more and more encouragement every time they perform.  And, that’s just the thing.  I don’t want to perform.  I want to be a doorknob.

I want to be a doorknob.

I realize I will never be the doorway.  I will never be the destination.  But, I can be the doorknob, the mechanism which enables people to move between the place they are, through the doorway, and into the next location.

The doorknob serves.   And yeah, the doorknob gets used.  And, it’s okay.

So, here’s an invitation for each one of you who read this:  Perhaps you’ve been trapped in a room and needed to find the doorknob to get out.  If I’ve ever helped you to do that, I am paid in full.  No compliments, no pats on the back, are necessary.

But, more than that, I hope you’ll want to be the mechanism by which others do the same thing–move through the doorway to better places, to be changed people. It is what every one of us is intended to do.

I told you that I will never be the doorway.  But, I know Someone who is.  He made the claim when he walked this earth many centuries ago. 

“I am the Door. If any man enters through Me, he will go in and out and will find sustenance for his soul.”

I think I’m going to like this doorknob job.

“I like stepping into the future.  Therefore, I look for doorknobs.”
(Mark Rosen ~ American sports reporter/author)

“Proclaim the message.  Be ready to do this whether or not the time is convenient.  Refute, warn, and encourage with the utmost patience when you teach.”
(2 Timothy 4:2 ~ International Standard Version)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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“Daddy.”

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.

As they spoke quietly, 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 remember a little while back, an insurance company had a series of ads running on television which really didn’t sell a product at all, except by association.  I liked the concept.  People doing the right thing, they said, showing case after case of individuals seeing one person helping another and then responding in kind.

I’m not sure that the world actually 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. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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Being self-employed has its advantages.  This particular week in April isn’t one of them.  The due date for filing tax returns and paying unpaid taxes from the former year has always been one of those days which I approach with apprehension and disdain.

Oh, I know for most of you reading this, that statement makes no sense.  You’ve worked another year; your employer withheld the amount of taxes you requested, and you probably already received a refund from your wealthy Uncle Sam.  I’ll try to go easy on this point, but the reason he has all that money is that you gave him an interest free loan for the past 12 months.

That said, I have dreamed about receiving a refund from the Treasury some April, but it will probably never happen.  At least, it is to be hoped not.  As a businessman, it’s not to my advantage to allow any capital to leave my control except for investment in merchandise which will net a profit.  If I’m giving interest-free loans to my Uncle in Washington, I can’t be buying guitars in my hometown.

There was one April, over twenty-five years ago, when I wished I had given the IRS a fair amount more money, because when the time came to pay up for the year, all the capital was tied up in assets.  They didn’t appear to be liquid assets either.  I was devastated to learn, the week before the fifteenth of the month, that we owed almost four thousand dollars in taxes on the previous year’s income.

I argued with the accountant, to no avail. 

“The numbers don’t lie, Paul,” he explained as he showed me the facts in black and white. 

We had purchased too much inventory and the government was treating that increased stock as profit.  Cash or no cash, we needed four thousand dollars within the next week or the penalties and interest would begin to stack up.

It was a little ironic.  Just the year before, when the accountant handed me the packet of forms to mail in, he had asked delicately, “Paul, do you need anything?  We’re about the same size.  I’d be happy to give you some clothes…”

I thanked him, but gently brushed aside his offer.  We didn’t know we were financially embarrassed.  Our two children had nice clothes, we were making our payments on our house and business, and the old cars were paid for and running (most of the time).

The Lovely Lady and I had  giggled about someone thinking we needed to be helped and then kept plugging away at the business we had just acquired and were struggling to keep afloat.  Now, barely a year later, we owed almost twenty percent of a year’s profit in taxes because of poor planning on our part!

Where were we going to get that kind of money in a week?  We didn’t believe in borrowing money to pay taxes; it just didn’t make any sense.  But, we never had that kind of cash come in in such a short period of time, at least not funds that weren’t already designated for rent and other overhead, or inventory purchases.  I nearly panicked.

What to do?

Aha!  I had it!  I would call my Dad.  Obviously, I wouldn’t ask for a loan, but after hearing our predicament, he couldn’t do anything but offer to help, right?  I made the call that very night.  After making small talk for awhile, I mentioned my problem.  He listened and then offered advice.   

Not money, advice!

Evidently, he hadn’t gotten the memo that when his son, who never asked for money, called talking about money problems, it meant that he was expected to pony up.  That’s what Dads do, isn’t it?  Well not my Dad, at least not this time.

“Hmmm.  You know, the disciples in the Bible had a similar problem.  What did Jesus tell them to do?” 

Well I knew the answer from Sunday School days, just as most of you do.

I was disgusted with him, but I responded anyway, “He told them to go fishing and they caught a fish, with the money for their taxes in its mouth.”  I couldn’t resist a little jab though, “How does that help me?”

His laconic reply came, “I really don’t know.  I was just remembering that’s what He told them to do.”

With nothing else to be said, we ended the conversation.

“Great!”  I groused at the Lovely Lady.  “No help at all, just some stupid line about what the disciples did in the Bible.”

I still had no plan, no visible means to take care of my obligation.  I went to bed, only to toss and turn as I lay there.   

What does it mean?  What does it mean?

Sleepless, I got up and went downstairs to sit and read the passage in the Bible.  No help there.  I knew what they had done.  They went fishing.  They were fishermen, and they went fishing.  The light in my head came on with a brilliant flare!   

They went fishing!  They were fishermen and they went fishing!

They did their jobs; nothing more, nothing less.  Their profession was catching fish from the sea, so that’s what they did.  I still wasn’t completely sure what it meant to me, nor how the money would come, but for now, all I was sure of was that I needed to go to work and do what I was trained to do, what I had been gifted at.  And, that’s just what I did.

For the next week, we opened the music store at the regular time in the morning and then, at the regular time in the afternoon, we closed it and went home.  In between, we did a bunch of praying.  I kept expecting some moneybags buyer to walk in and purchase half of our stock, paying cash for it, but it never happened.  We rang up sales on the cash register, day after day.  Some were for significant amounts, some were small, but there was no spectacular, miraculous event.  We paid our rent and our electric bill, as well as the invoices for merchandise which we received during that time.

And, on April fifteenth, we placed our tax forms in the stamped envelope, along with a check for nearly four thousand dollars, completely covered by cash in the bank!  There was no hoopla, no extraordinarily large sale, no borrowing; we just did our jobs.  I will affirm that we never had that much extra in a week’s time before or after, without a large sale.  I still cannot explain it.  We paid our bills, did our regular tasks, and were provided for.

“How anticlimactic!”  I hear you say.  “No huge miracle?  No wealthy benefactor?  No mysterious check in the mailbox?  Just, go to work?”

That’s it.  And, you know, my years on this earth tell me that this is how most miracles happen.  No genies, no lamp to rub, no magic wand–just simply doing what we were made to do.  God rewards faithfulness.   

In the quiet, plain paths His miracles are inconspicuously bestowed.  Not with the commotion of a dog-and-pony show, not in the glare of the spot-lights and television cameras, but in factories, and shops, and homes, He cares for His own.

“Going fishing!” 

That’s how I answered the question from my young children about how we were going to take care of our need, that April so long ago. I’ve thought of it often at other times too, but without fail, the events of that week in early spring twenty-five years ago are called to mind every time April rolls around again. 

I’m still grateful today.

“…go down to the lake and throw in a line. Open the mouth of the first fish you catch, and you will find a large silver coin. Take it and pay the tax for both of us.”
(Matthew 17:27~New Living Translation)

“When we do the best that we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another.”
(Helen Keller~blind and deaf American author and educator~1880-1968)










© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

The old, balding carpenter looked up at me from his kneeling position, and just shook his head.  It was not an encouraging moment.

“From the back corner of the room to this wall right here, the floor drops nearly four inches!  How are we supposed to get a level surface for a bathtub to sit on?”

I had to do some fast talking to keep him on the job.  We really needed a new bathroom upstairs in that old house.  The three-quarter bath downstairs was a long way from the bedroom in the middle of the night!  Our young children needed something closer.  So did their father.  No. We had to figure out a way.

A week later, the old fellow was back on his knees laying out two-by-fours on that floor and marking them to be cut diagonally lengthwise.  As the boards were cut and returned to their respective positions, I saw that at the lowest place in the floor, they were the full three and a half inches tall.  At the other end, only seven feet away, the same boards were trimmed down to just a tiny thickness, perhaps an eight of an inch.  It looked like a cobbled up mess to me. 

I didn’t see how this would ever give us the result we needed, and said so.

“This is nuts!  I want a level floor, not these ugly wedge-shaped two-by-fours.  This is going to be awful.”

The craftsman looked up at me from his place on the floor, with a sad smile.

“You’ve got no faith in humanity, Paul.  Give me time.  You’ll see.”

I didn’t have long to wait.  Within a day, the plywood was cut to fit the room and was screwed down over those ugly, cut boards which had been firmly anchored to the old tilted floor.  I walked on it over to where my friend sat on the floor once again, this time to check the four foot long level he had brought up with him.

He allowed himself the barest of proud smiles as he pointed to the liquid filled tube in the center of the big straightedge.  Dead center, the little bubble floated in plain view.

Dead center!

Just a couple of days before, that same bubble couldn’t be seen, as it scurried to the back end of the tube when the apparatus was placed on the floor.  I had had to walk uphill to get from one end of the room to the other.  Now, no matter where he set the level, the result was the same.

Dead center.  Level.

When the tub and toilet were placed in their respective positions, the water levels proved the accuracy of the little bubble in that level.  As long as we lived in that old Victorian house, I was amazed when I remembered what was hidden just under the surface of the floor we walked upon in that room.
____________________

I had seen the email when I first sat at my desk this morning.  I just wasn’t ready to deal with the issue right then.  I guess I should have said that I had seen the emails, plural.  She had written two of them.

She wasn’t happy.

A problem with a transaction she had completed online made her whole world off kilter.  She didn’t want me to fix it, she wanted to pick up her marbles and play in a different game.  She was sure that the playing field was tilted in my favor and she wanted out!

I missed her first phone call while I was unlocking the door to my business.  For a wonder, I had actually drafted and sent a reply–a calm one–to her notes before she called again.  I had apologized for the problem and offered a solution which I was pretty sure she would accept.  But, when I pressed send on the email, I still was unsure of the outcome.

Her phone call came within minutes.  The tone of her voice told me that she wasn’t happy with my solution.  Apparently, it looked a lot like that bathroom floor had looked to me when the old carpenter started to make amends, all those years ago.  The cobbled up mess didn’t inspire trust.  I could see that I needed to complete the project–and quickly!

We talked.  I listened.  She listened.  She understood that we were going to make the playing field level again.  The marbles in the game would roll true and straight once more.  I apologized one more time and it was done.

I hung up the phone with a sigh of relief and allowed myself the barest of proud smiles.

Dead center.

I sometimes think the whole world has shifted from its axis just a bit and has become unlevel.  Children take knives and guns to school and attack people they don’t even know.  Friends shout angrily at friends as sides are chosen on issues and the distance grows between them, a gulf seemingly unspannable.  The gender gap and the generation gap widen, as does the gap between races.  Power flows from one group to another, always following the shifting landscape.

Sometimes, hope seems lost to bring the whole affair back to level.  We’ll never see the bubble in the middle of the tube again–never.

I wonder though. 

I’ve got some two-by-fours in my hands that just might level the room I’m in.  Maybe I could start here.  Perhaps, you could work on the room you’re in.  I think that we might just be able to work our way through the house, one room at a time.

You see, the great victory that old carpenter won in the old house was just one room.  One room with an unlevel floor in a house full of rooms with unlevel floors.  But he achieved that task and completed the one room.  Others since him have done the same thing, in the kitchen and the laundry room.  We don’t live there anymore, but someone may be working on one as I write this.

I’m no Atlas.  I’m pretty sure I know no one who is.  Not one of us has the power to shift the whole world at once.  But then, we weren’t called to do that, were we?

We are–every one of us–builders.  The Apostle spoke of being a master builder and that those who followed must be very careful how they build on the foundation that has already been laid down.

I want someday to be able to check my work and find it acceptable and thorough.  I trust that the level, when placed against the results of my labor, will show the craftsmanship I’m working to achieve.

How about it?  It would be really nice if, when the floor I’m working on reaches the one at which you have labored, we can put down the level to check the result together.

Dead center?

Time will tell.

“I know I ask perfection of a quite imperfect world
And I’m fool enough to think that’s what I’ll find.”
(from I Need to be in Love by The Carpenters ~ Carpenter/Bettis)

“By the grace God has given me, I laid a foundation as a wise builder, and someone else is building on it.  But each one should build with care.”
(I Corinthians 3:10 ~ NIV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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