The Time for Anger is Past

September 16, 2021September 16, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

How is it that the fear
Banished in the morning light
Claws at my heart now,
Cowering in the new thrown night?

Hyperbole is what that is. Poetic license, taken by one given to flights of imagination. It’s expected when one writes in verse and rhyme.

Still, it’s not so far off the mark, some nights.

I am by nature a night person, haunting the empty rooms and darkened recesses of this old mid-century habitation long after any other denizens of the neighborhood, save the four-footed variety, have given in to the siren call of slumber. And when, as is my lot at times, my chronic breathing problems surface, even the hours when I’ve retreated to my bed are spent turning this way and that, coughing and yet, attempting to suppress the overwhelming urge to do that very thing.

As one might expect, eventually the mind turns to unhappy and dark subjects or, more specifically, situations for which I’ve found, in my normal haunting hours, no solution or cure.

Unfinished business is a weight on my mind, a burden if you will, that bends the spirit until I’m afraid the breaking point is near. And, clawing fear with unanswered questions is often given leave to ride, untethered, through the dark hours.

Tonight I received an unexpected note from one I love. His message closed with these words that give me hope the reign of one particular fear is near an end:

“I think my time for anger is finally over.”

The last time I wrote about the man was right after he died. Two years ago, almost. One would have thought the turmoil, the tumult, had died with him. One would have been wrong.

Just because a character has fallen out of the story, it’s not a given that closure is accomplished. Much the opposite, this falling-out part often seems to increase the impact of the mental conflict, to magnify those unpleasant memories that never seem to behave themselves or to become comfortable scenes from the past.

I loved the man—more than I have loved most other folks on this spinning ball of dirt and water. But, that said, he was the most stubborn human being I’ve ever known. Well, maybe not more stubborn than the red-headed lady he was married to.

And yet, he could also be the most maddening person I knew. That red-headed lady said it once (that I remember).

“That man! He makes me so mad!”

I was twelve and had never heard her say a negative word about my father before. I was certain the divorce papers would be served soon.

Of course, they never were. He cared for her until the day she died, even though she had not known who he was for a couple of years before her passing. He was like that.

He kept his promises. It was one of the things about him that was so maddening. Yes, maddening. Keeping promises.

In his last years, there was one particular person he made promises to. She made promises, too—never intending to keep them. He intended to keep his and did until the day he died, at great cost to himself and his family.

But, no.

This is not an exposé. It’s not.

I intended to do that one day. I would write a tell-all story, exposing his shortcomings and character failings to the world. Bare my soul, vomiting out my frustration and angst.

It will never happen.

Remember the story of Noah in the Bible? That righteous man, Noah, a fierce follower of God, who complied willingly with God’s plan for the survival of mankind and the animal kingdom by building an ark and taking his family into it, saving them from the flood?

There is another story about the man, found in chapter 9 of Genesis, verses 18 through 28. After the flood, Noah, being more of a farmer than a boatbuilder, grew a crop of grapes, subsequently making wine from the bounty. Sampling the liquid, he became drunk. In his inebriated state, he took off his clothes and laid, in his drunken stupor, naked in his tent.

Wait. Drunk and naked? The most righteous man in the world? That doesn’t seem right, does it?

His son, Ham, didn’t think so either. Finding his father in that state, he called his brothers, Shem and Japheth, to come and look, so anxious was he to expose Dad’s shortcoming.

They chose not to participate.

Taking their father’s cloak between the two of them, they walked backward. So they could preserve their father’s dignity, they purposefully refused to look at him naked. They covered his nakedness.

It’s different today.

A popular writer in our day, Anne Lamott, famously suggests you own everything that happened to you. She encourages—no, insists—that we should tell everything, regardless of the harm to others. I’m certain she means well.

But I’m with Shem and Japheth. I choose not to participate. To expose the private sin and shortcomings of one I love is to disrespect who he was throughout his life.

He was a man who loved his God intensely. Fiercely, even. And, because of that, he was a man who loved the people around him in the same way. As a pastor, he made it his mission to be where he was needed. He listened. He comforted. He wept. He rejoiced.

When he was no longer the pastor of a church, he became pastor to the folks at the local breakfast cafe, the grocery store, even the bank. Again and again, he made friends of strangers, praying as easily as he talked, encouraging more than he exhorted, leaving the world behind him better for having walked here.

He loved his family with that same fierce love. Every one of his children walked away from some aspect of the principles, the faith, he had brought us up in, yet his love for us never waned. With each of us, he prayed. To the end of his days, he prayed. And he sang. And he quoted scripture—and poetry.

In the back of my mind, even as I write this, I hear the voice. “But, what about that episode? What about the time he did this? Tell them about the day…”

Why do we hold on so long to resentment? To anger?

What possible end can we hope to achieve by holding them tightly? Like some monstrous, yet precious, treasures, we grasp them with a death-grip only age-worn and life-weary hands can manage.

The closer we hold them, the more they hurt us. The longer we embrace them, the harder it becomes to let them go.

Many eventually loose that anger in outbursts of ugly accusation and personal venom. The outburst can be a catharsis; no one could argue that. But, catharsis achieved and outburst exhausted, all that is left in view is a smaller human being, accompanied by his/her scorched and ruined memories of one whom they loved and were loved by.

Many will disagree with my viewpoint. The age in which we live thrives on canceling reputations and flaming memories. Somehow we believe we are bigger for diminishing the reputations of those whose voices are silent now and who can no longer answer back.

It can only diminish us.

The one I love is right. The time for anger is over. If it’s not, the time for fear and resentfulness never will be. Ever.

And somehow, the One I always end up talking to in the dark, He who is the Light that has defeated the darkness and will one day banish it forever, reminds me that my anger and resentment is one of the burdens He asked me to give to Him.

Many I know are carrying that same burden—have carried it for most of the years of their life.

Why would we willingly keep bending under that heavy load? Pain and unhappiness are the only possible return we’ll realize from the labor.

He promises rest. And hope.

The time for anger is over.

Ahh. Sweet freedom!

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.
(Matthew 11:28, NLT)

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.
(Martin Luther King Jr.)

The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness can never extinguish it.
(John 1:5, NLT)

Heaven Comes Nearer

November 15, 2016November 15, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I still don’t understand it. I have been a musician all my life. Not a good musician, but still—a musician.

A friend posted a link to a recording the other day. Eight people, mortals every one, sang music notes—notes I’m certain are in the normal twelve-note chromatic scale we use every day.

I can sing any of those notes. Really, I can. Perhaps not in the octave in which they sang, nor with the clarity, but I can sing them.

And yet, I sat listening and could do nothing but weep. Someone asked me the name of the song playing on my computer, but I could not answer for fear my voice would crack as I spoke.

It is not a rare occurrence for me. Perhaps, not for you either.

We are moved by great beauty, whether in nature or in art. It is not easy to explain. Maybe, it’s not meant to be.

There are things that are higher. There’s no than to follow that statement—no comparison to be made at all.

Higher things. It’s all that need be said.

My friend who posted the video is a student of the Celtic traditions and often speaks of the sites those ancient cultures described as thin places—places where it seems that heaven is just a bit closer to earth. I love the idea and would never argue that such places don’t exist (I’m sure they do); I just think thin places are to be found in more than only those remote physical locations.

My office desk is a thin place—sometimes. The metal bench in the city park is a thin place—occasionally. Anywhere heaven comes close and raises the hem of the curtain between us and it—just high enough to get a glimpse—is a thin place.

With a catch in my voice, I will admit I don’t understand any of it. I suspect many reading this feel just as confused right now. Today, the world around us is dark and we couldn’t find a thin place if our lives depended on it.

Higher things? Ha! The cacophony of anger and hurt is so all-encompassing that it almost seems we could never smile again, much less have tears of wonder and joy well up and cascade down our cheeks.

Still . . .

David, in an hour of deep unhappiness, reminded us that deep calls to deep. (Psalm 42:7-8) Even from the depths of despair, our souls recognize their Maker’s voice and echo it. Our spirits respond to His Spirit.

He will give us songs in the night.

He will give us songs in the night. Psalm 42:8 Share on X

Where no thin place is to be found, our Creator surprises and opens the curtain just enough—just barely enough—for a glimpse of glory.

It is no small thing.

Hope springs into flame again; resolve is rekindled.

There is work yet to be done. Our destination still lies ahead.

We journey to the place where no veil is between us and our Maker, the place where the only tears to be found will be of awe and wonder.

Higher things call us.

Higher.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright.
But, still I’ll pray till heaven I’ve found
“Lord, lead me on to higher ground.”
(Higher Ground by Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American pastor ~ 1856-1922)

Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.
(1 Corinthians 13:12 ~ NLT)

Just Standing Here

July 1, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Do you know where I can find a bar in this town?

The young man was wandering around my music store, having pulled down a guitar or two from the rack to whack at the strings a few seconds on each one.

He was agitated—angry, even.

We had talked about him being new in town and had even discussed his new profession in the construction business. He was almost smiling as he described his boss and how his new job was working out.

Then a shadow descended over his face as he told of being fired from the previous job which first drew him here, only a few weeks ago.

He showed me his arm and the evidence of a badly healed broken wrist bone, all the while ranting about the inequity of losing a job because of a previous injury. The job required repetitive motion and strength in his forearms and the company was not willing to risk the liability, so they let him go.

Anger spilling from his core, he asked me about the bar.

I told him where one could be found and waited for him to respond. I was pretty sure the bar wouldn’t help his state of mind, but it didn’t seem that my saying so would either. I simply waited.

Acknowledging the directions I had given him, he seemed to be searching for his next words. I expected to hear more vitriol aimed at the company that had left him high and dry, looking for a new job.

“I just ended my marriage. That’s why I’m headed to the bar.”

My mind raced, trying to change gears and catch up with the new direction this conversation was taking. As it raced, a completely new thought came to me.

I’m no bartender! Why does he think I want to hear to his sob story?

The internal conversation took me a minute, but I realized he was explaining this new twist in his biography, so I tried to concentrate on his words.

“Yeah. Just a few minutes ago. I walked out and told her to be gone when I get home.”

Four months, they made it before calling it quits. It’s not my story, so I’m not going to divulge any more of the details, but as he talked, my mind was asking questions.

Not of him. Of myself.

Okay. So you’re no bartender. But, you could say something about God. How about quoting some scripture?

Don’t you have any wisdom to share? Anything?

Sometimes, words won’t come. I just stood there, listening.

It’s a good thing.

When I try to fix things for others, I usually just make a mess. Most of the time, folks in his position simply need a listening ear. Somehow, in the quietness, God can speak into hearts what we can never communicate on our own.

The young man, calm now, looked at me and smiled.

“Thanks for listening. I’m going to go see if I can make some new friends, but I’ll be back.”

He reached out his hand and gripped mine. “My name’s Josh. Maybe you could pray for me or something.”

With that, he was gone.

I stood looking at the door. How did he know I would pray for him? Is that what bartenders do?

No, I guess not.

It is what I do.

It is what I will do for him.

Some days are like that. People don’t need your wisdom, don’t need your great store of knowledge, don’t even need your amazing skills, to make things better.

They just need you. To stand there.

Listening.

And praying.

Listening is such a simple act. It requires us to be present, and that takes practice, but we don’t have to do anything else. We don’t have to advise, or coach, or sound wise. We just have to be willing to sit there and listen.
(Margaret Wheatley ~ American writer/consultant)

So confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great effectiveness.
(James 5:16 ~ NET Bible)

More Where That Came From

September 28, 2015January 20, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There’s more where that came from!

The older ladies in the kitchen had it in for Wilma from the start. She was a cook’s helper, meaning she did whatever they needed done. From fetching pots and ladles, to carting the prepared dishes out to the serving line, the tiny lady with the energy of a squirrel storing nuts for the winter did it all. Mostly, she did it without complaint.

From my nearby station, where I washed the pots and pans, I listened to the abuse she took. Day after day, the cooks, who were the royalty in that little domain, made snide remarks—about her size, or hair color, or mental abilities. And, day after day, the hard-working lady went about her duties patiently and quietly. I knew she couldn’t be happy, but didn’t think it was my place to interfere in kitchen politics, especially given that I was a newcomer there.

Then one morning, the cooks stepped over the line. One of them made a rude comment about Wilma’s daughter. It was common knowledge that the girl had made some poor decisions, the result being an unwanted pregnancy at an early age. The other cook started to comment as well, but Wilma ended her long silence in that instant.

It seemed the weeks and months of abuse she had endured were like gunpowder packed inside her, and the comments about her daughter, the match to the fuse. She exploded in fury.

I can’t repeat her words here.

Within seconds, the kitchen supervisor was out of her office, inviting (with no option of refusal) the ladies into her inner sanctum. We heard voices raised again and again from the other side of the door, but half an hour later, we were hard at work (or pretended to be) when the three returned to their stations.

For the remainder of that morning, if the cooks spoke it was only to ask for a necessary ingredient to go into a dish, or for a container to transfer the food into on its way to the serving line. Wilma didn’t utter another word, but scurried about her duties as if nothing had happened.

When it was time for our dinner break, the other kitchen employees gathered around her on the way to the dining room.

“Wow! Wilma, I’ve never seen you so worked up!”

“I hope everything is going to be all right. They’re not going to fire you, are they?”

“Boy! You told them!”

Wilma just smiled wryly, her lips pressed tightly together. It seemed that, perhaps, she had been sworn to secrecy about what had transpired in the office. When she spoke, it was just to mutter a few words. It was all she ever had to say about the event.

Six words. “There’s more where that came from!”

The cooks never mentioned her daughter again, nor did they dare to abuse the slight lady as she went about her duties. Apparently, they had had more than what they wanted from the little lady’s store.

More where that came from.

Many years down the road of life from that detonation, I find myself wondering if there is more for us to learn from Wilma’s words than the lesson those cooks acquired the hard way.

Odd. I’ve never heard the words used in a positive sense. I’ve only heard them when people have either told others off, or even attacked them physically. The words are usually said as a warning to beware of lighting the fuse within a second time.

But, one has to wonder—why would we only have more anger and vitriol stored up? Why would we only promise more of the same when we physically overcame a rival?

Are we so full of ugly things? How did we get that way?

Surely, there should be more good things where that came from? Are there more compliments? More hugs? More slaps on the back? More blessings?

I’m just full of questions tonight aren’t I?

I suppose one could say the questions are mostly rhetorical, meant to inspire soul-searching, rather than requiring answers.

You see, I already know the answers. Oh, I know. Perhaps you do too. You do, don’t you?

From deep down inside, we know what we have stored up. From the darkest places in our souls, we have intimate knowledge of the nasty stuff—the powder ready to explode, with a short fuse.

It is there. We have carefully stockpiled it over a lifetime of interaction with folks.

We’ve tamped it down carefully, in preparation for the time when it will be needed. Packed it tightly in the wadding of our excuses and justifications. The explosion will come.

It will come. Unless we do what it takes to render it harmless.

Do you know how to keep a firecracker from exploding?

We might try removing the fuse and leaving it where it’s stored. It’s not completely futile to do that. Without a fuse, there is nothing to touch the match to.

Still. The device can explode when exposed to the right amount of heat, or pressure. It has exactly the same explosive power it always had. Exactly the same.

But, there is a simple way to disarm that little explosive device. So simple. Get it out into the open air. Tear open the paper tube. Let the breeze blow the powder away. Exposed to the light and air, the destructive components of the firecracker become harmless.

I’m thinking it’s time—for me, at least—to empty the arsenal.

But, I have lived my life as a follower of the Christ! He began a good work in me decades ago. He has continued to do that work. (Philippians 1:6)

What about that?

What about the good things down there?

The Apostle—you know, the one who wrote all the time—suggests that we need to be tireless in doing good if we want any result worth working toward. Tireless.

The good is already down there. All we have to do is share it. And then do it again. And again.

Perhaps it’s time to make the words a promise. Not a threat.

A promise.

There’s more where that came from!

A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.
(Luke 6:45 ~ NIV)

To be doing good deeds is man’s most glorious task.
(Sophocles ~ Ancient Greek playwright ~ 496 BC-406 BC)

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)

Why Would God Let This Happen To Me?

May 15, 2015July 23, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I said the words today. I’ve never said them before.

Never.

I’m mad at God.

Not what you expected, is it? Me either.

The preacher and I sat today—not my preacher, just a preacher—and we talked about things we don’t understand. Yes, the preacher has things he doesn’t understand, too. It is a difficult thing to remember sometimes, but they are on the same road as we—still stumbling, often taking wrong turns, and at times, falling into the very ditches from which we are attempting to climb out.

I told him about my troubled young friend who believed that he had run out of options, save one. My young friend took that option, the final act he would perform in this world. The alcohol to numb the fear and the pistol to end the pain were the only tools he needed to do the deed.

I have mourned the loss of my friend. The tears have flowed and been wiped away again and again. As I considered how to express my thoughts tonight, they came again. But, in a strange way, his death is not the reason for my anger.

I am still learning how to be a friend. I am still learning how to reach out to people who are unlovely and unloving—folks who are outcast and lonely.

I have written of my first meeting with the tormented young man. I was afraid to touch him, worried that he was a lost cause from the start. There seemed a good chance that my first encounter with him would also be my last. I thought he was a heartbeat away from doing what he took the next two years to work himself up to.

Two years.

Two years, during which he stopped by with some frequency. Two years, I picked up the phone any number of times to hear his voice. I thought he was doing much better.

He was better!

I said that, in a strange way, his death was not my reason for being angry. It actually was about his death, but I finally came to realize today that I am angry because I was dragged into a relationship that was always going to end the way it did.

God knew it. He knew it and yet, He brought the man into my life. For two years, I would believe the situation was getting better, and then, one day a simple phone call would tell me that it had been for nothing.

And today—today—as I talked with the preacher, I finally said the words right out loud.

No. I didn’t, did I?

I whispered them.

I’m mad at God.

The whispered words sounded like a shout in my ears. They still do, even as I sit in the quiet of my office and listen to peaceful music tonight.

The preacher knows better than to hand out pat answers to the big questions. He listened. I talked, spilling my disappointment with God out in plain sight.

And as I talked, what I had known all along became clear. That’s the way it often is, isn’t it? The truth lies mingled in among the lies. We just have to peel the lies—our lies—away and God’s truth remains.

Right there where it was all along.

The truth is that He faces the same disappointments with man’s failure, and has faced it from eternity past. He knows rejection of His love is right around the next bend and yet He reaches out His hand again and again.

The pain must be excruciating.

How should we expect any other result if we do His will? What He asks of us is not that we continue in obedience to Him as long as success is guaranteed. He wants us to walk in obedience. Period.

It seems an ugly truth.

I’m still a little mad. Better men than I have been in the same boat. Job, for instance. And, Jonah. Even Elijah had his moment of sulking.

But, here is what I know. God loves me. Even when I’m angry. Even when I’m wrong. He understands my pain because He has felt the same pain.

We’re talking about it, He and I.

I’ve got an idea that I’ll keep heading along the same road I’ve been on for more than a few years now. There is more work to be done; there are more people to be ministered to.

I wonder who will shove open my door tomorrow?

There was a man here last night—you needn’t be afraid that I shall mention his name—who said that his will was given up to God, and who got mad because the omnibus was full, and he had to walk a mile to his lodgings.
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist ~ 1837-1899)

The Lord said, “Do you have good reason to be angry?”
(Jonah 4:4 ~ NASB)

Hold This, Will You?

June 9, 2014April 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m angry tonight.

I’ve been tricked.

All day, the ideas have been tumbling about in my head. No—even longer than that.

Days ago, the rough draft of this post was written on the soft gray matter of my brain. It was filed away for future use.

I intended to write an exposé.

You know—I am by nature a tattle-tale. I like to show where people go wrong and then use them as cautionary tales.

Phil Everly did it in his song from the last century, When Will I Be Loved. Why shouldn’t I?

I’ve been made blue.
I’ve been lied to.
When will I be loved?

I intended to tell about the customer who threatened legal action against my business last week. We mailed him a package which was delivered on time. The problem is, an elderly person at the customer’s house received the package and then put it where it couldn’t be seen, and she forgot about it.

Suddenly, I’m going to be reported to the Attorney General’s office?

I wanted to make this an exposé of how customers don’t stop to consider that there are actually people on the other end of that email or telephone. It’s not just a business, there are human beings who operate the business for your benefit, as well as for their vocation.

Nope. Not going to happen.

The rant is canceled, put off to another day due to new evidence come to light.

I was going to include a few choice words about the fellow who lied to me about a certain occurrence.

I was stunned and disappointed beyond belief. The man is one whom I have reason to trust completely. Yet, the lie was so intricate—so calculated. There was premeditation and planning that went into its telling.

I wanted to express my anger and frustration at the violation of my trust. That also is not how this essay will come across.

Mitigating circumstances have been brought out of the shadows. It seems the person who told the lie is not the villain I desired to make him out to be.

Believe me, I don’t want to change the focus of my writing. I am more frustrated by this shift in direction than one would believe. I had the evidence and my summation completely formulated, ready to put down on the empty page.

I actually pounded the desk in front of me when I realized the trap which had been sprung.

My tantrum is over now, my emotions mostly under control, with the possible exception of a tear or two and perhaps, a sniffle into a tissue.

It was almost as if I had heard a voice in the room. I’m not actually claiming to have heard the voice, just that it might have been.

Here. Hold this a minute, will you?

I took the shiny, round object which was shoved into my hand.

Very soon, I realized my mistake.

Well, whose reflection do you expect to see in a mirror?

It wasn’t just me, standing there like an idiot, holding a mirror and looking back at myself. No, as I stared, the scene changed and I saw an angry—no strike that—a furious visage screaming into the telephone held in front of it.

I remembered the scene all too well.

The poor lady at the other end of the telephone had given me the only answer she was allowed to give by her manual of operations. She was paid to answer questions, but she had no latitude to change policy. It made no difference to me. Did she not realize who I was?

As I stood holding the mirror, I had a flash of near brilliance.

This was a human being!

I wasn’t screaming at a company; I was screaming my anger and threats at a fellow human being!

I wonder—was she a neighbor I was supposed to love? (Matthew 22:39)

Do you think she felt the presence of God while I was on the phone with her?

I shifted my gaze away from the scene, overcome with pain and guilt.

It didn’t matter; other scenes leapt out of the mirror at me. Again and again, I heard myself say things which are not true.

I was speaking to friends. I was answering a policeman at the side of the highway. I was explaining my failure to meet a deadline to a customer.

Lies. All lies.

I have told more lies than I could enumerate. I would be too ashamed to do so anyway.

I am a liar.

I wonder—is it still within my power to cast a stone at my friend who has shattered my trust? I hear the Teacher’s words as He wrote in the dirt. Let him who has never sinned cast the first one. (John 8:7)

I’ll pass.

The only one exposed here is the guy holding the mirror. The light I wanted to shine so brightly on the fault of others is merely shining full on my own sin.

I was tricked into it, but the truth blazes from the wall on which it was written. You have been weighed in the balance and found lacking. (Daniel 5:7)

I think it may be time for me to stop writing for today. I have some things to take care of.

I wonder though, before I go. . .

Hold this for a minute, will you?

For if someone merely listens to the message and does not live it out, he is like someone who gazes at his own face in a mirror. For he gazes at himself and then goes out and immediately forgets what sort of person he was.
(James 1:23,24 ~ NET)

An age is called Dark, not because the light fails to shine, but because people refuse to see it.
(James A Michener ~ American author ~ 1907-1997)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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