hope

Die when I may, I want it said by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. *

The boy had hope written across his smiling face.

Hope is a beautiful thing, especially in a child. It animates and motivates, forging dreams for the future. I love the beauty hope generates in young folks.

Hope is not something I enjoy dashing on the rocks of reality. The results can be ugly. I don’t love ugly.

This had all the earmarks of ugly.

His father, having told me he was trying to teach his son the trade of picking—of buying used objects for a small amount of money and flipping them for more money, asked me to advise the boy.

The hopeful young man handed me a clarinet-shaped object. By that, I mean the long black piece of plastic with metal keys attached had been a clarinet in another life. No longer.

It was unplayable, with bent keys and broken springs. The pads, the life source for a woodwind instrument, had long ago deteriorated and crumbled away to dust, leaving no way for the individual notes to sound.

A re-pad job on a clarinet would cost more than the price this sad instrument could ever bring. The other issues—bent keys and broken springs—would only drive the potential investment in the old horn up into the stratosphere.

As I examined the instrument, my dismay showing on my features, the hopeful face of the boy that peered into mine changed perceptibly. He steeled himself for the bad news he sensed was coming. I glanced into his eyes and saw the unhappiness there.

What a disaster!

I wondered—for a moment—if I should tell him a fib, a white lie. Just a little one—for his own good. I would save his pride and give him hope for another day.

“It’s a fine clarinet, but I’m not buying them right now. You might check at another store. They may need it worse than I do.”

Can’t you just hear me? For him. I would be saying the words to save him the pain of failure.

I didn’t say those words. That would have been the easy way out for me, too. But sooner or later, the boy would have to face two different truths: First, his investment was not going to bear fruit. Second, the hateful old shop owner lied to him.

I won’t lie.

Gently, I began to speak to him about what makes a clarinet play and what gives it value. Pointing out the catastrophic defects in his instrument, I explain why it would not make sense to repair the horn.

He is disappointed. Horribly disappointed.

But, he wants to learn. Asking questions, he probes my store of knowledge so he will make better choices the next time. I happily share what I know, taking time from my workday tasks to aid him. We make comparisons with functioning instruments. We talk about the need for knowledge about the brands of horns and of the importance of a good carrying case.

As he prepares to leave, he reaches out to shake my hand, his tiny one dwarfed by mine. His father follows suit, expressing his gratitude for my time and my willingness to share. He mentions a sacrifice on my part to help the young man, and I wave aside the thought. There is nothing to what I have done, I suggest.

Suddenly, I remember why I do this—why I have done it for a lifetime.

The opportunity to plant seeds far exceeds the objective of making a profit.

Oh, I need to make a profit to keep my doors open, but the reward of seeing the eyes of that young man when he left—no longer just full of hope, but also bright with the pride that comes from being treated with respect—no money in the world could ever purchase that.

Some would say the loving thing would have been to let him keep his dream alive—the dream of making money on that instrument. Some today even suggest that speaking hard truth in the face of error is hateful.

I wonder which is more loving: Is it to dash his immediate hope as his expectation for the future is built up and he is equipped to meet that future, or is it to keep quiet and let him believe a lie?

The boy will return, of that I am sure. The day may come when he has learned the lesson taught him today so well that he is a threat to my own livelihood. I smile at the thought, enjoying the expectation of his success.

Weeds are uprooted—seeds of hope planted in their place. What better task could I have? What more reward could I ask?

How does your garden grow?

These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another; render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace.
(Zechariah 8:16 ~ ESV)

Anyone who doesn’t take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either.
(Albert Einstein ~ German born theoretical scientist ~ 1879-1955)

* (Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

What a day!

It had been a beautiful time–the stuff of dreams for the skinny boy. Twelve years old, he was on his first real camp out. The two-hour ride to the lake in the back of the old pickup truck wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it might sound. Besides, Mr. Bell had the foresight to find a place about halfway to the campsite where the group of Junior High boys could play a game of basketball in an old dilapidated gymnasium.

When they reached the lake, the tattered old tent was erected quickly as all of the eight or so boys and their two leaders pitched in. The tent had seen a lot of these trips over the years Mr. Bell had given his time for groups just like these boys. They didn’t care. It looked perfect to them.

That job complete, they grabbed their cheap Zebco spinning rods and reels from the floor of the truck and headed down to the lake to see what they could catch for supper.

The skinny kid chewed on the stem of a match as he cast his hook out again. All he had snagged so far was a tiny bream or two, and he wasn’t about to keep them. The rest of the boys had about the same luck, but still, there were a couple of perch caught worth keeping.

They weren’t worried about starving. The cooler packed with hot dogs was back at camp, along with the makings for S’mores. Even the boys who couldn’t stand the taste of fish were assured of having a decent meal. There were a couple dozen eggs in the cooler, too. Breakfast would come, in time.

“Time to head back up to camp, boys!” The big voice from Mr Bell, himself a big man, echoed across the lake.

From all along the shore, the boys groaned, but they dutifully wound up their lines and headed for the tent and a hot meal. Before that could happen, there was a fire to be built and even a couple of fish to be cleaned.

The skinny kid wearing the horn-rimmed glasses knew how to clean fish, so he volunteered to help while the others gathered kindling and firewood. Scraping scales and removing the unneeded parts of the perch would be messy work, so he took the match from between his teeth and dropped it into his pocket. It would be safe there.

He finished his part of the job before the others began returning with the makings for the fire, so he headed up the trail toward the restrooms. Not that the boy was all that fastidious, but fishy hands needed to be washed. Even he couldn’t eat with hands covered with scales and. . . Well, you get the picture.

He approached the little wooden structure and, finding a young bat with its wings spread clinging to one of the window screens, spent a few minutes trying to coax it into flight with a long sprig from a nearby mesquite tree. It wouldn’t budge, so finally he just found the water faucet and washed up in the cold water.

Clean again and drying his hands on his tee shirt, he headed back down, realizing as he did that the wind off the lake had picked up quite a bit. It was unusual for the month of June, causing him to shiver a little as he felt the cool gusts in his face.

No matter. The fire would be going soon. They would be warm enough.

The boy arrived at the campsite just in time to hear Mr. Bell ask the question.

“Well, now what do we do? Does anybody else have matches?”

The situation was immediately clear to the lad. Someone had forgotten to check the match supply. When the box was opened, only three of the sulphur and pine fire-starters were to be found.

“No problem,” Mr. Bell had said. “It only takes one.”

He had lit the match and then shoved it down toward the newspaper wadded among the kindling. The wind snuffed it out on the way down. The second followed, with the same result.

Carefully shielding the third and last match in his hand and keeping it right next to the paper, he managed to get the flaring flame to light the edge. Still shielding the blazing kindling, he waited a moment before backing away. A gust of wind puffed the flame out in that instant.

“Anybody?” The big voice was almost plaintive as Mr. Bell repeated the word. “A match?”

The skinny boy clamped his mouth shut. He said not one word about the match in his pocket. Not a word.

Two things kept him quiet. The first thing was a little silly. But, not to him, it wasn’t.

The match was his. His. And, nobody else’s.

What’s that? Selfish, was it? Sure. But, he wasn’t wrong. It was his. Besides that, the second thing wasn’t silly at all. Well, maybe a little silly, but again, not to him.

He needed that match. In case.

In case what?

Duh! If he was starving, he could light a fire to cook something. If he was freezing, he could get warm. If he was lost in the wilderness, he could build a signal fire to attract attention.

His. His last match.

If they used that match and it blew out, all hope would be gone. No chance of a fire over which to cook, nor to be warmed by. As long as it remained unlit, he had hope.

No fire, but hope.

They ate cold hotdogs and chocolate bars with whole marshmallows that night. There were no fried eggs for breakfast the next morning either. Bread and apples slices. That was what the shivering boys ate before they broke camp to head back home.

The skinny kid kept the match in his pocket all the way home.

Silly, huh? Dumb twelve-year-old kid.

What adult would think like that? Why would anyone keep quiet about a treasure they had hidden which could be of value to others?

What good is hope if a person never bothers to put it to the test?

When I write, there is usually no dearth of words to make my point. The narrative complete, I always have a moral to offer. Tonight should be no different.

But, I don’t want to fill the page with more words.

You see, the twelve-year old kid still lives in me.

Maybe, it’s time to light the match and see what happens.

“But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him?”
(I John 3:17 ~ NASB)

“One who cannot cast away a treasure at need is in fetters.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ English author/poet ~ 1892-1973)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Plucking Thistles

Light the Match!