Hunting Cats Don’t Purr

April 25, 2016April 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He doesn’t hate cats. He never has.

It’s just that my Dad thought cats should earn their keep. In an environment rich in prey for the furry felines, he expected them to do what God created them to do.

We didn’t feed the cats a lot.

They did their jobs.

Many hours were spent in my childhood, watching the sneaky critters hunt mice and lizards around the various buildings on the property. Stealthily and patiently, they would wait for just the right moment. Any error in calculation would result in missing the kill. Hunger was the result.

They became quite skilled at their task.

Even the most elusive of prey can be caught.

On several occasions, I would notice the cat giving up after waiting for a long period of time, only to return the next day or week. Nothing escaped them forever.

A few times, they were even lucky enough to find the nest of a cottontail rabbit. The fat little bunnies were no match for the cunning hunters. We were always unhappy to see the result of these forays.

But we were never as sad as the lady of the house was when she found the feathers of her beloved songbirds scattered in the yard, the result of some stealthy, sneaky kitty’s hunt. A slink—a crouch—a spring in the air, and the deed was done. I think she would have rather fed the cats daily than have the sweet songs of those winged creatures fall silent.

Nevertheless, I also remember the times when we set the feast out for the brood of feline hunters. Scraps from the table, perhaps the leftover from one of our fishing trips, would find their way out to the porch on saucers.

The purring kitties would devour the meal in seconds, with heads raised immediately to see if more was forthcoming. When it wasn’t, the cats would wander away to lie in the shade, still purring, those plump mounds where their hungry bellies had been now gorged with the bounty.

Funny thing. The next day they would return to the place they had been fed, in hopes that the generosity would be repeated. When it wasn’t, they slunk away disappointed. Usually, after the second day with no repetition in the feeding, they would return to their usual activities, once more catching mice and other prey.

It wasn’t a bad system. My father believed that things should work the way God designed them to. Cats are hunters.

Some may think it cruel to have let them fend for themselves. In this day and age, we pamper our pets, providing beds and central heat/air for them. Offering them gourmet meals, we wouldn’t think of making them hunt.

Dad believed them capable, and they proved themselves to be all that and more. Not one ever starved.

But beyond the discussion of our treatment of pets, I have to wonder: Do things actually work the way God created them to?

There is a deeper truth to be found here. We may have to hunt for it a little while.

It may take some skill.

Truth is so elusive at times.

Why is it that sometimes we have to struggle so hard to find it? I have questions—questions for which I need answers—but they are nowhere to be found.

Years, I have sought the answers in some cases. It is true that many have been revealed.

But many more, I still seek for.

And perhaps, that is the deeper truth we can learn from the feline creatures.

The hunt for truth, God’s truth, is a lifelong quest. Wisdom and knowledge, of who He is and what He desires of us, depend on it.

Our relationships depend on finding it.

Why then is it so hard to find sometimes? There are seasons when I feel I’m wandering in a desert, with nothing to be found. There is no truth, no direction, no comfort to be seen anywhere.

But, I remember the words of the Teacher, the one who wandered in the desert Himself, hungry and thirsty:

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. They will be filled. (Matthew 5:6)

In the desert, we can still find His truth. The water He provides still quenches thirst, even if it does have to be wrung from the cactus plant.

I remember too, that He has plans to bless us, and not plans to harm. He wants to train us for a future, and a hope. If we seek Him with everything within us, He promises—promises—to be found. (Jeremiah 29:11-13)

There will be time for rejoicing later. The day is coming!

Until then, we hunt. We seek. We examine.

It is enough.

Before you get depressed about the desert, I wonder if I can remind you of something?

The same God who designed us to hunt in the desert also leads us by the still waters and prepares a feast for us. (Psalm 23)

The same God who sends us to wait in the wilderness sometimes simply puts the saucer down on the floor and calls out, “Here Kitty, Kitty.”

Taste it! Taste it and find that the Lord is good. (Psalm 34:8)

Full is good.

Is that purring I hear?

Where I found truth, there I found my God, who is the truth itself.
(Augustine of Hippo ~ Early Christian theologian ~ 354-430)

O God, thou art my God; early will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is;To see thy power and thy glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary.
(Psalm 63:1-2 ~ KJV)

Tools of the Trade

April 24, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He had watched the sun come up from his vantage point on the western bank of the rolling river, the Mighty Mississippi, while listening to the dulcet tones of the old trumpet player.

With tears still in his eyes, he turned away to wander back into Jackson Square, just as the city of New Orleans was waking. The restaurants were busy, the coffee shops crowded, but he hadn’t come to eat.

For two hours or more, he wandered the streets, finding exactly what he was seeking. He had forced himself out of bed while it was still dark just so he could listen to the street musicians.

And listen, he did.

No slouch of a guitar player himself, he was anxious to sample the varied fare this aged city had to offer. There was no disappointment in the search.

At first.

From street corners and even in the alleys, the city is full of people with their talents on display. Many do it for the love of their craft, others simply to have enough to fill their stomachs.

The seeker stopped for a few moments at one corner to listen to the two women playing classical music, a departure from the normal street fare in this city of jazz and blues. Speaking for a moment with another man standing nearby, he learned that both were music professors in nearby universities.

He even dropped a dollar or two in the open violin case and moved on. Most of the musicians he listened to were not as well educated, but he avers that all were just as talented.

Except one.

The street-worn fellow had a good quality guitar sitting on his lap. The ancient Guild six-string might have seen better days, but it was a fine instrument.

Still, he never played a single chord.

Our friend wondered why this was so and walked a bit nearer to the bench the aging man was occupying. It did seem to him that the fellow was old, but he really is not sure. Living on the streets will age a person long before his time. He might have been as young as thirty or as old as sixty. It was hard to tell.

As he drew near, though, the tourist saw the problem. While there should have been six, the old acoustic guitar had only three metal strings stretched out along the length of the fingerboard. Even those were old and corroded.

The other street musicians had played for whatever money the passersby would toss in their hats or cases, but this fellow had a different tack.

“Say, could you give me the money to buy a set of strings?”

Our friend almost fell for the scam. After all, what was five or six dollars? Give the old guy enough to buy a set of strings so he could earn a living–how could that go wrong?

Then he had an idea.

“I saw a music store up the block a ways. How about you and I go and we’ll get a set put on your guitar? I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

The old guy wasn’t amused. That was the last thing he wanted.

“No. I’ll just take the money for the strings.”

The tourist talked with him for just a minute more. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the money would be used for. There was never to be a new set of strings on the guitar. It would never play a song on that street corner–ever.

The fellow with the guitar knew how to make money with his guitar, he just couldn’t play it.

The superbly crafted instrument, with the potential for making sweet music lifting the spirit to the heavens, or bringing tears to the eyes of hardened men who listened, was nothing but a prop for an act. If it had strings on it, he couldn’t make a dime with it.

He wasn’t a musician at all, just a man with a scam—a fraud—to be perpetrated on any unsuspecting tourist who came by.

Our friend moved on, disappointed.

I listen to the story and my mind wanders.

I remember the fellow to whom I gave a ride one day, not long ago. I drove him twenty miles out of my way and handed him all the cash I had in my pocket. He told me he would use it to purchase a bus ticket to make it home to his wife and kids, who were hundreds of miles away.

Two days later, as he wandered past my music store, it was a shock to realize that I had been played.

Then there was that other fellow I loaned money to, just until he got paid from his new job. The job was a lie. So was the payback.

The stories, just like the street musician with his guitar, are merely the tools of the trade, designed to achieve a purpose, but never to become reality.

Just as quickly, my mind shifts gears again, and I wonder how many folks I have conned, in much the same way—people who have poured resources into my life, with the promise that changes would be made, never to see or hear a result.

How am I any different from the old fellow down in the French Quarter, with his beautiful guitar which never will make music?

Still, I show up time after time, with habits which need to be broken, sins which need to be repented of, steps which never seem to be taken.

And, no music is ever heard.

How about it? Got a few broken strings yourself?

Have there been promises made of changes to come, with nary a hint of actual rehabilitation? Do you come and sit on the same street corner every day, or perhaps every week, with the same broken strings; always with the promise to show up with a playable instrument the next time?

I’m guessing that if we look deep inside, we’ll all find the broken promises, the scams, the assurances which we don’t seem to ever quite fulfill. Like the man on the street corner, we have figured out how to make the system work for us, always thinking that we’ll make it right–someday.

Personally, I’m wondering if it’s about time for a new set of strings to be taken down from the wall.

There will be a good bit of grime to be cleaned away before they can be installed, but the basic instrument was made well. I’m confident that when the job is done, there will be some excellent music heard.

It’s just the process of cleaning and stretching, then cutting and tuning that I’m not real sure of.

It all sounds a bit painful.

Ah well, I know the Maker of the music, the Master Luthier.

I’m thinking the final result will be worth it all.

His work never fails to produce gorgeous music. Maybe it’s time to put my hat down on the street.

Why don’t you come too?

We might make some great music together!

Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter,
Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;
Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness,
Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.
(from Rescue The Perishing ~ Fannie Crosby ~ American hymn writer ~ 1820-1915)

During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.
(George Orwell ~ English novelist ~ 1903-1950)

Reaching

April 21, 2016April 21, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I think I first heard the insult from one of my brothers. He didn’t make it up himself.

Maybe you’ve heard it, too.

“Well, I. . .”

“That’s a deep subject—for such a shallow mind.”

It was funny the first twenty times. Eventually, I learned to start my sentences without the mention of the water source.

I thought about it again today when my young friend interrupted my monologue about some things I’ve been pondering recently.

“Those are some big thoughts you’ve been having, Paul.”

In my head, I immediately finished the idea for him.

. . .for such a tiny brain.

He didn’t say the words and probably didn’t even think them, but still—I couldn’t help but wonder. The red headed lady who raised me used to say it differently.

“You’re getting a little too big for your britches, Bub.”

It’s a funny thing, though. I remember her buying me bigger pants when I outgrew the ones I was wearing. Same thing with shoes, and shirts.

She didn’t want me to stay a small person. From her diminutive height of five feet and four inches she looked up to her taller sons, two of us eventually reaching six feet, with pride.

She never wanted anything else but for us to grow. She never wanted anything less than for us to reach further.

Parents are like that, you know.

Somehow, much of society wants nothing more than to pull us back into the teeming mass of the everyday.

Don’t get above your roots!

Remember where you came from!

Time and time again, the crowd pulls us down and reminds us that we need to fit in—to conform.

Ah, but I remember being in crowds with my Dad. When you’re a kid, crowds are a pain. You can’t see anything—can’t get anywhere.

But, with Dad, all I had to do was ask and, within seconds I was sitting on his shoulders, above the crowd. No more looking through legs and around fat torsos. No more stumbling and being shoved.

Parents are like that, you know.

But the day comes when the child is too big to sit on shoulders, too heavy to be carried through the crowd. By then, they’ve learned to stand on their own feet and to see far ahead of the crowd. One would hope anyway.

I encouraged and aided my own son to adulthood and then, stood aside and bragged. Well, not exactly bragged. But, I still remember the first time a co-worker of his praised his abilities and his work ethic.

Ha! The first time? I remember the last time it happened, just a day past.

Parents are like that, you know.

And a voice came from heaven, telling them, “This is my only Son. I am exceedingly pleased with Him.” (Matthew 1:5)

Evidently, there is another Father who wants His children to excel.

He gives us the tools to do just that—lifting us when we can’t see, carrying us when we can’t walk, encouraging us as we gain strength and wisdom.

Parents are like that, you know.

One has to wonder: Why is it we seem to be satisfied, all too often, with the norm?

Why do we stay a part of the crowd, when we have the advantages we’ve been given?

Why are we afraid to grow? Why are we afraid to excel? Why are we afraid to stand tall?

I wonder. Surely I’m not the only one with big ideas (rattling around in a tiny brain).

Perhaps, it’s time we started acting on the big ideas.

It seems likely that we’ve stood on the edge of the dream for too long. I think I hear a voice, almost like that of Aslan the Lion in the Chronicles of Narnia, calling us further up and further in.

Still encouraging. Still calling.

Parents are like that, you know.

He turned swiftly round, crouched lower, lashed himself with his tail and shot away like a golden arrow.
“Come further in! Come further up!” he shouted over his shoulder.
(from The Last Battle ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English theologian/author ~ 1898-1963)

Now look here, gal, you’d better be yourself
And leave that other stuff on the shelf
You’re country, baby
That’s plain to see

Don’t get above your raisin’
Stay down to earth with me
(Don’t Get Above Your Raising ~ Flatt/Scruggs ~ American Songwriters)

Training Session

April 19, 2016April 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m going out for a training session.

I called out the words to the Lovely Lady as I headed for the door again. She chuckled and reminded me to start my tracking program. It was a reminder that the training session is actually just this old man going out in a vain attempt to fend off the years.

The reality is that she may need to know where I am so the ambulance can be directed to the pick-up spot accurately. I frowned playfully, but I started the program on my smart-phone before I began to trot down the road.

I had just finished the first mile of my three-mile run when I saw them.

The gladiators.

They come to the municipal park every Tuesday evening, weather permitting. Using padded quarter-staffs and blunt wooden swords, along with a few other weapons I couldn’t name, they spar and they dance.

There is instruction. There is competition.

I almost always hear at least one exclamation of dismay as I run past; one warrior has tapped another in a vital part of his anatomy, bringing the bout to a rapid halt.

I confess I often find myself snickering as I pass these modern day jousters each week. It is hard to imagine a circumstance in which the skills they are honing so determinedly will be useful.

There is not much call for swordplay in the workplace these days.

Odd, isn’t it–how we make judgments about people based on their hobbies and leisure time pursuits?

I have seen those young men–sometimes a young lady or two–seriously attempting to perfect their craft, and I have relegated them to the file I keep in my head labeled insignificant and irrelevant.

I repent.

Tonight, as I ran past that gathering of young people, I realized that they had also noticed me in my nightly rounds.

They too, had relegated me to a category in their heads. To my chagrin, they would make that category clear to me on this beautiful, cool evening.

I observed, upon my approach to the grassy area where the group was tussling, a couple of young men, about twenty years old or so, who broke away from the onlookers. They ran on a tangent toward the path upon which I was running.

As they started out, one of the young men demonstrated his athletic prowess by running up a tree that was beside his route and flipping over backwards, landing effortlessly on his feet. Almost without missing a step, he and his companion continued on at a rate of speed which put them on the exercise path directly in front of me.

Then they did something odd.

Slowing down a little, each of them moved to his own side of the path. Given the speed at which I was approaching, I had no choice except to either slow down or move into the gap between them.

I wasn’t slowing down.

As I moved between the two young men, they sped up again to keep pace with me. The fellow on my left spoke first.

“How far have you run tonight?”

I answered him a little warily, still telling the truth—that I had just completed the first mile of the few I intended to run before stopping.

The other young man jumped in. “Wow! You’re still going pretty fast for having already done a mile.”

We bantered back and forth about running speeds and races to be run. Soon we were almost out of the park.

The fellow on my right dropped back all of the sudden.

“I’m done,” he gasped and, holding his side, walked back the other way.

The other boy, who would follow him fairly quickly, had one more thing to say.

“We just wanted to give you a little encouragement tonight. Have a great run!”

I hardly had time to thank him before he too, had turned and begun walking back toward the milling crowd of present-day knights errant, now several hundred yards behind us in the park.

I do. I repent.

I am ashamed. And, encouraged.

I had seen them, sort of. They also saw me, but with keener sight.

The young men in the park noticed an old man running through on his daily quests to depose the black knight of old age from his steed.

The old man, for his part, simply glanced their way, sniffed pompously, and dismissed them completely.

Those young men though—they had looked on a kindred spirit who needed help keeping his resolve and his confidence in place. Unselfishly, they took the initiative to meet his needs.

I have nothing else to say.

Their generosity has left me speechless.

Cups of cool water, shared under the heat of the withering sun, couldn’t have been more timely—or more welcome.

You know, don’t you, that repentance requires one to turn away from wrongdoing and go in the other direction?

Change is coming.

It must.

Therefore, encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.
(I Thessalonians 5:11 ~ NIV)

Our chief want is someone who will inspire us to be what we know we could be.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson ~ American essayist/poet ~ 1803-1882)

Why?

April 18, 2016April 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

She sits and stabs the needle through the material, first down and out of sight, then right back up beside the spot it disappeared. For hours, she does this.

Intricacy. Detail. Painstaking industry. All are parts of what go into the task—the unmitigated drudgery—that is counted cross stitch.

For a few moments tonight, we discussed philosophy. The Lovely Lady doesn’t discuss philosophy—or politics. But tonight, I trapped her. For just a moment or two, I had her talking about why.

It’s a big subject—Why.

I’ve been reading a two-hundred-year-old book. What I mean is, the author penned the words two hundred years ago. The actual volume in my hand is only one century old.

Washington Irving, he of Rip Van Winkle fame, suggests in his Sketch Book (ca. 1819) that writing books is a futile endeavor. The sacrifice of a lifetime for authors, only to slide the fruit of their labors onto an “inch of dusty shelf…and in another age be lost even to remembrance.”

His words started the why bother wheels into motion for me. What is the use of writing? Why would I ever want to publish a book, much less a single essay?

With those heavy thoughts running rampant in my head, I baited the Lovely Lady. She is a fan of mine—perhaps the only one—and has been gently nudging me toward publishing a book of my material.

“I’m rethinking this book idea.”

She listened to my words with disbelief. Then, for a few moments, she did what she doesn’t do; she discussed philosophy with me—the philosophy of useless deeds.

It didn’t take long. After a little give and take, she looked down at her lap and, shaking her handwork in my direction, finished the discussion.

“Why do you think I do this? Some things you do simply for the joy of doing them. If writing doesn’t give you joy, then stop.”

With that, she went back to the tiny stitches again, the needle moving like clockwork, first one way and then the other.

The red-headed lady has a point. But, there is more to it, isn’t there?

I think about the can of worms she has just opened. She sits for hour after hour of what should be her leisure time, and she turns thread and cloth into art. Sometimes, she uses a different needle and turns yarn into blankets—or shawls—or scarves.

Hours, she invests into each item.

She gives them away. Every single one.

Suddenly, in my memory, I am standing in a large plot of plowed dirt watching an old man with a hoe. He is making a small furrow in the dark, damp soil. Reaching into a pocket, he pulls out some tiny black particles, dropping them into the furrow before pulling the dirt right back over them. Tamping them down a little, he smiles and nods as he reaches the end of the row.

Hours, the old man spent in that garden. My father-in-law loved the garden. I guess I should say he loved working in the garden. It was true of him even as a little boy.

He loved thinking about working in the garden. In the middle of the winter, he was poring through seed catalogs, scheming about how he could change the layout next year to include this certain green bean, or that special cabbage type.

As I let the thoughts float in my head, memory mixed with present realities, a truth comes to mind—one I have never considered.

The old man and the Lovely Lady love the same thing. They love planting seeds. Their joy is not in the crop (though they desire that it become reality), but simply in the promise of the seed.

Sowers. That’s what they are. I suppose the bad pun of suggesting the lady is a sew-er would be inexcusable, so we’ll just stick with sower, shall we?

Well, one might say, the old man certainly is that, but how is it true of the Lovely Lady?

It’s easy to see. She spends her hours in preparing the blankets, the scarves, the shawls, and then she buries them in the ground. Well, not literally, but certainly figuratively. She gives them away and her part in their journey is done. What happens next depends on the recipient.

The joy of the sower is in the anticipation. Anticipation of growth, of longevity, of usefulness. He or she is not responsible to ensure these happen, but simply to give them an opportunity.

And with that, I realize that our Creator, benevolent Provider we know Him to be, puts in our hands the things He wishes us to sow.

Music, art, communication, mechanical ability, wealth—all of these and more, He invites us to sow.

We sow, not for the harvest we will reap, but simply for the joy of doing what He has made us to do.

He tells us to work industriously at whatever we put our hand to—not for our own reward or to reap the harvest for ourselves, but in His name and for His glory. (Colossians 3:17)

I can’t skip over the hard truths, along with the pleasant ones, though. The seeds don’t always take root. They often meet misfortunes along the way.

It is hard not to take it personally when that happens.

When you see an item over which you labored long hours selling in a garage sale for a few cents, it’s easy to lose heart. I’ve stood with the Lovely Lady in flea markets, as she sadly fingers the work of others, now languishing in a strange place, awaiting some stranger who will see the beauty and appreciate the love that went into its creation.

I wonder; do you suppose the One who sows His love and grace in our hearts, stands and weeps as He sees how far astray we’ve gone? It is what we are wont to do with His gifts, devaluing them and disregarding the Giver.

Still, He plants and cultivates—and sows again.

I will be a sower. It is my calling.

It is our calling.

It’s a difficult undertaking. We want the compensation. We want the glory. We want the fame.

He calls us to sing songs that never make the top lists—or any list at all. He calls us to invest in others with no chance of a profit for ourselves. He calls us to cook meals that others will eat—and perhaps complain about.

He calls us to write books that will sit on the shelf awaiting that one person who will open the aging tome and be changed forever—even if it doesn’t happen until we’ve been gone a year, or a hundred years.

He calls us to give cups of cool water—even if we’re the ones who are thirsty.

The joy is in doing what He has put in our hands and hearts to do.

The beauty is in giving the gift.

The reward is in obedience.

Seeds are made to be planted.

It’s time to work in the garden.

My point is this: The person who sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and the person who sows generously will also reap generously.
(2 Corinthians 9:6 ~ NET)

Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment, lingering transiently in echo, and then passing away like a thing that was not!
(from The Sketch Book ~ Washington Irving ~ American author ~ 1783-1859)

Dead Trees and Broken Promises

April 15, 2016April 15, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The tree is dead. Dead.

To say I am unhappy would be truthful. But, I think it goes even deeper than that.

I feel betrayed.

Twelve years ago, the Lovely Lady and I put a sapling in the ground. We were careful to follow all the recommendations of the nursery from which we purchased the beautiful little promise of a tree.

Well? That’s what it was—was it not?

It was a promise of shady spaces and wind rustling through green leaves. The promise of branches for grandchildren (not yet born) to climb upon in summertime and of brilliant purples of autumn splendor.

A promise—that’s what it was.

A broken promise. Now.

Day after day I look out to see if anything has changed. Every other plant in the neighborhood has burst out in green celebration of the new life Spring entices to accompany itself.

Already, I’ve had to trim a foot of new growth from the hedge on the opposite end of the front yard, so rapid has been its exuberant development.

I’ve told you about the magnificent scarlet maple around the corner in the backyard and its fantastic enterprise of repopulating the world. Since its emissaries of choice, the spinning jennies floating on the spring breezes, have already done their part, the stately tree has simply covered itself in greenery and is content.

But, what of the twenty-foot-tall ash tree in the front yard?

Nothing. No buds. No leaves.

Nothing.

It’s dead.

As often as I walk past it, I break off a little twig and test for life. The dead wood snaps like a match stick. Every time.

There will be no shade this year. Not long from now, if my grandson grabs a limb and pulls himself up onto it, as he did only last week, the limb will give way under his weight.

Broken limb. Broken promise.

I feel betrayed. Angry even.

I know, I know—it’s just a tree. But, I’m not the first to feel this way. Others have been angry at the loss of their shade, too.

Take Jonah, for instance. He sat on the hillside, ready to watch a spectacle (though fairly certain it wouldn’t happen) and enjoyed the shade of the plant under which he rested. When it shriveled the next day, he was angry. (Jonah 4:6-8)

He wanted to die. Angry at God for taking his shade, he begged to be allowed to die.

I’m not that mad, but the message of Jonah is starting to get through my thick skull anyway.

There was never a promise made to me with regard to this tree. The Creator of all we know allows us to enjoy His gifts. And, sometimes He takes one away.

In my experience, when He takes away, He gives something better. I don’t think there’s any promise of that, but it seems to be the way He works.

Often, I think we miss this message when we blame God for the loss of other things which are precious to us. We forget that He is God. We forget that He is looking at all of time and history as His plan unfolds.

Still, the losses hurt. We wonder if we’ve been betrayed. Anger rises.

But, the tree was never mine. The things we have lost were always His.

There is a promise I remember about trees. The promise, spoken beautifully by the psalmist in one of my favorite pieces of poetry, is clear. (The entire Psalm will be found below, in the old English as I first heard it, years ago.)

The upright person, one who loves God and wants nothing or no one else, is going to be like a tree planted by the river, with roots going down deep into the fertile soil.

No withered greenery here—no brittle limbs that snap under the fingers—no barren branches. In every season, this tree will produce its prescribed crop. Every time.

A promise, not of immense wealth, nor of fame and renown, but of faithfulness and a legacy.

I don’t have to remind you of the rest of the promise, do I? The psalmist spent no more time on it than will I:

Reject Him and what little impact you have on your world will fade and disappear with a strong wind.

A sobering thought. Both parts of the promise, I mean.

Sobering.

I think I like the idea of trees with roots that go down deep.

Maybe the next one I plant will be like that. No promises.

But, that other tree?

Our Creator keeps His promises.

Green leaves. Fruit, in season. Bounty.

I like trees.

You?

God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars.
(Martin Luther ~ German theologian/reformer ~ 1483-1546)

Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.
But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.
And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

The ungodly are not so: but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.
Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.
For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish.
(Psalm 1 ~ KJV)

When the Music Stops

April 12, 2016April 12, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I can’t see you.

I was out on a run this evening when her message arrived. Having nearly completed the first mile of a gentle three-mile run, I was feeling pretty good.

The music in my headphones suddenly stopped and the harsh clang of the message indicator hammered my eardrums. I glanced down at my phone, held tightly in the plastic-and-velcro carrier on my arm. The Lovely Lady had words for me.

I stopped. When she talks, I listen. Well, most of the time, I listen. Sometimes, I just appear to be listening. Perhaps, we’ll leave that subject for another day.

She couldn’t see my progress along the route on which I was running. The fitness program I use not only tells me how far and fast I’ve run, it sends a GPS signal to other interested parties, showing where I am.

She’s interested. I’m only half-teasing when I say she needs to know where to send the ambulance.

But tonight, she couldn’t see me.

I made a change or two to the phone while standing alongside the road, sending a message back right before trotting on my way.

“Can you see me now?”

It took a few moments for her negative reply to arrive, but I was already back to full speed, and didn’t want to stop again. I sent a curt, almost insensitive message.

“I’m just going to keep running. Sorry.”

The problem is fixed now, so there shouldn’t be a repeat of her trepidation the next time I head out to feed the fitness bug.

She needs to see me.

I know the feeling.

There are days, a lot like today—no, just like today—when I stop in the midst of all the commotion and overpowering sense of futility, and say the words. Sometimes, I say them right out loud—sometimes I shout them in the vacuum of my spirit.

Where are you, God? In all of this—this pointless exertion—are You here?

I can’t see Him.

On top of the commotion, a longtime friend’s mother was laid to rest today; and a young lady, whose acquaintance I made a few years back when she attended the local university, sent news that her father passed away early this morning. Another friend is grieving the loss of her granddaughter, only a year old.

I can’t speak for them. I simply know it is at times like these when I want most to know that God is near. And it is, for some strange reason, at times like these when I can’t see Him.

I can’t see Him.

And the music, which is the joy of life, has stopped. Either that, or I just can’t hear the sweet melodies and harmonies in my ears like I could before. Regardless, the silence is unbearable.

Blind and deaf, I stand—wondering if I’ll ever see Him again—uncertain if the sweet music will ever begin again.

It’s funny. If you stand in darkness and silence for awhile, the senses are sharpened.

Even now, I can almost hear the whisper—if I try.

I will never leave you or forsake you. (Deuteronomy 31:6)

I won’t leave you as orphans. The world won’t see me, but you will. (John 14:18-19)

Even when you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, nothing evil will touch you. (Psalm 23:4)

The longer we listen to the whisper of His voice, the easier it is to hear. In the quiet, He speaks to our spirits.

We only have to listen.

Still. I want to see Him.

I’m remembering today that we’re not home yet. Here, we see dimly.

There? Face to face. Clearly.

On that day, with our loved ones (if they were His followers), we’ll see Him.

What a glorious thought!

We’ll see Him.

That’s funny. I think I can hear music again, too. You know, there’ll be music in that place, as well. The thought brings joy.

I want to see Him. He does give glimpses here at times. Enough to give us courage. And strength.

So, I’ll keep walking.

You too?

We could walk together.

I’d like that.

So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord,for we walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him.
(2 Corinthians 5:6-9 ~ ESV)

Open our eyes Lord
We want to see Jesus,
To reach out and touch Him
And say that we love Him.
(from Open Our Eyes, Lord ~ Robert Cull ~ American pastor/songwriter)

Still Here

April 8, 2016April 8, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Okay. 1020 Jasper Street in Palmyra, New York. Is that right?”

“No! Elmira, New York. Elmira!”

I am, once again, struggling. Even on my best days, I find communications confusing. Frustrating, even.

Today is no different.

It seems that the older I get, the more difficult it is to distinguish between differing dialects. Bad phone lines don’t help.

My new friend on the telephone, a customer in the East who needs a product my company is offering for sale, has labored to make this Southern boy understand at several points along the way.

I fear I have finally crossed the line and offended her.

“I’m so sorry. I just keep making mistakes.”

At times like this, I feel like a failure as a businessman.

Her response is instant. Gently, she says, “I’m still here on the line. It’s not too late to get it right.”

A few moments later, after some laughter and a little more stumbling, we say goodbye. I hang up the telephone and sit in silence. Her words ring in my head.

It’s not too late. . .

I wonder.

I snapped at a friend yesterday. In attempting to fulfill a task I had volunteered for, he had the misfortune to be the last in a line of folks who had played the too-busy-card.

“Everyone’s busy. I’m busy. She’s busy.” I jerked my chin to nod in the general direction of the Lovely Lady standing nearby. “We’re doing it anyway. What’s busy got to do with it?”

I’m a failure as a friend.

I would like to not feel the way I do today about that conversation.

Is it too late to fix that?

My beautiful granddaughter sat on my lap during the early service at church recently. As the sermon began, she found she needed something solid under her bulletin to be able to write the answers to the questions. You can’t write lightly with a crayon, you know.

A quick glance down the row in front of us made it plain the hymnals were all in use. The nearest one was in front of her daddy, four or five chairs away.

Knowing a whisper wouldn’t suffice, she made sure there was some volume to her call down the row. “Daddy! Daddy! Da….”

I clapped my hand over her mouth and, leaning down near her ear, whispered sharply, “What’s wrong with you? You know we don’t do that in church!”

Instantly—instantly—I was sorry. The hurt in her eyes as they looked up into my face spoke louder than any response she could have shouted at me.

The hurt in my heart matches the hurt in her eyes.

I’m a failure as a grandpa.

Is it too late to fix that?

There is so much more to say. I’m just not sure I’m the one who should say the words.

I shipped the order; I apologized to my friend; I even held the little girl close and made sure she knew I wasn’t upset.

There is more to do. I am sure I’m the one who should take action.

I am grateful for a Savior who gives second chances. I am grateful for people around me who are willing to do the same.

I am grateful for the opportunity to do better next time. And the time after that.

It’s not too late.

The line is still open.

Life and hope. They walk hand in hand.

We’re still breathing.

The more ugly, older, more cantankerous, more ill and poorer I become, the more I try to make amends by making my colors more vibrant, more balanced, and beaming.
(Vincent van Gogh ~ Dutch artist ~ 1853-1890)

Love does no wrong to a neighbor. . .
(Romans 13:10a ~ ESV)

Spinning Jenny

April 7, 2016April 7, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I actually felt bad as I accelerated away from the stop sign. It was only a momentary thing.

I had noticed a number of the distinctive seed pods from the maple tree on the windshield of my truck as I left home, but didn’t take the time to brush them off. The cause of my short-lived remorse was simply the thought of removing the seeds so far from their parent tree, a gorgeous scarlet maple that stands in my backyard, not twenty feet from where I write tonight.

It was a foolish thing, but I can’t help it. I seem to have foolish tendencies sometimes. It may run in my family.

Then again, it may run in the entire human race.

I smiled as I shoved down on the accelerator, imagining how it appeared from behind the truck. The helicoptering seed pods were caught by the wind and brushed up and over the cab of the truck, to spin in the blustery gale.

I planted maple trees all the way to my destination.

I have been fascinated with the fantastic little helicopters all of my adult life.

To me, the magic of Spring is encapsulated in those wonderful winged vehicles. Oh yes—they are indeed vehicles of mass transportation, moving hundreds of thousands of seeds from the parent tree to a resting place on the ground.

Some of them fall immediately under the tree, where they will languish, perhaps springing up temporarily, but perishing for lack of sunlight and virgin earth in which to sink their roots.

Others will be shanghaied, as were those I planted during my morning outing in the truck, and will be carried to places far away. They’ll never be reunited with their sires, but they perhaps, will grow to prodigious heights themselves and populate a different corner of their world.

The great majority of them will spin and blow from the limbs of the stately tree to nearby destinations, sailing as far as the limitations of their physical design will allow. If the circumstances are right, a single maple sapling will arise from the spot in which each of them alights.

If.

Imagine, if you will, the feeling of hanging from the parent tree in Spring. By the thousands, the little pods develop over the course of a few weeks as the days lengthen and become warmer. The seasonal rains do their part, as well.

What a sensation! Not a thing in the world to be feared, with food whenever it’s needed. Clinging tightly to the limb, there is protection from the elements close to the warmth and strength of the great structure with its roots going down deep into the soil below.

The wind blows and the pod simply swings, secure in its place. It spins a bit and wonders about the odd sensation, but is calmed quickly with the reassurance of security and safety.

But today—today—the wind blew thousands of the little helicopters off of the tree. Imagine that feeling!

I can’t help but think the first reaction would be one of pure panic. No more safety. No more comfortable assurance of things going on as they always have. Questions rush to mind.

Where will I stop?

What if I get sick on the way to where I’m going?

What will I find there?

How will I get on?

Who will care for me?

Somehow, I envision the sensations changing as the spinning continues.

This isn’t so bad!

I could do this for awhile.

Why was I so afraid?

Did I call these little life conveyances an example of the magic of Spring? I think magic may be too fanciful a word, although for some, the reality may stretch the boundaries of faith even more than the thought of magic.

The master design by the Creator of everything is far beyond the ken of our puny intellect. From the largest of intelligent beings to the smallest of plants, He has planned the perpetuation of each species in ways we could never have imagined possible.

I gazed in wonder at the maple tree earlier this evening, my inferior brain attempting to take in the scope of all the samaras hanging under the tender leaf shoots which have only this week begun to appear.

Samara is the scientific term for the spectacular seed conveyances which are now spinning into the air everywhere. I prefer the name the children in Northern England use for the mysterious devices.

Spinning Jenny, they call the helicopter-like seedpod, as they toss it again and again into the air.

Spinning Jennies. I may always call them that, until the day I turn loose from the tree I hang from myself.

Ah. At last we come to it.

Our Creator did not forget humans in His design for perpetuating the species. And no, as incredible as is the process of procreation in mankind, I’m not referring to how we keep the species going physically.

I’m considering a more spiritual thought as I make the comparison. And, I assume that most who read these words are followers of Christ—believers—as I am.

He called us to leave the place of comfort. He called us to minister to all the world. He called us to die daily—to take up our cross and follow Him. (Luke 9:23)

And, just as quickly as that idea blows the winds of change over us, we feel ourselves spinning and falling, borne away from comfort, and ease, and all that is familiar.

I smiled earlier at the thought of the cute Spinning Jennies flying through the air.

I’m not smiling anymore.

They are falling to their death. To their death.

It is a sobering thought.

And the Teacher said, “Except a grain of wheat fall to the ground and die, it remains alone.”

It’s a steep price to pay for a fantastic, exciting, scary journey.

But, think of it my friends! The ultimate payoff is life itself.

Life itself.

For ourselves and for those we bring with us.

The trees know.

Is it time to let go yet?

A price will be paid.

It will.

Oh. But, what a ride!

Time to let go.

Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.
(John 12:24 ~ NASB)

Oh! The places you’ll go!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers!
who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’t.
Because sometimes, you won’t.
(from Oh The Places You’ll Go ~ Theodor Seuss Geisel ~ American children’s author ~ 1904-1991)

People Change

April 5, 2016April 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The tears flow more easily these days. I can’t explain it. It’s not as if there’s any good reason—a daughter’s wedding for instance, or a totaled vintage sports car.

I apologized for embarrassing the Lovely Lady at the concert the other night. She just smiled and suggested that it doesn’t bother her at all. I’m going to take her at her word.

The concert? Oh, it was just a performance of the choir from the local university—an encore of their annual spring break tour material for the folks in our little town.

I used to detest choral music. I thought I was supposed to hate it. I grew up in the sixties and seventies, an era of rock and roll, and disco, with a little Take Me Home, Country Roads mixed in.

We didn’t listen to choral music.

But, people change.

The other night, I sat and listened to the young voices raised in harmony and let the tears roll down my cheeks without bothering to wipe them dry.

What beauty! What astounding beauty!

I was especially overwhelmed by one particular song—no, not the song—the singers. Two young ladies sang a duet, really solos which blended with each other seamlessly. The piece was written for two sopranos, and was quite high. The young ladies were up to the task and the result was spectacular—a performance to listen to again and again.

But—and this is odd—I remember reading that one of the sopranos had been an alto singer when she entered the university’s vocal program. A low alto. And here she was singing a gorgeous duet way up in the high range of the female voice.

What happened?

People change.

I sat at the dinner table with a few folks the other day. The portions of dessert which were served had been generous. The Lovely Lady noticed one of our guests was struggling to finish his too-large serving and mentioned that she wouldn’t be insulted if he couldn’t finish.

“We don’t require people at our table to clean their plates,” I added lightly.

My adult son jerked his face toward me in surprise.

“That’s not how I remember it used to be,” he said in a voice filled with mock-hurt.

I immediately saw scenes of battles-of-the-wills—little boy refusing his mashed potatoes—Dad insisting he eat at least a no-thank-you helping of the vile things—and I cringed inwardly. He was only half-serious now, and yet the images are inked indelibly on my brain. His too, I suppose.

Hanging my head a little, I replied. “I hope I’m always growing and doing things better than I used to.”

He laughed. “I’m not horribly scarred from the experience, you know.”

We laughed together. Still, the truth remains—at least I hope it does.

People change.

It is not always the case. An old friend and I stood today, talking about an acquaintance who passed away recently. My friend remembered the fellow as a teenager—headstrong, angry, and resistant to improvement.

As we talked, suddenly both of us fell quiet, thinking about the same thing.

“It’s funny,” my friend said. “He was just like that until the day he died.”

It’s not really that funny. Some people don’t change.

I think that’s just plain sad.

Lest you think I’m talking about us pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, and earning our own salvation, let me assure you, I’m not. That’s not the point at all.

Our redemption and adoption into the Family of God are guaranteed by one thing and one thing only—the grace of a loving God who Himself became the sacrifice necessary to satisfy the requirement of holiness and justice.

We are saved by grace, through faith in Jesus. Period. (Ephesians 2:8)

We don’t stay there without moving, though. Our journey through life continues on. We are presented with choices at every twist and turn.

We grow. We walk and we learn. We become, it is to be hoped, more like our Savior as we journey on. Prompted by the Spirit, we leave our old rags behind, and are dressed in His clothes.

People change.

The girl who thought she was limited to the low range of the female voice submitted herself to her mentor’s instruction and now sings with a range most of us can’t imagine. It’s a good thing, a very good thing.

The old man who once demanded perfection of his children and would not open up his ears to different melodies and harmonies than those with which he was comfortable is finally learning a more gentle manner and a wider repertoire.

More changes will come. At least, it is to be hoped more changes are in the future.

What a shame for a man to die in his obstinance. How does the gentleness of our Savior not compel us to become gentle? How does His love not move us to be loving?

People change. And, they should.

Perhaps, even that sentence should be modified. It won’t take much to change its meaning. Two punctuation marks.

People, change!

Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.
(Fyodor Dostoyevsky ~ Russian novelist ~ 1821-1881)

And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.
(2 Corinthians 3:18 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Hunting Cats Don’t Purr

Tools of the Trade

Reaching

Training Session

Why?

Dead Trees and Broken Promises

When the Music Stops

Still Here

Spinning Jenny

People Change