storytelling

Life needs Structure, After All

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Paul Phillips

The message arrived at 4:53 yesterday morning. Through the haze of slumber, I heard the chime announcing it and rolled over, assuming it could wait.

It did.

When I had brushed my hair and finished a cup or two of coffee (a few hours later), my brain caught up and I read it again. The message had come from one of the Lovely Lady’s relatives back East.

She wanted a picture or two of a barn. I knew which one she meant without need of explanation. Of course, she meant the barn behind my house.

She had told some friends in the big city of her small-town roots and of chucking rotten potatoes at the old structure when she was a kid. I suppose she needed photographic proof that it was undamaged by her malfeasance and still standing after all these years. She’s no kid anymore.

Back then, her dad would hand her a few potatoes he had dug from the garden. Perhaps they had rotted in the ground or, as likely, they had sat on the shelf in the utility room for too long. Either way, the only thing they were good for was fodder for the cows in the field. As she saw it, she could practice her throwing skills at the same time.

The cows would get the benefit either way. And the thwack of the spuds on the tin roof was so satisfying. It wasn’t as much fun if they only splatted against the pine siding.  One way or the other, they ended up on the ground for the cows.

The old barn is a constant in my life. Even though I never saw it until I was nearly two decades old, its presence in my history goes back quite a few years before that. But we’ll get back to that later.

One of my favorite photographs was taken by the Lovely Lady in the mid-nineteen-eighties behind the house where we now live (the same one in which she grew up). My young daughter and I had wandered back to look at Dr. Weaver’s cows, the marvelous creatures being a wonder to the little tyke.

image by Paula Phillips

As the sweet little girl and her daddy gazed out at the cows, we couldn’t help but see the old barn back behind. Dr. Weaver’s old tractor was parked in a bay on one side, the hay and feed the cattle would need to see them through the coming winter on the other side.

Tonight, as I contemplate the photo again, I wonder if there could have been just the barest hint, perhaps even a faint aura, of the children who would be born to that little girl decades later hanging in the air that evening, as we gazed unknowingly into the future together.

But no. It was probably just the cows getting a little too close to the barbed-wire fence. No sense in getting all sappy about it.

I’ve been happy to take a photo or two with the little girl’s children beside the old barn in the last year or two. They seem to be as attached to the old thing as I am.

I watched the city crew put in a new utility line underground along the edge of the field over the last week or so. Somehow, to me, it seems a foreshadowing of what is to come. The big machines pound and torture the earth, the vibrations shaking the ground underfoot. The old barn seems just a little more fragile than it was only days ago.

Change comes. We can’t hold it back.

But, not yet. The barn is still standing. Right where it was seventy years ago when my father first set foot in it.

Oh. Didn’t I tell that part yet?

Years before I was born—before my parents had even met—that young man came to this small town to visit his brother and sister-in-law, who were attending the local Christian college. They were simpler times, vegetables shared from nearby gardens, meat from the college farm, and milk coming from a college professor who had a couple of Jersey cows that he milked in his barn.

In the sturdy wood and tin barn—yes, the very one—back behind his native-stone house, the professor of science milked the cows and sold the bounty they provided to the married college students. My father and his brother stood one evening waiting for their share.

Taking the full glass jug Dr. Wills handed them, they turned to make the trip back to the married student housing, their feet carrying them right across the front yard of the house the Lovely Lady and I live in today.

Some things in our lives are constants, even if we haven’t always been able to see them.

The physical, tangible objects change over time, aging and deteriorating as the years and the elements wear on them. Eventually, they will fall. All of them will fall.

Yes, the old barn, too. It has been a bit neglected for some years. The cows are only a memory; the garden in which the potatoes grew has sprouted a beautiful little house in recent years. Time passes and many treasures are lost along the way.

There are other things, not so temporal, we leave to our loved ones. The list is long.

Some items on it are not the kind of things we like to think of; prejudice, bad habits, the inability to control anger come to mind immediately. Others will come to mind as memories take over. These can take a lifetime to erase or, possibly, only to bring under control.

But among the lifelong gifts we give to our children, our families, and our loved ones is one I remember the best from a young age in my own life. It’s one I hope I passed on as a legacy—hope I’m passing on still.

My father and the red-headed lady he loved gave me the gift of knowing their God. They passed on to those who were close to them not only their faith, but also the certainty that theirs was a God who cared for them in a real and personal way.

Beyond the astonishing grace that provided a way to be reconciled with Him, He loves us and wants good things for us. He knows us better than we know ourselves.

They were certain of it and helped us to find it out for ourselves.  Our conversations were full of a God who was part of our everyday lives.

I’m no longer surprised by the “coincidences”, the unexplainable, the unseen hand of this God.  If you look, the evidence is all around.

You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

I won’t argue free will and predestination with anyone. I don’t know enough about the subject to have a dogma attached to it, save this:

For those who follow Him, there is a path prepared.

I have no great insights into finding His will, except to run hard after Him. That said, even when I have run hard away from Him during a few periods in my life, He has continued to work out His plan.

So when, at age nineteen, inexplicably drawn away from my home in south Texas to a little town in northwest Arkansas that I had never heard of until a year or so before, I packed up everything I owned in my Chevy Nova and took (as Mr. Lewis would have said) the adventure that came to me.

In the shadow of the old barn my father had visited thirty years prior, I wooed and won the Lovely Lady’s hand. Still in its shadow, we began to raise our children and made lifelong friends.

And now, again in its shadow, life slows, the path still before us. God never stops drawing us, one step at a time, until that day we’ll stop wandering.

And we’ll be home.

We need constants.

It turns out that there is, indeed, a thread, a continuous presence in my life.

It’s not the old barn. Much as I enjoy that old structure, it has only been a part of the landscape.

image by Paul Phillips

From my father’s steps into the barn seventy years ago, up to today, when I stand at the useless old barbed-wire fence and gaze across the field at the dilapidated old shed, the only true and lasting constant in life has been the hand of God.

Leading, protecting, pushing, but most of all, holding.

Safe.

I want to leave a legacy, something for folks to remember me by.

I hope it’s Him.

Just Him.

And if—at the end of it all— there’s an old barn somewhere nearby, I’ll be just fine with that, too.

 

Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.
(Matthew 6:33, NLT)

And then, let us descend into the city and take the adventure that is sent to us.
(C.S. Lewis ~ The Silver Chair)

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, he leadeth me;
By his own hand he leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by his hand he leadeth me.
(from He Leadeth Me, by Joseph Gilmore ~ Public Domain)

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

 

 

 

 

I Probably Should Wash My Hands Before Offering that Cup of Cold Water

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

 

Photo by Grace Nast. Used by permission.

“God, let who I am show You to the world around me today.”

I don’t really know why I wrote the words. Someone I don’t know asked a question on a popular social media site recently. For some reason, I needed to answer.

Her question was, “What’s your go-to one-sentence prayer these days?”

That was it. My go-to prayer.

I would have told you I say it because I really don’t need anything else from Him. No money. No new car. No vacation in Spain.

But the truth is, I do need something from Him. I need that.

That. I need the world to see Him when they look at me.

It’s not that I’m so pious. I’m not. It’s not that I’m so righteous. I’m not.

We pray because we need. There are things we don’t have that we need.

We pray because we know He has what we need.

And, I need that. And, I don’t have it. But, He does.

This afternoon, my young friend posted the photo I shared above. Did you see it? No—I mean, really see it? Maybe, you should look at it again. Go ahead. I’ll wait. Take a few minutes.

I looked at the photograph my friend had taken and I gasped. Really. And, then I teared up.

Perhaps it’s only me. I know I’m not always normal. Perhaps, never completely normal. But, still…

The clarity of the scene, the glass of pure water, the light, the reflection, the hint of shadow—all of it hit me right in the midsection. The imagery took my breath away.

That’s what I need—the answer to my repetitious prayer. Pure, cold cups of water, reflecting the light of the One we serve, offered from the clean hands of one who follows Him.

The imagery of Scripture is also unmistakable.

Let your light so shine before men…
This treasure we have in vessels of clay…
Whoever gives a cup of cold water in my name…
Among whom you shine like stars in the universe…

I mentioned what I lacked before, didn’t I? Was it clear that my need is to faithfully and consistently show who God is to a world that doesn’t know Him?

Is it clear that I have already seen that Light, that Love, that Grace myself? I have.

I just need to show it. One would think it would be simple enough.

Attached to the side of the refrigerator in my house, there is a water dispenser. On the counter below, there is a glass. I use both frequently, drinking cool, clean water I have taken right from the source.

The Lovely Lady who lives at my house asks me once in a while if she should wash the glass when she’s cleaning up the kitchen. My answer is always in the negative.

When I drink from it, I rinse it out before replacing it in its place by the fridge. Sometimes, I even spray a bit of dishwashing detergent inside and wipe it around before rinsing it out and setting it back down.

If I were to offer anyone else a drink from that glass, I assure you, they would decline. Perhaps, a change is called for.

Here’s why:

The water is clean. It comes from a city facility that is certified and tested regularly. It is filtered at the dispenser, removing any impurities the pipeline might have added to the already purified and certified liquid.

The inside of the glass is clean. I wouldn’t drink from it if it weren’t. As far as I’m concerned, it is a safe vessel from which to imbibe. And yet, even the Lovely Lady herself would refuse to drink from that vessel.

I simply don’t bother about the outside. And frequently, when I grab the glass to dispense water, my hands are grimy from physical labor. Often, they are so sweaty from exercise, I almost drop the glass.

I have dirty hands. The outside of the glass can be revolting. Detestable. Repulsive.

Who may ascend into the hill of the Lord?
And who may stand in His holy place?
He who has clean hands and a pure heart,
Who has not lifted up his soul to falsehood
And has not sworn deceitfully.
(Psalm 24: 3-4, NASB)

I’m not certain I can make this distinction and not get a little pushback from a theologian or two, but it seems to me there’s a reason the psalmist suggested we needed both clean hands and a pure heart.

I think it’s possible, perhaps even probable, that one is a gift—the product of all-encompassing grace—and the other is an expectation of the individual who has experienced that grace.

The Teacher, tested by the religious hypocrites of His day when they brought a woman who had been caught in adultery to Him, embarrassed them so much they slunk away without a word.

He, however, had a bit more to say to the woman:

Then Jesus stood up again and said to the woman, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”
“No, Lord,” she said.
And Jesus said, “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.”
(John 8:10-11, NLT)

He gave her two precious gifts. Two. 

Grace, resulting in a clean heart.

Expectation. The opportunity to live her life with clean hands.

He gives us those same gifts, as well. To us, who have fallen short of His glory through sin, He offers the unequaled treasure of His grace that washes our hearts clean.

And, He gives us the great honor of sharing that grace with a world wandering in darkness. We have the privilege of sharing His pure water, His great treasure, with our own hands that are no longer sullied by sin and selfishness.

The only way His light shines through us to the world is if we offer His free gift with hands that don’t distort and won’t detract as He shines through us.

I think I’ll continue to pray the prayer. The day is coming when I won’t need to anymore.

And, don’t worry. If you come to my house to visit someday, I’ll offer you a clean glass from which to drink.

I’ll even wash my hands first.

 

For, look, darkness covers the earth
and deep darkness covers the nations,
but the Lord shines on you;
his splendor appears over you.
(Isaiah 60:2, NET)

 

“He may become like a glass filled with a clear light for eyes to see that can.” (from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien)

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

I Don’t Think That’s What “Two or Three Gathered Together” Means

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lessons on crossing bridges the correct way

personal image

 

I wonder if I could just put it down to folks being in a hurry. It’s not my intent to malign anyone’s reputation here. Still, there seemed to be neither a surplus of intelligence nor the absence of poor judgment in either of the adversaries.

We had just eaten a delicious lunch in the little dining room on the upper floor of the old mill overlooking the scenic river. It was a working mill, so we took a few moments to study the huge waterwheel and the sluice through which the wide river was routed to provide the power to turn it.

In the late summer, one in which there has been a fair amount of rain, the valley through which the river runs could only be described as verdant, with huge oaks and maples towering over the banks. Wanting a photo of the place for our friends visiting from my hometown to remember it by, we decided to risk a little stroll across the wooden deck of the old steel truss bridge to acquire one.

The bridge was built in 1907 when all the traffic over it would have been horse-drawn wagons and buggies. The signs leading to it clearly designate it as a one-lane bridge, limiting the speed across it to five miles per hour. No one could claim they didn’t see the signs.

So, as we wandered across, hugging the edge of the deck to be sure no one would need to slow down to three miles per hour for us, we were surprised to hear, and then see, two cars whip up onto the bridge — one from each end. They obviously saw each other.

They weren’t going five miles per hour. With eyes on the car approaching from the other way, they both raced even faster to get to the center first, braking hard at the last possible moment. An abbreviated game of chicken, with both drivers — thankfully — giving in before any damage was done, either to them or to the watching pedestrians.

There they sat. We heard no yelling. I can’t say there were any rude gestures. From my perspective, each just sat, foot on brake pedal, waiting for the other driver to give up the right-of-way and back down the way they had come.

We laughed. Well? How could one not see the humor in the situation? The ages-old rite of claiming territory, of banging heads (visualize a couple of male bighorn sheep if you need a mental image), of being the king-of-the-mountain (yes, just as childish as that) was being played out in front of us.

Somehow, I’m not laughing now

 Over time, I’ve considered the foolishness of the two drivers, and I’m convinced we’re seeing the same event playing out over and over in everyday life.

We call the situation an impasse. It means just what it sounds like. The negative prefix, “im”, linked to the positive word, “pass”. A place where no one can make any progress.

Each is blocking the other’s way. No one will move forward. No one.

Where two or three are gathered

I hear the words whispered. In my mind, I hear them.

It’s a phrase in common usage by those of us who follow Jesus. He said the words Himself, promising to be in our midst.

Perhaps, there’s more to it than that. There were two people on that bridge. It just didn’t seem a likely place for Him to make Himself known. Not likely at all.

Soon after that episode, our little group got back into our vehicle and made our way to another bridge. Our friends were at my mercy on that day, and I wanted them to look at bridges (have I told you how much I love the beautiful old structures?).

personal image

This bridge is another one-lane passage over the same river, but much longer and very different in design. Still, like its cousin we had left just moments before, it requires a certain amount of cooperation for folks to cross it.

As we stopped by the river’s banks to view the bridge and grab a quick photograph or two, I couldn’t help but remember an event that had transpired there only a few years ago.

There are signs as one approaches the bridge warning of the single lane and the need to approach with caution. There are also signs which indicate a weight limit. Ten tons, they say. If one is driving a car or pickup truck, there is no need to heed the signs.

On that occasion in 2018, two chartered tour buses, operated by drivers who certainly would have had to pass an advanced test to operate a commercial vehicle, crossed the bridge going the same direction.

A charter bus weighs between twenty and thirty tons. Two of them crossing, one right after the other, far exceeded the safe limitations of the bridge. The photos folks took of the illegal crossing showed the old suspension bridge, normally in a convex shape, bowing severely into a concave curve under the buses’ weight.

Damage was done. The bridge had to be repaired before even a compact car could cross it again.

But you might say, the drivers agreed on their actions, both going in the same direction and not impeding each other’s progress. And yet, an impasse again occurred. The bridge was shut down to make amends for their wrong actions.

The whispering in my head has gained in volume.

Whenever two or three are gathered…agreeing, it will be done.

Is that what the statement the Teacher made is intended to convey?

If we who follow him agree on something that is clearly wrong, is He then obligated to honor our desires?

Somehow, I think we’ve still got this wrong

Even though there were also two drivers on this second bridge, I am unsure that the One we follow will show Himself here either.

Again, I tell you the truth, if two of you on earth agree about whatever you ask, my Father in heaven will do it for you. For where two or three are assembled in my name, I am there among them. 
 (Matthew 18:19–20, NET)

There is another bridge

It’s an ancient bridge, built from wood and nails — and grace.

I wonder. Do I, who have crossed over that bridge by the Builder’s own invitation, dare to create an impasse, turning back others for whom He died?

Do I claim, while gathered in His name with others, the right to ask for things — things we lust after — selfish requests — that He never promised to us?

Do I treat that ancient bridge as my possession — a thing to be used and held, but not to be shared freely with all who are drawn to it?

How many? 

How many have I driven away with my ugliness, my greed, my pride?

When will we — all of us who have already crossed that bridge — acknowledge the debt we have to the Builder, a debt He calls us to fulfill by going into the highways and byways to take away the arguments the folks wandering and struggling there have?

Imagine.

Imagine what could happen if we do that together

If two or three of us, gathered in His name, agree that the bridge is His and not ours—If we agree together that we will no longer create impasses, and no longer will claim the exclusive use for our self-centered purposes, do you suppose we can trust Him to show up?

I’d like to give that a try.

I wonder if there are one or two more who will join me?

He’ll be there. With us. He will.

 

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold guiltless anyone who takes his name in vain.
(Exodus 20:7, NET)

Unity without verity is no better than conspiracy.
(John Trapp ~ English educator/pastor/writer ~ 1601–1669)

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

Once Upon a Time, They All Lived Happily Ever After

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels

“Every page he turns says, ‘Once upon a time.'”

A friend, whose name I never can recall, shared the delightful photo of her grandson, along with the above text on a social media page today.  I am transported.

Really.  Carried away.

When I was a child, all the best stories started with those words.  All of them.  I knew exciting things lay ahead.  Perhaps they would be a little scary, but they would be fantastic, magical events and deeds.

Once upon a time.  Perfection.

All the best stories.  Maybe, it could even be my own story.  Who knew?

What if every page we turn in life is another story to be told? Another opportunity to see the hand of our Creator guiding our steps into an unknown future? 

Another chance to say, “And they lived happily ever after”?

Ah.  But, there’s the issue, isn’t it?

We all know happily ever after isn’t a thing.
At least, we think we know it.  Dream jobs turn into nightmares with horrible bosses and backbiting work associates.  Perfect marriages morph into the daily grind of children’s diapers and household disasters.  People we have loved for a lifetime die.  Just like that—gone.  Pandemics sweep over the world, leaving death, fear, and anger in their path.

Happily ever after is a fairy tale.  Once upon a time is merely the opening line of an impossible dream.

We all know that.

Or, do we?

Oh, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying.  I don’t believe in fairy godmothers—don’t trust the forecasts of poetry-quoting wizards—and certainly don’t trust old ladies who live in houses made of gingerbread.

But, if you think I lightly dismiss wisdom from the lips of a 3-year-old child, you don’t know me at all.  And, I do believe there is profound wisdom in his childlike understanding of life.

For all of history, from the dawning of time and the opening words we read in the Bible—our Creator’s version of once upon a time—we have told the stories.  Stories of heroines and heroes, murderers, thieves, and liars.  They are stories of good and evil.  They are stories that teach, and lift our spirits, and put us in our places.

And the thread that runs through our stories is one of seasons of trial, of wrong choices, but also of redemption and triumph. 

Woven into the fabric of our history is the desire for happily ever after. But I think we don’t understand what that means at all.

Once upon a time…
My mind, as it does, turns back the clock nearly forty years.  With a smile on my lips, I remember the little boy skipping across the parking lot while he held tightly to my hand.

“Daddy, can we go out to eat tonight?  Maybe to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal?”

The smile on my lips fades, remembering my reply all too often in those days.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t do that right now.  Mom’s probably got mac & cheese and tuna patties for us tonight.”

He knew the reason.  We never hid the realities of life from him.  Happy meals cost three bucks.  For each kid.  Mac & cheese with tuna patties was less than a buck for everyone in the family.  He might have been disappointed, but the kid never missed a beat.

“That’s fine.  I like macaroni and cheese!”

Hand in hand, we skipped together to the car.

Happily ever after. 

He trusted his father to do what was best for him.  He was also sure the Happy Meal would come when it was appropriate (and affordable).

Our lives have been full—completely stuffed full—of disappointments.  That said, they’ve also been packed with joy that can’t be diminished.  And, stuffed in with those has been a fair sprinkling of tragedy and pain.

The thing is, as children we, most of us, believed our grown-ups (Mom, Dad, Grandparents, or whoever) had the answers and would see us through whatever was ahead. We simply put our hand in theirs and skipped on, despite momentary disappointments.

How did I lose that?  When did I decide I was big enough and smart enough to cross the road without my hand in His?

Once upon a time…
The big, strong fishermen shooed away the children that came to their Teacher to hold His hand and to be prayed for.  He took them in His arms and castigated the Disciples:

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”  (Matthew 19:14, NIV)

Only days before that, He had told them that they, strong and independent as they were—arguing over who was the best—wouldn’t enter into heaven unless they became as little children.  (Matthew 18:3)

How soon we forget. I’m no better than they were, pulling my hand back to my side, following my own way.  I dread the future, bemoaning the past.

But how do we forget so quickly that He has plans for us, plans to bless and not to harm, plans that give us hope, and a future? (Jeremiah 29:11)

The grave is not our end!  Failure is not our ultimate lot in life!  Pain and sorrow will not overwhelm His plans for us!  These temporary setbacks are just that—temporary!

Once upon a time…
A family waited for their flight to be called, on their way to serve God in a country half a world away from brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and loved ones.  It wasn’t their first time to do this.

Did I say it was once upon a time?  It was just this morning. 

Our friends shared the photo of their little child gazing at the waiting jet through the floor-to-ceiling window of the terminal. These words accompanied the photo, nothing more:

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
Still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, He leadeth me;
By His own hand He leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by His hand He leadeth me.*

The wisdom and faith of a little child. 

Once upon a time on every page we turn. Every page.

Happily ever after, too.

Today.  In this place.

Happily ever after.

 

Surely your goodness and faithfulness will pursue me all my days, and I will live in the Lord’s house for the rest of my life.
(Psalm 23:6, NET)

 

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

*(from He Leadeth Me by Joseph Gilmore, 1862)

 

The Cicadas Have Something To Say

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;
Yes, I have a good inheritance.
(Psalm 16:6, NKJV)

Earlier today, I trekked from my comfortable home to meet the Lovely Lady at her workplace and to walk with her back home. I strolled, in comfortable shoes, along a smooth sidewalk shaded by oaks, sweetgums, and maples. The one street I crossed had stop signs from all directions, and the oncoming traffic was happy to let this old guy walk on the crosswalk at his own pace.

There was no shouting, no honking, not even a rude gesture from any of them. Of course, my greeting to the lovely redhead when I arrived at my destination was sweet and joyful.

Except, it wasn’t.

“Man, is it hot out here today! It’s even sweltering under the shade of these trees! And that wind! I think it makes it even more uncomfortable!”

Well? It’s how we greet each other, isn’t it?

We were happy to reach the cool of our air-conditioned home within a few moments, but I wasn’t done.

“Now, I have to change my shirt! This one’s soaked through!”

I’ve told you how much I love summer, haven’t I? I suppose the thing is, I do—until I don’t. Then, I complain. Just like I did in the winter, which I really do dislike.

I repent. I do.

Later in the afternoon, the needle on the thermometer outside the front window having risen to just under the century mark, I noticed a beautiful swallowtail butterfly flitting around the yard.

Well, flitting may be the wrong word. Perhaps flapping would be more to the point. More about that in a moment.

When I looked again, an hour later, the beautiful thing was still out there flapping from one point to the next. I decided to see if I could get a photograph of the flying insect. You can see the result above.

May I share an insight or two with you? Epiphanies happen at the oddest moments. They do for me, anyway.

The butterfly was at work, simply doing what it was created to do.

Did you know that when a butterfly is traversing your yard, or garden, or front porch, it’s not out for a leisurely excursion? For some reason, I’ve always thought of butterflies as rather lazy, or perhaps I should say laid-back, creatures.

I’ve been wrong.

The butterfly has been put in its environment by the same Creator who said of us that we would earn our food by the sweat of our brow. The creature is working to survive. It turns out it is also working to tend the garden it’s been placed in, gathering sweet nectar to eat, but at the same time, collecting pollen on its antennae, legs, and abdomen. Pollen, which will brush off on the next flower it enters in its quest for more sweet nectar, thus helping to ensure the flowers’ endurance as a species.

This butterfly was hard at work! In the afternoon heat. With no shade to keep the sun from its beautiful black and blue wings and body. Against a strong southern wind that blew it off the blossoms again and again. The flapping wings were proof of the exertions necessary simply to earn the poor thing its daily bread.

I’m no entomologist, but the swallowtail seemed to be content in its circumstances.

I shared the photo with friends, mentioning that there was no complaint to be heard from the butterfly. At least, I couldn’t hear said complaint, if it was forthcoming.

Even while I impeded its regular route, forcing it to move around me as I attempted to get a decent photo, it showed no frustration; making not even the slightest attempt to attack me.

I wonder.

David wrote the words to the Psalm quoted at the beginning of this piece. One might think it was an easy thing for him to write. He was a king. A man after God’s own heart. Fabulously wealthy. Famous. Attractive to women, evidently.

Pleasant borders, indeed.

They weren’t. Not by our standards.

He was banished and hunted by King Saul and his army. His infant son died. Another son would unseat him from his throne and pursue him in the wilderness, just like Saul did. David lived his whole life under judgment, knowing he would never—never—accomplish his most magnificent dream, that of building a tabernacle where his God would be revered and worshiped.

And yet, for all that, he knew his God was enough. His God was faithful. His God was worthy of his love and gratitude.

And I complain about the summer heat. While the butterflies obey their Creator without murmur.

I claim to be a follower of Christ. I know many who make the same claim.

Somehow though, the sound rising up from our lips is something short of praise. Far short.

Have you been listening recently?

Inexplicably, my mind has been occupied with insects today. I was reminded that last year at this time (as it is again now) a meteor shower had been in progress. A friend had suggested that I go outside and view the event since I am famously late in going to my bed and she knew I would still be up.

I replied that I had tried, lying down on the ramp leading to my front door only to get damp from the rising dew. And I hadn’t been able to see anything in the sky because the cicadas in the oak trees were deafening.

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? But you know I’m right.

We walked out this evening to bid goodnight to our daughter and son-in-law, along with our grandchildren, and found ourselves yelling our goodbyes over the cacophony in the trees. It seems that all the cicadas in the world, past, present, and future, are gathered above our heads these days, screaming their song (if one can call it that) to the heavens and everything south of them.

They too are only fulfilling their Maker’s design for them. Among other things, they sing. Together—they sing.

I will admit that one cicada has a formidable voice, making a noticeable racket. I do hear the single ones frequently.

But together? The air vibrates with their vocalizations. Literally and figuratively. There is no ignoring it while they live and sing. In unison. Or perhaps, in harmony. I haven’t found the scale or the chords their music employs, but it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

And they do it together. As their Creator planned and ordained.

 What if we did that?

What if we who call ourselves Christ-followers would raise our voices in such a choir of praise that the world couldn’t do anything but stop and hear?

What if all the complainers and gripers would toss their petty grievances on the dung-heap from which they were acquired in the first place and join their voices with the chorus?

It is what we were created to do.

I’m ready to sing for a while. With you. And you. And you.

Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all you people!

 

 

Make a joyful shout to the Lord, all you lands!
Serve the Lord with gladness;
Come before His presence with singing.
Know that the Lord, He is God;
It is He who has made us, and not we ourselves;
We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

Enter into His gates with thanksgiving,
And into His courts with praise.
Be thankful to Him, and bless His name.
For the Lord is good;
His mercy is everlasting,
And His truth endures to all generations.
(Psalm 100, NKJV)

 

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

 

 

 

The Better to See You With, My Dear

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments
image by Brandon Day on Unsplash

“I’m not letting you out of my sight!”

The Lovely Lady needed a few things from the grocery store. No, she wasn’t sending me for them. With more than forty years of hands-on experience, she knows better than to chance that near-certain fiasco. Instead, she had graciously offered to let me sit in my easy chair and nap for a few minutes before the grandchildren descended upon us for the evening.

My facetious reply would come back to haunt me (but perhaps, not in the way one would expect).

Did I say we’ve been attached for more than forty years? I know the common perception is that the individuals who are half of an old married couple would almost always prefer some “alone time”, some space between them given the opportunity.

I’m happy to report it to be a misconception in our case. I know quite a number of those old married couples. Many of them would take issue with the stereotype, as well.

I like being with her. She’ll have to speak for herself as to her preference in the matter, but she seems to enjoy my company—most of the time.

I went to the grocery store with her.

On our way out of the store, having made our purchases, we saw the wife of my preacher friend (she’s an employee there) and stopped to greet her.

She looked at the Lovely Lady and smiled. Reaching out to touch her hair with the back of her hand, there was an impish gleam in her eye as she mentioned how pretty the red-headed lady was that day. She even suggested that I needed to hold on to this one.

I mentioned my comment to her, jokingly assuring her that I had no intention of ever letting the Lovely Lady out of my sight.

It’s not a promise I intend to keep. Seriously. I don’t.

Of course, she’ll be out of my sight.

She goes to work most weekdays and I don’t go with her. Many evenings, she works in the kitchen while I watch television or work outside. Right now, she’s in bed as I write.

Out of my sight.

I guess I’m not all that good at keeping promises.

But I know Someone who is. He’s even made the same promise I intend to break.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

He fully intends to keep His promise. He’s been at it since long before I was born.

“You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.”
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

Every day since then, as I come and go, He fulfills the promise.

“You see me when I travel
and when I rest at home.
You know everything I do.
You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord.”
(Psalm 139: 3-4, NLT)

No matter how hard I try, and how far I run—and I’ve tried, and I’ve run—He’ll be there to keep His promise.

“If I were to ascend to heaven, you would be there.
If I were to sprawl out in Sheol, there you would be.
If I were to fly away on the wings of the dawn,
and settle down on the other side of the sea,
even there your hand would guide me,
your right hand would grab hold of me.”
(Psalm 139:8-10, NET)

His promises aren’t made in jest. They’re not made (as mine was) to win brownie points.

His promises are made to assure us of His love—His overwhelming love—for each one of us.

The Son, when He walked and lived down here in the dirt with us, reiterated the promise, assuring us that, in the midst of trouble and cares, His Father sees us.

And, when He sees us, He knows us. He has no intention of leaving us bereft of His love and provision. None.

“What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it…So don’t be afraid. You are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.”
(Matthew 10:29,31, NLT)

He is El Roi. The God who sees me.

Me.

That doesn’t only mean me, personally. For anyone who says the words, they mean exactly what they say.

The God who sees me.

The old friend who shared that his wife of many years has moved out.  The brother who sat at our table today talking about his battle with cancer.  The friend I talked with after church who reminded me so gently that she doesn’t have anyone to carry in her groceries from the car, having lost her husband suddenly only months ago.

Every one of them seen.  Every one of them loved.  Every one of them safe in His care.

Right where we are—doing exactly what we’re doing—we are seen and known.  Loved and cherished.

Never alone.

Never not seen.

Not even if you don’t have a dorky old man to follow you around the grocery store pushing your cart.

Because He’s not letting me out of His sight.

He won’t let you out of it, either.

It’s a promise He’ll keep.

 

“And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.”
(from In the Garden, by C. Austin Miles)

 

 

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

 

 

Still My Daily Driver

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
Image by GradeOne on Pixabay

“I just need a vehicle that’ll get me from Point A to Point B.”

I made the casual statement while sitting at a streetside table at the local coffee shop the other day.  Three other fellows, also in their sixties, were at the table with me.

They didn’t laugh.  Utilitarianism is important to my generation.  Functionality trumps aesthetics for us.  But, perhaps that’s not universal, even in this group.

“Well, I’m thinking that, for my dad’s sake, I need to buy an old Chevy pickup and park it in my driveway, even though I’ve been driving that Dodge for nearly 20 years,” one fellow said.

We laughed.  His father, dead many years now, was a Chevy man.  His brother is also a Chevy fanatic, refusing to own any other make of car or truck.  A number of his friends are diehard Chevy owners, eschewing any other make, either American or foreign.

With a sheepish grin on his face, he explained. “Dad would have been really disappointed in me for driving that Mopar trash.  Maybe if I just had a Chevy parked in my driveway, I could get back some self-respect before I die.”

We laughed again.

He didn’t even want to drive the truck!  He only wanted people to see it in his driveway.

My brain always chooses the rabbit trail when it’s offered.  Without fail.  This time was no exception.

I don’t know how much later it was in the conversation when I became aware I was still sitting with my friends.  And, that they were waiting for a response from me.

I had no idea what to say, so I just blurted out, “Don’t ask me!  I drive a Toyota!”

They laughed, not in a derisive way, so it must have been an appropriate retort for the moment.  The conversation carried on, but I was still lost in my thoughts, and it went on without me.

Why do we live the way we do? 

Why do we want folks around us to think we live differently than that?

If we don’t respect the choices we’ve made, why do we stick to them?

You do understand there are no trucks on the rabbit trail I’m following, don’t you?

I want to use the tools that are going to guarantee the achievement of the goals I’ve set for myself.  And, in the process, I don’t want to have to utilize decoys to gain respect from those walking the path with me.

And somehow, this doesn’t seem much like a rabbit-trail anymore, does it?

So many today have looked into their past and have decided, since the “long obedience in the same direction” that Nietzsche (and more recently, Eugene Peterson) described is too difficult to maintain—and much too slow, they will change vehicles and take the shortcut.

Their faith in God is the first casualty in the surrender.  The lifestyle of holiness follows in close order.  Before you know it, the daily driver is hardly recognizable at all.

And yet, the vehicle they park in their driveway—for the neighbors to see—is the same one they’ve always claimed to love and depend upon.

They just don’t drive it anymore.

I want to say that would never be true of me.  I want to say that.

But, once in a while, I do wonder what it would be like to sit in those luxurious seats and take a spin ’round the countryside in that sleek new model.  I do.

I might have even taken a test drive.

Once or twice.

A short one.

But, as our friend the Preacher would say, here is the conclusion I’ve come to:

We’ll never reach the goal we have set out to reach in that fake, made-up vehicle the world calls truth. Never.

As a daily driver, anything but God’s truth is completely unreliable and will leave us stranded.  Of that, there is no doubt.

I know it doesn’t look modern and sleek; the paint may be faded and chipped, and the dirt from all the miles still clings to its surfaces.

Still, I think I’ll stick with what got me this far.

The old daily driver’s got a good few miles left in it, yet.

It starts every time, too. Every single time.

And, I can still park it in the driveway.

Every person has a different view of another person’s image. That’s all perception. The character of a man, the integrity, that’s who you are.
(Steve Alford ~ American basketball coach)

Nevertheless, I have this against you, that you have left your first love.  Remember therefore from where you have fallen; repent and do the first works… (Revelation 2: 4-5a, NKJV)

 

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

Tell me the Story

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

In moments when I least expect it, clarity arrives.

I sat, with others around me, in a service the other day and noticed the lady at the keyboard. I know her. She was my neighbor for upwards of fifteen years. I have heard her sing. I have heard her play.

All I expected was to enjoy the music—possibly to reflect on some lyrics. It would be nice.

Nice isn’t what happened.

I hope you won’t mind. I think we call it epiphany. With a small “e”.

An arrival. A light, small but bright, blazed as my friend sang the old familiar hymn. I have never thought of it before. Never.

Tell me the story of Jesus,
Write on my heart every word.
Tell me the story most precious,
Sweetest that ever was heard.

I can’t tell you how many times I have sung the words. But, in her simple gift of song, the words shone with a clarity I’ve not known any other time.

The writer of the letter written to the Hebrews describes it as the fulfillment of a promise made long before. In your hearts, He will place His commandments, and on your minds they will be written indelibly. (Hebrews 10:16-17)

Is a little of that light shining through yet? Maybe, it’s just me.

Every word. Written on my heart.

Every word. Written on my heart. Share on X

I am moved. Overwhelmed, even. But, the light shines on past the initial reaction and I start to wonder.

Is it just for me that He has written on my heart and in my mind?

You indulged me when I wanted to call it an epiphany. Will you indulge me a bit further?

I know the heart mentioned in the Book isn’t the physical, beating organ, but it is the center of our very being—the existence of which we cannot function without. If the physical heart circulates the life blood our brain and entire body must have for life, surely the symbolic heart we describe must circulate the very essence of who we are.

If we follow Christ, He is the essence of our being. Circulating through our veins.

So, I ask again: Is it only for my benefit that He lives within my being?

It is for my benefit. To that, there can be no argument. But, what of those around me? Those who have sin—and loss—and, in the end, death—written on their hearts?

He has put eternity in our hearts!  How could we keep that quiet?

The Apostle—my namesake—lays out the process.  How shall they call on Him unless they believe?  How will they believe unless they hear?  How could they possibly hear if we don’t tell them? (Romans 10:14)

He is the foundation, the Rock at the center of our existence!  How could we hide it?

How could we not tell the story?  How could we not ourselves write the words which have been written in our heart?  Or, speak them?  Or, sing them?

Every word, every action declares who (and whose) we are.

Well, well.  An epiphany in the season of Epiphany.  A small light as we acknowledge the Light of the World.

The Word who was born in a stable, in reality came to be inked on our hearts.  And, He invites us to share His story by sharing our own.

The Word.  Written on our hearts.

To be written on the hearts of others.

Time to tell the story. 

Again.


There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.
(Maya Angelou ~ American Poet ~ 1928-2014)

If I told you my story
You would hear Hope that wouldn’t let go.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Love that never gave up.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Life, but it wasn’t mine.

If I should speak, then let it be
Of the grace that is greater than all my sin,
Of when justice was served and where mercy wins,
Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in.
Oh, to tell you my story is to tell of Him.

If I told you my story
You would hear Victory over the enemy.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Freedom that was won for me.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Life overcome the grave.

If I should speak, then let it be
Of the grace that is greater than all my sin,
Of when justice was served and where mercy wins,
Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in.
Oh to tell you my story is to tell of Him.
(Music Publishing LLC, Open Hands Music (SESAC) (All rights on behalf of itself and Open Hands Music adm. by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC)
Writers: Mike Weaver / Jason Ingram

 

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

The Storyteller

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

So I says to him—I says—that’ll never go through this door.

My grandfather died the year I graduated from high school, but still, I hear his voice, telling another of his stories.  Always—always, they were punctuated with spaces.  

They were spaces in which he caught his breath.

When he walked from the front porch to the kitchen, he always stopped at the desk behind his easy chair.  Every time.  Leaning with his big hands on the edge of the desktop, he breathed deep, his powerful chest muscles expelling the bad air and drawing in good.

I felt the tell-tale tightening in my chest earlier today, a sign that my own bronchial issues may soon overtake me again.  I couldn’t help but think of the old man.

Experience tells me that, even should I succumb to the malady completely, I will breathe freely again very soon.  But, these moments remind me of folks who’ve gone before—people I have loved and who have loved me.

They remind me of other things, as well.  

My grandfather, he of the interrupted sentences, was a storyteller.  He loved a good story.  More than that, he loved being surrounded by people who listened to the stories he told.  The gaps for breathing, at first an annoyance to both the teller and the listener, soon became room for thought and reason for suspense.  

A good storyteller uses the tools with which he is provided.  

Grandpa was a good storyteller.  Health impediment or not, he was going to tell his stories.

I’m a storyteller too.  You might say, it’s in my blood.  Kind of like the lung issues.  From my grandfather to my son, the males in my family have experienced similar problems of varying degrees.  Without a say in the inheritance, we have each passed down the frailty to the succeeding generation.

May I talk about the storytelling and passing things down for a moment?  I promise to be nearly succinct.  The reader will have to be the judge of whether the time is well spent.

Did you know our Creator commanded us to be storytellers?  And, He expected us to pass the love of telling stories down through the generations?  His instructions—oddly enough, passed through another storyteller—were clear.  

Parents tell your children.  Tell them in your home, as you’re hiking on a trail, and when you’re in the shopping centers. Through all the ages, tell them.  Give them reason to believe and to trust in a God who provides and protects. (Deuteronomy 11:18-20) 

The testimony of previous generations is a bridge over which we cross the raging floods of cultural deception and shifting doctrine.  If we fail to provide those bridges for our children, our progeny will be washed away in the roiling currents and howling rapids.

Tell the stories!  Use words that are accurate and attractive.  Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm.  Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone.

Tell the stories!

12745592_10206853935720800_2029702514110622443_nThe Lovely Lady—my favorite walking companion—and I wandered along an abandoned roadbed just a few days hence.  We had a goal in mind, a century-old bridge, now abandoned, but still standing.  It has not carried traffic for a number of years.

A monument to the past, the framework stands.  There is even a roadway across, but a few steps onto it and one soon realizes that it will never support the weight of a vehicle again.  

A monument—nothing more.

Bridges are meant to be more than monuments.  Properly maintained and kept, they smoothly move traffic from the place left behind to the destination.  Abandoned, they serve no purpose, but rust and rot into the landscape, forcing the traveler to choose a different route or be carried away in the flood.

I will build bridges.  

With my last breath, I will tell the stories.

With my last breath, I will tell the stories. Share on X

As my lovely companion and I wandered, almost sadly, away from the beautiful old span, I realized that my faulty lungs might make the half-mile trek back to the road difficult and wondered about the wisdom of making the trip.  

I needn’t have worried.  Companions are made to help each other on the road.

We don’t walk the road alone—don’t build the bridges alone—don’t cross them alone.

Surrounded by a great cloud of storytellers, we press on.

To our last breath.  

Tell the Story.

 

 

Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we’d better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit!
(Hebrews 12:1,2 ~ The Message)

 

For in Calormen, story-telling (whether the stories are true or made up) is a thing you’re taught, just as English boys and girls are taught essay-writing. The difference is that people want to hear the stories, whereas I never heard of anyone who wanted to read the essays.
(from A Horse and His Boy ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

 

 

 

 

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

Tip-toeing and Holding My Breath

~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

The house is old and the floor creaks.

Since I was old enough to notice such things, I’ve not lived in any other kind of house.  The sneaky kid I was at seven years of age learned where the noisy spots were.  When one was stealthily slipping out at nap time, that information was key in avoiding detection by lightly sleeping parents.

In much the same way, the sneaky grown-up I am at nearly sixty years of age has learned where the noisy spots are in my current house, as well.  That information is key in maneuvering through the downstairs rooms quietly when the Lovely Lady is sleeping upstairs.  This is not so much because I want to escape detection, as it is that I don’t want to disturb her rest.

I have a suspicion that I am not any more successful at it in these later years than I was as a child.  Still, an attempt must be made.  If one is to wander the house late at night, it won’t do to have the other inhabitants lose sleep because of it.

In all my years of living in creaky old houses, I’ve never encountered a ghost.  Oh, the floorboards pop on their own sometimes, and there are unexplained noises in the night.  Somehow, I think we can eliminate ghosts from the causes there.  No shimmering essence has ever brushed past me on the way down a hallway, and certainly, I’ve never heard the clank of chains.

But, in my head?  That’s a different story.  My head is rife with ghosts.  Some of them are as kind and benevolent as one could wish.  A few are not remotely like that—all screams and anger.   Still others, I barely recognize—long forgotten memories from the dim past.

Tonight, I’m sneaking around on the creaky old floors in my head, in much the same way as I do in the house.  It is an equally vain attempt at not awakening the ghosts who are usually resting there.

Somehow, being ill has that effect on my thoughts.  Perhaps it’s the not-so-subtle reminders of my mortality—the lack of breath, the pain in my joints, the sleepless nights—that lead to the tiptoe walk though the past.

So I said to him——I said——that’ll never go through the door.

My grandfather died the year I graduated from high school, but still I hear his voice, telling another of his stories.  Always—always, they were punctuated with spaces.  They were spaces in which he caught his breath.

When he walked from the front porch to the kitchen, he always stopped at the desk behind his easy chair.  Every time.  Leaning with his big hands on the edge of the desktop, he breathed deep, his powerful chest muscles expelling the bad air and drawing in good.  

As I tried to talk with the Lovely Lady today and gasped for air, mid-sentence, I heard his voice in my head.  Then again, I walked from the den to front door and had to stop and lean on the buffet for a moment and I saw the old man standing there at the desk.

Experience tells me I will breathe freely again very soon.  But, these moments, these brief seasons of walking through the old, creaky house remind me of folks who’ve gone before—people I have loved and who have loved me.

They remind me of other things, as well.  

My grandfather, he of the interrupted sentences, was a storyteller.  He loved a good story.  More than that, he loved being surrounded by people who listened to the stories he told.  The gaps for breathing, at first an annoyance to both the teller and the listener, soon became room for thought and reason for suspense.  A good storyteller uses the tools with which he is provided.  

Grandpa was a good storyteller.  Health impediment or not, he was going to tell his stories.

The thing is, I’m a storyteller too.  You might say, it’s in my blood.  Kind of like the lung issues.  You see, genetics plays a part in my pulmonary problems.  From my grandfather to my son, the males in my family have experienced similar problems of varying degrees.  Without a say in the inheritance, we have each passed down the frailty to the succeeding generation.

May I talk about the storytelling for a moment?  I promise to be nearly succinct.  (Scroll down the page to see if I’m being truthful—I’ll wait.)  The reader will have to be the judge of whether the time is well spent.

Did you know our Creator commanded us to be storytellers?  And, He expected us to pass the love of telling stories down through the generations?  His instructions—oddly enough, passed through another storyteller—were clear.  

Parents tell your children.  Tell them in your home, as you’re hiking on a trail, and when you’re in the shopping centers. Through all the ages, tell them.  Give them reason to believe and to trust in a God who provides and protects. (Deuteronomy 11:18-20) 

The testimony of previous generations is a bridge over which we cross the raging floods of cultural deception and shifting doctrine.  If we fail to provide those bridges for our children, our progeny will be washed away in the roiling currents and howling rapids.

Tell the stories!  Use words that are accurate and attractive.  Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm.  Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone.

Tell the stories!

12745592_10206853935720800_2029702514110622443_nThe Lovely Lady—my favorite walking companion—and I wandered along an abandoned roadbed just a few days hence, as my current bout with my thorn in the flesh began.  We had a goal in mind, a century-old bridge, now abandoned, but still standing.  It has not carried traffic for a number of years.

A monument to the past, the framework stands.  There is even a roadway across, but a few steps onto it and one soon realizes that it will never support the weight of a vehicle again.  

A monument—nothing more.

Bridges are meant to be more than monuments.  Properly maintained and kept, they smoothly move traffic from the place left behind to the destination.  Abandoned, they serve no purpose, but rust and rot into the landscape, forcing the traveler to choose a different route or be carried away in the flood.

I will build bridges.  

With my last breath, I will tell the stories.

As my companion and I wandered, almost sadly, away from the beautiful old span, I realized that my faulty lungs would make the half-mile trek back to the road difficult and wondered about the wisdom of making the trip.  

I needn’t have worried.  Companions are made to help each other on the road.

We don’t walk the road alone—don’t build the bridges alone—don’t cross them alone.

Surrounded by a great cloud of storytellers, we press on.

To our last breath.  

Tell the Story.

 

 

Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we’d better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit!
(Hebrews 12:1,2 ~ The Message)

 

For in Calormen, story-telling (whether the stories are true or made up) is a thing you’re taught, just as English boys and girls are taught essay-writing. The difference is that people want to hear the stories, whereas I never heard of anyone who wanted to read the essays.
(from A Horse and His Boy ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

 

 

 

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