I’m Going to Tell the Truth for the Next Month

July 9, 2020July 9, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

You can’t believe everything you read

The red-headed lady who raised me was the first person I heard say those words. I suppose it’s not unusual to learn truth from your mother. Her truths came mostly in short, easy-to-remember maxims and sometimes, in long run-on sentences with Bible verses thrown in for good measure.

Those truths, I remember. Some, I even still live by. Especially these days, I remember often that you can’t believe everything you read.

I never expected to learn anything from a fortune cookie. It’s probably a good thing.

We’d been cooped up in the house for weeks on end, waiting out the virus. Restaurants were closed; drive-through lanes, the only way to get food we didn’t have to cook ourselves. We finally gave in one evening and bought Chinese.

The meal was wonderful, the flavors a nice departure from the familiar menu of the kitchen at our place (not that I’m complaining about home-cooking at all). It didn’t take long for the Lovely Lady and me to clear our plates of the rice and various chicken recipes that accompanied it.

What about the fortune cookies?

Oh yes, all that was left were the fortune cookies. One for her. One for me. I don’t have any inkling of what hers said. I suppose that’s normal.

For some reason, we think the little pre-printed piece of paper inserted into the fold of the hard, crunchy cookie material is only meant for the one who happens to crack it open and pull it out.

I suspect, if we’re silly enough to think the phrase or sentence contained on the paper is of any importance, we might as well believe it was specifically intended for the person who opens it. It is, after all, a fortune cookie, is it not?

Still, the fateful words in my cookie were a little shocking.

“The truth will be important to you for the next month.”

The first thought in my head was, and what about the day after the month is over? I want to be sure of my options, you understand.

Right about then though, another thought took my brain captive: The truth hurts! No, literally! It hurts!

As I read the fortune, I had bitten the cookie, expecting it to crunch into little crumbs on my tongue. Instead, the sharp edge sliced into the roof of my mouth, drawing blood immediately. Every time I ate solid food for the next couple of days, I remembered that the truth hurts, because of the very real pain I felt.

Yes. It was another of that red-headed lady’s truths. Short and not-so-sweet. The truth hurts. Once again, she was right.

Truth is essential

Okay, I’m over the pain now and I want to talk about that fortune. I’d like to know why the truth is going to be important for me, but only for the next 30 days.

I’m certain the truth is always essential. Full-stop.

To a follower of Christ, truth is not an on-again, off-again option but is an ever-present tenet of our faith. His Word is filled with instructions that are clear and unmistakable. For example:

The Lord detests lying lips,
but he delights in people who are trustworthy. (Proverbs 12:22, NIV)

Why then, do His followers so often deal dishonestly? Why do we lie to those we love? To those we barely know?

On a recent afternoon, as the Lovely Lady and I sat around the table with friends and family, the conversation turned to lies told us by our parents. Several at the table told of untruths they learned about either late in their parents’ lives or after they had died. I don’t exaggerate when I tell you there was emotional devastation for those left to deal with the consequences of some of those lies.

When we tell a lie, we bind ourselves to that lie. Until the day we confess it and finally tell the truth, we are shackled to it. Again and again, lies are required to prop up the original untruth. Lie upon lie, compounded until the guilt must be unbearable.

And yet, Jesus told his followers (in front of His detractors) that there is freedom in the truth.

To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31–32, NIV)

Truth is freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from shame. Freedom from a dishonest past that ties us up in knots of failure and terror of discovery.

Truth doesn’t always hide in plain sight

Boy, that’s an understatement! We live in a day of truth-twisting like none before, public officials who build cases from half-truths and generalities, people groups who purposely blend lies with myth and call it truth, individuals who spread information they know to be inaccurate, defending their actions with excuses and slander. More than a few on that list above claim the title of Christian.

Did I say it’s a day of truth-twisting like none before? I’m sorry. That wasn’t quite accurate.

We complain today that we no longer know what is truth and what isn’t. An influential man, in about 33 AD, said the same thing.

“What is truth?” retorted Pilate. With this he went out again to the Jews gathered there and said, “I find no basis for a charge against him.” (John 18:38, NIV)

Sound familiar? The political/religious leaders had fabricated a case against Jesus, using witnesses who actually reported words He had said, twisting them to make Him appear treasonous. Then, when the entire group was in agreement, they took that information to the Roman governor.

After speaking with the accused, Pilate tried to square the “truth” from the priests with what he heard from Jesus. His response to the confusing dichotomy was that phrase we hear repeated again and again today. Two thousand years later, we still are seeking the answer.

What is truth?

Confusion reigns right now

We have a virus that won’t be pinned down to any recognizable modus operandi, with no response that can be agreed upon. There is massive racial unrest that has fractured even the most conservative and liberal organizations in our country, with slogans and accusations hurled in the name of truth from all directions. Our government is in disarray — every voice claiming the high ground of truth, with no sign of any resolution.

When we employ the truth for our own ends, we almost always wrap it in exaggeration and innuendo, the final result being something that resembles the truth not at all.

And yet, we must strive for the truth, searching it out, stripping away the falsehoods and non-essentials. If we don’t, we will be bound in this confusion indefinitely.

I’m reminded of a conversation between two characters in The Lord of the Rings story. Eomer, confused by events beyond his comprehension, wonders how one should decide what is right in such a time. Aragorn tells him nothing has changed. Nothing.

Nothing has changed

Truth is still essential. We are still called to be ambassadors of truth. It can still be found. Though not easily, I’ll grant you. And, when it is found, it will not be our servant, lending itself to our selfish causes. But it will be found.

I wonder if we don’t search in all the wrong places for truth. Perhaps, if we focused on the basics, we might find a way to walk in truth, to live the truth in our lives.

Basics? Where can we find those?

For us, who claim to follow Christ, we simply need to start there — following Christ. His claim is to be the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

If we’re following Truth, really following it in the spiritual sense, I have a strong suspicion that truth, in the practical, physical sense, will become clear to us.

When we participate in the truth-twisting, divisive conversations of the world, we are not following truth.

The basics are that we are to love God (who is truth) with everything we have in us.

The basics are that we must then love people, wanting the same good things, the same advantages, we claim for ourselves. Our truth-telling is to be done in that same love, building them up and not making them less.

The basics are that we are to focus on good things, truthful things, things that are honorable, and worthy of admiration. It’s a focus I’m not seeing all that much these days, even in myself.

So, here’s what I’m going to be doing

For the next month, I’m going to stop listening to the lies. For the next month, I’m going to stop telling the lies. For the next month, I’m going to focus on the good and true things that are all around me.

Then, after next month, I’m going to do the same thing for the month after that, and the month after that, and the… Well, you get the idea.

I could use some company. Then, if the truth hurts, we’ll be able to comfort each other.

Truth does that sometimes. Literally and figuratively. It’s still better than the alternative.

For the next month. And then some.

Eomer said, “How is a man to judge what to do in such times?”
“As he has ever judged,” said Aragorn. “Good and evil have not changed since yesteryear, nor are they one thing among Elves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.” (from The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien)

Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ. (Ephesians 4:15, NIV)

Excuse Me, Your Gentleness is Showing

July 2, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I sent my friend a birthday greeting recently. It wasn’t anything special, just two sentences on a popular social media site. Still, he was kind enough to return a note of thanks, with a little something added.

I wasn’t sure I wanted the little something.

You see, some words are light and carefree. There is no expectation and little need to consider further action. Words like, “Thanks for thinking about me.” Or, “I had a great day, thanks!”

Unfortunately, he didn’t choose light and carefree.

These words were compelling. They not only made a statement; they left the reader—me—with an expectation of fulfillment.

These words had weight. Really. It was weight that I felt.

I still feel it today.

After his thanks, my friend added this,

“You have a gift of gentleness, and I am grateful for it. Thank you for being a great example to many men!”

I want to be happy—or proud—or even embarrassed.

What I am, is conflicted. And, challenged.

I don’t know if I can live up to my friend’s vision. The man I see every day in the mirror isn’t gentle. He’s not a great example to others. He isn’t even a so-so example to others.

Perhaps I should tell him he has me all wrong. Maybe my children could tell him. The Lovely Lady could give him a hint or two (could she ever!). The customer care supervisor at the phone company—the one I called a couple of weeks ago—could really give him an ear full.

Why, even the dogs in the backyard might (if they could talk) set him straight. I know the female, who’s been digging holes where I just planted grass seed last week, would disabuse him of any illusions that might linger.

Gentleness? Me?

Hardly!

image by Rudy & Peter Skitterians on Pixabay

But the words have weight. Gravitas, even. Serious weight.

My friend meant them. He has observed me living life among others and he has reason to believe there is gentleness in how I comport myself.

I suppose now I will need to make it so. After all, the apostle—my namesake—left instructions that all of us should make it our lifelong practice.

Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. (Philippians 4:5, NIV)

Wait. How did that second sentence get in there? This is between me and the people I meet every day. I’ll do my best to show gentleness. I’ll attempt to make it evident to them. That’s all.

Why does it matter that the Lord is near? Why can’t I just do my part and they do theirs?

I suppose part of the answer to that question lies with my responses up above. I have known all my days that I should treat others with gentle hands, and voice, and heart. And yet, on my own, I cannot fulfill my responsibility.

I blow up. I respond with sarcasm. I rip into them.

Oh, most of the time, I can feign gentleness. I can talk a good game, and act the part. But when I stand in front of the mirror at the end of the day and look into the face I see there, I know.

I know.

But God is near. He is. Jesus Himself said it would always be true.

You can see it for yourself. I am always going to be with you, wherever you go, however long you live, until time is no more. (Matthew 28:20, my paraphrase)

He is there to remind. To prick my spirit. To give strength.

There’s a reason gentleness and self-control are gifts of the Spirit. I’m expected to put them into practice in His presence. Again and again, until they are as much a part of my daily routine as breathing and eating.

And yet somehow society has come, over the eons, to believe that aggressiveness and demonstrations of power are signs of strength—of character.

Don’t believe me? Look around you today. Who are our idols, our heroes? Are they kind and caring? Or, are they argumentative and combative?

In all our media—in conversations overheard on the public transport—in public messages from pastors and politicians, activists and artists—all around us, we see little self-control and certainly few gentle spirits. And, we seem to revel in the lack of such things.

We—the ones who claim to be close to God—appear to have no interest in gentleness. None.

Recently, on a social media site I frequent, a Christian friend posted a picture of a man with a brightly dyed beard, wearing a woman’s swimsuit, walking along what appeared to be a fashion runway.

The question posed with the photo was, “Can someone tell me what this is?”

The vitriol and hate spattered the page below the photo. I didn’t know all of the folks who replied. I’m making an assumption when I say they probably all claim to be followers of Jesus Christ.

May I tell you one thing of which I’m certain? Positive, even.

God doesn’t hate the person in that photo. He doesn’t.

That person—and every other person who has ever drawn breath on this spinning ball of dirt—is so precious to our God that His Son gave up His body and breath for them.

Every one of them. Us.

We will never look in the eyes of a human who isn’t loved by God.

And yet we claim the right to treat these, whom our God loves beyond all reason, hatefully and without mercy.

While He is near, we do it.

A few years ago, a popular song suggested that God is watching us, a not unlikely concept, but the next phrase claimed His oversight was from a distance. And, sometimes it can feel like that.

But, feelings aren’t facts. It turns out God is watching us. While He walks beside us. While His Spirit lives in us.

How we treat folks around us matters. To Him, it matters. It matters to them.

And, in the end, it will matter to us. More than we know, I think.

It is. It’s high time I become what people believe me to be. Or, at least make a start.

The red-headed lady who raised me always told me I should be a gentleman. She wasn’t wrong. She rarely was.

A gentle man.

God is near.

Be kind to each other. It is better to commit faults with gentleness than to work miracles with unkindness. (Mother Teresa of Calcutta)

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. (Galatians 5:22-23, NIV)

Headstrong

April 15, 2020April 15, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Image by Jose’ Alejandro Cuffia on Unsplash

Headstrong.

It’s not a complimentary word. There’s a reason for that.

It was a lifetime ago. The highlight of summer camp was always the time we spent riding horses. For this kid, anyway. Swimming was good; archery, too. But horseback riding? The pinnacle of every day was the time spent in the saddle.

Before we rode, we actually had to saddle the beasts. It was no small accomplishment to wrestle those heavy western-style leather saddles up above our heads, but the wranglers wouldn’t do it for us. Then there was the bridle—with a bit.

Some horses didn’t care much for that process. I’m remembering that, as a 10-year-old boy, I didn’t either. Those teeth were larger than I was comfortable with. A few of the beasts didn’t mind nipping with them, either.

I learned.

Well? It was either learn or go do leather-craft.

After the bit went into the mouth, the bridle had to go over the ears. And it had to fit. Not too tight. Not too loose. Too tight, and it could injure the horse. Too loose and it could injure the rider. That’s right. The rider.

I found that out the hard way. One day, as we were riding the trail—the one with the barbed-wire fence on one side, and the mesquite trees and prickly-pear cactus on the other—the wrangler noticed the straps of the bridle on my horse were slack over his head. He made a comment about it but decided we could wait until we were back at the corral to readjust the strap. In hindsight, it wasn’t a great decision.

Mere moments later, the skittish horse jerked his head and, chomping his teeth down on the bit that was hanging a little too low, took off running. At first, it was just a trot, but within a few feet, the gait turned into an all-out gallop.

I stuck in the saddle like a sand-burr on a sock, but the headstrong pony soon left the trail. Fortunately for me, he headed into the cactus and mesquite instead of the other direction. I’ve seen what happens when a horse runs his rider into a barbed-wire fence. Still, I was terrified.

Ducking below the low-hanging branches of the stunted trees and pulling my legs up as high above the cactus as I could, I sawed on the reins, but to no avail. With the bit lodged where my mount was in control of it, nothing I could do affected him in the slightest.

It might have been all of 20 seconds (it seemed much longer) before the wrangler caught up to us and, pulling his horse in front of mine, reached over and grabbed the cheek strap of the bridle, turning my horse gently in a circle and then to a stop.

I got off and tightened up the bridal strap.

Then I pulled some prickly-pear spines from my leg. The ones I could get to. There would be more pain later.

Headstrong. It’s a good word to describe a horse with the bit between its teeth. Somehow, it seems, the word might be used to characterize more than just horses.

But I don’t want to leave the horses just yet. I’m remembering another time when we were riding all those years ago.

It wasn’t all barbed-wire fences and cactus out there. At one point the trail led through a mowed field, with grass on either side. The wrangler who was with us suggested we might like to learn what it was like to sit astride a galloping horse.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Give him his head.”

It was beautiful. Beautiful and frightening. But mostly it was beautiful.

My mount, given permission to run, took the opportunity and stretched out. Like sitting in a rocking chair, it was. Sort of. Nothing like that wild dash through the bush and cactus had been, anyway.

As we neared the perimeter of the meadow, all it took was a gentle backward pressure on the reins in my hands, and the cooperative beast slowed to a trot and then to a walk.

It was the same horse. Both times.

No. They didn’t take the animal out and shoot him after he had run me through the cactus and mesquite, bit held firmly in teeth. They knew what he was capable of. Good and bad.

There was still hope for him.

For days, I’ve been thinking about the Scripture reading I did during Holy Week. Just last week, on Thursday night. It doesn’t seem to fit much with an old man’s memories of summer camp, but stick with me a little while longer.

I read about something Jesus said on the same night in which He was betrayed. (1 Corinthians 11:23 ~ KJV)

How many times have I heard the words? The pastor stands before his congregation, the communion table behind him and reads again the familiar passage.

But, did you know the Savior did—and said—other things on that fateful night besides eating the last supper?

On that same night, the night on which He was betrayed, He told Peter, the headstrong disciple, that he would deny his Teacher, not once, but three times.

He knew the man.

Knew how impetuous he was. How stubborn. How inclined to go his own way.

He had already prayed that Peter’s faith wouldn’t fail. And, these—these—are the words He says to Peter:

“When you have turned back to me, strengthen your brothers.”
(Luke 22:32 ~ NET)

Before Peter denied being His follower, He was assured of restoration.

Before!

Chew on that a minute.

Peter would turn around (repent). He would spend his last breath and his last reserve of strength serving and encouraging his brothers.

But I am just now digesting, just now getting the slightest glimmer of comprehension of the love of this Savior who came for us.

He will never let go of us!

Headstrong though we are—and that, we are—He restores us again and again.

What I am declaring is this: The One we serve, the One who holds us in His hand, is able to hold us until we stand before Him in Glory.

His forgiveness knows no limit, His mercy has no boundary.

I have been the headstrong horse, again and again, taking the bit between my teeth and going my own way. At a gallop, going my own way.

Still, He calls me back. From the brambles and from the desert, He restores me to the green pastures and cool waters.

Sometimes—in His good time—He even gives me my head.

I’d like to run along this path for a while. There’s room for more than one here.

It’ll be beautiful and frightening. Mostly, just beautiful.

Are you coming with?

I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee…
(Luke 15:18 ~ KJV)

I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.
(John 10:28 ~ NIV)

And does Jesus, our Messiah, hold forever those He loves? (He does)
(from Is He Worthy ~ Andrew Peterson/Ben Shive)

Not Just Another Still Life

April 10, 2020April 10, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We call this Holy Week. The reasons are clear; I won’t argue against it. Still, it hasn’t felt all that set apart.

I wrote earlier today that the edges of these days have felt much the same as the middles. The Lovely Lady asked me the date a while ago and I had no answer for her.

It’s hard to observe Maundy Thursday when you don’t remember if Tuesday or Wednesday preceded it.

And yet, the calendar said it was Maundy Thursday. The day many followers of Jesus remember His servant heart as He washed the feet of His disciples. They read the scripture over again and perhaps even celebrated His Last Supper with wine and bread.

Me? I looked at a painting on my wall. That’s it up above. A still life, they call it.

As if.

I shared the painting with a few online friends today, along with a poem about still life paintings a poet friend had pointed out a day or two ago. I thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, the painting won’t keep still. Not in my mind, anyway.

I first saw this particular piece of art hanging on the wall of an old saint. I’ve written of her before. Miss Peggy was a faithful servant of her God all the days of her life. But, this story isn’t about her, although she did leave the painting to me after her passing.

The artist is also a friend, another faithful servant of God. Sam is a native of China, having come to this country in the 1980s as a student. There were other reasons for him to leave his native land, but I’d just get the details wrong if I told it, since it’s not my story.

Besides, this story isn’t really about him either.

In a way, it’s about me, stuck here in still life. You know, the life prescribed for me by the medical experts of the day, along with the political powers, who are endeavoring to fight an invisible enemy by dividing and conquering.

Still life. Perhaps, the story is about a reader or two, as well. You’ll know if it is.

Most artists choose their subjects based on aesthetics. Do the colors coordinate; do they clash just enough to draw the eye? Are the objects balanced in their placement? Do the items demonstrate the ability of the artist to capture light and shadow, or texture?

This painting ticks those boxes. It appeals to the eye. It even causes me to admire the talent of the artist.

But, I know Sam. He’s not interested in my praise. Or, yours.

This still life is meant to capture the heart of the observer, to squeeze the soul, and to cause us to walk away with a new vision of who we are.

The bowl is not for food, but for water. A basin, intended to wash away the dust and grime of the world. Perhaps, something like the basin our Savior used as He washed the feet of those who would use those same feet to walk away from Him that very night. (John 13:5)

The kettle and teacup represent comfort and calm. From a culture that views tea as much more than a drink to start the day, but as a celebration of life, the pouring out of this precious liquid quiets the turbulent spirit and brings peace.

Like cups of cold water that meet much more than a physical need, we share the necessities of spiritual comfort with our fellow travelers. (Matthew 10:42)

The meaning of the medicine bottle, along with the mortar and pestle, is clear. Healing comes as we minister and are ministered to. Using the tools at hand, gifts from our Great Healer, we help to heal the hurts and ease the pain of this world.

The crying prophet is assured that there is medicine enough, and there is a Physician, but wonders why they haven’t been applied. (Jeremiah 8:22)

It’s still a good question today.

Washing. Comfort. Healing. How well we know the necessity of all three in this time of sickness and separation.

As I write, Good Friday is upon us. It is the day when we remember the incredible sacrifice made for us. A sacrifice made to heal our great sickness.

His torment was the result of our rebellion; our deeds caused Him to be crushed. His pain was to heal our hurt; His wounds have made us whole. (Isaiah 53.5 ~ my paraphrase)

Perhaps, especially on this day, our contemplation in this still life we’ve become part of could be a place to begin. Before we walk away, will our hearts be captured, our souls squeezed, and that new vision be ours?

It is, after all, not just another still life.

“Comfort, comfort my people,”
Says your God.
(Isaiah 40:1 ~ NET)

For weeks now I have been meditating on still lifes,
The tumble of plums and pears, the overturned goblets
And the sundry bouquets of flowers, the skulls and flutes.
I have grown bored with their quaintness and simplicity
And, well, their stillness, which lacks the narrative power
Of Christ’s agony in the garden or the sublime
Force of Turner’s slave ship, and alp or a starry night.
I tire of the repetitions of subject matter,
The endless spill of quinces, grapes, and pomegranates—
Though, child of time that I am, caught up in the thunder
And motion of history, I sometimes find comfort
In the calm seductions of pitcher and vase, shadow
And light, the modest raptures of the ordinary.
(Morri Creech ~ American poet)

Do You Know I’m Doing the Best I Can?

March 16, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

No, but hum a few bars and I’ll catch up with you.

We never know when illumination will come, do we?

I find it’s often in the moments when I myself am not going to be presented in the best light.

It happened in the Chinese restaurant a night or two ago. Well, in the restroom of the Chinese restaurant, to be more precise.

In the present climate, with so-called social distancing being the order of the day, one might wonder why the Lovely Lady and I would wander out to eat with friends at all, but at least I had the presence of mind to wash my hands before I returned to the table.

I even remembered to sing the Happy Birthday song in my head while I did it. But it seems that may be where I went wrong.

I was doing fine until I got to the phrase, “Happy birthday, dear .” And then the wheels started to come off.

I couldn’t think of who I wanted to sing to. My hands stopped moving. Still, no name at all came to mind. In the absence of inspiration, the singing just trailed off. In my head, I mean.

I looked at the man in the mirror for help, but he just had a confused look on his face.

Finally, getting back on track, I washed my hands for a while longer and headed back out to join my dinner partners. Yes, I’m pretty sure I washed for at least twenty seconds. At least, I think I did. I hope I did.

Now, if you’re wondering how I’ve gotten along with washing my hands up till now without getting stuck, I’ll tell you. I’ve thought about this a good bit in the time since the unfortunate incident. Really, I have.

I never tried to sing the words before.

I just hummed.

You don’t have to remember the words when you hum. At all. You just have to know the melody.

You’ve heard the old joke, haven’t you?

Why do hummingbirds hum?
They don’t know the words.

I said it was an old joke; I didn’t say it was a funny one.

Back to the subject at hand, I’m thinking the singing and handwashing thing was a failure. Perhaps I’m not as intelligent as I’d like to believe.

I can’t even sing and wash my hands at the same time.

But, then I remember. This is where the illumination comes into play.

I can hum and wash my hands at the same time. I know I can. I’ve done it before. Successfully.

I’ll do that the next few times.

So, how is that illumination? Here is what I learned:

Frequently, the best we can do is not the best we’ll ever do.

That’s a good thing. But we don’t let it stop us from doing the best we can manage today.

Don’t let the embarrassment of yesterday keep you from stepping up again tomorrow.

A lady of my acquaintance told me about being asked to pray at a meeting the other day. She doesn’t pray in public — says her tongue won’t move the right way and the words come out wrong.

She did it anyway. When she was done, she said amen and the meeting went ahead. I’d call that a success. She’s not sure.

Now she wonders if she should sit in a less conspicuous place next time.

I think she should sit where she’ll be called on again. And again.

Sooner or later, if you keep trying to sing the song, you get the words right.

Joseph, he of the multi-colored coat, started out carrying food and water to his brothers in the field, moving to being a trustee in a prison, before becoming a ruler in Egypt and savior-of-sorts to his people.

My namesake, the Apostle, attempted to serve God by throwing His followers into jail. Paul eventually got it right, becoming one of the first missionaries in the early Church and the most prolific writer of the New Testament.

Thomas Edison had thousands of failures before getting a light bulb that would function. Albert Einstein failed his college entrance exam. Walt Disney was fired from his newspaper job because he lacked imagination and had no good ideas.

They all kept doing the best they could — and they got better.

I’m going to keep humming (and working up the suds). Someday the words will come. My hands will stay germ-free in the meantime.

I’m sure I heard a fellow come out of a restroom the other day singing the words, “And many more.”

I wanted to shake hands with him and congratulate him on finishing the task, but I didn’t.

The day is coming when I’ll be that good, too.

You just wait and see.

Hope means to keep living amid desperation and to keep humming in the darkness.
(Henri Nouwen ~ Dutch Catholic theologian ~ 1932–1996)

Draw near to God and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and make your hearts pure, you double-minded.
(James 4:8 ~ NET)

The Pear Tree is Buzzing

March 4, 2020March 4, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

It’s not my favorite chore. But then, none of them is. I’d just as soon take a long walk with the Lovely Lady, or sit and nap in my easy chair. Still, time spent outside with the two black labs is never dull.

One friend reminds me that this is hero’s work, cleaning up after the family pets. His little girl says it is, so it must be true.

Hero’s work. Yeah, right.

Well, someone’s got to do it. I had made my rounds and was just finishing up on this beautiful early March afternoon when I heard it. The traffic noises had dwindled down to nothing and the dogs were off dozing in the sun, so there were no other distractions besides the cardinals and the finches.

I stood for a moment and listened. The tall pear tree above my head was buzzing. It’s not normal for trees to buzz, I know. Trees creak. They howl as the wind blows past their branches. Once in a while, they crash down as the storms toss and tear at them.

Trees don’t buzz.

But this one was. The ancient tree, most of it past the age when it will ever bear any edible fruit, already is covered — absolutely covered — with beautiful white blossoms. Even though the subfreezing nights will return again before the calendar says spring is really here, today there are buds everywhere.

The bees don’t know any better. They are swarming the blossoms, virtually swimming in pollen, some of which they will share with other trees, and some of which they will selfishly keep for their own purposes.

It’s a fair trade.

Can I tell you something? I just stood and listened to the bees today with joy in my soul.

Why joy, you wonder? Well yes. It could be that I love spring, while I do not love the season which precedes it. That could have something to do with it. But the real reason, at the heart of things, is Winnie.

You know. Pooh.

Winnie-the-Pooh.

That buzzing-noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there’s a buzzing-noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you’re a bee.
(from Winnie the Pooh, by A. A. Milne)

Child-like joy.

The reminder of kinder, quieter days — when one stood under trees to listen to bees, or gazed over fences at the cattle on the other side, or skipped rocks across ponds just for the pure delight of it.

It has been a hard winter. Oh, I’m not talking about the weather. By that standard, the winter has been mild.

But, I will attest that winter has gripped my heart in its cold, gray grasp for too many months. The deaths of family members and illnesses that wouldn’t relent for anything have frozen me in place for much too long.

The bees tell me the world is turning to a new spring. My walk this afternoon did too, in a different sense.

I happened past the school nearby as the students were released for the day. Striding along the sidewalks, I was soon shoulder-to-shoulder with several of the rowdy eleven and twelve-year-olds. Talking with and shoving each other as they headed home, they moved a bit slower than this sixty-something-year-old man.

Until I tried to pass them.

One boy had squeezed through a gap between two others as he tried to catch up with his friends, so I attempted to do the same, saying, “I’ll just slide between you, too.”

“Oh, no you won’t!” one of them retorted.

The boys didn’t really even look at me as I moved between them, but they both sped up immediately, matching my pace. Side-by-side for the rest of the way through the housing complex and past the Boys and Girls Club, we walk-raced.

I was ahead for a second or two, and then one or both of them would push past me, laughing and talking smack all the while. We reached the point at which we would part company at about the same time, but I conceded the race to them.

The smaller boy left me with these words of wisdom:

“Yeah. I think we really blew you away.”

Joy. Spring is coming. It is.

Old men get older. Young folks blow them away, in so many ways. And that’s as it should be.

Returning home a little later, I invited the Lovely Lady to come stand under the pear tree with me. I wonder if the neighbors were laughing at us. It doesn’t matter. We stood there with smiles on our faces as we listened to the sound of spring approaching.

After supper, I was sitting wrapped in thought when I heard a message come in on my phone. A young man I’ve known since he was three or four had sent a note to thank me for things I don’t remember doing. He talked of example and friendship and teaching, mentioning attributes I wouldn’t have assigned to myself. As I read, I again felt new life being breathed into my spirit.

Some days, when we least expect it, joy explodes again and again, painting the backdrops in greens, yellows, and bright blues.

For a moment, I thought I heard buzzing again. Spring is about new life, blossoming fresh and clean.

It seems I always feel the need to find a spiritual application to these little experiences I write about. There is always something to learn.

God is faithful to keep His promises. Spring will always come.

But, you already know that.

The joy of His extras, though — That’s just fuel enough to get us through the cold, gray days still to come.

Time to store up some honey.

Or, something even sweeter.

Pleasant words are like a honeycomb,
sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.
(Proverbs 16:24, NET Bible)

The year‘s at the spring,
And day‘s at the morn;
Morning‘s at seven;
The hill-side‘s dew-pearl’d;
The lark‘s on the wing;
The snail‘s on the thorn;
God‘s in His heaven —
All‘s right with the world!
(from Pippa’s Song, by Robert Browning)

Shade and Shadow

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

He’s gone. Dead. Passed away.

Gone.

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

How would he have gone any other way?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The shade is gone.

Ah, but the shadow is not.

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

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

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

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

Roots, sunk deep.

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

I know there’s a river that runs there.

Shade.

By the river.

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

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

When Is It Too Late to Make a Comeback?

September 25, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Would you like to open a music store again?”

I asked the (mostly) rhetorical question of the Lovely Lady the other day as we drove past the building where we had operated such a store for many years. I didn’t expect a positive answer.

I got one anyway.

“Yes, in a lot of ways, I wish we could.”

Though driving down a busy street, my eyes were instantly glued to her face, attempting to read the real story there. Wistfulness, I thought. Perhaps even reminiscence of our youth and once vivid dreams for the future.

We both laughed. It won’t happen and we know it. There were valid reasons for closing the little store a few years ago and they haven’t changed. Still, it seems we often sense a yearning for days past.

No, we won’t own a music store again. That doesn’t mean we’re finished. We’re not ready to sit down and begin the long (or short) wait for God.

But I am realizing this important thing: We all, young or old, have a need to be of use to folks around us. It’s a desire built deep into the human spirit.

We need to be needed.

I talked with him tonight, the old preacher. Many years, he’s spent on this planet—most of them in one pulpit or another, teaching the Word of God.

Nearly two years ago, he said goodbye to his last permanent congregation. His family breathed a sigh of relief, thinking with him that the time had come for him to rest and enjoy life. But, that’s just it; he doesn’t enjoy life if he’s not preaching.

And, as we spoke on the phone tonight, he let me know he would be standing in the pulpit again starting next month.

“It’s not permanent,” he hastened to explain, as if what I thought mattered. “I’m just filling in for a few weeks.”

For some reason, hearing his words, I thought about the flowers. I know, it makes no sense, but it is the way my brain works.

You’ve seen them before—the surprise lilies. They go by other names, these oddities of nature. Resurrection lilies. Magic lilies. And yes, naked ladies.

It is August in Arkansas, so the surprise lilies are standing proudly in yards and fields all around me. There is a row of them in my front yard, even. They’re not so much of a surprise, after all. I knew right where to look for them.

In the spring, after the dreary, cold days of winter, all of the bulbs seemed to explode with greenery and color. The daffodils, the crocuses, and the irises too—all of them were working to outdo each other with colors and showy blossoms. All of them, that is, except the surprise lilies.

The only thing that pops up in the spring from the bulbs these lovelies keep hidden underground is greenery. Lots of broad, green leaves. They are beautiful in their own right, but not all that awe-inspiring. Still, I know by now to be patient. I protect the growth, allowing it to cover the ground, doing its work.

Making promises for the future.

And then, just like that—about the same time as the daffodils and the irises, the green leaves turn brown and die. Gone. Finished. Rotting into the ground. Or, so it seems.

Months pass. Nothing. Grass covers over the place where the bulbs cower under the dirt. Nothing to see here, folks. Move on.

But, the end of July comes. The hot sun beats down. The grass grows crunchy underfoot. And suddenly, in the last full month of the summer, the plants erupt from the ground.

There is not a leaf to be seen. A beautiful, thin stalk with multiple buds atop it grows within a couple of days to two feet tall. The buds cannot open fast enough into their brilliant pink blossoms.

They are glorious! Perhaps more so because of their delayed appearance. Every year, I wonder if this will be the year they fail. Every year, during the last week of July, they keep their promises made in the springtime.

People are not flowers. I know that. But, again and again, I see folks defying the odds—age, handicaps, illnesses—to keep the promises of youth.

It is a mistake for us to look at circumstances and count anyone, including ourselves, out of the game.

There are no has-beens. Every one of us who is still breathing is still becoming.

The disciple who spoke so often of love said it well, I think:

Loved ones, we are already children of God, but it is not clear yet what we will become. When we are with Christ, then it will be clear as crystal, and we will be just like Him. (1 John 3:2 ~ my paraphrase)

I may be covered up with dirt and hiding right now, but just wait! The glorious part is still to come. It won’t be because of my own abilities and cobbled-together plans, but because of the Creator and His master plan.

Do you think you’re finished? Does it look like no one needs you? Don’t count yourself out!

Did I tell you the preacher is eighty-nine years old? He says he’s got another thirty years in him. I’m not quite sure he’s joking.

Perhaps, we could all take a lesson from the old preacher’s favorite scripture as we anticipate the next step in our becoming:

‘For I know what I have planned for you,’ says the Lord. ‘I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future filled with hope.’
(Jeremiah 29:11, NET)

No, we can’t go back to the past again. But what comes next promises to be spectacular.

Spectacular.

And, maybe a little bit surprising.

______________________________

I’d like to think the best of me
Is still hiding up my sleeve.
(from No Such Thing ~ John Mayer ~ 2001)

So the Lord blessed Job in the second half of his life even more than in the beginning.
(Job 42:12a, NLT)

______________________________

The World Changers are Living Just Next Door to Me

September 12, 2019September 12, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are evenings when the Lovely Lady and I retreat to our den, huddled or sprawled—whichever—in our comfortable corners, and chew bubble gum. Well, it’s not real bubble gum; that stuff wreaks havoc on the dental work at our time of life.

The bubble gum we chew is of a more enigmatic character. Mental bubble gum, I like to call it. Time-wasting programs on the television; game shows or travelogues, sometimes a murder mystery.

Why the term bubble gum? The similarity must be evident to even the most unconcerned of observers; something to occupy the facilities, but not to overtax their abilities. No actual tasting and swallowing (and certainly, no nutrition), simply a repetition of motion and result, until finally, there is no desire left for the tasteless pap.

On this evening, however, I sat up and listened. Virtually speaking, we had traveled with the host of a certain travelogue to the islands of Scotland. Being of Scots-Irish descent, I thought perhaps I might learn something of interest. And, strangely enough, I did.

You may have heard the story before, of the struggles of a Scotsman named Calum MacLeod, living out his life on the island of Raasay, just to the east of the more well-known Isle of Skye. A crofter (one who makes a living off the land, usually as a tenant farmer) and a lighthouse keeper by trade, he and his neighbors saw the government build good roads on the more populous southern end of the island while they still had to walk the final two miles to their homes and farms from the northern end of the road.

In the mid-1960s, at the age of 56, Calum decided one day that, in the absence of help from the government, he would remedy the inequity himself. For most of the next 10 years, he single-handedly built a road for the last mile and three-quarters to the settlement where he and his wife, among others, lived and farmed.

With no better tools than his pick, shovel, and wheelbarrow, and aided by the knowledge gained from an engineering manual he purchased, Calum (when he wasn’t working at his other jobs) dug, and carried, and laid a roadway that could be traveled by car to an area hitherto inaccessible to most vehicles.

Today, Calum’s Road stands, a testimony to one man’s desire to have a positive impact on his world. A mile and three-quarters of single-lane roadway leading to a place where, when it was completed, only he and his wife still lived.

A world changer, I call old Calum. Claims of empty conquest aside, his indomitable resolve and plodding triumph will etch his name indelibly into the list of those who leave this world better than they found it.

Recently, I read an article written by a friend about another world changer, Percy Spencer. You too can read about Mr. Spencer here: 5 Lessons from a World-Changer.

It’s a story about a man who had a chocolate bar melt in his pocket. Now he’s a world changer. Strange, that.

The thing is, Mr. Spencer’s reaction to the melted chocolate bar was to develop a device now present in most homes in our country, and indeed, many around the world. Yesterday’s coffee—the eye-opening potion I drink from my mug while I wait for a fresh pot to brew each morning—is steaming hot in seconds because of the microwave oven. My lunch of last night’s leftovers is a snap to prepare inside this electronic box. No muss, no fuss. Set the time, wait a few seconds, and eat the hot food.

World changer. He is that. Because of a melted chocolate bar, and his response to it. Read the article.

World changer. It’s a strange term.

We both love and hate world changers.

They are our heroes and our villains, our ideal and our reproach. They are always people who do big things in a big way that transform the pattern of life on this planet.

Or, are they?

We have been programmed in our day and age to accept the fact that some humans—a very small number of us—are world changers, stars if you will, while most are only extras, wandering the movie set in search of our opportunity to get an autograph or a selfie with one of these celebrities.

The programming is a lie.

I would suggest that I know no one who is not a world changer. Every one of the people I see as I walk downtown, through the park, around the university, and on the country roads is a world changer in their own right. And yes, all the people of Walmart are world changers.

I am a world changer.

You are, too.

I hope it makes you feel good. It did me—for a few seconds.

The reality is that none of us lives in a vacuum, a sterile environment where others are unaffected by our actions and our words. We change the world around us by reacting and responding, by speaking and acting, by turning away or by our involvement.

Every single word. Every single action. Potential world changing events.

Dramatic, isn’t it? I don’t intend it to be. Over the top, I mean.

But, if you will stop and think, all of history is an amalgamation of the results of words and actions, most of which the author thought insignificant as they were initiated, but some of which were premeditated to bring about the desired result.

Regardless of the intent, the world is constantly being changed by insignificant (and significant) choices, leading to action and to communication.

Oh. Now, I don’t feel so good.

I’m remembering some of the horrible words I’ve said. And, some of the despicable deeds I have committed.

What if those are the world changing footprints I am going to leave behind? What if they—or even, just one of them—become the thing for which I will be remembered?

Or worse, what if those vile actions and words convince just one person to abandon his or her search for God’s truth for their life? And that person convinces just one. And that person…

This being a world changer isn’t at all what I had hoped it would be! What a burden!

I wonder though.

He—the One we claim to follow—promised a light burden and an easy harness (Matthew 11:28-30). Perhaps, I make the task more difficult than it really is.

Are we not all then, world changers?

We are! Of this, there can be no doubt.

The reality is we are changed to bring change.

We reflect what has shined into us. The Light of the World cannot be overcome by the darkness. And, He has shined into our hearts, we who come to Him in faith.

Light, we are.

And salt.

World changers.

Using whatever tools He has placed in our hands, and whatever words He has put into our mouths, we are called to change forever the flavor and the beauty of the world through which we walk.

It’s okay to feel good about it.

Even if we’re only pushing a wheelbarrow filled with tools.

They will serve. To build roads.

To change the world.

We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why. Not until the future eats the present, anyway. We know when it’s too late.
(Stephen King)

You are the salt of the earth. But what good is salt if it has lost its flavor? Can you make it salty again? It will be thrown out and trampled underfoot as worthless. You are the light of the world—like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and then puts it under a basket. Instead, a lamp is placed on a stand, where it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father.
(Matthew 5:13-16, NLT)

Did You Just Call Me Stiff-Necked?

August 9, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The phone jangled in my pocket signaling—well, I didn’t know what. That smartphone (much smarter than I—obviously) is always signaling one thing or another. Since I can’t always identify the different tones, I had to pull it out to see if I was missing something important.

The message was from one of my cycling buddies. “I am going to ride around 10:30.”

Even though it didn’t sound much like an invitation, it was. I like riding my bike. I like riding it with friends. I don’t even mind getting time away from my desk in the middle of the morning.

I turned him down.

“Not today. I woke up with a stiff neck.”

I hear it already.

What a wimp!

Stiff neck? Is that all?

You call yourself a rider?

I will readily agree with the criticism. I am a wimp. I let too much interfere with my riding. My commitment is definitely not on a level with many of my friends.

This is different.

Besides the pain (a secondary consideration, to be sure), there is the problem with my vision. If I can’t see my surroundings clearly, I won’t be able…

What’s that?

My vision? Well, no my eyes aren’t affected.

It’s just that I can really only see what’s straight ahead of me if I can’t turn my head. You have to be able to view everything around you with a full range of vision when you’re riding. Otherwise, you’re just asking for disaster to strike.

I didn’t ride today. Sitting at my desk seemed a safer option.

No one ran into me at all while I was sitting here. It didn’t help my stiff neck any, but I was safe.

I didn’t get any exercise. Neither am I lying in a ditch.

Safety first. I suppose it’s a decent enough consideration. Still, I get the feeling I’m missing something.

Can we go back to the stiff neck for a minute? While I was sitting at my computer earlier, holding my neck with whichever hand was free, I began to wonder about that description of our malady.

MY…My malady.

I’ve known for a long time when someone calls you stiff-necked it means you’re stubborn.

Persistent.

Obstinate.

Intractable.

Tenacious.

There are other words we often use in place of stiff-necked. The red-headed lady who raised me—always with an old saw at the ready for any situation—simply said I was stubborn as an old mule. Except for when she described me as pigheaded.

But then, I always like to put things (at least my own actions) in a positive light. I think the word I would choose is focused.

Focused is good, isn’t it?

I have a goal in mind and I travel, unwavering in my single-minded attention to the objective.

I listen to the voices around me and I am encouraged.

Follow your own path.

Seek your true purpose.

Don’t let anyone or anything convince you to abandon your dream.

We love comfort, don’t we? We long for safety.

Like this humble cyclist, we shun any hint of imprudence. Avoiding danger at all cost, we seek old, well-worn paths already known to us.

Then, when our Creator gives us new directions to follow, new roads to travel, we are reluctant to turn aside. Our intransigence, our single-mindedness comes from our stiff necks.

We have a limited field of vision. And, we like it that way.

Is it any wonder He used the exact words—stiff-necked— to describe His own followers again and again?

God wants us to open our eyes and be aware of our surroundings. All of our surroundings. He wants us to see, not only the blessings He has for us, but also the difficulties and the tasks that await us.

When He has new things for us, we may have to shift our focus from what we’ve done previously to the new roads ahead.

I don’t know what those roads will be like. I’d like to think I’m past all the difficulties. I want to believe I’ve learned all the hard lessons.

We desire the pleasant, the comfortable. And, it’s possible that’s where He may lead us. David spoke of that path, of that lot in life:

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

Somehow, I think it just as likely our road will take us through difficult and dangerous locales. It is where our God likes to make his new roads, the roads only people with open eyes and flexible necks will be able to follow:

See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:19, NIV)

The wilderness is new and strange. Wasteland seems uncomfortable, perhaps even dangerous.

New territory.

Often, when I ride my bicycle, I ride familiar, well-traveled roads. They always take me to the same places I’ve been to before. Every time.

I’d like to try a new road or two before I’m done.

I’m going to do that.

When my neck is feeling better.

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
(from The Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips