A Run On The Beach

February 27, 2015February 27, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

They were laughing at me. I’m sure of it. The very same people who had been friendly and waving as we ran past each other just moments ago were now looking at me and feeling superior.

I could almost hear the unspoken words as they thought them: “What an idiot! Does he think he’s better than all the rest of us? Look at him down there by himself!”

Well, I will admit to the tiniest trace of paranoia, so maybe we should just move on instead of dwelling on what the other runners might have been thinking.

It had all begun as a morning to remember–a memory I wanted to savor for a long time. I had arisen before the sun on that chilly Southern California Saturday to be at the beach before the crowds began arriving. Easily finding a place to park along the Pacific Coast Highway, I spent a couple of minutes stretching by the car, and then made my way toward the wide swath of clean white sand beside the gently breaking waves.

Well before I reached the sand, I encountered a paved path. Other folks who had the same idea for that glorious early morning were already jogging and cycling along the pavement, so I followed suit.

No one was running on the sandy beach, a fact that baffled me a bit. I had expected to run beside the incoming tide on the packed surface, but there was not a single runner doing that. Not one.

So, I followed their example and stuck to the paved running trail that followed along the edge of the sandy beach. For two miles, I passed, or was passed by, other runners or cyclists. Most of them gave a friendly nod and some even called out a cheery good morning as they neared.

It felt good to be part of a crowd.

But, I had come to run on the beach. This wasn’t running on the beach. It was running on a paved path. I could do that anytime I wanted at home in Arkansas.

Still, for two miles, I ran. With all the other people. On the blacktop trail. Wishing I was on the beach.

At the end of the two miles, the distance I had predetermined I would run before turning back, I made my decision. Instead of turning and running back along the paved trail on which I had gone out, I angled down the sand dune beside me and onto the wide expanse of pristine beach.

It was really hard going in the loose, dry sand away from the ocean, but I told myself that the packed wet sand near the incoming water would be solid and easy to run on. In fact, as I approached the gently tumbling waves, it became considerably easier to keep a more natural stride.

Still, it wasn’t nearly as easy to run as it had been on the paved path. The surface beneath my feet gave and moved as I reached my stride again. I glanced behind me and saw the deep depressions my shoes were leaving in the damp sand. This wasn’t anything like running on solid ground.

The next two miles stretched out ahead of me, and I wasn’t at all sure I was up to the task. I glanced over to my left, toward the paved trail I had left just moments before. Over there, folks were still speeding along with each step, their running shoes bouncing almost effortlessly up and then down again on the solid surface.

My feet felt like I was running in oatmeal. Every step was more effort than any I had made in the previous two miles. Maybe I should get back on the pavement.

No. I came to run on the beach.

I was going to run on the beach.

For the next two miles I struggled. Physically, I struggled with keeping up my pace. I was sure I was losing ground on my normal time for each mile, and my GPS program proved that for me, the longer I ran next to the incoming waves.

But, I also struggled with something else. I was the only one running on the beach. Seriously.

The only one.

The implied peer pressure was something I wasn’t prepared for. No, no one said a thing to me. Not one person waved at me to get off the beach and run on the pavement. I didn’t hear anyone laughing at that hillbilly from the Ozarks who didn’t know to stay on the beaten path.

Still, I felt the pressure to comply with the crowd. For a little while.

After a half mile, I became aware that the sun was rising and beginning to reflect off the water’s surface. The early morning mist began to burn away and the view out over the ocean was incredible. Sailboats, ships, and huge, violent waves came into sight in the advancing light.

The seagulls and terns foraging for food along the sand caught my eye and I thought about how they were fed day after day, without a worry in the world. I trotted toward them and they merely swerved aside, continuing their feeding as I passed, almost as if I weren’t there.

The beauty of creation and the thrill of just being alive and part of it were overwhelming. It could have been the salt air, but there might even have been a tear or two that escaped from the corner of my eyes as I considered a Creator who could imagine such an exquisite spectacle and fashion it from nothing.

The two miles flew by. I may not have run very fast, but they came to an end all too soon.

Reluctantly, I walked off the beach, across the paved path which was growing more crowded by the minute, and up to my car. Sitting there for a moment before driving away, I considered the lesson of my morning’s run.

Do you know why most people run or cycle? Of course you do. They want to get or keep fit. The exercise is a way to burn calories and build muscle.

Why do you suppose people would run on a paved path when they could do the same thing on the beach, building more muscle and burning more calories?

Why do we go out with the intent to do one thing, but never do that thing because it’s too hard, or because no one else is doing it?

Why do we care so much what other people think?

I wonder how many of us take the path of least resistance. I wonder what we lose because we never move off the beaten path to follow the way that offers so much more.

By now, it may be clear that this really isn’t about my run along the beach a few weeks ago. Bigger choices are being made every day based on what the crowd is doing, and we follow without giving a thought to the ultimate consequences.

And, make no mistake. There will be consequences.

I think it may be time that we remember why we came here and what we were determined to do when we first set out.

I came to run on the beach.

I plan to do just that.

Even if no one else goes with me.

“Every temptation to follow the crowd is an opportunity to be thankful you didn’t.”
(Robert Brault ~ American author)

“But the gate is narrow and the way is difficult that leads to life, and there are few who find it.”
(Matthew 7:14 ~ NET Bible)

Sitting in the Dark

February 12, 2015February 12, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We sat on the airplane, a couple hundred of us, waiting. The sky was overcast, the air loaded with moisture. If there was a sun anywhere above us, it was nowhere to be seen.

My neighbors on the flight seemed content to sit quietly and not force any interaction, and I was happy to leave that just as it was. My trip had been stressful and emotionally taxing. The only ray of light I was clinging to was the thought that tonight I would be home.

Back to normal.

I stared, unseeing, out the window from my perch in the middle seat. Gloomy and damp seemed about right. But just then, we began to move down the runway. At first, the big wheels bumped along the concrete, the huge jet lumbering along in the dim light. Rapidly, though, the powerful machine accelerated until it broke free of gravity and we were in a steep climb through the clouds.

Gone to find the sun.

I willed us up past the mist and moisture, watching the scene outside the two windows through which I had a view. Surely, there was light somewhere.

Certainly we would be above the clouds soon. Blue sky. Clear sailing.

Yes! There it was! The sun was shining, after all.

Snap!

The lady to my right, next to the window, slammed the sliding cover down on the sun. What was she thinking? Why would you close out the light?

Oh well. There was always the window in front of that. Gazing out that pane, I focused my attention on the thinning clouds through which we were still ascending and the energy from the sun which lit the tops of those clouds with increasing intensity, the higher we got.

We would travel in the light after all. All was not gloomy up here, was it?

Snap! The lady reached forward and pulled down the cover on that window, as well.

It was dark again.

I wanted to shake her. I wanted to yell at her to open at least one of the shades.

Then, I felt sorry for my anger and wanted to explain to her that I needed the light. I wanted to reassure her that the sunshine was a good thing which we all needed. I held my tongue instead and drowsed for the next two and a half hours. She did the same, while the man on my left worked at his laptop the entire trip.

I was to remember the young lady’s need for darkness a good bit in the days to come. At first, I wondered why anyone would prefer the darkness to the light. Then, two days later, as I acquired the symptoms of the influenza virus which overcame me, I understood her perfectly.

Whenever my eyes were open, I covered them to keep out as much light as possible. I walked from the bed to my recliner holding my eyes. I pulled the blankets over my head when the sun shone through the window blinds. The light hurt my head horribly.

The light hurt me.

I preferred the darkness.

For five days, I wanted nothing but to be left in the dark. The Lovely Lady understood and left the lights off as much as possible. She didn’t harp, didn’t nag, at me to get over it. She didn’t try to show me how much better the light was than the dark.

She just made sure I knew she was there if I needed her, occasionally touching me gently as she went about her own life in the light.

__________

A young friend of mine came by to see me at the music store the other day. An important person in his life passed away a couple of weeks ago. He and his family are overwhelmed with the support and response of their friends. But, before he left that day, he had a few quiet, but poignant, questions to ask.

“Why is it that they all want to talk the whole time? Why do we have to show them that we’re okay? Couldn’t they just come sit with us and tell us that they love us? I’d like that better.”

He’s not complaining. But sometimes, when you’re in the dark, it’s because you need to be there for awhile. You don’t need a bunch of people walking around turning the light switch on again and again.

There are times when being in the full light of day is painful. The brilliance of the sun reveals the full extent of hurt and sickness that cut us to the core. We need time to heal.

Gently. Slowly.

We all know people who hurt. People who are sick. People who are sad.

I wonder how much faster they could heal if, instead of trying to fix things for them, we would just go and sit with them.

In the dark. In the quiet.

Somehow, I think that’s what God did for us. He sent His Son to sit with us in the dark for awhile and to bring healing to our weary and hurting souls.

We’re not intended to stay in the dark. We can’t thrive there. But He meets us where we are and gently draws us to His light.

Perhaps, we could do the same for each other.

Dawn comes gently–not like the glare of a powerful spotlight in the eyes, but with the hint of a soft golden touch and the rising glow of warmth.

“…on those living in the land of deep darkness, a light has dawned.”
(Isaiah 9:2 _ NIV)

“Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.”
(Helen Keller ~ Deaf & Blind American author ~ 1880-1968)

Frozen Words

February 6, 2015February 6, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Photo: Jeannean Ryman Used with permission. — Photo: Jeannean Ryman. Used with permission.

I knew you were no good.

Nearly two weeks later, the words still hang in the frigid air of the Chinese restaurant. The cold gale is still blowing through that door held open by the helpful stranger.

And the words still hang there. They are colder than the air blowing in from outside.

I knew you were no good.

It’s warmer there now, I know. But my mind can’t move on. She said the words to me. To me.

Her baby.

They had warned me that angry words might come. I was prepared to be kicked out of her house, along with the others. I was even prepared for the conversational words she would speak which would have nothing to do with any conversation going on in the vicinity. The disease from which she suffers has robbed her (and us) of the reality we have shared for all of my life. I know that.

When she said the words to me, I didn’t react—in fact, didn’t think anything of it. It wasn’t really her saying that to me; it was this different person who has no memory of the past left, speaking to a man she didn’t recognize.

I know that.

Still.

Back home now, lying in my bed at night, the words have echoed in my head. My mother, who never in all of my life uttered a cruel word to me, told me to my face that I was no good.

The facts of her illness, I know—intellectually. My problem is the event happened to me—personally. My brain struggles to keep the two straight, failing miserably.

I’ll sort it out, eventually.

Still. The words hang, frozen by the frigid wintry blast. And, sitting here in my cozy corner, I shiver.

She doesn’t know me anymore. She doesn’t recall she had any children, can’t remember who my father is. Even though she can’t stand for him to be out of her sight, she couldn’t tell you who the man is.

I wonder what it would be like to be surrounded by strangers in your own home. I even have this strange thought that starts to take root, asking: what if she no longer knows who God is?

Ah, but you see, now the worries and the what ifs, and the if onlys start to tumble one by one, when I reach that question.

The reality is that whether or not she knows Him anymore is not nearly as important as the answer that stands above every question in my long list.

He still knows her.

He still calls to her.

He still communicates with her.

Don’t believe me?

That very morning, in a little church fellowship hall, I sat beside her, a stranger sharing his hymnal with her. She took hold of the edge of the book and tugged it over in front of her, soon commandeering well more than her share of the page. And, without a thought in the world about who was listening, she sang. As loudly as she could, she sang.

Me too.

Song after song, we shared that book—I, finding the right pages for her, and she, pulling more and more of the volume her way, until I held nearly none of it in my own hand.

That red-headed lady who raised me taught me to sing in church.

I spoke of it with that other red-headed person in my life, the Lovely Lady, just the other day. I don’t know any other way to sing.

Why would you worry about who hears you? You’re not singing for them! All my life, growing up, I heard it and saw it modeled.

Sing it out!

My Mama and I sang for the One who still knows her. And me. A couple of ladies in the church mentioned my singing later.

I’m still not sorry I sang so loud.

You know, as I sit and write, I glance mentally over at those horrid words, frozen in time. Funny thing. They’re not frozen anymore. They’re just mixed in with the rest of our conversation and communication from that day.

Come to think of it, they weren’t all that untrue. That lady spent a lifetime understanding that none of us is born good, and she tried to do everything she could to help me past that. She taught and sang, begged and demanded, all the while trying to help form and shape a man who would be good.

I’m not there yet. But, I got some world class coaching along the way.

Oh, and an introduction to the One who will make me good.

I’ll keep moving.

And singing at the top of my lungs for Him.

…the sheep recognize His voice and come to Him. He calls His own sheep by name and leads them out.
(John 10:3 ~ NLT)

My mama loves me, she loves me.
She gets down on her knees and hugs me.
She loves me like a rock
She rocks me like the Rock of Ages, and she loves me.
(from Loves Me Like a Rock ~ Paul Simon ~ American singer/songwriter)

Photo courtesy of Jeannean Ryman. Used with permission. Jeannean has many of her wonderful images available for sale and for use in projects. Contact us if you’d like to communicate with her.

In The Doghouse

January 20, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Don’t tell anyone else about this.

I would really be embarrassed if people knew that I did it, so you have to keep quiet. Okay?

I did it because I was tired of folding blankets. Really tired of it. Every night, I pick up the blankets out of the yard from where the black monsters have dragged them.

They know better.

How can I be so sure?

Well, when I head toward the blankets lying on the ground, they jump up and slink over to their house and, with a sad glance back at me, make their way inside to hide. I used to yell at them for being so stupid as to pull the blankets, the only insulation between their bodies and the cold aluminum floor of their doghouse, out into the cold, sometimes damp, yard.

I don’t yell at them anymore. It doesn’t do any good.

As I said, I grew tired of folding the damp, dirty blankets and shoving them inside the house every night. Sometimes twice a night.

I finally bought some wood shavings to take the place of the blankets. Everybody said I should do it.

“Oh, it’s so easy! They’ll love it and you won’t have to worry about blankets in the yard.”

A bale of compressed pine shavings was purchased and brought home the other night. The blankets were removed from the house one last time, by me for a change. I spread four inches of the dust-free, aromatic bedding on the floor of their house, careful not to leave a single bare spot on the cold metal floor.

They refused to go back into the house.

Refused.

It was twenty degrees out that night. For hours, they found a relatively wind-free corner of the yard and snuggled together, shivering. Oh, they had stuck their noses into the doorway of the house, but evidently aromatic wasn’t what they were hoping for. There was no way they were going into that strange smelling place.

I called them over to the doorway again and shoved the big guy through the doorway into the house. His head popped back out instantly and he bowled over the chubby girl as he charged back out. She couldn’t be enticed at all, but just spread out her legs and refused to budge as I pushed with all my strength.

I didn’t know what to do. They couldn’t stay out in the cold. There is a heater in a compartment of their house, which would keep them warm, but it does no good if they remain outside. I wasn’t worried that they would freeze to death, but they really needed to be inside.

What to do?

There was no way the blankets were going back in. I’d just have to pick them up again from the yard (this time with a generous portion of the shavings attached) and I wasn’t about to do that.

This is the part you have to keep to yourself. Promise?

I climbed into the house myself.

You know–to show them that there was nothing to fear. Yeah, it might have been amusing. I wasn’t laughing.

I got on my hands and knees and clambered through the doorway into the aromatic pine shavings. Two wet noses immediately followed. Just the noses.

It was a few moments later that the big fellow stuck his head through the flap and stared at me in the light of my flashlight (there’s a heater, but I’m not foolish enough to give them a light fixture in there, for crying out loud!). He didn’t wait long, but pushed his way on in and sat beside me banging his tail back and forth in the ostensibly dust-free bedding (it’s not really dust-free), all the while attempting to wash my face thoroughly with his tongue. I fended him off as well as I could.

I sat there for another five minutes before the girl would even venture to put her head in. By the time I finally gave up and climbed out–mostly because I was worried the local police would see the light inside there and stop to investigate–she had deigned to put her front feet and shoulders through the doorway. I figured it was as much of a victory as I would get and headed for home and a hot shower (I itched the whole night anyway.)

Remember, not a word to anyone about this! You promised.

I felt foolish. Still do. But, when I sneaked my head out the back door of the house a couple of hours later, they both pushed out of the warm interior of their newly furnished house.

I haven’t folded a blanket since.

They haven’t spent any nights in the cold, either.

I’m assuming that I’ve lost all your respect. The only way it could be worse is if you had actually seen me crawling in and then out again brushing the wood chips from my clothing.

I don’t really care.

The dogs are warm.

Some things you do because you care for those in your keeping.

Often, we have to lead by example. Even when it’s embarrassing. And inconvenient.

And demeaning.

Somehow, in my mind, I have a picture of a King who spent a lifetime in a dirty, smelly place simply to show the people in His care how to get out of the cold.

Because that’s what you do for those in your keeping.

Funny. He doesn’t even want us to keep quiet about it.

Not like me.

You did promise, you know.

“A good example is far better than a good precept.”
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist ~ 1837-1899)

“I have set you an example, that you should do as I have done for you.”
(John 13:15 ~ NIV)

Come See Me Before…

January 16, 2015February 12, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m going to say goodbye to my friend on Monday. I need to see him one last time.”

The burly man next to me showed almost no emotion as he said the words. As a consequence, I misunderstood what was happening on Monday.

“Oh, is he leaving then?”

The old guy snorted, his reaction a mixture of derision and frustration at my failure to grasp his meaning.

“No. He died. I’m going to his funeral. You always go to the funeral, right?”

I will admit I don’t always go to the funeral. I have heard the phrase used before, usually when younger folks are describing their upbringing. Dad always said, whatever you do, go to the funeral.

I was mulling this over in my head, when I realized that the big fellow was still talking. He was telling me about his friend and his circumstances over the last few years.

His friend had been in an accident which left him paralyzed and unable to communicate well. While his mind functioned just fine, his body could no longer respond to the signals from his brain. Talking with him was like talking with a child just learning to say words.

Believe me, I know how frustrating that is. I have been grateful for the Lovely Lady and my daughter on any number of occasions over the last few years, as the grandchildren jabbered on about everything and nothing. Interpreters are amazing assets in such a situation.

I was still nodding my head in agreement at how hard communication is, when I became aware that the man had moved on in his description of his relationship with his late friend. The words he was saying were hard for me to process, so I asked him to repeat what he had just said.

Almost angrily, he said it again, “I didn’t want to see him like that and couldn’t understand him anyway (I’m hard of hearing), so I stopped visiting him at all.”

I didn’t know what to say, so we stood in silence for a few seconds.

Defensively, knowing that I was a little shocked, he went on, “But, I am going to say goodbye to him on Monday. Like I told you…”

His voice trailed off and he looked away.

Our conversation was done and he knew it. He said one more thing before he walked away.

“You always go to the funeral.”

If he was worried about me scolding him, he needn’t have bothered. Before he hit the front door, my mind was already calling up the names and faces of several people, friends and family members, who I had failed at the end of their earthly travels. I have no right to correct anyone on the issue.

I see their faces before me, young and unchanged. Well, of course that’s the way I see them. I never went to spend time with them in their sickness.

I took care of me.

I went to the funeral.

I don’t have a whole lot more to say tonight. The words would only be directed at myself anyway. Maybe the reader can fill in the blanks for the rest of what needs to be said.

What your father taught you is still true.

Go to the funeral.

A visit or two before that might be a good idea, as well.

“True friends walk in when the rest of the world has walked out.”
(Walter Winchell ~ American newspaper commentator ~ 1897-1972)

“‘I was sick and in prison and you did not look after Me…Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for Me.”
(Matthew 25: 43b, 45 ~ NIV)

Dirty Shoes

January 13, 2015January 13, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m in a black mood tonight. Bad news. People I love in trouble. Interactions coming in my schedule which I dread. Friends making poor decisions.

My spirit is as near to being crushed as it has been in months.

Moments ago, I left the Lovely Lady sitting in a warm and cheery room, coming to my office to sulk and be miserable. Warm and cheery only makes me more unhappy when I’m like this.

I want to write, but I don’t do well with that when I’m carrying the weight of the world. Besides, my mind is spinning out of control.

I need to fix things. Maybe, if I can think through this, I can fix it.

Do you know all the hours I’ve spent speaking words into the dark room–dreaming that things, and people, would change?

Could you even begin to imagine the number of times I’ve prayed as I’ve lain in bed, sleepless through the early hours of the morning? Prayers for illumination, for wisdom, for a change of heart in folks for whom I care deeply.

Letters are put into my mailbox, emails appear on the computer screen, phone calls are answered, and my spirits sink as I learn of disastrous events and foolish actions.

Tears come. Why are people so stubborn? Why can’t I convince them?

The thoughts racing through my head are all about the problems of other people, not my own. The pain I feel, and the blame I accept, begin to come into focus as I think.

Bear each other’s burdens.

Give to him who asks of you…

Surely those words mean that I should help others. I can’t turn my back on people who need my help.

Can I?

As I consider, in my thoughts I see men, rough and strong, standing at the gate of an ancient walled town. They are not going in the gate, but coming out. As they leave, they turn back and, looking at the men standing behind, lift their sandaled feet, one after the other and shake dirt from them.

Their Master had told them to take His good news to the city. He also gave them directions about what to do if the people rejected the news. It was a warning to the people, a promise of unhappiness to come.

I’ve always imagined the angry faces of the disciples as they shook the dust off of their feet. Fools! Stupid people! You have only yourselves to blame for what comes next!

But, as I watch the scene unfold in my head tonight, for the first time I really see them. Their sadness is unspeakable. The tears that flow tell the real story.

Not anger, but sorrow. Not hate, but love.

And loss.

The Teacher told them the action of shaking the dust off would be a testimony against the people, but I wonder if there was more to it than that.

The responsibility for rejection is not laid on the messenger. There is no blame to be carried away from there. That burden is not theirs to carry, but is left on the ground behind them.

Mentally, I turn away from the scene. And again, as they have more than once today, my eyes are filled with tears. I am sad, as the truth sinks in.

I have to move on. The road stretches out in front of me and I must follow.

In the shadows behind me, my loved ones sit in chains. The key, the simple assurance of freedom, has been placed in their hands, but they sit motionless.

Their choice.

I can’t stay here. The chains which bind them will almost certainly claim another victim if I do.

The darkness lifts a little as I turn away. It is painful to leave the people I love behind, but ahead, the light is shining.

This is the hard part.

Time to shake the dust off.

Life is calling.

Coming!

“Even the dust of your town we wipe from our feet as a warning to you. Yet be sure of this: The kingdom of God has come near.”
(Luke 10:11 ~ NIV)

Holy Kisses

January 9, 2015March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The boys in the Mr. Olsen’s Sunday School class were at it again.

The mild-mannered man seemed a little confused by their reaction, but perhaps that was only an act for their benefit. He knew what they were on about. Oh, he knew.

They were at the end of their journey through the New Testament book of Romans. Last instructions were being given by the Apostle before he closed the letter. All very boring (to the boys), and of little interest to them.

Wait just a minute! Did you hear what he just read?

“Greet one another with a holy kiss?”

The snickering started. Holy kiss. He said we should kiss. At least one boy put his hand up to his mouth and made a rude sound like a wet, noisy kiss.

Smaaaaack!

Mr. Olsen looked up and chuckled. He had expected no less. It was a good thing the lesson was almost over. There was certainly no more learning going to happen in the class on that morning.

Holy kiss. Greet each other with a holy kiss.

I wonder.

A friend (who is female) ended a comment about one of my recent writings with the words I love you. Her expression of fondness was in response to my encouragement to not leave important things for later. Later doesn’t always come. I like it when people read things and take them to heart.

I showed the comment to the Lovely Lady today and she smiled. She knows there is no threat to her to be found in the words from this friend.

The Teacher told His listeners to love their neighbors as they loved themselves. Since we are bound to obey this, I think it’s not a bad idea to tell folks we love (not meaning in the romantic sense at all) that we love them.

It not only reminds them that we care, but it reminds us that we need to care.

The Teacher carried this radical idea a step further when He suggested that His followers should love their enemies.

That’s hard! Ms. Dottie is a sweet lady who is always agreeable and I’m happy to hug her neck. Cal? I argued with him last week and there’s no way I’m hugging him!

But, there it is. Love your neighbors and your enemies. Greet them with a holy kiss.

Still, I wonder. See, I imagine heads are nodding in agreement with the words.

That’s right! It’s what the Book says.

I wonder if those heads are still nodding.

Do you still feel the love?

Some readers strongly dislike one of the people in the photo; some strongly dislike the other. There may even be some who can’t abide either one.

It’s funny, but when the teaching is just a concept, a nice sounding ideal, we’re happy to agree. But, put faces and history behind the words and suddenly, we’re not so sure.

The Teacher, who became our Savior, was sure. So sure that He turned His cheek to accept a kiss of death. From an enemy he called friend.

I don’t really have a lot to add. How could I?

If you see me someday soon and I give you a kiss on the cheek, I’m not being forward. And, if I tell you out of the blue that I love you, don’t be surprised. I won’t have gone over the edge, at least no further over the edge than I’ve always been.

I’m simply going to try to follow the Instructions. Somehow, I have a suspicion that things will work better when we do. All of us.

Time will tell.

We should start soon. Today would be good.

“Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?”
(Abraham Lincoln ~ 16th President of the United States ~ 1809-1865)

“I say, ‘Love your enemies! pray for those who persecute you.’ In that way, you will be acting as true children of your Father in heaven.”
(Matthew 5:44.45b ~ NLT)

Dreams Die

January 7, 2015January 27, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m still sad.

I got the note on New Years morning. The note said he had died just hours before.

I guess you could say New Years Day wasn’t that good of a day for me.

I would have just breezed past the three-quarters of an hour I had to stand on the roof in the cold, running a plumber’s snake through the waste water system of the house. The hours I spent counting merchandise in the music store, as awful a fate as that is, I could have overlooked.

But, my friend died.

Before I go too far here, I want to be clear; I hadn’t seen or communicated with him in over forty years.

It doesn’t seem to matter.

But I have to ask myself the question: Why does this news hurt more than others who have also passed? There have been many over the years. I have felt each one, but none like this one.

All morning on that day, as I called out prices to the Lovely Lady, sitting with her pencil poised to tabulate, my mind wandered.

Over dusty paths long since paved over, along drainage ditches filled in decades ago, I rambled again with my friend. Cold summer nights—colder than ever I had imagined closed up in my sweltering bedroom—we spent in the tent in his backyard. Pool games in the den, sneaking out from the back yard in the dead of the night to wander the neighborhood, milk and cereal at the dining room table the next morning—grinning at each other over the milk glasses when his Mom or Dad asked how we had slept.

All the scenes played through my head as I struggled to focus on the job with the Lovely Lady. After so many times of my voice cracking as I called out the price of one music book after another, I suggested we might as well go home as soon as we got to the end of the row.

She, wise companion that she is, agreed. We went home, she to visit with her sister and nieces, and I to sit by the fire and follow my memories all that cloudy, gloomy day.

He was a friend when I didn’t have any.

I’ll admit it; I was a strange kid. Skinny—no social skills—acne covered face. It was a horribly awkward time. Junior High School is like that. If you weren’t an athlete or a brainiac, life was hard. We were neither.

He was my friend when I desperately needed one.

Oh, we fought—wars of words, and even a time or two with fists. We always got over it and were ready to go sit at the ball game the next week and make trouble together.

Except that once.

I read over the words I’ve written and wonder if anyone else will want to read them. I wonder why I can’t say what I really want to say.

Maybe I’m afraid to admit that I’ve thought about my friend many times over the years. I wanted to see him again, but not just to visit with an old buddy.

It has been nearly forty-five years.

I always thought I’d get to apologize. I recall clearly the words I said to hurt him, words I have wanted to take back.

I always thought there would be another chance.

In my mind, as I have remembered him over the years, I always dreamed we’d get another chance to sit in Shakey’s Pizza, around the corner from his folk’s house, and drink a coke together and laugh about the stupid things we did and said. I’d tell him I was sorry, and he’d say he didn’t even remember the words I had said.

Sometimes, dreams die.

And suddenly, in a rush, it comes to me. The sadness I feel isn’t just for my friend’s passing. Not just for him.

Dreams don’t always come to fruition. We hold them close and tell no one about them. They are seldom written, but never forgotten. And then, the day comes when there is no chance they will be realized.

No chance.

This one hurts. I’ll admit it. It’s going to take some time to get over it.

Funny. I don’t think I want to get over it. Some lessons are too important to forget the pain involved in the learning.

This is one of those.

In relationships, sometimes tomorrow won’t come.

Say what you need to say today.

I still believe that I love you are the three most important words in the English language, but I’m absolutely positive there are two more which are very close runners-up:

I’m sorry.

Don’t know where the person is you need to say either of those two phrases to? Find them.

Do it today.

And, keep dreaming.

It’s how we fly. Or run. Or crawl along.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
(Matthew 5:4 ~ NASB)

Hold onto dreams
For when dreams die
Life is like a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
(Dreams ~ Langston Hughes ~ American poet ~ 1902-1967)

Hang on to your hat. Hang onto your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
(E.B. White ~ American author ~ 1899-1985)

The Test

January 1, 2015February 12, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The white page before me is terrifying.

The drive to write is a fierce fire that burns, but it cannot banish the fear of failure. Failure and I–we go back quite a way. I am not anxious to renew the acquaintance.

Still, every time I sit down to write, the blank page mocks and teases.

You have nothing to say! The empty page is nicer than anything you can come up with!

Some nights I listen to the mockery and walk away. It only makes the next time that much harder.

Tonight, I sat and looked at the blank space once more. This time, the realization hit me with power and urgency.

The empty page is a picture of life. More to the point, today, it is especially salient as we stand on the verge of a new year.

The story is already written for the year we’ve just lived. It is now a completed book of history. Oh, edits will be made. The intellectuals and politicians will debate the wording for many of the events, and what results will be something completely different than the actual occurrence, but it won’t change the fact that the book is closed and ended.
_____________________

Listen!

I hear the fireworks outside my office walls as I type.

The moment has come. The old year is dead and gone. Scribbled pages, strike-throughs, erasures, and footnotes–all of that is complete. There will be a time to look back and decipher it later.

It is time now to step onto the new, clean page.

Blank, like the page you’re reading here was moments ago, it may terrify us. The fear of failure, of loss, of pain may keep us frozen, but it’s a sure bet that the page will be marked up very soon anyway.

Life moves on, whether we will or no.

What will you write? What will I write?

Will the message be coherent? Will the lines run true? Will the communication be plain?

“These are the times that try men’s souls.” Thomas Paine, that great American patriot, was speaking of the terrifying early days of the Revolutionary War. He was speaking of military resolve, of political concerns.

No matter. The words ring true for us.

What we do next will show our mettle. What we say today will prove who we are at our very core. What we face right now, this minute, is a test of our faith and our resolve.

The test begins now.

Pencils ready?

Write!

“When I am afraid, I will put my trust in You.”
(Psalm 56:3 ~ NASB)

“…Knowing what must be done does away with fear.”
(Rosa Parks ~ American civil-rights activist ~ 1913-2005)

My List

December 31, 2014April 16, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I didn’t know how to answer the question.

Not usually at a loss for words (unless the word needed is the name of the person standing in front of me), this time I had no good answer. The young man before me had stated his query in a perfectly understandable manner, but I was instantly in a fog.

“What kind of resolutions are you making for the new year, Mister Paul?”

I stood stammering. Me! Stammering!

It wasn’t that ideas wouldn’t come to me; there were so many of them spinning through my brain at supersonic speed that the air traffic controller had broken down. They filled the already limited space in my head, and more were circling every second.

Exercise more.

Read more.

Stop procrastinating.

De-clutter my workspace.

Study the Bible daily.

Give more generously.

Be more sensitive to others’ needs.

Get more sleep.

Well, the last one, I just threw in there to make sure my readers are still paying attention. It won’t happen.

The point is clear though, isn’t it? There is no lack of things which need to be remembered, no dearth of projects with which to fill the new year. All of it. Until it is a very old year. I need an awful lot of self-improvement. An awful lot.

When I finally could form words again, I took the easy way out. Well, I had to stop the supersonic barrage inside my brain somehow!

“You know, I really don’t believe in making resolutions. It’s so easy to forget them, and frustrating too. So, no. I’m making no resolutions for the coming year.”

We talked a little more and, appropriately impressed at my wise discernment (you see how easily the youth of today can be fooled?), he went home to reconsider his own need for a list of resolutions, as well. I was left to ruminate about the conversation, as well as the depth of my discernment.

I’m not quite so impressed as he.

A cop-out is a cop-out, no matter the terms in which it is wrapped. Noble sounding platitudes often hide some pretty dishonorable truths.

My life is a mess. A mess.

The folks around me see just what I want them to see, with a misstep or two thrown in occasionally. On the surface, I may appear to have this thing called life pretty well down to a science. Like Mr. Banks in the children’s story of Mary Poppins, I seem to have it scheduled and scripted, leading one to believe I can be the captain of my own ship and control all around me. It is all a charade.

All of it. A charade. A sham.

So, I dig down deep and reach through the supersonic storm inside and grasp one cogent thought out of the thousands circling endlessly. One. It will have to do.

One resolution for the list. The rest will have to wait their turn. Possibly next year. Or the next.

Call it desperation. Call it lame. It’s the best I can do this year. Even as I write this, I realize the truth of the matter. That word describes it perfectly. For me anyway.

This resolution is the best I can do. The best.

Here is my list in its entirety:

In the coming year, I will endeavor to continue to do the things which I did last year.

That’s it.

I think it is a gracious plenty. Perhaps a word or two of explanation is in order, though. I’ll try to be succinct, a trait which is not in my nature.

I know that my goal-making friends are already aghast at my lack of vision. It’s not a very ambitious list; I freely admit it. I hear the words already: If you aim at nothing, that’s just what you’ll hit. Failure to plan is a plan to fail.

All the slogans in the world won’t shift me from my resolve. You see, I know a good number of people with lofty goals who have forgotten what they came here for. In the world surrounding us, we see it over and over–folks remember inerrantly the things they are reaching for, necessities determined along the way, but cannot recall the most basic of tenets which have guided them to this point.

It’s not only the over-achievers who forget, though. Everyday folks, people like you and like me, are falling down around us like dominoes, pushed over one by one–by life and the forgetfulness that comes with neglect. Opposite though the cause my be, the effect is the same. The path forgotten, all that has been gained is lost.

Next year, I want to remember. I want to continue. I want to keep moving.

Straight ahead. One slow step at a time.

This last year, I attempted to follow (as I have for many years) the truths I have held for most of my nearly sixty years on this spinning ball of dirt and water. I made more than a few mistakes, falling short again and again. It will happen again next year. I can say that with certainty. No matter. I’ll go on.

You see, I’ve made promises. Some, I spoke aloud to my God and to the people in my life. Some, I whispered in the dark of night when no one else was listening. I’m going to do my best to keep all of those promises.

I’ll die trying anyway.

Those other things–the supersonic wave of resolutions circling in my head? They don’t have to be written down on any list. I didn’t put them in my head on my own. They’ve already been written on my heart by a loving God who wants only the very best for His children. All I have to do is walk in His pathways faithfully. I’m reminded, by His Spirit, of the responsibilities I have as I trudge along the road.

So, now you know. My grand ambition in life is to keep walking down the same road I’ve wandered along all the years I can remember.

The company has been superb. I hope the fine folks who’ve accompanied me thus far will agree to continue along with me for a ways further.

I’ve still a fair number of promises to keep.

And die trying.

“But I have this against you, that you have left your first love. Therefore remember from where you have fallen, and repent and do the deeds you did at first…”
(Revelation 2:4,5a ~ NASB)

“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
(from Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening ~ Robert Frost ~ American poet ~ 1874-1963)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips