Summer is Passing

August 7, 2017August 7, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Church was full this morning. Everyone sat a little closer together. Everyone sang a little louder. There were more hugs, and more laughter afterward.

It all makes me a little sad.

That didn’t come out right. Maybe, I should explain.

The church is full because the teachers and professors are returning from their summer travels, their mission trips, their expeditions to expand horizons in their own minds so they can do the same for their students.

Hmmm. I seem to be making it worse instead of better.

I want to be very clear. I like the teachers and professors. I really do. It’s just that if they’re coming back, the students can’t be far behind.

Oh. That’s no better either, is it?

I love the students coming back, too. Really, I do. They fill the place with life and joy—optimism, even.

Let me give this one more shot, okay?

Their return (both teachers and students) means summer is almost over. Even the weather this week belies the calendar. Temperate days and cool nights have descended and rain has come back.

Oh, I know the summer weather will return with a vengeance. It always does in late August and September.

But, the thought is planted in my head and I can’t shake it. Summer is passing; already it’s nearly past.

And somehow, I feel like Alice’s White Rabbit clutching a pocket watch and muttering, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late.”

I never did find out exactly what the nervous hare was worried about being tardy for, but still, I can’t help thinking I haven’t accomplished everything I should have.

I mentioned it to the Lovely Lady a few days ago and she reminded me of all we’ve done this summer. I listened to her list and I had to smile. We covered some ground—we did. But, I wanted to do more.

I suppose it will always be that way. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, as Mr. Browning explained so well. But, I fall short so often.

I wanted to do more—and better.

I think of all the time wasted believing it couldn’t be done. You know—it. Whatever the new thing in front of me was.

I’ve never done this before. What if I mess it up?

I stood underneath the new ceiling fan with my son-in-law this afternoon and I had to laugh. He was bemoaning the fact that he has no confidence in working with electrical wiring. If he did, he would have a fan hanging from his ceiling as quickly as you could say downdraft.

I did. I laughed.

Man, electricity is easy! That over there—that’s what frightens me silly.

I jabbed a finger at the kitchen floor I am currently trying to cover with vinyl tile.

I’m not exaggerating, nor am I bragging. We purchased the materials for the job weeks ago. I stood for hours staring at the bare sub-floor before I could bring myself to even open the first box of tile.

Hanging the ceiling fan took half an hour. Less.

Yeah, but that stuff won’t kill you. The electricity could.

I laugh at his logic. He is right.

I like being in control. I enjoy doing things which make me look good to the folks around me. The problem is God doesn’t always give me assignments with which I’m comfortable.

When I want to stand in front of folks and speak of things with which I’m familiar, He tells me to climb under the house and repair the plumbing.

When I would rather repair a guitar with buzzing strings, He assigns me to pray with the man who’s just lost his wife of sixty years.

We waste a lot of time wishing He’d give us something else to do. I know I do.

I spend my breath—the breath He put in my lungs—attempting to convince Him I could be so much more use to Him doing the same things I’ve always done.

Moses said, What if they don’t listen to me? And God replied, Who do you think determines if people listen? Or see? Or speak? I will give you the tools! Just go! (Exodus 4:10-13)

Here we are again at the small end of the year. The hours of daylight are getting shorter.

And still, I stand and argue my case.

How much time I’ve wasted.

Is there still time? Yes. With Sam Gamgee’s old dad, I’ve said it many times—where there’s life, there’s hope.

It’s just time to quit stalling.

Or, as we used to say in those ball games we played in empty fields at the end of days full of activity:

Get a move on! The light’s going!

With the thought that summer might be running out comes a renewed urgency. Not much time now. Falling leaves are just around the corner. Hot cocoa and all things pumpkin flavored.

To everything, there is a season.

I want to use the breath He gave me for the purposes He intended it for. Today.

Use the breath He gave for His purposes. Do it today. Share on X

What’s that in your hand?

It’s time to use it. You might want to get a move on.

The light’s going.

We are not as strong as we think we are.
We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.
And, with these our hells and our heavens
So few inches apart,
We must be awfully small
And not as strong as we think we are.
(Rich Mullins ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1955-1997)

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.
(Ecclesiastes 9:10 ~ KJV)

Sometimes, I Like Surprises

August 4, 2017August 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The Lovely Lady saw it first. She usually does.

Look! A surprise lily!

By and large, it is not the season in our part of the country for brilliant blossoms on plants, the bountiful spring rains having mostly deserted us in this sweltering summertime heat. The ground is parched and crunchy—the latter being the sound the vegetation makes underfoot when one takes a shortcut through the yard.

But, sure enough, right near the driveway, where once there was a flower garden, the bare stem towers above the crunchy grass, gorgeous purple blooms standing proudly on top.

It is properly called a lycoris. We just call them surprise lilies, when we don’t call them naked ladies, the latter a description, not of anything risqué, but of the way the stem shoots up from the ground bare of any leaves whatsoever.

Every year they surprise me, although I can’t think why. Well, perhaps a reason or two will occur to me in time, but by now you’d think I’d simply mark my calendar. Late July and early August—like clockwork, you might say—the various-colored trumpets poke their heads out. Every year.

I would have told you it couldn’t happen this year.

Besides the dried up vegetation from the heat of the last few weeks and the lack of precipitation, which should have been enough to discourage their appearance, I did my part to guarantee this particular stand of lilies would never surprise me or anyone else, ever again.

I said they grew from the spot where once a garden grew. Twenty years ago the flower garden held a prominent place in that yard. It was tended by my father-in-law, who kept the encroaching weeds and volunteer trees— pin oaks, maples, and sweetgum, to name a sampling—from taking root where the roses and lilies resided.

Over the intervening years, the garden had become a tangled mess of weeds, vines, and trees, so we mowed them down. Not only that, the volunteer trees were lopped off at ground level to make it possible to keep them under control for the foreseeable future.

The flower garden was erased from the face of the earth. Literally. We thought.

To further ensure that the sneaky lilies never popped up unexpectedly again, although that wasn’t my express motivation, this past spring I spent hours with a mattock chopping out roots and stumps. The ground around was pulverized—torn up like a war zone.

No surprise lilies this year!

Boy, was I in for a surprise!

The exclamation was no sooner out of the Lovely Lady’s mouth than I headed over to see this miracle for myself. True, no more than a solitary array of blooms was visible, but I’ll wager tomorrow there will be three.

Out of the parched ground, covered in crunchy grass and weeds, the beauty from the hand of the Creator stands, proudly exclaiming its victory.

Victory over me. Well, victory over my doubt, anyway.

When all is dark and hopeless, light creeps in and taps us on the shoulder.

When all is dark and hopeless, light creeps in and taps us on the shoulder. Share on X

Surprise!

I’m remembering a road trip many years ago through the Gila National Forest in New Mexico. With the Lovely Lady and our youngsters, we had taken the scenic route after visiting Carlsbad Caverns on our trip west. I had hoped to be off of the winding two-lane road before dark, but we had lollygagged along for too many miles, as we admired and exclaimed about the beauty of creation.

With foreboding thoughts, I watched the hot summer sun dip toward the western horizon. We’d never reach the interstate highway before dark. Never.

Sure enough. We dipped into a valley as the sun dropped down on the western edge of the mountains. Dark.

Then, we started up the other side of the valley. I had no hope of seeing the sun again. Still, there it was—shining brightly—until we dropped down into another valley.

Each time we topped the next incline, the sun was there as if it had been in view all along. Broad daylight.

Every time we started down into another valley, it disappeared completely from view. Darkness surrounded us, just like night time.

Finally, we came onto a sort of plateau, up on top. In daylight, we saw the marking for the interstate highway up ahead. In daylight—still—we turned onto the four-lane and drove off into the sunset.

It was a surprise every time the sun appeared again, a pleasant one. I had been convinced we were staying in the dark for the rest of the curvy, two-lane road. Every time, I was convinced. I was wrong.

I like surprises. That kind of surprise, anyway.

But, here’s the thing. In very much the same way as I know the lilies in the front yard will pop up at the same time next year, I knew the sun was still there. I knew it.

Why was it such a surprise when the light shone on us again?

We let our dread overshadow the hope, the reality we know to be true.

We let our dread overshadow the hope, the reality we know to be true. Share on X

Time and again, we descend into the darkness, believing we’ll never rise above it, ever again.

Can I make you a promise? It’s not me standing behind the promise, but the Creator of all that is.

We who once lived in darkness are assured that the light—His light—will shine upon us. (Isaiah 9:2) It is a certainty.

He is our sun as well as our protection from danger and is giving us every good thing constantly. (Psalm 84:11)

Why so surprised?

It’s almost as if we’ve come to expect darkness and gloom.

But, in the darkest night, with the storm raging, His light guides and He gives peace. Still.

With a word, He calms the storms. Still.

He who was before time began hasn’t lost any of His power. He still holds all of creation together. (Colossians 1:17)

Right down to those surprise lilies.

Right down to surprising us with light—precisely when we need it.

I like surprises.

You?

Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord, who rises
With healing in His wings:
When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
to cheer it after rain.
(William Cowper ~ English poet ~ 1731-1800)

Living in the Light

August 2, 2017August 2, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The ghosts in the old house have been disturbed and are keeping me awake.

No, not like the ghosts of movie fame—nor even poltergeists or apparitions in chains. I mean those people who once were part of my life, but who only live here now in my memory.

Sometimes I wonder if I have awakened them, causing them, in turn, to interrupt my own sleep. It’s only a thought, of course, not borne out by facts.

Still. Here I am—awake.

I wrote of old light fixtures being made new to shine brightly the last time I shared my thoughts here. Since then, something’s been niggling at the edges of my mind. And, it’s not just the ghosts—although they have a good deal to do with it, truth be told.

I sat at a table in a restaurant with my children tonight, both adults, long since. Showing them photos of the light fixtures we are putting back up in the house their grandparents lived in for most of their lives, I expected my offspring to exclaim about their memories of the fixtures.

They didn’t. Not at all.

I couldn’t have told you that was on the ceiling in that house, Dad.

The other one nodded his head.

Never saw it.

How is that possible?

Many hours of their childhood were spent in that house. They played. They worked. They ate. Surely, in all that time, those light fixtures were powered up and the light shone from them. Surely.

I know it was so. On any number of occasions, as we pulled into the drive to visit, the light blazed out from the windows, welcoming us in from the dark.

How could they not have noticed the fixtures?

As I consider the issue, a light begins to glimmer in my own brain. In a moment, the notion is blazing as brightly as any of those ceiling lights ever did.

You see, on the first few occasions the light switch is turned on, if a fixture is particularly attractive, folks might notice and, perhaps, even be overwhelmed with the beauty. But, after the process is repeated day after day, night after night—for weeks, months, years even—we forget about the light fixture on the ceiling and simply live in the light.

We simply live in the light.

We don’t see the implement anymore.

We see only what is produced. The thing necessary for life—light—fills the house. Absolutely fills it.

And, that’s as should be.

It is true in more than just our physical, everyday needs. The light we require for our faith life is very much the same in the way it works.

We are, indeed called to shine. But, the purpose is that the watching world will see (and praise), not us, but the God who shines through us. (Matthew 5:16)

John—the one also called the Baptist, said it succinctly: He must increase and I must decrease. (John 3:30)

In the old house we’re taking the light fixtures which have kept the shadows at bay for the generation past, and are doing what is necessary to keep the shadows away for the generations in the future.

The same is true for the spirit life of our families and fellowships. Saints of old, faithful in walking with the Savior, have lit the way for successive generations. We can do no less than take up the same light and share it into the future.

Light from the past, shining into the future.

The light from the past is shining into the future. Share on X

We’ll leave the light on for you.

It’s not an original thought, and others before us have actually made the promise and kept it. To do the same will take a lifetime of faithfulness from us.

A lifetime.

It’s time we were started.

Flip the light switch!

Live in the light.

Lighthouses don’t fire cannons to call attention to their shining—they just shine.
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist ~ 1837-1899)

And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light. The nations will walk in its light, and the kings of the world will enter the city in all their glory.
(Revelation 21:23-24 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Basket Case

July 31, 2017July 31, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I had to take down all the old lights.

It was weeks ago. Since that time, every occasion upon which the light switches have been snapped to the on position has seen the lighting of a bare bulb hanging from the electrical box in the ceiling.

It’s not beautiful.

It is effective. Light has filled the room each time, the fleeing shadows routed by their perpetual enemy. There is illumination—in which to paint, to replace trim, to sweep up the dust.

It’s not a pretty light, though, the glare hurting the eyes and the bare bulb next to the ceiling drawing notice instantly to its spartan simplicity.

We make do.

Today though—today, I hung the old fixtures back up.

Yes, you read that right. The old fixtures.

I wondered about that, too. Weeks ago, when I pulled them down, I wondered aloud if they should be thrown in the bin, unwanted relics of years past. It seemed they might be obsolete. Better, more attractive lighting could be contrived, with the aid of a dollar or two and the local home store.

The Lovely Lady was certain. The old fixtures would go back up. Her confidence that they had many years of usefulness left wasn’t shared by her husband.

I stared at the ugly pieces in my hands, ceramic mounts covered in multiple layers of chalky white ceiling paint. The metal pieces were no better, the painters from years past having preferred to slap the paint-laden brush along them, rather than removing them from their boxes to protect the copper and chrome surfaces.

There was no hope.

I tried to talk the Lovely Lady out of her madness. She would not be dissuaded.

I will admit, I put it down to her heritage, years of training in the art of salvaging and repurposing. I assumed she simply wanted to save money. (She has kept this old spendthrift solvent for nearly forty years now, you know.)

I repent.

Today, I rehung the light fixtures. If I hadn’t taken them down myself, I would have testified that the magical lady had replaced those ugly, worn-out pieces of ceramic, glass, and metal with new instruments of light-making.

The things of beauty I reinstalled today show no sign of fatigue, nor any of dilapidation. They glisten and gleam, glass and brass shining even before the power begins to make the bulbs emit their energy.

I am undone.

It is an argument I am happy to have lost. (Don’t tell her I said that, or I’ll never be able to hold my head up near her again.)

The Lovely Lady knew those light fixtures. They are the same devices which lit up the room in which she slept in a crib—the same ones which threw shadows against the wall as she and her sister played with dolls into the night—the same ones that cast their helpful light on her geometry homework and then her music as she practiced on the shiny silver flute.

All those years ago, she knew them. They are old friends that lit the night in her childhood. It would have taken more than an unbelieving husband to convince her to part with them so summarily.

She knew.

I attached wires and tightened nuts and screws this afternoon, marveling at the change, the newness of the ancient things. And, when all was prepared and the bulbs inserted, I flipped the wall switch.

Just like the first time it happened, seventy years ago, the shadows bolted for the corners and warm clear light flooded the newly painted walls.

And, the Master said, “No one lights a lamp and then puts in under a basket, but it is placed at the highest place in the house so everyone is in the light.” (Matthew 5:15)

We are the light of the world.

Wait! What?

I gotta tell you, I’m in worse shape than those old fixtures were when they were removed weeks ago. Dirty, crusty, and covered with layers of grime and paint, some of it put there by me, and some by others who didn’t like the look of me just hanging around.

I’m a mess. And, then some.

I can just hear the conversation in heaven, can’t you? You know, like in the days of Job.

Satan has crept into the throne room and waited his turn. His wheedling, shrill voice cracks the silence at last.

God, you know that old worn-out, dirty thing—that…that Paul Phillips thing? He’s clearly not doing You any good. How about you just dispose of him? I’ll take him. You know—one man’s trash, and all that?

And, then a strong, quiet voice speaks. No, not the Father’s. The Savior says the words.

He’s mine. Bought and paid for, long ago. The light of the world, that one is. Mine. There’s no trash here for you, you old deceiver. Move on!

Who would know better the worth of the creature than the One who is Creator?

How would the One who stood and said, gazing at creation, new-made, “This is good,” ever stand and say, “Time to get rid of that trash?”

He knows us. He knows what we’re made of. (Psalm 103:14)

He’s not afraid of a little dust.

Clean and shining, we stand before our Creator. His light—shining in the world.

In this place, that cannot, for long, stand the brilliance of His uncovered presence, we are His lamps to drive away the shadows.

Where once was nothing more than grunge, along with layers of gunk, we stand in His image, showing Him to the world.

Time to get out of the baskets.

For the Light of the World, we will be lights to the world.

For the Light of the World, we will be lights to the world. Share on X

Beautiful light!

But hear my brethren in their darkling fright!
Hearten my lamp that it may shine abroad
Then will they cry-Lo, there is something bright!
Who kindled it if not the shining God?
(From Let Your Light So Shine ~ George MacDonald ~ Scottish author/poet ~ 1824-1905

You are the light of the world—like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and then puts it under a basket. Instead, a lamp is placed on a stand, where it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father.
(Matthew 5:14-16 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

The Lawnmower You Gave Me

July 28, 2017July 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I’ve never used a riding mower before. I never had a lawn big enough to need one.

For most of my life, since I was nine or ten, I’ve pushed a mower to get the grass to a manageable length. Back and forth, step after plodding step. Leaning forward, hands spread across the push handle, row follows row until the task is completed.

It has always been a hot, tedious chore.

I have always been careful to say so too, after each session. The Lovely Lady usually has a cold drink ready for me when I’m done and she stands there smiling as I complain.

The yard I mow now is done with a riding mower. I sit down to do the job. No more do I take step after step while following the roaring lawn implement. I let the clutch out and the machine carries itself (and me) back and forth across the expanse of green, chewing up and spitting out all that exceeds the height I want to see when I’m finished.

What could be better? Like day and night, the two methods are. Or, are they?

Somehow, she still gets the same complaint from me at the end of the afternoon.

It’s a hot, tedious chore. And yes. I tell her so.

…and that seat just beats me up as it throws me from side to side over the uneven ground…

She smiles and hands me my cold water.

As I think about it, the red-headed lady who hands me my water is replaced—in my inner sight, that is—by another red-headed lady I loved—the red-headed lady who raised me.

She just looks up from her crocheting as she sits in her rocker and reminds me that I’ve always complained. Always.

You’d complain if they hung you with a new rope.

I didn’t ask. Sometimes, it’s just better to work things out on your own. Maybe it had something to do with that other thing she always said about ropes.

Give you enough rope and you’ll hang yourself.

Nope. No help there, either.

In time, though, I think I’ve worked out the new rope saying. Simply put, it means we complain about the most absurd things at the most inappropriate moments. It’s an absurd statement meant to point a spotlight at an absurd action.

The red-headed lady (the one who raised me) was right. I do complain about ridiculous things when, in fact, they are the very things for which I should be grateful.

Leftovers again? Again?

Why are they coming to visit tonight?

I just bought gasoline for this thing last week!

If I have leftovers, I have plenty to eat. More than plenty.

When they come to visit again, be it friends, or grandchildren, or even the in-laws, I have companionship—a wondrous gift ill-suited for disdain of any sort.

If I need to purchase gasoline again, I have had need of a vehicle and am blessed to have access to one—a luxury most in this world do not have.

I’m not preaching. I’m not.

Still, I am ashamed of myself, but I think I’m not alone.

It is some comfort to not be the only one. Really, I think if I didn’t complain, then I might be the only one. From the beginning, humans have complained.

The woman you gave me…the complaint Adam made, implying that if God had only had better sense than to burden him with Eve, everything could have continued as it was. (Genesis 3:12)

We’ve complained ever since.

The Children of Israel in the desert did it, again and again. Moses did, too.

Elijah hid in the mountains after an astounding victory and trotted out his accomplishments while complaining that He hadn’t been treated very well.

Jonah preached a better sermon than Billy Graham could ever hope for, with appropriate accompanying results, yet he complained that God allowed the repentant sinners to live.

It wasn’t only the men. Sarah suggested Abraham should take her servant as a surrogate mother, but then complained about the result of that relationship—so much so that her dutiful husband drove the child and his mother into the desert to die.

Martha complained that her sister was a slacker, leaving her to do all the important work.

I’m not the only one. But, here’s the thing.

I don’t want to be one at all.

Besides the infamous squeaky wheel, I see no lasting benefit to complaining.

It’s not what I want to be remembered for. And, that’s just what the Apostle, my namesake, reminded the good folk at Philippi of—that they were the focus of their generation’s scrutiny.

Everything—every single thing—you do should be done without complaining or grumbling. Live exemplary lives, with nothing to criticize. You are in full sight of the world, blazing like stars in the sky as you walk daily in the middle of sin-filled and perverse communities. (Philippians 2:14-15)

It’s not just complaining about the inconveniences of life he’s talking about, although given the nature of the creature, that seems likely enough.

Implied is the directive that we shouldn’t mutter against the folks around us, both followers of Christ and non-believers.

Selah.

Complaining is proof of an ungrateful heart. It is evidence of an unforgiving spirit.

In short, it shows a heart unchanged by grace and love.

Complaining shows a heart unchanged by grace and love. Share on X

My heart. Ungrateful. Unforgiving.

Unbowed.

I would not have it so.

I want to shine. Like a star on the horizon, I want to blaze clearly and distinctly.

I think I’ll start by thanking the Lovely Lady for the cold water. Perhaps the ride on the mower wasn’t as rough as all that, either.

All good gifts come from above.

It’s hard to complain when I’m saying thank you.

I personally believe we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.
(Jane Wagner ~ American writer/director)

Let everyone see that you are considerate in all you do. Remember, the Lord is coming soon.
Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done.
(Philippians 4:5,6 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

The Journey

July 25, 2017July 25, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

I suppose not everyone is in a hurry in the world now. Still, it certainly seems they are.

I’ve noticed it for a few years, but I think it’s worse today than ever before. Most places, anyway. Retail stores, internet websites, food establishments, banks—everywhere one looks, the world caters to folks speeding through life.

But, for just a few moments today—just a few—I found a slowing down place.

Our old friends met at the local steak house again this evening, annoying the waitstaff as we sat at the table long after the dishes had been cleared away, and troubling other diners nearby as we laughed loudly and told stories of family, life, and faith.

Ah, friendship, that shares in the joys, and hardships, and triumphs of life. Here, life slows to a crawl and time waits, if only for a few moments.

But even in this blessed pause, I felt the encroachment of hurry and impatience, at least momentarily.

Describing a trip out west they had recently taken, one of the couples suggested we should, if we ever had the chance, travel Interstate 70 through Colorado into Utah. They both described the route in words that made us understand the breathtaking beauty of the towering Rocky Mountains which it traverses.

But there, among the description of the beauties of creation, was the statement that reminded me of the harried pace of our lives.

And, when you reach Utah, the speed limit on the highway is eighty miles per hour.

It is, arguably, one of the most beautiful drives in our vast country, through some of the most picturesque vistas imaginable, and yet, folks drive through it as fast as they possibly can.

I stop to think about it for a moment, but everything has gone all white—and green.

In my mind, the Lovely Young Lady, red hair flying in the wind, and her skinny husband are cruising in the newly-painted old 1955 Chevy through the Ozark Mountains of southern Missouri. The Alpine White two-door sedan motors smoothly through the green-covered hillsides, purring right along.

Slowly. Really slowly.

It is the first road trip the old car has made in many years, indeed, the first road trip the young couple has ever made in it. They are in no hurry. None at all.

It was thirty-five years ago, but the memories are still so very distinct.

At no time on that long weekend did the beautiful old car top fifty miles per hour, and scarcely did we exceed even forty-five. We took our time, admiring the scenery along the road, stopping when we wanted, driving on when we were ready.

I remember sitting with our backs to a rocky bluff, on the footpath up above a noisy river, watching the fishermen below casting their fly lures, the weighted lines catching the sunlight and undulating in the air as they were flipped forward and back again and again.

Time seemed to stand still.

On that memorable weekend, all those years ago, we drove on nothing but back roads, never once entering the ramp to a freeway or divided highway.

But life moves on and we do, as well. And, while we move, time seems to speed up, encouraging us to do the same.

We listen and acquiesce.

On a recent outing to a town nearby, as we came off of one divided highway we had traveled at high speeds and approached the intersection of another, she reminded me of the tendency for traffic to jam up at the traffic light.

I know. I’m turning onto the back road up ahead so we can avoid all that and still make good time.

Once, we took the back roads so we could take our time. Today, we use them as shortcuts to get there more quickly.

I’d like to have more of those slow-down trips and fewer of the hurry-up ones.

And indeed, there are still days when we take the back roads, not to avoid the traffic, but simply to enjoy the drive.

There are days we take the back roads, not to avoid traffic, but just to enjoy the journey. Share on X

The Preacher suggested we would be better off if we did it more often when he said that eagerness without comprehension is pointless and hurry produces inferior results. (Proverbs 19:2)

Mr. Franklin said it more succinctly a few thousand years later. Haste makes Waste.

There are things we should hurry to:

The aid of someone in need.

The side of one who is overcome with grief.

The assistance of a brother or sister who is losing sight of the prize.

But, all of life is not to be lived in a frenzy to get to the destination. Rather we bless and are blessed along the way, as we take time to enjoy our Creator and our fellow man.

We bless and are blessed along the way. Share on X

Eighty miles per hour is too fast to take in the astounding wonders all around us.

It’s time to ride the back roads again for a little while.

The journey is worthwhile. There is great beauty along the way.

The destination is still out there. Up ahead.

Patience.

It is easier to shout “stop” than to do it.
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

But if we look forward to something we don’t yet have, we must wait patiently and confidently.
(Romans 8:25 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Becoming

July 23, 2017July 23, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The girl-woman is becoming.

She is sure—but not all that sure—of what she knows. A teenager, she sees a world that is too horrible to be lived in, but knows unequivocably that she will live in it (and wouldn’t miss it for anything).

And so, she is becoming.

Becoming is hard work. Confidence and confusion coexist side by side. Brilliant inspiration and murky misunderstanding vie constantly for the upper hand.

The child is giving way to the woman as choices are made, options are considered, and future pathways determined.

I used to think this was the norm. Children become adults and the process of becoming is complete. We make our choices and live with them. And, die with them.

It’s not the way becoming works.

You see, this old man is becoming, as well.

Sixty years have passed and the choices I have made and the roads I’ve taken are challenged nearly every day of my walk through this world—the world too horrible to live in, yet too precious to miss.

I was moved—even sad—as we talked, the girl-woman and I. She made a statement to which I objected completely.

I’m pretty sure God is mad at me.

It seemed to me the words were largely a response to the horrible world in which she finds herself growing up. I wanted to hug her tight and assure her it wasn’t true.

My intellect knows it’s not true. My heart does also. And yet, since that evening, each time my mind goes to the words, my eyes fill with tears.

The tears are for her. No, not only for her.

The tears are also for me.

I said I know it’s not true. I do.

That doesn’t stop the questions. It doesn’t keep me from wondering why life isn’t going the way I thought it would. It doesn’t quiet the voice inside that wants to scream in frustration at every delay and inferred no from God.

I’m pretty sure God is mad at me.

But He’s not.

He’s not.

Without us making a move to please Him, He declared openly His great love for us by giving His only Son to die in our place. (Romans 5:8)

Does that seem like the act of someone who is enraged? It’s not the way I treat folks when I’m angry at them.

His perfect love leaves no room for fear. (1 John 4:18)

My fears for the future, my fears for my family, my fears for the physical needs that are still waiting to be provided for—all of these fears and more—simply prove that I’ve not yet fully experienced the love of a Creator who can’t bear for His creation to be separated from Him and wants nothing but good for us.

And so, I am becoming.

We are becoming.

God, who began this good work in our hearts, has promised to continue the work until the day we reach the finish line. (Philippians 1:6)

For all the starts and stops, the detours and the delays, the becoming has never stopped.

As we come, we become. The meaning is essentially the same. We are moving from one state of being into another. Coming to His grace and becoming the men and women He is making us into.

The God who invites us to come, is causing us to become.

The God who invites us to come, is causing us to become. Share on X

The God who is not mad at us gives us grace and mercy for the journey. He gives us companions, both young and old, to walk beside us.

Becoming together.

As we walk hand in hand.

Becoming.

‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’
(from The Velveteen Rabbit ~ Margery Williams ~ Author ~ 1881-1994)

The Spirit and the bride say, “Come.” Let anyone who hears this say, “Come.” Let anyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who desires drink freely from the water of life.
(Revelation 22:17 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

A Word in Your Ear

July 18, 2017July 18, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

They really are some of my favorite times. One might even call them sacred interludes. But, right now I’m too busy.

I’m too busy.

I know I’m not the only one who says the words. But somehow, they must have seemed like a challenge to someone—somewhere.

And, into the flying wheels of my frantic activity with no time for interruptions, the Creator shoves a stick between the spokes, bringing the entire juggernaut to a jarring stop.

The stick, He calls family.

It is, arguably, the most important institution there is. At least in the order of appearance in the Biblical history of mankind, it is the very first relationship between humans the Creator saw fit to address. The very first.

I’ve written before that the words attributed to God, it is not good for man to be alone, were not only about Adam, but also about every person who would be born thereafter. Family was His solution. (Genesis 2:18)

It still is.

But, when I have deadlines and goals in mind, I can’t be bothered.

I need to finish this!

Stress builds and disappointment looms. Interruptions are—well—interruptions.

“We’re having a family dinner. Yes. It’s already been scheduled. They’re all going to be there.”

The dreaded stick slipped into the wheel spokes.

After I picked myself up (sudden stops aren’t all that comfortable), we headed to the dinner. I did, however, pack my attitude along just in case, not having lost that in the commotion.

The attitude went with me, but it didn’t come home. Somewhere along the way, I lost track of it.

I think it happened at about the time we asked the blessing on the massive piles of food that awaited. Standing around in a circle, we joined, first our hearts and then our blended voices, in praise to a Creator who knew we needed to have food to live and family to thrive.

The food is gone. The family is not.

May I share what I learned—in that blessed space called family—after I lost the attitude I had clung to as I was shoved through the back door?

It had little to do with the children screaming and having fights with pool noodles as they cavorted in the water, and even less to do with their entry into the house dripping said water on the floor. The shooing out by aunts, uncles, and grandparents was of little consequence in the lesson—not of no consequence, mind you, just not the most important component.

It had even less to do with the reminder that any description of meat which is preceded by the word habanero should be given a wide berth by aging grandfathers with digestion issues. Still, that most assuredly is one lesson from the evening I will remember for a long time to come!

No, the real truth driven home by the interactions of the evening has occupied my mind for most of the hours since then.

The Lovely Lady and her siblings sat at a table, along with a few additional onlookers, as they went through family treasures. Jewelry, knick-knacks, and photographs were the subjects of their attention.

At times, the level of conversation was as quiet as a single voice reading an entry in a journal from seventy years ago. But, as the cache began to spread around the table, the volume level increased markedly. Individuals spoke with the person sitting next to them, and others called excitedly across the old table, itself a lovely relic from the family’s past, to exclaim about some memory from long ago.

Near one end of the old table sat two delightful onlookers, both of them past the four-score mark in years themselves. The ladies smiled and nodded at the parts of the conversation which were aimed at them, but as the volume level increased, I could see they were understanding less and less of what was being said.

It’s not an uncommon problem for older folk, but I’m beginning to realize it’s not all that unusual for younger ones, either. Perhaps, not in the same sense, but the problem remains, all the same.

When all about us is incessant commotion, we have difficulty deciding what is essential and what is just tongues wagging.

When all about us is incessant commotion, we have difficulty deciding what is essential. Share on X

I’m living in a noisy place right now, the yammering of the necessary overwhelming the still voice of the fundamental.

Perhaps, I’m not the only one who is swept away in the current of must-finish, while the peaceful eddy of life-abundant goes unnoticed in our passing.

I watched, on that night of discovery, as one of the older duo leaned near to the other and suggested that, since she was having difficulty hearing in the din, the other lady should speak directly into her good ear.

This.

This is why I needed to be here on this night. Well, besides the pulled pork and home-made ice cream.

Not over the din and the pandemonium of the world does our Creator speak to us, but in our ear, as old friends who share secrets together.

He won’t stand amid the commotion of the marketplace and shout at us, but He beckons us to come near. Then quietly, and with perfect diction, He shares His heart into ours.

Quietly, and with perfect diction, He shares His heart into ours. Share on X

In my frenetic activity and the noise of life, I forget to turn my ear to hear His voice.

I forget.

Do you hear Him now?

Maybe, it’s time to lean in and let Him speak in your ear.

He waits for us to turn a listening ear to Him.

Still. Today.

He waits.

I’m turning His way again.

Quietly, He comes,
Not on wings of storm, nor yet on backs of thundering steeds.
Quietly, He comes
By invitation, whispering truth—a breeze ‘cross the reeds.
(Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. Copyright © 2017. All Rights Reserved.)

My son, give attention to my words;
Incline your ear to my sayings.
(Proverbs 4:20 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

The Lord came and stood there, calling as at the other times, “Samuel! Samuel!”
Then Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”
(1 Samuel 3:10 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® All rights reserved worldwide.

Finishing the Job

July 13, 2017July 13, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The Lovely Lady isn’t talking to me.

No, it’s not for the reason you might suspect. She’s not upset—not with me anyway.

I am frustrated. I have been for weeks. Tasks which have been set before me have been tackled with purpose and intent. As uncomfortable as I am with those tasks, I want to complete them.

Wanting to is not the same as doing.

Trying is not the same as succeeding.

For a variety of reasons, I have been forced to move from several of the tasks to other ones before the first jobs were completed. It doesn’t set well in my spirit.

Today, I spent a few hours measuring and visualizing a solution while considering a task I never wanted to begin in the first place.

What I really mean is I stood in one place and, staring at the impossible mess, racked my brain to come up with a way out of the predicament I find myself in. Dinnertime interrupted the aggravation—which only made me more aggravated.

I came home, having accomplished not a single task. Not one.

I said she’s not talking to me. She just knows I need a little space. I’m not much for consoling platitudes. They only frustrate me more. She knows that.

She knows me.

I like that she knows me.

Later this evening, I needed to retrieve something I had left at the site of my earlier frustration, so I told her I would be right back, explaining what I was doing.

It would take a little longer than that.

As I walked in the door, the frustration of the day landed on me again like an unbearable weight on my chest. It was hard for me to breathe for a moment. But, as I walked back where the item I needed was stored, I noticed another task I had left undone days ago.

A thought hit me. Why not just finish that little project? I had been putting it off for days, feeling guilty every time I walked past, but never stopping to complete the work.

Tonight, I picked up the necessary tools and I finished one task. Just one.

I walked out of there with my head held high. When I got home, the Lovely Lady talked to me.

She talked to me.

I like that she knows me.

I read her part of a poem, one I remember from my childhood days. You’ve likely heard it before. A single verse from Longfellow’s The Village Blacksmith:

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

My voice cracked as I read the words. It does that. More and more, these days.

It was only a small thing I completed.

No. It was a very small thing.

It doesn’t matter. I needed to feel the success of completion—of working at something that mattered, and finishing it.

I have often felt that way about life itself—about living my faith. I need to do something that matters. More than that, I need to complete the job.

Perhaps I won’t finish it today, as Mr. Longfellow’s blacksmith did. But still, the goal is not to start a plethora of tasks. The goal is to finish what’s been begun, be it one enterprise or a dozen.

I want to be able to say with the Apostle who wrote so many letters, that I have fought a good fight and have completed the race. (2 Timothy 4:7)

It will only be true through perseverance. It will only be true if the race is run in His strength and not my own.

I lose interest when the going gets hard. Zeal turns to disappointment; the heat of good intentions cools until there is barely a spark of dedication.

But, He knows me.

My frustrations, my sadness, my disappointments, He knows all of them. And, in all of them, He never wavers in His faithfulness.

I waver. I gripe. I lash out.

There is no limit to His persistent love. Share on X

But, there is no limit to His persistent love. His mercies have no end. Really. In His faithfulness, His mercies are renewed every morning. (Lamentations 3:22, 23)

Every morning.

Just when I need them to face the new day, with its frustrations and its challenges. Mercies.

I like that He knows me.

I’ve got more tasks to complete.

I think I’ll see what I can finish today.

I might even start something new.

My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far today, I have finished two bags of M&Ms and a chocolate cake. I feel better already.
(Dave Barry ~ American author/humorist)

Work willingly at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people. Remember that the Lord will give you an inheritance as your reward, and that the Master you are serving is Christ.
(Colossians 3:23,24 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Mirror Image

July 11, 2017July 11, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Some things just mess with my brain. I’m not the only one.

Selfies.

I know. It’s a foolish name, but it is what we call them. We want to see pictures, so friends snap photos of themselves, often while looking in a mirror.

One begins to wish there weren’t so many mirrors in bathrooms. I can’t help it. It’s my first reaction when I see the photographs.

The second is more enigmatic to me. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there is always something that bothers me about the selfies taken in the mirror.

Things aren’t quite as they should be. Men’s shirt pockets are on the right-hand side. Belts are threaded through the loops the wrong direction. Oh! And most folks are holding their phones in their left hand, but I know most folks are right-handed.

It’s all backward. Mirror images are oriented in a flipped position. Sure, the person still looks like him/herself, but the little niggling details irritate me.

But, truth be told, I didn’t invite you to sit down and read about my pet peeves. There are more important issues to deal with here.

But, I do want to talk about mirror images.

Certain tasks—essential ones—have to be accomplished using mirror images. I know it seems strange, but it is a fact.

Just the other day, my patient brother-in-law spent some time explaining it to me—one of those tasks. I hope he’s not disappointed by what I have to say here.

The Lovely Lady has completed the painting job she began a few weeks ago. The new ceiling in the living/dining room area has several coats of bright white paint. The walls are covered in a beautiful contrasting color. But, right up in the corner where the two come together at a ninety degree (or a close approximation of it) angle, we need to tack up a crown molding.

I say we. I mean I. I need to tack up a crown molding.

It’s very simple, Paul. You take the measurements and then cut the trim pieces. Upside down. You have to put them in the saw upside down to get the cut and the angle right.

On inside corners, the long end is the bottom, so it’s the top end when you put it in the saw. It’s really easy. You’ll have no problem. Just flip it upside down. Oh. And, don’t forget to angle your saw in the opposite direction.

I haven’t cut a single piece. I may not cut a single piece.

A couple of days ago, while I was looking for excuses not to start that particular job, I conveniently remembered a plumbing job I needed to do under the kitchen sink.

Ah. Here is something I can do. What can be hard about screwing a shut-off valve onto the end of a threaded pipe?

Remember. Righty-tighty—lefty-loosey. It’s so simple!

There would be more to it on this day.

When I worked on the plumbing originally, we had no plans for a dishwasher, so I needed two shut-offs—one hot and one cold. This job would require adding another hot water shut-off for the newly arrived dishwasher. No sweat. Add a tee and attach two shut-offs.

I had turned the water off at the meter out near the street and had reconfigured the tee and valves. Now all that was left was to check for leaks. It was a perfect job for the Lovely Lady. Our son had stopped by to check on our progress, but he wasn’t dressed for under-the-sink. His part would be to keep an open line with me on his cell phone—just in case.

Just put your head under here, Dear. Watch those two valves and the pipe near the new tee and see if they leak. If you see any drips, have him (pointing to our son) tell me immediately. Oh. Make sure you look to see where it’s leaking before I turn the water back off.

Contingency plans in place and cell phone in hand, I went out to turn on the water supply. It didn’t take long.

Dad! There’s a lot of water coming out!

I stayed calm.

Make sure she knows where it’s coming from. I have to know where it needs to be tightened.

There was no hesitation on his part.

No. It’s a lot, Dad! Really. A lot. She knows where it’s coming from!

I turned the water supply back off.

The Lovely Lady was soaked. Really wet. And, not all that happy.

I had left one of the shut-off valves completely open. Turned on all the way. In the contained space of the cabinet, the stream ricocheted off the wall it was aimed at and splattered everything under there. She was under there.

How could such a thing happen? I followed the righty-tighty, lefty-loosey rule. I did.

I had, from my place near the new tee just installed, reached along to the end of the pipe, nearly a foot on and turned the shut-off to the right to close it.

How could that not have been clos. . .Oh! I was reaching from the underside of the valve! To the right from underneath the valve would have been left if I had been in the correct position looking from the top side.

I had turned the valve open all the way myself. She was soaked and I was to blame.

Mirror image.

Later, that problem rectified, and a few other minor drips eliminated, I finished up by plumbing the drains on the new sink, too. It was time to test it all out.

I turned on the cold water tap. Voila! Water rushed out and down the drain. There was not a single drip!

But, as I reached over to turn off the tap, I realized something odd was going on. The water—the cold water—was hot. Really hot.

Backward. I had them backward.

No, not the feeds to the sink. I had actually extended the cold water line to go to the dishwasher. It only needs a hot water line. It won’t work with cold water at all.

When I had planned the day’s project, I had access to the back of the bathroom wall, so carefully I selected the line I was to extend from there. Everyone knows the hot water is on the left of the faucet. I picked the one on the left and added the tee and additional shut-off valve to that one.

Mirror image.

It wasn’t a great day. I might as well have been tacking up crown molding.

Perspective.

The apostle, my namesake, knew about mirror images. He said life now is just like trying to see with a bad mirror. Now, he says, we see dimly through the mirror, the details jumbled and sometimes confusing.

Boy, do I get that! I turn one way when I should turn another. I flip the switch on the right when I needed the one on the left.

I wonder if I’m the only one?

Oh but, the day is coming! Twenty-twenty vision! We’ll see everything exactly as it is. We’ll see our Savior and know His perfect plan.

One day.

No more will we live life through the looking glass. No more hot when we wanted cold. No more confusion, no more wondering.

On the day we get up and take that short journey around to the other side, the side on which He’s waiting for us, it will come sharply into focus.

He sees it all clearly, right now. He’ll show us the way if we’re willing to listen.

He sees it all clearly, right now. He'll show us the way. Right now. Share on X

Too often, I think I know all the facts. Too often, I take situations into my own hands.

But, I’m learning the things I want aren’t always what He has planned. I’m even realizing the things I’ve come to think of as His blessings are sometimes simply chains that keep me from what He really wants for me.

I don’t do that well with mirror images.

It’s time to surrender the job to the Master Craftsman.

I’m ready. Perhaps, the Lovely Lady will appreciate the change, too. It might be drier for her on the other side.

It’s His mirror.

I want to see through His eyes.

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 ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all.
(Both Sides Now ~ Joni Mitchell ~ Canadian singer/songwriter ~ © 1967 Gandalf Publishing Co ~ All rights reserved)

http://https://youtu.be/XQan9L3yXjc

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips