Somebody spilled the beans.

I don’t think I was meant to find out, but I did anyway.  Come to think of it, I’m sure that no one tried to hide it from me either.  Regardless, I know all about it now.

That’s the way it is with secrets.  Somehow, they make their way inexorably to the light of day.  Deeds done in private, things thought hidden from all prying eyes, push through all the layers of secrecy and burst into full view when you least expect it.

Frequently, they have help from someone.  Usually, all it takes is time.  Time–and nature working the way our Creator intended.  Suddenly, where you never thought to find it, the mountain of evidence is amassed and the secret is out.

I certainly wasn’t looking to find such a secret as I mowed my lawn the other day.  Seven days after I had last mowed, the yard was showing signs of getting out of control again.  So, I did what I had to do.  Normally, I don’t enjoy this kind of work.  The surprise that awaited me in the side yard was almost worth the trouble on this day.

I expected to be trimming too-long fescue grass (along with more than a few weeds), and in fact, that is mostly what I found.  But, suddenly, as I pushed the red and white mower along the verge of the grass closest to the parking area, I saw a section of almost vine-like growth.  Standing four or five inches above the tallest grass, it looked so out of place that it grabbed my attention.  That wasn’t here last week!  I would have noticed.  Killing the mower, I bent over to see what this strange plant was.

Unmistakably, there near the ground on almost every shoot was the skin of a pinto bean, shed by the quickly sprouting plant as it shoved its way out of the ground.  We’ve had a lot of rain this summer, so the fertile ground is not lacking in moisture, but bean plants require beans to start.  Except for the original creation mentioned in Genesis, I can safely say with Fraulein Maria in The Sound Of Music that nothing comes from nothing–nothing ever could.

How did these get here?  Someone had to put them here!

I asked the Lovely Lady, who had no idea.  No.  She did have a thought.

“I gave some pintos to Mary the other day to take home.  Maybe one of the kids dropped them.”

A conversation today with our daughter cleared up the mystery.  Our oldest grandson had been carrying the beans to their car when he dropped the bag and it broke open.  He picked up most of them, but some must have remained hidden in the grass, where they seized the opportunity offered them and put down roots, springing into mature plants in less than a week.

The secret is out.

What’s that you say?  That isn’t what you expected?

When I said someone had spilled the beans, you thought perhaps someone had told a juicy secret about something I wanted to hide.  Maybe someone close to me had a skeleton in the closet which they’ve kept hidden for decades.

It happens often enough.

I’m not all that sorry to disappoint you in that respect today, but it should be pointed out that the truths mentioned at the first of this little expose’ are no less poignant than you may have believed when you first read them.  Secrets can’t be kept hidden forever.  The evidence of what has passed will come to light when the natural results bring them into view.

Just like the beans sprouting into full-grown life, our most guarded secrets can’t be hidden indefinitely.

The red-headed lady who raised me used to say, “Be sure your sins will find you out.”

Those words usually preceded a spanking to reinforce the idea that I shouldn’t be hiding whichever secret it was that had come to light that day.

I’m not sure I’ve completely learned the lesson yet.  There are dark places within me which I would still be chagrined beyond belief to have opened to public view.  Grace brings forgiveness, but not forgetfulness.  But, now that I consider it, that’s not such a bad thing.

When I recall the darkness I have lived in, I am determined to never dwell there again.  The dark places we have been remind us to live in the light we are given today.

One last thought–I’m pretty sure the plants I found the other day will have pinto beans on them eventually, not corn or peas.  Things done in secret seem to yield the same fruit as that from which they have sprung.

Just a word to the wise.

“Yet this is no cause for shame, because I know whom I have believed, and am convinced that He is able to guard what I have entrusted to Him until that day.”
(2 Timothy 1:12b ~ NIV)

“The man who can keep a secret may be wise, but he is not half as wise as the man with no secrets to keep.”
(E.W. Howe ~ American novelist/editor ~ 1853-1937)

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

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Writers are some of the oddest people I know.  They agonize over the weirdest details and blow past the obvious subjects to focus on the most trivial theme imaginable.  I think though, that the oddest thing about writers is what they do in their spare time.

When they are not . . . Okay, I’ll just admit it and get it over with.  I’m one of these strange creatures.  It’s not they, but we.  When we are not writing, we actually spend time talking about writing, and learning about writing, and practicing writing.  We have groups and websites that are dedicated to the proposition that in order to be a writer, one must immerse himself in not only the practice of the art, but the culture of the artist.  I haunt at least one such website with some regularity.  There may be more, but let’s just keep that to ourselves, okay?

There is a point to be made with this meandering discourse, though.  I’ll try to make my way to it presently.

Today, I opened an email on the site in question.  It was from one of the moderators of the blogging group I’ve joined.  No, not a personal email, but just the daily writing prompt.  The prompt for today–What’s that?  Oh. Why would we need a writing prompt?  I did mention we are a weird bunch of people, right?  The thing about writers is that we worry when we don’t want to write.  Well, it’s more than that.  We worry when we want to write, but can’t seem to get anything to come out of the pen, or on the monitor, or–Well, you get the picture.  We need help occasionally.  The prompt is sometimes enough to get the creative juices flowing.

Today’s prompt asked the question: “When was the last time you successfully tricked someone?”

I typically glance at such emails and close them, forgetting the message immediately.  If there is anything I don’t struggle with, it is subject matter about which to write.  I don’t need someone giving me extra grist for the grinding wheel in my brain.  I’m not trying to boast; I just know that in the everyday progression of life, there is an unquenchable fountain of lessons to be learned and passed on.  So far anyway, I have not needed to resort to these gimmicks.

This session would end differently.

Tonight, after reading the one line suggestion, I sat gazing unseeingly at the little black lines on my computer screen.  The trickle of thoughts turned into a torrent in seconds.  Tricked someone?  Why would I do that?  I’m not a shyster, seeking ways to make unethical profits!  I treat people with complete honesty!

My customers are confident they can trust me.  Why just today, that guy handed me five hundred dollars and told me he didn’t need a receipt, because his friend told him that I was as honest as the day is long.  Whoever said that knew what they were talking about!

“That’s why we brought it to you.  We know you won’t steer us wrong.”  The lady standing on the other side of the counter needed my opinion about an instrument which she is considering for purchase from someone else.  Of course, I agreed with her sentiments.

The torrent poured along the riverbed of my mind and memory.  With each landmark it passed, I was filled with pride that I am not that kind of man.

The Lovely Lady knows she can trust me.  I would never fool her–not for a second.  My family members all are sure they can depend on me.  The people I go to church with, my friends, the acquaintances who wave as I walk down the street . . .

The torrent turned off abruptly, as if an unseen hand cranked the hydrant shut.  Not a trickle more escaped.

I immediately knew the answer to the question.

I know now when I last fooled someone.

I know who it was.

Right now.

Me.

For if anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself.
(Galatians 6:3 ~ ESV)

When I was a little boy, (when I was just a boy)
And the devil would call my name (when I was just a boy)
I’d say, now who do,
Who do you think you’re fooling? (When I was just a boy)
I’m a consecrated boy.
I’m a singer in the Sunday choir.
Oh, my mama loves me, she loves me.
She get down on her knees and hug me.
Loves me like a rock,
She rocks me like the Rock of Ages
And loves me. (She love me, love me, love me, love me)
(from “Loves Me Like A Rock” ~ Words/Music by Paul Simon ~ Universal Music Publishing Group)

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

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The phone rang this morning.  I suppose that is not really an accurate statement, is it?  I don’t own a phone that has a bell in it anymore.  Everything is all speakers and circuit boards nowadays, with no moving parts–none, that is, except the dummy who picks up the receiver.  There is no vibrating clapper, no dome-shaped metal bell, between which the clapper alternates, striking first one then the other in rapid repetition.

I heard the high-pitched electronic tone with a quaver in its voice–almost like the high “C” note held down on a cheap electric keyboard with the vibrato effect sped up to maximum–and I found myself wishing for the telephones of my youth.  They were simple things, just a dial, with the aforementioned bell and a speaker for an earpiece, along with a microphone mounted where you spoke.  No batteries, no circuit boards, no buttons to push.

I miss those days.

As I daydreamed, the plastic box jangled again and, looking at the screen on the phone, I realized it was a salesman with whom I did not wish to speak.  Immediately, I concluded that I don’t miss the old days as much as I thought.

With the old phone, I would have answered the call, not having been forewarned of the caller’s identity. Then, stuck on the phone for an uncomfortable period of time (no matter how long or short the call was), I would be murmuring words like, “Why yes, I got the samples you mailed…No, I don’t want a gross of those ear plugs right now…Certainly, I understand you only want to help out my business…No, no–call back anytime…I’m sure I’ll need some of them eventually.”

As I stood there, gazing at the caller ID, the call went to the answering system.

Mere moments passed and the jangle began again.  It was the same salesman.  After a few repetitions of the noise, the answering system kicked in again and I relaxed.  It was a short-lived respite.  After five such episodes, the phone finally fell silent.

Within moments, I heard the familiar doorbell-like double tone of an email arriving.  Checking my desktop computer, I saw the same salesman’s name in the from line.  Sighing in frustration, I read the message.

“I’ve been trying to reach you.” his note began.  “I have an important offer which you’ll want to take advantage of right away!  Call me as soon as you get this email!”

This time, the sigh became a groan.  My finger found the delete button.

_____________

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?  Perhaps, the recitation of my woes has brought back the memory of a certain telemarketer who won’t stop calling at supper time.  Maybe you have a neighbor who bothers you constantly, borrowing tools and asking for your help at inopportune times.  You sympathize, but you are enjoying my discomfort.

I’m wondering though, if, in our mutual disregard for the hapless salesman, we may actually begin to feel a sense of kinship, almost a memory of shared experiences, with him.

Have we ever tried to get through repeatedly, to someone who really needed what we had to offer, only to be ignored every time?  I’m not talking about selling some gimmicky doo-dad or some snake-oil remedy for stomach problems; certainly not suggesting that we were trying to take advantage of the person.  I’m just remembering times when I’ve tried to help people in my life who didn’t seem to want my help.  I called.  I left messages.  I even sent things in the mail.

No response.  Nothing.  

I felt like the stand-up comedian who has told a bad joke and, hearing no laughter from his audience, taps the microphone in front of him, asking sarcastically, “Is anybody out there?  Is this thing on?”

The mind moves on, past interpersonal relationships, to deeper matters.  Perhaps, there have been times when, desperate for answers, we approached God with our prayers.  Were there times when He seemed so distant, so unresponsive, that we could almost believe He didn’t exist at all?

We wouldn’t have been alone in that conclusion.

I laughed a bit as I drew this parallel in my mind, remembering that in times gone by, I thought God used to answer prayers much easier than he does today.  The silly thought hit me that perhaps, heaven’s phone system was once like our old one, where He had no choice but to answer my call, wanting to be sure He didn’t miss another, more important message from someone more worthy.  Now with caller ID on the celestial phone system, my calls are bypassed, sent to voice mail, to be dealt with at some other time.

Joking aside, I’m happy to know that the line to our Provider is still open.  We haven’t annoyed Him with too many prank calls; haven’t worn out our welcome by asking for too many things.  Jesus assured his followers of that, as He taught, “Everything you ask for, believing that it will happen, will be yours.”

That hasn’t changed with the advent of better technology.  The line is still clear, with no interference to block the reception.

I think I’ll try that friend again, too.  This could be the time he picks up to talk to me.

If not, an email might work.  My salesman friend might have had the right idea, after all.

“He will listen to the prayers of the destitute.  He will not reject their pleas.”
(Psalm 102:17 ~ NLT)

“A little more persistence, a little more effort, and what seemed hopeless failure may turn to glorious success.”
(Elbert Hubbard ~ American writer/philosopher ~ 1856-1915)

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

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It’s my day off–from exercise, that is.  Of course, that means that I had most of the evening to relax, instead of running or biking.  I spent the time in my easy chair.  Sleeping, mostly.  She was there, but beyond a word or two, we hardly spoke all evening.  Before that, we made a trip to and from a nearby town in the car, nearly sixty miles in all.  We didn’t talk much then either.

Both the quiet trip and the day of rest for my battered body were a little slice of heaven.  Perhaps, we shouldn’t tell her that I enjoyed the silence.  Let’s just say that the time off was wonderful and leave it at that.

No.  I don’t think I can.  Leave it at that, I mean.  You see,  I’m remembering the old pastor who married the Lovely Lady and me, nearly thirty-five years ago.  He told a story that has always stuck with me.  I wish he hadn’t.

“I was in a restaurant the other day,” he smiled as he remembered it.  “I love to watch people.  Without knowing them, I can tell a lot about them.  It was on a Friday–date night.  Every table in the place was full and it was noisy.  Young people, everywhere you looked; all of them talking back and forth to each other.”

As he warmed to the subject, he moved his fingers on both hands, making the motions of mouths opening and closing.

Then, more somber, he continued, “At this one table though, I saw a couple.  They had been married a long time.”  Looking quizzically over the front of the pulpit at us, he asked, “How do I know they were an old married couple?  Why, because they weren’t talking at all!  They just sat there and ate their food, only speaking to their waitress or asking for the salt or ketchup.  There was no doubt they were married!”

The old saint meant the story to be a cautionary tale to the recently wed couples in his congregation.  And, for many years, I took it in the spirit in which he offered it.  If you had a relationship that was healthy, you talked with your spouse.  So, knowing my task, I endeavored to fill every silence with words.  Any time the Lovely Lady and I were together, especially in public, I talked.  Every action in the day was grist for the mill, every little detail had to be discussed at length.  I never ran out of material, talking almost non-stop.

Can I tell you a secret?  The idea that old married couples don’t talk because there is a rift in their relationship is mostly hogwash.  I’m not telling you that communication isn’t important.  It is.  What I am saying is that as we grow to know and love each other, there is no longer any need to fill up the spaces between us with empty chatter and drivel.

The comfortable silences in our life are not evidence of distance between us, but just the opposite.  When we are secure in our connection to each other, the peripheral trappings of words and banter often simply muddy the waters. Indeed, silence often, is golden.

The quiet evening was aided in its success by my weekly day of laying off the physical exercise.  In my quest for a healthy lifestyle, I run, walk, or bike almost everyday.  Although I don’t admit it often, I tend to be fairly competitive. Because of this, I push myself to go faster and further almost on a daily basis.  I know that this type of attitude carries with it some risks, especially to this closer-to-sixty-than-fifty year-old man.

When we exercise heavily, we actually are not building muscle, but tearing it down.  The exercise itself causes trauma to the old tissue, which triggers the body to develop more muscle, almost as a way of protecting itself.  The problem is that, when I push myself everyday, I don’t give my body time to rebuild and replenish what has been torn down.  Believe me, the aches and pains after a full week of daily hour-long exercise sessions tell me that I need some rest.

So, I take at least one day off every week.  It feels good.  The physical activity, the sweat pouring into my face, the heart pounding at elevated rates–all are left behind for a day.  My sabbath rest.

Hmmm–Did I just use that word?   Perhaps, it would be best to hurry past, with just a nod to the concept of resting one day out of seven, which is indeed, the most literal translation of the word we know.  I don’t use it here for any other purpose, but the thought of a time of coming aside and recovering from the busyness and fatigue applies in a much broader sense as well.

Perhaps, I do use it for another purpose.  I spoke earlier of resting from constant communication, of sitting quietly and just being together.  If one insists, it could mean that spiritually, couldn’t it?

I like it.  A time of rest for the body; a time of healing, of growth, even in repose.  A time of relaxation for the spirit; a period of building relationships and growing closer, even in the silence.

It goes against everything we are told by this frantic world in which we live.  Work!  Achieve!  Be heard!  Be seen!  Small wonder that we burn out.  It stands to reason that we are damaged and worn.

I like the words which the Teacher spoke to his followers at the end of one of His (and their) frantic periods, “Come with me to a quiet place,” He said, “and get some rest.”

I’m thinking it is good advice, even today.

Be still.

“You’ve got to quit, just one day a week and watch what God is doing when you’re not doing anything.”
(Eugene H Peterson ~American pastor/author)

“Come ye yourselves apart and rest awhile,
Weary, I know it, of the press and throng;
Wipe from your brow the sweat and dust of toil,
And in my quiet strength again be strong.”
(Edward Henry Bickersteth ~ Bishop in the Church of England ~ 1825-1906)

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

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My missionary friend and his family are here for a few months on home assignment.  That’s what they call it anyway.  There was a day when this little town was home for them.  That has been a few years ago.  Now, they live in Europe, training young folks at the school they help to staff there.

Periodically, they are required to spend a certain amount of time in this, their country of legal citizenship.  We love having them around.  Long distance relationships lose something through the miles; absentee friendships leave an empty space where warm bodies used to live.

They have just moved into a house for the duration of their time here, so it seemed fitting for me to ask the question when I saw him recently.

“Are you settling in all right?”

I must admit, I was a little sad to realize the answer wasn’t what I expected.  Oh, he responded in the affirmative, but his hesitation, his facial expression as he replied, belied the words.  I don’t mean to say he was lying, but just that he knew he would never be settled in here again.  I’m thinking that his home, his heart, is miles away from here in a small town in Southern Germany right next to the famed Black Forest. He and his family are here and reside in their temporary home, but settling isn’t what they have in mind.

Have you ever thought of the many diverse ways we use the word settle?  To rowdy children, we insist that they settle down; when a fight is over, we suggest that the dust has settled.  The pioneers, who pushed their way into the uncharted wilderness, upon finding a suitable location, settled it, with the resulting community becoming what we quite naturally call a settlement.  When there is a legal dispute, often the opposing parties will settle their differences.  Sugar spooned into a cup of coffee settles to the bottom.

In all of these instances and more, before the act of settlement commences there is a period of uncertain activity.  Uncontrolled circumstances evoke emotions of agitation and turbulence.  We generally prefer settlement–the calm after the storm, if you will.

It’s not always what we get.

My mind started down this pathway earlier today, as I worked with a customer’s order.  As it turned out, he had requested a title which is no longer available in the marketplace.  There was nothing to do except cancel the order and refund his money.

I opened the computer program to make a refund to his credit card.  I was immediately faced with a choice.  I could search the settled transactions or the unsettled ones.  The end of the business day not yet having occurred, the transaction was classified as unsettled. Only after we close for the day are the individual sales grouped together and sent electronically to the bank for settlement.  Before that time, they are unsettled–up in the air–and may be voided, leaving no trace of the transaction in the books.  During the time the transaction is unsettled, it may be changed or erased.  Once settled, it is recorded and the appropriate amount transferred to our account from the customer’s.

I clicked the unsettled button, found the record of the transaction and voided it.  Funny.  The sale which the customer had thought settled never was.  In fact, it is now completely non-existent.  He is not likely to be happy.  It is possible that he may actually be feeling a bit unsettled right now.

But, my thoughts go back to my friend and his family.  Not settled in.  Come to think of it, I’m not sure they are completely settled in when they’re in Germany, either.  They know that they are doing what they need to be doing–today.  Tomorrow may bring a different assignment.  And, they’ll move on to not settle in that place, too.

You see, I think perhaps we value the calm after the storm so much that we don’t see we’re not intended to settle in too comfortably anywhere.

The pioneers found this to be true.  Along the way, they would settle in places where they believed it was safe to stop, only to be attacked by enemies, or caught in wicked weather.  They would move on to another spot and hope they could settle there.  Often, believing themselves safe, they would establish a settlement and even make it their home for many months before finding that they had to move on again for reasons they could not have foreseen.

We value comfort and calm in a world which is neither comfortable nor calm for very long.  Perhaps, the settling needs to be internal rather than external.  Not dependent on circumstances, an inner calm endures because it is established on the only solid foundation.  Like Abraham of old, we are willing to wander now, knowing we have a destination which will certainly be a place into which we will settle at last.  The maelstrom of uncertainty will churn and whirl around us, but we will be ready to weather whatever comes.

Oh.  Did I forget to mention it?  There is one other way we use the word settle.  We refuse to settle–to accept the calm which follows the storm when it is less that everything that we are seeking.  We refuse to settle for less than what has been guaranteed; refuse to settle for the empty promises that this place we wander through makes, but upon which it cannot deliver.

How about it?  Do we settle here?

Or, is there more elsewhere?

I’m thinking there may be a little more of the pioneer spirit still alive inside of me.  Perhaps, we should keep on moving along.

“…I have learned to be content in any circumstance.”
(Philippians 4:11 ~ NET Bible)

“I refuse to settle for something less than great.  And, if it takes a lifetime, that’s how long I’ll wait.”
(from “Somebody’s Everything” ~ Dolly Parton ~ American singer/songwriter)

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

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Beautiful, isn’t it?

Whether you’re an art lover or not, the scene evokes emotions–sometimes peaceful, often of awe, and at times, even of wonder.  The artist, clearly a master at his craft, has captured the reflected light on the surface of the water, as well as the powerful motion of the breaking waves; in fact, every detail lends itself to an unassailable sense of the grandeur of the sea.

The beautiful oil painting resides in our den near the fireplace.  Seldom do I enter the room without at least a glance of appreciation.  Often, I turn on the little track lights that wash it from above with an ambient light which magnifies the effect of the cloud-covered sun as it lowers to the far horizon. Then, backing away from the wall upon which it hangs, I simply stand and take in the view, reveling in the glory that is creation and thanking the One who placed us here in His world.

Once in awhile, though–only once in awhile–as I stand there, I find myself considering the ugliness of the human heart while I also contemplate the amazing beauty which emanates from the same heart.  It seems a strange thing to do, does it not, to think about ugly things while looking at great beauty?

Perhaps, you’ll let me tell you a story.  No, it’s not the made up kind of story; it’s completely true, as far as I can tell.  I warn you though; it is not a happy tale.

Our hero or villain–whichever–enters the story in about 1918, toward the end of World War I.  The Count had made his way by rail from Des Moines, Iowa down to Kansas City, Missouri, but found himself short of funds to get home again.  Stranded and without cash, he worked his way north to the little town of Excelsior Springs, a locale that suited his personality and lifestyle just perfectly.  In his late twenties, he was a sophisticated and debonair artist, lately emigrated from Hungary, and the young ladies in this tourist town of healing springs nearly fell at his feet.

Their fathers?  Not so much.

The artist boasted of his expertise and training at the finest art schools in Paris and Italy, and the little projects he turned out for the locals gave testimony of considerable talent.  When it became clear that the teenage daughter of the local banker had been seeing entirely too much of the arrogant young dandy, the wealthy man fabricated a plan.  Knowing that the Count desired to go home, he made a deal with him.  The bank would pay him twelve-hundred dollars to paint two large murals in the bank building downtown.  In return, he promised to leave town and go home.  He honored his word, finishing the stunning murals and boarding the next train north, leaving a tearful banker’s daughter behind, along with a number of other disappointed young ladies.

For twenty years, the Count lived in different places, always wandering, always leaving behind his conquests, the young ladies, whom he had wooed and won with his foreign accent and his cocky self-confidence.  And, he kept finding his way back to his home in Iowa with money earned from paintings which he was able to sell to well-to-do folks along the way.  He never stuck to any position, and never showed a bit of remorse about the lives he left ruined behind him.

Do you get the idea that this man was not a model of moral purity and goodness?  It got worse.

In the late 1930s, he finally found one young lady, half his age, with whom he decided he could tie the knot.  Her parents, disliking him intensely, demanded that she break off the relationship.  Instead, she and the Count eloped and escaped south to Texas.  Four years later, she was dead.  She could stand neither her marriage to him, nor her life, so she ended both by hanging herself.

The police report said that she was still alive when her husband found her, but he didn’t take her down, instead going to the neighbors to ask for help.  When they got there, the only thing they could do was to assist in taking down her lifeless body. Her family came and took the body back to Iowa, refusing to allow the Count to attend her funeral (he had no money with which to travel anyway).

Three months later, the Count, traveling under an assumed name, made his way, in the twilight of evening, to the cemetery where his wife was buried.  Standing over her grave, he took a bottle of poison from his pocket and putting it to his mouth, swallowed the entire contents. He was dead when they found him in the morning.

There are some who would call this romantic.  Today, they might even make a movie about his life.  But, from this distant perspective, one can only assume that he was riddled with the guilt of his past and couldn’t face the darkness of continuing life like that. Romantic?  Hardly.

So, I stand sometimes and gaze at the amazing painting on my wall, completed by the Count himself in 1926, and I consider the dichotomy.  Evil lives in the heart of man.  Great beauty dwells there also.  Both make their way out, without fail, into the light of day.

 I’m reminded of that old story, oft repeated, about the old Native American man who was talking to the young braves in his tribe, encouraging them to exercise self-discipline in their own lives.  He told about two dogs that were always fighting inside of him, one evil and one good.

One of the young men asked the question that was on each brave’s mind.  “Which one will win, old man?”

The wise old man sat silent for a moment before answering, as if recalling a lifetime of the inner battle.  When he spoke, it was almost as if he spoke to himself.  “The one which I feed; that one will win.”

There is more to be said–much more.  Words about grace, and new life, and beauty from ashes.  I could write for hours on this subject and not even begin to deplete the store of wisdom.

I’ll pass.

You certainly don’t need another sermon from the likes of me.

Those two dogs live inside of me, too.

“A religious life is a struggle, and not a hymn.”
(Madame De Stael ~ French author ~ 1766-1817)

“Therefore, do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its desires.”
(Romans 6:12 ~ NET Bible)

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

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