Grace and the Wolf

February 12, 2016February 12, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My morning at the music store was all planned out.

I always come in an hour ahead of time to get an early start. Product to be sent to customers has to be pulled and moved to the shipping room. Emails must be checked and answered. Repaired items needing to be picked up are checked again and moved to the proper section.

When the doors are unlocked, the objects to be worked with are no longer inanimate, but human. Somehow, planning goes out the window. Phone calls are answered, problems addressed, and merchandise is sold.

Still, I hadn’t counted on the Peter and the Wolf kids. Mom wondered if I would mind too very much giving them a demonstration of the musical instruments they had heard in the orchestral composition by Mr. Prokofiev.

She had a set of picture cards, but the children wanted to see the real instruments if they could, please. That is, if you don’t mind.

I didn’t mind. I’m a good guy who loves helping children.

The first card showed a bassoon. We dragged one out of the back room and assembled it, taking care to show the two tykes the double reed which gives the instrument its distinctive tone. The little girl was surprised to see that the strange instrument was much taller than she.

The next card showed an image of an oboe, so an oboe came out of its case and the smaller pieces were shoved together to make an instrument a little smaller than a clarinet. Again, the double reed made an appearance.

As each instrument came into view, the character in the musical story was named. The bassoon had been the low, naggy sound of a fussing grandfather, the oboe—Peter’s quacky duck.

One by one, we located the characters the children had met in the recording. The pretty silver flute was the little bird, and the clarinet, long, black, and sinister, was the cat that stalked the bird. The drums, such as we could find—I’m sorry ma’am; we don’t sell many timpani—were the hunters, come to help Peter in his time of need.

Of course, we had to find as many of the stringed instruments as we could, making do without a double bass viol. Peter was represented in the musical tale by the entire violin family, regardless of size.

But, we forgot one, didn’t we? Oh yes! The French horn. What shall we say about the horn?

I’m a horn player. It was a proud moment. Surely the children would be impressed.

I’ve played it nearly all my life.

The little girl, friendly and twinkly for most of the tour of instruments, stared at me, her mouth open and eyes wide. Disbelief was written all over her face.

You’re the wolf?

Why, yes. No!

Wait a minute! I’m not the wolf! I just play the instrument that represents him in the symphony. I’m not really the wolf.

The children are gone. That was hours ago.

I’m still a little shaken.

Am I the wolf?

Am I?

Thoughts swirl in my head. The horn is forgotten for the time being, but other things are not. Memories of acts committed, never to be undone, are mixed with the cacophony of voices that have filled my ears.

All have sinned—there is not one righteous person—whoever breaks one law is guilty of breaking all—those who live like this will not see God. (Romans 3:23, Ecclesiastes 7:20, James 2:10, Galatians 5:19-21)

There are times—perhaps only for a moment, but often for days—when the memories of what I have been and done haunt my waking hours. They even stretch my waking hours, leaving me restless in my bed, denying sleep.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always. Share on X

Do the voices not speak truthfully, then? Am I not a sinful man?

They do. I am.

I was the wolf. Was.

And, just like the wolf in Peter’s tale, I deserved death but found instead life.

While I was still doing damage to Him, grace was offered. To an enemy, He offered comfort and safety. (Romans 5:8)

Grace is stronger than the wolf.

I am not who I was.

I’ll play my horn again in the morning. I know I’ll smile as I remember my little friend, mouth agape and eyes opened wide.

No, my dear. I am not the wolf.

Not anymore.

Grace is stronger.

Such were some of you; but you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6:11 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid.
(Katharine Hepburn ~ American actress ~ 1907-2003)

Light Shines

February 10, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

They came to take him to Radiology today. With a gurney.

He slid his legs over the side of his hospital bed and his feet hit the floor.

“No, you stay in bed. We’ll move you over with the sheet.” The aide was insistent, almost worried.

The slight man glanced at the two staffers and acquiesced, lying back down and waiting for them to bring the bed to the same level as the gurney. Then he went quietly with them down into the bowels of the huge hospital, to have his hip X-rayed, while his wife waited for him in his room.

I visited him this evening in his hospital room. He is unhappy. Who wouldn’t be? Two weeks away from home and he is not much better. At least his disease has a name. Congestive heart failure.

He is unhappy.

Yet, as he sits, face on his hands, he tells me the story of his visit to the radiology department. His body shakes as he talks for a minute and then stops to catch his breath. I wonder if he is so unhappy that he is crying. Then he gets to the part about the hip X-ray, and I realize that he is laughing.

He tells about his visit with the coronary specialist later this afternoon, in which he asked the doctor about the hip X-ray.

“Hip X-ray?” The doctor is confused.

The nurse, at his side, is not. Abruptly, she runs from the room and makes immediate arrangements for the man down the hall, who has been limping strangely, to be taken to Radiology for his hip X-rays.

The man with his face in his hands laughs outright.

“Well, at least I didn’t have to stay all day in this room and be bored.”

With a quip about being glad the trip wasn’t to get a leg amputated, he quiets down again and the reality of his situation intrudes into the room once more.

I think he will laugh again. There will be other bright spots.

A friend posted a picture online the other day. The sunset was beautiful, but not all that spectacular. I wondered what was special about this particular sunset. It wasn’t until I read the words under the photo that I saw how spectacular it really was.

The hashtagged comment was: #neverhadsunsetsbeforethewildfires.

A couple of years ago, she and her family lost their home and everything else—all their recorded memories, all their photos, everything—in a wildfire. They are slowly rebuilding their lives from the ashes.

In the meantime, they are finding the bright spots. Trees cleared away by fire? Look for the sun lowering to the horizon in the west.

Light shines through.

You see, the thing about finding yourself in a dark place is this: You look for the bright spots.

And you find them.

As a child, I remember waking up in a dim bedroom and seeing the sunbeams streaming through the window. The dingy room was brighter in spots because of them.

But, if you sat and just gazed at the beams shooting their way in from the bright sun, you suddenly noticed something: Little tiny dust motes dancing in the light. They would twirl and twist, rising and falling with even the tiniest wind current, perhaps the slightest puff of your breath, or even a hand waving several feet away.

It is almost as if even the denizens of the dark room were happy for the sunlight, welcoming it in to chase away the shadows.

In spite of the darkness, we find light.

We laugh in the face of disease. We rejoice in the aftermath of loss. We move on from the dark places in which we find ourselves to walk in the light of day.

What’s that?

You’re still in the dark place?

Perhaps you could come a little nearer to the window. Even now, the beams are sliding in through the panes to welcome the dancers from the dark.

You don’t want to sit this one out.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.
(John 1:5 ~ NIV)

Now God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.
(from Henry VI ~ William Shakespeare ~ English playwright ~ 1564-1616)

A Great Adventure—Still

February 9, 2016February 9, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I knew he was going to attempt to sell me something before he said a word. Well, before he said five words.

He shifted his leather valise (my first clue) from one hand to the other, as he reached out for mine.

I’m looking for Mister Phillips.

Why do they call me mister when they want something? My customers, even the teenagers, call me Paul. I like that; it feels like we’re on equal footing.

Mister Phillips, I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point. . .

The contents of the valise scattered about on my counter, the fellow began his pitch. I want it understood that this was not my first time at bat. When he offered a home run ball, I declined. I’d rather tap the bunt, thanks.

You see, the man is selling a dead product. Well—it’s nearly dead. He wants to sell me an ad for the telephone book.

A telephone book.

Remember when the phone book was the most important source of information available? For a hundred years, it was an indispensable tool for professionals from every walk of life.

The police department used it as much as the sales community. Delivery boys needed its information, as did churches and schools. No home or business would be without the local phone book.

That was true for the better part of a century.

No more.

The Internet has replaced the phone directory. Databases the likes of which would have been incomprehensible to the brains of mid-twentieth-century computer scientists are carried around in our shirt pockets.

Need a number? Touch one button.

Directions to an address? Watch the screen and listen to the computer-generated voice.

Buy a telephone directory ad? Not likely! Well, perhaps a small one. You never know. Some of my customers might still be stuck in the twentieth century.

It’s true. Old habits die hard. The Baby Boomer generation—of which I am a part—is made up of stubborn folks. For all the changes we have seen—or even been responsible for—there is a remnant of us who refuse to budge.

All around us, change is happening at the speed of light. Technology, societal norms, scientific discoveries, even medical treatments—all these and more are almost unrecognizable from two or three decades ago.

For those of us who are reaching that certain age, there is a propensity to simply shrug our shoulders and ignore all change. We can’t decide which is good and which is bad. And besides, who can figure out those strange new devices anyway?

I hear my Grandfather’s voice, even as I write. Grandpa was born in 1902, at the start of a new century. He watched the flying machines soar through the air. I can’t believe that his imagination didn’t, at some point in his life, take to the air as well. Still, you’d never know it to listen to the words.

If God had meant for men to fly, He would have given us wings!

He was an intelligent man. Not altogether unlike many I know around me today.

They’re the very same ones using phone books.

Oh. I’ve stepped on some toes here, haven’t I?

I’m not preaching; really, I’m not. I just know that we need to live in the world our Creator has given us, thriving in the time in which He placed us.

I want to be a steward, faithful to use the tools placed in my hands for the task I’ve been assigned.

The Apostle, intent on fulfilling his own commission, averred that he would become all things to all people if, in doing so, he could win at least some. (1 Corinthians 9:21-22)

I’m not sure the words but I was old will be an acceptable excuse when we reach our eternal home.

Our Creator has instilled in us a natural curiosity, a desire to learn, that burns in our core from the cradle to the grave. It is only through our sloth and love of ease that we divest ourselves of the ability to learn new things.

It hurts when I push the strings down.

The lady, a middle-aged grandmother, stood in front of me with the guitar she had purchased only days before. She was quitting. It was too hard.

It’s supposed to hurt. That’s how your fingers get toughened up, so you can play longer.

I could have been more sensitive in my explanation, but she needed the truth. Learning is hard. It always has been.

When the learning is complete, then comes the sense of accomplishment, the knowledge that we pushed on through the pain and finished our task.

It’s worth it.

One of my young friends wanted to show me his new skill the other day. He beckoned me out to the parking lot at the music store and, reaching behind the seat of his pickup truck, drew out a unicycle.

No, not the kind clowns ride in the parades. This was a powered unicycle. It did have only one wheel, but there was a powerful motor that drove the wheel while he stood with his feet on either side of it upon small metal platforms.

Zipping around the lot, between cars and then, zig-zagging in and out, around the flower pots on the sidewalk, he simply stood and let the single wheel beneath him carry him wherever he guided it. I was amazed.

I wanted to do it. He looked at this nearly sixty-year-old before him and shook his head adamantly.

No. I don’t think so. It took me awhile to get it figured out. I fell down. A lot.

As he stood there, I bent down to examine the contraption. It was battered and bent. I thought he had told me it was nearly new. I asked him about the damage.

That’s from all the times I fell down. Again and again. I got back on it every time. Totally worth it. Totally.

With that, my young friend stepped back on the death trap (funny how perception changes) and sped around the lot a time or two more before tossing it back in his truck. Then, waving goodbye to the jealous old man standing in front of his music store, he headed for home.

Did you get that? Totally worth it, he said. Every bruise, every skinned knee, even the sprained shoulder. Worth it.

The Lovely Lady has made it clear that no funds are available for a unicycle, nor will they be—ever. I get it.

Still, there is so much to do—so much to learn.

What a great adventure our Creator has placed before us!

You can keep using your phone book if you want.

I’m moving on ahead.

He’s got more.

Because, this is a very great adventure, and no danger seems to me so great as that of knowing when I get back to Narnia that I left a mystery behind me through fear.
(Reepicheep in Voyage of the Dawn Treader ~ C.S. Lewis ~ 1898-1963)

Do you not know that all the runners in a stadium compete, but only one receives the prize? So run to win.
(1 Corinthians 9:24 ~ NET)

Birds Have Nests

February 8, 2016February 8, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

All I need is a place to lay my head—and my old Martin guitar.

I’ve known of folk like him all my life. Granted, not all of them choose the life they live, as he has. The man speaking is dressed in clothes he obviously purchased from the Goodwill store. He probably even slept in them last night—in his car, it would appear.

He has no family to speak of. No children. No wife. There is no one who depends on him—except himself. He doesn’t want it any other way. He is satisfied with the way things are going.

I stood and thought one day recently, as I said goodbye once again to my footloose friend. What would make a man want to live like that?

I still have no answer.

Most of us want nests—homes to which we can retreat—safe places for our children and spouses. We want warmth and comfort, along with protection and safety. In our homes, we feel all these things.

Mothers-to-be—most of them—feel the nesting instinct. They want to clean and paint, and sometimes to add on a nursery. (Just ask any father-to-be.) Our Creator made them so, building the nesting instinct into their psyche.

In nesting, we find our first fulfillment as a parent. There will be many more satisfying moments in the years to come, but before they arrive, we first have the need to ensure our offspring will be safe. We want them to have the best chance to arrive in one piece to the age at which we can push them out—of the nest—to fly on their own. It is what we are made for.

And still, the question nags at me: Why would someone choose to live without a nest—a home?

As I contemplate the question, a scene wavers on the edge of my consciousness. I push it away. It is not what I want to consider.

The scene will not be ignored. Against my better judgment, in my mind’s eye, I let it play out.

A crowd of people is moving through a dry and dusty landscape. There is a lake nearby, and it is clear that many of the men are carrying their belongings, everything they own, on their backs. One of them doesn’t belong in the scene at all.

A well-dressed man—obviously a learned fellow—he is addressing the leader of the group. He makes the claim, with much bravado, but not much conviction, that he will follow the Teacher wherever He goes.

The Teacher replies, telling the religious man that, unlike the foxes (who have dens) and the birds (who have their nests), he had no place even to lay His head. (Matthew 8:18-20)

I don’t know if the man followed Him or not. but I wonder—I can’t help it—I wonder why there is no place for the Teacher to call home.

How did the Baby—whose mother wrapped Him gently and laid Him in a manger, whose earthly father taught him in the arts of carpentry, whose parents were so concerned about Him wandering off into the temple at the age of twelve—how did He turn into a man who had no place to sleep?

How is it that this Son of God is homeless?

The answer hits me like an avalanche and knocks me down, breathless.

He chose this!

Do you suppose He could not have had the finest palace if He had desired it? Do you think a life of ease was beyond His power?

There was nothing—no power on earth—that could have denied Him any comfort He wanted.

And, just as quickly as that, I have my answer. He chose. He chose to leave the comfort of His home and its protection so He could bring mankind to a place of protection and rest!

His invitation to the people of His day was that they come to Him, as chicks run to the mother hen and shelter under her wings, safe in the nest. (Luke 13:34)

They would not. It didn’t stop Him.

Do you see the picture? He left the nest to bring us to the nest!

It was always about gathering us to safety—always that we might be protected.

Even as He died in our place, the assurance was of a nest being prepared. If I go and prepare a place, I will bring you to safety there. (John 14:3)

He wandered, homeless, so we wouldn’t have to.

Why would we make any other choice? Why would we still wander, homeless?

It is safe in the nest.

I could use that reassurance today. Maybe you could too.

Time for rest.

Nestle down and abide.

Under His wings.

Under His wings, under His wings,
Who from His love can sever?
Under His wings my soul shall abide,
Safely abide forever.
(William Cushing ~American pastor/poet ~ 1823-1902)

It Rubs Off On Us

February 5, 2016February 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Be sure to bring an extra pair of coveralls tomorrow. We’re going to the wheel factory.

The electrician made the suggestion to his apprentice as they parked the service van and headed home for the night. The young man’s heart sank.

Wheel factory? Tomorrow? What a disaster!

He had hoped for a day of residential service calls instead. Those, he liked. They kept your brain active, trying to crack the mystery of where a certain circuit ran, or why the washing machine shocked the owner when she touched it.

He might even get to wait patiently by an outlet, watching a test meter as the electrician flipped breakers and clipped wires, trying to bring a dead circuit to life once again. That was simple, clean work which gave you a good feeling when you left the house with a satisfied customer waving from the doorway.

The wheel factory? There was nothing worse!

I’ll attempt to paint you a picture, shall I?

The factory looked like any other ordinary industrial facility. Stacks of iron wheels and brake drums stood round, strapped to pallets and awaiting their turn to be moved—the finished ones by semi-truck to the distant factories which had ordered them—the unprocessed ones by forklift into the plant nearby. There, they would be machined and drilled to the specifications which the tractor, automobile, and truck designers had determined.

Before the men headed in, our apprentice and his boss pulled on their coveralls and changed shoes. You’ll understand this a little better in a few moments. Walking toward the plant, with a tool belt on his waist and a fiberglass ladder over his shoulder, the full effect of the nightmare which was about to begin was still not clear, and the young apprentice thought, perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.

Ah! But, when the doorway was breached, and the vista of the huge building stretched out before him, the panic struck anew.

The first thing he noticed was the screech of the metal lathes pulsating and rising in pitch as each cut was made. The noise was not only deafening, but to his ears (he liked to think, sensitive musician’s ears) it was horrific, jarring him to the core. The din was almost painful—the perpetual squeal altering and dulling his other senses.

After the initial shock of the noise, he noticed the thick ever-present smog hanging in the air. Blue, oily smoke wafted up from every machine that cut and shaped and drilled, aided by the heat of the process and the liberal use of the viscous fluid to cool the cutting edges. The huge fans at the end of the building dragged the thickening atmosphere across the length of the entire building before pulling it, square foot by sooty square foot, from the building.

He shuddered to think what the air would be like in this horrible place if the fans were not functioning, but still it seemed they only sucked the nasty stuff in never-ending waves across anyone who was between the machines and the giant rotating fan blades. He would soon be breathing in that vile mixture…and the eerie place was only to get worse.

The plant maintenance man saw them come in and motioned them over. They followed him along rows of raw materials and machinery until he stopped beside one mammoth drill press. Pointing to the oily, slimy monster, he shouted over the shriek of the nearby lathes and the high-pitched whine of the drill presses;

“This one! It’s got to be rewired!”

With that, he was gone. As he disappeared into the maze of iron and machines, the apprentice looked down at his own hands. He would swear that he hadn’t touched anything, but they were black with grime already. He coughed with the stench of iron shavings mixed with oil and realized that his nightmare had already begun.

Hours later, when he and the master electrician picked up their tools and ladders and headed out to the blessed quiet and clean air of the world outside, they were both covered from head to toe with the filth. Their coveralls would take several cycles through the wash to come reasonably clean and they couldn’t wear their shoes anywhere until the soles were cleaned with de-greaser and solvents.

The young man coughed up black junk from his chest for hours. The headache would last longer than that.

Is the picture horrible enough for you? Is there a point to this horror story?

You know there is.

What I’d like to be able to do is to draw the parallel between the filthy factory and the dirty places in the world we can get into. We can’t rub shoulders with filthy people without some of it rubbing off on us. The transfer of polluted substances is almost instantaneous.

I’d like to be able to tell you that the moral of the story is that we should stay out of those places. I want to suggest that we should never associate with those dirty people and places.

What a simple solution! To avoid getting dirty, stay away from filthy locations and grimy humans.

I’d like to be able to tell you that, but I would be wrong. For too long though, it is just what we have done.

We don’t drink, smoke, or chew; and we don’t go with girls that do.

Our pride and our arrogance have led us to believe that if we can keep our clothes and our hands clean, nothing more is required of us.

We live upright and impeccable lives and think we have achieved the goal.

We couldn’t be further from the truth.

Several times in my writing, I’ve mentioned the hugs I get from some of those dirty people. My clothes stink until they are washed. A customer who walked in my store immediately after one such episode actually wrinkled up her nose as I waited on her.

Dirty rubs off on us. It sticks and leaves evidence.

The religious leaders in Jesus’ time thought so too, as they accused him of being a drunkard and a sinner. He spent His time with people who needed baths and who needed medicine and who needed a Priest.

The stench sticks to everyone in the vicinity.

Mother Teresa ministered among the diseased and poor of Calcutta, India for decades. I believe the love of Jesus shone through her life. I wonder, do you imagine this little woman smelled good? Do you think she was always spotless and clean? You don’t live and minister in the filth of one of the poorest, dirtiest cities in the world and stay clean and fresh.

Dirty rubs off on us.

Have you been in the vicinity of someone who is dirty recently? I’m including the spiritually dirty, as well as the physically unclean. It’s not necessarily a nice feeling, is it? There was residue left on you—on your person and on your soul—was there not?

Dirty rubs off on us.

But, here’s the other thing we need to know.

When we spend time with, and give of ourselves to, the kinds of people who need our attention—the poor, the lost ones, the souls who are wandering—we infect them too.

This infection, you can’t smell and you can’t see. But we are promised there is a payoff. Promised.

God says that, without fail, His Word achieves its purpose (Isaiah 55:10-11), and also that as we give, we receive. (Luke 6:38)

If we’re stingy and keep what we’ve been blessed with for ourselves, we’ll lose even that. (Luke 19:24)

Like the young electrical apprentice, we may hate the process. It will involve pain, and filth, and discomfort.

We’ll also have the uninhibited joy, as we walk away, of knowing that we’ve accomplished exactly what you went for.

The dirt—the stench—that ringing in our ears? They will go away, but the joy will remain.

Dirty does indeed, rub off on us.

But, the original cleanser still washes whiter than snow.

“Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full–pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap. The amount you give will determine the amount you get back.”
(Luke 6:38~NLT)

“If my baseball uniform doesn’t get dirty, I haven’t done anything in the baseball game.”
(Ricky Henderson~Former Major League Baseball left fielder)

Shaken Together, Running Over

February 4, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

I’ve told the story before. Stop me if you’ve already heard it.

It is the story of a Yankee spinster who left her family behind in Pennsylvania and made her way to the southern hills of Oklahoma and Arkansas, with a detour through Chicago.

I suppose the road to the hills actually was the detour. Chicago was in the master-plan. But, the road should have led from there to China instead of Oklahoma.

Oklahoma and Arkansas are a long way from China. When one is aiming for the Orient, the back roads of the central U.S. might seem like a disappointment.

Failure even.

Perhaps I should just tell the story. I’ll try to keep it short—or not. Probably not.

Miss Peggy was called to be a missionary to China. She just knew it. She even knew what to do about it. In Chicago, a little Bible school called Moody Bible Institute had been started about thirty years before by the great evangelist, Dwight L. Moody. They would give her the training she needed.

She started there. China would be the next stop.

Only it wasn’t.

Political unrest had already begun in that country, with the result being that no mission organization would allow a single woman to go there by herself. She didn’t know what to do. She was called to go to China. Called.

A young man in her class at the Bible Institute heard of her dilemma and asked to meet with her. In that fateful meeting, he explained that he had been called to minister to the rural communities in Northwest Arkansas and Eastern Oklahoma. But, having heard that she was being forced to abandon her plans, he wondered if there might not be another solution.

The mission boards were still sending single men to China. Perhaps, he could go in her place. There was one stipulation though. She would have to take his place in rural Oklahoma and Arkansas.

It wasn’t what she wanted, but it made sense. She agreed and headed for the hills when her classes at the institute were completed. For sixty years, she faithfully taught Bible classes to the children in rural schools throughout the region.

Sixty years. She was allowed to travel to the schools and given a classroom to teach children who wanted to learn Bible verses and listen to her stories. Flannelgraphs were manipulated, and mimeographed papers were handed out to the eager students. The ones who memorized the most Scripture verses were the envy of the other kids, because Miss Peggy awarded them little New Testaments of their very own.

Sixty years, she was faithful to her task. Can you imagine the number of children who heard the Gospel story from her lips. Can you imagine the spiritual legacy?

I said she was faithful for sixty years. And, so she was. But, for every one of those sixty years, she mourned for her beloved China and her calling.

She was called to China!

Because of her great love for the Chinese people, she made an effort to meet and befriend all of the Chinese folks who came within her reach over the years. To that end, she contacted the local university in our little town regularly to inquire of new students from that great country. They were happy to arrange for the sweet old lady to meet the newcomers, whenever there were any.

Sam and his wife had left China under a cloud, his father having been arrested for preaching the gospel in a land where it was forbidden. His father died in prison and there was a fear that Sam might suffer the same fate. So, they came to the United States under a student visa and made their way to this little town of ten thousand and the Christian university here.

Miss Peggy wasn’t long in befriending Sam and his family. When I say befriending, I mean they spent hours together, talking of China and the secret Church, along with many mealtimes spent discussing the Lord they all loved, and His great care for all His children.

By this time, Miss Peggy was nearly blind from the disease of macular degeneration, and had lost much of her hearing. Still, her love for China, and this Chinese family in particular, drove her to ignore any hardships caused by the additional activity.

It would be an understatement of huge proportion to say she was not prepared for what happened one Sunday afternoon after they had shared a meal at Sam’s house.

Somehow, as they sat drinking tea and relaxing, the discussion turned to his family in China and he took out the family Bible, written in Chinese. Reading the names from the front of the big book, he spoke with love and respect of several who had already gone to be with the Lord.

Suddenly, Miss Peggy jumped as if an electrical current had gone through her.

“Stop! Go back and read that again!”

Sam looked up with a quizzical expression, but did as he was bid. Reading the name and Scripture verse the person had inserted into the record on the page, he explained that this American missionary had been instrumental in bringing his father to faith in God and also had encouraged him to enter the ministry. Then he stopped speaking and looked at the little elderly lady again.

The look of shock on Miss Peggy’s face was almost comical. Mouth open and unseeing eyes like saucers, she raised her hands to her face and the tears began to fall.

It was the very man who had traded places with her! The very man. And here, right in front of her, were the products of that transaction.

As the impact of their discovery hit them, there were more folks than the old missionary crying. Imagine! Out of the millions of people in China—out of the multiple countries this family could have fled to—out of the thousands of schools they could have attended—they came to the one place they needed to be.

I can’t imagine a more fulfilling moment in the ninety-four years the dear saint lived on this earth. In that moment, she realized that her life’s ambition, the one thing she had ever desired more than anything else, had been achieved.

She had given it up to take a detour to the backwoods of Oklahoma and Arkansas. Sixty years, she had served faithfully, keeping a bargain she had made under duress. Thousands already, had benefited from her service. Now, in her last days on earth, she realized that her deepest desires had been fulfilled.

She was called to China!

Talk about a pay off!

And the Teacher told His followers, give and you will receive it back—more than your cup can hold—sifted and blended, it will run over into your lap and onto the floor. (Luke 6:38)

Life doesn’t always go the way we’ve planned. Oddly enough, it seldom goes the way we’ve planned.

The road leads to places we never dreamed of.

We walk it anyway.

The years take away our physical strength and abilities. We keep moving ahead.

The pay-off lies up there. Ahead. Beyond the hills, past the valleys, through the flooded streams.

And, after all the toil and hardship, we find that God gives good gifts.

Always.

Even after sixty years of waiting.

Winners never quit and quitters never win.
(Vince Lombardi ~ American football coach ~ 1913-1970)

Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him…Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
(James 1: 12, 17 ~ NIV)

Already Safe

February 3, 2016February 3, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are two black labs in my backyard.

They’re not all that smart.

I would like to believe I’m much more intelligent than they. Some days (or nights), I think I could even prove the point.

Somehow though, that assumption is not always accurate. Oh, it’s not as if they are as intelligent as I; just that I am as ignorant as they are. Yes, I realize it might be a fine line, but there is a difference. I think. Or is it, I hope?

It was a dark and stormy night—no, really—a dark and stormy night. I was heading to bed after a frustrating non-writing session at the computer when I noticed a noise from the backyard.

The two large dogs, brother and sister, were out in the gale, staring up into the huge mulberry tree. I’ve seen that stance before. They have chased a critter up the tree.

This could take awhile.

There are a few things you should know about this situation. The first is these dogs are stubborn—tenacious—adamant, even.

Bull-headed, the red haired lady who raised me would call it.

I shone my light into the branches of the tree and found the object of their attentiveness. The critter was hiding his face, but as I moved around the storage building in my way, I was rewarded with a glance at his black robber’s mask.

The black monsters had treed a raccoon. The little fellow was lodged in the fork of the branch. He wasn’t budging.

Down on the ground, the black beasts weren’t going anywhere, either.

Stalemate.

This didn’t look encouraging.

I asked myself a couple of questions:

The dogs have a really nice, heated dog house in which to pass cold windy nights. Do you suppose they might just get cold and retire to their comfy home?

The trunk of the tree up which the raccoon had clambered is actually outside the fenced yard in which the big black dogs run. Is it possible he would just shinny down the rough bole and scamper across the ground to his lair?

Neither was likely. I did the only thing that made any sense.

I locked the dogs in the storage building. There is a carpet on the floor, laid there for just such eventualities, and I had the foresight to put their water bowl in with them—in case they had worked up a thirst in the commotion.

I locked them in and went to bed. Slept like a baby.

Very early in the morning, I did go outside again. Just for a few seconds. I shone the flashlight up into the tree to be sure, but I knew what I would find. There was no raccoon to be seen.

I opened the door to the storage building. My two best friends lay side by side on the carpet, asleep. It took them a moment to realize I was at the door, but they slowly got to their feet and stretching, ambled outside. It was as if none of the frenetic activity in the wee hours of the morning had happened at all.

As if nothing had happened.

They slept as well as I did. Five feet above the roof of the building in which they slept, the raccoon was lodged in the crook of the tree branch. Yet, they slept as if the critter were ten miles away.

As for the raccoon, his situation was not much different either. Ten feet below him, the great hunters were as close as they had ever been. Maybe closer.

When he could see them, he wasn’t budging. Not an inch. I didn’t stay out to watch, but I don’t imagine it was long after the door closed on the shed that he began his trek down to safety.

May I point out something? It may come as a surprise to you, but the raccoon was never in any danger.

Never.

Dogs don’t climb trees. Can’t. Won’t. They weren’t coming up to get him. So, the little fella just waited. Once they were gone, he would move, but not one second before.

But, he could have left the tree at any time he wanted! The tree in which he cowered was planted in a safe place. He never had to cower. Not one moment.

He was always safe.

I wonder. How many days—weeks—years have we cowered here when all we needed to do was walk to freedom?

While we eye the terrifying circumstances circling around us, safety lies as close as a few steps in the right direction.

But first, we have to tear our eyes away from the dreadful creatures below.

Perhaps, we have the need for a loving Creator to make the creatures get out of our sight. But, I’m not sure He needs to make them go away—not even sure if He will make them go away while we live in this world.

What if all that is necessary is for us to see that safety is already ours?

The prophet Elisha’s servant certainly needed that. It was one of my favorite stories in Sunday School many years ago. It still is. The servant rose up early in the morning and saw a terrifying enemy surrounding them. It was all he could see. Chariots and soldiers. Spears and clubs. Arrows and swords. Just imagine the terror. Imagine.

Surely, the prophet could have prayed for escape. A chariot from heaven perhaps? He had seen that chariot before. But no—he prayed that his servant would be able to see. That’s it. Open his eyes, Lord. He needs to see. (2 Kings 6:15-17)

Personally, I still find it hard to say the words. I want the easy escape. I want the miracle rescue.

Open my eyes.

Do the miracles come? They do. But, why pray for a miracle when He’s already made the way?

Sometimes the snarling savage beasts below just close their eyes and go to sleep.

Sometimes, we just need to get up and walk right out of the prison we’ve made for ourselves.

Open our eyes, Lord. We need to see.

You. We need to see You.

Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.
(from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author/educator ~ 1898-1963)

For I am the Lord your God
who takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do not fear;
I will help you.
(Isaiah 41:13 ~ NIV)

Got the Tee Shirt

February 1, 2016February 1, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The man was honest. You’ve got to give him that. Come to think of it, it was really his tee-shirt that was honest.

He started talking almost as he walked in the front door.

“I’m looking for a job. Are you hiring?”

I was pretty blunt with him. We are a Mom and Pop store in the truest sense of the term. The Lovely Lady and I, with the help of my sister, run the business.

We’re not hiring.

I wouldn’t have hired him anyway. One look at what he was wearing, and anyone considering him for a job would have made the same determination. It would be nice if all decisions were that easy.

Honesty. What a concept!

The man’s tee shirt had the words emblazoned across his chest in all caps.

I”M REALLY LAZY.

There were other words printed below. I’m sure they were supposed to be funny, but all I could see were those three.

I’m really lazy. Talk about truth in advertising!

The mind jumps immediately to the possibilities for this type of labeling.

I gamble compulsively. Casinos could avoid a world of problems.

I’m a mean drunk. Bartenders would know when to shut off the flow of liquor.

And, just like that I’m seeing a new line of clothing for the Sunday morning wardrobe.

I’m a horrible gossip—I can’t control my appetite—I curse like a sailor—I’m addicted to Internet pornography—I’m full of pride.

The potential for this is fantastic!

James said we should confess our sins to each other. (James 5:16) We’re not doing so well at that anyway. This could really change our Sunday morning services.

As my imagination runs wild, I suddenly recall another fellow who came into the music store that very same day. Not more than an hour after the hapless young job seeker walked out my door, the next victim of my labeling system walked in.

The elderly lady and I were just completing our transaction when the door was pushed open. She had asked for an old Southern Gospel song and we found it in a songbook. I was giving her the change from her purchase and nodded to the fellow in my best I’ll-be-with-you-in-a-minute manner.

The young man was easy for me to read—nearly as easy as the lady had been. In his twenties, the Hispanic man was wearing a cap with the bill flattened and turned at a slight angle. He returned my nod with an abrupt one of his own and began to look at the guitars.

We wouldn’t have anything to talk about. This one would want sound equipment for his band, equipment I was sure not to have. He wouldn’t hang around long.

There was no tee shirt, but the label I saw read, We have nothing in common.

Just as the lady put her hand on the knob to exit, the young man called out to her.

“Are you in a hurry, Ma’am?”

When she answered that she wasn’t, he turned to me and asked another question.

“Do you mind if we worship the Lord together for a minute?”

We have nothing in common. Really? Boy, did I misread that label!

We prayed together and then we sang, his tone clear and strong, mine somewhat less clear. It could have been the tears that came as I tried to sing harmony to his pure melody.

It wasn’t only the song that brought tears.

This is the air I breathe—Your Holy presence, living in me.

I repent.

Labels would never work. They never have. I’m not that good at judging character.

We’re not that good at judging character.

Besides that, the labels that fit yesterday may not be appropriate tomorrow.

I found a phrase in my notes the other day. I like to jot down thoughts as they come to me. I might be able to make sense of them some day. Today this one makes sense to me.

“Knowing a man’s past doesn’t make you privy to his future.”

People change. Not on their own. On our own, it is impossible to be anyone but who we are and have been. But, God reminds us that He still makes new. Somehow, His creation isn’t complete yet. He changes the labels.

He changes the labels.

The Apostle who loved to write letters ran through a list of horrendous labels, the worst you could imagine, applying them to his readers in the past tense.

Such were some of you. But God gave you different labels.

Okay—so he didn’t word it quite like that, but if you’ll read it for yourself, I promise it’s almost the same. (1 Corinthians 6:9-11)

The elderly lady and the young man are part of the same family.

Me too.

I kind of like not having to wear the tee shirt. It doesn’t mean we don’t need to share our struggles with each other. But, they don’t describe who we are anymore.

We have a new label. I’m pretty sure He’d like for us to treat each other as if it was true of every person in His family.

Because it is. Always.

I’ll wear this tee shirt. One word emblazoned across the chest in all caps.

One word.

FORGIVEN.

Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come.
(2 Corinthians 5:17 ~ NASB)

This is the air I breathe,
This is the air I breathe,
Your holy presence living in me.

This is my daily bread,
This is my daily bread,
Your very word spoken to me.

And I—I’m desperate for you;
And I—I’m lost without you.
(from Breathe ~ Marie Barnett ~ American songwriter)

A Little Off

January 29, 2016January 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

It’s a job I do almost every day. You’d think I know what I’m doing. Most folks would.

Alongside the Lovely Lady, I’ve spent most of my life in this little music store. Folks bring in instruments almost daily for me to repair. The most common request I get is to replace the strings on guitars.

Six strings. Take the old grungy ones off—replace them with shiny new ones. It’s an easy job—one I could do in my sleep. Or, so I have thought.

Today, as I finished up one such job, I learned that familiarity is not the same as expertise. One implies comfort, the other, attentiveness.

The old, rust-covered wires had all been removed, the fingerboard cleaned and oiled, and the bright, bronze-colored strings put into place. All that remained was to tune the guitar, a part of the job I pride myself on.

I’m good at this part! Bringing the slack strings up to tension, I can almost always tune them to pitch, without a tuning aid of any sort, within a quarter-step of standard. Then, with the tuning fork, completion of the job is a cinch, my sensitive ear enabling me to complete the job easily.

Do you note just the tiniest hint of pride in that last paragraph? Perhaps there is more than a hint. Funny. I hear the words clearly—in retrospect, that is—which a wise man spoke many centuries ago. Pride goes before a fall. (Proverbs 16:18)

I had completed the initial rough tuning and, with an electronic device attached to the headstock of the guitar, attempted to complete the job. Note I said attempted.

The results were somewhat less than stellar.

The first string settled into tune easily. Likewise, the second. When I got to the third string though—that’s when the problem began. Perhaps it was before; I don’t really know.

I must have been distracted. Or maybe, tired. It doesn’t matter.

I plucked the third string to listen to the pitch as I increased the tension. Twisting on the knob, I waited to hear a change in the sound. All that happened is it got really hard to turn the knob.

I kept twisting, wondering as I did if the gear inside was damaged. Suddenly, there was a loud BANG! and the knob became quite easy to turn. The other thing that happened was the immediate stinging sensation on the back of my hand as the tip of the broken string hit it.

Drops of blood rose to the surface immediately and I put the back of my hand up to my mouth to draw away the blood and soothe the sting.

There was nothing to soothe the sting to my pride, though. It was an amateur’s mistake. The fingers on one hand had plucked the third string repeatedly, awaiting change, while the fingers on the other hand twisted the knob for the second string.

There is only a space of about one third of an inch between the strings. One third of an inch.

Such a small distance. Such a disastrous result.

Perhaps this is the place I should end this little morality tale. I should talk about our sinful nature and how close we come to doing what is right. I could even suggest that the slightest deviation from the right path will lead to destruction. If we keep all the law, but err in one point, we are doomed. (James 2:10)

I don’t want to end the story there—mostly because that’s not where it ends. I didn’t leave the broken string on the guitar. I didn’t carry the offensive thing into my back room to await an ignominious fate in the distant future.

When the customer arrived to retrieve his fine instrument moments later, he picked up a perfectly beautiful (and in-tune) guitar. He ran his fingers across the strings and mused at the astounding depth of tone and beauty.

Every time, Paul—every time—I am amazed at the difference when the strings are changed!

With that, he was gone. The stunning instrument will be played on a stage this weekend. The audience will marvel.

Did you really think the story would end because one idiot got a third of an inch off? I suppose some could write that story. Not I.

I’m a believer in grace. Second chances. Broken strings which are replaced with new ones—and then replaced again—and again.

And again.

So, I’m a little off.

That is true for any human who can read these words.

Pain ensues. Blood flows.

Grace happens.

The music is still not finished.

The Master Musician is making a masterpiece, a work of art.

Grace.

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.
(Ephesians 2:8-10 ~ NIV)

Recreation

January 26, 2016January 26, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Normal for me isn’t normal for everyone.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did.

An old friend had dropped by the music store. Just to buy some strings and shoot the breeze. His words—not mine..

I wonder at how cavalierly we describe God’s appointments. We come and go by choice—so we think—and, in our arrogance we discount the value of interactions with our fellow-travelers.

Some of them are life-changing. All are opportunities for learning, scheduled in His timetable.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

I told my friend of the salt shaker. It was simply a recounting of an ordinary Sunday dinner, with a mention of the addition of that seventy-year-old relic to our table. I never intended it to be more than a memory from my childhood of sitting at a table, much like the one at which I sit every Sunday after spending the morning with some of the finest people I know.

It is the reality I have known for all of my life. Oh, the cast has changed, the faces around the table much younger now in comparison to mine, but nothing much has changed otherwise.

It’s just Sunday dinner with family and friends—God’s chosen recreation for a Lord’s Day afternoon. How could it be otherwise?

I sit in the dim light as I write this and I cringe, my face fallen. The arrogance! The presumption!

God’s chosen recreation? Really?

My old friend listened to my retelling of the joyful occasion with a smile spread across his countenance. Finally, he spoke.

We never did that. I don’t ever remember sitting around the table with my family when I was a kid. It still almost never happens.

The story unfolded. As my friend spoke, I could see the emotions in his eyes, but the smile never left his face. He has learned to be thankful. I’m not sure I could.

It was a story of a childhood spent knowing neither parent cared enough to be there for him and his siblings. The telling of the story involved a father who abandoned them outright and a mother who dealt them out to friends and relatives, like so many belongings she didn’t need anymore.

He was raised by his mother’s boss. Not even a family member. Seeing his siblings only sporadically in his childhood, there were never any opportunities for family dinners. He was thankful for the occasional contact with them at all.

I said there was a smile on his face as he spoke. I’m sure there was none on mine. How could there be?

Such a sad childhood. Surely no good could come of that. The story would continue in addiction and broken relationships. Perhaps, even a stay in prison would round out the sad history.

Not so. Today, normal for my friend is a healthy relationship with the woman he has been married to for many years. Time spent with children and grandchildren are his routine now. He makes music with others in his church fellowship every week and then teaches a Bible study.

All without Sunday dinners. Among other things.

I am confused. No, not really confused.

I am sad for the loving family my friend missed out on as a child. Every child should have the shelter of his or her father’s strong arms to protect and the warm embrace of a mother to comfort and console. It doesn’t always happen.

Did I say I was sad? I admit it; I grieve for all who have hard times, whether children or adult.

That said, I am filled with joy that, in spite of the difficult road he has negotiated to get here, my friend is now a fellow traveler with me and many others. I marvel at the thought.

We are not all drawn from the same material. Somehow though, we have been woven into the same cloth.

The fabric of our lives is stronger for the weaving together.

I love the discipline of tradition, comfort like that of a well-worn pair of shoes, and the reassurance of routine. That doesn’t mean it is what every person needs—or receives—in this life.

The realization that my friend has had none of those and is able to live a life of integrity—and joy—is humbling and eye-opening at the same time.

My life is richer for having him (and many like him) in it.

Perhaps it’s time to recognize God’s recreation is not exactly as we would prescribe it.

God’s chosen recreation is that we spend time communicating and sharing His love with people. Family. Strangers. Enemies. Old friends.

Does it happen at the Sunday dinner table? Sure, it does. It also happens around campfires in the woods and leaning against the car at the local Sonic restaurant.

God’s chosen recreation isn’t what we say it is, but what He says it is. (Isaiah 55:9)

His classroom isn’t in the education wing of your church, but in music stores, and parks, and bars. Yes, I said bars.

His appointments. Scheduled when He determines.

I’m still learning to recognize them.

As He chooses, He is making one Body out of many parts. In many ways, we are as dissimilar as it is possible to be. (1 Corinthians 12:12)

But the companionship we share as we are being made into who He needs us to be is pure joy. (Romans 12:10)

Heaven won’t be much better. Okay, a little better.

Still. A taste.

His recreation.

It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn’t use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like “What about lunch?”
(Winnie-the-Pooh ~ A.A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

There’s not a word yet, for old friends who’ve just met.
(Jim Henson ~ American puppeteer/screenwriter ~ 1936-1990)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips