Fight or Flight

June 21, 2016June 21, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s not a sight you’d expect to see, here in the foothills of the Ozarks. The lush wooded landscape, along with the numerous rivers and creeks that crisscross the valleys and hollows hereabouts, doesn’t bear much resemblance to the cactus and sand-smothered expanses of the desert.

Nonetheless, I know what I saw with my own eyes. While on a longish bicycle ride last week, I actually had to shake my head for a moment in unbelief.

Surely it was my favorite childhood cartoon come to life! Up ahead on the road as I crested a hill, a roadrunner stood, poised for flight.

Greater_Roadrunner_(Geococcyx_californianus)_(3399096675) — photo by Dominic Sherony

Well, not for flight.

The earthbound birds prefer to outrun their predators with their strong and speedy legs instead of using their wings. They can run as fast as 20 miles an hour when pursued.

The thing is, I can ride my bicycle faster than 20 miles per hour. Downhill, anyway. And, I was headed straight for the unfortunate creature as he stood downhill from me.

All Wile E. Coyote-ish, I sped right toward the sprinter.

He, knowing that danger was approaching, ran for all he was worth. I gained quickly. I don’t know if he reached his top speed, but I do know I nearly ran him down.

Zig-zagging all over the road, he gave me no clear path to pass. It was evident that every instinct told the poor bird I was a predator, intent on his destruction. Regardless of the fact I was more intent on avoiding him than running him down, he only knew the terror that being close to death can bring.

At the last second, just before my wheels caught him up, the tricky fellow did the only thing he could do—the one thing he may not have known he had the ability to do—he flew up and off the pavement into the low-hanging branches of a maple tree that hung over the fence about twenty or thirty feet away..

He flew!

The bird that I have always believed could simply avoid any pursuer by out-running it, flew.

Any lingering thought of the Warner Brothers cartoon bird from my youth disappeared from my consciousness with the suddenness of a pricked balloon exploding.

The bird didn’t push the Acme weights off the cliff onto me, didn’t draw a railroad tunnel on the side of a cliff for a train to blast out of and flatten me, didn’t light the wick on a rocket to launch me into the stratosphere.

He flew away.

Gone. Just like that. Disappeared from my sight.

One moment, certain destruction—the next, salvation from on high.

Dare I say anymore? Need I?

Perhaps a word or two.

I’m not the only one who has felt the terror of late; I’ve seen it in the eyes of others. Many see all chance of escape disappearing from their sight.

Some fear for their future, others for their children’s. Aged and hardened old men weep in the darkness for the loss of their loved ones. Young men and women despair of hope.

All run as fast as they can, hoping for escape, but pursued relentlessly by their terror. There is no escape to be found.

I’ve written recently of the wings of eagles and the ability to run without tiring. They are a gift from God and there is hope in His strength. (Isaiah 40:31)

But, what if there is another way? What if the wings and the strong, untiring muscles are not meant to be tools for retreat, but a means of facing the powers that threaten us?

Perhaps, it is time, not for flight, but to fight. (Ephesians 6:10-18)

And yet, I can’t help thinking there is one more thing to be said.

What was it, now? Let me see…

Oh yes. I’m wondering if we’re all that good at identifying our enemies.

The birdbrain that ran away from me on the road that day thought I was his. I wouldn’t have harmed a feather on his body.

I wasn’t his enemy. At all.

Sometimes, fear makes our enemies seem stronger than they are. It even manufactures enemies where there are none.

Perhaps, after all, it is time for us just to stand.

Stand and see the salvation of the Lord.

Neither fight nor flight.

Just plain faith.

Salvation is certain.

Stand still.

Still.

He that flies counts every foeman twice.
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ English author ~ 1892-1973)

But you will not even need to fight. Take your positions; then stand still and watch the Lord’s victory. He is with you, O people of Judah and Jerusalem. Do not be afraid or discouraged. Go out against them tomorrow, for the Lord is with you!
(2 Chronicles 20:17 ~ NLT)

I Did That

June 17, 2016June 17, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m rethinking the events of my day.

No. Really, I’m wondering about the events of my life. They’re all related, you know.

It was a good day. Well, I mean it was a good day until I spent an hour or so in the dentist’s chair, panicking like a waterboarding victim at Gitmo. Before that, though…

Before that, though, I got to do what I’ve done most work days for the last thirty-plus years.

I got to assist folks in making purchases which will help them make music. I helped some teachers make purchases which will aid them in helping people learn how to make music.

I even worked on several instruments to improve their ability to be used in making music.

It doesn’t sound like much, does it? I simply help people make music.

A couple of different people today referred to me as the music man. But, except for sporadically, I don’t actually make music myself.

Still, the enjoyment I receive from sitting in a concert, listening to students play instruments I either procured for them, or repaired for them, cannot be overstated.

Watching a guitarist in the park play a gig on an instrument which was lying on my work bench that morning brings a thrill I’m not sure I can describe.

At times like that, it’s hard to keep from looking at the person sitting beside me and nudging them before whispering in their ear:

I did that!

Funny thing, every time I start to think like that—every time—I get a nudge from the Spirit that lives inside of me. And I hear a voice, a voice audible only to me, saying;

No. I did that. (1 Corinthians 4:7)

Can I tell you a secret?

There is no less joy—no smaller personal reward—in acknowledging God’s hand in my life, than in pridefully claiming the credit myself. There is even more than a little relief in making the admission.

If I am responsible for yesterday’s conquests, the pressure to perform the same feats tomorrow is squarely on my shoulders.

They’re not strong shoulders.

His are.

The longer I live, the more clear it becomes that any legacy I hope to leave behind will not last more than a few days past my departure from this life.

Unless—unless the legacy is not dependent on my activities, not attributed to me alone. The things I do that shine a spotlight on myself are nothing, simply the emperor’s clothes. I might as well stand in plain sight without a stitch of clothing on.

A legacy comes from living a life with purpose. It comes from giving everything you’ve got for something bigger than fame, or reputation, or wealth.

One of the instruments I laid on my work bench today was a fine electric guitar, if not an expensive one. The owner wanted me to put new pickups in it, so he could achieve a different sound than the originals were capable of.

He has been working on the appearance of the guitar. By that I don’t mean he has been polishing it up, or touching up the finish.

What I mean is that the owner has been abusing the finish on the body of the instrument. He wants people to think he’s playing an old, vintage guitar. Sandpaper and a screwdriver are among the tools he has used to lovingly deface the glossy paint and to scar the wood.

More than one person stopped by my work bench today and saw the poor guitar lying there. The work the owner has done paid off.

Guitarists have a soft spot in their hearts for an instrument that has paid its dues. A vintage instrument, worn and beaten, but still in service, has (and rightfully so) earned their respect.

I saw the respect and reverence in the eyes of the onlookers today. Immediately, I invited them to touch the instrument.

Within a second of touching the so-called wear on the guitar, the respect and reverence was gone from the faces of every single one who tried it. In the same faces, I saw chagrin and derision. Chagrin at being fooled. Derision at the idea that such an instrument was worthy of respect.

The guitar, although very much a real and worthwhile instrument, is a fake.

A fake. However useful, it is trying to gain respect not due it. Honor comes with service. And perseverance.

Good honest wear comes from years of being held in the hands of the music man. The hands of the person who knows how to squeeze the tonality and volume from the depths of the instrument.

The wear that comes from a lifetime of service will leave scars. It will leave bare spots and faded places.

All smooth as silk. The rough edges are rubbed away, the raw crevices of accidental gouges worn down to a gentle slope.

Touchable. Comfortable.

Beautiful.

And somehow, we’re not talking about guitars anymore, are we?

In the hands of the Music Maker, service becomes legacy. (James 1:12)

Hardship becomes blessing.

Disaster becomes opportunity.

Good. Honest. Wear.

The day is coming when I will stand before the real Music Man. I think I’d like to hear His voice say—just His, and no one else’s:

I did that.

Scars, gouges, and thin spots.

His legacy.

Not mine.

His.

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.
(The Velveteen Rabbit ~ Margery Williams ~ English/American author ~ 1881-1944)

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
(Romans 8:38-39 ~ NASB)

All Together Now

June 13, 2016June 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

She carried the old guitar in, asking if I wanted to buy it.

It’s not an unusual question. It seems I answer that one every day.

They don’t carry in instruments like this one every day, though. The beautiful, vintage guitar grabbed my attention from the moment it came out of the case.

I was pretty sure I did want to buy the pretty thing, but first, I had to hold it in my hands, making sure the initial visual impression would be borne out by the actual playing experience.

Dad had the right idea when he taught me, many years ago, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Good looks are nice, but the item has to live up to its promises.

Tuning the old strings, I ran the pickup selector switch through all the positions.

In the number 1 position, the neck pickup was full and bass-y. That was exactly what I was expecting.

Then I switched to number 2, and the center pickup dropped out a lot of the bass, but was really strong in the mid-range sounds. Again, no surprises.

Number 3, producing a signal from the pickup nearest the bridge, was very different, with all treble tonalities and almost no sustain. You might even have called it twangy. Exactly the sound a bridge pickup should emit.

Everything worked! But I wasn’t ready to make an offer yet.

I flipped the selector switch to the last position, this one marked ALL.

The change was profound!

All the tonal qualities from each pickup were combined into one signal. The edgy tone of the bridge pickup, the mid-range punch of the center pickup, and the full-throated growl of the neck pickup, all joined their voices to fill the air with captivating sound.

I glanced over at the old woman, seated nearby on a stool, and she was grinning from ear to ear.

“I think the price just went up,” she teased.

Without reservation, the answer to the original question was yes!

Yes, I certainly wanted to buy the guitar, so we struck the deal.

It was hanging on the wall of the music store as I wrote this, awaiting the little bit of tender, loving care that would bring it back to top condition once again.

My mind goes back again to that moment. Oh, it was heaven to hear!

I looked at the name stamped on the headstock of the guitar and thought, how appropriate.

The company that built the fine old instrument was the Harmony Guitar Company.

The lesson I am learning–have been learning for many years–is contained in that brand name. Wrapped up in one word.

I love harmony.

Orchestras, choirs, barbershop quartets, rock groups, or church congregations—it doesn’t matter. All are transformed from a ragtag bunch of individual musicians into one cohesive musical instrument, simply by blending their voices and talents together.

And, whether we are listening, or performing, it is an exquisite joy to experience that blending—that cooperation—with others.

I do love to listen to soloists. But, for the most part, they don’t—ever—sing without harmony. Only if they sing a capella, without accompaniment, do they truly sing a solo.

I don’t think I would ever want to attend an entire concert of a capella solo music. I say that with some assurance. A fair amount.

Our ears naturally want to hear harmonies, if only in the quiet chords of a guitar, or the moving undertones of a string bass.

It is indeed our experience in all of life, and not just in the sphere of music.

We each have a distinctive voice.

Some of us are all grumbly, bassy resonance.

Others are the almost nondescript mid-range, providing the in-between parts in the grand scale of life.

The high voices cut through the mix, edgy and clear.

We need to hear every one of these voices. There is value in each one, and they will each have a time to shine alone.

But, when they join together in harmony, finding the right notes to complement the tonality of all the other voices?

Ah, heaven won’t be much better than that, will it?

Harmony between individuals is, indeed, a great and beautiful gift from our Creator. But, we don’t always want to find the right notes.

Too often, we desire to sing the lead part when we are better suited to a supporting part. We argue and demand our due, creating discord and clashing with our fellow musicians.

I have been the cause of such disunity. I’ve heard the dissonant tones, and watched people cover their ears and walk away in disgust.

Harmony demands the cooperation of everyone in the group. It requires the constant attention to pitch and balance by each participant.

Somehow as a human race (and recent events only serve to put an exclamation point on it) we’re not all that good at holding harmony.

There have been, indeed, periods of spectacular effort and results.

And yet, individual voices always demand, eventually, to be heard above the chorus. The result is always disastrous.

It always will be, when voices won’t follow the direction of the Master Conductor. Harmony is elusive, even non-existent, without Him.

Harmony is elusive, even non-existent, without the Master Conductor. Share on X

How will it ever be any different, if we who claim to follow His lead fight and bicker to prove whose voice should be heard?

How will those who deny His very existence ever see any evidence of who He is? How could they recognize how essential His direction is in the life of those who would join the chorus?

I’m trying to listen for the other voices these days.

I don’t always have to hear my own voice louder than the others in the choir. It has taken me many years to begin to grasp this lesson.

I haven’t mastered it yet.

Still, I’m loving the beautiful harmonies I’m starting to hear. It’s sounding better to my ear all the time.

I’m wondering if life is just practice for the day when we’re all a part of heaven’s choir.

I’ve missed too many rehearsals already.

How about you?

How wonderful and pleasant it is
    when brothers live together in harmony!
For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil
    that was poured over Aaron’s head,
    that ran down his beard
    and onto the border of his robe.
Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon
    that falls on the mountains of Zion.
And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing,
    even life everlasting.
(Psalm 131 ~ NLT)

In the end we shall have had enough of cynicism, skepticism, and humbug, and we shall want to live more musically.
(Vincent van Gogh~Dutch artist~1853-1890)

And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.
(Colossians 3:14~ESV)

All The Way Home

June 13, 2016June 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Do you remember it?

I do.

Nothing quite matched the feeling of pedaling down the paved lane, firmly ensconced in the big, comfy saddle. Pumping for all you were worth, flying low, both arms would be spread out like great pinions on the hawks that ruled the sky above.

Look mom! No hands!

Was there ever such a feeling? If there was, I don’t remember it.

I wanted to soar with the eagles. Riding that bicycle was as close as anything I ever experienced.

“I bet I can ride all the way home without touching the handlebars!”

“Bet you can’t!”

All the way up the road, this tow-headed kid rode, arms outstretched, and legs pumping. The smile on his face didn’t leave for an hour after he reached the gravel circle drive—without once grabbing for the handlebars in panic.

Soaring.

I never had the dream as a kid. It only started when I was grown-up. It’s a strange dream for an adult to have, or at least, to admit to having.

For years, I’ve dreamed of flying. Not in an airplane, but really flying, arms spread wide, climbing on the wind currents and looking down at the open spaces below, for all the world like an eagle.

No fake wings. No super-hero’s cape.

Just me—arms spread wide. Flying.

It wasn’t the kind of dream that terrifies. I’ve had my share of those. Falling from the edges of cliffs so high the ground below can’t be seen—Running from terror behind me, feet sticking to the ground like a fly in molasses.

Those dreams steal your strength while you sleep.

The soaring dream though, that one always left me wishing I could sleep a little longer. I was happy when I had that dream.

I want to soar with the eagles.

I realized today that I haven’t had the dream for awhile. I’m not sure why. I thought earlier tonight, as I lay in bed with sleep eluding me, that perhaps it had something to do with my taking up bike riding again.

It’s possible. I no longer stretch my arms out and pretend to soar, but I do feel like I’m flying low sometimes. There’s a freedom and a childlike joy in riding the country roads and byways at breakneck speed, pushing—always pushing—faster.

Maybe I just don’t need the dream anymore. It may have absolutely nothing to do with the cycling.

The prophet, way back before Jesus, said the words. I remember singing a song with them set to music as a child.

For they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.
They shall mount up with wings; they shall mount up with wings, as eagles.
They shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.
(James Granaham ~ 1840-1907)

New strength. Stamina to go the distance, while younger, stronger folks drop out.

Wings to fly. Wings like the eagle’s.

Soaring.

And suddenly, I also remember the funny (nearly) saying which I first heard a number of years ago.

It’s hard to soar with the eagles when you’re surrounded by turkeys.

Inexplicably, my mind is drawn to the memory of an annual event in a village not too many miles away from the beautiful town in which I reside. While it’s no longer advertised due to a lot of negative (probably for good reasons) publicity, this little town featured (and still does, by some accounts) something they called a turkey drop during their annual festival.

Small planes would buzz the crowds at low altitudes—and low speeds—as a person in the craft dropped live turkeys from the window.

That’s right. Live turkeys.

It wasn’t always a pretty sight. Turkeys don’t fly much. Some, not at all. There were always a few that made it to the ground relatively unharmed. Then there were the ones that simply splatted on the ground below, dying immediately.

Turkeys don’t fly much.

They’re not known for their nobility (or mobility, for that matter).

In the wild, they hide, using the ground cover to avoid their enemies. If you’re not looking for them, you would almost never see one.

They blend into the scenery. The most you’ll ever notice is their distinctive Gobble, Gobble, Gobble call. It’s how they attract each other. While remaining invisible to most of us.

I’ve never dreamed about being a turkey.

We were created for better things than hiding in the bushes and calling to each other.

Yet somehow, that seems to be what we do, more often than not.

I want to have a bigger impact on my world than that.

There’s still time. The sky is still up there waiting.

I just hope I don’t have to grab for the handlebars before I reach home.

Soaring.

…and there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces.
(Herman Melville ~ American novelist ~ 1819-1891)

Have you never heard?
    Have you never understood?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the Creator of all the earth.
He never grows weak or weary.
    No one can measure the depths of his understanding.
He gives power to the weak
    and strength to the powerless.
Even youths will become weak and tired,
    and young men will fall in exhaustion.
But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.
    They will soar high on wings like eagles.
They will run and not grow weary.
    They will walk and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:28-31 ~ NLT)

Jettison

June 10, 2016June 10, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Do you remember pants with cuffs?

I don’t really understand the purpose of cuffs on pants.

Okay, that’s not completely true. I recall pants I wore when I was a young boy. They had cuffs. Those cuffs didn’t resemble ones on the slacks which can be purchased in the local men’s wear shop at all. Not at all.

I wore pants that could be grown into. By that, you should understand that they were, more often than not, hand-me-downs passed to me from an older brother.

I am the youngest of four boys. The possibilities for hand-me-downs were endless. Sometimes, the hand-me-downs came to us already well-worn—shared by friends who had older boys than my oldest brother.

Hand-me-down hand-me-downs, you might say.

You get the picture.

Even when I was fortunate and the powers-that-be thought it prudent to purchase a new pair of jeans for me, they were always ordered (from the Sears & Roebucks catalog, of course) a size or two too big.

Either way—hand-me-downs or new—my pants always had cuffs. Rolled up wads of material at the bottoms of the legs, they were always in the way.

But, the worst—absolutely the worst—were the times when I made the mistake of taking a shortcut through a dewy, damp field in the morning on my way to school. Perhaps, I wasn’t going to school, but simply taking a Saturday stroll down to the fishing hole with the brothers.

The wet grass transferred its load of moisture directly into the cuffs—and, you guessed it, the cuffs would unroll. Dragging the ground, the soaked cloth gathered all the dirt, leaves, and burrs to be found in the field.

That would be just the time some wise-guy would holler out, Hey! let’s race to the fishing hole!

Perhaps, it was only because I was the pipsqueak kid brother. I blame the wet pants. Either way, I was always the last one to the water’s edge.

The combination of the heavy dew and all the added debris hanging from the lowest extremity of my blue jeans made it feel like I was dragging one of the weights from our bodybuilding set behind each leg.

There was even one time. . . No, that might not be appropriate here. Let’s just suggest that it would be advisable to always wear a belt, and leave it at that, shall we?

You get the picture. Cuffs, especially wet ones, are not a great fashion statement.

All that was years ago. But even today my old friend from school days, Jeannean, gets out early on lots of mornings. She walks through some of those same dew-covered fields and along some of those same levees I remember from my childhood.

I bet she doesn’t wear rolled up jeans for the outings.

The camera she hauls along with her on those walkabouts captures some amazing shots. She has been kind enough to allow me to use some of them on occasion.

I wonder. In her photograph. which accompanies this page, can you see what covers the head of that puffball of a dandelion? If necessary, you can click on the picture to enlarge it. Go ahead. I’ll wait for you.

The dew has settled into the white parachute-like stems above the tiny seeds and saturated them. It’s not something that one would ordinarily care about, but those stems, every one of them, has a tiny hair-like umbrella, or parachute, structure at the end of it.

When the wind blows, the hairs stand out, catching the breeze and pulling the seed free from the plant. The seeds fly as far as the wind will carry them before gently dropping to the earth again, to repopulate again and again.

The dandelion in Jeannean’s photo has a slight problem. You saw it, didn’t you?

When they are wet, the tiny hairs are plastered in place, unable to spread out and catch a ride on the wind. Saturated with water, they cannot function. If they do, in a heavy wind, get pulled from the plant, they will simply fall to the ground nearby, where they must strive with all the other seedlings for nutrients in the soil.

They were made for better things.

We were too.

There are so many things in this world that contrive to weigh us down. Like the dew on the dandelion, or even the cuffs of a ragamuffin kid’s jeans, it seems always to be the mundane, the commonplace, which cause the most problems.

The words of the Apostle come to mind as I consider the truth in front of my nose.

The world is watching. Time to shrug off the extra weight and the sin that is so bothersome. In their full view, let’s run the race that is in front of us. Steady now. There’s a long way to go. (Hebrews 12:1)

It’s impossible to float on the wind with all that extra weight, much less win a foot race with the others who are headed for the same fishing hole.

The course laid out for us in life is so much more important. It calls for careful consideration. We don’t need anything to weigh us down.

There’s still such a long way to go.

We don’t have to travel in hand-me-downs either.

I’m traveling light.

You?

“But I’ve been thinking, Mr. Frodo, there’s other things we might do without. Why not lighten the load a bit? We’re going that way now, as straight as we can make it.” He pointed to the Mountain. “It’s no good taking anything we’re not sure to need.”
Frodo looked again towards the Mountain. “No,” he said, “we shan’t need much on that road. And at its end, nothing.”
(from The Return of the King ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English author ~ 1892-1973)

Travel light. Comb and toothbrush and no extra luggage. Don’t loiter and make small talk with everyone you meet along the way.
(Luke 10:4 ~ The Message)

Good Company

June 8, 2016June 8, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I left him at the coffee shop. He’ll be by in a minute or two.

My old guitar playing friend, Panama hat on head, had just burst through the front door bringing with him a blast of June heat. Frequently, he is accompanied by our preacher buddy, but that one was missing today.

I didn’t ask the question, but he felt the need to explain his absence. Smiling, I told him we’d just have to make do with each other’s company until he got there.

We did just fine, settling most of the world’s problems in the next half hour. It took that long for the preacher to arrive. When he wandered in sheepishly, he looked at the guitar player with a hurt look. Quietly, he asked a question.

“Where did you go? I was just sitting there finishing my coffee, and it occurred to me that you were gone.”

The guitar player, as he is wont to do, laughed uproariously. No apology was forthcoming, just a verbal jab about paying more attention, and it was forgotten.

Sweet fellowship comes in strange places, and with strange companions.

The preacher ministers in an organization not known for a big tent doctrine, yet he calls us his brothers. The guitar player earns spending money playing in pubs and bar rooms, but calls my God his.

I’m not even sure how I came to be included in the circle, but included I am, never feeling the uneasiness of an outsider—not even for a moment.

As I write, I remember—just an evening ago it was—sitting at a table for hours with our old friends. The Lovely Lady and I, along with two other couples, sat as we do every month sharing a meal. We shared much more than food, as the laughter poured out, and then the tears were wiped away.

And God said, it is not good for the man to be alone. (Genesis 2:18)

The companion He gave His friend—what else would you call a person you walk with in the cool of the evening?—was not only to ease the loneliness for the one man, but also to lend companionship to the millions who would come after.

What an astounding gift!

Companionship. What an astounding gift! Share on X

Think of it. Of all the innovations which would come into existence over the centuries ahead, God decided the most important thing He could do for mankind was to give him companionship.

I have experienced the companionship of a wife. It is indeed extraordinary. Life-changing, even. I wouldn’t trade a minute of the nearly forty years I’ve had with the Lovely Lady. Still. . .

Still, friendship looms in my mind as one of the best things in life. Better than fine cars; better than a wonderful house; better still than a huge bank account.

Friendship looms in my mind as one of the best things in life. Share on X

Sometimes friendships end in disaster. It happened to the early followers of the Christ, you know.

The Apostle who wrote so many letters, my namesake, had a few friends who traveled with him on his early trips to establish churches. The young man named John Mark was part of that group.

But.

Friendships go that way, you know. The buts come into play. Human nature being what it is, people disagree. Some get hurt and take their toys to go home.

John Mark did just that, deserting his friends. Later, when his uncle wanted to give him another chance, the Apostle suggested that his uncle might be better off somewhere else, too. (Acts 15:37-39)

Friendships are broken. How sad. The sweet gift of companionship turns bitter and feels more like a punishment than a joy.

The end.

Ah. But, it’s not, is it?

Broken bridges can be rebuilt. Lines of communication may be reopened.

Somehow though, in our culture, we teach folks to wash their hands and hearts of friends who have deserted us. Don’t let them hurt you again, we admonish.

Good riddance!

And the Apostle sent word: Bring my young friend, John Mark back with you. I need him. He is useful to me in my ministry. (2 Timothy 4:11)

Reconciliation.

I need him.

There are no throw-away friendships. How do we toss away a gift from the Creator of all the universe?

Ah. Our friendship with the people who sat around that table last night is a sacred thing. Forty years or more, we go back.

But, I’ll tell you something else: My friendship with those two who sat with me in my music store today is just as sacred. We joke and we tell stories. We get on each others’ nerves as we sharpen the rough edges away.

Gifts.

Let’s sing something.

The preacher suggested it today, as the guitar player sat in his tee-shirt strumming the shiny new acoustic. The button-up shirt had been removed (without embarrassment) to avoid scratching the glossy finish on the back.

After a few false starts to get in the right key, the rich baritone voice of the preacher took the lead. The guitar player, his full bass voice booming and his fingers flying, was right there with him.

I managed to harmonize on the tenor part a bit as the song progressed.

O come, angel band.
Come and around me stand.
Oh bear me away on your snow white wings, to my immortal home.
Oh, bear me away on your snow white wings, to my immortal home.

There are moments when the light shines so brilliantly from above that I’m a little blinded.

It wasn’t beautiful music.

It was beautiful.

Every good gift—Every perfect gift—comes down from above, coming down from the Father of Lights. (James 1:17)

No argument tonight from this scribe.

Friendship.

It’ll do until something better comes along.

Yes’m, old friends is always best, ‘less you can catch a new one that’s fit to make an old one out of.
(Sarah Orne Jewett ~ American novelist/poet ~ 1849-1909

Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. But someone who falls alone is in real trouble.
(Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 ~ NLT)

Still Vanilla

June 7, 2016June 7, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We had an argument at the dinner table the other day. Well, not so much an argument, as a discussion—No—It was an argument.

I’m assuming some of you will want to weigh in, so you may get your keyboards and smart phones ready to make your comments. We were arguing, strangely enough, about ice cream flavors.

I will admit to being no connoisseur of gourmet foods. I am not a foody in any way.

I eat food. Real food.

I’m not fooled by a little raspberry sauce drizzled around a dish so tiny you have to use the lowest section of your trifocals to find it on the plate. Presentation has nothing to do with the meals I like.

Flavor and texture. Those are the most important attributes I’m seeking in the substances which pass my lips.

For instance, corn on the cob, fresh from the garden, husked and boiled in water, with a little salt and butter added—now that’s real food. Creamed corn? Not at all! While there is a slight corn-like flavor to the recipe, the dreadful mushy, slimy dish resembles corn not at all—to my palate.

A fresh tomato is good for any number of things.

Eaten by itself in wedges? Sliced and laid atop a freshly grilled hamburger patty? One of a few select ingredients in a plain dinner salad? All wonderful conditions in which to consume the enigmatic fruit/vegetable.

But, stewed and breaded? I think the Valley Girl of the Seventies said it more delicately than I can put it: Gag me with a spoon!

You begin to see a pattern here, don’t you? I like plain food. The honest flavors and natural textures of foods are a treat to the palate and need very little embellishment.

I think I’m what used to be called a meat and potatoes man. I’ll eat those other dishes when they are on the menu; even enjoy them at times.

But, for comfort food, for feeling all is right with the world, I’ll have the fried chicken with mashed potatoes, thank you! Sure, a little white gravy will go nicely on the potatoes, but not too much.

I want to taste the food I masticate.

Vanilla ice cream.

It’s what I prefer. Actually, what I crave, since it’s not really supposed to be in my diet at all now.

If you’ll promise not to tell the Lovely Lady, I will admit to having a serving of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla just recently. I had passed on it at dinner that day.

But, it called my name for the rest of the day, so I answered. Just a little.

Vanilla is an amazing flavor.

If you must know, it was the reason for the discussion at the dinner table.

One of our guests refused the offer of this food-of-the-gods after our meal, with one word: Yuck!

It was her contention that vanilla is plain, a non-flavor, if you will. And, while there was a day I would have agreed with her assessment, I will readily confess now that I have seen the error of my ways.

My sister-in-law (aided by her husband) creates an incredible home-made vanilla ice cream, the memory of which will make you want to spit out any Cookies and Cream you taste thereafter. I have had Butter Pecan I thought was really good, but one spoonful of Aunt Jan’s homemade recipe drove away any fond thought of that plastic flavor which remained.

I’ve thought of this phenomenon numerous times, while consuming unseemly quantities of the fat-laden nectar. I’m convinced that when we start to add flavors to the original, we begin a journey down a path leading to all kinds of excess which make us forget what we loved in the first place.

A teaspoonful of chocolate syrup added today, turns into a couple of tablespoons the next time and before you know it, you’re consuming some substance unidentifiable as ice cream, with a name like Chocolate Chunky Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Nightmare, and wondering how you could have sunk so low.

You may press “send” on those angry notes any time you are ready now. . .

What’s my point, you ask?

As usual, I employ the ridiculous to illustrate this plain truth: It is so simple to leave the path of clean, straightforward joys, mingling them with gaudy, overpowering extravagance, and before we know it, we no longer recognize the original product as real, or even as desirable.

Plain vanilla we call it, implying that it is somehow lacking.

The concept holds true throughout our culture. Clean cut, wholesome young men and women are replaced by Hollywood with surgically enhanced and painted caricatures with attitude problems. A criminal record is a plus, not an embarrassment.

If pets are important to you, it is no longer acceptable to just have a dog in the backyard, buying dry dog food at the local supermarket when they run out. We must shop at stores which cater to the pet’s whims, offering amazingly expensive toys, clothes (yes, clothes!), and food. Don’t leave that poor pooch alone at home all day! Doggie Day Care is the only loving way to treat Fido in this culture!

Families who enjoy the simple pleasures of spending time together playing at the park are replaced with the Madison Avenue image of the family who spends together at the amusement park, while wearing costly mouse ears and hugging imaginary princesses who have no interest in returning the adoration.

Bigger, better, more flavor, more excitement—all these are desirable, while plain, clean, pure, and simple are pejoratives used to poke fun.

The add-ons eclipse the original, making it seem obsolescent and passe’.

I’ll have two scoops of vanilla, please.

I’m fairly sure that great things are more often accomplished by just plain folks. Heroes are more likely to be normal people with simple values than they are to be the fake, embellished stars on television. Honest and responsible young adults are reared in the homes of honest and responsible parents.

We follow Christ in simplicity and purity. When the world intrudes, it’s only too easy to be distracted by the dressing and bling, forgetting that our path lies in a different direction.

He calls us to remember what first drew us into the way.

On second thought, make that just one scoop. (Watching my calories and fat intake, you see?)

Still vanilla.

It’s an amazing flavor. . .

But I have this complaint against you. You don’t love me or each other as you did at first! Look how far you have fallen! Turn back to me and do the works you did at first.
(Revelation 2:4-5a ~ NLT)

“White,” Saruman sneered. “It serves as but a beginning. The white cloth may be dyed, the white page may be overwritten, the white light may be broken.” “In which case, it is no longer white,” Gandalf answered. “And, he who breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.”
(Lord of the Rings~J.R.R. Tolkien)

‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free,
’tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…
(Simple Gifts~Elder Joseph Bracket~American Shaker songwriter~1797-1882)

Iron Sharpened

June 6, 2016June 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was only one letter that had fallen. One of fourteen—surely it wouldn’t be missed much.

I fished the defective aluminum “M” out of the hedge beneath my music store’s sign over four months ago.

It was cold then. I hate the cold.

So, I took the letter inside and laid it down on a table in the back storage area. I would reattach it on a warmer day.

Four months, it lay there. I told myself I was waiting for a warm day. Possibly, I was actually waiting for someone to miss it. I waited in vain.

No one ever did. After one hundred and twenty some-odd days, not one single customer had mentioned the missing letter.

I climbed the ladder yesterday—on a warm day—and glued the metal letter back into place. You would have laughed to see me clinging to that shaky ladder as I re-attached the errant letter.

I’m not sure what to think about the episode.

Were the people who do business with me, some of them for almost forty years, worried that I might be offended if they brought it to my attention?

Were they afraid I’d be embarrassed? Did they think I would become defensive and make excuses for my defective sign?

I’m baffled.

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?

A letter missing from his sign? He’s worried about whether people care if his letter is missing?

Well?

I’ve had hundreds, perhaps more than a thousand customers come through my door in the last four months. Surely one would have thought it important enough.

Okay, I’ll level with you. I haven’t lost any sleep over the issue. It was just a letter from a sign.

Still, I am struggling a little with the concept. The concern is so subtle, so niggling, that it’s almost not worth mentioning.

Then again, it really is.

If we care about someone, why wouldn’t we mention that something is missing from their sign—or their car—or their relationship—maybe, even their spiritual life?

Have we so easily forgotten what friendship requires of us?

We live in a day when judge not is the mantra of the masses. In some ways, it’s understandable. We have made it our business for too long to point out every difference, every dispute, every dogma we hold dear, to total strangers.

That’s not what I’m talking about. The argument about our responsibility to correct the sins of the world will continue long after we’re gone.

But somehow, it’s easier for us to shout about the glaring sins of the wide world than it is for us to actually act upon, and change, something we have power over within our sphere of influence

I want to know if we can still help our neighbors realize they have a problem which needs attention. I am suggesting that we should also make certain they understand an offer of aid accompanies our observation of their lack.

When the Apostle Paul wrote in one of his letters that his readers should not only look to their own affairs, but to the affairs of others, he wasn’t only suggesting they point out areas of deficiency; he was clearly instructing them to help correct the problem. (Philippians 2:3-4)

It’s what community does.

We do it because that much, and more, has already been done for us. (Philippians 2:5-8)

In the early days of our nation, evidence of this way of thought abounded. A farmer needing to get a roof on his barn, but caught in the responsibilities of planting his fields, might see a caravan of men and women on horseback coming to help put the roof on.

Expecting no pay but that of continued communion, and under no burden but that of shared need, they gave freely of themselves and their talents. It wouldn’t be very long until one of them would likely need to be the recipient of such attention. The original farmer was almost certain to be in the bunch who showed up the next time.

He wasn’t offended because his lack had been pointed out, but he was grateful it had been noticed and remedied. He would happily repay the generosity.

The truth of our faith is this: We are not in this walk alone. We serve and are served. (Galatians 6:2)

I wonder. If the world around us could see that side of our faith, and not only the list of regulations we’ve drawn up, is it possible they would understand more clearly what grace is about?

How will they know love unless we demonstrate it in our relationships with each other?

In the same way iron sharpens iron, we help each other to be better followers of our Savior. (Proverbs 27:17)

The sign outside my music store is how I show the world what goes on inside the building.

When the message is incomplete, those who pass by may get the wrong idea of what is being offered.

It’s not all that different in the rest of our lives, either.

The next time you see I have something missing, I’d appreciate a heads-up about it.

If you can help with the solution, all the better Your bucket truck may be a little better than my shaky ladder..

I’ll see if I can pay more attention to what you need, too.

Perhaps, we can stay sharp together.

The next best thing to being wise oneself is to live in a circle of those who are.
(C.S.Lewis ~ English educator/theologian/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ NIV)

All You Can Eat

June 2, 2016June 3, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

What a shame! Would you look at all we’ve got left?

My daughter had just finished slathering the whipped cream onto the tres leches cake which was for dessert.

A glance into the glass container she held showed that indeed there was almost half as much whipped cream remaining as she had spread on top of the decadent cake, already saturated with heavy cream, sweetened condensed milk, and whole milk. She couldn’t have put any more atop the cake without even my sugar-craving brain thinking it was overkill.

It was Sunday afternoon, the time when we get the family together for a time of sacred learning. Okay, so we eat a little too, but we teach each other and we glean information from the freshly plowed fields of a full week.

It is still one of the most blessed times in each week—at least to this old man’s mind anyway.

We learn in the noisiest study hall you’ve ever set foot in, the walls ringing with shouts and laughter, music and conversation. Today, the stereo in the next room was pouring forth classical music–stuffy by most standards, but heavenly by others (the ones that count).

On any given Sunday, the conversation at the table ranges from mundane discussion of the week past, to instructions for operating a smart phone. We tell jokes, funny or otherwise (the preponderance of them falling into the latter category) and we trade stories of our experiences which not only entertain, but instruct.

Common subjects, such as how to communicate with our spouse, or the secrets to living in accord with our fellow man, are the simple fare for our souls, alongside astounding food for our palates.

On this Sunday, however, the learning began long before we sat down to the table. Come to think of it, that is true on many days.

The children are beginning to help in the kitchen, cramming that small space in eager anticipation of helping Grandma finish the salad, or even to make the coffee with Grandpa. It’s a wonder we don’t end up in the emergency room every other week, but somehow we usually manage to escape relatively unscathed.

What’s that?

Oh. You want me to talk about what we learned. Well, as I said, there was too much whipping cream.

I just showed the kids how to run it down the garbage disposal.

Oh, yeah. I guess that’s not really likely, is it?

What I actually did was to invite the kids to share in the bounty of too-much-cream.

There was one rule.

Each child only got one spoonful.

Well, what else was I to do? There were adults who might want a taste, and not many grownups I know want to finish a communal bowl of gooey stuff after children have stuck spoons, which have just made the journey to and from their mouths, into it again and again.

One spoonful.

I opened the silverware drawer, which was directly under the bowl containing the delectable treat, and told them each to take a spoon. Reiterating that they could only have one spoonful (No double dipping, you hear?), I stood aside and awaited their response.

Not one of them complained about the one spoonful rule, but they each reached into the drawer, one at a time, and took out a spoon.

I chuckled as I watched the next to the oldest select his. The Lovely Lady laughed outright when she saw it. Each child dipped his or her spoon into the bowl and came up with a heaping pile of pale sugary enjoyment.

One of them enjoyed his longer than any of the others.

Three of the children licked their spoons with smiles on their faces, but the next to the oldest still had cream on his as they placed theirs on the counter top and went off to do other things.

Was he just a slow eater? Maybe he just licked it a little at a time.

No. This young man looked into the drawer that his grandfather had opened while telling him to take a spoon and get just one spoonful, and he had realized that there was more than one size of spoon in that drawer. Grandpa didn’t say what kind of spoon to take, so he selected the largest one in the drawer.

The other three took regular size spoons, while he selected a serving spoon.

His reward was to acquire significantly more of the coveted whipped cream than any of his siblings.

I can hear the naysayers, even as I write the words:

That wasn’t fair at all! Surely, you didn’t allow this travesty to go on! You made him get a smaller spoon, didn’t you?

No. I didn’t.

For one thing, none of the other children seemed to care. But secondly, and more importantly, this young man had followed my instructions to the letter.

How was I to punish him for doing what was completely within the parameters I had given him?

The Lovely Lady and I were still chuckling about it as we cleared up and rinsed the dishes after the meal. There had been other instructive things that day, as there always are, but this event stuck in our heads more than any of them.

Sometimes the instruction doesn’t come through any verbal exchange, but through actions instead.

But. . .

Still, I hear the fairness advocates muttering under their breath.

You know who you are.

I have been among your number. I suppose, if it comes to that, I still am.

He got more than they did! That’s not right!

I consider the sense of fair play, and I hear the words of Martha, the sister of Lazarus, as she makes her case to the Teacher:

It’s not right! I’m slaving away in here and she sits and listens to you talk! Make her help me!

The Teacher reminds Martha that she has the ability to make exactly the same choice that Mary did.

Martha determined her path, prioritizing her choices, just as her sister had done. (Luke 10:38-42)

I’m not sure how much further to wander up this trail.

Surely, before I get to the end, I’m going to step on some toes—or perhaps, more toes than I already have. The toes I step on are just as likely to be my own as they are to be yours.

Perhaps, I should simply close with a reminder that the silverware drawer is standing open in front of each of us. Every single one of us has the opportunity to select the utensil we are to use for the task before us.

If you only want a little bit, pick up the small spoon. You may be satisfied.

May be.

It’s going to take a little longer, but the enormous spoon will yield much more in the end.

How much more fair can it get?

I still like how that six-year-old boy thinks! Now, if I can just be as wise.

Go on! Pick up the big spoon and take a bite.

It’s good, isn’t it?

How sweet your words taste to me;
they are sweeter than honey.
(Psalm 119:103 ~ NLT)

When making your choice in life, do not forget to live.
(Samuel Johnson ~ English author/lexicographer ~ 1709-1784)

Pay attention now! I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. So be as cunning as serpents and as innocent as doves.
(Matthew 10:16 ~ ISV)

Beautiful. Really?

May 31, 2016June 1, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I didn’t expect my feet to hurt quite so much.

When we awoke in the morning, the day stretched ahead with only the promise of leisure and enjoyment. A relaxing weekend of driving through the countryside seeking old bridges had prepared us for nothing like the actual ordeal.

One of the bridges we sought, the Lovely Lady and I, had eluded us up till then. It occurred to us that we might need to leave the comfort of the pickup truck to find this one. We were up to the challenge.

I thought we were up to the challenge.

I never figured on wading across the river. I never intended to take off my good shoes, much less my socks.

Still, once the decision was made, there was no question in my mind it could be done easily. In hindsight, the arrogance of ignorance is laughable.

Only, I wasn’t laughing.

It was done, but it was touch and go for a moment or two.

You never heard such moaning and complaining in your life. The pain could still be felt more than twelve hours later. Fifteen feet across the waterway on the jagged flint rocks was more than enough to leave bruises on the bottoms of my tender soles, the like of which I’ve never experienced.

I used to go barefoot everywhere I went. Hot pavement, rock driveways, wild overgrown fields? All could be run across with no effects to be felt at all. I’ll grant you it was fifty years ago. Still, in retrospect, I’m ashamed of my performance.

My feet let me down. For those few moments, they were the most important thing in my life. Nothing mattered more than getting to the dry strand on the opposite shore, where I could sit down and replace my socks and shoes. Nothing.

Feet! How is it that something so unattractive and so mundane could demand the attention of every other part of my being?

For those seconds, I didn’t think about how hungry I was. I stopped worrying about the horseflies that buzzed about, ready to sting. The little seed ticks which would torment later were not even a blip on the radar screen.

My feet were in extreme pain! They needed relief. Immediately.

The promotion from lowest on the priority list to extremely urgent came as quite a surprise.

I was still mulling that over later as, fully shod and with walking sticks in hand, we made our way down into the little hollow in which the lost bridge was to be found.

There was a day when the structure was the most important part of someone’s life. The craftsmanship and unimaginable hours of toil necessary to build the little stone arch took all the attention of the men who built it, nearly one hundred and seventy years ago.

Every stone had to be cut by hand, chipped and formed by hammer and chisel, before being laid in place. Each one rested, without mortar, between neighboring stones which eventually would reach up to form the arch that wagons would drive across, horses and mules would gallop over, and even in later years, automobiles would ease up and over to avoid the rushing water below.

At one time, the bridge was a necessity, as well as a thing of beauty. Almost certainly, the folk who used it praised the forethought of those who had planned and carried out its construction. That day is long past.

The celebrated structure is nothing more than a dim memory to most. Not even that to many others. The folks living on the farms around about are as likely as not to be unaware of its very existence. I know, because I asked them.

There is no road that leads to it today. No one maintains the integrity of the bridge at all and it is likely to collapse completely very soon.

Yet, it once stood as a proud testimony to craftsmanship and hard work. No one who passed that way failed to recognize the importance of the little bridge to their freedom to travel east and west across the waterway with ease.

What once was essential is now irrelevant.

My aching feet, however, are a different story.

You know, I normally pay little attention to my feet. But oh, how important those two ugly things at the ends of my legs seemed to me in the middle of that river.

The Savior thought feet were important. He spent some of His last moments on earth with his followers making sure their feet were clean. (John 13:1-17)

Taking on the role of a servant, He reminded them that even those seemingly unimportant things were of great import to Him.

He washed their dirty feet. Their stinking, road-worn feet.

It should be so for us today, also. Our Savior turned the world upside down. He did it so we would turn the world upside down.

The first shall be last, and the last shall be first. (Matthew 20:16)

If we want to be great, we must learn to be servants. (Matthew 20:26-27)

Feet, for all their disadvantages and dishonor, perform an essential function. We count on them to get us from Point A to Point B. When they fail to answer the call to duty, we instantly understand their significance.

Did you know the prophet describes them as beautiful when they are carrying the Good News? Somehow, I think I might have chosen a different description, but there it is—How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of them that bring good news. (Isaiah 52:7)

Beautiful. Feet. Beautiful.

Bridges are nice. They make life easier.

But, bridges crumble and decay. People forget they ever existed.

Our service is a legacy that will last far beyond our years on this earth.

Perhaps, it’s time to take care of the things that really matter.

When we bend to serve, we lend aid to the King of all Creation.

Feet might be a good place to start.

He bent to serve us.

How can we do less?

What does love look like? It has the hands to help others. It has the feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men. That is what love looks like.

(Augustine of Hippo ~ Roman theologian ~ 354-430)

But how can they call on him to save them unless they believe in him? And how can they believe in him if they have never heard about him? And how can they hear about him unless someone tells them? And how will anyone go and tell them without being sent? That is why the Scriptures say, “How beautiful are the feet of messengers who bring good news!”
(Romans 10:14-15 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips

Fight or Flight

I Did That

All Together Now

All The Way Home

Jettison

Good Company

Still Vanilla

Iron Sharpened

Beautiful. Really?