Learning a New Language

March 14, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The visitor was worried that we might not find enough to talk about. My son, who knows me well, reassured them.

“Oh, you won’t need to worry about that. My dad always has things to talk about. It won’t be quiet at the table.”

I didn’t hear the conversation, but I learned of it later. With a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he related the words he had said.

I’m not sure whether I should be proud or embarrassed. Is he saying I’m a good conversationalist? Or is it just that I talk too much?

I didn’t ask him.

Recently I saw a quote, attributed to an obscure person I’ve been unable to pin down in my searches, that caught my attention. Actually, it grabbed my heart (and, to be honest, my guilty conscience).

“So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me, because I, too, am fluent in silence.”
(R. Arnold)

I guess it’s appropriate that this R. Arnold character can’t be found. It reinforces the veracity of the words—at least, to me it does.

No biography. No social footprint. No online following.

Just fluency in a language I don’t understand.

I could never make his claim. I don’t understand the inflections, the accents, the syllables, of silence. Because I fill the air with words. Thousands of them, perhaps, in the course of a day.

I’m less proud of my son’s words than I was when I heard them.

I want to be a person who can sit in silence with a friend who is hurting.

I don’t want to fill the air with empty noise. I don’t want to see friends’ eyes glaze over as I tell another story they’ve heard before—or worse—one they have no interest in, whatsoever.

And yet, the Lovely Lady and I often sit in silence, sometimes for hours at a time. The old preacher who married us would have laughed to see it.

He thought he could tell who the old married couples were in any setting. They were the ones who had nothing to say to each other. In a restaurant, he loved watching the young couples excitedly yapping to each other about every detail of their day—of every new sensation they had discovered—reporting every word their friends had said in an embarrassing situation.

Then, almost gleefully, he would point out the couple nearby who sat silently, drinking their water and eating their burgers.

“They’ve run out of things to say to each other!”

And often, he might be right. But, not always.

Not always.

Silence can bring us closer to each other than conversation. There is a bond in quietness.

As I write this, I’m sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by people. People talking. They are conversations about faith—about children’s activities—about professional matters.

There is nothing wrong with communication using words.

But, silence…

Silence is a language in itself, one learned by long practice; a language mastered by the heart and not the tongue.

I sit quietly (for once) and realize that I want to learn this language.

Perhaps, the dinner table is not the time to practice my mastery of it. But, I’m going to work on that, too. Others might want to (as the red-headed lady who raised me would have phrased it) get a word in edge-wise.

Mr. Carlyle was right in his assessment:

“Speech is of time; silence is of eternity.”
(from Sartor Resartus, by Thomas Carlyle)

It’s time to get started on eternity.

Silence, they say, is golden.

I wonder if there’s a Babbel course to help me learn faster.

“Here lies as silent clay Miss Arabella Young,
Who on the 21st of May 1771
First began to hold her tongue.”
(Epitaph on a grave marker in Hatfield, Massachusets)

“The words of the reckless pierce like swords,
but the tongue of the wise brings healing.”
(Proverbs 12:18, NIV)

Clattery Joy On The Journey

March 12, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I saw a beautiful thing this morning.

My friends—those who know me well—would say, “Of course you did! It’s Spring.”

They wouldn’t be wrong. I saw daffodils—and bluets—and crabapple trees—and quince bushes—and…the list could go on forever. Spring is beautiful; not only for what I see, but for what it represents.

New life. The awakening of things that have slept—almost the sleep of death—for all the months of a cold, dark winter.

I saw those, and felt them, on my walk this morning. But, that’s not the beautiful thing I saw.

The wind is blustery today—almost a gale at times—blasting from the south. At my back as I walked toward home, it picked up many things, traversing the schoolyard I was passing. The thing I thought beautiful caught my attention, not only by the sight of it, but because I heard it first.

Paketa, pak, pak, paketa, paketa, pak.

The clattery sound of aluminum on pavement went on and on.

A beer can, thrown from a passing car (or by a wandering pedestrian), had been rescued from its dirty, wet place of inactivity beside the sidewalk, perhaps even saved from the ignominious fate of being chopped up by a passing lawn mower as it made its rounds.

Freedom! Tumbled over and over by the fickle wind, the used-up can traveled a block or more up the road before I lost sight of it. For all I know, it’s still going.

Silently, I cheered it on. But, even before the can left my sight, my mind was freed, just like that aluminum container, from the fog that had overtaken it as I sat in the little coffee shop I haunt with some frequency.

The first thing I thought about was an old game we used to play, much like hide-and-seek, called Kick the Can. I don’t suppose many children nowadays play it.

In the game, as I remember it, one kid was IT, having to find the others who hid. But, when he espied them, he would have to run as fast as he could, attempting to beat them to the can, there to count them out.

“One, two, three, on David!”

But, if David, who was hiding, knew he had been sighted, he could run faster and, kicking the can as hard as possible, gain a new lease on life, taking off to hide in the landscape once more.

I use the pronoun, he, because in my personal experience, all the players were boys. As it happens, the Lovely Lady to whom I am married played the game a time or two in her childhood, too. Right in the neighborhood where we live today.

I look out my window as I type, the house across the street filling my vision. The Lovely Lady tells of the Wards, an older couple who lived there in those days.

Anyone can tell you the game needs to be played at twilight, and just past, as darkness settles over the landscape. But somehow, older people in those days tended to begin to think about heading to bed at dark, especially in the summertime, when the daylight doesn’t fade until nearly nine P.M.

The constant clatter of the can rolling down the street was annoying, but as the evening went on, the children would sometimes take advantage of the darkness to aim their kicks right at the garage door of the Ward’s house.

With some regularity, especially after the can had hit the metal door a time or two, old Mr. Ward would walk out the front door and, without a word, pick up the can, carrying it back into the house with him.

The kids would go home, disappointed, but kind of proud of themselves.

As I walked this morning, the smile had already reached my face before the little beer can rolled out of sight. I could still hear it (and that one in my mind), rolling on the pavement.

Paketa, paketa, pak, pak.

Did I really say the sight (and sound) of that old beer can scooting along the street was beautiful?

I did, didn’t I?

Somehow, it must be what it meant to me, much like the flowers that are awakening from their long winter’s sleep—almost the sleep of death, I think I described it—to new life, rather than just a beautiful sight. It wasn’t that beautiful to look at.

But, my mind didn’t only slip to the Lovely Lady’s old memory of summertime playtime as I considered.

I can’t avoid thoughts of new life. Life from death. The parallel is obvious to me.

The can was finished—no purpose and no intrinsic beauty.

Nowhere to go ever again. Ever.

As it tumbled up the street, it wasn’t just lively. It was exuberant!

Loud, even.

Well? The Teacher, soon to be Savior, did once tell the folks that the rocks would cry out in worship.

Aluminum’s not all that different, as far as inanimate objects go.

Maybe it’s my turn. And yours.

If clattery is the best we can manage, it’ll do just fine.

Joyful noise.

“God made us for joy. God is joy, and the joy of living reflects the original joy that God felt in creating us.”
(G K Chesterton)

“He jumped up, stood on his feet, and began to walk! Then, walking, leaping, and praising God, he went into the Temple with them.”
(Acts 3:8, NLT)

Home Again

March 7, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was another lovely Old Friends Evening, like countless others we’ve enjoyed over the years. The hosting couple (us, this time) had prepared a meat dish (I think, in other circles, known as an entree) for dinner and others had filled in with salads, veggies, and dessert.

We had thoroughly enjoyed the dinner and, deciding against the customary dominoes and other entertainments, settled in the living room simply to talk. After nearly fifty years of friendship, you’d think we would have run out of subject matter, but there is rarely a moment of silence unless to pause in empathy for a loss or hardship of someone in the group, or indeed, any of our acquaintances.

I had described one of my honey-do items which couldn’t be put off any longer, the mention of which must have triggered a memory in his mind, when one friend asked suddenly if I had ever finished my deck. I laughed and told him it had been completed last summer.

Then I wondered; haven’t I shown the deck to these dear friends already? Well, we would remedy that without delay.

We—all eight of us—trooped to the back door to walk out on the structure. It was dark outside, so I flipped on the outside light to be sure none of us tripped going out. (We are OLD friends, you know.)

On the ground in front of the door, illuminated by the intense light, stood a rather large (and confused) opossum. It was evident to me that the creature had just emerged from under the deck we were all intending to examine shortly. As I pushed open the door, the timid animal spun and rushed back into the sanctuary of the low structure.

We all laughed and stepped out onto the deck, our friends all complimenting us on the welcoming outdoor space that had been created in that previously vacant corner of the building. Still, I could see some of them looking around as if fearful the opossum might make another appearance at any moment.

We went back inside.

Then again last night, visitors to our home were on that deck enjoying a warming fire in the stainless steel firepit and roasting marshmallows over the lovely flame. These guests live out on a mountainside, accustomed to wildlife dwelling in the woods that surround them. They weren’t phased by the thought of an opossum under their feet, so the evening passed in laughter and joyful conversation around the blazing logs.

But, these visitors had been with me when the deck was being built, as well. Before that, they had helped to deconstruct the neighbor’s old deck from which the lumber would be repurposed for ours. They had even abetted me in piling up that old lumber into the massive stack at the back of my yard that awaited whatever impetus it would take to move forward on the project of building our deck.

Months later, when I decided I could delay no longer, those visitors came back and helped me arrange that lumber into a deck once more, using nails and screws to hold it together. In the process, we removed the “structure” of the stack, strangely enough, disturbing a young opossum sheltering underneath it.

One can’t help but wonder…It could be…Nobody can prove otherwise, so I’m going to assume it is.

The same opossum we disturbed from its repose under the stack of lumber last summer is now living under the reconfigured stack—my deck.

Can’t you just see it?

The young creature, having wandered—homeless—for a few months, happens upon the newly built deck next to the house. Approaching it, the odor is unmistakable.

This is my home! The same home that was destroyed by those giants making such a ruckus and commotion.

And, then it pokes its long nose underneath.

But, it’s better! Look at all these rooms! And the space! With carpet on the floor even! Not even any weeds to poke me while I sleep! I’m home!

Home again.

You laugh, but sometimes reality is stranger than made-up stories. We all look for the familiar, even in strange surroundings.

Earlier this week, I listened as a friend explained why he attended the church fellowship we’re members of. He spoke of hearing the Lovely Lady play the flute, along with another musician, during an early worship service he and his wife attended. His memory went back to family members who had played those same instruments in the past and, leaning over to his wife, he said, “I’m home.”

The Psalmist, David, depressed as he wandered far from his home and the comfort of God’s people, reminded us that we may sometimes have the opposite experience. He longed for the familiar and the home he knew and yet, he was certain—absolutely convinced—that God was with him, even as he hid from those who would be happy to kill him.

“By day the Lord decrees his loyal love,
and by night he gives me a song,
a prayer to the God of my life.”
(Psalm 42:8, NET)

A few years ago, as the Lovely Lady and I left behind the business we had invested ourselves in and the house we had labored to make into a lovely, welcoming home, it felt a lot like that. Leaving home, unhappy at being uprooted from the comfortable, the familiar.

Funny thing. Nearly every day now, years past that unhappy time, I walk into the neighborhood and the house in which we live and I think (sometimes saying out loud), “What a lovely place we live in!”

I’m not sure the opossum gets to stay where he is. We may need to find him a new home soon. Time will tell.

But, that’s true for us, too. We’re just here temporarily.

Soon, we’ll be going home.

Really. Home.

Something like what we have here. Only better. A lot better.

I’m pretty sure we’ll be more comfortable there.

“Abraham was confidently looking forward to a city with eternal foundations, a city designed and built by God.“
(Hebrews 11:10, NLT)

“I read within a poet’s book
A word that starred the page:
‘Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage! ‘

Yes, that is true; and something more
You’ll find, where’er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.”
(A Home Song by Henry Van Dyke)

Entertainment Value

March 4, 2024March 4, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You’re not boring; you’re entertaining.”

I apologized to our teenage guest at the end of our visit. Even with those twinkling eyes smiling at me, the reply I got was a little unexpected.

Surrounded by aging adults, the youngster had endured the dinner with grace. And yet, the discussion of hospital visits and doctor’s appointments, along with a drawn out semi-argument about the location of long-defunct grocery stores and ancient history had to have been wearing to a member of this generation steeped in technology and media connectivity.

I will admit the high-schooler’s reaction to finding out that the old Piggly-Wiggly grocery store in our town had morphed into a current-day funeral home was delightful. I’ve always found it amusing, to say the least, and was happy to have that opinion shared by one so young.

The idea of a Piggly-Wiggly funeral home does set off the giggle reflex, doesn’t it?

I’m still wondering about the entertainment value of a group of old people sitting around a dinner table, though.

Perhaps, even more than that, I’m wondering if it’s important for us to be aware of how attractive (or, entertaining) we are to folks who are watching.

I’ve been in church all of my life. I’ve listened to thousands of sermons. When I was a kid, there were three to listen to every Sunday. And, one on Wednesday.

I’ve heard my share of boring preachers. Some of them would use the scripture that Paul the Apostle wrote about folks with “itching ears” as a rationalization for the dryness of the message.

“For a time is coming when people will no longer listen to sound and wholesome teaching. They will follow their own desires and will look for teachers who will tell them whatever their itching ears want to hear.“
(2 Timothy 4:3, NLT)

Except, that verse has nothing to do with instructing people to make their conversation (or sermon) dry and boring to avoid error. It’s talking about people who insist that their teachers and pastors teach them the things they want to hear. They want to hear their own opinions coming from the mouths of the people to whom they listen.

Sounds familiar, even in this age, doesn’t it?

It can apply to those who move to a new church every time a pastor expresses a thought they don’t agree with. Or, it can pertain to college students who protest against speakers they think they detest. It’s a common disease among humankind.

But if we insist our teachers teach with dry, lifeless words, we’ll lose our audience. Either they won’t come to our next dinner (or church service), or they’ll zone out while we speak.

Or, like that fellow Eutychus in the Bible, they may simply fall asleep. (Acts 20:7-12)

After supper, the Apostle (who may actually have believed in dry, boring talks) decided that since it was his last night in town, he’d preach a little longer sermon. Past midnight, he droned on!

Eutychus, poor boy, fell asleep long enough to be included in the text we still read today. While he napped, he slid off his window seat, falling to his death on the ground, three stories below.

Paul, hurrying down with the crowd, lifted him up, telling them the boy wasn’t dead, and they went back upstairs where, of all things, Paul continued to talk until the sun came up in the morning!

I like to imagine that, after the intermission, the folks there listened more closely. Whether the Apostle’s delivery was more lively and engaging, I don’t know. But, they were motivated to listen!

Talk about entertaining!

A boy had been brought back to life! Besides the joy and relief, it would be a living reminder to stay alert, one would think.

Clearly, the lines above about the Apostle Paul’s teaching were written a little tongue-in-cheek. We really don’t know if he was a boring speaker or an entertaining one.

Still, even my old Bible professor friend, the esteemed Dr Andrew Bowling, used to say to his students, “If you talk for half an hour and haven’t hit oil, quit boring.”

I may take his advice in another line or two.

Entertaining is better than boring, especially if people are paying attention to what we have to say. As long as what we’re saying is not just tickling their itchy ears.

And, if it keeps them awake.

“Just as it is written and forever remains written, ‘How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news of good things!’”
(Romans 10:15, AMP)

“Tell the stories! Use words that are accurate and attractive. Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm. Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone. Tell the stories!”
(from The Storyteller, by Paul Phillips)

One Bad Apple

February 29, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been a little under the weather the last few days. That means staying in bed a lot later than normal and sitting around the house the rest of the day.

The natural result is that I have been feeling a bit down this week.

In an effort to budge myself from my easy chair yesterday (and, coincidentally, out of my moodiness), I suggested to the Lovely Lady that I might go write a line or two. Her response surprised me a little.

“Are you going to write about sad stuff and make everybody else feel the same as you’re feeling?”

Misery loves company.

It was a favorite maxim for the red-headed lady who raised me. Chiefly, it was her favorite go-to to remind her children that peer pressure would bring them to an unhappy end. Troublemakers attract troublemakers. Abusers of substances do their best to draw others into their addictions.

Even the Apostle, my namesake, quoted a Greek playwright in 1 Corinthians 15, suggesting peer pressure can be damaging.

“Communion with the bad corrupts good character.” (from Thais, by Menander)

I wonder.

What if I’m the bad? What if the one bad apple that spoils the whole barrel is me?

Perhaps I’m being a bit extreme in applying the truisms. I only started out to remind myself not to make people around me miserable. I never intended to accuse myself of being rotten to the core.

I’ve always thought of myself as the influenced. What if I’m really the influencer?

And yet, today, as I started down to the coffee shop, I couldn’t help myself. I gazed at the tulip tree on the corner, remembering it a mere two days ago. Brilliant in its blazing purple and pink decorations, it was the gleaming harbinger of spring. My heart had almost sung at its appearance just hours before.

Now?

It stands—dejected and brown—savaged by the cold front that howled through the day before yesterday. What kind of song can be heard when the petals hang sagging and rotting on the branches?

I did the only thing that could be done.

I took a photo to share with my friends and acquaintances. Surely, you will want to share in my disappointment.

Misery loves company.

Peer pressure. Do you feel miserable yet?

This afternoon, I walked up to the nearby university to collect the Lovely Lady from work. As we walked back home (along the very same sidewalk near which the tulip tree stands), she pointed out the green and growing flowers along the way. She mentioned the warmer temperature today and we talked about the happy interactions we each had this morning.

That’s odd. I felt joyful, almost grateful, as we neared our home. The bright daffodils in the yard, most of them planted decades ago by a wonderful man who had a big influence in both our lives, finished the job as we wandered up the cul-de-sac.

As it turns out, joy and gratitude love company, too. Just as much as misery does. Maybe more.

Peer pressure.

The daffodils planted by my father-in-law over fifty years ago still have the power to lift the spirit. Especially when viewed in the company of one who knows and loves me.

It works with friends. And, siblings. And, maybe even dogs.

I took the photo of the daffodils because I just had to show you. Fabulous, aren’t they? So much better than misery.

His promises are still sure. Springtime and Harvest still roll around at His behest.

One day, He will wipe away our tears and we’ll live in the light.

Encourage one another.

Peer pressure.

“We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”
(Albert Schweitzer)

“So encourage each other and build each other up, just as you are already doing.”
(1 Thessalonians 5:11, NLT)

Out of Control

February 26, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m not a daredevil. Well—not anymore, I’m not. When I was a kid, I was up for almost any stupidity anyone could suggest.

And yet, when the grandkids arrived one day last week with a slackline to stretch out between two trees in my yard, I had to try it. Had to.

I’m not a young man. I’ve been trying to do the math in my head and as close as I can figure it, I passed two-thirds of a century old sometime in the last week or so. I wasn’t going to let that stop me.

The Lovely Lady was worried about me, assuming I would be falling off the line at some point. She was right to be worried. I did fall off. I was only a foot and a half off the ground, but…well—see the paragraph above about my age.

Still, she wasn’t so worried that she didn’t come out to snap a photo or two of the event. I’m thinking that perhaps she wanted it for a talking point with the grandchildren later on in life.

“You see…this is the moment before your grandpa broke his hip and never walked again. I told him he was too old for that kind of shenanigans.”

I didn’t break my hip, nor did I die. I do have an observation or two about my first attempt at balancing on the slackline.

The first surprise for me was that my legs began to shake almost uncontrollably as I got further away from the anchor point (at the tree) and closer to the untethered center of the line. The shaking was so violent it seemed that it might knock me off the line.

I kept moving my feet and went on a yard or so before losing my balance and dropping to the ground below. As I let the kids take a turn while I recuperated from the initial experience, I asked them about the shaking and how to stop it.

“Oh, you can’t stop it,” they answered. “It just goes away little by little.”

As I climbed on another time or two to embarrass myself further, I realized that the shaking did indeed lessen as I got used to walking on the strap. I won’t say it went away altogether, but at least I didn’t feel like I was going to be dumped onto the ground below by it.

I found with a search online that the shaking is what is called a monosynaptic reflex. The nerves going to my spinal cord register that my legs are not controlled in their movements as they would be on solid ground, so the nervous system moves the leg rapidly in the opposite direction. This direction is quickly reversed again and again, resulting in an uncontrollable shaking that feels more like spasms than anything else.

Here’s the thing: The brain really isn’t involved in this response. One can’t control it by thinking about it, or by trying to move the legs differently. While it’s true that eventually, the body figures out it’s not falling and slows down the reaction itself, for a while (an eternity, it seemed to me) my body was completely out of my control.

I don’t like being out of control. I like to keep a firm grip on how I react to things.

I want to be in charge. And, not only on the slackline.

We all want to believe that we can be the captain of our ship, directing its prow across the waters—choosing the destination and speed at which we travel. It has never been the case, but we like the pretense of being in charge anyway.

I’m reminded of the words the newly risen Savior said to the man whom He called The Rock (no—not that imposter from Hollywood) as they talked on the shore by the sea.

“I tell you the truth, when you were young, you were able to do as you liked; you dressed yourself and went wherever you wanted to go. But when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and others will dress you and take you where you don’t want to go.” (John 21:18, NLT)

We’re told the words were intended to let Peter know how he would die, but they also remind all of us that we are not in control of the things we once imagined we were.

It’s a sobering thought.

But, I learned another thing, there on that slackline the other day. I learned that if I just kept working toward the goal—kept walking toward the other tree the line was tethered to, eventually I reached the point where I was no longer shaking and out of control.

As we move toward solid footing, our body recognizes the familiar sense of safety and the monosynaptic reflex action ceases.

Through.

We go on through. To solid ground.

If it feels to you like the shaking will never stop, don’t lose heart.

One foot ahead of the other, holding on to the safety line, we keep moving to solid ground.

And yes, illness and advancing years can mean the shaking and loss of control will last for what feels like a very long time. And it can be terrifying.

We’re not home yet.

And this rope we’re balancing on here isn’t the end of our journey.

Solid ground is where our hope lies.

Rock solid.

Keep walking. You’re not alone.

The grandkids are coming to visit again tomorrow. I kind of hope they leave that slackline at home this trip.

I do like the solid ground, after all.

“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head —
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”
(from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll)

“He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
    out of the mud and the mire.
He set my feet on solid ground
    and steadied me as I walked along.
He has given me a new song to sing,
    a hymn of praise to our God.”
(Psalm 40: 2-3a, NLT)

Is It Clean Yet?

February 21, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

She left me a note on the kitchen table.

“Turn the oven on to 385 degrees at eleven o’clock. I really want it at 375, but that should get it there. Check the inside thermometer before you put the meatloaf in and adjust accordingly. Thanks! Love you!”

I know how to follow directions. The problem is, when I checked the inside thermometer fifteen minutes after starting it, the temperature was 425 degrees! The setting said 385—I was aiming for 375—but I got 425 instead.

There were no instructions for this!

I turned the oven setting down to 325. In a few more minutes I checked the thermometer again. It said 350.

Eventually, the meatloaf was cooked, but not without 2 smoke detectors going off, first one then the other filling the air with its obnoxious screeching.

She wondered if it was time to buy a new stove. That’s not the way I do things.

I wonder sometimes if she understands me.

I like new things. I do. It’s just that I take it as a personal affront if an appliance won’t fulfill its unspoken promise to function until it’s earned its keep. A stove should last twenty years, not six. That’s my expectation, anyway.

I did some research, finding that we merely needed to replace the temperature sensor in the oven. It was a fifteen-dollar part.

I ordered the part.

After it arrived yesterday, knowing I’d have to get to the back of the oven compartment, I began the repair by removing the door of the oven. Carrying the door into the living room I laid it carefully on the sofa, making an offhand comment about the greasy residue on the front glass.

By the time I made it back to the kitchen, she was laying old towels over the table there, asking me to bring the door back in so she could clean it.

The entire time I worked at replacing the sensor, she cleaned.

Eventually, I needed to slide the stove itself away from the wall to access the wiring under the back panel. As I moved the heavy beast, I noticed the debris around the edges of the flooring where the stove had been sitting. I made the mistake of mentioning it to the Lovely Lady, as she was finishing up on the oven door.

I swept the floor with a broom, thinking it would be good enough. I even picked up the meat fork that had dropped down there a few years ago.

Finishing up the wiring connection (and groaning loudly about the discomfort of squatting there for too long), I closed up the panel on the back. Coming back around to the front, I leaned back into the oven compartment to tighten up the screws that held the part fast to the back wall inside.

When I looked up again, the Lovely Lady was nowhere to be found. I was about to shove the stove back into its space when I realized she was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor I had just swept.

I’m not sure I always understand her.

“No one is ever going to see that. Why are you wasting your time and effort?”

Even as I said the words, I remembered the ladies. Ladies in homes (and sometimes a man) where I had been called to move pianos in years past. For various reasons—perhaps they were moving, or redecoration required a temporary relocation, or I was buying the piano to resell—I often moved pianos for folks over the forty years I was in the music business.

Without fail, when my helpers and I moved the ultra-heavy pieces of furniture away from the wall, the lady of the house would gasp in embarrassment. When something sits in one place for years, dirt and debris tend to build up under and around it.

“No one expects you to clean under your piano,” I would always say, hoping to lessen their shame. It never helped.

Often, they would still be swiping at the back of the piano with a broom as we moved it out the doorway.

All that went through my mind in a flash after the words left my mouth. I shut up; then I went and sat down for a few moments to give her time to finish.

The oven works. For now. The day is coming when it won’t and we’ll pull it out of the little cubicle it’s sitting in to repair it again. Maybe, we’ll have to replace it the next time.

But for now, it works. And, it’s clean inside and out. And underneath it.

It’s clean.

Despite my nonchalance—my carelessness—it’s clean.

Why am I like that? Why do I think it doesn’t matter what kind of crud is there—out of sight? If it looks good, it must be good.

And yet, I hear the voice of The Teacher as he calls the religious leaders of His generation “whitewashed tombs”. (Matthew 23:27)

Clean and beautiful to the eyes of those passing by, but hidden inside, the stink and filth of death. Or maybe, like the kitchen, sparking clean to the eye, but with debris and crud—and a meat fork or two—lurking in the shadows.

He promises to make us clean. All clean. Inside and out.

But we can’t shove the stove back into place before it’s clean under there.

I’ve got to make a repair to the washing machine today, too.

I wonder what we’ll find under there.

“I don’t mind dying; I’d gladly do that. But, not right now. I need to clean the house first.”
(Astrid Lindgren)

Don’t you realize that those who do wrong will not inherit the Kingdom of God? Don’t fool yourselves. . .Some of you were once like that. But you were cleansed; you were made holy; you were made right with God by calling on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6: 9, 11 — NLT)

Squirrels Know Where Home Is

February 14, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

There is a ladder against my neighbor’s house. It’s a tall extension ladder that has been leaning there for a couple of months.

Frequently this winter, I have stood at my back door with a cup of coffee in hand and wondered about the ladder. My neighbor is close to three-quarters of a century old. I’m not sure he should be climbing up onto his roof.

As I finished a walk the other day, I noticed my friend was outside doing some work (on the ground), so I stopped to ask him about the ladder. His reply surprised me.

“Oh, those pesky squirrels!”

I wondered for a moment if the squirrels had gotten a team together to move the ladder themselves. You know, to make it easier to get up into the pine trees nearby. Can’t you see them standing on each other’s shoulders, the top of that tall ladder wobbling around as they stagger to and fro toward the overhanging roof?

It’s not as if there aren’t enough of them around to accomplish the task. At any given time, I can walk outside and frighten half a dozen of them. Often, I can see more than double that number cavorting and chasing each other as I gaze out the living room window.

But, no. My neighbor told me he’s had to set a trap inside the eave of his attic—one he can’t reach from inside the house. Thus, the ladder. He’s already trapped six or seven of the cute little varmints and says they’re not all gone yet.

I nodded sagely, remembering the old Victorian house in which we raised our children, years ago. The attic of that house was home to a plethora of the bushy-tailed rodents.

I remember a visit to our family doctor during those years. We made a last-minute run out to the country to release a squirrel we had trapped in the attic, so I was a little late for my appointment. When I explained what happened to the kind old medic, he laughed.

“That squirrel will get back home before you do!”

I didn’t believe him then, but after doing a little research, I’ve found that the little critters do have a strong homing instinct, returning home sometimes from as far away as fifteen miles.

Most squirrels never go more than a few hundred yards away from their home in an entire lifetime, we’re told by some experts. And yet, in dire necessity, they can find their way home from up to fifteen miles away!

The squirrels know where home is.

On a recent visit to a big city in a neighboring state, we turned into the parking lot of a church where we were to meet up with some family members and saw a car stop near the entrance to the parking lot.

The church was surrounded by trees—maples, oaks, and sweet gums—making a verdant wall of protection around the campus. There, at the entry from the city highway, the paved drive in front of him, the man opened the hatchback of his SUV. Taking out a live trap, he set it on the ground and opened the spring-loaded door. Immediately, a terrified squirrel darted out, making a beeline for the trees nearby.

As the man placed the trap back into his car and drove away, I thought of our old doctor and couldn’t stop the words:

“That squirrel will get back home before he does!”

We laughed, but there’s a niggling truth that my brain keeps worrying at.

The squirrel’s world has been turned upside down—nothing around him is familiar or recognizable. And yet, he knows how to find his home again.

And, he’ll be back as soon as he can get there.

It seems to me that the world around us is all topsy-turvy right now. Nothing is as it was—when we were growing up—when we were settling down with the one we love—when we were making plans for the still far-distant future.

And yet, we who trust in the Living God have always had a home. Wherever we have been—no matter how far away from the familiar, the comfortable—we’ve been promised a hiding place.

“For you are my hiding place;
you protect me from trouble.
You surround me with songs of victory.”
(Psalm 32:7, NLT)

Our home is where He is. And, where He is, we are safe.

I’ve watched the squirrels scatter for their hiding places. They head for the distant oak tree, with its nest of leaves and sticks high up in the branches, and they are safe. I suppose they may head for my neighbor’s attic, too.

Our home is much closer. You see, He lives in us.

In us.

It’s safer, too.

Maybe it’s time to head there now.

Dr. Moose was wrong.

I think we can get home before that squirrel does.

“The name of the Lord is a strong tower;
The righteous runs into it and is safe.”
(Proverbs 18:10, NASB)

“In the gentle evening breeze
By the whispering shady trees
I will find my sanctuary in the Lord.”
(from Full Force Gale by Van Morrison)

Always On Time

February 6, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We celebrated the boy’s birthday yesterday. It wasn’t the actual day on the calendar, but he had a day off and the rest of us were free, so we scheduled the dinner.

It was only a few days ago we decided on the date. The Lovely Lady and I had a short trip to Tennessee that took a couple of those days. Before we knew it, we were almost upon the date and we hadn’t ordered a present.

But, you know there’s this online service (the name sounds a bit like a piece of beef you’d order in an upscale restaurant) that promises delivery in two days.

We were sure it would be on time.

The day came and I checked my email for tracking. All seemed okay, with the package having arrived at the local distribution center early that morning.

It would be on time.

Further checks throughout the day told a different story. At noon, the package was still in the distribution center. I checked at four o’clock, with the same story.

It wouldn’t be on time.

At five, we sat down to dinner with the family, including the boy. Dinner proceeded, finishing in about half an hour.

Time to open presents.

Ours wasn’t there.

With great disappointment, we told him we’d have to get it to him the next time we saw him. He’s a strong independent young man, who had no intention of making his grandparents sad.

“No problem at all! I’ll just have my birthday longer!”

We laughed. I checked my phone again.

“Out for Delivery,” read the screen!

Ten minutes later, the delivery vehicle was in the street in front of the house. Eagerly, he tore open the package we handed him.

On time!

Our best efforts seemed to be thwarted, but instead, the package was right on time.

Right. On. Time.

I’m not good at the patience thing. I watch the clock, clicking the refresh button on my screen, disappointed every time.

The Preacher said there was a time and season for everything. Everything.

“To everything there is a season,
And a time to every purpose under the heaven.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:1, KJV)

I don’t want to wait. I want the answer now! Well before the deadline, I want to hold it in my hand, certain that I am prepared for whatever comes.

And yet, our Father up above created time, and the seasons, and the answers we crave. He’s the one who knew exactly when to send His Son.

“But when the fullness of the time came, God sent His Son. . .that we might receive the adoption as sons and daughters.”
(Galatians 4: 4-5, NASB)

His gifts are good. They are perfect.

They are on time.

There are a number of those gifts I’m still waiting on. (Patience, for one.)

I wasn’t sure about the online service. I’m confident—absolutely certain—about His timing.

He’s always on time. Always.

I’ll wait. You?

“God’s timing is always perfect. Trust His delays. He’s got you.”
(Tony Evans)

“Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.”
(James 1:17, NASB)

Redeeming the Time

January 29, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“We get more time!”

My friend smiled joyfully as she said the words. Her mom, who has cancer, had surgery last week and is healing nicely.

But, I wonder. . .

I’ve experienced the same thing in recent years. The Lovely Lady’s brother received his original diagnosis four years before the disease took him. At several points throughout that journey, we realized anew that we had more time, albeit limited, with him.

It changed our relationship; making us more purposeful. We valued the times around the table—the visits on the backyard deck. We knew our days together were numbered.

We made the most of them. We invested in them.

Does that make sense?

The Apostle, my namesake, used the term (at least in the version in which I learned it): Redeeming the time.

In the book of Colossians (chapter 4, verse 5), he uses it with respect to unbelievers and sharing the Good News with them. But, in Ephesians (chapter 5, verses 16 and 17), he’s clearly talking about our relationships with those of the faith.

Either way, we’re to invest our hours and days wisely. It’s nothing like the spending time we refer to so often in our culture. Redeeming means buying back; reclaiming every minute.

But, here’s what I wonder:

Why do we wait until we have a pretty clear picture of the time frame? Until we can almost see the limit of our days on earth with those we love?

Our days were numbered from the moment of our conception.

“You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.”
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

He knows how long we have. He always has.

And He wants us to redeem every minute. For Him, and for those He’s blessed us to walk this journey with.

He knows our days without the need for a surgeon’s prognosis—without the calculation of life expectancy from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—without our wide-eyed expectations.

He knows. And, He wants us to invest ourselves into every bit of it.

I remember a song that was popular in my youth—an awful song (at least they were awful lyrics). But, there was a grain of truth in it.

The lyrics said, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.” The author of those lyrics intended them to mean that we love them physically—carnally.

Still, my mind has always traveled by its own strange paths.

And, I’m absolutely certain we’re intended to love the one we’re with. With the love that God put in our hearts, we are to invest ourselves every day into others He brings into our lives. In spiritual ways, and in practical ways.

Fill your days with manifestations of love for those around you. Words are good. Actions are better. Gifts are optional.

Don’t wait.

Today needs redemption already.

“We get more time.”

“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.”
(Walt Whitman)

“See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
Therefore do not be unwise, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”
(Ephesians 5:15-17, NKJV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips