life lessons

While We Wait

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Anticlimactic. That’s what they call it, I think.

The bomb is going to explode. Terror grips the characters in the action movie. There is no way out! They’ll all surely be blown to bits. The camera fades to the timer counting down the seconds: 11, 10, 9, 8, 7. . . The distraught secretary screams and covers her face with her hands.

Click. 

The hero flips a switch on the side of the bomb’s casing and the countdown stops. Within seconds, the plot has moved on, as if the minutes of terror and horrible certainty had never happened.

Anticlimactic.

It was. For the last several weeks, I’ve been waiting for the bomb to explode. Today, a sweet young nurse flipped the switch to stop the timer. Well, actually she clicked send on the email I received right after getting out of bed this morning.

“Your CT scan is normal.”

It’s done. Over. Time to move on.

Or, as Andy Dufresne said in the movie, Shawshank Redemption, “It all comes down to a simple choice, really. Get busy living or get busy dying.”

Wait!

Can we talk about this for a minute?  I’m pretty certain I’m not the only one who’s been here—here just past the anticlimactic point, the place where we’re supposed to just pretend the last few weeks didn’t happen. 

They happened. I felt them. I did the things I was supposed to do; said the things I was supposed to say. And, all the time I had my face in my hands while I screamed.  Figuratively—the face in hands thing, anyway. Literally—for the screaming thing, if you count on the inside.

Did I say all the time? 

That’s not quite right. It was like that for a while. Even before I heeded the signs and called the doctor, I was hunkered down, imagining the end game, wondering what I would do should the worst come to pass. 

But a week ago, as I was in the middle of saying the right words to my lunch companion—the right words, mind you, a light came on. Sitting there in the Thai restaurant, with my adult son, I said the words.

“I’m not afraid to die. I’m not. I know what’s next. But, I really don’t want people to be left behind, people who need me.”

Nice, huh?

What I heard in that moment, not from my son but in my head, was the voice of my father saying the words to me several years ago. He was talking about himself at the time.

“No one is indispensable. God can have anyone do what I’m doing now.”

And, from somewhere else, in the back of my brain, I almost thought I heard God Himself laugh. Not an unkind laugh, but the kind of laugh you hear from a father when you’ve been a little foolish and naive. Gently, the words come to mind:

Before you were born—before even a day of your life had been lived—your days on earth were numbered and recorded.  Not a moment will be left out. (Psalm 139:16)

I’m not that important. I’m not. And no, I’m not putting myself down, not trying to be self-deprecating. I’m simply stating a fact.

I’m not important enough to make God change the days, the hours, the minutes that have been set in my account. My times are completely in His hands.

So, I’ve decided I’m waiting for Him.

I’ve decided I’m waiting for God. Share on X

The what-ifs and the if-onlys don’t change the reality of life one whit. The brain and the mouth run on ahead of the events, sometimes with disastrous consequences to our spirit.

Fear paralyzes and turns our focus inside out. 

But, if we will wait on our God, He will see us to safety.

Fear paralyzes and turns our focus inside out. But, if we will wait on our God, He will see us to safety. Share on X

Just like His people at the Red Sea, He tells us to stand still and watch His rescue take place.  (Exodus 14:13)

In His time. At His place.

Waiting is hard. Not knowing is hard. But, when we run ahead, we fall at the side of the road, immobilized by weakness and fear.

I’m finally learning that in the waiting, I can trust Him. Even if the result from the tests had been different today, the real outcome would still be the same.  Exactly as He planned.

When we wait on Him, our strength for the journey is renewed. Like an eagle soaring on the thermal currents above the mountains, we will gather strength as we fly. We’ll run without losing strength, and walk tirelessly. (Isaiah 40:31)

When we wait.

Waiting is hard.

Ah, but His rescue is spectacular.

Absolutely spectacular.

 

 

My voice You shall hear in the morning, O Lord;
In the morning I will direct it to You,
And I will look up.
(Psalm 5:3 ~ NKJV ~ New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. 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.

A Glimpse of Glory

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’m a glutton for punishment. I think that’s the phrase the red-headed lady who raised me would have used.

“Tell me; what happened with that huge bill for the helicopter ride?”

Back a ways, I had seen my friend, the guitar player, in his workplace and he didn’t look well. He didn’t look well at all. But, he had been happy to tell the story. He loves a good story as much as do I, well or not.

The heart attack had been shocking in its intensity and the rapidity with which it incapacitated him. He and his wife were on vacation, over a thousand miles from home. The paramedics, stationed right across the street from their motel, had had him at the local hospital within minutes. The doctor on duty looked over his vitals and shook his head.

“We’re not equipped to do the procedure you need done. Looks like you’re taking a helicopter ride.”

The day he had told me about the new stents in his arteries and the unexpected ‘copter ride, was the day after the envelope had arrived. I wondered if the envelope wasn’t a good part of why he didn’t look so good.

“My insurance company says it won’t pay for the air-evac bill, Paul. I tell you, I stood there stunned when I saw the amount printed on that statement! Thirty-one thousand dollars!“

I didn’t know what to say. All I could think about was what a debt of that magnitude would do to my own meager resources. The very idea was staggering. And so, not knowing what to say, I punted.

You know. Punted.

“Man, I’m sorry! I’ll be praying for that with you!”

He smiled. “Oh. God’s got this. I’m already sure of it.”

I agreed with him that God did, indeed, have it and headed for home. And, I did what I said I would do. I prayed as I felt sorry for him having to pay that huge bill.

That was back around Thanksgiving. I sat and drank coffee with him not long after that, but there were others at the table so I kept my mouth shut.

I wasn’t that smart today.

When I asked him about the bill, he just stood silently in front of me and the Lovely Lady for a moment, a slow smile moving across his face. We knew another story was coming.

“Well Paul, the biggest heathen in the world told me one day a few weeks ago that there was no way God would have provided that helicopter if He wasn’t intending to pay for it. He said that He was either Almighty God, or He wasn’t. The biggest heathen in the world.”

We batted that around for a little while, but I noticed the smile was still stretching his face, so I nudged him forward in his story. He wanted to talk about Christmas Eve. As is true many places in the States, Christmas Eve is one of the busiest days of the season in the retail business where he works.

The day before, he had worked until midnight. That day—Christmas Eve—he came in at seven in the morning and worked until after four in the afternoon. He was exhausted. Exhausted and angry. The threat of financial disaster still hung over him. And, there was a line a mile long—people waiting to be checked out. They weren’t all happy, either.

“All I knew was, I hated everybody I worked with, I hated every person coming in the door, and I hated every person walking out. Most of all, I hated that job. When I finally got in my car to go home, I sat behind the wheel and asked God—out loud—why He was making me work in that place. I asked it again and again, all the way home.”

He paused in the midst of his hyperbole, looking back and forth from me to the Lovely Lady with that silly grin spread across his features.

“You know where this is going, don’t you?” he queried.

I could guess, but I wasn’t going to spoil his story.

“I stopped at the box, pulled out the mail, and found another one of those envelopes. Only, this time, the amount due was a little smaller. Well, a lot smaller.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I’m pretty sure the smile got a little bigger.

Six hundred dollars! That’s all they were asking for his part. Somehow the company he works for had either paid or negotiated down the amount to only two percent of the original thirty-one thousand dollars he had owed just days before.

Talk about joy! And, relief!

“It was almost as if I heard God say it. ‘That’s why I have you working there. You said it yourself. I’ve got this!'”

He went inside the house and found his wife, stressed and tired, overcome with exhaustion herself from preparations for holiday family events. Without a word, he handed her the statement. Within seconds, the tears were flowing.

As he told the story, tears filled my own eyes. Joy. Well. . . Mostly joy. I’ll admit it. Something was bothering me.

Why am I still surprised? I’m not just surprised—I’m amazed! Why is that?

I grew up singing about the cattle He owns on a thousand hills. I assured my tiny children their Heavenly Father cared for them and provided all our needs. I’ve seen the miracles of provision with my own eyes, again and again.

The biggest heathen in the world believed it more than I did. Really.

Do you suppose He’s disappointed with me? With us?

When we don’t quite believe that He can do that again, does He shake His head in disgust?

David, the psalmist didn’t think so. He suggested that God deals with us as a father with his children. He understands what makes us tick. He knows we’re only made from dirt. How would the Artist not know His own work? (Psalm 103:13-14)

He is not surprised when we fall on the road, lying there in self-pity and diminishing faith. Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home.

Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home. Share on X

But then, there are times—those amazing moments—when He sweeps aside the curtain and gives us a glimpse of the glorious work of art He is creating from the little dabs of joy and pain, the patient stippling of profound friendship, and the broad washes of intense loss.

For the barest of moments, our eyes widen and our breath catches as we see—really see—Him at work. And, for that wisp of time, we catch a gleam, the tiniest glimmer, of what heaven will be.

And then, almost like waking from a dream, the moment is past. Dimly, as through a translucent window, we—again—barely make out what will be. (1 Corinthians 13:12)

It would be a mistake on our part to imagine our Creator sees us in the same way—dimly, incompletely—at any time. From before time began, He knew the direction of our steps, our highs, our lows. And, He knows the plans He has for us. He knows them. (Jeremiah 29:11)

His plans are for our good. And, never to harm us.

So, on we walk. Sunshine. Shadow.

Peering through the haze.

Trusting the God who can pay for the ride.

 

 

Let me revel in this one thought: before God made the heavens and the earth, He set His love upon me.
(Charles Spurgeon ~ English pastor/author ~ 1834-1892)

 

The way of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn,
   which shines ever brighter until the full light of day.
(Proverbs 4:18 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

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

Bread. Today.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

The sun shone today. After a week of rain, wind, and gloom, the sun shone and warmed the earth.

I sat in my easy chair most of the day. Finally, about half an hour before the sun dropped from the western sky, I moved.

“I’m going to take a walk.”

I expected her to say, “About time, too!” She didn’t. A simple, “Be careful,” was all I heard as I headed out the door for a three-mile walk.

About time, too. It is what she should have said. What kind of bonehead sits inside on a sixty-degree sunlit day in early January?

I wrote the words for any foolish enough to read them on New Year’s Day.

“I will walk. Into the new year, I’ll walk.”

I said it, knowing there were sorrows still to come; certain that a day wouldn’t make the old sadness disappear. And yet, when it came down to it, and the first steps into the new year were little different than the last out of the old one, my feet faltered. Time spent with a loved one in the hospital did little to encourage my spirit.

And the sun wouldn’t shine. So, I waited. It would be better to wait, wouldn’t it?  When the sun shines, I’ll walk. Let the clouds pass first. The wind blows so cold. It wouldn’t do to get sick,  would it?

You’ll see. When the sun shines—I’ll walk then.

Some things, you just need to do while the sun shines. I’m sure of it. The red-headed lady who raised me taught me that. Make hay while the sun shines. She said it again and again.

She wasn’t wrong. Hay put into bales on a rainy day is guaranteed to rot in the barn. You absolutely have to have sunshine to make hay.

But, living isn’t making hay. Life happens in the sunshine and in the shadow. We journey through whatever circumstance comes. To sit and mope is to admit failure.

Today, I walked. In more ways than one, I walked, forcing myself out of my dreary retreat and into the sunshine. Even as I walked the trail along the beautiful little creek, the light faded and the sun dropped behind the hills to the west.

I want to keep walking. I want to remember that, even in the shadows, the road awaits. And, our Father knows we sometimes need some help remembering. 

After we ate, I told the Lovely Lady I needed to write. I don’t remember what it was I thought I needed to say, but I trudged up the stairs to my little writing room anyway. Before I had a chance to write it, I sent a response to a friend who had been kind enough to share a song with me today. She does that on occasion, gracing friends with music that moves her.  I was moved myself and wanted to thank her.

I wrote only a short note, telling her I hoped she was doing well. I’m not sure what I expected. I guess I expected the shadows to come again if she replied honestly. My friend is in the middle of a fight with cancer. The outcome is not certain for her.

She replied honestly.

The voice message that arrived within moments was nothing like what I expected. In a matter-of-fact manner, she told me of upcoming appointments with the cancer specialists. She doesn’t know what will happen.

And then, with laughter and joy in her voice, she said the most surprising thing:  “I made bread today.  Paul, I made homemade bread!” Telling me about the neighbors’ response to the aroma filling the air, her message ended with joy. Pure joy.

Where are the shadows I expected? And, why am I suddenly thinking about the red-headed lady who raised me again?

It is one of my happiest memories of my mother. It didn’t happen often, but I remember the feeling as if it were yesterday.

“Today,” she said, “Today, we make bread.”

And, we did. Well, she did. She made the bread; we ate it.  But before that—before that—the delightful aroma of homemade bread filled the house. To this day, I cannot smell bread baking without thinking of those mornings in South Texas—always mornings (with no air conditioning, it was too hot to do it in the afternoon)—when, for a few minutes, we were the richest kids in town.

It was the most basic item in the diet for our predecessors, and therefore, baking it was the most common of activities for those who laid food on the tables. When strangers came, they broke bread. Dad came home from his job and the breadwinner was in the house. We knew which side our bread was buttered on. The upper crust had it easy.

She was the one who told us to make hay while the sun was shining, but as I remember it, the sun always shone when she made bread. 

I’m sure it wasn’t true. Storms were a way of life for us. With five children in the house, what else would one expect? But such a simple thing could drive all thought of unhappy events from our heads as we gobbled up those spectacular homemade rolls, not even waiting to spread a knife full of margarine on them.

I wipe the crumbs from the edges of my mouth mentally, my mind returning to my friend and the amazing lesson I am learning.

When the sun refuses to shine on us, we do the foundational things, the things that sustain, the things that bring joy. For us, and for those we love.

When the sun refuses to shine, we do the foundational things, the things that sustain, the things that bring joy. For us, and for those we love. Share on X

I think it’s no coincidence that Jesus, when he taught His disciples to pray, included the request that our Heavenly Father would give us this day our daily bread. (Matthew 6:11)

I have another friend who each day posts either that entire prayer or a phrase from it on social media, for her friends to read and to be encouraged. It was less than a year ago that her daughter suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Yet, every day, she encourages her friends to be fed by that daily bread from heaven.  Every day.

In the darkness, the light shines. It will not be extinguished. (John 1:5)

I worry. I do.  About the future, I worry. About those I love, I worry. I sit in the dark and mull over what might happen.

He says to leave tomorrow alone. Today, we have bread. From His ovens, from His own hand, we have bread.

Can you smell it?

Bread. 

Today.

 

 

 

If you have extraordinary bread and extraordinary butter, it’s hard to beat bread and butter.
(Jacques Pepin ~ French-born American chef)

 

The true bread of God is the one who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world. “Sir,” they said, “give us that bread every day.”
(John 6:33,34 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

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

Feet Firmly Planted

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

New Year’s Eve, we call it.

As if.

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

If only.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home.

Somewhere else.

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

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

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

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

It is midnight. The threshold is crossed.

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

Still, we walk.

With Him. By faith.

With each other.  In love.

Home lies ahead.  Really.

Home.

Time to get moving.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

Skin In The Game. Playing Some Gaga.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

Let’s see if I can clear this up.

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

Grandpa and the kids played gaga ball. 

What’s that you say?

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

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

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

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

Mostly, I yelled for the kids.

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

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

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

Somehow, I think we may actually like each other! 

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

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

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

Get some skin in the game.

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

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

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

Friendship. Understanding. Love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn’t have any skin in the game.

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

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

Engage. Take chances. Be real.

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

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

They are somebody. Still today, they are somebody.

Time to get some skin in the game.

Time to start playing some gaga. 

Ball, I mean.

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

The In-Between Parts

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I start with good intentions. I do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps, none at all.

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

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

It’s important to us.

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

There’s just this: 

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

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

Now, we’re doing the in-between part.

Perhaps, a few more reps?

 

 

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

 

Listen to my voice in the morning, Lord.
    Each morning I bring my requests to you and wait expectantly.
(Psalm 5:3 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

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

For the Birds

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Birdbrain!

It’s an insult, isn’t it?

It would be if I called you such a name.  The implication would be that your brain is so small you can’t make good decisions, or think through problems, or make plans for the future.

I have a bunch of birdbrains at my house.  No, really.  Birdbrains.  And, they don’t make good decisions or think through problems.  I’m worried for their future.

My sister brought the feeder with her to work one morning. 

“You can find instructions on the internet for making the nectar.”

Nectar.  Really.  That’s what they call it.  I call it sugar water.  In fact, that is all there is to it.  Sugar.  And, water.

But my friend, Jeff, who just passed away last spring, had loved the hummingbirds outside his patio doors.  He even named one of them Grace.  Why he named it that wasn’t really clear to me.

I thought we’d give it a try.  We made up a batch of nectar.  Four parts water, one part sugar—boiled to take out any impurities.  Nothing else.  Sugar water.

Hanging the feeder right outside our front window, we waited for the little hummers to find it.  It took awhile.  But then, one day as I sat reading in my chair, I heard the hum of wings outside, beating three or four thousand times a minute.  It wasn’t quite the hum I had expected—more like a buzzing.  You know, like a really loud bumblebee.  Or, a wasp.

The little critter hovered over the nectar tip, never alighting on the perch, but it did dip its long beak into the hole for a few seconds and then flitted away, disappearing into the landscape.

It took awhile for many of the little birds to find the feeder, but I’ve been sitting in that chair for a lot of hours since that day.  I’m learning about birds’ brains.

Did you know the manufacturer put four nectar tips on the feeder?  Four.  Ostensibly, it’s so you can observe four hummers at a time as they feed docilely, sharing the moment with each other and any onlookers.

They should have saved the money.

Hummingbirds hate—detest—eating beside each other.  I haven’t read that anywhere, but my observations lead me to believe it to be a fact.  At no time has there been a full complement of birds to take advantage of the available feeding tips.  Never.

If two happen to alight, they perhaps will feed for a moment or two.  Perhaps.  That assumes they do not look up from their feeding.  If one of the two ever lifts its eyes to look at the other, the feeding is over.  Over.

Instantly, they fly at each other, not allowing a second’s more drinking of the sugar water.  I’ve seen birds actually fall off the feeder, only to catch themselves in mid-air, flapping their wings to halt their tumble.  Then, either they will fly away in retreat, or they will engage the aggressor in a mock-battle of sorts, with the disgraced loser zooming away and the victor returning to its feeding.

In the last few days, I have seen as many as seven of the little kamikazes zooming in arcs in the vicinity of the feeder, twittering madly.  At times, one will alight, only to sit, its head tilting in all directions, body and mind on high alert to incoming attackers, yet never getting a single drink of the magic elixir.

They don’t eat.  The birdbrains fight about eating. 

They don't eat. The birdbrains fight about eating. Share on X

I am frustrated.  As their provider, I want them to share.  I want them to be fed.  I want them to live in peace.

There is plenty of nectar for every one of them.  Plenty.

There is room at the feeder for them to eat.  Side by side.

Why would they fight when they could eat?

Oh.

I understand why Jeff named the hummingbird Grace.

Finally, I understand.

And, the Teacher looked out over His place, the place He wanted to feed His people and wept as He said the words: How often I have tried to bring you together, as a mother hen who gathers her chicks under her wing.  But, you refused.  (Luke 13:34)

And yet.

Grace.

Perhaps, it’s time for a meal together.

No RSVP needed.

Just come.

Grace.

 

 

How wonderful and pleasant it is when brothers live together in harmony.

(Psalm 133:1 ~ 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.)

 

Harmony makes small things grow.  Lack of it makes great things decay.

(Gaius Sallustius Crispus ~ Roman historian/politician ~ 86 BC-35 BC)

Harmony makes small things grow. Share on X

 

 

 

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

Getting Wet

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The storm threatens.

Not for the first time.

Earlier today, I heard the muttering of the thunder up in the clouds. Fifteen miles away, my brother (with whom I was texting) heard it and wondered if the rain was really on its way.

It was, but only a little. A nice Spring shower to wash off the daffodils and redbuds. Just a lick and a promise, as the red-headed lady who raised me would describe it.

The muttering is back. Ten hours have passed and, again, the thunder is threatening.

The promise is that the storm will break soon. For all the delay and lack of delivery up ’til now, the promise will be kept tonight. I’m sure of it.

Mr. Adams—that wise Englishman who wrote about the rabbits in Watership Down—suggests that folks who claim to love cold weather actually love feeling proof against it; they love that they have outsmarted winter. The reader may agree or disagree, but I believe it to be true about more than just the cold of winter.

We love listening to the breaking storm from the safety of our four walls, with a good roof overhead to keep the deluge from affecting us personally and intimately.

We love walking in the rain because the umbrella is spread above to keep us from the discomfort of its all-encompassing soaking. Or, if we happen to run uncovered, carefree and dripping for a time, we love the thought that at the end of our gambol, we will find a warm shower to wash off the residue of the event and, wrapping ourselves in a clean, fluffy towel or robe, will relax in the luxury of warmth and comfort inside our four walls with a watertight roof.

But, what if the walls we’ve constructed so carefully, and the shelter we’ve thrown up simply aren’t enough to keep the storm from breaking on our heads anymore?

The noise of the rain which has arrived outside my window reminds me that the thunder’s earlier muttering was no empty threat. I believe this is what the folks in my home state would call a Texas frog-strangler, the downpour is so heavy.

Sooner or later, the rumblings lead to a torrent.

They always do. Sooner or later.

Mostly, sooner.

Somehow, someone is going to get wet. Soaked through.

Do you suppose the followers of Jesus didn’t get wet? In the storm that overtook their boat and threatened to sink it, do you think they stayed dry? (Mark 4:37)

When Peter walked across the waves—even before he took his eyes off the Teacher—do you think he wasn’t drenched clear through? (Matthew 14:29-30)

Can’t you just see it? Impetuous Peter, anxious to show the Master (and his peers) he was up to the challenge, jumps out of the boat to meet Him in the waves.

Walking on the water! On. The. Water.

What a moment of triumph! But, only a moment.

The waves slapped at his ankles, then at his knees. Before he knew it, one soaked him from head to toe. This wasn’t anything like he had imagined. Robe hanging down, hair streaming into his face, water in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, it was horrendous!

Where was the protection he expected from the waves? Why was his Rabbi—his Teacher—allowing this misery?

Soaked, disappointed, and distressed beyond belief, he begins to worry about the next wave. And the next. We know the rest of the story.

Life is like that, isn’t it? We have expectations—plans. Then the walk turns out to be so much harder than we envisioned it at the beginning.

Our faith wanes. If God wanted us to get out of that boat, why didn’t He clean up the pathway to get to Him? Why would He let us be miserable when we’re doing what we’re supposed to do?

Sometimes, in the storms of life, it’s hard to see the pathway with the rain streaming down our faces. And sometimes, it’s not only the rain that’s streaming down our faces.

Sometimes, it's not only the rain that's streaming down our faces. Share on X

I sat in a restaurant with dear friends earlier this evening, minding my own business, and the storm broke. Old hurts, not with them but with others I love, came pouring to the surface.

I had heard the rumbling for a while before this. The downpour was sure to come sooner or later, so I have huddled under whatever shelter I could raise to keep from getting wet.

But, part of the walk is sharing it with companions. Our life of serving Him is not a mission for a hero, but a pilgrimage for a band of fellow travelers.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet. Share on X

Together, we all get wet. As we walk each other home, we get drenched together.

And, it’s miserable. And magnificent.

And, then He says, “Peace. Be still.”

I’m going to keep walking. With the friends who’ll walk beside me.

You coming with?

Bring your towel.

It’s going to be a damp walk.

 

 

The men were amazed and asked, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!”
(Matthew 8:27 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

 

I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And, I feel soaked to the skin.
(Leonard Cohen ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1934-2016)

 

 

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

 

Alternate Routes

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Paul!!! Help!!!!

The message from my friend wasted no empty words in letting me know his need was extreme.  The power was out in part of his house and he was desperate.  I’m no electrician, but I have a limited knowledge in the art of tracing down a circuit, so I get an SOS from friends and family from time to time.

It was Saturday.  My day was planned out. The last thing I needed was a detour.

But, he is an old friend.  We go back a lot of years. 

I took the detour.

As I prepared to go help my friend, the Lovely Lady received a note from other friends.  Would we have time to eat with them that evening?

Another detour.  More old friends. 

We took this detour as well.

Why is it we love the comfortable, the well-worn path?  Why do we tense up when we see the familiar sign with an arrow above the word detour?

For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord.  Plans to benefit you and not to make things harder.  Plans to give you vision and to ensure future blessings. (Jeremiah 29:11)

I think those words apply to the detours, too.  Don’t they?

My friend with the electrical problem was waiting for me, anticipating the worst.  Explaining the steps it had taken to get into the mess, he led me to the room where the sparks had flown.

Minutes later, the power was back on.  I explained the problems to him.

You turned off the switch, but should have turned off the breaker.  That box has live wires in it that aren’t connected to the wall switch.  

Then I delivered my favorite truism regarding electricity.  It is my go-to quote when I deal with friends who don’t understand and are fearful of working with the source of power.

Electricity always does what it is supposed to do.  Always.

Hmmm.  It does have a well-worn path through which it travels.  Always the same.  Always predictable.  Maybe even comfortable. 

It’s true.  It is.  Electricity is a lot like we are.

But, as I stood there, I couldn’t help but see in my memory a time—now nearly forty years in the past—when I stood on a ladder in a school hallway, my head and arms stuck up through the false ceiling.

I had a junction box open and was loosening the wire connector on a bundle of wires.  They all had white-colored insulation, which indicated they were neutral wires.

Colored insulation warns of a hot wire; white signifies neutral.  Hot wires carry power to devices, like lights or motors.  Neutral wires complete the circuit, giving the expended current a path back to the breaker box.

I had been doing this for a few months.  I knew what electricity did.  Well, I thought I knew what electricity did.

I unscrewed the connector, exposing the wad of bare conductor wires.  Reaching for the wad with my bare hand, I was stopped in mid-air by a shout from my supervisor.

What are you doing?

I explained how electricity worked to him.  Funny, huh? 

I was going to separate the wires and isolate the circuit to the room I was standing outside of.  It was, after all, only carrying used-up electricity, going back to the power source.

The man laughed.  I don’t think he intended it to indicate he was amused.

The instant you separate those wires with your bare hand, that used-up electricity is going to take a detour through your body to whatever ground it can find and you’ll find out how much it still bites.

Isn’t that odd? 

Electricity loves detours.  It loves them.  Takes a detour in less time than it takes a man to blink.

And, in another blink, I was back at my friend’s house, flipping the main breaker back to the on position, restoring power to his dark rooms.

My little mental detour over, the time at my friend’s house passed quickly as I gave him some pointers on acceptable wiring practices for ceiling fans.  I only hope his spins in the right direction when he gets done.

Instead of an objectionable experience, the detour to his house turned into a learning time—for me and for him.

Take the detour.

An hour or two later, we took the other detour with our friends.  There were tasks we could have accomplished by staying home, things which still need to be done, but we rode to a nearby town with them and ate dinner.

We sat, throwing our peanut shells on the floor (truth be told, the Lovely Lady made a neat pile of hers on the table), and laughed until we cried.  We talked about old people stuff—you know, doctors and prescriptions—and we talked about young people stuff—things we did thirty or forty years ago and things our children and grandchildren are doing today.

And, when we were done, we laughed some more and came home healed—for awhile—of the hurts and sorrows of life.

Take the detour.

Sometimes, detours offer a respite from the journey.  A refreshing ride along a riverside on a two-lane road, when we had been hurtling down the freeway to exhaustion.  A glance at an old house that reminds us of home, long ago and many miles away.  A reminder of family, as we pass a park full of children chasing each other and going down the slides, or over the jungle-gym.

Sometimes the detours teach us a valuable lesson, giving us tools for the journey yet to come.

Not by coincidence, one of our fellow-travelers on the second detour that day was the very same man who had yelled—and laughed—at me in the school hallway all those years ago.

I reminded the electrician that, as I had helped my other friend earlier, I had only shared information he had taught me as a young man.  He said he didn’t remember teaching me anything.  Seriously.  Not anything.

He did teach me.  I can’t begin to count the folks with whom I have shared that knowledge in the years that have piled up since. 

Sometimes, on our detours, we get the chance to remind other folks of how important they are in the lives of those around them.

Take the detour.

Take the detour. You might find your spirit renewed at the end. Share on X

As with electricity, there are paths laid out before us.  Those paths stretch out into the future, a journey that must be taken, with a goal that can’t be missed.

Point A to Point B.

But sometimes, the alternate route opens up suddenly and He asks us to come aside with Him.  The goal will still be there, in time.  The road will still be traveled. 

But, for now, we slow down and take the back lanes for a ways.

With Him.

I’m taking the detours.

You coming with?

 

 

Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit. (Man proposes, but God disposes.)
( from The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis ~ German cleric/author ~ 1380-1471)

 

The strength of patience hangs on our capacity to believe that God is up to something good for us in all our delays and detours.
(John Piper ~ Pastor/author)

 

You can make many plans,
    but the Lord’s purpose will prevail.
(Proverbs 19:21 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

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