One Clear Call

September 14, 2015September 14, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I’m looking for Ivanhoe by Egghead. I know you’ve got it, Mark!”

The rag-tag children were scattered around the old scarred-up dining room table. There was a huge bowl, now nearly empty, on the wood surface between them. The smell of popcorn hung in the air, but there was nothing to be seen in the bottom of the bowl, except old-maids—the unpopped kernels—and none of the kids wanted to try chewing on them.

The scruffy boy who had spoken held a number of dog-eared cards in his hand, as did all the children. Their father had an unqualified contempt for gambling games, so the family didn’t own a deck of standard playing cards—the type with suits and numbers, along with royalty designations.

No. They were playing Authors, already an old game, even in the 1960s. With cards bearing pictures of classic authors and a list of four of their most famous works, each player would struggle to remember who had called for which author and work, and then attempt to amass complete sets of all the cards bearing that particular author’s writings.

I was the scruffy boy calling for Egghead’s Ivanhoe. Well, the author’s name was really Sir Walter Scott, but his depiction on the card looked for all the world like the shape of an egg. The man shall, unfortunately, forever remain so in my brain.

I hadn’t thought about the game for many a year, although the names of those classic works have come up in my collection of books and in my reading list numerous times in my adult life. Yet, tonight, as I sat at my desk and thumbed through a book of English poems (copyright 1902), my eye fell on the poem entitled, Crossing the Bar by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

You guessed it. Another of the denizens of that old card game.

You’ll find the poem below.

Funny. Life back then was full of teasing and laughter. Our poetry consisted of John and Debbie sitting in a tree; K-I-S-S-I-N-G, and the like.

We had no idea that the classic works, whose names we memorized simply for the sake of winning a game, consisted of deep, thought-provoking material which spoke of death and of meeting God. Unbeknownst to us, in the works inventoried on that tattered card stock, there were monsters, Muslims, and ragamuffin boys traveling the Mississippi, along with many other wonders.

I have read many of those works over the years, loving some, disappointed in others.

But tonight—tonight—I read the poem.

Tonight, I am remembering people who were part of my life back then, folks who have already crossed the bar. People who have seen their Pilot face to face.

It is a long list—a list growing longer all the time.

Lord Tennyson expressed his desire to choose how he would depart this world. We don’t get to do that. I’m not sure we really would want that anyway.

I know by long experience that my timing stinks. I leap when I should wait, and stand still when I should fly.

But, my Pilot knows exactly when to embark. And, precisely where to steer the ship. I can’t see Him, but I know He is there at the rudder, just as surely as I know my own name.

Come to think of it, even if I forget my own name, He will still be there.

Even if I forget my own name, He will still be there. Share on X

Earlier this year, my cousin passed away suddenly. There was no warning; there were no days of preparation for the journey. Just a call for her from the other side of the bar.

Just like that, she was gone.

Others I love have taken years to complete their time here—years of suffering—years of moaning as the long days and nights dragged on.

My experience is not unique. All suffer the losses. All look forward to the day themselves.

For all the sorrow and sadness, for all the emptiness and loss, we have a promise—we who are believers.

I’m going to get the house ready for you. I wouldn’t make the promise if I didn’t intend to make it so. And, if I go and prepare the home for you, I’ll be there to welcome you. (John 14:2,3)

Face to face.

The day is coming.

Perhaps we shouldn’t be sitting around playing games while we wait.

There is business to attend to.

I think I’ll clock in again in the morning. You?

CROSSING THE BAR

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ Poet Laureate/Great Britain & Ireland ~ 1809-1892)

If It Was a Snake

September 11, 2015September 11, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

If it was a snake, it would’ve bit you.

I’m hearing the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me in my head this morning. They were words she spoke often to me as a child.

Ignoring the frighteningly bad grammar, I admit to a certain amount of myopia. By that, I mean the figurative kind of shortsightedness.

You know, the kind that only sees what it wants to see.

After midnight last night, I stood in the adhesives section at my local Wally-World, staring at row upon row of glue containers and bemoaning the lack of any alternatives.

I had started a job which absolutely had to be finished before I headed home for the night, only to find I had not tightened the lid on my bottle of contact cement. It was the only kind of glue that would work for the job at hand, so out to the local big-box discount store I went.

Twenty-four/seven. Shopping on my schedule. Never mind that many of the oddest folks do their shopping there in the wee hours of the morning.

Come to think of it, I was there. Talk about odd…

Why was I staring at the shelves instead of purchasing glue? Well, because there was no brown bottle marked contact cement to be found. Not one. The shelf sticker was there, but the metal surface above it was empty.

Empty.

I stood there for at least fifteen minutes, looking at the alternatives. No contact cement, only super glue and some weird stuff they call gorilla. None of them would perform the task I needed the glue for.

I finally asked a passing employee if there were any of the missing glue bottles in the stock room. He obligingly scanned the sticker and informed me that there were none in the store—none even, in the regional warehouse. I was out of luck.

I stood there perplexed. What would I do? How could I keep my promise to that little girl who needed her clarinet first thing this morning?

I mourned another missed deadline and the unhappy look on the girl’s face when she realized I had failed her. In my head, failure was complete. Utter.

Another few moments passed, and the employee next to me cleared his throat.

“Is that all I can help you with?” he asked.

I jerked back to the reality that he had done all he could and simply nodded. In that instant my eye caught the label on a can. Right next to the empty space I had been staring at sightlessly. Hopelessly.

Right next to it.

A large can of the exact thing I needed. Just not in the package I expected to find. It was a much better deal, as far as the price went.

I had been six inches away from the solution to my problem all that time! Sitting right there, waiting for me to notice.

Wrong package. Wrong color. Wrong size.

If it was a snake, it would’ve bit me.

I wonder. How many times have I given up because I couldn’t see the solution to my problem?

In our myopic pursuit of answers, how often have we missed the provision right in front of our faces? Our God knows exactly what we need.

Exactly. What. We. Need.

All we have to do is open our eyes. And hearts.

And get ready to get back to work.

And Moses said unto the people, Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the LORD, which he will shew to you to day.
(Exodus 14:13a ~ KJV)

If you do not raise your eyes, you will think you are the highest point.
(Antonio Porchia ~ Argentinian poet ~ 1885-1968)

Softly

September 9, 2015September 9, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger. (Proverbs 15:1)

And, with those words from the Preacher, you already know enough about me to write my biography.

Funny. I used to think I was the only one. Today, I look around this brave, new world in which we live, and I observe a tsunami of grievous words.

Surely the only possible outcome can be a firestorm of anger.

They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. Not my words—the prophet Hosea used them centuries ago. The truth hits home more today than at any time I can think of.

Daily we see it. In the public square, there is little civil discourse, only incendiary agitation. Names are called, accusations made, and arguments proclaimed with arrogance and demeaning language. And the other side simply sits quietly and waits their turn.

What? They don’t wait quietly? Well, of course they don’t.

In social media, on television, and through the radio waves, the volume is increased until no one can listen. The only way to inject a viewpoint into the conversation is to scream at opportune moments.

Aided by the instantaneous and public nature of our technology, the clamor is amplified exponentially.

The din is spectacular. And deafening.

And astonishingly pointless.

Quiet communication calms the brawling spirit, but argumentative voices fan the flames.

I still have the old Bible at home and use it frequently. The black leather cover is frayed and ragged at the edges and the binding is separated. And yet, the words on the flyleaf still jump out at me every time I open it. As if it had been written yesterday, the reminder still grips and convicts.

The beautiful script is the handwriting of a loving father who understood, all too well, his teen-aged son.

The words of which I speak are those of the Proverb which you see at the top of this essay.

My father knew his son. He knew what I was made of—knew my bent to argument and arrogance.

I have spent a lifetime trying to tame the beast within, the beast of pride and defiance. But, like the Apostle who was called the brother of our Lord, I have lost the battle with the tiny tongue again and again. James suggests there is not one of us who is able to tame our tongue. (James 3:3-8)

But, it must be tamed. Must be. And the tools are within reach.

The wisdom of our Creator is pure, peace loving, and considerate. (James 3:17)

You see, our Father knows His children and what they are made of. He knows our bent to arrogance and argument.

But, He wants better for us.

I chuckle as I recall the conclusion of James at the end of his disheartening exposé on the untameable tongue. The contrast with the prophet Hosea’s words is striking. James avers that peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness. (James 3:18)

We don’t have to sow the wind. We don’t have to reap the whirlwind. That crop is not profitable in any way.

Sowing peace, we reap righteousness.

Sowing peace, we reap righteousness. Share on X

Many of the voices I hear raised in rage today claim righteousness. I wonder.

Softly, softly. Our friends across the pond use the term to describe the approach most likely to yield the positive results we seek.

Perhaps we could try that.

Softly.

Shhhh. Be vewy vewy quiet. I’m hunting wabbits.
(Elmer Fudd ~ Loony Tunes cartoon character)

People’s minds are changed through observation and not through argument.
(Will Rogers ~ American humorist/columnist ~ 1879-1935)

Painting the Dirt

September 8, 2015September 8, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Dust are our frames, and, gilded dust our pride.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ 19th century British poet)

The newlyweds moved into the little two bedroom frame house and began to learn about life together. They laughed. They cried. They argued—a little. They cried some more.

Mostly, they laughed.

Sometimes, all they had to do to find something to laugh about was to look across the lane to a tiny house just like theirs. The elderly lady who lived there was a nice neighbor, as friendly as they could hope for, but she had a strange habit.

She dusted her yard. With a dust mop.

They laughed and wondered what possible benefit there could be to dusting one’s yard. Now, nearly forty years later, the young man (who is growing old) wishes he had asked the lady herself. Well? Who wouldn’t wonder why she dusted the lawn?

It doesn’t make much sense, does it? The yard was just dirt and grass, and more dirt than it was grass.

He has some questions still:

How would one know when the job is completed?

Is it a job which must be done daily? Weekly?

Would the neighbors notice if the job were left undone?

He’ll never know the answer to his questions since the dear lady has been in Heaven many years now. But, the couple still laughs when the seemingly useless task comes to mind. Surely it was a complete waste of her time.

It’s a futile thing to do, dusting dust.

Kind of like painting tombs, isn’t it?

The Teacher laughed at the old men with their paint brushes. The graves of His day weren’t much like ours. Caves and hollows in the hillsides, covered with stones to keep out the varmints and grave-robbers—that was all they were. No amount of paint could quell the stench that wafted to passersby.

Whoa! I wonder what died!

I say it to myself frequently as I ride my bicycle in ever-widening circuits around our little town, especially along the narrow country lanes. I can’t see the culprits, but I can certainly smell the odor left behind by death. Skunks, raccoons, o’possums, even the occasional armadillo—all add their noxious fumes to the fresh country air.

I wonder if the white-wash on the stones over the grave openings fooled anyone back then. I’m thinking not many were hoodwinked into thinking there was anything desirable under that big white rock.

Dust mops and paint brushes are useful tools. For the right purpose.

The high-school-aged boy lugged the heavy black case in from the parking lot last week. He seemed a little embarrassed to be bringing the huge instrument into the music store.

“Could you get me a lyre to fit this tuba?” he asked. “I bought one the other day, but it’s the wrong shape.”

I laughed humorlessly. It is a problem I have struggled with for many years. I never seem to remember the essentials from year to year, though.

I pulled out a long, straight brass-looking lyre from the appropriate location.

“Give me a minute. I’ll make it work.”

They say pride goes before a fall. They are right.

I put the tail of the music holder into my vise and pushed on the other end of it, bending it in the approximate direction I knew it needed to go.

Snap!

The long rod, a foot long just a moment ago, was now only eight inches long.

That can’t be right! Brass is soft and bends easily! How could I break it so quickly?

You already know the answer, don’t you?

It’s not made of brass—only covered with brass plating. Underneath? Pot metal. Cheap trashy metal made from a mixture of soft metallic substances, cast into the shape of a costlier steel and then plated to be appealing to buyers.

Whisking the dust away from dirt doesn’t make it any cleaner.

Painting a stinking grave doesn’t make it any less offensive.

Plating pot metal gives it no additional strength whatsoever.

Dust are our frames,…

Lord Tennyson understood the premise. Who would argue that we are, indeed, dust? Even those white-washed graves can’t keep our bodies from returning to their beginnings. Eventually.

And yet, here we stand—arrogant things—boasting of who we are and what we have done. Merely dirt, yet we would have anyone else believe there is no longer any residual dirt underneath the decorated surface.

…and, gilded dust our pride.

Gilding causes the article it covers to appear as pure gold. Pure gold!

There is a test for gold, just as bending will show the difference between brass and pot metal. The test for gold?

Job knew the answer to that. And, when He has tried me, I shall come forth as pure gold.

Through the fire, the mettle of the whole piece will be known.

I’m not sure I’m ready for the fire. Yet.

I want to be. I want to be sure that I will prove to be pure gold, just like Job.

But, I’m confident there are a fair number of refinements which will need to happen first.

I want to be ready for the fire.

We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.
(from The Breakfast Club ~ American movie ~ 1985)

Now if any man builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw, each man’s work will become evident; for the day will show it because it is to be revealed with fire, and the fire itself will test the quality of each man’s work.
(I Corinthians 3:12,13 ~ NASB)

In My Shoes

September 4, 2015September 4, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I walk around like everything is fine, but deep down, inside my shoe, my sock is sliding off.

Kind of warms the heart, doesn’t it? No. Perhaps that’s not the right way to put it. I saw the little photo of a pair of shoes the other day and stopped to read the text. Heartwarming isn’t the way I would describe my reaction.

Confused, maybe…

My first thought was that I was going to feel sympathy for the person who wrote the sentence. But the gotcha phrase at the end made me laugh.

Ha! Just another touchy-feely sentimental moment turned into a joke.

I shared the picture with my friends, and went about my day. But, something made me go back to the photo again. And again.

Somehow, I wasn’t laughing anymore. Sad. That’s the way I began to feel inside.

The simple fact is, the event described is exactly the kind of thing that usually ruins my day. Oh, I don’t necessarily mean that I’ve got bad socks, but I’m saying that minor inconveniences visible to no one but me are the catalysts for more bad moods than anyone will ever know.

Minor inconveniences.

They’re kind of a big thing. For me, anyway. Maybe for you, too.

All day long, the slightly too-small shirt I put on this morning keeps pulling out at the waist. Each time I reach for something on my work bench, or stretch overhead to put in a light bulb, or bend over to pick up that penny I dropped while making change, the shirt tail, without any warning at all is hanging over my belt.

I hate that!

And, nobody cared. In fact, none of you knew it was happening. Not even the Lovely Lady.

I feel bad mentioning this at all. Sort of. It pales beside other issues.

One of my new author friends mentioned some serious personal life events in a note she wrote to me today. Beyond serious, they have been catastrophic. After that, it seems awfully silly for me to focus on the trivial and the mundane.

But, we live life as it happens. The catastrophic events come. For some, they last for many years—perhaps never to pass from our experience. Dealing with and responding to them is paramount.

Still, the minuscule events come too, annoying and chipping away at our patience. I wonder if they will also someday be a part of the record of how we responded and carried on in our walk here on this sphere of water and dirt.

The world keeps spinning. We keep walking with the socks bunched up in our shoes. Discomfort, inconveniences, and annoyances pile up.

You know I’m not really thinking about cheap socks now, right?

Who are we—really—when the trivial, the mundane, problems of life begin to wear on us? How do we treat our fellow travelers?

When I have big problems—the kind everyone can see—it’s not all that hard to keep my footing, relationally speaking. Folks treat me with deference, the kid glove treatment we’ve all heard of. All the warning signs are obvious and even I can remember to exercise self-control in dealing with others.

But, what about when my shoe comes untied?

Walking along the trail, side by side with the Lovely Lady, I don’t even notice it for awhile. Oh, I know something is not quite right, but it really doesn’t matter.

I keep walking. We keep talking.

Little by little, the brain becomes aware of the problem. Finally, in a moment of epiphany, I realize my foot is sliding around in my shoe.

And just like that, I am angry.

Well, who wouldn’t be? The person by my side, the woman who stood beside me at an altar all those years ago and promised to love and help me, won’t slow down. My shoe is untied and she keeps striding along like there is nothing wrong.

My shoe is untied!

“Slow down!” I snap.

She looks at me in surprise. Just a moment ago, we were enjoying our outing in the beauty of God’s creation. Nothing has changed, to her mind. There is no reason she would have seen my predicament.

My world, on the other hand, is turned upside down. Of course, she instantly slows to a stop and waits while I kneel down and make the necessary adjustments.

But the damage has been done.

I’ve spent a lot of words on feet, haven’t I? Perhaps you already realize the feet aren’t the problem. The heart is.

The heart.

We’re a self-centered lot, aren’t we? Oh, we talk a good game, pretending to care more about others than ourselves, but let just one little personal issue flare up and no one matters in the world besides ourselves. Nothing is more important in that moment than our comfort.

God is working on my heart problem. I’m trying to let Him. You see, the Apostle who loved letter-writing passed on the words God had for me long ago:

You can’t be looking at your own problems, but need to be focusing on what those around you need. Think like He did, the God-man who gave up everything so you could have everything.

As He’s working on my heart problem, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind waiting up while I tie my shoe.

I’d like to walk beside you for awhile.

You can pull up your socks if you need to.

I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.
(Jane Austen ~ British novelist ~ 1775-1817)

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests, but each of you the interests of the others.
(Philippians 2: 3,4)

Not Broken

September 2, 2015September 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The world is broken. lens-755539_1280

Broken.

A friend mentioned that his close friend died yesterday. There was a torrent of sympathetic responses, mine among them. Then, as the torrent subsided, he added one fact: She had been killed by her husband—shot three times.

Broken.

In Arizona this week, a mother drowned her two-year-old twin sons and tried to drown another boy, because she thinks no one loves them—or her. This happened the same week a court case began in California to try a mother who also drowned her son. That woman says she acted out of love—to protect the boy from a horrible life.

Broken.

The list could go on for page after page—people of one religion killing people of other religions, folks of one race killing and torturing folks of another race, ethnic groups with power abusing others without power—There seems no end of examples.

Closer to home, we live in a society of brokenness. Broken families, broken friendships, broken children, broken health, broken promises, broken computer programs—even broken pencils.

All broken.

To the minutest detail, all of creation is susceptible to the brokenness inherent in every part. The Preacher, in the Old Testament, added his endorsement when he told us that all is useless.

Broken and useless.

I will admit it. I am overwhelmed by the broken world in which we live. I suspect, when you take time to consider it, you are as overwhelmed as I.

And then I realize we too are broken. Overwhelmed and battered, as is all the world, our brokenness cries out for someone who can set things right.

And it turns out there is Someone who has already done the deed. We simply have to put ourselves in His hands. They are, after all, the hands of a Creator—a Potter who knows His craft, and His material. (Jeremiah 18:3,4)

He knows that we are dust. He knows that we shatter too easily. And, He already knows what the vessel we will one day become is to look like.

He already knows what the vessel we will one day become is to look like. Share on X

From the broken shards, a thing of beauty. Or perhaps simply, a thing of usefulness. I think that might be better.

Broken, made useful. Efficient. Filled with purpose.

In a broken world, we can serve His purpose.

May we be no longer broken. That was the way we came to Him. Not the condition in which we are to leave His wheel and kiln.

Useful.

In a still-broken world.

All of God’s people are ordinary people who have been made extraordinary by the purpose He has given them.
(Oswald Chambers ~ Scottish evangelist/teacher ~ 1874-1917)

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
(Psalm 34:18 ~ NIV)

Robbery

August 28, 2015August 28, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Twice. In two days.

Twice in two days, I did good things. Because they were in front of me to do. And, like a student who has memorized his lessons well, I knew what must be done.

Love your neighbor as yourself.

“Twenty dollars. It needs more, but I’ll fix just the one thing to make it play.”

He had no more money to invest and I could help by giving the instrument a lick and a promise, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say. Only, as I did the repair, it became evident that the minimum that could actually be done was a sixty dollar job. It would never play otherwise.

I had promised to make it play. I would do that. And, I would cover the difference.

I was proud of myself. I had memorized the lesson and followed its instructions to the letter.

He came to pick up the instrument. I mentioned that I had to do more. I might have even told him I did three times as much. I waited for his gratitude to bubble over. Surely he would at least shake my hand and thank me.

“I don’t know why I’m spending this money anyway. She’ll probably not play it at all.”

With that, he was gone.

Robbed! I’ve been robbed!

No, not of money. I’ve been robbed of the gratitude that should have been mine. Where is my praise for being such a good person? That’s it? A word of complaint and he walks out?

I want what is rightfully mine!

Truly I say to you—they have their reward in full.

The next morning, a vehicle pulled up to the store. The folks took care of their business and left. No. Scratch that. They tried to leave. The vehicle wouldn’t start. It was out of gas.

Hey! Another chance! I bolted to the storage barn and pulled out my gas can. It was nearly empty, but there should be enough to get them a block down the road for gas. I told them to use it all. No—I don’t need any money. I’m just glad I can help.

Unfortunately, after they poured all that was in the can in their tank, the car still wouldn’t start, so they sent someone up the road with the now-empty can to fill it up and bring it back. I needed to take care of other customers, so I told them they could just leave the can in the storage barn when they were through.

What do you suppose they did? Well—not what I expected. They left the can in the storage barn and drove out of the parking lot! Seriously!

I’ve been robbed again! They just drove away without another word!

And worse, they left the gas can completely empty in my barn. Everyone knows you leave gas to pay back for what you used. Everyone!

I want what’s rightfully mine!

…and your Father, who sees what you do in secret will be the One who rewards you.

Clearly, someone in this narrative doesn’t understand the expectations of the love your neighbor as yourself directive.

Clearly.

May I take just a moment and assure you that I registered my complaint? Vociferously. Both with family members and with God. They listened sympathetically.

He didn’t.

You see—the someone in this narrative who doesn’t understand is me.

Only me.

Sometimes, when we do the right thing, the good thing, all we hear in response is crickets. Sure, sometimes the person we help gushes with gratitude. It’s nice when it happens, but if that’s what we’re going for, we’ve missed the point of the original instructions.

If what I anticipate when I determine to share with folks who are in need is the reward of their gratitude, or the loud proclamation of praise, all I have done is to initiate a transaction.

I believe the Latin term is quid pro quo.

Something for something.

I give you something. You give me something in return. The end.

It’s the way our economic system operates. It’s not a bad system, as human systems go.

It’s just not God’s system.

He says give without expectation of repayment. Give so that no one knows you’re doing it.

And then He says, I’ll be the one who settles accounts—when the time is right.

Like Job in the Old Testament, I sit here with my mouth open, grasping for words, but all that comes out is, I had heard about You, but now I see clearly for myself and I am ashamed.

I said at the start it was twice. Twice, I did good things. It may have been more than that.

I am determined it will be more than that.

I just won’t be telling you about it.

To give and then not feel that one has given is the very best of all ways of giving.
(Max Beerbohm ~ English essayist ~ 1872-1956)

Give your gifts in private, and your Father, who sees everything, will reward you.
(Matthew 6:4 ~ NLT)

The Marketplace

August 25, 2015August 27, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

There are times when you just know. Beyond a shadow of doubt, you know: This is why you are here.

This moment. This person.

The Lovely Lady had first crack at her today. The lady, like many others we see this time of year, is struggling with acquiring a musical instrument for her aspiring band member. No money. No knowledge of what constitutes a good instrument, nor how to tell if it is in good condition. No one she can trust to be honest with her.

She does have a clarinet in her hands as she enters the music store. She also has a discouraged look on her face. I never heard the full story of how she came by the clarinet, but I do know she wants us to make it play correctly for her sixth grader. She is not optimistic.

“I’m sure it needs a repad. Can you do that for me?”

The Lovely Lady opens the case and looks over the horn, expecting the worst. Since I am busy with another customer, I leave her to handle things by herself. It is obvious she is a little confused, and I expect a call for help momentarily. What I hear is her suggesting the lady is mistaken.

“Well, a repad is quite expensive, but I’m not sure that’s what you need. Let’s wait for the expert.” (She always says that, but it’s not really a good description of my abilities.)

As soon as I can break free, I head for the counter where the diminutive lady is waiting, still with an unhappy visage. I’m prepared to point out the problem areas and make an estimate for the nervous mom. Taking the individual pieces of the horn in my hand one after another, I look for something to point to. Nothing.

That can’t be right. This lady came in expecting big problems. Surely I can find something.

I look again. Testing the sealing ability of the pads, I find no sign of any leaks anywhere on the instrument. The corks are fine. A little dingy, but completely intact. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the clarinet.

I have a dilemma.

The lady came in expecting to leave the instrument with us for repair. She assumes there will be a sizable charge due when the repair is finished.

I’m in business to make a profit. How hard can this be?

“Oh yes, Ma’am. We really do need to replace quite a few pads here. And, the corks—they’ll need to be changed also. It won’t cost as much as a repad, but still, it will take a good bit to get this horn into shape for your daughter.”

So easy. She would never know. It’s what she expects anyway.

The decision is made without hesitation. It is who I am—who we are. Now.

“No Ma’am. The horn is in excellent condition. What? Oh no. No charge.”

You would hardly have recognized the woman who walked out that door as the same lady who had come in moments earlier. A smile shone across her face, the like of which hadn’t likely been seen there recently.

I felt good. I felt bad.

It was almost the same feeling I had a day or two ago, when a girl and her mom had come in to purchase a small item. The lady spoke no English. None at all. Her daughter translated every word for her as the transaction was made.

The two were still in the store when a regular customer of mine walked nearby shaking his head. His eyes shot daggers at the two, as he spoke the words to me.

“I hate that! Why don’t they learn our language?”

Do you know how easy it would have been for me to simply nod my head? Just a nod. No words would have been necessary.

But, this also is why I am here.

I explained to him my admiration for folks who leave their land in search of a better life for their families. Struggling to be at home in a strange place, they walk out of their door into a battleground every day. I will not participate in the hatred of another human being.

I say the words kindly to him, but he rolls his eyes in disgust as he walks out.

I may have lost a customer. I hope not, but I would do it again.

I felt bad. I felt good.

This is why I’m here. It’s why you’re where you are.

To do the right thing. Even when we’d rather do the easy thing.

To show a life that is different because of what God has done in us.

It is how He works in this world—how He has always worked.

I don’t necessarily want this to be why I’m here. Sometimes, I wonder why God won’t leave me alone to make a comfortable living like any other red-blooded American. If that means taking advantage of folks who have their wallets in their hands, so be it. If I have to walk on a few people to gain the approval of others, why not?

And then I remember a God who told His Chosen People that their scales were to be honest, their weights to be accurate, their measurements to be correct.

Thousands of years ago, He made it clear.

The world has one standard: Every man for himself. All is fair in love and war.

God has another standard, a standard which has never changed: Love your neighbor as yourself. Period.

The standard applies in our family life; it applies to our friendships; it applies in our churches. And, no less than any other place, it applies in the marketplace.

Perhaps, more.

The marketplace is where who we really are is on display for all to see. It’s where our integrity comes out of the dark of night, and into the light of day.

It’s where our talk of following a Savior is proven, or else belied, by our walk.

Can I let you in on a secret? I have kept my mouth shut too many times. I have found myself letting folks spend more than they should on things they didn’t need.

I don’t write about the two interactions above to draw attention to my stellar accomplishments, but rather to draw attention to who we need to be—who we must be in our marketplace.

We all fail in our determination to walk in integrity—I, as often as anyone I know.

But. Grace.

Grace is a wonderful thing; its beauty is in its resilience. Failures become victories. Timidity becomes boldness.

Selfishness becomes love.

The Teacher spent a good bit of His time in the marketplace.

Doing good. Showing love.

Our turn.

I simply argue that the cross be raised again at the centre of the market place as well as on the steeple of the Church.
I am recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles; but on a cross between two thieves; on a town garbage heap; at the crossroad of politics so cosmopolitan that they had to write His title in Hebrew and in Latin and in Greek… And at the kind of place where cynics talk smut, and thieves curse and soldiers gamble.
Because that is where He died, and that is what He died about. And that is where Christ’s men ought to be and what church people ought to be about.
(George Macleod ~ Scottish minister/theologian ~ 1895-1991)

Count it All What?

August 21, 2015August 21, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The morose lad leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. Arms folded across his chest defiantly, he delivered his message to anyone who would listen.

“Apparently, we can’t stay for dessert.”

With that, he turned and stalked out of the room.

We tried not to. We didn’t want to embarrass the boy. Still, it was pretty funny. No. More like hilarious. To us anyway. The laughter started quietly and swelled from there. I’m sure he heard us. It didn’t make him any happier.

Dessert is an important event at Grandma’s house. It would be a sore trial for him to miss it.

Learning to live with disappointment is a hard lesson for a nine-year-old.

Count it all joy, my brothers…

A friend of mine complained publicly the other day. She was playing a game of Scrabble and the word she wanted to play was disallowed. As it happens, sull is not a real word. Even though her mother had used it all her life.

“Don’t get all sulled up, just because you can’t go out and play!”

It’s a colloquialism meaning to be sullen, or to pout. Still—it’s not in the dictionary as a word one can play in a game of Scrabble.

I wonder if I could say my friend was all sulled up? She did have those letters in her hand and she certainly wanted to be able to play that word.

Learning to live with disappointment is a hard lesson for a twenty-nine-year-old. Or a forty-nine-year-old. Or whatever.

Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials…

I can’t begin to enumerate the times I have been disappointed in life. Few of us could. Again and again, we set our sights on a goal, only to find that we will not be able to attain it.

The goals may be insignificant; they may be vital. From daily to-do lists to potentially life-altering events, we meet with unexpected barriers—obstacles which seem impossible to overcome.

In fact, they may be impossible to overcome. We may have to modify our expectations. We may have to find a Plan B.

Or we could just get all sulled up and pout.

“Can I go to Chin baby-215867_1280 a on your lip?”

The red-headed lady who raised me had a way with words. This particular phrase was intended to make the pouter pull in their lower lip and smile, a goal it sometimes achieved. Just not usually with me.

I liked to pout. I could sit and mope for hours when disappointed.

It’s not something to brag about.

I want to believe I have grown more mature as the years have passed, but the Lovely Lady, that other red-headed lady in my life, could obliterate that fantasy for us. She has seen me in mid-pout. Oh, the lip doesn’t come out any longer. The tears aren’t nearly as close to the surface.

That doesn’t mean I don’t wallow in the disappointment. I do.

But I am, little by little, coming to the understanding that the trials I face—and overcome—make me a better person. It’s true for all of us.

…for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.

Standing, or lying, in the same place, agonizing over the pain and emptiness we feel when we don’t achieve some lofty—or not so lofty—goal, gets us nowhere. We’re still standing in the same place.

It’s time to move on. Past the unhappiness. Past the frustration. Past the regrets.

The goal hasn’t changed. We’re still on the journey.

Are we going to sit here all sulled up? Or are we moving on ahead in joy, steadfast and persevering?

I’m tucking my lip away and heading on.

You coming with?

Finally, be strong in the Lord, and in the strength of His might.
(Ephesians 6:10 ~ ESV)

It is when we are at our darkest hour, when we can see no evidence that God loves us, or that He is even there to listen to our prayers, much less answer them—and yet, we still obey.
It is then that the devil is reminded that his cause is lost.
(Tom King ~ American writer/teacher)

Strangers—In a Foreign Land

August 19, 2015August 19, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“My daughter no is playing the trumpet now. You buy it, yes?”

The lady, probably in her thirties, peered at me almost imploringly. I wasn’t going to disappoint her. During this most hectic of times in our music business, used band instruments are at a premium and we take advantage of every opportunity to purchase those which are in good condition.

The woman’s command of the English language was fragile at best. I would have to be careful in these negotiations to be sure that I communicated clearly what I was willing to pay for the horn. But first, I needed some background.

“Your daughter quit band?”

“Yes. He don’t wants to play music anymore.” (Throughout our conversation, she referred to her daughter as he repeatedly—not yet grasping the usage of English pronouns completely.)

The disappointment in her voice was unequivocal. The longer we talked, the more clearly she showed her unhappiness.

“He don’t wants to make music. He not have interest in band anymore.”

It is a story we hear again and again. The attrition rate of students who begin band is very high. Many don’t want to practice; some struggle with the concept of reading music or manipulating the instrument. Sports may interfere with their rehearsal schedule. Any number of reasons could explain why so many students drop out of band.

None of those arguments made any difference to this mother. She wanted her daughter to be a musician.

It wasn’t going to happen. She was unhappy.

No. She was distraught.

I made her a fair offer on the instrument, one she wasn’t likely to turn down. She didn’t turn it down, but as I took care of the necessary details, a light began to dawn.

She stood, right in the spot I had thought she was begging me to buy the trumpet, and she cried. I paid her the money and she left, still sniffing.

I’m a little slow on the uptake. I thought perhaps she was unhappy about the amount she had received for the horn. I couldn’t understand that. I gave her more than any other music store would have.

Then it began to sink in.

She didn’t really want me to buy the trumpet.

It was the end of her dream for her daughter. The girl would not be a musician.

Oh, this mom understood it was not selling the horn that was the problem. She knew the decision was already made. It was just that the act of taking the payment for the horn meant it was final.

The last nail in the coffin.

Still sniffing back the tears, she left. She left me standing there to think about reality and unrealized dreams. And strangers in a foreign land.

I hope there is no one who thinks I am making fun of this dear lady who speaks with a strange accent and jumbles her words. I am not. At all.

I have nothing but respect for folks who leave the homeland of their parents and attempt to make a better life for themselves and their families in a place completely foreign to them.

But, when I think about foreign places, I can’t help but wonder about why it sometimes feels as if I’m already there.

You too?

Oh, not in the same way as an immigrant family would. The physical displacement and learning curve are not what I am thinking of now, but in some ways, it is a lot like it.

I don’t speak the same language as many around me. I don’t spend time in the activities they do. When I do, I’m uncomfortable, as if that were something my people wouldn’t (or shouldn’t) do.

You know—where I’m from.

My people.

I try to fit in—really, I do. Funny. I have always tried. A square peg in a round hole. Sometimes the square peg can be forced into the round hole. I’ve seen it done by numerous children with their play sets. But, then the square peg is stuck. It’s not a good place to be.

And, the language!

I’ve seen the looks. Conversations with folks are going great when I suggest that prayer might help. Or, I talk about God’s provision. Or worse, I mention the word sin. Maybe even heaven or hell.

You would think I have just called my daughter a he. Or used the wrong conjugation for the verb in the sentence. No one says a thing, but looks are shot back and forth between others in the conversation. Eyebrows are lifted and heads shaken.

Do I speak with a foreign accent? Maybe you do too.

As believers, we have a different heritage, a different lineage, and those will be evident to the natives around us. It’s a good thing, as uncomfortable as it sounds. The day will come when we’ll be in our native land.

The square pegs will come to rest in the square holes, as we were always intended to do.

But now, in this foreign land, we also, as my friend today, live with disappointments and shattered dreams. Family members make poor choices, electing to follow bad advice and go their own way. Plans don’t work out the way we want them to.

The Teacher spoke to His followers as He warned them of disappointments to come in this foreign land, reassuring them that they could take heart, because even the foreign land was under His control.

If it was true then, could it be any different in this place in which we find ourselves?

Maybe it’s time to face reality and let go of those mementos of our broken hopes and expectations. Will there be tears—and fears? Sure. A few. Maybe a lot.

But, we can’t hoard all those reminders of the past. We must move on through this place—headed for the place we were meant to be. The place where there will be no more disappointments.

You and I speak the same language, don’t we? Maybe we could travel that way together.

It might be just over the next hill.

Time will tell.

Do you know what a foreign accent is? It’s a sign of bravery.
(Amy Chua ~ American lawyer/writer)

I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
(John 16:33 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

One Clear Call

If It Was a Snake

Softly

Painting the Dirt

In My Shoes

Not Broken

Robbery

The Marketplace

Count it All What?

Strangers—In a Foreign Land