“What are you training for?”

The middle-aged man leaned forward on the bench he occupied beside the running track.  I had just finished running my three miles and was stretching against the wall nearby.  For the last two and a half miles, he had been in the same spot on that bench every time I ran past.  Twenty-five times, I ran in front of him and he hadn’t moved from the spot.  In fairness, his attention was on his son, also running laps and a few wind sprints.  It turned out he had noticed me going past him all those times, too.

As I considered the answer to his question, a few drops of sweat fell from my face to the floor below.  I laughed nervously, hoping he wouldn’t notice–it is hard to act suave and cool when you’ve just run thirty times around the track as fast as your legs can manage.  As if a little sweat mattered.  Still, I quickly passed my sleeve over my forehead, forestalling any other droplets with the same destination in mind.

What am I training for?

The easy answer is that I want to run in the annual Turkey Trot 5K race coming up this weekend.  But, come to think of it, that’s not why I’m running tonight.

It’s not why I ran a couple of nights ago.  Nor, why I ran the night before that.

I would run if there weren’t a race for another six months–or a year.  I’m not training for some trivial little five-kilometer run along the city streets.

I took the plunge and attempted an explanation.

“I’m training for the rest of my life.”

There.

Let’s see what my new friend had to say about that.  It was as close to the truth as any answer I had, anyway.

“Oh.  One of those.”  He sighed.  “You’re a health fanatic, aren’t you?”

I’m not!  I won’t be known as a health nut!

Anyway.  We batted the details of my fanaticism around for a few moments and I took my leave, walking my sweat-infused body out into the twenty degree wintry night.  I almost didn’t notice the chill, so wrapped up was I in the argument which was brewing inside of me.

Well?  What am I training for?  Come to think of it, what is he training for?

What are we training for?

He sits on the bench and watches other people run.  He’s training for something–not the same thing I’m training for, but he’s training for something. 

The implications of the thought are staggering to me.  Every moment, every second, I am in training.  Every step I take, every bite of food I put into my mouth, every minute I spend in bed–all of it training.

For good or bad, we are all training.

And no, this is not the fanatical voice of a health nut you are hearing.

I said the implications were staggering.  They still are.  The realization that I’m training physically with every move I make suddenly broadens to include all of life.

All of life.

Physical.  Emotional.  Spiritual.

When I snap at the Lovely Lady because I am unhappy with the way things are going,  I’m training.  When I ignore that man who needed me to notice his contribution to our conversation, I’m training.  Even when no one else is looking and I sneak a glance at that scantily clad woman on my computer screen, I’m in training.

Oh.  Is that more information than you wanted?  You didn’t need to know that about me?  Sorry.  It is part of what I’ve been training for, though.  All of my life.  You too?  Maybe not the exact same thing, but there is that one issue…

What are we training for?

I train physically nearly every day because I want to be in condition every day.  Not just on race day.

Every day.  For the rest of my life.

I’m suggesting that we need to train spiritually for every day.  Not just so that, like the old Christmas carol requests, Jesus will “…fit us for Heaven, to live with (Him) there.”

Every day, we need to be ready–to act, to speak, to think–as if we were already fit for heaven.

Right here.  Right now. 

What are you training for?

Is there any sweat dripping from your face?  Are you feeling a little out of place with the spectators sitting around, staying cool and fresh?

Good.  It’s a start anyway.

They’ll call us fanatics.  Maybe even nuts.

Perhaps that much will be true.

Tomorrow is race day.  And the day after that.  And the day after…

Time to get fit.

“A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart.  For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.”
(Luke 6:45 ~ NIV)

“…when I train in the gym now, I am not training to be strong or handsome–just better than I was yesterday.”
(Jean-Claude Van Damme ~ Belgian actor)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

It happened again just the other night.  I awoke and stared into the half dark room, trying to shake the uneasiness that gripped me.  Beside me on the bed, her covers thrown off to the side, the Lovely Lady mumbled a half-distinguishable question and rolled back over into the embrace of a deep sleep.

“You okay?”  I think those were the two words she put into the sentence.

“Fine,” I replied untruthfully.

I looked toward the bedside table, where the garish red light from the bright LEDs of the clock/radio let me know that it had only been half an hour since my head had hit the pillow.  Thirty minutes of sleep. 

It was earlier that same night that I wrote last, my memories of a day spent in the caves at a nearby state park leading me to some nearly-profound thoughts.  Shortly after writing, I had headed to bed, with the rain falling and thunder gently rumbling above my head.

Exhaustion may have allowed me to drop off to sleep immediately, but my old memories couldn’t be quieted that easily.  As I slept, the little imp of fear crept round and round in my head, looking for a piece of fertile soil into which he could plant his deadly seed.  Seemingly, he had found an appropriate plot.

Within minutes, my slumber was troubled by visions of dark places, much darker than the bedroom in which I lay.  I felt the space around me shrink as, in my dreams, I moved deeper into the darkness.  It mattered little that I knew myself to be in a queen-size bed with only one other person; there was hardly enough space to move my arms.

I wouldn’t call it a nightmare.  There were no unknown terrors in the darkness behind or before me.  I had no fear of falling, or no worry about shadowy men with guns.  No, it was just that the uneasiness grew as the darkness in my head increased. The spacious bedroom I knew myself to be in became a claustrophobia inducing tunnel that I had to either escape from or lie in until I died.

I stirred; she spoke. Still, I couldn’t shake the all too real dream from my mind.

The rest of the night went by in half-sleep and half-dreams of long dark tunnels that must be traversed.  I had no idea what the penalty for failure might be.  I only knew the task must be completed or a price would be paid. 

I knew it was only a dream.  I knew it.  That didn’t lessen its reality in my mind.

After my alarm clock went off, I spent most of the morning, only half-awake but functioning, in thought about the darkness and the tunnel. In reality, it didn’t take long for the filing system in my head, chaotic though it may be, to pinpoint the memory.

It would take longer to understand the lesson I needed to learn.

I told a friend at church the other day that it’s not always fun living inside my head.  I said it jokingly but, as has been said, many a truth is spoken in jest.  It is a strange place to be.  Inside my head, I mean.

Well?  How else to describe a dream induced by a nearly half-century old memory?  I was only seven or eight.

My brothers and I, along with a couple of neighborhood boys, had spent the morning fishing at the local fishing hole.  In that hot, dry southern Texas town, the countryside was crisscrossed by drainage ditches and irrigation canals.  One of those drainage ditches was where we always threw our hooks into the murky water, hoping for a perch or two to take the bait we offered.

We had our fill of fishing for the day, but not being ready to head for home and chores, were playing in an orange grove nearby.  The groves utilized a different method for watering than did most of the local vegetable fields.  They had standpipes every couple hundred feet along the outside boundary of the groves, connected together by concrete pipes underground.  When the water was flowing, it would rush along the underground pipeline, bubbling up out of the standpipes to flood the parched ground around the feet of the citrus trees, lending them the life-giving moisture that was so rare in that hot, arid land.

One could climb down into the standpipe and see through the underground tunnel to the next pipe.  There was a long, dark stretch, but clearly the bright light on up ahead indicated the place where the sun illuminated the bottom of the standpipe intersecting with the underground irrigation system.

On most days, these pipes stood bone dry.  That day was just such a day.  I stuck my head down into the pipe, about two feet in diameter, and shouted down to a brother, whose head appeared in my line of sight at the next standpipe.

“Hey!  I could go from here to there underground, couldn’t I?”

It wasn’t meant to be a serious idea–just an observation.  It got serious very quickly.

Three words.  No more.

How was I to know that those three words would cause me a sleepless night nearly fifty years hence?

“I dare you!”

The neighborhood boys stood in disbelief as I nearly jumped into the standpipe.  I hollered out to my brother, unseen in the darkness ahead of me.

“You make sure to watch and warn me if anyone comes!  I don’t want them turning on the water while I’m down here!”

He kept talking to me through the pipe.  For a little while.  It was comforting, especially since, after leaving the bright circle of sunlight below the pipe through which I had descended, it was growing steadily darker.

I hadn’t considered that.  It got really dark.  Darker even than most nights I had been outside.  Was it really supposed to be this dark?

I tried to look ahead to where the disembodied voice of my brother droned on.  Another brother was there too, along with the other boys now.  I could hear them, but couldn’t see any sign of them.

The darkness was complete.

My attempt to look ahead was a flop.  My body filled the pipe.  I had opted to lie on my back, since I knew there would be no room to crawl and I would have to slide using my elbows and heels to shove me along.  I tried turning my head sideways, but only succeeded in banging the back of my skull against the concrete pipe.

It seemed to take an eternity to move through the deep darkness that surrounded me.  It got a lot worse when my brother and his cronies fell silent.  No sound came from the space ahead of me at all.

“Hey!  Anybody there?”  I screamed the words and regretted it immediately as the sound echoed and hurt my eardrums.

No answer.  I was on my own.

I shoved ahead as quickly as I could.  The eternity stretched out and I stopped more often to rest.  Every muscle in my body hurt.  Boys weren’t made to slither through irrigation pipes underground.

Memory, perhaps, makes the journey longer than it was on that day.  It may also be that unpleasant dreams of the event make the way darker over the years.  I do know that I survived.  No water was released to rush down the pipe and suffocate me.  I didn’t get stuck mid-trip and have to be rescued by firemen and paramedics.

The eternity in the darkness ended, much as it had begun, as by degrees, the air around me became lighter and lighter until I was looking directly up into the sunny blue sky.  My view of the sky was framed by the grinning faces of four or five boys, all of whom I thought I hated at that moment.  The hatred passed quickly, as relief and joy took its place.

Is there any feeling better than that of sudden freedom?  Does any joy rival that of breathing fresh air and seeing the light of day when one despaired of ever doing either again?

I remember it as if it were last night.

But, alas, I still remember the darkness, too.

I’m sitting at my desk and remembering the foolishness of a boy who was stupid enough to clamber out of the light of day into a dark, dangerous tunnel in which he might have died.

On a dare.

My thoughts drift for a moment and I hear young voices singing the words.  It was the favorite song of one of my Sunday School teachers.  Mrs. Olsen had taught us about a young man named Daniel who refused to to be moved from his purpose, who refused to give in and who was thrown into the underground darkness of a lions cave–alone–because he dared.

Dare to be a Daniel.
Dare to stand alone.
Dare to have a purpose firm.
Dare to make it known.

There are some dares worth taking.  There are some dark tunnels we need to traverse.

Some dangers must be braved.

Alone.

I’m still learning lessons I should have learned fifty years ago.

I hope some who read this will be quicker on the uptake than I have been.

I wonder.  Are you ready to face the test?

Think you can take the plunge underground?

I dare you!

 

“The king said to Daniel, ‘May your God, whom you serve continually, rescue you!'”
(Daniel 6:16b ~ NIV)

“It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare; it is because we do not dare that things are difficult.”
(Seneca the Younger ~ Roman philosopher ~ 4BC-65AD) 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

I want the words back.

It has been twenty years since I said them.  The man sitting in front of me was a relative, one whom I hadn’t seen for twenty years before that.  We had, as seems to be the custom in many far-flung families, come together in the same place on that day to mourn the loss of a loved one.

I found in my cousin a kindred spirit.  After the funeral and the ensuing family dinner and socializing, all the other guests had gone to bed or left for other quarters.  He and I sat into the wee hours of the morning talking about nothing and everything.

He is a pastor.  I have a great love for God and for knowledge of Him.  After the lighter subjects had been exhausted, we spoke at length about our faith and then about the foundations of our faith.

We started out speaking in broad terms, our joy at finding common ground, where we had never considered it might exist, almost palpable.  The smiles on our faces as we shared our hearts mirrored the spirit within.

Eventually, the broad terms used up, we found the field of discussion narrowing, pinpointing individual doctrines and long-held beliefs.

I should have seen the danger.

Tighter and tighter grew the spaces in which we maneuvered, both intent on sharing our passions.  From the clean and straight foundations, we had made our way to the living quarters in which we dwelt, day in and day out, each of us sure in our direction and in the integrity of the building.

We had obviously gone to different schools of architecture.

His structural design began to feel at odds with mine; my rooms built too large with doors that opened at a touch.  I was cramped in the spaces he described, sensing that there might even be locks on some of the doors into the spaces, as well.

I said the words.  He didn’t.

I said them.

I grew uncomfortable with the picture I was seeing and I wanted to seem open-minded, but firm.  I made one statement and as a result, the house we had built together in that one glorious evening would soon be deserted, never to be inhabited again.

“There is only one thing that will keep me from fellowship with another believer.  If he or she believes…, I don’t see any way for us to walk together.”

It was the one thing I was sure would allow us to move into the next room, a room where we would leave behind our differences, our arguments, our petty dogmas.  I could see the room just ahead.  The welcome light from inside shone down the narrow hallway we were in.  In there, we would enjoy the splendor of being single-minded and in harmony once again.

The pain on his face was nearly instantaneous.

“Uh.  I believe that.  It is absolutely essential to my faith.”

We were done. I think I heard a door slam somewhere.

The narrowing passage led to a dead end, never to open up into another space of comfort and camaraderie.
Finished.   

Stuck.

The awkwardness of the silence which followed was profound.  He went to bed.  I went out to the motor home in which I was housed for that night.  I couldn’t sleep.

The next morning, he flew home.  We said goodbye without the slightest sign of the emotion the evening before had foreshadowed.  He promised to keep in touch.  I did the same.

Neither of us has.
__________

My mind searches for the truth to be found in the event.  All I can see is a snapshot in my memory of a face peering through boulders at me.  It was on another day, even more years back.

To this day, the fear in the eyes is still enough to make me cringe.

We had taken a day trip to a nearby state park.  Devil’s Den, they call it.  I saw its beauty and wondered at the name.  The place was astounding.

All around, the Ozark mountains climb.  For miles, as we traveled toward the park, we rode along ridges and overlooked spectacular wooded valleys and limestone bluffs that fell away below us.  Then we began to go down, down, and down some more, winding along tortuous roadways into a valley that was, in a word, beautiful.

We wound our way along the river that dropped over a dam in a roaring waterfall of sound to the little lake below where swimmers cavorted in its coolness.  There were hiking trails that lead to amazing overlooks and placid meadows.

Then there were the caves.  Ah!

Now I remember why they call it Devil’s Den.

Our group of young men grabbed flashlights and headed up the trail that led to the caves.  Imagine.  All the beauty of the woods, hills, and noisy water around us, and we wanted to clamber underground, over and around fallen boulders in the dark.

In the dark.

It started out nicely, the yawning opening inviting all of us to head deep into the maw of the cavern.  We stood upright and just walked right in.  It wasn’t long though, before the walking became climbing, as the big boulders seemed to want to be right in our pathway.  We had to climb or turn back, and we weren’t about to go back.

Soon the climbing became crawling as the open cave turned into nothing more than a tunnel.  Fortunately, the tunnel eventually opened up into a place where we could stand, but within moments we were sliding through tight spots, the like of which I had never been in.

I remember coming home that night–we did get out–with the stitching worn off the pockets of my jeans where they had rubbed constantly against those tight rocks.  At one point, I found myself remembering that those caves had been formed by earth movement, and I wondered what would happen if the earth chose that exact moment to move again.  Not a reassuring thought.

Tight spots.

We got in and then we got out with each other’s help.  Still, I was never so relieved as when we saw the light of day shining into the mouth of the caverns in front of us.  We stood outside the entrance and counted off, to be sure everyone was out.

We weren’t.

Three guys had been left behind.  A friend and I were elected, perhaps we volunteered, to go back in and find them.  It didn’t take long.

As we called out in the dark, we saw a light shining through a crack, a very small crack, in the wall of the main cavern.  I will never forget the frightened face pressed up to the crack.  It was the face of a young man who was in a tight spot, one he feared he might never be rescued from.

He could see the big open room of the main cavern.  He could even reach his fingers through the crack in front of him and feel the moving air of the space.  What he couldn’t do was to move from his position, jammed in the small space of a side passage, into that room which was the embodiment of freedom, and life, and joy to him and the two other guys pressed in behind him.

The friend with me knew the caves better than I.  He had traversed them before and recognized the side passage the fellows were in.  Urging them to move away from the crack, he gave them clear instructions on how to get back on track and into the main cavern once more.

They moved away from the crack only reluctantly.  It was so close–so close–to safety and relief, yet they could not squeeze through the tight spot they had worked themselves into.  Still, they didn’t want to leave the spot when they could see their goal within reach.  But the guys finally did follow instructions and minutes later we heard them puffing and exclaiming about the hardship, but they were smiling sheepishly as they came into the big cavern, just feet away from where we had found them.

So close.  So far.
__________

My mind shifts back to that other night twenty years ago.  That night when my cousin and I moved from the wide spot where we walked side by side and conversed, never realizing that the room was narrowing.  Then, before we knew it, it was too late.

Too late.  The tight spot my words put us in were supposed to be the way out.  They only drove us in deeper and we never found the path back.

So close.  So far.

I hear the questioning voices.  What of the important doctrine I spoke of?  Shouldn’t I have done exactly what I did and stood my ground?  Was is that important?

I have asked myself that question again and again.  I still believe the dogma of which I spoke.  It’s just that the years have shown me another truth.

When we disagree with others who are walking in the same faith as we are, it is not wise to make the way so narrow that no one else may pass.  Imperatives that leave no way out make it difficult (impossible even) for us to walk side by side and to learn from each other.  We are robbed of fellowship with fellow travelers who are as passionate as we to walk in truth.

The Apostle, for whom my parents had the audacity to name me, suggested that it was okay for his listeners to believe something other than what he taught.  He did add that he was sure God would show the objectors the truth, but he asks that they continue to live up to what had been attained.  Even if they couldn’t agree with him on that one point.

Freedom to find the truth.  As they walked beside him.

I still want the words back.

The tight spots in this world are plentiful enough.  There is no need for us to go building more, or even looking for those we needn’t travel.

I’m still making my way out of the devil’s den I stumbled into that night.

There are others in here too.  Their cries for help echo in my ears.

Maybe we can find the way out into the passageway together.

We might even share the light along the journey.

“We must hold onto the progress we have already made.”
(Philippians 3:16 ~ NLT)

“Rabbit’s clever,” said Pooh thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said Piglet, “Rabbit’s clever.”
“And he has Brain.”
“Yes,” said Piglet, “Rabbit has Brain.”
There was a long silence.
“I suppose,” said Pooh, “that that’s why he never understands anything.”
(A.A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

Photo by Sam.  Used under Creative Commons license.

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved. 

“There are two kinds of riders–those who have had an accident, and those who will have one.”

Funny.

Not a single bike ride goes by that I don’t remember the comment made by my friend the mathematician.  He’s not all odd numbers and bad jokes, it seems.

“Two kinds…”

My friend fits into the first category.  So do I.  Neither of us actually remembers our respective accident, since concussions were involved.  He was hit by a car, ending up in the hospital; I bounced down a hill in the dark on my head and other parts, eventually finding my way home again in the pitch-black night.

We’ve both had our accident.

And yet, not a single ride goes by without the words coming to mind again.  I can’t avoid this sinking feeling–this feeling that I’m not completely home-free yet.  Now, why would that be?

Oh yes!  I’ve got it!  Being in the first category?  It doesn’t preclude being a member of the second.

“…those who will have one.”

Any day now, I may have another bike wreck.  Any day now.  And yet, I get on the machine and pedal away time after time.  Does that make any sense to you?

One doesn’t have to be a cyclist to understand the drive, the inherent need to do whatever it is they do.  Again and again.  It is true that we may face the paramedic’s gurney, or the CT-scan machine in the emergency room.  We do it anyway.

It is also possible that the consequence will be something entirely different.  No less devastating–just different.  The activity we must participate in may cause us pain, but we do it anyway.

My friends said goodby to their children and grandchildren–years ago now, it seems.  When we speak with them about their loved ones, there are always tears in their eyes.  Always.  Their grandchildren are growing up in a foreign land without grandparents to spoil them.  They can’t even gather their children into a hug that shows how much they love them.

It is their own fault.

Does that seem harsh?  I don’t mean it to be.

You see, when we teach children to love God and to love others, there is the distinct possibility that they will do just that.  Sometimes when they do (love God and others), they decide to go someplace else to do it–someplace half a world away.

Ask my friends if they would do it again.  Go ahead.  Ask them.

You know the answer, don’t you? 

In a heartbeat.  A heartbeat.

The Lovely Lady and I were married by a wise old man who, alongside his sweet wife, had spent years in Africa as missionaries–a lifetime before, it seemed to them. We heard the story many times.  But, I will never forget the tremor that came into this rough German pastor’s voice every time he spoke of it.  Never.

The it he spoke of was the little infant-sized coffin he made and then buried under the African dirt with his own hands–a coffin that held their tiny little girl who died of a tropical illness for which no treatment was available in that remote region.  As he painfully described the event which had happened in years long past, it was as if the tragedy had occurred only the day before.

Some things you never completely recover from.

Once, as he talked of that sad event, I watched his sweet wife cover her mouth with her hand to hold back the storm that threatened to overtake her emotions, and I suddenly realized the incredible personal cost of their service.  It was a realization that cannot be soon forgotten.

Like the friends mentioned above, I wish I could encourage you to ask the old pastor and his wife if it was worth it–if they would do it again–but they are both gone from this earth now.  Reunited with their sweet baby.

I think I know the answer they would give you though.

In a heartbeat.  A heartbeat.

Each of us have dreams and plans of things that we must accomplish in this lifetime.  Must.  The pathway to those goals is fraught with pitfalls.  Cyclists have wrecks.  Investors lose fortunes.  Sadness awaits at the end of relationships.

When we face the potential disasters, the prize that awaits at the end of the road may seem momentarily to be diminished in value.  But, if we have counted the cost, we forge ahead, regardless of the possibility of loss.  

When we risk all, we may well lose all.  We risk it anyway.

The payoff comes when the course is complete.

Not before.

I’ll keep riding.

You?

The ship is safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.”
(William G.T. Shedd ~ American Presbyterian theologian ~ 1820-1894)

“But don’t begin until you count the cost.  For who would begin construction of a building without first calculating the cost to see if there is enough money to finish it?”
(Luke 14:28 ~ NLT)

Thanks to Matthew Williams for permission to use his photo, taken by Mike Briggs.

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

The little group of people needed to meet and discuss important matters.  Someone had to set the time.  We should have known better than to let the mathematician do it.

“We’ll meet at my house at 7:14 PM.”

That’s what the email said.  7:14.  Not 7:00.  Not 7:30.

We arrived at 7:14 and laughed about the odd scheduling.  We talked about why certain numbers were acceptable when setting timetables and others were not.

I don’t know where the thought came from, but suddenly it hit me.  I don’t love math, but some numbers are of interest to me.  Perhaps that is true for everyone.  I know many people who are superstitious about numbers.

I’ve had customers in the music store who had to buy something else when their total came to $6.66.  Seriously.

Or, how about the number 13?  Does it mean anything?  Anything at all?

I’m happy to report my numbers aren’t the superstitious kind.  For some reason though, I do have a connection with a few which have an interesting feature.  I was born on June the sixteenth–616.  The Lovely Lady and I tied the knot on August the eighteenth–818.  When I was a kid, we got our mail at Post Office Box 313.

Funny.  I notice that the time on my digital clock is showing one of those numbers and I smile.  The number comes up on a sales receipt and it feels like I’ve just gotten a note from an old friend.

I know.  I’m an odd duck.

I never said I wasn’t.

The mathematician had a name for those numbers.  Palindromic.  They read the same going forward and backwards.

Symmetry.  Order.  Harmony.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks.  I don’t know if I like the number sequences because of my personality, or if my personality has been influenced by the sequences, but I suddenly remember my need for order and symmetry.  I’ve jokingly called it my little OCD problem.

I like whole potato chips on my plate, not broken ones.  Colored candy is sorted and eaten until there is an even number of each color in my hand.  The shopping cart in the grocery store is sorted into categories as items are selected.  If I’m in the kitchen when the Lovely Lady is at work there, I clean and arrange dishes and pans behind her.

She is not amused.  Oh, she understands me, but she is not amused.

Perhaps I should move on.

The concept of order and symmetry has become a bit esoteric in the world in which we live.  Before we move too far though, there was another comment made tonight as we joked about the palindromic numbers which bears a bit more thought.

“So–you like looking forward and looking back–do you?”  The mathematician asked the question.

I realized, with a start, that he was correct.  There wasn’t time to discuss it, so I let it drop.  But as I sit at my desk, I can’t get away from the feeling that there is a deeper truth here.

Much deeper.

Sometimes it’s in looking back that we can see our way forward.

I love to write about the past.  I don’t live there, I just enjoy frequent visits via the memories which I’ve been privileged to retain.  The bigger picture shows that often the past gives us answers to unlock the future.

It can only do so if we raise our eyes from the vault of our memories to gaze again toward the mysterious road ahead and interpret correctly the knowledge our visit to the past has given us.

Perhaps a couple of illustrations from real life might help.  From many years ago, there are two old men who come to mind.  They were both leaders in the church I attended.

The first was an old farmer, with a love for history and tradition.  But, change had begun to creep into the fellowship.  Some wanted to use a different, more understandable, version of the Bible.  Then there was the music, and even the artwork on the new sign.  It was all too much for him.

With his eyes fixed firmly on the past, he refused to accept any of the changes, making sure that people knew his viewpoint on each one.

“We’ve never done it that way before.”

The other old gentleman also had a love for tradition.  Like his friend (and they were friends), he insisted on consistency in the doctrine of the organization.  He too, liked looking back at the past and remembering how things had been in his younger days.

But he saw things that his friend didn’t–or wouldn’t.  Looking back, he saw that in his day, changes had been made–changes that he had been happy about.

He wondered.

Changes.  In the past.  Hmmmm…

Looking back to the future, he made his proclamation.  It was a bit different than his friend’s had been.

“We’ve had our day.  It’s time for the younger folks to have theirs.”

We look back.  And, we see our way forward more clearly.

There is one other type of person.  I’m surrounded by this type.  I have been this type.

It is the person who only looks to the future and makes changes willy-nilly, without ever considering a historical perspective.

Disaster awaits.

It’s true.  Change is the only real constant we know.

We don’t live in the past.  We don’t yet live in the future, either.  The success of the latter depends on paying attention to the lessons of the former.

Right about now, I’m looking back and realizing that I haven’t slept for a number of hours.  It’s time to rest so I can do it all again tomorrow.

And, I know by experience that the clock will soon be displaying my old Post Office box number.  It’s an old friend I’m not anxious to greet tonight.

Looking backwards.  To make the future better.

Palindromic.

Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.”
(Soren Kierkegaard ~ Dutch philosopher ~ 1813-1855)

“Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.”
(Katharina von Schlegel ~ German poet/hymn writer ~ 1697-1768)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

She dropped the sealed envelope carelessly on my desk.

“There ya go.”  She grinned.  “That ought to make your day.”

I picked up the white envelope with my name handwritten across the face and, not wanting to take the time to find a letter opener, ripped it open.  The page within was covered with numbers and medical abbreviations.

It didn’t make my day.

I have spent the last year and a half working tirelessly at getting back into shape.  A lifetime of bad habits had taken their toll and my body was showing the years, both inside and out.  For the first eight or nine months after I began, I had religiously followed a diet low in animal fats and also engaged in a rigorous exercise schedule.

Reaching my goal weight and receiving the news from my doctor that the tests all showed that my work had achieved my target numbers, I knew I had to keep working.

I did.

Well, I kept to the rigorous exercise schedule anyway.  Most weeks still find me putting in forty to sixty miles in cycling or running.  My weight is still exactly at the goal set last year.  There has been no fluctuation.

I may have slipped a bit in my dietary regimen, but no matter–right?  Exercise burns the calories; my weight is exactly where it should be.  What else do I need?

I looked at the numbers on the paper in my hand again.  This had to be wrong!

My doctor will not be happy.

I am not happy!

Disappointment surged through my whole being.

I had believed that everything was perfect.  It was, in fact, all wrong.

The tables have turned.
_________

At work that same afternoon, I made a phone call I didn’t want to make.  I have written before about my problems in dealing with representatives from big businesses.  The hierarchies in those companies make it astonishingly difficult to communicate, much less to rectify issues.  I usually hang up the telephone after these calls with elevated blood pressure and in a bad mood.

I expected to meet with failure.

A customer had reneged on an agreement and consequently, the huge banking establishment had rescinded their payment to us.  The transaction was for a large enough amount that I didn’t want to lose the money without at least making an attempt to collect it.

I had no hope of success.  I was already feeling like a victim and placing blame on the customer for being dishonest.

There was a mud hole of unhappiness before me and I hopped right in to wallow in it.  I anticipated a long stay.

My pessimism stemmed from that fact that I hadn’t a leg to stand on.  I had not followed the bank’s protocol and had shipped the merchandise to a different address at the request of the customer.  There was no way I would receive a reinstatement of the payment.

No way.

Moments later, I was astonished to hear the bank’s representative say the words.

“Mr. Phillips, I will be happy to issue a credit to your account in that amount.  We can’t charge the customer again, but we want to make sure you don’t have a loss.  We’ll cover it.“

I stopped in mid-wallow.

“What?  You’ll issue a credit?  Huh?  Did I understand you correctly?”

The questions kept coming to my mind.  It was almost as if I didn’t want the company to make this right for me.  I kind of liked the victim role.  I could blame someone else for my unhappiness.  If not the customer, then the bank could stand in as the villain.

I enjoyed the mud hole.  I wanted to wallow awhile.

I hung the phone up in a daze.

Maybe it was just a ruse.  He probably just wanted to get rid of me and didn’t want have to face my tantrum. It was inevitable.  He had to know that and just wanted to avoid the confrontation.  There would never be any money in my account.

I checked my account today.  Right there in the deposits column, I saw it.  Three hundred and twenty-six dollars–deposited from the banking firm this morning.

I want the satisfaction of being angry at the greedy corporation that won’t give me my money!  I want to hate forever that customer who wronged me!  Crooks!  Liars!

But no.

The tables have turned.
__________

In black and white, the numbers tell their tale.  Two separate occurrences, both with unexpected conclusions.

Tables turned.

The good news I hoped for because of my own hard work?  There was none there.  I had done some things right, but not everything.  I couldn’t achieve the result I had hoped for, no matter how hard I had worked.

The bad news I expected?  Blown away, like the morning mist.  With one stroke of a pen, the wrong was made right.  I have no villain to complain about.  I am not a victim.
_________

I open the Book and find the words there in black and white as well.

All my own effort, for all of my life, has been in vain.  All for naught.  The good I do can never outweigh the wrong which has been done.

Never.

The gift has been given and credited to my account.  One who had no obligation whatsoever to pay the debt did so.  I can claim no part in its payment, and I can never make restitution to the One who paid it for me.

Never.

Tables turned.

“Shouldn’t you have mercy on your fellow servant, just as I had mercy on you?”
(Matthew 18:33 ~ NLT)

“Sometimes, when you least expect it, the tables turn and that scary feeling that has taken hold of you for so long somehow turns into hope.”
(David Archuleta ~ American singer/songwriter)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

The old farmer picked his words carefully.  This was important stuff.

“It’s a hard life.  You’re either in all the way or you’ll be out soon enough.”

 Almost sadly, he nodded his weather-beaten and graying head. as he considered his own words.

I was standing at my work bench, toiling at a repair job.  I’ve often wondered why that seems to be an invitation to customers to open up about their life.  Perhaps, the fact that they don’t feel the pressure of a constant stare–or maybe it’s just easier to talk to someone when you know honest labor is being done.  Whatever the reason, this wasn’t my first such conversation today.

A mere half-hour before, another aging man had stood and said the words going through my mind tonight. We had been talking about a family relationship which had come to an abrupt end.  I guess I should say, he had been talking about it.  I was listening as I worked.

“The product wasn’t as advertised,”  was his gloomy pronouncement.

The man he was discussing had been talkative, and even seemed to be forthcoming and honest in their conversations.  Nothing had prepared my friend for the disappointing conclusion which would end the relationship mere months later.

Not as advertised.

I have bought such merchandise.  Cars that became lemons.  Kitchen gadgets which disappointed in every way.  Telephone service which was non-existent when needed.

I understand the concept.

But, as he said the words, in a flash of illumination, I realized something else:

I embody the concept.

I am a walking, talking example of the principle in action.  What you see is not what you get.

I’m not proud of it.  In fact, to divert attention from my shame, I’d love to drag everyone around me into the mud in which I wallow.

I did it tonight.

We were sitting at the local restaurant, our old friends, along with the Lovely Lady and I, and the conversation just seemed to come around to the point.  Not content to bear the blame alone, I suggested that we all are guilty of false advertisement.

I even mentioned that I had been disappointed in someone I held in very high esteem, so I was sure that no one was exempt.  Somehow, I guess, spreading the glare of the spotlight to include others besides me is a little comforting.

As if that excuses my sin.

As if.

I have struggled with this guilt for much of my life–this realization that who I am  in the deep, dark secret place of my soul is not the same person promised by the facade which has been carefully erected, piece by carefully crafted piece.

In a way, today has been a day of epiphany.  Sort of.

I have a morsel of wisdom to share.  It could change life as we know it.  Well, maybe not, but I’ll share it anyway.  In a moment.

I have come to the conclusion that I will never be as advertised.  Never in this lifetime.

Never.

That realization is not going to stop me from advertising.  Nor will I allow it to stop me from doing one more thing:

I will continue to attempt to make the product match the description.

Over the last couple of years, I have, of necessity, undertaken a fitness regimen.  I exercise an average of six or seven hours a week.

I hate it.

That is to say, I hate it before I begin.  Nearly every single day, as I prepare to depart for a run or a bicycle ride, I complain to the Lovely Lady.

“I don’t want to do this.”  The words are the same every time.

But every time, I walk out the door.

I force myself to do what I do not want to do.  I have a goal in mind and I overcome my temporary desires in favor of the long term results.

To the folks sitting in the park, I am just another fitness nut.  Anyone knows that fitness nuts love exercise.  Why else would they do it?

The motorists who have to dodge my bike are certain that I love riding on their road, causing them to slow and creep around me.  What a shock it would be to them to realize that I am focused solely on completing the number of miles I have determined I must cover to meet my goal for the day or week.

I hate exercise.

The visible exterior may be of a thin, physically fit man, but a fat, lazy couch potato lives down deep inside.

Oh.  I promised a little morsel of wisdom, didn’t I?

There is less of the fat, lazy couch potato living inside of me than there was a year ago.  Less of him than a month ago.  One might even be able to detect that he has shrunk a bit from just last week.

The reason is–I make myself do what I don’t want to do in order to achieve what I must achieve.

The same principle applies to what is happening in the deep, dark secret place inside me.

The same principle.

We do what we don’t want to do in order to achieve what we must achieve.

I won’t argue dogma.  I’m not a doctrinal scholar.  But, I know that God’s grace has given me new life, not so that I can continue to feed the secret person deep inside, but so that the finished product can someday match the public promise.

I can’t do it alone, but I do have to work at it.  Every day.

The Apostle knew this.  He assured us that the One who began the work will bring it to completion.  The man who wrote those words is the same one who told us he brought his body under discipline on a daily basis.

Sounds like an exercise regimen to me.

The old farmer was right.  It is hard work.

And, we’re either all in or we’ll be out soon enough.

Time to head out the door again.  I’d love to have some company along the way.

 

 

 

“For God is working in you, giving you the desire and the power to do what pleases Him.”
(Philippians 2:13 ~ NLT)

 

“The secret of life is honesty and fair-dealing.  If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”
(Groucho Marx ~ American comedian/actor ~ 1890-1977)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.