Knocked Down, But Not Destroyed

My friend, Nancy, suggested the other day that the cure for the blues was work, so the day after we lost our Tip dog, I determined to get started taking down the fence in our backyard.

I began with the old metal drive-through gate. In retrospect (and with the Lovely Lady’s exhortation in my ear) I possibly should have waited for help. I sometimes need to be reminded that I’m not 39 anymore.

I started out well but ended up pinned on the ground by the heavy gate at some point. I look at that sentence and envision two WWE fakers in the ring with the loser being pile-driven into the canvas at the conclusion. And as I consider it, it even felt a little like that.

I am, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, a glutton for punishment, so the next day I pulled a trailer down to a little town south of us and helped my grandchildren pick up a number of large cut stones from an old fireplace in my sister-in-law’s grandparents’ homestead.

I only moved a few of the smaller stones (much smaller), but still felt as if I have been run over by the proverbial train by suppertime yesterday evening.

I’ve decided that perhaps I may have misunderstood my good friend’s instructions. She probably meant that I should just think about work, instead of actually doing it.

I’m going to try that today, even if it’s not the right conclusion. In my head, I’m going to rake the entire yard this afternoon. I only hope the folks along my street appreciate all I’ll be doing to beautify the neighborhood.

But, switching gears (and attempting to be a little less tongue-in-cheek here), I’ve been thinking a lot recently about sadness and hope. I’ve talked with lots of folks who are in pain. I’ve also spoken with many who are blessed with joys right now.

The realization dawns (repeatedly, it seems, since I need to be reminded over and over) that we’re instructed to “weep with those who weep” no more than we are to “rejoice with those who rejoice.”

Job, in his distress, asked, “Shall we accept good from His hands and not trouble also?” (Job 2:10, NIV)

Our hope is not that all trouble will cease in this life. Our hope is that He will sustain us in our trouble now and that one day, all will be made right.
But, we also live in expectation of good things from our Heavenly Father. In this life.

Good things.

Jesus Himself said, “In this world, you will have tribulations, but be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.” (John 16:23)

It is a vale of sorrows. I’ll not argue.

It’s also a garden of promise. And hope.

You know, when that gate landed on top of me the other day, I sat on the ground for a few moments, contemplating my situation. But, I didn’t stay there.

I stood up and, lifting the gate, carried it back to the storage barn, leaning it against the wall to await its next assignment.

We are knocked down, but not out.

There are good things ahead.

And, maybe another day or two of work to be done.

I might be looking for a little help along the way.

What do you think? You in?

We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed.
(2 Corinthians 4: 8-9, NLT)

“When God gives us tribulations, He expects us to tribulate.”
(Anonymous)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Let All the Earth Keep Silence

image by K B on Unsplash

I know it’s that time of the year—the time when my lungs usually revolt and refuse to take in (and expel) the prescribed amount of oxygen.  I’m taking steps to stay healthy.  And, in case I fail at that, I’ve filled my prescriptions.  The rescue inhaler is easily at hand for when it will be required again.

This was different.

Certainly, I couldn’t breathe.  Still, I didn’t reach for my inhaler.  It would have done no good.

We had just heard the news of a tragedy in a young family we love.  A beautiful little girl was dead, and her father had been carried away in a flash flood.

I couldn’t breathe. 

In my mind, I saw that beautiful little girl standing on a church platform last Christmas, her two older sisters singing a lovely duet while she just stood smiling beside them in her pretty satiny dress.

She tried.  She really did. 

She tried just to stand there quietly, but it couldn’t be done.  Before they finished, she was dancing, throwing her hair from side to side and moving her hands and feet to the music.  And, when they stopped singing, she bowed to the audience and, pointing her toes as she went, danced down the steps from the stage.

I spoke to her mom after the program and told her it was perfect.  Perfect.

She laughed apologetically and explained that the two older girls had worked up the song, but to keep the peace had allowed the sweet little one to come up on stage with them. So, she danced.  Because she couldn’t sing.

She’ll never do it again.  I thought about that and I couldn’t breathe.  Perhaps, I’m not the only one.

Another friend reminded us of a song today, one that speaks again and again of the goodness of God.  Running after us, it says. 

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”
(Psalm 23:6, KJV)

I’ve heard the words for as long as I can remember.  They’re meant to be comforting.  And yet, I can’t help but ask the question little Gretel asked in The Sound of Music when singing about her favorite things wasn’t helping any.

“Why don’t I feel bettah?”

It doesn’t feel like goodness and mercy are following right now.  Sometimes, if I’m honest, it feels just the opposite.

But then, I remember words I last heard from the lips of the sweet girl’s daddy, not many months ago now.  He—not a preacher—gave one of the most powerful sermons I’ve ever heard, on his favorite book of the Bible, Habakkuk.

A soul-ish book, he called it.  One we need to hear with our inner being and not just our heads.  He had much to say about the words of the prophet, but these I want to remember, especially now, when I’m tempted to be directed by my feelings:

“The Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him.”
(Habakkuk 3:20, KJV)

And, perhaps it’s time for me to do just that. 

But before I do, two things:

The first is, I wonder if you noticed I forgot to finish the verse from the Twenty-third Psalm above.  It’s something I tend to do when I’m thinking with my emotions and not my soul. I forget that there is more.

Really.  More.

“And I shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever.”

And second, remembering that hope-filled truth, I begin to breathe again as I see the beautiful little girl dancing for her Savior.  But then I remember that she gets to sing now, too.

She gets to sing.

With her daddy, she gets to sing.

One can almost hear it from here. Beautiful music.

Goodness.

Mercy.

Following us.

All of our lives.

 

“Yet I will rejoice in the Lord!
    I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!
The Sovereign Lord is my strength!
    He makes me as surefooted as a deer,
    able to tread upon the heights.
(Habakkuk 3:18-19, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Equilibrium

Lost.

I left her in the passenger seat of the car.  I was only gone two minutes—perhaps three.  How could I lose her so fast?

What will I do without her?

“I’ll only be a minute,” were my last words to her.  No I love you; not even a kiss on the cheek.

The world spun.  Really. 

Off-kilter, out of control.  Panic.

“Here I am.”  The words came from the back seat.  She had only moved to leave the front seat empty for my sister, whom we would pick up at the next stop.

I passed it off as nothing, but the feeling of loss persisted.  I didn’t let her see the tears.  Well, maybe she saw them.  She was kind enough to not bring them up when she gently teased as my sister heard about the little episode.

The tears have clouded my sight off and on for the last couple of weeks, much like the rain which has been falling around me for about as long.  It’s almost as if God is crying in sympathy.

I know that’s not how it works. 

It’s just how it feels sometimes.

Some folks don’t think God cries at all.  But, I’m not sure it makes sense to assume the things our Savior did while on earth would cease just because He isn’t walking among us in a human body anymore.

He wept.  It means He cried real tears, trails running down His cheeks, as He felt the pain and sadness of loss and sympathy.  His eyes got red and His nose ran.  His voice broke as He talked.

This man-who-was-God-Who-was-man demonstrated the standard even before the apostle who followed Him wrote the words:  Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

I suppose it seems a little over the top for me to be so upset by such a minor thing as getting into the car and finding the Lovely Lady not where I expected her.  Perhaps, it is.

But, we were headed to visit one close to us who really is in the process of losing the one he’s spent his life with.  The tiny vignette offered me in that split second brought the reality they are facing into focus.

In that moment, the emotions I felt—confusion, fear, loss—helped me to understand what others around me are experiencing and what is spilling over into my spirit.

Last week, I was reminded of the time, a decade ago, when I was out of control.  A friend had missed a rehearsal and was asked what had kept him away.  It only took one word.

Vertigo. 

That was the cause of his absence.  Just hearing the name is a trigger—a thought that brings with it really bad memories.  I never want to go through that again.

Dizziness so bad, the world spun whenever my eyes were open.  Nausea that wouldn’t stop.  Unable to even walk, I had to be led, leaning on anyone who would help.

Complete helplessness and inability to function on my own.

Funny.  Today my world is spinning again.  No.  I mean spinning, as in not stable.

I’m aware of the basics of how our planet functions, rotating on its axis and revolving around the sun.  That’s not what I mean.  The world I’m referring to is my world—the place where I walk, and sleep, and love.

On that occasion, ten years past, when I was struck with very real vertigo, my doctor told me it was all in my head.  Oh, he was sympathetic.  But, he knew things weren’t really spinning around me as it seemed.  A malfunction in my inner ear was the problem, not the world around me.

“I’ll give you some medication.  It will make your brain think everything is fine.  That’s what you need.”

The medicine would give me some much-needed equilibrium, a sense of balance, until my inner ear righted itself.

It didn’t fix anything.  It just made me think everything was right with the world.

I don’t need medicine like that right now.

I need to see the world as it is—as its Creator sees it.  Through His eyes.  With His heart.

I know He promised He would never leave us.  He won’t.  In the middle of the darkest night, if we call Him, He is there.

In the light of day, He pours out His love.  In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls.  (Psalm 42:8)

In the light of day, He pours out His love. In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls. Equilibrium. Click To Tweet

When we need it, there is a strong arm to lean on.  Maybe two, if we need both of them.

I’m leaning.  And tears are still falling.

Many I know are in the grip of vertigo right now.

Maybe we could all lean together while we weep.

They’re really strong arms.

Strong arms attached to One who knows what it is to weep.

 

 

As the deer longs for streams of water,
    so I long for you, O God.
I thirst for God, the living God.
    When can I go and stand before him?
Day and night I have only tears for food,
    while my enemies continually taunt me, saying,
    “Where is this God of yours?”

My heart is breaking
    as I remember how it used to be:
I walked among the crowds of worshipers,
    leading a great procession to the house of God,
singing for joy and giving thanks
    amid the sound of a great celebration!

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!

Now I am deeply discouraged,
    but I will remember you—
even from distant Mount Hermon, the source of the Jordan,
    from the land of Mount Mizar.
I hear the tumult of the raging seas
    as your waves and surging tides sweep over me.
But each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me,
    and through each night I sing his songs,
    praying to God who gives me life.

“O God my rock,” I cry,
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I wander around in grief,
    oppressed by my enemies?”
Their taunts break my bones.
    They scoff, “Where is this God of yours?”

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!
(Psalm 42 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

The Weaver

My young friend has seen more of life in his twenty-six years than many of us do in all of our allotted time on this spinning sphere.  

I’m confident there is nothing I have to teach him.  Empty words are not what he needs today.  I don’t intend to offer any.

We talked about the troubles in this world that waylay us on our journey.  I had to work hard to avoid the trite words we who follow Christ keep ready to offer for such occasions.

Count it all joy when you encounter trials…  (James 1:2)

My grace is sufficient for you… (2 Corinthians 12:9)

In the world you will have tribulations… (John 16:33)

These words—and many more—are perfectly true.  Really.  They are.  But, that doesn’t mean we need to say them every time we speak with folks who are experiencing trouble.  

Well-meant words can become explosive devices when dropped from the great height of wisdom into the valley of loss and sadness.  Where ointment and salve are needed, we offer astringents and solvents.

As my young friend and I spoke, it seemed to me he still needed soft words that soothed the hurt.  

I’m better at cauterizing than soothing.

Today though, I’m feeling the exhaustion that comes from personal loss and sadness myself.  A kindred spirit, you might say.  I speak briefly of the person I think I would be, if not for the sad times that have driven me to cower under the shadow of His wings.

Arrogant and self-assured, is who I am when my own strength is sufficient to carry me through.

Our loving Father uses those times of loss to draw us closer, but also to shape us into the followers He needs us to be.

The unhappy events that come throughout life are folded in with the joyous ones—eventually.  All of them we have lived are a part of who we are—the sadness blending with jubilation—the horror mixing into the delight. 

The warp and weft of life.

loom-579967_640I heard the phrase the other day, and a picture formed in my mind instantly.  The patient weaver stood, row after row of drab colored thread laid out and running straight ahead on the loom.  The warp is in front of him already.

Beside him lay spindles of brightly colored thread, along with more of the same drab twisted material.  From those spindles, he will choose what goes into the weft, the cross-weave.  His choice will make a dramatic difference.

The exact color and pattern of the finished material are up to the weaver.  If he picks up the brightly dyed spindle, the material will come alive with a visible change.  Although the beauty might be marred by weakened thread, the dye having caused a reaction with the fibers, the resulting cloth will be more pleasing to the eye.  

More of the same neutral color will make a utilitarian piece of material, strong and useful.  Possibly, even a complementary neutral hue will lend interest, but not detract from the strength.

The choice is the weaver’s.

Side by side—and sometimes cross-ways—the different threads of life change the character of the material.  The good lies alongside the bad, the joyous crisscrossing with the sorrowful.  As the pattern is revealed, its beauty is also.

The Weaver plans to finish what He started. (Philippians 1:6)

How would He make a garment which was not of good quality?  He knows the plan He has for each of us and it will be for our ultimate good.  (Jeremiah 29:11)

Even if we don’t like the color He is weaving with right now—even if the fibers are rough and coarse—His strong and able hands assure the beauty and strength of the completed fabric.

I will admit it.  The fibers are not to my liking right now.

Today, I’m not even sure I like the pattern I see emerging all that much.

The Weaver isn’t finished yet.

Sometimes, we simply trust and wait.

The warp and weft are still coming together.

The pattern is still emerging from His loom.

I’ll wait.

For Him, I’ll wait.

 

The pattern is still emerging from His loom. I'll wait. For Him, I'll wait. Click To Tweet

 

 

Man is fond of counting his troubles, but he does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he ought to, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it.
(Fyodor Dostoyevsky ~ Russian novelist ~ 1821-1881)

 

For the moth will eat them up like a garment;
    the worm will devour them like wool.
But my righteousness will last forever,
    my salvation through all generations.
(Isaiah 51:8 ~ NIV)

 

 

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

 

Dead Trees and Broken Promises

The tree is dead.  Dead.

tree-54425_640To say I am unhappy would be truthful.  But, I think it goes even deeper than that.

I feel betrayed.

Twelve years ago, the Lovely Lady and I put a sapling in the ground.  We were careful to follow all the recommendations of the nursery from which we purchased the beautiful little promise of a tree.

Well?  That’s what it was—was it not?  

It was a promise of shady spaces and wind rustling through green leaves.  The promise of branches for grandchildren (not yet born) to climb upon in summertime and of brilliant purples of autumn splendor.

A promise—that’s what it was.

A broken promise.  Now.

Day after day I look out to see if anything has changed.  Every other plant in the neighborhood has burst out in green celebration of the new life Spring entices to accompany itself.  

Already, I’ve had to trim a foot of new growth from the hedge on the opposite end of the front yard, so rapid has been its exuberant development.

I’ve told you about the magnificent scarlet maple around the corner in the backyard and its fantastic enterprise of repopulating the world. Since its emissaries of choice, the spinning jennies floating on the spring breezes, have already done their part, the stately tree has simply covered itself in greenery and is content.

But, what of the twenty-foot-tall ash tree in the front yard?  

Nothing.  No buds.  No leaves.  

Nothing.  

It’s dead.

As often as I walk past it, I break off a little twig and test for life.  The dead wood snaps like a match stick.  Every time.

There will be no shade this year.  Not long from now, if my grandson grabs a limb and pulls himself up onto it, as he did only last week, the limb will give way under his weight.

Broken limb.  Broken promise.

I feel betrayed.  Angry even.

I know, I know—it’s just a tree.  But, I’m not the first to feel this way.  Others have been angry at the loss of their shade, too.

Take Jonah, for instance.  He sat on the hillside, ready to watch a spectacle (though fairly certain it wouldn’t happen) and enjoyed the shade of the plant under which he rested.  When it shriveled the next day, he was angry.  (Jonah 4:6-8)

He wanted to die.  Angry at God for taking his shade, he begged to be allowed to die.

I’m not that mad, but the message of Jonah is starting to get through my thick skull anyway.  

There was never a promise made to me with regard to this tree.  The Creator of all we know allows us to enjoy His gifts.  And, sometimes He takes one away.

In my experience, when He takes away, He gives something better.  I don’t think there’s any promise of that, but it seems to be the way He works.

Often, I think we miss this message when we blame God for the loss of other things which are precious to us.  We forget that He is God.  We forget that He is looking at all of time and history as His plan unfolds.

Still, the losses hurt.  We wonder if we’ve been betrayed.  Anger rises.

But, the tree was never mine.  The things we have lost were always His.

There is a promise I remember about trees.  The promise, spoken beautifully by the psalmist in one of my favorite pieces of poetry, is clear.  (The entire Psalm will be found below, in the old English as I first heard it, years ago.)

The upright person, one who loves God and wants nothing or no one else, is going to be like a tree planted by the river, with roots going down deep into the fertile soil.  

No withered greenery here—no brittle limbs that snap under the fingers—no barren branches.  In every season, this tree will produce its prescribed crop.  Every time.

A promise, not of immense wealth, nor of fame and renown, but of faithfulness and a legacy.

I don’t have to remind you of the rest of the promise, do I?  The psalmist spent no more time on it than will I:

Reject Him and what little impact you have on your world will fade and disappear with a strong wind.

A sobering thought.  Both parts of the promise, I mean.  

Sobering.

I think I like the idea of trees with roots that go down deep.  

Maybe the next one I plant will be like that.  No promises.

But, that other tree?

Our Creator keeps His promises.

Green leaves.  Fruit, in season.  Bounty.

I like trees.

You?

 

 

God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars.
(Martin Luther ~ German theologian/reformer ~ 1483-1546)

Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.
But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.
And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

The ungodly are not so: but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.
Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.
For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish.
(Psalm 1 ~ KJV)

 

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