Is Anyone Coming to Help?

image by Clement Percheron on Pexels

Last week was a good week.  For me, it was, anyway.

Without boring the reader to death, let’s just say things went my way.  Tasks were completed without undue stress.  A lovely midweek visit with family, ending with a beautiful fire on the deck (and brats, followed by s’mores!), was one of the high points.

We even made a significant financial decision, the result of which is a shiny, new-to-us vehicle sitting in the drive in front of our house.  I think I’m more excited to get rid of the old car than to have a new one to drive.

We’re making plans for Thanksgiving this week.  It’s always a lovely time, shared with family and friends.  The food is nice, but the company is even nicer.

A good week.

So why can’t I get those folks out of my thoughts?  They had been stuck in the parking lot overnight.  And, I just left them there.

What did you say?

What folks?

Oh.  You can’t read my mind, can you?  You weren’t there.

I’ll try to do better.

On the last day of that good week, the Lovely Lady and I drove through the parking lot of our local grocery store.  It was time to stock up on food for the holiday.  It looked like everyone else had the same idea.  But, something was amiss there.

I saw the old car, thirty years old if it was a day, sitting low and close to the pavement.  Flat tire.  Too bad for them.

But, as we passed on our way to an empty space, I noticed people sitting in the vehicle.  A lady, about middle age, sat behind the wheel.  There was a girl, and a young man in the car, too.

I sent the Lovely Lady on into the store, telling her I’d catch up to her. Stating the obvious, I spoke as I approached the open window on the driver’s side.

“Flat tire?”

The reply came.  “Two, actually.”

Sure enough, both back tires were flat.  The lady had a cell phone in her hand, so I asked if someone was coming to help.  She shook her head, with a discouraged look in her eyes.

“No.  There’s no one to help.  We’ve been here since last night.”

No, there was no spare, either.  I stood for a moment, perplexed.  Then, I bought myself some time.

“I’m going to talk with my wife.  I’ll be back.”

The Lovely Lady had no answers.  I didn’t expect her to.  I just needed time to think. Not that it would do any good on that day.

I decided to call the local tire shop, just down the road.

It was Saturday afternoon.  12:58.  The shop closed at 1:00.  The boss had sent his techs home and couldn’t offer any help.

“But, it’s really nice of you to try to help,” the boss said before hanging up.

I called another shop.  They couldn’t do anything for her, either.

“But, it’s really nice of you to try to help,” the voice on the phone muttered before hanging up.

I don’t want to try to help.  Can you understand that?

The grocery shopping was nearly finished by this time, so I got the Lovely Lady checked out and headed back to the car.  Sending her on to load the bags in the car, I headed over to the old junker.

I apologized that I hadn’t been successful in finding help.  Reaching into my wallet, I pulled out all the bills I had there and shoved them into her hand.  It was not in any sense a significant amount of money, but it was all I had.

“I hope you can find someone who can help you get home.”

The discouraged look didn’t leave her eyes.

“This is our home.  We live in the car.”

Tears come again as I write. I’m not even sure why I’m writing about it.

At home, the tears came on that afternoon too, as I took the packages of food to stow away in the cupboard.  The Lovely Lady was rearranging potatoes and onions on the utility room shelves and probably didn’t see them, but I wiped them away quickly anyway.

The car is their home!  A home with two flat tires.

I look around the home in which we live.  It’s not luxurious—not new—not all that spacious.

But, it’s not sitting in the grocery store parking lot with two flat tires.

I want to feel good.  I wish I could say (with the tire shop folks), “At least I tried.”

The Lovely Lady lovingly reminds me frequently that I can’t fix everything for everyone.  But, she knows me and realizes how it hurts to only try and not succeed.

But, trying is how we make our way—sometimes painfully and with difficulty—to succeeding.  We should keep trying.

And, as folks gather in the living and dining room of this blessed home later this week, I want to remember that old Crown Vic on flat tires and its occupants, as well as all the reasons I have to be thankful personally.

It’s the day when we gather to give thanks.

I trust in the midst of our celebration, there’s just one more thing we’ll remember to do.

Give, thanks.

.

“And do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for God is pleased with such sacrifices.”
(Hebrews 13:16, NET)

“You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.”
(John Bunyan)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

We’ll Say We Did

Let’s not and say we did.

It was just the other day.  Someone suggested he and I should run in a long race a few months from now.  I didn’t take to the suggestion all that well.

Still, I’d like for folks to think I could.

The words came from my mouth without thought.

Let’s not and say we did.

I’m thinking about the words tonight.  Truth be told, I thought about them last night, too.

For most of the night.

With one of the Elders of my fellowship, I sat in the church library during the late morning service on Sunday.  As a member of the worship team, I had already attended the early service, listening attentively to the pastor’s words.  This time, as he preached again, I would relax in comfort and await my cue to go back in for the final song.

I thought that is what I would do.  Relaxing isn’t how I would describe the next half hour.

She didn’t look like she belonged in church.  

We don’t have a dress code—no one expects what we used to call our Sunday best, but her clothes were different in other ways.  Mismatched and fitting her badly, it had been a long time since they had been on the rack in a department store.  There were other physical attributes that reinforced the idea that she hadn’t come to sit with the other worshipers in the service.

“I need to get some help.  Are you guys the deacons?”

She sat down and filled the air with words and the smell of stale tobacco.  We asked a question or two, but she did most of the talking.  No home.  Living in a motel with her children.  Poor health.  Bad luck.  No money.

I was happy to notice the pastor was on his last point in the sermon.  It was my get-out-of-jail-free card.

“I’ve got to go sing.”

Done.  Free.

She’s somebody else’s problem now.  I’m so happy our church will help her in some way.  So happy.

But. . .

I say I follow God.  

Let’s not and say we did.

When I take the easy way out, I make my testimony of following God a lie.

When we take the easy way out, we make our claim of following God a lie. Click To Tweet

I know I should tread lightly here.  That’s what my head tells me.  It would be more comfortable that way.  For me, as well as for those reading this.

Comfortable isn’t how God always works.  Jesus, as He addressed His followers, didn’t ease up to give them a way of escape.

They didn’t get a pass because they were in the choir.

Paying their taxes to the government didn’t offer any relief for His command.

Putting their money in the offering plate at church didn’t alleviate one scintilla of their responsibility.

He didn’t give instructions to the church leaders lurking nearby to start a food pantry.

He didn’t direct words to the government officials in the area to offer a relief program financed with taxes.

With the clarity and plain words of a teacher in the guise of a practiced storyteller, He made it clear that every person has a responsibility to those in need around us.  Every single person.

He looked down through the centuries, straight at us and told us to care for their needs as we would if visited by God Himself.  (Matthew 25: 40, 45)

Let’s not and say we did.

Oh!  I would never!  

But, we do.  

Every time we suggest that government programs fulfill God’s command, we say it.

Every time we breathe a sigh of relief that the benevolence fund at our church fellowship is available for just such people, we tell the lie.

You know—running thirteen miles would be uncomfortable for me.  I’m not going to tell you I did it if I didn’t.

In the same way, I don’t want to claim to be a follower of Jesus, yet refuse to do what He asks me to do to even the least of His sisters and brothers.

But, I have done it before.  You?

It’s time to stop lying.  

To ourselves and to each other.

And, to Him.

 

 

Charity never humiliated him who profited from it, nor ever bound him by the chains of gratitude, since it was not to him but to God that the gift was made.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupery ~ French pilot/author ~ 1900-1944)

 

Those who say they live in God should live their lives as Jesus did.
(1 John 2:6 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

 

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

Only What’s Mine

The preacher came to check on me today.  His brother passed away last week, but he came to check on me.

He’s not my pastor.  Well, what I mean is, he’s not the man who is the pastor of the fellowship where I attend services.  My pastor checks on me too, but I’m not writing about him today.

The preacher came to visit me because he owes me.  That’s the way he sees it anyway.  It’s his way of paying a debt.

Did you know that on the worst day of his life, Jesus stopped to help a fellow who was just doing his job—and also having a bad day?

Jesus was being arrested, said arrest to be followed by a mock trial and, soon after, a very real execution.  Yet, He stopped everything to make life easier for a man He had likely never even seen.  (Luke 22:50,51)

He, who was about to die, stopped to heal a slave’s ear.

I marvel at the capacity to love.  But, I have seen it again and again.  The human heart, pummeled and battered by loss and sorrow, beats the stronger for those around who also hurt.

Did I say the preacher is paying a debt?

It’s a debt we all owe, one that will not go unsettled.

The Apostle, in giving instructions about temporal matters, gave us the words we must live by.  The one debt we will carry throughout our whole lives is the debt to each other—to love one another.  (Romans 13:8)

We love—because He loved us first.

And yet, I had other things to speak of with my friend.  You see, I am struggling with many things right now, things I don’t want to accept.

There are people I love making choices I would change for them if I could.  I’m sure if I could just lend them a bit of my brilliance, they’d understand and repent of their error.

And, as I suggest that to him, I suddenly remember that I don’t have a mandate to change people.

Lamely, I say the words:  I guess that isn’t mine to fix, is it?

He smiles.  But, as he smiles, he remembers why he stopped by.  I’ve gotten him off track.  He knows I’m still unhappy—perhaps even a little angry—at God for the changes which are being made in my life right now.

Looking around the music store where he sits, he waves his hand in a circle and asks a question I really don’t like.

Is this yours?

I don’t like the question because I know the answer.  You do too, don’t you?

I smile, a faux-smile if ever there was one.  I give him the right answer, the answer I know he wants to hear.  I don’t grit my teeth as I say it, even though it is all I can do not to.

No.  Not mine.

And then he is gone.  He leaves me standing in the doorway of a music store that soon won’t be.

Worse than that, he leaves me with a revelation I didn’t want and never asked him for.

I  only want what’s mine!

I’ve sulked all day.

I cleaned my French horn in preparation for upcoming events and the pride I have taken in the beautiful instrument dimmed as I realized it’s not mine.

After I closed the music store (still not mine) for the day, I climbed up into the driver’s seat of my pickup truck and thought, as I turned the key, this isn’t mine.

I helped the Lovely Lady clean up after supper and as a sparkling kitchen reappeared, I realized that none of the beautiful little home is mine.

I only want what’s mine.

I’ve been sitting here moping about what I’ve lost on this day of revelation, thanks to the preacher.  I’ve come to a conclusion.

If I can lose it, it was never mine.  Never.

If I can lose it, it was never mine. Never. Click To Tweet

You might think it would be a sad realization.  It’s not.

The freedom that comes from knowing what is mine and what isn’t is life changing.  If my treasure is bound up in things which can be taken from me, I am the poorest man you’ll ever meet.

hot-962139_640I’m not a poor man.

I only want what is mine.

Faith is mine.

Hope is mine.

Love is mine.

There are more things to add to the list.  Gifts, every one of them—given by the Giver of all good things.  They are things that can never be taken from us.  And, in the words of that great theologian, Casey Stengel, you could look it up. (1 Corinthians 12)

We’re told that the greatest of these gifts is love.  The more I consider it, the more certain I am it is true.

Funny, isn’t it?  If we can lose it, it isn’t ours, and yet we’re told we must give away love.

So, is love ours or not?

Most decidedly, love is ours.  You know what makes love the greatest gift?  The more you give it away, the more there is to give away.

The more we give love away, the more of it there is to give away. Click To Tweet

God has poured His love into our hearts in a never-ending stream.  It should be pouring out in the same manner.  (Romans 5:5)

I’m thinking that wealth which can’t be stolen or misplaced is worth more than any treasure trove to be found on this planet.

And, we get to give it away and keep it, too.

Funny.  I still only want what’s mine.

And, like my preacher friend, I want to give it away.

Again and again.

Give it away.

 

 

Spread love everywhere you go; let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier.
(Mother Teresa ~ Albanian/Indian nun & missionary ~ 1910-1997)

 

Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.
(1 Corinthians 13:13 ~ NLT)

 

 

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

Debt Piles Up

God will reward your generosity.

The words came unexpectedly.  I didn’t even know the man was paying attention to the transaction which had just occurred in the music store.

I’ve mentioned on several occasions, that with increasing regularity, opportunities pop up to help folks in less advantageous circumstances.  Believing that we have been put where we are with a better purpose than amassing wealth, I attempt to make a habit of helping when I can, usually in a mostly insignificant way.

“God will reward your generosity.”

Without thinking, I glanced up at the man in front of me.

“He already has.”  

I said the three words that came to me.  Nothing more.  A total of eight words were spoken on the subject.

We moved on to our business and the terse conversation was forgotten.

I think it needs to be revisited.  In a way, it actually was for me later in the day.

A customer from Pennsylvania called to request a CD we didn’t have.  I found a company which could provide it and walked the aging man through the process to purchase it on their website.

He was extremely grateful and said essentially the same thing the fellow in my store had earlier.

“God will bless you for this.”

I wonder.

All my life, I’ve listened to the talk of rewards and blessings.  I’m confused.  

God has given—given—us the magnificent gift of grace.  The penalty for our sins has been paid in full.  The gift of God is salvation, not of works, but by grace through faith.  It’s all Him.  All of it. (Ephesians 2:8-9)

And now, if all I do is obey Him, He owes me more?

If I love my neighbor, be he in my music store, or across the country in Philadelphia, I get to keep track of it and present the expense statement for repayment?

I don’t mean to be cynical and I certainly don’t mean to ruffle feathers.  Still, I’m looking for the day when we look at the good that others do and simply acknowledge it’s what we all should be doing all the time.

I want us to realize that our love for each other is simply servicing a debt we owe to a Creator who loves us more than words can express.

It’s a debt that can never be paid off.  

Never.

I want to be very clear.  God owes me nothing.  

If I did nothing but good for those around me until the instant of my death, there would never be a hint of any blessing owed me in the ledger kept for such things.  Not a feather’s weight would tip the scale in my favor.

I owe Him everything.  I always will.

It is true for every saint and sinner who ever walked this dusty earth.

We owe.

But, understand this as well.  He never forces us to lift a finger in repayment of the debt.

His love though—His love—makes us into people who cannot help but recognize the claim He has on our actions and attitudes.

We love.  Because He loved us first, we love. (1 John 4:19)

Period.

Blessed?  Beyond any ability of man to describe.

Rewarded? In ways I will never know—so far out of balance to what I owe.

I owe.  Maybe you do too.

We need to be paying up every day we live.  Without coercion and without a profit motive on our part, we should give.  God loves a cheerful giver.  (2 Corinthians 9:7

beggar-1016678_640We pay on our love debt by helping others.  It’s the way the system is designed to work.  

The world is sitting with their hands out, waiting for them to be filled.

It’s time for us to pay up.

He’s already blessed us for it.

 

 

 

Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for whoever loves others has fulfilled the law.
(Romans 13:8 ~ NIV

 

The world does not understand theology and dogma, but it understands love and sympathy.
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist/pastor ~ 1837-1899)

 

 

 

 

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

It Rubs Off On Us

Be sure to bring an extra pair of coveralls tomorrow.  We’re going to the wheel factory.

The electrician made the suggestion to his apprentice as they parked the service van and headed home for the night.  The young man’s heart sank.

Wheel factory?  Tomorrow?  What a disaster! 

He had hoped for a day of residential service calls instead.  Those, he liked.  They kept your brain active, trying to crack the mystery of where a certain circuit ran, or why the washing machine shocked the owner when she touched it. 

He might even get to wait patiently by an outlet, watching a test meter as the electrician flipped breakers and clipped wires, trying to bring a dead circuit to life once again.  That was simple, clean work which gave you a good feeling when you left the house with a satisfied customer waving from the doorway. 

The wheel factory?  There was nothing worse!

I’ll attempt to paint you a picture, shall I? 

The factory looked like any other ordinary industrial facility.  Stacks of iron wheels and brake drums stood round, strapped to pallets and awaiting their turn to be moved—the finished ones by semi-truck to the distant factories which had ordered them—the unprocessed ones by forklift into the plant nearby.  There, they would be machined and drilled to the specifications which the tractor, automobile, and truck designers had determined. 

Before the men headed in, our apprentice and his boss pulled on their coveralls and changed shoes.  You’ll understand this a little better in a few moments.  Walking toward the plant, with a tool belt on his waist and a fiberglass ladder over his shoulder, the full effect of the nightmare which was about to begin was still not clear, and the young apprentice thought, perhaps this won’t be so bad after all. 

Ah! But, when the doorway was breached, and the vista of the huge building stretched out before him, the panic struck anew.

The first thing he noticed was the screech of the metal lathes pulsating and rising in pitch as each cut was made.  The noise was not only deafening, but to his ears (he liked to think, sensitive musician’s ears) it was horrific, jarring him to the core.  The din was almost painful—the perpetual squeal altering and dulling his other senses. 

After the initial shock of the noise, he noticed the thick ever-present smog hanging in the air.  Blue, oily smoke wafted up from every machine that cut and shaped and drilled, aided by the heat of the process and the liberal use of the viscous fluid to cool the cutting edges.  The huge fans at the end of the building dragged the thickening atmosphere across the length of the entire building before pulling it, square foot by sooty square foot, from the building.

He shuddered to think what the air would be like in this horrible place if the fans were not functioning, but still it seemed they only sucked the nasty stuff in never-ending  waves across anyone who was between the machines and the giant rotating fan blades.  He would soon be breathing in that vile mixture…and the eerie place was only to get worse.

The plant maintenance man saw them come in and motioned them over.  They followed him along rows of raw materials and machinery until he stopped beside one mammoth drill press.  Pointing to the oily, slimy monster, he shouted over the shriek of the nearby lathes and the high-pitched whine of the drill presses;

“This one!  It’s got to be rewired!” 

With that, he was gone.  As he disappeared into the maze of iron and machines, the apprentice looked down at his own hands.  He would swear that he hadn’t touched anything, but they were black with grime already.  He coughed with the stench of iron shavings mixed with oil and realized that his nightmare had already begun. 

Hours later, when he and the master electrician picked up their tools and ladders and headed out to the blessed quiet and clean air of the world outside, they were both covered from head to toe with the filth.  Their coveralls would take several cycles through the wash to come reasonably clean and they couldn’t wear their shoes anywhere until the soles were cleaned with de-greaser and solvents. 

The young man coughed up black junk from his chest for hours.  The headache would last longer than that.

Is the picture horrible enough for you?  Is there a point to this horror story? 

You know there is. 

What I’d like to be able to do is to draw the parallel between the filthy factory and the dirty places in the world we can get into.  We can’t rub shoulders with filthy people without some of it rubbing off on us.  The transfer of polluted substances is almost instantaneous. 

I’d like to be able to tell you that the moral of the story is that we should stay out of those places.  I want to suggest that we should never associate with those dirty people and places. 

What a simple solution!  To avoid getting dirty, stay away from filthy locations and grimy humans.

I’d like to be able to tell you that, but I would be wrong.  For too long though, it is just what we have done. 

We don’t drink, smoke, or chew; and we don’t go with girls that do

Our pride and our arrogance have led us to believe that if we can keep our clothes and our hands clean, nothing more is required of us. 

We live upright and impeccable lives and think we have achieved the goal. 

We couldn’t be further from the truth.

homeless-845752_1280Several times in my writing, I’ve mentioned the hugs I get from some of those dirty people.  My clothes stink until they are washed.  A customer who walked in my store immediately after one such episode actually wrinkled up her nose as I waited on her. 

Dirty rubs off on us.  It sticks and leaves evidence. 

The religious leaders in Jesus’ time thought so too, as they accused him of being a drunkard and a sinner.  He spent His time with people who needed baths and who needed medicine and who needed a Priest. 

The stench sticks to everyone in the vicinity.  

Mother Teresa ministered among the diseased and poor of Calcutta, India for decades.  I believe the love of Jesus shone through her life.  I wonder, do you imagine this little woman smelled good?  Do you think she was always spotless and clean?  You don’t live and minister in the filth of one of the poorest, dirtiest cities in the world and stay clean and fresh. 

Dirty rubs off on us.

Have you been in the vicinity of someone who is dirty recently?  I’m including the spiritually dirty, as well as the physically unclean.  It’s not necessarily a nice feeling, is it?  There was residue left on you—on your person and on your soul—was there not? 

Dirty rubs off on us.  

But, here’s the other thing we need to know. 

When we spend time with, and give of ourselves to, the kinds of people who need our attention—the poor, the lost ones, the souls who are wandering—we infect them too. 

This infection, you can’t smell and you can’t see. But we are promised there is a payoff. Promised.

God says that, without fail, His Word achieves its purpose (Isaiah 55:10-11), and also that as we give, we receive. (Luke 6:38

If we’re stingy and keep what we’ve been blessed with for ourselves, we’ll lose even that. (Luke 19:24)

Like the young electrical apprentice, we may hate the process.  It will involve pain, and filth, and discomfort.

We’ll also have the uninhibited joy, as we walk away, of knowing that we’ve accomplished exactly what you went for. 

The dirt—the stench—that ringing in our ears?  They will go away, but the joy will remain.

Dirty does indeed, rub off on us. 

But, the original cleanser still washes whiter than snow.

 

 

“Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full–pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap. The amount you give will determine the amount you get back.”
(Luke 6:38~NLT)

 

“If my baseball uniform doesn’t get dirty, I haven’t done anything in the baseball game.”
(Ricky Henderson~Former Major League Baseball left fielder)

 

 

 

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

Dragon Gold

Who steals my purse steals trash.

The high school kid smiled wryly at us for just a second as we moved closer to his checkout stand.  Then he turned his attention back to the young lady beside the register.  He had just scanned four tubes of a popular health & beauty product for her.

“That will be twenty-one dollars and seventy-six cents, Ma’am.”

Silently, the lady reached into her wallet and took out a coupon.  Beep!  He scanned the bar code into the machine.  The total was instantly three dollars lower.

He turned to her to tell her the new amount, but all she did was pull another coupon from her wallet.  Each time he completed the scan on one, she pulled out another, until there were five coupons on the counter. He dutifully scanned each one in.  With the fifth piece of paper though, the machine let out a raucous screech, instead of the cutesy beeping sound we were becoming accustomed to.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.  You can’t use that coupon since you already used the others.”

She was incredulous.  Handing the printed coupon back to him, she insisted he try it again.  He obliged, but the machine screeched one more time.  The young man tried patiently to explain that she couldn’t use a coupon on an item for which she had already presented a coupon.

Now, she wasn’t just incredulous; she was miffed.  She snatched the offending coupon up off the counter and stuffed it into her wallet.  Quickly paying the nine dollar total (for twenty-one dollars worth of product), she strode off in a huff, her husband trailing behind.

When we completed our own transaction with the poor young man, the Lovely Lady and I headed for the exit, only to run across the lady and her husband standing near the door still.  She was pointing to the receipt in her hand and gesturing angrily back toward the cash register.  It seemed the young clerk wasn’t quite finished with the interchange.  We didn’t hang around to see the conclusion.

People are passionate about money, aren’t they?

Did you read the quote which opened this article?  It’s from a play by William Shakespeare, entitled Othello.  Mr. Shakespeare is actually trying to bolster up an argument about the value of a good name.  But, in doing that, he gives a fairly accurate description of the value of money.

Trash.  He calls it trash.

Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing; 
‘Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands. . . 

The Bard of Avon wasn’t the first to come to this conclusion.  He put it differently than King Solomon, many centuries before him, did.  A little differently.  

Whoever loves money never has enough;
    whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with their income.
    This too is meaningless.
(Ecclesiastes 5:10 ~ NIV)

Trash.  Meaningless.

Jesus walked among the wealthy and the poor. He enjoyed the plenty of food and fellowship as well as knowing the poverty of homelessness. He also used the word slave in relationship to money.   But unlike Mr. Shakespeare many centuries later, Jesus didn’t refer to money as the slave.

No.  He said that we are slaves to it.  Or to God. (Matthew 6:24 ~ NIV)

We choose.  But, servants we will be.  

If you’re like me, you will immediately state the obvious:  

I want to be the servant of God.  I will never serve money.

But again, if you’re like me, the resolve lasts as long as it takes to encounter someone who tries to take advantage of you.

Did you pay attention to the lady in the story above?  Some of us read her plight with a sympathetic spirit.  That greedy corporation!  What would a few dollars mean to them? Why would they cheat her like that? 

If we stop and contemplate for a moment, however, the truth begins to dawn.  The company was selling the product for a fair market price.  The company issued the coupons which reduced that price by more than half.

The discount was a gift to her!   A gift from the very company of whom she demanded more.

How like her we are.  Every single thing we have—every possession, every dollar, every benefit—each one is a gift from a loving and benevolent Heavenly Father.  Every good gift comes down from Him. (James 1:17 ~ NIV)

Every good gift.

Somehow though, the good gifts He gives become, in our minds, our right—our birthright if you will—and we desire more. In Solomon’s words above, we are never satisfied.

But, like dragon’s gold, we lie on our hoarded wealth and become greedy, dragon-238931_1280selfish dragons ourselves.  I can’t help but see that selfish, hateful boy—from C.S. Lewis’s Voyage of the Dawn Treader—Eustace Scrubb, in my mind as I consider our plight.  

The self-centered boy wandered away from his traveling companions and found the treasure trove of a dragon which had just died.  Crawling up on the stack of gold and jewels, he fell asleep. 

A funny thing happens to the boy while he sleeps on his astounding find, perhaps not unlike the transformation we go through as we hold our earthly treasure close.

Here are Mr. Lewis’s words:  Sleeping on a dragon’s hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart, he has become a dragon himself.

I wonder if I’ve already said too much.  Perhaps I’ve stood on this soap box longer than I should tonight.  

But, after all, I know what is in my heart.  It’s not a pretty sight.  I also know the conversations I’ve read and heard recently—conversations which convince me that what is in my heart is not exclusive to only me.

It may be time for the Lion to do His work in removing the dragon scales from around my heart.  They’ve been growing for awhile.  It will likely take some doing.

It might be a little painful, as well.

 

 

 

 

But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him?
(I John 3:17 ~ NASB)

 

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.
(from The Hobbit by J.R.R Tolkien ~ English author/educator ~ 1892-1973)

 

 

 

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

Robbery

Twice.  In two days.

Twice in two days, I did good things.  Because they were in front of me to do.  And, like a student who has memorized his lessons well, I knew what must be done.

Love your neighbor as yourself.  

“Twenty dollars.  It needs more, but I’ll fix just the one thing to make it play.”

He had no more money to invest and I could help by giving the instrument a lick and a promise, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say.  Only, as I did the repair, it became evident that the minimum that could actually be done was a sixty dollar job.  It would never play otherwise.

I had promised to make it play.  I would do that.  And, I would cover the difference.  

I was proud of myself.  I had memorized the lesson and followed its instructions to the letter.

He came to pick up the instrument.  I mentioned that I had to do more.  I might have even told him I did three times as much.  I waited for his gratitude to bubble over.  Surely he would at least shake my hand and thank me.

“I don’t know why I’m spending this money anyway.  She’ll probably not play it at all.”

With that, he was gone.

Robbed!  I’ve been robbed!  

No, not of money.  I’ve been robbed of the gratitude that should have been mine.  Where is my praise for being such a good person?  That’s it?  A word of complaint and he walks out?

I want what is rightfully mine!

Truly I say to you—they have their reward in full.

The next morning, a vehicle pulled up to the store.  The folks took care of their business and left.  No.  Scratch that.  They tried to leave.  The vehicle wouldn’t start.  It was out of gas.

Hey!  Another chance!  I bolted to the storage barn and pulled out my gas can.  It was nearly empty, but there should be enough to get them a block down the road for gas.  I told them to use it all.  No—I don’t need any money.  I’m just glad I can help.  

Unfortunately, after they poured all that was in the can in their tank, the car still wouldn’t start, so they sent someone up the road with the now-empty can to fill it up and bring it back.  I needed to take care of other customers, so I told them they could just leave the can in the storage barn when they were through.

What do you suppose they did?  Well—not what I expected.  They left the can in the storage barn and drove out of the parking lot!  Seriously!

I’ve been robbed again!  They just drove away without another word!  

And worse, they left the gas can completely empty in my barn.  Everyone knows you leave gas to pay back for what you used.  Everyone!

I want what’s rightfully mine!  

…and your Father, who sees what you do in secret will be the One who rewards you.

Clearly, someone in this narrative doesn’t understand the expectations of the love your neighbor as yourself directive.

Clearly.

May I take just a moment and assure you that I registered my complaint?  Vociferously.  Both with family members and with God.  They listened sympathetically. 

He didn’t.

You see—the someone in this narrative who doesn’t understand is me.  

Only me.

Sometimes, when we do the right thing, the good thing, all we hear in response is crickets.  Sure, sometimes the person we help gushes with gratitude.  It’s nice when it happens, but if that’s what we’re going for, we’ve missed the point of the original instructions.

makingthesaleIf what I anticipate when I determine to share with folks who are in need is the reward of their gratitude, or the loud proclamation of praise, all I have done is to initiate a transaction.  

I believe the Latin term is quid pro quo

Something for something.

I give you something.  You give me something in return.  The end.  

It’s the way our economic system operates.  It’s not a bad system, as human systems go.

It’s just not God’s system.

He says give without expectation of repayment.  Give so that no one knows you’re doing it.

And then He says, I’ll be the one who settles accounts—when the time is right

Like Job in the Old Testament, I sit here with my mouth open, grasping for words, but all that comes out is, I had heard about You, but now I see clearly for myself and I am ashamed.  

I said at the start it was twice.  Twice, I did good things.  It may have been more than that.  

I am determined it will be more than that.

I just won’t be telling you about it.

 

 

To give and then not feel that one has given is the very best of all ways of giving.
(Max Beerbohm ~ English essayist ~ 1872-1956)

 

Give your gifts in private, and your Father, who sees everything, will reward you.
(Matthew 6:4 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

Light the Match!

What a day!

It had been a beautiful time–the stuff of dreams for the skinny boy.  Twelve years old, he was on his first real camp out.  The two-hour ride to the lake in the back of the old pickup truck wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it might sound.  Besides, Mr. Bell had the foresight to find a place about halfway to the campsite where the group of Junior High boys could play a game of basketball in an old dilapidated gymnasium.

When they reached the lake, the tattered old tent was erected quickly as all of the eight or so boys and their two leaders pitched in.  The tent had seen a lot of these trips over the years Mr. Bell had given his time for groups just like these boys.  They didn’t care.  It looked perfect to them. 

That job complete, they grabbed their cheap Zebco spinning rods and reels from the floor of the truck and headed down to the lake to see what they could catch for supper.

The skinny kid chewed on the stem of a match as he cast his hook out again. All he had snagged so far was a tiny bream or two, and he wasn’t about to keep them.  The rest of the boys had about the same luck, but still, there were a couple of perch caught worth keeping. 

They weren’t worried about starving.  The cooler packed with hot dogs was back at camp, along with the makings for S’mores.  Even the boys who couldn’t stand the taste of fish were assured of having a decent meal.  There were a couple dozen eggs in the cooler, too.  Breakfast would come, in time.

“Time to head back up to camp, boys!”  The big voice from Mr Bell, himself a big man, echoed across the lake.

From all along the shore, the boys groaned, but they dutifully wound up their lines and headed for the tent and a hot meal.  Before that could happen, there was a fire to be built and even a couple of fish to be cleaned. 

The skinny kid wearing the horn-rimmed glasses knew how to clean fish, so he volunteered to help while the others gathered kindling and firewood.  Scraping scales and removing the unneeded parts of the perch would be messy work, so he took the match from between his teeth and dropped it into his pocket.  It would be safe there.

He finished his part of the job before the others began returning with the makings for the fire, so he headed up the trail toward the restrooms.  Not that the boy was all that fastidious, but fishy hands needed to be washed.  Even he couldn’t eat with hands covered with scales and. . .  Well, you get the picture.

He approached the little wooden structure and, finding a young bat with its wings spread clinging to one of the window screens, spent a few minutes trying to coax it into flight with a long sprig from a nearby mesquite tree.  It wouldn’t budge, so finally he just found the water faucet and washed up in the cold water.

Clean again and drying his hands on his tee shirt,  he headed back down, realizing as he did that the wind off the lake had picked up quite a bit.  It was unusual for the month of June, causing him to shiver a little as he felt the cool gusts in his face.

No matter.  The fire would be going soon.  They would be warm enough.

The boy arrived at the campsite just in time to hear Mr. Bell ask the question.

“Well, now what do we do?  Does anybody else have matches?”

The situation was immediately clear to the lad.  Someone had forgotten to check the match supply.  When the box was opened, only three of the sulphur and pine fire-starters were to be found.

“No problem,” Mr. Bell had said.  “It only takes one.”

He had lit the match and then shoved it down toward the newspaper wadded among the kindling.  The wind snuffed it out on the way down.  The second followed, with the same result.

Carefully shielding the third and last match in his hand and keeping it right next to the paper, he managed to get the flaring flame to light the edge.  Still shielding the blazing kindling, he waited a moment before backing away.  A gust of wind puffed the flame out in that instant.

lighted-match“Anybody?”  The big voice was almost plaintive as Mr. Bell repeated the word.  “A match?”

The skinny boy clamped his mouth shut.  He said not one word about the match in his pocket.  Not a word.

Two things kept him quiet.  The first thing was a little silly.  But, not to him, it wasn’t. 

The match was his.  His.  And, nobody else’s. 

What’s that?  Selfish, was it?  Sure.  But, he wasn’t wrong.  It was his.  Besides that, the second thing wasn’t silly at all.  Well, maybe a little silly, but again, not to him.

He needed that match.  In case.

In case what? 

Duh!  If he was starving, he could light a fire to cook something.  If he was freezing, he could get warm.  If he was lost in the wilderness, he could build a signal fire to attract attention.

His.  His last match.

If they used that match and it blew out, all hope would be gone.  No chance of a fire over which to cook, nor to be warmed by.  As long as it remained unlit, he had hope.

No fire, but hope.

They ate cold hotdogs and chocolate bars with whole marshmallows that night.  There were no fried eggs for breakfast the next morning either.  Bread and apples slices.  That was what the shivering boys ate before they broke camp to head back home.

The skinny kid kept the match in his pocket all the way home.
                   

Silly, huh?  Dumb twelve-year-old kid.

What adult would think like that?  Why would anyone keep quiet about a treasure they had hidden which could be of value to others?

What good is hope if a person never bothers to put it to the test?

When I write, there is usually no dearth of words to make my point.  The narrative complete, I always have a moral to offer.  Tonight should be no different.

But, I don’t want to fill the page with more words.

You see, the twelve-year old kid still lives in me. 

Maybe, it’s time to light the match and see what happens.

 

 

“But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him?”
(I John 3:17 ~ NASB)

 

“One who cannot cast away a treasure at need is in fetters.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ English author/poet ~ 1892-1973)

 

 

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