We Can’t All Walk on Water

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I hoped the squelching sound of wet socks in my leather walking shoes wasn’t audible to Charlie as we found a table on which to set our cups.

I couldn’t believe I had been forced to ford a raging river of water in the alleyway outside the coffee shop.  I was on a city sidewalk!  I mean—who would have expected that?

But, as I seem to do frequently, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?  Let me see if I can do a better job of setting the scene for this uncomfortable event.

Ever have one of those days?  I mean the good ones—the kind of day when nothing can go wrong.  The sun is shining; there’s time for all the activities you have planned, and you have an appointment later with a good friend you haven’t seen for months.

What could possibly blemish such a shining day?

For most of the day, right up until just before the appointment with my young friend, nothing would have been the answer to that question.  Nothing at all.

But then the sky, bright and sunny before, dimmed with clouds and the rain fell. 

No.  That’s not right.

The deluge descended.  The skies opened up and the water poured out over us.  The metal roof above us sounded as if it were a hailstorm, but it was nothing more than sheets of rain from above.

I had been awaiting a message from my friend to say he was headed to the coffee shop.  And wouldn’t you know, in the midst of that deluge, his message arrived.

I laughed. 

Oh, well.  I wouldn’t melt.  Grabbing an umbrella, I kissed the Lovely Lady and headed out to the car.

Looking out from under the edge of the little umbrella, I noticed the light.  The sun was shining.  Rain coming down in sheets, and the sun was shining!  Well, at least that meant it would stop soon. 

It meant something else, too.

From the front door, I heard her voice follow me out to the car.

“I bet there’ll be a rainbow.”

I wasn’t counting on it.

I want to be an optimist; really, I do.  I want to think everything will work out for the best—all hunky-dory and A-Okay.  I want to, but I can’t.

The day was headed downhill faster than a road bike down the Illinois River Hill.  Neither is all that good a feeling.

Downtown, I couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere in the block the cafe is on.  I circled the block, hoping someone would vacate one.  No such luck.  So I parked around the corner, more than a block away, with the heavy rain still coming straight down.

No.  It wasn’t, was it?  The wind had picked up a bit and the still-heavy rain was blowing from the west.  I was protected on the east as I walked—no help at all.

And then, as if being cold and wet from the blowing rain weren’t enough, I reached the alleyway two doors down from the little shop where I was to meet my friend. 

Only, it wasn’t.  An alleyway, I mean. 

It was a raging torrent of rainwater pouring down from the hill above town.  The alley was the only unimpeded path the water could find into the valley, and it took advantage of the lack of impediment.

Six inches deep and eight feet wide, the current rushed, whitewater roiling on top, pebbles and debris tumbling underneath.

I can’t jump eight feet.  I also don’t think that well when the wind is blowing rain sidewise against me.

I wanted a bridge.  Failing that, I wanted to be able to walk on water.

Neither option was available.

I saw a large stone sticking out of the water, probably a piece of concrete washed out of a pothole further up the hill, and stepping onto it, assumed I could push off and jump the rest of the way over the current.

Did I say the day wasn’t going as I had hoped?

The stone rolled under my foot, submerging that shoe all the way to the bottom, ensuring I wouldn’t be jumping the rest of the way to the other side.  I just plopped the other foot down and walked through the flood onto the sidewalk.

Squish, squelch.  Squish, squelch.

My friend, when he arrived, was happy to inform me that there wasn’t a drop of rain falling half a mile away in the direction from which he had come.  He also had found a parking spot right in front of the cafe.

I have since seen photos of the rainbow (you remember—predicted by the Lovely Lady), a double one to boot, that formed in the sunny/rainy sky to the east.

I didn’t see it.

I was busy looking at the rain soaking me.  I was angry about the soggy walk through the current in the alley.

I’ve had time to dry out now.  I have a few observations which hadn’t occurred to me before.  Sometimes, it takes me awhile.

You see, I know I have a tendency to make more of things than I should.  The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested it was a tempest in a teacup.  Mr. Shakespeare might say it was much ado about nothing.  

Neither would be wrong.  

Still, I’m not alone in being overwhelmed by the storms which take me by surprise, am I?  We all have things which are important to us and when we can’t achieve them in the manner we planned, we despair of reaching the goal.

Sometimes, our joy is stolen by the arrival of a letter that threatens to change our blueprint for the future completely.

Family members become ill and schedules are interrupted.

Friends drop out of our lives and we want them back.

The wrong politician won the election and we’re overwhelmed with apprehension for the future.

The list of potential sources of the rain falling on our parade is endless.  We—all of us—fear the storm in varying degrees, and for very different reasons.

And, besides that, just when we’re learning to cope with the rain, we realize we have to go through the torrent.

Through it.

We can’t all walk on water, you know.   As far as I know, only two men in history have done that.  And, neither of them is named Jim Carrey. 

And, bridges aren’t always conveniently located to trip across without getting our feet wet.

Why does God do that? 

Why Peter but not me? 

Why Moses and the Children of Israel but not us?

Funny thing.

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper. Share on X

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper.

Sometimes through is just as good as over.

Sometimes through is just as good as over. Share on X 

We trust and we obey.

And, we get wet.  But, we get where He wants us to go. 

We will. 

Because He promises we’ll not be overwhelmed by the flood.  Or the fire.  When we go through. (Isaiah 43:2)  

Through.  With Him.

The rainbow comes later.  We may not see it at all.  It doesn’t matter.

His strong arms hold us close.  Still.

Even when we’re soaked.  And, when we squelch with every step.

Storms won’t last forever. They won’t.  (2 Corinthians 4:17,18)

Keep walking.

It might not hurt to wear your galoshes.

 

 

 

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.
(Helen Keller ~ Blind/deaf author ~ 1880-1968)

 

When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.
(Isaiah 43:2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

 

 

 

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

Breathing is Good

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’ve been reading a lot recently. Sitting in the comfortable old upholstered chair by the front window, I’ve leaned back, lost in the wonder and peril, and the hours have flown before I knew it.

I realized something the other night while reading, though. I’ve talked about it with the Lovely Lady and she’s not sure she agrees, but since she doesn’t disagree, I could be right.

I could be. Perhaps.

The world outside my window is a living, breathing organism. And somehow, we can choke it to death or lend it our breath.

Stick with me now.

What happened is this: Often, I don’t listen well when reading (just ask her about that), but I gradually became aware of the sound. As first, I thought someone in the next room was breathing rather loudly, but as I stopped to listen, it became clear. The world outside was actually breathing! It sounded like an asthmatic old man, but it was breathing.

Heee. Hooo.

Heee. Hooo.

Well, I said it became clear, but it wasn’t long before I realized the sound I was hearing was actually the tree frogs in the trees around our house. A chorus would start nearby—Heee—and the chorus up the road a bit would answer, the distance separating them making it seem as if there was a different pitch—Hooo.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

The world is breathing.

I still think I could be right. Stick with me a little longer.

The Apostle told the amateur philosophers in Athens that everything in the earth had life and breath because of our Creator. (Acts 17:25)

To this day, we continue to live and move—and exist at all—because He sustains us. (Acts 17:28)

But I suppose it’s not the tree frogs that are evidence of the inhale and exhale of the world that lives around us. Not really.

Still, I contend that we have the power to choke or to replenish the breath of life to the world given us by our Creator.

I don’t just mean nature, either. Many have written and spoken about our responsibilities there and I don’t disagree. But, I have a more human aspect in mind.

On the Sunday afternoon just past, I heard the breathing again. I’m sure I did.

An invitation had come a week or so ago, suggesting that we might like to celebrate the ninetieth birthday of a friend with him and his family.

We thought we would, and so it was that we found ourselves in the social hall of a retirement village in a neighboring town. We had waited until the early arrivals cleared out a bit, so there wasn’t such a crush around our old friend.

I sat beside him and the memories came back with a rush. Forty years—give or take a couple of years—it has been that I’ve known him (much longer for the Lovely Lady, who grew up with his children).

All those years ago, he taught me how to breathe. Well, not really, but it seems so now.

In my teen years, I had developed a kind of stage fright that guaranteed I would never stand in front of a crowd and do anything by myself. Every time I attempted it, I could feel the heat rise from my neck, up into my face, as I turned a bright crimson red and became unable to continue. It had happened too many times. I would never—never— attempt it again.

He was patient. A little.

Planting the seed and encouraging me for a few weeks, he convinced me that all it would take to lead the singing in our little church was for me to stand there and sing along with the people. The only talking I needed to do was to call out a hymn number.

I was terrified and refused. Again and again.

He wouldn’t give up on me. Again and again, he asked. Just one more time than I refused, he asked.

I didn’t turn red. I didn’t freeze up. The people sang. I sang. I couldn’t believe it.

Since that time, I’ve been able to lead music many times. I’ve even preached numerous times.

Not once has the old fear returned. Not once.

Someone breathed encouragement into my lack of confidence, courage into my fear. He taught me how to breathe on my own.

I sat, last Sunday afternoon, remembering his kindness and was lost in the past for a moment or two before realizing that he was talking again.

I’ve written numerous times about the house the Lovely Lady and I moved into last year, the house in which she grew up. Her uncle built the structure, back in the nineteen-forties, and her family—first another aunt and uncle, then her mother and father—has lived here since.

I didn’t know that my old friend had helped to build the house, too.

“Oh yes, I helped to work on the foundation of that house. I remember taking the wire from the forms around the cement.”

I had no idea.

He laid the foundation to the house in which I live today.

I know now.

Need I go on? Would it be possible to miss a truth so obvious?

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying the foundation for a living breathing body which, in the next generation—or in the one after that, or the ten after that—will breathe its life into the world around it.

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying a foundation for a living breathing body which will breathe its life into the world around it. Share on X

What if we refuse?

Selfish, rude, ignorant kids! What a waste of space!

I was all of that and more. And still, they breathed into my life.

What if they hadn’t?

What if we won’t?

Outside, the frog chorus has begun again.

Inhale. Exhale.

Breathe.

 

 

It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise to You only

And all the earth will shout Your praise
Our hearts will cry, these bones will sing
Great are You, Lord
(from Great Are You, Lord ~ Leonard/Ingram/Jordan ~ © Essential Music Publishing, Capitol Christian Music Group)

 

 

Then he said to me, “Speak a prophetic message to the winds, son of man. Speak a prophetic message and say, ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Come, O breath, from the four winds! Breathe into these dead bodies so they may live again.'”
(Ezekiel 37:9 ~ NLT ~ New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

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

 

A Provocation

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I’m not sure how to say this.  Some of you will be mad.  Or at least disappointed in me.

Well? I know you will. 

You’ve read the poems since you were young; you sang the songs.  You even watched Mary Poppins hold one on her finger as she sang A Spoonful of Sugar.

You love them.  I know you do.

Well, it can’t be helped.  I’m going to have to tell you.

I don’t really like robins.

I’ve tried.  Really, I have.

The thing is, there’s nothing special about them.  Oh sure, they have that orangey-red chest.  They even give a little hope in the late winter that spring will soon be here.  But, other than that, what’s so extraordinary about the storied birds?

What’s that?  You think they’re the early bird that gets the worm?  They’re always pictured as that.  But, that’s strike one against them, as far as I’m concerned.  I don’t do early mornings.  I just don’t.

But, on the off chance that I am awakened at four or four-thirty some morning, you can be sure one will be chirping outside my window to beat the band.  Try going back to sleep with that racket outside.

And, that’s another thing!  They don’t even really have a song.  Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!  Plus, it gets worse when humans are around.  They fuss and raise a ruckus, claiming territory they don’t really even want, simply to ensure quiet for their nest.

Give me the cardinals any day.  What a beautiful and varied song they have!  Their nests are in bushes and thickets no human would want to approach anyway, so they never fuss—at me, at least.

Then there are the wrens—or the finches—or even the white-throated sparrow that sings in the top of the sweet gum tree.

But those robins—they’re everywhere.  Bob, bob, bobbin’ across the lawn, scratching for the worms, early or late.  Trying to build nests where they absolutely cannot fit—under my eave, for instance.  And, then after the wind blows the grass and paper away for the tenth time, they try again—in exactly the same spot.

There’s no love lost on my part for the fabled worm-catchers. 

Well.  That’s not completely true.  Not anymore.

Our neighbor let a pair of the silly things build a nest near the top of the post on her front porch.  I looked at the structure and told her it wouldn’t last through the first storm.  Frank Lloyd Wright, they’re not.

I was wrong.  Several storms later, the nest is still there.  The female laid her eggs—four of them if Wikipedia is to be believed.  She sat on her eggs.  She hatched her little ones.

I would stop over to talk with my neighbor, being careful not to startle the fussy mama.  No loud noises; no quick movements.

Shhhhh.

I would have told you I still didn’t care for robins.  An event the other day put the lie to that belief.

My desk looks out a window toward the neighbor’s porch, so I have watched the comings and goings on that nest for several weeks.  The other morning, my attention was on my computer screen when a strange movement caught my eye.

The mother robin was flying rapidly away from the nest, but there was still a bird standing over the nest.  A big bird.

A hawk had discovered the babies!  Without thinking, I shouted loudly and jumped up, racing out the door behind me to stop the mayhem on the porch.  Evidently, the predator heard either my shout or the door and was already winging away from the nest with something—we can guess what—in his beak.

Oh well.  It was just baby robins.  Who cares?

Well, besides the obvious One who cares about every one of them that falls to the ground.  (Matthew 10:29)

This old man cared, evidently.  I sat back down at my desk, watching the frantic mother robin flying to the nest, sticking her head down inside, and then winging to the redbud tree nearby, before repeating the pattern over and over, and the tears came.

I don’t even like robins.  But, I cried.  Over baby robins.

I’ve thought a lot about that over the last couple of days, attempting to square the dichotomy.

I think I’m beginning to understand it a little better.  I even have a word to explain how this happened.

Engagement.

Engagement involves investment.  In this case, simply an investment of attention.  Which led to a personal stake in the wellbeing of the little birds and the happiness of their parents.

Engagement costs.

I stood in a friend’s hallway the other day after I had helped him with a household problem, and he told me how sorry he had been about my friend I lost a few weeks ago.

He must have been a really close friend.  Had you known him a long time?

It would be simpler to explain if it had been a long time.  When a longtime friend passes, you expect to be emotionally devastated.  Grief like that doesn’t come with short-term, social media friendships.

Or, does it?

Four months.  It seems a lifetime ago, but it was only four or five months ago that another friend, a poet in New Zealand, suggested to Jeff and to me that we needed to know each other.

He was also a writer, much better at it than I, but we both treasured what words can accomplish when arranged carefully, lovingly,  and set in place with a bit of grace.

I never got to meet Jeff in the flesh, but I knew him.  He knew me.  Out of the grace we both have known in our lives, a bond of love grew.

Now, he’s gone and there’s a hole in my world.

Engagement costs.

Oh, but it pays, too.

It is oh-so-easy for us to get caught up in the grief of loss, the feeling that the world will never again be right, and believe that disengagement is a better way to live life.

Many do.  Many I know refuse to be hurt.  The only way to keep from being hurt is to refuse to engage—to flee from love.

In such a vacuum, life is empty.  When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy.

When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy. Share on X

I said my friend and I knew what words are capable of when used in the right way.  Many others know it, too.

Our words, written (and said) at the right time, and offered from loving hearts, provoke.

That’s right.  They provoke.  They incite.  They motivate.  They move.

It’s why I write.  When I am tempted to disengage—to lessen the pain and the frustration—I remember the words written to the Hebrews in the New Testament, reminding them to keep spending their lives with others, because in engagement we may provoke to love.  In engagement, we provoke each other to good works.

There are no age-related waivers given, no limited-education exceptions written. And sometimes, our companions along the way are like those robins.  Annoying.  Loud and repetitive.  Not nearly as intelligent as we are. Stubborn.

Engage anyway.

Provoke anyway.

Revel in the result.  Sadness, mixed with joy.  Love, combined with goodness.

But, I didn’t finish the story about the robin, did I?

My sorrow has turned to joy again, as I have observed, out my office window, the robins feeding their two surviving chicks the last couple of days. I assumed all was lost, but it was a lie.  Even as I write this, the male is on the ground outside with food in his mouth and the babies have their necks stretched out, yellow beaks agape, waiting to be fed.

All is not so dark as it seems.

It rarely is.

 

 

 

For the darkness shall turn to dawning
And the dawning to noonday bright.
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
The kingdom of love and light.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H. Ernest Nichol)

 

And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ KJV)

 

 

 

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

Finding the Vegetable Trees

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Just head down there.  The vegetable trees are all over that way.”

The Lovely Lady and I were on a mission to find a sapling or two to plant in the yard today, so we stopped by the local garden center.  We thought we might find a couple of shade trees, but we especially wanted an apple tree to replace the ancient one which is not going to last much longer.

We weren’t really expecting to buy a vegetable tree.

Wandering through the sales area, we had passed a young lady sitting at a desk in the corner, but we knew the saplings were out back, so we continued outside.

The salesman met us on the sidewalk.  All of three or four years old, he carried a thin metal rod about three feet long in his right hand which he swung this way and that as he talked.

“How can I help you?”

The Lovely Lady and I looked at each other, smiling, and then turning back his way, she told him we wanted to look at an apple tree.  His response about the location of the vegetable trees made our day.

We headed in the general direction he had pointed with the rod.  He followed closely, talking the whole time.  We didn’t quite understand all he said, but we knew we’d find trees up that way.

“Well, like I said, this is where all the vegetable trees are.  You folks look all you want.  Bring anything you pick out back inside.”

He started away but abruptly turned back.

“Oh, here.”  The boy handed me the dandelion stalk he had just pulled. “It’s a flower.  If you blow on it, the white stuff goes all over the place.  I guess some people call it a weed, really.”

He turned again to leave as a man walked up, wondering aloud if we needed help.  Smiling broadly, I told the boy’s dad we had already been helped and wanted to wander around the vegetable trees for awhile and look around.  Dad grimaced at the phrase and then grinned, taking us to the trees we needed to look at.

What a delightful experience!

What an extraordinary young man!

Okay.  He needs to work on the details a little bit.  But, he understood we needed help.  He looked around and didn’t see anyone except himself to do the job.  So, he did the job.

It was almost as if he understood what the letter-writing Apostle had said a couple thousand years ago:  Don’t only do things for yourselves, but help others, as well.  (Philippians 2:4)

In my mind, I hear the voice of God asking a barefooted Moses, “What’s that you’re holding in your hand, son?” (Exodus 4:2)

The boy showed us the way with the equipment he had been given.

If only we could all do as well.

If only.

There’s not time to be certain we know all the right answers.  We never will.

There's not time to be certain we know all the right answers. We never will. Share on X

There’s not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We’ll stumble over the words. Every time.

There's not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We'll stumble over the words. Every time. Share on X

When He said to be ready to give an answer, He didn’t mean to wait until we were comfortable and skilled. (1 Peter 3:15)

And sometimes, when we don’t know what else to say, we might just hand them a flower and help to spread His love and beauty.

After all, our primary purpose in being here is to give glory to our Creator. (Isaiah 43:7)

The whole earth is filled—absolutely jam-packed—with His glory.

I think I might hand out a dandelion or two, as we walk through it together.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll find that vegetable tree along the road.

 

 

You can learn many things from children.  How much patience you have, for instance.
(Franklin P Jones ~ American humorist)

 

Praise his glorious name forever!
    Let the whole earth be filled with his glory.
Amen and amen!
(Psalm 72:19 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

 

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

 

 

 

Big Enough

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lord, get me through this day.

It was the first thought I had when I awoke this morning. The first one.

My morning prayer.

No thank you for waking me up. Not a word about this being the day and my intent to spend it in enjoyment of its Maker. (Psalm 118:24)

Just a reminder that I need to get to tomorrow. And, a little more quickly wouldn’t hurt—if you don’t mind.

You’re nodding your head. You know what I mean, don’t you? Maybe you’ve even done it yourself a time or two.

How did I get in this condition? Why would I want to blow through the next twenty-four hours just to get to another twenty-four hours after that?

I’m not sure I’ll like the answer. You may not, either.

I could tell you about pressures of work, but they’re no worse than usual. I could suggest that more money in the bank account would help, but it wouldn’t. I could remind you of the concert I’m playing in tonight and suggest that the pressure is too much, but that’s not the problem either.

Here’s what I’ve figured out.

My God isn’t big enough.

Really. Not big enough.

God should fill the days, eclipsing all the puny activities and concerns, but in my mind, He’s only enough to tuck around the edges. The rest is full of fear, of frustration, of disappointment. And, when challenges come, when the days promise hardship and even loss, the emptiness looms larger than God’s ability to keep His word.

In my mind, anyway. Maybe, in yours, as well.

Perhaps, we need to talk about what we know. Truth is always better than speculation.

The thief is the one who comes to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. The Savior came to give us life, not just any old ho-hum life, but one that satisfies completely—a life full to capacity with all He wants to give us. (John 10:10)

We know that.

God wants good for us. Every good gift comes from Him. Always. (James 1:17)

We know that. I know that.

So why is my prayer when I awake only to get through? Why would I not ask Him to fill the day with what I need?

Today is a gift. Not a terrifying period of time I need to hurry through so I can get to another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by. . . Well, you get the picture.

It is a gift. Filled with exactly what is necessary to keep me—to sustain me—on my journey home.

I don’t want to get through it.

I want to live it. Fully. Abundantly. With passion.

The Psalmist understood that. For all the terror and fear he had lived through, all the doubt and guilt, he knew the fullness of a God who only wanted good for him.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life. Share on X 

All. The. Days.

One day after another. Every one I wake up and pray to him.

He will fill the days, not just get me through them. He fills them with Himself. With goodness and love, He fills them.

Full.

Today.

 

How big is your God? The size of your God determines the size of everything.
(Howard G Hendricks ~ Theology professor ~ 1924-2013)

 

Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me
  all the days of my life,
and I will live in the house of the Lord
  forever.
(Psalm 23:6 ~ 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.

 

 

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

 

Getting Wet

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The storm threatens.

Not for the first time.

Earlier today, I heard the muttering of the thunder up in the clouds. Fifteen miles away, my brother (with whom I was texting) heard it and wondered if the rain was really on its way.

It was, but only a little. A nice Spring shower to wash off the daffodils and redbuds. Just a lick and a promise, as the red-headed lady who raised me would describe it.

The muttering is back. Ten hours have passed and, again, the thunder is threatening.

The promise is that the storm will break soon. For all the delay and lack of delivery up ’til now, the promise will be kept tonight. I’m sure of it.

Mr. Adams—that wise Englishman who wrote about the rabbits in Watership Down—suggests that folks who claim to love cold weather actually love feeling proof against it; they love that they have outsmarted winter. The reader may agree or disagree, but I believe it to be true about more than just the cold of winter.

We love listening to the breaking storm from the safety of our four walls, with a good roof overhead to keep the deluge from affecting us personally and intimately.

We love walking in the rain because the umbrella is spread above to keep us from the discomfort of its all-encompassing soaking. Or, if we happen to run uncovered, carefree and dripping for a time, we love the thought that at the end of our gambol, we will find a warm shower to wash off the residue of the event and, wrapping ourselves in a clean, fluffy towel or robe, will relax in the luxury of warmth and comfort inside our four walls with a watertight roof.

But, what if the walls we’ve constructed so carefully, and the shelter we’ve thrown up simply aren’t enough to keep the storm from breaking on our heads anymore?

The noise of the rain which has arrived outside my window reminds me that the thunder’s earlier muttering was no empty threat. I believe this is what the folks in my home state would call a Texas frog-strangler, the downpour is so heavy.

Sooner or later, the rumblings lead to a torrent.

They always do. Sooner or later.

Mostly, sooner.

Somehow, someone is going to get wet. Soaked through.

Do you suppose the followers of Jesus didn’t get wet? In the storm that overtook their boat and threatened to sink it, do you think they stayed dry? (Mark 4:37)

When Peter walked across the waves—even before he took his eyes off the Teacher—do you think he wasn’t drenched clear through? (Matthew 14:29-30)

Can’t you just see it? Impetuous Peter, anxious to show the Master (and his peers) he was up to the challenge, jumps out of the boat to meet Him in the waves.

Walking on the water! On. The. Water.

What a moment of triumph! But, only a moment.

The waves slapped at his ankles, then at his knees. Before he knew it, one soaked him from head to toe. This wasn’t anything like he had imagined. Robe hanging down, hair streaming into his face, water in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, it was horrendous!

Where was the protection he expected from the waves? Why was his Rabbi—his Teacher—allowing this misery?

Soaked, disappointed, and distressed beyond belief, he begins to worry about the next wave. And the next. We know the rest of the story.

Life is like that, isn’t it? We have expectations—plans. Then the walk turns out to be so much harder than we envisioned it at the beginning.

Our faith wanes. If God wanted us to get out of that boat, why didn’t He clean up the pathway to get to Him? Why would He let us be miserable when we’re doing what we’re supposed to do?

Sometimes, in the storms of life, it’s hard to see the pathway with the rain streaming down our faces. And sometimes, it’s not only the rain that’s streaming down our faces.

Sometimes, it's not only the rain that's streaming down our faces. Share on X

I sat in a restaurant with dear friends earlier this evening, minding my own business, and the storm broke. Old hurts, not with them but with others I love, came pouring to the surface.

I had heard the rumbling for a while before this. The downpour was sure to come sooner or later, so I have huddled under whatever shelter I could raise to keep from getting wet.

But, part of the walk is sharing it with companions. Our life of serving Him is not a mission for a hero, but a pilgrimage for a band of fellow travelers.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet. Share on X

Together, we all get wet. As we walk each other home, we get drenched together.

And, it’s miserable. And magnificent.

And, then He says, “Peace. Be still.”

I’m going to keep walking. With the friends who’ll walk beside me.

You coming with?

Bring your towel.

It’s going to be a damp walk.

 

 

The men were amazed and asked, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!”
(Matthew 8:27 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

 

I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And, I feel soaked to the skin.
(Leonard Cohen ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1934-2016)

 

 

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

 

Alternate Routes

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Paul!!! Help!!!!

The message from my friend wasted no empty words in letting me know his need was extreme.  The power was out in part of his house and he was desperate.  I’m no electrician, but I have a limited knowledge in the art of tracing down a circuit, so I get an SOS from friends and family from time to time.

It was Saturday.  My day was planned out. The last thing I needed was a detour.

But, he is an old friend.  We go back a lot of years. 

I took the detour.

As I prepared to go help my friend, the Lovely Lady received a note from other friends.  Would we have time to eat with them that evening?

Another detour.  More old friends. 

We took this detour as well.

Why is it we love the comfortable, the well-worn path?  Why do we tense up when we see the familiar sign with an arrow above the word detour?

For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord.  Plans to benefit you and not to make things harder.  Plans to give you vision and to ensure future blessings. (Jeremiah 29:11)

I think those words apply to the detours, too.  Don’t they?

My friend with the electrical problem was waiting for me, anticipating the worst.  Explaining the steps it had taken to get into the mess, he led me to the room where the sparks had flown.

Minutes later, the power was back on.  I explained the problems to him.

You turned off the switch, but should have turned off the breaker.  That box has live wires in it that aren’t connected to the wall switch.  

Then I delivered my favorite truism regarding electricity.  It is my go-to quote when I deal with friends who don’t understand and are fearful of working with the source of power.

Electricity always does what it is supposed to do.  Always.

Hmmm.  It does have a well-worn path through which it travels.  Always the same.  Always predictable.  Maybe even comfortable. 

It’s true.  It is.  Electricity is a lot like we are.

But, as I stood there, I couldn’t help but see in my memory a time—now nearly forty years in the past—when I stood on a ladder in a school hallway, my head and arms stuck up through the false ceiling.

I had a junction box open and was loosening the wire connector on a bundle of wires.  They all had white-colored insulation, which indicated they were neutral wires.

Colored insulation warns of a hot wire; white signifies neutral.  Hot wires carry power to devices, like lights or motors.  Neutral wires complete the circuit, giving the expended current a path back to the breaker box.

I had been doing this for a few months.  I knew what electricity did.  Well, I thought I knew what electricity did.

I unscrewed the connector, exposing the wad of bare conductor wires.  Reaching for the wad with my bare hand, I was stopped in mid-air by a shout from my supervisor.

What are you doing?

I explained how electricity worked to him.  Funny, huh? 

I was going to separate the wires and isolate the circuit to the room I was standing outside of.  It was, after all, only carrying used-up electricity, going back to the power source.

The man laughed.  I don’t think he intended it to indicate he was amused.

The instant you separate those wires with your bare hand, that used-up electricity is going to take a detour through your body to whatever ground it can find and you’ll find out how much it still bites.

Isn’t that odd? 

Electricity loves detours.  It loves them.  Takes a detour in less time than it takes a man to blink.

And, in another blink, I was back at my friend’s house, flipping the main breaker back to the on position, restoring power to his dark rooms.

My little mental detour over, the time at my friend’s house passed quickly as I gave him some pointers on acceptable wiring practices for ceiling fans.  I only hope his spins in the right direction when he gets done.

Instead of an objectionable experience, the detour to his house turned into a learning time—for me and for him.

Take the detour.

An hour or two later, we took the other detour with our friends.  There were tasks we could have accomplished by staying home, things which still need to be done, but we rode to a nearby town with them and ate dinner.

We sat, throwing our peanut shells on the floor (truth be told, the Lovely Lady made a neat pile of hers on the table), and laughed until we cried.  We talked about old people stuff—you know, doctors and prescriptions—and we talked about young people stuff—things we did thirty or forty years ago and things our children and grandchildren are doing today.

And, when we were done, we laughed some more and came home healed—for awhile—of the hurts and sorrows of life.

Take the detour.

Sometimes, detours offer a respite from the journey.  A refreshing ride along a riverside on a two-lane road, when we had been hurtling down the freeway to exhaustion.  A glance at an old house that reminds us of home, long ago and many miles away.  A reminder of family, as we pass a park full of children chasing each other and going down the slides, or over the jungle-gym.

Sometimes the detours teach us a valuable lesson, giving us tools for the journey yet to come.

Not by coincidence, one of our fellow-travelers on the second detour that day was the very same man who had yelled—and laughed—at me in the school hallway all those years ago.

I reminded the electrician that, as I had helped my other friend earlier, I had only shared information he had taught me as a young man.  He said he didn’t remember teaching me anything.  Seriously.  Not anything.

He did teach me.  I can’t begin to count the folks with whom I have shared that knowledge in the years that have piled up since. 

Sometimes, on our detours, we get the chance to remind other folks of how important they are in the lives of those around them.

Take the detour.

Take the detour. You might find your spirit renewed at the end. Share on X

As with electricity, there are paths laid out before us.  Those paths stretch out into the future, a journey that must be taken, with a goal that can’t be missed.

Point A to Point B.

But sometimes, the alternate route opens up suddenly and He asks us to come aside with Him.  The goal will still be there, in time.  The road will still be traveled. 

But, for now, we slow down and take the back lanes for a ways.

With Him.

I’m taking the detours.

You coming with?

 

 

Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit. (Man proposes, but God disposes.)
( from The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis ~ German cleric/author ~ 1380-1471)

 

The strength of patience hangs on our capacity to believe that God is up to something good for us in all our delays and detours.
(John Piper ~ Pastor/author)

 

You can make many plans,
    but the Lord’s purpose will prevail.
(Proverbs 19:21 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

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

Voices of the Oaks

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Today is a day of rest.

Really.  A weekday, but I’m resting. 

Outside though, there is a whirl and a hurry, the wind bustling through in a tremendous rush to get somewhere—anywhere, it seems, but here.  And, since I’m resting, I listen to the wind.

My friends in the backyard don’t want to listen.  The black labs are terrified of the voices they hear in the air about them.  For ten seconds, while I was out to care for their physical needs this morning, they came out to scramble for my attention.  Ten seconds only, and then they dove for cover as the wind began to sound through the treetops again.

They’re not resting.

I am, though.  The last weeks and days have been a whirlwind of busy-ness, caused by the illness and passing of a family member.  Sadness and concern for her and those left behind have overwhelmed me.  Our love for them demands the activity, but the body and soul are rebelling, making demands of their own.

And so, overwhelmed, I sit at my desk, listening to the voices of the wind outside my window.  Almost, it seems to me, God’s creation sings a concert of glorious praise.  The dogs would disagree, but what do they know?

The man-made attachments add their voices.  I hear the neighbor’s ceiling fan on her porch, as it whirls—now wildly, now lazily—on its way. Whup, whup, whup, whup, whup. On and on, it provides a rhythm to the song.

The wind chimes crash crazily and then tinkle lazily, a tuned accent to the constant voices through the limbs of the trees.  From the clang! clang! clang! to the almost indiscernible ting ting ting, their bell-like tones add depth to the various voices of creation.

The Rose of Sharon against the wall brushes noisily in rhythm, as its wire-thin stems almost whistle from the breath of the wind.

The apple tree, ancient though it may be, adds its airy voice.  The bedraggled and crooked branches lend a whispering tone to the choir.

Over in the neighbor’s yard, the magnolia, evergreen that it is, claps its leaves in the gale, the great fronds clattering along as branches surrounding them wave and whirl about.

And the pines?  They are the tenor voices, holding forth as only the self-assured tenors can.  It is a wild chorus, held in check only by the waning of the wind at intervals, as if to keep their voices from overwhelming all the others.

But the oaks. . .  Ah, the oaks—they are the basses, their voices booming along on the low pitches, a low, throbbing tone, giving a foundation to all of it.

I love the oaks in the neighborhood.  Solid and strong, they are not afraid to sing out, standing firm, and yet, their heavy branches wave to the listening audience a little as they are buffeted. 

I almost imagine a little vibrato in their song, as they shift about—only a little.

I understand the dogs.  I too, am afraid of the wind at times—fearing all I possess will be blown away.

I remember the story of Job, thinking of all he lost, blown away seemingly in an instant.  Everything and everyone.  Gone.  

Life is so fragile, so thin.  We seem to hang, as a tiny spider, on a shredded web, waving in the tempest.

But, I have seen the strength of that web.  The web of family and of friends.  The web of faith in a God who holds both us and the storm in His hands. 

The web of His mercy and His grace.

With the prophet, I affirm that it is because of His great mercy we are not blown away in the storm.  We are sustained by His great and unfailing faithfulness.  (Lamentations 3:22,23)   

His grace is enough.  In the storms of life, it is enough.  (2 Corinthians 12:9)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. Share on X

I am not saying a limb won’t tumble to the ground, nor even that a great oak might not someday be uprooted.  There is pain and sorrow in the world.

There is.

But, the one who can silence the wind with a word from His mouth still offers peace in the midst of chaos.

Songs in the storm.  Harmony in the turmoil.

Beautiful.  Music.

It is a day of rest.

 

 

You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
    will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
    will clap their hands.
(Isaiah 55:12 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

 

When the wind blows through a wood, its mass is cut and closed by every leaf, forming a train of jittery vortices in the air.
(Alice Oswald ~ British poet)

 

 

 

 

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

Equilibrium

~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

Lost.

I left her in the passenger seat of the car.  I was only gone two minutes—perhaps three.  How could I lose her so fast?

What will I do without her?

“I’ll only be a minute,” were my last words to her.  No I love you; not even a kiss on the cheek.

The world spun.  Really. 

Off-kilter, out of control.  Panic.

“Here I am.”  The words came from the back seat.  She had only moved to leave the front seat empty for my sister, whom we would pick up at the next stop.

I passed it off as nothing, but the feeling of loss persisted.  I didn’t let her see the tears.  Well, maybe she saw them.  She was kind enough to not bring them up when she gently teased as my sister heard about the little episode.

The tears have clouded my sight off and on for the last couple of weeks, much like the rain which has been falling around me for about as long.  It’s almost as if God is crying in sympathy.

I know that’s not how it works. 

It’s just how it feels sometimes.

Some folks don’t think God cries at all.  But, I’m not sure it makes sense to assume the things our Savior did while on earth would cease just because He isn’t walking among us in a human body anymore.

He wept.  It means He cried real tears, trails running down His cheeks, as He felt the pain and sadness of loss and sympathy.  His eyes got red and His nose ran.  His voice broke as He talked.

This man-who-was-God-Who-was-man demonstrated the standard even before the apostle who followed Him wrote the words:  Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

I suppose it seems a little over the top for me to be so upset by such a minor thing as getting into the car and finding the Lovely Lady not where I expected her.  Perhaps, it is.

But, we were headed to visit one close to us who really is in the process of losing the one he’s spent his life with.  The tiny vignette offered me in that split second brought the reality they are facing into focus.

In that moment, the emotions I felt—confusion, fear, loss—helped me to understand what others around me are experiencing and what is spilling over into my spirit.

Last week, I was reminded of the time, a decade ago, when I was out of control.  A friend had missed a rehearsal and was asked what had kept him away.  It only took one word.

Vertigo. 

That was the cause of his absence.  Just hearing the name is a trigger—a thought that brings with it really bad memories.  I never want to go through that again.

Dizziness so bad, the world spun whenever my eyes were open.  Nausea that wouldn’t stop.  Unable to even walk, I had to be led, leaning on anyone who would help.

Complete helplessness and inability to function on my own.

Funny.  Today my world is spinning again.  No.  I mean spinning, as in not stable.

I’m aware of the basics of how our planet functions, rotating on its axis and revolving around the sun.  That’s not what I mean.  The world I’m referring to is my world—the place where I walk, and sleep, and love.

On that occasion, ten years past, when I was struck with very real vertigo, my doctor told me it was all in my head.  Oh, he was sympathetic.  But, he knew things weren’t really spinning around me as it seemed.  A malfunction in my inner ear was the problem, not the world around me.

“I’ll give you some medication.  It will make your brain think everything is fine.  That’s what you need.”

The medicine would give me some much-needed equilibrium, a sense of balance, until my inner ear righted itself.

It didn’t fix anything.  It just made me think everything was right with the world.

I don’t need medicine like that right now.

I need to see the world as it is—as its Creator sees it.  Through His eyes.  With His heart.

I know He promised He would never leave us.  He won’t.  In the middle of the darkest night, if we call Him, He is there.

In the light of day, He pours out His love.  In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls.  (Psalm 42:8)

In the light of day, He pours out His love. In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls. Equilibrium. Share on X

When we need it, there is a strong arm to lean on.  Maybe two, if we need both of them.

I’m leaning.  And tears are still falling.

Many I know are in the grip of vertigo right now.

Maybe we could all lean together while we weep.

They’re really strong arms.

Strong arms attached to One who knows what it is to weep.

 

 

As the deer longs for streams of water,
    so I long for you, O God.
I thirst for God, the living God.
    When can I go and stand before him?
Day and night I have only tears for food,
    while my enemies continually taunt me, saying,
    “Where is this God of yours?”

My heart is breaking
    as I remember how it used to be:
I walked among the crowds of worshipers,
    leading a great procession to the house of God,
singing for joy and giving thanks
    amid the sound of a great celebration!

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!

Now I am deeply discouraged,
    but I will remember you—
even from distant Mount Hermon, the source of the Jordan,
    from the land of Mount Mizar.
I hear the tumult of the raging seas
    as your waves and surging tides sweep over me.
But each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me,
    and through each night I sing his songs,
    praying to God who gives me life.

“O God my rock,” I cry,
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I wander around in grief,
    oppressed by my enemies?”
Their taunts break my bones.
    They scoff, “Where is this God of yours?”

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!
(Psalm 42 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

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

Not Woebegone

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Music has charms to soothe a savage beast. 

The words, written in verse centuries ago, are quoted frequently, even today. 

I don’t disagree. 

I’m remembering a weekend, some time ago, when I reveled in the harmonious, percussive notes of a skillfully played hammered dulcimer, listened in awe to the sweet, mellow tones of my favorite trumpet player, and wiped away tears at the conclusion of an amazing vocal duet rendition of an aria from an opera (you read that right, an opera). 

In between those numbers that weekend, I played and sang a bit myself, as well as heard several other artists who were skillfully adept at their craft. 

This savage beast’s heart was soothed.  For awhile.  But, for some reason, I hear something else in my head tonight.

Well, it’s been a busy week in Lake Wobegon. 

I can even hear the quiet, smooth tonality of Garrison Keillor’s baritone voice as I write this, although I’m not quite sure why those words come to mind.  

I suppose I may have been a little down in the mouth recently.  You know—the worries of life are starting to pile up here and there; the things I usually can control have gotten away from me a bit. 

Instead of a perpetual grin, the corners of the mouth are turned down somewhat, and it’s harder than usual to work up to a smile. 

Thus, the descriptive phrase down in the mouth seems to cover my attitude most appropriately.

Every time I ever heard Mr. Keillor utter the opening sentence to the story-telling session on his radio program, I was struck anew by the name of his fictitious town. 

He avers that the name comes from an old Native American word meaning the place where we waited all day in the rain for you.  It is not exactly the correct origin for the word it sounds like, woebegone, but it comes awfully close. 

The idea of waiting in the rain for someone who never arrives just about describes the depth of the feeling of being woebegone, a word that really comes from the Middle English meaning beset by woe.  Either way, an apt description for someone who is down in the mouth.

As I sat and listened that weekend to the jaw-droppingly beautiful tones that emanated from the young lady’s silver trumpet, my inner being was touched.  And then, as mother and daughter sang their operatic duet in a language I will never understand, I ached for more. 

But more of what? 

I know by experience that I soon tire of the same music, played or sung again and again.  A recording would not suffice, nor would simply attending recitals day after day to hear the artists ply their craft. 

I am convinced beauty on earth is given to remind us there is more.  Something more satisfying is to come. 

More.

What we have here, beautiful as it may be, is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day.

What we have here is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day. Share on X

Many centuries ago, the writer of psalms understood that, even as he struggled with his own inner sadness.  He was woebegone, down in the mouth, but still, he wrote deep calls unto deep, and told of his Creator’s unspeakable love and glory, evidenced by the world around him. 

Like Job, the afflicted one, he outlined his troubles and then reiterated, for I will yet praise Him. (Psalm 42:7-11)

Some of us drown our sorrows with alcohol, some with work, some with denial.  I listen for hours to music, reveling in the intrinsic beauty of the chords, and the harmonies, and the melodies. 

For all, it is the same.  The time comes when reality must be faced. 

The music ends, the fat lady sings, if you will. 

We who believe have a promise that will still keep us on the path.  The knowledge, the certainty, that there is more is enough to give us strength and perseverance to go on through what lies ahead. 

Not around and not under.  Through.

I don’t know about you, but I’m going on. 

The oases along the way—the music, the fellowship, the joy—those only lend credence to the promise that we’re just nomads, travelers in this world, on our way to a better place.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m enjoying the soundtrack while I’m here.

Even waiting in the rain.

Not woebegone.

 

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.  When can I go and meet with God?
(Psalm 42:1,2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(The Mourning Bride by William Congreve ~ English playwright and poet ~ 1670-1729)

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