Calloused

My hands hurt. Most of the time, these days, they hurt.

I’m not complaining, really I’m not. Well, maybe just a little. And, I certainly don’t think it’s my fault. But then, if I stop to think a moment, it could be.

A quick search of Google shows that I need to have soft hands for them to be considered beautiful. Or, is that just women? I really can’t tell, but I’m pretty sure gnarled and scarred hands aren’t all that attractive, regardless of which gender they belong to.

I’ve never worried much about the appearance of my hands, but recently I’m a little more aware of it. Having worked with my hands all my life (and talked with them, too), the osteoarthritis now settling in my joints is beginning to mar the symmetry of my once-straight fingers.

Other things are conspiring to make them less physically attractive, as well.

In just the last week, I’ve pinched them with pliers (twice), cut them with a saw blade, with the sharp edge of an air conditioner duct, and the corner of a file. While I was at it, I smashed a knuckle using a power sander, and sliced the tip of my thumb with a utility knife (just tonight). I even have a jammed thumb on one hand, although I have no recollection of how that one happened.

The mind wanders—as it does—and I recall my last day of working for an electrician in another life, decades ago. I was leaving that job to return to the music business full-time, and the electrician I worked with mentioned he’d be calling Johnson & Johnson to warn them they might need to make some adjustments to their business plan. The puzzled look on my face led to his tongue-in-cheek explanation.

Since you won’t be working for us anymore, we won’t be purchasing all those bandages. They’re likely to face bankruptcy soon, I’d think.

When I work with my hands, I bleed. It’s a given. And yet, I keep working with my hands. Blood washes off. Cuts and scrapes heal.

Even now, as I sit and write, my hands hurt again. I rub them gently, feeling a few new callouses ,and again my mind wanders—further back, this time.

I was in my twenties. With young children, money was scarce, but we took the trip to South Texas anyway. Babies need to see their grandparents, and vice versa.

The car didn’t make it all the way to my childhood home in the Rio Grande Valley. Well, it did, but we could only drive 30 miles per hour the last sixty miles of the trip.

I spent my vacation under the hood of that old car. By the time it was running right again, my callouses had callouses, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have described it.

One afternoon after the problem was sorted out, my dad introduced me to a friend of his. As I shook his hand, he looked down at mine, then back up at me and smiled.

It’s nice to meet a young man these days who knows how to work with his hands.

Callouses. On callouses. I was embarrassed. And proud—if you understand how that could be true as well.

Lend me a hand.
Get your grubby hands off!
I’ve got to hand it to you.
He knows this town like the back of his hand.
We’re just living hand to mouth these days.
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
Give your hand in marriage.
My right-hand man.

These are only a small sampling of the phrases in our language in which the word hand plays a major part.  Hands are important to us.

They are important to our God, as well.

His Word is full of hands.

Hands that took the fruit and put it to the mouth—original sin. (Genesis 3:6)

Hands that blessed a young man who was wearing animal skin on his own hands, to deceive—the father of the Children of Israel. (Genesis 27)

Hands that stretched over the sea, parting the waters—a journey begun to freedom. (Exodus 14:21,22)

Hands that built a tabernacle—a place for God to dwell among men. (Exodus 25:8)

Hands that played a harp to calm the soul—and later, to compose psalms of worship which endure until this day—a sacrifice of praise. (1 Samuel 16:23)

A hand that wrote on a wall—a warning to God’s enemies. (Daniel 5:5)

Hands that were stretched wide in love. Hands through which spikes were driven—the blessing of God’s saving grace to all mankind. (Isaiah 53:5)

There are more.

Thousands of them. Hands. Doing good.

And yes, thousands doing evil.

I’ve heard the words of God to Moses innumerable times.  (Exodus 4:2)

What do you have in your hands?

I’ve always thought the important thing was the answer to that question. Moses had a staff. I have other things. But, here’s the deal.

God doesn’t need my things.

He needs my hands.

My hands. 

To be willing to be open. For Him.

Or, holding on. For Him.

My beaten up, scarred, stiff, sore hands.

With our hands, yours and mine, He will touch the world—perhaps one person at a time—perhaps thousands.

On second thought, I’m certain that hands don’t have to be soft to be beautiful.

Hands don't have to be soft to be beautiful. Click To Tweet

Hearts. Hearts have to be soft.

The hands—cracked, calloused, gnarled, and stiff—are beautiful simply because they serve. Wiping away a child’s tears, touching the cheek of a newborn baby or a nervous bride, stroking the hair of a frightened mate, reaching out in love to serve.

And sometimes, they hurt. His did, too.

His did, too.

 

Oh, be careful little hands what you do,
For the Father up above is looking down in love.
Oh, be careful little hands what you do. 
(from Oh Be Careful ~ American children’s song ~ Anonymous)

 

Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
And confirm for us the work of our hands;
Yes, confirm the work of our hands.
(Psalm 90:17 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

 

 

 

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

Message from a Hypocritical Fake

It’s kind of hard for Mom to see the road when she has tears in her eyes.

Our house guests had been gone not even an hour when the text arrived on my phone.  I laughed.  And then, I wiped the tears from my own eyes. 

As we hugged and said our goodbyes that morning, the girls’ mom mentioned how sad it had been for her to be packing.  I understood.  Their days had been full of old friends and swimming, of family gatherings and sleep-overs.  They were leaving to go hundreds of miles away.

It is sad.  But, I have to tell you—it’s also joyful.

It’s what happens when we love people.

The homecomings are all laughter and excitement, the separation, tears and sadness.

In between, the sweet times of fellowship are a delight; the distance of disagreement—heartbreak.

Love keeps us coming back.  Again and again, the cycle is repeated.  

Joy, sadness.  Smiles, tears.

I know.  It’s hokey.  Sentimental slop.

But, that’s life.

Life is hokey.  It’s mushy.  It’s sloppy.

It’s horribly messy.  Horribly.

But, I’ll say this:  Better are tears wiped from the eyes while driving away than the voice of regret for never having come.

The memories of times, happy or sad, spent with loved ones are infinitely more to be treasured than the times passed in self-centered pursuits.  When, in the passing years, we sit and speak of the good times, we will remember occasions filled with voices and faces, laughter and tears.

The time we share with people is precious; hours wasted in the dark and quiet are hardly remembered at all, save with regret.

One could read the words I’ve scattered on this page and nod his or her head in affirmation, agreeing completely about time spent with family.  And yet, I stopped talking about family quite a way up the page.

The statement was: It’s what happens when we love people.  

Sad.  Joyful.

People.  

Family.  Neighbors.  Strangers.  Enemies.

People.

Being a writer, and working to make my articles more accessible has led me to visit and read more divergent views of faith and life than I once did.  There is a recent theme that has disappointed me, even worried me.

Why I Ditched the Church Scene (and why you should, too).

Folks who have been hurt, or seen sin in the lives of others, or had disagreements with leaders, are leaving the church in droves.  They are not going out to start a new fellowship.  They are ditching church altogether.

I wonder.  

I’ve said it before myself.  I don’t want to go to church today.

And, I will admit here for the first time publicly, in my head I have said it differently.  I don’t want to go to church ever again.

Not ever.

Do you know why I keep going to church, with all those hypocrites and fakes—with all those sinners?

They need me.  

pebbles-56435_640No, not because I’m so holy.  Not because I’m so wise.  They need me because I’ve got some rough edges that can bump against the rough edges they bring with them each week.  (Hebrews 10:24-25)

This hypocritical fake, who still has a problem with sin, loving them can do what humanity is intended to do.  Help them to be better people.

Help me to be a better person.

Is the church full of two-faced fakes?

Duh!

So is my music store.  So is the restaurant where I break bread.  So is the university where you got your degree.  We interact with them in those places, as well.

We are all flawed.  We all need help.

God gives it in the form of other flawed, helpless humans.  If we abandon them, we serve only ourselves.

And, in the end, if we serve only ourselves, we harm everyone.

Will there be tears?

Will there be unhappiness?

It is a certainty.  

What is also certain is that as we live in community, we learn to be the men and women God intended for us to be.

From each other.  By being with each other.

I said there will be tears and unhappiness.  There will also be great joy and celebration.

It’s what happens when we love people.

And God.

Some day, He’ll wipe those tears away Himself.  (Revelation 21:4)

For now, I’ve got a sleeve I can wipe them on.

 

 

 

Don’t cry because it’s over.  Smile because it happened.
(Anonymous ~ attributed to Dr. Seuss ~ American author ~  1904-1991)

 

 

 

Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works.  And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of his return is drawing near.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

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

Disruption

She’s no better than she ought to be.

The proper English lady sniffed pompously as she said the words.  Quite obviously, she considered the woman about whom she was speaking beneath herself.  I don’t have many British friends, so I’ve never heard the phrase used in conversation.

I am happy to say the BBC comedy program the Lovely Lady and I were watching has provided the impetus for many trips to the dictionary of origins for me. 

I suppose I may be a little odd (perhaps, more than a little).

I have always loved words.  Big words.  Little words.  Obscure words.  I want to know where our language came from.  If it comes to that, I want to know where it is going.  Still, I didn’t have to do much research to figure this one out.

The female person about whom the words were spoken was quite clearly poor and uneducated.  Her morality was also suspect.  Somehow, for quite a few people, the two states are inseparable.

They believe poor and uneducated leads to immoral, every time.

Apparently, if you get a bad start, you aren’t expected to rise any higher in the years which follow.

If you are born disadvantaged, you’ll never be any better than you ought to be.

And, that might be a true statement.

Except. . .

Did you know that every one of us was born disadvantaged?  

Did you know that not one of us has the ability to become good?  

We can never be any better than we ought to be.  None of us.

All of us have sinned.  All of us fall short.  It is the norm—the common condition of man.  (Romans 3:23)

Except. . .

Except, the Disruptor came along.  He made us better than we ought to be.

You know what a disruptor is, don’t you?  In the jargon of today’s marketplace, a disruptor is someone or something which has the ability to change forever the item or entity with which it intersects.

It’s not that things are done in a different way; things actually are different.

For all of history before the Disruptor’s coming, our Creator, knowing that we were disadvantaged, and understanding where we came from (He fashioned us, after all), overlooked our sin.

Oh, it had to be covered; that’s what the sacrifices were for—a covering for sin—but God, understanding we were made from dirt and would always act like dirt, loved us anyway. (Psalm 103:8-14)

He loved us anyway.

And, in His time—at the perfect juncture in history—He sent the Disruptor.  Because He loves us, things would be different forever.

We will be better than we ought to be.

Will be!

No more will we be able to point to our heritage and suggest that we are just as good as they were.  Never again will we know the limitation of being only as good as our past allows.

He makes all things new!  Disruption means that nothing will ever be the same again.

We have been re-created.  And, not out of dirt!  (2 Corinthians 5:17)

The very thought of it makes me sit up straighter.  This new reality changes everything.  I don’t have to go through life trapped in the same state as when I was born.

But still, the lie intrudes. 

You’ll never be any better.  Never.

Somehow, even in the truth of newness, and in the reality of not-dirt, we begin to believe the lie that we are worthless.  And, being human, we find ways to build our own worth.

Bolstering our own worth always involves diminishing the worth of others.  Always.

She’s no better than she ought to be.pebbles-1209189_640

Still, we say the words.  The lie prevails.  Pride rules in our hearts.  And, as we take aim at others, we hurt ourselves.

He changes the rules.  It’s what He came for.

Go ahead then; stone her.  But the first stone must be thrown by one who has never sinned.  (John 8:7)

Do you think He came to leave us in the same condition in which He found us?  Without question, the most disruptive person in all of history is the Son of God.

He calls us to follow Him in his disruptive ways.  

He calls us to love each other anyway.

We are the hands and feet—and heart— of the Disruptor here on earth.

Where we walk and serve, nothing should ever be the same again.

Perhaps, it’s time for us to get started.

 

 

 

Dust are our frames, and, gilded dust our pride.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ English poet ~ 1809-1892)

 

The Lord is like a father to his children,
    tender and compassionate to those who fear him.
For he knows how weak we are;
    he remembers we are only dust.
Our days on earth are like grass;
    like wildflowers, we bloom and die
The wind blows, and we are gone—

    as though we had never been here.
But the love of the Lord remains forever

    with those who fear him.
(Psalm 103:13-17 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

 

© 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.

Only a Test

“Are you selling stuff in my parking lot?”

The little girl’s instinct to close the mini-van’s door as I approached was the right one.  I was angry.

I own the building from which our little mom-and-pop store operates.  It’s not much of a structure—a concrete foundation with a frame building topped by a metal roof, but the Lovely Lady and I have spent the last seventeen years working to pay off the loan the bank was kind enough to advance.

Earlier, the Lovely Lady had come back in after watering her flowers to let me know there was a vehicle sitting in the middle of the parking lot next door, but I shrugged it off.

They’d leave soon enough.  Why make a big deal about it?

Two hours later, they were still there.  I watched a couple of cars pull up beside the mini-van and exchange bundles of something with the occupants.  Then each of them drove away.  The van remained.

I was conflicted.  Perhaps it was just folks stopping by to check on them.  Maybe they were just helping out.

Or, maybe they were selling something and had chosen my lot as a place to set up business!  The nerve! 

My lot!  The one I’m paying for.  The one for which I fork out my own dollars each year to seal and re-coat.

My lot!

When the third car pulled up, I was done waiting.  Storming out the front door, I headed straight for the dingy mini-van.  Seeing me coming, a young girl in the back seat quickly reached for the sliding door and slammed it shut.

Asking the question on my mind in an accusatory tone, I didn’t expect the answer I got.

I don’t know why I didn’t expect it.  I should have thought about it. 

I should have asked.

“No sir!  We’ve got a flat tire.  Those people just took our spare, which was also flat, to get it repaired.”

I mentioned seeing the other cars and the lady in the driver’s seat, her face tired, almost to the point of exhaustion, explained.  She delivers newspapers at night to augment her husband’s too-small paychecks. 

They had been out since 11:00 PM last night trying to get the papers to their destinations. 

It was the second flat they had had during that time.  The second one, and the reason they were waiting for someone to get their spare repaired.  The spare was actually the tire on the car,  now flat.

The extra cars?  The packages exchanged? 

Friends who were helping get her papers delivered.

Friends.  Who wanted to help.

Apologizing for misunderstanding, I offered to help if there was anything else to be done.

Too little.  Too late.

I trudged back through the lot—My lot—and into the store.  My head was not held high, nor was I in good spirits.

Two hours.  Two hours, and not once did the thought cross my mind that I should see if they needed help.  Not once.

It was almost another hour before the repaired tire was brought back and installed.  There was some consolation in that the folks availed themselves of the bathroom facilities in the music store, but it was not enough to disperse the clouds of guilt in my heart.

Their cheerful and heartfelt thanks for my help was merely enough to heap coals on my head.  What help?  What had I done, save to be suspicious of them and remain ignorant of their need for assistance?

The Lord said, “I was hungry and you didn’t offer me food; I was thirsty and there was nothing for me to drink.  I was a stranger and you left me standing outside your door.”

The words are not lost on me.  Not today.

Another test.  There is no curve on which to be graded.  I failed.

It would be easy to hold on to the guilt—a simple thing to wallow in the shame and believe that failure is permanent.  It would be wrong.

Better men than I have stood right where I am.  Beaten.  Worn out with tests and failures.  I look back and see the long string of the failures in my life.

But, in my mind I see another man, standing beaten.  A friend is there also, his long accusing forefinger poking him in the chest.

You.  You are the one!

And, King David, broken and beaten, does the only thing he knows to do, indeed, the only thing there is to do.  Turning his back on the prophet Nathan, he falls on his knees before his God and pours out his heart.

Create in me a clean heart, oh God!  I am broken and grief-stricken for what I have done.  I implore You to accept the sacrifice of my broken and stained heart.

I haven’t committed adultery or killed anyone to cover up my sin.  It makes me no less guilty.

It makes Him no less able to restore a right spirit in me.  And, no less willing.

And Jesus said to the lady caught in the act, “Neither do I condemn you.  Go.  sin no more.”

Tomorrow is another day. 

There will be more tests.

And a few passing grades, I trust.

 

 

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
(from King Henry VI ~ William Shakespeare ~ English playwright/poet ~ 1564-1616)

 

Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts; And in the hidden part thou wilt make me to know wisdom.
(Psalm 51:6 ~ ASV)

 

 

 

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