Crossing the Torrent

August 28, 2020August 28, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.

I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.

I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited its inevitable surge above flood level.

And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.

No, really. Music.

Away, I’m bound away,
Across the wide Missouri.

I suppose it’s no coincidence the words to the old folk tune Shenandoah are coming from the speakers on my desk right now. No, I didn’t select the song; it just came up in the playlist the streaming music service delivers while I sit at my computer.

When I say no coincidence, I mean I probably needed a nudge in the right direction.

I can take a hint; I’ll head that way momentarily.

Many times, I’ve compared our existence here to a journey — a life-long expedition to see what is around the next bend and over the next hill.

We are strangers in a strange land, headed for a different home.

They do not belong to this world any more than I do. (John 17:16, NLT)

Having said that, I also realize I have stopped here beside the rushing waters and taken shelter a little ways above the river’s edge in a place of safety.

I’ve stopped here for too long.

Much too long.

Too long, staring at the intimidating water. Too long, wondering when the awful flood will recede. Too long, waiting for rescue.

The road goes on up the mountain on the other side of this cataract of white water. I can see it from here if I have the strength of will to tear my eyes away from the terrifying flood and lift them to the hills.

The painting you see above hangs in my home. It is one of my favorites. Although not necessarily from the brush of the most skillful of artists, the picture tells the story amazingly well.

The violent torrent roars and tumbles down the mountain rift with horrible menace. Nothing in its path could withstand for long the overwhelming power it wields. And yet, mere feet above the white water, on a rickety and cobbled-together wooden bridge, seemingly unconcerned and unfazed, a man stands resting.

The Lovely Lady and I jokingly refer to the piece of art as our Simon & Garfunkel painting, a none-too-clever reference to the duo’s song, Bridge Over Troubled Water.

A century old, the painting depicts nineteenth-century life in the Canadian Yukon Territory. The best word I can think of to describe living in that rugged wilderness? Hard.

Hard, and yet (dare I say it?) triumphant.

Here, amid the most unfriendly environment man could imagine, a bridge spans the cataract of water. In safety, where there was no safety, anyone can traverse the dangerous valley.

Someone had to build that bridge. Over the troubled water.

Over it.

While the river rushed and roared below them.

And still, I stand beside the flood and consider. It’s likely, you know, that if a bridge can be built over this river, there will be another one needing to be built up ahead, and another one, and another.

Rivers don’t run in a straight line, either. I might even have to build another bridge over this very same cascade, further on where it runs even wilder and more furiously.

Funny. As I stand here thinking, I seem to hear the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me.

“We’ll cross that river when we get to it.”

She is right. She always was.

But right now, I’m at this river.

Today, the rushing water directly ahead needs a bridge over it.

I have no choice but to follow the road ahead. And, it leads up the hill across this particular river. This wild, untameable flood.

It’s time to get building. It’s a good thing I know a Carpenter who is only too happy to teach the craft to any who ask.

After all, He built the greatest bridge of all time. Out of wood and nails.

Away, I’m bound away…

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
(Psalm 121: 1,2 ~ ESV)

A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath. (Anthony Liccione)

Ancient Passage

July 19, 2016July 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It didn’t seem the most intelligent course of action. Then again, I didn’t think there was an option.

The Lovely Lady and I had taken a lovely drive along the mountaintops in southern Oklahoma and, realizing we were near an interesting old steel bridge, made a slight detour off the highway to get a photograph or two. I assumed we would find a place to park on the near side of the structure and would walk over it, rather than driving.

The structure is, after all, nearly one hundred years old. On the day it was completed in 1920, likely the only vehicles to cross it were a few horse drawn wagons and a Ford Model T or two.

The Model T weighed just over half a ton.

The comfy big pickup truck the Lovely Lady and I were driving tops out at just over two and a half tons. I didn’t really want to test the bridge.

It was unsettling to drive up the approach to the old metal truss bridge and realize there was no place to park. We reached the first span and I thought momentarily about backing the nearly three hundred feet to the closest turn off.

But, I’m a man. Men don’t back up when they can go forward.

We went forward—over the rickety, rusty old bridge. As we drove over it, the Lovely Lady read the results from the last inspection performed by the state.

“It says the substructure is rated only 2 out of 9 points—critical. ‘Structurally deficient.’ Do you think we should be doing. . .”

Her voice trailed off, as we almost crawled across the river.

The steel and concrete span held our weight, but we held our breath until we were on solid ground again.

Almost a hundred years old, the man-made bridge has very nearly reached the end of its useful life.

Nearly done.

The thought of it makes me sad.

I’ve told you before how much I love bridges. You may already know that the walls of our den hold nothing but paintings of the wonderful structures.

In this room full of paintings depicting bridges, it is probably the least likely piece of artwork to draw the eye.

I usually gravitate to the complicated designs, preferring to consider the concepts and scientific knowledge required to construct such strong, yet beautiful, framework.

This is not one of those.

The little bridge in the old watercolor is merely a solid piece of granite, hewn, not by human hands, but by the Creator Himself. The form it retains today is largely the same form it had when it was laid over the muddy brown stream nearly five-hundred years ago.

It is a real bridge, still spanning the brook it crossed all those years ago.

A solid foundation lies under each end of the clapper stone bridge. Two flat pieces of granite, possibly quarried from the same location as the arched bridge itself, have stood, unmoved, through five centuries.

The old structure has carried carts and foot traffic of all sorts—human and otherwise—safely across the brook. In the spring floods, when the muddy brown water roared and whirled beneath it, safe passage was a guarantee. Even when the flow of the brook is reduced to a trickle, the ancient piece of stone gives assurance of certain transit from one side of the little valley to the other.

But, like the much younger, fabricated bridge we crossed the other day, this bridge will one day (many years hence, one would hope) fail. The flood may wash it off its foundation, or a crack may develop, the resulting fall of the stone into the brook bringing to an end its usefulness to mankind.

Again, the thought of it makes me sad.

All that man has established will, one day, come to nothing.

All of it.

There is one Bridge, though. One Stone, laid by the hand of God Himself.

Eons ago, the words were spoken. Today, they are still true:

Look! I am laying a stone, firm and tested. It is a priceless foundation that will never fail. Whoever trusts it will never be disappointed. (Isaiah 28:16)

A Bridge, laid across the gorge of destruction by the Creator—never to be removed—never to be inspected and declared structurally deficient.

It’s not complicated. There are no angles. No girders. No need for advanced mathematics.

Just a plain Stone and an invitation to cross.

And, all we have to do is trust it to hold us.

Go ahead. Take the first step.

You can hold your breath if you need to.

He will hold us.

Forever.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers,neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
(Romans 8:38-39 ~ NIV)

The time worn granite clapper bridge
Spans the peat stained moorland brook,
The Dipper bobs as it hunts the midge
People cross with no second look.

Feet from ages long, long past
Have trod across the trusted stone,
The dawn and dusk have shadows cast
The sun has shone and cruel winds blown.

Men have come with brush in hand
To paint the scene through expert eye,
People followed to this desolate land
In search of something they know not why.

The rook as it sits in the solitary tree
Looks down on all that pass below,
He knows the secrets of you and me
And silently lets us cross the moorland flow.
(The Lonely Clapper ~ Anonymous)

Beautiful. Really?

May 31, 2016June 1, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I didn’t expect my feet to hurt quite so much.

When we awoke in the morning, the day stretched ahead with only the promise of leisure and enjoyment. A relaxing weekend of driving through the countryside seeking old bridges had prepared us for nothing like the actual ordeal.

One of the bridges we sought, the Lovely Lady and I, had eluded us up till then. It occurred to us that we might need to leave the comfort of the pickup truck to find this one. We were up to the challenge.

I thought we were up to the challenge.

I never figured on wading across the river. I never intended to take off my good shoes, much less my socks.

Still, once the decision was made, there was no question in my mind it could be done easily. In hindsight, the arrogance of ignorance is laughable.

Only, I wasn’t laughing.

It was done, but it was touch and go for a moment or two.

You never heard such moaning and complaining in your life. The pain could still be felt more than twelve hours later. Fifteen feet across the waterway on the jagged flint rocks was more than enough to leave bruises on the bottoms of my tender soles, the like of which I’ve never experienced.

I used to go barefoot everywhere I went. Hot pavement, rock driveways, wild overgrown fields? All could be run across with no effects to be felt at all. I’ll grant you it was fifty years ago. Still, in retrospect, I’m ashamed of my performance.

My feet let me down. For those few moments, they were the most important thing in my life. Nothing mattered more than getting to the dry strand on the opposite shore, where I could sit down and replace my socks and shoes. Nothing.

Feet! How is it that something so unattractive and so mundane could demand the attention of every other part of my being?

For those seconds, I didn’t think about how hungry I was. I stopped worrying about the horseflies that buzzed about, ready to sting. The little seed ticks which would torment later were not even a blip on the radar screen.

My feet were in extreme pain! They needed relief. Immediately.

The promotion from lowest on the priority list to extremely urgent came as quite a surprise.

I was still mulling that over later as, fully shod and with walking sticks in hand, we made our way down into the little hollow in which the lost bridge was to be found.

There was a day when the structure was the most important part of someone’s life. The craftsmanship and unimaginable hours of toil necessary to build the little stone arch took all the attention of the men who built it, nearly one hundred and seventy years ago.

Every stone had to be cut by hand, chipped and formed by hammer and chisel, before being laid in place. Each one rested, without mortar, between neighboring stones which eventually would reach up to form the arch that wagons would drive across, horses and mules would gallop over, and even in later years, automobiles would ease up and over to avoid the rushing water below.

At one time, the bridge was a necessity, as well as a thing of beauty. Almost certainly, the folk who used it praised the forethought of those who had planned and carried out its construction. That day is long past.

The celebrated structure is nothing more than a dim memory to most. Not even that to many others. The folks living on the farms around about are as likely as not to be unaware of its very existence. I know, because I asked them.

There is no road that leads to it today. No one maintains the integrity of the bridge at all and it is likely to collapse completely very soon.

Yet, it once stood as a proud testimony to craftsmanship and hard work. No one who passed that way failed to recognize the importance of the little bridge to their freedom to travel east and west across the waterway with ease.

What once was essential is now irrelevant.

My aching feet, however, are a different story.

You know, I normally pay little attention to my feet. But oh, how important those two ugly things at the ends of my legs seemed to me in the middle of that river.

The Savior thought feet were important. He spent some of His last moments on earth with his followers making sure their feet were clean. (John 13:1-17)

Taking on the role of a servant, He reminded them that even those seemingly unimportant things were of great import to Him.

He washed their dirty feet. Their stinking, road-worn feet.

It should be so for us today, also. Our Savior turned the world upside down. He did it so we would turn the world upside down.

The first shall be last, and the last shall be first. (Matthew 20:16)

If we want to be great, we must learn to be servants. (Matthew 20:26-27)

Feet, for all their disadvantages and dishonor, perform an essential function. We count on them to get us from Point A to Point B. When they fail to answer the call to duty, we instantly understand their significance.

Did you know the prophet describes them as beautiful when they are carrying the Good News? Somehow, I think I might have chosen a different description, but there it is—How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of them that bring good news. (Isaiah 52:7)

Beautiful. Feet. Beautiful.

Bridges are nice. They make life easier.

But, bridges crumble and decay. People forget they ever existed.

Our service is a legacy that will last far beyond our years on this earth.

Perhaps, it’s time to take care of the things that really matter.

When we bend to serve, we lend aid to the King of all Creation.

Feet might be a good place to start.

He bent to serve us.

How can we do less?

What does love look like? It has the hands to help others. It has the feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men. That is what love looks like.

(Augustine of Hippo ~ Roman theologian ~ 354-430)

But how can they call on him to save them unless they believe in him? And how can they believe in him if they have never heard about him? And how can they hear about him unless someone tells them? And how will anyone go and tell them without being sent? That is why the Scriptures say, “How beautiful are the feet of messengers who bring good news!”
(Romans 10:14-15 ~ NLT)

Another Bridge

March 29, 2016August 5, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

From my workbench in the back room of the music store, I heard her exclamation of dismay.

Just moments earlier, the Lovely Lady, knowing I had over-promised and was likely to underperform if I didn’t have some relief, had suggested that she would take care of any new business until I could complete the jobs due this afternoon. It was a good plan. My work was going well and it appeared that deadlines might actually be met.

Then I heard her unhappy outburst.

She would be calling me anyway, so I headed for the front. The sight that met my eyes was, to a lover of fine musical instruments, a sad and disastrous horror.

The young man wasn’t smiling either, as he stood beside the broken and splintered guitar. But, I remembered a few months before, when I had installed an electrical pickup system in the aging acoustic Martin, giving him a new facet to its usefulness.

He had had a smile on his face as he carried the instrument out on that day. He had been sure the beautiful guitar, one he had acquired while still in high school, would be the only one he would ever need.

It took a single moment—just a few seconds of forgetfulness—to dash that belief forever.

An afternoon at work, good intentions, a momentary distraction, and the guitar was under the wheels of the huge truck. Completely destroyed.

Lifetime plans dashed. Instantly.

As the young man spoke to me, he gently touched the fragments of wood. I could see the pain in his face—could feel it in his voice. But, there was something else in his voice—indeed, something different written on his face. He had come in for a purpose, and it was not to commiserate over the fate of the beloved instrument.

Purpose! That was what I heard in his voice. Purpose and resolve.

He would not dwell on the past. He was ready to move on.

“Let me show you my new guitar!”

The instrument he drew out of the new case was a beauty to behold. A custom guitar, handmade by an artisan from a nearby town, it simply begged to be played. The young guitarist gave in and sat for a few moments to demonstrate the capabilities of his new love. The crisp, clean lines of the instrument were matched by the music that poured out of it.

The clarity and warmth of tone that emanated from the polished spruce and rosewood box were surprising and expected, all at once.

When he finished playing, we spoke for a few moments about how happy he was with the new tool he held in his hands. He means to play this guitar for a lifetime, as well.

But, there was more. He is ready to leave the old broken guitar in the past, but he wanted a favor from me.

“Is it possible that the pickup system from the Martin will fit in this one?”

It made sense. He had spent hard-earned dollars on that system—quite a few of them. We might just as well salvage it and keep it in use. It would do the job just fine.

He was simply being practical. But, then again, perhaps there was a little sentiment in the request.

The need to move forward was clear. The old guitar would never, never play another note. But, part of it might be incorporated into the new one. The old would aid the new to achieve the vision the young man had always had for his future.

It would be a bridge, of sorts, between the past and the future.

I would help him cross the bridge.

I anticipated seeing the smile on his face again, just as I had the last time he carried a guitar out of my shop.

The future awaits.

As I sat thinking about what I would write tonight, my thoughts were naturally drawn to bridges. It really is almost unavoidable. You see, I am surrounded by paintings of bridges in the room in which I sit. I have given in to the urge to write about them often before.

I have written of the past and the future, using a bridge as a metaphor for the place where we stand, gazing first behind, and then ahead. Looking back, we see the events of the past clearly. Looking forward, we see an uncertain future.

I have insisted that I must cross boldly to the future, encouraging my readers to do the same. But, tonight I’m wondering.

What do we do when the things we must leave behind were what we loved most in life?

I know folks who have stood at the approach to the bridge for weeks, months, even years, never moving. Gazing back at what is, even now, lost in their past, they still see nothing across the bridge to coax them to set the first foot on the platform.

Like the Children of Israel in the desert, they receive the sustenance of their God who promises them a place far better than any they left behind, and yet they pine for the food they ate when they were slaves. (Numbers 11:4-6)

Too harsh?

I also have stood in cemeteries and looked at the pile of freshly-turned dirt, reluctant to turn my back. I’ve watched dreams disappear into the air, like the morning mist in sunlight.

The disappointments and tragedies pile up behind me, as they do for every human who has ever walked this earth.

We can cling to them, like so many splintered guitars, for everything we’re worth.

There will never—ever—be another note of music from that source. The voices of the past are forever mute—in this world, anyway.

The human spirit is, however, designed by its Creator to be resilient and nearly impossible to crush. Like my young guitar-playing friend, it hears the call from the future and must answer.

We’ve stood at the bridge for long enough, looking back. The past cannot be retrieved, but what we’ve learned in it may be incorporated into the future.

Our memories are woven—hopelessly intertwined—into the fabric of our lives; we will never lose them.

I like the young guitarist’s way of thinking.

True, there is great sadness in the past. There was great joy as well.

Both will be found again.

In front of us.

And one day—one glorious day—the last bridge will be before us. Nothing awaits on the other side, but great, great joy. No sadness. No pain.

Joy. Across the last bridge.

I’m still walking. Still feeling. Still trusting.

There will be sweet music again. Of that, I’m sure.

Sweet music.

I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.
(Philippians 3:13-14 ~ MSG)

Oh, my dear little librarian. You pile up enough tomorrows, and you’ll find you are left with nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to make today worth remembering.
(from The Music Man ~ Meredith Willson ~ American playwright ~ 1902-1984)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

bridge

Crossing the Torrent

Ancient Passage

Beautiful. Really?

Another Bridge