Friend to Grace?

January 19, 2024January 19, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It may come as a surprise, but I’m not all that big a fan of winter. However, I like snow.

I should clarify. When I look at it from the warmth of my living room, I like it. On my car’s windshield when I need to drive it—not so much. On the ramp out front when guests are arriving—certainly not!

I am becoming aware of something that seems a vital truth, though. This truth dawned on me today as I walked to the coffee shop I’m sitting in now. Yes, just like the rising sun’s light waking me from sleep, it hit me.

We need hardship—uncomfortable things—in our lives.

I know; it seems so antithetical to everything our society tells us. Every new technology seems aimed at making life easier—at reducing labor. Smartphones, self-driving cars, and domotics (automated homes) are only the latest in a long line of devices, perhaps starting millennia ago with the inception of the wheel.

When we become accustomed to the ease of living, it is difficult if not impossible for us to move out of the comfort zone in which we buffer ourselves.

I walked on the sidewalk covered in the remnants of this week’s snowfall today and I found myself grousing about the uneven and sometimes slick surface. It wasn’t the first time I’ve done it recently.

Each frigid day this week I’ve walked to the university where the Lovely Lady is employed, to collect her at the end of her workday. The university staff has cleared their sidewalks of snow and ice rather nicely. It’s easy to stroll along the concrete surfaces, without the need to watch our steps. We walk comfortably and easily across most of the campus, free of stress and effort.

Until that is, we come to the end of their property and the cleared sidewalks. The roughness of icy spots and the deeper snow mean we have to choose our steps carefully. We’re getting to the age where falls are more than just a quick trip to the ground and getting up dusting the snow off our seats. The pain lasts.

If we don’t choose our steps wisely, it hurts.

But, we don’t walk where the sidewalks are always cleared. We must walk circumspectly—cautiously and with care—in every situation.

Does it seem we’re not talking just about snowy sidewalks anymore? Perhaps we’re not.

If the shoe fits. . .

I had the words to the old Isaac Watts hymn, Am I a Soldier of the Cross, in my head this morning as I walked.

Are there no foes for me to face?
Must I not stem the flood?
Is this vile world a friend to grace,
To help me on to God?

I know, I know. It’s odd to be singing words written three hundred years ago while crunching through the snow. But, that’s me. Odd.

The clear answer to Mr. Watts’ question is that the world is not a friend to grace and it will, without fail, attempt to thwart our every effort to be with God.

We who follow Christ get to make the journey one precarious step at a time. The path, we’re told, is narrow and often lonely. We will stumble a time or two. Or more.

It’s easier on the other path—the one that’s been cleared and leveled. There’s more company there, too.

But, in the end, the easy path is infinitely more dangerous. The destination won’t be pleasant, I’m told.

Besides, there’s always Someone on the rough path with our best interest in mind. The Psalmist knew it.

The Lord directs the steps of the godly.
He delights in every detail of their lives.
Though they stumble, they will never fall,
for the Lord holds them by the hand.
(Psalm 37: 23-24, NLT)

Our friends, the hikers, have walked the Appalachian Trail in the eastern United States from Georgia to Maine. Over two thousand miles, they trekked, often holding on to each other, choosing every step with care lest they twist an ankle or break a bone.

The Trail is not smooth. Not at all. The hikers talk about the hardships, of the mental discipline necessary to keep going despite the obstacles.

But mostly, they talk about the incredible sights along the way and the amazing friends they made as they struggled along.

You don’t hike the Appalachian Trail on smooth, paved surfaces.

The road we have in front of us isn’t all that smooth, either. But, there are astounding people and beauty along the way. Besides, the finish—our goal—lies at the end of this sometimes icy, or rocky, or muddy, path.

The world is not a friend to grace. It wants us to be fooled by the smooth, wide pathways that eventually lead to hopelessness.

Meantime, on the inconvenient path, there will be friends along the way to lean on. And strong hands to keep us from falling when we stumble.

I’ll try to hold my grumbling down to a dull roar.

Still, I’ll be happy when that snow is melted.

See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
(Ephesians 5:15-16, NKJV)

“Careful!” he whispered. “Steps. Lots of steps. Must be careful!”
(Gollum, from The Two Towers, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

Potluck

January 8, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I grew up with potluck dinners. Most of my readers who grew up in church have experienced these events myriad times and will testify that they are lovely meals, albeit leading to many bouts of heartburn and indigestion.

Oh. Not because of eating bad food! No, the discomfort is simply because of the quantity of food one tends to ingest when sampling the output of so many wonderful cooks.

That’s not what you should expect to find here today.

I have in mind the definition of potluck from the sixteenth century—when eating potluck meant one had dropped in on an unsuspecting homemaker after the dinner hour and was offered whatever leftovers happened to have been thrown in the pot over the fire, being kept warm to prevent them from spoiling.

Often the resulting mélange was not appetizing in the slightest, but a hodgepodge of textures and materials, along with flavors (and perhaps even freshness, or the lack thereof).

This is like that, not the best from the recipe box; just whatever I’ve not been able to use in my last few outings, but don’t really want to throw it out just yet.

Bon appétit!

I intended to write again recently, but have been under the weather. If you didn’t already know that, it’s only because you haven’t been around to hear me complain about it. The Lovely Lady has endured well more than her share, taking it all in with incredible patience.

I looked at her earlier as she arose from her position on the loveseat near me and, realizing that she was moving slowly (which made me think about how weak I was feeling), I said—quite romantically, I thought, “I wish we could go back and live life together all over again.”

She frowned for a minute and, suggesting that she didn’t have the energy to go through all that again, went into the kitchen to work on dinner, leaving me to my disconnected thoughts once more.

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve had a visit from my annual guest, the boisterous asthmatic bronchitis. It’s been mostly calm during the days, but spends the night causing nothing but commotion and sleeplessness.

During several of those nights (and now, even in the daylight), I have bemoaned the pain caused by the continuous coughing fits. Holding my sides to lessen the ache of stressed muscles, I think I could die from this (a slight exaggeration, possibly).

And then this afternoon, as the Lovely Lady got into our car in the hospital parking lot—we weren’t there for me; she was visiting a friend—I was taken down a peg (again) to learn that when our friend coughs, she has to hug a pillow tightly to her chest to avoid doing actual damage to the incision and closures that her surgeon carefully worked on a couple of days ago.

This was after he split her chest open to do open-heart surgery.

I repent. I hear the red-headed lady who raised me saying the words—Tempest in a teapot—or something like that.

And, speaking of bridges—oh no, we weren’t, were we? Well, just another bit of the potluck, isn’t it?

Bridges. We stopped at the side of one of the state highways a few days ago, so I could sneak onto the verge of the pavement to photograph an old dry-laid stone culvert that a friend mentioned recently. I hasten to add that I did not walk where the “no trespassing” sign was posted but remained on the right-of-way instead.

I marvel at the industry of anyone who, seeing a stream or river in their way, determines to make a way over it, regardless of the labor involved, instead of simply fording the water when it’s low enough and finding a way around it when it’s not. That’s what I’d do.

The red-headed lady who raised me would have said. . . No, I don’t remember any maxims she had for idleness, except to remind us that the Bible says if you don’t work, you don’t eat.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, the bridge. A beautiful old rock arch bridge, hand-laid without mortar. I was reminded of why I love the structures, be they covered wooden affairs, metal pieces bolted and welded together, or even ornate concrete spans with rainbow arches thrown up across the entire span.

I love them because of the vision that wrought them. The people who stood on one bank of a mighty river—or even a trickling stream—and said, “Let’s make this better.”

There are still people doing just this in countries where the populace is not as blessed as we are with infrastructure maintained by our government. These visionaries are driven by a desire to make things better for folks they may never see or know. Folks whose lives may actually be saved because they don’t have to traverse a ravine to get to the hospital when they are having an emergency. Or, they may just be able to save a couple of hours a day by going over instead of around.

Sometimes we get tired and vision fades. Sometimes we need a day or two of sitting to be reminded that there is still more to be done. Maybe even a lesson in perspective to see people who really are hurting and not just sorry for themselves.

Well, it looks like that’s all there is in the pot tonight. I hope it wasn’t too unpalatable. If you can get to the dinner table earlier next time, you might get a better concoction. Something you can sink your teeth into a little easier. Maybe even some pie for dessert.

I’m reminded that Elisha the prophet just threw some flour into a pot of nasty stew centuries ago and it got all better. I’ll try to find some of that flour before the next go-round.

For now, I think I’ll go find the Lovely Lady and suggest a trip to Sonic for a Number 3 burger (do they still make those?). Maybe she’ll be more inclined to think about going on all the adventures again after a generous offer like that.

Then again, perhaps I should simply give thanks for what I’ve got.

But, Sonic’s not a bad idea anyway.

“Where there is no vision, there is no hope.”
(George Washington Carver)

“Elisha said, ‘Get some flour.’ He put it into the pot and said, ‘Serve it to the people to eat.’ And there was nothing harmful in the pot.”
(2 Kings 4:41, NIV)

A Puppy Would Be Good

January 2, 2024January 2, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I learned one final life lesson from last year a few days ago. Well, perhaps there were others after that too.

But still—one lesson I never expected.

You’re never too old to fall in love with a puppy that you can’t take home.

Yeah, I know. I was surprised, too. I suppose I shouldn’t be. I’ve mentioned to you about the second childhood thing. And the getting more sensitive thing.

But, one day last week, the Lovely Lady and I got into my truck with a few extra passengers to visit the mountaintop where our grandchildren live. It takes over an hour to travel to their house, so I figured we’d have time to talk with our passengers on the way.

It turns out that, unlike me, they’re seasoned travelers who are better at planning their travel time than am I, so there were noise-canceling headphones and smartphones, along with a 900-page biography to be read, and instead of talking, my driving time was divided between counting skunk carcasses on the roadside and wondering why it is that all the churches in the little town of Sonora, Arkansas seem to be built right next to each other along the highway.

I might have thought about a few other things along the way. But, I promise you, I wasn’t thinking I’d be sad on the trip home because I had to leave a sweet little girl pup I’d already named Cyclone (in my head, anyway) on top of that mountain.

She wasn’t the only cute pup there. Others were bigger—or more playful—and perhaps, even more lovable. But, this little girl just caught my eye. And, my heart.

I looked at the Lovely Lady. You know, with puppy-dog-eyes. She knows me. Before I opened my mouth, she knew what I was going to say.

“She is beautiful. But, you know what we decided. Still, it’s up to you.”

It’s not like that time when I was a boy and wanted my own dog. Then, the red-headed lady who raised me was kind about it, but closed the door completely on the idea.

“No. It would be your dog, but I’d be the one feeding and watering it. I’d have to bathe the beast and get the annual vaccinations. Sorry. The family dog will have to do.”

This wasn’t like that. I’ve proved myself to this red-haired lady. She knows I can be trusted to take care of the pup.

But, we’ve decided—mutually—that it’s not in our best interest to have pets anymore. It wasn’t a decision we came to lightly.

The little girl stayed on the mountain with her litter-mates. She’ll certainly find a home with a loving family before long. Who could resist those eyes and that tornado-shaped coloration on her forehead?

Yet, all the way home I kept asking, “What if we tried . . .?”

And she didn’t say no to any of my ideas. . . well yeah—to a couple, she did. I’m not always that logical when I want something I shouldn’t have.

I might be happier if she had said no outright. Then I could blame her for my disappointment, instead of just being an adult and responsibly doing what I know is right in this situation.

But, I am going to do that. Be responsible, I mean.

Somehow, I think my choice of a name for the puppy wasn’t just a coincidence, either.

Storms come by themselves in nature. Sometimes, in our personal lives, we stir up the elements that cause the storms to gather strength and assail us.

I’m not saying little Cyclone would do that. I’m saying we make decisions and set boundaries in life for valid reasons and often, overstepping those boundaries brings grief into our lives. Even if we find ways to justify doing away with the limits we originally set.

Good is sometimes the enemy of excellent.

And sometimes, I forget how a team works and decide to do what I believe is good for me—to the team’s detriment.

Words come to my mind, a hippie mantra from the 1960s, that influenced many of my generation and more of those that have followed.

The free spirits back then said, “If it feels good, do it.” As I think, I realize they’re still saying it today.

I won’t.

I’m a believer in another mantra, one I’d like to carry into the new year and the foreseeable future.

Excellence is worth pursuing.

Not as catchy as the hippies’, is it?

The Apostle, my namesake, was even more wordy in his exhortation.

“Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.” (Philippians 4:8, NLT)

Earlier in the missive, he suggested that we think of others as better than ourselves. Before that, in one of his letters to the people at Corinth, he made it clear that we’re not to do good solely for ourselves, but constantly for others around us.

But, it was only a puppy. Which would have been a good thing, wouldn’t it? I would never say opening your heart and home to a puppy was bad.

And yet. . .

Better—and more excellent—things await just ahead. Maybe even over the next mountaintop.

Oh. So you know—I’m going to keep petting the puppies.

I just can’t take them home.

“Don’t accept your dog’s admiration as conclusive evidence that you are wonderful.” (Ann Landers)

“You say, ‘I am allowed to do anything’—but not everything is good for you. You say, ‘I am allowed to do anything’—but not everything is beneficial. Don’t be concerned for your own good but for the good of others.” (1 Corinthians 10:23-24, NLT)

Come to the Manger

December 24, 2023December 24, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I remember hearing about a family who visited a live nativity production a few years ago. They had seen Mary and Joseph with the Baby Jesus, the shepherds had come, and the production was over. Some of the kids were going over where the animals were kept so they could pet them.

One little girl’s mom suggested that she might want to go to pet the sheep, but she had a different idea.

“No, Mom. I just want to stay at the manger for a while, okay?”

It’s a simple story; sounding perhaps a bit too contrived. But, I’m wondering why we couldn’t do that.

This morning at our church, the hymns and carols finished, a bearded man mounted the steps to the platform. He almost looked like Santa Claus himself, with his full white beard and twinkling eyes.

He wasn’t. It was simply one of our elders, preparing for prayer time. He started out with a friendly, “Merry Christmas,” to the congregation (which we responded to in kind) and then began to pray.

“Lord, what more can we say?” He had hardly started to pray when a youngster’s voice piped up from somewhere near the front.

“Happy New Year!”

Of course, a ripple of laughter ran through the entire auditorium. We were amused that the child had responded so vocally.

The thing is, others thought the phrase. We’ve been taught that the two go together. Merry Christmas is followed by a Happy New Year. In the calendar, as well as in our greetings to each other.

But, I’m wondering if we could just slow down a bit and stay at the manger awhile.

We’re always in such a hurry to get to what comes next. Through all of our lives, we find it hard to live in the moment because other things, perhaps bigger and better, are coming.

I’m guilty of it, too. I know I’ve written before at Christmastime, assuring readers that we don’t worship a mere baby in a manger, but we worship a Savior who died and rose again for us.

As if the Baby in the manger wasn’t already the Savior of the world.

You think I’m wrong?

What did the angel say to the shepherds?

“For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2: 11, KJV)

At no time in His time on earth was He any more the Savior than when He was born and laid in that manger.

Or, when He taught the teachers in the Temple. Or, when He turned the water into wine. Or, when he wept at the tomb of His friend, Lazarus. Or, when he washed His disciples’ feet. Or, when he healed the ear of the servant in the garden.

Or indeed, when He died on the cross for the sins of the world.

Our friend, Simeon, whom I referenced the last time I wrote, made it clear. He had heard, had known all his life, of the salvation of the Lord. But, as he held the Child in his arms, he saw it.

“For my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke 2: 30, NET)

He saw the baby and he saw in that moment—he held in his own arms—the salvation promised for all of human history.

I’m reminded of the story of Job in the Old Testament when he saw the power of God. Job said:

“My ears have heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and I repent in dust and ashes.” (Job 42:5-6, NIV)

In the manger, for the first time, humans could see the salvation for which provision had been made before time began.

“…the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world.” (from Revelation 13:8, KJV)

I have a hunch that when our eyes are on Him, they can’t be focused on ourselves, our plans, or our silly little time schedules.

So, I’d like to stay at the manger a little longer, if you don’t mind.

The shepherds will visit and return to their fields and the magi will bring their gifts and depart again to their countries. Here and now, the new year will come and go—the parties will go past in a dizzying flash—the demands of the world around us will go on and on.

The Savior—our Salvation, our Light—remains.

You’ve got time.

Stay awhile.

Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road,
and hear the angels sing!
(from It Came Upon The Midnight Clear, by Edmund H Sears)

Conduct Unbecoming

December 21, 2023December 21, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I can’t be the only one who does it. Then again, perhaps I am. I’ve always been a little strange.

Still. I spend at least a few moments every day thinking about where I came from. And, where I’m headed. And sometimes even, where I’ve been along the way.

Sometimes, I get my words mixed up while I think about all these confusing things.

One of my brothers was fond of reminding me (when I was still a youngster, mind you) that we start dying the day we’re born. Just something extra for the weird sibling to chew on, you know?

For some reason, my mind wanders (as it often does), and I hear the words of the Skin Horse as he explains to the Velveteen Rabbit how to become real.

“‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.'”
(from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams Bianco)

It’s just a child’s story, but I remember the thought from many years ago when I first read it. I especially remember those powerful two words, “You become.” It seemed to that much younger (but already strange) me that those two words encapsulated what happens to us along the road of life.

For most of my life, I’ve been becoming.

A long obedience in the same direction is the way Eugene Peterson described it. Well, he borrowed the words from Nietzsche, but the thought was that one should continue as one had begun, headed for the goal.

Step by step, day by day. Becoming.

It doesn’t mean there haven’t been missteps. Nor does it mean that there haven’t been falls along the way. But, again and again, we stand up, shake ourselves off, and head again for the goal.

Becoming.

The disciple who was loved by our Savior, and who later taught so powerfully about love, muddies the waters a bit for us:

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become.” (1 John 3:2a, Good News Translation)

I laugh to myself as I read the words of John again. The uncertainty is not what I want. I’m not even sure I need it.

And, in a way, the uncertainty about what I am becoming is what got me tangled up in this subject in the first place.

As I consider the past (while looking to the future), it seems there is a disconnect of sorts, an interruption in the long obedience in the same direction.

For many years, the becoming was easy, the path ahead clear. A profession that allowed me to minister—to share, to care—was mine for many years. I had grown into it, seeing more clearly than ever as the opportunities and the years unfolded.

Then, a few years ago, my world became smaller. Or so it seemed to me. My business closed and my daily contact with all those folks ended. With COVID and changing circumstances at the university where I had played music with the young folks for years, my practical interaction with performing musicians came to a screeching halt.

And as I contemplated, a surprising thought came to mind:

I’m not becoming. I’m unbecoming!

It is, of course, untrue. That doesn’t stop the wheels from turning.

Did I say my mind wanders? It does.

I’m seeing a white-haired old gentleman, one hand on the scarred-up black steering wheel of the old blue 1967 Dodge van, the other waving in the general direction of a 30-ish young man sitting in the passenger seat as they careen down a dirt road in rural Arkansas. The dust flies behind them.

As they always did when delivering pianos, travel time is spent in discussion. The old man wasn’t happy this day.

“There’s no place for me at our church anymore. I’m thinking about finding a little country church where I can be of some use again.”

The young man, paying more attention to the unattached seat he’s attempting to stay upright in than to the old man, grabs tightly to the door handle and chokes out what he thinks is a wise answer.

“I thought you’d be happy to let younger folks take over and just enjoy the ride. You’ve earned some rest.”

Did I call him an old man? My father-in-law was younger than I am now when he said the words.

And, I answered him back with foolishness. The foolishness of youth.

Unbecoming, did I say it was? It would be easy to sit back and get comfortable with the thought of throwing in the towel. The old man never did, but I might.

But, unbecoming is not fitting or appropriate—unseemly.

No, really. That’s the definition the Oxford Dictionary gives for the word.

I don’t want to be any of those things.

The mind wanders even further back, and I see an old man standing in an ancient Jewish temple. The young couple has brought their tiny baby to be consecrated to God as the Law of Moses decreed.

They brought the child; God brought the old man. He wasn’t a priest—was not a religious official at all. But God had given him something to do before he died.

And, he was doing what God had told him to do. He wasn’t unbecoming at all.

He was becoming. What a moment!

Luke 2 says the Holy Spirit directed him to the temple at the exact time Jesus was brought in. Simeon’s words have always been one of my favorite passages from what we call the Christmas story.

“Now let your servant depart in peace, for I have seen the salvation of the Lord.”

My hair’s not white yet. I can still walk a few miles without faltering and push a lawnmower around the yard with no sign of fainting. I forget names, but I remember faces.

And, God doesn’t throw His servants into the trash heap when He’s done with them.

He just keeps changing us. From glory to glory, we’re told in 2 Corinthians 3:18.

Becoming.

I’m going on.

You’re coming with, aren’t you?

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he really is.”
(1 John 3:2, GNT)

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
(Dylan Thomas – Welsh Poet – 1914-1953)

“Simeon took him in his arms and blessed God, saying,
‘Now, according to your word, Sovereign Lord, permit your servant to depart in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation
that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples:
a light,
for revelation to the Gentiles,
and for glory to your people Israel.'”
(Luke 2:25-32, NET)

Smarter Than the Average Dog

December 19, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Some people think dogs are smarter than humans. I don’t argue with those folks. Their dogs may actually be smarter than they are.

Still, I don’t know. . .

I sat at my desk this afternoon, watching the world outside my window. I like to imagine that I’m being creative at times like this. Reality is probably not as impressive as that.

Still, I saw the little dog run out of the neighbor’s yard and around the end of the gulley. The little fellow headed down the lane toward another neighbor’s house, mostly hidden in the woods.

“Uh-oh. Ollie’s out. I wonder if they know.” I got up from my chair to walk down that direction, but sat down again immediately.

They knew.

The pup’s owner came into view, walking calmly toward the little lane. This guy is always calm. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him ruffled.

Moments later, I saw him coming back toward the end of the gulley, the pup running ahead of him. The dog wasn’t running in a straight line, but then, Ollie never does.

Wait. He wasn’t running in a straight line because he was running in a circle. Right back down the lane where he had been a moment before. His owner simply turned around and walked back there, too.

When this happened another couple of times, I decided to amble down that way and see if there was anything I could do to help.

Well? There wasn’t anything creative happening where I was sitting; I might as well get some sun and fresh air!

Ollie’s other owner came out of the front door as I started down the road. I don’t think Ollie was all that happy to see her. She was calm too, though.

Still, he continued to run. They both called to him, but the little pup had other fish to fry. So to speak.

I walked to the end of the dirt lane and squatted down. Slapping the inside of my leg, I called out. “C’mere, Ollie!”

The curly-haired bundle of energy stopped dead. Then, turning toward me, he ran in a straight line to where I waited, haunches on heels, and stopped right in from of me, letting me grasp his harness.

I turned him over to his owners after petting him an appropriate amount. The leash snapped in place on his harness and it was as if the event had never happened.

“He found the cat feces. They’re scattered all along the lane and he’s fascinated with them.” Ollie’s unflappable owner shook his head, almost in disbelief.

Well? It’s not something a human would do. Why would material like that be so attractive to a dog?

I had a fleeting thought, there in the dirt lane. Why would the little dog come to me and not to his owners? I was just a poser. I wasn’t going to walk him—never going to give him a bath—certainly not going to pay his veterinary bills.

I was only a distraction for a few moments, nothing more.

I’m back at my desk again, looking out over the sunlit landscape. And, something creative may be happening now.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t really have control over my memories, haven’t I? Out of nowhere, things I haven’t thought of for years—decades, even—just pop up, screaming to be noticed again.

Surely there is no connection at all to the episode with Ollie, but in my mind, I’m sitting on a shop stool in a dusty, greasy garage. There is a wood stove, fashioned from a 55-gallon drum near me. The smoke that chokes the air around me is not only from the stove, but also from several of the men in the vicinity who hold lit cigarettes in their hands.

You’ve seen similar scenes—the shop where several men are sitting or standing while one man works, lying on a mechanic’s creeper under an old jalopy, asking for tools to be passed to him occasionally. Not much is being accomplished, but there is lots of talk.

The phone on the wall rings (cell phones wouldn’t appear for twenty more years), and the guy on the creeper pushes out from under the car, complaining as he goes to answer it. He yells for one of the guys standing in the cloud of smoke and pushes the receiver into his hands, telling him it’s his wife.

After talking for a few minutes, the guy hangs the receiver up and, walking back across the garage, shakes his head as he explains his wife has sent the kids over to their grandparents and is making his favorite meal in expectation of a romantic evening at home with him.

The guys laugh a bit and tease him, expecting him to head for the door very soon.

Two hours later, the fellow is still in the shop, drinking coffee and telling jokes with the guys sitting/standing around the stove. While his wife waits at home.

Maybe dogs are smarter than humans. Or, just as smart, anyway.

The fellows in the shop are the posers; the stories and jokes, simply attractive nuisances (not in legal terms, but still. . .) of sorts—a lot like the cat feces in little Ollie’s adventure.

Perhaps, there is a connection between my memory of that shop and Ollie’s amusing attempted breakout to freedom.

Do I need to say the words? To wonder why we follow the posers and sniff the trash along the road when we are meant to be following the God of Creation and eating at His table?

He waits, standing with the door flung open for us. Inside, the table is filled with life-giving and delicious food.

But aimlessly we wander, sniffing the garbage piles and following fakers who have no intention of providing for even the slightest of our needs.

And yet, He awaits—unflappable and infinitely patient. He knows us; knows that we are weak, coming from dust and yet He loved us enough to send His Son to save us from a life of shame and waste.

We say we follow Him.

It’s time to walk away from the garbage and back into His arms.

“It is common for those that have called themselves His servants, after awhile to give Him the slip, and return again to me.”
(from The Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan)

“Your words were found, and I ate them,
    and your words became to me a joy
    and the delight of my heart,
for I am called by your name,
    O Lord, God of hosts.”
(Jeremiah 15:16, ESV)

Only One Candle

December 11, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I never intended to mention light again this soon. If one writes too often about the same subject, folks begin to whisper about obsessions. And, one-track minds.

That’s why I usually ignore little nudges to write about the things I’ve mentioned recently. Readers don’t need much of an excuse to poke each other and say, “I told you so. He’s taken leave of his. . .”

Well, you get the idea. Still, I did go to the Candlelight Service at the local university yesterday. And, the lights on the tree onstage at our local fellowship shorted out this morning. And, it’s Advent.

So, lights it is. Again.

Did I mention the Candlelight Service? I went to hear the brass. And the choir. I wasn’t disappointed.

But, they lit candles first. I watched the students carry their brass poles with the adjustable wicks down the aisles toward the platform which had scores of candles awaiting the flame at the ends of those wicks.

Just so you know, I really did want the brass poles to have a special name so I could impress you with my knowledge of said designation, but I’m informed by reliable sources they’re just called candlelighters.

Imagine my disappointment at learning that the candlelighters carry candlelighters to light the candles.

But, as they walked the long aisles to the front, at least 3 of the young folks had the misfortune to have the flame extinguished from their wicks.

I watched one young man whose lighter was burning healthily until he was halfway to the front, but it suddenly turned to a brightly glowing ember as he walked. The ember dimmed for a few steps, then disappeared into a stream of smoke which quickly thinned to a wisp and then, nothing.

The two young ladies striding down the opposite aisle had a similar experience, each arriving at the front with useless candlelighters in their hands, as well.

Do you suppose the young lady who found herself the only one with a flame took the opportunity to excoriate the others about the pace with which they had walked, causing their flames to blow out? Did she spend the next few minutes reminding them how precious that flame was, and how careless they had been with it?

Perhaps, she just went ahead and lit all the multitude of candles herself. Without any help. Clearly, it was all up to her.

She didn’t.

Stopping at the base of the steps, she motioned all three of them over and had them light the lifeless wicks of their candlelighters from her flame.

And for all the help she offered them, her flame was drawn down not the slightest bit. It blazed and shone as she ascended the steps, ready to light all the waiting candles on their stands.

They also mounted the steps, lending their aid in lighting the forest of candles, making short work of the task.

The candles were all set ablaze to the background of the violins, violas, and cellos. Then I heard the brass music. For over an hour, I reveled in the music of the choirs and even the organ pieces played by the Lovely Lady’s brother. All of it was lovely.

But the lesson of the candlelighters was what I carried from the Cathedral last night. It was a lesson reinforced by the traditional candle-lighting ceremony at the end of the evening.

From that one candlelighter—yes, every flame in the room that night could trace its origin to that single young lady—each person in the seats eventually held high a flaming candle as we sang the sweet words of “Silent Night.”

And, it cost her nothing.

Nothing except kindness. And generosity.

I want to preach. I want to hammer the message home, reminding all of us of those around who have not tended their flames as well, perhaps, as we have.

There would be hypocrisy in my words.

And, dishonesty in the telling.

It is, as I have said before, a season of lights—the time of remembering the coming of the One who is The Light that has, and will, shatter the darkness, sending it scuttling back into the emptiness from which it emerged eons ago.

His Light is ours to share.

It was never ours to hoard.

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness. . .
Take your candle, go light your world.”
(from Go Light Your World by Chris Rice)

“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too.” (Philippians 2:3-4, NLT)

This Little Light of Mine

December 7, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The light was almost blinding. Not like the super bright LED headlights that had been shining in my eyes for the last hundred miles or so. No. This brilliant light simply shone in the profound darkness of the Minnesota plains we were driving through.

For a moment, we could see nothing else but the tree, bare of any leaves, but budding forth with the bright light of thousands of bulbs wrapped around every single limb, from the ground to the sky. It stood on a slight knoll with long wild grass growing beneath it. We saw no house lights—no business sign—and no indication whatsoever of a power source or reason for the tree being there.

It just shone in the darkness.

I’ve thought about it for several days now—this lighted tree. The Lovely Lady and I took a trip from our home in Arkansas up to the big city of Minneapolis last week to listen to the beautiful music of the young voices in the St Olaf choirs.

Brighter lights were shining in the city. They lit up buildings. Some told us when to stop and when to go. Others shouted out messages to attract business.

They had purpose. They incited action.

The tree on the knoll by the highway just screamed, “Look at me!”

We looked and passed on, unchanged.

We’re entering the time of year when we celebrate the coming of the Light, the Son of God. He came to shine that light into the heart of every person who would recognize it.

“The one who is the true light, who gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.“ (John 1:9, NLT)

He came with a purpose. He came to draw all men to His Father.

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

And, then He gave us the same purpose.

“You are the light of the world. . .In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16, NIV)

It is a season of lights. The little town we live in was having its annual Christmas parade the same weekend we were up north, the floats and vehicles all covered with lights. There were lights flung across the street corners and silhouetting the downtown buildings.

There is joy in light.

Our Creator made it so. Our hearts are lifted at the coming of dawn—at the brightness of light in a dark room—at the warmth of candlelight—even at the brilliant displays of lights on houses and trees in this season.

But the emotion fades. And, darkness returns to all of them eventually.

Our world today is full of a different kind of light—stars, we call them. They shine brilliantly, solely to draw our eyes toward themselves—to notice and revere them. Never before have there been so many crying out for us to look and be dazzled as there are right now.

But, they too fade. And, darkness reigns still.

The Light who came for us never fades—never dims. He turns our hearts to the Father of Lights.

Surely the light kindled in our hearts should do the same for those around us—for those who have never truly experienced light.

It won’t be some bulb-adorned tree growing on a grass-covered knoll along the way that is passed by in the night, leaving the traveler unchanged.

With purpose this Light shines, effecting everlasting change, pointing the way to that eternal day that can never be swallowed up in night.

It’s our time to shine.

“The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness
a light has dawned.“
(Isaiah 9:2, NIV)

“Jesus bids us shine with a clear pure light,
like a little candle burning in the night;
in this world of darkness we must shine –
you in your small corner, and I in mine.”
(Jesus Bids Us Shine, song by Susan Warner)

Chestnuts Roasting? No Thanks!

November 28, 2023November 28, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I stand at the kitchen window, glad of the warmth inside this old house. Out there, the clear, frigid night edges inexorably into the wee hours, lit by the cold, white light of the moon, only a day past the full.

I always love these bright wintry nights observed from my warm post. I can sense the chill but stay comfortable without the aid of a coat and gloves.

Out under the old mulberry tree, itself not likely to last the winter, the dark outstretched shadows cast by the bare limbs remind me (appropriately) of old bones, gangling and spindly, across the leaf-covered ground.

And just for a moment, practical matters take my thoughts, reminding me that my grandchildren promised to help me rake those leaves later this week. We’ll enjoy the time spent doing that. We always do—teasing and laughing as we work together.

There is something bothering me—I’m not quite sure what. Yes, I know I don’t laugh quite as much as I used to. I get tired more quickly; my back aches from the repetitive motion of raking. The kids step up and carry the load I once did. It will all work out.

But, that’s not it at all. What was it?

Oh, yes! Now, my old brain catches up. In the bright moonlight, I see the two nut trees. The walnut tree, for one. The ground underneath its slim, straight shadow was covered with fallen nuts, long before the leaves fell. We’ll have to rake those up too—a nuisance, at worst.

My eyes (and thoughts) are drawn to the chestnut tree next. The large, brown leaves from its branches are spread far and wide, blown by the cold wind that brought in the last blast of arctic air. It had dropped a few nuts before that, as well.

There will be pain. I’ll have to remember to have the kids wear gloves and be extra careful as they pick up the leaves under that tree. Suddenly, the job loses its appeal, the joyful anticipation turning almost to dread.

Chestnuts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be (if you’ll pardon the pun). In my head, as I write this, I hear the smooth, sweet tones of the man they called the Velvet Fog, Mel Tormé. The lyrics tell of the unusual nuts roasting near the fireplace, and of Jack Frost doing what he is tonight—making my nose cold once again.

Funny. I never think of that beautiful song while I’m bobbling the needle-sharp nuts in the fall, or when I’m sucking the blood from my fingers while muttering nearly bad words under my breath.

Chestnuts are more than a nuisance, waiting under the leaves in ambush for me and my helpers. They seem almost like a threat, a danger to avoid at all costs.

My poor brain, seemingly in ADHD mode tonight, begins to play other words (from a different Christmas carol) almost as quickly as the mellow sounds of Mel begin to fade.

“No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground.”
(from Joy to the World, by Isaac Watts)

Mr. Watts was a little premature in his banishment of thorns from the world. But, he did have the right idea about sins. And he was absolutely right about the eventual healing from the curse under which we labor.

We have entered the season of Advent, leading to Christmas. The media and the world around us are already alive with the tumult of their sales pitches for what is becoming known as “merch”. Voraciously, they pursue our purses and bank accounts.

It will likely be an unpopular opinion, but the “merch” they peddle is what I would describe as the thorns that infest the ground of Advent.

All around us lie the leaves of the season, awaiting our attention, our joyful gathering up, accompanied by people we love. The happy anticipation of celebrating the Child, born to bring light into the world—born to bring us back to His Father.

But the thorns! There will be pain—and stress. Angry words will be spoken to salespeople. Horns will be blown and gestures made at other drivers on the busy roads.

It has ever been so. The serpent present in the Garden yet seeks to subvert our Creator’s plan, hiding lies within half-truths and good intentions. And willingly we participate in his schemes.

Perhaps this Advent season will be the one when we finally push aside the thorns, leaving them to rot in the trash pile while we revel in the reality of God’s gifts.

The joy of the season is in the Gift from Heaven. Everything else is covered in thorns, awaiting redemption from above.

The Light of the World still bathes His creation in brightness like the full moon bursting from the black sky. The bonelike shadows and reminders of lurking thorns only increase our desire for His presence.

I’m waiting. With hope and joy, I’m waiting.

While I’m waiting, I’ll keep the gloves handy.

“The people who sat in darkness
have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
a light has shined.”
(Matthew 4:16, NLT)

“He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.”
(Henry David Thoreau)

One more tune for you—well, two really—to separate the thorns from the joy of the season. Take a few minutes to soak in the words.
https://youtu.be/IetPAANnhzQ?si=RFv_39qNgXUhtnbu

As a Mother Comforts

November 26, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Image by Jeannean Ryman. Used by permission.

“Weatherman says possibility of freezing precipitation tonight.”

The news actually came from a weather app on her smartphone, but I think the writer of the note (my sister) is secretly hopeful the invisible weather forecaster is right.

I’m not. But then, I’ve argued with the lady about various matters for over sixty years. We won’t break off our relationship over this tiny disagreement.

Still—her words had consequences. As I read them, I immediately thought of the cloth covering above my lovely little deck outside the back door. A sail, they call it—but it doesn’t move the deck an inch away from its foundations.

The sail is good for one purpose and one only. It keeps the sun off the heads and out of the faces of the denizens of said deck. For a period of time, it does. As I said, it doesn’t move the deck, while the sun itself runs its circuit daily, moving over and past the point where its rays are blocked.

One purpose. The sail doesn’t keep the rain off the deck; won’t stop the leaves from piling up on the furniture.

And, it certainly won’t hold the weight of any so-called freezing precipitation.

The consequence of my sister’s reminder? I had to loosen the ropes tying up the three corners of the sail and, folding it up (about as well as any of you would fold up a fitted sheet), stowed it in the backyard shed to await a promised spring.

My thoughts were a little sad as I untied the ropes from the eyebolts under the eave of the old house. I was remembering lovely afternoons and evenings spent with those I love. Family. Friends.

Seasons change.

The things that protected us in the bright, blasting heat of the long summer days are no longer protection for us.

We celebrated a family Thanksgiving at our home last week. The house was full and noisy with four generations represented at our table. There was music and a dinner blessing. There was discussion about whether pimiento was a good ingredient to have with celery sticks. There might even have been the haze of smoke from a new turkey recipe gone slightly amiss.

There was joy. And thanks.

And memories.

Their placement wasn’t purposefully planned. The ladies, I mean. We just suggested seats for folks where we thought they would be most comfortable.

But, I looked again today at the photographs of our gathering and the sadness hit anew. One entire side of the main table (the teenagers being allowed a little space to sit at a table of their own) was taken up by four ladies in our family.

Four widows.

I see their faces—the lovely men who once sat beside them at our table—and the memories bring tears. Well—not so much the memories as their absence from us now.

In many ways, they were shade from the hot, blasting sun of life. Brothers are like that. Fathers and grandfathers are too.

Seasons change.

The widows soldier on. I see great strength there. I see the heartache too. They all still grieve in their own ways.

And yet. . .

And yet, there is—still—bright hope for tomorrow.

His promises never dim; they never go amiss. The day is coming when we will be forever in His presence. Together.

But, what do we do with the changing seasons?

Here? Now?

Like the changing weather, our protection today may be gone with tomorrow’s storm.

Seasons change. But our Heavenly Father? He never changes. And, as he always has, like a mother, He will comfort us. (Isaiah 66:13)

I don’t know about your mother, but when my mom used to comfort me, she didn’t do it from across the room. She gathered me into her arms, pulling me onto her ample lap. I was held close. And tight.

You know what ample means, don’t you? It means big enough. And sometimes, more than big enough.

You know who else is big enough? The One who doesn’t change with the seasons. In every part of our lives, He gathers us in, close to His loving heart.

And, He is shade from the burning sun. Protection from the storms. A sure, strong wall of defense from everything that threatens.

He gathers us in, under his ample wings.

And, He holds us there.

Seasons change. They do.

There is nothing here to fear.

Even without a sail.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
(Edith Sitwell, British poet, 1887-1964)

“He will shelter you with his wings;
you will find safety under his wings.
His faithfulness is like a shield or a protective wall.”
(Psalms 91:4, NET)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips