Are We Having Fun Yet?

August 10, 2018August 10, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

The man said, “I’m planning to go…if the weather looks like it will be okay.”

I have proof he said it.

I would have just gone on Wednesday. I should have just gone on Wednesday.

Instead, I put on my gear, my gloves, my helmet, my shoes—yes, even my lycra shorts—and went to the old Post Office to await the start of the group bike ride.

The weather didn’t look like it would be okay. If Christopher Robin had been there with an umbrella saying, “Tut. Tut. It looks like rain,” I would have believed him. It did look like rain.

We rode anyway. Five miles we rode north, thinking we’d skirt the precipitation, which looked to be heading south. It didn’t work.

We rode in the rain. A total of thirty miles. Eight of us rode. Side by side. Stretched out in a line. Scattered a quarter of a mile apart. We rode in the rain.

I had a reason for being there. I don’t know about the rest of the idiots.

My friend—the one who sent that text—is going halfway around the world for a year. He’s leaving next week. I wanted to have a last ride with him.

So, we rode. In the rain. For a reason.

Do you ever wonder why? Why am I doing this now? Here? In this dismal circumstance? Is it worth it?

I wondered. I did.

As I struggled to see through the moisture-laden lenses of my glasses, each one covered with a hundred little kaleidoscopes of water beads, I counted the cost.

When the water splattering up from the tires of the seven other cyclists in the group drenched my socks and soaked my cleated leather and cloth shoes, I considered the foundational reason for my current circumstances.

And then, as I rode close behind the cyclist ahead of me, my front tire just inches away from his rear one, attempting that all-important labor-saving maneuver—drafting—I got a faceful of dirty water. The rooster-tail of moisture splattering up from that tire hit me full in the face, turning the kaleidoscopes on my glasses into chocolate mud I could barely see through.

Still, as I backed off from the airborne cataract, my straining eyes peered at the back of the fellow whose bicycle was the source of the annoyance. I could read—just barely—the words printed on his cycling jersey:

If it’s not fun, why do it?

I couldn’t help it. The laugh just came out; from somewhere down near my belly, it erupted.

Why, indeed?

But now, a few days on, and a shower or two having helped to rid all the wrinkles in this old body of the residual mud, I’m not laughing.

I don’t know about anyone else, but somehow this road I started down under blue skies and with gentle breezes has turned downright uncomfortable. The gear I pulled on before the ride began protects me not at all from the elements—neither the driving rain nor the blazing hot midday sun.

Somewhere along the way, the gentle rolling slopes bordered by pleasant meadows became a mountain climb with sheer dropoffs on either side.

I’m not having fun anymore.

Maybe it’s time to turn back.

But, something tells me it was never about fun.

Somehow, I get the feeling it was never about comfort.

And the Teacher told His followers that they would have trouble along the way. Understanding their concern at that prospect, He went on to remind them that He had been all along the way and they needn’t be fearful since He had finished the entire course. Not only finished it but had been victorious. (John 16:23)

There are things in this world worth suffering through.

There are.

There are things in this world worth suffering through. There are. Share on X

Friends (and people in general) are worth getting wet for. Telling the truth is worth being laughed at for. Being generous to a neighbor is worth doing without ourselves.

Standing firm in the storm, when that’s all we can do, is worth the toil and danger.

We’ll finish the ride up ahead. In front of us. Through the rain and grime. And the heat and sweat. And the climbing and weariness.

Ahead.

As we approached the end of our ride the other day, my friend who is headed overseas rode beside me into town. At a corner not far from his home I made a left turn. He went straight. Several blocks on, me having made a right turn and he having made a left turn, we met up again.

Strange, how that happens.

He’ll leave next week for the other side of the world and I’ll stay here. Both of us, still on the journey.

The same journey.

Headed for the same goal. It’s where he always says he wants to end up when we start out on a bike ride.

Home.

You could ride with us, too, you know. Side by side. Or in single file, drafting. Except when it rains.

Headed home.

Soon.

It is said that as many days as there are in the whole journey, so many are the men and horses that stand along the road, each horse and man at the interval of a day’s journey; and these are stayed neither by snow nor rain nor heat nor darkness from accomplishing their appointed course with all speed.
(Herodotus ~ Greek historian ~ 5th century BC)

I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us.
(Philippians 3:14 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Esse Quam What?

August 3, 2018August 3, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m not sure they’re right.

I’m not sure they’re wrong, either. They could be.

But they could be right, too.

I made a mistake the other day—one I thought I could rectify with minimal effort. I wrote a cute little note about my recent experience with the Internal Revenue Service and posted it on social media.

I was trying to be funny. It was a little funny. A little. And, come to think of it, more than a little snarky.

In the post, I suggested that the IRS folks I had dealt with by telephone that day weren’t very good with numbers. Just a little sarcastic tweak at the huge bureaucracy’s nose.

The problem is, I don’t like to be seen as snarky. I don’t want to be thought of as not nice. So, I added a few words. Just a few. To make myself look better.

. . .I don’t get to keep the large sum they sent me this week. I’m okay with that.

They did the job. The words, I mean. Making myself look better.

The check was for a huge amount. To my mind, anyway. The fellow on the phone, who took nearly an hour to decide, told me it was mine to keep. Well, mine and the Lovely Lady’s.

Only, I knew it wasn’t.

The next day, armed with documentation, I called them again and, taking another hour out of my life, convinced the kind lady that the money wasn’t mine.

She told me where to mail the check.

My friends think I have integrity.

As I said, they could be right. I think they may not be.

I want them to be. Right, that is.

Can we talk about integrity? Again?

I’ve written about it before. If you’ve read those articles, you may remember I used the example of a piece of cloth, woven neatly and with good thread. In my mind, it’s the very definition of integrity.

The cloth is stronger than the sum of the threads. But, I’m not. Stronger, I mean.

In the back of my mind, I know the cost of keeping money that doesn’t belong to me. Oh, I don’t mean the guilty feelings that come inevitably. And, they will come.

What I mean is, I’ve seen what the IRS does when it realizes it made a mistake. The penalties. The interest charges. The seizing of the entire bank account until their agents are satisfied.

And, again in the back of my mind, I wonder; did I send the money back because I don’t want to pay that penalty? Was I afraid I’d get caught? That’s not integrity.

It’s not.

Integrity is about doing the right thing. Because it’s the right thing.

Period.

Integrity is about doing the right thing. Because it's the right thing. Period. Share on X

It’s the whole cloth holding together, because every thread is in its place, doing what it does. Strong. Steadfast.

I like to read. A lot. I learn from reading. Good things. Bad things. And, at my age, I keep wondering when I’ll have learned all the new things I can glean from other writers.

Obviously, not yet.

The other day, as I read a historical novel, the description of a phrase inscribed above the entrance to some imaginary palace caught my attention. Arrested my attention. Made me read it again. And, yet again.

You’ll understand when you read it for yourself.

Esse quam videri

See what I mean?

Oh, sorry. Latin may not have been the right language in which to introduce the concept. Let me make a literal translation (from a Latin dictionary; not from my feeble brain) for you.

To be as seen.

It’s often expressed as to be, rather than to seem. That’s okay, but I like the literal, word-for-word, translation better. We in the computer age have a similar phrase, expressed in equally unintelligible language.

WYSIWYG

What you see is what you get. It works with computers. Not so much with humans.

It should.

Why does God have to look on the inside, while man is fooled by outside appearances? (1 Samuel 16:7)

Why aren’t they the same thing?

Facades, masks, clever disguises—we manage to look the part, one way or another. Even we who claim to follow Jesus have our deceptions in place.

Alive and beautiful on the outside. But, what if there’s death and decay on the inside?

The world is not wrong when it labels us hypocrites. The word simply means, actors. Someone who pretends for his/her livelihood. I don’t know many in the world who are not that themselves, but it should be different for us.

It should.

Mr. Lewis may be accurate when he says that integrity is doing the right thing even when no one is watching, but there’s more to it than that. A lot more.

Integrity is about telling the truth even when it costs. It’s about being generous even when one is impoverished. It’s about controlling my tongue when all around folks are sharing the latest gossip. It’s about not drinking the milk from the carton even when the Lovely Lady isn’t looking.

It’s about all those things. But, those things aren’t integrity.

Integrity isn’t about doing. It’s about being.

Integrity isn't about doing. It's about being. Share on X

Because what is in the heart is what will always—eventually—bubble up to the surface. The thing that is at the bottom of who I am, my very foundation, is the thing I will do and become.

A word of caution. If I believe myself to be a man of integrity and proclaim it to be so, you should assume there is some filthy secret hidden in that foundation that will become known soon. I’ve seen it too many times. You have too.

The apostle who loved to write letters, my namesake—who, by the way, had reason to understand the principle personally—suggested that when we believe we are standing firmly on both feet, we should be careful not to get hurt in the fall. (1 Corinthians 10:12)

I want to be a man of integrity. Want to be.

I’m not that man. Too often, my integrity is guaranteed only by the odds that someone is watching, or that someone will eventually uncover my offense.

But, I want to be that man.

Someday, I will be him.

No mask. No facade. No disguise.

Esse quam videri

To be as seen.

And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.
(Philippians 1:6 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

The image is one thing, and the human being is another. It’s very hard to live up to an image, put it that way.
(Elvis Presley ~ American singer/entertainer ~ 1935-1977)

For the Birds

July 19, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Birdbrain!

It’s an insult, isn’t it?

It would be if I called you such a name. The implication would be that your brain is so small you can’t make good decisions, or think through problems, or make plans for the future.

I have a bunch of birdbrains at my house. No, really. Birdbrains. And, they don’t make good decisions or think through problems. I’m worried for their future.

My sister brought the feeder with her to work one morning.

“You can find instructions on the internet for making the nectar.”

Nectar. Really. That’s what they call it. I call it sugar water. In fact, that is all there is to it. Sugar. And, water.

But my friend, Jeff, who just passed away last spring, had loved the hummingbirds outside his patio doors. He even named one of them Grace. Why he named it that wasn’t really clear to me.

I thought we’d give it a try. We made up a batch of nectar. Four parts water, one part sugar—boiled to take out any impurities. Nothing else. Sugar water.

Hanging the feeder right outside our front window, we waited for the little hummers to find it. It took awhile. But then, one day as I sat reading in my chair, I heard the hum of wings outside, beating three or four thousand times a minute. It wasn’t quite the hum I had expected—more like a buzzing. You know, like a really loud bumblebee. Or, a wasp.

The little critter hovered over the nectar tip, never alighting on the perch, but it did dip its long beak into the hole for a few seconds and then flitted away, disappearing into the landscape.

It took awhile for many of the little birds to find the feeder, but I’ve been sitting in that chair for a lot of hours since that day. I’m learning about birds’ brains.

Did you know the manufacturer put four nectar tips on the feeder? Four. Ostensibly, it’s so you can observe four hummers at a time as they feed docilely, sharing the moment with each other and any onlookers.

They should have saved the money.

Hummingbirds hate—detest—eating beside each other. I haven’t read that anywhere, but my observations lead me to believe it to be a fact. At no time has there been a full complement of birds to take advantage of the available feeding tips. Never.

If two happen to alight, they perhaps will feed for a moment or two. Perhaps. That assumes they do not look up from their feeding. If one of the two ever lifts its eyes to look at the other, the feeding is over. Over.

Instantly, they fly at each other, not allowing a second’s more drinking of the sugar water. I’ve seen birds actually fall off the feeder, only to catch themselves in mid-air, flapping their wings to halt their tumble. Then, either they will fly away in retreat, or they will engage the aggressor in a mock-battle of sorts, with the disgraced loser zooming away and the victor returning to its feeding.

In the last few days, I have seen as many as seven of the little kamikazes zooming in arcs in the vicinity of the feeder, twittering madly. At times, one will alight, only to sit, its head tilting in all directions, body and mind on high alert to incoming attackers, yet never getting a single drink of the magic elixir.

They don’t eat. The birdbrains fight about eating.

They don't eat. The birdbrains fight about eating. Share on X

I am frustrated. As their provider, I want them to share. I want them to be fed. I want them to live in peace.

There is plenty of nectar for every one of them. Plenty.

There is room at the feeder for them to eat. Side by side.

Why would they fight when they could eat?

Oh.

I understand why Jeff named the hummingbird Grace.

Finally, I understand.

And, the Teacher looked out over His place, the place He wanted to feed His people and wept as He said the words: How often I have tried to bring you together, as a mother hen who gathers her chicks under her wing. But, you refused. (Luke 13:34)

And yet.

Grace.

Perhaps, it’s time for a meal together.

No RSVP needed.

Just come.

Grace.

How wonderful and pleasant it is when brothers live together in harmony.

(Psalm 133:1 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

Harmony makes small things grow. Lack of it makes great things decay.

(Gaius Sallustius Crispus ~ Roman historian/politician ~ 86 BC-35 BC)

Harmony makes small things grow. Share on X

Looking. Seeing

June 28, 2018June 29, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

All I wanted was a quiet place to sit and eat my burger with the Lovely Lady.

It was looking unlikely.

After a tiring day, filled with stress, heat, and hard physical labor, we stopped in for a fast-food fill-up. A burger and fries, with a coke, please. And a quiet place to sit.

It’s not too much to ask. Is it?

The little tyke had different ideas. He was not happy, that much was clear from the wailing. I wondered why his parents didn’t quiet him down. Surely, he could go play on the playground in a minute or two. Couldn’t they trade his silence for the promise of some time on the slide?

It seemed not. The noise level intensified.

It didn’t take me long to get unhappy, as well. I didn’t cry out loud. I did complain to the Lovely Lady. Out loud.

Then, I saw the boy as he ran past. Something—I couldn’t quite put my finger on what—caught my attention in the child’s face. A lady nearby was clearly interested in what was going on, as well. I assumed she might be related to the little fellow and would catch him up and calm him down.

Calm him down. . . That’s it! His eyes! The little boy was terrified of something. I said the words to the Lovely Lady, wondering what he had to be afraid of.

In a moment, the lady who had noticed his distress came carrying him up to the checkout counter and found his mother standing there. By this time, the child was so traumatized that he had no voice with which to express his emotion, only gasps of fear as he gulped air through his mouth. He was shaking, his eyes wild with alarm.

The little boy had been lost, separated from his mother! Everywhere he looked, he saw only strangers. Big, frightening adults who looked like no one he had ever seen.

As his mother gathered him into her arms, the gasping and whimpering subsided, but the trauma was still written on his face. Tears crept into my own eyes as I imagined what a horrible few minutes he had experienced.

“He was. He was terrified. You saw that,” the Lovely Lady said, smiling at me.

I sat, quieter than usual, and ate my food.

I had. I had seen him and his terror. But, it was the lady who also saw him and did something about it.

We saw him. Mostly, we had heard him, but there was—finally—a recognition that something more than a simple temper tantrum was happening.

And yet, my mind can’t move past the event.

The child will grow up. He will. The day will come when he no longer wanders, screaming, through the restaurant.

It doesn’t mean his terror will be any less.

Or ours, for that matter.

We eventually learn how to hide the fact that we need someone to hold us close. The part of us that is broken can be buried so deep we aren’t even aware of it ourselves, much less be able to express it verbally to those around us.

What if nobody sees us?

Really sees. Us.

What if nobody sees us? Really sees. Us. Share on X

A couple of nights ago, a note appeared on my phone’s screen. The lady on the other end, a former schoolmate of mine, had a message for me.

For some reason, she had been sitting and got to thinking about me and my “things”, she called them. She finished her message with a couple of thoughts.

“Everything will be good, Paul. Everything will be right.”

I haven’t told anyone I was unhappy. At no time in the last month have I wandered screaming through the local McDonalds.

It doesn’t mean I’m not broken.

She saw me.

You know there’s a difference between looking and seeing, right? They’re related, but definitely not the same.

For instance, I can look through the drawer in the kitchen, needing a spatula, but the Lovely Lady will open the same drawer minutes later and, in a second or two, see exactly what I couldn’t, picking up the spatula I was seeking all along.

I look.

She sees.

You know it’s true.

I like the phrase that made an appearance in our language—sort of a pidgin English—just over a hundred years ago, the two words that make it up seeming almost redundant.

Let’s go take a look-see.

Look-see. Important aspects, both of them, to the process.

We begin by looking. That’s where we start.

But, even if we do look, we won’t see if we aren’t aware of the necessary traits of what we’re looking for.

I wonder if we’re looking through the wrong eyes. Eyes of judgment. Eyes of selfishness. Eyes of arrogance and pride.

What if we actually looked at people to see the broken parts? What if we could look past the yelling and screaming, the cursing and criticizing, and see what really is going on?

What if we looked past the jokes and the songs and the smiles on faces to see the fear and terror that fills the hearts of people we encounter every day?

Our friends. Our family members. The bullies. The belligerents.

Could we see them through new eyes?

Would it make a difference?

Jesus saw the woman who had been caught in the act. He saw. Her.

He saw the woman at Jacob’s well, caught up in a vicious cycle of seeking love where it would not be found. And, looking through eyes colored with love, He changed her life.

Maybe I could do that. Maybe I could look through the eyes of love. The apostle, my namesake, suggested to the folks at Philippi that it was exactly what was needed.

Stop looking out of eyes that don’t see past the end of your noses. Start seeing—really seeing—others instead. And seeing, serve. (Philippians 2:4,5)

Ah. The miracle of a familiar face in a crowd of strangers! One who knows you! One who loves you, in spite of knowing you.

Look around.

See. People.

Look-see.

Change the world.

Everything will be good. Everything will be right.

“What use is care? What good is watching for that matter? People are forever watching things. They should be seeing. I see the things I look at. I am a see-er.”
(Patrick Rothfuss ~ American novelist)

The Lord looks from heaven;
He sees all the sons of men.
From the place of His dwelling He looks
On all the inhabitants of the earth;
He fashions their hearts individually;
He considers all their works.
(Psalm 33:13-15 ~ NKJV ~ New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

We Can’t All Walk on Water

June 1, 2018June 1, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I hoped the squelching sound of wet socks in my leather walking shoes wasn’t audible to Charlie as we found a table on which to set our cups.

I couldn’t believe I had been forced to ford a raging river of water in the alleyway outside the coffee shop. I was on a city sidewalk! I mean—who would have expected that?

But, as I seem to do frequently, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Let me see if I can do a better job of setting the scene for this uncomfortable event.

Ever have one of those days? I mean the good ones—the kind of day when nothing can go wrong. The sun is shining; there’s time for all the activities you have planned, and you have an appointment later with a good friend you haven’t seen for months.

What could possibly blemish such a shining day?

For most of the day, right up until just before the appointment with my young friend, nothing would have been the answer to that question. Nothing at all.

But then the sky, bright and sunny before, dimmed with clouds and the rain fell.

No. That’s not right.

The deluge descended. The skies opened up and the water poured out over us. The metal roof above us sounded as if it were a hailstorm, but it was nothing more than sheets of rain from above.

I had been awaiting a message from my friend to say he was headed to the coffee shop. And wouldn’t you know, in the midst of that deluge, his message arrived.

I laughed.

Oh, well. I wouldn’t melt. Grabbing an umbrella, I kissed the Lovely Lady and headed out to the car.

Looking out from under the edge of the little umbrella, I noticed the light. The sun was shining. Rain coming down in sheets, and the sun was shining! Well, at least that meant it would stop soon.

It meant something else, too.

From the front door, I heard her voice follow me out to the car.

“I bet there’ll be a rainbow.”

I wasn’t counting on it.

I want to be an optimist; really, I do. I want to think everything will work out for the best—all hunky-dory and A-Okay. I want to, but I can’t.

The day was headed downhill faster than a road bike down the Illinois River Hill. Neither is all that good a feeling.

Downtown, I couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere in the block the cafe is on. I circled the block, hoping someone would vacate one. No such luck. So I parked around the corner, more than a block away, with the heavy rain still coming straight down.

No. It wasn’t, was it? The wind had picked up a bit and the still-heavy rain was blowing from the west. I was protected on the east as I walked—no help at all.

And then, as if being cold and wet from the blowing rain weren’t enough, I reached the alleyway two doors down from the little shop where I was to meet my friend.

Only, it wasn’t. An alleyway, I mean.

It was a raging torrent of rainwater pouring down from the hill above town. The alley was the only unimpeded path the water could find into the valley, and it took advantage of the lack of impediment.

Six inches deep and eight feet wide, the current rushed, whitewater roiling on top, pebbles and debris tumbling underneath.

I can’t jump eight feet. I also don’t think that well when the wind is blowing rain sidewise against me.

I wanted a bridge. Failing that, I wanted to be able to walk on water.

Neither option was available.

I saw a large stone sticking out of the water, probably a piece of concrete washed out of a pothole further up the hill, and stepping onto it, assumed I could push off and jump the rest of the way over the current.

Did I say the day wasn’t going as I had hoped?

The stone rolled under my foot, submerging that shoe all the way to the bottom, ensuring I wouldn’t be jumping the rest of the way to the other side. I just plopped the other foot down and walked through the flood onto the sidewalk.

Squish, squelch. Squish, squelch.

My friend, when he arrived, was happy to inform me that there wasn’t a drop of rain falling half a mile away in the direction from which he had come. He also had found a parking spot right in front of the cafe.

I have since seen photos of the rainbow (you remember—predicted by the Lovely Lady), a double one to boot, that formed in the sunny/rainy sky to the east.

I didn’t see it.

I was busy looking at the rain soaking me. I was angry about the soggy walk through the current in the alley.

I’ve had time to dry out now. I have a few observations which hadn’t occurred to me before. Sometimes, it takes me awhile.

You see, I know I have a tendency to make more of things than I should. The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested it was a tempest in a teacup. Mr. Shakespeare might say it was much ado about nothing.

Neither would be wrong.

Still, I’m not alone in being overwhelmed by the storms which take me by surprise, am I? We all have things which are important to us and when we can’t achieve them in the manner we planned, we despair of reaching the goal.

Sometimes, our joy is stolen by the arrival of a letter that threatens to change our blueprint for the future completely.

Family members become ill and schedules are interrupted.

Friends drop out of our lives and we want them back.

The wrong politician won the election and we’re overwhelmed with apprehension for the future.

The list of potential sources of the rain falling on our parade is endless. We—all of us—fear the storm in varying degrees, and for very different reasons.

And, besides that, just when we’re learning to cope with the rain, we realize we have to go through the torrent.

Through it.

We can’t all walk on water, you know. As far as I know, only two men in history have done that. And, neither of them is named Jim Carrey.

And, bridges aren’t always conveniently located to trip across without getting our feet wet.

Why does God do that?

Why Peter but not me?

Why Moses and the Children of Israel but not us?

Funny thing.

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper. Share on X

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper.

Sometimes through is just as good as over.

Sometimes through is just as good as over. Share on X

We trust and we obey.

And, we get wet. But, we get where He wants us to go.

We will.

Because He promises we’ll not be overwhelmed by the flood. Or the fire. When we go through. (Isaiah 43:2)

Through. With Him.

The rainbow comes later. We may not see it at all. It doesn’t matter.

His strong arms hold us close. Still.

Even when we’re soaked. And, when we squelch with every step.

Storms won’t last forever. They won’t. (2 Corinthians 4:17,18)

Keep walking.

It might not hurt to wear your galoshes.

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.
(Helen Keller ~ Blind/deaf author ~ 1880-1968)

When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.
(Isaiah 43:2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Breathing is Good

May 23, 2018May 23, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’ve been reading a lot recently. Sitting in the comfortable old upholstered chair by the front window, I’ve leaned back, lost in the wonder and peril, and the hours have flown before I knew it.

I realized something the other night while reading, though. I’ve talked about it with the Lovely Lady and she’s not sure she agrees, but since she doesn’t disagree, I could be right.

I could be. Perhaps.

The world outside my window is a living, breathing organism. And somehow, we can choke it to death or lend it our breath.

Stick with me now.

What happened is this: Often, I don’t listen well when reading (just ask her about that), but I gradually became aware of the sound. As first, I thought someone in the next room was breathing rather loudly, but as I stopped to listen, it became clear. The world outside was actually breathing! It sounded like an asthmatic old man, but it was breathing.

Heee. Hooo.

Well, I said it became clear, but it wasn’t long before I realized the sound I was hearing was actually the tree frogs in the trees around our house. A chorus would start nearby—Heee—and the chorus up the road a bit would answer, the distance separating them making it seem as if there was a different pitch—Hooo.

Inhale, exhale.

The world is breathing.

I still think I could be right. Stick with me a little longer.

The Apostle told the amateur philosophers in Athens that everything in the earth had life and breath because of our Creator. (Acts 17:25)

To this day, we continue to live and move—and exist at all—because He sustains us. (Acts 17:28)

But I suppose it’s not the tree frogs that are evidence of the inhale and exhale of the world that lives around us. Not really.

Still, I contend that we have the power to choke or to replenish the breath of life to the world given us by our Creator.

I don’t just mean nature, either. Many have written and spoken about our responsibilities there and I don’t disagree. But, I have a more human aspect in mind.

On the Sunday afternoon just past, I heard the breathing again. I’m sure I did.

An invitation had come a week or so ago, suggesting that we might like to celebrate the ninetieth birthday of a friend with him and his family.

We thought we would, and so it was that we found ourselves in the social hall of a retirement village in a neighboring town. We had waited until the early arrivals cleared out a bit, so there wasn’t such a crush around our old friend.

I sat beside him and the memories came back with a rush. Forty years—give or take a couple of years—it has been that I’ve known him (much longer for the Lovely Lady, who grew up with his children).

All those years ago, he taught me how to breathe. Well, not really, but it seems so now.

In my teen years, I had developed a kind of stage fright that guaranteed I would never stand in front of a crowd and do anything by myself. Every time I attempted it, I could feel the heat rise from my neck, up into my face, as I turned a bright crimson red and became unable to continue. It had happened too many times. I would never—never— attempt it again.

He was patient. A little.

Planting the seed and encouraging me for a few weeks, he convinced me that all it would take to lead the singing in our little church was for me to stand there and sing along with the people. The only talking I needed to do was to call out a hymn number.

I was terrified and refused. Again and again.

He wouldn’t give up on me. Again and again, he asked. Just one more time than I refused, he asked.

I didn’t turn red. I didn’t freeze up. The people sang. I sang. I couldn’t believe it.

Since that time, I’ve been able to lead music many times. I’ve even preached numerous times.

Not once has the old fear returned. Not once.

Someone breathed encouragement into my lack of confidence, courage into my fear. He taught me how to breathe on my own.

I sat, last Sunday afternoon, remembering his kindness and was lost in the past for a moment or two before realizing that he was talking again.

I’ve written numerous times about the house the Lovely Lady and I moved into last year, the house in which she grew up. Her uncle built the structure, back in the nineteen-forties, and her family—first another aunt and uncle, then her mother and father—has lived here since.

I didn’t know that my old friend had helped to build the house, too.

“Oh yes, I helped to work on the foundation of that house. I remember taking the wire from the forms around the cement.”

I had no idea.

He laid the foundation to the house in which I live today.

I know now.

Need I go on? Would it be possible to miss a truth so obvious?

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying the foundation for a living breathing body which, in the next generation—or in the one after that, or the ten after that—will breathe its life into the world around it.

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying a foundation for a living breathing body which will breathe its life into the world around it. Share on X

What if we refuse?

Selfish, rude, ignorant kids! What a waste of space!

I was all of that and more. And still, they breathed into my life.

What if they hadn’t?

What if we won’t?

Outside, the frog chorus has begun again.

Inhale. Exhale.

Breathe.

It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise to You only

And all the earth will shout Your praise
Our hearts will cry, these bones will sing
Great are You, Lord
(from Great Are You, Lord ~ Leonard/Ingram/Jordan ~ © Essential Music Publishing, Capitol Christian Music Group)

Then he said to me, “Speak a prophetic message to the winds, son of man. Speak a prophetic message and say, ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Come, O breath, from the four winds! Breathe into these dead bodies so they may live again.'”
(Ezekiel 37:9 ~ NLT ~ New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

A Provocation

May 18, 2018May 21, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I’m not sure how to say this. Some of you will be mad. Or at least disappointed in me.

Well? I know you will.

You’ve read the poems since you were young; you sang the songs. You even watched Mary Poppins hold one on her finger as she sang A Spoonful of Sugar.

You love them. I know you do.

Well, it can’t be helped. I’m going to have to tell you.

I don’t really like robins.

I’ve tried. Really, I have.

The thing is, there’s nothing special about them. Oh sure, they have that orangey-red chest. They even give a little hope in the late winter that spring will soon be here. But, other than that, what’s so extraordinary about the storied birds?

What’s that? You think they’re the early bird that gets the worm? They’re always pictured as that. But, that’s strike one against them, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t do early mornings. I just don’t.

But, on the off chance that I am awakened at four or four-thirty some morning, you can be sure one will be chirping outside my window to beat the band. Try going back to sleep with that racket outside.

And, that’s another thing! They don’t even really have a song. Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! Plus, it gets worse when humans are around. They fuss and raise a ruckus, claiming territory they don’t really even want, simply to ensure quiet for their nest.

Give me the cardinals any day. What a beautiful and varied song they have! Their nests are in bushes and thickets no human would want to approach anyway, so they never fuss—at me, at least.

Then there are the wrens—or the finches—or even the white-throated sparrow that sings in the top of the sweet gum tree.

But those robins—they’re everywhere. Bob, bob, bobbin’ across the lawn, scratching for the worms, early or late. Trying to build nests where they absolutely cannot fit—under my eave, for instance. And, then after the wind blows the grass and paper away for the tenth time, they try again—in exactly the same spot.

There’s no love lost on my part for the fabled worm-catchers.

Well. That’s not completely true. Not anymore.

Our neighbor let a pair of the silly things build a nest near the top of the post on her front porch. I looked at the structure and told her it wouldn’t last through the first storm. Frank Lloyd Wright, they’re not.

I was wrong. Several storms later, the nest is still there. The female laid her eggs—four of them if Wikipedia is to be believed. She sat on her eggs. She hatched her little ones.

I would stop over to talk with my neighbor, being careful not to startle the fussy mama. No loud noises; no quick movements.

Shhhhh.

I would have told you I still didn’t care for robins. An event the other day put the lie to that belief.

My desk looks out a window toward the neighbor’s porch, so I have watched the comings and goings on that nest for several weeks. The other morning, my attention was on my computer screen when a strange movement caught my eye.

The mother robin was flying rapidly away from the nest, but there was still a bird standing over the nest. A big bird.

A hawk had discovered the babies! Without thinking, I shouted loudly and jumped up, racing out the door behind me to stop the mayhem on the porch. Evidently, the predator heard either my shout or the door and was already winging away from the nest with something—we can guess what—in his beak.

Oh well. It was just baby robins. Who cares?

Well, besides the obvious One who cares about every one of them that falls to the ground. (Matthew 10:29)

This old man cared, evidently. I sat back down at my desk, watching the frantic mother robin flying to the nest, sticking her head down inside, and then winging to the redbud tree nearby, before repeating the pattern over and over, and the tears came.

I don’t even like robins. But, I cried. Over baby robins.

I’ve thought a lot about that over the last couple of days, attempting to square the dichotomy.

I think I’m beginning to understand it a little better. I even have a word to explain how this happened.

Engagement.

Engagement involves investment. In this case, simply an investment of attention. Which led to a personal stake in the wellbeing of the little birds and the happiness of their parents.

Engagement costs.

I stood in a friend’s hallway the other day after I had helped him with a household problem, and he told me how sorry he had been about my friend I lost a few weeks ago.

He must have been a really close friend. Had you known him a long time?

It would be simpler to explain if it had been a long time. When a longtime friend passes, you expect to be emotionally devastated. Grief like that doesn’t come with short-term, social media friendships.

Or, does it?

Four months. It seems a lifetime ago, but it was only four or five months ago that another friend, a poet in New Zealand, suggested to Jeff and to me that we needed to know each other.

He was also a writer, much better at it than I, but we both treasured what words can accomplish when arranged carefully, lovingly, and set in place with a bit of grace.

I never got to meet Jeff in the flesh, but I knew him. He knew me. Out of the grace we both have known in our lives, a bond of love grew.

Now, he’s gone and there’s a hole in my world.

Engagement costs.

Oh, but it pays, too.

It is oh-so-easy for us to get caught up in the grief of loss, the feeling that the world will never again be right, and believe that disengagement is a better way to live life.

Many do. Many I know refuse to be hurt. The only way to keep from being hurt is to refuse to engage—to flee from love.

In such a vacuum, life is empty. When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy.

When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy. Share on X

I said my friend and I knew what words are capable of when used in the right way. Many others know it, too.

Our words, written (and said) at the right time, and offered from loving hearts, provoke.

That’s right. They provoke. They incite. They motivate. They move.

It’s why I write. When I am tempted to disengage—to lessen the pain and the frustration—I remember the words written to the Hebrews in the New Testament, reminding them to keep spending their lives with others, because in engagement we may provoke to love. In engagement, we provoke each other to good works.

There are no age-related waivers given, no limited-education exceptions written. And sometimes, our companions along the way are like those robins. Annoying. Loud and repetitive. Not nearly as intelligent as we are. Stubborn.

Engage anyway.

Provoke anyway.

Revel in the result. Sadness, mixed with joy. Love, combined with goodness.

But, I didn’t finish the story about the robin, did I?

My sorrow has turned to joy again, as I have observed, out my office window, the robins feeding their two surviving chicks the last couple of days. I assumed all was lost, but it was a lie. Even as I write this, the male is on the ground outside with food in his mouth and the babies have their necks stretched out, yellow beaks agape, waiting to be fed.

All is not so dark as it seems.

It rarely is.

For the darkness shall turn to dawning
And the dawning to noonday bright.
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
The kingdom of love and light.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H. Ernest Nichol)

And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ KJV)

Finding the Vegetable Trees

April 25, 2018April 26, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Just head down there. The vegetable trees are all over that way.”

The Lovely Lady and I were on a mission to find a sapling or two to plant in the yard today, so we stopped by the local garden center. We thought we might find a couple of shade trees, but we especially wanted an apple tree to replace the ancient one which is not going to last much longer.

We weren’t really expecting to buy a vegetable tree.

Wandering through the sales area, we had passed a young lady sitting at a desk in the corner, but we knew the saplings were out back, so we continued outside.

The salesman met us on the sidewalk. All of three or four years old, he carried a thin metal rod about three feet long in his right hand which he swung this way and that as he talked.

“How can I help you?”

The Lovely Lady and I looked at each other, smiling, and then turning back his way, she told him we wanted to look at an apple tree. His response about the location of the vegetable trees made our day.

We headed in the general direction he had pointed with the rod. He followed closely, talking the whole time. We didn’t quite understand all he said, but we knew we’d find trees up that way.

“Well, like I said, this is where all the vegetable trees are. You folks look all you want. Bring anything you pick out back inside.”

He started away but abruptly turned back.

“Oh, here.” The boy handed me the dandelion stalk he had just pulled. “It’s a flower. If you blow on it, the white stuff goes all over the place. I guess some people call it a weed, really.”

He turned again to leave as a man walked up, wondering aloud if we needed help. Smiling broadly, I told the boy’s dad we had already been helped and wanted to wander around the vegetable trees for awhile and look around. Dad grimaced at the phrase and then grinned, taking us to the trees we needed to look at.

What a delightful experience!

What an extraordinary young man!

Okay. He needs to work on the details a little bit. But, he understood we needed help. He looked around and didn’t see anyone except himself to do the job. So, he did the job.

It was almost as if he understood what the letter-writing Apostle had said a couple thousand years ago: Don’t only do things for yourselves, but help others, as well. (Philippians 2:4)

In my mind, I hear the voice of God asking a barefooted Moses, “What’s that you’re holding in your hand, son?” (Exodus 4:2)

The boy showed us the way with the equipment he had been given.

If only we could all do as well.

If only.

There’s not time to be certain we know all the right answers. We never will.

There's not time to be certain we know all the right answers. We never will. Share on X

There’s not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We’ll stumble over the words. Every time.

There's not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We'll stumble over the words. Every time. Share on X

When He said to be ready to give an answer, He didn’t mean to wait until we were comfortable and skilled. (1 Peter 3:15)

And sometimes, when we don’t know what else to say, we might just hand them a flower and help to spread His love and beauty.

After all, our primary purpose in being here is to give glory to our Creator. (Isaiah 43:7)

The whole earth is filled—absolutely jam-packed—with His glory.

I think I might hand out a dandelion or two, as we walk through it together.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll find that vegetable tree along the road.

You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.
(Franklin P Jones ~ American humorist)

Praise his glorious name forever!
Let the whole earth be filled with his glory.
Amen and amen!
(Psalm 72:19 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Big Enough

April 20, 2018April 20, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lord, get me through this day.

It was the first thought I had when I awoke this morning. The first one.

My morning prayer.

No thank you for waking me up. Not a word about this being the day and my intent to spend it in enjoyment of its Maker. (Psalm 118:24)

Just a reminder that I need to get to tomorrow. And, a little more quickly wouldn’t hurt—if you don’t mind.

You’re nodding your head. You know what I mean, don’t you? Maybe you’ve even done it yourself a time or two.

How did I get in this condition? Why would I want to blow through the next twenty-four hours just to get to another twenty-four hours after that?

I’m not sure I’ll like the answer. You may not, either.

I could tell you about pressures of work, but they’re no worse than usual. I could suggest that more money in the bank account would help, but it wouldn’t. I could remind you of the concert I’m playing in tonight and suggest that the pressure is too much, but that’s not the problem either.

Here’s what I’ve figured out.

My God isn’t big enough.

Really. Not big enough.

God should fill the days, eclipsing all the puny activities and concerns, but in my mind, He’s only enough to tuck around the edges. The rest is full of fear, of frustration, of disappointment. And, when challenges come, when the days promise hardship and even loss, the emptiness looms larger than God’s ability to keep His word.

In my mind, anyway. Maybe, in yours, as well.

Perhaps, we need to talk about what we know. Truth is always better than speculation.

The thief is the one who comes to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. The Savior came to give us life, not just any old ho-hum life, but one that satisfies completely—a life full to capacity with all He wants to give us. (John 10:10)

We know that.

God wants good for us. Every good gift comes from Him. Always. (James 1:17)

We know that. I know that.

So why is my prayer when I awake only to get through? Why would I not ask Him to fill the day with what I need?

Today is a gift. Not a terrifying period of time I need to hurry through so I can get to another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by. . . Well, you get the picture.

It is a gift. Filled with exactly what is necessary to keep me—to sustain me—on my journey home.

I don’t want to get through it.

I want to live it. Fully. Abundantly. With passion.

The Psalmist understood that. For all the terror and fear he had lived through, all the doubt and guilt, he knew the fullness of a God who only wanted good for him.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life. Share on X

All. The. Days.

One day after another. Every one I wake up and pray to him.

He will fill the days, not just get me through them. He fills them with Himself. With goodness and love, He fills them.

Full.

Today.

How big is your God? The size of your God determines the size of everything.
(Howard G Hendricks ~ Theology professor ~ 1924-2013)

Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me
all the days of my life,
and I will live in the house of the Lord
forever.
(Psalm 23:6 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Getting Wet

March 27, 2018March 27, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The storm threatens.

Not for the first time.

Earlier today, I heard the muttering of the thunder up in the clouds. Fifteen miles away, my brother (with whom I was texting) heard it and wondered if the rain was really on its way.

It was, but only a little. A nice Spring shower to wash off the daffodils and redbuds. Just a lick and a promise, as the red-headed lady who raised me would describe it.

The muttering is back. Ten hours have passed and, again, the thunder is threatening.

The promise is that the storm will break soon. For all the delay and lack of delivery up ’til now, the promise will be kept tonight. I’m sure of it.

Mr. Adams—that wise Englishman who wrote about the rabbits in Watership Down—suggests that folks who claim to love cold weather actually love feeling proof against it; they love that they have outsmarted winter. The reader may agree or disagree, but I believe it to be true about more than just the cold of winter.

We love listening to the breaking storm from the safety of our four walls, with a good roof overhead to keep the deluge from affecting us personally and intimately.

We love walking in the rain because the umbrella is spread above to keep us from the discomfort of its all-encompassing soaking. Or, if we happen to run uncovered, carefree and dripping for a time, we love the thought that at the end of our gambol, we will find a warm shower to wash off the residue of the event and, wrapping ourselves in a clean, fluffy towel or robe, will relax in the luxury of warmth and comfort inside our four walls with a watertight roof.

But, what if the walls we’ve constructed so carefully, and the shelter we’ve thrown up simply aren’t enough to keep the storm from breaking on our heads anymore?

The noise of the rain which has arrived outside my window reminds me that the thunder’s earlier muttering was no empty threat. I believe this is what the folks in my home state would call a Texas frog-strangler, the downpour is so heavy.

Sooner or later, the rumblings lead to a torrent.

They always do. Sooner or later.

Mostly, sooner.

Somehow, someone is going to get wet. Soaked through.

Do you suppose the followers of Jesus didn’t get wet? In the storm that overtook their boat and threatened to sink it, do you think they stayed dry? (Mark 4:37)

When Peter walked across the waves—even before he took his eyes off the Teacher—do you think he wasn’t drenched clear through? (Matthew 14:29-30)

Can’t you just see it? Impetuous Peter, anxious to show the Master (and his peers) he was up to the challenge, jumps out of the boat to meet Him in the waves.

Walking on the water! On. The. Water.

What a moment of triumph! But, only a moment.

The waves slapped at his ankles, then at his knees. Before he knew it, one soaked him from head to toe. This wasn’t anything like he had imagined. Robe hanging down, hair streaming into his face, water in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, it was horrendous!

Where was the protection he expected from the waves? Why was his Rabbi—his Teacher—allowing this misery?

Soaked, disappointed, and distressed beyond belief, he begins to worry about the next wave. And the next. We know the rest of the story.

Life is like that, isn’t it? We have expectations—plans. Then the walk turns out to be so much harder than we envisioned it at the beginning.

Our faith wanes. If God wanted us to get out of that boat, why didn’t He clean up the pathway to get to Him? Why would He let us be miserable when we’re doing what we’re supposed to do?

Sometimes, in the storms of life, it’s hard to see the pathway with the rain streaming down our faces. And sometimes, it’s not only the rain that’s streaming down our faces.

Sometimes, it's not only the rain that's streaming down our faces. Share on X

I sat in a restaurant with dear friends earlier this evening, minding my own business, and the storm broke. Old hurts, not with them but with others I love, came pouring to the surface.

I had heard the rumbling for a while before this. The downpour was sure to come sooner or later, so I have huddled under whatever shelter I could raise to keep from getting wet.

But, part of the walk is sharing it with companions. Our life of serving Him is not a mission for a hero, but a pilgrimage for a band of fellow travelers.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet. Share on X

Together, we all get wet. As we walk each other home, we get drenched together.

And, it’s miserable. And magnificent.

And, then He says, “Peace. Be still.”

I’m going to keep walking. With the friends who’ll walk beside me.

You coming with?

Bring your towel.

It’s going to be a damp walk.

The men were amazed and asked, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!”
(Matthew 8:27 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And, I feel soaked to the skin.
(Leonard Cohen ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1934-2016)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips