Shade and Shadow

November 1, 2019November 1, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments

He’s gone. Dead. Passed away.

Gone.

Just yesterday, it seems, the call came. They found him in his recliner, laid back, as if asleep. I can’t count the times I came into the living room to find him like that. It was his place to rest; it was his place to think; it was his place to commune with God.

How would he have gone any other way?

The old man (I use the term with the greatest of respect) has been on my mind a lot lately. Independent, stubborn—in a loving kind of way, and determined to follow his God into eternity, he refused to be taken care of. A thousand and a half miles from any of his children, he lived on his own terms.

The shadow he cast over the lives of his family may never fade. Perhaps, in time, we may notice it less. Now in our sixties, all of his children will attest to the influence he wielded, frequently purposefully, but mostly without that intent at all.

Parents are like that, if we let them be. I was happy to stay in the shade of this man; grateful for the protection from the heat of the long summer days.

And, shade there was. He offered guidance—when asked, and correction—sometimes without being asked. Over the years, he and I developed the kind of relationship that was comfortable enough to endure the inevitable disputes. He corrected me; I corrected him. Neither of us actually complied with the correction, we simply moved on, leaving the disagreements behind.

I have come to realize that the shade had thinned in the last few years.

Mere weeks ago, my siblings and I sat at the table in my dining room, drinking coffee and talking about our lives and about life in general. I gazed out the front window at the old maple tree near the street and commented on its imminent demise.

The old tree is nearing seventy years old, the only one remaining of the original five planted by my late father-in-law. Like the other four, it will come down soon. There are few full limbs left, the scraggly arms jutting out from the huge trunk offering just the barest growth of leaves now. The limbs that have been removed have left hollows, places for water to stand and further rot the heart of the tree. Now, when it rains, the water that enters the open heart fifty or so feet above the ground drains out a knothole only a couple of feet up on the trunk.

Even now, in its last stages, the old tree casts a long shadow. It may do so for several more years. Not much shade to be found, but the shadow of the skeletal old trunk stretches for many feet more than its actual height.

As I gazed at the tree and pointed out its defects to my siblings, my mind jumped to my father, not knowing his body was even then lying in the recliner, his soul having begun his journey into eternity.

As I write, my thoughts—like a movie camera—dissolve from the old maple tree to the words of David’s First Psalm.

Like a tree planted by water flowing down to the sea, is the righteous man; his delight, in the Law of the Lord. Day and night, his mind is taken up with the meditation of what God desires. The leaves of that tree shall not shrivel up, will never lose their green coloration and fall to the ground. Fruit shall he bear in the right season, and he will have success in all his labors. (Psalm 1: 2,3 ~ my paraphrase)

Reality hits, and through tears, I realize the shade is gone. I will not again call him seeking wisdom, will never hear his voice quoting his favorite scripture reminding me of God’s thoughts towards me and His promise of blessing.

The shade is gone.

Ah, but the shadow is not.

Perhaps there will never be a time in my life when I don’t feel that shadow, the reminder of what we knew for years. The shadow stretches long from the past, and yet, reaches far into the future.

Shade is good when one needs protection and comfort. But, it takes the sunlight to grow to the full measure of who our Creator wants us to be. And shadows to remind us once in awhile of how we got here and where we’re headed.

I can’t tell you he was perfect. No man has ever been, save one. This one was definitely human. There are stories which will never be told and, then again, some that may never stop being told giving proof of that.

Still, he leaned back in that easy chair day after day, and considered the words of the Lord, letting them seep thoroughly into his very being.

Roots, sunk deep.

I’m thinking there will be shade trees again in eternity. What beauty and grandeur those stately groves must display in that blessed home!

I know there’s a river that runs there.

Shade.

By the river.

The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade, you do not expect to sit.
(Nelson Henderson ~ Canadian farmer)

But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night. And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
(Psalm 1:2-3 ~ KJV)

God Didn’t Make Little Green Apples

May 31, 2019May 31, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The apple tree is gone. Really.

Or, as the Munchkin coroner read from the death certificate of the wicked witch: …not only merely dead but really most sincerely dead.

I know you’ll be as sad as Dorothy was. It is just an apple tree, after all. Other trees were destroyed in the storm that blew through recently, some of much more import than my sad little apple tree. Century-old oaks, stately scarlet maples, huge sweet gums, all destroyed by the same careless gale that blasted past us as if none of it would matter in a year or so anyway.

It will. To me, it will.

I’ve written of the old tree before. I intended to do it in myself last fall but thought better of it. The eleventh-hour reprieve did it little good. My last written thoughts on the matter left me with hope (read about it here). Now seemingly, it was merely wishful thinking.

An old friend came this afternoon and helped me cut up the broken-off trunk. Right down to the ground, we cut it. As we drove away from the house later, the Lovely Lady suggested it was almost as if it had never been there.

I’ve walked around this evening with words in my head. I know they’re not true, but that doesn’t get them out of my head.

God didn’t make little green apples.

The words are part of a song written in the nineteen-sixties, sung by a number of country music stars. I realize there’s a phrase that comes before the one rattling around in my head, but it doesn’t matter to me right now.

I’m unhappy; can you tell?

As I write these words, I realize something else is making me unhappy. Something I don’t want to talk about. I’d rather go on about the sad little apple tree, lying in the scrap pile, awaiting transport to its final resting place.

I’d rather talk about missing the fresh apple pie and the homemade applesauce. But clearly, that’s not what’s going to happen here, so I might as well move on.

I’ve struggled with it for two weeks. I know—I’ve wrestled with it before and will again. Many of my readers will understand.

Two weeks ago, I got word that he was gone. My friend, too young to be old, sat at home in his chair and went away. I’ll never see him again in this lifetime. I’ll never again hear one of his corny jokes; never sit and listen to him play his beautiful Martin acoustic guitar and sing of the Savior he loved.

While I was trying to come to grips with the sadness Jack’s passing has brought on, I was reminded of another young friend who died unexpectedly eight years ago this week. The reminder hit me harder than I thought possible. I miss the kid more today than the day he died. He too was a guitarist who loved playing music that turned his listener’s hearts to worship.

I want to hear the music again.

Anything besides this little ditty going through my brain right now.

God didn’t make little green apples.

But, He did, you know. Every single one of them.

Our Creator conceived and produced those little things from the nothingness of eternity. From the dirt He made, he caused the trees and other vegetation to spring up, guaranteeing that they would perpetuate themselves through their seeds. (Genesis 1: 11, 12)

While creation remains, the apples will come again. Oh, the trees will outlive their season, but the fruit will never fail. Season follows season, harvest after planting, as He planned it. (Genesis 8:22)

And, wouldn’t you know it, the myth of death for those who know Christ is as false as the little ditty in my head. Eternal life belongs to all who believe in Him. (John 3:36)

My friends haven’t been carried off to any final resting place, even if their earthly packages were.

The music has never stopped, even if temporarily we don’t hear it. I’m confident the Heavenly Luthier builds a much better product than CF Martin ever constructed here. I may even get to play with them someday.

But no, I think I’ll sing in the choir with that red-headed lady who raised me. We’ll sing as loudly as we can there, too—just like the last I sang with her.

God did make little green apples.

You can almost smell the blossoms from here.

Maybe Tomorrow

September 7, 2018September 7, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I thought today would be the day.

Today should have been the day. I’ve put it off far too long.

Yes. Today. I got out the saw. I was already dressed appropriately, having pulled on work clothes as I rolled out of bed this morning.

It wouldn’t be a quick job; that didn’t really matter. I would take off a limb here, another one there. Slow and steady wins the race. That’s what the red-headed lady who raised me would have said.

If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s slow. Steady? Not so much. Still, today was the day.

I extended the pole-saw up far enough to lop off a limb that overhung the fence. Not large enough to damage it when it fell, but enough to see progress had been made.

Thunk!

The branch from the old apple tree smacked the ground harder than I anticipated. This was really happening, wasn’t it? I reached up for another. As I reached, my mind reached back.

Thunk!

I leaned the long pole-saw against the five-foot-tall welded-wire fence. That was all I could do. I needed to sit down. Soon. I wasn’t sure I could even manage the strength to pull the limbs out to the brush pile, next to the little cul-de-sac street in front of the old house.

I got them out there, but the weight on my chest just wouldn’t go away.

I went inside and sat down, angry at myself. This was stupid. It should have been a simple job. Cut down the old shrunken and split apple tree. How difficult could it be?

History has weight. It does. It comes with an onus, an obligation.

I’ve just never felt it quite that heavy before. Oh, living in this world for over sixty years has taught me the lesson a little. But, the last few years are schooling me in that particular chapter more than I ever wanted.

I thought I was ready. As much as anything, that old tree signifies my memories of a family whose life has been tied up in this little patch of land and this old house from its first days. The Lovely Lady grew up playing near it and others, now long cut down. For more than half a century, the changing seasons have brought forth desserts and side-dishes worth remembering from the tree.

But, the tree has reached the end of its life. I’ve written about it here before—the twisting of the storm winds that opened the huge split, now held up by a two-by-four and a couple of plumber’s straps—and the shearing off of the largest part of the tree this last spring as another weather front blew through.

We would gather one last crop, having one last season to enjoy the applesauce and an apple pie or two—perhaps even a big pan of apple crisp drowned in heavy whipping cream. Then the tree, having lived a full life, would come down to be replaced by new ones planted in and near its footprint.

The last crop never came, the little green apples that promised so expectantly last spring disappearing before ever one came to the table. Barren. The tree is done. It will have to come down.

But, the unkept promise of one more crop rankles. Unfinished business. What if—what if we tried to keep it alive just one more cycle, one more time through the process the Creator programmed into its DNA?

Tomorrow.

I need more time. The weight of that final act is too heavy for me today.

Maybe next week. Or next year.

It’s silly, isn’t it? A tree. It’s only a tree.

The heart is so foolish. And, so fickle.

The weight of the past seems a very real thing, slowing us down, keeping us hoping against hope, even convincing us that tomorrow will work better than today.

It won’t.

The apostle (my namesake) stood before the Roman governor and told him his future if he didn’t turn around. Felix listened and, with the weight of his situation on him, told Paul he would consider it at a more convenient time. (Acts 24:25)

There will be no more convenient time.

Today.

That’s what we have.

Today.

In my many years as confessor to quite a number of folks (for some reason, the counter at our music store seemed a comfortable place for the rite, with both stranger and friend, young and old participating), I can’t count the number of people who wanted yesterday back.

From the man who told me on the day of his grandmother’s funeral of refusing to return one last phone call to her, to the boy who needed another shot at demonstrating his love for an absent girlfriend, they all wanted to live that particular today over again.

Today has an expiration date. It’s today.

Today has an expiration date. It's today. Click To Tweet

The opportunities forfeited—the doorways passed by—all come back with a history and a weight all their own.

You see, we make history with every action and every inaction, every word spoken and every one left unsaid.

History has weight. Somehow, time seems to make it heavier.

It’s time to lighten our loads.

Jesus promised a lighter burden if we’d come to Him. The offer still stands. (Matthew 11:28-29)

The weight of our history need not overwhelm nor cripple us.

The weight of our history need not overwhelm nor cripple us. Come. Rest. Click To Tweet

We’ve all got enough apple trees to grapple with in our lives without adding to that weight.

Come.

Rest.

Do it today. Today.

There’ll be apple pie again.

There will.

Shall we never get rid of this Past? . . . It lies upon the Present like a giant’s dead body.
(from The House of the Seven Gables ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne ~ American author ~ 1804-1864)

Are we weak and heavy laden,
Cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge,
Take it to the Lord in Prayer.
(from What a Friend We Have in Jesus ~ Lyrics by Joseph Scriven ~ Public Domain)

Wind in the Oaks

February 16, 2018February 16, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I sit at my desk and listen to the wind.

Change is coming.

At the end of the street, the last leaves from an autumn, very nearly forgotten, whirl and take flight. The commotion is impressive to the casual witness—less so to one who has observed the scene from the vantage point of my window over the last couple of months.

From his play, Macbeth, Mr. Shakespeare’s description of life seems apropos:

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

The leaves go in circles. Now to the end of the road, now across to one yard to lie breathless for a time. With the next gust of wind, they revive, shoving each other aside in their hurry to rise on the current, only to scurry back around the cul-de-sac and alight once more. Right back where they started.

Probably, within feet of where they tumbled from the tall oak trees last fall.

Going nowhere fast.

But the wind roars still. Through limbs of trees, standing naked in the late winter sun, it shoves—and grabs—and pulls. Like so many windmills twirling in the sky, the giant oaks twist their extremities this way and that, almost it seems, trying to catch hold of the leaves spinning below.

I’m sure it may be only my imagination—it is my imagination, isn’t it?—but, for just a moment—the barest hint of a moment—I have the idea that they would—if they could—reattach themselves to the leaves that abandoned them mere weeks ago.

What a silly notion. Old dead leaves are of no use to the trees now, save possibly to nourish the ground around them as the natural process of decay and deterioration does its work.

I know this wind is blowing in another change in the weather. A warm day today, but cool again tomorrow with the front blowing in. Spring is coming. Rain will fall. Stronger winds than these will swirl and stream through the treetops.

Even now, the mostly sleeping giants are showing tiny dark nubs on the spindly ends of their gray branches, nubs that will become leaves. They will be new, green, living things—luxurious and lush—covering the entire tree with vitality and vigor.

And yet. . . And yet today, the towering trees are naked—bereft of their former glory.

The wind blows, and merely accentuates their lack—adding insult to injury, the red-headed lady who raised me would have said. Surely, there is something about which one could complain.

But, you know, as much as I prefer spring to winter, as much as I love a leaf-covered tree more than a bare one, I would never look at a tree in winter and suggest it would be better off with the old leaves back on it.

I complain frequently about winter, suggesting that everything is dead. I am reminded, as I sit in my chair and watch the empty branches wave, that the tree has never been dead. Never.

It is simply directing all its resources to the roots underground and getting ready for something spectacular to happen. A little rest before breaking out.

It seems to me that things are a little drab right now.

Am I the only one who thinks about the past and how good that life was? Am I the only one who wishes I could turn back the calendar a season?

Do you think we really could put the old dry leaves back on the trees? No, I suppose not.

But, here is what I know. Without worry of being proven wrong, I know it is true.

The earth turns and revolves around the sun; the wind blows and the rain falls. Suddenly, without warning—well, almost without warning—the explosion of color and life will be upon us.

To everything, there is a season; a time for every purpose under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

And, the Creator has made everything to be right in its season.

And, He puts eternity in our hearts so we know to look ahead and not behind.

He puts eternity in our hearts so we know to look ahead and not behind. Click To Tweet

Seasons come. They go. Sometimes, we are so busy, we have no time to consider the work He is doing in us. But, we gain strength; and, we grow.

Sometimes, in the drab time, we sit and contemplate the reason for our very existence. That also, is a season through which He moves us and makes us stronger.

And, sometimes, as they have this week, tears come.

And the tears, like the rain which has just begun outside my window, fall to the ground and water the future, to ensure that it will be brighter.

Through tears, and even a little bit of dreariness, He will bring us, step by weary step—to spring once again.

There are indeed, Mr. Lewis, far better things that lie ahead than any we’ve left behind.

I wonder if the wind will still be blowing.

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
(J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring )

‘The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former house,’ says the Lord Almighty. ‘And in this place I will grant peace,’ declares the Lord Almighty.
(Haggai 2:9 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Dead Trees and Broken Promises

April 15, 2016April 15, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The tree is dead. Dead.

To say I am unhappy would be truthful. But, I think it goes even deeper than that.

I feel betrayed.

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

Well? That’s what it was—was it not?

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

A promise—that’s what it was.

A broken promise. Now.

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

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

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

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

Nothing. No buds. No leaves.

Nothing.

It’s dead.

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

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

Broken limb. Broken promise.

I feel betrayed. Angry even.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sobering.

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

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

But, that other tree?

Our Creator keeps His promises.

Green leaves. Fruit, in season. Bounty.

I like trees.

You?

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

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

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

Spinning Jenny

April 7, 2016April 7, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I actually felt bad as I accelerated away from the stop sign. It was only a momentary thing.

I had noticed a number of the distinctive seed pods from the maple tree on the windshield of my truck as I left home, but didn’t take the time to brush them off. The cause of my short-lived remorse was simply the thought of removing the seeds so far from their parent tree, a gorgeous scarlet maple that stands in my backyard, not twenty feet from where I write tonight.

It was a foolish thing, but I can’t help it. I seem to have foolish tendencies sometimes. It may run in my family.

Then again, it may run in the entire human race.

I smiled as I shoved down on the accelerator, imagining how it appeared from behind the truck. The helicoptering seed pods were caught by the wind and brushed up and over the cab of the truck, to spin in the blustery gale.

I planted maple trees all the way to my destination.

I have been fascinated with the fantastic little helicopters all of my adult life.

To me, the magic of Spring is encapsulated in those wonderful winged vehicles. Oh yes—they are indeed vehicles of mass transportation, moving hundreds of thousands of seeds from the parent tree to a resting place on the ground.

Some of them fall immediately under the tree, where they will languish, perhaps springing up temporarily, but perishing for lack of sunlight and virgin earth in which to sink their roots.

Others will be shanghaied, as were those I planted during my morning outing in the truck, and will be carried to places far away. They’ll never be reunited with their sires, but they perhaps, will grow to prodigious heights themselves and populate a different corner of their world.

The great majority of them will spin and blow from the limbs of the stately tree to nearby destinations, sailing as far as the limitations of their physical design will allow. If the circumstances are right, a single maple sapling will arise from the spot in which each of them alights.

If.

Imagine, if you will, the feeling of hanging from the parent tree in Spring. By the thousands, the little pods develop over the course of a few weeks as the days lengthen and become warmer. The seasonal rains do their part, as well.

What a sensation! Not a thing in the world to be feared, with food whenever it’s needed. Clinging tightly to the limb, there is protection from the elements close to the warmth and strength of the great structure with its roots going down deep into the soil below.

The wind blows and the pod simply swings, secure in its place. It spins a bit and wonders about the odd sensation, but is calmed quickly with the reassurance of security and safety.

But today—today—the wind blew thousands of the little helicopters off of the tree. Imagine that feeling!

I can’t help but think the first reaction would be one of pure panic. No more safety. No more comfortable assurance of things going on as they always have. Questions rush to mind.

Where will I stop?

What if I get sick on the way to where I’m going?

What will I find there?

How will I get on?

Who will care for me?

Somehow, I envision the sensations changing as the spinning continues.

This isn’t so bad!

I could do this for awhile.

Why was I so afraid?

Did I call these little life conveyances an example of the magic of Spring? I think magic may be too fanciful a word, although for some, the reality may stretch the boundaries of faith even more than the thought of magic.

The master design by the Creator of everything is far beyond the ken of our puny intellect. From the largest of intelligent beings to the smallest of plants, He has planned the perpetuation of each species in ways we could never have imagined possible.

I gazed in wonder at the maple tree earlier this evening, my inferior brain attempting to take in the scope of all the samaras hanging under the tender leaf shoots which have only this week begun to appear.

Samara is the scientific term for the spectacular seed conveyances which are now spinning into the air everywhere. I prefer the name the children in Northern England use for the mysterious devices.

Spinning Jenny, they call the helicopter-like seedpod, as they toss it again and again into the air.

Spinning Jennies. I may always call them that, until the day I turn loose from the tree I hang from myself.

Ah. At last we come to it.

Our Creator did not forget humans in His design for perpetuating the species. And no, as incredible as is the process of procreation in mankind, I’m not referring to how we keep the species going physically.

I’m considering a more spiritual thought as I make the comparison. And, I assume that most who read these words are followers of Christ—believers—as I am.

He called us to leave the place of comfort. He called us to minister to all the world. He called us to die daily—to take up our cross and follow Him. (Luke 9:23)

And, just as quickly as that idea blows the winds of change over us, we feel ourselves spinning and falling, borne away from comfort, and ease, and all that is familiar.

I smiled earlier at the thought of the cute Spinning Jennies flying through the air.

I’m not smiling anymore.

They are falling to their death. To their death.

It is a sobering thought.

And the Teacher said, “Except a grain of wheat fall to the ground and die, it remains alone.”

It’s a steep price to pay for a fantastic, exciting, scary journey.

But, think of it my friends! The ultimate payoff is life itself.

Life itself.

For ourselves and for those we bring with us.

The trees know.

Is it time to let go yet?

A price will be paid.

It will.

Oh. But, what a ride!

Time to let go.

Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.
(John 12:24 ~ NASB)

Oh! The places you’ll go!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers!
who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’t.
Because sometimes, you won’t.
(from Oh The Places You’ll Go ~ Theodor Seuss Geisel ~ American children’s author ~ 1904-1991)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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