Between

December 27, 2018December 27, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 9 Comments

On the mezzanine above my shop, I sit waiting for words. My head is inches below the corrugated metal roof—all that stands between me, the howling wind, and the driving rain tonight.

For a few moments earlier this evening, I ventured out into the weather. With an umbrella above my head, I took care of a necessary task before rushing back inside. My socks are still wet from the torrent that overflowed my shoes as I crossed the driveway. My arms still feel the pull of the umbrella as the updraft threatened to lift it (and possibly me), Mary Poppins-like into the atmosphere.

I’m happy to be where I’m safe. And, where I’m warm. The thing is, I have no guarantee of either. None of us do.

This mezzanine below me is not as sturdy as I’d like. Oh, I’m sure the structure would be up to the minimum building standards, but when I jump up and down, the floor bounces. The light fixtures hanging below me rattle and jingle. Something tells me perhaps I shouldn’t jump up and down.

I suppose it’s like the fellow who complained to his doctor of the pain in his finger. When the doctor asked when the finger hurt, the fellow bent the finger backward and said, “When I do that.”

The doctor replied, “Well, don’t do that.”

I’ll stop jumping up and down.

Still, I don’t feel quite safe up here sometimes, between the floor that bounces and the ceiling with pounding rain and howling winds assailing it from above. I wonder if I should go downstairs to the solid concrete floor until the storm has blown itself out.

Between.

It’s not all that comfortable a place to be. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel all that safe a place, either. And yet, it’s where we spend most of our lives.

This week, the one between our annual celebration of the birth of Jesus and the beginning of the new calendar year always seems like between to me. The year is effectively over and yet, there is a week of days to live while we wait. For the new year, we wait.

Between.

I’ve spent some extremely uncomfortable days at the end of a year or two. Three years ago this week, my siblings and I were stuck between the last century and the future as we said goodbye to our childhood home. Two years ago, I waited with trepidation and even a little anger for the music store the Lovely Lady and I had poured our hearts into for all of our married lives to wind down to an untimely end.

Between isn’t comfortable.

Still, it is where we live if we are followers of Christ.

What we once thought secure—what we once deemed prudent—has been revealed to be the shakiest of structures imaginable. Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Still, we have not yet arrived in our destination.

Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Share on X

Between, we venture, carried on the wings of eagles and, curiously, sheltered under them, as well. (Psalm 91: 1-4)

On His path, we find safety; in His shelter, rest.

Between.

Looking back, there is nothing to convince us to return, no matter how solid—how safe—it appears.

Our home is up ahead. Up. Ahead.

From here, we look up there—up ahead—and know we are safe in His hands. Safe, on the way to safety.

Let the wind howl and the rain blow!

We’re not home yet, but you can almost see the light shining out the windows from here.

This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now…Come further up, come further in!
(from The Last Battle ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

I want to live above the world,
Though Satan’s darts at me are hurled;
For faith has caught the joyful sound,
The song of saints on higher ground.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright;
But still I’ll pray till heav’n I’ve found,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”
(from Higher Ground ~ Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American preacher/songwriter ~ 1856-1922)

I Remember Peace

July 6, 2016July 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

They were kind enough to invite me to ride with them recently. The seasoned riders have trekked many miles together in the years I’ve been aware of them.

I usually ride alone.

It’s not that I don’t like being with people, but simply that the logistics are less complicated when I’m the only one who has to agree to the time and length of ride.

It would be just another ride for me, I thought, but one spent in a group of men who, like me, enjoyed the spinning of the crank and wind of freedom blowing on their faces.

I never expected to be transported back fifty years as I rode.

It was my own fault really. One kind member of the group, noticing my problem, rode beside me for a few moments and explained the theory I obviously didn’t grasp.

“You don’t ride much with groups, do you? If you’ll stay with the other riders, the ride will be a lot easier.”

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand his meaning. Riding in a group reduces the effect of the wind, making the ride much less taxing. One has only to watch a professional bicycle racing team to grasp the idea. Drafting, following each other closely, is only a part of the benefit.

I never have been good at that—staying with the group. I’ve got my own ideas of what works, what corners to turn, how fast to ride on the downhills, and how hard to pedal up the steep slopes. But, perhaps the kind fellow is right.

I tried to follow his advice—really, I did.

But, they went slower than I wanted on the downhill parts. Then they went faster than I was ready to try on the uphill sections.

And, besides that, my mind was already a thousand miles away and fifty years in the past.

I guess I’ve always done it—ridden at my own pace. Still, the fear that knotted my insides on that long-ago day should have taught me a lesson to remember for life.

There were usually at least five of us who rode together—sometimes more. Through neighborhoods and across fields, down into canals and over levees, we pedaled our nondescript bikes. Brothers, neighbors, schoolmates—it didn’t matter. Whoever wanted to ride went along.

I heard the voices calling and jerked back from my daydreaming.

Oye vato!

The four young men standing at the corner toward which I was heading had suddenly become aware of my presence. It took only an instant for me to realize what was going on.

As I was riding ahead of the group of ragtag boys, I had turned the corner into La Paloma without knowing it. La Paloma was a barrio, or neighborhood, in my hometown famous for the gang that wandered its streets. It has gotten much worse since my childhood, but even then, we knew better than to meander down its avenues idly.

The young men were headed into the street, coming straight for me. I remembered passing someone at the corner behind as well, and glanced back. Sure enough, he had moved onto the pavement, blocking my quick escape that way.

I was terrified. No other word describes it.

Terror.

I was also alone. I can only imagine the conversation of my comrades as they gathered around the corner, just outside the neighborhood.

Can you believe he went in there? What was the idiot thinking? I’m not going in! No way!

Fortunately for me, they didn’t take long to decide that somebody had to come in after the idiot. Just in time, all of them came riding around the corner, about the moment I was trying to decide which one of the guys in front of me I might be able to knock over if I rode at him full speed. I never found out.

As soon as the rest of the group came into view, the other boys moved back onto the verge of the parking area and simply watched us ride past.

We rode, nonchalantly and quietly, down the street, turning the corner and riding straight home. After fifty years, my heart still beats a little faster, remembering the fear, but also the relief.

To this day, I remember the peace that rode around the corner with those brothers and friends. We weren’t out of danger—not by a long shot—but the relief I felt was almost palpable.

One might think the lesson I learned on that day was of strength in numbers. I know the truth of that, but it’s not what I remember.

I remember peace. While still in danger, I felt peace, full and complete.

Odd, isn’t it? The name of the barrio and its gang, La Paloma, means The Dove. Thoughout time, the dove has been a powerful symbol of peace. And there, in frightening circumstances, with disaster just moments away, peace fell over this young boy.

In danger, peace lives, unafraid.

Peace is not the absence of danger, but it is the assurance of safety.

Perhaps I’m not the only one who feels the danger crouching outside my door today. I hear it in the words, see it in the eyes of both friends and acquaintances. Fear can stalk us as we see death take those we know and love. Terror is set to spring as the world around us grows more unfamiliar and threatening.

And yet, the Savior told us He was leaving us peace. It’s not the peace the world craves—the complete absence of danger and of conflict of any kind, but is a peace that supports in the middle of the storm. (John 14:27)

He was about to be tortured, tried in court, and put to death. And, He told His followers not to be troubled and afraid. Their world was about to crash down around their shoulders and they were to continue on with peace in their souls.

It doesn’t make sense. It never has from a human perspective.

Once in awhile, the Lovely Lady and I feel the need to retreat. The world presses in, its cares overwhelming the spirit. Last weekend, we went to the mountaintop for a day or two.

We stood, overlooking the world below and heard the wind blow gently over the treetops. In quietness, God speaks eloquently to our spirits.

Creation reminds us that our Creator is as He has always been.

We walked the hillsides of a green valley in the morning, as raindrops began to fall. The sound of the water from heaven on the canopy of leaves and pine needles above soothed the hurts and fears in our souls.

Ah, sweet peace.

The solitude reminded me that peace has already been given us long ago. We have only to remember where our strength comes from and realization of our certain salvation is renewed.

The psalmist wrote of it in his own contemplation. I lift my eyes up to the hills and I realize where my strength comes from. It comes from God the Creator, who made the heavens and the earth. (Psalm 121:1-2)

Not only in the quiet, but in the hubbub, in the tormented days, and the fear-laden nights, peace can be ours.

Not only ours, peace can reign. In our very beings, the terror is silenced, the fear put to flight. Peace reigns. (Colossians 3:15)

When all about us, men whisper of danger and terror in the dark, we don’t disagree. They do exist. They do have power.

But, our safety is not in weapons, not in hoarded wealth, nor even in governments. The peace those bring isn’t peace at all. It never has been and never will be.

Peace comes only from the Giver of all good gifts.

Safety itself is ours.

Even when we ride ahead of the pack.

The Dove, on silver pinions
Winged her peaceful way.
(from The Pelican Island ~ James Montgomery ~ Scottish poet/hymnwriter ~ 1771-1854)

I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid.
(John 14:27 ~ NLT)

Haven

May 25, 2016May 25, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The other side of the storm.

I stepped out the back door a few moments ago and felt as if I had wandered into a different world. When I had come home a couple of hours before, the trees stood quietly, blissfully content that their only activity was the gentle casting of long shadows in the evening sunlight.

Not so on my later visit. The sun had tumbled from the sky, the abdication of its position giving leave to black clouds and high winds in their takeover of the landscape.

And take over, they had.

The formerly passive trees could only be described as boisterous, their limbs twisting and waving in the gale. The wind churned and reeled, first from one direction, and then from the other. I glanced at the lighted sign near the road waving dangerously back and forth, the wildly undulating shadows thrown by its powerful bulbs looking nothing like the shadows I had admired earlier under the trees.

I stood, frozen. Seriously. Frozen.

I had sensed nothing of the power of the storm front from my cozy seat in the house. I never intended to step into the middle of a tempest. Inside, the sound of the wind was minimal, its power unnoticeable.

Here, in the center of the maelstrom, I feared—however briefly—for my safety. My heart pounded. My skin crawled with the realization of how small and powerless I was, confronted by the strength of creation’s fury.

I said I was frozen. It was only for a moment, perhaps all of ten seconds.

Then, I remembered.

There was a door right behind me—not locked. I had only to turn the knob and step into safety.

In an instant, the sound of the wind was muted, the wonder at its fury a memory.

Hidden from the storm, the brick house seemed a fortress, a haven where I could relax.

The storm raged for a few moments more, having nothing but threats to make tonight.

The little tree frogs knew it even before the wind began to calm, their croaky little voices blending in a hymn to the Creator who brings both sunshine and storm, sustaining all of His creatures.

I didn’t sing. I’m still not singing.

I sit in my comfortable chair and all I can think about is the reality that more storms are on their way.

On the other side of the storm, my memory of safety and protection intact, I am already worrying about the next one, and the one after that. For, surely they will come again—and again—and yet again.

The other side of the storm is still a place where more storms will come.

The Teacher’s followers sat in that boat after He had calmed the storm on the lake and they knew, they just knew, more storms were yet to break upon their bow.

Death would soon take their Master. It would eventually take all of them, and in between His death and theirs, chaos would reign in the world.

And yet, they put their trust in Him.

Their Haven from the storms, they would rest in Him. They would trust Him while the storm yet raged, as well as when calm overtook them.

Oh, there were a few moments when panic seized their spirits. They ran and hid, but they knew where safety lay. Never did they stray far.

Still, I’m waiting for that next storm.

It’s calm here now. Outside.

Not so much, in my soul.

We live our lives on the other side of the storm. Few are those who can claim a life free of conflict and trouble. For most, the respite between the storms is temporary and brief.

I wonder. Am I looking at the wrong thing?

I think about the stubborn disciple, the one also called The Rock. We tend to ridicule him for his experience in walking on the water. We might even suggest that he should have stayed in the boat. (Matthew 14:22-33)

The rational men did just that. They stayed in the boat. They didn’t get their names recorded as doubters who took their eyes off their Master. Sensible men, they weren’t making any rash moves.

It didn’t make sense to get out of the boat. At least not from their perspective. I can almost see the others, grabbing at the impetuous one’s sleeves.

No, Peter! Stay here. It’s certain death out there! You’ll drown!

Oh, the silliness of our disbelief. We call safe places dangerous, and dangerous places safe.

In our disbelief, we call safe places dangerous, and dangerous places safe. Share on X

Safety lies in the arms of the Master. The Creator-of-all-that-is comes walking on His water and all other places except at His side teem with peril.

A little wooden boat on the sea—safe? What a joke!

Peter took his eyes off the Master and contemplated the storm. He saw the wind whipping the waves up around him and he realized how dangerous his world was at that instant.

If only he had recognized who held his world in the palm of His hand. Ah, but he did soon enough. Safety was his in the arms of his Master.

I say it again: I wonder if I’m looking at the wrong thing

Why does the fury of the tempest fill my sight when the One who rules all storms is right there, in plain view?

I hear the thunder in the distance and lightning is flashing in my window. The storm approaches again.

He doesn’t only rule the weather, my friends.

In the shadow of His protection, we may safely shelter through every storm of life.

The door is still unlocked.

Time for rest.

We’ll be on the other side of this storm soon enough.

Peace. Be still.

Perhaps, there may even be a song, a hymn of gratitude.

The frogs aren’t the only creatures that can sing.

But let all who take refuge in you rejoice;
let them sing joyful praises forever.
Spread your protection over them,
that all who love your name may be filled with joy.
(Psalm 5:11 ~ NLT)

Living is strife and torment, disappointment and love and sacrifice, golden sunsets and black storms. I said that some time ago, and today I do not think I would add one word.
(Sir Laurence Olivier ~ English actor ~ 1907-1989)

Storm Warnings

April 27, 2016April 27, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

If the thunder comes, I’ll have to sleep in Mama’s bed.

The girl says the words matter-of-factly, without an inkling that they might possibly cause laughter. Her grandpa, with an effort, does not disappoint, realizing the little sweetie is merely stating the truth as she knows it.

Any child knows that Mama’s bed is a safer place to be than his or her own unprotected expanse of mattress. And yet… And yet…

And yet the boy, just a couple of years older, made certain to assure me he would not be seeking shelter in the safe haven of Mom’s bed. The bravado is comical in its own way, but I hold my laughter in, not wanting to hurt feelings.

The storm warnings are out tonight. Tornadoes, say the weathermen. Strong winds. Hail.

Take cover, they tell us.

Accordingly, some friends are spending the night in storm shelters, some in their bathrooms.

I will not fault them. It’s hard not to be afraid when the experts we trust say we should be.

A friend shared a little saying the other day. I don’t remember all of it, but I recall the core thought:

Fear is a lie.

I don’t disagree. But sometimes—even often—it feels more like the truth.

When the wind is ripping limbs off trees overhead, when the rain is blowing sideways and debris is careering crazily across highways, when hail is pounding rooftops, terror seems a reasonable response.

Mom’s bed may not be safe enough.

The bathroom may not be secure.

The storm cellar doesn’t seem quite as impervious as it once did.

In spite of it all, I like thunderstorms. The power, the beauty, the replenishment of the earth, all these and more inspire admiration.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand there is danger. I pray for those who don’t have adequate shelter. I feel empathy for folks (and a certain little girl) who are terrified by the potential for loss of life and property.

In truth, I realize that none of God’s creation is safe. All of it has the potential to wreak havoc on our lifestyle.

I also realize that all of His creation is fantastic! The mountains, the forests, the rivers, the sea—all are beautiful, dangerous evidences of His sustaining and yes, frightening, power.

I wonder though, on what or whom do we depend for safety?

The easy answer is that we put our trust in God. Even the psalmist said the words; When I am afraid, I put my trust in You. (Psalm 56:3)

You’re scratching your head, aren’t you?

Did he just say, “the easy answer”?

I did. It’s on the tip of our tongues. We may even claim that God is our very first recourse, every time we are afraid.

It’s an admirable thing.

He wants us to call on Him. One of the saddest moments I think of in our Savior’s ministry (beside His trial and death) is the moment when He looked over the beloved city, Jerusalem, and lamented their steadfast refusal to accept His protection. (Matthew 23:27)

But, what if we were willing to give our fears to Him, instead of insisting He save us from the object of our fears?

What if we simply trusted Him in the storm?

In it.

The Teacher’s followers, in that storied storm on the lake, believed they were showing faith in Him when they woke Him up to voice their fears.

Do you remember what He did?

He rebuked the wind and the waves. He scolded them. And then, turning to His followers, He did the same to them. (Mark 4: 35-41)

Have you no faith?

For so long, I have not understood. Certainly, they had faith! Why would they have awakened Him if they didn’t believe He could do something about the storm? Wasn’t that faith?

It’s the kind of faith I have.

The storms of life require a command from Him. Peace! Be still!

That is what I believe—or, at least what I have believed.

And, as I write, in my mind’s eye I see the little girl running to her Mama’s bed in the midst of the storm.

Ha! Do you know what she is going to do there?

Will she insist that Mama quiet the storm? Will she quiver and quake until the last lightning flash and the last rumble of thunder is past? No. She will sleep.

She will sleep.

Safe.

Why didn’t the Disciples think of that? Why didn’t they lie down on the deck beside Him and sleep?

More to the point—why don’t I?

What safer place could one want?

How much more protection could you ever have?

Safe. In the arms of Jesus.

The storm is passed.

For tonight.

The little girl sleeps in her Mama’s bed.

Childlike faith.

Safety.

I’ve anchored my soul in the Haven of Rest;
I’ll sail the wide seas no more.
The tempest may sweep o’er the wild stormy deep;
In Jesus I’m safe ever more.
(Haven of Rest ~ H L Gilmour ~ American choirmaster/poet ~ 1836-1920)

The waters are rising, but so am I. I am not going under, but over.
(Catherine Booth ~ Co-founder of the Salvation Army ~ 1829-1890)

Already Safe

February 3, 2016February 3, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are two black labs in my backyard.

They’re not all that smart.

I would like to believe I’m much more intelligent than they. Some days (or nights), I think I could even prove the point.

Somehow though, that assumption is not always accurate. Oh, it’s not as if they are as intelligent as I; just that I am as ignorant as they are. Yes, I realize it might be a fine line, but there is a difference. I think. Or is it, I hope?

It was a dark and stormy night—no, really—a dark and stormy night. I was heading to bed after a frustrating non-writing session at the computer when I noticed a noise from the backyard.

The two large dogs, brother and sister, were out in the gale, staring up into the huge mulberry tree. I’ve seen that stance before. They have chased a critter up the tree.

This could take awhile.

There are a few things you should know about this situation. The first is these dogs are stubborn—tenacious—adamant, even.

Bull-headed, the red haired lady who raised me would call it.

I shone my light into the branches of the tree and found the object of their attentiveness. The critter was hiding his face, but as I moved around the storage building in my way, I was rewarded with a glance at his black robber’s mask.

The black monsters had treed a raccoon. The little fellow was lodged in the fork of the branch. He wasn’t budging.

Down on the ground, the black beasts weren’t going anywhere, either.

Stalemate.

This didn’t look encouraging.

I asked myself a couple of questions:

The dogs have a really nice, heated dog house in which to pass cold windy nights. Do you suppose they might just get cold and retire to their comfy home?

The trunk of the tree up which the raccoon had clambered is actually outside the fenced yard in which the big black dogs run. Is it possible he would just shinny down the rough bole and scamper across the ground to his lair?

Neither was likely. I did the only thing that made any sense.

I locked the dogs in the storage building. There is a carpet on the floor, laid there for just such eventualities, and I had the foresight to put their water bowl in with them—in case they had worked up a thirst in the commotion.

I locked them in and went to bed. Slept like a baby.

Very early in the morning, I did go outside again. Just for a few seconds. I shone the flashlight up into the tree to be sure, but I knew what I would find. There was no raccoon to be seen.

I opened the door to the storage building. My two best friends lay side by side on the carpet, asleep. It took them a moment to realize I was at the door, but they slowly got to their feet and stretching, ambled outside. It was as if none of the frenetic activity in the wee hours of the morning had happened at all.

As if nothing had happened.

They slept as well as I did. Five feet above the roof of the building in which they slept, the raccoon was lodged in the crook of the tree branch. Yet, they slept as if the critter were ten miles away.

As for the raccoon, his situation was not much different either. Ten feet below him, the great hunters were as close as they had ever been. Maybe closer.

When he could see them, he wasn’t budging. Not an inch. I didn’t stay out to watch, but I don’t imagine it was long after the door closed on the shed that he began his trek down to safety.

May I point out something? It may come as a surprise to you, but the raccoon was never in any danger.

Never.

Dogs don’t climb trees. Can’t. Won’t. They weren’t coming up to get him. So, the little fella just waited. Once they were gone, he would move, but not one second before.

But, he could have left the tree at any time he wanted! The tree in which he cowered was planted in a safe place. He never had to cower. Not one moment.

He was always safe.

I wonder. How many days—weeks—years have we cowered here when all we needed to do was walk to freedom?

While we eye the terrifying circumstances circling around us, safety lies as close as a few steps in the right direction.

But first, we have to tear our eyes away from the dreadful creatures below.

Perhaps, we have the need for a loving Creator to make the creatures get out of our sight. But, I’m not sure He needs to make them go away—not even sure if He will make them go away while we live in this world.

What if all that is necessary is for us to see that safety is already ours?

The prophet Elisha’s servant certainly needed that. It was one of my favorite stories in Sunday School many years ago. It still is. The servant rose up early in the morning and saw a terrifying enemy surrounding them. It was all he could see. Chariots and soldiers. Spears and clubs. Arrows and swords. Just imagine the terror. Imagine.

Surely, the prophet could have prayed for escape. A chariot from heaven perhaps? He had seen that chariot before. But no—he prayed that his servant would be able to see. That’s it. Open his eyes, Lord. He needs to see. (2 Kings 6:15-17)

Personally, I still find it hard to say the words. I want the easy escape. I want the miracle rescue.

Open my eyes.

Do the miracles come? They do. But, why pray for a miracle when He’s already made the way?

Sometimes the snarling savage beasts below just close their eyes and go to sleep.

Sometimes, we just need to get up and walk right out of the prison we’ve made for ourselves.

Open our eyes, Lord. We need to see.

You. We need to see You.

Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.
(from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author/educator ~ 1898-1963)

For I am the Lord your God
who takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do not fear;
I will help you.
(Isaiah 41:13 ~ NIV)

Beasts in the Field

October 31, 2014June 22, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until she got closer to the fence.

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

She believed him. But still. . .

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

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

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

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

No?

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

And, where is his smile?

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

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

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

So hard the tears come.

How did I miss this?

All this time. All these years.

I thought I was the protector. The provider.

I needed One.

I had One.

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

There are still scary things in front of me.

It’s not too late, is it?

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

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

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

safety

Between

I Remember Peace

Haven

Storm Warnings

Already Safe

Beasts in the Field