Psalm 23

They called them retreats.

We couldn’t have told you what the word meant. Not when used in that context.

Usually, a group of teenagers was loaded into cars to ride to unfamiliar surroundings, mostly campgrounds in the middle of nowhere.

For two or three days, we engaged in ambitious activities—games, hikes, group discussions, and the like. Since we were usually thrown in with other teenagers we didn’t know, the stress level was high as we vied for the pretty girls’ attention and did our best to mark our territory and establish superiority over the other boys.

It wasn’t a relaxing time.

I am older now. Much older. The need to impress pretty females has faded into a dim memory (except for one particular Lovely Lady). Mostly, I leave the butting heads process to younger men anxious to leave their marks on their corner of the world.

I have a much better comprehension of how to retreat now. In a world filled with the imagery of battles and strife, the time to turn away from the fray and find a place in which to tend to wounds and basic emotional and spiritual needs is well within my power of discernment.

Quite obviously, the term is of military origin, although not necessarily in the sense in which we normally view it.

Somehow, we have been taught to believe retreat is the same as a rout, a defeat in battle. Although that might sometimes be the case, on many occasions a retreat is called simply to give the combatants a chance to rest and get ready to re-engage.

The wise leader always knew when his command was at the breaking point, the place where casualties would begin to mount catastrophically. Sounding the retreat was a way of living to fight another day—on full stomachs and well rested.

Retreat is rightfully a tool of battle, not an admission of defeat.

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The warrior king who wrote many of the Psalms understood the value of the retreat. In the worst time imaginable, a time when he was fighting battles with his own son, he writes of sleeping soundly and once again arising to courage and faith. (Psalm 3:5,6)

In the most popular of all his writings, he speaks of lying down in green fields and of being led by still waters to be restored in soul and spirit. (Psalm 23:2,3)

David writes of the soul of the warrior at rest in the Prince of Peace.

The soul of the warrior is at rest in the Prince of Peace. Share on X

I need that. Exactly that.

Perhaps, I’m not the only one.

Our lives, to the uninvolved bystander, are completely unlike the one this man-after-God’s-own-heart saw unfold before him thousands of years ago. And yet, for all that, our battles aren’t any less hard-fought, nor any less important.

My battles don’t look anything like those of folks around me, either. Still, battles they are, with casualties to be counted and wounds to be dressed.

Retreat must come. It must.

And Jesus told His followers it was time for them to retreat. (Mark 6:31) Well no, not in so many words. But, the meaning was exactly that. They had so much more ahead of them, and they needed to be rested and healed.

Come aside. Rest. Recover.

Prepare.

Wait! What?

If our retreat is not preparation to re-enter the field of the battle, it is nothing more than admission of defeat. Complete and utter. Defeat.

Yes, it’s time—perhaps, past time—for a retreat, a time of healing. But, if that time isn’t used wisely, in preparation for what is yet to come, we could just as well have stayed out there swinging in exhaustion without stopping.

The man on the sidelines who is never coming back into the game is no longer a competitor.

If we’re called aside, it’s only for a short season.

A soldier fights. A servant serves. A teacher teaches.

Out there is where we fulfill our purpose. If the trumpet has sounded retreat, it is to get us ready to go back out there.

Armor on.

It’s time to stand.

Again.

They don’t know that
I go running home when I fall down
They don’t know Who picks me
Up when no one is around
I drop my sword and cry for just a while
‘Cause deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child.
(The Warrior is a Child ~ Twila Paris ~ © Universal Music Publishing Group ~ All rights reserved)

The wind roars, simply roars, through the leaves of the tall London plane tree outside my window. It is frightening enough that the dogs are afraid to stay outside for much longer than it takes to devour their food and lap their tongues in the water dish a time or two before ducking back into their house.

I sit in my easy chair and listen to it blow. And, just as the Teacher promised, I couldn’t tell you where it blew in from, nor where it will end up. (John 3:8)

I don’t know.

Funny. I’ve been saying that a lot recently. I said it to the nice lady from the local newspaper today.

She wanted to know what’s next.

I don’t know.

The leaves, blown around by the wind, scratch against the back door and I laugh.

She wanted to know where I came from. I wondered if she thought it would help to figure out where I’m to go from here.

It won’t.

I recited the familiar words to her earlier today and suddenly realized it’s the first time I’ve told the story and all of it—every sentence and every word—was in the past tense.

Over. Done.

The words I said seemed strangely altered from the dozens of times I have recited them in recent weeks. Then, I was still a part of the story. Now, my part in that story is history.

So, what about the wind? Would it help to know where it came from?

Would it be comforting to know where it is going?

Perhaps. But, I’m thinking the more important thing is to dwell in the place to which He has brought us, as we’re being prepared for the place He is moving us to.

Dwell. It’s an interesting word. We usually think of it as a sense of staying somewhere permanently.

Well, sure we do. The Psalmist averred that he would dwell in the house of the Lord. Forever. (Psalm 23:6)

See there? Dwell forever.

Dwell.

But, my eyes are drawn to the words preceding that in the poetry of the Psalmist. You know, the part where he says that goodness and unfailing love would pursue him all his life.

One has to be moving if they are to be pursued.

One has to be moving if they are to be pursued. Share on X

I remember—years ago when I was young and loved old cars—I remember setting the ignition points on the old jalopies. Now, computers do such things for us, but then, we had to make the adjustments to keep the mechanical beasts functioning at the top of their potential. As I remember it, we used to set something in the ignition cycle that was called the dwell.

It was a momentary resting of one part on another. The time between movement—a rest with seemingly nothing happening—was in reality the instant that propelled the vehicle from one place to another. During the dwell, the spark was transferred from one contact to the other, where it could start the combustion that is necessary for the motor to have power.

The dwell was absolutely essential. Of course, so was the activity in between these resting places.

The power to go forward depends on both. Resting and acting.

Dwelling. And, moving on.

I’ve heard people describe the wind in the treetops in various ways—singing, whispering, laughing. I have no such gentle words with which to describe it. I guess I’d characterize the wind tonight as the lead singer in a heavy metal rock band.

You know, yelling and screaming at the top of its voice.

It’s what I feel like—a little—recently.

And yet, I’m learning to dwell in the quiet places. And, letting go in the windy ones.

I can’t tell you where the gusting wind came from, nor can I tell you where it will stop.

But, it’s okay.

Finally, it’s okay.

The Teacher—you know, the One who promised we would wonder—He knows where the wind comes from and where it is going.

He does.

And, He knows what’s next—as well as how I’m going to get there.

He knows what's next—as well as how I'm going to get there. Share on X

Listen to the wind blow!

Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me
all the days of my life,
and I will live in the house of the Lord
forever.
(Psalm 23:6 ~ NLT)

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I.
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
(Christina Rossetti ~ English poet ~ 1830-1894)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Retreat Sounds

The Wind Blows