I saw red again last night.

Many of you did, too.  You stayed up until the wee hours to stand in the cold night air and stare into the sky.  Well, some who are not so adventurous took an easier path and set alarm clocks for 2:00 AM and clambered out of beds to peek out their windows for a few moments before slipping between the covers again.

But you saw the red, didn’t you?

I was reminded it was during this very week only a year ago–this week that we who are followers of Christ call Holy Week–that we saw red of a different sort.  It was a week of acrimony, loud with the shouts of anger and accusation between brothers, between friends.  Red was everywhere as one side of the argument made their positions clear with symbols which they considered vital to their message.  Others took offense.  It was an ugly week, and felt not holy at all.

I thought of that, as I stood under the frigid sky last night, anticipating the red that I would see.  I wasn’t prepared for the message which would be written in the heavens for all to read.  Well, perhaps not many saw what I did.  Oh, the images they saw would have been no different, but their significance might have varied a bit in the mind of the observers.

The day had been cloudy and overcast, a dreary, dim span of hours.  But as the night approached, the clouds blew away, the whole expanse of the sky above was revealed and the full moon arose towards the south in the eastern sky.

It was a brilliant white, its rays almost piercing the sight.

As the dazzling lunar orb swung in its circuit across the sky to the west, almost it appeared that the astronomers had missed the date.  There was no dimming of the brightness, no sign of anything out of the ordinary that was to come.  Nothing, that is, except for a few fools who stood in the dark and cold waiting for what they believed with a certainty was to come.

And then it happened.

A shadow fell across the eastern sector of the huge, round body.  Seemingly, within minutes (it was longer, I know) the whole of the moon was in darkness, eaten up by that same shadow, which consumed it from east to west.

Before long, where moments before one had seen the radiant reflection of light from the surface, all was black.  That was it–black.

Not red.  Black.

They had been wrong.  This was no Blood Moon.  There was no red to be seen.  Just blackness, nothing more.

To one who had not dressed appropriately for the cold night, the wait seemed interminable.  Would the scene never change?  Was the anticipation for nothing?  This was it?  A black shadow?

Photo: Jeannean Ryman

No.  The watchers were not to be disappointed.  It was not long, a matter of minutes, until the shadow of blackness was replaced with a slight reddish glow.  That glow grew and spread until all the surface of the once bright white, then dark black, moon had turned to a blood red.

If the empty blackness of the lunar eclipse had made the blood run cold, standing there in the frigid darkness the  luminescent glow of the moon bathed in red  made chills run up the back.  I have written before of moments to be collected and saved in the memory.

This is one of those.

I won’t drag on through the rest of the event, but I do want you to consider, briefly, the sequence that ensued to return the moon to its accustomed state.

After the Blood Moon had hung in the sky for some time, the red began to recede and the dark of the original eclipse, the shadow, returned.  But, before you knew it, a matter of another few moments, from the darkness, the shadow, the brilliant white orb that we have always known and expect to see in the sky emerged again.

It was clean and bright, and devoid of any sign of the dark eclipse.

White.  Pure.

For one who loves imagery and parables, the occurrence of this breathtaking event during Holy Week is invaluable.  There are conclusions to be drawn from the imagery of the bright, and the shadowy, and the red moon, followed again by the pure, bright light.  I want to ramble on and on about it.

I’ll move on instead.
____________________

Tonight, I still see the red.

It’s a different kind of red, though. As I sat down to write tonight, my heart weighed down with the cares of this world, I realized that it is almost Good Friday.  I’m not quite sure of the historical accuracy of Friday being the day on which the crucifixion took place, but it is the day on which all Christendom pauses to consider the incredible cost of Grace.

The transaction of redemption wasn’t clean and neat; it wasn’t a simple contract signing in an office.  It was messy, and grotesque, and bloody.  That’s right.  Blood was shed.  The contract for Grace was sealed with the blood of the Son of God who said, in bright red, “For you.  So that you can be with me in heaven.  So that you can live in unity with each other here on earth.”

I’m seeing red.

This week, it seems that all of us who are followers of the Lamb who took away the sins of the world, could take some time to pause and consider what that means to us individually and collectively.  I suggest that we might bow or kneel or stand with arms outstretched to heaven and simply be grateful that God’s mercy has reached to us in the red, red blood of His Son who died willingly for us.

The red was–and is–there to give every one of us individually the opportunity to believe.  It is also there to demonstrate God’s great love for us collectively, so that we might live together in His love. Perhaps, as we kneel in gratitude, a petition that we can love our neighbors wouldn’t be out of place.

I’m seeing red tonight.  It’s a red of a different type than the red I saw last night–a different red than what I saw last year during this week.  And, my eyes still hurt as I consider the cost.

The tears come as I realize how far from being a loving disciple I have strayed, arguments and excuses on the tip of my tongue, as I seek to justify my sinful conduct.

I’m grateful that God sees the red, too.  It is all He sees, as His Son says, “This one’s mine.”

As we approach this, one of the high and holy days in the life of the Church, I am determined to live in a way consistent with that truth.  I pray that it will show in my conduct every other day, as well.

How about it?  Are you still seeing red too?

“In letters of crimson, God wrote His love
On the hillside so long, long ago;
For you and for me Jesus died,
And love’s greatest story was told.”
(“Written In Red”~Gordon Jensen~Canadian born song writer)

“Christ suffered for our sins once for all time.  He never sinned, but he died for sinners, to bring you safely home to God.”
(I Peter 3:18a~NLT)

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

Illumination comes at strange moments.

It was about seven this morning when I reached down to do something I have done thousands of times before.  In my semi-catatonic state (one might almost say I was in a waking dream), I suddenly became aware of the significance of what I was doing.

More to the point, I became acutely aware of a tool I had been using repeatedly, but had never acknowledged.  My hand jerked back from the door knob on the closet door, and I stooped down to look at it.

Astounding.

I have never before considered what an amazing thing it is to have a latch that is actuated by a knob on a door.  Any door.  But today, especially my closet door.

It’s not a pretentious doorway, not even a renowned one.  No famous person has ever, to my knowledge, opened it or even peeked through it.  Essentially one human being has utilized this doorway over the last ten years with regularity.

Me.

In all the time I’ve turned that knob, I have never written a tribute to it, never immortalized it in song, never even so much as mentioned it to a friend.  You would think that the brass-colored mechanism means nothing to me and that I wouldn’t care if it stopped functioning tomorrow.

You would be wrong.

I need that doorknob.  I depend on it in a way I depend on few things in my life.  Without it, I cannot reach through the doorway and select a clean shirt to put on in the morning.  I can’t pick up the pair of shoes that matches my activity for the day, and wouldn’t be able to decide whether I will wear khakis or blue jeans to cover my legs on any given workday.  In short, that doorknob is a necessity for life as I know it.

I don’t have to think about whether it will work the next time I turn it.  I routinely slam the door behind me, certain that it will latch and seal the doorway until I need it once again.  It simply does what it is designed to do, what it was built to do many years ago.

It is, after all, a very old doorknob.  Older even, than I am.

Still it functions, day after long day, night after dark night.

Turn–open.  Slam–close.  Turn–open.  Slam–close.  Again and again, it fulfills its purpose.

And, I have never once knelt down and talked to it, encouraging it in its labor.  I’ve never complimented it to anyone while in earshot, never reached down and patted it after I opened and closed the closet door to take out my clothes for the day.

I want to be careful how I communicate this next thought, for I fear it might be misunderstood.  You see, the lesson of the doorknob, the astonishing thing that I perceived in the fog of half wakefulness this morning, is one that I have yet to engage in my own life.

I know that I have a purpose.  I am confident of it.  I am also fairly sure I am in the process of fulfilling that purpose in life.  My problem is I don’t want to be used.  Not without being acknowledged.

I don’t want to be used.

Not unless you intend to praise me, or stroke me, or pay me.

The fear I mentioned of being misunderstood is a concern that folks who read this will think it incumbent upon them to stroke this scribe, to compliment what I do.  That is not the point I am making.  In fact, it is exactly the opposite.  I want to learn to do exactly what I have been placed here for without ever once expecting a compliment, without ever once craving a pat on the back.

I have mentioned before the mindset performers get into of needing more and more encouragement every time they perform.  And, that’s just the thing.  I don’t want to perform.  I want to be a doorknob.

I want to be a doorknob.

I realize I will never be the doorway.  I will never be the destination.  But, I can be the doorknob, the mechanism which enables people to move between the place they are, through the doorway, and into the next location.

The doorknob serves.   And yeah, the doorknob gets used.  And, it’s okay.

So, here’s an invitation for each one of you who read this:  Perhaps you’ve been trapped in a room and needed to find the doorknob to get out.  If I’ve ever helped you to do that, I am paid in full.  No compliments, no pats on the back, are necessary.

But, more than that, I hope you’ll want to be the mechanism by which others do the same thing–move through the doorway to better places, to be changed people. It is what every one of us is intended to do.

I told you that I will never be the doorway.  But, I know Someone who is.  He made the claim when he walked this earth many centuries ago. 

“I am the Door. If any man enters through Me, he will go in and out and will find sustenance for his soul.”

I think I’m going to like this doorknob job.

“I like stepping into the future.  Therefore, I look for doorknobs.”
(Mark Rosen ~ American sports reporter/author)

“Proclaim the message.  Be ready to do this whether or not the time is convenient.  Refute, warn, and encourage with the utmost patience when you teach.”
(2 Timothy 4:2 ~ International Standard Version)

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

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“Daddy.”

The six year old boy beside the easy chair has appeared, not quite silently, from the upper floor of the big old house.  It is well past the hour when he was sent to bed, and his parents assumed that he was asleep hours ago.  They are sitting in the living room, still commiserating about the same subject they had discussed with the children earlier that evening.

As they spoke quietly, they heard his footsteps on the stairs, plopping down each one of the fourteen treads, one halting step at a time.  The young lad from the upper regions evidently wants to discuss the subject with them also.

Some parents keep their affairs secret from their children because they are afraid to burden them. They want their kids to have a carefree childhood, free from the problems of the world.  It is a viewpoint that is not without merit, but this family had determined some time before this that they would talk (and pray) about their problems forthrightly, in just the same way they rejoiced openly over their victories and blessings.

They had learned earlier in the day that a debt, which they hadn’t even realized was owed, would be due within the next week or so.  It was of significant size.  Rather than whisper about the issue, it was spoken of openly at the dinner table with the children present that evening.  The thought that either of the children would lie awake and worry about their conversation hadn’t occurred to the young parents, so they are concerned.

“What’s wrong, buddy?  Are you upset?” his dad asks.  The boy has a pensive look on his face as he replies, “No, not really.  I just wanted to talk with you about something.”  They are relieved, but know that more is coming.  It is not at all what they are expecting.   

“I know you need money.  I have some I want you to use.” 

As he speaks the words slowly, the little fellow is holding out both hands, one full of wadded up dollar bills and the other running over with pennies, nickels, and quarters.  The couple is dumbstruck for a moment.  The boy has emptied his piggy bank of every cent.  He is saving for a skate board and has been working at different tasks for his grandparents and parents to earn the money for it.   

This is more important to him.

Struggling to hide the tears, and with his voice quivering just a little, the young dad takes the money from the boy and thanks him.  He then has the presence of mind to ask the young man if it would be all right if the money stayed in his piggy bank until it was time to pay the amount owed.

“That way, if enough money comes in from our other income, we might be able to leave some of this for your skate board.”

The boy thinks a moment, then smiles while he nods his little head and, hugging his dad and mom, turns to make the trek back up the stairway.  Unlike the trip down a few moments before, his steps are light and quick as he dashes back up to bed.
____________________

It was over twenty years ago, but the evening is burned into my head indelibly.  I do remember having two conflicting thoughts as the little tyke disappeared around the corner to go back to bed.  The first was an apprehension that we might have weighed the children down with more than they should be expected to comprehend at their young age.  I still struggle with that.

But, the second thought was a feeling of pride in the character of our young son.  In the face of  trouble, he gave selflessly of what he had to meet the need.

I was proud–of him.  Come to think of it, I still am.

You see, the emerging character in a young child, when nourished and encouraged, becomes the strong character of the grown man.

I told the story some time ago to a friend and he assured me that children learn character from their parents.   While I won’t insist on it, I actually think that in this case, the parents learn character from their children.  The selfless act of that little boy many years ago has inspired me on many occasions over the intervening years.

We do learn character from each other.  I remember a little while back, an insurance company had a series of ads running on television which really didn’t sell a product at all, except by association.  I liked the concept.  People doing the right thing, they said, showing case after case of individuals seeing one person helping another and then responding in kind.

I’m not sure that the world actually works that way, but it should.  It is what our Creator expects of His own.   

“And let us consider how to spur one another on toward love and good deeds.”

I’ve never given everything I have to help someone.  Someday, I just might follow in that little boy’s footsteps. 

They’ll be hard ones to fill.

“While we teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about.”
(Anonymous)

“So encourage each and build each other up, just as you are already doing.”
(I Thessalonians 5:11~NLT)

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

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Being self-employed has its advantages.  This particular week in April isn’t one of them.  The due date for filing tax returns and paying unpaid taxes from the former year has always been one of those days which I approach with apprehension and disdain.

Oh, I know for most of you reading this, that statement makes no sense.  You’ve worked another year; your employer withheld the amount of taxes you requested, and you probably already received a refund from your wealthy Uncle Sam.  I’ll try to go easy on this point, but the reason he has all that money is that you gave him an interest free loan for the past 12 months.

That said, I have dreamed about receiving a refund from the Treasury some April, but it will probably never happen.  At least, it is to be hoped not.  As a businessman, it’s not to my advantage to allow any capital to leave my control except for investment in merchandise which will net a profit.  If I’m giving interest-free loans to my Uncle in Washington, I can’t be buying guitars in my hometown.

There was one April, over twenty-five years ago, when I wished I had given the IRS a fair amount more money, because when the time came to pay up for the year, all the capital was tied up in assets.  They didn’t appear to be liquid assets either.  I was devastated to learn, the week before the fifteenth of the month, that we owed almost four thousand dollars in taxes on the previous year’s income.

I argued with the accountant, to no avail. 

“The numbers don’t lie, Paul,” he explained as he showed me the facts in black and white. 

We had purchased too much inventory and the government was treating that increased stock as profit.  Cash or no cash, we needed four thousand dollars within the next week or the penalties and interest would begin to stack up.

It was a little ironic.  Just the year before, when the accountant handed me the packet of forms to mail in, he had asked delicately, “Paul, do you need anything?  We’re about the same size.  I’d be happy to give you some clothes…”

I thanked him, but gently brushed aside his offer.  We didn’t know we were financially embarrassed.  Our two children had nice clothes, we were making our payments on our house and business, and the old cars were paid for and running (most of the time).

The Lovely Lady and I had  giggled about someone thinking we needed to be helped and then kept plugging away at the business we had just acquired and were struggling to keep afloat.  Now, barely a year later, we owed almost twenty percent of a year’s profit in taxes because of poor planning on our part!

Where were we going to get that kind of money in a week?  We didn’t believe in borrowing money to pay taxes; it just didn’t make any sense.  But, we never had that kind of cash come in in such a short period of time, at least not funds that weren’t already designated for rent and other overhead, or inventory purchases.  I nearly panicked.

What to do?

Aha!  I had it!  I would call my Dad.  Obviously, I wouldn’t ask for a loan, but after hearing our predicament, he couldn’t do anything but offer to help, right?  I made the call that very night.  After making small talk for awhile, I mentioned my problem.  He listened and then offered advice.   

Not money, advice!

Evidently, he hadn’t gotten the memo that when his son, who never asked for money, called talking about money problems, it meant that he was expected to pony up.  That’s what Dads do, isn’t it?  Well not my Dad, at least not this time.

“Hmmm.  You know, the disciples in the Bible had a similar problem.  What did Jesus tell them to do?” 

Well I knew the answer from Sunday School days, just as most of you do.

I was disgusted with him, but I responded anyway, “He told them to go fishing and they caught a fish, with the money for their taxes in its mouth.”  I couldn’t resist a little jab though, “How does that help me?”

His laconic reply came, “I really don’t know.  I was just remembering that’s what He told them to do.”

With nothing else to be said, we ended the conversation.

“Great!”  I groused at the Lovely Lady.  “No help at all, just some stupid line about what the disciples did in the Bible.”

I still had no plan, no visible means to take care of my obligation.  I went to bed, only to toss and turn as I lay there.   

What does it mean?  What does it mean?

Sleepless, I got up and went downstairs to sit and read the passage in the Bible.  No help there.  I knew what they had done.  They went fishing.  They were fishermen, and they went fishing.  The light in my head came on with a brilliant flare!   

They went fishing!  They were fishermen and they went fishing!

They did their jobs; nothing more, nothing less.  Their profession was catching fish from the sea, so that’s what they did.  I still wasn’t completely sure what it meant to me, nor how the money would come, but for now, all I was sure of was that I needed to go to work and do what I was trained to do, what I had been gifted at.  And, that’s just what I did.

For the next week, we opened the music store at the regular time in the morning and then, at the regular time in the afternoon, we closed it and went home.  In between, we did a bunch of praying.  I kept expecting some moneybags buyer to walk in and purchase half of our stock, paying cash for it, but it never happened.  We rang up sales on the cash register, day after day.  Some were for significant amounts, some were small, but there was no spectacular, miraculous event.  We paid our rent and our electric bill, as well as the invoices for merchandise which we received during that time.

And, on April fifteenth, we placed our tax forms in the stamped envelope, along with a check for nearly four thousand dollars, completely covered by cash in the bank!  There was no hoopla, no extraordinarily large sale, no borrowing; we just did our jobs.  I will affirm that we never had that much extra in a week’s time before or after, without a large sale.  I still cannot explain it.  We paid our bills, did our regular tasks, and were provided for.

“How anticlimactic!”  I hear you say.  “No huge miracle?  No wealthy benefactor?  No mysterious check in the mailbox?  Just, go to work?”

That’s it.  And, you know, my years on this earth tell me that this is how most miracles happen.  No genies, no lamp to rub, no magic wand–just simply doing what we were made to do.  God rewards faithfulness.   

In the quiet, plain paths His miracles are inconspicuously bestowed.  Not with the commotion of a dog-and-pony show, not in the glare of the spot-lights and television cameras, but in factories, and shops, and homes, He cares for His own.

“Going fishing!” 

That’s how I answered the question from my young children about how we were going to take care of our need, that April so long ago. I’ve thought of it often at other times too, but without fail, the events of that week in early spring twenty-five years ago are called to mind every time April rolls around again. 

I’m still grateful today.

“…go down to the lake and throw in a line. Open the mouth of the first fish you catch, and you will find a large silver coin. Take it and pay the tax for both of us.”
(Matthew 17:27~New Living Translation)

“When we do the best that we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another.”
(Helen Keller~blind and deaf American author and educator~1880-1968)










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

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The old, balding carpenter looked up at me from his kneeling position, and just shook his head.  It was not an encouraging moment.

“From the back corner of the room to this wall right here, the floor drops nearly four inches!  How are we supposed to get a level surface for a bathtub to sit on?”

I had to do some fast talking to keep him on the job.  We really needed a new bathroom upstairs in that old house.  The three-quarter bath downstairs was a long way from the bedroom in the middle of the night!  Our young children needed something closer.  So did their father.  No. We had to figure out a way.

A week later, the old fellow was back on his knees laying out two-by-fours on that floor and marking them to be cut diagonally lengthwise.  As the boards were cut and returned to their respective positions, I saw that at the lowest place in the floor, they were the full three and a half inches tall.  At the other end, only seven feet away, the same boards were trimmed down to just a tiny thickness, perhaps an eight of an inch.  It looked like a cobbled up mess to me. 

I didn’t see how this would ever give us the result we needed, and said so.

“This is nuts!  I want a level floor, not these ugly wedge-shaped two-by-fours.  This is going to be awful.”

The craftsman looked up at me from his place on the floor, with a sad smile.

“You’ve got no faith in humanity, Paul.  Give me time.  You’ll see.”

I didn’t have long to wait.  Within a day, the plywood was cut to fit the room and was screwed down over those ugly, cut boards which had been firmly anchored to the old tilted floor.  I walked on it over to where my friend sat on the floor once again, this time to check the four foot long level he had brought up with him.

He allowed himself the barest of proud smiles as he pointed to the liquid filled tube in the center of the big straightedge.  Dead center, the little bubble floated in plain view.

Dead center!

Just a couple of days before, that same bubble couldn’t be seen, as it scurried to the back end of the tube when the apparatus was placed on the floor.  I had had to walk uphill to get from one end of the room to the other.  Now, no matter where he set the level, the result was the same.

Dead center.  Level.

When the tub and toilet were placed in their respective positions, the water levels proved the accuracy of the little bubble in that level.  As long as we lived in that old Victorian house, I was amazed when I remembered what was hidden just under the surface of the floor we walked upon in that room.
____________________

I had seen the email when I first sat at my desk this morning.  I just wasn’t ready to deal with the issue right then.  I guess I should have said that I had seen the emails, plural.  She had written two of them.

She wasn’t happy.

A problem with a transaction she had completed online made her whole world off kilter.  She didn’t want me to fix it, she wanted to pick up her marbles and play in a different game.  She was sure that the playing field was tilted in my favor and she wanted out!

I missed her first phone call while I was unlocking the door to my business.  For a wonder, I had actually drafted and sent a reply–a calm one–to her notes before she called again.  I had apologized for the problem and offered a solution which I was pretty sure she would accept.  But, when I pressed send on the email, I still was unsure of the outcome.

Her phone call came within minutes.  The tone of her voice told me that she wasn’t happy with my solution.  Apparently, it looked a lot like that bathroom floor had looked to me when the old carpenter started to make amends, all those years ago.  The cobbled up mess didn’t inspire trust.  I could see that I needed to complete the project–and quickly!

We talked.  I listened.  She listened.  She understood that we were going to make the playing field level again.  The marbles in the game would roll true and straight once more.  I apologized one more time and it was done.

I hung up the phone with a sigh of relief and allowed myself the barest of proud smiles.

Dead center.

I sometimes think the whole world has shifted from its axis just a bit and has become unlevel.  Children take knives and guns to school and attack people they don’t even know.  Friends shout angrily at friends as sides are chosen on issues and the distance grows between them, a gulf seemingly unspannable.  The gender gap and the generation gap widen, as does the gap between races.  Power flows from one group to another, always following the shifting landscape.

Sometimes, hope seems lost to bring the whole affair back to level.  We’ll never see the bubble in the middle of the tube again–never.

I wonder though. 

I’ve got some two-by-fours in my hands that just might level the room I’m in.  Maybe I could start here.  Perhaps, you could work on the room you’re in.  I think that we might just be able to work our way through the house, one room at a time.

You see, the great victory that old carpenter won in the old house was just one room.  One room with an unlevel floor in a house full of rooms with unlevel floors.  But he achieved that task and completed the one room.  Others since him have done the same thing, in the kitchen and the laundry room.  We don’t live there anymore, but someone may be working on one as I write this.

I’m no Atlas.  I’m pretty sure I know no one who is.  Not one of us has the power to shift the whole world at once.  But then, we weren’t called to do that, were we?

We are–every one of us–builders.  The Apostle spoke of being a master builder and that those who followed must be very careful how they build on the foundation that has already been laid down.

I want someday to be able to check my work and find it acceptable and thorough.  I trust that the level, when placed against the results of my labor, will show the craftsmanship I’m working to achieve.

How about it?  It would be really nice if, when the floor I’m working on reaches the one at which you have labored, we can put down the level to check the result together.

Dead center?

Time will tell.

“I know I ask perfection of a quite imperfect world
And I’m fool enough to think that’s what I’ll find.”
(from I Need to be in Love by The Carpenters ~ Carpenter/Bettis)

“By the grace God has given me, I laid a foundation as a wise builder, and someone else is building on it.  But each one should build with care.”
(I Corinthians 3:10 ~ NIV)

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

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“I want to go home.” 

You’ve all heard the words.  You’ve probably said them, years ago.  Everyday, around the world, children say them to parents, to strangers, to doctors, and to policemen.  There’s something comforting about home; it’s a place where we can relax and know that we are safe.

When a child–any child–says the words, we understand and sympathize.  But the person in front of me wasn’t a child, by any standard of measure.

Miss Peggy was over ninety years old.  She had been on her own in the world for many years; a spinster lady who gave her life to serve her God.  She lived alone, but had influenced thousands of children with the Bible classes she taught for fifty years in Oklahoma and Arkansas.  Now, here she was, old and nearly blind, hard of hearing. and dependent on friends who came daily to help her through the long, dim days.

She sat in her comfortable chair and said the words.  “Paul, I want to go home.”

I knew what she was talking about, but pretended not to comprehend.

All I said was, “You are home.  This is your house.  You have your things here.”

She brushed the words aside.  “No!”  She was defiant.  “I want to go to my real home!” 

I found myself casting around for the right words, but none came.  Later, as I left, I thought to myself, “Why would anyone want to die?  I want to live!”  

I can still remember when I talked with her some weeks later about one of her friends, slightly younger than she, who had passed away.

She looked through me with her almost sightless eyes and said, almost angrily, “It wasn’t her turn!  Why does she get to go and I have to stay?”

If she hadn’t been so serious, I would have laughed.  I had a vision of school days, with a line of kids waiting to get ice cream after lunch.

“No fair!  She cut the line!  It’s not her turn, it’s mine!”

The vision faded and Miss Peggy, her head tipped a little to the side, still gazed past me and said again, wistfully, “I want to go home.”

The dear lady has been home for many years now, and I still think about her words.

Funny…I’m starting to understand her a little better.  Life here is good.  I enjoy my family immensely; I love every single occasion on which we meet.  I love my church; love my work; love the town in which I live.  But, I’m starting to realize, just a little, that there is something not quite right.

I recall the times when as a child, home was a place of comfort and shelter from a scary world, and that’s all I needed.  I reminisce about early days of marriage to the Lovely Lady and remember the satisfaction of being at home with her and later, with our children.  Home was enough; nothing else was necessary to satisfy.  It has been so for many years.

Something tells me it won’t stay that way forever.

I saw recently that the Encyclopaedia Britannica is not ever going to be offered in print again.  After 244 years in print, the reference library is now only available online.  The reality of the information age in which we live is that we want instant and up-to-the-minute facts, not outdated words on a page printed a couple of years ago.  The publisher is admitting that the beautiful sets of books which found a home on the bookshelves and in the libraries for so many years, will now have a new home, albeit a nebulous one, in cyberspace.

I couldn’t help but think as I heard the news, that we certainly live in a transitory world.  Always have, always will.  In the business arena, we’re constantly warned to be agile and light on our feet.  If we get slow and languorous, we’ll not only be out of a home, we’ll be out of existence.

All things change.

The same might be said of our entire lives.  A Greek philosopher, who lived five hundred years before Jesus, put it this way,  “Nothing endures but change.”  His words still resonate today.

I’m not sure why we don’t (or won’t) see the truth of it while we’re still young.  Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be, but I vividly remember wondering why the old men in church were so anxious for the Second Coming, and why they sang that old song that said, “This world is not my home.”

This world was too my home!  I wanted to live!  A long life!

Now, a few years have passed and I have more than a sneaking suspicion that they were onto something.  Somehow, as I move along, I feel a growing certainty that we’re not made to be comfortable here.

There is something, somewhere that is better and I want to point the prow of my ship in that direction.

The will to live is strong in us.  Our Creator made it so.

I’m not telling you I’m going to start sighing and wringing my hands about a better place.  This is the place that I’m intended to be right now and I am content with that.  But I’m not going to get too comfortable  here.

I think I’ll stay light on my feet and ready to move.

After all, my treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the Blue…

 “…they are eager for a better land, a heavenly one…He has now prepared a city for them.”
(Hebrews 11:16)

“I am prepared to go anywhere, provided it be forward.”
(David Livingstone~Scottish missionary~1813-1874)

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

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A battle may be raging tonight.

No, it’s not a gun fight in Afghanistan, although that may be happening as I write this.  It’s not the earth-shattering resumption of the Cold War in parts of the old Soviet Union.  Those battles are unlikely to require my participation; the combatants there hardly need my hat to be thrown into the ring.  They will do what they will without the benefit of my contribution.

The battle of which I speak would seem small, with no guns and no physical violence, yet there is the opportunity for a lifetime of repercussions–little land mines planted here and there now which will take their toll for many years to come.  At its ending, friends may still speak, but the booby-traps will spring when least expected, starting with a memory of harsh words, and growing into the sudden suspicion that perhaps criticisms meant for a group in general were aimed at one person in particular.

I read the words last night and wondered where they would lead.

A friend is unhappy with the outcome of a local municipal decision and is exercising his right to speak out.  I disagree with his conclusion, but I will not deny him the right to speak his mind.  For a few moments last night I even considered offering my opinion on the matter.

That was before.

Before I remembered the horror of battle.  Before I saw those faces in my mind again, astonishment and pain written on them as they were decimated by the fury of my attack.  Before the thoughts of relationships lost in the dim past hit me like an armored personnel carrier.

Just as my decision to forgo the flight to Russia to offer my two cents’ worth, I have decided to refuse to enter this fray as well.

I am an opinionated and argumentative person.  I come by those attributes honestly.  First, I am a member of the human race, a true son of Adam–a man who had the gall to argue with his Creator, blaming Him indirectly for the original sin (“The woman You gave me…”).  I’ve told you before that the red-headed lady who raised me suggested that I would argue with a fence-post.  Truth be told, I learned a lot of it from her, but we’ll move on from there quickly, shall we?

When I argue, I am not interested in solutions, only in obliterating my opponent.  When I am challenged, I feel the need, like an old fashioned prize fighter, to pull my shirt over my head and head for the ring to settle this right here and right now.

I have shouted; I have yelled; I have slammed my fists on the table.  I have lost friends.  I have lost the respect of people who thought once that I was worthy of it.  All because I was ready to fight for what I believed.

No.  I will keep my hat on my head.  Better than that, I’ll keep my shirt on too. 

Fully clothed, I’ll stand before you.  I don’t want to argue about cars or sports.  I will keep mum about politics and Hollywood.  The list stretches on, but I’ll not be sucked in.

The shirt and the hat stay on.

For all of the arguments in which I’ve ever participated, I can’t remember the rationale for starting any one of them.  Those oh-so-important subjects are lost in the dim mists of the past, many of them made moot by the years.  They loomed bigger than life in my mind when the discussion began.  Today, on the scale of importance, they rate only slightly higher than zero.

Can I tell you what towers over them, right up near the top of that same scale?

Relationships with people.

Sometimes, it’s people who disagree with me and who want to argue all the issues.  It’s also people who need to be loved and couldn’t care less where I stand on those issues.  I don’t want to end a single one of these relationships because of the fickle winds of opinions and issues that have been blowing since the dawn of time and will be blustering long after I depart from this world.

Not a single one.

I’m wondering these days if my change in attitude is only because I’m getting old and tired.  I admit it.  I’m old and tired.  But, it’s more than that.

The years have taught me that there are more important things than these temporal trappings we see all around us.  We can invest our lives in fighting for the things.  Or–we can invest our lives in people.  The things are here today and gone tomorrow, swallowed up by time and progress.

People?  Not so much.

I’ve been doing a little genealogical searching for my ancestors recently.  With every discovery I make about where I come from, one thing has become clear.

The things we do today have a profound impact on future generations.  Choices we make lightly now will alter, forever, the shape of our family tree.  The same is true of the conversations and interactions we have with people in this world, whether family, friends, or perfect strangers.

Every argument, every shouting match, every curse word uttered will alter the course of the future and have far reaching effects which we cannot foresee.  There are no exceptions.

Mrs. Olsen had the right idea when she taught us that little song, way back in Sunday School, didn’t she? 

“Oh be careful little mouth what you say.”

The shirt stays on.

“People’s minds are changed through observation and not through argument.”
(Will Rogers ~ American cowboy/humorist ~ 1879-1935)

“So also the tongue is a small member, yet it boasts of great things.  How great a forest is set ablaze by such a small fire!”
(James 3:5 ~ ESV)

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

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I dislike reality television.

There.  I said it.  You can take your loggers and your duck callers; keep your stranded-on-the-desert-islanders; you may even hold onto your bachelors, dancers, and voices.  I don’t care for reality television.  It’s a little too fake for me.  Now, there’s an oxymoron for you–fake reality television.

Except…

Well, I do have soft spot in my heart (the Lovely Lady suspects it’s actually in my head) for the collectors.  The junk buyers and the pawn shop owners–even the road show antiquers.  I like to see what people collect.  I love it when someone has unsuspectingly put together a collection of valuable objects over the years, and finds that it is worth a fortune.

“Oh.  I don’t know.  I just picked them up here and there.  You know–just found them and had to save them.”

I live in hopes that the pickers will one day walk in my music store and find junk on my back room shelves worth thousands of dollars.  I suspect that they would find little to pique their interest.

I did come to a realization the other day.  I have put together a collection of sorts.  It could actually be worth a bit of money, if I could only cash in on it.

The old fellow brought in his guitar one afternoon earlier this week.

“It just buzzes and sounds horrible.  I’ve had it for years but it’s never sounded like this before.”  Almost, it seems to me, he is like the child who has just broken his favorite toy and is begging his mother to fix it for him.  Almost.

I have never learned the art of the build-up.  I cannot spend the time looking over the instrument, pursing my lips and wrinkling my forehead as I try to cipher out the issue.  I have no patience with shop owners who act the part and ask the customer to leave the instrument for a few days.  There is more money to be made by doing that, I will grant you that.  But, it is not my way.

No.  I speak three words and head for my work bench.

“Just a minute.”

A few turns of an Allen wrench later, and a quick retuning of the strings and I carry the instrument back to the customer.

“Play it now.  See what you think.”

The man looks at me with suspicion.  What kind of fool does this shop owner think he is?  The guitar was useless a moment ago–surely it will be useless still.  I motion him on over to the stool sitting nearby and he sits gingerly on the edge of the plastic padding.  Strumming a chord tentatively, he frowns.  He shifts back on the stool and, pulling the guitar up onto his lap, tries again.  A few more chords, followed by an arpeggio or two, and then a full blown riff.

He looks up at me with a grin spread across his face and exclaims, “I don’t know how you did that, but it’s perfect!”

Somehow, I knew it would be.

It’s not that I’m prideful or want to boast of my abilities.  I have no reason to do so.  It’s just that I’ve seen this scenario played out countless times before in almost the identical way.  It’s not always a guitar; sometimes it’s a clarinet, or a trumpet, or even a banjo.

You see I collect specialized knowledge.  I have done for many years–as many years as I’ve worked in the music business.  When the customer before me asks how I know what to do to make his guitar play right, and he almost certainly will, I’ll tell him the truth.

“Oh.  I don’t know.  I just picked it up here and there.”

The Lovely Lady has seen this act before.  We have discussed the need for me to parley this collection into a steady income, but I have no flair for delaying tactics, no driving need to capitalize on knowledge which has been shared with me freely.  I may have to modify that over the next few years.  Retirement looms on the horizon.

We are a species of collectors.  All of us.  We are especially adept at picking up and collecting knowledge.  But, we also love to collect things. If we want to be successful in collecting, to make the process profitable, there are a few things we need to remember.

Look for opportunities to add to our collections. 

I have always been happy to add a new technique to my collection of instrument knowledge.  The doll collectors are always looking on the shelves of the flea markets for collectible bargains.  The adrenalin nuts are always seeking new adventures and challenges.  Be ready to snag that next treasure.

Beware of the fakes and clunkers. 

I can’t remember how many times the folks on the shows have been disappointed by items passed off by charlatans as genuine, when in fact, they are simply designed to take people in.  There is no value in such items–with the exception of the cautionary lessons learned.  Early on in my own process of collecting repair techniques, I learned the hard way that you don’t want to over tighten the truss rod in a guitar neck with that handy Allen wrench.  Let’s just say that guitar necks can be expensive to replace, and leave it at that.  Collect things of value, but reject the worthless imposters.

And, one note of caution.  Know when to say when. 

There is a fine line between being a collector and a hoarder.  Don’t fill your house up with plastic Walmart bags or beanie babies.  It is true for knowledge collectors as well.  I know some people who do nothing but memorize information and spout it to their friends and acquaintances.  They are not in high demand at social functions.  No one really needs to know the distance between the guitar fingerboard and the top of a jumbo fret as opposed to a micro-fret, nor is it important to remember and share the information that the common mosquito is actually a member of the nematocerid fly family.

I assume that, by now, the reader is aware I am speaking of deeper matters as much as of the everyday collecting we do.  We are, without exception, products of our environments. That means that we will collect the things in which we immerse ourselves.  I spend most of my time with musical instruments and thus, cannot avoid acquiring knowledge of the same.

But what about all the other hours I spend immersed in different activities?  What am I collecting then?  

I wonder what the museum room of my mind really looks like to the Keeper of all Knowledge.  What kinds of valuable things have I collected over the years of my life?  What have I hoarded that I need to pare down?  What kind of garbage have I filled up usable space with?

I’m still struggling with the price structure of items from my vocational collection.  The old joke about the  fellow who repaired the lady’s automobile with just a turn of a screwdriver comes to mind.  When she got the bill for $110, she suggested that it wasn’t fair to be charged that amount just for him turning a screw.  The reply came from the mechanic.

“Oh, I only charged ten dollars for turning the screw.  Knowing which screw to turn?  That costs you a hundred dollars!”

I’ll get that sorted out one of these days.  Still, I’m wondering.

Is the rest of my collection actually worth anything? 

Time will tell.

“You can keep a piece of candy in its wrapper for up to twenty years.  After that, it turns into a hideous black goo.”
(Darlene Lacey ~ Curator, Candy Wrapper Museum)

“…where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
(Matthew 6:21)

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

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