storytelling

I Give Up/At the Car Wash

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Zach Camp on Unsplash

Sometimes it’s just hard to give up control.  Really hard.

I went to the car wash recently.  It’s been a few years since I gave up fighting the trend and started running my car through the wash tunnel.  For most of my life, I insisted on using the old-style quarter machines to do it myself.  But, I’m getting old, and sitting in my car while it gets laundered seems a good idea now.

It took me a while.  I didn’t want to give up on doing it myself.  But, I always seemed to put off the job.  It could be hard work.  Sometimes, it was too cold outside.  Or, too hot.

So, the car was almost always dirty.

And, I like clean.  I do.

The vehicle in front of me entered through the member lane.  That means they had already paid for unlimited washes and there was no need to wait for the attendant to help with payment.  I assumed it also meant they were familiar with the process and would make no trouble for me or anyone else behind them. 

Well?  It seemed a reasonable expectation.

They made trouble.

There is a white line on the pavement as one approaches the entrance to the tunnel.  Folks in the know understand one needs to line up their driver’s side front wheel on the painted stripe to be straight with the steel track inside.

The driver missed it by a foot.

After the attendant helped them get the vehicle straightened out, I was sure all would be well.  My own wheel was sitting on the line now as I waited my turn.

The small pickup stopped where the attendant indicated.  Next, he waved his hand at the sign sitting beside the track.  The instructions should have been clear;

Put your car in neutral
Take hands off the steering wheel
Keep foot off the brake pedal
Do not open your window or turn on your wipers

The attendant walked toward me.  I was next!  I prepared to pull forward onto the track.  But, it wasn’t to be.

Suddenly, he spun around and, racing back to the wall, slapped the big red button there.  The emergency stop quickly brought the entire operation to a halt.  Lights darkened, and the entire place went quiet—for a second. Then, he sprinted toward the pickup, yelling as he went.

That truck definitely wasn’t in neutral!  It should have been sitting still, waiting for the conveyor to pull it along, but it was still moving under its own power toward the waiting brushes.

Brake lights went on, along with the cargo light above the truck’s bed as the driver opened his door to see what was happening.

They talked briefly and the truck’s door closed.  The attendant walked back toward the big red button, shaking his head.  Turning the safety release on the button, he pushed it again.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  I’m sure he did, as well.

Too soon!

Both of us saw it at the same time.  The conveyor had picked up the wheels of the truck and was pulling it forward, but suddenly, the backup lights shone from the rear of the vehicle!

Now, they were reversing!

Red button time again.  More shouting and running.  The cargo light came on again.

After the door slammed once more and the poor fellow trotted back to start the machinery up again, I waited—not as hopefully this time—to finally start through the wash myself.

There were no more delays.  Still,  the entire time I was being pulled through the wash tunnel, I kept my hand near the horn button—ready to blast away at that person who seemed to be reluctant to give up control of his/her vehicle to the process.  I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the exit ahead of me, with no sign of the truck blocking the way.

Why is it so hard for us to give up control?

From the dim, dark reaches of my brain, the anecdote emerges.  I read it somewhere a lifetime ago.  But, it stuck with me.

The old fellow was sitting patiently in the hallway, waiting for the ladies meeting at the church to finish.  As the custodian, it was his job to set up (and later, take down) the tables and chairs for the refreshments, and he had done it without complaint, even when the requests and directives came fast and furious from more than one of the ladies.

The pastor stopped by where he sat waiting to clear up.

“You seem so calm, John.  How do you do it?”

“Well Preacher,” John said, with a smile across his face, “I just put my brain into neutral and let them push me around wherever they want me.”

I laugh every time I think of the old fellow.  Still, he knew what it took to accomplish what he came to do.

But, the driver of that vehicle in the car wash the other day?  They needed to do one thing.  Only one.

Relax.

That was it.  Sit back and let go.

The result would be a gleaming, clean truck. 

The driver’s way would have resulted in chaos.  It very nearly did.  And not only for him.  Damaged machinery.  No clean cars for anyone following behind.  No work for the attendants while repairs were made.  Loss to the insurance company, the driver, and the car wash.

Sit back.  Let go.

Moses gave the same instructions to the folks following him out there in the desert all those years ago.

“‘The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’” (Exodus 14:14, NLT)

The Children of Israel were afraid.  They wanted to go back and give themselves up to that old, gritty life of slavery.  But Moses suggested they go straight ahead, into the car wash.

No, really.  A great big—terrifying—car wash.  Right through the middle of the sea.

He said—in essence, “Sit back and let go.  God’s got you.”

And, He did.

And, He does.

In the car wash.  In the hurricane. In the wildfire.  In the emergency room.  In the hospice bed.

He’s fighting for us.

It’s hard to let Him.  Hard.

I’m still learning to let go.  Maybe you are, too.

But, I did learn to put my car in neutral and take my foot off the brake.  I’m going to keep working on the rest of it.

Trusting Him, we learn to rest.

And, He cleans us up in the process.

I like clean.  I do.

 

 

“Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength.  However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it.”
(Ann Landers)

“But Moses told the people, ‘Don’t be afraid. Just stand still and watch the Lord rescue you today. The Egyptians you see today will never be seen again. The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’”  (Exodus 14:13-14, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Walking Out of the Fog

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
Image by Joshua Sortino on Unsplash

On a recent day I sat with my old friend again.  Yes, it was in my mind that the last time we had sat with coffee cups between us, I had walked away with a life-changing backache.

I determined not to sit for three hours without moving this time.  But, we had things to discuss.  Important things.  Well—important to us.

As we sat down with our cups of coffee, a smile played around his lips as he told me he had thought of a title for his next blog post (he doesn’t write blogs).  Then he told about what he described as, “My Life in the Fog.”

As he related his experiences growing up in the last century in Fresno, California, I imagined I could see it clearly.

The Central Valley of California, also known as the San Joaquin Valley, is a huge bowl of fertile ground, the produce capital of the whole country.  There are miles and miles of cultivated fields growing crops of every description, from vegetables to nuts.  It is, in some ways, a veritable paradise.  But, there are drawbacks.

The natives call it Tule (pronounced too-lee) Fog (when they’re not arguing about whether that’s what it really is or is not).  The name “Tule” is a local term, shortened from Tulare, which was once a large lake in the area.

The entire valley, thousands of square miles of it, is frequently engulfed in the fog, generated by the cold air of the surrounding mountain ranges settling down into the warm, moist air below them.  This is especially prevalent in the fall and winter months.

I said I imagined I saw the image clearly as my friend described standing in his yard, ready to go to school in the early morning light.  Gazing across the street, he couldn’t even see the neighbor’s house in front of him.  And, to the side, no shrubs or fence were visible at the house next door.

You see my problem, don’t you?

It’s all just a bit out of focus, wavering in my mind.  The fog he describes cloaks the entire scene as I gaze upon it.

It is what fog does.

I suppose that’s what he intended to communicate with his proposed title for the nonexistent blog he was writing.  No.  I’m sure of it.

He went on to describe the occasional clearing of the fog in one direction, but not in others.  He would stand, again unable to see the house across the street but, turning to his left, could see the neighbor’s property there perfectly well, as if the sun was shining clearly on it.

I know I’m not supposed to do it.  You know—think about my own experiences while someone else is talking.  I’m supposed to listen completely to what they’re saying.  But, there was a voice speaking inside my head, too.

“Sure.  The fog is just fine when you’re standing still in your own front yard.”

You see, I’ve been there.  In that Tule Fog.  No, really!

We traveled numerous times to my Grandfather’s house in the Central Valley.  He lived little more than 25 miles away from where my friend used to stand in the fog before school.  To get there, my family and I would travel over 1400 miles by car, zipping through mountains, prairies, farmland, and deserts.

The most memorable part of the journey for me always was the descent into the San Joaquin Valley through the Tehachapi (ta-hatch-a-pea) Pass.  On this particular trip, we made the drop from the high desert into the valley in the darkness of a very early morning.

If you make the trip in daylight when there is fog, you can see it down below, almost like a super dense cloud lying at your feet, with time to mentally prepare yourself for what is to come.  I didn’t have that advantage on the occasion my memory dredged up.

The wet blanket of fog we dropped into was like being enveloped in a cloud of pure white cotton.  Flicking the car’s headlights to bright only multiplied the effect.  The brilliant light merely reflected off the dazzling white blanket, almost blinding the driver to anything but its overwhelming glare.

I slowed to a safe speed, only to remember (almost too late) that I was on a California freeway.  The traffic behind me had not slowed to a safe speed and passed me at a terrific pace, some barely seeing my taillights in time to swerve into the passing lane.

I sped up.  Terrified and confused by the lack of vision, but dazed by the overload of sensory stimuli, I could do nothing but travel at the speed of surrounding traffic while staring wide-eyed into the seeming abyss in front of me and praying for protection.

Although it seemed like an eternity, it wasn’t all that long before we began to see rifts in the wall of white clouds about us.  I was never so happy to see the darkness, riven by my vehicle’s headlights to give a clear picture of what was in front of us.

But, my friend was still talking, wasn’t he?  Something about seeing through a mirror, indistinctly.

I had to shake off my own fog to catch up.

Oh yes!  The Apostle’s words from one of his letters:

“Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity.  All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.” (1 Corinthians 13:12, NLT)

We do.  We live in a fog—some of us for most of our lives.  The noise and clamor we’re surrounded by serve only to act like the high beams, obfuscating and blinding us to the truth.

But, we don’t have to live like this—here in the fog—forever.

There is a place of clarity here on earth.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet,
    a light on my path.” (Psalm 119:105, NIV)

Have you ever noticed where fog lamps are mounted on vehicles?  That’s right;  Down near the road.  Down below the fog, giving a clear view of the surface one is traveling over.

God’s word is a lamp, specifically for our feet, to light the path ahead.  When all others are frantically flipping between low and high beams, failing spectacularly to find a path through the fog, His wisdom cuts through, lighting the way faithfully.

He gives light that truly lends clarity to life.  Through all of our days, if we’ll avail ourselves of it.

I don’t love the fog.  I say I don’t anyway.  But still, I stumble along feeling my way—speeding up, slowing down—and hoping no one is about to come flying out of the pea soup behind me and do me great harm.

We’re a stubborn lot, aren’t we?  I am, anyway.

All the while, the answer is at my fingertips.  He promises to make the way plain.

We already hold the light in our hands and hearts if we are followers of Christ.

Clear—clear as day.

It’s time to walk out of the fog.  I’m going to do my best.  You know me though; I always love company on the road.

Are you coming with?

 

“I must go in; the fog is rising.“
(last reported words of poet Emily Dickinson)

 

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
    and lean not on your own understanding;
 in all your ways submit to him,
    and he will make your paths straight.”
(Proverbs 3: 5-6, NIV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

Living in the Cracks

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Paul?  Maybe you’d like to sing the baritone part instead of the tenor.  Would you try it?”

The director of the combined university chorus/community choir didn’t have to ask twice.  Well, except perhaps because I thought I might have heard him wrong.  I hadn’t.

So I’m singing baritone.  And, a little bass.

And, it feels like I’ve come home.

Do you ever feel like you don’t fit in? 

You know—everyone else in the car wants to listen to music from the latest boy group, but you heard that Yo-Yo Ma recorded a duet with Alison Krauss and you’d like to listen to that.  Or, you’re walking with a group of people on the fitness trail and you realize that they’re all synchronized on the left foot and you’re on your right foot.  Or, the family members all want to go for tacos, but you want chicken.

I’ve felt like that all my life.  If you really know me, you know I was the strange kid, always zigging when everyone else zagged.  I’ve freely admitted in these little pieces I write that I’ve never felt completely at home, no matter where I’ve been.

My father-in-law used a descriptive phrase, many years ago, that I’ve always thought fit me to a T.  He was a piano tuner and would often be asked to work on instruments that had been neglected for many years.  When a piano is left to its own devices for too long, the strings tend to stretch, making the overall pitch drop.  The result is an instrument that may be in tune with itself, but sounds horrid when played with another instrument at standard pitch.

He would say to me, “This one is playing in the cracks.”

I understood exactly what he meant.  The piano didn’t play well with others (I think that phrase might have described me at many points in my childhood as well—and perhaps after).

I always had the image in my head, as he said those words, that the sounds the instrument made were what might have come from down between the ebony and ivory keys, instead of dead center on top of them.

I suspect I may have been playing in the cracks for most of my life.  And for some reason, I’ve always thought I needed to be fixed—to be tuned up to standard pitch.

I’m beginning to think differently.

I’ve indeed spent most of my life singing tenor.  But, I’m a baritone. 

If you know vocal categories, you realize that often the baritone is left out in choral music.  Music is written in SATB form (soprano, alto, tenor, bass), so there’s no place for the baritone to fit in easily.  Many notes in the tenor part are comfortable and sound great when sung by a baritone, but when those soaring notes fly up above Middle C, the baritone voice begins to lose its luster.  The same thing happens in the bass parts, except it’s in the lower range of that voicing that the baritone singer gets lost in the mix.

I still remember my pastor’s wife sitting in front of me in the choir during my high school years.  Back then, the choir needed a bass voice, so I covered that part for them.

Mrs. Slaughter was always kind, always sweet.  She’d hear me sing a bass line (that should have been full and deep, but for me, the notes were just barely audible) and she’d say, loud enough for the entire choir to hear, “Oh!  Listen to that basso profundo!”

I don’t think anyone else in the choir was rude enough to laugh, but I did.  Every time.  I knew better.

I’m no bass singer.  Nor am I a tenor.

I sing in the cracks between the two.

And, it’s finally okay.

Dr. Cho says it’s okay.

Can I make a suggestion?  If you don’t fit the mold they’re pushing you into, stop trying.  Be who you are.  More than that—be who God made you to be.

The world will try to make you fit their standard.  You don’t belong there.  And, if you’re really following Christ, you’ll never fit in—never feel comfortable—singing in that key.

“This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through…”

Living in the cracks.

Until we finally reach home.

There, we’ll be singing in His key.  With His voicing.

He—the Master Conductor—says it’s okay.

You know the music will be spectacular.

I hope you’ll sing with me.  I’ll be the one singing baritone.

 

“I’m not asking you to take them out of the world, but to keep them safe from the evil one. They do not belong to this world any more than I do. Make them holy by your truth; teach them your word, which is truth. Just as you sent me into the world, I am sending them into the world.”
(John 17:15-18, NLT)

“Harpists spend ninety percent of their lives tuning their harps, and ten percent playing out of tune.”  (Igor Stravinsky)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

 

Dust in My Eyes

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

 

image by Buttonpusher on Pexels

 

I noticed the post on a friend’s social media page earlier:

“Getting hard to breathe as CA fires blow our way.”

She’s praying for rain, while smoke makes it hard to catch her breath.  Many others are too.

I didn’t expect it, but I got a catch in my throat as I read her message.

There are no fires near me, but I had an inkling of her misery today as I mowed my lawn.  There has been very little rain for a few weeks and the soil under the grass is parched.  With more than a few mole tunnels pushed up across the width and length of the yard, I knew I was in for a dusty job when I headed out to begin the task.

I did borrow a face cowl from the Lovely Lady before venturing out.  I had no idea how much I would need it.  As it turned out, I should have found some swim goggles to go with it.

Dust billowed out from my mower—by the buckets full, it seemed to me—and yet I sped on across the yard.  I soon found that, if I rode along in a straight line, I could stay ahead of the murky haze of flying dirt.  But eventually, I had to turn, always back directly into the hazy cloud.

The face cowl helped considerably.  I could breathe, at least.  But again and again, I was overcome by the dirt in my eyes, burning and stinging.  It would go dark as I was forced to close my eyelids against the irritating dust.  Each time it happened, I released the grab bars that controlled my forward progress and, sitting atop the roaring machine in the diminishing fog, would wipe my eyes, either with my finger or with a handkerchief dampened from my water bottle.

I felt a little like Pigpen, the Peanuts character who raised dust wherever he walked in the comic strip.  I’m certain the neighbors were almost as relieved as I was when the task was finished.

But, on a couple of the occasions I had to stop the mower today, I did so in the darkness, caused not only by the dust but also by panic.  Momentarily, I would be confused as to where (and into what) the machine and its rider were headed.

Was I going to hit a tree?  A gas meter or water faucet?  Perhaps the flowerpot that held the Lovely Lady’s columbine plant was in my path!  I’m not sure a little dirt in my eyes would have sufficed as an adequate excuse for that damage!

Do you know what it feels like to lose sight of reality?  Of the straight road you’ve marked out in front of you?

It was only an inkling.  Merely the tiniest glimpse of what hopelessness could feel like.

But, while I was in the midst of it, it seemed to me that I might never breathe easily, nor see clearly again.  I knew I would, but it’s easy to be overwhelmed when in the grip of an uncomfortable turn of events.

As I contemplated later, clean and grit-free in my easy chair, my thoughts went back several decades and I finally began to understand.

I remember standing outside that hospital with tears in my eyes.  I cried again later that evening as I attempted to understand the darkness one had to feel to attempt to end their own life.

It was years ago—in the last century—if you must know.  We’ve moved more than once since then.  The names have faded into obscurity; the faces almost so.

The couple, not young, lived near us in a small rental house.  Their lives hadn’t been easy, but there had been no events that prepared me for hearing the ambulance outside our back door. And, I certainly didn’t anticipate following the paramedics to the hospital with an inebriated husband in my passenger seat.

The wife had taken a lot of pills.  More than a handful.  In her mind, it was the only alternative she had in a hopeless situation.  Her husband, incapacitated as he was, was no help.  But, eventually, he figured out she was in trouble and called 911.

Thus, the trip to the hospital.  I offered to take him since it was clear he was in no condition to drive.

The team at the hospital was able to save her life.  It didn’t fix her problems.  Nor his.  But, she lived. They moved away just weeks later, so I don’t know how their lives have gone, except that I heard their marriage ended soon after that.

I’m not sure the darkness ever lifted for them.  I pray it has.

Did I say there were tears in my eyes?  One might wonder why.  They hadn’t been great neighbors.  They argued loudly late at night.  When he had had a little too much to drink (which was not infrequent), he sang country music at the top of his lungs from the front porch of the little house.  They borrowed tools—and money—and my old bicycle, and didn’t always feel the need to return them.

And yet, I cried.  For her, and her blind despair.  And for him, and how he was treated by the doctor at the hospital.  Rudely and with no respect nor regard for his terror that his wife might die.  All the doctor saw was his drunkenness and poverty, and he had no time nor sympathy to be wasted on the man.

And so, I sat tonight and wondered anew at how we look at each other—at our neighbors and strangers on the street corners.  At friends who have lost someone and can’t get over it.  At people who look different, and act differently, than we do.  Addicts and mentally ill.  Politicians and the spectacularly wealthy (or even poverty-stricken).  The list is endless.

And yet, they are neighbors.  Every one of them.

We all get the dust in our eyes at some point.  And, it’s easy to give up hope.  For ourselves.  For others.

Still, we’re all part of the human race.  We share a common condition—that of being part of Adam’s fallen progeny.  Our shared ancestor’s blindness has come over every one of us who walks this earth.

I know the tiniest thing about the blindness and fear that can overcome us.

And yet, hopelessness is not what has been promised to us.  Not at all.  We have hope.  In Christ, our hope is certain.  And, we walk in light.

We do.  We walk in Light.

The Light that shines in every dark place.  And we have the astounding privilege to share that light, carrying it within our very souls.

The smoke will clear.  The rain will fall and settle the dust.  It will.

And, the Light will never be overcome.  Never.

That’s a promise. (John 1:5)

So for now, we get to shine.  In this house, in this neighborhood—be it hillside or valley, and in this world.

You might want to bring your goggles along, too.  There’s dust in the wind that’s blowing.

But, the Light shines still.

 

“Satan, who is the god of this world, has blinded the minds of those who don’t believe. They are unable to see the glorious light of the Good News. They don’t understand this message about the glory of Christ, who is the exact likeness of God.” (2 Corinthians 4:4, NLT)

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness.”
(Christopher M Rice)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

 

Message in a Mailbox

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

 

image by Daphne on Pixabay

 

I’ve spent more than enough time the last few days living inside my head.  The passing of a friend—whose loss looms larger all the while I consider our experiences together—has darkened my thoughts more than a little.

Still, contemplation of life and its losses—along with its great gifts—is never time wasted.  Never wasted that is, unless the time doesn’t come to an end with a declaration of resolve and renewed direction.  If that doesn’t happen, we simply remain where we are, frozen in place.  I don’t think I can be content to stay in the past, or even in this place of quiet reflection.

All of life is movement, isn’t it?  Or, it should be.

Movement and change.

So, onward!

I sat, in my melancholy mood, this evening and listened to music as I contemplated the week past.  Quiet classical music played on my Spotify station.  It helps me relax without intruding.  On most nights.

Tonight though, I suddenly found myself thinking about the house I grew up in. The red-headed lady who raised me was there, sitting in her easy chair wielding a crochet hook while she pulled yarn from a skein in the basket beside her.  The Christian station played on the radio sitting nearby.  A man’s resonant baritone voice emanated from the speaker.

Nightsounds.  That was the name of the program.  Mom listened to it most nights from 11:30 to midnight.  I know; your mom didn’t stay up that late, but mine did.  Nearly every night.  So did I.

So do I.

Nightsounds?  Now, where did that come from?  Oh yes!  I looked at my monitor and saw that the song playing was Beau Soir by Claude Debussy (published in 1891).  For many years, Beau Soir was Bill Pierce’s theme music for the late-night program of contemplative music and quiet wisdom.

I haven’t listened to or thought about that radio program since the late 1970s—almost fifty years ago now.  But on this night, just a few measures into the music, my mind was transported to those days, to the time spent and lessons learned at my mother’s side.

She was a woman who lived her faith, never wavering, not even when her mind was stolen away in her last years by dementia.  I have written before of one of my last memories of her—sharing a hymnal and singing songs of God’s love.

I’ve done my best to stay true to the faith of my mother, following the tenets of the Word of God.  I even still treasure much of the music I learned to love as a child—classical, choral, songs of faith.

But, that brings me back to earlier today.  Something that happened, seemingly not connected, yet perhaps connected, after all.

I got the note from my neighbor while I was at the grocery store.

“Your mailbox is on the ground. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

It was.  On the ground.  When I left to go shopping with the Lovely Lady, it had been on the post, as sturdy as you please.

When I got home, I could plainly see the tire marks in the mud leading directly toward the post that stood there, sans mailbox, which was lying in the grass.

I knew who the tracks belonged to.  I even took photos of the damage and of the tire marks.  That driver was going to hear from me!  The driver’s boss was going to hear from me!

It’s important to take responsibility for our actions.  It is.

My mother taught me that, as did my father.  They would have contacted the company and reported the transgression.  The wrongdoer should be made to answer for his actions.  He needs to do better!

I looked at the photos I had taken.  I looked at the mailbox lying on the ground before me.  Resentment grew rapidly.  As I thought about the effort and resources I had expended a couple of years ago when I replaced the post, cementing it into place, and affixing the mailbox atop it, my indignation mounted almost exponentially moment by moment.

Do the right thing! 

It was what I was taught.  I would only be honoring my mother and father.

Do you know what I did?

No.  Not that.

I put my phone away and, going to my workbench, gathered up the tools necessary to return the mailbox to its perch.  Finding a scrap piece of one-by-six, I cut it to length and, removing the old screws and broken mount, fastened it into place before setting the mailbox in position. Four more screws were all it took to finish the job.  It didn’t cost me a penny.

The entire job took half an hour.  Well, three-quarters of an hour if you count the lovely conversation I had with my neighbors across the street, an opportunity I don’t have as often as I’d like.

Then, I deleted the photos from my phone.

Even now, as I sit at my desk, I can look out the window and see the mailbox.  There is a sense of accomplishment, of satisfaction at a job well done.  The animosity, the annoyance toward that faceless driver is gone—completely disappeared.

And, as I sat tonight listening to the beautiful music, I thought of another way in which I honor my mother and father.  Even though they are gone from this life, years past.

I certainly honor them by remembering the tenets they taught me.  I even honor them by following their example in putting those lessons into practice.

But more than that, I honor them when I see ways those tenets can be applied more appropriately—and then do that in love and grace.

I hope you don’t think that I imagine I have earned any praise for this.  What I’ve described is nothing more than an old man, nearly seven decades old, finally—finally—beginning to grasp the idea of “forgiving those who trespass against us.”  (Matthew 6:12)

Finally learning to sit with the Teacher as He writes in the dust and says quietly, “Let him who is without sin throw the first stone.” (John 8:7)

Finally listening—and actually hearing—as the Apostle asks, “Why not rather be wronged?  Why not rather be cheated?” (1 Corinthians 6:7)

And, I’m only beginning.  When it’s nearly too late.  But, not too late yet.

I’m still alive.  And, as Sam Gamgee’s old Gaffer used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

I reminded my son earlier that it is every parent’s dream for his children to learn from him/her and then do better than they did.  Because the right thing is what Jesus would do.  Not what your parents do, or did.

I wish I could be like my namesake, the Apostle, who suggested that his readers could confidently follow his example, as he followed Christ’s.  I wish.

But, we learn.  And grow. Together.

Walking each other home.  Honoring each other as we go.

Spreading grace and mercy freely along the way.

It is what He would do.

 

“I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.”
(Abraham Lincoln)

 

“God blesses those who are merciful,
    for they will be shown mercy.”
(Matthew 5:7, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

Blanketed in Love

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Dave Goudreau on Unsplash

I was ten years old.  As my family, seven strong, sat around the dinner table that fall night, we were surprised at Dad’s words.  Well, the five kids were, anyway.

“I’ve got five dollars to give to each one of you.  There’s just one catch.  You have to write me a note and tell me what you want to buy with it.  If you don’t write me a note, I won’t give you the money.”

Five dollars!  In 1967 money, that’s almost fifty dollars today.

Five dollars for each of us!  We left the table, little minds spinning with the possibilities.  Even as we headed for bed that night, the ideas were all jumbled in our heads.  My brother and I talked excitedly as we got into our little twin-size erstwhile bunkbeds, across the room from each other.

Wait.  There’s got to be a catch.  He’ll want it to be something worthwhile, won’t he?  I bet I can’t get all the candy and coke I want.  (I did grow up in Texas, so you understand “coke” is any fizzy drink, right?)  I bet it needs to be something like a book.  Or, school supplies.

I didn’t write anything that night, but I didn’t get much sleep either.  My brain kept leaping to new ideas and, just as quickly, rejecting them, believing that the offer might be rescinded for such a flaky or irresponsible idea.  My benefactor was not keen on flaky or irresponsible.

At some time during the night, the temperature outside my South Texas home having dropped below 60 degrees, I felt the chill, and I reached for the scratchy wool military surplus blanket at the foot of the bed.

It was warm, but it wasn’t comfy.  Not snuggly.  You’d be much more likely to describe it as itchy than comfy.  I never liked that blanket.

Blanket!

That was it!  I knew what I would spend my money on!

Sleep finally took me, but when the sun rose and Mom called up the stairs for all the drowsy-eyed boys to get out of bed, I needed no second call.  I dressed and tromped down the steep treads as fast as I could, sitting at the dining table to check the Sears and Roebuck catalog, before hurriedly scribbling a note for my dad.

“I’ll spend my $5 on a soft, thermal blanket with satin edging.  Baby blue or something close.”

Approved!  I got my blanket!

I don’t remember how long I used that blanket, but I loved it.  It was soft and comforting, warm in the winter and cool enough in the summer to leave rolled up beside my body while I slept.

As I think of it now, it was kind of like a hug from my Dad anytime I wanted one.  I may or may not have thought that way about it then.

Nearly fifty years later, I got a check in the mail one fall day.  It was from the same man who gave me those five dollars all those years before.  This check was for five hundred dollars.

He didn’t ask what I would spend the money on before sending it.

No reason; just because.

I bought a new recliner.  My Dad loved a recliner.  I do, too.  I was sure he would approve of my use for his gift.

Somehow, when I sit in that recliner, now with a slipcover over the damaged and cracking leather, it still feels a little like getting a hug from the man, now absent.

I don’t want to preach.

No, really.  I don’t.

So, I won’t.

And the Teacher said to them:

“So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask Him?”
(Matthew 7:11, NLT)

I know.

It kind of feels like a hug, doesn’t it?

And, I’m guessing you could use one of those right about now.

 

“‘For I know what I have planned for you,’ says the Lord. ‘I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future filled with hope.'” 
(Jeremiah 29:11, NET)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

I’m Fixing My Eyes

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Renaldo Kodra on Unsplash

I had eye surgery last week.

I suppose it’s the ultimate indicator of age creeping up on me.  Though sometimes it seems as if old age is bashing the door down, rather than creeping.

The surgeon removed the lens of my right eye, it having been covered with a cataract that was affecting my eyesight. In its place, a sparkling new lens was inserted, one that is clear and shaped correctly.

I now have measurably better vision in that eye, as well as being able to see colors and light more realistically.

I’m not sure I like it all that much.

I close the right eye, seeing only through my left, and I become almost nostalgic.  The difference is striking—nearly dramatic.  Immediately, I feel warmth and comfort.

Let me see if I can explain what I mean.

Over time, a cataract on the lens of the eye changes the hue of what one sees.  It can eventually become so dark that a person can’t see much at all.  That was not the case with my eyes yet.

The change in my eyesight essentially just added a browny-yellow hue to everything I saw.  Not enough to obscure anything, but enough to make the view through my eyes more warm and comforting.

Here’s another way to think about it:  I take a lot of photos of nature (and bridges).  It seems to me that the camera actually changes the images I capture a bit from what my eye sees.  Over the last few years, as I process them, I have grown to rely on an app that has the ability to filter the color and light of the photos.  I use filters to make the final photo more realistic.

To me.  It’s more realistic to my eyes.

One of the filters is called “warmth”.  Raising the value of this filter turns the scene slightly more yellow.  Maybe even a little browny-yellow.

I like that.

Do you see my problem?

Now, I close my left eye (with its cataract) and open the newly repaired right one.  The world changes from warm and comfortable to brilliant and stark.

In another week, I will go back to the surgery center and the surgeon will replace the lens of my left eye, too.  I’m not sure that makes me all that happy.

I want to continue to look at the world through my warm and comfortable filters.  Brilliant starkness doesn’t appeal to me that much.

That said, I understand that I need to see clearly.  And, as I write the words, I remember that our physical eyes are not the only ones in which we need 20/20 sight. We need to see clearly, not just in the physical world around us, but in the spiritual as well.

Am I the only one?  Does no one else go through life believing they’re seeing the world as it is, only to be rudely awakened by a different perspective offered by way of a crisis, a conversation, or an overheard comment?

Again and again, we’re sad as we learn of previously hidden illnesses.  A beautiful day can turn black in seconds as we hear of tragedy and loss.  Folks we thought were doing fine may actually be in the throes of financial disaster.

It would be easy to think all the eye-opening revelations are of sadness and distress.  That’s not always the case.  Frequently we learn of good news while we’re expecting the worst.

There’s a story in the Old Testament about that.  The prophet Elisha and his servant opened their eyes one morning to find themselves surrounded by enemy forces, intent on harming them.  The servant, expecting his own annihilation at any moment, was terrified.

Elisha, seeing the world as it really was, prayed for his servant’s eyes to be opened—really opened.

Then Elisha prayed, “O Lord, open his eyes and let him see!” The Lord opened the young man’s eyes, and when he looked up, he saw that the hillside around Elisha was filled with horses and chariots of fire.
(2 Kings 6:17, NLT)

Looking up, the servant saw the armies of heaven, prepared to fight for God’s people.  Before, he had seen what he knew to be truth, an army bent on his destruction.  Eyes fully opened, he now saw the protection of God’s hand poised to save.

I’m ready for that; ready to see the world around me as God sees it.

How about it?  Are we ready to love it as He does, ready to weep when He does, ready to stand firm where He says to stand?

To do all of those, we have to see with His eyes.

For my part, if it takes some mud and spit, as it did for the blind man in Jesus’ day, I’ll take that.  Or even letting the surgeon replace the lenses in my eyes.

It’s time to fix our eyes.

I’m still going to use the warmth filter on my photos, though.

Even if they do look a little browny-yellow to everyone else.

 

I can see, and that is why I can be happy, in what you call the dark, but which to me is golden. I can see a God-made world, not a manmade world.
(Helen Keller)
                              

Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:2, NASB1995)

 

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

 

Fragile. Handle With Care

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Ketut Subiyato on Pexels

I felt it. Every time I opened that big, heavy door to the shed—packed to the rafters with yesterdays—I felt it. The weight. The guilt. The helplessness.

It all started fifteen years ago. I was the proprietor of a reasonably successful music store in our little town. In the course of my work, I received requests for help with a variety of issues on an almost daily basis. Most were easy and painless.

This request was a little more involved, but I had no reason to be concerned. The customer telephoned, asking if I would mind shipping an instrument across the U.S. to one of his organization’s clients. I was involved with many internet transactions at that point and thought it would be easy-peasy. I’d simply box the instrument before weighing it to get a quote on the shipping and, upon receipt of the funds for costs, would send it on its way.

Glibly, I told him to bring it in.

The owner of the instrument (the one across the country, not my customer) seemed not to be interested in easy-peasy. She assured me she would send payment when I notified her of the cost, yet never responded. Again and again, I attempted to communicate with her about it, but to no avail.

I shoved the box, with its fragile markings all over it, into a back room. For ten years.

One more time during those ten years, I attempted to contact the owner but received no response. When we closed the store five years ago, we moved the remaining unsold merchandise and unclaimed items into the storage barn.

I’ve hardly touched any of those items in the years since. And yet, every time I have walked into the barn-shaped building, the sense of guilt, with its accompanying feelings of failure, has weighed heavily on my mind and soul. I didn’t even have to know where it was in the jumble of boxes and storage tubs; I felt it. I knew it was still there—mocking me—taunting me.

Failure isn’t an easy thing for me to admit.

I want my life to be a success story. Having achieved every goal I set out after, without a single black mark against my account, I will be able to die without shame.

It won’t happen.

A couple of weeks ago, I spoke with the Lovely Lady as we were driving. I shared with her the bold plan I had for resolving the issue once and for all. She wondered why I hadn’t thought of it years ago.

One day last week, I put my plan into action. You’ll laugh at the simplicity. Perhaps, you’ll laugh at how obtuse I have been. Mostly, you should laugh at my pride.

It’s the same pride that has kept me from admitting a small failure for fifteen years, allowing it to take up residence in my spirit and to steal my joy. Pride that stopped me from putting an end to the guilt and fear years ago.

The cure for my dilemma was simple. Digging around in the storage barn for a few moments, I located the shipping box. It was easy to find, with all its fragile stickers. I carried it into my shop and opened it, disposing of the styrofoam peanuts that scattered as I flipped open the end flaps.

Wait. I’m making this sound harder than it was.

What I did was this: I took the instrument back to the organization it came from. The man who brought it to me has long since moved on, but I set it on the counter and, admitting my long-term failure, gave the responsibility back to them. They said they were happy to accept it, promising to find the lady and resolve the situation.

Done. Finished. Out of my life.

Do you know how good that feels? To be free from chains I have felt for a decade and a half? I even sang in the car as I drove home.

Later on though, as I told the Lovely Lady of my action, tears came. I don’t know why; they just came and I couldn’t talk about it for a while.

I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now. Some realities have come into focus for me.

The first reality is that I don’t want to admit any of this to my friends and readers. Somehow though, that’s not the way this works. Catharsis is only as effective as it is complete. I don’t want to carry any part of this with me—except for the lessons learned, that is.

The next reality is that all of us will experience similar situations—times when we have failed, but can’t (or won’t) admit it and move on.

We all have secrets and guilt we carry with us as a constant companion.

I remember reading it in a friend’s feed on social media some time ago: “Today, I ate my emotions,” she said. I know she was talking about food and overeating as compensation for feelings. But I can’t help thinking there’s more to it than just diet.

We stuff emotions down our throats figuratively, too. Swallowing them down, thinking they’ll never be seen again, we hide our past. I’ve learned something through this particular episode in my life. It’s not a new realization, simply a reiteration of truth I may have known most of my life.

We’re not eating our emotions. They’re eating us.

From the inside out, they eat us. Day by day, affecting our relationships, our productivity, our outlook on life. If we let them. And finally, we have no choice left but to recognize the danger, the feelings of guilt, the dread of facing our failures and weaknesses head-on.

I look at the box in the recycle bin, fragile stickers on every surface, and I wonder; how is it that we, hardened and tempered by life’s experiences, have become so very fragile ourselves?

I don’t want that to be true. I don’t want to break at the slightest pressure in the wrong place. I don’t want the tears to flow anymore—don’t want the despair and hopelessness to rise to the surface, uninvited.

And yet, there it is. My throat tightens even as I write this. On that recent afternoon when the years-long matter was settled, my body trembled like an old man’s as I realized that I was finally free of the chains of the obligation. (Yes, I know I am an old man, I just don’t have the shakes on a continuing basis yet.)

But there’s another thing I’m learning as I age. I’m still finding that the capacity of our Heavenly Father to forgive and comfort us in those moments when we recognize and confess our failures and sins is inexhaustible. His love for us, even in our weakness, never ceases.

And I’m remembering my need, as an old-timer once suggested to me, to keep short accounts. Promises made need to be kept as quickly as possible. Mistakes should be rectified and apologies offered without delay.

The Apostle for whom I am named said it clearly:

Owe no one anything, except to love one another, for the one who loves his neighbor has fulfilled the law. (Romans 13:8, NET)

I could never have imagined that the favor I promised to my customer all those years ago would be impossible for me to deliver on. I certainly didn’t anticipate the mischief it would get up to in my very soul over time.

And yet, I could have admitted defeat many years ago and saved a lot of grief. I’m guessing the Lovely Lady wishes I had done that.  Folks in your life might wish the same thing.

I think I’ll try it for a while.

Keeping short accounts.

I wonder who else I owe?

 

God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
(Henry Ward Beecher)

For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
  so great is his love for those who fear him;
as far as the east is from the west,
  so far has he removed our transgressions from us.

As a father has compassion on his children,
  so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him;
for he knows how we are formed,
  he remembers that we are dust.
(Psalm 103:11-14, NIV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

The Son of a Do-It-Yourselfer

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

 

I did something new last week. Solomon may have thought there was nothing new under the sun, but this was new to me.

You’ll be underwhelmed when you learn what the accomplishment was. It’s not something most folks would trumpet to just anyone whose attention they could snag. Still, for a man well into his sixth decade, the completion of the task for the first time seems to me to be somewhat significant.

The house in which the Lovely Lady and I live has stood for one more decade than have I. For all those years, the front entrance has been a wooden hollow-core door. It has not fared well over a lifetime, providing only a nominal level of security. I would guess that any person so inclined, and equipped with a decent pair of boots, could have kicked it down at any time in the last few years.

So, when a neighbor offered to donate a perfectly good steel entry door she had replaced recently, I thought it might be time to replace the sad old thing on the front of our home. I won’t bore you with the tedious details but, after several hours of labor—and, I’m delighted to report, with no blood being shed—the new/old door functions reasonably well as a barrier to unwanted salesmen and wandering children. Yes, I know it still needs to have the ratty threshold replaced, but that’s a job for another day.

A new thing.

I’ve never hung a door in my life. I’d been led to believe it was an extremely difficult task, one at which seasoned carpenters had been known to blanch and walk off many a job site without a backward glance.

That last may have been a slight exaggeration on my part, but the hyperbole makes it seem more like a worthy accomplishment, does it not?

I don’t mean to sound like I need a pat on the back.

I don’t. Not today.

It’s just that when I was out in the storage shed looking for a replacement part for the deadbolt that needed to be installed on the new door, I noticed something on the workbench that awoke an old realization.

Seeing that red spring sitting there (nearly forty years after I’ve needed one) caused a week full of memories to explode across my tired old brain.

The year was 1984. The Lovely Lady and I, along with a two-year-old toddler (who was going on thirteen) and a nearly one-year-old baby, were traveling back home (for me) to South Texas in a 1965 Chevrolet Biscayne sedan. Sixty miles from our destination, the car’s motor began to act up. For me, the week of vacation was to become a week of tribulation and frustration. And triumph.

I was about to do new things—things I had never done before. I was also about to realize that my image of my father was a little skewed. Or not.

Two days after we arrived at my childhood home, I was elbows deep in two hundred thirty cubic inches of the six-cylinder motor in the crippled Chevy when my dad came out to check on me. The carburetor was on one fender, the valve cover on another, and the oil-covered valve lifters and springs sat exposed on top of the motor in front of me.

“I can’t believe you’ve torn up your car like that!” My dad was incredulous.

I was confused. I was certain my father was a do-it-yourselfer from way back, tackling jobs himself instead of paying to have them done. As a young adult, I believed I had followed his example when trying to do repair and improvement jobs myself rather than spending my hard-earned cash for the expertise of others.

I was baffled. And, I said so to him.

“I don’t know what you remember about me, but I’d never tackle a job like that,” he replied.

I put the valve cover back on and replaced the carburetor. Closing the hood, I called a local mechanic and made an appointment for the next day.

My world was shaken. My dad wasn’t who I thought he was. I needed to consider this. But, over the next two days, as we waited on the mechanic, whose expertise I was relying on, I thought about my memories of my youth at home.

I remembered, years before, the man tearing down an old house to make his just purchased property a safe place for his kids to play. My mind had images of his ancient Ford station wagon straddling an irrigation ditch while he lay under it draining the oil and replacing the filter. And I had only to walk into the living room at the old house to see the louvered room divider between the living and dining room he and Mom had built from pieces of raw lumber and dowels purchased at the local lumberyard.

I breathed a little easier. And I regretted the hundred fifty dollar invoice I paid to the mechanic in a day or two. He had replaced a broken valve spring. That’s all.

A little red spring that sat under the valve lifters. The valve lifters I had been looking at when I abandoned my efforts. I was inches from success when I had surrendered. Inches.

I spent a few more hours during that vacation week reading about the process of replacing valve springs. You know.  Just in case.

At the end of that week, we waved and hugged goodbye as we loaded our luggage and kids in the big old boat of a car and headed back north.

Three hours later, we sat at the side of the road with another broken valve spring.

We limped to a garage beside the highway a few miles on, but they couldn’t offer any help except to sell me a couple of used valve springs. That was after they told me it would be three days before the repair could be effected.

But I’m a do-it-yourselfer, the son of a do-it-yourselfer!

Borrowing a bit of rope to keep the pushrod from dropping into the motor’s cylinder, I did the repair myself as the mechanics sat nearby and drank their beer, speculating on how long it would take me to surrender.

I didn’t surrender. They were amazed.

A new thing. That day, I did a new thing.

I have kept the extra valve spring all these years, never believing I’d need it again. I can’t bring myself to dispose of it. Symbols of victories won are precious, however small their monetary value might be.

I’m not advocating that everyone needs to become a DIYer. That’s not wise.

What I do believe is that we should never stop learning. Never.

And never stop doing new things.

What I also believe is that we should pass on our wisdom, the memories of our triumphs—along with our failures, to the generations that come after us. Dads, moms, grandparents, neighbors—we share who we are and what we hope to become with young ones desperately looking for examples. Good examples.

At twenty-seven years old, remembering my roots, I repaired a motor by the side of the road for the first time. Last week, nearly forty years later, I hung a door for the first time.

I wonder what I’ll be doing in twenty years. I hope I’ll still be learning. And doing.

I’d like to think there still are a few young ones who might learn something worth passing on to others yet to be born.

I hope they’ll learn more than just about front doors and old Chevys.

It’s the way our Creator designed things.

Parents, teach your children.

 

Tell your children about it,
Let your children tell their children,
And their children another generation.
(Joel 1:3, NKJV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

I Once Was Lost…and Blind

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Dids on Pexels

It wasn’t that great a day today. One of those Alexander kind of days, in fact. You know—a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Well, it wasn’t all that bad. Except, I lied to a neighbor. I did.

The day actually started well. The heat and air crew came again to finish installing our new central air unit in the utility room, a different location from where the old one had been in the family room/den. The main reason for the move is that my aging ears can no longer hear what Gibbs is saying to McGee on the big screen TV when the A/C is running. I was happy the fellows were here.

But then there was the gas line that couldn’t be moved. (We’re not plumbers, you know.) And the ductwork that wouldn’t go above the ceiling. (Maybe, just build a little box?) And the return air vent has to be situated next to the dining room table now, so my old ears won’t be able to hear what my granddaughter is saying to me across the table.

I told the HVAC tech that none of those things would be a big deal. We could work around them. At least I can hear Gibbs now.

It was the truth.

Later, my son sent a note to ask if I could eat lunch with him. You don’t know how much those times mean to me, the moments when we sit, just the boy (he hasn’t been a boy for many years) and his old dad, across the table from each other and share our lives. I had to tell him not today. The HVAC guys, you know.

I told my son it didn’t matter. We could do it another day.

It was the truth.

Some young friends who have just returned from a few years abroad asked me if I could break away long enough this afternoon to look at a piano they were hoping to buy. I had looked at the photos and the description of the piano they sent and thought it had promise. The HVAC guys were finishing up, so I went with my friends. I just knew this would end up well.

The piano was a complete bust, having a catastrophic defect. I told them to keep looking. They thanked me profusely for helping them avoid a bad purchasing decision.

I told them it was nothing. I was happy to help.

It was the truth.

Sitting in an easy chair at home later, I looked out the window and saw a small dog running along the street. It looked familiar. I was almost certain the dog belonged to one of our neighbors, an older widow a couple of doors down. It never runs loose, so I headed out the door after it.

When it ran into another neighbor’s yard, I called out to that neighbor who was working in her flower garden. She agreed with me about who the critter belonged to, so I jogged to the owner’s house while the other lady tagged after the dog, who would not come to us when called.

By the time the older neighbor and I returned, the shaggy little canine had headed downhill to the bottom of the gully that carries rainwater from our neighborhood to the creek nearby. It was too steep for the dog’s owner to get down to it, but I expected the other younger neighbor would have picked up the little thing and carried it out. The dog is mostly blind and couldn’t see well enough to find the way up itself.

“She didn’t want to be picked up,” was the terse explanation we got when we asked.

I sniffed. Didn’t want to be picked up! I’d pick her up!

I did try. She didn’t want to be picked up. Really.

She might have been blind, but she knew the hand that touched her sides wasn’t a familiar one. Instantly, she nipped at it. I pulled away just in time. Talking calmly and letting her smell my fingers, I tried again. This time, the tips of my fingers right in front of her sightless eyes actually felt the sharp little incisors brush along the skin as she snapped them closed.

I left her on the ground.

The dog’s owner stood and called to her and with the other neighbor and me acting as deterrents to her doubling back, she made her way slowly up to level ground. When the older lady bent down to pick her up, there was no snapping or nipping at all.

As we parted ways, the grateful lady worried about the damage the dog might have done.

“She didn’t hurt you at all, did she?”

I replied that I wasn’t hurt in the slightest.

It was a lie.

To be clear, there was no blood. The dog’s teeth hadn’t caught any flesh. But here’s the thing: Dogs love me!

They do. I’ve petted German Shepherds and Doberman Pinschers, Great Danes and Saint Bernards. Why, there’s even a huge, muscular Pit Bull down at my brother’s that thinks my lap is where he belongs when I sit on the couch there. But this little lost and blind Shih Tzu, heading downward to certain peril, only wanted to hurt me when I was merely trying to help. She rejected my advances altogether.

Of course, I’m hurt.

It was the worst thing that happened to me all day. In a day filled with disappointments, nothing matters more than that this little dog wouldn’t let me be her savior.

Oh.

I think I’m going to stop writing now. Perhaps I’ve said enough.

Well, maybe just this:

There is a Savior. He came to help us—to show us the way. Blind and lost, we lashed out at Him.

And we did draw blood.

I wonder if it still hurts.

 

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!
(Matthew 23:37, KJV)

 

Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.
(Revelation 3:20, NKJV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.