Big, Strong Hands

June 13, 2024June 13, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

“My PT said I could ride my bike again if I want.”

My old friend sat near me in the coffee shop as our conversation wandered far afield last week. There was purpose in our visit, but it has been a while since we sat and spoke.

We used to sit for hours on our bicycle seats (what little there is of them) and talk as our magic machines ate up the miles, the twenty-nine-inch wheels spinning at approximately 185.6 RPM. Perhaps fewer, sometimes. And more, less often. I hope that’s not too confusing.

What I’m saying is that we rode long distances—usually slowly. And sometimes fast, but only for shorter distances.

Just over three months ago my friend had an accident and hasn’t been able to ride at all since then. Until this week. It’s been hard for him. The pain was constant and, at times, unbearable. And, when you can’t do what you love, it’s not only the pain that wreaks havoc on your mind and emotions.

Then, on that day last week, his physical therapist had given him a glimmer of promise, of expectation.

I rejoiced with him in his hope.

We stayed. Much longer than we had planned, sitting in that one spot, offering (and perceiving) insights into our faith—our intellect—even our hearts. Three hours after we dropped into the comfortable chairs, we finally stood again.

As I stood, I felt a twinge in my lower back. It’s not unusual. I am aging. I’ve not been kind to my body over the years and, if a twinge is the price for a few hours of communion with an old friend, I’ll pay the price.

I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d stand easily for at least a week, perhaps longer. The doctor I visited with this afternoon didn’t seem all that optimistic for a quick and easy solution to the crippling pain I’ve lived with since that day. Perhaps, I’m reading more into his words than he intended. Still, I’m not wearing any rose-colored glasses.

A phrase from a children’s movie in the 1980s comes to my mind as I write tonight. I see the Rockbiter character from The Neverending Story as he sits gazing at his hands which have failed him miserably. His somber, almost despairing voice repeats the words;

“They look like good, strong hands, don’t they?”

It’s not the first time I’ve faced this truth. And, I’m not sure it ever gets easier. It should, but I’m not sure it does.

I’m not invincible. I have no guarantee that I’ll be able to continue as I’ve begun. No one does.

The treasure (Grace and Light, given as a gift) followers of Jesus hold is held in hands and bodies of clay. They may appear strong. They could even stay intact for most of a lifetime, seeming to prove the strength of the holders, the pilgrims themselves.

They’re not. Strong, that is.

Strength is loaned—a stewardship to be used as long as we can wield it. But, it was never ours.

Never.

“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”
(2 Corinthians 4: 7, NLT)

Vessels of clay. It doesn’t seem all that hopeful, does it?

Still, there is a glimmer—promises made to us many years ago.

We may be pressed, but we are not crushed.
We are sometimes perplexed, but we are not in despair.
We might seem to be prey for the hunter, but we haven’t been left defenseless;
Ah! And when we are knocked down, it is never a permanent condition.
(My paraphrase of the verses that follow the verse just above)

I stood yesterday and held back the tears as my neighbor consoled me, averring it was okay that I couldn’t help her with a task I’d done for several years. I don’t know how long it will be before I can help her with it again.

For some reason, last night, I watched a video clip of that scene from the movie mentioned above and almost felt the creature’s despair. Almost.

But, moments later, I went to sleep with words from the Psalm writer, the warrior musician, in my head. They are well-known words that he wrote to remind his victorious army that the strength they had been loaned was different from that of the world around them.

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
(Psalm 20:7, NIV)

God’s hands are big, strong hands!

Today, some folks I love pulled into my driveway and asked if I would unlock my storage barn so they could get to my lawnmowers and other lawn tools. One asked for a short tutorial on using my riding mower. The others filled tanks with gasoline and checked the oil.

My lawn was going to be mowed. I couldn’t do it for myself, so they did.

But, before they started, they asked about my neighbor. Splitting up, they mowed mine and hers. In the hot sun, the strong young folks labored in the strength they’ve been loaned. Then they asked if they could take care of the neighbor on the other side of me, who usually can count on me to work in her yard, too.

I’m not crying. You are.

Okay. I am. A little.

Every good gift—every perfect gift—comes from Above.

I’m not invincible. I know that. I won’t ever be.

I may be capable again. Time will tell. Still, I’ll never be invincible.

But, I am indomitable. At least, I’m working at it.

Steadfast. Unyielding.

They are Good, Strong Hands.

And, they’re holding us.

My heart is steadfast, O God,
my heart is steadfast!
I will sing and make melody!
Awake, my whole being!
Awake, O harp and lyre!
I will awake the dawn!
I will give thanks to you, O Lord, among the peoples;
I will sing praises to you among the nations.
For your steadfast love is great to the heavens,
your faithfulness to the clouds.
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!
Let your glory be over all the earth!
(Psalm 57:7-11, ESV)

A Wee Little Man Standing Tall

June 4, 2024June 4, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A young friend posted a photo of one of her favorite trees a few weeks ago. It was a lovely sycamore tree near her house. I couldn’t help but respond when I saw it.

Since I moved with the Lovely Lady into her childhood home several years back, we’ve planted more than half a dozen trees on the property. Her dad loved the trees here, having planted many of them himself well more than half a century ago. The only problem is, most of those he planted are no longer living and we felt the need to repopulate the area a bit.

My favorite, by far (well, for right now, anyway), is the sycamore tree we planted 4 years ago in the backyard. The pretty sapling was just over seven feet tall when we dug the hole to set the root ball into on that early fall day. The gorgeous tree now measures about twenty-five feet to the tip of its crown.

I mentioned the tree to my young friend and told her sycamores were also my favorite. Now, she wants me to tell her what my top five favorite trees are. I’m cogitating on that question. Answering will take time.

But, the sycamore…

Do you know the sycamore tree grows to over one hundred feet tall? And, it can live to several hundred years old. Three to four hundred, I’m told.

Four hundred years! The mind boggles. I’m pretty sure this old house will be long gone by then. No. I’ve worked on the house for a few years now. It’ll be gone. I’m sure of it.

But, the tree we planted will still be living. I wish I could say the same about other parts of my legacy. Of course, some things I want you to forget even before I’m gone. But, not all of it.

We all want to be remembered. For the good things.

I’m sorry. This brain of mine—the part of me that is always wandering—seems to be headed to a conversation about a little man. A short man who, dead most of two thousand years, lives on in our stories and songs.

It must be the subject of the sycamore that has done it—made my mind wander here. Of course, the sycamore in this story is a sycamore fig, which is indigenous to the Holy Land. Unrelated to the sycamore (or London Plane) trees we know in the United States, they are more closely related to a mulberry tree.

I don’t know how short Zacchaeus was, just that he wasn’t tall enough to see over the crowd that followed the Teacher. And it was essential to him! He needed to see this Man. So, he climbed into the lower limbs of the sycamore tree, not a great feat even for a short man. The limbs of the sycamore fig tree are close to the ground.

He didn’t need to climb high, just higher than the heads of the crowd. It was enough. Not only could he see the Teacher—the Teacher saw him and invited himself to the little tax collector’s house.

Beyond the words that compelled him to climb back down from the tree and the insistence that Jesus would go to his house, we don’t know if Jesus directed any other words to Zacchaeus at all. None are reported.

That didn’t stop Zacchaeus from repenting of his sins and promising to make restitution—as much as four-fold what he had cheated people out of.

Think of it! There were no words of reproach; no bargaining for his confession. In the presence of the Son of God, Zacchaeus recognized who he had become and turned from his sin and greed.

And, over two thousand years later, we still remember that sycamore tree and the man who saw Jesus and was changed forever. Our kids still sing the song about the wee little man. But, he almost looms tall in our telling of the story.

Salvation comes when we recognize who we are, but more importantly, who He is. In His presence, we cannot remain unchanged.

Somehow, like the little man, I often can’t see the One I claim to follow over the heads of the people who clamor along the way.

It’s time for another long look, isn’t it? And maybe longer than just a look.

The prophet Jeremiah knew that we need to dwell—to settle in—in His presence. He described the people who trust in Him and have made Him their hope. And, he says such people will be like trees planted along the riverbanks, trees that have a ready source of water, enough to stem any extended drought or trial.

I read that passage again as I wrote today, and I laughed as I remembered the trees that grow down by the rivers and creeks near us. Everywhere, along the banks where the Lovely Lady and I wander, we see them—sycamores—growing beside the source of their sustenance, roots going deep.

I almost want to ask the question; Shall We Gather at The River? Maybe, we could stay there awhile with our Teacher.

I’m sure He’ll see us there.

I wonder if He’ll be coming to my house for tea. Maybe, we can sit in the shade of my sycamore tree and talk about that other one and the man who climbed into its branches all those years ago.

What a long shadow he’s cast—the little man and his tree.

Planted by the rivers of water, we’ll leave a legacy.

A long one, I hope. Maybe three or four hundred years.

Or longer.

“But blessed are those who trust in the Lord
    and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.
They are like trees planted along a riverbank,
    with roots that reach deep into the water.
Such trees are not bothered by the heat
    or worried by long months of drought.
Their leaves stay green,
    and they never stop producing fruit.”
(Jeremiah 17: 7-8, NLT)

“A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit.” (Old Greek Proverb)

I’m Done With This

May 21, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m so done with this!”

I said the words aloud to the air above my head just a couple of weeks ago. I might have shouted them.

My frustration ran over as I worked in the shop room at home, the place where we ran an internet business for several years after closing our local retail business. Standing there, gazing at the incredible mess, I saw no way to ever have a usable space again.

I meant the words. I was ready to walk away, leaving the mayhem behind forever. Let the kids deal with it after I’m gone.

“So done!”

But, it wasn’t true.

I wasn’t done at all. I hadn’t accomplished anything I had come down here for. Oh, I had moved a few things from one side of the room to another. That stack under the window had started on the desk. Now, it might stay where it was for another couple of years. That would be okay with me!

I usually tell people I love words. I like to play with them, teasing out meanings and quirky uses. But, sometimes the words catch me at my own game.

Done means finished. It implies completion. Somehow though, when I use that phrase, “I’m so done with this,” it means, “I quit!”

“I quit!”

It doesn’t sound nearly as weighty as “I’m so done.” And, it certainly doesn’t imply that I’ve accomplished anything.

You’ll be happy to learn that I’ve worked out a plan. I’m setting a goal, not to tackle the entire space, but to move out at least one item a day until the task is complete.

No one else would know it to look at the room, but I’ve made (with a fair amount of help from the Lovely Lady and others) enough progress to be encouraged when I walk in now.

And, I’m looking forward to the day when I can turn the meaning of those words around and stand in the room saying, “I’m done with this!”

Done!

Finished!

Complete!

I spoke with a young friend today, realizing that she is struggling a bit right now and I said similar words.

“He’s not done with you yet!”

We say that about God sometimes. What we mean by the words is that He isn’t finished with what He’s doing. And, He’s not.

The apostle for whom I was named said similar words over two thousand years ago in his letter to the folks at Philippi.

“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.” (Philippians 1:6, NLT)

We somehow have an image, a dream really, of the process being once and done. Bam! God speaks and we’re a finished product.

That’s not how this life in Him works at all.

Step by step, day by day, with a long obedience in the same direction, we are being changed into the person He intended for us to become.

The phrase that comes so easily to our lips—”He’s not done with me yet.”—covers both meanings. First, He’s not finished with what He’s doing for and in us. And secondly, He will never—NEVER—say, “I’m so done with you!”

“He has said, ‘I will never leave you and I will never abandon you.’“
(Hebrews 13:5b, NET)

He’s going to stick with the project! Yes, it may take longer than we want; the process may be more painstaking than we anticipated. But, He will never quit and walk away from us.

We sat with our old friends around the table last night and I read words (you can read them for yourself down below) from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to them (I know, weird table conversation, huh?) from The Village Blacksmith. They’re good words for us to remember, but I think we may need to amend them a bit.

Mr. Longfellow suggested that each day should see the end of the job we began that morning. I have a feeling we simply need to see forward progress, perhaps a lot—maybe just a tiny step ahead, on the task at hand.

We keep moving toward the goal, toward the prize.

It’s up there—ahead of us.

And, we’re not done yet.

He isn’t either.

Oh. I’ll keep working on the shop room, too. Maybe the kids won’t have to deal with it after all.

“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, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

“Dimidium facti qui coepit habet” (He who begins is half done.)
(from the Roman poet, Horace)

Turning Corners, Seeing Colors

May 14, 2024May 15, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I walk a lot these days.

By choice, I walk. Folks used to stop and offer me rides. Living in a small town makes it so that many who drive past know me, by sight if not by acquaintance. I laugh, telling them I’ve got two perfectly good vehicles sitting in my driveway, but would rather use my two perfectly good feet instead.

Usually, they look at me as if I’ve taken leave of my senses (they’re not far wrong) and then, laughing a little, accept my thanks and drive on. I am grateful for their kindness.

But, I’d rather walk when I can. This old body needs to move more, anyway.

And, I can see the colors better.

I suppose I could see them from the driver’s seat, but for some reason, the glass and metal of a vehicle seem more like barriers to me than like an invitation to a vista.

Outside works best for viewing outside.

It’s funny. I used to think the sky was blue, with white clouds and a yellow sun hanging above it all. Three colors.

Three.

It’s how I remember drawing every picture I produced as a child. Every one. Blue sky—white clouds—yellow sun. I might have thrown in a brown and green tree if I was feeling unusually painterly on that particular day.

So—five colors. In an entire landscape.

Five.

I see more than that when I walk now. A few more.

I saw the scene captured in the photo above on a recent walk. It was a spectacular sunset, observed almost by coincidence when I turned a corner. And, I stopped to take the pic, ruining my speed walking time on my smartphone’s app to do it. Somehow, that doesn’t bother me at all.

Later, my inquiring mind wondered, as I gazed at the photograph, how many colors were present there. In the sky above my head. In the ground beneath my feet. I was pretty sure it was more than five.

Information being readily available—at our fingertips, one might say—these days, I did a quick search online to see if it was possible to determine how many colors are visible.

I can’t vouch for the result, but one online app suggests there are 179,423 colors in the original photograph. That’s more than five.

I like seeing the colors. There were others on that walk. Before I turned that corner.

As I walked along the southern border of the field my walking trail curves around, I saw a lovely pink color approaching me.

The little girl’s hair was a beautiful pastel pink. Seven or eight years old, she pedaled by on her blue bicycle, smiling broadly as she sped past. I smiled broadly right back at her.

It wasn’t only the girl and her colors that made me smile. Even before she reached me on the trail, I heard the sound from her spokes. And the playing card.

When the little girl passed me, she wasn’t riding past a sixty-something-year-old man. She couldn’t have told you, but it was a little boy just her age she met on the trail that evening.

I can’t tell you how many times we did it. My mom would have had a better idea of the number of times she yelled at us for stealing her clothespins. The clothespins were to hold the cards to the bicycle frame just adjacent to the spinning wheel spokes. I think the little girl used scotch tape, but we used clothespins. Sometimes, Mom got them back. Sometimes.

Plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup.

The faster we rode, the louder and more motor-like it became. We weren’t on bicycles. We were on a motorcycle, flying along the asphalt. For miles, the plup-plup-ing sounded in our ears.

Oh, the memories!

But, the little girl and her time machine streaked on down the fitness trail, leaving an old man in her wake. The sound became softer and softer until there was nothing but echoes of a lifetime ago in my ears.

I headed north toward my house and a waiting easy chair. But, still straining my ears for the fluttering of the playing card in the spokes, I turned one more corner—back toward the west—toward the empty field between—to see if I could catch a few more seconds of the lovely rhythm.

I didn’t. But, I did see the spectacular sunset you see above.

I turned the corner.

This afternoon, as I sat mulling over the chance meeting on the trail and the subsequent vista of a Creator’s handwork, I remembered that I had a book due at the library today. I knew the Lovely Lady had some to return as well, so I suggested we leave soon.

She, working on one of her crochet projects, replied, “Just let me turn this corner and I’ll be ready to go.”

The words took on a different meaning in my head as I waited. We sometimes use the phrase to mean a life change—a momentous event. Perhaps, even a life-saving change.

“She’s turned the corner and will be released from the hospital soon.”

“He turned a corner and is going a completely direction in life.”

Sometimes, it takes every bit of strength we can muster to turn those kinds of corners.

Frequently though, turning the corner takes nothing more than a simple ninety-degree change in direction. One moment, we’re headed up the same road we’ve been on forever (seemingly) and the next, the scenery has changed completely, looking nothing like the destination we envisioned when we left home.

I like surprises. Good ones, anyway.

I love the colors along the road. And, sometimes away from the beaten path.

Maybe it’s time to take the slow way home. Perhaps, we could even turn a corner we’ve never turned until today.

There are colors out there we’ve never seen before. I’m sure of it.

And, there might be some sounds we’ve been missing, even though we didn’t know it.

I wonder if we could turn some corners together. Slowly.

Are you coming with?

“Look, I am about to do something new.
Now it begins to happen! Do you not recognize it?
Yes, I will make a road in the wilderness
and paths in the wastelands.”
(Isaiah 43:19, NET)

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.”
(from The Road Less Traveled, by Robert Frost)

Rain Pouring on my Newly Mowed Weeds

May 1, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s raining again.

Not that we’ve had enough rain yet this spring, but I did mow the lawn just today. It could have waited at least another day or two before taking another growth spurt.

I’m not always careful when I mow. By that, I mean I don’t look at what I’m cutting down. Grass is grass when you’re not a connoisseur of fine fescue—or Bermuda—or Augustine.

Today, I noticed. What I was mowing—I noticed.

Thousands of maple trees. The helicopters that crowded the branches of the silver and red maples in early spring (and before that) have gyrated and spun their way down from the heights to be planted in the soil and now have germinated. The scions of the giant trees in the neighborhood showed great promise.

Alas. Their promise will never come to fruition.

Many oaks met the same fate. Cut down in their infancy. Never to spring from the ground again.

All the labor of the myriad squirrels who have scrabbled and dug their tiny paws into the soil will come to nought.

My sister, who lives nearby, mentioned that she cautioned the fellow who mowed her lawn today to mow around the patches of clover. It was a nod on her part to the needs of the buzzing little honey bees who are busy gathering nectar and pollen to turn into honey.

I admit I didn’t think of that. The little white puffy balls and the 3-leaf patterns below them joined the maple and oak trees under the spinning blades. Probably some 4-leafed clumps kept them company, depriving me of the temporary joy of thinking about good luck they might bring.

There were more—dandelions and wood sorrel, perhaps even a bit of speedwell and some bluets—all fodder for the spinning blades of the big mower as it made mulch of them.

I looked over the expanse of the yard this afternoon and, as if it were my own doing, declared it good. I do love a neat lawn, even if I don’t worry much about what kind of plant springs up to cover the dirt.

And now, it’s raining again. If the pouring precipitation weren’t making such a racket on the metal roof just inches above me, and if the thunder would stop rolling across the black skies, I think I might just be able to hear the lawn growing again.

Perhaps, I could even hear the little wildflowers laughing in tiny little tittering voices. Laughing at the victory they will win again and again over the old fellow who attempts every year to keep up with their indefatigable spirits.

I’ll try again next week.

Maybe it’ll be more than 12 hours after I finish the job when they get reinforcements from above. It won’t matter.

In the end, they will win.

When they grow over whatever little patch of ground my body, sans the soul now inhabiting it, will be lowered into—they will win.

Right now, the pounding rain begins anew, reminding me of how short life is and how God’s creation will keep spinning, long after I’m no longer able to police this little half-acre corner of it.

And somehow, the thought makes me smile.

God gave instructions to Adam and Eve, telling them to, “Be fertile and multiply; fill the earth and master it.” (Genesis 1:28, CEV)) It might be a stretch to think that He meant for us to do what I did today with my silly power mower, but it might be what He intended. It could be.

But, it’s good also to be reminded that He still rules the creation He lent to us way back then. The rain still accomplishes what He intends, fulfilling the cycle He designed to replenish and re-create gardens, fields, and forests.

And regardless of all the little wildflowers, weeds, and saplings mankind chooses to annihilate as we progress through life, His promise to us is certain.

He will finish what He has started in me—and you—until the day when He takes us to our real home. (Philippians 1:6)

Until then, the rain will fall and the grass and trees will grow. And sometimes, in between, we’ll mow and labor.

John, who wrote the book of Revelation, echoed the words of Isaiah when He said God will wipe away every tear from our eyes when we’re finally home.

I’m thinking He’ll do away with all the lawnmowers, too.

And, I’m all for that.

“Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.”
(A.A. Milne)

“The rain and snow fall from the sky
and do not return,
but instead water the earth
and make it produce and yield crops,
and provide seed for the planter and food for those who must eat.”
(Isaiah 55:11, NET)

Can That Horse Run Faster?

April 23, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

No, it’s not one of the sayings I learned from the red-headed lady who raised me—she of the thousand-and-one adages. This one, I first heard from that other red-headed woman, the Lovely Lady, who lives at my house still today.

I understand the ladies with whom she does handwork (needlework, knitting, cross stitching, and the like) say it frequently when a project doesn’t turn out as perfectly as they’d like.

The words were spoken the other day as we finished up a job we’d agreed to help with at a relative’s house. We’d cut out the pieces we needed, drilled them, and driven an adequate number of screws to hold each one in place for the foreseeable future. Our relative, a recent widow, was happy with the work while admitting it wasn’t perfect.

“But,” she said, “You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

We all went out to eat a bite of supper before heading back home, the location of the restaurant requiring that we drive back by her house later. As we came up the hill toward the house, I couldn’t help remarking that this drive-by was remarkably like riding by on the back of that galloping horse.

We didn’t notice anything amiss as we sailed past.

Success.

Then, I sat in my chair and moped all evening. The Lovely Lady sat nearby, crocheting a lovely afghan, and looking over her glasses at me thoughtfully. She rarely misses noticing a good mope, that one.

I finally said it.

“It’s not good enough.”

Knowing exactly what I was thinking about, she immediately assured me that I had nothing to criticize myself for. Because that was what I had been doing. Not intentionally, but the result was the same. I was certain I hadn’t done enough.

Thinking she needed some clarification, I replied.

“But, it’s his house.”

There may or may not have been tears in my eyes as I said it. There are as I write this.

Grief is like that. One believes that time has done its work and the memories have become beneficent and pleasant, instead of painful. Then after an afternoon of working in the sun, here is sadness showing its unwelcome countenance once more. The pain is more than only the sore muscles I had anticipated.

Somehow, I feel I owe him more than just “good enough.” His carpentry and finish work was always remarkable—his work ethic, ever a pursuit of excellence. And he achieved it, again and again.

But, she is right. Those were his gifts. Comparisons are not helpful.

Mr. Shakespeare even suggested that comparisons are odorous. That was a century and a half after the writer, John Lydgate, said they were “odyous”. The words don’t mean quite the same thing. But, the result is inevitable. They stink.

It stinks for us to compare ourselves against others.

The Apostle Paul gave us the standard (which we ignore, it seems, time after time).

“Whatever work you do, do it with all your heart. Do it for the Lord and not for men.” (Colossians 3:23, NLV)

The folks in the Arts and Crafts movement in the twentieth century had a goal to do things better. Gustav Stickley, one of its major influences, stamped a phrase on all his pieces to remind folks of that.

“Als Ik Kan,” was what they said. The Flemish words for “all I can.” The words communicated that the maker had done the very best he/she could do.

The Lovely Lady reminded me on that recent day that we had done the best we were capable of.

And, it’s enough.

We walk in the light our Creator has given us in which to walk.

We reflect that light to the world around us.

Some of us will shine with a brilliance that dazzles. Overwhelming. Sensational.

Others of us will manage merely the flicker of a candle. Barely enough to see the pathway ahead.

Either way, it’s His light. His.

I promise to do all I can.

For Him. After all, it is His house we’re working on.

But, you may just want to keep that horse at a gallop for the time being.

“Everything comes from Him. His power keeps all things together. All things are made for Him. May He be honored forever. Let it be so.”
(Romans 11:36, NLV)

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
(Theodore Roosevelt)

Contrariwise

April 15, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I like it that you are sometimes a contrarian—me too!”

One of my favorite readers (anyone who reads my words is a favorite, you know) made the comment on a recent post. I’m still trying to work out if her statement makes me happy or sad.

My first inclination was to refute her statement outright, but as anyone could reason out for themselves, that would effectively prove the words instead, so I fought off that impulse and kept quiet.

I wonder if there is anything harder than keeping quiet when one feels a need to clear the air. Well—maybe not so much a need as a drive.

We want to be accepted.

In whatever group we function, we want to be accepted. I know I do. And, to a great extent, I craft my conversations and writing to fit the norm in my tribe, my support group. Seldom (at least in recent years) do I venture out and express a contrarian opinion. Because I want to be accepted.

We want our opinions to be agreed with. We want to be respected when we offer a viewpoint.

We have a maxim in the English language—vaguely humorous, implicitly serious—that has been used since the 1400s to express these feelings.

Love me, love my dog.

The logic extends to all I care for.

Love me, love my truck.

Love me, love my wife.

Love me, love my writing.

Love me, love my music.

The reader will have his or her own objects or activities to insert. Regardless of who we are, we have a need, a drive, to be accepted or agreed with.

We choose our companions—our tribe—accordingly.

And, instead of being contrarian to our tribe, we are typically contrarian to the rest of the world. Strangely enough, we argue against the current trend in our world for what we call “cancel culture”, yet we do exactly that.

As I age, I have attempted, without complete success, to become less combative. I believe there has been improvement, but still, I am not satisfied.

At least, I wouldn’t start an argument with a fencepost, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to accuse. And yet, just last week, I was shown just how apt I am still to argue and defend myself at the drop of a hat.

The Lord allowed me to post a silly photo and accompanying text to a group online that I believed was part of my tribe. They describe themselves as dull men. I thought the description might apply to me, too.

I said the Lord allowed me to do all this. I believe we are allowed to experience things that show us our need for repentance and redemption from sinful patterns. (See quote from James 1, below.)

The silly post I made in the group was quite popular, topping out at 36,000 responses in a week. It was the worst thing to happen to me in a while.

Really. The worst thing.

These folks are not really my tribe. While most responses were complimentary, many others were not. They disparaged my knowledge (or lack thereof) of tree nomenclature and my usage of the English language. They even picked out an unrelated item in the photo and railed on that. Over and over, the criticism rolled in.

Initially, I answered every one of them. I was kind and patient at first, then abrasive and cynical as the comments continued.

I knew something was wrong. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was. And then it hit me. These folks—while not my tribe—are still the neighbors I am called to love, to respect, to care for. They’re not my neighbors because they agree with me; they’re my neighbors because I’ve been given the opportunity to interact with them.

I quit replying and began to let the criticism roll off without comment. I even stopped reading comments to ensure I would not respond in kind.

I may be dull, but I can learn.

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
(Romans 12:18)

Tweedledee and Tweedledum (another quote below) in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland fought each other over a broken rattle. A broken rattle!

Somehow, the things we find to argue about—on the Internet and in person—seem to me to be almost as important as that rattle.

I told you my friend was wrong when she wrote that I was “sometimes a contrarian”. I meant she was wrong that it was only sometimes.

I’d like it to be never. I want to speak the truth in love. I want it never to be argumentative.

I may never achieve it.

But, I’d like to die trying.

“Convince a man against his will,
He’s of the same opinion still.”
(Mary Wollstonecraft, in 1792)

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”
(James 1:2-4, NIV)

“‘Contrariwise,’ continued Tweedledee, ‘if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.’”
(from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll)

I’m Not Happy All the Day

March 31, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My social media feed and even my personal messages have been full the last day or two with some variant of the message.

“It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming!”

I get it. I do.

It’s what we call Holy Week; throughout the week, we celebrate the death and then on Sunday, the resurrection, of our Lord. It seems that much of the world does the same, even though they are not believers—not true participants in the result.

But, this week has always been a melancholy time for me—my thoughts filled with sadness that Jesus died, betrayed by a follower whom He loved, abandoned by most of His other followers, and beaten and tortured to death by foreigners who occupied His homeland.

And, on a personal level, other events have crowded in, making the days even more melancholy. I’m almost wondering if I can participate in the reenactment of the joy that comes after the sad “holy week”.

Resurrection day, commonly called Easter, will dawn with light and music. We will—rightly—raise our voices in praise to our God in gratitude for His great gift of salvation, of redemption.

But, I know there are people—many of them—who will be in our churches, sitting beside us in the chairs or on the pews, with hearts overflowing with sadness and sorrow still. Even on this, the most joyful of days we mark in our calendars, they will mourn, or wait for bad news, or sit in pain—awaiting relief that may never come in this life.

We sang the old hymn a few weeks ago in the fellowship I’m blessed to be part of. It’s an old song about the cross Jesus died upon.

I admit, I don’t always think about the words when I’m so familiar with a song. I’ve sung this one all my life. But, I thought about the words this time.

The song was written by Isaac Watts, well known for his contributions to our lexicon of worship songs. The chorus, however, was added more than a hundred years after Mr. Watts wrote the verses.

The original words are deep, wonderfully so. The chorus, not so much, but it too is well-loved, nonetheless.

The hymn is now known as At the Cross, although originally Isaac Watts named it Alas, and Did My Savior Bleed. You may already be humming the tune as you read this.

I’m just not certain about the last line of the added chorus we sing.

“And now, I am happy all the day.”

I’m not. I’m just not.

I am grateful beyond expression for the astounding gift of grace given to us at the cross. My joy at knowing we follow a risen Savior is uncontainable. Uncontainable!

I will sing with abandon (I promise you—I will!) of His victory over death.

Hallelujah, Christ Arose!

But, I will also mourn with those who mourn. I will cry with those who cry.

Almost certainly—in that very service where I sing with abandon, I will weep as my Lord did when His heart was moved for the mourners.

Sunday is coming! Again and again, it is coming.

We rejoice. We mourn. We serve. Until that day when God will wipe away every tear.

He promised He would. And, He is faithful.

What a glorious day!

He is risen indeed!

“Then the men asked, ‘Why are you looking among the dead for someone who is alive? He isn’t here! He is risen from the dead!'”
(Luke 24:5b-6a, NLT)

Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted

March 27, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“How did you get close enough to take this picture?”

The question appeared last night below a photo of an old abandoned bridge I posted in an online group to which I belong. We all love old bridges and share photos and stories with each other.

I was confused.

I’m still not completely sure I understand the question. But, I think I might.

In the group, we’re encouraged not to trespass on private property. It’s also understood that we don’t ignore warning signs about dangerous structures. And, we shouldn’t breach fences or locked gates.

I had clambered through a couple of steel barriers at the end of this particular bridge to walk across. Could that be what the questioner was referring to?

Am I a lawbreaker?

I remember the conversation with the Lovely Lady as we had approached the old steel structure on that day and saw the bars across the lane. I was certain of my legal standing.

“Those are just there to keep vehicles off the bridge. They’re not for pedestrians.”

I said I was certain of the legality of my actions.

But still, I wonder.

Less than an hour later, a few miles away, I climbed to the top of a railroad embankment near an old trestle. Nearing the top, I saw the sign.

“Private Property,” it said. “Keep off the tracks.”

I stood near the sign, leaning over as close as I could get to the tracks to acquire my photo. My arm and upper body stretched well past the sign.

But, I didn’t set a foot on that track!

I kept the letter of the law. I did. But, last night I read a news story about a man and his companion who didn’t a few years ago. On that same trestle, one man died and the other was seriously injured as they walked the tracks.

The trains frequently travel over 50 miles per hour across the trestle there. It’s impossible to stop a train moving at that rate of speed—and they’d try—even if it was just for someone’s head or hand stretched out over the edge of the tracks.

Why is it, when I looked at that sign as I climbed the steep embankment, all I could think about was how ridiculous it was that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do? All I desired was to get a good photo across the trestle. That’s it.

But, that stupid sign!

So, obeying the letter of the law, I pushed the envelope, leaning over as far as possible.

But, the spirit of the law—what I couldn’t see in that moment—the spirit of the law was only for my good. To keep me from injury. Or even death.

I am a lawbreaker. I want what I want. And, I’ll stretch across the boundaries as far as necessary to get what I desire.

Across the spirit of the law.

I am a lawbreaker.

I can’t help but remember that this is the week we consider (more than any other time) the coming of a Savior. He is the one who took on Himself the penalty of my lawbreaking.

He took away the penalty for all of us lawbreakers.

He writes on our hearts what God requires. No longer will we look at that stupid sign, at the written rules, and wish we could stand in the path of destruction; we now can understand His heart, His love, and His purposes.

Lawbreakers?

Yes—every one of us. Every one. (see Romans 3:23)

But, He has put eternity in our hearts. Not rules. Not words. (see Romans 3:24!)

The events we commemorate this week make it possible for lawbreakers to become His heirs, His family, instead of His enemies.

“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.”
(John 1:12, NLT)

It may take me a while to work out the boundaries thing. There may be more bridges crossed before that happens.

Photos may follow.

I hope no one will be hurt in the process.

But, I think I’ll take some time this week to consider the Savior and His astounding gift of grace.

At least it’ll keep me off the railroad tracks.

“There is no man so good, who, were he to submit all his thoughts and actions to the laws, would not deserve hanging ten times in his life.”
(Michel de Montaigne)

“You show that you are a letter from Christ…written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts.”
(2 Corinthians 3:3, NIV)

Learning a New Language

March 14, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The visitor was worried that we might not find enough to talk about. My son, who knows me well, reassured them.

“Oh, you won’t need to worry about that. My dad always has things to talk about. It won’t be quiet at the table.”

I didn’t hear the conversation, but I learned of it later. With a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he related the words he had said.

I’m not sure whether I should be proud or embarrassed. Is he saying I’m a good conversationalist? Or is it just that I talk too much?

I didn’t ask him.

Recently I saw a quote, attributed to an obscure person I’ve been unable to pin down in my searches, that caught my attention. Actually, it grabbed my heart (and, to be honest, my guilty conscience).

“So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me, because I, too, am fluent in silence.”
(R. Arnold)

I guess it’s appropriate that this R. Arnold character can’t be found. It reinforces the veracity of the words—at least, to me it does.

No biography. No social footprint. No online following.

Just fluency in a language I don’t understand.

I could never make his claim. I don’t understand the inflections, the accents, the syllables, of silence. Because I fill the air with words. Thousands of them, perhaps, in the course of a day.

I’m less proud of my son’s words than I was when I heard them.

I want to be a person who can sit in silence with a friend who is hurting.

I don’t want to fill the air with empty noise. I don’t want to see friends’ eyes glaze over as I tell another story they’ve heard before—or worse—one they have no interest in, whatsoever.

And yet, the Lovely Lady and I often sit in silence, sometimes for hours at a time. The old preacher who married us would have laughed to see it.

He thought he could tell who the old married couples were in any setting. They were the ones who had nothing to say to each other. In a restaurant, he loved watching the young couples excitedly yapping to each other about every detail of their day—of every new sensation they had discovered—reporting every word their friends had said in an embarrassing situation.

Then, almost gleefully, he would point out the couple nearby who sat silently, drinking their water and eating their burgers.

“They’ve run out of things to say to each other!”

And often, he might be right. But, not always.

Not always.

Silence can bring us closer to each other than conversation. There is a bond in quietness.

As I write this, I’m sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by people. People talking. They are conversations about faith—about children’s activities—about professional matters.

There is nothing wrong with communication using words.

But, silence…

Silence is a language in itself, one learned by long practice; a language mastered by the heart and not the tongue.

I sit quietly (for once) and realize that I want to learn this language.

Perhaps, the dinner table is not the time to practice my mastery of it. But, I’m going to work on that, too. Others might want to (as the red-headed lady who raised me would have phrased it) get a word in edge-wise.

Mr. Carlyle was right in his assessment:

“Speech is of time; silence is of eternity.”
(from Sartor Resartus, by Thomas Carlyle)

It’s time to get started on eternity.

Silence, they say, is golden.

I wonder if there’s a Babbel course to help me learn faster.

“Here lies as silent clay Miss Arabella Young,
Who on the 21st of May 1771
First began to hold her tongue.”
(Epitaph on a grave marker in Hatfield, Massachusets)

“The words of the reckless pierce like swords,
but the tongue of the wise brings healing.”
(Proverbs 12:18, NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips