Forty years.

Gone by like the markers on the runway outside a jet’s windows.

Zip, zip, zip, zip…

You’ve seen it.  They are clear, separate and distinct, as you look out the window while the plane is taxiing out.  Then you sit for a moment, as if in preparation to spring into the sky.  The huge aircraft gathers all its faculties, like a great cat hunkering down to spring at its prey.  

Suddenly, the moment of take-off arrives.  The giant creature leaps forward, intent on flight.

Zipzipzipzipzipzip…

A moment before, you were certain of the markers, your position on the runway.  In an instant, the blink of an eye almost, the markers are no longer distinct, but a blur.  A little faster and they become all one line, neither coming nor going–just a single line made up of many.

Forty years.

My high school graduating class held its forty year reunion last week.  I couldn’t attend.  Too many miles and a packed schedule made it clear that, like all the rest before, I would miss this reunion too.

Unlike the three previous events, this time I would see much of what transpired through the windows of the internet and social media.  Photos and videos, as well as written messages fairly blasted from my computers and phone all weekend.  I was grateful and happy to be a part of it, even if only through the media.

Was.

The weekend ended.  All the participants went home.  At first, the posts continued unabated, with new photos and new messages.  Then they gradually slowed, a transition from the torrent of Niagara Falls to the trickle of a little hillside spring.

I was still grateful.  Still happy.

Until yesterday.  I saw the video.

The title read, “The Class of 1975…Remembers.”

We do.

I do.   

I wasn’t prepared for the photos.  The faces.  

Beautiful.  

Young.  

Alive.

But they’re not.  

I already knew it.  I have seen the list of my classmates who had passed on.  Accidents–AIDS–cancer–suicide–the list of causes includes all these and more.  I have dealt with the intellectual knowledge that they are gone.

But, the faces.

Suddenly, the tears flow.  I am back in homeroom as the teacher calls the roll.  Susie was always near me because of her last name.  She doesn’t answer.  Peggy, too–right before me in the alphabetical list.  No answer.  I answer here, but the next name called out after me, Raul, evokes no response.  He, too is gone.

So many more.

They are not just names; they are faces from my past–people whom I knew and who knew me.  Gone from view, perhaps forever.

Someone said that we will see them again.  I want to believe that.  My faith tells me that for some, it will be true.  My heart tells me that for others, it will not.  The grace of God is not lacking, but the permission from the individual is a condition which must be met.  

I pass no personal judgment, but God will not violate the choices we make in this life.

The tears begin anew.  So many–gone so soon.

I have spoken more than enough about tears recently.  I want to stop.

I want them to stop.  

As I dry my eyes once again, I consider the speed of the years going by once more and become aware that the blurred lines on the pavement are no longer passing at a frightful speed.  They have given way to clouds and a far away landscape which is passing even faster than the lines. 

Is this all we have to look forward to?  Will all of life soon be sad, distant memories left behind us?

In my mind, I reach over and slide the cover down on the window.  I shake my head and look around.

That’s odd.

In here, time is moving at a normal speed.  Folks are deep in conversation; young children are playing; refreshments are being served.  There is not a sign of hurry, no sense of despair.

Just like the jet, this sphere we ride on through the universe is spinning at breakneck speed, seemingly out of control at times.  Yet, in our little corner of the world, time passes as it always has, one day at a time.

Tomorrow is a new day.

There is still time.  

“In their hearts, humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.”

(Proverbs 16:9 ~ NIV)

“How did it get so late so soon?

It’s night before it’s afternoon.

December is here before it’s June.

My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?”

(Dr. Seuss ~ American children’s author/poet ~ 1904-1991)

It’s officially the first full day of Autumn.  The Autumnal Equinox, the exact moment at which the sun’s position passed the equator, occurred yesterday at 9:29 PM, local time.  I’m sure I felt a chill go down my spine right about then.  I don’t love Autumn.

No.  The name of the season is Fall.

It fits.

Fall.

We call it that for obvious reasons.  The gorgeous covering which the Creator has provided for all things alive and growing suddenly recognizes the signs that time is getting on.  With not a hint of embarrassment–without even the politest pardon me–the leaves clothing the entirety of nature will soon be shed, leaving the trees and ground bereft of cover.

Fall.

The nakedness of the trees aside, I have other reasons for disparaging the season.  The chill is already in the air.  The trees know it, in spite of the fact that temperatures have hardly dipped into the sixties.  The wind blew through a week ago, with just enough of the northern bluster behind it to tempt a few leaves to surrender without a struggle.

Cowards!  I look out the window and see most of the trees still covered in green, but I know, from many years of experience, that will change very soon.  Little by little, word will sift through the arboreal world that the battle is already lost.  Much of the foliage will simply alter from green to brown and let loose of the branches to which they have clung tightly for half a year.

Granted, there are a good few of the leaves which will put up a fight, clinging stubbornly to their posts.  But soon, the forces of change will begin to withdraw their life support, little by little drawing away the sap which supplies their energy and vitality.

They will not surrender easily.  No, they will hold on tightly, feeling the green fade, replaced by yellows and oranges, perhaps even a purple or red.

They will be glorious in their defeat, but they will be defeated.

By the thousands, humans will take to the highways and back roads to exclaim about and photograph their death.

Gorgeous!  Splendid!

I hear them exclaim already.  It doesn’t matter.

It will end badly.

It always does.  Every year.

Fall.  The Fall of the Leaves.  Almost like the Fall of Rome–or the Bastille–or the Alamo.

Ah.  But, I grow cynical, don’t I?

It’s only fall.

It happens every year, only to be followed by winter.  Which, in its turn, will be followed by spring and summer.  I know that.  My brain does, anyway.  The promise of God is that seedtime and harvest, summer and winter, will continue as long as the earth endures.

And yet.

I have seen the desolation which is to come.  The glorious splendor of the trees’ defeat still turns to darkest winter.

I do not love winter, either.  The cold cuts right through me.  The darkness…but, I’m borrowing trouble, aren’t I?  Winter will come.  When I have to go out, I will dress for it.  When I can, I will stay in where it is warm.

I will sit beside the fire and wait.  And wait.

And wait.  For what comes next.

For what comes next!

You see,  today I know the sinking feeling of certainty–certainty that fall is coming with winter following.

But, I also know the certainty, the joyous assurance that spring will come again.

I wonder.  Do the trees know that too?

As I sit and consider, I suddenly remember that the leaves aren’t the tree.  When they die, the tree yet lives.  Fall isn’t surrender, but simply preparation for next spring.  Our Creator, in His wisdom, designed it to be so.  Half a year of glorious life, a few weeks of glorious splendor, a few more of rest, and then…

Rebirth!  New life!

The reader will, no doubt, by now be aware that the images drawn on this page, the picture of ebbing life and sleep, as well as the new life which follows cannot be contained in the physical description of the earth’s seasons only.

It seems that I have more to think about tonight.

Perhaps, I’m not the only one.

I may even need to plan a day trip through the hillsides and valleys nearby in a few weeks.

There may be something worth looking at soon.

This old world keeps turning.

“You expected to be sad in the fall.  Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and cold, wintery light.  But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.”
(from “A Moveable Feast” by Ernest Hemingway ~ American author ~ 1899-1961)

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted…”
(Ecclesiastes 3: 1,2 ~ ESV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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“I dare you to cross that line!”

The sneaker clad foot of the skinny kid with the burr haircut dragged through the dry soil, creating a wavy line between him and the other neighborhood boys.  It looked like a stand off.

Jaw stuck out, the heavy-set leader of the ragtag gang of boys belligerently stepped right up next to the line, being careful to stay behind it.

He challenged the skinny kid.  “What you gonna do if I cross it?”

The slim loner swallowed hard and stared the challenger down.

“You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”

The big fellow edged his foot toward the line and barely, just barely, stuck the toe of his sandal over.  Looking contentiously at the light-weight on the other side of the squiggly line, he decided to take the bull by the horns.

He stepped across it.

The boys behind him held their breaths.  All eyes were on the skinny kid.

“Well?  What are you gonna do?”

The boy with the short hair looked at his antagonist.  For a moment, it appeared that fists would fly.

But no.

A smile appeared on the boy’s face.  “Ha!  Looks like you’re on my side now.  C’mon.  Let’s play some softball.”

I’m thinking tonight about the boundaries we draw.  For some inexplicable reason, we seem to have a desperate need to draw lines.

In the sand.  In our cars.  Around our homes.  Between countries.  Between people.

The other night, walking alongside the creek downtown, I saw the flashes of lightning in the northwestern sky.  They were still a good ways off, but nonetheless, it appeared that we were due to have a storm roll through soon.

Before I had headed out the door for my (then) moonlit stroll, I looked at the weather report with the Lovely Lady.

She was nonchalant about the possibility of me returning from my walk in a downpour.

“Oh, the rain is all still way up in Kansas.  It’ll be a long time before it arrives.”

Kansas.  That’s miles away.

Years even.

I haven’t been in the state of Kansas for ten years.  Really.  Storms all that far away will take forever to get here.

Yet, less than half an hour later, the clouds were gobbling up the stars overhead and the voltage in the sky was making its way to the ground with disturbing regularity.

Clouds and rain and lightning apparently care even less about boundaries than do boys who have been provoked.  State lines?  Those aren’t barricades to stop the wind and the storm.

The Teacher Himself said it.

“The wind blows where it wants.  You hear it, but don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going.”

I might as well have put up my hand and shouted halt in the midst of a stampeding herd of cattle.  The beautiful harvest moon above was extinguished and the stars disappeared as if they were candles being snuffed out one after another.

I knew when I was defeated.  Hurriedly, my feet beat a path for home and shelter.  Even so, more than a few drops had already landed on my head before I pushed the back door open at last.

Boundaries.  We need them.

Boundaries.  We need to do away with them.

Interesting concept, isn’t it?  Both statements are true.

Some boundaries, we need.

The traffic cop in Brooklyn sets a boundary simply by putting up his hand.  The two-ton masses of steel and plastic skid to a stop and wait impatiently for the boundary to be lifted, so they may be on their way once more.

It is a boundary that is absolutely essential.  The cross-traffic must have safe passage.  The hand of the policeman is all that guarantees access without fear of chaos and destruction.

Do you wonder at the power of that one gloved hand?  Don’t.

It has the power of the government and the people, and God, behind it.

God?

The Apostle wrote the words he was given to share, centuries ago.

“There is no authority, except from God and those in positions of authority have been placed there by God.”

It would be an easy thing to get tangled up in discussion about this concept, but there is more to say tonight about boundaries.  I’ll just leave that little rabbit trail alone for now and move on.

Some boundaries should never have been put up in the first place.

The list is endless.  Class divisions are odious, causing envy and anger.  Racial divisions are just as bad, not only dividing us, but putting us at war with each other.  It is a war which cannot be won.

I couldn’t begin to list all the other boundaries my mind jumps to as I write.  The reader will, no doubt, have already begun to add to that list in his/her mind, as well.

From our days of playing in the sand box, we have drawn the imaginary lines.  Those lines have blurred and new ones have been drawn in the sands of the years.  Some will take extraordinary effort to efface; others will only be removed by the sole Power which actually has the authority to draw such lines (and the means with which to enforce them).

I observed some lines being drawn this afternoon as I worked in my store.  The children who blew through the sales floor one after another had only a couple of words for me.

“Hi Grandpa,” was all any of them uttered, as they headed for the back door.

The curious boy, the risk-taker, must have seen something of interest before he hit the door.  I heard the noise of physical objects being moved near the shelves where the band instruments awaiting repair are stored.

The careful one, the obeyer-of-rules, followed close behind.  Within seconds, the boundaries were being set as his authoritative voice laid down the law.

“Mom told us to go straight through.  You’re not doing what she said.”

The little policeman and the lawbreaker stood, at odds with each other–the boundaries reinforced as they bickered.  Then something happened that erased the line completely and instantly.

Mom followed them into the back room.

Silence.

The officious voice stopped in mid-sentence, the indifferent whine of the other boy trailed off, as well.

Before The Authority, all other authority pales.  Differences put aside, both boys wandered out the back door in apparent amity.

The preacher in me wishes to explain all.  I would have my readers miss not a single detail of the message.

The man I am suggests that it is time to leave be.  Wisdom may be found in silence, too.

I am, after all, learning the same lessons.

I seem also to be erasing the same lines in the sand.

And figuring out which ones stay.

This could take awhile.

“And He arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, ‘Peace, be still.’  And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.”
(Mark 4:39 ~ KJV)

“‘I like geography best,’ he said, ‘because your mountains & rivers know the secret.  Pay no attention to boundaries.'”
(from Story People by Brian Andreas ~ American author/publisher/technologist)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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She was kind enough to leave a comment about my essay.  I am grateful.  Not many folks think about doing that.  You may do the same if you wish.  The button is down below, just waiting.  It will still be there when you’re finished here.

Did I say I am grateful?

I am.  She remarked on some thoughts she had taken away from the writing.  She even called it interesting.  I had talked about a legacy.  She said she is too busy to make plans for what the future holds.

Seriously.

“…for now I’m too busy living life to question what happens after it is over.”
__________

Our friends left the United States the other day, going to a country near India to start a business.  They have known for a couple of years that they were going and will probably be there for many years to come.

Just the day before the five of them were to leave, they made a few phone calls.  They called the realtor and told her to sell their house.  Next, they called the airline and asked for tickets to fly to their new home within twenty-four hours.  Then, they threw a few things into a suitcase and called their closest friends to tell them goodbye.  They were on the next flight out of the country.

No muss–no fuss.

They didn’t have to plan, didn’t even have to clean the house.

They were too busy for annoying details like that.
__________

If there is anyone who believes that, I’d like to sell them a few hundred shares of American Motors stock.

Our friends are going to a new life!  A new country.  A new business venture.

Their home was sold before they set the date to leave.  They sold and gave away nearly all they owned.

Airline tickets were purchased months before the date of embarking.  Schedules were considered and reconsidered.  Hard decisions had to be made.  There are strict limits to what can be fitted into a suitcase.  They packed and repacked, removing this and throwing away that.

Legal matters had to be attended to.  Governments of foreign countries have different and sometimes difficult regulations.  Taxes and business structures have to be considered and planned carefully.

Letters were written, emails sent and…
__________

I don’t need to go on, do I?

I have said it a number of times before in my writing, so I hope you’ll forgive the repetition.

There is more.

More.

I am absolutely convinced that eternity stretches out ahead of every one of us.  Whether we plan for it or not, every step we take carries us further into that eternity.  One day, we will board the vessel which awaits to take us to the far off land in which we will reside.

The day will come.  It comes to every person.

Decisions are being made–today–whether we believe it or not.  Choices are taken daily which will resound into time immemorial.

Too busy living?

I’m thinking it’s past time to be packing.

“Without goals, and plans to reach them, you are like a ship that has set sail with no destination.”
(Fitzhugh Dodson ~ American Presbyterian minister/child psychologist ~ 1924-1993)

“If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable.”
(1 Corinthians 15:19 ~ KJV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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Every year, it’s the same thing.  School starts and the music store is inundated with people, both parents and students, anxious to acquire just the right instrument.  And, even though the process entails a lot more than this one sentence could possibly contain, we manage to achieve the goal–sort of.

But, the week after?  The week after, the parents come back in.  They forgot this accessory or waited to buy that book.  It’s always something.  But, somehow we always seem to get around to the same question.

“My kid says that their band director told them to clean the horn in the bath tub.  Surely that’s not really what we’re supposed to do?”

The consternation is written across the faces of each parent as they contemplate the amount of hard-earned cash they laid down for this instrument.  Now, they’re supposed to just dunk it in the bath tub?

My stock answer the first few years was, “Why not?  You put your kid in the tub every day.  Surely she’s worth more than that horn…”

I don’t say that anymore.  About this time in the school year, most parents have lost their sense of humor.  Give it another month.  Then they’ll be back to normal.

But this week?

This week, I just say, “Yep.  That’s right.  Take the valves out and put the rest of it in the bath tub.  It won’t hurt a thing.  Except for the bath tub.”

The fact is, it really doesn’t hurt the tub.  It’s just that, after the water is drained out, the tub will be filthy.

Filthy!

You think you’ve seen a ring around your tub before?  Not compared to what will be left after your kid washes out a few months’ worth of grime and corrosion from the inside of a brass instrument he or she’s been blowing through.

How well I remember the first time I gave my French Horn a bath after the Lovely Lady and I were married.  She plays the flute.  That dainty little instrument would never survive the bath, so she had no idea what to expect.

And I, sensitive new husband that I was, left the bath tub as it was after the process.

The next morning she prepared for her bath and squealed in disgust as she began to run the water.  It truly was a horrendous mess.

I never left the bath tub in that condition again.  Some lessons take only one go round to stick with you.

But tonight, I’m wondering about another lesson from the drained bath tub.

Yes.  That’s the word I’m looking for.

Drained.

It’s exactly what I’m feeling tonight.  Well, tonight and just about every other night for the last month.  It has been an exhausting few weeks.

I said the words to the Lovely Lady just a day or so ago, after I had answered the front door of my house, to find a customer asking me to open the store on a Sunday afternoon.  We were about to sit down to the table with our family and friends.  The customer desperately needed a solution to a problem by later that evening.  I helped.

All I said to the patient lady who keeps me sane was, “Everybody wants a piece of me.”

She just nodded kindly and suggested that a nap might help.  It did.

I’m thinking about that bath tub again, though.

You know, when the water is still in it, you can’t really see that nasty ring.  Oh, there are horrible little green things floating here and there, but they are dissipated by the amount of liquid.  The water doesn’t look so bad.

The side of the tub doesn’t show any ill effects of the process at all.

Until the tub is drained.

I’ve seen the commercials.  You have too.  Scrubbing Bubbles.  They just fly around, helter-skelter, and the tub is instantly clean.  Would that it were that simple.

Or painless.

Out comes the bathroom cleaner and the brush.  Oh, and one other ingredient, one the Red-headed Lady who raised me always suggested–Elbow grease.  Yep.  Hard work.  A little sweat mixed with the cleaner.

Who knew that being drained was going to make so much more work?  Perhaps I should just leave the water in there.  Surely, the Lovely Lady wouldn’t mind getting into that water so much.  She could just run a little more clean water in and it wouldn’t be all that bad.

Do you remember learning about the Dead Sea in Sunday School?  Do you know why it’s dead?  There are no outlets.  Nothing–absolutely nothing runs out of it.  The water evaporates some, but it never drains.

Never.

Give me a pretty little lake in the hills any day.  Streams and rivulets carry the rain water and the ice melt-off into it in the spring.  More streams, and perhaps a river, run out of the down-hill side.

Constantly emptying.

Constantly being filled.

Drained, but not drained.  Cleaned to become dirty–and then cleaned again.

I think I may have a gunky ring around my insides now.  Time for a few scrubbing bubbles and more cool, clean water.

There is more to be done.

Several people still want a piece of me.

I may be drained right now, but I hear the rain coming…

“Then Elijah said to Ahab, ‘Go get something to eat and drink, for I hear a mighty rainstorm coming!'”
(1 Kings 18:41 ~ NLT)

“I know it’s hard when you’re up to your armpits in alligators to remember that you came here to drain the swamp.”
(Ronald Reagan ~ U.S. President [1981-89] ~ 1911-2004)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved. 

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