aging

A Piano in the Path

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m thinking about learning to play the piano.

I’m told I won’t have much learning to do, since I once called myself a pianist.  It’s just like riding a bicycle, they say.  Or perhaps, as easy as falling off a log.

More likely, it’s a combination of the two and will be like falling off a bicycle.

I’ve done that before, thank you.  Repeating the experience isn’t on my bucket list.

But there’s a piano sitting next to my desk as I write this.  It calls my name a few times a day.

Some things are meant to be. Not that I wanted another piano in the house.  Or even that I thought I should play the piano again.

“Come and look at Dad’s piano,” the fellow said.  I used to have some expertise regarding these instruments, so I went.  After a surprising (to me) conversation about the old piano coming to our house to live, it actually happened.

A couple of weeks ago, the piano came to my late father-in-law’s old piano shop to stay.  In the very room where the white-haired old man rebuilt and repaired similar instruments, the ninety-five-year-old grand piano awaits a player—and before that, a minor repair or two.  I couldn’t help feeling, as I touched up the tuning on one of the bass notes earlier, that he would be proud of me.

The gentleman who passed on the ownership of the old piano to the Lovely Lady and me sat at his dining room table while I examined it on that day, a few weeks ago.  His mother and father bought the piano new a couple of years before he was born.  It has been his piano to play for all of his life.  But he and his dear wife have decided it’s time to live where they can have some extra help, so they are downsizing.

Downsizing.  It’s a strange word.  Many these days are choosing to do it simply because they don’t want to be burdened by so many belongings.

But others, like my old friend, are making the journey because, as our British cousins were once fond of saying, needs must.

Needs must.  A shortening of a quote from a fifteenth-century writing that said (in modern English), “Needs must when the devil drives.”

I like the shortened version of it better.  It certainly sounds better than the words I say when faced with an inevitable (and unwanted) option.

“It is what it is.”

He and his wife are dispersing their mementos of a long life shared.  They’re not shedding their memories, just the physical reminders of them.

It’s hard.  But more folks we know are doing similar things around us every day.

I’m happy to be the recipient of the old piano.  It has been a lifelong memory for my friend of his parents and his childhood.  For me, it will be a memento of him for as long as I sit down to play music on it.

I wrote recently of roads I remember.  This is not so much a road as a path I’m wandering these days.  The difference is that paths tend to meander a bit into the future in front of us.  And they’re not as well marked.

I can’t remember how many years ago it was—but I’m sure it was more than twenty—that this same friend told me my mother-in-law was teaching him to play the piano.  It wasn’t, strictly speaking, true.  She was teaching him to play the piano better.

In this house, the same house in which his old piano now resides, he was picking up the path again, the path to being a pianist.

I should mention that, over the last few years, some of my favorite music to listen to at the fellowship we attend has come from the hands of this particular old friend as he sat at the piano on the platform there.  He always laughs at me when I tell him that, as if he can’t believe it.  It’s still true.

I know, this is just more sappy stuff.  That doesn’t make it trivial or inconsequential.

The paths and the roads we walk today have been traveled by folks whose examples we would do well to emulate.  As I remember it, my friend was about my age, advanced in years as I already am, when he decided to learn more than he already knew about playing the piano.

So, I’m the perfect age to be learning to play the piano.  Again.

Paths to follow.  Who knows where they’ll lead?

Maybe you can think of one you need to walk down again, too. 

The old piano is calling my name.  I wonder if my neighbors will object too much to my answering the call at this hour of the night.

But no. 

Perhaps I’ll just practice during the daytime hours for the time being.

 

 

“May you live all the days of your life.”
(Jonathan Swift)

“And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.”
(Colossians 3:17, NIV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2025. All Rights Reserved.

 

Big, Strong Hands

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments
image by Antoni Shkraba on Pexels

“My PT said I could ride my bike again if I want.”

My old friend sat near me in the coffee shop as our conversation wandered far afield last week.  There was purpose in our visit, but it has been a while since we sat and spoke.

We used to sit for hours on our bicycle seats (what little there is of them) and talk as our magic machines ate up the miles, the twenty-nine-inch wheels spinning at approximately 185.6 RPM.  Perhaps fewer, sometimes.  And more, less often.  I hope that’s not too confusing.

What I’m saying is that we rode long distances—usually slowly. And sometimes fast, but only for shorter distances.

Just over three months ago my friend had an accident and hasn’t been able to ride at all since then.  Until this week.  It’s been hard for him.  The pain was constant and, at times, unbearable.  And, when you can’t do what you love, it’s not only the pain that wreaks havoc on your mind and emotions.

Then, on that day last week, his physical therapist had given him a glimmer of promise, of expectation.

I rejoiced with him in his hope.

We stayed.  Much longer than we had planned, sitting in that one spot, offering (and perceiving) insights into our faith—our intellect—even our hearts.  Three hours after we dropped into the comfortable chairs, we finally stood again.

As I stood, I felt a twinge in my lower back.  It’s not unusual.  I am aging.  I’ve not been kind to my body over the years and, if a twinge is the price for a few hours of communion with an old friend, I’ll pay the price.

I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d stand easily for at least a week, perhaps longer.  The doctor I visited with this afternoon didn’t seem all that optimistic for a quick and easy solution to the crippling pain I’ve lived with since that day.  Perhaps, I’m reading more into his words than he intended. Still, I’m not wearing any rose-colored glasses.

A phrase from a children’s movie in the 1980s comes to my mind as I write tonight.  I see the Rockbiter character from The Neverending Story as he sits gazing at his hands which have failed him miserably.  His somber, almost despairing voice repeats the words;

“They look like good, strong hands, don’t they?”

It’s not the first time I’ve faced this truth.  And, I’m not sure it ever gets easier.  It should, but I’m not sure it does.

I’m not invincible.  I have no guarantee that I’ll be able to continue as I’ve begun.  No one does.

The treasure (Grace and Light, given as a gift) followers of Jesus hold is held in hands and bodies of clay.  They may appear strong.  They could even stay intact for most of a lifetime, seeming to prove the strength of the holders, the pilgrims themselves.

They’re not. Strong, that is.

Strength is loaned—a stewardship to be used as long as we can wield it.  But, it was never ours.

Never.

“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”
(2 Corinthians 4: 7, NLT)

Vessels of clay.  It doesn’t seem all that hopeful, does it?

Still, there is a glimmer—promises made to us many years ago.

We may be pressed, but we are not crushed.
We are sometimes perplexed, but we are not in despair.
We might seem to be prey for the hunter, but we haven’t been left defenseless;
Ah!  And when we are knocked down, it is never a permanent condition.
(My paraphrase of the verses that follow the verse just above)

I stood yesterday and held back the tears as my neighbor consoled me, averring it was okay that I couldn’t help her with a task I’d done for several years.  I don’t know how long it will be before I can help her with it again.

For some reason, last night, I watched a video clip of that scene from the movie mentioned above and almost felt the creature’s despair.  Almost.

But, moments later, I went to sleep with words from the Psalm writer, the warrior musician, in my head.  They are well-known words that he wrote to remind his victorious army that the strength they had been loaned was different from that of the world around them.

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
    but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
(Psalm 20:7, NIV)

God’s hands are big, strong hands!

Today, some folks I love pulled into my driveway and asked if I would unlock my storage barn so they could get to my lawnmowers and other lawn tools.  One asked for a short tutorial on using my riding mower.  The others filled tanks with gasoline and checked the oil.

My lawn was going to be mowed.  I couldn’t do it for myself, so they did.

But, before they started, they asked about my neighbor.  Splitting up, they mowed mine and hers.  In the hot sun, the strong young folks labored in the strength they’ve been loaned.  Then they asked if they could take care of the neighbor on the other side of me, who usually can count on me to work in her yard, too.

I’m not crying.  You are.

Okay.  I am. A little.

Every good gift—every perfect gift—comes from Above.

I’m not invincible.  I know that.  I won’t ever be.

I may be capable again.  Time will tell.  Still, I’ll never be invincible.

But, I am indomitable.  At least, I’m working at it.

Steadfast.  Unyielding.

They are Good, Strong Hands.

And, they’re holding us.

 

My heart is steadfast, O God,
my heart is steadfast!
I will sing and make melody!
Awake, my whole being!
Awake, O harp and lyre!
I will awake the dawn!
I will give thanks to you, O Lord, among the peoples;
I will sing praises to you among the nations.
For your steadfast love is great to the heavens,
your faithfulness to the clouds.
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!
Let your glory be over all the earth!
(Psalm 57:7-11, ESV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Conduct Unbecoming

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image Public Domain

 

I can’t be the only one who does it.  Then again, perhaps I am.  I’ve always been a little strange.

Still.  I spend at least a few moments every day thinking about where I came from.  And, where I’m headed.  And sometimes even, where I’ve been along the way.

Sometimes, I get my words mixed up while I think about all these confusing things.

One of my brothers was fond of reminding me (when I was still a youngster, mind you) that we start dying the day we’re born.  Just something extra for the weird sibling to chew on, you know?

For some reason, my mind wanders (as it often does), and I hear the words of the Skin Horse as he explains to the Velveteen Rabbit how to become real.

“‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.'”
(from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams Bianco)

It’s just a child’s story, but I remember the thought from many years ago when I first read it.  I especially remember those powerful two words, “You become.” It seemed to that much younger (but already strange) me that those two words encapsulated what happens to us along the road of life.

For most of my life, I’ve been becoming.

A long obedience in the same direction is the way Eugene Peterson described it.  Well, he borrowed the words from Nietzsche, but the thought was that one should continue as one had begun, headed for the goal.

Step by step, day by day.  Becoming.

It doesn’t mean there haven’t been missteps.  Nor does it mean that there haven’t been falls along the way.  But, again and again, we stand up, shake ourselves off, and head again for the goal.

Becoming.

The disciple who was loved by our Savior, and who later taught so powerfully about love, muddies the waters a bit for us:

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become.” (1 John 3:2a, Good News Translation)

I laugh to myself as I read the words of John again.  The uncertainty is not what I want.  I’m not even sure I need it.

And, in a way, the uncertainty about what I am becoming is what got me tangled up in this subject in the first place.

As I consider the past (while looking to the future), it seems there is a disconnect of sorts, an interruption in the long obedience in the same direction.

For many years, the becoming was easy, the path ahead clear.  A profession that allowed me to minister—to share, to care—was mine for many years.  I had grown into it, seeing more clearly than ever as the opportunities and the years unfolded.

Then, a few years ago, my world became smaller.  Or so it seemed to me.  My business closed and my daily contact with all those folks ended.  With COVID and changing circumstances at the university where I had played music with the young folks for years, my practical interaction with performing musicians came to a screeching halt.

And as I contemplated, a surprising thought came to mind:

I’m not becoming.  I’m unbecoming!

It is, of course, untrue.  That doesn’t stop the wheels from turning. 

Did I say my mind wanders?  It does. 

I’m seeing a white-haired old gentleman, one hand on the scarred-up black steering wheel of the old blue 1967 Dodge van, the other waving in the general direction of a 30-ish young man sitting in the passenger seat as they careen down a dirt road in rural Arkansas.  The dust flies behind them.

As they always did when delivering pianos, travel time is spent in discussion. The old man wasn’t happy this day.

“There’s no place for me at our church anymore.  I’m thinking about finding a little country church where I can be of some use again.”

The young man, paying more attention to the unattached seat he’s attempting to stay upright in than to the old man, grabs tightly to the door handle and chokes out what he thinks is a wise answer.

“I thought you’d be happy to let younger folks take over and just enjoy the ride.  You’ve earned some rest.”

Did I call him an old man?  My father-in-law was younger than I am now when he said the words. 

And, I answered him back with foolishness.  The foolishness of youth.

Unbecoming, did I say it was?  It would be easy to sit back and get comfortable with the thought of throwing in the towel.  The old man never did, but I might.

But, unbecoming is not fitting or appropriate—unseemly. 

No, really.  That’s the definition the Oxford Dictionary gives for the word.

I don’t want to be any of those things.

The mind wanders even further back, and I see an old man standing in an ancient Jewish temple.  The young couple has brought their tiny baby to be consecrated to God as the Law of Moses decreed.

They brought the child; God brought the old man.  He wasn’t a priest—was not a religious official at all.  But God had given him something to do before he died.

And, he was doing what God had told him to do.  He wasn’t unbecoming at all.

He was becoming.  What a moment!

Luke 2 says the Holy Spirit directed him to the temple at the exact time Jesus was brought in. Simeon’s words have always been one of my favorite passages from what we call the Christmas story.

“Now let your servant depart in peace,  for I have seen the salvation of the Lord.”

My hair’s not white yet.  I can still walk a few miles without faltering and push a lawnmower around the yard with no sign of fainting. I forget names, but I remember faces. 

And, God doesn’t throw His servants into the trash heap when He’s done with them.

He just keeps changing us.  From glory to glory, we’re told in 2 Corinthians 3:18.

Becoming.

I’m going on.

You’re coming with, aren’t you?

 

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he really is.”
(1 John 3:2, GNT)

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
(Dylan Thomas – Welsh Poet – 1914-1953)

“Simeon took him in his arms and blessed God, saying,
‘Now, according to your word, Sovereign Lord, permit your servant to depart in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation
that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples:
a light,
for revelation to the Gentiles,
and for glory to your people Israel.'”
(Luke 2:25-32, NET)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

When Is It Too Late to Make a Comeback?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Would you like to open a music store again?”

I asked the (mostly) rhetorical question of the Lovely Lady the other day as we drove past the building where we had operated such a store for many years. I didn’t expect a positive answer.

I got one anyway.

“Yes, in a lot of ways, I wish we could.”

Though driving down a busy street, my eyes were instantly glued to her face, attempting to read the real story there. Wistfulness, I thought. Perhaps even reminiscence of our youth and once vivid dreams for the future.

We both laughed. It won’t happen and we know it. There were valid reasons for closing the little store a few years ago and they haven’t changed. Still, it seems we often sense a yearning for days past.

No, we won’t own a music store again. That doesn’t mean we’re finished. We’re not ready to sit down and begin the long (or short) wait for God.

But I am realizing this important thing: We all, young or old, have a need to be of use to folks around us. It’s a desire built deep into the human spirit.

We need to be needed.

I talked with him tonight, the old preacher. Many years, he’s spent on this planet—most of them in one pulpit or another, teaching the Word of God.

Nearly two years ago, he said goodbye to his last permanent congregation. His family breathed a sigh of relief, thinking with him that the time had come for him to rest and enjoy life. But, that’s just it; he doesn’t enjoy life if he’s not preaching.

And, as we spoke on the phone tonight, he let me know he would be standing in the pulpit again starting next month.

“It’s not permanent,” he hastened to explain, as if what I thought mattered. “I’m just filling in for a few weeks.”

For some reason, hearing his words, I thought about the flowers. I know, it makes no sense, but it is the way my brain works.

You’ve seen them before—the surprise lilies. They go by other names, these oddities of nature. Resurrection lilies. Magic lilies. And yes, naked ladies.

It is August in Arkansas, so the surprise lilies are standing proudly in yards and fields all around me. There is a row of them in my front yard, even. They’re not so much of a surprise, after all. I knew right where to look for them.

In the spring, after the dreary, cold days of winter, all of the bulbs seemed to explode with greenery and color. The daffodils, the crocuses, and the irises too—all of them were working to outdo each other with colors and showy blossoms. All of them, that is, except the surprise lilies.

The only thing that pops up in the spring from the bulbs these lovelies keep hidden underground is greenery. Lots of broad, green leaves. They are beautiful in their own right, but not all that awe-inspiring. Still, I know by now to be patient. I protect the growth, allowing it to cover the ground, doing its work.

Making promises for the future.

And then, just like that—about the same time as the daffodils and the irises, the green leaves turn brown and die. Gone. Finished. Rotting into the ground. Or, so it seems.

Months pass. Nothing. Grass covers over the place where the bulbs cower under the dirt. Nothing to see here, folks. Move on.

But, the end of July comes. The hot sun beats down. The grass grows crunchy underfoot. And suddenly, in the last full month of the summer, the plants erupt from the ground.

There is not a leaf to be seen. A beautiful, thin stalk with multiple buds atop it grows within a couple of days to two feet tall. The buds cannot open fast enough into their brilliant pink blossoms.

They are glorious! Perhaps more so because of their delayed appearance. Every year, I wonder if this will be the year they fail. Every year, during the last week of July, they keep their promises made in the springtime.

People are not flowers. I know that. But, again and again, I see folks defying the odds—age, handicaps, illnesses—to keep the promises of youth.

It is a mistake for us to look at circumstances and count anyone, including ourselves, out of the game.

There are no has-beens. Every one of us who is still breathing is still becoming.

The disciple who spoke so often of love said it well, I think:

Loved ones, we are already children of God, but it is not clear yet what we will become. When we are with Christ, then it will be clear as crystal, and we will be just like Him. (1 John 3:2 ~ my paraphrase)

I may be covered up with dirt and hiding right now, but just wait! The glorious part is still to come. It won’t be because of my own abilities and cobbled-together plans, but because of the Creator and His master plan.

Do you think you’re finished? Does it look like no one needs you? Don’t count yourself out!

Did I tell you the preacher is eighty-nine years old? He says he’s got another thirty years in him. I’m not quite sure he’s joking.

Perhaps, we could all take a lesson from the old preacher’s favorite scripture as we anticipate the next step in our becoming:

‘For I know what I have planned for you,’ says the Lord. ‘I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future filled with hope.’
(Jeremiah 29:11, NET)

No, we can’t go back to the past again. But what comes next promises to be spectacular.

Spectacular.

And, maybe a little bit surprising.

______________________________

I’d like to think the best of me
Is still hiding up my sleeve.
(from No Such Thing ~ John Mayer ~ 2001)

So the Lord blessed Job in the second half of his life even more than in the beginning.
(Job 42:12a, NLT)

______________________________

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

How Did We Get Here?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was the first thing I thought when the words came out of nowhere. Well, not nowhere, since my friend spoke them with his own mouth, but I wasn’t sure what the catalyst for the thought had been. I’m still not sure.

“Why didn’t you become a preacher, Paul?”

I’m certain in that moment I looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. You know, wanting to keep going and get off this highway altogether, but on the other hand, perhaps a fast retreat in the direction from which I had come might be better.

How did we get here?

We weren’t talking about preaching or anything like it. We hadn’t even been discussing professions or callings at all.

I sat for a second or two and then, headlights no longer in my eyes, suggested that I was never supposed to be a preacher. I was glad the red-headed lady who raised me wasn’t sitting nearby. She had always wanted a preacher for a son. It didn’t happen. Still, I don’t suppose she was all that disappointed. Not that she would have told me if she had been. Moms are like that.

For all moms know—and, they know a lot—the road doesn’t always lead where they expect. For that matter, it doesn’t always lead where we ourselves plan. Mine surely didn’t.

I spent nearly forty years in a music store in a small town. You could be dismayed at the thought. A life wasted—what’s not to be sad about?

But, that’s just it.  I’m not sad about it.

Can I be bold here?

Any life lived in following Christ cannot be wasted.

Any life lived in following Christ cannot be wasted. Share on X

We either believe His Word or we don’t. He makes all things in our lives to work in a way that is for our good. It’s true for all who love Him and are part of His family. (Romans 8:28)

I know it’s not popular to talk about that verse these days. And, perhaps it’s become too easy to use it to reassure folks who are in painful situations. We are, after all, a people who like pat answers—easy roadmaps.

And yet, the words stand.

Not so pat.

Not even so easy.

We want to know. We have dreams we reach for, plans we’ve laid out carefully. We look around and nothing about this landscape surrounding us resembles anything we recognize.

How did we get here?

Funny thing. When the deer stares into the headlights, what has transpired to bring the beautiful beast to this point is of no consequence. Well, not of no consequence. The information is simply not pertinent to the issue at hand.

What matters is where the deer goes from that instant. Decisions must be made. Options considered. Quickly.

The same is true for us.

We use the knowledge at hand, considering the doors before us, and move forward.

Forward.

If our hearts are set on God, steadfast and unwavering, what comes next will be exactly what we wanted in the first place—to be exactly where He wants us. (Psalm 37:4)

I answered my friend the other day with confidence (once I got my feet back under me).

God called me to the ministry of a music store. I’m absolutely certain of it.

I know it sounds strange, but it couldn’t have been a more blessed place to be. I never wanted to work in a music store, much less own one, but day by day, step by step, opened door by opened door, I walked into it until—forty years later—I walked through another opened door on the other side.

A rich man, I walked out. Oh, there wasn’t any large amount of money in my bank account. Still, the wealth is fabulous. Really.  Fabulous.

Thousands of conversations, gifts given and received, memories stored away to be savored in the future, friends secured for a lifetime, and other folks who, like me, walked out with more than they walked in with—all of those are mine to hold onto.

I’m not sure what God got out of the deal. I just know, I did all right in the bargain.

I’m aware my story isn’t yours. Many find themselves in unhappy, seemingly dead-end lives and tasks.

I believe the words are still true for those folks as well.

As we make God our desire, our delight, we’ll look around and see His hand in our journey, His design in the open doors before and the closed ones behind.

There is joy in the journey, not least in the company of other folks on the same road.

How did we get here?

Following Him, we walked through the doors in front of us. And even if we jimmied open a few He never intended for us to enter, we’ll never be in a place we can’t move on from.

I’ve got a few more doors to walk through. Maybe you do, too.

There’s room for more than one on this road. We could try a few doors together.

Delight.

 

 

 

Good company in a journey makes the way to seem the shorter.
(from The Compleat Angler ~ Izaak Walton ~ English author ~ 1593-1683)

 

Your own ears will hear Him.
Right behind you, a voice will say,
“This is the way you should go,”
Whether to the right or to the left.
(Isaiah 30:21 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Previously published in Publishous on Medium.com

 

Soon, They’ll Fly

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

As if all of creation is following the calendar hanging on the wall, the temperatures are dropping to suit the season. The north wind already blusters, tugging on the leaves of the trees in my yard, urging them to fly.

Soon. Soon, they’ll fly.

I sat on the porch with a warm cup of coffee a few moments past and wondered why the melancholy mood seems to be descending like a cloud. It does every year now when the seasons make the turn toward colder temperatures and bare limbs on trees.

It hasn’t always been so.

I listen absent-mindedly to the wind chimes at the back of the house and then to the ones beside me on the front porch as they take their turn to spin and shimmy in the chilly breeze. The progression of the blowing wind reminds me that the years have come and gone in just the same way. The waning year reminds me that life too, wanes.

With the years have come so many life events. Joyous and sad, they also take their turns, blowing in and then out again. I might as well try to stop the north wind as to hold back the memories.

I have seen babies born and old folks die. Before my eyes, both have happened. I didn’t turn away from either. Both have brought tears. Tears of heartache. Tears of joy.

Children have grown; friendships, too. The children left, but came back with others of their own. Friends have come and gone, and then come again, some of them. Life has had its sadness, but also, in great measure, its joy.

And yet, among my memories, especially this time of year, the melancholy shoves aside the joy.

For some reason, I see, in my mind’s eye, a scene from a Greek myth I read as a child. Most will remember it, the story of Pandora and the box she was forbidden to open.

The pain and evil she loosed on the earth changed it forever. Only a weak and ineffective hope was left behind as a salve, a bandage for the open, bleeding wound.

The Greeks and Romans offered, in their attempts at explaining humanity and deity, a weak copy of the reality of a Creator who actually gave hope, real hope to His children, His creation.

How easy it is for us, like the ancients, to let our eyes fall to man and the created world, expecting salvation, but finding only weakness and death. We begin to attempt to explain all we see and experience, framed in our human frailty and knowledge.

Weakly, we grasp at the wisps of hope the world offers, thinking it will stave off our unhappiness and certainty of what follows the coming of Autumn.

We build empires, which merely crumble and dissolve beneath our feet. We follow political leaders who make promises with their mouths, but then take action from their base, evil hearts.

Wealth bellows its virtues, only to disappoint. Youth begins to slip from our grasp and hope flees. We chase health with every gym membership and dietary supplement we can find, only to discover ourselves trapped in ever-weakening frames.

Magazines are read; books purchased. Surely someone will find the secret before it’s too late for us!

We set our sight too low. Far too low.

Did you ever stand in the dark of early morning, out in a valley, awaiting the dawn?

I remember mornings—brisk Autumn mornings, not unlike those I’m waking up to now—when I sat awaiting the sun, and the beauty that would follow its rising.

Looking out across the valley, I could see only pitch blackness. They say it’s always darkest before dawn and then, I could believe it. But perhaps, I was looking too low. I should look up—up on the rise of the surrounding hillsides. Surely, from that height, light would ascend and creation would shine.

The hillsides disappointed. Every time.

Even the hilltops themselves were of little help. Possibly, I could make them out, silhouetted against the sky as they were. But, the light didn’t emanate from them.

I had to lift my eyes even higher—up to the sky, where the sun would rise.

There! Even before the sun arrived, the light shone upward from behind the dark horizon. Above the valley—above the hillsides—towering even above the hilltops—the sun burst forth to begin its daily circuit above.

The Psalmist knew it. As he sat in the valley of despair, he lifted his eyes up to the hills, but found no help there. Where—where would his help come from? Only from God. (Psalm 121:1,2)

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. 

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. Share on X

We would wander in the darkness forever, trusting a weak and futile hope. In our foolishness, we believe that the evil loosed in the world cannot ever be defeated. Or worse, we think we can unseat it with our New-Age we-are-gods-ourselves mantra.

Death will follow. As surely as winter follows Autumn, death follows evil and error.

He gives us a Hope that is far better than any we could ever fabricate or imagine.

A Savior who makes all things new.

The power of Pandora’s box is broken in Him. Our Hope has the power to give us new life.

He promises us heaven.

Soon. Soon, we’ll fly.

 

He promises us heaven. Soon. Soon, we'll fly. Share on X

 

 

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
(Autumn ~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~ Bohemian-Austrian poet ~ 1875-1926)

 

 

“The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” 
(John 3:8 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

 

Skin In The Game. Playing Some Gaga.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Well, now he really has done it! After all these years, he’s taken leave of his senses completely.

I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. The blog name should have been enough warning. You should never have had any delusions.

Perhaps, I should pour a little oil on the troubled waters and make certain you don’t think I’m becoming a groupie of the edgy and not-a-little-odd popular singer named Gaga. I’m not even a fan. Couldn’t name a single song she’s recorded. I think I might be excused. I am, after all, a grandfather. It’s expected of me.

Let’s see if I can clear this up.

I took a ride in the country with my grandchildren this afternoon, finding myself in a beautiful valley beside a noisy creek at the end of the ride. Their dad had business to do with the folks at the camp in that valley, so I hung out with the important people.

Grandpa and the kids played gaga ball. 

What’s that you say?

Yeah. Me neither. Never heard of it before. Never played it, either.

Gaga ball is a sort of dodgeball played in a hexagonal wooden box about 20 to 25 feet across, with sides somewhere around 3 feet tall. The nice thing is, no one gets hits in the face. There are no red welts on your body after you get knocked out of the game. The ball can only touch other players below the knees.

This sixty-something-year-old man played it with no visible ill effects. It may, however, take a little time to get over the emotional scarring. The just-turned-ten-year-old girl embarrassed me more than once, yelling you’re out! in a victorious voice that left no doubt my lunch had just been eaten.

She wasn’t the only one to take a bite. All of them tagged me with the ball at least once. I even got a chance to yell victoriously a time or two myself.

Mostly, I yelled for the kids.

What a wonderful way to spend an afternoon! Well, not all afternoon. Later this evening, I also spent an hour and a quarter making music with more than twenty young adults in a little chamber orchestra. It’s an activity the Lovely Lady and I look forward to a couple of times a week at the local university.

I have described the effect of this activity as keeping us young on several occasions. That’s not quite what happens. I think the relationship we have with the young folks there is somewhat symbiotic. In other words, we benefit, but so do they.

We give them a chance to see old people living life. They give us a chance to see their lives and interactions. Our being there tells them they matter to someone besides their professors and their peers. Them tolerating our presence encourages us that all is not lost.

Somehow, I think we may actually like each other! 

Sadly, I think my dad jokes are lost on them, but I guess that’s one I’ll just have to take for the team.

I regularly hear my peer group suggesting they don’t understand the generation coming of age now. Worse, I hear criticisms that border on despair and anger.

There’s a phrase that comes to mind as I consider the problem. 

Get some skin in the game.

The words mean you must have a personal investment in order to realize any beneficial result. Not necessarily money, but it could mean that. In my case, I risked my physical skin by clambering into the gaga pit with the young hooligans today.

Engage. Put yourself in a position to lose something real in order to gain something even better.

Put yourself in a position to lose something real in order to gain something even better. Share on X

Friendship. Understanding. Love.

Love is good. The One we follow suggested we should be known specifically for that action. It’s the way the world will know we are His. Period. (John 13:35)

Somehow, we have come to believe they’ll know us because of our critical spirits. Or, our separation. Or, our pride.

The sad thing is, we’re often identified by those things. To our shame. At least, it should be to our shame.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit I didn’t start out the afternoon with my grandchildren in the gaga pit with them.

I stood in the shade. I looked at my phone. I looked at my watch. I yelled you’re out at a couple of them a time or two. They looked at me, wondering where I got the right to gloat over their (temporary) defeat.

They knew what I wasn’t seeing. Kids do that, you know.

I didn’t have any skin in the game.

It’s time to engage. Go to the coffee shops they frequent. Ask questions. Tell stories. Invite them to come over and play dominoes. They’ll roll their eyes. But, they’ll probably come if food is involved. 

Listen to their music. Even Gaga. Play some of it. Wear ear protection.

Engage. Take chances. Be real.

And, the next time your group of oldsters starts criticizing, ask what they’re doing to make it better.

When Jesus told His followers to let the children come to Him, He touched them. He embraced them to ensure they understand they mattered. To Him—God who became man—they were somebody! (Mark 10:14)

They are somebody. Still today, they are somebody.

Time to get some skin in the game.

Time to start playing some gaga. 

Ball, I mean.

 

 

We cannot transform what we refuse to engage.
(Elizabeth Kucinich ~ British activist)

 

Start children off on the way they should go,
  and even when they are old they will not turn from it.
(Proverbs 22:6 ~ NIV ~ New International Version ~ Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

 

What if my Best Isn’t?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Don’t you know that’s a youth song?  You sang it like an old hymn!

The silver-haired lady didn’t actually shake her finger in my face, but I had a vision of it being waggled there.

I almost laughed.  It was an old hymn.  To me, it was.  Why—right there on the page, beside the author’s name, it told when he wrote it.  1902.  

Really. 1902

It was an old song.  For old people.

Then I read the words again.  And again.

Give of your best to the master.
Give of the strength of your youth.

I apologized to the dear saint.  The next time I led it, with the Lovely Lady accompanying me, we sang the song with a tad more pep, and just a little more vigor.

I learned a lesson that day.  It’s profound.  You’ll want to save this.

Old people were young once.

Most of them still remember it.  Some, vividly.

I know young Timothy’s instructor didn’t mean for me to take it this way, but I can’t help but think it.

Let no man despise your youth.  (1 Timothy 4:12)

It is disrespectful to the aging and elderly for us to disregard the experiences they had as young folks.  The things that shaped the adults they would become haven’t diminished in importance in all the ensuing years.

It is a youth song.  Written in 1902.

I dare not speed on past without revisiting the words our old friend, my namesake, had to say to his youthful protegé, though.

Don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. (1 Timothy 4:12) 

I wonder how many times a day I hear—or read—disparaging words directed at the younger generation.  The generalizations are rampant, the vitriol nearly universal.

All coming from old folks.  Okay, aging folks.  People who once were young themselves.  People who can’t stand to have the days of their own youth ridiculed.

I’ve done it myself.  

These kids today. . .

I repent.
                              

A young friend sent me an invitation a few weeks ago.  The local university, as it has for a number of years, was sponsoring an evening dedicated to promoting writing and the arts in a faith-based environment.

I glanced at the two guests who were on the schedule.  A comic-book illustrator and a spoken-word artist.

Lightweights!  This is what passes for writing and art?  Pass.

I repent.  Did I say that already?  It doesn’t matter.  I may do so again.

The Lovely Lady encouraged me to go.  Friends were going to be there.  There was ice cream.

I went.  Don’t tell the friends, but the ice cream is what tipped the scales (no pun intended).

May I tell you what happened?  

Surrounded by young folks who could be my grandchildren, I saw respect.  They were attentive.  They were appreciative.

My eyes were opened.  Well, when they weren’t filled with tears, they were opened.  The tears were a surprise.

I detest spoken-word poetry.  All angst and anger and foul language, it falls somewhere on a scale with rap music, without the music.

I thought.

The young man, in his jeans and untucked shirt, skull-cap pulled over his head tightly, looked for all the world like a street punk to this old man’s eyes.

I sat back, arms folded across my chest, and dared him to move me.

I dared him.

He moved me.  

No.  That’s not right.

The Spirit moved me.

It was all I could do, when the young poet, arms windmilling above his head and waggling in front of his face and hanging down at his side, spoke the names of Jesus—it was all I could do—not to jump up and shout like a Pentecostal in a Holy Ghost revival.

And, I’ve never been to a Pentecostal Holy Ghost revival.

I looked down and I was sitting on my hands with my legs to keep them still, the tears streaming down my face.

There is a power that comes, not from experience, nor from age, nor from practice, but from the Word.  From the mouths of babes, through the writings of old men, by the witness of all who are His, He speaks.

From mouths of babes, writings of old men, & witness of all His own, He speaks. Share on X

Disregarding our differences, ignoring our preferences, and brushing aside our objections, He will be heard.

Disregarding differences, ignoring preferences, brushing aside objections, He will be heard. Share on X

I wonder if it’s time for us to realize that our Creator uses—He always has—the methods He thinks best to ensure an audience for His words.

I wonder if it’s time for us—young and old—to close our mouths about those methods we don’t especially like.  

I haven’t always given of my best for Him.  Sadly, I may have left it a bit late to give of the best of my youth.

I’m grateful that all the young folks aren’t waiting around until their golden years to work on it seriously. 

Still, I have begun to look at youth a little differently.  I wrote recently about that great cloud of witnesses the writer of the book of Hebrews in the New Testament describes.  I realized that these men and women are my peers.  

Really.  Moses, Abraham, Rahab, Sarah, and all the others—all of them, my peers.  Yours, too.  

We’ll join them one day, to live without any time limit there. 

If we’re to live forever, and I believe we will, we’ve only lived a minuscule percentage of all the days we have ahead of us.

I’m still young.

There’s still time.

I’ll give it my best.

                              

I invite you to watch the video linked below.  Powerful words—from the heart of the poet and directly from God’s Word.

 

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
     Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
     Than when we’d first begun.
(from Amazing Grace ~ English clergyman ~ 1725-1807)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Leaning Forward

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I never realized I ran that way.  I don’t think I ever thought about it.  Still, she didn’t have any uncertainty as she said the words.

He can’t really see, but he’s sure that was you he noticed running by last night.  Nobody else we know runs like that—leaning forward.

Leaning forward?  I run leaning forward?

I checked, the next time I went running,  sneaking a glance at my image in a shop window as I passed.  I run leaning forward.  Try as I might, I can’t change that.

I lean forward as I run.

I know it’s not the best way to run.  I could use my core and back muscles better if I ran with an upright posture.  When I think about it, I do that.

Mostly, I simply lean forward and run.

I want to get to the goal.  Quickly.  Leaning forward, erroneous though the concept may be, seems to get me there more quickly.

I’m beginning to wonder though, if that will always be true.  I have leaned forward all of my life.

But, things change.

Years pass.

I am tired.  I’m not the only one.

In more areas than just that of physical exercise, I have begun to plod more than to run.  The energy, the zeal of youth, has begun to wane.

I sat on an uncomfortable table this morning and listened to my new friend’s instructions.

You’ll want to quit before the test is finished.  Don’t do it!  Push on through!  It may seem that you can’t go any further, but don’t give in.  We won’t let you get into any trouble.

I nodded my head sagely and with confidence.  In retrospect, I feel like one of the sturdy dreamers in the old hymn when the Savior asks if they are able to be crucified with him.  They told Him they’d follow Him to the death.

Well, we know how that worked out for them.  The day of the test came and they scattered, terrified.  At least one of them swore he didn’t even know the Man who had trained him for the day of testing. (John 18:17, 25-27)

Anyway, earlier today, this sturdy dreamer got on the treadmill for the stress test—really, I get stressed just thinking about it—and my new friend Dawn started the belt moving under my feet.

I didn’t do so well—just walking.  Dawn told me as much.

Why are you marching?  Just widen your stride and relax.  You know how to walk.

I don’t stroll much.  But still, I heeded her advice and relaxed, stretching out the length of my stride and kept up with the speed and elevation changes.  It was uphill all the way.  Every step.

And, just when I began to think I was almost finished, the final stage kicked in.  I had to run to keep up.  But, I know how to run, even if I don’t walk so well.

Finally!  Something I could do!

I ran.

Wow!  You’re a lot better at running than you are at walking, aren’t you?

My taskmaster laughed, and I laughed with her—as much as I could with my parched mouth and heaving lungs.  I was in my element now.

Except, I wasn’t.

Panic isn’t a word I like to use when describing my own state of mind.  It’s the only word that fits for what followed.

I wasn’t going to quit.  I wasn’t.  But, there were points when I wanted to beg Dawn to slow the treadmill down to a walk again.  It was irrational, I know.  Sometimes you can’t control how you react to circumstances.  I wasn’t in control.

But, I did finish the test and, shaky legs, heaving chest, and all, stumbled back over to the uncomfortable examination table.  I sat there, grateful for a place to sit and settle my emotions, as well as get my lungs functioning normally again.

I didn’t quit!  I ran to the very end.  Leaning forward, hands on the bars, I had finished all of the stages.

I finished the test!

But, as I sit late at night, here in my easy chair, I wonder.

Can I keep leaning forward?

Am I going to finish strong?

Shaky legs and all, will I finish strong?

You know I can’t run the race in my own strength, don’t you?  I never started it on my own either.

The Apostle—my namesake—wrote the words that echo down from centuries past and reassure just as much today as when he first penned them.

He who started the work in you has no intention of leaving you on your own.  You won’t drop out.  He will finish what He started.  Count on it.  (Philippians 1:6)

I will freely admit, there have been a few moments of panic in the last few months.  More than a few.

Still, for all that, I’m going to keep running.  Leaning forward, I’m going to run.

Even if it’s uphill for the rest of the way.

There’s a prize for the winner.  It’ll be better than a gold medal, or even a crown of leaves.  Much better.

I know I’m already in good company, but there’s always room for more on the road.  Maybe you’ve been walking a ways, but it’s time to start running again.  Why don’t you come along with me?

Run the race in front of you.

Lean forward.

Run the race in front of you. Run. And lean forward. Share on X

The finish line is up there somewhere.  

Up ahead.

 

 

 

Are ye able, said the Master,
To be crucified with Me?
Yea, the sturdy dreamers answered,
To the death we follow Thee.
(from Are Ye Able ~ American theologian/poet ~ 1892-1976)

 

Crossing the starting line may be an act of courage, but crossing the finish line is an act of faith.
(John Bingham ~ American marathon runner/author)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

The Instrument

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We were deep in conversation today, my friend and I, when we were interrupted.  I wasn’t optimistic that the break would be that profitable.

Usually when folks bring in old violins, they leave disappointed.

I can’t count the number of times the old fiddles have been carried through my door, many of them, cradled gingerly like a precious treasure that would shatter if anyone breathed on it.  

It belonged to (fill in the blank—Grandpa, Uncle John, my old neighbor…), and we’re sure it’s a Stradivarius.

It never has been.  A Stradivarius, that is.  Ever.

I have disillusioned more people with my appraisals of violins than any other instrument.  Unfortunately, the world is full of fakes and imitations.  A name written on a label is no guarantee of authenticity.

I have even learned to soften the blow by lowering expectations from the start.  Today was no exception.

“It’s almost certainly not made by Stradivarius.”

It turns out I didn’t need to make it any easier of this couple.  They knew exactly who the maker was.  This one hadn’t only belonged to Uncle John.  It had been made by him.

I should have known that their expectations were not the same as many others by the way they carried the instrument.  It wasn’t even in a case and they certainly weren’t handling it with kid gloves.

They didn’t want me to tell them they could retire on the proceeds from the sale.  Far from it.  These folks wanted me to confirm that the violin was no more than a wall-hanger, suitable for display on a wall in their den.

Wouldn’t you know it?  I was going to disappoint them, too.

I examined the instrument and was amazed at the quality.  The solid spruce top was well-proportioned and carved expertly.  There were no imperfections to be seen.  The beautiful hand-rubbed finish glowed in the light.

Flipping the violin over, I gazed at a wonderful flamed maple back, again perfectly proportioned and without a flaw to be seen.  The joints were tight and uniform, the structure sound as could be.

A well-shaped neck and scroll atop it completed the picture.  It was a fine violin.

I was confused.

“Your uncle made this instrument?  And, you think it’s not going to be playable?  Why?”

The couple explained that the uncle had actually been a lawyer who never played a violin in his life, either before or after making the violin.  He had made one violin just to prove it could be done.  Then he built eleven or twelve others.  

No one knew where the others were, nor if they were good instruments or not.  Because he was not a musician, they assumed he had failed in proving his point, so were going to mount the violin-shaped object in a frame and save it for posterity as a piece of art.

I objected.  

violincloseThis was as fine an amateur-built instrument as I have ever seen.  There was absolutely no reason—none whatsoever—for it not to be played.

I even took the time to tune the strings, which were horribly out of adjustment.  Sliding the tilting bridge into place and tightening the pegs to the correct tension, I then found a bow and drew it over the strings.

My friend, who had been sitting quietly through the episode, exclaimed suddenly.  He couldn’t help himself.

“Astounding!”

It was, too.  

The voice of the instrument was exquisite.  Like the maker, I don’t play the fiddle, but I know how to tune one and even my inept fumbling with the bow on the strings produced a tone unlike any that normally proceeds from most of the cheap, student instruments which come through my business.

The full-bodied tone left nothing to be desired.  Nothing at all.  Beautiful clear treble pitches and deep, booming bass notes emanated from the instrument instantly.  Nobody in the room had any question about it.

This instrument isn’t a piece of art to be hung on a wall!  In the right hands, it will make music that all listening will easily recognize as art, instead.

It is not a Stradivarius, nor is it worth a million dollars.  It is a fine family heirloom which will hopefully be played by one of the maker’s descendants, proving every naysayer who ever doubted the lawyer’s ability to build a quality instrument completely wrong.

Moments before the couple walked in, my friend had asked the rhetorical question, “What am I giving to God?” 

He and I are both reaching our senior years, the realization that time is growing short consuming our thoughts.  An old friend died suddenly last night of a heart attack, and that weighed heavily on me as we spoke of the urgency.

In our conversation, we had talked about stepping out, not knowing what the end result would be—not even necessarily knowing what we were being asked to do.  It’s as uncomfortable a thing to do as I can think of.

But, as the couple walked out of the door, cradling the instrument as if it would shatter if anyone breathed on it, we looked at each other in disbelief.  Both of us smiled as the lesson of the non-musician luthier hit home.

It can’t be done!  

Stick with what you know!

Really?  Did you ever notice it seems that God purposely took people who had done other things and used them in ways they never thought possible?  Shepherds, fishermen, tent makers, tradesmen trained for a lifetime of performing specific tasks—He gave them responsibilities which in no way resembled those earlier vocations.

To Abraham—Go to a land that I will show you. (Genesis 12:1)
To Noah—Build an ark. (Genesis 6:14)
To Moses—Go tell Pharaoh to let My people go. (Exodus 8:1)
To Peter—Upon this rock will I build my church. (Matthew 16:18)

I was reluctant to give my friend advice today.  God puts inside each of us His dream, His direction.  It’s a dangerous thing for another person to give counsel that contradicts that.

If that violin I looked at today is any indication, it’s also a little foolish.

Sometimes we have to follow God, even when people around us don’t understand.  

My friend says he’s got things to do.  Maybe it’s time for me to get moving, as well.

I wonder.  I’ve never built a violin.

You?

 

 

Then the Lord said to him, “Who has made man’s mouth? Who makes him mute, or deaf, or seeing, or blind? Is it not I, the Lord?  Now therefore go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall speak.”
(Exodus 4:11-12 ~ ESV)

 

Those who say it can’t be done are usually interrupted by others doing it.
(James A Baldwin ~ American essayist/novelist ~ 1924-1987)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.