Is Grandpa Crying?

I stood silently for a moment, looking at the young man kneeling on the floor.  I needed time to let my bruised ego heal.

I know.  It’s a pretty fragile ego that can’t stand up to a boy’s question, but there it was.

He had asked the question several times.  That could have been it.

No.  It was just the idea that I wasn’t enough.  I wanted to be enough.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?  Let’s see if we can sort this out.

The lad’s father had dropped him off earlier, telling me he’d be happy to pick him up if there was any trouble.  I didn’t expect any and told the young man’s father so.

He is my grandson, after all.  Grandpas and their grandsons can do a job together without falling out, can’t they?

I wonder if the last time had anything to do with his offer.  It was a month or more ago.

I have this vision of a man on his knees in the kitchen struggling with the tile he is laying down.  The old guy is clearly an amateur, unsure of his next move, but determined to make one anyway.

Oblivious to his grandfather’s quandary, the fair-haired boy at his side has a tape measure in his hand and is talking a mile a minute.

“Look, Grandpa!  Six inches!  Is that long enough?  Hey, what does that rubber roller do? What are you going to do now?  Can I help you cut the next piece?  Do you think I could pound on it with that hammer thingy like you did? Are you ever going to finish this job?”

I don’t remember what happened next.  Well, in truth, I don’t want to remember it, so we’ll just say I’m ashamed and move on, okay?

That memory, or lack thereof, is the reason I invited the boy back for another shot at laying vinyl tile—in the bathroom this time.  I reasoned that I was now a pro at the task, having successfully (mostly) completed the original job in the kitchen.

I wanted another chance at being a better Grandpa as much as I wanted him to have another chance at laying the flooring with me.

What could go wrong?

We were using the left-over material from the kitchen job.  We had enough to cover the bathroom floor with nothing to spare. 

We couldn’t make a mistake.  Not one.

The first cut I made was on the wrong end of the directional vinyl.  The very first cut.

I did the only thing I could do.

I yelled for the Lovely Lady.

The boy’s grandma quickly came in from the front bedroom where she had been painting the walls.  I showed her my error and enlisted her puzzle-solving skills to help us determine where we could work in the pieces I had cut wrong.

I think it may have gotten us off on the wrong foot.  Every time after that, when we came to a moment of indecision or panic (on my part—not his), the young man looked up and asked if I wanted him to go get Grandma.

Well?  Every kid knows if Grandma can’t fix it, it can’t be fixed.

It’s only logical.  Grandma fixes boo-boos with Wonder Woman bandages.  She can thread a needle in three seconds.  She can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich like nobody else.  She knows just when to get out the chocolate chip cookies.  She mends the ripped dollies. 

Grandma can fix it.

I get it.  Still, it hurt.  After the third time he asked the question, I stood for a moment considering.  I didn’t want a repeat of the event we’re not talking about, so I took my time.

Finally, in a calm, unhurried manner, I told him the only time he’d need to call Grandma for help on this job was if Grandpa was crying.

I had no intention of crying.

The handsome young lad gazed at my face, a smile playing around his mouth.  He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or simply to nod seriously and wait for my next move.

He didn’t suggest we call Grandma again.  Grandpa never cried.  Well, there was that time the trim board fell on my head, but I suppose rubbing your skull and yelling Ow! isn’t crying, is it?

Nobody cried.  This time.  But, I’ve been doing some thinking.  

Why are we experienced humans (old people) so slow to ask for help? 

Our kids have no such reticence.  Yet we, in our great wisdom (or ignorance) keep muddling through, making mistake after mistake, swinging the hammer thingy when we ought to be operating the roller, smashing thumbs and sucking the blood.

All we need to do is call. Aid is ours, simply for the asking. Click To Tweet

The writer of the Psalms knew it.  The reason I call on you is that I know You will answer me.  Listen now, and hear my request. (Psalm 17:6)  

And, it is a fact that even David wept before God as he prayed.  But, most of the time he asked long before that.  Long before.

Why does somebody have to cry before we will accept help?

I said earlier I wanted to be enough in my grandson’s eyes.  It is the desire all of us have.  I read over and over these days, in the self-help, self-image propaganda that we need to know we are enough.

I don’t want to offend, but it’s a lie.

I am not enough.  I never have been.  On my own, I stumble along in the dark, feeling my way and frequently, falling apart.

I am not enough, but He is.  Again and again, He is enough.

I am not enough, but He is. Again and again, He is enough. Click To Tweet

More than enough.

I can’t tell you if we need to call Grandma.

I do know that before the trouble starts, prayer works.

In the hardest days of our lives, God is there.

When the tears fall, He is enough.

And, He doesn’t need second chances to be a good Father.

But, I’m kind of glad He gives second chances for this old man to be a good Grandpa.

I need lots of practice.


If nothing is going well, call your grandmother.
(Old Italian proverb)


So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask him.
(Matthew 7:11 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.





© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Sugar Is Good For You

It was just an overheard conversation.  

Funny, how a few words directed at someone else can change the tenor of the day.  A thought, tucked away in a vacant corner of the brain and carried through the afternoon unnoticed, gives a different perspective which can’t really be explained. 

The earlier parts of the day hadn’t worked out at all as I had planned.  

A trip into the attic to correct a simple problem had turned into three trips into the attic.  I had planned to be up there only during the coolest hours of the morning.  

When I finally tumbled out at noon, drenched in sweat and nearly choking on the dust from the rock wool insulation, the mood was set for the rest of the day.

That’s the way it seems to go, isn’t it?  I’m not saying it has to; it’s just what we expect after a morning filled with disappointment.

I was gloomily mowing in the hot afternoon sun when my labor was interrupted by a message from the Lovely Lady.

He says we should come over now if we want it.

She had found a cabinet she wanted that someone in a town thirty miles away was selling.  Did I mention it’s the weekend for one of the biggest motorcycle gatherings in the country?  

The busiest weekend of the year as far as traffic goes, and we were going to be on the highway.

Great!  Just great!

I told you it would only get worse.  You just watch!  We’ll get behind a bunch of those bikers out cruising and will be stuck for miles.  Miles!

We stopped at the ATM to get some cash for the purchase.  The machine only gives cash in twenty dollar increments.  We would have to stop and break the bill to have the amount of the asking price.

Frustrated and ready to do something desperate, I suggested we just buy a couple of Cokes.  It was, I suppose, my way of making a statement of protest while demonstrating my problem-solving abilities.

I do like to solve problems.

Well?  It’s in my nature.  I am a man, you know.  This fit perfectly.  I could break my self-imposed no-sugar rule while getting the correct change into my pocket.  

It was a rotten day already.  Why not just wallow in it?

Someone had different plans.  I would like to say it was to show me that sugar is good for me.  That’s probably not it.

Inside the convenience store, I walked back to the cooler and picked out a couple of twenty-ounce bottles, carrying them back to the counter.  The two ladies behind it were just talking. With each other.

I wasn’t included in the conversation.  Except, I was.  

I was intended to hear every word.  I’m certain of it.

“We were listening to the news last weekend and they reported that the boy with autism was missing.”  

I set my items on the counter and she scanned them without missing a beat.

“My little boy wanted to pray for him to be found, so we did—right then.  That’ll be three dollars and sixty-three cents, please.  The next morning we heard he had been found.  My son was so excited!  So excited!”

I pocketed my change and walked out the door, a different person than I had been when I walked in.

It took us almost two hours to go over, pick up the cabinet, and come back.  And, just as I had predicted, we did get behind a group of touring bikers on the way back.  They rode about forty-five miles per hour on the winding two-lane road all the way home.

What a great afternoon!   No.  What a perfect afternoon!

There might still be some who would credit the sugar-high from the Cokes.  They’d be wrong.

The apostle who loved to write letters said it this way as he closed his missive to the good folk at Philippi: Whatever is great news and worth talking about, that’s what you need to keep in your mind. (Philippians 4:8)

He wasn’t talking about the power of positive thinking.  He never said you could name it and claim it.

The reality is this world is an unhappy place.  We wrestle with things we don’t understand.

When we dwell on those things, we are overwhelmed.  

Overwhelmed with fear.  

Beaten by pessimism.  

Conquered by worry.

But, I’m sure of this one thing:  The truth we know is bigger than the doubt we feel.  

The truth we know is bigger than the doubt we feel. Click To Tweet

When we fill up the corners of our mind with the reminders of His love and power, His peace reigns.

Sometimes, it’s no more than the knowledge that He cares about little boys who pray, as well as the little boys who wander away. 

Just in time, I stood at that counter to overhear, eavesdropping on a conversation I wasn’t part of.

I’m saving up those worthwhile stories, squirreling them away in the vacant corners of my memory.

It may be time to sweep out some other cluttered nooks and crevices to make room for more.  

It has become so easy to collect darkness and gloom from almost every source we see.  Our lives will be swept away in those currents if we allow them to take root.

Courage to walk on is born in the corners where excellence is stored.

Courage to walk on is born in the corners where excellence is stored. Click To Tweet

Peace along the road is the product of true and honorable thoughts. 

I do wish it had more to do with the sugar.

I’m fixing my mind.



Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.
(Romans 12:2 ~ NLTHoly Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)


Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up all those things – trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones.
(from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English novelist/theologian ~ 1898-1963)






© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

What if my Best Isn’t?

Don’t you know that’s a youth song?  You sang it like an old hymn!

The silver-haired lady didn’t actually shake her finger in my face, but I had a vision of it being waggled there.

I almost laughed.  It was an old hymn.  To me, it was.  Why—right there on the page, beside the author’s name, it told when he wrote it.  1902.  

Really. 1902

It was an old song.  For old people.

Then I read the words again.  And again.

Give of your best to the master.
Give of the strength of your youth.

I apologized to the dear saint.  The next time I led it, with the Lovely Lady accompanying me, we sang the song with a tad more pep, and just a little more vigor.

I learned a lesson that day.  It’s profound.  You’ll want to save this.

Old people were young once.

Most of them still remember it.  Some, vividly.

I know young Timothy’s instructor didn’t mean for me to take it this way, but I can’t help but think it.

Let no man despise your youth.  (1 Timothy 4:12)

It is disrespectful to the aging and elderly for us to disregard the experiences they had as young folks.  The things that shaped the adults they would become haven’t diminished in importance in all the ensuing years.

It is a youth song.  Written in 1902.

I dare not speed on past without revisiting the words our old friend, my namesake, had to say to his youthful protegé, though.

Don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. (1 Timothy 4:12

I wonder how many times a day I hear—or read—disparaging words directed at the younger generation.  The generalizations are rampant, the vitriol nearly universal.

All coming from old folks.  Okay, aging folks.  People who once were young themselves.  People who can’t stand to have the days of their own youth ridiculed.

I’ve done it myself.  

These kids today. . .

I repent.

A young friend sent me an invitation a few weeks ago.  The local university, as it has for a number of years, was sponsoring an evening dedicated to promoting writing and the arts in a faith-based environment.

I glanced at the two guests who were on the schedule.  A comic-book illustrator and a spoken-word artist.

Lightweights!  This is what passes for writing and art?  Pass.

I repent.  Did I say that already?  It doesn’t matter.  I may do so again.

The Lovely Lady encouraged me to go.  Friends were going to be there.  There was ice cream.

I went.  Don’t tell the friends, but the ice cream is what tipped the scales (no pun intended).

May I tell you what happened?  

Surrounded by young folks who could be my grandchildren, I saw respect.  They were attentive.  They were appreciative.

My eyes were opened.  Well, when they weren’t filled with tears, they were opened.  The tears were a surprise.

I detest spoken-word poetry.  All angst and anger and foul language, it falls somewhere on a scale with rap music, without the music.

I thought.

The young man, in his jeans and untucked shirt, skull-cap pulled over his head tightly, looked for all the world like a street punk to this old man’s eyes.

I sat back, arms folded across my chest, and dared him to move me.

I dared him.

He moved me.  

No.  That’s not right.

The Spirit moved me.

It was all I could do, when the young poet, arms windmilling above his head and waggling in front of his face and hanging down at his side, spoke the names of Jesus—it was all I could do—not to jump up and shout like a Pentecostal in a Holy Ghost revival.

And, I’ve never been to a Pentecostal Holy Ghost revival.

I looked down and I was sitting on my hands with my legs to keep them still, the tears streaming down my face.

There is a power that comes, not from experience, nor from age, nor from practice, but from the Word.  From the mouths of babes, through the writings of old men, by the witness of all who are His, He speaks.

From mouths of babes, writings of old men, & witness of all His own, He speaks. Click To Tweet

Disregarding our differences, ignoring our preferences, and brushing aside our objections, He will be heard.

Disregarding differences, ignoring preferences, brushing aside objections, He will be heard. Click To Tweet

I wonder if it’s time for us to realize that our Creator uses—He always has—the methods He thinks best to ensure an audience for His words.

I wonder if it’s time for us—young and old—to close our mouths about those methods we don’t especially like.  

I haven’t always given of my best for Him.  Sadly, I may have left it a bit late to give of the best of my youth.

I’m grateful that all the young folks aren’t waiting around until their golden years to work on it seriously. 

Still, I have begun to look at youth a little differently.  I wrote recently about that great cloud of witnesses the writer of the book of Hebrews in the New Testament describes.  I realized that these men and women are my peers.  

Really.  Moses, Abraham, Rahab, Sarah, and all the others—all of them, my peers.  Yours, too.  

We’ll join them one day, to live without any time limit there. 

If we’re to live forever, and I believe we will, we’ve only lived a minuscule percentage of all the days we have ahead of us.

I’m still young.

There’s still time.

I’ll give it my best.


I invite you to watch the video linked below.  Powerful words—from the heart of the poet and directly from God’s Word.


When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
     Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
     Than when we’d first begun.
(from Amazing Grace ~ English clergyman ~ 1725-1807)




© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Changing the Future

Our past meets our future in this place we call the present.

The words, I wrote a few years ago.  They still rattle me every time I re-read them.

Well?  Why wouldn’t they?  The concept is enough to mess with anyone’s brain.  Momentarily, at least.

We like to keep things in boxes.  Neat.  Logical.  With labels to identify the contents.

Some of us are more interested in keeping things in boxes than others.  I freely admit it.

“Go to the store with me, will you?”

The Lovely Lady stood at the door, notebook in hand and ready to buy groceries for the week.  I, wise husband that I’ve become in nearly forty years of practice, quickly agreed.  Cheerfully.

There is a hierarchy at the grocery store.  It’s not complicated.  She puts things in the cart and marks them off her list. 

I push the cart.  That’s it—just push the cart.

Oh, wait.  There is one other thing I do.

I sort the items in the cart.

Don’t make that face!  You’re rolling your eyes too, aren’t you?

That’s just what she does when I start sorting.  Well—it’s what she used to do when I started.  She’s come to expect it now.

If there were boxes in the cart, I’d use them.  There aren’t, so imaginary quadrants must suffice.

Fresh veggies go at the back of the cart, heaviest on the bottom (potatoes will smash bananas).  The Lovely Lady wants to keep me around (for sorting things, I suppose) as long as possible, so there are more fresh veggies than anything else.

From there, logic rules.  Canned goods go in one section, boxed in another.  All the refrigerated items stay together.  It keeps them colder; I’m sure it does.

Fragile items, such as chips (not nearly as many of these as there should be) and eggs, go in the flip down compartment that once served to corral our children.

It’s a good system.  I like it.

The problem comes when we get to the checkout counter.  I am careful—fanatical, some might say—about keeping the items in the same quadrants as they progress to the checker.  What would they think of me if I sent the milk down the conveyor belt beside the flour?

And, now we come to it.  The fly in the ointment, so to speak.  The bee in my bonnet, if you will.

The checker, somehow oblivious—utterly—to my care and prudence, callously snatches each item from the belt, swiping it past the scanner and tosses it, willy-nilly, into the empty, waiting cart beside her station.

Boxes are jumbled at angles with cans. Potatoes smother celery and toilet paper.  The milk, heavy enough to be placed on the bottom of the cart instead of tossed, is at the front of the conveyance while the meat is at the back, both warming much too fast for my overloaded sense of order.

Maybe we should move on.  Shall we?

Our past meets our future in this place we call the present.

Past meets future in this place called the present. Click To Tweet

I’m not obsessive-compulsive about everything in life.  Still, I have, for many years, considered what I would like to see when I look back over my life on that last day.  To that end, I have attempted to keep a semblance of order in how I have lived.

What was it Mr. Shakespeare said?  What’s past is prologue was the phrase, I believe.  The meaning is clear.

What we have done in the past leads us, without fail, into the future.  The nano-second of the present, a mere blink of the eye, will forever affect what is to come.

My trip through the grocery is the past.  Plans, all laid carefully, were executed flawlessly.

All it took was just seconds—an instant in which I lost control—and the present had altered the future catastrophically.

Hmmm.  I think perhaps—for this example anyway—one could call that hyperbole.  

Regardless, the point is clear enough, is it not?

There’s an old maxim, not quite in line with Scripture, but still it comes to mind.  It says the road to hell is paved with good intentions.  

I think, if the road to hell is paved with them, the road to heaven is, at least, littered with them.  

We know what the road to heaven is paved with; it’s paved with the grace of our loving Savior.

It is specifically because of His great love for us that I want to be able to look back and know I have journeyed in a faithful way, leaving a clear record for those who walk the way after me.

But, in the most crucial moments, it all gets jumbled and messed up in a colossal manner.

My past is introduced to my future with moments I am ashamed of.  Again and again.

Surrounded by that great cloud of witnesses (Hebrews 12:1), I’m chagrined.  Mortified.

I’m a failure.

But then, I look into those faces, the witnesses I mean.  For one or two who are named, there is no record of failure.  The rest of them? Failures, every one!

Every one.

Failures who fell flat on their faces.  Liars, con men, drunks, womanizers, bad parents, murderers even.

But, they got up (or were picked up).  They took the next step.  And the next one.

I can do that.  I’m still breathing.  

I think it’s time to be walking again.

That way.  Following His lead.

The future is still waiting.  

I can’t change the past.

The next moment will be the present.

Here it comes.



Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.
(Sir Winston Churchill ~ British Prime Minister ~ 1974-1965)


Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.
(Hebrews 12:1 ~ NLTHoly Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)




© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Live Boldly

I’m not sure when it stopped mattering to me.  At some point in the last forty years, things changed drastically.

I don’t care what they think anymore.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?  Perhaps, a little explanation will aid in unravelling my boast.

It was during the last semester of the school year.  The beloved director of the student orchestra, which graciously allows me to participate—I think, just to have the part covered—had handed out a new music piece.

We sight-read the piece.  Sight-reading is the act of playing a piece of music through without having ever rehearsed—or even seen—it before.

I didn’t realize it was true of my playing, but it must have been.  After the rehearsal session was over, as we were putting away our instruments, one of the students mentioned that he had heard my solo line clearly.

I don’t know how you dare do that—play it loud enough for everyone else to hear.  And, on the first run-through, too!

I thought a minute before replying.

There’s no one here I’m afraid of.  Why not play it out? 

It hasn’t always been the case.  My old horn teacher hammered the thought into my head.  I’ve written the words before.

If you’re going to make a mistake, make it loud enough for me to hear!

The last time I wrote the phrase, someone responded with Martin Luther’s words, paraphrased a bit.

Sin boldly.

I cringe a little at the words.  I don’t want to encourage anyone to live a life of debauchery, claiming the grace of God as their get-out-of-jail-free card.  That’s not the way it works.

But, Mr. Luther knew and understood our lifelong tug of war with self and sin.  He affirmed the grace of God to be more than adequate to the task of cleansing us from all sin.

Still.  I will say it again.  Play it out!  Speak with authority! Belt out the tune!

I’ve not always followed that advice.  For many years, what I wanted was to be loud enough that everyone would hear the good and compliment me for it, but soft enough that not one listener could detect the rotten inconsistencies that were bound to turn up sooner or later.

What changed?

What changed was the realization that there was nobody—either in the ensemble or in the audience—I was afraid of.  There is nothing they can do to hurt me.

I’m just sorry it took me so many years to realize it.

All those wasted years spent sliding around wrong notes and playing out of tune—meekly and quietly—when I could have been making a difference.

Bold and certain of my sanction, I could have been a voice that made a difference, sounding with clarity and purpose.

Hmmm.  I think we’re not just talking about playing in the orchestra anymore, are we?

And the Teacher told His disciples that they had been practicing in the dark and behind closed doors at low volumes for long enough.  All that was about to change.

What you’ve been playing at the pianissimo level behind closed doors and in the dark will soon be played out in the town square at fortissimo.  You’re afraid of the wrong people!  Don’t fear them.  Fear God. (Luke 12:3,4)

I’ll admit, I’ve taken a little liberty with the context.  To my knowledge, that little band of men has no record of having played musical instruments, even though they did sing a time or two.

Still, the meaning is the same.  Very nearly.  

Don’t be afraid to be heard.  Be loud!  Be bold!

But, maybe you don’t play a musical instrument.  Perhaps you simply answer a telephone.  Or clean floors.  Or write code. Or sell flowers.

Whatever you do, you can do it with boldness.  You’re not doing it for anyone who has the power to harm you.

We perform for the One who has made it clear, unequivocally and emphatically that He will not allow us to be harmed.  Under His direction, we find safety.  (Psalm 46:1)

Does that imply that no one will laugh at us?  Is it a promise of physical protection, that we will lead charmed lives?

You know the answer.  Damage to the body is not damage to the soul.

He holds our souls in the palm of His hand.  It is the only safe place—the only one.

So, we speak boldly.  We act courageously.  We love audaciously.

Speak boldly. Act courageously. Love audaciously. Click To Tweet

There’s nothing to hurt us here.

There's nothing to hurt us here. We're held firmly in His grip. Click To Tweet

Held firmly in His grip, we live life out loud.




Live well.  Sing out, sing loud, and sing often.  And God bless the child that’s got a song.
(Nanci Griffith ~ American singer/songwriter)


The wicked run away when no one is chasing them,
    but the godly are as bold as lions.
(Proverbs 28:1 ~ NLTHoly Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation.  All rights reserved.)



© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Retreat Sounds

They called them retreats.  

We couldn’t have told you what the word meant.  Not when used in that context.

Usually, a group of teenagers was loaded into cars to ride to unfamiliar surroundings, mostly campgrounds in the middle of nowhere.

For two or three days, we engaged in ambitious activities—games, hikes, group discussions, and the like.  Since we were usually thrown in with other teenagers we didn’t know, the stress level was high as we vied for the pretty girls’ attention and did our best to mark our territory and establish superiority over the other boys.

It wasn’t a relaxing time.

I am older now.  Much older.  The need to impress pretty females has faded into a dim memory (except for one particular Lovely Lady).  Mostly, I leave the butting heads process to younger men anxious to leave their marks on their corner of the world.

I have a much better comprehension of how to retreat now.  In a world filled with the imagery of battles and strife, the time to turn away from the fray and find a place in which to tend to wounds and basic emotional and spiritual needs is well within my power of discernment.

Quite obviously, the term is of military origin, although not necessarily in the sense in which we normally view it.  

Somehow, we have been taught to believe retreat is the same as a rout, a defeat in battle.  Although that might sometimes be the case, on many occasions a retreat is called simply to give the combatants a chance to rest and get ready to re-engage.

The wise leader always knew when his command was at the breaking point, the place where casualties would begin to mount catastrophically.  Sounding the retreat was a way of living to fight another day—on full stomachs and well rested.

Retreat is rightfully a tool of battle, not an admission of defeat.

Retreat is rightfully a tool of battle, not an admission of defeat. Click To Tweet

The warrior king who wrote many of the Psalms understood the value of the retreat.  In the worst time imaginable, a time when he was fighting battles with his own son, he writes of sleeping soundly and once again arising to courage and faith.  (Psalm 3:5,6)

In the most popular of all his writings, he speaks of lying down in green fields and of being led by still waters to be restored in soul and spirit. (Psalm 23:2,3)

David writes of the soul of the warrior at rest in the Prince of Peace.

The soul of the warrior is at rest in the Prince of Peace. Click To Tweet

I need that.  Exactly that.

Perhaps, I’m not the only one.

Our lives, to the uninvolved bystander, are completely unlike the one this man-after-God’s-own-heart saw unfold before him thousands of years ago.  And yet, for all that, our battles aren’t any less hard-fought, nor any less important.

My battles don’t look anything like those of folks around me, either.  Still, battles they are, with casualties to be counted and wounds to be dressed.

Retreat must come.  It must.

And Jesus told His followers it was time for them to retreat. (Mark 6:31)  Well no, not in so many words.  But, the meaning was exactly that.  They had so much more ahead of them, and they needed to be rested and healed.

Come aside.  Rest.  Recover.


Wait!  What?

If our retreat is not preparation to re-enter the field of the battle, it is nothing more than admission of defeat.  Complete and utter.  Defeat.

Yes, it’s time—perhaps, past time—for a retreat, a time of healing.  But, if that time isn’t used wisely, in preparation for what is yet to come, we could just as well have stayed out there swinging in exhaustion without stopping.

The man on the sidelines who is never coming back into the game is no longer a competitor.  

If we’re called aside, it’s only for a short season.  

A soldier fights.  A servant serves.  A teacher teaches.

Out there is where we fulfill our purpose.  If the trumpet has sounded retreat, it is to get us ready to go back out there.

Armor on.

It’s time to stand.




They don’t know that 
I go running home when I fall down
They don’t know Who picks me 
Up when no one is around
I drop my sword and cry for just a while
‘Cause deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child.
(The Warrior is a Child ~ Twila Paris ~ © Universal Music Publishing Group ~ All rights reserved)



© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Turning the Screws

It’s not like I’m a light weight.

In pounds, I mean.  And yet, all it takes is the turn of a screw and I’m carried away.

All the way to forty years ago, I’m dragged back.  Nineteen seventy-seven.  And all I did was insert the blade of the Craftsman screwdriver into the slot and turned.  Just a trivial flat-head screw.

The facelift on this old house has been a challenge.  Nearly every new task has loomed before my spirit in brazen defiance.  Several have very nearly defeated me.

In my deepest bouts of self-doubt during each of these tasks, I find myself turning aside for a few moments, or an hour, or even a day.  I abandon the difficult and unfamiliar to spend some time doing the easy things—the repetitive little chores which must eventually be done, but require no great amount of knowledge or resolve.

I remove knobs or door stops.  Here, a hinge needs to be replaced.  There, a brace.  Old screws are removed, the item repaired or replaced, and reattached, either with the same screws or new ones.

Almost without exception, the items I remove are held in place with slotted screws—the kind which require a flat-head driver to manipulate them.

I had one of those moments today.  Overwhelmed by the mental gymnastics required to make a repair to an old section of the ceiling, I decided instead to install that cabinet door latch we had purchased a couple of weeks ago.  Grabbing the Phillips-head screwdriver, I knelt in front of the cabinet and bent my head to peer inside the opening.

The tool I held was useless for the task at hand. You might think I’d be frustrated, but that wasn’t the case.

Smiling, I made my way back to the tool shelf in the utility room, selecting my favorite flathead screwdriver from the jumble of hammers, wrenches, drill bits, and pliers.  Returning to the cabinet, I removed the old, broken part without a hitch.

It was his house, you know.

Always.  Always, the white-haired man installed flathead screws if he had a choice.  I met him forty years ago, and it was never any different.

Even before I went to work for him full-time in the music store, I helped out if he had need of an extra pair of hands when I happened to be loitering about. I loitered about quite often in those days.

That first time (the place I was carried back to), it was a piano bench—the kind with a storage compartment concealed under a hinged top.

The old fellow—in his late fifties by that time (anyone over forty was old to nineteen-year-old me)—knelt beside one end of the bench plying a Phillips-head screwdriver, not quietly.

“Those things are terrible!  Give me a slotted-head screw any day.   I don’t know why anybody thought a Phillips was a good idea.”

He looked over at me and grinned.

“I mean the Phillips-head screw and driver; not you and your family.”

Even when he was frustrated, the jokester in him wouldn’t be repressed.

We replaced every screw in those hinges with slotted-head screws when it was buttoned up, as he called it—just in case he ever had to work on that bench again.

In all the years I worked with that white-haired man who would become my father-in-law, I never knew him to have a Phillips screwdriver that wasn’t rounded off or stripped completely.

He did the same thing to many of the screws he attempted to remove with the damaged tools.

Did you know that most screws in use today are Phillips-head screws?  The crosshead pattern, paired with the correct size driver, gives the person driving the screw greater turning power and a more secure seat for the tool.

Slot-head screwdrivers have—well—slots, places the driver can slide out of either side if it’s not held exactly flat and perpendicular to the screw.

It took me a year or two to figure out the old man’s problem with the new-fangled screws (they were patented in 1936) he fought with constantly.

He was using the wrong tool.

Oh, he used a Phillips-head screwdriver to drive Phillips-head screws, but there are, in fact, five different sizes of the tool.  Five graduated crosshead shaped drivers, which fit twenty-four different sizes of screws.

That’s right.  Five tools.  For twenty-four sizes of screws. No wonder his drivers were always mangled.

I’m still smiling at the memory I have stored away.  But, I’m wondering if there is something more to be learned here than not being set in one’s ways?  I think there is.

I find myself these days reading a lot.  As a writer, it’s a practical way to learn new techniques and different styles in writing.  As an aging man, it can be a frustrating discouragement.

Everywhere I look, I see formulas.  You know—if you do A, B, and C, the result will be D.

I’ve tried doing A, B, and C.  The result is categorically not D.

It never has been.  It never will be D, no matter how many times I repeat the process.

I don’t fit their formula.

I notice now that many packages which once stated one size fits all have been amended to state one size fits most.  I’m pretty sure even that is an exaggeration.

No one needs me to affirm that we are all different.  One look at me (and possibly yourself) will confirm that some of us are, indeed, quite odd.

One size doesn’t fit all—or even most.

Our Creator made us to be the individuals we are, all part of the same human race, but all marching to different rhythms.  We all have different sized dreams.

God gives us all different sized dreams. One size doesn't fit all. Click To Tweet

He knows each one of us—knows exactly what drives us—knows how we’ve been uniquely gifted to achieve His purpose.

Every one of us who will come to Him does so in the same way, by way of the cross.  From there, His Spirit is the driving force, perfectly proportioned for our life’s journey.

The apostle who wrote letters had a clear, personal understanding because of his own experience.  His assurance was that God’s grace was enough.

Enough—specifically for him. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

This is important.

God’s grace fits us—each one of us.

God's grace fits us—each one of us. Click To Tweet

His grace is enough for me.  It’s enough for you.  Whatever we’ve done, wherever we’ve been, His grace fits our precise need.

Not one individual is excluded.

He doesn’t stop there.  From the pen of the same author comes the declaration of infinitely more. (Ephesians 3:20)

Without limitation.

We come, every one of us by way of the cross, to find His grace enough and His provision more than we could ever ask of Him.

Can I say it?  I think I will.

The Right Tool for the right job.

It fits.

It always has.

Every time.



You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body
    and knit me together in my mother’s womb.
 Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!
    Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.
(Psalm 139:13,14 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)






© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Integrity. Again.

It was embarrassing.  To me, anyway.

I don’t suppose anyone else noticed it.  Even if they had, they wouldn’t have mentioned it.

The pastor was talking.  Something about things the disciples misunderstood about Jesus.

I think that’s what it was.  I was paying attention.  I was.

But, looking down as he spoke, I noticed them.  The threads.  The ones hanging from the hem on the right sleeve of my shirt.  It wasn’t just one or two, either.  

The whole edge of the sleeve was frayed, with white strings dangling like the fringe around the shade of grandma’s old table lamp.

I don’t remember what the pastor said now.  I do remember looking quickly from my right arm to the left, only to find more frayed edges.

It is one of my favorite short-sleeved shirts, but I will never be seen in it again.  Years of wear, of putting on and taking off, of raising my hands in joyful triumph and of shaking my fists in angry frustration, have taken their toll on the woven cloth and left it weak and fragile.

It has lost its integrity.

No longer do the crisscrossed threads, woven over and under, keep their place.  No longer is there a sharp crease at the edge of the sleeve, a clear boundary between fabric and skin.

It has lost its integrity.

I stealthily ran my finger around the circumference of each sleeve, to try and hide the errant threads.  Pulling the sleeves tight against my biceps, I hoped no one would notice.

They may have.  Or not.  It doesn’t matter.

The Lovely Lady will remove the buttons, tossing them into a jar—why, I’m not sure— and the once-favored garment will find itself in the trash bin, come trash pickup day.

Well?  I can’t very well go around in a shirt with no integrity, now can I?

When last I wrote, it was scars.  Today, a lack of integrity.  Both hidden.  Both needing to be exposed to the light of day.

They are not the same—scars and lost integrity.  Somehow though, we punish folks for both, blaming the injured as much as we do the dishonest.

But, I want to make this clear—crystal clear:  Grace suffices for both.  

Grace heals our scars, restoring our damaged spirits and renewing our joy.  

Grace makes new the fabric of our broken lives, restoring integrity and revitalizing our resolve.

Because of grace, we can journey on.  In His redemption, we are made new, neither wounded nor dishonorable.

His offer is for a garment with integrity and without stain.  Ours—the price paid completely by our Redeemer. (Revelation 3:18)

No more embarrassment.

No more being tossed aside.

He doesn’t cut off the buttons and throw away the worn out fabric.

He doesn't cut off the buttons and throw away the worn out fabric. Click To Tweet

Grace makes new.





In great matters, men show themselves as they wish to be seen; in small matters, as they are.
(Gamaliel Bradford ~ American biographer ~ 1863-1932)


May integrity and honesty protect me,
    for I put my hope in you.
(Psalm 25:21 ~ NLTHoly Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation.  All rights reserved.)





© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Undressing in Public

My pocket was vibrating.  We were most of the way through Eternal Father, Strong to Save when the distraction began.  Ignoring the momentary buzzing, I bumbled my way through the end of the piece.

I don’t use my phone during orchestra rehearsal.  Usually, I don’t.  But you know—my house could have been burning or an intercontinental ballistic missile might have been heading our way— so, as soon as our conductor turned her attention to the violins, helping them to find the pitch which they seemed to have lost during the last piece, I checked my messages.

One was a reminder that I had promised to go to coffee with another member of the orchestra at nine o’clock, right after we finished the rehearsal.  The other was from another friend, inviting me to join him and a third friend at ten o’clock for coffee.

It was cutting it close (and there was a danger of caffeine overdose), but I snuck my phone onto the music stand and surreptitiously sent a return message saying I would try to be there.

I hope no one will squeal on me to the director.

Friends in this world are hard to come by.  Friends who will take the time to invite a grumpy old guy such as I to coffee are even harder to find.  

Time spent among such friends is never wasted.  Never.

I met with my red-headed tuba-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more. 

Then I met with the preacher and his/my guitar-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more.

All in all, the two encounters were probably the most important two hours I spent in the whole day.  They were completely uneventful.  By that I mean there were no important decisions made, no actions taken, not even any subjects of any great significance discussed.

There were two things which happened, which have had me thinking for two days.  The first happened near the end of my time with my friend from the orchestra.

An acquaintance, who knew both of us, wandered by on his way out of the restaurant and took a minute to stop and talk with us.  As we wondered aloud how he was doing, he began to unbutton his shirt.

Let me show you something. 

My friend and I exchanged quizzical glances.  I can’t speak for him, but people don’t normally undress in public while I’m talking with them.  We needn’t have worried.  

He just wanted to show us the scar.

The scar from his open heart surgery a few months ago went from just below his ribs up to the top of his chest.   He told us in colorful terms about his previous symptoms and the surgery, as well as its aftermath.  It was good that we had finished our coffee and buns already.

I only mention the event because the second thing that happened was very much like it.

I arrived at the second venue for coffee consumption just a few minutes after the agreed-upon time and grabbed my third cup of coffee of the morning before sitting down with my two friends.

Within minutes, the guitar player was unbuttoning his shirt.  Seriously.

Let me show you something.

His scar was horizontal, not vertical.  Just below his collarbone, the three-inch incision was not completely healed and it looked tender.

The pacemaker/defibrillator has only been in his body for a short time, but he joked and dismissed it as lightly as if it were of no consequence at all.  We knew better but didn’t dwell on it.

Two men, within a quarter hour of each other, had unbuttoned their shirts to show me something I would never have seen otherwise.

What a curious thing!

It was almost as if there was a message I needed not to miss.

There was.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

How many people do I see in a day?  Ten?  Fifty?  A thousand?  I suppose it depends on the day and the places I go.

Still, if inside of fifteen minutes, two men had shown me their scars, how many do you suppose I pass every day—every single day—who have scars they don’t show me?

How many people are walking around hiding scars?  Scars too ugly, too fresh, too painful to reveal to anyone.

You know we’re not talking about physical scars, right?  Well, maybe some of them.

Some physical scars work their way right down into the soul of the person wearing them.

Scars put there by hatred.  

Scars dealt out by people who were supposed to show love instead.  

Scars carved into their body by their own hand.

And yet, those scars are, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said, only the tip of the iceberg.

We carry, in our bodies and souls, scars innumerable.  Scars we wouldn’t dare to show to anyone.

Not to anyone.

There is not one human being who is unscathed.  Not one.  We all have scars.  Words said.  Pain remembered.  War.  Old age.

Every part of our lives has its anguish.  Scars come from all types of injuries.

And, we walk around with the scars hidden from sight.  Walking wounded, many of them yet unhealed.  Oozing, scabby things—they threaten to drain the life from us.

Tears come as I contemplate it.  So much pain.  So much hopelessness.  All concealed and festering.

Some of it is mine.  Perhaps, yours as well.

Our Savior came to bind up the broken hearts. (Isaiah 61:1)

More than that, He came to heal the scars and take away the pain.  Because of His scars, healing is ours. (Isaiah 53:5)

There are some who take those words to mean physical healing. I won’t argue His power to do that.  It seems clear though, that the words are intended to give us an unequivocal promise of healing for our souls.

Our scars need no longer be hidden!  We need conceal our pain and our shame no more.

Thomas—the one we ridicule as the doubter—asked Him to unbutton His shirt and show him. Right in front of a houseful of His followers.

The scars of a common criminal—revealed for everyone in the room to see.  The stripes upon His back, laid on by the Roman soldier.  The holes in his wrists and feet, torn open by spikes hammered through (not gently).  

All uncovered without embarrassment.

For us, His flesh was laid open.

My heart breaks as I consider all who walk in shame and fear—fear of the exposure of their scars and fear of carrying them to their graves.

I wonder.  Maybe it’s time to show our scars to each other.

Maybe it's time to show our scars to each other. Click To Tweet

Maybe it’s time to tell the Good News, to do a little binding up of wounded hearts ourselves.

Maybe, it’s time to undress.

In public.

Let me show you something.


It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
(Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy ~ American philanthropist ~ 1890-1995)


He heals the brokenhearted
    and binds up their wounds.
(Psalm 147:3 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.®  All rights reserved.)





© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.