sadness

As a Mother Comforts

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

 

Image by Jeannean Ryman. Used by permission.

 

“Weatherman says possibility of freezing precipitation tonight.”

The news actually came from a weather app on her smartphone, but I think the writer of the note (my sister) is secretly hopeful the invisible weather forecaster is right.

I’m not.  But then, I’ve argued with the lady about various matters for over sixty years.  We won’t break off our relationship over this tiny disagreement.

Still—her words had consequences.  As I read them, I immediately thought of the cloth covering above my lovely little deck outside the back door.  A sail, they call it—but it doesn’t move the deck an inch away from its foundations.

The sail is good for one purpose and one only.  It keeps the sun off the heads and out of the faces of the denizens of said deck.  For a period of time, it does.  As I said, it doesn’t move the deck, while the sun itself runs its circuit daily, moving over and past the point where its rays are blocked.

One purpose.  The sail doesn’t keep the rain off the deck; won’t stop the leaves from piling up on the furniture.

And, it certainly won’t hold the weight of any so-called freezing precipitation.

The consequence of my sister’s reminder?  I had to loosen the ropes tying up the three corners of the sail and, folding it up (about as well as any of you would fold up a fitted sheet), stowed it in the backyard shed to await a promised spring.

My thoughts were a little sad as I untied the ropes from the eyebolts under the eave of the old house.  I was remembering lovely afternoons and evenings spent with those I love.  Family.  Friends.

Seasons change.

The things that protected us in the bright, blasting heat of the long summer days are no longer protection for us.

We celebrated a family Thanksgiving at our home last week.  The house was full and noisy with four generations represented at our table.  There was music and a dinner blessing.  There was discussion about whether pimiento was a good ingredient to have with celery sticks.  There might even have been the haze of smoke from a new turkey recipe gone slightly amiss.

There was joy.  And thanks.

And memories.

Their placement wasn’t purposefully planned.  The ladies, I mean.  We just suggested seats for folks where we thought they would be most comfortable.

But, I looked again today at the photographs of our gathering and the sadness hit anew.  One entire side of the main table (the teenagers being allowed a little space to sit at a table of their own) was taken up by four ladies in our family.

Four widows.

I see their faces—the lovely men who once sat beside them at our table—and the memories bring tears.  Well—not so much the memories as their absence from us now.

In many ways, they were shade from the hot, blasting sun of life.  Brothers are like that.  Fathers and grandfathers are too.

Seasons change.

The widows soldier on.  I see great strength there.  I see the heartache too.  They all still grieve in their own ways.

And yet. . .

And yet, there is—still—bright hope for tomorrow.

His promises never dim; they never go amiss. The day is coming when we will be forever in His presence.  Together.

But, what do we do with the changing seasons?

Here?  Now?

Like the changing weather, our protection today may be gone with tomorrow’s storm.

Seasons change.  But our Heavenly Father?  He never changes.  And, as he always has, like a mother, He will comfort us. (Isaiah 66:13)

I don’t know about your mother, but when my mom used to comfort me, she didn’t do it from across the room.  She gathered me into her arms, pulling me onto her ample lap.  I was held close.  And tight.

You know what ample means, don’t you?  It means big enough.  And sometimes, more than big enough.

You know who else is big enough?  The One who doesn’t change with the seasons.  In every part of our lives, He gathers us in, close to His loving heart.

And, He is shade from the burning sun.  Protection from the storms. A sure, strong wall of defense from everything that threatens.

He gathers us in, under his ample wings.

And, He holds us there.

Seasons change.  They do.

There is nothing here to fear.

Even without a sail.

 

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
(Edith Sitwell, British poet, 1887-1964)

“He will shelter you with his wings;
you will find safety under his wings.
His faithfulness is like a shield or a protective wall.”
(Psalms 91:4, NET)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Still in the Tunnel

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.

It was just a bit of whimsy, a slogan to print on a magnet shaped like an old steam engine.  My dad slapped it on the old Frigidaire over fifty years ago.  It still makes me laugh.

Sort of.

Nowadays, it’s more likely to make me think of the other phrase we use commonly, the origin of which is also most likely in the dim history of the railroads.

I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Except, I’m not.  Seeing the light yet.

It’s been a dark season.  Sadness piled upon dread; covered up in anticipation of worse to come.

I’m not the only one.

Our old friends sat around the table the other night and one of the ladies said the words.

“There are a lot of people dying, aren’t there?”

Nobody really answered her, but I heard a collective hmmm and the table went silent.  Each of us, lost in our thoughts, was seeing the faces of absent friends and hearing the voices of people we loved, voices we’ll never hear again this side of heaven.

It’s why I’ve not shared many of my current writings with my friends and social media followers for the last several months.  I’ve been seeing some of those faces and hearing many of those voices nearly constantly for a while.  And, when one is in dark places, it doesn’t seem the kindest thing to usher others into the darkness.

I’m going to chance it, though.  That moment with my old friends made me realize that perhaps we need to talk about it.  For a little while, anyway.

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now.  About that tunnel.

I’ll admit it; what got me thinking about tunnels was actually a bright spot in a little trip I took with the Lovely Lady recently.  We stopped by to visit one of our favorite bridges a few hours away from where we live.

She’s the one who saw it.  I was driving, so I would have never seen the conjunction of lovely points of light if it hadn’t been for her keen eye.

“That’s amazing!  You have to see it!”

She is not given to flights of fancy, this companion.  She’s the one who helps me see reality when I drift away from it (as I frequently do).  I’d hold onto all the balloons and float into the sky to oblivion, but she knows to use her trusty BB gun to bring me back down before I hurt myself.  I need her.

But on this day, she could hardly wait for the truck to get parked so she could hurry me up the hill and point out the scene.  It’s in the photo on this page.

At precisely this spot, one may view the most beautiful highway bridge in the state, under which runs the Missouri Northern Arkansas Railroad, leading over a lovely trestle (above a rushing river), and straight through a thousand-foot tunnel cut through the nearby hillside.  That’s the tunnel, there through the railroad bridge, that tiny arched blob of shadow before brilliant light.

The photo doesn’t do the view credit.  And yet, we were giddy as we stood there, with the richness of sunlight playing with shade and the drawing together of the individual points of beauty into one single vista.

The moment has passed.

I have spent hours with the photo open on my computer monitor since then.  And, as has happened so often over the last few months, the shadows eventually return, even to this place of light and beauty.

I know there is sunshine on the other side of that tunnel.  I see it clearly.  Still, that blob of shadow fills my vision.

I bet it’s dark in there—there in that tunnel.  Even with the end in view, it’s dark and gloomy.

It’s dark in here, too—here in this tunnel I’m making my way through.  But, I sense I’m not alone in here.

Even though it can seem so lonely, many of us have brought our tattered pieces of cardboard in and have built little makeshift shelters for ourselves under which we huddle, shivering and shaking, as the trains pass noisily by.

I won’t dwell on the darkness, on the loneliness, on the fear that this passage will be beyond our strength.  If you’ve been in here, you already know.  Probably better than I.

I find myself asking if the tunnel ever ends—if the darkness ever gives way to sunshine again.

I’m not the brightest crayon in the box; I readily admit it.  But, like Mr. Tolkien’s innkeeper, Butterbur, I think I can see through a brick wall in time.  And I think I may be seeing a glimmer of that light, finally.

I’m asking the wrong questions.

The apostle, my namesake, suggested in his day that his troubles were temporary and light.  More than once, he wrote the words. His point was that we’re aimed for better things, things that will make the events filling our sight today seem minor in comparison.

It doesn’t trivialize our life experiences.  The pain, the fear, and the losses can’t be dismissed with the snap of our fingers.  We still must endure them; still must make our way forward through the darkness.  But, something is waiting at the end, something that will make all the dreadful things we’ve struggled through fade in importance.

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

I stood, here in this dark tunnel, the other day, and I think I finally saw through that brick wall.  Momentarily, at least.  New questions came to my mind.

Who put this tunnel here?  And why?

Perhaps, I’m being simplistic.  I don’t think I am.

Tunnels are not made to create hardship, but to alleviate it.  They are placed to facilitate progress to the goal, in locations where the conveyance could never—never!—make any headway without them.

And, in my head—and heart—the words resound.  Words I’ve mentioned here before.

“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'”  (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT)

They are words to encourage us.  In the midst of hurting and paralyzing fear, they remind us that there is more.

More.

I’m reminded that the Word is light for our pathway and our feet.  I trust Him.  I’ll walk in that light.

Traveling to the Light at the end of the tunnel.  Step by step, walking in the light He gives for today.

I’ve camped out here long enough.  You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead.  That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

 

‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’
(from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

But forget all that—
    it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.
 For I am about to do something new.
    See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
    I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:18-19, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.

A Bridge to be Crossed. Again.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments
Personal image

From my workbench in the back room of the music store, I heard her exclamation of dismay.

Just moments earlier, the Lovely Lady, knowing I had over-promised and was likely to underperform if I didn’t have some relief, had suggested that she would take care of any new business until I could complete the jobs due that afternoon.  It was a good plan.  My work was going well and it appeared deadlines might actually be met.

Then I heard her unhappy outburst.

She would be calling me anyway, so I headed for the front.  The sight that met my eyes was, to a lover of fine musical instruments, a sad and disastrous horror.

The young man wasn’t smiling either, as he stood beside the broken and splintered guitar.  But, I remembered a few months before, when I had installed an electrical pickup system in the aging acoustic Martin, giving him a new facet to its usefulness.

He had had a smile on his face as he carried the instrument out on that day.   He had been sure the beautiful guitar, one he had acquired while still in high school, would be the only one he would ever need.

It took a single moment—just a few seconds of forgetfulness—to dash that belief forever.

An afternoon at work, good intentions, a momentary distraction, and the guitar was under the wheels of the huge truck.  Completely destroyed.

Lifetime plans dashed.  Instantly.

As the young man spoke to me, he gently touched the fragments of wood.  I could see the pain in his face—could feel it in his voice.  But, there was something else in his voice—indeed, something different written on his face.  He had come in for a purpose, and it was not to commiserate over the fate of the beloved instrument.

Purpose!  That was what I heard in his voice.  Purpose and resolve.

He would not dwell on the past.  He was ready to move on.

“Let me show you my new guitar!”

The instrument he drew out of the new case was a beauty to behold.  A custom guitar, handmade by an artisan from a nearby town, it simply begged to be played.  The young guitarist gave in and sat for a few moments to demonstrate the capabilities of his new love.  The crisp, clean lines of the instrument were matched by the music that poured out of it.

The clarity and warmth of tone that emanated from the polished spruce and rosewood box were surprising and anticipated, all at once.

When he finished playing, we spoke for a few moments about how happy he was with the new tool he held in his hands.  He means to play this guitar for a lifetime, as well.

There was more.  He was ready to leave the old broken guitar in the past, but he wanted a favor from me.

“Is it possible that the pickup system from the Martin will fit in this one?”

It made sense.  He had spent hard-earned dollars on that system—quite a few of them.  We might just as well salvage it and keep it in use.  It would do the job just fine.

He was simply being practical.  But, then again, perhaps there was a little sentiment in the request.

The need to move forward was clear.  The old guitar would never, never play another note.  But, part of it might be incorporated into the new one.  The old would aid the new to achieve the vision the young man had always had for his future.

It would be a bridge, of sorts, between the past and the future.

I could help him cross the bridge.

I anticipated seeing the smile on his face again, just as I had the last time he carried a guitar out of my shop.

The future awaits. Up ahead.

2016-03-28 23.45.59-1As I sat thinking about what I would write tonight, my thoughts were naturally drawn to bridges.  It really is almost unavoidable.  You see, I am surrounded by paintings of bridges in the room in which I sit.  I have given in to the urge to write about them often before.

I have written of the past and the future, using a bridge as a metaphor for the place where we stand, gazing first behind, and then ahead.  Looking back, we see the events of the past clearly.  Looking forward, we can just make out an uncertain future.

I have insisted that I must cross boldly to the future, encouraging my readers to do the same.  But, tonight I’m wondering.

What do we do when the things we must leave behind were what we loved most in life?

I know folks who have stood at the approach to the bridge for weeks, months, even years, never moving.  Gazing back at what is, even now, lost in their past, they still see nothing across the bridge to coax them to set the first foot on the platform.

Like the Children of Israel in the desert, they receive the sustenance of their God who promises them a place far better than any they left behind, and yet they pine for the food they ate when they were slaves. (Numbers 11:4-6)

Too harsh?

I also have stood in cemeteries and looked at the piles of freshly-turned dirt, reluctant to turn my back.  I’ve watched dreams disappear into the air, like the morning mist in sunlight.

The disappointments and tragedies pile up behind me, as they do for every human who has ever walked this earth.

We can cling to them, like so many splintered guitars, for everything we’re worth.

There will never—ever—be another note of music from that source.  The voices of the past are forever mute—in this world, anyway.

The human spirit is, however, designed by its Creator to be resilient and nearly impossible to crush.  Like my young guitar-playing friend, it hears the call from the future and must answer.

We’ve stood at the bridge for long enough, looking back.  The past cannot be retrieved, but what we’ve learned in it may be incorporated into the future.

Our memories are woven—hopelessly intertwined—into the fabric of our lives; we will never lose them.

I like the young guitarist’s way of thinking.

True, there is great sadness in the past.  There was great joy as well.

Both will be found again.

In front of us.

And one day—one glorious day—the last bridge will be before us.  Nothing awaits on the other side, but great, great joy.  No sadness.  No pain.

Joy.  Across the last bridge.

I’m still walking.  Still feeling.  Still trusting.

There will be sweet music again.  Of that, I’m sure.

Sweet music.

 

 

 I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.
(Philippians 3:13-14 ~ MSG)

Oh, my dear little librarian. You pile up enough tomorrows, and you’ll find you are left with nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to make today worth remembering.
(from The Music Man ~ Meredith Willson ~ American playwright ~ 1902-1984)

 

 

 

 

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

Fragile

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He asked me if I would serve.  It was an honor to be asked.

I told him no.  Thanks, but no.  I also thanked him for the honor.  Not that I deserve it.

I didn’t tell him the whole reason I said no.  Well, how could I?  Imagine!  Going back to the committee and telling them the guy they named to the position didn’t have all his pieces in the right places!

It’s true though.  I’ve been broken.  (I think we all have been at some time or another.)  And, I don’t think all the pieces are back in place yet.

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The Lovely Lady explained it differently.  A one-word description.  I’m not sure I like her word.  Yet.  Time will tell.

She says the word is fragile.

On second thought, I think perhaps the word is perfect.  It describes all of us in a way, doesn’t it?

Hang on there.  Don’t go off in a huff.  Let me see if I can do a little better at explaining.

I was in a hurry the day before yesterday and missed a step as I headed into my house.  Falling headlong to the landing atop the short flight of steps, I noted only that I might have bruised my hand as I put it down to break the fall.

I was all in one piece!  There was no damage at all. 

Fragile?  Hah!

Except I am.  And, I’m not all in one piece.

I awoke the next morning with a knee that hurt.  It seems I may have twisted it when I fell.

Well, maybe just a little fragile.

And then I got up this morning with a good bit of pain in my lower back.  It’s hard to stand up straight—hard even to walk across the yard.  And, bending over to pet the dogs or pick something up from the floor?  Forget about it!

Fragile.  She’s right.

Just so you know, I’m not going to quit moving altogether.  That would be foolishness.  I’m up and walking, even though it hurts to do it.  If we stop using our body, we eventually lose the use of it completely.

We—judiciously—work through the pain, walking, bending, stretching, until the damaged parts heal.  At times, we wonder if the tightrope act—not too much, not too little—is worth the time and discipline.

Some time ago, I asked a good friend of mine if his leg was hurting him again.  When he wondered why I asked, I mentioned the limp.  Laughing, he talked about a serious accident he had several years ago, and the pain that had ensued.

“But, it doesn’t hurt at all anymore.  I just got used to limping to avoid the pain.”

I wonder how many of us are walking with limps we don’t need, avoiding pain that is merely a memory.

We are fragile.  We’re not necessarily frail.

There is a difference.  Fragility shows itself in use.  Broken pieces are indicative of purpose thwarted, but they are caused by action.

Frailty comes from disuse.  It is a sign of weakness brought on by inactivity or long illness.

That’s odd.  Come to think of it, we may be both fragile and frail, both breakable and weak.

But He understands.  His Son lived among us and sympathizes with our frailty. (Hebrews 4:15)

He made us.  He knows how fragile, how breakable, we are. (Psalm 103:14)

I still don’t understand how we’re of any use for His purposes.  But, we are.

He puts His treasure, the grace and mercy He gives freely, in vessels made of clay. (2 Corinthians 4:7)

Fragile.

Frail.

I wonder if we need to be broken every once in a while because we’ve filled the jar up with ourselves, instead of letting Him fill it.

It’s one of the things I remembering hearing the red-headed lady who raised me say:  “Oh, she’s so full of herself. . .”

I get full of myself sometimes.  I do.  It’s not much like treasure.  Not much at all.

God wants us to be His treasure houses, pouring out His goodness for all to experience and give Him glory.

He’s the one who’s putting me back together.  The day will come when all the pieces will be in the right place.

Today, I’m walking.  Slowly.

But, I’m going to run again.

Soon.

 

 

Broken!  Busted!  Everybody has something to repair.  Before buying new, let Mighty Putty fix it for you!
(Billy Mays ~ American television salesperson ~ 1958-2009)

 

Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
(2 Corinthians 12:9,10 ~ 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.

Soon, They’ll Fly

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

As if all of creation is following the calendar hanging on the wall, the temperatures are dropping to suit the season. The north wind already blusters, tugging on the leaves of the trees in my yard, urging them to fly.

Soon. Soon, they’ll fly.

I sat on the porch with a warm cup of coffee a few moments past and wondered why the melancholy mood seems to be descending like a cloud. It does every year now when the seasons make the turn toward colder temperatures and bare limbs on trees.

It hasn’t always been so.

I listen absent-mindedly to the wind chimes at the back of the house and then to the ones beside me on the front porch as they take their turn to spin and shimmy in the chilly breeze. The progression of the blowing wind reminds me that the years have come and gone in just the same way. The waning year reminds me that life too, wanes.

With the years have come so many life events. Joyous and sad, they also take their turns, blowing in and then out again. I might as well try to stop the north wind as to hold back the memories.

I have seen babies born and old folks die. Before my eyes, both have happened. I didn’t turn away from either. Both have brought tears. Tears of heartache. Tears of joy.

Children have grown; friendships, too. The children left, but came back with others of their own. Friends have come and gone, and then come again, some of them. Life has had its sadness, but also, in great measure, its joy.

And yet, among my memories, especially this time of year, the melancholy shoves aside the joy.

For some reason, I see, in my mind’s eye, a scene from a Greek myth I read as a child. Most will remember it, the story of Pandora and the box she was forbidden to open.

The pain and evil she loosed on the earth changed it forever. Only a weak and ineffective hope was left behind as a salve, a bandage for the open, bleeding wound.

The Greeks and Romans offered, in their attempts at explaining humanity and deity, a weak copy of the reality of a Creator who actually gave hope, real hope to His children, His creation.

How easy it is for us, like the ancients, to let our eyes fall to man and the created world, expecting salvation, but finding only weakness and death. We begin to attempt to explain all we see and experience, framed in our human frailty and knowledge.

Weakly, we grasp at the wisps of hope the world offers, thinking it will stave off our unhappiness and certainty of what follows the coming of Autumn.

We build empires, which merely crumble and dissolve beneath our feet. We follow political leaders who make promises with their mouths, but then take action from their base, evil hearts.

Wealth bellows its virtues, only to disappoint. Youth begins to slip from our grasp and hope flees. We chase health with every gym membership and dietary supplement we can find, only to discover ourselves trapped in ever-weakening frames.

Magazines are read; books purchased. Surely someone will find the secret before it’s too late for us!

We set our sight too low. Far too low.

Did you ever stand in the dark of early morning, out in a valley, awaiting the dawn?

I remember mornings—brisk Autumn mornings, not unlike those I’m waking up to now—when I sat awaiting the sun, and the beauty that would follow its rising.

Looking out across the valley, I could see only pitch blackness. They say it’s always darkest before dawn and then, I could believe it. But perhaps, I was looking too low. I should look up—up on the rise of the surrounding hillsides. Surely, from that height, light would ascend and creation would shine.

The hillsides disappointed. Every time.

Even the hilltops themselves were of little help. Possibly, I could make them out, silhouetted against the sky as they were. But, the light didn’t emanate from them.

I had to lift my eyes even higher—up to the sky, where the sun would rise.

There! Even before the sun arrived, the light shone upward from behind the dark horizon. Above the valley—above the hillsides—towering even above the hilltops—the sun burst forth to begin its daily circuit above.

The Psalmist knew it. As he sat in the valley of despair, he lifted his eyes up to the hills, but found no help there. Where—where would his help come from? Only from God. (Psalm 121:1,2)

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. 

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We would wander in the darkness forever, trusting a weak and futile hope. In our foolishness, we believe that the evil loosed in the world cannot ever be defeated. Or worse, we think we can unseat it with our New-Age we-are-gods-ourselves mantra.

Death will follow. As surely as winter follows Autumn, death follows evil and error.

He gives us a Hope that is far better than any we could ever fabricate or imagine.

A Savior who makes all things new.

The power of Pandora’s box is broken in Him. Our Hope has the power to give us new life.

He promises us heaven.

Soon. Soon, we’ll fly.

 

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The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
(Autumn ~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~ Bohemian-Austrian poet ~ 1875-1926)

 

 

“The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” 
(John 3:8 ~ 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.

 

Equilibrium

~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

Lost.

I left her in the passenger seat of the car.  I was only gone two minutes—perhaps three.  How could I lose her so fast?

What will I do without her?

“I’ll only be a minute,” were my last words to her.  No I love you; not even a kiss on the cheek.

The world spun.  Really. 

Off-kilter, out of control.  Panic.

“Here I am.”  The words came from the back seat.  She had only moved to leave the front seat empty for my sister, whom we would pick up at the next stop.

I passed it off as nothing, but the feeling of loss persisted.  I didn’t let her see the tears.  Well, maybe she saw them.  She was kind enough to not bring them up when she gently teased as my sister heard about the little episode.

The tears have clouded my sight off and on for the last couple of weeks, much like the rain which has been falling around me for about as long.  It’s almost as if God is crying in sympathy.

I know that’s not how it works. 

It’s just how it feels sometimes.

Some folks don’t think God cries at all.  But, I’m not sure it makes sense to assume the things our Savior did while on earth would cease just because He isn’t walking among us in a human body anymore.

He wept.  It means He cried real tears, trails running down His cheeks, as He felt the pain and sadness of loss and sympathy.  His eyes got red and His nose ran.  His voice broke as He talked.

This man-who-was-God-Who-was-man demonstrated the standard even before the apostle who followed Him wrote the words:  Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

I suppose it seems a little over the top for me to be so upset by such a minor thing as getting into the car and finding the Lovely Lady not where I expected her.  Perhaps, it is.

But, we were headed to visit one close to us who really is in the process of losing the one he’s spent his life with.  The tiny vignette offered me in that split second brought the reality they are facing into focus.

In that moment, the emotions I felt—confusion, fear, loss—helped me to understand what others around me are experiencing and what is spilling over into my spirit.

Last week, I was reminded of the time, a decade ago, when I was out of control.  A friend had missed a rehearsal and was asked what had kept him away.  It only took one word.

Vertigo. 

That was the cause of his absence.  Just hearing the name is a trigger—a thought that brings with it really bad memories.  I never want to go through that again.

Dizziness so bad, the world spun whenever my eyes were open.  Nausea that wouldn’t stop.  Unable to even walk, I had to be led, leaning on anyone who would help.

Complete helplessness and inability to function on my own.

Funny.  Today my world is spinning again.  No.  I mean spinning, as in not stable.

I’m aware of the basics of how our planet functions, rotating on its axis and revolving around the sun.  That’s not what I mean.  The world I’m referring to is my world—the place where I walk, and sleep, and love.

On that occasion, ten years past, when I was struck with very real vertigo, my doctor told me it was all in my head.  Oh, he was sympathetic.  But, he knew things weren’t really spinning around me as it seemed.  A malfunction in my inner ear was the problem, not the world around me.

“I’ll give you some medication.  It will make your brain think everything is fine.  That’s what you need.”

The medicine would give me some much-needed equilibrium, a sense of balance, until my inner ear righted itself.

It didn’t fix anything.  It just made me think everything was right with the world.

I don’t need medicine like that right now.

I need to see the world as it is—as its Creator sees it.  Through His eyes.  With His heart.

I know He promised He would never leave us.  He won’t.  In the middle of the darkest night, if we call Him, He is there.

In the light of day, He pours out His love.  In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls.  (Psalm 42:8)

In the light of day, He pours out His love. In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls. Equilibrium. Share on X

When we need it, there is a strong arm to lean on.  Maybe two, if we need both of them.

I’m leaning.  And tears are still falling.

Many I know are in the grip of vertigo right now.

Maybe we could all lean together while we weep.

They’re really strong arms.

Strong arms attached to One who knows what it is to weep.

 

 

As the deer longs for streams of water,
    so I long for you, O God.
I thirst for God, the living God.
    When can I go and stand before him?
Day and night I have only tears for food,
    while my enemies continually taunt me, saying,
    “Where is this God of yours?”

My heart is breaking
    as I remember how it used to be:
I walked among the crowds of worshipers,
    leading a great procession to the house of God,
singing for joy and giving thanks
    amid the sound of a great celebration!

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!

Now I am deeply discouraged,
    but I will remember you—
even from distant Mount Hermon, the source of the Jordan,
    from the land of Mount Mizar.
I hear the tumult of the raging seas
    as your waves and surging tides sweep over me.
But each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me,
    and through each night I sing his songs,
    praying to God who gives me life.

“O God my rock,” I cry,
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I wander around in grief,
    oppressed by my enemies?”
Their taunts break my bones.
    They scoff, “Where is this God of yours?”

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!
(Psalm 42 ~ 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.

Not Woebegone

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Music has charms to soothe a savage beast. 

The words, written in verse centuries ago, are quoted frequently, even today. 

I don’t disagree. 

I’m remembering a weekend, some time ago, when I reveled in the harmonious, percussive notes of a skillfully played hammered dulcimer, listened in awe to the sweet, mellow tones of my favorite trumpet player, and wiped away tears at the conclusion of an amazing vocal duet rendition of an aria from an opera (you read that right, an opera). 

In between those numbers that weekend, I played and sang a bit myself, as well as heard several other artists who were skillfully adept at their craft. 

This savage beast’s heart was soothed.  For awhile.  But, for some reason, I hear something else in my head tonight.

Well, it’s been a busy week in Lake Wobegon. 

I can even hear the quiet, smooth tonality of Garrison Keillor’s baritone voice as I write this, although I’m not quite sure why those words come to mind.  

I suppose I may have been a little down in the mouth recently.  You know—the worries of life are starting to pile up here and there; the things I usually can control have gotten away from me a bit. 

Instead of a perpetual grin, the corners of the mouth are turned down somewhat, and it’s harder than usual to work up to a smile. 

Thus, the descriptive phrase down in the mouth seems to cover my attitude most appropriately.

Every time I ever heard Mr. Keillor utter the opening sentence to the story-telling session on his radio program, I was struck anew by the name of his fictitious town. 

He avers that the name comes from an old Native American word meaning the place where we waited all day in the rain for you.  It is not exactly the correct origin for the word it sounds like, woebegone, but it comes awfully close. 

The idea of waiting in the rain for someone who never arrives just about describes the depth of the feeling of being woebegone, a word that really comes from the Middle English meaning beset by woe.  Either way, an apt description for someone who is down in the mouth.

As I sat and listened that weekend to the jaw-droppingly beautiful tones that emanated from the young lady’s silver trumpet, my inner being was touched.  And then, as mother and daughter sang their operatic duet in a language I will never understand, I ached for more. 

But more of what? 

I know by experience that I soon tire of the same music, played or sung again and again.  A recording would not suffice, nor would simply attending recitals day after day to hear the artists ply their craft. 

I am convinced beauty on earth is given to remind us there is more.  Something more satisfying is to come. 

More.

What we have here, beautiful as it may be, is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day.

What we have here is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day. Share on X

Many centuries ago, the writer of psalms understood that, even as he struggled with his own inner sadness.  He was woebegone, down in the mouth, but still, he wrote deep calls unto deep, and told of his Creator’s unspeakable love and glory, evidenced by the world around him. 

Like Job, the afflicted one, he outlined his troubles and then reiterated, for I will yet praise Him. (Psalm 42:7-11)

Some of us drown our sorrows with alcohol, some with work, some with denial.  I listen for hours to music, reveling in the intrinsic beauty of the chords, and the harmonies, and the melodies. 

For all, it is the same.  The time comes when reality must be faced. 

The music ends, the fat lady sings, if you will. 

We who believe have a promise that will still keep us on the path.  The knowledge, the certainty, that there is more is enough to give us strength and perseverance to go on through what lies ahead. 

Not around and not under.  Through.

I don’t know about you, but I’m going on. 

The oases along the way—the music, the fellowship, the joy—those only lend credence to the promise that we’re just nomads, travelers in this world, on our way to a better place.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m enjoying the soundtrack while I’m here.

Even waiting in the rain.

Not woebegone.

 

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.  When can I go and meet with God?
(Psalm 42:1,2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(The Mourning Bride by William Congreve ~ English playwright and poet ~ 1670-1729)

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

Leaving

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He had tears in his eyes.

I thought about that for many of the eight hundred and fifty miles it took to make the journey from my childhood home to the place which has been home to me for all of the forty years since that day. 

Exactly forty years ago today, I arrived in this little town.  One of my old friends jogged my memory of what day it was as we reminisced together one recent evening. 

The first day of winter in 1976 saw me packing every possession I owned in the little yellow Chevy and leaving my home in south Texas to make the one day journey north.  To what, I had no idea.

He had tears in his eyes.

The man I can’t say I ever really knew as a child, even though I had spent nineteen years living in the same house with him.  The man who had taught me so much about forgiveness and grace, but from whom I never heard the words, I’m sorry.  The man who was unmoved by the maudlin; untouched by the mushy emotion of human drama, was crying as he said goodbye to me.

I don’t remember ever seeing tears in his eyes before.  I’m sure now that he had cried in that time, but he was never one to show emotion to his children.  He disciplined and rewarded us; he taught and rebuked us; he provided all the necessities and encouraged us to be self-sufficient.  We saw the different facets of what a father did, but he did it without undue emotion and effusiveness.

Yet, he was crying as I pulled out of the driveway.  To say it was a moving experience (with absolutely no pun intended) would be a drastic understatement.

I don’t recall what he said as we parted.  I don’t remember if he gave me any money or last minute advice on life.  But, whenever I think about leaving home, I remember the tears in the eyes of the man whom I had always counted on to be rock solid.

Big boys don’t cry. 

I reminded myself as I pulled away from the house.  It didn’t work.

They do—and I did.

It was the best going away present a man could give his son.  In retrospect, I wish he had been able to do that earlier in my life, so I could have started learning the lesson I’m still absorbing.

There is no shame in showing your feelings. None. 

God designed us to feel emotions.

A lot of pain could be averted if we would simply allow the people we love to know how deeply we feel for them.  Words are good, but the emotions which spring from our hearts and move us to tears—or joy—or even fear, teach and reassure so much more than mere words.

I realized on that day, a significant date in my journey to manhood, that real men aren’t afraid to cry.

There have been a lot of other firsts in the forty years since that day for me.  First marriage (okay—the only one).  First child.  First snowstorm.  First time I was fired (I keep telling myself it wasn’t a real job anyway).  First day in business.  First car wreck (the other car was parked).  First time a policeman drew his gun on me (last time too, I hope).  The list could go on and on.

Some of the firsts have been monumental, some coincidental.  Not many have been more eye-opening than on that day thirty-five years ago, when for the first time, I saw my Dad cry over me.

This week we celebrate the leaving home of another Son.

This was no heading out without purpose, no going where circumstances took him.  This Son left His home to perform a specific task.

His Father knew, as the child left to go on His journey, that it would end badly (from a father’s perspective).  He also knew the journey and its end would achieve an amazing victory, a history-changing paradigm shift.  So He stood by and let His Son go.

Did God cry when His Son left home? Share on X

Did He cry?  I don’t know.

I like to think He did.  Still, I don’t know.

I do know His heart was moved with Fatherly pride as the boy grew into a man (Matthew 3:17) and that in the pain of loss He couldn’t watch as the inevitable end came (what father could?), but turned away.  (Mark 15:34)

I really don’t know if God cries the way we experience it.

I do know He cares about us more than any physical father ever has—that He wants us to be with Him in the worst way. 

That’s what Christmas is about.

The manger, the shepherds, the wise men and the star?  They’re just incidental. 

The Baby came for one purpose.  To die.  For me and for you. 

I’m thinking if God does cry, it might be because some of us choose to remain separated from Him.  Grace is ours for the taking because of the Son who left His home that day so many years ago. 

My journey from home, forty years ago, is of no consequence in the grand scheme of the universe—my father’s tears of little moment in history. 

But, the reminder of both for me at this season, points dramatically to the real reason for our celebration. 

I’ll draw my loved ones close.  I’ll embrace some whom I don’t know, but who need to feel His love. 

I even might, as I contemplate a Father’s love, shed a tear or two of my own.

I am, after all, a big boy. 

And, big boys certainly do cry.

 

 

You keep track of all my sorrows.
    You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
    You have recorded each one in your book.
(Psalm 56:8 ~ NLT)

 

A little girl once asked, “Mommy does God cry?”
“Don’t be silly, God can’t cry, baby,” her mother replied.

“But what about when He looks down from Heaven above
And sees all the people who need His love?

And what about when He looks down and sees
The playground kids fall and scrape their knees?

Or how about Aunt Jane who can’t have baby girls or boys?
Or what about the poor kids who get no Christmas toys?

Maybe God would cry if He lived with my friend Tommy.
Whose daddy beats and bruises him and his mommy.

Or maybe if He looked down and saw people being killed,
I think He’d surely have eyes that are tear-filled.

But I think most of all, Mommy, what would have made God cry,
Is when He looked down at the cross and watched His baby die.”

The mother stood in silence as her eyes filled with tears,
For she knew her little girl was wise beyond her years.

Staring into deep blue eyes, the mother found courage to say,
“Yes baby girl, I think God looks down and cries every day.”
(Anonymous)

 

 

 

 

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

Thick and Thin

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The sheaf is growing thin.  

Thin.

Thirty-nine years ago, it was a mammoth binder filled with pages—one crisp, white leaf for every day which would pass in my chosen profession.  There was not yet a mark on any one of them; the story could only be written second by second, minute by minute.

The minutes turned into hours, weeks, months, and now years.  At first, even the minutes moved by like syrup on the coldest February morning.  And now, at the end, they fly like sand through the fingers of a child at the seashore

Page after page has been filled—lines with their scrawled script, margins with scribbled abbreviations.  Even the edges are covered with notes, reminders now of appointments never made, but still kept.

Funny.  Such a historical document should be conserved for the future, a textbook of success and failure, methods to be passed on to generations not yet even contemplated.  It has not been.

The pages lie at my feet in tatters.  Each page—completed—has merely been torn from the binder and dropped wearily to the floor at the end of the days.

withcustomersThere are mornings when I stoop down and scan a scrap of the paper underfoot.  Memory springs to mind and a smile might cross my face, itself a little more lined and aged than when the binder was first opened.

Frequently, a customer stirs through the debris and reminds me of a memory they have shared, as well.  My customers are friends, not income streams, and the memories are mostly sweet.  Mostly.

Bittersweet, these days.

Well?

The sheaf is growing thin.  

The crisp, white leaves gripped in my fist are precious and few now.  I am loath to fill them and let them drop to the worn carpet beneath my shoes.

Today was a day for the scraps of paper to be read.  As if the stress of a national election and its surprising outcome were not enough for one twenty-four hour period, the queue of old friends waiting their turn to reminisce and then to embellish the scraps of years past wound through my door from before opening time to well after the sun dropped behind the western horizon.

Each brought a gift, the gift of listening and speaking.  It is the way of friendship.

Iron sharpens iron, sometimes painfully, often by polishing gently.  (Proverbs 27:17)

Iron sharpens iron, sometimes painfully, often by polishing gently. Share on X

I have been the recipient of such gifts many times over the years.  Grateful is too insignificant a word to describe what I feel.

I glance at the scraps of paper they have each left behind, scraps bearing their names and experiences, and I remember that I am a rich man.  How could I not be—with a life full of such amazing people?

Yet, I spoke with one friend today of my unhappiness with how thin the sheaf of papers is now.  He reminded me (gently) that God is still leading into the future.

God is still leading into the future. Share on X

I said earlier it was my chosen profession, but it was never I who chose it.  The path was chosen for me—each step of my young life leading me to it and then through it, until now, as I near old age, I find myself stepping away from it at last.

I could never, in my wildest childhood dreams, have planned out such a journey, but He did.  Every step.

The days left in this little music store are flying.  There are not many more pages yet to be filled here.

I want them to be filled with words such as I heard today.  I want them to be filled with people whose faces I see in my memories tonight.

And, I think as I consider the thin sheaf of papers yet to be written in my business—I wonder how thick that other sheaf is?

The book was so thick on the day we entered this world.  Crisp and white, each page awaiting the record that has now been written, it had an adequate supply to last our whole lives through.

It is thinner than when we began.  The opportunities for achievements to be recorded, events to be heralded, dwindle everyday.

Sometimes, I pick up the scraps from those pages, too.  I’ve shared some few of those memories with you.  The ones I’m willing to bring to the light of day again.

Others of the scraps will never be seen or read by anyone else, except by Him.  He reads every one of them.  The thought makes me cringe, but not because I fear any punishment.  No, I cringe because, as any child with his Father, I never want to disappoint.

And, I have.  Again and again, I have disappointed.

Those pages are filled, never to be written on again.  My Father’s disappointment is past, the sins and missteps erased by His astounding grace.

Still, there are more blank pages.  How many?  I don’t know.

Perhaps, the sheaf is growing thin.  Possibly, it still contains years worth of crisp, white leaves to be filled with the record of tasks fulfilled, and a legacy left for many who will follow.

Either way, He guides my steps.

He always has.

Through thick, and now, through thin…

He knew how to lead then.

He knows how to lead now.

Be still my soul.

 

 

He has told you, O man, what is good;
And what does the Lord require of you
But to do justice, to love kindness,
And to walk humbly with your God?
(Micah 6:8 ~ NASB)

 

 

Be still my soul, thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
(from Be Still My Soul ~ Katharina von Schlegel ~ German poet ~ 1697-1768)

 

 

 

 

 

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

Good News. Bad News.

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Rejoice with those who rejoice.

As I sat not writing at my keyboard a couple of nights ago, I received the message.  The young man at the other end had just received good news.  He had to tell someone.

It didn’t matter that it was after midnight.  A light had blazed into his darkness and he needed to share the wonder.

I read the words and, even though I couldn’t actually see him, saw the smile that had spread across his face.

I messaged him back.  I‘m smiling with you.

I’m smiling as I think about his news, even now.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled. Rejoice with those who rejoice. Share on X

I always want to rejoice with folks who are rejoicing.  Except when I don’t.

Yeah.  You know what I mean, don’t you?

I was in the middle of a good pout when the young man’s message arrived the other night.  I’ve been in the middle of the pout for awhile now.  Call it what you want—depressed, sad, unhappy, disappointed—it’s still a pout.

Things aren’t going the way I want.  Perhaps more to the point, life isn’t working out the way I’d planned.  It seems the road map I was following was a little flawed.

woman-1006100_640Sometimes, when your soul feels heavy and is burdened down, you simply want to be left alone with your misery.  And yet, when that beam of light shines into your darkness, the reaction is automatic and instantaneous.

I stood in the light with the joyful young man and I smiled.

Joy spills over.

It does. But sometimes the beam of light is short-lived and the joy fades into the gloom of disappointment once more.

I sat with another young man this afternoon and unburdened my soul.  I thought he needed to know—and oddly enough, he seemed to want to know—what I was feeling.  Tears were in my eyes when I looked up again.  Looking into his eyes, I saw tears in them, too.

Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

Do you understand the power in those words?

I do.  Now.

I looked at his tears and was reminded that it hasn’t been many months since his tears were shed over the tiny body of a still-born baby.  He (and his sweet wife) are grieving still and will for years to come.  We spoke of that also and the tears came again.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened. Weep with those who weep. Share on X

The day will come when we will celebrate the end to all sorrows and disappointments.  No more separation.  No more loss.  No more death.

The day will come.  It’s not here yet.

Today, we walk this world of mixed joys and regrets, victories and defeats.  Our celebrations are tempered with foreboding of dark times yet to come.

I wonder.

The Teacher instructed His followers to walk in love for each other and promised that, as a consequence, they would give witness of His great love to a watching world. (John 13:34,35)

Surely He intended that to be done in the center of the world’s marketplace and not only in their cloistered meeting places.

He never suggested it would be the rule in mortuaries, but not on the street corners.

If it is to be witnessed, it must be done in public places. 

We rejoice.  We grieve.

Fellowship along both paths touches our spirits with His love.

Tonight, I’m smiling.

Through tears.

 

 

 

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being.
(Albert Schweitzer ~ French-German theologian ~ 1875-1965)

 

For everything there is a season,
    a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to cry and a time to laugh.
    A time to grieve and a time to dance.
(Ecclesiastes 3:1,4 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

 

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