Sometimes I sit at the keyboard, move my fingers and the words just flow.  Other times, like tonight, there’s a struggle.  Oh, I have no shortage of stories; those go on forever.  I have lived over a half century, you know.  The problem is that I’m not ready to tell some of the stories for different reasons.  Some entail a lot more embarrassment than I’m ready to reveal, others seem too trivial to waste time with.  They’ll probably all come in time, but I need to be ready for them to come.

What to do?  Do I just close the program and go home?  It seems to me that it would be simpler to just write less often.  The Lovely Lady has given her permission.  “You don’t have to write everyday, you know,” she told me as I left the house earlier.  The day will come when I’ll take that advice, but for now, I want to persevere.  It took me such a long time to get up the courage to start that I’m worried I’ll falter soon and quit for lack of motivation or in discouragement.

I have been a quitter, you know…When I was quite young, our neighbors would invite us to go to the tomato fields and pick with them.  I agreed one day and rode the big flat bed truck out to the field…only to ride it back the first time it returned to the processing plant.  I had assumed that the day would be a lark, nothing more than an easy few hours of picking in the garden.  Boy, was I mistaken!  Suffice it to say that I was embarrassed by kids half my age and adults who looked so old that decrepit wouldn’t be a stretch to describe their physical prowess.  When I heard that the truck was coming back to town, I was climbing on in a minute, without a second thought.  Let them say whatever they wanted to…I was done!

A few years later, this time at about 13 or 14 years old, these same neighbors (who must have been a little forgetful) invited me to work with them in their concrete finishing business.  I made it a little longer this time, actually sticking out the job for 4 days.  Setting forms, cleaning concrete-covered tools, and digging trenches by hand in the nearly 100 degree heat and through the dry, sun-blasted soil, was incredibly tiring work, but by the third day, the sunburn I had started accumulating the first day was blistered and the motion necessary to do my work was not only exhausting, but also excruciating. So, once again I quit, walking home this time.

The list of things I have tried and quit abruptly includes not only a job or two, but various clubs, sports, and even a correspondence school.  I’m good at leaving things unfinished. A close examination of my workbench today will reveal at least 4 unfinished jobs, which may never be resumed.  Sometimes when we start things, we don’t count the cost, we don’t consider what the task really entails.  Then when we hit the brick walls, and it happens invariably, we “reassess”.  That’s what I like to call it anyway.  It sounds better than “waffle” or “renege”.  My mom had a colorful name for people like me, probably a bit politically incorrect.  She would say, “Oh, don’t be such a pantywaist!”  Well, when the going gets tough, the wimpy get going…the other way!

I will tell you proudly of my triumphs, although a closer examination of  them will demonstrate the influence of someone other than myself, a blessed marriage made easy by an amazing partner, a long term involvement in the same church, facilitated by fellowship with some of the best people I know, and my business, in which I have been motivated by enjoyment as much as by necessity.  God has been good and well I know it!  When I find myself disappointed by my shortcomings and failures, and they are many, I have only to look at His goodness and faithfulness to find encouragement and the stimulus to keep pushing forward.

The past is our school, providing us the tools to struggle back to our feet and get it right the next time.  Our whole life is a picture of grace and redemption, with second chances being the rule rather than the exception.  So, quit being a pantywaist and get going…in the right direction!  You’re surrounded by failures who kept at it until they achieved success.  Your turn is next!

“Age wrinkles the body.  Quitting wrinkles the soul.”
(Douglas MacArthur)

Up until sixth grade, I loved math.  I’ve since figured out that the reason is that math until then was actually basic arithmetic, with numbers which made sense to me and functions which were fairly consistent, such as addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division.  I actually remember a time when I thought that math was my favorite subject.  That all changed as we moved into the more theoretical fields and I rapidly lost interest.  Algebra was just okay and Geometry was one step beyond okay.  I basically blew off Geometry class due to a complete lack of interest in the subject.  It no longer was black and white, right and wrong.  We didn’t speak of adding and subtracting, but now had theorems and postulates, and questions such as: “State the theorem or postulate you would use to prove the following statement.”  I wanted to find the correct answer, not discuss why it was correct.

I should tell you from the start, that I’ll not be exploring any of the intricacies of the foreign language which is mathematics here.  I merely wish to set the stage for my little tale, to be assured of your understanding of my position, when I say that I had no interest in the subject.  You mathematicians (the Lovely Lady included) will gasp in horror, and the intellectuals among you will be convinced that your original impression of my lack of cerebral ability was correct.  You won’t change my stance.  I have no intention of becoming a “nuculer scientist”, and therefore will not be resuming my education in mathematics ever again.

For the college prep level of classes I chose to complete in High School, Geometry was a minimum requirement, so it had to be passed.  We had a two semester, four quarter system, with nine weeks in each quarter.  As I sat through my first nine-weeks of classes, my eyes rapidly glazed over as Mrs. Klinck discussed the basics of the class and my mind went into neutral for the duration of the first quarter, giving me a final grade for the nine-weeks of 68.  In those days, 70 was considered passing for the class, but you only had to pass the semester to move ahead, so the two nine-weeks grades were averaged together.  Mrs. Klinck was a good teacher, with a desire to see her students do well, so she arranged for me to come in for extra help before school.  I wasn’t alone in those early morning sessions, since there were other students who were of a kindred spirit with me.  At the end of the semester, with a little effort on my part, I achieved exactly the necessary minimum passing grade of 72.  My mind, which does simple division quite well, told me that the resulting averaged semester grade of 70 was completely acceptable.

For the third quarter, the eyes glazed over again, resulting in an abysmal grade of 62, the worst I ever had on a report card.  Mrs. Klinck was not amused at all.  “If you think I’m going to pass you with a 78 for the final nine-weeks, you’re sadly mistaken!”, were her exact words.  “If I don’t think you tried to do any more than just get by, I will make you take this entire class again next year!”  Now, Mrs. Klinck was one of the best looking teachers in high school and I think most of the boys in her classes had a crush on her, but another whole year of her Geometry class?  No, thank you!  I came in for the early tutoring sessions, applied myself to the hated postulates and theorems and finished the final quarter with a respectable 89 in the class.  I even came within a hair’s breadth of acing the final exam, missing only one question to achieve a very impressive 96.

I’d like to be able to tell you that this was a turning point, that I never again did the minimum necessary to fulfill a goal.  I’d even love to tell you that I always give one-hundred percent in everything I do.  I can’t tell you either of those.  Many times since that day I have waited for the last minute to finish a project, “phoning it in”, as the saying goes.  I have failed to remember the lesson of that hard year in Geometry on any number of occasions.  But, I can also say that over and over, I’ve thought of that year when faced with a task which I detest. On almost a daily basis, I see duties and responsibilities on which I would like to get a pass.  I have come to understand (even if not actually mastered) the need to achieve excellence all along the way.  I’m going to keep trying to make that one-hundred percent.  Mrs. Klinck couldn’t make me love Geometry, but she helped me to learn a valuable lesson which has stuck in my mind and heart for many years. 

Always do your best, even when it’s more than is required.  Whatever you do, do it with zeal.  We don’t work for ourselves, or even our favorite math teacher.  If we are followers of God, we owe Him our best efforts, even in the most menial of tasks.

“The difference between what we do and what we are capable of doing would suffice to solve most of the world’s problems.”
(Mahatma Ghandi)

The Christmas parade has to be one of the best events in our little town.  People show up hours ahead of time to guarantee a spot on the route, the churches and businesses spend countless hours and not just a few dollars on the beautiful floats, and the candy flows like water from the parade participants to the children lining the street.  What’s not to like about a Christmas parade?

It was all wasted on the next to the youngest grandchild this year.  She was okay for the first set of police cars, who momentarily triggered their sirens as they passed, and the first few floats weren’t too bad, but after the third or fourth fire engine with sirens blaring came by, she had had enough.  “Me scared Christmas parade!”  were the words which accompanied the sobbing, so the beautiful girl came in to sit with Grandpa and watch the activities from the sofa in the living room, safe from the racket, the unfamiliar people, and the shadowy forms that moved in the dark, illuminated only by the flashing beacons on the emergency vehicles and the twinkle-lights on the floats.  Not that Grandpa was complaining, mind you.  I had elected to stay inside, the cold air having activated a minor episode of breathing problems earlier in the day.  So, her company was welcome, even if her conversation wasn’t completely intelligible to my untrained ears.

Knowing that she was missing out on the excitement and the distribution of candy and balloons, I suggested venturing back out a time or two, only to be met with the original plaint of “Me scared!” and the hint of approaching tears.  So we were content to sit and view the scene, waving to the costumed children and adults on the passing floats and commenting on the changing vista, from dancers, to tractors, to more fire engines.  I’ve watched the parade from the press of the crowd enough times to know that our perspective this time was tame and unexciting, but it was all the frightened little girl could manage tonight.  Her brothers and sister finally came in from the cold, bubbling and excited about what they had experienced, but this little one was happily naive, not interested in the joy she might have missed, but only in the fear averted.

We laugh at the unreasonable fear of a toddler, but I wonder what we are afraid of from our advanced and allegedly intelligent viewpoint.  We live our lives, many times paralyzed with fears which we can’t admit to ourselves, much less to each other.  The list of “phobias” is seemingly as endless as it is ridiculous, from chronomentrophobia (fear of clocks), to phalacrophobia (fear of becoming bald), to xenophobia (fear of strangers), with a host of other irrational fears in between.  Even those of us who don’t suffer from these fears, labeled as extreme, have things which we fear and keep to ourselves, things real or imagined which keep us from achieving our potential, which cause us to view life from the safety of the couch, never venturing into the street to experience life where it really happens.

I have spent the better part of my life terrified that people wouldn’t like me.  I don’t mean the manufactured me, the contrived man who usually stands in front of customers, or acquaintances, or congregations in church.  I mean that I’m afraid they won’t like the real me, the me I know myself to be, warts, scars, and all.  In part, writing is a way for me to open the curtain, little by little, on that person.  The fear that has kept me from doing that before is the same fear that the “Great and Powerful Oz” demonstrated in the Wizard story.  I’m afraid that you’ll realize that I’m a humbug, a fake, and will no longer respect me.  Look at the great phantasm, the contrivance, who inspires respect, awe, and an expectation of  predictable outcomes.  Pay no attention to the little, terrified flimflam man behind the curtain! 

My sister asked me the other day if I plan to reveal every embarrassing story about myself.  While the truth is that I won’t be disclosing all, I intend to keep telling the ones that, within the bounds of good taste, expose how I got to be who I am.  There are a number of my experiences which would implicate others who haven’t given permission for me to pull aside the curtain for them, so they’ll remain untold.  But, for all of us, the person we are becoming is shaped by our life experiences and our spiritual journey.  So, this is me, peeking through the picture window, giving you a glimpse of the real me and getting up my nerve to go out onto the street, into the noise and turmoil.  I fully expect that the process will take quite some time, but for now, it’s a start.

With the little girl, I’m still declaring with quivering lips, “Me scared!”  And like her, I have Someone with strong arms and a patient heart, who is ready to comfort and hold me until I’m able to face the dark, scary world.  He’s there for all of us.

“Not half the storms that threatened me 
     E’er broke upon my head,
Not half the pains I’ve waited for 
     E’er racked me on my bed.
Not half the clouds that drifted by 
     Have overshadowed me
Nor half the dangers ever came 
     I fancied I could see.”
(Anonymous [with thanks to my brother, Aaron for the reminder])

“Failure isn’t an option.”  I have to laugh every time I hear the statement.  It most certainly is!  Not a good option, mind you, but a very real option.  The fact that you choose to believe (or choose to claim to believe) the statement doesn’t change reality.  We always, always, have the option of failure looming right ahead of us.  It’s the fear of every successful person, the motivation behind every driven man, and the nightmare of every student who ever stood up in front of a class to give a presentation.  I can also tell you, and I know this by experience, a dose or two of failure is not always a bad thing.

Many years ago, the local university was doing a production of the musical “Brigadoon”.  I was asked to play the horn part in the pit orchestra, I thought , because I must be the best horn player around.  I now actually suspect it was because everyone else with more intelligence declined.  I was excited to be involved.  Who wouldn’t be?  Great music, sung by some very good vocal majors, as well as some great acting….Well, there was great music anyway!

We had rehearsed until even the musicians knew the spoken lines by rote, the singers were prepared, the instrumentalists practiced up, and then came opening night.  My first experience in a genuine pit, initially viewed as an adventure, became an ordeal not very high up on my list of favorites.  The acoustics might be favorable for the auditorium, but not so for the players themselves, to say nothing of the comparison noted with any number of fish products marketed in tin cans.  So you can’t hear what you need to hear, nor do you have any room for movement, and there’s always the potential for losing an extremity if the trombonist moves her slide from seventh position back to first too carelessly.  Even with these issues, I was doing fine until the beginning of one of the male lead’s solos.

What was supposed to occur was that the horn (that’s me!) would sound the C an octave above Middle C as a clear starting note, and the star would begin to sing “Almost Like Being In Love”.  What actually occurred was that the horn (that’s me!) sounded an E an octave and a third above Middle C, leaving the unhappy singer to start a few notes high and then make an abrupt correction when it became clear that he had been led down the primrose path.  In my defense, you should know that the harmonic qualities of the Kruspe wrap F/Bb Horn do not make it conducive to playing this particular C note right out of the blue, especially using the trigger/open combination for fingering.  The horn wants to play a different pitch…Well…okay.   It was nobody’s fault but my own.  You may well understand that there was one horn player who was wishing the pit had been dug just a bit deeper.  I would have loved to find a hole beneath a hole and hide in it.  At least the audience couldn’t see me, but I guarantee, the conductor could.  And he was looking!  Well, not exactly looking…Glaring might be a better description.

I didn’t hang around for any socializing afterward.  I really didn’t want to hear or participate in any of the conversation, either with other musicians or with the cast.  But, as I walked out of the practice room after putting away my horn, I couldn’t avoid hearing the male lead saying, “…horn player…mumble, mumble, mumble…needs to get a clue!”  Did he think I didn’t know it?  I was well aware of my shortcomings that night!

I would have gladly never entered that pit again, but this production was running for two more nights!  I thought maybe I could pretend to be sick and let them get someone else to finish up, but that’s just not my style.  So I went back and faced the music (pun intended).  I didn’t go back empty-handed though.  I “got a clue” in the form of a portable device which could have an earphone inserted and would allow me to hear the correct pitch before I attacked the beginning note on successive evenings.  Victory!  Being confident of my starting note, both nights went off without a hitch and by the end of the last performance, the lead male, whom I had feared would never speak to me again, was shaking my hand and talking about a fine performance.  Opening night was a vague memory, and we had overcome with two very good final presentations.

Failure is an option and sometimes a powerful motivator.  Confidence is important, but it is imperative that we know the possibilities and be prepared to face up to consequences.  If you fail (and you will), keep going.  You increase the likelihood of folks remembering your failures if you don’t go back and get it right (the way you knew you could) the next time.

“You may have a fresh start any moment you choose, for this thing we call “failure” is not the falling down, but the staying down.”
(Mary Pickford)