Turning Corners, Seeing Colors

May 14, 2024May 15, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I walk a lot these days.

By choice, I walk. Folks used to stop and offer me rides. Living in a small town makes it so that many who drive past know me, by sight if not by acquaintance. I laugh, telling them I’ve got two perfectly good vehicles sitting in my driveway, but would rather use my two perfectly good feet instead.

Usually, they look at me as if I’ve taken leave of my senses (they’re not far wrong) and then, laughing a little, accept my thanks and drive on. I am grateful for their kindness.

But, I’d rather walk when I can. This old body needs to move more, anyway.

And, I can see the colors better.

I suppose I could see them from the driver’s seat, but for some reason, the glass and metal of a vehicle seem more like barriers to me than like an invitation to a vista.

Outside works best for viewing outside.

It’s funny. I used to think the sky was blue, with white clouds and a yellow sun hanging above it all. Three colors.

Three.

It’s how I remember drawing every picture I produced as a child. Every one. Blue sky—white clouds—yellow sun. I might have thrown in a brown and green tree if I was feeling unusually painterly on that particular day.

So—five colors. In an entire landscape.

Five.

I see more than that when I walk now. A few more.

I saw the scene captured in the photo above on a recent walk. It was a spectacular sunset, observed almost by coincidence when I turned a corner. And, I stopped to take the pic, ruining my speed walking time on my smartphone’s app to do it. Somehow, that doesn’t bother me at all.

Later, my inquiring mind wondered, as I gazed at the photograph, how many colors were present there. In the sky above my head. In the ground beneath my feet. I was pretty sure it was more than five.

Information being readily available—at our fingertips, one might say—these days, I did a quick search online to see if it was possible to determine how many colors are visible.

I can’t vouch for the result, but one online app suggests there are 179,423 colors in the original photograph. That’s more than five.

I like seeing the colors. There were others on that walk. Before I turned that corner.

As I walked along the southern border of the field my walking trail curves around, I saw a lovely pink color approaching me.

The little girl’s hair was a beautiful pastel pink. Seven or eight years old, she pedaled by on her blue bicycle, smiling broadly as she sped past. I smiled broadly right back at her.

It wasn’t only the girl and her colors that made me smile. Even before she reached me on the trail, I heard the sound from her spokes. And the playing card.

When the little girl passed me, she wasn’t riding past a sixty-something-year-old man. She couldn’t have told you, but it was a little boy just her age she met on the trail that evening.

I can’t tell you how many times we did it. My mom would have had a better idea of the number of times she yelled at us for stealing her clothespins. The clothespins were to hold the cards to the bicycle frame just adjacent to the spinning wheel spokes. I think the little girl used scotch tape, but we used clothespins. Sometimes, Mom got them back. Sometimes.

Plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup-plup.

The faster we rode, the louder and more motor-like it became. We weren’t on bicycles. We were on a motorcycle, flying along the asphalt. For miles, the plup-plup-ing sounded in our ears.

Oh, the memories!

But, the little girl and her time machine streaked on down the fitness trail, leaving an old man in her wake. The sound became softer and softer until there was nothing but echoes of a lifetime ago in my ears.

I headed north toward my house and a waiting easy chair. But, still straining my ears for the fluttering of the playing card in the spokes, I turned one more corner—back toward the west—toward the empty field between—to see if I could catch a few more seconds of the lovely rhythm.

I didn’t. But, I did see the spectacular sunset you see above.

I turned the corner.

This afternoon, as I sat mulling over the chance meeting on the trail and the subsequent vista of a Creator’s handwork, I remembered that I had a book due at the library today. I knew the Lovely Lady had some to return as well, so I suggested we leave soon.

She, working on one of her crochet projects, replied, “Just let me turn this corner and I’ll be ready to go.”

The words took on a different meaning in my head as I waited. We sometimes use the phrase to mean a life change—a momentous event. Perhaps, even a life-saving change.

“She’s turned the corner and will be released from the hospital soon.”

“He turned a corner and is going a completely direction in life.”

Sometimes, it takes every bit of strength we can muster to turn those kinds of corners.

Frequently though, turning the corner takes nothing more than a simple ninety-degree change in direction. One moment, we’re headed up the same road we’ve been on forever (seemingly) and the next, the scenery has changed completely, looking nothing like the destination we envisioned when we left home.

I like surprises. Good ones, anyway.

I love the colors along the road. And, sometimes away from the beaten path.

Maybe it’s time to take the slow way home. Perhaps, we could even turn a corner we’ve never turned until today.

There are colors out there we’ve never seen before. I’m sure of it.

And, there might be some sounds we’ve been missing, even though we didn’t know it.

I wonder if we could turn some corners together. Slowly.

Are you coming with?

“Look, I am about to do something new.
Now it begins to happen! Do you not recognize it?
Yes, I will make a road in the wilderness
and paths in the wastelands.”
(Isaiah 43:19, NET)

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.”
(from The Road Less Traveled, by Robert Frost)

The Pear Tree is Buzzing

March 4, 2020March 4, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

It’s not my favorite chore. But then, none of them is. I’d just as soon take a long walk with the Lovely Lady, or sit and nap in my easy chair. Still, time spent outside with the two black labs is never dull.

One friend reminds me that this is hero’s work, cleaning up after the family pets. His little girl says it is, so it must be true.

Hero’s work. Yeah, right.

Well, someone’s got to do it. I had made my rounds and was just finishing up on this beautiful early March afternoon when I heard it. The traffic noises had dwindled down to nothing and the dogs were off dozing in the sun, so there were no other distractions besides the cardinals and the finches.

I stood for a moment and listened. The tall pear tree above my head was buzzing. It’s not normal for trees to buzz, I know. Trees creak. They howl as the wind blows past their branches. Once in a while, they crash down as the storms toss and tear at them.

Trees don’t buzz.

But this one was. The ancient tree, most of it past the age when it will ever bear any edible fruit, already is covered — absolutely covered — with beautiful white blossoms. Even though the subfreezing nights will return again before the calendar says spring is really here, today there are buds everywhere.

The bees don’t know any better. They are swarming the blossoms, virtually swimming in pollen, some of which they will share with other trees, and some of which they will selfishly keep for their own purposes.

It’s a fair trade.

Can I tell you something? I just stood and listened to the bees today with joy in my soul.

Why joy, you wonder? Well yes. It could be that I love spring, while I do not love the season which precedes it. That could have something to do with it. But the real reason, at the heart of things, is Winnie.

You know. Pooh.

Winnie-the-Pooh.

That buzzing-noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there’s a buzzing-noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you’re a bee.
(from Winnie the Pooh, by A. A. Milne)

Child-like joy.

The reminder of kinder, quieter days — when one stood under trees to listen to bees, or gazed over fences at the cattle on the other side, or skipped rocks across ponds just for the pure delight of it.

It has been a hard winter. Oh, I’m not talking about the weather. By that standard, the winter has been mild.

But, I will attest that winter has gripped my heart in its cold, gray grasp for too many months. The deaths of family members and illnesses that wouldn’t relent for anything have frozen me in place for much too long.

The bees tell me the world is turning to a new spring. My walk this afternoon did too, in a different sense.

I happened past the school nearby as the students were released for the day. Striding along the sidewalks, I was soon shoulder-to-shoulder with several of the rowdy eleven and twelve-year-olds. Talking with and shoving each other as they headed home, they moved a bit slower than this sixty-something-year-old man.

Until I tried to pass them.

One boy had squeezed through a gap between two others as he tried to catch up with his friends, so I attempted to do the same, saying, “I’ll just slide between you, too.”

“Oh, no you won’t!” one of them retorted.

The boys didn’t really even look at me as I moved between them, but they both sped up immediately, matching my pace. Side-by-side for the rest of the way through the housing complex and past the Boys and Girls Club, we walk-raced.

I was ahead for a second or two, and then one or both of them would push past me, laughing and talking smack all the while. We reached the point at which we would part company at about the same time, but I conceded the race to them.

The smaller boy left me with these words of wisdom:

“Yeah. I think we really blew you away.”

Joy. Spring is coming. It is.

Old men get older. Young folks blow them away, in so many ways. And that’s as it should be.

Returning home a little later, I invited the Lovely Lady to come stand under the pear tree with me. I wonder if the neighbors were laughing at us. It doesn’t matter. We stood there with smiles on our faces as we listened to the sound of spring approaching.

After supper, I was sitting wrapped in thought when I heard a message come in on my phone. A young man I’ve known since he was three or four had sent a note to thank me for things I don’t remember doing. He talked of example and friendship and teaching, mentioning attributes I wouldn’t have assigned to myself. As I read, I again felt new life being breathed into my spirit.

Some days, when we least expect it, joy explodes again and again, painting the backdrops in greens, yellows, and bright blues.

For a moment, I thought I heard buzzing again. Spring is about new life, blossoming fresh and clean.

It seems I always feel the need to find a spiritual application to these little experiences I write about. There is always something to learn.

God is faithful to keep His promises. Spring will always come.

But, you already know that.

The joy of His extras, though — That’s just fuel enough to get us through the cold, gray days still to come.

Time to store up some honey.

Or, something even sweeter.

Pleasant words are like a honeycomb,
sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.
(Proverbs 16:24, NET Bible)

The year‘s at the spring,
And day‘s at the morn;
Morning‘s at seven;
The hill-side‘s dew-pearl’d;
The lark‘s on the wing;
The snail‘s on the thorn;
God‘s in His heaven —
All‘s right with the world!
(from Pippa’s Song, by Robert Browning)

A Spectacular Autumn

November 1, 2018November 1, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Have you ever seen a fall so spectacular?

The Lovely Lady asked me—Me!—the question as we drove down the highway a week ago. She, who knows me better than any living person, asked the rhetorical question. Of course, you know rhetorical means you’d better not answer it any differently than the questioner quite obviously desires.

She knows I really don’t like autumn. Okay. Let’s call it by its real name—the one that describes it to a “T”. Fall. I don’t like fall.

I’m adamant about it.

You know what adamant is, don’t you? Besides a state of mind, it’s a type of very hard stone, once believed to be impenetrable—like a diamond. Adamant. That’s me when it comes to disliking fall.

But, the question hung in the air. Her rhetorical one.

I mumbled something. It may have sounded like, “I guess it’s okay.” I glanced over her way. She wasn’t just glancing. She was frowning right at me.

I thought I heard a little cracking sound. I smiled. “Yeah, it’s pretty spectacular,” I agreed. I did. I’m sure I heard a cracking sound.

The cracking sound has been so constant and so loud for the last few days, it’s almost deafening.

Well?

How does one ignore the spectacular beauty surrounding him on every side? Every corner I turn, every hill I top, reveals another vista that beggars me for description.

The colors, the scope, the array of diverse shapes and hues are breathtaking. Indeed, they appear more striking and brighter than in any fall I can remember.

Perhaps, I’m only getting old and forgetful. Then again, perhaps not.

The reason for the cracking noise, the breaking away of the adamant, wasn’t obvious to me until a friend brought it to my attention tonight. She reminded me that I have suggested fall was simply prelude to the dead of winter, a season sent only to remind us of the bleakness to come.

She’s right. I have done that. I have.

I repent. In more ways than just this, I repent.

Our Creator—the maker of all seen and unseen—gives good gifts. (James 1:17) Good. Gifts. The seasons, even the ones we find uncomfortable, are from His hand, achieving exactly what He intended for them from the foundation of the earth.

While the earth continues in its place, they will continue. (Genesis 8:22) He promised it.

Why would we dread the good He has promised to us?

Oh, I know each of the seasons has its difficulties. It is true for every one of them. Even spring, with its new life and verdant beauty, has its floods and violent storms. Summer stinks of sweat and is sweltering in its extremes. Autumn brings cold rains and reminders of death as the lushness of all growing things flees the coming cold. And winter? Well, perhaps I’ll just leave that to your own cold, dreary thoughts.

But each of the seasons, every one, has its promise and its joys.

Our God gives good gifts.

Still, you know I don’t dislike autumn only for its physical reminders of what is to come, don’t you?

We are not, for all the attempts of the cynics among us, primarily physical beings. These bodies, astounding as they are (some more than others), are merely containers for the real treasure, the thing our Creator values above all other created things.

And yet, we become attached to our containers. We pamper them. We feed them. We exercise them. We care for them.

What we don’t like to be reminded of is that one day we’ll leave the container behind, like the empty wrapper it will become, and the real part of us, the part valued most by our Creator, will go on to its eternal home.

I wonder why we hate that reminder so. A friend of mine wrote today of his anger in the face of a friend’s death. Another person quoted a poem as they comforted a mother, still grieving her son after eighteen years.

I know, she wrote, but I am not resigned. And, I do not approve. The words were from the poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay. I don’t disagree with them.

Still. Winter is coming. For every one of us, it comes.

I’m no theologian. I don’t understand what God’s plan was. I don’t know if the earth was to be our eternal home, and He would walk with us here in the cool of the day for all time. Maybe one day we would just walk up to heaven to live with Him. I don’t know.

And, it’s okay. I think it’s even okay to be angry about our losses, to disapprove of the manner in which we are separated from those we love. We were never intended to die.

But eventually, it comes around to this: We are still eternal beings.

The winter of our lives is not ultimately about death, but about life. The Son of God who came to earth, giving His own life for us, guarantees it.

The winter of our lives is not ultimately about death, but about life. The Son of God who came to earth, giving His own life for us, guarantees it. Share on X

And just like that, I am—recently liberated from my prison of adamant—enjoying this season immensely.

Autumn has never—Never!—been so spectacular. I don’t want to waste another moment of its glory worrying about the season which will follow. Not another moment.

And so, this old container took my redeemed soul for a walk in the autumn rain today with the Lovely Lady. Laughing and soaking in the beauty of nature and the reminders of His grace and great love, we walked together, as we have in so many seasons before.

What a wonderful season in which to be alive. Physically. Spiritually.

And, my soul sings for joy. For some reason, I think I hear creation singing, as well.

Perhaps you know the tune, too.

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the mighty thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed:

Then sings my soul, “My Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art! How great thou art!”
(from How Great Thou Art ~ Stuart Hine ~ English missionary ~ © 1949 and 1953 by the Stuart Hine Trust. USA print rights administered by Hope Publishing Company.)

For as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater:
So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10-11 ~ KJV)

Rough Draft

October 13, 2017October 13, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The words are stubborn tonight—uncooperative. Somehow, I think it may be my own fault.

They—the all-knowing experts who are certain about such things—tell me I must write a first—rough—draft quickly, not stopping to correct misspellings and syntax errors. They don’t know me very well.

My drafts are never rough for long. I cannot abide uncorrected errors. I am barely into my third paragraph and already I have re-read the first two more than once.

As the red-headed lady who raised me would have said, this is like pulling teeth for me. No, not the painful part of having teeth removed from my mouth.

Writing a first draft is like the physical ordeal of pulling, of struggling, of wrestling a tooth out of the socket from which it never wanted to be unseated in the first place.

I look again over what I have written and a light bulb snaps on somewhere. That’s it! They call it a draft because it’s drawn from the paper (or is it drawn from my mind and heart?), stubborn words and reticent paragraphs, one after the other.

Draft. The word applies to many things and activities, but all go back to one thought. A draft is an article drawn out from something else.

A first draft is words on paper drawn from the mind of the author. A bank draft is something authorizing funds to be drawn from a bank account. Draft beer is beer drawn from a tap. The military draft is the act of filling out the ranks by drawing from a pool of civilians. A cold draft that makes us uncomfortable is frigid air drawn unexpectedly past our location.

The most famous of sales ads played during football games on American television is one for a beer company. I laugh at the pun, intended or not, every time I see it. The huge Clydesdale horses are harnessed to the loaded wagon as it spins down pleasant lanes. They are beautiful beasts, also known as draft horses because they draw a wagon behind them.

Draft horses drawing draft beer. What could be more clever?

So, I draft the words to the page. Many seem to have become conscientious objectors, unwilling to be drawn. The going is slow. Sometimes—many times—the wrong word shows up to report for duty and has to be thrown back—4F.

But tonight, as I sat staring at that word showing on the side of the page of my computer’s editor—Draft—and considered the difficulty of drawing something from one place to another, the light that flickered on earlier blazed into bright midday glare.

I remember words David wrote in a Psalm. Words about a God who drew him from a horrible pit—up out of the miry clay—setting his feet on the rock. (Psalm 40:2)

And again, I can’t help it. The pun, certainly unintended this time, is stuck in my head.

The original Artist, who once drew His greatest masterpiece from the dirt, from the mud, must once more draw us from the mud into which we choose to crawl back.

The first was an act of creation; the second, an act of love and mercy.

Both times, He drew us.

From Him. To Him.

We are His draft. First. Last.

From Him. To Him. We are His draft. First. Last. Share on X

Never rough, save by our own doing.

Nearly finished.

Another masterpiece.

“Child,” said the Lion, “I am telling you your story, not hers. No one is told any story but their own.”
(from The Horse and His Boy ~ C.S. Lewis)

For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen.
(Romans 11:36 ~ ESV ~ The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. ESV® Text Edition: 2016. Copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers.

Ripples

November 22, 2016November 22, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We could go out and look at the leaves—or—you could stay there all afternoon and be unhappy.

Maybe it was the fact that we had just turned on the heat for the first time this fall. It could have been. The chill was creeping in from outside.

I’m not fond of the cold. Oh. I may have mentioned that before. I probably have.

I had sat, huddled under a blanket, as I watched the Lovely Lady leave to go grocery shopping that morning. I didn’t offer to accompany her. When she arrived back home an hour later I hadn’t moved.

She knows me well. A few well-placed inquiries, with a hint of concern, led me to the conclusion that I probably should take a drive with her through the countryside.

As I suspected, it was still chilly outside, but the sun was shining brightly. It was, as she had averred, a beautiful day. In the car.

Still. . .

I thought, as we drove out of town on the busy highway, that it didn’t seem the right way to experience God’s creation. In a car along with hundreds of other drivers speeding down the tarmac, the experience left much to be desired.

Then, I remembered the old bridge. The turnoff was only a couple of miles on up the road. She was all for it, even though she hadn’t worn her hiking shoes. We stopped.

There are some who would have you believe the world is a horrible cesspool of a place to live in, God’s creation marred beyond recognition by sin and degradation. They are partly right, but only partly.

On that brilliant afternoon, all I knew was I agreed with the Creator as He viewed the work of His hands in the beginning. (Genesis 1:31)

It was good. It was very good.

The Creator was right. It is good. It is very good. Share on X

We tramped through the brambles and brushed beside the reddening poison ivy, laughing at the annoyance of thin branches that smacked us in our faces as we passed. The sun on our backs felt wonderful and the scent of autumn woods refreshed our spirits as we breathed deep.

We had visited the old steel bridge only once before, but the way was clear and we didn’t mind the walk. As we approached the old structure, it was reassuring to see that it hadn’t altered—an old friend almost, standing firm in spite of change and shifting conditions all around.

But, somehow the river drew us today. We paid our respects to the old bridge and headed to the rock-covered landing up the waterway a few hundred feet.

Glancing down as we neared the water’s edge, I noticed a number of flat stones, worn smooth by years of tumbling against others in the current of the mighty river.

They were there for only one reason, of course. Anyone who has spent any time at all at the river’s edge can tell you what that reason is.

I picked one up and, holding it with the flat side parallel to the water’s surface, spun it toward the other side of the river almost like a frisbee. Just the slightest lift of the leading edge of the flat rock as it left my hand guaranteed that aerodynamics would do the rest.

I wasn’t disappointed. The stone struck the water’s surface and instead of sinking—as we say, like a rock—skipped up to smack the water anew and to skip again, and again, and again.

One stone wasn’t enough. Others followed the first. They weren’t all perfect attempts. On a couple, I didn’t get the front edge up and they quickly sliced into the water, sinking immediately with barely a plop.

Inadvertently, I picked up one or two rocks which weren’t flat. For some reason, I didn’t just drop them to the strand on which we stood, but tossed them into the water. They disappeared with a solid plunk, sinking down to the bottom to be tumbled along on their journey. Perhaps, in another century or two, when they have worn flat, some other old man, or perhaps even a young one, will feel the joy of skipping one of those very rocks across the surface of the same river. Perhaps.

The Lovely Lady took a photo or two of the result of my rock-skipping. I’ve posted one above. It’s a beautiful thing, showing the old bridge, along with the pretty autumn colors.

But the part that catches my eye, again and again, is the series of circular ripples on the surface of the water.

In my memory, I rub my fingers across the smooth stone that made all those ripples. Thin and without sharp edges, it is perfect for slipping across the surface, leaving evidence of its passage, but slowing hardly at all as it spins quickly on to its next place of impact.

I remember, with amusement, the other stones I tossed into the water. They too made ripples. One ring. Plunk.

Do you know what makes some stones suitable for skipping across great expanses of water? They have tumbled and scraped and banged, for ages, against other stones going through the same process.

If I were to carry a huge stone, as big as my head, to the riverside and drop it in, there would be a tremendous splash, but it wouldn’t have as much impact, overall, as one of those small flat stones that spun out of my hand on that recent autumn day.

Oh, it would make an impression, the initial result being a single ring which would multiply and repeat itself into the distance. But, it would still be only one circle, limited in its reach.

I want to shift the world around me. Not in a spectacular way, but enough so that when I’m gone, folks will remember the impact. Not me, but the result.

There are days when I feel old and worn. I’m finally realizing that those days—the ones when I feel especially useless and weak—may be the days when I am finally ready to go spinning across the water. In the hands of the Master Stone-Skipper, the ripples might be felt forever.

It’s possible.

The woman who poured expensive perfume on Jesus’ feet was such a person. The impact of her act is still being felt today, as He promised it would be. (Matthew 26:13)

You know—those plain, smooth stones were completely unimpressive as we walked over them on that riverbank. But, in the right hands, they had a far-reaching effect.

We, who are being worn smooth by life and its hardships may be given the same opportunity one day.

Will today be the day we leave the ripples that will be felt forever? Share on X

I wonder if today will be the day.

I’d like to make a few more ripples.

Success is more dangerous than failure; the ripples break over a wider coastline.
(Graham Greene ~ British novelist ~ 1904-1991)

Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is.
(Ephesians 3:17,18 ~ NLT)

He Still Hangs the Moon

July 22, 2016July 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The cares of this life are thieves. They rob from us while we watch, eyes trained on their every move.

I wish I could tell you I am too much a veteran of their schemes to be taken in anymore. At this time of life one would imagine experience has taught me its lessons, and all danger of being victimized is past.

One would be wrong.

For some time now, I have allowed those rascally cares to run amok in my soul, robbing me blind.

Really. Blind.

It is what they crave. The little creations of our tiny imaginations and self-centered natures are themselves blind to the reality of joy that fills our lives as humans made in the image of a loving God.

And, you know what they say.

Well, the red-headed lady who raised me said it all the time anyway, so I assume it must be true:

Misery loves company.

If the little monsters can’t see joy and truth, they are determined to steal the ability from anyone foolish enough to afford them shelter and sustenance.

And so, with my permission, they have been at work again in my own soul.

At times when they work their craft, the darkness is profound. The black of this night is, I think, made all the more encompassing by my willing participation in the malfeasance.

An evening or two ago, as light shone brightly—too brightly for me—in my house, I crept to my office to let the thieves practice. While the Lovely Lady and our guests worked and laughed and played happy music, I sat alone in the dark and pulled the misery over me like a blanket.

After the lights were finally extinguished at the house and all were asleep in their beds I left my office and, blindly walking hand in hand with the little unseeing pickpockets, headed toward home.

Three words. Really. Just three.

I know folks who hear a voice that speaks whole volumes. Entire poems. Sometimes, they carry on conversations with the voice.

Me? I get three words.

Lift your head.

I know. It seems a bit inadequate, doesn’t it? It’s kind of like saying chin up to a guy heading to the gas chamber.

Lift your head.

Then I noticed it. All around me, in what is normally a pitch black yard, the air fairly glowed with light. Long shadows were cast by the tree branches above me.

I lifted my head.

The brilliant and huge full moon hung almost directly above, washing the night time world in its reflected light. It was astoundingly beautiful.

He still hangs the moon. Every night.

He still wakes the sun every morning and sends it on its daily rounds.

I’ll admit it. The notion isn’t all that scientific, nor is it an accurate description of what actually takes place.

Still, it is His power that keeps all of creation doing what it was designed for. (Colossians 1: 6-17)

The realization struck me as powerfully as those beams of light had just seconds before.

His plan is still in place. I’m part of that plan.

His plan is still in place. I'm part of that plan. Share on X

I’m part of that plan!

Every one of us is.

I looked back down to check on my cares, but all the little felons had disappeared. They can’t stand to be in the company of light. Just as in nature, the darkness of doubt and despair flees at the coming of light.

I’m not naive. Darkness will come again. It always does.

Cares will crowd around to steal again. They always do.

But the truth is, light will come again as well.

It always does.

He still hangs the moon.

And, not just for me.

Lift your head.

But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
(Psalm 3:3 ~ NIV)

‘Now, lord,’ said Gandalf, ‘look out upon your land! Breathe the free air again!’

. . .Suddenly through a rent in the clouds behind them a shaft of sun stabbed down. The falling showers gleamed like silver, and far away the river glittered like a shimmering glass.

‘It is not so dark here,’ said Théoden.
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Storm Warnings

April 27, 2016April 27, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

If the thunder comes, I’ll have to sleep in Mama’s bed.

The girl says the words matter-of-factly, without an inkling that they might possibly cause laughter. Her grandpa, with an effort, does not disappoint, realizing the little sweetie is merely stating the truth as she knows it.

Any child knows that Mama’s bed is a safer place to be than his or her own unprotected expanse of mattress. And yet… And yet…

And yet the boy, just a couple of years older, made certain to assure me he would not be seeking shelter in the safe haven of Mom’s bed. The bravado is comical in its own way, but I hold my laughter in, not wanting to hurt feelings.

The storm warnings are out tonight. Tornadoes, say the weathermen. Strong winds. Hail.

Take cover, they tell us.

Accordingly, some friends are spending the night in storm shelters, some in their bathrooms.

I will not fault them. It’s hard not to be afraid when the experts we trust say we should be.

A friend shared a little saying the other day. I don’t remember all of it, but I recall the core thought:

Fear is a lie.

I don’t disagree. But sometimes—even often—it feels more like the truth.

When the wind is ripping limbs off trees overhead, when the rain is blowing sideways and debris is careering crazily across highways, when hail is pounding rooftops, terror seems a reasonable response.

Mom’s bed may not be safe enough.

The bathroom may not be secure.

The storm cellar doesn’t seem quite as impervious as it once did.

In spite of it all, I like thunderstorms. The power, the beauty, the replenishment of the earth, all these and more inspire admiration.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand there is danger. I pray for those who don’t have adequate shelter. I feel empathy for folks (and a certain little girl) who are terrified by the potential for loss of life and property.

In truth, I realize that none of God’s creation is safe. All of it has the potential to wreak havoc on our lifestyle.

I also realize that all of His creation is fantastic! The mountains, the forests, the rivers, the sea—all are beautiful, dangerous evidences of His sustaining and yes, frightening, power.

I wonder though, on what or whom do we depend for safety?

The easy answer is that we put our trust in God. Even the psalmist said the words; When I am afraid, I put my trust in You. (Psalm 56:3)

You’re scratching your head, aren’t you?

Did he just say, “the easy answer”?

I did. It’s on the tip of our tongues. We may even claim that God is our very first recourse, every time we are afraid.

It’s an admirable thing.

He wants us to call on Him. One of the saddest moments I think of in our Savior’s ministry (beside His trial and death) is the moment when He looked over the beloved city, Jerusalem, and lamented their steadfast refusal to accept His protection. (Matthew 23:27)

But, what if we were willing to give our fears to Him, instead of insisting He save us from the object of our fears?

What if we simply trusted Him in the storm?

In it.

The Teacher’s followers, in that storied storm on the lake, believed they were showing faith in Him when they woke Him up to voice their fears.

Do you remember what He did?

He rebuked the wind and the waves. He scolded them. And then, turning to His followers, He did the same to them. (Mark 4: 35-41)

Have you no faith?

For so long, I have not understood. Certainly, they had faith! Why would they have awakened Him if they didn’t believe He could do something about the storm? Wasn’t that faith?

It’s the kind of faith I have.

The storms of life require a command from Him. Peace! Be still!

That is what I believe—or, at least what I have believed.

And, as I write, in my mind’s eye I see the little girl running to her Mama’s bed in the midst of the storm.

Ha! Do you know what she is going to do there?

Will she insist that Mama quiet the storm? Will she quiver and quake until the last lightning flash and the last rumble of thunder is past? No. She will sleep.

She will sleep.

Safe.

Why didn’t the Disciples think of that? Why didn’t they lie down on the deck beside Him and sleep?

More to the point—why don’t I?

What safer place could one want?

How much more protection could you ever have?

Safe. In the arms of Jesus.

The storm is passed.

For tonight.

The little girl sleeps in her Mama’s bed.

Childlike faith.

Safety.

I’ve anchored my soul in the Haven of Rest;
I’ll sail the wide seas no more.
The tempest may sweep o’er the wild stormy deep;
In Jesus I’m safe ever more.
(Haven of Rest ~ H L Gilmour ~ American choirmaster/poet ~ 1836-1920)

The waters are rising, but so am I. I am not going under, but over.
(Catherine Booth ~ Co-founder of the Salvation Army ~ 1829-1890)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

creation

Turning Corners, Seeing Colors

The Pear Tree is Buzzing

A Spectacular Autumn

Rough Draft

Ripples

He Still Hangs the Moon

Storm Warnings