Author: Paul Phillips

Time to Wake Up

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I woke up this morning.

And, with that one sentence, you may know all you need to know about my day.

“The steadfast and resolute love of the Lord never wavers.  There is no end to His mercies.  Every morning we awake, they are fresh and new.  What astounding faithfulness!”  (Lamentations 3:22-23, my paraphrase)

I awoke this morning and got out of bed.  There were clothes for my body and shoes for my feet.  Food was available to keep up my strength—although that would wait until after I drank my first (and maybe, my second) cup of coffee.

My house is still standing and my children—and grandchildren—can still put their arms around my neck and tell me they love me.

But the words in those verses above have nothing to do with all those things.  Well, except for the “every morning we awake” part.

We glibly speak (and sing) the words of Lamentations, yet rarely think of the weight of the words to the people who first heard the words of the weeping prophet, Jeremiah.

They are heavy words.  Words to give a foundation when all around turns to quicksand.  Words to offer food and drink when all about has become a barren and desolate desert.

The people for whom the words were originally intended were under an aggressive physical attack.  They were being starved and their homes destroyed. There was rape and cannibalism among them.  Life was horrible.

Things are not that bad here.  Not yet.

Still, everywhere I look, folks are using hyperbole to tell us it can’t get any worse. You’ve seen—and read—and heard what I’m talking about.  It doesn’t seem to matter what one’s faith tradition is, nor even their political leaning.

“Disaster!”, they all cry.

And yet, in the midst of a real (not imagined) disaster, Jeremiah wrote the words that would stand for a thousand generations.  And for many more.

Those words have the same weight today as they did the day he took up quill, ink, and scroll to write them down.

Maybe it’s time to quit doom-scrolling.  I’m certain the words appearing on your phone’s screen today won’t be remembered at all a thousand years from now.  Perhaps, not even a week from now.

All those Chicken Little folks who think the sky is falling won’t change the resolute will of our Creator one iota.  And, He is for us!

He is for us!

In our corner.

On our side.

And, I woke up this morning.  You too, I bet.

I’m going on.  Today, at least.

Are you coming with?

 

“But let all who take refuge in you rejoice;
let them sing joyful praises forever.
Spread your protection over them,
that all who love your name may be filled with joy.”
(Psalm 5:11, NLT)

“One day Henny-penny was picking up corn in the corn yard when—whack!—something hit her upon the head. ‘Goodness gracious me!’ said Henny-penny; ‘the sky’s a-going to fall; I must go and tell the king.'”
(from the English fairy tale, Henny-Penny)

 

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

I Didn’t Earn This

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Alexander Mils on Unsplash

 

The visit to the specialist was going well until he asked the question.  Now I’m wondering about lots of things in my life.

I have struggled with back pain for years, but the weeks before my appointment had been especially difficult, with a flare-up that left me mostly housebound.  A visit with my family doctor led to a few tests and a follow-up with the neurologist.

Eyes on the computer screen where the MRI images showed, he asked the question that kept me awake most of that night.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

After a short reply about 35 years of moving pianos, he clarified the question.  He wanted to know if there was one thing I could point to that had brought on the current crisis.

I couldn’t.

It doesn’t mean I didn’t earn it.

I’m going to be a little circumspect here.  Meaning—I think I may creep around the edges of this discussion rather than engaging aggressively.   You’ll understand better as we proceed.

I have never—until now—made decisions regarding actions I would take based on whether they might damage my spine or not.  If I wanted to play soccer with the kids, I did.  If I needed to dig out a stump in the yard, I did.  When the opportunity to help move furniture for friends was presented, I showed up.

And, I really did move pianos for thirty-five years.  Knowing full well that there could be a price to pay, I agreed every time a customer asked.

Did I earn the back pain—the inability to function normally for the last few weeks?

I did.

Not with one action, but with a plethora of them.  A lifetime of insignificant choices, seemingly.  One by one, the transgressions color the injured area with hurt—with unnoticed harm, followed by unnoticed harm, until all at once the body feels nothing else.

I earned this.

Why am I so reluctant to accept responsibility for the situations I find myself in when I have led my life as if I want to be exactly where I am?

The preacher’s son in me wants to hammer this point home and, moving past the tangible world of physicality,  would like to discuss consequences of all kinds.  Relationship problems.  Legal entanglements.  Most any type of abstract ailment you might care to argue about.

I want to.

But, as I said—circumspection is key here.  I know there are many different perspectives and many different situations.  Not all have a villain at whom we can point a finger.  Perhaps, I’ll simply leave the reader to work out the ways in which my doctor’s question might apply to them and their own milieu, physical or otherwise.

Besides, my wandering mind has another question that captures me more completely today.  It did during my recent sleepless night, too.

No, that’s not correct.  It’s not another question.

It’s the same one. Precisely, the same one.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

But, it seems to be applied to a different scenario.

This time, instead of awful pain and the dread and sadness that accompany loss of function, I look at the beautiful family, at the lovely home, at the nice vehicles I have and I wonder.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

Of course, in my head, the immediate answer is yes.  I worked all my life to make a living, to build a legacy.  I labored with my wife to raise our children.  I earned this!

And then, my memory is drawn to the fellow with a sign, standing on the street corner near the grocery store.  Or the folks last winter in the parking lot with two flat tires on the car in which they live.  Or the lady I know who works two full-time jobs just to pay her rent and keep the lights on for her children.

One after the other, they are drawn to mind and I wonder how I have the audacity to say I have earned my ease and comfort when they live in such straits.

My mind is drawn to the phrase traditionally attributed to the English martyr, John Bradford, who is reputed to have said, as he sat in Newgate Prison awaiting his own execution: “There but for the grace of God goes John Bradford.”

He was speaking of murderers being taken to the gallows to be punished for their sins.  I remember wondering, years ago, when I first heard the story, if he was speaking of the execution, or the crime the men had committed to be punished so.

Since my visit with the radiologist, now weeks ago, I have asked again and again (about numerous things), “Did you do anything to earn this?”

There are so many things—and people—in my life that I can only point to grace and mercy as an explanation for their presence.  I could never have earned them myself.

Not if I had worked for an entire lifetime.  Or ten lifetimes.

And again, my mind jumps ahead of itself.  But, this time, I don’t wonder at all.

I think about my relationship with my Creator and all my pride seeps out completely.  If anything, all I’ve earned here is sorrow.  And separation.

But sorrow and separation are not what I have.  Thanks to nothing I have done—not one thing—I have assurance of walking with Him and being followed by His goodness and mercy for all of the days of my life.  And, into eternity.

I am no better than any of the millions taunting God and His followers today.  Not even a little bit better.  I have nothing for which I may stand tall and say, “This is mine and you can’t have it unless you earn it.”

Our Creator’s grace and mercy reach.  They just do.

I earned my back problems.  Perhaps, I even earned that look from the Lovely Lady when I took a second plate of food at lunch yesterday.

But, God’s gifts to me, I could never even begin to earn.

I didn’t do anything to earn this.

But, it’s good.  Really good.

And, it’s yours too—if you want it.

 

“For by grace you are saved through faith, and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God;  it is not from works, so that no one can boast.”  (Ephesians 2:8-9, NET)

“Your worst days are never so bad that you are beyond the reach of God’s grace. And your best days are never so good that you are beyond the need of God’s grace.” (Anonymous)

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moving the Apostrophe

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“That apostrophe is in the wrong place!”

I was unhappy.  It’s not a mistake I’d usually make.  I’m a stickler for correct grammar and punctuation.  Oh, that doesn’t mean I don’t make errors; it simply means they usually have been corrected by the time I deem something fit for public consumption and click the button to post it.  After I’ve read it over five or ten times.

But there it was, as clear as you please.

I was reposting an old note I had written a couple of years ago on my social media account.  At a time when I was tired, hot, and covered in dust, I had seen the beauty of the sun shining through the trees, making the humid, dusty atmosphere glow with the bright rays of heavenly light.

“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.”  Those were the words with which I started my post.

Except there is just one person who lives there.  The fact that I placed the apostrophe after the s that made the word neighbor plural meant more than one person was living there.  I should have placed the apostrophe between the r and the s to make it a singular possessive word.  

You see, my neighbor is a widow—her husband having passed away nearly two years ag. . .

Oh.

When I wrote it, two people were living in the house next door.  One of them, my friend Skip, would leave this world for the next a mere two months after it was written.

I did!  I did put the apostrophe in the right place!

I feel as if I should be happier. Being right should be more joyful than this.

And yet, I’ve been looking at that apostrophe for the last hour or two.  It was in the right place when I wrote the post, but it’s not now.

I’m not sad about how a sentence was written two years ago.  I’m sad that all it takes to correct the loss of my friend is to move an apostrophe, the tiniest of punctuation marks, one space over.

One space—his loving wife’s loneliness and loss, shown in that tiny action.  All the sadness of his children and old friends summed up in a movement of less than a quarter of an inch.

Perhaps though, my sadness is even more deeply rooted than this one exercise in grammatical nerdiness.

I stood with dear friends in church today and, speaking with them, realized anew that I will not do that with one or both of them many more times in this world.  Health fails; the body refuses to continue on in its earthly mission.

Life on this spinning ball of water and rock is precarious.  It’s short.  And, unpredictable.

Today is a good day to hold close those our Creator has given us.  It’s the perfect day to say, “I love you,” to everyone to whom the words apply.

Do (and say) the important things now, while the apostrophes and commas are still holding firm.

Tomorrow, the commas may all turn to periods—the apostrophes may slip over a space.  The Author of our story writes and edits as He sees fit.

Of course, if the punctuation holds fast and isn’t moved until years in the future, we’ll simply have made the world a better place to be for all those extra days.  And, our longer stories will be more lovely to read because of it.

And that seems to be acceptable.  To me, anyway.

I hope you agree.  If you don’t, send me a note. 

Just try to get the punctuation right, will you?

 

“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. May the name of the Lord be blessed!”
(Job 1:21, NET)

 

“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.
Nothing spectacular. Just the sun’s rays shining through the dust that hung in the air. Somehow, life just seems a little sweeter in the light.
The heat seems unbearable. It’s not.
The sadness seems crushing. It’s not.
The dread of what lies ahead seems overwhelming. It’s not.
Our hope never was in the stuff of this world. Time to look higher.
‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’” (John 1:5, NIV)
(from a Facebook post on July 7, 2022)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Messy, Isn’t It?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Alana Jordon on Pixabay

It was a fifth Sunday this week.  An event that happens 4 times a year.  My church used to have a dinner every time the day rolled around. Nowadays, we get together to sing on the fifth Sundays.  Songs by Request, we call it.

The Lovely Lady plays the piano.  I usually get roped into leading the singing.  Folks in the audience yell out hymn numbers (yes, we pull out the old hymnbooks for the event) and we sing a couple of verses from each request.

Arriving early on Sunday evening, we noticed a microphone on a regular stand near the center of the stage.  Knowing that a boom stand would work better to get the microphone close to me, I went looking and found one in the back of the equipment room.

It wasn’t until the end of the first song that I noticed the problem.  It might have been the reason the stand was stowed where it had been in the little room off the stage.

As we sang, the weight of the microphone pushed the end of the boom down toward the music stand that held my hymnbook.  I pulled it back into position, tightening the adjustment knob to hold it there.

We sang another song.  By the end of a couple more verses, the mic was right back where it had been. You understand, don’t you, that a mic has to be close to one’s mouth to be effective at all?

Repeating the process, we soldiered on. But, after another two verses, it was clear the boom stand wasn’t up to the job.  Begging the pardon of the waiting audience, I went in search of the original stand.  They of course had been entertained by the extracurricular activities, so there was a fair amount of laughter from their seats in the interim.

Amid the laughter, I heard a voice from someone suggesting I prop up the end of the boom with the regular stand.  I thought about that for about two seconds and rejected the idea, instead trading out one stand for the other.

I’ve mentioned before that I like things to be orderly, haven’t I?  I sort my potato chips into stacks of broken and whole—my M&Ms by color.  Don’t tell the Lovely Lady, but I even like my blue jeans hung up by the degree of fading (when they’re not sorted by waist size, that is).

It would be messy to have a regular mic stand sitting under the business end of a boom stand propping it up.  I wouldn’t like the optics.

So, I set the microphone atop the regular stand and disposed of the boom behind me, forgetting that the mic wouldn’t be close to my mouth unless I leaned in next to it.  Even with it sitting beside my hymnal, instead of behind it, I’d have to adjust my stance to get the sensitivity necessary for clear sound to reach the audience.

For the rest of the hour, I repeated hymn numbers over and over as folks would say, “What number again?”  When I asked the fellow with whom I had arranged beforehand to pray a closing prayer, another man nearby touched his chest and mouthed, “Who, me?” because he couldn’t hear me clearly.

Because I wanted to keep things neat, folks were inconvenienced.  Perhaps, even embarrassed.

But, there was no mess on the stage!

I know, if you ask any of the good folks who attended, none would remember either the mess or lack thereof.  They probably weren’t even annoyed much by the need for me to repeat myself.  I may be the only one having any second thoughts about my choices that night.

But, I want to remember. 

I want to remember that life is messy.  Our interactions with strangers can be awkward.  Our exchanges with family members are often without tact and require apologies afterward.  We don’t always fit together without fidgeting and rubbing off some rough corners.

I want to remember that sometimes you leave the errant green bean, that somehow escaped from someone’s plate and onto the floor, to be cleaned up later.  The joyous cacophony around the dinner table won’t be flawed at all because of a little mess underneath it.

I want to remember that sometimes the notes don’t come out perfectly and my voice cracks when I sing the high ones.  And, once in a while, the Lovely Lady plays a natural when it should have been a flat.  And, we don’t stop and correct it, because the music is beautiful despite the mess.

Beautiful and messy. 

And, that’s all of life, isn’t it?  A glorious mess. 

Still.  I think I’ll check out the mic stand before the next hymn night.  It never hurts to plan ahead.

“Life is a journey that must be traveled, no matter how bad the roads and accommodations.” (Oliver Goldsmith, Irish novelist/poet)

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.  Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.”  (1 Peter 4:8-9, NIV)

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

Blanketed in Love

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Dave Goudreau on Unsplash

I was ten years old.  As my family, seven strong, sat around the dinner table that fall night, we were surprised at Dad’s words.  Well, the five kids were, anyway.

“I’ve got five dollars to give to each one of you.  There’s just one catch.  You have to write me a note and tell me what you want to buy with it.  If you don’t write me a note, I won’t give you the money.”

Five dollars!  In 1967 money, that’s almost fifty dollars today.

Five dollars for each of us!  We left the table, little minds spinning with the possibilities.  Even as we headed for bed that night, the ideas were all jumbled in our heads.  My brother and I talked excitedly as we got into our little twin-size erstwhile bunkbeds, across the room from each other.

Wait.  There’s got to be a catch.  He’ll want it to be something worthwhile, won’t he?  I bet I can’t get all the candy and coke I want.  (I did grow up in Texas, so you understand “coke” is any fizzy drink, right?)  I bet it needs to be something like a book.  Or, school supplies.

I didn’t write anything that night, but I didn’t get much sleep either.  My brain kept leaping to new ideas and, just as quickly, rejecting them, believing that the offer might be rescinded for such a flaky or irresponsible idea.  My benefactor was not keen on flaky or irresponsible.

At some time during the night, the temperature outside my South Texas home having dropped below 60 degrees, I felt the chill, and I reached for the scratchy wool military surplus blanket at the foot of the bed.

It was warm, but it wasn’t comfy.  Not snuggly.  You’d be much more likely to describe it as itchy than comfy.  I never liked that blanket.

Blanket!

That was it!  I knew what I would spend my money on!

Sleep finally took me, but when the sun rose and Mom called up the stairs for all the drowsy-eyed boys to get out of bed, I needed no second call.  I dressed and tromped down the steep treads as fast as I could, sitting at the dining table to check the Sears and Roebuck catalog, before hurriedly scribbling a note for my dad.

“I’ll spend my $5 on a soft, thermal blanket with satin edging.  Baby blue or something close.”

Approved!  I got my blanket!

I don’t remember how long I used that blanket, but I loved it.  It was soft and comforting, warm in the winter and cool enough in the summer to leave rolled up beside my body while I slept.

As I think of it now, it was kind of like a hug from my Dad anytime I wanted one.  I may or may not have thought that way about it then.

Nearly fifty years later, I got a check in the mail one fall day.  It was from the same man who gave me those five dollars all those years before.  This check was for five hundred dollars.

He didn’t ask what I would spend the money on before sending it.

No reason; just because.

I bought a new recliner.  My Dad loved a recliner.  I do, too.  I was sure he would approve of my use for his gift.

Somehow, when I sit in that recliner, now with a slipcover over the damaged and cracking leather, it still feels a little like getting a hug from the man, now absent.

I don’t want to preach.

No, really.  I don’t.

So, I won’t.

And the Teacher said to them:

“So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask Him?”
(Matthew 7:11, NLT)

I know.

It kind of feels like a hug, doesn’t it?

And, I’m guessing you could use one of those right about now.

 

“‘For I know what I have planned for you,’ says the Lord. ‘I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future filled with hope.'” 
(Jeremiah 29:11, NET)

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

A Loaf of Bread

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

 

 

image by Congerdesign on Pixabay

 

It hasn’t been a relaxing day.  It never is when I get up before seven in the morning.  Even less, when I don’t sleep well through the night.

A couple of days ago, the nice lady on the phone told me when I needed to arrive at the medical facility today.  The scheduled procedure will hopefully help relieve my confusion about what to do next so I won’t have so much pain when I walk.  And, tie my shoes.  Or, pick up that piece of ice I dropped in the kitchen.

So, I got up early.  It’s not that I wanted to get up early.  I just want to get rid of the pain more than I wanted to sleep later today.

I had been warned that it would be noisy inside the MRI machine.  They say the sounds are often close to 120 decibels. That’s about as loud as a jet taking off.

Even with the earplugs, it was loud.  In the weirdest way.  Hums and buzzes and beeps—clanging and whirring and banging.  But, it’s not random.

The processes required to produce the images also make the noises.  High and low, long and short, they go on for the entire time one is in the tube (or tunnel, however you want to describe it).  And, there is rhythm.

I suspect a percussionist might find interest in the sounds.  But, I agree with my old friend,  who, being told he had an “essential” tremor, uttered the words, “I think I could do without it.”

I could have done without them.  The sounds, I mean.  And, being in the tiny tunnel.

Still, I survived mostly unscathed.  But, feeling overwhelmed, I drove home, opting to forego my stop at the coffee shop.

I eased down into my recliner. And, I just sat.  For over an hour.  I didn’t sleep.  I didn’t watch television.  I just sat staring at nothing.

I might still be sitting there if an angel hadn’t offered me some food.

No.  Wait.  I’m getting ahead of myself.  That wasn’t exactly what happened.

What happened was, I got a phone call.  From an old friend in my hometown.  He had no agenda but just called to talk for a while.

We talked.  About people.  About tasks still to be finished.  About the past (we go back nearly 60 years).  Tears.  Laughter.  Hardships.

Blessings, all.

When our call ended, many long minutes later, the funk in which I had found myself was gone.  All because a friend offered me bread to eat.

No.  Wait.  Where does that bread keep coming from?

Oh.  I know.

Elijah.  Elijah had a task he needed to accomplish.  When it was done, and he was successful, he ran for his life.  An angel made him some pita (or something like it) and sent him on to God.

It’s an oversimplification, I know.  Still.  The man of God defeated all the false prophets of Baal and brought an end to a long drought in the land.  Then, he ran for his life and hid.

The angel didn’t come with any intent to fix Elijah.  He simply ministered to him where he was.  Food and rest.

God would take care of everything else.  In a “narrow silence”, a quiet and small voice, He would speak.

But first, the man needed bread.

Isn’t that what we do for each other here?

In times of distress, we feed each other.  After sleepless nights, we offer places of rest.

I’m still waiting for the answer to my medical questions.

But, the road I’m following is lined with people—other humans—who care for me, and then send me on, strengthened and rested, to God.

As several of my friends keep reminding me, we’re just walking each other home.

And sometimes, the daily bread He gives us comes straight from the hands (and hearts) of our fellow travelers.

I’ll do my best to share some naan when my turn comes.

 

“Bread.  That this house may never know hunger.”
(from It’s a Wonderful Life)

“But he insisted so strongly that they did go with him and entered his house. He prepared a meal for them, baking bread without yeast, and they ate.”  (Genesis 19:3, NIV)

 

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

 

Big, Strong Hands

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments
image by Antoni Shkraba on Pexels

“My PT said I could ride my bike again if I want.”

My old friend sat near me in the coffee shop as our conversation wandered far afield last week.  There was purpose in our visit, but it has been a while since we sat and spoke.

We used to sit for hours on our bicycle seats (what little there is of them) and talk as our magic machines ate up the miles, the twenty-nine-inch wheels spinning at approximately 185.6 RPM.  Perhaps fewer, sometimes.  And more, less often.  I hope that’s not too confusing.

What I’m saying is that we rode long distances—usually slowly. And sometimes fast, but only for shorter distances.

Just over three months ago my friend had an accident and hasn’t been able to ride at all since then.  Until this week.  It’s been hard for him.  The pain was constant and, at times, unbearable.  And, when you can’t do what you love, it’s not only the pain that wreaks havoc on your mind and emotions.

Then, on that day last week, his physical therapist had given him a glimmer of promise, of expectation.

I rejoiced with him in his hope.

We stayed.  Much longer than we had planned, sitting in that one spot, offering (and perceiving) insights into our faith—our intellect—even our hearts.  Three hours after we dropped into the comfortable chairs, we finally stood again.

As I stood, I felt a twinge in my lower back.  It’s not unusual.  I am aging.  I’ve not been kind to my body over the years and, if a twinge is the price for a few hours of communion with an old friend, I’ll pay the price.

I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d stand easily for at least a week, perhaps longer.  The doctor I visited with this afternoon didn’t seem all that optimistic for a quick and easy solution to the crippling pain I’ve lived with since that day.  Perhaps, I’m reading more into his words than he intended. Still, I’m not wearing any rose-colored glasses.

A phrase from a children’s movie in the 1980s comes to my mind as I write tonight.  I see the Rockbiter character from The Neverending Story as he sits gazing at his hands which have failed him miserably.  His somber, almost despairing voice repeats the words;

“They look like good, strong hands, don’t they?”

It’s not the first time I’ve faced this truth.  And, I’m not sure it ever gets easier.  It should, but I’m not sure it does.

I’m not invincible.  I have no guarantee that I’ll be able to continue as I’ve begun.  No one does.

The treasure (Grace and Light, given as a gift) followers of Jesus hold is held in hands and bodies of clay.  They may appear strong.  They could even stay intact for most of a lifetime, seeming to prove the strength of the holders, the pilgrims themselves.

They’re not. Strong, that is.

Strength is loaned—a stewardship to be used as long as we can wield it.  But, it was never ours.

Never.

“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”
(2 Corinthians 4: 7, NLT)

Vessels of clay.  It doesn’t seem all that hopeful, does it?

Still, there is a glimmer—promises made to us many years ago.

We may be pressed, but we are not crushed.
We are sometimes perplexed, but we are not in despair.
We might seem to be prey for the hunter, but we haven’t been left defenseless;
Ah!  And when we are knocked down, it is never a permanent condition.
(My paraphrase of the verses that follow the verse just above)

I stood yesterday and held back the tears as my neighbor consoled me, averring it was okay that I couldn’t help her with a task I’d done for several years.  I don’t know how long it will be before I can help her with it again.

For some reason, last night, I watched a video clip of that scene from the movie mentioned above and almost felt the creature’s despair.  Almost.

But, moments later, I went to sleep with words from the Psalm writer, the warrior musician, in my head.  They are well-known words that he wrote to remind his victorious army that the strength they had been loaned was different from that of the world around them.

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
    but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
(Psalm 20:7, NIV)

God’s hands are big, strong hands!

Today, some folks I love pulled into my driveway and asked if I would unlock my storage barn so they could get to my lawnmowers and other lawn tools.  One asked for a short tutorial on using my riding mower.  The others filled tanks with gasoline and checked the oil.

My lawn was going to be mowed.  I couldn’t do it for myself, so they did.

But, before they started, they asked about my neighbor.  Splitting up, they mowed mine and hers.  In the hot sun, the strong young folks labored in the strength they’ve been loaned.  Then they asked if they could take care of the neighbor on the other side of me, who usually can count on me to work in her yard, too.

I’m not crying.  You are.

Okay.  I am. A little.

Every good gift—every perfect gift—comes from Above.

I’m not invincible.  I know that.  I won’t ever be.

I may be capable again.  Time will tell.  Still, I’ll never be invincible.

But, I am indomitable.  At least, I’m working at it.

Steadfast.  Unyielding.

They are Good, Strong Hands.

And, they’re holding us.

 

My heart is steadfast, O God,
my heart is steadfast!
I will sing and make melody!
Awake, my whole being!
Awake, O harp and lyre!
I will awake the dawn!
I will give thanks to you, O Lord, among the peoples;
I will sing praises to you among the nations.
For your steadfast love is great to the heavens,
your faithfulness to the clouds.
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!
Let your glory be over all the earth!
(Psalm 57:7-11, ESV)

 

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

A Wee Little Man Standing Tall

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
                                                                            personal image

 

A young friend posted a photo of one of her favorite trees a few weeks ago.   It was a lovely sycamore tree near her house.  I couldn’t help but respond when I saw it. 

Since I moved with the Lovely Lady into her childhood home several years back, we’ve planted more than half a dozen trees on the property.  Her dad loved the trees here, having planted many of them himself well more than half a century ago.  The only problem is, most of those he planted are no longer living and we felt the need to repopulate the area a bit.

My favorite, by far (well, for right now, anyway), is the sycamore tree we planted 4 years ago in the backyard.  The pretty sapling was just over seven feet tall when we dug the hole to set the root ball into on that early fall day.  The gorgeous tree now measures about twenty-five feet to the tip of its crown.

I mentioned the tree to my young friend and told her sycamores were also my favorite.  Now, she wants me to tell her what my top five favorite trees are.  I’m cogitating on that question.  Answering will take time.

But, the sycamore…

Do you know the sycamore tree grows to over one hundred feet tall?  And, it can live to several hundred years old.  Three to four hundred, I’m told.

Four hundred years!  The mind boggles.  I’m pretty sure this old house will be long gone by then.  No.  I’ve worked on the house for a few years now.  It’ll be gone.  I’m sure of it.

But, the tree we planted will still be living.  I wish I could say the same about other parts of my legacy.  Of course, some things I want you to forget even before I’m gone.  But, not all of it.

We all want to be remembered.  For the good things.

I’m sorry.  This brain of mine—the part of me that is always wandering—seems to be headed to a conversation about a little man.  A short man who, dead most of two thousand years, lives on in our stories and songs.

It must be the subject of the sycamore that has done it—made my mind wander here.  Of course, the sycamore in this story is a sycamore fig, which is indigenous to the Holy Land.  Unrelated to the sycamore (or London Plane) trees we know in the United States, they are more closely related to a mulberry tree.

I don’t know how short Zacchaeus was, just that he wasn’t tall enough to see over the crowd that followed the Teacher.  And it was essential to him!  He needed to see this Man.  So, he climbed into the lower limbs of the sycamore tree, not a great feat even for a short man.  The limbs of the sycamore fig tree are close to the ground.

He didn’t need to climb high, just higher than the heads of the crowd.  It was enough.  Not only could he see the Teacher—the Teacher saw him and invited himself to the little tax collector’s house.

Beyond the words that compelled him to climb back down from the tree and the insistence that Jesus would go to his house, we don’t know if Jesus directed any other words to Zacchaeus at all.  None are reported.

That didn’t stop Zacchaeus from repenting of his sins and promising to make restitution—as much as four-fold what he had cheated people out of.

Think of it!  There were no words of reproach; no bargaining for his confession.  In the presence of the Son of God, Zacchaeus recognized who he had become and turned from his sin and greed.

And, over two thousand years later, we still remember that sycamore tree and the man who saw Jesus and was changed forever.  Our kids still sing the song about the wee little man.  But, he almost looms tall in our telling of the story.

Salvation comes when we recognize who we are, but more importantly, who He is.  In His presence, we cannot remain unchanged.

Somehow, like the little man, I often can’t see the One I claim to follow over the heads of the people who clamor along the way.

It’s time for another long look, isn’t it?  And maybe longer than just a look. 

The prophet Jeremiah knew that we need to dwell—to settle in—in His presence.  He described the people who trust in Him and have made Him their hope.  And, he says such people will be like trees planted along the riverbanks, trees that have a ready source of water, enough to stem any extended drought or trial.

I read that passage again as I wrote today, and I laughed as I remembered the trees that grow down by the rivers and creeks near us.  Everywhere, along the banks where the Lovely Lady and I wander, we see them—sycamores—growing beside the source of their sustenance, roots going deep.

I almost want to ask the question; Shall We Gather at The River?  Maybe, we could stay there awhile with our Teacher.

I’m sure He’ll see us there.

I wonder if He’ll be coming to my house for tea.  Maybe, we can sit in the shade of my sycamore tree and talk about that other one and the man who climbed into its branches all those years ago.

What a long shadow he’s cast—the little man and his tree.

Planted by the rivers of water, we’ll leave a legacy.

A long one, I hope.  Maybe three or four hundred years. 

Or longer.

 

“But blessed are those who trust in the Lord
    and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.
They are like trees planted along a riverbank,
    with roots that reach deep into the water.
Such trees are not bothered by the heat
    or worried by long months of drought.
Their leaves stay green,
    and they never stop producing fruit.”
(Jeremiah 17: 7-8, NLT)

“A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit.” (Old Greek Proverb)

 

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

I’m Done With This

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m so done with this!”

I said the words aloud to the air above my head just a couple of weeks ago.  I might have shouted them.

My frustration ran over as I worked in the shop room at home, the place where we ran an internet business for several years after closing our local retail business.  Standing there, gazing at the incredible mess, I saw no way to ever have a usable space again.

I meant the words.  I was ready to walk away, leaving the mayhem behind forever.  Let the kids deal with it after I’m gone.

“So done!”

But, it wasn’t true.

I wasn’t done at all.  I hadn’t accomplished anything I had come down here for.  Oh, I had moved a few things from one side of the room to another.  That stack under the window had started on the desk.  Now, it might stay where it was for another couple of years.  That would be okay with me!

I usually tell people I love words.  I like to play with them, teasing out meanings and quirky uses.  But, sometimes the words catch me at my own game.

Done means finished.  It implies completion.  Somehow though, when I use that phrase, “I’m so done with this,” it means, “I quit!”

“I quit!”

It doesn’t sound nearly as weighty as “I’m so done.”  And, it certainly doesn’t imply that I’ve accomplished anything.

You’ll be happy to learn that I’ve worked out a plan.  I’m setting a goal, not to tackle the entire space, but to move out at least one item a day until the task is complete.

No one else would know it to look at the room, but I’ve made (with a fair amount of help from the Lovely Lady and others) enough progress to be encouraged when I walk in now.

And, I’m looking forward to the day when I can turn the meaning of those words around and stand in the room saying, “I’m done with this!”

Done! 

Finished!

Complete!

I spoke with a young friend today, realizing that she is struggling a bit right now and I said similar words.

“He’s not done with you yet!”

We say that about God sometimes.  What we mean by the words is that He isn’t finished with what He’s doing.  And, He’s not.

The apostle for whom I was named said similar words over two thousand years ago in his letter to the folks at Philippi.

“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.”  (Philippians 1:6, NLT)

We somehow have an image, a dream really, of the process being once and done.  Bam!  God speaks and we’re a finished product.

That’s not how this life in Him works at all.

Step by step, day by day, with a long obedience in the same direction, we are being changed into the person He intended for us to become.

The phrase that comes so easily to our lips—”He’s not done with me yet.”—covers both meanings. First, He’s not finished with what He’s doing for and in us.  And secondly, He will never—NEVER—say, “I’m so done with you!”

“He has said, ‘I will never leave you and I will never abandon you.’“
(Hebrews 13:5b, NET)

He’s going to stick with the project!  Yes, it may take longer than we want; the process may be more painstaking than we anticipated.  But, He will never quit and walk away from us.

We sat with our old friends around the table last night and I read words (you can read them for yourself down below) from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to them (I know, weird table conversation, huh?) from The Village Blacksmith.  They’re good words for us to remember, but I think we may need to amend them a bit.

Mr. Longfellow suggested that each day should see the end of the job we began that morning.  I have a feeling we simply need to see forward progress, perhaps a lot—maybe just a tiny step ahead, on the task at hand.

We keep moving toward the goal, toward the prize.

It’s up there—ahead of us.

And, we’re not done yet.

He isn’t either.

Oh.  I’ll keep working on the shop room, too.  Maybe the kids won’t have to deal with it after all.

 

 

“Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.”
(from The Village Blacksmith, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

“Dimidium facti qui coepit habet” (He who begins is half done.)
(from the Roman poet, Horace)

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

Turning Corners, Seeing Colors

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I walk a lot these days.

By choice, I walk.  Folks used to stop and offer me rides.  Living in a small town makes it so that many who drive past know me, by sight if not by acquaintance.  I laugh, telling them I’ve got two perfectly good vehicles sitting in my driveway, but would rather use my two perfectly good feet instead.

Usually, they look at me as if I’ve taken leave of my senses (they’re not far wrong) and then, laughing a little, accept my thanks and drive on.  I am grateful for their kindness.

But, I’d rather walk when I can.  This old body needs to move more, anyway.

And, I can see the colors better.

I suppose I could see them from the driver’s seat, but for some reason, the glass and metal of a vehicle seem more like barriers to me than like an invitation to a vista.

Outside works best for viewing outside.

It’s funny.  I used to think the sky was blue, with white clouds and a yellow sun hanging above it all.  Three colors. 

Three.

It’s how I remember drawing every picture I produced as a child.  Every one.  Blue sky—white clouds—yellow sun.  I might have thrown in a brown and green tree if I was feeling unusually painterly on that particular day.

So—five colors.  In an entire landscape. 

Five.

I see more than that when I walk now.  A few more.

I saw the scene captured in the photo above on a recent walk.  It was a spectacular sunset, observed almost by coincidence when I turned a corner. And, I stopped to take the pic, ruining my speed walking time on my smartphone’s app to do it.  Somehow, that doesn’t bother me at all.

Later, my inquiring mind wondered, as I gazed at the photograph, how many colors were present there.  In the sky above my head.  In the ground beneath my feet. I was pretty sure it was more than five.

Information being readily available—at our fingertips, one might say—these days, I did a quick search online to see if it was possible to determine how many colors are visible.

I can’t vouch for the result, but one online app suggests there are 179,423 colors in the original photograph.  That’s more than five.

I like seeing the colors.  There were others on that walk.  Before I turned that corner.

As I walked along the southern border of the field my walking trail curves around, I saw a lovely pink color approaching me.

The little girl’s hair was a beautiful pastel pink.  Seven or eight years old, she pedaled by on her blue bicycle, smiling broadly as she sped past.  I smiled broadly right back at her.

It wasn’t only the girl and her colors that made me smile.  Even before she reached me on the trail, I heard the sound from her spokes.  And the playing card.

When the little girl passed me, she wasn’t riding past a sixty-something-year-old man.  She couldn’t have told you, but it was a little boy just her age she met on the trail that evening.

I can’t tell you how many times we did it.  My mom would have had a better idea of the number of times she yelled at us for stealing her clothespins.  The clothespins were to hold the cards to the bicycle frame just adjacent to the spinning wheel spokes.  I think the little girl used scotch tape, but we used clothespins.  Sometimes, Mom got them back.  Sometimes.

Plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup. 

The faster we rode, the louder and more motor-like it became.  We weren’t on bicycles.  We were on a motorcycle, flying along the asphalt.  For miles, the plup-plup-ing sounded in our ears.

Oh, the memories! 

But, the little girl and her time machine streaked on down the fitness trail, leaving an old man in her wake.  The sound became softer and softer until there was nothing but echoes of a lifetime ago in my ears.

I headed north toward my house and a waiting easy chair.  But, still straining my ears for the fluttering of the playing card in the spokes, I turned one more corner—back toward the west—toward the empty field between—to see if I could catch a few more seconds of the lovely rhythm.

I didn’t.  But, I did see the spectacular sunset you see above. 

I turned the corner.

This afternoon, as I sat mulling over the chance meeting on the trail and the subsequent vista of a Creator’s handwork, I remembered that I had a book due at the library today.  I knew the Lovely Lady had some to return as well, so I suggested we leave soon.

She, working on one of her crochet projects, replied, “Just let me turn this corner and I’ll be ready to go.”

The words took on a different meaning in my head as I waited. We sometimes use the phrase to mean a life change—a momentous event.  Perhaps, even a life-saving change.

“She’s turned the corner and will be released from the hospital soon.”

“He turned a corner and is going a completely direction in life.”

Sometimes, it takes every bit of strength we can muster to turn those kinds of corners.

Frequently though, turning the corner takes nothing more than a simple ninety-degree change in direction.  One moment, we’re headed up the same road we’ve been on forever (seemingly) and the next, the scenery has changed completely, looking nothing like the destination we envisioned when we left home.

I like surprises.  Good ones, anyway.

I love the colors along the road.  And, sometimes away from the beaten path.

Maybe it’s time to take the slow way home.  Perhaps, we could even turn a corner we’ve never turned until today.

There are colors out there we’ve never seen before.  I’m sure of it.

And, there might be some sounds we’ve been missing, even though we didn’t know it.

I wonder if we could turn some corners together.  Slowly.

Are you coming with?

 

“Look, I am about to do something new.
Now it begins to happen! Do you not recognize it?
Yes, I will make a road in the wilderness
and paths in the wastelands.”
(Isaiah 43:19, NET)

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.”
(from The Road Less Traveled, by Robert Frost)

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