Still Blaming The Dog

April 5, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s the dog’s fault.

They were the first words I muttered to the optician as I approached her work station earlier this week. I was wearing an old pair of wire-rimmed glasses from the last decade—or was it the last century?—as I pulled the stainless steel and fabric chair out from beneath the mirrored desk.

The dog’s fault. You would have thought I was an abashed student in sixth grade slouching in front of the entire class, rubbing the toe of my Converse sneaker across the linoleum tile floor.

Why no, Mrs. Dunham; I don’t have my English paper. It was all ready to bring this morning but my dog ate it.

In truth, I don’t think I ever used that excuse for missing homework, but you can bet, if the homework was missing, it wasn’t my fault. Ever.

Not my fault!

My glasses were broken. Just a few months ago, the optometrist had handed me the prescription for my glasses while telling me he didn’t think I needed to have it filled.

You don’t need new glasses at all right now. Keep the prescription, though. You know—just in case.

This is just in case. I played fetch with the big black lab last week, hurling the chunk of wood to the fence again and again. The big guy never tires of the game. Not before I do, anyway.

This day, he had dropped the stick to the ground in front of me. I bent over him to pick it up at exactly the instant he chose to jump up and playfully lick me.

Thwack!

The top of his big flat skull smacked my glasses frame, jamming it against my left eye. I yelped and grabbed my falling glasses, feeling the frame give as I caught them.

Broken! Stupid Tip!

Hand over my eye, I turned to scold the tenderhearted fellow. I opened my mouth to shout, but thought better of it. He was just being a dog—still a big puppy despite his advancing age.

I’m the one who should have known better. He always jumps when I’m near. I’ve finally convinced him not to put his huge muddy feet on me, but still he jumps constantly. If my face is bent over him when he jumps, it’s not his fault.

I know that. My fault.

Still, the excuse is easy.

The optician laughed as she fitted the temple pieces over my ears. She gets paid, no matter whose fault it is.

And, we all know whose fault it is, don’t we?

And, we all know whose fault it is, don't we? Share on X

Why is it so hard to admit when we’re wrong?

Why must we find a scapegoat?

What’s so hard about taking responsibility?

I know I’m a hard-headed slow learner—okay, not as hard-headed as the dog, but you get the picture—who has to learn lessons again and again, but I also have a very short memory. Really short.

Moments after I sat at the optician’s table, I sat, horn on lap and new glasses on my face, in an afternoon orchestra rehearsal. One of the youngsters nearby said something about my new eye-wear.

They are good looking, aren’t they? I think they’re a nice gray color. The Lovely Lady says they’re more blue. (Don’t tell her they say “blue” right on the frames. We still need to discuss this a bit more.)

Imagine my surprise when I heard the words come from my mouth.

Yeah, I’m glad I decided to get them. I’ve needed new glasses for awhile.

Oh. So now I’m going to take responsibility? A few minutes ago it was the dog’s fault.

You know, this isn’t going at all in the manner I envisioned it. I was going to draw your attention to the way we humans refuse to take responsibility. Then, I was going to quote some Bible verses at you to drive home the reality of how prideful we are.

It was going to be a beautiful sermon—I mean—lesson. A beautiful lesson.

I never expected to be the one who needed the Bible verses. I certainly didn’t expect to be the one who needed to break Leroy Jethro Gibbs’ Rule Number Six. You know, the one about never apologizing, because it’s a sign of weakness.

In retrospect, I think perhaps you should know that the dog ate my first draft of this article. That’s the reason it’s not going the way I wanted. I hope you’ll give me more time to finish it.

The dog did it.

Really.

Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall.
(1 Corinthians 10:12 ~ NKJV ~Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

The man who complains about the way the ball bounces is likely to be the one who dropped it.
(Lou Holtz ~ American football coach/motivational speaker)

Wanderlust

August 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’ll admit it. I was a little jealous as the old sandy-haired fellow said the words. Just a little.

“Both she and I have a little of the gypsy in us, you know.”

I nodded my head thoughtfully, as if I did know, but I didn’t.

I still don’t.

Explaining why he was standing at my sales counter attempting to interest me in several pieces of musical equipment, the fellow had described selling the family’s home and moving into a very nice travel trailer—a rolling palace, really—with all the luxuries of home, but none of the responsibilities of being a homeowner.

I was. I listened to him speak, and I was becoming more jealous by the minute.

There are days when the shackles of responsibility become heavy and irksome. The hardship and realities of life are brought into sharp focus. When that happens, the picture isn’t pleasant to consider.

It was one of those days.

The grass was greener on the other side of the counter. Too soon, the sandy-haired man walked out of my front door, taking the verdant vision with him. Behind him, he left the drab, gray reality.

The freedom he had described beckoned from the world outside. In my world, the cares and promises left to be fulfilled only mocked me.

Don’t I have a right to be happy, too?

The words had no sooner formed in my consciousness than I recoiled from them. There are two times in my memory when I have heard those words from the mouths of men for whom I had great love and respect.

On both occasions, the question was prelude to the most selfish act either man would ever perform. Many who loved them are still paying the price.

When I demand my right to happiness, I declare that I am the most important human being I know.

I’m not.

My sandy-haired friend declared his desire to be footloose and fancy-free. It’s a familiar phrase. I wonder if we really know what it means.

Footloose, of course, means there is nothing restricting our feet from going where we want them to take us. The popular movie by that name from a few decades ago used the word as a clever play on words to include freedom from the restrictions of religion and freedom to dance. No chains, no hobbles, no heavy ball to inhibit movement. Footloose.

Fancy-free is a little more complicated. The word fancy was once used to describe love. The statement, I fancy him, coming from a young girl declared her love for her heartthrob. Thus, fancy-free became the description of one who had no love in his or her heart, giving them the freedom to act as they wished. Free of encumbrances, free of the emotional bonds that bind one to another. Fancy-free.

I am not footloose.

The leg irons clamped around my ankles, I placed there myself. Willingly and with forethought, I clicked them closed, joyfully choosing a life of service rather than one of irresponsibility. Nothing has changed to alter that choice.

The shackles stay.

The love in my heart, on the other hand, was not put there by me. I have been reminded a thousand times in recent years that God’s love is lent to us, not to be hoarded for selfish reasons, nor even to be cast away when we grow weary of walking with Him, but to be shared again and again. And again.

God's love is lent, not to be hoarded, nor cast away, but to be shared again and again. Share on X

Every hour of every day, His love is ours as long as we share it freely.

I am definitely not fancy-free.

The love stays, as well.

Footloose and fancy-free? Hardly.

Funny. That carefree life I was jealous of only moments ago—that vagabond journey empty of all responsibility—turns out to be neither carefree nor devoid of troubles. Many who choose it wish before much time has passed that they had never walked away from the life they had.

Still, there is a bit of the gypsy in me as well. I’m sure of it.

The journey of the spirit is not bound by our physical location, nor does it depend on leaving behind those we love and care for.

We who follow Christ are still looking for that city that Abraham wandered in search of—that city built by God Himself. Others who came after him sought also for a place of refuge, the place of rest promised to those who seek after God. (Hebrews 11)

In faith, we walk the same road, nomads on a pilgrimage to a better place.

We walk it together. With joy-filled hearts—and often tear-filled eyes—we follow our God.

Together, we follow.

The road goes ever, ever on.

Until, one day. . .

It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.
(from Lord of the Rings ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.
(Hebrews 11:16 ~ NLT)

You? A Genius?

March 31, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t laugh. I’m sure I didn’t. Still, I must have looked a little incredulously at him, because he repeated the word.

Genius.

A genius. Really?

The fellow in front of me, a rather normal looking fellow sixty-some years of age had just let me in on a secret he hadn’t told many people. When he was younger, he informed me quietly, his school counselor had administered an IQ test.

His voice got even quieter, almost a whisper, as he nodded sagely. “It was right up there at genius level.”

We didn’t speak about that again in our conversation. I was happy to leave the subject alone. As we talked though, I observed some things that continue to give me pause tonight.

He told me he didn’t read books—in fact, he hates reading. I also noted his lack of grammatical accuracy as we spoke together. It is not something I normally take note of, such inaccuracies being the rule rather than the exception for many people I talk with.

Still, I expected more—of a genius.

Well, you would—wouldn’t you?

The gift (or curse) of genius brings with it the weight of responsibility. It is true of all gifts. Not to say that they must be repaid, but that there is a respect due the gift itself—the respect of using it well and to its fullest capability.

I’m not a genius. I think no one would attempt to foist that improbability off as truth. I have muddled through life with my average intelligence. I’m rather proud of it.

But, even as the words appear on the page, I have a sinking feeling they may come around to trip me (and perhaps you) up. Let’s see if we can still avoid that, shall we?

The genius who refuses to play the part of one—that’s who we’re speaking of here, isn’t it? Perhaps, we can just cast our judgments about him and be done with it.

He’s been given so much, so very much, and yet he goes about his average life, working his average job, doing the same things any of us average folk do. Doesn’t he know he owes the world more?

Oh, I can’t do this!

You knew I couldn’t.

This isn’t about my genius friend who won’t play the part of a genius. It’s about me. It might even be about you.

I hear the words of the Teacher, as he spoke of those who had been given magnificent gifts and understanding of how to use those gifts. To whom much has been given, much will be required. And, those who have received an even greater portion will be asked for that much more. (Luke 12:48)

Somehow, I get the idea He wasn’t talking about financial wealth. I’m not even sure He was speaking of physical abilities.

The extraordinary splendor of knowing and walking with God is a gift of astounding value. The gift of God’s grace is unsurpassed in human history in it’s importance to mankind.

He gives us this gift to hold ourselves. In our bodies made from dirt, which will return to dirt, He stores all of eternity. All of it.

The responsibility that accompanies the giving of this extraordinary, astounding gift is just as extraordinary and astounding as is the gift itself.

And yet, we disregard the gift—disregard it as if it were as ordinary as a Sunday morning. And, in disregarding the gift, we disregard the Giver.

In spite of our disregard, and only because of our Creator’s unfailing mercy, we yet retain the gift. His faithfulness toward us is immeasurable. (Lamentations 3:22)

And I—I have the arrogance to point a finger at the man who was given nothing more than a minor upgrade in intellect. The lack of scale here is ludicrous. There can be no comparison. None at all.

What an astonishing gift we’ve been given!

Perhaps, it’s time we lived up to it.

Time to toss off this bushel basket.

It’s time for us to shine!

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those timid spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.
(from a speech by Theodore Roosevelt ~ 26th U.S. President ~ 1858-1919)

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.
(2 Corinthians 4:7 ~ NIV)

Hold This, Will You?

June 9, 2014April 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m angry tonight.

I’ve been tricked.

All day, the ideas have been tumbling about in my head. No—even longer than that.

Days ago, the rough draft of this post was written on the soft gray matter of my brain. It was filed away for future use.

I intended to write an exposé.

You know—I am by nature a tattle-tale. I like to show where people go wrong and then use them as cautionary tales.

Phil Everly did it in his song from the last century, When Will I Be Loved. Why shouldn’t I?

I’ve been made blue.
I’ve been lied to.
When will I be loved?

I intended to tell about the customer who threatened legal action against my business last week. We mailed him a package which was delivered on time. The problem is, an elderly person at the customer’s house received the package and then put it where it couldn’t be seen, and she forgot about it.

Suddenly, I’m going to be reported to the Attorney General’s office?

I wanted to make this an exposé of how customers don’t stop to consider that there are actually people on the other end of that email or telephone. It’s not just a business, there are human beings who operate the business for your benefit, as well as for their vocation.

Nope. Not going to happen.

The rant is canceled, put off to another day due to new evidence come to light.

I was going to include a few choice words about the fellow who lied to me about a certain occurrence.

I was stunned and disappointed beyond belief. The man is one whom I have reason to trust completely. Yet, the lie was so intricate—so calculated. There was premeditation and planning that went into its telling.

I wanted to express my anger and frustration at the violation of my trust. That also is not how this essay will come across.

Mitigating circumstances have been brought out of the shadows. It seems the person who told the lie is not the villain I desired to make him out to be.

Believe me, I don’t want to change the focus of my writing. I am more frustrated by this shift in direction than one would believe. I had the evidence and my summation completely formulated, ready to put down on the empty page.

I actually pounded the desk in front of me when I realized the trap which had been sprung.

My tantrum is over now, my emotions mostly under control, with the possible exception of a tear or two and perhaps, a sniffle into a tissue.

It was almost as if I had heard a voice in the room. I’m not actually claiming to have heard the voice, just that it might have been.

Here. Hold this a minute, will you?

I took the shiny, round object which was shoved into my hand.

Very soon, I realized my mistake.

Well, whose reflection do you expect to see in a mirror?

It wasn’t just me, standing there like an idiot, holding a mirror and looking back at myself. No, as I stared, the scene changed and I saw an angry—no strike that—a furious visage screaming into the telephone held in front of it.

I remembered the scene all too well.

The poor lady at the other end of the telephone had given me the only answer she was allowed to give by her manual of operations. She was paid to answer questions, but she had no latitude to change policy. It made no difference to me. Did she not realize who I was?

As I stood holding the mirror, I had a flash of near brilliance.

This was a human being!

I wasn’t screaming at a company; I was screaming my anger and threats at a fellow human being!

I wonder—was she a neighbor I was supposed to love? (Matthew 22:39)

Do you think she felt the presence of God while I was on the phone with her?

I shifted my gaze away from the scene, overcome with pain and guilt.

It didn’t matter; other scenes leapt out of the mirror at me. Again and again, I heard myself say things which are not true.

I was speaking to friends. I was answering a policeman at the side of the highway. I was explaining my failure to meet a deadline to a customer.

Lies. All lies.

I have told more lies than I could enumerate. I would be too ashamed to do so anyway.

I am a liar.

I wonder—is it still within my power to cast a stone at my friend who has shattered my trust? I hear the Teacher’s words as He wrote in the dirt. Let him who has never sinned cast the first one. (John 8:7)

I’ll pass.

The only one exposed here is the guy holding the mirror. The light I wanted to shine so brightly on the fault of others is merely shining full on my own sin.

I was tricked into it, but the truth blazes from the wall on which it was written. You have been weighed in the balance and found lacking. (Daniel 5:7)

I think it may be time for me to stop writing for today. I have some things to take care of.

I wonder though, before I go. . .

Hold this for a minute, will you?

For if someone merely listens to the message and does not live it out, he is like someone who gazes at his own face in a mirror. For he gazes at himself and then goes out and immediately forgets what sort of person he was.
(James 1:23,24 ~ NET)

An age is called Dark, not because the light fails to shine, but because people refuse to see it.
(James A Michener ~ American author ~ 1907-1997)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

responsibility

Still Blaming The Dog

Wanderlust

You? A Genius?

Hold This, Will You?