winter

Endings Become Beginnings

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Abnormal.

That was the one-word description I read when I checked the medical app a couple of weeks ago.  I had received an email informing me the doctor had posted the result of my recent procedure, so I thumbed my way through the sign-in process to get the good news.

It was what I was expecting.  Good news.  I’d like to believe I’m not a perpetual pessimist, expecting the worst all the time.  Still, I wasn’t shocked to read the word I found there.

Abnormal.

There was nothing else, except a reminder of an appointment with the surgeon in a week.  On the day of the Vernal Equinox.

It seemed appropriate.  The end of a season.  The beginning of another.  Both on the same day.

One, I have grown to detest.  The other, I love.  The reader will no doubt draw their own conclusion as to which is which.

I waited.  Concentrating on the word, abnormal, I waited.

I had an inkling of the meaning.  Last year, a similar procedure yielded the word precancerous.  Now, this follow-up procedure had yielded a new word.

It’s funny, the things one’s brain will jump to, given time.  And, I had plenty of time on my hands.

Abnormal is the opposite of normal.  Somehow, we prefer the latter to the former.  It seems odd, because we don’t really care for average, which is surprisingly similar to normal.

Next, my mind landed on the word I may have been searching for in the first place: peculiar.  It is a word which twins abnormal rather well, don’t you think?

We think of peculiar as meaning odd, or strange.  That’s the same as abnormal, is it not?

But then, there’s another definition that says peculiar means belonging exclusively to one genre, area, or person.

And, that’s me.  Perhaps, you too.

The Fisherman who came to be known as The Rock gave us the description a couple of thousand years ago.

“But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light.” (1 Peter 2:9,  KJV)

This kind of abnormal, we can lay claim to.  If we follow Jesus, we belong!

Forever, we belong.

And, in spite of seasons that end and change, there will always be new beginnings.  We have the bright hope of life with our Creator that goes on forever.

Which brings me back to my opening thoughts.

On the day of the year when darkness holds sway for an equal amount of time with daylight, the Vernal Equinox, I went to see my doctor again.

I had prepared for the day.  I trust in a God who heals as well as saves.

I had left the abnormal in His hands.  I freely admit, I wanted it to be normal but I was ready to accept what came next either way.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t sit in the parking lot and let the tears flow as I communicated with the Lovely Lady afterward.

Normal.  He said I was normal.

I’m grateful for the changing seasons.  For darkness that turns to light.

Endings always lead to beginnings.  Always.  I don’t know why I continue to be surprised by it but yet, once again, I am.

And, I do know I’m still peculiar.  I hope you are, too.

 

“And you He made alive, who were dead in trespasses and sins.”
(Ephesians 2:1, NKJV)

“(Spring) is a natural resurrection, an experience of immortality.”
(H D Thoreau)

 

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

Higher than That

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

Soon.  Soon, they’ll fly.

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

It hasn’t always been so.

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

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

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

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

And yet, among my memories, especially now, the melancholy shoves aside the joy.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We set our sight too low.  Far too low.

Did you ever stand in the dark of early morning, out in a valley, awaiting the dawn?  I remember mornings—brisk Autumn mornings, not unlike those I’m waking up to now—when I sat awaiting the sun, and the beauty that would follow its rising.

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

The hillsides disappointed.  Every time.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Savior who makes all things new.  

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

He promises us heaven.

Soon.  Soon, we’ll fly.

 

 

He promises us heaven. Soon. Soon, we'll fly. Share on X

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

“The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” 
“How are these things possible?” Nicodemus asked.
Jesus replied, “You are a respected Jewish teacher, and yet you don’t understand these things?  I assure you, we tell you what we know and have seen, and yet you won’t believe our testimony.  But if you don’t believe me when I tell you about earthly things, how can you possibly believe if I tell you about heavenly things?  No one has ever gone to heaven and returned. But the Son of Man has come down from heaven.  And as Moses lifted up the bronze snake on a pole in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up,  so that everyone who believes in him will have eternal life.”
(John 3:8-15 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

 

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

Shadows

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Winter Solstice.  

Here, in the northern hemisphere, it is the shortest day in the year.  Throughout the winter, because of the earth’s tilt on its axis, the sun is not visible in the sky overhead for as long each day.  Shorter days equals colder weather.  Theoretically.

On this shortest of the short days in this year, the wind is blowing a gale out of the south.  Rain, says the weatherman.  Tornadoes, others whisper ominously.  Listening, some will be afraid.  I shrug my shoulders.  What may come,  may come.

Or, it may not.

In my experience, mostly they don’t come.  Worry won’t change the odds, either way.

Funny.  It’s not the big things, the disasters, that cause me the most problems.

Shadows.  I worry about shadows.

I remember watching the shadows as a skinny little urchin under the heat of the South Texas sun.  Early in the morning, we rushed to beat the daylight to the fishing hole, trusty Zebco rod and reels slung over our shoulders.  We hoped to be fishing before our shadows could be cast across the feeding place of the perch we sought.  No doubt it was childish imagination, but we were positive the shadow would spook the fish, guaranteeing a morning devoid of the victorious shouts echoing along the banks:  I got one!

Then again, in the evening as we ambled toward home down the long avenue, our shadows would stretch for yards, as the sun dropped down to the western horizon.  Shadows meant the day was over.  That could only lead to one thing.  We were never ready to go to bed.  Never.

Ah, but in the middle of those wonderful, carefree days?  No shadow was cast by the sun at all.  High above us, the brilliant yellow sun was all light.  We moved, unencumbered with the dark appendage following or leading.

In the middle of such a day, who would worry about the coming night?  It (and its shadows) were endless hours away.

But the skinny urchin is an old man now, living many miles north of that childhood home.  In winter, the shadows are long during all of the daylight hours.  All of them.

tiptildyshadowsJust last weekend, as I lazed in the sunlight, I glanced over at my backyard companions.  It was midday, yet the shadows cast by my canine buddies lying nearby stretched toward the north, looking for all the world like the going-home-shadow of the westering sun on the backs of those boys, all those years ago.

Somehow though, the shadows I dread in winter aren’t only those springing from the southern-fleeing sun.  There are other shadows, not explained by scientists or weather maps, that gather thick as the year ebbs.

Imagined or not, the shadows creep, as the nights grow longer, deep into the soul.  Whispering at first, they warn of impending loss and sorrow.  Soon the shadows are all we see; their threatening voices fill our hearing with raspy, wailing torment.

Why is it, do you suppose, the Church fathers chose December, the month of shadows, for the celebration of the coming of brilliant Light to all the world?  It is not likely that we celebrate the event at the time of year it actually happened.  And, it really doesn’t alter the reality of the marvelous story.

Still, I wonder—why this month?

Oh, but what a contrast!  Night and Day!

The shepherds felt the contrast.  We’ve heard it so many times, we don’t really think about it.  In the dead of the night, every shadow fled from the field in which they lay.  (Luke 2: 8-12)

The glory of the Lord shone round about them?

Sounds like the shadows were nowhere to be found.  As with the South Texas midday sun, the light blazed.  Absolutely blazed.

Uh.  They were afraid.  Really afraid.  I think that’s what sore afraid means.  Maybe even really, really afraid.

And the angels told them they had nothing to fear.  Nothing.  This kind of thing—this blazing light at midnight—was about to be the norm.  The Baby, the one they would find lying in a manger, had come to bring light. To all people, He would bring the noonday sun into their midnight darkness.  

To all people

The light has shined in the darkness.  It will never be truly dark again. (John 1:5)

And the shadows?  Well, they’re just—just—shadows.  No substance, only threats.  With the coming of Light, they slip away, as if they never really were there.  

Light trumps darkness every time.

Even in the short, gloomy days of winter.  Maybe, especially then.

Worship Christ, the newborn King.

 

 

 

 

 

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.
(2 Corinthians 4:6 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

 

She bore to men a Savior, when half-spent was the night.
(from Lo How a Rose, E’er Blooming ~ German carol ~ ca. 15th Century)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved. 

Storm Line

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Autumn approaches like a storm line on the western horizon.  

I am not happy.

sky-173742_1280The Lovely Lady and I headed for church early the other morning about sun-up.  The lightly overcast sky above reflected the glow of the sun behind us as we headed west.  But directly ahead, we saw the line of heavy clouds stretched from our southernmost perspective all the way to the far northern horizon.

Without the need to consult a meteorologist or even to check with the weather app on my smarter-than-me-phone, I knew instantly that we would see rain in the near future.  It was inevitable.  Weather fronts here usually move from the west to the east.  We were east of the front.  

We were going to get wet.  We did.

The calendar tells me the first day of Autumn is tomorrow.  Just as certainly as that rain storm blew through on Sunday, the new season is going to arrive.

You don’t have to take my word for it.  His Word is clear.  Unassailably so.  As long as the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat. . .shall not end.  (Genesis 8:22 ~ NASB)

I don’t love Fall.  Oh, the trees are spectacular.  Absolutely spectacular.  The scarlet maple in the backyard will be so vivid that its brilliance will actually light the upper floor inside my house.  Orange, yellow, and purple hues will all combine to provide a palette that no artist can match, try though he might.

A lady who has known me all my years on this planet suggested to me today that the coming season will be wonderful.  As I always did with my siblings when we were children, I quickly tossed a pail of cold water all over the flame of my sister’s enthusiasm.

“It’s just a bunch of trees dying to get ready for winter.”

She quickly toweled herself off and alluded to the spectacular views which will be visible within weeks.  Reminding me that God made the cycle of seasons, she reprimanded me for my melancholy perspective.  It was almost as if we were ten and five years old, instead of nearly sixty and something over that.  

And, as I always had back then, I ignored her words, continuing on with my bellyaching.  

I consider myself a realist.  When I read the children’s books like Winnie the Pooh and Chronicles of Narnia, I don’t understand why people always disrespect Eeyore and Puddleglum.  

Eeyore, you’ll be familiar with from the Disney movies.  Gloomy, introverted, cartoon donkey that he is, you may be forgiven for taking him lightly.  

Puddleglum, on the other hand—Puddleglum you have to consider a realist and a solid character.

Who is Puddleglum, you ask?  Mr. Lewis tells us that he is a marsh-wiggle, inhabiting the swamps and living on a diet of stewed eels.  

He says thoughtful things like, “The bright side of it is that if we break our necks getting down the cliff, then we’re safe from being drowned in the river.”

What?  You’re laughing, aren’t you?

While Puddleglum may also be a humorous caricature, I’m not laughing inside.

I have spent a lifetime developing character traits which are not all that unlike those of the two famous pessimists mentioned above.  

New ideas are met with an instant declaration of all the reasons why they cannot be implemented.  

Success of newly launched ventures elicits vague warnings of impending failure, just wait and see.

Past experience is the measure by which all changes are considered.  Failures will lead to failures; successes to successes.  As they always have.

You know I was sick a good part of last winter, don’t you?  It is certain to be the case again this coming winter.

You understand also that I have grown to dislike even the cold temperatures of that barren season?  

With passionate disdain, I do not want to move away from the warmth of the fireplace while the wind blows and the ice coats the roads.  Not even to fly down the hillside on a sled or atop an inner-tube, will I leave my toasty perch.

For many years, I have been adamant in my condemnation of the intermediate season of preparation.  Autumn is prelude to Winter.  I will love neither.

But, as I sit and meditate on the words I have uttered again and again, to whomever will give ear, I begin to grow uncomfortable.  

There is a difference between being a realist and being ungracious.  

Speaking truth is important, but without proper perspective, it simply becomes selfishness.  Rude thoughtlessness begets animosity.

You can only throw cold water on your sister so many times before she becomes discouraged and disheartened herself.

The approach of Autumn is inevitable.  Winter will follow it.  It will. Those facts cannot be changed, as long as we’re living on this spinning orb.

It is possible, however, that I will not spend weeks fighting infection in my body.  Steps may be taken to avoid that.  It is not certain that ice will damage the shingles near the edge of the roof over my kitchen, nor that pipes in the wall will freeze.  

Those things, and things of more import, can change.  

Funny.  My heart can also be changed.  It’s a bigger task than I can undertake.  I can work on the physical inconveniences of the season to come. Our Maker  is the only One who changes hearts.  

The only One.

Our Maker is the only One who changes hearts. The only One. Share on X

He has done it from the beginning of time.  Just as certain as His sustenance of the changing seasons and natural laws set in motion at creation is the desire on His part to change our hearts, if we will allow it.  He will not force the change on us.

Winter will come.  That won’t change.  It doesn’t have to rule in our very being.

I’m ready for a new thing.

He does new things.

I still like Puddleglum.  But he could be wrong.  This time.

He’ll want to have the leg off at the knee, I shouldn’t wonder. You see if he doesn’t.

Yep.  He could be wrong.

I'm ready for a new thing. He does new things. Share on X

 

 

 

 

Do not call to mind the former things,
Or ponder things of the past.
Behold, I will do something new,
Now it will spring forth;
Will you not be aware of it?
I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
Rivers in the desert.
(Isaiah 43:18,19 ~ NASB)

 

 

“Good morning, Pooh Bear,” said Eeyore gloomily. “If it is a good morning,” he said. “Which I doubt,” said he.
(from Winnie the Pooh ~ A.A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved. 

Noonday Bright

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The birthplace of Christianity was the tomb.  The birthplace of splendor is desolation.  Spring is conceived in the dark womb of Winter.  And light is inevitably the offspring of darkness.  All this present heaviness of night is surely but the prelude to a better dawn.  The voice of God and the voice of Nature proclaim that the best is yet to be—always, the best is yet to be.
(Robert Cromie)

There is an unseen current of distress which I sense in much of my interaction with folks these days.  From my friends who use their understanding of the Bible to prop up their dim view of the future of civilization, to those who see the changing political landscape in our country—indeed, in the world—as proof of our impending calamity, there is an air of certainty and of finality.

I myself, and no time more than when I sit down to write, have of late been overcome by the melancholy sense of things which have passed beyond recall.  Friends are missing from my life—friends who were here just moments ago.  Family members have disappeared—people I loved and who loved me—never to be encountered again while I breathe this air.

All is dark.  The end will soon be upon us all.

But, is it?  Will it?

I cannot begin to count the number of times in my lifetime I have heard folks predict the ending of this world.  From the same Bible I read and believe, they have found proof of days and seasons, and some, even times.  But, again and again, the day, the season, and yes, even the time has passed and life continues here on this spinning ball.

I do not wish to discount the prophecies cited, but I am skeptical of the ability of any living man to  successfully render an accurate reading of passing events with hopes of naming the day or even the season in which the end will come.

It seems to me that it is not our purpose in this life to look to the ending of time, but to work while we still have it on our side.

springsongBut, I have a different purpose here, a purpose not tied up in prophecy or politics.  The writer of Hebrews suggests we have a responsibility to encourage each other.  He says it is even more imperative as we see the end approaching.  Even more.

Encourage, verb:  Give support, confidence, or hope, to (someone).

I’m ready to be done with the doom and gloom, to move out from under the cloud of defeat and into the light of victory.  That said, it seems we start from a position of disadvantage.  It is dark and cold here in the real world.

In this dark world, where is the light of day to be found?

If you noticed the painting above, you may have had the passing thought: how sweet—a little girl looking at a songbird.

You would be partially right.  There is a little girl.  There is even a songbird.  You would also be partially wrong.

She is not looking at the bird.  The artist’s daughter, the subject of this touching tableau, is completely blind.

The world in which the little girl grew up and lived was permanently dark.  It didn’t stop her from hearing the song of the robin and knowing winter could not last forever.  The barren ground would explode with grasses and flowers; the trees would burst forth into bloom, filling the air with the aroma of their buds.  In the heart of that little girl, who would never see Spring, the glory of that blessed season was already bursting forth.

Spring is conceived in the dark womb of Winter.

I refuse to live in the dark of  night, when all about me is the orange of the sunrise.  I cannot remain in the black grip of sadness, when the joy promised in the morning is already at hand.

Do you hear the robin’s song too?  Are you ready to head out in the early blush of dawn on a road that leads to a noonday bright?

It is not so dark here.  Maybe we could travel together a while.

The voice of God and the voice of Nature proclaim that the best is yet to be—always, the best is yet to be.

 

 

 

For the darkness shall turn to dawning,
And the dawning to noonday bright.
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
The kingdom of love and light.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H Ernest Nichol ~1862-1928)

 

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.
(John 14:27 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.