testimony

Worthy of the Calling

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I made the mistake of replying to a friend’s post today, believing I was helping her feel better about her state of mind regarding the upcoming election. Before I knew it, I was defending my position to someone I don’t know. I would say a total stranger, but she is a follower of Christ. That means she’s family.

I didn’t get angry. She didn’t get angry. We both made two or three replies, parting on amicable terms. I’ll pray for her. She’ll pray for me. Blessings.

Still, I’m not pleased with myself. Tonight, I can’t help wondering why we, the Family of God, are wasting our time arguing/discussing/disputing about things as unimportant as who is to be the next president of our country. Or, whether our Governor has the right to make us wear a mask.

Unimportant?

Yes.  Unimportant.

I know someone will say it. So, I’ll say it first:

“But, we’re in a battle for the soul of our country!”

I don’t disagree. But, if we’re in a battle for our country’s soul, why aren’t we fighting with weapons that have a chance to win the soul?

Why aren’t we in our closets praying? Why aren’t we at the prisons and jails visiting? Why aren’t we in the neighbor’s back yard working side by side with them? Why aren’t we on the main roads and back roads, compelling them to come share our table?

Where are the cups of cool water? The literal ones for the heat and the figurative ones that slake the thirst with Living Water.

I promise you, we won’t win the soul of our country by shouting at every person foolish enough to expose their opposing viewpoint. It won’t be won by posting nasty, hateful memes that demean and belittle folks with whom we disagree. It won’t be won by shouting about our rights and repeating our claims day after day.

Someone suggested earlier today that we should stop doing these things because the people we were demeaning and clashing with might be fellow believers. I think the bigger concern is, what if they’re not?

What if they’re not?

What if the very people we are fighting here are the ones we have been called to love? (They are.)

What if the very people we are calling names and demeaning are the ones we’re supposed to be telling of God’s grace and mercy? (They are.)

They are!

How is this who we have become?

How do we dare to throw the love of Christ back in His face and defy Him to do anything about it?

The Apostle Paul, in prison for the very cause we claim, begged us to walk in a manner that is worthy of our calling. Begged us.

It’s time for us to start. Doing that.

That walking worthy thing.

Today. This week. This year.

Now.

You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. (Matthew 5:14, NIV)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Shining Through

~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

I’ve lived with her for over forty years and, still, she gets me into trouble. I’m sure I would never fall for these traps if it weren’t for her. Well—almost never.

It all started innocently enough.

“I need to pick up a few books at the used-book store, dear. Would you go with me?”

She knows the answer to that question. I can’t say no to a chance to expand the library. Especially at bargain prices. We went.

I found books. Many of them weren’t at bargain prices. I’m lamenting most the book of children’s poetry with hand-colored prints. It could have been mine for only a hundred twenty-five dollars.

I settled for a smaller volume that set me back only four. Four dollars for a book over a century old. There was no extra charge for the yellowed paper on which it was printed. None for the musty odor that emanates from the turning pages, either. A bargain. Really.

But you’re still wondering how she got me into trouble, aren’t you? Clearly, the cost of the little poetry book wasn’t the issue.

It’s just that I wasn’t paying attention and didn’t see the trap until it was too late. Caught! Sucked in like the tiny ants ambling past the doodle-bug pits in the dirt under the carport of my childhood home.

They never intended to go into those pits, either.

Okay. It’s just that the snack-cake bargain outlet is right next to the used-book shop. Thirty strides away from where I parked the pickup. Maybe fewer. I know it was close enough to smell the honey-buns. And, the Swiss cake rolls.

I haven’t yet been able to do the math required to determine how many miles I’ll need to ride on my bicycle. In truth, I’m barely starting to add up the calories I’ve ingested. Tomorrow.

But now you understand how it was that I came to be sitting that evening under the old table lamp, reading the little volume of poems, coffee cup in hand. There may also have been a honey-bun close by (or was it an oatmeal cream pie?).

I read poem followed by poem; after some, affirming the wisdom of my purchase and, after others, bemoaning the pricey volume that remained sitting on the shelf at the book shop. Still, for four dollars, it wasn’t a complete disappointment.

After half an hour of sitting—well, flopping really—I don’t sit while I read. Anyway, after half an hour. . .You know, I still remember the red-headed lady who raised me—years ago—sternly reminding me to get my feet off her coffee table. That was only moments before she shouted at me to get my feet off her wall. That’s right. Turned upside down, heels dirtying the wallpaper, I would read for hour after hour. As a child. I can’t read that way any longer. (You know—blood rushing to head, stiff joints, and everything else that comes with age.) Now, I simply scooch down in the easy chair, just far enough to get my feet on the chair facing me. It just feels right.

I never realized how low this position put me in relation to the lamp beside my chair. There never has been a reason to notice it. There certainly was this night.

After half an hour of sitting (I knew I’d get here finally!), as I turned a page, a shadowy image appeared momentarily behind the print. As the page laid back against the others, the image disappeared. I searched for it, but couldn’t find it again.

Thinking I must have imagined it, I continued reading the old volume. But, moments later, as I flipped another page, the image was back.

What was going on? Did I buy a haunted book? What was this strange image?

I separated the pages, holding a single one up to the light. There it was! Along with the skeleton-like lines that showed in the old laid paper, a watermark was clearly visible. A circle of leaves on stems, curled around the poet’s initials.

On every page held up to the light, I can see the same watermark. Somehow, I feel better about my purchase now. A watermark simply informs the interested party of who had made the paper, a modern-day signature of the artisan, if you will. I made this!

We don’t see watermarked paper much anymore. Not the real thing, anyway. I bet if the shop had known about it, they would have charged six, maybe even eight, dollars for the little volume! Or, maybe not.

Funny, isn’t it? Something most people would never see makes the book more valuable to me.

As I write, I begin to wonder if I’ve lost the interest of my readers. It is, after all, a discussion of things of antiquity, meaning nothing to most who will read these words. Perhaps something a little more up-to-date might help.

Those of my readers who live in the United States see watermarks in use almost every day. The purchase of a container of milk or a loaf of bread will suffice. Put your groceries on the counter and reach into your pocket as the cashier tells you the total. Smiling, you draw out a twenty-dollar bill and think nothing of the nice lady holding the bill up to the light to— that’s right! —verify the presence of the watermark. All modern U.S. bills over one dollar have them. Many overseas currencies use watermarks, as well.

It matters who printed the paper and put the watermark there. It matters a lot.

And then, I stop to think about the times we describe our future, the days and moments lying just ahead, as a blank page waiting to be written upon.

And suddenly, I wonder what sort of paper my life story is being written on.

I know what’s being written on the paper (and I’m not always happy about how it reads), but when my pages are held up to the light, what appears for all to see?

Is there an imprint on every page, and whose is it?

Is there an imprint on every page, and whose is it? Click To Tweet

Am I writing on paper that will last?

Some time ago, I noticed a fellow working in his garden, but he wasn’t plowing or planting. He was burying paper. Really. Burying paper. I stopped to express my puzzlement and he was happy to explain.

“I have lots of old business records and unimportant communication. The paper turns to dirt soon enough, so I bury it instead of sending it to the landfill.”

I’d like to write on better paper than that.

And, I’d like to see something far better than myself shining through when it’s all—the whole messy project—held up to the light. I believe He’ll do that. The words of the Teacher ring in my head almost daily: Let your light shine as you do good to men, and they’ll glorify God who is in heaven. (Matthew 5:16)

I want His mark on my life’s story. You?

Sooner or later, we’ll all be held up to the light.

Through all the scribbles and strike-throughs, the illegible script written when we had too little sleep and not enough coffee, what shines through matters more than anything we could ever write ourselves.

Quality paper. Clearly marked.

Definitely worth more than four dollars.

 

 

God does give us more than we can handle. Not maliciously, but intentionally, in love, that His glory may be displayed, that we may have no doubt of who is in control, that people may see His grace and faithfulness shining through our lives.
(Katie Davis ~ American author/missionary)

 

But on the judgment day, fire will reveal what kind of work each builder has done. The fire will show if a person’s work has any value. If the work survives, that builder will receive a reward. But if the work is burned up, the builder will suffer great loss. The builder will be saved, but like someone barely escaping through a wall of flames.
(1 Corinthians 3:13-15 ~ NLT ~ New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

 

The Wind Blows

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Ting, ting, ting.  Ting, ting, ting.

All along the two-mile course I wandered with the Lovely Lady, I heard them.

At first, it was just a subliminal awareness—no thought given to the sound whatsoever.  The further we went though, the more noticeable became the sound.

At one point, the tone lowered into the bassier voice and, with a start, I was immediately aware.  The clang, clang, clang! of the long pipes flailing at the ends of cords was unmistakable.

chimes-261256_1280This was no gentle ripple of sound, no pretty chord voiced to calm the heart as a gentle breeze moved the pipes.  The gusts of wind that tore violently at our clothes and hair also gripped the silver tubes of the wind chimes and sent them almost horizontal in their arcs, banging against the wooden clapper in the center and then against each other, almost certainly denting the soft metal in the process.

Of course!  That sound was coming from the wind chimes hanging on porches.  Small ones as well as large, made of brass and aluminum—perhaps even of ceramic glass.

The different tones came from different sizes and different designs.  The delicate ting, ting, ting, came from the little short tubes, the low-pitched bong, bong, bong, from the longer pipes and larger bore of the massive chimes several homes boasted.

Not one of them was silent on this day.

Not one.

The wind whipped in gusts and eddies around the houses and porches, spinning and swinging the chimes in a constant cacophony of sound.

I was walking beside the loveliest walking companion one could ask for.  She was telling me of something the grandchildren had done earlier that day, but suddenly I couldn’t hear her for the bells and the violent wind in my head.

I may have been striding down the walking trail in my current hometown, but my mind was over eight hundred miles and nearly fifty years away, on the front porch of my family home.

The wind whipped and howled then, too.   There was rain in this wind, and danger.

The ten-year-old boy standing on that screened-in porch liked the danger part.

Finally.  A hurricane.

All about him the trees waved in the storm like giant windmills, their limbs gyrating first one way, then another.  The sound the tall palm trees made as fronds rattled against each other was almost deafening.

The chinaberry trees, with their fragile limbs bent almost to the ground, cracked and groaned.  The bougainvillea bushes merely shuddered and leaned parallel to the earth, looking for all the world as if they were going to be uprooted and take flight at any moment.

The howling of the wind filled his ears.  Even with all that racket, the clang, clang, clang, of the two sets of wind chimes at the other end of the porch cut through his consciousness.

The noisy things were flying wildly in the wind, making almost as much commotion as the trees outside.  He didn’t understand why the red-headed lady who raised him had left them out, when they had picked up everything else that could blow away outdoors.  

Most days, his mother loved the sound of the chimes as the breeze moved them.  On any other day you might choose, the Gulf breezes blew steadily from the east, coming off of the coast. Then, the chimes made their pleasant tinkling sound constantly.

Noisy things!  It certainly wasn’t pretty now.  Surely they couldn’t even hold together through this monster storm.  Maybe he should take them down.

Suddenly, a yell came from the kitchen, at the back of the house.

“The hackberry tree is going over!  Come look at this!”

He ran in the front door and through the living room to watch the destruction of the trees behind and beside the house, the front porch—and the chimes—temporarily forgotten.

In the backyard, limbs waving and roots still attached, the huge old hackberry tree he loved climbing went over on its side.  Next, the chinaberry tree, in the yard beside the bathroom window, split right down the middle. Half of it stayed upright, the rest toppling to the ground, still hanging by a layer of bark on its thick trunk.

He had seen enough.

Danger was okay when all it did was threaten.  When real damage came to pass, it was time to get things back to normal.  He was ready for this terrible hurricane to be over.

It was the next morning when he finally wandered onto the front porch again.  Funny.  The wind was back to a breeze, prevailing from the east, gently moving the chimes.

Ting, ting, ting.  Ting, ting, ting.

It was as if the storm had never happened at all.  But no.  He looked around.

The ground underneath the palm trees was piled with fronds which had sailed off in the wind.  There were branches and leaves everywhere.  

He stepped outside the door and saw the chinaberry bereft of half of its top.  A look around the neighborhood showed debris everywhere and water standing in the ditches.  

No.  There had been a storm all right.  It wasn’t just a dream.

Still, the little resonant tubes tapped against the clapper and each other gently.  Their sound was prettier than he could remember it, perhaps because he had seen what they had gone through less than twelve hours before.  

They sang out their chords once again, as if nothing could ever silence them.

Perhaps nothing ever could.
                              

Recently, I was in the home of a man I know to help him move some furniture.  We finished the job and I looked around.  Over in the corner of the living room hung a huge set of wind chimes.

Huge.  

Hanging inside.

I asked my friend about them.  

Why were they inside?  Surely they never got any wind in there?  

He smiled as he flipped a switch nearby.  I could see no fan, but I heard the fan motor begin to spin and felt the breeze moving slightly.  Gently, very gently, the huge brass tubes began first to sway and then to undulate toward the clapper.  

Bong.  I heard the quiet, low pitch once and then again.  With a certain regularity, the bong, bong, bong began to repeat, as the different pitches gently sounded.

I wondered aloud.  

“Can you make them louder?  Does the fan go to a higher speed?”

He looked at me as if I were mad.  

“Do you realize how much these chimes cost?  It was hundreds of dollars!”

I shook my head in amazement.  

The man refused to place the wind chimes where they could ever actually catch the wind, because he was afraid that they would be damaged.  

He would never allow them to do what they were designed to do—sound their chords deep and loud, swinging wildly in the unpredictable wind—for fear that they might be dented.

Wind chimes are meant to be in the wind.

They are made to catch the breeze and hit against a clapper, the beautiful sound being drawn out because of the adversity.  If they experience no hardship, they never perform as they were designed.  Never.

The more distress they experience—the more affliction—the sweeter they sound.

The individual chimes are anchored securely to keep them attached to the whole unit.  Each one is painstakingly tuned to the correct pitch that complements the others.  

The beautiful individual tones blend to make a gorgeous chord as they are tapped and—yes—battered by the clapper and by each other.
                              

Sound familiar?

Do you realize we need to experience hard times—difficulties in our lives—to bring out the beauty hidden deep inside of us?  

The harmony and the pure tones that need to be heard in our world will only come as we are in the public view, battered and beaten as we are, doing exactly what our Creator intended for us.

He made you what you are!  

He made me what I am!  

And, He attached us together to make music for the world to hear and be amazed by. We are firmly anchored to Him and to each other.

Sure, it’s not always a gentle breeze that plays around us.  

The storms of life will send us swirling around and around, to clatter and clang for a little while.  And then, the Master says Peace; be still to the storms, and the gentle breezes return.  

The music is still sweet to Him.

The world, too, is listening as they wander, and stumble, and scramble past.  

I wonder—is the wind chime out on the porch where they can hear it?  Or, have we squirreled it away—in safety—out of the wind, to keep it from damage and distress?

Is there any music for them to hear?

I hope it’s a sweet sound in their ears, too.

 

 

Adversity is the diamond dust Heaven polishes its jewels with.
(Thomas Carlyle ~ Scottish philosopher ~ 1795-1881)

 

Sing for joy to God our strength;
    shout aloud to the God of Jacob!
Begin the music, strike the timbrel,
    play the melodious harp and lyre.
(Psalm 81:1-2 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

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

Tip-toeing and Holding My Breath

~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

The house is old and the floor creaks.

Since I was old enough to notice such things, I’ve not lived in any other kind of house.  The sneaky kid I was at seven years of age learned where the noisy spots were.  When one was stealthily slipping out at nap time, that information was key in avoiding detection by lightly sleeping parents.

In much the same way, the sneaky grown-up I am at nearly sixty years of age has learned where the noisy spots are in my current house, as well.  That information is key in maneuvering through the downstairs rooms quietly when the Lovely Lady is sleeping upstairs.  This is not so much because I want to escape detection, as it is that I don’t want to disturb her rest.

I have a suspicion that I am not any more successful at it in these later years than I was as a child.  Still, an attempt must be made.  If one is to wander the house late at night, it won’t do to have the other inhabitants lose sleep because of it.

In all my years of living in creaky old houses, I’ve never encountered a ghost.  Oh, the floorboards pop on their own sometimes, and there are unexplained noises in the night.  Somehow, I think we can eliminate ghosts from the causes there.  No shimmering essence has ever brushed past me on the way down a hallway, and certainly, I’ve never heard the clank of chains.

But, in my head?  That’s a different story.  My head is rife with ghosts.  Some of them are as kind and benevolent as one could wish.  A few are not remotely like that—all screams and anger.   Still others, I barely recognize—long forgotten memories from the dim past.

Tonight, I’m sneaking around on the creaky old floors in my head, in much the same way as I do in the house.  It is an equally vain attempt at not awakening the ghosts who are usually resting there.

Somehow, being ill has that effect on my thoughts.  Perhaps it’s the not-so-subtle reminders of my mortality—the lack of breath, the pain in my joints, the sleepless nights—that lead to the tiptoe walk though the past.

So I said to him——I said——that’ll never go through the door.

My grandfather died the year I graduated from high school, but still I hear his voice, telling another of his stories.  Always—always, they were punctuated with spaces.  They were spaces in which he caught his breath.

When he walked from the front porch to the kitchen, he always stopped at the desk behind his easy chair.  Every time.  Leaning with his big hands on the edge of the desktop, he breathed deep, his powerful chest muscles expelling the bad air and drawing in good.  

As I tried to talk with the Lovely Lady today and gasped for air, mid-sentence, I heard his voice in my head.  Then again, I walked from the den to front door and had to stop and lean on the buffet for a moment and I saw the old man standing there at the desk.

Experience tells me I will breathe freely again very soon.  But, these moments, these brief seasons of walking through the old, creaky house remind me of folks who’ve gone before—people I have loved and who have loved me.

They remind me of other things, as well.  

My grandfather, he of the interrupted sentences, was a storyteller.  He loved a good story.  More than that, he loved being surrounded by people who listened to the stories he told.  The gaps for breathing, at first an annoyance to both the teller and the listener, soon became room for thought and reason for suspense.  A good storyteller uses the tools with which he is provided.  

Grandpa was a good storyteller.  Health impediment or not, he was going to tell his stories.

The thing is, I’m a storyteller too.  You might say, it’s in my blood.  Kind of like the lung issues.  You see, genetics plays a part in my pulmonary problems.  From my grandfather to my son, the males in my family have experienced similar problems of varying degrees.  Without a say in the inheritance, we have each passed down the frailty to the succeeding generation.

May I talk about the storytelling for a moment?  I promise to be nearly succinct.  (Scroll down the page to see if I’m being truthful—I’ll wait.)  The reader will have to be the judge of whether the time is well spent.

Did you know our Creator commanded us to be storytellers?  And, He expected us to pass the love of telling stories down through the generations?  His instructions—oddly enough, passed through another storyteller—were clear.  

Parents tell your children.  Tell them in your home, as you’re hiking on a trail, and when you’re in the shopping centers. Through all the ages, tell them.  Give them reason to believe and to trust in a God who provides and protects. (Deuteronomy 11:18-20) 

The testimony of previous generations is a bridge over which we cross the raging floods of cultural deception and shifting doctrine.  If we fail to provide those bridges for our children, our progeny will be washed away in the roiling currents and howling rapids.

Tell the stories!  Use words that are accurate and attractive.  Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm.  Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone.

Tell the stories!

12745592_10206853935720800_2029702514110622443_nThe Lovely Lady—my favorite walking companion—and I wandered along an abandoned roadbed just a few days hence, as my current bout with my thorn in the flesh began.  We had a goal in mind, a century-old bridge, now abandoned, but still standing.  It has not carried traffic for a number of years.

A monument to the past, the framework stands.  There is even a roadway across, but a few steps onto it and one soon realizes that it will never support the weight of a vehicle again.  

A monument—nothing more.

Bridges are meant to be more than monuments.  Properly maintained and kept, they smoothly move traffic from the place left behind to the destination.  Abandoned, they serve no purpose, but rust and rot into the landscape, forcing the traveler to choose a different route or be carried away in the flood.

I will build bridges.  

With my last breath, I will tell the stories.

As my companion and I wandered, almost sadly, away from the beautiful old span, I realized that my faulty lungs would make the half-mile trek back to the road difficult and wondered about the wisdom of making the trip.  

I needn’t have worried.  Companions are made to help each other on the road.

We don’t walk the road alone—don’t build the bridges alone—don’t cross them alone.

Surrounded by a great cloud of storytellers, we press on.

To our last breath.  

Tell the Story.

 

 

Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we’d better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit!
(Hebrews 12:1,2 ~ The Message)

 

For in Calormen, story-telling (whether the stories are true or made up) is a thing you’re taught, just as English boys and girls are taught essay-writing. The difference is that people want to hear the stories, whereas I never heard of anyone who wanted to read the essays.
(from A Horse and His Boy ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

 

 

 

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

The Magical Sky Fairy

~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

Thinking that some magical sky fairy will take care of your problems is a problem in itself.  

The words appeared in my Twitter feed today in response to a recent article I posted there.  I have seen them before, or at least similar words.

The young lady who wrote them doesn’t believe in God.  She is not alone in her unbelief.

I want to strike back.  Ugly words come in response to her mocking ones.  I can’t help it.  They rise without permission—a natural reaction from a human standpoint.

Immediately, I realize I will never say them. It is not who I am—or, more to the point—not the person He is making me.  But, I want to examine her motivation, to wonder publicly why someone who claims there is no God would be so vigilant to mock those who believe in Him.  Perhaps, I should write about that.

But I wonder.  I wonder.

What if this is not about her?  Do I really believe in some sky fairy?  Is that what God is to me?

Click your heels together three times and repeat the words, there’s no place like home.

Is that all this is?  Is it all humbug?  Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!

My mind races as I review the evidence.  I want desperately to be able to speak intelligent and convincing words.  I know I’m supposed to be ready to give an answer—to explain the hope I have deep inside.(1 Peter 3:15)

But then, I remember that I can’t convince anyone; it’s not my job.  I will give the answer.  That is my job.

The convincing?  That’s way above my pay grade. (John 16:8)

So?  Is it real?  Do I live as if it is?

A few weeks ago, I came back from my childhood home with treasures. They are items which have little value to any other human being on this planet, but which are priceless to me.  My memories are tied up in many of them.

Last Sunday, three generations of my family gathered, as we do each week, to sit around the dining room table and make new memories.  I thought perhaps it was time to inject an old one into the conversation.

As I prepared the table earlier, I cleaned and filled a glass and aluminum container with little white granules.  Then I set the old salt shaker down in the center of the table to await the arrival of our guests.

Five generations.  Five generations of my family have used that salt shaker now.  I flavored mashed potatoes and vegetables from that shaker at my grandmother’s table when I was not even as old as my youngest grandchild is now.

Five generations.  Lovely folk I have personally interacted with.  Members of each of those generations have asked their questions and made their decisions to follow the same God.  I’m sure there were others before them.  I trust there will be more to follow.

IMG_3999 [1904502]Wanting to save a photo of the shaker on the table, I set it out the other day.  As I snapped the shutter, I noticed the reflection on the table’s surface.

I can’t help it.  My brain just works that way.  The mental picture was more real to me than the actual photo.

Salt.  Light.

 

The Teacher made it clear that His followers were exactly that.  Salt.  And light.  Salt to help preserve the world.  Light to show them the way.  (Matthew 5:13-16)

We must keep our lives fresh and relevant.  We can’t hide the light that shines from within us, or fade into the background.

Funny.  The instructions I remember better right now have to do with the words we say.  Let speech be flavored with grace, as though seasoned with salt. (Colossians 4:6)

The other instructions have to do with how we act.  In the middle of a world bent on evil and twisted living, we need to shine like stars beaming out of the blackness of the universe.  (Philippians 2:15)

It’s real.  The God I follow is not fake, not made up.  Of that, I am convinced.

I’ve asked the questions.  Again.  And again.  I’ve asked the questions and had them answered.  Like those before me and those who are coming after me, I believe because I’ve seen the evidence in walking, talking witnesses.  Folks who are salt and light.

I will follow in their footsteps, because others are following in mine.

And others are watching from a distance.

They are watching.  And mocking.

And perhaps, asking their own questions.

I hope it’s not too much to ask if they can be preserved long enough to see the light shining in their own darkness.

I want to be salt.  And light.

You?

 

 

Conduct yourselves with wisdom toward outsiders, making the most of the opportunity. Let your speech always be with grace, as though seasoned with salt, so that you will know how you should respond to each person.
(Colossians 4:5-6 ~ NASB)

 

Grace must find expression in life, otherwise it is not grace.
(Karl Barth ~ Swiss theologian ~ 1886-1968)

 

 

 

 

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