Where is the Queue?

July 6, 2017July 6, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

Sunday night late—the stoop seems as good a place as any to ponder.
Big things, I always choose. Tonight, all I see is the moon, and it is big enough.
Full, bright, and orange it was when earlier I stood with my love, taken with wonder.
Now murky and circled with clouds, it only warns of rain to come in the soon dawning day. Monday with rain.

How does the joy and wonder turn so suddenly to foreboding?
Where does the elation go when I am overcome with dread?
It is not only the moon and not only the night that bring the sudden turnaround.
Still. The questions remain.
How so suddenly changed?
Where can I go to retrieve the joy?
Where is the queue to reclaim peace for my soul?

I wrote the words a year ago. They were never meant to share. Not with anyone.

Two nights ago, he called me—the man who is the rock. No, really. The Rock of Gibraltar. Or, so I have believed.

His close friends, two of them, have died in the last week. Another, even closer to him, is in the terrifying uncertainty of awaiting the doctor’s report.

He is shaken. Shaken.

We talked for some time and agreed on this certainty at the end of the conversation: We know the Peace-giver. In our prayers and gratitude, He gives His peace that we cannot understand.

The Prince of Peace gives Himself.

The Prince of Peace gives Himself. Share on X

His words, fear not, are not meant as a command to be followed religiously, in fear of offense. They are the assurance of a loving parent—a promise of safety, of wholeness, of perfect rest.

They are words to comfort and not to condemn.

And, as children are wont to do, we forget. We do.

And, like a Father, He reminds again. And again.

His words are fresh every time. His arms of protection cover—every time.

Peace. I am leaving it with you. Not the kind of peace the world offers, brokered by the powerful and ensured by weapons and threats. No, my peace is a gift to hold in your heart, where no man and no circumstance can plunder it. (John 14:27)

Where anger rules, peace dissolves. Where terror dwells, peace cannot live. Where worry spreads, peace is no more.

Does it mean our hearts will never be touched by these things? By no means.

Fear may pass through, anger may swell up, anxiety may worm its way in.

But His peace reigns. Just as Peter, when we begin to sink beneath the waves, we remember who rules those waves.

As we walk through the valley of the shadow, we recall who waits for us over there.

You know—over there. Where our home—our real home—is being made ready for us.

Here is the queue to reclaim peace—in exactly the same place it was the last time.

We’re next in line. Every time.

Peace.

Shalom.

God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/author ~ 1898-1963)

And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.
(Philippians 4:7 ~ KJV)

Treasure in the Dumpster

July 4, 2017July 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I usually punch the snooze button on my alarm once—maybe twice. Okay. Three times.

Not today.

The noises outside my second-story window had been going for awhile. You know how sounds creep into your slumber, disturbing your dreams, especially in the moments just before the alarm begins to sound.

As I reached for the alarm button, a clatter from the dumpster reached my ear.

I got up.

I stood at my upstairs bedroom window and watched the shirtless man for some time. The dumpster had been almost full—or so I had thought.

He had stirred through the entire container, moving the larger items from the top to the bottom and around the sides. By the time I was aware of his presence, he was standing on the bottom of the dumpster, just like Moses in the middle of the Red Sea, with the mountains of debris piled up on either side.

Items (my trash!) he wanted to keep were carefully balanced around the edges of the steel container.

I decided I wouldn’t interfere with the man’s treasure hunt. I hadn’t wanted the items. Why should I keep him from taking whatever he thought he could use or profit from?

Treasures from trash.

The concept hasn’t left my head all day.

Trash. Treasures.

It’s nothing new. We don’t even have to say the entire maxim and most will finish the thought. One man’s trash. . .

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

The underlying premise is that one is no better than the other.

I have no intention of demeaning the homeless man foraging in my dumpster. He is doing what he knows to do to provide for himself.

Additionally, I have no desire to point a finger at any person, comparing them to others for the reader to make a judgment of character.

It’s just that I know something of dumpster diving.

I don’t know quite how to put it. Well, yes, I do. It won’t make some people happy.

The truth is like that.

I know two things about looking for treasures in the trash bin:

1. Even if useful items may sometimes be found in the trash, most of the time, there’s nothing but trash to be found.

2. If one digs for treasures in the trash long enough, eventually that person begins to forget that it’s trash they’re digging through.

It will most likely become evident soon—if it hasn’t already occurred to the reader—that I’m not really that concerned with dumpsters and the practice of digging through the ubiquitous receptacles.

There are some who spend their lives dredging through the garbage. Their lives and hearts are filled with the stench.

And still, they dive in.

A friend, many years ago, regaled me with the story of his sister-in-law and her experience at the local casino.

The first time—the very first time—she entered the casino, against her better judgment and at the urging of her friends, she won a large sum of money while gambling.

Willingly, eagerly, she returned to the gaudy, glitzy place again and again, certain she would find treasure once more at its tables. She never did. Even if she had, the losses could never have been surpassed by her gains.

There was never treasure to be found there—never more than false promises and empty hopes.

Still trash.

As to the second point, I can’t help but think of the Tolkien character of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings. He had lived in the dark and stinking places of the world for so long that when he, starving and weak, was offered the delicate cake of the elves’ lembas, he choked on it and called it ashes.

Ashes.

As I write this, in the wee hours of the night, the sun will be rising soon on another Independence Day in the United States. I’m saddened by what I see in the hearts of many in our country, even in my little town, and I have to wonder, what do we have to celebrate this July 4th?

We, and I include most folks I know—Christians and otherwise, liberals and conservatives, politically active and indifferent—seem to revel in the trash pile. We delight in all that is negative and hateful, dredging it up again and again, in whatever form we find it in the garbage container, only to throw it in the faces of our used-to-be friends and acquaintances.

It almost seems we believe this is how we were meant to live.

It wasn’t.

It isn’t.

In our interactions with others, we must—absolutely must—rise above the garbage and restore community. If we don’t, our country is lost, I fear.

And yet, there is an even more essential element to this conversation.

The Teacher, imploring His followers to set their affections on more important things, warned against the garbage.

Where the source of your treasure is located, your heart by nature will turn to. (Matthew 6:21)

If we do things the way we’ve always done them, the result will always be the same.

Every time.

Soon after that astounding Day of Pentecost, the disciples Peter and John were going to the temple to worship. A lame man sat there, in the place he had sat every day for as long as he could remember. It was all he knew, this detestable begging for his living. And yet, as the two men passed him, he looked at them, expecting nothing more than a few pennies to extend his unhappy misery an hour or two more.

Peter looked at him and said, “It’s time you stopped dumpster diving.”

Well, that’s not really what he said. What he told the lame man was that they had no money. I assume the disappointed man would have turned his eyes toward the next party approaching. Well? He wasn’t going to get what he needed here. Why shouldn’t he?

We have no silver, nor do we have any gold. Here’s the thing: What we do have, we’re going to give to you. Get up. Walk with us into the temple to worship. (Acts 3:6)

You know, there’s no treasure in any dumpster worth more than what God offers every single one of us.

His Grace and mercy will lift us out of whatever garbage receptacle we’ve been digging through to find our worth.

His love reaches down right where we’re searching, whether ankle deep or neck deep in refuse.

He sets us in higher places.

He sets us in higher places. Share on X

Higher.

It’s time to stop hoarding trash that looks like treasure to us.

It’s time to begin storing away the real thing.

In a place it will be safe.

In a place where we’ll be safe.

It’s time.

I lived through the garbage. I might as well dine on caviar.
(Beverly Sills ~ American opera singer ~ 1929-2007)

Why spend your money on food that does not give you strength?
Why pay for food that does you no good?
Listen to me, and you will eat what is good.
You will enjoy the finest food.

“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord.
    “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.
For just as the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so my ways are higher than your ways
    and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.
(Isaiah 55:2, 8-9 ~ NLT)

Trusty

July 2, 2017July 2, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

She had stored the instrument in an attic.

Attics are hot.

I know. I spent most of an hour in one today.

Sweat poured from my face and body—almost as if I were melting—while I completed my task. When I finally crawled out, filthy and soaked through, from the sweltering darkness I wanted nothing else but to escape outside to the relative coolness of the mid-eighty degree afternoon temperatures.

Attics are hot.

As I sat and drank down a cold bottle of water, my mind, as it tends to do, brought back the picture of the old lady, who has long since left this life. Thirty years ago, she wandered into my music store, carrying the large container that looked almost like a suitcase.

Her head shook up and down as she spoke in a squeaky voice.

“I’ve been holding on to this for a long time, but it won’t play anymore. Can you fix it?”

I opened the huge case and lifted out the ancient accordion. As I shifted it to sit on the countertop in front of me, there was a clatter from the interior of the instrument.

That wasn’t good.

The lady had left the squeeze-box with a friend she trusted for safe-keeping and the friend thought it would be safest in his attic.

Attics are hot.

All the reeds—the part of the accordion that air blows through to make the sound you can hear—are held in with beeswax. That’s all—beeswax.

You do know what happens to wax when it gets hot, right?. You know, like when you light a candle?

Sure, you do. It liquefies.

Every single reed had fallen out of place and into a huge pile inside the center of the instrument. It wouldn’t make a sound. Well, except for the jangle of loose reeds bumping against each other, it wouldn’t make a sound.

Useless. Absolutely useless.

Somehow, the remembrance of the experience—one that eventually had a happy ending, with a repair being effected and the instrument being saved for the lady—the remembrance brings to mind another story of great heat and complete failure.

The mind does run on, doesn’t it?

I have always loved to read. In my childhood, I was especially drawn to myths and fantasies, a juvenile escape, I suppose, from the hard and sometimes unhappy realities of life.

One of my favorite myths, probably a favorite because I have always dreamed of what it would be like to fly, was the story of Icarus. In Greek mythology, Icarus and his father were imprisoned on an island, but escaped by flying away on wings they fashioned from feathers and wax.

Icarus ignored his father’s warnings and, trusting the make-shift wings too much, flew higher and higher until the sun melted the wax, causing the feathers to fall off. He fell into the ocean below and drowned.

Both stories reminded me that good intentions—and even solid planning—don’t always work out the way we expect.

As I sat outside today, nearly back to normal, I realized words were running through my head—either the result of the strange line of thought or, perhaps, the cause of it. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

We’ve wanted to be trusty and true, but the feathers fell from our wings.

A week ago, a friend shared the song. I had never heard it before. The words hit hard as I listened, and moved me as much as any I’ve heard in recent memory. I found myself agreeing with the artist throughout.

Even though it’s not a Christian song, its truth is still profound.

I want to be dependable, to act as one who has proven, time after time, to be trustworthy.

I want to be trusty.

I do.

But, again and again, I do the thing which shows the disaster I really am.

Flapping for all I’m worth, my feathers have all melted away and I’m going down. Again.

The Apostle, my namesake, tells us he had the same problem, as well. The things I say I want to do, I don’t seem to be able to accomplish. The acts I want to avoid at all costs—those are the ones I find myself performing. (Romans 7:15)

Somehow, the heat is always on. Somehow, our feathers never will stay put.

And, the harder we try, the more the notes won’t sound.

Some would say we’re trying too hard.

I just say, we’re trying. And, we can never succeed in the strength we have. Never.

The problem is not that we're trying too hard, it's that we're trying at all. Share on X

Every attempt we ever make at being trusty on our own will ultimately end in failure. Every one.

We fly, only when He gives us wings to do so. We make music because He puts the reeds into place.

He saved us, not because of our own righteousness, but because of His unending mercy. By the washing and renewing of His Spirit, we are His. (Titus 3:5)

Even when the heat is on, our faces dripping with perspiration and lungs filling with the filth of this world, we are His, saved by His Grace.

Time to fly.

Fly high.

The only One who is Trusty and True has us.

We just have to come.

We’ve wanted to be trusty and true
But feathers fell from our wings
And we’ve wanted to be worthy of you
But weather rained on our dreams.

And if all that you are
Is not all you desire,
Then, come.
(from Trusty and True ~ Damien George Rice ~ Copyright © 2014 Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.)

So I advise you to buy gold from me—gold that has been purified by fire. Then you will be rich. Also buy white garments from me so you will not be shamed by your nakedness, and ointment for your eyes so you will be able to see.
(Revelation 3:18 ~ NLT)
Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.

Not My Tree

June 30, 2017June 30, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Look, Grandpa! The tree’s broken!

The sweet seven-year-old, disheveled blonde hair flying into her eyes, spoke the momentous words without any idea of the turmoil they would bring. Within seconds, she was standing on a stepladder pulling little green fruit from the branches she could reach. I almost didn’t remember to warn her of the impending stomachache. Almost.

I was the one who felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

The tree will die. It is inevitable.

I am sad.

It’s really not my tree. It doesn’t change how I feel about it.

The Lovely Lady and I are returning to her roots. For nearly seventy years, the old house and surrounding property have been part of her family, her parents having moved in the house within a few years of being married.

We’ve spent several months breathing new life into the house, with the property needing as much resuscitation as the building. Days, we’ve spent clearing overgrowth and dead limbs, along with more than a few saplings which had poked their branches up where they weren’t wanted.

But the old apple tree, with its gnarled limbs and bowed trunk—looking for all the world like an ancient fellow bent by years of backbreaking work—the old apple tree was meant to stay forever.

Forty years ago, it was. Four decades back, this summer, I first tasted the fruit from that tree. Sitting at the table, long hair to my shoulders and skinny as one of the branches of the tree, I ate—gobbled down, really—the serving of apple crisp set before me by the Lovely Young Lady’s mother.

Before the meal was done, I asked for another serving, and then another. Slightly tart, yet pleasingly sweet, the crunch of the crumbly crust almost a surprise as one chewed, it was a treat to be savored and assigned to the memory banks for a lifetime.

I expected a repeat performance later this summer when the little green apples—the ones the neighborhood deer herd can’t reach from their hind legs—have turned to shades of yellows and reds.

My granddaughter is right. The tree is broken. An errant wind, whipped up in a rainstorm a week or so ago, has twisted the gnarled, bowed trunk and opened a crack that, as an old friend used to say, you could sling a cat through.

I feel as if an old friend has been told he has mere weeks to live. The thought of losing this old companion is more than I want to contemplate, but still, my mind mulls over the future.

That night, my daughter assures me, the children went to bed with nary a sign of a bellyache. I’m the one who is sick to his stomach.

I suppose it’s laughable. I could understand an uninvolved individual chortling at the idea.

It’s a ratty old tree! Who cares if it dies? Plant another one there. Or—better yet—build a fire circle with a pit. Parties are better than apple crisp any day!

It’s not even my tree.

Well, in a way, I suppose it is. You might call it the family tree.

I know. Puns aren’t universally loved. I love them, though.

You see, the Lovely Lady can’t remember a day when that apple tree wasn’t there. I don’t know if her dad planted it or not, but he certainly tended it for decades, ensuring it would bear fruit and be there for the foreseeable future. In a way, you might say, it was his legacy.

A legacy.

Better than money or belongings, this thing left behind, this family tree, carries with it special powers. I look at it and am carried back forty years to apple crisp and fresh applesauce, straight from the Foley Food Mill. The Lovely Lady goes back another decade and remembers climbing the old tree with her siblings, each in their own quadrant, to pick and eat the not-so-sweet fruit to their heart’s content.

Years of family history have gone by, and the tree that is not mine has seen every minute of those years.

But, this I remember and take heart: The legacy will not die with the old tree.

Memories live in our hearts. Long after that old tree is gone, I will, in my mind, taste the delicious desserts made from its fruit.

The legacy left behind is so much more important than trees that perish in the storm or money that is soon exhausted in the marketplace.

I was grafted into her family tree decades ago; although once a stranger, I was never treated as anything but a son and brother. Her legacy is mine, and vice versa.

Funny. Suddenly, I’m thinking of that other family tree I’ve been grafted into.

You know the one I mean.

We’ve been grafted into God’s tree, to be a part of His family forever. (Romans 11:17)

Wild, unproductive branches, we.

Once, we were.

No longer. With roots that go deep, this tree’s legacy is ours forever.

Even though it was never our tree, to begin with.

What a gift!

How would we not carry on the legacy and share it freely?

Carry on His legacy. Share it freely. Share on X

I’m still sad about the apple tree. Perhaps, I’ll plant another one.

Future generations may need to taste that apple crisp again.

I know I can still taste it.

And, it’s still good.

The great use of life is to spend it for something that will outlast it.
(William James ~ American philosopher ~ 1842-1910)

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
(Psalm 1:3 ~ KJV)

Jubal’s Tribe

June 28, 2017June 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Have you ever considered how music touches our souls?

The preacher sat toying with his coffee cup, now mostly empty. When we first sat down an hour before, it had been filled to the rim with the hot, black elixir.

We had talked of history and faith and friends, along with a sentence or two about the glory days of our youth. As our time together inched toward its termination, the conversation turned toward the philosophical.

My guitar-playing friend was there, as well. He, as was his habit, contributed to the direction of our discussion with a short narrative about a man and his wife of many years who had sung together at a recent music event the storyteller had headlined.

The thing is, the lady has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t know her husband anymore, nor is she able to comprehend even simple questions or enter into conversation. But, she sang.

She sang.

It’s not the first story told about music and how it is so deeply ingrained in our very being. Many others have their own anecdotes, family lore which lightens the darkness of sad periods in their memories. I have my own. too.

The last time I visited with the red-headed lady who raised me—my mom—before she left this life, she didn’t know me. Told me I was no good. Ordered me out of her house.

But, when I sat beside her in church that morning and held my hymnal in front of her, she nearly pulled it out of my hand as she tugged at it. And, she sang.

She sang.

Tears came to my eyes as I visited with my friends that morning, just a week or so ago. The three of us sat on the sidewalk at the cafe, conversations abuzz all around and cars passing by on the busy downtown street; all I heard was my Mama’s voice singing praise to her Creator.

Why does music touch our souls?

How is it that the words and melodies are written indelibly on our hearts when all else has gone dark?

From the depths of our being, when neither voices nor photos, nor even faces can bring familiar, well-worn paths and fellow-travelers back to mind, the introductory notes of an old hymn—or even a folk song or ballad—stir the synapses of the mostly unresponsive brain to recall the words and tune faultlessly.

Even my father-in-law, in the last years of his life almost completely unresponsive, would sit beside his wife as she played the piano, and his once strong voice would ring out the tenor part as if he had no impediment whatsoever.

Why does music touch our souls?

I attempted to interject my thoughts on the effect music has on our emotions, the right sequence of notes drawing tears in appropriate places during the course of a movie, or even the use of certain types of music to inspire courage and fidelity on the battlefield.

The preacher dismissed that as simply emotions, not actually the heart. I, not sure I agreed, ceded him the point, since it was clear that any argument would have been merely subjective, without any possibility of claiming definitive proof.

Perhaps that’s a discussion for another day. I’m not fully convinced. I’ll have to think on that awhile longer.

For today though, the question still demands an answer. Why does music touch the soul—or heart, if you prefer—and leave its mark stamped thereon?

Jabal had a brother, whose name was Jubal. He was the father of all who play the harp and pipe. (Genesis 4:21)

Jubilation and jubilees had arrived. Seven generations after Adam, the gift of music began to be ingrained in the human spirit. The birds in the trees no longer had any advantage over humanity, save that they could fly.

Henceforth, the human spirit would be moved, not only by words and emotions, but by music. Notes and chords, strung together and played or sung, would make their way inexorably and irretrievably into the hearts of men.

For those of us who hold a worldview shaped by Scripture, music would have the purpose of drawing men to God and glorifying Him. The Word is full of evidence. Read Psalm 95:1, Ephesians 5:19, 2 Chronicles 5:13, to only begin.

Scripture’s pages are full of the act of making music. Across the ages, hearts were drawn irresistibly to God in song.

What a gift!

The weekend after that coffee morning with my friends, I stood in the Sunday morning worship service where the Lovely Lady and I fellowship and, once again, the point was made as clear as a mountain spring to me.

Although, I am often privileged to be part of the worship team on-stage, on this day I stood in the midst of the main group on the floor level. My mind, as is too often the case, was on the more practical issues of my life—work, finances (or the lack thereof), uncertainties of the future—rather than focused on worship.

There was nothing spectacular about the music. Nothing.

And yet, as I stood and sang, as I had been taught to do early in life by that red-headed lady I spoke of earlier, the eyes of my soul were drawn irresistibly to higher things.

The God of all the universe has come to live within us. To walk with us. To put eternity in our hearts.

My voice broke. As the tears flowed, my voice fell silent.

My heart did not.

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us.

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us. Share on X

I wonder.

Music touches our souls because the God who is Love knew we would need to be reminded. Often.

What a gift! The gift that soothes, that inspires, that makes the heart to soar.

Jubilation!

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(William Congreve ~ English playwright ~ 1670-1729)

Sing a new song to the Lord,
    for he has done wonderful deeds.
His right hand has won a mighty victory;
    his holy arm has shown his saving power!
The Lord has announced his victory
    and has revealed his righteousness to every nation!
He has remembered his promise to love and be faithful to Israel.
    The ends of the earth have seen the victory of our God.
Shout to the Lord, all the earth;
  break out in praise and sing for joy!
Sing your praise to the Lord with the harp,
  with the harp and melodious song,
with trumpets and the sound of the ram’s horn.
  Make a joyful symphony before the Lord, the King!
Let the sea and everything in it shout his praise!
  Let the earth and all living things join in.
(Psalm 98: 1-7 ~ NLT)
Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Never Satisfied

June 26, 2017June 26, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I wish I knew how it happened. Maybe I’m just too competitive. Someday, I’ll learn.

Nearing the end of a bicycle ride today, I noticed an athletically-built young man on his bike some distance ahead of me. Going the same direction as I, but with the interval between us lessening steadily, it appeared I would be ahead of him fairly soon.

He rounded a curve in the road and glanced back to see me a couple hundred feet behind. Immediately, he stood up on his pedals and began to pump away, swinging the bike wildly from side to side with his muscular grip on the handlebars.

It was hard to misinterpret his intent. There was no way this old man was going to pass him!

Oh, man! Challenge accepted!

I didn’t stand up. I didn’t throw the bicycle from side to side. I simply spun the pedals faster, exerting myself where I had been on autopilot a moment before. As I reached a higher speed, I flipped the right-hand brake lever (also the shifter) to the side and the derailleur on the back wheel dropped the chain over one sprocket, sending more of my expended energy to the wheel propelling the lightweight machine of metal and rubber.

Within a quarter mile, I had overtaken the young man and, acting the part of the gracious winner (merely acting, mind you), greeted him in passing, only to hear his backdoor criticism of my feat.

“That’s an awesome bike, man!”

I sputtered out a comment about it being a great day for a ride and pedaled on past. He turned a corner moments later and was lost from the view of my little rearview mirror.

I pedaled on at the same speed for awhile, but slowed gradually as the short, odd interaction took over my mind.

He’s not wrong.

It is a wonderful bicycle.

It’s a lot more bicycle than a rider like myself deserves. It was offered to me for a very reasonable price by an old friend just over a year ago. Since the Lord had recently blessed me with an extra sum of money earned playing my horn, I had the wherewithal to afford it and I purchased it.

I understand how nice the bike is. That’s not my problem.

The thing is, the bicycle didn’t overtake the fellow on the road today.

I did.

Lest you think I’m getting a size or two too large for my lycra shorts, let me assure you I understand very clearly my limitations as a cyclist.

I’m not that good a rider.

But, here is what I know, mostly from long periods of time spent doing just the opposite: If one rides regularly, one develops the ability to ride faster and farther.

You have to ride your bike.

A month ago, the young athlete would have pulled away from me easily, showing up this old man on his awesome bike.

That beautiful bicycle sitting in the storage barn could never have passed anyone by itself. And, ridden by a cyclist on the road for his first outing in a year, the result would certainly have been a losing effort.

As often happens, while my mind was still chewing on the remnants of this earlier event, a seemingly unrelated activity later in the day gave me something new to contemplate.

I was glancing at my smartphone, and decided it was past time to clear out the notes reminding me I need to pick up eight-penny finishing nails (the 8d nails are in the pine window jamb already), or that I couldn’t forget to buy a new battery for my truck’s key fob (I did that six months ago). There were lots more, but most are just as mundane—and outdated—as these, so I won’t bore you with a recitation of them all.

One note caught my attention as I flipped past though, so I quickly scrolled back up to it. It was a little blurb I wrote months ago, thinking about who-knows-what? at the time.

Be content with what you have, but never with where you are.

Somehow tonight, the words jumped off the screen at me. I’ll delete those other notes later. This is important stuff!

The apostle who once was called Saul made the statement. Well, he actually made two different statements, but both are rolled up in this one.

Thanking his friends for sending a gift to him, the letter-writing apostle hastened to let them know he had no problem functioning with whatever God provided. I have learned, in whatever condition I find myself—with that, to be content. (Philippians 4:11)

Earlier in the same letter, he had encouraged them to keep moving—leaving the past and its accomplishments behind—to the goal, never staying in the same place. (Philippians 3:12-14)

The two statements stand, seemingly in opposition to each other. When combined though, they form a principle with the capability of radically changing the way we live our lives.

Be content.

Never be satisfied.

It messes with the brain a bit, doesn’t it?

Be content with what you have, but never with where you are.

Never.

I have a very nice French horn which sits in its case on my floor. Well sure, I have the horn, but why didn’t our Creator make me a prodigy so I could play it effortlessly and flawlessly (and even earn money for more nice cycling equipment)?

I wonder. I have the horn. Perhaps, I could practice and then possibly, I might someday be able to play it adequately.

Some may wish they could execute beautiful counted cross stitch projects, having needle and thread already in their possession, but lacking the ability and the training to immediately achieve their dream. I wonder if such a person might start by sewing buttons on shirtsleeves and then see what comes next.

If I gaze longingly out toward the storage barn, remembering the awesome bicycle out there, but wishing for the strength and understanding to operate such a conveyance, I’ll never have more than that bicycle—sitting idle in storage.

It takes time and dedication to be able to use His gifts properly.

And somehow, when we commit ourselves to moving forward, He seems to give better gifts with which to make the journey.

Be content with what you have, but never with where you are. Share on X

It’s time to take what He’s blessed us with and move in the direction He points us.

Towards Him.

Closer to home.

It is an awesome bike.

Time to get in the race.

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
(On the Road ~ Jack Kerouac ~ American novelist ~1922-1969)

Not Going Back

June 23, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

She was so kind to write the note. She gets it. I’m always happy when I know folks really pay attention to what I’ve written.

The problem is, I think she may have come to the wrong conclusion. It’s not her fault.

I wrote about Joseph and his unhappiness in Egypt, expressing my hope that at some point before my demise, I can learn to respond to new situations appropriately.

Her note complimented the article and then, with only three words, sent shivers down my back.

Welcome to Egypt.

My brain has been working on that statement all day. Twenty miles, I rode my bicycle with a friend, and, in spite of good conversation as we rode, the question occupied my thoughts.

Am I in Egypt?

Later, I mowed and trimmed my entire yard and, with only a moments rest, as I groused at the black lab who thought it appropriate to lick my face when I bent down (defenseless) to attend to an untied shoe, my poor brain labored with its problem nearly as hard as my body did with the obvious task at hand.

But by now, well past bedtime for most normal folks, I’m certain I have the answer. Positive.

I’m not in Egypt.

I’m not.

Do you know that months before I was moved—against my will (and not quietly)—out of the my previous situation, I knew God had other plans for me? I did. Absolutely knew it.

I wrote about it, several times.

Crossing bridges. (Another Bridge, March 29, 2016)

Doing a new thing. (New Things, February 29, 2016)

You may read about it for yourself. It’s all there in the archives.

Oh, the arrogance.

I knew it. I just wasn’t having any of it.

Sometimes, our Creator has a way of moving us, when we’ve decided the place we are is just fine, thank you.

It’s sort of like the Children of Israel in the book of Exodus, when they thought they might like to stay in slavery. You know, because it wasn’t all that bad.

All their memories were of Egypt. Not one of them had ever set foot in the Promised Land.

They would move, though. When they were moved—against their will (and not quietly)—out of Egypt.

Out of Egypt.

If anything I’ve written over the last few months has led you to believe that I’m disappointed with where I am, I want to apologize.

It’s just that where I was was comfortable. And safe.

And just like the complainers in the desert (and even like Lot’s wife before them) I’m looking before me at this unfamiliar and dangerous landscape over the bridge which has just been crossed, and yet, I’m still gazing back at the comfortable and safe place I’ve just vacated.

I’ve stayed here too long—looking back.

Even now, He’s making paths in the wilderness ahead.

Even now, He’s making paths in the wilderness ahead. Share on X

He’s filling the rivers in the dry wasteland before me with water.

Cool, clear water.

I don’t want to go back to Egypt.

Home lies ahead, not behind.

I’m going forward.

So thank you, my old friend, for the welcome. But, I’ll pass. I’m going the other direction.

Out of Egypt.

Going home.

The desert shatters the soul’s arrogance and leaves body and soul crying out in thirst and hunger. In the desert we trust God or die.
(Dan B Allender ~ American Christian therapist)

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

Drowning Fish

June 21, 2017June 21, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

This is not what I was made to do.

I have said the words more times in the last weeks than ever before. One might almost think I’m unhappy.

One would be right. Some of the time.

I’m a communicator. A people person. I use words. It’s how I survived in the retail market for nearly forty years.

That was then.

Today, I hung a kitchen cabinet door. Three times. The same one—three times.

I’m not good with cabinet doors. Or sheetrock. Or wall trim.

The red-headed woman who raised me had an apt simile for such a situation. She usually did.

He’s like a fish out of water.

It’s nothing to joke about. A fish out of water is terminal. It will die.

I don’t think I will die from my attempts at home remodeling. If you could be a spider in the corner though, you’d think someone was dying.

My griping and grousing are vocal and vehement. I call myself names. I call the materials I’m working with names.

I even bring God into the conversation, accusing Him and questioning His wisdom in trusting me with this task.

It does feel as if I’m drowning and can’t get enough air. With sweat running down my back and face, I do the task once, twice, and a third time—all with the same result.

Do you ever feel as if you're drowning and can't get enough air? Share on X

Drowning. In frustration—and impatience. But, mostly in self-pity.

And yet. . .

And yet, I am not a man drowning in water deep, nor a fish tossed up on the river bank to flop until, gasping for the water rushing through my gills from which to draw the filtered oxygen my body demands, I finally lie still forever.

I am not drowning. I am in an uncomfortable situation—one in which I’ve never found myself before.

But, it’s not the first time.

And, I’m not the only one.

The King of Creation sometimes lets us know we’ve become too comfortable, too complacent.

It’s a good thing.

I keep telling myself that. It’s a good thing.

I wish I could have remembered it earlier today.

I wonder if Joseph, he of the many-hued robe, was any better, day-to-day, in remembering that God only wanted good for him.

I imagine he wasn’t—day after tedious day.

I want him not to have been any better. It would make me feel less guilty, anyway.

I want Joseph to have muttered under his breath when he was forced to be a house slave in Egypt. I want him to have defended himself, at least in a whisper, when accused of acts he would never have committed. I want him to have screamed at God as he sat, forgotten and betrayed in that horrible dungeon.

It would be easier to look at my own face in the mirror if those things were true. At least, it seems so to me tonight.

But then, griping and muttering past, I want, like Joseph, to understand God had a plan all along.

I also want—in the end—to have made the right choices, even when it felt as if those very decisions were what was making life an unfamiliar maze, one in which there was so little air that it felt suffocation was seconds away.

And, gasping for air, I finally want to trust a God I cannot see with the things I hold in my hands and the future I can just make out in the distance ahead.

I will go back tomorrow and take that cabinet door back down, only to put it back up again.

I will hear, over the dissenting voices in my head, the quiet tones of my father, quoting those familiar words from the heart of Jeremiah, the crying man.

I know the plans I’ve made for you, says your Creator. They are for great good—for your benefit and not for your harm. There is hope. There is a future to which you should look with anticipation. (Jeremiah 29:11)

And, whether Joseph did or not, I will probably yell some more. I may even shout at God in my frustration and anger.

He can take it.

He knows (and remembers clearly) how we were formed. He knows that we came from dirt. (Psalm 103:14)

And still, He seeks to shape us into something better, something more refined.

And still, He seeks to shape us into something better. Share on X

While we gasp for breath in a new environment, He is breathing new life into us.

It’s time to do the new thing He has put in front of me.

Perhaps, there is more for me to do.

Breathe deep.

Keep moving.

The future lies just ahead.

They did what soldiers always did. They improvised.
(Geoffrey Norman ~ American writer/editor)

Alive without breath;
as cold as death;
never thirsting, ever drinking;
clad in mail, never clinking.
Drowns on dry land,
thinks an island
is a mountain;
thinks a fountain
is a puff of air.
(from The Hobbit ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ Ballantine Books, New York. Copyright 1937, 1938, 1966.)

No Good Deed

June 15, 2017June 15, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I never saw the cat.

Its teeth, now—those, I felt. They were sunk into my calf, just above the ankle. For about half a second before the pain registered, I remember hearing the sound of an angry (or was it terrified?) mama of the feline species.

It wasn’t enough warning.

There was going to be blood. I just knew it.

No good deed goes unpunished.

The adage has been in popular usage for a number of years now. I find myself saying it now and then, not as absolute fact, but simply to explain the unhappy events which seem to occur even as I happen to be on my best behavior.

I was helping move a dresser out of my daughter’s house. Her husband and I had carried the unwieldy thing down a flight of stairs and wound our way through the dining room and then the living room.

I walked backward the entire time. I don’t really mind going backward if the end result is to make progress in a positive direction.

The problem with walking backward is that one is dependent on other folk to sound a warning if you are about to do something foolish—like step on the sweet little mama cat who is rushing to get out of the way of that monster piece of furniture and the two humans on either end of it.

I was simply trying to be helpful. It didn’t stop the sharp little teeth of the frightened feline from piercing my skin.

No good deed. . .

It’s not true, you know.

The cat bite was not payment for my good deed. It was nothing more than a natural event. I stepped on the cat’s foot and it did the only thing it knew to do.

It wasn’t her fault. Nor mine.

I have heard the discussion innumerable times. God is testing me.

Possibly. Possibly not.

There are passages in the Word which speak of that process. I may be forgetting some, but it seems that, overall, God uses the tests which come along, but doesn’t necessarily cause them.

I especially like the words we find in the book of James. They state the case simply. More importantly, they give me hope.

Really. Hope.

I used to be discouraged because I have never thought it a joyful occasion when I was in dire straits. I felt guilty and somewhat like a failure.

The reality is we’re told to consider it an opportunity for great joy. The joy comes in persevering. It comes in standing firm and then making our way out on the other side of the trial. The finished product will be just that—finished and complete. (James 1:2-4)

Joy comes with the finished product! Share on X

Joy comes with the finished product! But, here’s the thing: We have to stick with doing the good things that have been put before us.

He will use the testing to make us into the men and women He wants us to be.

But, in the midst of disaster, we have to keep slogging on through.

Whether blood is running down our ankle or not, we keep carrying the burden.

Whether he is grateful or demanding, we help our neighbor.

Even if it means our livelihood or friendships, we stand on the side of truth and justice.

He knows me. When I have been tested, I’ll come through as pure gold.

No, not this scribe. I’m not ready to make that claim. Yet.

Job was, though. (Job 23:10)

Talk about no good deed going unpunished! That man knew the length, width, and depth of testing. And still, he was determined. He would follow his God.

To the death he would follow Him, if need be.

And, come through with flying colors. Shining as gold.

I have been discouraged a good bit recently. The insignificant cat-nipping event aside, I have been wondering—both to myself in the dim and quiet hours, and aloud to others in the light of day—if the result will be worth the cost. I know many who are in similar situations.

Discouragement and exhaustion are the detours frequented by those on the journey who are soon to fail in their missions.

Discouragement and exhaustion are detours, frequented by those soon to fail in their missions. Share on X

Encourage each other while it is still daylight. (Hebrews 3:13)

While the blood is yet streaming from the bites, and the sweat is dripping from the foreheads, we help others along their journey. We must.

The truth is that no good deed goes unseen and unrewarded.

Not one.

It’s not an adage.

It’s a promise.

Whether we’re walking backwards, with no way to see the path before us, or running at breakneck speed toward the finish line, we keep moving.

That way.

Toward home.

God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them.
(Hebrews 6:10 ~ NIV)*

He had not yet learned that if you do one good deed your reward usually is to do another and harder and better one.
( C.S. Lewis ~ British author/theologian ~ 1898-1963)

Cool Water

June 9, 2017June 9, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The whole time I hacked at those stubborn stumps, the only thing I could think of was getting a drink of water.

Cool, clear water.

I stood out in the early summer sun again today, swinging that mattock. One would think the pain from the blister I just tore the top off would give me something else to think about.

One would be wrong.

The sweat poured from my forehead burning my eyes, all the while, soaking my clothes. I gasped for breath from the exertion. Water was all I needed.

Cool, clear water.

At my age, I can’t keep swinging the heavy tool over my head incessantly. I stopped, again and again, leaning on the wooden handle and thinking about the two black labs over at their water dish, lapping up water to quench their thirst as if the liquid would never run out.

Lucky dogs.

Finally! The last piece of wood was dug out of the ground and I threw down the heavy double-edged tool and headed into the house.

My hand—with the raw blister oozing blood—throbbed painfully, but, do you think I looked for salve and an adhesive bandage the moment I came through the door?

I did not!

Water! Nothing was more important to me in that instant.

Cool, clear water.

I gulped it down, that life-giving elixir, pure and clean.

Ahhh! I’ve never tasted anything better.

Never.

But, there was something else I was going to write about when I sat down tonight. What was it?

Oh yes. I’ve got it!

Cowboy music. That was it.

Some of you knew I was going to talk about it. You’ve either reached a certain age when you can remember the Sons of the Pioneers, with Roy Rogers among their ranks, harmonizing sweetly on the song close to eighty years ago. Or perhaps like me, your Dad sang it while working in the hot sun of South Texas or whatever place under the hot sun you hail from.

Cool Water. Cool, clear water.

I hummed it while I stood and sweated in the sun myself today. It is a song about a man and his faithful mule, Dan, who wander through the desert day after day, looking for nothing more than the next drink of water. Full of warnings of false hope (mirages) and prayers to God above for relief, it’s a cautionary tale about wise choices and the drudgery of life when days and nights of hoping and praying turn into more days and nights of hoping and praying.

I don’t usually find much inspiration in cowboy songs. This one makes me think.

All day I’ve faced the barren waste
Without the taste of water, cool water
Old Dan and I with throats burned dry
And souls that cry for water, cool, clear water.

Keep a-movin’, Dan, don’t you listen to him, Dan
He’s a devil not a man
And he spreads the burning sand with water
Dan can you see that big green tree
Where the water’s runnin’ free
And it’s waiting there for you and me?*

The Teacher said if we have open hands and will share cups of cold water with those in need, we’ll be rewarded. (Matthew 10:42)

On a recent afternoon, our soon-to-be-neighbors demonstrated that generosity, offering bottles of water to our grandchildren, along with the Lovely Lady and me, as we worked raking a section of our new yard which had been neglected for many years. It was a kind thing to do.

I believe the Teacher. They will be rewarded.

But, I wonder if He had more in mind than the simple physical act of handing water to those who are thirsty.

I don’t want to discount that act—not at all. There was a day when our Savior desperately could have used such an offer. He had fasted and prayed. In the desert. Forty days, he had gone without food. We’re not told that He was thirsty, but we do know He was desperately hungry.

The tempter showed Him a mirage and gave Him permission to eat. Offers of safety and of glory followed, but the devil could give Jesus none of those things. Like a magician’s tricks, not one of the things he offered was real. (Matthew 4:1-11)

Unlike old Dan the mule, the Teacher knew a mirage when He saw one.

We should offer the cold water. But what about when it’s the “soul that cries for cool, clear water”?

What if the soul cries out? What then?

What if the soul cries out? What then? Share on X

When Jesus sat at Jacob’s well in Samaria, he first gave the woman who came the opportunity to be the one who offered a cup of cool water. But, He knew something more was needed. (John 4:4-15)

Her soul was thirsty, needing cool, clear water.

He gave it to her. Water, so her soul would never be thirsty again.

I’m going to keep the bottles of water ready to share with other thirsty travelers. But, I’ve got a dipper handy beside that other, ever-flowing spring bubbling up inside, too.

It’s no mirage.

The water’s running free, and it’s waiting there for you and me.

Cool, clear water.

When you drink the water, remember the spring.
(Chinese proverb)

Jesus replied, “Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again. But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.”
(John 4:13,14 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips

Where is the Queue?

Treasure in the Dumpster

Trusty

Not My Tree

Jubal’s Tribe

Never Satisfied

Not Going Back

Drowning Fish

No Good Deed