I Didn’t Earn This

July 29, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The visit to the specialist was going well until he asked the question. Now I’m wondering about lots of things in my life.

I have struggled with back pain for years, but the weeks before my appointment had been especially difficult, with a flare-up that left me mostly housebound. A visit with my family doctor led to a few tests and a follow-up with the neurologist.

Eyes on the computer screen where the MRI images showed, he asked the question that kept me awake most of that night.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

After a short reply about 35 years of moving pianos, he clarified the question. He wanted to know if there was one thing I could point to that had brought on the current crisis.

I couldn’t.

It doesn’t mean I didn’t earn it.

I’m going to be a little circumspect here. Meaning—I think I may creep around the edges of this discussion rather than engaging aggressively. You’ll understand better as we proceed.

I have never—until now—made decisions regarding actions I would take based on whether they might damage my spine or not. If I wanted to play soccer with the kids, I did. If I needed to dig out a stump in the yard, I did. When the opportunity to help move furniture for friends was presented, I showed up.

And, I really did move pianos for thirty-five years. Knowing full well that there could be a price to pay, I agreed every time a customer asked.

Did I earn the back pain—the inability to function normally for the last few weeks?

I did.

Not with one action, but with a plethora of them. A lifetime of insignificant choices, seemingly. One by one, the transgressions color the injured area with hurt—with unnoticed harm, followed by unnoticed harm, until all at once the body feels nothing else.

I earned this.

Why am I so reluctant to accept responsibility for the situations I find myself in when I have led my life as if I want to be exactly where I am?

The preacher’s son in me wants to hammer this point home and, moving past the tangible world of physicality, would like to discuss consequences of all kinds. Relationship problems. Legal entanglements. Most any type of abstract ailment you might care to argue about.

I want to.

But, as I said—circumspection is key here. I know there are many different perspectives and many different situations. Not all have a villain at whom we can point a finger. Perhaps, I’ll simply leave the reader to work out the ways in which my doctor’s question might apply to them and their own milieu, physical or otherwise.

Besides, my wandering mind has another question that captures me more completely today. It did during my recent sleepless night, too.

No, that’s not correct. It’s not another question.

It’s the same one. Precisely, the same one.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

But, it seems to be applied to a different scenario.

This time, instead of awful pain and the dread and sadness that accompany loss of function, I look at the beautiful family, at the lovely home, at the nice vehicles I have and I wonder.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

Of course, in my head, the immediate answer is yes. I worked all my life to make a living, to build a legacy. I labored with my wife to raise our children. I earned this!

And then, my memory is drawn to the fellow with a sign, standing on the street corner near the grocery store. Or the folks last winter in the parking lot with two flat tires on the car in which they live. Or the lady I know who works two full-time jobs just to pay her rent and keep the lights on for her children.

One after the other, they are drawn to mind and I wonder how I have the audacity to say I have earned my ease and comfort when they live in such straits.

My mind is drawn to the phrase traditionally attributed to the English martyr, John Bradford, who is reputed to have said, as he sat in Newgate Prison awaiting his own execution: “There but for the grace of God goes John Bradford.”

He was speaking of murderers being taken to the gallows to be punished for their sins. I remember wondering, years ago, when I first heard the story, if he was speaking of the execution, or the crime the men had committed to be punished so.

Since my visit with the radiologist, now weeks ago, I have asked again and again (about numerous things), “Did you do anything to earn this?”

There are so many things—and people—in my life that I can only point to grace and mercy as an explanation for their presence. I could never have earned them myself.

Not if I had worked for an entire lifetime. Or ten lifetimes.

And again, my mind jumps ahead of itself. But, this time, I don’t wonder at all.

I think about my relationship with my Creator and all my pride seeps out completely. If anything, all I’ve earned here is sorrow. And separation.

But sorrow and separation are not what I have. Thanks to nothing I have done—not one thing—I have assurance of walking with Him and being followed by His goodness and mercy for all of the days of my life. And, into eternity.

I am no better than any of the millions taunting God and His followers today. Not even a little bit better. I have nothing for which I may stand tall and say, “This is mine and you can’t have it unless you earn it.”

Our Creator’s grace and mercy reach. They just do.

I earned my back problems. Perhaps, I even earned that look from the Lovely Lady when I took a second plate of food at lunch yesterday.

But, God’s gifts to me, I could never even begin to earn.

I didn’t do anything to earn this.

But, it’s good. Really good.

And, it’s yours too—if you want it.

“For by grace you are saved through faith, and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God; it is not from works, so that no one can boast.” (Ephesians 2:8-9, NET)

“Your worst days are never so bad that you are beyond the reach of God’s grace. And your best days are never so good that you are beyond the need of God’s grace.” (Anonymous)

Moving the Apostrophe

July 8, 2024July 8, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“That apostrophe is in the wrong place!”

I was unhappy. It’s not a mistake I’d usually make. I’m a stickler for correct grammar and punctuation. Oh, that doesn’t mean I don’t make errors; it simply means they usually have been corrected by the time I deem something fit for public consumption and click the button to post it. After I’ve read it over five or ten times.

But there it was, as clear as you please.

I was reposting an old note I had written a couple of years ago on my social media account. At a time when I was tired, hot, and covered in dust, I had seen the beauty of the sun shining through the trees, making the humid, dusty atmosphere glow with the bright rays of heavenly light.

“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.” Those were the words with which I started my post.

Except there is just one person who lives there. The fact that I placed the apostrophe after the s that made the word neighbor plural meant more than one person was living there. I should have placed the apostrophe between the r and the s to make it a singular possessive word.

You see, my neighbor is a widow—her husband having passed away nearly two years ag. . .

Oh.

When I wrote it, two people were living in the house next door. One of them, my friend Skip, would leave this world for the next a mere two months after it was written.

I did! I did put the apostrophe in the right place!

I feel as if I should be happier. Being right should be more joyful than this.

And yet, I’ve been looking at that apostrophe for the last hour or two. It was in the right place when I wrote the post, but it’s not now.

I’m not sad about how a sentence was written two years ago. I’m sad that all it takes to correct the loss of my friend is to move an apostrophe, the tiniest of punctuation marks, one space over.

One space—his loving wife’s loneliness and loss, shown in that tiny action. All the sadness of his children and old friends summed up in a movement of less than a quarter of an inch.

Perhaps though, my sadness is even more deeply rooted than this one exercise in grammatical nerdiness.

I stood with dear friends in church today and, speaking with them, realized anew that I will not do that with one or both of them many more times in this world. Health fails; the body refuses to continue on in its earthly mission.

Life on this spinning ball of water and rock is precarious. It’s short. And, unpredictable.

Today is a good day to hold close those our Creator has given us. It’s the perfect day to say, “I love you,” to everyone to whom the words apply.

Do (and say) the important things now, while the apostrophes and commas are still holding firm.

Tomorrow, the commas may all turn to periods—the apostrophes may slip over a space. The Author of our story writes and edits as He sees fit.

Of course, if the punctuation holds fast and isn’t moved until years in the future, we’ll simply have made the world a better place to be for all those extra days. And, our longer stories will be more lovely to read because of it.

And that seems to be acceptable. To me, anyway.

I hope you agree. If you don’t, send me a note.

Just try to get the punctuation right, will you?

“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. May the name of the Lord be blessed!”
(Job 1:21, NET)

“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.

Nothing spectacular. Just the sun’s rays shining through the dust that hung in the air. Somehow, life just seems a little sweeter in the light.

The heat seems unbearable. It’s not.

The sadness seems crushing. It’s not.

The dread of what lies ahead seems overwhelming. It’s not.

Our hope never was in the stuff of this world. Time to look higher.

‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’” (John 1:5, NIV)
(from a Facebook post on July 7, 2022)

Messy, Isn’t It?

July 2, 2024July 2, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was a fifth Sunday this week. An event that happens 4 times a year. My church used to have a dinner every time the day rolled around. Nowadays, we get together to sing on the fifth Sundays. Songs by Request, we call it.

The Lovely Lady plays the piano. I usually get roped into leading the singing. Folks in the audience yell out hymn numbers (yes, we pull out the old hymnbooks for the event) and we sing a couple of verses from each request.

Arriving early on Sunday evening, we noticed a microphone on a regular stand near the center of the stage. Knowing that a boom stand would work better to get the microphone close to me, I went looking and found one in the back of the equipment room.

It wasn’t until the end of the first song that I noticed the problem. It might have been the reason the stand was stowed where it had been in the little room off the stage.

As we sang, the weight of the microphone pushed the end of the boom down toward the music stand that held my hymnbook. I pulled it back into position, tightening the adjustment knob to hold it there.

We sang another song. By the end of a couple more verses, the mic was right back where it had been. You understand, don’t you, that a mic has to be close to one’s mouth to be effective at all?

Repeating the process, we soldiered on. But, after another two verses, it was clear the boom stand wasn’t up to the job. Begging the pardon of the waiting audience, I went in search of the original stand. They of course had been entertained by the extracurricular activities, so there was a fair amount of laughter from their seats in the interim.

Amid the laughter, I heard a voice from someone suggesting I prop up the end of the boom with the regular stand. I thought about that for about two seconds and rejected the idea, instead trading out one stand for the other.

I’ve mentioned before that I like things to be orderly, haven’t I? I sort my potato chips into stacks of broken and whole—my M&Ms by color. Don’t tell the Lovely Lady, but I even like my blue jeans hung up by the degree of fading (when they’re not sorted by waist size, that is).

It would be messy to have a regular mic stand sitting under the business end of a boom stand propping it up. I wouldn’t like the optics.

So, I set the microphone atop the regular stand and disposed of the boom behind me, forgetting that the mic wouldn’t be close to my mouth unless I leaned in next to it. Even with it sitting beside my hymnal, instead of behind it, I’d have to adjust my stance to get the sensitivity necessary for clear sound to reach the audience.

For the rest of the hour, I repeated hymn numbers over and over as folks would say, “What number again?” When I asked the fellow with whom I had arranged beforehand to pray a closing prayer, another man nearby touched his chest and mouthed, “Who, me?” because he couldn’t hear me clearly.

Because I wanted to keep things neat, folks were inconvenienced. Perhaps, even embarrassed.

But, there was no mess on the stage!

I know, if you ask any of the good folks who attended, none would remember either the mess or lack thereof. They probably weren’t even annoyed much by the need for me to repeat myself. I may be the only one having any second thoughts about my choices that night.

But, I want to remember.

I want to remember that life is messy. Our interactions with strangers can be awkward. Our exchanges with family members are often without tact and require apologies afterward. We don’t always fit together without fidgeting and rubbing off some rough corners.

I want to remember that sometimes you leave the errant green bean, that somehow escaped from someone’s plate and onto the floor, to be cleaned up later. The joyous cacophony around the dinner table won’t be flawed at all because of a little mess underneath it.

I want to remember that sometimes the notes don’t come out perfectly and my voice cracks when I sing the high ones. And, once in a while, the Lovely Lady plays a natural when it should have been a flat. And, we don’t stop and correct it, because the music is beautiful despite the mess.

Beautiful and messy.

And, that’s all of life, isn’t it? A glorious mess.

Still. I think I’ll check out the mic stand before the next hymn night. It never hurts to plan ahead.

“Life is a journey that must be traveled, no matter how bad the roads and accommodations.” (Oliver Goldsmith, Irish novelist/poet)

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.” (1 Peter 4:8-9, NIV)

Blanketed in Love

June 25, 2024June 25, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I was ten years old. As my family, seven strong, sat around the dinner table that fall night, we were surprised at Dad’s words. Well, the five kids were, anyway.

“I’ve got five dollars to give to each one of you. There’s just one catch. You have to write me a note and tell me what you want to buy with it. If you don’t write me a note, I won’t give you the money.”

Five dollars! In 1967 money, that’s almost fifty dollars today.

Five dollars for each of us! We left the table, little minds spinning with the possibilities. Even as we headed for bed that night, the ideas were all jumbled in our heads. My brother and I talked excitedly as we got into our little twin-size erstwhile bunkbeds, across the room from each other.

Wait. There’s got to be a catch. He’ll want it to be something worthwhile, won’t he? I bet I can’t get all the candy and coke I want. (I did grow up in Texas, so you understand “coke” is any fizzy drink, right?) I bet it needs to be something like a book. Or, school supplies.

I didn’t write anything that night, but I didn’t get much sleep either. My brain kept leaping to new ideas and, just as quickly, rejecting them, believing that the offer might be rescinded for such a flaky or irresponsible idea. My benefactor was not keen on flaky or irresponsible.

At some time during the night, the temperature outside my South Texas home having dropped below 60 degrees, I felt the chill, and I reached for the scratchy wool military surplus blanket at the foot of the bed.

It was warm, but it wasn’t comfy. Not snuggly. You’d be much more likely to describe it as itchy than comfy. I never liked that blanket.

Blanket!

That was it! I knew what I would spend my money on!

Sleep finally took me, but when the sun rose and Mom called up the stairs for all the drowsy-eyed boys to get out of bed, I needed no second call. I dressed and tromped down the steep treads as fast as I could, sitting at the dining table to check the Sears and Roebuck catalog, before hurriedly scribbling a note for my dad.

“I’ll spend my $5 on a soft, thermal blanket with satin edging. Baby blue or something close.”

Approved! I got my blanket!

I don’t remember how long I used that blanket, but I loved it. It was soft and comforting, warm in the winter and cool enough in the summer to leave rolled up beside my body while I slept.

As I think of it now, it was kind of like a hug from my Dad anytime I wanted one. I may or may not have thought that way about it then.

Nearly fifty years later, I got a check in the mail one fall day. It was from the same man who gave me those five dollars all those years before. This check was for five hundred dollars.

He didn’t ask what I would spend the money on before sending it.

No reason; just because.

I bought a new recliner. My Dad loved a recliner. I do, too. I was sure he would approve of my use for his gift.

Somehow, when I sit in that recliner, now with a slipcover over the damaged and cracking leather, it still feels a little like getting a hug from the man, now absent.

I don’t want to preach.

No, really. I don’t.

So, I won’t.

And the Teacher said to them:

“So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask Him?”
(Matthew 7:11, NLT)

I know.

It kind of feels like a hug, doesn’t it?

And, I’m guessing you could use one of those right about now.

“‘For I know what I have planned for you,’ says the Lord. ‘I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future filled with hope.'”
(Jeremiah 29:11, NET)

A Loaf of Bread

June 18, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It hasn’t been a relaxing day. It never is when I get up before seven in the morning. Even less, when I don’t sleep well through the night.

A couple of days ago, the nice lady on the phone told me when I needed to arrive at the medical facility today. The scheduled procedure will hopefully help relieve my confusion about what to do next so I won’t have so much pain when I walk. And, tie my shoes. Or, pick up that piece of ice I dropped in the kitchen.

So, I got up early. It’s not that I wanted to get up early. I just want to get rid of the pain more than I wanted to sleep later today.

I had been warned that it would be noisy inside the MRI machine. They say the sounds are often close to 120 decibels. That’s about as loud as a jet taking off.

Even with the earplugs, it was loud. In the weirdest way. Hums and buzzes and beeps—clanging and whirring and banging. But, it’s not random.

The processes required to produce the images also make the noises. High and low, long and short, they go on for the entire time one is in the tube (or tunnel, however you want to describe it). And, there is rhythm.

I suspect a percussionist might find interest in the sounds. But, I agree with my old friend, who, being told he had an “essential” tremor, uttered the words, “I think I could do without it.”

I could have done without them. The sounds, I mean. And, being in the tiny tunnel.

Still, I survived mostly unscathed. But, feeling overwhelmed, I drove home, opting to forego my stop at the coffee shop.

I eased down into my recliner. And, I just sat. For over an hour. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t watch television. I just sat staring at nothing.

I might still be sitting there if an angel hadn’t offered me some food.

No. Wait. I’m getting ahead of myself. That wasn’t exactly what happened.

What happened was, I got a phone call. From an old friend in my hometown. He had no agenda but just called to talk for a while.

We talked. About people. About tasks still to be finished. About the past (we go back nearly 60 years). Tears. Laughter. Hardships.

Blessings, all.

When our call ended, many long minutes later, the funk in which I had found myself was gone. All because a friend offered me bread to eat.

No. Wait. Where does that bread keep coming from?

Oh. I know.

Elijah. Elijah had a task he needed to accomplish. When it was done, and he was successful, he ran for his life. An angel made him some pita (or something like it) and sent him on to God.

It’s an oversimplification, I know. Still. The man of God defeated all the false prophets of Baal and brought an end to a long drought in the land. Then, he ran for his life and hid.

The angel didn’t come with any intent to fix Elijah. He simply ministered to him where he was. Food and rest.

God would take care of everything else. In a “narrow silence”, a quiet and small voice, He would speak.

But first, the man needed bread.

Isn’t that what we do for each other here?

In times of distress, we feed each other. After sleepless nights, we offer places of rest.

I’m still waiting for the answer to my medical questions.

But, the road I’m following is lined with people—other humans—who care for me, and then send me on, strengthened and rested, to God.

As several of my friends keep reminding me, we’re just walking each other home.

And sometimes, the daily bread He gives us comes straight from the hands (and hearts) of our fellow travelers.

I’ll do my best to share some naan when my turn comes.

“Bread. That this house may never know hunger.”
(from It’s a Wonderful Life)

“But he insisted so strongly that they did go with him and entered his house. He prepared a meal for them, baking bread without yeast, and they ate.” (Genesis 19:3, NIV)

Big, Strong Hands

June 13, 2024June 13, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

“My PT said I could ride my bike again if I want.”

My old friend sat near me in the coffee shop as our conversation wandered far afield last week. There was purpose in our visit, but it has been a while since we sat and spoke.

We used to sit for hours on our bicycle seats (what little there is of them) and talk as our magic machines ate up the miles, the twenty-nine-inch wheels spinning at approximately 185.6 RPM. Perhaps fewer, sometimes. And more, less often. I hope that’s not too confusing.

What I’m saying is that we rode long distances—usually slowly. And sometimes fast, but only for shorter distances.

Just over three months ago my friend had an accident and hasn’t been able to ride at all since then. Until this week. It’s been hard for him. The pain was constant and, at times, unbearable. And, when you can’t do what you love, it’s not only the pain that wreaks havoc on your mind and emotions.

Then, on that day last week, his physical therapist had given him a glimmer of promise, of expectation.

I rejoiced with him in his hope.

We stayed. Much longer than we had planned, sitting in that one spot, offering (and perceiving) insights into our faith—our intellect—even our hearts. Three hours after we dropped into the comfortable chairs, we finally stood again.

As I stood, I felt a twinge in my lower back. It’s not unusual. I am aging. I’ve not been kind to my body over the years and, if a twinge is the price for a few hours of communion with an old friend, I’ll pay the price.

I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d stand easily for at least a week, perhaps longer. The doctor I visited with this afternoon didn’t seem all that optimistic for a quick and easy solution to the crippling pain I’ve lived with since that day. Perhaps, I’m reading more into his words than he intended. Still, I’m not wearing any rose-colored glasses.

A phrase from a children’s movie in the 1980s comes to my mind as I write tonight. I see the Rockbiter character from The Neverending Story as he sits gazing at his hands which have failed him miserably. His somber, almost despairing voice repeats the words;

“They look like good, strong hands, don’t they?”

It’s not the first time I’ve faced this truth. And, I’m not sure it ever gets easier. It should, but I’m not sure it does.

I’m not invincible. I have no guarantee that I’ll be able to continue as I’ve begun. No one does.

The treasure (Grace and Light, given as a gift) followers of Jesus hold is held in hands and bodies of clay. They may appear strong. They could even stay intact for most of a lifetime, seeming to prove the strength of the holders, the pilgrims themselves.

They’re not. Strong, that is.

Strength is loaned—a stewardship to be used as long as we can wield it. But, it was never ours.

Never.

“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”
(2 Corinthians 4: 7, NLT)

Vessels of clay. It doesn’t seem all that hopeful, does it?

Still, there is a glimmer—promises made to us many years ago.

We may be pressed, but we are not crushed.
We are sometimes perplexed, but we are not in despair.
We might seem to be prey for the hunter, but we haven’t been left defenseless;
Ah! And when we are knocked down, it is never a permanent condition.
(My paraphrase of the verses that follow the verse just above)

I stood yesterday and held back the tears as my neighbor consoled me, averring it was okay that I couldn’t help her with a task I’d done for several years. I don’t know how long it will be before I can help her with it again.

For some reason, last night, I watched a video clip of that scene from the movie mentioned above and almost felt the creature’s despair. Almost.

But, moments later, I went to sleep with words from the Psalm writer, the warrior musician, in my head. They are well-known words that he wrote to remind his victorious army that the strength they had been loaned was different from that of the world around them.

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
(Psalm 20:7, NIV)

God’s hands are big, strong hands!

Today, some folks I love pulled into my driveway and asked if I would unlock my storage barn so they could get to my lawnmowers and other lawn tools. One asked for a short tutorial on using my riding mower. The others filled tanks with gasoline and checked the oil.

My lawn was going to be mowed. I couldn’t do it for myself, so they did.

But, before they started, they asked about my neighbor. Splitting up, they mowed mine and hers. In the hot sun, the strong young folks labored in the strength they’ve been loaned. Then they asked if they could take care of the neighbor on the other side of me, who usually can count on me to work in her yard, too.

I’m not crying. You are.

Okay. I am. A little.

Every good gift—every perfect gift—comes from Above.

I’m not invincible. I know that. I won’t ever be.

I may be capable again. Time will tell. Still, I’ll never be invincible.

But, I am indomitable. At least, I’m working at it.

Steadfast. Unyielding.

They are Good, Strong Hands.

And, they’re holding us.

My heart is steadfast, O God,
my heart is steadfast!
I will sing and make melody!
Awake, my whole being!
Awake, O harp and lyre!
I will awake the dawn!
I will give thanks to you, O Lord, among the peoples;
I will sing praises to you among the nations.
For your steadfast love is great to the heavens,
your faithfulness to the clouds.
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!
Let your glory be over all the earth!
(Psalm 57:7-11, ESV)

A Wee Little Man Standing Tall

June 4, 2024June 4, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A young friend posted a photo of one of her favorite trees a few weeks ago. It was a lovely sycamore tree near her house. I couldn’t help but respond when I saw it.

Since I moved with the Lovely Lady into her childhood home several years back, we’ve planted more than half a dozen trees on the property. Her dad loved the trees here, having planted many of them himself well more than half a century ago. The only problem is, most of those he planted are no longer living and we felt the need to repopulate the area a bit.

My favorite, by far (well, for right now, anyway), is the sycamore tree we planted 4 years ago in the backyard. The pretty sapling was just over seven feet tall when we dug the hole to set the root ball into on that early fall day. The gorgeous tree now measures about twenty-five feet to the tip of its crown.

I mentioned the tree to my young friend and told her sycamores were also my favorite. Now, she wants me to tell her what my top five favorite trees are. I’m cogitating on that question. Answering will take time.

But, the sycamore…

Do you know the sycamore tree grows to over one hundred feet tall? And, it can live to several hundred years old. Three to four hundred, I’m told.

Four hundred years! The mind boggles. I’m pretty sure this old house will be long gone by then. No. I’ve worked on the house for a few years now. It’ll be gone. I’m sure of it.

But, the tree we planted will still be living. I wish I could say the same about other parts of my legacy. Of course, some things I want you to forget even before I’m gone. But, not all of it.

We all want to be remembered. For the good things.

I’m sorry. This brain of mine—the part of me that is always wandering—seems to be headed to a conversation about a little man. A short man who, dead most of two thousand years, lives on in our stories and songs.

It must be the subject of the sycamore that has done it—made my mind wander here. Of course, the sycamore in this story is a sycamore fig, which is indigenous to the Holy Land. Unrelated to the sycamore (or London Plane) trees we know in the United States, they are more closely related to a mulberry tree.

I don’t know how short Zacchaeus was, just that he wasn’t tall enough to see over the crowd that followed the Teacher. And it was essential to him! He needed to see this Man. So, he climbed into the lower limbs of the sycamore tree, not a great feat even for a short man. The limbs of the sycamore fig tree are close to the ground.

He didn’t need to climb high, just higher than the heads of the crowd. It was enough. Not only could he see the Teacher—the Teacher saw him and invited himself to the little tax collector’s house.

Beyond the words that compelled him to climb back down from the tree and the insistence that Jesus would go to his house, we don’t know if Jesus directed any other words to Zacchaeus at all. None are reported.

That didn’t stop Zacchaeus from repenting of his sins and promising to make restitution—as much as four-fold what he had cheated people out of.

Think of it! There were no words of reproach; no bargaining for his confession. In the presence of the Son of God, Zacchaeus recognized who he had become and turned from his sin and greed.

And, over two thousand years later, we still remember that sycamore tree and the man who saw Jesus and was changed forever. Our kids still sing the song about the wee little man. But, he almost looms tall in our telling of the story.

Salvation comes when we recognize who we are, but more importantly, who He is. In His presence, we cannot remain unchanged.

Somehow, like the little man, I often can’t see the One I claim to follow over the heads of the people who clamor along the way.

It’s time for another long look, isn’t it? And maybe longer than just a look.

The prophet Jeremiah knew that we need to dwell—to settle in—in His presence. He described the people who trust in Him and have made Him their hope. And, he says such people will be like trees planted along the riverbanks, trees that have a ready source of water, enough to stem any extended drought or trial.

I read that passage again as I wrote today, and I laughed as I remembered the trees that grow down by the rivers and creeks near us. Everywhere, along the banks where the Lovely Lady and I wander, we see them—sycamores—growing beside the source of their sustenance, roots going deep.

I almost want to ask the question; Shall We Gather at The River? Maybe, we could stay there awhile with our Teacher.

I’m sure He’ll see us there.

I wonder if He’ll be coming to my house for tea. Maybe, we can sit in the shade of my sycamore tree and talk about that other one and the man who climbed into its branches all those years ago.

What a long shadow he’s cast—the little man and his tree.

Planted by the rivers of water, we’ll leave a legacy.

A long one, I hope. Maybe three or four hundred years.

Or longer.

“But blessed are those who trust in the Lord
    and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.
They are like trees planted along a riverbank,
    with roots that reach deep into the water.
Such trees are not bothered by the heat
    or worried by long months of drought.
Their leaves stay green,
    and they never stop producing fruit.”
(Jeremiah 17: 7-8, NLT)

“A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit.” (Old Greek Proverb)

I’m Done With This

May 21, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m so done with this!”

I said the words aloud to the air above my head just a couple of weeks ago. I might have shouted them.

My frustration ran over as I worked in the shop room at home, the place where we ran an internet business for several years after closing our local retail business. Standing there, gazing at the incredible mess, I saw no way to ever have a usable space again.

I meant the words. I was ready to walk away, leaving the mayhem behind forever. Let the kids deal with it after I’m gone.

“So done!”

But, it wasn’t true.

I wasn’t done at all. I hadn’t accomplished anything I had come down here for. Oh, I had moved a few things from one side of the room to another. That stack under the window had started on the desk. Now, it might stay where it was for another couple of years. That would be okay with me!

I usually tell people I love words. I like to play with them, teasing out meanings and quirky uses. But, sometimes the words catch me at my own game.

Done means finished. It implies completion. Somehow though, when I use that phrase, “I’m so done with this,” it means, “I quit!”

“I quit!”

It doesn’t sound nearly as weighty as “I’m so done.” And, it certainly doesn’t imply that I’ve accomplished anything.

You’ll be happy to learn that I’ve worked out a plan. I’m setting a goal, not to tackle the entire space, but to move out at least one item a day until the task is complete.

No one else would know it to look at the room, but I’ve made (with a fair amount of help from the Lovely Lady and others) enough progress to be encouraged when I walk in now.

And, I’m looking forward to the day when I can turn the meaning of those words around and stand in the room saying, “I’m done with this!”

Done!

Finished!

Complete!

I spoke with a young friend today, realizing that she is struggling a bit right now and I said similar words.

“He’s not done with you yet!”

We say that about God sometimes. What we mean by the words is that He isn’t finished with what He’s doing. And, He’s not.

The apostle for whom I was named said similar words over two thousand years ago in his letter to the folks at Philippi.

“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.” (Philippians 1:6, NLT)

We somehow have an image, a dream really, of the process being once and done. Bam! God speaks and we’re a finished product.

That’s not how this life in Him works at all.

Step by step, day by day, with a long obedience in the same direction, we are being changed into the person He intended for us to become.

The phrase that comes so easily to our lips—”He’s not done with me yet.”—covers both meanings. First, He’s not finished with what He’s doing for and in us. And secondly, He will never—NEVER—say, “I’m so done with you!”

“He has said, ‘I will never leave you and I will never abandon you.’“
(Hebrews 13:5b, NET)

He’s going to stick with the project! Yes, it may take longer than we want; the process may be more painstaking than we anticipated. But, He will never quit and walk away from us.

We sat with our old friends around the table last night and I read words (you can read them for yourself down below) from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to them (I know, weird table conversation, huh?) from The Village Blacksmith. They’re good words for us to remember, but I think we may need to amend them a bit.

Mr. Longfellow suggested that each day should see the end of the job we began that morning. I have a feeling we simply need to see forward progress, perhaps a lot—maybe just a tiny step ahead, on the task at hand.

We keep moving toward the goal, toward the prize.

It’s up there—ahead of us.

And, we’re not done yet.

He isn’t either.

Oh. I’ll keep working on the shop room, too. Maybe the kids won’t have to deal with it after all.

“Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.”
(from The Village Blacksmith, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

“Dimidium facti qui coepit habet” (He who begins is half done.)
(from the Roman poet, Horace)

Rain Pouring on my Newly Mowed Weeds

May 1, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s raining again.

Not that we’ve had enough rain yet this spring, but I did mow the lawn just today. It could have waited at least another day or two before taking another growth spurt.

I’m not always careful when I mow. By that, I mean I don’t look at what I’m cutting down. Grass is grass when you’re not a connoisseur of fine fescue—or Bermuda—or Augustine.

Today, I noticed. What I was mowing—I noticed.

Thousands of maple trees. The helicopters that crowded the branches of the silver and red maples in early spring (and before that) have gyrated and spun their way down from the heights to be planted in the soil and now have germinated. The scions of the giant trees in the neighborhood showed great promise.

Alas. Their promise will never come to fruition.

Many oaks met the same fate. Cut down in their infancy. Never to spring from the ground again.

All the labor of the myriad squirrels who have scrabbled and dug their tiny paws into the soil will come to nought.

My sister, who lives nearby, mentioned that she cautioned the fellow who mowed her lawn today to mow around the patches of clover. It was a nod on her part to the needs of the buzzing little honey bees who are busy gathering nectar and pollen to turn into honey.

I admit I didn’t think of that. The little white puffy balls and the 3-leaf patterns below them joined the maple and oak trees under the spinning blades. Probably some 4-leafed clumps kept them company, depriving me of the temporary joy of thinking about good luck they might bring.

There were more—dandelions and wood sorrel, perhaps even a bit of speedwell and some bluets—all fodder for the spinning blades of the big mower as it made mulch of them.

I looked over the expanse of the yard this afternoon and, as if it were my own doing, declared it good. I do love a neat lawn, even if I don’t worry much about what kind of plant springs up to cover the dirt.

And now, it’s raining again. If the pouring precipitation weren’t making such a racket on the metal roof just inches above me, and if the thunder would stop rolling across the black skies, I think I might just be able to hear the lawn growing again.

Perhaps, I could even hear the little wildflowers laughing in tiny little tittering voices. Laughing at the victory they will win again and again over the old fellow who attempts every year to keep up with their indefatigable spirits.

I’ll try again next week.

Maybe it’ll be more than 12 hours after I finish the job when they get reinforcements from above. It won’t matter.

In the end, they will win.

When they grow over whatever little patch of ground my body, sans the soul now inhabiting it, will be lowered into—they will win.

Right now, the pounding rain begins anew, reminding me of how short life is and how God’s creation will keep spinning, long after I’m no longer able to police this little half-acre corner of it.

And somehow, the thought makes me smile.

God gave instructions to Adam and Eve, telling them to, “Be fertile and multiply; fill the earth and master it.” (Genesis 1:28, CEV)) It might be a stretch to think that He meant for us to do what I did today with my silly power mower, but it might be what He intended. It could be.

But, it’s good also to be reminded that He still rules the creation He lent to us way back then. The rain still accomplishes what He intends, fulfilling the cycle He designed to replenish and re-create gardens, fields, and forests.

And regardless of all the little wildflowers, weeds, and saplings mankind chooses to annihilate as we progress through life, His promise to us is certain.

He will finish what He has started in me—and you—until the day when He takes us to our real home. (Philippians 1:6)

Until then, the rain will fall and the grass and trees will grow. And sometimes, in between, we’ll mow and labor.

John, who wrote the book of Revelation, echoed the words of Isaiah when He said God will wipe away every tear from our eyes when we’re finally home.

I’m thinking He’ll do away with all the lawnmowers, too.

And, I’m all for that.

“Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.”
(A.A. Milne)

“The rain and snow fall from the sky
and do not return,
but instead water the earth
and make it produce and yield crops,
and provide seed for the planter and food for those who must eat.”
(Isaiah 55:11, NET)

Can That Horse Run Faster?

April 23, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

No, it’s not one of the sayings I learned from the red-headed lady who raised me—she of the thousand-and-one adages. This one, I first heard from that other red-headed woman, the Lovely Lady, who lives at my house still today.

I understand the ladies with whom she does handwork (needlework, knitting, cross stitching, and the like) say it frequently when a project doesn’t turn out as perfectly as they’d like.

The words were spoken the other day as we finished up a job we’d agreed to help with at a relative’s house. We’d cut out the pieces we needed, drilled them, and driven an adequate number of screws to hold each one in place for the foreseeable future. Our relative, a recent widow, was happy with the work while admitting it wasn’t perfect.

“But,” she said, “You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

We all went out to eat a bite of supper before heading back home, the location of the restaurant requiring that we drive back by her house later. As we came up the hill toward the house, I couldn’t help remarking that this drive-by was remarkably like riding by on the back of that galloping horse.

We didn’t notice anything amiss as we sailed past.

Success.

Then, I sat in my chair and moped all evening. The Lovely Lady sat nearby, crocheting a lovely afghan, and looking over her glasses at me thoughtfully. She rarely misses noticing a good mope, that one.

I finally said it.

“It’s not good enough.”

Knowing exactly what I was thinking about, she immediately assured me that I had nothing to criticize myself for. Because that was what I had been doing. Not intentionally, but the result was the same. I was certain I hadn’t done enough.

Thinking she needed some clarification, I replied.

“But, it’s his house.”

There may or may not have been tears in my eyes as I said it. There are as I write this.

Grief is like that. One believes that time has done its work and the memories have become beneficent and pleasant, instead of painful. Then after an afternoon of working in the sun, here is sadness showing its unwelcome countenance once more. The pain is more than only the sore muscles I had anticipated.

Somehow, I feel I owe him more than just “good enough.” His carpentry and finish work was always remarkable—his work ethic, ever a pursuit of excellence. And he achieved it, again and again.

But, she is right. Those were his gifts. Comparisons are not helpful.

Mr. Shakespeare even suggested that comparisons are odorous. That was a century and a half after the writer, John Lydgate, said they were “odyous”. The words don’t mean quite the same thing. But, the result is inevitable. They stink.

It stinks for us to compare ourselves against others.

The Apostle Paul gave us the standard (which we ignore, it seems, time after time).

“Whatever work you do, do it with all your heart. Do it for the Lord and not for men.” (Colossians 3:23, NLV)

The folks in the Arts and Crafts movement in the twentieth century had a goal to do things better. Gustav Stickley, one of its major influences, stamped a phrase on all his pieces to remind folks of that.

“Als Ik Kan,” was what they said. The Flemish words for “all I can.” The words communicated that the maker had done the very best he/she could do.

The Lovely Lady reminded me on that recent day that we had done the best we were capable of.

And, it’s enough.

We walk in the light our Creator has given us in which to walk.

We reflect that light to the world around us.

Some of us will shine with a brilliance that dazzles. Overwhelming. Sensational.

Others of us will manage merely the flicker of a candle. Barely enough to see the pathway ahead.

Either way, it’s His light. His.

I promise to do all I can.

For Him. After all, it is His house we’re working on.

But, you may just want to keep that horse at a gallop for the time being.

“Everything comes from Him. His power keeps all things together. All things are made for Him. May He be honored forever. Let it be so.”
(Romans 11:36, NLV)

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
(Theodore Roosevelt)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

christianity

I Didn’t Earn This

Moving the Apostrophe

Messy, Isn’t It?

Blanketed in Love

A Loaf of Bread

Big, Strong Hands

A Wee Little Man Standing Tall

I’m Done With This

Rain Pouring on my Newly Mowed Weeds

Can That Horse Run Faster?