dreams

All The Way Home

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Do you remember it?  

I do.  

Nothing quite matched the feeling of pedaling down the paved lane, firmly ensconced in the big, comfy saddle.   Pumping for all you were worth, flying low, both arms would be spread out like great pinions on the hawks that ruled the sky above.

Look mom!  No hands!

Was there ever such a feeling?  If there was, I don’t remember it.

I wanted to soar with the eagles.  Riding that bicycle was as close as anything I ever experienced.

“I bet I can ride all the way home without touching the handlebars!”

“Bet you can’t!”

All the way up the road, this tow-headed kid rode, arms outstretched, and legs pumping.  The smile on his face didn’t leave for an hour after he reached the gravel circle drive—without once grabbing for the handlebars in panic.

Soaring.

I never had the dream as a kid.  It only started when I was grown-up.  It’s a strange dream for an adult to have, or at least, to admit to having.

For years, I’ve dreamed of flying.  Not in an airplane, but really flying, arms spread wide, climbing on the wind currents and looking down at the open spaces below, for all the world like an eagle.

No fake wings.  No super-hero’s cape.  

Just me—arms spread wide.  Flying.

It wasn’t the kind of dream that terrifies.  I’ve had my share of those.  Falling from the edges of cliffs so high the ground below can’t be seen—Running from terror behind me, feet sticking to the ground like a fly in molasses.  

Those dreams steal your strength while you sleep.

The soaring dream though, that one always left me wishing I could sleep a little longer.  I was happy when I had that dream.

I want to soar with the eagles.

I realized today that I haven’t had the dream for awhile.  I’m not sure why.  I thought earlier tonight, as I lay in bed with sleep eluding me, that perhaps it had something to do with my taking up bike riding again.

It’s possible.  I no longer stretch my arms out and pretend to soar, but I do feel like I’m flying low sometimes.  There’s a freedom and a childlike joy in riding the country roads and byways at breakneck speed, pushing—always pushing—faster.

Maybe I just don’t need the dream anymore.  It may have absolutely nothing to do with the cycling.

The prophet, way back before Jesus, said the words.  I remember singing a song with them set to music as a child.

For they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.
They shall mount up with wings; they shall mount up with wings, as eagles.
They shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.
(James Granaham ~ 1840-1907)

New strength.  Stamina to go the distance, while younger, stronger folks drop out.

Wings to fly.  Wings like the eagle’s.

Soaring.

And suddenly, I also remember the funny (nearly) saying which I first heard a number of years ago.

It’s hard to soar with the eagles when you’re surrounded by turkeys.

Inexplicably, my mind is drawn to the memory of an annual event in a village not too many miles away from the beautiful town in which I reside.  While it’s no longer advertised due to a lot of negative (probably for good reasons) publicity, this little town featured (and still does, by some accounts) something they called a turkey drop during their annual festival. 

Small planes would buzz the crowds at low altitudes—and low speeds—as a person in the craft dropped live turkeys from the window.  

That’s right.  Live turkeys.

It wasn’t always a pretty sight.  Turkeys don’t fly much.  Some, not at all.  There were always a few that made it to the ground relatively unharmed.  Then there were the ones that simply splatted on the ground below, dying immediately.

Turkeys don’t fly much.  

They’re not known for their nobility (or mobility, for that matter).  

In the wild, they hide, using the ground cover to avoid their enemies.  If you’re not looking for them, you would almost never see one.

They blend into the scenery.  The most you’ll ever notice is their distinctive Gobble, Gobble, Gobble call.  It’s how they attract each other.  While remaining invisible to most of us.

I’ve never dreamed about being a turkey.

We were created for better things than hiding in the bushes and calling to each other.  

Yet somehow, that seems to be what we do, more often than not.

I want to have a bigger impact on my world than that.

There’s still time.  The sky is still up there waiting.

I just hope I don’t have to grab for the handlebars before I reach home.

Soaring.

 

 

…and there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces.
(Herman Melville ~ American novelist ~ 1819-1891)

 

 

Have you never heard?
    Have you never understood?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the Creator of all the earth.
He never grows weak or weary.
    No one can measure the depths of his understanding.
He gives power to the weak
    and strength to the powerless.
Even youths will become weak and tired,
    and young men will fall in exhaustion.
But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.
    They will soar high on wings like eagles.
They will run and not grow weary.
    They will walk and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:28-31 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

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

The Instrument

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We were deep in conversation today, my friend and I, when we were interrupted.  I wasn’t optimistic that the break would be that profitable.

Usually when folks bring in old violins, they leave disappointed.

I can’t count the number of times the old fiddles have been carried through my door, many of them, cradled gingerly like a precious treasure that would shatter if anyone breathed on it.  

It belonged to (fill in the blank—Grandpa, Uncle John, my old neighbor…), and we’re sure it’s a Stradivarius.

It never has been.  A Stradivarius, that is.  Ever.

I have disillusioned more people with my appraisals of violins than any other instrument.  Unfortunately, the world is full of fakes and imitations.  A name written on a label is no guarantee of authenticity.

I have even learned to soften the blow by lowering expectations from the start.  Today was no exception.

“It’s almost certainly not made by Stradivarius.”

It turns out I didn’t need to make it any easier of this couple.  They knew exactly who the maker was.  This one hadn’t only belonged to Uncle John.  It had been made by him.

I should have known that their expectations were not the same as many others by the way they carried the instrument.  It wasn’t even in a case and they certainly weren’t handling it with kid gloves.

They didn’t want me to tell them they could retire on the proceeds from the sale.  Far from it.  These folks wanted me to confirm that the violin was no more than a wall-hanger, suitable for display on a wall in their den.

Wouldn’t you know it?  I was going to disappoint them, too.

I examined the instrument and was amazed at the quality.  The solid spruce top was well-proportioned and carved expertly.  There were no imperfections to be seen.  The beautiful hand-rubbed finish glowed in the light.

Flipping the violin over, I gazed at a wonderful flamed maple back, again perfectly proportioned and without a flaw to be seen.  The joints were tight and uniform, the structure sound as could be.

A well-shaped neck and scroll atop it completed the picture.  It was a fine violin.

I was confused.

“Your uncle made this instrument?  And, you think it’s not going to be playable?  Why?”

The couple explained that the uncle had actually been a lawyer who never played a violin in his life, either before or after making the violin.  He had made one violin just to prove it could be done.  Then he built eleven or twelve others.  

No one knew where the others were, nor if they were good instruments or not.  Because he was not a musician, they assumed he had failed in proving his point, so were going to mount the violin-shaped object in a frame and save it for posterity as a piece of art.

I objected.  

violincloseThis was as fine an amateur-built instrument as I have ever seen.  There was absolutely no reason—none whatsoever—for it not to be played.

I even took the time to tune the strings, which were horribly out of adjustment.  Sliding the tilting bridge into place and tightening the pegs to the correct tension, I then found a bow and drew it over the strings.

My friend, who had been sitting quietly through the episode, exclaimed suddenly.  He couldn’t help himself.

“Astounding!”

It was, too.  

The voice of the instrument was exquisite.  Like the maker, I don’t play the fiddle, but I know how to tune one and even my inept fumbling with the bow on the strings produced a tone unlike any that normally proceeds from most of the cheap, student instruments which come through my business.

The full-bodied tone left nothing to be desired.  Nothing at all.  Beautiful clear treble pitches and deep, booming bass notes emanated from the instrument instantly.  Nobody in the room had any question about it.

This instrument isn’t a piece of art to be hung on a wall!  In the right hands, it will make music that all listening will easily recognize as art, instead.

It is not a Stradivarius, nor is it worth a million dollars.  It is a fine family heirloom which will hopefully be played by one of the maker’s descendants, proving every naysayer who ever doubted the lawyer’s ability to build a quality instrument completely wrong.

Moments before the couple walked in, my friend had asked the rhetorical question, “What am I giving to God?” 

He and I are both reaching our senior years, the realization that time is growing short consuming our thoughts.  An old friend died suddenly last night of a heart attack, and that weighed heavily on me as we spoke of the urgency.

In our conversation, we had talked about stepping out, not knowing what the end result would be—not even necessarily knowing what we were being asked to do.  It’s as uncomfortable a thing to do as I can think of.

But, as the couple walked out of the door, cradling the instrument as if it would shatter if anyone breathed on it, we looked at each other in disbelief.  Both of us smiled as the lesson of the non-musician luthier hit home.

It can’t be done!  

Stick with what you know!

Really?  Did you ever notice it seems that God purposely took people who had done other things and used them in ways they never thought possible?  Shepherds, fishermen, tent makers, tradesmen trained for a lifetime of performing specific tasks—He gave them responsibilities which in no way resembled those earlier vocations.

To Abraham—Go to a land that I will show you. (Genesis 12:1)
To Noah—Build an ark. (Genesis 6:14)
To Moses—Go tell Pharaoh to let My people go. (Exodus 8:1)
To Peter—Upon this rock will I build my church. (Matthew 16:18)

I was reluctant to give my friend advice today.  God puts inside each of us His dream, His direction.  It’s a dangerous thing for another person to give counsel that contradicts that.

If that violin I looked at today is any indication, it’s also a little foolish.

Sometimes we have to follow God, even when people around us don’t understand.  

My friend says he’s got things to do.  Maybe it’s time for me to get moving, as well.

I wonder.  I’ve never built a violin.

You?

 

 

Then the Lord said to him, “Who has made man’s mouth? Who makes him mute, or deaf, or seeing, or blind? Is it not I, the Lord?  Now therefore go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall speak.”
(Exodus 4:11-12 ~ ESV)

 

Those who say it can’t be done are usually interrupted by others doing it.
(James A Baldwin ~ American essayist/novelist ~ 1924-1987)

 

 

 

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

Strangers—In a Foreign Land

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“My daughter no is playing the trumpet now.  You buy it, yes?”

The lady, probably in her thirties, peered at me almost imploringly.  I wasn’t going to disappoint her.  During this most hectic of times in our music business, used band instruments are at a premium and we take advantage of every opportunity to purchase those which are in good condition.

The woman’s command of the English language was fragile at best.  I would have to be careful in these negotiations to be sure that I communicated clearly what I was willing to pay for the horn.  But first, I needed some background.

“Your daughter quit band?”

“Yes.  He don’t wants to play music anymore.”  (Throughout our conversation, she referred to her daughter as he repeatedly—not yet grasping the usage of English pronouns completely.)

The disappointment in her voice was unequivocal.  The longer we talked, the more clearly she showed her unhappiness.  

“He don’t wants to make music.  He not have interest in band anymore.”

It is a story we hear again and again.  The attrition rate of students who begin band is very high.  Many don’t want to practice; some struggle with the concept of reading music or manipulating the instrument.  Sports may interfere with their rehearsal schedule.  Any number of reasons could explain why so many students drop out of band.

None of those arguments made any difference to this mother.  She wanted her daughter to be a musician.

It wasn’t going to happen.  She was unhappy.  

No. She was distraught.

I made her a fair offer on the instrument, one she wasn’t likely to turn down.  She didn’t turn it down, but as I took care of the necessary details, a light began to dawn.

She stood, right in the spot I had thought she was begging me to buy the trumpet, and she cried.  I paid her the money and she left, still sniffing.

I’m a little slow on the uptake.  I thought perhaps she was unhappy about the amount she had received for the horn.  I couldn’t understand that.  I gave her more than any other music store would have.  

Then it began to sink in.

She didn’t really want me to buy the trumpet.  

It was the end of her dream for her daughter.  The girl would not be a musician.

Oh, this mom understood it was not selling the horn that was the problem.  She knew the decision was already made.  It was just that the act of taking the payment for the horn meant it was final.

The last nail in the coffin.  

Still sniffing back the tears, she left.  She left me standing there to think about reality and unrealized dreams.  And strangers in a foreign land.

I hope there is no one who thinks I am making fun of this dear lady who speaks with a strange accent and jumbles her words.  I am not.  At all.  

I have nothing but respect for folks who leave the homeland of their parents and attempt to make a better life for themselves and their families in a place completely foreign to them.

But, when I think about foreign places, I can’t help but wonder about why it sometimes feels as if I’m already there.  

You too?

Oh, not in the same way as an immigrant family would.  The physical displacement and learning curve are not what I am thinking of now, but in some ways, it is a lot like it.

I don’t speak the same language as many around me.  I don’t spend time in the activities they do.  When I do, I’m uncomfortable, as if that were something my people wouldn’t (or shouldn’t) do.  

You know—where I’m from.  

My people.

I try to fit in—really, I do.  Funny.  I have always tried.  A square peg in a round hole.  Sometimes the square peg can be forced into the round hole.  I’ve seen it done by numerous children with their play sets.  But, then the square peg is stuck.  It’s not a good place to be.

And, the language!

I’ve seen the looks.  Conversations with folks are going great when I suggest that prayer might help.  Or, I talk about God’s provision.  Or worse, I mention the word sin.  Maybe even heaven or hell.

You would think I have just called my daughter a he.  Or used the wrong conjugation for the verb in the sentence.  No one says a thing, but looks are shot back and forth between others in the conversation.  Eyebrows are lifted and heads shaken.

Do I speak with a foreign accent?  Maybe you do too.

As believers, we have a different heritage, a different lineage, and those will be evident to the natives around us.  It’s a good thing, as uncomfortable as it sounds.  The day will come when we’ll be in our native land.  

The square pegs will come to rest in the square holes, as we were always intended to do.

But now, in this foreign land, we also, as my friend today, live with disappointments and shattered dreams.  Family members make poor choices, electing to follow bad advice and go their own way.  Plans don’t work out the way we want them to.

The Teacher spoke to His followers as He warned them of disappointments to come in this foreign land, reassuring them that they could take heart, because even the foreign land was under His control.

If it was true then, could it be any different in this place in which we find ourselves?  

Maybe it’s time to face reality and let go of those mementos of our broken hopes and expectations.  Will there be tears—and fears?  Sure.  A few.  Maybe a lot.

But, we can’t hoard all those reminders of the past.  We must move on through this place—headed for the place we were meant to be.  The place where there will be no more disappointments.

You and I speak the same language, don’t we?  Maybe we could travel that way together.

It might be just over the next hill.  

Time will tell.

 

 

Do you know what a foreign accent is?  It’s a sign of bravery.
(Amy Chua ~ American lawyer/writer)

 

I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace.  In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.
(John 16:33 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

 

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

 

The First Step

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I don’t believe that dreams are prophecies.

Well, now that I’ve ostracized a good number of folks, let me qualify the statement.  When I say dreams, I mean the normal sort.  You know–the ones we have when we lie down to sleep at night.  The ones made more vivid by that extra round of extra spicy Buffalo wings you had at dinner.  Or, the scary movie which was splashed across the television screen as you sat and dozed in your easy chair.

It doesn’t mean dreams aren’t meaningful.  They often are.  When we sleep, our minds go where they will, no longer guided and controlled by our discipline and resolve.  Things we already know about ourselves, but aren’t willing to think or talk about when awake, somehow can be revealed as images in our sleep.

I usually can’t remember what I dream about. 

Usually.  But, not last night.

Even before I was completely asleep, in the wee hours of this morning, I lay in bed and saw myself standing on the edge.  No, not the edge of a cliff, although I have seen that image in my head before, both in real life and in dreams.

The edge I stood upon was that of a circular hole in the floor beneath me.  The hole was large enough for a body to fit through comfortably.  Funny thing, I could look down the hole and see that it was lined with a white pipe, almost like PVC.

I could only see about ten feet down the pipe and then it curved out of sight.  Even in my half-awake state, I could feel my heart racing.  In my dream, I backed away from the pipe.  Then, drawn by some irresistible urge, I eased forward step by terrified step to peer downward once more.

I really dislike heights.  Heights without handrails, that is.  Give me a good grip on a handrail and I’ll look down from the highest cliff or the highest tower you could imagine.  There was no handrail here.

It was just a hole.  A hole that led somewhere–I couldn’t tell you where.

I knew it was a dream.  I knew it.  You know how your mind works.  It seems real, but you know it can’t be.  And besides, you’re lying in bed with the fan blowing on you.

It’s only a dream.  Jump!  What could happen?

No.  Wait!  What’s down around that curve?  You have no idea what’s down there! 

What if there’s no more to it than what you can see and it drops you into a bottomless pit (I hear those are real common in dreams)?  You’ll fall screaming forever.  All because you jumped into a hole you knew nothing about.

I considered the issues.  Really. 

In my dream. 

I wondered–Is this the only way I’ll ever really make the transition from restless dreams to deep sleep?  I have to trust myself to this tube that goes who-knows-where without any more information.  If you think about it, we do it every night.

Mr. Tolkien talks about roads that sweep you off your feet to foreign lands.  Sleep can do that too.  Really.

Perhaps the mystery slide is representative of a major decision which I need to make.  Life goals stand ready to be grasped, if only I’ll trust myself to the unknown depths.  I’ll never get there if I don’t take the plunge.

Decision time.  What will I do?

I take one last downward look and–I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go downstairs to get a drink.  When I return ten minutes later, the slide is no longer to be found and I sleep.

Ah, wonderful sleep.
                   

After attending church this morning, I came home to help the Lovely Lady prepare our traditional Sunday Dinner.  The feast for family and friends has come to be a high point of our week.  Food, discussions–escalating to disputes and then diminishing back to agreeable differences, jokes, and lovely memory-making are the stuff these times are made of.

There is a shadow over my memory of today’s feast. 

As I helped prepare the table, my brother sent me a text.  I wasn’t ready to read it yet.

“He doesn’t feel like she has a lot of time left.”

He is my Dad.  She is my Mom.

Tears came to my eyes without warning.  Even as I write these words, they come again.

Through my tears, I see that hole from my dream again.

I’m beginning to grasp it now.
                   

skycaliberwaterslideYou’ve seen them before, haven’t you?  Extreme water slides.  Thrill seekers flock to them every summer.  The drop in altitude is what they love–that quick plunge, setting them free from gravity for just a fraction of a moment, long enough to wonder if they’ll ever stop in time to avoid disaster.

They know they will.  It’s been safety tested.  Why, they even climbed the tower right beside the tube, exclaiming all the while about where each twist and turn will take place.  Pointing to the plastic pipe right beside them soaring up into the sky above, they know just where it starts and where it will end.

They know.  And they’re happy to take the plunge.

Because they know.
                   

The red-headed lady who raised me has been climbing for a good many years now.  She’s had lots of company along the way, but there is just One who has always been there.  Always.

The day is coming.  Soon, it seems.  No one can know for sure.

I can just see Him standing there smiling, asking her if she’s ready.  I don’t know if she’ll be frightened, like I was in my dream.  But, I do know her answer will be in the affirmative.

She’s ready.

He’ll wrap His strong arms close around her and they’ll take the first step together.  She’s never done this before.

But, He has.

And, He knows.

 

 

 

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
(1 Timothy 1:7 ~ KJV)

 

I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
Jesus died for my sins to atone
In the darkness I see he’ll be waiting for me
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone…
(I Won’t Have To Cross Jordan Alone ~ Thomas Ramsey ~ American songwriter)

 

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

Fuzzy Reality

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Cataracts.

It almost seemed as if the nice young lady said the word with a question mark after it.  You have cataracts?

I did say it with a question mark.  A big one.

Cataracts?  Me?  Old people get those.  I’m not old.

The nice young lady, who happens to be an optometrist, was kind at least.  She agreed with me.  Sort of.

“Why yes, Mr. Phillips, most people are much older than–what are you?  Let me see. . . Oh. Well, fifty-seven isn’t that unusual for them to start.”

I’m still trying to work it out in my head.  Did she just call me old?  Ah, well.  No sense in beating around the bush, I suppose.

The years are passing.

I don’t heal up as well as I once did.  Arthritis is creeping into my hands, especially in the cold winter days, and even in these damp spring evenings I feel a few twinges in the joints.  Age does that to a fellow.  I’m doing what I can to fend off the evidence of aging, but it will inevitably be a losing battle.

Still, I stand here in relatively good condition and consider the young lady’s diagnosis.  Cataracts in both eyes means that the lens are gradually clouding over, beginning (just beginning) to block the light rays necessary to see well.  Over time, the cloudiness will grow thicker, blurring the sight and possibly robbing the ability to distinguish certain colors.

At last, I may actually have an excuse for wearing non-coordinated pants and shirts, or possibly even mismatched socks.  That could work to my advantage.

But, it seems to me that this is something of a paradox–perhaps even a bit ironic.  At a time of life when I believe I finally see things more clearly than I ever have, I find that I have a few years of clouded vision and blurry views to look forward to.

Oh, I’m sorry.  I seem to have mixed the applications up a bit, haven’t I?  We were talking about the physical issues of growing old and I injected a bit of the spiritual into the conversation.  Well, since we’re here already, perhaps we’ll spend a minute or two more on the spiritual, shall we?

You see, I’m struck–and when I say struck, I mean hard–with the sneaky way these things creep up on us.  We pride ourselves in having our eyes wide open, in seeing all the aspects of the life we live.  All the while, our vision is becoming cloudy, the details of reality becoming fuzzy.

Christ_and_the_pauper_MiranovDo we really see things as clearly as we think?

I wonder.  When the Teacher suggested that there were blind men leading blind men in the days when He walked this earth, do you suppose that those blind leaders got that way in an instant?

Wouldn’t it rather be true that they once strove to see God’s way clearly?  They hadn’t always been old men, blinded by the result of years of failing sight.  I have to believe that at one time, they too were wide-eyed idealists, hoping to change their world for the better.

Years–and bad decisions–have a way of altering dreams and vision.  It’s as true with our spiritual vision as it is with our physical sight.

The young lady tells me that I’ll need to wait a few years for the right time to remove my cataracts.  A simple and highly effective surgery will make things right again.  Until then, I’ll find ways to deal with the inconveniences of the disease.

I wonder if the other sight will be quite as easy to set right?

Perhaps.  The Teacher once used spit and mud to do the job.

I’d like to see things the way He wants me to again.

You?

 

 

 

“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight, but no vision.”
(Helen Keller ~ Blind/deaf author/lecturer ~ 1880-1968)

 

“And your life will be brighter than the noonday; its darkness will be like the morning.
(Job 11: 17 ~ ESV)

 

 

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

Dreams Die

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m still sad.

I got the note on New Years morning.  The note said he had died just hours before.

I guess you could say New Years Day wasn’t that good of a day for me.

I would have just breezed past the three-quarters of an hour I had to stand on the roof in the cold, running a plumber’s snake through the waste water system of the house.  The hours I spent counting merchandise in the music store, as awful a fate as that is, I could have overlooked.

But, my friend died.

Before I go too far here, I want to be clear; I hadn’t seen or communicated with him in over forty years. 

It doesn’t seem to matter.

But I have to ask myself the question:  Why does this news hurt more than others who have also passed?  There have been many over the years.  I have felt each one, but none like this one.

All morning on that day, as I called out prices to the Lovely Lady, sitting with her pencil poised to tabulate, my mind wandered.

Over dusty paths long since paved over, along drainage ditches filled in decades ago, I rambled again with my friend.  Cold summer nights—colder than ever I had imagined closed up in my sweltering bedroom—we spent in the tent in his backyard.  Pool games in the den, sneaking out from the back yard in the dead of the night to wander the neighborhood, milk and cereal at the dining room table the next morning—grinning at each other over the milk glasses when his Mom or Dad asked how we had slept.

All the scenes played through my head as I struggled to focus on the job with the Lovely Lady.  After so many times of my voice cracking as I called out the price of one music book after another, I suggested we might as well go home as soon as we got to the end of the row.

She, wise companion that she is, agreed.  We went home, she to visit with her sister and nieces, and I to sit by the fire and follow my memories all that cloudy, gloomy day.

He was a friend when I didn’t have any.

I’ll admit it; I was a strange kid.  Skinny—no social skills—acne covered face.  It was a horribly awkward time.  Junior High School is like that.  If you weren’t an athlete or a brainiac, life was hard.  We were neither.

He was my friend when I desperately needed one.

Oh, we fought—wars of words, and even a time or two with fists.  We always got over it and were ready to go sit at the ball game the next week and make trouble together.

Except that once.

I read over the words I’ve written and wonder if anyone else will want to read them.  I wonder why I can’t say what I really want to say. 

Maybe I’m afraid to admit that I’ve thought about my friend many times over the years.  I wanted to see him again, but not just to visit with an old buddy.

It has been nearly forty-five years.

I always thought I’d get to apologize.  I recall clearly the words I said to hurt him, words I have wanted to take back.

I always thought there would be another chance.

In my mind, as I have remembered him over the years, I always dreamed we’d get another chance to sit in Shakey’s Pizza, around the corner from his folk’s house, and drink a coke together and laugh about the stupid things we did and said.  I’d tell him I was sorry, and he’d say he didn’t even remember the words I had said.

Sometimes, dreams die.

And suddenly, in a rush, it comes to me.  The sadness I feel isn’t just for my friend’s passing.  Not just for him.

Dreams don’t always come to fruition.  We hold them close and tell no one about them.  They are seldom written, but never forgotten.  And then, the day comes when there is no chance they will be realized.

No chance.

This one hurts.  I’ll admit it.  It’s going to take some time to get over it.

Funny.  I don’t think I want to get over it.  Some lessons are too important to forget the pain involved in the learning.

This is one of those.

In relationships, sometimes tomorrow won’t come. 

Say what you need to say today.

I still believe that I love you are the three most important words in the English language, but I’m absolutely positive there are two more which are very close runners-up:

I’m sorry.

Don’t know where the person is you need to say either of those two phrases to?  Find them.

Do it today.

And, keep dreaming.

It’s how we fly.  Or run.  Or crawl along.

 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
(Matthew 5:4 ~ NASB)

Hold onto dreams
For when dreams die
Life is like a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
(Dreams ~ Langston Hughes ~ American poet ~ 1902-1967)

Hang on to your hat.  Hang onto your hope.  And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
(E.B. White ~ American author ~ 1899-1985)

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