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

October 1, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The mind is a funny thing.

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

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

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

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

It is, as I mentioned, a lovely space.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soon, he had heard enough.

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

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

Whatever it was, I wasn’t that!

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

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

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

I’m not.

Rich. Or powerful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not mine!

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

None of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You, too?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still Not Afraid

August 2, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The Lovely Lady and I made a trek to Lowe’s today, in hopes of buying some sixteen-penny nails for our current project (the associate in the hardware aisle didn’t know what those were—seriously!)

I was disappointed and a little frightened by the Halloween display (yes, you read that right!) inside the front doors. Really. Halloween. Another thief trying to steal my summer.

But, being frightened is nothing new to you this summer, is it?

The news media has done its best to convince you that you must be frightened that cool weather will never return, and the world is falling apart politically, along with the certainty that financial disaster is right around the corner.

I watched a 4-minute video last night in which a young lady did her best to excoriate all you fools ignorant enough to not be terrified that the world is melting. Melting.

And, the drug cartels—no, no—the pharmaceutical companies, are spending millions to convince you that every disease imaginable is hiding under your bed, so you must ask your doctor to prescribe their latest chemical concoction if you want to have any chance to live out the year.

I have a suggestion.

Put that iPhone in your pocket, turn off the idiot box, and go outside.

Yes, it’s hot. So, take some water with you. Carry a towel to wipe the sweat out of your eyes (or, if you’ve still got a stretchy terry headband from the 1970s, you can wear that).

The grass is green. The trees are covered with leaves (read: shade in which to rest). For the most part, water is flowing down the creeks and rivers.

Remember when you were a kid? Nobody could have forced you inside on hot summer days. Now, voices from an electronic box have you convinced you’re done.

You’re not.

Not by a long shot.

I’m not trying to tell you what to believe. This is not a political statement—pro this—anti that.

I’m merely suggesting that we take back our lives. Live each day as if it’s a gift from our Creator.

Because it is. An amazing gift.

Fear is a thief. Don’t let it steal another minute of your life.

Oh, just so you know… The sweat washes off. Really, it does. And, the A/C feels a lot cooler after an hour or two under the summer sun.

To every thing there is a season. And, seasons pass.

They pass.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33, NIV)

God Stoops Low

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

I went to Church tonight. And I cried.

I knew I would.

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

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

Still, there it is. I cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of us.

Tears came once more.

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

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

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

And they were, undoubtedly, on holy ground.

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

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

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

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

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

Wherever God stoops, we stand on holy ground.

And He stoops where we are. All of us.

The word is not “no”.

The word is “us”.

On holy ground, He stoops to all of us.

And, He washes us clean.

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

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

The Old Barn in Spring

March 26, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My father told of walking in the early 1950s across the yard beside what is now my home to reach Dr. Wills’ barn and pick up a gallon of fresh milk from his Jersey cows. As he told me the story, I could almost see him and his brother, my Uncle Edward, striding across this very field and then my yard.

I stood in the field this afternoon, soaking in the spring warmth and letting the memories wash over me.

I never knew, until the last years of his life, that Dad had ever been to this little town before my brothers and I settled here after leaving South Texas in the seventies.

I think I understand, a little, why it felt so much like coming home when I first visited here. It has never felt different in the nearly half-century since.

But, I wonder sometimes if that’s a little how it will feel to walk into our forever home.

I think it might.

Home. Where we belong.

I hope it’ll be springtime. With two brothers carrying bottles of fresh milk home for breakfast.

And wildflowers everywhere.

Endings Become Beginnings

March 22, 2023March 24, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Abnormal.

That was the one-word description I read when I checked the medical app a couple of weeks ago. I had received an email informing me the doctor had posted the result of my recent procedure, so I thumbed my way through the sign-in process to get the good news.

It was what I was expecting. Good news. I’d like to believe I’m not a perpetual pessimist, expecting the worst all the time. Still, I wasn’t shocked to read the word I found there.

Abnormal.

There was nothing else, except a reminder of an appointment with the surgeon in a week. On the day of the Vernal Equinox.

It seemed appropriate. The end of a season. The beginning of another. Both on the same day.

One, I have grown to detest. The other, I love. The reader will no doubt draw their own conclusion as to which is which.

I waited. Concentrating on the word, abnormal, I waited.

I had an inkling of the meaning. Last year, a similar procedure yielded the word precancerous. Now, this follow-up procedure had yielded a new word.

It’s funny, the things one’s brain will jump to, given time. And, I had plenty of time on my hands.

Abnormal is the opposite of normal. Somehow, we prefer the latter to the former. It seems odd, because we don’t really care for average, which is surprisingly similar to normal.

Next, my mind landed on the word I may have been searching for in the first place: peculiar. It is a word which twins abnormal rather well, don’t you think?

We think of peculiar as meaning odd, or strange. That’s the same as abnormal, is it not?

But then, there’s another definition that says peculiar means belonging exclusively to one genre, area, or person.

And, that’s me. Perhaps, you too.

The Fisherman who came to be known as The Rock gave us the description a couple of thousand years ago.

“But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light.” (1 Peter 2:9, KJV)

This kind of abnormal, we can lay claim to. If we follow Jesus, we belong!

Forever, we belong.

And, in spite of seasons that end and change, there will always be new beginnings. We have the bright hope of life with our Creator that goes on forever.

Which brings me back to my opening thoughts.

On the day of the year when darkness holds sway for an equal amount of time with daylight, the Vernal Equinox, I went to see my doctor again.

I had prepared for the day. I trust in a God who heals as well as saves.

I had left the abnormal in His hands. I freely admit, I wanted it to be normal but I was ready to accept what came next either way.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t sit in the parking lot and let the tears flow as I communicated with the Lovely Lady afterward.

Normal. He said I was normal.

I’m grateful for the changing seasons. For darkness that turns to light.

Endings always lead to beginnings. Always. I don’t know why I continue to be surprised by it but yet, once again, I am.

And, I do know I’m still peculiar. I hope you are, too.

“And you He made alive, who were dead in trespasses and sins.”
(Ephesians 2:1, NKJV)

“(Spring) is a natural resurrection, an experience of immortality.”
(H D Thoreau)

Lesson From a Pear Tree

March 16, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

Lovely, but lacking.

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

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

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

Edible pears near the ground.

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

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

I’d like to be grounded. And useful.

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

Bloom where you’re planted.

Looking Ahead—Looking Behind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carpe Diem! Sieze the day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tempus fugit.

I’ll never catch it. Never.

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

And, strength to face today with purpose.

Press on.

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

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

Knocked Down, But Not Destroyed

December 16, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good things.

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

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

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

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

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

We are knocked down, but not out.

There are good things ahead.

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

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

What do you think? You in?

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

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

I’m Fixing My Eyes

November 15, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I had eye surgery last week.

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

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

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

I’m not sure I like it all that much.

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

Let me see if I can explain what I mean.

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

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

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

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

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

I like that.

Do you see my problem?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s time to fix our eyes.

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

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

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

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

Let All the Earth Keep Silence

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

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

This was different.

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

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

I couldn’t breathe.

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

She tried. She really did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why don’t I feel bettah?”

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

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

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

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

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

But before I do, two things:

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

Really. More.

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

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

She gets to sing.

With her daddy, she gets to sing.

One can almost hear it from here. Beautiful music.

Goodness.

Mercy.

Following us.

All of our lives.

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

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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