faith

A Glimpse of Glory

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’m a glutton for punishment. I think that’s the phrase the red-headed lady who raised me would have used.

“Tell me; what happened with that huge bill for the helicopter ride?”

Back a ways, I had seen my friend, the guitar player, in his workplace and he didn’t look well. He didn’t look well at all. But, he had been happy to tell the story. He loves a good story as much as do I, well or not.

The heart attack had been shocking in its intensity and the rapidity with which it incapacitated him. He and his wife were on vacation, over a thousand miles from home. The paramedics, stationed right across the street from their motel, had had him at the local hospital within minutes. The doctor on duty looked over his vitals and shook his head.

“We’re not equipped to do the procedure you need done. Looks like you’re taking a helicopter ride.”

The day he had told me about the new stents in his arteries and the unexpected ‘copter ride, was the day after the envelope had arrived. I wondered if the envelope wasn’t a good part of why he didn’t look so good.

“My insurance company says it won’t pay for the air-evac bill, Paul. I tell you, I stood there stunned when I saw the amount printed on that statement! Thirty-one thousand dollars!“

I didn’t know what to say. All I could think about was what a debt of that magnitude would do to my own meager resources. The very idea was staggering. And so, not knowing what to say, I punted.

You know. Punted.

“Man, I’m sorry! I’ll be praying for that with you!”

He smiled. “Oh. God’s got this. I’m already sure of it.”

I agreed with him that God did, indeed, have it and headed for home. And, I did what I said I would do. I prayed as I felt sorry for him having to pay that huge bill.

That was back around Thanksgiving. I sat and drank coffee with him not long after that, but there were others at the table so I kept my mouth shut.

I wasn’t that smart today.

When I asked him about the bill, he just stood silently in front of me and the Lovely Lady for a moment, a slow smile moving across his face. We knew another story was coming.

“Well Paul, the biggest heathen in the world told me one day a few weeks ago that there was no way God would have provided that helicopter if He wasn’t intending to pay for it. He said that He was either Almighty God, or He wasn’t. The biggest heathen in the world.”

We batted that around for a little while, but I noticed the smile was still stretching his face, so I nudged him forward in his story. He wanted to talk about Christmas Eve. As is true many places in the States, Christmas Eve is one of the busiest days of the season in the retail business where he works.

The day before, he had worked until midnight. That day—Christmas Eve—he came in at seven in the morning and worked until after four in the afternoon. He was exhausted. Exhausted and angry. The threat of financial disaster still hung over him. And, there was a line a mile long—people waiting to be checked out. They weren’t all happy, either.

“All I knew was, I hated everybody I worked with, I hated every person coming in the door, and I hated every person walking out. Most of all, I hated that job. When I finally got in my car to go home, I sat behind the wheel and asked God—out loud—why He was making me work in that place. I asked it again and again, all the way home.”

He paused in the midst of his hyperbole, looking back and forth from me to the Lovely Lady with that silly grin spread across his features.

“You know where this is going, don’t you?” he queried.

I could guess, but I wasn’t going to spoil his story.

“I stopped at the box, pulled out the mail, and found another one of those envelopes. Only, this time, the amount due was a little smaller. Well, a lot smaller.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I’m pretty sure the smile got a little bigger.

Six hundred dollars! That’s all they were asking for his part. Somehow the company he works for had either paid or negotiated down the amount to only two percent of the original thirty-one thousand dollars he had owed just days before.

Talk about joy! And, relief!

“It was almost as if I heard God say it. ‘That’s why I have you working there. You said it yourself. I’ve got this!'”

He went inside the house and found his wife, stressed and tired, overcome with exhaustion herself from preparations for holiday family events. Without a word, he handed her the statement. Within seconds, the tears were flowing.

As he told the story, tears filled my own eyes. Joy. Well. . . Mostly joy. I’ll admit it. Something was bothering me.

Why am I still surprised? I’m not just surprised—I’m amazed! Why is that?

I grew up singing about the cattle He owns on a thousand hills. I assured my tiny children their Heavenly Father cared for them and provided all our needs. I’ve seen the miracles of provision with my own eyes, again and again.

The biggest heathen in the world believed it more than I did. Really.

Do you suppose He’s disappointed with me? With us?

When we don’t quite believe that He can do that again, does He shake His head in disgust?

David, the psalmist didn’t think so. He suggested that God deals with us as a father with his children. He understands what makes us tick. He knows we’re only made from dirt. How would the Artist not know His own work? (Psalm 103:13-14)

He is not surprised when we fall on the road, lying there in self-pity and diminishing faith. Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home.

Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home. Share on X

But then, there are times—those amazing moments—when He sweeps aside the curtain and gives us a glimpse of the glorious work of art He is creating from the little dabs of joy and pain, the patient stippling of profound friendship, and the broad washes of intense loss.

For the barest of moments, our eyes widen and our breath catches as we see—really see—Him at work. And, for that wisp of time, we catch a gleam, the tiniest glimmer, of what heaven will be.

And then, almost like waking from a dream, the moment is past. Dimly, as through a translucent window, we—again—barely make out what will be. (1 Corinthians 13:12)

It would be a mistake on our part to imagine our Creator sees us in the same way—dimly, incompletely—at any time. From before time began, He knew the direction of our steps, our highs, our lows. And, He knows the plans He has for us. He knows them. (Jeremiah 29:11)

His plans are for our good. And, never to harm us.

So, on we walk. Sunshine. Shadow.

Peering through the haze.

Trusting the God who can pay for the ride.

 

 

Let me revel in this one thought: before God made the heavens and the earth, He set His love upon me.
(Charles Spurgeon ~ English pastor/author ~ 1834-1892)

 

The way of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn,
   which shines ever brighter until the full light of day.
(Proverbs 4:18 ~ 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. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Bread. Today.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

The sun shone today. After a week of rain, wind, and gloom, the sun shone and warmed the earth.

I sat in my easy chair most of the day. Finally, about half an hour before the sun dropped from the western sky, I moved.

“I’m going to take a walk.”

I expected her to say, “About time, too!” She didn’t. A simple, “Be careful,” was all I heard as I headed out the door for a three-mile walk.

About time, too. It is what she should have said. What kind of bonehead sits inside on a sixty-degree sunlit day in early January?

I wrote the words for any foolish enough to read them on New Year’s Day.

“I will walk. Into the new year, I’ll walk.”

I said it, knowing there were sorrows still to come; certain that a day wouldn’t make the old sadness disappear. And yet, when it came down to it, and the first steps into the new year were little different than the last out of the old one, my feet faltered. Time spent with a loved one in the hospital did little to encourage my spirit.

And the sun wouldn’t shine. So, I waited. It would be better to wait, wouldn’t it?  When the sun shines, I’ll walk. Let the clouds pass first. The wind blows so cold. It wouldn’t do to get sick,  would it?

You’ll see. When the sun shines—I’ll walk then.

Some things, you just need to do while the sun shines. I’m sure of it. The red-headed lady who raised me taught me that. Make hay while the sun shines. She said it again and again.

She wasn’t wrong. Hay put into bales on a rainy day is guaranteed to rot in the barn. You absolutely have to have sunshine to make hay.

But, living isn’t making hay. Life happens in the sunshine and in the shadow. We journey through whatever circumstance comes. To sit and mope is to admit failure.

Today, I walked. In more ways than one, I walked, forcing myself out of my dreary retreat and into the sunshine. Even as I walked the trail along the beautiful little creek, the light faded and the sun dropped behind the hills to the west.

I want to keep walking. I want to remember that, even in the shadows, the road awaits. And, our Father knows we sometimes need some help remembering. 

After we ate, I told the Lovely Lady I needed to write. I don’t remember what it was I thought I needed to say, but I trudged up the stairs to my little writing room anyway. Before I had a chance to write it, I sent a response to a friend who had been kind enough to share a song with me today. She does that on occasion, gracing friends with music that moves her.  I was moved myself and wanted to thank her.

I wrote only a short note, telling her I hoped she was doing well. I’m not sure what I expected. I guess I expected the shadows to come again if she replied honestly. My friend is in the middle of a fight with cancer. The outcome is not certain for her.

She replied honestly.

The voice message that arrived within moments was nothing like what I expected. In a matter-of-fact manner, she told me of upcoming appointments with the cancer specialists. She doesn’t know what will happen.

And then, with laughter and joy in her voice, she said the most surprising thing:  “I made bread today.  Paul, I made homemade bread!” Telling me about the neighbors’ response to the aroma filling the air, her message ended with joy. Pure joy.

Where are the shadows I expected? And, why am I suddenly thinking about the red-headed lady who raised me again?

It is one of my happiest memories of my mother. It didn’t happen often, but I remember the feeling as if it were yesterday.

“Today,” she said, “Today, we make bread.”

And, we did. Well, she did. She made the bread; we ate it.  But before that—before that—the delightful aroma of homemade bread filled the house. To this day, I cannot smell bread baking without thinking of those mornings in South Texas—always mornings (with no air conditioning, it was too hot to do it in the afternoon)—when, for a few minutes, we were the richest kids in town.

It was the most basic item in the diet for our predecessors, and therefore, baking it was the most common of activities for those who laid food on the tables. When strangers came, they broke bread. Dad came home from his job and the breadwinner was in the house. We knew which side our bread was buttered on. The upper crust had it easy.

She was the one who told us to make hay while the sun was shining, but as I remember it, the sun always shone when she made bread. 

I’m sure it wasn’t true. Storms were a way of life for us. With five children in the house, what else would one expect? But such a simple thing could drive all thought of unhappy events from our heads as we gobbled up those spectacular homemade rolls, not even waiting to spread a knife full of margarine on them.

I wipe the crumbs from the edges of my mouth mentally, my mind returning to my friend and the amazing lesson I am learning.

When the sun refuses to shine on us, we do the foundational things, the things that sustain, the things that bring joy. For us, and for those we love.

When the sun refuses to shine, we do the foundational things, the things that sustain, the things that bring joy. For us, and for those we love. Share on X

I think it’s no coincidence that Jesus, when he taught His disciples to pray, included the request that our Heavenly Father would give us this day our daily bread. (Matthew 6:11)

I have another friend who each day posts either that entire prayer or a phrase from it on social media, for her friends to read and to be encouraged. It was less than a year ago that her daughter suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Yet, every day, she encourages her friends to be fed by that daily bread from heaven.  Every day.

In the darkness, the light shines. It will not be extinguished. (John 1:5)

I worry. I do.  About the future, I worry. About those I love, I worry. I sit in the dark and mull over what might happen.

He says to leave tomorrow alone. Today, we have bread. From His ovens, from His own hand, we have bread.

Can you smell it?

Bread. 

Today.

 

 

 

If you have extraordinary bread and extraordinary butter, it’s hard to beat bread and butter.
(Jacques Pepin ~ French-born American chef)

 

The true bread of God is the one who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world. “Sir,” they said, “give us that bread every day.”
(John 6:33,34 ~ 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. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Hope Grows. Soft.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s a new experience for me, stroking the hair of a woman who is not my wife.

I promise I won’t make a habit of it. Still, it is an occurrence I will not soon forget.

I didn’t intend to do it at all.

The young lady came into the rehearsal hall wearing a cap, which wasn’t surprising considering the plunging outside temperatures. But, just moments later, I was confused to see the warm stocking cap replaced by a baseball cap.  She noticed my bewilderment.

“It’s growing back, Paul!” came the reassuring statement from my friend. She doffed the cap and rubbed the inch-long growth on top of her head, which had been covered with a full-length crop of hair the last time I played music with her.

Bending her head down toward me, with the obvious intent that I should feel the new hair, she moved her own hand aside to allow mine to run through the short blond growth.

“That’s so soft!” I exclaimed in surprise. I suppose I expected it to feel like my chin did after a few weeks of not shaving, but it felt nothing like that at all. Like the softness of a baby duck or bunny, it was.

I had my arm around her shoulder and held her in a hug for a few seconds, holding back tears that would have come had I spoken. Somehow, the new hair is a sign of better things to come. She has been through such horror, and yet she is hopeful.

Later that evening, tears came again as I sat, my mind wandering. How very much is lost when these bodies are ravaged by disease. Personal dignity, self-dependence, uninterrupted sleep, absence of pain—all these and more are gone, never to return, it would seem. And, then the final insult, the loss of one’s beautiful hair, her crowning glory.

The physical pain, the overwhelming nausea, the sense—no, the certainty—that the end of life is imminent—all of these (one would think) add up to the complete absence of hope.

They don’t.

Hope is ours. At times, we lose sight of it. Often, the realities of the physical crowd out the confidence in a God who wants only what’s best for His children. But, like Samwise Gamgee (Mr. Tolkien’s steadfast gardener), we remember—sooner or later—that where there’s life, there’s hope.

And, hope grows. Soft. And, sometimes slow.

Here’s the thing: I want to shout “Glory!” and rise above the clouds when I hear the trumpet call in the morning. Now, that’s hope!

But, on the normal days of our journey through this world, most mornings are more recalling to mind and renewing hope, that it is of the Lord’s mercies we are not utterly consumed. (Lamentations 3: 21-23)

Hope grows.

Soft.

Quiet.

Daily.

But, I want the trumpet call. I’m not alone, am I?

A trumpet call is exciting, almost electrifying. It makes us sit up and notice. Brash. Loud. Awe-inspiring.

The reminder in the dark just before dawn is not like the trumpet call at all. Note to self: Get up and get dressed. God is faithful. That is all.

So, we keep going. Scarred. Damaged. Beaten up.

Because hope grows.

So, we keep going. Scarred. Damaged. Beaten up. Because hope grows. Share on X

Day by day, hope grows.

Softly.

Because He is faithful.

And we got out of bed this morning.

 

 

Dum spiro, spero.
(Latin motto ~ paraphrase from Cicero’s writings, meaning “While I breathe, I hope.”)

 

Great is Thy faithfulness. Great is Thy faithfulness.
Morning by morning, new mercies I see.
All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided.
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.
(from Great is Thy Faithfulness ~ Thomas Obediah Chisholm)

 

 

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

 

Feet Firmly Planted

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

New Year’s Eve, we call it.

As if.

As if this day were nothing more than a doorway to next year. As if we simply stand looking forward in anticipation of what is to come.

If only.

If only the last three hundred sixty-five days were merely time passed, and not lives passed. If only there were nothing to look forward to besides wonder and joy.

But, I stand at the end of a year filled with emotional events and I’m not yet ready to move on. My feet are planted in this year—this joy/sorrow/confusion-filled year—and I’m not ready to pick them up and step into the next one with its mysteries. And, its dread. And, its anticipation.

I stand here and tears come. They come for a brother who is walking out of this year without the love of his life, she who walked through forty of them before with him. I weep for a son bereft of a mother and for wives posed to walk into futures without husbands, suddenly and unexpectedly taken from them. There are so many others, for whom the year was anything but a fulfilled promise of love and laughter.

The tears flow for myself, as well. Their losses were mine, with others all my own mixed in. It was in this year that a mentor, long my teacher, was left behind. His path has strayed so far from the straight, narrow one he encouraged me to walk so many times in the past, interactions now merely attempts to persuade me to stray there with him, that separation was unavoidable.

But, like the mother whose child is lost, here I stand, unwilling to take another step away. It was here he was lost. If I move on, he may never find his way home.

And so, tears watering the ground, my feet are firmly planted. Here. On the eve of the new year.

We said goodbye to them today. The girls have been here many times before and, we hope, will come many more times. Perhaps, it won’t be all that many. Hugs were given, again and again.

Then it was their mother’s turn. She too, has been here many times before. Tears flowed. They do that, you know.

She wondered aloud, their mother did, if she kept her feet firmly planted on the ground, this ground she was raised on, could she stay here forever?

But, home is somewhere else for her (and them) now. After more hugs and more tears, her feet carried her, however reluctantly, to the conveyance that would bear them away home.

Home.

Somewhere else.

As I write this sentence, it is moments away from the new year. Likely, the hour will have struck on the old grandfather clock in my living room long before my task is finished.

The future becomes the present, moving into the past without our consent. Feet firmly planted or no, the world spins into what will be. Our Creator has ordained it and nothing we do will change that.

He has given us the choice of the path before us. Year after year before this, we have made the choice. I suppose it has been a long series of choices. For me, some of them have been very good choices; some, not so good. A few have been very bad. And yet, here we are.

Gently, He draws us back to the road home. Again and again, we have opportunity to follow. He guides our steps, through heart-wrenching loss, through incredible joys, and in the dark days of just not knowing at all. (Proverbs 16:9)

It is midnight. The threshold is crossed.

I will walk. Into the new year, I’ll walk. Sorrow won’t end. Losses won’t be erased. Relationships may never be restored.

Still, we walk.

With Him. By faith.

With each other.  In love.

Home lies ahead.  Really.

Home.

Time to get moving.

 

He guides our steps, through heart wrenching loss, through incredible joys, and in the dark days of just not knowing at all. (Proverbs 16:9) Share on X

 

This world is a great sculptor’s shop. We are the statues and there’s a rumor going around the shop that some of us are someday going to come to life.
(from Mere Christianity ~ C.S. Lewis)

 

I will teach you wisdom’s ways
    and l will lead you in straight paths.
When you walk, you won’t be held back;
    when you run, you won’t stumble.
(Proverbs 4:11,12 ~ 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. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Between

~ Paul Phillips ~ 9 Comments

On the mezzanine above my shop, I sit waiting for words. My head is inches below the corrugated metal roof—all that stands between me, the howling wind, and the driving rain tonight.

For a few moments earlier this evening, I ventured out into the weather. With an umbrella above my head, I took care of a necessary task before rushing back inside. My socks are still wet from the torrent that overflowed my shoes as I crossed the driveway. My arms still feel the pull of the umbrella as the updraft threatened to lift it (and possibly me), Mary Poppins-like into the atmosphere.

I’m happy to be where I’m safe. And, where I’m warm. The thing is, I have no guarantee of either. None of us do.

This mezzanine below me is not as sturdy as I’d like. Oh, I’m sure the structure would be up to the minimum building standards, but when I jump up and down, the floor bounces. The light fixtures hanging below me rattle and jingle. Something tells me perhaps I shouldn’t jump up and down.

I suppose it’s like the fellow who complained to his doctor of the pain in his finger. When the doctor asked when the finger hurt, the fellow bent the finger backward and said, “When I do that.”

The doctor replied, “Well, don’t do that.”

I’ll stop jumping up and down.

Still, I don’t feel quite safe up here sometimes, between the floor that bounces and the ceiling with pounding rain and howling winds assailing it from above. I wonder if I should go downstairs to the solid concrete floor until the storm has blown itself out.

Between. 

It’s not all that comfortable a place to be. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel all that safe a place, either. And yet, it’s where we spend most of our lives.

This week, the one between our annual celebration of the birth of Jesus and the beginning of the new calendar year always seems like between to me. The year is effectively over and yet, there is a week of days to live while we wait. For the new year, we wait.

Between.

I’ve spent some extremely uncomfortable days at the end of a year or two. Three years ago this week, my siblings and I were stuck between the last century and the future as we said goodbye to our childhood home. Two years ago, I waited with trepidation and even a little anger for the music store the Lovely Lady and I had poured our hearts into for all of our married lives to wind down to an untimely end.

Between isn’t comfortable.

Still, it is where we live if we are followers of Christ.

What we once thought secure—what we once deemed prudent—has been revealed to be the shakiest of structures imaginable. Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Still, we have not yet arrived in our destination.

Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Share on X

Between, we venture, carried on the wings of eagles and, curiously, sheltered under them, as well. (Psalm 91: 1-4)

On His path, we find safety; in His shelter, rest.

Between.

Looking back, there is nothing to convince us to return, no matter how solid—how safe—it appears.

Our home is up ahead. Up. Ahead.

From here, we look up there—up ahead—and know we are safe in His hands. Safe, on the way to safety.

Let the wind howl and the rain blow!

We’re not home yet, but you can almost see the light shining out the windows from here.

 

 

This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now…Come further up, come further in!
(from The Last Battle ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

 

I want to live above the world,
Though Satan’s darts at me are hurled;
For faith has caught the joyful sound,
The song of saints on higher ground.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright;
But still I’ll pray till heav’n I’ve found,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”
(from Higher Ground ~ Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American preacher/songwriter ~ 1856-1922)

 

 

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

 

What is This Thing?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Not to seem like a Scrooge, but something’s bugging me.  Really.

In less than a week, it will all be over again for a year.  Parties. Pageants. Concerts. Shopping.  All done.

The post-holiday depression will soon have many folks in its grip.  It’s a real thing.  You could look it up.  Or, Google it.  Whatever.  We get used to the people, the good cheer, the busy-ness.  And then, just like that, life has us again.  It’s grip, tenacious and oppressive, threatens to choke the joy from our daily journey.

We crave the extraordinary, the fresh, the exciting.  Life after Christmas seems to offer less.

Less.

I hear the voice in my head.  I have written of it before.  Most readers will have heard it themselves, at one time or another.

“Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”

Linus, his ever-present blanket dragging the floor behind him, is walking to center-stage and calling out, “Lights, please.”

Word for word, he quotes Luke’s version of the angel’s announcement to the shepherds.  (Luke 2:8-14) Ending with on earth peace, goodwill to man, he retrieves his blanket (tossed aside during his monologue) and exits, stage left.

Spectacular! 

Angels!  Lights! Music!

That’s what I’m talking about!

Wait.  It is what I’m talking about, isn’t it? 

Perhaps we should move on a bit.  I’m not absolutely sure Linus had enough time in his moment under the lights to give us the whole picture.

You see, the shepherds got together and actually went to see the thing themselves.  This thing.  That’s what they called it.  This thing.  It’s all there in the verses that follow.  (Luke 2:15-20)

The excitement they felt as they went was palpable; they had to see with their own eyes what had been described to them in such an extraordinary fashion.  I would too, after a display such as that in the heavens overhead.

They got to the place they had been directed to and found—a baby.  A normal newborn baby with an exhausted mother and her worried husband-to-be.

It is what they were told to look for, but the Savior of the world?  This baby, squalling and wrinkled, red from the trauma of childbirth, the long-awaited Messiah?

But, it was exactly what the angel had described—exactly as they had been told.  They went on their way rejoicing.

But, I want to know the rest of the story.

The next day, did they awake and wonder about this whole thing? The Savior thing?  The Messiah thing?

What did they do the day after that?  And, the day after that?

Two or three years later, when the child’s parents had to flee with Him to Egypt, did they hear about it and wonder?  Twelve years later, were they still paying attention at Passover when the boy taught the Rabbis in the temple?  Did one of them taste the wine that had been water in Cana, or see the boats foundering under the weight of the fish in the Sea of Galilea?

Did they ever again feel the awe and joy in their lifetimes?  Ever?

Or, did they feel the let-down of disappointment, of expectations unmet?  They had felt the surge of emotion, of certainty that better things were to come. Did they live out their days in disillusionment and doubt?

And again, perhaps I’m focusing on the wrong thing.  I tend to do that, you know.  The red-headed lady who raised me could have told you that.

You just can’t see the forest for the trees, can you?

Details get in the way; peripherals seem to jump into the spotlight.  It’s what we do with our celebration, isn’t it?  Every year. 

Trees.  When the forest is spread out before us in plain sight.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible.  He wants us to see the thing.  This thing.

Unto you is born a Savior.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible. He wants us to see the thing. This thing. Unto you is born a Savior. Share on X

The spectacular thing?  He came as a baby.  Not a king.  Not a conquering hero.  He came as a crying, stinking, weak baby.

The incredible thing?  He came for us.  You.  Me.

Did I say life after Christmas offers less?  I did, didn’t I?  That’s not what I meant to say.  Without Christmas, the coming of a Savior—the thing the shepherds trooped to Bethlehem to see—there is no life. Well, not real life, the kind that matters in the end—in eternity.

The tidings of great joy had nothing to do with the frightening messengers.  It had nothing to do with the star-gazing magi who would wander into the narrative later.  It certainly has nothing to do with our parties and tinsel and gaudy lights today.

This thing is a baby lying in a manger—our Great God come down to live, and walk, and teach us.  Not in a flash of light and joyful celebration, this thing would take another thirty-three years to be fulfilled.  And still, there would be no flash of light.  In fact, it would become dark at midday as He died for us.

I’m trying to look for the thing this year.  Not presents.  Not music.  Not joyous fellowship.

This thing.

Savior.  King. Hero.

Baby sent from God.

 

 

 

Once in our world, a stable had something in it that was bigger than our world.
(C.S. Lewis ~ English author/theologian ~ 1898-1963)

 

And the angel said unto them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”
(Luke 2:10,11 ~ KJV)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. 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

 

A Spectacular Autumn

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Have you ever seen a fall so spectacular?

The Lovely Lady asked me—Me!—the question as we drove down the highway a week ago.  She, who knows me better than any living person, asked the rhetorical question.  Of course, you know rhetorical means you’d better not answer it any differently than the questioner quite obviously desires.

She knows I really don’t like autumn.  Okay.  Let’s call it by its real name—the one that describes it to a “T”.  Fall.  I don’t like fall.

I’m adamant about it. 

You know what adamant is, don’t you?  Besides a state of mind, it’s a type of very hard stone, once believed to be impenetrable—like a diamond.  Adamant.  That’s me when it comes to disliking fall.

But, the question hung in the air.  Her rhetorical one.

I mumbled something.  It may have sounded like, “I guess it’s okay.”  I glanced over her way.  She wasn’t just glancing.  She was frowning right at me.

I thought I heard a little cracking sound.  I smiled.  “Yeah, it’s pretty spectacular,” I agreed.  I did.  I’m sure I heard a cracking sound.

The cracking sound has been so constant and so loud for the last few days, it’s almost deafening.

Well? 

How does one ignore the spectacular beauty surrounding him on every side?  Every corner I turn, every hill I top, reveals another vista that beggars me for description. 

The colors, the scope, the array of diverse shapes and hues are breathtaking. Indeed, they appear more striking and brighter than in any fall I can remember.

Perhaps, I’m only getting old and forgetful.  Then again, perhaps not.

The reason for the cracking noise, the breaking away of the adamant, wasn’t obvious to me until a friend brought it to my attention tonight.  She reminded me that I have suggested fall was simply prelude to the dead of winter, a season sent only to remind us of the bleakness to come.

She’s right.  I have done that.  I have. 

I repent. In more ways than just this, I repent.

Our Creator—the maker of all seen and unseen—gives good gifts.  (James 1:17) Good. Gifts.  The seasons, even the ones we find uncomfortable, are from His hand, achieving exactly what He intended for them from the foundation of the earth.

While the earth continues in its place, they will continue. (Genesis 8:22) He promised it.

Why would we dread the good He has promised to us?

Oh, I know each of the seasons has its difficulties.  It is true for every one of them.  Even spring, with its new life and verdant beauty, has its floods and violent storms.  Summer stinks of sweat and is sweltering in its extremes.  Autumn brings cold rains and reminders of death as the lushness of all growing things flees the coming cold.  And winter?  Well, perhaps I’ll just leave that to your own cold, dreary thoughts.

But each of the seasons, every one, has its promise and its joys.

Our God gives good gifts.

Still, you know I don’t dislike autumn only for its physical reminders of what is to come, don’t you?

We are not, for all the attempts of the cynics among us, primarily physical beings.  These bodies, astounding as they are (some more than others), are merely containers for the real treasure, the thing our Creator values above all other created things.

And yet, we become attached to our containers.  We pamper them.  We feed them.  We exercise them.  We care for them.

What we don’t like to be reminded of is that one day we’ll leave the container behind, like the empty wrapper it will become, and the real part of us, the part valued most by our Creator, will go on to its eternal home.

I wonder why we hate that reminder so.  A friend of mine wrote today of his anger in the face of a friend’s death.  Another person quoted a poem as they comforted a mother, still grieving her son after eighteen years.  

I know, she wrote, but I am not resigned.  And, I do not approve.  The words were from the poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay.  I don’t disagree with them.

Still.  Winter is coming.  For every one of us, it comes.

I’m no theologian.  I don’t understand what God’s plan was.  I don’t know if the earth was to be our eternal home, and He would walk with us here in the cool of the day for all time.  Maybe one day we would just walk up to heaven to live with Him.  I don’t know.

And, it’s okay.  I think it’s even okay to be angry about our losses, to disapprove of the manner in which we are separated from those we love.  We were never intended to die.

But eventually, it comes around to this: We are still eternal beings. 

The winter of our lives is not ultimately about death, but about life.  The Son of God who came to earth, giving His own life for us, guarantees it.

The winter of our lives is not ultimately about death, but about life. The Son of God who came to earth, giving His own life for us, guarantees it. Share on X

And just like that, I am—recently liberated from my prison of adamant—enjoying this season immensely. 

Autumn has never—Never!—been so spectacular.  I don’t want to waste another moment of its glory worrying about the season which will follow.  Not another moment.

And so, this old container took my redeemed soul for a walk in the autumn rain today with the Lovely Lady. Laughing and soaking in the beauty of nature and the reminders of His grace and great love, we walked together, as we have in so many seasons before.

What a wonderful season in which to be alive. Physically. Spiritually.

And, my soul sings for joy.  For some reason, I think I hear creation singing, as well.

Perhaps you know the tune, too.

 

 

 

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the mighty thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed:

Then sings my soul, “My Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art! How great thou art!”
(from How Great Thou Art ~ Stuart Hine ~ English missionary ~ © 1949 and 1953 by the Stuart Hine Trust. USA print rights administered by Hope Publishing Company.)

 

For as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater:
So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10-11 ~ KJV)

 

 

 

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

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.