protection

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.

 

Birds Have Nests

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

All I need is a place to lay my head—and my old Martin guitar.

I’ve known of folk like him all my life. Granted, not all of them choose the life they live, as he has.  The man speaking is dressed in clothes he obviously purchased from the Goodwill store.  He probably even slept in them last night—in his car, it would appear.

He has no family to speak of.  No children.  No wife.  There is no one who depends on him—except himself.  He doesn’t want it any other way.  He is satisfied with the way things are going.

I stood and thought one day recently, as I said goodbye once again to my footloose friend.  What would make a man want to live like that?

I still have no answer.

Most of us want nests—homes to which we can retreat—safe places for our children and spouses.  We want warmth and comfort, along with protection and safety.  In our homes, we feel all these things.

Mothers-to-be—most of them—feel the nesting instinct.  They want to clean and paint, and sometimes to add on a nursery.  (Just ask any father-to-be.)  Our Creator made them so, building the nesting instinct into their psyche.

In nesting, we find our first fulfillment as a parent.  There will be many more satisfying moments in the years to come, but before they arrive, we first have the need to ensure our offspring will be safe.  We want them to have the best chance to arrive in one piece to the age at which we can push them out—of the nest—to fly on their own.  It is what we are made for.

And still, the question nags at me: Why would someone choose to live without a nest—a home?

As I contemplate the question, a scene wavers on the edge of my consciousness.  I push it away.  It is not what I want to consider.

The scene will not be ignored.  Against my better judgment, in my mind’s eye, I let it play out.

A crowd of people is moving through a dry and dusty landscape.  There is a lake nearby, and it is clear that many of the men are carrying their belongings, everything they own, on their backs.  One of them doesn’t belong in the scene at all.

A well-dressed man—obviously a learned fellow—he is addressing the leader of the group.  He makes the claim, with much bravado, but not much conviction, that he will follow the Teacher wherever He goes.

The Teacher replies, telling the religious man that, unlike the foxes (who have dens) and the birds (who have their nests), he had no place even to lay His head.  (Matthew 8:18-20)

I don’t know if the man followed Him or not. but I wonder—I can’t help it—I wonder why there is no place for the Teacher to call home.  

How did the Baby—whose mother wrapped Him gently and laid Him in a manger, whose earthly father taught him in the arts of carpentry, whose parents were so concerned about Him wandering off into the temple at the age of twelve—how did He turn into a man who had no place to sleep?

How is it that this Son of God is homeless?

The answer hits me like an avalanche and knocks me down, breathless.

He chose this!  

Do you suppose He could not have had the finest palace if He had desired it?  Do you think a life of ease was beyond His power?

There was nothing—no power on earth—that could have denied Him any comfort He wanted.

And, just as quickly as that, I have my answer.  He chose.  He chose to leave the comfort of His home and its protection so He could bring mankind to a place of protection and rest!

His invitation to the people of His day was that they come to Him, as chicks run to the mother hen and shelter under her wings, safe in the nest.  (Luke 13:34)  

They would not.  It didn’t stop Him.

Do you see the picture?  He left the nest to bring us to the nest!  

It was always about gathering us to safety—always that we might be protected.

Even as He died in our place, the assurance was of a nest being prepared.  If I go and prepare a place, I will bring you to safety there. (John 14:3)

He wandered, homeless, so we wouldn’t have to.

Why would we make any other choice?  Why would we still wander, homeless?

stork-931864_1280It is safe in the nest.

I could use that reassurance today.  Maybe you could too.

Time for rest.

Nestle down and abide.

Under His wings.

 

 

Under His wings, under His wings,
Who from His love can sever?
Under His wings my soul shall abide,
Safely abide forever.
(William Cushing ~American pastor/poet ~ 1823-1902)

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

Beasts in the Field

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

In a melancholy mood tonight, I found my favorite photograph and spent a while not looking at it.

By that, I mean I saw the photo, but then, looking on through the lovely, placid scene, I watched a life gone by.  Several lives, if one counts not only the little girl and her Daddy but also the people with whom they’ve been blessed to travel in the thirty years since the photo was taken.

It’s strange, but in the tranquil, almost Rockwellian, perspective of a young father and his beautiful daughter caught unawares gazing through a barbed-wire fence and across the meadow, I see a part of the story which I had never considered.

The tale the photo tells doesn’t brighten my spirits as much as I had hoped when I began looking for the snapshot earlier tonight.

That’s the way life is, isn’t it?  Moments we once thought simple and carefree, when viewed from across the years, assume the burdens of those years and the simplicity is lost, the freedom from cares suddenly erased by time itself.  In some ways though, it seems that I may have actually changed the narrative in my mind years ago and am just now seeing the truth of the vista opened before me.

Looking carefully at the photo, one may notice that the sweet tyke is smiling at what she sees.  I know (because I was there) that she is looking at Dr. Weaver’s cows as they grazed in the big open field.  What child doesn’t smile at such strange creatures when viewed from the safety of her father’s arms?

We did it more than once even though there is no further photographic evidence to prove it.  

Thirty years ago it was, yet I still remember well the routine that led to this timeless scene.

The tall thin man leaned down and held the hand of the little blonde-haired sweetheart and they walked along the side of her Grandpa’s workshop toward the fenced meadow behind the house.  Passing the garden plot to their east, she noticed there was only dirt where once the vegetables had thrived.  That didn’t slow them down though.  She wanted to see the cows.

Until she got closer to the fence.

The animals were some distance away, on the other side, but it wasn’t far enough.  The grip of her little hand in his grew tight.  He understood.  Leaning down closer to her, he quietly reassured her that he wasn’t going anywhere.  He reminded her that she would always be safe with him.

She believed him.  But still. . .

By then, they were at the fence and he squatted down, pulling her toward his body.  In a half hug, she realized her Daddy was up to the task of protecting her.  She relaxed a bit and moved closer to the fence.  

As one of the old cows looked up from her grazing, the child backed up again and felt his chest behind her shoulders.  She leaned on one knee and smiled.

It was the smile of a child who knew safety.  And joy.

But look at the picture again and tell me—can what the young man is looking at be seen?  Is there a smile on his face?

No?

I wonder—what do you suppose he is seeing?  He is almost certainly not looking at the cows the little girl is viewing.  

And, where is his smile?

I sit here and I think back again.  It was a hard time.  There wasn’t much money.  The young man and his Lovely Young Lady had just had another baby.  He was a joy to them, but there were hospital bills.  A bigger house would have to be found.  Clothes.  Cars.  Utilities to be paid.

The little girl is safe and care-free.  Protected and loved, she has no worries.

Tonight, years removed from the event, the realization hits me hard.

So hard the tears come.

How did I miss this?  

All this time.  All these years.

I thought I was the protector.  The provider.

I needed One.

I had One.

I just wasn’t leaning on His knee.  Or resting in His embrace.

There are still scary things in front of me.

It’s not too late, is it?

 

 

 

Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.
(Corrie ten Boom ~ Dutch Christian & holocaust survivor ~ 1892-1983)

 

And he got up and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, ‘Hush, be still.’  And the wind died down and it became perfectly calm.  And He said to them, “Why are you afraid?  Do you still have no faith?”
(Mark 4: 39,40 ~ NASB)




© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.