Month: May 2016

Saying When

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Thirty miles.  I can do this.

Cycling is not second nature to me.  I still have to force myself into the clothes and out the door on each solo ride I make.  After several years of self-discipline and more than a few dollars spent for equipment, I still argue like a three-year-old being made to eat his squash.  Every time.

That said, I am learning a lot about myself—a lot more than I learn while sitting on the couch.  The lessons help me to understand much about who I am and who I want to become.

Some would say I’ve left it a little late.  I say, it is what it is.

Thirty miles was my goal as I left the house one afternoon last week.  Almost two hours on the tiny, hard bicycle seat.  

My friends do twice that every Saturday.  And they’re older than I.  I was going to do this!

That afternoon, the first twelve miles went by fairly quickly with a couple of minor, mostly inconvenient, events which rattled me a little. I was tired and thirsty already.  Add to that the fact I hate riding along the state highway with traffic zipping past at sixty and seventy miles per hour, and you’ll understand why I was grateful for a quiet parking lot in which to grab a drink and put my foot down on the pavement for a moment.  

I had flown down the last downhill section of the highway right before my rest stop. Freeing one of my two water bottles from its cage, I gulped enough of the ice-cold, clear liquid to irrigate the  gritty desert in my throat.  

I didn’t want to cool down too much, but I did want to quiet my spirit and forget the honking, motor-revving pickup on that narrow country lane earlier.  The old guy pulling a stock trailer who sped up to get in front of me before making a right turn right across my way hadn’t helped things any, either.

And yet, it didn’t take long before I was ready to ride again.

Now, the busy highway was between me and my chosen route.  I had to cross five lanes.  That’s all I had to do to get back onto the quiet back road, along which I could speed—or lollygag—whichever.

Cross the highway.  Easy, right?  Wait for a break in traffic and, pushing both pedals, roll right across.  Twelve miles down, eighteen to go.

Easy, peasy.

Checking traffic to my left and seeing none, I eased across the lane.  To my right, a pickup truck crested the hill quite a distance away.  Well, perhaps he was closer.

A lot closer!

It didn’t help that I was in the highest gear on the bicycle.  Well I would be, after flying down that hill, wouldn’t I?  I should have checked.

I should also have estimated the oncoming traffic’s speed better.  

Pedal!  Harder!

My left foot, not yet locked into the pedal, slipped off.  The right foot was locked in.  It would have to do.

I pedaled furiously—up, down, up. down—all with one foot.  In the highest gear.

Safety!  I made it!  Moving quickly now, I coasted along the rural lane, lifting my left foot back onto the pedal to lock it into place.  Ow!

Wow!  That hurt!  My lower back, evidently not up to the stress of one-footed pedaling, let me know I had strained a major muscle.  What would I do?

The Lovely Lady was a phone call away—the pickup truck ready to haul my bicycle home.  Or, I could simply head for home.  It had been twelve miles out, but six or seven by the most direct route would soon have me home.

Thirty miles.  I had promised myself I would ride thirty today.

I kept riding.

cycling-655565_640Thirty-three miles showed on my fitness program when I pulled back up to the storage barn in which I house my faithful steed.

I surpassed my goal.  I climbed hills.  I rolled through beautiful farmland.  I passed the safari grounds with exotic breeds of animals everywhere.  Camels, ostriches, and buffalo, along with a gazelle or two, gazed out at me as I stared in at them.  It was a wonderful ride through the springtime countryside.  

I want to be proud.

What I am, is embarrassed.

My friends who ride will read the description above and mutter the words under their breath.  I know they will.  

Rookie!  Amateur!

They’re not wrong.  I should have checked my gears.  I should have been able to easily lock my left shoe into the pedal mount. Still. That’s not why I’m embarrassed.  Not all of it anyway.

Goals are important, aren’t they?  Sometimes, one must just work through the pain and finish what they started.

It’s true. Goals matter.  But, there’s more to the story, isn’t there?

May I tell you the sentence I have uttered more times this week than I can count?  (Well, besides Oh, my back hurts!)

“I’m sorry it’s not finished yet.  I hurt my back and haven’t been able to work at my bench most of the week.”

I met my goal on Saturday.  And because of that, I haven’t been able to meet one since.

I would have been disappointed to miss the mark that day.  

Any number of people have been disappointed that I’ve missed the mark every day in this week.

My stubbornness has affected many more people than a little discretion would have.  

Only one person would have been unhappy about that missed goal—Me.

I wonder.  Folks all around me are telling me not to worry about tomorrow.  

Live in the moment.  You only live once.  Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today.

The same people are telling me not to live in the past, as well.  But, it’s back in the past that I have experienced this before.  My memories of the past should have aided me in preparing for the future.

We don’t live in the past, but we do learn from it.

We don’t worry about the future, but we do plan for it.

We live today, but not as if it were the only day.

There are times when we will need help, too. There is no shame in missing the goal when wisdom dictates a different course.  There is no shame in saying, I need help.

I need help.

Do you know someone who is so focused on an individual goal they’ve set that everything and everybody else is invisible to them?  Perhaps, it might even be you.

The job at hand takes so much attention that we forget it’s only a part of what we’ve been called to do.

We need to know when to say when.

Somehow, I can’t help but think about the prophet Elisha as he sat under the tree, his goals unmet, wanting to die.  He had faced the prophets of the foreign god and conquered spectacularly.  Achieving that goal, he forgot their defeat was only one step in another, greater purpose  Then, when faced with reality, he shut down completely. (1 Kings 19:1-8)

God sent an angel to take care of him.  The messenger from God fed him, suggesting that the journey was too hard without food and drink. Eating, he was refreshed and continued on his journey.

I’m always amazed at the messengers God sends my way.  Some are lovely, some incredibly unkind.  Some are gentle, while a number are rough and crude.  

Still, accepting their aid, and as I am willing to refocus, I remember that each goal is not independent of the one before or after, but merely different.

And sometimes, when I am hurt and alone, He covers me with His own wings and protects from danger.

Unless, I keep pedaling.

I’m shooting for the mark, but I don’t want to miss a thing He has for me along the way.

There is still joy to be found in the journey.

Maybe, it’s time to say when.

 

 

I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;
    with singing lips my mouth will praise you.
On my bed I remember you;
    I think of you through the watches of the night.
Because you are my help,
    I sing in the shadow of your wings.
(Psalms 63:5-7 ~ NIV)

Be strong enough to stand alone, smart enough to know when you need help, and brave enough to ask for it.
(Ziad Abdelnour ~ American investment banker)

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

The Story of My Life

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

There’s not enough!  The story of my life.

blanket-1245171_640The red-headed lady who raised me was disgusted.  A new baby was due soon to a young couple in our church and she was on a deadline to finish the little crocheted blanket.

The baby shower had come and gone without a gift to offer, but she remained confident the project would be completed before the little tyke’s arrival.

Stymied!

Just inches short of the intended size, she had run out of the variegated yarn she loved to use on such projects.  There was no way she had time to order more.  Alas, the child might actually come into this world without the blanket.  From her perspective, it would be a disaster.

“The story of my life!”  She repeated the plaintive phrase.

She threw up her hands in disgust and, sticking the crochet needle through the loosely-knit material, tossed the blanket into the wicker basket beside her chair.

She was done, it seemed.

Giving up.

Ah!  But we knew better.  It was only a matter of time.

She sat, moping, in the easy chair.

Any time now…

There it was.

The index finger on her right hand went to her mouth.  She tapped her lips, muttering.

“I wonder. . .”

The change was abrupt when it came.  Her left hand plunged into the basket and pulled the good-for-nothing blanket back onto her lap.  She began to yank on the single tendril of yarn hanging out of the edge at the place she had ceased her labor only moments before.

Like a mad-woman, she worked—ripping out the stitches she had put in laboriously in the hours preceding.  We wondered if she had gone mad.  The thought didn’t last long.

She soon stopped and examined the blanket to see where she was.  Then, more slowly than at first, she continued to pull at the yarn.  There was a sizable pile at her feet when she finally stopped.

Talking to herself, she said,  “That should do it.  I hope this works.”

Grabbing a full skein of contrasting colored yarn from the shelf beside her, she began to work once more.  The stitch pattern was different than the main body of the blanket, but she was no longer making the blanket.  This was a border.  Before it was done, it would be two inches wide around all four sides of the little blanket.

A two-inch border of ingenuity and flexibility.

The finished blanket was beautiful—a perfect wrapping for the tiny baby who would arrive that week.  And, every time she saw the baby in its carrier, swaddled in the little blanket, the red-headed lady would stop and admire him.

I wonder if anyone else noticed that she always took hold of the border of the little guy’s blanket and rubbed it between her fingers.  Perhaps they thought the smile on her face was because of the baby.

I wonder.
                             

I will always be sad to remember her initial reaction.

She seemed to truly believe that unhappy events were her personal due in life.  Like her mother before her, Mom wasn’t much of an optimist.

Frequently, she used phrases like the story of my life and par for the course, as if she thought it was simply what she had coming to her.

And, that makes me sad.

What doesn’t make me sad is the realization that she never let that expectation stop her from both starting, and seeing projects through to completion, even when interrupted by the frequent checks that momentarily discouraged her.

Like a dog worrying a particularly tough bone, her surrender was nearly always short-lived.  Even if it took hours of concentration and exploration of alternatives, she would eventually crack the problem open to savor the sweet taste of success.
                             

Funny.  We all experience the momentary setbacks.  The disappointment of plans gone awry is common to every one of us.

Every one of us.  Our Savior promised us trouble in this world. (John 16:33)

It’s not personal.

Maybe, it’s time to get past the par for the course thinking and get on with finishing the blanket.

Or whatever task God has put in front of us.

We’ll take pride in the result.  Even if it’s not what we envisioned to begin with.

We tackle our problems head-on and finish the job.

And, that is the story of our lives.

 

 

 

A bend in the road is not the end of the road.  Unless you fail to make the turn.
(Helen Keller ~ Deaf & blind American author/lecturer ~ 1880-1968)

 

In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.
(John 16:33 ~ NIV)

 

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
(Psalm 23:6a ~ KJV)

 

 

 

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

Meet and Greet

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

We have met the enemy.

“We have met the enemy and they are ours.”

The famous phrase, spoken by Commodore Perry during the War of 1812, was planted in our nation’s consciousness.  It was over two hundred years ago, yet the words are still remembered.

Some have turned the words around to change the meaning.  We may talk about that a little later.

The naval battle followed one a few months before in which the foe had won decisively, reminding the upstart United States Navy of the storied might of the British fleet.  Sailing into the Battle of Lake Erie, victory was anything but certain for Perry’s fleet.

History relates the United States Navy tried their skill and courage against the best the British had to offer, capturing every vessel and man brought against them.

The message seems a little over the top.

We own them.  Every one of them.  

They are ours.

Commodore Perry knew who his enemy was.  He prepared to meet them in battle, placing his ships in just the right position, ordering his men to be at their stations and ready to do their tasks.

I’m not Commodore Perry.

Twice today—that’s right, twice—I’ve thought I had an enemy in my sights.  Once, I even opened fire.

Earlier today, an unfamiliar fellow entered the music store and picked a fight with me.  Well, that’s not completely true.

He said something with which I disagreed.

The man had the gall to denigrate my favorite brand of guitar strings.

Imagine!

I’ve been putting strings on guitars for over thirty-five years.  I’ve sold strings to nearly-famous musicians.  I’ve tuned instruments for children barely big enough to hold a guitar on their laps.

He called them over-rated.

I bristled, then shot back.  

The enemy!  Right here on my premises.  Who could blame me?

Turns out—I could blame me.  It was only a momentary lapse and I was back-pedaling, suggesting that there might be circumstances I didn’t know about.

He’s not an enemy.  He might even turn out to be an ally, someone I’ll need to have my back someday.  You never know.

When he left the store, we were friends—almost.  But, never enemies.

So, he doesn’t like my favorite strings.  So what?  At least now I might have another opportunity to convince him.

The way things started out, I never would have had that chance.  Never.

Again, late tonight, I nearly opened fire.  This time it was on the young man who pulled his motorcycle into the driveway of the vacant house behind mine.

He yelled at my black monsters.  Told them to shut up.  I get to do that.  No one else does.

I went out to yell back—and possibly call the police about the interloper.  Instead, I reached my hand over the fence to shake his as I introduced myself to my new neighbor.

Not my enemy.  My neighbor.

If you follow my writings, you know my thoughts on neighbors.  They’re the ones the Teacher said I have to love.  It’s not a suggestion.  It’s a requirement.

I sit here in the quiet of these early morning moments—battles done—and contemplate my failures.  Oh, not just the two above.  I didn’t fare so badly with them.  I’m thinking now about a lifetime of engagements.

Engagements with enemies, that is.

Commodore Perry had nothing on me.  I’ve fought innumerable battles and conquered countless foes.

He took captives; I took none.  It was total annihilation for my enemies. All blasted to Kingdom Come.

Does that offend you?  Kingdom Come?  It does me too.  Now.

Still, it’s what I thought I was doing.  Bringing the kingdom of God on earth.  Destroying enemies.

Perhaps it’s time to talk about the twisting of the brave Commodore’s message, as I promised earlier.

A popular comic strip in the sixties and seventies, Pogo was written andPogoenemyisus illustrated by Walt Kelly.  On Earth Day in 1970, the little lovable o’possum (the only one of that variety I ever saw) suggested the modification of the victory memorandum.

We have met the enemy and he is us.

It has always been thought of as another way of saying we’re our own worst enemies.  In truth, that’s almost certainly what Mr. Kelly intended.  He’s not far wrong in many ways.

But, I’d like to suggest a different reading.

I’ve found when I attack people, there is little difference in who we are at the core.  When we strip humans down to the basics, clearing away all the facades and all the defenses, we are the same underneath.

It is true in battles over politics, in relational difficulties within families, in cultural differences.

God created mankind in His image.

More than that, He sent His Son to die for mankind—all of it—each person.

If Jesus died for that person I’m doing battle with, could he or she possibly be an enemy?

I am my enemy.  My enemy is me.

Not enemies at all. 

Still.

Thousands of years after the question was first asked, I still want to know what religious hypocrites everywhere have always wanted to know:

Who is my neighbor? (Luke 10:25-37)

Well, I don’t really want the answer to that question; I just want to get clarification so I can know who my enemy is.  I don’t want to know who to love; I want to know who to attack.

I want to love my neighbor and despise my enemy.  The problem is, there is only the former.  

His love demands it. (Matthew 5:43-48)

Demands it.

The delightful quiet of the late-night is ruined as the voices around me shout in my ears. In this small room by myself, I hear the battle cries.  

The political situation in our country demands enemies.  You’ve heard the anger, the hatred, the sheer terror that our side will be overrun and destroyed.  Liberals, conservatives, moderates—all have named names and gone into attack mode.

The enemy is on our shores, ready to attack.  The enemy is closing the doors, denying shelter.  The enemy is stingy.  The enemy is giving away too much.

All about us the battle rages.  It always has.

Grace calls us to higher things.  Mercy demands open hands and hearts.

We don’t fight against any human enemy in our battle for our Captain.  Not one person.  (Ephesians 6:12)

I wonder if it’s time to reach our hands across a few more fences.

Our Creator saw enemies and made us His sons and daughters.

It’s time.

We have met the enemy.

He is us.

Us.

 

 

She looked upon Gimli, who sat glowering and sad, and she smiled. And the Dwarf, hearing the names given in his own ancient tongue, looked up and met her eyes; and it seemed to him that he looked suddenly into the heart of an enemy and saw there love and understanding. Wonder came into his face, and then he smiled in answer.
(Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ British writer/poet ~ 1892-1973)

 

Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:7-9 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

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

Keeping the Beat

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Rhythm.  It’s the building block of all music.

One might even contend it’s foundational for all of life.

Before we learn to sing a pitch, we learn simple rhythms.  We bang our cups on the arm of the high chair, later graduating to wooden spoons on Mama’s pots and pans.

The older we get, the more sophisticated the beat.  Sitting on a wooden structure, such as a stage, where our feet dangle against the side, we find ourselves bumping our heels against it, timidly at first—exploring the resonance and tonality, then boldly, with authority and style.

We find we like beating on things in rhythm, moving from there to rhythm1drumming with our fingers on desktops (to the great annoyance of our school teachers), then using other implements such as pencils and sticks (especially effective if dragged across the top of a picket or dog-eared privacy fence).

Each one of us has an innate sense of rhythm, waiting to be developed.

I’m not saying we’re all adept at keeping the beat with what goes on around us, just that rhythm itself is a part of our very being.  From our mother’s heartbeat inside the womb, and the muffled music we hear vaguely there, we are programmed from our conception to respond to rhythm.

It never stops throughout our lives.

Clocks ticking, hammers pounding, feet marching, swings moving to and fro, the beat goes on unstopped.  Oh, they are different rhythms, but it is indeed basic to our existence.

A friend pointed out the elemental aspect of rhythm the other day, as we bemoaned the lack of that same simplicity in the word we use to describe it.

Was there ever such a screwball word used to describe what one would expect to be a simple function?  We were actually arguing about whether the word rhythm has two syllables; he maintained it does; I say it does not, since there is no point at which the word can be hyphenated.

His response eventually was this, “Why is it that a word—rhythm—which represents a bodily property that must arrive naturally and by instinct, should be so unnatural and counter-instinctive in its construction?”

It is a good question, but as I thought about it, I began to realize he is not completely correct.  More accurately, he hasn’t included all the essential elements of the issue in his premise.

We do, indeed, arrive at our own rhythm “naturally and by instinct”, but it is heavily influenced by our environment and our education.  Both of these things vary greatly from person to person, so it stands to reason that the natural rhythm of life will also vary just as much from person to person.

Is this a little too esoteric a discussion for you folks? 

Let me try to bring it around to a point where you will be at least slightly interested.

I make no promises…

I am remembering a time when I was about thirteen years old.  I had missed a day or two of junior high school and coming back, realized suddenly in band class that I had missed more than just the hours of drudgery which school embodied to a young teenage boy.

Mr. Olson had some odd notes drawn on the blackboard and he pointed to them, saying (just as if we should all understand the statement), “Remember the triplets we talked about the other day?  You’ll see them in this piece we’re about to play.”

I looked at the notes, realizing they were shaped exactly like an eighth note, but instead of two of them hooked together, there were three.

Why, anyone knows you can only have two eighth notes in one beat!  What was this madness?  Three eighth notes tied together?  That would have to be a beat and a half!

And that is what I attempted to play as the whole band read the music together.  It didn’t work.  They played those three notes on their one beat, while I played them on my one and a half beats.

We didn’t finish up at the same time.  It wasn’t beautiful music.

After a little remedial instruction and an Aha! moment or two, I learned how the triplet worked, but it was awfully strange for me to know I was correct in my application of the rules of rhythm, only to be out of step with everyone around me.

I learned that when playing with others, a common understanding of the basics is pretty essential.

But, I don’t want you to believe it is imperative that all the instruments in a band must play the same rhythm. In fact, that would be incredibly dull.

Using the understanding we have of music theory, most instruments will often play very different rhythms throughout a piece.

Eighth note triplets (three to a beat) are frequently played against regular eighth notes (two to a beat), while other voices may play whole notes (four beats) or even dotted quarter notes (one and a half beats).

Each instrumentalist carefully counts and plays his or her notes at the precise point in the measure at which it is written.

The result is intricate and beautiful music, with melody and countermelody, along with rhythmic harmonies.  All the parts flow together, even though they play their assigned rhythm, seemingly at odds with the others.

Is the point of my prattling beginning to become slightly more clear?

Let me see if I can tie it up in a neat package for you then.

Throughout our lives, we live in concert with other players. Some, we will share a common rhythm with, having learned basically the same lessons and arrived at the same conclusions.

Others, who will come alongside us at times during our lives, have a different idea of the rhythm of life.

There will be those with whom we may not be able to blend, but it is essential we make the attempt.  We may soon find the contrast of their triplets against our duple eighth notes enriches the music in a spectacular way.

The driving oomp of the tubas on the downbeats, when combined with the uplifting pahs of the horns on the upbeats will inexplicably help to add purpose and determination to the steps in the march of life.

Will we make beautiful music with everyone?  Probably not. 

I have known a few folks with whom I could find no common meter, the skewed pattern of our differences causing confusion and dissension.  With these few, we have had to agree to disagree and go our separate ways, since the resulting cacophony is worse than any potential benefit.

But we try. 

And, we don’t disrespect these folks because of our differences. Like the confusing word we started out with, there are some who hear a different beat in their heads and they follow it. (Was that one syllable or two?)

It’s fair to speculate that the Conductor of this great symphony will sort things out in the end, bringing it all to a resounding and beautiful conclusion.

Until then, I’ll keep working on my skills, attempting to come in on the correct beat, and counting the rests as accurately as I can.

I see some more of those triplets coming up soon and I want to be ready for them.  Maybe you’ll count along with me on your half notes.

Rhythm.

Time to find the beat.

The rhythm of life continues.  Really.

Or, if you prefer the Sonny and Cher version, “And the beat goes on.”

 

 

 

If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men.
(Romans 12:18 ~ NASB)

 

If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.
(Henry David Thoreau~American essayist~1817-1862)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016 All Rights Reserved.