Only What’s Real

February 25, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m not sure what it says about the young man’s cognitive abilities, but he asked if I would play my horn for a recording project he’s doing for the local university. At first, I said no, but my resistance faded as the time drew nearer. When the day dawned, I showed up, horn in hand, at the designated location.

I had used the days preceding to prepare, reading through the arrangements and playing them over. I was familiar with the keys, with the accidentals, with the intervals. It’s never good to show up for a session without knowing the material.

They put me in the middle of a big, cold rehearsal hall, surrounded by high ceilings, hard walls, and a concrete floor. I looked nervously at the three microphones around my chair but decided to focus on the music and the task at hand instead.

Blowing a few warm-up notes through the horn, I was pleasantly surprised by the tone of my instrument. Emboldened by the full, slightly echoing timbre, I exclaimed to the young man in charge of the project about the “live” character of the room. Having experienced it himself as a vocalist in the university’s choir, he smiled and agreed that it was a wonderful room in which to make music.

I sat and doodled around on the horn, going over the passages in the music I was to play and attempting an arpeggio or two up and down the range of the instrument. It sounded amazing!

I sounded amazing!

Suddenly, I was excited about doing this project. People were going to hear what a wonderful horn player I was. I would play flawlessly (having prepared ahead of time) and the room would make the sound in their ears amazing!

But then, just before we were to begin recording, the technician strode out of the control room, moving briskly to the back wall of the hall. Not paying much attention, I was surprised to hear the rattle of solid, sound-dampening curtains being closed along the wall. Then, going to each of the side walls, he repeated the process.

Talk about a letdown!

The result was instantaneous. No longer did I hear the soundwaves from my horn bouncing off the walls, the slight delay causing a reverb and broadening effect to the tone. I might just as well have been in my living room at home, playing for the black labs outside the window. It was just me and my old horn.

The recording technician must be accustomed to this. He smiled at my crestfallen features and explained. “What we need for the recording is your horn, exactly as it sounds. If we want it, we’ll add the reverb and big room sound later.”

I nodded and settled in to do what I came for. The session moved quickly and, an hour later, the young man professed to be satisfied with the result.

I wasn’t.

I’ve had a few days to think about it, and I’m still disappointed. And yet, somehow the experience has brought a little clarity to this fuzzy head of mine.

The first thing my mind jumps to is social media. I know that may seem odd, but it should begin to make sense in a paragraph or two.

It’s impossible to look at our most prevalent information source these days without seeing (and reading) things and people that are fake (or at least embellished). Much of the reading we do is sorted through a political or religious filter before it reaches us. The information begins as clean, unvarnished truth, but before we see the words, they’ve filtered through the propaganda of the particular organization from which they come.

The result is confusion and polarization.

On the social side, most of the photos we see can be assumed to be altered, as well.

The cosmetics industry is a multi-billion-dollar business, seemingly in no danger of being replaced by another short-lived fad at any time in the foreseeable future. That said, there are these filters…

In huge numbers, folks are using digital filters that alter their appearance to anyone who happens across their photo or their video as they’re scrolling online. No makeup is required. Simply apply an app that gives the effect they want and instantly the image thousands or millions of viewers see is what the person wants them to see, instead of showing how the subject actually appears in real life.

The result is jealousy and devasting comparisons, leading to poor self-image for many and really bad life decisions for some.

Prettier, older, younger, richer, skinnier—you name it, there’s a way to fool folks into believing your story.

I want folks to believe I’m a better musician than I am. If the room acoustics help with that artifice, that’s just fine with me.

Come to think of it, I want you to think I’m a better person than I am. I’m not above using situations and assumptions to carry on with that pretense. I’m not afraid to use whatever filters are available to modify the image, either.

The problem is, it’s a lie. A not-so-baldfaced lie.

So, now you know what I want.

But here’s what I want to want: To be real.

Pretty simple, isn’t it? Well, it’s simple to say; not so simple to deliver. Or, maybe it’s simpler than we imagine.

This is the bottom line: God has given us the ability to want what He wants, as well as the power to do it. It’s right there in black and white.

For God is working in you, giving you the desire and the power to do what pleases him. ( Philippians 2:13, NLT)

And He sees what’s underneath the powder and paint, hears our real voice without the added effects, and knows our hearts.

Filters down, special effects off, He sees us.

He sees. Us.

And, I’m okay with that. I do want to play the music on the page with a pure tone.

Well—I want to want that.

It’s a start. Time will tell.

Having perfected our disguise, we spend our lives searching for someone we don’t fool. (Robert Brault)

But the Lord said to Samuel, “Don’t judge by his appearance or height, for I have rejected him. The Lord doesn’t see things the way you see them. People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7, NLT)

Outside the Camp

January 18, 2022January 18, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The black monsters in the backyard had been jumpy all morning. The city crews in their noisy trucks were way too close for comfort and the mean man inside the house had already called the two dogs down for their rowdy behavior a time or two.

This was different. The yelping and barking from the black labs had increased from a nervous bark or two to a cacophony.

I stuck my head out the door to shout at them, but saw it was only my neighbor and his sweet granddaughter walking along the border of my yard, so I just spoke to the dogs this time. They ignored me. They often do.

I walked out the front door to say hi to John and his little 4-year-old companion. She immediately let go of the doll stroller she was pushing to run toward me. Her arms were already outstretched in anticipation of the hug she would receive from Mr. Paul.

“I’m sorry, Sweetie. I can’t hug you today.”

She pulled up, her face crestfallen. With disappointment in her voice, she asked her one-word question.

“Why?”

It’s a question I’ve been asking repeatedly in the last few weeks. I think I’m not the only one.

Why?

Our holiday plans were interrupted by the disease. Houseguests did their best to avoid contact with me while canceling their own interactions with the folks they had anticipated visiting for months.

I sat, as is my custom, in the upholstered chair near the front window on one of those mornings. Wanting a different angle for my view across the yard, I scooted the chair back an inch or two.

Crack!

Suddenly, I was tipping toward the window, as the back leg gave way under the old chair. I caught myself on the windowsill and yelped in surprise. Before I could recover, the non-infected residents of the house rushed out from the room they were gathered in.

Struggling to my feet, I laughed, trying to cover up my embarrassment. One of the younger onlookers wasn’t so lackadaisical in her response. My accident with the chair was just one too many in a series of disappointments she wasn’t prepared for.

“Why is everything bad happening to us?” She asked the rhetorical question almost angrily.

There it was again.

Why?

I reassured her (from a distance) that it was only a chair, an inanimate object that could be replaced easily. But it was clear the chair wasn’t the issue. Not the most important one to her, anyway.

I didn’t (and don’t) have an answer to her question. I don’t think anyone does.

I do know this: Disappointment is a recurring facet of this life. How we respond to that disappointment is essential to who we are, and perhaps as important, to who we are becoming.

In trying times, we can choose to retreat inside ourselves, allowing unhappiness and doubt to wash over and paralyze us. Or we can stand firm, perhaps even pushing onward through our adversity.

In some ways, our current quagmire reminds me of a particular class of people in Bible times. From ancient days, folks with diseases assumed to be highly contagious were separated from society. Those with the visible skin condition they called leprosy had to live apart from family and friends.

They were forced to stay outside the encampment or town, separated from everyone they knew and loved. And when they had no option but to pass close to anyone healthy, they were required to call out a word of warning. Just one word.

Unclean.

I felt kind of like a leper when the sweet little girl headed toward me the other day.

Unclean.

But I remember Jesus touched lepers.

He touched them. Not because He had to but because He wanted to.

On one occasion when He came across such a person, the man had the audacity to suggest it himself.

“If you wanted to, you could.”

Jesus did want to. And He did touch him. The unclean one. Touched by the One who had never been anything but clean.

Imagine it!

No more isolation. No more shame.

Outcast no more.

We need touch. We need hugs. We need love.

I don’t know why the bad things happen. Perhaps, I never will.

And yet, it’s okay.

Because we have a Savior who’s not afraid to touch us where we live. In all our sickness and sin, and our ugly realities, He reaches down and embraces us.

And He holds us close.

I’m going to get hugs from the little girl again. Hopefully soon.

No longer outside the camp.

Clean is good.

Suddenly, a man with leprosy approached him and knelt before him. “Lord,” the man said, “if you are willing, you can heal me and make me clean.” Jesus reached out and touched him. “I am willing,” he said. “Be healed!” And instantly the leprosy disappeared.
(Matthew 8: 2-3, NLT)

God will meet you where you are in order to take you where He wants you to go.
(Tony Evans)

Christmas Bells (and a few clunkers)

December 25, 2021December 25, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Late Christmas Eve.

I want to tell you the neighborhood is quiet, but it’s not. The wind is blowing in from the south. It’s not a gentle breeze either.

Even inside the house with the windows closed, I hear it howl. On Christmas Eve, the wind shouts through the oaks that line the neighborhood road. A single step outside the front door reminds me of the temperature.

Nearly sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, says the outside thermometer, even as the mechanism in the old mantle clock readies the energy to strike twelve times on the spring that passes for a chime in the ancient timepiece. I hear it striking faintly as I wander away from the house. There will be no white Christmas here.

Bells. I do hear bells out here. Wind chimes on my house, front and back. I check the ones in the front where I am and they are swinging energetically. The D6th chord the circular pipes make as the clapper makes its rounds is reassuring.

All is well.

Still, I’m not sure.

So, I wander down the street a few feet. There are more bells at a neighbor’s house, and I stop to listen for a minute. When I was in their yard earlier this week, I admired them and found that they have square pipes, not round as mine are.

No matter. They make as beautiful a chord as the one I just left at my place, a G7th, if my ear is to be trusted. But, amongst the dong, dong, dong of the square chimes, I hear a periodic clunk.

I don’t have to trespass in the neighbor’s yard to find the cause. It’s pretty clear that the whole affair, buffeted by the gusting wind, is hitting the porch’s wooden support beam once in a while as it repeats the beautiful chord.

I laugh. I know the feeling. For the last three or four weeks, my life has been wrapped up in playing Christmas music on my horn at various events with other instrumentalists. I just played earlier this evening with a wonderful collection of humans at our church’s Christmas Eve service.

I do. I play some beautiful notes. I don’t think I’m bragging when I say that. But then, the wind (or something else) goes through the horn wrong and a clunker comes out the bell. Some nights, a lot more of them than can be explained away by bad vision, or sticky valves, or even not getting enough sleep last night.

There are some reading this who understand what I mean. Come to think about it, it may be most of you who understand it, even if you don’t play a musical instrument.

Clunkers happen. All our life, they happen.

I used to wonder if God kept track of all my clunkers. In life, I mean; not my horn playing. Even today, in my dark moments, I still do.

He has a lot of those to tally. For me, anyway.

But suddenly, I remember what night it is. And yes, I’m perfectly aware that December the twenty-fifth is almost certainly not the day our Savior came to us as a baby in a smelly stable. But, it is the day we commemorate the event. In the season we consider the great love our Creator God showed for every human in the world by sending His Son.

And, the realization stops me where I stand, listening to the beautiful, tuned chimes as they whirl and gyrate in the unbridled wind.

God Incarnate, Emmanuel, our God With Us, came to earth and was born a baby, not because of our beauty and attractiveness.

He came because He loved us and wanted us to be with Him.

Period.

Or, if you prefer the term our British cousins use—Full Stop.

It is worth a moment or two of consideration. Perhaps, even an hour or—and, I know this is extreme—a lifetime. It might just take that long to take it in.

Clunkers and all, His grace reached down into our midst and gave us—Himself.

Love and Light come down to dwell with us. To die for us. To give us life.

With Him.

Even when things don’t go as we planned. When we fall on our face. When we stand in front of the crowd and let fly a clunker to beat all clunkers.

He wants us to be with Him. Forever.

So, let the wild bells chime! Let the trumpets blast! Let the loud voices rise!

A Child is born.

Clunkers will be remembered no more.

Beautiful music to my ears.

To His, too.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.
(from the poem Ring Out Wild Bells, by Alfred Lord Tennyson)

God showed how much he loved us by sending his one and only Son into the world so that we might have eternal life through him. This is real love—not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.
(1 John 4:9-10, NLT)

Every One a Child

December 15, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

My life for the last couple of weeks has been overshadowed by the Big Event. Playing brass music for the local university’s Christmas service is still cause for nervousness and stress in this veteran of almost forty years of the program. But, that’s all over now.

I expected to write about it today. I sat down to do just that, but it seems the story doesn’t want to be the subject of my mental wanderings just yet.

Instead, I want to talk with you about children. Babies. Toddlers. Teenagers. Ninety-year-olds.

All children.

Why are you wrinkling up your forehead like that?

Oh. Ninety-year-old children. I know. We’ll get to that soon enough.

Sunday night, a day after the Big Event was over, the old guys (and one young lady) in the brass ensemble played one last time, this event—my church’s annual Christmas program. Everyone was welcome to share what they had prepared. No pressure. Encouragement and approval for every performer, young and old, was guaranteed.

I had my worst outing of the whole season, missing more than my share of notes, but heard not one word of criticism. I expected nothing less from this joyful crowd. But what my ensemble did really wasn’t noteworthy on this night.

The beautiful little girl whose sisters were singing a duet was. She added to the music with her lovely dancing on the stage. Mama was worried she’d jostle the guitar-playing sister’s arm, but she was careful not to, pirouetting and flouncing in her own space. Her face beamed as she offered her talent to the Baby King.

There were so many others; there is not enough room here and you don’t have the patience for me to mention them all. The stage filled with kids in the pageant; a few shy beyond showing their faces, others standing on the steps and waving to the crowd. One after another, they brought their gifts, some flawed, some nearly perfect. All were met with approval from the folks who listened and watched.

Piano duets and solos soared—or limped—through all the notes. Vocal offerings followed the same pattern. Joyous applause was the inevitable result.

Ah, but look! The red-headed young man mounts the steps to the stage and, brushing the shock of hair from his forehead, begins a difficult arrangement of Rise Up Shepherds and Follow at the piano.

The jazz-voiced chords are difficult to shape the hands to and the arpeggios from bass to treble and back again require exact positioning of the fingers. There are some starts and stops along the way, but it is all brought to a triumphant ending, and with a flourish, the last note rings out from the big concert grand piano.

With a joyful thumbs-up to the whistling and cheering crowd, the young man strides to the steps, a grin affixed, permanently it would seem, to his lips.

His friend would follow a few moments later, as he and his dad offered up their version of Little Drummer Boy. Dad, with his guitar, sang each verse from the stage, while his son, smiling broadly the entire time, marched up and down each aisle tapping his sticks on a small drum hanging by a cord around his neck. As the song neared an end, the young man mounted the steps and stood, still striking the drum, behind his dad.

It might have been just a little bit of laughter in his dad’s voice that caused his voice to break (but I think there was more to it) when the words “then He smiled at me” came from his mouth. The young man was beaming from ear to ear himself. He didn’t stop beaming as he bowed from the waist, not once, but three times to the thunderous applause.

The two young men are friends and peers. Both have Down syndrome but are ever anxious to learn and share new things. Their joy is contagious; our desire to encourage them in it, completely understandable.

Christmas is for children. I’ve heard it again and again. I have always—in the past, anyway—disagreed.

Well? Surely, it’s obvious. The Christmas story is for all the world. The Gospel of Grace is freely offered to all who come to the God-who-became-a-baby.

Adults. Children. Teenagers.

Christmas is for all. It’s more than presents and carols; more than candy canes and decorations; more than tales of Santa Claus and of talking snowmen. It is.

So much more.

But—and I can’t get past this—our God began His rescue mission as a baby in a manger. He was helpless and dependent. Our Savior.

God came as a child.

And, when the child became a man, He shocked His followers by telling them the only way they could come to His Father was as children. Helpless and dependent. Lost.

Lost.

I’ve forgotten something.

Oh yes. Her. I didn’t really. Forget her, I mean. It’s just that there is pain. And tears.

But there is joy too. So much.

She climbed the steps carrying a violin. Helped by an older man, she ambled over to the piano where the Lovely Lady who lives at my house waited. Leaning over, clearly confused, she handed the violin and bow to the beautiful redhead. A bit confused herself, the pianist talked to her for a moment to reassure her, then handed the violin back to her.

There were notes from the piano and a tone drawn timorously from the violin. Then, as the piano began to play the first notes of Joy to the World, the melody also flowed from the violin. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter.

When the last notes faded down to nothingness, the crowd cheered and applauded louder than ever. I wiped the tears and smiled at the Lovely Lady as she returned to her seat beside me.

Christmas is for children.

The violinist has lived nine decades. She was recognized for many years in our fellowship as a wise woman, a source of advice and wisdom for many young mothers and middle-aged empty nesters. The love and respect she knew from all were well deserved. And she reciprocated those qualities many times over.

For the last several years, we’ve watched her change as an illness has robbed her of memory and wisdom. She still beams as I greet her, but my name is not on her lips anymore. That kind nature has not been lost, but there is no gleam of recognition in her eyes, nor personal bits of conversation when we speak. And therein lies my sadness.

Ah, but the joy is there, too. I heard it in the voices and applause when she finished playing. I feel it when I realize that even in this time of the dear saint’s life, a second childhood if you will, she knows her God and Savior.

Her husband, constantly at her side, related that as my brass group played the instrumental prelude earlier in the evening, she sang every carol. It wasn’t just humming; she sang the words and the tunes.

She does. She still knows her Savior and He knows His dear child.

Christmas is for children. Old and young.

It’s for the Infant, weak and helpless, who was laid in a manger all those years ago.

It’s for the little girl, dancing, carefree, on the stage beside her sisters.

It’s for the young men, adult in age but children in spirit, who will need the care of others their whole life, but who will always have more to give than they ever take.

It’s for folks like you and like me, sometimes arrogant in our certainty, but more often, childlike, coming before a God who knows us. He knows us and still, He loves us.

It’s for the old ones, who have lost the ability to remember and to function as they once did. The Creator of all that is has never forgotten them. Ever.

He won’t forget us either, as we come weak, helpless, and lost.

He became like us, that we might become, one day, like Him.

Christmas is for children.

I pray I’ll be one all my days.

I pray the same for you.

For unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given…
(Isaiah 9:6a, NKJV)

But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.”
(Matthew 19:14, NLT)

Christmas Begins Again

December 9, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I sat in that church sanctuary again last Sunday evening. You know—the one I had never been to before. I never expected to go there again. But the Lovely Lady needed to make a return visit. I needed to be with her.

What I didn’t know was that I also needed to be with that group of people. It wasn’t just the choir this time. The sanctuary was filled with bodies. Old ones. Young adult ones. Little children’s bodies.

These weren’t my people. I worship in a building filled with chairs instead of pews, where a church calendar is barely acknowledged (I remember Christmas Sundays when the pastor carried on with his expository series in Romans, just as if it were any other Sunday), and where the impact of items in the sanctuary is more functional than symbolic.

The service was all symbolism. All of it. Even the music. There was a lot of that. The Lovely Lady played her flute with the choir. Her brother played the pipe organ. There were guitars and drums. And an accordion. Along with the piano, they all combined to draw us into worship.

Did I say these weren’t my people?

They were. They are.

How have we decided we are not related? When did we begin to determine our relationships by differences in style? In doctrinal differences? In musical preferences?

I sat in that sanctuary, a stranger surrounded by family members long estranged.

And we worshipped together.

Together.

If Jesus does not bring us together, pushing aside our differences, are we truly following Him?

If love and kinship in Him do not still draw us to each other, how will we ever worship together in eternity, in that great gathering around His throne?

“Oh come let us adore Him.
Worship Christ the Lord.”

Adore.

Do we?

Will we?

No Strangers Here

November 12, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m sitting in a church sanctuary, waiting for the Lovely Lady to finish a rehearsal. It’s a place of worship we’ve never been in, but somehow, we’re not feeling out of place.

The beautiful redhead is perched, with perfect posture, at the Steinway on the stage, taking instructions from a choir director she had never met before fifteen minutes ago. The folks in the choir loft are singing as she plays, while the director waves his hand in the air. She doesn’t know any of the singers, either.

It’s baffling. As if they have known her for years, they sing in tune—and in time—with the music that comes from her hands. Beautiful music, from both choir and piano—from strangers amalgamating their abilities and knowledge to achieve a goal.

Music, in circumstances that would cause us to anticipate chaos.

I have seen this more times than I can remember. Complete strangers, from all walks of life, come together with a common bond. A love of music, combined with an intimate understanding of the rules for making it—what we call theory—is all it takes.

I’ve played in orchestras, in quintets, in brass choirs, and in community bands. I’ve sung in church choirs, in small ensembles, and in mass choirs.

In each situation, we read the notes on the page, we hear the voices and instruments around us, and we follow our conductor.

No one asks about how much money we make. What our political beliefs are. What our cultural background is.

Together, we just make the music. Beautiful music.

I’ll admit it. I’m confused. No, not about the music. I’m confused about other situations in this world we live in.

There, the music is not so beautiful. Not beautiful at all.

And yet, the solution seems so obvious.

It does.

Maybe, we need another rehearsal or two.

A little practice at home wouldn’t hurt, either.

There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus.
(Galations 3:28, NLT)

So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.
(John 13: 34-35, NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Fragile. Handle With Care

November 8, 2021November 8, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I felt it. Every time I opened that big, heavy door to the shed—packed to the rafters with yesterdays—I felt it. The weight. The guilt. The helplessness.

It all started fifteen years ago. I was the proprietor of a reasonably successful music store in our little town. In the course of my work, I received requests for help with a variety of issues on an almost daily basis. Most were easy and painless.

This request was a little more involved, but I had no reason to be concerned. The customer telephoned, asking if I would mind shipping an instrument across the U.S. to one of his organization’s clients. I was involved with many internet transactions at that point and thought it would be easy-peasy. I’d simply box the instrument before weighing it to get a quote on the shipping and, upon receipt of the funds for costs, would send it on its way.

Glibly, I told him to bring it in.

The owner of the instrument (the one across the country, not my customer) seemed not to be interested in easy-peasy. She assured me she would send payment when I notified her of the cost, yet never responded. Again and again, I attempted to communicate with her about it, but to no avail.

I shoved the box, with its fragile markings all over it, into a back room. For ten years.

One more time during those ten years, I attempted to contact the owner but received no response. When we closed the store five years ago, we moved the remaining unsold merchandise and unclaimed items into the storage barn.

I’ve hardly touched any of those items in the years since. And yet, every time I have walked into the barn-shaped building, the sense of guilt, with its accompanying feelings of failure, has weighed heavily on my mind and soul. I didn’t even have to know where it was in the jumble of boxes and storage tubs; I felt it. I knew it was still there—mocking me—taunting me.

Failure isn’t an easy thing for me to admit.

I want my life to be a success story. Having achieved every goal I set out after, without a single black mark against my account, I will be able to die without shame.

It won’t happen.

A couple of weeks ago, I spoke with the Lovely Lady as we were driving. I shared with her the bold plan I had for resolving the issue once and for all. She wondered why I hadn’t thought of it years ago.

One day last week, I put my plan into action. You’ll laugh at the simplicity. Perhaps, you’ll laugh at how obtuse I have been. Mostly, you should laugh at my pride.

It’s the same pride that has kept me from admitting a small failure for fifteen years, allowing it to take up residence in my spirit and to steal my joy. Pride that stopped me from putting an end to the guilt and fear years ago.

The cure for my dilemma was simple. Digging around in the storage barn for a few moments, I located the shipping box. It was easy to find, with all its fragile stickers. I carried it into my shop and opened it, disposing of the styrofoam peanuts that scattered as I flipped open the end flaps.

Wait. I’m making this sound harder than it was.

What I did was this: I took the instrument back to the organization it came from. The man who brought it to me has long since moved on, but I set it on the counter and, admitting my long-term failure, gave the responsibility back to them. They said they were happy to accept it, promising to find the lady and resolve the situation.

Done. Finished. Out of my life.

Do you know how good that feels? To be free from chains I have felt for a decade and a half? I even sang in the car as I drove home.

Later on though, as I told the Lovely Lady of my action, tears came. I don’t know why; they just came and I couldn’t talk about it for a while.

I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now. Some realities have come into focus for me.

The first reality is that I don’t want to admit any of this to my friends and readers. Somehow though, that’s not the way this works. Catharsis is only as effective as it is complete. I don’t want to carry any part of this with me—except for the lessons learned, that is.

The next reality is that all of us will experience similar situations—times when we have failed, but can’t (or won’t) admit it and move on.

We all have secrets and guilt we carry with us as a constant companion.

I remember reading it in a friend’s feed on social media some time ago: “Today, I ate my emotions,” she said. I know she was talking about food and overeating as compensation for feelings. But I can’t help thinking there’s more to it than just diet.

We stuff emotions down our throats figuratively, too. Swallowing them down, thinking they’ll never be seen again, we hide our past. I’ve learned something through this particular episode in my life. It’s not a new realization, simply a reiteration of truth I may have known most of my life.

We’re not eating our emotions. They’re eating us.

From the inside out, they eat us. Day by day, affecting our relationships, our productivity, our outlook on life. If we let them. And finally, we have no choice left but to recognize the danger, the feelings of guilt, the dread of facing our failures and weaknesses head-on.

I look at the box in the recycle bin, fragile stickers on every surface, and I wonder; how is it that we, hardened and tempered by life’s experiences, have become so very fragile ourselves?

I don’t want that to be true. I don’t want to break at the slightest pressure in the wrong place. I don’t want the tears to flow anymore—don’t want the despair and hopelessness to rise to the surface, uninvited.

And yet, there it is. My throat tightens even as I write this. On that recent afternoon when the years-long matter was settled, my body trembled like an old man’s as I realized that I was finally free of the chains of the obligation. (Yes, I know I am an old man, I just don’t have the shakes on a continuing basis yet.)

But there’s another thing I’m learning as I age. I’m still finding that the capacity of our Heavenly Father to forgive and comfort us in those moments when we recognize and confess our failures and sins is inexhaustible. His love for us, even in our weakness, never ceases.

And I’m remembering my need, as an old-timer once suggested to me, to keep short accounts. Promises made need to be kept as quickly as possible. Mistakes should be rectified and apologies offered without delay.

The Apostle for whom I am named said it clearly:

Owe no one anything, except to love one another, for the one who loves his neighbor has fulfilled the law. (Romans 13:8, NET)

I could never have imagined that the favor I promised to my customer all those years ago would be impossible for me to deliver on. I certainly didn’t anticipate the mischief it would get up to in my very soul over time.

And yet, I could have admitted defeat many years ago and saved a lot of grief. I’m guessing the Lovely Lady wishes I had done that. Folks in your life might wish the same thing.

I think I’ll try it for a while.

Keeping short accounts.

I wonder who else I owe?

God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
(Henry Ward Beecher)

For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
so great is his love for those who fear him;
as far as the east is from the west,
so far has he removed our transgressions from us.

As a father has compassion on his children,
so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him;
for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.
(Psalm 103:11-14, NIV)

A Chainsaw is Not an Eraser

October 12, 2021October 12, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s a melancholy sort of day. You know, one of those days when things are going okay, but even the triumphs are clouded with a kind of sadness. One of those we got the rain we really need last night, but the storm sent too many of the waiting-for-fall leaves sailing prematurely kind of days.

It all started when my son-in-law pulled the chainsaw out of his van. I’ve marveled many times at what a wonderful labor-saving invention the gasoline-powered saw is, but, in all frankness, I don’t remember ever being joyful after hearing one run. I’m never ecstatic when considering the outcome of its skillful wielding.

And yes—I did request that he bring the tool with him. I’m even the one who gave him the instructions regarding what needed to be done. I angled my hand alongside the limb and indicated the direction of the cut.

Just one cut.

The hackberry tree is as nondescript a tree as you could find on our street. The graceful maples are so much prettier, especially now that fall is upon us. The pin oaks tower above the ratty hackberry, putting it to shame by their girth and height, as well as their ability to provide shade along the lane. Even the sweet gum trees, with their annoying and spiny gum balls, are spectacular in their display on any given day.

But this particular hackberry tree…

I gather my thoughts and I begin to understand my wistful mood.

You see, the tree has hurt me so many times. And so much. It had to be done. I’m sure it did.

I stand just over six feet tall. The tree has a limb that juts out from the sturdy trunk at about sixty-eight or -nine inches off the ground. If my math is correct, that means I must duck about four inches to move under it when I’m working in my yard with a lawnmower or trimmer.

I don’t always. Duck, that is.

So, I hit my head solidly on the branch about twice a month. The last couple of times it has happened, I’m sure I heard little birds tweeting. And I saw stars. Really. Stars. On a summer’s afternoon.

If I had been a pro football player, they would have taken me into a tent to run the “protocol”, checking me for a concussion. I’m fairly sure there hasn’t been one. Yet. Still, I don’t think I can bang my head many more times without doing some kind of permanent damage.

Besides that, it’s embarrassing. The Lovely Lady has no sympathy left for me (and who could blame her?). But, more to the point, I’m worried about the entertainment the neighbors are getting for free every time I walk under the tree and then back out, rubbing the top of my head. I just know they’re laughing at me each time it happens.

So, yes. I did ask my son-in-law to bring the saw and lop off the branch. He’s a good man, who understands the need to save face (or the top of one’s head).

The limb now lies in my brush pile awaiting the next collection day.

I should be happy.

But the limb is in the brush pile. And as much as I want that to make me happy, I’m sad about it.

You see, having the limb lying in the brush pile means that my grandchildren will never again hang from it like a monkey bar. They’ll never sit on it, side by side, giggling and teasing each other. It will never again, some beautiful spring evening, be a perch for the girls to stand on while their brothers stand impatiently below, waiting to have their photo taken by Grandpa.

I’ll never again hit my head on that nasty branch.

They’ll never again play and cavort on it.

It’s a melancholy sort of day.

And so, in my not-happy/not-sad state of mind, I consider life. I do that a lot. It could be my age. It could be my nature. Regardless, I scan my memories in a this-is-your-life type of review.

It’s not a new thought that comes to me as I cogitate. Rather an old one, I believe.

Joyful events—and sad—are sprinkled throughout the span of our years.

It’s a guarantee. And both have a result in our spirits.

A cheerful heart is good medicine,
but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.
(Proverbs 17:22, NLT)

It’s not fair for us to insist that the people in our lives be happy all the time. Life happens to all of us. It happens to each of us on a different timetable.

Often, when I’m sad, the Lovely Lady is joyful. And vice versa. It’s a good thing. I could be resentful, but there is nothing to resent. In a way, I believe it’s our Creator’s way of giving us balance. And comfort.

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

We—human beings—are intended to complement each other. We sympathize with each other. We rejoice with each other.

While we feel what we feel, we minister.

As far as the tree goes, today is not mowing day, so I mourn the limb’s absence. I suppose it’s the rapid passing of childhood I lament most of all. Truth be told, I would never have taken it down if the children still climbed the tree with any frequency. They’ve outgrown that. Still, it makes me sad.

But, come the next time I work in the yard, I’ll rejoice. No more pain! No more embarrassment! No more holding the top of my head as I berate myself for my forgetfulness.

I’m happy to report that the chainsaw is not an eraser. It can never take away my memories, either of the children playing or of my foolishness.

Life goes on. Happy times. Sad times.

We celebrate. Together, we celebrate.

We mourn. Together, we mourn.

It’s a good arrangement.

Of course it is. He made it so, just for us.

Happiness and sadness run parallel to each other. When one takes a rest, the other one tends to take up the slack.
(Hazelmarie Elliot)

I Once Was Lost…and Blind

September 30, 2021October 12, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It wasn’t that great a day today. One of those Alexander kind of days, in fact. You know—a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Well, it wasn’t all that bad. Except, I lied to a neighbor. I did.

The day actually started well. The heat and air crew came again to finish installing our new central air unit in the utility room, a different location from where the old one had been in the family room/den. The main reason for the move is that my aging ears can no longer hear what Gibbs is saying to McGee on the big screen TV when the A/C is running. I was happy the fellows were here.

But then there was the gas line that couldn’t be moved. (We’re not plumbers, you know.) And the ductwork that wouldn’t go above the ceiling. (Maybe, just build a little box?) And the return air vent has to be situated next to the dining room table now, so my old ears won’t be able to hear what my granddaughter is saying to me across the table.

I told the HVAC tech that none of those things would be a big deal. We could work around them. At least I can hear Gibbs now.

It was the truth.

Later, my son sent a note to ask if I could eat lunch with him. You don’t know how much those times mean to me, the moments when we sit, just the boy (he hasn’t been a boy for many years) and his old dad, across the table from each other and share our lives. I had to tell him not today. The HVAC guys, you know.

I told my son it didn’t matter. We could do it another day.

It was the truth.

Some young friends who have just returned from a few years abroad asked me if I could break away long enough this afternoon to look at a piano they were hoping to buy. I had looked at the photos and the description of the piano they sent and thought it had promise. The HVAC guys were finishing up, so I went with my friends. I just knew this would end up well.

The piano was a complete bust, having a catastrophic defect. I told them to keep looking. They thanked me profusely for helping them avoid a bad purchasing decision.

I told them it was nothing. I was happy to help.

It was the truth.

Sitting in an easy chair at home later, I looked out the window and saw a small dog running along the street. It looked familiar. I was almost certain the dog belonged to one of our neighbors, an older widow a couple of doors down. It never runs loose, so I headed out the door after it.

When it ran into another neighbor’s yard, I called out to that neighbor who was working in her flower garden. She agreed with me about who the critter belonged to, so I jogged to the owner’s house while the other lady tagged after the dog, who would not come to us when called.

By the time the older neighbor and I returned, the shaggy little canine had headed downhill to the bottom of the gully that carries rainwater from our neighborhood to the creek nearby. It was too steep for the dog’s owner to get down to it, but I expected the other younger neighbor would have picked up the little thing and carried it out. The dog is mostly blind and couldn’t see well enough to find the way up itself.

“She didn’t want to be picked up,” was the terse explanation we got when we asked.

I sniffed. Didn’t want to be picked up! I’d pick her up!

I did try. She didn’t want to be picked up. Really.

She might have been blind, but she knew the hand that touched her sides wasn’t a familiar one. Instantly, she nipped at it. I pulled away just in time. Talking calmly and letting her smell my fingers, I tried again. This time, the tips of my fingers right in front of her sightless eyes actually felt the sharp little incisors brush along the skin as she snapped them closed.

I left her on the ground.

The dog’s owner stood and called to her and with the other neighbor and me acting as deterrents to her doubling back, she made her way slowly up to level ground. When the older lady bent down to pick her up, there was no snapping or nipping at all.

As we parted ways, the grateful lady worried about the damage the dog might have done.

“She didn’t hurt you at all, did she?”

I replied that I wasn’t hurt in the slightest.

It was a lie.

To be clear, there was no blood. The dog’s teeth hadn’t caught any flesh. But here’s the thing: Dogs love me!

They do. I’ve petted German Shepherds and Doberman Pinschers, Great Danes and Saint Bernards. Why, there’s even a huge, muscular Pit Bull down at my brother’s that thinks my lap is where he belongs when I sit on the couch there. But this little lost and blind Shih Tzu, heading downward to certain peril, only wanted to hurt me when I was merely trying to help. She rejected my advances altogether.

Of course, I’m hurt.

It was the worst thing that happened to me all day. In a day filled with disappointments, nothing matters more than that this little dog wouldn’t let me be her savior.

Oh.

I think I’m going to stop writing now. Perhaps I’ve said enough.

Well, maybe just this:

There is a Savior. He came to help us—to show us the way. Blind and lost, we lashed out at Him.

And we did draw blood.

I wonder if it still hurts.

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!
(Matthew 23:37, KJV)

Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.
(Revelation 3:20, NKJV)

Life needs Structure, After All

September 28, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The message arrived at 4:53 yesterday morning. Through the haze of slumber, I heard the chime announcing it and rolled over, assuming it could wait.

It did.

When I had brushed my hair and finished a cup or two of coffee (a few hours later), my brain caught up and I read it again. The message had come from one of the Lovely Lady’s relatives back East.

She wanted a picture or two of a barn. I knew which one she meant without need of explanation. Of course, she meant the barn behind my house.

She had told some friends in the big city of her small-town roots and of chucking rotten potatoes at the old structure when she was a kid. I suppose she needed photographic proof that it was undamaged by her malfeasance and still standing after all these years. She’s no kid anymore.

Back then, her dad would hand her a few potatoes he had dug from the garden. Perhaps they had rotted in the ground or, as likely, they had sat on the shelf in the utility room for too long. Either way, the only thing they were good for was fodder for the cows in the field. As she saw it, she could practice her throwing skills at the same time.

The cows would get the benefit either way. And the thwack of the spuds on the tin roof was so satisfying. It wasn’t as much fun if they only splatted against the pine siding. One way or the other, they ended up on the ground for the cows.

The old barn is a constant in my life. Even though I never saw it until I was nearly two decades old, its presence in my history goes back quite a few years before that. But we’ll get back to that later.

One of my favorite photographs was taken by the Lovely Lady in the mid-nineteen-eighties behind the house where we now live (the same one in which she grew up). My young daughter and I had wandered back to look at Dr. Weaver’s cows, the marvelous creatures being a wonder to the little tyke.

As the sweet little girl and her daddy gazed out at the cows, we couldn’t help but see the old barn back behind. Dr. Weaver’s old tractor was parked in a bay on one side, the hay and feed the cattle would need to see them through the coming winter on the other side.

Tonight, as I contemplate the photo again, I wonder if there could have been just the barest hint, perhaps even a faint aura, of the children who would be born to that little girl decades later hanging in the air that evening, as we gazed unknowingly into the future together.

But no. It was probably just the cows getting a little too close to the barbed-wire fence. No sense in getting all sappy about it.

I’ve been happy to take a photo or two with the little girl’s children beside the old barn in the last year or two. They seem to be as attached to the old thing as I am.

I watched the city crew put in a new utility line underground along the edge of the field over the last week or so. Somehow, to me, it seems a foreshadowing of what is to come. The big machines pound and torture the earth, the vibrations shaking the ground underfoot. The old barn seems just a little more fragile than it was only days ago.

Change comes. We can’t hold it back.

But, not yet. The barn is still standing. Right where it was seventy years ago when my father first set foot in it.

Oh. Didn’t I tell that part yet?

Years before I was born—before my parents had even met—that young man came to this small town to visit his brother and sister-in-law, who were attending the local Christian college. They were simpler times, vegetables shared from nearby gardens, meat from the college farm, and milk coming from a college professor who had a couple of Jersey cows that he milked in his barn.

In the sturdy wood and tin barn—yes, the very one—back behind his native-stone house, the professor of science milked the cows and sold the bounty they provided to the married college students. My father and his brother stood one evening waiting for their share.

Taking the full glass jug Dr. Wills handed them, they turned to make the trip back to the married student housing, their feet carrying them right across the front yard of the house the Lovely Lady and I live in today.

Some things in our lives are constants, even if we haven’t always been able to see them.

The physical, tangible objects change over time, aging and deteriorating as the years and the elements wear on them. Eventually, they will fall. All of them will fall.

Yes, the old barn, too. It has been a bit neglected for some years. The cows are only a memory; the garden in which the potatoes grew has sprouted a beautiful little house in recent years. Time passes and many treasures are lost along the way.

There are other things, not so temporal, we leave to our loved ones. The list is long.

Some items on it are not the kind of things we like to think of; prejudice, bad habits, the inability to control anger come to mind immediately. Others will come to mind as memories take over. These can take a lifetime to erase or, possibly, only to bring under control.

But among the lifelong gifts we give to our children, our families, and our loved ones is one I remember the best from a young age in my own life. It’s one I hope I passed on as a legacy—hope I’m passing on still.

My father and the red-headed lady he loved gave me the gift of knowing their God. They passed on to those who were close to them not only their faith, but also the certainty that theirs was a God who cared for them in a real and personal way.

Beyond the astonishing grace that provided a way to be reconciled with Him, He loves us and wants good things for us. He knows us better than we know ourselves.

They were certain of it and helped us to find it out for ourselves. Our conversations were full of a God who was part of our everyday lives.

I’m no longer surprised by the “coincidences”, the unexplainable, the unseen hand of this God. If you look, the evidence is all around.

You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

I won’t argue free will and predestination with anyone. I don’t know enough about the subject to have a dogma attached to it, save this:

For those who follow Him, there is a path prepared.

I have no great insights into finding His will, except to run hard after Him. That said, even when I have run hard away from Him during a few periods in my life, He has continued to work out His plan.

So when, at age nineteen, inexplicably drawn away from my home in south Texas to a little town in northwest Arkansas that I had never heard of until a year or so before, I packed up everything I owned in my Chevy Nova and took (as Mr. Lewis would have said) the adventure that came to me.

In the shadow of the old barn my father had visited thirty years prior, I wooed and won the Lovely Lady’s hand. Still in its shadow, we began to raise our children and made lifelong friends.

And now, again in its shadow, life slows, the path still before us. God never stops drawing us, one step at a time, until that day we’ll stop wandering.

And we’ll be home.

We need constants.

It turns out that there is, indeed, a thread, a continuous presence in my life.

It’s not the old barn. Much as I enjoy that old structure, it has only been a part of the landscape.

From my father’s steps into the barn seventy years ago, up to today, when I stand at the useless old barbed-wire fence and gaze across the field at the dilapidated old shed, the only true and lasting constant in life has been the hand of God.

Leading, protecting, pushing, but most of all, holding.

Safe.

I want to leave a legacy, something for folks to remember me by.

I hope it’s Him.

Just Him.

And if—at the end of it all— there’s an old barn somewhere nearby, I’ll be just fine with that, too.

Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.
(Matthew 6:33, NLT)

And then, let us descend into the city and take the adventure that is sent to us.
(C.S. Lewis ~ The Silver Chair)

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, he leadeth me;
By his own hand he leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by his hand he leadeth me.
(from He Leadeth Me, by Joseph Gilmore ~ Public Domain)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

christianity

Only What’s Real

Outside the Camp

Christmas Bells (and a few clunkers)

Every One a Child

Christmas Begins Again

No Strangers Here

Fragile. Handle With Care

A Chainsaw is Not an Eraser

I Once Was Lost…and Blind

Life needs Structure, After All