At the Edge

July 7, 2015July 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Do you know what fear looks like?

Of course, you do.

You’ve seen frightened children, so scared they don’t believe that even Mommy can save them from the monsters in the closet. You’ve even seen fear exhibited again and again on the movie screen and on television, as actors open their eyes wide and let their mouths stand agape in terror at the appearance of some malevolent creature, extracted from the dark corners of a writer’s imagination.

I know all about that kind of fear, either the honest reaction from an innocent, untaught yet in the arts of deception, or the feigned emotion of a hardened pretender.

The fear I wonder about tonight is the fear all around us. I’m wondering what the terror of disasters imagined, or the memory of catastrophes which really occurred in the past looks like.

Do you know? Can you describe the face of fear—real fear?

I am coming to realize that I cannot, because I don’t know what it really looks like. All the stereotypes of the looks of fear I know are false—or at least lacking in understanding.

On a recent day, a couple hiked along the ridge on a mountaintop. The beauty of the morning was so real, you could almost have grasped it between your fingers. Swallowtail butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom of the wildflowers beside the trail, along with a buzzing honey bee or two. Every so often, a clumsy bumblebee would come humming by, intent on claiming his portion of the sweet nectar in the blossoms.

The air was cool and a gentle breeze carried the chant of songbirds, oft repeated and frequently elaborated upon, to their ears. The deep greens of the leaves and the azure blue of the skies, which could be seen almost below their feet, were brilliant.

What would one need fear up on that mountaintop?

The trail led to a lookout point, an outcropping of boulders solidly set upon the side of the ridge. They stood beside each other and marveled at creation and also at a Creator who could imagine such a place and then speak it into existence. Just then though, something caught the eye of the man.

Fifty or sixty feet to the north of the lookout upon which they stood, a promontory jutted out, the sheer fall below it dropping down many feet to the valley floor.

It was an invitation not to be ignored.

“Stay here,” he suggested to the woman. “I’ll go out there and you can take my picture.”

She wasn’t happy about it, but agreed to be his photographer, waiting patiently as he made his way over to the point. There was no trail to it but, slipping and sliding a little here, creeping down a boulder there, and in between steps, keeping an eye out for snakes, he eventually arrived at the destination.

Feet spread far apart, he stood atop the pile of rocks with hands on hips and arms akimbo, looking for all the world as if he had just discovered a new land. In that stance, he waited to ensure that photographic proof existed of his courage and daring. She snapped the picture.

It’s not possible to see his face in the photograph. It doesn’t matter. He is smiling.

Smiling.

With a quick glance down to the bottom of the chasm before him, he turned and climbed back to the marked trail, laughing as he rejoined his lovely wife. He shrugged off her repeated objection to his foolish insistence of making the risky tramp out onto the rocks. He was proud of himself.

Proud.

Until that night. In the dark, he closed his eyes to sleep, falling instead to his death again and again in the visions that filled his mind. Behind closed eyelids he could see nothing but the edge of the abyss, and the ground coming up to meet him as he tumbled through the air.

Terrified.

He was terrified. No, not just as he lay sleepless in his bed. He had been terrified as he slid and stepped clumsily to the edge of the precipice in the light of day.

Standing arrogantly and smiling, his spirit was, in truth, melting into jelly inside of him.

The face of fear smiles. It smiles.

I wonder then—what about the other emotions we feel so deeply? What does sadness look like? Or depression?

I stood and talked with a woman today about her two-year long bout with depression, still ongoing. I have seen her often in the last two years, but never had an inkling—not an inkling.

Sickness, abuse, stress at work, cruelty of friends—all have surrounded her spirit and informed her very soul that she is of little worth and that nothing will ever change.

Still she smiles and jests, the facial expression and jokes a thin covering over a festering wound that will one day destroy her and those around her.

The face of depression doesn’t just mope, doesn’t only frown—it also smiles broadly.

Is it any wonder we think we are alone? If fear smiles and depression tells jokes, surely pain shows a false face to the world as well. The hurts of a lifetime are penned up behind the facade of impenetrability. And, we believe we are alone in this world.

Surely no one feels as badly as I. Certainly no normal person deals with my pain, my sadness, my fears. How easy it is to believe the lie which deception tells.

I sat with friends tonight and admitted for the first time my fear of the edge, of the heights above which I stood on that recent excursion onto the mountain. As we talked I found, to my surprise, that I was not alone in that fear, even in that small group of people.

The magnitude of the truth hits me where I live tonight.

How many smiling faces I see every day are hiding terror? How many happy-go-lucky folks are concealing their deep sadness behind the jocularity? How much pain have I missed in folks with whom I shake hands and exchange light-hearted greetings daily?

Do you suppose ten percent of the people I see are hiding feelings such as these? Thirty percent? Fifty?

It’s time for us to stop lying to each other. Time for us to stop hiding behind faces frozen into smiles and laughs which tell a different story than the truth of what lies within. Time for fear and sadness and pain to be brought to the light of day.

Jesus stood at the pinnacle of the temple looking down and the tempter told Him not to be afraid of falling from that great height. He stood at the tomb of His close friend and wept tears of sadness. He knew the pains of the heart—friends who abandoned Him and a people who refused to listen, and the pain of physical torture—yet He conquered both.

We’re not alone. Even if no one in the world is ever honest enough to admit their fellowship in our condition, we have a Savior who walked where we walk, and who felt the things we feel. He hasn’t forgotten who we are, nor has He lost His ability to touch us where we live.

And, He has given us the ability to help each other. Even the empathy we feel for others comes from His great love for us.

It all starts with the truth of who we are. Facades will have to tumble before changes are made. Truth doesn’t imprison us, nor allow us to stay in that state.

We will know the truth, and freedom will be ours.

Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.
(James Baldwin ~ American writer ~ 1924-1987)

Therefore, having put away falsehood, let each one of you speak the truth with his neighbor, for we are members one of another.
(Ephesians 4:25 ~ ESV)

Following

July 2, 2015July 2, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished. *

C’mon! I know a shortcut!

They are words never to heed—their source, a person never to follow. We should have known better, but the boy was confident.

We followed him.

The trip through the fields was disastrous, scratches from the abandoned barbed wire lying alongside the dirt path being the least of our problems. We foundered in the plowed field which appeared—to our surprise, but we still weren’t finished with our misfortunes.

I think we’ll find the road over this way. C’mon!

Why did we continue to trail after the ignorant kid? Hadn’t he proved himself untrustworthy enough already?

We followed him.

The plowed field gave way to a mowed yard, enormous in size. Scratches on our ankles notwithstanding, we began to relax. This was more like it! Surely the boy knew what he was doing now.

The loud woof! was our first indication that he most assuredly did not. The singular warning was joined by a second voice—equally fierce—and we saw them. Headed for our little group of bicycle riders, the two German shepherds had only one objective in mind: They were going to taste the flesh of at least one of those riders.

We understood their motives clearly, and scattered at breakneck speed in all directions. As fast as we could pedal our rusty old machines, we headed for what we believed to be the front of the property and a road.

No one was following the know-it-all kid now.

None of us made it out completely unscathed, but I’m happy to recall that the vicious dogs didn’t sink their teeth into a single one of us. Face scraped by tree branches and arms bleeding from the thorns of the bougainvillea bush I rode through, I was never so happy to see a dirt road in my life. All of us pedaled furiously off down the lane, wasting no time with congratulations on our escape.

We did, when we reached safety, have a few choice words for our guide—he with his arrogance and smug self-confidence.

We never let him forget the event.

We also never followed him anywhere again. Never.

A child’s tale, one might suggest. They would be right.

They would also miss the broader truth of the story.

The Book tells of a nation which put its trust in a man. An arrogant man. A smug man. The first king of the little nation, chosen not for his wisdom, nor his concern for those under his care, but selected because he was attractive. He was popular. He was strong.

Saul trusted in himself. He worshipped God in his own way.

God wanted something different.

When Saul died fighting a disastrous war, his successor, King David declared the words you read above, as you first began. The fallen mighty, the perished weapons of war, were the vain king and his son.

The faith of the people was in a mirage, a passing dream.

Like the boys in the children’s tale, the nation followed a path laid out by a leader who had no inkling of where the road led. Its end was disastrous.

Although it is not my intention, I know there are many who will see parallels to the leadership of our nation today. It was not purposeful on my part, but indeed, some principles never change.

I have to wonder though—looking just a little closer to home—if we can see parallels in our own lives, parallels we are better equipped to deal with. We all know people who fit the description of both the know-it-all kid and the errant king.

Funny. I sometimes see that kid in the mirror. No, I don’t mean I was the actual leader of that catastrophe, years ago; I mean I do the same thing in my own life still. Today.

Take a look in your own mirror; you might just see a hint of the kid or the king yourself.

Further on in the volume, the Book recounts another Saul, who in his early years was a man not unlike his namesake. Later on, a changed Paul would remind his congregation, apparently folks just like the kid and the king—and himself—that when they thought they had it all straight in their heads they should be very careful.

Don’t think because you are standing now, you can’t fall down.

I’m standing. For now.

Perhaps, we should stand together.

We could help each other.

I promise. No shortcuts.

The highest and most lofty trees have the most reason to dread the thunder.
(Charles Rollin ~ French historian/educator ~ 1661-1741)

There is a way which seems right to man, but it’s end is the way of death.
(Proverbs 16:25 ~ NASB)

* (II Samuel 1: 27 ~ KJV)

No Such Word

July 1, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Actions speak louder than words.

I want that to be true. I want all the caring deeds which were accomplished today to make more of a difference in the world than all the angry, ugly words which were spoken and written.

I want friends to not be angry with their friends who happen to see things differently in at least one aspect of our corporate life. I want all the stupid, thoughtless statements that have been made in the last week to matter less than a lifetime of doing the things friends do. I want friends to remember the visits, the meals shared, the work accomplished together, more than any hurtful words that ever came out of that same friend’s mouth.

I fear it will not be so.

I have always believed the original thought above was true. In the world in which we used to live, it was. Few men or women put their thoughts into words and fewer wrote those words down to be a record used against them for all of their days. We talked face to face. We argued; we discussed; we shook our fingers under each other’s noses.

And then, when we parted, as friends, we shook hands and promised to do it again someday.

Today, we argue with little snippets of written information. No one listens, no one considers carefully the other’s point of view–we just regurgitate our talking points. If we need reinforcements, we copy and paste a link to an article a professional writer crafted carefully–for a handsome price.

And we call that communication?

In a time such as this, when our world is abuzz with the latest idiocy from Washington, many have crowded the most popular social website to put in their two cents’ worth. I wonder, at the end of the day, do we believe we have accomplished anything?

I believe the most unanimity has been achieved recently in the answer to one question on that website. It is a question asked by the computer program and not by any participant in the discussion.

“Unfriend?”

Even my spell check program doesn’t think it is a real word, underscoring it with an angry red line. Yet right now it is a verb, an action word if you will, which has been agreed to by untold number of indignant people who think they know now who that person really is, and they no longer like him or her. Not because of anything the person has done, but because of words they repeated in the heat of a long-distance argument.

I have almost clicked that button recently myself. I am sick of the constant barrage of opinions, based on other opinions, based on–well, you get the idea. More than once, I have been poised to unfriend someone I know and care about, simply because of their hurtful or thoughtless words.

I will not.

I spent a little time a few moments ago, going through my list of friends on that social website. There is not one–not one–I wish to cut off from contact with me; not one with whom I wish to part company.

Do I wish they would stop leaking their arrogant and spiteful words all over my computer screen?

Of course, I do!

Do I think those words which are being spoken in a time of stress and social upheaval are the sum of who that person is?

Not at all!

A friend, with whom I have a normal relationship–normal meaning that we usually speak face to face–walked into my store recently and we discussed much of what is happening in our culture today.

No. We argued about it.

I raised my voice and spoke my mind. He raised his voice and gave me a piece of his. I shook my finger at him and he held up his hand in protest. Half an hour later, as he headed out the door to get back to work, we shook hands, and he promised that he would be back. We’ll argue again.

I’m looking forward to it.

We have been friends for over thirty years. I know who he is. I’ve watched him raise his children and love his wife, and I’ve watched him touch people’s lives.

So, we have a difference of opinion now and then. What of it? What idiot throws away a lifetime relationship because of a few words that hang in the wind and then are gone?

The more I think about it, the more I’m coming down on the same side as my spell checker. There is no such word as unfriend. If it’s all the same to you, I believe I’ll be keeping all of you around, thanks.

I hope you feel the same way.

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson ~ American philosopher/writer ~ 1803-1882)

Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.
(1 Peter 4:8 ~ NIV)

Plucking Thistles

June 30, 2015June 30, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Die when I may, I want it said by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. *

The boy had hope written across his smiling face.

Hope is a beautiful thing, especially in a child. It animates and motivates, forging dreams for the future. I love the beauty hope generates in young folks.

Hope is not something I enjoy dashing on the rocks of reality. The results can be ugly. I don’t love ugly.

This had all the earmarks of ugly.

His father, having told me he was trying to teach his son the trade of picking—of buying used objects for a small amount of money and flipping them for more money, asked me to advise the boy.

The hopeful young man handed me a clarinet-shaped object. By that, I mean the long black piece of plastic with metal keys attached had been a clarinet in another life. No longer.

It was unplayable, with bent keys and broken springs. The pads, the life source for a woodwind instrument, had long ago deteriorated and crumbled away to dust, leaving no way for the individual notes to sound.

A re-pad job on a clarinet would cost more than the price this sad instrument could ever bring. The other issues—bent keys and broken springs—would only drive the potential investment in the old horn up into the stratosphere.

As I examined the instrument, my dismay showing on my features, the hopeful face of the boy that peered into mine changed perceptibly. He steeled himself for the bad news he sensed was coming. I glanced into his eyes and saw the unhappiness there.

What a disaster!

I wondered—for a moment—if I should tell him a fib, a white lie. Just a little one—for his own good. I would save his pride and give him hope for another day.

“It’s a fine clarinet, but I’m not buying them right now. You might check at another store. They may need it worse than I do.”

Can’t you just hear me? For him. I would be saying the words to save him the pain of failure.

I didn’t say those words. That would have been the easy way out for me, too. But sooner or later, the boy would have to face two different truths: First, his investment was not going to bear fruit. Second, the hateful old shop owner lied to him.

I won’t lie.

Gently, I began to speak to him about what makes a clarinet play and what gives it value. Pointing out the catastrophic defects in his instrument, I explain why it would not make sense to repair the horn.

He is disappointed. Horribly disappointed.

But, he wants to learn. Asking questions, he probes my store of knowledge so he will make better choices the next time. I happily share what I know, taking time from my workday tasks to aid him. We make comparisons with functioning instruments. We talk about the need for knowledge about the brands of horns and of the importance of a good carrying case.

As he prepares to leave, he reaches out to shake my hand, his tiny one dwarfed by mine. His father follows suit, expressing his gratitude for my time and my willingness to share. He mentions a sacrifice on my part to help the young man, and I wave aside the thought. There is nothing to what I have done, I suggest.

Suddenly, I remember why I do this—why I have done it for a lifetime.

The opportunity to plant seeds far exceeds the objective of making a profit.

Oh, I need to make a profit to keep my doors open, but the reward of seeing the eyes of that young man when he left—no longer just full of hope, but also bright with the pride that comes from being treated with respect—no money in the world could ever purchase that.

Some would say the loving thing would have been to let him keep his dream alive—the dream of making money on that instrument. Some today even suggest that speaking hard truth in the face of error is hateful.

I wonder which is more loving: Is it to dash his immediate hope as his expectation for the future is built up and he is equipped to meet that future, or is it to keep quiet and let him believe a lie?

The boy will return, of that I am sure. The day may come when he has learned the lesson taught him today so well that he is a threat to my own livelihood. I smile at the thought, enjoying the expectation of his success.

Weeds are uprooted—seeds of hope planted in their place. What better task could I have? What more reward could I ask?

How does your garden grow?

These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another; render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace.
(Zechariah 8:16 ~ ESV)

Anyone who doesn’t take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either.
(Albert Einstein ~ German born theoretical scientist ~ 1879-1955)

* (Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

Only a Test

June 25, 2015June 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Are you selling stuff in my parking lot?”

The little girl’s instinct to close the mini-van’s door as I approached was the right one. I was angry.

I own the building from which our little mom-and-pop store operates. It’s not much of a structure—a concrete foundation with a frame building topped by a metal roof, but the Lovely Lady and I have spent the last seventeen years working to pay off the loan the bank was kind enough to advance.

Earlier, the Lovely Lady had come back in after watering her flowers to let me know there was a vehicle sitting in the middle of the parking lot next door, but I shrugged it off.

They’d leave soon enough. Why make a big deal about it?

Two hours later, they were still there. I watched a couple of cars pull up beside the mini-van and exchange bundles of something with the occupants. Then each of them drove away. The van remained.

I was conflicted. Perhaps it was just folks stopping by to check on them. Maybe they were just helping out.

Or, maybe they were selling something and had chosen my lot as a place to set up business! The nerve!

My lot! The one I’m paying for. The one for which I fork out my own dollars each year to seal and re-coat.

My lot!

When the third car pulled up, I was done waiting. Storming out the front door, I headed straight for the dingy mini-van. Seeing me coming, a young girl in the back seat quickly reached for the sliding door and slammed it shut.

Asking the question on my mind in an accusatory tone, I didn’t expect the answer I got.

I don’t know why I didn’t expect it. I should have thought about it.

I should have asked.

“No sir! We’ve got a flat tire. Those people just took our spare, which was also flat, to get it repaired.”

I mentioned seeing the other cars and the lady in the driver’s seat, her face tired, almost to the point of exhaustion, explained. She delivers newspapers at night to augment her husband’s too-small paychecks.

They had been out since 11:00 PM last night trying to get the papers to their destinations.

It was the second flat they had had during that time. The second one, and the reason they were waiting for someone to get their spare repaired. The spare was actually the tire on the car, now flat.

The extra cars? The packages exchanged?

Friends who were helping get her papers delivered.

Friends. Who wanted to help.

Apologizing for misunderstanding, I offered to help if there was anything else to be done.

Too little. Too late.

I trudged back through the lot—My lot—and into the store. My head was not held high, nor was I in good spirits.

Two hours. Two hours, and not once did the thought cross my mind that I should see if they needed help. Not once.

It was almost another hour before the repaired tire was brought back and installed. There was some consolation in that the folks availed themselves of the bathroom facilities in the music store, but it was not enough to disperse the clouds of guilt in my heart.

Their cheerful and heartfelt thanks for my help was merely enough to heap coals on my head. What help? What had I done, save to be suspicious of them and remain ignorant of their need for assistance?

The Lord said, “I was hungry and you didn’t offer me food; I was thirsty and there was nothing for me to drink. I was a stranger and you left me standing outside your door.”

The words are not lost on me. Not today.

Another test. There is no curve on which to be graded. I failed.

It would be easy to hold on to the guilt—a simple thing to wallow in the shame and believe that failure is permanent. It would be wrong.

Better men than I have stood right where I am. Beaten. Worn out with tests and failures. I look back and see the long string of the failures in my life.

But, in my mind I see another man, standing beaten. A friend is there also, his long accusing forefinger poking him in the chest.

You. You are the one!

And, King David, broken and beaten, does the only thing he knows to do, indeed, the only thing there is to do. Turning his back on the prophet Nathan, he falls on his knees before his God and pours out his heart.

Create in me a clean heart, oh God! I am broken and grief-stricken for what I have done. I implore You to accept the sacrifice of my broken and stained heart.

I haven’t committed adultery or killed anyone to cover up my sin. It makes me no less guilty.

It makes Him no less able to restore a right spirit in me. And, no less willing.

And Jesus said to the lady caught in the act, “Neither do I condemn you. Go. sin no more.”

Tomorrow is another day.

There will be more tests.

And a few passing grades, I trust.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
(from King Henry VI ~ William Shakespeare ~ English playwright/poet ~ 1564-1616)

Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts; And in the hidden part thou wilt make me to know wisdom.
(Psalm 51:6 ~ ASV)

Still, My Soul

June 24, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Angry, a voice cries out.
Bitter, the answer screamed.

Words in a torrent, released from the dam
Overflow of hearts filled with pain.

Voices clamor, bluster of a wounded band;
Hurt, combatants proclaim superiority.

Floodgates opened, unspeakable filth teems over.
The ugly deluge splatters all in its path.

Good intentions seek the flood to slow,
Sandbags slung before the unstoppable rampage.

Words prohibited; banners torn from halyards,
Pointless posturing, no visible effect.

We stand agape, terror claiming our souls.
Eyes on the carnage, courage flees.

Overwhelmed, I am
Seeing only the flood.

I hear my own voice, raised in anger.
Raucous ranting, it but adds to the cascade.

Lost, pulled under by the unyielding surge,
Twisted and broken, spirits surrender.

Soft, the voice speaks from nearby
Peace. Quietness is yours.

Not in the flood, but on it;
Untouched by anger, standing apart.

Words yet fly; sides are chosen, battles fought.
He quiets them not, nor fights for any.

Peace reigns in His kingdom,
Kingdom of the heart.

Sometimes He calms the storm.
And other times, He calms His child.
(Scott Krippayne ~ Singer/Songwriter)

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.
(John 14:27 ~ ESV)

The Present

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

We sat down to dinner with the table almost creaking under the weight of the food. As is our habit, we prayed before we began to eat, realizing that all the blessings we enjoy are really gifts from a loving Creator. We held hands around the table, a chain of family and friends, from very young children all the way up to Great Grandma, showing our love for each other and thankfulness for the gifts.

Grandpa prayed, as usual.

By long experience, I have learned the attention span of the children is short. Dinnertime is not the time to engage in long-winded prayers, remembering all the sick and troubled, all those who have traveled afar, and those in the world less fortunate than we.

No, we are simply thankful for the food and a few other blessings, asking that we will be faithful stewards of the gifts. Short prayers are the best at the dinner table. My grandchildren would agree.

Some time ago, they learned that the words, in Jesus’ name, usually preceded Amen, which was the signal to eat. Accordingly, the older girl would begin saying Amen as soon as those other words were heard.

I’m not sure if I have gotten longer-winded with time, or if the girl has just learned the process can be hurried a bit, but recently, she has taken to saying the word earlier in my prayer, long before I’m ready to invoke our Savior’s name.

Amen, Amen, Amen, Amen, Amen, is what I heard at the table today as I started to wind up my prayer.

I hurried a bit faster to the real Amen! which echoed from several different points of the table. We all laughed and Grandma hugged the beautiful girl as the abbreviated prayer was ended.

These times are precious and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

It did make me think a bit, though. I wonder if deep down inside, we’re all still little children at heart. We are in such a hurry to get to the next part that we forget to enjoy where we are right now, today.

For some reason, we keep looking to the future and its promise, forgetting that the reality of the present is actually a gift given for us to savor and to carry us into that future.

I know I am often guilty. Just get me through this day—this job—this crisis, and I’ll be okay.

Then I get to the future and it’s not much different—simply more wishing for whatever comes next.

I’m not a lover of country music, but I can’t get the words of this song from the seventies out of my head: I…I’m driving my life away, looking for a better way, for me. I’m driving my life away, looking for a sunny day…

It’s not so much that we’re driving it away as we are working and eating and sleeping it away, but little by little it is speeding past, while we look for that time when we’re satisfied with where we are.

I’m pretty sure that time never arrives unless we learn to be satisfied with today, here and now.

As children, we learn to wait (and long) for future events—class bells to ring—big yellow buses to come—summer vacation to parole us. Back then, it seemed that those things took forever to arrive. From today’s perspective, they came and went with lightning speed.

But, still we wait for future events and thus waste today and its joy.

I hear a little voice out there saying, Amen, Amen, Amen, Amen, and realize that it’s time to stop blabbering on now.

I will oblige.

But I will say this before I stop: This is the day which the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it!

Take time to live, really live, on this spectacular day.

Today.

It is indeed a lavish gift not to be ignored, nor scorned.

Amen!

Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future.
(from Fly Like An Eagle ~ Steve Miller Band ~ 1976)

Godliness with contentment is great gain.
(I Timothy 6:6 ~ NIV)

Tell Your Story

June 18, 2015June 19, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I was fascinated.

Fascinated. Well, of course I was. I’m a music nerd. I love music—making it, practicing it, learning new techniques, even (and perhaps, especially) listening to others make it.

I know it’s odd, but I even enjoy watching the coalescence of musical styles which occurs when great minds come together to learn from each other.

The video program I watched one night recently gave stellar evidence of that process.

I hope those of my readers who don’t love music all that much will stick with me. I’ll try not to be too detailed in my description. I hope the conclusion will be worth the journey.

They called them master classes. Professional musicians sat onstage with up-and-coming stars and listened to them perform. Then the professionals made suggestions. Not corrections—suggestions.

Their goal was a path to improvement, suggested in a non-judgmental manner.

I listened to the talented young man play that beautiful Steinway grand piano masterfully. An old Billy Joel song. I could just hear Billy singing and playing as the young artist performed. It was obvious the young man had studied the original recording. He wanted to get it just right. And, he nailed it.

It was perfect. If you were Billy Joel.

The professionals, sitting at a little table off to the side, clapped and cheered along with the crowd. Then one of them said the last words the young musician expected to hear. Perhaps they were the last words he wanted to hear.

“I think it’s good sometimes to do a song without the piano. Try it again and leave your hands down.”

The young man’s face fell, but he nodded. He positioned his mouth against the microphone before him. Nervously, his hands reached for the piano keys, almost of their own volition. Embarrassed, he let out a little almost-laugh and looked pleadingly at the pro.

“You want me to not play the piano?”

When the teacher responded in the affirmative, the young man breathed a sigh of disappointment, perhaps even of frustration. Laying his hands in his lap, he began to sing.

He began to sing. Billy Joel wasn’t there. At all.

It was an amazing transition. The melody was still the same. The words were still the same raunchy words that Billy sang.

But, it was all him. His voice. His tonality. His inflection.

All him? Just because he stopped playing the piano? No, not really.

It was because he stopped hearing the music the way someone else had performed it. This was just him and a song.

His song.

I almost cried. The message was so powerful.

I wrote down these words in a note to myself, so I wouldn’t forget.

Tell your story. YOUR. STORY.
Unaccompanied. Pure. Fresh.

It has always bothered me. On television, I see all the Elvis impersonators. They all dress alike. Comb their hair alike. They even talk alike.

“Thank you very much.”

Admit it. You said it like they would. Like he did when he was alive.

The impersonators whirl and grind and kick like they have seen him do, either in person or on a video. Their study of the real Elvis has helped in perfecting their mimicry.

Their sideburns are trimmed like Elvis’s. The cape hangs over their shoulders with the stiff, high collar sticking up against the fringe of the greasy pompadour they have slicked back to mimic the so-called King.

Have you ever thought one of those impersonators was actually Elvis?

Of course not! They may remind you of the man, but they could never be the man. He is dead.

The king is dead.

We spend our lives imitating others. Parents, teachers, sports idols, Hollywood stars—the list is endless. We imitate them.

We imitate.

It’s not all that bad a system. We say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. We even understand that we learn more quickly when we have an example to follow. Imitation to learn isn’t the problem.

The problem is we imitate to live.

We pick another human being and model our life on them. Another flawed, fallen human being. Disappointment is not just a possibility. It is inevitable.

Tell your story. Your. Story.

It is true if you write, if you paint, if you teach, or even if you perform on a world-wide stage. When you live your life, simple or elaborate though it may be, make sure it’s your own story being told.

God made only one of me—only one of you. You are already the best you there is, simply because there isn’t another one in existence.

Be you. The way He made you.

We don’t need any more Billy Joels. We don’t need any more Elvis Presleys.

There is One we are called to follow, though. It’s interesting that we don’t know more about the physical methods He used in His activities on this earth. There are no photographs, no videos to imitate. No expose’ of His taste in homes and shoe fashion will ever be leaked to the Internet. We can’t mimic His hairstyle or vocal idiosyncrasies.

He doesn’t want or need a bunch of impersonators running around, sighing piously and pretending to do the things He did.

No one buys that act anyway—no more than they buy the Elvis impersonator’s schtick.

We don’t know all that much about what He did. I think that is purposeful. What we do know is who He was. And is.

We get to love as He did. We get to have the same mind that He had.

You still get to be you. The best you there is.

Only better.

You are you. Now, isn’t that pleasant?
(Dr. Seuss ~ American author ~ 1904-1991)

Have this mind in you, which was also in Christ Jesus…
(Philippians 3:5 ~ ASV)

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.
(John 13:34 ~ NIV)

Backwater

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

The pond is a large one beside a major roadway. Each spring, the rains fill it to overflowing, the excess water siphoning over the banks and making broad rivulets down the hillside. That fortunate overflow makes its passage to the river nearby, joining with the rest of the huge torrent as it shoves its way with abandon down the waterway, to join ever wider rivers, eventually making its way inexorably down to the sea.

Fortunate overflow?

How could water be fortunate?

I suppose one would have to stay around for a few months to understand that point of view.

The pond, for a short time, is a beautiful sight, so much so that some optimistic folks have built park benches and even a dock from which to fish or swim floating on the surface near the bank. During the months blessed with rain, there is frequent use made of these improvements. Romantic couples sit by the water’s edge; children splash and paddle in the clear, sparkling liquid that fills the reservoir; even a fisherman or two might stand on the bank, tossing lures under the snags and stones that line the end of the basin.

But, the day comes–sooner than one might think–when no one considers even sticking a toe in this pond, much less gazing on it admiringly. The water which was not blessed to make its way to freedom while still clear and refreshing, has turned a grotesquely green hue and is rapidly covered with a layer which defies any brave soul to violate its surface.

Presently, there are no admirers, and the once-popular retreat is abandoned, bereft of visible activity of any kind. The unfortunate water left behind in the rainy season is trapped in a putrid sea of green, stinky scum.

How could this happen?

What disaster has struck this beautiful body of water, to leave it so–lorn of appeal and purpose?

Simple. The rains have all but ceased, and the water that replenishes the pond comes sporadically, but not in a deluge as before. When it does fall, none escapes over the side.

The new supply only goes into the depression in the ground, not out of it.

There is no flow, no moving current. The biological eco-system produces nutrients, lots of them, upon which the algae feeds, and then it thrives in the bright sunlight. Soon the green scum is out of control, making the pond useless for any kind of recreation.

A chance conversation with a customer drove my thoughts to that unattractive place again just recently.

“I’ve come to the point in my life where there are no expectations of anything from me,” he declared.

I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I prodded a bit.

He explained, “For most of my life, I’ve been engaged, and active with other people. I’m getting older now and I no longer have to interact with them. I get to just enjoy the things I’ve learned and am learning.”

It seems my friend believes he has earned this respite–that his God has given it to him as a reward for hard work.

As he speaks, my mind wanders. All I see in my vision is that scum-covered pond.

Imagine! Of all the times when he should be sharing, in copious quantities, what he has learned, he chooses to become a hermit. Satisfied to keep his knowledge and wisdom to himself, he will die happy.

I say his, but I intend that you understand clearly I don’t believe it is his in any way.

Every single thing we have is a gift; we have deserved none of it!

It not only should be shared, it must be shared.

To keep knowledge and wisdom to ourselves is to become thieves, not once—not twice—but three times.

First, we steal from our Creator, from whom all good things come. They are His, not ours.

We steal from those waiting downstream for the bounty to overflow.

We steal from ourselves, preventing interaction which keeps us vibrant and active.

Like the pond, that which once attracted visitors now repels them. We even suffer personally, as all activity moves deep under the surface.

Trapped in an eternal cycle, we regurgitate the same old things again and again, never interacting and never sharing.

Stagnant.

The word describes smelly, putrid water that is trapped and still. Likewise, it describes our souls when we move ourselves prematurely out of the current and flow of life.

Give me the white water of the rapids any day!

I want to be rushing to the sea, surrounded by others who are going the same direction.

The torrent of the raging river is alive and dynamic.

The backwater of the stagnant pond is instead, defunct and listless, going nowhere.

I think I’ll keep rolling along. There is still a bend or two to go around before I reach the ocean.

The company along the way has been a treat, too. I hope you’ll keep moving right along with me. We’ve got lots more to learn together as we go.

Besides, I’m not a fan of scum-covered green water.

I agree wholeheartedly with those immortal words of the late humorist Erma Bombeck:

Green is not a happy color.

If thou would’st have that stream of hard-earn’d knowledge, of Wisdom heaven-born, remain sweet running waters, thou should’st not leave it to become a stagnant pond.
(Sir Frances Bacon~English lawyer/philosopher~1561-1626)

For just as the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, yielding seed for the sower and bread for eating, so will my message be that goes out of my mouth–it won’t return to me empty. Instead, it will accomplish what I desire, and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10,11~ISV)

One Day

June 16, 2015June 16, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Birth date?”

The lady behind the desk has asked the question a thousand and more times before. This query is just one of the identifiers the clinic uses to ensure they are treating the right patient.

That’s funny. I’ve also answered the question a thousand times before in my life (give or take a few hundred). The answer is on the tip of my tongue.

The tip of my tongue.

I hesitate.

“Do you not know your own birth date?” She is incredulous.

Everyone knows his own birth date. Five year old kids know their own birth date. (I’m four and two-thirds years old!)

“No. No, I know my birth date. It’s just that I’m not sure you have it right in your records.”

Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? Yeah, it feels stupid, too. But, here’s my problem: I’m not sure what day I was born.

What’s that? Check my birth certificate? Now, you’ve put your finger on the issue. The date on my birth certificate is wrong.

How do I know it’s wrong? My mother said it was. Incidentally, so did my father, but when Mom says it, you know she’s right.

All my life, I’ve celebrated my birthday on a certain day. All my life. Fifty-whatever years. Every legal paper I’ve ever filed has had that date on it. My school records, medical records, driving records, financial records, all claim the same date.

The lady is waiting. Not patiently. I suppose most of the folks reading this are feeling the same way. Not to worry. I’m going to tie all this up directly.

I give the lady the same answer I’ve been giving for fifty-something years, and she is satisfied, telling me to take a seat in the waiting room with all the other sick people. It will be a while before the doctor will actually see me.

Two birth dates. Who has that? What kind of mixed up world is it when a guy doesn’t know what day he was born?

My parents tell me one date, the ceremonial birth certificate from the hospital being in agreement, and birthday celebrations are set for a lifetime.

Then one day, a few years into my adult life, the legal birth certificate–the one on file with the great State of Texas–arrives.

The phone call to my parents followed pretty quickly. “June fifteenth? The fifteenth? Not the sixteenth?”

They insist the doctor or nurse must have recorded it wrong. They both maintain that I was born on Father’s Day the year I arrived. I’ve checked. Father’s Day was on the sixteenth that year. They won’t budge in their insistence.

You want me to choose?

Well, as much as I love the great State of Texas, I’ll take my Mama any day. The doctor recorded it wrong. (My Mama didn’t raise any dummies.)

Still, I wonder if the day will come when someone calls my bluff and demands to see proof of my birth date.

I sit for a moment and my mind wanders. So, I’m not quite sure of the date on which I was born. What am I sure of?

I’m pretty sure I was born; that seems to be a certainty.

I’m sure the red-headed lady who raised me is really my mother. Even if the (flawed) birth certificate didn’t proclaim it, the signs are all there. Physical features which can’t be hidden. Hands with long thin fingers, now beginning to twist at the knuckles just like hers, as arthritis slowly begins to take its toll. Physical and character traits all prove my maternal heritage.

The same is true of my father, the shape of his nose clearly visible in the middle of my own face. The same heavy, hooded eyelids cover my eyes, forcing me to wrinkle my forehead as I open them widely enough to see where I am going. The medical issues which have troubled him for decades now visit me with regularity.

My lineage and family ties are settled issues of record. There can be no doubt who I belong to.

So, I celebrate my birthday on a day which may or may not be the actual date upon which I made my entry into this world. Our Savior has the same problem, so I’m in good company there.

What difference does the date make?

What difference indeed?

I’ve talked with a number of people over the years about their faith. Every once in a while, the subject of when they came to know the Savior comes up. Answers vary greatly, from the exact hour and minute, to one I used to have a problem with: I think I’ve always believed.

Without exception, all profess to believe completely today. I accept their testimony of the facts.

Not all would agree with me.

Some would tell you there must be a clear record of the time you came to God in belief and acceptance of His gift of grace. I would suggest that you ignore such talk.

Do you need to know clearly Whom you believe in? Absolutely!

Whom. Not when.

I know I’m part of the Family. I know who my Father is.

It’s nice when someone notices the Family resemblance, too.

There is a record book. No clerical errors there.

My name’s written in it.

The book is still open for new entries.

The Lord writes in the census book of the nations, “This one was born there.”
(Psalm 87:6 ~ NET Bible)

But I know Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able
To keep that which I’ve committed unto Him against that day.
(I Know Whom I Have Believed ~ Daniel W Whittle ~ American lyricist/evangelist)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips