On Razor-Blade Millionaires; the Moon on a Chain and Being Content with What you Have
I am listening to Gustave Flaubert’s A Sentimental Education on my iPod as I walk.
It opens with a steamboat journey from Paris:
“The hill on the right bank of the Seine dropped out of sight, and another one loomed closer on the opposite side.
This hill was topped by trees dotted between bungalows with hipped roofs. They had sloping gardens separated by newly built walls, iron gates, lawns, greenhouses, and puts of geraniums set at regular intervals on terraces with parapets to lean on and enjoy the view.
As they caught glimpses of these small country villas, so charming and peaceful, more than one of the passengers thought longingly of owning one, and living out the rest of his days up there, with a nice billiard-room, their own motor launch, a wife, or some such dream.”
* * *
Have you ever dreamed such a dream? I sure have. We have been to Scandinavia for the last three summers—Norway first, then Sweden, then Denmark.
Scandinavians take summer very seriously, because it is so brief. Whenever there is a lake or a river or a fjord, you see these red-roofed houses, with a canoe tied to the mooring pad.
Roy and I look at each other, and we each know we are thinking, “I’d like a little summer house on a large lake, or by the ocean, or by a mountain tarn, and a little canoe to mess about in.”
* * *
When Roy retired early, two summers ago, we got some counselling so two intense people living together 24/7 would not provoke each other to distraction.
The counsellor was good, and offered us much insight into ourselves,though he ultimately drove me to distraction.
One issue which came up was that now that my gifted husband was home, I wanted him to do, well, simply everything.
I had a dream of living near a stream. “Roy, please could you get a water pump, and rocks and concrete, and construct a waterfall, which will lead to a stream which will go around the garden.” Our garden is 1.5 acre, so this was no small task.
But no, I wasn’t joking, and I bought a whole pile of books which showed how one could construct an artificial waterfall and stream.
Roy got very stressed. He had his own list of Must-Dos, and Would-Love-To-Dos, and could not give me a date for when construction would commence on my waterfall and stream.
I got frustrated. I sulked. I felt a bit outraged. Roy had endless free hours. Why was he saying No to this small matter of a waterfall and stream which he wanted as much as I?
So I brought up his unreasonableness with the counsellor.
* * *
In reply, he told us two stories, which I thought were very foolish, and at which I did not smile.
But I remembered them, and puzzled over them, so, I guess, they were not that foolish after all. More like koan.
* * *
One was a story of man who wanted to be a millionaire. But alas, he realised that he lacked the intelligence, talent, education, drive and resources to become one.
So he thought, “Well, what do millionaires have that I might be able to afford?”
And he thought, “Ah, I bet a millionaire could afford to change his razor blade every day.”
And he resolved, “Well, I realize I am never going to be a millionaire, but I can afford a new razor blade every day. So I am going to be a razor-blade millionaire.”
Moral: Not everyone can achieve their dream. Only one person will be the most famous writer in the world; there will only be one richest man in the world.
However, most of us can achieve some of our dream. We can write, though we may not be wildly successful. We can travel some, even if we do not get to see all the beauty we want to.
* * *
Story Two was James Thurber’s magical incantatory story Many Moons. Spoiled princess Leonore cries for the moon, but is tricked into happiness by the moon on a necklace around her neck.
Examine the dreams you are convinced will make you happy. Perhaps a simulacrum of them will work just as well. Examine exactly what you want and see if a much simpler, easier thing will make you just as happy.
* * *
I saw magical homes on the Bosphorus Cruise we went on last April, winding between Europe and Asia–beach homes, mountain homes, lake houses. I sort of coveted some of these for the dream or illusion of peace they represent.
But heck, two houses to be furnished, kitted out, made comfortable, and kept clean. One is time-consuming enough.
So, while I have not totally given up the dream of the beach house, I have put on a very distant back-burner. I can be perfectly happy without it, which is, of course, the most persuasive reason not to save up to buy it.
One of the brilliant sentences from Richard Foster’s brilliant book Celebration of Discipline which have lingered with me is this, We don’t need to possess things to enjoy them.
And now, when material temptation assails, I decide instead to be a razor-blade millionaire, revelling in the sea, and mountains and lakes from the large picture windows of my camper van, and renting the occasional idyllic cottage for a week, wearing the moon on a chain, being contented with all the goodness life offers me, sharp razor-blades, peace around my neck, and eternity in my heart!
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When Roy and I are cross with each other and have to drive places together, we pop a CD of the epistles of Apostle Paul into the car. It’s not safe to argue and drive, trapped in a car with no place to escape, while your adrenalin mounts–and so I don’t!
And sometimes, Paul is sublime, and his words and vision and adulterated brilliance wash over me like a vision of better, quieter, noble lands—lands open to me, lands of which I just have to claim citizenship of, and then behave like a citizen. And I quieten down, and let these lovely words and ideas wash over me, and sometimes drop the bone over which we were contending.
And sometimes, Paul is so combative and sarcastic—oh how biting his sarcasm, how utter his contempt for fools!!—that I just have to laugh. It’s an affectionate laughter. And then Roy says wryly, “He sounds a bit like you!” (On a bad day!)
Paul was a grumpy guy; he did not tolerate fools gladly, or the illogical. I think we would have enjoyed chatting, and I think he would have had very sharp words for me, if we disagreed!
* * *
I recently listened to the whole of Romans on my iPod on one of these days on which I felt a bit discombobulated, and wanted sanity to return swiftly, and I listened to 1 Corinthians today.
Contentious, argumentative, dismissive, inspired, sublime! Loved it.
And then I come to its most famous chapter. If I speak in the tongues[a] of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 3 If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.
And I laugh. There are very few people on the planet so superlatively gifted, but I happened to have been listening to the words of one of them. Who did Paul know who could speak in the tongues and angels? Who had the gift of prophecy, and could understand mysteries and knowledge, and a faith that could begin moving the Roman Empire? Who owned nothing? Who subjected his body to unbelievable hardships?
Who was Paul describing but himself?
* * *
And human nerves can only be stretched so far. Then there is payback and it is painful.
Speaking and writing in the tongues of men and angels, prophesying, divining mysteries, pursuing and penning knowledge, the rigours of faith and asceticism—all these cause a natural reaction, overstrained nerves—and resultant grumpiness.
So I read it and think, “Oh Paul, sweetheart, you’re being too hard on yourself.”
* * *
But then, I wonder. I too have met those who are superlatively gifted, intellectually and spiritually. And if they are arrogant, or “full of themselves,” in that vivid phrase, or pompous or manipulative, or have time only for those they can use—they leave me cold. Utterly unimpressed!!
If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am nothing. Sounds extreme, doesn’t it, but isn’t that how we rate people? Who has time for people who are impatient and unkind, envious, boastful and arrogant, rude and angry? No matter how brilliant they are! There is an instinctive recoil. We might rate their intellect or giftedness highly—but we do not rate them highly.
Patient, kind, not jealous, not boastful, not proud. Not rude, not self-seeking, not easily angered. Forgetting wrongs.
How many of us can read this as a character sketch of ourselves?
What then should we do? We who use words well, and get weary in the penning of them? We who listen in to the spirit of God, and have prophetic insight, and leave our sessions of intense prayer a little exhausted, with our nerves a bit fragile? Who strive to understand spiritual mysteries and spiritual knowledge, and tire in the pursuit? Who pay the price of stepping out in faith, pay the price of our generosity with our time which makes our life more difficult, more challenging, more of a strain, sometimes?
Oh, we’ve got to the heights, the Omega of the spiritual life, and then find ourselves failing in the Alpha Beta of it, in patience and kindness and humility and consideration and keeping our temper—things, come on, which are just good manners!!
What then should we do?
* * *
Yes, there is hope for us.
I love Rolland Baker’s account of his healing from cerebral malaria and advanced dementia. Heidi Baker in her book There is Always Enough recounts her healing from dyslexia and chronic fatigue.
Yes, just as only God can heal the malfunctioning, worn-out cells in our brains or bodies, only He can heal the callouses in our hearts, the atrophied bits, where warm blood does not flow, and which are, consequently, slowly withering.
Only he who brought the dead to life can heal our small, cold and selfish hearts.
So do it, Lord! Create in me a clean heart, oh Lord, and renew a right spirit within me. (Ps 51:10). Take out of my breast the heart of stone, and give me a heart of flesh. (Ez. 11:19).
Amen.
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So, on the 1st of August, on Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day hundreds of thousands of Americans bought sandwiches from the popular fast food chain. Chick-Fil-A made $30 million on that day, to be donated to anti-gay groups.
And when did following Jesus become synonymous with defending “traditional marriage?” Or disapproving of gays?
His Grace is Sufficient in the Pursuit of Excellence
This has been a big year for sport in the UK. Andy Murray was the first Brit in the men’s singles in 74 years.
When we entered our church, St. Andrew’s, Oxford on July 8th, Wimbledon was on the big screen rather than Christian graphics.
Our sports-mad Vicar, Andrew Wingfield-Digby, was founder and National Director of Christians in Sport, chaplain at the Seoul and London Olympics, and chaplain to the England National Cricket Team. So we watched Murray play Federer while the worship leaders strummed worship songs. Very surreal!!
Everyone was gripped, so Andrew democratically asked for the vote as to who wanted to watch the final set at Wimbledon and who wanted to worship God. Wimbledon won (our family voted with the victors), so the worship leaders looking grumpy and resigned, continued strumming Be Thou My Vision, and I Surrender All, while we watched the screen, the sound now turned on, and church started at 6.20 p.m. instead of 6, with the TV switched off just as Andy Murray broke down.
I think crying is a natural, and not unmanly response to a loss made more terrible by the fact the hopes of a nation are pinned on you.
Loss in the Olympics are even sadder. Years and years of training and it’s all over in a few minutes, sometimes seconds. And only one gets the gold. 3 get medals. The rest have lost.
Is it worth it?
* * *
Yes, because the one loss at Wimbledon or the Olympics is preceded by a thousand victories. An elite athlete probably begins excelling in Kindergarten, winning numerous events in PE, for her house, her school, her town, her country, her country, internationally… Many successes for each big failure.
And so it is in anything competitive: we win some, we lose some, and when we do, we have to decide whether we are going to focus on the heartbreak of the loss or failure or rejection, or the joy of the thousand little successes that got us to the point of the big failure.
I was crushed by the rejection of a book manuscript I had written at great cost about 16 years ago. I told a kind lady who was mentoring me that I felt I was a failure. She reminded me of all my little achievements, the prizes I had won, the publications. “Many people would be green with envy to have achieved what you have,” she said kindly, but it didn’t help.
Now, years later, I have decided that, when I meet a setback, I’ll remember all the little successes which got me to the stage at which I credibly hoped for the prize, the acceptance letter. And thank God for them instead of sinking into despair.
And continue striving for excellence. For there is as much joy in the quest for excellence as attaining it.
Here’s a poem by Robert Francis called Excellence:
Excellence is millimeters and not miles.
From poor to good is great. From good to best is small.
From almost best to best sometimes not measurable.
The man who leaps the highest leaps perhaps an inch
Above the runner-up. How glorious the inch
and that split-second longer in the air before the fall.
* * *
And another thing now keeps me light-hearted. I have given my writing and blogging to God and so do not feel that I own my writing, or that it is entirely my own responsibility. I am in Jesus, a branch in the vine, and will write as his sap and juice flow through me. His grace is sufficient for me.
Here’s my favourite Max Lucado story:
Tom walks down the street and meets Dick, who is grinning from ear to ear.
Tom, “What are you so happy about?”
Dick, “Well, I’ve met a man who promised to do all my worrying for me for $80,000 a year.”
Tom, “$80,000 a year. How are you going to get that?”
Dick, grinning, “That’s HIS worry!”
This helped me hugely in my approach to money. Travel is expensive because it is all unfamiliar. One thing is guaranteed: mistakes. In the past, when I felt money haemorrhaging because of my mistakes or because I was ripped off, I would feel sad or annoyed. If it was Roy’s fault, I’d engage in mild recrimination.
Now I feel relaxed about it. I try to be wise, but have realized that stupidity is not a sin, and mistakes are part of being human. And it’s not really my money. It is God’s abundance temporarily in my hands. I am but a temporary conduit, and try to act wisely, but he will not hold mistakes and misjudgements against me.
And just as I have been blessed by other people’s errors (I own a publishing company, and people buy our books every day even though we are rarely the cheapest!) it’s okay if money flows through my hands to other people, willingly or unwittingly. It’s not really my money, but God’s and he will look after it. And me.
* * *
On this holiday, I made another cognitive shift which I sense will be important in my life.
I have unsuccessfully battled with weight for most of my life. And so, I made the sort of bargain with God which has transformed so many areas of my life. Somewhat as alcoholics say at AA, I said, “Lord, I have failed to eat healthily and exercise enough to be really fit. Lord, you step in and take over. Lord, empower and enable me to be healthy.”
And I know he’s heard my prayer, and so I am waiting to see how he will answer it.
His grace is sufficient.
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