“I saw this and thought of you, Paul.”

The words accompanied a post on my Facebook wall.  It happens frequently these days.  One would expect, wouldn’t one?, that the post would be some piece of insightful wisdom or some profound truth tailor-made for exegesis in these essays.

Well?  That is what I should find, is it not?

Alas, the answer to that question is inevitably negative.  Again and again, the post I see is a pun, or a photographic play on words, perhaps even a page full of pun-fully (and possibly, painfully) silly witticisms, suitable for short quips and insertion into conversation at odd times.  I am, it seems, well-known for such drolleries, having made a habit of posting many for the amusement (or disgust) of my friends.

It occurred to me the other day that some things never change.  I know I have told you that all of life is one change after another, suggesting that we should give in to the inescapable fact that nothing stays the same.  In some sense, it seems, I may have led you astray.

I have spent a lifetime as the class clown, my claim to fame seeing to the entertainment of those around me.  I haven’t always been successful at the task, but I keep trying.  I’m aware that more than a few of my attempts at humor have been more annoying than amusing, but that hasn’t stopped me from making the effort.

It is only in the last few years that I have begun to recognize where this desire to make people laugh comes from.  It’s not something I like to think about.  I’m even a little reticent to speak of it.

Even so, I have confessed before to this need that I have–this desire to be noticed by others.  I don’t like for the parade to be passing me by; I want to be a clown in it.  Funny thing, we all have this same need built into us, from the most extroverted right on down to the most shrinking of violets that exists.

We need to know that we matter, that other people see us.  I mean, really see us.

I was walking across the parking lot at church one day recently.  A friend approached, her face lighting up as she walked toward me.  I smiled in return, gratified that she was happy to see me.  As I began to voice a greeting, she spoke excitedly to the lady walking behind me.

“I’m so sorry I missed you the other afternoon!  I hoped you would be here today.”  My face must have given away my chagrin at thinking the welcome was for me.  “Oh, I’m sorry, Paul.  I didn’t see you there.  How are you today?”

I recovered and greeted her, moving off quickly to allow the two ladies time to visit.  It also gave me time to tend to my bruised ego.

I want to be seen!  I want to be the person being greeted effusively, the one for whom the welcome bubbles up from the heart.  Oh, don’t get me wrong.  Often, it is.  I don’t think I’m invisible, nor do I want for people who enjoy my company.  It’s simply that–well,I always hope for more–just a little bit more.

I could go on.  There are people who feel invisible.  I know of folks who actually are invisible to most of us.  They want to be seen, too.  They want to be seen as humans, not as homeless or poor.  They want to be seen as loved, not as castoffs in a nursing home waiting to die.  They want to be seen as important, not as ignorant and uneducated.

We all, every one of us, want–no, more than that–we need to be seen.

Funny.  This time of year, this season of anticipation, is about exactly that.  The whole of humanity has spent all their lives being clowns, acting out in order to be noticed by a Creator who actually never stopped noticing them.

Christmas is about a God who sees us.

He didn’t look past the homeless, the poor, the aged, and the handicapped to the wealthy and beautiful, or the powerful and brilliant.  He looked at each one of us.

Right directly at me.  At you.

And, He said, “I’ve got news for you!  It’s great news of incredible joy for every single one of you!”  I’m pretty sure that it was no accident that those words were said to the poor sheep tenders who had the night shift.  These people were used to being overlooked.  They expected it.  They were not educated.  They were not wealthy.  They had no power.  They were the lowest of the low in Jewish society, not even recognized as responsible legal witnesses in their court system.

But, on that night they knew, beyond a doubt, that He saw them.  With no jumping up and down, no screaming fits, and no comedy routines He looked at them, and at us, and said,  “For you–the gift of a Savior–because I see you, and I love you.”

He sees me!  He sees you!  How great our joy!

I’ll continue to pepper my friends with puns; they’re nothing to sneeze at.  But, I’ll no longer do it to be sure I’m seen.  I know that we’re made to laugh and enjoy life and it’s my contribution to the process.

Perhaps, just once in awhile, someone could send me a thoughtful and intellectual quote, too.

Even clowns have feelings, you know.

The Little Boy and the Old Man

Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”
Said the old man, “I do that too.”
The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
“I do that too,” laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”
“But worst of all,” said the boy, “It seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
“I know what you mean,” said the little old man.”
(Shel Silverstein ~ American poet ~ 1930-1999)

“And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.  For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”
(Luke 2:10,11 ~ ESV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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He asked me to give him a hug.

Me.  A non-hugger if ever there was one.

Hadn’t I already given him enough?  Could I not even be spared this last and greatest indignity?   

A hug.

Well, if it was going to happen, I wasn’t going to be halfhearted about it.  I reached out and pulled him to me, sweat, stale cigarettes, and all, in a huge bear-hug.  I’m not sure, but I think he may have had tears in his eyes as he headed out the door and up the street to get his supper.  I was left standing there, still wondering what had just happened.

What had just happened?  Well, for starters, I think that part of it was just God, letting me know that He too has a sense of humor.  Back some time, I told of missing a chance to help a man and then later, another fellow coming in who was hungry and in need of food.  I said then that in my relief to be able to redeem myself, I “could have hugged him”.  Perhaps, the Lord thought that there was still unfinished business, because the man who insisted on a hug today was that same fellow who provided my second chance back then.  I guess I should learn not to use idle words when I describe events, shouldn’t I? 

Actually, though, my encounter with the young man didn’t go all that smoothly today.  Mark came in asking for help once more and I almost sent him away without doing anything for him.  It’s easy to become jaded by all the contrived stories and the contortions being performed by people who are developing their skills in a marketplace which is rapidly becoming saturated by men and women, all doing the same thing.  His story needed work, but it was plain that Mark was hungry and had no way to get food until the local food bank reopened tomorrow.  He wouldn’t starve.  Perhaps, I could get away with refusing to help him this time.  Others already had today.  He was prepared to hear another rejection and would try at the next place down the road.

I’m glad that I didn’t refuse him.  I would have missed out on the hug.  And in missing out on that, I would have missed out on the bigger lesson, a lesson I desperately needed.

It is Christmas time…the time when we celebrate the coming of a Savior…the time when we reflect on a God who would leave His glory to live as a servant to men, knowing that He would die at the hands of the very people to whom He came to show love.  I read the words again last week, written by the Apostle to his friends at Philippi.

“You should have His kind of heart, the kind that leaves behind its riches, its authority, and its glory, and reaches down to become just like the dirty, smelly slaves that populate the world He created.  That’s exactly how you should think, and live, and be.”

The paraphrase is my own, but it seems to sum up what is written there.  It certainly describes what happened on that first Christmas, so many years ago.  This was no romantic tale, no beautiful scene; there was no pomp, and certainly no regal birth.  He was born to be a servant, and by His example and His words–and His death, He showed us the way to live and serve, and to believe in Him.

Preti: Adoration of the Shepherds

Imagine, if you will, the Royalty of Heaven…touching and smelling and embracing, the dirty and the sick and the dying.

As I consider it, the stale smoke and the sweat on my young friend today would hardly be noticed in the world which the Baby King stepped into, would it?  Why, even the stench of the self-righteous filthy rags the religious people of this world are dressed in would make my friend’s condition feel like the freshness of a spring day in comparison.

And yet, we think nothing of demanding His touch, His caress, His embrace, as our right.

I have to wonder: how do we smell to Him?

I hugged that man today and I am serious when I tell you that as I walked back to my desk, I imagined that the odor emanating from my clothes was like a bouquet of flowers.  To the King of Christmas, I think it might have been so.

Obedience is surely a sweet aroma rising up to heaven.

And, for a moment today, I think I understood just the tiniest bit of what He did for me.  That understanding may be gone tomorrow, but I’ll keep plugging away at this obedience thing.  There will be more chances in the days to come.  Of that, I’m sure.

I’m also going to need more practice before I’ve got the hugging part down though.

Perhaps, if you come to visit, a firm handshake will suffice.

“Men greet each other with a sock on the arm; women, with a hug.  The hug wears better in the long run.”
(Edward Hoaglund~American nature writer~born 1932)

“They (your gifts) are a fragrant offering, an acceptable sacrifice, pleasing to God”
(Philippians 4:18b~NIV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

Edited and reprinted from a post on 12/14/12.

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful…”

Those aren’t just song lyrics.  The whining, whistling wind of a winter storm blew past my ears as I ran my accustomed route yesterday evening, signaling a brief hiatus to my fitness program.  And, this morning, the cold monster up above began to slobber and drool, releasing ice and sleet to cover the ground and trees, as well as the roads.

When the tiny humans on the ground insisted upon continuing their activities, nearly unfazed (except for the temporary insanity of removing all the bread and milk they could carry from the grocery store shelves), the petulant storm shook its wintry head in frustration and covered the world below in a layer of white dandruff several inches deep.

We are sitting tonight, the Lovely Lady and I, by the fire, reminiscing about winters gone by.  Sledding and inner tubing, making doughnuts in empty parking lots with the old ’76 Chevy Nova, and even a ride or two on the upside down car hood being towed behind a friend’s old Ford pickup truck–all of these are wonderful memories from the past.

We’re staying by the fire, though.

It seems that the season of life when we need to make memories out in the cold, hard world has faded into the season of life when we enjoy said memories from the comfort of our little den.  I’m not worried one little bit about frostbite.  Even so, the memory makes me shiver from the cold.

It was the winter of my twenty-first year on this planet.  Winter was a relatively new sensation to me, having spent the first nineteen of them in the heat of the tropics.  The invitation to make a few trips to the top of a nearby hill seemed innocent enough.

Go down fast–climb up slowly–repeat.  What could go wrong?

We had no sleds, but sheets of thick plastic and huge pieces of cardboard from appliance boxes served to get us down the hill time and time again.  Then another twenty-something friend appeared with a huge inner tube from a semi-truck tire.  Wow!  This had promise!

The guys thought it would be fun to pile four and five deep onto the huge black doughnut and slide down the hill, and we did just that.  Two or three trips down the hill with just one or two of us rolling off on the way down convinced the young ladies who were there that it wasn’t dangerous at all.  The next thing we knew, there were three couples atop the bouncy homemade toboggan in a mass of laughing, teasing humanity.

At the top of the hill, the inner tube stuck tight, refusing to move until a couple of nearby onlookers were recruited to give it a push.  Slowly, the massive rubber craft began its descent over the well-worn track leading to the bottom of the hill and another routine trudge back up.  Only, along the way we got off the track.  Perhaps we had loaded one side more than the other, but regardless, the tube drifted rapidly in what appeared to be a collision course with a tree near the end of the slope.  Ready to roll off, and realizing that we were picking up speed quickly, we managed to steer the whole ungainly affair to the right of the big tree and we breathed a sigh of relief.

Too soon!  As we passed the tree we found, to our surprise and lasting discomfort, that there was a protruding root stretched out under the snow.  The resulting ramp which the packed snow formed launched the inner tube and all of its passengers high up into the air at a tremendous speed.  Our laughing ceased instantly as we found ourselves propelled through the air on the way to a certain impact on the snow below.

I won’t bother to describe the carnage.  I think most of us forewent the return trip up the hill at that point, electing instead to head for home and hot showers.  No one required a trip to the emergency room, but to this day, the Lovely Lady feels the effect of that one trip down the snow-covered hillside.

No.  We’ll stay in and enjoy the wintry weather in the comfort of a warm house.  Our advanced years and an episode or two like the one just described have taken away our need to experience the thrill and chill of the fresh snowfall firsthand.

Will you allow just one moral lesson from this little trip down the hills in my memory tonight?

It hadn’t been too many months before that wintry night when the Lovely Young Lady’s mother had stopped us at the front door as we headed out for a date one evening.  Her words seemed strange to me, but her intent was clear.  She was concerned, as most loving parents are, that lines might be crossed which couldn’t be retreated from and she wanted to make her meaning plain.

“You know, a toboggan starts really slowly down the hill, but once it picks up speed, it is nearly impossible to stop.”  She was actually embarrassed to say the words, but she didn’t want to wait until it was too late.

We got the point.

The lesson is true in many more ways than the application to youthful lusts which have led multitudes down disastrous paths.  I have seen innumerable ways in which it may be applied to daily life, even as I have matured.

No one gets over their heads in debt all at once, it seems.  Slowly it begins, a dollar here, ten there, and finally, hundreds and thousands of dollars later financial ruin awaits at the bottom of the hill.

The married woman accepts the invitation to coffee from the company hunk, thinking to herself, “It’s only coffee…”  The sled moves only inches, but it moves.

The businessman makes a sale of a few hundred dollars and pockets the cash, keeping it off the books.  The IRS audit awaiting down below seems so far away.

Hmmm…it seems that the toboggan principle applies to my writing also.  One moral truth has almost become a full trip down the hill to a sermon.

It may be time to roll off of this sled.

I could almost like winter from the vantage point I’ve got tonight.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

“…but the fire is so delightful.”

“I must cool myself and think.  For, it is easier to shout stop! than to do it.”
(Treebeard in The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist/educator ~ 1892-1973)

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
(Lao Tzu ~ Ancient Chinese philosopher ~ 604 BC-531 BC)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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The self-employed young father checked his bank account one more time.

Still no different than it had been for the last two months.  Not enough.  Not enough for the bills which were beginning to pile up in the basket on his desk–Not enough for the plans he had for his struggling business–Not even enough for new school clothes for the kids.  It was time for Plan B.

Plan B?  There was no Plan B.

He took another job.  Weekends.  He worked as a security guard at the local manufacturing plant.  Don’t be fooled by the title.  He was a greeter.  Yep.  Like the folks who used to meet you at the front door of your local discount store.

“Hey.  How are you today?  Have a great shift!”

After the three hundred fiftieth time in an hour, he was over it.  He asked his supervisor if there was something else he could do to make the twenty hours he was to work each weekend pass more quickly.

“Sure,”  the answer came immediately.  “You see that stack of work orders over there?  You can transcribe them to computer files.”

That job was dispensed with quickly and the young man was back for more.  Anything was better than waiting for the shift change and waving at people who walked by.  His next request netted him the additional task of rendering the materials inventory list from the old paper forms to the computer system.  When he was done with that, he had some suggestions for the IT guy about improving the program the company was using for these vital data lists.

The next weekend, he blew through the two tasks so quickly that he added the task of transcribing personnel progress reports to the burgeoning schedule of chores to be completed each weekend.  He was never bored.

Then he noticed something.  Notes were being left for him.

“Could you do…?”

“It would be nice if you would find the time to…”

“We really need to have this done by Monday.”

After a couple of months of increasing responsibilities which were completed each week, he opened his paycheck envelope one afternoon and it hit him.  His paycheck was still written for exactly the same amount it had been the first week.  He remembered his job the first day.

“Hey.  How are you today?  Have a great shift!”

It paid the same amount.

The next week, the stacks of paper reports remained piled against the wall.  The young man had brought a couple of novels with him, along with a CD player and ten hours worth of music.  The keyboard to the computer sat idle, as he did the same.  He wondered if they would notice.  They did.

“Were you not feeling well last weekend?  The work is really piling up.”  His supervisor seemed genuinely concerned.

“No.  I felt fine.  I just realized that my job doesn’t require me to do those things.  I’ll do them again if I decide to.  I’ll probably just sit here at my desk today, like you told me to when I first started.”

The storm wasn’t long in erupting.  “You’ll do no such thing!  I’d better see some progress on those reports when I come back in on Monday!  Sit at your desk!  Ha!  We’re not paying you to goof off here!”

He did the reports.  At least he wasn’t bored.
_______________________________

Photo: Meaghang

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I thought today about a little book which was popular around the turn of this century.  It was written about a prayer in the Bible by a man named Jabez.  The man prayed that his territory would be enlarged.  God granted his request and gave him more.  The author of the book had some thoughts on how the prayer could be effective for us today.

By the millions, people bought the little book.  By the millions, they also bought into the idea that by praying this same prayer each day they could have more.  More money, more possessions, more power–you name it, they wanted it and demanded it.

I am wondering if the prayer was answered for many of them.  I wonder if they also learned what the young man did as he attempted to avoid boredom.

With additional blessings come added expectations of the one being blessed. 

The Bible says it this way:  “To whom much is given, much is required.”

Some days, I think that I may have asked for too much myself.  I almost wish that my territory wasn’t so large.  Just last week, I actually heard myself say the words out loud:

“Stop the merry-go-round.  I want off!”

How about it?  Any possibility that anyone else out there is feeling the same way?

Perhaps, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, you too have found that your eyes were bigger than your stomach.  She would say that when I put too large a quantity of a favorite food on my plate, thinking that I wanted all of it, only to find that there was no capacity for that amount in the place it needed to go.  The rule at our table was that you had to eat everything you put on your plate.  There were times when I hated that rule.

In recent days I’m working at putting a smaller portion on my plate–both at the dinner table and in the taking on of new responsibilities.  I want to do everything I can, but I also have to know my limits.

I’m still exploring the stretching capacity in some areas, but drawing in the fence rows in others.  You see, the grass isn’t all that much greener on the other side of that fence, after all.

No praying the prayer of Jabez blindly again and again for me.  I think I like the words of the Apostle in the New Testament a little better.

I’m learning wherever I am that I can be content.

What’s that?  More mashed potatoes?

No thanks.  I’ve had enough.

“He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have.”
(Socrates ~ Greek philosopher ~ 469 BC-399 BC)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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High fives from cute teenage girls!  How could you not like that?

Well, I’ll tell you, this old guy was certainly not immune to the little ego boost that came along with the invitation to slap the upraised hands of the smiling university coeds as I ran by.  The next lap or two around the track seemed just a little shorter, the effort to put one foot in front of the other a little less demanding.

It’s amazing what a little encouragement can do.

I detest exercising in the cold.  Really, you could remove the last phrase from that sentence and still have a truthful statement.  I don’t like to exercise much.  Period.  I do it anyway.  I guess you could say I like the result more than I detest the method of reaching said result.  I’m a little happier with the shape of that guy I see in the mirror these days.

That said, I can hardly force myself to leave the comfort of our home and go into the great outdoors when the temperature dips much below fifty degrees.  So it was, one evening recently, I found myself headed for the indoor track at the local university’s health center since I didn’t want to brave the nearly freezing temperatures that had arrived suddenly.  I laughed at the irony of driving my car to the gym so I could run, but I did it anyway.  Did I tell you?  I hate to be cold.

The running/walking track in the health center is on a mezzanine that circles the outer gym wall about ten feet above floor level.  When I arrived, I noticed a number of students crowding the track near the railing, looking down on a girl’s intramural soccer game taking place on the gym floor.  The entire inside lane was blocked by the spectators, but there was another lane in which to run, so I began my three mile ordeal anyway.  I had to dodge an unobservant kid or two during the session, but they stayed out of the way for the most part.

As I rounded the one-tenth mile long track for about the twentieth time, I came to another conclusion.

I detest exercising on the indoor track–nearly as much as I detest exercising in the cold.

I am not made to be an athlete.  I constantly have to concentrate on what my feet are doing, or they get tangled in each other.  If I’m not careful, I pound my heels on the running surface and the result is an aching back and shin splints that hurt for weeks.  My arms fly all akimbo wherever they want, making me look, for all the world, like a stick figure lurching down the track.  As I tire, I find my upper body leaning forward, as if the end of this torture might come sooner if I lean into it.

The poor design of the track I was running on only made my discomfort more intense, and the crowd of kids along the railing simply added to the misery.  Still, I was determined to complete the distance I had predetermined to achieve.  So I tried to ignore the spectators, even though their presence made me take a few extra steps every lap by having to keep to the outside lane.  I may even have frowned at them a time or two as I approached them.  I really wasn’t thinking about how they felt.

Selfish kids!  Didn’t they realize the track was for patrons to exercise on?

It turns out that at least a couple of them were thinking about how I felt.

I was startled at about the twenty-fifth lap to see a couple of the girls watching me as I rounded the corner at the far end of the track. I was even more surprised when they both raised their hands in the traditional invitation for a congratulatory high five hand slap as I approached their position.  My shock didn’t keep me from slapping both hands as I passed.

In my imagination, I heard a conversation between the two girls as I had run within their view on the other side of the gym numerous times.

“Would you look at that old guy go?  He’s really good at this!”

“Yeah, I’m amazed at how far he’s run.  And, he’s still got such great form!  I’m gonna give him a high five the next time he comes around!”

What really transpired was probably something quite different.

“Would you look at that old guy?  He doesn’t look like he’ll get around the track another time.  I hope he’s all right.”

“Yeah, I’m amazed that he’s lasted that far.  We should give him some encouragement.  Let’s give him a high five if he makes it back around.”

Regardless of their motivation, or their impression of my skills, the high five did the trick.  I was encouraged and felt better about running inside.  The remaining half-mile went by easily.  I didn’t trip myself and I’m pretty sure that I managed to run upright, instead of leaning forward like an old man running downhill.

It’s amazing what a little encouragement can do.  Especially when it comes from an unexpected source.

Last Saturday, I got to play with a few other people in a local music program.  The headline act was a professional saxophonist (who grew up here) and his band, who are all professionals as well.  My brass quintet did a couple of numbers on the program.  I played okay.  It was not a stellar performance, but it was a competent one.  I expected the hometown folks to tell me how much they enjoyed it.  It’s what people do.  I would do the same thing.

Imagine my astonishment when, at intermission, the keyboard player for the headliner walked over to where I was standing with a young lady who had sung in one of the earlier acts.  Shaking my hand, he specifically mentioned how much he loved hearing me play the French horn and made a point of complimenting my performance.  Then, turning to the young lady, he commented on the piece her group had sung, making sure to mention how beautiful it was.

If ever I have been genuinely encouraged, this did the trick!

First, that the man even knew what instrument I played was astounding to me.  Half of the hometown folks couldn’t have told you that.  They just know I play in the group and they like the overall sound.  He picked out the instrument and knew who played it, as well as being aware of the performance itself.  This from a man who should have been standing and letting us compliment him on his stellar abilities at the keyboard, while playing in that outstanding ensemble.  We never got the chance to return his encouragement before he was off to the next group he wanted to greet.

Do you understand what he did?  I wonder if even he understands it.  My guess is he does not.

Praise from someone you don’t expect it from elevates the spirit, freeing the one complimented to do even better.

I’ve heard all of my life about people who have the gift of encouragement.  I hear from them frequently myself.  They are the people who look for opportunities to praise, to prod to do better, to lift the spirits of all around them.  As a writer and musician, I appreciate them incredibly.  That said, I sometimes come to expect their input.  I don’t want to take away from what they do, because it is so important.

But, these unexpected bright spots, the glare of the spotlight which the unexpected compliment shines on achievement–Ah, that makes the spirit soar and give fuel to go the distance!

Are you an encourager?  Keep doing what you’re doing!  The world needs you and your kind words, as well as your exhortation to do better.

What if you’re one who is uncomfortable with encouraging others?  I wonder if you have any idea what one sentence from you will accomplish, offered at the right time?  You may be one of the young coeds offering the high fives.  You may even be the professional turning aside praise to offer it instead to others.

Like the uncomfortable zone I move into every time I exercise, or leave the warmth of my home to go into the cold world, you may find it frightening the first time you do it.  It may even be frightening the first one hundred times.  Do it anyway.  You never know who you will inspire to do better, to reach further, to stretch themselves out of their own comfort zone.

All it takes is a high five.  Or a kind word.

You can afford to give those away.

You’ll probably get them back anyway.

“The praise of the praiseworthy is beyond all rewards.”
(from “The Two Towers” ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ 1892-1973)

“So, encourage each other and build each other up, just as you are already doing.”
(1 Thessalonians 5:11 ~ NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.