trusting God

A Glimpse of Glory

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’m a glutton for punishment. I think that’s the phrase the red-headed lady who raised me would have used.

“Tell me; what happened with that huge bill for the helicopter ride?”

Back a ways, I had seen my friend, the guitar player, in his workplace and he didn’t look well. He didn’t look well at all. But, he had been happy to tell the story. He loves a good story as much as do I, well or not.

The heart attack had been shocking in its intensity and the rapidity with which it incapacitated him. He and his wife were on vacation, over a thousand miles from home. The paramedics, stationed right across the street from their motel, had had him at the local hospital within minutes. The doctor on duty looked over his vitals and shook his head.

“We’re not equipped to do the procedure you need done. Looks like you’re taking a helicopter ride.”

The day he had told me about the new stents in his arteries and the unexpected ‘copter ride, was the day after the envelope had arrived. I wondered if the envelope wasn’t a good part of why he didn’t look so good.

“My insurance company says it won’t pay for the air-evac bill, Paul. I tell you, I stood there stunned when I saw the amount printed on that statement! Thirty-one thousand dollars!“

I didn’t know what to say. All I could think about was what a debt of that magnitude would do to my own meager resources. The very idea was staggering. And so, not knowing what to say, I punted.

You know. Punted.

“Man, I’m sorry! I’ll be praying for that with you!”

He smiled. “Oh. God’s got this. I’m already sure of it.”

I agreed with him that God did, indeed, have it and headed for home. And, I did what I said I would do. I prayed as I felt sorry for him having to pay that huge bill.

That was back around Thanksgiving. I sat and drank coffee with him not long after that, but there were others at the table so I kept my mouth shut.

I wasn’t that smart today.

When I asked him about the bill, he just stood silently in front of me and the Lovely Lady for a moment, a slow smile moving across his face. We knew another story was coming.

“Well Paul, the biggest heathen in the world told me one day a few weeks ago that there was no way God would have provided that helicopter if He wasn’t intending to pay for it. He said that He was either Almighty God, or He wasn’t. The biggest heathen in the world.”

We batted that around for a little while, but I noticed the smile was still stretching his face, so I nudged him forward in his story. He wanted to talk about Christmas Eve. As is true many places in the States, Christmas Eve is one of the busiest days of the season in the retail business where he works.

The day before, he had worked until midnight. That day—Christmas Eve—he came in at seven in the morning and worked until after four in the afternoon. He was exhausted. Exhausted and angry. The threat of financial disaster still hung over him. And, there was a line a mile long—people waiting to be checked out. They weren’t all happy, either.

“All I knew was, I hated everybody I worked with, I hated every person coming in the door, and I hated every person walking out. Most of all, I hated that job. When I finally got in my car to go home, I sat behind the wheel and asked God—out loud—why He was making me work in that place. I asked it again and again, all the way home.”

He paused in the midst of his hyperbole, looking back and forth from me to the Lovely Lady with that silly grin spread across his features.

“You know where this is going, don’t you?” he queried.

I could guess, but I wasn’t going to spoil his story.

“I stopped at the box, pulled out the mail, and found another one of those envelopes. Only, this time, the amount due was a little smaller. Well, a lot smaller.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I’m pretty sure the smile got a little bigger.

Six hundred dollars! That’s all they were asking for his part. Somehow the company he works for had either paid or negotiated down the amount to only two percent of the original thirty-one thousand dollars he had owed just days before.

Talk about joy! And, relief!

“It was almost as if I heard God say it. ‘That’s why I have you working there. You said it yourself. I’ve got this!'”

He went inside the house and found his wife, stressed and tired, overcome with exhaustion herself from preparations for holiday family events. Without a word, he handed her the statement. Within seconds, the tears were flowing.

As he told the story, tears filled my own eyes. Joy. Well. . . Mostly joy. I’ll admit it. Something was bothering me.

Why am I still surprised? I’m not just surprised—I’m amazed! Why is that?

I grew up singing about the cattle He owns on a thousand hills. I assured my tiny children their Heavenly Father cared for them and provided all our needs. I’ve seen the miracles of provision with my own eyes, again and again.

The biggest heathen in the world believed it more than I did. Really.

Do you suppose He’s disappointed with me? With us?

When we don’t quite believe that He can do that again, does He shake His head in disgust?

David, the psalmist didn’t think so. He suggested that God deals with us as a father with his children. He understands what makes us tick. He knows we’re only made from dirt. How would the Artist not know His own work? (Psalm 103:13-14)

He is not surprised when we fall on the road, lying there in self-pity and diminishing faith. Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home.

Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home. Share on X

But then, there are times—those amazing moments—when He sweeps aside the curtain and gives us a glimpse of the glorious work of art He is creating from the little dabs of joy and pain, the patient stippling of profound friendship, and the broad washes of intense loss.

For the barest of moments, our eyes widen and our breath catches as we see—really see—Him at work. And, for that wisp of time, we catch a gleam, the tiniest glimmer, of what heaven will be.

And then, almost like waking from a dream, the moment is past. Dimly, as through a translucent window, we—again—barely make out what will be. (1 Corinthians 13:12)

It would be a mistake on our part to imagine our Creator sees us in the same way—dimly, incompletely—at any time. From before time began, He knew the direction of our steps, our highs, our lows. And, He knows the plans He has for us. He knows them. (Jeremiah 29:11)

His plans are for our good. And, never to harm us.

So, on we walk. Sunshine. Shadow.

Peering through the haze.

Trusting the God who can pay for the ride.

 

 

Let me revel in this one thought: before God made the heavens and the earth, He set His love upon me.
(Charles Spurgeon ~ English pastor/author ~ 1834-1892)

 

The way of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn,
   which shines ever brighter until the full light of day.
(Proverbs 4:18 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

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

Changing Keys

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

She’s my favorite pianist, by far. For forty years, I’ve been listening to her play.

I sat in my easy chair watching television yesterday as she practiced the songs she would play for the Sunday morning worship service. The longer I sat there, the more annoying the racket became.

I muted the television.

What? You thought I meant the piano was the unwanted racket? I did say she was my favorite pianist. Without the intrusive noise of the TV, I just sat and enjoyed the music.

Many times, as I have listened with my eyes closed, the music stops and she begins to play other notes—notes not in the melody of the current song. It is almost always between verses of a song and sometimes, it can become a little tedious. Again and again, she goes through the progression, trying different notes here—substituting a new chord there.

Why doesn’t she just go on to the next verse? What does she suppose she’s accomplishing?

But, I hold my tongue and bide my time. I’m sure it will happen in a moment or two. Just give her time to work it out. . .

There it is. She goes back and repeats the last phrase she had completed, along with a few notes—and a chord or two—between it and the first line of the next verse. The result is always a little surprising.

She has modulated to a different key. She’s simply changing keys, nothing more.

If all you did was listen to that part of the practice session, you might not be impressed at all. She stumbles sometimes while finding the right chord to go between the former key and the new one. Don’t tell anyone, but she might have to practice it a few times before she gets it in her head and plays it right consistently.

But, if you’re in the congregation the next morning? All you’ll know is the music is lighter— loftier—with more impact and piqued interest.

The change is worth the effort. It’s worth the trouble.

I’m changing keys, too. But, I should tell you—they’re a different kind of key.

The keys I’m referring to now are the ones in my pocket, on my key ring. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve replaced half of them with shiny new ones.

Thing is, I like the worn, slightly bent ones a little better. Maybe, a lot better.

The worn keys don’t have sharp edges. They slide into the locks they’re paired with smoothly and comfortably. No fumbling. No jiggling. No complaining under my breath.

But, the doors I used to open aren’t in use anymore—at least, not for me. Someone else will soon unlock those doors early in the morning, and later, turn the keys in the locks as they leave that evening.

I’m practicing with the new keys now. Fumbling in the dark for the right one, I feel for the lock, wishing for old comfortable doors to open in front of me. 

Then again, as I consider my condition, the realization begins to dawn. 

I don’t want to go back.

As I’ve walked through this world, with the companions God has generously provided for the road, there has never been a reward in going backward. Further up and Further in is where He leads.

He gives new keys to open new doors, because He wants me to trust Him and walk through them.

Whatever lies on the other side, if He gave the key, the lock will be worth opening.

Whatever lies on the other side, if He gave the key, the lock will be worth opening. Share on X

New doors. Leading to new adventures. The old doors no longer open for me, their keys passing to others who need to trust as I once did.

I still trust Him.

Time to change keys.

Better and brighter things lie ahead. (Jeremiah 29:11)

He promised.

 

                             

 

A very little key will open a very heavy door.
(Hunted Down ~ Charles Dickens ~ English writer ~ 1812-1870)

 

I’m pressing on the upward way.
New heights I’m gaining every day.
Still praying as I onward bound;
Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.
(Higher Ground ~ Johnson Oatman Jr.  ~ American hymn writer ~ 1856-1922)

 

 

 

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

 

Drowning Fish

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

This is not what I was made to do.

I have said the words more times in the last weeks than ever before.  One might almost think I’m unhappy.

One would be right.  Some of the time.

I’m a communicator.  A people person.  I use words.  It’s how I survived in the retail market for nearly forty years.

That was then.

Today, I hung a kitchen cabinet door.  Three times.  The same one—three times.

I’m not good with cabinet doors.  Or sheetrock.  Or wall trim.

The red-headed woman who raised me had an apt simile for such a situation.  She usually did.

He’s like a fish out of water.

It’s nothing to joke about.  A fish out of water is terminal.  It will die.

I don’t think I will die from my attempts at home remodeling.  If you could be a spider in the corner though, you’d think someone was dying.

My griping and grousing are vocal and vehement.  I call myself names.  I call the materials I’m working with names.

I even bring God into the conversation, accusing Him and questioning His wisdom in trusting me with this task.

It does feel as if I’m drowning and can’t get enough air.  With sweat running down my back and face, I do the task once, twice, and a third time—all with the same result.

Do you ever feel as if you're drowning and can't get enough air? Share on X

Drowning.  In frustration—and impatience.  But, mostly in self-pity.

And yet. . .

And yet, I am not a man drowning in water deep, nor a fish tossed up on the river bank to flop until, gasping for the water rushing through my gills from which to draw the filtered oxygen my body demands, I finally lie still forever.

I am not drowning.  I am in an uncomfortable situation—one in which I’ve never found myself before.

But, it’s not the first time.

And, I’m not the only one.

The King of Creation sometimes lets us know we’ve become too comfortable, too complacent.

It’s a good thing.

I keep telling myself that.  It’s a good thing.

I wish I could have remembered it earlier today.

I wonder if Joseph, he of the many-hued robe, was any better, day-to-day, in remembering that God only wanted good for him.

I imagine he wasn’t—day after tedious day.

I want him not to have been any better.  It would make me feel less guilty, anyway.

I want Joseph to have muttered under his breath when he was forced to be a house slave in Egypt. I want him to have defended himself, at least in a whisper, when accused of acts he would never have committed. I want him to have screamed at God as he sat, forgotten and betrayed in that horrible dungeon.

It would be easier to look at my own face in the mirror if those things were true.  At least, it seems so to me tonight.

But then, griping and muttering past, I want, like Joseph, to understand God had a plan all along.

I also want—in the end—to have made the right choices, even when it felt as if those very decisions were what was making life an unfamiliar maze, one in which there was so little air that it felt suffocation was seconds away.

And, gasping for air, I finally want to trust a God I cannot see with the things I hold in my hands and the future I can just make out in the distance ahead.

I will go back tomorrow and take that cabinet door back down, only to put it back up again.

I will hear, over the dissenting voices in my head, the quiet tones of my father, quoting those familiar words from the heart of Jeremiah, the crying man.

I know the plans I’ve made for you, says your Creator.  They are for great good—for your benefit and not for your harm.  There is hope.  There is a future to which you should look with anticipation.  (Jeremiah 29:11)

And, whether Joseph did or not, I will probably yell some more.  I may even shout at God in my frustration and anger.

He can take it.

He knows (and remembers clearly) how we were formed.  He knows that we came from dirt.  (Psalm 103:14)

And still, He seeks to shape us into something better, something more refined.

And still, He seeks to shape us into something better. Share on X

While we gasp for breath in a new environment, He is breathing new life into us.

It’s time to do the new thing He has put in front of me.

Perhaps, there is more for me to do.

Breathe deep.

Keep moving.

The future lies just ahead.

 

 

 

They did what soldiers always did.  They improvised.
(Geoffrey Norman ~ American writer/editor)

 

Alive without breath;
as cold as death;
never thirsting, ever drinking;
clad in mail, never clinking.
Drowns on dry land,
thinks an island
is a mountain;
thinks a fountain
is a puff of air.
(from The Hobbit ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ Ballantine Books, New York. Copyright 1937, 1938, 1966.)

 

 

 

 

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

The Wind Blows

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The wind roars, simply roars, through the leaves of the tall London plane tree outside my window.  It is frightening enough that the dogs are afraid to stay outside for much longer than it takes to devour their food and lap their tongues in the water dish a time or two before ducking back into their house.

I sit in my easy chair and listen to it blow.  And, just as the Teacher promised, I couldn’t tell you where it blew in from, nor where it will end up. (John 3:8)

I don’t know.

Funny.  I’ve been saying that a lot recently.  I said it to the nice lady from the local newspaper today.

She wanted to know what’s next.

I don’t know.

The leaves, blown around by the wind, scratch against the back door and I laugh.

She wanted to know where I came from.  I wondered if she thought it would help to figure out where I’m to go from here.

It won’t.

I recited the familiar words to her earlier today and suddenly realized it’s the first time I’ve told the story and all of it—every sentence and every word—was in the past tense.  

Over.  Done.

The words I said seemed strangely altered from the dozens of times I have recited them in recent weeks.  Then, I was still a part of the story.  Now, my part in that story is history.

So, what about the wind?  Would it help to know where it came from?

Would it be comforting to know where it is going?

Perhaps.  But, I’m thinking the more important thing is to dwell in the place to which He has brought us, as we’re being prepared for the place He is moving us to.

Dwell.  It’s an interesting word.  We usually think of it as a sense of staying somewhere permanently.

Well, sure we do.  The Psalmist averred that he would dwell in the house of the Lord.  Forever.  (Psalm 23:6)

See there?  Dwell forever.

Dwell.

But, my eyes are drawn to the words preceding that in the poetry of the Psalmist.  You know, the part where he says that goodness and unfailing love would pursue him all his life.

One has to be moving if they are to be pursued.

One has to be moving if they are to be pursued. Share on X

I remember—years ago when I was young and loved old cars—I remember setting the ignition points on the old jalopies.  Now, computers do such things for us, but then, we had to make the adjustments to keep the mechanical beasts functioning at the top of their potential.  As I remember it, we used to set something in the ignition cycle that was called the dwell.

It was a momentary resting of one part on another.  The time between movement—a rest with seemingly nothing happening—was in reality the instant that propelled the vehicle from one place to another. During the dwell, the spark was transferred from one contact to the other, where it could start the combustion that is necessary for the motor to have power.

The dwell was absolutely essential. Of course, so was the activity in between these resting places.

The power to go forward depends on both.  Resting and acting.

Dwelling.  And, moving on.

I’ve heard people describe the wind in the treetops in various ways—singing, whispering, laughing.  I have no such gentle words with which to describe it. I guess I’d characterize the wind tonight as the lead singer in a heavy metal rock band.

You know, yelling and screaming at the top of its voice.

It’s what I feel like—a little—recently.

And yet, I’m learning to dwell in the quiet places.  And, letting go in the windy ones.

I can’t tell you where the gusting wind came from, nor can I tell you where it will stop.

But, it’s okay.

Finally, it’s okay.

The Teacher—you know, the One who promised we would wonder—He knows where the wind comes from and where it is going.

He does.

And, He knows what’s next—as well as how I’m going to get there.

He knows what's next—as well as how I'm going to get there. Share on X

Listen to the wind blow!

 

 

 

 

Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me
    all the days of my life,
and I will live in the house of the Lord
    forever.
(Psalm 23:6 ~ NLT)

 

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I. 
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
(Christina Rossetti ~ English poet ~ 1830-1894)

 

 

 

 

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