I emptied the cookie crumbs out of my coat pocket tonight.  I have no idea how they got there.

The red-headed woman who raised me would have suggested I have a selective memory.  She always seemed to think I remembered the things I wanted to remember and forgot the things which were less convenient to recall.

She was right.

It is a common human trait.  I have related many memories which I have from my childhood and early adult years to you.  My siblings, who quite possibly follow my late night ramblings simply as a form of self-protection, often tell me they don’t remember events exactly as I have relayed them to my readers.  The interesting thing to me is that seldom do they disagree completely about whether an event occurred or not.  We simply differ in our remembrance of the details involved.

I have delighted in reaching back through the years to pull a memory out of the darkness of decades past, only to find we can still learn from the foolishness of youth, or the disasters which have overtaken us, or even the errors we make in our relationships.  Memories help us to keep strong ties with those we love, and to move on into the future, stronger and wiser for the experience.

This week, I read with dismay an article in a current science magazine.  The article suggested that memories are unreliable.  It even made the claim that science is on the verge of being able to erase and rewrite memories, as if this would be a good thing.  The article cited examples of wartime atrocities and childhood abuse as justification for the necessity of such a radical act.

I am terrified at the possibility that this “Total Recall” world might actually become reality.

Do I understand that some memories are horrible?  I do.  Do I have some of these horrible memories myself–memories so awful, so graphic, that I sometimes wish they had never been part of my experience?  I do.  Would I be happy to have these memories erased from my mind, as if those events had never occurred in my life?

I would not!

Before going any further, let me say that I don’t want to get into a contest to see whose memories are harshest.  I won’t try to prove I have more reason to wish my memories wiped away than anyone else, nor will I tell you mine are nothing but sunny and joyful recollections.  Neither position would be true.  There are people with images etched into their brains that I can’t imagine having.  I wouldn’t dare to burden you with some of mine.  That said, I cannot imagine having a single one of them removed from my consciousness forever.

Our experiences make us who we are today.  Our memories inform us and teach us, helping us to become better people.  They allow us to be sympathetic to people going through the same things and to be indignant about humans treating others in ways we know from experience are wrong and damaging.

Take away our memories and you take away our motivation, our responsibility even, to make this world a better place as we move through it.  If the memories of everyone who lived through the Holocaust had been wiped clean of that horror to make their later years more comfortable, we wouldn’t know that we needed to be vigilant to see that it never happened again.

In effect, if you wipe out the memory of an event, it didn’t happen.  As a consequence, it cannot be necessary to avoid its reoccurrence.

It is slightly apropos that I mentioned my mother when I talked about selective memory earlier.  You see, she is one who has little by little lost her memories.  I spoke with her some time ago about the house in which I grew up, her home for over thirty years.  She has no memory of the place–cannot see it in her head at all.  Many other memories have been lost to her, including the names of her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren.

I grieve for her lost years.  I am not alone in that grief.

Are there some memories she is better off without?  Possibly.  Is it preferable she have the bad memories, along with the good?  Undoubtedly.

It is impossible to consider the possibility of having memories erased without at least momentarily considering some specific events I’d like to never recall again.  I’d like to never see that lady’s face again as she died in the car wreck.  I’d like to forget the cruelty of certain childhood bullies.  I’d like to forget the pain on my father’s face as he sat and tried to talk about my run-in with the police.

But then again, no…

I don’t want to forget a single one of those occasions.  Not one.

They are part of the fabric of my life, the integrity of who I am, if you will.  Without every one of them, collectively, I would not be who I am, nor could I be of any use to others who are walking the path along with me.

And even as I write, I recall where the cookie crumbs came from.  I’ll pay for them later with an extra mile or two of running.  I’m still learning from the past, you see.

Good–Bad.  They are all memories that I need and use every day of my life.

I’ll keep them, thanks.

“Memories are the key, not to the past, but to the future.”
(Corrie Ten Boom ~ Dutch Christian & Holocaust survivor ~ 1892-1983)

“You see George, you’ve really had a wonderful life.  Don’t you see what a mistake it would be to just throw it away?”
(Clarence in the movie “It’s A Wonderful Life” ~ Frank Capra, director ~ 1947)

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

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Photo: Kenny Louie (Vancouver Canada)

The female voice at the other end of the phone line was terse.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Phillips.  The account is closed.  You can never collect that check.”

The call ended and I sat at my desk, stunned.  Eight hundred dollars!  Gone, like smoke blowing in the breeze!  Eight hundred dollars!

The couple had come in to buy the guitar and amplifier just days before.  Well, to be honest, they had come in separately, sort of like a tag team, on succeeding days.  The first day, the man came in–you know–to case the joint.  That’s what they call it in the movies, isn’t it?  He was a big, friendly fellow, showing an informed understanding of the guitars and amplifiers.  Before he left, he had selected an instrument and an amplifier that complemented the electric guitar he wanted.  After I gave him the total for the items, including tax, he headed for the door.  He would be back.  It was possible that he couldn’t make it, but his girlfriend would come to get them if that was the case.

He couldn’t make it.  She came in the next day, a quiet, withdrawn young lady who knew nothing about music, save that she needed to pick up the merchandise her boyfriend had set back.  She wished to pay with a check which he had already made out for the exact amount.  It was after banking hours, so I couldn’t call the bank to confirm the funds, but fresh in my mind was the picture of that big, likeable man.

Sure, it will be fine!  A pleasure to do business with you!  Thank your boyfriend for me, won’t you?

I had even helped her load the items in the trunk of the car.  Almost without another word to me, she backed out of the parking space and sped down the street.  I never saw her again.

I stormed into the County Prosecuting Attorney’s office the next week.  The lady at the desk laughed unsympathetically when I told her the name of the person against whom I wished to file charges.

“Get in line,” she quipped dryly.  “Those people papered the whole area.  They must really have been good at what they do.”

I never recovered a dime of that money and, because of the way the law reads, the merchandise was no longer mine to claim, either.  Eight hundred dollars worth of equipment gone!  It was a hard blow to take.

Insufficient funds.

I wonder sometimes if I haven’t been guilty of the same crime that couple committed.  Oh, I’ve never written a hot check, never forged a check, never tried to pass off a closed account as a viable one.  But, I have made promises for which I didn’t have the resources to follow through.

Let me see if I can explain.

Tonight I’m contemplating the debt I have piled up over the years of my life.  If you are a follower of Jesus, as I am, you will no doubt recall that the Apostle gave us instructions about which debts are acceptable for us.  Well, not debts (plural).  It is actually only one debt which we may legitimately owe.  That’s right.  We owe the debt of love to our fellow man.  The Teacher said that it was the second most important Law from God.  The most important is for us to love God with everything we have.  The second?  Love our neighbor as much as we love ourselves.

I like that.  Always have.  Simple.  Concise.  Love God, love each other.  Any questions?

Well, yes.  What do I do when the debt gets too much for me to pay?

I have spent a lot of time over the last few years lecturing my readers about our responsibility to take care of those who have need of earthly goods.  What I am coming to realize is that this is the cheap part of the repayment of our debt of love for our fellow man.

Money?  I can part with it.  Food?  No problem–take what you need.  Need a car for a few days?  Take mine.  It’s available.

I am coming up a little short of funds in servicing the love debt, though.  The part which is not so cheap has been coming due with more frequency lately.  I really don’t have what it takes to pay up anymore, at least not from my own resources.

I can pay the debt as long as I can keep those I’m supposed to love at arm’s length.  It’s what occurs when my neighbor needs me to hold them close and give of myself that costs more than I have to spend.  Again and again, the call comes to comfort, to serve, to hold people who are hurting.  They have lost husbands and parents.  They have children who are making horrendous life choices and are lost to them.  Many of them have even lost themselves in the hubbub and din of the world around them.

They reach out to me, but I have no reserves.  There is nothing left with which to love them.

It costs too much to love these people!

I owe a debt I cannot pay.

I think though, that I am finally beginning–just beginning–to glimpse the beauty of the system.

I remember the old preacher saying the words years ago.  I resented them at the time, because I thought he had an ulterior purpose in saying them.  He may have; it doesn’t matter.  The words are still true.

“God never orders anything that He doesn’t pay for.  When He tells us to do something, He has already written the check for the full amount.”

And, here’s the beauty of it all:  When we love Him with everything that is in us, He pours out His own love into our hearts.  Did you get that?  Pours out!  Love is not doled out as needed, not rationed as if there is a shortage of it in the world.  He pours it out into our hearts–for us to pour out into those around us.

The debt has already been paid in full!  Poured out till it runs over.

We are without excuse.  We still owe the debt, but the funds have already been set aside and made available.

Will we pay it?

“…Hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.”
(Romans 5:5 ~ NASB)

“I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”
(Mother Teresa ~ Roman Catholic Sister ~ 1910-1997)

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

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I have come to the conclusion that I am a fair-weather cyclist.

Over the last few years, I have begun to appreciate the joy of riding a bicycle through the country side–over hills, around lakes and streams, and between grassy fields full of livestock.  From my first attempts that were only two or three miles long, I have gradually extended the distance and increased my energy output.

I was thinking that I would continue that through the coming fall and winter months.  I may need to rethink my optimism.

Yesterday, I headed out for an afternoon ride in the sunshine.   The temperature was a brisk fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit.  I was dressed appropriately.  What I hadn’t prepared for was the even brisker wind blowing from the northwest.  The seventeen to twenty mile per hour breeze was surprisingly difficult to ride against.  Biking either to the west or the north slowed my progress substantially.

On relatively flat stretches of the road, I can normally average 15 to 20 miles per hour.  Imagine my surprise when I attempted to achieve those speeds yesterday, only to find that I could hardly reach them, much less sustain them.  What I found was that if I dawdled along at 10 miles per hour, I could ride almost comfortably, but over that, for each mile per hour I sped up, the effort required was an amazing amount.  If I reached 15 miles per hour, I was pumping so hard it felt as if I was climbing the steepest hill I have ever attempted on a bicycle.

I struggled for the whole ride.  To top it off, I was exhausted when I finished a relatively short ride, almost as if I had ridden uphill the entire route.  Arriving home, I shoved my bicycle into the storage barn disgustedly.

It may just stay there until spring arrives.

But then again, maybe I shouldn’t be so hasty.

I talked about the problem with a fellow rider today.  I call him a fellow rider.  I’m certainly not in his league, but he is kind enough to play along with my little charade, so we’ll leave it at that.  When I complained about the difficulty, he wondered aloud about my purpose in making the ride.

“Are you trying to go really fast, or are you wanting the benefit of the exercise?”

The answer was obvious.  “The exercise, of course.  What are you driving at?”

His quiet reply came, “You don’t have to ride any faster.  Go as fast as you can without causing distress.  You’ll get there when you get there.”

Need I say any more?

What task is in front of you today?  Does it get more difficult with every step, every mile?  Every time you try to speed up, does the difficulty increase exponentially?

I wonder if we focus too much on the wrong things.

We’ve heard it again and again–there is joy in the journey.  In.  Not after.  Not at journey’s end, but in the journey itself.

The destination is not the goal, but rather accomplishing the task.  The goal includes the enjoyment of taking each step along the way.

Slow down. But keep going.

You’ll get there when you get there.

Exponential is a good term here.  No, I don’t mean the difficulty–this time.  What I’m saying is I’m pretty sure the benefits to finishing well are multiplied many times that of the drudgery and effort.  But, we’ll never know if we don’t keep at it.

Yeah.  I even see another bike ride or two in my very near future.  I may be slow, but I’m determined.

I’ll get there when I get there.

Photo: © David Lally

“But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.  They will soar high on wings like eagles.  They will run and not grow weary.  They will walk and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:31 ~ NLT)

“Get a bicycle.  You will certainly not regret it, if you live.”
(Mark Twain ~ American novelist ~ 1835-1910)

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

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“Don’t you have any seasons down here?” 

The elderly man was standing outside the Luby’s cafeteria in the South Texas sun, in his hand a handkerchief, with which he mopped his brow. It was January–by strict definition, the middle of winter, yet the eighty-five degree temperature belied the description. The long line at the cafeteria was populated generally by older folks, like this gentleman, from parts much further north. They suffered in the heat while the natives who stood impatiently in the line with the Snow-Birds, as we commonly called these northerners, noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

I heard a man nearby reply laconically to the old Winter Texan’s (the Chamber of Commerce’s name for them) query. “Yep. Two. Hot and Hotter.” 

He wasn’t lying. The temperate climate of the Rio Grande Valley, where I spent my childhood (I almost inserted “wasted”, but in fact, it wasn’t), was such that the trees and foliage were covered in leaves and blooms year round. The folks from the colder climes came year after year to spend their winters in a place where the snow didn’t blanket the ground, nor ice cover the streets. We commonly joked about the rubber-necking habits of the old folks, as they drove the highways and roads, exclaiming in disbelief about the plethora of fruit-bearing trees and the flourishing tropical greenery. It was the middle of the winter! How was it possible that everything was still growing? They thought it was a paradise of sorts. 

I haven’t always agreed.

I left my childhood home at the end of my teen years, looking for a place to start out on my own. One of the prerequisites I had for the place in which I would settle was the presence of four distinct seasons. I wanted to experience winter. (Ah, the foolishness of youth!) I also wanted to see the blossoming forth of the spring. The summer season, I understood all too well, but I knew I could endure it. I even looked forward to the autumn, as the trees began to go into hibernation, pausing for a few weeks before that to bring out their finest adornments for one last fling. What an explosion of beauty, short lived though it might be! 

The foothills of the Ozarks proved to be the perfect locale for experiencing all of the seasons, most of them fairly mild…the winters with just the right amount of cold and snow, the springtime not too stormy, but beautiful with new life, nor the summers unbearably hot. And, the autumn? Ah! The autumn did not disappoint, with brilliant colors and spectacular vistas. I, like the aforementioned Snow-Birds further south, thought it paradise. 

It’s funny how the years can change your perspective. For the last decade, I have begun to dread certain seasons. At first, I thought nothing of it. Spring, I still love without reserve. New life–the earth is unfettered and fertile. How can one not love spring? And summer, with the kudzu covered hillsides, and its long lazy days easing into beautiful star-lit nights? Aside from those few with extreme temperatures and lack of rain, I love summer and am always sorry to see it wane. And now, as the years continue on, I have begun to question the reason for my change of heart, because I am loath to see the coming of fall and am downright rebellious about entering the winter. 

At first, I blamed the autumn for its part in portending the chill and bleakness of winter. 

Winter itself, I despise because it makes me cold–Period. I do not enjoy being cold. I contend that anyone who pretends to love winter actually loves the fact that they can be warm in winter, either in the nest they have built for themselves, or in the multiple layers with which they wrap themselves to ward off the cold while outside. They don’t love cold, but simply the sense of conquering it. Unfortunately, it conquers me. And, mercilessly it rubs the conquest in. I spend my winters huddled in front of the fireplace, awaiting the return of my beloved springtime and the warmth it brings back to my old bones.

But, is it just about physical changes that occur? Or, is there some deeper meaning to my antagonism toward the two waning seasons, autumn and winter? I’m beginning to think there might be. 

The Lovely Lady and I sat and teased each other on a recent evening, as I prepared to leave her and write for awhile. She spoke of our middle age and the fact that it was already in the past. I joked that I hadn’t yet enjoyed my mid-life crisis and might demand one. Again, she reiterated the fact that my chance for that was gone, since I would not see middle-age again. She is right. I know not a single person who has reached the ripe old age of one-hundred and twelve, so I can no longer claim to be middle-aged and must move semi-gracefully into my senior years. I’m not anxiously awaiting the autumn of my life.

And, now it becomes more clear. 

I understand, at least in part, that my objection to the seasons which show decay and then death are a reaction to a different sort of reality that is still to come. In the spring and summer of life, there is little thought to what the future will bring. We are vital and strong, with a sense of invincibility. We ignore the warnings of older folks, all well-intentioned, who caution that the invincibility will prove fleeting. Educations are acquired, partners are chosen and offspring arrive. We build our little empires, ruling them with no thought that the future might find them any less impregnable than they are while we are in our prime. But, little by little as the years pass, we begin to realize that, like all flesh, we are edging inexorably toward the coming latter seasons. 

Do you detect a sense of sadness, a note of gloom in my writing tonight? You shouldn’t. As life passes, I have come to realize that, although our human nature says the coming autumn and winter are times to be afraid of, they are actually seasons to exult in. 

What season is more spectacular than fall? Nature displays its glory, unashamed and proud. And we, appropriately, applaud. The autumn of life is somewhat like that, as we think about what has been accomplished and enjoy the fruits of our labors. Our families are our glory, as grandchildren and grand-nieces and grand-nephews proliferate. What an exhibition! Friends gather close and the joy of fellowship is multiplied. What a great season of life!

The winter is coming. I’m not ready to celebrate it yet. But still, in spite of the cold and the seemingly lifeless landscape, preparation is being made for new life to come. Need I say more? Those of you who have entered that season will understand. Sadness and joy are mixed with expectation. I think that I may just enjoy winter also. We’ll see.

“To everything, there is a season.” 

The Preacher, for all of his rambling, knew it. I’ll take them as they come. Who knows? I may even get some new winter clothes this year, so I can actually thrive in that chilly season too. The fireplace will still be there if I need it…

Fall is exploding all around us. I think I’m enjoying it more than ever before.

All nature sings!

Photo: Tyler Carroll

“So it is with you
And how You make me new
With every season’s change.
And so it will be
As You are re-creating me…
Summer, autumn, winter, spring.”
(from “Every Season” by Nichole Nordeman ~ American singer/songwriter)




“Springs passes and one remembers one’s innocence.
Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance.
Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence.
Winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance.”
(Yoko Ono ~ Japanese musician) 


Thanks to Tyler Carroll for the spectacular photo above.  Fall in Siloam Springs, AR. 


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


Edited and reprinted from a post on 8/29/2012.

“Hello darkness, my old friend.  I’ve come to talk to you again.”

The quiet duo, almost morose in tonality, began to sing in my earphones as I walked my accustomed route late one night last week.  I almost stopped short.

Oh, it’s not a new song, the recording having been made nearly fifty years ago; it’s not even as if I haven’t heard it a thousand times or more in my lifetime.  It’s just that I heard the words in the right setting for the first time on that night.

In the dark.

In a dark mood.

Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel wrote and recorded “The Sound of Silence” in the years just after the assassination of President Kennedy.  It was a dark time for many in our nation and they captured the fear and angst of a generation.  “In restless dreams I walked alone–narrow streets of cobblestone.”  The anguish is almost palpable.

I mention the setting simply to reiterate that both the writing and the singing come out of the darkness.  Mr. Simon admits to beginning with the words quoted above as he spoke them into the darkness of his bathroom, where he often sat and wrote in his early days of performing.

My writing will never achieve the stature of his, but often it too comes out of the darkness of night.  Frequently, it proceeds from the darkness of my spirit as well.  By that, I mean that there are places in my heart where all is not gaiety and party favors.

I think it would be an error to cast this darkness as harmful or evil.

Sadness exists, in spite of my efforts to banish it.

And, that’s as it should be.

As I read my own words written in these times, I have to admit that some of the most powerful sentiments I feel come out of that same darkness.  Many of the essays I have wrenched out of my forays into the dim, uncertain night are, in my mind, my most memorable.

You may not agree and that’s fine.  There is room for a different perspective.

For, you see, from the same mind (at times) come lightness and exuberance.  Will you allow me to follow up for just a moment with another example from the writing of the artists I mentioned above?

Perhaps one of the happiest songs to come from that same era is “The 59th Street Bridge Song.”  With the goofiness of Hello lamppost, whatcha knowin’?  I’ve come to watch your flowers growin’. . ., we’re just . . .kicking down the cobblestones right along with the carefree duo.

From the pen and mouths of the same artists who lived in the intense darkness, came this joy and exhilaration for life.  It seems possible that the sentiments of both songs took place on the same route, too.  Notice the narrow streets in the lyrics of the first?

Yep.  The very same streets of cobblestone that the duo was kicking down in the second song.

I thought about that on a sunny day earlier this week, as I rode my bicycle with a couple of old friends.  We followed a lot of the same route I often walk (and run) at night.  You might say the difference was indeed, day and night.

Spirits were light as we talked and laughed, first one person riding ahead, then another.  When the road allowed we rode three abreast to share the enjoyment.  Carefree, the miles flew by.

We want to spend all our time enjoying life.  The fact is, just as half of our life is spent in daylight and half in the night, we will all experience our share of joy and pain.  Both are valuable and essential to learning and growing.  Both come whether we will them to or not.

Will we learn from the darkness, or will we become bitter and angry because of it?  Will we carry the joy of the light into the dark of the night, or is the night doomed to be devoid of hope?

We choose.  We determine the manner in which we face the darkness and silence.  It may indeed, become our old friend.  That said, it does not have to become our destiny and our hell here on earth.

One other thought hits me as I write this:  Friends are a gift from a beneficent God, are they not?  Even the dark times are lighter when they are around us.  I’m beginning to think that perhaps old age may be less onerous with a few of these fine people around.

I think I’ve still got a few sessions of kicking down the cobblestones left in me, too.  I’m even feeling a little like that carefree duo of yesteryear.  For the time being, at least.

We’ll have to work together on keeping it going.  Twenty years from now, we may still be singing those final words.

Feeling groovy.

Everything has it wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.
(Helen Keller ~ American author/educator, both blind and deaf ~ 1880-1968)

But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night…
(from “The Return of the King” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English educator/author ~ 1892-1973)

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

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They’re growing bolder.  Almost every night I see them as I run along the trail that winds its gentle way along the little creek.  The Lovely Lady even saw them with me as we sped along one night last week.

There are sometimes as many as eight of them watching warily as I leave the trees and pass quickly through the tiny field in which they graze.  Oh!  Did I not tell you?  Deer–a little herd of whitetail deer right in the middle of our small town.

A few nights ago, as I ran along the edge of that field in the misty rain, I startled a couple of them just as they prepared to cross the road.  One, a doe, sped across the pavement with three, maybe four bounds, her big white tail flicking in the dim light.  Her companion, a yearling buck, turned tail and fled back into the field a few feet, where he turned and watched, trembling at my approach.  As I passed the spot where he had stood mere seconds before, I facetiously waved my arms at him with an exaggerated traffic-cop motion, speaking to him as I did.

“Your turn, buddy.  Move on across.”

To my amazement, he made a run for it just then.  Was it my motion he was waiting for?  Maybe the dulcet tones of my voice falling on his ear convinced him that all was well.  Or perhaps, the thought of his lady friend watching him from the other side as she began to have second thoughts about his courage gave him the impetus.  After all, she had advanced in the face of danger, while he had retreated.  Whatever went through his tiny brain in that instant, he was in the center of the road in a flash, just in time to jump right in front of the oncoming car which neither he nor I had noticed.

Fortunately, that night was not the night for him to meet a disaster.  His lightning fast reflexes kicked in and he leapt quickly aside as the driver jerked the steering wheel and stomped on his brake pedal to save his car from damage.  My last glance of the little bud-horn was as he and his companion streaked up the wooded hillside on the other side of the road, headed deeper into the residential area than I expect they had intended.

I didn’t think much more of the event until tonight.  As I said before, they are growing bolder.

I see them more and more often as I jog the trail late at night, especially near the spot where I got my concussion, a couple of years ago.  I expect that I have become somewhat of a legend for them, one they have passed on to succeeding generations after my spectacular bicycle wreck that night.  I can just hear the old grandmother deer as she tells the bedtime story to the little fawns while they lie around under the ferns on their beds of oak leaves and pine needles.

“And then the crazy human on his flimsy two-wheeled machine came flying down the mountain.  I stood and waited for the last possible instant and jumped right out from under the shadow of that maple tree.  Right under his nose, I moved, so fast I nearly flew myself.  He never touched me, but he certainly did touch the hard black stuff he was rolling down.  His machine came over on top of him, scraping him and making him bleed.  You should have heard him scream!”

I think the youngsters that watch me nightly from the shadows on that hillside are laughing at my foolishness.  Night after night I run that hill.  Many times during the daytime I still come down it like a madman on my two-wheeled machine, but I will not go that way again by night on my bike.  The hand that is burned learns its lesson well.

One laughed at me tonight as I ran up the hill.  I heard her chuckle (I did!), right before she retreated to a safe distance through the trees.  But, just a couple of hundred feet up the trail, I saw a sight which was even more strange.

As I jogged breathlessly along, having just ascended that steep hill, all I could see of the young doe was her tawny body, standing some distance on up the trail.  My view of her head was blocked by a decorative light post in between her and me.  She couldn’t see me, but she did hear me and she smelled me.  She kept her body stock still and moved her neck just enough to bring her head, with her big ears perfectly erect, to the right side of the post.  I moved over on the trail until her head was again behind the post and kept advancing toward her.  She moved her head to the left side of the post until she could see me once more.  Of course, you know what I did.  Yep, I moved over until she could no longer see me.

Twice more we repeated the dance move.  By then, I was not much more than ten feet away from the little brown beauty.  She decided that it was time to take more drastic measures, and she bolted into the woods and down the embankment just below the trail, crashing and scattering limbs and leaves as she went.

It was, without question, the first time I have ever played peek-a-boo with a whitetail deer.  What an interesting feeling!

There are, however, two very salient points to be aware of, even as we smile at the antics of these too-trusting animals.

Understanding that my fancy about the little buck following my instructions to cross the street is no doubt in error, the experience still gives pause for thought.  How often in a day’s time do we follow the lead of people whose credentials we have no knowledge of?  That person who is telling you to substitute one medication for another–do you know what the basis of their conjecture is?  Do they have training to make such judgments?

Not close enough to home yet?  How about the person who teaches your child in Sunday School?  Or in their regular school classes?  Do you know what they believe?  Do you want your children to believe that?  You would want to be sure that someone who repaired the brakes on your automobile understood brakes on automobiles.  The result for ignorance could be physical disaster.  How much more important is it to know that those to whom we hand over responsibility for our children’s (and even for our own) instruction are qualified and competent.

The stupid little fellow took instructions on crossing the street from me, a perfect, and completely incompetent, stranger!

And what of the other deer–the one that played peep-eye with me tonight?  What possible point is there to be made there?

It’s clear, is it not, that with every delay in running the pretty little doe’s danger increased?  Her Creator made her fearful of man and other predators for a reason.  The defense mechanism that has been instilled in her from birth will serve her well for a lifetime of escapes, if she uses it in a timely manner.  She failed that test tonight.

If I had intended her harm, she would have been mine.  I could not have missed with a shot from a gun or even a bow.  I might even have been able to throw a knife into her heart from that distance.

She was in mortal danger and she played games!

I’m not going to insult anyone by dragging this out any further, except to say this:  I have been a game-player.  I still am.  Again, experience teaches.  I hope I learn before disaster strikes.  I am, as has been demonstrated often, a slow learner.

Second chances are more plentiful in my world than in the world of the deer.  I will be eternally grateful for that.  Grace covers…

I do wonder if they’ll be telling more stories of their meetings with the wild bicycle crasher tonight?

Really, I’m just positive I heard that other deer chuckle before she headed into the woods!

“He is most free from danger, who, even when safe, is on his guard.”
(Publilius Syrus ~ Latin writer ~ ca. First century BC)

“He makes me as surefooted as a deer, enabling me to stand on mountain heights.”
(Psalm 18:33 ~ NLT)

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

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Most mornings it is just moments before opening time when I turn the key in the back door of the music store.  The black monsters that have followed me down the sidewalk are jumping in the air or pushing their noses against my leg in a vain attempt to convince me to play with them for awhile.  I close the door on them and go up front to hang up my shingle.

What’s that?  My shingle?  Sure.  You know.  Just like Lucy in the Peanuts comic strip, it seems that when the open sign is on, there is also a sign that says “Psychiatric Help 5¢”, and below that “The doctor is in.”  Some days, there is more traffic than others.

I’m not sure my advice is actually worth the nickel.  Most of the time, I just nod my head and ask a question or two.  I wonder if Lucy did it better.

I’m trying to be very careful about how I say this.  I don’t intend to be insensitive, but people tell me things that I really don’t want to know.  

I don’t really want to be involved in their personal lives.  I don’t really want to invest emotionally in their situations.  The cost to me is well more than I have to spend.  The pain, the sadness, the horror at what people are going through is often more than I can stand.

Are you hearing them too?

Do you know that widowed mom down the street who is embarrassed to admit that she lives on government assistance and food stamps?  She needs still more help and doesn’t know who to talk to.  What about the dad who is devastated that his son is in trouble with the law–so devastated that he won’t even talk with the boy’s mother about it?  Maybe you too have talked to the young teenager who doesn’t understand why her mom blames her for the break-up of her parent’s twenty-year marriage.

The list goes on and on, the situations as diverse as the people themselves.  They are folks that you know–or at least they’re just like the ones you know.  I just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.  Or, is it the other way around?  Regardless, they talk to me because I am here and they don’t think I will attack them.

I won’t.

Now Lucy–she wasn’t so backwards about it, was she?  Charlie Brown comes to her wondering why he doesn’t fit in and she shows him the wide world and asks him if this is the world he must live in.  When he answers in the affirmative, she screams,  “Well, live in it, then!”

To add insult to the injury of her blunt honesty, she then walks over to where he is lying on the ground and, holding out her hand, demands, “Five cents, please.”

Her logic is impenetrable; her empathy, a bit less so.

Want to know why I won’t attack them?  I’ve finally figured out that they are me.  Oh, my problems may not be as overwhelming, but to me it seems that they are.  I struggle with issues which I will not divulge to anyone, except perhaps to someone I think I can trust not to kick me while I am on the ground.  I understand what it is to carry around secrets that threaten to poison my soul.

I know what it is to be wounded.

We don’t kick a wounded soldier.  We offer them comfort.  We give them aid.  We tend to their wounds.  The day may come when correction will be appropriate, but in the agony of loss and torment, it would only add to their pain.

I wonder if my posts for the last weeks have been too dark, too introspective.  I will admit that the world seems a somewhat more dangerous place to me than it once was.  That said, I write these words to encourage, to edify, and certainly not to darken the reader’s mind or to discourage a joyous and happy outlook on life in the Creator’s world.  But, I am almost convinced that we are better served  by living informed and sober lives, rather than going through our days in gleeful oblivion to the hidden suffering around us.  That’s something like fiddling while Rome burns, isn’t it?

Fiddling or not, I do like a phrase I hear tossed about a good bit.  Joy in the journey.

I think the joy comes from sharing the load with others who won’t condemn.  It comes as we teach each other and learn from each other.  And, if the joy is offset a bit by the pain, as least we have traveling companions who we can trust to carry the load with us.  And if they’re the right kind of companions, they direct us to the Physician who really can help when we need it.

You know, come to think of it–The Doctor is always IN.

And you get to keep your nickel.

“Good counsel failing men can give, for why?
He that’s aground knows where the shoal doth lie.”
(Benjamin Franklin ~ American founding father/author ~ 1706-1790)

“In the multitude of counselors there is safety.”
(Proverbs 24: 6b ~ ASV)

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

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