grace

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. 

No Goodbyes

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m about done here.  Gave my notice this week.”

My jazz-playing friend slipped the momentous news in between the discussion of his guitar amplifier’s deficiencies and a question about some sheet music.

I almost missed it.

“Let me check on that title and we’ll get it printed for…  Wait!  What?”

Ten years I’ve known the man.  Ten years ago, he was temporarily relocated here with dozens of folks when Hurricane Katrina hit his little city in southern Louisiana.  After a few months, most of the others went back home to New Orleans.  He decided to stay.

Now, Atlanta calls.  People like jazz there.  Enough to pay a living wage to the musicians who love playing it. 

He is leaving.  By the end of the month.  For good.

I didn’t take the news well.  He wants me to be happy for him.  I am. 

It’s me I’m sad for.

I hate goodbye.

Funny.  I knew his stay here was temporary from the start.  We were always going to say goodbye. 

Someday.

Just not today. Or this week.  Or even this month.

It’s easy to get carried away by the weight of a word.  This one just has so much packed into it. 

Goodbye.

Goodbye is what we say when fathers and brothers (and not a few mothers and soldiersgoodbyesisters) go off to war, many never to return.  Goodbye is what we breathe as we watch the over-packed car pull out of the driveway with our child on his or her way to college.  Goodbye is what we sob when the casket is closed on the face of someone we loved more than anyone else in this world.

Goodbye.

As a child, I once thought if I didn’t actually say the word goodbye, the separation wouldn’t happen.  Voila!  Problem solved!

Except, it didn’t work. 

I missed the departure of my grandparents one Fall day when I tested my theory.  Knowing it was the morning they would pull out dragging their gleaming, space-age Airstream trailer behind the old 1965 Pontiac Catalina, I simply went out to the field and hid.

Funny.  Goodbye happens whether we say the word, or not.  They were gone, and I missed it.  I missed them.

Goodbye happens.  We’re only here temporarily.  Every one of us.  One day, I’ll say my final goodbye, too. 

That’s odd. 

Final goodbye.  The last one.  For all of eternity.

If, like me, you believe there is more–and I’m sure there is–you’ll understand the impact of that statement.

Not one more goodbye.  Not one.

All tears wiped away.  No more death.  No mourning, no crying, no pain.

But, not every person we know will be there.  Unlike the pap being fed to this world by the deceiver, there is no hope that anyone could ever experience it without the grace our Savior purchased as He died for us.  The free gift is offered, but it must be accepted.

I sometimes wonder if we’ll miss those who have chosen to follow a different path, rejecting the grace of a God who hates goodbyes just as much as we do.  Perhaps those will be the tears–the last ones shed–He will wipe away from our eyes.

What a day!  What a reunion.  And what a multitude of hellos.

My friend is still leaving this month.  I am still sad.

I hate goodbye.

 

 

 

…but if you have been – if you’ve been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you – you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing is ever going to happen again.
(from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

 

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ ESV)

 

 

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

 

Got an extra 3 minutes?  You could do worse than to spend them listening to Selah’s version of God Be With You.  Beautiful song with powerful imagery!

http://https://youtu.be/1fqu1ee5QNM

Misdemeanors

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She carried thousands of them. And by thousands, I mean more than twenty.

That big old suitcase of a purse had everything in it. Kleenex, on the off-chance a bloody nose should need immediate attention (hey–it had been known to happen) or even for the occasional tear that might dare to escape from the corner of a little boy’s eye. Band-aids for scraped knees–a virtual certainty–and pricked fingers. Scissors, nail clippers, maps, Bible, suntan lotion (no sunscreen back then), pens, pencils, notepad. . .Well, you get the idea.

The object she carried by the thousands though (or more than twenty–whichever), was a round silver thing with ridges around the circumference. That red-headed lady who raised me carried plenty of quarters for any eventuality. 

Lunch money? Get a couple of quarters. Sunday School offering? Pull out a quarter. A stop at the gas station for a few gallons of gas? Four of them would put four gallons in the tank, enough to get around town for another week.

Mom carried quarters. The gargantuan purse’s weight without them? I have no idea. It would have felt feather-light to her if it had ever happened. It never did.

I knew better than to dig through Mom’s purse on my own. If a dig through was called for, she did it herself. I never took a quarter from Mom’s purse. Never.

Did I also mention she kept thousands of quarters on her dresser in her bedroom? No? She did. I think they were the reinforcements for the purse, should it ever feel lighter than normal.

Is it pretty clear where this is headed? Well, let me get right to the point.

I am a thief. 

Was.

Am.

Again and again–I cringe as I write the words–and again, I crept into my Paul-Charles_Chocarne-Moreau_The_Cunning_Thiefparent’s bedroom at times when I was sure their attention was on other things–preparing dinner, hanging laundry on the line, changing the oil in the car–and I slipped a quarter into my pocket. A quarter bought a coke in those days. Or, even a play on the pinball machine in the convenience store. Important stuff.

Never more than one at a time did I steal. I convinced myself that it was not as bad as taking two. Or four. Or ten.

No mention was ever made of the missing money. None. But, the red-headed woman knew. She knew.

It was fifty years ago. And still I know myself to be a thief.

Was.

Am.

In the present day, I would never steal from anyone knowingly. Folks leave items at my business–nice things–and I find ways to contact them. I realize a customer has been overcharged and I make sure they get their money back. To a fault, I ensure unhappy folks are compensated. I never want to cheat or steal from a single person again.

I’m not sure how we manage to convince ourselves, but we can certainly fool ourselves, can’t we? I’m not a thief anymore! With Tolkien’s Faramir, I can say, “Not if I found it on the highway would I take it!”

Was.

Yeah. 

Am.

You see, stealing is about recognizing who the proper owner of anything is and not taking that thing for ourselves.

Anything.

This is not the time for me to make a list of the things I have stolen just in the last 24 hours. The reader will probably find enough to make his or her own list. It may or may not be longer than mine.

The man limped out of the rain and into my store this morning. I had work to do and was already behind schedule. He needed to talk about important things. Needed to. I grudgingly gave him five minutes of my time and sent him on his way with my variation of go in peace; be warm and be fed.

Recently, I wrote boldly of knowing that nothing I have is my own. The opportunity to serve was not my own. The time was not my own. I am a thief.

Was.

Am.

My Creator has, in His bag, thousands of such opportunities. How many have I sneaked in and stolen, to waste on myself? How many minutes, one at a time, have I slipped into my own pocket?

Let me be clear. I am not legalistically suggesting we cannot have leisure time. It is clear we were created in such a way that rest and recreation is a prerequisite for physical and spiritual health.

The minutes and opportunities I am suggesting have been stolen and squandered do not, by any stretch of the imagination, fit into the category of leisure time.

I knew when I hurried the man out the door, I had not fulfilled my responsibility to him.  I knew, and I sent him away. I am a thief.

Was.

Am.

Ah! But, grace. . .

Was.

 

 

 

“Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.'”
Luke 23: 42, 43 ~ NIV)

 

 

“Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.”
(J.K.Rowling ~ British novelist)

 

 

 

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

The Whole World Smells Clean

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

You make the whole world smell clean.

I smiled at the Lovely Lady as I entered the room, amused at my own wit, and tickled at the confused look she gave me as she raised her eyes from the needlework in her hands.  The clothes dryer rumbling monotonously back in the laundry room should have given her a clue to my puzzle, but she didn’t have the patience (or inclination) to work it out for herself.

Almost exasperated, she shot the question at me.  “Whatever are you talking about?”

I laughed and explained. 

Just moments before, as I walked along the sidewalk behind the house, my senses had detected the aroma, a combination of laundry soap and scented dryer sheets.  It reminded me, not unpleasantly, of clean things—hands freshly washed, babies after a bath, clean towels after a hot shower.

The world doesn’t always remind me of such wholesome things.

Frequently, I run on the jogging path beside the local sewer treatment plant.  It’s not at all the same. 

The highway alongside the livestock sale barn on sale day?  Yeah.  Not the same either.

Sometimes, the world around us stinks to high heaven.

But, on wash day? 

On wash day the back yard at my house is, literally, a breath of fresh air.  The dryer vent on the back wall of the house fills the atmosphere in the vicinity with the smell of freshly cleaned clothes being tumbled dry.

What’s that? 

It’s just hot air that’s been blown over the clothes to dry them?  It’s merely what happens on any ordinary wash day? 

Sure it is.  I never said it wasn’t.

I just said she makes the whole world smell clean.

farm-490128_640As I write, my thoughts are transported back over many miles and more than a few years.  I’m still in a back yard and that clean smell is in the air.  But this time, I’m surrounded on all sides by sheets and shirts, along with various other articles of clothing. 

As I wander down one row and up another of the freshly laundered fabrics hanging on the clothes line, I marvel at the difference, not only in the air, but also the clothes themselves.

Moments ago the shirts were filthy, stinking rags.  The fishing trip the other day was just the start.  Hours of playing in the sun—riding bikes, chasing lizards, even climbing trees—had all taken their toll on the material.  Dirt, fish debris, sweat, and perhaps even a little blood were all hopelessly embedded in the garments. 

Now?  Even the air around them smells clean.

This—this is a mystery.

Things that once were dirty and smelly now perfume the air around them. 

How is that possible?  If I found a piece of clothing in that condition by the side of the road, I would either pass it by or throw it away. 

Useless trash!

But someone, realizing the value (probably because they were the ones who had paid the price) of that garment, made the effort and spent the time to bring it back to pristine condition.  The aroma emanating from the freshly laundered clothes was simply a by-product of the process.

It has, by now, become obvious that we’re not just talking about clothes anymore, hasn’t it?

Mercy picks the filthy rags up out of the gutter, while Grace washes them clean.  The just washed aroma of joy makes the whole world around smell clean.

Once it did, anyway.

I stop and think about that for a moment.

I want to go on and speak of responsibilities and activities.  I want to shake a finger under noses and wonder where others went wrong.  I have blame to place and shame to impart.

Perhaps, I should pass.

Somehow, the air in my vicinity isn’t as fresh as I remember it.

It seems that it may be time for another visit to the laundry room. 

As I recall, King David had to make that trip more than once.  He asked for a clean heart and for a right spirit to be renewed inside of him.  Knowing the result would be the joy that spread to others, he begged to be washed again.  It’s all there in Psalm 51, if you don’t believe it.

I’d like to influence the world around me like that, too.  Every day. 

I have no question about my salvation.  The grace of God ensures that.  My problem is I don’t always act out that grace in my life.  Forgetting who He has made me, I stink up the place—just like filthy rags.

I like wash days.

He makes the whole world smell clean.

 Clean.

 

 

Behave so the aroma of your actions may enhance the general sweetness of the atmosphere.
(Henry David Thoreau ~ American essayist ~ 1817-1862)

 

 

He saved us, not because of the righteous things we had done, but because of His mercy.  He washed away our sins, giving us a new birth and new life through the Holy Spirit.
(Titus 3:5 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015, 2016. All Rights Reserved.