clarity

On a recent day I sat with my old friend again. Yes, it was in my mind that the last time we had sat with coffee cups between us, I had walked away with a life-changing backache.

I determined not to sit for three hours without moving this time. But, we had things to discuss. Important things. Well—important to us.

As we sat down with our cups of coffee, a smile played around his lips as he told me he had thought of a title for his next blog post (he doesn’t write blogs). Then he told about what he described as, “My Life in the Fog.”

As he related his experiences growing up in the last century in Fresno, California, I imagined I could see it clearly.

The Central Valley of California, also known as the San Joaquin Valley, is a huge bowl of fertile ground, the produce capital of the whole country. There are miles and miles of cultivated fields growing crops of every description, from vegetables to nuts. It is, in some ways, a veritable paradise. But, there are drawbacks.

The natives call it Tule (pronounced too-lee) Fog (when they’re not arguing about whether that’s what it really is or is not). The name “Tule” is a local term, shortened from Tulare, which was once a large lake in the area.

The entire valley, thousands of square miles of it, is frequently engulfed in the fog, generated by the cold air of the surrounding mountain ranges settling down into the warm, moist air below them. This is especially prevalent in the fall and winter months.

I said I imagined I saw the image clearly as my friend described standing in his yard, ready to go to school in the early morning light. Gazing across the street, he couldn’t even see the neighbor’s house in front of him. And, to the side, no shrubs or fence were visible at the house next door.

You see my problem, don’t you?

It’s all just a bit out of focus, wavering in my mind. The fog he describes cloaks the entire scene as I gaze upon it.

It is what fog does.

I suppose that’s what he intended to communicate with his proposed title for the nonexistent blog he was writing. No. I’m sure of it.

He went on to describe the occasional clearing of the fog in one direction, but not in others. He would stand, again unable to see the house across the street but, turning to his left, could see the neighbor’s property there perfectly well, as if the sun was shining clearly on it.

I know I’m not supposed to do it. You know—think about my own experiences while someone else is talking. I’m supposed to listen completely to what they’re saying. But, there was a voice speaking inside my head, too.

“Sure. The fog is just fine when you’re standing still in your own front yard.”

You see, I’ve been there. In that Tule Fog. No, really!

We traveled numerous times to my Grandfather’s house in the Central Valley. He lived little more than 25 miles away from where my friend used to stand in the fog before school. To get there, my family and I would travel over 1400 miles by car, zipping through mountains, prairies, farmland, and deserts.

The most memorable part of the journey for me always was the descent into the San Joaquin Valley through the Tehachapi (ta-hatch-a-pea) Pass. On this particular trip, we made the drop from the high desert into the valley in the darkness of a very early morning.

If you make the trip in daylight when there is fog, you can see it down below, almost like a super dense cloud lying at your feet, with time to mentally prepare yourself for what is to come. I didn’t have that advantage on the occasion my memory dredged up.

The wet blanket of fog we dropped into was like being enveloped in a cloud of pure white cotton. Flicking the car’s headlights to bright only multiplied the effect. The brilliant light merely reflected off the dazzling white blanket, almost blinding the driver to anything but its overwhelming glare.

I slowed to a safe speed, only to remember (almost too late) that I was on a California freeway. The traffic behind me had not slowed to a safe speed and passed me at a terrific pace, some barely seeing my taillights in time to swerve into the passing lane.

I sped up. Terrified and confused by the lack of vision, but dazed by the overload of sensory stimuli, I could do nothing but travel at the speed of surrounding traffic while staring wide-eyed into the seeming abyss in front of me and praying for protection.

Although it seemed like an eternity, it wasn’t all that long before we began to see rifts in the wall of white clouds about us. I was never so happy to see the darkness, riven by my vehicle’s headlights to give a clear picture of what was in front of us.

But, my friend was still talking, wasn’t he? Something about seeing through a mirror, indistinctly.

I had to shake off my own fog to catch up.

Oh yes! The Apostle’s words from one of his letters:

“Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.” (1 Corinthians 13:12, NLT)

We do. We live in a fog—some of us for most of our lives. The noise and clamor we’re surrounded by serve only to act like the high beams, obfuscating and blinding us to the truth.

But, we don’t have to live like this—here in the fog—forever.

There is a place of clarity here on earth.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet,
a light on my path.” (Psalm 119:105, NIV)

Have you ever noticed where fog lamps are mounted on vehicles? That’s right; Down near the road. Down below the fog, giving a clear view of the surface one is traveling over.

God’s word is a lamp, specifically for our feet, to light the path ahead. When all others are frantically flipping between low and high beams, failing spectacularly to find a path through the fog, His wisdom cuts through, lighting the way faithfully.

He gives light that truly lends clarity to life. Through all of our days, if we’ll avail ourselves of it.

I don’t love the fog. I say I don’t anyway. But still, I stumble along feeling my way—speeding up, slowing down—and hoping no one is about to come flying out of the pea soup behind me and do me great harm.

We’re a stubborn lot, aren’t we? I am, anyway.

All the while, the answer is at my fingertips. He promises to make the way plain.

We already hold the light in our hands and hearts if we are followers of Christ.

Clear—clear as day.

It’s time to walk out of the fog. I’m going to do my best. You know me though; I always love company on the road.

Are you coming with?

“I must go in; the fog is rising.“
(last reported words of poet Emily Dickinson)

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.”
(Proverbs 3: 5-6, NIV)

He taught me more about playing the French horn than any other teacher I had. That said, I can remember clearly only two things he taught me.

Funny isn’t it? All that instruction and all I recall can be summarized in two sentences. What can I say? These gems of wisdom came from Mr. Marlar when I was in my early twenties.

It was a time in my life when I already knew everything.

I wish I had been a little more ignorant. That wouldn’t come until later.

Mr. M’s wise words:

“You will make mistakes; play them loudly so everyone can hear them.”

“If you can hear the pitch in your head, you can play it on your horn.”

The first statement made me laugh—then. It’s not as amusing now as it once was. Perhaps we’ll talk more about it another time.

But the second thing Mr. M taught me—that bit of brilliance has been more useful than even he could have thought. Again and again in my work and personal life, I have proved the truth of the idea.

I was still his student when I played horn for the local university production of the musical, Brigadoon.

I’ve related the story before of my disastrous introduction to the tenor lead’s solo—the too-high pitch I played leading the vocalist astray and causing him to start his solo in the wrong key.

He started on the wrong note! Because of me!

What a catastrophe! A few measures into his solo, he had to stop and restart on the correct note.

If looks could kill, the Lovely Lady would have been a widow that very night.

My solution to that disaster was to show up the next evening with a pitch generator connected to an earphone so that I could indeed hear the pitch in my head and then play it on my horn.

It was, I believed, an ingenious solution, and worked splendidly.

For every subsequent night of our performances, my entrance on the opening phrase was impeccable and the tenor followed suit.

I heard the pitch. I played it.

I was proud of myself.

I am less proud than I once was.

You see, in the years since, I have matured a little (only a little). I have also become a better musician, understanding some of the foundational principles which escaped my youthful brain back then.

The electronic pitch in the ear missed the point of Mr. M’s statement completely.

If one is to be a successful musician, the sense of pitch, the center of the tone, must be in one’s head, not in their ear. When I listened to the tone and then played it, the pitch wasn’t mine; I just borrowed it.

I have to own the music! It has to come from inside of me. It has to be a part of me.

The principle works in all of life.

Don’t believe that? Watch what happens when kids leave home to go to college or into the work place.

For too many, the principles and beliefs they learned at their parents’ feet are shed left and right as they realize that such things have always come from somewhere outside of themselves.

They have heard the whispering (and perhaps shouting) of morals and creeds in their ears and believe them only as long as it takes to get out of range of their parents’ voices.

Instantly, there is silence where those things are concerned. If they hear the echo at all, it is easy to ignore as the clamor around them grows in support of different ideologies and moralities.

Suddenly, they have to make decisions themselves, have to determine the appropriateness of choices in what amounts to a vacuum.

Unless we ourselves own our values and our faith, unless they speak from deep inside of us, we will never hit the mark when it comes time for the performance which will occur in the public eye.

If, deep down, all we hear in the moment of our engagement is silence, any mark will do, and we’ll hit exactly what we aim for.

Nothing. Or anything.

Either way, the result will be the same. We will miss the mark.

The wrong note will sound and those who take their cue from us will also miss their mark.

Suddenly, I realize that anything else I write here will just be a sound coming into your ear through a head phone.

The manufactured pitch may aid temporarily, but it will have no permanent effect. I also realize that most who are reading this already have the pitch solidly in mind and are hitting the mark on a daily basis.

It’s high time that I turn off the tone generator and get down off this soapbox.

Come to think of it, it’s time to go home and practice the horn for awhile before heading for bed. I think I hear a high G coming on.

I only hope the neighbors won’t mind.

Pursue one great decisive aim with force and determination.
(Carl Von Clausewitz ~ German military leader/theorist ~ 1780-1831)

For if the bugle produces an indistinct sound, who will prepare himself for battle?
(1 Corinthians 14:8 ~ NASB)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Walking Out of the Fog

Own the Music