I planted some dandelions today. 

Oh, c’mon admit it.  You’ve done it too.  Who can resist the tantalizing wispy white head of a dandelion plant in springtime? 

You hold the beautiful stem in your hand, gazing directly at the horde of delicate seeds gathered in a circle around the ovule at the top of the stem.  Their tenuous grip on their life source indicates their readiness to make the trip for which they were designed.  If you examine them closely, you’ll notice each seed has a tiny, slender stem itself, the bottom of which is attached to the main plant.  At the top of that tiny stem is an umbrella, a parachute of sorts, specifically designed to carry the seed far enough away from its sire to multiply the species.

Careful not to inhale too close to the seed head, you take a deep breath and push it back out again, directing the stream of air right at the puffball.  The resulting explosion of little flying whirligigs is spectacular!  And, if you weren’t watching so carefully out of the corner of your eye to see if the neighbors were peering angrily from behind their curtains, you would laugh for joy to see God’s creation at work. 

A common weed, we call it.  Ha!  More like a miracle in action, putting to shame all the complicated machines that our feeble minds can contrive to complete the tasks we deem important.  The simplicity, along with the amazing resilience, is so far beyond our imaginations that we can only marvel. 

The process needs us not at all, as is evidenced by all the empty stems I see as I view the yard.  The strong storm winds have already spread the plant’s progeny to the four corners of my property (and maybe just a little beyond, truth be told).  The gentle rain that fell last week has already helped to press them into the soil, and even tonight, I imagine they are starting to germinate, putting down their stubborn tendrils into the damp earth, preparing for another bumper crop in a few weeks.

I hear the naysayers in my ear as I write this.   

“Why would you allow this vicious weed to thrive in your yard?  Don’t you know it’s aggressive and ugly?  Aren’t you aware that it spreads to my perfect lawn?” 

Of course I know that after I mow the lawn, they pop up and make it look as if I haven’t mowed at all.  I know that millions of dollars annually are spent trying to eradicate this blight on the landscape, but all in vain.  Ugly or not, I’m doing my part to protect the species, although they have no need of my protection.  I must admit, I have never dug a dandelion plant from my yard, never sprayed a drop of pesticide to control them.  They are, to me at least, one of Spring’s best gifts to the awakening world, with the wonderful maple helicopters running a close second.

The fantastic design of that maple seedpod is another source of wonderment for me.  This spring, the red maple in my backyard is covered with thousands of the odd winged vessels.  It is more properly called a samara, but I much prefer the descriptive name helicopter. 

Of course, the English have a fine name for it also; they call it a spinning jenny. 

Every two years or so, the slender branches of the spreading tree almost sag beneath the weight of the seeds (as with this year), until the spring winds call to them, coaxing them off, first just a few at a time.  I like to think that the first ones are the adventurous type, not needing the company of the rest to know that this is what they were made for. 

And then, before you know it, the slightest breeze fills the air with the spinning, gyrating seeds, headed by the hundreds of thousands to a resting place in the surrounding yards and ditches, awaiting their time to be pressed down into the soil and be watered; ready to spring up into saplings. 

If we humans weren’t so intent on open spaces in which to do nothing, the hills would be covered with the beautiful trees.  Oh, I know–not all of the seeds will produce trees.  If they did, the forest would be so dense nothing could live.  But, as it is, I am particularly fond of the maple trees, with their large shade-providing leaves, shaking and quivering in the storms, turning brilliant oranges and yellows before loosing their grip on the branches in the fall–only to be the earliest to burst forth again as the warm air triggers the life-cycle once more in the springtime.

I will grudgingly admit to the beauty of the autumn, and even the excitement of a beautiful snowfall in the dead of the winter, but spring is the season I love best.  I think it’s because my mind cannot fully contain the wonder of creation; cannot take in the fantastic design of the wonderful and diverse organisms surrounding us, from the flowering trees and bushes, to the pollinating hedges (covered with bees and flies to carry the pollen far away), to the amazing methods of regeneration afforded to all of the growing, thriving flora and fauna around us.

The intricate designs of a loving Creator overwhelm the intellect, as well as the senses, with each new bloom and every living thing that meets the eye.

It also might have something to do with the simple pleasures that spring affords. 

I think that’s exactly the way our Creator intended it, too.  And, it doesn’t hurt that I love it when the children in my life are overjoyed as they plant dandelions along with this silly, aging man. 

I can’t imagine a better way to spend a cool springtime evening!

 

“If dandelions were hard to grow, they would be most welcome on any lawn.”
(Andrew V Mason M.D.~American doctor and author) 

“Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.”
(A.A. Milne~English author)

A repeat of one of my favorite posts, which appeared on April 12, 2011.  Sometimes you just figure you can’t improve on your first take. 



© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.

The young man looked at me, as startled as if I had just suggested that he flap his arms and fly around the block.  I could see it in his eyes.  Crazy old man!  What are you thinking?

What he actually said was, “I’ve never done that before!  I don’t have the slightest idea how.”

I’ve heard the argument before.  Almost daily, customers remind me that they are old and shouldn’t be expected to learn new skills.  But, this kid is not much more than eighteen years of age–not that the age thing excuses even the older ones.

I looked him in the eye and asked, “Were you born knowing how to walk?”

He rolled his eyes.  “Of course not.”

I rolled my own eyes.  “If you could learn how to do something that hard, surely you can figure this out.”

What he hoped for–what most of them hope for–was for me to say that I would do the task for him.  It would be so much simpler.

The easy way out.

It is what we all want.  More to the point, it is what we all think we want.

The young man had brought me a piece of equipment he wanted to sell.  I didn’t want the gadget.  Instead of turning him down flat, I had looked up the selling price on a popular site online.  Then I offered him less than half of what they were selling for online.

He balked at selling the unit for that, which was what I really wanted him to do.  Now, I had him where I wanted him.  A moment to teach, I hoped.  I merely suggested that he sell his piece of equipment on that site online.

He could have the entire amount to himself.  Twice what I was going to give him.

Twice!

After I spent a few moments encouraging him to follow the simple instructions on the site for selling his valuable thing-amie, I sent him home to get the job done.

I thought.

Two hours later, the boy was back.

“I’ll take your offer.  I don’t need the lecture; just give me the money.”

He didn’t bother to look me in the eye as he took the money I counted into his hand.

The easy way out.

When we take it, we may win.  But, we will also lose in the process.

Was one action right and one wrong?  No, of course not.  It’s just that one action offered far more reward.  Sure, there was more work to do the other way.  It would take some effort on his part.  But–twice the amount!  More than twice!

I’ve mentioned several times how much I like bridges.  I love the old ones especially.  The craftsmanship, the detail, the extra effort put into building that span of concrete and steel between one place and another–all of these and more take my fancy and bring a smile to my face.  The Lovely Lady and I will often drive for miles just to find one of these old gems still in use, or even one which is derelict and deserted.

I like bridges.  They make life easy.  Over the deepest of valleys or the widest of rivers, they provide a safe passage.  Speed along any highway and you’ll cross more bridges than you can count, since many of them are all but invisible from the road’s surface.  Sometimes though, you need to leave the safe, easy road and take the path which may get you wet.

I remember the day, many years ago.  The hot summer sun blazed overhead as the old blue pickup truck chugged along the dirt road.  The sweltering breeze blowing through the wing-glasses of the front doors did little to assuage the roasting temperature inside.

We didn’t care.  My buddy and I were headed to the lake for an afternoon of swimming and a volleyball game or two with the gang.  Bouncing along, the worn-out shocks failing miserably in their task of dampening the up and down motion, I watched the road ahead.

“Hey, cool bridge!” I yelled out as we approached the old steel truss span across the creek before us.

“Yeah?  Watch this!”  My buddy pulled the steering wheel to the left and we went over the mounded hilltop beside the bridge, seemingly headed straight into the depths of the creek.  I yelled, but I needn’t have worried.

It was summertime, after all, and the water level in the creek was pretty low.  We were only headed down to the old low-water crossing, a relic of the years before the bridge had been set in place.

Splash!  We hit the water and it sprayed up beside us in a cascade of shimmering diamonds that played in the torrid air and then fell back to the surface to flow on down the waterway.  The spray that the breeze blew back onto us only helped to cool us a little before we were sweltering again.

But, it was a rush, leaving the safe path of the bridge up above us, and running through the crossing at break-neck speed.

How had I missed this before?  The invigorating joy of driving through that water is a thrill I will never forget–not if I live to be ninety.

 Sometimes we drive across the bridge.  Sometimes we need to take the hard, possibly dangerous path that offers a reward that won’t soon be forgotten.

Driving across the bridge will get us to where we need to be.

I’m thinking tonight though, that our Creator has designed us to do more than take the easy way.  The difficulties in our path are there simply to remind us that it is He who has given us the tools to get through.

My young friend took the easy way out, and he missed the payoff.  He did get paid, but not nearly as much as was his right.

Easy and safe?  The reward often matches the risk.

Difficult and new are almost always more frightening.  At first.  Suddenly, we realize that we were made to do this.

We were made to do this.

Time to get wet?

Hey.  I learned how to walk, didn’t I?

How hard can this be?

“Why not go out on a limb?  That’s where the fruit is.”
(Will Rogers ~ American humorist/actor ~ 1879-1935)

“The apostles said to the Lord, “Show us how to increase our faith.”
(Like 17:5 ~ NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved. 

We sat on the airplane, a couple hundred of us, waiting.  The sky was overcast, the air loaded with moisture.  If there was a sun anywhere above us, it was nowhere to be seen.

My neighbors on the flight seemed content to sit quietly and not force any interaction, and I was happy to leave that just as it was.  My trip had been stressful and emotionally taxing.  The only ray of light I was clinging to was the thought that tonight I would be home.

Back to normal.

I stared, unseeing, out the window from my perch in the middle seat.  Gloomy and damp seemed about right.  But just then, we began to move down the runway. At first, the big wheels bumped along the concrete, the huge jet lumbering along in the dim light.  Rapidly, though, the powerful machine accelerated until it broke free of gravity and we were in a steep climb through the clouds.

Gone to find the sun.

I willed us up past the mist and moisture, watching the scene outside the two windows through which I had a view.  Surely, there was light somewhere.

Certainly we would be above the clouds soon.  Blue sky.  Clear sailing.

Yes!  There it was!  The sun was shining, after all.

Snap!

The lady to my right, next to the window, slammed the sliding cover down on the sun.  What was she thinking?  Why would you close out the light?

Oh well.  There was always the window in front of that.  Gazing out that pane, I focused my attention on the thinning clouds through which we were still ascending and the energy from the sun which lit the tops of those clouds with increasing intensity, the higher we got.

We would travel in the light after all.  All was not gloomy up here, was it?

Snap!  The lady reached forward and pulled down the cover on that window, as well.

It was dark again.

I wanted to shake her.  I wanted to yell at her to open at least one of the shades.

Then, I felt sorry for my anger and wanted to explain to her that I needed the light.  I wanted to reassure her that the sunshine was a good thing which we all needed.  I held my tongue instead and drowsed for the next two and a half hours.  She did the same, while the man on my left worked at his laptop the entire trip.

I was to remember the young lady’s need for darkness a good bit in the days to come.  At first, I wondered why anyone would prefer the darkness to the light.  Then, two days later, as I acquired the symptoms of the influenza virus which overcame me, I understood her perfectly.

Whenever my eyes were open, I covered them to keep out as much light as possible.  I walked from the bed to my recliner holding my eyes.  I pulled the blankets over my head when the sun shone through the window blinds.  The light hurt my head horribly.

The light hurt me.

I preferred the darkness.

For five days, I wanted nothing but to be left in the dark.  The Lovely Lady understood and left the lights off as much as possible.  She didn’t harp, didn’t nag, at me to get over it.  She didn’t try to show me how much better the light was than the dark.

She just made sure I knew she was there if I needed her, occasionally touching me gently as she went about her own life in the light.

__________

A young friend of mine came by to see me at the music store the other day.  An important person in his life passed away a couple of weeks ago.  He and his family are overwhelmed with the support and response of their friends.  But, before he left that day, he had a few quiet, but poignant, questions to ask.

“Why is it that they all want to talk the whole time?  Why do we have to show them that we’re okay?  Couldn’t they just come sit with us and tell us that they love us?  I’d like that better.”

He’s not complaining.  But sometimes, when you’re in the dark, it’s because you need to be there for awhile.  You don’t need a bunch of people walking around turning the light switch on again and again.

There are times when being in the full light of day is painful.  The brilliance of the sun reveals the full extent of hurt and sickness that cut us to the core.  We need time to heal.

Gently.  Slowly.

We all know people who hurt.  People who are sick.  People who are sad.

I wonder how much faster they could heal if, instead of trying to fix things for them, we would just go and sit with them.

In the dark.  In the quiet.

Somehow, I think that’s what God did for us.  He sent His Son to sit with us in the dark for awhile and to bring healing to our weary and hurting souls.

We’re not intended to stay in the dark.  We can’t thrive there.  But He meets us where we are and gently draws us to His light.

Perhaps, we could do the same for each other.

Dawn comes gently–not like the glare of a powerful spotlight in the eyes, but with the hint of a soft golden touch and the rising glow of warmth.

 

 

 

“…on those living in the land of deep darkness, a light has dawned.”
(Isaiah 9:2 _ NIV)

 

“Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.”
(Helen Keller ~ Deaf & Blind American author ~ 1880-1968)

 

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.

 

Don’t tell anyone else about this.

I would really be embarrassed if people knew that I did it, so you have to keep quiet.  Okay?

I did it because I was tired of folding blankets.  Really tired of it.  Every night, I pick up the blankets out of the yard from where the black monsters have dragged them.

They know better.

How can I be so sure?

Well, when I head toward the blankets lying on the ground, they jump up and slink over to their house and, with a sad glance back at me, make their way inside to hide.  I used to yell at them for being so stupid as to pull the blankets, the only insulation between their bodies and the cold aluminum floor of their doghouse, out into the cold, sometimes damp, yard.

I don’t yell at them anymore.  It doesn’t do any good.

As I said, I grew tired of folding the damp, dirty blankets and shoving them inside the house every night.  Sometimes twice a night.

I finally bought some wood shavings to take the place of the blankets.  Everybody said I should do it.

“Oh, it’s so easy!  They’ll love it and you won’t have to worry about blankets in the yard.”

A bale of compressed pine shavings was purchased and brought home the other night.  The blankets were removed from the house one last time, by me for a change.  I spread four inches of the dust-free, aromatic bedding on the floor of their house, careful not to leave a single bare spot on the cold metal floor.

They refused to go back into the house.

Refused.

It was twenty degrees out that night.  For hours, they found a relatively wind-free corner of the yard and snuggled together, shivering.  Oh, they had stuck their noses into the doorway of the house, but evidently aromatic wasn’t what they were hoping for.  There was no way they were going into that strange smelling place.

I called them over to the doorway again and shoved the big guy through the doorway into the house.  His head popped back out instantly and he bowled over the chubby girl as he charged back out.  She couldn’t be enticed at all, but just spread out her legs and refused to budge as I pushed with all my strength.

I didn’t know what to do.  They couldn’t stay out in the cold.  There is a heater in a compartment of their house, which would keep them warm, but it does no good if they remain outside.  I wasn’t worried that they would freeze to death, but they really needed to be inside.

What to do?

There was no way the blankets were going back in.  I’d just have to pick them up again from the yard (this time with a generous portion of the shavings attached) and I wasn’t about to do that.

This is the part you have to keep to yourself.  Promise?

I climbed into the house myself.

You know–to show them that there was nothing to fear.  Yeah, it might have been amusing.  I wasn’t laughing.

I got on my hands and knees and clambered through the doorway into the aromatic pine shavings.  Two wet noses immediately followed.  Just the noses.

It was a few moments later that the big fellow stuck his head through the flap and stared at me in the light of my flashlight (there’s a heater, but I’m not foolish enough to give them a light fixture in there, for crying out loud!).  He didn’t wait long, but pushed his way on in and sat beside me banging his tail back and forth in the ostensibly dust-free bedding (it’s not really dust-free), all the while attempting to wash my face thoroughly with his tongue.  I fended him off as well as I could.

I sat there for another five minutes before the girl would even venture to put her head in.  By the time I finally gave up and climbed out–mostly because I was worried the local police would see the light inside there and stop to investigate–she had deigned to put her front feet and shoulders through the doorway.  I figured it was as much of a victory as I would get and headed for home and a hot shower (I itched the whole night anyway.)

Remember, not a word to anyone about this!  You promised.

I felt foolish.  Still do.  But, when I sneaked my head out the back door of the house a couple of hours later, they both pushed out of the warm interior of their newly furnished house.

I haven’t folded a blanket since.

They haven’t spent any nights in the cold, either.

I’m assuming that I’ve lost all your respect.  The only way it could be worse is if you had actually seen me crawling in and then out again brushing the wood chips from my clothing.

I don’t really care.

The dogs are warm.

Some things you do because you care for those in your keeping.

Often, we have to lead by example.  Even when it’s embarrassing.  And inconvenient.

And demeaning.

Somehow, in my mind, I have a picture of a King who spent a lifetime in a dirty, smelly place simply to show the people in His care how to get out of the cold.

Because that’s what you do for those in your keeping.

Funny.  He doesn’t even want us to keep quiet about it.

Not like me.

You did promise, you know.

 

 

 

 

“A good example is far better than a good precept.”
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist ~ 1837-1899)

 

“I have set you an example, that you should do as I have done for you.”
(John 13:15 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.