darkness

Not Just Another Sunset

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She left after supper.  Just took her keys and walked out the door, leaving me in the dark.  I usually wait for her here.  But tonight, as she pulled out of the drive, I received a text from her.

I thought perhaps she was missing me already and was sending a little note with a heart emoji.  You know—just because.  But no.  There was just one word in the text.

“Sunset?!!!”

I don’t suppose it’s any surprise to my readers that I love sunsets.  Come to think of it, I’d love sunrises too, except they come too early in the morning for me to enjoy them much.

So, sunsets it is.

I got up from my easy chair and, taking a minute to get my equilibrium (I have to do that these days, you know), headed out of the dark into the twilight of a lovely, cloudy evening.

I walk about a block to the west of our home to get clear photos of the sunsets—because I know my friends really, really want to see every sunset I stop to admire.  And, they don’t want to see a pic of the back door to Patty’s house.

There were lots of folks out in the not-dark.  Walking, cycling, scootering (is that a word?  Oh well, it is now.), it was the perfect time to be out.  I really didn’t want company, though.  Which was fine, because nobody but me ever stands at the edge of that field and snaps photos of an everyday occurrence like the sun going down.

Truthfully, the sunset itself wasn’t that beautiful tonight.  I was a little late getting there; the clouds were too heavy over the westering sun.  The few photos I snapped weren’t spectacular; just a pinky orange sky, almost hidden behind the trees.

Disappointed, I turned away from the field.  Oh well, another day it would be more spectacular.

As I turned, I discovered that someone else was, indeed, standing at the edge of the field and snapping a photo of the sun!

The young lady, most likely a student at the nearby university, didn’t stay long.  A couple of snaps, and she too pivoted away from the lowering light source.

“Great minds…,”  I said.  I’m nothing if not a great conversationalist.

She laughed, and we talked for a few seconds about the suitability of the field for our shared activity.  I mentioned that I always go all the way to the edge of the alley to make sure there are no annoying power lines in the photos. She agreed that it was a necessity.

It was not a notable encounter.  I couldn’t pick the young lady out of a lineup at the local jail, if it were necessary (why it would be is beyond me).  We don’t know each other’s names, nor where the other resides.

But the connection we made is impossible to miss.  To me, it is, anyway.

It’s a little thing, I know.  Still, we old folks talk about the young adults of today as if they have no appreciation of the good things, the things that really matter.  And yet, here was this young lady, no older than some of my grandchildren, standing at the edge of the same field this old man frequents and soaking in the glory of God’s creation.

And in a season when, to some of us, hope for the future seems to be an insubstantial commodity, I’m holding tightly on to whatever I can grasp between my gnarled, arthritic fingers.

She turned along the main road, and I walked across it and back toward home.  But something else was tugging at the edges of my brain.  Now, what was it?  Oh well, it would come sooner or later.

I was back into the darkness of my house when I remembered the elusive thought.  I had seen a lot of clouds in the southern sky, and they had a little orangey pink tinge to them.  Maybe they were worth another look.

Back into the golden hour, I wandered, following the same steps across the busy street from the university.  If I hadn’t broken into a trot, that four-wheel-drive pickup might have had to hit its brakes, and it was clear the driver had no such intention.

The sunset was still mediocre, at best.  But, looking south, I gasped at the thunderheads piled high just above the horizon.  Purple, orange, and indigo, they roiled in the fading light.

It’s always a surprise to me when I see the clouds that are not in the proximity of the declining sun sharing its glorious light and color.  I suppose it’s because I think of clouds as dark and dense.

In truth, clouds naturally radiate the colors of the setting sun.  If there is a long line of them along the horizon, with clear skies above, the overwhelming coloration travels as far as the eye can see, around the circumference of the circle of sight.

And somehow, as my mind is apt to do, the lesson of light passed by the transient clouds reminds me that we ourselves are light bearers.

The light we bear was never our own.  We never produced it ourselves.

It was never ours to hold and hoard.

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.”  (Matthew 5:16, NKJV)

With a head full of these thoughts, I wandered across the street again, taking the overgrown track through the jungle behind my house and past the old barn, itself covered by a curtain of vines, all doing their best to help time and gravity bring it to the ground.

There are still sad things in this world.

It’s okay to grieve them.

But, grieving is “for a moment”.  The light is eternal.  And, we must share it—with our children and our children’s children—as well as with the world that is dying for those brilliant rays to pierce the darkness where they are waiting.

The Light has shined in the darkness.  The darkness will never overcome it.

I’ll admit it.  These were my thoughts as I went back into the darkness of my house to await the return of the Lovely Lady, who always makes its rooms brighter for me.

But, inside me, the light is blazing like noontime on a summer day.  I think I’ll keep sharing it.

Even with these clouds piled high around, His beauty will shine through.

It’ll be brighter with you walking alongside.

Are you coming with?

 

“If I can put one touch of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman, I shall feel that I have worked with God.”
(G.K. Chesterton)

“…that you may become blameless and harmless, children of God without fault in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world.”
(Philippians 2:15, NKJV)

 

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

A Bright Spot

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
Image by Alex P on Pexels

My friend called me this afternoon.  In the time between storms, he called because he was sure I would have some words of encouragement.

A surgery last week brought him excruciating pain, so much more than he imagined, and he is looking for brighter days.

I wrote that it was in the time between storms.  Hail fell yesterday where I live—more hail than I have ever seen at one time.  The car outside my window is covered in divots.  Siding on my house has holes in it.  Come to think of it, the two windows behind the love seat on which the Lovely Lady sits stitching have holes in them, and cracks across the width of them.

Another storm is roiling in the sky above as I write.  Extremely dangerous, the weather surmisers tell us.

I told the Lovely Lady I was going to sit at my computer for a few minutes and dare the storm to stop me.  The jury is still out.  If I were a betting man, after the last week I’ve experienced, I would bet heavily on the storm.

And yet.

I sat in my armchair earlier, as I talked with my friend, some 800 miles away, and I told him my encouraging words. 

In between the storms.

Last week?  It was what most would call a disaster.  Both of my vehicles, dependable to a fault for the last several years, required major work.  Over a thousand dollars for each one of them, just so they could sit at the ready in the driveway once more—ready to roar into life at the turn of a key.

I had to have a root canal, too.  Costing me closer to two thousand dollars than otherwise, it wasn’t an enjoyable experience, however you frame it.

My neighbor had a stroke last week, too.  She’s in the hospital right now, awaiting a move to rehab, and from there, only her Creator knows what’s next.

And, moments before I went to the coffee shop yesterday to experience the hailstorm, with its machine-gun explosiveness on the metal roof and walls, punching divots in my just-repaired car, I got word that a long-time friend and business colleague had passed away.  Tears flowed as I left my house to keep my appointment with a young friend in that place.

Oh.

This doesn’t seem very encouraging, does it?  I said I gave my friend encouraging words as I spoke with him on the phone just a few moments ago, didn’t I?

I’m sure I did.

Surprisingly, I spent the last week thinking about good things—memories that will never fade, new experiences that meld with the unhappy junk and keep a light shining before my eyes on the dark days.  I did.

I’ve got more important matters to consider than the foolishness of dental bills and checks written to mechanics.

Last week, as I learned of the cost for the repair to one of my vehicles, a young man whom I’ve known all of his forty-some years called me and offered to pay the bill for me.

I can’t help it.  My mind immediately—instantly—heard those footsteps on the old stairs in that Victorian home in which my children grew up.  They were the footsteps of a seven-year-old boy scuffing down the carpeted treads an hour-and-a-half after he had climbed them to go to bed.

We had told the kids at the dinner table that we had a tax payment to make and no money with which to pay it.  We reassured them that we were trusting a God who provides.

The scuffing footsteps reached the ground level, and the cute little kid, carrying a metal bank in his hands, came to where I sat.  Handing it to me, he told me he wanted me to have all the money he had been saving for a new skateboard.

Tears filled my eyes as I, returning to the present, told the boy, now a father himself, how much I appreciated it, but that there was no need.

Can you see the light shining? 

Two days later, as I sat stranded in the dental specialist’s parking lot forty miles from home, with the darkness of worry lowering onto my head, I couldn’t help but wonder who would be able to come to my rescue, and I called my mechanic.

“Don’t bother with a tow truck, Paul.  I’ll just pick your vehicle up with my car carrier.  No, no need for you to wait for me.  My wife is coming over right now to get you home.  And, she’ll have the key to a car you can borrow until yours is repaired.”

Is it brighter out here yet?

I don’t want the reader to think I’m insensitive to danger, to sadness, to being overwhelmed with troubles.  I feel them acutely.  And, I don’t advocate ignoring them. 

I don’t.

But, I know that above the clouds, the sun is still shining radiantly.  I know that after the storm, we’re as likely to hear the birds singing sweetly. 

And the darkness won’t ever defeat the light.

It won’t.

The tornado warning sirens have been sounding for the last twenty minutes, as I’ve been writing.  The Lovely Lady has long since left her more exposed perch in the den and made her way down to my man cave to sit under the stairs and listen to the storm reports.

Even with the storm warning screaming outside, I won’t be persuaded to despair.

There is still light enough to see the road ahead clearly.

As the worship service at our local fellowship ended yesterday, the worship pastor read some words from the Psalmist to me.

“He who resides in the shade of the Most High will find rest in the shelter of the One who rules over all of creation.”

Yes, I’m certain they were specifically for me.  The pastor might tell you differently.

But now, they’re specifically for you.  Even in the storm.

Rest.  And, be encouraged.

The storm will pass.

His love never will.

 

“Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
    will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
This I declare about the Lord:
He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
    He is my God, and I trust him.”
(Psalm 91:1-2, NLT)

“The Lord says, ‘I will rescue those who love me.
    I will protect those who trust in my name.
When they call on me, I will answer;
    I will be with them in trouble.
    I will rescue and honor them.
I will reward them with a long life
    and give them my salvation.’”
(Psalm 91:14-16, NLT)

 

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

It’s Dark Here. For Now.

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Jordan Cox on Unsplash

Thunder grumbles all around.  The storm’s fury is drained, lightning trails dragging their bedraggled tails through the sodden sky above.

The dragon has flown away.  For now.  Moments ago, it blazed through the sky, dropping stones of ice and frightening the earthbound denizens of the tiny communities below with screaming winds and threats of rotating clouds.

But, even as I write, the wind moans around the doors and windows anew, a reminder that the dragon is not dead, but only gathering strength—this being the season of rain and wind.

I used to love the storms.  I still do, but don’t tell my friends. 

It is a guilty pleasure of mine, standing and watching the lowering clouds blowing in from the west, listening to the raucous downpour against the metal roof while anticipating the greens of the fields and the wildly variegated colors of the wildflowers on the wooded hillsides, all dependent upon the moisture the dragons leave behind for us.

But there is terror still.  And danger.  I feel the collective fear from those awaiting the warning siren’s call to seek refuge and shelter. 

I care about that, too.  But mostly, about them.

Shall we always be torn between the two?  Safety and danger?  Drought and ample rainfall?  Famine and plenty?

Sadness and great joy.

It’s the week we remember that in a much more fundamental way.  At least for those of us who claim to follow Jesus, it is a week of remembering overwhelming joy and elation.  And a week of remembering breathtaking loss and defeat.

And, come the new week, it will be a time of celebrating unimaginable jubilation and great wonder.

Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem; Joy and anticipation!

The Last Supper and the Garden, and the trials followed by the crucifixion:  Crippling anguish and the loss of dreams of conquest.

Resurrection dawning:  Awe and splendor without end!

When the dragon is rampant, we believe that our hardships will never stop.  A dark, unending tunnel that winds into ever-deepening blackness.

We’ve all been there.  Oh, not like His followers experienced in this week in history.  But we’ve been in the black hole with the dragon raging overhead.

The older I grow, the more I am aware of the dichotomy—ever-present and ever-looming.  Great joy and great sadness, one after the other, a seeming never-ending parade.

But, if this week in history reminds us of nothing else, it is that dragons will be defeated.  Perhaps only temporarily in this lifetime. 

But, the day is coming…

No more night. Never again will the dragon fly.

I’ll wait.  With you, I’ll wait.

Even if the rain is pounding on the roof again.

 

“Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?”
(from Were You There?, African-American spiritual)

“Nature is mortal; we shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each one of you will still be alive…We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendour which she fitfully reflects.
And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life.”
(from The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis)

 

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

Still Sitting in the Dark

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She left to go to choir rehearsal without me; the Lovely Lady did.  As she gathered up her music, she asked the question.

“What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

It didn’t take long for my answer to come.  I say it often, sometimes even in jest. Okay, mostly in jest.

“I’m going to do what I always do when you’re gone.  I’ll sit in the dark and wait for you to come home.”

Pitiful, aren’t I?  The thing is, I sometimes do just what I said I’d do.

It’s not always because I’m sad or down.  Sometimes, I just need to think.  And the dark is better for thinking.  There are not as many distractions in the dark.

I was going to stay in my easy chair to sit in the dark while she was gone, but then I remembered that my sister had sent a note about the moon earlier.  It, Ruler of the Night, decided to come out before sunset this evening.  I suppose it decided that if we puny humans need to save the daylight by changing our silly clocks, it could help by shining an extra hour or two before its appointed time.

So, instead of sitting in the dark in our den, I went outside and sat in the dark there.

Except it wasn’t.  Dark, that is.

I had been thinking I’d look up at the sky before I came back in.  Then I could write my sister a nice little note to tell her the moon was okay.

The sun had gone down over an hour before.  But the moon was doing its best to actually give us some daylight.  The yard and field behind my house were illuminated like daytime, complete with shadows cast by the still-naked trees.

So, I couldn’t have sat in the dark, even though I wanted to.

“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall fall on me,’
Even the night shall be light about me.”
(Psalm 139:11, NKJV)

David, that shepherd boy who became king and poet, also thought he could sit in the dark and let it wash over him.  He was wrong.

He was made to live in the light.

I was, too.  I think we all may have been.

We don’t always understand what the light is, though.  It doesn’t look like we expect it to.  Just like the moon tonight, we are often surprised by the light around us and where it comes from.

Earlier in the day, I walked over to a neighbor’s house to talk with him for a minute.  I was a little unsettled by the sound of his router. He had been working on another project under his carport for an hour or more.

I wanted to listen to the songbirds.

The cardinals were being all sociable, with half a dozen of them at a time gathering in the oak branches out front—flashes of red in the sunlight everywhere I looked.  The finches and wrens fluttered in and out of the holly tree’s foliage, some carrying grass and leaves for the nests they are busily slapping together.

I did.  I wanted to listen to the birdsong.

But that noisy router just kept screaming as it ripped into the pieces of wood on the neighbor’s workbench.  So, I went to visit with John.  I had no intention of grousing at him.  I just figured the router would be quiet for at least as long as we visited, and I could hear the birds in that relative silence anyway.

He grinned as I approached, turning off the machinery as I anticipated.  Reaching out, he gave me a hug, and then he showed me his project.  He is making a container to hold antique serving dishes.  Not for himself.  A friend, whose grandmother passed away and left her the dishes, was worried they would get broken, so he designed and is making a container for them.

As we talked, he mentioned some things he is storing for another friend.  Then, still motioning to the stack under his carport, he told me about a different project he is planning for an acquaintance using the scraps of lumber he has there.  In passing, he made the offer to me to take anything I needed from his bounty.

I mentioned one of our widowed neighbors to him, and he told me of going over during a recent storm and bringing her to his house so she wouldn’t be alone while the wind and thunder were raging overhead.  And then, as I prepared to head for home, I mentioned that his firewood pile had diminished since I last noticed it.  He nonchalantly told about a fellow who had been walking down the street who needed wood for heat, and he had given him most of his supply.

I sit here, and realization hits me; my seventy-something-year-old neighbor isn’t sitting and moping in the dark.

He’s making light!  Shining it on everybody he meets, the light of God blazes from his face and fingertips.  I wonder if that’s what the apostle Paul meant when he said we were to be lights in the universe. (Philippians 2:15)  I think it may have been.

We’re not made to sit in the dark, awaiting whatever or whoever comes next.

We walk in the light as our Savior does.  And we have fellowship—communion, if you will—with all others who walk in that light. (1 John 1:7)

I admit it; I haven’t been as successful at shining His light as my neighbor has.  I’m not quite as noisy as he is, either, but I’m thinking I should get busy and catch up.

So, no more sitting in the dark.

It’s time to walk in the light.

And maybe—to make a little noise.

 

“A little bit of light dispels a lot of darkness.”
(Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi)

Indeed, the darkness shall not hide from You,
But the night shines as the day;
The darkness and the light are both alike to You.”
(Psalm 139:12, NKJV)

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

Still in the Tunnel

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.

It was just a bit of whimsy, a slogan to print on a magnet shaped like an old steam engine.  My dad slapped it on the old Frigidaire over fifty years ago.  It still makes me laugh.

Sort of.

Nowadays, it’s more likely to make me think of the other phrase we use commonly, the origin of which is also most likely in the dim history of the railroads.

I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Except, I’m not.  Seeing the light yet.

It’s been a dark season.  Sadness piled upon dread; covered up in anticipation of worse to come.

I’m not the only one.

Our old friends sat around the table the other night and one of the ladies said the words.

“There are a lot of people dying, aren’t there?”

Nobody really answered her, but I heard a collective hmmm and the table went silent.  Each of us, lost in our thoughts, was seeing the faces of absent friends and hearing the voices of people we loved, voices we’ll never hear again this side of heaven.

It’s why I’ve not shared many of my current writings with my friends and social media followers for the last several months.  I’ve been seeing some of those faces and hearing many of those voices nearly constantly for a while.  And, when one is in dark places, it doesn’t seem the kindest thing to usher others into the darkness.

I’m going to chance it, though.  That moment with my old friends made me realize that perhaps we need to talk about it.  For a little while, anyway.

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now.  About that tunnel.

I’ll admit it; what got me thinking about tunnels was actually a bright spot in a little trip I took with the Lovely Lady recently.  We stopped by to visit one of our favorite bridges a few hours away from where we live.

She’s the one who saw it.  I was driving, so I would have never seen the conjunction of lovely points of light if it hadn’t been for her keen eye.

“That’s amazing!  You have to see it!”

She is not given to flights of fancy, this companion.  She’s the one who helps me see reality when I drift away from it (as I frequently do).  I’d hold onto all the balloons and float into the sky to oblivion, but she knows to use her trusty BB gun to bring me back down before I hurt myself.  I need her.

But on this day, she could hardly wait for the truck to get parked so she could hurry me up the hill and point out the scene.  It’s in the photo on this page.

At precisely this spot, one may view the most beautiful highway bridge in the state, under which runs the Missouri Northern Arkansas Railroad, leading over a lovely trestle (above a rushing river), and straight through a thousand-foot tunnel cut through the nearby hillside.  That’s the tunnel, there through the railroad bridge, that tiny arched blob of shadow before brilliant light.

The photo doesn’t do the view credit.  And yet, we were giddy as we stood there, with the richness of sunlight playing with shade and the drawing together of the individual points of beauty into one single vista.

The moment has passed.

I have spent hours with the photo open on my computer monitor since then.  And, as has happened so often over the last few months, the shadows eventually return, even to this place of light and beauty.

I know there is sunshine on the other side of that tunnel.  I see it clearly.  Still, that blob of shadow fills my vision.

I bet it’s dark in there—there in that tunnel.  Even with the end in view, it’s dark and gloomy.

It’s dark in here, too—here in this tunnel I’m making my way through.  But, I sense I’m not alone in here.

Even though it can seem so lonely, many of us have brought our tattered pieces of cardboard in and have built little makeshift shelters for ourselves under which we huddle, shivering and shaking, as the trains pass noisily by.

I won’t dwell on the darkness, on the loneliness, on the fear that this passage will be beyond our strength.  If you’ve been in here, you already know.  Probably better than I.

I find myself asking if the tunnel ever ends—if the darkness ever gives way to sunshine again.

I’m not the brightest crayon in the box; I readily admit it.  But, like Mr. Tolkien’s innkeeper, Butterbur, I think I can see through a brick wall in time.  And I think I may be seeing a glimmer of that light, finally.

I’m asking the wrong questions.

The apostle, my namesake, suggested in his day that his troubles were temporary and light.  More than once, he wrote the words. His point was that we’re aimed for better things, things that will make the events filling our sight today seem minor in comparison.

It doesn’t trivialize our life experiences.  The pain, the fear, and the losses can’t be dismissed with the snap of our fingers.  We still must endure them; still must make our way forward through the darkness.  But, something is waiting at the end, something that will make all the dreadful things we’ve struggled through fade in importance.

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

I stood, here in this dark tunnel, the other day, and I think I finally saw through that brick wall.  Momentarily, at least.  New questions came to my mind.

Who put this tunnel here?  And why?

Perhaps, I’m being simplistic.  I don’t think I am.

Tunnels are not made to create hardship, but to alleviate it.  They are placed to facilitate progress to the goal, in locations where the conveyance could never—never!—make any headway without them.

And, in my head—and heart—the words resound.  Words I’ve mentioned here before.

“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'”  (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT)

They are words to encourage us.  In the midst of hurting and paralyzing fear, they remind us that there is more.

More.

I’m reminded that the Word is light for our pathway and our feet.  I trust Him.  I’ll walk in that light.

Traveling to the Light at the end of the tunnel.  Step by step, walking in the light He gives for today.

I’ve camped out here long enough.  You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead.  That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

 

‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’
(from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

But forget all that—
    it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.
 For I am about to do something new.
    See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
    I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:18-19, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Basking

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

A year ago, life took a turn.  Let’s just say it was a turn I didn’t want to make and leave it at that.

A year.  

A wise man I know sent me a poem early on in that year.  Something about being called aside.  I didn’t want to be called aside.

We closed our business—and waited.  We worked in a yard—and waited.  We emptied a house—and waited.  We watched our bank account empty—and waited.

Many would say it’s been a hard year.  If you pressed me, I might agree—for a few seconds.

Earlier this week, when a hint of good news arrived, a friend called it a blessing from God.

He’s not wrong.

Good news—hope for the future—is a blessing from God.  It is.

Still, I wonder.  Why do we assume only the things we want and desire and then receive from the hand of God are the blessings?

Why not the yard work?  Why not closing down the business?  Why not the filthy, heavy labor?

Why not the waiting itself?  Couldn’t that be God’s blessing?

I’m not going to argue theology; I won’t break any new ground here.  Still, there is one thing I need to say.  Well, one thing before I say other things. 

God gives good gifts to His children. (Matthew 7:11)

Always.

Good gifts aren’t defined as wealth or power, or the good life.

The Teacher sat down on the mountain one day and began with a list of blessings.  It is a famous list. Most who are seeking blessings don’t seem to want to consider it in their search.  Matthew 5 has the complete list.

At the top of the list?  Those who are broken, helpless, and destitute in spiritual resources.  Knowing we bring nothing of our own, we are blessed.

The blessing of God is Himself.  Himself.

The blessing of God is Himself. Himself. Share on X

Everything else is peripheral.  Anything more is simply icing on the cake.

He blesses in the waiting.  He blesses as we labor and as we pray.  He blesses as we walk in faith—painfully placing one foot in front of the other.

And, when He answers our prayers, the blessing is no more spectacular than when we walked with Him in the dark.

When He answers, the blessing is no more spectacular than when we walked with Him in the dark. Share on X

I would be lying if I told you it’s not good to see the hint of dawn on the horizon.  But, in the dark I knew He was there.  

I basked in His presence in the dark.

The morning will be no different.

You see, God is good.

Always, He is good.

Bask.

 

Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously…
(from Anne of Green Gables ~ L.M. Montgomery ~ Canadian author ~ 1874-1942)

 

 

Thou art giving and forgiving, 
     ever blessing, ever blest, 
Well-spring of the joy of living, 
     ocean depth of happy rest! 
Thou our Father, Christ our brother, 
     all who live in love are thine; 
Teach us how to love each other, 
     lift us to the joy divine.
(from Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee ~ Henry Van Dyke ~ American author/poet ~ 1852-1933)

 

 

 

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

Sometimes, I Like Surprises

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The Lovely Lady saw it first.  She usually does.

Look!  A surprise lily!

By and large, it is not the season in our part of the country for brilliant blossoms on plants, the bountiful spring rains having mostly deserted us in this sweltering summertime heat.  The ground is parched and crunchy—the latter being the sound the vegetation makes underfoot when one takes a shortcut through the yard.

But, sure enough, right near the driveway, where once there was a flower garden, the bare stem towers above the crunchy grass, gorgeous purple blooms standing proudly on top.

It is properly called a lycoris.  We just call them surprise lilies, when we don’t call them naked ladies, the latter a description, not of anything risqué, but of the way the stem shoots up from the ground bare of any leaves whatsoever.

Every year they surprise me, although I can’t think why.  Well, perhaps a reason or two will occur to me in time, but by now you’d think I’d simply mark my calendar.  Late July and early August—like clockwork, you might say—the various-colored trumpets poke their heads out.  Every year.

I would have told you it couldn’t happen this year.

Besides the dried up vegetation from the heat of the last few weeks and the lack of precipitation, which should have been enough to discourage their appearance, I did my part to guarantee this particular stand of lilies would never surprise me or anyone else, ever again.

I said they grew from the spot where once a garden grew.  Twenty years ago the flower garden held a prominent place in that yard.  It was tended by my father-in-law, who kept the encroaching weeds and volunteer trees— pin oaks, maples, and sweetgum, to name a sampling—from taking root where the roses and lilies resided.

Over the intervening years, the garden had become a tangled mess of weeds, vines, and trees, so we mowed them down.  Not only that, the volunteer trees were lopped off at ground level to make it possible to keep them under control for the foreseeable future.  

The flower garden was erased from the face of the earth.  Literally.  We thought.

To further ensure that the sneaky lilies never popped up unexpectedly again, although that wasn’t my express motivation, this past spring I spent hours with a mattock chopping out roots and stumps.  The ground around was pulverized—torn up like a war zone.  

No surprise lilies this year! 

Boy, was I in for a surprise!

The exclamation was no sooner out of the Lovely Lady’s mouth than I headed over to see this miracle for myself.  True, no more than a solitary array of blooms was visible, but I’ll wager tomorrow there will be three.

Out of the parched ground, covered in crunchy grass and weeds, the beauty from the hand of the Creator stands, proudly exclaiming its victory. 

Victory over me.  Well, victory over my doubt, anyway.

When all is dark and hopeless, light creeps in and taps us on the shoulder.

When all is dark and hopeless, light creeps in and taps us on the shoulder. Share on X

Surprise!

I’m remembering a road trip many years ago through the Gila National Forest in New Mexico.  With the Lovely Lady and our youngsters, we had taken the scenic route after visiting Carlsbad Caverns on our trip west.  I had hoped to be off of the winding two-lane road before dark, but we had lollygagged along for too many miles, as we admired and exclaimed about the beauty of creation.

With foreboding thoughts, I watched the hot summer sun dip toward the western horizon.  We’d never reach the interstate highway before dark.  Never.

Sure enough.  We dipped into a valley as the sun dropped down on the western edge of the mountains.  Dark.

Then, we started up the other side of the valley.  I had no hope of seeing the sun again.  Still, there it was—shining brightly—until we dropped down into another valley.

Each time we topped the next incline, the sun was there as if it had been in view all along. Broad daylight.  

Every time we started down into another valley, it disappeared completely from view.  Darkness surrounded us, just like night time.

Finally, we came onto a sort of plateau, up on top.  In daylight, we saw the marking for the interstate highway up ahead.  In daylight—still—we turned onto the four-lane and drove off into the sunset.

It was a surprise every time the sun appeared again, a pleasant one.  I had been convinced we were staying in the dark for the rest of the curvy, two-lane road.  Every time, I was convinced.  I was wrong.

I like surprises.  That kind of surprise, anyway.

But, here’s the thing.  In very much the same way as I know the lilies in the front yard will pop up at the same time next year, I knew the sun was still there.  I knew it.  

Why was it such a surprise when the light shone on us again?

We let our dread overshadow the hope, the reality we know to be true.

We let our dread overshadow the hope, the reality we know to be true. Share on X

Time and again, we descend into the darkness, believing we’ll never rise above it, ever again.

Can I make you a promise?  It’s not me standing behind the promise, but the Creator of all that is.

We who once lived in darkness are assured that the light—His light—will shine upon us. (Isaiah 9:2)  It is a certainty.

He is our sun as well as our protection from danger and is giving us every good thing constantly. (Psalm 84:11)

Why so surprised?

It’s almost as if we’ve come to expect darkness and gloom.  

But, in the darkest night, with the storm raging, His light guides and He gives peace.  Still.  

With a word, He calms the storms.  Still.

He who was before time began hasn’t lost any of His power.  He still holds all of creation together.  (Colossians 1:17)

Right down to those surprise lilies.

Right down to surprising us with light—precisely when we need it.

I like surprises.

You?

 

 

 

Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord, who rises
With healing in His wings:
When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
to cheer it after rain.
(William Cowper ~ English poet ~ 1731-1800)

 

 

 

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

Home and Warm

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I nearly tripped over her in the dark.

The coal-black Labrador was lopped across the back stoop when I stepped out a few moments ago. Her brother, almost as black, wasn’t far away.

It is twenty-four degrees outside.  The wind-chill (if you believe in such things) is below twenty.

Their heated doghouse, with its cedar-mulch covered floor is thirty-five feet away.

Why in the world are they lying in this corner of the yard with the wind whistling around them?

I, being much more intelligent, scurried to take care of my errand and get back to my fire-side easy chair.  Warm.

Home and warm.

But, I sit beside my warm fire and absently-mindedly pursue an elusive shadow through the dark and chilly pathways of my memory.  Now, what was that?

Dogs lying outside the door waiting for their master. . .

Sleeping in the cold when they could have been home and warm. . .

David was a man after God’s own heart.  Now, where did that come from?  Ah!  Now, I have it!

Uriah (who was a fighting man from a pagan tribe) refused to go home to his warm bed and his waiting wife.  Uriah the Hittite waited outside the door of the king’s house—cold and sleepless.  (2 Samuel 11:9-13)

But, honorable.  

More honorable than the man who dwelled within, Uriah was certain that comfort was not his until all could live in comfort.  He would wait until he had completed his task.  An honorable man.

Almost like the dogs who lie outside my back door. Their allegiance is to their master. All they want is a word from his mouth and his hand gently scratching their chest.  

It is enough. Payment in full for waiting in the cold.

I like being home and warm. You? 

Stupid question, huh?

Comfort is what we want. But, we have no promise of comfort. Yet.

This world can be a cold place. Cold and dark.

Our destination is anything but those. If, as our lessons in science led us to believe, light produces heat, we’ll have no lack of either light or warmth there.

The One we serve is (unlike me—or King David) honorable far above our understanding. He won’t leave us out in the cold one moment past what is necessary.

One day—one day—the door will open and we’ll be home.  

Home and warm.

 

One day—one day—the door will open and we'll be home. Home and warm. Share on X

 

And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light.
(Revelation 21:23 ~ NLT)

 

Turn up the lights.  I don’t want to go home in the dark.
(O. Henry ~ American author ~ 1862-1910)

 

 

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

Waiting for Dawn

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The insistent tone of my smart-phone’s alarm clock pierced the fog of sleep this morning.  My eyes fluttered open reluctantly.

Still dark.

I would have lain there and slept longer, but the alarm was only increasing in volume.  It does that, you know.  It gets louder.  

I stood and, stumbling to the window sill where the offensive device awaited, touched the screen.  As it finally relented, I breathed a sleepy sigh of relief.

Over the tops of the blinds, I gazed out to the eastern horizon.  It was supposed to be daylight!  Where was the sun?

I waited—and watched.  There was a hint of light near the ground, but it did the world no good.

Still dark.  

For all my waiting, the world was still in shadow.

I glanced down at the clock.  Wow!  I had to get moving!

Dressing quickly and going through my morning ritual, I forgot about the darkness outside.  Well, I didn’t forget; I just ignored it.

Funny.  I knew what was going to happen.  Still, when I stepped out the back door to face the eastern sky again, it caught me by surprise.

sky-1280456_640It was anything but dark!  The brilliance of the sunrise had me standing there blinking in its light.

Sunrise comes by itself.  While I do the thing needed, its light explodes over the horizon in hues of fiery red and brilliant yellow and eye-popping orange.

While I do the thing needed.

In the dark, we do what is required of us.

In the dark, we do what is required of us. Share on X

I will admit that it feels as if I’ve been laboring in the dark for some time now.  To my dismay, it seems very much as if night has taken hold and is determined to maintain its grip on my world without ever letting go.

Nothing I do has made the night around me less dark.  

I have prayed.  

I have sung at the top of my lungs.  

I have sat and cried.  

I have raged.

Still dark.

Finally, it occurs to me.  There is work to be done.  The journey still lies ahead.  Yes, even in the dark.

I remember that the Creator—the One who makes the sun to rise on the righteous and unrighteous—is still up to the task.  (Matthew 5:45)

I will do the thing needed.  

While He keeps His promises, I will keep mine.

While He keeps His promises, I will keep mine. Share on X

Daylight will come.  It will.  With or without us, it will come.

We know it in our hearts.  

We should be up and doing while we wait.

Shouldn’t we?

 

 

 

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing; Praise for the morning;-
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.
(from Morning has Broken ~ Eleanor Farjeon ~ English poet ~ 1881-1965)

 

But for you who fear My name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings; and you will go forth and skip about like calves from the stall.
(Malachi 4:2 ~ NASB)

 

 

 

 

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

Away From the Light

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The choral professor sat on the stool in the music store, one afternoon decades ago, choosing his words with care.

“I teach on a campus filled with light.  Where is the darkness into which I’m to shine?”

I didn’t know the answer.  I did know one thing:

I didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

I like the light.  It’s where I’m most comfortable.  I can rest easy; cares and worries don’t touch me there.

Dark is dismal.  It’s frightening.  There are unknown creatures in the dark—terrors I can feel, but cannot see.

And yet, the dark is where we’re called to minister.

The music professor didn’t stop with asking the question.  I was sure he wouldn’t.

He packed up his family and found a dark place in which to shine his light many miles away from the comfort and clarity of his former life.  Instead of the city of light at which he had served, he was forced to shine his lonely light on the pathway in a place where almost no one carried any light at all.

It has been many years since the conversation.  The professor has long since passed over into that place where light is ever shining.

Can you imagine how brightly his light shined in that dark place?  Think how dramatic the distinction must have been!  A match lit in pitch-black darkness can seem almost blinding.

His words still haunt my thoughts.

No great quest is ever played out in the light of day.  Darkness—that’s where fierce battles are waged.

The blackest holes imaginable are the delivery rooms for the most brilliant of all victories.

And yet, we don’t begin our journey from those black pits.  No.  From homes blazing in light and meeting places shining with the brilliance of the sun at its apex, we must set out.

lanternWith conscious forethought we turn our backs on the light places and stride into the darkness, carrying only the light we’ve been given.

It’s a frightening journey—no part more terrifying than the first step we take.

And yet, the path through the darkness is of utmost importance.

Our destination has never been on this side of the darkness, but always on the other.  We are bound for a better place, but there is ground to be covered before we arrive there.

The inhabitants of this dark world will never know the meaning of God’s light if not for us in their presence.  Those who stumble through the darkness will never see light if we never walk beside them.

We are the lamps set on the lamp stand, not under the basket.  (Matthew 5:15)

We are the stars that shine in the universe.  (Philippians 2:15)

We know that darkness and evil are the hallmarks of existence in a fallen world.  Yet somehow, our spirits quell at the prospect of leaving these places of light our Creator has privileged us to experience.

In a sense, you might say light is dangerous.  We humans are gluttons, never satisfied with what we need, but demanding what we want.  

We would stay in the light, soaking it all up ourselves for a lifetime, if we could.  Indeed, some of us never set foot outside our fortresses of illumination.

The day will come—it will—when all is light.  Until that day, we shine as His lights in the blackness of an ever-darkening world.

If we don’t, who will?

Backs to the light, we carry the light into a world that cries out without any clue of what it needs.  In desperation—and darkness—they seek first one way, then another, for that which we hold in our hands.

It’s not our light.  There is enough of it to illuminate the pathway ahead, but it shines to draw those around us.

To Him.  The light draws them to Him.

A borrowed light. And yet, it shines through us.

We, who have been brought into the light of day, are sent back into the darkest, deepest night.

Dare the quest!  

Take the leap!  

By far, more is lost in basking comfortably in the sanctuary of light and warmth than by venturing forth into the dark unknown.

The world around us is getting darker.  We can see it happening.

The light will be the brighter for it.

It’s time to turn our backs to the light.

It’s time for us to journey toward the light.

And, yet for all the leaving from and journeying toward, we walk in the light.

Still.

 

 

 

…if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.
(1 John 1:7 ~ NASB)

 

Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would have never come, had I known the danger of light and joy.
(The Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist ~ 1892-1973)

 

So carry your candle, run to the darkness
Seek out the helpless, confused and torn
Hold out your candle for all to see it
Take your candle, and go light your world.
Take your candle, and go light your world.
(Go Light Your World ~ Chris Rice ~ American singer/songwriter)

 

 

 

 

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