Winding Paths

January 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve believed it for a long time. I’ve even used the illustration myself before.

I’m not so sure anymore.

The boy learning to plow tries his hand at running the tractor. Completing his first row, he turns back proudly to view the result of his effort only to see a wobbly, wandering furrow.

You’ve heard it before, of course. If you’ve read enough of my writing, you know how much I love a moral. There’s definitely a moral to this one.

Eyes on the prize.

Somehow, I’m not sure this one is as clear-cut as it used to be.

The old farmer takes the wheel of the tractor and turns it around, suggesting to the lad that he needs to keep his eye on the goal. Pick a landmark far ahead and steer a course straight toward that. Don’t look at the ground; focus on the target. He plows a straight furrow every time.

Long term goals.

We revere men of straight paths. Focused on their destination, they move steadily in the same direction, never faltering, ever resolute.

Is there such a man? Perhaps. I have thought I knew some, but I’ve been disappointed before. We live in a world of distractions. Even the most focused human is bound to falter, maybe even to veer off the path, given the right diversion.

We make idols of men, believing a lie.

Only one Man lived a faithful life of purpose, never faltering from His purpose.

True, He’s the one we follow. Still, we take wrong turns. We misplace our resolve.

I spoke with a friend today, sadly relating my experience of watching a life lived in a straight line for many years, only to see it veer off on a incredible tangent just as the person neared the goal. So close—close and yet so very far.

A long obedience in the same direction, only to disappoint as the prize was within their grasp.

I wonder. Is there something wrong with the assumption that a straight line is the only way this following thing works?

When the Teacher told them to follow Him, was He asking those men to pick a target way out in the future, at the very end of their life and aim for that? I somehow don’t think that was what He had in mind. He didn’t ask them to pledge their lifelong service

He just said, “Follow me.”

That’s it. Follow.

I don’t have to know where the end of the road is. I don’t have to worry about interchanges and alternate routes before I get there. I’m not a navigator.

A follower, that’s what I am. I’m not that good at it, but it’s all I’ve ever claimed to be.

It seems that we want to set our sights on the straight-liners, the ones who stride along, head held high, secure in the knowledge they are on the right road. If we do, we’ll be disappointed nearly every time.

We weren’t called to follow them.

We’re only called to follow the One who faithfully followed His Father. Every step. (John 15:10)

Probably, the furrow He plowed would not have appeared to be a straight one to any onlookers. Certainly, it wasn’t to the religious leaders of that day. They knew the right path. Knew it.

But, they didn’t recognize the one He walked. He stopped in at too many parties, got caught in too many storms at sea, and touched too many lepers. Surely, this one couldn’t be following God!

We can’t be sure how straight the road will be from here on out. I don’t think we need to be worried about it.

If we stick close, we’ll be able to make the sharp turns when He does.

We may not stride in with head held high. But stumbling in with head hanging, knowing we followed all the way will be enough.

Oh. We should probably be ready to make a detour or two to visit a sick friend—or check on that fellow in jail.

The path is not all that straight, after all.

Then Jesus said to His disciples, “If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me.
(Matthew 16:24 ~ NASB)

All the way my Savior leads me,
Cheers each winding path I tread,
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living bread.
(Fanny J Crosby ~ American hymn-writer ~ 1820-1915)

Painting the Dirt

September 8, 2015September 8, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Dust are our frames, and, gilded dust our pride.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ 19th century British poet)

The newlyweds moved into the little two bedroom frame house and began to learn about life together. They laughed. They cried. They argued—a little. They cried some more.

Mostly, they laughed.

Sometimes, all they had to do to find something to laugh about was to look across the lane to a tiny house just like theirs. The elderly lady who lived there was a nice neighbor, as friendly as they could hope for, but she had a strange habit.

She dusted her yard. With a dust mop.

They laughed and wondered what possible benefit there could be to dusting one’s yard. Now, nearly forty years later, the young man (who is growing old) wishes he had asked the lady herself. Well? Who wouldn’t wonder why she dusted the lawn?

It doesn’t make much sense, does it? The yard was just dirt and grass, and more dirt than it was grass.

He has some questions still:

How would one know when the job is completed?

Is it a job which must be done daily? Weekly?

Would the neighbors notice if the job were left undone?

He’ll never know the answer to his questions since the dear lady has been in Heaven many years now. But, the couple still laughs when the seemingly useless task comes to mind. Surely it was a complete waste of her time.

It’s a futile thing to do, dusting dust.

Kind of like painting tombs, isn’t it?

The Teacher laughed at the old men with their paint brushes. The graves of His day weren’t much like ours. Caves and hollows in the hillsides, covered with stones to keep out the varmints and grave-robbers—that was all they were. No amount of paint could quell the stench that wafted to passersby.

Whoa! I wonder what died!

I say it to myself frequently as I ride my bicycle in ever-widening circuits around our little town, especially along the narrow country lanes. I can’t see the culprits, but I can certainly smell the odor left behind by death. Skunks, raccoons, o’possums, even the occasional armadillo—all add their noxious fumes to the fresh country air.

I wonder if the white-wash on the stones over the grave openings fooled anyone back then. I’m thinking not many were hoodwinked into thinking there was anything desirable under that big white rock.

Dust mops and paint brushes are useful tools. For the right purpose.

The high-school-aged boy lugged the heavy black case in from the parking lot last week. He seemed a little embarrassed to be bringing the huge instrument into the music store.

“Could you get me a lyre to fit this tuba?” he asked. “I bought one the other day, but it’s the wrong shape.”

I laughed humorlessly. It is a problem I have struggled with for many years. I never seem to remember the essentials from year to year, though.

I pulled out a long, straight brass-looking lyre from the appropriate location.

“Give me a minute. I’ll make it work.”

They say pride goes before a fall. They are right.

I put the tail of the music holder into my vise and pushed on the other end of it, bending it in the approximate direction I knew it needed to go.

Snap!

The long rod, a foot long just a moment ago, was now only eight inches long.

That can’t be right! Brass is soft and bends easily! How could I break it so quickly?

You already know the answer, don’t you?

It’s not made of brass—only covered with brass plating. Underneath? Pot metal. Cheap trashy metal made from a mixture of soft metallic substances, cast into the shape of a costlier steel and then plated to be appealing to buyers.

Whisking the dust away from dirt doesn’t make it any cleaner.

Painting a stinking grave doesn’t make it any less offensive.

Plating pot metal gives it no additional strength whatsoever.

Dust are our frames,…

Lord Tennyson understood the premise. Who would argue that we are, indeed, dust? Even those white-washed graves can’t keep our bodies from returning to their beginnings. Eventually.

And yet, here we stand—arrogant things—boasting of who we are and what we have done. Merely dirt, yet we would have anyone else believe there is no longer any residual dirt underneath the decorated surface.

…and, gilded dust our pride.

Gilding causes the article it covers to appear as pure gold. Pure gold!

There is a test for gold, just as bending will show the difference between brass and pot metal. The test for gold?

Job knew the answer to that. And, when He has tried me, I shall come forth as pure gold.

Through the fire, the mettle of the whole piece will be known.

I’m not sure I’m ready for the fire. Yet.

I want to be. I want to be sure that I will prove to be pure gold, just like Job.

But, I’m confident there are a fair number of refinements which will need to happen first.

I want to be ready for the fire.

We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.
(from The Breakfast Club ~ American movie ~ 1985)

Now if any man builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw, each man’s work will become evident; for the day will show it because it is to be revealed with fire, and the fire itself will test the quality of each man’s work.
(I Corinthians 3:12,13 ~ NASB)

Robbery

August 28, 2015August 28, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Twice. In two days.

Twice in two days, I did good things. Because they were in front of me to do. And, like a student who has memorized his lessons well, I knew what must be done.

Love your neighbor as yourself.

“Twenty dollars. It needs more, but I’ll fix just the one thing to make it play.”

He had no more money to invest and I could help by giving the instrument a lick and a promise, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say. Only, as I did the repair, it became evident that the minimum that could actually be done was a sixty dollar job. It would never play otherwise.

I had promised to make it play. I would do that. And, I would cover the difference.

I was proud of myself. I had memorized the lesson and followed its instructions to the letter.

He came to pick up the instrument. I mentioned that I had to do more. I might have even told him I did three times as much. I waited for his gratitude to bubble over. Surely he would at least shake my hand and thank me.

“I don’t know why I’m spending this money anyway. She’ll probably not play it at all.”

With that, he was gone.

Robbed! I’ve been robbed!

No, not of money. I’ve been robbed of the gratitude that should have been mine. Where is my praise for being such a good person? That’s it? A word of complaint and he walks out?

I want what is rightfully mine!

Truly I say to you—they have their reward in full.

The next morning, a vehicle pulled up to the store. The folks took care of their business and left. No. Scratch that. They tried to leave. The vehicle wouldn’t start. It was out of gas.

Hey! Another chance! I bolted to the storage barn and pulled out my gas can. It was nearly empty, but there should be enough to get them a block down the road for gas. I told them to use it all. No—I don’t need any money. I’m just glad I can help.

Unfortunately, after they poured all that was in the can in their tank, the car still wouldn’t start, so they sent someone up the road with the now-empty can to fill it up and bring it back. I needed to take care of other customers, so I told them they could just leave the can in the storage barn when they were through.

What do you suppose they did? Well—not what I expected. They left the can in the storage barn and drove out of the parking lot! Seriously!

I’ve been robbed again! They just drove away without another word!

And worse, they left the gas can completely empty in my barn. Everyone knows you leave gas to pay back for what you used. Everyone!

I want what’s rightfully mine!

…and your Father, who sees what you do in secret will be the One who rewards you.

Clearly, someone in this narrative doesn’t understand the expectations of the love your neighbor as yourself directive.

Clearly.

May I take just a moment and assure you that I registered my complaint? Vociferously. Both with family members and with God. They listened sympathetically.

He didn’t.

You see—the someone in this narrative who doesn’t understand is me.

Only me.

Sometimes, when we do the right thing, the good thing, all we hear in response is crickets. Sure, sometimes the person we help gushes with gratitude. It’s nice when it happens, but if that’s what we’re going for, we’ve missed the point of the original instructions.

If what I anticipate when I determine to share with folks who are in need is the reward of their gratitude, or the loud proclamation of praise, all I have done is to initiate a transaction.

I believe the Latin term is quid pro quo.

Something for something.

I give you something. You give me something in return. The end.

It’s the way our economic system operates. It’s not a bad system, as human systems go.

It’s just not God’s system.

He says give without expectation of repayment. Give so that no one knows you’re doing it.

And then He says, I’ll be the one who settles accounts—when the time is right.

Like Job in the Old Testament, I sit here with my mouth open, grasping for words, but all that comes out is, I had heard about You, but now I see clearly for myself and I am ashamed.

I said at the start it was twice. Twice, I did good things. It may have been more than that.

I am determined it will be more than that.

I just won’t be telling you about it.

To give and then not feel that one has given is the very best of all ways of giving.
(Max Beerbohm ~ English essayist ~ 1872-1956)

Give your gifts in private, and your Father, who sees everything, will reward you.
(Matthew 6:4 ~ NLT)

A Scratch Behind the Ears

August 7, 2015August 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Good patient, Paul.”

The man in the mask had taken his hands out of my opened mouth for a moment, not because he was finished (as I hoped), but only to change the bit on the drill he held. It was, at least, a welcome change from the horrid grinding that had ensued each previous time he returned the drill to the wide-open aperture in my face.

Since the nice young lady manipulating the peripheral equipment necessary for the proceedings still had her hand in the opening through which I normally communicate, the only response I had to the dentist’s statement was a surprised, “Mumph?”

I suppose I might have been trying to find my happy place (no mean feat in that chamber of horrors) as the procedure wore on, but I must have missed a part of his statement. I was confused.

For all the world, it seemed to me the good doctor had just given me the equivalent of a good dog, Rover! I wouldn’t have been all that surprised if his next communication had been shake! To my relief, it wasn’t.

“I said, ‘You’re a good patient, Paul.’ Not everyone is as calm and responsive to instructions as you.”

The vision of Rover sitting up and shaking hands with the masked man faded, and the drill began its inexorable grinding inside of my mouth once more. I had something new to think about, anyway.

I’m a good patient! Better than average. Take that, you teenyboppers with your fake white smiles! How do you like them apples, Mr. Mid-life Crisis with your new teeth veneers?

Somehow, reality has a way of catching up eventually. My thoughts began to turn to the shallowness being exhibited by the aging man in the dentist’s chair at that exact moment. What kind of man, mature in age—if nothing else, takes a simple statement such as the dentist had just made and turns it into a reason for celebration?

Just how hungry for compliments would one have to be for those words to elicit a celebration of that magnitude?

I was ashamed.

Still, it didn’t keep me from bragging to the Lovely Lady when I saw her a few hours later.

“He told me I was a good patient!”

Her response was less than enthusiastic. “That’s nice.”

I remembered once again that it’s not a stellar accomplishment. Truth be told, I was ashamed anew for telling her about it, anyway. Sheesh! Still celebrating, in spite of my self-castigation while finishing my tenure in the dentist’s chair.

Perhaps, it’s time to let the curtain fall on that unfortunate performance. Often, the longer the production runs, the worse it gets.

But no. I don’t think I’ll do that. Sometimes, we learn.

Sometimes, we do better. You be the judge.

Later that same afternoon, after the Lidocaine had worn off and I could feel my cheek again, an old customer came to see me. I was busy with another patron, but as soon as I could get free, I headed over to see my old friend and his wife.

As I shook his hand, he told me that I would need to excuse him, because he couldn’t talk normally right then. That’s right. He had just come from the dentist.

The wheels started turning. I bet you think I bragged about being a better patient than he was. I didn’t.

The wheels in my head drove me to a conclusion that I don’t often reach, though. Believing that his having had an encounter with a dentist on the same day was no coincidence, I determined that (as my dentist had) I should compliment him on something.

I didn’t really know why.

Funny. I didn’t really even want to. I did it anyway.

Maybe I should explain something. I usually have a hard time giving compliments to folks I see as being in competition with me. I have to make myself compliment other writers. I don’t often say nice things about other French horn players. I think it may have something to do with the idea that in building them up, I will diminish myself.

Foolishness? Perhaps. It seems to be a common ailment, though. Within the society we live and move, it is more common to tear down those who are in the same field than it is to build them up.

On this day though—the Day of the Dentist—I was able to break that cycle. The man in front of me has recently begun to build and sell guitars. I had heard good things about them.

I told him so.

It meant a great deal to my friend. He was humble about it. His wife wasn’t, whipping out her cell phone to show me pictures. We talked for fifteen minutes about his instruments and building techniques.

The last thing I remember about his visit was that lop-sided grin as he turned to say goodbye one last time, going out the door. You know—the Lidocaine still hadn’t worn off for him.

I hope you’ll bear with me as I offer a couple of observations on human behavior. Maybe more than a couple.

When you compliment others, you diminish no one. A relationship is not a zero sum game, in which one party gains and the other loses. A compliment is not an expenditure; it is an investment. Everyone stands to gain from it. Even bystanders. My friend’s better half was affected positively as she heard her husband’s accomplishments touted.

When the shoe is on the other foot, and you are the one being complimented, don’t let it go to your head. A pat on the back is just that—a pat. It’s not a back rub, or an all-day spa treatment. Acknowledge it, file it away to remember, and move on. Being a good patient at the dentist isn’t a life accomplishment, nor does it merit a mention in the local newspaper.

Lastly—Compliment others because you love them. The Apostle who loved to write letters (he must have—he wrote so many!) suggested that we must treat folks as more important than we ourselves are. The result is that the whole body is made stronger—including ourselves.

Just so you know—I’m really not that good a patient at the dentist’s.

Still, it was nice of him to say so. I promise, I’ll not include it in a resumé, should I ever have the need to apply for a new position.

I am, however, quite accomplished at shaking hands.

Maybe that will earn me at least a scratch behind the ears.

My child, I can live on a good compliment two weeks with nothing else to eat.
(Mark Twain ~ American humorist/author ~ 1835-1910)

Do nothing out of rivalry or conceit, but in humility consider others as more important than yourselves.
(Philippians 2:3 ~ Holman Christian Standard Bible)

Buffing Nails

May 20, 2015May 20, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It happens every week day, usually more than once. The Lovely Lady answers the phone at our business, only to hear the voice on the other end of the line ask for me. As often as not, she has to tell them that I am not available to talk, but she can help.

She can.

Still, it gives a little boost to my self-esteem to know people all over the country are asking for me by name. They’re even disappointed when I don’t have time to talk with them.

Clearly, it would be nicer if they wanted to speak with me because I am well-known or even the keeper of some secret knowledge. If I were a world famous author with umpteen best sellers to my credit, then I could really feel proud to have them call for me.

I wish you could see me now. I’m sitting at my desk, breathing on my fingernails, then rubbing them on my shirt in the region of my left shoulder. It’s a gesture I haven’t seen for many years, but I remember it well.

I think the once popular rap artist MC Hammer would say it this way: Can’t Touch This! Maybe you remember it as hot stuff. In my childhood, we just said the words easy as pie, to indicate that it was nothing for us, but anyone else who tried was likely to fail.

So I sit here, feeling superior and polishing my nails, as I think about the lady from Brooklyn who needs my personal attention, the fellow from Dallas who can’t make a decision without me, and the senior citizen from San Jose who is lost without my guidance.

Then I remember. Again.

When the Lovely Lady says the words, “He’s busy; may I help you?” not one of them insists on waiting or calling back. Not one.

You’ve heard the words before, haven’t you? No one is indispensable.

I can be replaced.

I stop my nail polishing and think about that for awhile. It’s a sobering thought, isn’t it?

And then, there’s that other thing. You know, the fact they’re only calling to order something which we’ll mail to them. They’re not asking me to make a decision about whether it’s time to bomb our enemies out of existence. No one is wondering if I know the best way to cure the common cold.

So, it’s not only that I can be replaced. The plain fact is, what my fans want to talk about is not really all that important in the grand scheme of life.

I stick my hands in my pockets this time.

What’s the point, anyway?

Perhaps, as the Preacher said, all is meaningless, simply vanity upon vanity.

Ah, but I don’t believe that. With my hands in my pockets, leaning back in the old oak desk chair, a picture comes to mind. It is from a story I’ve never really cared for, mostly because it was not real, but a contrivance. I always like real-life stories to illustrate real life.

For now though, the exception:

The boy walked along the sea shore, bending down again and again to pick up something and throw it into the water. The jaded businessman, walking along the beach behind him, finally caught up with the boy and asked him what he was doing. Opening his arms up wide to indicate the stranded starfish lying on the beach, the boy let the man know he was helping to save their lives.

The man looked around them and saw hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the starfish lying on the sandy shore. Laughing at the boy, the rude fellow made it clear he believed him foolish, telling him he couldn’t make a difference to all of them. Many would die.

Picking up one more of the strange creatures from the wet sand, the boy tossed it out into the surf and blurted out obstinately, “I made a difference to that one.”

The story is a contrivance–yes. It was made up to prove a point.

I get the point.

So–what I do isn’t going to save humanity. It doesn’t matter.

Tomorrow, I’ll pick up the phone and, remembering to smile, I’ll ask the person on the other end of the line if I can help them. It’s what I do.

I’ll make a difference for that one person.

And, the next time the phone rings, and the next time, and still the time after that, I’ll remember to smile and I’ll do what I can to help.

Every person who reads this has a purpose for their existence. Some will be more important than I can imagine; others will perform a menial, seemingly insignificant, task day after day–a task that must be done. And each one will make a difference.

Without exception, each one will impact the life or lives of others around them.

I do matter! Sure, I can be replaced. And yet, my Creator placed me in just this place and time to make an impact on the world around me.

While I’m here, I’m going to work to make a difference.

Before, I said I was proud my customers know me and ask for me by name. That’s nothing. God knew my name long before any of them did. He calls me by name and wants me to walk with Him.

I’m pulling my hands out of my pockets again.

Can’t you see me? With the palm of my right hand facing me, I’m puffing gently on my folded over fingertips, putting a little condensation on the fingernails. Time now to buff them with the cotton material of my shirt front.

Ah. You’re doing it too, aren’t you? It’s a good thing. He knows your name, as well.

The Preacher did say one thing I agree with: Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your strength.

If God puts the work in front of us, it’s a sure bet that blessings will be ours as we accomplish that work.

We got this!

Easy as pie!

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.”
(Isaiah 43:1 ~ ESV)

“Not all of us can do great things. But we can do little things with great love.”
(Mother Teresa ~ Roman Catholic missionary ~ 1910-1997)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

pride

Winding Paths

Painting the Dirt

Robbery

A Scratch Behind the Ears

Buffing Nails