Month: November 2011

Help, I’ve Fallen…

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I thought it was to be a normal Monday morning, which is to say, hectic.  I was pulling orders as rapidly as the constantly ringing telephone would allow, but was falling behind, nonetheless.  I noticed the beat up pickup truck pulling up to the front of the store, but ignored it as I always try to do before our doors are unlocked at noon daily.  Speaking on the phone to a customer who had not a clue of what she wanted, for once I was glad to be obviously occupied as the aging man peered in the window.  He stood there in his shirt sleeves, unfazed by the cool temperatures or by the sign on the door which clearly proclaimed the business hours:  Noon to 5:30 Monday through Friday.  I knew he was waiting for me to hang up the phone, but the woman droned on and on about her plans for the products she wasn’t sure she would be buying today.  Fifteen minutes later, with no sale made, I hung up the phone and glanced at the front window.  The man was facing away from me, deep in conversation on his cell phone.  I stepped away from my desk and made my escape to the back office to wait him out.

It was 10:30!  We didn’t open for another hour and a half and I wasn’t going to interrupt my busy schedule for someone to come in and “look around”.  A moment later, his conversation finished, the man noticed that I was no longer at my desk or on the phone. “KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!”  The loud rapping on the window resounded through the deserted building.  I ignored it.  Again, and again, and still again, the rapping sounded…the persistent fellow was not giving up.  Resigned to a confrontation, I headed for the door to tell him off.  Could he not read the sign?  There were good reasons why we left the doors locked as we worked in the morning!  I started in on him crossly, as the door opened a crack.  “Just a minute and I’ll explain,”  he interjected when I took a breath.  I bit my tongue and listened.  It seems that he had made a conscious decision to come before the customers lined up at noon.  He had something to talk about which was potentially embarrassing to me and the business and he didn’t want to discuss it in front of other people.

It turned out that a relative of his, who lived rent-free in a house which belonged to him, had sold some equipment he had stored in the garage at the house to me.  He didn’t want to file a police report and was willing to pay me back what I had laid out for the assorted electronic gadgets.  I apologized for my treatment of him, then I apologized for his inconvenience, and again for the fact that he was having to pay to get his own equipment back.  He didn’t have to do this!  He could have just called the police; filled out an incident report stating that he was filing charges against the young lady and they would have picked up the equipment in question, giving me none of the cash I had paid out for it.  It wouldn’t have cost him a dime to get his property back.  But, he didn’t want to leave me holding the bag for that money.  And, he hoped to keep from embarrassing the young lady, much as he was trying to help me to avoid embarrassment.

I am embarrassed.  Not because you now know that I bought stolen goods.  Not even because I was taken in by the young lady’s hard luck story, not once, but four times!  I am embarrassed because of my treatment of this man as he stood outside my window Monday morning, trying to save me trouble and loss.  My humiliation is made worse because a mere seven hours before, I had arrogantly written to you about my plans regarding how I intended to treat the “worn and tired folks” who would come across my path that day.  In the midst of my embarrassment, we made the financial arrangements and I helped him load up the items, apologizing again as he shook my hand warmly, obviously unaware of my discomfort and personal chagrin.

Disappointment in myself is not a new experience for me, so I gave myself a good talking to and determined to do better the next time.  I thought I was successful.  As one of my “always with me” guys came in with a guitar that same afternoon, I determined to treat this broken person as I had promised you I would.  I was gratified to hear him tell me that he realized how badly he was failing in his responsibilities.  Like the Prodigal Son of the scriptures, he was going home to live with his father and to get away from the negative influence his friends exerted on him.  All he needed was a few dollars for the bus ticket and, would I be willing to buy his old guitar “the first one he had ever owned”?  It was all he had left.  I talked with him about the wisdom of his path and encouraged him to stick with friends who would help him to get things straight, rather than enable him to return to his old ways.  Money was exchanged for the battered instrument, we shook hands warmly, and he was on his way.  I was proud of him and even a little proud of myself for encouraging him to mend his ways.

Today, a young man I have never seen before came into the store.  “Have you bought any guitars from ___ this week?”  My heart sank.  Yep.  That guitar.  It was simply one more con job, one more lie to get me to shell out a buck or two to keep him going.  Is he going home to his father?  I really don’t know.  A man who will sell you stolen goods and lie bald-faced to you while he’s taking your money, will lie about his plans for the future, too.

This week has brought one disappointment after another, as far as my faith in people goes…and it’s only half over.  People for whom I have had high expectations have failed dismally and some for whom I had high hopes have fallen short of my aspirations for them.  Not the least of these disappointments has been in myself.  Oh!  And the change to standard time has reminded me that the days are getting a lot shorter and the sadness that accompanies that phenomenon will be upon me soon.  “Nobody loves me.  Everybody hates me.  I’m going to go to the garden and eat worms.”   I think I’ll just wallow here for awhile.  Would that be okay?

Surprisingly, my spirit is not defeated, in spite of the discouragement of the last few days.  I am actually encouraged, as I look at the responses I have seen in those around me, and indeed, in myself.  Friends have been in agreement as we discuss the need to help each other, the need to forgive and support those who fall.  I am one of those fallen.  I’m realizing though, that when you hit the ground, all you have to do is stand up again.  I’m not saying it’s easy, just that it’s possible.  That last fall may make me limp for awhile, but I can still move ahead.  The exciting thing is that, knowing what I know about myself, if I can do it, it is reasonable to expect that others will be able to get up again too.

I am trusting that my friend, who has taken advantage of me more times that I can count, will one day make a new start.  I have faith that the young lady who sold me stolen merchandise will realize that she has already been forgiven and will allow Grace to work in her heart.  And knowing that Grace is already at work in my own heart, I am confident that I can (and will) continue to press on to the finish line.

Yeah, I’ll trip on another hurdle or two before that, but getting up is the key.  We can help each other with that, too.  Okay?

“Disappointment, to a noble soul, is what cold water is to burning metal; It strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it.”
(Eliza Tabor~British author~1835-1914)

“We fall down; we get up.  We fall down; we get up.
And the Saints are just the sinners, who fall down and get up.”
(“We Fall Down”~Kyle David Matthews~American songwriter)

Arm and Hammer

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I select the orange box with the familiar logo of the muscular forearm and strong hand gripping a hammer, taking it down from the shelf.  A teaspoon of the contents from the box is all it takes.  I mix it with three or four ounces of water, and a few swallows later my stomach feels relief from the discomfort of indigestion.  Recently, while working on the old blue pickup truck (you remember…my “pig in a poke”), I discover the need to clean up some battery cables which are corroded with the acid which is contained in the battery itself.  The corrosion makes it so the electric current necessary to turn over the engine can’t reach the powerful starter.  If there’s no current, the motor won’t turn and fire.  Into the kitchen I go, reaching for the same familiar orange box.  No, the problem hasn’t caused me to have an upset stomach.  I have another use in mind for the magic powder.  Contents mixed with water again, I carry the concoction out to the blue bomb and pour it over the terminals, plying an old toothbrush to remove the offending acid as the mixture does its work.  A few second’s labor, a couple of bolts tightened, and voila!  The motor is purring as well as any vehicle with almost three hundred thousand miles on it ever has.

The scene moves to a different kitchen in our little town.  The man reaching for the orange box is sick and in pain, just as he has been for more than two years now.  The cure for his illness isn’t in the box, but he believes that it is.  Taking down the box, he measures out a small amount of the powder, not into water, but into a plain white envelope with an address on the front.  Again and again, he measures out the powder, reputed for its curative and beneficial qualities.  Envelope after envelope receives its portion, until the job is completed.  He knows he will feel better when the task is completed.  He won’t.

The envelopes are mailed to their addressees, along with notes which are calculated to cause feelings of fear.  However, as the envelopes are delivered, it’s not the notes which cause the most trouble, but that little bit of white powder contained in the same paper pouch.  As the letters are opened, the recipients react first with disbelief, then with terror.  “What is this powder?  Is it poison?  Will it make me sick?  Am I going to die?”  Emergency procedures are followed, the hazardous materials teams swing into action, and offices, or banks, or schools are evacuated.  Family members are terrified and work is at a standstill, all because of that white powder.  The very same powder I use for an upset stomach.  The same powder used to remove the corrosive battery acid and its damaging effects.

“Lunatic!” I said the word myself upon reading the news of the repeated missives sent to individuals.   “Creep!” I read that description from a disgusted contributor to an online news source.  “Idiot!”  The epithet came up in conversations about the situation at my music store.  The nameless, faceless criminal who was perpetrating this atrocious act was all of those and more.  We waited for the local police and the county sheriff, along with the FBI, to nail the horrible man, sending him to prison for a very, very long time.

They arrested him yesterday.  The individual they have accused of the crimes is a man I’ve known for thirty years, who is married to one of the Lovely Lady’s childhood friends.  He is a neighbor to my mother-in-law.  He’s a real person. I went to church with him, discussed God and our responses to His grace with him, sang in a mixed ensemble with him.  As my initial shock fades away, my mind searches for an explanation.  I understand the facts…he worked for the same company for twenty-eight years; was laid off two years ago; is bitter because some who kept their jobs had less seniority and may not even have been citizens of the United States.  The facts don’t explain the actions, if indeed he is responsible for them.

If you’ll pardon a little rehashing of my last post, I’m pretty sure this man fits into the “broken” category.  Whether he is guilty of the crimes or not, his emotional turmoil of the last couple of years has left him a shadow of the person he once was.  I remember him as an outgoing, engaged person who held his own in any discussion, a man who was involved in his church and who led his household with vigor and energy.  The photo released by the authorities upon his arrest tells a different story, as do other folks who have tried to engage him over the last year or so.  The eyes are empty, the once clean shaven and well-groomed visage is covered by a bushy, unkempt beard and mustache.  I actually didn’t recognize the man in the photo until reading the accompanying news story.

Does my exhortation for us to care for broken people extend to this “lunatic”, this “creep”?  My perspective has been shaken by the news, but my heart tells me that he needs friends even more in this extreme ordeal than ever before.  Another friend reminded me this evening that the old Native American saying might apply here.  “Don’t judge any man until you have walked two moons in his moccasins.”  It would seem that we are in control of much less than we sometimes believe to be the case, and for us to condemn individuals who have broken under circumstances we have never endured is hypocritical.  I’m not sure that I would have made it two months in my friend’s shoes.  I really don’t want to find out, either.

I hope we don’t miss the lesson of the baking soda, either.  The powder which soothes and repairs also destroys and terrorizes.  Even the brand name embodies an image which is both helpful and destructive.  The hammer, wielded by a skilled workman, yields amazing structures…structures which a destructive person can decimate in moments with the same hammer.  In a person with pure motives, a steadfast focus on the success of a project is admirable.  When that single-minded focus is the attribute of a man bent on vengeance, it is lunacy.  When we work to right wrongs in a constructive way, we’re acclaimed as visionaries.  When tools which have potential for beneficial uses are turned into weapons of fear and stealth to show someone the error of their ways, a formerly law-abiding man becomes a despised criminal.  Good things can be used in horrible ways.  What once was respectable and upright becomes despicable and evil.

“There, but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford.”  The words, uttered by the sixteenth century reformer and martyr, remind us still today that our lives are not guided, nor controlled by we ourselves.  We stand upright, not because of our achievements, but because of One who sustains and upholds us.

Grace compels grace in its beneficiaries.  “As you have received, freely give.”

“It is of the mercies of God that we are not consumed, because His compassions never fail.  They are new every morning; Great is Your faithfulness!”
(Lamentations 3: 22,23)

“Grace isn’t a little prayer you chant before receiving a meal.  It’s a way to live.”
(Jacqueline Winspear~British/American novelist)

A Deal You Can’t Refuse

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
When they were finished, the Maugrabin paid him their price, even that which he sought, and taking the lamps, carried them to the khan, where he laid them in a basket and fell to going round about in the markets and thoroughfares of the city and crying out, “Ho! who will barter an old lamp for a new lamp?” When the folk heard him crying this, they laughed at him and said, “Certes, this man is mad, since he goeth about, bartering new lamps for old.”  
We’ve all heard the story in one form or another.  It is one of the classic middle-eastern tales which are related in dramatic fashion in “One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”  The story is a favorite because it recounts the rags to riches adventures of a young man named Aladdin, who finds a magic lamp, wins the beautiful princess, and lives happily ever after.  As a young boy, I loved the story and wished desperately that there really was a magic lamp and a genie who could grant wishes.  Who hasn’t wished that?  I’m fairly confident that such a lamp does not exist and also pretty sure that we wouldn’t really want it to.  Well, it would be okay if I were the one to discover it, but not if anyone else did.  I certainly don’t want to live in someone else’s fantasy world.  But I digress.

I’m thinking tonight of damaged goods.  I bought a guitar from a young man the other day.  He had taken the instrument to a pawnshop in our town, hoping that the proprietor would offer him a reasonable amount for the old battered guitar he had.  The man behind the counter took one look at the guitar and sneered.  “Did you dig that piece of junk out of a dumpster?  I’ll give you five dollars and that’s being generous.”  The guitar did look a little the worse for the wear.  It has scratches over most of the body, especially near the sound hole.  There are pits on the fingerboard and, at one point, a sticker was applied to the top.  Now removed, you can still see the round spot where the finish around it faded with light exposure, but that spot remains dark.  Forty years of dirt and oils have discolored the finish and it could never be described as good-looking.   I examined the guitar and determined that it had value to me in spite of its worn condition, so I offered the young man twenty times what the pawn shop owner had.  I’m positive that I can make a profit on the deal because I see the potential of that old guitar to make beautiful music.  Come to think of it, I might actually keep the aged beauty for myself, simply because it’s a wonderful instrument that feels like an old friend already. 

“New lamps for old”?  What kind of madness is this?  In short, the villain in the story of the magic lamp understood that the value of that lump of copper or bronze which Aladdin possessed wasn’t in its beauty.  The value was in what was contained inside the lamp and he was willing to pay a great price to possess it himself.  He may have traded away many lamps before he got the one he wanted.  But, he was willing to pay the price.  Of course, we all know that he came to no good in the end.  But then, this blog actually isn’t about a villain, is it?

The longer I live, the more I realize that we…and not one of us is excluded…we are damaged goods.  Some of us show it more than others.  While I see a number of folks who wear their brokenness out in the open, a lot of us are really good at hiding it, too.  We disguise it with our successes and achievements, with our braggadocio, and our arrogance.  We even conceal it beneath our philanthropy, our benevolence.  But deep down under the surface we understand, to our chagrin and lasting embarrassment, that we are broken and not a little ugly.  I’m pretty sure that what we really long for, despite our childlike desire for a magic lamp and a genie, is someone to come along actually calling out, “New lamps for old.”  We need someone to realize the value of what is contained inside, despite our worn and tattered exterior.
Many of you who read this have heard that call already.  Grace is an unbelievable thing, almost a mad thing, like the villain of Aladdin’s day.  (What kind of crazy God would make such an offer?)  But, moving past the spiritual aspect, I’m wondering how many of us understand how important it is for us to respond to our own undeserved redemption with a down-to-earth, physical concern for other broken people.  We don’t get to say, “I got mine, now you get yours.”  I’m not talking about giving money to poor people or sending boxes of clothes to faceless children across the sea (not that we shouldn’t do that, too).  Right now, I’m speaking of caring for people, our neighbors, where they are…broken by life, by disappointment, by depression, by loss.  Who better to care for broken people, but broken people?  We know where it hurts, and what it takes to make it better.  
Some of the finest, most valuable musical instruments I have found have been the most abused, ugliest things you would ever want to see.  Neglected and devalued by ignorant people, they sit in dusty corners and hot attics, awaiting the touch of a caring and loving hand.  The results have been astonishing, again and again. 

I’m going to try to look for the value in the worn and tired folks I interact with today.   A word of encouragement (and possibly a smile) may be all that is required.  It’s a place to start anyway.  After that?  Well, we’ll just have to play it by ear…




“Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.”
(“Rescue the Perishing” by Fanny Crosby~American hymn writer~1820-1915)

“…Many a man with his life out of tune, battered and scarred with sin, he’s auctioned cheap to a thankless world…”
(“The Touch of the Master’s Hand”)

A Sense of Proportion

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The savage little beasts in the backyard are at it again.  No longer do they yap in their cute little puppy voices as they did mere weeks ago.  Now they raise their big dog barks in unison and clamor with full voice at the intruder in their territory.  Any moment I expect to hear the death cry of a squirrel, or possibly even an opossum.  The cry never comes…just more barking.  It is after midnight and the neighbors may be trying to sleep (as strange as that seems), so I step out the back door to deal with the miscreant rascals and chase away the tormentor.  The terrifying intruder lies unmoving in the yard, illuminated by the moon and stars.  A branch.  That’s all it is.  A branch which has fallen from the mulberry tree days ago.

Earlier today, they were frantic about a different branch and would not calm down until it was removed; so, forewarned by prior knowledge, I dutifully discard this one as well.  With the offending trespasser banished, peace descends once more to the back yard and they go back to gnawing on bones, or burying them, or whatever it is that puppies do in the middle of the night.  Can someone tell me what it is about an out-of-place piece of wood that irritates a couple of young canines?  Are they so concerned that this branch is not where it is supposed to be?  We all know branches belong up in the air, attached to trees, but to get so worked up about one which is no longer keeping its place in the order of things is baffling to me.  Humans would never do such a thing, would they?  We’re much more reasonable creatures than a couple of dumb dogs barking in the middle of the night!

Are we?  I’m currently reading a great little book on punctuation entitled “Eats, Shoots & Leaves”, written by a stickler of a literary editor, an Englishwoman whose name is Lynne Truss.  I was lurking one day recently on Facebook and noted that a friend had recommended it to another friend and I decided to acquire it for myself (Thanks, Trish!).  The British humor is right up my alley, with plenty of puns and a fair amount of satire, so I have tormented the Lovely Lady by reading entire passages aloud to her for several evenings.  I find myself in agreement with the “Sticklers Unite” concept espoused in the pages of the little volume and wonder why more of the educated and literate folks I know don’t object vocally and publicly to the torture of our language, both spoken and written.  I have raved in my writings before about this and am likely to do so again.  But, as I perused the book and nodded my head in assent, I realized the danger I was (and am) in.  In the back of my head, I hear the barking of dogs at a limb which has fallen in the yard.  As I read about the “Apostrophe Protection Society” (no joke!  It’s a real group and even has a website to spread its message), I start to hear the whisper of “tempest in a teapot”, and “mountains out of molehills”.

I am committed to using the English language effectively and accurately.  I will place punctuation in the correct position, inasmuch as I have the ability.  I will even insist that the vendors with whom I do business correct errors on merchandise which they expect me to sell to the public.  That said, I refuse to carry stickers on my person which state, “This apostrophe is not necessary,” to place on offending posters or banners, nor will I make it my mission to point out errors on signs in businesses which are not my own.  I want our schools to teach correct usage and insist on its implementation.  My belief is that good teachers (and parents who support them) will be the best defense against a crumbling language framework and if our education system fails in that, I’m fairly sure that my insistent barking won’t make any difference at all.

Alas!  I see that I’ve actually taken a really long, roundabout rabbit trail this time, for I didn’t really have the English language in mind as my subject when I started writing tonight.  It does help to drive home the point I am trying to make with a fair amount of accuracy and weight, though.  We look at the dogs barking at the fallen limb in the moonlight and think, “What ignorant animals!”  We look at the folks in the Apostrophe Protection Society and think, “What a waste of time!”  All the while, we each have our pet peeves, our favorite projects that blind us to all else around and cause us to disrespect people, even to be cruel at times.  If something is important to us, it must be important to everybody else, or we will make it important to them!  As I write this, it’s as if I’m looking in a mirror instead of gazing at a computer monitor, because again and again, I see myself.  I’m really good a barking at fallen limbs.  Really good.

I recall many years ago, a lady who is a dear friend made reference to me in a conversation with someone else.  “The conscience of our church”, she called me, never expecting that I would learn of it.  It hurt when I did.  It hurt enough for me to make some changes in how I view other people’s opinions…enough to realize that I don’t have a corner on right thinking.  Oh, I still bark sometimes.  Hopefully though, all it takes is the voice of my Master to still my yapping and let the limbs lie where they fall.  I’m pretty sure that I can trust Him to order the world as it needs to be.  I’m happy to take some time off from fixing everything.  That’s a relief for all of you too, I’m sure…

I’m also thinking I may be a little smarter than my dogs.  A little.  You’re free to disagree if you like.

“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.”
(Henry David Thoureau~American essayist~1817-1862)

“Whoever said, “Let sleeping dogs lie,” obviously didn’t sleep with dogs.”
(Anonymous)