The Time for Anger is Past

September 16, 2021September 16, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

How is it that the fear
Banished in the morning light
Claws at my heart now,
Cowering in the new thrown night?

Hyperbole is what that is. Poetic license, taken by one given to flights of imagination. It’s expected when one writes in verse and rhyme.

Still, it’s not so far off the mark, some nights.

I am by nature a night person, haunting the empty rooms and darkened recesses of this old mid-century habitation long after any other denizens of the neighborhood, save the four-footed variety, have given in to the siren call of slumber. And when, as is my lot at times, my chronic breathing problems surface, even the hours when I’ve retreated to my bed are spent turning this way and that, coughing and yet, attempting to suppress the overwhelming urge to do that very thing.

As one might expect, eventually the mind turns to unhappy and dark subjects or, more specifically, situations for which I’ve found, in my normal haunting hours, no solution or cure.

Unfinished business is a weight on my mind, a burden if you will, that bends the spirit until I’m afraid the breaking point is near. And, clawing fear with unanswered questions is often given leave to ride, untethered, through the dark hours.

Tonight I received an unexpected note from one I love. His message closed with these words that give me hope the reign of one particular fear is near an end:

“I think my time for anger is finally over.”

The last time I wrote about the man was right after he died. Two years ago, almost. One would have thought the turmoil, the tumult, had died with him. One would have been wrong.

Just because a character has fallen out of the story, it’s not a given that closure is accomplished. Much the opposite, this falling-out part often seems to increase the impact of the mental conflict, to magnify those unpleasant memories that never seem to behave themselves or to become comfortable scenes from the past.

I loved the man—more than I have loved most other folks on this spinning ball of dirt and water. But, that said, he was the most stubborn human being I’ve ever known. Well, maybe not more stubborn than the red-headed lady he was married to.

And yet, he could also be the most maddening person I knew. That red-headed lady said it once (that I remember).

“That man! He makes me so mad!”

I was twelve and had never heard her say a negative word about my father before. I was certain the divorce papers would be served soon.

Of course, they never were. He cared for her until the day she died, even though she had not known who he was for a couple of years before her passing. He was like that.

He kept his promises. It was one of the things about him that was so maddening. Yes, maddening. Keeping promises.

In his last years, there was one particular person he made promises to. She made promises, too—never intending to keep them. He intended to keep his and did until the day he died, at great cost to himself and his family.

But, no.

This is not an exposé. It’s not.

I intended to do that one day. I would write a tell-all story, exposing his shortcomings and character failings to the world. Bare my soul, vomiting out my frustration and angst.

It will never happen.

Remember the story of Noah in the Bible? That righteous man, Noah, a fierce follower of God, who complied willingly with God’s plan for the survival of mankind and the animal kingdom by building an ark and taking his family into it, saving them from the flood?

There is another story about the man, found in chapter 9 of Genesis, verses 18 through 28. After the flood, Noah, being more of a farmer than a boatbuilder, grew a crop of grapes, subsequently making wine from the bounty. Sampling the liquid, he became drunk. In his inebriated state, he took off his clothes and laid, in his drunken stupor, naked in his tent.

Wait. Drunk and naked? The most righteous man in the world? That doesn’t seem right, does it?

His son, Ham, didn’t think so either. Finding his father in that state, he called his brothers, Shem and Japheth, to come and look, so anxious was he to expose Dad’s shortcoming.

They chose not to participate.

Taking their father’s cloak between the two of them, they walked backward. So they could preserve their father’s dignity, they purposefully refused to look at him naked. They covered his nakedness.

It’s different today.

A popular writer in our day, Anne Lamott, famously suggests you own everything that happened to you. She encourages—no, insists—that we should tell everything, regardless of the harm to others. I’m certain she means well.

But I’m with Shem and Japheth. I choose not to participate. To expose the private sin and shortcomings of one I love is to disrespect who he was throughout his life.

He was a man who loved his God intensely. Fiercely, even. And, because of that, he was a man who loved the people around him in the same way. As a pastor, he made it his mission to be where he was needed. He listened. He comforted. He wept. He rejoiced.

When he was no longer the pastor of a church, he became pastor to the folks at the local breakfast cafe, the grocery store, even the bank. Again and again, he made friends of strangers, praying as easily as he talked, encouraging more than he exhorted, leaving the world behind him better for having walked here.

He loved his family with that same fierce love. Every one of his children walked away from some aspect of the principles, the faith, he had brought us up in, yet his love for us never waned. With each of us, he prayed. To the end of his days, he prayed. And he sang. And he quoted scripture—and poetry.

In the back of my mind, even as I write this, I hear the voice. “But, what about that episode? What about the time he did this? Tell them about the day…”

Why do we hold on so long to resentment? To anger?

What possible end can we hope to achieve by holding them tightly? Like some monstrous, yet precious, treasures, we grasp them with a death-grip only age-worn and life-weary hands can manage.

The closer we hold them, the more they hurt us. The longer we embrace them, the harder it becomes to let them go.

Many eventually loose that anger in outbursts of ugly accusation and personal venom. The outburst can be a catharsis; no one could argue that. But, catharsis achieved and outburst exhausted, all that is left in view is a smaller human being, accompanied by his/her scorched and ruined memories of one whom they loved and were loved by.

Many will disagree with my viewpoint. The age in which we live thrives on canceling reputations and flaming memories. Somehow we believe we are bigger for diminishing the reputations of those whose voices are silent now and who can no longer answer back.

It can only diminish us.

The one I love is right. The time for anger is over. If it’s not, the time for fear and resentfulness never will be. Ever.

And somehow, the One I always end up talking to in the dark, He who is the Light that has defeated the darkness and will one day banish it forever, reminds me that my anger and resentment is one of the burdens He asked me to give to Him.

Many I know are carrying that same burden—have carried it for most of the years of their life.

Why would we willingly keep bending under that heavy load? Pain and unhappiness are the only possible return we’ll realize from the labor.

He promises rest. And hope.

The time for anger is over.

Ahh. Sweet freedom!

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.
(Matthew 11:28, NLT)

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.
(Martin Luther King Jr.)

The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness can never extinguish it.
(John 1:5, NLT)

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

September 6, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Photo by Grace Nast. Used by permission.

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

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

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

That was it. My go-to prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

We pray because we know He has what we need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The imagery of Scripture is also unmistakable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s why:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gave her two precious gifts. Two.

Grace, resulting in a clean heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll even wash my hands first.

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

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

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

August 31, 2021August 31, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lessons on crossing bridges the correct way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, I’m not laughing now

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

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

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

Where two or three are gathered

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whispering in my head has gained in volume.

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

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

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

Somehow, I think we’ve still got this wrong

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

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

There is another bridge

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

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

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

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

How many?

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

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

Imagine.

Imagine what could happen if we do that together

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

I’d like to give that a try.

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

He’ll be there. With us. He will.

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

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

Once Upon a Time, They All Lived Happily Ever After

August 20, 2021August 20, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

Really. Carried away.

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

Once upon a time. Perfection.

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

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

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

Ah. But, there’s the issue, isn’t it?

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

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

We all know that.

Or, do we?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hand in hand, we skipped together to the car.

Happily ever after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The wisdom and faith of a little child.

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

Happily ever after, too.

Today. In this place.

Happily ever after.

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

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

The Cicadas Have Something To Say

August 12, 2021August 12, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

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

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

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

Except, it wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

I repent. I do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve been wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder.

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

Pleasant borders, indeed.

They weren’t. Not by our standards.

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

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

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

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

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

Have you been listening recently?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if we did that?

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

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

It is what we were created to do.

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

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

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

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

The Better to See You With, My Dear

August 2, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

I went to the grocery store with her.

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

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

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

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

Of course, she’ll be out of my sight.

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

Out of my sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is El Roi. The God who sees me.

Me.

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

The God who sees me.

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

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

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

Never alone.

Never not seen.

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

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

He won’t let you out of it, either.

It’s a promise He’ll keep.

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

Benedictus—Sometimes Louder is Better

July 29, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Some evenings I sink down in my easy chair and marvel.

Behind closed eyes—and sometimes tear-filled ones—I wonder at the gift of music. Music that quiets. Music that ushers in memories of days long gone. Music that washes away the years, and sadness, and pain.

Some evenings I sink down in my easy chair and do that. On others, I sit in that same chair and expect to do that, but there are different influences at work in the sequence of selections I hear. Perhaps, I should say, another Influence (with a capital I). At least, it seems so to me.

On a recent weekend evening, as I sat, prepared to be calmed and moved, the Influence was at work. I have a group of songs I enjoy. The service I use to bring them up simply would not cooperate that night. Neither the songs nor the artists I have preselected could be found, so I just gave up and clicked the control to play random songs.

I didn’t know the artist. Who is Hauser, anyway? And what was this Benedictus? It was neither a piece nor an artist I’ve ever encountered.

Solo cello with an orchestra.

So simple. So beautiful. So moving.

It began with a statement of the theme by the cello, followed by a restatement or two, and an echo from individual orchestra members (the horn was especially nice). Then with a wave of the conductor’s hand, a chorus—a lovely choir filled with children’s voices—took up the theme.

Quietly, with soft harmonies almost quavering under the pure, clear melody, the soul was lulled to sleep by the haunting music.

The last thing one expected was the pounding of the percussion. And yet, it came.

Instantaneously. Suddenly. Ferociously.

The voices in the choir and the instruments in the orchestra responded as well, leaping to a sudden fortissimo. It was almost frightening. Almost.

The listener in his easy chair—yours truly—was no longer calm or relaxed. The quiet glory of the moment before had become all sound and fury (sorry, Mr. Shakespeare) and there seemed little hope that the previous state would be attained again.

And yet, to my pleasure, it soon was—the bombastic section lasting only a moment before dropping back to the beautiful and simple melody that so enchanted in the beginning.

I was carried away once more. The surprise past, my joy at the beauty was restored. I was comfortable again. Was.

Still, this piece goes in my permanent list to be listened to again and again. I even shared it with my friends on social media. What a singular experience!

I said I was comfortable again, didn’t I? I’m not anymore.

I wish I could leave the matter there. I do wish that. But I never could. The red-headed lady who raised me often reminded me of it.

“Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”

Why, indeed?

But I can’t. And this is bothering me.

Why did the composer have to make that section so jarring? After the loveliness of the theme, why assault the unsuspecting listener with an onslaught of noise and activity?

Perhaps the lyrics will help. No, I won’t be violating any copyrights here. The words are straight from The Book. In the choral text, they’re in Latin, so I’ve made it a bit easier for our purposes, quoting the English translation.

“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Matthew 21:9, NKJV)

Lovely words. They are.

Calming words. Reassuring words. Words of comfort.

Sort of like settling down into that easy chair again, aren’t they? The phrase was originally spoken about our Savior one day, as He entered the city riding on a donkey.

Benedictus.

Blessing.

I write the word multiple times a day, expressing my desire for good things for my friends and loved ones.

Blessings!

May you be blessed.

Like a prayer, the word is, asking for action from our Heavenly Father above. I sit comfortably in my easy chair, and He does the rest.

But there’s more to this, isn’t there?

Life, especially life as a follower of Christ, is not all easy chairs and quiet words. Despite the proclivities of the modern church to be turned inward and feel good about the One who comes in the name of Yahweh and His love toward us personally, our mission—our task—has never changed.

We are to proclaim Him to the world around us. Sometimes, it will be loud. Sometimes, it will be clashing. Sometimes, it will be shocking to the listener.

Always, our intent should be to glorify our Creator and Savior.

The overwhelming drums I heard? The surprising section of music? The words are from the same place in the Gospels.

“Hosanna in the highest!” (Matthew 21:9, NKJV)

A shout of praise going up to heaven!

It’s difficult to do that from my easy chair. I need to act. I need to stand up. Quiet, peaceful me—I need to shout the news.

Cymbals may crash.

I’m not comfortable with that.

The Followers, those twelve men who trailed Him everywhere, had been invited to a quiet place, a place of rest. Yet, instead of comfort, they found themselves at the lake’s edge surrounded by more than 5000 people. And it was time for supper.

“Send them home, Master,” they pleaded with Him. They were missing their rest, the quiet moments, the harmony of shared hymns.

“Show them My glory,” the Teacher replied. “You feed them.”

And they did.

They did.

I don’t suppose it was a quiet affair; nor could it have been all that comfortable, either.

Can you imagine the shouts? The exclamations? The babble of amazement?

I wonder. When did I decide it was time to sit quietly and listen to the music?

Now is the time to be loud. It’s time to make the trumpet call loud and clear.

Really loud.

Especially clear.

It won’t be all that comfortable.

It will be beautiful.

Benedictus. Blessings.

Q: What is the chief end of man?
A: Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever.
(Westminster Shorter Catechism)

Sing a new song to the Lord!
Let the whole earth sing to the Lord!
Sing to the Lord; praise his name.
Each day proclaim the good news that he saves.
Publish his glorious deeds among the nations.
Tell everyone about the amazing things he does.
(Psalm 96:1-3, NLT)

There Was Even a Snake in the Garden

June 28, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was an almost perfect afternoon. Almost.

We had wandered, the Lovely Lady and I, along the trail, exclaiming about this rock formation and those beautiful wildflowers as we went. Everything was perfect—the sunny but cool weather, the scenery—even the best hiking companion I could ask for.

It couldn’t have been any better. And then, we headed up the hill along the rushing creek and the falls came into sight. It could be better.

Above those falls were more falls, with water tumbling from the higher rocks down into a pool shaped by years of the descending cascade. We leaned against the boulders and felt the spray hitting our faces.

Perfection. What beauty!

Later, as we trekked back down the hill, a side path diverged near the creek again and we followed along beside rapids rushing over a huge, barely submerged rock that was forty or fifty feet long. The sound of the water was enchanting as we stepped down the natural limestone staircase to the water’s edge, sitting down just above the flow to rest. The hypnotic sound of tumbling water and songbirds surrounded us in the woods.

Cares were washed away with the rushing water; troubles nearly forgotten and stresses began fading. It was as if the world had disappeared, and paradise had taken its place.

It almost sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? Perhaps, it was.

“What’s that awful stench?”

The words grated, ripping away the mirage of paradise, quickly returning us to the world we thought had been left behind. There was a definite odor lurking in the atmosphere around us. It smelled a bit like a sewer, or perhaps, rotten food.

I sat where I was, hoping the euphoria from the previous few moments might return. It didn’t. The moment was gone, and my mind had no intention of regaining the peace it had known for that short time.

After a few more minutes, we stood and, climbing the limestone steps, headed on down the trail. The folks who maintain the nature park had painstakingly installed markers along the way, labeling trees and natural habitat, describing the history of the place, and we took the time to read most of them. One stood out, as we headed back toward our vehicle and the world of reality beyond this oasis.

“Sulfur water. When the flow of the creek diminishes, one may smell a slight smell like rotten eggs, which comes from the natural spring that also feeds the creek from underneath the limestone and shale formations.”

It was the answer to the question asked as we sat along the water’s edge, lost in the beauty around us. The intruding stench was merely sulfur in the rushing water, itself a part of the natural environment.

If one explores the online comments about the nature park we were in that day, they will find a number of reviewers who dwell on the odor, as if it were one of the dominant features of the place.

It’s not.

The overwhelming beauty, the marvel of a Creator’s hand, the peaceful oasis mere moments away from one of the fastest-growing urban areas in the United States—those are the dominant features of the place. The smell is nothing more than an appendix, a single imperfection on the periphery of a stunning object of art.

And yet, it is what many choose to remember—and proclaim publicly—as the major attribute of the entire experience.

Why is that?

Why do we choose to discount the overwhelming beauty of life as we focus and amplify the negative, insignificant as it may be? We do it with places and things, forgetting the joy of visiting and touching and holding as we recall the times we were disappointed by them.

We do it with the people in our lives, as well. A lifetime of love and service may be wiped away by one single action they have taken or a word they have spoken, as we follow the sad and timeworn practice of the world, canceling them without an iota of grace or forgiveness.

People, broken and flawed just as we ourselves are, tossed on the burn pile awaiting their just reward. All because we can’t see past the fault to recognize the beauty and the need.

You know there was a snake in the first garden, don’t you?

The serpent was created by God, too.

Oh, I’m not going to argue any kind of doctrine about the devil here; I have no dogma to impress upon you. Many before me have already done that. It’s not my intent to convince you one way or another.

What I do know is that there was a fabulous garden, gifted by the Creator to His creatures, a place for them to explore and exclaim over, and to enjoy forever. Compared to Eden, the nature park the Lovely Lady and I visited the other day was a desert wasteland.

And yet, the pair in the Garden of Eden focused their full attention on the snake. All of God’s creation surrounded them, and they listened to the hissing snake blithering on about the one tree that wasn’t theirs to partake of.

We know how that story turned out, don’t we?

There are still snakes, and stenches, and steep climbs, and wide ravines here. We can focus on them if we want.

We can.

But look around at the glorious world He has given us to walk through! And the lovely humans He has given us for companions along the road!

The Teacher said the words, not to draw our attention to the negative, but to lift our eyes to the joy and the spectacular opportunities He puts before us:

In this world you will have troubles. But be full of joy and great gladness! I have overcome the world! (John 16:33 ~ my paraphrase)

We travel this foreign land beset with sorrows, but not overwhelmed by them. We are battered by fears, but they have no power to knock us to the ground.

Our Creator gives us songs in the darkest night. He provides light for the path ahead and good company to cheer the heart.

Our old friend, the Apostle, reminds us to keep things in perspective as he draws a word picture of a scale, each side of the balance beam bearing a bowl filled with items. One side is incredibly light, the other overwhelmingly heavy.

For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory… (2 Corinthians 4:17 ~ NKJV)

Not that we ignore the suffering of those around us—not that we bottle up the feelings and reactions we ourselves have when those sufferings visit us. We are to bear each other’s burdens, to weep with those who weep. But we don’t let the things that trouble us control who we are and how we live.

Strength, and peace, and joy are ours. For life. While we are in this world.

He’s given us incredible blessings—unbelievable beauty—as we travel His way. Those are what He intends us to be attentive to.

I do have to wonder, though. His Word tells us of a river that runs through that new garden He’s preparing for us. Will there be sulfur water flowing into it, as well?

If there is, who would notice it anyway?

There are far, far better things that lie ahead than any we leave behind. (C.S. Lewis)

And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise. (Philippians 4:8 ~ NLT)

Joy Over One

June 22, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I think I saved a life last night. It may not seem like all that much when it’s written down in black and white, but I felt pretty good about it at the time.

Now that I think about it, it seemed like the night outside was a little brighter. Just a tiny bit.

Perhaps, I should just tell the story before I break my arm patting myself on the back. The red-headed lady who raised me used to worry about that. She said she did anyway. It could have been an exaggeration.

I don’t sleep as much at night as most folks I know. It’s a lifelong habit I’m not about to break now that I’ve entered what we once called the golden years. I’m not unhappy to have the quiet hours of the night to read and to think. Occasionally, I even put down a few rambling words to share with my friends.

Which brings me to last night. Not sleeping, at about 2:00 a.m., I wandered through the house, checking the doors and appliances one last time. Walking into the darkened family room, I was startled by a bright, momentary light shining up on the ceiling near the outside wall. I wasn’t sure what it could have come from, but I waited a few seconds to see if it reoccurred. It never did but, still curious, I found a light on my phone and aimed it at the spot.

My mind had, in the few seconds I stood waiting, settled on the light from a firefly, or lightning bug, as the probable cause, but I thought it should have reappeared somewhere in the vicinity again if that was the case. Still, it wasn’t much of a surprise when the light from the phone revealed a lightning bug as the culprit.

There at the conjunction of the ceiling and outside wall, the bug hung, swinging unnaturally just an inch below the ceiling. It didn’t take long to see that it had flown into a barely visible spider web and become ensnared.

Before things get out of hand, I should inform you that the Lovely Lady assures me it hasn’t been very long since the cobwebs were last displaced by her brush, but the tiny arachnids can be persistent, constructing new webs in a matter of minutes when the mood takes them.

Did I mention they were tiny? Indeed, I laughed when I first saw what was happening. The lightning bug was jiggling back and forth as it hung there, and right beside it was the web-building spider, hardly one-tenth the size of its captive, busily spinning more sticky silk as it sidled around the body of the comparatively gigantic-sized lightning bug.

I like lightning bugs better than I do spiders. Who doesn’t?

We—most of us—chased fireflies as children in the twilight hours of the summer evenings, catching them and tossing them at each other, perhaps keeping them captive in a mayonnaise jar to light up our bedrooms later that night. I still love looking out over the freshly mown fields at night and seeing their flickering bodies lighting up the June landscape, making me think it could as easily still be fifty years ago.

But it’s not fifty years ago. And I can no longer bear the thought of even that one little bug dying to feed the tiny spider on the ceiling.

Reaching up gently, I pulled the bug and the web, spider and all, down from the ceiling. The spider, not to be denied its trophy, dropped down a few inches on a strand of web and then, crawled up just as quickly toward the lightning bug, ready to begin weaving the web-prison around his body again.

I shook the belligerent little assailant to the floor, making sure the connecting web was broken so it couldn’t make another trip up to the lightning bug, and then I examined the poor victim.

Motionless, its head was bent down towards its thorax, pulled by the sticky, nearly invisible web that remained around it. It wasn’t moving so much as a single leg.

I was sure it was dead. In fact, I considered simply tossing it into the trash basket nearby.

Instead, I gently reached down with my fingertips and pulled at the sticky web, all the while seeing the unmoving legs and body lying in the palm of my hand. It was hopeless, but still, I pulled at the stubborn silk. Being careful not to pull a leg off as I worked, the task took longer than I anticipated, but it was probably not more than ten or fifteen seconds later when the lifeless body was free again.

Did I say it was hopeless? Lifeless?

I did, didn’t I?

We give up hope much too easily.

Where once there was light, we see darkness; where there was life, death. Even though we have experienced reprieves again and again ourselves, we give in so soon to dismay and dread.

The last of the web came away and the firefly instantly righted itself and started walking in my palm. Instantly!

Not dead, but alive!

I closed my fingers around it loosely and headed for the door (nobody wants a lightning bug flying in their house while they sleep!) to return him to his natural habitat. I stood on the concrete slab outside the back door and opened my hand, waiting to see what the little bug would do.

He got to the ends of my fingers but didn’t fly away. In my experience, they always fly when they reach the edge. Always.

Well, almost always.

This little fellow had had a bit of a shock. Death had him in its grip. The foregone conclusion had seemed inevitable. And now, life and freedom beckoned.

He needed a minute to clear his head. I would have, too.

I lowered my hand a bit and then, after raising it quickly, reversed the direction again. He took the hint, launching into the night air. A few feet out from where I stood, the light from the chemical reaction in his body showed clearly. Once—twice—I saw his light, and then he had joined the other late-night beacons in Dr. Weaver’s field, lighting up the night as they have for so many centuries going back to time immemorial.

Back from the dead.

Silly, isn’t it? All this attention and emotion wasted on a little lightning bug. Still, my heart swelled a bit as I thought about the joy of seeing one who is as good as dead joining the multitude of the living again.

It reminds me of something…

It’ll come to me. Maybe to you, too.

But I will admit to one thought that dims my joy a bit. Just a bit.

I can’t get that tiny spider and its puny, thin web out of my mind. How is it that such a minuscule thing, armed with no weapon to speak of, can take down an enemy many times its size? And so effortlessly, too.

The preacher in me wants to expound.

The grace-covered sinner I know myself to be is certain there is no need.

Today is a day to rejoice!

Where there was death, life has vanquished it altogether. Darkness threatened, but the light has not been overwhelmed.

Life. Light.

Great joy.

“‘They cannot conquer for ever!’ said Frodo. And then suddenly the brief glimpse was gone. The Sun dipped and vanished, and as if at the shuttering of a lamp, black night fell.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

“And when she finds it, she will call in her friends and neighbors and say, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found my lost coin.’ In the same way, there is joy in the presence of God’s angels when even one sinner repents.”
(Luke 15:9-10 ~ NLT)

High and Holy

June 2, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

On a recent late spring evening, not long enough ago for the memory to have faded, eight friends gathered in a home for dinner. Dinner and dominoes. And laughter. Perhaps, a few tears. It happens.

We’ve known each other for forty years plus a few. There have been tears. Some of them have come from the laughter. Laughter that starts with a giggle—perhaps a shriek—erupting into full-body fits (you know the kind), and eventually calming down into gasps of amusement with eyes being wiped on sleeves and spare napkins.

Of course, many of the tears never started with laughter. We’ve all raised children; heartbreak was inevitable. Parents and siblings have left this life and we’ve comforted and mourned. All of us are carrying heavy loads of one sort or another by now. We usually share the loads with each other, and we pray about them.

And still, we sit and eat, and laugh. And cry.

And sometimes, we play a game of chicken-foot with the dominoes.

On this Monday evening though, it seemed that something was missing. Something more than a game of dominoes was called for. As we played a second (or was it a third?) round, someone suggested we just needed to sing a little.

So, we sang. A little.

Sometime during the hour and a half we sang, in between songs I wondered aloud if we could keep our friends beside us when we sing in that great multitude of saints in Heaven someday. It only seems logical to me. We’ve sung and harmonized together for over forty years here; surely, we’ll be able to hear these lovely voices when we get up there.

Someone suggested that the singing would be so much better there. I didn’t argue, but I’m pretty sure it can’t be all that much better.

We sang praises. We sang scripture songs. We even sang a kid’s song or two.

There weren’t any spare napkins close to the piano, but I saw some eyes wiped on sleeves a time or two. And, when we finally stopped, hoarse and sung-out, there were smiles on every face.

Somehow, while we sang together, the atmosphere was brighter—the air we breathed in just a little sweeter.

And as we said our goodbyes, all agreed that the time of singing was exactly what we needed to lift our spirits and turn our eyes away from our problems.

No. The children and grandchildren trapped in a foreign country at the epicenter of the pandemic hadn’t suddenly been flown out (that miracle would wait a day or two), siblings facing surgery weren’t instantly healed, and a grandchild dealing with the prospect of a lifelong disease hadn’t been given a reprieve while we sang.

And yet, our burdens were distinctly lighter. All of them.

The storm still raged, but there was joy in spite of it. And peace.

I thought about the evening throughout the week. And I struggled to explain it. I couldn’t.

Then today, on Sunday afternoon, the Lovely Lady and I made our way to the band room at the local middle school for a rehearsal. It was the first rehearsal I had been a part of since the start of the Covid pandemic, nearly a year and a half ago.

The entire group would practice six or seven songs. We (the Lovely Lady and I) had one to play for. The music parts called for a horn and a flute on one song. Only one. I wasn’t sure it would be worth going for.

We went anyway.

We sat, listening to the saxes, trombones, and trumpets as they worked out their parts. I can’t speak for the Lovely Lady, but for me, it was delightful. Yes, there were wrong notes. Perhaps, there might have been some intonation problems. It didn’t matter.

It was wonderful.

And, when it came time for us to play our song, we became part of that community of music makers. We contributed to the wrong notes, at least I did. I may have made an entrance on the wrong beat, or even in the wrong measure. It didn’t matter.

Together, we made music.

There is joy in shared music, a satisfaction beyond the act of combining tonal qualities and counting beats. The process of creating harmonies and countermelodies out of the silence moves well past what the scientific method can explain.

As the music ended and the Lovely Lady and I made our exit, my mind drifted back to that evening of music making with our old friends, wanting to make comparisons. But somehow, the comparisons seemed to fail.

I want to say that the experience with our friends was a high and holy moment.

And it was.

Praises offered to God in a time of storm are repaid with the certain knowledge, the reassurance, of His loving arms holding us tightly through the raging waters. A faith offering, if you will, affirming that our God is faithful.

Paul and Silas knew it as they lay imprisoned in the jail in Philippi. At midnight, they sang hymns. Locked behind bars, with their feet in shackles, they sang and prayed loudly. Knowing it was likely to earn them extra stripes on their backs, they still praised the One they trusted with their lives. (Acts 16:16-40)

We are encouraged, as followers of God, to let His songs fill our hearts and the air around us. Throughout life, whatever our circumstances, we sing, bearing witness to His faithfulness.

And what of the other experience, playing with the folks in the band room? If the singing was high and holy, how do I describe that?

Odd. I think it, too, is high and holy, albeit from a little more earthy starting point. We are God’s creation, designed by Him to live in community. Music is a gift from Him, as is all art, meant to raise our sights from the sweat and pain of everyday existence.

Mere survival was never his plan for humanity. We were designed to thrive and, moreover, to thrive with joy. From Jubal in the early pages of Genesis until modern-day prodigies, music has been a constant in history, a vehicle for faith, for history (storytelling), for entertainment.

As with all of God’s good gifts, many have used it for base, profane ends. And still, music and art have the ability to raise our spirits, to lift our hearts from the burdens of pain and lost love, to bring to mind things higher than our ofttimes drab and difficult circumstances.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights… (James 1:17 ~ NKJV)

Bill Gaither wrote the words I sang years ago in a men’s quartet. More than once, I’ve wondered if it was proper to add the part about making music with friends. I’m coming to believe it’s completely appropriate.

“Loving God, loving each other,
Making music with my friends.”

As often as not these days, the music I make with others of kindred spirits could best be described as joyful noise. Contrary to our human comparisons and judgmental spirits, God doesn’t ask us to offer Him perfection.

Rather, He asks us to come to Him with open hearts and hands, giving our sincere offerings freely. Joyful noise is a sweet offering to His ears.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the lands! (Psalm 100:1)

High. And holy.

Making music with my friends.

It is in the process of being worshipped that God communicates His presence to men.
(C.S. Lewis)

My heart, O God, is steadfast,
my heart is steadfast;
I will sing and make music.
(Psalm 57:7 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips