I Give Up/At the Car Wash

October 13, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes it’s just hard to give up control. Really hard.

I went to the car wash recently. It’s been a few years since I gave up fighting the trend and started running my car through the wash tunnel. For most of my life, I insisted on using the old-style quarter machines to do it myself. But, I’m getting old, and sitting in my car while it gets laundered seems a good idea now.

It took me a while. I didn’t want to give up on doing it myself. But, I always seemed to put off the job. It could be hard work. Sometimes, it was too cold outside. Or, too hot.

So, the car was almost always dirty.

And, I like clean. I do.

The vehicle in front of me entered through the member lane. That means they had already paid for unlimited washes and there was no need to wait for the attendant to help with payment. I assumed it also meant they were familiar with the process and would make no trouble for me or anyone else behind them.

Well? It seemed a reasonable expectation.

They made trouble.

There is a white line on the pavement as one approaches the entrance to the tunnel. Folks in the know understand one needs to line up their driver’s side front wheel on the painted stripe to be straight with the steel track inside.

The driver missed it by a foot.

After the attendant helped them get the vehicle straightened out, I was sure all would be well. My own wheel was sitting on the line now as I waited my turn.

The small pickup stopped where the attendant indicated. Next, he waved his hand at the sign sitting beside the track. The instructions should have been clear;

Put your car in neutral
Take hands off the steering wheel
Keep foot off the brake pedal
Do not open your window or turn on your wipers

The attendant walked toward me. I was next! I prepared to pull forward onto the track. But, it wasn’t to be.

Suddenly, he spun around and, racing back to the wall, slapped the big red button there. The emergency stop quickly brought the entire operation to a halt. Lights darkened, and the entire place went quiet—for a second. Then, he sprinted toward the pickup, yelling as he went.

That truck definitely wasn’t in neutral! It should have been sitting still, waiting for the conveyor to pull it along, but it was still moving under its own power toward the waiting brushes.

Brake lights went on, along with the cargo light above the truck’s bed as the driver opened his door to see what was happening.

They talked briefly and the truck’s door closed. The attendant walked back toward the big red button, shaking his head. Turning the safety release on the button, he pushed it again.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I’m sure he did, as well.

Too soon!

Both of us saw it at the same time. The conveyor had picked up the wheels of the truck and was pulling it forward, but suddenly, the backup lights shone from the rear of the vehicle!

Now, they were reversing!

Red button time again. More shouting and running. The cargo light came on again.

After the door slammed once more and the poor fellow trotted back to start the machinery up again, I waited—not as hopefully this time—to finally start through the wash myself.

There were no more delays. Still, the entire time I was being pulled through the wash tunnel, I kept my hand near the horn button—ready to blast away at that person who seemed to be reluctant to give up control of his/her vehicle to the process. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the exit ahead of me, with no sign of the truck blocking the way.

Why is it so hard for us to give up control?

From the dim, dark reaches of my brain, the anecdote emerges. I read it somewhere a lifetime ago. But, it stuck with me.

The old fellow was sitting patiently in the hallway, waiting for the ladies meeting at the church to finish. As the custodian, it was his job to set up (and later, take down) the tables and chairs for the refreshments, and he had done it without complaint, even when the requests and directives came fast and furious from more than one of the ladies.

The pastor stopped by where he sat waiting to clear up.

“You seem so calm, John. How do you do it?”

“Well Preacher,” John said, with a smile across his face, “I just put my brain into neutral and let them push me around wherever they want me.”

I laugh every time I think of the old fellow. Still, he knew what it took to accomplish what he came to do.

But, the driver of that vehicle in the car wash the other day? They needed to do one thing. Only one.

Relax.

That was it. Sit back and let go.

The result would be a gleaming, clean truck.

The driver’s way would have resulted in chaos. It very nearly did. And not only for him. Damaged machinery. No clean cars for anyone following behind. No work for the attendants while repairs were made. Loss to the insurance company, the driver, and the car wash.

Sit back. Let go.

Moses gave the same instructions to the folks following him out there in the desert all those years ago.

“‘The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’” (Exodus 14:14, NLT)

The Children of Israel were afraid. They wanted to go back and give themselves up to that old, gritty life of slavery. But Moses suggested they go straight ahead, into the car wash.

No, really. A great big—terrifying—car wash. Right through the middle of the sea.

He said—in essence, “Sit back and let go. God’s got you.”

And, He did.

And, He does.

In the car wash. In the hurricane. In the wildfire. In the emergency room. In the hospice bed.

He’s fighting for us.

It’s hard to let Him. Hard.

I’m still learning to let go. Maybe you are, too.

But, I did learn to put my car in neutral and take my foot off the brake. I’m going to keep working on the rest of it.

Trusting Him, we learn to rest.

And, He cleans us up in the process.

I like clean. I do.

“Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength. However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it.”
(Ann Landers)

“But Moses told the people, ‘Don’t be afraid. Just stand still and watch the Lord rescue you today. The Egyptians you see today will never be seen again. The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’” (Exodus 14:13-14, NLT)

Bells Toll

October 5, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was noon. A few weeks ago. Maybe, a few months. Time seems to run together these days. I write notes to myself so I’ll not forget and then I do.

This note seemed ominous.

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.“

I wrote the words—a quote from a writing by John Donne in the 1600s—to remind myself of that noontide reverie on a future day when I had time to flesh it out in my thoughts.

On that late morning, I had walked up to the local university where the Lovely Lady has worked for many years. As on most days, I was simply anticipating a pleasurable walk home with the one who has walked beside me for most of a half-century.

The bells would intrude.

They always do.

I stood, leaning against the brick wall outside the library building on campus, and waited. As I waited, the chimes in the Cathedral of the Ozarks tower began to sound, beginning with the familiar Westminster pattern. Then slowly, one after the other, the clock knelled out one dozen slow and distinct tones.

The words popped into my head. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls…”

It was high summer. The temperature where I was standing was well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Yet, suddenly I felt goosebumps on my arms.

Was it a premonition? An omen?

Nah. Just a silly thought. But, it did seem important enough that I needed a reminder for later.

Somehow, it also seemed appropriate that, as the Lovely Lady exited the building and, taking my hand, started down the sidewalk with me, the carillon in the bell tower began to play a verse of the wonderful old tune “Beautiful Savior”.

The words from the old hymn—also written in the 1600s—flowed through my mind as we walked;

“Beautiful Savior, Lord of all nations,
Son of God, and Son of Man!
Glory and honor, praise, adoration
Now and forever more be Thine!“

I have thought about the other words that went through my mind that early afternoon any number of times since the day. Enough so that I explored the origin of the phrase. I was surprised to learn Mr. Donne simply believed we are all connected, perhaps even dependent on each other.

He wasn’t being prophetic about anyone’s death; he simply believed that any person’s passing affected all of the community of man.

If I expand the meaning a bit, it implies we all feel each other’s pain. We share in losses; we benefit from each other’s well-being.

I wonder if that’s why the Apostle for whom I am named told us to rejoice with those who rejoice and to weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

And perhaps, it’s why he told the folks in Athens that the “unknown god” they had erected an altar to was the One who gave life and breath to every living creature and who satisfies our every need.

He went on to say, “From one man, He created all the nations throughout the earth.” (Acts 17:26, NLT)

Science bears out our relationship. We share 99.9 percent of our DNA with all other humans. There is no arguing our shared humanity, our familial connection.

But, we don’t need science to tell us that, do we? Over and over, we feel the closeness, the affinity, and yes—the sympathy that only those connected by birthright could feel for each other.

We’ve felt it in the United States this week as we’ve seen the devastation of the hurricane in the Carolinas and surrounding areas.

Each time we see news on our screens of fresh devastation of war and natural disasters, we weep along with the mourners.

We are all—without exception—made in the image of our Beautiful Savior, who still holds us in His hands.

In my reading of John Donne’s work, I noticed another famous saying which originated from the same short piece of prose. The reader will surely have heard it also.

“No man is an island, entire of itself.“

Paul Simon begged to differ when he made the familiar claim in one of his songs, “I am a rock. I am an island.“

He was wrong. But then, I think he knew that. His song was a statement of the attempts people make—unsuccessfully—to insulate themselves from hurt and pain.

I don’t want to be insulated.

Engaged. That’s what I need to be.

In engagement, we feel the extreme pain of losses. Still, we also feel the surprising joy of life’s miracles—and we experience the giddiness of undeserved triumphs and the unexpected ecstasy of prodigals who return to the arms of their waiting Father.

Yes. The bell tolls for us all. Together, we weep.

And yet, together we labor side by side to repair life’s devastation.

And—still together—we will rejoice again.

Every tear will be wiped away. Every one.

Even so…

“The voice so sweet, the words so fair
As some soft chime had stroked the air.”
(from The Mind, a poem by Ben Jonson)

“No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were:
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.“
(from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, by John Donne)

Walking Out of the Fog

October 2, 2024October 2, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

On a recent day I sat with my old friend again. Yes, it was in my mind that the last time we had sat with coffee cups between us, I had walked away with a life-changing backache.

I determined not to sit for three hours without moving this time. But, we had things to discuss. Important things. Well—important to us.

As we sat down with our cups of coffee, a smile played around his lips as he told me he had thought of a title for his next blog post (he doesn’t write blogs). Then he told about what he described as, “My Life in the Fog.”

As he related his experiences growing up in the last century in Fresno, California, I imagined I could see it clearly.

The Central Valley of California, also known as the San Joaquin Valley, is a huge bowl of fertile ground, the produce capital of the whole country. There are miles and miles of cultivated fields growing crops of every description, from vegetables to nuts. It is, in some ways, a veritable paradise. But, there are drawbacks.

The natives call it Tule (pronounced too-lee) Fog (when they’re not arguing about whether that’s what it really is or is not). The name “Tule” is a local term, shortened from Tulare, which was once a large lake in the area.

The entire valley, thousands of square miles of it, is frequently engulfed in the fog, generated by the cold air of the surrounding mountain ranges settling down into the warm, moist air below them. This is especially prevalent in the fall and winter months.

I said I imagined I saw the image clearly as my friend described standing in his yard, ready to go to school in the early morning light. Gazing across the street, he couldn’t even see the neighbor’s house in front of him. And, to the side, no shrubs or fence were visible at the house next door.

You see my problem, don’t you?

It’s all just a bit out of focus, wavering in my mind. The fog he describes cloaks the entire scene as I gaze upon it.

It is what fog does.

I suppose that’s what he intended to communicate with his proposed title for the nonexistent blog he was writing. No. I’m sure of it.

He went on to describe the occasional clearing of the fog in one direction, but not in others. He would stand, again unable to see the house across the street but, turning to his left, could see the neighbor’s property there perfectly well, as if the sun was shining clearly on it.

I know I’m not supposed to do it. You know—think about my own experiences while someone else is talking. I’m supposed to listen completely to what they’re saying. But, there was a voice speaking inside my head, too.

“Sure. The fog is just fine when you’re standing still in your own front yard.”

You see, I’ve been there. In that Tule Fog. No, really!

We traveled numerous times to my Grandfather’s house in the Central Valley. He lived little more than 25 miles away from where my friend used to stand in the fog before school. To get there, my family and I would travel over 1400 miles by car, zipping through mountains, prairies, farmland, and deserts.

The most memorable part of the journey for me always was the descent into the San Joaquin Valley through the Tehachapi (ta-hatch-a-pea) Pass. On this particular trip, we made the drop from the high desert into the valley in the darkness of a very early morning.

If you make the trip in daylight when there is fog, you can see it down below, almost like a super dense cloud lying at your feet, with time to mentally prepare yourself for what is to come. I didn’t have that advantage on the occasion my memory dredged up.

The wet blanket of fog we dropped into was like being enveloped in a cloud of pure white cotton. Flicking the car’s headlights to bright only multiplied the effect. The brilliant light merely reflected off the dazzling white blanket, almost blinding the driver to anything but its overwhelming glare.

I slowed to a safe speed, only to remember (almost too late) that I was on a California freeway. The traffic behind me had not slowed to a safe speed and passed me at a terrific pace, some barely seeing my taillights in time to swerve into the passing lane.

I sped up. Terrified and confused by the lack of vision, but dazed by the overload of sensory stimuli, I could do nothing but travel at the speed of surrounding traffic while staring wide-eyed into the seeming abyss in front of me and praying for protection.

Although it seemed like an eternity, it wasn’t all that long before we began to see rifts in the wall of white clouds about us. I was never so happy to see the darkness, riven by my vehicle’s headlights to give a clear picture of what was in front of us.

But, my friend was still talking, wasn’t he? Something about seeing through a mirror, indistinctly.

I had to shake off my own fog to catch up.

Oh yes! The Apostle’s words from one of his letters:

“Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.” (1 Corinthians 13:12, NLT)

We do. We live in a fog—some of us for most of our lives. The noise and clamor we’re surrounded by serve only to act like the high beams, obfuscating and blinding us to the truth.

But, we don’t have to live like this—here in the fog—forever.

There is a place of clarity here on earth.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet,
a light on my path.” (Psalm 119:105, NIV)

Have you ever noticed where fog lamps are mounted on vehicles? That’s right; Down near the road. Down below the fog, giving a clear view of the surface one is traveling over.

God’s word is a lamp, specifically for our feet, to light the path ahead. When all others are frantically flipping between low and high beams, failing spectacularly to find a path through the fog, His wisdom cuts through, lighting the way faithfully.

He gives light that truly lends clarity to life. Through all of our days, if we’ll avail ourselves of it.

I don’t love the fog. I say I don’t anyway. But still, I stumble along feeling my way—speeding up, slowing down—and hoping no one is about to come flying out of the pea soup behind me and do me great harm.

We’re a stubborn lot, aren’t we? I am, anyway.

All the while, the answer is at my fingertips. He promises to make the way plain.

We already hold the light in our hands and hearts if we are followers of Christ.

Clear—clear as day.

It’s time to walk out of the fog. I’m going to do my best. You know me though; I always love company on the road.

Are you coming with?

“I must go in; the fog is rising.“
(last reported words of poet Emily Dickinson)

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.”
(Proverbs 3: 5-6, NIV)

Behind this Fence

September 27, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The little dog is an escape artist. Well, not so much an artist as a fanatic.

She has a good-sized yard in which to roam; it having ample grass to roll in, dirt to dig in, and room to stretch out. Plus, there’s always food and water waiting for her. And yet, she is not content.

I have watched the little dachshund-mix canine run back and forth along the fence line with no other intent but to find a weakness, just the beginning of an opening to widen—first with her nose, then with her head—and slip out of. She has all that big yard to run, but she wants the whole world instead.

Several times recently, I have called to her as she streaked away from our neighbor’s yard to freedom and she, friendly beast that she is, has come to my call, allowing me to pick her up and drop her down gently back into her assigned domain.

And then immediately, she has headed for the hole through which she squeezed earlier or has run for the incline she used as a launching ramp onto the stump next to the fence, jumping from there to freedom again.

She is not content.

In the midst of plenty, she wants more. Surrounded by all she needs, including the loving attention of her owners, she would sacrifice it all for a few minutes of running free.

Foolish dog! Danger awaits out there; hunger and terror from other animals.

I laugh at the silly thing, but then I remember. Last week, I offered to help the dog’s owner with one problem area, next to the stump. As I worked with the fencing to be anchored around the area, he, temporarily crippled with sciatica, hobbled up, leaning on his cane. Gasping in pain, he bent over to help.

He couldn’t stand to have someone working in his yard and not be involved. Even with his physical limitations, he just had to participate in the labor.

There was no need. I had it handled. He helped me to his physical detriment.

In my mind, I can’t help but compare the man and his dog. Both are cared for and have no need of more, but both feel the need to do more, to push farther.

To their distinct disadvantage, they push the boundaries.

And, still laughing, I wonder at the foolishness of not resting in what has been provided. Why are we—both animals and humans—like that?

But, my laughing is quieted as another memory pushes aside the scenes of the man and his dog.

Just last week, it was. My grandchildren had come to visit, parents in tow (they will come along), and having an hour or so before a scheduled event, asked if they could have another go at the stump in the front yard.

“But, you can’t do any of the work, Grandpa! We don’t want you to hurt your back again.”

I agreed to oversee the job and stay out of their way. With my mouth, I agreed. My brain and heart didn’t follow suit, apparently. After several minutes of standing and making suggestions of locations for chopping and prying, I could take it no longer.

“Let me take a whack or two at that!”

I swung the mattock a number of times (I don’t remember if it was three or twenty) and soon we had most of the above-ground part of the stump out.

I haven’t had many pain-free moments since.

There was no reason for me to swing that tool—not even once! The labor was freely provided; the task would have been finished handily without me.

My grandchildren were there, not only to provide labor; they were there to be a wall of protection.

And, I stepped out from behind that wall. Because of my pride. Stubbornness, too. But, mostly pride.

What is it the Proverb says? “Pride goes before excruciating pain and a haughty spirit before the need to lean on a cane for support.”

No. That’s not quite right, but the result seems to be the same. The man who says I don’t need help—or, I know better than anyone else—is asking for pain and suffering. (Read Proverbs 16:18, for the true version)

Our Creator gives us boundaries—and He provides us with safe places and helpers—for our benefit. It’s not to punish us. The fences are there to give us safety.

One might expect the shenanigans from the little dog. While they can be smart for the animal kingdom, they’re mostly no match for humans in the logic department. Mostly. Sometimes, I’m not so sure.

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be able to say with the Apostle who loved to write letters, “I am content. Whatever condition and wherever it is that God has me, I am content.” (Philippians 4:11, my paraphrase)

Like the little dog, the fences gall me. They mock me, almost.

But, I’m learning to rest. And, to trust.

He wants good for us. Really.

Good.

With Him, we are safe. In His strong and loving arms, we can rest.

I may finally be learning my lesson. My neighbor, too. Time will tell.

I’m remembering the days when I used to call my father and let him know I was concerned for his well-being. He would often quote Psalm 16:6 to me to reassure me.

Perhaps, I need to claim it for myself in these days of learning to be content behind the fence.

“The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.“

I’m not sure about the little dog, but I’ve got an idea she’s going to be all right, as well.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep,
for you alone, Lord,
make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8, NIV)

“We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we’re wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.” (C.S. Lewis)

Stinking Up the Place

September 19, 2024September 19, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I have walked past the flattened carcass daily for more than a week now. And when I say flattened, I mean it’s thinner than the proverbial pancake. Hardly distinguishable from the pavement.

It still stinks.

I saw the skunk lying there one day early last week. Then, it looked almost like the cat you see in the photo accompanying this article. I thought it was a cat at first. Clearly, it was not.

That first day I walked past it, there was no odor at all. I knew that couldn’t last so I called the city and asked them to pick it up before the cars began the flattening process. I think they must have been too busy.

Thus, the aroma permeating the atmosphere.

On an earlier day this week, as I worked out in my yard, the shifting breeze periodically wafting the odor to my olfactory nerves, I wondered about the cat that turned into a skunk (only in my strange brain, you understand).

And, as often happens, my thoughts began to run to human nature and practice. Before I was finished with my task, I had formulated the question that follows:

“How is it that into our lungs we draw the sweet aroma of grace and mercy breathed upon us by our God, yet the atmosphere all about us is choked with the acrid fumes of our judgment and hate?”

I saved the words in a note on my smartphone, cogitating on the idea for a while and then, I moved on mentally. But, a conversation I read on social media last night brought it back to mind with a jolt.

As with many these days, the post was political/religious in nature. I agreed—mostly—with the premise, so I followed the conversation. That may have been a mistake.

Again and again, I am shocked at the vitriol coming from the mouths and keyboards of professing followers of our Savior. I shouldn’t be by now, but I am.

And then, there was this: “Christians are the worst!”

And, I find myself agreeing. We are. The worst.

The apostle, my namesake, said the words. I often feel them deeply, too.

“Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—and I am the worst of them all.” (1 Timothy 1:15a, NLT)

The thing is, we were never intended to continue being the worst of sinners.

Never.

When I’m flattened on the road of life, I want not to stink to high heaven.

Even if I’m flatter than that ubiquitous pancake when this world gets done with me, I’d like there to be a sweet aroma of grace and peace.

And hope. Especially, hope.

That’s my prayer for all of us.

Today and until Heaven.

“The Christian’s life is to be a thing of truth and also a thing of beauty in the midst of a lost and despairing world.”
(Francis Schaeffer)

“And so blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth. Surely, my brothers and sisters, this is not right! Does a spring of water bubble out with both fresh water and bitter water?”
(James 3:10-11, NLT)

Living in the Cracks

September 17, 2024September 17, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Paul? Maybe you’d like to sing the baritone part instead of the tenor. Would you try it?”

The director of the combined university chorus/community choir didn’t have to ask twice. Well, except perhaps because I thought I might have heard him wrong. I hadn’t.

So I’m singing baritone. And, a little bass.

And, it feels like I’ve come home.

Do you ever feel like you don’t fit in?

You know—everyone else in the car wants to listen to music from the latest boy group, but you heard that Yo-Yo Ma recorded a duet with Alison Krauss and you’d like to listen to that. Or, you’re walking with a group of people on the fitness trail and you realize that they’re all synchronized on the left foot and you’re on your right foot. Or, the family members all want to go for tacos, but you want chicken.

I’ve felt like that all my life. If you really know me, you know I was the strange kid, always zigging when everyone else zagged. I’ve freely admitted in these little pieces I write that I’ve never felt completely at home, no matter where I’ve been.

My father-in-law used a descriptive phrase, many years ago, that I’ve always thought fit me to a T. He was a piano tuner and would often be asked to work on instruments that had been neglected for many years. When a piano is left to its own devices for too long, the strings tend to stretch, making the overall pitch drop. The result is an instrument that may be in tune with itself, but sounds horrid when played with another instrument at standard pitch.

He would say to me, “This one is playing in the cracks.”

I understood exactly what he meant. The piano didn’t play well with others (I think that phrase might have described me at many points in my childhood as well—and perhaps after).

I always had the image in my head, as he said those words, that the sounds the instrument made were what might have come from down between the ebony and ivory keys, instead of dead center on top of them.

I suspect I may have been playing in the cracks for most of my life. And for some reason, I’ve always thought I needed to be fixed—to be tuned up to standard pitch.

I’m beginning to think differently.

I’ve indeed spent most of my life singing tenor. But, I’m a baritone.

If you know vocal categories, you realize that often the baritone is left out in choral music. Music is written in SATB form (soprano, alto, tenor, bass), so there’s no place for the baritone to fit in easily. Many notes in the tenor part are comfortable and sound great when sung by a baritone, but when those soaring notes fly up above Middle C, the baritone voice begins to lose its luster. The same thing happens in the bass parts, except it’s in the lower range of that voicing that the baritone singer gets lost in the mix.

I still remember my pastor’s wife sitting in front of me in the choir during my high school years. Back then, the choir needed a bass voice, so I covered that part for them.

Mrs. Slaughter was always kind, always sweet. She’d hear me sing a bass line (that should have been full and deep, but for me, the notes were just barely audible) and she’d say, loud enough for the entire choir to hear, “Oh! Listen to that basso profundo!”

I don’t think anyone else in the choir was rude enough to laugh, but I did. Every time. I knew better.

I’m no bass singer. Nor am I a tenor.

I sing in the cracks between the two.

And, it’s finally okay.

Dr. Cho says it’s okay.

Can I make a suggestion? If you don’t fit the mold they’re pushing you into, stop trying. Be who you are. More than that—be who God made you to be.

The world will try to make you fit their standard. You don’t belong there. And, if you’re really following Christ, you’ll never fit in—never feel comfortable—singing in that key.

“This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through…”

Living in the cracks.

Until we finally reach home.

There, we’ll be singing in His key. With His voicing.

He—the Master Conductor—says it’s okay.

You know the music will be spectacular.

I hope you’ll sing with me. I’ll be the one singing baritone.

“I’m not asking you to take them out of the world, but to keep them safe from the evil one. They do not belong to this world any more than I do. Make them holy by your truth; teach them your word, which is truth. Just as you sent me into the world, I am sending them into the world.”
(John 17:15-18, NLT)

“Harpists spend ninety percent of their lives tuning their harps, and ten percent playing out of tune.” (Igor Stravinsky)

Dust in My Eyes

September 8, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I noticed the post on a friend’s social media page earlier:

“Getting hard to breathe as CA fires blow our way.”

She’s praying for rain, while smoke makes it hard to catch her breath. Many others are too.

I didn’t expect it, but I got a catch in my throat as I read her message.

There are no fires near me, but I had an inkling of her misery today as I mowed my lawn. There has been very little rain for a few weeks and the soil under the grass is parched. With more than a few mole tunnels pushed up across the width and length of the yard, I knew I was in for a dusty job when I headed out to begin the task.

I did borrow a face cowl from the Lovely Lady before venturing out. I had no idea how much I would need it. As it turned out, I should have found some swim goggles to go with it.

Dust billowed out from my mower—by the buckets full, it seemed to me—and yet I sped on across the yard. I soon found that, if I rode along in a straight line, I could stay ahead of the murky haze of flying dirt. But eventually, I had to turn, always back directly into the hazy cloud.

The face cowl helped considerably. I could breathe, at least. But again and again, I was overcome by the dirt in my eyes, burning and stinging. It would go dark as I was forced to close my eyelids against the irritating dust. Each time it happened, I released the grab bars that controlled my forward progress and, sitting atop the roaring machine in the diminishing fog, would wipe my eyes, either with my finger or with a handkerchief dampened from my water bottle.

I felt a little like Pigpen, the Peanuts character who raised dust wherever he walked in the comic strip. I’m certain the neighbors were almost as relieved as I was when the task was finished.

But, on a couple of the occasions I had to stop the mower today, I did so in the darkness, caused not only by the dust but also by panic. Momentarily, I would be confused as to where (and into what) the machine and its rider were headed.

Was I going to hit a tree? A gas meter or water faucet? Perhaps the flowerpot that held the Lovely Lady’s columbine plant was in my path! I’m not sure a little dirt in my eyes would have sufficed as an adequate excuse for that damage!

Do you know what it feels like to lose sight of reality? Of the straight road you’ve marked out in front of you?

It was only an inkling. Merely the tiniest glimpse of what hopelessness could feel like.

But, while I was in the midst of it, it seemed to me that I might never breathe easily, nor see clearly again. I knew I would, but it’s easy to be overwhelmed when in the grip of an uncomfortable turn of events.

As I contemplated later, clean and grit-free in my easy chair, my thoughts went back several decades and I finally began to understand.

I remember standing outside that hospital with tears in my eyes. I cried again later that evening as I attempted to understand the darkness one had to feel to attempt to end their own life.

It was years ago—in the last century—if you must know. We’ve moved more than once since then. The names have faded into obscurity; the faces almost so.

The couple, not young, lived near us in a small rental house. Their lives hadn’t been easy, but there had been no events that prepared me for hearing the ambulance outside our back door. And, I certainly didn’t anticipate following the paramedics to the hospital with an inebriated husband in my passenger seat.

The wife had taken a lot of pills. More than a handful. In her mind, it was the only alternative she had in a hopeless situation. Her husband, incapacitated as he was, was no help. But, eventually, he figured out she was in trouble and called 911.

Thus, the trip to the hospital. I offered to take him since it was clear he was in no condition to drive.

The team at the hospital was able to save her life. It didn’t fix her problems. Nor his. But, she lived. They moved away just weeks later, so I don’t know how their lives have gone, except that I heard their marriage ended soon after that.

I’m not sure the darkness ever lifted for them. I pray it has.

Did I say there were tears in my eyes? One might wonder why. They hadn’t been great neighbors. They argued loudly late at night. When he had had a little too much to drink (which was not infrequent), he sang country music at the top of his lungs from the front porch of the little house. They borrowed tools—and money—and my old bicycle, and didn’t always feel the need to return them.

And yet, I cried. For her, and her blind despair. And for him, and how he was treated by the doctor at the hospital. Rudely and with no respect nor regard for his terror that his wife might die. All the doctor saw was his drunkenness and poverty, and he had no time nor sympathy to be wasted on the man.

And so, I sat tonight and wondered anew at how we look at each other—at our neighbors and strangers on the street corners. At friends who have lost someone and can’t get over it. At people who look different, and act differently, than we do. Addicts and mentally ill. Politicians and the spectacularly wealthy (or even poverty-stricken). The list is endless.

And yet, they are neighbors. Every one of them.

We all get the dust in our eyes at some point. And, it’s easy to give up hope. For ourselves. For others.

Still, we’re all part of the human race. We share a common condition—that of being part of Adam’s fallen progeny. Our shared ancestor’s blindness has come over every one of us who walks this earth.

I know the tiniest thing about the blindness and fear that can overcome us.

And yet, hopelessness is not what has been promised to us. Not at all. We have hope. In Christ, our hope is certain. And, we walk in light.

We do. We walk in Light.

The Light that shines in every dark place. And we have the astounding privilege to share that light, carrying it within our very souls.

The smoke will clear. The rain will fall and settle the dust. It will.

And, the Light will never be overcome. Never.

That’s a promise. (John 1:5)

So for now, we get to shine. In this house, in this neighborhood—be it hillside or valley, and in this world.

You might want to bring your goggles along, too. There’s dust in the wind that’s blowing.

But, the Light shines still.

“Satan, who is the god of this world, has blinded the minds of those who don’t believe. They are unable to see the glorious light of the Good News. They don’t understand this message about the glory of Christ, who is the exact likeness of God.” (2 Corinthians 4:4, NLT)

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness.”
(Christopher M Rice)

Message in a Mailbox

September 2, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve spent more than enough time the last few days living inside my head. The passing of a friend—whose loss looms larger all the while I consider our experiences together—has darkened my thoughts more than a little.

Still, contemplation of life and its losses—along with its great gifts—is never time wasted. Never wasted that is, unless the time doesn’t come to an end with a declaration of resolve and renewed direction. If that doesn’t happen, we simply remain where we are, frozen in place. I don’t think I can be content to stay in the past, or even in this place of quiet reflection.

All of life is movement, isn’t it? Or, it should be.

Movement and change.

So, onward!

I sat, in my melancholy mood, this evening and listened to music as I contemplated the week past. Quiet classical music played on my Spotify station. It helps me relax without intruding. On most nights.

Tonight though, I suddenly found myself thinking about the house I grew up in. The red-headed lady who raised me was there, sitting in her easy chair wielding a crochet hook while she pulled yarn from a skein in the basket beside her. The Christian station played on the radio sitting nearby. A man’s resonant baritone voice emanated from the speaker.

Nightsounds. That was the name of the program. Mom listened to it most nights from 11:30 to midnight. I know; your mom didn’t stay up that late, but mine did. Nearly every night. So did I.

So do I.

Nightsounds? Now, where did that come from? Oh yes! I looked at my monitor and saw that the song playing was Beau Soir by Claude Debussy (published in 1891). For many years, Beau Soir was Bill Pierce’s theme music for the late-night program of contemplative music and quiet wisdom.

I haven’t listened to or thought about that radio program since the late 1970s—almost fifty years ago now. But on this night, just a few measures into the music, my mind was transported to those days, to the time spent and lessons learned at my mother’s side.

She was a woman who lived her faith, never wavering, not even when her mind was stolen away in her last years by dementia. I have written before of one of my last memories of her—sharing a hymnal and singing songs of God’s love.

I’ve done my best to stay true to the faith of my mother, following the tenets of the Word of God. I even still treasure much of the music I learned to love as a child—classical, choral, songs of faith.

But, that brings me back to earlier today. Something that happened, seemingly not connected, yet perhaps connected, after all.

I got the note from my neighbor while I was at the grocery store.

“Your mailbox is on the ground. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

It was. On the ground. When I left to go shopping with the Lovely Lady, it had been on the post, as sturdy as you please.

When I got home, I could plainly see the tire marks in the mud leading directly toward the post that stood there, sans mailbox, which was lying in the grass.

I knew who the tracks belonged to. I even took photos of the damage and of the tire marks. That driver was going to hear from me! The driver’s boss was going to hear from me!

It’s important to take responsibility for our actions. It is.

My mother taught me that, as did my father. They would have contacted the company and reported the transgression. The wrongdoer should be made to answer for his actions. He needs to do better!

I looked at the photos I had taken. I looked at the mailbox lying on the ground before me. Resentment grew rapidly. As I thought about the effort and resources I had expended a couple of years ago when I replaced the post, cementing it into place, and affixing the mailbox atop it, my indignation mounted almost exponentially moment by moment.

Do the right thing!

It was what I was taught. I would only be honoring my mother and father.

Do you know what I did?

No. Not that.

I put my phone away and, going to my workbench, gathered up the tools necessary to return the mailbox to its perch. Finding a scrap piece of one-by-six, I cut it to length and, removing the old screws and broken mount, fastened it into place before setting the mailbox in position. Four more screws were all it took to finish the job. It didn’t cost me a penny.

The entire job took half an hour. Well, three-quarters of an hour if you count the lovely conversation I had with my neighbors across the street, an opportunity I don’t have as often as I’d like.

Then, I deleted the photos from my phone.

Even now, as I sit at my desk, I can look out the window and see the mailbox. There is a sense of accomplishment, of satisfaction at a job well done. The animosity, the annoyance toward that faceless driver is gone—completely disappeared.

And, as I sat tonight listening to the beautiful music, I thought of another way in which I honor my mother and father. Even though they are gone from this life, years past.

I certainly honor them by remembering the tenets they taught me. I even honor them by following their example in putting those lessons into practice.

But more than that, I honor them when I see ways those tenets can be applied more appropriately—and then do that in love and grace.

I hope you don’t think that I imagine I have earned any praise for this. What I’ve described is nothing more than an old man, nearly seven decades old, finally—finally—beginning to grasp the idea of “forgiving those who trespass against us.” (Matthew 6:12)

Finally learning to sit with the Teacher as He writes in the dust and says quietly, “Let him who is without sin throw the first stone.” (John 8:7)

Finally listening—and actually hearing—as the Apostle asks, “Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be cheated?” (1 Corinthians 6:7)

And, I’m only beginning. When it’s nearly too late. But, not too late yet.

I’m still alive. And, as Sam Gamgee’s old Gaffer used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

I reminded my son earlier that it is every parent’s dream for his children to learn from him/her and then do better than they did. Because the right thing is what Jesus would do. Not what your parents do, or did.

I wish I could be like my namesake, the Apostle, who suggested that his readers could confidently follow his example, as he followed Christ’s. I wish.

But, we learn. And grow. Together.

Walking each other home. Honoring each other as we go.

Spreading grace and mercy freely along the way.

It is what He would do.

“I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.”
(Abraham Lincoln)

“God blesses those who are merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.”
(Matthew 5:7, NLT)

Hidden

August 23, 2024August 23, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The tree is gone now, with not even a stump remaining where it stood, to bear witness to its existence.

For years, the Lovely Lady and I walked, rode, and drove past the old oak tree. It was just one oak in a grove of twenty or more bordering our local cemetery, with nothing to make it stand out.

You know by now (if you read my articles often) that I love trees. Their beauty is not only in the aesthetic qualities they have—the sturdy trunk, the spreading canopy, the soaring height—but is also in the functional part of them, the part that shades the earth from the sun and helps to fill the atmosphere with the oxygen that is necessary for life.

One day, a few weeks ago, we noticed that several limbs on the beautiful oak were dead. Completely dead. I can’t be sure, but they may have been dead for some time before that.

Still, it wasn’t long before a crew was there to trim off those dead limbs. The tree was near a very busy street and the city couldn’t risk having a limb fall into traffic and potentially injure someone. So, the lifeless limbs with their brown leaves were removed and hauled off.

All was well again. We thought.

Then last week, the crew came back. They downed the entire tree, much to our dismay. Sure, it was one of many, hardly to be missed. But, I hate it when trees are chopped down, especially trees that are alive and healthy.

However, even looking at the stump from across the street (before they brought the machine to grind it out), we could tell something was amiss. Perhaps, it hadn’t been a healthy tree after all. We walked over, exclaiming about what we found there.

The oak had been completely hollow. Rotten to the core. There was even evidence that, through a void near the ground, a wild animal of some sort had crept in and made a den inside the huge shell of a tree.

What a shock! Living, but filled with death.

The words of a prayer in The Book of Common Prayer come to mind. They were first written in Latin, way back in the 1300s.

“Media vita in morte sumus“

“In the midst of life, we are in death.”

The common usage today is for funeral services. It was not so when the words were written. They were written as a reminder to man that we ourselves are sinners, full of decay and degeneration. Alive on the outside, but inside full of nasty things.

I sat in my local coffee shop this morning, a lovely establishment, owned by a believer. As I sat sipping the delicious brew and enjoying my yogurt parfait, I listened to the quiet worship music playing. A delightful and reassuring start to my morning.

Then, I noticed writing on the edge of my yogurt cup.

Why is there always something to disturb the satisfaction of life as we’ve made it? I want to sit and enjoy the knowledge that all is well, that I’m doing just fine, yet thoughts and words intrude.

The writing on the cup was a scripture reference from Colossians 3. It included a specific verse, but I looked up the entire chapter on my laptop. It wasn’t all stuff I wanted to read.

I read it anyway.

“So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you.“ (Colossians 3: 5a, NLT)

Then there is a list of the things that live inside us, but shouldn’t. Impure thoughts—immorality—lust—even greed.

And now, I can’t get the picture of that tree out of my head. And the words of the Teacher, as He castigated the religious leaders of His time for their double-mindedness. White-washed tombs, He called them.

Our thoughts matter. What’s inside of us will eventually come out. In actions. In words.

I don’t want to rot from the inside.

I’d rather stand tall, like those trees in the first Psalm. Planted on the banks of a river flowing with pure, life-giving water.

Shade for the weary traveler. Fruit for the hungry.

Alive.

Completely alive.

Put away that chainsaw, would you?

^“Let the message about Christ, in all its richness, fill your lives. Teach and counsel each other with all the wisdom he gives. Sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs to God with thankful hearts. And whatever you do or say, do it as a representative of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through him to God the Father.” (Colossians 3:16-17, NLT)

“I wish not only to be called Christian, but also to be Christian.” (Saint Ignatius)

All Things New

August 21, 2024August 21, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“The house seems to be falling apart.”

It was only seven years ago that the Lovely Lady and I purchased her childhood home and, leaving our comfort zone far behind, labored for several months to make sure the house was ready to be lived in. We installed new appliances, replaced floors and ceilings, and generally spiffed up the inside spaces.

Set for life. I’m pretty sure those were the words I used when we moved our furniture, artwork, and books into the beautiful space. I was certain we had done good work, purchasing quality materials, and planning for future needs.

Now, it’s falling apart.

Oh, it’s not really falling apart. But, the sprayer in the kitchen sink gave up the ghost a couple of weeks ago, prompting me to order a new one from an online superstore (which shall remain nameless). The replacement arrived and was duly installed, only to fail within five days. I sent it back and went to visit the local building supply. We’ll see how long this replacement lasts.

Then, last week, our kids and grandkids came for a visit (as they do most weeks). Having eaten a little too much for supper, I suggested to the Lovely Lady that we take a walk right after bidding the rowdy bunch a loving goodbye. We returned to a house that was much warmer than the outside temperature.

With help from YouTube, I figured out what was wrong with the air conditioner compressor and effected a repair, but not before an encounter with a mathematically challenged sales rep at the local home repair center. He was kind enough to accept a return of the part he recommended in error and, still shaking his head in confusion, sent me on my way.

It’s cool inside again, but some part of me—the non-logical part—tells me the house is falling apart.

I keep installing new parts in old gadgets. The refrigerator, the stove, the storm doors.

It’s the only way I know to keep them functioning.

The Teacher had something to say about new parts in old things.

“Besides, who would patch old clothing with new cloth? For the new patch would shrink and rip away from the old cloth, leaving an even bigger tear than before.“ (Matthew 9:16, NLT)

I know—it’s not the same thing; I’m not comparing apples to apples, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said. Still, it seems incongruous—putting new parts in old machinery.

Sooner or later, the old parts remaining in the device will fail and I’ll throw away the entire affair, new parts and old alike.

It will all fall apart eventually.

And, without invitation, the fatalism that has eaten at my core for years shows up anew. I’ve said the words before. To my shame, I’ve said them.

“What’s the use?”

I want to blame that red-headed lady, the one who raised me. She had so many catchphrases to prove her point.

“It’s just par for the course.”
“It is what it is.”
“Why would I expect anything better?”
“The story of my life!”

I want to blame her, but it’s not her fault. It’s not. The human reaction to change and challenges is to believe the worst—to foresee failure. Even when we’ve experienced triumphs again and again we somehow seem to expect that the next time, we may not rise from the ashes victorious.

Change is hard. It pushes us to the edge of our abilities and even the limits of our hopefulness.

And sometimes, we do fail. Or, we experience losses. Despite all our blessings, we begin to anticipate the rough times.

Just last week, as I talked with a younger friend entering his middle years, I realized the pattern starts early. He spoke of difficulties, of challenges ahead, and even of losses behind. I tried to reassure him that good things still lie ahead, but in retrospect, I think my private doubts might have made my words a little dubious.

I’m not alone. Many I know are uncertain in these tempestuous days. Almost without exception, we wonder where our world, our country, and our communities are headed. And, then there are the personal issues: our families, our neighborhoods, our work, even our faith communities.

Can I say this? I may not have been resolute enough in my affirmation of good things ahead with my young friend, but I am absolutely certain of one thing.

Our Creator is making all things new. Even now, it is happening. It’s what He does.

“For I am about to do something new.
See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.”
(Isaiah 43:19, NLT)

New.

Not refurbished. Not repaired. Not mended.

New.

If we are truly followers of Christ, we have already been made new in Him. But, the day is coming when all around us will be made new.

He promised.

All new.

I’m ready for that.

Until then, I’ll keep repairing the things that break.

And counting my blessings.

“And the one sitting on the throne said, ‘Look, I am making everything new!” And then he said to me, “Write this down, for what I tell you is trustworthy and true.'”
(Revelation 21:5, NLT)

“A man builds a fine house, and now he has a master and a task for life: he is to furnish, watch, show it, and keep it in repair the rest of his days.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips