Nature

One Man’s Trash

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
Image by Erik Karits on Pixabay

I love nature.  Because I believe in a Creator who started it all and who keeps it in motion by His power, I am constantly astounded by the complexity of the smallest parts of His creation.

Yesterday was no different.  What was different was the location in which I found the piece of creation that amazed me.

It was outside my front door.  Before my feet even touched the grass or the dirt, my eyes and imagination were captured by the tiniest of creatures—one I had never seen before.  At least, so I thought.

I saw a pile of trash walking.  With a total length of half an inch, it was a minuscule pile, but a pile nonetheless.  I almost had to rub my eyes to be sure it wasn’t a trick of my aging eyesight.  

No.  I’m sure that little blob walked down the rail along my front steps.  I reached down and put my hand on the rail, and it stopped.  Then with just the barest touch of my index finger, I nudged it.

Down to the ground beside the steps, it tumbled.  I could no longer see it in the mass of vegetation and dirt, so I just walked on to my destination up the street.  But, when I returned a half-hour or so later, it was back up on the rail.  

I didn’t put it there.  It couldn’t have blown up there in the wind.

It must have climbed back up.

I took a photo. 

It seemed to be in a hurry and didn’t want to stay still for me to get a good shot.

So, I took a video.  Right along the edge of the handrail, it zipped along, stopping only when I put a hand in front of it.  It had experienced that before and didn’t want to tempt fate, it seemed.

Inquiring minds want to know.  They do.

What is it, this pile of trash that walks?  

I did some searching and found a couple of options, but in comparing the photos I took and the ones in the scientific articles about the little camouflaged creatures, I found that this is nothing more than the larva of the common green lacewing, using the debris of its victim’s bodies for camouflage.

The beautiful, delicate creature in the main photo that accompanies this article is a mature green lacewing.  Created by its Maker to destroy aphids and ants (and many other varieties of plant-killing pests), the lovely creature moves in beauty and grace to fulfill its purpose.

Just not at first.

I posted the photo and video—along with an explanation of what was pictured—on an online nature page of which I’m a member.  It has inspired wonder (and dread for some) in several hundred members who pay attention to such things.  Most members accepted the explanation without arguing.

One fellow in the group, though, posted two or three times, insisting it was a “trashbug”, despite my clarification.  I can only assume that’s what his family and possibly his friends have always called it.  

But the green lacewing goes through several stages in its life, in every stage taking on a different form.  We call it metamorphosis.  The word means to make a complete change from the shape and behavior of the previous stage.

The example of metamorphosis most familiar to us is that of the caterpillar, which changes from the original worm-like form to that of a beautiful butterfly.  

I sat in a coffee shop this morning and bantered with my learned friends.  Bob had ordered his coffee in a to-go cup today.  I only mention that because the disposable cup had a zarf around it to keep his hand from being burned.  Yes, it’s called a zarf.  I don’t know why. Ask your AI friend online.

The lovely folks at the coffee shop write Bible references on the zarfs to encourage their customers.  I’m not good enough to have thousands of verses at my mental disposal simply from seeing a reference, but Google helped me find the message.  I have memorized this particular verse in the dim, distant past, but I need help some days now.

“This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!”  (2 Corinthians 5:17, NLT)

It was an aha! moment for me.  Not that I haven’t thought about this before.  I know that our Savior is making all things new for those of us who have experienced His grace.

But, I can’t stop thinking about that guy who will never think about my insect friend as anything other than a trashbug.  Even though the ugly little larva stays in that form for no more than two or three weeks of its entire life cycle.

Two or three weeks as an ugly stack of animal carcasses, and it will never, ever, be accepted as anything else.  Even when it has become the spectacular and lovely creature you see in the main photo.

Trashbug!

My learned friends looked at me with disbelief when I said we can never change enough for some people.  So, I asked them about a very familiar television evangelist who died recently.

“What do you think about when I say his name?”

They admitted to thinking about an adulterer and a perverted man.  

Even though he repented.  Even though for the decades since his public humiliation and subsequent public confession, there has been no hint of his returning to that sin.

Trashbug.

I am not my past.  I’m not.

As far as the east is from the west (do the measurement yourself, if you can), my sinful past has been removed from me.  Yours too, if you’ve given Him your life to make new. (Psalm 103:12)

He who has begun that work will continue it until the day when there is no more temptation left to be resisted—no more sin to turn away from.  (Philippians 1:6)

You are not your past.

We are who God says we are.  Not the loser people remember when they look at us.

We have become the lovely, useful children of a Loving Father.  Flying on the sleek, transparent wings of His grace and mercy, we touch the world with beauty and purpose.

But, it’s easy to let the world around us draw us back.  I felt the draw just recently when, in casual conversation, someone mentioned the name that bullies in elementary and junior high school once used to embarrass me.

No one uses the name in reference to me now, nor have they for many years.  And yet, in an instant, I was that boy again.  In my mind, I was.

But, I’m not.

He says I’m not.

The ugly duckling I was once is gone.  The trashbug is gone.

Forever gone.

Now is the time to fly.

I won’t wallow in the trash again.  Won’t carry it on my back.  Nobody is going to knock me to the dirt and make me cry “Uncle.”

I’m going to let these wings dry in the sun for a few minutes.  You’ll do a trial flight or two with me soon, won’t you?

Mount up on wings.  

Leave the trash behind.

Metamorphosis.

 

 

“You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage, but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”  (C.S. Lewis)

“He raised us up together with him and seated us together with Him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus…”  (Ephesians 2:6, NET)

 

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

 

 

Sleep In Peace

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
personal image

It’s unexpected.  That the plight (already resolved) of a wild baby animal should hold my thoughts captive for two days was not something I would have thought possible.

But, there it is.

Friday, being sunny, was mowing day.  The rainy weather of the last couple of weeks here in northwest Arkansas made it inescapable for me.  So, I did what had to be done.

The storms have dropped myriad small branches from the oaks and maples that dot the property, so that was the first item of business.  Pick up the limbs.  The Lovely Lady assisted me, wandering over the half-acre plot of weeds and grass in an undisciplined manner, bending occasionally to lift up the errant twigs and switches.

She avers that she had passed through the same area herself just minutes before I did.  I’m sure she did.  Camouflage is a wondrous thing.

As I leaned under the shade of the chestnut tree to snag a dead branch, I started back.  A little fawn lay there, white speckles on a field of brown, its black nose nestled between tiny front hooves.

I took the flexible branch I had just picked up and tapped the beautiful tiny deer on the haunches.  Eyes open, it moved its head and front leg an inch or so, but no more.  It didn’t even seem to be aware of me.

Oh, no!  It must be injured.  Or sick.  The thought took hold, and sadness grabbed my spirit.

I tried to think what to do.  Perhaps a wild animal rescue organization could help.  Maybe animal services for the city.

I stood for at least two or three minutes, just watching the fawn.  Wait!  I was missing something.

What about the mother?  Surely, there was a doe around somewhere.  Why would it abandon its baby?

I looked around, but saw no other wildlife.  There was no doe to be seen.

Abandoned. 

The poor baby must be a hopeless case, and the mama knew it.

I knew I would have to do something.  I could call someone to come and help.  But before I did that, I did one other thing.  Just to be sure.

Taking the flexible branch I held in my hand, I reached down and tapped the poor baby solidly.  Not enough to hurt it, but sufficient that it would definitely feel it.

Oh!  The squeal that came from its open mouth would have awakened the dead!  I jumped back.

The fawn leapt to its tiny feet clumsily, terror written in its beautiful brown eyes.

Two things happened in quick succession.  The tiny thing dashed across the neighbor’s yard, running into the chain link fence on the other side.  But, before it could get even that far, a smallish, light brown doe appeared in the field behind me.

Not abandoned!

Watched over.

Within seconds, the sweet fawn was reunited with its mother, trotting back into the trees that line the back of the meadow that abuts our property.

I said that my thoughts have occupied me for the two days since.  I’m conflicted.  Two things strike me about the event.

The first is my unhappiness at being the thing that terrified the sweet baby.  That squeal fills my memory, playing again and again in my head.

It’s almost like the feeling I had the morning years ago in the music store as I showed a sweet young girl the various instruments she had learned about from listening to a recording of Peter and the Wolf.

I demonstrated the different instruments that signified well-loved creatures and people in the story.  Then proudly, I told her I was a French horn player, only to see the shock and worry jump to her eyes as she digested the reality that I was the wolf.

No!  I am not the wolf.  I am not the villain!.  I’m the good guy—the one who wants to help, who wants to fix things.

But, imagine being that little fawn and waking up with a monster standing over you, holding a stick.

You went to sleep, knowing your mom was watching over you.  In safety and comfort, you lay down and, trusting the one you had always found to be trustworthy, you slept.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep,
    for you alone, O Lord, will keep me safe.” 
(Psalm 4:8, NLT)

And yet, there is that monster…

I’m not going to dwell on that.  It’s a reality that I live with, the knowledge that I’m not the good guy.

Not yet.

Even now, He is making me in His Image spiritually, just as He did physically in the beginning.

“And the Lord—who is the Spirit—makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image.” (2 Corinthians 3:18b, NLT)

But, that second thing my brain is considering—sleeping in peace and being watched over—that has been working, not only in my brain, but in my heart for the last couple of days.

I watched that doe materialize instantly as the fawn screamed its prayer to the sky, and there was no mistaking the meaning.

We can sleep in peace.

The monsters, even the well-meaning ones, who think they know better than our Creator, who believe we are gods ourselves, cannot harm us as we rest in Him.

Our Father watches over us.  Even as he does the sparrows—and the fawns, He stands guard.

And He is faithful.  Every morning, His mercies are renewed to us.

Every morning.

Strength for today.

Bright hope for tomorrow.

It’s time for sleep.

Rest.

 

“Have peace now… until the morning! Heed no nightly noises! For nothing passes door and window here save moonlight and starlight and the wind off the hill-top. Good night!”
(Goldberry in The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien)

 

“You can go to bed without fear;
    you will lie down and sleep soundly.
You need not be afraid of sudden disaster
    or the destruction that comes upon the wicked,
for the Lord is your security.
    He will keep your foot from being caught in a trap.”
(Proverbs 3:24-26, NLT)

 

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

Lesson From a Pear Tree

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I walked out my door a moment ago and stepped into a snowstorm. No—not an actual snowstorm, but the white petals did fill the air. Wind and rain are hurrying the demise of the spectacular festival of pear blossoms.

I strolled over to the ancient pear tree, towering more than 40 feet above me. It is still rife with ivory blossoms, but most of them will come to nothing. No pears, no edible fruit.

It’s not only the wind that will bring spring’s promise to naught.

The tree has outgrown the graft that made it productive in its early years. When I crane my neck to look toward the sky, its beauty is still evident, its size truly awesome, but the branches are barren of the sweet fruit it once offered to those of us on the ground below.

Lovely, but lacking.

Strange. There is a section, growing near the ground, where the blossoms look completely different. Different shape. Different hues.

The trunk is misshapen and gnarled, and the branches are slender here.

But, I know from experience that these blossoms will become buds which, in turn, will produce fruit.

Edible pears near the ground.

Reaching for the sky where it may be seen and admired by all who pass by, the huge branches spread, barren of anything but beauty.

Near the ground, where no one sees and none would remark, fruit comes.

I’d like to be grounded. And useful.

Beauty—true beauty—comes from obedient and humble performance. Gnarled and scarred, we serve.

Bloom where you’re planted.

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

How Did This Place Get So Scary?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments
image by Paul Phillips

I remember it like it was yesterday. He sat, a long-haired rebel-without-a-clue, beside the calm and picturesque creek, waiting. Waiting for what? He had no idea. But, it was as nice a place to wait as he could think of.

The ancient stone table the skinny young man sat upon wasn’t all that comfortable, but the water flowing through the creek was quiet and calming. And what nineteen-year-old, eight hundred miles from home, doesn’t need to have his spirit calmed?

I love the water. I think I always have, my propensity for accidents in water notwithstanding. I’ve never really been afraid of water at all.

On that day, my waiting would be rewarded by being able to walk a passing acquaintance, a lovely red-headed young lady, to her door at the other end of town. I’ve walked with her many more miles since that day.

But that’s a rabbit trail for another day. Today, I’m thinking about the water.

Quiet and rippling, the kind of stream you want to skip stones across or float on in a canoe, trailing your fingers in the cool wetness. Perhaps, one could even toss a baited hook into one of the deeper pools along the edge, awaiting a tug from a curious bream or bluegill.

We love water. When it’s behaving, we love it.

Last fall, I stood on an old concrete bridge, not fifty feet from where the unwitting young man awaited his future love all those years ago, and I took the photo you see above.

You see why I love the water, don’t you?

But tonight I’m rethinking my admiration, my lifelong delight with water. I’m not so sure anymore.

Why the change of heart?

See for yourself.

image by Paul Phillips

I stood this morning on that same concrete bridge and snapped the picture.  It wasn’t calm. I wasn’t calm.  I was disoriented—discombobulated—as the Lovely Lady’s father would have described it.

The furious flow, rising nearly two feet over the little stone dam, tumbled and roiled down below me, riotously overflowing its normal channel. The sheer motion of the water was terrifying, the volume that passed under the little bridge I stood upon causing it to shake and vibrate.

I’m not sure anyone who fell into that flow would have escaped alive. From where I stood, it was only a couple hundred feet to where the water was forced under a single-lane bridge, continuing on beside the park, moving still faster as the rocky bottom of the creek dropped down again and again.

I didn’t dally on the bridge.

How does that happen? How is it that something I’ve loved for all of my life, something so placid and lovely, turned into a hideous nightmare, ready to consume everything in its path?

There are other things that seem to do that, aren’t there? Families, marriages, friendships we’ve been part of—relationships so calm and loving, so fulfilling. And yet, in the blink of an eye, they can seem to be monstrous, poised to consume all that has been good.

There are so many more situations and things we treasure that turn ugly and terrifying in such a short time. Our work. Our neighborhoods. Our churches.

For years we float in the gentle current, row-row-rowing our boat gently down the stream, and suddenly we’re screaming at our God to wake up and save us before we die.

He will, you know. Save us.

It doesn’t always work in the same way He did it back then. Sometimes, instead of saying, “Peace, be still,” to the waves, he asks us why we’re so afraid of the storm.

And sometimes, He just asks us to trust Him as our stumbling feet carry us on through the roiling water.

I believe He’ll bring us through. The apostle (who my parents thought it would be nice to name me after) suggested that these are only temporary troubles. (2 Corinthians 4:17)

It doesn’t seem like they’re all that temporary. But when we look back at them we’ll laugh at how they terrified us so.

Troubles aren’t eternal. They’re not immortal.

We are.

By afternoon today, the waters in our little creek were already receding, the frightening currents slowing to a noisy gurgle. As if nothing was ever amiss, the stream flows on down to the river it is tributary to, making its quiet way eventually to the Gulf of Mexico, hundreds of miles to our south.

I think I may go stand on that little bridge again tomorrow.

I love the water.

Don’t you?

 

When you go through deep waters,
    I will be with you.
When you go through rivers of difficulty,
    you will not drown.
When you walk through the fire of oppression,
    you will not be burned up;
    the flames will not consume you.
(Isaiah 43:2, NLT)

Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.
(Charlie Chaplin)

 

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