Drowning Fish

This is not what I was made to do.

I have said the words more times in the last weeks than ever before.  One might almost think I’m unhappy.

One would be right.  Some of the time.

I’m a communicator.  A people person.  I use words.  It’s how I survived in the retail market for nearly forty years.

That was then.

Today, I hung a kitchen cabinet door.  Three times.  The same one—three times.

I’m not good with cabinet doors.  Or sheetrock.  Or wall trim.

The red-headed woman who raised me had an apt simile for such a situation.  She usually did.

He’s like a fish out of water.

It’s nothing to joke about.  A fish out of water is terminal.  It will die.

I don’t think I will die from my attempts at home remodeling.  If you could be a spider in the corner though, you’d think someone was dying.

My griping and grousing are vocal and vehement.  I call myself names.  I call the materials I’m working with names.

I even bring God into the conversation, accusing Him and questioning His wisdom in trusting me with this task.

It does feel as if I’m drowning and can’t get enough air.  With sweat running down my back and face, I do the task once, twice, and a third time—all with the same result.

Do you ever feel as if you're drowning and can't get enough air? Click To Tweet

Drowning.  In frustration—and impatience.  But, mostly in self-pity.

And yet. . .

And yet, I am not a man drowning in water deep, nor a fish tossed up on the river bank to flop until, gasping for the water rushing through my gills from which to draw the filtered oxygen my body demands, I finally lie still forever.

I am not drowning.  I am in an uncomfortable situation—one in which I’ve never found myself before.

But, it’s not the first time.

And, I’m not the only one.

The King of Creation sometimes lets us know we’ve become too comfortable, too complacent.

It’s a good thing.

I keep telling myself that.  It’s a good thing.

I wish I could have remembered it earlier today.

I wonder if Joseph, he of the many-hued robe, was any better, day-to-day, in remembering that God only wanted good for him.

I imagine he wasn’t—day after tedious day.

I want him not to have been any better.  It would make me feel less guilty, anyway.

I want Joseph to have muttered under his breath when he was forced to be a house slave in Egypt. I want him to have defended himself, at least in a whisper, when accused of acts he would never have committed. I want him to have screamed at God as he sat, forgotten and betrayed in that horrible dungeon.

It would be easier to look at my own face in the mirror if those things were true.  At least, it seems so to me tonight.

But then, griping and muttering past, I want, like Joseph, to understand God had a plan all along.

I also want—in the end—to have made the right choices, even when it felt as if those very decisions were what was making life an unfamiliar maze, one in which there was so little air that it felt suffocation was seconds away.

And, gasping for air, I finally want to trust a God I cannot see with the things I hold in my hands and the future I can just make out in the distance ahead.

I will go back tomorrow and take that cabinet door back down, only to put it back up again.

I will hear, over the dissenting voices in my head, the quiet tones of my father, quoting those familiar words from the heart of Jeremiah, the crying man.

I know the plans I’ve made for you, says your Creator.  They are for great good—for your benefit and not for your harm.  There is hope.  There is a future to which you should look with anticipation.  (Jeremiah 29:11)

And, whether Joseph did or not, I will probably yell some more.  I may even shout at God in my frustration and anger.

He can take it.

He knows (and remembers clearly) how we were formed.  He knows that we came from dirt.  (Psalm 103:14)

And still, He seeks to shape us into something better, something more refined.

And still, He seeks to shape us into something better. Click To Tweet

While we gasp for breath in a new environment, He is breathing new life into us.

It’s time to do the new thing He has put in front of me.

Perhaps, there is more for me to do.

Breathe deep.

Keep moving.

The future lies just ahead.

 

 

 

They did what soldiers always did.  They improvised.
(Geoffrey Norman ~ American writer/editor)

 

Alive without breath;
as cold as death;
never thirsting, ever drinking;
clad in mail, never clinking.
Drowns on dry land,
thinks an island
is a mountain;
thinks a fountain
is a puff of air.
(from The Hobbit ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ Ballantine Books, New York. Copyright 1937, 1938, 1966.)

 

 

 

 

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

People Change

The tears flow more easily these days.  I can’t explain it.  It’s not as if there’s any good reason—a daughter’s wedding for instance, or a totaled vintage sports car.

I apologized for embarrassing the Lovely Lady at the concert the other night.  She just smiled and suggested that it doesn’t bother her at all.  I’m going to take her at her word.

The concert?  Oh, it was just a performance of the choir from the local university—an encore of their annual spring break tour material for the folks in our little town.  

I used to detest choral music.  I thought I was supposed to hate it.  I grew up in the sixties and seventies, an era of rock and roll, and disco, with a little Take Me Home, Country Roads mixed in.  

We didn’t listen to choral music.

choir-408422_640But, people change.

The other night, I sat and listened to the young voices raised in harmony and let the tears roll down my cheeks without bothering to wipe them dry.  

What beauty!  What astounding beauty!

I was especially overwhelmed by one particular song—no, not the song—the singers.  Two young ladies sang a duet, really solos which blended with each other seamlessly.  The piece was written for two sopranos, and was quite high.  The young ladies were up to the task and the result was spectacular—a performance to listen to again and again.  

But—and this is odd—I remember reading that one of the sopranos had been an alto singer when she entered the university’s vocal program.  A low alto.  And here she was singing a gorgeous duet way up in the high range of the female voice.  

What happened?

People change.

I sat at the dinner table with a few folks the other day.  The portions of dessert which were served had been generous.  The Lovely Lady noticed one of our guests was struggling to finish his too-large serving and mentioned that she wouldn’t be insulted if he couldn’t finish.

“We don’t require people at our table to clean their plates,” I added lightly.

My adult son jerked his face toward me in surprise.  

“That’s not how I remember it used to be,” he said in a voice filled with mock-hurt.

I immediately saw scenes of battles-of-the-wills—little boy refusing his mashed potatoes—Dad insisting he eat at least a no-thank-you helping of the vile things—and I cringed inwardly.  He was only half-serious now, and yet the images are inked indelibly on my brain.  His too, I suppose.

Hanging my head a little, I replied.  “I hope I’m always growing and doing things better than I used to.”

He laughed.  “I’m not horribly scarred from the experience, you know.”

We laughed together.  Still, the truth remains—at least I hope it does.

People change.

It is not always the case.  An old friend and I stood today, talking about an acquaintance who passed away recently.  My friend remembered the fellow as a teenager—headstrong, angry, and resistant to improvement.

As we talked, suddenly both of us fell quiet, thinking about the same thing.

“It’s funny,” my friend said.  “He was just like that until the day he died.”

It’s not really that funny.  Some people don’t change.  

I think that’s just plain sad.

Lest you think I’m talking about us pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, and earning our own salvation, let me assure you, I’m not.  That’s not the point at all.  

Our redemption and adoption into the Family of God are guaranteed by one thing and one thing only—the grace of a loving God who Himself became the sacrifice necessary to satisfy the requirement of holiness and justice.  

We are saved by grace, through faith in Jesus.  Period.  (Ephesians 2:8)

We don’t stay there without moving, though.  Our journey through life continues on.  We are presented with choices at every twist and turn.

We grow.  We walk and we learn.  We become, it is to be hoped, more like our Savior as we journey on.  Prompted by the Spirit, we leave our old rags behind, and are dressed in His clothes.

People change.

The girl who thought she was limited to the low range of the female voice submitted herself to her mentor’s instruction and now sings with a range most of us can’t imagine.  It’s a good thing,  a very good thing.

The old man who once demanded perfection of his children and would not open up his ears to different melodies and harmonies than those with which he was comfortable is finally learning a more gentle manner and a wider repertoire.

More changes will come.  At least, it is to be hoped more changes are in the future.

What a shame for a man to die in his obstinance.  How does the gentleness of our Savior not compel us to become gentle?  How does His love not move us to be loving?

People change.  And, they should.

Perhaps, even that sentence should be modified.  It won’t take much to change its meaning.  Two punctuation marks. 

People, change!

 

Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.
(Fyodor Dostoyevsky ~ Russian novelist ~ 1821-1881)

 

And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.
(2 Corinthians 3:18 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

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