Nothing Up My Sleeves

June 7, 2017June 7, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I still remember that evening, decades ago though it was.

My first magic show. Words will never do the memory justice.

In the parking lot of the local Sears store, the stage stood, ready to snare the attention of any passing urchin with its bright spotlights and mysterious contraptions.

I was snared. Captivated even.

Rabbits and doves out of a hat. Handkerchiefs out of the mouth. Water in cups which turned into confetti when tossed on the onlookers. A beautiful woman sawed in half.

With mouth agape and eyes glued on the flashy showman, I didn’t miss a move.

I thought.

I wanted to be a magician. Nothing else mattered. Forgotten was the determination to be a fireman, followed closely by the idea that a doctor’s life might be more rewarding. I would be a magician.

Dad had an old magic kit in the garage and, immediately, I dug it out to began practicing for my life’s vocation.

Voracious reader that I was, I couldn’t wait to check out a volume or three at the local library on the mysterious art.

I wasn’t prepared for the disappointment.

It took no time at all to learn everything I needed to know about magic and magicians.

Magic was all trickery and deception. All of it.

The men who practiced it? Con men. Charlatans.

Lies and sleight-of-hand. Nothing more.

I wanted to do amazing acts and see magic (the real thing!) happen. There is no such thing. Magic is all misdirection and props hidden up the sleeves.

What an unhappy let down! And, what a disillusioned young boy!

I’m older now. Much older.

With the apostle who shares my name, I want to believe when I became a man, I put away childish things. (1 Corinthians 13:11)

For many years, I thought I had.

Now, I’m not so sure.

I saw the quote the other day, a phrase from a song by a popular vocalist. As an aging man, realizing the years left in my earthly journey are fewer than those I’ve already traveled, it seemed an encouraging thought—for a moment or two.

I’d like to think the best of me is still hiding up my sleeve.*

I want that to be true.

Problem is, I’ve never had anything good up my sleeve at all. I’m sure of it. And yet, I have been practicing for many years.

All I’ve got is trickery and deception.

And, I’m terrified—absolutely certain the day will come when the facade will be pulled down to reveal the emptiness behind the curtain.

There’s nothing up my sleeves. Nothing.

All the self-help books a man can check out from the library do no good, either. It’s still lies and sleight-of-hand.

Just like the magic.

But, there is the one Book. I’ve been doing some reading in that.

The Teacher, the one some thought was doing parlor tricks, made clear to His followers there was only one way they could do good.

Live your life in Me and there will be much for them to see. But apart from Me, you’ll have nothing—nothing at all. (John 15:5)

There may yet be spectacular deeds done. It will be His doing. His alone. Share on X

There may yet be spectacular deeds done. The best could be just around the corner.

It will not be something to applaud me for. There will be no adulation from the crowd for me.

Every good gift—every single one—and every excellent gift come from above, given by the Father of Lights. (James 1:7)

I am content with that.

There’s still nothing up my sleeves.

There never was.

It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me. So I live in this earthly body by trusting in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.
(Galatians 2:20 ~ NLT)

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.
(from The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock ~ T S Eliot ~ British Essayist ~ 1888-1965)

*from No Such Thing ~ John Mayer ~ American singer/songwriter

Grace Comes Quietly

June 1, 2017June 1, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

I can’t remember when I’ve been more frustrated.

I like things to be done in a logical manner. When rules are followed, all is right with the world.

Or, is it?

My morning—as truth be told, have many other mornings over the last couple of months—was spent in dealing with one single company. The company promises to make life easier for me as the owner of a website.

The frustrating thing is, they aren’t. Making life easier for me, that is.

From the beginning, the hoops have been held in front of me and I have dutifully jumped through them. I like order and calm, you see. My assumption, when this journey started, was that by jumping through the hoops, I would achieve the goal.

Rules followed? Goal achieved. That’s the way it’s supposed to work.

The only thing jumping through the hoops has achieved in my case is the presentation of more hoops. Today, I would jump through what I believe to be the last hoop.

Well, really, the last hoops.

Muttering the entire time, I collected all the information the company required, and driving the well-traveled road to my bank, found a helpful young lady who was in possession of a legal stamp which proclaimed her to be a notary public.

I sat at her desk, proffering document after document to prove to the company that I am who I say I am. She dutifully stamped the copies and, watching me sign the final affidavit required, asked me if I was sure I was done.

I want to be done. I wish this were the end of this particular journey.

I’m not convinced it is. There will be more hoops to be jumped through—more rules with which to comply.

There always are.

While sitting at the nice young lady’s desk, I needed to separate a couple of pages of a document which were held together with a tiny staple. I pulled it out with my fingernail. She quietly mentioned that she had a staple remover, but I persisted in my quest without her help.

The tiny staple sat on her desk for a few seconds, only to find its way into my hand as I waited for her to make copies. I bent it back into the shape it had been in the paper. Then I bent it in half from that. Fidgeting still, I bent it again.

By the time my visit to the bank was completed, the staple was just a dot of crumpled metal in my hands. I would have thrown it away, but the trash can was behind the nice lady’s desk. I didn’t reach past her to toss it in.

I carried the tiny thing out with me. I could toss it into the dirt under a tree outside.

I didn’t.

Good people don’t throw trash on the ground. I would toss it into the tray in my pickup.

I didn’t.

The same thought came to me as I considered the deed. Someone would have to pick that up.

All the way home I held the tiny piece of metal between my fingers, its sharp ends and bent edges uncomfortable on my skin. Not until I walked through my door and into the kitchen, did I release the minuscule dot from my hand into the trash can under the sink.

Even then, I wondered if it could have been put in the recycle bin.

I hear the words now.

What a strange thing to write about!

What a stupid thing to do!

What a ridiculous amount of energy wasted for nothing!

Nothing!

Did I forget to tell about the lady who followed me out the door? I did, didn’t I?

I walked out the door of the bank, carrying my final (or not) hoop to be jumped through in one hand and the pesky little staple in the other. Focused on the little inconveniences of the day, I didn’t realize that a lady carrying her young child was close behind me.

Yep. I let the door close right in her face.

And the Teacher said to the religious leaders gathered there, calling them blind guides: You strain the gnats out of your drink, and satisfied with the result, swallow a camel instead. (Matthew 23:24)

I left the lady and her child to deal with the door on their own. I had more important things on my mind.

I carried my little staple all the way home. All the way.

Later this afternoon, as I sat at a traffic signal, I felt that old familiar surge of pride as I watched the driver of the car ahead toss the still-smoking filter end of a cigarette out on the pavement.

I’m better than that one!

No. I’m not.

I’m not.

If I could (which I can’t) follow the law in every facet, save one—if I only mess up one tiny rule—I have still broken the law. (James 2:10)

Two things I know about the law. Two things.

One, it is not possible for me to jump through every hoop without getting something wrong.

Two, pride and comparisons are always—without fail—the result of my little successes in keeping the rules. When I succeed, I think I am better than those who fall short in the same attempt.

Did I say there were two things I knew? I should have said there were three. The third is the most important.

Grace trumps law. Every time.

The nice lady at the bank offered me grace today. Quietly she said the words.

I have a staple remover.

Such a simple offer.

I just needed to give up my claim to the tiny metal staple.

Grace comes quietly.

Quietly.

Grace comes quietly. Quietly. And, it waits for us to respond. Share on X

It waits for us to respond.

I think I don’t want to carry around the little staples anymore.

I’m not all that good at hoops either.

Grace waits.

For us, it waits.

Grace puts its hand on the boasting mouth and shuts it once for all.
(Charles Haddon Spurgeon ~ English evangelist ~ 1834-1892)

Sin is no longer your master, for you no longer live under the requirements of the law. Instead, you live under the freedom of God’s grace.
(Romans 6:14 ~ NLT)

All Together Now. Lift!

May 18, 2017May 19, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The boy was determined. He didn’t mean to argue. He just meant to help his grandfather do what he had said he was going to do.

This one’s a little too big to get over the fence. We’ll have to drag it out the gate, after all. Hopefully, the dogs won’t get out while we do it.

The boy’s aging grandfather was only being pragmatic. After all, the mulberry limb was twelve feet long and loaded with unripe mulberries. There was no reason to strain anyone’s muscles when the gate was just ten feet away.

Why don’t we lift together and just see if we can get it over, Grandpa?

The question was never an argument; it was simply a trial balloon, floated through the air in hopes that the old man would agree to help share the load, rather than insist on opening the gate.

For some reason, opening the gate seemed like failure to the kid with the faux-mohawk adorning his head.

The old man smiled. He’s never worn a mohawk, but in the mischievous eyes of the boy (and also in the lad’s thought processes) he sees so much of himself fifty years past.

He wonders how different life might have been if offering such helpful alternatives had been possible in similar situations when he was that age.

He grew up in a day when no meant no. One didn’t argue, or even offer alternatives.

And, I don’t mean maybe! The red-headed lady who raised him said it often enough.

But, it was also a day when you pulled your own weight. Period.

No, thanks! I can get this just fine. You go on and do your own job.

Self-sufficiency. Take care of your business. I’ll deal with mine.

Okay, Grandpa?

He jerked slightly and, looking toward the source of the words, saw the grinning boy lifting the end of the long branch already. The boy’s older brother did his part in the center of the hefty limb, and Grandpa took a grip on the thickest section, lifting and hurling the whole affair over the tall chainlink fence with their help.

With their help.

Over the last few years, and especially in the last few weeks, I have come to realize, again and again, how much I need the assistance of others who care. Many folks, none of whom were under any compulsion other than that of love, have helped me to lift the loads I couldn’t begin to carry myself.

The boy with the almost-mohawk is merely following the simple instructions the Apostle who loved to write letters gave to the good folks in the region of modern-day Turkey two thousand years ago.

He said, Share each other’s loads. It’s how you fulfill Christ’s instructions. (Galatians 6:2-3)

The child, a sixth of my age, is learning to live by the words already.

Our creator designed us to function at our best when we perform in concert with each other. He doesn’t need any one-man shows.

Elijah thought he was a one-man show and it nearly cost him his sanity. God, speaking in His gentle whisper, suggested to him that wasn’t the way He worked. No, my child, there are thousands more doing the same thing you are in the place I put them. You’re not the only one—not even close. (1 Kings 19: 12-18)

Somehow my mind needs pictures. I read recently about direct drive motors, and it seems the perfect example.

Direct drive motors. None of us functions as one of those. As the name intimates, direct drive needs nothing else to get the job done. A power source and the motor. That’s it.

We are not that.

Gearbox motors are a bit more complex, perhaps even a little less reliable. Still, the Creator selected that technology when He determined how we, who are made in His own image, would interact with each other and the rest of His creation.

Gears, interacting with thousands, perhaps millions of other gears—teeth meshing with teeth, rotating in the exact place the Master Designer planned for each individual one of us.

Each gear is exactly as important as those it meshes with; not one could stop rotating without adversely affecting the movement of the whole.

No, we’re not merely cogs in a wheel. We’re cogs in THE wheel. Absolutely essential, every single one.

A gear spinning by itself serves no purpose. Sure, it’s pulling it own weight.

But, it’s going nowhere. Fast.

A gear spinning by itself serves no purpose. It gets nowhere. Fast. Share on X

We need each other.

Just as I needed my grandsons today, we, on our journey, falter and fail without the interaction kindred spirits offer.

We help lift the load for others.

And, we allow them to help lift our load.

Funny. That’s the way love works.

But, you already knew that, didn’t you?

He makes the whole body fit together perfectly. As each part does its own special work, it helps the other parts grow, so that the whole body is healthy and growing and full of love.
(Ephesians 4:16 ~ NLT)

Doing nothing for others is the undoing of ourselves.
(Horace Mann ~ American educational reformer/politician ~ 1796-1859)

Sidewalks to Nowhere

May 16, 2017May 16, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Well, that’s it. We’ll head down to City Hall and pay our fine now. After that, we’re done. The new owner can move in tomorrow.

I grinned at the builder’s words, thinking he meant that fees still needed to be paid—for inspections or permits, possibly. Then, looking into his serious eyes and noticing his chin shaking back and forth, I realized he was serious.

A fine? Why would you have to pay a fine after building this beautiful new house?

With a wry chuckle, the man with the sun-bleached blonde hair explained.

Our little town, a forward-looking village of sixteen thousand residents, has a requirement in the building code which is intended to make all of the roadways friendly to pedestrians. Every new home built must include a sidewalk across the front, the specifications of which may be found in the city code, and the cost of which may be passed on to the new homeowner.

It’s a good idea. I like it. Except . . .

Well? What’s the problem?

Why wouldn’t the man just have the forms prepared and lay a sidewalk at the same time the big truck backed up to dump the liquid concrete for the driveway? Another hour or two; it would have taken no more.

I stood there on the side of the little cul-de-sac, looking around the neighborhood, and I laughed out loud.

It is an old neighborhood. The little craftsman bungalow just finished next door is almost certain to be the last house ever built on the street. The last one.

Not one of the other houses has a sidewalk in front of it. They never will.

There is no need. In this neighborhood, folks walk across lawns to the house next door, or three doors over, leaning over fences to talk with anyone sitting on a patio, or in their garden, or trimming the shrubbery.

If they’re going farther, they cross the pavement at long angles, perhaps even walking down the middle of the street. Nobody will run them down. The turnaround is just a few feet up ahead; why would anyone be going that fast?

He’s going to pay a fine of two thousand five hundred dollars.

Rules are rules.

One complies or they pay the price.

I don’t understand. A segment of sidewalk must be laid in a neighborhood which will never have other segments of sidewalk to join it.

By itself, a sidewalk to nowhere will lie unused. It will still require care. Weeds will eventually grow in the expansion cracks filled with dirt that no schoolchild returning home will ever kick out. If the homeowner doesn’t run a trimmer religiously along both edges, the lawn will inevitably cover it.

In the end, it will lie, cracked and useless, for all the world to laugh at the folly which required its construction in the first place.

The builder will pay the fine.

We don’t believe in sidewalks to nowhere. We wouldn’t think of making useless rules that are ultimately costly and purposeless.

No one I know would ever make someone pay the price for not complying with the book of rules.

Or, would we?

Adamant, that’s what the city inspector will be. Unmovable. Unyielding.

Set in stone. It’s what adamant means. Like a diamond, harder than anything around it.

Adamant. Too often, it’s what we are.

Unmovable. Unyielding. Too often it's what we are. Share on X

It’s why we still build sidewalks to nowhere.

The Stone we should be building on, the one the other builders and their inspectors rejected? (Matthew 21:42)

Turns out, He’s made of love—flexible, movable love.

Love that bends over backward to reach out to its neighbors. In ways the rule makers and enforcers can’t possibly understand, love reaches every time.

Every time.

And, He wants us to be the same.

It’s the law we live under, the law of love. (Romans 13:8)

It’s time to stop building sidewalks to nowhere. Even the old builder knows that.

Love reaches.

Every time.

Sometimes it pays the price first.

Love reaches. Every time. Sometimes it pays the price first. Share on X

“Yes,” said Jesus, “what sorrow also awaits you experts in religious law! For you crush people with unbearable religious demands, and you never lift a finger to ease the burden.”
(Luke 11:46 ~ NLT)

He’s a real nowhere man,
sitting in his nowhere land;
Making all his nowhere plans
For nobody.
(Nowhere Man~ McCartney/Lennon ~ British singer/songwriters)

Before I Sleep

May 9, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

“Don’t worry, Mr. Phillips. You’ll be asleep through the whole process.”

I think she meant it to be reassuring. No, I’m sure she did.

I’m not all that reassured.

I like being awake. I’ve spent most of my life being awake. I remember things that have happened when I’m awake better than otherwise.

I don’t sleep much—a habit the man who’s doing the procedure in a day or two says I need to break. Come to think of it, that may be what he’s trying to help me with by having me sleep while he works. He’s going to give me a jump-start on breaking the habit of not sleeping.

It’s a habit I’ve cultivated over a lifetime, one I don’t wish to have meddled with.

A few years ago, my young son-in-law sat at the dinner table one day and voiced his complaint. The month-old baby in my daughter’s arms was the object of the young father’s concern.

“He just won’t go to sleep. It’s like he’s afraid he’ll miss something while he’s out.”

All of us gathered at the table chuckled sympathetically, but the words rattled around in my head and hit a little closer to home than he intended.

I don’t want to miss anything!

I don’t.

Oh—in a day or two, I’ll lie down and let them put the IV into my arm and I’ll sleep. I really don’t think I need to be awake while that nice man runs a probe through my arteries. I actually believe that may be one of the few things I’d like to miss.

But the rest of it? The conversations, the mealtimes, the concerts, the bike rides, the hugs, the tears, the singing, the soccer games, the shopping trips, the weddings, the funerals, and all the other events that make up a lifetime?

Those I don’t want to sleep through.

It’s time to be awake.

I remember sitting in the pew as a boy and singing at the top of my lungs (I always did) as the song leader swung his arm in that familiar 4 beat pattern.

Work, for the night is coming,
When man’s work is o’er.

It’s a great hymn, reminding us that we need to be up and doing while we have time. The figurative night is the end of our life.

But, I have a problem.

I don’t know about you, but it seems to me it’s pretty dark in the world now. The shades of night are all about us.

Is it time to sleep yet?

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In what we once called the Dark Ages, people gathered together in walled cities for protection against each other, closing the gates to any who were outside. Inside lay safety.

Religious factions disparaged each other from the safety of their fortresses. Petty kings and rulers did the same from theirs.

Outside, chaos ruled. Fear was the law of the land. Those with power took whatever they wanted. The common man survived, but only just.

Somehow today, it seems dark to me again. Nighttime, one might say.

Still, it’s not time for sleep yet. Now is the time to be up and doing.

In the dark.

We’re not home yet.

It’s time to shake off the sleep. Time to drink another cup of coffee or splash cold water on the face.

Whatever it takes.

Perhaps, Mr. Frost said it better than I can. If it comes to that, I’m sure he did.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. *

I’m still awake.

I want to keep my promises.

You?

This is all the more urgent, for you know how late it is; time is running out. Wake up, for our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. The night is almost gone; the day of salvation will soon be here. So remove your dark deeds like dirty clothes, and put on the shining armor of right living.
(Romans 13:11-12 ~ NLT)

*(from Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening ~ Robert Frost)

The Ladder

May 5, 2017May 5, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Let’s just put in a new window.

She had a point. The old single-hung window was pathetic, the lower pane broken, with a piece of plywood covering the missing glass. The combination of dirty, scratched glass and the not-so-efficient plywood patch made it seem that the natural light outside had to squeeze its way in, rather than streaming in from the sky, as one would expect. The paint on the window frame is peeling and it is easy to see that water has been leaking onto the wood for years. Perhaps it really is finished.

One might have thought that—before today.

Today, I made what seemed like fifteen trips up a ladder with the sole intent of proving the old window still had some life left in it. Fifteen trips up to a window twelve feet off the ground. Fifteen trips back down.

I carried tools up to remove the old glass, tools to clean out the old glazing compound and glazier’s points, tools to scrape peeling paint, and even a tool to make sure the window won’t keep sliding open on its own. I brought broken panes down. I carried new panes up.

In between, I stood near the top of the ladder and labored.

Tomorrow, I’ll make a few more trips up and down.

The window is going to be fine. Really. The building contractor working on the new house next door to my old one looked over at it this afternoon and told me so. He says it’s looking great.

The window is going to be fine.

I’m not so sure about me. The old legs are shaky tonight. Muscles ache and I have a slight cramp in the arch of my foot, where it rested on the rung—when it wasn’t climbing up or down the rest of the rungs.

I had a different scenario in mind when I insisted we save the old window. It involved one trip up the ladder. It involved one trip down the ladder.

No one wants to cover ground they’ve already covered. Like Longfellow’s blacksmith, we want to see something attempted and something done. Just like that—all on the same day.

Try. Do. Wipe your hands.

Tomorrow, I’ll go up the ladder again. And very possibly, the next day, I’ll go up the ladder again.

And, in that realization, I see before me the analogy of my existence these days.

Each morning finds me in the same valley, looking up at the job I know must be done. The mountain must be climbed, tasks will be attempted, but it seems certain the goal won’t be reached.

Weary and frustrated, I’ll slide down the mountainside one more time, only to tackle it again tomorrow. The words Mr. Shakespeare put into the mouth of Macbeth centuries ago make their way even now into my own: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Hmmm. One might get the idea I’m discouraged. Perhaps, even angry.

I have been. Both of them.

As I did today when I descended the ladder for the last time, I have looked up and have seen, not the progress which has been made, but the great amount of the task yet to be accomplished.

Standing on the ground, looking up this afternoon, even after hearing my contractor friend praise my attempts, it was easy to wonder why I even considered reviving that old window.

What an astonishing waste of time! How do I justify the effort and expense?

And yet…

As I put away the tools and my ladder, a thought hit me. They do that, you know.

I wonder what it looks like from inside the room?

Wearily, but with just a hint of anticipation, I clomped up the rough staircase inside.

I won’t say I was awestruck. I wasn’t. Still, as I stepped off the top step into the room, the difference was surprising. Light, from the sunny Spring sky, filled the room. All the dingy impediment of the old panes was a thing of memory.

Now, we’re getting somewhere!

Sometimes, all it takes is to look at the thing from a different perspective. We’ve been looking at it from the same side for so long, we can’t see how close we are to reaching the goal.

Tomorrow will be another day. The journey still beckons, in all of its unromantic tedium.

I’ll climb the ladder again. And again.

It’s how the light gets inside.

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Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
(from The Village Blacksmith ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~ American poet ~ 1807-1882)

Patient endurance is what you need now, so that you will continue to do God’s will. Then you will receive all that he has promised.
“For in just a little while,
the Coming One will come and not delay.
And my righteous ones will live by faith…”
(Hebrews 10: 36-38 ~ NLT)

Leaning Forward

April 27, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I never realized I ran that way. I don’t think I ever thought about it. Still, she didn’t have any uncertainty as she said the words.

He can’t really see, but he’s sure that was you he noticed running by last night. Nobody else we know runs like that—leaning forward.

Leaning forward? I run leaning forward?

I checked, the next time I went running, sneaking a glance at my image in a shop window as I passed. I run leaning forward. Try as I might, I can’t change that.

I lean forward as I run.

I know it’s not the best way to run. I could use my core and back muscles better if I ran with an upright posture. When I think about it, I do that.

Mostly, I simply lean forward and run.

I want to get to the goal. Quickly. Leaning forward, erroneous though the concept may be, seems to get me there more quickly.

I’m beginning to wonder though, if that will always be true. I have leaned forward all of my life.

But, things change.

Years pass.

I am tired. I’m not the only one.

In more areas than just that of physical exercise, I have begun to plod more than to run. The energy, the zeal of youth, has begun to wane.

I sat on an uncomfortable table this morning and listened to my new friend’s instructions.

You’ll want to quit before the test is finished. Don’t do it! Push on through! It may seem that you can’t go any further, but don’t give in. We won’t let you get into any trouble.

I nodded my head sagely and with confidence. In retrospect, I feel like one of the sturdy dreamers in the old hymn when the Savior asks if they are able to be crucified with him. They told Him they’d follow Him to the death.

Well, we know how that worked out for them. The day of the test came and they scattered, terrified. At least one of them swore he didn’t even know the Man who had trained him for the day of testing. (John 18:17, 25-27)

Anyway, earlier today, this sturdy dreamer got on the treadmill for the stress test—really, I get stressed just thinking about it—and my new friend Dawn started the belt moving under my feet.

I didn’t do so well—just walking. Dawn told me as much.

Why are you marching? Just widen your stride and relax. You know how to walk.

I don’t stroll much. But still, I heeded her advice and relaxed, stretching out the length of my stride and kept up with the speed and elevation changes. It was uphill all the way. Every step.

And, just when I began to think I was almost finished, the final stage kicked in. I had to run to keep up. But, I know how to run, even if I don’t walk so well.

Finally! Something I could do!

I ran.

Wow! You’re a lot better at running than you are at walking, aren’t you?

My taskmaster laughed, and I laughed with her—as much as I could with my parched mouth and heaving lungs. I was in my element now.

Except, I wasn’t.

Panic isn’t a word I like to use when describing my own state of mind. It’s the only word that fits for what followed.

I wasn’t going to quit. I wasn’t. But, there were points when I wanted to beg Dawn to slow the treadmill down to a walk again. It was irrational, I know. Sometimes you can’t control how you react to circumstances. I wasn’t in control.

But, I did finish the test and, shaky legs, heaving chest, and all, stumbled back over to the uncomfortable examination table. I sat there, grateful for a place to sit and settle my emotions, as well as get my lungs functioning normally again.

I didn’t quit! I ran to the very end. Leaning forward, hands on the bars, I had finished all of the stages.

I finished the test!

But, as I sit late at night, here in my easy chair, I wonder.

Can I keep leaning forward?

Am I going to finish strong?

Shaky legs and all, will I finish strong?

You know I can’t run the race in my own strength, don’t you? I never started it on my own either.

The Apostle—my namesake—wrote the words that echo down from centuries past and reassure just as much today as when he first penned them.

He who started the work in you has no intention of leaving you on your own. You won’t drop out. He will finish what He started. Count on it. (Philippians 1:6)

I will freely admit, there have been a few moments of panic in the last few months. More than a few.

Still, for all that, I’m going to keep running. Leaning forward, I’m going to run.

Even if it’s uphill for the rest of the way.

There’s a prize for the winner. It’ll be better than a gold medal, or even a crown of leaves. Much better.

I know I’m already in good company, but there’s always room for more on the road. Maybe you’ve been walking a ways, but it’s time to start running again. Why don’t you come along with me?

Run the race in front of you.

Lean forward.

Run the race in front of you. Run. And lean forward. Share on X

The finish line is up there somewhere.

Up ahead.

Are ye able, said the Master,
To be crucified with Me?
Yea, the sturdy dreamers answered,
To the death we follow Thee.
(from Are Ye Able ~ American theologian/poet ~ 1892-1976)

Crossing the starting line may be an act of courage, but crossing the finish line is an act of faith.
(John Bingham ~ American marathon runner/author)

I’m Not That Man

April 14, 2017April 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

I want to be that man.

You know—the person they think I am.

I want to spend my hours and minutes considering ways to help folks around me. I’d like to be confident that all things work for good—confident enough that stress couldn’t ever color the edges of my emotions—confident enough that I would never give in to worry and despair.

I want to be the guy who knows exactly what action a true follower of Jesus would take in any given situation. And, I’d like to take that action. Every time, I’d like to do that.

I’m not that man.

I’m not.

Are you disappointed in me? I am.

I wanted to spend these last few days, the period of time we call Holy Week, in contemplation of the cost of grace. I thought I could perhaps offer some deep insights into the substitutionary atonement made for us on the cross during this week so many centuries ago.

I haven’t. I can’t.

You see, I’ve spent the entire week—every single day—in activities that resemble the sacred arts not at all. I’ve dug up roots from the ground. I’ve hung drywall. I’ve spread topsoil. I’ve carried desks to storage, and brush to the street, and a load of poison to the recycle center.

Nearly sixty thousand steps this week, over twenty thousand of them just yesterday—that’s how far I’ve walked. There are more steps to be walked tomorrow.

It doesn’t sound very holy, does it?

But, as I took off my socks yesterday to prepare for the shower which would wash the sweat and filth off of me, I saw a shadowy picture in my mind.

A nearly naked Man leaned over a basin of water, wearing nothing but a towel around His waist, and he washed the dirty feet of every single man in the room. (John 13:4)

I looked at my feet and wondered how many steps those men had taken since last their feet were washed? How filthy would the water in that basin have been?

But the Man completed his job, dressed again, and sat down to eat His final meal with them—the only one at the table with unwashed feet.

It was but a fleeting, fuzzy vision, washed away like dirt down that drain long before I wiped the steam from my mirror.

Today, my writing friends plied the tools of their trade and committed thousands of contemplative words to their pages and hard drives.

Not me. I walked more steps.

I am not that man.

I wonder.

Is it just as holy this week to walk on along the road He has set before us? Share on X

Is it just as holy this week—just as holy—to walk on along the road He has set before us?

Steadfastly?

Stubbornly?

With purpose?

The Man who suffered—the Man who died—the Man who lives again that we may live—He made us to walk, and work, and weep, and worship on this road.

He made us to walk, and work, and weep, and worship on this road. Share on X

Every week. Every day. Every hour. Every moment.

They’re all holy because He made them so.

I’m not that man. Really, I’m not.

But, He is.

The point of your life is to point to Him. Whatever you are doing, God wants to be glorified, because this whole thing is His.
(Francis Chan ~ American pastor/author)

Work willingly at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people.
(Colossians 3:23 ~ NLT)

Keep Silence

March 29, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The world is a noisy place these days.

Maybe it’s just me.

No. The cacophony of voices really is almost deafening. My voice has usually been a part of the confusing mix. I had even grown accustomed to it.

The ear-splitting volume is not always from the sounds one hears, either. Just as often it’s from the colossal tidal wave of data and communication that overwhelms and dizzies us with a vertigo that threatens to dump us into the flood itself.

Last night, for the first time in a month, I sat at my computer’s keyboard and determined to make myself heard once more. I would rise above the flood and the waves.

Not yet.

The Lord is in His holy temple. Let all creation be silent before Him. (Habakkuk 2:20)

I sat, hands on the keys, ready for inspiration. All I got was a reminder to keep quiet.

I went to bed instead.

What? You think sleeping is the same thing as keeping quiet?

I did, too. I was wrong.

I was supposed to be working this morning, but I dressed and, coffee cup in hand, sat in front of my computer once more, contemplating the words from last night. I wondered why I had to keep quiet, even after a month of doing just that.

As is often the case in my office, peaceful music played on one of the internet radio stations as I considered the issue.

Suddenly, I became aware of the song which had begun to play. I couldn’t help it; I laughed out loud.

The music wafting through the air asked the question: Are you sleeping, Brother John?

Frére Jacques, Frére Jacques,
Dormez-vous, Dormez-vous?

It’s a simple children’s song from long ago, but the question it poses is all I need to take me back again. Decades in the past.

After fifty-five years, I still remember keenly the disappointment.

My Daddy, a Navy Radioman, was coming home from being out at sea on a big ship.

He would be there that night! It would be well after our bedtime, but Mama, knowing the excitement would be more than we could contain anyway, gave her permission for all five of us children to stay up and wait for him.

We clambered onto the hide-a-bed mattress that served as the bedroom suite for them in the living room—with five children stuffed into a tiny mobile home, there was no separate room for Mom and Dad—wrestling and shoving each other until she grew impatient.

Each of you just lie there quietly and wait! It won’t be long now.

Do you understand my disappointment? The next thing—the very next thing—I remember is waking up in my own bunk bed in the room I shared with my three brothers at the back of the little rolling domicile.

Sure—Daddy was still home. But, the arrival, the celebration had happened without me.

I woke up to just another day. Just another day.

I missed it! No welcome home hug for my Daddy—no standing on his spit-shined Navy Oxfords to walk across the floor while I wrapped my chubby arms around his knees—no running his knuckles gently through my burr haircut in a teasing, painless Dutch rub.

I fell asleep.

Waiting quietly, I fell asleep.

They are not the same thing.

They’re not.

In my mind, I hear another voice. It’s a gentle voice, but there is sadness in the words.

Could you not watch with me one hour? (Matthew 26:40)

The Man, about to face the worst ordeal one could imagine, asked only that they watch quietly and wait for Him to finish a conversation with His Father.

Waiting quietly, they slept.

They are not the same thing—waiting quietly and sleeping.

They’re not.

Even while we wait quietly to learn what comes next, we need to be alert and ready to move at a moment’s notice.

Waiting, we watch.

Be still, and know the wonder—the quiet and mysterious wonder of anticipation. Good things still lie ahead.

Be still, and know the wonder—the quiet, mysterious wonder of anticipation. Good things lie ahead. Share on X

Our Heavenly Father is doing exactly what He has always intended to do.

I’m ready to be still and wait for what’s next.

And, I’ll try to stay awake.

For a brief space you have been called aside
From glad working of busy life,
From the world’s ceaseless stir of care and strife,
Into shade and stillness by your Heavenly Guide.
For a brief space you have been called aside.
(from Streams in the Desert ~ Anonymous)

But the Lord is in His holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before Him.
(Habakkuk 2:20 ~ NLT)

How Many Lawyers…

February 23, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We were deep in conversation on that day, my friend and I, when we were interrupted. I wasn’t optimistic that the break would be that profitable.

Usually, when folks brought in old violins, they left disappointed.

I can’t count the number of times the old fiddles were carried through my door, many of them cradled gingerly like a precious treasure that would shatter if anyone breathed on it.

It belonged to (fill in the blank—Grandpa, Uncle John, my old neighbor…), and we’re sure it’s a Stradivarius.

It never was. A Stradivarius, that is. Ever.

I disillusioned more people with my appraisals of violins than any other instrument. Unfortunately, the world is full of fakes and imitations. A name written on a label is no guarantee of authenticity.

I even learned to soften the blow by lowering expectations from the start. That day was no exception.

It’s almost certainly not made by Stradivarius.

It turns out I didn’t need to make it any easier of this couple. They knew exactly who the maker was. This one hadn’t only belonged to Uncle John. It had been made by him.

I should have known that their expectations were not the same as most of the others by the way they carried the instrument. It wasn’t even in a case and they certainly weren’t handling it delicately.

They didn’t want me to tell them they could retire on the proceeds from the sale. Far from it. These folks wanted me to confirm that the violin was no more than a wall-hanger, suitable for display on a wall in their family room.

Wouldn’t you know it? I was going to disappoint them, too.

I examined the instrument and was amazed at the quality. The solid spruce top was well-proportioned and carved expertly. There were no imperfections to be seen. The beautiful hand-rubbed finish glowed in the light.

Flipping the violin over, I gazed at a wonderful flamed maple back, again perfectly proportioned and without a flaw to be seen. The joints were tight and uniform, the structure sound as could be.

A well-shaped neck and scroll atop it completed the picture. It was a fine violin.

I was confused.

Your uncle made this instrument? And, you think it’s not going to be playable? Why?

The couple explained that the uncle had actually been a lawyer who never played a violin in his life, either before or after making the violin. He had made one violin just to prove it could be done. Then he built eleven or twelve others.

No one knew where the others were, nor if they were good instruments or not. Because he was not a musician, they had assumed he failed in proving his point, so were going to mount the violin-shaped object in a frame and save it for posterity. A piece of art.

I objected.

It was as fine an amateur-built instrument as I had ever seen. There was absolutely no reason—none whatsoever—for it not to be played.

I even took the time to tune the strings, which were horribly out of adjustment. Sliding the leaning bridge into place and tightening the pegs to the correct tension, I found a bow and drew it over the strings.

My friend, who had been sitting quietly through the episode, exclaimed suddenly. He couldn’t help himself.

Astounding!

It was, too.

The voice of the instrument was exquisite.

Like the maker, I don’t play the fiddle, but I do know how to tune one and even my inept fumbling with the bow on the strings produced a tone unlike any that normally proceeds from most of the less expensive, student instruments which come through my business.

The full-bodied tone left nothing to be desired. Nothing at all. Beautiful clear treble pitches and deep, booming bass notes emanated from the instrument instantly. Nobody in the room had any question about it.

The instrument isn’t a piece of art to be hung on a wall! In the right hands, it will make music that all listening can easily recognize as art, instead.

It is not a Stradivarius, nor is it worth a million dollars. It is a fine family heirloom which will hopefully be played by one of the maker’s descendants, proving every naysayer who ever doubted the lawyer’s ability to build a quality instrument completely wrong.

Moments before the couple walked in, my friend had asked a rhetorical question. What am I giving to God?

He and I are both reaching our senior years, the realization that time is growing short consuming our thoughts. An old friend had died suddenly the night before of a heart attack, and that weighed heavily on me as we spoke of the urgency.

In our conversation, we had talked about stepping out, not knowing what the end result would be—not even necessarily knowing what we were being asked to do. It’s as uncomfortable a thing to do as I can think of.

But, as the couple walked out of the door, cradling the instrument as if it would shatter should anyone breathe on it, we looked at each other in disbelief. Both of us smiled as the lesson of the non-musician luthier hit home.

It can’t be done!

Stick with what you know!

Really? Did you ever notice it seems that God purposely took people who had done other things and used them in ways they never thought possible? Shepherds, fishermen, tent makers, tradesmen trained for a lifetime of performing specific tasks—He gave them responsibilities which in no way resembled those earlier vocations.

To Abraham—Go to a land that I will show you. (Genesis 12:1)
To Noah—Build an ark. (Genesis 6:14)
To Moses—Go tell Pharaoh to let My people go. (Exodus 8:1)
To Peter—Upon this rock will I build my church. (Matthew 16:18)

God puts inside each of us His dream, His direction. Share on X

I had been reluctant to give my friend advice. God puts inside each of us His dream, His direction. It’s a dangerous thing for another person to give counsel that contradicts that.

If that astounding violin I looked at on that day is any indication, it’s also a little foolish.

Sometimes we simply must follow God, even when people around us don’t understand.

My friend says he’s got things to do.

Maybe it’s time for me to get moving, as well.

I wonder. I’ve never built a violin.

You?

Then the Lord said to him, “Who has made man’s mouth? Who makes him mute, or deaf, or seeing, or blind? Is it not I, the Lord?
Now therefore go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall speak.”
(Exodus 4:11-12 ~ ESV)

Those who say it can’t be done are usually interrupted by others doing it.
(James A Baldwin ~ American essayist/novelist ~ 1924-1987)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips