redemption

I felt it. Every time I opened that big, heavy door to the shed—packed to the rafters with yesterdays—I felt it. The weight. The guilt. The helplessness.

It all started fifteen years ago. I was the proprietor of a reasonably successful music store in our little town. In the course of my work, I received requests for help with a variety of issues on an almost daily basis. Most were easy and painless.

This request was a little more involved, but I had no reason to be concerned. The customer telephoned, asking if I would mind shipping an instrument across the U.S. to one of his organization’s clients. I was involved with many internet transactions at that point and thought it would be easy-peasy. I’d simply box the instrument before weighing it to get a quote on the shipping and, upon receipt of the funds for costs, would send it on its way.

Glibly, I told him to bring it in.

The owner of the instrument (the one across the country, not my customer) seemed not to be interested in easy-peasy. She assured me she would send payment when I notified her of the cost, yet never responded. Again and again, I attempted to communicate with her about it, but to no avail.

I shoved the box, with its fragile markings all over it, into a back room. For ten years.

One more time during those ten years, I attempted to contact the owner but received no response. When we closed the store five years ago, we moved the remaining unsold merchandise and unclaimed items into the storage barn.

I’ve hardly touched any of those items in the years since. And yet, every time I have walked into the barn-shaped building, the sense of guilt, with its accompanying feelings of failure, has weighed heavily on my mind and soul. I didn’t even have to know where it was in the jumble of boxes and storage tubs; I felt it. I knew it was still there—mocking me—taunting me.

Failure isn’t an easy thing for me to admit.

I want my life to be a success story. Having achieved every goal I set out after, without a single black mark against my account, I will be able to die without shame.

It won’t happen.

A couple of weeks ago, I spoke with the Lovely Lady as we were driving. I shared with her the bold plan I had for resolving the issue once and for all. She wondered why I hadn’t thought of it years ago.

One day last week, I put my plan into action. You’ll laugh at the simplicity. Perhaps, you’ll laugh at how obtuse I have been. Mostly, you should laugh at my pride.

It’s the same pride that has kept me from admitting a small failure for fifteen years, allowing it to take up residence in my spirit and to steal my joy. Pride that stopped me from putting an end to the guilt and fear years ago.

The cure for my dilemma was simple. Digging around in the storage barn for a few moments, I located the shipping box. It was easy to find, with all its fragile stickers. I carried it into my shop and opened it, disposing of the styrofoam peanuts that scattered as I flipped open the end flaps.

Wait. I’m making this sound harder than it was.

What I did was this: I took the instrument back to the organization it came from. The man who brought it to me has long since moved on, but I set it on the counter and, admitting my long-term failure, gave the responsibility back to them. They said they were happy to accept it, promising to find the lady and resolve the situation.

Done. Finished. Out of my life.

Do you know how good that feels? To be free from chains I have felt for a decade and a half? I even sang in the car as I drove home.

Later on though, as I told the Lovely Lady of my action, tears came. I don’t know why; they just came and I couldn’t talk about it for a while.

I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now. Some realities have come into focus for me.

The first reality is that I don’t want to admit any of this to my friends and readers. Somehow though, that’s not the way this works. Catharsis is only as effective as it is complete. I don’t want to carry any part of this with me—except for the lessons learned, that is.

The next reality is that all of us will experience similar situations—times when we have failed, but can’t (or won’t) admit it and move on.

We all have secrets and guilt we carry with us as a constant companion.

I remember reading it in a friend’s feed on social media some time ago: “Today, I ate my emotions,” she said. I know she was talking about food and overeating as compensation for feelings. But I can’t help thinking there’s more to it than just diet.

We stuff emotions down our throats figuratively, too. Swallowing them down, thinking they’ll never be seen again, we hide our past. I’ve learned something through this particular episode in my life. It’s not a new realization, simply a reiteration of truth I may have known most of my life.

We’re not eating our emotions. They’re eating us.

From the inside out, they eat us. Day by day, affecting our relationships, our productivity, our outlook on life. If we let them. And finally, we have no choice left but to recognize the danger, the feelings of guilt, the dread of facing our failures and weaknesses head-on.

I look at the box in the recycle bin, fragile stickers on every surface, and I wonder; how is it that we, hardened and tempered by life’s experiences, have become so very fragile ourselves?

I don’t want that to be true. I don’t want to break at the slightest pressure in the wrong place. I don’t want the tears to flow anymore—don’t want the despair and hopelessness to rise to the surface, uninvited.

And yet, there it is. My throat tightens even as I write this. On that recent afternoon when the years-long matter was settled, my body trembled like an old man’s as I realized that I was finally free of the chains of the obligation. (Yes, I know I am an old man, I just don’t have the shakes on a continuing basis yet.)

But there’s another thing I’m learning as I age. I’m still finding that the capacity of our Heavenly Father to forgive and comfort us in those moments when we recognize and confess our failures and sins is inexhaustible. His love for us, even in our weakness, never ceases.

And I’m remembering my need, as an old-timer once suggested to me, to keep short accounts. Promises made need to be kept as quickly as possible. Mistakes should be rectified and apologies offered without delay.

The Apostle for whom I am named said it clearly:

Owe no one anything, except to love one another, for the one who loves his neighbor has fulfilled the law. (Romans 13:8, NET)

I could never have imagined that the favor I promised to my customer all those years ago would be impossible for me to deliver on. I certainly didn’t anticipate the mischief it would get up to in my very soul over time.

And yet, I could have admitted defeat many years ago and saved a lot of grief. I’m guessing the Lovely Lady wishes I had done that. Folks in your life might wish the same thing.

I think I’ll try it for a while.

Keeping short accounts.

I wonder who else I owe?

God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
(Henry Ward Beecher)

For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
so great is his love for those who fear him;
as far as the east is from the west,
so far has he removed our transgressions from us.

As a father has compassion on his children,
so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him;
for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.
(Psalm 103:11-14, NIV)

I was in a quandary. The nice young lady had asked me if I would play my horn with the pit orchestra for a musical at the local university. Flattered, and hopeful I would be able to cover the part, I agreed.

I would regret my decision very soon thereafter.

My personal preparation for the production (which ran for four nights) would involve many hours—painful hours—of practice. I’m an old man who has coasted for many years, playing easy, pretty things—the kind of music that makes folks sigh and exclaim that the French horn is their favorite instrument.

This wasn’t that kind of music. I wasn’t able to cover the part without the personal wood-shedding of the pieces over and over.

I wish that had been the hardest part of preparing for the production. It wasn’t. The hardest part had nothing to do with the music, or the time involved, or even the people who would participate with me.

It’s a raunchy story.

Raunchy.

The story of a demented man who wanders the countryside pretending to be a knight. It’s the story of people who steal what they want from fellow travelers. The demented knight is robbed and beaten, and he dies.

He dies.

All of that wasn’t a problem for me.

What was a problem was that one of the main characters, a serving lady in the inn, is also a prostitute. I didn’t like that she has a filthy mouth. I didn’t like that the songs seem to make light of the sinful state of the folks who populate the stage play.

I almost called the nice young lady and told her I couldn’t be involved in her production. You see, I’m not a raunchy person. I don’t want to be identified with that type of stuff.

I’m not raunchy. Right?

I didn’t call the nice young lady. Instead, I listened to a recording of the play one last time before making a decision. I sat through the fight in the inn’s courtyard as the knight sought to protect the serving lady’s honor, a laughable attempt at a vain undertaking, I thought. It was especially futile, given that the first man he did battle with had already paid the cash price the woman demanded for her services.

Moments later in the track, the crude musical explanation of who she knew herself to be left me nodding my head in agreement. She was crude, the crudeness almost overshadowing the shock of her being raped at one point during the story.

No. I just couldn’t do this. I couldn’t be a part of this thing. I would call the nice young lady in the morning and back out as gracefully as I could.

But the recording was still playing.

The mad knight would not be swayed. The lady, his dream of womanhood, could be none other than his sweet Dulcinea, even though she insisted she was neither pure nor sweet.

I never expected to cry.

It’s not a religious story. It’s a raunchy tale of twisted humanity.

And redemption.

Really. Redemption.

An impossible dream.

The prostitute becomes the lady the deluded knight envisioned.

How is that possible?

I cried every night of the production. Every night. As I played my horn, tears ran down my cheeks.

The story of mankind is a raunchy tale of twisted humanity. You may read the whole story in the Bible. Don’t say you haven’t been warned though.

The pages are populated by adulterers, prostitutes, murderers, liars, cheats, and thieves—to say nothing of insane kings and philandering judges.

Yes. The Holy Bible. The same Book that says, whatever is true, honest, just, pure, holy, these are the things to contemplate. (Philippians 4:8)

Here’s the thing: The raunchy tale of twisted humanity is also the story of a Holy God who looked at what was and saw what would be. A God who would take the flawed and filthy and make it pure and whole.

Redemption.

And, raunchy becomes righteous.

Somehow, we don’t want to talk about the dirty stuff. We avoid the filth—as if we’ve never been filthy ourselves. I sometimes wonder if it makes us feel better to think about how perfect we are, comparing ourselves with others who haven’t experienced His Grace. Or, perhaps it simply reminds us of hard truths and sad experiences we’d rather not remember.

But, this I know: Without the depravity—without the raunchiness, there would never have been the redemption. Without sin—no grace.

We do Him a disservice when we sweep the story under the rug, as if it never happened. We lie when we lead people to believe that we are any better than the rest of the raunchy world.

We discount the value of the astounding gift given us when we avoid the stigma of our past lives, as if it had never happened.

What a gift to a people who deserved nothing better than to wallow in their own filth!

Raunchy?

Once I was. Not any more.

Redeemed.

Redeemed.

“Once, just once, would you look at me as I really am?”
“I see beauty, purity. Dulcinea.”
(from Man of La Mancha ~ Dale Wasserman ~ American playwright ~ 1914-2008)

. . .just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless.
(Ephesians 5:25-27 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Fragile. Handle With Care

Raunchy