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)

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)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips