complaining

The Cicadas Have Something To Say

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;
Yes, I have a good inheritance.
(Psalm 16:6, NKJV)

Earlier today, I trekked from my comfortable home to meet the Lovely Lady at her workplace and to walk with her back home. I strolled, in comfortable shoes, along a smooth sidewalk shaded by oaks, sweetgums, and maples. The one street I crossed had stop signs from all directions, and the oncoming traffic was happy to let this old guy walk on the crosswalk at his own pace.

There was no shouting, no honking, not even a rude gesture from any of them. Of course, my greeting to the lovely redhead when I arrived at my destination was sweet and joyful.

Except, it wasn’t.

“Man, is it hot out here today! It’s even sweltering under the shade of these trees! And that wind! I think it makes it even more uncomfortable!”

Well? It’s how we greet each other, isn’t it?

We were happy to reach the cool of our air-conditioned home within a few moments, but I wasn’t done.

“Now, I have to change my shirt! This one’s soaked through!”

I’ve told you how much I love summer, haven’t I? I suppose the thing is, I do—until I don’t. Then, I complain. Just like I did in the winter, which I really do dislike.

I repent. I do.

Later in the afternoon, the needle on the thermometer outside the front window having risen to just under the century mark, I noticed a beautiful swallowtail butterfly flitting around the yard.

Well, flitting may be the wrong word. Perhaps flapping would be more to the point. More about that in a moment.

When I looked again, an hour later, the beautiful thing was still out there flapping from one point to the next. I decided to see if I could get a photograph of the flying insect. You can see the result above.

May I share an insight or two with you? Epiphanies happen at the oddest moments. They do for me, anyway.

The butterfly was at work, simply doing what it was created to do.

Did you know that when a butterfly is traversing your yard, or garden, or front porch, it’s not out for a leisurely excursion? For some reason, I’ve always thought of butterflies as rather lazy, or perhaps I should say laid-back, creatures.

I’ve been wrong.

The butterfly has been put in its environment by the same Creator who said of us that we would earn our food by the sweat of our brow. The creature is working to survive. It turns out it is also working to tend the garden it’s been placed in, gathering sweet nectar to eat, but at the same time, collecting pollen on its antennae, legs, and abdomen. Pollen, which will brush off on the next flower it enters in its quest for more sweet nectar, thus helping to ensure the flowers’ endurance as a species.

This butterfly was hard at work! In the afternoon heat. With no shade to keep the sun from its beautiful black and blue wings and body. Against a strong southern wind that blew it off the blossoms again and again. The flapping wings were proof of the exertions necessary simply to earn the poor thing its daily bread.

I’m no entomologist, but the swallowtail seemed to be content in its circumstances.

I shared the photo with friends, mentioning that there was no complaint to be heard from the butterfly. At least, I couldn’t hear said complaint, if it was forthcoming.

Even while I impeded its regular route, forcing it to move around me as I attempted to get a decent photo, it showed no frustration; making not even the slightest attempt to attack me.

I wonder.

David wrote the words to the Psalm quoted at the beginning of this piece. One might think it was an easy thing for him to write. He was a king. A man after God’s own heart. Fabulously wealthy. Famous. Attractive to women, evidently.

Pleasant borders, indeed.

They weren’t. Not by our standards.

He was banished and hunted by King Saul and his army. His infant son died. Another son would unseat him from his throne and pursue him in the wilderness, just like Saul did. David lived his whole life under judgment, knowing he would never—never—accomplish his most magnificent dream, that of building a tabernacle where his God would be revered and worshiped.

And yet, for all that, he knew his God was enough. His God was faithful. His God was worthy of his love and gratitude.

And I complain about the summer heat. While the butterflies obey their Creator without murmur.

I claim to be a follower of Christ. I know many who make the same claim.

Somehow though, the sound rising up from our lips is something short of praise. Far short.

Have you been listening recently?

Inexplicably, my mind has been occupied with insects today. I was reminded that last year at this time (as it is again now) a meteor shower had been in progress. A friend had suggested that I go outside and view the event since I am famously late in going to my bed and she knew I would still be up.

I replied that I had tried, lying down on the ramp leading to my front door only to get damp from the rising dew. And I hadn’t been able to see anything in the sky because the cicadas in the oak trees were deafening.

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? But you know I’m right.

We walked out this evening to bid goodnight to our daughter and son-in-law, along with our grandchildren, and found ourselves yelling our goodbyes over the cacophony in the trees. It seems that all the cicadas in the world, past, present, and future, are gathered above our heads these days, screaming their song (if one can call it that) to the heavens and everything south of them.

They too are only fulfilling their Maker’s design for them. Among other things, they sing. Together—they sing.

I will admit that one cicada has a formidable voice, making a noticeable racket. I do hear the single ones frequently.

But together? The air vibrates with their vocalizations. Literally and figuratively. There is no ignoring it while they live and sing. In unison. Or perhaps, in harmony. I haven’t found the scale or the chords their music employs, but it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

And they do it together. As their Creator planned and ordained.

 What if we did that?

What if we who call ourselves Christ-followers would raise our voices in such a choir of praise that the world couldn’t do anything but stop and hear?

What if all the complainers and gripers would toss their petty grievances on the dung-heap from which they were acquired in the first place and join their voices with the chorus?

It is what we were created to do.

I’m ready to sing for a while. With you. And you. And you.

Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all you people!

 

 

Make a joyful shout to the Lord, all you lands!
Serve the Lord with gladness;
Come before His presence with singing.
Know that the Lord, He is God;
It is He who has made us, and not we ourselves;
We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

Enter into His gates with thanksgiving,
And into His courts with praise.
Be thankful to Him, and bless His name.
For the Lord is good;
His mercy is everlasting,
And His truth endures to all generations.
(Psalm 100, NKJV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

But the Thorns!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

What a beautiful tree!  It’s absolutely the perfect place to put a treehouse!

A few of us were spending the morning helping our friends move.  It wasn’t that big a deal—loading a U-Haul truck with furniture and boxes, along with a pickup truck or three—since we were only going a mile away.

Still, we welcomed a minute to stand in the cool shade of the stately tree and savor a long drink of cold water.  It had been a morning filled with laughter and joviality as we labored together, but hard work in the sunshine seems to be a recipe for sweat and thirst.  We stood under the branches of the flourishing tree and were refreshed—by the water and the shade.

Looking up, I noticed the configuration of the sturdy branches where they joined the massive trunk.  The branches all came out of the trunk at something close to a right angle before sweeping upward, where they spread out to the leafy extremity of the tree’s crown.

Ah!  At sixty years old, I would be stretching credulity to claim the title of tree climber, but in a past life, I would have been up that tree in a minute.

Perfection!  What a magnificent tree!

The children quite obviously shared my opinion; one of the taller boys was already giving the younger ones a leg up onto the lower limbs.  Within moments, the branches were teeming with youngsters above our heads.

What a delight!  What I wouldn’t give to have such a tree in my yard for my grandchildren to experience.  Why, if it were in my yard, I might give it a shot myself—when the neighbors weren’t around to see my foolishness, of course.

And, the possibilities for a tree house!  Although, it seems such dreams may actually be governed by building codes and city ordinances in this bureaucratic age in which we live.

Still.  A tree house!

What a perfect tree!

The teenaged young man who had lifted up the younger kids was still standing nearby as I expressed my admiration.  Even though he is just moving into the house, he had done his homework regarding the majestic tree.

Yes.  This tree is a sweetgum.  So are those next door.

He tossed the words out carelessly, as if they weren’t nearly the sternest denunciation he could make of the ancient giant.  Perhaps—in fairness—to him they weren’t.

What a shame.  How unfortunate that some uneducated homeowner had planted such an unsuitable specimen right in the middle of his front yard.

I looked around in the leafy ends of the branches.  Sure enough, hanging down, I spotted them.  Those spiny seed pods!  Horrible things!

I wouldn’t have that tree in my front yard!  Not for anything!

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?  Go ahead.  Laugh all you want.  I hate cleaning up those spiny things.  They drop off the tree in the fall and the yard will be full of them.

Did you know, the sweetgum tree is often and vociferously named by homeowners as one of the worst trees to have in your yard?  It’s all because of those spiny seed pods, gumballs, some folks call them, which might even be dangerous.  They roll underneath your shoe and make you twist your ankle.  They hurt your head if you happen to be under the tree when one falls. And, don’t even think about going barefoot in the yard where one of those horrible trees is growing.

You’re still laughing.  You should be.

Moments before, I declared the tree perfect.  That’s right.  Perfect.  

As in, every good gift and every perfect gift is a gift from above, coming down to us from God, the Father of Lights. (James 1:17)

And now?  If it were gift-wrapped and planted in my front yard, I’d turn up my nose at the horrible thing.

Silly, isn’t it?  The tree is magnificent, with spreading limbs and foliage providing wonderful shade, growing straight up to heavens, fifty or sixty feet above my head.  Yet, here I stand, repenting of my admiration for it because of a little seed pod an inch and a half in diameter.

I think they call this incongruous.  It certainly demonstrates a lack of perspective on my part.

It seems to be a common trait for humanity.  My mind jumps to examples of our fickle approval or disapproval of other people and situations.  Yours will too, given a moment or two of introspection.

Perhaps, there is even one which hits very close to home, maybe even painfully so.  I know I have too many of my own.

And, even though I’m glad for the company in my foolishness, I’m disappointed in myself—and us.  I’m even more than a little embarrassed.

How is it we stand face to face with amazing blessings which we recognize clearly but, having noticed the tiniest of flaws, can see nothing else?

And soon, the imperfection becomes an annoyance.  As the annoyance grows, our sense of being blessed diminishes.

Before long, we have exchanged our blessings for curses, our joys for anger, our gifts for punishments.

It’s impossible to be grateful when one is critical of the gift they’ve been given. 

It's impossible to be grateful when one is critical of the gift. Share on X

He gives good gifts.  They are gifts which bring joy.  They are gifts which build character.  Sometimes, both at the same time.

Our old friend, Job, understood it when He answered his wife, who wanted him to curse God for the disasters which had destroyed the life he once had known.

Does it seem right to accept good from God and not the hardships also?  That’s foolishness!  (Job 2:10)

I understand.  A spiny seed pod on a beautiful tree is not the same as having your entire family wiped out and losing all your wealth.  Still, the principle applies.

God is for us.  

He intends good.  For us.  

He does good.  For us.

If He is for us, what do the inconveniences matter?  

If He is for us, we can abide the testing, the hard spots.  

The apostle, for whom I am named, said he considered these passing hardships as not worth comparing to the glorious expectation of what will one day be ours.  (Romans 8:18)

I’m with him.  At least, I want to be.  

One day—on that day—all of the things we complained and griped about here will seem as a hazy fog blown away by the morning breezes.  Gone in an instant, leaving no proof that they ever existed.

He gives good gifts.  Good. 

And, we are forever grateful.

I’d still keep the rake handy for the spiny seed pods, though.

 

I beg your pardon.  I never promised you a rose garden.
Along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometime.
(from Rose Garden ~ Joe South ~ © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC ~ All rights reserved.)

 

But Job replied, “You talk like a foolish woman. Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?” So in all this, Job said nothing wrong.
(Job 2:10 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

The Lawnmower You Gave Me

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I’ve never used a riding mower before.  I never had a lawn big enough to need one.

For most of my life, since I was nine or ten, I’ve pushed a mower to get the grass to a manageable length.  Back and forth, step after plodding step.  Leaning forward, hands spread across the push handle, row follows row until the task is completed.

It has always been a hot, tedious chore.

I have always been careful to say so too, after each session.  The Lovely Lady usually has a cold drink ready for me when I’m done and she stands there smiling as I complain.

The yard I mow now is done with a riding mower.  I sit down to do the job.  No more do I take step after step while following the roaring lawn implement.  I let the clutch out and the machine carries itself (and me) back and forth across the expanse of green, chewing up and spitting out all that exceeds the height I want to see when I’m finished.

What could be better?  Like day and night, the two methods are.  Or, are they?

Somehow, she still gets the same complaint from me at the end of the afternoon.

It’s a hot, tedious chore.  And yes.  I tell her so.

…and that seat just beats me up as it throws me from side to side over the uneven ground…

She smiles and hands me my cold water.

As I think about it, the red-headed lady who hands me my water is replaced—in my inner sight, that is—by another red-headed lady I loved—the red-headed lady who raised me.

She just looks up from her crocheting as she sits in her rocker and reminds me that I’ve always complained.  Always.

You’d complain if they hung you with a new rope.

I didn’t ask.  Sometimes, it’s just better to work things out on your own.  Maybe it had something to do with that other thing she always said about ropes.

Give you enough rope and you’ll hang yourself.

Nope.  No help there, either.

In time, though, I think I’ve worked out the new rope saying.  Simply put, it means we complain about the most absurd things at the most inappropriate moments.  It’s an absurd statement meant to point a spotlight at an absurd action.

The red-headed lady (the one who raised me) was right.  I do complain about ridiculous things when, in fact, they are the very things for which I should be grateful.

Leftovers again? Again?

Why are they coming to visit tonight?

I just bought gasoline for this thing last week!

If I have leftovers, I have plenty to eat.  More than plenty.  

When they come to visit again, be it friends, or grandchildren, or even the in-laws, I have companionship—a wondrous gift ill-suited for disdain of any sort. 

If I need to purchase gasoline again, I have had need of a vehicle and am blessed to have access to one—a luxury most in this world do not have.

I’m not preaching.  I’m not.  

Still, I am ashamed of myself, but I think I’m not alone.

It is some comfort to not be the only one.  Really, I think if I didn’t complain, then I might be the only one.  From the beginning, humans have complained.

The woman you gave me…the complaint Adam made, implying that if God had only had better sense than to burden him with Eve, everything could have continued as it was. (Genesis 3:12)

We’ve complained ever since.

The Children of Israel in the desert did it, again and again.  Moses did, too.  

Elijah hid in the mountains after an astounding victory and trotted out his accomplishments while complaining that He hadn’t been treated very well.  

Jonah preached a better sermon than Billy Graham could ever hope for, with appropriate accompanying results, yet he complained that God allowed the repentant sinners to live.

It wasn’t only the men.  Sarah suggested Abraham should take her servant as a surrogate mother, but then complained about the result of that relationship—so much so that her dutiful husband drove the child and his mother into the desert to die.

Martha complained that her sister was a slacker, leaving her to do all the important work.

I’m not the only one.  But, here’s the thing.  

I don’t want to be one at all.

Besides the infamous squeaky wheel, I see no lasting benefit to complaining.

It’s not what I want to be remembered for.  And, that’s just what the Apostle, my namesake, reminded the good folk at Philippi of—that they were the focus of their generation’s scrutiny.

Everything—every single thing—you do should be done without complaining or grumbling. Live exemplary lives, with nothing to criticize.  You are in full sight of the world, blazing like stars in the sky as you walk daily in the middle of sin-filled and perverse communities. (Philippians 2:14-15)

It’s not just complaining about the inconveniences of life he’s talking about, although given the nature of the creature, that seems likely enough. 

Implied is the directive that we shouldn’t mutter against the folks around us, both followers of Christ and non-believers.

Selah.

Complaining is proof of an ungrateful heart.  It is evidence of an unforgiving spirit.  

In short, it shows a heart unchanged by grace and love.

Complaining shows a heart unchanged by grace and love. Share on X

My heart.  Ungrateful.  Unforgiving.

Unbowed.

I would not have it so.

I want to shine.  Like a star on the horizon, I want to blaze clearly and distinctly.

I think I’ll start by thanking the Lovely Lady for the cold water.  Perhaps the ride on the mower wasn’t as rough as all that, either.

All good gifts come from above.

It’s hard to complain when I’m saying thank you.

 

 

I personally believe we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.
(Jane Wagner ~ American writer/director)

 

Let everyone see that you are considerate in all you do. Remember, the Lord is coming soon.
Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done.
(Philippians 4:5,6 ~ NLT ~  Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.