Still in the Tunnel

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

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

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

Sort of.

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

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

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

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

I’m not the only one.

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

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

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

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

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

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now. About that tunnel.

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

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

“That’s amazing! You have to see it!”

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

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

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

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

The moment has passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m asking the wrong questions.

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

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

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

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

Who put this tunnel here? And why?

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

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

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

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

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

More.

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

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

I’ve camped out here long enough. You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead. That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

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

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

Go Ahead and Camp Out

April 28, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

She was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A voice rang out from the kitchen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the same for us today.

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

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

Come away.

The music will be all the sweeter for it.

Rest.

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

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

Safe on the Stairway to Heaven

April 22, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m safe here.”

Safe.

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

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

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

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

But, I did.

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

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

There is one safe place. One.

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

I can’t.

And yet, safety awaits. It does.

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

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

Set on high.

Safe.

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

And sometimes as we climb, we’ll cry.

Ah, but we’ll laugh and sing, too.

You’re safe here.

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

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

Seeing Clearly Through the Tears

April 19, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He values them.

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

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

Jesus wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some do.

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

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

Weep with those who weep.

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

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

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

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

And still, He loves us.

Always.

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

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

How Did This Place Get So Scary?

April 14, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why the change of heart?

See for yourself.

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

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

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

I didn’t dally on the bridge.

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

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

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

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

He will, you know. Save us.

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

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

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

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

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

We are.

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

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

I love the water.

Don’t you?

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

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

Only What’s Real

February 25, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

I sounded amazing!

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

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

Talk about a letdown!

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

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

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

I wasn’t.

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

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

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

The result is confusion and polarization.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, now you know what I want.

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

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

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

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

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

Filters down, special effects off, He sees us.

He sees. Us.

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

Well—I want to want that.

It’s a start. Time will tell.

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

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

Outside the Camp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

Why?

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

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

Crack!

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

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

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

There it was again.

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unclean.

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

Unclean.

But I remember Jesus touched lepers.

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

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

“If you wanted to, you could.”

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

Imagine it!

No more isolation. No more shame.

Outcast no more.

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

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

And yet, it’s okay.

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

And He holds us close.

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

No longer outside the camp.

Clean is good.

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

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

Christmas Bells (and a few clunkers)

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

Late Christmas Eve.

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

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

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

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

All is well.

Still, I’m not sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clunkers happen. All our life, they happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Period.

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

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

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

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

With Him.

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

He wants us to be with Him. Forever.

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

A Child is born.

Clunkers will be remembered no more.

Beautiful music to my ears.

To His, too.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

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

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

Every One a Child

December 15, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

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

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

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

All children.

Why are you wrinkling up your forehead like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adults. Children. Teenagers.

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

So much more.

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

God came as a child.

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

Lost.

I’ve forgotten something.

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

But there is joy too. So much.

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

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

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

Christmas is for children.

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas is for children. Old and young.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas is for children.

I pray I’ll be one all my days.

I pray the same for you.

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

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

Christmas Begins Again

December 9, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

Did I say these weren’t my people?

They were. They are.

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

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

And we worshipped together.

Together.

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

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

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

Adore.

Do we?

Will we?

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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