Month: September 2018

The In-Between Parts

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

In hindsight, the words sound a bit brusque. Rude, even.

I meant well. The red-headed lady who raised me would have been surprised to know I said them. I’m a little surprised myself.

The other red-headed lady was standing at the sink. I was waiting, nearly patiently, for her but she kept doing what she had started. Finally, I had had enough.

“Will you move out of the way, so I can get in there?”

She looked over at me sheepishly and, drying her hands, moved away from the sink. I took her place and began to wash the supper dishes.

I know. I said she’d be surprised—the one who raised me, I mean—and I wasn’t kidding. She would have been shocked. The shock wouldn’t have come from the rude words. No, she was used to hearing those from her youngest boy, a brat if ever there was one.

She would have been astounded to learn I was volunteering to wash dishes. It never ever happened in her experience with me. I’m sorry that’s true.

The task of doing dishes is not a pleasant one for me, probably because of my early experiences with the job. In my formative years, it was the children in the house who did that kind of work. Neither of the two adults living with us had any need to soak their hands in dish soap.

My Dad answered the question with some regularity. Knowing there were seven in our family, most folks assumed we’d have a dishwasher. His words were, without fail, “What do I need a dishwasher for?  I’ve got five of them.”

There was always a smile on his face when he said the words, but he wasn’t joking. From oldest to youngest, the five siblings took their respective weekday, Monday through Friday. The calendar hanging on the inside of the cupboard door showed the schedule for the weekend rotation. Yep. Still kids.

I’ve told you about the dishes hidden in the oven, right? My brainchild, that one was. Not the brightest idea I’ve ever had. Let’s just say that Melmac doesn’t heat up to 425 degrees all that well and leave it at that.

You will understand when I say that, even from my advanced age, I don’t relish the task of washing dishes. It’s not that it’s a difficult process. There’s no advanced degree required to accomplish the deed. Run hot water. Add soap. Wipe dishes with a rag. Rinse.

I can do all that. The problem is. . . 

Well. You know what the problem is, don’t you?

Sure. I can do all that—run hot water, adding soap. I’m good at wiping them clean and usually have no problem getting the soap scum off. My problem is a little thing called recurrence.

The dishes are washed, but a few hours later, the process must be repeated. And again. And again. 

I start with good intentions. I do. 

Sure, Honey. Put me down for that job. After lunch every day. Until I die. No problem. No, really. I’ll get it.

I’m a good starter. The best. At starting. I’m even good at finishing. Maybe not the best, but pretty capable.

It’s the in-between parts that get me.

I promised to do what? How long? Everyday? That can’t be right.

The other day, I was reading about a physical fitness program (only reading, you understand), and the personal trainer who wrote the article suggested it would take three months to make the daily routine a habit. Three months! Three months of repetitious reps before the routine became routine.

I thought I’d check his facts (no—of course, not by actually doing it!) and read (again) about a scientific study which proved it took at least two months, but up to two-hundred-fifty days to do that. Over eight months! Of doing the same thing every day.

And, it wasn’t just doing the same thing every day; it was making yourself do it whether you wanted to or not. I’m pretty sure I know which category I would fall in.

I’m thinking about this, though. I’ve decided that almost everything we do in this life is a recurring task.

The thing that’s different is the frequency of the repetition. Washing dishes, brushing teeth, showering, dressing, shaving—these have to be done daily or even more often. 

Except the shaving. I have decided since I don’t face the public on a daily basis anymore, I can skip that for a day or two here and there. It’s been known to stretch out a bit more than that, too.

I won’t go through a long list of all the tasks we do on a recurring basis, but even maintenance of our vehicles and homes fits in, however distant from each other the cycles are. Painting the eaves of the house will come around again. Having the timing belt on my pickup replaced will have to be done again. Too soon, even though it’s likely to be another ten years.

Not many essential tasks can be done only once and then never again. 

Perhaps, none at all.

A wise friend once suggested as I made excuses for not spending more time with him, that we do the things which are important to us.

I had to chew on that for a while. We make it a habit to eat a meal with him and his wife at least twice a month now.

It’s important to us.

Somehow, I think I’ve said enough for now. Almost.

There’s just this: 

We started. At some time, we started on this journey.

We’ll finish. It’s a guarantee. Ironclad. (Hebrews 9:27)

Now, we’re doing the in-between part.

Perhaps, a few more reps?

 

 

Practice means to perform over and over again, in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.
(from An Athlete of God ~ Martha Graham ~ American choreographer/teacher)

 

Listen to my voice in the morning, Lord.
    Each morning I bring my requests to you and wait expectantly.
(Psalm 5:3 ~ 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.

What Are You Looking At?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The jaunty little runabout pulled by a chestnut mare sped along at a good clip, its spoked wheels flashing in the evening sun. The bench seat, with room for only two, bounced a little on leaf springs designed to smooth the ride in places where the road wasn’t always so even.

The two occupants of the seat, listening to the rapid clippity-clip of the horse’s hooves on the stony lane, didn’t much care why the ride was smooth; they simply enjoyed the sense of unimpeded speed and the proximity of their seatmate as the miles toward home disappeared behind them.

As they approached the river crossing ahead, the pretty young lady spoke to the young man beside her. Immediately, he gave a tug on the leather reins and was rewarded by a reduction in speed almost as quickly as it had taken to pull the reins. The chestnut was no newcomer to this route, realizing that she never sped across the covered bridge. A walk was all that was ever allowed across the wooden platform.

Who knows? She might even get a break from moving at all if the young fellow took advantage of the enclosed bridge to sneak a kiss or two from his young sweetheart. It had happened before. Folks did call them kissing bridges. Regardless, the mare knew to walk across the bridge.

It was the law and her owner always followed the law. Always.

Click here to read the rest of the article. . .

Maybe Tomorrow

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I thought today would be the day.

Today should have been the day.  I’ve put it off far too long.

Yes.  Today.  I got out the saw.  I was already dressed appropriately, having pulled on work clothes as I rolled out of bed this morning.

It wouldn’t be a quick job; that didn’t really matter.  I would take off a limb here, another one there.  Slow and steady wins the race.  That’s what the red-headed lady who raised me would have said.

If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s slow.  Steady?  Not so much.  Still, today was the day.

I extended the pole-saw up far enough to lop off a limb that overhung the fence.  Not large enough to damage it when it fell, but enough to see progress had been made.

Thunk!

The branch from the old apple tree smacked the ground harder than I anticipated.  This was really happening, wasn’t it?  I reached up for another.  As I reached, my mind reached back.

Thunk!

I leaned the long pole-saw against the five-foot-tall welded-wire fence.  That was all I could do.  I needed to sit down.  Soon.  I wasn’t sure I could even manage the strength to pull the limbs out to the brush pile, next to the little cul-de-sac street in front of the old house.

I got them out there, but the weight on my chest just wouldn’t go away. 

I went inside and sat down, angry at myself.  This was stupid.  It should have been a simple job.  Cut down the old shrunken and split apple tree.  How difficult could it be?

History has weight.  It does.  It comes with an onus, an obligation.

I’ve just never felt it quite that heavy before.  Oh, living in this world for over sixty years has taught me the lesson a little.  But, the last few years are schooling me in that particular chapter more than I ever wanted.

I thought I was ready.  As much as anything, that old tree signifies my memories of a family whose life has been tied up in this little patch of land and this old house from its first days.  The Lovely Lady grew up playing near it and others, now long cut down.  For more than half a century, the changing seasons have brought forth desserts and side-dishes worth remembering from the tree.

But, the tree has reached the end of its life.  I’ve written about it here before—the twisting of the storm winds that opened the huge split, now held up by a two-by-four and a couple of plumber’s straps—and the shearing off of the largest part of the tree this last spring as another weather front blew through.

We would gather one last crop, having one last season to enjoy the applesauce and an apple pie or two—perhaps even a big pan of apple crisp drowned in heavy whipping cream.  Then the tree, having lived a full life, would come down to be replaced by new ones planted in and near its footprint.

The last crop never came, the little green apples that promised so expectantly last spring disappearing before ever one came to the table.  Barren. The tree is done.  It will have to come down.

But, the unkept promise of one more crop rankles.  Unfinished business. What if—what if we tried to keep it alive just one more cycle, one more time through the process the Creator programmed into its DNA?

Tomorrow.

I need more time.  The weight of that final act is too heavy for me today.

Maybe next week. Or next year.

It’s silly, isn’t it?  A tree.  It’s only a tree.

The heart is so foolish.  And, so fickle.

The weight of the past seems a very real thing, slowing us down, keeping us hoping against hope, even convincing us that tomorrow will work better than today.

It won’t.

The apostle (my namesake) stood before the Roman governor and told him his future if he didn’t turn around.  Felix listened and, with the weight of his situation on him, told Paul he would consider it at a more convenient time. (Acts 24:25)

There will be no more convenient time.

Today.

That’s what we have.

Today.

In my many years as confessor to quite a number of folks (for some reason, the counter at our music store seemed a comfortable place for the rite, with both stranger and friend, young and old participating), I can’t count the number of people who wanted yesterday back.

From the man who told me on the day of his grandmother’s funeral of refusing to return one last phone call to her, to the boy who needed another shot at demonstrating his love for an absent girlfriend, they all wanted to live that particular today over again.

Today has an expiration date.  It’s today.

Today has an expiration date. It's today. Share on X

The opportunities forfeited—the doorways passed by—all come back with a history and a weight all their own.

You see, we make history with every action and every inaction, every word spoken and every one left unsaid.

History has weight.  Somehow, time seems to make it heavier.

It’s time to lighten our loads.

Jesus promised a lighter burden if we’d come to Him.  The offer still stands. (Matthew 11:28-29)

The weight of our history need not overwhelm nor cripple us.

The weight of our history need not overwhelm nor cripple us. Come. Rest. Share on X

We’ve all got enough apple trees to grapple with in our lives without adding to that weight.

Come.

Rest.

Do it today.  Today.

There’ll be apple pie again. 

There will.

 

 

Shall we never get rid of this Past? . . . It lies upon the Present like a giant’s dead body.
(from The House of the Seven Gables ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne ~ American author ~ 1804-1864)

 

Are we weak and heavy laden,
Cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge,
Take it to the Lord in Prayer.
(from What a Friend We Have in Jesus ~  Lyrics by Joseph Scriven ~ Public Domain)

 

 

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

How Close is Close?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

We were tired. And, almost grumpy. Almost.

It’s not a recipe for joy, that mix of airport spaces and flight delays. The Lovely Lady and I, having spent a few days breathing the clear Vermont air into our lungs and the essence of God’s astounding creation into our hearts, were waiting for a flight home.

On that day, things weren’t going as well as the ones previous.

Our ride home never arrived. We missed our connection in Chicago. Perhaps, I should say connections—plural. Both the original one and the rescheduled one.

While we waited, folks came in for other flights. With several of the outgoing flights being delayed, the small airport’s waiting area was beginning to fill up.

A group of young people from Africa were among those awaiting a late departure time to Washington, D.C. They had spent several weeks in a cultural exchange program and were headed for one last event before scattering to their individual countries.

I had nothing better to do, so I watched the group (and assorted individuals) with interest and amusement. The Lovely Lady, sitting next to me, had planned better than I (or so she told me), so the book she was reading kept her attention.

Before long, one young man from Uganda took a seat across from us, followed by a young woman, who took the empty space right next to me. They talked a little, then turned their attention to the cell phones in their hands, much as you would expect of any teenager in our own country today.

The row of seats we occupied, three divided plastic surfaces connected by a metal structure underneath, had no arm supports to separate them, but with an adult in each seat, it was easy to see there was no room for anyone else. Three. No more.

Except, on this day, there was. Sort of.

A few moments after the first young lady took her seat next to me, another walked up and, pushing her friend’s knee to get her moving the other direction, proceeded to sit between her and me.

To avoid being sat upon, I quickly slid toward the Lovely Lady—she, still engrossed in her historical novel. Tucking my shoulder behind hers, my sitting-down parts spanning the space between the seats, it wasn’t that uncomfortable. (I may have a little extra padding there, anyway. Possibly.) I think she may not have been aware of the reason for my chumminess, but she snuggled her arm against mine anyway and we sat that way until it was time to leave.

The girl on the other side of me sat almost as close. Almost. I think you could have slid an index card between us, but only just. She seemed as unaware of the proximity as the Lovely Lady. She didn’t snuggle any. Really, she didn’t.

But, can we talk about personal space for a minute or two? Now’s as good a time as any.

I know folks who are obsessed, really—obsessed, by their desire/need to maintain distance between themselves and the masses.

Others seem to have a clear delineation in their minds of how close is too close.

Some of them would have come right out and told the interloper of her encroachment, asking her to move elsewhere.

I know several who would have stood up and gone to lean against the wall.

I might have agreed with that group. Once.

I’m not so sure now.

Does it seem strange to you that there was joy in squeezing over to make room for that young soul?

Do you think it even more unlikely, as we made changes to our travel plans later, giving up our adjacent seats near the front of one airplane, to be separated (an aisle and a row apart) and crammed between two strangers on another flight, that it seemed good to have a chance to sit calmly and to be kind, while being bumped and shaken and, ultimately, having a seatmate’s vodka and soda poured over my shoe?

It seems strange to me.

But perhaps, it’s supposed to seem strange.

Maybe, following the One who gave up unlimited personal space to walk in a strange place—to be crowded and touched, mauled and shoved by dirty, stinking people who were oblivious and uncaring of who He was and why He came—maybe, it should feel a little strange. A little other-worldly, even.

He invited His weary friends to come away and rest, and they thought it was a good idea.

Personal space, at last!

Then the crowds found them. “Send them home!” the friends sputtered.

Their space disappeared. Completely. Utterly. Instantly. But He, seeing the people instead of the frustration, welcomed them into His space. (Mark 6:31-34)

His personal space.

Strange.

Come close, He says. And, I’ll come close to you. (James 4:8)

David the songwriter asked to live with God in His house. No. David asked to live in God’s house with His protecting arms around him. (Psalm 61:4)

Is that close enough? 

What’s that you say about personal space?

I wish I could leave it there. Really, I do. God gave up His personal space for us. How wonderful.

There’s more.

I want to direct your attention to a few words an enigmatic Old Testament fellow named Jabez said to God some centuries ago. He’s the one who asked God to enlarge his territory. And, God did it.

Somehow, I don’t think the lesson for us in this age is how to get more stuff. Or more land. Or more power.

I don’t.

What if He simply wants us to fit one more person in our heart? Just one.

Or, maybe a hundred. Or, only fourteen. Whatever. 

More, anyway.

The Teacher, when tested, made clear what was important: Love God with every bit of territory in your hearts. And, after it has stretched to contain that love, reach out and draw the world into that love. (Matthew 22:37-39)

The place we live with our God is the space we share with our world.

The place we live with our God is the space we share with our world. Share on X

More than that—the love we experience in our God is the same love with which we must love.

Our neighbors.

Our fellow travelers.

Our world.

Let your love—your gentleness—be in evidence to all. God is near. (Philippians 4:5)

As His space grows inside us, our personal space outside may shrink. And, that’s good.

Strange.

But, good.

 

 

God’s mercy and grace give me hope—for myself, and for our world.
(Billy Graham ~ American evangelist ~ 1918-2018)

 

Heaven’s eyes, Heaven’s eyes.
What I need while I’m down here
Down in the dirt and the hurt of earth.
Heaven’s eyes, Heaven’s Eyes.
Father, I need Heaven’s eyes.
(Heaven’s Eyes ~ Nancy Jesser-Halsey ~ © 2001 ~ Used by permission)

Listen to the entire song here:

 

 

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