August | 2026 | He's Taken Leave

I wrote recently about defective eyes. Eyes that cry too much. That wasn’t the whole story.

For the last few months, I haven’t been able to see clearly.

But it was only in one eye. That’s not so bad, is it? I still have one eye that sees just fine. The pesky eye, though—my right eye—is blurry. I can’t read at all with it. Like the fellow in the Gospels, I see men as trees walking.

It irks me. I’m grumpy about it. And the Lovely Lady has been patient for long enough.

The ophthalmologist told me it would be easy to repair. Ten minutes in the surgeon’s chair, a few seconds of a laser beam directed skillfully at the troublesome lens, and I’ll be just fine.

I believe him.

I’ve pinned my hopes on this appointment with the surgeon for weeks now. I’ll get up early (the middle of the night for me!) tomorrow morning, and, making my way to a nearby city, will trust my eye to the man with the certificate on his wall saying he is worthy of that trust.

Today, I sat at my piano and attempted once more to play the latest song I’m struggling to render into recognizable music. For a few moments, it seemed I would succeed.

But with only one usable eye, fatigue sets in quickly. It’s difficult to focus, to gather in the multiple shapes and iterations of the notes lining the staves on the page. In the middle of the piece, I groaned in disgust and walked out of the room angry.

I am not content.

But tomorrow I shall be.

That’s funny. The words of my namesake, the apostle who loved to write letters, spring to my mind, and I have to stop and reassess.

“I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content in any circumstance.” (Philippians 4:11, NET)

Shall I be? Content? Tomorrow?

How many todays have I squandered in hoping for what is planned for tomorrow?

When will I have learned to be content? No matter the circumstances.

I write the words as I sit at my desk, just adjacent to the old grand piano, where I exclaimed in disgust just moments ago.

It’s either true or it’s not:

“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble” (Psalm 46:1, NIV)

I think I’ll bring this little missive to a close.

The piano is calling. Again.

I really can see just fine with my left eye.

I’ll still go and see that doctor in the morning.

Today, I’m content.

“This is the day the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24, NKJV)

I didn’t sleep much last night. I blame the Lovely Lady who lives with me.

No, she didn’t snore all night—didn’t even toss and turn, stealing the sheet from my side of the bed. So far as I can tell, she slept like a baby; eight hours or more.

Still, it’s her doing. She checked the book out of the library for me to read.

It’s not what you think. It wasn’t a horror story or a murder mystery, not even a science-fiction thriller. She checked out a children’s book. One I mentioned I would like to read one day.

It wasn’t even the contents of the entire book that had my mind roiling and twisting down unexplored pathways. It was only two lines. A conversation between a boy and a horse.

The boy and his friend, the mole, are riding on the wise old horse’s back—out in the wild—heading for home.

“‘We have such a long way to go,’ sighed the boy.
‘Yes, but look how far we’ve come,’ said the horse.” *

That’s it. Two lines. No great conflict. No astonishing victory.

Just a reminder.

He didn’t bring us this far to only bring us this far.

But the thoughts of what lies ahead (and behind) embody so much of what is real. I mean, really real; for all of us.

And those real things can bring on sleepless nights, sometimes.

I lay there beside the sleeping lady, and my mind refused to stop its gyrations. The future has become compacted in some mysterious way (old age creeps up, you see), but there are so many miles of the journey yet to be traversed.

There are things I wanted to do, but haven’t started. Things I’ve started, but have interrupted for other, more important things. Events which keep poking their noses in—where they’re definitely not wanted—and won’t be ignored.

There IS so far still to go.

I think it was no coincidence that this morning was Youth Sunday at the fellowship we attend. The youngsters led nearly the entire service, with the youth pastor bringing the message, but they were included in his part, too.

I needed exactly that today.

Worship happened. The music wasn’t all familiar to this old geezer, but it was done so well, with a young leader who has many years ahead of him in that field if he’s led that way. The room was full, not only of music, but also of the turning of hearts to the One we worship.

But throughout, this old (sleep-deprived) mind was full of memories of beginnings for me at similar ages to the teens on the stage.

I couldn’t stop my mind from running through the intervening years. All along, I’ve never known a time when I wasn’t aware of God’s hand on my life, and on the lives of my family.

I know I’m not the only one.

So far we’ve come.

And the road winds into the future, almost it seems, without end.

It will, one day. End, that is.

Sooner for some than for others.

But He promises to stay beside us.

“He who began a good work in you will complete it…”

“…Lo, I am with you always.”

“I will never leave you nor forsake you…”

I’m going to sleep soon. I’m sure I will. He gives rest when we need it.

But tomorrow morning, I’ll step out on the road again. With Him beside me, I’ll step out.

There’s still so far to go.

There’s room for more to walk there.

Are you coming with?

“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, LORD, make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8, NIV)

* (from The Boy, the mole, the fox, and the Horse, by Charlie Mackesy, HarperOne Books)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Month: August 2026

I Am Learning To Be Content

Look How Far. . .