A New Pony

March 21, 2025March 21, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The elephant is gone. For now, it’s gone.

These days, I’m breathing more easily. I haven’t felt the weight of breathlessness on my chest for several weeks. I haven’t had to reach for my rescue inhaler for most of that time, either.

I should be happy. Ecstatic, even.

But, I’m not.

My general practitioner’s nurse called a few weeks ago to tell me the good news. After checking with the formulary my insurance company provided, they had a long-term medication I could use to get relief.

Finally!

I had the prescription filled immediately. Within days, I was better, even confident enough to leave the inhaler at home when I went out.

I can sleep at night again. There is no longer any need to discuss the elephant in the room—the one sitting on my chest at intervals.

The elephant is gone.

So why am I not happy? Well, it seems I’ve traded one animal for another. Like the Pony Express riders, I’ve just gotten off one giant mount and thrown my leg over another.

What’s the new animal? A horse.

No wait. I meant to put that “a” into the animal’s name. Hoarse.

That’s it. No elephant; just hoarse. The medication my doctor found for me makes me hoarse. As in, “I’m a little hoarse.” All the time.

I sat in the coffee shop this morning, having been served my usual cup of drip java by the kind shop owner, and I got lost in the words on my laptop’s screen. You see, a little horse (without the a) is a pony, and the thought of changing mounts (elephant to pony) led me to visions of the Pony Express riders.

So I actually read more than I wrote this morning. Wikipedia is a wonderful thing. Or not.

I wonder if you know the Pony Express only existed for a short while? And it mostly hired teenage boys? Skinny teenage boys at that. The top weight for the riders was 125 pounds. They were in danger most of the time, with many of them dying or being wounded on the trails. The company went bankrupt and closed down only a year and a half after its inception.

I’m sorry. I’m not sure how we got here. Let me reload.

I’m hoarse. A little. It’s a side-effect of my medication. When I talk, my voice sounds gravelly. Rough.

Worse than that, I can’t sing. Well, not so much can’t as shouldn’t. I cough a lot while trying. And the sound of my voice is not as pleasing as it once was.

This isn’t the outcome I was expecting. Or wanting.

I love to sing.

But, I’ve figured out something else as I’ve considered my circumstances.

I need to breathe. Breathing is essential. And, that function is being facilitated much more completely these days. It’s a good thing.

I’m not complaining. Well, maybe just a little. But, I’m grateful for the big blessing. And, I’m attempting to be circumspect about the small inconvenience.

I did say I’ve been considering my situation. It hasn’t escaped me that my hoarseness could be considered in the same light as the thorn in the flesh the apostle for whom I’m named wrote about in 2 Corinthians 12.

“Each time he said, ‘My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.’ So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.”
(2 Corinthians 12:9, NLT)

When I last wrote, I mentioned an epiphany of sorts, experienced in the middle of singing at church last week. It actually occurred during one of my silences—as I waited for my voice to recover so I could be loud again.

Perhaps being silent isn’t such a bad thing, after all.

I want to sing out in the worship service. I want to be strong. It makes me feel good about myself when I am.

Oh. That’s a definition of pride, isn’t it?

Selah.

I’m not going to have to use the medication forever. I’ll sing again. But, even if I don’t, I’m grateful to have breath.

Absolutely full of thanks.

And, full of His grace, which is enough—despite my weakness.

I’ll keep the pony for now. I’m pretty sure it hurts less than the elephant when it sits down.

And besides that, the red-headed lady who raised me always told me, “Silence is golden.”

I wonder if she was right.

“Suffering is often the crucible in which our faith is tested. Those who successfully come through the furnace of affliction are the ones who emerge like gold tried in the fire.”
(from “Unto the Hills”, Billy Graham)

“Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
(Romans 8:39, KJV)

How Did Those Snakes Get There?

March 18, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I know it’s not the right way to begin an article. NCIS Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs would have said it’s a sign of weakness.

But I want to apologize anyway.

I’m sorry for the photo that accompanies these words. I know the subject matter is triggering for some. Childhood memories. Terrifying stories told by uncaring siblings. Nightmares that can’t be erased from the mind.

I hope the reader will give me a chance to explain.

My grandchildren came to help me in my yard a few days ago. I never raked the leaves from my lawn last fall—never cleaned up the mess from the dying of the year. They knew I was embarrassed by my failure. So they came to help me make it better.

Several hours, they labored with me that day. The monumental stack of black bags full of oak, maple, and pear leaves they left behind bore testament to their hard work. The monumental back-ache I had that afternoon also bore testament to mine.

At some point during the early afternoon, one of my grandsons noticed the snake. It wasn’t huge, just an ordinary garter snake. The harmless reptile was stretched out near a hollow in the ground left when our lilac bush died a couple of years back.

My grandson, brave young man that he is, picked the snake up by its tail and, swinging it back and forth, carried it to the back fence and let it go into the wooded area behind our house.

As I examined the hollow in the ground, I noticed movement near a hole in the center. Our activities had shifted all the leaves that had been providing cover for the den. It soon became clear to us that it was home to more than just the one snake.

The two curious creatures in the photo were wondering what happened to their roof, and perhaps, to their brother (or mother, or sister). We helped them relocate over the next couple of hours, as well.

Later that evening, when I showed the photo to the Lovely Lady, she drew in her breath sharply. She then suggested that it might be best if I kept the photo to myself.

A wise husband follows the advice of his spouse in such matters. I’ve never considered myself especially wise.

I had a reason to share the photo. In my mind, it was a good reason.

Knowing that I have my own terrors about snakes and that I am frequently awakened by dreams (not the good kind) about them, I wondered about the things we give power to.

I wanted to drive home the idea that it is our own foolishness that leads us to give fear a place in our everyday lives. I had a number of examples to add to the snakes. Storms. Wildfires. Financial disasters. War. There are any number of things of which we are afraid.

Things we give power over us.

And, along with the photo, I wanted to write words of condemnation, words of derision. A put-down of the foolishness of heeding the utterings from the terror merchants among us—the doomcasting news media, the fearmongering meteorologists, the pulpit-pounding fire-and-brimstone preachers.

I repent.

I stood in a church building this morning and wept. It wasn’t the first time I had done that in the last day or two. But, it was merely a line of a song that pushed me over the edge today.

“Our call to war, to love the captive soul,But to rage against the captor.”
(from “O Church Arise”, by Townend/Getty)

I wonder if anyone else sees it. And then, I think that probably I’m the only one in my tribe who couldn’t see it before.

And that’s okay. I see it now.

Jesus came to free the captives and to heal the sick. He came to set the oppressed free from their oppression. He clearly declared that was who He was.

I have been comfortable showing them their captivity and their oppression and then have blamed them for their situation.

Why do we rage against the captives—against the oppressed?

Everywhere I look today, I see it. I hear it.

I do it.

I said that worship service wasn’t the only time I had cried recently. I had a conversation with a friend who was frightened by an approaching weather system last week.

My friend’s admission of fear was the only trigger I needed to set me off. I began to rant about the folks who are responsible for building up that fear and about folks who hide in their fraidy holes at the mention of a storm coming.

My rant was cut short as my friend’s eyes were lifted up to mine.

Words fail.

I made my way home, seeing through tears.

Do you know what it’s like to be alone? To be impaired? To feel helpless in the face of danger? To not know if anyone will remember you as they evacuate?

God, make my heart soft. Where it is hard as adamant, make it as tender as Yours.

I’m not a newbie at this following Jesus thing. It’s been a lifetime. And still, I repent. And will need to again.

But, His declaration to the folks in His hometown—the prophetic words from Isaiah, the ones that nearly got him thrown off a cliff by his neighbors—is still true.

For me, it’s true.

And for anyone who comes to Him.

He still sets the captives free.

That Gibbs fellow was wrong, he of television fame; it is not a sign of weakness to apologize. It’s a sign of strength—of resolve.

And I’m still sorry for the snakes.

I think the Lovely Lady will let it slide. This time.

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
    for he has anointed me to bring Good News to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim that captives will be released,
    that the blind will see,
that the oppressed will be set free,
   and that the time of the Lord’s favor has come.”
(Luke 4:18-19, NLT [from Isaiah 61:1-2])

“I’m unfinished. I’m unfixed. And the reality is that’s where God meets me, is in the mess of my life, in the unfixedness, in the brokenness. I thought he did the opposite, he got rid of all that stuff. But if you read the Bible, if you look at it at all, constantly he was showing up in people’s lives at the worst possible time of their life.” (Mike Yaconelli)

Still Sitting in the Dark

March 11, 2025March 11, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She left to go to choir rehearsal without me; the Lovely Lady did. As she gathered up her music, she asked the question.

“What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

It didn’t take long for my answer to come. I say it often, sometimes even in jest. Okay, mostly in jest.

“I’m going to do what I always do when you’re gone. I’ll sit in the dark and wait for you to come home.”

Pitiful, aren’t I? The thing is, I sometimes do just what I said I’d do.

It’s not always because I’m sad or down. Sometimes, I just need to think. And the dark is better for thinking. There are not as many distractions in the dark.

I was going to stay in my easy chair to sit in the dark while she was gone, but then I remembered that my sister had sent a note about the moon earlier. It, Ruler of the Night, decided to come out before sunset this evening. I suppose it decided that if we puny humans need to save the daylight by changing our silly clocks, it could help by shining an extra hour or two before its appointed time.

So, instead of sitting in the dark in our den, I went outside and sat in the dark there.

Except it wasn’t. Dark, that is.

I had been thinking I’d look up at the sky before I came back in. Then I could write my sister a nice little note to tell her the moon was okay.

The sun had gone down over an hour before. But the moon was doing its best to actually give us some daylight. The yard and field behind my house were illuminated like daytime, complete with shadows cast by the still-naked trees.

So, I couldn’t have sat in the dark, even though I wanted to.

“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall fall on me,’
Even the night shall be light about me.”
(Psalm 139:11, NKJV)

David, that shepherd boy who became king and poet, also thought he could sit in the dark and let it wash over him. He was wrong.

He was made to live in the light.

I was, too. I think we all may have been.

We don’t always understand what the light is, though. It doesn’t look like we expect it to. Just like the moon tonight, we are often surprised by the light around us and where it comes from.

Earlier in the day, I walked over to a neighbor’s house to talk with him for a minute. I was a little unsettled by the sound of his router. He had been working on another project under his carport for an hour or more.

I wanted to listen to the songbirds.

The cardinals were being all sociable, with half a dozen of them at a time gathering in the oak branches out front—flashes of red in the sunlight everywhere I looked. The finches and wrens fluttered in and out of the holly tree’s foliage, some carrying grass and leaves for the nests they are busily slapping together.

I did. I wanted to listen to the birdsong.

But that noisy router just kept screaming as it ripped into the pieces of wood on the neighbor’s workbench. So, I went to visit with John. I had no intention of grousing at him. I just figured the router would be quiet for at least as long as we visited, and I could hear the birds in that relative silence anyway.

He grinned as I approached, turning off the machinery as I anticipated. Reaching out, he gave me a hug, and then he showed me his project. He is making a container to hold antique serving dishes. Not for himself. A friend, whose grandmother passed away and left her the dishes, was worried they would get broken, so he designed and is making a container for them.

As we talked, he mentioned some things he is storing for another friend. Then, still motioning to the stack under his carport, he told me about a different project he is planning for an acquaintance using the scraps of lumber he has there. In passing, he made the offer to me to take anything I needed from his bounty.

I mentioned one of our widowed neighbors to him, and he told me of going over during a recent storm and bringing her to his house so she wouldn’t be alone while the wind and thunder were raging overhead. And then, as I prepared to head for home, I mentioned that his firewood pile had diminished since I last noticed it. He nonchalantly told about a fellow who had been walking down the street who needed wood for heat, and he had given him most of his supply.

I sit here, and realization hits me; my seventy-something-year-old neighbor isn’t sitting and moping in the dark.

He’s making light! Shining it on everybody he meets, the light of God blazes from his face and fingertips. I wonder if that’s what the apostle Paul meant when he said we were to be lights in the universe. (Philippians 2:15) I think it may have been.

We’re not made to sit in the dark, awaiting whatever or whoever comes next.

We walk in the light as our Savior does. And we have fellowship—communion, if you will—with all others who walk in that light. (1 John 1:7)

I admit it; I haven’t been as successful at shining His light as my neighbor has. I’m not quite as noisy as he is, either, but I’m thinking I should get busy and catch up.

So, no more sitting in the dark.

It’s time to walk in the light.

And maybe—to make a little noise.

“A little bit of light dispels a lot of darkness.”
(Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi)

Indeed, the darkness shall not hide from You,
But the night shines as the day;
The darkness and the light are both alike to You.”
(Psalm 139:12, NKJV)

I’m Not Just The Guy With His Right Shoe Untied

March 4, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The guy with his right shoe untied.

I know I accepted the label when she used it. I almost embraced it. It does describe me.

Sometimes.

But more often than not, both of my shoes are tied—tied in neat square-knot bows. I often walk down the sidewalk without the tell-tale skritch-skritch-skritch of shoelace aglets dragging along the concrete.

My identity is not found exclusively in my untied right shoe.

Sometimes, my identity is found in the angry words that flood from my mouth when the person in front of me demonstrates an insufficiency in driving skills. I’m confident if I asked the question again of the Lovely Lady at those times, she would answer it differently than she did the other night. There would be no mention of the condition of my right shoe.

“Sure. I know who you are! You’re the man who has never learned to control his temper in traffic.“

She has not said those words to me. But, she could. I know they would be accurate sometimes.

I’m not proud of it. I even told her the other day (without her prodding me whatsoever) how sorry I am not to have conquered that bad habit.

Sin.

I should call it what it is.

“People can tame all kinds of animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue. It is restless and evil, full of deadly poison.” (James 3:7-8, NLT)

So sometimes, I am the guy with his mouth full of poison. Spitting it with great accuracy like a cobra.

Then again, I can often be found speaking gently to folks and even offering a helping hand if they have need of it. I have days when not a single angry or disparaging word leaves the vicinity of my mouth.

I have admitted, repeatedly, that I am not the man I had hoped to be by now. Daily, I see ways in which I could make improvements.

“Please be patient with me; God isn’t finished with me yet.”

I remember hearing the phrase when I was a teenager. It has become a bit trite now, as if an excuse for actions and attitudes. But it’s not.

Both confession and prayer—the words admit fault while looking to a future and a loving Father from which improvement will come.

The apostle, my namesake, said it this way:

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

If that doesn’t give one hope, I don’t know what will.

And, that’s an identity I’ll claim. If you need words to describe me, say this:

“I know you! You’re the guy with hope for what’s still ahead!”

Hopeful.

Because He’s not done with me yet.

And, never will be.

My right shoe won’t come untied forever. The poison will be gone from my mouth one day. I’ll not struggle with sexual thoughts, or hateful attitudes, or doubts and frustration.

It’s a promise to all He draws to Himself.

So it belongs to you as much as it does to me.

Patience. And hope.

Mostly, hope.

“Numbers and photographs do not a person make.
I’m more than what a page can say of me.
My identity is not in my history.
All the best of me is in my dreams.”
(from A Voice, by Kat Edmonson)

“But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against these things!” (Galatians 5:23-24, NLT)

Of Miracles and Magic

February 26, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A week ago, I left my house early in the morning, headed to see my doctor. They called it a wellness visit. We don’t usually talk about how well I am.

This visit was no different since I wanted to fuss about the elephant I told you of a week or two ago. Being a man blessed with wisdom, my doctor reminded me of how healthy I really am in light of my advancing years. I didn’t need him to tell me how old I am, but he did anyway. Nicely. Gently.

He’s not wrong. But I was thinking about the sleepless nights I had spent in the last couple of months—nights when I prayed again and again to be well, or at least well enough to be sleeping beside the Lovely Lady in our warm bed.

I have realized over a lifetime of being sick and becoming well that sometimes the real miracle is that of a body functioning exactly as its Creator intended, fighting off infection and disease and healing itself.

And yet, I need to be reminded—occasionally. Or perhaps even—frequently.

After my appointment, I walked outside into the beginnings of a snowstorm. It would drop seven inches of beautiful powdery snow before the day was over. But, I hadn’t been to the coffee shop for over a month. A little snow wasn’t going to stop me.

Blowing in from the gusty world, I stepped into the quiet. There were three humans besides me in the place; one who had to be there—the owner—and two others. I smiled when I saw my old friend sitting against the wall, coffee cup in his hand.

It was the day he and a couple of others usually gather, but I expected none of them to be there on this blustery day. We are all aging men, you know. Next to a warm heater seems a better place on such a day, even if it means giving up the camaraderie of fellowship.

I have a friend who visits Scotland and Ireland often. When she mentions those visits, she likes to talk about “thin places” (places where God seems especially near).

That coffee house was a thin place on that Tuesday morning. There were only three humans there (well, four if you count me as a human), but God was near.

I sat with my friend, who is retired—as am I—and we drank a little coffee and we talked about the One who was near. My friend is a recent widower and has more reason than most to be angry with God, but he is not angry. He is sad. And, he still has questions.

As we talked, about praying for healing and other things we’re certain we need, I remembered the old quote from Thomas a’ Kempis, whose writing (“The Imitation of Christ”) my friend had actually been reading before I arrived.

“Man proposes. God disposes.“

The man who raised me was fond of quoting those words in his waning years. I always laughed uneasily when he said them to me. I wanted him to be wrong. I wanted to be the one in charge—the captain of my own ship, if you will.

He wasn’t wrong.

While we sat, my friend and I, at that table, he shared his thoughts on prayer. And miracles.

“I think we’ve misunderstood what miracles are. We want magic. I don’t think God does magic.”

He told me of a recent time when he needed to mail a check to a business, but could find no blank checks in his house. He had ordered replacement checks from his bank, but they had said it would be another week. He needed a check that day.

So he prayed. And, even though it was a Sunday and the mail wouldn’t be delivered that day, he went to the mailbox, asking God to make the checks be there.

They weren’t.

Disappointed, he mentally said the words (or maybe he spoke them aloud) to God; “Okay God. You’re 0 and 1 today!“

He walked back inside. Resignation taking over, he abandoned his search and began another activity.

Less than fifteen minutes after returning to the house, his eye alit on a blank check, lying on the desk where he had already searched.

He’s not sure most folks would call that a miracle. He did think that he might have heard God chuckle and say, “Make that 1 and 0!“

But here’s the thing; he had no check and prayed for one. Now, he had one.

It sounds like a miracle to me. But it’s not magic.

Why do we want magic when we pray to our God for what we need?

Can we not see by now that He’s not a showman? Not a sleight-of-hand artist? Not a rabbit-from-a-hat trickster?

Fourteen years ago, as I wrote about one of those everyday miracles in my life, I shared words that come back to me now. They haven’t lost any of their veracity.

“In the quiet, plain paths His miracles are inconspicuously bestowed. Not with the commotion of a dog-and-pony show, not in the glare of the spotlights and television cameras, but in factories, and shops, and homes, He cares for His own.“

I told you, I need to be reminded once in a while.

As my friend and I sat at that table last week, I mentioned my pesky right shoe that keeps coming untied (the one I wrote about recently) and he leaned down to the floor to look at the knot I had tied. He got right down to my shoe and examined the knot, offering his observations about my technique.

I couldn’t help it; the smile came to my lips without any thought.

Well, some thoughts, I admit.

Thoughts about thin places and a God who bends near. Thoughts about friends who care enough to bend down themselves to check my shoelaces.

Thoughts about everyday miracles that we don’t deserve, yet receive regularly from the strong and loving hands of a God who does nothing that is not a miracle.

Even down to the miracle of providing a way for us to reach Him. Yes—us. While we still wanted nothing to do with Him.

Except to see magic done by Him.

And yet, He offers grace.

Grace.

And still, He does all the other miracles we need throughout our lives. Even the ones we think we don’t want.

Not magic.

Miracles.

“Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.”
(from God in the Dock, by C.S. Lewis)

“You can make many plans,
but the Lord’s purpose will prevail.”
(Proverbs 19:21, NLT)

My Right Shoe

February 18, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Of course, I know who you are!”

I sit near the Lovely Lady in my easy chair watching television. She says she likes to listen to the programs because she has her eyes on her stitching and doesn’t want to lose her place. So, when I teasingly echo the evil politician in the cop show who has asked the inevitable question of the patrolman who pulled him over, she replies without looking up.

“Do you know who I am?” (That’s me, you know.)

“Of course, I know who you are! You’re the guy with his right shoe untied!”

She’s not wrong. It is untied. It may be untied again now as I sit at my desk and peck away at the keys, late into the night.

It’s a phenomenon I cannot explain. At least once a day—for the last several months—my right shoe comes untied. It might be while I’m taking a walk outside, or walking into the kitchen for another cup of coffee, or even heading to my desk to write a line or two.

It’s always my right shoe. Every time.

I asked that mysterious being in my smartphone about it the other day.

“Hey, ◼◼◼◼! Why is my right shoe untied?”

The disembodied voice tries, but I don’t think she understands the question. No help at all.

I could do some research on my own, but I really can’t be bothered. I’ve gotten used to it and am more amused than annoyed by the errant string. I usually just re-tie the shoe. Or take both of them off, left and right. That feels better anyway.

And sometimes, like the evening in question, I simply let the shoelace flop around wherever I walk. It bothers her.

I guess I knew it did. Still, I was surprised when she mentioned it the afternoon after that little conversation. Evidently, she doesn’t want to be married to the guy with his right shoe untied.

She had been awakened during the night by a foot cramp and, trying to get her mind off the pain, lay in bed beside me trying to think of ideas that might help with my problem.

“Do you tie the right shoe differently than the left?”
“Maybe you could take the laces out and put them back in, but in the other shoe.”
“Would it help to put something on the laces—like wax or something like that?”

I didn’t really know I had a problem. I wasn’t working on eliminating said problem. And, I’m not going to put wax on the laces.

I’m fine tying my right shoelace again and again. I am.

But, I heard a line in a television show recently about a man who is disappointed that he never became the man he wanted to be. Something in his life held him back.

And now, I’m wondering if my right shoe is holding me back.

Worse, I’m wondering now if there are other things I haven’t thought of that could be holding me back.

I’m not the man I wanted to become. I’m not.

Oh, I never wanted to be rich, so there’s no disappointment there. I never wanted to be famous. Or powerful.

But, I do want to be the man God wants me to be. I consider the words of The Teacher to the religious leaders who were trying to trap Him in error. You can read them in Matthew 22.

I’ve spent years working on the most important part. Most of my life. I’m trying hard to love God with everything I’ve got. Everything. I haven’t completed the quest, since it’s a lifetime commitment. And, I’m still working on it.

But, the second part—the loving my neighbor in the same way I love myself part—that’s not coming along as well as it could.

And now, I’m wondering if there’s something similar to having my right shoe come untied every day that’s holding me back from achieving that goal. Something insignificant. Something I’ve decided I can just live with.

It’s always the little things that trip us up, isn’t it? We take care of the big stuff, but we’re careless—literally, without care—about the little, peripheral things that will lay us out, making it so we can’t accomplish the big ones.

Little things, like shoelaces.

The writer of Hebrews in the Bible warned us:

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

I’ve got some work to do—finding the little things that keep me from the bigger goal.

I bet I’m not the only one.

I may even find out why my right shoe won’t stay tied. She’ll be happy if I do.

It’s time to run. Again.

“Sometimes, when I consider what tremendous consequences come from little things, I am tempted to believe there are no little things.” (Bruce Barton)

“He will call for them from the ends of the earth, and they will hurry to come. Not one of them is tired or falls. No one sleeps. Not a belt is loosened at the waist, or a shoe string broken. Their arrows are sharp, and their bows are ready.” (Isaiah 5:26-28, NLV)

Elephant in the Room

February 11, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The Lovely Lady leans over me late at night.

“Goodnight, Honey. I hope you don’t have to sleep with an elephant on your chest tonight.”

She says the words with a smile, but her eyes say she worries. She kisses my forehead as I sit in my easy chair coughing. Then, letting go of my hand, she leaves the room, on her way to bed.

There’s an inhaler on the table beside me. I’ll use it before I turn in for the night. I’ve used it a hundred times in the last month.

When I do, the elephant goes away—the one that sits on my chest and makes it difficult to breathe. For a while, it goes away.

But sometimes, just knowing that the Lovely Lady is touched by my discomfort makes me feel that the elephant has at least lost a few pounds of weight, even if only for a moment or two. Sympathy isn’t just something written on a card, is it?

I’d be lying if I told you it was my favorite winter activity—using that inhaler. Occasionally, I think I actually hate the thing.

But, here’s the deal: It does what I need it to do. Day after day, long night that follows long night, it gets me nearer to the close of that day when she’ll lean over me and kiss me, once again saying simply, “Goodnight. I love you.”

And, the weight will be gone from my chest. Until the next time the asthma comes to visit. Perhaps, it’ll be a long interval—maybe a year or more. I’m grateful for the periods of respite.

Do you know what a respite is? Breathing space. Really.

Breathing space.

And, I need that. Without the elephant.

But, the heaviness in my chest isn’t always caused by my physical affliction. Again and again through life, I’ve felt it—the other heaviness, I mean. Sometimes so heavy it has felt like I couldn’t take another breath.

You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?

Breathing with an elephant on your chest.

Sitting in the emergency room, waiting. Waiting for the doctor to report that everything is going to be okay.

Sitting with a phone beside you—waiting for it to ring. Or, waiting for the front door to open and your teenage child to come back through it.

And then, as has happened so much more often in recent years for me, sitting by myself in the middle of a room full of people—realizing that I’ll never hear his voice again—never again feel the touch of her hand on my shoulder.

Elephants don’t belong in rooms, much less sitting on chests. But, there we are.

And, some elephants can’t be moved by just breathing in the cure and breathing out the sickness.

The weight of anxiety and worry can’t just be exhaled into the air around our heads. The heaviness of grief won’t be dismissed with a deep sigh. And, certainly not with more tears.

Life is full of elephants.

But, it’s also full of a Savior/God who has suffered as we have—who has lived with the elephant on His chest. One who has wept shared tears of grief with his loved ones (John 11:35), and who wept His own tears of anxiety because of His children who refused to be gathered into His arms (Matthew 23:37).

And, it’s full of the God who has kept a record of the times that weight has pressed down upon us.

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

And ultimately, it’s full of the God who will one day lift that weight from us and who will wipe away every tear (Revelation 21:4).

Every one.

No more elephants.

Except where they belong. But, not in the room. And certainly, not on our chests.

And on that day, once again, so deeply we’ll breathe in His love and mercy.

And, we’ll freely breathe out our gratitude and praise.

I don’t think I’ll wait.

How about you?

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.”
(Revelation 21:4, NLT)

“You know, they say an elephant never forgets. But what they don’t tell you is that you never forget an elephant. “
(Bill Murray as Jack Corcoran in the movie, Larger Than Life)

A Good Taste

December 30, 2024December 30, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I almost feel I owe the good folks who find time to read my little essays an explanation. I always write something the week of Christmas. But, it didn’t happen this year.

So somehow, in this week of in-between—between that joyous celebration and the new year—I wonder if this will do.

My loved one in the hospital was released to go home two days before Christmas, the occasion one for rejoicing. It did mean there would be some vigilance necessary on my part—making sure there was food, and walks, and incision care until the surgeon could release her.

But, it meant there was a light ahead—the end of the tunnel in sight.

Until the next day—Christmas Eve—when symptoms led me to take a home test.

Covid.

Not the dread diagnosis it once was, I was certain I would weather it just fine. But, there were house guests to protect. And, our patient.

How could I care for her?

You know, there is always light. The Lovely Lady was not positive for the pesky virus. She agreed to take my place as caregiver for a few days.

It is not so dark here as I thought.

But, the Lovely Lady acquired a different virus.

Do you sense a pattern here?

Ah, but the Lovely Lady has a daughter—herself a Lovely Lady in her own right. She stepped in and care continued.

Light conquers. It does. Sometimes, it seems dim, but it’s still there—winning out.

Except…There’s this one thing that happened.

Near the end of last week, feeling better, I decided it was time to eat a cinnamon roll from a big batch one of our houseguests had made for the celebrations. It was beautiful! Blonde colored with brown sprinkles of cinnamon all over. Just the right amount of browning from the oven. Even a perfect quantity of glaze covering the entire roll. Gooey, but not soggy.

Perfection.

I bit into the lovely concoction and waited for the explosion of flavors—light dough, spicy cinnamon, and sugar. Especially sugar.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

No taste whatsoever!

None.

I can’t taste my food. My coffee. My cough medicine. Well, that last one might be counted a blessing. But, still.

I’m sitting here in the dark again. Poor, poor pitiful me. I’m not sure life is worth living if I can’t taste my food.

Darkness comes in so many forms.

Some of you are laughing. Others of you are nodding your heads. You know what it’s like to be beset from every side, with every possible disaster or semi-disaster. And, then there is the one that breaks your spirit—the straw that breaks the metaphorical camel’s back.

I’ve been thinking about tasting a lot the last few days. Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ll taste my food again. Although, I may never get over the memory that someone quipped this week that I have no taste.

But, I’m wondering how many of us have lost our sense of taste when it comes to the goodness and blessing of our God.

Church leaves a bad taste in our mouths sometimes. Someone said something cruel. The committee overlooked us in their list of volunteers to thank publicly. The worship team didn’t sing the Christmas carol we wanted to sing more than any of the other junk—sorry, I mean songs—they prepared.

We prayed, but the prayer wasn’t answered. There’s not enough money for the things we want. Our relationship is damaged beyond salvaging. You didn’t get that promotion you were promised.

For the last couple of days, I haven’t been able to get King David’s words out of my head. David, the man who had just barely escaped with his life from an enemy king—and then only by pretending to be insane.

And still, he wrote the timeless words.

“Oh, taste that the Lord is good.. And, see that the Lord is good.” (from Psalm 34:8, my paraphrase)

Taste. See. Experience it fully.

I sat down to a meal last night with our house guests, the serving dishes full of food prepared for us by my sister-in-law. I was sure it was a wasted effort on her part—for me, anyway. I wouldn’t taste a thing.

But, as I bit into the first delicious-looking forkful of beef stroganoff, I felt the giving texture of the pasta, cooked to perfection. Then I noticed the just-right, almost squeaky, crunch of the onions. And I couldn’t taste it, but the salt in the dish—just right, most there agreed—gave off a tiny bit of physical heat to the top of my tongue.

It was good! I promise you, it was good.

I wonder if that’s the reason the former shepherd-turned-king told us to taste, as well as to see. So we would experience our God fully.

Sometimes in the black of night, when it’s too dark to see, we perhaps can only feel—or hear—or reach out and touch Him.

I’m pretty sure it’s enough.

I may not have any taste, I mean, I may not be able to taste my food, but I still know that, in the middle of the darkest night, His Word is still a light for my path, a lamp I can hold near my feet to see the road just ahead.

And, it’s good.

Really. Good.

“I like reality. It tastes like bread.”
(Jean Anouilh)

“Your words were found, and I ate them, And Your word was to me the joy and rejoicing of my heart; For I am called by Your name, O Lord God of hosts.” (Jeremiah 15:16, NJKV)

Morning Guilds the Skies

December 18, 2024December 18, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

As I write this, the sun is shining brightly in the sky outside. I’m sitting beside a hospital bed, listening to the loud beeping of an alarm that should be telling a nurse somewhere to come change an IV medicine bag.

My friends are posting Christmas carols today. I did that earlier this week. Somehow, Christmas isn’t close to my thoughts today.

Even though a niece has started her road trip toward our house from northern latitudes this morning, and a sister-in-law will fly in from eastern longitudes later this week to be with us for Christmas, I find myself contemplating life and its uncertanties on this day.

Sitting in a waiting room of a hospital for nine hours a day ago will do that to a person. Visits with friends who pass by in the hallway—an activity one would expect to lift spirits—allows the shadows to creep into the mind.

A few days ago, I lifted my candle with a thousand other folks and said that the darkness could not overcome the light. I don’t repent of the declaration. It is still true.

Still, the lights of physical life can dim, while the light of Redeeming Grace shines the brighter.

As I waited for the result of a loved one’s surgery yesterday, I learned of a couple of families I know who are facing the loss of their loved ones this holiday season. Somehow, for them, the light won’t seem so bright in this season we call festive.

And, my heart weeps with them.

And, that’s as it should be.

But still, I watched the sunrise this morning before coming to sit beside the bed of my loved one who remains in pain, and I just couldn’t stop the words from welling up.

“When morning guilds the skies
My heart awaking cries,
‘May Jesus Christ be praised.'”

As the day goes on, I don’t doubt that my spirit will flag. Sitting beside a bed is hard work. Elation is not the emotion one feels most in that locale.

But, it doesn’t change the fact that every morning we arise to meet the day is one in which we are blessed by our Creator.

“It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not; they are new every morning. Great is Thy faithfulness.”
(Lamentations 3: 22-24, KJV)

It was true when the words were written. It’s still true today.

Christmas will come. This Advent season builds the anticipation for the day when we’ll celebrate our Savior’s birth.

I’ll sing the carols. I will.

I hope your voice will blend with mine as we give thanks for His good and perfect gifts.

Even if our voices don’t blend all that well, it will be a joyful noise raised up to the God who bends low—the God who hears us, who understands our frailties, and still He came for us.

I’d still like to have the song in my mouth when the evening comes.

“Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning.
Jesus to thee be all glory given.”
(from O Come All Ye Faithful, by John Francis Wade)

“The sun comes up;It’s a new day dawning.It’s time to sing Your song again.Whatever may passAnd whatever lies before me,Let me be singing When the evening comes.”

(from 10,000 Reasons by Myrin/Redman)

Out of the Shadows

December 16, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I will never understand it. The Christmas season is one filled with light and hope, yet more people are feeling sad than at any other time of the year.

I checked to be sure I’m not spreading fake news. The National Alliance on Mental Illness tells us a 2021 survey shows that 3 in 5 people in America say the holidays make them sad.

A friend who has had a rough year posted her annual birthday note a couple of days ago to share her trials and joys with her tribe. I responded and suggested that sometimes the best we can do is stay in the vicinity of the light. In the shadows, but never far from the light.

But, I don’t really believe that. I don’t.

I wrote recently about preparations for the Christmas Candlelight Service at the local Christian university—one in which I have participated for well more than forty years. Nearly every time I have participated, I have found a new truth to enlighten my journey. I’ve shared many of those truths with my readers.

This year is no exception, even though my participation was in a very different capacity than those services for the past four decades.

When I played my horn with the brass group for the event, we always left the stage soon after the halfway point in the service. Sitting in pews reserved for us, we simply became audience members, enjoying the beautiful choral music the young folks (getting younger every year, seemingly) presented.

I was carried away. Every time.

This year as a vocalist, I stayed on the stage until, as my sweet mother-in-law would have put it, the last dog was hung. (I’m not sure what that means, but it seems to indicate staying until the entire event is finished, so I’ll go with it.)

Right up at the top of the risers, I and my compatriots stood or sat, depending on our part in the program. With a bird’s-eye view, one might say.

We were on display to the whole audience, but we also had a clear line of sight to every part of the cathedral. The view was eye-opening. Well, it took me until the last night to open my eyes, but I can’t unsee it in my mind now.

Forty-five times, I had seen it from the same perspective. Yet, it was always moving.

This is different.

I’m mostly thinking about the candlelighting ceremony at the end of the service.

Over the years, we would sit in the pews, with the student candle-lighters stopping at the ends of each row, lighting the candle of the person sitting there. Then that person would pass the flame to their neighbor, and they to theirs, until all the candles were aflame.

As we sang the words to the old Christmas carol, Silent Night, we held the candles close until the third verse. Then, as we began to sing about the radiant beams from His face, each of us would lift our candle high, flooding the huge building with brilliant light.

It was always moving. I know—I’m repeating myself. It’s still true. Again and again, I’ve been moved.

It all changed drastically this year, especially on the final night. I had always thought it was only that last verse—when we raised our candles—that was moving.

But, on this final night, I had tears in my eyes through every verse of the carol. The tears started before the music did.

I have known how it worked—the sharing of the flame, one person to the next. Yet I’ve never seen the big picture of how it occurred, except from my limited perspective amongst the folks right beside me.

I suppose it may be a bit like Job felt in the Old Testament. He had heard with his ears—he knew a little of what he was supposed to know—but seeing with his own eyes made all the difference. Now, he had experienced it. (Job 42:5)

Experiencing it is different than just having a head knowledge. I’m sure of it.

Throughout the entire service (all three nights) I had looked at the dim cathedral and knew there were individuals there—a number of them friends and acquaintances— but because of the darkness, I couldn’t see any individual faces, only a huge indistinct crowd of humanity.

And, as the ceremony began, from my bird’s-eye view, I watched the young folks carry their candles to the dark pews to spread the light. And finally, on the last night, I saw it clearly.

Through the whole room, looking completely random and without plan, the light spread. I could see flames shift from one person to the next, moving laterally along each pew. It wasn’t uniform. There was no pattern—or seemingly not. Row after row, I watched the lights flicker across from side to side.

Now, what was it that I was supposed to be seeing? Sure, the candles were lit in preparation for the holding forth of the light later on, but that wasn’t it.

There! I saw it!

Faces appeared behind the candles. Individual faces. On my left. In front of me, not far back. Then, way back to the right.

Faces.

No longer simply a mass of humanity, the bodies in the pews had faces—identities that could be clearly and individually seen.

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” (Isaiah 9:2, NIV)

How did I miss that?

We who have come to His light come as individuals out of profound darkness. And, His light shines on us.

It shines on us. You. Me.

Yes, we’re part of the great cloud of witnesses—like John the Baptist, bearing witness to The Light—but we come to our Savior and He knows each one of us.

He knows me.

He knows you.

And now, we have the great privilege of reflecting The Light.

Again, from that vantage point, I watched the flames—held close throughout the song—as they were thrust forward and upward to the ceiling. If I had been moved through all of those years when I was sitting in the audience, it was spectacular seeing it from above and in front of it!

Spectacular. An explosion of light!

We can spread the light—one to another. It’s in His plan that we do that. We can even hold our light close and have light for the journey.

He knows each one of us and loves us in our individuality.

But, it’s also in His plan that the world around us be overwhelmed by the brilliance of His Light, shared by His people collectively, walking in love for Him and for our neighbors, the people who dwell in the profound darkness.

Overwhelmed.

I’m not sure we’re doing that yet.

But, it’s not too late.

I’m pretty sure it will be spectacular.

Spectacular.

“I will make you a light to the nations, so you can bring my deliverance to the remote regions of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6b, NET)

^“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, KJV)

“Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God, love’s pure light
radiant beams from Thy holy face
with the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth!
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth!“
(from Silent Night by Joseph Mohr)

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