Chestnuts Roasting? No Thanks!

November 28, 2023November 28, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I stand at the kitchen window, glad of the warmth inside this old house. Out there, the clear, frigid night edges inexorably into the wee hours, lit by the cold, white light of the moon, only a day past the full.

I always love these bright wintry nights observed from my warm post. I can sense the chill but stay comfortable without the aid of a coat and gloves.

Out under the old mulberry tree, itself not likely to last the winter, the dark outstretched shadows cast by the bare limbs remind me (appropriately) of old bones, gangling and spindly, across the leaf-covered ground.

And just for a moment, practical matters take my thoughts, reminding me that my grandchildren promised to help me rake those leaves later this week. We’ll enjoy the time spent doing that. We always do—teasing and laughing as we work together.

There is something bothering me—I’m not quite sure what. Yes, I know I don’t laugh quite as much as I used to. I get tired more quickly; my back aches from the repetitive motion of raking. The kids step up and carry the load I once did. It will all work out.

But, that’s not it at all. What was it?

Oh, yes! Now, my old brain catches up. In the bright moonlight, I see the two nut trees. The walnut tree, for one. The ground underneath its slim, straight shadow was covered with fallen nuts, long before the leaves fell. We’ll have to rake those up too—a nuisance, at worst.

My eyes (and thoughts) are drawn to the chestnut tree next. The large, brown leaves from its branches are spread far and wide, blown by the cold wind that brought in the last blast of arctic air. It had dropped a few nuts before that, as well.

There will be pain. I’ll have to remember to have the kids wear gloves and be extra careful as they pick up the leaves under that tree. Suddenly, the job loses its appeal, the joyful anticipation turning almost to dread.

Chestnuts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be (if you’ll pardon the pun). In my head, as I write this, I hear the smooth, sweet tones of the man they called the Velvet Fog, Mel Tormé. The lyrics tell of the unusual nuts roasting near the fireplace, and of Jack Frost doing what he is tonight—making my nose cold once again.

Funny. I never think of that beautiful song while I’m bobbling the needle-sharp nuts in the fall, or when I’m sucking the blood from my fingers while muttering nearly bad words under my breath.

Chestnuts are more than a nuisance, waiting under the leaves in ambush for me and my helpers. They seem almost like a threat, a danger to avoid at all costs.

My poor brain, seemingly in ADHD mode tonight, begins to play other words (from a different Christmas carol) almost as quickly as the mellow sounds of Mel begin to fade.

“No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground.”
(from Joy to the World, by Isaac Watts)

Mr. Watts was a little premature in his banishment of thorns from the world. But, he did have the right idea about sins. And he was absolutely right about the eventual healing from the curse under which we labor.

We have entered the season of Advent, leading to Christmas. The media and the world around us are already alive with the tumult of their sales pitches for what is becoming known as “merch”. Voraciously, they pursue our purses and bank accounts.

It will likely be an unpopular opinion, but the “merch” they peddle is what I would describe as the thorns that infest the ground of Advent.

All around us lie the leaves of the season, awaiting our attention, our joyful gathering up, accompanied by people we love. The happy anticipation of celebrating the Child, born to bring light into the world—born to bring us back to His Father.

But the thorns! There will be pain—and stress. Angry words will be spoken to salespeople. Horns will be blown and gestures made at other drivers on the busy roads.

It has ever been so. The serpent present in the Garden yet seeks to subvert our Creator’s plan, hiding lies within half-truths and good intentions. And willingly we participate in his schemes.

Perhaps this Advent season will be the one when we finally push aside the thorns, leaving them to rot in the trash pile while we revel in the reality of God’s gifts.

The joy of the season is in the Gift from Heaven. Everything else is covered in thorns, awaiting redemption from above.

The Light of the World still bathes His creation in brightness like the full moon bursting from the black sky. The bonelike shadows and reminders of lurking thorns only increase our desire for His presence.

I’m waiting. With hope and joy, I’m waiting.

While I’m waiting, I’ll keep the gloves handy.

“The people who sat in darkness
have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
a light has shined.”
(Matthew 4:16, NLT)

“He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.”
(Henry David Thoreau)

One more tune for you—well, two really—to separate the thorns from the joy of the season. Take a few minutes to soak in the words.
https://youtu.be/IetPAANnhzQ?si=RFv_39qNgXUhtnbu

As a Mother Comforts

November 26, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Image by Jeannean Ryman. Used by permission.

“Weatherman says possibility of freezing precipitation tonight.”

The news actually came from a weather app on her smartphone, but I think the writer of the note (my sister) is secretly hopeful the invisible weather forecaster is right.

I’m not. But then, I’ve argued with the lady about various matters for over sixty years. We won’t break off our relationship over this tiny disagreement.

Still—her words had consequences. As I read them, I immediately thought of the cloth covering above my lovely little deck outside the back door. A sail, they call it—but it doesn’t move the deck an inch away from its foundations.

The sail is good for one purpose and one only. It keeps the sun off the heads and out of the faces of the denizens of said deck. For a period of time, it does. As I said, it doesn’t move the deck, while the sun itself runs its circuit daily, moving over and past the point where its rays are blocked.

One purpose. The sail doesn’t keep the rain off the deck; won’t stop the leaves from piling up on the furniture.

And, it certainly won’t hold the weight of any so-called freezing precipitation.

The consequence of my sister’s reminder? I had to loosen the ropes tying up the three corners of the sail and, folding it up (about as well as any of you would fold up a fitted sheet), stowed it in the backyard shed to await a promised spring.

My thoughts were a little sad as I untied the ropes from the eyebolts under the eave of the old house. I was remembering lovely afternoons and evenings spent with those I love. Family. Friends.

Seasons change.

The things that protected us in the bright, blasting heat of the long summer days are no longer protection for us.

We celebrated a family Thanksgiving at our home last week. The house was full and noisy with four generations represented at our table. There was music and a dinner blessing. There was discussion about whether pimiento was a good ingredient to have with celery sticks. There might even have been the haze of smoke from a new turkey recipe gone slightly amiss.

There was joy. And thanks.

And memories.

Their placement wasn’t purposefully planned. The ladies, I mean. We just suggested seats for folks where we thought they would be most comfortable.

But, I looked again today at the photographs of our gathering and the sadness hit anew. One entire side of the main table (the teenagers being allowed a little space to sit at a table of their own) was taken up by four ladies in our family.

Four widows.

I see their faces—the lovely men who once sat beside them at our table—and the memories bring tears. Well—not so much the memories as their absence from us now.

In many ways, they were shade from the hot, blasting sun of life. Brothers are like that. Fathers and grandfathers are too.

Seasons change.

The widows soldier on. I see great strength there. I see the heartache too. They all still grieve in their own ways.

And yet. . .

And yet, there is—still—bright hope for tomorrow.

His promises never dim; they never go amiss. The day is coming when we will be forever in His presence. Together.

But, what do we do with the changing seasons?

Here? Now?

Like the changing weather, our protection today may be gone with tomorrow’s storm.

Seasons change. But our Heavenly Father? He never changes. And, as he always has, like a mother, He will comfort us. (Isaiah 66:13)

I don’t know about your mother, but when my mom used to comfort me, she didn’t do it from across the room. She gathered me into her arms, pulling me onto her ample lap. I was held close. And tight.

You know what ample means, don’t you? It means big enough. And sometimes, more than big enough.

You know who else is big enough? The One who doesn’t change with the seasons. In every part of our lives, He gathers us in, close to His loving heart.

And, He is shade from the burning sun. Protection from the storms. A sure, strong wall of defense from everything that threatens.

He gathers us in, under his ample wings.

And, He holds us there.

Seasons change. They do.

There is nothing here to fear.

Even without a sail.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
(Edith Sitwell, British poet, 1887-1964)

“He will shelter you with his wings;
you will find safety under his wings.
His faithfulness is like a shield or a protective wall.”
(Psalms 91:4, NET)

Is Anyone Coming to Help?

November 20, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Last week was a good week. For me, it was, anyway.

Without boring the reader to death, let’s just say things went my way. Tasks were completed without undue stress. A lovely midweek visit with family, ending with a beautiful fire on the deck (and brats, followed by s’mores!), was one of the high points.

We even made a significant financial decision, the result of which is a shiny, new-to-us vehicle sitting in the drive in front of our house. I think I’m more excited to get rid of the old car than to have a new one to drive.

We’re making plans for Thanksgiving this week. It’s always a lovely time, shared with family and friends. The food is nice, but the company is even nicer.

A good week.

So why can’t I get those folks out of my thoughts? They had been stuck in the parking lot overnight. And, I just left them there.

What did you say?

What folks?

Oh. You can’t read my mind, can you? You weren’t there.

I’ll try to do better.

On the last day of that good week, the Lovely Lady and I drove through the parking lot of our local grocery store. It was time to stock up on food for the holiday. It looked like everyone else had the same idea. But, something was amiss there.

I saw the old car, thirty years old if it was a day, sitting low and close to the pavement. Flat tire. Too bad for them.

But, as we passed on our way to an empty space, I noticed people sitting in the vehicle. A lady, about middle age, sat behind the wheel. There was a girl, and a young man in the car, too.

I sent the Lovely Lady on into the store, telling her I’d catch up to her. Stating the obvious, I spoke as I approached the open window on the driver’s side.

“Flat tire?”

The reply came. “Two, actually.”

Sure enough, both back tires were flat. The lady had a cell phone in her hand, so I asked if someone was coming to help. She shook her head, with a discouraged look in her eyes.

“No. There’s no one to help. We’ve been here since last night.”

No, there was no spare, either. I stood for a moment, perplexed. Then, I bought myself some time.

“I’m going to talk with my wife. I’ll be back.”

The Lovely Lady had no answers. I didn’t expect her to. I just needed time to think. Not that it would do any good on that day.

I decided to call the local tire shop, just down the road.

It was Saturday afternoon. 12:58. The shop closed at 1:00. The boss had sent his techs home and couldn’t offer any help.

“But, it’s really nice of you to try to help,” the boss said before hanging up.

I called another shop. They couldn’t do anything for her, either.

“But, it’s really nice of you to try to help,” the voice on the phone muttered before hanging up.

I don’t want to try to help. Can you understand that?

The grocery shopping was nearly finished by this time, so I got the Lovely Lady checked out and headed back to the car. Sending her on to load the bags in the car, I headed over to the old junker.

I apologized that I hadn’t been successful in finding help. Reaching into my wallet, I pulled out all the bills I had there and shoved them into her hand. It was not in any sense a significant amount of money, but it was all I had.

“I hope you can find someone who can help you get home.”

The discouraged look didn’t leave her eyes.

“This is our home. We live in the car.”

Tears come again as I write. I’m not even sure why I’m writing about it.

At home, the tears came on that afternoon too, as I took the packages of food to stow away in the cupboard. The Lovely Lady was rearranging potatoes and onions on the utility room shelves and probably didn’t see them, but I wiped them away quickly anyway.

The car is their home! A home with two flat tires.

I look around the home in which we live. It’s not luxurious—not new—not all that spacious.

But, it’s not sitting in the grocery store parking lot with two flat tires.

I want to feel good. I wish I could say (with the tire shop folks), “At least I tried.”

The Lovely Lady lovingly reminds me frequently that I can’t fix everything for everyone. But, she knows me and realizes how it hurts to only try and not succeed.

But, trying is how we make our way—sometimes painfully and with difficulty—to succeeding. We should keep trying.

And, as folks gather in the living and dining room of this blessed home later this week, I want to remember that old Crown Vic on flat tires and its occupants, as well as all the reasons I have to be thankful personally.

It’s the day when we gather to give thanks.

I trust in the midst of our celebration, there’s just one more thing we’ll remember to do.

Give, thanks.

“And do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for God is pleased with such sacrifices.”
(Hebrews 13:16, NET)

“You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.”
(John Bunyan)

Puzzled

November 13, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It had been a full day. Most of them are, but when the grandchildren visit, there’s always more conversation (and louder), more activity, and more eating.

I like the eating part. And all the others.

Dinner was over. One child was stretched out in my easy chair, so I sat on the loveseat next to his mother—my daughter.

She was working the ubiquitous jigsaw puzzle. Nearly always, one is lying in a thousand pieces (more or less) on the coffee table.

She worked on the puzzle; I watched the football game with the kid in the chair, and we talked. We talk all the time. About the weather. About their pets. About the house on the mountainside. About the grandkids.

This evening the conversation turned to more serious matters. Not life-and-death ones. Just deeper than the weather—or puppies.

Funny. We talked about talking to people—listening to people.

Did you know if you listen to people, they’ll talk to you?

I mean, talk—communicate. All it takes is a heart to hear what folks are saying and to show empathy.

I’m still not great at that.

But, then I don’t do puzzles either, do I? Somehow, I think they’re related—puzzles and people skills. And puzzles aren’t my thing.

Still, once in a while, as I sit there on the loveseat, a piece seems to leap out at me from the jumble on the table. And, picking it up, I can place it effortlessly into a spot just waiting for that particular piece.

Only once in a while.

But, people. . .

I’ve told the story before, but it bears repeating here. I repeat it in my mind often. Partly because the memory is of my father, but mostly because I need to remember.

I had owned the music store for only a year or two when the phone on the wall rang one afternoon. My dad was calling from his home in the Central Valley in California. He just wanted to talk. So we talked.

And then, as we were about to say goodbye and hang up, he asked if he could pray with me. Well, he was a preacher. That was what preachers did.

This prayer would change my life.

“. . .and Lord I ask that you’ll bless Paul in his ministry there in the music store. . .”

Did I say the prayer would change my life? What I meant is one phrase of the prayer would change my life.

I remember nothing else he prayed about before we said our goodbyes.

I was in shock.

Ministry? What was he thinking? This wasn’t my ministry! It was my vocation, my business; how I earned a living.

The light of the epiphany was blinding.

“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men.“
(Colossians 3:23, NKJV)

It wasn’t long after that phone call that the stool appeared. Right in front of the counter where customers checked out.

It wasn’t just a stool.

It was an invitation.

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many people accepted that invitation over the thirty-some years we operated the music store. Some just wanted to talk about their musical instrument. But, many just wanted to talk about life. About relationships. About death and loss.

Yes. All of life is ministry. Work—leisure. Daytime—nighttime. At home—miles down the highway. All of it. Everywhere. All of it ministry for God.

Unless we choose not to follow the words of our Teacher and Savior.

Love God with everything you’ve got. Love people with everything you’ve got.

Even when both seem like puzzle pieces that won’t go into place.

We don’t do them one at a time, either. Even if you’ve been led to believe that by folks who claim to love God but refuse to love people.

If our love for God doesn’t lead naturally to love for the folks around us and across the world, we’re missing the boat altogether.

The puzzle is beginning, just beginning, to make sense; the pieces to go into place. I still have a few pieces (well, more than a few) that I can’t yet make sense of.

I’ll keep trying.

I think I’ll sit down on that loveseat for a few more minutes this morning, too. I may be able to fit a piece or two into the big picture.

I wonder if the Lovely Lady will notice.

But then, I’m not doing it for her, am I?

“Loving God, loving each other,
And the story never ends.”
(from Loving God, Loving Each Other, by Alejandro Martinez, David Thomas, Ivan Martin)

“Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love.” (1 John 4:7-8, ESV)

To Walk and Not to Fall (It Isn’t as Easy as It Looks)

November 8, 2023November 8, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I told the Lovely Lady that I probably would never write again.

“I think the well’s run dry. I’ve been struggling to find something to write about and there is no more. Nothing.”

She laughed and went back to her reading. She knows me.

I’ve been here before.

Still. . .

As I sat, head in hands, a thought hit me. I should search on my phone. Occasionally I write notes there to be ready for times such as these.

I would check there.

Nothing. Well, nothing I had saved recently.

I went back further; way back to the year of Covid. You remember. No school. Working from home. No toilet paper.

I saved two thoughts on the same day in March of 2020, the month the lockdown started in the USA.

They make no sense—there on the screen without any context. Like raw dough lying on a table before it is shaped into what it is to become, it’s difficult to visualize a purpose.

“Walking isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“Stingy with the rotten notes, but generous to a fault with the beautiful, sonorous ones.”

I have no memory of writing either sentence. In an attempt to remember the reason for the words, I cast my mind back a few years.

I remember those long walks. There wasn’t much else to do, so I walked. Often by myself—sometimes with her. Every day. Miles, one foot in front of the other.

Easy. Walking was easy.

Well, maybe the other one, then. Rotten notes. Beautiful and sonorous ones. Stingy and generous.

Oh yes! I remember hours of playing my horn. The French horn, that ill wind that nobody blows good.

There were lots of rotten notes. Not so many beautiful, sonorous ones.

Somehow, as I looked at the words on the little screen before me, the two statements began to coalesce, two separate thoughts becoming one theme.

Maybe walking isn’t all that easy. I don’t remember learning to do it. I have watched many babies who are in the process, though.

No; it’s not as easy as it looks. Not nearly. Babies fall, over and over. They get up to try again. Sometimes after falling, they stay where they are, crying. Parents and grandparents lift them up, comforting them as well as coaxing them to try again.

It’s hard work, this walking thing! And somehow, although there are a few years in between when we don’t worry about our walking ability, many aging humans will experience times when the difficulty of staying upright hits hard again (pun not intended).

A friend wrote today of a fall induced by a necessary medication. She is in pain now.

Walking isn’t as easy as it looks.

But then, not much we do is. Practice and experience lend themselves to a certain level of skill.

I spoke about the music notes, remembering my own difficulty. During that same time period, a famous cellist named Yo-Yo Ma began, in his own isolation, to offer video recordings of himself playing solos on his beautiful instrument. Just him. And his cello.

Now, there’s a man who is stingy with rotten notes—who is generous with the beautiful, sonorous ones. What lovely recordings he produced for the world during those difficult days!

Effortlessly, he would draw the bow across the strings, evoking a tonality with no hint of discord. Without difficulty, his fingers found the exact placement for each note to sound precisely on pitch. Every single note.

He made it seem so easy.

Inspired by his example, I played my horn at home, albeit generous with the sour notes and giving freely of bobbled attacks. In fairness, there were some beautiful, sonorous notes to be heard. Just not as often as I could have wished.

It is not only walking that’s not as easy as it appears. Skilled production of anything worthwhile takes practice—diligent application of ourselves to the thing we want to accomplish.

We know that. With every new thing, we know that.

Coloring inside the lines was once impossible for most of us. Holding a pencil to write our letters—nearly unthinkable.

The list is unending. Riding a bicycle. Learning to whistle. Combing our own hair. Baking a cake. Those don’t even begin to scratch the surface.

And yet, knowing nothing comes easily, we still look enviously at others in their areas of expertise and wonder why we can’t do what they make appear so elementary.

We become discouraged when we fall short, seldom remembering that practice and repetition are what made them better at it.

And we forget that we are not performers, showing off for an adoring public, but servants of a Loving Creator who knows us and our frailties.

He knows us.
He knew us before we were born.
He knows how many hairs are on our heads.
He has counted the tears we’ve shed while on our journey.

We walk for Him.
We play our music for Him.
We complete our tasks at work for Him.
We love our neighbor for Him.

None of it is as easy as it looks.

But the music is sweet. It is stingy on the clinkers. It is generous beyond belief in its beauty and fullness.

And, as we journey here, there are others who walk alongside us and help us to stay upright.

Not easy, but rewarding beyond any compensation this world could ever offer.

There may be more to write about, after all.

But, don’t tell that to the Lovely Lady.

Whatever you do, do your work heartily, as for the Lord and not for people. (Colossians 3:23, NASB)

Make music to the Lord with the harp,
with the harp and the sound of singing,
with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn—
shout for joy before the Lord, the King.
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it.
(Psalm 98: 5-7, NIV)

Do I Still Need a Note From My Mom?

November 6, 2023November 7, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I think the only thing stopping you is that little word ‘can’t’.”

The friendly young man stood on the mat just beyond the half-wall over which I was lopped. Behind him were all sorts of climbing and hanging apparatuses, just waiting for a willing victim who might be convinced (or embarrassed) by his coercion.

We had arrived just moments before at the old factory building. The sign out front now said it was a ninja gym. When I was a kid, we had a jungle gym. Outside. In the hot sun. It was never cold where I grew up.

We didn’t have a ninja gym.

The invitation to the birthday party for the ten-year old said parents would need to sign a waiver. I didn’t have a waiver.

The lack of a waiver wasn’t what was stopping me, either. But, the smiling young man was waiting.

Taking a moment to collect my thoughts, I gazed over the vista before me, a gymnasium filled with children from six to eleven years old—all clambering blithely (and limberly) through, and under, and over the assault course laid out in front of us.

I declined his invitation, mentioning my age and my ailing back in the same breath. He frowned at me, clearly disappointed, but I stayed where I was and he moved on to find his next victim.

I have some questions.

To start with—Where can I go to find the book of cliches folks use to embarrass other folks who don’t share their passion for whatever activity it is they think we need to be doing?

I read back over that question and think perhaps I’m being too hard on the young man.

He loves what he is doing. He ministers to folks every day, inspiring them to stay fit, to leave the sidelines and get into the game. His upbeat style may help many who are merely reticent, and not injured.

And yes, I said he ministers. Helping people to move past their self-consciousness—their inner arguments—and out onto the floor where they can build self-confidence and a strong body. . .How is that not a ministry?

That said, some are just not physically (and sometimes mentally) able to do that. Damage could be done.

Our Creator never expected His world to be a one-size-fits-all playground, a place where we all excel at the same thing.

He gives gifts. And, allows impediments. It’s how we learn, and grow, and mature.

I suggested to a friend recently that my back problems might be my thorn in the flesh, my vehicle to grasping the sufficient grace of a loving Heavenly Father. I’m not sure she agreed. I’m not sure I want it to be true.

Still, there it is.

God uses hardships to teach us who He is. He uses our times of ease and comfort to teach us who He is, as well.

My mind drifts back to the young man’s statement.

It is a little word, isn’t it? Can’t.

If we use it simply to avoid opportunities to grow, it’s likely to be a lie. And, an excuse.

But, there are times when can’t merely describes the realities of our life. Then, it is truth. Truth that helps us to meet challenges. Truth that can give us the impetus to find other paths and fulfill other missions.

Did I say I had more than one question? I did. I do.

I wonder—when do we stop looking at the ninja obstacle course with a wistful eye, wishing we could still climb the walls and hang from the rings?

Will I ever get to a point where my brain doesn’t think, “I can do that!”?

I could once. The jungle gym—remember? Monkey bars. Chin-up bars. Parallel bars.

As I write the words, I see in my memory, the devices standing on the playground at David Crockett Elementary School. I remember recess. And, PE.

Then I remember that one afternoon. Hanging upside down by my knees from the chin-up bar. Six feet, it seemed, from the ground. The ground that would soon crush the air from my lungs as I tumbled from the bars to land, with lovely form, flat on my back on the brick-hard soil.

Nearly sixty years later, the feeling still comes back to me in a rush.

I can’t breathe! I’ll never be able to breathe again!

It seemed an eternity that I lay there thinking, I’m dying!

I wasn’t. I didn’t.

But, if it happened today, I might.

Die, that is. At the very least, I wouldn’t be walking normally for quite a long time.

I can’t. I could, but I can’t.

And saying different words won’t change what I know to be true.

I talked with my friend today—one who has spent her adult life struggling with an auto-immune disease. I mentioned the subject of this little essay and she sighed.

For all of the years of her illness, well-meaning friends have told her she could change her circumstances simply by thinking positively. They didn’t mean to be cruel. They thought she could actually do that.

She can’t.

She does remarkably well with the things she is physically able to accomplish, but she can’t just get out of the wheelchair and run a marathon if she trains for it.

My back is better this week. Really. It’s better.

I’m thinking about going back out to the gym and trying the slackline. I say the words out loud and the placid look on the Lovely Lady’s face disappears. Her lips form the words. . .

Yeah. I can’t.

But, there are lots of things I can do. I can walk up to the coffee shop to visit. And write these little essays. I can carry my neighbor’s mail up to her door when she’s not able to.

I can stand out on my deck and paint the window sills later this week. She says I can do that.

And, I can stand and cheer on the youngsters who can still do the things I once could.

Come to think about it, there are a lot more things I can do than things I can’t. And, both provide ways in which I can daily grow to be more like Christ.

Our old friend, the Apostle—you know, the one with the real thorn in his flesh—made clear that in both situations we show who He is in our lives.

“I know how to live on almost nothing or with everything. I have learned the secret of living in every situation, whether it is with a full stomach or empty, with plenty or little. For I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength.” (Philippians 4:12-13, NLT)

Many folks think Paul is saying God will heal every injury and illness we ever have. He’s not. (Need I remind you again of the thorn?)

He is saying that our Savior gives us the wherewithal to face every single event, every single situation. And that’s enough for me.

Even when I can’t. You know. Can’t jump up and hang from the flying bar as it picks up speed down toward the next obstacle.

But, I do know one ten-year-old girl who can.

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. (2 Corinthians 12:9, NIV)

Art consists of limitation. The most beautiful part of every picture is the frame.
(G.K.Chesterton)

I Don’t Always Enjoy the Journey

November 1, 2023November 1, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I want what I want.

I’ve mentioned that before, haven’t I?

It’s fall in the Ozarks and the Lovely Lady and I are enamored with the vibrant, dynamic colors of the trees this time of year, even if I love nothing else about this season of decay. Oh. That’s another subject I’ve touched on before here, isn’t it? I’ll just leave it and move along.

One day last week we set out on the highways and backroads to find a bridge (yes, another one) and to get our fill of fall foliage. We successfully did both, but not before learning another life lesson. Well, we experienced it together; whether I learned anything remains to be seen.

The bridge was in the Ozark National Forest at a point some two hours drive to the southeast of where we live.

It took longer.

Yes, I got lost. In this day of GPS navigation and Google Maps, I got lost. Certain I knew the route to the best highway that would lead us southward through the Ozarks, I missed my way in the maze of roadways through a nearby city.

Several tries with the map program on my phone got us no closer to the road I wanted to take. Yet, I was certain it was a better route than the one that voice-in-a-box was laying out. Finally though, I just input the coordinates of the bridge into my phone and followed its directions. Not happily.

I argued and blustered all the while.

“West? I don’t want to go west! Take us South, you stupid thing!”

There was more, but you get the gist. The Lovely Lady did her best to be supportive. I’m not easy to calm down when I get agitated. Words only make me more frustrated. So, she let me rave.

After many turns in opposite directions from which I supposed we would be going, I recognized the highway we were on. It was miles from where I had intended. And, not the one I wanted to be on.

But, it took us exactly where we needed to go. Exactly.

By a different route than I had selected.

Why does my mind go to the man who was the Rock—Simon Peter—of whom the Teacher foretold he would go where he did not want to go, led by people he did not want to follow? (John 21:18)

I know. The reason Jesus said the words was to inform Peter how he would die, many years after his beloved Friend walked the road to that grisly cross. Still, the words grip me, as an aging person who may have to do the same thing someday. Not the crucifixion thing. The being led where I don’t want to go thing.

I want what I want.

I want to get there following the path I choose.

May I say this? Not only was the destination astonishing in its beauty and quiet charm, but the journey there and back was all that and more. We visited the bridge, sliding our way down to the creekside to exclaim and skip rocks over the glossy surface of the water. We stopped again and again, pulling into overlooks to gaze over valleys and lake vistas that beggar description.

The colors! The majesty! The heart of our Creator!

And yet, as I sit here pecking at the keyboard of my computer, all I hear in my ears is some aging man’s voice. Whining. Belligerent. Frustrated.

Oh. That’s my voice.

I don’t do adaptable. Or flexible. Or teachable. At least, not in the moment.

I want to be all of those. When I’m ready for them. But, that’s not the way we learn to be responsible and grow to maturity.

And, some of us make it harder than it really is.

Some never learn.

My friend asked last week if I would do a certain task again. It’s a task I used to love doing. When I felt capable of doing it.

The folks in our church family look forward to having a hymn sing once every quarter. Four times a year, we gather to sing the old songs our mothers and fathers sang. Our grandmothers and grandfathers sang them, too.

I began leading the singing at our fellowship some forty years ago. I have served in that way to varying degrees over the years.

But, I can’t sing for an hour anymore. And, if you know hymns, you know the soprano/melody part is too high for most old men to sing. I am becoming an old man. My time limit for singing without stopping is about ten minutes now.

I do love sitting in the padded chairs on Sunday mornings and singing along with the worship team up on the stage. I love the new songs we sing. I love the hymns we still include in our worship time.

What I really love is that I am in my comfort zone. No pressure. If I sing, it’s okay. If I stand and let the tears flow, that’s okay. I’m comfortable.

Leading the songs isn’t so comfortable anymore.

Did I say I want what I want?

I told my friend I’d have to think about leading again when she asked me last week. The Lovely Lady can attest to my caviling. Multiple times, I groused and grumbled.

When my friend suggested that it might just be time to let the hymn time go by the wayside, I finally bucked up and agreed to lead the music.

Sure enough, my voice began to fail just a few minutes into the singing. I asked the Lovely Lady at the piano to give me more support. Then, I asked the folks in front of me to sing a little louder if I stopped singing momentarily.

She did. They did.

We had a wonderful, delight-filled hour of making a joyful noise to the Lord. Afterward, as we visited and had some refreshments, I was surprised at how many folks expressed their appreciation that they are still able to participate in this meaningful and worthwhile event.

I heard them, but in the back of my mind, I was hearing that aging man griping and complaining. Again.

I’m not the only one, am I? I mean the only one who has walked this far along the road, only to remember a lesson I should have learned—should have remembered—should have applied—a lifetime ago.

Here is the lesson. I know; it took long enough to get here, but we’ve finally arrived at our destination. It does almost seem like the trip described earlier, doesn’t it?

I need—need—to want what He wants.

Our old friend, the Apostle—you know, the one who wrote letters—said it pretty clearly to his friends in Philippi all those centuries ago:

For it is God who works in you, both to will (to want to) and to do (to perform) of His good pleasure. (Philippians 2:13, KJV)

I need to follow His GPS and experience in the journey. Because, in the end, He wants nothing but good things for me.

Nothing but good.

And, I want that. The good stuff He wants for me, I want that.

He intends it for all of us. For all of our lives.

Surely goodness, surely mercy, shall follow me
All the days of my life.

Lesson learned.

Now to walk.

Company on the road would be nice. You coming with?

I’ll try to keep the griping to a minimum.

You lead me in the path of life.
I experience absolute joy in your presence;
you always give me sheer delight.
(Psalm 16:11, NET)

Life is a journey that must be traveled, no matter how bad the roads and accommodations. (Oliver Goldsmith – Anglo/Irish poet – 1728-1774)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Month: November 2023