Month: September 2022

Nourishment

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments
image by cottonbro on Pexels

I have words and phrases stuck inside my head that will never leave me, no matter how many times I take them out and share them.

It’s not a bad thing for some of them.  They deserve another opportunity to be aired—to influence listeners.  Those—the profitable ones—I think I’ll hang onto and give them their freedom once in a while.

But, some words need to be kept under wraps, in chains, and in the dark where they can do no further harm.  They hurt going in, but I’ll not set them free to hunt any more prey.  At least, that’s my intent.  I forget sometimes and leave the door open for them.  I wish I weren’t so forgetful.

I do love the good words that remind me of people in my life.  Many of them remind me of folks who have dropped out of the story temporarily, so there’s a sadness mixed with joy when I pass them out again.

It happened again yesterday.

I was talking with a friend who isn’t doing so well right now.  His is a temporary setback and he knows it. Hoping to encourage him, I laughed as I shared a favorite phrase of my father-in-law’s, one I heard often over the nearly thirty years I was privileged to know him.

They were the words he uttered often when asked how he was doing.

“I’m able to be up and around and take nourishment.”

Did I say I laughed as I said them?  As I remember, I always did back when he spoke them to me or whoever had posed the question to him, too.  It just seemed such a strange way to make small talk.

The old man has been gone for most of seventeen years now.  Seventeen years of silence from him, and I’m just realizing the deeper meaning of the words.  Words I’ve saved up for times when humor was needed.

But, that’s not what they are, is it?

I’ve come to realize the deep gratitude, the thankfulness, this curious phrase expresses.  To anyone who is really listening.

“How are you?”

It’s a question inviting a litany of complaints—a laundry list of aches, pains, and privations.  Frequently, those are exactly what we get (or give).

That, or we tell the standard lie and simply reply, “Fine.”

My father-in-law headed them both off and offered his perspective of gratitude for the small things.

“I have what I need.  I’m able to get out of my bed in the morning and I can eat the food on my plate.”

What a great attitude!  It didn’t mean there weren’t difficulties.  It didn’t even mean he was necessarily happy with his life.  But, he was grateful for what he did have.

Did I say it was gratitude for the small things?

I should have said they were the essentials.

Just recently, I saw a video in which an oncologist revealed what he believed were the two most important things for his cancer patients to do.  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

The two things were to keep moving and to keep eating.

Easy peasy, you say?

Not so much when your body is wracked with nausea and pain from both the disease and the treatment for it.  It’s not all that easy for the elderly to do those two things consistently.  Or even for folks with auto-immune disease.  Or, for those who suffer from depression.

Essentials for life.

Exactly what he said (the Lovely Lady’s father).

“I’m able to be up and around and take nourishment.”

Basics.

Move. Eat.

And, be grateful we can do them.

I think I’ll do all three today.

I hope you do, too.

Good words.

 

For in Him we live and move and have our being. As some of your own poets have said, “We are his offspring.”
(Acts 17:28, NIV)

A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold
In settings of silver.
(Proverbs 25:11, NKJV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

Kiss it and Make it Better

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by skitterphoto on Pexels

I’m not a klutz.  Really.  I’m not.

Perhaps, I ought to say, I wasn’t.

I have a friend who is constantly telling of her mishaps and misadventures.  She describes herself as a klutz.  We don’t argue with her.  We laugh along with her as she exaggerates her gravitational challenges.

But, I’ve never been one of those.  I suppose my years may be beginning to tell on me.  I am a Boomer after all.  In other words: a senior citizen.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise to learn that I took a fall the other day.  I was tired, having mowed three lawns in the week, but I was determined to finish my own that day.

I had mowed and trimmed already, and the last task was blowing off the debris with a backpack leaf blower.  I’m thinking I could blame my heavy load for the lack of balance.  I don’t suppose anyone would fault me.

I missed a step up.  That’s all it was.  Tripping put my center of gravity somewhere different than it is usually located, and I simply couldn’t find it quickly enough to save myself.

Spinning as I fell, I was able to take most of the impact on the leaf blower itself, so I didn’t hurt anything important.  On me, I mean.  But, as I lay confused for a moment, I remember two distinct thoughts that formed in my head.

I hope someone will come to help me up.

That was really stupid.  I sure hope no one saw that.

My problem is clear, is it not?

I can’t have it both ways. 

Which do I want?  Help?  Or, to retain my pride?

I got one of my wishes anyway.  No one saw my clumsiness or my fall, but I had to pick myself up from the pavement and, finishing the job, limp on into the house without help.

Without help.

Pride intact.

Soreness past, I’ve had a bit of time to ponder the thoughts I had in that unfortunate moment.  I don’t suppose I’m the only one to feel that way.  In fact, I’m beginning to think most of us will have this dichotomy to deal with again and again.

We all need someone to pick us up.  At some point in our lives, we’ll all experience this.

We won’t always be lying on the ground when we need it, either.  Being picked up involves more than the physical act of lifting.  Sometimes, much more.

Friends are distraught because of a wayward child.  The aging couple next door needs someone to do simple manual tasks they can no longer do themselves.  The fellow with whom you used to work is having a hard time meeting his expenses.

None of them wants to admit their need.  Self-sufficiency is hardwired into our makeup.  But, when we reach the end of our reserves, we need to know there is someone there to pick us up.

And it’s hard for many of us to be on the receiving end.

Hard.

The Warrior/Poet who left us so many insights into God’s nature in the Psalms learned throughout his life to cry out for help when he needed it.  He had confidence that God would answer him.

But in my distress I cried out to the Lord;
    yes, I prayed to my God for help.
He heard me from his sanctuary;
    my cry to him reached his ears.
(Psalm 18:6, NLT)

Indeed, the poet had often experienced the mercy and power of the God to whom he cried out.

He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
    out of the mud and the mire.
He set my feet on solid ground
    and steadied me as I walked along.
(Psalm 40:2, NLT)

And so, we also, when we are in need, cry out to God.  Often we wait until we are in desperate need.  But eventually, we cry out.  And that’s as it should be.  God wants us to know Him as our provider and helper.

But, there’s more to the subject, isn’t there?

Sometimes, we need other humans, folks we can depend on, to come alongside and pick us up.  It is a basic human need, a gift I believe, from our Creator who gives good gifts.

Mr. Rogers, when talking about disasters, gently told his young listeners to “look for the helpers.”  I don’t disagree. 

I would add this:  If you don’t see one, be one.

We have a responsibility to use the gifts we’ve been given for others. When we claim to follow a God who lifts up those who have fallen, it is expected that we will lift up the fallen ourselves.

The fisherman who followed Jesus put it like this:

Just as each one has received a gift, use it to serve one another as good stewards of the varied grace of God.
(1 Peter 4:10, NET)

As I write this, I’m sitting in the waiting room of a large oncology center in a town twenty-five miles from my home.  I received a call late last night asking if I could help one I love get to his appointment this morning. I am waiting as he receives an infusion of medication that we hope will give him new strength to fight his battle against a dread disease.

I asked him about it as we drove earlier.  He agreed that his call for help was much like my little fall a week ago and the thoughts I described above.

No one wants to have someone see them in their weakness.

But, when it happens, we need someone we can depend on to lift us up and be kind while they are doing it.

I won’t tell you that we are the only hands and feet God has here on earth.  That makes our God too small—too weak. He can choose whatever way He desires to meet our needs.

But, I do know this:  He has chosen to allow us the privilege of acting as His hands and feet—lifting up, wiping off, offering comfort, sitting with, feeding, mowing, driving—for a world that longs (seriously, is dying for it) to see Him in us.

He said it Himself in the red letters. 

Let your light shine before men that, seeing your good works, they will glorify the God whose light they are seeing in you.  (Matthew 5:16, my paraphrase)

It has to be better than being like my neighbor who, when I asked why he didn’t come to help me, replied that he was too busy videoing the event to post on TikTok. (He was joking, of course. I hope he was, anyway.)

Helpers. 

Lifting up helpers.

It doesn’t seem like much, but I promise you, it will change the world.

 

If you want to lift yourself up, lift up someone else.
(Booker T Washington)

Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. But someone who falls alone is in real trouble.
(Ecclesiastes 4:9-10, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Next in Line

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
photo by kalhh on Pixabay

Sometimes I say things I’m not sure I believe.  It’s not a game; I just need to hear the words out loud to be able to decide.

If I believe them or not, I mean.

These particular words, I said for the first time a couple of months ago.  We were sitting at a familiar corner in my little town when they escaped from my mouth.  Still, I didn’t blurt them; I announced them rather thoughtfully.

I’ve had time to think about them—to play with them in my brain and in my spirit—since then.  I’ve decided I do believe them.  So last weekend, as the Lovely Lady and I sat at the same corner waiting for the light to change, I spoke the words again.

I may have been a little more forceful this time.

“We’re next. I think I like being next as much as I actually enjoy going.”

She gave me that look.  You know.

That look.

I’m certain it was the same look she had given me weeks ago when I said the same words.  I suppose she expected—since I hadn’t reiterated it again since then—that I had thought better of the original statement and wasn’t going to repeat it again.

I haven’t.

And I did.

It’s a traffic light I’ve waited for many times.  We often shop at the grocery store just past the corner.  McDonald’s is on that same corner.  When I’ve ridden my bicycle with friends on occasion, it’s a familiar point at which to cross the busy highway.

I’ve studied the progression of the different lanes and the timing of the lights.  I know when each lane will begin to move and when they will stop (well, except for those few who invariably blow through the just-changed-red light at the last moment).

Others have done the same thing as I.  One can tell by the brake lights that darken as the cars ahead anticipate the opportunity to move on in their journeys. It’s clear in the edging forward that begins as the stream of oncoming traffic begins to wane

When my cycling friends are with me, we’ve been known to start across the highway before the light changes, seeing that the crossing lanes have no oncoming traffic.

We’re next!

I don’t want to argue about my thoughtful statement.  I’ve simply come to the conclusion personally that the anticipation, the certainty we’ll soon be moving again in the direction of our destination, is at least as exciting to me as the actual journey.

You see, actually moving entails effort.  Sometimes, it even feels dangerous (those red light runners, you know) to enter the flow of traffic again.  And, to tell the truth, frequently it’s just more comfortable to sit right where I am.

You’ve seen them, haven’t you?  The efficient ones.  Checking their lists while they wait. Putting on lipstick. Texting their moms.

Those are the ones I don’t understand.  I sit drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, counting down the seconds until the light changes.  Those folks, the efficiency experts, often become so enthralled in their idle-time activities that they forget they’re next.  Horns will honk.  Possibly.  We are in the South, you know.

Still, we don’t always enjoy waiting.

Oh, we can adapt; we can fill the time with other diversions, but soon we are absorbed in those undertakings and forget that we’re waiting.  Then again, we can sit idle—stressed and worried about what’s coming next.

But, being next means being ready.

Preparation is required for next.

As when driving, one must be set for what lies just ahead.  Equipment must be in good condition.  Our minds must be alert and primed for action.  Eyes open. Reflexes tuned.

Can’t you just feel the adrenaline rush now?  I can!

The red light in front of me notwithstanding, I’m ready to go.

Ready and waiting.

We’re next!

 

 

Be on guard. Stand firm in the faith. Be courageous. Be strong.
(1 Corinthians 16:13, NLT)

“A subject uppermost on my mind which I wanted most to emphasize…is our customer service philosophy here at Walmart, ‘You’re always next in line at Walmart.'”
(Sam Walton, founder of Walmart, Inc.)

But as for me, I watch in hope for the Lord,
    I wait for God my Savior;
    my God will hear me.
(Micah 7:7, NIV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Still in the Tunnel

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.

It was just a bit of whimsy, a slogan to print on a magnet shaped like an old steam engine.  My dad slapped it on the old Frigidaire over fifty years ago.  It still makes me laugh.

Sort of.

Nowadays, it’s more likely to make me think of the other phrase we use commonly, the origin of which is also most likely in the dim history of the railroads.

I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Except, I’m not.  Seeing the light yet.

It’s been a dark season.  Sadness piled upon dread; covered up in anticipation of worse to come.

I’m not the only one.

Our old friends sat around the table the other night and one of the ladies said the words.

“There are a lot of people dying, aren’t there?”

Nobody really answered her, but I heard a collective hmmm and the table went silent.  Each of us, lost in our thoughts, was seeing the faces of absent friends and hearing the voices of people we loved, voices we’ll never hear again this side of heaven.

It’s why I’ve not shared many of my current writings with my friends and social media followers for the last several months.  I’ve been seeing some of those faces and hearing many of those voices nearly constantly for a while.  And, when one is in dark places, it doesn’t seem the kindest thing to usher others into the darkness.

I’m going to chance it, though.  That moment with my old friends made me realize that perhaps we need to talk about it.  For a little while, anyway.

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now.  About that tunnel.

I’ll admit it; what got me thinking about tunnels was actually a bright spot in a little trip I took with the Lovely Lady recently.  We stopped by to visit one of our favorite bridges a few hours away from where we live.

She’s the one who saw it.  I was driving, so I would have never seen the conjunction of lovely points of light if it hadn’t been for her keen eye.

“That’s amazing!  You have to see it!”

She is not given to flights of fancy, this companion.  She’s the one who helps me see reality when I drift away from it (as I frequently do).  I’d hold onto all the balloons and float into the sky to oblivion, but she knows to use her trusty BB gun to bring me back down before I hurt myself.  I need her.

But on this day, she could hardly wait for the truck to get parked so she could hurry me up the hill and point out the scene.  It’s in the photo on this page.

At precisely this spot, one may view the most beautiful highway bridge in the state, under which runs the Missouri Northern Arkansas Railroad, leading over a lovely trestle (above a rushing river), and straight through a thousand-foot tunnel cut through the nearby hillside.  That’s the tunnel, there through the railroad bridge, that tiny arched blob of shadow before brilliant light.

The photo doesn’t do the view credit.  And yet, we were giddy as we stood there, with the richness of sunlight playing with shade and the drawing together of the individual points of beauty into one single vista.

The moment has passed.

I have spent hours with the photo open on my computer monitor since then.  And, as has happened so often over the last few months, the shadows eventually return, even to this place of light and beauty.

I know there is sunshine on the other side of that tunnel.  I see it clearly.  Still, that blob of shadow fills my vision.

I bet it’s dark in there—there in that tunnel.  Even with the end in view, it’s dark and gloomy.

It’s dark in here, too—here in this tunnel I’m making my way through.  But, I sense I’m not alone in here.

Even though it can seem so lonely, many of us have brought our tattered pieces of cardboard in and have built little makeshift shelters for ourselves under which we huddle, shivering and shaking, as the trains pass noisily by.

I won’t dwell on the darkness, on the loneliness, on the fear that this passage will be beyond our strength.  If you’ve been in here, you already know.  Probably better than I.

I find myself asking if the tunnel ever ends—if the darkness ever gives way to sunshine again.

I’m not the brightest crayon in the box; I readily admit it.  But, like Mr. Tolkien’s innkeeper, Butterbur, I think I can see through a brick wall in time.  And I think I may be seeing a glimmer of that light, finally.

I’m asking the wrong questions.

The apostle, my namesake, suggested in his day that his troubles were temporary and light.  More than once, he wrote the words. His point was that we’re aimed for better things, things that will make the events filling our sight today seem minor in comparison.

It doesn’t trivialize our life experiences.  The pain, the fear, and the losses can’t be dismissed with the snap of our fingers.  We still must endure them; still must make our way forward through the darkness.  But, something is waiting at the end, something that will make all the dreadful things we’ve struggled through fade in importance.

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

I stood, here in this dark tunnel, the other day, and I think I finally saw through that brick wall.  Momentarily, at least.  New questions came to my mind.

Who put this tunnel here?  And why?

Perhaps, I’m being simplistic.  I don’t think I am.

Tunnels are not made to create hardship, but to alleviate it.  They are placed to facilitate progress to the goal, in locations where the conveyance could never—never!—make any headway without them.

And, in my head—and heart—the words resound.  Words I’ve mentioned here before.

“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'”  (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT)

They are words to encourage us.  In the midst of hurting and paralyzing fear, they remind us that there is more.

More.

I’m reminded that the Word is light for our pathway and our feet.  I trust Him.  I’ll walk in that light.

Traveling to the Light at the end of the tunnel.  Step by step, walking in the light He gives for today.

I’ve camped out here long enough.  You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead.  That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

 

‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’
(from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

But forget all that—
    it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.
 For I am about to do something new.
    See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
    I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:18-19, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.