Still Blaming The Dog

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s the dog’s fault.

They were the first words I muttered to the optician as I approached her work station earlier this week.  I was wearing an old pair of wire-rimmed glasses from the last decade—or was it the last century?—as I pulled the stainless steel and fabric chair out from beneath the mirrored desk.

The dog’s fault.  You would have thought I was an abashed student in sixth grade slouching in front of the entire class, rubbing the toe of my Converse sneaker across the linoleum tile floor.

Why no, Mrs. Dunham; I don’t have my English paper.  It was all ready to bring this morning but my dog ate it.

In truth, I don’t think I ever used that excuse for missing homework, but you can bet, if the homework was missing, it wasn’t my fault.  Ever.

Not my fault!

My glasses were broken.  Just a few months ago, the optometrist had handed me the prescription for my glasses while telling me he didn’t think I needed to have it filled.

You don’t need new glasses at all right now.  Keep the prescription, though.  You know—just in case.

This is just in case.  I played fetch with the big black lab last week, hurling the chunk of wood to the fence again and again.  The big guy never tires of the game.  Not before I do, anyway.

This day, he had dropped the stick to the ground in front of me.  I bent over him to pick it up at exactly the instant he chose to jump up and playfully lick me.

Thwack!

The top of his big flat skull smacked my glasses frame, jamming it against my left eye.  I yelped and grabbed my falling glasses, feeling the frame give as I caught them.

Broken!  Stupid Tip!

Hand over my eye, I turned to scold the tenderhearted fellow.  I opened my mouth to shout, but thought better of it.  He was just being a dog—still a big puppy despite his advancing age. 

I’m the one who should have known better.  He always jumps when I’m near.  I’ve finally convinced him not to put his huge muddy feet on me, but still he jumps constantly.  If my face is bent over him when he jumps, it’s not his fault.

I know that.  My fault. 

Still, the excuse is easy.

The optician laughed as she fitted the temple pieces over my ears.  She gets paid, no matter whose fault it is.

And, we all know whose fault it is, don’t we?

And, we all know whose fault it is, don't we? Share on X

Why is it so hard to admit when we’re wrong? 

Why must we find a scapegoat? 

What’s so hard about taking responsibility?

I know I’m a hard-headed slow learner—okay, not as hard-headed as the dog, but you get the picture—who has to learn lessons again and again, but I also have a very short memory.  Really short.

Moments after I sat at the optician’s table, I sat, horn on lap and new glasses on my face, in an afternoon orchestra rehearsal.  One of the youngsters nearby said something about my new eye-wear.

They are good looking, aren’t they?  I think they’re a nice gray color. The Lovely Lady says they’re more blue.  (Don’t tell her they say “blue” right on the frames.  We still need to discuss this a bit more.)

Imagine my surprise when I heard the words come from my mouth. 

Yeah, I’m glad I decided to get them.  I’ve needed new glasses for awhile.

Oh.  So now I’m going to take responsibility?  A few minutes ago it was the dog’s fault. 

You know, this isn’t going at all in the manner I envisioned it.  I was going to draw your attention to the way we humans refuse to take responsibility.  Then, I was going to quote some Bible verses at you to drive home the reality of how prideful we are. 

It was going to be a beautiful sermon—I mean—lesson.  A beautiful lesson.

I never expected to be the one who needed the Bible verses.  I certainly didn’t expect to be the one who needed to break Leroy Jethro Gibbs’ Rule Number Six.  You know, the one about never apologizing, because it’s a sign of weakness.

In retrospect, I think perhaps you should know that the dog ate my first draft of this article.  That’s the reason it’s not going the way I wanted.  I hope you’ll give me more time to finish it.

The dog did it. 

Really.

 

Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall.
(1 Corinthians 10:12 ~ NKJV ~Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

 

The man who complains about the way the ball bounces is likely to be the one who dropped it.
(Lou Holtz ~ American football coach/motivational speaker)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

While We Wait

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Anticlimactic. That’s what they call it, I think.

The bomb is going to explode. Terror grips the characters in the action movie. There is no way out! They’ll all surely be blown to bits. The camera fades to the timer counting down the seconds: 11, 10, 9, 8, 7. . . The distraught secretary screams and covers her face with her hands.

Click. 

The hero flips a switch on the side of the bomb’s casing and the countdown stops. Within seconds, the plot has moved on, as if the minutes of terror and horrible certainty had never happened.

Anticlimactic.

It was. For the last several weeks, I’ve been waiting for the bomb to explode. Today, a sweet young nurse flipped the switch to stop the timer. Well, actually she clicked send on the email I received right after getting out of bed this morning.

“Your CT scan is normal.”

It’s done. Over. Time to move on.

Or, as Andy Dufresne said in the movie, Shawshank Redemption, “It all comes down to a simple choice, really. Get busy living or get busy dying.”

Wait!

Can we talk about this for a minute?  I’m pretty certain I’m not the only one who’s been here—here just past the anticlimactic point, the place where we’re supposed to just pretend the last few weeks didn’t happen. 

They happened. I felt them. I did the things I was supposed to do; said the things I was supposed to say. And, all the time I had my face in my hands while I screamed.  Figuratively—the face in hands thing, anyway. Literally—for the screaming thing, if you count on the inside.

Did I say all the time? 

That’s not quite right. It was like that for a while. Even before I heeded the signs and called the doctor, I was hunkered down, imagining the end game, wondering what I would do should the worst come to pass. 

But a week ago, as I was in the middle of saying the right words to my lunch companion—the right words, mind you, a light came on. Sitting there in the Thai restaurant, with my adult son, I said the words.

“I’m not afraid to die. I’m not. I know what’s next. But, I really don’t want people to be left behind, people who need me.”

Nice, huh?

What I heard in that moment, not from my son but in my head, was the voice of my father saying the words to me several years ago. He was talking about himself at the time.

“No one is indispensable. God can have anyone do what I’m doing now.”

And, from somewhere else, in the back of my brain, I almost thought I heard God Himself laugh. Not an unkind laugh, but the kind of laugh you hear from a father when you’ve been a little foolish and naive. Gently, the words come to mind:

Before you were born—before even a day of your life had been lived—your days on earth were numbered and recorded.  Not a moment will be left out. (Psalm 139:16)

I’m not that important. I’m not. And no, I’m not putting myself down, not trying to be self-deprecating. I’m simply stating a fact.

I’m not important enough to make God change the days, the hours, the minutes that have been set in my account. My times are completely in His hands.

So, I’ve decided I’m waiting for Him.

I’ve decided I’m waiting for God. Share on X

The what-ifs and the if-onlys don’t change the reality of life one whit. The brain and the mouth run on ahead of the events, sometimes with disastrous consequences to our spirit.

Fear paralyzes and turns our focus inside out. 

But, if we will wait on our God, He will see us to safety.

Fear paralyzes and turns our focus inside out. But, if we will wait on our God, He will see us to safety. Share on X

Just like His people at the Red Sea, He tells us to stand still and watch His rescue take place.  (Exodus 14:13)

In His time. At His place.

Waiting is hard. Not knowing is hard. But, when we run ahead, we fall at the side of the road, immobilized by weakness and fear.

I’m finally learning that in the waiting, I can trust Him. Even if the result from the tests had been different today, the real outcome would still be the same.  Exactly as He planned.

When we wait on Him, our strength for the journey is renewed. Like an eagle soaring on the thermal currents above the mountains, we will gather strength as we fly. We’ll run without losing strength, and walk tirelessly. (Isaiah 40:31)

When we wait.

Waiting is hard.

Ah, but His rescue is spectacular.

Absolutely spectacular.

 

 

My voice You shall hear in the morning, O Lord;
In the morning I will direct it to You,
And I will look up.
(Psalm 5:3 ~ NKJV ~ New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Found

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s possible I may have forgotten a detail or two.  It was, after all, forty years ago the young man told me the tale.  You’ll forgive me if I embellish the spots that have grown fuzzy, won’t you?  I know the young man will.

The two men, college boys—both of them, needed a change of pace.  Classes had grown tedious, the assignments overwhelming, and they just weren’t feeling it.  One of them—which, it doesn’t matter—suggested a hunting trip into the Ozark National Forest, just ten miles away.

Neither of the young men was an outdoorsman.  The one who told me the story had shot a twenty-two caliber rifle at camp.  I remember the time he shot the maintenance man at the local nursing home in the foot with a BB gun, but I think that was the extent of his hunting experience.

I never really knew the other fellow, beyond a nodding acquaintance, so let’s just assume his capabilities were about the same as the first one.

Having borrowed a couple of rifles, the two tenderfoots headed into the forest one early-winter afternoon with the intent of bringing home a big buck.  The white-tail deer are plentiful around these parts, so it didn’t seem too far-fetched an idea.  That was before.

Before they lost the trail.  Before it got dark.

Before it got cold.

They wandered this way and that. Kicking through brambles, up and down the rock-littered hillside the fellows plodded. They backtracked and then circled around again.  Finally, after yelling awhile, they gave up and decided that, rather than risk becoming even more lost, they would have to spend the night in the woods on the side of the hill.  It was dark, you know.

But, it was cold, too.  They sat shivering and then, a germ of an idea hit one of them.  There were fallen leaves from the maples and oaks all around.  Couldn’t they heap them up and crawl under them to keep warm?

I did say it was just a germ of an idea, didn’t I?

It didn’t help much, but at least the wind wasn’t as bitter under the leaves.  They settled down to await daylight, ten hours away.  Not half an hour passed and they heard a sound.  Startling, it was, all the way out here along the trail.

A car horn!  Right next to where they lay.  Twenty feet—not much more.

They were only twenty feet from the road!  Twenty feet!

Hopelessly lost.  When they could almost have reached out and touched the gravel road.

They got in the warm car their concerned friend was driving and, relieved and not a little embarrassed, rode back to their college dorm.  Can you imagine the feeling—the joy?

Found!

What a wonderful word.  Found. 

A lifetime of blessing, tied up in one word, one syllable.

I sat with my love one night recently and watched—again—a movie we had seen several years ago.  August Rush.  It’s a retelling of the old Dickens classic, Oliver Twist, but with music.  Guitar music.  Violin music.  Ethereal music drifting in the ether.

Unrealistic and unbelievable.  Tears flowed all the way through.  I mean, they did from at least one set of eyes.

The movie’s villain, a character you almost want to love, takes kids off the streets of the big city and makes them work for him.  In return, they receive protection, food, and a bed.

He asks the movie’s protagonist, a musical prodigy who doesn’t know who or where his parents are, the question that has stuck in my mind since I first viewed the movie.

“What do you want to be in the world? I mean the whole world. What do you want to be? Close your eyes and think about that.”

There is no hesitation, no fumbling for a description of fantastic scenarios, no mention of fame, or wealth.  One word.  One syllable.

“Found.”

Found.

How sweet the sound.

On a recent Sunday, I found myself sitting in the Emergency Room of a hospital in a nearby town with a friend.  The call had come just as I arrived at the church and it was only natural that I would give our dear friend a ride for the treatment she needed.  It’s what we do for our friends.  All she had to do was ask.

She apologized for putting me out.  She wasn’t.  Putting me out at all, I mean.  It was my pleasure to help.

You have friends like that, don’t you?  A phone call—a message—the beckoning of a single finger, and they are moving mountains to help.  I know several, and love them all.  With them, I always belong.  Always.

But, what if?  What if you knew no one who would help?  What if choices you had made, paths you had taken, had left you alone?

Lost.

I left the hospital a few hours later after my friend had been admitted.  Someone else had come to sit with her for a while, so I was headed home for Sunday dinner with my family.

Meatloaf.  Butternut squash.  Apple crisp.

The small lady carrying a big bag caught me in the parking lot, just as I stepped up onto the running board of my pickup truck.

“Please, sir.  Can you help me? The people who were supposed to pick me up from the Emergency Room left me here, stranded.  Can you give me a ride home?”

It was several miles away.  Through traffic.  The opposite direction from where I needed to go.  My family was waiting.  My dinner was getting cold.

I gave her a ride. Climbing in, she thanked me and gave her pronouncement on the human race, based on her missing ride.

“People are always unreliable.”

She fell asleep before she could tell me where she was going.  I woke her up and got a general direction before she nodded off again.  At first, I was afraid she was fainting and suggested taking her back to the hospital, which she vociferously rejected.  As I drove on, it became apparent the problem was drugs.  Whether they came from the Doctor at the emergency room (as she claimed) or not, I don’t know.

Annie Mae got home on Sunday.  After a few tries, we found the destination.  It was actually a convenience store in her neighborhood, but it was where she wanted out.  She had a few dollars in her hand to buy a sandwich or, more likely, beef jerky—since that was what she said she wanted.

She had a couple of other things, too.

She had the name of Jesus in her ears.  I’m not an evangelist.  I didn’t explain the Four Spiritual Laws to her.  I’ve tried that with folks who were impaired before.  It’s not appropriate in those moments.  But, she’ll remember that Jesus loves her.

And somehow, I think she knows that, for just a few moments on Sunday afternoon, she was found.

Understand.  This isn’t about me.  Not at all about me.  I fit right in with Annie Mae’s description of humanity in general.

I am unreliable. I am.

But if we, who have been shown immeasurable kindness, will not show small kindnesses to our neighbors, be they close friends or be they street people, can we truly claim to be followers of Christ?

If we, who have been shown immeasurable kindness, will not show small kindnesses to our neighbors, can we truly claim to be followers of Christ? Share on X

We, once hopelessly lost, but now found—is it not an obligation that we help those who have strayed from the way (or perhaps never been on it) to realize that being found is as simple as asking?

I wonder.  Are we the unreliable ones?

Is it time for us to ride down a country road or two and honk the horn to let people know just how close they are to being found?

The Teacher, in one of His parables, reminded His followers that they should search the main roads and the alleys, too, giving them every reason to come and sit at the table.  (Luke 14:23)

I’m ready to drive around for a while.  But, do you suppose I could finish my meatloaf first?

After that, who wants shotgun?

 

 

 

Amazing Grace, How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found;
Twas blind, but now I see.
(from Amazing Grace ~ John Newton ~ 1725-1807)
So Jesus told them this story: “If a man has a hundred sheep and one of them gets lost, what will he do? Won’t he leave the ninety-nine others in the wilderness and go to search for the one that is lost until he finds it? And when he has found it, he will joyfully carry it home on his shoulders. When he arrives, he will call together his friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found my lost sheep.’
(Luke 15:3-6 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

 

 

Amazing Grace ~ David Phelps and family ~ a cappella

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Not Lightly

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s one of the reasons I can’t always listen to music while I write. You’d think I would have to have music. It soothes the savage breast, they say. It washes away the layers of dust from the day’s travels.

It does those things. It does. But, it also shanghais the words on the page, rearranging them and forming ideas I never intended to lay out in cohesive concepts. Before I know it, I’ve ended up in a completely different locale than where I was headed when I began the journey.

I sat in front of a screen recently, clicking the keys as fast as my fumbling fingers would allow, and listened to a CD from one of my favorite singers. The CD has a handwritten title, scribbled right on the disc with a Sharpie, reminiscent of what we once did with what we called mix tapes.

Only, it wasn’t. Not anything like what we used to make.

The voice coming from the little computer speakers was a familiar one, that of a friend. She knows how to write a song. And, how to sing one.

Friends. Recently, my mind has been wandering more and more to the people in my life. It does that, you know.

My mind, I mean. Wandering.

I’ve written before of the great gift we’ve been given in those we can call by the name friend. I don’t repent the words.

On the night I’m thinking about, my mind was on other things, but the song she sang hijacked my train of thought. Held it at gunpoint, forcing a new direction.

I, like most men, have a one-track mind (one that can only focus on one thing at a time), so hijack is the right word to use here. And, as the train gathered momentum down the new track, the clacking keys of my keyboard fell silent.

One line. As I write, it’s all I remember from the song. It’s enough.

“You will not pass lightly through my years.”

I can’t write the words without feeling the presence of many people. The memories come non-stop. Some, I don’t want to consider beyond the first glimmer of recognition. Others, I hold tight and savor, reliving cherished moments again and again, like a CD on repeat.

Our lives, from earliest interactions, have been shaped by the people in them. Family, teachers, friends, bullies, attackers, employers, pastors, neighbors—people who have walked through our journey—and left footprints there.

Some have stayed and walked beside us for miles and miles. Others have only appeared and then disappeared, leaving barely a trace in our lives at all.

A few merely stay long enough to inflict intense pain—pain which will last for as long as we are on the journey.

And others, even fewer in number, stay to help ease the pain which has been left behind. These, we turn to over and over.

Gifts they are, from a loving Father above.

All of them. Gifts.

Wait. All of them?

Are the ones who inflict pain gifts, as well as the ones who ease it?

This is getting a little uncomfortable, isn’t it?

The words hit way too close to home for me, as well. Perhaps, I shouldn’t camp out on this for very long. I’ll just say this and move on:

God uses whatever tools He chooses to make us into the mature followers He needs.

God uses whatever tools He chooses to make us into the mature followers He needs. Share on X

Perhaps the words of Joseph, speaking to his murderous, jealous brothers, say it best: You meant to harm me beyond belief. God always intended that great good would come of it. (Genesis 50:20)

And Jesus laid out the expectation clearly: Love the haters. Bless them when they curse you. Pray for the hurtful. Give to the thief who steals from you. God did it. Follow His lead. (Luke 6:27-36)

Well. That standard’s not too high, is it?

Here’s the thing. I really want someone to say the words about me someday.

You did not pass lightly through my years. 

I don’t want to be the fellow who made a cameo appearance, never making a difference to the scene whatsoever.

Friends make a difference. They make a lasting impression. A good one.

What we call the Golden Rule didn’t come from some do-gooder making up slogans. It came from the One who, walking through the lives of humanity, has left a clearer footprint than anyone else ever could.

Don’t treat people the way they deserve; treat them the way you’d like to be treated. (Matthew 7:12)

I don’t know about you, but my standard for how I think I should be treated is fairly high.

No. Higher than that.

Really. Higher.

So, my standard for how I treat my fellow travelers—every one of them—must be just as high. And still higher.

And someday, if the words do fall from someone else’s lips about me, those words about not passing lightly, I hope they know the reason.

It’s not because of the way I want to be treated. That’s not the why of our treatment of others, only the how.

The why is that we love, simply because He loved us. (1 John 4:19)

When we travel through the lives of others, passing (lightly or otherwise) with love, we leave behind the sweet aroma of the One we follow. (2 Corinthians 2:14b)

It’s better than the stench I know I’ve left more often than I care to discuss here. A lot better.

On we walk. Friends helping friends on the way home.

Really.

Home.

Leaving footprints that point the way to a Savior.

Not lightly.

 

 

We leave traces of ourselves wherever we go, on whatever we touch.
(Lewis Thomas ~ American physician/scientist/writer ~ 1913-1993)

 

I have friends in overalls whose friendship I would not swap for the favor of the kings of the world.
(Thomas A Edison ~ American inventor ~ 1847-1931)

 

Click below to listen to the song I mentioned in the article:

“Forever Friends” by Nancy Jesser-Halsey

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

 

A Glimpse of Glory

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’m a glutton for punishment. I think that’s the phrase the red-headed lady who raised me would have used.

“Tell me; what happened with that huge bill for the helicopter ride?”

Back a ways, I had seen my friend, the guitar player, in his workplace and he didn’t look well. He didn’t look well at all. But, he had been happy to tell the story. He loves a good story as much as do I, well or not.

The heart attack had been shocking in its intensity and the rapidity with which it incapacitated him. He and his wife were on vacation, over a thousand miles from home. The paramedics, stationed right across the street from their motel, had had him at the local hospital within minutes. The doctor on duty looked over his vitals and shook his head.

“We’re not equipped to do the procedure you need done. Looks like you’re taking a helicopter ride.”

The day he had told me about the new stents in his arteries and the unexpected ‘copter ride, was the day after the envelope had arrived. I wondered if the envelope wasn’t a good part of why he didn’t look so good.

“My insurance company says it won’t pay for the air-evac bill, Paul. I tell you, I stood there stunned when I saw the amount printed on that statement! Thirty-one thousand dollars!“

I didn’t know what to say. All I could think about was what a debt of that magnitude would do to my own meager resources. The very idea was staggering. And so, not knowing what to say, I punted.

You know. Punted.

“Man, I’m sorry! I’ll be praying for that with you!”

He smiled. “Oh. God’s got this. I’m already sure of it.”

I agreed with him that God did, indeed, have it and headed for home. And, I did what I said I would do. I prayed as I felt sorry for him having to pay that huge bill.

That was back around Thanksgiving. I sat and drank coffee with him not long after that, but there were others at the table so I kept my mouth shut.

I wasn’t that smart today.

When I asked him about the bill, he just stood silently in front of me and the Lovely Lady for a moment, a slow smile moving across his face. We knew another story was coming.

“Well Paul, the biggest heathen in the world told me one day a few weeks ago that there was no way God would have provided that helicopter if He wasn’t intending to pay for it. He said that He was either Almighty God, or He wasn’t. The biggest heathen in the world.”

We batted that around for a little while, but I noticed the smile was still stretching his face, so I nudged him forward in his story. He wanted to talk about Christmas Eve. As is true many places in the States, Christmas Eve is one of the busiest days of the season in the retail business where he works.

The day before, he had worked until midnight. That day—Christmas Eve—he came in at seven in the morning and worked until after four in the afternoon. He was exhausted. Exhausted and angry. The threat of financial disaster still hung over him. And, there was a line a mile long—people waiting to be checked out. They weren’t all happy, either.

“All I knew was, I hated everybody I worked with, I hated every person coming in the door, and I hated every person walking out. Most of all, I hated that job. When I finally got in my car to go home, I sat behind the wheel and asked God—out loud—why He was making me work in that place. I asked it again and again, all the way home.”

He paused in the midst of his hyperbole, looking back and forth from me to the Lovely Lady with that silly grin spread across his features.

“You know where this is going, don’t you?” he queried.

I could guess, but I wasn’t going to spoil his story.

“I stopped at the box, pulled out the mail, and found another one of those envelopes. Only, this time, the amount due was a little smaller. Well, a lot smaller.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I’m pretty sure the smile got a little bigger.

Six hundred dollars! That’s all they were asking for his part. Somehow the company he works for had either paid or negotiated down the amount to only two percent of the original thirty-one thousand dollars he had owed just days before.

Talk about joy! And, relief!

“It was almost as if I heard God say it. ‘That’s why I have you working there. You said it yourself. I’ve got this!'”

He went inside the house and found his wife, stressed and tired, overcome with exhaustion herself from preparations for holiday family events. Without a word, he handed her the statement. Within seconds, the tears were flowing.

As he told the story, tears filled my own eyes. Joy. Well. . . Mostly joy. I’ll admit it. Something was bothering me.

Why am I still surprised? I’m not just surprised—I’m amazed! Why is that?

I grew up singing about the cattle He owns on a thousand hills. I assured my tiny children their Heavenly Father cared for them and provided all our needs. I’ve seen the miracles of provision with my own eyes, again and again.

The biggest heathen in the world believed it more than I did. Really.

Do you suppose He’s disappointed with me? With us?

When we don’t quite believe that He can do that again, does He shake His head in disgust?

David, the psalmist didn’t think so. He suggested that God deals with us as a father with his children. He understands what makes us tick. He knows we’re only made from dirt. How would the Artist not know His own work? (Psalm 103:13-14)

He is not surprised when we fall on the road, lying there in self-pity and diminishing faith. Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home.

Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home. Share on X

But then, there are times—those amazing moments—when He sweeps aside the curtain and gives us a glimpse of the glorious work of art He is creating from the little dabs of joy and pain, the patient stippling of profound friendship, and the broad washes of intense loss.

For the barest of moments, our eyes widen and our breath catches as we see—really see—Him at work. And, for that wisp of time, we catch a gleam, the tiniest glimmer, of what heaven will be.

And then, almost like waking from a dream, the moment is past. Dimly, as through a translucent window, we—again—barely make out what will be. (1 Corinthians 13:12)

It would be a mistake on our part to imagine our Creator sees us in the same way—dimly, incompletely—at any time. From before time began, He knew the direction of our steps, our highs, our lows. And, He knows the plans He has for us. He knows them. (Jeremiah 29:11)

His plans are for our good. And, never to harm us.

So, on we walk. Sunshine. Shadow.

Peering through the haze.

Trusting the God who can pay for the ride.

 

 

Let me revel in this one thought: before God made the heavens and the earth, He set His love upon me.
(Charles Spurgeon ~ English pastor/author ~ 1834-1892)

 

The way of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn,
   which shines ever brighter until the full light of day.
(Proverbs 4:18 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Bread. Today.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

The sun shone today. After a week of rain, wind, and gloom, the sun shone and warmed the earth.

I sat in my easy chair most of the day. Finally, about half an hour before the sun dropped from the western sky, I moved.

“I’m going to take a walk.”

I expected her to say, “About time, too!” She didn’t. A simple, “Be careful,” was all I heard as I headed out the door for a three-mile walk.

About time, too. It is what she should have said. What kind of bonehead sits inside on a sixty-degree sunlit day in early January?

I wrote the words for any foolish enough to read them on New Year’s Day.

“I will walk. Into the new year, I’ll walk.”

I said it, knowing there were sorrows still to come; certain that a day wouldn’t make the old sadness disappear. And yet, when it came down to it, and the first steps into the new year were little different than the last out of the old one, my feet faltered. Time spent with a loved one in the hospital did little to encourage my spirit.

And the sun wouldn’t shine. So, I waited. It would be better to wait, wouldn’t it?  When the sun shines, I’ll walk. Let the clouds pass first. The wind blows so cold. It wouldn’t do to get sick,  would it?

You’ll see. When the sun shines—I’ll walk then.

Some things, you just need to do while the sun shines. I’m sure of it. The red-headed lady who raised me taught me that. Make hay while the sun shines. She said it again and again.

She wasn’t wrong. Hay put into bales on a rainy day is guaranteed to rot in the barn. You absolutely have to have sunshine to make hay.

But, living isn’t making hay. Life happens in the sunshine and in the shadow. We journey through whatever circumstance comes. To sit and mope is to admit failure.

Today, I walked. In more ways than one, I walked, forcing myself out of my dreary retreat and into the sunshine. Even as I walked the trail along the beautiful little creek, the light faded and the sun dropped behind the hills to the west.

I want to keep walking. I want to remember that, even in the shadows, the road awaits. And, our Father knows we sometimes need some help remembering. 

After we ate, I told the Lovely Lady I needed to write. I don’t remember what it was I thought I needed to say, but I trudged up the stairs to my little writing room anyway. Before I had a chance to write it, I sent a response to a friend who had been kind enough to share a song with me today. She does that on occasion, gracing friends with music that moves her.  I was moved myself and wanted to thank her.

I wrote only a short note, telling her I hoped she was doing well. I’m not sure what I expected. I guess I expected the shadows to come again if she replied honestly. My friend is in the middle of a fight with cancer. The outcome is not certain for her.

She replied honestly.

The voice message that arrived within moments was nothing like what I expected. In a matter-of-fact manner, she told me of upcoming appointments with the cancer specialists. She doesn’t know what will happen.

And then, with laughter and joy in her voice, she said the most surprising thing:  “I made bread today.  Paul, I made homemade bread!” Telling me about the neighbors’ response to the aroma filling the air, her message ended with joy. Pure joy.

Where are the shadows I expected? And, why am I suddenly thinking about the red-headed lady who raised me again?

It is one of my happiest memories of my mother. It didn’t happen often, but I remember the feeling as if it were yesterday.

“Today,” she said, “Today, we make bread.”

And, we did. Well, she did. She made the bread; we ate it.  But before that—before that—the delightful aroma of homemade bread filled the house. To this day, I cannot smell bread baking without thinking of those mornings in South Texas—always mornings (with no air conditioning, it was too hot to do it in the afternoon)—when, for a few minutes, we were the richest kids in town.

It was the most basic item in the diet for our predecessors, and therefore, baking it was the most common of activities for those who laid food on the tables. When strangers came, they broke bread. Dad came home from his job and the breadwinner was in the house. We knew which side our bread was buttered on. The upper crust had it easy.

She was the one who told us to make hay while the sun was shining, but as I remember it, the sun always shone when she made bread. 

I’m sure it wasn’t true. Storms were a way of life for us. With five children in the house, what else would one expect? But such a simple thing could drive all thought of unhappy events from our heads as we gobbled up those spectacular homemade rolls, not even waiting to spread a knife full of margarine on them.

I wipe the crumbs from the edges of my mouth mentally, my mind returning to my friend and the amazing lesson I am learning.

When the sun refuses to shine on us, we do the foundational things, the things that sustain, the things that bring joy. For us, and for those we love.

When the sun refuses to shine, we do the foundational things, the things that sustain, the things that bring joy. For us, and for those we love. Share on X

I think it’s no coincidence that Jesus, when he taught His disciples to pray, included the request that our Heavenly Father would give us this day our daily bread. (Matthew 6:11)

I have another friend who each day posts either that entire prayer or a phrase from it on social media, for her friends to read and to be encouraged. It was less than a year ago that her daughter suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Yet, every day, she encourages her friends to be fed by that daily bread from heaven.  Every day.

In the darkness, the light shines. It will not be extinguished. (John 1:5)

I worry. I do.  About the future, I worry. About those I love, I worry. I sit in the dark and mull over what might happen.

He says to leave tomorrow alone. Today, we have bread. From His ovens, from His own hand, we have bread.

Can you smell it?

Bread. 

Today.

 

 

 

If you have extraordinary bread and extraordinary butter, it’s hard to beat bread and butter.
(Jacques Pepin ~ French-born American chef)

 

The true bread of God is the one who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world. “Sir,” they said, “give us that bread every day.”
(John 6:33,34 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Hope Grows. Soft.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s a new experience for me, stroking the hair of a woman who is not my wife.

I promise I won’t make a habit of it. Still, it is an occurrence I will not soon forget.

I didn’t intend to do it at all.

The young lady came into the rehearsal hall wearing a cap, which wasn’t surprising considering the plunging outside temperatures. But, just moments later, I was confused to see the warm stocking cap replaced by a baseball cap.  She noticed my bewilderment.

“It’s growing back, Paul!” came the reassuring statement from my friend. She doffed the cap and rubbed the inch-long growth on top of her head, which had been covered with a full-length crop of hair the last time I played music with her.

Bending her head down toward me, with the obvious intent that I should feel the new hair, she moved her own hand aside to allow mine to run through the short blond growth.

“That’s so soft!” I exclaimed in surprise. I suppose I expected it to feel like my chin did after a few weeks of not shaving, but it felt nothing like that at all. Like the softness of a baby duck or bunny, it was.

I had my arm around her shoulder and held her in a hug for a few seconds, holding back tears that would have come had I spoken. Somehow, the new hair is a sign of better things to come. She has been through such horror, and yet she is hopeful.

Later that evening, tears came again as I sat, my mind wandering. How very much is lost when these bodies are ravaged by disease. Personal dignity, self-dependence, uninterrupted sleep, absence of pain—all these and more are gone, never to return, it would seem. And, then the final insult, the loss of one’s beautiful hair, her crowning glory.

The physical pain, the overwhelming nausea, the sense—no, the certainty—that the end of life is imminent—all of these (one would think) add up to the complete absence of hope.

They don’t.

Hope is ours. At times, we lose sight of it. Often, the realities of the physical crowd out the confidence in a God who wants only what’s best for His children. But, like Samwise Gamgee (Mr. Tolkien’s steadfast gardener), we remember—sooner or later—that where there’s life, there’s hope.

And, hope grows. Soft. And, sometimes slow.

Here’s the thing: I want to shout “Glory!” and rise above the clouds when I hear the trumpet call in the morning. Now, that’s hope!

But, on the normal days of our journey through this world, most mornings are more recalling to mind and renewing hope, that it is of the Lord’s mercies we are not utterly consumed. (Lamentations 3: 21-23)

Hope grows.

Soft.

Quiet.

Daily.

But, I want the trumpet call. I’m not alone, am I?

A trumpet call is exciting, almost electrifying. It makes us sit up and notice. Brash. Loud. Awe-inspiring.

The reminder in the dark just before dawn is not like the trumpet call at all. Note to self: Get up and get dressed. God is faithful. That is all.

So, we keep going. Scarred. Damaged. Beaten up.

Because hope grows.

So, we keep going. Scarred. Damaged. Beaten up. Because hope grows. Share on X

Day by day, hope grows.

Softly.

Because He is faithful.

And we got out of bed this morning.

 

 

Dum spiro, spero.
(Latin motto ~ paraphrase from Cicero’s writings, meaning “While I breathe, I hope.”)

 

Great is Thy faithfulness. Great is Thy faithfulness.
Morning by morning, new mercies I see.
All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided.
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.
(from Great is Thy Faithfulness ~ Thomas Obediah Chisholm)

 

 

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

 

Feet Firmly Planted

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

New Year’s Eve, we call it.

As if.

As if this day were nothing more than a doorway to next year. As if we simply stand looking forward in anticipation of what is to come.

If only.

If only the last three hundred sixty-five days were merely time passed, and not lives passed. If only there were nothing to look forward to besides wonder and joy.

But, I stand at the end of a year filled with emotional events and I’m not yet ready to move on. My feet are planted in this year—this joy/sorrow/confusion-filled year—and I’m not ready to pick them up and step into the next one with its mysteries. And, its dread. And, its anticipation.

I stand here and tears come. They come for a brother who is walking out of this year without the love of his life, she who walked through forty of them before with him. I weep for a son bereft of a mother and for wives posed to walk into futures without husbands, suddenly and unexpectedly taken from them. There are so many others, for whom the year was anything but a fulfilled promise of love and laughter.

The tears flow for myself, as well. Their losses were mine, with others all my own mixed in. It was in this year that a mentor, long my teacher, was left behind. His path has strayed so far from the straight, narrow one he encouraged me to walk so many times in the past, interactions now merely attempts to persuade me to stray there with him, that separation was unavoidable.

But, like the mother whose child is lost, here I stand, unwilling to take another step away. It was here he was lost. If I move on, he may never find his way home.

And so, tears watering the ground, my feet are firmly planted. Here. On the eve of the new year.

We said goodbye to them today. The girls have been here many times before and, we hope, will come many more times. Perhaps, it won’t be all that many. Hugs were given, again and again.

Then it was their mother’s turn. She too, has been here many times before. Tears flowed. They do that, you know.

She wondered aloud, their mother did, if she kept her feet firmly planted on the ground, this ground she was raised on, could she stay here forever?

But, home is somewhere else for her (and them) now. After more hugs and more tears, her feet carried her, however reluctantly, to the conveyance that would bear them away home.

Home.

Somewhere else.

As I write this sentence, it is moments away from the new year. Likely, the hour will have struck on the old grandfather clock in my living room long before my task is finished.

The future becomes the present, moving into the past without our consent. Feet firmly planted or no, the world spins into what will be. Our Creator has ordained it and nothing we do will change that.

He has given us the choice of the path before us. Year after year before this, we have made the choice. I suppose it has been a long series of choices. For me, some of them have been very good choices; some, not so good. A few have been very bad. And yet, here we are.

Gently, He draws us back to the road home. Again and again, we have opportunity to follow. He guides our steps, through heart-wrenching loss, through incredible joys, and in the dark days of just not knowing at all. (Proverbs 16:9)

It is midnight. The threshold is crossed.

I will walk. Into the new year, I’ll walk. Sorrow won’t end. Losses won’t be erased. Relationships may never be restored.

Still, we walk.

With Him. By faith.

With each other.  In love.

Home lies ahead.  Really.

Home.

Time to get moving.

 

He guides our steps, through heart wrenching loss, through incredible joys, and in the dark days of just not knowing at all. (Proverbs 16:9) Share on X

 

This world is a great sculptor’s shop. We are the statues and there’s a rumor going around the shop that some of us are someday going to come to life.
(from Mere Christianity ~ C.S. Lewis)

 

I will teach you wisdom’s ways
    and l will lead you in straight paths.
When you walk, you won’t be held back;
    when you run, you won’t stumble.
(Proverbs 4:11,12 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Between

~ Paul Phillips ~ 9 Comments

On the mezzanine above my shop, I sit waiting for words. My head is inches below the corrugated metal roof—all that stands between me, the howling wind, and the driving rain tonight.

For a few moments earlier this evening, I ventured out into the weather. With an umbrella above my head, I took care of a necessary task before rushing back inside. My socks are still wet from the torrent that overflowed my shoes as I crossed the driveway. My arms still feel the pull of the umbrella as the updraft threatened to lift it (and possibly me), Mary Poppins-like into the atmosphere.

I’m happy to be where I’m safe. And, where I’m warm. The thing is, I have no guarantee of either. None of us do.

This mezzanine below me is not as sturdy as I’d like. Oh, I’m sure the structure would be up to the minimum building standards, but when I jump up and down, the floor bounces. The light fixtures hanging below me rattle and jingle. Something tells me perhaps I shouldn’t jump up and down.

I suppose it’s like the fellow who complained to his doctor of the pain in his finger. When the doctor asked when the finger hurt, the fellow bent the finger backward and said, “When I do that.”

The doctor replied, “Well, don’t do that.”

I’ll stop jumping up and down.

Still, I don’t feel quite safe up here sometimes, between the floor that bounces and the ceiling with pounding rain and howling winds assailing it from above. I wonder if I should go downstairs to the solid concrete floor until the storm has blown itself out.

Between. 

It’s not all that comfortable a place to be. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel all that safe a place, either. And yet, it’s where we spend most of our lives.

This week, the one between our annual celebration of the birth of Jesus and the beginning of the new calendar year always seems like between to me. The year is effectively over and yet, there is a week of days to live while we wait. For the new year, we wait.

Between.

I’ve spent some extremely uncomfortable days at the end of a year or two. Three years ago this week, my siblings and I were stuck between the last century and the future as we said goodbye to our childhood home. Two years ago, I waited with trepidation and even a little anger for the music store the Lovely Lady and I had poured our hearts into for all of our married lives to wind down to an untimely end.

Between isn’t comfortable.

Still, it is where we live if we are followers of Christ.

What we once thought secure—what we once deemed prudent—has been revealed to be the shakiest of structures imaginable. Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Still, we have not yet arrived in our destination.

Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Share on X

Between, we venture, carried on the wings of eagles and, curiously, sheltered under them, as well. (Psalm 91: 1-4)

On His path, we find safety; in His shelter, rest.

Between.

Looking back, there is nothing to convince us to return, no matter how solid—how safe—it appears.

Our home is up ahead. Up. Ahead.

From here, we look up there—up ahead—and know we are safe in His hands. Safe, on the way to safety.

Let the wind howl and the rain blow!

We’re not home yet, but you can almost see the light shining out the windows from here.

 

 

This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now…Come further up, come further in!
(from The Last Battle ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

 

I want to live above the world,
Though Satan’s darts at me are hurled;
For faith has caught the joyful sound,
The song of saints on higher ground.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright;
But still I’ll pray till heav’n I’ve found,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”
(from Higher Ground ~ Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American preacher/songwriter ~ 1856-1922)

 

 

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

 

What is This Thing?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Not to seem like a Scrooge, but something’s bugging me.  Really.

In less than a week, it will all be over again for a year.  Parties. Pageants. Concerts. Shopping.  All done.

The post-holiday depression will soon have many folks in its grip.  It’s a real thing.  You could look it up.  Or, Google it.  Whatever.  We get used to the people, the good cheer, the busy-ness.  And then, just like that, life has us again.  It’s grip, tenacious and oppressive, threatens to choke the joy from our daily journey.

We crave the extraordinary, the fresh, the exciting.  Life after Christmas seems to offer less.

Less.

I hear the voice in my head.  I have written of it before.  Most readers will have heard it themselves, at one time or another.

“Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”

Linus, his ever-present blanket dragging the floor behind him, is walking to center-stage and calling out, “Lights, please.”

Word for word, he quotes Luke’s version of the angel’s announcement to the shepherds.  (Luke 2:8-14) Ending with on earth peace, goodwill to man, he retrieves his blanket (tossed aside during his monologue) and exits, stage left.

Spectacular! 

Angels!  Lights! Music!

That’s what I’m talking about!

Wait.  It is what I’m talking about, isn’t it? 

Perhaps we should move on a bit.  I’m not absolutely sure Linus had enough time in his moment under the lights to give us the whole picture.

You see, the shepherds got together and actually went to see the thing themselves.  This thing.  That’s what they called it.  This thing.  It’s all there in the verses that follow.  (Luke 2:15-20)

The excitement they felt as they went was palpable; they had to see with their own eyes what had been described to them in such an extraordinary fashion.  I would too, after a display such as that in the heavens overhead.

They got to the place they had been directed to and found—a baby.  A normal newborn baby with an exhausted mother and her worried husband-to-be.

It is what they were told to look for, but the Savior of the world?  This baby, squalling and wrinkled, red from the trauma of childbirth, the long-awaited Messiah?

But, it was exactly what the angel had described—exactly as they had been told.  They went on their way rejoicing.

But, I want to know the rest of the story.

The next day, did they awake and wonder about this whole thing? The Savior thing?  The Messiah thing?

What did they do the day after that?  And, the day after that?

Two or three years later, when the child’s parents had to flee with Him to Egypt, did they hear about it and wonder?  Twelve years later, were they still paying attention at Passover when the boy taught the Rabbis in the temple?  Did one of them taste the wine that had been water in Cana, or see the boats foundering under the weight of the fish in the Sea of Galilea?

Did they ever again feel the awe and joy in their lifetimes?  Ever?

Or, did they feel the let-down of disappointment, of expectations unmet?  They had felt the surge of emotion, of certainty that better things were to come. Did they live out their days in disillusionment and doubt?

And again, perhaps I’m focusing on the wrong thing.  I tend to do that, you know.  The red-headed lady who raised me could have told you that.

You just can’t see the forest for the trees, can you?

Details get in the way; peripherals seem to jump into the spotlight.  It’s what we do with our celebration, isn’t it?  Every year. 

Trees.  When the forest is spread out before us in plain sight.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible.  He wants us to see the thing.  This thing.

Unto you is born a Savior.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible. He wants us to see the thing. This thing. Unto you is born a Savior. Share on X

The spectacular thing?  He came as a baby.  Not a king.  Not a conquering hero.  He came as a crying, stinking, weak baby.

The incredible thing?  He came for us.  You.  Me.

Did I say life after Christmas offers less?  I did, didn’t I?  That’s not what I meant to say.  Without Christmas, the coming of a Savior—the thing the shepherds trooped to Bethlehem to see—there is no life. Well, not real life, the kind that matters in the end—in eternity.

The tidings of great joy had nothing to do with the frightening messengers.  It had nothing to do with the star-gazing magi who would wander into the narrative later.  It certainly has nothing to do with our parties and tinsel and gaudy lights today.

This thing is a baby lying in a manger—our Great God come down to live, and walk, and teach us.  Not in a flash of light and joyful celebration, this thing would take another thirty-three years to be fulfilled.  And still, there would be no flash of light.  In fact, it would become dark at midday as He died for us.

I’m trying to look for the thing this year.  Not presents.  Not music.  Not joyous fellowship.

This thing.

Savior.  King. Hero.

Baby sent from God.

 

 

 

Once in our world, a stable had something in it that was bigger than our world.
(C.S. Lewis ~ English author/theologian ~ 1898-1963)

 

And the angel said unto them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”
(Luke 2:10,11 ~ KJV)

 

 

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