Anticipation

April 10, 2026April 10, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We didn’t plan it. To be clear, it was my stubbornness that put us there. On that steep road. With switchbacks where the pavement beneath us disappeared from view and we prayed we wouldn’t meet another vehicle.

The Lovely Lady and I took a short break a week or two ago. And truthfully, she is the one who needed a break (since I don’t do enough to earn time off), but she was kind enough to let me tag along.

With her trusty Rand-McNally road atlas on her lap, we drove a couple of hours south to the highest point in our state and took a room at the top of the lodge on Mount Magazine.

It was great. Relaxing and awe-inspiring at the same time.

But we wanted more. So we drove a few miles east to visit more mountains. The state park is named for the man they called Little John. Except he was actually a woman named Adrienne who disguised herself to travel from France to the United States in the 1700s.

And, in French, the language they speak where she came from, her fellow travellers actually called her Petit Jean. Her grave is there in that beautiful state park.

After we left that mountaintop, we headed back toward the lodge. I asked the disembodied voice we call Siri to map our route back to the other mountain, where we could rest before more adventures the next day.

The route the voice suggested wasn’t to my liking. I was sure I knew better and turned the opposite direction. The Lovely Lady still had her atlas handy and quickly suggested the voice was correct. I turned on a side road to get back to the prescribed route.

I don’t often ignore or argue with the voice that’s connected to that red-headed lady who rides with me.

The side road I turned on had a large sign just ahead of us.

“Mount Nebo State Park 4 Miles Ahead,” it said.

We’ve never been there. And it was only 4 miles.

We went straight.

I should say, for about 3 miles we went straight. Then we went straight up. Well, that’s what it felt like. The road was an 18% grade! With 11 switchbacks. And no place to turn around, should one change their mind about being adventurous.

Finally at the top, we stood on the edge of the mountain and viewed the River Valley below. The huge manmade lake in the distance gleamed in the sunshine. On its banks, the cooling tower of the power plant called Nuclear One looked like a little kitchen funnel turned upside down.

As we stood on the edge of that precipice, a name came to mind. Marvin Eck. It took me a minute to get the synapses charged and connecting, but it came eventually.

Marvin Eck was the old pastor at the church we attend. It is the church the Lovely Lady grew up in. The church where I met her. The church in which we were married. Quite possibly, the church where our funerals will take place. We’re boring like that.

Marvin Eck wasn’t boring. He lived on a rocky hillside in Oklahoma, where he and his wife, Wanda (who he lovingly called Baby Doll—to her feigned embarrassment), scratched out a flat space for a lovely home built with their own hands and then a few more square feet for a garden that yielded copious crops of vegetables and even more lovely flowers.

When I first knew him, he called the hillside Beulah Land. We understood completely. Beulah, when mentioned in Isaiah 62:4, is a prophetic name for the Promised Land. The name means “marriage”, signifying the fellowship of God with His people. It’s a lovely picture of heaven. And to us, the Eck’s place seemed like a little bit of heaven on earth.

But suddenly, one day, he started calling the hillside Mount Nebo. I don’t remember the exact explanation, but in effect, he told us he wasn’t in heaven yet.

I hadn’t thought much about it, either back all those years ago, or in the years that have intervened. I thought about it on that mountaintop, looking over that beautiful valley to the other mountains nearby.

Do you know that Moses stood on the original Mount Nebo (which is in modern-day Jordan) and looked over into the Promised Land? Deuteronomy 34 tells the story.

So close. So close and yet, so very far.

He would never enter the land while he lived. But, although I’ve never heard any sermons on it, I can point to a time when Moses stood in the “land flowing with milk and honey”.

If popular belief in the Holy Land today is correct, Mount Tabor in northern Israel was the Mount of Transfiguration, spoken of in the Gospels. There, on a mountain that would have been visible to Moses standing in disappointment with his God on Mount Nebo, he and the prophet Elijah stood in triumph with the Glorified Messiah and a few of His chosen followers. I’m not sure if there is all that much to learn from this fact, but it makes me happy to think about it.

So, there it is; Mount Nebo looks over to the Promised Land. Just like Marvin Eck did symbolically on his hillside before he and his Baby Doll actually made the move there some years ago.

It’s a strange thing to think about while standing on a precipice overlooking the River Valley of Arkansas. I do that. Think about strange things. At strange times.

But the memories of Marvin Eck are pleasant. And the thought that we are standing on this mountain (wherever you or I may find ourselves now), looking over into Beulah Land, and knowing we will be there one day ourselves, is a little overwhelming.

I’ve talked before about home being, not the place we come from, but the place we really belong. On more than one occasion, I’ve written about Margaret Campbell, an old saint who the kids around here called simply Miss Peggy.

I can never forget the day I sat with her in her home when she, all of 91 or 92 years old, looked through me with her unseeing eyes and told me, “I want to go home.” I understand her better than ever now.

Home, where we belong.

The road up Mount Nebo is hard and steep, but the view of eternity is spectacular from those heights.

And be careful coming back down to the valley below. There are still a few miles to go before we’re home.

And perhaps, a few more switchbacks to navigate along the way.

“Walking along life’s road one day,
I heard a voice so sweetly say,
‘A place up in heav’n I am building thee,
A beautiful, beautiful home.’

Home, sweet home—home, sweet home,
Where I’ll never roam.
I see the light of that city so bright,
My home, sweet home.”
(from My Home Sweet Home, by N B Vandall, 1926)

“You shall no more be termed Forsaken, and your land shall no more be termed Desolate, but you shall be called My Delight Is in Her, and your land Married; for the Lord delights in you, and your land shall be married.” (Isaiah 62:4, ESV)

Strangely Dim

March 3, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

She stopped to talk with us for a moment in the yard where we stood. We knew it was time for them to leave, but he wasn’t with her yet.

I glanced around, noticing the little tyke, his back to the big double doors at the top of the wide ramp leading into our storage building. He seemed to be enjoying a moment of independence, having actually walked up the ramp backwards just minutes before.

But staring at us and, more specifically, at her, his countenance changed as he noticed her starting to walk toward him. Holding his right hand high up in the air, palm outward, his stubborn face told us all we needed to know.

Whatever her plans were for him, he intended to stay at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s for a while longer. His outstretched hand made that doubly clear.

It was inevitable; Over the vociferous objections of the youngster, Mom soon had the little fellow bundled into his car seat and headed for home and an overdue naptime.

Mamas know best.

They do.

I smile, thinking about the tableau in my head. I feel a kinship to the young tyke—and more than the familial one.

I have raised my hand so often over the years of my life.

Many times, like him, it was to my mother. And to siblings. Teachers. Employers. Wife. Even to my own children, as my strength wanes and their wisdom grows.

We want what we want.

Oh. I forgot one.

I raise my hand to my God. Again and again. And not in a good way. Not in worship. Not in the sense of recognition of His love and wisdom.

I raise my hand in rejection, in rebellion, in resistance.

I want what I want.

But I’m thinking tonight about a verse I learned many years ago that seems important to me.

“Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desires of thy heart.” (Psalm 34:4, KJV)

I won’t yield to the temptation to lay out a 3-point sermon on the verse. I feel certain that others can comprehend words they read as well or better than I.

I’ll just say this: I have been a follower of Christ for most of my life, and I’m not sure I am yet “delighting myself in the Lord” completely. Still, I want nothing more than that.

And, when I do delight myself, giving my full attention to who He is and what He has done for me, I find my desires beginning to fall in line with what He knows (and frequently shows me) is His best for me.

But I still hold my hand up at times. I still ask for just a few more minutes of doing what has caught my attention. A few more days of seeking my own good pleasure.

But, more and more as I travel this way, I find myself realizing the good that He has always desired for me.

Always.

And, I think that’s what the journey has always been intended to bring about in us.

As we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with each other, and His blood cleanses us from sin. I think the disciple named John wrote about that in his later years.

Why do we continue to act like little children, even into our old age?

I’ve been practicing on another song at Mr. Kimball’s old grand piano recently. Well, I’m working on more than one, but this one is special to me.

Called “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus,” it was written just over a hundred years ago. The hymn is still a favorite for many, although in recent years, it has largely been reduced to a chorus, the lovely verses having been abandoned by most in this modern day.

As I write this, I’m not quite ready to share a piano performance of the song, although it may not be much longer. Time will tell.

But the lyrics to the old hymn have been whirling around in my head. The little boy’s outstretched hand, indelibly imprinted on my memory, reminds me again tonight of the words.

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus;
Look full in His wonderful face
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace.”

I’m looking. And delighting.

The road is long. But there’s room for more along the way. You could look and delight with me.

And, if going home to take a nap is part of the schedule, that’s certainly okay with me.

“Oh soul, are you weary and troubled?
No light in the darkness you see?
There’s light for a look at the Savior,
And life more abundant and free.”
(from Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus, by Helen Howarth Lemmel)

Fixing the Broken Glass

February 26, 2026February 26, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was only a fly. A dead fly at that.

It’s not the kind of thing I’d ordinarily choose for a subject. Although I did write about the “trash bug” not all that long ago. That was small (but not dead).

Still…

I lay on that table again, the one they strap me to, and then stretch my lower spine for ten or fifteen minutes. Decompression, they call it. I wondered the first few times if I would walk out a few inches taller than when I limped in.

I didn’t. But I did feel better.

Now, where was I? Oh yes. The dead fly. It had been there all those times before. I’d just never concentrated on it. This time was different.

Lying on that padded table awaiting the strapping-in process, I thought it pertinent to mention the creature in the light fixture above me. The physical therapist glanced up and laughed. I suppose she didn’t think it pertinent.

It was only a small thing. No. A tiny thing.

And she’s right. It’s not important at all. But now it’s stuck in my brain. So, perhaps the reader will excuse me if I talk about it for a while—this tiny thing.

Come to think about it, I don’t really want to discuss the dead fly at length. My mind has already leapt past that and is considering another tiny thing.

Do you know that the part of my spine that is defective is only three vertebrae in the lumbar section? Just over three inches of my over six-foot total body height.

A tiny thing. Compared to all the rest of me, anyway.

And yet, this tiny thing has brought the physical activities of my entire body to a screeching halt on several occasions recently. Bending, squatting, lifting, and tying my shoes—all are undertakings nearly impossible during a flare-up.

I talked with a different therapist there this week, complaining that I am not improving as quickly as I did the last go-round. He listened to my grievances, writing down notes as I whined. When I finished, he raised his head and, looking into my eyes, asked the question:

“I suggested you should be taking an anti-inflammatory a few weeks ago. Have you been doing that?”

I haven’t. You see, I have read somewhere that these miracle drugs actually raise the incidence of dementia in older patients, if taken for too long. Somehow, things seem to be slipping away at a worrisome pace without speeding up the process any. And, I’ve certainly seen the catastrophic result for people who graduated to opioids when the body stopped responding to the weaker medications.

I like to look at the big picture. The end game. So I refused the recommendation to do that one little thing.

I could have been better already. It was such a small thing that I needed to do for a very short time.

Small things.

A few decades ago, the policing community started talking about the Broken Windows theory. It was the belief that small problems left unaddressed (like broken windows in an abandoned house) would breed more and, likely, larger problems.

Whether or not you agree with the criminologist’s theory, there is a truism at work here: small problems left unaddressed do breed larger and more serious issues to be dealt with later.

Lest you think I’m hung up on the negative, let me reassure you. Just as the hurtful small things breed bigger problems, the beneficial small things that we do and practice habitually are certain to turn into significant blessings, either for us or for the recipients of our attention.

Jesus taught us the theory of small things—Replaced Windows, if you will. The shepherd who left his 99 sheep safe in the sheep pen to search for the one who was lost in the wilderness. The woman who searched and searched because one of her ten coins had been misplaced.

Drinks of water for the thirsty. Clothes for the destitute. Food for the hungry. Visits to the prisoners.

He didn’t stop with suggesting we practice the small gifts to those who would appreciate it, but commanded that we bless those with whom we are angry—perhaps even hate in our own strength.

“Carry their burden twice as far as required. If they demand your coat, give them the shirt off your back.”

“As much as you did it to the least of these, you did it to Me.” (Matthew 25:40)

You who are musicians will understand when I say that all of music-making is small stuff. From the length of notes to the tone and the intonation (tuning), from the speed and the rhythm, along with the key signature, the touch of fingers on a piano’s keys or the weight of the bow drawn across a violin’s strings and the velocity of breath directed across the tonehole of the flute, the tiniest of details accumulate to become the massive production of a symphony.

Or the quiet worship in a dark room at midnight.

Small things. Minuscule.

In more ways than one, music is life.

And similarly, life is a massive work of art painted one stroke at a time.

His love can turn our childish art project into an astonishing masterpiece. And our banging on the keys into lovely harmony.

If we will only yield the small things to Him.

I have a broken window or two that need attention. And that other tiny part of my body, my tongue, has been at work too, making a wreckage of relationships.

It’s time to tend to the small things. Again.

My back, along with a few other things, will surely be better soon.

“Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” (Robert Brault)

“The master was full of praise. ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant. You have been faithful in handling this small amount, so now I will give you many more responsibilities. Let’s celebrate together!'” (Matthew 25:21, NLT)

Try Again. Every New Day.

February 15, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s midnight again. It often is as I begin to write. I’m not sure why that fact should be of any importance at all.

Midnight is, after all, just a position of the hands on a clock (at least it was on the clocks I grew up with). Oh, I’m sure there are scientific reasons for midnight being the beginning of another day—a rational “mile marker” for each new time period. I’m just not sure it deserves the gravitas we ascribe to the hour.

Having said that, I was already thinking about the ends of some days and the beginnings of others before I sat down to write in the moments just before another 24-hour period begins. There is, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, “a method to my madness”. She, perhaps, borrowed the words from the Bard of Avon. Perhaps.

I’m not sure if folks know this, but I don’t always think about the words I type into this device on my desk. That’s too often true of the words that proceed from my mouth, as well. But we’ll talk about that later.

I often snap photos of nature in progress, intending to share them with my friends and acquaintances online. Then, as I post them on social media, I feel the need for words to accompany the sometimes lovely scenes.

The words come from somewhere—I’m not always certain where. But sometimes they mean more than I intend to communicate. You might say more is revealed about the person sharing than the photo itself could ever uncover.

It was a gorgeous sunset a couple of evenings ago. The clouds cooperated with the lowering light-that-rules-the-day, and the resulting glory was moving, to say the least. And for a few moments, as I stood on the edge of a nearby field, I saw the colors of the rainbow in the cloud, a sundog, some call it. I was too slow to capture that with my camera, but it lives in my memory as part of the sunset.

“Glory at the dying of the day. I think I’ll try again tomorrow. You?”

Those were the words I wrote. I should have stopped with the initial sentence. It would have sufficed. More than sufficed.

What did that next part mean? I’ll try again tomorrow?

Really?

I left the words. They stayed in my head all through that night.

They were there when I opened my eyes in the morning.

Why? I think I know.

Are you ever disappointed with your actions at the end of a day? Your words? Your thoughts?

I am. Frequently.

I let myself be led into an argument the other day. I’ve said it wouldn’t happen anymore, but there I was—insisting that I was right and he was wrong. And not long before that, I made a joke that hurt a friend. I apologized, but I can’t take back the words. Or the hurt.

And my physical limitations these days make it so I am afraid even to attempt some normal activities. Things I want to do. Things I need to do.

So, I arrive at the end of some days, looking back and wishing I could get a do-over.

I didn’t mean to tell my friends and family that I was disappointed with myself. I would rather hide that. Let me work on it in private. They’ll get to see the finished product.

But somehow, my secret is out.

I want a do-over.

I think the words on the screen needed to be said. And, even though I often blabber away much more than I should, they were meant for me to write and share.

I’m not the only one who needs a do-over tomorrow, am I?

I’m not the only person I know who sometimes feels like a failure at the end of the day. I’m sure I’m not.

We need a do-over.

We can have one.

Our Creator and Savior is the God of redemption—of second chances. Of do-overs.

I’ve used the verses repeatedly when I write. I will again in the future. God said these words through His prophet.

I’m counting on them being His promise to me—and to us.

“Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.” (Lamentations 21-23, NLT)

I still dare. To hope.

Those mercies that begin anew every morning don’t have to wait until the sun cracks the horizon between earth and sky. He ordained the day and night. He knows when the new day starts.

I’m believing in those new mercies now—after midnight.

It is, after all, morning.

Time for a do-over.

“Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again.” (from Pick Yourself Up, by Dorothy Fields)

“And if the day passes and our efforts were stunted by the bane of our insecurities or blunted by the challenges of life, does not a sunset invite us to rest before it whispers the same message the next morning?” (Craig D. Lounsbrough)

Can You Carry Me?

February 8, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My writer friend posted one of those questions the other day. It asked something like, if you were invited to preach and the last text you wrote is the title of your sermon, what are you speaking about?

Just for fun, I copied the last text I had written and sent it.

“That’s fine. We should be able to get you there.”

She replied, saying those words “would preach,” but I was skeptical.

I’ve had a few wakeful nights since then and, having rolled the words around in my head a bit, have decided they just might. Preach, that is. Not that anyone wants me to do that.

I remember hearing an old timer say the words years ago: “My car isn’t running right now, so I asked my neighbor to carry me to town today.”

What an odd thing to say!

Carry me?

Why would you suggest that someone carry you? You’re just getting into their old pickup to ride a mile or two to the grocery store. I wonder.

But that’s just what it is, isn’t it? The weight of the friend rests entirely in the vehicle, being carried from the point of origin to the destination.

Carry me.

Some folks who read this will remember hearing the words. In a different lifetime, it was. A group called The Hollies sang the song.

“The road is longWith many a winding turnThat leads us to who knows where, who knows where.But I’m strong,Strong enough to carry him.He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”
(from He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother, by Bob Russell and Bobby Scott)

The title came from a slogan that Boys Town, the orphanage for boys in Omaha, Nebraska, has used for many years. The story goes that one of the older boys was lugging a younger, physically handicapped boy up a staircase when Father Flanagan suggested the load might be too much for him.

Somewhat exasperated, the young man is reputed to have retorted those exact words: “He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother.”

The words had been used before. And have been since.

But, in these troubled days we’re living through, I wonder if we’ve forgotten just what they mean. The boys knew their meaning. Implicitly.

And we should.

“And a certain man from Samaria, as he traveled, passed by and, seeing him lying there, felt compassion. He bound up his wounds, using wine and oil to clean them and, lifting him onto his mount physically, carried him to a nearby inn, caring for him there.” (Luke 10:33-34, my paraphrase)

He carried him.

Because he wasn’t heavy.

I am the son of a preacher, but not one myself. I can’t bring myself to tell others how to respond to these words. Not very preacherly, am I?

But, I have been carried myself.

I will doubtless need carrying again.

So what do we do when there is no one to carry us?

Our God will carry us when others fail us. And they have. And they will.

“I have cared for you since you were born. Yes, I carried you before you were born. I will be your God throughout your lifetime— until your hair is white with age. I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.” (Isaiah 46:3-4, NLT)

The words were written to the faithful in Israel, God’s Chosen People. But the principle applies to us as those who have been grafted into His family.

Not like those who worship idols that are only dead weight to be carried by their worshippers, our God, instead, carries us.

He carries me.

And when I stop to really consider that astonishing truth, I am convinced there is only one rational reaction.

How can I do less than carry my brother—my neighbor?

How can we do less?

“If He carried the weight of the world upon His shoulders,
I know, my brother, that He will carry you.”
(from He Will Carry You, by Scott Wesley Brown)

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
(Galatians 6:2, NIV)

Before the Storm

January 23, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I wore gloves to walk up to the university campus this afternoon. I’d be lying if I said they didn’t help. I’d also be lying if I said my hands felt good.

The wind from the north is piercing. And it promises worse to come. I would know that—even if the wannabe celebrity weather people weren’t shouting the news of the coming winter storm at the top of the Internet’s voice.

The volume of wind was shocking to the face and lungs as I walked toward my goal, struggling more for breath, perhaps, than most. It cut right through my thin gloves and coat with bone-chilling directness, leaving pain and immobility in its wake.

I didn’t think I’d play the piano this afternoon. My fingers were stiff, and a couple of the joints hurt long after I wrapped them around the bowl of warm soup prepared for my lunch.

But my mind has been working on a theme today—a theme of the Father’s love and provision. And, there’s a tune I know…

So I sat at the piano and worked my way—painfully at first—through the notes and chords. It’s a piece I’ve heard most of my life. I played this particular arrangement when I was twelve or thirteen years old, not knowing there were words that went with the tune.

You might know it as Londonderry Air. Or, as Danny Boy. Perhaps (if you were a member of a school band), you know it as Irish Tune from County Derry.

But me—I’m from a church-going background, the son of a (then) lay pastor. We learned church songs. Hymns. Maybe a new song or two from Bill Gaither, or a Southern Gospel Group.

I heard the first words that I knew went with this tune as a teenager. Dottie Rambo wrote them.

“Amazing grace shall always be my song of praise,
For it was grace that bought my liberty.
I do not know just how He came to love me so.
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.

I shall forever lift my eyes to Calvary
To view the cross where Jesus died for me.
How marvelous the grace that caught my falling soul!
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.” *

When my oldest brother and I played an instrumental version of Dottie’s song in a piano/organ duet in a morning worship service, I couldn’t understand why one man approached me after the service and wanted to know why we were playing a secular song like Danny Boy in church. In retrospect, I agree it is a bit difficult to make out what lyrics are intended to be communicated when just an old grand piano and a Hammond organ are playing the tune and harmony.

It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I learned the lyrics to Danny Boy, and even later, that I understood the words were from a father to his son, going off to war with little hope of his returning.

“Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling.
It’s you, it’s you must go, and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow.
Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy I love you so.”

If, while you listen to the little tune I’ve recorded, you want to consider either set of lyrics in your head, I have no objection. Truth be told, if you’re thinking about the lyrics, you won’t be listening closely to my stumbling, halting rendition. And that’s okay with me.

Either way, you’ll be thinking of the heart of a father who loves his child so very much and waits with open arms for his or her return.

It’s the heart of a Father who watches and protects us against that day when, all dangers passed and all journeys over, He’ll welcome us into His presence.

He watches and protects against even monster winter storms. And yes, against the occasional twinge of arthritic joints.

And we shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever.

“So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” (Luke 15:20, NIV)

Resistance is Futile

January 13, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t intend to post another piano video on Youtube today. I didn’t.

But my friend, Bob, posted a verse from Revelation 22, and I had to comment on it. Had to.

“And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.” (Revelation 22:1)

Water is life.

And mercy. And grace. Especially grace.

That would have been the end of it. Except, my friend, Lisa, from New Zealand (where they are enjoying summer while I run my heater), posted her beautiful poem, and I had to comment on it as well. Had to.
_____________________

BAPTISM

Live each breath as prayer,
carrying the mind,
a paper boat in the heart.

Do not be rushed,
but like the stream
flow steady and clear.

The stream,
with its pools for settling,
for reflecting Heaven’s gaze.

Live as though nothing worries,
is absorbed,
discharged in the current.

Walk in the flow
but sit in presence,
not hurrying,

But allowing the water of life,
with its ebbs and flow,
to minister in refreshment,

To collect
the full weight of things,
to sustain and lead.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
January 2026
____________________

That was it. I was done commenting. And reading. I sat down at the old grand piano, intent on playing. For the calm. For the emotional release. I picked up one of my mother-in-law’s books—the ones she published over 30 years ago, to give folks like me (and her) songs to play that wouldn’t hurt the fingers quite as much.

The first song I turned to was a lovely arrangement of an old, old hymn. About water. And peace. And grace.

I threw up my hands and played the song. Again and again. With tears flowing. And once, as I laughed out loud.

I can’t do the dear lady’s arrangement justice. She would have had a few things to say about my fingering. And the wrong notes. And the counting.

But, in my head, I heard her playing it with her crippled hands and then realized that she doesn’t need these simple arrangements anymore. Freed from their diseased prisons, her fingers flow over the keys (if they have pianos in heaven, and I hope they do) like the water these verses sing of.

Living water flows from the seat where God rules in love and grace, justice and mercy.

Perfect peace. Perfect rest.

Soak it in.

“Like a river, glorious
  Is God’s perfect peace,
Over all victorious
  In its bright increase;
Perfect, yet it floweth
  Fuller every day,
Perfect, yet it groweth
  Deeper all the way.

Stayed upon Jehovah,
Hearts are fully blest;
Finding, as He promised,
Perfect peace and rest.”

LIKE A RIVER GLORIOUS—1874
Music by James Mountain, Words by Frances Ridley Havergal
Piano arrangement: Viola Whitmore

Going On

January 2, 2026January 2, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s only the end of the first day of this new year, and already I’m a failure.

Only this week—albeit last year—I told a young relative that I had selected a word for the new year, which I hoped to make a key part of who I can be as the days go by.

The word is “listen”.

I told the Lovely Lady about my word for the year, and she laughed, wondering how that would work, knowing I am losing my hearing. My sister-in-law, listening nearby, reminded me of their late mother’s onetime quip to another, older family member, that he needed, not a hearing aid, but a listening aid. Apparently, I need both.

I still maintain my resolve to learn to listen. To friends. To family members. To folks I don’t know.

To God.

Instead of responding to what I think people are saying after hearing a few of their words, I want to allow them to share their thoughts in full, as I attempt to understand completely what they are telling me.

And yet, before the year was an hour old, I had ignored that resolve, blasting through a conversation with two young ladies I love with astonishing disregard for their contribution to our discussion.

I have apologized to both of them. I don’t feel a lot better about it.

Perhaps though, I should modify my first statement to say, not that I am a failure, but that already I have failed.

It seems it takes more than just failing to become a failure. It takes not trying again. Rooting around in the failure, deciding that one can do no better than the failed attempt.

Surprisingly enough, I have also decided to adopt an entire phrase, the origin of which I was unaware when I spoke it aloud to the Lovely Lady on that very night. (She was tempting me with sugary desserts, you see—and I resisted.)

Begin as you mean to go on.

If you had asked me, I would have told you that Nora Batty, a character in an old English comedy show, The Last of the Summer Wine, had uttered the words originally when talking about training a new husband. It turns out, the phrase wasn’t hers.

I used the tools I have at hand today and searched for the origin. I was surprised when Google informed me that a great preacher and evangelist from the 19th century was known to have used it first in a book he wrote in 1886.

Here’s the full quote from Charles Haddon Spurgeon in All of Grace: “Begin as you mean to go on, and go on as you began, and let the Lord be all in all to you.”

I think I like it better now than I did before.

Even after my initial failure in the new year.

There was no room for grace in the shortened version. Not even room for assistance from above.

Begin—I did that part.

Go on—I didn’t do that part.

Failure. Full stop.

Ah. But I have decided now to go on as I began. That is grace. Let’s see how that works out.

I’m nearly certain I will fail to go on as long as I need to. No matter. God is indeed all in all to me. If I let him be.

Still grace. Forever, grace.

I have quoted the words before—words from Philippians, chapter 1: “And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.” (Philippians 1:6, NLT)

You see, He goes on as He began. Always.

Without fail.

I am counting on Him to dust me off and send me on along the road of this new year. And the next one. And the next one.

The lady in the television show, Nora Batty, wasn’t all that great with her husband-training. I’d like to be better at my task.

I think I have better help than she did.

You could walk along with me on the road, too.

He’ll keep us all the way home—even if we’ve made a late start of it.

Let’s begin. And go on.

Failures and all.

“Indeed Christian, take heart in this revelation! The outcomes of your labors were never in your hands, but in God’s. You have but one task: to be faithful.”
(from A Liturgy for Those Fearing Failure, in Every Moment Holy Volume 1, by Douglas McKelvey, Rabbit Room publishers)

Suffer the Little Children

December 25, 2025December 25, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The Christmas Eve service at our church fellowship was packed tonight. The Lovely Lady and I sat near the front—by design, and not as punishment for a late arrival. She was the pianist for tonight’s carol singing, and needed a chair a short walk from the platform in which to rest for a few moments before returning to the bench facing the big grand piano again.

I arrived just before the beginning of the service, barely in time to hear the beautiful piano duet that served as a prelude to the hour-long service. There was a young couple beside me, with a 2-year-old tyke nearby, chewing on a Belvita cookie. He has learned to break the crunchy cookie crust into pieces, licking the chocolate icing in the center first, before munching the crust between his pearly white teeth.

Again and again, he grins mischievously at me as he takes another bite.

The service is filled with young families such as theirs—and with teenagers who sing out the carols boisterously (and, even a few who stand morosely, mouths closed stubbornly)—and with old gray-hairs who have never missed a Christmas Eve service and aren’t about to start now.

We sang carols. Old ones. Familiar tunes and words. It was beautiful.

The children came to the steps at the front of the auditorium to hear a story retold by a dear friend. There were thirty or forty of them. She told the story. I cried, with no handkerchief to dry my tears. The sleeve of my tee-shirt had to suffice for that.

I think it was about that same time I became aware of it—the noise, I mean. I thought back and realized it had been there the whole time. Through the piano duet, through the carols—even through the opening prayer.

There were “kid noises” sounding constantly throughout the entire service, from start to finish. Happy noises. Words being spoken to parents and grandparents. A bit of fussing might have been thrown in here and there. But it never stopped.

For the full hour, there were children making noise.

I told the pastor yesterday I would try to listen better to his message this Christmas. He seemed grateful for my willingness to try. I’m not sure he’d be as pleased now.

I really don’t know what he spoke about. I’m sure he mentioned a King who came as a baby. He talked about why that happened. I’m pretty sure that’s right.

But I didn’t hear most of it.

I looked down the row from me, and the little boy there had graduated from Belvita cookies to raisins. One at a time, he lifted them from the little box and popped them in his mouth. He wasn’t making the noise. Not this little angel. Well, maybe just a little of it.

I want to be able to blame my faulty hearing for missing the pastor’s words. It is often problematic to hear what I want to hear when there are competing sounds in the room.

But that wasn’t it.

The pastor isn’t likely to be sympathetic.

I wanted to hear the children. Wanted to.

I found myself listening for the individual sounds, the cooing of infants, the almost-words of babies on the verge of talking, even the sound effects of toddlers playing with toys.

As the hour dragged on a little and ran over a bit, I heard the sounds change from contented to impatient, and even downright crabby.

It was lovely. Every minute of it.

I think we do our Savior a disservice when we insist, “But Little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes,” in our version of Away in a Manger.

As if.

Babies cry. They gurgle, they laugh, they whine, they jabber. Sometimes, they even scream.

They’re babies, communicating with the tools they have. And He did, too.

“Children should be seen and not heard” is not a phrase spoken a single time in the Word. Not once.

I don’t always use the King James Version when sharing scripture in my writing, but I like the words Jesus uses when He’s unhappy with His disciples’ treatment of the children who wanted to see him.

“But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.'” (Mark 10:14, KJV)

Suffer. It means to tolerate. To control your natural response. To allow something you don’t enjoy.

I didn’t hear the words the pastor spoke tonight (not most of them, anyway). But I heard every word of the message I was supposed to hear.

In the non-verbal vocalization coming from almost every point of the compass in that auditorium, I heard the voice of God speak to me.

Emmanuel—God With Us—came for every single one of those little ones. The lovely, quiet ones, listening to the lady’s voice as she told the story on the steps. The sweet, compliant ones, eating their raisins in quiet enjoyment. The vocalizers, raising their joyous tones over the sound of the pastor’s voice. And yes, the crying ones who had had enough, their patience tried beyond its not-so-large capacity.

As a baby, He came. As a tween, He stood in the temple and taught. As a young adult, He wandered the length and breadth of the land, sharing the Good News that was to be.

Teaching, healing, weeping, and ultimately, dying, He showed us how to suffer the little ones, the children, who still seek life and love from Him.

Even when we can’t stand the tone of their voices. Or the language they speak. Or the way they dress.

He who came as a tiny, perhaps even annoying, child welcomes children of every tribe and nation.

We come as little children to His feet and worship again.

Suffer the little children.

To come.

To Jesus.

It’s what Christmas is all about.

“Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas, if you stop opening presents and listen.” (attributed to a 7-year-old named Bobby)

Jesus called a little child to him and put the child among them. Then he said, “I tell you the truth, unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven. So anyone who becomes as humble as this little child is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven. And anyone who welcomes a little child like this on my behalf is welcoming me.” (Matthew 18:2-5, NLT)

Music to His Ears

December 12, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It has been a month since I sat down to write. Oh, I’ve written short notes, and maybe a nugget or two of truth that have come to mind, but the act of writing has been well-nigh impossible (as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said) of late.

So tonight, I sit here in front of my monitor waiting. Just waiting. I have words inside me—I know I do. Why, just this week, I shouted words at the neighbor’s contractor in frustration. I apologized, too—a necessary evil when one shouts at a stranger.

I even talked with friends at our annual Christmas music party two nights ago. I didn’t shout at them. Still, I did use words.

But the words seem a precious commodity as I wait for them to flow now. Too precious to spend. Still, one can but try, I suppose.

Bogged down in the stuff of this earth, with inspiration in short supply, it’s easy to become disheartened. Of late, I’ve turned to the piano I mentioned in a recent post.

But part of the stuff of earth is physical limitation, and, my age creeping up on me, the fingers don’t always want to pull their weight in the piano playing process. I have a touch of osteoarthritis in my fingers, and nowadays it hurts a bit to play for longer than five or ten minutes at a time.

I’ve been somewhat vocal in my complaints to the Lovely Lady. Perhaps more than somewhat.

The other day, she handed me two books of hymn arrangements that I’ve seen before. They are arrangements her late mother published over 35 years ago, several years before her death.

A much-loved piano teacher in our little town, Viola was stricken with crippling rheumatoid arthritis when she was forty years old. Her fingers were drawn over painfully, at acute angles to the rest of her hands. Piano playing was torture for the dear lady.

Still, she continued playing until a week or two before she died at eighty-four years of age. For nearly forty-five years she suffered, mostly in silence, asking for help when she needed it, but almost never complaining about her lot.

I know better than to think there was a latent message in my Lovely Lady’s gift of those books to me, but I got the message, nonetheless. My malady is minuscule in comparison to my late mother-in-law’s burden.

I got the message; I also am enjoying the gift. In her disability, my mother-in-law determined to continue playing music worth listening to, but knew she would need music that fit her crippled hands better than that available in the marketplace.

She wrote her own arrangements that wouldn’t require her fingers to stretch out to the octaves most music is written with. Filling in with movement, instead of rich chords, the arpeggios supply the notes necessary to fill the air with beauty and strength.

I don’t suppose I need to hammer the point home. Many have already done so.

“I was sad that I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet…”

I like the Lovely Lady’s method of making the point better (even if she didn’t intend to make a point, which she avers she did not).

Help is better than a sermon most of the time. Perhaps, all of the time. My pastor may have a differing opinion.

The situation reminds me that our lives have been full of people who have taught us—by who they are and how they act—how to be the hands and feet of God here in this place. None of us has grown to any point in our lives without a few (or more likely, many) people like that.

Parents, teachers, companions, pastors, friends, even strangers on the street, show us how to walk—how to live. And, we have the opportunity to share that with the generations after us.

I’ve said many times, I hope to be such a person and not the type of man who is more easily used as a cautionary tale instead. You know—like for yelling at strangers.

The letter-writing apostle suggested that people could use him as an example of how to live. He told his protege, Timothy, that his grandmother and mother had been such people, as well; people who lived and demonstrated clearly what they believed, passing it on to their children.

I want to be known for that—not for complaining about the little inconveniences and minor hurts.

I’m going to keep working at the piano. It may never hurt less. I don’t know. But, I’m certain the sound filling the air will be more beautiful than the words of complaint could ever be.

I think Viola Whitmore might even have been pleased to hear it.

After she corrected my counting and fingering, of course.

“If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” (Sir Isaac Newton, in 1675)

“In the same way, let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father.” (Matthew 5:16, NLT)

I don’t often ask for responses from readers, but it strikes me that there are many of you who have someone who has inspired you along the way. Perhaps, they still do. Feel free to drop a note telling us about them.

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Random wanderings with Paul Phillips