The phone rang this morning.  I suppose that is not really an accurate statement, is it?  I don’t own a phone that has a bell in it anymore.  Everything is all speakers and circuit boards nowadays, with no moving parts–none, that is, except the dummy who picks up the receiver.  There is no vibrating clapper, no dome-shaped metal bell, between which the clapper alternates, striking first one then the other in rapid repetition.

I heard the high-pitched electronic tone with a quaver in its voice–almost like the high “C” note held down on a cheap electric keyboard with the vibrato effect sped up to maximum–and I found myself wishing for the telephones of my youth.  They were simple things, just a dial, with the aforementioned bell and a speaker for an earpiece, along with a microphone mounted where you spoke.  No batteries, no circuit boards, no buttons to push.

I miss those days.

As I daydreamed, the plastic box jangled again and, looking at the screen on the phone, I realized it was a salesman with whom I did not wish to speak.  Immediately, I concluded that I don’t miss the old days as much as I thought.

With the old phone, I would have answered the call, not having been forewarned of the caller’s identity. Then, stuck on the phone for an uncomfortable period of time (no matter how long or short the call was), I would be murmuring words like, “Why yes, I got the samples you mailed…No, I don’t want a gross of those ear plugs right now…Certainly, I understand you only want to help out my business…No, no–call back anytime…I’m sure I’ll need some of them eventually.”

As I stood there, gazing at the caller ID, the call went to the answering system.

Mere moments passed and the jangle began again.  It was the same salesman.  After a few repetitions of the noise, the answering system kicked in again and I relaxed.  It was a short-lived respite.  After five such episodes, the phone finally fell silent.

Within moments, I heard the familiar doorbell-like double tone of an email arriving.  Checking my desktop computer, I saw the same salesman’s name in the from line.  Sighing in frustration, I read the message.

“I’ve been trying to reach you.” his note began.  “I have an important offer which you’ll want to take advantage of right away!  Call me as soon as you get this email!”

This time, the sigh became a groan.  My finger found the delete button.

_____________

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?  Perhaps, the recitation of my woes has brought back the memory of a certain telemarketer who won’t stop calling at supper time.  Maybe you have a neighbor who bothers you constantly, borrowing tools and asking for your help at inopportune times.  You sympathize, but you are enjoying my discomfort.

I’m wondering though, if, in our mutual disregard for the hapless salesman, we may actually begin to feel a sense of kinship, almost a memory of shared experiences, with him.

Have we ever tried to get through repeatedly, to someone who really needed what we had to offer, only to be ignored every time?  I’m not talking about selling some gimmicky doo-dad or some snake-oil remedy for stomach problems; certainly not suggesting that we were trying to take advantage of the person.  I’m just remembering times when I’ve tried to help people in my life who didn’t seem to want my help.  I called.  I left messages.  I even sent things in the mail.

No response.  Nothing.  

I felt like the stand-up comedian who has told a bad joke and, hearing no laughter from his audience, taps the microphone in front of him, asking sarcastically, “Is anybody out there?  Is this thing on?”

The mind moves on, past interpersonal relationships, to deeper matters.  Perhaps, there have been times when, desperate for answers, we approached God with our prayers.  Were there times when He seemed so distant, so unresponsive, that we could almost believe He didn’t exist at all?

We wouldn’t have been alone in that conclusion.

I laughed a bit as I drew this parallel in my mind, remembering that in times gone by, I thought God used to answer prayers much easier than he does today.  The silly thought hit me that perhaps, heaven’s phone system was once like our old one, where He had no choice but to answer my call, wanting to be sure He didn’t miss another, more important message from someone more worthy.  Now with caller ID on the celestial phone system, my calls are bypassed, sent to voice mail, to be dealt with at some other time.

Joking aside, I’m happy to know that the line to our Provider is still open.  We haven’t annoyed Him with too many prank calls; haven’t worn out our welcome by asking for too many things.  Jesus assured his followers of that, as He taught, “Everything you ask for, believing that it will happen, will be yours.”

That hasn’t changed with the advent of better technology.  The line is still clear, with no interference to block the reception.

I think I’ll try that friend again, too.  This could be the time he picks up to talk to me.

If not, an email might work.  My salesman friend might have had the right idea, after all.

“He will listen to the prayers of the destitute.  He will not reject their pleas.”
(Psalm 102:17 ~ NLT)

“A little more persistence, a little more effort, and what seemed hopeless failure may turn to glorious success.”
(Elbert Hubbard ~ American writer/philosopher ~ 1856-1915)

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

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It’s my day off–from exercise, that is.  Of course, that means that I had most of the evening to relax, instead of running or biking.  I spent the time in my easy chair.  Sleeping, mostly.  She was there, but beyond a word or two, we hardly spoke all evening.  Before that, we made a trip to and from a nearby town in the car, nearly sixty miles in all.  We didn’t talk much then either.

Both the quiet trip and the day of rest for my battered body were a little slice of heaven.  Perhaps, we shouldn’t tell her that I enjoyed the silence.  Let’s just say that the time off was wonderful and leave it at that.

No.  I don’t think I can.  Leave it at that, I mean.  You see,  I’m remembering the old pastor who married the Lovely Lady and me, nearly thirty-five years ago.  He told a story that has always stuck with me.  I wish he hadn’t.

“I was in a restaurant the other day,” he smiled as he remembered it.  “I love to watch people.  Without knowing them, I can tell a lot about them.  It was on a Friday–date night.  Every table in the place was full and it was noisy.  Young people, everywhere you looked; all of them talking back and forth to each other.”

As he warmed to the subject, he moved his fingers on both hands, making the motions of mouths opening and closing.

Then, more somber, he continued, “At this one table though, I saw a couple.  They had been married a long time.”  Looking quizzically over the front of the pulpit at us, he asked, “How do I know they were an old married couple?  Why, because they weren’t talking at all!  They just sat there and ate their food, only speaking to their waitress or asking for the salt or ketchup.  There was no doubt they were married!”

The old saint meant the story to be a cautionary tale to the recently wed couples in his congregation.  And, for many years, I took it in the spirit in which he offered it.  If you had a relationship that was healthy, you talked with your spouse.  So, knowing my task, I endeavored to fill every silence with words.  Any time the Lovely Lady and I were together, especially in public, I talked.  Every action in the day was grist for the mill, every little detail had to be discussed at length.  I never ran out of material, talking almost non-stop.

Can I tell you a secret?  The idea that old married couples don’t talk because there is a rift in their relationship is mostly hogwash.  I’m not telling you that communication isn’t important.  It is.  What I am saying is that as we grow to know and love each other, there is no longer any need to fill up the spaces between us with empty chatter and drivel.

The comfortable silences in our life are not evidence of distance between us, but just the opposite.  When we are secure in our connection to each other, the peripheral trappings of words and banter often simply muddy the waters. Indeed, silence often, is golden.

The quiet evening was aided in its success by my weekly day of laying off the physical exercise.  In my quest for a healthy lifestyle, I run, walk, or bike almost everyday.  Although I don’t admit it often, I tend to be fairly competitive. Because of this, I push myself to go faster and further almost on a daily basis.  I know that this type of attitude carries with it some risks, especially to this closer-to-sixty-than-fifty year-old man.

When we exercise heavily, we actually are not building muscle, but tearing it down.  The exercise itself causes trauma to the old tissue, which triggers the body to develop more muscle, almost as a way of protecting itself.  The problem is that, when I push myself everyday, I don’t give my body time to rebuild and replenish what has been torn down.  Believe me, the aches and pains after a full week of daily hour-long exercise sessions tell me that I need some rest.

So, I take at least one day off every week.  It feels good.  The physical activity, the sweat pouring into my face, the heart pounding at elevated rates–all are left behind for a day.  My sabbath rest.

Hmmm–Did I just use that word?   Perhaps, it would be best to hurry past, with just a nod to the concept of resting one day out of seven, which is indeed, the most literal translation of the word we know.  I don’t use it here for any other purpose, but the thought of a time of coming aside and recovering from the busyness and fatigue applies in a much broader sense as well.

Perhaps, I do use it for another purpose.  I spoke earlier of resting from constant communication, of sitting quietly and just being together.  If one insists, it could mean that spiritually, couldn’t it?

I like it.  A time of rest for the body; a time of healing, of growth, even in repose.  A time of relaxation for the spirit; a period of building relationships and growing closer, even in the silence.

It goes against everything we are told by this frantic world in which we live.  Work!  Achieve!  Be heard!  Be seen!  Small wonder that we burn out.  It stands to reason that we are damaged and worn.

I like the words which the Teacher spoke to his followers at the end of one of His (and their) frantic periods, “Come with me to a quiet place,” He said, “and get some rest.”

I’m thinking it is good advice, even today.

Be still.

“You’ve got to quit, just one day a week and watch what God is doing when you’re not doing anything.”
(Eugene H Peterson ~American pastor/author)

“Come ye yourselves apart and rest awhile,
Weary, I know it, of the press and throng;
Wipe from your brow the sweat and dust of toil,
And in my quiet strength again be strong.”
(Edward Henry Bickersteth ~ Bishop in the Church of England ~ 1825-1906)

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

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My missionary friend and his family are here for a few months on home assignment.  That’s what they call it anyway.  There was a day when this little town was home for them.  That has been a few years ago.  Now, they live in Europe, training young folks at the school they help to staff there.

Periodically, they are required to spend a certain amount of time in this, their country of legal citizenship.  We love having them around.  Long distance relationships lose something through the miles; absentee friendships leave an empty space where warm bodies used to live.

They have just moved into a house for the duration of their time here, so it seemed fitting for me to ask the question when I saw him recently.

“Are you settling in all right?”

I must admit, I was a little sad to realize the answer wasn’t what I expected.  Oh, he responded in the affirmative, but his hesitation, his facial expression as he replied, belied the words.  I don’t mean to say he was lying, but just that he knew he would never be settled in here again.  I’m thinking that his home, his heart, is miles away from here in a small town in Southern Germany right next to the famed Black Forest. He and his family are here and reside in their temporary home, but settling isn’t what they have in mind.

Have you ever thought of the many diverse ways we use the word settle?  To rowdy children, we insist that they settle down; when a fight is over, we suggest that the dust has settled.  The pioneers, who pushed their way into the uncharted wilderness, upon finding a suitable location, settled it, with the resulting community becoming what we quite naturally call a settlement.  When there is a legal dispute, often the opposing parties will settle their differences.  Sugar spooned into a cup of coffee settles to the bottom.

In all of these instances and more, before the act of settlement commences there is a period of uncertain activity.  Uncontrolled circumstances evoke emotions of agitation and turbulence.  We generally prefer settlement–the calm after the storm, if you will.

It’s not always what we get.

My mind started down this pathway earlier today, as I worked with a customer’s order.  As it turned out, he had requested a title which is no longer available in the marketplace.  There was nothing to do except cancel the order and refund his money.

I opened the computer program to make a refund to his credit card.  I was immediately faced with a choice.  I could search the settled transactions or the unsettled ones.  The end of the business day not yet having occurred, the transaction was classified as unsettled. Only after we close for the day are the individual sales grouped together and sent electronically to the bank for settlement.  Before that time, they are unsettled–up in the air–and may be voided, leaving no trace of the transaction in the books.  During the time the transaction is unsettled, it may be changed or erased.  Once settled, it is recorded and the appropriate amount transferred to our account from the customer’s.

I clicked the unsettled button, found the record of the transaction and voided it.  Funny.  The sale which the customer had thought settled never was.  In fact, it is now completely non-existent.  He is not likely to be happy.  It is possible that he may actually be feeling a bit unsettled right now.

But, my thoughts go back to my friend and his family.  Not settled in.  Come to think of it, I’m not sure they are completely settled in when they’re in Germany, either.  They know that they are doing what they need to be doing–today.  Tomorrow may bring a different assignment.  And, they’ll move on to not settle in that place, too.

You see, I think perhaps we value the calm after the storm so much that we don’t see we’re not intended to settle in too comfortably anywhere.

The pioneers found this to be true.  Along the way, they would settle in places where they believed it was safe to stop, only to be attacked by enemies, or caught in wicked weather.  They would move on to another spot and hope they could settle there.  Often, believing themselves safe, they would establish a settlement and even make it their home for many months before finding that they had to move on again for reasons they could not have foreseen.

We value comfort and calm in a world which is neither comfortable nor calm for very long.  Perhaps, the settling needs to be internal rather than external.  Not dependent on circumstances, an inner calm endures because it is established on the only solid foundation.  Like Abraham of old, we are willing to wander now, knowing we have a destination which will certainly be a place into which we will settle at last.  The maelstrom of uncertainty will churn and whirl around us, but we will be ready to weather whatever comes.

Oh.  Did I forget to mention it?  There is one other way we use the word settle.  We refuse to settle–to accept the calm which follows the storm when it is less that everything that we are seeking.  We refuse to settle for less than what has been guaranteed; refuse to settle for the empty promises that this place we wander through makes, but upon which it cannot deliver.

How about it?  Do we settle here?

Or, is there more elsewhere?

I’m thinking there may be a little more of the pioneer spirit still alive inside of me.  Perhaps, we should keep on moving along.

“…I have learned to be content in any circumstance.”
(Philippians 4:11 ~ NET Bible)

“I refuse to settle for something less than great.  And, if it takes a lifetime, that’s how long I’ll wait.”
(from “Somebody’s Everything” ~ Dolly Parton ~ American singer/songwriter)

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

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Beautiful, isn’t it?

Whether you’re an art lover or not, the scene evokes emotions–sometimes peaceful, often of awe, and at times, even of wonder.  The artist, clearly a master at his craft, has captured the reflected light on the surface of the water, as well as the powerful motion of the breaking waves; in fact, every detail lends itself to an unassailable sense of the grandeur of the sea.

The beautiful oil painting resides in our den near the fireplace.  Seldom do I enter the room without at least a glance of appreciation.  Often, I turn on the little track lights that wash it from above with an ambient light which magnifies the effect of the cloud-covered sun as it lowers to the far horizon. Then, backing away from the wall upon which it hangs, I simply stand and take in the view, reveling in the glory that is creation and thanking the One who placed us here in His world.

Once in awhile, though–only once in awhile–as I stand there, I find myself considering the ugliness of the human heart while I also contemplate the amazing beauty which emanates from the same heart.  It seems a strange thing to do, does it not, to think about ugly things while looking at great beauty?

Perhaps, you’ll let me tell you a story.  No, it’s not the made up kind of story; it’s completely true, as far as I can tell.  I warn you though; it is not a happy tale.

Our hero or villain–whichever–enters the story in about 1918, toward the end of World War I.  The Count had made his way by rail from Des Moines, Iowa down to Kansas City, Missouri, but found himself short of funds to get home again.  Stranded and without cash, he worked his way north to the little town of Excelsior Springs, a locale that suited his personality and lifestyle just perfectly.  In his late twenties, he was a sophisticated and debonair artist, lately emigrated from Hungary, and the young ladies in this tourist town of healing springs nearly fell at his feet.

Their fathers?  Not so much.

The artist boasted of his expertise and training at the finest art schools in Paris and Italy, and the little projects he turned out for the locals gave testimony of considerable talent.  When it became clear that the teenage daughter of the local banker had been seeing entirely too much of the arrogant young dandy, the wealthy man fabricated a plan.  Knowing that the Count desired to go home, he made a deal with him.  The bank would pay him twelve-hundred dollars to paint two large murals in the bank building downtown.  In return, he promised to leave town and go home.  He honored his word, finishing the stunning murals and boarding the next train north, leaving a tearful banker’s daughter behind, along with a number of other disappointed young ladies.

For twenty years, the Count lived in different places, always wandering, always leaving behind his conquests, the young ladies, whom he had wooed and won with his foreign accent and his cocky self-confidence.  And, he kept finding his way back to his home in Iowa with money earned from paintings which he was able to sell to well-to-do folks along the way.  He never stuck to any position, and never showed a bit of remorse about the lives he left ruined behind him.

Do you get the idea that this man was not a model of moral purity and goodness?  It got worse.

In the late 1930s, he finally found one young lady, half his age, with whom he decided he could tie the knot.  Her parents, disliking him intensely, demanded that she break off the relationship.  Instead, she and the Count eloped and escaped south to Texas.  Four years later, she was dead.  She could stand neither her marriage to him, nor her life, so she ended both by hanging herself.

The police report said that she was still alive when her husband found her, but he didn’t take her down, instead going to the neighbors to ask for help.  When they got there, the only thing they could do was to assist in taking down her lifeless body. Her family came and took the body back to Iowa, refusing to allow the Count to attend her funeral (he had no money with which to travel anyway).

Three months later, the Count, traveling under an assumed name, made his way, in the twilight of evening, to the cemetery where his wife was buried.  Standing over her grave, he took a bottle of poison from his pocket and putting it to his mouth, swallowed the entire contents. He was dead when they found him in the morning.

There are some who would call this romantic.  Today, they might even make a movie about his life.  But, from this distant perspective, one can only assume that he was riddled with the guilt of his past and couldn’t face the darkness of continuing life like that. Romantic?  Hardly.

So, I stand sometimes and gaze at the amazing painting on my wall, completed by the Count himself in 1926, and I consider the dichotomy.  Evil lives in the heart of man.  Great beauty dwells there also.  Both make their way out, without fail, into the light of day.

 I’m reminded of that old story, oft repeated, about the old Native American man who was talking to the young braves in his tribe, encouraging them to exercise self-discipline in their own lives.  He told about two dogs that were always fighting inside of him, one evil and one good.

One of the young men asked the question that was on each brave’s mind.  “Which one will win, old man?”

The wise old man sat silent for a moment before answering, as if recalling a lifetime of the inner battle.  When he spoke, it was almost as if he spoke to himself.  “The one which I feed; that one will win.”

There is more to be said–much more.  Words about grace, and new life, and beauty from ashes.  I could write for hours on this subject and not even begin to deplete the store of wisdom.

I’ll pass.

You certainly don’t need another sermon from the likes of me.

Those two dogs live inside of me, too.

“A religious life is a struggle, and not a hymn.”
(Madame De Stael ~ French author ~ 1766-1817)

“Therefore, do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its desires.”
(Romans 6:12 ~ NET Bible)

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

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I have words welling up inside of me.  They have been spilling out for a couple of hours already tonight.  I am ashamed to say that I faithfully wrote them all down on pages in front of me–and then deleted every single one of them.

Photo: Jeannean Ryman

The little boy had stolen something from his school.  Now he was paying the price.  He wished he could go back to yesterday and just leave the beach ball where he found it.  But it was not to be.  The paddle came down on his tender posterior.  Whack!  Whack!  Whack!  He wiped away the tears and headed back to class.  If only it had never happened!

Fast forward a year or two and the same boy stands in front of his father, head dropped in shame.  The tool he should never have held in his hands was broken.  Not only that, he had attempted to hide it and even lied about it.  The eyes that looked down on him were sad, not angry.  Still, the miscreant wished he could go back to last week before he had taken the hammer from its place.  The cloth belt swung through the air.  Whack!  Whack!  Whack!  As he cried, he wished that he had never even touched the tool!  If only!

Again, we move quickly past another couple of years and look in on the boy at school.  He is not in trouble this time, for a change.

The austere aspect of Mrs. Dunham’s countenance almost disappeared into the twinkle of her eyes as she pulled the large volume from the little cubbyhole behind her desk.  Today, she would be introducing her students, most of them indifferent to her passion, to a subject she had studied extensively.

“Today students, we will begin to study Greek mythology, the study of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses, as well as some of their distant relatives.  We’ll be reading a number of stories over the next week or so.  Yes, they are just made-up stories, but we can learn a lot from this ancient civilization.”

A collective groan went up from the sixth graders.  Few of them had any interest in those stories.  There was at least one however, who had read many of them before and was anxious to discuss them again.  Over the next week, he was in his element, if only for the short time each day when they did their reading assignments and discussed yesterday’s.  Zeus, Hermes, Poseidon, Hades–each one was discussed and their feats described, to his great delight.

But, he knew one story was coming, one that he hated–well, disliked greatly anyway.

Sure enough, the day came when Mrs. Dunham opened the book to the story of Pandora and her box.  His face fell, and he wished that he had stayed home sick that day.  This story, he had no interest in reading, nor in discussing.  He couldn’t have told you why he disliked the story so.  He just knew that it made him horribly uncomfortable.

In the story, Pandora herself was a gift from Zeus to his subjects.  With her came a box.  The box was sealed closed and the king of Olympus gave instructions that it was never to be opened.  It almost goes without saying that the box eventually was opened.  How could it be otherwise?

Pandora, on a day when no one else was around, sneaked to the box, stealthily lifting the lid.  All she wanted was just one short glance inside–just one.  But, as she lifted the lid, through the narrow crack came all manner of flying evils, the sins and diseases and hardships which would make man faint under their load for all of time.  They all escaped, with no hope that they could be collected and stuffed back in the box again.

Suddenly aware that she had done a great evil, the lovely Pandora takes one more look into the box, just to see if perhaps she had avoided loosing at least one great horror on all of mankind.  Just one small creature, the only being in the box which wasn’t evil, remained in the bottom of the box.  Even so, it also flew as she opened the box wide.  As it flew, however, she realized that it was the one thing which would give aid to mankind in its sad state.  Amid all the evils, when all around was darkness and pain, there still would be hope.

The boy listened to the words once more and said to himself, “It’s not enough.  If only she had resisted the temptation.  If only.”

It has been long years since and the boy, now an aging man, long ago figured out the reason he dislikes the story of Pandora’s Box so bitterly.  The story of Pandora is the disappointing story of everyman.  There is not one of us who doesn’t wish that we had acted differently, spoken more gently, or taken a different course at some point in our life.  The damage is done, the evil loosed on the world, and the only thing we can do is to go forward in hope that the future will be better.  But, that almost seems just like wishing, not like anything solid at all.

We can’t go back.  Words said in anger can’t be unsaid.  Deeds done in malice can’t be undone.  We can’t turn back the clock to take any of it back, or to do things differently.  But, I don’t want to leave the impression that we are bereft of a remedy.  You see, there is hope; there is a light in the darkness.  Unlike the people who believed those Greek stories as their religion and were left at the mercy of gods and demi-gods who had none (mercy, that is), we don’t have such a God.

Grace holds out its hand as it tells us that the past doesn’t matter.  Grace gives us the opportunity to start fresh today, with a clean slate erased of all the misdeeds of yesterday.  The past is gone–wiped away.  That grace is ours through the gift of a Savior, who says, “Come to me and I’ll give you rest from your heavy load.  You don’t need to labor under the burden of the past another minute.”  Simple faith opens the way forward. Unlike the story of Pandora, we’re not left with a weak and ineffective hero.  No, our hope is a guarantee, not just a wish.

So, we’ll never again walk the paths we’ve already traveled.  In a way, that in itself is a great gift.  But, even though the penalty of the past is wiped away, we can still learn from it.  We must learn from it.

We start here. Now.  Where do we go from here?  It is indeed dark behind us.  And, we can stay right where we are, gazing into the darkness behind and wishing it were not so.  But, ahead the light shines brightly, inviting us to keep moving.  The road leads to the future and we may follow it with hope–real hope.

I think I want to take a stroll with hope–and you.  What do you say?

“Fear not for the future; weep not for the past.”
(Percy Bysshe Shelley~English lyric poet~1792-1822)

“And hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts, through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.”
(Romans 5:5~NET)

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

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