storytelling

I’m Fixing My Eyes

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Renaldo Kodra on Unsplash

I had eye surgery last week.

I suppose it’s the ultimate indicator of age creeping up on me.  Though sometimes it seems as if old age is bashing the door down, rather than creeping.

The surgeon removed the lens of my right eye, it having been covered with a cataract that was affecting my eyesight. In its place, a sparkling new lens was inserted, one that is clear and shaped correctly.

I now have measurably better vision in that eye, as well as being able to see colors and light more realistically.

I’m not sure I like it all that much.

I close the right eye, seeing only through my left, and I become almost nostalgic.  The difference is striking—nearly dramatic.  Immediately, I feel warmth and comfort.

Let me see if I can explain what I mean.

Over time, a cataract on the lens of the eye changes the hue of what one sees.  It can eventually become so dark that a person can’t see much at all.  That was not the case with my eyes yet.

The change in my eyesight essentially just added a browny-yellow hue to everything I saw.  Not enough to obscure anything, but enough to make the view through my eyes more warm and comforting.

Here’s another way to think about it:  I take a lot of photos of nature (and bridges).  It seems to me that the camera actually changes the images I capture a bit from what my eye sees.  Over the last few years, as I process them, I have grown to rely on an app that has the ability to filter the color and light of the photos.  I use filters to make the final photo more realistic.

To me.  It’s more realistic to my eyes.

One of the filters is called “warmth”.  Raising the value of this filter turns the scene slightly more yellow.  Maybe even a little browny-yellow.

I like that.

Do you see my problem?

Now, I close my left eye (with its cataract) and open the newly repaired right one.  The world changes from warm and comfortable to brilliant and stark.

In another week, I will go back to the surgery center and the surgeon will replace the lens of my left eye, too.  I’m not sure that makes me all that happy.

I want to continue to look at the world through my warm and comfortable filters.  Brilliant starkness doesn’t appeal to me that much.

That said, I understand that I need to see clearly.  And, as I write the words, I remember that our physical eyes are not the only ones in which we need 20/20 sight. We need to see clearly, not just in the physical world around us, but in the spiritual as well.

Am I the only one?  Does no one else go through life believing they’re seeing the world as it is, only to be rudely awakened by a different perspective offered by way of a crisis, a conversation, or an overheard comment?

Again and again, we’re sad as we learn of previously hidden illnesses.  A beautiful day can turn black in seconds as we hear of tragedy and loss.  Folks we thought were doing fine may actually be in the throes of financial disaster.

It would be easy to think all the eye-opening revelations are of sadness and distress.  That’s not always the case.  Frequently we learn of good news while we’re expecting the worst.

There’s a story in the Old Testament about that.  The prophet Elisha and his servant opened their eyes one morning to find themselves surrounded by enemy forces, intent on harming them.  The servant, expecting his own annihilation at any moment, was terrified.

Elisha, seeing the world as it really was, prayed for his servant’s eyes to be opened—really opened.

Then Elisha prayed, “O Lord, open his eyes and let him see!” The Lord opened the young man’s eyes, and when he looked up, he saw that the hillside around Elisha was filled with horses and chariots of fire.
(2 Kings 6:17, NLT)

Looking up, the servant saw the armies of heaven, prepared to fight for God’s people.  Before, he had seen what he knew to be truth, an army bent on his destruction.  Eyes fully opened, he now saw the protection of God’s hand poised to save.

I’m ready for that; ready to see the world around me as God sees it.

How about it?  Are we ready to love it as He does, ready to weep when He does, ready to stand firm where He says to stand?

To do all of those, we have to see with His eyes.

For my part, if it takes some mud and spit, as it did for the blind man in Jesus’ day, I’ll take that.  Or even letting the surgeon replace the lenses in my eyes.

It’s time to fix our eyes.

I’m still going to use the warmth filter on my photos, though.

Even if they do look a little browny-yellow to everyone else.

 

I can see, and that is why I can be happy, in what you call the dark, but which to me is golden. I can see a God-made world, not a manmade world.
(Helen Keller)
                              

Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:2, NASB1995)

 

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

 

Fragile. Handle With Care

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Ketut Subiyato on Pexels

I felt it. Every time I opened that big, heavy door to the shed—packed to the rafters with yesterdays—I felt it. The weight. The guilt. The helplessness.

It all started fifteen years ago. I was the proprietor of a reasonably successful music store in our little town. In the course of my work, I received requests for help with a variety of issues on an almost daily basis. Most were easy and painless.

This request was a little more involved, but I had no reason to be concerned. The customer telephoned, asking if I would mind shipping an instrument across the U.S. to one of his organization’s clients. I was involved with many internet transactions at that point and thought it would be easy-peasy. I’d simply box the instrument before weighing it to get a quote on the shipping and, upon receipt of the funds for costs, would send it on its way.

Glibly, I told him to bring it in.

The owner of the instrument (the one across the country, not my customer) seemed not to be interested in easy-peasy. She assured me she would send payment when I notified her of the cost, yet never responded. Again and again, I attempted to communicate with her about it, but to no avail.

I shoved the box, with its fragile markings all over it, into a back room. For ten years.

One more time during those ten years, I attempted to contact the owner but received no response. When we closed the store five years ago, we moved the remaining unsold merchandise and unclaimed items into the storage barn.

I’ve hardly touched any of those items in the years since. And yet, every time I have walked into the barn-shaped building, the sense of guilt, with its accompanying feelings of failure, has weighed heavily on my mind and soul. I didn’t even have to know where it was in the jumble of boxes and storage tubs; I felt it. I knew it was still there—mocking me—taunting me.

Failure isn’t an easy thing for me to admit.

I want my life to be a success story. Having achieved every goal I set out after, without a single black mark against my account, I will be able to die without shame.

It won’t happen.

A couple of weeks ago, I spoke with the Lovely Lady as we were driving. I shared with her the bold plan I had for resolving the issue once and for all. She wondered why I hadn’t thought of it years ago.

One day last week, I put my plan into action. You’ll laugh at the simplicity. Perhaps, you’ll laugh at how obtuse I have been. Mostly, you should laugh at my pride.

It’s the same pride that has kept me from admitting a small failure for fifteen years, allowing it to take up residence in my spirit and to steal my joy. Pride that stopped me from putting an end to the guilt and fear years ago.

The cure for my dilemma was simple. Digging around in the storage barn for a few moments, I located the shipping box. It was easy to find, with all its fragile stickers. I carried it into my shop and opened it, disposing of the styrofoam peanuts that scattered as I flipped open the end flaps.

Wait. I’m making this sound harder than it was.

What I did was this: I took the instrument back to the organization it came from. The man who brought it to me has long since moved on, but I set it on the counter and, admitting my long-term failure, gave the responsibility back to them. They said they were happy to accept it, promising to find the lady and resolve the situation.

Done. Finished. Out of my life.

Do you know how good that feels? To be free from chains I have felt for a decade and a half? I even sang in the car as I drove home.

Later on though, as I told the Lovely Lady of my action, tears came. I don’t know why; they just came and I couldn’t talk about it for a while.

I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now. Some realities have come into focus for me.

The first reality is that I don’t want to admit any of this to my friends and readers. Somehow though, that’s not the way this works. Catharsis is only as effective as it is complete. I don’t want to carry any part of this with me—except for the lessons learned, that is.

The next reality is that all of us will experience similar situations—times when we have failed, but can’t (or won’t) admit it and move on.

We all have secrets and guilt we carry with us as a constant companion.

I remember reading it in a friend’s feed on social media some time ago: “Today, I ate my emotions,” she said. I know she was talking about food and overeating as compensation for feelings. But I can’t help thinking there’s more to it than just diet.

We stuff emotions down our throats figuratively, too. Swallowing them down, thinking they’ll never be seen again, we hide our past. I’ve learned something through this particular episode in my life. It’s not a new realization, simply a reiteration of truth I may have known most of my life.

We’re not eating our emotions. They’re eating us.

From the inside out, they eat us. Day by day, affecting our relationships, our productivity, our outlook on life. If we let them. And finally, we have no choice left but to recognize the danger, the feelings of guilt, the dread of facing our failures and weaknesses head-on.

I look at the box in the recycle bin, fragile stickers on every surface, and I wonder; how is it that we, hardened and tempered by life’s experiences, have become so very fragile ourselves?

I don’t want that to be true. I don’t want to break at the slightest pressure in the wrong place. I don’t want the tears to flow anymore—don’t want the despair and hopelessness to rise to the surface, uninvited.

And yet, there it is. My throat tightens even as I write this. On that recent afternoon when the years-long matter was settled, my body trembled like an old man’s as I realized that I was finally free of the chains of the obligation. (Yes, I know I am an old man, I just don’t have the shakes on a continuing basis yet.)

But there’s another thing I’m learning as I age. I’m still finding that the capacity of our Heavenly Father to forgive and comfort us in those moments when we recognize and confess our failures and sins is inexhaustible. His love for us, even in our weakness, never ceases.

And I’m remembering my need, as an old-timer once suggested to me, to keep short accounts. Promises made need to be kept as quickly as possible. Mistakes should be rectified and apologies offered without delay.

The Apostle for whom I am named said it clearly:

Owe no one anything, except to love one another, for the one who loves his neighbor has fulfilled the law. (Romans 13:8, NET)

I could never have imagined that the favor I promised to my customer all those years ago would be impossible for me to deliver on. I certainly didn’t anticipate the mischief it would get up to in my very soul over time.

And yet, I could have admitted defeat many years ago and saved a lot of grief. I’m guessing the Lovely Lady wishes I had done that.  Folks in your life might wish the same thing.

I think I’ll try it for a while.

Keeping short accounts.

I wonder who else I owe?

 

God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
(Henry Ward Beecher)

For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
  so great is his love for those who fear him;
as far as the east is from the west,
  so far has he removed our transgressions from us.

As a father has compassion on his children,
  so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him;
for he knows how we are formed,
  he remembers that we are dust.
(Psalm 103:11-14, NIV)

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

The Son of a Do-It-Yourselfer

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

 

I did something new last week. Solomon may have thought there was nothing new under the sun, but this was new to me.

You’ll be underwhelmed when you learn what the accomplishment was. It’s not something most folks would trumpet to just anyone whose attention they could snag. Still, for a man well into his sixth decade, the completion of the task for the first time seems to me to be somewhat significant.

The house in which the Lovely Lady and I live has stood for one more decade than have I. For all those years, the front entrance has been a wooden hollow-core door. It has not fared well over a lifetime, providing only a nominal level of security. I would guess that any person so inclined, and equipped with a decent pair of boots, could have kicked it down at any time in the last few years.

So, when a neighbor offered to donate a perfectly good steel entry door she had replaced recently, I thought it might be time to replace the sad old thing on the front of our home. I won’t bore you with the tedious details but, after several hours of labor—and, I’m delighted to report, with no blood being shed—the new/old door functions reasonably well as a barrier to unwanted salesmen and wandering children. Yes, I know it still needs to have the ratty threshold replaced, but that’s a job for another day.

A new thing.

I’ve never hung a door in my life. I’d been led to believe it was an extremely difficult task, one at which seasoned carpenters had been known to blanch and walk off many a job site without a backward glance.

That last may have been a slight exaggeration on my part, but the hyperbole makes it seem more like a worthy accomplishment, does it not?

I don’t mean to sound like I need a pat on the back.

I don’t. Not today.

It’s just that when I was out in the storage shed looking for a replacement part for the deadbolt that needed to be installed on the new door, I noticed something on the workbench that awoke an old realization.

Seeing that red spring sitting there (nearly forty years after I’ve needed one) caused a week full of memories to explode across my tired old brain.

The year was 1984. The Lovely Lady and I, along with a two-year-old toddler (who was going on thirteen) and a nearly one-year-old baby, were traveling back home (for me) to South Texas in a 1965 Chevrolet Biscayne sedan. Sixty miles from our destination, the car’s motor began to act up. For me, the week of vacation was to become a week of tribulation and frustration. And triumph.

I was about to do new things—things I had never done before. I was also about to realize that my image of my father was a little skewed. Or not.

Two days after we arrived at my childhood home, I was elbows deep in two hundred thirty cubic inches of the six-cylinder motor in the crippled Chevy when my dad came out to check on me. The carburetor was on one fender, the valve cover on another, and the oil-covered valve lifters and springs sat exposed on top of the motor in front of me.

“I can’t believe you’ve torn up your car like that!” My dad was incredulous.

I was confused. I was certain my father was a do-it-yourselfer from way back, tackling jobs himself instead of paying to have them done. As a young adult, I believed I had followed his example when trying to do repair and improvement jobs myself rather than spending my hard-earned cash for the expertise of others.

I was baffled. And, I said so to him.

“I don’t know what you remember about me, but I’d never tackle a job like that,” he replied.

I put the valve cover back on and replaced the carburetor. Closing the hood, I called a local mechanic and made an appointment for the next day.

My world was shaken. My dad wasn’t who I thought he was. I needed to consider this. But, over the next two days, as we waited on the mechanic, whose expertise I was relying on, I thought about my memories of my youth at home.

I remembered, years before, the man tearing down an old house to make his just purchased property a safe place for his kids to play. My mind had images of his ancient Ford station wagon straddling an irrigation ditch while he lay under it draining the oil and replacing the filter. And I had only to walk into the living room at the old house to see the louvered room divider between the living and dining room he and Mom had built from pieces of raw lumber and dowels purchased at the local lumberyard.

I breathed a little easier. And I regretted the hundred fifty dollar invoice I paid to the mechanic in a day or two. He had replaced a broken valve spring. That’s all.

A little red spring that sat under the valve lifters. The valve lifters I had been looking at when I abandoned my efforts. I was inches from success when I had surrendered. Inches.

I spent a few more hours during that vacation week reading about the process of replacing valve springs. You know.  Just in case.

At the end of that week, we waved and hugged goodbye as we loaded our luggage and kids in the big old boat of a car and headed back north.

Three hours later, we sat at the side of the road with another broken valve spring.

We limped to a garage beside the highway a few miles on, but they couldn’t offer any help except to sell me a couple of used valve springs. That was after they told me it would be three days before the repair could be effected.

But I’m a do-it-yourselfer, the son of a do-it-yourselfer!

Borrowing a bit of rope to keep the pushrod from dropping into the motor’s cylinder, I did the repair myself as the mechanics sat nearby and drank their beer, speculating on how long it would take me to surrender.

I didn’t surrender. They were amazed.

A new thing. That day, I did a new thing.

I have kept the extra valve spring all these years, never believing I’d need it again. I can’t bring myself to dispose of it. Symbols of victories won are precious, however small their monetary value might be.

I’m not advocating that everyone needs to become a DIYer. That’s not wise.

What I do believe is that we should never stop learning. Never.

And never stop doing new things.

What I also believe is that we should pass on our wisdom, the memories of our triumphs—along with our failures, to the generations that come after us. Dads, moms, grandparents, neighbors—we share who we are and what we hope to become with young ones desperately looking for examples. Good examples.

At twenty-seven years old, remembering my roots, I repaired a motor by the side of the road for the first time. Last week, nearly forty years later, I hung a door for the first time.

I wonder what I’ll be doing in twenty years. I hope I’ll still be learning. And doing.

I’d like to think there still are a few young ones who might learn something worth passing on to others yet to be born.

I hope they’ll learn more than just about front doors and old Chevys.

It’s the way our Creator designed things.

Parents, teach your children.

 

Tell your children about it,
Let your children tell their children,
And their children another generation.
(Joel 1:3, NKJV)

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

I Once Was Lost…and Blind

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Dids on Pexels

It wasn’t that great a day today. One of those Alexander kind of days, in fact. You know—a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Well, it wasn’t all that bad. Except, I lied to a neighbor. I did.

The day actually started well. The heat and air crew came again to finish installing our new central air unit in the utility room, a different location from where the old one had been in the family room/den. The main reason for the move is that my aging ears can no longer hear what Gibbs is saying to McGee on the big screen TV when the A/C is running. I was happy the fellows were here.

But then there was the gas line that couldn’t be moved. (We’re not plumbers, you know.) And the ductwork that wouldn’t go above the ceiling. (Maybe, just build a little box?) And the return air vent has to be situated next to the dining room table now, so my old ears won’t be able to hear what my granddaughter is saying to me across the table.

I told the HVAC tech that none of those things would be a big deal. We could work around them. At least I can hear Gibbs now.

It was the truth.

Later, my son sent a note to ask if I could eat lunch with him. You don’t know how much those times mean to me, the moments when we sit, just the boy (he hasn’t been a boy for many years) and his old dad, across the table from each other and share our lives. I had to tell him not today. The HVAC guys, you know.

I told my son it didn’t matter. We could do it another day.

It was the truth.

Some young friends who have just returned from a few years abroad asked me if I could break away long enough this afternoon to look at a piano they were hoping to buy. I had looked at the photos and the description of the piano they sent and thought it had promise. The HVAC guys were finishing up, so I went with my friends. I just knew this would end up well.

The piano was a complete bust, having a catastrophic defect. I told them to keep looking. They thanked me profusely for helping them avoid a bad purchasing decision.

I told them it was nothing. I was happy to help.

It was the truth.

Sitting in an easy chair at home later, I looked out the window and saw a small dog running along the street. It looked familiar. I was almost certain the dog belonged to one of our neighbors, an older widow a couple of doors down. It never runs loose, so I headed out the door after it.

When it ran into another neighbor’s yard, I called out to that neighbor who was working in her flower garden. She agreed with me about who the critter belonged to, so I jogged to the owner’s house while the other lady tagged after the dog, who would not come to us when called.

By the time the older neighbor and I returned, the shaggy little canine had headed downhill to the bottom of the gully that carries rainwater from our neighborhood to the creek nearby. It was too steep for the dog’s owner to get down to it, but I expected the other younger neighbor would have picked up the little thing and carried it out. The dog is mostly blind and couldn’t see well enough to find the way up itself.

“She didn’t want to be picked up,” was the terse explanation we got when we asked.

I sniffed. Didn’t want to be picked up! I’d pick her up!

I did try. She didn’t want to be picked up. Really.

She might have been blind, but she knew the hand that touched her sides wasn’t a familiar one. Instantly, she nipped at it. I pulled away just in time. Talking calmly and letting her smell my fingers, I tried again. This time, the tips of my fingers right in front of her sightless eyes actually felt the sharp little incisors brush along the skin as she snapped them closed.

I left her on the ground.

The dog’s owner stood and called to her and with the other neighbor and me acting as deterrents to her doubling back, she made her way slowly up to level ground. When the older lady bent down to pick her up, there was no snapping or nipping at all.

As we parted ways, the grateful lady worried about the damage the dog might have done.

“She didn’t hurt you at all, did she?”

I replied that I wasn’t hurt in the slightest.

It was a lie.

To be clear, there was no blood. The dog’s teeth hadn’t caught any flesh. But here’s the thing: Dogs love me!

They do. I’ve petted German Shepherds and Doberman Pinschers, Great Danes and Saint Bernards. Why, there’s even a huge, muscular Pit Bull down at my brother’s that thinks my lap is where he belongs when I sit on the couch there. But this little lost and blind Shih Tzu, heading downward to certain peril, only wanted to hurt me when I was merely trying to help. She rejected my advances altogether.

Of course, I’m hurt.

It was the worst thing that happened to me all day. In a day filled with disappointments, nothing matters more than that this little dog wouldn’t let me be her savior.

Oh.

I think I’m going to stop writing now. Perhaps I’ve said enough.

Well, maybe just this:

There is a Savior. He came to help us—to show us the way. Blind and lost, we lashed out at Him.

And we did draw blood.

I wonder if it still hurts.

 

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!
(Matthew 23:37, KJV)

 

Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.
(Revelation 3:20, NKJV)

 

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

 

 

 

Life needs Structure, After All

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Paul Phillips

The message arrived at 4:53 yesterday morning. Through the haze of slumber, I heard the chime announcing it and rolled over, assuming it could wait.

It did.

When I had brushed my hair and finished a cup or two of coffee (a few hours later), my brain caught up and I read it again. The message had come from one of the Lovely Lady’s relatives back East.

She wanted a picture or two of a barn. I knew which one she meant without need of explanation. Of course, she meant the barn behind my house.

She had told some friends in the big city of her small-town roots and of chucking rotten potatoes at the old structure when she was a kid. I suppose she needed photographic proof that it was undamaged by her malfeasance and still standing after all these years. She’s no kid anymore.

Back then, her dad would hand her a few potatoes he had dug from the garden. Perhaps they had rotted in the ground or, as likely, they had sat on the shelf in the utility room for too long. Either way, the only thing they were good for was fodder for the cows in the field. As she saw it, she could practice her throwing skills at the same time.

The cows would get the benefit either way. And the thwack of the spuds on the tin roof was so satisfying. It wasn’t as much fun if they only splatted against the pine siding.  One way or the other, they ended up on the ground for the cows.

The old barn is a constant in my life. Even though I never saw it until I was nearly two decades old, its presence in my history goes back quite a few years before that. But we’ll get back to that later.

One of my favorite photographs was taken by the Lovely Lady in the mid-nineteen-eighties behind the house where we now live (the same one in which she grew up). My young daughter and I had wandered back to look at Dr. Weaver’s cows, the marvelous creatures being a wonder to the little tyke.

image by Paula Phillips

As the sweet little girl and her daddy gazed out at the cows, we couldn’t help but see the old barn back behind. Dr. Weaver’s old tractor was parked in a bay on one side, the hay and feed the cattle would need to see them through the coming winter on the other side.

Tonight, as I contemplate the photo again, I wonder if there could have been just the barest hint, perhaps even a faint aura, of the children who would be born to that little girl decades later hanging in the air that evening, as we gazed unknowingly into the future together.

But no. It was probably just the cows getting a little too close to the barbed-wire fence. No sense in getting all sappy about it.

I’ve been happy to take a photo or two with the little girl’s children beside the old barn in the last year or two. They seem to be as attached to the old thing as I am.

I watched the city crew put in a new utility line underground along the edge of the field over the last week or so. Somehow, to me, it seems a foreshadowing of what is to come. The big machines pound and torture the earth, the vibrations shaking the ground underfoot. The old barn seems just a little more fragile than it was only days ago.

Change comes. We can’t hold it back.

But, not yet. The barn is still standing. Right where it was seventy years ago when my father first set foot in it.

Oh. Didn’t I tell that part yet?

Years before I was born—before my parents had even met—that young man came to this small town to visit his brother and sister-in-law, who were attending the local Christian college. They were simpler times, vegetables shared from nearby gardens, meat from the college farm, and milk coming from a college professor who had a couple of Jersey cows that he milked in his barn.

In the sturdy wood and tin barn—yes, the very one—back behind his native-stone house, the professor of science milked the cows and sold the bounty they provided to the married college students. My father and his brother stood one evening waiting for their share.

Taking the full glass jug Dr. Wills handed them, they turned to make the trip back to the married student housing, their feet carrying them right across the front yard of the house the Lovely Lady and I live in today.

Some things in our lives are constants, even if we haven’t always been able to see them.

The physical, tangible objects change over time, aging and deteriorating as the years and the elements wear on them. Eventually, they will fall. All of them will fall.

Yes, the old barn, too. It has been a bit neglected for some years. The cows are only a memory; the garden in which the potatoes grew has sprouted a beautiful little house in recent years. Time passes and many treasures are lost along the way.

There are other things, not so temporal, we leave to our loved ones. The list is long.

Some items on it are not the kind of things we like to think of; prejudice, bad habits, the inability to control anger come to mind immediately. Others will come to mind as memories take over. These can take a lifetime to erase or, possibly, only to bring under control.

But among the lifelong gifts we give to our children, our families, and our loved ones is one I remember the best from a young age in my own life. It’s one I hope I passed on as a legacy—hope I’m passing on still.

My father and the red-headed lady he loved gave me the gift of knowing their God. They passed on to those who were close to them not only their faith, but also the certainty that theirs was a God who cared for them in a real and personal way.

Beyond the astonishing grace that provided a way to be reconciled with Him, He loves us and wants good things for us. He knows us better than we know ourselves.

They were certain of it and helped us to find it out for ourselves.  Our conversations were full of a God who was part of our everyday lives.

I’m no longer surprised by the “coincidences”, the unexplainable, the unseen hand of this God.  If you look, the evidence is all around.

You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

I won’t argue free will and predestination with anyone. I don’t know enough about the subject to have a dogma attached to it, save this:

For those who follow Him, there is a path prepared.

I have no great insights into finding His will, except to run hard after Him. That said, even when I have run hard away from Him during a few periods in my life, He has continued to work out His plan.

So when, at age nineteen, inexplicably drawn away from my home in south Texas to a little town in northwest Arkansas that I had never heard of until a year or so before, I packed up everything I owned in my Chevy Nova and took (as Mr. Lewis would have said) the adventure that came to me.

In the shadow of the old barn my father had visited thirty years prior, I wooed and won the Lovely Lady’s hand. Still in its shadow, we began to raise our children and made lifelong friends.

And now, again in its shadow, life slows, the path still before us. God never stops drawing us, one step at a time, until that day we’ll stop wandering.

And we’ll be home.

We need constants.

It turns out that there is, indeed, a thread, a continuous presence in my life.

It’s not the old barn. Much as I enjoy that old structure, it has only been a part of the landscape.

image by Paul Phillips

From my father’s steps into the barn seventy years ago, up to today, when I stand at the useless old barbed-wire fence and gaze across the field at the dilapidated old shed, the only true and lasting constant in life has been the hand of God.

Leading, protecting, pushing, but most of all, holding.

Safe.

I want to leave a legacy, something for folks to remember me by.

I hope it’s Him.

Just Him.

And if—at the end of it all— there’s an old barn somewhere nearby, I’ll be just fine with that, too.

 

Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.
(Matthew 6:33, NLT)

And then, let us descend into the city and take the adventure that is sent to us.
(C.S. Lewis ~ The Silver Chair)

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, he leadeth me;
By his own hand he leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by his hand he leadeth me.
(from He Leadeth Me, by Joseph Gilmore ~ Public Domain)

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

 

 

 

 

I Probably Should Wash My Hands Before Offering that Cup of Cold Water

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

 

Photo by Grace Nast. Used by permission.

“God, let who I am show You to the world around me today.”

I don’t really know why I wrote the words. Someone I don’t know asked a question on a popular social media site recently. For some reason, I needed to answer.

Her question was, “What’s your go-to one-sentence prayer these days?”

That was it. My go-to prayer.

I would have told you I say it because I really don’t need anything else from Him. No money. No new car. No vacation in Spain.

But the truth is, I do need something from Him. I need that.

That. I need the world to see Him when they look at me.

It’s not that I’m so pious. I’m not. It’s not that I’m so righteous. I’m not.

We pray because we need. There are things we don’t have that we need.

We pray because we know He has what we need.

And, I need that. And, I don’t have it. But, He does.

This afternoon, my young friend posted the photo I shared above. Did you see it? No—I mean, really see it? Maybe, you should look at it again. Go ahead. I’ll wait. Take a few minutes.

I looked at the photograph my friend had taken and I gasped. Really. And, then I teared up.

Perhaps it’s only me. I know I’m not always normal. Perhaps, never completely normal. But, still…

The clarity of the scene, the glass of pure water, the light, the reflection, the hint of shadow—all of it hit me right in the midsection. The imagery took my breath away.

That’s what I need—the answer to my repetitious prayer. Pure, cold cups of water, reflecting the light of the One we serve, offered from the clean hands of one who follows Him.

The imagery of Scripture is also unmistakable.

Let your light so shine before men…
This treasure we have in vessels of clay…
Whoever gives a cup of cold water in my name…
Among whom you shine like stars in the universe…

I mentioned what I lacked before, didn’t I? Was it clear that my need is to faithfully and consistently show who God is to a world that doesn’t know Him?

Is it clear that I have already seen that Light, that Love, that Grace myself? I have.

I just need to show it. One would think it would be simple enough.

Attached to the side of the refrigerator in my house, there is a water dispenser. On the counter below, there is a glass. I use both frequently, drinking cool, clean water I have taken right from the source.

The Lovely Lady who lives at my house asks me once in a while if she should wash the glass when she’s cleaning up the kitchen. My answer is always in the negative.

When I drink from it, I rinse it out before replacing it in its place by the fridge. Sometimes, I even spray a bit of dishwashing detergent inside and wipe it around before rinsing it out and setting it back down.

If I were to offer anyone else a drink from that glass, I assure you, they would decline. Perhaps, a change is called for.

Here’s why:

The water is clean. It comes from a city facility that is certified and tested regularly. It is filtered at the dispenser, removing any impurities the pipeline might have added to the already purified and certified liquid.

The inside of the glass is clean. I wouldn’t drink from it if it weren’t. As far as I’m concerned, it is a safe vessel from which to imbibe. And yet, even the Lovely Lady herself would refuse to drink from that vessel.

I simply don’t bother about the outside. And frequently, when I grab the glass to dispense water, my hands are grimy from physical labor. Often, they are so sweaty from exercise, I almost drop the glass.

I have dirty hands. The outside of the glass can be revolting. Detestable. Repulsive.

Who may ascend into the hill of the Lord?
And who may stand in His holy place?
He who has clean hands and a pure heart,
Who has not lifted up his soul to falsehood
And has not sworn deceitfully.
(Psalm 24: 3-4, NASB)

I’m not certain I can make this distinction and not get a little pushback from a theologian or two, but it seems to me there’s a reason the psalmist suggested we needed both clean hands and a pure heart.

I think it’s possible, perhaps even probable, that one is a gift—the product of all-encompassing grace—and the other is an expectation of the individual who has experienced that grace.

The Teacher, tested by the religious hypocrites of His day when they brought a woman who had been caught in adultery to Him, embarrassed them so much they slunk away without a word.

He, however, had a bit more to say to the woman:

Then Jesus stood up again and said to the woman, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”
“No, Lord,” she said.
And Jesus said, “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.”
(John 8:10-11, NLT)

He gave her two precious gifts. Two. 

Grace, resulting in a clean heart.

Expectation. The opportunity to live her life with clean hands.

He gives us those same gifts, as well. To us, who have fallen short of His glory through sin, He offers the unequaled treasure of His grace that washes our hearts clean.

And, He gives us the great honor of sharing that grace with a world wandering in darkness. We have the privilege of sharing His pure water, His great treasure, with our own hands that are no longer sullied by sin and selfishness.

The only way His light shines through us to the world is if we offer His free gift with hands that don’t distort and won’t detract as He shines through us.

I think I’ll continue to pray the prayer. The day is coming when I won’t need to anymore.

And, don’t worry. If you come to my house to visit someday, I’ll offer you a clean glass from which to drink.

I’ll even wash my hands first.

 

For, look, darkness covers the earth
and deep darkness covers the nations,
but the Lord shines on you;
his splendor appears over you.
(Isaiah 60:2, NET)

 

“He may become like a glass filled with a clear light for eyes to see that can.” (from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien)

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

I Don’t Think That’s What “Two or Three Gathered Together” Means

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lessons on crossing bridges the correct way

personal image

 

I wonder if I could just put it down to folks being in a hurry. It’s not my intent to malign anyone’s reputation here. Still, there seemed to be neither a surplus of intelligence nor the absence of poor judgment in either of the adversaries.

We had just eaten a delicious lunch in the little dining room on the upper floor of the old mill overlooking the scenic river. It was a working mill, so we took a few moments to study the huge waterwheel and the sluice through which the wide river was routed to provide the power to turn it.

In the late summer, one in which there has been a fair amount of rain, the valley through which the river runs could only be described as verdant, with huge oaks and maples towering over the banks. Wanting a photo of the place for our friends visiting from my hometown to remember it by, we decided to risk a little stroll across the wooden deck of the old steel truss bridge to acquire one.

The bridge was built in 1907 when all the traffic over it would have been horse-drawn wagons and buggies. The signs leading to it clearly designate it as a one-lane bridge, limiting the speed across it to five miles per hour. No one could claim they didn’t see the signs.

So, as we wandered across, hugging the edge of the deck to be sure no one would need to slow down to three miles per hour for us, we were surprised to hear, and then see, two cars whip up onto the bridge — one from each end. They obviously saw each other.

They weren’t going five miles per hour. With eyes on the car approaching from the other way, they both raced even faster to get to the center first, braking hard at the last possible moment. An abbreviated game of chicken, with both drivers — thankfully — giving in before any damage was done, either to them or to the watching pedestrians.

There they sat. We heard no yelling. I can’t say there were any rude gestures. From my perspective, each just sat, foot on brake pedal, waiting for the other driver to give up the right-of-way and back down the way they had come.

We laughed. Well? How could one not see the humor in the situation? The ages-old rite of claiming territory, of banging heads (visualize a couple of male bighorn sheep if you need a mental image), of being the king-of-the-mountain (yes, just as childish as that) was being played out in front of us.

Somehow, I’m not laughing now

 Over time, I’ve considered the foolishness of the two drivers, and I’m convinced we’re seeing the same event playing out over and over in everyday life.

We call the situation an impasse. It means just what it sounds like. The negative prefix, “im”, linked to the positive word, “pass”. A place where no one can make any progress.

Each is blocking the other’s way. No one will move forward. No one.

Where two or three are gathered

I hear the words whispered. In my mind, I hear them.

It’s a phrase in common usage by those of us who follow Jesus. He said the words Himself, promising to be in our midst.

Perhaps, there’s more to it than that. There were two people on that bridge. It just didn’t seem a likely place for Him to make Himself known. Not likely at all.

Soon after that episode, our little group got back into our vehicle and made our way to another bridge. Our friends were at my mercy on that day, and I wanted them to look at bridges (have I told you how much I love the beautiful old structures?).

personal image

This bridge is another one-lane passage over the same river, but much longer and very different in design. Still, like its cousin we had left just moments before, it requires a certain amount of cooperation for folks to cross it.

As we stopped by the river’s banks to view the bridge and grab a quick photograph or two, I couldn’t help but remember an event that had transpired there only a few years ago.

There are signs as one approaches the bridge warning of the single lane and the need to approach with caution. There are also signs which indicate a weight limit. Ten tons, they say. If one is driving a car or pickup truck, there is no need to heed the signs.

On that occasion in 2018, two chartered tour buses, operated by drivers who certainly would have had to pass an advanced test to operate a commercial vehicle, crossed the bridge going the same direction.

A charter bus weighs between twenty and thirty tons. Two of them crossing, one right after the other, far exceeded the safe limitations of the bridge. The photos folks took of the illegal crossing showed the old suspension bridge, normally in a convex shape, bowing severely into a concave curve under the buses’ weight.

Damage was done. The bridge had to be repaired before even a compact car could cross it again.

But you might say, the drivers agreed on their actions, both going in the same direction and not impeding each other’s progress. And yet, an impasse again occurred. The bridge was shut down to make amends for their wrong actions.

The whispering in my head has gained in volume.

Whenever two or three are gathered…agreeing, it will be done.

Is that what the statement the Teacher made is intended to convey?

If we who follow him agree on something that is clearly wrong, is He then obligated to honor our desires?

Somehow, I think we’ve still got this wrong

Even though there were also two drivers on this second bridge, I am unsure that the One we follow will show Himself here either.

Again, I tell you the truth, if two of you on earth agree about whatever you ask, my Father in heaven will do it for you. For where two or three are assembled in my name, I am there among them. 
 (Matthew 18:19–20, NET)

There is another bridge

It’s an ancient bridge, built from wood and nails — and grace.

I wonder. Do I, who have crossed over that bridge by the Builder’s own invitation, dare to create an impasse, turning back others for whom He died?

Do I claim, while gathered in His name with others, the right to ask for things — things we lust after — selfish requests — that He never promised to us?

Do I treat that ancient bridge as my possession — a thing to be used and held, but not to be shared freely with all who are drawn to it?

How many? 

How many have I driven away with my ugliness, my greed, my pride?

When will we — all of us who have already crossed that bridge — acknowledge the debt we have to the Builder, a debt He calls us to fulfill by going into the highways and byways to take away the arguments the folks wandering and struggling there have?

Imagine.

Imagine what could happen if we do that together

If two or three of us, gathered in His name, agree that the bridge is His and not ours—If we agree together that we will no longer create impasses, and no longer will claim the exclusive use for our self-centered purposes, do you suppose we can trust Him to show up?

I’d like to give that a try.

I wonder if there are one or two more who will join me?

He’ll be there. With us. He will.

 

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold guiltless anyone who takes his name in vain.
(Exodus 20:7, NET)

Unity without verity is no better than conspiracy.
(John Trapp ~ English educator/pastor/writer ~ 1601–1669)

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

Once Upon a Time, They All Lived Happily Ever After

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels

“Every page he turns says, ‘Once upon a time.'”

A friend, whose name I never can recall, shared the delightful photo of her grandson, along with the above text on a social media page today.  I am transported.

Really.  Carried away.

When I was a child, all the best stories started with those words.  All of them.  I knew exciting things lay ahead.  Perhaps they would be a little scary, but they would be fantastic, magical events and deeds.

Once upon a time.  Perfection.

All the best stories.  Maybe, it could even be my own story.  Who knew?

What if every page we turn in life is another story to be told? Another opportunity to see the hand of our Creator guiding our steps into an unknown future? 

Another chance to say, “And they lived happily ever after”?

Ah.  But, there’s the issue, isn’t it?

We all know happily ever after isn’t a thing.
At least, we think we know it.  Dream jobs turn into nightmares with horrible bosses and backbiting work associates.  Perfect marriages morph into the daily grind of children’s diapers and household disasters.  People we have loved for a lifetime die.  Just like that—gone.  Pandemics sweep over the world, leaving death, fear, and anger in their path.

Happily ever after is a fairy tale.  Once upon a time is merely the opening line of an impossible dream.

We all know that.

Or, do we?

Oh, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying.  I don’t believe in fairy godmothers—don’t trust the forecasts of poetry-quoting wizards—and certainly don’t trust old ladies who live in houses made of gingerbread.

But, if you think I lightly dismiss wisdom from the lips of a 3-year-old child, you don’t know me at all.  And, I do believe there is profound wisdom in his childlike understanding of life.

For all of history, from the dawning of time and the opening words we read in the Bible—our Creator’s version of once upon a time—we have told the stories.  Stories of heroines and heroes, murderers, thieves, and liars.  They are stories of good and evil.  They are stories that teach, and lift our spirits, and put us in our places.

And the thread that runs through our stories is one of seasons of trial, of wrong choices, but also of redemption and triumph. 

Woven into the fabric of our history is the desire for happily ever after. But I think we don’t understand what that means at all.

Once upon a time…
My mind, as it does, turns back the clock nearly forty years.  With a smile on my lips, I remember the little boy skipping across the parking lot while he held tightly to my hand.

“Daddy, can we go out to eat tonight?  Maybe to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal?”

The smile on my lips fades, remembering my reply all too often in those days.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t do that right now.  Mom’s probably got mac & cheese and tuna patties for us tonight.”

He knew the reason.  We never hid the realities of life from him.  Happy meals cost three bucks.  For each kid.  Mac & cheese with tuna patties was less than a buck for everyone in the family.  He might have been disappointed, but the kid never missed a beat.

“That’s fine.  I like macaroni and cheese!”

Hand in hand, we skipped together to the car.

Happily ever after. 

He trusted his father to do what was best for him.  He was also sure the Happy Meal would come when it was appropriate (and affordable).

Our lives have been full—completely stuffed full—of disappointments.  That said, they’ve also been packed with joy that can’t be diminished.  And, stuffed in with those has been a fair sprinkling of tragedy and pain.

The thing is, as children we, most of us, believed our grown-ups (Mom, Dad, Grandparents, or whoever) had the answers and would see us through whatever was ahead. We simply put our hand in theirs and skipped on, despite momentary disappointments.

How did I lose that?  When did I decide I was big enough and smart enough to cross the road without my hand in His?

Once upon a time…
The big, strong fishermen shooed away the children that came to their Teacher to hold His hand and to be prayed for.  He took them in His arms and castigated the Disciples:

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”  (Matthew 19:14, NIV)

Only days before that, He had told them that they, strong and independent as they were—arguing over who was the best—wouldn’t enter into heaven unless they became as little children.  (Matthew 18:3)

How soon we forget. I’m no better than they were, pulling my hand back to my side, following my own way.  I dread the future, bemoaning the past.

But how do we forget so quickly that He has plans for us, plans to bless and not to harm, plans that give us hope, and a future? (Jeremiah 29:11)

The grave is not our end!  Failure is not our ultimate lot in life!  Pain and sorrow will not overwhelm His plans for us!  These temporary setbacks are just that—temporary!

Once upon a time…
A family waited for their flight to be called, on their way to serve God in a country half a world away from brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and loved ones.  It wasn’t their first time to do this.

Did I say it was once upon a time?  It was just this morning. 

Our friends shared the photo of their little child gazing at the waiting jet through the floor-to-ceiling window of the terminal. These words accompanied the photo, nothing more:

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
Still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, He leadeth me;
By His own hand He leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by His hand He leadeth me.*

The wisdom and faith of a little child. 

Once upon a time on every page we turn. Every page.

Happily ever after, too.

Today.  In this place.

Happily ever after.

 

Surely your goodness and faithfulness will pursue me all my days, and I will live in the Lord’s house for the rest of my life.
(Psalm 23:6, NET)

 

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

*(from He Leadeth Me by Joseph Gilmore, 1862)

 

The Cicadas Have Something To Say

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;
Yes, I have a good inheritance.
(Psalm 16:6, NKJV)

Earlier today, I trekked from my comfortable home to meet the Lovely Lady at her workplace and to walk with her back home. I strolled, in comfortable shoes, along a smooth sidewalk shaded by oaks, sweetgums, and maples. The one street I crossed had stop signs from all directions, and the oncoming traffic was happy to let this old guy walk on the crosswalk at his own pace.

There was no shouting, no honking, not even a rude gesture from any of them. Of course, my greeting to the lovely redhead when I arrived at my destination was sweet and joyful.

Except, it wasn’t.

“Man, is it hot out here today! It’s even sweltering under the shade of these trees! And that wind! I think it makes it even more uncomfortable!”

Well? It’s how we greet each other, isn’t it?

We were happy to reach the cool of our air-conditioned home within a few moments, but I wasn’t done.

“Now, I have to change my shirt! This one’s soaked through!”

I’ve told you how much I love summer, haven’t I? I suppose the thing is, I do—until I don’t. Then, I complain. Just like I did in the winter, which I really do dislike.

I repent. I do.

Later in the afternoon, the needle on the thermometer outside the front window having risen to just under the century mark, I noticed a beautiful swallowtail butterfly flitting around the yard.

Well, flitting may be the wrong word. Perhaps flapping would be more to the point. More about that in a moment.

When I looked again, an hour later, the beautiful thing was still out there flapping from one point to the next. I decided to see if I could get a photograph of the flying insect. You can see the result above.

May I share an insight or two with you? Epiphanies happen at the oddest moments. They do for me, anyway.

The butterfly was at work, simply doing what it was created to do.

Did you know that when a butterfly is traversing your yard, or garden, or front porch, it’s not out for a leisurely excursion? For some reason, I’ve always thought of butterflies as rather lazy, or perhaps I should say laid-back, creatures.

I’ve been wrong.

The butterfly has been put in its environment by the same Creator who said of us that we would earn our food by the sweat of our brow. The creature is working to survive. It turns out it is also working to tend the garden it’s been placed in, gathering sweet nectar to eat, but at the same time, collecting pollen on its antennae, legs, and abdomen. Pollen, which will brush off on the next flower it enters in its quest for more sweet nectar, thus helping to ensure the flowers’ endurance as a species.

This butterfly was hard at work! In the afternoon heat. With no shade to keep the sun from its beautiful black and blue wings and body. Against a strong southern wind that blew it off the blossoms again and again. The flapping wings were proof of the exertions necessary simply to earn the poor thing its daily bread.

I’m no entomologist, but the swallowtail seemed to be content in its circumstances.

I shared the photo with friends, mentioning that there was no complaint to be heard from the butterfly. At least, I couldn’t hear said complaint, if it was forthcoming.

Even while I impeded its regular route, forcing it to move around me as I attempted to get a decent photo, it showed no frustration; making not even the slightest attempt to attack me.

I wonder.

David wrote the words to the Psalm quoted at the beginning of this piece. One might think it was an easy thing for him to write. He was a king. A man after God’s own heart. Fabulously wealthy. Famous. Attractive to women, evidently.

Pleasant borders, indeed.

They weren’t. Not by our standards.

He was banished and hunted by King Saul and his army. His infant son died. Another son would unseat him from his throne and pursue him in the wilderness, just like Saul did. David lived his whole life under judgment, knowing he would never—never—accomplish his most magnificent dream, that of building a tabernacle where his God would be revered and worshiped.

And yet, for all that, he knew his God was enough. His God was faithful. His God was worthy of his love and gratitude.

And I complain about the summer heat. While the butterflies obey their Creator without murmur.

I claim to be a follower of Christ. I know many who make the same claim.

Somehow though, the sound rising up from our lips is something short of praise. Far short.

Have you been listening recently?

Inexplicably, my mind has been occupied with insects today. I was reminded that last year at this time (as it is again now) a meteor shower had been in progress. A friend had suggested that I go outside and view the event since I am famously late in going to my bed and she knew I would still be up.

I replied that I had tried, lying down on the ramp leading to my front door only to get damp from the rising dew. And I hadn’t been able to see anything in the sky because the cicadas in the oak trees were deafening.

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? But you know I’m right.

We walked out this evening to bid goodnight to our daughter and son-in-law, along with our grandchildren, and found ourselves yelling our goodbyes over the cacophony in the trees. It seems that all the cicadas in the world, past, present, and future, are gathered above our heads these days, screaming their song (if one can call it that) to the heavens and everything south of them.

They too are only fulfilling their Maker’s design for them. Among other things, they sing. Together—they sing.

I will admit that one cicada has a formidable voice, making a noticeable racket. I do hear the single ones frequently.

But together? The air vibrates with their vocalizations. Literally and figuratively. There is no ignoring it while they live and sing. In unison. Or perhaps, in harmony. I haven’t found the scale or the chords their music employs, but it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

And they do it together. As their Creator planned and ordained.

 What if we did that?

What if we who call ourselves Christ-followers would raise our voices in such a choir of praise that the world couldn’t do anything but stop and hear?

What if all the complainers and gripers would toss their petty grievances on the dung-heap from which they were acquired in the first place and join their voices with the chorus?

It is what we were created to do.

I’m ready to sing for a while. With you. And you. And you.

Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all you people!

 

 

Make a joyful shout to the Lord, all you lands!
Serve the Lord with gladness;
Come before His presence with singing.
Know that the Lord, He is God;
It is He who has made us, and not we ourselves;
We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

Enter into His gates with thanksgiving,
And into His courts with praise.
Be thankful to Him, and bless His name.
For the Lord is good;
His mercy is everlasting,
And His truth endures to all generations.
(Psalm 100, NKJV)

 

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

 

 

 

The Better to See You With, My Dear

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments
image by Brandon Day on Unsplash

“I’m not letting you out of my sight!”

The Lovely Lady needed a few things from the grocery store. No, she wasn’t sending me for them. With more than forty years of hands-on experience, she knows better than to chance that near-certain fiasco. Instead, she had graciously offered to let me sit in my easy chair and nap for a few minutes before the grandchildren descended upon us for the evening.

My facetious reply would come back to haunt me (but perhaps, not in the way one would expect).

Did I say we’ve been attached for more than forty years? I know the common perception is that the individuals who are half of an old married couple would almost always prefer some “alone time”, some space between them given the opportunity.

I’m happy to report it to be a misconception in our case. I know quite a number of those old married couples. Many of them would take issue with the stereotype, as well.

I like being with her. She’ll have to speak for herself as to her preference in the matter, but she seems to enjoy my company—most of the time.

I went to the grocery store with her.

On our way out of the store, having made our purchases, we saw the wife of my preacher friend (she’s an employee there) and stopped to greet her.

She looked at the Lovely Lady and smiled. Reaching out to touch her hair with the back of her hand, there was an impish gleam in her eye as she mentioned how pretty the red-headed lady was that day. She even suggested that I needed to hold on to this one.

I mentioned my comment to her, jokingly assuring her that I had no intention of ever letting the Lovely Lady out of my sight.

It’s not a promise I intend to keep. Seriously. I don’t.

Of course, she’ll be out of my sight.

She goes to work most weekdays and I don’t go with her. Many evenings, she works in the kitchen while I watch television or work outside. Right now, she’s in bed as I write.

Out of my sight.

I guess I’m not all that good at keeping promises.

But I know Someone who is. He’s even made the same promise I intend to break.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

He fully intends to keep His promise. He’s been at it since long before I was born.

“You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.”
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

Every day since then, as I come and go, He fulfills the promise.

“You see me when I travel
and when I rest at home.
You know everything I do.
You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord.”
(Psalm 139: 3-4, NLT)

No matter how hard I try, and how far I run—and I’ve tried, and I’ve run—He’ll be there to keep His promise.

“If I were to ascend to heaven, you would be there.
If I were to sprawl out in Sheol, there you would be.
If I were to fly away on the wings of the dawn,
and settle down on the other side of the sea,
even there your hand would guide me,
your right hand would grab hold of me.”
(Psalm 139:8-10, NET)

His promises aren’t made in jest. They’re not made (as mine was) to win brownie points.

His promises are made to assure us of His love—His overwhelming love—for each one of us.

The Son, when He walked and lived down here in the dirt with us, reiterated the promise, assuring us that, in the midst of trouble and cares, His Father sees us.

And, when He sees us, He knows us. He has no intention of leaving us bereft of His love and provision. None.

“What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it…So don’t be afraid. You are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.”
(Matthew 10:29,31, NLT)

He is El Roi. The God who sees me.

Me.

That doesn’t only mean me, personally. For anyone who says the words, they mean exactly what they say.

The God who sees me.

The old friend who shared that his wife of many years has moved out.  The brother who sat at our table today talking about his battle with cancer.  The friend I talked with after church who reminded me so gently that she doesn’t have anyone to carry in her groceries from the car, having lost her husband suddenly only months ago.

Every one of them seen.  Every one of them loved.  Every one of them safe in His care.

Right where we are—doing exactly what we’re doing—we are seen and known.  Loved and cherished.

Never alone.

Never not seen.

Not even if you don’t have a dorky old man to follow you around the grocery store pushing your cart.

Because He’s not letting me out of His sight.

He won’t let you out of it, either.

It’s a promise He’ll keep.

 

“And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.”
(from In the Garden, by C. Austin Miles)

 

 

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