I’ve spent more than enough time the last few days living inside my head.  The passing of a friend—whose loss looms larger all the while I consider our experiences together—has darkened my thoughts more than a little.

Still, contemplation of life and its losses—along with its great gifts—is never time wasted.  Never wasted that is, unless the time doesn’t come to an end with a declaration of resolve and renewed direction.  If that doesn’t happen, we simply remain where we are, frozen in place.  I don’t think I can be content to stay in the past, or even in this place of quiet reflection.

All of life is movement, isn’t it?  Or, it should be.

Movement and change.

So, onward!

I sat, in my melancholy mood, this evening and listened to music as I contemplated the week past.  Quiet classical music played on my Spotify station.  It helps me relax without intruding.  On most nights.

Tonight though, I suddenly found myself thinking about the house I grew up in. The red-headed lady who raised me was there, sitting in her easy chair wielding a crochet hook while she pulled yarn from a skein in the basket beside her.  The Christian station played on the radio sitting nearby.  A man’s resonant baritone voice emanated from the speaker.

Nightsounds.  That was the name of the program.  Mom listened to it most nights from 11:30 to midnight.  I know; your mom didn’t stay up that late, but mine did.  Nearly every night.  So did I.

So do I.

Nightsounds?  Now, where did that come from?  Oh yes!  I looked at my monitor and saw that the song playing was Beau Soir by Claude Debussy (published in 1891).  For many years, Beau Soir was Bill Pierce’s theme music for the late-night program of contemplative music and quiet wisdom.

I haven’t listened to or thought about that radio program since the late 1970s—almost fifty years ago now.  But on this night, just a few measures into the music, my mind was transported to those days, to the time spent and lessons learned at my mother’s side.

She was a woman who lived her faith, never wavering, not even when her mind was stolen away in her last years by dementia.  I have written before of one of my last memories of her—sharing a hymnal and singing songs of God’s love.

I’ve done my best to stay true to the faith of my mother, following the tenets of the Word of God.  I even still treasure much of the music I learned to love as a child—classical, choral, songs of faith.

But, that brings me back to earlier today.  Something that happened, seemingly not connected, yet perhaps connected, after all.

I got the note from my neighbor while I was at the grocery store.

“Your mailbox is on the ground. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

It was.  On the ground.  When I left to go shopping with the Lovely Lady, it had been on the post, as sturdy as you please.

When I got home, I could plainly see the tire marks in the mud leading directly toward the post that stood there, sans mailbox, which was lying in the grass.

I knew who the tracks belonged to.  I even took photos of the damage and of the tire marks.  That driver was going to hear from me!  The driver’s boss was going to hear from me!

It’s important to take responsibility for our actions.  It is.

My mother taught me that, as did my father.  They would have contacted the company and reported the transgression.  The wrongdoer should be made to answer for his actions.  He needs to do better!

I looked at the photos I had taken.  I looked at the mailbox lying on the ground before me.  Resentment grew rapidly.  As I thought about the effort and resources I had expended a couple of years ago when I replaced the post, cementing it into place, and affixing the mailbox atop it, my indignation mounted almost exponentially moment by moment.

Do the right thing! 

It was what I was taught.  I would only be honoring my mother and father.

Do you know what I did?

No.  Not that.

I put my phone away and, going to my workbench, gathered up the tools necessary to return the mailbox to its perch.  Finding a scrap piece of one-by-six, I cut it to length and, removing the old screws and broken mount, fastened it into place before setting the mailbox in position. Four more screws were all it took to finish the job.  It didn’t cost me a penny.

The entire job took half an hour.  Well, three-quarters of an hour if you count the lovely conversation I had with my neighbors across the street, an opportunity I don’t have as often as I’d like.

Then, I deleted the photos from my phone.

Even now, as I sit at my desk, I can look out the window and see the mailbox.  There is a sense of accomplishment, of satisfaction at a job well done.  The animosity, the annoyance toward that faceless driver is gone—completely disappeared.

And, as I sat tonight listening to the beautiful music, I thought of another way in which I honor my mother and father.  Even though they are gone from this life, years past.

I certainly honor them by remembering the tenets they taught me.  I even honor them by following their example in putting those lessons into practice.

But more than that, I honor them when I see ways those tenets can be applied more appropriately—and then do that in love and grace.

I hope you don’t think that I imagine I have earned any praise for this.  What I’ve described is nothing more than an old man, nearly seven decades old, finally—finally—beginning to grasp the idea of “forgiving those who trespass against us.”  (Matthew 6:12)

Finally learning to sit with the Teacher as He writes in the dust and says quietly, “Let him who is without sin throw the first stone.” (John 8:7)

Finally listening—and actually hearing—as the Apostle asks, “Why not rather be wronged?  Why not rather be cheated?” (1 Corinthians 6:7)

And, I’m only beginning.  When it’s nearly too late.  But, not too late yet.

I’m still alive.  And, as Sam Gamgee’s old Gaffer used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

I reminded my son earlier that it is every parent’s dream for his children to learn from him/her and then do better than they did.  Because the right thing is what Jesus would do.  Not what your parents do, or did.

I wish I could be like my namesake, the Apostle, who suggested that his readers could confidently follow his example, as he followed Christ’s.  I wish.

But, we learn.  And grow. Together.

Walking each other home.  Honoring each other as we go.

Spreading grace and mercy freely along the way.

It is what He would do.

“I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.”
(Abraham Lincoln)

“God blesses those who are merciful,
    for they will be shown mercy.”
(Matthew 5:7, NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.