Storm Line

September 22, 2015September 27, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Autumn approaches like a storm line on the western horizon.

I am not happy.

The Lovely Lady and I headed for church early the other morning about sun-up. The lightly overcast sky above reflected the glow of the sun behind us as we headed west. But directly ahead, we saw the line of heavy clouds stretched from our southernmost perspective all the way to the far northern horizon.

Without the need to consult a meteorologist or even to check with the weather app on my smarter-than-me-phone, I knew instantly that we would see rain in the near future. It was inevitable. Weather fronts here usually move from the west to the east. We were east of the front.

We were going to get wet. We did.

The calendar tells me the first day of Autumn is tomorrow. Just as certainly as that rain storm blew through on Sunday, the new season is going to arrive.

You don’t have to take my word for it. His Word is clear. Unassailably so. As long as the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat. . .shall not end. (Genesis 8:22 ~ NASB)

I don’t love Fall. Oh, the trees are spectacular. Absolutely spectacular. The scarlet maple in the backyard will be so vivid that its brilliance will actually light the upper floor inside my house. Orange, yellow, and purple hues will all combine to provide a palette that no artist can match, try though he might.

A lady who has known me all my years on this planet suggested to me today that the coming season will be wonderful. As I always did with my siblings when we were children, I quickly tossed a pail of cold water all over the flame of my sister’s enthusiasm.

“It’s just a bunch of trees dying to get ready for winter.”

She quickly toweled herself off and alluded to the spectacular views which will be visible within weeks. Reminding me that God made the cycle of seasons, she reprimanded me for my melancholy perspective. It was almost as if we were ten and five years old, instead of nearly sixty and something over that.

And, as I always had back then, I ignored her words, continuing on with my bellyaching.

I consider myself a realist. When I read the children’s books like Winnie the Pooh and Chronicles of Narnia, I don’t understand why people always disrespect Eeyore and Puddleglum.

Eeyore, you’ll be familiar with from the Disney movies. Gloomy, introverted, cartoon donkey that he is, you may be forgiven for taking him lightly.

Puddleglum, on the other hand—Puddleglum you have to consider a realist and a solid character.

Who is Puddleglum, you ask? Mr. Lewis tells us that he is a marsh-wiggle, inhabiting the swamps and living on a diet of stewed eels.

He says thoughtful things like, “The bright side of it is that if we break our necks getting down the cliff, then we’re safe from being drowned in the river.”

What? You’re laughing, aren’t you?

While Puddleglum may also be a humorous caricature, I’m not laughing inside.

I have spent a lifetime developing character traits which are not all that unlike those of the two famous pessimists mentioned above.

New ideas are met with an instant declaration of all the reasons why they cannot be implemented.

Success of newly launched ventures elicits vague warnings of impending failure, just wait and see.

Past experience is the measure by which all changes are considered. Failures will lead to failures; successes to successes. As they always have.

You know I was sick a good part of last winter, don’t you? It is certain to be the case again this coming winter.

You understand also that I have grown to dislike even the cold temperatures of that barren season?

With passionate disdain, I do not want to move away from the warmth of the fireplace while the wind blows and the ice coats the roads. Not even to fly down the hillside on a sled or atop an inner-tube, will I leave my toasty perch.

For many years, I have been adamant in my condemnation of the intermediate season of preparation. Autumn is prelude to Winter. I will love neither.

But, as I sit and meditate on the words I have uttered again and again, to whomever will give ear, I begin to grow uncomfortable.

There is a difference between being a realist and being ungracious.

Speaking truth is important, but without proper perspective, it simply becomes selfishness. Rude thoughtlessness begets animosity.

You can only throw cold water on your sister so many times before she becomes discouraged and disheartened herself.

The approach of Autumn is inevitable. Winter will follow it. It will. Those facts cannot be changed, as long as we’re living on this spinning orb.

It is possible, however, that I will not spend weeks fighting infection in my body. Steps may be taken to avoid that. It is not certain that ice will damage the shingles near the edge of the roof over my kitchen, nor that pipes in the wall will freeze.

Those things, and things of more import, can change.

Funny. My heart can also be changed. It’s a bigger task than I can undertake. I can work on the physical inconveniences of the season to come. Our Maker is the only One who changes hearts.

The only One.

Our Maker is the only One who changes hearts. The only One. Share on X

He has done it from the beginning of time. Just as certain as His sustenance of the changing seasons and natural laws set in motion at creation is the desire on His part to change our hearts, if we will allow it. He will not force the change on us.

Winter will come. That won’t change. It doesn’t have to rule in our very being.

I’m ready for a new thing.

He does new things.

I still like Puddleglum. But he could be wrong. This time.

He’ll want to have the leg off at the knee, I shouldn’t wonder. You see if he doesn’t.

Yep. He could be wrong.

I'm ready for a new thing. He does new things. Share on X

Do not call to mind the former things,
Or ponder things of the past.
Behold, I will do something new,
Now it will spring forth;
Will you not be aware of it?
I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
Rivers in the desert.
(Isaiah 43:18,19 ~ NASB)

“Good morning, Pooh Bear,” said Eeyore gloomily. “If it is a good morning,” he said. “Which I doubt,” said he.
(from Winnie the Pooh ~ A.A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

Dragon Gold

September 21, 2015September 21, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Who steals my purse steals trash.

The high school kid smiled wryly at us for just a second as we moved closer to his checkout stand. Then he turned his attention back to the young lady beside the register. He had just scanned four tubes of a popular health & beauty product for her.

“That will be twenty-one dollars and seventy-six cents, Ma’am.”

Silently, the lady reached into her wallet and took out a coupon. Beep! He scanned the bar code into the machine. The total was instantly three dollars lower.

He turned to her to tell her the new amount, but all she did was pull another coupon from her wallet. Each time he completed the scan on one, she pulled out another, until there were five coupons on the counter. He dutifully scanned each one in. With the fifth piece of paper though, the machine let out a raucous screech, instead of the cutesy beeping sound we were becoming accustomed to.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. You can’t use that coupon since you already used the others.”

She was incredulous. Handing the printed coupon back to him, she insisted he try it again. He obliged, but the machine screeched one more time. The young man tried patiently to explain that she couldn’t use a coupon on an item for which she had already presented a coupon.

Now, she wasn’t just incredulous; she was miffed. She snatched the offending coupon up off the counter and stuffed it into her wallet. Quickly paying the nine dollar total (for twenty-one dollars worth of product), she strode off in a huff, her husband trailing behind.

When we completed our own transaction with the poor young man, the Lovely Lady and I headed for the exit, only to run across the lady and her husband standing near the door still. She was pointing to the receipt in her hand and gesturing angrily back toward the cash register. It seemed the young clerk wasn’t quite finished with the interchange. We didn’t hang around to see the conclusion.

People are passionate about money, aren’t they?

Did you read the quote which opened this article? It’s from a play by William Shakespeare, entitled Othello. Mr. Shakespeare is actually trying to bolster up an argument about the value of a good name. But, in doing that, he gives a fairly accurate description of the value of money.

Trash. He calls it trash.

Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;
‘Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands. . .

The Bard of Avon wasn’t the first to come to this conclusion. He put it differently than King Solomon, many centuries before him, did. A little differently.

Whoever loves money never has enough;
whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with their income.
This too is meaningless.
(Ecclesiastes 5:10 ~ NIV)

Trash. Meaningless.

Jesus walked among the wealthy and the poor. He enjoyed the plenty of food and fellowship as well as knowing the poverty of homelessness. He also used the word slave in relationship to money. But unlike Mr. Shakespeare many centuries later, Jesus didn’t refer to money as the slave.

No. He said that we are slaves to it. Or to God. (Matthew 6:24 ~ NIV)

We choose. But, servants we will be.

If you’re like me, you will immediately state the obvious:

I want to be the servant of God. I will never serve money.

But again, if you’re like me, the resolve lasts as long as it takes to encounter someone who tries to take advantage of you.

Did you pay attention to the lady in the story above? Some of us read her plight with a sympathetic spirit. That greedy corporation! What would a few dollars mean to them? Why would they cheat her like that?

If we stop and contemplate for a moment, however, the truth begins to dawn. The company was selling the product for a fair market price. The company issued the coupons which reduced that price by more than half.

The discount was a gift to her! A gift from the very company of whom she demanded more.

How like her we are. Every single thing we have—every possession, every dollar, every benefit—each one is a gift from a loving and benevolent Heavenly Father. Every good gift comes down from Him. (James 1:17 ~ NIV)

Every good gift.

Somehow though, the good gifts He gives become, in our minds, our right—our birthright if you will—and we desire more. In Solomon’s words above, we are never satisfied.

But, like dragon’s gold, we lie on our hoarded wealth and become greedy, selfish dragons ourselves. I can’t help but see that selfish, hateful boy—from C.S. Lewis’s Voyage of the Dawn Treader—Eustace Scrubb, in my mind as I consider our plight.

The self-centered boy wandered away from his traveling companions and found the treasure trove of a dragon which had just died. Crawling up on the stack of gold and jewels, he fell asleep.

A funny thing happens to the boy while he sleeps on his astounding find, perhaps not unlike the transformation we go through as we hold our earthly treasure close.

Here are Mr. Lewis’s words: Sleeping on a dragon’s hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart, he has become a dragon himself.

I wonder if I’ve already said too much. Perhaps I’ve stood on this soap box longer than I should tonight.

But, after all, I know what is in my heart. It’s not a pretty sight. I also know the conversations I’ve read and heard recently—conversations which convince me that what is in my heart is not exclusive to only me.

It may be time for the Lion to do His work in removing the dragon scales from around my heart. They’ve been growing for awhile. It will likely take some doing.

It might be a little painful, as well.

But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him?
(I John 3:17 ~ NASB)

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.
(from The Hobbit by J.R.R Tolkien ~ English author/educator ~ 1892-1973)

Can You See Jesus?

September 18, 2015September 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Someday your heart will be asking, What will He do with me?

I grew up singing those words, the closing of a song entitled, What Will You Do With Jesus? I hadn’t thought about the song for a few decades.

A Catholic priest brought it to mind again today. I wish I could remember his name. I saw his words in print for a few seconds. The words are burned into my brain; his name, unfortunately, is not.

When you look at the refugees, can you see Jesus?

The news and social media have been full of the stories for the last few weeks. Refugees from the ethnic and religious purging in Syria have been displaced into surrounding Middle Eastern countries, a process which began almost four years ago. Now, they are pouring into Europe by the hundreds of thousands. There seems to be no end in sight for the crisis.

Over the last few days, I have seen many individuals claiming that it is our national responsibility to take in a large number of these refugees. The argument is that as Christians, we must do our part.

What would Jesus do?

I won’t argue with them. Time will tell what is to be done there.

I have bigger problems.

Or possibly, smaller ones.

I don’t want to talk about the millions of refugees. I don’t want to discuss the millions of babies being slaughtered by abortion. I don’t want to argue about which ethnic or civil group’s lives matter.

You think me cold? Insensitive?

I’m not.

It’s important to tackle the larger issues facing us as a nation—as a world—as people of faith. The problem is that, too often, our participation in that discussion is a cop-out.

You see, for most of us it’s just that—a discussion.

We talk. We get angry. We get self-righteous.

But, we never get dirty. Our hands never once touch the people who need a human touch. All we want to do is to make our point and win the debate.

And, when the government agencies have done their part, when the monies designated to give relief are delivered, when the temporary housing has been fabricated, we will breath a sign of relief and, with one last self-righteous toss of our heads, we’ll turn again to our clean, sterile lives.

We talk a good game, don’t we?

After all, that’s what the Teacher commended His good servants for, wasn’t it?

I was naked, and you gave money to UNICEF. I was sick and you checked to see where Doctors Without Borders were docking next. I was in prison and you signed petitions to the government for my release.

What? You don’t like my paraphrase?

Millions of refugees in the Middle East? Easy-peasy!

African-American brothers and sisters seeking justice in urban areas? You have my full support!

I read the words I have written and realize it seems as if I think we should abandon our concern for a world in need. I don’t.

I don’t!

But, what I know—know beyond any argument—is that we have been given tasks which require our hands to get dirty. When we finish the task we’ve been assigned, we will stink.

We don’t get to stand, like some politician who has just blinded the opposition with his brilliant rhetoric, clasping our hands above our heads in victory.

We get to stand, dejected in the rain as the ambulance pulls away, because the drug addict we tried to help just overdosed and lost her battle with the demons inside—and outside—her.

We get to sit on the edge of our elderly neighbor’s front porch, sweaty and exhausted, and look over the neatly trimmed landscape we’ve just finished mowing. After we had already done our own lawn.

We get to spend our Sunday afternoon with that young lady who has a black eye, finding a shelter for her and helping to fill out police reports.

We get to stand with an arm around the drunk man in the emergency room waiting area as, down the hall, his wife fights for her life after a failed suicide attempt.

The opportunities will never end. The people who need our touch—our touch, not our words—will stretch out from here to the end of our lives.

Because every single one of them looks like Jesus to us. Every single one of them.

The priest had the right idea.

And the Teacher said, “If you’ve done it to the least of these, you’ve done it to me.

The words still echo in my head. Forty years since I last sang them, and certainly with a different perspective, they still echo.

What will you do with Jesus?

Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing? When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’
(Matthew 25:37-40 ~ NLT)

Jesus is standing in Pilate’s hall,
Friendless, forsaken, betrayed by all;
Hearken! what meaneth the sudden call?
What will you do with Jesus?

What will you do with Jesus?
Neutral you cannot be;
Someday your heart will be asking,
“What will He do with me?”
(A B Simpson ~ Canadian theologian ~ 1843-1919)

Bars Made of String

September 16, 2015September 16, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was busy when he left the guitar.

“Give me a few weeks. I’ll see if I can figure out what’s causing that vibration.”

He nodded, but he was frowning gloomily. “It’s going to be bad. Probably a loose brace.”

The gloomy clouds didn’t follow him out the door as I hoped they would, but simply hung in the air over that guitar case. Or, so it seemed to me.

My few weeks passed. Then a few more went by. Every time I walked past the instruments waiting to be repaired, I could feel the gloom.

What if it’s a loose brace?

I shrugged off the gloom and continued on to other tasks. Again and again, I ignored the guitar case sitting there.

I didn’t open the case once. Not once.

He came in last week. “It’s been over two months. Have you fixed my guitar?”

The gloomy clouds came to hang over my own head—the one I was shaking in embarrassment.

“Sorry. Give me another week.”

Out the door he went again. I turned back to my work, worrying still.

What if it’s a loose brace? It might even be broken.

The week has passed. He called today. The instrument must be ready to pick up tomorrow. Tomorrow!

Tonight, the guitar lies on my work bench. Dreading what I will find, I reach down to loosen the strings. I can’t work inside the instrument until I get room to put my hands through the sound hole.

Like bars of steel, the strings guard the entrance. Perhaps I should just leave them alone.

What if it’s a loose brace?

Then a new thought strikes me. What if it’s not?

What if it’s something really simple? Easy to fix?

By now, I have loosened up the strings and, like a caged strong man in the movies, have spread them apart, bending them like—well—like string. I insert my mirror and, shining a light on it, begin my inspection.

Two months, I’ve waited. And worried.

Five minutes—no, less than that—three minutes later, I have found the problem. A broken string, fallen into the body of the guitar, has been trapped by the magnetic force of the electric pickup. Trapped against the sound board which magnifies every sound ten-fold.

The tiny buzz-buzz-buzz of the metallic string against the spruce sounded for all the world like a disastrous structural failure.

I whisk away the one-inch piece of bronze and stainless steel, breathing a sigh of relief as I do. Pulling my tools and my hand from the dungeon of my almost-failure, I let the bars—I mean, strings—spring back into place and I re-tune them.

Sitting on a nearby stool, I run my fingers over the strings, hitting a few familiar chords. What an astounding result! The tones radiating from the soundboard of the instrument are perfection itself.

Perfection. And, I waited over two months to experience it.

Afraid.

What if?

Two months—wasted.

All of my life, I have worried about what is behind those doors I have never passed through. All of my life.

Twelve years old. I was with my family in southern Kansas visiting my great-aunt and uncle. They had a farm in the gently rolling hills near the place my mother had grown up.

Uncle Paul was old, but he hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be a kid. While the old folks were visiting, he warned us to beware of snakes and sent us out to explore anywhere we wanted to wander.

That was how we came to be standing in front of the doorway into the hillside. Anywhere we wanted, he had said. This door looked interesting. And scary.

“What if there are snakes?” The shaky voice was mine.

My oldest brother laughed. “What if there aren’t?”

His optimism notwithstanding, he was holding a stick in his hand as he pulled the door open. We stayed well behind him, but eventually, we all trooped through the open entrance to the vegetable cellar. It was not much more than a hollow in the side of the hill, excavated here and there to make room for shelves, upon which sat the bounty of my old relatives’ garden. It would feed them through the winter.

There were no snakes.

I would never have known that on my own. The door would have remained closed. Funny. Nearly fifty years on, I’m still afraid to open doors.

What’s behind the door in front of you right now? Why aren’t you turning the knob instead of standing there, petrified?

If God brought you to the door, there is nothing behind it that has any power to harm you.

He has given us the key to open every lock and will make provision for every obstacle we meet, once inside. Just a note of warning—if you have to slip the lock with your credit card, He didn’t want you in there. Some doors were never intended for us to open.

Too many times though, I have stood in front of a door to which He has given access and failed to go through it. What if I fail?

We fail because we fear to try.

Many more times than we meet insurmountable obstacles, we simply don’t attempt the deed at all.

Open the door!

Go through it!

You might still want to carry that stick.

I will keep you and will make you…to open eyes that are blind,
to free captives from prison and to release from the dungeon those who sit in darkness.
(Isaiah 42: 6,7 ~ NIV)

There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky;
And you ask, “What if I fall?”
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly?
(Erin Hanson ~ Australian poet)

One Clear Call

September 14, 2015September 14, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I’m looking for Ivanhoe by Egghead. I know you’ve got it, Mark!”

The rag-tag children were scattered around the old scarred-up dining room table. There was a huge bowl, now nearly empty, on the wood surface between them. The smell of popcorn hung in the air, but there was nothing to be seen in the bottom of the bowl, except old-maids—the unpopped kernels—and none of the kids wanted to try chewing on them.

The scruffy boy who had spoken held a number of dog-eared cards in his hand, as did all the children. Their father had an unqualified contempt for gambling games, so the family didn’t own a deck of standard playing cards—the type with suits and numbers, along with royalty designations.

No. They were playing Authors, already an old game, even in the 1960s. With cards bearing pictures of classic authors and a list of four of their most famous works, each player would struggle to remember who had called for which author and work, and then attempt to amass complete sets of all the cards bearing that particular author’s writings.

I was the scruffy boy calling for Egghead’s Ivanhoe. Well, the author’s name was really Sir Walter Scott, but his depiction on the card looked for all the world like the shape of an egg. The man shall, unfortunately, forever remain so in my brain.

I hadn’t thought about the game for many a year, although the names of those classic works have come up in my collection of books and in my reading list numerous times in my adult life. Yet, tonight, as I sat at my desk and thumbed through a book of English poems (copyright 1902), my eye fell on the poem entitled, Crossing the Bar by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

You guessed it. Another of the denizens of that old card game.

You’ll find the poem below.

Funny. Life back then was full of teasing and laughter. Our poetry consisted of John and Debbie sitting in a tree; K-I-S-S-I-N-G, and the like.

We had no idea that the classic works, whose names we memorized simply for the sake of winning a game, consisted of deep, thought-provoking material which spoke of death and of meeting God. Unbeknownst to us, in the works inventoried on that tattered card stock, there were monsters, Muslims, and ragamuffin boys traveling the Mississippi, along with many other wonders.

I have read many of those works over the years, loving some, disappointed in others.

But tonight—tonight—I read the poem.

Tonight, I am remembering people who were part of my life back then, folks who have already crossed the bar. People who have seen their Pilot face to face.

It is a long list—a list growing longer all the time.

Lord Tennyson expressed his desire to choose how he would depart this world. We don’t get to do that. I’m not sure we really would want that anyway.

I know by long experience that my timing stinks. I leap when I should wait, and stand still when I should fly.

But, my Pilot knows exactly when to embark. And, precisely where to steer the ship. I can’t see Him, but I know He is there at the rudder, just as surely as I know my own name.

Come to think of it, even if I forget my own name, He will still be there.

Even if I forget my own name, He will still be there. Share on X

Earlier this year, my cousin passed away suddenly. There was no warning; there were no days of preparation for the journey. Just a call for her from the other side of the bar.

Just like that, she was gone.

Others I love have taken years to complete their time here—years of suffering—years of moaning as the long days and nights dragged on.

My experience is not unique. All suffer the losses. All look forward to the day themselves.

For all the sorrow and sadness, for all the emptiness and loss, we have a promise—we who are believers.

I’m going to get the house ready for you. I wouldn’t make the promise if I didn’t intend to make it so. And, if I go and prepare the home for you, I’ll be there to welcome you. (John 14:2,3)

Face to face.

The day is coming.

Perhaps we shouldn’t be sitting around playing games while we wait.

There is business to attend to.

I think I’ll clock in again in the morning. You?

CROSSING THE BAR

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ Poet Laureate/Great Britain & Ireland ~ 1809-1892)

If It Was a Snake

September 11, 2015September 11, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

If it was a snake, it would’ve bit you.

I’m hearing the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me in my head this morning. They were words she spoke often to me as a child.

Ignoring the frighteningly bad grammar, I admit to a certain amount of myopia. By that, I mean the figurative kind of shortsightedness.

You know, the kind that only sees what it wants to see.

After midnight last night, I stood in the adhesives section at my local Wally-World, staring at row upon row of glue containers and bemoaning the lack of any alternatives.

I had started a job which absolutely had to be finished before I headed home for the night, only to find I had not tightened the lid on my bottle of contact cement. It was the only kind of glue that would work for the job at hand, so out to the local big-box discount store I went.

Twenty-four/seven. Shopping on my schedule. Never mind that many of the oddest folks do their shopping there in the wee hours of the morning.

Come to think of it, I was there. Talk about odd…

Why was I staring at the shelves instead of purchasing glue? Well, because there was no brown bottle marked contact cement to be found. Not one. The shelf sticker was there, but the metal surface above it was empty.

Empty.

I stood there for at least fifteen minutes, looking at the alternatives. No contact cement, only super glue and some weird stuff they call gorilla. None of them would perform the task I needed the glue for.

I finally asked a passing employee if there were any of the missing glue bottles in the stock room. He obligingly scanned the sticker and informed me that there were none in the store—none even, in the regional warehouse. I was out of luck.

I stood there perplexed. What would I do? How could I keep my promise to that little girl who needed her clarinet first thing this morning?

I mourned another missed deadline and the unhappy look on the girl’s face when she realized I had failed her. In my head, failure was complete. Utter.

Another few moments passed, and the employee next to me cleared his throat.

“Is that all I can help you with?” he asked.

I jerked back to the reality that he had done all he could and simply nodded. In that instant my eye caught the label on a can. Right next to the empty space I had been staring at sightlessly. Hopelessly.

Right next to it.

A large can of the exact thing I needed. Just not in the package I expected to find. It was a much better deal, as far as the price went.

I had been six inches away from the solution to my problem all that time! Sitting right there, waiting for me to notice.

Wrong package. Wrong color. Wrong size.

If it was a snake, it would’ve bit me.

I wonder. How many times have I given up because I couldn’t see the solution to my problem?

In our myopic pursuit of answers, how often have we missed the provision right in front of our faces? Our God knows exactly what we need.

Exactly. What. We. Need.

All we have to do is open our eyes. And hearts.

And get ready to get back to work.

And Moses said unto the people, Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the LORD, which he will shew to you to day.
(Exodus 14:13a ~ KJV)

If you do not raise your eyes, you will think you are the highest point.
(Antonio Porchia ~ Argentinian poet ~ 1885-1968)

Softly

September 9, 2015September 9, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger. (Proverbs 15:1)

And, with those words from the Preacher, you already know enough about me to write my biography.

Funny. I used to think I was the only one. Today, I look around this brave, new world in which we live, and I observe a tsunami of grievous words.

Surely the only possible outcome can be a firestorm of anger.

They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. Not my words—the prophet Hosea used them centuries ago. The truth hits home more today than at any time I can think of.

Daily we see it. In the public square, there is little civil discourse, only incendiary agitation. Names are called, accusations made, and arguments proclaimed with arrogance and demeaning language. And the other side simply sits quietly and waits their turn.

What? They don’t wait quietly? Well, of course they don’t.

In social media, on television, and through the radio waves, the volume is increased until no one can listen. The only way to inject a viewpoint into the conversation is to scream at opportune moments.

Aided by the instantaneous and public nature of our technology, the clamor is amplified exponentially.

The din is spectacular. And deafening.

And astonishingly pointless.

Quiet communication calms the brawling spirit, but argumentative voices fan the flames.

I still have the old Bible at home and use it frequently. The black leather cover is frayed and ragged at the edges and the binding is separated. And yet, the words on the flyleaf still jump out at me every time I open it. As if it had been written yesterday, the reminder still grips and convicts.

The beautiful script is the handwriting of a loving father who understood, all too well, his teen-aged son.

The words of which I speak are those of the Proverb which you see at the top of this essay.

My father knew his son. He knew what I was made of—knew my bent to argument and arrogance.

I have spent a lifetime trying to tame the beast within, the beast of pride and defiance. But, like the Apostle who was called the brother of our Lord, I have lost the battle with the tiny tongue again and again. James suggests there is not one of us who is able to tame our tongue. (James 3:3-8)

But, it must be tamed. Must be. And the tools are within reach.

The wisdom of our Creator is pure, peace loving, and considerate. (James 3:17)

You see, our Father knows His children and what they are made of. He knows our bent to arrogance and argument.

But, He wants better for us.

I chuckle as I recall the conclusion of James at the end of his disheartening exposé on the untameable tongue. The contrast with the prophet Hosea’s words is striking. James avers that peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness. (James 3:18)

We don’t have to sow the wind. We don’t have to reap the whirlwind. That crop is not profitable in any way.

Sowing peace, we reap righteousness.

Sowing peace, we reap righteousness. Share on X

Many of the voices I hear raised in rage today claim righteousness. I wonder.

Softly, softly. Our friends across the pond use the term to describe the approach most likely to yield the positive results we seek.

Perhaps we could try that.

Softly.

Shhhh. Be vewy vewy quiet. I’m hunting wabbits.
(Elmer Fudd ~ Loony Tunes cartoon character)

People’s minds are changed through observation and not through argument.
(Will Rogers ~ American humorist/columnist ~ 1879-1935)

Painting the Dirt

September 8, 2015September 8, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Dust are our frames, and, gilded dust our pride.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ 19th century British poet)

The newlyweds moved into the little two bedroom frame house and began to learn about life together. They laughed. They cried. They argued—a little. They cried some more.

Mostly, they laughed.

Sometimes, all they had to do to find something to laugh about was to look across the lane to a tiny house just like theirs. The elderly lady who lived there was a nice neighbor, as friendly as they could hope for, but she had a strange habit.

She dusted her yard. With a dust mop.

They laughed and wondered what possible benefit there could be to dusting one’s yard. Now, nearly forty years later, the young man (who is growing old) wishes he had asked the lady herself. Well? Who wouldn’t wonder why she dusted the lawn?

It doesn’t make much sense, does it? The yard was just dirt and grass, and more dirt than it was grass.

He has some questions still:

How would one know when the job is completed?

Is it a job which must be done daily? Weekly?

Would the neighbors notice if the job were left undone?

He’ll never know the answer to his questions since the dear lady has been in Heaven many years now. But, the couple still laughs when the seemingly useless task comes to mind. Surely it was a complete waste of her time.

It’s a futile thing to do, dusting dust.

Kind of like painting tombs, isn’t it?

The Teacher laughed at the old men with their paint brushes. The graves of His day weren’t much like ours. Caves and hollows in the hillsides, covered with stones to keep out the varmints and grave-robbers—that was all they were. No amount of paint could quell the stench that wafted to passersby.

Whoa! I wonder what died!

I say it to myself frequently as I ride my bicycle in ever-widening circuits around our little town, especially along the narrow country lanes. I can’t see the culprits, but I can certainly smell the odor left behind by death. Skunks, raccoons, o’possums, even the occasional armadillo—all add their noxious fumes to the fresh country air.

I wonder if the white-wash on the stones over the grave openings fooled anyone back then. I’m thinking not many were hoodwinked into thinking there was anything desirable under that big white rock.

Dust mops and paint brushes are useful tools. For the right purpose.

The high-school-aged boy lugged the heavy black case in from the parking lot last week. He seemed a little embarrassed to be bringing the huge instrument into the music store.

“Could you get me a lyre to fit this tuba?” he asked. “I bought one the other day, but it’s the wrong shape.”

I laughed humorlessly. It is a problem I have struggled with for many years. I never seem to remember the essentials from year to year, though.

I pulled out a long, straight brass-looking lyre from the appropriate location.

“Give me a minute. I’ll make it work.”

They say pride goes before a fall. They are right.

I put the tail of the music holder into my vise and pushed on the other end of it, bending it in the approximate direction I knew it needed to go.

Snap!

The long rod, a foot long just a moment ago, was now only eight inches long.

That can’t be right! Brass is soft and bends easily! How could I break it so quickly?

You already know the answer, don’t you?

It’s not made of brass—only covered with brass plating. Underneath? Pot metal. Cheap trashy metal made from a mixture of soft metallic substances, cast into the shape of a costlier steel and then plated to be appealing to buyers.

Whisking the dust away from dirt doesn’t make it any cleaner.

Painting a stinking grave doesn’t make it any less offensive.

Plating pot metal gives it no additional strength whatsoever.

Dust are our frames,…

Lord Tennyson understood the premise. Who would argue that we are, indeed, dust? Even those white-washed graves can’t keep our bodies from returning to their beginnings. Eventually.

And yet, here we stand—arrogant things—boasting of who we are and what we have done. Merely dirt, yet we would have anyone else believe there is no longer any residual dirt underneath the decorated surface.

…and, gilded dust our pride.

Gilding causes the article it covers to appear as pure gold. Pure gold!

There is a test for gold, just as bending will show the difference between brass and pot metal. The test for gold?

Job knew the answer to that. And, when He has tried me, I shall come forth as pure gold.

Through the fire, the mettle of the whole piece will be known.

I’m not sure I’m ready for the fire. Yet.

I want to be. I want to be sure that I will prove to be pure gold, just like Job.

But, I’m confident there are a fair number of refinements which will need to happen first.

I want to be ready for the fire.

We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.
(from The Breakfast Club ~ American movie ~ 1985)

Now if any man builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw, each man’s work will become evident; for the day will show it because it is to be revealed with fire, and the fire itself will test the quality of each man’s work.
(I Corinthians 3:12,13 ~ NASB)

In My Shoes

September 4, 2015September 4, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I walk around like everything is fine, but deep down, inside my shoe, my sock is sliding off.

Kind of warms the heart, doesn’t it? No. Perhaps that’s not the right way to put it. I saw the little photo of a pair of shoes the other day and stopped to read the text. Heartwarming isn’t the way I would describe my reaction.

Confused, maybe…

My first thought was that I was going to feel sympathy for the person who wrote the sentence. But the gotcha phrase at the end made me laugh.

Ha! Just another touchy-feely sentimental moment turned into a joke.

I shared the picture with my friends, and went about my day. But, something made me go back to the photo again. And again.

Somehow, I wasn’t laughing anymore. Sad. That’s the way I began to feel inside.

The simple fact is, the event described is exactly the kind of thing that usually ruins my day. Oh, I don’t necessarily mean that I’ve got bad socks, but I’m saying that minor inconveniences visible to no one but me are the catalysts for more bad moods than anyone will ever know.

Minor inconveniences.

They’re kind of a big thing. For me, anyway. Maybe for you, too.

All day long, the slightly too-small shirt I put on this morning keeps pulling out at the waist. Each time I reach for something on my work bench, or stretch overhead to put in a light bulb, or bend over to pick up that penny I dropped while making change, the shirt tail, without any warning at all is hanging over my belt.

I hate that!

And, nobody cared. In fact, none of you knew it was happening. Not even the Lovely Lady.

I feel bad mentioning this at all. Sort of. It pales beside other issues.

One of my new author friends mentioned some serious personal life events in a note she wrote to me today. Beyond serious, they have been catastrophic. After that, it seems awfully silly for me to focus on the trivial and the mundane.

But, we live life as it happens. The catastrophic events come. For some, they last for many years—perhaps never to pass from our experience. Dealing with and responding to them is paramount.

Still, the minuscule events come too, annoying and chipping away at our patience. I wonder if they will also someday be a part of the record of how we responded and carried on in our walk here on this sphere of water and dirt.

The world keeps spinning. We keep walking with the socks bunched up in our shoes. Discomfort, inconveniences, and annoyances pile up.

You know I’m not really thinking about cheap socks now, right?

Who are we—really—when the trivial, the mundane, problems of life begin to wear on us? How do we treat our fellow travelers?

When I have big problems—the kind everyone can see—it’s not all that hard to keep my footing, relationally speaking. Folks treat me with deference, the kid glove treatment we’ve all heard of. All the warning signs are obvious and even I can remember to exercise self-control in dealing with others.

But, what about when my shoe comes untied?

Walking along the trail, side by side with the Lovely Lady, I don’t even notice it for awhile. Oh, I know something is not quite right, but it really doesn’t matter.

I keep walking. We keep talking.

Little by little, the brain becomes aware of the problem. Finally, in a moment of epiphany, I realize my foot is sliding around in my shoe.

And just like that, I am angry.

Well, who wouldn’t be? The person by my side, the woman who stood beside me at an altar all those years ago and promised to love and help me, won’t slow down. My shoe is untied and she keeps striding along like there is nothing wrong.

My shoe is untied!

“Slow down!” I snap.

She looks at me in surprise. Just a moment ago, we were enjoying our outing in the beauty of God’s creation. Nothing has changed, to her mind. There is no reason she would have seen my predicament.

My world, on the other hand, is turned upside down. Of course, she instantly slows to a stop and waits while I kneel down and make the necessary adjustments.

But the damage has been done.

I’ve spent a lot of words on feet, haven’t I? Perhaps you already realize the feet aren’t the problem. The heart is.

The heart.

We’re a self-centered lot, aren’t we? Oh, we talk a good game, pretending to care more about others than ourselves, but let just one little personal issue flare up and no one matters in the world besides ourselves. Nothing is more important in that moment than our comfort.

God is working on my heart problem. I’m trying to let Him. You see, the Apostle who loved letter-writing passed on the words God had for me long ago:

You can’t be looking at your own problems, but need to be focusing on what those around you need. Think like He did, the God-man who gave up everything so you could have everything.

As He’s working on my heart problem, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind waiting up while I tie my shoe.

I’d like to walk beside you for awhile.

You can pull up your socks if you need to.

I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.
(Jane Austen ~ British novelist ~ 1775-1817)

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests, but each of you the interests of the others.
(Philippians 2: 3,4)

Not Broken

September 2, 2015September 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The world is broken. lens-755539_1280

Broken.

A friend mentioned that his close friend died yesterday. There was a torrent of sympathetic responses, mine among them. Then, as the torrent subsided, he added one fact: She had been killed by her husband—shot three times.

Broken.

In Arizona this week, a mother drowned her two-year-old twin sons and tried to drown another boy, because she thinks no one loves them—or her. This happened the same week a court case began in California to try a mother who also drowned her son. That woman says she acted out of love—to protect the boy from a horrible life.

Broken.

The list could go on for page after page—people of one religion killing people of other religions, folks of one race killing and torturing folks of another race, ethnic groups with power abusing others without power—There seems no end of examples.

Closer to home, we live in a society of brokenness. Broken families, broken friendships, broken children, broken health, broken promises, broken computer programs—even broken pencils.

All broken.

To the minutest detail, all of creation is susceptible to the brokenness inherent in every part. The Preacher, in the Old Testament, added his endorsement when he told us that all is useless.

Broken and useless.

I will admit it. I am overwhelmed by the broken world in which we live. I suspect, when you take time to consider it, you are as overwhelmed as I.

And then I realize we too are broken. Overwhelmed and battered, as is all the world, our brokenness cries out for someone who can set things right.

And it turns out there is Someone who has already done the deed. We simply have to put ourselves in His hands. They are, after all, the hands of a Creator—a Potter who knows His craft, and His material. (Jeremiah 18:3,4)

He knows that we are dust. He knows that we shatter too easily. And, He already knows what the vessel we will one day become is to look like.

He already knows what the vessel we will one day become is to look like. Share on X

From the broken shards, a thing of beauty. Or perhaps simply, a thing of usefulness. I think that might be better.

Broken, made useful. Efficient. Filled with purpose.

In a broken world, we can serve His purpose.

May we be no longer broken. That was the way we came to Him. Not the condition in which we are to leave His wheel and kiln.

Useful.

In a still-broken world.

All of God’s people are ordinary people who have been made extraordinary by the purpose He has given them.
(Oswald Chambers ~ Scottish evangelist/teacher ~ 1874-1917)

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
(Psalm 34:18 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips

Storm Line

Dragon Gold

Can You See Jesus?

Bars Made of String

One Clear Call

If It Was a Snake

Softly

Painting the Dirt

In My Shoes

Not Broken