relationships

How to Make an Arrowhead

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

 

Sometimes a stone is not just a stone

The troubled young man reached out his hand as I prepared to leave. We had been speaking of serious matters. I expected nothing from him, but here he was, obviously with something to offer.

I took the small object and turned it over.

“An arrowhead?” I mumbled, confused.

I thought he might have found an ancient keepsake out on the hillside, but wasn’t sure why he was giving it to me.

“I made it myself,” the man said proudly. “For you.”

We spoke of the work it had taken to produce this gift for a few moments. Then I thanked him and tucked the flinty object into my pocket as I headed for home. I regretted the decision to tuck it away there more than once as it dug into my leg when I moved my foot to the brake and the accelerator.

We all make poor decisions. I removed the arrowhead immediately upon arriving home. Still, it’s been a bothersome object nearly constantly since that day.

You see, I could easily pull it out of my pocket. It’s not so easy to get it out of my brain.

Am I the only one who has this sort of problem?

That arrowhead has been jabbing and pricking at my subconscious for weeks now. Every time I see it or the man again, something tugs at my thoughts. I’ve been trying to puzzle it out. I’m still not sure I’ve quite grasped it.

Perhaps, just a start here will help to firm up the shadow of the reality I know is lurking close by, just waiting to be seen in clear view.

Somehow, I find myself jumbling thoughts of stones, lots of them, banging against each other, together with reminders of bad choices and a lack of direction. I even find myself thinking about old Goliath and that stone that hit him in the middle of his forehead.

Odd, isn’t it?

Puzzles are like that — all confusing shapes and nearly-recognizable images — until one takes the time to sort the pieces out, sliding a little bit of sky here, squeezing some leafy trees in over there, and maybe even completing the border before ever considering the rest of it.

Perhaps we should start with the border

Border pieces. The ones that go around the scene, holding it together.

Pieces that can’t go anywhere other than at the top or bottom, far left and far right; all of them framing the rest of the picture.

Border pieces —let’s see…

What I know is this: in nature, rocks bang against other rocks, sometimes creating chips and edges, but most often smoothing each other. Over time, a bunch of rocks, randomly rubbing against others of their kind, become generally smooth and rounded.

Pleasant and rather benign, these stones are.

If they’ve been immersed in a creek or river, the process is faster and more efficient. I see them frequently when the Lovely Lady and I trek down to the river banks to look at the old bridges we love. There, on bars and little peninsulas, I’ll bend over and pick up stone after stone, spinning them back over the top of the water. After skipping along multiple times (if I’m lucky) they’ll drop back into the river’s flow, down to the rocky bottom to continue their polishing and grinding a while longer.

But, they can be used for more serious purposes, too. I’m fairly sure the stones I pick up by the river, to skip along the water’s surface, are not any different than the five smooth stones little David picked up by the brook’s edge back

there in Israel. (1 Samuel 17:40, NIV)

Goliath didn’t find that first stone so benign. It was delivered with purpose.

Who knows? I may have actually skipped one of those four David didn’t need across the Illinois River. It’s possible.

The border pieces are coming together

And this, the idea of physical stones that grind away at each other, polishing and smoothing, is the analogy leading to the spiritual truth of the outside pieces to our puzzle.

As followers of Christ, we live in community, as our God intended. But, contrary to what many seem to believe today, it wasn’t only for our emotional comfort that He gave us to each other.

It’s true. Smooth edges, gleaming — with hardly a chip to be seen anywhere —they’re comfortable. And, generally useful.

It even helps to fulfill the directive found in the book of Hebrews.

And let us take thought of how to spur one another on to love and good works… (Hebrews 10:24, NET)

The real reason we need to be together is so we can help our family do good, not just feel good.

We smooth off the rough places that keep us from loving others.

We help each other become useful to our God for His purposes.

Finally, the jumbled pieces begin to make some sense

As I think about these edge pieces, the frame around this puzzle, the other pieces begin to come into focus for me.

I realize that the stone I’m holding in my hand, this arrowhead, is very different than those described above, even though they are all shaped by stone-on-stone contact. The thought hits me hard. Really hard.

We are not all the same.

Oh, before our God, we are equal. His Word is clear regarding that.

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female — for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3:28, NET)

His grace and mercy are extended equally to all who come to Him through Jesus. We all are on the same level before Him.

That said, the apostle (my namesake) had more to say about our individual responsibilities. To God and to each other.

In a memorable passage to the folks at Corinth (1 Corinthians 12), Paul spoke of how the body works. Naming off the body parts, he describes the big and the small, the pretty parts and the ones we cover up. It’s a long passage, but it can be summed up with one verse.

Even so the body is not made up of one part but of many. (1 Corinthians 12:14, NIV)

Not all of the stones have the same purpose.

And yet, all need to be shaped.

The Native American culture has many symbols. Not surprisingly, the arrowhead carries strong symbolism to them. It speaks of direction. Of alertness and purpose. To carry out that symbolism, the stone is shaped for a specific function.

Unlike the stones in the river, the arrowhead is treated roughly, with edges being broken off, and flakes chipped away from across the face. There is a specific process, which requires expertise and experience. And a good bit of common sense.

I’m not sure the young man who made my arrowhead has arrived at that point yet. I’ll treasure it because he made it for me, but the good quality ones belie the process, their smooth sides and straight edges almost leading one to think the process is not violent at all.

“Flint arrowhead artifact (Granville, Ohio, USA) 2” by James St. John, lic. under CC BY 2.0

It is, though. The flint knapper — the process is called knapping — must know the quality of stone he’s working with and must be able to see the spot at which the flakes will split off evenly. Tapping with his shaping stone at exactly the right place, he is rewarded by a single tiny chip popping loose.

Again and again, he breaks the stone, with the goal of having a complete and perfect tool for his purposes when the breaking is ended.

Broken, made beautiful.

I said earlier the realization that we are not all the same hit me hard. Here’s why:

We’re not all arrowheads.

Some of us are skipping rocks. Or, stacking rocks. Or even Goliath-stopping rocks. And, that’s good. Our Creator knew we’d all be needed. And used.

There’s more:

We’re not all flint knappers.

And, this is a difficult thing for many of us to accept. You see, one wouldn’t know we’re not all experts at shaping stones by scanning our social media feeds.

No one would know it by reading our replies to online articles or even our everyday communication with each other in the coffee shops and watering holes.

Often, it’s not evident in our homes, with spouses and children, in-laws and guests.

We know what’s wrong with people and we’re on a mission to fix them. 

Give us a little information, let us read a Bible passage and check a commentary, and we think we should shout from the rooftops the solution for every other human being’s problems.

Except one. Our own.

Before we can shape, we have to be shaped.

Before we can teach, we must be taught.

Before we can love, we must learn what it is to be loved.

More delicate stones have been shattered by the stones around them than can ever be counted. Simply because we thought having a tool in our hand gave us the right to wield it.

I look behind me and see the carnage.

I did that. With my hammer of stone and my unbridled zeal, I did that.

Broken stones. Everywhere.

My fingers cease their movement on the keys, frozen in place, as my sight is dimmed with tears of regret. I don’t like the way this puzzle is going together at all.

What terrifying power we have at our command! And, how casually we employ it against each other. 

Our Creator has placed us carefully — surrounding us with family and friends, along with neighbors and acquaintances — for His purposes, not ours.

I wonder when we will begin to serve His purposes. Will we ever look at each other with new eyes, seeing the potential instead of the problem?

 Just stones. Shaping other stones. Stones that, like us, live and breathe — and serve.

Because we are following The Living Stone. (1 Peter 2:4–5)

Maybe today, we’ll start.

 

Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly. We all stumble in many ways. Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check. (James 3:1, NIV)

We would tend these glades of flowering stone, not quarry them. With cautious skill, tap by tap — a small chip of rock and no more, perhaps, in a whole anxious day — so would we work… (Gimli the Dwarf, in The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien)

To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. (Anonymous, sometimes attributed to Mark Twain)

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

 

 

 

It Used To Be True

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I dare you to prove me wrong.

Oh, wait. That’s not the way to begin a discussion, is it? Let me take a fresh run at it.

We had Mother’s Day dinner at my son’s house, the Lovely Lady and I. It was fabulous. Food, prepared by the men in the family (with assistance from the young ladies who aren’t moms). Conversation, provided by everyone involved—really—everyone. And love, spread thick by our Creator from whom all such good gifts are given.

Before heading into the house, I noticed the new trees. Beautiful and straight, they were. Willow-oak trees, destined to provide shade from the blast of the sun’s rays. Sturdy saplings, surrounded at the base by. . . rocks?

I mentioned them as we sat around the table. The rocks, I mean. My son, always the pragmatist, shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s Arkansas. What did you expect?”

I thought about that for a moment. I was still trying to wrap my thoughts around a related event from just the day before.

In our own yard, a mile or so from my son’s, the maple tree we planted last spring is doomed because of a run-in with a rutting buck, so we purchased a nice Red Oak sapling as a replacement. 

I was worried as I prepared to plant the new tree in my yard. I do live in Arkansas, you know. Rocks grow faster than grass in some yards here.

And yet, optimistically, I told the Lovely Lady I wouldn’t need her help. I even suggested I mightn’t need the rock-breaker, that heavy solid-iron bar common to every area contractor’s and fence-builder’s arsenal. Armed only with a shovel, I headed out to mark the location for the new tree.

Imagine my amazement as the circumference was dug up without hearing the characteristic clang of rock on metal. I dug a circle over two feet in diameter and at least as deep without hitting a single rock. Not one.

Sometimes, what we think we know to be true isn’t true at all. 

But, I wonder. What if what we think we know to be true was once, but simply is no longer?

Not ten feet away from the hole I dug lie three or four large stones dislodged from the ground last week as I mowed. I know there are rocks under the ground. I do live in Arkansas, you know.

I’m thinking the prayer I muttered as I walked out to dig that hole had an effect. Possibly, my resolve to face the job with joy and expectation made a difference.

It’s possible.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say the ground had rocks under it before I started, but not when I stuck my shovel into it.

I dare you to prove me wrong.

You can’t, can you?

Here is what I know. There are rocks in Arkansas soil. I know that. I also know I dug this particular hole in Arkansas soil and hit not a single rock.

Okay, it’s a little silly, I know. I don’t really want to argue about it. 

The thoughts that have been roiling in my brain for a while, though—those we might argue about. They’re about a far deeper subject than just a hole in the ground.

I’m beginning to wonder about the impossible people in my life. You know the ones. They won’t ever change. Nothing can get through to them. It’s a complete waste of my time and emotions to even try.

We all know them. Some of us are them. Impossible people will always be impossible.

And yet…

And yet, we’re reminded that while we focus on the outward appearance, God sees into the heart of the person. (1 Samuel 16:7)

But, He doesn’t see our potential; He sees what His love and power can do to make that heart new. Everything old—everything—will go away completely. 

New. He makes us new. (2 Corinthians 5:17)

New. God makes us new. Share on X

I said impossible, didn’t I? 

That must have been wrong. 

But, it isn’t. Our Creator is the one who calls things that never were as if they are. (Romans 4:17)

I really don’t know if He changes the rocky Arkansas ground to rich, black dirt, but I do know He changes the black, dead hearts of men to living, loving vessels of His grace.

I know that.

And I still dare you to prove me wrong. 

But I’d rather you prove me right.

 

 

Will power does not change men. Time does not change men. Christ does.
(Henry Drummond ~ Scottish evangelist/biologist ~ 1851-1897)

 

 

 

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

 

Not Lightly

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s one of the reasons I can’t always listen to music while I write. You’d think I would have to have music. It soothes the savage breast, they say. It washes away the layers of dust from the day’s travels.

It does those things. It does. But, it also shanghais the words on the page, rearranging them and forming ideas I never intended to lay out in cohesive concepts. Before I know it, I’ve ended up in a completely different locale than where I was headed when I began the journey.

I sat in front of a screen recently, clicking the keys as fast as my fumbling fingers would allow, and listened to a CD from one of my favorite singers. The CD has a handwritten title, scribbled right on the disc with a Sharpie, reminiscent of what we once did with what we called mix tapes.

Only, it wasn’t. Not anything like what we used to make.

The voice coming from the little computer speakers was a familiar one, that of a friend. She knows how to write a song. And, how to sing one.

Friends. Recently, my mind has been wandering more and more to the people in my life. It does that, you know.

My mind, I mean. Wandering.

I’ve written before of the great gift we’ve been given in those we can call by the name friend. I don’t repent the words.

On the night I’m thinking about, my mind was on other things, but the song she sang hijacked my train of thought. Held it at gunpoint, forcing a new direction.

I, like most men, have a one-track mind (one that can only focus on one thing at a time), so hijack is the right word to use here. And, as the train gathered momentum down the new track, the clacking keys of my keyboard fell silent.

One line. As I write, it’s all I remember from the song. It’s enough.

“You will not pass lightly through my years.”

I can’t write the words without feeling the presence of many people. The memories come non-stop. Some, I don’t want to consider beyond the first glimmer of recognition. Others, I hold tight and savor, reliving cherished moments again and again, like a CD on repeat.

Our lives, from earliest interactions, have been shaped by the people in them. Family, teachers, friends, bullies, attackers, employers, pastors, neighbors—people who have walked through our journey—and left footprints there.

Some have stayed and walked beside us for miles and miles. Others have only appeared and then disappeared, leaving barely a trace in our lives at all.

A few merely stay long enough to inflict intense pain—pain which will last for as long as we are on the journey.

And others, even fewer in number, stay to help ease the pain which has been left behind. These, we turn to over and over.

Gifts they are, from a loving Father above.

All of them. Gifts.

Wait. All of them?

Are the ones who inflict pain gifts, as well as the ones who ease it?

This is getting a little uncomfortable, isn’t it?

The words hit way too close to home for me, as well. Perhaps, I shouldn’t camp out on this for very long. I’ll just say this and move on:

God uses whatever tools He chooses to make us into the mature followers He needs.

God uses whatever tools He chooses to make us into the mature followers He needs. Share on X

Perhaps the words of Joseph, speaking to his murderous, jealous brothers, say it best: You meant to harm me beyond belief. God always intended that great good would come of it. (Genesis 50:20)

And Jesus laid out the expectation clearly: Love the haters. Bless them when they curse you. Pray for the hurtful. Give to the thief who steals from you. God did it. Follow His lead. (Luke 6:27-36)

Well. That standard’s not too high, is it?

Here’s the thing. I really want someone to say the words about me someday.

You did not pass lightly through my years. 

I don’t want to be the fellow who made a cameo appearance, never making a difference to the scene whatsoever.

Friends make a difference. They make a lasting impression. A good one.

What we call the Golden Rule didn’t come from some do-gooder making up slogans. It came from the One who, walking through the lives of humanity, has left a clearer footprint than anyone else ever could.

Don’t treat people the way they deserve; treat them the way you’d like to be treated. (Matthew 7:12)

I don’t know about you, but my standard for how I think I should be treated is fairly high.

No. Higher than that.

Really. Higher.

So, my standard for how I treat my fellow travelers—every one of them—must be just as high. And still higher.

And someday, if the words do fall from someone else’s lips about me, those words about not passing lightly, I hope they know the reason.

It’s not because of the way I want to be treated. That’s not the why of our treatment of others, only the how.

The why is that we love, simply because He loved us. (1 John 4:19)

When we travel through the lives of others, passing (lightly or otherwise) with love, we leave behind the sweet aroma of the One we follow. (2 Corinthians 2:14b)

It’s better than the stench I know I’ve left more often than I care to discuss here. A lot better.

On we walk. Friends helping friends on the way home.

Really.

Home.

Leaving footprints that point the way to a Savior.

Not lightly.

 

 

We leave traces of ourselves wherever we go, on whatever we touch.
(Lewis Thomas ~ American physician/scientist/writer ~ 1913-1993)

 

I have friends in overalls whose friendship I would not swap for the favor of the kings of the world.
(Thomas A Edison ~ American inventor ~ 1847-1931)

 

Click below to listen to the song I mentioned in the article:

“Forever Friends” by Nancy Jesser-Halsey

 

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

 

Characters

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

There’s a black spot in the middle of the dining room floor.

It stays.

The burn mark embedded in the number 2 common oak hardwood floor is part of family lore now.  It’s not a dramatic story; the details don’t really warm the heart.  

Still, the memories have been woven into our history now.  

We’re keeping the history.  And the memories.

It was close to fifteen years ago that the Lovely Lady’s mom said goodbye to her sweetie as she rode away with her sister for a women’s meeting early one morning.

Her sweetie, the white-haired man who taught me all he knew of operating a music store, sat at the table in the kitchen with a cup of instant coffee between his gnarled hands.  It was a morning like any other.  

Only it wasn’t.

A couple of hours later, my mother-in-law and her sister pulled back into the driveway, almost immediately noticing that smoke was wafting out around the front door.  My mother-in-law suffered with crippling rheumatoid arthritis, so her sister rushed into the house.  A moment later, she came out coughing and sputtering with my father-in-law in tow.

Always the frugal pair, my in-laws had a wood stove in the living room to supplement the central heating unit.  The stove put out enough heat to allow them to turn the thermostat down a few degrees and save a significant amount on their utility bills.

The old man had been tending the fire when an ember fell to the hardwood floor just beside the fire-resistant mat under the stove.  For some reason, instead of picking it up with the tongs, he simply allowed it to sit there and ignite the floor into flame.  When the Lovely Lady’s aunt burst in the front door, he was sitting in a chair right beside the fire, oblivious to the danger he was in.

I said it wasn’t a spectacular story.  I even said it wasn’t one to warm the heart.  It is certainly neither of those.

The little campfire on the floor was the beginning of a long goodbye for his family (myself included) and the man we loved. Within months, even though he lived a few more years, he was gone, locked in his own world—oblivious to ours.  

Today, we look at the black spot lying there and we always laugh as we recall the event.  Then a funny thing happens.  The room falls silent, each of us lost in memories.  

They are different for every one of us, I’m sure.  Fun.  Sad.  Happy.  Serious.  All of them momentarily bringing to life once again the character—the father—the grandfather.

I only bring up the burned spot because we’re in the process of refinishing the old hardwood floor.  Now would be the time to sand down that black stain in the middle of the expanse of oak.  My brother-in-law asked me the other day about it.  I told him the same thing I wrote at the beginning of this little essay.

It stays.

I want to remember the character who was my father-in-law.  But somehow, the longer I write, the more I realize there is something else about that floor that reminds me more of who he was than the black mark marring it.

Number two common oak.  It’s not a choice most folks would make for their living/dining room floor.  

Clear oak is what you want.  With straight, even grain in long boards several feet in length, the consistency of color and appearance is superior.  Each piece looks like the one next to it and takes the stain and finish uniformly.

Number two common oak, on the other hand, comes in planks about two feet in length and in varying grains and colors, as well as having a few knot holes and even a worm hole or two.  Dark planks sit side by side with white ones.  You might find a few with clear, straight grain, but it’s more likely you’ll see the whirl of tight knots here and a filled hole over there.

Over hundreds of square feet, not one board is like another there.

The catalogs suggest you might want a number two common oak floor if you want the floor to demonstrate character.

Oh, this floor is filled with characters!

Somehow, in my mind’s eye, I see God laying the floor of His Church.

What a sight to behold!  It’s not, as some would have you believe, all of one color and consistency.  Not at all.

God’s Church—not a building, but a people—is full of character, and full of characters.  Exactly as He designed it to be, the colors and personalities as different as can be.  Idiosyncrasies are the rule rather than the exception.

What a beautiful sight!  The colors blend and complement each other, the grains and imperfections showing the grace and mercy of their Creator.

Side by side, interlocked together,  our strength and character evident to all, we work toward a common goal.  All of humankind should have the opportunity to be a part of this wonderful mosaic.

Side by side, interlocked together, we work toward a common goal. Share on X 

The Savior Himself said it so clearly:  They’ll know you are my followers by your love for each other.  (John 13:35)

And yet, it doesn’t seem to be working like that, does it?  

Scraped and scuffed, with water spills hither and yon, the old floor doesn’t present such a beautiful picture to a world that looks on.

You know, the process I’m going through with the old floor in this house is one of the most violent and disturbing tasks I have done while remodeling.  The sander beats the old varnish off, whump, whump, whump, as I shove it back and forth across the floor, shaking the whole room.  Again and again, changing from the roughest, open grit to the fine, polishing surface, the old machine does violence to the wood beneath.

It seems as if the process would destroy any beauty—even any usefulness remaining in the old wood.  

And yet, the day will come when the new stain is applied and then the new finish, the liquid soothing away all memory of the hurt.  The floor will once again be made beautiful, its usefulness guaranteed for another generation or more.

I wonder if we complain overmuch at the touch of our Maker’s tools, the cleansing of the dirt and filth.  His heavy-handedness is only for our good, His short-lived discipline—for the long-term joy in His service.

Number two common.

I’m satisfied with the title.  I rather like some of the characters around me.  They don’t all look like me, don’t all talk like me, and certainly don’t all think like me.

It’s beautiful.  Even that big black spot over there, a reminder of former foolishness and loved ones, now absent.  

Beautiful.

 

 

To all who mourn in Israel,
    he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,
a joyous blessing instead of mourning,
    festive praise instead of despair.
In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks
    that the Lord has planted for his own glory.
(Isaiah 61:3 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.) 

 

The Almighty must have loved the common people; He made so many of them.
(attributed to Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Arise and Go

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I will arise and go.

The words came to me as I sat among the mud and scattered corn husks tonight.

You laugh.  Perhaps with good reason.  

And yet…  

And yet, I find it easy to drift away into the dark places of my mind these days.  People are gone from my life and from the lives of friends.  Some have gone beyond recall, never to be reunited this side of eternity.  At times, the pain is nearly palpable, the sadness overwhelming.

Others are separated by events no less catastrophic, but perhaps less permanent.  Perhaps.

The sadness of broken relationships has become more personal and more crushing with every passing year—indeed it seems—with every passing day.  The hopeless feeling bewilders me and doubts grow that broken marriages can be salvaged, or that adult children estranged from parents and siblings
can ever put aside their petty feuds and be reconciled. Somehow, that feeling is hardly less devastating than what I feel for those separated in that final, irrevocable farewell of death.

On the heels of the abrupt loss of an old friend last week have come numerous reminders of other recent losses by friends and in my own family.  mourning-77382_1920I listened to a beautiful song by a young friend this evening and wept anew for the cruel scars left by the theft of once-bright minds in aging parents and grandparents.  The never-ending stories of broken friendships and rifts in family relationships only add to the sadness.

No.  The mud and corn husks of a pig wallow seem to be an apt description.  

I may have even heard the startled grunt of a pig a moment ago, as I shifted my position in my seat.  It is dark in here.

But, the words come to mind again.

I will arise…  

I will arise and go.  

Although the path leading here didn’t jibe with the story those words belong to, I’m thinking the cure may be the same.

Funny, isn’t it?  Some places, you just arrive at by chance.  Without even trying, I find myself frequently at the doughnut shop miles away, and once in awhile, at the ice cream parlor just down the street.

I don’t have to decide to go there.  Why is it the places that are not healthy for us just seem to appear before us?

When we want to do healthy things, we have to struggle.  We must force ourselves out of our easy chairs, or push away from the dinner table.  We dress for the specific activity and select the correct shoes.  Protective gear is carefully adjusted and equipment is checked again.

I never, never, just find myself exercising.  You?

Come to think of it, we have to make an effort to do most everything which is profitable for us.  But the dark places, the damaging activities, almost seem to find us on their own.

I certainly didn’t go looking for this place.  I just found myself in here.  

I am going to have to take action if I want to leave it behind, though.

I will arise.  My Father has things so much better for me.

There might even be a party going on there.

You’ll come too, won’t you?

It might take some effort on your part, as well.

I will arise.  And, go to the Father.

He’s already waiting.

He always has been.

 

 

 

But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.
(Luke 15:20 ~ KJV) 

 

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British novelist/Christian apologist ~ 1898-1963)

 

Flee as a bird to your mountain,
Thou who art weary of sin;
Go to the clear-flowing fountain,
Where you may wash and be clean;
Fly, for temptation is near thee,
Call, and the Savior will hear thee;
He on His bosom will bear thee,
O thou who art weary of sin,
O thou who art weary of sin.

He will protect thee forever,
Wipe ev’ry falling tear;
He will forsake thee O never,
Sheltered so tenderly there!
Haste then, the hours are flying,
Spend not the moments in sighing,
Cease from your sorrow and crying,
The Savior will wipe ev’ry tear,
The Savior will wipe ev’ry tear.
(Flee as a Bird ~ Mary Dana Schindler ~ American hymn writer ~ 1810-1883)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.