Into the Sun

January 12, 2016January 12, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve spent a few hours staring into the sun.

That didn’t come out quite right. Let me try again.

I’ve spent long periods of time looking at someone standing right in front of the sun—which has kind of the same effect. I just didn’t want you to think I had ignored my mother’s instruction about not looking at the sun.

But, in fact, it was at my mother’s instructions I looked at the person standing in front of the sun. That person was my father—taking a photograph of the family.

To a young child, there was no greater torture. Don’t blink, they said and then made you stare at the brightest light imaginable while the exact setting was selected on the old Kodak Hawkeye box camera and children were shuffled around to achieve the ideal composition.

The pictures weren’t very good anyway. For all the torture we endured, we still squinted, blinked, and put our hands over our eyes at just the wrong moment, and were captured on film for all eternity.

Everybody smile, they said.

We tried.

I brought the little camera home a little while back. No, not the Kodak. That was my parents’ camera. This was a little cheap plastic box camera, purchased through the Sears & Roebuck catalog. It was mine fifty years ago. Still is. It has my name written on the side of it, in my best nine-year-old printing.

I’ll never take another photograph with it, but the memory of the power that was endowed by the little plastic box will stay with me forever.

With it, I could stop time! Precious moments could be saved and relived whenever I wanted. Pets, friends, even creations from my own hands would never be lost.

Power!

We don’t think of photographs quite the same way anymore. Every person who carries a phone has a camera—much better than any which were available in my childhood. Taking a photo isn’t even an event today.

But, I remember the day when the sight of a camera would make my siblings scurry for cover. I recall when the arrival of that package of black and white photos in the mail was a grand event—when all of those siblings wanted to make sure they hadn’t been caught doing embarrassing things.

It was a distinct possibility.

Years ago, I read that in some cultures photographs are rare because the people believe the camera would steal your soul. While not all cultures this belief has been attributed to actually hold to it, there is adequate proof some did—and many still do.

Photographs steal your soul.

I’m skeptical. That said, I do understand how someone might think this. Your exact image has been captured on paper. How can that not take something away from you?

We laugh. Still, today, many no longer can live in the moment, enjoying events as they unfold, because they are intent on snapping photographs to view later and to show to their friends. Selfies, we call them. One must be sure they are in their own picture! It will be proof one day that they actually were there.

Never mind that your back was turned to the event itself. You’ll always have the photograph.

Perhaps a part of our soul is stolen as the camera snaps. I don’t know.

My mind is again back in the sixties. Looking into the sun. Shadows must be avoided at all cost.

Standing in the bright light of day.

But, I remember some events I would have been embarrassed to have recorded on camera. Those happened in the shadows, perhaps even in complete darkness.

Mom wasn’t around to remind me to look toward the light. Dad wasn’t recording the action for posterity.

Come to think about it, there are still some activities I don’t want saved for people to see. The dark works better for them. I might be embarrassed to see the photographs those would yield.

The Teacher spoke of folks like me—at least, like me at those embarrassing times. He declared that men loved darkness rather than light for one reason—they wish to hide their evil deeds. (John 3:19)

I wonder if it’s time to come out into the light of day again.

The Son may make us squint a bit.

The shadows will all disappear.

Perhaps, it’s time again to make some memories worth viewing later. Memories which will last forever. Literally.

Everybody smile!

This is the message we have heard from Him and announce to you, that God is Light, and in Him there is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with Him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth; but if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.
(1 John 1:5-7 ~ NASB)

Which of my photographs is my favorite? The one I’m going to take tomorrow.
(Imogene Cunningham ~ American photographer ~ 1883-1976)

Lost and Found

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

He left the wallet. Just walked away from it.

The set of strings he needed for his guitar paid for, he inserted his debit card back into the slot. Folding the cloth-covered wallet closed, he walked to the back of the music store, carrying it still in his hand.

I didn’t notice the stray item until long after he had walked on down the road. Even then, I knew it was his.

How do you do that? Walk away from your wallet, I mean.

He took his little guitar. Strapped it over his shoulder carefully before opening the front door to the shop. Carefully.

The guitar is worth, perhaps, forty dollars.

He took the guitar, but left the wallet.

I looked in the wallet. There was no cash—not that I expected any. There were, however, several items I would not like to lose myself.

The debit card was there, for starters. How do you function without that? Perhaps the absence of cash in the wallet meant there was an ample supply of the same in his pocket. It seems though, that he would have used cash for a small purchase such as he had made earlier, if he had it.

No. The debit card was his connection to cash. He left that with the wallet.

There was a drivers license. How would he answer the nice policeman, when he said the words driver’s license and registration, please? How would he cash a check? It’s likely he’d need to, since the debit card was you-know-where.

There was a lot more. I didn’t sift through it all. The only reason I looked at all was to find a way to contact the man. I found nothing of the sort.

I did see one more thing though—an item, well two items, really—both more important that any of the others I found.

I found a photo of the man’s grandson. Then, one of his son. Treasure! Good-looking young men, both of them. How do you leave those behind?

Over two weeks ago, he left the wallet. Two weeks, and not one phone call. He never asked. Never.

Not even today, when he came back into the store to buy more strings.

I looked at him and smiled, knowing he’d mention the missing wallet soon. It had to be weighing on him heavily. Perhaps, he even felt guilty about neglecting to come back and retrieve the item. Surely, he’d mention it presently.

He never did.

I couldn’t stand it. I handed him the wallet, smiling expectantly.

He grinned sheepishly and said, “Oh, there it is. I wondered if I’d have to contact the bank soon.”

When his wife arrived to pick him up later, he didn’t even mention the wallet to her.

I’m confused. And, a little disappointed. Well? I wanted him to shake my hand vigorously and exclaim in a loud voice about the little cloth single-fold wallet and its contents.

It’s what I would have done.

Oh. There it is.

It’s not the epitome of relief—not the pinnacle of joy—is it?

I have more to say tonight, much more.

I want to talk about treasures we leave behind, purposely and accidentally.

I want to speak of our search for false treasure, while genuine treasure is staring us in the face.

I wish I could awaken the desire in each reader to seek that which has been lost for so long.

Still. The Teacher thought it enough to simply tell the stories of losing—and finding—that which had been lost. He was sure His listeners would understand His meaning. (Luke 15)

The red-headed lady who raised me always asked the same question when I was looking for something I had lost.

Where did you last see it?

It seems we lose many things over the course of a lifetime—love, joy, passion, purpose. Maybe, it’s time we began to seek them again.

I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that at the end of our search, whatever it is we seek, He’ll be waiting. After all, He’s the One who promised if we ask we’ll receive, if we seek we’ll find, and if we knock doors will be opened. (Luke 11:9-10)

Start where you last saw it. It’s sure to be close by.

Oh. A little enthusiasm when we find what was lost would be nice, too.

There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something.
(J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English educator/writer/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it?And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.
(Luke 15:8-10 ~ NIV)

From the Inside Out

January 4, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Of all the gifts, I’m thinking that I’m most thankful for the blank page of the moment just ahead, awaiting our first step into it, our first words coloring the empty space. Here is where the past and the future meet. This is the place where we set the memories, about which we’ll reminisce in years to come, into the history books of our minds.

Those words are especially apropos as we have just begun a new year. I have shared them before. But, as I consider that many will take those steps thoughtlessly and foolishly, I am almost tempted to repent of saying the words.

They were written as words of reassurance, drawing a picture of delight as the reader stands poised to make memories worth recording and celebrating far into the future.

I can’t help but realize they are no less true for those who step into the future with bitterness and rancor, writing their impending history with the uncaring destruction of bridges which can never again be traversed.

Then again, as I write (and think) tonight, I am reminded that it has ever been so. What is in the heart of men will make its way, however slow and inexorably, to the surface. Selfishness in the heart begets selfishness in words and in actions. Pettiness produces a like result.

The Teacher Himself said it clearly: Out of the contents of your heart, you will communicate. (Luke 6:45)

Later, one who had walked with Jesus repeated it when he suggested that a spring of salt water could not produce fresh water. (James 3:12)

We make our own choices about the history which will fill the empty page of the future when it is no longer the future.

I will not repent of the words. I’ll not wallow in despair.

Here is what I know:

The grace which has been extended to us is able to reach to the depths of our hearts. We have only to grasp hold of it and allow its work of renewal and refreshing to be completed.

No, we can’t go back and undo the past. The failures of those days still lie behind. But, they no longer have to be ahead of us, too.

The previous page is covered with yesterday’s actions and words, whether kind and constructive, or harsh and devastating. Ahead, still lies the future, clean as the artists canvas.

Our choice…More of the same, or a new direction.

Each moment, each action will determine the history which will one day be retold.

Choose well.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–I took the one less traveled by…
(from The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost ~ American poet ~ 1874-1963)

Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future…
(from Fly Like An Eagle by the Steve Miller Band ~ ca. 1976)

No Accidents

December 24, 2015December 24, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Exhausted. Physically worn out.

In a minute, I’ll turn off the coffee pot and the lights. As I check the door though, I see the glow of the candles in the windows next door and my mind wanders.

Candlelight . . .

Earlier on this long Eve of Christmas day, we sat in a dimly lit church auditorium. It’s not a beautiful sanctuary, just an old Quonset hut gymnasium finished out to seat a couple hundred people, but it’s warm.

Comfortably we sat, and then stood to sing as the familiar carols began.

It was no accident that he picked our building to wander into. That homeless man could not have known who would be there; he could not have predicted his reception. But in he walked.

There are no accidents.

We stood and sang. He trudged right up the middle aisle. You know, usually folks in his condition take a seat near the back, awaiting the chance to ask for help quietly. This fellow? Right up front.

No. This was no accident.

The man set his plastic Walmart sack on the communion table. In Remembrance of Me, the words cut into the wood declare to the onlookers. Somehow, I think that’s no accident either.

There are not many items in our church building that we would call sacred. It’s just not how we worship. Altars, fonts, icons–those are not really part of our experience. We believe that true worship is from our hearts, disregarding the physical trappings, almost to a fault.

The Communion table though–that’s the Lord’s table. If not sacred, it is at least worthy of respect.

Dirty Walmart bags don’t scream out respect.

Sinking to his knees, the unhappy fellow bent himself down to the bare concrete floor and began to speak quietly. I couldn’t hear the words and I still don’t know what he prayed, but soon, others would kneel beside him and pray as well. They were still ministering to him as the rest of us left, nearly forty-five minutes later.

I need to say the words.

It was no accident that the man set his dirty Walmart bag on our Communion table.

I wonder. How many of us who were there left unchanged tonight?

I’ve written on numerous occasions of homeless folks and our responsibility to them. Their stories always pull at my heart, and I’ve attempted to communicate that same sense to the reader in my writing.

Tonight though, on the eve of our observance of the birth of Christ, a dirty man set his dirty sack right down in the middle of my worship.

Right down in the middle of it.

But, as I stare over at the candles in the house’s windows, I begin to understand.

You see, it was no accident that the Baby was born to an unmarried young lady and laid in a feeding trough.

It was no accident that His companions throughout His life on earth were outcasts, and drunks, and the poor.

It was no accident that this Holy, perfect God-man was hung on a cursed, profane tree.

His intent was to show us that often what we define as profane is what He calls sacred. For all of His time here, He made clear as well, that much of what the religious folk of that day called sacred was actually profane.

I wonder if there are similar words He would say to His Church today.

The Baby in the barn calls us to care about the sacred instead of focusing on the profane.

He calls us to speak grace instead of declaring law. He calls us to offer mercy instead of dispensing justice.

He calls us to let the dirty Walmart bag sit atop the Lord’s Table.

In some ways, the bag is more sacred. It is if it allows a seeker to find once more the Baby who came to be Savior.

Sacred.

The Savior came to offer grace. More than that, He came to change who we are.

I know. He’s still changing me.

And that’s no accident either.

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

Anything that happens to you, good or bad, must pass through His fingers first. There are no accidents with God.
(Tony Evans ~ American pastor/author)

Shadows

December 23, 2015December 23, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Winter Solstice.

Here, in the northern hemisphere, it is the shortest day in the year. Throughout the winter, because of the earth’s tilt on its axis, the sun is not visible in the sky overhead for as long each day. Shorter days equals colder weather. Theoretically.

On this shortest of the short days in this year, the wind is blowing a gale out of the south. Rain, says the weatherman. Tornadoes, others whisper ominously. Listening, some will be afraid. I shrug my shoulders. What may come, may come.

Or, it may not.

In my experience, mostly they don’t come. Worry won’t change the odds, either way.

Funny. It’s not the big things, the disasters, that cause me the most problems.

Shadows. I worry about shadows.

I remember watching the shadows as a skinny little urchin under the heat of the South Texas sun. Early in the morning, we rushed to beat the daylight to the fishing hole, trusty Zebco rod and reels slung over our shoulders. We hoped to be fishing before our shadows could be cast across the feeding place of the perch we sought. No doubt it was childish imagination, but we were positive the shadow would spook the fish, guaranteeing a morning devoid of the victorious shouts echoing along the banks: I got one!

Then again, in the evening as we ambled toward home down the long avenue, our shadows would stretch for yards, as the sun dropped down to the western horizon. Shadows meant the day was over. That could only lead to one thing. We were never ready to go to bed. Never.

Ah, but in the middle of those wonderful, carefree days? No shadow was cast by the sun at all. High above us, the brilliant yellow sun was all light. We moved, unencumbered with the dark appendage following or leading.

In the middle of such a day, who would worry about the coming night? It (and its shadows) were endless hours away.

But the skinny urchin is an old man now, living many miles north of that childhood home. In winter, the shadows are long during all of the daylight hours. All of them.

Just last weekend, as I lazed in the sunlight, I glanced over at my backyard companions. It was midday, yet the shadows cast by my canine buddies lying nearby stretched toward the north, looking for all the world like the going-home-shadow of the westering sun on the backs of those boys, all those years ago.

Somehow though, the shadows I dread in winter aren’t only those springing from the southern-fleeing sun. There are other shadows, not explained by scientists or weather maps, that gather thick as the year ebbs.

Imagined or not, the shadows creep, as the nights grow longer, deep into the soul. Whispering at first, they warn of impending loss and sorrow. Soon the shadows are all we see; their threatening voices fill our hearing with raspy, wailing torment.

Why is it, do you suppose, the Church fathers chose December, the month of shadows, for the celebration of the coming of brilliant Light to all the world? It is not likely that we celebrate the event at the time of year it actually happened. And, it really doesn’t alter the reality of the marvelous story.

Still, I wonder—why this month?

Oh, but what a contrast! Night and Day!

The shepherds felt the contrast. We’ve heard it so many times, we don’t really think about it. In the dead of the night, every shadow fled from the field in which they lay. (Luke 2: 8-12)

The glory of the Lord shone round about them?

Sounds like the shadows were nowhere to be found. As with the South Texas midday sun, the light blazed. Absolutely blazed.

Uh. They were afraid. Really afraid. I think that’s what sore afraid means. Maybe even really, really afraid.

And the angels told them they had nothing to fear. Nothing. This kind of thing—this blazing light at midnight—was about to be the norm. The Baby, the one they would find lying in a manger, had come to bring light. To all people, He would bring the noonday sun into their midnight darkness.

To all people

The light has shined in the darkness. It will never be truly dark again. (John 1:5)

And the shadows? Well, they’re just—just—shadows. No substance, only threats. With the coming of Light, they slip away, as if they never really were there.

Light trumps darkness every time.

Even in the short, gloomy days of winter. Maybe, especially then.

Worship Christ, the newborn King.

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.
(2 Corinthians 4:6 ~ NIV)

She bore to men a Savior, when half-spent was the night.
(from Lo How a Rose, E’er Blooming ~ German carol ~ ca. 15th Century)

On a Clear Day

December 21, 2015December 21, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I hear her still, the beautiful pure tones spilling into the air like bird song in the early morning quiet.

“On a clear day, you can see forever…”

It was many years ago I first heard the heart-stopping sound of Barbra Streisand’s unique voice singing that song.

I thought she was right.

All of life lay in front of me. In plain sight, I could see the future—the beautiful wife, two kids, a great career. I could see all the way to grandchildren and retirement. There would always be friends, and always a church. Always.

I could see it vividly, on those clear days.

It may come as a surprise to some. It did to me.

They’re not all clear days.

Oh, there have been days, when as Christian in Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, I stood on the mountaintop and thought I could just make out—barely—the lights of the Celestial City.

Lately, I’m not even sure they’re mostly clear days.

I certainly haven’t stood on any mountaintops recently to take a peek through the telescope at what’s coming. Days are just filled with daily things.

Family concerns, friends with health concerns, and loved ones lost—all these and more are what is reality for me—and many others—these days. Happy times? They come too, but somehow we can’t see far beyond them.

Step by slogging step, the road goes past.

I may not see forever all that clearly anymore. But what I do see, by the calendar and by the frenzy of last minute preparations around me, is that it’s Christmas week.

I used to wonder if the Baby, whose birth we celebrate this week, saw it all before Him as He stepped out to take His place among men.

Did He see the path laid out from His lowly birth in a cow barn, all the way to an ignominious criminal’s death on a man-made tree? Was every step clear to Him?

They are questions I cannot answer. Theologians have been arguing them from that day until now.

Here is what I do know:

He knew who He was. As a young man He taught in the temple, calling it His Father’s house . (Luke 2:49)

He knew why He was here. He went about His Father’s business. When He began His ministry, He never faltered in His purpose. Always, without leaving the path, He moved steadily toward the day when He would die on that cross.

He knew who He was here for. Along the way, He touched people’s hearts and their bodies, healing and making whole. Teaching them, feeding them, exhorting them, He demonstrated His heart and drew them to Himself—by the thousands.

He was, indeed, the light of the world! (John 8:12)

And with that thought kindled in my mind, I begin to see the truth about my own situation.

The truth.

I don’t have to see the end of the journey; I just have to put one foot in front of the other.

There’s enough light for that.

The Word, the One who came and lived among men, is the same Word that is the lamp to my path and the Light for my feet. (Psalm 119:105)

Barbra needed her clear day.

We’ve got a light for the darkest night.

And on a clear day…
On a clear day…
You can see forever…
And ever…
And ever…
And ever more.
(from On a Clear Day, You Can See Forever ~ Alan Jay Lerner ~ American lyricist ~ 1918-1986)

For we walk by faith and not by sight.
(2 Corinthians 5:7 ~ NIV)

Still Ringing In My Head

December 18, 2015December 15, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Bells!

I can’t get them out of my head. Mr. Longfellow heard them. I thought I was listening too.

Joy to all people. All is well.

Lesson learned. Can we move on now?
__________

My young friend blew in from the dreary, damp world recently. I asked her cheerfully how her day was going. The anguished look in her eyes was enough to let me know I had touched a sore spot with those few words.

“Oh. Please don’t ask me to answer that question.”

She always smiles. Not that day. It was as if the door was slammed shut on her feelings. I have learned to leave those doors alone.

I apologized and helped her find what she needed. As she headed for the exit, briefly, a window opened up to her emotions and she mentioned how hard Christmas will be this year with her mom gone. Tears glistened in her eyes as she turned to go out the door. Mine too.

The bells hanging on the door knob jangled rudely as the door shut behind her.

Bells! What is it with the bells?

Addison came with her mom the next day. Her mom washes our windows once a month to make sure we can see out and customers can see in. Five years ago, we became good friends, Addison and I. She came every time her mom did and we visited. A lot. She brought me flowers. I gave her candy.

But, little girls grow up and go to school.

“I’m too busy to come most times now. You’ll just have to get used to seeing me once in a while. Okay?”

That day, while her mom washed windows, Addison and I talked. Well, Addison talked. I listened. After awhile, she asked her mom to unlock the car so she could get something to show me.

I wondered what it could be. You already know what it was.

Yep. A bell.

A single little brass bell to hang on her Christmas tree. She shook it proudly. Again and again.

And again.

I like Addison. I was glad when she left with her bell.

I wonder. Did I really learn the lesson of the bells?

What was I missing?

Ah well. It would come to me. Or not.

I sat in my easy chair the same evening and dozed off by the fire. Warm and comfortable, nothing would bother me in my cozy den.

My sleep was filled with the sound of–yeah, you knew it was coming–bells. While I slept, the antiques program the Lovely Lady was watching on the television had ended and a holiday concert by a bell choir began.

I slept as long as I could and finally brought myself to wakefulness, grumpy and almost angry. Stupid bells!

Stupid bells!

I reached for the remote, but something stopped me.

The music was beautiful.

Bell choirs are amazing cooperative efforts in which no one takes a front seat and every single ringer is absolutely essential to the process. From the tiniest of tinkly high notes, all the way down to the huge bass bell, nearly two feet across at the throat of the brass dome, each one plays its part.

At exactly the right time, the different bells sound, manipulated by different people, both male and female. Entrances have to be perfect; cutoffs, precise. No one carries the entire melody; no individual person is relegated to the rhythm part. Every single bell counts.

I overcame my grumpiness and frustration to listen to the astounding music. Beautiful songs.

Old familiar carols.

Bells. Playing old familiar carols. Who knew?

You’re humming the song aren’t you? (I heard the bells on Christmas day, their old familiar carols play…)

I listened to the breathtaking music and my uneasiness grew again. Something was wrong. Unfinished business. No, that wasn’t it. You know how it is when you know you’re missing something, but you can’t quite put your finger on it?

And then I saw her. Playing the bells. There!

No. Not on the television. In my mind.

My Mom. She loved the bells. She wasn’t all that good at them; coming in on the wrong beat here; letting the tone ring in the air too long there. No matter. She loved playing with the bell choir.

I can see her now, sitting with the bells on the table in front of her, watching the music and the director like a hawk ready to attack, counting the beats. She is desperately hoping that she comes in at the right place, but laughing at herself when she doesn’t.

Beautiful bells.

The tears come again as I write. I listened to that bell choir and wiped the tears then too.

I miss my Mom.
__________

And still the bells ring–of peace on earth and good will to man. (Luke 2:14)

Their tones pure and clear, they ring out. Oblivious to our moods, our battles, our disasters, they ring out. Parents die or are lost to us. Children grow up and away from us. Still, the bells ring their message.

Peace on earth. Good will to man.

Joy.

I thought I had learned the lesson.

Perhaps this is why Christmas comes around again every year. Lessons are forgotten. Situations change. Old habits are taken up again.

We need to be reminded.

A Savior came to earth. To save us. To teach us. To change our hearts.

Is there still sadness? Death? Poverty? War? The answer is still yes.

But the day is coming. . . (Isaiah 9:5-6)

I’ll wait. And while I wait?

I’ll keep listening to the bells, Mr. Longfellow.

I’ll keep listening to the bells, Mr. Longfellow. Share on X

He will swallow up death forever! The Sovereign Lord will wipe away all tears.
(Isaiah 25:8a ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.
(from The Eve of Christmas ~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson ~ English poet ~ 1809-1892)

Face Toward Home

December 17, 2015December 17, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Home.

I’ve been thinking a lot about home the last few days. Well—it is normal for that to happen this time of year. Christmas memories do intrude on normal life.

For most folks, they do.

I’ve mentioned before that I didn’t really experience Christmas as a child. We took a different path as a family and didn’t celebrate the holiday. Perhaps I’ll spend some time on that subject again—perhaps not. All it means to this discussion is that I have no childhood Christmas memories calling me back home.

Still, my mind drifts back again.

I can’t help it. Events and family decisions are conspiring to draw me back to the place I still call home, in spite of nearly forty years of being away. And, in the midst of planning for one last trip home—one last chance to say goodbye—my head is alive with memories.

They are memories of a home filled with love and music. They are also memories of the same home filled with sibling rivalry and loud arguments, lasting late into the night, about every subject you could imagine. A lifetime ago in that home, my brothers, sister, and I developed from awkward, dependent little brats into strong, responsible adults (for the most part).

Denim jeans worn through at the knees and patched by a red-headed lady—muttering and shaking her head all the while—play a part in the memories. So too, do wool sweaters crocheted by the same red-headed lady—this time, smiling and humming at her work.

The events that shaped the humans we are today are still in our heads, just waiting to be captured by the fickle net of memory and brought to the surface at any moment.

They’re not all happy memories. Then again, for me, they’re not mostly sad ones either.

I’ll take one last trip home.

Closure. The long chapter will be finished.

Somehow though, during this Christmas season, interlaced with the weaving of denim and wool memories of that long-ago home has been the sheer and silky fabric of a home I have not yet been to.

I’ve never been there, but lately it feels more like home than any place to which I’ve ever given that name. Perhaps, it’s because the red-headed lady who raised me has moved there within the last year.

I don’t think it’s only that. I don’t think it’s even mostly that.

The realization hit me just this week, as I joked with a customer in my business. I haven’t been feeling well for a day or two and my plaintive reply to his casual query about my general well-being led him to say the words.

“Well, it’s better than the alternative.”

I started to nod in agreement, but suddenly it occurred to me.

No. It’s not.

The realization was like an electric shock. I don’t want to stay here one second past time to go home. Not an instant.

Home is the place we are aiming for. It’s the ultimate goal of our labor and living here.

I told him so. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I wonder why?

My mind wanders a bit further afield. Suddenly, I’m thinking about Him. You know who I mean. The Baby—the One whose birth we’ll celebrate in a few days. He left home.

It was a big deal. Home was better. Really better.

Still, He left home. For us. To teach us. To touch us. To save us.

To take us home with Him—so we could be with His Father.

Funny. I suddenly remember why I mostly want to go home.

To be with my Father.

Yes, the red-headed lady who raised me will be there. She’ll be there, along with many others I want to see again. A lot.

But, I want to be with my Father.

In a week or so, I’ll turn my face toward my old home. Even then, My face will be toward my real home.

It’s out there still. Just up ahead.

I can almost see the lights from here.

Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.(Hebrews 11:16 ~ NIV)

Strengthen us to go on in loving service of all thy children. Thus shall we have communion with thee, and, in thee, with our beloved ones. Thus shall we come to know within ourselves that there is no death and that only a veil divides, thin as gossamer.
(from a prayer by George MacLeod ~ Scottish soldier/clergyman ~ 1895-1991)

Hearts Racing

December 15, 2015December 15, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Another Christmas program night—somehow I always feel I’m at a recital.

Will Jackie perform his duet with his sister? Can the brass ensemble get through their piece without falling apart?

On this recent Sunday evening, the tension was not as palpable as some of those recitals I’ve attended, but the undercurrent still made itself known.

Parents sat with arms lovingly around their children—children normally aloof and independent, but now somehow in need of reassurance. Even adults who would take part sat, breathing a little rapidly, looking fixedly ahead at the activity before them. Periodically, their eyes would dart down to the programs on their laps, as if to assure themselves that their opportunity to participate hadn’t yet passed. I found myself wondering if their hearts weren’t beating a bit harder and faster than was usual.

I stood near the back, taking in the scene. I would share the stage with fifteen other men to sing an Advent anthem later. There being almost no danger of individual disaster with so many others to cover up my errors, I had no personal sense of impending doom.

Somehow, as usually happens, Jackie and his sister did wonderfully. The brass ensemble did an extraordinary job, their efforts being rewarded resoundingly by the applause of those listening. Parents were pleased and perhaps, a little proud. Even the singing men did their job admirably, sounding better than they ever had.

Perhaps the reason for elevated heart rates was past. It was all downhill from here.

Perhaps not.

Nearing the end of the program, a large group of folks, some old, some young, approached the stage. They were dressed alike, almost as if in uniform. The moderator of the program explained what was to come.

An elderly lady, who usually attends our services, has been too ill to be there recently. This group had prepared something—a song—to be recorded and played for her later in her room at the rehab center.

There were smiles all around the auditorium as her name was mentioned; this lady is a favorite of many. She always sits near the front of the building, and is visible to most who attend. Another young lady of our group always sits nearby, facing her.

You see, the elderly lady is deaf—her companion in the services, her interpreter. The sign language is a constant through the service, from the announcements, through the music and on, until the conclusion of the sermon. I’m often on stage for the musical part of our worship, so I can see her face beaming as she also participates in signing the words of the songs we sing.

The group on stage this night had learned sign language for the song we would hear. It is not a new song, but is contemporary in rhythm. (A link to the song may be found below.) There is a solo part and also several choral parts, coming in a different times throughout the piece. I assumed the performers would sign for the solo part only, understanding that our friend is used to having only that single line interpreted to her.

My assumption was wrong. Indeed, the entire group signed in unison for the opening solo part, but as the choral parts entered and then split, coming in at different times and layering in, one on top of the other, the “singers” on stage did the same. One group carried the solo part, others, on either side of the group signed for the different choral part.

It was a thing of beauty, almost choreographic in character. The evocative nature of hand motions is a natural thing for humans anyway. These just communicated exact language—no, not just language—even the rhythm and layering of the vocal parts were represented.

I admit it. It was a little hard to see through the tears.

I’ve told you that music does that to me. There is an emotion that music awakes and the tears flow, whether or not I wish them to. This was even more powerful.

But, something bothered me. I cast about for a few seconds and the elusive thought was caught. Our friend can’t hear the sound. She only sees the motions.

I wondered what that would be like. For a moment, I closed my ears with the palms of my hands.

Only for a moment.

Did I tell you the heart-racing moments were over for the night? Not true!

A split instant after my hands covered my ears, I realized I couldn’t hear the music.

I couldn’t hear the music. I couldn’t hear the words.

The beautiful movement on the stage continued, but I didn’t understand the language. Not only could I not hear, I was illiterate.

Quickly, I removed my hands from my ears, but it was too late. My heart was racing and the tears, which had only clung to the corners of my eyes before, ran freely down my face.

It was a good thing I had stayed near the back of the darkened auditorium. I dug my handkerchief out to wipe away the evidence of the tears, but still my heart thumped away in my chest.

I had felt that same panic just the day before. On Saturday morning, I laid under the sink in the bathroom, working on the plumbing. Completing the job, I leaned forward to rise to my feet.

The world spun.

It wasn’t the normal passing darkness brought on by the blood rushing to my head. The room around me spun in huge looping circles, causing me to lose my balance and tip toward the wall. I quickly grabbed onto the lavatory and held on for all I was worth.

With heart pounding and panic-filled, I made my way to my easy chair. I stayed there most of the day.

Not in control. It’s a terrifying feeling.

What if the vertigo never goes away? How will I work? How will I play my horn? How will I play with my grandchildren?

Not in control.

And suddenly, it occurs to me that Jesus, God with us, put aside the authority of His position and relinquished control.

For us. Of His own volition.

He put His hands over His ears and left them there. Well, not in reality, but in essence, that is what He did.

The powerful King of Heaven came to us as a tiny, weak baby. He was completely dependent on a mother and father for everything.

He learned the language as children do. He, who was the Word—from the beginning was the Word—had to learn words in the same way we do.

By rights, every cow on the hoof and every ear of wheat in every field is His to eat, but He was hungry in the desert. (Matthew 4:2-4)

The water of every mountain stream belongs to Him; still, He hung on a cross and cried out, “I thirst.” (John 19:28)

His sight is so keen that He sees to the end of time, yet He was blindfolded and beaten as they taunted Him to tell who had hit Him. (Luke 26:64)

I don’t know if His heart pounded, nor if the tears flowed. But, I do know He chose—He chose—to relinquish control.

For all of humanity.

Funny. My heart races a little again, as I consider it.

There are still tears in my eyes.

Perhaps, it’s time for me to give up control, too.

Again.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part.
Yet what can I give Him?
Give my heart.
(Christina Rosetti ~ English poet ~ 1830-1894)

…who though He existed in the form of God
did not regard equality with God
as something to be grasped,
but emptied Himself
by taking on the form of a slave,
by looking like other men,
and by sharing in human nature.
He humbled Himself,
by becoming obedient to the point of death
—even death on a cross!
(Philippians 2:6-8 ~ NET)

Bells Ring

December 14, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Nearly Christmas. All is well.

That’s what I’m supposed to write, isn’t it?

Am I the only one who isn’t happy?

It’s hard to write when one is gloomy. My mood matches the weather lately. Cloud-bound and gray.

The world around me is angry. Races are pitted against each other. The wealthy and the poor are caught up in a war of the classes. Friends battle with friends and brothers are angry with their brothers.

What’s not to be sad about?

I wonder. Would it be okay for me to just share a poem tonight? The writer of these words had reason to be sad. He had reason to be angry.

His wife had died from burns she received when her clothing caught fire. In putting out the fire, he himself had been burned badly.

The next Christmas, he wrote this: “How inexpressibly sad are all holidays.”

The year after, at Christmas, he penned these words, “‘A Merry Christmas,’ say the children, but that is no more for me.”

War raged in the countryside and his son was seriously injured in battle. At Christmas that year, he was silent.

Silent.

Ah! But the next Christmas–the next Christmas, these timeless verses came. And, with them–hope.

And, peace.

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;
“God is not dead; nor doth He sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!”

He wrote the words exactly one hundred fifty-one years ago this Christmas. Death and war, pain and hatred, were the language of the day.

The intellect of the poet said exactly what mine echoes today.

What’s the use? Nothing changes.

But the heart–no, the very soul–of the believer knows. It knows that the Child who was born on that first Christmas day brought with Him a message of Hope and Peace. And Joy.

Joy that shall be to all people. All people.

I think I’ll listen to the bells.

All is well.

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
(Luke 2: 10,11,13,14 ~ KJV)

Christmas Bells by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips