grace

Telling Stories

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes I write what I want here—words that illuminate the path for me, or that I think might be of interest to my friends.  I like doing that.  I can look at what I’ve written and feel good about it.

I don’t think this is that.

Once in a while, things simply jump out at me, and I can’t stop the words (and miscellaneous accoutrements).

I have a story.  Perhaps it’s two stories.  Maybe even more.

I hope you have time to read them.

A couple of days ago, in our little town, two young men vandalized a bathroom in the oldest restaurant in town, a little burger joint that opened the year I was born.  The owners posted a couple of photos taken from their security camera on social media and asked if anyone could help them find the boys, or report it to the police, since they were aware of the event.

Dozens of folks responded with varying messages.  I didn’t.

I wish that were strictly true.  I should have said, I didn’t put my response into print.  My brain thought it, though.  Perhaps even shouted it internally.

“I hope they throw the book at them!  Nobody should get away with stuff like that!”

And that should have been the end of it.  From my perspective, anyway.  But, I think Someone had a message to deliver.  Again.

The next day, there was another post from the restaurant.  A thoughtful one about the dad who saw his son’s photo in that post and accompanied his boy to the police station.  Next, he called the restaurant’s owner to talk with him. The situation is in hand.  No charges will be filed, although restitution will be made.

I read the post, which largely praised the dad for helping his boy take responsibility, to the Lovely Lady sitting nearby (you know she eschews social media of all ilks) and was inexplicably weeping as I read.

Did I say inexplicably?  That suggests I had no idea why the story triggered that response.  I did.

I do.  But I need to tell another story to help you get there with me.

The year was 1968.  The two young boys looked up from their argument about who did and who did not.  They heard heavy equipment at work somewhere in the neighborhood.  Their neighborhood!

Their parents owned three and a half acres, just inside the city limits.  But all the land around was theirs, too.  Their playground.  Their hiking trails.  Their hidden forts and battlefields.  And someone was destroying their space!

The barefoot boys watched the bulldozers and the backhoes at work, toppling orange trees and pushing over palm trees, until they had to go home for supper.  Then, after they ate, they wandered back to where the equipment had been parked for the evening—surely to resume the destruction in the morning.

There was no intent to begin with, but the frustration and anger at the intrusion on their territory drove them to do some damage to various pieces of the big yellow earthmovers—some of it much more significant than they dreamed.

They were seen.  Authorities were notified.  And the next day after school, the two delinquents were picked up by their father in the old 1957 Ford station wagon, instead of waiting for the bus.

I won’t make you sit through the description of what followed.  Suffice it to say, the worst punishment I ever received from my father was knowing I had disappointed him so extremely.  His silence was far worse than any spanking I ever received at his hand.

No charges were filed by the owners.  It took two years for my brother and me to pay the damages.

But apparently, I hadn’t learned my lesson—at least not the one lesson I really needed to learn from that experience.  Oh, I have never purposely destroyed anyone else’s property again—just because.

But I was probably thirty years old the year my dad visited in my home.  One evening, we heard a local news report about some kids who had destroyed property in a nearby town.  I said the words out loud that time.  Out loud, in front of my father.

“I hope they throw the book at them!  They need to pay!”

My dad, ordinarily a law-and-order man to the core, looked at me with a gentle gaze and said the words:

“I remember a time 20 years ago when I was really happy they didn’t.”

Oh.

He didn’t have to say another thing.

I learned my lesson that day.  Finally.

But, it seems I didn’t.

Tears come again.  

I didn’t deserve grace.  Or mercy.  But I grabbed hold of it and held on for dear life.

Still, again and again (even now, as an old man), I want to see others pay the full price for their transgression.

I repent.  Again.

As I was still contemplating this lesson I need to learn anew, I sat down at my piano to look for a new hymn to share with the folks who are kind enough to encourage me in my musical journey these days.

It doesn’t happen often, but one song seemed to call my name as I sight-read through it.  I mentioned it to the Lovely Lady, and she was patient enough to stand and listen to me stumble to the end of it.

“It’s beautiful.  But the tempo marking is a good bit slower than you are playing it.  Maybe you should try it at sixty beats per minute, as it calls for.”

I laughed.  And agreed.

And it all began to come together—the lesson I need to begin to apply again, and the words of the new piece I was playing.  You quite possibly know it.

“We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations”

I’ve always sung that song fast, in a martial style.  Driving. Pushing on.  Like soldiers getting to the task.

Not this time.

The stories will take a lifetime to tell.  And longer to learn the morals of said stories (it seems). 

Grace takes its time, moving in the manner we describe it—gracefully. 

Mercy is a slow waltz, shared with all the others on the dance floor. 

When we shove them down each other’s throats, with threats and judgments, their merits are diminished, even for us.

And, if the story we share with the nations is flavored with our sense of hard justice, rather than the tenderness of God’s love, how will they have any desire to hear it, much less accept it?

I can’t be the unmerciful servant, having been forgiven a debt I could never, never have paid—only to grab my fellow debtors by the throats and demand payment for their insignificant offense.

I have been him, though.  

Change has been slow.  Perhaps too slow.

But the music’s still playing.  

I’d still like to tell you a story.

This could take a while.

 

“We’ve a story to tell to the nations,
that shall turn their hearts to the right,
a story of truth and mercy,
a story of peace and light,
a story of peace and light.

Refrain:
For the darkness shall turn to dawning,
and the dawning to noonday bright;
and Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
the kingdom of love and light.

We’ve a Savior to show to the nations,
who the path of sorrow hath trod,
that all of the world’s great peoples
might come to the truth of God,
might come to the truth of God.”
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations, by H Ernest Nichol, 1896)

“Then the king called in the man he had forgiven and said, ‘You evil servant! I forgave you that tremendous debt because you pleaded with me.  Shouldn’t you have mercy on your fellow servant, just as I had mercy on you?’”
(Matthew 18:32-33, NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Resistance is Futile

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t intend to post another piano video on Youtube today.  I didn’t.

But my friend, Bob, posted a verse from Revelation 22, and I had to comment on it.  Had to.

“And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.”  (Revelation 22:1)

Water is life. 

And mercy.  And grace.  Especially grace.

That would have been the end of it.  Except, my friend, Lisa, from New Zealand (where they are enjoying summer while I run my heater), posted her beautiful poem, and I had to comment on it as well.  Had to.
_____________________

BAPTISM

Live each breath as prayer,
carrying the mind,
a paper boat in the heart.

Do not be rushed,
but like the stream
flow steady and clear.

The stream,
with its pools for settling,
for reflecting Heaven’s gaze.

Live as though nothing worries,
is absorbed,
discharged in the current.

Walk in the flow
but sit in presence,
not hurrying,

But allowing the water of life,
with its ebbs and flow,
to minister in refreshment,

To collect
the full weight of things,
to sustain and lead.

 

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
January 2026
____________________

That was it.  I was done commenting.  And reading.  I sat down at the old grand piano, intent on playing.  For the calm.  For the emotional release.  I picked up one of my mother-in-law’s books—the ones she published over 30 years ago, to give folks like me (and her) songs to play that wouldn’t hurt the fingers quite as much.

The first song I turned to was a lovely arrangement of an old, old hymn.  About water.  And peace.  And grace.

I threw up my hands and played the song.  Again and again.  With tears flowing.  And once, as I laughed out loud.

I can’t do the dear lady’s arrangement justice.  She would have had a few things to say about my fingering.  And the wrong notes.  And the counting.

But, in my head, I heard her playing it with her crippled hands and then realized that she doesn’t need these simple arrangements anymore.  Freed from their diseased prisons, her fingers flow over the keys (if they have pianos in heaven, and I hope they do) like the water these verses sing of.

Living water flows from the seat where God rules in love and grace, justice and mercy.

Perfect peace.  Perfect rest.

Soak it in.

 

“Like a river, glorious
  Is God’s perfect peace,
Over all victorious
  In its bright increase;
Perfect, yet it floweth
  Fuller every day,
Perfect, yet it groweth
  Deeper all the way. 

Stayed upon Jehovah,
Hearts are fully blest;
Finding, as He promised,
  Perfect peace and rest.” 

LIKE A RIVER GLORIOUS—1874
Music by James Mountain, Words by Frances Ridley Havergal
Piano arrangement: Viola Whitmore

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2026. All Rights Reserved.

 

Going On

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Annie Sprat on Unsplash

It’s only the end of the first day of this new year, and already I’m a failure.

Only this week—albeit last year—I told a young relative that I had selected a word for the new year, which I hoped to make a key part of who I can be as the days go by.

The word is “listen”.

I told the Lovely Lady about my word for the year, and she laughed, wondering how that would work, knowing I am losing my hearing.  My sister-in-law, listening nearby, reminded me of their late mother’s onetime quip to another, older family member, that he needed, not a hearing aid, but a listening aid.  Apparently, I need both.

I still maintain my resolve to learn to listen.  To friends. To family members. To folks I don’t know.

To God.

Instead of responding to what I think people are saying after hearing a few of their words, I want to allow them to share their thoughts in full, as I attempt to understand completely what they are telling me.

And yet, before the year was an hour old, I had ignored that resolve, blasting through a conversation with two young ladies I love with astonishing disregard for their contribution to our discussion.

I have apologized to both of them.  I don’t feel a lot better about it.

Perhaps though, I should modify my first statement to say, not that I am a failure, but that already I have failed. 

It seems it takes more than just failing to become a failure.  It takes not trying again.  Rooting around in the failure, deciding that one can do no better than the failed attempt.

Surprisingly enough, I have also decided to adopt an entire phrase, the origin of which I was unaware when I spoke it aloud to the Lovely Lady on that very night. (She was tempting me with sugary desserts, you see—and I resisted.)

Begin as you mean to go on.

If you had asked me, I would have told you that Nora Batty, a character in an old English comedy show, The Last of the Summer Wine, had uttered the words originally when talking about training a new husband.  It turns out, the phrase wasn’t hers.

I used the tools I have at hand today and searched for the origin.  I was surprised when Google informed me that a great preacher and evangelist from the 19th century was known to have used it first in a book he wrote in 1886.  

Here’s the full quote from Charles Haddon Spurgeon in All of Grace:  “Begin as you mean to go on, and go on as you began, and let the Lord be all in all to you.” 

I think I like it better now than I did before.

Even after my initial failure in the new year.

There was no room for grace in the shortened version.  Not even room for assistance from above.

Begin—I did that part.

Go on—I didn’t do that part.

Failure.  Full stop.

Ah.  But I have decided now to go on as I began.  That is grace.  Let’s see how that works out.

I’m nearly certain I will fail to go on as long as I need to.  No matter.  God is indeed all in all to me.  If I let him be.

Still grace.  Forever, grace.

I have quoted the words before—words from Philippians, chapter 1:  “And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.”  (Philippians 1:6, NLT)

You see, He goes on as He began.  Always.

Without fail.

I am counting on Him to dust me off and send me on along the road of this new year.  And the next one.  And the next one.

The lady in the television show, Nora Batty, wasn’t all that great with her husband-training.  I’d like to be better at my task.

I think I have better help than she did.

You could walk along with me on the road, too.

He’ll keep us all the way home—even if we’ve made a late start of it.

Let’s begin.  And go on.

Failures and all.

 

“Indeed Christian, take heart in this revelation! The outcomes of your labors were never in your hands, but in God’s.  You have but one task: to be faithful.”
(from A Liturgy for Those Fearing Failure, in Every Moment Holy Volume 1, by Douglas McKelvey, Rabbit Room publishers) 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2026. All Rights Reserved.

 

Humble Beginnings

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was ten years ago.  I remember it as if it were yesterday. 

I had taken one last trip back home with my siblings, returning with a U-Haul trailer full of memories—rife with laughter and tears.

From the treasure hoard I brought back, I shared an ancient photo with my friends.  The image showed five little urchins posing in front of a battered little trailer house.  I see a single tricycle to be shared between the five, along with a “swamp cooler” in front of the abode—the closest we ever came to having an air conditioner there in the tropical heat of the Rio Grande Valley.

When I shared the photo on social media, one friend who had grown up with me wrote words that felt like a slap in the face.  He was merely stating a fact and certainly didn’t intend the words to dredge up the feelings they did.

“Humble beginnings.”

I admit it, I’m easily distracted.  It doesn’t take much to stir up old memories and sometimes, the unpleasant feelings that can accompany them.

Did I say I remember it as if it were yesterday?  The strange thing is that the episode with the photo occurred ten years ago, but the pain (which I remember no less clearly) originated over six decades ago. 

Back then, an older boy, probably the ripe old age of 9, ridiculed 7-year-old me on the school bus, deriding me for being poor enough to have to live in that trailer house.

I remember blubbering that I didn’t live in the trailer anymore.  My parents had purchased the old house across the street just 6 months before that bus ride.

He didn’t believe me.  But when we arrived at the stop where my siblings and I were to alight, I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt.  Dragging him toward the bus window, I crowed in triumph.

“Come here!  See!  That’s where I live!”

I don’t know why my mind holds onto some events and not to others.  Nor why those episodes pop into my head at the oddest of times.

We had a special service at our fellowship a day or two ago.  The kids led worship, both in English and Spanish.  Then the youth pastor spoke, his words being translated into Spanish as well.

I’ve told you before that I sometimes have trouble following the trail the preacher lays down in his sermon, haven’t I?  A thought arrests my brain, and I can’t really move past it.

I couldn’t help it.  The scripture for the young man’s sermon was from John 1, verses 35 to 39.  In the text, John the Baptist tells his followers again that Jesus, who is passing, is the Lamb of God.  

Two of them desert John and follow after Jesus.  When He saw them following Him, He asked them what they wanted.  They replied that they just wanted to see where He lived.

Jesus simply replies, “Come and see.”

Wait.  All they wanted was to see where He lived?  How odd!

But then I got to thinking.  John the Baptist lived in the desert.  He ate grasshoppers and wild honey.  Wore camel hair shirts.

I can just hear them when they get to the house where Jesus is staying.

“Wow!  This is better than that trailer house—I mean—desert cave, any day!  Let’s follow Him for a while.”

For a minute, I even thought I might have heard a strain or two of the theme song from The Jeffersons (a TV sitcom from the ’70s and ’80s).

“Movin’ on up, to the East Side…”  (You sang that in your head, didn’t you?)

He showed them where He lived!

But, I think there was more to it than that.  

Humble beginnings don’t preclude moving to better surroundings.  We were never intended to finish in the place in which we began.

It should be evident that I’m not talking about a physical location.  I know people who have lived at the same address all their lives.  I also know, beyond doubt, that they have grown and become different people from who they were at the outset.

The apostle, for whom I am named, reminded the folks in Philippi that their Redeemer would continue the work He had begun in them until they moved on to their permanent home. (Philippians 1:6)

He wants us to be content with what we have physically, but never with where we are spiritually.

The folks who followed Jesus while He walked the earth saw where He lived.  Not the place, but the Person.

The place He lived changed again and again.  The Person never did, walking constantly in grace and love.  And in service.

The pastor reminded us the other day (I did hear other things he said!) that Jesus still says, “Come and see.”

And we, growing into the people of grace, should be saying with Him, “Come and see.”

Saying it, not in pride and triumph, but in love and humility.  To all whose paths we cross, taking them by the sleeve and showing them.

Come and see.

Ven a ver.

 

“You are the only Bible some unbelievers will ever read.”
(John McArthur)

“He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
    out of the mud and the mire.
He set my feet on solid ground
    and steadied me as I walked along.
He has given me a new song to sing,
    a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see what he has done and be amazed.
    They will put their trust in the Lord.”
(Psalm 40:2-3, NLT)

 

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

 

What If It’s My Fault?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
Image by Geralt on Pixabay

I heard the little crunch as I chewed my food in the lovely little restaurant.  I felt it too, right between my teeth.

But I was eating pasta.  There wasn’t supposed to be a crunch.  Not even if it was, indeed, al dente.  My tongue snaked over to the tooth I suspected of being the culprit.

Ow! 

That was sharp!  As the dental specialist had warned me, the filling he put in last week was only temporary.  I just expected it to be a bit less temporary than that.

I called the emergency number for the clinic.  It’s possible I shouldn’t have started the message I left them with the words, “I’m not sure you could call this an emergency…”

Twenty-four hours went by before they returned my call.  It’s not an emergency.  It must not be.  The kind young lady told me it wasn’t.

I’ll be just fine.  But the 24 hours gave me time to think.

In that 24-hour interlude, my mind went back 40 years.  Really.  I saw it the first time I walked into his instrument repair shop.  The sign over Bill’s workbench left no room for argument.

“Failure to plan on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.”

It only stands to reason.  I was in the music business for over 40 years myself.  I saw it again and again.  Customers would wait until the day before a performance or playing test, and decide to bring in their instrument to be repaired.  An emergency.

I never had a sign to which I could point.  On several occasions, I wished I had.

It was their own doing.  No one would have faulted me for putting up the sign.

But, back to the present, I called the emergency phone number.  On a holiday weekend, I expected the unseen folks on the other end of the line to consider it an emergency for themselves.

They don’t.

My brain has been worrying at a question for longer than the 24 hours of waiting; really for over a week.  Like a Labrador puppy with an old bone, I’ve been chewing at the puzzle.

I sat with my esteemed coffee group one day a week ago, and I put the problem to their collective wisdom.  They each, after all, possess a college degree which grants them the privilege of being addressed as doctor by their students and peers. (My old friend reminds me that none of them is the kind of doctor who can do you any good, but still…)

I had told them previously of my experience with the lady who had a flat tire and had no one to drive her to work. One of them, in passing, had wondered about helping folks who are experiencing trouble because of their own neglect or bad choices.

On that day, we had talked at length about our responsibilities and what real help entailed.  The discussion ranged from neighbors who shirk their duty of upkeep for their homes to the folks standing on the street corners with begging signs that invoke God’s blessing on those who help.

We came to no firm conclusion, but simply tossed around opinions until it seemed prudent to move to other matters.

I might have forgotten the conversation, but it was just the next morning when I found myself stranded in a nearby town, with a non-functioning auto myself.

It’s hard to admit this.  My car stopped working because I did something stupid.  The computer failed because I hadn’t read the owner’s manual.

Can I say this?  At that moment, sitting in a parking lot thirty miles from home and without any evident resources to arrive home in a timely manner, I wasn’t thinking about whether it was my fault or not.

I needed to be rescued. 

I was desperate to be rescued.  And, someone did.

They never once reminded me that it was my own fault I was in that predicament.  Not once.  Even though I deserved it.

Kindness and grace. 

Where I had earned desertion and judgment.

Mercy is a spectacular thing.

Spectacular.

Somehow, I’m not sure I need write many more lines here.

My young friend, who, each day, posts the words we call the Lord’s Prayer, already has the only conclusion needed for this little essay.  Simple words we speak so glibly.

“And, forgive us our transgressions, as we forgive those who transgress against us.”

Hmmm.  Perhaps, I’ve gotten ahead of myself.  Maybe it needs to be a bit more basic.

“So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.”  (John 13:34, NLT)

While we were still without excuse, by our own deeds excluded, He died for us.  Where we could have had no expectation of kindness or mercy, that’s exactly what He showered on us.

And, He commands us—yes, commands—to treat each other as He has treated us.

Grace.  Not just amazing, but astonishing grace!

I’m not done chewing on it yet.  I may never be.

Maybe you can help. 

There’s plenty here for all of us.

But, be careful with the dental work, won’t you?

 

“Teach me to feel another’s woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me.” (Alexander Pope)

“When we were utterly helpless, Christ came at just the right time and died for us sinners. Now, most people would not be willing to die for an upright person, though someone might perhaps be willing to die for a person who is especially good. But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.”  (Romans 5:6-8, NLT)

 

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

 

 

 

Just a Little Proud

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Nick Russill on Unsplash

“That trim board is just a little proud.  We’ll have to hit it with the sandpaper to get it flush before we finish it.”

My brother-in-law was installing the new bookshelves in our living room.  As he set them in place, he noticed the errant piece and was unhappy to see it.

I didn’t care about the piece of wood; but being a certifiable word nerd, I did want to know about the terminology he had used to describe it.

“Proud?”

Patiently, as he sanded the offending wood to match the surrounding cabinet, he explained that the word described the position of the wood in relationship to the rest of the bookshelf.

“It just needs to be flush with the rest of the edge.  If we leave it standing out like that, you’ll catch on it every time you walk past and could actually damage the rest of the bookcase.”

With a flourish, he finished sanding.  I looked to get a glimpse of this proud board, but it was now impossible to see what he had been working on.

Proud no more, the trim piece blended in with the entire unit.

Integrity.  All the individual pieces working together achieved beauty and functionality, so our books were safe and protected.

But, I didn’t intend to write about books or even shelves today.  I want to talk about something else that happened just this week.

It seems to me I should make this clear from the get-go; I won’t move your piano, even if you’re desperate to have it done.

I’m just saying…

Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, perhaps we can go ahead with the story that inspired this little essay.  It does, in fact, involve moving a piano.  And, I don’t do that anymore—right?

The Lovely Lady’s daughter and son-in-law (okay—mine, too) have moved into a larger house, one that will accommodate a grand piano.  They were able to locate a good instrument at a fair price and asked if I could come along, “…purely in a consulting capacity, you understand?”  (Because I don’t move pianos.)

We gathered up the equipment and, hooking the little trailer up behind my pickup truck, drove to the outskirts of town to collect the piano.  There was plenty of help, with muscles galore—enough of them that I wouldn’t need to lift even a corner of the heavy instrument.

After disassembling the piano enough to stand it on edge, we put it on a dolly and rolled it outside and into the trailer we brought for the task.  We covered it well with pads and strapped it against the side of the trailer.

We should have been ready to load the sundry pieces into the truck and drive away to deliver the piano to its new domicile.  We weren’t.

I looked at it sitting there against the side of the trailer and thought that something was off.  Gripping the side of the instrument, I pushed and pulled, first away and then back toward the trailer’s side.  As I had suspected, it moved an excessive amount.

I wasn’t at all sure the weight of the piano wouldn’t make it tip over as we traveled down the road.  Tipping over isn’t good for a piano.  Not at all.

I discussed the problem with the moving crew and we agreed that more than half of the piano’s body was sitting above the side of the trailer.

It was just a little proud.

We traded ideas about how to remedy the problem.  I was even ready to attach another strap to the opposite side of the trailer to counterbalance the weight.

Then my son-in-law had the bright idea.

“Why don’t we just take it off the dolly and make it sit down lower in the trailer?”

The man is a genius.

We tipped the piano up a bit and removed the moving dolly, letting the board under the piano sit back down on the trailer’s floor.  Reattaching the straps, I shook the instrument again.

Rock solid.  There would be no tipping.

The reader might be excused for thinking someone uttered the words, “That’s not going anywhere,” but no one did.  I thought it but resisted saying it.

That piano had been proud.  Sitting up where it was exposed to the vagaries of gravity and my erratic driving, it was a prime candidate for a fall.

But, there were no calamities in the piano move.

Because we cut it down to size.  Okay—we didn’t actually use a saw blade; we just lowered its center of gravity.  For safety and efficiency.

Is it the right time for this reminder?

“So, if you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don’t fall!“
(1 Corinthians 10:12, NIV)

It strikes me that standing proud has never been the way our Creator intended for us to approach life.  While our culture differs dramatically, telling us to stand tall, to be proud, and to make sure we’re seen and honored above our peers, it seems clear that we were never designed to operate apart from the support of others.

A friend I was talking with this morning said it this way:

“We want to work from the top down.  God actually works from the bottom up.”

His creation shows the principle again and again.  A strong foundation supports the structure that rises from it.  Take away the foundation—stone, roots, or terra firma—and the structure is headed for a rapid unscheduled disassembly (to borrow a term from today’s vernacular).

The Word of God describes pride as sinful, in addition to its pitfalls.  In some ways, it seems the original sin of mankind was bound up in pride—contempt for obedience, along with a desire to show independence, driving the act.  It is certain that pride drove Lucifer’s rebellion and casting down from heaven.

And somehow, ages later, every one of us is just a little proud.  Or, more than just a little.

Proud.

But, God’s plans for us are for our benefit and to build us up.  Together. 

In the big picture, humility builds all of us up taller and stronger than pride.

I have seen the result of pianos that were allowed to stand tall in their conveyance.  The last one I saw was scattered across the farmer’s field that abutted the curve in the highway. 

It couldn’t have been a proud moment.  Despite any pride the owner might have felt as they loaded that piano. 

Maybe it’s time to get our feet on the ground again.

He gives grace to the humble.  (James 4:6)

And the sandpaper He uses on the proud doesn’t always feel that nice. 

I’ve learned that from experience.  And I’m not too proud to admit it.

Grace is better.

 

“A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken.”  (Ecclesiastes 4:12, NLT)

“Do you wish to rise?  Begin by descending.  You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds?  Lay first the foundation of humility.”
(from Confessions by Augustine of Hippo)

 

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

 

Stinking Up the Place

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

I have walked past the flattened carcass daily for more than a week now.  And when I say flattened, I mean it’s thinner than the proverbial pancake.  Hardly distinguishable from the pavement.

It still stinks.

I saw the skunk lying there one day early last week.  Then, it looked almost like the cat you see in the photo accompanying this article.  I thought it was a cat at first.  Clearly, it was not.

That first day I walked past it, there was no odor at all.  I knew that couldn’t last so I called the city and asked them to pick it up before the cars began the flattening process.  I think they must have been too busy.

Thus, the aroma permeating the atmosphere.

On an earlier day this week, as I worked out in my yard, the shifting breeze periodically wafting the odor to my olfactory nerves, I wondered about the cat that turned into a skunk (only in my strange brain, you understand).

And, as often happens, my thoughts began to run to human nature and practice.  Before I was finished with my task, I had formulated the question that follows:

“How is it that into our lungs we draw the sweet aroma of grace and mercy breathed upon us by our God, yet the atmosphere all about us is choked with the acrid fumes of our judgment and hate?”

I saved the words in a note on my smartphone, cogitating on the idea for a while and then, I moved on mentally.  But, a conversation I read on social media last night brought it back to mind with a jolt.

As with many these days, the post was political/religious in nature.  I agreed—mostly—with the premise, so I followed the conversation.  That may have been a mistake.

Again and again, I am shocked at the vitriol coming from the mouths and keyboards of professing followers of our Savior.  I shouldn’t be by now, but I am.

And then, there was this: “Christians are the worst!”

And, I find myself agreeing.  We are.  The worst.

The apostle, my namesake, said the words.  I often feel them deeply, too.

“Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—and I am the worst of them all.” (1 Timothy 1:15a, NLT)

The thing is, we were never intended to continue being the worst of sinners.

Never.

When I’m flattened on the road of life, I want not to stink to high heaven.

Even if I’m flatter than that ubiquitous pancake when this world gets done with me, I’d like there to be a sweet aroma of grace and peace.

And hope.  Especially, hope.

That’s my prayer for all of us.

Today and until Heaven.

 

 

“The Christian’s life is to be a thing of truth and also a thing of beauty in the midst of a lost and despairing world.”
(Francis Schaeffer)

 

“And so blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth. Surely, my brothers and sisters, this is not right!  Does a spring of water bubble out with both fresh water and bitter water?”
(James 3:10-11, NLT)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Message in a Mailbox

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

 

image by Daphne on Pixabay

 

I’ve spent more than enough time the last few days living inside my head.  The passing of a friend—whose loss looms larger all the while I consider our experiences together—has darkened my thoughts more than a little.

Still, contemplation of life and its losses—along with its great gifts—is never time wasted.  Never wasted that is, unless the time doesn’t come to an end with a declaration of resolve and renewed direction.  If that doesn’t happen, we simply remain where we are, frozen in place.  I don’t think I can be content to stay in the past, or even in this place of quiet reflection.

All of life is movement, isn’t it?  Or, it should be.

Movement and change.

So, onward!

I sat, in my melancholy mood, this evening and listened to music as I contemplated the week past.  Quiet classical music played on my Spotify station.  It helps me relax without intruding.  On most nights.

Tonight though, I suddenly found myself thinking about the house I grew up in. The red-headed lady who raised me was there, sitting in her easy chair wielding a crochet hook while she pulled yarn from a skein in the basket beside her.  The Christian station played on the radio sitting nearby.  A man’s resonant baritone voice emanated from the speaker.

Nightsounds.  That was the name of the program.  Mom listened to it most nights from 11:30 to midnight.  I know; your mom didn’t stay up that late, but mine did.  Nearly every night.  So did I.

So do I.

Nightsounds?  Now, where did that come from?  Oh yes!  I looked at my monitor and saw that the song playing was Beau Soir by Claude Debussy (published in 1891).  For many years, Beau Soir was Bill Pierce’s theme music for the late-night program of contemplative music and quiet wisdom.

I haven’t listened to or thought about that radio program since the late 1970s—almost fifty years ago now.  But on this night, just a few measures into the music, my mind was transported to those days, to the time spent and lessons learned at my mother’s side.

She was a woman who lived her faith, never wavering, not even when her mind was stolen away in her last years by dementia.  I have written before of one of my last memories of her—sharing a hymnal and singing songs of God’s love.

I’ve done my best to stay true to the faith of my mother, following the tenets of the Word of God.  I even still treasure much of the music I learned to love as a child—classical, choral, songs of faith.

But, that brings me back to earlier today.  Something that happened, seemingly not connected, yet perhaps connected, after all.

I got the note from my neighbor while I was at the grocery store.

“Your mailbox is on the ground. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

It was.  On the ground.  When I left to go shopping with the Lovely Lady, it had been on the post, as sturdy as you please.

When I got home, I could plainly see the tire marks in the mud leading directly toward the post that stood there, sans mailbox, which was lying in the grass.

I knew who the tracks belonged to.  I even took photos of the damage and of the tire marks.  That driver was going to hear from me!  The driver’s boss was going to hear from me!

It’s important to take responsibility for our actions.  It is.

My mother taught me that, as did my father.  They would have contacted the company and reported the transgression.  The wrongdoer should be made to answer for his actions.  He needs to do better!

I looked at the photos I had taken.  I looked at the mailbox lying on the ground before me.  Resentment grew rapidly.  As I thought about the effort and resources I had expended a couple of years ago when I replaced the post, cementing it into place, and affixing the mailbox atop it, my indignation mounted almost exponentially moment by moment.

Do the right thing! 

It was what I was taught.  I would only be honoring my mother and father.

Do you know what I did?

No.  Not that.

I put my phone away and, going to my workbench, gathered up the tools necessary to return the mailbox to its perch.  Finding a scrap piece of one-by-six, I cut it to length and, removing the old screws and broken mount, fastened it into place before setting the mailbox in position. Four more screws were all it took to finish the job.  It didn’t cost me a penny.

The entire job took half an hour.  Well, three-quarters of an hour if you count the lovely conversation I had with my neighbors across the street, an opportunity I don’t have as often as I’d like.

Then, I deleted the photos from my phone.

Even now, as I sit at my desk, I can look out the window and see the mailbox.  There is a sense of accomplishment, of satisfaction at a job well done.  The animosity, the annoyance toward that faceless driver is gone—completely disappeared.

And, as I sat tonight listening to the beautiful music, I thought of another way in which I honor my mother and father.  Even though they are gone from this life, years past.

I certainly honor them by remembering the tenets they taught me.  I even honor them by following their example in putting those lessons into practice.

But more than that, I honor them when I see ways those tenets can be applied more appropriately—and then do that in love and grace.

I hope you don’t think that I imagine I have earned any praise for this.  What I’ve described is nothing more than an old man, nearly seven decades old, finally—finally—beginning to grasp the idea of “forgiving those who trespass against us.”  (Matthew 6:12)

Finally learning to sit with the Teacher as He writes in the dust and says quietly, “Let him who is without sin throw the first stone.” (John 8:7)

Finally listening—and actually hearing—as the Apostle asks, “Why not rather be wronged?  Why not rather be cheated?” (1 Corinthians 6:7)

And, I’m only beginning.  When it’s nearly too late.  But, not too late yet.

I’m still alive.  And, as Sam Gamgee’s old Gaffer used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

I reminded my son earlier that it is every parent’s dream for his children to learn from him/her and then do better than they did.  Because the right thing is what Jesus would do.  Not what your parents do, or did.

I wish I could be like my namesake, the Apostle, who suggested that his readers could confidently follow his example, as he followed Christ’s.  I wish.

But, we learn.  And grow. Together.

Walking each other home.  Honoring each other as we go.

Spreading grace and mercy freely along the way.

It is what He would do.

 

“I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.”
(Abraham Lincoln)

 

“God blesses those who are merciful,
    for they will be shown mercy.”
(Matthew 5:7, NLT)

 

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

 

 

I Didn’t Earn This

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Alexander Mils on Unsplash

 

The visit to the specialist was going well until he asked the question.  Now I’m wondering about lots of things in my life.

I have struggled with back pain for years, but the weeks before my appointment had been especially difficult, with a flare-up that left me mostly housebound.  A visit with my family doctor led to a few tests and a follow-up with the neurologist.

Eyes on the computer screen where the MRI images showed, he asked the question that kept me awake most of that night.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

After a short reply about 35 years of moving pianos, he clarified the question.  He wanted to know if there was one thing I could point to that had brought on the current crisis.

I couldn’t.

It doesn’t mean I didn’t earn it.

I’m going to be a little circumspect here.  Meaning—I think I may creep around the edges of this discussion rather than engaging aggressively.   You’ll understand better as we proceed.

I have never—until now—made decisions regarding actions I would take based on whether they might damage my spine or not.  If I wanted to play soccer with the kids, I did.  If I needed to dig out a stump in the yard, I did.  When the opportunity to help move furniture for friends was presented, I showed up.

And, I really did move pianos for thirty-five years.  Knowing full well that there could be a price to pay, I agreed every time a customer asked.

Did I earn the back pain—the inability to function normally for the last few weeks?

I did.

Not with one action, but with a plethora of them.  A lifetime of insignificant choices, seemingly.  One by one, the transgressions color the injured area with hurt—with unnoticed harm, followed by unnoticed harm, until all at once the body feels nothing else.

I earned this.

Why am I so reluctant to accept responsibility for the situations I find myself in when I have led my life as if I want to be exactly where I am?

The preacher’s son in me wants to hammer this point home and, moving past the tangible world of physicality,  would like to discuss consequences of all kinds.  Relationship problems.  Legal entanglements.  Most any type of abstract ailment you might care to argue about.

I want to.

But, as I said—circumspection is key here.  I know there are many different perspectives and many different situations.  Not all have a villain at whom we can point a finger.  Perhaps, I’ll simply leave the reader to work out the ways in which my doctor’s question might apply to them and their own milieu, physical or otherwise.

Besides, my wandering mind has another question that captures me more completely today.  It did during my recent sleepless night, too.

No, that’s not correct.  It’s not another question.

It’s the same one. Precisely, the same one.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

But, it seems to be applied to a different scenario.

This time, instead of awful pain and the dread and sadness that accompany loss of function, I look at the beautiful family, at the lovely home, at the nice vehicles I have and I wonder.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

Of course, in my head, the immediate answer is yes.  I worked all my life to make a living, to build a legacy.  I labored with my wife to raise our children.  I earned this!

And then, my memory is drawn to the fellow with a sign, standing on the street corner near the grocery store.  Or the folks last winter in the parking lot with two flat tires on the car in which they live.  Or the lady I know who works two full-time jobs just to pay her rent and keep the lights on for her children.

One after the other, they are drawn to mind and I wonder how I have the audacity to say I have earned my ease and comfort when they live in such straits.

My mind is drawn to the phrase traditionally attributed to the English martyr, John Bradford, who is reputed to have said, as he sat in Newgate Prison awaiting his own execution: “There but for the grace of God goes John Bradford.”

He was speaking of murderers being taken to the gallows to be punished for their sins.  I remember wondering, years ago, when I first heard the story, if he was speaking of the execution, or the crime the men had committed to be punished so.

Since my visit with the radiologist, now weeks ago, I have asked again and again (about numerous things), “Did you do anything to earn this?”

There are so many things—and people—in my life that I can only point to grace and mercy as an explanation for their presence.  I could never have earned them myself.

Not if I had worked for an entire lifetime.  Or ten lifetimes.

And again, my mind jumps ahead of itself.  But, this time, I don’t wonder at all.

I think about my relationship with my Creator and all my pride seeps out completely.  If anything, all I’ve earned here is sorrow.  And separation.

But sorrow and separation are not what I have.  Thanks to nothing I have done—not one thing—I have assurance of walking with Him and being followed by His goodness and mercy for all of the days of my life.  And, into eternity.

I am no better than any of the millions taunting God and His followers today.  Not even a little bit better.  I have nothing for which I may stand tall and say, “This is mine and you can’t have it unless you earn it.”

Our Creator’s grace and mercy reach.  They just do.

I earned my back problems.  Perhaps, I even earned that look from the Lovely Lady when I took a second plate of food at lunch yesterday.

But, God’s gifts to me, I could never even begin to earn.

I didn’t do anything to earn this.

But, it’s good.  Really good.

And, it’s yours too—if you want it.

 

“For by grace you are saved through faith, and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God;  it is not from works, so that no one can boast.”  (Ephesians 2:8-9, NET)

“Your worst days are never so bad that you are beyond the reach of God’s grace. And your best days are never so good that you are beyond the need of God’s grace.” (Anonymous)

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are You Looking At?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The jaunty little runabout pulled by a chestnut mare sped along at a good clip, its spoked wheels flashing in the evening sun. The bench seat, with room for only two, bounced a little on leaf springs designed to smooth the ride in places where the road wasn’t always so even.

The two occupants of the seat, listening to the rapid clippity-clip of the horse’s hooves on the stony lane, didn’t much care why the ride was smooth; they simply enjoyed the sense of unimpeded speed and the proximity of their seatmate as the miles toward home disappeared behind them.

As they approached the river crossing ahead, the pretty young lady spoke to the young man beside her. Immediately, he gave a tug on the leather reins and was rewarded by a reduction in speed almost as quickly as it had taken to pull the reins. The chestnut was no newcomer to this route, realizing that she never sped across the covered bridge. A walk was all that was ever allowed across the wooden platform.

Who knows? She might even get a break from moving at all if the young fellow took advantage of the enclosed bridge to sneak a kiss or two from his young sweetheart. It had happened before. Folks did call them kissing bridges. Regardless, the mare knew to walk across the bridge.

It was the law and her owner always followed the law. Always.

Click here to read the rest of the article. . .