christianity

Found

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

Before they lost the trail.  Before it got dark.

Before it got cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Found!

What a wonderful word.  Found. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Found.”

Found.

How sweet the sound.

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

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

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

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

Lost.

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

Meatloaf.  Butternut squash.  Apple crisp.

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

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

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

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

“People are always unreliable.”

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

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

She had a couple of other things, too.

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

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

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

I am unreliable. I am.

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

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

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

I wonder.  Are we the unreliable ones?

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

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

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

After that, who wants shotgun?

 

 

 

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

 

 

Amazing Grace ~ David Phelps and family ~ a cappella

 

 

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

Not Lightly

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

My mind, I mean. Wandering.

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

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

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

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

“You will not pass lightly through my years.”

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

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

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

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

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

Gifts they are, from a loving Father above.

All of them. Gifts.

Wait. All of them?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did not pass lightly through my years. 

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

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

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

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

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

No. Higher than that.

Really. Higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really.

Home.

Leaving footprints that point the way to a Savior.

Not lightly.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

“Forever Friends” by Nancy Jesser-Halsey

 

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

 

Feet Firmly Planted

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

New Year’s Eve, we call it.

As if.

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

If only.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home.

Somewhere else.

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

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

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

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

It is midnight. The threshold is crossed.

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

Still, we walk.

With Him. By faith.

With each other.  In love.

Home lies ahead.  Really.

Home.

Time to get moving.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

Between

~ Paul Phillips ~ 9 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll stop jumping up and down.

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

Between. 

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

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

Between.

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

Between isn’t comfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

Between.

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

Our home is up ahead. Up. Ahead.

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

Let the wind howl and the rain blow!

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

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

 

What is This Thing?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

Less.

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

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

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

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

Spectacular! 

Angels!  Lights! Music!

That’s what I’m talking about!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unto you is born a Savior.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This thing.

Savior.  King. Hero.

Baby sent from God.

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

How Did We Get Here?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was the first thing I thought when the words came out of nowhere. Well, not nowhere, since my friend spoke them with his own mouth, but I wasn’t sure what the catalyst for the thought had been. I’m still not sure.

“Why didn’t you become a preacher, Paul?”

I’m certain in that moment I looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. You know, wanting to keep going and get off this highway altogether, but on the other hand, perhaps a fast retreat in the direction from which I had come might be better.

How did we get here?

We weren’t talking about preaching or anything like it. We hadn’t even been discussing professions or callings at all.

I sat for a second or two and then, headlights no longer in my eyes, suggested that I was never supposed to be a preacher. I was glad the red-headed lady who raised me wasn’t sitting nearby. She had always wanted a preacher for a son. It didn’t happen. Still, I don’t suppose she was all that disappointed. Not that she would have told me if she had been. Moms are like that.

For all moms know—and, they know a lot—the road doesn’t always lead where they expect. For that matter, it doesn’t always lead where we ourselves plan. Mine surely didn’t.

I spent nearly forty years in a music store in a small town. You could be dismayed at the thought. A life wasted—what’s not to be sad about?

But, that’s just it.  I’m not sad about it.

Can I be bold here?

Any life lived in following Christ cannot be wasted.

Any life lived in following Christ cannot be wasted. Share on X

We either believe His Word or we don’t. He makes all things in our lives to work in a way that is for our good. It’s true for all who love Him and are part of His family. (Romans 8:28)

I know it’s not popular to talk about that verse these days. And, perhaps it’s become too easy to use it to reassure folks who are in painful situations. We are, after all, a people who like pat answers—easy roadmaps.

And yet, the words stand.

Not so pat.

Not even so easy.

We want to know. We have dreams we reach for, plans we’ve laid out carefully. We look around and nothing about this landscape surrounding us resembles anything we recognize.

How did we get here?

Funny thing. When the deer stares into the headlights, what has transpired to bring the beautiful beast to this point is of no consequence. Well, not of no consequence. The information is simply not pertinent to the issue at hand.

What matters is where the deer goes from that instant. Decisions must be made. Options considered. Quickly.

The same is true for us.

We use the knowledge at hand, considering the doors before us, and move forward.

Forward.

If our hearts are set on God, steadfast and unwavering, what comes next will be exactly what we wanted in the first place—to be exactly where He wants us. (Psalm 37:4)

I answered my friend the other day with confidence (once I got my feet back under me).

God called me to the ministry of a music store. I’m absolutely certain of it.

I know it sounds strange, but it couldn’t have been a more blessed place to be. I never wanted to work in a music store, much less own one, but day by day, step by step, opened door by opened door, I walked into it until—forty years later—I walked through another opened door on the other side.

A rich man, I walked out. Oh, there wasn’t any large amount of money in my bank account. Still, the wealth is fabulous. Really.  Fabulous.

Thousands of conversations, gifts given and received, memories stored away to be savored in the future, friends secured for a lifetime, and other folks who, like me, walked out with more than they walked in with—all of those are mine to hold onto.

I’m not sure what God got out of the deal. I just know, I did all right in the bargain.

I’m aware my story isn’t yours. Many find themselves in unhappy, seemingly dead-end lives and tasks.

I believe the words are still true for those folks as well.

As we make God our desire, our delight, we’ll look around and see His hand in our journey, His design in the open doors before and the closed ones behind.

There is joy in the journey, not least in the company of other folks on the same road.

How did we get here?

Following Him, we walked through the doors in front of us. And even if we jimmied open a few He never intended for us to enter, we’ll never be in a place we can’t move on from.

I’ve got a few more doors to walk through. Maybe you do, too.

There’s room for more than one on this road. We could try a few doors together.

Delight.

 

 

 

Good company in a journey makes the way to seem the shorter.
(from The Compleat Angler ~ Izaak Walton ~ English author ~ 1593-1683)

 

Your own ears will hear Him.
Right behind you, a voice will say,
“This is the way you should go,”
Whether to the right or to the left.
(Isaiah 30:21 ~ 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.

Previously published in Publishous on Medium.com

 

A Spectacular Autumn

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Have you ever seen a fall so spectacular?

The Lovely Lady asked me—Me!—the question as we drove down the highway a week ago.  She, who knows me better than any living person, asked the rhetorical question.  Of course, you know rhetorical means you’d better not answer it any differently than the questioner quite obviously desires.

She knows I really don’t like autumn.  Okay.  Let’s call it by its real name—the one that describes it to a “T”.  Fall.  I don’t like fall.

I’m adamant about it. 

You know what adamant is, don’t you?  Besides a state of mind, it’s a type of very hard stone, once believed to be impenetrable—like a diamond.  Adamant.  That’s me when it comes to disliking fall.

But, the question hung in the air.  Her rhetorical one.

I mumbled something.  It may have sounded like, “I guess it’s okay.”  I glanced over her way.  She wasn’t just glancing.  She was frowning right at me.

I thought I heard a little cracking sound.  I smiled.  “Yeah, it’s pretty spectacular,” I agreed.  I did.  I’m sure I heard a cracking sound.

The cracking sound has been so constant and so loud for the last few days, it’s almost deafening.

Well? 

How does one ignore the spectacular beauty surrounding him on every side?  Every corner I turn, every hill I top, reveals another vista that beggars me for description. 

The colors, the scope, the array of diverse shapes and hues are breathtaking. Indeed, they appear more striking and brighter than in any fall I can remember.

Perhaps, I’m only getting old and forgetful.  Then again, perhaps not.

The reason for the cracking noise, the breaking away of the adamant, wasn’t obvious to me until a friend brought it to my attention tonight.  She reminded me that I have suggested fall was simply prelude to the dead of winter, a season sent only to remind us of the bleakness to come.

She’s right.  I have done that.  I have. 

I repent. In more ways than just this, I repent.

Our Creator—the maker of all seen and unseen—gives good gifts.  (James 1:17) Good. Gifts.  The seasons, even the ones we find uncomfortable, are from His hand, achieving exactly what He intended for them from the foundation of the earth.

While the earth continues in its place, they will continue. (Genesis 8:22) He promised it.

Why would we dread the good He has promised to us?

Oh, I know each of the seasons has its difficulties.  It is true for every one of them.  Even spring, with its new life and verdant beauty, has its floods and violent storms.  Summer stinks of sweat and is sweltering in its extremes.  Autumn brings cold rains and reminders of death as the lushness of all growing things flees the coming cold.  And winter?  Well, perhaps I’ll just leave that to your own cold, dreary thoughts.

But each of the seasons, every one, has its promise and its joys.

Our God gives good gifts.

Still, you know I don’t dislike autumn only for its physical reminders of what is to come, don’t you?

We are not, for all the attempts of the cynics among us, primarily physical beings.  These bodies, astounding as they are (some more than others), are merely containers for the real treasure, the thing our Creator values above all other created things.

And yet, we become attached to our containers.  We pamper them.  We feed them.  We exercise them.  We care for them.

What we don’t like to be reminded of is that one day we’ll leave the container behind, like the empty wrapper it will become, and the real part of us, the part valued most by our Creator, will go on to its eternal home.

I wonder why we hate that reminder so.  A friend of mine wrote today of his anger in the face of a friend’s death.  Another person quoted a poem as they comforted a mother, still grieving her son after eighteen years.  

I know, she wrote, but I am not resigned.  And, I do not approve.  The words were from the poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay.  I don’t disagree with them.

Still.  Winter is coming.  For every one of us, it comes.

I’m no theologian.  I don’t understand what God’s plan was.  I don’t know if the earth was to be our eternal home, and He would walk with us here in the cool of the day for all time.  Maybe one day we would just walk up to heaven to live with Him.  I don’t know.

And, it’s okay.  I think it’s even okay to be angry about our losses, to disapprove of the manner in which we are separated from those we love.  We were never intended to die.

But eventually, it comes around to this: We are still eternal beings. 

The winter of our lives is not ultimately about death, but about life.  The Son of God who came to earth, giving His own life for us, guarantees it.

The winter of our lives is not ultimately about death, but about life. The Son of God who came to earth, giving His own life for us, guarantees it. Share on X

And just like that, I am—recently liberated from my prison of adamant—enjoying this season immensely. 

Autumn has never—Never!—been so spectacular.  I don’t want to waste another moment of its glory worrying about the season which will follow.  Not another moment.

And so, this old container took my redeemed soul for a walk in the autumn rain today with the Lovely Lady. Laughing and soaking in the beauty of nature and the reminders of His grace and great love, we walked together, as we have in so many seasons before.

What a wonderful season in which to be alive. Physically. Spiritually.

And, my soul sings for joy.  For some reason, I think I hear creation singing, as well.

Perhaps you know the tune, too.

 

 

 

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the mighty thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed:

Then sings my soul, “My Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art! How great thou art!”
(from How Great Thou Art ~ Stuart Hine ~ English missionary ~ © 1949 and 1953 by the Stuart Hine Trust. USA print rights administered by Hope Publishing Company.)

 

For as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater:
So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10-11 ~ KJV)

 

 

 

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

Soon, They’ll Fly

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

As if all of creation is following the calendar hanging on the wall, the temperatures are dropping to suit the season. The north wind already blusters, tugging on the leaves of the trees in my yard, urging them to fly.

Soon. Soon, they’ll fly.

I sat on the porch with a warm cup of coffee a few moments past and wondered why the melancholy mood seems to be descending like a cloud. It does every year now when the seasons make the turn toward colder temperatures and bare limbs on trees.

It hasn’t always been so.

I listen absent-mindedly to the wind chimes at the back of the house and then to the ones beside me on the front porch as they take their turn to spin and shimmy in the chilly breeze. The progression of the blowing wind reminds me that the years have come and gone in just the same way. The waning year reminds me that life too, wanes.

With the years have come so many life events. Joyous and sad, they also take their turns, blowing in and then out again. I might as well try to stop the north wind as to hold back the memories.

I have seen babies born and old folks die. Before my eyes, both have happened. I didn’t turn away from either. Both have brought tears. Tears of heartache. Tears of joy.

Children have grown; friendships, too. The children left, but came back with others of their own. Friends have come and gone, and then come again, some of them. Life has had its sadness, but also, in great measure, its joy.

And yet, among my memories, especially this time of year, the melancholy shoves aside the joy.

For some reason, I see, in my mind’s eye, a scene from a Greek myth I read as a child. Most will remember it, the story of Pandora and the box she was forbidden to open.

The pain and evil she loosed on the earth changed it forever. Only a weak and ineffective hope was left behind as a salve, a bandage for the open, bleeding wound.

The Greeks and Romans offered, in their attempts at explaining humanity and deity, a weak copy of the reality of a Creator who actually gave hope, real hope to His children, His creation.

How easy it is for us, like the ancients, to let our eyes fall to man and the created world, expecting salvation, but finding only weakness and death. We begin to attempt to explain all we see and experience, framed in our human frailty and knowledge.

Weakly, we grasp at the wisps of hope the world offers, thinking it will stave off our unhappiness and certainty of what follows the coming of Autumn.

We build empires, which merely crumble and dissolve beneath our feet. We follow political leaders who make promises with their mouths, but then take action from their base, evil hearts.

Wealth bellows its virtues, only to disappoint. Youth begins to slip from our grasp and hope flees. We chase health with every gym membership and dietary supplement we can find, only to discover ourselves trapped in ever-weakening frames.

Magazines are read; books purchased. Surely someone will find the secret before it’s too late for us!

We set our sight too low. Far too low.

Did you ever stand in the dark of early morning, out in a valley, awaiting the dawn?

I remember mornings—brisk Autumn mornings, not unlike those I’m waking up to now—when I sat awaiting the sun, and the beauty that would follow its rising.

Looking out across the valley, I could see only pitch blackness. They say it’s always darkest before dawn and then, I could believe it. But perhaps, I was looking too low. I should look up—up on the rise of the surrounding hillsides. Surely, from that height, light would ascend and creation would shine.

The hillsides disappointed. Every time.

Even the hilltops themselves were of little help. Possibly, I could make them out, silhouetted against the sky as they were. But, the light didn’t emanate from them.

I had to lift my eyes even higher—up to the sky, where the sun would rise.

There! Even before the sun arrived, the light shone upward from behind the dark horizon. Above the valley—above the hillsides—towering even above the hilltops—the sun burst forth to begin its daily circuit above.

The Psalmist knew it. As he sat in the valley of despair, he lifted his eyes up to the hills, but found no help there. Where—where would his help come from? Only from God. (Psalm 121:1,2)

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. 

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. Share on X

We would wander in the darkness forever, trusting a weak and futile hope. In our foolishness, we believe that the evil loosed in the world cannot ever be defeated. Or worse, we think we can unseat it with our New-Age we-are-gods-ourselves mantra.

Death will follow. As surely as winter follows Autumn, death follows evil and error.

He gives us a Hope that is far better than any we could ever fabricate or imagine.

A Savior who makes all things new.

The power of Pandora’s box is broken in Him. Our Hope has the power to give us new life.

He promises us heaven.

Soon. Soon, we’ll fly.

 

He promises us heaven. Soon. Soon, we'll fly. Share on X

 

 

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
(Autumn ~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~ Bohemian-Austrian poet ~ 1875-1926)

 

 

“The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” 
(John 3:8 ~ 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.

 

Skin In The Game. Playing Some Gaga.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Well, now he really has done it! After all these years, he’s taken leave of his senses completely.

I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. The blog name should have been enough warning. You should never have had any delusions.

Perhaps, I should pour a little oil on the troubled waters and make certain you don’t think I’m becoming a groupie of the edgy and not-a-little-odd popular singer named Gaga. I’m not even a fan. Couldn’t name a single song she’s recorded. I think I might be excused. I am, after all, a grandfather. It’s expected of me.

Let’s see if I can clear this up.

I took a ride in the country with my grandchildren this afternoon, finding myself in a beautiful valley beside a noisy creek at the end of the ride. Their dad had business to do with the folks at the camp in that valley, so I hung out with the important people.

Grandpa and the kids played gaga ball. 

What’s that you say?

Yeah. Me neither. Never heard of it before. Never played it, either.

Gaga ball is a sort of dodgeball played in a hexagonal wooden box about 20 to 25 feet across, with sides somewhere around 3 feet tall. The nice thing is, no one gets hits in the face. There are no red welts on your body after you get knocked out of the game. The ball can only touch other players below the knees.

This sixty-something-year-old man played it with no visible ill effects. It may, however, take a little time to get over the emotional scarring. The just-turned-ten-year-old girl embarrassed me more than once, yelling you’re out! in a victorious voice that left no doubt my lunch had just been eaten.

She wasn’t the only one to take a bite. All of them tagged me with the ball at least once. I even got a chance to yell victoriously a time or two myself.

Mostly, I yelled for the kids.

What a wonderful way to spend an afternoon! Well, not all afternoon. Later this evening, I also spent an hour and a quarter making music with more than twenty young adults in a little chamber orchestra. It’s an activity the Lovely Lady and I look forward to a couple of times a week at the local university.

I have described the effect of this activity as keeping us young on several occasions. That’s not quite what happens. I think the relationship we have with the young folks there is somewhat symbiotic. In other words, we benefit, but so do they.

We give them a chance to see old people living life. They give us a chance to see their lives and interactions. Our being there tells them they matter to someone besides their professors and their peers. Them tolerating our presence encourages us that all is not lost.

Somehow, I think we may actually like each other! 

Sadly, I think my dad jokes are lost on them, but I guess that’s one I’ll just have to take for the team.

I regularly hear my peer group suggesting they don’t understand the generation coming of age now. Worse, I hear criticisms that border on despair and anger.

There’s a phrase that comes to mind as I consider the problem. 

Get some skin in the game.

The words mean you must have a personal investment in order to realize any beneficial result. Not necessarily money, but it could mean that. In my case, I risked my physical skin by clambering into the gaga pit with the young hooligans today.

Engage. Put yourself in a position to lose something real in order to gain something even better.

Put yourself in a position to lose something real in order to gain something even better. Share on X

Friendship. Understanding. Love.

Love is good. The One we follow suggested we should be known specifically for that action. It’s the way the world will know we are His. Period. (John 13:35)

Somehow, we have come to believe they’ll know us because of our critical spirits. Or, our separation. Or, our pride.

The sad thing is, we’re often identified by those things. To our shame. At least, it should be to our shame.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit I didn’t start out the afternoon with my grandchildren in the gaga pit with them.

I stood in the shade. I looked at my phone. I looked at my watch. I yelled you’re out at a couple of them a time or two. They looked at me, wondering where I got the right to gloat over their (temporary) defeat.

They knew what I wasn’t seeing. Kids do that, you know.

I didn’t have any skin in the game.

It’s time to engage. Go to the coffee shops they frequent. Ask questions. Tell stories. Invite them to come over and play dominoes. They’ll roll their eyes. But, they’ll probably come if food is involved. 

Listen to their music. Even Gaga. Play some of it. Wear ear protection.

Engage. Take chances. Be real.

And, the next time your group of oldsters starts criticizing, ask what they’re doing to make it better.

When Jesus told His followers to let the children come to Him, He touched them. He embraced them to ensure they understand they mattered. To Him—God who became man—they were somebody! (Mark 10:14)

They are somebody. Still today, they are somebody.

Time to get some skin in the game.

Time to start playing some gaga. 

Ball, I mean.

 

 

We cannot transform what we refuse to engage.
(Elizabeth Kucinich ~ British activist)

 

Start children off on the way they should go,
  and even when they are old they will not turn from it.
(Proverbs 22:6 ~ NIV ~ New International Version ~ Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica)

 

 

 

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

 

The In-Between Parts

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

In hindsight, the words sound a bit brusque. Rude, even.

I meant well. The red-headed lady who raised me would have been surprised to know I said them. I’m a little surprised myself.

The other red-headed lady was standing at the sink. I was waiting, nearly patiently, for her but she kept doing what she had started. Finally, I had had enough.

“Will you move out of the way, so I can get in there?”

She looked over at me sheepishly and, drying her hands, moved away from the sink. I took her place and began to wash the supper dishes.

I know. I said she’d be surprised—the one who raised me, I mean—and I wasn’t kidding. She would have been shocked. The shock wouldn’t have come from the rude words. No, she was used to hearing those from her youngest boy, a brat if ever there was one.

She would have been astounded to learn I was volunteering to wash dishes. It never ever happened in her experience with me. I’m sorry that’s true.

The task of doing dishes is not a pleasant one for me, probably because of my early experiences with the job. In my formative years, it was the children in the house who did that kind of work. Neither of the two adults living with us had any need to soak their hands in dish soap.

My Dad answered the question with some regularity. Knowing there were seven in our family, most folks assumed we’d have a dishwasher. His words were, without fail, “What do I need a dishwasher for?  I’ve got five of them.”

There was always a smile on his face when he said the words, but he wasn’t joking. From oldest to youngest, the five siblings took their respective weekday, Monday through Friday. The calendar hanging on the inside of the cupboard door showed the schedule for the weekend rotation. Yep. Still kids.

I’ve told you about the dishes hidden in the oven, right? My brainchild, that one was. Not the brightest idea I’ve ever had. Let’s just say that Melmac doesn’t heat up to 425 degrees all that well and leave it at that.

You will understand when I say that, even from my advanced age, I don’t relish the task of washing dishes. It’s not that it’s a difficult process. There’s no advanced degree required to accomplish the deed. Run hot water. Add soap. Wipe dishes with a rag. Rinse.

I can do all that. The problem is. . . 

Well. You know what the problem is, don’t you?

Sure. I can do all that—run hot water, adding soap. I’m good at wiping them clean and usually have no problem getting the soap scum off. My problem is a little thing called recurrence.

The dishes are washed, but a few hours later, the process must be repeated. And again. And again. 

I start with good intentions. I do. 

Sure, Honey. Put me down for that job. After lunch every day. Until I die. No problem. No, really. I’ll get it.

I’m a good starter. The best. At starting. I’m even good at finishing. Maybe not the best, but pretty capable.

It’s the in-between parts that get me.

I promised to do what? How long? Everyday? That can’t be right.

The other day, I was reading about a physical fitness program (only reading, you understand), and the personal trainer who wrote the article suggested it would take three months to make the daily routine a habit. Three months! Three months of repetitious reps before the routine became routine.

I thought I’d check his facts (no—of course, not by actually doing it!) and read (again) about a scientific study which proved it took at least two months, but up to two-hundred-fifty days to do that. Over eight months! Of doing the same thing every day.

And, it wasn’t just doing the same thing every day; it was making yourself do it whether you wanted to or not. I’m pretty sure I know which category I would fall in.

I’m thinking about this, though. I’ve decided that almost everything we do in this life is a recurring task.

The thing that’s different is the frequency of the repetition. Washing dishes, brushing teeth, showering, dressing, shaving—these have to be done daily or even more often. 

Except the shaving. I have decided since I don’t face the public on a daily basis anymore, I can skip that for a day or two here and there. It’s been known to stretch out a bit more than that, too.

I won’t go through a long list of all the tasks we do on a recurring basis, but even maintenance of our vehicles and homes fits in, however distant from each other the cycles are. Painting the eaves of the house will come around again. Having the timing belt on my pickup replaced will have to be done again. Too soon, even though it’s likely to be another ten years.

Not many essential tasks can be done only once and then never again. 

Perhaps, none at all.

A wise friend once suggested as I made excuses for not spending more time with him, that we do the things which are important to us.

I had to chew on that for a while. We make it a habit to eat a meal with him and his wife at least twice a month now.

It’s important to us.

Somehow, I think I’ve said enough for now. Almost.

There’s just this: 

We started. At some time, we started on this journey.

We’ll finish. It’s a guarantee. Ironclad. (Hebrews 9:27)

Now, we’re doing the in-between part.

Perhaps, a few more reps?

 

 

Practice means to perform over and over again, in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.
(from An Athlete of God ~ Martha Graham ~ American choreographer/teacher)

 

Listen to my voice in the morning, Lord.
    Each morning I bring my requests to you and wait expectantly.
(Psalm 5:3 ~ 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.