community

Living Life in the Open

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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.

Characters

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

There’s a black spot in the middle of the dining room floor.

It stays.

The burn mark embedded in the number 2 common oak hardwood floor is part of family lore now.  It’s not a dramatic story; the details don’t really warm the heart.  

Still, the memories have been woven into our history now.  

We’re keeping the history.  And the memories.

It was close to fifteen years ago that the Lovely Lady’s mom said goodbye to her sweetie as she rode away with her sister for a women’s meeting early one morning.

Her sweetie, the white-haired man who taught me all he knew of operating a music store, sat at the table in the kitchen with a cup of instant coffee between his gnarled hands.  It was a morning like any other.  

Only it wasn’t.

A couple of hours later, my mother-in-law and her sister pulled back into the driveway, almost immediately noticing that smoke was wafting out around the front door.  My mother-in-law suffered with crippling rheumatoid arthritis, so her sister rushed into the house.  A moment later, she came out coughing and sputtering with my father-in-law in tow.

Always the frugal pair, my in-laws had a wood stove in the living room to supplement the central heating unit.  The stove put out enough heat to allow them to turn the thermostat down a few degrees and save a significant amount on their utility bills.

The old man had been tending the fire when an ember fell to the hardwood floor just beside the fire-resistant mat under the stove.  For some reason, instead of picking it up with the tongs, he simply allowed it to sit there and ignite the floor into flame.  When the Lovely Lady’s aunt burst in the front door, he was sitting in a chair right beside the fire, oblivious to the danger he was in.

I said it wasn’t a spectacular story.  I even said it wasn’t one to warm the heart.  It is certainly neither of those.

The little campfire on the floor was the beginning of a long goodbye for his family (myself included) and the man we loved. Within months, even though he lived a few more years, he was gone, locked in his own world—oblivious to ours.  

Today, we look at the black spot lying there and we always laugh as we recall the event.  Then a funny thing happens.  The room falls silent, each of us lost in memories.  

They are different for every one of us, I’m sure.  Fun.  Sad.  Happy.  Serious.  All of them momentarily bringing to life once again the character—the father—the grandfather.

I only bring up the burned spot because we’re in the process of refinishing the old hardwood floor.  Now would be the time to sand down that black stain in the middle of the expanse of oak.  My brother-in-law asked me the other day about it.  I told him the same thing I wrote at the beginning of this little essay.

It stays.

I want to remember the character who was my father-in-law.  But somehow, the longer I write, the more I realize there is something else about that floor that reminds me more of who he was than the black mark marring it.

Number two common oak.  It’s not a choice most folks would make for their living/dining room floor.  

Clear oak is what you want.  With straight, even grain in long boards several feet in length, the consistency of color and appearance is superior.  Each piece looks like the one next to it and takes the stain and finish uniformly.

Number two common oak, on the other hand, comes in planks about two feet in length and in varying grains and colors, as well as having a few knot holes and even a worm hole or two.  Dark planks sit side by side with white ones.  You might find a few with clear, straight grain, but it’s more likely you’ll see the whirl of tight knots here and a filled hole over there.

Over hundreds of square feet, not one board is like another there.

The catalogs suggest you might want a number two common oak floor if you want the floor to demonstrate character.

Oh, this floor is filled with characters!

Somehow, in my mind’s eye, I see God laying the floor of His Church.

What a sight to behold!  It’s not, as some would have you believe, all of one color and consistency.  Not at all.

God’s Church—not a building, but a people—is full of character, and full of characters.  Exactly as He designed it to be, the colors and personalities as different as can be.  Idiosyncrasies are the rule rather than the exception.

What a beautiful sight!  The colors blend and complement each other, the grains and imperfections showing the grace and mercy of their Creator.

Side by side, interlocked together,  our strength and character evident to all, we work toward a common goal.  All of humankind should have the opportunity to be a part of this wonderful mosaic.

Side by side, interlocked together, we work toward a common goal. Click To Tweet 

The Savior Himself said it so clearly:  They’ll know you are my followers by your love for each other.  (John 13:35)

And yet, it doesn’t seem to be working like that, does it?  

Scraped and scuffed, with water spills hither and yon, the old floor doesn’t present such a beautiful picture to a world that looks on.

You know, the process I’m going through with the old floor in this house is one of the most violent and disturbing tasks I have done while remodeling.  The sander beats the old varnish off, whump, whump, whump, as I shove it back and forth across the floor, shaking the whole room.  Again and again, changing from the roughest, open grit to the fine, polishing surface, the old machine does violence to the wood beneath.

It seems as if the process would destroy any beauty—even any usefulness remaining in the old wood.  

And yet, the day will come when the new stain is applied and then the new finish, the liquid soothing away all memory of the hurt.  The floor will once again be made beautiful, its usefulness guaranteed for another generation or more.

I wonder if we complain overmuch at the touch of our Maker’s tools, the cleansing of the dirt and filth.  His heavy-handedness is only for our good, His short-lived discipline—for the long-term joy in His service.

Number two common.

I’m satisfied with the title.  I rather like some of the characters around me.  They don’t all look like me, don’t all talk like me, and certainly don’t all think like me.

It’s beautiful.  Even that big black spot over there, a reminder of former foolishness and loved ones, now absent.  

Beautiful.

 

 

To all who mourn in Israel,
    he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,
a joyous blessing instead of mourning,
    festive praise instead of despair.
In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks
    that the Lord has planted for his own glory.
(Isaiah 61:3 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.) 

 

The Almighty must have loved the common people; He made so many of them.
(attributed to Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Treasure in the Dumpster

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I usually punch the snooze button on my alarm once—maybe twice. Okay.  Three times.

Not today.

The noises outside my second-story window had been going for awhile.  You know how sounds creep into your slumber, disturbing your dreams, especially in the moments just before the alarm begins to sound.

 As I reached for the alarm button, a clatter from the dumpster reached my ear.  

I got up.

I stood at my upstairs bedroom window and watched the shirtless man for some time.  The dumpster had been almost full—or so I had thought.

He had stirred through the entire container, moving the larger items from the top to the bottom and around the sides.  By the time I was aware of his presence, he was standing on the bottom of the dumpster, just like Moses in the middle of the Red Sea, with the mountains of debris piled up on either side.

Items (my trash!) he wanted to keep were carefully balanced around the edges of the steel container.

I decided I wouldn’t interfere with the man’s treasure hunt.  I hadn’t wanted the items.  Why should I keep him from taking whatever he thought he could use or profit from?

Treasures from trash.  

The concept hasn’t left my head all day.

Trash.  Treasures.

It’s nothing new.  We don’t even have to say the entire maxim and most will finish the thought.  One man’s trash. . .

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. 

The underlying premise is that one is no better than the other. 

I have no intention of demeaning the homeless man foraging in my dumpster.  He is doing what he knows to do to provide for himself.

Additionally, I have no desire to point a finger at any person, comparing them to others for the reader to make a judgment of character.

It’s just that I know something of dumpster diving.  

I don’t know quite how to put it.  Well, yes, I do.  It won’t make some people happy. 

The truth is like that.

I know two things about looking for treasures in the trash bin:

1.  Even if useful items may sometimes be found in the trash, most of the time, there’s nothing but trash to be found.

2.  If one digs for treasures in the trash long enough, eventually that person begins to forget that it’s trash they’re digging through.  

It will most likely become evident soon—if it hasn’t already occurred to the reader—that I’m not really that concerned with dumpsters and the practice of digging through the ubiquitous receptacles.

There are some who spend their lives dredging through the garbage.  Their lives and hearts are filled with the stench.

And still, they dive in.

A friend, many years ago, regaled me with the story of his sister-in-law and her experience at the local casino.  

The first time—the very first time—she entered the casino, against her better judgment and at the urging of her friends, she won a large sum of money while gambling.  

Willingly, eagerly, she returned to the gaudy, glitzy place again and again, certain she would find treasure once more at its tables.  She never did.  Even if she had, the losses could never have been surpassed by her gains.

There was never treasure to be found there—never more than false promises and empty hopes.

Still trash.

As to the second point, I can’t help but think of the Tolkien character of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings.  He had lived in the dark and stinking places of the world for so long that when he, starving and weak, was offered the delicate cake of the elves’ lembas, he choked on it and called it ashes.

Ashes.

As I write this, in the wee hours of the night, the sun will be rising soon on another Independence Day in the United States.  I’m saddened by what I see in the hearts of many in our country, even in my little town, and I have to wonder, what do we have to celebrate this July 4th?  

We, and I include most folks I know—Christians and otherwise, liberals and conservatives, politically active and indifferent—seem to revel in the trash pile.  We delight in all that is negative and hateful, dredging it up again and again, in whatever form we find it in the garbage container, only to throw it in the faces of our used-to-be friends and acquaintances.

It almost seems we believe this is how we were meant to live.

It wasn’t.

It isn’t.

In our interactions with others, we must—absolutely must—rise above the garbage and restore community.  If we don’t, our country is lost, I fear.

And yet, there is an even more essential element to this conversation.

The Teacher,  imploring His followers to set their affections on more important things, warned against the garbage.  

Where the source of your treasure is located, your heart by nature will turn to.  (Matthew 6:21)

If we do things the way we’ve always done them, the result will always be the same.  

Every time.

Soon after that astounding Day of Pentecost, the disciples Peter and John were going to the temple to worship.  A lame man sat there, in the place he had sat every day for as long as he could remember.  It was all he knew, this detestable begging for his living.  And yet, as the two men passed him, he looked at them, expecting nothing more than a few pennies to extend his unhappy misery an hour or two more.

Peter looked at him and said, “It’s time you stopped dumpster diving.”

Well, that’s not really what he said.  What he told the lame man was that they had no money.  I assume the disappointed man would have turned his eyes toward the next party approaching.  Well? He wasn’t going to get what he needed here.  Why shouldn’t he?

We have no silver, nor do we have any gold.  Here’s the thing:  What we do have, we’re going to give to you.  Get up.  Walk with us into the temple to worship.  (Acts 3:6)

You know, there’s no treasure in any dumpster worth more than what God offers every single one of us.

His Grace and mercy will lift us out of whatever garbage receptacle we’ve been digging through to find our worth.

His love reaches down right where we’re searching, whether ankle deep or neck deep in refuse.

He sets us in higher places.

He sets us in higher places. Click To Tweet

Higher.

It’s time to stop hoarding trash that looks like treasure to us.

It’s time to begin storing away the real thing.

In a place it will be safe.

In a place where we’ll be safe.

It’s time.

 

 

I lived through the garbage.  I might as well dine on caviar.
(Beverly Sills ~ American opera singer ~ 1929-2007)

 

Why spend your money on food that does not give you strength?
    Why pay for food that does you no good?
Listen to me, and you will eat what is good.
    You will enjoy the finest food.

“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord.
    “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.
For just as the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so my ways are higher than your ways
    and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.
(Isaiah 55:2, 8-9 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

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

Iron Sharpened

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was only one letter that had fallen.  One of fourteen—surely it wouldn’t be missed much.

I fished the defective aluminum “M” out of the hedge beneath my music store’s sign over four months ago.  

It was cold then.  I hate the cold.

So, I took the letter inside and laid it down on a table in the back storage area.  I would reattach it on a warmer day.

Four months, it lay there.  I told myself I was waiting for a warm day.  Possibly, I was actually waiting for someone to miss it.  I waited in vain.

No one ever did.  After one hundred and twenty some-odd days, not one single customer had mentioned the missing letter.

I climbed the ladder yesterday—on a warm day—and glued the metal letter back into place.  You would have laughed to see me clinging to that shaky ladder as I re-attached the errant letter.

I’m not sure what to think about the episode.  

Were the people who do business with me, some of them for almost forty years, worried that I might be offended if they brought it to my attention?

Were they afraid I’d be embarrassed?  Did they think I would become defensive and make excuses for my defective sign?

I’m baffled.

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?

A letter missing from his sign?  He’s worried about whether people care if his letter is missing? 

Well?  

I’ve had hundreds, perhaps more than a thousand customers come through my door in the last four months.  Surely one would have thought it important enough.

Okay, I’ll level with you.  I haven’t lost any sleep over the issue. It was just a letter from a sign. 

Still, I am struggling a little with the concept.  The concern is so subtle, so niggling, that it’s almost not worth mentioning.  

Then again, it really is.

If we care about someone, why wouldn’t we mention that something is missing from their sign—or their car—or their relationship—maybe, even their spiritual life?

Have we so easily forgotten what friendship requires of us?

We live in a day when judge not is the mantra of the masses.  In some ways, it’s understandable.  We have made it our business for too long to point out every difference, every dispute, every dogma we hold dear, to total strangers.

That’s not what I’m talking about.  The argument about our responsibility to correct the sins of the world will continue long after we’re gone.

But somehow, it’s easier for us to shout about the glaring sins of the wide world than it is for us to actually act upon, and change, something we have power over within our sphere of influence

I want to know if we can still help our neighbors realize they have a problem which needs attention.  I am suggesting that we should also make certain they understand an offer of aid accompanies our observation of their lack.

When the Apostle Paul wrote in one of his letters that his readers should not only look to their own affairs, but to the affairs of others, he wasn’t only suggesting they point out areas of deficiency; he was clearly instructing them to help correct the problem.  (Philippians 2:3-4)

It’s what community does.  

We do it because that much, and more, has already been done for us. (Philippians 2:5-8)

In the early days of our nation, evidence of this way of thought abounded.  A farmer needing to get a roof on his barn, but caught in the responsibilities of planting his fields, might see a caravan of men and women on horseback coming to help put the roof on.

Expecting no pay but that of continued communion, and under no burden but that of shared need, they gave freely of themselves and their talents.  It wouldn’t be very long until one of them would likely need to be the recipient of such attention.  The original farmer was almost certain to be in the bunch who showed up the next time.

He wasn’t offended because his lack had been pointed out, but he was grateful it had been noticed and remedied.  He would happily repay the generosity.

The truth of our faith is this:  We are not in this walk alone.  We serve and are served.  (Galatians 6:2)

I wonder.  If the world around us could see that side of our faith, and not only the list of regulations we’ve drawn up, is it possible they would understand more clearly what grace is about?

How will they know love unless we demonstrate it in our relationships with each other?

In the same way iron sharpens iron, we help each other to be better followers of our Savior. (Proverbs 27:17)

musicstoresignThe sign outside my music store is how I show the world what goes on inside the building.  

When the message is incomplete, those who pass by may get the wrong idea of what is being offered.

It’s not all that different in the rest of our lives, either.  

The next time you see I have something missing, I’d appreciate a heads-up about it.  

If you can help with the solution, all the better  Your bucket truck may be a little better than my shaky ladder..

I’ll see if I can pay more attention to what you need, too.

Perhaps, we can stay sharp together.

 

 

 

The next best thing to being wise oneself is to live in a circle of those who are.
(C.S.Lewis ~ English educator/theologian/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

 

 

 And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

 

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