grief

Can That Horse Run Faster?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Phillipe Oursel on Unsplash

“You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

No, it’s not one of the sayings I learned from the red-headed lady who raised me—she of the thousand-and-one adages.  This one, I first heard from that other red-headed woman, the Lovely Lady, who lives at my house still today.

I understand the ladies with whom she does handwork (needlework, knitting, cross stitching, and the like) say it frequently when a project doesn’t turn out as perfectly as they’d like.

The words were spoken the other day as we finished up a job we’d agreed to help with at a relative’s house.  We’d cut out the pieces we needed, drilled them, and driven an adequate number of screws to hold each one in place for the foreseeable future.  Our relative, a recent widow, was happy with the work while admitting it wasn’t perfect.

“But,” she said, “You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

We all went out to eat a bite of supper before heading back home, the location of the restaurant requiring that we drive back by her house later.  As we came up the hill toward the house, I couldn’t help remarking that this drive-by was remarkably like riding by on the back of that galloping horse.

We didn’t notice anything amiss as we sailed past.

Success.

Then, I sat in my chair and moped all evening.  The Lovely Lady sat nearby, crocheting a lovely afghan, and looking over her glasses at me thoughtfully.  She rarely misses noticing a good mope, that one.

I finally said it.

“It’s not good enough.”

Knowing exactly what I was thinking about, she immediately assured me that I had nothing to criticize myself for.  Because that was what I had been doing.  Not intentionally, but the result was the same.  I was certain I hadn’t done enough.

Thinking she needed some clarification, I replied.

“But, it’s his house.”

There may or may not have been tears in my eyes as I said it.  There are as I write this.

Grief is like that.  One believes that time has done its work and the memories have become beneficent and pleasant, instead of painful.  Then after an afternoon of working in the sun, here is sadness showing its unwelcome countenance once more.  The pain is more than only the sore muscles I had anticipated.

Somehow, I feel I owe him more than just “good enough.”  His carpentry and finish work was always remarkable—his work ethic, ever a pursuit of excellence.  And he achieved it, again and again.

But, she is right.  Those were his gifts.  Comparisons are not helpful.

Mr. Shakespeare even suggested that comparisons are odorous.  That was a century and a half after the writer, John Lydgate, said they were “odyous”.  The words don’t mean quite the same thing.  But, the result is inevitable.  They stink.

It stinks for us to compare ourselves against others.

The Apostle Paul gave us the standard (which we ignore, it seems, time after time).

“Whatever work you do, do it with all your heart. Do it for the Lord and not for men.” (Colossians 3:23, NLV)

The folks in the Arts and Crafts movement in the twentieth century had a goal to do things better.  Gustav Stickley, one of its major influences, stamped a phrase on all his pieces to remind folks of that.

“Als Ik Kan,” was what they said.  The Flemish words for “all I can.”  The words communicated that the maker had done the very best he/she could do.

The Lovely Lady reminded me on that recent day that we had done the best we were capable of.

And, it’s enough.

We walk in the light our Creator has given us in which to walk.

We reflect that light to the world around us.

Some of us will shine with a brilliance that dazzles.  Overwhelming. Sensational.

Others of us will manage merely the flicker of a candle.  Barely enough to see the pathway ahead.

Either way, it’s His light.  His.

I promise to do all I can.

For Him.  After all, it is His house we’re working on.

But, you may just want to keep that horse at a gallop for the time being.

 

“Everything comes from Him. His power keeps all things together. All things are made for Him. May He be honored forever. Let it be so.”
(Romans 11:36, NLV)

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
(Theodore Roosevelt)

 

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

Knocked Down, But Not Destroyed

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

My friend, Nancy, suggested the other day that the cure for the blues was work, so the day after we lost our Tip dog, I determined to get started taking down the fence in our backyard.

I began with the old metal drive-through gate. In retrospect (and with the Lovely Lady’s exhortation in my ear) I possibly should have waited for help. I sometimes need to be reminded that I’m not 39 anymore.

I started out well but ended up pinned on the ground by the heavy gate at some point. I look at that sentence and envision two WWE fakers in the ring with the loser being pile-driven into the canvas at the conclusion. And as I consider it, it even felt a little like that.

I am, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, a glutton for punishment, so the next day I pulled a trailer down to a little town south of us and helped my grandchildren pick up a number of large cut stones from an old fireplace in my sister-in-law’s grandparents’ homestead.

I only moved a few of the smaller stones (much smaller), but still felt as if I have been run over by the proverbial train by suppertime yesterday evening.

I’ve decided that perhaps I may have misunderstood my good friend’s instructions. She probably meant that I should just think about work, instead of actually doing it.

I’m going to try that today, even if it’s not the right conclusion. In my head, I’m going to rake the entire yard this afternoon. I only hope the folks along my street appreciate all I’ll be doing to beautify the neighborhood.

But, switching gears (and attempting to be a little less tongue-in-cheek here), I’ve been thinking a lot recently about sadness and hope. I’ve talked with lots of folks who are in pain. I’ve also spoken with many who are blessed with joys right now.

The realization dawns (repeatedly, it seems, since I need to be reminded over and over) that we’re instructed to “weep with those who weep” no more than we are to “rejoice with those who rejoice.”

Job, in his distress, asked, “Shall we accept good from His hands and not trouble also?” (Job 2:10, NIV)

Our hope is not that all trouble will cease in this life. Our hope is that He will sustain us in our trouble now and that one day, all will be made right.
But, we also live in expectation of good things from our Heavenly Father. In this life.

Good things.

Jesus Himself said, “In this world, you will have tribulations, but be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.” (John 16:23)

It is a vale of sorrows. I’ll not argue.

It’s also a garden of promise. And hope.

You know, when that gate landed on top of me the other day, I sat on the ground for a few moments, contemplating my situation. But, I didn’t stay there.

I stood up and, lifting the gate, carried it back to the storage barn, leaning it against the wall to await its next assignment.

We are knocked down, but not out.

There are good things ahead.

And, maybe another day or two of work to be done.

I might be looking for a little help along the way.

What do you think? You in?

We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed.
(2 Corinthians 4: 8-9, NLT)

“When God gives us tribulations, He expects us to tribulate.”
(Anonymous)

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

Still in the Tunnel

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

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

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

Sort of.

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

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

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

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

I’m not the only one.

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

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

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

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

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

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now.  About that tunnel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moment has passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m asking the wrong questions.

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

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

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

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

Who put this tunnel here?  And why?

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

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

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

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

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

More.

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

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

I’ve camped out here long enough.  You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead.  That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

 

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

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

 

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

Seeing Clearly Through the Tears

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by victorvote on Pixabay

There are moments when time slows and I see life with a clarity I never thought possible this side of heaven.  And by life, I mean in the overall sense of our existence here on earth, not just my life or yours.

I had one of those poignant moments recently.  In a season that has been chock-full of poignant moments, not one of which I wanted to live through, for that instant I saw it all a little more clearly than I ever have.

It was a moment that should have been a private one but wasn’t.  So many of our vulnerable times happen like that.  I wish it weren’t so, but it is.

A man cried.  His circumstances were too difficult for him at that moment, and he wept.  With his wife there and friends standing nearby, the tears flowed.

Did I say I didn’t want to live through any of those poignant moments?  I don’t repent of the words but I do admit that, having lived through them, I wouldn’t trade away a single one of them, not least this one.

I watched his wife’s loving response to his emotion, gently pulling his head to her shoulder; I noted that not one of his friends turned away or expressed disapproval or discomfort.

There may even have been tears in my own eyes as I stood nearby.

The moment passed, but the lesson I am learning is still fresh.

We have believed—mistakenly—that it is impossible to see clearly when our eyes are full of tears. 

Those of us who care about such things seem to think the Bible teaches that tears are bad, that they are so horrid God will eventually do away with them forever. (Revelation 21:4)

I have come to believe instead that tears are a gift from above, straight from the heart of a Loving Father who Himself cries.

In times of great sadness, tears are a way for the body to release extreme stress, communicate our sorrow, or even take away pain. It’s a scientific fact; crying releases endorphins, chemicals that actually reduce physical and emotional pain.

A precious gift from a wise Creator who knew we would need relief in our times of sadness.

So, tell me again—Why it is we shame folks as too emotional when the tears fall? 

Why is it we tell our children the lie that crying is for weaklings?

The poet, ancestor to our Savior and a man after God’s own heart, made the claim eons ago that his God so valued the tears of His people that He kept a written record of them and even collected the tears in a bottle.

There is, without question, poetic license in the imagery.

It doesn’t change the truth, one I firmly believe, that God values our tears, our laments. 

He values them.

In the month since my brother died, I have cried as many tears as at any time in my life.  I cried them knowing that my brother is in the arms of the God he loved, but also overwhelmingly aware of his absence from mine.

We all know them—the tears that come with loss.  Every one of us has cried tears of disappointment, tears of frustration, even tears of joy.  And yet, we are embarrassed by them still.

Jesus wasn’t. 

He came to the people who were mourning His friend, Lazarus, and he was deeply moved.  After He came to the grave, He wept.  It wasn’t a little sniffle, with a tear or two wiped from the corner of His eye.  He sobbed out His own loss and the loss of those around Him. (John 11: 1-45)

You know the story.  But, may I point out one thing?

Our Teacher—our Savior—our God, was surrounded by His friends in his grief. 

I don’t believe for one moment He stood alone at that grave and wept to the air. He was with His followers, His closest companions.

His tears flowed into their shoulders and onto their robes as they gathered around Him.  It was the nature of their culture to uphold each other in grief.

I hope we don’t turn away from our friends when the emotion of their sorrow, their disappointments, their loss has them in its grip. 

I hope we won’t suggest to them that their tears are displeasing in any way to their God.

Some do.

And yet, others stay close.  I received a note just this morning, on the one-month anniversary of my brother’s death, from one I’ve known for many, many years.  She lost her own brother just a few months ago and she is painfully aware of the loss of a one-time playmate, co-conspirator, and strong supporter.

Because of the distance between us, there was no shoulder to cry on, no offer of a handkerchief with which to wipe away the tears, but I felt her presence and her love as my tears flowed again.

Weep with those who weep. 

Real tears.  Shared emotions. Yes, we’ll cry alone in the dark at times.  But, not always.

We’ll get through this as we walk each other along the road home. 

And, we will undoubtedly have the opportunity to rejoice with those who are rejoicing along the way, too.

Gifts, bestowed by a loving Creator who knows our frame and our innermost thoughts.

And still, He loves us.

Always.

 

Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.
(Romans 12:15, NKJV)

You keep track of all my sorrows.
    You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
    You have recorded each one in your book.
(Psalm 56:8, NLT)

 

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

A Provocation

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I’m not sure how to say this.  Some of you will be mad.  Or at least disappointed in me.

Well? I know you will. 

You’ve read the poems since you were young; you sang the songs.  You even watched Mary Poppins hold one on her finger as she sang A Spoonful of Sugar.

You love them.  I know you do.

Well, it can’t be helped.  I’m going to have to tell you.

I don’t really like robins.

I’ve tried.  Really, I have.

The thing is, there’s nothing special about them.  Oh sure, they have that orangey-red chest.  They even give a little hope in the late winter that spring will soon be here.  But, other than that, what’s so extraordinary about the storied birds?

What’s that?  You think they’re the early bird that gets the worm?  They’re always pictured as that.  But, that’s strike one against them, as far as I’m concerned.  I don’t do early mornings.  I just don’t.

But, on the off chance that I am awakened at four or four-thirty some morning, you can be sure one will be chirping outside my window to beat the band.  Try going back to sleep with that racket outside.

And, that’s another thing!  They don’t even really have a song.  Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!  Plus, it gets worse when humans are around.  They fuss and raise a ruckus, claiming territory they don’t really even want, simply to ensure quiet for their nest.

Give me the cardinals any day.  What a beautiful and varied song they have!  Their nests are in bushes and thickets no human would want to approach anyway, so they never fuss—at me, at least.

Then there are the wrens—or the finches—or even the white-throated sparrow that sings in the top of the sweet gum tree.

But those robins—they’re everywhere.  Bob, bob, bobbin’ across the lawn, scratching for the worms, early or late.  Trying to build nests where they absolutely cannot fit—under my eave, for instance.  And, then after the wind blows the grass and paper away for the tenth time, they try again—in exactly the same spot.

There’s no love lost on my part for the fabled worm-catchers. 

Well.  That’s not completely true.  Not anymore.

Our neighbor let a pair of the silly things build a nest near the top of the post on her front porch.  I looked at the structure and told her it wouldn’t last through the first storm.  Frank Lloyd Wright, they’re not.

I was wrong.  Several storms later, the nest is still there.  The female laid her eggs—four of them if Wikipedia is to be believed.  She sat on her eggs.  She hatched her little ones.

I would stop over to talk with my neighbor, being careful not to startle the fussy mama.  No loud noises; no quick movements.

Shhhhh.

I would have told you I still didn’t care for robins.  An event the other day put the lie to that belief.

My desk looks out a window toward the neighbor’s porch, so I have watched the comings and goings on that nest for several weeks.  The other morning, my attention was on my computer screen when a strange movement caught my eye.

The mother robin was flying rapidly away from the nest, but there was still a bird standing over the nest.  A big bird.

A hawk had discovered the babies!  Without thinking, I shouted loudly and jumped up, racing out the door behind me to stop the mayhem on the porch.  Evidently, the predator heard either my shout or the door and was already winging away from the nest with something—we can guess what—in his beak.

Oh well.  It was just baby robins.  Who cares?

Well, besides the obvious One who cares about every one of them that falls to the ground.  (Matthew 10:29)

This old man cared, evidently.  I sat back down at my desk, watching the frantic mother robin flying to the nest, sticking her head down inside, and then winging to the redbud tree nearby, before repeating the pattern over and over, and the tears came.

I don’t even like robins.  But, I cried.  Over baby robins.

I’ve thought a lot about that over the last couple of days, attempting to square the dichotomy.

I think I’m beginning to understand it a little better.  I even have a word to explain how this happened.

Engagement.

Engagement involves investment.  In this case, simply an investment of attention.  Which led to a personal stake in the wellbeing of the little birds and the happiness of their parents.

Engagement costs.

I stood in a friend’s hallway the other day after I had helped him with a household problem, and he told me how sorry he had been about my friend I lost a few weeks ago.

He must have been a really close friend.  Had you known him a long time?

It would be simpler to explain if it had been a long time.  When a longtime friend passes, you expect to be emotionally devastated.  Grief like that doesn’t come with short-term, social media friendships.

Or, does it?

Four months.  It seems a lifetime ago, but it was only four or five months ago that another friend, a poet in New Zealand, suggested to Jeff and to me that we needed to know each other.

He was also a writer, much better at it than I, but we both treasured what words can accomplish when arranged carefully, lovingly,  and set in place with a bit of grace.

I never got to meet Jeff in the flesh, but I knew him.  He knew me.  Out of the grace we both have known in our lives, a bond of love grew.

Now, he’s gone and there’s a hole in my world.

Engagement costs.

Oh, but it pays, too.

It is oh-so-easy for us to get caught up in the grief of loss, the feeling that the world will never again be right, and believe that disengagement is a better way to live life.

Many do.  Many I know refuse to be hurt.  The only way to keep from being hurt is to refuse to engage—to flee from love.

In such a vacuum, life is empty.  When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy.

When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy. Click To Tweet

I said my friend and I knew what words are capable of when used in the right way.  Many others know it, too.

Our words, written (and said) at the right time, and offered from loving hearts, provoke.

That’s right.  They provoke.  They incite.  They motivate.  They move.

It’s why I write.  When I am tempted to disengage—to lessen the pain and the frustration—I remember the words written to the Hebrews in the New Testament, reminding them to keep spending their lives with others, because in engagement we may provoke to love.  In engagement, we provoke each other to good works.

There are no age-related waivers given, no limited-education exceptions written. And sometimes, our companions along the way are like those robins.  Annoying.  Loud and repetitive.  Not nearly as intelligent as we are. Stubborn.

Engage anyway.

Provoke anyway.

Revel in the result.  Sadness, mixed with joy.  Love, combined with goodness.

But, I didn’t finish the story about the robin, did I?

My sorrow has turned to joy again, as I have observed, out my office window, the robins feeding their two surviving chicks the last couple of days. I assumed all was lost, but it was a lie.  Even as I write this, the male is on the ground outside with food in his mouth and the babies have their necks stretched out, yellow beaks agape, waiting to be fed.

All is not so dark as it seems.

It rarely is.

 

 

 

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.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H. Ernest Nichol)

 

And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ KJV)

 

 

 

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