October | 2024 | He's Taken Leave

It was noon. A few weeks ago. Maybe, a few months. Time seems to run together these days. I write notes to myself so I’ll not forget and then I do.

This note seemed ominous.

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.“

I wrote the words—a quote from a writing by John Donne in the 1600s—to remind myself of that noontide reverie on a future day when I had time to flesh it out in my thoughts.

On that late morning, I had walked up to the local university where the Lovely Lady has worked for many years. As on most days, I was simply anticipating a pleasurable walk home with the one who has walked beside me for most of a half-century.

The bells would intrude.

They always do.

I stood, leaning against the brick wall outside the library building on campus, and waited. As I waited, the chimes in the Cathedral of the Ozarks tower began to sound, beginning with the familiar Westminster pattern. Then slowly, one after the other, the clock knelled out one dozen slow and distinct tones.

The words popped into my head. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls…”

It was high summer. The temperature where I was standing was well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Yet, suddenly I felt goosebumps on my arms.

Was it a premonition? An omen?

Nah. Just a silly thought. But, it did seem important enough that I needed a reminder for later.

Somehow, it also seemed appropriate that, as the Lovely Lady exited the building and, taking my hand, started down the sidewalk with me, the carillon in the bell tower began to play a verse of the wonderful old tune “Beautiful Savior”.

The words from the old hymn—also written in the 1600s—flowed through my mind as we walked;

“Beautiful Savior, Lord of all nations,
Son of God, and Son of Man!
Glory and honor, praise, adoration
Now and forever more be Thine!“

I have thought about the other words that went through my mind that early afternoon any number of times since the day. Enough so that I explored the origin of the phrase. I was surprised to learn Mr. Donne simply believed we are all connected, perhaps even dependent on each other.

He wasn’t being prophetic about anyone’s death; he simply believed that any person’s passing affected all of the community of man.

If I expand the meaning a bit, it implies we all feel each other’s pain. We share in losses; we benefit from each other’s well-being.

I wonder if that’s why the Apostle for whom I am named told us to rejoice with those who rejoice and to weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

And perhaps, it’s why he told the folks in Athens that the “unknown god” they had erected an altar to was the One who gave life and breath to every living creature and who satisfies our every need.

He went on to say, “From one man, He created all the nations throughout the earth.” (Acts 17:26, NLT)

Science bears out our relationship. We share 99.9 percent of our DNA with all other humans. There is no arguing our shared humanity, our familial connection.

But, we don’t need science to tell us that, do we? Over and over, we feel the closeness, the affinity, and yes—the sympathy that only those connected by birthright could feel for each other.

We’ve felt it in the United States this week as we’ve seen the devastation of the hurricane in the Carolinas and surrounding areas.

Each time we see news on our screens of fresh devastation of war and natural disasters, we weep along with the mourners.

We are all—without exception—made in the image of our Beautiful Savior, who still holds us in His hands.

In my reading of John Donne’s work, I noticed another famous saying which originated from the same short piece of prose. The reader will surely have heard it also.

“No man is an island, entire of itself.“

Paul Simon begged to differ when he made the familiar claim in one of his songs, “I am a rock. I am an island.“

He was wrong. But then, I think he knew that. His song was a statement of the attempts people make—unsuccessfully—to insulate themselves from hurt and pain.

I don’t want to be insulated.

Engaged. That’s what I need to be.

In engagement, we feel the extreme pain of losses. Still, we also feel the surprising joy of life’s miracles—and we experience the giddiness of undeserved triumphs and the unexpected ecstasy of prodigals who return to the arms of their waiting Father.

Yes. The bell tolls for us all. Together, we weep.

And yet, together we labor side by side to repair life’s devastation.

And—still together—we will rejoice again.

Every tear will be wiped away. Every one.

Even so…

“The voice so sweet, the words so fair
As some soft chime had stroked the air.”
(from The Mind, a poem by Ben Jonson)

“No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were:
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.“
(from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, by John Donne)

On a recent day I sat with my old friend again. Yes, it was in my mind that the last time we had sat with coffee cups between us, I had walked away with a life-changing backache.

I determined not to sit for three hours without moving this time. But, we had things to discuss. Important things. Well—important to us.

As we sat down with our cups of coffee, a smile played around his lips as he told me he had thought of a title for his next blog post (he doesn’t write blogs). Then he told about what he described as, “My Life in the Fog.”

As he related his experiences growing up in the last century in Fresno, California, I imagined I could see it clearly.

The Central Valley of California, also known as the San Joaquin Valley, is a huge bowl of fertile ground, the produce capital of the whole country. There are miles and miles of cultivated fields growing crops of every description, from vegetables to nuts. It is, in some ways, a veritable paradise. But, there are drawbacks.

The natives call it Tule (pronounced too-lee) Fog (when they’re not arguing about whether that’s what it really is or is not). The name “Tule” is a local term, shortened from Tulare, which was once a large lake in the area.

The entire valley, thousands of square miles of it, is frequently engulfed in the fog, generated by the cold air of the surrounding mountain ranges settling down into the warm, moist air below them. This is especially prevalent in the fall and winter months.

I said I imagined I saw the image clearly as my friend described standing in his yard, ready to go to school in the early morning light. Gazing across the street, he couldn’t even see the neighbor’s house in front of him. And, to the side, no shrubs or fence were visible at the house next door.

You see my problem, don’t you?

It’s all just a bit out of focus, wavering in my mind. The fog he describes cloaks the entire scene as I gaze upon it.

It is what fog does.

I suppose that’s what he intended to communicate with his proposed title for the nonexistent blog he was writing. No. I’m sure of it.

He went on to describe the occasional clearing of the fog in one direction, but not in others. He would stand, again unable to see the house across the street but, turning to his left, could see the neighbor’s property there perfectly well, as if the sun was shining clearly on it.

I know I’m not supposed to do it. You know—think about my own experiences while someone else is talking. I’m supposed to listen completely to what they’re saying. But, there was a voice speaking inside my head, too.

“Sure. The fog is just fine when you’re standing still in your own front yard.”

You see, I’ve been there. In that Tule Fog. No, really!

We traveled numerous times to my Grandfather’s house in the Central Valley. He lived little more than 25 miles away from where my friend used to stand in the fog before school. To get there, my family and I would travel over 1400 miles by car, zipping through mountains, prairies, farmland, and deserts.

The most memorable part of the journey for me always was the descent into the San Joaquin Valley through the Tehachapi (ta-hatch-a-pea) Pass. On this particular trip, we made the drop from the high desert into the valley in the darkness of a very early morning.

If you make the trip in daylight when there is fog, you can see it down below, almost like a super dense cloud lying at your feet, with time to mentally prepare yourself for what is to come. I didn’t have that advantage on the occasion my memory dredged up.

The wet blanket of fog we dropped into was like being enveloped in a cloud of pure white cotton. Flicking the car’s headlights to bright only multiplied the effect. The brilliant light merely reflected off the dazzling white blanket, almost blinding the driver to anything but its overwhelming glare.

I slowed to a safe speed, only to remember (almost too late) that I was on a California freeway. The traffic behind me had not slowed to a safe speed and passed me at a terrific pace, some barely seeing my taillights in time to swerve into the passing lane.

I sped up. Terrified and confused by the lack of vision, but dazed by the overload of sensory stimuli, I could do nothing but travel at the speed of surrounding traffic while staring wide-eyed into the seeming abyss in front of me and praying for protection.

Although it seemed like an eternity, it wasn’t all that long before we began to see rifts in the wall of white clouds about us. I was never so happy to see the darkness, riven by my vehicle’s headlights to give a clear picture of what was in front of us.

But, my friend was still talking, wasn’t he? Something about seeing through a mirror, indistinctly.

I had to shake off my own fog to catch up.

Oh yes! The Apostle’s words from one of his letters:

“Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.” (1 Corinthians 13:12, NLT)

We do. We live in a fog—some of us for most of our lives. The noise and clamor we’re surrounded by serve only to act like the high beams, obfuscating and blinding us to the truth.

But, we don’t have to live like this—here in the fog—forever.

There is a place of clarity here on earth.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet,
a light on my path.” (Psalm 119:105, NIV)

Have you ever noticed where fog lamps are mounted on vehicles? That’s right; Down near the road. Down below the fog, giving a clear view of the surface one is traveling over.

God’s word is a lamp, specifically for our feet, to light the path ahead. When all others are frantically flipping between low and high beams, failing spectacularly to find a path through the fog, His wisdom cuts through, lighting the way faithfully.

He gives light that truly lends clarity to life. Through all of our days, if we’ll avail ourselves of it.

I don’t love the fog. I say I don’t anyway. But still, I stumble along feeling my way—speeding up, slowing down—and hoping no one is about to come flying out of the pea soup behind me and do me great harm.

We’re a stubborn lot, aren’t we? I am, anyway.

All the while, the answer is at my fingertips. He promises to make the way plain.

We already hold the light in our hands and hearts if we are followers of Christ.

Clear—clear as day.

It’s time to walk out of the fog. I’m going to do my best. You know me though; I always love company on the road.

Are you coming with?

“I must go in; the fog is rising.“
(last reported words of poet Emily Dickinson)

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.”
(Proverbs 3: 5-6, NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Month: October 2024

Bells Toll

Walking Out of the Fog