travel

Crossing the Torrent

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.

I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.

I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited its inevitable surge above flood level.

And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.

No, really. Music.

Away, I’m bound away,
 Across the wide Missouri.

I suppose it’s no coincidence the words to the old folk tune Shenandoah are coming from the speakers on my desk right now. No, I didn’t select the song; it just came up in the playlist the streaming music service delivers while I sit at my computer.

When I say no coincidence, I mean I probably needed a nudge in the right direction.

I can take a hint; I’ll head that way momentarily.

Many times, I’ve compared our existence here to a journey — a life-long expedition to see what is around the next bend and over the next hill.

We are strangers in a strange land, headed for a different home.

They do not belong to this world any more than I do. (John 17:16, NLT)

Having said that, I also realize I have stopped here beside the rushing waters and taken shelter a little ways above the river’s edge in a place of safety.

I’ve stopped here for too long.

Much too long.

Too long, staring at the intimidating water. Too long, wondering when the awful flood will recede. Too long, waiting for rescue.

The road goes on up the mountain on the other side of this cataract of white water. I can see it from here if I have the strength of will to tear my eyes away from the terrifying flood and lift them to the hills.

The painting you see above hangs in my home. It is one of my favorites.  Although not necessarily from the brush of the most skillful of artists, the picture tells the story amazingly well.

The violent torrent roars and tumbles down the mountain rift with horrible menace. Nothing in its path could withstand for long the overwhelming power it wields. And yet, mere feet above the white water, on a rickety and cobbled-together wooden bridge, seemingly unconcerned and unfazed, a man stands resting.

The Lovely Lady and I jokingly refer to the piece of art as our Simon & Garfunkel painting, a none-too-clever reference to the duo’s song, Bridge Over Troubled Water.

A century old, the painting depicts nineteenth-century life in the Canadian Yukon Territory. The best word I can think of to describe living in that rugged wilderness? Hard.

Hard, and yet (dare I say it?) triumphant.

Here, amid the most unfriendly environment man could imagine, a bridge spans the cataract of water. In safety, where there was no safety, anyone can traverse the dangerous valley.

Someone had to build that bridge. Over the troubled water.

Over it.

While the river rushed and roared below them.

And still, I stand beside the flood and consider. It’s likely, you know, that if a bridge can be built over this river, there will be another one needing to be built up ahead, and another one, and another.

Rivers don’t run in a straight line, either. I might even have to build another bridge over this very same cascade, further on where it runs even wilder and more furiously.

Funny. As I stand here thinking, I seem to hear the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me.

“We’ll cross that river when we get to it.”

She is right. She always was.

But right now, I’m at this river.

Today, the rushing water directly ahead needs a bridge over it.

I have no choice but to follow the road ahead. And, it leads up the hill across this particular river. This wild, untameable flood.

It’s time to get building. It’s a good thing I know a Carpenter who is only too happy to teach the craft to any who ask.

After all, He built the greatest bridge of all time. Out of wood and nails.

Away, I’m bound away…

 

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
(Psalm 121: 1,2 ~ ESV)

A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath. (Anthony Liccione)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Fall turns over a new leaf

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Fall isn’t my favorite season of the year.  I’m guessing that right about now, that’s tantamount to heresy around here, but I cannot live a falsehood.  For all its colorful beauty, Autumn is simply prelude to the dreary, depressing Winter that is invariably nipping at its heels, like a cold, vicious hound that can’t wait to see the backside of the warmth and comfort of the preceding seasons. 

When I was a naive young man, growing up in the tropics of south Texas, I believed that any winter which included a deep white blanket of snow that had fallen to cover the ugly brown earth, had to be better than those I experienced all those years.  Of course, “the grass is always greener”, as we all know, but I thought that experiencing four distinct seasons would have to be an improvement on the two we had there.  We always described the two seasons as Hot and Hotter…

The Rio Grande Valley in far south Texas is a primary winter destination for thousands of retired northern folks, most of whom maintain a second home there or else bring one with them in the form of the popular RV (we just called them travel trailers).  The Chamber of Commerce wanted us to call these folks “Winter Texans”, as if coming to their little refugee camps made them citizens, but we just called them “snowbirds.”   We, as kids, couldn’t for the life of us understand why anyone would leave the glory of snow-covered lawns, houses, and roads to come to the dry, hot realm of eternal summer.  Besides that, they clogged the roads, slowing down constantly to look at orange groves and palm trees, to say nothing of the long lines at the cafeterias like Luby’s and Furr’s.

Ah, the foolishness of youth!  I look back now and understand those old geezers (boy, somebody should look in the mirror!) much better than ever.  If my business allowed it, I’d be packing an RV right now to head down Interstate 35 for a few months myself.  Every year, I look forward to winter with much less zeal than the year before, simply because I have found that the gray days that are coming will leave me in a blue mood for weeks at a time.  I’m confident that it’s not real depression, but I will certainly not be as jovial, nor lighthearted as I am during Spring and Summer.  There are an infinite number of suggestions that friends and family have to cure this blue mood, ranging from listening to upbeat music, to going to the tanning booths, to buying a “natural sunlight” reading lamp.  I’d do the last one, except for the fact that all the designs look like they came right out of a nursing home and I’m not quite ready for that yet.  But you get the point…I don’t think much of winter and therefore, don’t have much use for the preparatory season that we are in now.  The Fall just reminds me constantly that everything around us is going to sleep, so it doesn’t have to endure the cold, dark season that is bearing down on us inexorably.

Having said all that (and I’m sure I’ll get emails), I have to add that the Fall is beautiful in the Ozarks right now.  The Lovely Lady and I took the weekend just ended to drive through some of the prettiest woodland you have ever seen.  The road to Devil’s Den is glorious with color, as is the highway to and from Eureka Springs.  Even with the niggling thoughts of the approaching Winter that came unbidden as we gazed on the scenery, the amazing show that nature puts on each Fall is in a category all its own.  We stood on Inspiration Point, viewing the White River valley and each direction we turned brought a new and marvelous vista.  Even I, with my cynical point of view, can’t avoid the obvious truth; God’s Glory is exposed with each new season, and in this one, this Autumn, with all it’s implications for the future, no less than any other and possibly in some respects, more than the others.  What a show!

So, I will grudgingly acknowledge that there are aspects of Autumn that make it a not entirely dreadful season.  My vote is still for Spring and I believe that the writer of the Psalms agrees with me.  After all, he did write about the man who follows God with these words, “… he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of waters, which brings forth its fruit in its season, whose leaf also does not wither…”  So, eternal Spring is the appointed order for things and we’ll enjoy that in heaven, I’m sure.  The reader is free to disagree, but I’m fairly confident that I’m right.  Until that day, make the best of it, tough it out, and get outside into the glorious colors with which God has painted the world.

Autumn wins you best by this, its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay.
(Robert Browning)

Let’s Not Burn These Behind Us…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The walls are covered with paintings of bridges.  I’m not sure why.  Call it one of my foibles, or call it an obsession if you want.  Doesn’t matter…The bridges keep arriving from distant places, England, Canada, New York, California.  The list goes on.  I don’t really know how this got started, but I have this fascination with bridges.   What’s really incredible is that my lovely wife also thinks it’s a wonderful way to decorate, so I’ve not had to hide this obsession away in a private room. 

The first bridge painting we purchased came from a great little antique shop in Tulsa and was acquired for a very small amount of cash.  A watercolor by a famous artist, it was a wonderful find for us.  Of course, the artist was famous for his comic book art, not watercolors, therefore it’s not worth any great amount of money, but we wouldn’t part with it anyway, so it’s just as well.  Many others have followed from different sources, flea markets, antique stores, eBay, and garage sales.  I’ve given away one or two, but most of them are too valuable to me to be parted with and even though there’s no room available for all of them to be hung at once, some of them sit in a corner, awaiting their turn on the wall.

What’s so special about bridges?  I see people in big cities and in the country alike, drive over them like they’re just another scrap of road.  I’ve done that myself.  One day, not too long ago, the lovely lady and I made the long trek to Cotter, Arkansas, some 135 miles away, just to dawdle a bit under the gorgeous rainbow bridge that crosses the White River there.  After a great afternoon spent wandering the trails under and around the bridge, we pointed the car toward home.  We hadn’t taken notice of any other notable bridges on our way over, but on the journey back, we noticed a small side road that obviously crossed one of the many streams and we decided to turn off the highway there.  As we doubled back beside the highway and eased along the unbeaten lane, we looked back at the road we had left and were surprised to note that we had just passed over a beautiful little stone bridge, which could only be seen from the side angle we had chanced upon.

Day after day, the cars speed past, the passengers inside never dreaming that beauty lies just beneath them.  To them it’s just a road, a means of transportation from one place to another.  But we live in just such an era, when the destination is all important, and the journey is simply an inconvenience.  For us, a chance decision, a fortuitous turn, changed the ho-hum journey into a reminder that surprises lie around every turn, and beauty will be found in the most unlikely places.

What is special about bridges?  It’s an intrinsic factor, the very reason they are built in the first place.  Bridges are the triumph of men over the elements.  In a place where no traffic could pass, the connection is made, from one side of a deep gorge to another, from one bank of a mighty river to the other.  Even in the most simple of bridges, a rock laid across a stream, the possibility exists to move goods, and livestock, and people from home to market and back again, without the dangers of raging waters or slippery passages on rocky creek beds.  The beauty of bridges lies not just in their splendid design or simple usefulness, but in their conquest of the very environment around them.

I no longer speed from one dot on the map to another, unaware of the road that lies between.  There are so many places along the way where men have struggled and conquered, where beautiful examples of craft and art make our journey possible.  It’s true, many of these elegant behemoths have been sacrificed for plain-white-wrapper, generic concrete spans, but that doesn’t detract anything from the original visionaries, who saw the need, and took action, leaving a legacy of craftsmanship, architecture, and grace in their wake.  Take a little time to admire what remains of their workmanship and dreams the next time you head for some far-off destination.

I guarantee you, all of life is better when you pay attention to what’s on the fringes and enjoy the journey.

“There’s a bridge to cross the Great Divide.
There’s a cross to bridge the Great Divide.”
(Point of Grace~The Great Divide)

Don’t Act Mechanically!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It wasn’t the best road trip we had ever taken.  We were on our way to visit my family in the Rio Grande Valley in Texas, a trek of some 850 miles from our home in Arkansas.  The fellow who had sold me the 1965 Chevrolet (an old car even then) told me it was a “cream puff” with low miles and a motor in top condition.  Now though, the suspicious tapping noise coming from under the hood belied his description.  As we slowed down in the sleepy little town about 60 miles from our destination, the severe vibration from the motor further inflamed my suspicions that this was not the babied little old lady’s vehicle I had been led to believe.

We limped the final miles at half speed and finally saw the end of our journey.  A couple days of trying to pinpoint the problem under the hood got me nowhere, so I broke down and took the car to a local garage (a serious blow to my ego and checkbook).  Their ace mechanic found and repaired the problem in less than 24 hours, with the admonition that the issue could rear its ugly head again without any advance warning.  Since “forewarned is forearmed”, I took the opportunity before heading home to read up on the problem and its various remedies.

Sure enough, we had only been on the road home for about an hour and a half when we experienced the same problem.  It was a Saturday afternoon and we assumed we were sunk.  But as we rolled unsteadily north, we spied a garage with its overhead doors open and turned in.  Oh, there were mechanics here, but they were finished for the week and were simply socializing with each other.  As we explained our problem, they leapt to the inevitable conclusion that we would be spending the weekend in the local motel.  The repair couldn’t be done on the spot, but the motor would have to be disassembled and the part sent to Kingsville, another 30 miles up the road.  But a little knowledge is a great confidence builder, so I asked for a pry bar and a piece of rope, if they could also provide the valve spring I needed from their junk yard out back.  Thirty minutes later, after a fair amount of exertion on my part and none at all on theirs, the problem was repaired and we were back on the road home. 

I have to admit that even today, I want to gloat and remember the looks on their faces as the repair was effected.  As we left, I asked for a couple of extra springs and the rope, which they gave to me, telling me that “anyone who could do that repair with a rope could have it for nothing!”.   I showed these pros!  Nanny, nanny, boo, boo!  But, that attitude assumes that my victory was over the mechanics standing around that day and it would be the wrong conclusion to draw from the experience.

My conquest that day was not over any man, even the irritating gentlemen standing around making snide remarks.  It certainly didn’t hurt that they were silenced by the feat, but the enemy was ignorance, not people.  If I had paid my money to the first mechanic earlier in the week and trusted to dumb luck, my family would have been stranded in a strange town with nowhere to go (and very little money).  Preparation paved the way for success, even in a field for which I have no affinity.  I do not aspire to be a mechanic and that’s a good thing, since I hate being dirty.  But, if I had not studied the problem, I would have had no idea of the cure and would have taken for granted that the best minds around (that shop anyway) knew the proper procedure for rectifying the issue.

Now, lest you get the wrong idea, let me disabuse you of the fallacious notion that I systematically prepare for life’s problems.  I find myself constantly at a disadvantage through my penchant for rushing in with no study or rehearsal.  In the week in question, I just acted enough out of character to achieve a resounding success and even though the life lesson is inescapable, I still fall flat on my face frequently. 

The life lesson?  First of all, preparation and learning make success possible, even probable.  Way back in the 16th century, Francis Bacon said, “For also, knowledge itself is power.”  Secondly, and just as importantly, arrogance directed at those who don’t share your experience sets you up for a fall.  Those mechanics weren’t ignorant, they just had tunnel vision and couldn’t see other solutions than what they had been taught.  If they were following Mr. Bacon’s advice, they also needed to know that the Apostle Paul had these words for men in similar situations, “Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed that he does not fall.” (I Corinthians 10:12 NASV)

We live in an incredible era, when knowledge is literally at our fingertips.  When problems assail us, the answer is seconds away.  This doesn’t mean that we’ll never need a professional, it just means that we can face the pro with the added leverage of a little knowledge of our situation.  Take advantage of the opportunities  which are afforded to expand your brain.  There’s always more to discover!   We can never stop learning, never stop seeking knowledge.  Oh, and never, never assume that someone else won’t come along and show us up for the ignoramuses we really are.

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself, any direction you choose.”  (from Oh The Places You’ll Go by Dr Seuss)