The little brown Chevy Vega looked beautiful as the proud young man rounded the last corner and headed for home.  He kept that car as clean as anyone could in the dry dusty climate of his hometown.  On this day, there was not a speck of dust on it.

The eight-track player which he had installed himself was blaring out the pleasant chords and high tenor vocals of David Gates and Bread, and he couldn’t help singing along with the lyrics of “If”.

“If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can’t I paint you?
Though words can never show the you I’ve come to know…”

It may be that he was paying a little too much attention to his singing and not as much to his driving, but when he rounded that last corner, he made a terrible mistake.  Downshifting the manual transmission from third gear, he left the shift lever in the neutral position, instead of continuing on into second gear.  There was a visible bump in the road ahead.  Slowing a bit too much to avoid being jostled, the young driver realized too late that the road also had a small rise in it after he made the right turn.  He quickly let the clutch out and stepped on the accelerator, only to hear the motor wind up with no resultant increase in speed.  There was plenty of power, it just didn’t get to the wheels.

The car was still in neutral!  Frantically, he grabbed for the stick shift, but the car had already slowed to a stop and then began to move backwards, right out onto the main road behind him.  The only thing the kid could think about as he rolled the wrong direction was his father’s advice, given as the boy was learning, to always move the gear shift into another gear so there would be power available should an emergency arise.  What was his Dad going to say after the inevitable wreck he was headed for?  Fortunately for him, although there were other drivers following, they were alert enough to swing around and avoid the rear-end collision he was anticipating.  As the last man moved cautiously past, he stuck his head out the window and shouted at the hapless teen.

“Drive it or park it!”

The boy was mortified.  It was a blow to his manhood–that much was certain.  Finally finding the gear he was searching for, he popped the clutch out and lurched ahead.  Like a defeated dog with its tail between its legs, he dropped his head, slouched down in the seat, and made his way home.
________________

Drive.

It is an odd word.  If you look in a dictionary, you will see that the first definition speaks of directing the movement of a car or truck.  But this word has been around for almost nine hundred years.  Surely it means something more.  After all, the way livestock was moved in the nineteenth century was called a cattle drive.  They didn’t have cars then.

So we look again at that dictionary and we see that indeed, it does mean more.  To drive means to cause to move by force, authority, or influence in the desired direction.

The word applies to more than just cars or cattle, doesn’t it?  One drives the enemy back.  A basketball player drives through the lane.  When a carpenter pounds a nail in a board, he drives it in.  A public speaker might drive home a point.  The list goes on.

The point is that something other than the object itself is in control.  An army drives the enemy and the loser has no say in where it goes.  The carpenter controls the location of the nail and the speed at which is it inserted into the wood.  The cattle don’t always want to go where they are driven, but the cattleman controls their direction.

In most cases, the person controls the automobile, but our protagonist above seemed to lose that control and he became the driven instead of the driver.  He lost his influence, and certainly his authority, over the vehicle.
________________

Many nights as I write, I keep a window open on my computer which alerts me when folks I know post comments and items to a popular social site.  Mere moments ago, I was reminded powerfully of one way of driving and being driven which I have experienced many times over the course of my life, as a friend in Australia posted a video of a recent occurrence in New York City.

Instrumentalists from a well-known orchestra brought their instruments and chairs and set up on a busy street corner in concert formation. They then placed a podium in front of them with the words “Conduct Us” emblazoned on the empty music stand.  Then they sat and waited.  One by one, brave individuals from the street stepped up to the podium and waved the conductor’s baton, astounded at the way the musicians responded to their gestures and motion.  When they stopped moving the baton, the orchestra stopped playing.  When one lady waved a violist up from his seat, he stood and played until she gave him permission to sit down.  He did attempt to sit once before she was ready and she waved him back to his feet.

For the most part, those who stepped to the podium knew nothing about music or how to lead an orchestra.  The performance of the musicians was competent, but not stellar, as they allowed folks who had no authority nor sense of direction to control what they did.

I have conducted and been conducted.  It is the same as driving and being driven.  Oh, I’ll admit that frequently the whole bunch, like a horse with a bit in its mouth, realizes that it can take the power away from the conductor.  Then, gripping the bit firmly in their teeth, they plunge on recklessly until they realize the futility of their wild rush and allow the conductor to take back the reins and bring some semblance of control to the whole affair.  But, overall, the musicians understand that the power belongs to the person on the podium, who hopefully wields that power for good and the benefit of the entire group.  If they are driven by a skillful leader, their performance is enhanced and the sum of the whole exceeds the skill of all the players.

They are driven by their conductor to perform and reach new heights, unattainable on their own.

I wonder–on any given day–what drives me?  What drives most of us?  Does the term even apply to us?

I would assert that oftentimes it does.  I know very few people who are not driven.  We usually describe someone as driven if they seem to have to live their life forced by some outside power.  But, driven describes every one of us, at least at some time in our life.  We often use the term as an accusation, berating the object of our scorn for their lack of self-control.  I would submit to you that being driven is not a bad thing.

The problem lies with what really drives us.  And the question remains: What drives me?  What drives you?

I will not attempt to give an answer here.  It would be foolish to presume about what motivates anyone else but myself, and I even fool myself more often than not.  I want to believe that I have ceded control to the right driver and am following a path which will lead to reward and success.  My problem is that I lie to myself, sometimes worse than I lie to those around me.  But, it’s time, for me at least, to examine the inner workings.

It’s time to be positive that the car is in a gear which will move forward when the need arises.  It’s time to be sure that the hand on the steering wheel is firm and sure.  It’s time to make certain of the destination.

I’m thinking that changes may need to be made.  It wouldn’t be wise to put up a sign that says Conduct Me to allow random drivers to take control.  There is only one Driver who knows the equipment and the road, as well as having the road map securely in His memory.  It’s time to let Him take the controls exclusively.

It’s not a stretch to suggest that we’ll be in Good Hands.

When I think about that, driven doesn’t seem so bad, after all.

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.”
(Colossians 3:23 ~ NIV)

“And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!”
(from “L’ENVOI” by Rudyard Kipling ~ English poet/author ~ 1865-1936)

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

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My door is always open.

Well, not literally.  You know what I mean.  You’re welcome to come to my home anytime and sit and talk–or eat–or play the piano.  I want to be completely available.  Come any day.

Except Saturday.

Saturday is work day at our house.  Okay, to be perfectly forthcoming, it’s the day on which the Lovely Lady turns the house upside down.  She starts early in the morning with the first load of laundry.  This requires moving the stacks of miscellany from the top of the washer and dryer to the counter tops in the kitchen.  As the day progresses, the dining room is covered as clothes are folded and music for church the next day gets sorted on the table.  Some time in the afternoon, my grass covered shoes join the mess and possibly even a sweat-soaked tee shirt.  After a trip to the grocery store and to the place we purchase our allotment of fruit for the week, the table is completely obscured and the counter tops in the kitchen are crowded.  An empty pizza box may or may not join the jumble before the end of the evening.

Don’t come on Saturday.

My door is always open.  Except that day.

Transparency.  The term gets thrown around these days as if it were something to be desired.  We want transparency in our friends, we want it in our churches, we want it in our government.

Do we?

I won’t waste time arguing all the reasons that complete transparency isn’t the best plan in government, but examples will come to your mind if you want to fritter away a few hours thinking about it.  Ditto for most organizations in which we participate.  I’ve had several conversations with a few of my younger friends over the last several days about our personal relationships and if transparency is really what we want there.  I’ve gotten different responses.  I’ve even had an argument or two about it.  Oh.  We didn’t call it an argument.  We were “pushing back” at statements made by the other participant in the discussion.

Why my sudden interest in transparency?  Over the last several weeks, a few of my readers have written notes thanking me for just that–transparency.  My immediate reaction is to say that I haven’t been that.  For various reasons, I eschew transparency.  Admitting that I have a need for you to like me, I’m pretty sure that you would no longer care for me if I let you see the entire mess that is inside this place, this earthly home, from which I live and love–and hate–and sin.

Yep.  I said it.  I hate.  I sin.

You see, transparency isn’t what I want.  The rooms inside need to be tidied up a bit before they’re fit for company.  It’s a work in progress.

Besides the fact that you wouldn’t like me that well, I have a real desire to build and not to tear down those of you who choose to read these little essays.  There are some rooms into which you may never be invited.

It’s nothing personal.

There are just some things that are nobody’s business besides those whose business they are.  Does that make any sense?

So.  Transparency is out.  Perhaps, we just need to be opaque.  No–not enough light there.  Maybe translucent.  That’s it.

Translucent.  Light shines through enough to prove that there really is light in there, but the details are not evident to all.  You’ll need to come through the door to see the rest.

Fibber McGee’s Closet 1948

Still, when you come–don’t open any doors that are not already open.  I remember hearing the red-headed lady who raised me talk about Fibber McGee’s closet.  Fibber McGee and Molly were characters in a humorous radio show from the 1940’s.  Frequently, someone would open Fibber’s closet and you would hear the landslide as everything tumbled out.

That’s what I’m trying to avoid.  It’s not so much the embarrassment.  I’ll get over that.  I just don’t want anyone else to be hurt by the things I’ve squirreled away to be dealt with in some future time.

Some readers may have wondered about the title for this post.  WYSIWYG is techno-geek lingo for “what you see is what you get”, a popular way for computer programmers to tell you that what you see on your computer screen is the real thing.  When you type a document, you are seeing it just as the finished product will appear when printed.  It’s easier to work with a WYSIWYG program because you’re not always having to remember to click that key, or pull down this menu.  It’s a good thing.

With humans, it’s not so simple.  I don’t know a single WYSIWYG person in real life.  I’ve got this idea that when we leave this temporal shelter behind and reach our forever home, it will be different.

I certainly hope so.  I long to throw open the doors and give the place a good airing out.  This one room at a time gambit is getting a little old.  The day that the place can really have the doors always open will be a welcome one.

I hope you’ll come to visit then.  Transparent?  The entire house will shine with light so brightly you won’t be able to stand it without your sun glasses.

In the mean time, you can come to visit me here.  My door is always open.  Well, except for Saturdays.

Perhaps you could come on Wednesday.  The cleaners are here that morning.

Come Wednesday.

“He had shown her all the workings of his soul, mistaking this for love.”
(from “The Longest Journey” by E.M Forster ~ English novelist ~ 1879-1970)

“Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.”
(James 5:16a ~ NLT)

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

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I sat here at my desk as I often do, writing.  Let me rephrase that; I was sitting here thinking–about writing.  I spend a good bit of my time doing that, you know–thinking.

It’s not that I’m such an intellectual.  No, I just sit and turn over a simple idea in my mind.  First, I turn it this way and consider what to say about it.  Next, I turn it that way and decide that my first thought is of little merit in communicating the whole truth about the idea.  Flipping it to the other side again, I begin anew, frequently arriving a second time at the original conclusion, only to decide shortly thereafter that I really cannot say that.  These arguments can go on for hours.

I was in the middle of just such an disagreement with my inner self the other day when my reverie was disturbed by a ruckus outside the back door.  If you’ve followed my posts for long, you know that I keep a couple of furry black monsters in the back yard, partially because they help me so often with my stories.   The help is unintentional on their part, but is nonetheless frequently useful.  There are times when it is more of a distraction, but I like to give credit where it is due.

Stepping outside the door, I noticed that both dogs were nosing around a stack of articles against the exterior wall of my office.  A dog house, an unused automatic feeder, and a stock tank (used for bathing the rascals when I’m up for the tussle) sat close to the wall, but they seemed convinced that there was something of interest to them behind the stack.  I leaned back and quickly saw the object of their attention.

A small sparrow, obviously injured, was hidden in a void between the feeder and the tank.  His movements were keeping the dogs’ interest piqued and I knew they wouldn’t soon relinquish their quest to capture the little fellow.  Still, hopeful that they might leave him alone, I tightened the jumble of objects a bit to discourage them, and came back inside to wrestle with my own dilemma for a bit.  I was thinking about numbers, and you may remember that math is not my strong suit, so it was an argument that needed my full attention.

It was a lost cause.

The racket of the black monsters began anew, almost before I was seated in my chair.  I ignored it as long as I could and then, exasperated by the incessant barking and scratching, determined to make this interruption the last of the night.  I went outside, shoving both of the ninety-pound mutts aside and, reaching down into the void between the tank and wall where I had seen the bird when first I looked, attempted to clutch the little waif.  My intent was to carry him outside the backyard fence to safety, placing him on a lower limb of one of the trees there–out of reach of the snapping jaws on those slobbering hounds.

What actually happened, to my dismay, was that the little bird saw my hand coming down from above and, terrified, fluttered through a small space between the dog house and the wall and thus, out of his protective sanctuary.  The dogs were on him in a second, and just like that, he was no more.  With the crunch of powerful jaws, it was over.

I didn’t have the heart to berate the dogs; they were only doing what nature designed them to do.  I did berate myself for some time.  Walking back into my office, I sat and thought about what had just happened.  I only wanted to help.  Why couldn’t the stupid bird have just sat still and let me help?

I merely wanted to make things better!

Sad story, huh?  I wish it had a nicer ending.  But not all stories end in happily ever after.  I want them to, but they don’t.

I’m puzzled though.  I almost feel a sense of deja vu’.  Why is it that the circumstances seem so familiar to me?  Somehow, I think I’ve been here before.  Perhaps, I really have been here.

The more I consider it, I think that I’ve been exactly where that bird was.  I’ve been backed into a tight spot–trapped like a cornered animal.  I’ve eyed that little slit of light over there myself, and wondered if I could escape my dire circumstances through it.  I also, have thought that I might just be able to elude the hounds that had caught the scent of injured prey and had congregated outside my door.

Oh sure.  I might have been safe there temporarily, but I still had to resolve the situation sometime.  Prayers went up.  I made promises.

I’ll never come here again; I’ll never ask for anything else ever in my life.  Just GET ME OUT OF HERE!

I’m guessing that I’m not the only one who has prayed that prayer.  I’m also pretty sure that it has never been answered in a way that we expect.  When the Hand of Heaven begins to descend, we cower in terror.

Hey!  This is not what I asked for!

We have a choice to make.

Stand still–and see the deliverance of a loving Creator.

Run–to certain destruction in the jaws of the hounds of hell.

Many, like the little wounded sparrow, have made the latter choice to their lasting detriment.

You think it odd that I should speak of deliverance and terror in the same sentence?  It is odd, but we are strange people.  We wish to devise our own escape; we desire to be in control of our own destiny.  Answers to prayer are unpredictable; they require us to give up the reins of events. We are frightened when we aren’t in charge anymore.  It requires faith.

For myself, I know my own history.  I remember my choices and their consequences.  I’ve heard that crunch before.

Time for me to be still and see His plan in action.

Mine haven’t worked out all that well.

“Be still and know that I am God.”
(Psalm 46:10a ~ KJV)

“We experience moments absolutely free from worry.  These brief respites are called panic.”
(Cullen Hightower ~ American political quip/quote writer ~ 1923-2008)

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

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The phone rings and help is needed again.  Yes, of course, I’ll come.

Immediately, the complaints start in my head.  Why her?  Why not someone else?  Why doesn’t someone do something to help?  Those stupid (insert description here–doctors, nurses, hospitals, senators, etc.); why don’t they take care of this?  Why do I have to do this?  Why is it this task that has to be done?

I think I can almost hear Linda Ronstadt’s voice, coming to me again from the seventies.  Yep.  I hear it right now.  “…put me through some changes Lord, sort of like a Waring blender.  Poor, poor pitiful me.”

Pitiful.

Enter the Lovely Lady.  She knows when I’m beaten.  The look she sees in my eyes she calls my concussion stare.  She has seen it before.  A phone call from her to a friend is in order.  No, not a close friend–not even someone who has shared our table with us.  The lady at the other end of the phone simply knows us, but she also knows she can help.  

She will come.

For an hour or more, this kind friend will work at a job which most of us would refuse to even speak of.  Side by side with us, she does much more than speak of it–teaching, encouraging, demonstrating.  More than once as we work she leans against the foot board of the bed or the dresser beside the bed.  I think nothing of that until later.

It is an emotionally draining job, but she smiles and we kid as we work.  When she walks out the door with us, it is with a cheerful wave and the invitation to call her anytime if she is needed.

Grateful is too weak a description for what I feel tonight.

____________________

I see, in my mind, a rough and powerful man bending low before His friends, washing the grime from their filthy and road sore feet.  The Teacher who will soon be their Sacrifice serves, with humility and love, those who follow Him.  There are not many of us who will follow His example.

Tonight, by that bedside, I saw Him in action.  Do you think it a small thing?  I tell you, it was not!

The servant’s heart is one of the most powerful tools I can think of in this sometimes cruel world we walk through.  When it comes alongside during a period of emotional distress and need, the effect is magnified many times.

And, as I watched and listened to our friend, I remembered that she too suffers with the very same infirmity which she sought to ease in the one who lay on that bed.  Mere months ago, she was the one lying on such a bed–learning, crying, and being served by someone else.  It is the reason she is tired and weak still.  Yet, she came and did all she could for someone she did not know.

Someone she did not know!

I repent.

Perhaps, there will be more pity parties along the way.  The ordeal is not finished and it is possible that I may play the blame game once again.  One would hope not, but my memory is short and my sense of what is fair, slightly out of kilter.

For tonight though, I see clearly that there are more noble things than health and wealth; there are loftier goals than fame and renown.

I will set my sights higher.

I want to wash feet.

“Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less.”
(C.S. Lewis ~ Irish author/theologian ~ 1898-1963)

“If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.  For I have given you an example, that you also should do just as I have done to you.”
(John 13:14,15 ~ ESV)

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

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Have I missed the boat?

Did my last chance at success just pull away from the dock?

Once again this evening, I spent some time with a favorite book of poetry and came across this little gem–a well-known quote from “Julius Caesar” by the Bard of Avon, William Shakespeare:

There is a tide in the affairs of men, 

Which, taken at its flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries:
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.

I have missed my chance at some things.  The mega-million dollar lottery comes to mind.  Each time the news media goes into its frenzy about the huge amount of money to be won, I pause and consider if I should go and put in my claim for a chance at that fortune.  I never have.  That boat has sailed again and again.

I shall never again have a chance to play professional football–no–that was never an option.  I will never, I fear, play the lead in a Hollywood production, never be the principal horn player in the Chicago Symphony, and certainly will never be the President of the United States.  If the tide ever could have borne me away to those destinations, it is gone beyond recall.  I like to think that perhaps the current never really gave opportunity to go to those places.

But, I have taken the current when it awaited my embarking on the adventure of marriage; I rode it to a lifetime of endeavor in the music retail business; I even have paddled some small distance into the bay as I headed to the venture of writing.  The sail is not out fully for that journey yet.  I’m just testing the water, as the saying goes.

There have been an amazing number of destinations to which I traveled, regretting not an inch of the journey.  One or two, about which I will hold my tongue tonight, made me wish I had chosen otherwise.

I’m still not sure that we have just the one chance to take that tide, though.  The lottery, it seems, is incessant; the purveyors of instant riches themselves are constantly intent on enriching themselves at our expense.  That tide will lap at our feet again.  Many chances offer themselves repeatedly, just like the daily tide, and we may safely choose the moment at our convenience.  Sales on various types of merchandise come to mind, by way of example.  That end-of-the-model-year never-to-be-repeated rock-bottom bargain-basement giveaway price for the widget without which you absolutely cannot live will almost certainly occur again–if not next month, then next year.  Some tides cannot be held back.

If I may make a suggestion though–we will never reach any destination if we do not, at least once, venture into the deep.

Every day, folks in my store speak of the time when their ship will come in.  Most of them are individuals who have never ventured any distance at all, and I’m reminded that if the ship which returns on the tide is to bear anything of value back for us, we must have made an investment in its outgoing journey as well.

Are we looking for the reward of a lifetime of waiting?  It won’t happen.  There is no payday for waiting, only for doing.

I realize suddenly that it seems as if I am preaching.  I’m not.  The words are directed mostly at myself, with an invitation for anyone else to see if they apply to them as well.

All too often, we (I) stand at the water’s edge and dip our toes into the icy cold flow of the high tide, saying, “Someday…”  The water ebbs away and still we stand, awaiting its arrival once more.

“Someday…”

Perhaps it’s time.

High tide is coming in again.  Time to push out away from the shore.

I think I may want to do some sail mending first.  I’d be happy for some company.

“Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.”
(Emily Dickinson ~ American poet ~ 1830-1886)

“I’m sitting on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away.
I’m just sittin’ on the dock of the bay
Wastin’ time.”
(Sitting On the Dock of the Bay ~ Otis Redding)

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

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“Life is the dregs!”

The old preacher sat across the table from me staring into his almost finished cup.  The tiny amount of liquid that remained at the bottom clearly had some stray coffee grounds chasing around in it.  He tipped it up to his lips one more time and let the tepid stuff slip past his pursed lips.

“Pah!”  He made a motion as if to spit it back into the cup.  Then, remembering suddenly where he was, he forced it down his gullet, grimacing as it went.  “The dregs, I tell you!”

If it had been yesterday, I wouldn’t recall it any more clearly.  Thirty-five years have come and gone, but still I remember my surprise at the vitriolic words that flew from the aging parson’s mouth.  I kept my tongue, even as I silently disagreed with him.

I was twenty-one years old and knew better than any old man what life was about.  Hadn’t I spent the last two years living on peanut butter and day-old bread?  Hadn’t I paid my dues to woo and win the most beautiful girl in my little town?  The Lovely Young Lady was a cheap date, to be sure.  She was satisfied with a Number 3 burger at the local Sonic Drive-In and a walk along the creek before sitting a minute or two with me on a swing beside the sidewalk in the park.  I wasn’t living high on the hog, but I knew what life was about and it wasn’t any dregs.

Life was the full cup of Joe!

As I said, thirty-five years have come and gone since that evening.  The old preacher lived to a bitter end, dying suddenly in a car crash, still complaining the last time I saw him about a number of things, not the least of which was his son’s terminal illness.  I understand his perspective a little better now.

But, just for a minute, I want to talk a little about something I call living poor.  I may regret it.  Many of the older generation, especially those who lived through the Great Depression and right after, lived in a manner they called frugal.  Frugal to them meant that you didn’t waste anything.  The problem is that often when you live frugally, you begin to believe that you have nothing, even in the presence of amazing wealth.  I will not belabor the point, but I daresay that most readers at this point are nodding their heads, as they think about a person they once knew who died in poverty in spite of having a large sum of money put by for a rainy day.

There was one trick I learned from my frugal friends.  Buy the Endless Cup Of Coffee at the local diner.  In my hometown, it was a Sambo’s franchised restaurant.  You sat down to the counter and ordered a cup of coffee, as you laid down your quarter.  Then you and your buddies sat and talked into the wee hours of the morning, never spending another dime and never seeing the bottom of the cup in front of you.

It is late as I write this–late on a day that started a very long time ago.  For a few moments earlier tonight, I started to believe that life was the dregs.

For that, I beg your pardon.

There is once more, a full cup of coffee in front of me and I’m remembering the amazing life that has been mine in the closing doorways of the past.  I’m also experiencing the expectation of joyous things to come as the future opens its gates–those gates that lead to the wild unknown.  I tell you, it’s not just the caffeine talking either.  Hardship comes and it goes.  It is just another wayside stopping-off place along the road of life.  If we choose to stay and wallow a bit, we’ll be served the mostly empty cup in which this establishment specializes.  It is a bitter, offensive remnant that contaminates.

Do I believe that life is all sunshine and roses?  It is clear that I don’t.  Do I think that the bad things, the sadness and the pain, the sickness and the hardship don’t matter at all?  Again, the answer is obvious.  Those things come.  They come with some frequency.  And, through the pain, through the hardship, our life goes on.

Through.

I choose to believe in the truth of more to come.  More that we can’t see now.  The Endless Cup has already been filled for us.  There are no dregs here; we have no need to live poor.

Drink up!

You don’t want to miss the next cup!

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil: my cup overflows.
(Psalm 23:5 ~ NIV)

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

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