boundaries

The little dog is an escape artist. Well, not so much an artist as a fanatic.

She has a good-sized yard in which to roam; it having ample grass to roll in, dirt to dig in, and room to stretch out. Plus, there’s always food and water waiting for her. And yet, she is not content.

I have watched the little dachshund-mix canine run back and forth along the fence line with no other intent but to find a weakness, just the beginning of an opening to widen—first with her nose, then with her head—and slip out of. She has all that big yard to run, but she wants the whole world instead.

Several times recently, I have called to her as she streaked away from our neighbor’s yard to freedom and she, friendly beast that she is, has come to my call, allowing me to pick her up and drop her down gently back into her assigned domain.

And then immediately, she has headed for the hole through which she squeezed earlier or has run for the incline she used as a launching ramp onto the stump next to the fence, jumping from there to freedom again.

She is not content.

In the midst of plenty, she wants more. Surrounded by all she needs, including the loving attention of her owners, she would sacrifice it all for a few minutes of running free.

Foolish dog! Danger awaits out there; hunger and terror from other animals.

I laugh at the silly thing, but then I remember. Last week, I offered to help the dog’s owner with one problem area, next to the stump. As I worked with the fencing to be anchored around the area, he, temporarily crippled with sciatica, hobbled up, leaning on his cane. Gasping in pain, he bent over to help.

He couldn’t stand to have someone working in his yard and not be involved. Even with his physical limitations, he just had to participate in the labor.

There was no need. I had it handled. He helped me to his physical detriment.

In my mind, I can’t help but compare the man and his dog. Both are cared for and have no need of more, but both feel the need to do more, to push farther.

To their distinct disadvantage, they push the boundaries.

And, still laughing, I wonder at the foolishness of not resting in what has been provided. Why are we—both animals and humans—like that?

But, my laughing is quieted as another memory pushes aside the scenes of the man and his dog.

Just last week, it was. My grandchildren had come to visit, parents in tow (they will come along), and having an hour or so before a scheduled event, asked if they could have another go at the stump in the front yard.

“But, you can’t do any of the work, Grandpa! We don’t want you to hurt your back again.”

I agreed to oversee the job and stay out of their way. With my mouth, I agreed. My brain and heart didn’t follow suit, apparently. After several minutes of standing and making suggestions of locations for chopping and prying, I could take it no longer.

“Let me take a whack or two at that!”

I swung the mattock a number of times (I don’t remember if it was three or twenty) and soon we had most of the above-ground part of the stump out.

I haven’t had many pain-free moments since.

There was no reason for me to swing that tool—not even once! The labor was freely provided; the task would have been finished handily without me.

My grandchildren were there, not only to provide labor; they were there to be a wall of protection.

And, I stepped out from behind that wall. Because of my pride. Stubbornness, too. But, mostly pride.

What is it the Proverb says? “Pride goes before excruciating pain and a haughty spirit before the need to lean on a cane for support.”

No. That’s not quite right, but the result seems to be the same. The man who says I don’t need help—or, I know better than anyone else—is asking for pain and suffering. (Read Proverbs 16:18, for the true version)

Our Creator gives us boundaries—and He provides us with safe places and helpers—for our benefit. It’s not to punish us. The fences are there to give us safety.

One might expect the shenanigans from the little dog. While they can be smart for the animal kingdom, they’re mostly no match for humans in the logic department. Mostly. Sometimes, I’m not so sure.

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be able to say with the Apostle who loved to write letters, “I am content. Whatever condition and wherever it is that God has me, I am content.” (Philippians 4:11, my paraphrase)

Like the little dog, the fences gall me. They mock me, almost.

But, I’m learning to rest. And, to trust.

He wants good for us. Really.

Good.

With Him, we are safe. In His strong and loving arms, we can rest.

I may finally be learning my lesson. My neighbor, too. Time will tell.

I’m remembering the days when I used to call my father and let him know I was concerned for his well-being. He would often quote Psalm 16:6 to me to reassure me.

Perhaps, I need to claim it for myself in these days of learning to be content behind the fence.

“The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.“

I’m not sure about the little dog, but I’ve got an idea she’s going to be all right, as well.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep,
for you alone, Lord,
make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8, NIV)

“We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we’re wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.” (C.S. Lewis)

I never knew him.

The same could be said of many whose voices have fallen on my ears—whose hands I have shaken—whose eyes I’ve looked into.

Him, I never spoke with—never laid eyes on.

The young African-American man was moved by an article I wrote and was kind enough to send a note telling me so. We were connected only by the information superhighway, a mode of transport that never brought us closer than a note here, a click of the “like” button there.

Friends, they call it.

As if applying the label could tie the cords to bind individuals together. As if we could struggle past our differences in locale and in community.

He was a student of the martial arts; I a student of classical music. He was city through and through; I lock the doors to my car on the outskirts of any urban center, unlocking them only if there is no other choice or when I have passed the city limits sign on the other side.

And yet, it seemed there was something there—a connection of sorts.

Tears filled my eyes on the day he wrote the words: He’s gone. Sitting right across the table from me, and he dropped dead.

His best friend had died of a massive heart attack as they sat eating and joking. He never got over it.

I wrote a note, which he acknowledged. We exchanged other notes, but they were vague and disconnected. Something had changed.

A few months later, I was shocked to read the words from a relative in a message to the young man’s online friends.

Tonight, he decided there was nothing left worth living for. I’m sorry to have to tell you this way. Thanks for being his friends.

I know. I cry too easily. This was different.

A friend died, his life ended before he was a quarter of a century old.

I never knew him.

Still, he was my friend, my brother. The tears flowed.

They fill my eyes even now.

Can I tell you something? Even if I had never exchanged a word with him, we would have been connected. Even if his name had never been in the listing of friends I had made in my social network, it would be true.

If I haven’t made it clear enough before in my writing, let me say it again here:

We are all connected. All.

There was one Man who insisted on it. At the crossroads of history, He stood and said: If I do this—if I allow myself to be the sacrifice—it will be for every human whose heart beats within his breast. I will draw all men to myself. (John 12:32)

I am not a universalist. Many who are drawn will not come. I know that.

And yet, what if all that is standing between one who is drawn and the Man-God I claim to follow is me?

Or what if—on the flip side of the coin—what if I’m the one who will help that one who is drawn to make up his or her mind?

If I say I love God, but do not love my brother, I am a liar. The truth is not to be found in me. (1 John 4:20)

I watch with horror as the barriers are being erected. High and strong, the walls are being fortified.

Brothers dwell within every fortification, but few will venture out from behind their safety. Few can abandon their petty claims—to hold out a hand in friendship, to embrace family.

Family.

We argue about words and slogans, while people die. We insist on our version of truth while souls hang in the balance.

I’m convinced we will meet again one day, where no barrier stands. Together, beyond that dividing line between this earthly existence and eternity in Heaven, we’ll stand and will weep as we realize the powerful truth of His words.

All men. Black, white, brown—called out of every nation, every tribe.

Drawn to Him—away from worship of false gods, from following false prophets, from teaching false doctrines.

We’ll weep until He wipes away the tears from our eyes Himself. (Revelation 21:4)

I said earlier that I cry too easily. I wonder.

Perhaps we need to cry more while we’re here, not less.

We need to cry more while we’re here, not less. Share on X

My young friend who abandoned hope sat and listened to music right before he took his last breath. Missing his friend who had died before his eyes, he thought he heard in the words of the song an invitation to join him.

Perhaps, it seemed easier than walking a difficult, lonely road without him.

Another young friend, who also has known the horrible pain and emptiness of losing someone he loves, wrote recently of his struggle to comprehend a God who allows such things.

He has reached the conclusion—not lightly nor easily—that likely, it’s our understanding of God that is flawed and not the other way around.

We build a box and stuff God in it, much as we do with people.

Neither will stay in the boxes we have built.

He is too big.

People are too stubborn.

And yet, out in the open seems dangerous, doesn’t it? Too exposed, too brightly lit, too vulnerable.

But we’ve tried hiding. It achieves nothing lasting, leaving only suspicion and hatred.

Perhaps, it’s time to try openness.

There’s more room for hugging and handshakes out here.

There will even be some tears.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

So let the light guide your way, yeah
Hold every memory as you go
And every road you take, will always lead you home, home

It’s been a long day without you, my friend
And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
We’ve come a long way from where we began
Oh, I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
When I see you again.
(See You Again ~ Franks, Puth, Thomaz ~ 2014)

How wonderful and pleasant it is
    when brothers live together in harmony!
For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil
    that was poured over Aaron’s head,
    that ran down his beard
    and onto the border of his robe.
Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon
    that falls on the mountains of Zion.
And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing,
    even life everlasting.
(Psalm 133 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Behind this Fence

Crying In the Open