Joy Is Right In Front Of Us

The pallet of pavers sits right outside my office window. It is a reminder of joy.

Hmmm.  I suppose that’s not something you hear every day.

How could a stack of red brick-like pavers symbolize joy?

That, I suppose, would depend on your perspective. It’s not really the pavers themselves that turn my thoughts to joy, but merely my recent experience with them. It’s possible by the time I’ve done the labor necessary to utilize the rectangular chunks of concrete, I may have a completely different frame of reference for them.

Life is like that. Today, joy. Tomorrow, toil. After that, who knows? Joy again. Or, pain. Perhaps, even sadness.

But, what about the pavers?

And, the joy? 

Not my joy—well, not exclusively mine—but I was there to get a taste of it.

Perhaps, I should explain.

A friend, who lives next door to my grandchildren (yes, to my daughter and her husband too, if it comes to that), offered to sell me the pavers a couple of weeks ago, so we made a deal. I would need to pick them up myself, no small feat, since there were more than three hundred of the heavy little bricks.

By myself didn’t sound like such a good idea.

I recruited my grandchildren to help me load and count them. Since they live next door to the fellow with the pavers. And, since there are four of them and only one of me. You know—by myself.

So it was that on a recent afternoon we found ourselves in the mid-July heat counting and stacking. Ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit sounded less furnace-like when I was in my air-conditioned living room than it did at the tailgate of that pickup truck.

The sun beat down and the sweat poured from our faces and various other locales. Still, there was nothing but good-natured teasing and joyful banter from the kids and their mom. Black widow spiders and crickets galore did nothing to change the mindset.

Perhaps it was the hundred-dollar bill I offered beforehand that set the mood. No, it couldn’t have been that; there was no such offer.

Maybe, it was the ice cream and pizza I had promised them. Again, no. All I promised them was the chance to help an old man move heavy, dirty pavers from one place to another, all while keeping track of how many they had each moved.

They worked with joy! With no promise of any payment whatsoever, they labored in the blasting sun for over an hour. Joyfully. And then, they offered to come to my house and help me unload every single one of the despicable things.

I don’t understand it. Whatever happened to the carrot or the stick? Shouldn’t they have been either offered a reward for their work, or conversely, a punishment should they refuse to comply? Isn’t that how children learn?

Joy. Simply in achieving a task and spending time with people they love. This is a mystery to me. Really. A mystery.

Perhaps we can work this out.

I am a follower of Christ, also known by the title Christian. We Christians talk a lot about joy, sometimes scolding folks who are unfortunate enough to call it happiness instead of by its proper title. I wonder if that’s the right way to go about demystifying joy.

Possibly not.

Still. What about this thing called joy?

Maybe we could start with, since I am a Christ-follower, well—Christ. You know—the author (the initiator) and editor (perfecter) of our faith. Come to think of it, there’s a passage that says just that. And here’s a surprise; the verse talks about joy, too.

We look to Him, the author and the finisher of our faith, who, for nothing more than the joy of completing the thing, gave His life on the cross, discounting the shame, and sat down beside God in heaven, at the right hand of His throne. (Hebrews 12:2 ~ my paraphrase)

Our Savior, the One who set us on the road of our faith and who will bring it all to completion, came for the joy of doing just that!

I’ve heard it suggested that the joy which was set before Him was being able to sit down beside His Father in Heaven. But He already had that before He came. If that was the joy talked about here, He needn’t have come at all (Philippians 2:5-8)

Yes, He was elevated to that position again, but He wasn’t working for that as a reward. Simply for the joy of accomplishing the task before Him, He came in love for the whole world.

I don’t need to tell you His work conditions weren’t the easiest. Early in life, His parents had to flee their homeland to find safety for Him. As an adult, His people rejected Him. The religious leaders hated Him, persecuting Him and His followers endlessly. He had no place to sleep. He was hungry. He knew the sorrow of losing loved ones. And finally, one dark day, the humans He came to save killed Him.

Joy? It’s still a mystery to me.

And yet, there is something…

Oh, yes! The children. My grandchildren. They did that. For the joy right in front of them, they endured.

And, there it is.

He said to them, unless you become like this little child, you’ll not see heaven. (Matthew 18:3 ~ my paraphrase)

As a little child, with joy and humility, we are to serve. In heat, sweating and thirsty. In cold and rain and floods and sickness and poverty and turmoil and…

He calls us to joy. Always.

Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ…

Joy. In the journey.

And, while we move the bricks.

                             

 

A joyful heart is the inevitable result of a heart burning with love.
(Mother Teresa)

I pray that God, the source of hope, will fill you completely with joy and peace because you trust in him. Then you will overflow with confident hope through the power of the Holy Spirit.
(Romans 15:13, NLT)

                             

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

 

 

Living Life in the Open

It’s time to tear down walls instead of building more.

I never knew him.

The same could be said of many whose voices have fallen on my ears — whose hands I have shaken — whose eyes I’ve looked into.

Him, I never spoke with — never laid eyes on.

The young African-American man was moved by an article I wrote and was kind enough to send a note telling me so.

We were connected only by the information superhighway, a mode of transport that never brought us closer than a note here, a click of the “like” button there.

Friends, they call it.

As if applying the label could tie the knots to bind individuals together. As if we could struggle past our differences in locale and in community.

He was a student of the martial arts; I a student of classical music. He was city through and through; I lock the doors to my car on the outskirts of any urban center, unlocking them only if there is no other choice or when I have passed the city limits sign on the other side.

And yet, it seemed there was something there — a connection of sorts.

Tears filled my eyes on the day he wrote the words: He’s gone. Sitting right across the table from me, and he dropped dead.

His best friend had died of a massive heart attack as they sat eating and joking. He never got over it.

I wrote a note, which he acknowledged. We exchanged other notes, but they were vague and disconnected. Something had changed.

A few months later, I was shocked to read the words from a relative in a message to the young man’s online friends.

Tonight, he decided there was nothing left worth living for. I’m sorry to have to tell you this way. Thanks for being his friends.

I know. I cry too easily. This was different.

A friend died, his life ended before he was a quarter of a century old.

I never knew him.

Still, he was my friend, my brother. The tears flowed.

They fill my eyes even now.

Can I tell you something? Even if I had never exchanged a word with him, we would have been connected. Even if his name had never been in the listing of friends I had made in my social network, it would be true.

If I haven’t made it clear enough before in my writing, let me say it again here:

We are all connected. All.

There was one Man who insisted on it. At the crossroads of history, He stood and said:

If I do this — if I allow myself to be the sacrifice — it will be for every human whose heart beats within his breast. I will draw all men to myself. (John 12:32 ~ my paraphrase)

I am not a universalist. Many who are drawn will not come. I know that.

And yet, what if all that is standing between one who is drawn and the Man-God I claim to follow is me?

Or what if — on the flip side of the coin — what if I’m the one who will help that one who is drawn to make up his or her mind?

If I say I love God, but do not love my brother, I am a liar.  The truth is not to be found in me. (1 John 4:20 ~ my paraphrase)

I watch with horror as the barriers are being erected. High and strong, the walls are being fortified.

Brothers dwell within every fortification, but few will venture out from behind their safety. Few can abandon their petty claims — to hold out a hand in friendship, to embrace family.

Family.

We argue about words and slogans, while people die.  We insist on our version of truth, while souls hang in the balance.

I’m convinced we will meet again one day, where no barrier stands

Together, beyond that dividing line between this earthly existence and eternity in Heaven, we’ll stand and will weep as we realize the powerful truth of His words.

All men. Black, white, brown — called out of every nation, every tribe.

Drawn to Him — away from the worship of false gods, from following false prophets, from teaching false doctrines.

We’ll weep until He wipes away the tears from our eyes Himself. (Revelation 21:4)

I said earlier that I cry too easily. I wonder.

Perhaps we need to cry more while we’re here, not less.

My young friend who abandoned hope sat and listened to music right before he took his last breath. Missing his friend who had died before his eyes, he thought he heard in the words of the song an invitation to join him.

Sadly, it seemed easier than walking a difficult, lonely road without him.

Another young friend, who also has known the horrible pain and emptiness of losing someone he loves, wrote recently of his struggle to comprehend a God who allows such things.

He has reached the conclusion — not lightly nor easily — that likely, it’s our understanding of God that is flawed and not the other way around.

We build a box and stuff God in it, much as we do with people.

Neither will stay in the boxes we have built.

God is too big.

People are too stubborn.

And yet, out in the open seems dangerous, doesn’t it? Too exposed, too brightly lit, too vulnerable.

But we’ve tried hiding. It achieves nothing lasting, leaving only suspicion and hatred.

Perhaps, it’s time to try openness.

There’s more room for hugging and handshakes out here.

There will even be some tears.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

                             

So let the light guide your way, yeah
Hold every memory as you go
And every road you take, will always lead you home, home

It’s been a long day without you, my friend
And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
We’ve come a long way from where we began
Oh, I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
When I see you again.
(from See You Again ~ Franks, Puth, Thomaz ~ 2014)

How wonderful and pleasant it is
when brothers live together in harmony!
For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil
that was poured over Aaron’s head,
that ran down his beard
and onto the border of his robe.
Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon
that falls on the mountains of Zion.
And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing,
even life everlasting.
(Psalm 133 ~ NLT)

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

Hope Shines Bright

There were tears at the dinner table tonight. Some might have been my own.

I suppose in some families the occurrence is not all that rare. Arguments between siblings or even partners can end in tears. Lectures by mom or dad to children, too. Unkindness is no stranger to family assemblies. Tears flow. They just do.

That wasn’t the reason for these tears.

We sang a song—a blessing of sorts—before we ate. It wasn’t our usual dinner benediction. I’ve described for my readers in the past the lovely rendition of The Doxology which is frequently heard at our table. Often, just the singing of the beautiful lyrics with its well-known melody and harmonization is enough to make me feel I need no more food than that heavenly feast.

Tonight, my family—some might correct me and tell me it is her family, but I stand by my claim of them—sat around the table in their childhood home and one brother chose a different song to sing.

It has been a difficult day—a difficult few weeks, if it comes to that. It was a Friday night back a way that the phone rang and the hateful word was said again. After a year of feigned dormancy, the despicable thing has come back to life and is again a word on our tongues. Whispered. Spoken in quiet tones, as if the low volume might pacify its voracious appetite.

Cancer.

What an ugly word. A year ago, the major surgery to remove the diseased portion of a lung was pronounced a success. Then the word on the doctor’s lips was cancer-free.

Not now. This time the words are stage IV and chemotherapy.

Now, there’s a sneaky word. Chemotherapy. It sounds so benevolent, so peaceful. Almost like aromatherapy. Relax and drift away. Yeah, right!

Today was his first treatment. Five hours in the chair while his body was infused with numerous chemicals, the result of which no one can foretell with any level of certainty.

We expected to whisper the words. Tonight, of all nights, we would whisper.

Ah. But that was before. Before the benediction. Before the tears. Before the sermon.

Oh. I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

My brother named the benediction for us. We sang, my brothers, my sisters, the Lovely Lady, and others present. Yes, yes. They are her family. I know that. But they are also my family.

Ruth wasn’t wrong when she said the words to her mother-in-law Naomi all those millennia ago:

Your people shall be my people; your God shall be my God. (Ruth 1:16, NLT)

My family. My brothers. My sisters. My wife. I laugh with them. I worship with them. I weep with them. Ah, yes; I sing with them. Sometimes, all at the same time.

Tonight, my family sang. A song of who God was; who He is; who He always will be.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness. It’s not such an old song, as hymns are reckoned. Nearly one hundred years old now. But, the powerful words, the affirmation of the One we believe in—those are ancient. Ancient.

Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:22-23, NKJV)

Clear, youthful soprano tones spilled into my ears from the teenaged girls to either side of me. I heard strong alto notes from more mature voices nearby. One brother and I carried the tenor part (well, he carried it—I just helped a little), leaving the older brother to handle the bass.

I still say the music in heaven won’t be very much sweeter. I hope that’s not too presumptuous. We sang of a God who knows our pain and our sicknesses, our weaknesses and our strengths, yet remains steadfast, never turning away from His path, nor from the ones He loves.

From our hearts, we affirmed the character and attributes of the Creator of all we see and know. I closed my eyes as we sang, partially to concentrate on the words and the voices, but mostly to hide the moisture that seemed to be leaking (without my permission) from them.

It was a holy moment.

As we ended, I heard a voice at my side speak quietly, I thought, almost in disbelief. “Look. Mom’s crying.”

She wasn’t the only one.

And, in a voice just as quiet, my/her brother—the one facing the life and death ordeal—preached a sermon (a short one) as he told us he had adopted as his own the words from that same song.

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.

They were, I believe, the last quiet words spoken at the table this night. There was no more whispering, no more avoiding those ugly, hateful words.

Cancer. Chemotherapy. Prognosis.

God is bigger than any of those things.

Bigger!

He gives strength to face the burdens of the day.

He gives hope—yes, even bright hope—for what comes tomorrow, whatever it is.

Image by Another_Simon on Pixabay

 

It doesn’t make light of the serious situations we find ourselves in, doesn’t guarantee a life without trials, without pain. And yet, just to remember who He is reminds us of who we are in Him.

We walk today in His strength.

We face tomorrow with His hope.

His mercies are still new.

Every day.

 

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee,
Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not,
As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be.

Great is Thy faithfulness!
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me!

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today, and bright hope for tomorrow
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside.
(Great Is Thy Faithfulness ~ Thomas Chisholm ~ 1866-1960 ~ Public Domain)

 

 

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