Endings Become Beginnings

March 22, 2023March 24, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Abnormal.

That was the one-word description I read when I checked the medical app a couple of weeks ago. I had received an email informing me the doctor had posted the result of my recent procedure, so I thumbed my way through the sign-in process to get the good news.

It was what I was expecting. Good news. I’d like to believe I’m not a perpetual pessimist, expecting the worst all the time. Still, I wasn’t shocked to read the word I found there.

Abnormal.

There was nothing else, except a reminder of an appointment with the surgeon in a week. On the day of the Vernal Equinox.

It seemed appropriate. The end of a season. The beginning of another. Both on the same day.

One, I have grown to detest. The other, I love. The reader will no doubt draw their own conclusion as to which is which.

I waited. Concentrating on the word, abnormal, I waited.

I had an inkling of the meaning. Last year, a similar procedure yielded the word precancerous. Now, this follow-up procedure had yielded a new word.

It’s funny, the things one’s brain will jump to, given time. And, I had plenty of time on my hands.

Abnormal is the opposite of normal. Somehow, we prefer the latter to the former. It seems odd, because we don’t really care for average, which is surprisingly similar to normal.

Next, my mind landed on the word I may have been searching for in the first place: peculiar. It is a word which twins abnormal rather well, don’t you think?

We think of peculiar as meaning odd, or strange. That’s the same as abnormal, is it not?

But then, there’s another definition that says peculiar means belonging exclusively to one genre, area, or person.

And, that’s me. Perhaps, you too.

The Fisherman who came to be known as The Rock gave us the description a couple of thousand years ago.

“But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light.” (1 Peter 2:9, KJV)

This kind of abnormal, we can lay claim to. If we follow Jesus, we belong!

Forever, we belong.

And, in spite of seasons that end and change, there will always be new beginnings. We have the bright hope of life with our Creator that goes on forever.

Which brings me back to my opening thoughts.

On the day of the year when darkness holds sway for an equal amount of time with daylight, the Vernal Equinox, I went to see my doctor again.

I had prepared for the day. I trust in a God who heals as well as saves.

I had left the abnormal in His hands. I freely admit, I wanted it to be normal but I was ready to accept what came next either way.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t sit in the parking lot and let the tears flow as I communicated with the Lovely Lady afterward.

Normal. He said I was normal.

I’m grateful for the changing seasons. For darkness that turns to light.

Endings always lead to beginnings. Always. I don’t know why I continue to be surprised by it but yet, once again, I am.

And, I do know I’m still peculiar. I hope you are, too.

“And you He made alive, who were dead in trespasses and sins.”
(Ephesians 2:1, NKJV)

“(Spring) is a natural resurrection, an experience of immortality.”
(H D Thoreau)

Hope Shines Bright

July 10, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

There were tears at the dinner table tonight. Some might have been my own.

I suppose in some families the occurrence is not all that rare. Arguments between siblings or even partners can end in tears. Lectures by mom or dad to children, too. Unkindness is no stranger to family assemblies. Tears flow. They just do.

That wasn’t the reason for these tears.

We sang a song—a blessing of sorts—before we ate. It wasn’t our usual dinner benediction. I’ve described for my readers in the past the lovely rendition of The Doxology which is frequently heard at our table. Often, just the singing of the beautiful lyrics with its well-known melody and harmonization is enough to make me feel I need no more food than that heavenly feast.

Tonight, my family—some might correct me and tell me it is her family, but I stand by my claim of them—sat around the table in their childhood home and one brother chose a different song to sing.

It has been a difficult day—a difficult few weeks, if it comes to that. It was a Friday night back a way that the phone rang and the hateful word was said again. After a year of feigned dormancy, the despicable thing has come back to life and is again a word on our tongues. Whispered. Spoken in quiet tones, as if the low volume might pacify its voracious appetite.

Cancer.

What an ugly word. A year ago, the major surgery to remove the diseased portion of a lung was pronounced a success. Then the word on the doctor’s lips was cancer-free.

Not now. This time the words are stage IV and chemotherapy.

Now, there’s a sneaky word. Chemotherapy. It sounds so benevolent, so peaceful. Almost like aromatherapy. Relax and drift away. Yeah, right!

Today was his first treatment. Five hours in the chair while his body was infused with numerous chemicals, the result of which no one can foretell with any level of certainty.

We expected to whisper the words. Tonight, of all nights, we would whisper.

Ah. But that was before. Before the benediction. Before the tears. Before the sermon.

Oh. I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

My brother named the benediction for us. We sang, my brothers, my sisters, the Lovely Lady, and others present. Yes, yes. They are her family. I know that. But they are also my family.

Ruth wasn’t wrong when she said the words to her mother-in-law Naomi all those millennia ago:

Your people shall be my people; your God shall be my God. (Ruth 1:16, NLT)

My family. My brothers. My sisters. My wife. I laugh with them. I worship with them. I weep with them. Ah, yes; I sing with them. Sometimes, all at the same time.

Tonight, my family sang. A song of who God was; who He is; who He always will be.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness. It’s not such an old song, as hymns are reckoned. Nearly one hundred years old now. But, the powerful words, the affirmation of the One we believe in—those are ancient. Ancient.

Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:22-23, NKJV)

Clear, youthful soprano tones spilled into my ears from the teenaged girls to either side of me. I heard strong alto notes from more mature voices nearby. One brother and I carried the tenor part (well, he carried it—I just helped a little), leaving the older brother to handle the bass.

I still say the music in heaven won’t be very much sweeter. I hope that’s not too presumptuous. We sang of a God who knows our pain and our sicknesses, our weaknesses and our strengths, yet remains steadfast, never turning away from His path, nor from the ones He loves.

From our hearts, we affirmed the character and attributes of the Creator of all we see and know. I closed my eyes as we sang, partially to concentrate on the words and the voices, but mostly to hide the moisture that seemed to be leaking (without my permission) from them.

It was a holy moment.

As we ended, I heard a voice at my side speak quietly, I thought, almost in disbelief. “Look. Mom’s crying.”

She wasn’t the only one.

And, in a voice just as quiet, my/her brother—the one facing the life and death ordeal—preached a sermon (a short one) as he told us he had adopted as his own the words from that same song.

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.

They were, I believe, the last quiet words spoken at the table this night. There was no more whispering, no more avoiding those ugly, hateful words.

Cancer. Chemotherapy. Prognosis.

God is bigger than any of those things.

Bigger!

He gives strength to face the burdens of the day.

He gives hope—yes, even bright hope—for what comes tomorrow, whatever it is.

It doesn’t make light of the serious situations we find ourselves in, doesn’t guarantee a life without trials, without pain. And yet, just to remember who He is reminds us of who we are in Him.

We walk today in His strength.

We face tomorrow with His hope.

His mercies are still new.

Every day.

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee,
Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not,
As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be.

Great is Thy faithfulness!
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me!

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today, and bright hope for tomorrow
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside.
(Great Is Thy Faithfulness ~ Thomas Chisholm ~ 1866-1960 ~ Public Domain)

Hope Grows. Soft.

January 4, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s a new experience for me, stroking the hair of a woman who is not my wife.

I promise I won’t make a habit of it. Still, it is an occurrence I will not soon forget.

I didn’t intend to do it at all.

The young lady came into the rehearsal hall wearing a cap, which wasn’t surprising considering the plunging outside temperatures. But, just moments later, I was confused to see the warm stocking cap replaced by a baseball cap. She noticed my bewilderment.

“It’s growing back, Paul!” came the reassuring statement from my friend. She doffed the cap and rubbed the inch-long growth on top of her head, which had been covered with a full-length crop of hair the last time I played music with her.

Bending her head down toward me, with the obvious intent that I should feel the new hair, she moved her own hand aside to allow mine to run through the short blond growth.

“That’s so soft!” I exclaimed in surprise. I suppose I expected it to feel like my chin did after a few weeks of not shaving, but it felt nothing like that at all. Like the softness of a baby duck or bunny, it was.

I had my arm around her shoulder and held her in a hug for a few seconds, holding back tears that would have come had I spoken. Somehow, the new hair is a sign of better things to come. She has been through such horror, and yet she is hopeful.

Later that evening, tears came again as I sat, my mind wandering. How very much is lost when these bodies are ravaged by disease. Personal dignity, self-dependence, uninterrupted sleep, absence of pain—all these and more are gone, never to return, it would seem. And, then the final insult, the loss of one’s beautiful hair, her crowning glory.

The physical pain, the overwhelming nausea, the sense—no, the certainty—that the end of life is imminent—all of these (one would think) add up to the complete absence of hope.

They don’t.

Hope is ours. At times, we lose sight of it. Often, the realities of the physical crowd out the confidence in a God who wants only what’s best for His children. But, like Samwise Gamgee (Mr. Tolkien’s steadfast gardener), we remember—sooner or later—that where there’s life, there’s hope.

And, hope grows. Soft. And, sometimes slow.

Here’s the thing: I want to shout “Glory!” and rise above the clouds when I hear the trumpet call in the morning. Now, that’s hope!

But, on the normal days of our journey through this world, most mornings are more recalling to mind and renewing hope, that it is of the Lord’s mercies we are not utterly consumed. (Lamentations 3: 21-23)

Hope grows.

Soft.

Quiet.

Daily.

But, I want the trumpet call. I’m not alone, am I?

A trumpet call is exciting, almost electrifying. It makes us sit up and notice. Brash. Loud. Awe-inspiring.

The reminder in the dark just before dawn is not like the trumpet call at all. Note to self: Get up and get dressed. God is faithful. That is all.

So, we keep going. Scarred. Damaged. Beaten up.

Because hope grows.

So, we keep going. Scarred. Damaged. Beaten up. Because hope grows. Share on X

Day by day, hope grows.

Softly.

Because He is faithful.

And we got out of bed this morning.

Dum spiro, spero.
(Latin motto ~ paraphrase from Cicero’s writings, meaning “While I breathe, I hope.”)

Great is Thy faithfulness. Great is Thy faithfulness.
Morning by morning, new mercies I see.
All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided.
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.
(from Great is Thy Faithfulness ~ Thomas Obediah Chisholm)

Whisper

June 10, 2015June 10, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve been ill again. I don’t say that to evoke your sympathy. It’s not a life-threatening illness. At least, I don’t think it is. Asthmatic bronchitis is not uncommon and there are any number of effective treatments for it.

Feeling better today, I told the Lovely Lady I think I’ll live. Immediately, I remembered what the ultimate end of all mankind will be, and I added the phrase at least, until I die.

She was not amused. Of course, she needs me well, so she can get back to her regular work schedule of only sixty hours a week. I have left her in the lurch. She’s not amused–I’m not happy.

I’m going to admit something I may regret later. While I understand that my illness is quite treatable and am even now waiting for medication to effect its curative function, I confess that I get a little discouraged (and maybe a little angry) while I’m waiting.

In the dark and by myself, I feel helpless. You see, I’ve prayed that I’ll be free from this particular thorn in the flesh on numerous occasions over the years, but still it knocks me down periodically.

I wonder why God doesn’t hear me.

Where are you God?

I would have shouted the words, had I the breath to do so today, but satisfied myself with whimpering them plaintively toward the ceiling in the den.

There was no answer.

He’s not here, is He?

I asked myself the question and then shuddered at the implications.

Pushing up from my recliner, I went up the steps to the dining room. The result was the same there. Nothing. Living Room–Kitchen? Still nothing.

It’s a beautiful home, even if it is small. Surely, God would want to live in such an attractive abode. But, I’m pretty sure I never heard Him answer from the walls of any of those rooms.

I went back to my chair and flopped down, gasping a little.

Disappointed, I sat for a moment. Only a moment. It seemed to be just a little brighter in the room as I considered the glimmer of truth which was gradually coming to my consciousness.

Not too many years ago I went to an event, described as a house blessing, for some close friends. Their denomination allows for such things, reading scripture, then blessing each room in turn, before calling for God’s presence in the home. I expected to feel different when I left. I didn’t.

I remember thinking that’s not how it works.

I also remember some friends on the other end of the spectrum of faith who had someone come in and do a service to cast out the evil spirits from their home. The assumption was, again, that God would come and fill that space, recently vacated by the bad things.

I wasn’t there. I’m not going to get into an argument about exorcism, nor even about blessing houses.

I just know what is truth. Straight from Him.

Truth.

God doesn’t live in buildings. Why would he want to inhabit dead, inanimate things made of brick, and wood, and steel?

Ah. Now you know what that glimmer bursting into flame earlier was, don’t you?

God lives in His people. Weak–strong. Old–young. Women–men.

Inside this weak, sick man, gasping for breath on a warm, summer day, the Creator has taken up His abode.

Inside the old man down the street from me, overtaken by blindness, God sees clearly exactly what he needs.

In the soul of my friend, awaiting word from her oncologist giving her the bad/good news about the result of her latest PET scan, He is not surprised nor panicked. He sees all paths and knows all ends.

And, He lives inside of us.

Do you think He doesn’t feel the despair?

Do you assume He doesn’t understand my anger?

Do you suppose He doesn’t hear the frightened petitions?

Would you imagine He is unmoved by our cries?

He lives in us!

So. I’m done yelling at the ceiling.

Now, I begin to understand that song we used to sing when we were children. Maybe it’s time to whisper our prayers to Him again.

Just a whisper.

Inside voice will work just fine.

Give me yourself and in exchange I will give you Myself. My will, shall become your will. My heart, shall become your heart.
(from Mere Christianity ~ C.S. Lewis ~ Irish born teacher/author ~ 1898-1963)

Whisper a prayer in the morning.
Whisper a prayer at noon.
Whisper a prayer in the evening,
To keep your heart in tune.
(Anonymous)

Yet the Most High does not dwell in houses made by hands…
(Acts 7:48a ~ ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

cancer

Endings Become Beginnings

Hope Shines Bright

Hope Grows. Soft.

Whisper