If Tomorrow Never Comes

August 11, 2015August 12, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Faint not—fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.

“I’ll just take this with me, okay? There might be a poem in it I can use.”

I looked over at the Lovely Lady as I headed toward the door earlier tonight, waving the thin volume in the air as I spoke. The little book of popular poetry from the nineteenth century had come from her parent’s home (and possibly her grandparent’s before that), so I felt I needed her approval.

Smiling at me, she told me to take it. She never expected anything less when she brought it home a while back.

The little book of verse is lying open on my desk even now, along with three or four others. I really didn’t think I would find anything spectacular in it.

Poetry is just poetry. Sometimes.

Men and women in the past did just as many of us do today, sitting and meditating on our days and nights—remembering that we haven’t accomplished what we intended—recalling some important lesson we don’t want to lose in the gray haze of our busy lives. Dashing down words onto a page, we save the thoughts for another night, or another morning. Line by line, the thoughts and words take shape, achieving a semblance of wisdom or wit—or not.

As I glanced through the little book tonight, my eyes fell on the concluding line of a poem by the man who penned the words to that great old hymn, This is My Father’s World. The line is copied above, but I’ll repeat it here to save you the trouble of looking for it.

Faint not—fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.

I froze in the act of flipping to the next page. Then I reached for my phone. Only a week ago, I saved a thought in my notes there, a thought that had arrested me one afternoon. One afternoon—on one of those days.

You know the kind of day I mean. The cares and troubles of the world already pressing down on you are joined by a mountain of tasks to be completed. To add to it all, nothing is going as it should. Nothing. One failure after another—one disgruntled patron after another, lead to the terrifying feeling of drowning.

The words I wrote that afternoon are still there, where I saved them in black and white, and the fear returns.

There are days when I panic and wonder, how do I get to tomorrow from here? Share on X

There are days when I panic and wonder, how do I get to tomorrow from here?

The fear of drowning is real—the fear is—even if the danger is not.

My mind wanders and I see an eight-year-old lad with short blond hair and brown skin crouched beside a swimming pool. Wound up like a spring, he is watching the camp’s activity director closely. The man holds a silver steel ring in his hand and then with a quick motion, releases it into the air to fall in the deep end of the pool. Within a second, the boy is diving into the water, eight feet deep and well over his head.

The idea is to retrieve the ring from the bottom of the pool more quickly than the other boys have achieved the task. He is sure he can do better. There is no fear at all in his mind—yet.

Dropping quickly, he heads for the spot he last sighted the target. As he nears the bottom, his ears begin to pop; the water pressure at that depth is much higher than in the air above or even in the shallows of the other end. No matter, he is still confident, but for some reason cannot see the ring.

His eyes have started burning in the chlorine-treated water and his ears are actually hurting a little now. The boy finds himself a little disoriented, but looking above through squinted eyelids, determines where he is in relationship to the sides and the water’s surface, and continues feeling along the bottom of the concrete pool. Then he feels it.

No. Not the ring; He feels the fear.

He is running out of oxygen in his lungs. He had taken a huge breath prior to jumping in, but his discomfort has used up precious time and burned more air than he expected. It is all he can do to persevere and grab the ring as his hand contacts it.

No, it wasn’t the ring after all, but only the grill around the pool’s drain.

Now panic really is gripping him, his heart pounding uncontrollably in his chest, but he won’t give up.

There! There it is! He has it in his hand and heads to the surface. But, in his panic, he forgets to push off on the bottom and is left to flail and kick his way up, eight long feet to the life-giving oxygen.

In his mind, he is drowning. He can’t get there; the pressure in his lungs is too great. He will have to exhale and breathe in before he reaches the surface. It hurts too much! He knows he will die, simply knows it!

Just as he exhales, the pressure exploding from his mouth and nose, his blond head emerges from the water. Gasping the precious, life-giving oxygen into his lungs, he stabs his hand above his head in triumph—just as if he hadn’t given up all hope just seconds before—and shows the ring to the waiting group.

Two things I remember, fifty years along the road of life. Two things.

The waiting group of swimmers wasn’t all that impressed. No one congratulated me on persevering though the panic. In fact, not one of my fellow campers ever admitted to feeling that same fear. Not one.

Neither did I. Never. Until now.

The second thing? I had to do it all again the very next day. And the next day, and the next.

Life keeps coming at us. Daily. And, we either face it and go through, or we fail in our aspirations. We persevere and push on, or we are overcome and give up.

I don’t want anyone to believe they are the only one who feels that fear. The thing I’m sure of is there is someone close to me and to you right now who is feeling it. Maybe you should ask the person next to you if they’ve ever felt the panic. If they’re honest, they will remember a time. They might even be going through it right this minute.

How about it? Are your eyes burning? Are your lungs bursting? Is your heart beating so fast you think it may never recover?

Me too.

Hang in there. Today, we fight. Ah, but tomorrow? Tomorrow, we sing. Share on X

Hang in there. Today we fight.

Ah, but tomorrow?

Tomorrow, we sing.

Be strong!
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes, the day how long;
Faint not—fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.
(From Be Strong by Maltbie Babcock ~ American hymn writer ~ 1858-1901)

When I am afraid, I will trust in You. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust. I will not be afraid.
(Psalm 56:3,4 ~ NIV)

A Scratch Behind the Ears

August 7, 2015August 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Good patient, Paul.”

The man in the mask had taken his hands out of my opened mouth for a moment, not because he was finished (as I hoped), but only to change the bit on the drill he held. It was, at least, a welcome change from the horrid grinding that had ensued each previous time he returned the drill to the wide-open aperture in my face.

Since the nice young lady manipulating the peripheral equipment necessary for the proceedings still had her hand in the opening through which I normally communicate, the only response I had to the dentist’s statement was a surprised, “Mumph?”

I suppose I might have been trying to find my happy place (no mean feat in that chamber of horrors) as the procedure wore on, but I must have missed a part of his statement. I was confused.

For all the world, it seemed to me the good doctor had just given me the equivalent of a good dog, Rover! I wouldn’t have been all that surprised if his next communication had been shake! To my relief, it wasn’t.

“I said, ‘You’re a good patient, Paul.’ Not everyone is as calm and responsive to instructions as you.”

The vision of Rover sitting up and shaking hands with the masked man faded, and the drill began its inexorable grinding inside of my mouth once more. I had something new to think about, anyway.

I’m a good patient! Better than average. Take that, you teenyboppers with your fake white smiles! How do you like them apples, Mr. Mid-life Crisis with your new teeth veneers?

Somehow, reality has a way of catching up eventually. My thoughts began to turn to the shallowness being exhibited by the aging man in the dentist’s chair at that exact moment. What kind of man, mature in age—if nothing else, takes a simple statement such as the dentist had just made and turns it into a reason for celebration?

Just how hungry for compliments would one have to be for those words to elicit a celebration of that magnitude?

I was ashamed.

Still, it didn’t keep me from bragging to the Lovely Lady when I saw her a few hours later.

“He told me I was a good patient!”

Her response was less than enthusiastic. “That’s nice.”

I remembered once again that it’s not a stellar accomplishment. Truth be told, I was ashamed anew for telling her about it, anyway. Sheesh! Still celebrating, in spite of my self-castigation while finishing my tenure in the dentist’s chair.

Perhaps, it’s time to let the curtain fall on that unfortunate performance. Often, the longer the production runs, the worse it gets.

But no. I don’t think I’ll do that. Sometimes, we learn.

Sometimes, we do better. You be the judge.

Later that same afternoon, after the Lidocaine had worn off and I could feel my cheek again, an old customer came to see me. I was busy with another patron, but as soon as I could get free, I headed over to see my old friend and his wife.

As I shook his hand, he told me that I would need to excuse him, because he couldn’t talk normally right then. That’s right. He had just come from the dentist.

The wheels started turning. I bet you think I bragged about being a better patient than he was. I didn’t.

The wheels in my head drove me to a conclusion that I don’t often reach, though. Believing that his having had an encounter with a dentist on the same day was no coincidence, I determined that (as my dentist had) I should compliment him on something.

I didn’t really know why.

Funny. I didn’t really even want to. I did it anyway.

Maybe I should explain something. I usually have a hard time giving compliments to folks I see as being in competition with me. I have to make myself compliment other writers. I don’t often say nice things about other French horn players. I think it may have something to do with the idea that in building them up, I will diminish myself.

Foolishness? Perhaps. It seems to be a common ailment, though. Within the society we live and move, it is more common to tear down those who are in the same field than it is to build them up.

On this day though—the Day of the Dentist—I was able to break that cycle. The man in front of me has recently begun to build and sell guitars. I had heard good things about them.

I told him so.

It meant a great deal to my friend. He was humble about it. His wife wasn’t, whipping out her cell phone to show me pictures. We talked for fifteen minutes about his instruments and building techniques.

The last thing I remember about his visit was that lop-sided grin as he turned to say goodbye one last time, going out the door. You know—the Lidocaine still hadn’t worn off for him.

I hope you’ll bear with me as I offer a couple of observations on human behavior. Maybe more than a couple.

When you compliment others, you diminish no one. A relationship is not a zero sum game, in which one party gains and the other loses. A compliment is not an expenditure; it is an investment. Everyone stands to gain from it. Even bystanders. My friend’s better half was affected positively as she heard her husband’s accomplishments touted.

When the shoe is on the other foot, and you are the one being complimented, don’t let it go to your head. A pat on the back is just that—a pat. It’s not a back rub, or an all-day spa treatment. Acknowledge it, file it away to remember, and move on. Being a good patient at the dentist isn’t a life accomplishment, nor does it merit a mention in the local newspaper.

Lastly—Compliment others because you love them. The Apostle who loved to write letters (he must have—he wrote so many!) suggested that we must treat folks as more important than we ourselves are. The result is that the whole body is made stronger—including ourselves.

Just so you know—I’m really not that good a patient at the dentist’s.

Still, it was nice of him to say so. I promise, I’ll not include it in a resumé, should I ever have the need to apply for a new position.

I am, however, quite accomplished at shaking hands.

Maybe that will earn me at least a scratch behind the ears.

My child, I can live on a good compliment two weeks with nothing else to eat.
(Mark Twain ~ American humorist/author ~ 1835-1910)

Do nothing out of rivalry or conceit, but in humility consider others as more important than yourselves.
(Philippians 2:3 ~ Holman Christian Standard Bible)

Noonday Bright

August 5, 2015August 5, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The birthplace of Christianity was the tomb. The birthplace of splendor is desolation. Spring is conceived in the dark womb of Winter. And light is inevitably the offspring of darkness. All this present heaviness of night is surely but the prelude to a better dawn. The voice of God and the voice of Nature proclaim that the best is yet to be—always, the best is yet to be.
(Robert Cromie)

There is an unseen current of distress which I sense in much of my interaction with folks these days. From my friends who use their understanding of the Bible to prop up their dim view of the future of civilization, to those who see the changing political landscape in our country—indeed, in the world—as proof of our impending calamity, there is an air of certainty and of finality.

I myself, and no time more than when I sit down to write, have of late been overcome by the melancholy sense of things which have passed beyond recall. Friends are missing from my life—friends who were here just moments ago. Family members have disappeared—people I loved and who loved me—never to be encountered again while I breathe this air.

All is dark. The end will soon be upon us all.

But, is it? Will it?

I cannot begin to count the number of times in my lifetime I have heard folks predict the ending of this world. From the same Bible I read and believe, they have found proof of days and seasons, and some, even times. But, again and again, the day, the season, and yes, even the time has passed and life continues here on this spinning ball.

I do not wish to discount the prophecies cited, but I am skeptical of the ability of any living man to successfully render an accurate reading of passing events with hopes of naming the day or even the season in which the end will come.

It seems to me that it is not our purpose in this life to look to the ending of time, but to work while we still have it on our side.

But, I have a different purpose here, a purpose not tied up in prophecy or politics. The writer of Hebrews suggests we have a responsibility to encourage each other. He says it is even more imperative as we see the end approaching. Even more.

Encourage, verb: Give support, confidence, or hope, to (someone).

I’m ready to be done with the doom and gloom, to move out from under the cloud of defeat and into the light of victory. That said, it seems we start from a position of disadvantage. It is dark and cold here in the real world.

In this dark world, where is the light of day to be found?

If you noticed the painting above, you may have had the passing thought: how sweet—a little girl looking at a songbird.

You would be partially right. There is a little girl. There is even a songbird. You would also be partially wrong.

She is not looking at the bird. The artist’s daughter, the subject of this touching tableau, is completely blind.

The world in which the little girl grew up and lived was permanently dark. It didn’t stop her from hearing the song of the robin and knowing winter could not last forever. The barren ground would explode with grasses and flowers; the trees would burst forth into bloom, filling the air with the aroma of their buds. In the heart of that little girl, who would never see Spring, the glory of that blessed season was already bursting forth.

Spring is conceived in the dark womb of Winter.

I refuse to live in the dark of night, when all about me is the orange of the sunrise. I cannot remain in the black grip of sadness, when the joy promised in the morning is already at hand.

Do you hear the robin’s song too? Are you ready to head out in the early blush of dawn on a road that leads to a noonday bright?

It is not so dark here. Maybe we could travel together a while.

The voice of God and the voice of Nature proclaim that the best is yet to be—always, the best is yet to be.

For the darkness shall turn to dawning,
And the dawning to noonday bright.
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
The kingdom of love and light.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H Ernest Nichol ~1862-1928)

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.
(John 14:27 ~ NIV)

Who’s Gonna Know?

July 29, 2015July 29, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It wasn’t a great night to be working on guitars.

In almost the same manner as I speak to the Lovely Lady most nights when I go out to exercise, my last words as I headed to a late night work session at the music store recently were, “I hate this!”

I hate this.

This was a job which had to be completed that night. The beautiful vintage guitar had been brought in a couple of weeks before. It could be put off no longer.

“You’ll need to put in a new selector switch,” were the words the owner said nonchalantly.

I had tried everything I knew to nurse the old switch back to working condition over the last week, but it was to no avail. I would have to install a new one. An easy job. Physically, at least. Not so, the emotional cost.

The fifty-year-old Fender Telecaster awaited my ministrations. I would do what must be done.

There must be a law against such things: New cloth patches on old robes—new wine in old wineskins—Be not unequally yoked…

My heart ached as I desoldered and then reattached the wires to the new 3-way switch.

The repair completed, I attempted to move to my next job, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

This was a beautiful, modern, American-made guitar, and I merely needed to install a new pickup cover. Again, an easy job, but somehow in the process, I broke a wire. I never knew that until later, but instead, completed the installation and reassembled the instrument. I polished the chrome cover, noticing the other metal parts had fingerprints on them. Almost without thinking, I cleaned the entire instrument until it virtually gleamed under the lights of my workbench. It was perfect! What a great looking instrument!

Then I remembered I hadn’t yet checked the function, so I plugged the beautiful guitar into a nearby amplifier, thinking I might still have to make a minor adjustment or two.

No sound came. None.

I had to completely disassemble the guitar once more, after which I searched for the culprit, finally finding the broken wire. It was a tiny thing, not much larger than a human hair.

Two and a half thousands of an inch in diameter! I had nicked it while securing the new cover. Nicked it, yet it was completely useless in that condition.

I made the repair and moved on. Covering the same ground I had already done, the instrument was put back together and tested, coming through with flying colors this time. Polishing it again, I set it down into the case at my feet.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Under my breath, I said (audibly), “Good. He’ll never know what I did.”

I went home and went to bed.

I slept like I hadn’t seen a bed in a week. No dreams. No tossing or turning.

But, when the alarm clock went off the next morning, the first thought in my mind—the very first one— was of that tiny wire and the statement I had made as I placed the guitar back in its case.

He’ll never know…

He wouldn’t.

I would.

I told him the whole story when he came to pick up his guitar. He smiled and told me he’ll know who to blame when it stops working in about twenty years. When he left, he left behind his good will and a thirty dollar tip.

He would have left the tip whether I had told him about the gaff or not. I don’t think I could ever enjoy using that money if I had not told him the truth. Lies have a funny way of disrupting your thoughts at the strangest times.

I have spent a lifetime listening to little lies—no—tiny lies. I’ve even been encouraged to aid and abet in their perpetration. Indeed, I have told my share of them.

No honey, I’m just at the grocery store picking up the bread you asked me to get.

You don’t have to charge any tax. Just take the cash; I don’t need a receipt.

No, nobody played it. It’s still brand new.

Miniscule lies. No one hurt. Where’s the harm?

I wonder—How big a lie does it take to destroy trust? How bad a falsehood may be told before a man is no longer considered honest? How egregious does the untruth have to be to do away with integrity?

A wire, hardly bigger than a human hair, breaks and the entire guitar will not function. The tiniest wire in the entire instrument. If any of the other wires, ten times the diameter of that one, had broken, the result could not have been any worse.

A lie told hurts no one worse than it does the one from whose mouth it proceeds. For the tiniest of lies, our integrity is forfeit, our trustworthiness thrown to the wind.

On the exterior the musical instrument was perfect, lacking nothing. Hiding deep inside the heart of that fine guitar was one tiny defect.

We’re not so different.

It just takes one.

The Lord abhors a person who lies, but those who deal truthfully are his delight.
(Proverbs 12:22 ~ NET Bible)

One lie has the power to tarnish a thousand truths.
(Al David ~ American author)

Making The First Move

July 22, 2015July 22, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

As they did last night, the skies have opened up and are raining down their gloominess above my head. And, as it did last night, my heart responds in kind.

I often sit late into the night and put into words what my heart feels, asking the reader to feel it as well—the tears, the pain, the emptiness—eventually reaching a conclusion before I stop writing—a conclusion which shares what my head tells me.

The conclusion is what I want to feel, what I want to experience.

Sometimes what I want is not what I get, and vice versa.

I suggested, when last I wrote, that it was time to turn the corner and move on in the new direction. Against my better judgment, and disregarding my fears, I would move on.

Towards home.

Yet here I sit, in the turn lane still. My arm is raised, signaling my intent. My feet are glued to the pavement, with no response to the instructions from my brain. The traffic lights overhead have cycled endlessly; the motorists behind me, tiring of blowing their horns, are going around this idiot refusing to move.

You’ve been here too, haven’t you?

So, here we sit, rain falling around us and inside of us. It’s dark out here, as well. How do we start again?

Perhaps, home is a goal too lofty, and still so very far away. I wonder—could we just push the pedals once?

Then, we’ll see what comes next.

Just once.

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home—
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene, —one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I lov’d to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!
I lov’d the garish day, and spite of fears,
Pride rul’d my will; remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have lov’d long since and lost awhile.

(John Henry Newman ~ British Roman Catholic Cardinal ~ 1801-1890)

Turning

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

I’ve begun to map out my bicycle rides a little more carefully.

Oh, I remember how I used to laugh at my riding friends who would explain how that highway has too many patches, or there are a few too many hills to follow this road.

Wimps! Why do you ride if you’re afraid? What’s a little hill to a rider? Who’s concerned about a bump or two?

Odd. I’m still not much worried about the bumps or the hills. No. I can dodge potholes with the best of them. And, I’m learning how to trim the gears on the forty-year-old ten-speed well enough to climb most of the hills I encounter along the way. Most of them.

So why would I be careful about planning my rides? You’ll laugh.

I hate hand signals.

It’s the lane changes and turns that get me now. Turning left? Left arm straight out, fingers together, warning approaching traffic (both front and rear) that the lightweight bicycle is about to brave the crossing of a lane or two of oncoming cars. Right turn? No, not the right arm, but again the left—this time straight out from the shoulder with a right angle at the elbow aiming upwards, still with the fingers together, pointing to the sky.

I hear the laughter already. What could be hard about that?

If you had seen the number of people who wave back at my right-hand turn signal, thinking I’m just being friendly, you’d laugh even more. But the icing on the cake—the epitome of turn-signal blunders—was a left turn I made recently across a busy four-lane highway which has a turn lane in the center.

I rode north about half a mile along the heavily traveled state highway, staying as close to the right hand side of the shoulder as possible. Carefully, glancing over my left shoulder repeatedly as I neared the intersection at which I was turning to the west, I stuck my left arm straight out and crossed both lanes of northbound traffic. Riding on in the center lane to my turning point, I kept my arm out at the ninety-degree angle to my body to warn the oncoming traffic of my intentions. It worked beyond my wildest dreams.

I was twenty feet away from the corner when I realized the next car coming toward me was a sheriff’s deputy. He saw my arm stuck straight out and stood on his brakes, stopping short in the southbound lane, turning on the blue flashing lights in the light bar atop his vehicle.

He thought I was waving him down!

The traffic behind him, as well as the cars coming up behind me, all stopped as I flew across the lanes and around the corner. How embarrassing! When the officer saw I was merely turning, he sheepishly turned off the lights and went on his way.

I didn’t look back either, but pedaled on down the little country road as fast as my tired legs could spin the wheels.

I am realizing something as I grow older. I don’t enjoy changing directions. For one thing, I have to take a hand off the handlebars, a decidedly tricky feat for me as my balance erodes and confidence fades.

I must also turn off the road on which I’m riding, usually a familiar route. I like familiar routes, roads mostly chosen for ease of travel and lack of traffic.

Who knows what lies around the corner?

Often a new route leads steeply uphill—then again, sometimes just as steeply downhill, reminding me that another hill to climb will be in my path on the road back home. Just when I’ll be tired and running out of enthusiasm.

Around curves, dodging stray dogs and potholes, the thought of unfamiliar terrain overwhelms and yes, sometimes frightens.

I don’t like transitions.

Besides how poorly I execute the maneuvers, I abhor the unknown.

During this last week, I’ve been approaching one of those turns. As it does eventually, life has progressed to the point at which I’ve lost the first member of my nuclear family. Things are going to change. Again.

The status quo, the reality I have lived with for nearly sixty years, has come to an end, and my arm is out—signalling a change in direction. I don’t want to make this turn.

We all, without exception, face these transitions. Some are more adept at making the turn—even better at signalling their intention. No one will mistake their turn signal for a plea for help.

Change is coming. But then, it always has done that. The difference is that there will be no turning around from these changes.

Realization hits and I see clearly that I actually don’t want to turn around. This is not some bicycle ride—out a few miles and then back home.

No. I’m headed on the home lap right now.

Home is out there ahead of me.

Around one of those corners.

I’ve been signaling this turn long enough.

Time to move on through the intersection.

I can’t get home just sitting here.

Hear my prayer, O Lord! Listen to my cries for help! Don’t ignore my tears. For I am your guest—a traveler passing through, as my ancestors were before me.
(Psalm 39:12 ~NLT)

This world is not my home, I’m just a’passin’ through.
My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.
The angels beckon me from heaven’s open door,
And I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.
(Albert Brumley ~ American songwriter ~ 1905-1977)

Bedpans and Handkerchiefs

July 17, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments

Flowers for my heart with tender words
And a gentle touch that says so much
This is how I’ve heard that love should always be. *

I’ve been thinking about love recently. You may be surprised at what I’ve decided.

Love isn’t flowers, isn’t a close embrace, isn’t sweet nothings whispered into an ear as you dance in the dark. And, it certainly isn’t the thousand dollar diamond necklace slipped around the throat of the picture-perfect beauty queen primping in the mirror before slinking out to a romantic dinner for two.

Our culture lies.

It lies every time an ad suggests that all you need to keep your mate’s love is some pretty new bauble. It lies with each new revelation of ways to keep love fresh in some exotic destination or with an amazing new scent.

I want some new images to exemplify love.

How about a toilet seat? Either up or down will do. Love is him, putting it down for her. It’s her, ignoring the fact that it never gets put down.

Perhaps it could be black olives. He loves them, so she includes them in her recipes. She hates them, so he removes them from the frozen pizza before it goes in the oven.

The list could go on, including not a single item that Hallmark could market. The old toothbrush he used to clean up that ugly old vase that she bought at the second-hand store. The spool of thread she emptied to mend his favorite old work coveralls. The ice scraper he uses on frosty mornings, so she doesn’t have to stand out in the cold and do it herself.

In recent years, I have found some new items that illustrate love. You don’t want to hear about them. They are uncouth and will make you say the word gross as you see them in print. And that’s a shame. Because, you see, the other lie that our culture tells is that your mate will always be attractive and will always be healthy.

He won’t. She won’t.

The bedpan and the urinal spring to mind. Bodily functions become the concern of the one who loves. Embarrassment and squeamishness are abandoned as love does, not what it wishes, but what it must.

Not so uncouth, but still not an attractive thought, the fork and spoon push their way into the symbolism, as one mate must feed another. The memory of feeding the cake to each other at the wedding comes back with a rush, and we realize that it is a promise we will keep.

I believe that the one item I would chose to symbolize love most is nothing more than a simple handkerchief.

These cloth relics of the past have fallen out of fashion–replaced by the paper tissues we use and crumple into the trash by the thousands. I still like to have one in my back pocket and would be lost without it.

With the handkerchief we clean the hands of children, and yes, wipe their noses too. I mop my forehead when the perspiration beads and threatens to run down my face. But, all through my life the one thing I have used that square bit of cloth for, more than any other use, has been to wipe away the tears that have come.

When puppy dogs died suddenly, the tears from the children’s eyes were soaked up—those from my own, as well. When the frustrations of financial want were too much, the handkerchief once again dabbed away the tears of fear for the future.

I have seen the tears of spouses as they turned away from the hospital bed their lover lay upon, perhaps for the last time. Other tears have been wiped away as conversations led to the realization that mental faculties were failing, and then again as elderly parents departed from this world to a better place.

Tears fall. Sometimes, they are tears of happiness. More often, as life progresses, they are tears of worry and of sorrow, but always, they are tears of love.

Tears fall. And we wipe them away. For each other.

Tears fall. And we stay.

Because—love.

Life is like an onion; you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.
(Carl Sandburg ~ American writer/poet ~ 1878-1967)

He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ NIV)

* from How Love Should Be by Jeremy Michael Lubbock ~ American singer/songwriter

Flying Hotdogs

July 14, 2015July 14, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Baseball and hotdogs.

What could be better on a hot summer evening? If there is a more archetypical activity for rural America in July, I don’t know what it would be.

The evening was wonderful! The Lovely Lady’s sister is in town with her two daughters and we headed to the ballpark to take in a semi-professional baseball game. To make things even better, it was one dollar hotdog night.

Seriously! Only a dollar for each one of those mystery-meat tube steaks, encased in a white bread bun and loaded with whatever condiment one could care to splat on from the self-service pump station. Mustard, ketchup, mayo, even a dollop of sweet pickle relish, were yours for the effort of holding the semi-nutritious, but unquestionably delicious, frank-on-a-bun under the nozzle and taking your chances on the quantity of material which would exit the opening.

Oh man! What a treat! The hometown team went ahead by three runs in the first inning and I had three hotdogs in my hand. Three! Well, to be completely accurate, they were in my hand for a very small portion of that inning. They spent the rest of it inside of me. Oh, but was it satisfying!

Later in the evening, we would get dessert. Ice cream cones for the grown-ups, dipping dots (whatever those are) for the kids.

Everything was washed down with pure water.

What a meal! What ambiance in our dining area! We yelled—we clapped—we danced when the jumbo screen told us to—we even yelled at the umpire at least once. Hey. It’s a ball game.

I have paid over a hundred dollars for a meal which was no finer than the one just described. A meal I enjoyed slightly less than those hotdogs and ice cream. Some things aren’t about the money.

The little three-year old beside me had a mitt on his hand for the first five innings, waiting for a foul ball or for a player to toss him a ball between innings. When he finally got one tossed up to him, the kid was beyond ecstatic, clutching his treasure in his little glove with a death grip. His father pretended to be unhappy, suggesting that he would have to play catch with the tyke until all hours of the night, but you could tell he was almost as happy as his son.

Besides the balls, we saw tee-shirts being thrown to the crowd at different times. None came our way, but it was fun to see the missiles, wrapped tightly for their journey, rocketed to their targets. One was even flung all the way from the top of the dugout into the upper deck, where a kid hung over the rail, begging for a prize.

We danced the chicken dance; we shouted Charge! at the appropriate moment in the music; we even sang Take Me Out to the Ball Game during the seventh inning stretch.

We got to root, root, root for the home team. They even won, so we didn’t think it a shame at all.

What a great evening!

There was one moment though—one moment—when the the joy of celebrating the traditions which millions live out every baseball season was overcome by a different sensation:

Noticing a stir in the crowd over a section or two from where we sat, we turned to look. A couple of men had walked down the steps of the bleachers and were shouting out something. It wasn’t all that odd to hear the word at a ballgame.

“Hotdogs! Hotdogs!”

What happened next was fun, for a minute. After that it was just a little weird, almost surreal. With one man handing the wrapped hotdogs to the other, they began giving the food away—by tossing it to the audience nearby. Hotdogs swaddled in foil wrap went this way and that as folks held up their hands for their share.

Where the situation turned strange was the point at which people further away in the crowd, some right next to us, started calling out and holding up their hands for the free food. Who doesn’t want free hotdogs?

The man heaved one our way. Halfway over the crowd, the wrapping separated from the food. A little farther on, the bun separated from the sausage inside. When the food arrived at our general location, it was nothing but the wiener.

He tried several more times, with no better success. By this time, half of us were laughing. No one wanted the portion of the food which reached its target, so it was wasted completely.

Seeing the problem, the man left his post, waving at the folks next to us to wait. Climbing the steps, he made the trek over to stand at the entrance to our section, fifteen or so rows above us.

He made the effort again. Nope. The food left the wrapper just as it arrived at its target, leaving the hungry fan grasping a piece of paper, but no food.

He gave up—we thought.

Everyone turned back to the game, but I couldn’t shake the strange feeling. What had just happened? Flying food at a baseball game? How ridiculous is that?

I have never experienced anything quite as weird as seeing those naked hotdogs sailing through the air. My guess is the cleanup crew is in for a surprise tonight, too.

Moments later, without any ado and without any showmanship, the man was standing behind their chairs. Placing a wrapped hotdog into the hand of each of the folks who had requested one, he smiled and, turning, headed back up the grandstand to the top and disappeared.

As the home team made the last out, we stood to give them one last round of applause. Leaving the stadium, we all declared the evening a great success.

No one spoke of the flying food. I’m still not sure what to think.

Anyone who reads my essays with regularity will know that there is a lesson to be learned from the flying food. I’m almost afraid to make the point. I’ve never used hotdogs as an object lesson before.

When we do things in a good and orderly manner, we usually see the results of our labor.

The baseball tossed into the stands brought a broad smile to the little tyke, giving him a memento to treasure for a long time.

The kid hanging over the railing on the top deck will wear his tee-shirt with pride.

Those items were intended to be delivered from a long distance, packaged for the journey. The cover on the baseball, glued and stitched on, ensures that it will arrive intact, as does the paper tape with which the shirts were bound.

Not so, the food.

The food was made to be passed from one hand to another, the one-on-one transaction guaranteeing the entire package is obtained. Nothing is lost in this arrangement, all the benefit is realized.

Shortcuts make long delays. So says Mr. Tolkien. Personally, I think often the result is utter failure.

I won’t belabor the point. Some things make the long journey between points well—money, gifts, merchandise, sometimes even flowers.

Other things need to be delivered in person—good news, bad news, apologies, declarations of love. The reader will, no doubt, be able to add any number of items to this list.

As much as I employ the medium of communication from afar, I realize it is grossly inadequate to convey with clarity all that needs to be understood. Often, what we’re left with is misunderstanding and blank spaces.

Words gone amiss, communicated from afar.

Perhaps, there is a reason, our Savior said Go. Not transmit. Not throw.

Go.

Words spoken between individuals, with a personal connection, are much more likely to be understood with clarity than a message sent from a distance.

Is there a place for media in giving the good news? Sure there is. Paul, the Apostle, sent numerous missives with messages for folks. But, whenever the opportunity came, he traveled to where they were.

He went. We need to do the same.

No more flying hotdogs.

Good food—given at the right time, every part intact.

We deliver.

If God’s love is for anybody anywhere, it’s for everybody everywhere.
(Edward Lawlor ~ Nazarene minister/general superintendent ~ 1907-1987)

For I long to see you, that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to strengthen you—
(Paul ~ Romans 1:11 ~ ESV)

Well, I’m Here

July 10, 2015July 10, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Quiet, I sit and ponder, how in the dark, sacred night my thoughts run rather more to the profane than the sacred.

I wrote earlier today about being thankful for gifts; a friend suggested just moments ago that it’s time to be thankful, and not a time for making more requests.

Oh, how I want to sit here in the silence and just rest, coming away from the noise and ado, as the Teacher implored His followers to do.

Do you bear a heavy burden? I will give you rest. Just come.

Well, I’m here.

I’m here, but I don’t feel very rested. The noise in my brain is still playing at full volume—reminders of missed deadlines—accusations of things I have promised and have not done. My head spins with the dissonance.

Yesterday, I said no to a request from a friend. Today, the answer is still no, but my heart begins to push back against my head, arguing the merits of acquiescing. Guilt, and fear that the opportunity may never come again, play havoc with my spirit.

Loved ones are ill, one near death, and I resist the tears of sadness that threaten to overflow. Others need help, but won’t accept what is offered and I hold back tears of frustration at their stubbornness.

I sit in the dark and quiet of the night with the maelstrom spinning out of control inside of me. Maybe this isn’t what He meant when He said to come away.

Perhaps it is not a physical place He calls us to. Perhaps, His rest also comes in the middle of the busy marketplace, in the traffic jam on the freeway, in the heat of a disagreement with a colleague, or spouse, or parent.

Perhaps the quiet place is not a room we can manipulate into a restful locale, with comfy chairs and soft music, but it is a place where He still calms the storms and asks us to trust Him.

Tonight, in this quiet place, I’m saying with that dear soul who needed His help all those years ago, “Lord I trust You. You’re going to have to fix the part of me that doesn’t.”

Like His friends who thought they were going down in the storm, I trust Him enough to shake Him awake and believe He can still quiet the wind and waves.

If He will, I’m certain that He can.

It’s enough.

Time to rest.

Rest, and be thankful.
(William Wordsworth ~ English poet ~ 1770-1850)

For thus said the Lord GOD, the Holy One of Israel, “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.”
(Isaiah 30:15 ~ ESV)

Jangling Bells

July 9, 2015July 9, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Forty years. Gone in a moment’s time.

The door of the music store opened with a jangle of bells, the ones hanging from the knob, and I looked up from printing orders to see who it was. The face looking back at me smiled broadly and instantly the years disappeared.

No, it hasn’t been forty years since I saw the face, but it was forty years ago that I began a new job with the man as my supervisor. I would learn more in that single fleeting year than in many long ones that came after it.

His lovely wife was at his side on this day and we stood and talked as old friends will. The present time flew by, but our conversation carried us back several decades as we told old stories and laughed about events nearly forgotten in the tumultuous progression of years since.

It was sheer pleasure.

As we spoke, he remembered how long we have actually known each other and our conversation went back, far beyond the forty years, to the first time he laid eyes on me.

The young family had walked into the old brick church—a dark-haired man and his red-headed wife, both about thirty years old. Trying unsuccessfully to be unobtrusive, four urchins—well, three noisy boys and their silent, shy sister—trailed their parents. Oh. There was one more, a baby—a big baby—held in the arms of the red-headed lady.

Yep. I was the baby. This man, the one who would seventeen years later teach me a number of life skills, has known me since I was that young.

And still, he likes me enough to stop by on his nearly 1,500 mile trip and spend an hour or two just reminiscing and catching up. Oh, the stories he could tell if he wanted to. Perhaps he has forgotten them. Let’s hope so.

As we spoke, I realized how our lives have been tied together. As a preschooler, I remember his father used to wave broadly at us each day as he passed our trailer house in his Tom’s Peanuts truck on the way to restock vending machines at the country club. Once in awhile, he would toss out a package or two of peanuts to us, standing barefoot at the edge of the road, and we’d marvel at how the wealthy man could be so generous. Later, father and mother both would be my Sunday-school teachers, and his aunt would play the piano while his uncle waved his arms, leading us in singing the old hymns.

In a thousand ways, it seems we grew up together, even though he is twelve years older than I. We have certainly grown old together, although the miles have gotten in the way a bit.

Old friends are the best.

But, I wonder . . .

My old friends and I had begun to say our goodbyes, when the door of the music store opened again, the bells jangling as they did before. Two men wandered in, faces smiling broadly.

They are friends I have met in my adult life. It has only been in recent years that I would even call them friends, knowing them before that merely as acquaintances. But, friends they are.

I introduced them, my old friends and new. For a moment, I felt the strange feeling of witnessing two worlds colliding. A meeting of folks with one thing in common: me. Then my old friend began telling my new friends a story and we were all just friends, neither new nor old.

I went that night and sank down into a comfortable chair at the local coffee-shop. With coffee cup in hand I would listen to one of my new friends play his guitar and sing a few songs.

It was sheer pleasure.

I sat listening, but also pondering the mystery of friendship. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the music, but I knew my friend would take care of his part. He’s an old pro. I was too overwhelmed just then with the realization of what it means for a man to have friends, both old and new.

Did I say friendship was a mystery? So it is, but more than that, it is a gift. And, not just any gift, like a tie on Father’s Day, or even a new toy on Christmas.

Friendship is one of the greatest gifts entrusted to us by a loving Father who gives only good gifts. I wonder that we don’t treasure it more. I lament that we don’t care for it better, allowing it to lie untended for years while the weeds of neglect take it over.

The Creator thought it important enough that He cultivated an intimate friendship with man in the garden, walking with him in the cool of the day. His Son selected twelve who would spend their years with him, walking and eating, and learning from Him. Others, He would grow close to as well—Mary, Martha, along with their brother Lazarus.

The red-headed lady who carried me into that church fifty-seven years ago taught me the principle, her words coming in the form of a platitude (that doesn’t make it any less relevant).

If you want to have friends, you have to be a friend.

I’m not all that good a friend. I am thankful for folks who have overlooked that and have been a friend to me anyway. I’m trying to do better.

Old friends. New friends.

They’re basically the same, with new friends eventually becoming old friends. I’m not sure when the transition is made, but I sat with people the other evening who I distinctly remember being new friends not all that long ago (if you can call nearly forty years not all that long). Definitely old friends now.

You know, I don’t really have anything I want to teach tonight.

I just needed to remind myself that sometimes a gift is given when we least expect it. I need to remember to be grateful to the Giver and to show my gratitude in the way I care for His gifts.

New becomes old, gaining value as it ages. More like a fine musical instrument, I think, than the drink with which it is usually compared. The wine is consumed and gone so soon, but a fine guitar or violin makes sweeter music the longer and more often it is played.

Gifts.

Care for them well, but utilize them often.

Sweet music will come, probably just like the dulcet tones I heard that night in my comfortable chair at the coffee shop.

Or, perhaps more like the jangling of the bells as the door opens to welcome another one in.

Sweet music.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down:
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maim’d among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.
(from The Old, Old Song ~ Charles Kingsley ~ English cleric/poet ~ 1819-1875)

Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!
(Ecclesiastes 4:9,10 ~ ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips