Turning the Screws

It’s not like I’m a light weight.

In pounds, I mean.  And yet, all it takes is the turn of a screw and I’m carried away.

All the way to forty years ago, I’m dragged back.  Nineteen seventy-seven.  And all I did was insert the blade of the Craftsman screwdriver into the slot and turned.  Just a trivial flat-head screw.

The facelift on this old house has been a challenge.  Nearly every new task has loomed before my spirit in brazen defiance.  Several have very nearly defeated me.

In my deepest bouts of self-doubt during each of these tasks, I find myself turning aside for a few moments, or an hour, or even a day.  I abandon the difficult and unfamiliar to spend some time doing the easy things—the repetitive little chores which must eventually be done, but require no great amount of knowledge or resolve.

I remove knobs or door stops.  Here, a hinge needs to be replaced.  There, a brace.  Old screws are removed, the item repaired or replaced, and reattached, either with the same screws or new ones.

Almost without exception, the items I remove are held in place with slotted screws—the kind which require a flat-head driver to manipulate them.

I had one of those moments today.  Overwhelmed by the mental gymnastics required to make a repair to an old section of the ceiling, I decided instead to install that cabinet door latch we had purchased a couple of weeks ago.  Grabbing the Phillips-head screwdriver, I knelt in front of the cabinet and bent my head to peer inside the opening.

The tool I held was useless for the task at hand. You might think I’d be frustrated, but that wasn’t the case.

Smiling, I made my way back to the tool shelf in the utility room, selecting my favorite flathead screwdriver from the jumble of hammers, wrenches, drill bits, and pliers.  Returning to the cabinet, I removed the old, broken part without a hitch.

It was his house, you know.

Always.  Always, the white-haired man installed flathead screws if he had a choice.  I met him forty years ago, and it was never any different.

Even before I went to work for him full-time in the music store, I helped out if he had need of an extra pair of hands when I happened to be loitering about. I loitered about quite often in those days.

That first time (the place I was carried back to), it was a piano bench—the kind with a storage compartment concealed under a hinged top.

The old fellow—in his late fifties by that time (anyone over forty was old to nineteen-year-old me)—knelt beside one end of the bench plying a Phillips-head screwdriver, not quietly.

“Those things are terrible!  Give me a slotted-head screw any day.   I don’t know why anybody thought a Phillips was a good idea.”

He looked over at me and grinned.

“I mean the Phillips-head screw and driver; not you and your family.”

Even when he was frustrated, the jokester in him wouldn’t be repressed.

We replaced every screw in those hinges with slotted-head screws when it was buttoned up, as he called it—just in case he ever had to work on that bench again.

In all the years I worked with that white-haired man who would become my father-in-law, I never knew him to have a Phillips screwdriver that wasn’t rounded off or stripped completely.

He did the same thing to many of the screws he attempted to remove with the damaged tools.

Did you know that most screws in use today are Phillips-head screws?  The crosshead pattern, paired with the correct size driver, gives the person driving the screw greater turning power and a more secure seat for the tool.

Slot-head screwdrivers have—well—slots, places the driver can slide out of either side if it’s not held exactly flat and perpendicular to the screw.

It took me a year or two to figure out the old man’s problem with the new-fangled screws (they were patented in 1936) he fought with constantly.

He was using the wrong tool.

Oh, he used a Phillips-head screwdriver to drive Phillips-head screws, but there are, in fact, five different sizes of the tool.  Five graduated crosshead shaped drivers, which fit twenty-four different sizes of screws.

That’s right.  Five tools.  For twenty-four sizes of screws. No wonder his drivers were always mangled.

I’m still smiling at the memory I have stored away.  But, I’m wondering if there is something more to be learned here than not being set in one’s ways?  I think there is.

I find myself these days reading a lot.  As a writer, it’s a practical way to learn new techniques and different styles in writing.  As an aging man, it can be a frustrating discouragement.

Everywhere I look, I see formulas.  You know—if you do A, B, and C, the result will be D.

I’ve tried doing A, B, and C.  The result is categorically not D.

It never has been.  It never will be D, no matter how many times I repeat the process.

I don’t fit their formula.

I notice now that many packages which once stated one size fits all have been amended to state one size fits most.  I’m pretty sure even that is an exaggeration.

No one needs me to affirm that we are all different.  One look at me (and possibly yourself) will confirm that some of us are, indeed, quite odd.

One size doesn’t fit all—or even most.

Our Creator made us to be the individuals we are, all part of the same human race, but all marching to different rhythms.  We all have different sized dreams.

God gives us all different sized dreams. One size doesn't fit all. Click To Tweet

He knows each one of us—knows exactly what drives us—knows how we’ve been uniquely gifted to achieve His purpose.

Every one of us who will come to Him does so in the same way, by way of the cross.  From there, His Spirit is the driving force, perfectly proportioned for our life’s journey.

The apostle who wrote letters had a clear, personal understanding because of his own experience.  His assurance was that God’s grace was enough.

Enough—specifically for him. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

This is important.

God’s grace fits us—each one of us.

God's grace fits us—each one of us. Click To Tweet

His grace is enough for me.  It’s enough for you.  Whatever we’ve done, wherever we’ve been, His grace fits our precise need.

Not one individual is excluded.

He doesn’t stop there.  From the pen of the same author comes the declaration of infinitely more. (Ephesians 3:20)

Without limitation.

We come, every one of us by way of the cross, to find His grace enough and His provision more than we could ever ask of Him.

Can I say it?  I think I will.

The Right Tool for the right job.

It fits.

It always has.

Every time.

 

 

You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body
    and knit me together in my mother’s womb.
 Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!
    Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.
(Psalm 139:13,14 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Where’s My Stetson?

C’mon Bermuda!  Move on up to the gate, now!  

The farmer, his wrinkled visage aged well beyond his years, gave the old cow a gentle slap on the flank and she immediately acquiesced, edging forward six inches to allow the slats to close around her muscular neck.  The sweet-natured Holstein knew she would find food in the trough on the other side of the wooden stall anyway, so she didn’t mind expending the effort of shifting a few inches. 

While Bermuda (named for the black coloration that extended down just below the knees on her front legs) settled in for a snack, the gnarled hands of the middle-aged farmer deftly pulled down the cups which would attach to her milk-filled udder and manipulated them into place. 

The phhhht-phhhht-phhhht of the gentle vacuum started and then it was on to the next donor. 

Uncle JoJo had run this farm for more years than he wanted to talk about, having learned the trade from his father before him.  As he ran the milker and moved the gentle cows through the barn, his son worked the cows who were awaiting their turn.

Outside the barn, the beasts weren’t quite as docile. 

Hey, Cutter!  Get back there!

Jody, with his long, curly shock of hair flying about his sweaty face, wasn’t exactly docile either.  His job was to keep the cows in the yard, awaiting their turn in the barn.  They had been happy enough to make their way to the yard from the fields, but patience wasn’t their best attribute. 

I noticed though, that the animals seemed to know where they should be, and were, for the most part, happy to stay in a fairly well-defined line.  All of them, that is, except Cutter, named for obvious reasons. 

She kept moving from her place and shoving in between other cows, who didn’t take kindly to the intrusion. 

“What’s going on?” I asked Jody. 

The big-boned, good-natured fellow laughed. 

“These ladies all know their place.  Except for Cutter.  She’ll learn—someday.”

The thought hit me instantly. 

“What?  They stand in the same order all the time?” 

He chuckled again.  “Of course they do.  Everyday as we call them in from the field, no matter where they are when we call, you can see them getting into line as they come.  By the time they get to the barn door, they’re in the same order as they’ve always been.  Young Cutter there—she’s new to the herd and just hasn’t found her place in line yet.  Like I said, she’ll learn.”

That was nearly forty years ago.

I thought of Uncle JoJo’s cows again recently, though.  I was on my way to Los Angeles when the memory hit me.  Sitting in an airport in Houston, I watched in amazement as the dumb animals lined up outside the barn door to await the farmer’s invitation into the familiar building. 

No. That’s not what I meant to say! 

What I intended to say was that I watched sixty human beings as they followed the instructions of a disembodied voice. 

Please line up in the order of the number on your boarding pass.  Numbers one through thirty on the right, and thirty-one through sixty on the left.  Five people between poles, please.  

The human cattle dutifully lined up, finding their places as they approached the numbered poles.  Once they were in place, they waited quietly for further instructions.  Yes, there was a Cutter or two in the crowd, but they soon learned where their place was and dutifully stood there. 

When the plane was ready, the voice once again gave the instruction for each group to move forward.  They did so with such obeisance that I couldn’t get the image of the old cows out of my head. 

It was all very funny until my flight was called and the voice without a body started giving instruction to the new herd, of which I was a part.  I almost laughed again as I considered what the reaction would be if one of the attendants had appeared with an electric cattle prod to keep the cutters in line. 

Months have passed and I’ve had a little time to consider the implication of that mental picture. 

The cattle entering that barn all those years ago had a reward in mind.  They were going to be fed.  The inconvenience of waiting and of being hooked up to the vacuum line was of no consequence to them. 

They got what they wanted and were content. 

I, along with the other humans who awaited the flight, also had a goal in mind.  Besides arriving at our destination, we wanted to save money and were willing to give up a little freedom to keep the price of our ticket down. 

There are airlines which do not herd their passengers through the loading process, but allow them to board as they come and to sit in an assigned seat.  I was willing to give up that luxury for the reward of saving a few hard-earned dollars. 

I’m still debating if the reward justifies the humiliation. 

My assumption is that the next time I travel, I’ll save the money again.  Some habits are just hard to break.

The sad thing is that I see parallels all about me. 

Folks hold paper numbers in their hands as they sit in the Driver’s License Bureau, awaiting the time when the rude person behind the desk will call that number. 

When we go out to eat at many restaurants, we are given buzzers which vibrate and flash, indicating our turn to sit and masticate has finally arrived. 

At amusement parks, we actually go through the same sort of chute system used by sale barns to guide the livestock to auction. 

800px-Thomas_Eakins_Cowboys_in_the_BadlandsOur lives are—day in and day out—lived as domesticated stock, standing where we are told until allowed to move closer to the goal. 

Well, a lot of us live that way. 

As time goes by, I’m starting to take notice of a few folks who refuse to live by the herd rules.

Back in that airport, as I watched the people line up for the flight before mine, I noticed a blue-jean clad fellow sitting off to the side with a Stetson hat on the seat beside him.  He had a smile on his face as he stretched out, arms behind his head and legs pushed out as far in front of him as they would go, his shiny cowboy boots pointing into the air. 

The noisy, grumpy people stood waiting, then filed through their sequences of sixties, one at a time, as he relaxed there. 

After the line had disappeared down the jet-way and the hubbub had died down, he stood up, set the cowboy hat atop his head and strode leisurely to the gate. 

In my imagination, I can hear the Texas drawl as he replies, in answer to the obvious questions. 

Well shore,  I had a number.  But there wasn’t no reason to stand there waitin’ when a body could be sittin’.  Didn’t figger ya’ll would be leavin’ without me anyhow.  

I’m not sure that’s how he would have talked, but I’m pretty sure that cowboy knew a herd when he saw one. 

He wasn’t part of any herd.

We’re not intended to run with a herd. 

We are, each and every one of us, designed as individuals. 

Our Creator made me and He made you to be peculiar—unique. 

King David assures us that all of the days ordained for us were written in His book before even one of them dawned. (Psalm 139:16)

I’m confident we weren’t made to be part of the herd.  And, knowing that, it may be time to break out of the corral we’ve allowed ourselves to be put into.

Maybe Cutter had the right idea after all. 

And, I’m not sure I know how to break out of the mold, but I do like the way the cowboy thinks. 

Now, if I could just find my Stetson.

 

 

For You formed my inward parts;
You wove me in my mother’s womb.
I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well.
(Psalm 139:13-14 ~ NASB)

Good judgment comes from experience and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.
(Cowboy logic)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

One Off

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

carvedviolinI’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)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.