I’m Fixing My Eyes

November 15, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I had eye surgery last week.

I suppose it’s the ultimate indicator of age creeping up on me. Though sometimes it seems as if old age is bashing the door down, rather than creeping.

The surgeon removed the lens of my right eye, it having been covered with a cataract that was affecting my eyesight. In its place, a sparkling new lens was inserted, one that is clear and shaped correctly.

I now have measurably better vision in that eye, as well as being able to see colors and light more realistically.

I’m not sure I like it all that much.

I close the right eye, seeing only through my left, and I become almost nostalgic. The difference is striking—nearly dramatic. Immediately, I feel warmth and comfort.

Let me see if I can explain what I mean.

Over time, a cataract on the lens of the eye changes the hue of what one sees. It can eventually become so dark that a person can’t see much at all. That was not the case with my eyes yet.

The change in my eyesight essentially just added a browny-yellow hue to everything I saw. Not enough to obscure anything, but enough to make the view through my eyes more warm and comforting.

Here’s another way to think about it: I take a lot of photos of nature (and bridges). It seems to me that the camera actually changes the images I capture a bit from what my eye sees. Over the last few years, as I process them, I have grown to rely on an app that has the ability to filter the color and light of the photos. I use filters to make the final photo more realistic.

To me. It’s more realistic to my eyes.

One of the filters is called “warmth”. Raising the value of this filter turns the scene slightly more yellow. Maybe even a little browny-yellow.

I like that.

Do you see my problem?

Now, I close my left eye (with its cataract) and open the newly repaired right one. The world changes from warm and comfortable to brilliant and stark.

In another week, I will go back to the surgery center and the surgeon will replace the lens of my left eye, too. I’m not sure that makes me all that happy.

I want to continue to look at the world through my warm and comfortable filters. Brilliant starkness doesn’t appeal to me that much.

That said, I understand that I need to see clearly. And, as I write the words, I remember that our physical eyes are not the only ones in which we need 20/20 sight. We need to see clearly, not just in the physical world around us, but in the spiritual as well.

Am I the only one? Does no one else go through life believing they’re seeing the world as it is, only to be rudely awakened by a different perspective offered by way of a crisis, a conversation, or an overheard comment?

Again and again, we’re sad as we learn of previously hidden illnesses. A beautiful day can turn black in seconds as we hear of tragedy and loss. Folks we thought were doing fine may actually be in the throes of financial disaster.

It would be easy to think all the eye-opening revelations are of sadness and distress. That’s not always the case. Frequently we learn of good news while we’re expecting the worst.

There’s a story in the Old Testament about that. The prophet Elisha and his servant opened their eyes one morning to find themselves surrounded by enemy forces, intent on harming them. The servant, expecting his own annihilation at any moment, was terrified.

Elisha, seeing the world as it really was, prayed for his servant’s eyes to be opened—really opened.

Then Elisha prayed, “O Lord, open his eyes and let him see!” The Lord opened the young man’s eyes, and when he looked up, he saw that the hillside around Elisha was filled with horses and chariots of fire.
(2 Kings 6:17, NLT)

Looking up, the servant saw the armies of heaven, prepared to fight for God’s people. Before, he had seen what he knew to be truth, an army bent on his destruction. Eyes fully opened, he now saw the protection of God’s hand poised to save.

I’m ready for that; ready to see the world around me as God sees it.

How about it? Are we ready to love it as He does, ready to weep when He does, ready to stand firm where He says to stand?

To do all of those, we have to see with His eyes.

For my part, if it takes some mud and spit, as it did for the blind man in Jesus’ day, I’ll take that. Or even letting the surgeon replace the lenses in my eyes.

It’s time to fix our eyes.

I’m still going to use the warmth filter on my photos, though.

Even if they do look a little browny-yellow to everyone else.

I can see, and that is why I can be happy, in what you call the dark, but which to me is golden. I can see a God-made world, not a manmade world.
(Helen Keller)

Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:2, NASB1995)

Let All the Earth Keep Silence

November 7, 2022November 7, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I know it’s that time of the year—the time when my lungs usually revolt and refuse to take in (and expel) the prescribed amount of oxygen. I’m taking steps to stay healthy. And, in case I fail at that, I’ve filled my prescriptions. The rescue inhaler is easily at hand for when it will be required again.

This was different.

Certainly, I couldn’t breathe. Still, I didn’t reach for my inhaler. It would have done no good.

We had just heard the news of a tragedy in a young family we love. A beautiful little girl was dead, and her father had been carried away in a flash flood.

I couldn’t breathe.

In my mind, I saw that beautiful little girl standing on a church platform last Christmas, her two older sisters singing a lovely duet while she just stood smiling beside them in her pretty satiny dress.

She tried. She really did.

She tried just to stand there quietly, but it couldn’t be done. Before they finished, she was dancing, throwing her hair from side to side and moving her hands and feet to the music. And, when they stopped singing, she bowed to the audience and, pointing her toes as she went, danced down the steps from the stage.

I spoke to her mom after the program and told her it was perfect. Perfect.

She laughed apologetically and explained that the two older girls had worked up the song, but to keep the peace had allowed the sweet little one to come up on stage with them. So, she danced. Because she couldn’t sing.

She’ll never do it again. I thought about that and I couldn’t breathe. Perhaps, I’m not the only one.

Another friend reminded us of a song today, one that speaks again and again of the goodness of God. Running after us, it says.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”
(Psalm 23:6, KJV)

I’ve heard the words for as long as I can remember. They’re meant to be comforting. And yet, I can’t help but ask the question little Gretel asked in The Sound of Music when singing about her favorite things wasn’t helping any.

“Why don’t I feel bettah?”

It doesn’t feel like goodness and mercy are following right now. Sometimes, if I’m honest, it feels just the opposite.

But then, I remember words I last heard from the lips of the sweet girl’s daddy, not many months ago now. He—not a preacher—gave one of the most powerful sermons I’ve ever heard, on his favorite book of the Bible, Habakkuk.

A soul-ish book, he called it. One we need to hear with our inner being and not just our heads. He had much to say about the words of the prophet, but these I want to remember, especially now, when I’m tempted to be directed by my feelings:

“The Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him.”
(Habakkuk 3:20, KJV)

And, perhaps it’s time for me to do just that.

But before I do, two things:

The first is, I wonder if you noticed I forgot to finish the verse from the Twenty-third Psalm above. It’s something I tend to do when I’m thinking with my emotions and not my soul. I forget that there is more.

Really. More.

“And I shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever.”

And second, remembering that hope-filled truth, I begin to breathe again as I see the beautiful little girl dancing for her Savior. But then I remember that she gets to sing now, too.

She gets to sing.

With her daddy, she gets to sing.

One can almost hear it from here. Beautiful music.

Goodness.

Mercy.

Following us.

All of our lives.

“Yet I will rejoice in the Lord!
    I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!
The Sovereign Lord is my strength!
    He makes me as surefooted as a deer,
    able to tread upon the heights.”
(Habakkuk 3:18-19, NLT)

Time to Play in the Rain Again

October 25, 2022October 25, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Again. As before, here I am.

The rain falls outside, finally. Months, it seems since it fell.

I should be celebrating. All about me is wet. Hydrated, they call it. At least, that’s what they would call it in the medical profession.

Like the earth, we need hydration. It’s why we drink water. When we are thirsty, having struggled through some grueling course—those obstacles that challenge and stretch us—we drink it. By the gallons, it seems.

So easy. Are you thirsty?

Drink.

I remember it from my childhood days in church, the call to all who are thirsty. Congregations sang songs about it—the thirst and the cure. Preachers shouted the words from the pulpits.

“Ho! Everyone who thirsts,
Come to the waters;
And you who have no money,
Come, buy and eat.
Yes, come, buy wine and milk
Without money and without price.“
(Isaiah 55: 1, NKJV)

What could be simpler?

Are you thirsty?

Drink!

The scripture is a clear reference to God’s grace, His salvation offered freely. Millions, including me, have already satisfied their thirst in that fountain that flows without cost to us.

But, it’s raining now. And, some yet feel a desert inside themselves. Not from the lack of salvation, but from a deficit of joy.

The folks who wept at the reading of God’s Word in Ezra’s day knew that deficit.

“…for this day is holy to our Lord. Do not sorrow, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” (Nehemiah 8:10b, NKJV)

One of my young artist friends who, I think, knows the feeling of being in the desert herself, today described the feeling of the rainy day as gently claustrophobic. It is the certainty of rain—life-giving showers from heaven—flooding the earth, but the unsatisfying reality of watching it from the cloister of her front room.

I know how she feels.

If you’re thirsty, then drink.

Can it be so simple?

When I was a child, I danced and cavorted in the rain. Soaking wet, my playmates and I floated sticks and dug channels in the earth for the runoff.

Joy-filled and water-logged, with no thought for the opinions of others, neither peers nor parents, neighbors nor passers-by, we were saturated with water and a wild love for life.

I want that again.

Who wouldn’t?

And the Teacher said to them, “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.“ (John 10:10b, NKJV)

I am struggling, having passed through what have seemed like insurmountable obstacles over the past weeks and months. My soul is thirsty. Dry.

All around, the rain is falling.

Really. Pouring.

I wonder what I should do next.

For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,
And do not return there without watering the earth
And making it produce and sprout,
And providing seed to the sower and bread to the eater;
So will My word be which goes out of My mouth;
It will not return to Me empty,
Without accomplishing what I desire,
And without succeeding in the purpose for which I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10-11, NASB)

Gifts I Don’t Want

October 4, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I don’t want to write tonight.

Wait. That didn’t come out right, did it? I can hear the murmuring already.

“If you don’t want to write, don’t. We don’t want to read it all that much, either.”

Ah. As the Bard would say, there’s the rub. I’m beginning to believe that when I don’t want to is the very time I must.

But, in these opening words, you’ve been warned.

Read on at your peril. The management takes no responsibility for the outcome, good or bad, happy or sad.

We sat around a circle of friends just yesterday, celebrating the passing of another year for one of them. His wife, at one point in the conversation, suggested that, if we wanted to, we might relate an example of personally receiving a gift, a clear message from God that He loves us.

She told of standing outside her door, admiring the hummingbirds drinking from the feeder she maintains for them. As she stood, motionless, one of them left the feeder and, hovering in the air, looked her right in the eyes for several moments. She held her breath and the beautiful creature came even closer. She almost thought it could have been his way of saying thank you.

We all agreed that truly it was a moment to savor, to give thanks to our Creator for His love and wonder. Then, our friend asked if anyone else wanted to share their “God moment.”

Some did.

I didn’t.

I don’t know why. Or, maybe I know too well. If I do share them, there may be more.

I don’t want any more.

Still, having had 24 hours to consider, I think I will share. With my readers, anyway.

I did warn you.

A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, my phone rang. The lady’s voice was strained and tense. She wanted to know if I was at home. When I answered in the affirmative, she asked if I could come over as quickly as possible.

I rushed over to help my friend, her husband, off the floor where he had fallen and back onto his bed. Then, as she sat beside him, we talked of hardship and growing old, and decisions that were just too difficult to make in the moment.

She cried. I cried. My friend thanked me for coming to help.

It was the last time I would ever see him.

And, that’s my gift from God—my God moment.

I know; it is confusing, isn’t it?

Perhaps it wouldn’t be the right thing to relate at a birthday party. No, perhaps is the wrong word. I should have said, probably. Maybe even certainly.

The moments such as our friend at the party revealed to us—they are, without question, gifts from God. He loves to surprise us with joy and light.

He does.

But life isn’t all about fun; it’s not all about parties. The purpose of our life is decidedly not that we should be happy every moment of all our days here on earth.

I’ve written the words before—the words that begin the Westminster Shorter Catechism.

“The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.”

There! There it is! Enjoy Him forever! That means to be happy, doesn’t it?

Well, no. The thing is, the only way we can enjoy Him is to do what glorifies Him.

We don’t get to pick and choose the parts we like. Truth becomes untruth very quickly when we pick it apart like that.

Long-suffering Job said the words to his wife, millenniums ago:

Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?” So in all this, Job said nothing wrong. (Job 2: 10, NLT)

I don’t particularly like the gifts He’s giving me now. I don’t really want a flood of this type of gift.

Yet, they do come, His gifts of opportunities to serve.

With some regularity, these days.

And still, I believe He uses them to bring about good. His Word says He will. (see Romans 8:28)

I sat beside a hospital bed today and heard the words from the fellow propped up there, this man who is under a death sentence. He lay there, heart racing, sucking in each breath of oxygen through the cannula, tubes strung out of both arms, and he told me how thankful he is for all he has.

Gifts.

Coming down from the Father of Lights.

God moments. All through our life.

He does, indeed, love us.

Whatever is good and perfect is a gift coming down to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens. He never changes or casts a shifting shadow. (James 1:17, NLT)

“Think on these two powerful points: Lean on God in every situation and love others as unselfishly as you possibly can.” (Joyce Meyer)

Next in Line

September 20, 2022September 20, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Sometimes I say things I’m not sure I believe. It’s not a game; I just need to hear the words out loud to be able to decide.

If I believe them or not, I mean.

These particular words, I said for the first time a couple of months ago. We were sitting at a familiar corner in my little town when they escaped from my mouth. Still, I didn’t blurt them; I announced them rather thoughtfully.

I’ve had time to think about them—to play with them in my brain and in my spirit—since then. I’ve decided I do believe them. So last weekend, as the Lovely Lady and I sat at the same corner waiting for the light to change, I spoke the words again.

I may have been a little more forceful this time.

“We’re next. I think I like being next as much as I actually enjoy going.”

She gave me that look. You know.

That look.

I’m certain it was the same look she had given me weeks ago when I said the same words. I suppose she expected—since I hadn’t reiterated it again since then—that I had thought better of the original statement and wasn’t going to repeat it again.

I haven’t.

And I did.

It’s a traffic light I’ve waited for many times. We often shop at the grocery store just past the corner. McDonald’s is on that same corner. When I’ve ridden my bicycle with friends on occasion, it’s a familiar point at which to cross the busy highway.

I’ve studied the progression of the different lanes and the timing of the lights. I know when each lane will begin to move and when they will stop (well, except for those few who invariably blow through the just-changed-red light at the last moment).

Others have done the same thing as I. One can tell by the brake lights that darken as the cars ahead anticipate the opportunity to move on in their journeys. It’s clear in the edging forward that begins as the stream of oncoming traffic begins to wane

When my cycling friends are with me, we’ve been known to start across the highway before the light changes, seeing that the crossing lanes have no oncoming traffic.

We’re next!

I don’t want to argue about my thoughtful statement. I’ve simply come to the conclusion personally that the anticipation, the certainty we’ll soon be moving again in the direction of our destination, is at least as exciting to me as the actual journey.

You see, actually moving entails effort. Sometimes, it even feels dangerous (those red light runners, you know) to enter the flow of traffic again. And, to tell the truth, frequently it’s just more comfortable to sit right where I am.

You’ve seen them, haven’t you? The efficient ones. Checking their lists while they wait. Putting on lipstick. Texting their moms.

Those are the ones I don’t understand. I sit drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, counting down the seconds until the light changes. Those folks, the efficiency experts, often become so enthralled in their idle-time activities that they forget they’re next. Horns will honk. Possibly. We are in the South, you know.

Still, we don’t always enjoy waiting.

Oh, we can adapt; we can fill the time with other diversions, but soon we are absorbed in those undertakings and forget that we’re waiting. Then again, we can sit idle—stressed and worried about what’s coming next.

But, being next means being ready.

Preparation is required for next.

As when driving, one must be set for what lies just ahead. Equipment must be in good condition. Our minds must be alert and primed for action. Eyes open. Reflexes tuned.

Can’t you just feel the adrenaline rush now? I can!

The red light in front of me notwithstanding, I’m ready to go.

Ready and waiting.

We’re next!

Be on guard. Stand firm in the faith. Be courageous. Be strong.
(1 Corinthians 16:13, NLT)

“A subject uppermost on my mind which I wanted most to emphasize…is our customer service philosophy here at Walmart, ‘You’re always next in line at Walmart.'”
(Sam Walton, founder of Walmart, Inc.)

But as for me, I watch in hope for the Lord,
I wait for God my Savior;
my God will hear me.
(Micah 7:7, NIV)

Still in the Tunnel

September 12, 2022September 12, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.

It was just a bit of whimsy, a slogan to print on a magnet shaped like an old steam engine. My dad slapped it on the old Frigidaire over fifty years ago. It still makes me laugh.

Sort of.

Nowadays, it’s more likely to make me think of the other phrase we use commonly, the origin of which is also most likely in the dim history of the railroads.

I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Except, I’m not. Seeing the light yet.

It’s been a dark season. Sadness piled upon dread; covered up in anticipation of worse to come.

I’m not the only one.

Our old friends sat around the table the other night and one of the ladies said the words.

“There are a lot of people dying, aren’t there?”

Nobody really answered her, but I heard a collective hmmm and the table went silent. Each of us, lost in our thoughts, was seeing the faces of absent friends and hearing the voices of people we loved, voices we’ll never hear again this side of heaven.

It’s why I’ve not shared many of my current writings with my friends and social media followers for the last several months. I’ve been seeing some of those faces and hearing many of those voices nearly constantly for a while. And, when one is in dark places, it doesn’t seem the kindest thing to usher others into the darkness.

I’m going to chance it, though. That moment with my old friends made me realize that perhaps we need to talk about it. For a little while, anyway.

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now. About that tunnel.

I’ll admit it; what got me thinking about tunnels was actually a bright spot in a little trip I took with the Lovely Lady recently. We stopped by to visit one of our favorite bridges a few hours away from where we live.

She’s the one who saw it. I was driving, so I would have never seen the conjunction of lovely points of light if it hadn’t been for her keen eye.

“That’s amazing! You have to see it!”

She is not given to flights of fancy, this companion. She’s the one who helps me see reality when I drift away from it (as I frequently do). I’d hold onto all the balloons and float into the sky to oblivion, but she knows to use her trusty BB gun to bring me back down before I hurt myself. I need her.

But on this day, she could hardly wait for the truck to get parked so she could hurry me up the hill and point out the scene. It’s in the photo on this page.

At precisely this spot, one may view the most beautiful highway bridge in the state, under which runs the Missouri Northern Arkansas Railroad, leading over a lovely trestle (above a rushing river), and straight through a thousand-foot tunnel cut through the nearby hillside. That’s the tunnel, there through the railroad bridge, that tiny arched blob of shadow before brilliant light.

The photo doesn’t do the view credit. And yet, we were giddy as we stood there, with the richness of sunlight playing with shade and the drawing together of the individual points of beauty into one single vista.

The moment has passed.

I have spent hours with the photo open on my computer monitor since then. And, as has happened so often over the last few months, the shadows eventually return, even to this place of light and beauty.

I know there is sunshine on the other side of that tunnel. I see it clearly. Still, that blob of shadow fills my vision.

I bet it’s dark in there—there in that tunnel. Even with the end in view, it’s dark and gloomy.

It’s dark in here, too—here in this tunnel I’m making my way through. But, I sense I’m not alone in here.

Even though it can seem so lonely, many of us have brought our tattered pieces of cardboard in and have built little makeshift shelters for ourselves under which we huddle, shivering and shaking, as the trains pass noisily by.

I won’t dwell on the darkness, on the loneliness, on the fear that this passage will be beyond our strength. If you’ve been in here, you already know. Probably better than I.

I find myself asking if the tunnel ever ends—if the darkness ever gives way to sunshine again.

I’m not the brightest crayon in the box; I readily admit it. But, like Mr. Tolkien’s innkeeper, Butterbur, I think I can see through a brick wall in time. And I think I may be seeing a glimmer of that light, finally.

I’m asking the wrong questions.

The apostle, my namesake, suggested in his day that his troubles were temporary and light. More than once, he wrote the words. His point was that we’re aimed for better things, things that will make the events filling our sight today seem minor in comparison.

It doesn’t trivialize our life experiences. The pain, the fear, and the losses can’t be dismissed with the snap of our fingers. We still must endure them; still must make our way forward through the darkness. But, something is waiting at the end, something that will make all the dreadful things we’ve struggled through fade in importance.

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

I stood, here in this dark tunnel, the other day, and I think I finally saw through that brick wall. Momentarily, at least. New questions came to my mind.

Who put this tunnel here? And why?

Perhaps, I’m being simplistic. I don’t think I am.

Tunnels are not made to create hardship, but to alleviate it. They are placed to facilitate progress to the goal, in locations where the conveyance could never—never!—make any headway without them.

And, in my head—and heart—the words resound. Words I’ve mentioned here before.

“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'” (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT)

They are words to encourage us. In the midst of hurting and paralyzing fear, they remind us that there is more.

More.

I’m reminded that the Word is light for our pathway and our feet. I trust Him. I’ll walk in that light.

Traveling to the Light at the end of the tunnel. Step by step, walking in the light He gives for today.

I’ve camped out here long enough. You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead. That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’
(from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

But forget all that—
    it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.
For I am about to do something new.
    See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
    I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:18-19, NLT)

Go Ahead and Camp Out

April 28, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

She was wrong.

My mother-in-law was. The dear lady is gone and can no longer defend her position, but her daughter may take up the argument for her—may have even done so before anyone else reads this—in her absence.

I’ve written before about my first experience playing the piano at my in-law’s house, many years past. A near-stranger in a strange place, I awaited the evening meal with my new girlfriend’s parents.

The beautiful Chickering grand piano stood begging in the living room and the Lovely Young Lady encouraged me to yield to its call while I waited. Sitting down at the keyboard, I noticed a book of arrangements from which I had played in the past.

I started well. I did. I know the starting notes of many songs. Most of them begin simply, single notes in each hand blending and playing off each other, drawing the listener in as the melody is introduced.

It’s the parts that come later in most pieces I am not so sure of. That’s what happened on this occasion. After whizzing through the early parts with ease, I ran up against some of the less familiar—and more difficult—sections.

My hands began to falter and fingers to stumble. Finally, in one difficult section of multiple chords—with notes stacked from the bottom of the staff to the top—I stopped. Leaving the sustain pedal down to keep the last correct chord sounding, I took a breath and a moment to analyze the upcoming chords.

A voice rang out from the kitchen.

“Don’t camp out on it!” came the words.

Until just weeks before she died, she was a piano teacher. She never stopped correcting; never stopped encouraging. She knew that a pianist who developed the habit of slowing the tempo every time the music became difficult would retain that habit for a lifetime.

I never faulted her for her vigilance. I don’t today.

We have phrases similar to the piano teacher’s mantra in common use in our daily life.

“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

“Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.”

“Idleness is the Dead Sea that swallows all virtues.” Benjamin Franklin contributed that gem, along with many others in the same vein.

And yet, there are a few words I want to add to my late mother-in-law’s reproof, as well as to others who would motivate us to higher planes continually. Words to comfort and to heal. Timeless words that have quieted stressed and struggling spirits for centuries.

“Come away.”

The words are not my own, having been uttered by the Teacher who would become Savior. He acknowledged, all those years ago, the toll that constant activity, disappointments, and defeats could take on the humans who followed him.

And He said to them, “Come away by yourselves to a secluded place and rest a little while.” (For there were many people coming and going, and they did not even have time to eat.)
(Mark 6:31, NASB)

I want to tell you they’re words I’ve heeded all my days, taking time to stop and study the music of life, analyzing the hard passages, and developing a plan for going on. I can’t say that.

I have spent a lifetime in an upward spiral of activity and stress, stopping only when I crash into the incomprehensible tangle of problems and quandaries life invariably throws at me. It seems most of us do that.

But He says to take the time to camp out on it. To turn our attention to all that surrounds us and see the beauty in the midst of the chaos.

This morning, I ran into that difficult section again. I took one of our dogs to the veterinarian, thinking I might not return home with him again. Ever. The vet gave me better news than I expected, but the emotion of the morning still hit hard.

I camped out on it for the rest of the day. At first, I berated myself. The poem my dad used to quote played on repeat through my mind.

“Not half the storms that threatened me
Ere broke upon my head…”

Why do I fall for it every time? Why do I worry when I know God wants good things for me? The barrage of questions hit me again and again. I sank down into regret and disappointment.

But, here’s the thing about camping out. We take time, not only to assess the problem but to work past it—to find the way forward.

Better men than I have fretted and despaired. Abraham, Moses, David, Elijah, Peter, even Paul—and a lot more since then. The tangle of life loomed larger before them than their puny intellects could work through.

But, when they took time to look at the issues and to see the provision their God had already laid out for them, the tangle invariably gave way to become a path forward.

It’s the same for us today.

If our troubles seem too much for us, we get to take a minute or two to breathe.

Go ahead and camp out on it. Take time to relax and see His solution.

Come away.

The music will be all the sweeter for it.

Rest.

The Lord will fight for you, while you keep silent. (Exodus 14:14, NASB)

All men’s miseries derive from not being able to sit quiet in a room alone.
(Blaise Pascal)

Safe on the Stairway to Heaven

April 22, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I walked up the stairs again today. And, I cried.

She was with me—the red-headed lady who has climbed with me for most of a lifetime. The stairs didn’t make her cry. And yet, she stood beside me as I looked sightlessly through the liquid prisms in my eyes, out the big windows in the waiting room of the hospital.

I haven’t been in that place since my brother died. I had climbed those stairs again and again for most of two weeks, knowing it wasn’t going to end the way I wanted it to.

Today, a friend was admitted to a room on the same floor. We went, the Lovely Lady and I, to visit. He and his wife, along with their children and grandchildren have been like family to us. I think he’ll be okay.

My tears weren’t for him. Hopefully, that time won’t come for many years.

But, I remembered something today, there on the stairs. It was a conversation I had with my brother, all those weeks ago.

His body worn out, my brother was experiencing some mental confusion in those last days of consciousness. I stood beside his bed, recognizing the fear in his eyes and I said the words to reassure him.

I’ve thought, over and over, about how untrue they were, those words so easily spoken.

Then again, I’ve come to realize the overwhelming truth in them as well.

“You’re safe here. There’s no need to be afraid.”

I repeated the words to him before I left his side that night. He said them back to me as I walked out the door.

“I’m safe here.”

Safe.

I struggle with that word. All around us, folks see danger and build their bunkers. We pad sharp corners and put exploding bags of air in our cars. We buy alarms and lights. We buy insurance and surround ourselves with medical people or natural healers, and all the best advisors we can gather near.

And still, we’re not safe. None of those achieve safety for us.

I didn’t lie to my brother. Even though he was in the hospital under the doctors’ and nurses’ care, he is still gone today. But, I didn’t lie to him.

In those long night vigils and weary daytime watches, I sang the words to him often. I don’t know if he heard them.

But, I did.

Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast,
There by His love o’ershaded,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.

The prolific poet, Fanny Crosby, wrote the words over a century and a half ago. She wasn’t wrong.

There is one safe place. One.

I wish I could assure you troubles won’t overtake you. I’d like to promise comfort—health—prosperity.

I can’t.

And yet, safety awaits. It does.

The name of the Lord is a strong fortress;
the godly run to him and are safe.
(Proverbs 18:10, NLT)

The words translated are safe in that verse literally mean set on high.

Set on high.

Safe.

We’re safe here. In His arms, we’re safe. And we climb the stairs together.

And sometimes as we climb, we’ll cry.

Ah, but we’ll laugh and sing, too.

You’re safe here.

It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if You don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.
(J.R.R. Tolkien, from The Fellowship of the Ring)

He will cover you with His pinions,
And under His wings you may take refuge;
His faithfulness is a shield and wall.
(Psalm 91:4, NASB)

Seeing Clearly Through the Tears

April 19, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are moments when time slows and I see life with a clarity I never thought possible this side of heaven. And by life, I mean in the overall sense of our existence here on earth, not just my life or yours.

I had one of those poignant moments recently. In a season that has been chock-full of poignant moments, not one of which I wanted to live through, for that instant I saw it all a little more clearly than I ever have.

It was a moment that should have been a private one but wasn’t. So many of our vulnerable times happen like that. I wish it weren’t so, but it is.

A man cried. His circumstances were too difficult for him at that moment, and he wept. With his wife there and friends standing nearby, the tears flowed.

Did I say I didn’t want to live through any of those poignant moments? I don’t repent of the words but I do admit that, having lived through them, I wouldn’t trade away a single one of them, not least this one.

I watched his wife’s loving response to his emotion, gently pulling his head to her shoulder; I noted that not one of his friends turned away or expressed disapproval or discomfort.

There may even have been tears in my own eyes as I stood nearby.

The moment passed, but the lesson I am learning is still fresh.

We have believed—mistakenly—that it is impossible to see clearly when our eyes are full of tears.

Those of us who care about such things seem to think the Bible teaches that tears are bad, that they are so horrid God will eventually do away with them forever. (Revelation 21:4)

I have come to believe instead that tears are a gift from above, straight from the heart of a Loving Father who Himself cries.

In times of great sadness, tears are a way for the body to release extreme stress, communicate our sorrow, or even take away pain. It’s a scientific fact; crying releases endorphins, chemicals that actually reduce physical and emotional pain.

A precious gift from a wise Creator who knew we would need relief in our times of sadness.

So, tell me again—Why it is we shame folks as too emotional when the tears fall?

Why is it we tell our children the lie that crying is for weaklings?

The poet, ancestor to our Savior and a man after God’s own heart, made the claim eons ago that his God so valued the tears of His people that He kept a written record of them and even collected the tears in a bottle.

There is, without question, poetic license in the imagery.

It doesn’t change the truth, one I firmly believe, that God values our tears, our laments.

He values them.

In the month since my brother died, I have cried as many tears as at any time in my life. I cried them knowing that my brother is in the arms of the God he loved, but also overwhelmingly aware of his absence from mine.

We all know them—the tears that come with loss. Every one of us has cried tears of disappointment, tears of frustration, even tears of joy. And yet, we are embarrassed by them still.

Jesus wasn’t.

He came to the people who were mourning His friend, Lazarus, and he was deeply moved. After He came to the grave, He wept. It wasn’t a little sniffle, with a tear or two wiped from the corner of His eye. He sobbed out His own loss and the loss of those around Him. (John 11: 1-45)

You know the story. But, may I point out one thing?

Our Teacher—our Savior—our God, was surrounded by His friends in his grief.

I don’t believe for one moment He stood alone at that grave and wept to the air. He was with His followers, His closest companions.

His tears flowed into their shoulders and onto their robes as they gathered around Him. It was the nature of their culture to uphold each other in grief.

I hope we don’t turn away from our friends when the emotion of their sorrow, their disappointments, their loss has them in its grip.

I hope we won’t suggest to them that their tears are displeasing in any way to their God.

Some do.

And yet, others stay close. I received a note just this morning, on the one-month anniversary of my brother’s death, from one I’ve known for many, many years. She lost her own brother just a few months ago and she is painfully aware of the loss of a one-time playmate, co-conspirator, and strong supporter.

Because of the distance between us, there was no shoulder to cry on, no offer of a handkerchief with which to wipe away the tears, but I felt her presence and her love as my tears flowed again.

Weep with those who weep.

Real tears. Shared emotions. Yes, we’ll cry alone in the dark at times. But, not always.

We’ll get through this as we walk each other along the road home.

And, we will undoubtedly have the opportunity to rejoice with those who are rejoicing along the way, too.

Gifts, bestowed by a loving Creator who knows our frame and our innermost thoughts.

And still, He loves us.

Always.

Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.
(Romans 12:15, NKJV)

You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.
(Psalm 56:8, NLT)

How Did This Place Get So Scary?

April 14, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I remember it like it was yesterday. He sat, a long-haired rebel-without-a-clue, beside the calm and picturesque creek, waiting. Waiting for what? He had no idea. But, it was as nice a place to wait as he could think of.

The ancient stone table the skinny young man sat upon wasn’t all that comfortable, but the water flowing through the creek was quiet and calming. And what nineteen-year-old, eight hundred miles from home, doesn’t need to have his spirit calmed?

I love the water. I think I always have, my propensity for accidents in water notwithstanding. I’ve never really been afraid of water at all.

On that day, my waiting would be rewarded by being able to walk a passing acquaintance, a lovely red-headed young lady, to her door at the other end of town. I’ve walked with her many more miles since that day.

But that’s a rabbit trail for another day. Today, I’m thinking about the water.

Quiet and rippling, the kind of stream you want to skip stones across or float on in a canoe, trailing your fingers in the cool wetness. Perhaps, one could even toss a baited hook into one of the deeper pools along the edge, awaiting a tug from a curious bream or bluegill.

We love water. When it’s behaving, we love it.

Last fall, I stood on an old concrete bridge, not fifty feet from where the unwitting young man awaited his future love all those years ago, and I took the photo you see above.

You see why I love the water, don’t you?

But tonight I’m rethinking my admiration, my lifelong delight with water. I’m not so sure anymore.

Why the change of heart?

See for yourself.

I stood this morning on that same concrete bridge and snapped the picture. It wasn’t calm. I wasn’t calm. I was disoriented—discombobulated—as the Lovely Lady’s father would have described it.

The furious flow, rising nearly two feet over the little stone dam, tumbled and roiled down below me, riotously overflowing its normal channel. The sheer motion of the water was terrifying, the volume that passed under the little bridge I stood upon causing it to shake and vibrate.

I’m not sure anyone who fell into that flow would have escaped alive. From where I stood, it was only a couple hundred feet to where the water was forced under a single-lane bridge, continuing on beside the park, moving still faster as the rocky bottom of the creek dropped down again and again.

I didn’t dally on the bridge.

How does that happen? How is it that something I’ve loved for all of my life, something so placid and lovely, turned into a hideous nightmare, ready to consume everything in its path?

There are other things that seem to do that, aren’t there? Families, marriages, friendships we’ve been part of—relationships so calm and loving, so fulfilling. And yet, in the blink of an eye, they can seem to be monstrous, poised to consume all that has been good.

There are so many more situations and things we treasure that turn ugly and terrifying in such a short time. Our work. Our neighborhoods. Our churches.

For years we float in the gentle current, row-row-rowing our boat gently down the stream, and suddenly we’re screaming at our God to wake up and save us before we die.

He will, you know. Save us.

It doesn’t always work in the same way He did it back then. Sometimes, instead of saying, “Peace, be still,” to the waves, he asks us why we’re so afraid of the storm.

And sometimes, He just asks us to trust Him as our stumbling feet carry us on through the roiling water.

I believe He’ll bring us through. The apostle (who my parents thought it would be nice to name me after) suggested that these are only temporary troubles. (2 Corinthians 4:17)

It doesn’t seem like they’re all that temporary. But when we look back at them we’ll laugh at how they terrified us so.

Troubles aren’t eternal. They’re not immortal.

We are.

By afternoon today, the waters in our little creek were already receding, the frightening currents slowing to a noisy gurgle. As if nothing was ever amiss, the stream flows on down to the river it is tributary to, making its quiet way eventually to the Gulf of Mexico, hundreds of miles to our south.

I think I may go stand on that little bridge again tomorrow.

I love the water.

Don’t you?

When you go through deep waters,
    I will be with you.
When you go through rivers of difficulty,
    you will not drown.
When you walk through the fire of oppression,
    you will not be burned up;
    the flames will not consume you.
(Isaiah 43:2, NLT)

Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.
(Charlie Chaplin)

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