Can That Horse Run Faster?

April 23, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

No, it’s not one of the sayings I learned from the red-headed lady who raised me—she of the thousand-and-one adages. This one, I first heard from that other red-headed woman, the Lovely Lady, who lives at my house still today.

I understand the ladies with whom she does handwork (needlework, knitting, cross stitching, and the like) say it frequently when a project doesn’t turn out as perfectly as they’d like.

The words were spoken the other day as we finished up a job we’d agreed to help with at a relative’s house. We’d cut out the pieces we needed, drilled them, and driven an adequate number of screws to hold each one in place for the foreseeable future. Our relative, a recent widow, was happy with the work while admitting it wasn’t perfect.

“But,” she said, “You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

We all went out to eat a bite of supper before heading back home, the location of the restaurant requiring that we drive back by her house later. As we came up the hill toward the house, I couldn’t help remarking that this drive-by was remarkably like riding by on the back of that galloping horse.

We didn’t notice anything amiss as we sailed past.

Success.

Then, I sat in my chair and moped all evening. The Lovely Lady sat nearby, crocheting a lovely afghan, and looking over her glasses at me thoughtfully. She rarely misses noticing a good mope, that one.

I finally said it.

“It’s not good enough.”

Knowing exactly what I was thinking about, she immediately assured me that I had nothing to criticize myself for. Because that was what I had been doing. Not intentionally, but the result was the same. I was certain I hadn’t done enough.

Thinking she needed some clarification, I replied.

“But, it’s his house.”

There may or may not have been tears in my eyes as I said it. There are as I write this.

Grief is like that. One believes that time has done its work and the memories have become beneficent and pleasant, instead of painful. Then after an afternoon of working in the sun, here is sadness showing its unwelcome countenance once more. The pain is more than only the sore muscles I had anticipated.

Somehow, I feel I owe him more than just “good enough.” His carpentry and finish work was always remarkable—his work ethic, ever a pursuit of excellence. And he achieved it, again and again.

But, she is right. Those were his gifts. Comparisons are not helpful.

Mr. Shakespeare even suggested that comparisons are odorous. That was a century and a half after the writer, John Lydgate, said they were “odyous”. The words don’t mean quite the same thing. But, the result is inevitable. They stink.

It stinks for us to compare ourselves against others.

The Apostle Paul gave us the standard (which we ignore, it seems, time after time).

“Whatever work you do, do it with all your heart. Do it for the Lord and not for men.” (Colossians 3:23, NLV)

The folks in the Arts and Crafts movement in the twentieth century had a goal to do things better. Gustav Stickley, one of its major influences, stamped a phrase on all his pieces to remind folks of that.

“Als Ik Kan,” was what they said. The Flemish words for “all I can.” The words communicated that the maker had done the very best he/she could do.

The Lovely Lady reminded me on that recent day that we had done the best we were capable of.

And, it’s enough.

We walk in the light our Creator has given us in which to walk.

We reflect that light to the world around us.

Some of us will shine with a brilliance that dazzles. Overwhelming. Sensational.

Others of us will manage merely the flicker of a candle. Barely enough to see the pathway ahead.

Either way, it’s His light. His.

I promise to do all I can.

For Him. After all, it is His house we’re working on.

But, you may just want to keep that horse at a gallop for the time being.

“Everything comes from Him. His power keeps all things together. All things are made for Him. May He be honored forever. Let it be so.”
(Romans 11:36, NLV)

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
(Theodore Roosevelt)

Telling Stories

May 11, 2016May 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The storyteller sits, spinning his yarns into fabric.

That’s what they call it, isn’t it? A fabrication?

I listen anyway. Still, as the story goes on, I begin to see the ravelings poking through here and there. His tale may have started with a few facts, but somehow it doesn’t all fit in a continuous pattern.

I want to reach for the edge of his fabric and pull at one of those loose ends. I just know that, like the cartoon character with a loose thread on his sweater which gets caught in a passing car, the story will unravel and the naked truth will come out.

I have done that more than once before. I’m learning (finally) to leave the loose threads alone and let the story spin out.

Some things are more important than being right.

Do you know how hard that is for me to say?

I grew up in a home where being right was paramount. Lies were set straight and wrong attitudes corrected immediately.

It’s what you do for your children. We call it teaching, and it is the responsibility of every parent.

But, the faults of others who were not part of our family were also pointed out to us constantly. My parents didn’t want to miss the opportunity to help us make good decisions.

Examples are helpful when teaching children, so folks we knew became our cautionary examples, their faults often looming larger than life in our little eyes. Their good traits could never balance their bad ones.

Black. White.

Heads. Tails.

What should have been lessons meant to help us examine our own steps and language became cause for comparison.

Comparisons stink.

I’m not the first to say it. I won’t be the last. The real problem lies in the fact that I kind of like the odor.

Comparisons where I come out ahead make me feel good about myself—for awhile. I begin to believe that God, perhaps, loves me better. I’m one of His favorite sons because of my concern with doing things right and in order.

Surely, it’s true.

It is not.

Grace pays no attention to the design of the filthy rags it washes. It takes no notice of the tag ends hanging from the corners.

The storyteller with his lying ways is no worse—nor better—off than the listener who sits nearby and tends the kernel of pride in his soul, growing quickly into a full-grown bush of snobbery.

I know how hard the fall is when pride takes its inevitable tumble, and it is inevitable.

Sinners sin. We sin, not all in the same way, but we sin.

It has taken many years for me to understand that grace, for all its astounding power, doesn’t remove sin, but the penalty for sinning. Justification is the work of grace.

We who have been justified—through grace—are called to be sanctified. All that means is we are called to become holy, or set apart, as He is.

We have to take a walk. It’s something we do with others. Not surprisingly, we don’t all start the walk with the same baggage.

There are folks with sexual sins, addicts, liars, thieves, gluttons, drunks—the list is not short. He doesn’t require that we clean up before we become part of His family. What happens after that though, is different. (1 Corinthians 6:9-10)

This walking we do is a progressive thing. The people we walk with may not be at the same place in the process as we are.

May not isn’t the right way to put it. They will not be at the same place.

We walk with them anyway. There’s a reason for that:

We still need each other. Travelers on their own rarely reach their destinations without meeting calamities along the road. It is our lot in life to depend on help through the tough places.

I have refused—refused—to lend aid to folks in the past. Somehow I thought I might get dirty in the process. I could have nothing to do with people who sinned in that way.

Do you hear what I’m saying?

I’m not alone, am I? We are a prideful and hypocritical lot, aren’t we?

We who have been forgiven freely, refuse to believe that God could forgive that.

That! How could He? How would He?

He could. He has.

Those stinking comparisons. Still, their stench fills the air around me, like the grotesque odor of bone burning under the dentist’s drill.

But, a lifetime of making comparisons has paralyzed me. I want to walk with others, but my paralysis stops me.

And then, I remember the Great Physician, to whom the man, bed-ridden with paralysis, was brought on that day a couple thousand years ago. The Healer said only two things to him. It’s all that was necessary. (Mark 2:1-12)

Your sins are forgiven.

Get out of that bed and walk.

Even today, the paralysis of a lifetime of thought patterns is banished with those words!

Freedom! At last.

At last.

I’m walking.

There’s still room on the road beside me.

May it never be otherwise.

A brother offended is harder to win than a strong city,
And contentions are like the bars of a castle.
(Proverbs 18:19 ~ NKJV)

Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede.
(John Lydgate ~ English monk/poet ~ 1370-1451)

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)

One Off

November 5, 2015November 5, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It is one of my favorite musical instruments that ever has been carried through my doors.

I’ve never heard it play a single note. I almost certainly will never hear it play one.

And yet, I treasure it.

Without a clue to who made it, I admire its maker. Without any knowledge of its history, I envy the first musician to hold it in her hands, freshly rosined bow held at the ready to bring forth the first notes ever drawn from the hand-carved top.

In my fancy, I see the smile play on the lips of the fortunate violinist. The dust from the rosin-laden bow puffs from the strings as they vibrate with rich tones. The slim fingers fly along the fingerboard, feeling out the familiar tunes.

No finer performance ever emanated from a Stradivari-made instrument or even one touched by the famed Giuseppi Guarneri at the height of the golden-age of violin making. The room in which the musician stands is filled with light and sound—memories made for all the years of a lifetime, be they happy and full, or tortured and lonely.

Odd, isn’t it? The instrument I’m looking at as it rests beside my desk tonight is not valuable—at least not in the sense that comes to our minds.

It will never be a collector’s piece. No catalog will ever list it as a desirable commodity in the world of violin connoisseurs. No auction house will ever feature it in their offerings to the newly-wealthy seeking that signature piece in which to invest.

And yet, the violin is a one of a kind. A masterpiece of sorts.

There is not an identical instrument anywhere in the world. From stem to stern, the design and hand of the maker are in evidence. Except for the strings, two sad, rusted specimens which have seen the last bow ever to be drawn over their midsections, every part of the old fiddle—every part—was hand-carved by the maker.

Think of it!

Each plank of wood was hand-selected by the master for the color and grain. He planed, and carved, and sanded them, paying special attention to the curve of the top and the back, until they were exactly the right shape to be fitted to the side pieces.

The long narrow piece of maple was carved, a painstakingly slow and difficult task. Maple is a particularly hard wood, and not cooperative with the carving process. And yet, out of the hard, stubborn lump of blond wood, the scroll at the tip of the instrument took shape, curving down to the neck, then the heel where the neck joined the body.

Not to belabor a point, but the maker even thought it essential to carve the tuning pegs by hand, a task that must have exceeded an hour’s time spent on each one. Complete sets, machined and polished, sell for fifteen or twenty dollars in my store. Factory made bridges are not expensive, nor are the tailpieces. Still, this unknown master deemed it important that every single piece be hand carved.

Every single component. Made by his hand.

Unique. A thing of beauty.

And yet…

And yet, if I compare the aged violin with others in my store, this old fiddle doesn’t fare so well. There are rough edges where the others are smooth. The shape is not symmetrical, as is that of the factory built instruments. The hand-cut fittings—the bridge, the pegs, the tailpiece—are crude and not as sturdy.

Nothing shines; nothing gleams.

What a treasure!

And suddenly, as I gaze at the old violin, I see them.

I finally see them.

Every day, they come to see me for one reason or another. The reason is of no consequence. That they walk through my door is the hand of Providence. Nothing happens without purpose.

If I look closely, I can find defects in every single one. And once in awhile, someone actually points out the defects to me. After the person is gone. Always after they’re gone.

I have, to my shame, pointed out the defects myself.

And the Teacher stopped writing in the dirt long enough to suggest that any of them without defect could feel free to carry out the sentence in person. Then, squatting down again, He ran His finger through the dust once more, waiting for them to grasp the impact of His message. (John 8:6-8)

Do you suppose any one of the teachers of the Law missed the message of the dust he played with? How long did it take for them to remember what they were made from?

He never forgets it. How would He? He made us! (Psalm 103:14)

As with the old violin, the comparisons with others prove nothing. Each person who walks through my door is a masterpiece of unique design.

A one-off, if you will.

Every one, a treasure. Every single one.

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

I can almost hear the music again.

Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede.
(John Lyndgate ~ English monk/poet ~ 1370-1451

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.
(Psalm: 13-14 ~ NRSV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

comparisons

Can That Horse Run Faster?

Telling Stories

You? A Genius?

One Off