Author: Paul Phillips

Waiting For Hope

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Waiting.  It’s not my strongest ability.  It’s not even close to the top ten.

You’d think it should be.

For most of us, it is one of the activities in which we have the most experience.  Hours.  And hours.  Waiting.

She said she needed to go see the Social Security folks.  And, would I go with her?  I agreed, so earlier this week, we set out for our destination.

We expected a really long wait.  The full waiting room (don’t you just love that name?) didn’t allay our fears in any way.  Rows and rows of folks.  All waiting.

Everyone has been there.  No, not necessarily at the Social Security office.  I mean waiting.  We’ve all been there.  At the doctor’s.  The hospital.  The courthouse.  The DMV.

I love how the waiting rooms are full of lively conversations, laughter, and joy.  Oh, wait.  They’re not, are they?

Silence.  Dread.  Expectation of failure.  These are the emotions of the waiting room.

I sat, watching (in silence) the same people walk one by one out the door of the government office the other day.  Not one was crying.  Most were even smiling.

Still, the faces of those waiting were grim, with a host of feelings written in their eyes, on their mouths.  Impatience.  Disgust. Worry.

My companion and I sat, mostly in silence as well, our own emotions written to be read by other observers, I’m sure.  We sat and awaited the adventure before us—the adventure of the interview.

Yes.  I did say that. Adventure.  What is to come.  Anticipation.

They do come from the same place, you know—adventure & Advent.

The time before, when we wait.  Waiting, in hope or in dread.

This time of year is tricky.  With the rest of the world, we await the coming joyous event.

I look around me and I see a lot of emotions.  Somehow, folks don’t all seem joyous.  Many are downright sad.  Others seem disillusioned, almost bitter.

Somehow, even the folks who have been all happy-clappy through this season in years past seem a bit more sober.  Introspective, even.

I wonder.

Maybe I was the happy-clappy one.  The one who couldn’t see through my own giddy expectation to notice others weren’t enjoying the waiting.  Perhaps I, who awaited the coming day with wonder, couldn’t see that others just sat wondering when it would all be over.

I see them now.  

Sometimes, I am them.

We drove along this evening, the Lovely Lady and I.  It seemed they filled my vision, the Christmas lights spelling out the word HOPE in foot-high letters on the fence. 

She didn’t see them.  I motioned in the general direction and still, she didn’t see them.  Frustrated, I stabbed my finger straight at them and her eyes followed it across the field ahead.

Oh!  Now I see it!

I intended to take a photograph later, but I forgot.  It was well past midnight again when I wandered over that way.  This time I couldn’t see the letters.  Pulling my light jacket tight against the frigid north wind, I walked right up to the fence, a quarter of a mile away.  Then I saw that they were still there, just not lit up.  In the middle of the cold, dark night, they were still there.  Even though I couldn’t see them.

The letters are still there.  They’ll shine again tomorrow. 

They will.

HOPE. 

In letters that reached to the sky, He wrote it.  Some don’t see.  Some can’t see. Not without help.

HOPE. In letters that reached to the sky, He wrote it. Some don’t see. Some can’t see. Not without our help. Share on X

While we’re waiting, perhaps we could talk amongst ourselves.  It’s time to point to hope.  To talk about hope.  To live in hope.

We do.  We live in hope.  We live there.

The world is waiting in the dark night. (Isaiah 9:2)

Waiting for hope.

Hope will shine bright.

It’s time to point the way.  Time to speak up in this waiting room.  Time to walk out in joy and wonder.

While the world waits.

Hope will shine.

 

Hope looks forward to the Glory to come; in the weary interval of waiting, the Spirit supports our poor hearts and keeps grace alive within us.
(A.W. Pink ~ 1886-1952 ~ English theologian)

 

The people who sat in darkness
    have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
    a light has shined.
(Matthew 4:16 ~ NLT ~ 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.

How Did We Get Here?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was the first thing I thought when the words came out of nowhere. Well, not nowhere, since my friend spoke them with his own mouth, but I wasn’t sure what the catalyst for the thought had been. I’m still not sure.

“Why didn’t you become a preacher, Paul?”

I’m certain in that moment I looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. You know, wanting to keep going and get off this highway altogether, but on the other hand, perhaps a fast retreat in the direction from which I had come might be better.

How did we get here?

We weren’t talking about preaching or anything like it. We hadn’t even been discussing professions or callings at all.

I sat for a second or two and then, headlights no longer in my eyes, suggested that I was never supposed to be a preacher. I was glad the red-headed lady who raised me wasn’t sitting nearby. She had always wanted a preacher for a son. It didn’t happen. Still, I don’t suppose she was all that disappointed. Not that she would have told me if she had been. Moms are like that.

For all moms know—and, they know a lot—the road doesn’t always lead where they expect. For that matter, it doesn’t always lead where we ourselves plan. Mine surely didn’t.

I spent nearly forty years in a music store in a small town. You could be dismayed at the thought. A life wasted—what’s not to be sad about?

But, that’s just it.  I’m not sad about it.

Can I be bold here?

Any life lived in following Christ cannot be wasted.

Any life lived in following Christ cannot be wasted. Share on X

We either believe His Word or we don’t. He makes all things in our lives to work in a way that is for our good. It’s true for all who love Him and are part of His family. (Romans 8:28)

I know it’s not popular to talk about that verse these days. And, perhaps it’s become too easy to use it to reassure folks who are in painful situations. We are, after all, a people who like pat answers—easy roadmaps.

And yet, the words stand.

Not so pat.

Not even so easy.

We want to know. We have dreams we reach for, plans we’ve laid out carefully. We look around and nothing about this landscape surrounding us resembles anything we recognize.

How did we get here?

Funny thing. When the deer stares into the headlights, what has transpired to bring the beautiful beast to this point is of no consequence. Well, not of no consequence. The information is simply not pertinent to the issue at hand.

What matters is where the deer goes from that instant. Decisions must be made. Options considered. Quickly.

The same is true for us.

We use the knowledge at hand, considering the doors before us, and move forward.

Forward.

If our hearts are set on God, steadfast and unwavering, what comes next will be exactly what we wanted in the first place—to be exactly where He wants us. (Psalm 37:4)

I answered my friend the other day with confidence (once I got my feet back under me).

God called me to the ministry of a music store. I’m absolutely certain of it.

I know it sounds strange, but it couldn’t have been a more blessed place to be. I never wanted to work in a music store, much less own one, but day by day, step by step, opened door by opened door, I walked into it until—forty years later—I walked through another opened door on the other side.

A rich man, I walked out. Oh, there wasn’t any large amount of money in my bank account. Still, the wealth is fabulous. Really.  Fabulous.

Thousands of conversations, gifts given and received, memories stored away to be savored in the future, friends secured for a lifetime, and other folks who, like me, walked out with more than they walked in with—all of those are mine to hold onto.

I’m not sure what God got out of the deal. I just know, I did all right in the bargain.

I’m aware my story isn’t yours. Many find themselves in unhappy, seemingly dead-end lives and tasks.

I believe the words are still true for those folks as well.

As we make God our desire, our delight, we’ll look around and see His hand in our journey, His design in the open doors before and the closed ones behind.

There is joy in the journey, not least in the company of other folks on the same road.

How did we get here?

Following Him, we walked through the doors in front of us. And even if we jimmied open a few He never intended for us to enter, we’ll never be in a place we can’t move on from.

I’ve got a few more doors to walk through. Maybe you do, too.

There’s room for more than one on this road. We could try a few doors together.

Delight.

 

 

 

Good company in a journey makes the way to seem the shorter.
(from The Compleat Angler ~ Izaak Walton ~ English author ~ 1593-1683)

 

Your own ears will hear Him.
Right behind you, a voice will say,
“This is the way you should go,”
Whether to the right or to the left.
(Isaiah 30:21 ~ 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.

Previously published in Publishous on Medium.com

 

A Spectacular Autumn

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Have you ever seen a fall so spectacular?

The Lovely Lady asked me—Me!—the question as we drove down the highway a week ago.  She, who knows me better than any living person, asked the rhetorical question.  Of course, you know rhetorical means you’d better not answer it any differently than the questioner quite obviously desires.

She knows I really don’t like autumn.  Okay.  Let’s call it by its real name—the one that describes it to a “T”.  Fall.  I don’t like fall.

I’m adamant about it. 

You know what adamant is, don’t you?  Besides a state of mind, it’s a type of very hard stone, once believed to be impenetrable—like a diamond.  Adamant.  That’s me when it comes to disliking fall.

But, the question hung in the air.  Her rhetorical one.

I mumbled something.  It may have sounded like, “I guess it’s okay.”  I glanced over her way.  She wasn’t just glancing.  She was frowning right at me.

I thought I heard a little cracking sound.  I smiled.  “Yeah, it’s pretty spectacular,” I agreed.  I did.  I’m sure I heard a cracking sound.

The cracking sound has been so constant and so loud for the last few days, it’s almost deafening.

Well? 

How does one ignore the spectacular beauty surrounding him on every side?  Every corner I turn, every hill I top, reveals another vista that beggars me for description. 

The colors, the scope, the array of diverse shapes and hues are breathtaking. Indeed, they appear more striking and brighter than in any fall I can remember.

Perhaps, I’m only getting old and forgetful.  Then again, perhaps not.

The reason for the cracking noise, the breaking away of the adamant, wasn’t obvious to me until a friend brought it to my attention tonight.  She reminded me that I have suggested fall was simply prelude to the dead of winter, a season sent only to remind us of the bleakness to come.

She’s right.  I have done that.  I have. 

I repent. In more ways than just this, I repent.

Our Creator—the maker of all seen and unseen—gives good gifts.  (James 1:17) Good. Gifts.  The seasons, even the ones we find uncomfortable, are from His hand, achieving exactly what He intended for them from the foundation of the earth.

While the earth continues in its place, they will continue. (Genesis 8:22) He promised it.

Why would we dread the good He has promised to us?

Oh, I know each of the seasons has its difficulties.  It is true for every one of them.  Even spring, with its new life and verdant beauty, has its floods and violent storms.  Summer stinks of sweat and is sweltering in its extremes.  Autumn brings cold rains and reminders of death as the lushness of all growing things flees the coming cold.  And winter?  Well, perhaps I’ll just leave that to your own cold, dreary thoughts.

But each of the seasons, every one, has its promise and its joys.

Our God gives good gifts.

Still, you know I don’t dislike autumn only for its physical reminders of what is to come, don’t you?

We are not, for all the attempts of the cynics among us, primarily physical beings.  These bodies, astounding as they are (some more than others), are merely containers for the real treasure, the thing our Creator values above all other created things.

And yet, we become attached to our containers.  We pamper them.  We feed them.  We exercise them.  We care for them.

What we don’t like to be reminded of is that one day we’ll leave the container behind, like the empty wrapper it will become, and the real part of us, the part valued most by our Creator, will go on to its eternal home.

I wonder why we hate that reminder so.  A friend of mine wrote today of his anger in the face of a friend’s death.  Another person quoted a poem as they comforted a mother, still grieving her son after eighteen years.  

I know, she wrote, but I am not resigned.  And, I do not approve.  The words were from the poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay.  I don’t disagree with them.

Still.  Winter is coming.  For every one of us, it comes.

I’m no theologian.  I don’t understand what God’s plan was.  I don’t know if the earth was to be our eternal home, and He would walk with us here in the cool of the day for all time.  Maybe one day we would just walk up to heaven to live with Him.  I don’t know.

And, it’s okay.  I think it’s even okay to be angry about our losses, to disapprove of the manner in which we are separated from those we love.  We were never intended to die.

But eventually, it comes around to this: We are still eternal beings. 

The winter of our lives is not ultimately about death, but about life.  The Son of God who came to earth, giving His own life for us, guarantees it.

The winter of our lives is not ultimately about death, but about life. The Son of God who came to earth, giving His own life for us, guarantees it. Share on X

And just like that, I am—recently liberated from my prison of adamant—enjoying this season immensely. 

Autumn has never—Never!—been so spectacular.  I don’t want to waste another moment of its glory worrying about the season which will follow.  Not another moment.

And so, this old container took my redeemed soul for a walk in the autumn rain today with the Lovely Lady. Laughing and soaking in the beauty of nature and the reminders of His grace and great love, we walked together, as we have in so many seasons before.

What a wonderful season in which to be alive. Physically. Spiritually.

And, my soul sings for joy.  For some reason, I think I hear creation singing, as well.

Perhaps you know the tune, too.

 

 

 

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the mighty thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed:

Then sings my soul, “My Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art! How great thou art!”
(from How Great Thou Art ~ Stuart Hine ~ English missionary ~ © 1949 and 1953 by the Stuart Hine Trust. USA print rights administered by Hope Publishing Company.)

 

For as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater:
So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10-11 ~ KJV)

 

 

 

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

Fragile

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He asked me if I would serve.  It was an honor to be asked.

I told him no.  Thanks, but no.  I also thanked him for the honor.  Not that I deserve it.

I didn’t tell him the whole reason I said no.  Well, how could I?  Imagine!  Going back to the committee and telling them the guy they named to the position didn’t have all his pieces in the right places!

It’s true though.  I’ve been broken.  (I think we all have been at some time or another.)  And, I don’t think all the pieces are back in place yet.

I've been broken. And, I don't think all the pieces are back in place yet. Share on X

The Lovely Lady explained it differently.  A one-word description.  I’m not sure I like her word.  Yet.  Time will tell.

She says the word is fragile.

On second thought, I think perhaps the word is perfect.  It describes all of us in a way, doesn’t it?

Hang on there.  Don’t go off in a huff.  Let me see if I can do a little better at explaining.

I was in a hurry the day before yesterday and missed a step as I headed into my house.  Falling headlong to the landing atop the short flight of steps, I noted only that I might have bruised my hand as I put it down to break the fall.

I was all in one piece!  There was no damage at all. 

Fragile?  Hah!

Except I am.  And, I’m not all in one piece.

I awoke the next morning with a knee that hurt.  It seems I may have twisted it when I fell.

Well, maybe just a little fragile.

And then I got up this morning with a good bit of pain in my lower back.  It’s hard to stand up straight—hard even to walk across the yard.  And, bending over to pet the dogs or pick something up from the floor?  Forget about it!

Fragile.  She’s right.

Just so you know, I’m not going to quit moving altogether.  That would be foolishness.  I’m up and walking, even though it hurts to do it.  If we stop using our body, we eventually lose the use of it completely.

We—judiciously—work through the pain, walking, bending, stretching, until the damaged parts heal.  At times, we wonder if the tightrope act—not too much, not too little—is worth the time and discipline.

Some time ago, I asked a good friend of mine if his leg was hurting him again.  When he wondered why I asked, I mentioned the limp.  Laughing, he talked about a serious accident he had several years ago, and the pain that had ensued.

“But, it doesn’t hurt at all anymore.  I just got used to limping to avoid the pain.”

I wonder how many of us are walking with limps we don’t need, avoiding pain that is merely a memory.

We are fragile.  We’re not necessarily frail.

There is a difference.  Fragility shows itself in use.  Broken pieces are indicative of purpose thwarted, but they are caused by action.

Frailty comes from disuse.  It is a sign of weakness brought on by inactivity or long illness.

That’s odd.  Come to think of it, we may be both fragile and frail, both breakable and weak.

But He understands.  His Son lived among us and sympathizes with our frailty. (Hebrews 4:15)

He made us.  He knows how fragile, how breakable, we are. (Psalm 103:14)

I still don’t understand how we’re of any use for His purposes.  But, we are.

He puts His treasure, the grace and mercy He gives freely, in vessels made of clay. (2 Corinthians 4:7)

Fragile.

Frail.

I wonder if we need to be broken every once in a while because we’ve filled the jar up with ourselves, instead of letting Him fill it.

It’s one of the things I remembering hearing the red-headed lady who raised me say:  “Oh, she’s so full of herself. . .”

I get full of myself sometimes.  I do.  It’s not much like treasure.  Not much at all.

God wants us to be His treasure houses, pouring out His goodness for all to experience and give Him glory.

He’s the one who’s putting me back together.  The day will come when all the pieces will be in the right place.

Today, I’m walking.  Slowly.

But, I’m going to run again.

Soon.

 

 

Broken!  Busted!  Everybody has something to repair.  Before buying new, let Mighty Putty fix it for you!
(Billy Mays ~ American television salesperson ~ 1958-2009)

 

Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
(2 Corinthians 12:9,10 ~ 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.

Soon, They’ll Fly

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

As if all of creation is following the calendar hanging on the wall, the temperatures are dropping to suit the season. The north wind already blusters, tugging on the leaves of the trees in my yard, urging them to fly.

Soon. Soon, they’ll fly.

I sat on the porch with a warm cup of coffee a few moments past and wondered why the melancholy mood seems to be descending like a cloud. It does every year now when the seasons make the turn toward colder temperatures and bare limbs on trees.

It hasn’t always been so.

I listen absent-mindedly to the wind chimes at the back of the house and then to the ones beside me on the front porch as they take their turn to spin and shimmy in the chilly breeze. The progression of the blowing wind reminds me that the years have come and gone in just the same way. The waning year reminds me that life too, wanes.

With the years have come so many life events. Joyous and sad, they also take their turns, blowing in and then out again. I might as well try to stop the north wind as to hold back the memories.

I have seen babies born and old folks die. Before my eyes, both have happened. I didn’t turn away from either. Both have brought tears. Tears of heartache. Tears of joy.

Children have grown; friendships, too. The children left, but came back with others of their own. Friends have come and gone, and then come again, some of them. Life has had its sadness, but also, in great measure, its joy.

And yet, among my memories, especially this time of year, the melancholy shoves aside the joy.

For some reason, I see, in my mind’s eye, a scene from a Greek myth I read as a child. Most will remember it, the story of Pandora and the box she was forbidden to open.

The pain and evil she loosed on the earth changed it forever. Only a weak and ineffective hope was left behind as a salve, a bandage for the open, bleeding wound.

The Greeks and Romans offered, in their attempts at explaining humanity and deity, a weak copy of the reality of a Creator who actually gave hope, real hope to His children, His creation.

How easy it is for us, like the ancients, to let our eyes fall to man and the created world, expecting salvation, but finding only weakness and death. We begin to attempt to explain all we see and experience, framed in our human frailty and knowledge.

Weakly, we grasp at the wisps of hope the world offers, thinking it will stave off our unhappiness and certainty of what follows the coming of Autumn.

We build empires, which merely crumble and dissolve beneath our feet. We follow political leaders who make promises with their mouths, but then take action from their base, evil hearts.

Wealth bellows its virtues, only to disappoint. Youth begins to slip from our grasp and hope flees. We chase health with every gym membership and dietary supplement we can find, only to discover ourselves trapped in ever-weakening frames.

Magazines are read; books purchased. Surely someone will find the secret before it’s too late for us!

We set our sight too low. Far too low.

Did you ever stand in the dark of early morning, out in a valley, awaiting the dawn?

I remember mornings—brisk Autumn mornings, not unlike those I’m waking up to now—when I sat awaiting the sun, and the beauty that would follow its rising.

Looking out across the valley, I could see only pitch blackness. They say it’s always darkest before dawn and then, I could believe it. But perhaps, I was looking too low. I should look up—up on the rise of the surrounding hillsides. Surely, from that height, light would ascend and creation would shine.

The hillsides disappointed. Every time.

Even the hilltops themselves were of little help. Possibly, I could make them out, silhouetted against the sky as they were. But, the light didn’t emanate from them.

I had to lift my eyes even higher—up to the sky, where the sun would rise.

There! Even before the sun arrived, the light shone upward from behind the dark horizon. Above the valley—above the hillsides—towering even above the hilltops—the sun burst forth to begin its daily circuit above.

The Psalmist knew it. As he sat in the valley of despair, he lifted his eyes up to the hills, but found no help there. Where—where would his help come from? Only from God. (Psalm 121:1,2)

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. 

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. Share on X

We would wander in the darkness forever, trusting a weak and futile hope. In our foolishness, we believe that the evil loosed in the world cannot ever be defeated. Or worse, we think we can unseat it with our New-Age we-are-gods-ourselves mantra.

Death will follow. As surely as winter follows Autumn, death follows evil and error.

He gives us a Hope that is far better than any we could ever fabricate or imagine.

A Savior who makes all things new.

The power of Pandora’s box is broken in Him. Our Hope has the power to give us new life.

He promises us heaven.

Soon. Soon, we’ll fly.

 

He promises us heaven. Soon. Soon, we'll fly. Share on X

 

 

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
(Autumn ~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~ Bohemian-Austrian poet ~ 1875-1926)

 

 

“The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” 
(John 3:8 ~ 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.

 

Skin In The Game. Playing Some Gaga.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Well, now he really has done it! After all these years, he’s taken leave of his senses completely.

I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. The blog name should have been enough warning. You should never have had any delusions.

Perhaps, I should pour a little oil on the troubled waters and make certain you don’t think I’m becoming a groupie of the edgy and not-a-little-odd popular singer named Gaga. I’m not even a fan. Couldn’t name a single song she’s recorded. I think I might be excused. I am, after all, a grandfather. It’s expected of me.

Let’s see if I can clear this up.

I took a ride in the country with my grandchildren this afternoon, finding myself in a beautiful valley beside a noisy creek at the end of the ride. Their dad had business to do with the folks at the camp in that valley, so I hung out with the important people.

Grandpa and the kids played gaga ball. 

What’s that you say?

Yeah. Me neither. Never heard of it before. Never played it, either.

Gaga ball is a sort of dodgeball played in a hexagonal wooden box about 20 to 25 feet across, with sides somewhere around 3 feet tall. The nice thing is, no one gets hits in the face. There are no red welts on your body after you get knocked out of the game. The ball can only touch other players below the knees.

This sixty-something-year-old man played it with no visible ill effects. It may, however, take a little time to get over the emotional scarring. The just-turned-ten-year-old girl embarrassed me more than once, yelling you’re out! in a victorious voice that left no doubt my lunch had just been eaten.

She wasn’t the only one to take a bite. All of them tagged me with the ball at least once. I even got a chance to yell victoriously a time or two myself.

Mostly, I yelled for the kids.

What a wonderful way to spend an afternoon! Well, not all afternoon. Later this evening, I also spent an hour and a quarter making music with more than twenty young adults in a little chamber orchestra. It’s an activity the Lovely Lady and I look forward to a couple of times a week at the local university.

I have described the effect of this activity as keeping us young on several occasions. That’s not quite what happens. I think the relationship we have with the young folks there is somewhat symbiotic. In other words, we benefit, but so do they.

We give them a chance to see old people living life. They give us a chance to see their lives and interactions. Our being there tells them they matter to someone besides their professors and their peers. Them tolerating our presence encourages us that all is not lost.

Somehow, I think we may actually like each other! 

Sadly, I think my dad jokes are lost on them, but I guess that’s one I’ll just have to take for the team.

I regularly hear my peer group suggesting they don’t understand the generation coming of age now. Worse, I hear criticisms that border on despair and anger.

There’s a phrase that comes to mind as I consider the problem. 

Get some skin in the game.

The words mean you must have a personal investment in order to realize any beneficial result. Not necessarily money, but it could mean that. In my case, I risked my physical skin by clambering into the gaga pit with the young hooligans today.

Engage. Put yourself in a position to lose something real in order to gain something even better.

Put yourself in a position to lose something real in order to gain something even better. Share on X

Friendship. Understanding. Love.

Love is good. The One we follow suggested we should be known specifically for that action. It’s the way the world will know we are His. Period. (John 13:35)

Somehow, we have come to believe they’ll know us because of our critical spirits. Or, our separation. Or, our pride.

The sad thing is, we’re often identified by those things. To our shame. At least, it should be to our shame.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit I didn’t start out the afternoon with my grandchildren in the gaga pit with them.

I stood in the shade. I looked at my phone. I looked at my watch. I yelled you’re out at a couple of them a time or two. They looked at me, wondering where I got the right to gloat over their (temporary) defeat.

They knew what I wasn’t seeing. Kids do that, you know.

I didn’t have any skin in the game.

It’s time to engage. Go to the coffee shops they frequent. Ask questions. Tell stories. Invite them to come over and play dominoes. They’ll roll their eyes. But, they’ll probably come if food is involved. 

Listen to their music. Even Gaga. Play some of it. Wear ear protection.

Engage. Take chances. Be real.

And, the next time your group of oldsters starts criticizing, ask what they’re doing to make it better.

When Jesus told His followers to let the children come to Him, He touched them. He embraced them to ensure they understand they mattered. To Him—God who became man—they were somebody! (Mark 10:14)

They are somebody. Still today, they are somebody.

Time to get some skin in the game.

Time to start playing some gaga. 

Ball, I mean.

 

 

We cannot transform what we refuse to engage.
(Elizabeth Kucinich ~ British activist)

 

Start children off on the way they should go,
  and even when they are old they will not turn from it.
(Proverbs 22:6 ~ NIV ~ New International Version ~ Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica)

 

 

 

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

 

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.