I Know a Man

May 20, 2016May 11, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Boredom comes quickly to a twelve-year-old boy. A week’s stay with relatives in the rural Illinois countryside seemed to have all the prerequisites.

At that age, summer is supposed to be about fishing, summer camp, and bicycle rides. Up till then, the trip north to visit unfamiliar kin had offered none of them. There had been that episode with the tractor on the farm in Kansas, but otherwise, there didn’t seem to be much promise of anything more stimulating than conversations around the dinner table for the next several days.

But, in a moment, all of that appeared as if it were going to change. The boy’s older brother burst through the door exclaiming about the mini-bike in the barn.

“They said we could ride it as long as the gasoline lasts!”

Up and down the long gravel driveway to the county road they roared, one after another. Taking turns wouldn’t be all that bad, the boy reasoned, as long as he knew another turn would come.

It didn’t. Come, that is.

Before the lad had even gotten a second ride, the little Briggs and Stratton motor sputtered and the vehicle lurched forward another yard or two as it died under his brother. Muttering and kicking the rocks beneath his feet, the frustrated kid wandered out to help push it back along the lengthy lane. Profound disappointment was virtually painted on his face, and his slumped shoulders didn’t brighten the picture one bit.

They walked the little two-wheeler back to the barn, leaving it where they had found it. A couple of gas cans were lying nearby, but shaking them yielded nothing at all. They were out of gas.

Boredom seemed inevitable once more. Oh well, perhaps there was a book or two to read somewhere.

Suddenly, a thought came to the youngster. Quietly, without telling anyone else, he found the old uncle (probably all of forty-five years of age) sitting by himself in the living room.

Explaining his problem, the boy wondered aloud if more gasoline could be found anywhere on the property. The old man smiled and got up from his seat, motioning the boy to follow him. They stopped at the barn and his uncle told him to roll the inoperable machine outside.

Not far away, there was a rust-covered steel tank lying on its side atop a platform five or six feet in the air. Funny—he hadn’t noticed that tank there before.

“There’s gas in here. You’ll have plenty for anything you want to do with that tiny thing.” His uncle jerked his chin toward the little two-wheeler as he said the words.

Taking down a black rubber hose with a metal nozzle on the end of it—much like what you would see at the pump at a gas station—the old fellow inserted the end into the tank of the mini-bike.

Nothing happened. No gas came out.

The boy was about to turn the handlebars and push the useless thing back to the barn when his uncle stopped him. Climbing up to the platform nimbly, especially so, given his advanced age, he lifted up the back end of the tank and indicated that the boy should squeeze the lever on the nozzle again.

Within moments, the tank was filled with gas. The mini-bike roared to life with just one pull of the starting rope and he was off!

Goodbye boredom!

The little machine hardly stood still during daylight hours for the rest of the week. Every time it needed to be refueled, the boy (or one of his brothers) clambered up to the platform and tipped the tank up.

They never ran out of gas. Never.

For the rest of the week, the boy didn’t worry about whether there would be enough fuel. He didn’t even look once inside the big tank to reassure himself of the supply.

His uncle knew how much there was and had promised it would be enough.

All the boy had to do was park the little motorbike down below and tip the back edge of the tank up. It wasn’t a question of understanding how many gallons the tank held originally and how many had been used. He certainly didn’t care about how much the gas cost when it was delivered.

Those might have been real and valid questions, but they were none of his affair.

He knew a man—a man who took care of all those things—a man who showed him how to get what he needed and promised it would be enough.

He knew a man.

Do you ever wonder if you have enough faith for the difficulties of life?

I’m not talking about having faith when you’re with friends.

I don’t want to know if you have enough faith when you sit in church beside your family.

I’m not even wondering about when you give thanks sitting around the dinner table, hands held tightly with the folks next to you.

In the loneliest, darkest night, when it seems as if dawn is never going to break on the eastern horizon ever again, do you wonder if your faith is strong enough to see you through to daylight?

What about when wrapped in the strangling grip of pain? Or, gripped by the overwhelming tsunami of terror? Or, drowning in the depths of an ocean of sorrow and loss?

Is our faith strong enough?

I wonder. Perhaps, that’s not the right question.

Is our faith strong enough? Perhaps, that's not the right question. Share on X

I think faith might just be going to the well and throwing in the bucket.

Is there water down there? Will the rope break? Will my bucket leak? Will the water really quench my thirst?

If you know the One who maintains the well, you don’t even ask the questions.

Faith doesn’t require any more than one thing.

You just drop the bucket down again and again. Water comes up every time. (John 4:13-14)

Every time.

I know a Man.

The boy kept riding his whole vacation. On faith. You might argue that it was gasoline that powered the little mini-bike.

I’m pretty sure it was faith.

I was there, after all.

Drop the bucket in again.

You know the Man, too.

Faith is what makes life bearable, with all its tragedies and ambiguities and sudden, startling joys.
(Madeleine L’Engle ~ American author ~ 1918-2007)

Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor abandon you.
(Deuteronomy 31:8 ~ NLT)

Good Faith

May 18, 2016May 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The little truck looked as if a strong crosswind would blow it onto its side, leaving the wheels spinning slowly to a stop in the air. The piece of furniture strapped into the bed of the vehicle almost gave the impression it was brushing the utility wires overhead as the huge affair rolled into the parking lot.

My heart sank. Never had I seen such an item before, but I knew immediately what it was intended to be. I had heard the project was in the planning, but didn’t really think it would ever become a reality. Now, I wished it had stayed in the planning stages.

Seven feet tall and six wide, the rolling case was. It was a storage rack, built for a specific use.

For half an hour, we talked. I like the man who drove the truck. He knew, just knew, I needed the huge thing. He had seen the state of my repair area and believed his was the ideal solution. A fair amount of money had gone into the project, and more than a few hours of his labor.

His gamble wouldn’t pay off on this day.

It’s too big. I can’t put it in my store. For that matter, it doesn’t fit my vision of what I’d want for the task anyway.

The little truck, front tires nearly lifting off the pavement from the weight in the bed, made its precarious way back onto the street and headed back in the direction from which it had come. Before it departed though, a few unhappy words had been muttered behind the hands of the fellows who had accompanied the contraption with the intent to help unload it.

They didn’t wish to move it again.

I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t have wanted to move it the first time!

The unhappy words hadn’t been said to me. Still, they had been directed at me. Somehow, it was my fault that the towering storage rack wasn’t finding a home in my little store.

I never promised to buy such a thing. There was no commission for it to be built.

I stood behind the counter in my store and shook my head. When I came home to dinner a couple hours later, the unhappy feelings lingered.

Why did they blame me?

Would it be sacrilegious for me to suggest that I understand how God feels?

I’m not saying I’m God. I’m saying I’ve done just that thing to Him before. Maybe you have too. At the least, we’ve all seen it done.

But Lord, didn’t we do good things for you? Didn’t we have huge fundraisers for folks worthy of our help? Didn’t we speak of you with beautiful words?

I wonder if the King of Creation doesn’t just look up from His work and say, “Nope. I didn’t order it and I won’t pay for it. Take it away.” (Matthew 7:23)

Well now. That doesn’t seem fair, does it?

And yet, when we presume to know what our commission is without consulting the Commissioner, we will work in vain. We simply toil for ourselves, wasting our labor.

And what of those who come along for the ride? They come in what we call good faith. But, is it really?

The old pastor who married the Lovely Lady and me described such a situation once, many years ago. It seems a traveling evangelist from a different state had stopped in to see him one day as the elderly saint sat at his desk reading his tattered, marked-up Bible.

“God has told me that I’m to conduct revival services here in this church,” the hapless young evangelist informed the wise old man.

The gray-headed pastor sat, fingers of his hands laced together on the desk before him. He smiled. It was a kindly smile, not the wicked smart-aleck grin of malice some would wear in such a circumstance. Leaning forward, he quietly gave his answer.

“I’m glad you told me. When I hear the same message from Him, I’ll get in contact with you and we’ll proceed with the meetings.”

Unfortunately, the young man never conducted any services in that church.

If someone makes a promise to you on behalf of God, check with the real Source first, before taking action. Many who haven’t have paid the price.

Some have paid with their lives, as in the case of the People’s Temple and the Jonestown Massacre in 1978. Blindly following their false prophet, hundreds drank poison and died. They acted in good faith.

Heaven wasn’t awaiting.

God hadn’t invited them to be a part of that cult. He certainly didn’t place the order for their suicides.

Almost just as bad is when we blindly follow empty teaching, the result being a lifetime of service to good feelings, but empty deeds. The end of such a life is what the Preacher called vanity. Nothing more. Nothing less. (Ecclesiastes 1:1-3)

Vanity.

Useless and empty.

I wonder if the folks who drove away from my music store in that little pickup felt like that? Useless and empty?

The disappointment was almost palpable.

That old pastor had a saying: When God orders it, he writes the check out and pays for it in full.

I think I want to be sure the order has been placed. I need to see it with my own eyes. It has to come right from the source.

Payment is guaranteed. In writing, it’s guaranteed. (Matthew 25:21)

Now—that’s good faith.

True faith means holding nothing back. It means putting every hope in God’s fidelity to His Promises.
(Frances Chan ~ American pastor/author)

Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter into the kingdom of heaven—only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven. On that day, many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, didn’t we prophesy in your name, and in your name cast out demons and do many powerful deeds?’ Then I will declare to them, ‘I never knew you. Go away from me, you lawbreakers!’
(Matthew 7:21-23 ~ NET)

The Weapon

May 15, 2016May 16, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The prince of this world is not a liberal or a conservative.
He is both. And neither.
He is nothing. Nothing.

His power is now only in his voice—his charisma. He is smooth and attractive.
His logic is brilliant. He plays all sides of the convocation.
He attracts. He distracts. He detracts.

And in the end, he simply attacks.

All roads lead to his hell. All of them.
No. Not all. There is one that leads elsewhere.
Only one.

The way was opened by God Himself, who is not a liberal or a conservative.
He is both. And neither.
And that’s where the similarity stops.

He is All and in all. His power is not in a voice nor in logic, but in Love.
Love—that most illogical, and logical, reality.

For love should never have led to a terrible cross on a lonely hillside.
And, love could never have led anywhere else.

The prince is indeed, nothing. He is beaten already.
Yet, defeated, still he marshals his forces against each other.
And many, who today do his bidding, claim allegiance to Another.

When do we, who have chosen the solitary way, recall the only weapon which will ever vanquish the prince?
Indeed, it is the only weapon which has ever yet defeated him.

They’ll know we are His by our love.
Not our brilliance. Not our voting power. Not the fierceness of our defense for all good things.
In the end, there is nothing else, save Love.

Love.

Perhaps the end is already upon us.
Is it time to show our weapon yet?

Is it time yet?

You cannot love a fellow-creature fully till you love God.
(from The Great Divorce ~ C.S.Lewis ~ 1898-1963)

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood…
(Ephesians 6:12 ~ KJV)

Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.
(John 13:35 ~ NLT)

World Without End

May 13, 2016May 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The waves crash without any sign they will ever let up. Again and again, they pound the brown sand on the beach.

Will they never stop?

I couldn’t count the times I’ve visited the beach. The draw for some is irresistible. Not so for me.

I suppose my first encounter with the Atlantic Ocean at the tender age of three may have had some effect, however subconsciously. Soon after my father was stationed in Florida with the Navy, the whole family went down to the sands to bask in the sun. I don’t remember it well, but the pictures still lurk on the edges of my memories.

The ocean stole my beach ball.

What use it could have had for it, I don’t know. Still, there it is; tossed and swirled by the receding waters, the beach ball—the first one I had ever seen, much less played with—was gone beyond reach.

Other disasters have awaited—severe sunburns, cuts from broken glass, a terrifying experience in a riptide—these and other accumulated memories have led to my disregard for the beach.

Those memories came back with a rush this evening while I was with my grandchildren. We tagged along with them to watch a soccer game in which their brother was playing, but a couple of them wandered off, bored with the action on the field.

I found the two children playing in the sandbox a little later. The sand was all over them. Hands, arms, legs, clothes—I think it was in their hair too.

When it was time to go, I suggested that they should make sure they got all the sand off they could so they wouldn’t get my truck too dirty.

As I turned away, I muttered under my breath, “We wouldn’t want to take the whole beach home, would we?”

With those chance words, I was sitting on the damp sands of South Padre Island again, a place I’d sat for many hours growing up.

Did you know when you swim in the ocean, or gulf in this case, that there is never any relief from the waves that smack against you?

Never.

You wade in and then, as the depth drops down far enough, you swim for awhile. It’s never deep enough that you can’t stand up if you want. Which is a comforting thought—until you spend a little time in the surf.

Again and again, the waves slap against your belly, or chest, or shoulders, knocking you down into the water. If you stand up, it happens again. If you work at it, you can almost dodge the waves by jumping over them. After awhile, you might even be able to play a game of frisbee or toss around a kickball.

But, from time to time the big waves come in, and there’s nothing you can do. Every time you stand up, you get knocked down.

I don’t swim at the beach anymore. I get my feet wet and wade at the water’s edge. Sometimes, I just walk along the wet sand, dodging the incoming wash that is losing momentum before returning to the deep. Then I sit on the sand well beyond the reach of the water until I can stand it no more.

Some folks find the beach restful. I just find myself wishing someone, somewhere, would find the off switch for the incessant waves and let me have some peace and rest.

It has never happened. I think they may keep coming, world without end. Time will tell.

We fall down. We get up.

I understand the importance of perseverance. Really, I do.

The thing is, life is so much like being at the beach, I probably don’t even need to point it out. The parallels are obvious—to me, anyway. Yet, the beach remains one of the most popular vacation destinations there is. Where is the logic in that?

We fall down. We get up.

Do you know, if you go further out from the shore, you’ll reach a point at which the waves no longer break? It’s true. The water just rises and falls gently, one lazy slope after another for you to float upon. Smoothly, up one side and down the other, you can just drift easily.

No stress. No effort.

Go out past the waves! How simple is that? Why don’t we all do it?

Imagine. No waves smacking at your chest to knock you over. No powerful, curling breakers smashing down on your head from up above.

Oh. I forgot to mention one thing:

You can’t touch the bottom there.

There are no breakers because there is no tension between water current and land mass. The lack of friction allows the currents to move the water smoothly. It seems the perfect place to be until you tire of floating and need to really relax. Suddenly, it’s not all that great a place to be.

You can’t stand up.

Yeah, you can’t get knocked down. But, you can’t stand up.

Am I the only one who feels like life keeps knocking me down?

Am I the only one who is tired of it?

I’m ready to go out beyond the breakers and rest. Just drift along.

The Lifeguard tells me I can’t do that. He also assures me of the safety of remaining under His care.

I get annoyed more than I want to admit. I hate the constant battering. I want it to stop.

I want an easy life. All around, I see folks who don’t struggle as I do. They have everything they want. All they do is float along on the current, never struggling, never being knocked down.

They float along on the current. Maybe that’s not such a good thing.

I realize I need something solid under my feet. That way I can’t be blown along with the crowd to places I don’t need to be (Ephesians 4:14)

What good is it to drown in a crowd? You still drown.

The waves keep coming. Jesus said they would. He also said we need not worry about it. He has overcome them. We can too. (John 16:33)

Let the waves roll.

We are waiting for answers, but we’re not discouraged.

They knock us down.

And yet . . And yet, we are not defeated. (2 Corinthians 4:8-9)

Still standing.

Again.

Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us,
Unto him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus throughout all ages, world without end. Amen.
(Ephesians 3:20-21 ~ KJV)

The bravest sight in the world is to see a great man struggling against adversity.
Seneca the Younger ~ Roman philosopher ~ 4 BC-65 AD)

Telling Stories

May 11, 2016May 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The storyteller sits, spinning his yarns into fabric.

That’s what they call it, isn’t it? A fabrication?

I listen anyway. Still, as the story goes on, I begin to see the ravelings poking through here and there. His tale may have started with a few facts, but somehow it doesn’t all fit in a continuous pattern.

I want to reach for the edge of his fabric and pull at one of those loose ends. I just know that, like the cartoon character with a loose thread on his sweater which gets caught in a passing car, the story will unravel and the naked truth will come out.

I have done that more than once before. I’m learning (finally) to leave the loose threads alone and let the story spin out.

Some things are more important than being right.

Do you know how hard that is for me to say?

I grew up in a home where being right was paramount. Lies were set straight and wrong attitudes corrected immediately.

It’s what you do for your children. We call it teaching, and it is the responsibility of every parent.

But, the faults of others who were not part of our family were also pointed out to us constantly. My parents didn’t want to miss the opportunity to help us make good decisions.

Examples are helpful when teaching children, so folks we knew became our cautionary examples, their faults often looming larger than life in our little eyes. Their good traits could never balance their bad ones.

Black. White.

Heads. Tails.

What should have been lessons meant to help us examine our own steps and language became cause for comparison.

Comparisons stink.

I’m not the first to say it. I won’t be the last. The real problem lies in the fact that I kind of like the odor.

Comparisons where I come out ahead make me feel good about myself—for awhile. I begin to believe that God, perhaps, loves me better. I’m one of His favorite sons because of my concern with doing things right and in order.

Surely, it’s true.

It is not.

Grace pays no attention to the design of the filthy rags it washes. It takes no notice of the tag ends hanging from the corners.

The storyteller with his lying ways is no worse—nor better—off than the listener who sits nearby and tends the kernel of pride in his soul, growing quickly into a full-grown bush of snobbery.

I know how hard the fall is when pride takes its inevitable tumble, and it is inevitable.

Sinners sin. We sin, not all in the same way, but we sin.

It has taken many years for me to understand that grace, for all its astounding power, doesn’t remove sin, but the penalty for sinning. Justification is the work of grace.

We who have been justified—through grace—are called to be sanctified. All that means is we are called to become holy, or set apart, as He is.

We have to take a walk. It’s something we do with others. Not surprisingly, we don’t all start the walk with the same baggage.

There are folks with sexual sins, addicts, liars, thieves, gluttons, drunks—the list is not short. He doesn’t require that we clean up before we become part of His family. What happens after that though, is different. (1 Corinthians 6:9-10)

This walking we do is a progressive thing. The people we walk with may not be at the same place in the process as we are.

May not isn’t the right way to put it. They will not be at the same place.

We walk with them anyway. There’s a reason for that:

We still need each other. Travelers on their own rarely reach their destinations without meeting calamities along the road. It is our lot in life to depend on help through the tough places.

I have refused—refused—to lend aid to folks in the past. Somehow I thought I might get dirty in the process. I could have nothing to do with people who sinned in that way.

Do you hear what I’m saying?

I’m not alone, am I? We are a prideful and hypocritical lot, aren’t we?

We who have been forgiven freely, refuse to believe that God could forgive that.

That! How could He? How would He?

He could. He has.

Those stinking comparisons. Still, their stench fills the air around me, like the grotesque odor of bone burning under the dentist’s drill.

But, a lifetime of making comparisons has paralyzed me. I want to walk with others, but my paralysis stops me.

And then, I remember the Great Physician, to whom the man, bed-ridden with paralysis, was brought on that day a couple thousand years ago. The Healer said only two things to him. It’s all that was necessary. (Mark 2:1-12)

Your sins are forgiven.

Get out of that bed and walk.

Even today, the paralysis of a lifetime of thought patterns is banished with those words!

Freedom! At last.

At last.

I’m walking.

There’s still room on the road beside me.

May it never be otherwise.

A brother offended is harder to win than a strong city,
And contentions are like the bars of a castle.
(Proverbs 18:19 ~ NKJV)

Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede.
(John Lydgate ~ English monk/poet ~ 1370-1451)

Saying When

May 6, 2016May 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Thirty miles. I can do this.

Cycling is not second nature to me. I still have to force myself into the clothes and out the door on each solo ride I make. After several years of self-discipline and more than a few dollars spent for equipment, I still argue like a three-year-old being made to eat his squash. Every time.

That said, I am learning a lot about myself—a lot more than I learn while sitting on the couch. The lessons help me to understand much about who I am and who I want to become.

Some would say I’ve left it a little late. I say, it is what it is.

Thirty miles was my goal as I left the house one afternoon last week. Almost two hours on the tiny, hard bicycle seat.

My friends do twice that every Saturday. And they’re older than I. I was going to do this!

That afternoon, the first twelve miles went by fairly quickly with a couple of minor, mostly inconvenient, events which rattled me a little. I was tired and thirsty already. Add to that the fact I hate riding along the state highway with traffic zipping past at sixty and seventy miles per hour, and you’ll understand why I was grateful for a quiet parking lot in which to grab a drink and put my foot down on the pavement for a moment.

I had flown down the last downhill section of the highway right before my rest stop. Freeing one of my two water bottles from its cage, I gulped enough of the ice-cold, clear liquid to irrigate the gritty desert in my throat.

I didn’t want to cool down too much, but I did want to quiet my spirit and forget the honking, motor-revving pickup on that narrow country lane earlier. The old guy pulling a stock trailer who sped up to get in front of me before making a right turn right across my way hadn’t helped things any, either.

And yet, it didn’t take long before I was ready to ride again.

Now, the busy highway was between me and my chosen route. I had to cross five lanes. That’s all I had to do to get back onto the quiet back road, along which I could speed—or lollygag—whichever.

Cross the highway. Easy, right? Wait for a break in traffic and, pushing both pedals, roll right across. Twelve miles down, eighteen to go.

Easy, peasy.

Checking traffic to my left and seeing none, I eased across the lane. To my right, a pickup truck crested the hill quite a distance away. Well, perhaps he was closer.

A lot closer!

It didn’t help that I was in the highest gear on the bicycle. Well I would be, after flying down that hill, wouldn’t I? I should have checked.

I should also have estimated the oncoming traffic’s speed better.

Pedal! Harder!

My left foot, not yet locked into the pedal, slipped off. The right foot was locked in. It would have to do.

I pedaled furiously—up, down, up. down—all with one foot. In the highest gear.

Safety! I made it! Moving quickly now, I coasted along the rural lane, lifting my left foot back onto the pedal to lock it into place. Ow!

Wow! That hurt! My lower back, evidently not up to the stress of one-footed pedaling, let me know I had strained a major muscle. What would I do?

The Lovely Lady was a phone call away—the pickup truck ready to haul my bicycle home. Or, I could simply head for home. It had been twelve miles out, but six or seven by the most direct route would soon have me home.

Thirty miles. I had promised myself I would ride thirty today.

I kept riding.

Thirty-three miles showed on my fitness program when I pulled back up to the storage barn in which I house my faithful steed.

I surpassed my goal. I climbed hills. I rolled through beautiful farmland. I passed the safari grounds with exotic breeds of animals everywhere. Camels, ostriches, and buffalo, along with a gazelle or two, gazed out at me as I stared in at them. It was a wonderful ride through the springtime countryside.

I want to be proud.

What I am, is embarrassed.

My friends who ride will read the description above and mutter the words under their breath. I know they will.

Rookie! Amateur!

They’re not wrong. I should have checked my gears. I should have been able to easily lock my left shoe into the pedal mount. Still. That’s not why I’m embarrassed. Not all of it anyway.

Goals are important, aren’t they? Sometimes, one must just work through the pain and finish what they started.

It’s true. Goals matter. But, there’s more to the story, isn’t there?

May I tell you the sentence I have uttered more times this week than I can count? (Well, besides Oh, my back hurts!)

“I’m sorry it’s not finished yet. I hurt my back and haven’t been able to work at my bench most of the week.”

I met my goal on Saturday. And because of that, I haven’t been able to meet one since.

I would have been disappointed to miss the mark that day.

Any number of people have been disappointed that I’ve missed the mark every day in this week.

My stubbornness has affected many more people than a little discretion would have.

Only one person would have been unhappy about that missed goal—Me.

I wonder. Folks all around me are telling me not to worry about tomorrow.

Live in the moment. You only live once. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today.

The same people are telling me not to live in the past, as well. But, it’s back in the past that I have experienced this before. My memories of the past should have aided me in preparing for the future.

We don’t live in the past, but we do learn from it.

We don’t worry about the future, but we do plan for it.

We live today, but not as if it were the only day.

There are times when we will need help, too. There is no shame in missing the goal when wisdom dictates a different course. There is no shame in saying, I need help.

I need help.

Do you know someone who is so focused on an individual goal they’ve set that everything and everybody else is invisible to them? Perhaps, it might even be you.

The job at hand takes so much attention that we forget it’s only a part of what we’ve been called to do.

We need to know when to say when.

Somehow, I can’t help but think about the prophet Elisha as he sat under the tree, his goals unmet, wanting to die. He had faced the prophets of the foreign god and conquered spectacularly. Achieving that goal, he forgot their defeat was only one step in another, greater purpose Then, when faced with reality, he shut down completely. (1 Kings 19:1-8)

God sent an angel to take care of him. The messenger from God fed him, suggesting that the journey was too hard without food and drink. Eating, he was refreshed and continued on his journey.

I’m always amazed at the messengers God sends my way. Some are lovely, some incredibly unkind. Some are gentle, while a number are rough and crude.

Still, accepting their aid, and as I am willing to refocus, I remember that each goal is not independent of the one before or after, but merely different.

And sometimes, when I am hurt and alone, He covers me with His own wings and protects from danger.

Unless, I keep pedaling.

I’m shooting for the mark, but I don’t want to miss a thing He has for me along the way.

There is still joy to be found in the journey.

Maybe, it’s time to say when.

I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;
    with singing lips my mouth will praise you.
On my bed I remember you;
  I think of you through the watches of the night.
Because you are my help,
  I sing in the shadow of your wings.
(Psalms 63:5-7 ~ NIV)

Be strong enough to stand alone, smart enough to know when you need help, and brave enough to ask for it.
(Ziad Abdelnour ~ American investment banker)

The Story of My Life

May 5, 2016May 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

There’s not enough! The story of my life.

The red-headed lady who raised me was disgusted. A new baby was due soon to a young couple in our church and she was on a deadline to finish the little crocheted blanket.

The baby shower had come and gone without a gift to offer, but she remained confident the project would be completed before the little tyke’s arrival.

Stymied!

Just inches short of the intended size, she had run out of the variegated yarn she loved to use on such projects. There was no way she had time to order more. Alas, the child might actually come into this world without the blanket. From her perspective, it would be a disaster.

“The story of my life!” She repeated the plaintive phrase.

She threw up her hands in disgust and, sticking the crochet needle through the loosely-knit material, tossed the blanket into the wicker basket beside her chair.

She was done, it seemed.

Giving up.

Ah! But we knew better. It was only a matter of time.

She sat, moping, in the easy chair.

Any time now…

There it was.

The index finger on her right hand went to her mouth. She tapped her lips, muttering.

“I wonder. . .”

The change was abrupt when it came. Her left hand plunged into the basket and pulled the good-for-nothing blanket back onto her lap. She began to yank on the single tendril of yarn hanging out of the edge at the place she had ceased her labor only moments before.

Like a mad-woman, she worked—ripping out the stitches she had put in laboriously in the hours preceding. We wondered if she had gone mad. The thought didn’t last long.

She soon stopped and examined the blanket to see where she was. Then, more slowly than at first, she continued to pull at the yarn. There was a sizable pile at her feet when she finally stopped.

Talking to herself, she said, “That should do it. I hope this works.”

Grabbing a full skein of contrasting colored yarn from the shelf beside her, she began to work once more. The stitch pattern was different than the main body of the blanket, but she was no longer making the blanket. This was a border. Before it was done, it would be two inches wide around all four sides of the little blanket.

A two-inch border of ingenuity and flexibility.

The finished blanket was beautiful—a perfect wrapping for the tiny baby who would arrive that week. And, every time she saw the baby in its carrier, swaddled in the little blanket, the red-headed lady would stop and admire him.

I wonder if anyone else noticed that she always took hold of the border of the little guy’s blanket and rubbed it between her fingers. Perhaps they thought the smile on her face was because of the baby.

I wonder.

I will always be sad to remember her initial reaction.

She seemed to truly believe that unhappy events were her personal due in life. Like her mother before her, Mom wasn’t much of an optimist.

Frequently, she used phrases like the story of my life and par for the course, as if she thought it was simply what she had coming to her.

And, that makes me sad.

What doesn’t make me sad is the realization that she never let that expectation stop her from both starting, and seeing projects through to completion, even when interrupted by the frequent checks that momentarily discouraged her.

Like a dog worrying a particularly tough bone, her surrender was nearly always short-lived. Even if it took hours of concentration and exploration of alternatives, she would eventually crack the problem open to savor the sweet taste of success.

Funny. We all experience the momentary setbacks. The disappointment of plans gone awry is common to every one of us.

Every one of us. Our Savior promised us trouble in this world. (John 16:33)

It’s not personal.

Maybe, it’s time to get past the par for the course thinking and get on with finishing the blanket.

Or whatever task God has put in front of us.

We’ll take pride in the result. Even if it’s not what we envisioned to begin with.

We tackle our problems head-on and finish the job.

And, that is the story of our lives.

A bend in the road is not the end of the road. Unless you fail to make the turn.
(Helen Keller ~ Deaf & blind American author/lecturer ~ 1880-1968)

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
(John 16:33 ~ NIV)

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
(Psalm 23:6a ~ KJV)

Meet and Greet

May 4, 2016May 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

We have met the enemy.

“We have met the enemy and they are ours.”

The famous phrase, spoken by Commodore Perry during the War of 1812, was planted in our nation’s consciousness. It was over two hundred years ago, yet the words are still remembered.

Some have turned the words around to change the meaning. We may talk about that a little later.

The naval battle followed one a few months before in which the foe had won decisively, reminding the upstart United States Navy of the storied might of the British fleet. Sailing into the Battle of Lake Erie, victory was anything but certain for Perry’s fleet.

History relates the United States Navy tried their skill and courage against the best the British had to offer, capturing every vessel and man brought against them.

The message seems a little over the top.

We own them. Every one of them.

They are ours.

Commodore Perry knew who his enemy was. He prepared to meet them in battle, placing his ships in just the right position, ordering his men to be at their stations and ready to do their tasks.

I’m not Commodore Perry.

Twice today—that’s right, twice—I’ve thought I had an enemy in my sights. Once, I even opened fire.

Earlier today, an unfamiliar fellow entered the music store and picked a fight with me. Well, that’s not completely true.

He said something with which I disagreed.

The man had the gall to denigrate my favorite brand of guitar strings.

Imagine!

I’ve been putting strings on guitars for over thirty-five years. I’ve sold strings to nearly-famous musicians. I’ve tuned instruments for children barely big enough to hold a guitar on their laps.

He called them over-rated.

I bristled, then shot back.

The enemy! Right here on my premises. Who could blame me?

Turns out—I could blame me. It was only a momentary lapse and I was back-pedaling, suggesting that there might be circumstances I didn’t know about.

He’s not an enemy. He might even turn out to be an ally, someone I’ll need to have my back someday. You never know.

When he left the store, we were friends—almost. But, never enemies.

So, he doesn’t like my favorite strings. So what? At least now I might have another opportunity to convince him.

The way things started out, I never would have had that chance. Never.

Again, late tonight, I nearly opened fire. This time it was on the young man who pulled his motorcycle into the driveway of the vacant house behind mine.

He yelled at my black monsters. Told them to shut up. I get to do that. No one else does.

I went out to yell back—and possibly call the police about the interloper. Instead, I reached my hand over the fence to shake his as I introduced myself to my new neighbor.

Not my enemy. My neighbor.

If you follow my writings, you know my thoughts on neighbors. They’re the ones the Teacher said I have to love. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a requirement.

I sit here in the quiet of these early morning moments—battles done—and contemplate my failures. Oh, not just the two above. I didn’t fare so badly with them. I’m thinking now about a lifetime of engagements.

Engagements with enemies, that is.

Commodore Perry had nothing on me. I’ve fought innumerable battles and conquered countless foes.

He took captives; I took none. It was total annihilation for my enemies. All blasted to Kingdom Come.

Does that offend you? Kingdom Come? It does me too. Now.

Still, it’s what I thought I was doing. Bringing the kingdom of God on earth. Destroying enemies.

Perhaps it’s time to talk about the twisting of the brave Commodore’s message, as I promised earlier.

A popular comic strip in the sixties and seventies, Pogo was written and illustrated by Walt Kelly. On Earth Day in 1970, the little lovable o’possum (the only one of that variety I ever saw) suggested the modification of the victory memorandum.

We have met the enemy and he is us.

It has always been thought of as another way of saying we’re our own worst enemies. In truth, that’s almost certainly what Mr. Kelly intended. He’s not far wrong in many ways.

But, I’d like to suggest a different reading.

I’ve found when I attack people, there is little difference in who we are at the core. When we strip humans down to the basics, clearing away all the facades and all the defenses, we are the same underneath.

It is true in battles over politics, in relational difficulties within families, in cultural differences.

God created mankind in His image.

More than that, He sent His Son to die for mankind—all of it—each person.

If Jesus died for that person I’m doing battle with, could he or she possibly be an enemy?

I am my enemy. My enemy is me.

Not enemies at all.

Still.

Thousands of years after the question was first asked, I still want to know what religious hypocrites everywhere have always wanted to know:

Who is my neighbor? (Luke 10:25-37)

Well, I don’t really want the answer to that question; I just want to get clarification so I can know who my enemy is. I don’t want to know who to love; I want to know who to attack.

I want to love my neighbor and despise my enemy. The problem is, there is only the former.

His love demands it. (Matthew 5:43-48)

Demands it.

The delightful quiet of the late-night is ruined as the voices around me shout in my ears. In this small room by myself, I hear the battle cries.

The political situation in our country demands enemies. You’ve heard the anger, the hatred, the sheer terror that our side will be overrun and destroyed. Liberals, conservatives, moderates—all have named names and gone into attack mode.

The enemy is on our shores, ready to attack. The enemy is closing the doors, denying shelter. The enemy is stingy. The enemy is giving away too much.

All about us the battle rages. It always has.

Grace calls us to higher things. Mercy demands open hands and hearts.

We don’t fight against any human enemy in our battle for our Captain. Not one person. (Ephesians 6:12)

I wonder if it’s time to reach our hands across a few more fences.

Our Creator saw enemies and made us His sons and daughters.

It’s time.

We have met the enemy.

He is us.

Us.

She looked upon Gimli, who sat glowering and sad, and she smiled. And the Dwarf, hearing the names given in his own ancient tongue, looked up and met her eyes; and it seemed to him that he looked suddenly into the heart of an enemy and saw there love and understanding. Wonder came into his face, and then he smiled in answer.
(Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ British writer/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:7-9 ~ NIV)

Keeping the Beat

May 2, 2016May 3, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Rhythm. It’s the building block of all music.

One might even contend it’s foundational for all of life.

Before we learn to sing a pitch, we learn simple rhythms. We bang our cups on the arm of the high chair, later graduating to wooden spoons on Mama’s pots and pans.

The older we get, the more sophisticated the beat. Sitting on a wooden structure, such as a stage, where our feet dangle against the side, we find ourselves bumping our heels against it, timidly at first—exploring the resonance and tonality, then boldly, with authority and style.

We find we like beating on things in rhythm, moving from there to drumming with our fingers on desktops (to the great annoyance of our school teachers), then using other implements such as pencils and sticks (especially effective if dragged across the top of a picket or dog-eared privacy fence).

Each one of us has an innate sense of rhythm, waiting to be developed.

I’m not saying we’re all adept at keeping the beat with what goes on around us, just that rhythm itself is a part of our very being. From our mother’s heartbeat inside the womb, and the muffled music we hear vaguely there, we are programmed from our conception to respond to rhythm.

It never stops throughout our lives.

Clocks ticking, hammers pounding, feet marching, swings moving to and fro, the beat goes on unstopped. Oh, they are different rhythms, but it is indeed basic to our existence.

A friend pointed out the elemental aspect of rhythm the other day, as we bemoaned the lack of that same simplicity in the word we use to describe it.

Was there ever such a screwball word used to describe what one would expect to be a simple function? We were actually arguing about whether the word rhythm has two syllables; he maintained it does; I say it does not, since there is no point at which the word can be hyphenated.

His response eventually was this, “Why is it that a word—rhythm—which represents a bodily property that must arrive naturally and by instinct, should be so unnatural and counter-instinctive in its construction?”

It is a good question, but as I thought about it, I began to realize he is not completely correct. More accurately, he hasn’t included all the essential elements of the issue in his premise.

We do, indeed, arrive at our own rhythm “naturally and by instinct”, but it is heavily influenced by our environment and our education. Both of these things vary greatly from person to person, so it stands to reason that the natural rhythm of life will also vary just as much from person to person.

Is this a little too esoteric a discussion for you folks?

Let me try to bring it around to a point where you will be at least slightly interested.

I make no promises…

I am remembering a time when I was about thirteen years old. I had missed a day or two of junior high school and coming back, realized suddenly in band class that I had missed more than just the hours of drudgery which school embodied to a young teenage boy.

Mr. Olson had some odd notes drawn on the blackboard and he pointed to them, saying (just as if we should all understand the statement), “Remember the triplets we talked about the other day? You’ll see them in this piece we’re about to play.”

I looked at the notes, realizing they were shaped exactly like an eighth note, but instead of two of them hooked together, there were three.

Why, anyone knows you can only have two eighth notes in one beat! What was this madness? Three eighth notes tied together? That would have to be a beat and a half!

And that is what I attempted to play as the whole band read the music together. It didn’t work. They played those three notes on their one beat, while I played them on my one and a half beats.

We didn’t finish up at the same time. It wasn’t beautiful music.

After a little remedial instruction and an Aha! moment or two, I learned how the triplet worked, but it was awfully strange for me to know I was correct in my application of the rules of rhythm, only to be out of step with everyone around me.

I learned that when playing with others, a common understanding of the basics is pretty essential.

But, I don’t want you to believe it is imperative that all the instruments in a band must play the same rhythm. In fact, that would be incredibly dull.

Using the understanding we have of music theory, most instruments will often play very different rhythms throughout a piece.

Eighth note triplets (three to a beat) are frequently played against regular eighth notes (two to a beat), while other voices may play whole notes (four beats) or even dotted quarter notes (one and a half beats).

Each instrumentalist carefully counts and plays his or her notes at the precise point in the measure at which it is written.

The result is intricate and beautiful music, with melody and countermelody, along with rhythmic harmonies. All the parts flow together, even though they play their assigned rhythm, seemingly at odds with the others.

Is the point of my prattling beginning to become slightly more clear?

Let me see if I can tie it up in a neat package for you then.

Throughout our lives, we live in concert with other players. Some, we will share a common rhythm with, having learned basically the same lessons and arrived at the same conclusions.

Others, who will come alongside us at times during our lives, have a different idea of the rhythm of life.

There will be those with whom we may not be able to blend, but it is essential we make the attempt. We may soon find the contrast of their triplets against our duple eighth notes enriches the music in a spectacular way.

The driving oomp of the tubas on the downbeats, when combined with the uplifting pahs of the horns on the upbeats will inexplicably help to add purpose and determination to the steps in the march of life.

Will we make beautiful music with everyone? Probably not.

I have known a few folks with whom I could find no common meter, the skewed pattern of our differences causing confusion and dissension. With these few, we have had to agree to disagree and go our separate ways, since the resulting cacophony is worse than any potential benefit.

But we try.

And, we don’t disrespect these folks because of our differences. Like the confusing word we started out with, there are some who hear a different beat in their heads and they follow it. (Was that one syllable or two?)

It’s fair to speculate that the Conductor of this great symphony will sort things out in the end, bringing it all to a resounding and beautiful conclusion.

Until then, I’ll keep working on my skills, attempting to come in on the correct beat, and counting the rests as accurately as I can.

I see some more of those triplets coming up soon and I want to be ready for them. Maybe you’ll count along with me on your half notes.

Rhythm.

Time to find the beat.

The rhythm of life continues. Really.

Or, if you prefer the Sonny and Cher version, “And the beat goes on.”

If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men.
(Romans 12:18 ~ NASB)

If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.

(Henry David Thoreau~American essayist~1817-1862)

No More Mr. Nice Guy

April 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You realize you’re a legend in this town, don’t you?”

I think I may have snorted. I didn’t mean to. The thirty-something rocker was paying me a compliment. And, he was dead serious.

“I mean it. Whenever anybody I know needs something for their guitar, they don’t say, I’m going to the music store; they say, I’m going to see Paul.”

I’m pretty sure I didn’t snort this time. Still, I stared at the young man with a dumb look on my face as I tried to think of something brilliant to say.

You know, it’s hard to say just the right thing when someone compliments you like that. I always look for ways to deflect the praise—usually mumbling something that sounds grateful while at the same time denying any special merit.

The man in front of me today wasn’t having it. He charged into the subject, laying out personal praise mixed with a story or two he had heard. He had evidence and was going to be heard.

I was kind, even though embarrassed, and let him talk for a few moments more. Then, I closed the conversation with a lame comment about big fishes in little ponds, and waved him out the front door cheerfully.

What a disaster!

Why is it so hard to tell the truth to people like that? I know the words to stop the flow of praise and compliments. Cold.

I should say them.

I said them yesterday. He forced me to. The guitar player—you know—the one who was wandering through the streets of New Orleans in one of my recent tales.

We had been bemoaning the habits of certain customers and also discussing the merits of certain practices in the business world. He is in management at a local retail business, so he understands the dynamic of customer relations, too.

Offhandedly, I suggested that he already knew the reason I treat my customers the way I do. I merely said it to prove a point and move on in the conversation to fun things. He wasn’t taking the bait.

“Why do you treat them the way you do?” The mischievous grin on his face had just enough stubborn around the edges that I knew I would have to give an answer.

Trapped!

I said the words—the same words I should have said today—and he just nodded his head and smiled.

It’s not my gig. God is the one I represent. I follow His Son. How could it be any different?

And yet, today I had the opportunity to say those same words and I stuttered and nodded.

I want to be remembered as a nice guy.

The thing is, I’m not a nice guy.

On my own, I gripe and I complain; I nag and I fuss; I insist on my way and I say nasty things about people behind their backs.

So what I really want is for people to believe the lie that I’m a nice guy. Because, on my own, that’s all it is. A lie.

But, I’m not on my own. I haven’t been for a long time.

The truth of the matter is, God works in me both to want what He wants and to do it. (Philippians 2:13)

He’s the Nice Guy.

Not me.

The Apostle who was also known as The Rock, suggested to his readers that they always should be ready to give an answer for the faith living inside of them. (1 Peter 3:15)

You know, nice guys don’t steal.

And yet, I am a thief.

When I keep the glory that belongs to the One who lives within me, I steal from Him. When I lay claim to the brilliant planning it takes to run a successful business, I steal from the Giver of all good gifts.

Every single good thing comes from Him. (James 1:17)

Every single one.

He’s the Nice Guy. He’s the Gift-Giver—the Truth-Teller—the Master-Mind behind this outfit.

It’s not my gig.

My friend was right. I need to say the words. I intend to, again and again.

Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to do things right.

Grace is an astounding gift!

I might even introduce a few people to the real Nice Guy.

How hard can this be?

Every rascal is not a thief, but every thief is a rascal.
(Aristotle ~ Greek philosopher ~ 384 BC-322 BC)

…for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure. Do all things without grumbling or disputing, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world.
(Philippians 2:13-15 ~ ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips