expectations

There’s not enough! The story of my life.

The red-headed lady who raised me was disgusted. A new baby was due soon to a young couple in our church and she was on a deadline to finish the little crocheted blanket.

The baby shower had come and gone without a gift to offer, but she remained confident the project would be completed before the little tyke’s arrival.

Stymied!

Just inches short of the intended size, she had run out of the variegated yarn she loved to use on such projects. There was no way she had time to order more. Alas, the child might actually come into this world without the blanket. From her perspective, it would be a disaster.

“The story of my life!” She repeated the plaintive phrase.

She threw up her hands in disgust and, sticking the crochet needle through the loosely-knit material, tossed the blanket into the wicker basket beside her chair.

She was done, it seemed.

Giving up.

Ah! But we knew better. It was only a matter of time.

She sat, moping, in the easy chair.

Any time now…

There it was.

The index finger on her right hand went to her mouth. She tapped her lips, muttering.

“I wonder. . .”

The change was abrupt when it came. Her left hand plunged into the basket and pulled the good-for-nothing blanket back onto her lap. She began to yank on the single tendril of yarn hanging out of the edge at the place she had ceased her labor only moments before.

Like a mad-woman, she worked—ripping out the stitches she had put in laboriously in the hours preceding. We wondered if she had gone mad. The thought didn’t last long.

She soon stopped and examined the blanket to see where she was. Then, more slowly than at first, she continued to pull at the yarn. There was a sizable pile at her feet when she finally stopped.

Talking to herself, she said, “That should do it. I hope this works.”

Grabbing a full skein of contrasting colored yarn from the shelf beside her, she began to work once more. The stitch pattern was different than the main body of the blanket, but she was no longer making the blanket. This was a border. Before it was done, it would be two inches wide around all four sides of the little blanket.

A two-inch border of ingenuity and flexibility.

The finished blanket was beautiful—a perfect wrapping for the tiny baby who would arrive that week. And, every time she saw the baby in its carrier, swaddled in the little blanket, the red-headed lady would stop and admire him.

I wonder if anyone else noticed that she always took hold of the border of the little guy’s blanket and rubbed it between her fingers. Perhaps they thought the smile on her face was because of the baby.

I wonder.

I will always be sad to remember her initial reaction.

She seemed to truly believe that unhappy events were her personal due in life. Like her mother before her, Mom wasn’t much of an optimist.

Frequently, she used phrases like the story of my life and par for the course, as if she thought it was simply what she had coming to her.

And, that makes me sad.

What doesn’t make me sad is the realization that she never let that expectation stop her from both starting, and seeing projects through to completion, even when interrupted by the frequent checks that momentarily discouraged her.

Like a dog worrying a particularly tough bone, her surrender was nearly always short-lived. Even if it took hours of concentration and exploration of alternatives, she would eventually crack the problem open to savor the sweet taste of success.

Funny. We all experience the momentary setbacks. The disappointment of plans gone awry is common to every one of us.

Every one of us. Our Savior promised us trouble in this world. (John 16:33)

It’s not personal.

Maybe, it’s time to get past the par for the course thinking and get on with finishing the blanket.

Or whatever task God has put in front of us.

We’ll take pride in the result. Even if it’s not what we envisioned to begin with.

We tackle our problems head-on and finish the job.

And, that is the story of our lives.

A bend in the road is not the end of the road. Unless you fail to make the turn.
(Helen Keller ~ Deaf & blind American author/lecturer ~ 1880-1968)

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
(John 16:33 ~ NIV)

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
(Psalm 23:6a ~ KJV)

We were deep in conversation today, my friend and I, when we were interrupted. I wasn’t optimistic that the break would be that profitable.

Usually when folks bring in old violins, they leave disappointed.

I can’t count the number of times the old fiddles have been carried through my door, many of them, cradled gingerly like a precious treasure that would shatter if anyone breathed on it.

It belonged to (fill in the blank—Grandpa, Uncle John, my old neighbor…), and we’re sure it’s a Stradivarius.

It never has been. A Stradivarius, that is. Ever.

I have disillusioned more people with my appraisals of violins than any other instrument. Unfortunately, the world is full of fakes and imitations. A name written on a label is no guarantee of authenticity.

I have even learned to soften the blow by lowering expectations from the start. Today was no exception.

“It’s almost certainly not made by Stradivarius.”

It turns out I didn’t need to make it any easier of this couple. They knew exactly who the maker was. This one hadn’t only belonged to Uncle John. It had been made by him.

I should have known that their expectations were not the same as many others by the way they carried the instrument. It wasn’t even in a case and they certainly weren’t handling it with kid gloves.

They didn’t want me to tell them they could retire on the proceeds from the sale. Far from it. These folks wanted me to confirm that the violin was no more than a wall-hanger, suitable for display on a wall in their den.

Wouldn’t you know it? I was going to disappoint them, too.

I examined the instrument and was amazed at the quality. The solid spruce top was well-proportioned and carved expertly. There were no imperfections to be seen. The beautiful hand-rubbed finish glowed in the light.

Flipping the violin over, I gazed at a wonderful flamed maple back, again perfectly proportioned and without a flaw to be seen. The joints were tight and uniform, the structure sound as could be.

A well-shaped neck and scroll atop it completed the picture. It was a fine violin.

I was confused.

“Your uncle made this instrument? And, you think it’s not going to be playable? Why?”

The couple explained that the uncle had actually been a lawyer who never played a violin in his life, either before or after making the violin. He had made one violin just to prove it could be done. Then he built eleven or twelve others.

No one knew where the others were, nor if they were good instruments or not. Because he was not a musician, they assumed he had failed in proving his point, so were going to mount the violin-shaped object in a frame and save it for posterity as a piece of art.

I objected.

This was as fine an amateur-built instrument as I have ever seen. There was absolutely no reason—none whatsoever—for it not to be played.

I even took the time to tune the strings, which were horribly out of adjustment. Sliding the tilting bridge into place and tightening the pegs to the correct tension, I then found a bow and drew it over the strings.

My friend, who had been sitting quietly through the episode, exclaimed suddenly. He couldn’t help himself.

“Astounding!”

It was, too.

The voice of the instrument was exquisite. Like the maker, I don’t play the fiddle, but I know how to tune one and even my inept fumbling with the bow on the strings produced a tone unlike any that normally proceeds from most of the cheap, student instruments which come through my business.

The full-bodied tone left nothing to be desired. Nothing at all. Beautiful clear treble pitches and deep, booming bass notes emanated from the instrument instantly. Nobody in the room had any question about it.

This instrument isn’t a piece of art to be hung on a wall! In the right hands, it will make music that all listening will easily recognize as art, instead.

It is not a Stradivarius, nor is it worth a million dollars. It is a fine family heirloom which will hopefully be played by one of the maker’s descendants, proving every naysayer who ever doubted the lawyer’s ability to build a quality instrument completely wrong.

Moments before the couple walked in, my friend had asked the rhetorical question, “What am I giving to God?”

He and I are both reaching our senior years, the realization that time is growing short consuming our thoughts. An old friend died suddenly last night of a heart attack, and that weighed heavily on me as we spoke of the urgency.

In our conversation, we had talked about stepping out, not knowing what the end result would be—not even necessarily knowing what we were being asked to do. It’s as uncomfortable a thing to do as I can think of.

But, as the couple walked out of the door, cradling the instrument as if it would shatter if anyone breathed on it, we looked at each other in disbelief. Both of us smiled as the lesson of the non-musician luthier hit home.

It can’t be done!

Stick with what you know!

Really? Did you ever notice it seems that God purposely took people who had done other things and used them in ways they never thought possible? Shepherds, fishermen, tent makers, tradesmen trained for a lifetime of performing specific tasks—He gave them responsibilities which in no way resembled those earlier vocations.

To Abraham—Go to a land that I will show you. (Genesis 12:1)
To Noah—Build an ark. (Genesis 6:14)
To Moses—Go tell Pharaoh to let My people go. (Exodus 8:1)
To Peter—Upon this rock will I build my church. (Matthew 16:18)

I was reluctant to give my friend advice today. God puts inside each of us His dream, His direction. It’s a dangerous thing for another person to give counsel that contradicts that.

If that violin I looked at today is any indication, it’s also a little foolish.

Sometimes we have to follow God, even when people around us don’t understand.

My friend says he’s got things to do. Maybe it’s time for me to get moving, as well.

I wonder. I’ve never built a violin.

You?

Then the Lord said to him, “Who has made man’s mouth? Who makes him mute, or deaf, or seeing, or blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Now therefore go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall speak.”
(Exodus 4:11-12 ~ ESV)

Those who say it can’t be done are usually interrupted by others doing it.
(James A Baldwin ~ American essayist/novelist ~ 1924-1987)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

The Story of My Life

The Instrument