friends

Friend to Grace?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It may come as a surprise, but I’m not all that big a fan of winter. However, I like snow.

I should clarify.  When I look at it from the warmth of my living room, I like it.  On my car’s windshield when I need to drive it—not so much.  On the ramp out front when guests are arriving—certainly not!

I am becoming aware of something that seems a vital truth, though.  This truth dawned on me today as I walked to the coffee shop I’m sitting in now.  Yes, just like the rising sun’s light waking me from sleep, it hit me.

We need hardship—uncomfortable things—in our lives.

I know; it seems so antithetical to everything our society tells us.  Every new technology seems aimed at making life easier—at reducing labor.  Smartphones, self-driving cars, and domotics (automated homes) are only the latest in a long line of devices, perhaps starting millennia ago with the inception of the wheel.

When we become accustomed to the ease of living, it is difficult if not impossible for us to move out of the comfort zone in which we buffer ourselves.

I walked on the sidewalk covered in the remnants of this week’s snowfall today and I found myself grousing about the uneven and sometimes slick surface. It wasn’t the first time I’ve done it recently.

Each frigid day this week I’ve walked to the university where the Lovely Lady is employed, to collect her at the end of her workday.  The university staff has cleared their sidewalks of snow and ice rather nicely.  It’s easy to stroll along the concrete surfaces, without the need to watch our steps.  We walk comfortably and easily across most of the campus, free of stress and effort.

Until that is, we come to the end of their property and the cleared sidewalks.  The roughness of icy spots and the deeper snow mean we have to choose our steps carefully. We’re getting to the age where falls are more than just a quick trip to the ground and getting up dusting the snow off our seats.  The pain lasts.

If we don’t choose our steps wisely, it hurts.

But, we don’t walk where the sidewalks are always cleared.  We must walk circumspectly—cautiously and with care—in every situation.

Does it seem we’re not talking just about snowy sidewalks anymore?  Perhaps we’re not.

If the shoe fits. . .

I had the words to the old Isaac Watts hymn, Am I a Soldier of the Cross, in my head this morning as I walked.

Are there no foes for me to face?
Must I not stem the flood?
Is this vile world a friend to grace,
To help me on to God?

I know, I know.  It’s odd to be singing words written three hundred years ago while crunching through the snow.  But, that’s me.  Odd.

The clear answer to Mr. Watts’ question is that the world is not a friend to grace and it will, without fail, attempt to thwart our every effort to be with God.

We who follow Christ get to make the journey one precarious step at a time.  The path, we’re told, is narrow and often lonely.  We will stumble a time or two.  Or more.

It’s easier on the other path—the one that’s been cleared and leveled.  There’s more company there, too.

But, in the end, the easy path is infinitely more dangerous.  The destination won’t be pleasant, I’m told.

Besides, there’s always Someone on the rough path with our best interest in mind.  The Psalmist knew it.

The Lord directs the steps of the godly.
    He delights in every detail of their lives.
Though they stumble, they will never fall,
    for the Lord holds them by the hand.
(Psalm 37: 23-24, NLT)

Our friends, the hikers, have walked the Appalachian Trail in the eastern United States from Georgia to Maine.  Over two thousand miles, they trekked, often holding on to each other, choosing every step with care lest they twist an ankle or break a bone.

The Trail is not smooth.  Not at all.  The hikers talk about the hardships, of the mental discipline necessary to keep going despite the obstacles.

But mostly, they talk about the incredible sights along the way and the amazing friends they made as they struggled along.

You don’t hike the Appalachian Trail on smooth, paved surfaces.

The road we have in front of us isn’t all that smooth, either.  But, there are astounding people and beauty along the way.  Besides, the finish—our goal—lies at the end of this sometimes icy, or rocky, or muddy, path.

The world is not a friend to grace.  It wants us to be fooled by the smooth, wide pathways that eventually lead to hopelessness.

Meantime, on the inconvenient path, there will be friends along the way to lean on.  And strong hands to keep us from falling when we stumble.

I’ll try to hold my grumbling down to a dull roar.

Still, I’ll be happy when that snow is melted.

 

See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise,  redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
(Ephesians 5:15-16, NKJV)

“Careful!” he whispered. “Steps. Lots of steps. Must be careful!”
(Gollum, from The Two Towers, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Found

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

Before they lost the trail.  Before it got dark.

Before it got cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Found!

What a wonderful word.  Found. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Found.”

Found.

How sweet the sound.

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

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

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

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

Lost.

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

Meatloaf.  Butternut squash.  Apple crisp.

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

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

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

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

“People are always unreliable.”

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

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

She had a couple of other things, too.

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

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

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

I am unreliable. I am.

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

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

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

I wonder.  Are we the unreliable ones?

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

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

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

After that, who wants shotgun?

 

 

 

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

 

 

Amazing Grace ~ David Phelps and family ~ a cappella

 

 

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

Hope Grows. Soft.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s a new experience for me, stroking the hair of a woman who is not my wife.

I promise I won’t make a habit of it. Still, it is an occurrence I will not soon forget.

I didn’t intend to do it at all.

The young lady came into the rehearsal hall wearing a cap, which wasn’t surprising considering the plunging outside temperatures. But, just moments later, I was confused to see the warm stocking cap replaced by a baseball cap.  She noticed my bewilderment.

“It’s growing back, Paul!” came the reassuring statement from my friend. She doffed the cap and rubbed the inch-long growth on top of her head, which had been covered with a full-length crop of hair the last time I played music with her.

Bending her head down toward me, with the obvious intent that I should feel the new hair, she moved her own hand aside to allow mine to run through the short blond growth.

“That’s so soft!” I exclaimed in surprise. I suppose I expected it to feel like my chin did after a few weeks of not shaving, but it felt nothing like that at all. Like the softness of a baby duck or bunny, it was.

I had my arm around her shoulder and held her in a hug for a few seconds, holding back tears that would have come had I spoken. Somehow, the new hair is a sign of better things to come. She has been through such horror, and yet she is hopeful.

Later that evening, tears came again as I sat, my mind wandering. How very much is lost when these bodies are ravaged by disease. Personal dignity, self-dependence, uninterrupted sleep, absence of pain—all these and more are gone, never to return, it would seem. And, then the final insult, the loss of one’s beautiful hair, her crowning glory.

The physical pain, the overwhelming nausea, the sense—no, the certainty—that the end of life is imminent—all of these (one would think) add up to the complete absence of hope.

They don’t.

Hope is ours. At times, we lose sight of it. Often, the realities of the physical crowd out the confidence in a God who wants only what’s best for His children. But, like Samwise Gamgee (Mr. Tolkien’s steadfast gardener), we remember—sooner or later—that where there’s life, there’s hope.

And, hope grows. Soft. And, sometimes slow.

Here’s the thing: I want to shout “Glory!” and rise above the clouds when I hear the trumpet call in the morning. Now, that’s hope!

But, on the normal days of our journey through this world, most mornings are more recalling to mind and renewing hope, that it is of the Lord’s mercies we are not utterly consumed. (Lamentations 3: 21-23)

Hope grows.

Soft.

Quiet.

Daily.

But, I want the trumpet call. I’m not alone, am I?

A trumpet call is exciting, almost electrifying. It makes us sit up and notice. Brash. Loud. Awe-inspiring.

The reminder in the dark just before dawn is not like the trumpet call at all. Note to self: Get up and get dressed. God is faithful. That is all.

So, we keep going. Scarred. Damaged. Beaten up.

Because hope grows.

So, we keep going. Scarred. Damaged. Beaten up. Because hope grows. Share on X

Day by day, hope grows.

Softly.

Because He is faithful.

And we got out of bed this morning.

 

 

Dum spiro, spero.
(Latin motto ~ paraphrase from Cicero’s writings, meaning “While I breathe, I hope.”)

 

Great is Thy faithfulness. Great is Thy faithfulness.
Morning by morning, new mercies I see.
All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided.
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.
(from Great is Thy Faithfulness ~ Thomas Obediah Chisholm)

 

 

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

 

Please Don’t Dog Ear The Pages

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

“Oh, yeah.  Tell him I’d like to have a new copy of Watership Down.  I can’t read the one I have now.”

My son, kind man that he is, wants to buy his father a gift for Christmas, even though I’ve said many times that I need nothing.  The Lovely Lady knows better and sends him ideas by text—secretly, she thinks.

We were riding toward home this evening, after a trip to a neighboring town, and my brain jumped to the thought.  As I usually do, I spoke without considering the consequences.

Well, I guess they will not be, strictly speaking, consequences. However, the Lovely Lady now has a new aberration to consider in her husband’s character, thanks to my premature announcement.  (I’m not sure it’s well-advised to give her too many of these points of oddness to think about at one time.)

She probably didn’t expect me to see the eye-roll that preceded her next question.  I suppose I didn’t really see it as much as I felt it.

What’s wrong with the copy on the bookshelf?  It looks perfectly legible to me.

She knew the answer.  She just wanted to hear it from me.

I fell in love with the story many years ago, back when I was young and full of dreams.  I still enjoy reading through it, now that I’m old and full of dreams.  The only problem is, I gave away my old, worn paperback copy back a ways. 

I thought I wouldn’t need it anymore.

We had been in a favorite book shop one afternoon, looking for bargains, when I saw it.  No, I saw IT.

IT was a beautiful hardback, with the dust jacket intact—paper, covered with clear plastic—and crisp, clean pages.  The price, written inside the back cover in pencil was exorbitant, ten times what I would normally pay for a good hardback—fifty times what I’d pay for a decent paperback.

We couldn’t afford it. 

We bought it anyway.

We walked out of the little book store with a near-mint First American Edition of the book.  I would never need to thumb through that old, tattered paperback again.  Never.

The truth of the matter is, I’ve never read the beautiful hardback.  Never.

I never will.  The book’s value is in its rarity, its exclusivity, its pristine condition.

The thing is, when I read, I live.  I eat.  Chocolate and grease stains attest to the fact.  I drink coffee or juice—suitable evidence can be provided.

I carry my books out to the bench in the back yard and, if interrupted rigorously enough, lay them down to scratch the ears of my dogs or play a game of fetch with them. 

I’ve always been told books are your friends, meaning I should handle them with kid gloves, but I don’t treat my friends that way.  I live life with them. 

I leave my mark on them and they leave their mark on me. 

Not so with this hardback.  It may be the worst fifty dollars I ever spent.  I can’t read it, nor can I sell it.  You don’t sell your friends  (unless your name is Judas).

She understands me, the Lovely Lady.  She just likes to make sure I know that, once in a while.

I think she sent a message to our son as we rode.  I don’t know for sure.  My mind was far away.  Even farther away than Watership Down.

Have you ever wondered?  Many do.  I can’t understand how one wouldn’t.

Why did the Savior of the world have to come like this?  Why a baby, born in a stable?  Why did smelly shepherds have to come, and weird foreigners have to follow a strange star?

Why did He live, wandering the land of His birth, homeless and un-celebrated? 

Why did He die a criminal’s death, hanging in shame on a crude cross of wood?

I would have had Him come as a triumphant conqueror, dressed in white and ruling from His palace, far above the smells and cries and demands of the filthy, backward people who walked the roads and worked in the marketplace.

I would have had. . .

Oh.

He came to be a friend to sinners, didn’t He?   

Like any friend, He would leave His mark on us.

And, we would leave our mark on Him.

He would leave His mark on us and we would leave our mark on Him. Share on X

No pristine first edition, He.  Our very own volume, well-worn and dog-eared, to learn from firsthand.

The Word became flesh.  Living with us. (John 1:14)

His life an open book, one might say.

Maybe it’s time to read the book again.

I hope no one will mind if I dog ear a page or two.

                               

 

I wonder as I wander, out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die
For poor ornery people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander, out under the sky.
(I Wonder As I Wander ~ John Jacob Niles ~ © 1945 by G. Schirmer, Inc. All rights reserved.  Used by permission.)

 

 

 

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

Thick and Thin

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The sheaf is growing thin.  

Thin.

Thirty-nine years ago, it was a mammoth binder filled with pages—one crisp, white leaf for every day which would pass in my chosen profession.  There was not yet a mark on any one of them; the story could only be written second by second, minute by minute.

The minutes turned into hours, weeks, months, and now years.  At first, even the minutes moved by like syrup on the coldest February morning.  And now, at the end, they fly like sand through the fingers of a child at the seashore

Page after page has been filled—lines with their scrawled script, margins with scribbled abbreviations.  Even the edges are covered with notes, reminders now of appointments never made, but still kept.

Funny.  Such a historical document should be conserved for the future, a textbook of success and failure, methods to be passed on to generations not yet even contemplated.  It has not been.

The pages lie at my feet in tatters.  Each page—completed—has merely been torn from the binder and dropped wearily to the floor at the end of the days.

withcustomersThere are mornings when I stoop down and scan a scrap of the paper underfoot.  Memory springs to mind and a smile might cross my face, itself a little more lined and aged than when the binder was first opened.

Frequently, a customer stirs through the debris and reminds me of a memory they have shared, as well.  My customers are friends, not income streams, and the memories are mostly sweet.  Mostly.

Bittersweet, these days.

Well?

The sheaf is growing thin.  

The crisp, white leaves gripped in my fist are precious and few now.  I am loath to fill them and let them drop to the worn carpet beneath my shoes.

Today was a day for the scraps of paper to be read.  As if the stress of a national election and its surprising outcome were not enough for one twenty-four hour period, the queue of old friends waiting their turn to reminisce and then to embellish the scraps of years past wound through my door from before opening time to well after the sun dropped behind the western horizon.

Each brought a gift, the gift of listening and speaking.  It is the way of friendship.

Iron sharpens iron, sometimes painfully, often by polishing gently.  (Proverbs 27:17)

Iron sharpens iron, sometimes painfully, often by polishing gently. Share on X

I have been the recipient of such gifts many times over the years.  Grateful is too insignificant a word to describe what I feel.

I glance at the scraps of paper they have each left behind, scraps bearing their names and experiences, and I remember that I am a rich man.  How could I not be—with a life full of such amazing people?

Yet, I spoke with one friend today of my unhappiness with how thin the sheaf of papers is now.  He reminded me (gently) that God is still leading into the future.

God is still leading into the future. Share on X

I said earlier it was my chosen profession, but it was never I who chose it.  The path was chosen for me—each step of my young life leading me to it and then through it, until now, as I near old age, I find myself stepping away from it at last.

I could never, in my wildest childhood dreams, have planned out such a journey, but He did.  Every step.

The days left in this little music store are flying.  There are not many more pages yet to be filled here.

I want them to be filled with words such as I heard today.  I want them to be filled with people whose faces I see in my memories tonight.

And, I think as I consider the thin sheaf of papers yet to be written in my business—I wonder how thick that other sheaf is?

The book was so thick on the day we entered this world.  Crisp and white, each page awaiting the record that has now been written, it had an adequate supply to last our whole lives through.

It is thinner than when we began.  The opportunities for achievements to be recorded, events to be heralded, dwindle everyday.

Sometimes, I pick up the scraps from those pages, too.  I’ve shared some few of those memories with you.  The ones I’m willing to bring to the light of day again.

Others of the scraps will never be seen or read by anyone else, except by Him.  He reads every one of them.  The thought makes me cringe, but not because I fear any punishment.  No, I cringe because, as any child with his Father, I never want to disappoint.

And, I have.  Again and again, I have disappointed.

Those pages are filled, never to be written on again.  My Father’s disappointment is past, the sins and missteps erased by His astounding grace.

Still, there are more blank pages.  How many?  I don’t know.

Perhaps, the sheaf is growing thin.  Possibly, it still contains years worth of crisp, white leaves to be filled with the record of tasks fulfilled, and a legacy left for many who will follow.

Either way, He guides my steps.

He always has.

Through thick, and now, through thin…

He knew how to lead then.

He knows how to lead now.

Be still my soul.

 

 

He has told you, O man, what is good;
And what does the Lord require of you
But to do justice, to love kindness,
And to walk humbly with your God?
(Micah 6:8 ~ NASB)

 

 

Be still my soul, thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
(from Be Still My Soul ~ Katharina von Schlegel ~ German poet ~ 1697-1768)

 

 

 

 

 

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