“Every mom aspires to be the World’s Greatest Mom, and by some crazy quirk of logic, most succeed.”*

In this week preceding the day some politician has randomly designated “Mother’s Day”, possibly driven by payoffs from the florist and greeting card lobbyists, our thoughts seem to go back in time to the days when our own mothers were the moving forces in our lives.  The images that are depicted by said industries in their commercials and on their product are of sentimental and unrealistic scenes of domestic bliss.  The regal women in their pretend world are always perfectly coiffed and put-together, make-up applied professionally and coordinated designer clothing clinging wrinkle-free to a model’s body.  I sit here tonight and from nowhere in my dimmest memory, can I draw forth such a vision.

What I remember is a slightly overweight woman in mule slippers and an old terry-cloth robe, standing at the bottom of the stairs and yelling, “If you don’t get out of bed and down here right now, you’ll get no breakfast, AND you’ll miss your bus!”  The sack lunch we were given wasn’t filled with Lunchables or with Jiff peanut-butter (“Choosy mothers choose Jiff!”) and Smucker’s jelly sandwiches (unless those were on sale that week), along with an apple and a note, but was more likely to have a potted meat sandwich (bargain bread with the paste-like stuff smeared over it) and some slightly stale potato chips (from the 5 pound bargain package) tucked into a baggie inside.  By lunchtime, it would taste like a gourmet feast to the hungry urchin into whose hands it had been shoved as he ran to catch the bus.

You see, my mother never was anything like a Desperate Housewife or one of the Real Housewives of (fill-in-the-blank).  She was Mom – sometimes grumpy, sometimes doting – often harried, frequently docile –  but always loving and teaching and pushing.  There was never a time when we didn’t know that she wanted the best for her children.  Oh, we didn’t always show her respect and she didn’t always have a quiet demeanor when dealing with us, but there was no doubt that she was on our side.

I learned to think on my feet from Mom, as we sat and argued for hours.  Truly, that trait of mine (the arguing) comes from her and not from my father, who hated arguments of any ilk.  But, I will always have the picture in my mind of Mom, as she stopped to think about a point her adversary had just made.  She would purse her lips, then stretch them thin, tapping her cheek with a long finger, considering carefully what had been said.  Within seconds, the answer was on her tongue and the verbal joust would resume.  Even into her old age, she has been an able debater, leading some of her children to avoid delicate subjects, should she decide to challenge any random premise.  The skills of logic I learned in those encounters have served well in many situations.  The argumentativeness, I’ve had to work to control a bit more than I’d like to admit.

I could spend hours discussing her traits, good and bad.  The strident defense of her children when they were accused unfairly, the stubbornness of refusing to be bullied into paying fees for useless services, the tirades at us for our lack of initiative in housework – all of these and countless more, went into who the woman was and is, but only one more occurrence will I burden you with today.

I will admit that I was the strangest of her children and the hardest for her to understand.  I would cry at nothing, stomping up to my bedroom and sulking for hours over the least of slights.  I could work with tirelessness on a project that caught my fancy, but then would sit in indolence and procrastination when presented with a job which had to be accomplished, but in which I had no interest.  I remember one particular evening, when I had once again stormed up the stairs long before bedtime and lay sobbing on my bed.  As the time to be asleep passed and my tirade continued unabated, Mom called me downstairs.  At that time of night, it was an action which usually meant only one thing; that corporal punishment was imminent.  But, this time, she led me to her chair and, sitting down in it, set me on her lap and just held me.  I was eight, and hadn’t been in this position for a number of years, but it was comforting.  Kindly, she asked what was really bothering me.  I actually didn’t know, but the words just popped out, “I want a puppy!”  My Dad, sitting in his recliner across the room, snorted.  But, Mom just talked with me gently about the situation, explaining quietly and lovingly that the family dog would have to do for now, since there was no way possible that each of the five kids could have their own pet.  (We weren’t licensed to be a zoo…)  I didn’t really want a puppy; it was just the first thing that came into my head.  But, the loving and tender way that Mom responded was all I needed to calm down and stop crying.  Within a very short time, I was on my way to bed, comforted and secure.  It was one of the few times that I dropped right off to sleep upon lying down.  A mother’s love can do that.

Do I have a point?  Just this…the fact that Mom didn’t fit a single one of the ideal requirements that makes up the perfect mother in the eyes of the rest of the world, had nothing to do with her ability to do the work that God had set in front of her.  She wasn’t a perfect person in any way, but she was exactly the mother that I needed to help me grow up into a man who could think for himself, learning to love another woman who would also be a perfect mother, and becoming a father who could love and teach and support his own children.

By writing this, I mean to honor, not only my own mother, who needed the patience of Job and the wisdom of Solomon to raise her brood, but I want to honor mothers everywhere who daily do the task in front of them.  It is largely a thankless job for 364 days of the year, but it does continue for every one of those monotonous and unexceptional days, in spite of the lack of notice on our part.  I hope you will take the time to let your mother know of your honor and love, and respect in a very real way, not only this weekend, but also upon every opportunity which presents itself on the other days of the year and indeed, for the rest of her life.

It will only be a partial payment of a debt which is owed her. 





“If you have a mom, there is nowhere you are likely to go where a prayer has not already been.”
(Robert Brault~American writer)

“Her children stand and bless her…”
(Proverbs 31:28 NLT) 





* Robert Brault, “A Robert Brault Reader”, May 5, 2012

It’s a cynical viewpoint, is mine.

I suddenly realized that I have spent my life expecting the worst of people.  Maybe it hurts less that way.  If you don’t expect much, you won’t be surprised when you don’t get much. Lowered expectations.

The idea that people will always disappoint is one which grows with every instance of being let down by folks who appeared to be trustworthy.  But strangely, as the calamities keep coming, the cynicism grows until, one day, you wake up and find that you’re not really even disappointed anymore.  

“I knew something like this was going to happen,”  you mutter to yourself as the latest shining knight falls off of his steed.

Let’s see…maybe I can give you a for-instance.  Rather than talk about people, perhaps we can talk about old guitars…

The fellow called me a couple of weeks ago.  “Paul, I’ve got a great guitar from the seventies.  It’s a pretty desirable instrument.”

I talked with him a few minutes and got the particulars about the guitar; then I asked him to send some pictures to my phone.  The guitar looked great in the pictures – really great.  I wanted it!  I checked my resources and determined a fair price for this model in the condition he claimed it was in, a claim the photos seemed to confirm.  It was a fair amount of money.  He said he’d bring the guitar right down.

The guitar that he carried in turned out to be a very different instrument than either his description or his photos promised.  A can or two of spray paint had ruined the value for me, while he was actually proud of his cover-ups, believing that they enhanced the aesthetic value.  I cut my offer in half, much as he had cut the value of the vintage instrument in half by his amateurish bumbling.  He took my money and left, not quite as happy as he had been when he first came in.

“It’s a pretty good ten-foot guitar, Paul.”  The guitar player stood near my counter the next day.

He had stepped to the wall, where the monstrosity hung, just moments before.  It took him mere seconds to recognize what had been done to the guitar.  Stepping back again, he sought to console me in my disappointment.

“From ten feet away, it looks just fine.”

I wasn’t mollified.  The guitar will never again be a desirable collectible. 

So it is with people.  Again and again, I get close enough to find that the finish isn’t genuine, the veneer simply a cover-up for the ugliness that lies inside.  Do you want to know a particularly nasty secret?  The same thing will happen to you if you get close enough to me.  I know the stench of rottenness inside, the ugly inner me.  What you see is the spray paint and the make-shift cover-up I have in place to make myself more acceptable to you.  But, don’t get too close! 

Maybe the ten-foot rule should be in effect.  Hmmm…no disappointment, no surprises.  Don’t approach, don’t examine, don’t touch.

Nothing to see here!  Move along!

But, let me turn a corner here.

I’m finding, the longer I walk through this life, that people aren’t like guitars.  Well, except for the occasional chance resemblance, that is.  You see, a guitar, once ruined, is ruined for the rest of its days.  Not so with humans.  Oh, I’ll grant that some will never recover.  Many don’t wish to live any differently.  But I firmly believe in grace, in new beginnings, even in deathbed conversions.  That last option is not one I would recommend, because it precludes the opportunity to demonstrate what grace accomplishes when lived out.  That said, grace is still grace, at whatever point in life it touches us.

I am not a cynic, although sometimes life conspires to convert me into one.

I am a believer in the power of love to change men’s hearts.

Grace reaches through the thickest of coverings to bring the soul to the light of day.  My guitar-painting friend might think the result ugly.  All the scars and pain of a lifetime are laid open to public view.  And, you know, the truth is not always pretty, is not always pleasing to the eye.  I’m fairly certain though, that in the honest wear which is left when the facade is stripped away, we can see the original beauty, in which our Creator intended us to walk all the days of our lives.

I like the idea of living in elevated anticipation.  It sure beats lowered expectations.  You see, I know – am absolutely sure – that it is possible to make a ten-foot wall hanger into an approachable, touchable human being. It starts with grace.  

Come to think about it, it ends with grace too.  

So, put away that can of spray paint!  Those painful scars and old injuries?  They’re just good, honest wear, and they’re much more beautiful than any cover-up we could improvise.

Time to get closer.  

The helpful lady handed me the headphones, along with the MP3 player.  She assumed that I, like the other silver-haired folks in line, would need help with how to use it.  She may have been right…but that didn’t stop me from waving her on to the next person.  I don’t read instructions, nor do I need road maps.  Hmmm…for some strange reason, we do always seem to be exploring odd places in big cities.  Well, be that as it may, I had time while waiting in line to figure out how the device worked and listened to the introduction.  “One of the most popular American artists of the last century, Norman Rockwell…”  No, I won’t bore you with the details.  You know who Norman Rockwell was.  We were at the local art museum to see an exhibition of his spectacular original works.  After a ten minute wait in line, the doors to the gallery were opened and we filed in expectantly.

The place was packed.  And amazingly quiet.  I was surprised at the silence in the room.  I started to remark on it, but the Lovely Lady at my side had already put on her headphones and pointed to the indicator on the wall next to the closest piece of art.  I clicked in the appropriate number and a voice began.  The description was pleasant and almost friendly, as the narrator, Mr Rockwell’s son himself, began to tell us about the work we were viewing.   Still, something was missing that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

We wandered along, surprised that so many people were grouped around the works with narration indicators, but avoided the other paintings altogether.  They would walk, almost rudely, in front of patrons viewing a piece, simply to see the indicator number on the next one down and then would punch the number into their own device and stand, annoyed at the others who walked, almost rudely, in front of them to do the same.  We all wandered along, stopping for the same length of time before each piece, and then, tapping the screen that activated our electronic guide, moved on to the next framed work with an audio indicator, to repeat the process. I saw heads nodding and smiles forming, but there was almost no talking; virtually no pointing.

The battery indicator on my device showed that the power was low.  I ignored it, moving along and listening.  Soon however, the voice gave out altogether and the screen went blank.  Dead battery!  I considered turning it in for a newly charged one, but, thinking better of it, simply put the headphones down around my neck and moved to the next piece.  Suddenly, I knew what was missing!

When we go to art galleries and antique shops, the Lovely Lady and I talk constantly.  “I like that…”  “Did you see what he did with this?”  We speculate about details and origins.  We prod each other with ideals and cautionary points.  On this day, I was on my own.  She listened to her canned guide, taking in the details as he spoke, but I was alone with my thoughts.  Alone in an art gallery packed with people.  No one at all to talk with about the artist’s ideas or techniques.  No one to laugh with, as his sense of humor demonstrated itself.  I soaked in what little my feeble mind could comprehend, but I know that I missed so much, simply because I had no one with whom to discuss the works.  What was missing was the interaction of another human being.  That MP3 wasn’t interaction.  It was information, but not application.  It gave facts, but not ideas; not conclusions.

I left a little disappointed and slightly resentful.  Oh, the art was magnificent.  I love Norman Rockwell’s perception of the American spirit, the families, even the faith of his subjects.  That said, I wanted to  share that with someone on this day and had been kept from fulfilling my intent.  I wonder, can I have a do-over?  I’d like another shot at it.  Perhaps, I’ll get the chance yet.

Say, do you like road trips?  I do too.  With other people.  I know that some folks love solitude, love to travel alone, taking in the sights and storing them up in their memory, to be divulged, bit by bit, at some later time.  Not me, buddy.  I want to say, “Hey!  Would you look at that?”  “Man, what a beautiful sunset.”  “Wow!  Look at the snow-covered mountains!”  Beauty shared is twice as beautiful.  The other person in the car may notice a rainbow across the valley, may see an eagle soaring high above that I didn’t observe.  Even if I see it, if I have no one to share it with, I feel robbed.  A secret one is forced to keep is not nearly as satisfying as a discovery made together.

We weren’t meant to keep good things to ourselves.  I don’t even think that we were made to learn on our own.  Perhaps, it’s just the way I process things, but when I’m in a group discussing a concept, the ideas just seem to flow from the interplay between minds that work differently and people who come from varied environments.  On my own, ideas become stagnant and repetitive.

We need each other.  Iron sharpens iron. In the presence of many counselors, there is wisdom.

Perhaps it is time to put away the headphones.  Time to point, and share, and learn.  You know how to do that.

Talk amongst yourselves.

“Our best thoughts come from others.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson~American essayist/poet~1803-1882)

“As iron sharpens iron, so a friend sharpens a friend.”
(Proverbs 27:17~NLT)

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

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“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”

“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”
(from “Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland~Lewis Carroll)




The boys were ecstatic!  They ran to meet their mother as she entered the door bearing her boxes.  “We can stand on our heads!  Grandpa showed us how!”  I wasn’t sure how my daughter would take the news, so I stood looking down at my feet as she digested the news.  When I glanced at her again, she was looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and worry on her face.  “What?”  I asked, much like an errant child myself.  “They were doing somersaults and cartwheels, along with a half handstand or two and it seemed that I could be helpful.”  Her next words hit me right between the eyes.  “Dad!  Don’t you think you’re a little old to be standing on your head?”  The exasperation in her voice wasn’t because her boys would now be standing on their own heads perpetually, kicking the little girls as they passed, nor even because of the shoe prints which would make their way onto her walls in the very near future.  She thought that I was too old to be doing something that I had done as a child!  She wanted me to act my age!

Can I let you in on a secret?  She was right.  And if any of you breathe a word to her, I’ll deny that I was the one who wrote those words. But, she is right.  I am too old.  And also a little heavier than the last time I did that, over twenty years ago.  Okay…a lot heavier.  The sixty pounds or so that I have gained since my super skinny days of yore were never meant to be borne by my still-thin neck.  I don’t think I did any permanent damage, but I suspect that I might want to stay upright for the foreseeable future.  I’m not a kid anymore.

“I wish things were like they used to be.”  Almost everyday, I hear the phrase from someone else.  Whether it’s someone bemoaning the changes in music, be it worship music, or popular music, or even country music, the complaint is the same.  “I just don’t like this new stuff!”  Teachers complain that the kids aren’t like they were when they started teaching.  My old classmates wish for the days of carefree wandering as children, in neighborhoods and downtown stores.  The political opinions from folks inundate my reading material, as they yearn for leaders from the past (the same ones that made us miss the leaders before them).  What we used to have is always better than what we have right now.  We don’t like change.

I made the phone call today.  I’ve been putting it off for months, hoping that something would happen to make it unnecessary.  I don’t like change either, you see.  I’ve had the same phone number for thirty-six years, acquiring my very first telephone service at the tender age of…well, never mind…I was young.  The phone number is burned permanently into my memory.  It is only the second home phone number I’ve had in my life, and the first was my parents’.  For thirty-six years, I’ve been able to tell people, “I’m in the book.  Just give me a call.”

Today, I called the old phone company and told them to disconnect the telephone.  Almost no one we know calls us on that number anymore.  Four or five times a day, we answer it, only to hang it up immediately, when the telemarketer begins his or her spiel.  Nobody we know.  The young lady at the other end must be growing used to it by now, but she gasped as she looked at the records.  “Mr. Phillips, you’ve had this line since 1977!  Are you sure you want us to disconnect it?”  I wanted to say, “No,” and hang up, but you can’t hold on to the past forever.  Did I tell you that I don’t like change?

Now, like the lisping Gopher from Walt Disney’s “Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree”, I’ll be forced to say, “Here’s my card.  I’m not in the book, you know.”  After thirty-six years of being in the book, you won’t find my name there.  It’s a funny feeling; akin to Linus losing his security blanket.  Of course he knows he doesn’t really need it; it just helps him to feel better when life gets a little too intense. 

Life changes and we go on.  I don’t wear bell bottom trousers or platform shoes anymore, nor do I miss them.  Time moves on.  I don’t ask my father for permission to stay out late, nor do I count on him to provide my housing and meals.  Time moves on.  I can’t eat all the food in sight without gaining an ounce, as I once did.  Time moves on. 

And so too, must we.  For my part, I will leave headstands and home telephones in the past and move on to the future.  It’s not the same, but that’s the way it has always been.  No generation – ever – has been left with its practices unscathed, as they moved on.  Change has been the way of mankind since the beginning of time.  Oh, there have been periods when it appeared that not all of life was as topsy-turvy as it has been over the last couple of centuries, but I can guarantee you that even in the Dark Ages, some old man somewhere said, “We’ve never done it that way before!”  Time has always moved on.

Facts must be faced.  Alice’s nonsense poem above is not as much nonsense as you might think, since it illustrates a common fault in aging men such as I.  We desire to hang onto our youth, when it is long gone.  I suppose it is time to leave the childish things behind and move on ahead to what lies ahead.  I might be surprised at the delights that are still to come.  

Turning from the past, I’m headed for a future that is still just as full of promise as it was when I left home all those years ago.  True, it’s a future without headstands and even without a telephone on the lamp table, but with my smart-phone in hand and standing on my own two feet, I’m moving on ahead. 

I can do this!

I bet you can too.  And, if you find that you need a little encouragement, a little moral support, just give me a call.  No, maybe you should drop me an email.  

I’m not in the book, you know…





“Age is a very high price to pay for maturity.”
(Tom Stoppard~British playwright)


“When I was a child, I spoke, and thought, and reasoned as a child.  But when I grew up, I put away childish things.”
(I Corinthians 13:11~NLT)





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





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“…the two great lights, the greater one to rule the day, and the lesser one to rule the night.”

Nearing the end of an invigorating walk (which may or may not have included a fair amount of jogging to keep warm) this evening, I turned a corner, putting my back to the setting sun, and headed toward the east and home.  My eyes, normally trained on the path ahead to avoid catastrophe, lifted momentarily toward the sky and I was captured.

Above the horizon in front of me, almost the mirror image of the setting sun behind, the full moon was beginning it’s circuit through the night skies, albeit a few moments early.  It is not an unusual occurrence; the moon frequently can be seen in the blue sky of the day.  Normally though, when that happens, it is visible for a time and then the vivid light of the ruler of the daytime sky blots it from sight.  Not tonight.

I will admit to a fanciful imagination at times, but on this cold, late April evening, the word “twilight” became more than just another term to mean “almost dark”.  The two great lights, the ruler of the day and the ruler of the night hung at opposite points of the compass from my location, each vying for domination, and I waited to see which would emerge the victor.  The logical brain – the scientific mind – jumps, of course, to the correct conclusion, but there is no faith – no soul – in that methodology.  Won’t you banish that dry, monotonous process from your thoughts for now and look at the sky through different eyes with me?  Just for a few moments?

As I glanced over my shoulder at the retreating sun, I was struck with the words from Genesis quoted above, and I couldn’t help myself; I smiled broadly, experiencing an epiphany of sorts.  “Lights to rule…”  Authority over their separate bailiwicks, not to be usurped by the other.  The domain of the sun is the day and it rules without peer.  Oh, the thunderstorms and the morning mists, along with the winter gales, do their best to block out this beneficent ruler, but he is jealous of his kingdom and will not stay hidden for long.  He is a powerful force, and often, a hard taskmaster.  His is the time of achievement; work begun and finished, tasks accomplished, crops planted and gathered.  Many mighty men has he beaten down. He yields to none.

Did I say none?  I should have said, none but one.  I walked outside just moments past and she is still there, holding court in the sky above me, while he, gone to bed hours ago, is not.  The world is alight with her radiance now, this beautiful queen of the night.  Most of you sleep through her stunning display of fragile beauty.  She has not the force to drive aside the clouds, nor the brilliance to accommodate the industry of the day, but there is power in her soft rays nonetheless.  The night is more restful for her light, granting sleep to the weary, offering respite from the commerce of the daytime.  Yet, she too will yield up her domain once again when the dawn approaches, with the sun not far behind.

I watched the two ruling lights in the sky together, the twilight of the sun and the moon, and was struck anew with the beauty and order with which the Creator imbued His creation.  All power issues from the Ultimate Power; the rulers are ruled; the lights, mere reflections of His true light.  Out of chaos, He brings order and elegance.  It is true in the cosmos; true also in those He calls His own.

The great lights do their part, in their turn.  Do I?  Do you?

It’s time to head for home and bed.  But first, I may take another minute to stand in the cold, bright world and admire the queen of the night.

And you just slept right though it all…
.

“The disciples were terrified and amazed.  “Who is this man?” they asked each other.  “When He gives a command, even the wind and waves obey Him!”
(Luke 8:25b~NLT)

“Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon.”
(from “Silver” by Walter de la Mare~English poet/novelist~1873-1956)

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



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In my memory, it was a big book, but it probably wasn’t really all that big.  There was a picture on the front cover, with children watching a goat which was butting at a gate.  It seems to me the gate was big, too.  I don’t remember the stories, can’t remember the purpose for the title, but the words are haunting my thoughts recently.


“Open the Gate”

Now, in my advancing age, I suppose the imagery intended to be evoked by the title is that of a new world opening to the youngsters who were learning to read from that mid-century reader.  The vistas that reading opened up are certainly not to be scoffed at…the lands to which one’s imagination could travel; the people that one could become familiar with…all without ever once leaving the comfort of the armchair or school-desk.  The gates in the mind could be opened, but what of other gates that life sets in our path (or that we build ourselves)?

Open the Gate.

Gates are made for two different purposes–to keep things out and to keep things in.  Their disadvantage is that, regardless of the purpose intended, they achieve the opposite one as well.  The gate which keeps dogs in also keeps friends from approaching.  The gate which keeps strangers at bay turns into a prison, behind which once free folks become inmates, compelled to stay in until at last, they become content to live in the small world within which they have incarcerated themselves.

Open the Gate.

“Stagnant waters are that way because they never go anywhere.  Growth and progress occur as we move out of our accustomed paths, applying what we have learned and absorbing new lessons, to take on bigger and unfamiliar tasks.  You’ll never realize your potential until you move out of the place of comfort and into the place of opportunity.”  I wrote those words several months ago and came across them again today.  How arrogant and hypocritical!  I said them, but have never actually lived them.  Dwelling in my fenced and gated little world, I have successfully kept discomfort and challenge at arm’s length, both protected and imprisoned by the fences I have built.

Open the Gate!

Tonight, I’m warning you that one day soon, you may find the gate standing open and this restless wanderer escaped from the asylum.  Interesting word, that.  Asylum.  It means “a place of shelter and safety.”  In recent times though, we have come to think of it as a prison for the deranged and demented.  Somehow, the evolution of meaning is apropos.  We seek safety and find captivity; needing stability, we become unbalanced.

I’m not telling you that I will be leaving behind my home and family, or all the people I love; I won’t.  I simply mean that safety and protection no longer seem so safe and protected.  There is much to be done with little time in which to accomplish it.  And, these locked gates make it impossible to even start.

I wonder if the lock will even open anymore.  Well, the only way to find out is to try.  You know, it occurs to me, before I take my leave–there is room on the road for more than one at a time.  Do you want to escape with me?

C’mon!


Open the Gate!

“Remember what Bilbo used to say; ‘It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door.  You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.'”
(J.R.R.Tolkien~English author/educator~1892-1973

“People gather bundles of stick to build bridges which they never cross.”
(Anonymous)

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

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