singing

High and Holy

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments
Image by Tima Miroshnichenko on Pexels

On a recent late spring evening, not long enough ago for the memory to have faded, eight friends gathered in a home for dinner. Dinner and dominoes. And laughter. Perhaps, a few tears. It happens.

We’ve known each other for forty years plus a few. There have been tears. Some of them have come from the laughter. Laughter that starts with a giggle—perhaps a shriek—erupting into full-body fits (you know the kind), and eventually calming down into gasps of amusement with eyes being wiped on sleeves and spare napkins.

Of course, many of the tears never started with laughter. We’ve all raised children; heartbreak was inevitable. Parents and siblings have left this life and we’ve comforted and mourned. All of us are carrying heavy loads of one sort or another by now. We usually share the loads with each other, and we pray about them.

And still, we sit and eat, and laugh. And cry.

And sometimes, we play a game of chicken-foot with the dominoes.

On this Monday evening though, it seemed that something was missing. Something more than a game of dominoes was called for. As we played a second (or was it a third?) round, someone suggested we just needed to sing a little.

So, we sang. A little.

Sometime during the hour and a half we sang, in between songs I wondered aloud if we could keep our friends beside us when we sing in that great multitude of saints in Heaven someday. It only seems logical to me. We’ve sung and harmonized together for over forty years here; surely, we’ll be able to hear these lovely voices when we get up there.

Someone suggested that the singing would be so much better there. I didn’t argue, but I’m pretty sure it can’t be all that much better.

We sang praises. We sang scripture songs. We even sang a kid’s song or two.

There weren’t any spare napkins close to the piano, but I saw some eyes wiped on sleeves a time or two. And, when we finally stopped, hoarse and sung-out, there were smiles on every face.

Somehow, while we sang together, the atmosphere was brighter—the air we breathed in just a little sweeter.

And as we said our goodbyes, all agreed that the time of singing was exactly what we needed to lift our spirits and turn our eyes away from our problems.

No. The children and grandchildren trapped in a foreign country at the epicenter of the pandemic hadn’t suddenly been flown out (that miracle would wait a day or two), siblings facing surgery weren’t instantly healed, and a grandchild dealing with the prospect of a lifelong disease hadn’t been given a reprieve while we sang.

And yet, our burdens were distinctly lighter. All of them.

The storm still raged, but there was joy in spite of it. And peace.

I thought about the evening throughout the week. And I struggled to explain it. I couldn’t.

Then today, on Sunday afternoon, the Lovely Lady and I made our way to the band room at the local middle school for a rehearsal. It was the first rehearsal I had been a part of since the start of the Covid pandemic, nearly a year and a half ago.

The entire group would practice six or seven songs. We (the Lovely Lady and I) had one to play for. The music parts called for a horn and a flute on one song. Only one. I wasn’t sure it would be worth going for.

We went anyway.

We sat, listening to the saxes, trombones, and trumpets as they worked out their parts. I can’t speak for the Lovely Lady, but for me, it was delightful. Yes, there were wrong notes. Perhaps, there might have been some intonation problems. It didn’t matter.

It was wonderful.

And, when it came time for us to play our song, we became part of that community of music makers. We contributed to the wrong notes, at least I did. I may have made an entrance on the wrong beat, or even in the wrong measure. It didn’t matter.

Together, we made music.

There is joy in shared music, a satisfaction beyond the act of combining tonal qualities and counting beats. The process of creating harmonies and countermelodies out of the silence moves well past what the scientific method can explain.

As the music ended and the Lovely Lady and I made our exit, my mind drifted back to that evening of music making with our old friends, wanting to make comparisons. But somehow, the comparisons seemed to fail.

I want to say that the experience with our friends was a high and holy moment.

And it was.

Praises offered to God in a time of storm are repaid with the certain knowledge, the reassurance, of His loving arms holding us tightly through the raging waters. A faith offering, if you will, affirming that our God is faithful.

Paul and Silas knew it as they lay imprisoned in the jail in Philippi. At midnight, they sang hymns. Locked behind bars, with their feet in shackles, they sang and prayed loudly. Knowing it was likely to earn them extra stripes on their backs, they still praised the One they trusted with their lives. (Acts 16:16-40)

We are encouraged, as followers of God, to let His songs fill our hearts and the air around us. Throughout life, whatever our circumstances, we sing, bearing witness to His faithfulness.

And what of the other experience, playing with the folks in the band room? If the singing was high and holy, how do I describe that?

Odd. I think it, too, is high and holy, albeit from a little more earthy starting point. We are God’s creation, designed by Him to live in community. Music is a gift from Him, as is all art, meant to raise our sights from the sweat and pain of everyday existence.

Mere survival was never his plan for humanity. We were designed to thrive and, moreover, to thrive with joy. From Jubal in the early pages of Genesis until modern-day prodigies, music has been a constant in history, a vehicle for faith, for history (storytelling), for entertainment.

As with all of God’s good gifts, many have used it for base, profane ends. And still, music and art have the ability to raise our spirits, to lift our hearts from the burdens of pain and lost love, to bring to mind things higher than our ofttimes drab and difficult circumstances.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights… (James 1:17 ~ NKJV)

Bill Gaither wrote the words I sang years ago in a men’s quartet. More than once, I’ve wondered if it was proper to add the part about making music with friends. I’m coming to believe it’s completely appropriate.

“Loving God, loving each other,
Making music with my friends.”

As often as not these days, the music I make with others of kindred spirits could best be described as joyful noise. Contrary to our human comparisons and judgmental spirits, God doesn’t ask us to offer Him perfection.

Rather, He asks us to come to Him with open hearts and hands, giving our sincere offerings freely. Joyful noise is a sweet offering to His ears.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the lands! (Psalm 100:1)

High. And holy.

Making music with my friends.

 

It is in the process of being worshipped that God communicates His presence to men.
(C.S. Lewis)

My heart, O God, is steadfast,
my heart is steadfast;
I will sing and make music.
(Psalm 57:7 ~ NIV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

 

Jubal’s Tribe

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Have you ever considered how music touches our souls?

The preacher sat toying with his coffee cup, now mostly empty.  When we first sat down an hour before, it had been filled to the rim with the hot, black elixir.  

We had talked of history and faith and friends, along with a sentence or two about the glory days of our youth.  As our time together inched toward its termination, the conversation turned toward the philosophical.

My guitar-playing friend was there, as well.  He, as was his habit, contributed to the direction of our discussion with a short narrative about a man and his wife of many years who had sung together at a recent music event the storyteller had headlined.

The thing is, the lady has Alzheimer’s.  She doesn’t know her husband anymore, nor is she able to comprehend even simple questions or enter into conversation.  But, she sang.  

She sang.

It’s not the first story told about music and how it is so deeply ingrained in our very being.  Many others have their own anecdotes, family lore which lightens the darkness of sad periods in their memories.  I have my own. too. 

The last time I visited with the red-headed lady who raised me—my mom—before she left this life, she didn’t know me.  Told me I was no good.  Ordered me out of her house.

But, when I sat beside her in church that morning and held my hymnal in front of her, she nearly pulled it out of my hand as she tugged at it.  And, she sang.

She sang.

Tears came to my eyes as I visited with my friends that morning, just a week or so ago.  The three of us sat on the sidewalk at the cafe, conversations abuzz all around and cars passing by on the busy downtown street; all I heard was my Mama’s voice singing praise to her Creator.

Why does music touch our souls?

How is it that the words and melodies are written indelibly on our hearts when all else has gone dark?

From the depths of our being, when neither voices nor photos, nor even faces can bring familiar, well-worn paths and fellow-travelers back to mind, the introductory notes of an old hymn—or even a folk song or ballad—stir the synapses of the mostly unresponsive brain to recall the words and tune faultlessly.

Even my father-in-law, in the last years of his life almost completely unresponsive, would sit beside his wife as she played the piano, and his once strong voice would ring out the tenor part as if he had no impediment whatsoever.

Why does music touch our souls?

I attempted to interject my thoughts on the effect music has on our emotions, the right sequence of notes drawing tears in appropriate places during the course of a movie, or even the use of certain types of music to inspire courage and fidelity on the battlefield.

The preacher dismissed that as simply emotions, not actually the heart.  I, not sure I agreed, ceded him the point, since it was clear that any argument would have been merely subjective, without any possibility of claiming definitive proof.

Perhaps that’s a discussion for another day.  I’m not fully convinced.  I’ll have to think on that awhile longer.  

For today though, the question still demands an answer.  Why does music touch the soul—or heart, if you prefer—and leave its mark stamped thereon?

Jabal had a brother, whose name was Jubal.  He was the father of all who play the harp and pipe. (Genesis 4:21)

Jubilation and jubilees had arrived.  Seven generations after Adam, the gift of music began to be ingrained in the human spirit.  The birds in the trees no longer had any advantage over humanity, save that they could fly.  

Henceforth, the human spirit would be moved, not only by words and emotions, but by music.  Notes and chords, strung together and played or sung, would make their way inexorably and irretrievably into the hearts of men.

For those of us who hold a worldview shaped by Scripture, music would have the purpose of drawing men to God and glorifying Him.  The Word is full of evidence.  Read Psalm 95:1, Ephesians 5:19, 2 Chronicles 5:13, to only begin.

Scripture’s pages are full of the act of making music.  Across the ages, hearts were drawn irresistibly to God in song.

What a gift!

The weekend after that coffee morning with my friends, I stood in the Sunday morning worship service where the Lovely Lady and I fellowship and, once again, the point was made as clear as a mountain spring to me.

Although, I am often privileged to be part of the worship team on-stage, on this day I stood in the midst of the main group on the floor level.  My mind, as is too often the case, was on the more practical issues of my life—work, finances (or the lack thereof), uncertainties of the future—rather than focused on worship.

There was nothing spectacular about the music.  Nothing.

And yet, as I stood and sang, as I had been taught to do early in life by that red-headed lady I spoke of earlier, the eyes of my soul were drawn irresistibly to higher things.  

The God of all the universe has come to live within us.  To walk with us.  To put eternity in our hearts.

My voice broke.  As the tears flowed, my voice fell silent.

My heart did not. 

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us.

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us. Click To Tweet

I wonder.

Music touches our souls because the God who is Love knew we would need to be reminded.  Often.

What a gift!  The gift that soothes, that inspires, that makes the heart to soar.

Jubilation!

 

 

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(William Congreve ~ English playwright ~ 1670-1729)

 

 

Sing a new song to the Lord,
    for he has done wonderful deeds.
His right hand has won a mighty victory;
    his holy arm has shown his saving power!
The Lord has announced his victory
    and has revealed his righteousness to every nation!
He has remembered his promise to love and be faithful to Israel.
    The ends of the earth have seen the victory of our God.
Shout to the Lord, all the earth;
    break out in praise and sing for joy!
Sing your praise to the Lord with the harp,
    with the harp and melodious song,
with trumpets and the sound of the ram’s horn.
    Make a joyful symphony before the Lord, the King!
Let the sea and everything in it shout his praise!
    Let the earth and all living things join in.
(Psalm 98: 1-7 ~ 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. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Haven

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The other side of the storm.

I stepped out the back door a few moments ago and felt as if I had wandered into a different world.  When I had come home a couple of hours before, the trees stood quietly, blissfully content that their only activity was the gentle casting of long shadows in the evening sunlight.

Not so on my later visit.  The sun had tumbled from the sky, the abdication of its position giving leave to black clouds and high winds in their takeover of the landscape.

And take over, they had.

The formerly passive trees could only be described as boisterous, their limbs twisting and waving in the gale.  The wind churned and reeled, first from one direction, and then from the other.  I glanced at the lighted sign near the road waving dangerously back and forth, the wildly undulating shadows thrown by its powerful bulbs looking nothing like the shadows I had admired earlier under the trees.

I stood, frozen.  Seriously.  Frozen.

I had sensed nothing of the power of the storm front from my cozy seat in the house.  I never intended to step into the middle of a tempest.  Inside, the sound of the wind was minimal, its power unnoticeable.

Here, in the center of the maelstrom, I feared—however briefly—for my safety.  My heart pounded.  My skin crawled with the realization of how small and powerless I was, confronted by the strength of creation’s fury. 

I said I was frozen.  It was only for a moment, perhaps all of ten seconds.

Then, I remembered.

There was a door right behind me—not locked.  I had only to turn the knob and step into safety.

In an instant, the sound of the wind was muted, the wonder at its fury a memory.

Hidden from the storm, the brick house seemed a fortress, a haven where I could relax.

The storm raged for a few moments more, having nothing but threats to make tonight.  

The little tree frogs knew it even before the wind began to calm, their croakyfrog-961387_640 little voices blending in a hymn to the Creator who brings both sunshine and storm, sustaining all of His creatures.

I didn’t sing.  I’m still not singing.

I sit in my comfortable chair and all I can think about is the reality that more storms are on their way.

On the other side of the storm, my memory of safety and protection intact, I am already worrying about the next one, and the one after that.  For, surely they will come again—and again—and yet again.

andreas-achenbach-85762_640The other side of the storm is still a place where more storms will come.

The Teacher’s followers sat in that boat after He had calmed the storm on the lake and they knew, they just knew, more storms were yet to break upon their bow. 

Death would soon take their Master.  It would eventually take all of them, and in between His death and theirs, chaos would reign in the world.

And yet, they put their trust in Him.  

Their Haven from the storms, they would rest in Him.  They would trust Him while the storm yet raged, as well as when calm overtook them.  

Oh, there were a few moments when panic seized their spirits.  They ran and hid, but they knew where safety lay.  Never did they stray far.

Still, I’m waiting for that next storm.

It’s calm here now.  Outside.  

Not so much, in my soul.

We live our lives on the other side of the storm.  Few are those who can claim a life free of conflict and trouble.  For most, the respite between the storms is temporary and brief.

I wonder.  Am I looking at the wrong thing?

I think about the stubborn disciple, the one also called The Rock.  We tend to ridicule him for his experience in walking on the water.  We might even suggest that he should have stayed in the boat.  (Matthew 14:22-33)

The rational men did just that.  They stayed in the boat.  They didn’t get their names recorded as doubters who took their eyes off their Master.  Sensible men, they weren’t making any rash moves.

It didn’t make sense to get out of the boat.  At least not from their perspective.  I can almost see the others, grabbing at the impetuous one’s sleeves.

No, Peter!  Stay here.  It’s certain death out there!  You’ll drown!

Oh, the silliness of our disbelief.  We call safe places dangerous, and dangerous places safe.

In our disbelief, we call safe places dangerous, and dangerous places safe. Click To Tweet

Safety lies in the arms of the Master.  The Creator-of-all-that-is comes walking on His water and all other places except at His side teem with peril.  

A little wooden boat on the sea—safe?  What a joke!

Peter took his eyes off the Master and contemplated the storm.  He saw the wind whipping the waves up around him and he realized how dangerous his world was at that instant.

If only he had recognized who held his world in the palm of His hand.  Ah, but he did soon enough.  Safety was his in the arms of his Master.

I say it again:  I wonder if I’m looking at the wrong thing

Why does the fury of the tempest fill my sight when the One who rules all storms is right there, in plain view?

I hear the thunder in the distance and lightning is flashing in my window.  The storm approaches again.

He doesn’t only rule the weather, my friends.  

In the shadow of His protection, we may safely shelter through every storm of life.

The door is still unlocked.

Time for rest.

We’ll be on the other side of this storm soon enough.

Peace.  Be still.

Perhaps, there may even be a song, a hymn of gratitude.

The frogs aren’t the only creatures that can sing.

 

 

But let all who take refuge in you rejoice;
    let them sing joyful praises forever.
Spread your protection over them,
    that all who love your name may be filled with joy.
(Psalm 5:11 ~ NLT)

 

Living is strife and torment, disappointment and love and sacrifice, golden sunsets and black storms. I said that some time ago, and today I do not think I would add one word.
(Sir Laurence Olivier ~ English actor ~ 1907-1989)

 

 

 

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

People Change

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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.

Finding My Voice

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“You’re really sounding good up there this morning, Paul.”

We had a few moments between our early morning practice and the church service, which would begin soon, so I had wandered back past the sound booth.  The sound technician spoke the words, innocently I’m sure.

In my mind, I held an imaginary apple in my hand and, breathing on it, polished it on my shirt.  No, I didn’t do it physically, but I was proud.

I sounded good!

As if.

Moments later, in an auditorium filled with people and with the microphone turned up, I grimaced as my voice cracked on a high note and then shrugged as I struggled to stay in tune on the acapella verse of a beautiful hymn.

Pride goes before a fall.

But, I don’t want to talk about pride tonight.  Or even about singing.  Well, kind of about singing.  It’s more about finding our voices—the ones we were intended to have—the voices people around us were intended to hear.

I’ll never be a great singer.  How about you?  Chances are, the answer is no for most.  For some reason though, many of us—great voices or not—have a love of singing.

Don’t believe me?

Drive down any highway in any city and watch the drivers of the cars with only a single occupant.  And, when I say watch the drivers, I mean watch their mouths.  It won’t be all of them, but almost certainly, you’ll see a few on the road with their mouths moving and their fingers tapping on the steering wheel in time with the music.

I haven’t done any scientific studies, but I think I’m safe in saying if you ask the great majority of those folks to sing in church on Sunday, they’ll tell you they can’t sing.

Can’t sing?  What were they doing in the car?  What do they do in the shower at home?

They can sing.  They just aren’t ready to give anyone the chance to judge the quality of their voice.

But, perhaps I muddy the waters when I speak of finding our voice and I equate it with singing.  Even those of us who can’t sing well have voices.  We can speak.

We do speak.  Frequently.  Perhaps, too frequently.

Ah! With that, we may have hit closer to the mark than anything else which could be said about finding our voice.

If we want our voices to be heard, they must be used at the appropriate time.  They must be speaking at the right volume.  They must be shaping the correct words.

Often, when I talk face to face with folks, I’ve seen their eyes glaze over as I speak.  Since I can’t see you, it may be happening at this instant, with these very words.

Perhaps, I can reinforce the idea with an example.  Sorry.  It will be another musical analogy.  Music is an integral part of my life, after all.

In my memory, Mr. Marlar is still standing on the podium in that dim basement we called the Lower Aud.  It was over thirty-five years ago.  As we drifted into class that afternoon, on our basic black music stands, we found a new piece of music.

The big guy on the podium spent a few moments going over the piece, pointing out difficult key changes and rhythmic quagmires, in hopes that we might avoid them while playing the song.  They were almost certainly vain hopes, but he had to make the attempt anyway.

Right before he raised his baton to start us on our way, he looked straight at me and said, “Paul, in that section right after the time change, I want to hear you.  Whether you play the right notes or not, I want to hear you!”

I placed a mental bulls-eye on the page and determined to follow his instructions.  Off we went, doing our best to handle the strange notes and intervals.  It wasn’t concert ready; not by a long shot.

But, may I make one thing clear?

When we got to that section right after the time change, Mr. Marlar heard me.

hornvoiceHe heard me!  

Watching his baton carefully, I struggled with a note or two, but I played out, with more volume than the trumpets and the trombones.  I even played out over the brassy, blatty tones of Carl on that old baritone saxophone.

Indifferent to the listening ears of all forty or fifty of my fellow band-members, I played my fortissimo section for one person.

Just one.  Mr. Marlar.  The man with the baton.

On that day, I found my voice.  It was just one little section of music.  Only a short phrase played on my brass and nickle-silver horn.

But, I found my voice.  And, the conductor heard it loud and clear.

Want to know something funny?  So did all the other players—the ones I wasn’t playing for.

It is my firm belief that every one of us has a voice—and a message.  Depending on which conductor one is following, the message will vary greatly.

I have a voice.  So does every human alive. It’s been given us by the Maestro, that Conductor of conductors, to use in concert with all those who follow Him. We can choose not to be part of that great plan if we want.

The voice loaned me is not one of His strongest; it doesn’t carry all that far.  Still, it carries far enough.  As far as He wants it to.

His voice.  His words.

To the prophet Jeremiah, as He reached out and touched his mouth, He said, “Look!  I have put My words in your mouth.” (Jeremiah 1:9)

He puts them there.

What we do with them after that is up to us.

Just as my old friend, Mr. Marlar, placed the music he wanted to hear on my music stand, so the Great Conductor makes clear what His words are.  And, just as it was in that band 35 years ago, He also gives us clear direction about what to do with the words.

Our turn.  

We could sing at the top of our lungs in our cars.  It might make us feel better, though somehow I think these voices were meant for bigger stages and wider audiences.

Many will find the bigger stage and wider audience, but forget the words which were put in their mouths.

Others will remember the words, but will ignore the baton of the Conductor and blurt them out at the wrong time, doing damage to the integrity of the message.  Divisions and squabbles water down the message His words are intended to convey.

I think I’m ready for this.

The Director stands at the podium, baton at the ready.  He’ll give me the cues at the right time.  And, I’ve already marked that loud section He wants to hear.

You may want to listen in too.

I know I’ll be all ears when your solo comes along.

 

 

I’m not interested in having an orchestra sound like itself.  I want it to sound like the composer.
(Leonard Bernstein ~ American composer/conductor ~ 1918-1990)

 

Then the Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth. And the Lord said to me, “Behold, I have put my words in your mouth.”

(Jeremiah 1:9 ~ ESV)

 

 

If Tomorrow Never Comes

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Faint not—fight on!  Tomorrow comes the song.

“I’ll just take this with me, okay?  There might be a poem in it I can use.” 

I looked over at the Lovely Lady as I headed toward the door earlier tonight, waving the thin volume in the air as I spoke.  The little book of popular poetry from the nineteenth century had come from her parent’s home (and possibly her grandparent’s before that), so I felt I needed her approval.

Smiling at me, she told me to take it.  She never expected anything less when she brought it home a while back. 

The little book of verse is lying open on my desk even now, along with three or four others.  I really didn’t think I would find anything spectacular in it. 

Poetry is just poetry.  Sometimes.

Men and women in the past did just as many of us do today, sitting and meditating on our days and nights—remembering that we haven’t accomplished what we intended—recalling some important lesson we don’t want to lose in the gray haze of our busy lives.  Dashing down words onto a page, we save the thoughts for another night, or another morning.  Line by line, the thoughts and words take shape, achieving a semblance of wisdom or wit—or not.

As I glanced through the little book tonight, my eyes fell on the concluding line of a poem by the man who penned the words to that great old hymn, This is My Father’s World.  The line is copied above, but I’ll repeat it here to save you the trouble of looking for it.

Faint not—fight on!  Tomorrow comes the song.

I froze in the act of flipping to the next page.  Then I reached for my phone.  Only a week ago, I saved a thought in my notes there, a thought that had arrested me one afternoon.  One afternoon—on one of those days.

You know the kind of day I mean.  The cares and troubles of the world already pressing down on you are joined by a mountain of tasks to be completed.  To add to it all, nothing is going as it should.  Nothing.  One failure after another—one disgruntled patron after another, lead to the terrifying feeling of drowning.

The words I wrote that afternoon are still there, where I saved them in black and white, and the fear returns.

There are days when I panic and wonder, how do I get to tomorrow from here? Click To Tweet

underwaterThere are days when I panic and wonder, how do I get to tomorrow from here?

The fear of drowning is real—the fear is—even if the danger is not. 

My mind wanders and I see an eight-year-old lad with short blond hair and brown skin crouched beside a swimming pool.  Wound up like a spring, he is watching the camp’s activity director closely.  The man holds a silver steel ring in his hand and then with a quick motion, releases it into the air to fall in the deep end of the pool.  Within a second, the boy is diving into the water, eight feet deep and well over his head. 

The idea is to retrieve the ring from the bottom of the pool more quickly than the other boys have achieved the task.  He is sure he can do better.  There is no fear at all in his mind—yet.

Dropping quickly, he heads for the spot he last sighted the target.  As he nears the bottom, his ears begin to pop; the water pressure at that depth is much higher than in the air above or even in the shallows of the other end.  No matter, he is still confident, but for some reason cannot see the ring.

His eyes have started burning in the chlorine-treated water and his ears are actually hurting a little now.  The boy finds himself a little disoriented, but looking above through squinted eyelids, determines where he is in relationship to the sides and the water’s surface, and continues feeling along the bottom of the concrete pool.  Then he feels it.

No.  Not the ring; He feels the fear. 

He is running out of oxygen in his lungs.  He had taken a huge breath prior to jumping in, but his discomfort has used up precious time and burned more air than he expected.  It is all he can do to persevere and grab the ring as his hand contacts it. 

No, it wasn’t the ring after all, but only the grill around the pool’s drain. 

Now panic really is gripping him, his heart pounding uncontrollably in his chest, but he won’t give up. 

There!  There it is!  He has it in his hand and heads to the surface.  But, in his panic, he forgets to push off on the bottom and is left to flail and kick his way up, eight long feet to the life-giving oxygen.

In his mind, he is drowning.  He can’t get there; the pressure in his lungs is too great.  He will have to exhale and breathe in before he reaches the surface.  It hurts too much!  He knows he will die, simply knows it!

Just as he exhales, the pressure exploding from his mouth and nose, his blond head emerges from the water.  Gasping the precious, life-giving oxygen into his lungs, he stabs his hand above his head in triumph—just as if he hadn’t given up all hope just seconds before—and shows the ring to the waiting group.

Two things I remember, fifty years along the road of life.  Two things.

The waiting group of swimmers wasn’t all that impressed.  No one congratulated me on persevering though the panic.  In fact, not one of my fellow campers ever admitted to feeling that same fear.  Not one.

Neither did I.  Never.  Until now.

The second thing?  I had to do it all again the very next day.  And the next day, and the next.

Life keeps coming at us.  Daily.  And, we either face it and go through, or we fail in our aspirations.  We persevere and push on, or we are overcome and give up.

I don’t want anyone to believe they are the only one who feels that fear.  The thing I’m sure of is there is someone close to me and to you right now who is feeling it.  Maybe you should ask the person next to you if they’ve ever felt the panic.  If they’re honest, they will remember a time.  They might even be going through it right this minute.

How about it?  Are your eyes burning?  Are your lungs bursting?  Is your heart beating so fast you think it may never recover?

Me too.

Hang in there. Today, we fight. Ah, but tomorrow? Tomorrow, we sing. Click To Tweet

Hang in there.  Today we fight.

Ah, but tomorrow?

Tomorrow, we sing.

 

 

 

 

Be strong!
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes, the day how long;
Faint not—fight on!  Tomorrow comes the song.
(From Be Strong by Maltbie Babcock ~ American hymn writer ~ 1858-1901)

 

When I am afraid, I will trust in You.  In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust.  I will not be afraid.
(Psalm 56:3,4 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

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

Frozen Words

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
Photo: Jeannean Ryman Used with permission.
Photo: Jeannean Ryman. Used with permission.

I knew you were no good.

Nearly two weeks later, the words still hang in the frigid air of the Chinese restaurant.  The cold gale is still blowing through that door held open by the helpful stranger.

And the words still hang there.  They are colder than the air blowing in from outside.

I knew you were no good.

It’s warmer there now, I know.  But my mind can’t move on.  She said the words to me.  To me.

Her baby.

They had warned me that angry words might come.  I was prepared to be kicked out of her house, along with the others.  I was even prepared for the conversational words she would speak which would have nothing to do with any conversation going on in the vicinity.  The disease from which she suffers has robbed her (and us) of the reality we have shared for all of my life.  I know that.

When she said the words to me, I didn’t react—in fact, didn’t think anything of it.  It wasn’t really her saying that to me; it was this different person who has no memory of the past left, speaking to a man she didn’t recognize.

I know that.

Still.

Back home now, lying in my bed at night, the words have echoed in my head.  My mother, who never in all of my life uttered a cruel word to me, told me to my face that I was no good.

The facts of her illness, I know—intellectually.  My problem is the event happened to me—personally.  My brain struggles to keep the two straight, failing miserably.

I’ll sort it out, eventually.

Still.  The words hang, frozen by the frigid wintry blast.  And, sitting here in my cozy corner, I shiver.

She doesn’t know me anymore.  She doesn’t recall she had any children, can’t remember who my father is.  Even though she can’t stand for him to be out of her sight, she couldn’t tell you who the man is.

I wonder what it would be like to be surrounded by strangers in your own home.  I even have this strange thought that starts to take root, asking: what if she no longer knows who God is?

Ah, but you see, now the worries and the what ifs, and the if onlys start to tumble one by one, when I reach that question.

The reality is that whether or not she knows Him anymore is not nearly as important as the answer that stands above every question in my long list.

He still knows her.

He still calls to her.

He still communicates with her.

Don’t believe me?

That very morning, in a little church fellowship hall, I sat beside her, a stranger sharing his hymnal with her.  She took hold of the edge of the book and tugged it over in front of her, soon commandeering well more than her share of the page.  And, without a thought in the world about who was listening, she sang.  As loudly as she could, she sang.

Me too.

Song after song, we shared that book—I, finding the right pages for her, and she, pulling more and more of the volume her way, until I held nearly none of it in my own hand.

That red-headed lady who raised me taught me to sing in church.

I spoke of it with that other red-headed person in my life, the Lovely Lady, just the other day.  I don’t know any other way to sing.

Why would you worry about who hears you?  You’re not singing for them!  All my life, growing up, I heard it and saw it modeled.

Sing it out!

My Mama and I sang for the One who still knows her.  And me.  A couple of ladies in the church mentioned my singing later.

I’m still not sorry I sang so loud.

You know, as I sit and write, I glance mentally over at those horrid words, frozen in time.  Funny thing.  They’re not frozen anymore.  They’re just mixed in with the rest of our conversation and communication from that day.

Come to think of it, they weren’t all that untrue.  That lady spent a lifetime understanding that none of us is born good, and she tried to do everything she could to help me past that.  She taught and sang, begged and demanded, all the while trying to help form and shape a man who would be good.

I’m not there yet.  But, I got some world class coaching along the way.

Oh, and an introduction to the One who will make me good.

I’ll keep moving.

And singing at the top of my lungs for Him.

 

 

…the sheep recognize His voice and come to Him.  He calls His own sheep by name and leads them out.
(John 10:3 ~ NLT)

 

My mama loves me, she loves me.
She gets down on her knees and hugs me.
She loves me like a rock
She rocks me like the Rock of Ages, and she loves me.
(from Loves Me Like a Rock ~ Paul Simon ~ American singer/songwriter)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015, 2017. All Rights Reserved.

 

Photo courtesy of Jeannean Ryman.  Used with permission.  Jeannean has many of her wonderful images available for sale and for use in projects.  Contact us if you’d like to communicate with her.