darkness

Still in the Tunnel

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.

It was just a bit of whimsy, a slogan to print on a magnet shaped like an old steam engine.  My dad slapped it on the old Frigidaire over fifty years ago.  It still makes me laugh.

Sort of.

Nowadays, it’s more likely to make me think of the other phrase we use commonly, the origin of which is also most likely in the dim history of the railroads.

I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Except, I’m not.  Seeing the light yet.

It’s been a dark season.  Sadness piled upon dread; covered up in anticipation of worse to come.

I’m not the only one.

Our old friends sat around the table the other night and one of the ladies said the words.

“There are a lot of people dying, aren’t there?”

Nobody really answered her, but I heard a collective hmmm and the table went silent.  Each of us, lost in our thoughts, was seeing the faces of absent friends and hearing the voices of people we loved, voices we’ll never hear again this side of heaven.

It’s why I’ve not shared many of my current writings with my friends and social media followers for the last several months.  I’ve been seeing some of those faces and hearing many of those voices nearly constantly for a while.  And, when one is in dark places, it doesn’t seem the kindest thing to usher others into the darkness.

I’m going to chance it, though.  That moment with my old friends made me realize that perhaps we need to talk about it.  For a little while, anyway.

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now.  About that tunnel.

I’ll admit it; what got me thinking about tunnels was actually a bright spot in a little trip I took with the Lovely Lady recently.  We stopped by to visit one of our favorite bridges a few hours away from where we live.

She’s the one who saw it.  I was driving, so I would have never seen the conjunction of lovely points of light if it hadn’t been for her keen eye.

“That’s amazing!  You have to see it!”

She is not given to flights of fancy, this companion.  She’s the one who helps me see reality when I drift away from it (as I frequently do).  I’d hold onto all the balloons and float into the sky to oblivion, but she knows to use her trusty BB gun to bring me back down before I hurt myself.  I need her.

But on this day, she could hardly wait for the truck to get parked so she could hurry me up the hill and point out the scene.  It’s in the photo on this page.

At precisely this spot, one may view the most beautiful highway bridge in the state, under which runs the Missouri Northern Arkansas Railroad, leading over a lovely trestle (above a rushing river), and straight through a thousand-foot tunnel cut through the nearby hillside.  That’s the tunnel, there through the railroad bridge, that tiny arched blob of shadow before brilliant light.

The photo doesn’t do the view credit.  And yet, we were giddy as we stood there, with the richness of sunlight playing with shade and the drawing together of the individual points of beauty into one single vista.

The moment has passed.

I have spent hours with the photo open on my computer monitor since then.  And, as has happened so often over the last few months, the shadows eventually return, even to this place of light and beauty.

I know there is sunshine on the other side of that tunnel.  I see it clearly.  Still, that blob of shadow fills my vision.

I bet it’s dark in there—there in that tunnel.  Even with the end in view, it’s dark and gloomy.

It’s dark in here, too—here in this tunnel I’m making my way through.  But, I sense I’m not alone in here.

Even though it can seem so lonely, many of us have brought our tattered pieces of cardboard in and have built little makeshift shelters for ourselves under which we huddle, shivering and shaking, as the trains pass noisily by.

I won’t dwell on the darkness, on the loneliness, on the fear that this passage will be beyond our strength.  If you’ve been in here, you already know.  Probably better than I.

I find myself asking if the tunnel ever ends—if the darkness ever gives way to sunshine again.

I’m not the brightest crayon in the box; I readily admit it.  But, like Mr. Tolkien’s innkeeper, Butterbur, I think I can see through a brick wall in time.  And I think I may be seeing a glimmer of that light, finally.

I’m asking the wrong questions.

The apostle, my namesake, suggested in his day that his troubles were temporary and light.  More than once, he wrote the words. His point was that we’re aimed for better things, things that will make the events filling our sight today seem minor in comparison.

It doesn’t trivialize our life experiences.  The pain, the fear, and the losses can’t be dismissed with the snap of our fingers.  We still must endure them; still must make our way forward through the darkness.  But, something is waiting at the end, something that will make all the dreadful things we’ve struggled through fade in importance.

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

I stood, here in this dark tunnel, the other day, and I think I finally saw through that brick wall.  Momentarily, at least.  New questions came to my mind.

Who put this tunnel here?  And why?

Perhaps, I’m being simplistic.  I don’t think I am.

Tunnels are not made to create hardship, but to alleviate it.  They are placed to facilitate progress to the goal, in locations where the conveyance could never—never!—make any headway without them.

And, in my head—and heart—the words resound.  Words I’ve mentioned here before.

“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'”  (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT)

They are words to encourage us.  In the midst of hurting and paralyzing fear, they remind us that there is more.

More.

I’m reminded that the Word is light for our pathway and our feet.  I trust Him.  I’ll walk in that light.

Traveling to the Light at the end of the tunnel.  Step by step, walking in the light He gives for today.

I’ve camped out here long enough.  You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead.  That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

 

‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’
(from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

But forget all that—
    it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.
 For I am about to do something new.
    See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
    I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:18-19, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Basking

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

A year ago, life took a turn.  Let’s just say it was a turn I didn’t want to make and leave it at that.

A year.  

A wise man I know sent me a poem early on in that year.  Something about being called aside.  I didn’t want to be called aside.

We closed our business—and waited.  We worked in a yard—and waited.  We emptied a house—and waited.  We watched our bank account empty—and waited.

Many would say it’s been a hard year.  If you pressed me, I might agree—for a few seconds.

Earlier this week, when a hint of good news arrived, a friend called it a blessing from God.

He’s not wrong.

Good news—hope for the future—is a blessing from God.  It is.

Still, I wonder.  Why do we assume only the things we want and desire and then receive from the hand of God are the blessings?

Why not the yard work?  Why not closing down the business?  Why not the filthy, heavy labor?

Why not the waiting itself?  Couldn’t that be God’s blessing?

I’m not going to argue theology; I won’t break any new ground here.  Still, there is one thing I need to say.  Well, one thing before I say other things. 

God gives good gifts to His children. (Matthew 7:11)

Always.

Good gifts aren’t defined as wealth or power, or the good life.

The Teacher sat down on the mountain one day and began with a list of blessings.  It is a famous list. Most who are seeking blessings don’t seem to want to consider it in their search.  Matthew 5 has the complete list.

At the top of the list?  Those who are broken, helpless, and destitute in spiritual resources.  Knowing we bring nothing of our own, we are blessed.

The blessing of God is Himself.  Himself.

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Everything else is peripheral.  Anything more is simply icing on the cake.

He blesses in the waiting.  He blesses as we labor and as we pray.  He blesses as we walk in faith—painfully placing one foot in front of the other.

And, when He answers our prayers, the blessing is no more spectacular than when we walked with Him in the dark.

When He answers, the blessing is no more spectacular than when we walked with Him in the dark. Share on X

I would be lying if I told you it’s not good to see the hint of dawn on the horizon.  But, in the dark I knew He was there.  

I basked in His presence in the dark.

The morning will be no different.

You see, God is good.

Always, He is good.

Bask.

 

Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously…
(from Anne of Green Gables ~ L.M. Montgomery ~ Canadian author ~ 1874-1942)

 

 

Thou art giving and forgiving, 
     ever blessing, ever blest, 
Well-spring of the joy of living, 
     ocean depth of happy rest! 
Thou our Father, Christ our brother, 
     all who live in love are thine; 
Teach us how to love each other, 
     lift us to the joy divine.
(from Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee ~ Henry Van Dyke ~ American author/poet ~ 1852-1933)

 

 

 

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

Sometimes, I Like Surprises

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The Lovely Lady saw it first.  She usually does.

Look!  A surprise lily!

By and large, it is not the season in our part of the country for brilliant blossoms on plants, the bountiful spring rains having mostly deserted us in this sweltering summertime heat.  The ground is parched and crunchy—the latter being the sound the vegetation makes underfoot when one takes a shortcut through the yard.

But, sure enough, right near the driveway, where once there was a flower garden, the bare stem towers above the crunchy grass, gorgeous purple blooms standing proudly on top.

It is properly called a lycoris.  We just call them surprise lilies, when we don’t call them naked ladies, the latter a description, not of anything risqué, but of the way the stem shoots up from the ground bare of any leaves whatsoever.

Every year they surprise me, although I can’t think why.  Well, perhaps a reason or two will occur to me in time, but by now you’d think I’d simply mark my calendar.  Late July and early August—like clockwork, you might say—the various-colored trumpets poke their heads out.  Every year.

I would have told you it couldn’t happen this year.

Besides the dried up vegetation from the heat of the last few weeks and the lack of precipitation, which should have been enough to discourage their appearance, I did my part to guarantee this particular stand of lilies would never surprise me or anyone else, ever again.

I said they grew from the spot where once a garden grew.  Twenty years ago the flower garden held a prominent place in that yard.  It was tended by my father-in-law, who kept the encroaching weeds and volunteer trees— pin oaks, maples, and sweetgum, to name a sampling—from taking root where the roses and lilies resided.

Over the intervening years, the garden had become a tangled mess of weeds, vines, and trees, so we mowed them down.  Not only that, the volunteer trees were lopped off at ground level to make it possible to keep them under control for the foreseeable future.  

The flower garden was erased from the face of the earth.  Literally.  We thought.

To further ensure that the sneaky lilies never popped up unexpectedly again, although that wasn’t my express motivation, this past spring I spent hours with a mattock chopping out roots and stumps.  The ground around was pulverized—torn up like a war zone.  

No surprise lilies this year! 

Boy, was I in for a surprise!

The exclamation was no sooner out of the Lovely Lady’s mouth than I headed over to see this miracle for myself.  True, no more than a solitary array of blooms was visible, but I’ll wager tomorrow there will be three.

Out of the parched ground, covered in crunchy grass and weeds, the beauty from the hand of the Creator stands, proudly exclaiming its victory. 

Victory over me.  Well, victory over my doubt, anyway.

When all is dark and hopeless, light creeps in and taps us on the shoulder.

When all is dark and hopeless, light creeps in and taps us on the shoulder. Share on X

Surprise!

I’m remembering a road trip many years ago through the Gila National Forest in New Mexico.  With the Lovely Lady and our youngsters, we had taken the scenic route after visiting Carlsbad Caverns on our trip west.  I had hoped to be off of the winding two-lane road before dark, but we had lollygagged along for too many miles, as we admired and exclaimed about the beauty of creation.

With foreboding thoughts, I watched the hot summer sun dip toward the western horizon.  We’d never reach the interstate highway before dark.  Never.

Sure enough.  We dipped into a valley as the sun dropped down on the western edge of the mountains.  Dark.

Then, we started up the other side of the valley.  I had no hope of seeing the sun again.  Still, there it was—shining brightly—until we dropped down into another valley.

Each time we topped the next incline, the sun was there as if it had been in view all along. Broad daylight.  

Every time we started down into another valley, it disappeared completely from view.  Darkness surrounded us, just like night time.

Finally, we came onto a sort of plateau, up on top.  In daylight, we saw the marking for the interstate highway up ahead.  In daylight—still—we turned onto the four-lane and drove off into the sunset.

It was a surprise every time the sun appeared again, a pleasant one.  I had been convinced we were staying in the dark for the rest of the curvy, two-lane road.  Every time, I was convinced.  I was wrong.

I like surprises.  That kind of surprise, anyway.

But, here’s the thing.  In very much the same way as I know the lilies in the front yard will pop up at the same time next year, I knew the sun was still there.  I knew it.  

Why was it such a surprise when the light shone on us again?

We let our dread overshadow the hope, the reality we know to be true.

We let our dread overshadow the hope, the reality we know to be true. Share on X

Time and again, we descend into the darkness, believing we’ll never rise above it, ever again.

Can I make you a promise?  It’s not me standing behind the promise, but the Creator of all that is.

We who once lived in darkness are assured that the light—His light—will shine upon us. (Isaiah 9:2)  It is a certainty.

He is our sun as well as our protection from danger and is giving us every good thing constantly. (Psalm 84:11)

Why so surprised?

It’s almost as if we’ve come to expect darkness and gloom.  

But, in the darkest night, with the storm raging, His light guides and He gives peace.  Still.  

With a word, He calms the storms.  Still.

He who was before time began hasn’t lost any of His power.  He still holds all of creation together.  (Colossians 1:17)

Right down to those surprise lilies.

Right down to surprising us with light—precisely when we need it.

I like surprises.

You?

 

 

 

Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord, who rises
With healing in His wings:
When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
to cheer it after rain.
(William Cowper ~ English poet ~ 1731-1800)

 

 

 

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

Home and Warm

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I nearly tripped over her in the dark.

The coal-black Labrador was lopped across the back stoop when I stepped out a few moments ago. Her brother, almost as black, wasn’t far away.

It is twenty-four degrees outside.  The wind-chill (if you believe in such things) is below twenty.

Their heated doghouse, with its cedar-mulch covered floor is thirty-five feet away.

Why in the world are they lying in this corner of the yard with the wind whistling around them?

I, being much more intelligent, scurried to take care of my errand and get back to my fire-side easy chair.  Warm.

Home and warm.

But, I sit beside my warm fire and absently-mindedly pursue an elusive shadow through the dark and chilly pathways of my memory.  Now, what was that?

Dogs lying outside the door waiting for their master. . .

Sleeping in the cold when they could have been home and warm. . .

David was a man after God’s own heart.  Now, where did that come from?  Ah!  Now, I have it!

Uriah (who was a fighting man from a pagan tribe) refused to go home to his warm bed and his waiting wife.  Uriah the Hittite waited outside the door of the king’s house—cold and sleepless.  (2 Samuel 11:9-13)

But, honorable.  

More honorable than the man who dwelled within, Uriah was certain that comfort was not his until all could live in comfort.  He would wait until he had completed his task.  An honorable man.

Almost like the dogs who lie outside my back door. Their allegiance is to their master. All they want is a word from his mouth and his hand gently scratching their chest.  

It is enough. Payment in full for waiting in the cold.

I like being home and warm. You? 

Stupid question, huh?

Comfort is what we want. But, we have no promise of comfort. Yet.

This world can be a cold place. Cold and dark.

Our destination is anything but those. If, as our lessons in science led us to believe, light produces heat, we’ll have no lack of either light or warmth there.

The One we serve is (unlike me—or King David) honorable far above our understanding. He won’t leave us out in the cold one moment past what is necessary.

One day—one day—the door will open and we’ll be home.  

Home and warm.

 

One day—one day—the door will open and we'll be home. Home and warm. Share on X

 

And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light.
(Revelation 21:23 ~ NLT)

 

Turn up the lights.  I don’t want to go home in the dark.
(O. Henry ~ American author ~ 1862-1910)

 

 

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

Waiting for Dawn

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The insistent tone of my smart-phone’s alarm clock pierced the fog of sleep this morning.  My eyes fluttered open reluctantly.

Still dark.

I would have lain there and slept longer, but the alarm was only increasing in volume.  It does that, you know.  It gets louder.  

I stood and, stumbling to the window sill where the offensive device awaited, touched the screen.  As it finally relented, I breathed a sleepy sigh of relief.

Over the tops of the blinds, I gazed out to the eastern horizon.  It was supposed to be daylight!  Where was the sun?

I waited—and watched.  There was a hint of light near the ground, but it did the world no good.

Still dark.  

For all my waiting, the world was still in shadow.

I glanced down at the clock.  Wow!  I had to get moving!

Dressing quickly and going through my morning ritual, I forgot about the darkness outside.  Well, I didn’t forget; I just ignored it.

Funny.  I knew what was going to happen.  Still, when I stepped out the back door to face the eastern sky again, it caught me by surprise.

sky-1280456_640It was anything but dark!  The brilliance of the sunrise had me standing there blinking in its light.

Sunrise comes by itself.  While I do the thing needed, its light explodes over the horizon in hues of fiery red and brilliant yellow and eye-popping orange.

While I do the thing needed.

In the dark, we do what is required of us.

In the dark, we do what is required of us. Share on X

I will admit that it feels as if I’ve been laboring in the dark for some time now.  To my dismay, it seems very much as if night has taken hold and is determined to maintain its grip on my world without ever letting go.

Nothing I do has made the night around me less dark.  

I have prayed.  

I have sung at the top of my lungs.  

I have sat and cried.  

I have raged.

Still dark.

Finally, it occurs to me.  There is work to be done.  The journey still lies ahead.  Yes, even in the dark.

I remember that the Creator—the One who makes the sun to rise on the righteous and unrighteous—is still up to the task.  (Matthew 5:45)

I will do the thing needed.  

While He keeps His promises, I will keep mine.

While He keeps His promises, I will keep mine. Share on X

Daylight will come.  It will.  With or without us, it will come.

We know it in our hearts.  

We should be up and doing while we wait.

Shouldn’t we?

 

 

 

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing; Praise for the morning;-
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.
(from Morning has Broken ~ Eleanor Farjeon ~ English poet ~ 1881-1965)

 

But for you who fear My name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings; and you will go forth and skip about like calves from the stall.
(Malachi 4:2 ~ NASB)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved. 

Away From the Light

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The choral professor sat on the stool in the music store, one afternoon decades ago, choosing his words with care.

“I teach on a campus filled with light.  Where is the darkness into which I’m to shine?”

I didn’t know the answer.  I did know one thing:

I didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

I like the light.  It’s where I’m most comfortable.  I can rest easy; cares and worries don’t touch me there.

Dark is dismal.  It’s frightening.  There are unknown creatures in the dark—terrors I can feel, but cannot see.

And yet, the dark is where we’re called to minister.

The music professor didn’t stop with asking the question.  I was sure he wouldn’t.

He packed up his family and found a dark place in which to shine his light many miles away from the comfort and clarity of his former life.  Instead of the city of light at which he had served, he was forced to shine his lonely light on the pathway in a place where almost no one carried any light at all.

It has been many years since the conversation.  The professor has long since passed over into that place where light is ever shining.

Can you imagine how brightly his light shined in that dark place?  Think how dramatic the distinction must have been!  A match lit in pitch-black darkness can seem almost blinding.

His words still haunt my thoughts.

No great quest is ever played out in the light of day.  Darkness—that’s where fierce battles are waged.

The blackest holes imaginable are the delivery rooms for the most brilliant of all victories.

And yet, we don’t begin our journey from those black pits.  No.  From homes blazing in light and meeting places shining with the brilliance of the sun at its apex, we must set out.

lanternWith conscious forethought we turn our backs on the light places and stride into the darkness, carrying only the light we’ve been given.

It’s a frightening journey—no part more terrifying than the first step we take.

And yet, the path through the darkness is of utmost importance.

Our destination has never been on this side of the darkness, but always on the other.  We are bound for a better place, but there is ground to be covered before we arrive there.

The inhabitants of this dark world will never know the meaning of God’s light if not for us in their presence.  Those who stumble through the darkness will never see light if we never walk beside them.

We are the lamps set on the lamp stand, not under the basket.  (Matthew 5:15)

We are the stars that shine in the universe.  (Philippians 2:15)

We know that darkness and evil are the hallmarks of existence in a fallen world.  Yet somehow, our spirits quell at the prospect of leaving these places of light our Creator has privileged us to experience.

In a sense, you might say light is dangerous.  We humans are gluttons, never satisfied with what we need, but demanding what we want.  

We would stay in the light, soaking it all up ourselves for a lifetime, if we could.  Indeed, some of us never set foot outside our fortresses of illumination.

The day will come—it will—when all is light.  Until that day, we shine as His lights in the blackness of an ever-darkening world.

If we don’t, who will?

Backs to the light, we carry the light into a world that cries out without any clue of what it needs.  In desperation—and darkness—they seek first one way, then another, for that which we hold in our hands.

It’s not our light.  There is enough of it to illuminate the pathway ahead, but it shines to draw those around us.

To Him.  The light draws them to Him.

A borrowed light. And yet, it shines through us.

We, who have been brought into the light of day, are sent back into the darkest, deepest night.

Dare the quest!  

Take the leap!  

By far, more is lost in basking comfortably in the sanctuary of light and warmth than by venturing forth into the dark unknown.

The world around us is getting darker.  We can see it happening.

The light will be the brighter for it.

It’s time to turn our backs to the light.

It’s time for us to journey toward the light.

And, yet for all the leaving from and journeying toward, we walk in the light.

Still.

 

 

 

…if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.
(1 John 1:7 ~ NASB)

 

Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would have never come, had I known the danger of light and joy.
(The Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist ~ 1892-1973)

 

So carry your candle, run to the darkness
Seek out the helpless, confused and torn
Hold out your candle for all to see it
Take your candle, and go light your world.
Take your candle, and go light your world.
(Go Light Your World ~ Chris Rice ~ American singer/songwriter)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Beauty and Chaos

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He’s doing an art project.

artist-brush-983590_1280An art project. 

Only two months ago, his little boy died.

Today, he’s working at making something beautiful. 

I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around this one.  I have a few questions.

Does God feel sadness?  How is it that He keeps giving us beautiful things, long after we, made in His image, have hurt and destroyed others, also made in His image? 

Long after we killed His only Son.

Why would He continue to bring us each new gorgeous dawn—each new colorful Spring—He who upholds all with the power of His hands?  (Colossians 1:16-17)

Does He feel sadness?

His Son did, as He walked on the earth.  I’ve told you before of one of my favorite verses in the Bible.  I’ve committed it to memory.  Even now, I can remember it word for word.

Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

Along with His followers, He felt intense sadness.  He had no fear of lessening His influence on them by allowing them to see His tears.  There was no embarrassment in showing His emotional state.

Yet, He was the embodiment of His Heavenly Father.  The exact image. (Colossians 1:15-16)

God feels sorrow.

He feels sorrow, yet He continues to astound us with beauty.

Me?  I mope when I’m sad.  I sit in my chair and sigh pitifully.  I gripe and I grouse, lashing out at those around me.

Work on an art project when I’m down?  Produce things of beauty when I hurt?  Hardly.

He does.

The young artist/father I visited with in my business today does, too.  He, in the midst of the storm, turns to creativity to bring beauty out of his chaos.  Then, when the art project fizzles, he makes music.

From the ashes of catastrophe, he draws out beauty.  

It doesn’t mean the pain of loss isn’t ever-present—a shadow lurking on the fringes.  He just refuses to wallow in it, to let it have the reins of his existence.

The sun didn’t show its face today in the sky.  The gray day worked its way into my spirit in much the same way the cold crept into my bones  But in my store, the brilliant illumination couldn’t be cloaked.

Light overcomes darkness.  Always.

Always.

Maybe it’s time for us to give the dark times to a God who still makes beauty from darkness.

Give your dark times to a God who still makes beauty from darkness. Share on X

I’m thinking brighter days are ahead.

 

 

Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness.
(Martin Luther King Jr. ~ American pastor/civil rights activist ~ 1929-1968)

 

 

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.  And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.  And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
(Genesis 1:2-4 ~ KJV)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

In Quiet Places

~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

A giant in the world of rock music died yesterday.  

The tributes to David Bowie have filled the pages of social media.  Videos have been shared, stories told, organ solos have even been performed in cathedrals.  And now, the questions are being raised.

Is David Bowie in heaven?  Did he become a believer in the waning days of his life?

I’m not going to talk about him.  Not exactly, anyway.  

You will find the discussion of his final destination in the days to come upon the sensational pages of other blogs.  Anger and name-calling will follow—both by believers and non-believers alike.  I choose not to participate.

Still, in the quiet of this night, I consider the possibilities.  For him—and for all of us.  

I wonder—what about these quiet hours, the lonely time between times, when no one else is stirring?  They are some of the most soul-searching intervals I have experienced.  Surely, there’s a chance?

I’m aware that I’m a man of strange habits—late-night writing sessions, followed by wandering through the house speaking to shadows and arguing with the walls.  Not everyone spends their nights in the same fashion.

But, many who are creatures of habit, making their way to bed at regular hours and planning for early morning arising, sometimes find themselves at the mercy of the night.  

For some, when life is proceeding smoothly and all is well in their world, the nights are blissful oblivion.  No questions are whispered into the dark; no prayers are addressed to the ceiling (and beyond).

But life is not all smooth lanes and well-oiled machinery.  

Trouble will come. Sleep will flee.  Rest will escape.

Pleas will be delivered to Heaven and promises made.  Tears will be shed. 

I don’t suppose it’s true for all, but I suspect it happens to more than will admit it.

chairAnd finally, in the receding years of my life, I have discovered a truth I never imagined.  

Those times in the quiet hours are precious.  They are life-changing.  They are priceless.

When all is as we imagine it should be, we have no time for God.  We have no need for God.  Rich in things, we fill the days with noise and commotion, and exhausted, fall into our beds, never giving a thought to the poverty of our souls.

Yet, in our darkest night, He will be found.  It seems it’s always, finally, in our darkness that we seek His light.  

He’s there waiting, too.  (Psalm 139:11-12)

When the one who slept beside you in your bed all those years never will again and you cry for them in the night, He will be found.

When disease tears at the body of your child and you scream silently into the dark, He hears.

When the emptiness of life on your own drives you, at last, to give it all to Him, He’s waiting.

He’s always been waiting. (Revelation 3:20)

Did David Bowie find Him in the darkness of his night?  Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

I don’t know.

But you can.

I have.

Again and again.

 

 

 

You, Lord, keep my lamp burning;
    my God turns my darkness into light.
(Psalm 18:28 ~ NIV)

 

 

But something tells me that you hide
When all the world is warm and tired
You cry a little in the dark, well so do I.
(from Letter to Hermione ~ David Bowie ~ English singer/actor ~ 1947-2016)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved. 

Into the Sun

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve spent a few hours staring into the sun.  

That didn’t come out quite right.  Let me try again.

I’ve spent long periods of time looking at someone standing right in front of the sun—which has kind of the same effect.  I just didn’t want you to think I had ignored my mother’s instruction about not looking at the sun.  

But, in fact, it was at my mother’s instructions I looked at the person standing in front of brightthe sun.  That person was my father—taking a photograph of the family.

To a young child, there was no greater torture.  Don’t blink, they said and then made you stare at the brightest light imaginable while the exact setting was selected on the old Kodak Hawkeye box camera and children were shuffled around to achieve the ideal composition.

The pictures weren’t very good anyway.  For all the torture we endured, we still squinted, blinked, and put our hands over our eyes at just the wrong moment, and were captured on film for all eternity.  

Everybody smile, they said.  

We tried.

I brought the little camera home a little while back.  No, not the Kodak.  That was my parents’ camera.  This was a little cheap plastic box camera, purchased through the Sears & Roebuck catalog.  It was mine fifty years ago.  Still is.  It has my name written on the side of it, in my best nine-year-old printing.

snappyI’ll never take another photograph with it, but the memory of the power that was endowed by the little plastic box will stay with me forever.

With it, I could stop time!  Precious moments could be saved and relived whenever I wanted.  Pets, friends, even creations from my own hands would never be lost.

Power!

We don’t think of photographs quite the same way anymore.  Every person who carries a phone has a camera—much better than any which were available in my childhood.  Taking a photo isn’t even an event today.  

But, I remember the day when the sight of a camera would make my siblings scurry for cover.  I recall when the arrival of that package of black and white photos in the mail was a grand event—when all of those siblings wanted to make sure they hadn’t been caught doing embarrassing things.

It was a distinct possibility.

Years ago, I read that in some cultures photographs are rare because the people believe the camera would steal your soul.  While not all cultures this belief has been attributed to actually hold to it, there is adequate proof some did—and many still do.

Photographs steal your soul.  

I’m skeptical.  That said, I do understand how someone might think this.  Your exact image has been captured on paper.  How can that not take something away from you?  

We laugh.  Still, today, many no longer can live in the moment, enjoying events as they unfold, because they are intent on snapping photographs to view later and to show to their friends.  Selfies, we call them.  One must be sure they are in their own picture!  It will be proof one day that they actually were there.  

Never mind that your back was turned to the event itself. You’ll always have the photograph.

Perhaps a part of our soul is stolen as the camera snaps.  I don’t know.

My mind is again back in the sixties.  Looking into the sun.  Shadows must be avoided at all cost.

Standing in the bright light of day.

But, I remember some events I would have been embarrassed to have recorded on camera.  Those happened in the shadows, perhaps even in complete darkness.

Mom wasn’t around to remind me to look toward the light.  Dad wasn’t recording the action for posterity.

Come to think about it, there are still some activities I don’t want saved for people to see.  The dark works better for them.  I might be embarrassed to see the photographs those would yield.

The Teacher spoke of folks like me—at least, like me at those embarrassing times.  He declared that men loved darkness rather than light for one reason—they wish to hide their evil deeds. (John 3:19)

I wonder if it’s time to come out into the light of day again.

The Son may make us squint a bit.  

The shadows will all disappear.

Perhaps, it’s time again to make some memories worth viewing later.  Memories which will last forever.  Literally.

Everybody smile!

 

 

 

This is the message we have heard from Him and announce to you, that God is Light, and in Him there is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with Him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth; but if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.
(1 John 1:5-7 ~ NASB)

 

Which of my photographs is my favorite?  The one I’m going to take tomorrow.
(Imogene Cunningham ~ American photographer ~ 1883-1976)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Children of Jubal

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He’s not all that impressive a man in the history books.  You’d have to look a long way to find any reference to him.

Once—just once, he is mentioned in the Pentateuch, and to my knowledge, never again is his name mentioned in the Scriptures.

JubalJubal, they called him.  The father of all who play the harp and pipes. (Genesis 4:21)

Did I say he was never again mentioned in the Bible?  That is not, strictly speaking, truthful.  The name actually means trumpet in the Hebrew language.  It is the root for the word jubilee, a word used again and again in the history of God’s people.

It is, almost certainly, where we get the word jubilation in the English language.

I needed a little of that today—jubilation, I mean.  It has been a series of long, hard days stretching back for months now.  Things are not as I would have them; my ducks refuse to get into the rows I have planned for them.

And once again, in the news today, we heard news of atrocities, of people dead and others injured, lying in hospital beds.  The physical wounds are not all the damage which has been done; many still walking are wounded to the depths of their spirits.

Indeed, jubilation has been a commodity in short supply for too many in this damaged world.

Exhaustion and a lack of ready capital in the emotional bank are pushing multitudes to the raw edge of despair.  I have approached that precipice myself a time or two recently.

Tonight, as I closed my business, I suggested that I might call the worship leader to let her know that I couldn’t be at our scheduled practice later in the evening.

I’m tired.  I’ve got nothing left to give.

I didn’t make the call, instead determining I would fulfill my responsibilities.  A fifteen minute nap would have to suffice to recharge the batteries.  I could only hope to last the hour at my practice.

Again and again, I am surprised by it.  I shouldn’t be.

Still, it takes me unawares, nearly every time.

I walked into that worship center dragging and forlorn.  I wasn’t the only one.

We didn’t walk out in the same condition.  Logic tells me we should have been even more tired after our efforts.  The reality is that we were recharged and ready to face a sad and flawed world once more.

What happened?

We spent time with the children of Jubal is what happened.  Music happened.  The blending of individual’s gifts and talents into a single purpose and direction.

I have always believed that music is one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind.  Oh, there are some better.  I imagine a list could be compiled.  But, there are not many more helpful in keeping us centered and headed toward the completion of our calling.

Music comes directly—directly—from our Creator.  His very creation sings and gives testimony to His genius. It did so long before humans walked this earth.

Even before the earth was shaped, the stars and angelic beings formed one great celestial choir in praise of their Creator.  (Job 38:4-7)  We only continue in the steps of those who came before us.

I know some will say it’s a waste of time, even a slap in the face to those who still are in pain.

Surely, it’s simply a way to mask the pain, to escape reality?

I wonder; When a man has a cut on his arm, would you deny him the opportunity to put salve on it?  The purpose of salve, or ointment, is not only to ease the pain, but to begin the healing process.

I can attest to the reality that music is the application of ointment to the whole spirit of a man or woman.  It salves the pain of sadness, of loss, of despair.  It heals the broken spirit and give courage to face the world once more, whole and strong.

Are you sick of pain?  Wounded by death?  Scarred by terror?

The prescription I recommend is to come away and spend some time immersed in the original salve.  Better than Burt’s Bees or Gold Bond, this ointment leaves no unpleasant greasiness behind.

The poet tells us that musick hath charms to soothe the savage beast.  I don’t doubt it a bit.

The children of Jubal still populate the world today.  It’s a good thing.  May their tribe increase.

Jubilate Deo!

Rejoice in God!

 

 

 

Even before we call on thy name
To ask thee, O Lord,
When we seek for the words to glorify thee,
Thou hearest our prayer;
Unceasing love, O unceasing love,
Surpassing all we know.
Glory to the father,
and to the Son,
And to the Holy Spirit.

Even with darkness sealing us in,
We breathe thy name,
And through all the days that follow so fast,
We trust in thee;
Endless thy grace, O endless thy grace,
Beyond all mortal dream.
Both now and forever,
And unto ages and ages,
Amen.
(Pilgrim’s Hymn ~ Stephen Paulus ~ American composer ~ 1949-2014)

 

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
(Psalm 23:5 ~ KJV)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.