A Provocation

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

“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

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 ~ NLTHoly 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

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!!! 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

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

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

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.

Wind in the Oaks

I sit at my desk and listen to the wind.

Change is coming.

At the end of the street, the last leaves from an autumn, very nearly forgotten, whirl and take flight.  The commotion is impressive to the casual witness—less so to one who has observed the scene from the vantage point of my window over the last couple of months.

From his play, Macbeth, Mr. Shakespeare’s description of life seems apropos:

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

The leaves go in circles.  Now to the end of the road, now across to one yard to lie breathless for a time.  With the next gust of wind, they revive, shoving each other aside in their hurry to rise on the current, only to scurry back around the cul-de-sac and alight once more.  Right back where they started.

Probably, within feet of where they tumbled from the tall oak trees last fall.

Going nowhere fast.

But the wind roars still.  Through limbs of trees, standing naked in the late winter sun, it shoves—and grabs—and pulls.  Like so many windmills twirling in the sky, the giant oaks twist their extremities this way and that, almost it seems, trying to catch hold of the leaves spinning below.

I’m sure it may be only my imagination—it is my imagination, isn’t it?—but, for just a moment—the barest hint of a moment—I have the idea that they would—if they could—reattach themselves to the leaves that abandoned them mere weeks ago.

What a silly notion.  Old dead leaves are of no use to the trees now, save possibly to nourish the ground around them as the natural process of decay and deterioration does its work.

I know this wind is blowing in another change in the weather.  A warm day today, but cool again tomorrow with the front blowing in.  Spring is coming.  Rain will fall. Stronger winds than these will swirl and stream through the treetops.

Even now, the mostly sleeping giants are showing tiny dark nubs on the spindly ends of their gray branches, nubs that will become leaves.  They will be new, green, living things—luxurious and lush—covering the entire tree with vitality and vigor.

And yet. . .  And yet today, the towering trees are naked—bereft of their former glory.

The wind blows, and merely accentuates their lack—adding insult to injury, the red-headed lady who raised me would have said.  Surely, there is something about which one could complain.

But, you know, as much as I prefer spring to winter, as much as I love a leaf-covered tree more than a bare one, I would never look at a tree in winter and suggest it would be better off with the old leaves back on it.

I complain frequently about winter, suggesting that everything is dead.  I am reminded, as I sit in my chair and watch the empty branches wave, that the tree has never been dead.  Never.

It is simply directing all its resources to the roots underground and getting ready for something spectacular to happen.  A little rest before breaking out.

It seems to me that things are a little drab right now.

Am I the only one who thinks about the past and how good that life was?  Am I the only one who wishes I could turn back the calendar a season?

Do you think we really could put the old dry leaves back on the trees?  No, I suppose not.

But, here is what I know.  Without worry of being proven wrong, I know it is true.

The earth turns and revolves around the sun; the wind blows and the rain falls.  Suddenly, without warning—well, almost without warning—the explosion of color and life will be upon us.

To everything, there is a season; a time for every purpose under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

And, the Creator has made everything to be right in its season.

And, He puts eternity in our hearts so we know to look ahead and not behind.

He puts eternity in our hearts so we know to look ahead and not behind. Share on X

Seasons come.  They go.  Sometimes, we are so busy, we have no time to consider the work He is doing in us.  But, we gain strength; and, we grow.

Sometimes, in the drab time, we sit and contemplate the reason for our very existence.  That also, is a season through which He moves us and makes us stronger.

And, sometimes, as they have this week, tears come.

And the tears, like the rain which has just begun outside my window, fall to the ground and water the future, to ensure that it will be brighter.  

Through tears, and even a little bit of dreariness, He will bring us, step by weary step—to spring once again.

There are indeed, Mr. Lewis, far better things that lie ahead than any we’ve left behind.

I wonder if the wind will still be blowing.

                              

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.

(J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring )

‘The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former house,’ says the Lord Almighty. ‘And in this place I will grant peace,’ declares the Lord Almighty.
(Haggai 2:9 ~ 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.

And the Stars Sang Together

I suppose I may have actually gone for a year or two without looking at them.  I really can’t remember.  I may have.

It’s not that I ever stopped believing in them.  I just never saw them, so they almost didn’t matter.  To me, they didn’t matter.

It’s funny when I actually write the words.  No, not funny.  Stupid.  And, sad.  Mostly sad.

I looked at them tonight.  The stars, I’m talking about.  I walked out into the winter night, just as the temperature showed thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and simply stood there staring at the spectacular light show in the sky.

Do you think the light show was good at the last concert you attended?  I don’t get to many rock concerts, but they’ve changed a little over the years.  Besides the obvious increase in volume, I mean.

The light arrays on the stage are astonishing in their scope, utilizing everything from LEDs to old-style incandescent spotlights to pyrotechnics, all operated by one man sitting at a control board, or perhaps even pre-programmed and actuated by computer software at the proper time. 

The lights move up and down or side-to-side, oscillating and flashing all the while.  They don’t just highlight the musicians on stage, either.  Some are aimed at the audience and, from time to time, shine so brilliantly in their eyes that the band members onstage are not even visible at all.

Still.  The gaudiness and brilliance of those stage lights fade into a dim memory as the attentive human wanders under the night sky.  

I stood in my shirt sleeves tonight, the glory of the heavens spread out above me, and, for a few moments, forgot how cold it was.  The blue-black canopy of space overhead was overwhelmed by the constellations and galaxies, and the night sky was alive with light.  Pure, brilliant, untouched Creator’s power.

For the better part of twenty years, the Lovely Lady and I lived in a house which was part of a commercial zone in our little town.  We could often see the big orb of a moon as it rose on the eastern horizon, or hung like a giant smile overhead.  And, the sun had no problem showing its face day after sweltering day through the long humid summers. 

But, to walk out the door and look up at the stars in the sky was never as easy as that.  The man-made lights shone garishly in our eyes like so many rock-concert LEDs obscuring the main act, the stars, if you will, overhead.

It’s easy, when you don’t often see the stars, to forget how spectacular that light show is.  Over a period of years, one might be forgiven if it’s not on their top ten list of the most important things in creation to take time for.

It would be foolish, however, to decide that the stars are no longer shining in the sky.  Just because we don’t take the time, or make the effort, no one would aver that they don’t exist anymore.

I wonder.  Do you suppose any of those stars gave up on me in the years when I wasn’t able to walk out under the dome of the heavens in the middle of winter and be blown away by their splendor?  Maybe just one called it quits.

No?

The faithful in northern Greece were encouraged to stay just that—faithful—in the letter written to them by the apostle Paul. He described them as stars that shone in the sky, in the midst of a damaged and deceived generation. (Philippians 2:15)

Nearly every day, I read of someone else who is advancing the claim that our time—those of us who follow Christ—is ended.  We’re not needed anymore; not relevant to our culture.

I could have made the same claim during all those years of living under the halogen glare of parking lot and street lights on poles.  Who needs stars when you have automatic lights that shine on demand?

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The stars are irrelevant!

And yet somehow, they’re still shining.  Still in their constellations.  Still wheeling across the cosmos in synchronization with every other ball of burning gas set into motion all those centuries ago by our Creator.

And our sun, dwarf star that it is in a galaxy of giants, ushers in each new day, and season, and year, just as if it is as relevant today as it was on the day when the stars sang together and the angels shouted for joy at the marvelous creative power of our God. (Job 38:7)

Somehow, I think I’ll keep shining too.  

No one may be looking at the little light right now.  There may never be a single voice that testifies to the power that makes my light visible.

It doesn’t matter.  He made us to shine.

Not like the fake, gaudy light of the stage array, nor even like the brilliant, confusing glare of Gideon’s lamps in the enemy camp. 

But, simply with the bright, steady light of His love and grace, we shine.

With the bright, steady light of His love and grace, we shine. Share on X

Lighting the way to Him.  For a world blinded by too many lights that illuminate nothing at all, we are lighting the path to Him.

We shine.

                               

And I feel above me the day-blind stars
Waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
(from The Peace of Wild Things ~ Wendell Berry ~ American farmer, author, and poet)

 

Look up into the heavens.
    Who created all the stars?
He brings them out like an army, one after another,
    calling each by its name.
Because of his great power and incomparable strength,
    not a single one is missing.
(Isaiah 40:26 ~ NLTHoly Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 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.