Month: March 2018

Getting Wet

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The storm threatens.

Not for the first time.

Earlier today, I heard the muttering of the thunder up in the clouds. Fifteen miles away, my brother (with whom I was texting) heard it and wondered if the rain was really on its way.

It was, but only a little. A nice Spring shower to wash off the daffodils and redbuds. Just a lick and a promise, as the red-headed lady who raised me would describe it.

The muttering is back. Ten hours have passed and, again, the thunder is threatening.

The promise is that the storm will break soon. For all the delay and lack of delivery up ’til now, the promise will be kept tonight. I’m sure of it.

Mr. Adams—that wise Englishman who wrote about the rabbits in Watership Down—suggests that folks who claim to love cold weather actually love feeling proof against it; they love that they have outsmarted winter. The reader may agree or disagree, but I believe it to be true about more than just the cold of winter.

We love listening to the breaking storm from the safety of our four walls, with a good roof overhead to keep the deluge from affecting us personally and intimately.

We love walking in the rain because the umbrella is spread above to keep us from the discomfort of its all-encompassing soaking. Or, if we happen to run uncovered, carefree and dripping for a time, we love the thought that at the end of our gambol, we will find a warm shower to wash off the residue of the event and, wrapping ourselves in a clean, fluffy towel or robe, will relax in the luxury of warmth and comfort inside our four walls with a watertight roof.

But, what if the walls we’ve constructed so carefully, and the shelter we’ve thrown up simply aren’t enough to keep the storm from breaking on our heads anymore?

The noise of the rain which has arrived outside my window reminds me that the thunder’s earlier muttering was no empty threat. I believe this is what the folks in my home state would call a Texas frog-strangler, the downpour is so heavy.

Sooner or later, the rumblings lead to a torrent.

They always do. Sooner or later.

Mostly, sooner.

Somehow, someone is going to get wet. Soaked through.

Do you suppose the followers of Jesus didn’t get wet? In the storm that overtook their boat and threatened to sink it, do you think they stayed dry? (Mark 4:37)

When Peter walked across the waves—even before he took his eyes off the Teacher—do you think he wasn’t drenched clear through? (Matthew 14:29-30)

Can’t you just see it? Impetuous Peter, anxious to show the Master (and his peers) he was up to the challenge, jumps out of the boat to meet Him in the waves.

Walking on the water! On. The. Water.

What a moment of triumph! But, only a moment.

The waves slapped at his ankles, then at his knees. Before he knew it, one soaked him from head to toe. This wasn’t anything like he had imagined. Robe hanging down, hair streaming into his face, water in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, it was horrendous!

Where was the protection he expected from the waves? Why was his Rabbi—his Teacher—allowing this misery?

Soaked, disappointed, and distressed beyond belief, he begins to worry about the next wave. And the next. We know the rest of the story.

Life is like that, isn’t it? We have expectations—plans. Then the walk turns out to be so much harder than we envisioned it at the beginning.

Our faith wanes. If God wanted us to get out of that boat, why didn’t He clean up the pathway to get to Him? Why would He let us be miserable when we’re doing what we’re supposed to do?

Sometimes, in the storms of life, it’s hard to see the pathway with the rain streaming down our faces. And sometimes, it’s not only the rain that’s streaming down our faces.

Sometimes, it's not only the rain that's streaming down our faces. Share on X

I sat in a restaurant with dear friends earlier this evening, minding my own business, and the storm broke. Old hurts, not with them but with others I love, came pouring to the surface.

I had heard the rumbling for a while before this. The downpour was sure to come sooner or later, so I have huddled under whatever shelter I could raise to keep from getting wet.

But, part of the walk is sharing it with companions. Our life of serving Him is not a mission for a hero, but a pilgrimage for a band of fellow travelers.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet. Share on X

Together, we all get wet. As we walk each other home, we get drenched together.

And, it’s miserable. And magnificent.

And, then He says, “Peace. Be still.”

I’m going to keep walking. With the friends who’ll walk beside me.

You coming with?

Bring your towel.

It’s going to be a damp walk.

 

 

The men were amazed and asked, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!”
(Matthew 8:27 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

 

I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And, I feel soaked to the skin.
(Leonard Cohen ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1934-2016)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

 

Alternate Routes

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Paul!!! Help!!!!

The message from my friend wasted no empty words in letting me know his need was extreme.  The power was out in part of his house and he was desperate.  I’m no electrician, but I have a limited knowledge in the art of tracing down a circuit, so I get an SOS from friends and family from time to time.

It was Saturday.  My day was planned out. The last thing I needed was a detour.

But, he is an old friend.  We go back a lot of years. 

I took the detour.

As I prepared to go help my friend, the Lovely Lady received a note from other friends.  Would we have time to eat with them that evening?

Another detour.  More old friends. 

We took this detour as well.

Why is it we love the comfortable, the well-worn path?  Why do we tense up when we see the familiar sign with an arrow above the word detour?

For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord.  Plans to benefit you and not to make things harder.  Plans to give you vision and to ensure future blessings. (Jeremiah 29:11)

I think those words apply to the detours, too.  Don’t they?

My friend with the electrical problem was waiting for me, anticipating the worst.  Explaining the steps it had taken to get into the mess, he led me to the room where the sparks had flown.

Minutes later, the power was back on.  I explained the problems to him.

You turned off the switch, but should have turned off the breaker.  That box has live wires in it that aren’t connected to the wall switch.  

Then I delivered my favorite truism regarding electricity.  It is my go-to quote when I deal with friends who don’t understand and are fearful of working with the source of power.

Electricity always does what it is supposed to do.  Always.

Hmmm.  It does have a well-worn path through which it travels.  Always the same.  Always predictable.  Maybe even comfortable. 

It’s true.  It is.  Electricity is a lot like we are.

But, as I stood there, I couldn’t help but see in my memory a time—now nearly forty years in the past—when I stood on a ladder in a school hallway, my head and arms stuck up through the false ceiling.

I had a junction box open and was loosening the wire connector on a bundle of wires.  They all had white-colored insulation, which indicated they were neutral wires.

Colored insulation warns of a hot wire; white signifies neutral.  Hot wires carry power to devices, like lights or motors.  Neutral wires complete the circuit, giving the expended current a path back to the breaker box.

I had been doing this for a few months.  I knew what electricity did.  Well, I thought I knew what electricity did.

I unscrewed the connector, exposing the wad of bare conductor wires.  Reaching for the wad with my bare hand, I was stopped in mid-air by a shout from my supervisor.

What are you doing?

I explained how electricity worked to him.  Funny, huh? 

I was going to separate the wires and isolate the circuit to the room I was standing outside of.  It was, after all, only carrying used-up electricity, going back to the power source.

The man laughed.  I don’t think he intended it to indicate he was amused.

The instant you separate those wires with your bare hand, that used-up electricity is going to take a detour through your body to whatever ground it can find and you’ll find out how much it still bites.

Isn’t that odd? 

Electricity loves detours.  It loves them.  Takes a detour in less time than it takes a man to blink.

And, in another blink, I was back at my friend’s house, flipping the main breaker back to the on position, restoring power to his dark rooms.

My little mental detour over, the time at my friend’s house passed quickly as I gave him some pointers on acceptable wiring practices for ceiling fans.  I only hope his spins in the right direction when he gets done.

Instead of an objectionable experience, the detour to his house turned into a learning time—for me and for him.

Take the detour.

An hour or two later, we took the other detour with our friends.  There were tasks we could have accomplished by staying home, things which still need to be done, but we rode to a nearby town with them and ate dinner.

We sat, throwing our peanut shells on the floor (truth be told, the Lovely Lady made a neat pile of hers on the table), and laughed until we cried.  We talked about old people stuff—you know, doctors and prescriptions—and we talked about young people stuff—things we did thirty or forty years ago and things our children and grandchildren are doing today.

And, when we were done, we laughed some more and came home healed—for awhile—of the hurts and sorrows of life.

Take the detour.

Sometimes, detours offer a respite from the journey.  A refreshing ride along a riverside on a two-lane road, when we had been hurtling down the freeway to exhaustion.  A glance at an old house that reminds us of home, long ago and many miles away.  A reminder of family, as we pass a park full of children chasing each other and going down the slides, or over the jungle-gym.

Sometimes the detours teach us a valuable lesson, giving us tools for the journey yet to come.

Not by coincidence, one of our fellow-travelers on the second detour that day was the very same man who had yelled—and laughed—at me in the school hallway all those years ago.

I reminded the electrician that, as I had helped my other friend earlier, I had only shared information he had taught me as a young man.  He said he didn’t remember teaching me anything.  Seriously.  Not anything.

He did teach me.  I can’t begin to count the folks with whom I have shared that knowledge in the years that have piled up since. 

Sometimes, on our detours, we get the chance to remind other folks of how important they are in the lives of those around them.

Take the detour.

Take the detour. You might find your spirit renewed at the end. Share on X

As with electricity, there are paths laid out before us.  Those paths stretch out into the future, a journey that must be taken, with a goal that can’t be missed.

Point A to Point B.

But sometimes, the alternate route opens up suddenly and He asks us to come aside with Him.  The goal will still be there, in time.  The road will still be traveled. 

But, for now, we slow down and take the back lanes for a ways.

With Him.

I’m taking the detours.

You coming with?

 

 

Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit. (Man proposes, but God disposes.)
( from The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis ~ German cleric/author ~ 1380-1471)

 

The strength of patience hangs on our capacity to believe that God is up to something good for us in all our delays and detours.
(John Piper ~ Pastor/author)

 

You can make many plans,
    but the Lord’s purpose will prevail.
(Proverbs 19:21 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Voices of the Oaks

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Today is a day of rest.

Really.  A weekday, but I’m resting. 

Outside though, there is a whirl and a hurry, the wind bustling through in a tremendous rush to get somewhere—anywhere, it seems, but here.  And, since I’m resting, I listen to the wind.

My friends in the backyard don’t want to listen.  The black labs are terrified of the voices they hear in the air about them.  For ten seconds, while I was out to care for their physical needs this morning, they came out to scramble for my attention.  Ten seconds only, and then they dove for cover as the wind began to sound through the treetops again.

They’re not resting.

I am, though.  The last weeks and days have been a whirlwind of busy-ness, caused by the illness and passing of a family member.  Sadness and concern for her and those left behind have overwhelmed me.  Our love for them demands the activity, but the body and soul are rebelling, making demands of their own.

And so, overwhelmed, I sit at my desk, listening to the voices of the wind outside my window.  Almost, it seems to me, God’s creation sings a concert of glorious praise.  The dogs would disagree, but what do they know?

The man-made attachments add their voices.  I hear the neighbor’s ceiling fan on her porch, as it whirls—now wildly, now lazily—on its way. Whup, whup, whup, whup, whup. On and on, it provides a rhythm to the song.

The wind chimes crash crazily and then tinkle lazily, a tuned accent to the constant voices through the limbs of the trees.  From the clang! clang! clang! to the almost indiscernible ting ting ting, their bell-like tones add depth to the various voices of creation.

The Rose of Sharon against the wall brushes noisily in rhythm, as its wire-thin stems almost whistle from the breath of the wind.

The apple tree, ancient though it may be, adds its airy voice.  The bedraggled and crooked branches lend a whispering tone to the choir.

Over in the neighbor’s yard, the magnolia, evergreen that it is, claps its leaves in the gale, the great fronds clattering along as branches surrounding them wave and whirl about.

And the pines?  They are the tenor voices, holding forth as only the self-assured tenors can.  It is a wild chorus, held in check only by the waning of the wind at intervals, as if to keep their voices from overwhelming all the others.

But the oaks. . .  Ah, the oaks—they are the basses, their voices booming along on the low pitches, a low, throbbing tone, giving a foundation to all of it.

I love the oaks in the neighborhood.  Solid and strong, they are not afraid to sing out, standing firm, and yet, their heavy branches wave to the listening audience a little as they are buffeted. 

I almost imagine a little vibrato in their song, as they shift about—only a little.

I understand the dogs.  I too, am afraid of the wind at times—fearing all I possess will be blown away.

I remember the story of Job, thinking of all he lost, blown away seemingly in an instant.  Everything and everyone.  Gone.  

Life is so fragile, so thin.  We seem to hang, as a tiny spider, on a shredded web, waving in the tempest.

But, I have seen the strength of that web.  The web of family and of friends.  The web of faith in a God who holds both us and the storm in His hands. 

The web of His mercy and His grace.

With the prophet, I affirm that it is because of His great mercy we are not blown away in the storm.  We are sustained by His great and unfailing faithfulness.  (Lamentations 3:22,23)   

His grace is enough.  In the storms of life, it is enough.  (2 Corinthians 12:9)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. Share on X

I am not saying a limb won’t tumble to the ground, nor even that a great oak might not someday be uprooted.  There is pain and sorrow in the world.

There is.

But, the one who can silence the wind with a word from His mouth still offers peace in the midst of chaos.

Songs in the storm.  Harmony in the turmoil.

Beautiful.  Music.

It is a day of rest.

 

 

You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
    will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
    will clap their hands.
(Isaiah 55:12 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

 

When the wind blows through a wood, its mass is cut and closed by every leaf, forming a train of jittery vortices in the air.
(Alice Oswald ~ British poet)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Equilibrium

~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

Lost.

I left her in the passenger seat of the car.  I was only gone two minutes—perhaps three.  How could I lose her so fast?

What will I do without her?

“I’ll only be a minute,” were my last words to her.  No I love you; not even a kiss on the cheek.

The world spun.  Really. 

Off-kilter, out of control.  Panic.

“Here I am.”  The words came from the back seat.  She had only moved to leave the front seat empty for my sister, whom we would pick up at the next stop.

I passed it off as nothing, but the feeling of loss persisted.  I didn’t let her see the tears.  Well, maybe she saw them.  She was kind enough to not bring them up when she gently teased as my sister heard about the little episode.

The tears have clouded my sight off and on for the last couple of weeks, much like the rain which has been falling around me for about as long.  It’s almost as if God is crying in sympathy.

I know that’s not how it works. 

It’s just how it feels sometimes.

Some folks don’t think God cries at all.  But, I’m not sure it makes sense to assume the things our Savior did while on earth would cease just because He isn’t walking among us in a human body anymore.

He wept.  It means He cried real tears, trails running down His cheeks, as He felt the pain and sadness of loss and sympathy.  His eyes got red and His nose ran.  His voice broke as He talked.

This man-who-was-God-Who-was-man demonstrated the standard even before the apostle who followed Him wrote the words:  Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

I suppose it seems a little over the top for me to be so upset by such a minor thing as getting into the car and finding the Lovely Lady not where I expected her.  Perhaps, it is.

But, we were headed to visit one close to us who really is in the process of losing the one he’s spent his life with.  The tiny vignette offered me in that split second brought the reality they are facing into focus.

In that moment, the emotions I felt—confusion, fear, loss—helped me to understand what others around me are experiencing and what is spilling over into my spirit.

Last week, I was reminded of the time, a decade ago, when I was out of control.  A friend had missed a rehearsal and was asked what had kept him away.  It only took one word.

Vertigo. 

That was the cause of his absence.  Just hearing the name is a trigger—a thought that brings with it really bad memories.  I never want to go through that again.

Dizziness so bad, the world spun whenever my eyes were open.  Nausea that wouldn’t stop.  Unable to even walk, I had to be led, leaning on anyone who would help.

Complete helplessness and inability to function on my own.

Funny.  Today my world is spinning again.  No.  I mean spinning, as in not stable.

I’m aware of the basics of how our planet functions, rotating on its axis and revolving around the sun.  That’s not what I mean.  The world I’m referring to is my world—the place where I walk, and sleep, and love.

On that occasion, ten years past, when I was struck with very real vertigo, my doctor told me it was all in my head.  Oh, he was sympathetic.  But, he knew things weren’t really spinning around me as it seemed.  A malfunction in my inner ear was the problem, not the world around me.

“I’ll give you some medication.  It will make your brain think everything is fine.  That’s what you need.”

The medicine would give me some much-needed equilibrium, a sense of balance, until my inner ear righted itself.

It didn’t fix anything.  It just made me think everything was right with the world.

I don’t need medicine like that right now.

I need to see the world as it is—as its Creator sees it.  Through His eyes.  With His heart.

I know He promised He would never leave us.  He won’t.  In the middle of the darkest night, if we call Him, He is there.

In the light of day, He pours out His love.  In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls.  (Psalm 42:8)

In the light of day, He pours out His love. In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls. Equilibrium. Share on X

When we need it, there is a strong arm to lean on.  Maybe two, if we need both of them.

I’m leaning.  And tears are still falling.

Many I know are in the grip of vertigo right now.

Maybe we could all lean together while we weep.

They’re really strong arms.

Strong arms attached to One who knows what it is to weep.

 

 

As the deer longs for streams of water,
    so I long for you, O God.
I thirst for God, the living God.
    When can I go and stand before him?
Day and night I have only tears for food,
    while my enemies continually taunt me, saying,
    “Where is this God of yours?”

My heart is breaking
    as I remember how it used to be:
I walked among the crowds of worshipers,
    leading a great procession to the house of God,
singing for joy and giving thanks
    amid the sound of a great celebration!

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!

Now I am deeply discouraged,
    but I will remember you—
even from distant Mount Hermon, the source of the Jordan,
    from the land of Mount Mizar.
I hear the tumult of the raging seas
    as your waves and surging tides sweep over me.
But each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me,
    and through each night I sing his songs,
    praying to God who gives me life.

“O God my rock,” I cry,
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I wander around in grief,
    oppressed by my enemies?”
Their taunts break my bones.
    They scoff, “Where is this God of yours?”

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!
(Psalm 42 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.