life’s journey

Crossing the Torrent

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.

I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.

I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited its inevitable surge above flood level.

And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.

No, really. Music.

Away, I’m bound away,
 Across the wide Missouri.

I suppose it’s no coincidence the words to the old folk tune Shenandoah are coming from the speakers on my desk right now. No, I didn’t select the song; it just came up in the playlist the streaming music service delivers while I sit at my computer.

When I say no coincidence, I mean I probably needed a nudge in the right direction.

I can take a hint; I’ll head that way momentarily.

Many times, I’ve compared our existence here to a journey — a life-long expedition to see what is around the next bend and over the next hill.

We are strangers in a strange land, headed for a different home.

They do not belong to this world any more than I do. (John 17:16, NLT)

Having said that, I also realize I have stopped here beside the rushing waters and taken shelter a little ways above the river’s edge in a place of safety.

I’ve stopped here for too long.

Much too long.

Too long, staring at the intimidating water. Too long, wondering when the awful flood will recede. Too long, waiting for rescue.

The road goes on up the mountain on the other side of this cataract of white water. I can see it from here if I have the strength of will to tear my eyes away from the terrifying flood and lift them to the hills.

The painting you see above hangs in my home. It is one of my favorites.  Although not necessarily from the brush of the most skillful of artists, the picture tells the story amazingly well.

The violent torrent roars and tumbles down the mountain rift with horrible menace. Nothing in its path could withstand for long the overwhelming power it wields. And yet, mere feet above the white water, on a rickety and cobbled-together wooden bridge, seemingly unconcerned and unfazed, a man stands resting.

The Lovely Lady and I jokingly refer to the piece of art as our Simon & Garfunkel painting, a none-too-clever reference to the duo’s song, Bridge Over Troubled Water.

A century old, the painting depicts nineteenth-century life in the Canadian Yukon Territory. The best word I can think of to describe living in that rugged wilderness? Hard.

Hard, and yet (dare I say it?) triumphant.

Here, amid the most unfriendly environment man could imagine, a bridge spans the cataract of water. In safety, where there was no safety, anyone can traverse the dangerous valley.

Someone had to build that bridge. Over the troubled water.

Over it.

While the river rushed and roared below them.

And still, I stand beside the flood and consider. It’s likely, you know, that if a bridge can be built over this river, there will be another one needing to be built up ahead, and another one, and another.

Rivers don’t run in a straight line, either. I might even have to build another bridge over this very same cascade, further on where it runs even wilder and more furiously.

Funny. As I stand here thinking, I seem to hear the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me.

“We’ll cross that river when we get to it.”

She is right. She always was.

But right now, I’m at this river.

Today, the rushing water directly ahead needs a bridge over it.

I have no choice but to follow the road ahead. And, it leads up the hill across this particular river. This wild, untameable flood.

It’s time to get building. It’s a good thing I know a Carpenter who is only too happy to teach the craft to any who ask.

After all, He built the greatest bridge of all time. Out of wood and nails.

Away, I’m bound away…

 

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
(Psalm 121: 1,2 ~ ESV)

A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath. (Anthony Liccione)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Don’t Camp Out On It

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Are you satisfied?

I’ve written the words before.  

The old Irish pastor had leaned over the pulpit in the little sanctuary—the same one in which the Lovely Lady and I had made promises to each other, years prior.  It seemed to me then that the old fellow was leaning right down into my face and directing the question solely to me.

Twenty years on, it still seems like that to me.

I had not only been married in that room, but I had carried my first-born child proudly in to sit with my friends there.  My second child followed a couple of years later.  I had sung with the choir, played the piano a time or two, and even preached when the opportunity arose.

Life was good.

This was as fine a place as any to settle.  I was satisfied.

Was.

Who did this old Irishman think he was, rocking my boat?  Because, that’s what he was doing.  As he spoke, a restlessness grew in me.  

It was high time I was moving on down the road!  High time.

I’m still not satisfied.  Not yet.

There is more along this road.  As long as the journey has been to this point, there is still a fair distance to go.

There is more along this road—still a fair distance to go. Share on X

I can’t help but remember the lesson I learned the first time I played the piano at the Lovely Lady’s home in the days when we were dating.  Her Mom had been a piano teacher for many years.  I was to learn that it was an identity she couldn’t leave behind with her afternoon piano lessons.

I sat down to the beautiful Chickering grand piano in the living room as my future bride and mother-in-law labored in the kitchen before supper on that evening.  Glancing along the page of classical music before me, I decided it was worth taking the chance and began to play.

I had nothing to be ashamed of for the first few lines of the song, holding my own in picking out the melody and counter-melody.  I even did a fair job of reaching the bass notes along the way.  

Then, looking ahead, I saw a cluster of notes.

Uh-Oh!  I really didn’t like chords all that much.  I usually got a note or two wrong in them and it never came out quite right.  

My brain worked to comprehend the structure of the chord as I finished up the running notes leading up to it.

Miracle of miracles!  I hit every note right in the chord!  Every one.

It was beautiful!  Beautiful!

camp-1551078_640I reveled in the victory!  What a gorgeous chord!  Listen to that!  

Well?  Don’t camp out on it!  

The voice came from the kitchen.  Ever the teacher, the dear lady felt the need to encourage me along on my way, as she did with all her students who took longer than they should to move on.  

I wasn’t done yet.  There was still more music to be played.  A lot more.  For me to stop and revel in my accomplishment would actually diminish what was to come.

A friend shared a short quote this afternoon.  I read the words and felt that restlessness again—the same restlessness I felt twenty years ago when the old Irish preacher asked the question.  You may read the quote below for yourself.

I think perhaps the Apostle said it a little more accurately when he assured his readers that the One who had begun the work in them wouldn’t stop until it was completely finished.  (Philippians 1:6)

What is in the past, impressive as it may be, is simply prelude to the future.  If we stop and camp out to revel in the accomplishment, we may forget to move on and the song will never be completed.  

The Great Composer has a masterpiece for every one of us to make our way through.  Every chord and every note—loud or soft, pretty and resonant, or strident and bombastic—will sound before the end.

The journey is not complete.  It’s not time to set up camp.  

Not yet.

The journey is not complete. It's not time to set up camp. Not yet. Share on X

The old preacher’s question still stands.

Well, are we?

 

 

 

You didn’t come this far to only come this far.
(Mike Foster ~ American author/teacher)

 

Be still my soul:  Thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
(from Be Still My Soul ~ ca. 1752 ~ Katharina A. von Schlegel)

 

What’s past is prologue.
(from The Tempest ~ William Shakespeare ~ English poet ~ 1564-1616)

 

 

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

Never Again a Stranger

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I am a poor wayfaring stranger
While traveling through this world of woe.
Yet there’s no sickness, toil or danger
In that bright world to which I go.

Except, I’m not really.

A wayfaring person, that is.  Not in the sense that I actually travel long distances.

I see the questionnaire in the feed of my social media once in awhile.  I even took the test once.  It was embarrassing.  

The question asks, How many states have you visited?  

I’m not going to tell you the answer.  Let’s just say less than half of them.  I don’t have a deep-seated desire to travel.  I never really have.

I’m sure it says something about my personality.  I don’t really want to know.  Or possibly, I do.  

Maybe, I already know.

The song lyrics with which we opened this essay speak of traveling in this world, but they really look to the one to come.  And, the words used to describe the poet in the first line tell the story.  They tell it for me, anyway.

hiking-1312226_640A wayfaring stranger.

Were there ever two words juxtaposed to present such a bleak perspective?  It is not the picture of camaraderie, fellow travelers headed for a common destination. It is, however, a tableau of a lonely figure wandering along the highway, shoulders hunched and coat held tightly at the neck to block the icy fingers of the frigid winter’s chill. 

And, in that sad vision, I see myself clearly.  I don’t travel with ease, for new surroundings put me in strange circumstances, a stranger in a strange place.

I’m not apologizing.  I don’t even feel obliged to change.  

There’s a reason I often feel uncomfortable here:

I simply don’t fit in very well.

I’m not supposed to.

The Apostle for whom I am named suggested that we who follow Christ will never be at home here.  He, who historically was so bold as to claim citizenship in the Roman state even though he had never been in Rome, made an even bolder claim for us.

We are citizens of Heaven. (Philippians 3:20)

The poet called himself—and by association, each of us—a wayfaring stranger.  My friends who live in foreign countries have a different word.  Ex-pats, they fondly say, referring to themselves and folks who, like them, are not from the country they reside in physically.

Expatriates.  It comes from the Latin expatriare, meaning out of one’s native country.

The Apostle speaks of being surrounded by those who think only about life here on earth.  Somehow, they believe the journey all of us are on ends with death.  The result is a preoccupation with comfort here and now.  YOLO!  You only live once!

As if.  

Mr. Lewis suggests that,  unlike nature which is mortal, we are immortal and will live forever.  He is not wrong.

I cringe as I think about the number of times I have heard the YOLO phrase on the lips of others who claim to believe as I do, who say they follow the same Savior.

There are many who don’t seem like strangers here.  Blending in like natives, they indeed, act as if today is all there is to live for.  Certainly, they don’t seem like ex-pats, either to me or to the non-believers who surround us in this place.

But, I don’t speak for them.  I can’t see the heart of any man or woman, and certainly wouldn’t presume to know where their journey will lead them.

I only know I’m looking for the day when my journey is complete and I arrive at my true destination, my native country.  I don’t want to be an expatriate forever.

May I tell you a secret?  

This is one trip I’m enjoying.  Sure, I’m a stranger.  The road is not always comfortable.  Blazing hot days of struggling through the desert turn into the frozen blast as we scale the mountains between us and our destination.

There is pain and sorrow, there is loneliness and loss, along this road.

Ah, but the destination!

Like the Apostle and his citizenship in Rome, I have never been there.  I’m not bothered by that in the slightest.

You see,  I’m not a stranger there.

Home.  It is my home.

They know me there.

How about you?

 

 

 

 

What springs from earth dissolves to earth again, and heaven-born things fly to their native seat.
(Marcus Aurelius ~ Roman Emperor ~ 121-180)

 

Beloved, I urge you as aliens and strangers to abstain from fleshly lusts which wage war against the soul.  Keep your behavior excellent among the Gentiles, so that in the thing in which they slander you as evildoers, they may because of your good deeds, as they observe them, glorify God in the day of visitation.
(1 Peter 2:11-12 ~ NASB)

 

 

 

 

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