It was just a photo of grass.  That’s all.

Photo: Jeannean Ryman

Grass.

My friend, the photographer, has a knack for seeing the beauty in the strangest things.  Horned frogs.  Dragonflies.  And now–grass.

I saw the picture a few days ago and was gone.  Instantly.

Gone back fifty years.  As if nothing else that has occurred in the time since had transpired, I was a child again in the fields of the Rio Grande Valley.  No fences, no property lines, no adults existed in that world.  At least that always seemed to be true for the hours we spent roaming freely near our home.

There were stinging red ants and black widow spiders, along with the occasional garter snake and even a bull snake or two, but we gave them space and they didn’t seem to have any animosity toward us.  We ran and crawled with abandon, even lay down in the grass when the notion struck us.

I cannot begin to count the number of hours we spent chewing on the stalks of these picture-perfect grass stems.  I’m sure we thought it made us look suave and debonair.  Or, just really cool.

I gazed, unseeing, at the photo, and life was once more a simple, carefree existence instead of the convoluted, complicated, stressful reality in which I now live.

Some days, I’d like to be back there again.

I can still feel the grass stalk between my teeth.

But, as I contemplated the gorgeous photo and wandered those old paths in my mind, I understood that this was to be only a quick trip, a there-and-back moment that would soon come to an end.  And, as I thought, my mind took a strange turn.

It does that.  Takes strange turns.

I gazed at the photo and, instead of sun shining through the spikes of grass seed, inspiring awe and amazement at the Creator’s artistic gifts, in my mind I saw the grass being struck down by a serrated  blade.  The jagged steel swung, now close, now farther away, slicing through the stalks and felling the once beautiful seed tufts to the ground.

Why would I visualize something as destructive as that, one might ask?  I could offer the excuse that I had to do that very deed many times while growing up, and it would be truthful.  The weed cutter was our weapon of choice for keeping the wild buffel grass at bay, away from the driveways and citrus trees.  It was a crude, but effective tool.

That excuse would also be a smoke screen.  The real reason my brain wants to envision the grass lying on the ground has less to do with my memories than it does my world view.  I know it seems strange, but there it is.

I can’t see beautiful seeds on the stalk without hearing the words in my head.  I have heard them over and over in my journey as a follower of Jesus.  I don’t want to erase them, and I couldn’t even if I did.

Except a seed die, it stands alone.

The words the Teacher spoke to His followers were intended to help them understand why He had to die soon.  They still couldn’t grasp it.

In my arrogance, I have been certain that I comprehended the meaning.

Super-spiritual me has grasped the meaning and made application.  All seeds must die.

All seeds must die.

And, so they must.  But, I wonder if I have fully grasped that the time of their death is in the Creator’s hands?  Do I deign to set the timetable and do the deed myself?  As I consider, I realize that I may, in my head, have misunderstood the Teacher’s words so much more than his friends did.

You see, the words applied to Himself.  While martyrdom would be required of a number of His followers, it is not a given for everyone.

It is even possible that I have mixed up the Savior’s words with those of others who followed and encouraged us to die to self and live to God.  It’s not the same thing.

It’s not.

Funny.  I have spent a lifetime thinking about those words in the wrong way.

Did you know that buffel grass (the species in my friend’s photo) has a life expectancy of ten years?  That’s a long time for grass. It is a hardy grass, with roots that go down deep, most of the time at least six feet below the surface.  It draws the moisture necessary for life from deep underground.

Heat won’t kill it.  Drought affects it only slightly.

Light a fire and it will burn like tinder.  The wildfire will spread in seconds, seemingly killing this hardy vegetation.  The ground will rapidly be seared and blackened.

Now, it’s dead.  Right?

Wrong.

Buffel grass loves fire.  The roots below the ground survive and are working immediately to regrow the stalks, and the leaves, and the seeds.  What comes up will be green, and lush, and tender.

Alive.

Again, I look at the photo, amazing in its simplicity and stark beauty.

The light shines through, doesn’t it?

In a spectacular way, Light has a way of doing that.  Even for us.  While we live, and love, and care in the place and time our Creator has planted us, His light shines through.

Time to live.  Like the grass, stretching up to the heavens, yet covering the earth.  Shimmering in the breeze, reflecting the glory of the One who created and sustains it.

Time to live.

“Do you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?”
(A.A.Milne ~ English author ~1882-1956)

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.  The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.”
(2 Corinthians 5:17 ~ ESV)

With special thanks once again to my childhood friend, Jeannean Ryman for sharing her amazing talent for finding the beauty in creation through her photographs.

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

Have you seen the videos online?  On some rivers in Missouri and Illinois, folks have to be careful of the fish jumping into their boat.

Seriously.

By now, the reports are not only confirmed as true, the incidents are actually on the rise.  The Asian carp, which were introduced to help keep down algae growth in those rivers, are multiplying at an alarming rate, endangering many native species of fish.  This particular fish, for some reason, responds to the vibration and sound of the motors and propellers, swimming frantically by the thousands in the wake of the boat and also in front of it.

Then the real action begins.  The large silver fish, which can grow to four feet long, begin to jump, almost seeming to fly.  There are so many of them that large numbers can actually jump right into the boat.

Imagine.

Fishing without even putting bait on a line–without even throwing the line into the water.  All one has to do is to sit and enjoy the ride.  Oh!  They do also have to keep an eye out for the flying fish, since the larger ones can do serious damage to both boat and passengers.

That’s my kind of fishing!  I understand this type of fish is actually quite good to eat, too.  There is no legal limit in most states, since they’re considered a nuisance fish, so a casual boater (with a fishing license) could fill a freezer without much effort.

Now, I should mention–I’ve heard of other things that get into boats without invitation as well.  Snakes can drop from branches of trees.  In some places the alligators occasionally feel the need to approach.

Why, even President Carter in one incident, widely reported in the 1970’s, saw a rabbit swimming across the lake toward his fishing boat and, in a panic, began swinging an oar wildly to keep him out of the craft.

I’m trying to remember why I started this little essay on fishing and uninvited hitchhikers on water craft.  I suddenly recall that I really don’t like to eat fish all that much.  I’m not even a huge fan of being out on the water, over-eager fish notwithstanding.

I do, however, have a point to be made.  That was inevitable, wasn’t it?

In recent days, I’ve been thinking a bit about motivation for achievement and even ministry.  Previous essays have pointed out the dangers of having an artistic bent, the most prevalent danger being the need for reassurance.  Artists tend to seek approval from their audience, often to the detriment of their art.  Even ministers (which we all should be) tend to need a pat on the back with some frequency.

I should tell you before we go too far into this mine-field–I don’t write this seeking compliments or signs of approval for myself.  My cup is already running over and needs nothing more.

I guess you could even say my boat is teeming with a full load.  And, I haven’t even had to put a line into the water to coax the approval.

But, tonight I’m wondering about how we make sure people around us don’t have to go fishing for approval.

Why is it we make folks rig up their fishing poles and toss their bait into the water in front of us before we’ll simply say a few complimentary words to them?

When we see people doing something well, or even just trying hard, why is it so hard for us to tell them they did a good job?

I know from personal experience that if I have to go fishing for approval, the benefit from being bolstered up is short-lived.  Soon I begin to think that perhaps the words only came because I backed someone into a corner.

Maybe they didn’t even like what I did at all!

Recently, there have been a number of friends who have been kind enough to offer encouragement, seemingly out of the blue.  Funny.  When that happens, I have to assume they really mean it, that their enthusiasm is genuine and not feigned at all.

What a gift!

It seems to me it’s time the river gives up its harvest without any bait or any attempt to garner praise on the part of the person in the boat.  Like the real river and the fish, there is no shortage.  It’s not like we’ll run out of compliments and won’t have any to share with the next person who needs them.

If you’ve been blessed by something someone has said or done, tell them!

Just like the example I gave earlier, there is a flip side to this issue, too.

Sometimes what jumps into the boat isn’t what we need.

I stood and talked with a man this evening about his wife.  She used to sing in church, accompanying herself on a guitar.

Then one day, she quit.  Gave away her guitar.  She hasn’t sung again in public.  Ten years have passed and she still won’t sing.

It seems a snake fell into her boat.

On that day, the last time she sang at her church, a man came up to her after the service.  He was smiling.  He told her he appreciated her willingness to sing.  Then he went on to suggest that she should practice a little more before she got up in front of the congregation again.

Need a minute to let that sink in?  I did.

She may never get over the experience.  I hope she does.

The man who wrote the book of Hebrews gave us these words from the mouth of God:  Let us find ways to spur each other on to love and good works.  We need to encourage each other today.  Do it before it’s too late!

Words to live by.

“Like golden apples set in silver is a word spoken at the right time.”
(Proverbs 25:11 ~ ISV)

“We live by encouragement, and die without it–slowly, sadly, and angrily.”
(Celeste Holm ~ American actress ~ 1917-2012)

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

“I think you’re vain.”

The dinnertime conversation suddenly turned from polite and enjoyable to blunt and uncomfortable.  The words were directed at me.

At me.

By my son.

Maybe I should clarify.  And no, the words were not spoken in the heat of a father/son argument, with the overbearing father squared off against his teenage son in a territorial dispute.  This is not ancient history.  The young man who uttered the words quietly is thirty years old.

It happened last week.

He is not wrong.

We were discussing my exercise regimen.  I made the comment that I needed to work out that evening, but was still sore from the extra miles I had done on my run the day before.

He wanted to know why I couldn’t just do a few less miles at a slower pace.  I suggested to him that I was too competitive to let myself do that.  I push myself every time I go out.

Faster!  Farther!

Feet hurt?  Keep going!  Muscles cramping?  Stretch it out!

We talked about my alleged competitive nature.  He wondered who I was completing with.  The Lovely Lady, seated beside me, nodded her head in agreement with his question.

Who am I competing with?

I thought for a moment.  I suggested that it was actually myself, but I knew that wasn’t right.  I thought maybe it was because of my lofty standard of self discipline, but quickly dismissed that.

Then I made a mistake.  I admitted that I know other people are watching me.  I use a social application on my phone to report my runs and rides.  Anyone who is my friend can see my stats for my workouts.

I worry that they will see I am slowing down.  I’m afraid they’ll notice I rode fewer miles tonight.

My, he’s getting older, isn’t he?   It won’t be long now; the weight will pile on soon.

I hear the voices already.  Imaginary?  Sure.  But, I hear them.

The young man sitting across the table stared at me for a few seconds and offered his diagnosis.  There was no accusation whatsoever in his voice; it was simply a factual declaration based on my own words.

“I think you’re vain.”

He’s still not wrong.
__________

The Preacher said it, centuries ago.  Vanity of vanities!  All is vanity.

Vanity.  The word used to mean something different.  Emptiness.  Futility.  Meaninglessness.  The way we use the word today, it has another attached to it.

Vainglorious.

Glorious!

Now, there’s a word to celebrate!  It is a word to which we can aspire.  We glorify things and people worthy of honor.  The sunrise is glorious!  A hard won victory on the field of endeavor gains the participants glory.  We glorify our God.

Not so with vainglorious, or vanity.  The praise earned in vanity is void and empty.  The glory is futile and useless.  There is no real achievement, only the momentary surge of pride, followed by the subsequent letdown of disappointment.

Vanity seeks more glory.  Always.

It is never enough.  Never.

Empty.  All is empty.

Was the Preacher right?  Is that all there is?  Emptiness followed by more emptiness?
__________

I ran yesterday.  As usual, the phone recorded my distance and speed.  In the back of my mind though, I heard my son’s voice.   Purposely, I ran a bit slower.  I still extended the distance a bit, but the slower rate helped me to think I was achieving a victory over the vanity.

Clarity sometimes comes when we least expect it.

As I ran, I saw others out doing the same thing.  I did as I usually do and kept my eyes on the trail ahead of me.  Suddenly though, I saw him.

I saw him.

The young man was overweight.  Extremely so.  Nevertheless, he was running.  Ahead of me on the fitness trail, I saw that I would soon overtake him.  Normally, I would give a little wave and speed past.

Something told me to do something different.  I pulled even with him and slowed a bit.  He was struggling.  I could see it in his face.  All it took was a few words.

“You’re doing great!  Keep at it!”

His face beamed through the perspiration, and he gave me a thumbs up sign.

I ran on.  My face beamed a little, too.

I know.  I know.  It’s nothing more than we should do all the time.  But, for just a moment, I realized that it wasn’t about me and my achievement.  How far or how fast I ran, or how many calories I had burned–those were insignificant.

The clarity hasn’t faded.

This is the place where I usually preach.  I’m supposed to tell you about The Apostle and his remonstrance that we should consider others better than ourselves.  I should encourage you to quit seeking the approval of man and instead seek the blessing of God.

I should.

But, my son wasn’t wrong.

About me.

And, that’s not vanity talking.  It’s conviction.

I’ll take a pass on the sermon.

Another day, perhaps.

“But I begin to fancy you don’t like me.  How strange!  I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me.”
(from Wuthering Heights ~ Emily Bronte ~ English novelist ~ 1818-1848)

“Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than himself.”
(Philippians 2:3 ~ KJV)

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

Forty years.

Gone by like the markers on the runway outside a jet’s windows.

Zip, zip, zip, zip…

You’ve seen it.  They are clear, separate and distinct, as you look out the window while the plane is taxiing out.  Then you sit for a moment, as if in preparation to spring into the sky.  The huge aircraft gathers all its faculties, like a great cat hunkering down to spring at its prey.  

Suddenly, the moment of take-off arrives.  The giant creature leaps forward, intent on flight.

Zipzipzipzipzipzip…

A moment before, you were certain of the markers, your position on the runway.  In an instant, the blink of an eye almost, the markers are no longer distinct, but a blur.  A little faster and they become all one line, neither coming nor going–just a single line made up of many.

Forty years.

My high school graduating class held its forty year reunion last week.  I couldn’t attend.  Too many miles and a packed schedule made it clear that, like all the rest before, I would miss this reunion too.

Unlike the three previous events, this time I would see much of what transpired through the windows of the internet and social media.  Photos and videos, as well as written messages fairly blasted from my computers and phone all weekend.  I was grateful and happy to be a part of it, even if only through the media.

Was.

The weekend ended.  All the participants went home.  At first, the posts continued unabated, with new photos and new messages.  Then they gradually slowed, a transition from the torrent of Niagara Falls to the trickle of a little hillside spring.

I was still grateful.  Still happy.

Until yesterday.  I saw the video.

The title read, “The Class of 1975…Remembers.”

We do.

I do.   

I wasn’t prepared for the photos.  The faces.  

Beautiful.  

Young.  

Alive.

But they’re not.  

I already knew it.  I have seen the list of my classmates who had passed on.  Accidents–AIDS–cancer–suicide–the list of causes includes all these and more.  I have dealt with the intellectual knowledge that they are gone.

But, the faces.

Suddenly, the tears flow.  I am back in homeroom as the teacher calls the roll.  Susie was always near me because of her last name.  She doesn’t answer.  Peggy, too–right before me in the alphabetical list.  No answer.  I answer here, but the next name called out after me, Raul, evokes no response.  He, too is gone.

So many more.

They are not just names; they are faces from my past–people whom I knew and who knew me.  Gone from view, perhaps forever.

Someone said that we will see them again.  I want to believe that.  My faith tells me that for some, it will be true.  My heart tells me that for others, it will not.  The grace of God is not lacking, but the permission from the individual is a condition which must be met.  

I pass no personal judgment, but God will not violate the choices we make in this life.

The tears begin anew.  So many–gone so soon.

I have spoken more than enough about tears recently.  I want to stop.

I want them to stop.  

As I dry my eyes once again, I consider the speed of the years going by once more and become aware that the blurred lines on the pavement are no longer passing at a frightful speed.  They have given way to clouds and a far away landscape which is passing even faster than the lines. 

Is this all we have to look forward to?  Will all of life soon be sad, distant memories left behind us?

In my mind, I reach over and slide the cover down on the window.  I shake my head and look around.

That’s odd.

In here, time is moving at a normal speed.  Folks are deep in conversation; young children are playing; refreshments are being served.  There is not a sign of hurry, no sense of despair.

Just like the jet, this sphere we ride on through the universe is spinning at breakneck speed, seemingly out of control at times.  Yet, in our little corner of the world, time passes as it always has, one day at a time.

Tomorrow is a new day.

There is still time.  

“In their hearts, humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.”

(Proverbs 16:9 ~ NIV)

“How did it get so late so soon?

It’s night before it’s afternoon.

December is here before it’s June.

My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?”

(Dr. Seuss ~ American children’s author/poet ~ 1904-1991)

It’s officially the first full day of Autumn.  The Autumnal Equinox, the exact moment at which the sun’s position passed the equator, occurred yesterday at 9:29 PM, local time.  I’m sure I felt a chill go down my spine right about then.  I don’t love Autumn.

No.  The name of the season is Fall.

It fits.

Fall.

We call it that for obvious reasons.  The gorgeous covering which the Creator has provided for all things alive and growing suddenly recognizes the signs that time is getting on.  With not a hint of embarrassment–without even the politest pardon me–the leaves clothing the entirety of nature will soon be shed, leaving the trees and ground bereft of cover.

Fall.

The nakedness of the trees aside, I have other reasons for disparaging the season.  The chill is already in the air.  The trees know it, in spite of the fact that temperatures have hardly dipped into the sixties.  The wind blew through a week ago, with just enough of the northern bluster behind it to tempt a few leaves to surrender without a struggle.

Cowards!  I look out the window and see most of the trees still covered in green, but I know, from many years of experience, that will change very soon.  Little by little, word will sift through the arboreal world that the battle is already lost.  Much of the foliage will simply alter from green to brown and let loose of the branches to which they have clung tightly for half a year.

Granted, there are a good few of the leaves which will put up a fight, clinging stubbornly to their posts.  But soon, the forces of change will begin to withdraw their life support, little by little drawing away the sap which supplies their energy and vitality.

They will not surrender easily.  No, they will hold on tightly, feeling the green fade, replaced by yellows and oranges, perhaps even a purple or red.

They will be glorious in their defeat, but they will be defeated.

By the thousands, humans will take to the highways and back roads to exclaim about and photograph their death.

Gorgeous!  Splendid!

I hear them exclaim already.  It doesn’t matter.

It will end badly.

It always does.  Every year.

Fall.  The Fall of the Leaves.  Almost like the Fall of Rome–or the Bastille–or the Alamo.

Ah.  But, I grow cynical, don’t I?

It’s only fall.

It happens every year, only to be followed by winter.  Which, in its turn, will be followed by spring and summer.  I know that.  My brain does, anyway.  The promise of God is that seedtime and harvest, summer and winter, will continue as long as the earth endures.

And yet.

I have seen the desolation which is to come.  The glorious splendor of the trees’ defeat still turns to darkest winter.

I do not love winter, either.  The cold cuts right through me.  The darkness…but, I’m borrowing trouble, aren’t I?  Winter will come.  When I have to go out, I will dress for it.  When I can, I will stay in where it is warm.

I will sit beside the fire and wait.  And wait.

And wait.  For what comes next.

For what comes next!

You see,  today I know the sinking feeling of certainty–certainty that fall is coming with winter following.

But, I also know the certainty, the joyous assurance that spring will come again.

I wonder.  Do the trees know that too?

As I sit and consider, I suddenly remember that the leaves aren’t the tree.  When they die, the tree yet lives.  Fall isn’t surrender, but simply preparation for next spring.  Our Creator, in His wisdom, designed it to be so.  Half a year of glorious life, a few weeks of glorious splendor, a few more of rest, and then…

Rebirth!  New life!

The reader will, no doubt, by now be aware that the images drawn on this page, the picture of ebbing life and sleep, as well as the new life which follows cannot be contained in the physical description of the earth’s seasons only.

It seems that I have more to think about tonight.

Perhaps, I’m not the only one.

I may even need to plan a day trip through the hillsides and valleys nearby in a few weeks.

There may be something worth looking at soon.

This old world keeps turning.

“You expected to be sad in the fall.  Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and cold, wintery light.  But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.”
(from “A Moveable Feast” by Ernest Hemingway ~ American author ~ 1899-1961)

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted…”
(Ecclesiastes 3: 1,2 ~ ESV)

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

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