Who’s Stealing What?

October 12, 2023October 14, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes we don’t see what is right in front of our eyes.

Today started like that. Almost.

Early this morning, I walked away from my front door and headed to the coffee shop. I walked against a brisk wind, it having changed in the last day or two, promising to blow in a cold front soon and perhaps even to blow a few of the leaves from the trees.

Winter will soon be here. But, that isn’t what I came here to talk about, is it?

Today, I’m thinking about time—about eternity. And, I may actually write about those things before I finish this. I may.

I walked the half mile to the coffee shop at a brisk pace, acting as if I were the only human on an errand this morning. It’s easy to think so.

I nearly didn’t see them. The people, I mean. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have known they were there. I simply mean, I almost didn’t see them. Really see them.

People walk past me every day. Even here, in the South, where we wave at complete strangers and holler our loud greetings across the yard to our neighbors, it’s becoming more difficult to get a response from folks.

Perhaps, they are on a mission, as am I. Somehow, deep in thought, they don’t want to encourage interaction, hoping to keep the train (of thought) a non-stop ride all the way to the terminal.

Still, I usually interrupt them anyway, with a quick Good morning or Hey! How’s it going? coming to my lips as I pass.

At the end of my little cul-de-sac, the young lady headed for classes at the university seemed to accelerate to a speedwalk as she saw my trajectory would take me onto the sidewalk just as she began to cross the intersection. She said nothing in reply to my words of greeting. I wasn’t surprised. I fit the description of a strange man to a tee, and she was well advised to avoid any interaction.

Up the street under the hickory trees, the young man walking his dog replied in a friendly manner, his eastern accent—possibly Indian, or Pakistani— reminding me that our little town has become a melting pot (not to its detriment at all).

The middle-aged jogger, arms pumping and graying ponytail dodging left and right behind her as she ran, didn’t even pause in her pursuit of youth to return my greeting. Perhaps, there was no extra breath to waste, as she chased her goal.

The last person I saw before I reached my destination was an older lady, her hoodie zipped up and pulled over her head against the cool autumn morning air. She shoved a bulky metal walker ahead of her on the sidewalk, her progress slow and not all that steady. As I called out a cheerful greeting, a smile appeared crookedly on her face.

She called out her own chipper greeting in reply to mine, the words slightly slurred. I recognized the impairments left behind by a stroke and felt sympathy for the lady. But, more than that, I was impressed by her determination to overcome the damage caused by the malady.

Like the nineteenth-century philosopher, Henry David Thoreau, I have at times declared—at least internally—that “most men lead lives of quiet desperation,” but I learn repeatedly that most folks actually lead full, rich lives, facing their challenges and loving the people God has given them to share life with.

Mr. Thoreau is also the fellow who made the following statement:

“As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.”

Did I say I wanted to talk about time today?

I saw these folks along my route, people from different places, lifestyles, and eras. They all are investing in the present. Of course, by the time this is ready to be read, their activities will be in the past, but I observed them in the moment they occurred.

Young to old, they were making investments in their future.

A friend of mine, a wonderful lady whom I admire, made a comment earlier this week that started me thinking about time.

“Time is a thief.”

Her children are reaching the end of their years at home, ready to fly the protective nest, and she is a little melancholy about it. I haven’t talked with her about her feelings, except to ask how her offspring are doing in their various pursuits. She is proud of what they’re accomplishing—overjoyed they are doing what she raised them to do. They are becoming the caring, honest human beings she and her husband have invested their lives to encourage.

And yet, she says time steals. I won’t argue with her.

I won’t. But somehow, I think we may be the thieves. I’m not sure we actually kill time as Thoreau suggests, but we can certainly be wasteful, squandering opportunity after opportunity as we egress from eternity past into eternity future.

Time itself may seem to take people and things from us, but it only seems so. And, it leaves behind wonderful gifts.

Knowledge. Wisdom, Memories.

Ultimately, it offers perhaps the most valuable of all gifts as we journey through its domain; the gift of opportunity.

Tomorrow. Next week. Next year.

All opportunities. Bright. Untouched.

Waiting for you. And me.

If, like me, you believe in the love and guidance of a Creator who saw us before He spoke the worlds into existence, you will know that time was part of the original blueprint. A gift to all of creation.

And, every moment, known to Him already.

The Psalmist put it this way: My times are in Your hand. (Psalm 31:15a, NKJV)

If you’re still breathing, time is on your side. It is.

Seize the day. Do it gently.

We wouldn’t want to injure it, would we?

Yesterday is history, tomorrow is mystery, today is a gift.
(Eleanor Roosevelt)

Make the most of every opportunity in these evil days. Don’t act thoughtlessly, but understand what the Lord wants you to do.
(Ephesians 5:17, NLT)

Still Dancing (Sneaking Onto the Floor)

October 9, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We went to a wedding last week, the Lovely Lady and I. Mostly, I went along to be her driver, but she claimed she needed to have a companion to sit with through the ceremony. I’m not sure that was true but, putting on my too-small suit, I went anyway.

I’m glad I did. I always am, somehow.

Her cousin’s daughter was getting married. I suppose that means the bride would be her first cousin once removed, but I’m not so sure about my relationship. Am I intended to call the young lady’s new husband my first cousin once removed in-law in-law?

The music was lovely, simply because the Lovely Lady was involved, along with her brother. Then the wedding itself was wonderful, probably because the bride (my first cousin once removed in-law) and her groom (now, my first cousin once removed in-law in-law) enjoyed the process much more than most couples do. There was laughter and there were tears, mixed in with promises and rings, and then more laughter. All in all, a wonderful ceremony with God at the center, and the two kids got hitched.

We stayed for dinner, visiting with the Lovely Lady’s cousins—my cousins-in-law (perhaps we should stop beating that poor defunct equine for the time being). It took a while to visit with all of them, there having been nine children in the family. Lovely folks, every one of them.

Soon, it was time for dancing. I should mention that I don’t dance, my problem being (besides my rather strict upbringing) not my two left feet, but the propensity for my body to want to descend to the level of my feet when they inevitably get tangled in each other.

Soon, the band leader was calling for all the married couples in the room to get out on the dance floor. Some did, but most of the cousins stayed where they were. Some, I think were like me, knowing that staying put was the best path to avoiding embarrassment. Others were just happy to watch the younger ones enjoy the music.

As the dance went through a verse or two, the band leader had the folks who had been married for a year or less sit down. Then, he called for those having been married five years or less to drop out. Ten years was the next cut-off, then twenty, and so on.

We laughed, the Lovely Lady and I, as new dancers snuck onto the dance floor. A few couples had noticed the trend and wanted to see if they could be the last ones left.

Sure enough, one of her cousins and her husband were the last couple on the floor, at nearly fifty years of marriage. We laughed and clapped, and went back to our visiting—reliving old memories and reveling in the company of family and friends.

I commented that it wasn’t fair for the band leader to expect the old people to be the ones who stayed on the dance floor longer than all the young folks. Doesn’t he know the old geezers don’t have the stamina to outlast all those kids?

But, other thoughts came to mind as I laughed at my own wittiness. It took a little while because the thoughts were a little fuzzy. Most of my thoughts these days begin like that—almost like trying to remember a name that’s just beyond my grasp. It’ll come eventually, but sometimes I just have to quit trying for it to break through to the surface.

I knew it had something to do with waiting. And gaining strength. Somehow, the couple who had taken their time to get onto the dance floor—waiting—were tied up in the concept.

Last night, as I sat in my easy chair, I heard an old song in my head. So familiar, from many years ago.

Now, where did that come from? What were the words?

Ah, yes!

They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.
They shall mount up with wings.
They shall mount up with wings as eagles.

I had it! Finally, I had it.

Old folks, waiting for God.

And no, I don’t mean like the British folk tend to describe their old people in nursing homes—God’s Waiting Room, they call it.

I mean old saints, faithful folks, who know from whence their strength comes. It’s not from vitamins; not from doctor’s prescriptions; not even from physical therapists manipulating muscles and bones.

But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.
They will soar high on wings like eagles.
They will run and not grow weary.
They will walk and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:31, NLT)

I’ve mentioned my repetitive dreams of flying before, soaring with arms spread, through the air. I still haven’t done that in real life. There have been times I’ve wondered, though…

Early this morning, I dreamed again. I suppose it was the direction this essay has taken that inspired the dream.

This time, I wasn’t flying. But, I had been invited to participate with the local university’s track team. Cross country. Miles and miles. Some of the others, the kids, tired as we ran, dropping out to walk and sit by the side of the trail.

In my dream, I kept running. Me! Closer to seventy than to any other decade. I kept running.

Okay. It’s not flying. But, running is good.

Almost as good as dancing.

Alas. Dreams come to an end. Morning comes; the sleeper awakes. I walked (painfully, due to a slight back issue I’m experiencing) to the little coffee shop I’m haunting these days. And, here I sit, pecking at the laptop’s keyboard, remembering.

Nothing’s changed, physically.

But, I’m waiting. Trusting.

God won’t fail us. He won’t.

I hope to dance someday.

Fly. Run. Walk.

No pain. No fatigue. No dropping out.

He gives strength for today.

And, bright hope for tomorrow.

And, hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon.
(from The Owl And The Pussycat, by Edward Lear)

My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak,
but God remains the strength of my heart;
he is mine forever.
(Psalm 73:26, NLT)

Keepers Kept

October 5, 2023October 5, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“She’s a keeper, Paul!”

My sister-in-law had just met the Lovely Young Lady for the first time. She wasn’t wrong. I’ve done my best to hold onto her for the last forty-five years.

A keeper.

“That’s a keeper, Paul!”

The neighbor boy, Warren, yelled the phrase down the banks of the drainage ditch. I had just landed a large perch with my old cane pole, my bait being one of the long, wriggly earthworms we had dug up just moments before. We kept the perch, along with a few more that day.

“You kids need a keeper!”

The words of disgust came from the lips of an aging passerby in the shopping mall. They were aimed at the group of rowdy band kids who hooted, and whistled, and wrestled, oblivious to the constant parade of grown-ups around them.

We probably did. Need a keeper, that is.

All of the above events came to mind during my sleepless hours last night. My brain has been wrestling, trying to come to grips with the immense meaning of a tiny word.

Keep.

Our use of the word is almost exclusively understood to mean retain possession of. It means that. It does.

But, it means that and so much more. The original meaning of the word implies (besides possessing) holding tightly, guarding closely, and even fighting for.

Castles in medieval times had a keep, a fortified castle within the castle, intended as a last defense, a place of ultimate shelter where enemies could not break through. It was a place of protection for the defenseless, of strength for the weak, of safety for all that was valued.

The passages in the Bible that speak of God keeping and blessing mean well more than simply being His; they imply being held and guarded against all dangers, dwelling in His fortress—His castle keep.

A strange subject to mull over in the small hours of the morning, you think?

I don’t disagree.

The fodder for my thoughts had only been introduced moments before I finally succumbed to the tyranny of the clock, well after midnight. I laid myself on the bed knowing I would not sleep because of the turmoil inside my brain.

Often, the late night hours are a time when I chase my ancestors into the past—perusing old books, searching online databases, and thumbing through materials in my keeping from family members who are gone but not forgotten. Last night, I found something that grabbed my attention.

I’ve flipped through the pages of the old Bible before. It was my great-grandfather’s, given to him by his mother in his 18th year. The date on the flyleaf is January 1, 1881.

I’ve never found anything of value to my search in its pages before, besides the mourning ribbon for President Garfield upon his assassination nine months after my forebear received the Bible. I think I may have even seen this little yellow ribbon previously and gone past, dismissing its message in my search for facts.

The ribbon in the pages of the little Bible says simply, “Keepers.” I cannot find any context for it in my searches for who my great-grandfather was.

And yet, there is context to be found.

It’s easy to believe, at times, that we are worthless—merely sinners living in a fallen world. We who follow Christ know that we are redeemed, but often we are discouraged, believing that things will never change—that we will never change.

The reality—a reality reinforced again and again in the old Book—is that we are keepers.

Worth being held.

Worth being protected.

Worth being valued.

Keepers. Kept by a Keeper. Who will do all those things. And more.

That ribbon has clearly lodged at the same place for many, many years. You can see where the color has leached into the paper on either side of it.

Last night, I read the passage where it sits. I think I needed to be reminded.

For you have been born again, but not to a life that will quickly end. Your new life will last forever because it comes from the eternal, living word of God. As the Scriptures say,
“People are like grass;
their beauty is like a flower in the field.
The grass withers and the flower fades.
But the word of the Lord remains forever.”
(1 Peter 1: 23-25, NLT)

I’m keeping the Bible. And the ribbon.

I’m still looking for clues to who my ancestors were. But, I know who I am. It’s who you are, too.

Keepers.

With a Keeper.

Living here in His keep.

Protected. And, blessed.

The Lord bless you and keep you;
The Lord make His face shine upon you,
And be gracious to you;
The Lord lift up His countenance upon you,
And give you peace.
(Numbers 6:24-26, NKJV)

The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. (Maya Angelou)

Missed Opportunities

October 3, 2023October 3, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It happens every morning. I’m sure it does; I just don’t see it often.

Missed opportunities. They used to haunt me. Really. I’d try to get to every music concert, every church meeting, every coffee get-together—you name it; if it was happening and I could be present, I was there.

Driven by guilt. And maybe a little bit of obsession.

Perhaps, I should finish the first thought before I get on my little soapbox, huh? I’ll do that.

The shadow stood at my bedside in the dark room this morning. 7:05, the clock read. 7:05!

The shadow spoke.

“The sunrise is spectacular this morning!”

Other than a quick hug and a mumbled “goodbye, I love you,” that was it. I was alone on the queen-size bed in the darkness. Back to sleep. Life goes on as usual.

That’s not what happened. I rolled over, hugging her pillow close. But, I didn’t go back to sleep.

Sunrise! It happens every morning; so what’s the big deal? Sleep is better—especially when my head didn’t hit the pillow until 2:30 this morning.

The thoughts ran through my non-sleeping brain.

I got up.

A few minutes later, I was standing at the upstairs window, looking out over the rooftops in the neighborhood.

Wow! This happens every day?

Every day?

“Awake, O sleeper,
rise up from the dead,
and Christ will give you light.”

I snapped a photo or two to save the moment in my memory. I sent one of them to the Lovely Lady. Some things need to be shared.

She sent me back a photo of the gecko under her desk this morning. I guess she felt that some things need to be shared, too.

But, I’m wondering about the bigger picture now. What about all the other things I’m missing out on? While I’m sleeping. And when I’m awake, too.

I remember when my oldest grandson was an infant and he refused to go to sleep in his crib. My son-in-law introduced me to the term we’ve all become familiar with as he described the phenomenon.

“FOMO. He’s afraid we’re going to do something while he’s asleep and he can’t stand to not be part of it.”

Fear of missing out.

We laughed. We still do.

But, it’s true. We want to be included in whatever’s happening. And sometimes, we feel guilty when we don’t participate in all of it.

Why are we so driven by that guilt?

I want to blame my church upbringing, citing those verses in Ephesians I heard so often growing up.

So be careful how you live. Don’t live like fools, but like those who are wise. Make the most of every opportunity in these evil days. Don’t act thoughtlessly, but understand what the Lord wants you to do.
(Ephesians 5:15-17, NLT)

I want to blame my guilt on that. But, words are just words until we understand them. The Word of God is the same. His Spirit gives clarity as we study them and then live them out.

Yes, we make the most of every opportunity. But we don’t act thoughtlessly.

Trying to be involved in every good activity is acting thoughtlessly. And, being consumed by guilt when we don’t show up for all of them is harmful. To us and others around us.

I’m going to miss out on a few sunrises. And, concerts. And, coffee breaks.

But occasionally, I’m going to stumble out of bed, climbing the wooden stairs in my bare feet to stand at the window in awe and gratitude for another day and a beautiful re-creation of the dawn.

Just, maybe not tomorrow morning.

Morning has broken
like the first morning,
blackbird has spoken
like the first bird.
Praise for the singing!
Praise for the morning!
Praise for them, springing
fresh from the Word!
(From Morning Has Broken by Eleanor Farjeon, 1931)

I’m Not That! Whatever He Said, I’m Not!

October 1, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The mind is a funny thing.

One minute you’re sitting calmly, living in the present, enjoying God’s blessings, and the next, you’re thirty years in the past. Not only remembering conversations, but feeling the same emotions you felt in the moment—all those years ago!

Many of my friends know that, with the help of my kids and grandkids, we built an outside deck in the last few months. It’s a lovely space, leaving scope for the imagination, as Anne Shirley would have said. (You folks who read about Anne with an “e” as a child will remember.)

We built the deck from reclaimed lumber, having torn down a much larger deck at a neighbor’s house (at her request, of course!) and salvaged the still-usable boards.

The labor was free. Well, except for a few meals, prepared by the Lovely Lady and eaten around our old dining table, it was free. And, now that I consider, even those worked out to my advantage. What a joy, to achieve a shared goal with one’s extended family!

It is, as I mentioned, a lovely space.

A sister-in-law gave us wicker furniture which she no longer used. Our sweet neighbor snuck in a couple of pillows while we were at church one morning. Our generous-hearted son and his lovely wife even donated a beautiful fire pit, which we’ve enjoyed together several times.

I’ve spent many hours there lately, my mind and heart full, considering our Father’s blessings as I look out to the old barn behind us, past the overgrown fence, with its honeysuckle and poison-ivy vines intertwined.

And yes, just like the intermingling of beauty and danger those vines remind me of, my mind has often gone to the darker places as I’ve meditated on the bright, lovely ones.

Such was the case when, on this day, the whole process came to a screeching halt as the words of the old man came to my mind.

We were leaning against the bed of his old beat-up truck in the parking lot in front of my music store. I had just pointed out my latest purchase, a twelve-year-old Chevy conversion van. It was the perfect vehicle for my growing family. The paint was a little faded and it had lots of miles on the odometer, but I was so proud of it.

I might have laid it on a little thick. The shag carpet could have gone to my head. Or, was it the dark maroon crushed-velvet upholstery that was to blame?

I really don’t remember, but it could have sounded a little boastful. A little.

Soon, he had heard enough.

“You’re nothing but a plutocrat, Paul!” The old man was blunt and opinionated, yet I was surprised. I never expected to be the target of his sarcasm.

And truthfully, I didn’t know exactly what a plutocrat was, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment. Besides, I was sure I wasn’t that!

Whatever it was, I wasn’t that!

I told him so, lamely. He laughed and drove out of the parking lot. I was offended.

I know what a plutocrat is now. Funny thing; I’m still offended.

A plutocrat is a person whose power is derived from their wealth. The title is most often used to describe politicians, people who achieve status and authority because they are rich.

I’m not.

Rich. Or powerful.

How is it that those words, spoken in jest, reach out over the decades to rile me up again?

Perhaps, there was a grain of truth in the accusation. We were standing next to his old beater of a pickup truck, while I extolled the advantages of my plush, customized van.

I may have been proud of my purchase. He may have taken it as an indirect slight. A putdown, even.

Those of us who are not politicians have a different type of power. Don’t tell me we don’t.

We use our advantages, however slight, to pull ahead of our peers. We look down on them from our privileged position, all the while knowing that the next wind that blows may leave them in that elevated place and us standing beside the beater.

How easy it is to forget, as we sit on our lovely deck looking down on the passersby, that nothing we have is ours to keep. Nothing.

Job knew it. He, having lost all he had amassed over a lifetime, told his friends that he had come into this world naked and that he would depart into eternity in the same condition.

It’s not mine!

This deck is not mine. The house beside the deck is not mine. The clothes I wear are not mine. The property, the cars, the art, the musical instruments? Not mine.

None of it.

How could I ever achieve any real power using borrowed wealth?

Pride is a falsehood. It will ultimately lead to desolation.

The Preacher knew it—he who was considered the wisest of the wise.

“Everything is meaningless,” says the Teacher. “Completely meaningless.” (Proverbs 1:2, NLT)

We work for more than wealth or power. We must!

As it turns out, I have been a plutocrat. Just not in the way the world around us understands it. They’ve never recognized any power, nor any wealth in my hands.

Not much of what is really important will ever make sense to anyone else. And that’s how it goes on this walk we’re taking with our Savior and each other.

We’re not the blind following the blind. But, only because of His gift of sight.

I don’t always get it right. Sometimes, I’m confused by what I’m supposed to do and why I don’t do that.

And still, He gives grace for the journey. No matter how many times I have to be reminded.

You, too?

Maybe you could come by and sit on the deck sometime to talk about it with me.

It’s not mine anyway. And, that’s okay with me.

We could even roast a marshmallow or two over the firepit and share some s’mores.

Now—does that sound like something a plutocrat would do?

It ain’t the heat; It’s the humility.
(Yogi Berra)

Before a downfall the heart is haughty, but humility comes before honor. (Proverbs 18:12, NIV)

God Stoops Low

April 7, 2023April 7, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I went to Church tonight. And I cried.

I knew I would.

I told my friend, the one who rang my doorbell five minutes before I was due to leave, that I probably would. She (not purposely) had reminded me of the man who once was her husband. The memory brought sadness; sadness for separations here on earth and sadness for the separation of death. The loss is temporary, yes, but still painful.

The man to whom she had once been married often cried at church, too. I admire other men who are tender-hearted and not afraid to show it, but I’ve never thought it one of my best attributes. It’s funny how that works.

Still, there it is. I cried.

Singing with my friends, I cried. And, as we took the bread and the wine of communion, the tears flowed freely.

I admit it. My mind wandered as the Pastor shared about our Servant Savior who showed the attributes of God in His suffering. I couldn’t help it.

We have several Spanish-speaking folks in our number, so the main points of the sermon are noted on the overhead monitor both in English and in Spanish.

It was only one letter. A very common one. The letter “s” had been omitted from one of the Spanish words. But, try as I might, I could think of nothing else.

In Spanish, as in English, the word “no” means just that. No. Negative. Not at all.

So, in the context of this particular written sentence, it told anyone reading the Spanish text that Jesus did not show God’s wisdom as He served. That couldn’t be what it meant. Could it?

For several minutes, I heard nothing the Pastor said until, in a split second, the slide on the monitor was changed, adding the “s”.

Oh! Of course! The word was “nos“. In that instant, the meaning became clear. Nos means us! It wasn’t that He didn’t show wisdom—not at all. It was that He showed it to all of us.

All of us.

Tears came once more.

The Pastor said the familiar words again tonight. “On the same night that Jesus was betrayed, He took bread…”

My mind, still wandering a bit, reminds me that also on that same night, before He took the bread, He told His disciples, “Take off your shoes. You are on holy ground.”

Well, perhaps the words weren’t the same as those that Moses heard in the wilderness eons before, but it was true just the same. Not one of the disciples had their shoes on when He finished washing their feet Himself.

And they were, undoubtedly, on holy ground.

I’ve written of this holy ground before but, as my mind wandered further afield during the service tonight, I saw the truth of it anew.

In the presence of our Servant Savior, we are ever on holy ground. For where ever God stoops to serve and save, there it is sacred.

In the garbage dumps of Guatemala, in the halls of political power.

In the tiled mansions of the Upper East Side of New York, in the stinking, fetid shacks of the refugee camps across the Rio Grande.

In the quietness of the forest clearings, in the riotous racket of the championship soccer match.

Wherever God stoops, we stand on holy ground.

And He stoops where we are. All of us.

The word is not “no”.

The word is “us”.

On holy ground, He stoops to all of us.

And, He washes us clean.

And, behold, there came a leper and worshipped him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean. And Jesus put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed.
(Matthew 8: 2-3, KJV)

A subtle thought that is in error may yet give rise to fruitful inquiry that can establish truths of great value. (Isaac Asimov)

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)

Lesson From a Pear Tree

March 16, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I walked out my door a moment ago and stepped into a snowstorm. No—not an actual snowstorm, but the white petals did fill the air. Wind and rain are hurrying the demise of the spectacular festival of pear blossoms.

I strolled over to the ancient pear tree, towering more than 40 feet above me. It is still rife with ivory blossoms, but most of them will come to nothing. No pears, no edible fruit.

It’s not only the wind that will bring spring’s promise to naught.

The tree has outgrown the graft that made it productive in its early years. When I crane my neck to look toward the sky, its beauty is still evident, its size truly awesome, but the branches are barren of the sweet fruit it once offered to those of us on the ground below.

Lovely, but lacking.

Strange. There is a section, growing near the ground, where the blossoms look completely different. Different shape. Different hues.

The trunk is misshapen and gnarled, and the branches are slender here.

But, I know from experience that these blossoms will become buds which, in turn, will produce fruit.

Edible pears near the ground.

Reaching for the sky where it may be seen and admired by all who pass by, the huge branches spread, barren of anything but beauty.

Near the ground, where no one sees and none would remark, fruit comes.

I’d like to be grounded. And useful.

Beauty—true beauty—comes from obedient and humble performance. Gnarled and scarred, we serve.

Bloom where you’re planted.

Looking Ahead—Looking Behind

March 7, 2023March 7, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It seems I’ve used up most of my available words in the last year writing about difficult things. As a consequence, for the last few months, my late-night writing sessions have been replaced by late-night reading sessions.

I want to believe the account of words I have to spend is being replenished in the process, but I’m not convinced. Time will tell.

And perhaps, that explains why I am turning loose of a few of those precious words tonight. Time is passing. Passing at a frightening pace.

As I read late into the small hours of the morning recently, I glanced down at my wrist to see the time. For several years the watch I’ve worn has been a so-called smartwatch, one that not only told me the exact time, but could relay messages from my phone, count the number of steps I have taken in a day, and even number the beats of my heart every minute of every day.

But not long ago I realized that I have tired of the over-abundance of personal information collected and shared by the device. I found my old analog watch on the bedside dresser, replaced the broken leather band, and shook it vigorously a few times to wake it up. It is ticking away on my wrist even as I share my hoarded words here.

But, in that early morning session, I glanced down at my new/old watch and remembered another reason I like it so much.

The hands of the watch indicated that it was 1:45 AM. Or, put another way, it was a quarter to two. In the morning. One might even say, it was only three-fourths of an hour past one.

My point is—the watch shows me more than just what the time is at this exact minute. I can see where I came from on it. I can also see where I am going.

The digital watch can only show me right now. If that had been the watch on my wrist, the numbers would have indicated the exact time and nothing else.

A well-known fiction writer addressed this exact issue in one of his books I remember reading a number of years ago.

Digital clocks…provide the precise time to the nanosecond, but no greater context; an infinite succession of you-are-here arrows with nary a map.
(from Song of Albion, by Stephen R Lawhead)

It’s one of my problems with the information age in which we live. Right now seems to be the only thing we’re concerned with. Our watches show the exact time. Right now. Our news reports are instant, telling us what is happening. Right now. Many of our interactions with friends are by electronic means, informing each other of our present status. Right now.

We live for today, eschewing the past, and barely considering the future. Our sages tell us to forget the past because we’re not going there and to live for today because we may never arrive at any point in the future.

Carpe Diem! Sieze the day!

Even those of us who follow Christ hear it from our teachers. The Apostle Paul said the words, so they must be a life text to hold to.

“Forgetting those things that lie behind, I press on…” (from Philippians 3:13,14)

In one way, they’re not wrong, but the apostle isn’t telling us to ignore the past as we look to the future. He’s telling us to let go of the baggage, the things we cling to as proof of our right to be followers of Christ. He doesn’t call the past garbage, just the deeds we mistakenly think have earned us a place here.

The past matters. It has shaped who we are today. Events—good and bad; interactions—kind and ugly; memories—delightful and horrendous; all have become a part of us. The real us, who we are at our core.

If the past were of no consequence, our Creator would never have inspired men to write the Scriptures. If the future were not for us to be concerned with, He would never have given us the hope of Heaven—would never have encouraged us to throw off the weights that impede our progress daily and to press on toward a certain goal.

Did I say earlier that I only glanced down at my watch in that early morning, not long ago? I meant to say that was my intention.

When I became aware again, that quarter-hour in front of two o’clock had slipped past, the minute hand easing past the top mark on the face.

Time is like that; whether day or night, it flees. Many of the old-time clocks had the Latin motto inscribed on their faces.

Tempus fugit.

I’ll never catch it. Never.

Still, a glance backward now and again gives me confidence to look to the future with hope.

And, strength to face today with purpose.

Press on.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. (Hebrews 12:1, NLT)

“Where did you go to, if I may ask?” said Thorin to Gandalf as they rode along.
“To look ahead,” said he.
“And what brought you back in the nick of time?”
“Looking behind,” said he.
(from The Hobbit, by J. R .R. Tolkien)

Knocked Down, But Not Destroyed

December 16, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

My friend, Nancy, suggested the other day that the cure for the blues was work, so the day after we lost our Tip dog, I determined to get started taking down the fence in our backyard.

I began with the old metal drive-through gate. In retrospect (and with the Lovely Lady’s exhortation in my ear) I possibly should have waited for help. I sometimes need to be reminded that I’m not 39 anymore.

I started out well but ended up pinned on the ground by the heavy gate at some point. I look at that sentence and envision two WWE fakers in the ring with the loser being pile-driven into the canvas at the conclusion. And as I consider it, it even felt a little like that.

I am, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, a glutton for punishment, so the next day I pulled a trailer down to a little town south of us and helped my grandchildren pick up a number of large cut stones from an old fireplace in my sister-in-law’s grandparents’ homestead.

I only moved a few of the smaller stones (much smaller), but still felt as if I have been run over by the proverbial train by suppertime yesterday evening.

I’ve decided that perhaps I may have misunderstood my good friend’s instructions. She probably meant that I should just think about work, instead of actually doing it.

I’m going to try that today, even if it’s not the right conclusion. In my head, I’m going to rake the entire yard this afternoon. I only hope the folks along my street appreciate all I’ll be doing to beautify the neighborhood.

But, switching gears (and attempting to be a little less tongue-in-cheek here), I’ve been thinking a lot recently about sadness and hope. I’ve talked with lots of folks who are in pain. I’ve also spoken with many who are blessed with joys right now.

The realization dawns (repeatedly, it seems, since I need to be reminded over and over) that we’re instructed to “weep with those who weep” no more than we are to “rejoice with those who rejoice.”

Job, in his distress, asked, “Shall we accept good from His hands and not trouble also?” (Job 2:10, NIV)

Our hope is not that all trouble will cease in this life. Our hope is that He will sustain us in our trouble now and that one day, all will be made right.
But, we also live in expectation of good things from our Heavenly Father. In this life.

Good things.

Jesus Himself said, “In this world, you will have tribulations, but be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.” (John 16:23)

It is a vale of sorrows. I’ll not argue.

It’s also a garden of promise. And hope.

You know, when that gate landed on top of me the other day, I sat on the ground for a few moments, contemplating my situation. But, I didn’t stay there.

I stood up and, lifting the gate, carried it back to the storage barn, leaning it against the wall to await its next assignment.

We are knocked down, but not out.

There are good things ahead.

And, maybe another day or two of work to be done.

I might be looking for a little help along the way.

What do you think? You in?

We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed.
(2 Corinthians 4: 8-9, NLT)

“When God gives us tribulations, He expects us to tribulate.”
(Anonymous)

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