Not Done Yet

Photo by Berit from Redhill/Surrey, UK

The pond is a large one, beside a major roadway.  Each spring, the rains fill it to overflowing, the excess water siphoning over the banks and making broad rivulets down the hillside. That fortunate overflow makes its passage to the river nearby, joining with the rest of the huge torrent as it shoves its way with abandon down the waterway, to join ever wider rivers, eventually making its way inexorably down to the sea.

Fortunate? How could water be fortunate?  I suppose one would have to stay around for a few months to understand that point of view.  The pond, for a short time, is a beautiful sight, so much so that some optimistic folks have built park benches and even a dock from which to fish or swim by its banks.  During the rainy months, there is frequent activity for these improvements; romantic couples sitting by the water’s edge; children splashing and paddling in the clear, sparkling liquid that fills the reservoir.

But, the day will come–sooner than one might think–when no one would consider even sticking a toe in this pond, much less gaze on it admiringly.  The water that was not blessed to make its way to freedom while still clear and refreshing, has turned a grotesquely green hue and is rapidly covered with a layer which defies any brave soul to violate its surface.  Presently, there are  no admirers, and the once-popular retreat is abandoned, bereft of visible activity of any kind.  The unfortunate water that was left behind in the rainy season is trapped in a putrid sea of green, stinky scum.

How could this happen?  What disaster has struck this beautiful body of water, to leave it so; lorn of appeal and purpose?  The answer is simple.  The rainy season has finished and the water that replenishes the pond comes sporadically, but not in a deluge as before.  It does still fall, but none escapes over the side anymore.  The new supply only goes into the depression in the ground, not out of it.  There is no flow, no moving current.  The biological eco-system produces nutrients, lots of them, upon which the algae feeds, and then it thrives in the bright sunlight.  Soon the green scum is out of control, making the pond useless for any kind of recreation.

I thought about that pond today.  A chance conversation with a customer drove my thoughts to that unattractive place.  “I’ve come to the point in my life where there are no expectations of anything from me,” he declared.  I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I prodded a bit.  He explained, “For most of my life, I’ve been engaged and active with other people.  I’m getting older now and I no longer have to interact with them.  I get to just enjoy the things I’ve learned and am learning.”  As he expounded on his justification for this logic, I was shocked to hear him invoke the forty years that Moses spent in the wilderness, along with John on the Island of Patmos, as evidence for his right to withdraw from the mainstream.  It seems that my friend believes that he has earned this respite–that his God has given it to him as a reward for hard work.

I can’t help but draw the parallel with the pond.  Of all the times when he should be sharing in copious quantities what he has learned, he chooses to become a hermit.  Satisfied to keep his knowledge and wisdom to himself, he will die happy.  I say his, but what I intend is that you understand clearly that I don’t believe it is his in any way.  Every single thing we have is a gift; we have deserved none of it.  It not only should be shared, it must be shared.  To keep knowledge and wisdom to ourselves is to become thieves, not once, but twice.  We steal from those who are waiting downstream for the bounty to overflow.  We also steal from ourselves in that we prevent the interaction which keeps us vibrant and active.  Like the pond, what once attracted visitors now repels them.  We even suffer, as all activity moves deep under the surface.  Trapped in an eternal cycle, we regurgitate the same old things again and again, never interacting, never sharing.

Stagnant.  It is a word we use to describe smelly, putrid water that is trapped and still.  It is also what happens to our souls when we move ourselves prematurely out of the current and flow of life.  Give me the white water of the rapids any day!  I want to be rushing to the sea, surrounded by others who are going the same direction. The torrent of the raging river is alive and dynamic; the backwater of the stagnant pond is instead, defunct and listless, going nowhere.

I think I’ll keep rolling along.  There is still a bend or two to go around before I reach the ocean.  The company along the way has been a treat, too.  I hope they’ll keep moving right along with me.  We’ve got lots more to learn together as we go.

Besides, I really don’t fancy that scum-covered green water.  I think I agree wholeheartedly with the always funny Erma Bombeck when she penned those immortal words, “Green is not a happy color.”


“If thou would’st have that stream of hard-earn’d knowledge, of Wisdom heaven-born, remain sweet running waters, thou should’st not leave it to become a stagnant pond.”
(Sir Frances Bacon~English lawyer/philosopher~1561-1626)




“For just as the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, yielding seed for the sower and bread for eating, so will my message be that goes out of my mouth–it won’t return to me empty.  Instead, it will accomplish what I desire, and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.”
(Isaiah 55:10,11~ISV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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Blowing on the Coals

Yesterday, it was.  No.  Longer ago than that.  It just seems like yesterday to me.  On a hot summer’s night, with other young men at the summer camp, I stood near a roaring fire.  Each one of us lit a branch in the fire and, speaking of our vision and intent for the future, promised to always play a vital and active role in sharing our faith and hope with the world, tossing our blazing brand into the fire to join with all the other branches from the other participants.  Like the blazing fire, we would yield warmth and light to a world that desperately needed both. Looking into the faces of the guys around me, I was confident that they meant every word, just as I did, and that we would keep that promise.  It was a powerful moment in shaping the man that I would become.

Decades have passed.  As the boy became a man, and spring turned to summer and then fall, at times the fire has faltered–at times it has turned nearly to ash, barely even warming the hands that reached out toward its warming glow.  It turns out that there is a good reason we describe our environment as a cold, cruel world.  We don’t live in perpetual hot summer nights.

Blazing fires use a lot of fuel; especially so in the cold of winter. And, fuel is hard to come by when so many demands are made on the supply.  Family members have need of comfort, friends borrow kindling when their fires have also burned low, the business world sucks the oxygen out of the environment.  In short, the cares of life have done their part to douse the flame.  Like cold water from a bucket, they scatter the live embers, which glow brightly for a moment and are extinguished.

None of this is news to anyone.  It is the human condition to experience hardship, to know want.  Like many others, my life experience has been an ebb and flow of the inner fire burning brightly and, sooner or later, almost not at all.   I am not surprised, but still I am disappointed.

I have walked into homes in the dead of winter, chilled to the bone.  Seeing a glowing fire, I walk near and hold out my hands to the warmth, only to find that there is none.  These so-called electric fires are cheats and frauds, holding out hope of heat, but yielding an almost anemic level of comfort.  Give me a roaring fire in the fireplace any day!

I wonder, is that what other folks think of my personal warmth?  Do they think that I am a cheat and a fraud?  It is possible.  What I do know is that, in spite of the periods of ebbing warmth and comfort, there has always been an ember of promise glowing.  Even when it feels as if there will never be a blazing conflagration again, there is yet that kernel of energy burning in the depths of my heart.  Hardship can’t extinguish it; disappointments fail to smother it; disaster has yet to overcome this burning ember.

Several times over the last few weeks, I have felt the fire blaze up brightly and then, almost without warning, drop down to the point where there was almost no sign of energy to be seen or felt.  Yet still, even in the darkness and the chill, hope flames up once more.  That is the ember–hope.  The Apostle speaks of it, reminding us that suffering produces perseverance, and perseverance produces character.  Most of all, character produces hope, which will not disappoint.

I’m blowing on the ember of hope tonight, giving it a fighting chance to blaze up again.  Perhaps, by morning there will be a full-blown flame on the grate.  Time will tell.

If anyone has an extra log or two to throw in the fireplace, now would be as good a time as any.

S’mores, anyone?

“We fall down, we get up.
And the saints are just the sinners
Who fall down and get up.”
(“We Fall Down” (gospel song)~Bob Carlisle~American singer/songwriter)

“More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”
(Romans 5:3-5~ESV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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Living the Dream

Someone else said it again today!  I heard the words, and still found them hard to believe.  Yet, over the last few years, I have heard the same thing from a number of people.  The young man came in to buy some guitar accessories, but stayed to talk.  It seems that he loves guitars and wants to learn to repair them.  After several moments in discussion of the activities I do here, he said the words.  “This would be my dream job!”

I wanted to laugh.  Dream job?  My mind went back to when I was a child in school.  The teacher asked what we wanted to be when we grew up.  Did I tell her that I wanted to own a music store?  Ha!  Not in the remotest corner of my mind did the idea of becoming a music store owner pop up.  I never in my life thought that I wanted to run a music store.  Never.  Why in the world would someone think that this would be their dream job?  But, people say this again and again to me.  I’m a little confused.

Tonight, just to be sure about my facts, I even checked the latest list of the top two hundred jobs in America.  Nope.  Music store proprietor doesn’t even make an appearance.  Garbage collector is on there.  Dental assistant made the cut.  You can even find mail carrier, corrections officer, and maid on the list.  No music store owner.  It doesn’t matter.

I still love what I do.  After thirty-five years, I can’t think of any profession I’d rather be in.  But, I never, ever dreamed of doing what I do for all of my adult years.  It wasn’t even a blip on the radar screen of my life’s blueprints.  Perhaps, I just wasn’t the dreaming kind of young man.  Maybe if I had tried, I would have been able to scare up some semblance of this life in my imagination.  Nah–never would have happened.

When the kid said the words earlier today, my reply to him was, “Mine too!”  I wasn’t lying.  Not now.  Over the years, I have come to realize that sometimes God just gives us the good things we failed to ask for, things we never knew we needed. After all, we read that every good gift is from above.  I’m pretty sure that a life spent loving what we do is a good gift.

We all have dreams.  But, more than that, we all have abilities.  It’s a wonderful thing when the abilities and the dreams mesh and our entire life becomes a dream come true.  Sometimes though, we are blessed enough to travel a divergent path, one on which we simply put our abilities into practice and, in the process, are led to a lifetime of fulfillment.

Perhaps we should compile our own list of dream jobs.  The experts would be surprised, wouldn’t they?  I know more than a few ladies who would insist that being a stay-at-home mother is the pinnacle of success.  I won’t disagree.  There is one fellow in my acquaintance who is a kind of picker and makes a living buying items at auction and selling them to various businesses and in flea markets.  He wouldn’t trade places with any man he knows.  Bicycle repairman?  Ditto.  Teacher?  No doubt.  The list would be extensive–and surprising.

I still have other dreams.  I’m not waiting for them until I go somewhere over the rainbow, either.  That’s not where dreams come true, in spite of what we may have been told.

Every good gift, and every perfect gift really does come down from above; coming down from the Father of Lights.

I think I’ll keep looking up!

“God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.”
(Elizabeth Barrett Browning~English poet~1806-1861)

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.  What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.”
(Henry David Thoreau~American writer/philosopher~1817-1862)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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Promises to Keep

The family gathered for their traditional Easter dinner, an event that included several branches of the family tree.  The table, really two tables shoved together in the living room to accommodate the entire crew, had been loaded with provision a mere half hour before, but was showing signs of depletion as the diners pushed back in their chairs.  Offers of dessert were met with pained requests to delay the treat until the initial gorging had settled for awhile.  The children headed for parts unknown, confident that the after dinner conversation would be completely uninteresting, a point of view which might be argued to be accurate, even by a few of the adults.  It didn’t matter; by that time most of the folks at the table were too lethargic to care much anyway.  However, one of the little girls wanted to hang around near her grandpa, so she watched her brothers and sister troop out without her.

As she stood next to him, she noticed something.  Poking her grandfather in the mid-section, she was rewarded with a jelly-like bounce of the over-sized abdomen.  “What’s that, Grandpa?”  she queried.

Glancing around to see who else was listening, her grandfather said, in a stage whisper, “That’s my fat belly.” Naturally, the entire tableful of grown-ups chose that moment to cease the hubbub of conversation that had covered the little girl’s question.  They certainly heard his words, and listened with interest to hear her reaction.  She didn’t keep them waiting long.

“I don’t like your fat belly!”  The eavesdroppers guffawed at the embarrassed man, and the little girl suddenly noticed that she wasn’t in a conversation with just her grandfather anymore.  She stiffened her resolve and reiterated her position loudly.  “I just don’t like it!”

“Well then–I’ll get rid of it, Sweetie.”  The aging man didn’t stop to think of the ramifications; he merely said the words to calm her down.  “I’ll get rid of that fat tummy just for you.”  The little blond urchin was mollified, but she still got in a parting shot.

“Good!  ‘Cause I don’t like it.”  And with a baleful glare at the others around the table, she was gone to join her playmates.  The object of her castigation was simply relieved to have the ordeal over.  He didn’t think about it again–until almost a year had passed.  One-fourth of the tyke’s life.

As another Easter approached, the thought intruded (without permission) into his mind again and again, “You made a promise you haven’t kept.”  Funny.  It didn’t feel like a promise when he said it. But now, looking down at his still-fat belly, he heard his own voice clearly in his memory, “I’ll get rid of it, Sweetie.”

It sure sounded like a promise.

Guilt crowded in.  Promises must be kept.  Always.  Even the ones you didn’t intend to make.

So it was that, tardy by a whole year, the little girl’s grandpa sat at the table again as the Easter meal was served.  He made the announcement as the food began to be passed.

“This is my last meal before I start to keep a promise I made to a certain little girl.”

The family, reminded of the conversation, laughed again, but he was dead serious.

The belly is disappearing.  Changes have been made so that the promise may be kept–finally.  His goal within sight, the grandpa is finally beginning to feel that his guilt for forgetting his promise may actually be left behind along with the body fat which is slipping away.

The tale is not told here to focus on any effort by the little sweetheart’s grandfather.  That may or may not be laudable.  The story is passed along solely to have a conversation about keeping promises.

It seems that our society values only promises made to folks who are important enough, or powerful enough, or demanding enough, to bring about the action necessary to fulfill the pledge we have made.  But this is exactly how we miss the point.

Keeping a promise says nothing about the person to whom it was made.  Keeping that promise speaks volumes about the person who makes it.  Integrity demands that we keep our word, regardless of the person to whom we have given that word.

Promises un-kept eat at the soul of the promise breaker.  Promises fulfilled, especially at a cost to one’s self, build character and produce the personal satisfaction that comes simply from doing what is right.

The little girl’s grandpa is choosing his menus with a little self-discipline these days.  He’s also setting aside time on most days to get in some physical exercise.  Somehow, it seems an extremely cheap price to pay for integrity.

Come to think of it, he really didn’t like that fat belly much either.

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
(from “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”~ by Robert Frost~American poet~1874-1963)

“If a man makes a vow to the Lord, or takes an oath of binding obligation on himself, he must not break his word, but must do whatever he has promised.”
(Numbers 30:2~NET)

“‘Some people don’t understand the promises they’re making when they make them,’ I said.
“‘Right, of course.  But you keep the promise anyway.  That’s what love is.  Love is keeping the promise anyway.'”
(from “The Fault In Our Stars”~John Green~American author)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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