choir

Tracing the Rainbow

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“…Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
(from Sonnet 29, by William Shakespeare)

I have realized, throughout my life, but only in increments, how very rich I am.

Perhaps an explanation is in order.

We wandered through a gentle drizzle—the Lovely Lady and I—up to the university’s performing arts center last night.  It seems likely we’ll do that a few more times in the coming weeks, since we’ve foolishly agreed to sing with the community choir again this school year.

There was no expectation of embarrassment for either of us.  We’re not star vocalists, but more what you might call utility singers, covering our parts reasonably on pitch and mostly in rhythm.  Mostly.

Still, I would be embarrassed before the evening’s end.  Probably not for the reason you’d expect.

It was our first rehearsal, so a good bit of time was taken up with what I’d call minutiae.  Expectations for attendance and the absence of cell phones were discussed, along with event dates and dress codes.  And, we introduced ourselves to each other.  That’s always a little unnerving.  Did I say too much?  Too little?  Am I really that weird?

Then, as our esteemed conductor passed out the first piece of music, I was surprised to see a title I had requested several months ago.  It’s a song with words long familiar from the old hymnals to many of us, but with a gorgeous, new tune.  Fleshed out with beautiful harmonies in every vocal part, it may be one of my favorite choral pieces. For now, anyway.

The conductor, after all the choir members had their parts in hand, spoke in a quiet voice.

“Paul, before we sing, would you read the text for us?”

I never expected that.  But it wasn’t as if he had asked me to sing a solo.  I didn’t think I could be embarrassed just reading words from the page.

The new version of the song is copyrighted, so I’ve rendered a few of the more archaic (public domain) words here.  It won’t matter.

“O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be.”
(from O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go, by George Matheson)

These are only a few of the words I read from the text, but they are the ones that embarrassed me. You see, I have a hard time speaking when the emotion clamps my throat closed and threatens to send tears rolling.  I struggled, but read on and finished the text.

The Lovely Lady told me later that I recovered handily, but I’m sure she says things just to make me feel better sometimes.  It usually works, too.

Less than a week ago, in the heat of a summer’s eve, a little thunderstorm blew up outside our door.  We were happy to have the rain.  The drops poured down for a few minutes, during which our grandson stood at the door with his Grandma and smiled at the commotion.  As grandparents are wont to do, we smiled at him as much as at the commotion.

Moments later, I noticed the sun shining through the clouds, even though the rain continued to pepper down.

“There’ll be a rainbow,” I exclaimed, heading for the back door with my camera.

The Lovely Lady, ever the practical one, suggested that I’d get wet.

Don’t tell her, but I didn’t.  Get wet, that is.  Opening the door on the east side of my shop, I stood inside and peered out through the raindrops.

Barely, just barely, I saw it.  Almost like someone was drawing merely the faintest outline of a faded-out rainbow that reached down and touched the ground in the Weaver’s field behind us, I could just make it out.

Waiting only a minute or two more, I no longer had to trace it through the rain, but could see it plainly.  Even though the fat drops continued to pelt down, the rainbow stood out in vivid glory, its bottom clearly touching the ground just beyond the barbed wire fence.

I snapped a pic or two, one of which is posted with these words, sharing it online for my friends to enjoy.  One of my buddies wittily asked the question:

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense.  How much money did you rake in?”

He wasn’t the only one to mention, facetiously, the storied pot of gold we think about when we see a rainbow’s end.  I laughed it off, as did he (and others).

But, after last night’s reading of that verse, I’m not laughing about it.

I wonder if we have any idea how very rich we are.  We don’t need an imaginary pot of money at the elusive end of a tenuous prism in the sky to count, either.  Real wealth isn’t counted in dollars and cents—or pesos and centavos—or pounds and pence.

We have a Creator, a Savior, who is concerned enough about our well-being that He puts rainbows in the sky to help us conquer our fear of the storm.  And He tells us in the Psalms that He keeps a ledger of our tears.  Then He promises there is coming a morning when every tear will be wiped away, every fear conquered, and every trial gone.

He cares when the throat tightens and the liquid escapes from the lacrimal glands, through the ducts, and down our faces.  It matters.

To Him, the King of Creation, it matters.

He sends rainbows.  Without the pots of gold, but with infinitely more wealth for us to gather in. We have to be ready to grab hold of it, though.

Sometimes, the rainbows are not up in the sky, either, but simply reminders in our hearts that He is walking beside us.  Every step of the way, He walks with us.

He cares.  About our spiritual state.  About our emotional state.  About our families and our friends.  About the tears we shed.

He cares. About you.  About me.

I figure that’s the real wealth.

And, I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

 

“I have placed my rainbow in the clouds. It is the sign of my covenant with you and with all the earth.”
(Genesis 9:13, NLT)

 

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

Living in the Cracks

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Paul?  Maybe you’d like to sing the baritone part instead of the tenor.  Would you try it?”

The director of the combined university chorus/community choir didn’t have to ask twice.  Well, except perhaps because I thought I might have heard him wrong.  I hadn’t.

So I’m singing baritone.  And, a little bass.

And, it feels like I’ve come home.

Do you ever feel like you don’t fit in? 

You know—everyone else in the car wants to listen to music from the latest boy group, but you heard that Yo-Yo Ma recorded a duet with Alison Krauss and you’d like to listen to that.  Or, you’re walking with a group of people on the fitness trail and you realize that they’re all synchronized on the left foot and you’re on your right foot.  Or, the family members all want to go for tacos, but you want chicken.

I’ve felt like that all my life.  If you really know me, you know I was the strange kid, always zigging when everyone else zagged.  I’ve freely admitted in these little pieces I write that I’ve never felt completely at home, no matter where I’ve been.

My father-in-law used a descriptive phrase, many years ago, that I’ve always thought fit me to a T.  He was a piano tuner and would often be asked to work on instruments that had been neglected for many years.  When a piano is left to its own devices for too long, the strings tend to stretch, making the overall pitch drop.  The result is an instrument that may be in tune with itself, but sounds horrid when played with another instrument at standard pitch.

He would say to me, “This one is playing in the cracks.”

I understood exactly what he meant.  The piano didn’t play well with others (I think that phrase might have described me at many points in my childhood as well—and perhaps after).

I always had the image in my head, as he said those words, that the sounds the instrument made were what might have come from down between the ebony and ivory keys, instead of dead center on top of them.

I suspect I may have been playing in the cracks for most of my life.  And for some reason, I’ve always thought I needed to be fixed—to be tuned up to standard pitch.

I’m beginning to think differently.

I’ve indeed spent most of my life singing tenor.  But, I’m a baritone. 

If you know vocal categories, you realize that often the baritone is left out in choral music.  Music is written in SATB form (soprano, alto, tenor, bass), so there’s no place for the baritone to fit in easily.  Many notes in the tenor part are comfortable and sound great when sung by a baritone, but when those soaring notes fly up above Middle C, the baritone voice begins to lose its luster.  The same thing happens in the bass parts, except it’s in the lower range of that voicing that the baritone singer gets lost in the mix.

I still remember my pastor’s wife sitting in front of me in the choir during my high school years.  Back then, the choir needed a bass voice, so I covered that part for them.

Mrs. Slaughter was always kind, always sweet.  She’d hear me sing a bass line (that should have been full and deep, but for me, the notes were just barely audible) and she’d say, loud enough for the entire choir to hear, “Oh!  Listen to that basso profundo!”

I don’t think anyone else in the choir was rude enough to laugh, but I did.  Every time.  I knew better.

I’m no bass singer.  Nor am I a tenor.

I sing in the cracks between the two.

And, it’s finally okay.

Dr. Cho says it’s okay.

Can I make a suggestion?  If you don’t fit the mold they’re pushing you into, stop trying.  Be who you are.  More than that—be who God made you to be.

The world will try to make you fit their standard.  You don’t belong there.  And, if you’re really following Christ, you’ll never fit in—never feel comfortable—singing in that key.

“This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through…”

Living in the cracks.

Until we finally reach home.

There, we’ll be singing in His key.  With His voicing.

He—the Master Conductor—says it’s okay.

You know the music will be spectacular.

I hope you’ll sing with me.  I’ll be the one singing baritone.

 

“I’m not asking you to take them out of the world, but to keep them safe from the evil one. They do not belong to this world any more than I do. Make them holy by your truth; teach them your word, which is truth. Just as you sent me into the world, I am sending them into the world.”
(John 17:15-18, NLT)

“Harpists spend ninety percent of their lives tuning their harps, and ten percent playing out of tune.”  (Igor Stravinsky)

 

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

 

Voices of the Oaks

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Today is a day of rest.

Really.  A weekday, but I’m resting. 

Outside though, there is a whirl and a hurry, the wind bustling through in a tremendous rush to get somewhere—anywhere, it seems, but here.  And, since I’m resting, I listen to the wind.

My friends in the backyard don’t want to listen.  The black labs are terrified of the voices they hear in the air about them.  For ten seconds, while I was out to care for their physical needs this morning, they came out to scramble for my attention.  Ten seconds only, and then they dove for cover as the wind began to sound through the treetops again.

They’re not resting.

I am, though.  The last weeks and days have been a whirlwind of busy-ness, caused by the illness and passing of a family member.  Sadness and concern for her and those left behind have overwhelmed me.  Our love for them demands the activity, but the body and soul are rebelling, making demands of their own.

And so, overwhelmed, I sit at my desk, listening to the voices of the wind outside my window.  Almost, it seems to me, God’s creation sings a concert of glorious praise.  The dogs would disagree, but what do they know?

The man-made attachments add their voices.  I hear the neighbor’s ceiling fan on her porch, as it whirls—now wildly, now lazily—on its way. Whup, whup, whup, whup, whup. On and on, it provides a rhythm to the song.

The wind chimes crash crazily and then tinkle lazily, a tuned accent to the constant voices through the limbs of the trees.  From the clang! clang! clang! to the almost indiscernible ting ting ting, their bell-like tones add depth to the various voices of creation.

The Rose of Sharon against the wall brushes noisily in rhythm, as its wire-thin stems almost whistle from the breath of the wind.

The apple tree, ancient though it may be, adds its airy voice.  The bedraggled and crooked branches lend a whispering tone to the choir.

Over in the neighbor’s yard, the magnolia, evergreen that it is, claps its leaves in the gale, the great fronds clattering along as branches surrounding them wave and whirl about.

And the pines?  They are the tenor voices, holding forth as only the self-assured tenors can.  It is a wild chorus, held in check only by the waning of the wind at intervals, as if to keep their voices from overwhelming all the others.

But the oaks. . .  Ah, the oaks—they are the basses, their voices booming along on the low pitches, a low, throbbing tone, giving a foundation to all of it.

I love the oaks in the neighborhood.  Solid and strong, they are not afraid to sing out, standing firm, and yet, their heavy branches wave to the listening audience a little as they are buffeted. 

I almost imagine a little vibrato in their song, as they shift about—only a little.

I understand the dogs.  I too, am afraid of the wind at times—fearing all I possess will be blown away.

I remember the story of Job, thinking of all he lost, blown away seemingly in an instant.  Everything and everyone.  Gone.  

Life is so fragile, so thin.  We seem to hang, as a tiny spider, on a shredded web, waving in the tempest.

But, I have seen the strength of that web.  The web of family and of friends.  The web of faith in a God who holds both us and the storm in His hands. 

The web of His mercy and His grace.

With the prophet, I affirm that it is because of His great mercy we are not blown away in the storm.  We are sustained by His great and unfailing faithfulness.  (Lamentations 3:22,23)   

His grace is enough.  In the storms of life, it is enough.  (2 Corinthians 12:9)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. Share on X

I am not saying a limb won’t tumble to the ground, nor even that a great oak might not someday be uprooted.  There is pain and sorrow in the world.

There is.

But, the one who can silence the wind with a word from His mouth still offers peace in the midst of chaos.

Songs in the storm.  Harmony in the turmoil.

Beautiful.  Music.

It is a day of rest.

 

 

You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
    will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
    will clap their hands.
(Isaiah 55:12 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

 

When the wind blows through a wood, its mass is cut and closed by every leaf, forming a train of jittery vortices in the air.
(Alice Oswald ~ British poet)

 

 

 

 

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

Conducted

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It is a moment to be committed to memory—a moment filled with sight and sound—a moment to be returned to again and again.

The sound part of the memory, I can explain well enough.  I am a musician and understand melody and harmony, attacks and cutoffs, crescendos and decrescendos.  

I know how the members of musical groups interact with each other, listening—adjusting—blending.  It takes all the skill of most seasoned musicians to simply begin and end a piece at the same time, with reasonable rhythmic similarity in between.

But, the tears coursing down my cheeks are not to be explained so cavalierly.  The quietness that has fallen over the audience has nothing to do with the knowledge of tone and timbre, or with intonation.

But, I haven’t given much to go by, have I?  Possibly a paragraph or two of explanation will help.

For the last thirty-five years, give or take a year or two, I have sat at Christmastime in the beautiful old cathedral, with its oak panels and stained glass.  It has changed a lot in the last thirty-five years.  

So have I.

Candlelight Service.  It’s what they call it.  A plain brown wrapper that hides a treasure waiting to be uncovered, nearly every time.  I’ve been privileged to have a small part in the service for most of the years I’ve been there.

Tonight, after my small part was complete, I sat in the creaky old pew and waited for the whole thing to be over.

It’s been a rough year.  I’m having a hard time accepting changes I didn’t ask for.  I had a plan, yet things aren’t working out quite as I had envisioned.  Well, now that I think of it, not at all as I had envisioned.

I’m not much in the mood to get in the Christmas spirit.  So, I’m waiting for it all to be over instead.  I know I’ll get my wish.  Another few weeks and I’ll be home free.  Right?

The choir, led by a man I love and respect, a man who after thirty years is leading for his last time this Christmas, has just finished a very nice rendition of What Wondrous Love.  It was very nice.

Something is happening, though.  The man leaves his podium to stand near the piano and a young fellow is assisting a feeble-looking woman up the steps to the stage.  This is different.

As the octogenarian lady alights the podium, it is easy to see that she is anything but feeble.  Her stance behind the music stand makes it clear that she is in her element; the attention of the young folks in the risers is riveted on her face and hands.

She holds no baton.  She needs none.  From the first quiet notes of the piano, that much is evident.

The First Noel.  

Most in the audience have heard the carol a thousand times.  Maybe more.  I will admit, this arrangement is beautiful.

Most of the time, when I listen to this choir, I watch the musicians as they sing.  Forty or fifty college students—some of them music majors, others following various fields of study—have worked hard to prepare for this event.  They deserve the attention.

And yet, all I can see now is the lady on the podium.  As it turns out, it is all the young people in the risers see, too.  They will not take their eyes off of her for the next four minutes.

For my part, from the first notes the tears flood, literally flood, my eyes.  Still, the lady fills my sight.  Her hands, gnarled and aged, are beautiful in their communication of her wishes.  A tiny wave this way and the sopranos are singing the melody.  A little wiggle of her fingers and the volume drops as if someone has turned a knob on a stereo.  Then she motions to the whole group and the beautiful sound fills the great cathedral.

Suddenly, in an insight that does nothing to help my tears abate, I understand.  Taking nothing away from the abilities of the young singers, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the musician here is the ancient conductor standing in front of them.  They are simply the instruments upon which she plays.

Every note—every whisper of a sound—comes at the whim of her direction.  And these young singers understand that and give her exactly what she wants.

The result is nothing short of breath-taking.  Literally.  Breath-taking.

As the last notes die down in the cathedral, it seems to me that even the candles burning in the aisles momentarily flicker as the bated breath of nearly a thousand listeners is exhaled in the same instant.

What a sacred moment.

I’m not just talking about the music.  That was indeed, nothing short of astonishing.

But, God speaks through His handiwork and His servants.  If our eyes are open and our ears prepared to hear, He speaks.  To us, He speaks.

If our eyes are open and our ears prepared to hear, He speaks. To us, He speaks. Share on X

I want to say more.

I don’t think I need to tonight.

It’s time for us to follow the Conductor.

What astonishing music He wants to make.

Astonishing.

 

 

 

 

And do not go on presenting the members of your body to sin as instruments of unrighteousness; but present yourselves to God as those alive from the dead, and your members as  instruments of righteousness to God.  
(Romans 6:13 ~ NASB)

 

A great work of art is made out of a combination of obedience and liberty.
(Nadia Boulanger ~ French conductor ~ 1887-1979)

 

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

People Change

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The tears flow more easily these days.  I can’t explain it.  It’s not as if there’s any good reason—a daughter’s wedding for instance, or a totaled vintage sports car.

I apologized for embarrassing the Lovely Lady at the concert the other night.  She just smiled and suggested that it doesn’t bother her at all.  I’m going to take her at her word.

The concert?  Oh, it was just a performance of the choir from the local university—an encore of their annual spring break tour material for the folks in our little town.  

I used to detest choral music.  I thought I was supposed to hate it.  I grew up in the sixties and seventies, an era of rock and roll, and disco, with a little Take Me Home, Country Roads mixed in.  

We didn’t listen to choral music.

choir-408422_640But, people change.

The other night, I sat and listened to the young voices raised in harmony and let the tears roll down my cheeks without bothering to wipe them dry.  

What beauty!  What astounding beauty!

I was especially overwhelmed by one particular song—no, not the song—the singers.  Two young ladies sang a duet, really solos which blended with each other seamlessly.  The piece was written for two sopranos, and was quite high.  The young ladies were up to the task and the result was spectacular—a performance to listen to again and again.  

But—and this is odd—I remember reading that one of the sopranos had been an alto singer when she entered the university’s vocal program.  A low alto.  And here she was singing a gorgeous duet way up in the high range of the female voice.  

What happened?

People change.

I sat at the dinner table with a few folks the other day.  The portions of dessert which were served had been generous.  The Lovely Lady noticed one of our guests was struggling to finish his too-large serving and mentioned that she wouldn’t be insulted if he couldn’t finish.

“We don’t require people at our table to clean their plates,” I added lightly.

My adult son jerked his face toward me in surprise.  

“That’s not how I remember it used to be,” he said in a voice filled with mock-hurt.

I immediately saw scenes of battles-of-the-wills—little boy refusing his mashed potatoes—Dad insisting he eat at least a no-thank-you helping of the vile things—and I cringed inwardly.  He was only half-serious now, and yet the images are inked indelibly on my brain.  His too, I suppose.

Hanging my head a little, I replied.  “I hope I’m always growing and doing things better than I used to.”

He laughed.  “I’m not horribly scarred from the experience, you know.”

We laughed together.  Still, the truth remains—at least I hope it does.

People change.

It is not always the case.  An old friend and I stood today, talking about an acquaintance who passed away recently.  My friend remembered the fellow as a teenager—headstrong, angry, and resistant to improvement.

As we talked, suddenly both of us fell quiet, thinking about the same thing.

“It’s funny,” my friend said.  “He was just like that until the day he died.”

It’s not really that funny.  Some people don’t change.  

I think that’s just plain sad.

Lest you think I’m talking about us pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, and earning our own salvation, let me assure you, I’m not.  That’s not the point at all.  

Our redemption and adoption into the Family of God are guaranteed by one thing and one thing only—the grace of a loving God who Himself became the sacrifice necessary to satisfy the requirement of holiness and justice.  

We are saved by grace, through faith in Jesus.  Period.  (Ephesians 2:8)

We don’t stay there without moving, though.  Our journey through life continues on.  We are presented with choices at every twist and turn.

We grow.  We walk and we learn.  We become, it is to be hoped, more like our Savior as we journey on.  Prompted by the Spirit, we leave our old rags behind, and are dressed in His clothes.

People change.

The girl who thought she was limited to the low range of the female voice submitted herself to her mentor’s instruction and now sings with a range most of us can’t imagine.  It’s a good thing,  a very good thing.

The old man who once demanded perfection of his children and would not open up his ears to different melodies and harmonies than those with which he was comfortable is finally learning a more gentle manner and a wider repertoire.

More changes will come.  At least, it is to be hoped more changes are in the future.

What a shame for a man to die in his obstinance.  How does the gentleness of our Savior not compel us to become gentle?  How does His love not move us to be loving?

People change.  And, they should.

Perhaps, even that sentence should be modified.  It won’t take much to change its meaning.  Two punctuation marks. 

People, change!

 

Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.
(Fyodor Dostoyevsky ~ Russian novelist ~ 1821-1881)

 

And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.
(2 Corinthians 3:18 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.