Month: October 2015

Jesus Wept

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I wasn’t going to talk about it again. 

Not today, anyway. 

My thoughts tell me that no one wants to read about gloomy subjects.  I wish I could say the sky has been overcast in recent days and I’m just depressed.  But it hasn’t and, honestly, I don’t think I’m depressed.  Somehow, I just realized that all around me people are dying.  It is not a happy thought.

Actually, there are probably not any more people dying than normally do; it’s just that I can see it now.  As embarrassed as I am to admit it, having been through the process of losing my own mother just recently, I think that, finally, I see those around me who are mourning their own losses.  And, finally, I am sad for them.

Why embarrassed?  And, why finally?

They are two questions which are tied up in one package.  I wish I could untie it easily for you.  I wish my answers to the questions wouldn’t simply lead to more questions. 

But, I can’t.  And, they do.  I think though, if I never start, I’ll never get any answers.  So, I’m starting.

I hope you don’t think me a hardhearted monster.  I have attended many funerals.  I have made many verbal statements of condolence.  I was sad at the funerals.  I meant the encouraging words.  But, having attended and having spoken, I moved on.  That’s the way it is, right? 

Life goes on.  We can’t live in the past. 

You’ve heard the statements, perhaps even said them.  So, I moved on and didn’t give it another thought.  I lost myself in work, or play, or family, and life was good. 

I lost myself…what a thought!

It’s not far from the truth.

You see, when we are not moved by the suffering of people around us, we’re not who our Creator intended us to be.  He made us emotional people.  He made us to feel empathy, to be sad when those around us are sad, to laugh when they laugh, to rejoice as they rejoice. 

He Himself did just that.

As a child, I loved John 11:35 in the New Testament.  Well, of course I did.  It is the shortest verse in the Bible, so it could be quoted faster than any other when I was called upon to demonstrate a verse I had committed to memory. 

Jesus wept.

I never once—not once—thought about what it meant. 

I do now—frequently. 

Jesus—God with us—shed tears. 

The tears were not only, as supposed, in sadness for His dead friend, Lazarus.  No, in one of the verses just previous to this truncated one, we are told that His spirit was deeply moved as He observed His friend’s sister and community in great sorrow for their loss.  He was moved by their grief to intense grief Himself. 

We’re encouraged to be like He is.  We like to think that this means that we’re to be spiritually minded, and giving, and teaching.  All true. 

But, who He is, is also empathetic and feeling, and crying. 

How did we miss that? 

How is it that by insinuation, we have encouraged people not to cry at the death of a believer?  How many times did I hear growing up, the words that came (sort of) from the Bible: We don’t weep as the heathen do, who have no hope. 

Somehow, we turned the exhortation to remember our hope of eternal life as we grieve for a lost one, into an exhortation not to weep.  People who cried too much, or too loudly, weren’t focused on the important things and surely needed to be reminded about them.  Perhaps that’s the reason we hear so many platitudes, reminding those who have lost people they love that they shouldn’t grieve too much.

I’m reminded of the beautiful note that a friend sent me after the death of my mother-in-law a few years ago, voicing her appreciation that we gave her permission to be joyful.  We did that.  But I also want you to know that you have permission to weep.  It’s not a sin and you shouldn’t feel guilty about doing it.   We have His example.  It’s okay.

Some time ago, I stood in front of my church on a Sunday morning, leading our time of worship.  As I looked out on the crowd, filled with folks, young and old, I realized that something was wrong. 

The young folks, usually animated and involved with the music and words, stood subdued as we sang songs they love.  I wondered what had happened.  Then, that afternoon we learned of a tragic death on their college campus and I understood. 

I wept that night for parents bereft of their daughter for the rest of their life; for siblings who would long to make phone calls and give hugs, but could not; for classmates who would miss conversations and laughter, along with all the events which make the experience at college memorable for a lifetime. 

And then again, just days ago it seems, I wept as friends in our church lost their son, suddenly and tragically.  Even today, they weep…and for years to come, I’m sure.  Still, I weep for parents, and siblings, and friends, all bereft of the presence of the young man they love. 

Today in our town, there will be a memorial service for a young man who, looking at issues too great for him to face, made a final and tragic choice.  People who loved him are left behind and I weep for them, just as Jesus did.

As I said, I’m surrounded by death, and it seems at times that I am overwhelmed with the sadness.  And, that’s as it should be. 

But—and I like this but—but, all around me, babies are also being born (or expected), children are growing and learning and reveling, friends are rejoicing in good news from family, and new jobs, or the return to health after long illnesses. 

The same empathy which requires that I cry the tears of shared sadness, also requires that I smile with shared pleasure, and exclaim with shared joy. 

I don’t want to lose myself in my work; don’t want to bury myself in my schedule.  I need to live, realizing that the life we’ve been blessed with includes great joy, as well as great sadness.  To insulate ourselves from either is indeed, to lose ourselves and to be buried prematurely.

Are you rejoicing?  I’m with you!  Are you grieving?  I feel that too.  I’m not all that great at either, but I hope you’ll be patient with me as I continue to learn.  There are a lot of hard lessons ahead.  I still have questions which need answering. I’m desperately hoping I’ll be prepared for the tests. 

I’m reminded of how Red Green always ended his commentary on his television show.  Somehow, it seems to fit tonight.

Remember I’m pulling for you.  We’re all in this together.

 

 

 

Rejoice with those who are rejoicing.  Cry with those who are crying.
(Romans 12:15~ISV)

Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth.  Go in peace!  I will not say; do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.
(from The Return Of The King ~ J.R.R.Tolkien~English author/educator ~ 1892-1963)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.

My Father’s House

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I joked with the Lovely Lady as I headed for my office tonight.

“I’m not sure there are any words left in me, but the morning light will tell the tale.”

“Ha!”  The humorless laugh burst from her lips.  “You said that awhile back, and I’ve had to proof thousands of your words since then.”

She has a point.  Only days ago, I felt the well was bone dry, and my efforts at pumping the handle utterly futile.  I had said all I had to say, shared all the wisdom I have gathered over my lifetime.  Hopelessly, I gave the handle one more push.  One final, desperate attempt.  I don’t know from whence the words came (I never have anyway), but suddenly they gushed out.  Like water on the parched earth, they washed away the dust and debris, leaving fertile ground in their tracks.  

For awhile.  You may have read some of them.  They may even have made sense to you.  

I hope you enjoyed the experience.

The well has dried up again.  Or, so it seems to me.

I remember when all I had to do was to walk up to the warehouse where the nouns, the adjectives, the adverbs, and the verbs were stored, and yell at the building. Immediately, they all piled out the door in a long conga-line of letters and punctuation, ready to swing into action.  I could always find a few conjunctions to hold them all together, as well.

Tonight, I stood outside and yelled, but nothing stirred.  Then, like the police SWAT team, I even walked through the building clearing each room, but only turned up two or three words in my search.  They’re lined up outside now, after I ordered them out of the building.

I wonder if they’ll be any help to me.  I’ll hit them with the spotlight just in case.

father. house.  

That’s it?  No wait.  There’s something hiding behind the first one.  Yes, I see it.  An apostrophe and the letter s.  

Father’s house?  Oh.  I know what this is about.  I don’t want you guys.  You can go.

What’s that?  You want to know what it’s about?  

I warn you.  It won’t be pretty.  They’re only a couple of scrawny little words right now, but as soon as I use them, they’re going to be joined by a lot of other words you don’t want to hear—words like memories, the past, sadness, moving on, maybe even death.  

I’ll tell it, but it won’t be a pretty picture, I can assure you.  I know I don’t want to see it.  In fact, that’s the reason the words were hiding.  I stashed them there in the dark myself and told them to stay out of my sight.

I was going to say the story started just a few days ago, but suddenly I am aware that it really began over fifty years in the past. 

HomeThat’s when we moved into that home.  Seven of us moved in, fresh from a tiny mobile home on the two-acre lot across the street.  Seven.  We thought the place was a mansion.  Well?  After cramming seven people in that little two bedroom trailer, it was a mansion.

Fifty-two years of living, loving, arguing, yelling, crying, singing, eating, playing, talking, listening, sewing, writing, hair-cutting, nursing, reading, sleeping, cleaning fish, plucking chickens, and—well, you get the idea.  

It all happened there, and a lot more.  A lot more. Cousins came to visit, along with grandparents, aunts and uncles, friends, preachers, missionaries, and tattooed men riding motorcycles.

Mostly, it was the seven of us.  Making memories to last a lifetime, some warm and fuzzy, some not so nice.  We’ve all got the good with the bad.  For many of us, time rubs the rough edges off and the good memories shine brightly, while the bad ones fade into the background.  

And, what’s so bad about all that, one might ask?  I told you it wouldn’t be pretty, didn’t I?

The not pretty thing is that it’s all coming to an end.  I mentioned the story begins a few days ago.  That’s when the letter arrived.

The place is going to be sold.  It sounded so calm and businesslike.  Clean.  Painless.  My intellect agrees.  I told the man so.  

“It’s a great idea, Dad.  You should have done it years ago.”

My intellect doesn’t rule my heart.  My heart wants to know how you sell your memories.  My heart wonders if perhaps it would be less painless to cut off a hand.

I sit and look over all the words which have trooped out to join the original two and the truth dawns.

I haven’t set foot on that property for nearly ten years.  Except for sporadic periods of time, no one has lived in it for nearly twenty years.  Yet somehow, my memories of my time there are still intact and clear as they ever were.  The loving feelings for my parents and siblings, nurtured and tended to there in that two-story residence, remain to this day.

The old ramshackle frame building is in need of someone else to inhabit it.  Perhaps it will, one day soon, be home to another young family who will abuse and test its structural limitations, much like the Phillips brats did.  

It’s time.  Still, the act of selling it is so final.  We can never go back.  Never.

Except in our memories.

It’s time.

Those two words are still slouching against the warehouse, though.  They haven’t been used yet.  Perhaps, I can put them back away for another day.  But then again, maybe not.

Father’s house.  

Funny.  The words never described the building I’ve been writing of.  That was my family’s residence.  Sure, it was a home, as far as homes go here.  It was a great place to live and love and share.

It was always temporary.  

You see, my mom has already moved on to the Father’s house.  My dad is recognizing that it won’t be many years and he’ll be changing his address permanently, as well.  Going to his Father’s house.

My intellect knows that it is a better residence than what they’ve had here.  Absent from the body.  Present with the Lord.  (2 Cor 5:8)

My head knows this.  

Still, my heart aches to think of it.  It is so for all of us.  

And again, I look at those words and contemplate others I also believe, and I know the memories will have to do.

For now.

We’re all just here temporarily—pilgrims—nomads—headed for our Father’s house.

We're all just here temporarily—pilgrims—nomads—headed for our Father's house. Click To Tweet

It’s not for sale.  

But there are mansions to live in there.

My Father’s house.

Good words.

 

 

 

There are many dwelling places in my Father’s house. Otherwise, I would have told you, because I am going away to make ready a place for you.
(John 14:12 ~ NET)

 

Where we love is home—home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
(Oliver Wendell Homes, Sr. ~ American physician/poet ~ 1809-1894)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved. 

The Messenger

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I’ve been doing the same job for almost thirty years.”

The astonishment in the pretty little girl’s eyes was almost amusing.  I was just happy to see a different emotion there than the sadness which had surfaced just moments before.

She had been told she could find a piano teacher at my store and came by, her dad and little sister in tow, to see if she could make arrangements to start lessons soon.  When I told the eight-year-old youngster our teacher had just retired, she was heartbroken.

I explained that the teacher had been doing the same thing for many years and needed a break.  The explanation was not enough to brush aside her profound disappointment.  For some reason, perhaps because I’ve been thinking a lot about the passing years in my own chosen profession lately, I mentioned our upcoming anniversary of running the music store in our little town.

Thirty years!  It was unfathomable!  

In her young brain, doing the same thing for nearly four times the number of years she had been alive couldn’t be imagined.  When I told her I was nearly sixty years old, she just shook her head in disbelief.

“You don’t seem that old.”  She meant it as a compliment.  

I took it as one.

hand-619735_1280Moments later, as the little family prepared to take their leave, the sweet girl approached me, sticking out her hand to shake mine.  I was surprised, but took her tiny hand in mine and gave it a little squeeze.

“My name is Cynthia.  This is my sister, Sara (she pronounced it for me a second time—Sah-rah), and you already know my father.  I’m happy to meet you.”

Stifling a little laugh, I told her to call me Paul.  Satisfied that the formalities had been covered, she followed her dad and sister out the door, still talking as she went.

Cynthia came back to see me today.  Her dad had some business to take care of, but she had business with me, as well.

The young lady had been thinking about our conversation yesterday.

“You know, this thing about you being so old?  You shouldn’t worry about that.  When you die, if you know Jesus, you’ll go to be with Him and you’ll never get any older.  Ever again.  Forever and ever.  That’s how long we’ll live there.”

I thought about hugging her right there in the music store, but that’s not the proper thing for a nearly sixty-year-old man to do with little girls they’ve only just met.  I had to be content with thanking her and assuring her that I did indeed, know Jesus.

You know I’m not worried about dying, right?

Still.

The tears have been close to the surface for awhile now.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe I don’t need to know why.

I am keenly aware that time is getting shorter.  What once seemed an eternity before old age arrived, along with the specter of death which will naturally follow, has now compressed into only a decade or two.

I know that all around me the reminders of our fragile hold on life in this world are multiplying.  Tonight, as I read a friend’s account of his wife’s flight from this world exactly a year ago, I wept.  I hardly knew her, but I read of his sadness mixed with hope and I remembered that, in the natural course of things, the days are moving to that unbreakable appointment for all of us.  

I remember also, none of us has even the promise of tomorrow.  As I hear almost daily of friends who are struggling with diseases which threaten to cut life short, the tears rise again.  

Sadness?  Yes, but also the razor-sharp awareness that time is flying past.

What does all this sappiness have to do with a little girl talking about me having one foot in the grave?  Not much.

What it does have to do with is the fact she was concerned about this old man enough to ask if I knew Jesus.  

A little eight-year-old girl.

When was the last time I shook hands with someone and reminded them that He is the Way, the Truth, and indeed—the Life?

Do I really believe that time is getting short?

This old man has talked enough for one night.  Perhaps, we’ll speak of this again soon.

Then again, just a handshake and a question or two might be better.

Time is flying.

 

 

 

…taking advantage of every opportunity, because the days are evil.
(Ephesians 5: 16 ~ NET)

 

If I should speak then let it be
Of the grace that is greater than all my sin
Of when justice was served and where mercy wins
Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in
Oh to tell you my story is to tell of Him.
(from My Story ~ Mike Weaver/Jason Ingram)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.