KEY SCRIPTURE: Psalm 143:5

I remember the days of old; I meditate on all thy works; I muse on the work of thy hands.

RELEVANCE

It’s 4.30 pm on a Sunday. I’ve been working most of the day on the computer, mainly on voluntary stuff. I take a break to attach a new retracting hose reel to the house. As I walk to the rear of the shed where I keep the tools, I pass the barber’s chair in my ‘studio’ section, midway between the tools and the gym I rarely use. The studio area is a bit junky at the moment, although my wife says, all the time. 

 I think to myself, “When I’m done with the reel, I’ll take a break on the chair and just sit in the quiet.” It’s funny how objects have an emotional effect on us. 

 I’m very fortunate—every bloke would like a barber’s chair in his Man Cave, but they can be a bit expensive. The real challenge is to get one for free, like ours. 

 I remember picking it up. It was a rather hot evening, and I was close to finishing with a client in Clayton, so I thought I’d swing by and pick up my son, Niv Jnr, who was working in St Kilda. I met him at his work; then, on the way back to the car, we passed a barber shop under renovations. Two barber’s chairs were on the footpath with other stuff so they could do their work unhampered. 

 In a second’s flash, Niv Jnr put his head in the shop and asked them if they were being thrown out. “Yeah, mate. Take ‘em if you want ‘em,” was the workers’ reply. What a bonus to a couple of blokes. 

 One or both of these were now ours, but we simultaneously looked at each other with that questioning expression, “How do we get these home?”

 Fortunately, I have a convertible, which has come in handy many times, like when I bought the very long antique fishing rod in Queenscliff, Victoria. A blisteringly hot day, roof down, rod strapped across the windscreen and rear seats poking out the back and front of the car. All the way home, we expected the Police to pull us up. Or when we impulse-bought a cupboard and drove the hour and a half to home with it protruding well over the top of the car.  

This freight was also going to be difficult. The chairs were big. One tear in the upholstery and the venture would be for nothing. 

 Niv Jr. minded the chairs while I went and got the car. As we lifted Chair No.1 in the dark evening’s hot breeze to flip it over, we could feel the stale hair starting to blow around and stick to our faces and clothing. Not easily deterred, we spat it out, upturned the chair, and gently placed it on the back seat, with the bulk of the chair sitting well beyond the car. It took up that much room; we decided one chair was enough. 

 Once on the freeway, reality hit us. All the old hair that had fallen into the base of the chair when being cut was now swirling loose, making its way into our eyes, ears, noses, mouths, and down our necks. Hair of all colours, some probably years old, cut from all types of people. The thought repulsed us, but what could we do, leave it on the side of the freeway for some other lucky person? No!

 We scruffed it into the shed, and it now sits regally, fit for use. 

 From time to time, I come into the shed purely for peace, sitting on one of three chairs. Chair No.2 is Dad’s old arm chair I used to sit in when I was about fifteen at his Bible studies and prayer meetings. I’d worked most of the day in the shop, starting at 6 am, and by the time the Saturday night prayer meetings came, I was dog-tired and used to fall asleep on it. Others wanted to wake me up, but Dad knew the story and let me rest.

The third chair has reminiscences of our earlier days of marriage when we had very little. It’s now an antique like I am. Heather wanted to throw it out (the chair, not me), but I enjoy the comfort and memories. 

 They’re all comfortable, and I choose one based on how much junk is on the others. Then I pick up an old surf magazine from the 70s or 80s or some shed-smelling Christian literature and just enjoy the solitude. 

 What spiritual message can I make out of this story?

 We all have these special places, whether chairs, beds, rooms, cars, bush walks or other secret spots. I recall an old Greek retiree who would buy the morning newspaper and just sit in his white Holden HR sedan out the front of his house, reading for an hour.    

Sometimes, we need to get away from the crowding and noise of phones and talk and retreat to our special place—just to pray and read, sit and think, or simply reminisce—and emerge refreshed.

We don't have to go far for simple pleasures. 

PRAYER

Dear Lord, thanks for those places that give us special feelings, memories and great experiences. I praise you for life.

Photo by Stefan Schauberger