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Windows Are For Looking Through

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The rain falls outside, just one in a series of autumn fronts that have moved through the area. I sit in a local coffee shop with my back to the room, gazing out the huge eight-foot-high windows. I often spend my time here visiting with friends and people-watching, but today the only space I can find for my coffee cup and laptop is at a table that essentially isolates me from the activities in the room.

It’s okay. Today, I need to think instead of talk.

Rainy days are like that for me. The world seems to close in (more than usual) and my view is confined to what’s right in front of my nose. Darkness seems to hover around the periphery, with no light except the ambient glow of the coloring trees and the gray sky above. So this morning, my thoughts are like the weather; the dim light seems to be barely holding off the darkness and I begin to wonder how we get to tomorrow from here.

Today, mostly, I’m thinking about windows. The one at which I sit this morning shows me exactly what is happening right now. I look out over Main Street and see the people coming and going. A pickup truck headed east to the sale barn, an SUV with mom and her kids headed for a doctor’s appointment, a delivery vehicle turning into the parking lot next door to drop off merchandise. And the backdrop, the fading trees standing on the hillside above the creek wending its way through our little town, reminds me that we are headed for winter and cold days.

I wrote recently about a new thing I had just done. And, emboldened by my success at hanging a door for the front entrance of our old house, I have decided to hang another one in the entrance to the utility room at the back of the house.

Supplied with another used door from the same neighbor who was so generous with the front one, I set the slab of metal and wood into place to get a test fit. There was no window in the door and the room was immediately dark. Nearly pitch black.

The Lovely Lady, standing next to me in the utility room gasped and immediately informed me that this wouldn’t work at all. She did have a suggestion, though.

“Why don’t we take the window out of that old front door, the one you replaced, and install it in this one? It will seem like we’ve kept a piece of the history of the house intact. Plus, it will let some light in here.”

It was a great idea, except for one thing; I’ve never installed a window in a door before. I have put a peephole in one. But a window? Another new thing.

It’s clear that I agreed to do it, isn’t it?

I cut the hole and installed the old window yesterday. It’s a wonderful thing. I suppose it’s beautiful to me because of the thought that we’ve kept a part of the Lovely Lady’s family history intact. I look at and through it and I think of her mom and dad. And that makes me smile.

The memories crowd in through the little pane. Years of them, making their way through my mind in just seconds. Happy times, most of them. But then, it seems the glass is tinted a bit with sadness. The people themselves have left the stage, their shadows still on the scenery, but gone from view. The old barn, seen across the yard and field, tells its story in memories now of times gone past.

My mind is brought back to the new things I am doing with the doors and their windows. I said I installed a peephole in the front door, didn’t I?

It seems an almost useless thing. Most of the time, the little hinged cover is over the inside, closing out any light or view whatsoever.  And when I move the cover aside, putting my eye to the little aperture, I can see little more than I did before. To be sure, there is sight, but it is distorted and untrustworthy. It is a window, of sorts, but not one that reassures, nor illuminates.

And with that revelation (or lack thereof) I realize there is more to be learned from the three windows I’m considering on this rainy, gloomy day.

The past, I see through the beautiful little window in the back door. People and times, some long gone, some only moments ago, seem clear as I gaze through the old glass. There are good things to be remembered—and heeded—as I turn away from the view.

It is clear that memories can be a pleasant place to visit, but there is nothing to be gained by taking up residence in that place again.

The present, it seems, is represented by the big window across the front of the coffee shop. Looking through it, I see what is transpiring in the wide world outside even now, as I write and consider in here. It’s easy to see the activities going on and to extrapolate, with some accuracy, the result of those activities. The immediate result, that is. The far-reaching effects will have to be left for time to tell.

And time always tells.

The future can be viewed through the peephole. At least, it’s the way we always perceive the future, until it is the present. Then, see above.

Our future is distorted and unclear. Many think they see it in the lens through which they gaze. Financial geniuses, political sages, and religious prophets—all see through different windows—and most claim their vision of the future is 20/20.

We listen to them, looking through their lens for insight, only to see the same view as we do through our little peephole. Fuzzy and distorted.

I remember the words of the apostle who loved to write letters. He was talking about our lives, so short, here on this earth.

For we walk by faith, not by sight.
(2 Corinthians 5:7, NKJV)

It’s true. All of humanity does it. We walk into the future, virtually blind, but trusting something. Faith in fate, financial strength, political power, our intellect, or our physical abilities.

I want to walk by faith in Someone I can trust. It’s not my financial advisor. It’s certainly not any politician I know. I’m not smart enough, nor strong enough to control the future myself.

God is the Someone we can trust. From the beginning, He has seen the future clearly, guiding those who trust Him completely.

Remembering the past, gazing on the present, spying out the future—windows into the timeline of life. We keep our eyes open, but all the while, we can have faith in only one sure hope.

I’d still like to make the journey in the sunshine if possible. Rain or shine though, one foot in front of the other, we walk.

By faith. We walk.

The view out the window isn’t bad, either.

 

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
  will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
  my God, in whom I trust.”
(Psalm 91:1-2, NIV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

 

The Son of a Do-It-Yourselfer

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

 

I did something new last week. Solomon may have thought there was nothing new under the sun, but this was new to me.

You’ll be underwhelmed when you learn what the accomplishment was. It’s not something most folks would trumpet to just anyone whose attention they could snag. Still, for a man well into his sixth decade, the completion of the task for the first time seems to me to be somewhat significant.

The house in which the Lovely Lady and I live has stood for one more decade than have I. For all those years, the front entrance has been a wooden hollow-core door. It has not fared well over a lifetime, providing only a nominal level of security. I would guess that any person so inclined, and equipped with a decent pair of boots, could have kicked it down at any time in the last few years.

So, when a neighbor offered to donate a perfectly good steel entry door she had replaced recently, I thought it might be time to replace the sad old thing on the front of our home. I won’t bore you with the tedious details but, after several hours of labor—and, I’m delighted to report, with no blood being shed—the new/old door functions reasonably well as a barrier to unwanted salesmen and wandering children. Yes, I know it still needs to have the ratty threshold replaced, but that’s a job for another day.

A new thing.

I’ve never hung a door in my life. I’d been led to believe it was an extremely difficult task, one at which seasoned carpenters had been known to blanch and walk off many a job site without a backward glance.

That last may have been a slight exaggeration on my part, but the hyperbole makes it seem more like a worthy accomplishment, does it not?

I don’t mean to sound like I need a pat on the back.

I don’t. Not today.

It’s just that when I was out in the storage shed looking for a replacement part for the deadbolt that needed to be installed on the new door, I noticed something on the workbench that awoke an old realization.

Seeing that red spring sitting there (nearly forty years after I’ve needed one) caused a week full of memories to explode across my tired old brain.

The year was 1984. The Lovely Lady and I, along with a two-year-old toddler (who was going on thirteen) and a nearly one-year-old baby, were traveling back home (for me) to South Texas in a 1965 Chevrolet Biscayne sedan. Sixty miles from our destination, the car’s motor began to act up. For me, the week of vacation was to become a week of tribulation and frustration. And triumph.

I was about to do new things—things I had never done before. I was also about to realize that my image of my father was a little skewed. Or not.

Two days after we arrived at my childhood home, I was elbows deep in two hundred thirty cubic inches of the six-cylinder motor in the crippled Chevy when my dad came out to check on me. The carburetor was on one fender, the valve cover on another, and the oil-covered valve lifters and springs sat exposed on top of the motor in front of me.

“I can’t believe you’ve torn up your car like that!” My dad was incredulous.

I was confused. I was certain my father was a do-it-yourselfer from way back, tackling jobs himself instead of paying to have them done. As a young adult, I believed I had followed his example when trying to do repair and improvement jobs myself rather than spending my hard-earned cash for the expertise of others.

I was baffled. And, I said so to him.

“I don’t know what you remember about me, but I’d never tackle a job like that,” he replied.

I put the valve cover back on and replaced the carburetor. Closing the hood, I called a local mechanic and made an appointment for the next day.

My world was shaken. My dad wasn’t who I thought he was. I needed to consider this. But, over the next two days, as we waited on the mechanic, whose expertise I was relying on, I thought about my memories of my youth at home.

I remembered, years before, the man tearing down an old house to make his just purchased property a safe place for his kids to play. My mind had images of his ancient Ford station wagon straddling an irrigation ditch while he lay under it draining the oil and replacing the filter. And I had only to walk into the living room at the old house to see the louvered room divider between the living and dining room he and Mom had built from pieces of raw lumber and dowels purchased at the local lumberyard.

I breathed a little easier. And I regretted the hundred fifty dollar invoice I paid to the mechanic in a day or two. He had replaced a broken valve spring. That’s all.

A little red spring that sat under the valve lifters. The valve lifters I had been looking at when I abandoned my efforts. I was inches from success when I had surrendered. Inches.

I spent a few more hours during that vacation week reading about the process of replacing valve springs. You know.  Just in case.

At the end of that week, we waved and hugged goodbye as we loaded our luggage and kids in the big old boat of a car and headed back north.

Three hours later, we sat at the side of the road with another broken valve spring.

We limped to a garage beside the highway a few miles on, but they couldn’t offer any help except to sell me a couple of used valve springs. That was after they told me it would be three days before the repair could be effected.

But I’m a do-it-yourselfer, the son of a do-it-yourselfer!

Borrowing a bit of rope to keep the pushrod from dropping into the motor’s cylinder, I did the repair myself as the mechanics sat nearby and drank their beer, speculating on how long it would take me to surrender.

I didn’t surrender. They were amazed.

A new thing. That day, I did a new thing.

I have kept the extra valve spring all these years, never believing I’d need it again. I can’t bring myself to dispose of it. Symbols of victories won are precious, however small their monetary value might be.

I’m not advocating that everyone needs to become a DIYer. That’s not wise.

What I do believe is that we should never stop learning. Never.

And never stop doing new things.

What I also believe is that we should pass on our wisdom, the memories of our triumphs—along with our failures, to the generations that come after us. Dads, moms, grandparents, neighbors—we share who we are and what we hope to become with young ones desperately looking for examples. Good examples.

At twenty-seven years old, remembering my roots, I repaired a motor by the side of the road for the first time. Last week, nearly forty years later, I hung a door for the first time.

I wonder what I’ll be doing in twenty years. I hope I’ll still be learning. And doing.

I’d like to think there still are a few young ones who might learn something worth passing on to others yet to be born.

I hope they’ll learn more than just about front doors and old Chevys.

It’s the way our Creator designed things.

Parents, teach your children.

 

Tell your children about it,
Let your children tell their children,
And their children another generation.
(Joel 1:3, NKJV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

A Chainsaw is Not an Eraser

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
Image by Anastasia Shuraeva on Pexels

It’s a melancholy sort of day. You know, one of those days when things are going okay, but even the triumphs are clouded with a kind of sadness. One of those we got the rain we really need last night, but the storm sent too many of the waiting-for-fall leaves sailing prematurely kind of days.

It all started when my son-in-law pulled the chainsaw out of his van. I’ve marveled many times at what a wonderful labor-saving invention the gasoline-powered saw is, but, in all frankness, I don’t remember ever being joyful after hearing one run. I’m never ecstatic when considering the outcome of its skillful wielding.

And yes—I did request that he bring the tool with him. I’m even the one who gave him the instructions regarding what needed to be done. I angled my hand alongside the limb and indicated the direction of the cut.

Just one cut.

The hackberry tree is as nondescript a tree as you could find on our street. The graceful maples are so much prettier, especially now that fall is upon us. The pin oaks tower above the ratty hackberry, putting it to shame by their girth and height, as well as their ability to provide shade along the lane. Even the sweet gum trees, with their annoying and spiny gum balls, are spectacular in their display on any given day.

But this particular hackberry tree…

I gather my thoughts and I begin to understand my wistful mood.

You see, the tree has hurt me so many times. And so much. It had to be done. I’m sure it did.

I stand just over six feet tall. The tree has a limb that juts out from the sturdy trunk at about sixty-eight or -nine inches off the ground. If my math is correct, that means I must duck about four inches to move under it when I’m working in my yard with a lawnmower or trimmer.

I don’t always. Duck, that is.

So, I hit my head solidly on the branch about twice a month. The last couple of times it has happened, I’m sure I heard little birds tweeting. And I saw stars. Really. Stars. On a summer’s afternoon.

If I had been a pro football player, they would have taken me into a tent to run the “protocol”, checking me for a concussion. I’m fairly sure there hasn’t been one. Yet. Still, I don’t think I can bang my head many more times without doing some kind of permanent damage.

Besides that, it’s embarrassing. The Lovely Lady has no sympathy left for me (and who could blame her?). But, more to the point, I’m worried about the entertainment the neighbors are getting for free every time I walk under the tree and then back out, rubbing the top of my head. I just know they’re laughing at me each time it happens.

So, yes. I did ask my son-in-law to bring the saw and lop off the branch. He’s a good man, who understands the need to save face (or the top of one’s head).

The limb now lies in my brush pile awaiting the next collection day.

I should be happy.

But the limb is in the brush pile. And as much as I want that to make me happy, I’m sad about it.

image by Paul Phillips

You see, having the limb lying in the brush pile means that my grandchildren will never again hang from it like a monkey bar. They’ll never sit on it, side by side, giggling and teasing each other. It will never again, some beautiful spring evening, be a perch for the girls to stand on while their brothers stand impatiently below, waiting to have their photo taken by Grandpa.

I’ll never again hit my head on that nasty branch.

They’ll never again play and cavort on it.

It’s a melancholy sort of day.

And so, in my not-happy/not-sad state of mind, I consider life. I do that a lot. It could be my age. It could be my nature. Regardless, I scan my memories in a this-is-your-life type of review.

It’s not a new thought that comes to me as I cogitate. Rather an old one, I believe.

Joyful events—and sad—are sprinkled throughout the span of our years.

It’s a guarantee. And both have a result in our spirits.

A cheerful heart is good medicine,
but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.
(Proverbs 17:22, NLT)

It’s not fair for us to insist that the people in our lives be happy all the time. Life happens to all of us. It happens to each of us on a different timetable.

Often, when I’m sad, the Lovely Lady is joyful. And vice versa.  It’s a good thing. I could be resentful, but there is nothing to resent. In a way, I believe it’s our Creator’s way of giving us balance. And comfort.

Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.
(Romans 12:15, NET)

We—human beings—are intended to complement each other. We sympathize with each other. We rejoice with each other.

While we feel what we feel, we minister.

As far as the tree goes, today is not mowing day, so I mourn the limb’s absence. I suppose it’s the rapid passing of childhood I lament most of all. Truth be told, I would never have taken it down if the children still climbed the tree with any frequency. They’ve outgrown that. Still, it makes me sad.

But, come the next time I work in the yard, I’ll rejoice. No more pain! No more embarrassment! No more holding the top of my head as I berate myself for my forgetfulness.

I’m happy to report that the chainsaw is not an eraser. It can never take away my memories, either of the children playing or of my foolishness.

Life goes on. Happy times. Sad times.

We celebrate. Together, we celebrate.

We mourn. Together, we mourn.

It’s a good arrangement.

Of course it is. He made it so, just for us.

 

 

Happiness and sadness run parallel to each other. When one takes a rest, the other one tends to take up the slack.
(Hazelmarie Elliot)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

 

I Once Was Lost…and Blind

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Dids on Pexels

It wasn’t that great a day today. One of those Alexander kind of days, in fact. You know—a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Well, it wasn’t all that bad. Except, I lied to a neighbor. I did.

The day actually started well. The heat and air crew came again to finish installing our new central air unit in the utility room, a different location from where the old one had been in the family room/den. The main reason for the move is that my aging ears can no longer hear what Gibbs is saying to McGee on the big screen TV when the A/C is running. I was happy the fellows were here.

But then there was the gas line that couldn’t be moved. (We’re not plumbers, you know.) And the ductwork that wouldn’t go above the ceiling. (Maybe, just build a little box?) And the return air vent has to be situated next to the dining room table now, so my old ears won’t be able to hear what my granddaughter is saying to me across the table.

I told the HVAC tech that none of those things would be a big deal. We could work around them. At least I can hear Gibbs now.

It was the truth.

Later, my son sent a note to ask if I could eat lunch with him. You don’t know how much those times mean to me, the moments when we sit, just the boy (he hasn’t been a boy for many years) and his old dad, across the table from each other and share our lives. I had to tell him not today. The HVAC guys, you know.

I told my son it didn’t matter. We could do it another day.

It was the truth.

Some young friends who have just returned from a few years abroad asked me if I could break away long enough this afternoon to look at a piano they were hoping to buy. I had looked at the photos and the description of the piano they sent and thought it had promise. The HVAC guys were finishing up, so I went with my friends. I just knew this would end up well.

The piano was a complete bust, having a catastrophic defect. I told them to keep looking. They thanked me profusely for helping them avoid a bad purchasing decision.

I told them it was nothing. I was happy to help.

It was the truth.

Sitting in an easy chair at home later, I looked out the window and saw a small dog running along the street. It looked familiar. I was almost certain the dog belonged to one of our neighbors, an older widow a couple of doors down. It never runs loose, so I headed out the door after it.

When it ran into another neighbor’s yard, I called out to that neighbor who was working in her flower garden. She agreed with me about who the critter belonged to, so I jogged to the owner’s house while the other lady tagged after the dog, who would not come to us when called.

By the time the older neighbor and I returned, the shaggy little canine had headed downhill to the bottom of the gully that carries rainwater from our neighborhood to the creek nearby. It was too steep for the dog’s owner to get down to it, but I expected the other younger neighbor would have picked up the little thing and carried it out. The dog is mostly blind and couldn’t see well enough to find the way up itself.

“She didn’t want to be picked up,” was the terse explanation we got when we asked.

I sniffed. Didn’t want to be picked up! I’d pick her up!

I did try. She didn’t want to be picked up. Really.

She might have been blind, but she knew the hand that touched her sides wasn’t a familiar one. Instantly, she nipped at it. I pulled away just in time. Talking calmly and letting her smell my fingers, I tried again. This time, the tips of my fingers right in front of her sightless eyes actually felt the sharp little incisors brush along the skin as she snapped them closed.

I left her on the ground.

The dog’s owner stood and called to her and with the other neighbor and me acting as deterrents to her doubling back, she made her way slowly up to level ground. When the older lady bent down to pick her up, there was no snapping or nipping at all.

As we parted ways, the grateful lady worried about the damage the dog might have done.

“She didn’t hurt you at all, did she?”

I replied that I wasn’t hurt in the slightest.

It was a lie.

To be clear, there was no blood. The dog’s teeth hadn’t caught any flesh. But here’s the thing: Dogs love me!

They do. I’ve petted German Shepherds and Doberman Pinschers, Great Danes and Saint Bernards. Why, there’s even a huge, muscular Pit Bull down at my brother’s that thinks my lap is where he belongs when I sit on the couch there. But this little lost and blind Shih Tzu, heading downward to certain peril, only wanted to hurt me when I was merely trying to help. She rejected my advances altogether.

Of course, I’m hurt.

It was the worst thing that happened to me all day. In a day filled with disappointments, nothing matters more than that this little dog wouldn’t let me be her savior.

Oh.

I think I’m going to stop writing now. Perhaps I’ve said enough.

Well, maybe just this:

There is a Savior. He came to help us—to show us the way. Blind and lost, we lashed out at Him.

And we did draw blood.

I wonder if it still hurts.

 

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!
(Matthew 23:37, KJV)

 

Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.
(Revelation 3:20, NKJV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

Life needs Structure, After All

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Paul Phillips

The message arrived at 4:53 yesterday morning. Through the haze of slumber, I heard the chime announcing it and rolled over, assuming it could wait.

It did.

When I had brushed my hair and finished a cup or two of coffee (a few hours later), my brain caught up and I read it again. The message had come from one of the Lovely Lady’s relatives back East.

She wanted a picture or two of a barn. I knew which one she meant without need of explanation. Of course, she meant the barn behind my house.

She had told some friends in the big city of her small-town roots and of chucking rotten potatoes at the old structure when she was a kid. I suppose she needed photographic proof that it was undamaged by her malfeasance and still standing after all these years. She’s no kid anymore.

Back then, her dad would hand her a few potatoes he had dug from the garden. Perhaps they had rotted in the ground or, as likely, they had sat on the shelf in the utility room for too long. Either way, the only thing they were good for was fodder for the cows in the field. As she saw it, she could practice her throwing skills at the same time.

The cows would get the benefit either way. And the thwack of the spuds on the tin roof was so satisfying. It wasn’t as much fun if they only splatted against the pine siding.  One way or the other, they ended up on the ground for the cows.

The old barn is a constant in my life. Even though I never saw it until I was nearly two decades old, its presence in my history goes back quite a few years before that. But we’ll get back to that later.

One of my favorite photographs was taken by the Lovely Lady in the mid-nineteen-eighties behind the house where we now live (the same one in which she grew up). My young daughter and I had wandered back to look at Dr. Weaver’s cows, the marvelous creatures being a wonder to the little tyke.

image by Paula Phillips

As the sweet little girl and her daddy gazed out at the cows, we couldn’t help but see the old barn back behind. Dr. Weaver’s old tractor was parked in a bay on one side, the hay and feed the cattle would need to see them through the coming winter on the other side.

Tonight, as I contemplate the photo again, I wonder if there could have been just the barest hint, perhaps even a faint aura, of the children who would be born to that little girl decades later hanging in the air that evening, as we gazed unknowingly into the future together.

But no. It was probably just the cows getting a little too close to the barbed-wire fence. No sense in getting all sappy about it.

I’ve been happy to take a photo or two with the little girl’s children beside the old barn in the last year or two. They seem to be as attached to the old thing as I am.

I watched the city crew put in a new utility line underground along the edge of the field over the last week or so. Somehow, to me, it seems a foreshadowing of what is to come. The big machines pound and torture the earth, the vibrations shaking the ground underfoot. The old barn seems just a little more fragile than it was only days ago.

Change comes. We can’t hold it back.

But, not yet. The barn is still standing. Right where it was seventy years ago when my father first set foot in it.

Oh. Didn’t I tell that part yet?

Years before I was born—before my parents had even met—that young man came to this small town to visit his brother and sister-in-law, who were attending the local Christian college. They were simpler times, vegetables shared from nearby gardens, meat from the college farm, and milk coming from a college professor who had a couple of Jersey cows that he milked in his barn.

In the sturdy wood and tin barn—yes, the very one—back behind his native-stone house, the professor of science milked the cows and sold the bounty they provided to the married college students. My father and his brother stood one evening waiting for their share.

Taking the full glass jug Dr. Wills handed them, they turned to make the trip back to the married student housing, their feet carrying them right across the front yard of the house the Lovely Lady and I live in today.

Some things in our lives are constants, even if we haven’t always been able to see them.

The physical, tangible objects change over time, aging and deteriorating as the years and the elements wear on them. Eventually, they will fall. All of them will fall.

Yes, the old barn, too. It has been a bit neglected for some years. The cows are only a memory; the garden in which the potatoes grew has sprouted a beautiful little house in recent years. Time passes and many treasures are lost along the way.

There are other things, not so temporal, we leave to our loved ones. The list is long.

Some items on it are not the kind of things we like to think of; prejudice, bad habits, the inability to control anger come to mind immediately. Others will come to mind as memories take over. These can take a lifetime to erase or, possibly, only to bring under control.

But among the lifelong gifts we give to our children, our families, and our loved ones is one I remember the best from a young age in my own life. It’s one I hope I passed on as a legacy—hope I’m passing on still.

My father and the red-headed lady he loved gave me the gift of knowing their God. They passed on to those who were close to them not only their faith, but also the certainty that theirs was a God who cared for them in a real and personal way.

Beyond the astonishing grace that provided a way to be reconciled with Him, He loves us and wants good things for us. He knows us better than we know ourselves.

They were certain of it and helped us to find it out for ourselves.  Our conversations were full of a God who was part of our everyday lives.

I’m no longer surprised by the “coincidences”, the unexplainable, the unseen hand of this God.  If you look, the evidence is all around.

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

I won’t argue free will and predestination with anyone. I don’t know enough about the subject to have a dogma attached to it, save this:

For those who follow Him, there is a path prepared.

I have no great insights into finding His will, except to run hard after Him. That said, even when I have run hard away from Him during a few periods in my life, He has continued to work out His plan.

So when, at age nineteen, inexplicably drawn away from my home in south Texas to a little town in northwest Arkansas that I had never heard of until a year or so before, I packed up everything I owned in my Chevy Nova and took (as Mr. Lewis would have said) the adventure that came to me.

In the shadow of the old barn my father had visited thirty years prior, I wooed and won the Lovely Lady’s hand. Still in its shadow, we began to raise our children and made lifelong friends.

And now, again in its shadow, life slows, the path still before us. God never stops drawing us, one step at a time, until that day we’ll stop wandering.

And we’ll be home.

We need constants.

It turns out that there is, indeed, a thread, a continuous presence in my life.

It’s not the old barn. Much as I enjoy that old structure, it has only been a part of the landscape.

image by Paul Phillips

From my father’s steps into the barn seventy years ago, up to today, when I stand at the useless old barbed-wire fence and gaze across the field at the dilapidated old shed, the only true and lasting constant in life has been the hand of God.

Leading, protecting, pushing, but most of all, holding.

Safe.

I want to leave a legacy, something for folks to remember me by.

I hope it’s Him.

Just Him.

And if—at the end of it all— there’s an old barn somewhere nearby, I’ll be just fine with that, too.

 

Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.
(Matthew 6:33, NLT)

And then, let us descend into the city and take the adventure that is sent to us.
(C.S. Lewis ~ The Silver Chair)

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, he leadeth me;
By his own hand he leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by his hand he leadeth me.
(from He Leadeth Me, by Joseph Gilmore ~ Public Domain)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

 

The Storm Before the Calm

~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments
image by Raychel Sanner on Unsplash

I sit, listening to the quiet of the morning.  The morning after, perhaps I should say.

Last night a cold front moved through our region, the coolness of the northern air pushing under the stubborn heat of our lingering southern summer.  As usually happens with this situation, the leading edge of that troublesome, change-seeking cold front roiled up a thunderstorm from the hot air, blowing through with noise and light, keeping normal folks awake and on edge for hours.

This morning brought temperatures in the sixties, instead of the eighties, and a quiet that seems almost eerie after the high energy of the night we experienced.  A few limbs had to be moved out of streets and the yards are covered with leaves and slender branches that gave up their fight during the storm, but over it all, a hush and calm has descended.  Even the songbirds seem a little muted as they wing from tree to bush today.

The calm after the storm.

Wait.  That’s not right.

The red-headed lady who raised me said it enough times the words are embedded in my brain.

The calm before the storm. That was how she would say it.

We would comment about how things seemed to be going smoothly, and she would say the words, injecting her usual pessimism—her expectation of trouble to come—into the quiet.

I may have acquired some of her fretting spirit. I’m certain the world around me, my tribe of Christ-followers included, has appropriated it these days.

Everywhere I turn, the expectation is of more disaster, of more pain.

I’m here to say the old trite saying my mother remembered from her mother (and perhaps, hers before that) is the wrong way around.  Almost inside out.

The truth is, or so it seems to me, the storm precedes the calm.

In the midst of the wind and the crashing thunder, along with the devastating lightning, there is a hope—no, a certainty—that calm will descend anew.  The noise will stop, the catastrophic power of the storm will fade, and we’ll bind up the wounds as we weep for our losses and move forward.

Headed home—again.

There is hope.  I don’t know how long the storm will last.  I do know our Creator, our God, has plans for good for us, not destruction.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
(Jeremiah 29:11, NIV)

I do know our Savior acknowledged the storms of life, but told us not to give in to terror and hopelessness.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
(John 16:33, NIV)

I am not a Pollyanna, quoting only “rejoicing texts.”  Nor, am I a Little Orphan Annie insisting “the sun’ll come out tomorrow.”  No, I am simply a pragmatist with Faith.  Faith with a capital F.

I know better than to trust to the devices of men, or the machinations of politics, or even the beneficence of a sympathetic universe.  Simply put, I believe in the words of a trustworthy Creator and the experience of having spent a lifetime invested in following Him.

I wish I could insert the word “fully” in the previous sentence, right before “invested.”  I’m sorry to say I have only been heavily invested for short periods of time.  Before that, I was partially invested. Perhaps, it was merely slightly invested.

Have I made it clear that I’m not all that good at this “following Christ” gig?  My lack of enthusiastic participation doesn’t change His investment in the slightest.

He’s all in.

And not just for me.  He’s all in for every single person who believes in Him.  Every one.

Calm follows a storm.  It always has.  I see no reason to believe that’s going to change.

I’m not telling you the red-headed lady was wrong.  I just think she might have put the cart before the horse.  She told me that happened a lot, too.

For many, the storm is still raging.  All around, events are out of control and all appears to be lost.

It’s not.  Calm will come again.  It will.

The wind and the waves still know His voice. 

Your heart will too.

Rest.

 

I have both the violent turbulence of the storm and the quiet promises of God in the storm. And what I must work to remember is that something is not necessarily stronger simply because it’s louder.
(Craig Lounsbrough ~ Pastor/Counselor)

Then He arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace, be still!” And the wind ceased and there was a great calm.
(Mark 4:39, NKJV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

The Time for Anger is Past

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments
image by Adam Kontor at Pexels

How is it that the fear
Banished in the morning light
Claws at my heart now,
Cowering in the new thrown night?

Hyperbole is what that is.  Poetic license, taken by one given to flights of imagination.  It’s expected when one writes in verse and rhyme.

Still, it’s not so far off the mark, some nights.

I am by nature a night person, haunting the empty rooms and darkened recesses of this old mid-century habitation long after any other denizens of the neighborhood, save the four-footed variety, have given in to the siren call of slumber.  And when, as is my lot at times, my chronic breathing problems surface, even the hours when I’ve retreated to my bed are spent turning this way and that, coughing and yet, attempting to suppress the overwhelming urge to do that very thing.

As one might expect, eventually the mind turns to unhappy and dark subjects or, more specifically, situations for which I’ve found, in my normal haunting hours, no solution or cure.

Unfinished business is a weight on my mind, a burden if you will, that bends the spirit until I’m afraid the breaking point is near.  And, clawing fear with unanswered questions is often given leave to ride, untethered, through the dark hours.

Tonight I received an unexpected note from one I love. His message closed with these words that give me hope the reign of one particular fear is near an end:

“I think my time for anger is finally over.”

The last time I wrote about the man was right after he died.  Two years ago, almost.  One would have thought the turmoil, the tumult, had died with him.  One would have been wrong.

Just because a character has fallen out of the story, it’s not a given that closure is accomplished.  Much the opposite, this falling-out part often seems to increase the impact of the mental conflict, to magnify those unpleasant memories that never seem to behave themselves or to become comfortable scenes from the past.

I loved the man—more than I have loved most other folks on this spinning ball of dirt and water.  But, that said, he was the most stubborn human being I’ve ever known.  Well, maybe not more stubborn than the red-headed lady he was married to.

And yet, he could also be the most maddening person I knew.  That red-headed lady said it once (that I remember).

“That man!  He makes me so mad!”

I was twelve and had never heard her say a negative word about my father before.  I was certain the divorce papers would be served soon.

Of course, they never were. He cared for her until the day she died, even though she had not known who he was for a couple of years before her passing.  He was like that.

He kept his promises.  It was one of the things about him that was so maddening. Yes, maddening.  Keeping promises.

In his last years, there was one particular person he made promises to.  She made promises, too—never intending to keep them.  He intended to keep his and did until the day he died, at great cost to himself and his family.

But, no.

This is not an exposé.  It’s not.

I intended to do that one day.  I would write a tell-all story, exposing his shortcomings and character failings to the world.  Bare my soul, vomiting out my frustration and angst.

It will never happen.

Remember the story of Noah in the Bible?  That righteous man, Noah, a fierce follower of God, who complied willingly with God’s plan for the survival of mankind and the animal kingdom by building an ark and taking his family into it, saving them from the flood?

There is another story about the man, found in chapter 9 of Genesis, verses 18 through 28.  After the flood, Noah, being more of a farmer than a boatbuilder, grew a crop of grapes, subsequently making wine from the bounty. Sampling the liquid, he became drunk.  In his inebriated state, he took off his clothes and laid, in his drunken stupor, naked in his tent.

Wait.  Drunk and naked?  The most righteous man in the world? That doesn’t seem right, does it?

His son, Ham, didn’t think so either.  Finding his father in that state, he called his brothers, Shem and Japheth, to come and look, so anxious was he to expose Dad’s shortcoming.

They chose not to participate.

Taking their father’s cloak between the two of them, they walked backward.  So they could preserve their father’s dignity, they purposefully refused to look at him naked.  They covered his nakedness.

It’s different today.

A popular writer in our day, Anne Lamott, famously suggests you own everything that happened to you.  She encourages—no, insists—that we should tell everything, regardless of the harm to others.  I’m certain she means well.

But I’m with Shem and Japheth.  I choose not to participate.  To expose the private sin and shortcomings of one I love is to disrespect who he was throughout his life.

He was a man who loved his God intensely.  Fiercely, even.  And, because of that, he was a man who loved the people around him in the same way.  As a pastor, he made it his mission to be where he was needed.  He listened.  He comforted.  He wept.  He rejoiced.

When he was no longer the pastor of a church, he became pastor to the folks at the local breakfast cafe, the grocery store, even the bank.  Again and again, he made friends of strangers, praying as easily as he talked, encouraging more than he exhorted, leaving the world behind him better for having walked here.

He loved his family with that same fierce love.  Every one of his children walked away from some aspect of the principles, the faith, he had brought us up in, yet his love for us never waned.  With each of us, he prayed.  To the end of his days, he prayed.  And he sang.  And he quoted scripture—and poetry.

In the back of my mind, even as I write this, I hear the voice.  “But, what about that episode? What about the time he did this?  Tell them about the day…”

Why do we hold on so long to resentment?  To anger?

What possible end can we hope to achieve by holding them tightly?  Like some monstrous, yet precious, treasures, we grasp them with a death-grip only age-worn and life-weary hands can manage.

The closer we hold them, the more they hurt us.  The longer we embrace them, the harder it becomes to let them go.

Many eventually loose that anger in outbursts of ugly accusation and personal venom. The outburst can be a catharsis; no one could argue that.  But, catharsis achieved and outburst exhausted, all that is left in view is a smaller human being, accompanied by his/her scorched and ruined memories of one whom they loved and were loved by.

Many will disagree with my viewpoint.  The age in which we live thrives on canceling reputations and flaming memories.  Somehow we believe we are bigger for diminishing the reputations of those whose voices are silent now and who can no longer answer back.

It can only diminish us.

The one I love is right.  The time for anger is over.  If it’s not, the time for fear and resentfulness never will be.  Ever.

And somehow, the One I always end up talking to in the dark, He who is the Light that has defeated the darkness and will one day banish it forever, reminds me that my anger and resentment is one of the burdens He asked me to give to Him.

Many I know are carrying that same burden—have carried it for most of the years of their life.

Why would we willingly keep bending under that heavy load?  Pain and unhappiness are the only possible return we’ll realize from the labor.

He promises rest.  And hope.

The time for anger is over.

Ahh.  Sweet freedom!

 

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.
(Matthew 11:28, NLT)

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.
(Martin Luther King Jr.)

The light shines in the darkness,
    and the darkness can never extinguish it.
(John 1:5, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

I Probably Should Wash My Hands Before Offering that Cup of Cold Water

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

 

Photo by Grace Nast. Used by permission.

“God, let who I am show You to the world around me today.”

I don’t really know why I wrote the words. Someone I don’t know asked a question on a popular social media site recently. For some reason, I needed to answer.

Her question was, “What’s your go-to one-sentence prayer these days?”

That was it. My go-to prayer.

I would have told you I say it because I really don’t need anything else from Him. No money. No new car. No vacation in Spain.

But the truth is, I do need something from Him. I need that.

That. I need the world to see Him when they look at me.

It’s not that I’m so pious. I’m not. It’s not that I’m so righteous. I’m not.

We pray because we need. There are things we don’t have that we need.

We pray because we know He has what we need.

And, I need that. And, I don’t have it. But, He does.

This afternoon, my young friend posted the photo I shared above. Did you see it? No—I mean, really see it? Maybe, you should look at it again. Go ahead. I’ll wait. Take a few minutes.

I looked at the photograph my friend had taken and I gasped. Really. And, then I teared up.

Perhaps it’s only me. I know I’m not always normal. Perhaps, never completely normal. But, still…

The clarity of the scene, the glass of pure water, the light, the reflection, the hint of shadow—all of it hit me right in the midsection. The imagery took my breath away.

That’s what I need—the answer to my repetitious prayer. Pure, cold cups of water, reflecting the light of the One we serve, offered from the clean hands of one who follows Him.

The imagery of Scripture is also unmistakable.

Let your light so shine before men…
This treasure we have in vessels of clay…
Whoever gives a cup of cold water in my name…
Among whom you shine like stars in the universe…

I mentioned what I lacked before, didn’t I? Was it clear that my need is to faithfully and consistently show who God is to a world that doesn’t know Him?

Is it clear that I have already seen that Light, that Love, that Grace myself? I have.

I just need to show it. One would think it would be simple enough.

Attached to the side of the refrigerator in my house, there is a water dispenser. On the counter below, there is a glass. I use both frequently, drinking cool, clean water I have taken right from the source.

The Lovely Lady who lives at my house asks me once in a while if she should wash the glass when she’s cleaning up the kitchen. My answer is always in the negative.

When I drink from it, I rinse it out before replacing it in its place by the fridge. Sometimes, I even spray a bit of dishwashing detergent inside and wipe it around before rinsing it out and setting it back down.

If I were to offer anyone else a drink from that glass, I assure you, they would decline. Perhaps, a change is called for.

Here’s why:

The water is clean. It comes from a city facility that is certified and tested regularly. It is filtered at the dispenser, removing any impurities the pipeline might have added to the already purified and certified liquid.

The inside of the glass is clean. I wouldn’t drink from it if it weren’t. As far as I’m concerned, it is a safe vessel from which to imbibe. And yet, even the Lovely Lady herself would refuse to drink from that vessel.

I simply don’t bother about the outside. And frequently, when I grab the glass to dispense water, my hands are grimy from physical labor. Often, they are so sweaty from exercise, I almost drop the glass.

I have dirty hands. The outside of the glass can be revolting. Detestable. Repulsive.

Who may ascend into the hill of the Lord?
And who may stand in His holy place?
He who has clean hands and a pure heart,
Who has not lifted up his soul to falsehood
And has not sworn deceitfully.
(Psalm 24: 3-4, NASB)

I’m not certain I can make this distinction and not get a little pushback from a theologian or two, but it seems to me there’s a reason the psalmist suggested we needed both clean hands and a pure heart.

I think it’s possible, perhaps even probable, that one is a gift—the product of all-encompassing grace—and the other is an expectation of the individual who has experienced that grace.

The Teacher, tested by the religious hypocrites of His day when they brought a woman who had been caught in adultery to Him, embarrassed them so much they slunk away without a word.

He, however, had a bit more to say to the woman:

Then Jesus stood up again and said to the woman, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”
“No, Lord,” she said.
And Jesus said, “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.”
(John 8:10-11, NLT)

He gave her two precious gifts. Two. 

Grace, resulting in a clean heart.

Expectation. The opportunity to live her life with clean hands.

He gives us those same gifts, as well. To us, who have fallen short of His glory through sin, He offers the unequaled treasure of His grace that washes our hearts clean.

And, He gives us the great honor of sharing that grace with a world wandering in darkness. We have the privilege of sharing His pure water, His great treasure, with our own hands that are no longer sullied by sin and selfishness.

The only way His light shines through us to the world is if we offer His free gift with hands that don’t distort and won’t detract as He shines through us.

I think I’ll continue to pray the prayer. The day is coming when I won’t need to anymore.

And, don’t worry. If you come to my house to visit someday, I’ll offer you a clean glass from which to drink.

I’ll even wash my hands first.

 

For, look, darkness covers the earth
and deep darkness covers the nations,
but the Lord shines on you;
his splendor appears over you.
(Isaiah 60:2, NET)

 

“He may become like a glass filled with a clear light for eyes to see that can.” (from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

I Don’t Think That’s What “Two or Three Gathered Together” Means

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lessons on crossing bridges the correct way

personal image

 

I wonder if I could just put it down to folks being in a hurry. It’s not my intent to malign anyone’s reputation here. Still, there seemed to be neither a surplus of intelligence nor the absence of poor judgment in either of the adversaries.

We had just eaten a delicious lunch in the little dining room on the upper floor of the old mill overlooking the scenic river. It was a working mill, so we took a few moments to study the huge waterwheel and the sluice through which the wide river was routed to provide the power to turn it.

In the late summer, one in which there has been a fair amount of rain, the valley through which the river runs could only be described as verdant, with huge oaks and maples towering over the banks. Wanting a photo of the place for our friends visiting from my hometown to remember it by, we decided to risk a little stroll across the wooden deck of the old steel truss bridge to acquire one.

The bridge was built in 1907 when all the traffic over it would have been horse-drawn wagons and buggies. The signs leading to it clearly designate it as a one-lane bridge, limiting the speed across it to five miles per hour. No one could claim they didn’t see the signs.

So, as we wandered across, hugging the edge of the deck to be sure no one would need to slow down to three miles per hour for us, we were surprised to hear, and then see, two cars whip up onto the bridge — one from each end. They obviously saw each other.

They weren’t going five miles per hour. With eyes on the car approaching from the other way, they both raced even faster to get to the center first, braking hard at the last possible moment. An abbreviated game of chicken, with both drivers — thankfully — giving in before any damage was done, either to them or to the watching pedestrians.

There they sat. We heard no yelling. I can’t say there were any rude gestures. From my perspective, each just sat, foot on brake pedal, waiting for the other driver to give up the right-of-way and back down the way they had come.

We laughed. Well? How could one not see the humor in the situation? The ages-old rite of claiming territory, of banging heads (visualize a couple of male bighorn sheep if you need a mental image), of being the king-of-the-mountain (yes, just as childish as that) was being played out in front of us.

Somehow, I’m not laughing now

 Over time, I’ve considered the foolishness of the two drivers, and I’m convinced we’re seeing the same event playing out over and over in everyday life.

We call the situation an impasse. It means just what it sounds like. The negative prefix, “im”, linked to the positive word, “pass”. A place where no one can make any progress.

Each is blocking the other’s way. No one will move forward. No one.

Where two or three are gathered

I hear the words whispered. In my mind, I hear them.

It’s a phrase in common usage by those of us who follow Jesus. He said the words Himself, promising to be in our midst.

Perhaps, there’s more to it than that. There were two people on that bridge. It just didn’t seem a likely place for Him to make Himself known. Not likely at all.

Soon after that episode, our little group got back into our vehicle and made our way to another bridge. Our friends were at my mercy on that day, and I wanted them to look at bridges (have I told you how much I love the beautiful old structures?).

personal image

This bridge is another one-lane passage over the same river, but much longer and very different in design. Still, like its cousin we had left just moments before, it requires a certain amount of cooperation for folks to cross it.

As we stopped by the river’s banks to view the bridge and grab a quick photograph or two, I couldn’t help but remember an event that had transpired there only a few years ago.

There are signs as one approaches the bridge warning of the single lane and the need to approach with caution. There are also signs which indicate a weight limit. Ten tons, they say. If one is driving a car or pickup truck, there is no need to heed the signs.

On that occasion in 2018, two chartered tour buses, operated by drivers who certainly would have had to pass an advanced test to operate a commercial vehicle, crossed the bridge going the same direction.

A charter bus weighs between twenty and thirty tons. Two of them crossing, one right after the other, far exceeded the safe limitations of the bridge. The photos folks took of the illegal crossing showed the old suspension bridge, normally in a convex shape, bowing severely into a concave curve under the buses’ weight.

Damage was done. The bridge had to be repaired before even a compact car could cross it again.

But you might say, the drivers agreed on their actions, both going in the same direction and not impeding each other’s progress. And yet, an impasse again occurred. The bridge was shut down to make amends for their wrong actions.

The whispering in my head has gained in volume.

Whenever two or three are gathered…agreeing, it will be done.

Is that what the statement the Teacher made is intended to convey?

If we who follow him agree on something that is clearly wrong, is He then obligated to honor our desires?

Somehow, I think we’ve still got this wrong

Even though there were also two drivers on this second bridge, I am unsure that the One we follow will show Himself here either.

Again, I tell you the truth, if two of you on earth agree about whatever you ask, my Father in heaven will do it for you. For where two or three are assembled in my name, I am there among them. 
 (Matthew 18:19–20, NET)

There is another bridge

It’s an ancient bridge, built from wood and nails — and grace.

I wonder. Do I, who have crossed over that bridge by the Builder’s own invitation, dare to create an impasse, turning back others for whom He died?

Do I claim, while gathered in His name with others, the right to ask for things — things we lust after — selfish requests — that He never promised to us?

Do I treat that ancient bridge as my possession — a thing to be used and held, but not to be shared freely with all who are drawn to it?

How many? 

How many have I driven away with my ugliness, my greed, my pride?

When will we — all of us who have already crossed that bridge — acknowledge the debt we have to the Builder, a debt He calls us to fulfill by going into the highways and byways to take away the arguments the folks wandering and struggling there have?

Imagine.

Imagine what could happen if we do that together

If two or three of us, gathered in His name, agree that the bridge is His and not ours—If we agree together that we will no longer create impasses, and no longer will claim the exclusive use for our self-centered purposes, do you suppose we can trust Him to show up?

I’d like to give that a try.

I wonder if there are one or two more who will join me?

He’ll be there. With us. He will.

 

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold guiltless anyone who takes his name in vain.
(Exodus 20:7, NET)

Unity without verity is no better than conspiracy.
(John Trapp ~ English educator/pastor/writer ~ 1601–1669)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Once Upon a Time, They All Lived Happily Ever After

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels

“Every page he turns says, ‘Once upon a time.'”

A friend, whose name I never can recall, shared the delightful photo of her grandson, along with the above text on a social media page today.  I am transported.

Really.  Carried away.

When I was a child, all the best stories started with those words.  All of them.  I knew exciting things lay ahead.  Perhaps they would be a little scary, but they would be fantastic, magical events and deeds.

Once upon a time.  Perfection.

All the best stories.  Maybe, it could even be my own story.  Who knew?

What if every page we turn in life is another story to be told? Another opportunity to see the hand of our Creator guiding our steps into an unknown future? 

Another chance to say, “And they lived happily ever after”?

Ah.  But, there’s the issue, isn’t it?

We all know happily ever after isn’t a thing.
At least, we think we know it.  Dream jobs turn into nightmares with horrible bosses and backbiting work associates.  Perfect marriages morph into the daily grind of children’s diapers and household disasters.  People we have loved for a lifetime die.  Just like that—gone.  Pandemics sweep over the world, leaving death, fear, and anger in their path.

Happily ever after is a fairy tale.  Once upon a time is merely the opening line of an impossible dream.

We all know that.

Or, do we?

Oh, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying.  I don’t believe in fairy godmothers—don’t trust the forecasts of poetry-quoting wizards—and certainly don’t trust old ladies who live in houses made of gingerbread.

But, if you think I lightly dismiss wisdom from the lips of a 3-year-old child, you don’t know me at all.  And, I do believe there is profound wisdom in his childlike understanding of life.

For all of history, from the dawning of time and the opening words we read in the Bible—our Creator’s version of once upon a time—we have told the stories.  Stories of heroines and heroes, murderers, thieves, and liars.  They are stories of good and evil.  They are stories that teach, and lift our spirits, and put us in our places.

And the thread that runs through our stories is one of seasons of trial, of wrong choices, but also of redemption and triumph. 

Woven into the fabric of our history is the desire for happily ever after. But I think we don’t understand what that means at all.

Once upon a time…
My mind, as it does, turns back the clock nearly forty years.  With a smile on my lips, I remember the little boy skipping across the parking lot while he held tightly to my hand.

“Daddy, can we go out to eat tonight?  Maybe to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal?”

The smile on my lips fades, remembering my reply all too often in those days.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t do that right now.  Mom’s probably got mac & cheese and tuna patties for us tonight.”

He knew the reason.  We never hid the realities of life from him.  Happy meals cost three bucks.  For each kid.  Mac & cheese with tuna patties was less than a buck for everyone in the family.  He might have been disappointed, but the kid never missed a beat.

“That’s fine.  I like macaroni and cheese!”

Hand in hand, we skipped together to the car.

Happily ever after. 

He trusted his father to do what was best for him.  He was also sure the Happy Meal would come when it was appropriate (and affordable).

Our lives have been full—completely stuffed full—of disappointments.  That said, they’ve also been packed with joy that can’t be diminished.  And, stuffed in with those has been a fair sprinkling of tragedy and pain.

The thing is, as children we, most of us, believed our grown-ups (Mom, Dad, Grandparents, or whoever) had the answers and would see us through whatever was ahead. We simply put our hand in theirs and skipped on, despite momentary disappointments.

How did I lose that?  When did I decide I was big enough and smart enough to cross the road without my hand in His?

Once upon a time…
The big, strong fishermen shooed away the children that came to their Teacher to hold His hand and to be prayed for.  He took them in His arms and castigated the Disciples:

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”  (Matthew 19:14, NIV)

Only days before that, He had told them that they, strong and independent as they were—arguing over who was the best—wouldn’t enter into heaven unless they became as little children.  (Matthew 18:3)

How soon we forget. I’m no better than they were, pulling my hand back to my side, following my own way.  I dread the future, bemoaning the past.

But how do we forget so quickly that He has plans for us, plans to bless and not to harm, plans that give us hope, and a future? (Jeremiah 29:11)

The grave is not our end!  Failure is not our ultimate lot in life!  Pain and sorrow will not overwhelm His plans for us!  These temporary setbacks are just that—temporary!

Once upon a time…
A family waited for their flight to be called, on their way to serve God in a country half a world away from brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and loved ones.  It wasn’t their first time to do this.

Did I say it was once upon a time?  It was just this morning. 

Our friends shared the photo of their little child gazing at the waiting jet through the floor-to-ceiling window of the terminal. These words accompanied the photo, nothing more:

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
Still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, He leadeth me;
By His own hand He leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by His hand He leadeth me.*

The wisdom and faith of a little child. 

Once upon a time on every page we turn. Every page.

Happily ever after, too.

Today.  In this place.

Happily ever after.

 

Surely your goodness and faithfulness will pursue me all my days, and I will live in the Lord’s house for the rest of my life.
(Psalm 23:6, NET)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

*(from He Leadeth Me by Joseph Gilmore, 1862)