Month: January 2024

Redeeming the Time

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Gerd Altmann on Pixabay

“We get more time!”

My friend smiled joyfully as she said the words.  Her mom, who has cancer, had surgery last week and is healing nicely.

But, I wonder. . .

I’ve experienced the same thing in recent years.  The Lovely Lady’s brother received his original diagnosis four years before the disease took him.  At several points throughout that journey, we realized anew that we had more time, albeit limited, with him.

It changed our relationship; making us more purposeful.  We valued the times around the table—the visits on the backyard deck.  We knew our days together were numbered.

We made the most of them.  We invested in them.

Does that make sense?

The Apostle, my namesake, used the term (at least in the version in which I learned it):  Redeeming the time.

In the book of Colossians (chapter 4, verse 5), he uses it with respect to unbelievers and sharing the Good News with them.  But, in Ephesians (chapter 5, verses 16 and 17), he’s clearly talking about our relationships with those of the faith.

Either way, we’re to invest our hours and days wisely.  It’s nothing like the spending time we refer to so often in our culture.  Redeeming means buying back; reclaiming every minute.

But, here’s what I wonder:

Why do we wait until we have a pretty clear picture of the time frame?  Until we can almost see the limit of our days on earth with those we love?

Our days were numbered from the moment of our conception.

“You saw me before I was born.
    Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
    before a single day had passed.”
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

He knows how long we have.  He always has. 

And He wants us to redeem every minute.  For Him, and for those He’s blessed us to walk this journey with.

He knows our days without the need for a surgeon’s prognosis—without the calculation of life expectancy from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—without our wide-eyed expectations.

He knows.  And, He wants us to invest ourselves into every bit of it.

I remember a song that was popular in my youth—an awful song (at least they were awful lyrics).  But, there was a grain of truth in it.

The lyrics said, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”  The author of those lyrics intended them to mean that we love them physically—carnally.

Still, my mind has always traveled by its own strange paths.

And, I’m absolutely certain we’re intended to love the one we’re with.  With the love that God put in our hearts, we are to invest ourselves every day into others He brings into our lives.  In spiritual ways, and in practical ways.

Fill your days with manifestations of love for those around you.  Words are good.  Actions are better.  Gifts are optional.

Don’t wait.

Today needs redemption already.

“We get more time.”

 

“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.”
(Walt Whitman)

 

“See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise,  redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
     Therefore do not be unwise, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”
(Ephesians 5:15-17, NKJV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Homeward Bound

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Leroy Skalstad on Pixabay

I want it to be true.

She said she had learned recently that the name common for homeless wanderers in the last century meant something almost romantic.  We were talking about hobos, those bindle-toting fellows who rode the rails during the Great Depression, knocking on doors in small towns across the country as they looked for handouts—mostly food, sometimes money.

My guest told me the article she read suggested the word hobo was short for homeward bound.

I’ve done a bit of reading on the subject and find that explanation surfaced rather recently, extrapolated by a writer or two, coming from the soldiers who were traveling after the Civil War in the 19th century, saying they were homeward bound, only to realize when they got there that their homes had been destroyed in the conflict.

It seems more likely that the term came from the name given to the farmer boys who left their farms to look for a better life.  Hoe-boys, they were called.

There was a day when I answered my grandmother’s inevitable question of what I intended to do with my life with the suggestion that I wanted to be a hobo.  What I really meant was I wanted to live the life of a bum, but have the assurance of a home to return to and the promise of financial support, should I get hungry and cold.

I grew up and out of that mindset, thankfully.  I did leave home, striking out to new horizons, but I put down roots and got a job immediately.  The wandering life wasn’t for me, much to my grandmother’s relief.

Still, I like the idea of being homeward bound.  Even after all the years of living nearly a thousand miles away, the reminders of my hometown I see almost daily induce a sort of homesickness in me.

I wonder.  Why do we look for a place to call home?

Several years ago I wrote of my friend, Miss Peggy.  She, in her ninety-first year of life, fussed at me one day because her friend had died.  The friend was younger, probably in her late eighties.

“It wasn’t her turn!”  Miss Peggy was adamant—almost angry.

I held back the laugh that threatened to burst out.  I had never considered this concept of standing in line, waiting to get into Heaven.  In my mind’s eye, I could visualize her friend, an old spinster just like Miss Peggy, cutting the line up ahead of those waiting impatiently.

The impulse to laugh died suddenly as Peggy tilted her head wistfully, letting the words spill out.

“I want to go home.”

Surrounded by her belongings, in her own cozy house, she wanted to be home.  Really home.

I guess that’s what it’s like when you’ve been on the road so long. You just want to be home.

Not many of us are hobos, but all of us—if we’re God’s children—are homeward bound.

Just like Abraham and his offspring—like Moses and his wandering, grumbling tagalongs—we’re looking for the place of promised rest.

And, it’s not the place we came from.  No, we’re going home.

Homeward bound.

And, in the meantime, our Creator’s got some green pastures and quiet waters for us to travel past.  And, yeah.  A dark valley or two.

But, there’s goodness.  And mercy.  All the days of our lives.

Until we’re finally home.

Looks like we’re headed the same direction.  Maybe we could jump a freight train together sometime.

Homeward bound.

 

“They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth.  Obviously people who say such things are looking forward to a country they can call their own. If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.”
(Hebrews 11:13-16, NLT)

“Would you welcome going home
   If you’d never been away?
I don’t think so.
I don’t think so.
I really don’t think so.”
(from Would You by Evie Tornquist Karllson)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

Friend to Grace?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It may come as a surprise, but I’m not all that big a fan of winter. However, I like snow.

I should clarify.  When I look at it from the warmth of my living room, I like it.  On my car’s windshield when I need to drive it—not so much.  On the ramp out front when guests are arriving—certainly not!

I am becoming aware of something that seems a vital truth, though.  This truth dawned on me today as I walked to the coffee shop I’m sitting in now.  Yes, just like the rising sun’s light waking me from sleep, it hit me.

We need hardship—uncomfortable things—in our lives.

I know; it seems so antithetical to everything our society tells us.  Every new technology seems aimed at making life easier—at reducing labor.  Smartphones, self-driving cars, and domotics (automated homes) are only the latest in a long line of devices, perhaps starting millennia ago with the inception of the wheel.

When we become accustomed to the ease of living, it is difficult if not impossible for us to move out of the comfort zone in which we buffer ourselves.

I walked on the sidewalk covered in the remnants of this week’s snowfall today and I found myself grousing about the uneven and sometimes slick surface. It wasn’t the first time I’ve done it recently.

Each frigid day this week I’ve walked to the university where the Lovely Lady is employed, to collect her at the end of her workday.  The university staff has cleared their sidewalks of snow and ice rather nicely.  It’s easy to stroll along the concrete surfaces, without the need to watch our steps.  We walk comfortably and easily across most of the campus, free of stress and effort.

Until that is, we come to the end of their property and the cleared sidewalks.  The roughness of icy spots and the deeper snow mean we have to choose our steps carefully. We’re getting to the age where falls are more than just a quick trip to the ground and getting up dusting the snow off our seats.  The pain lasts.

If we don’t choose our steps wisely, it hurts.

But, we don’t walk where the sidewalks are always cleared.  We must walk circumspectly—cautiously and with care—in every situation.

Does it seem we’re not talking just about snowy sidewalks anymore?  Perhaps we’re not.

If the shoe fits. . .

I had the words to the old Isaac Watts hymn, Am I a Soldier of the Cross, in my head this morning as I walked.

Are there no foes for me to face?
Must I not stem the flood?
Is this vile world a friend to grace,
To help me on to God?

I know, I know.  It’s odd to be singing words written three hundred years ago while crunching through the snow.  But, that’s me.  Odd.

The clear answer to Mr. Watts’ question is that the world is not a friend to grace and it will, without fail, attempt to thwart our every effort to be with God.

We who follow Christ get to make the journey one precarious step at a time.  The path, we’re told, is narrow and often lonely.  We will stumble a time or two.  Or more.

It’s easier on the other path—the one that’s been cleared and leveled.  There’s more company there, too.

But, in the end, the easy path is infinitely more dangerous.  The destination won’t be pleasant, I’m told.

Besides, there’s always Someone on the rough path with our best interest in mind.  The Psalmist knew it.

The Lord directs the steps of the godly.
    He delights in every detail of their lives.
Though they stumble, they will never fall,
    for the Lord holds them by the hand.
(Psalm 37: 23-24, NLT)

Our friends, the hikers, have walked the Appalachian Trail in the eastern United States from Georgia to Maine.  Over two thousand miles, they trekked, often holding on to each other, choosing every step with care lest they twist an ankle or break a bone.

The Trail is not smooth.  Not at all.  The hikers talk about the hardships, of the mental discipline necessary to keep going despite the obstacles.

But mostly, they talk about the incredible sights along the way and the amazing friends they made as they struggled along.

You don’t hike the Appalachian Trail on smooth, paved surfaces.

The road we have in front of us isn’t all that smooth, either.  But, there are astounding people and beauty along the way.  Besides, the finish—our goal—lies at the end of this sometimes icy, or rocky, or muddy, path.

The world is not a friend to grace.  It wants us to be fooled by the smooth, wide pathways that eventually lead to hopelessness.

Meantime, on the inconvenient path, there will be friends along the way to lean on.  And strong hands to keep us from falling when we stumble.

I’ll try to hold my grumbling down to a dull roar.

Still, I’ll be happy when that snow is melted.

 

See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise,  redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
(Ephesians 5:15-16, NKJV)

“Careful!” he whispered. “Steps. Lots of steps. Must be careful!”
(Gollum, from The Two Towers, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Potluck

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by M D Duran on Pixabay

I grew up with potluck dinners.  Most of my readers who grew up in church have experienced these events myriad times and will testify that they are lovely meals, albeit leading to many bouts of heartburn and indigestion.

Oh.  Not because of eating bad food!  No, the discomfort is simply because of the quantity of food one tends to ingest when sampling the output of so many wonderful cooks.

That’s not what you should expect to find here today.

I have in mind the definition of potluck from the sixteenth century—when eating potluck meant one had dropped in on an unsuspecting homemaker after the dinner hour and was offered whatever leftovers happened to have been thrown in the pot over the fire, being kept warm to prevent them from spoiling.

Often the resulting mélange was not appetizing in the slightest, but a hodgepodge of textures and materials, along with flavors (and perhaps even freshness, or the lack thereof).

This is like that, not the best from the recipe box; just whatever I’ve not been able to use in my last few outings, but don’t really want to throw it out just yet.

Bon appétit!

I intended to write again recently, but have been under the weather.  If you didn’t already know that, it’s only because you haven’t been around to hear me complain about it.  The Lovely Lady has endured well more than her share, taking it all in with incredible patience.

I looked at her earlier as she arose from her position on the loveseat near me and, realizing that she was moving slowly (which made me think about how weak I was feeling), I said—quite romantically, I thought, “I wish we could go back and live life together all over again.”

She frowned for a minute and, suggesting that she didn’t have the energy to go through all that again, went into the kitchen to work on dinner, leaving me to my disconnected thoughts once more.

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve had a visit from my annual guest, the boisterous asthmatic bronchitis.  It’s been mostly calm during the days, but spends the night causing nothing but commotion and sleeplessness.

During several of those nights (and now, even in the daylight), I have bemoaned the pain caused by the continuous coughing fits.  Holding my sides to lessen the ache of stressed muscles, I think I could die from this (a slight exaggeration, possibly).

And then this afternoon, as the Lovely Lady got into our car in the hospital parking lot—we weren’t there for me; she was visiting a friend—I was taken down a peg (again) to learn that when our friend coughs, she has to hug a pillow tightly to her chest to avoid doing actual damage to the incision and closures that her surgeon carefully worked on a couple of days ago.

This was after he split her chest open to do open-heart surgery.

I repent.  I hear the red-headed lady who raised me saying the words—Tempest in a teapot—or something like that.

And, speaking of bridges—oh no, we weren’t, were we?  Well, just another bit of the potluck, isn’t it?

Bridges.  We stopped at the side of one of the state highways a few days ago, so I could sneak onto the verge of the pavement to photograph an old dry-laid stone culvert that a friend mentioned recently.  I hasten to add that I did not walk where the “no trespassing” sign was posted but remained on the right-of-way instead.

I marvel at the industry of anyone who, seeing a stream or river in their way, determines to make a way over it, regardless of the labor involved, instead of simply fording the water when it’s low enough and finding a way around it when it’s not.  That’s what I’d do.

The red-headed lady who raised me would have said. . . No, I don’t remember any maxims she had for idleness, except to remind us that the Bible says if you don’t work, you don’t eat.

Now, where was I?  Oh yes, the bridge.  A beautiful old rock arch bridge, hand-laid without mortar.  I was reminded of why I love the structures, be they covered wooden affairs, metal pieces bolted and welded together, or even ornate concrete spans with rainbow arches thrown up across the entire span.

I love them because of the vision that wrought them.  The people who stood on one bank of a mighty river—or even a trickling stream—and said, “Let’s make this better.”

There are still people doing just this in countries where the populace is not as blessed as we are with infrastructure maintained by our government.  These visionaries are driven by a desire to make things better for folks they may never see or know.  Folks whose lives may actually be saved because they don’t have to traverse a ravine to get to the hospital when they are having an emergency. Or, they may just be able to save a couple of hours a day by going over instead of around.

Sometimes we get tired and vision fades.  Sometimes we need a day or two of sitting to be reminded that there is still more to be done.  Maybe even a lesson in perspective to see people who really are hurting and not just sorry for themselves.

Well, it looks like that’s all there is in the pot tonight.  I hope it wasn’t too unpalatable.  If you can get to the dinner table earlier next time, you might get a better concoction.  Something you can sink your teeth into a little easier.  Maybe even some pie for dessert.

I’m reminded that Elisha the prophet just threw some flour into a pot of nasty stew centuries ago and it got all better.  I’ll try to find some of that flour before the next go-round.

For now, I think I’ll go find the Lovely Lady and suggest a trip to Sonic for a Number 3 burger (do they still make those?).  Maybe she’ll be more inclined to think about going on all the adventures again after a generous offer like that.

Then again, perhaps I should simply give thanks for what I’ve got.

But, Sonic’s not a bad idea anyway.

 

“Where there is no vision, there is no hope.”
(George Washington Carver)

“Elisha said, ‘Get some flour.’ He put it into the pot and said, ‘Serve it to the people to eat.’ And there was nothing harmful in the pot.”
(2 Kings 4:41, NIV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

 

A Puppy Would Be Good

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I learned one final life lesson from last year a few days ago.  Well, perhaps there were others after that too.

But still—one lesson I never expected.

You’re never too old to fall in love with a puppy that you can’t take home.

Yeah, I know.  I was surprised, too.  I suppose I shouldn’t be.  I’ve mentioned to you about the second childhood thing.  And the getting more sensitive thing.

But, one day last week, the Lovely Lady and I got into my truck with a few extra passengers to visit the mountaintop where our grandchildren live.  It takes over an hour to travel to their house, so I figured we’d have time to talk with our passengers on the way.

It turns out that, unlike me, they’re seasoned travelers who are better at planning their travel time than am I, so there were noise-canceling headphones and smartphones, along with a 900-page biography to be read, and instead of talking, my driving time was divided between counting skunk carcasses on the roadside and wondering why it is that all the churches in the little town of Sonora, Arkansas seem to be built right next to each other along the highway.

I might have thought about a few other things along the way.  But, I promise you, I wasn’t thinking I’d be sad on the trip home because I had to leave a sweet little girl pup I’d already named Cyclone (in my head, anyway) on top of that mountain.

She wasn’t the only cute pup there.  Others were bigger—or more playful—and perhaps, even more lovable.  But, this little girl just caught my eye.  And, my heart.

I looked at the Lovely Lady.  You know, with puppy-dog-eyes.  She knows me.  Before I opened my mouth, she knew what I was going to say.

“She is beautiful. But, you know what we decided.  Still, it’s up to you.”

It’s not like that time when I was a boy and wanted my own dog.  Then, the red-headed lady who raised me was kind about it, but closed the door completely on the idea.

“No.  It would be your dog, but I’d be the one feeding and watering it.  I’d have to bathe the beast and get the annual vaccinations.  Sorry.  The family dog will have to do.”

This wasn’t like that.  I’ve proved myself to this red-haired lady.  She knows I can be trusted to take care of the pup.

But, we’ve decided—mutually—that it’s not in our best interest to have pets anymore.  It wasn’t a decision we came to lightly.

The little girl stayed on the mountain with her litter-mates.  She’ll certainly find a home with a loving family before long.  Who could resist those eyes and that tornado-shaped coloration on her forehead?

Yet, all the way home I kept asking, “What if we tried . . .?”

And she didn’t say no to any of my ideas. . . well yeah—to a couple, she did.  I’m not always that logical when I want something I shouldn’t have.

I might be happier if she had said no outright.  Then I could blame her for my disappointment, instead of just being an adult and responsibly doing what I know is right in this situation.

But, I am going to do that.  Be responsible, I mean.

Somehow, I think my choice of a name for the puppy wasn’t just a coincidence, either.

Storms come by themselves in nature.  Sometimes, in our personal lives, we stir up the elements that cause the storms to gather strength and assail us.

I’m not saying little Cyclone would do that.  I’m saying we make decisions and set boundaries in life for valid reasons and often, overstepping those boundaries brings grief into our lives.  Even if we find ways to justify doing away with the limits we originally set.

Good is sometimes the enemy of excellent.

And sometimes, I forget how a team works and decide to do what I believe is good for me—to the team’s detriment.

Words come to my mind, a hippie mantra from the 1960s, that influenced many of my generation and more of those that have followed.

The free spirits back then said, “If it feels good, do it.”  As I think, I realize they’re still saying it today.

I won’t.

I’m a believer in another mantra, one I’d like to carry into the new year and the foreseeable future.

Excellence is worth pursuing.

Not as catchy as the hippies’, is it?

The Apostle, my namesake, was even more wordy in his exhortation.

“Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.” (Philippians 4:8, NLT)

Earlier in the missive, he suggested that we think of others as better than ourselves.  Before that, in one of his letters to the people at Corinth, he made it clear that we’re not to do good solely for ourselves, but constantly for others around us.

But, it was only a puppy. Which would have been a good thing, wouldn’t it?  I would never say opening your heart and home to a puppy was bad.

And yet. . .

Better—and more excellent—things await just ahead. Maybe even over the next mountaintop.

Oh.  So you know—I’m going to keep petting the puppies.

I just can’t take them home.

 

 

“Don’t accept your dog’s admiration as conclusive evidence that you are wonderful.” (Ann Landers)

“You say, ‘I am allowed to do anything’—but not everything is good for you. You say, ‘I am allowed to do anything’—but not everything is beneficial.  Don’t be concerned for your own good but for the good of others.”  (1 Corinthians 10:23-24, NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.