I’m Not Happy All the Day

March 31, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My social media feed and even my personal messages have been full the last day or two with some variant of the message.

“It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming!”

I get it. I do.

It’s what we call Holy Week; throughout the week, we celebrate the death and then on Sunday, the resurrection, of our Lord. It seems that much of the world does the same, even though they are not believers—not true participants in the result.

But, this week has always been a melancholy time for me—my thoughts filled with sadness that Jesus died, betrayed by a follower whom He loved, abandoned by most of His other followers, and beaten and tortured to death by foreigners who occupied His homeland.

And, on a personal level, other events have crowded in, making the days even more melancholy. I’m almost wondering if I can participate in the reenactment of the joy that comes after the sad “holy week”.

Resurrection day, commonly called Easter, will dawn with light and music. We will—rightly—raise our voices in praise to our God in gratitude for His great gift of salvation, of redemption.

But, I know there are people—many of them—who will be in our churches, sitting beside us in the chairs or on the pews, with hearts overflowing with sadness and sorrow still. Even on this, the most joyful of days we mark in our calendars, they will mourn, or wait for bad news, or sit in pain—awaiting relief that may never come in this life.

We sang the old hymn a few weeks ago in the fellowship I’m blessed to be part of. It’s an old song about the cross Jesus died upon.

I admit, I don’t always think about the words when I’m so familiar with a song. I’ve sung this one all my life. But, I thought about the words this time.

The song was written by Isaac Watts, well known for his contributions to our lexicon of worship songs. The chorus, however, was added more than a hundred years after Mr. Watts wrote the verses.

The original words are deep, wonderfully so. The chorus, not so much, but it too is well-loved, nonetheless.

The hymn is now known as At the Cross, although originally Isaac Watts named it Alas, and Did My Savior Bleed. You may already be humming the tune as you read this.

I’m just not certain about the last line of the added chorus we sing.

“And now, I am happy all the day.”

I’m not. I’m just not.

I am grateful beyond expression for the astounding gift of grace given to us at the cross. My joy at knowing we follow a risen Savior is uncontainable. Uncontainable!

I will sing with abandon (I promise you—I will!) of His victory over death.

Hallelujah, Christ Arose!

But, I will also mourn with those who mourn. I will cry with those who cry.

Almost certainly—in that very service where I sing with abandon, I will weep as my Lord did when His heart was moved for the mourners.

Sunday is coming! Again and again, it is coming.

We rejoice. We mourn. We serve. Until that day when God will wipe away every tear.

He promised He would. And, He is faithful.

What a glorious day!

He is risen indeed!

“Then the men asked, ‘Why are you looking among the dead for someone who is alive? He isn’t here! He is risen from the dead!'”
(Luke 24:5b-6a, NLT)

Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted

March 27, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“How did you get close enough to take this picture?”

The question appeared last night below a photo of an old abandoned bridge I posted in an online group to which I belong. We all love old bridges and share photos and stories with each other.

I was confused.

I’m still not completely sure I understand the question. But, I think I might.

In the group, we’re encouraged not to trespass on private property. It’s also understood that we don’t ignore warning signs about dangerous structures. And, we shouldn’t breach fences or locked gates.

I had clambered through a couple of steel barriers at the end of this particular bridge to walk across. Could that be what the questioner was referring to?

Am I a lawbreaker?

I remember the conversation with the Lovely Lady as we had approached the old steel structure on that day and saw the bars across the lane. I was certain of my legal standing.

“Those are just there to keep vehicles off the bridge. They’re not for pedestrians.”

I said I was certain of the legality of my actions.

But still, I wonder.

Less than an hour later, a few miles away, I climbed to the top of a railroad embankment near an old trestle. Nearing the top, I saw the sign.

“Private Property,” it said. “Keep off the tracks.”

I stood near the sign, leaning over as close as I could get to the tracks to acquire my photo. My arm and upper body stretched well past the sign.

But, I didn’t set a foot on that track!

I kept the letter of the law. I did. But, last night I read a news story about a man and his companion who didn’t a few years ago. On that same trestle, one man died and the other was seriously injured as they walked the tracks.

The trains frequently travel over 50 miles per hour across the trestle there. It’s impossible to stop a train moving at that rate of speed—and they’d try—even if it was just for someone’s head or hand stretched out over the edge of the tracks.

Why is it, when I looked at that sign as I climbed the steep embankment, all I could think about was how ridiculous it was that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do? All I desired was to get a good photo across the trestle. That’s it.

But, that stupid sign!

So, obeying the letter of the law, I pushed the envelope, leaning over as far as possible.

But, the spirit of the law—what I couldn’t see in that moment—the spirit of the law was only for my good. To keep me from injury. Or even death.

I am a lawbreaker. I want what I want. And, I’ll stretch across the boundaries as far as necessary to get what I desire.

Across the spirit of the law.

I am a lawbreaker.

I can’t help but remember that this is the week we consider (more than any other time) the coming of a Savior. He is the one who took on Himself the penalty of my lawbreaking.

He took away the penalty for all of us lawbreakers.

He writes on our hearts what God requires. No longer will we look at that stupid sign, at the written rules, and wish we could stand in the path of destruction; we now can understand His heart, His love, and His purposes.

Lawbreakers?

Yes—every one of us. Every one. (see Romans 3:23)

But, He has put eternity in our hearts. Not rules. Not words. (see Romans 3:24!)

The events we commemorate this week make it possible for lawbreakers to become His heirs, His family, instead of His enemies.

“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.”
(John 1:12, NLT)

It may take me a while to work out the boundaries thing. There may be more bridges crossed before that happens.

Photos may follow.

I hope no one will be hurt in the process.

But, I think I’ll take some time this week to consider the Savior and His astounding gift of grace.

At least it’ll keep me off the railroad tracks.

“There is no man so good, who, were he to submit all his thoughts and actions to the laws, would not deserve hanging ten times in his life.”
(Michel de Montaigne)

“You show that you are a letter from Christ…written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts.”
(2 Corinthians 3:3, NIV)

Learning a New Language

March 14, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The visitor was worried that we might not find enough to talk about. My son, who knows me well, reassured them.

“Oh, you won’t need to worry about that. My dad always has things to talk about. It won’t be quiet at the table.”

I didn’t hear the conversation, but I learned of it later. With a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he related the words he had said.

I’m not sure whether I should be proud or embarrassed. Is he saying I’m a good conversationalist? Or is it just that I talk too much?

I didn’t ask him.

Recently I saw a quote, attributed to an obscure person I’ve been unable to pin down in my searches, that caught my attention. Actually, it grabbed my heart (and, to be honest, my guilty conscience).

“So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me, because I, too, am fluent in silence.”
(R. Arnold)

I guess it’s appropriate that this R. Arnold character can’t be found. It reinforces the veracity of the words—at least, to me it does.

No biography. No social footprint. No online following.

Just fluency in a language I don’t understand.

I could never make his claim. I don’t understand the inflections, the accents, the syllables, of silence. Because I fill the air with words. Thousands of them, perhaps, in the course of a day.

I’m less proud of my son’s words than I was when I heard them.

I want to be a person who can sit in silence with a friend who is hurting.

I don’t want to fill the air with empty noise. I don’t want to see friends’ eyes glaze over as I tell another story they’ve heard before—or worse—one they have no interest in, whatsoever.

And yet, the Lovely Lady and I often sit in silence, sometimes for hours at a time. The old preacher who married us would have laughed to see it.

He thought he could tell who the old married couples were in any setting. They were the ones who had nothing to say to each other. In a restaurant, he loved watching the young couples excitedly yapping to each other about every detail of their day—of every new sensation they had discovered—reporting every word their friends had said in an embarrassing situation.

Then, almost gleefully, he would point out the couple nearby who sat silently, drinking their water and eating their burgers.

“They’ve run out of things to say to each other!”

And often, he might be right. But, not always.

Not always.

Silence can bring us closer to each other than conversation. There is a bond in quietness.

As I write this, I’m sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by people. People talking. They are conversations about faith—about children’s activities—about professional matters.

There is nothing wrong with communication using words.

But, silence…

Silence is a language in itself, one learned by long practice; a language mastered by the heart and not the tongue.

I sit quietly (for once) and realize that I want to learn this language.

Perhaps, the dinner table is not the time to practice my mastery of it. But, I’m going to work on that, too. Others might want to (as the red-headed lady who raised me would have phrased it) get a word in edge-wise.

Mr. Carlyle was right in his assessment:

“Speech is of time; silence is of eternity.”
(from Sartor Resartus, by Thomas Carlyle)

It’s time to get started on eternity.

Silence, they say, is golden.

I wonder if there’s a Babbel course to help me learn faster.

“Here lies as silent clay Miss Arabella Young,
Who on the 21st of May 1771
First began to hold her tongue.”
(Epitaph on a grave marker in Hatfield, Massachusets)

“The words of the reckless pierce like swords,
but the tongue of the wise brings healing.”
(Proverbs 12:18, NIV)

Clattery Joy On The Journey

March 12, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I saw a beautiful thing this morning.

My friends—those who know me well—would say, “Of course you did! It’s Spring.”

They wouldn’t be wrong. I saw daffodils—and bluets—and crabapple trees—and quince bushes—and…the list could go on forever. Spring is beautiful; not only for what I see, but for what it represents.

New life. The awakening of things that have slept—almost the sleep of death—for all the months of a cold, dark winter.

I saw those, and felt them, on my walk this morning. But, that’s not the beautiful thing I saw.

The wind is blustery today—almost a gale at times—blasting from the south. At my back as I walked toward home, it picked up many things, traversing the schoolyard I was passing. The thing I thought beautiful caught my attention, not only by the sight of it, but because I heard it first.

Paketa, pak, pak, paketa, paketa, pak.

The clattery sound of aluminum on pavement went on and on.

A beer can, thrown from a passing car (or by a wandering pedestrian), had been rescued from its dirty, wet place of inactivity beside the sidewalk, perhaps even saved from the ignominious fate of being chopped up by a passing lawn mower as it made its rounds.

Freedom! Tumbled over and over by the fickle wind, the used-up can traveled a block or more up the road before I lost sight of it. For all I know, it’s still going.

Silently, I cheered it on. But, even before the can left my sight, my mind was freed, just like that aluminum container, from the fog that had overtaken it as I sat in the little coffee shop I haunt with some frequency.

The first thing I thought about was an old game we used to play, much like hide-and-seek, called Kick the Can. I don’t suppose many children nowadays play it.

In the game, as I remember it, one kid was IT, having to find the others who hid. But, when he espied them, he would have to run as fast as he could, attempting to beat them to the can, there to count them out.

“One, two, three, on David!”

But, if David, who was hiding, knew he had been sighted, he could run faster and, kicking the can as hard as possible, gain a new lease on life, taking off to hide in the landscape once more.

I use the pronoun, he, because in my personal experience, all the players were boys. As it happens, the Lovely Lady to whom I am married played the game a time or two in her childhood, too. Right in the neighborhood where we live today.

I look out my window as I type, the house across the street filling my vision. The Lovely Lady tells of the Wards, an older couple who lived there in those days.

Anyone can tell you the game needs to be played at twilight, and just past, as darkness settles over the landscape. But somehow, older people in those days tended to begin to think about heading to bed at dark, especially in the summertime, when the daylight doesn’t fade until nearly nine P.M.

The constant clatter of the can rolling down the street was annoying, but as the evening went on, the children would sometimes take advantage of the darkness to aim their kicks right at the garage door of the Ward’s house.

With some regularity, especially after the can had hit the metal door a time or two, old Mr. Ward would walk out the front door and, without a word, pick up the can, carrying it back into the house with him.

The kids would go home, disappointed, but kind of proud of themselves.

As I walked this morning, the smile had already reached my face before the little beer can rolled out of sight. I could still hear it (and that one in my mind), rolling on the pavement.

Paketa, paketa, pak, pak.

Did I really say the sight (and sound) of that old beer can scooting along the street was beautiful?

I did, didn’t I?

Somehow, it must be what it meant to me, much like the flowers that are awakening from their long winter’s sleep—almost the sleep of death, I think I described it—to new life, rather than just a beautiful sight. It wasn’t that beautiful to look at.

But, my mind didn’t only slip to the Lovely Lady’s old memory of summertime playtime as I considered.

I can’t avoid thoughts of new life. Life from death. The parallel is obvious to me.

The can was finished—no purpose and no intrinsic beauty.

Nowhere to go ever again. Ever.

As it tumbled up the street, it wasn’t just lively. It was exuberant!

Loud, even.

Well? The Teacher, soon to be Savior, did once tell the folks that the rocks would cry out in worship.

Aluminum’s not all that different, as far as inanimate objects go.

Maybe it’s my turn. And yours.

If clattery is the best we can manage, it’ll do just fine.

Joyful noise.

“God made us for joy. God is joy, and the joy of living reflects the original joy that God felt in creating us.”
(G K Chesterton)

“He jumped up, stood on his feet, and began to walk! Then, walking, leaping, and praising God, he went into the Temple with them.”
(Acts 3:8, NLT)

Home Again

March 7, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was another lovely Old Friends Evening, like countless others we’ve enjoyed over the years. The hosting couple (us, this time) had prepared a meat dish (I think, in other circles, known as an entree) for dinner and others had filled in with salads, veggies, and dessert.

We had thoroughly enjoyed the dinner and, deciding against the customary dominoes and other entertainments, settled in the living room simply to talk. After nearly fifty years of friendship, you’d think we would have run out of subject matter, but there is rarely a moment of silence unless to pause in empathy for a loss or hardship of someone in the group, or indeed, any of our acquaintances.

I had described one of my honey-do items which couldn’t be put off any longer, the mention of which must have triggered a memory in his mind, when one friend asked suddenly if I had ever finished my deck. I laughed and told him it had been completed last summer.

Then I wondered; haven’t I shown the deck to these dear friends already? Well, we would remedy that without delay.

We—all eight of us—trooped to the back door to walk out on the structure. It was dark outside, so I flipped on the outside light to be sure none of us tripped going out. (We are OLD friends, you know.)

On the ground in front of the door, illuminated by the intense light, stood a rather large (and confused) opossum. It was evident to me that the creature had just emerged from under the deck we were all intending to examine shortly. As I pushed open the door, the timid animal spun and rushed back into the sanctuary of the low structure.

We all laughed and stepped out onto the deck, our friends all complimenting us on the welcoming outdoor space that had been created in that previously vacant corner of the building. Still, I could see some of them looking around as if fearful the opossum might make another appearance at any moment.

We went back inside.

Then again last night, visitors to our home were on that deck enjoying a warming fire in the stainless steel firepit and roasting marshmallows over the lovely flame. These guests live out on a mountainside, accustomed to wildlife dwelling in the woods that surround them. They weren’t phased by the thought of an opossum under their feet, so the evening passed in laughter and joyful conversation around the blazing logs.

But, these visitors had been with me when the deck was being built, as well. Before that, they had helped to deconstruct the neighbor’s old deck from which the lumber would be repurposed for ours. They had even abetted me in piling up that old lumber into the massive stack at the back of my yard that awaited whatever impetus it would take to move forward on the project of building our deck.

Months later, when I decided I could delay no longer, those visitors came back and helped me arrange that lumber into a deck once more, using nails and screws to hold it together. In the process, we removed the “structure” of the stack, strangely enough, disturbing a young opossum sheltering underneath it.

One can’t help but wonder…It could be…Nobody can prove otherwise, so I’m going to assume it is.

The same opossum we disturbed from its repose under the stack of lumber last summer is now living under the reconfigured stack—my deck.

Can’t you just see it?

The young creature, having wandered—homeless—for a few months, happens upon the newly built deck next to the house. Approaching it, the odor is unmistakable.

This is my home! The same home that was destroyed by those giants making such a ruckus and commotion.

And, then it pokes its long nose underneath.

But, it’s better! Look at all these rooms! And the space! With carpet on the floor even! Not even any weeds to poke me while I sleep! I’m home!

Home again.

You laugh, but sometimes reality is stranger than made-up stories. We all look for the familiar, even in strange surroundings.

Earlier this week, I listened as a friend explained why he attended the church fellowship we’re members of. He spoke of hearing the Lovely Lady play the flute, along with another musician, during an early worship service he and his wife attended. His memory went back to family members who had played those same instruments in the past and, leaning over to his wife, he said, “I’m home.”

The Psalmist, David, depressed as he wandered far from his home and the comfort of God’s people, reminded us that we may sometimes have the opposite experience. He longed for the familiar and the home he knew and yet, he was certain—absolutely convinced—that God was with him, even as he hid from those who would be happy to kill him.

“By day the Lord decrees his loyal love,
and by night he gives me a song,
a prayer to the God of my life.”
(Psalm 42:8, NET)

A few years ago, as the Lovely Lady and I left behind the business we had invested ourselves in and the house we had labored to make into a lovely, welcoming home, it felt a lot like that. Leaving home, unhappy at being uprooted from the comfortable, the familiar.

Funny thing. Nearly every day now, years past that unhappy time, I walk into the neighborhood and the house in which we live and I think (sometimes saying out loud), “What a lovely place we live in!”

I’m not sure the opossum gets to stay where he is. We may need to find him a new home soon. Time will tell.

But, that’s true for us, too. We’re just here temporarily.

Soon, we’ll be going home.

Really. Home.

Something like what we have here. Only better. A lot better.

I’m pretty sure we’ll be more comfortable there.

“Abraham was confidently looking forward to a city with eternal foundations, a city designed and built by God.“
(Hebrews 11:10, NLT)

“I read within a poet’s book
A word that starred the page:
‘Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage! ‘

Yes, that is true; and something more
You’ll find, where’er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.”
(A Home Song by Henry Van Dyke)

Entertainment Value

March 4, 2024March 4, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You’re not boring; you’re entertaining.”

I apologized to our teenage guest at the end of our visit. Even with those twinkling eyes smiling at me, the reply I got was a little unexpected.

Surrounded by aging adults, the youngster had endured the dinner with grace. And yet, the discussion of hospital visits and doctor’s appointments, along with a drawn out semi-argument about the location of long-defunct grocery stores and ancient history had to have been wearing to a member of this generation steeped in technology and media connectivity.

I will admit the high-schooler’s reaction to finding out that the old Piggly-Wiggly grocery store in our town had morphed into a current-day funeral home was delightful. I’ve always found it amusing, to say the least, and was happy to have that opinion shared by one so young.

The idea of a Piggly-Wiggly funeral home does set off the giggle reflex, doesn’t it?

I’m still wondering about the entertainment value of a group of old people sitting around a dinner table, though.

Perhaps, even more than that, I’m wondering if it’s important for us to be aware of how attractive (or, entertaining) we are to folks who are watching.

I’ve been in church all of my life. I’ve listened to thousands of sermons. When I was a kid, there were three to listen to every Sunday. And, one on Wednesday.

I’ve heard my share of boring preachers. Some of them would use the scripture that Paul the Apostle wrote about folks with “itching ears” as a rationalization for the dryness of the message.

“For a time is coming when people will no longer listen to sound and wholesome teaching. They will follow their own desires and will look for teachers who will tell them whatever their itching ears want to hear.“
(2 Timothy 4:3, NLT)

Except, that verse has nothing to do with instructing people to make their conversation (or sermon) dry and boring to avoid error. It’s talking about people who insist that their teachers and pastors teach them the things they want to hear. They want to hear their own opinions coming from the mouths of the people to whom they listen.

Sounds familiar, even in this age, doesn’t it?

It can apply to those who move to a new church every time a pastor expresses a thought they don’t agree with. Or, it can pertain to college students who protest against speakers they think they detest. It’s a common disease among humankind.

But if we insist our teachers teach with dry, lifeless words, we’ll lose our audience. Either they won’t come to our next dinner (or church service), or they’ll zone out while we speak.

Or, like that fellow Eutychus in the Bible, they may simply fall asleep. (Acts 20:7-12)

After supper, the Apostle (who may actually have believed in dry, boring talks) decided that since it was his last night in town, he’d preach a little longer sermon. Past midnight, he droned on!

Eutychus, poor boy, fell asleep long enough to be included in the text we still read today. While he napped, he slid off his window seat, falling to his death on the ground, three stories below.

Paul, hurrying down with the crowd, lifted him up, telling them the boy wasn’t dead, and they went back upstairs where, of all things, Paul continued to talk until the sun came up in the morning!

I like to imagine that, after the intermission, the folks there listened more closely. Whether the Apostle’s delivery was more lively and engaging, I don’t know. But, they were motivated to listen!

Talk about entertaining!

A boy had been brought back to life! Besides the joy and relief, it would be a living reminder to stay alert, one would think.

Clearly, the lines above about the Apostle Paul’s teaching were written a little tongue-in-cheek. We really don’t know if he was a boring speaker or an entertaining one.

Still, even my old Bible professor friend, the esteemed Dr Andrew Bowling, used to say to his students, “If you talk for half an hour and haven’t hit oil, quit boring.”

I may take his advice in another line or two.

Entertaining is better than boring, especially if people are paying attention to what we have to say. As long as what we’re saying is not just tickling their itchy ears.

And, if it keeps them awake.

“Just as it is written and forever remains written, ‘How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news of good things!’”
(Romans 10:15, AMP)

“Tell the stories! Use words that are accurate and attractive. Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm. Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone. Tell the stories!”
(from The Storyteller, by Paul Phillips)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Month: March 2024