Crossing the Torrent

August 28, 2020August 28, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.

I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.

I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited its inevitable surge above flood level.

And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.

No, really. Music.

Away, I’m bound away,
Across the wide Missouri.

I suppose it’s no coincidence the words to the old folk tune Shenandoah are coming from the speakers on my desk right now. No, I didn’t select the song; it just came up in the playlist the streaming music service delivers while I sit at my computer.

When I say no coincidence, I mean I probably needed a nudge in the right direction.

I can take a hint; I’ll head that way momentarily.

Many times, I’ve compared our existence here to a journey — a life-long expedition to see what is around the next bend and over the next hill.

We are strangers in a strange land, headed for a different home.

They do not belong to this world any more than I do. (John 17:16, NLT)

Having said that, I also realize I have stopped here beside the rushing waters and taken shelter a little ways above the river’s edge in a place of safety.

I’ve stopped here for too long.

Much too long.

Too long, staring at the intimidating water. Too long, wondering when the awful flood will recede. Too long, waiting for rescue.

The road goes on up the mountain on the other side of this cataract of white water. I can see it from here if I have the strength of will to tear my eyes away from the terrifying flood and lift them to the hills.

The painting you see above hangs in my home. It is one of my favorites. Although not necessarily from the brush of the most skillful of artists, the picture tells the story amazingly well.

The violent torrent roars and tumbles down the mountain rift with horrible menace. Nothing in its path could withstand for long the overwhelming power it wields. And yet, mere feet above the white water, on a rickety and cobbled-together wooden bridge, seemingly unconcerned and unfazed, a man stands resting.

The Lovely Lady and I jokingly refer to the piece of art as our Simon & Garfunkel painting, a none-too-clever reference to the duo’s song, Bridge Over Troubled Water.

A century old, the painting depicts nineteenth-century life in the Canadian Yukon Territory. The best word I can think of to describe living in that rugged wilderness? Hard.

Hard, and yet (dare I say it?) triumphant.

Here, amid the most unfriendly environment man could imagine, a bridge spans the cataract of water. In safety, where there was no safety, anyone can traverse the dangerous valley.

Someone had to build that bridge. Over the troubled water.

Over it.

While the river rushed and roared below them.

And still, I stand beside the flood and consider. It’s likely, you know, that if a bridge can be built over this river, there will be another one needing to be built up ahead, and another one, and another.

Rivers don’t run in a straight line, either. I might even have to build another bridge over this very same cascade, further on where it runs even wilder and more furiously.

Funny. As I stand here thinking, I seem to hear the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me.

“We’ll cross that river when we get to it.”

She is right. She always was.

But right now, I’m at this river.

Today, the rushing water directly ahead needs a bridge over it.

I have no choice but to follow the road ahead. And, it leads up the hill across this particular river. This wild, untameable flood.

It’s time to get building. It’s a good thing I know a Carpenter who is only too happy to teach the craft to any who ask.

After all, He built the greatest bridge of all time. Out of wood and nails.

Away, I’m bound away…

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
(Psalm 121: 1,2 ~ ESV)

A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath. (Anthony Liccione)

Hope Shines Bright

July 10, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

There were tears at the dinner table tonight. Some might have been my own.

I suppose in some families the occurrence is not all that rare. Arguments between siblings or even partners can end in tears. Lectures by mom or dad to children, too. Unkindness is no stranger to family assemblies. Tears flow. They just do.

That wasn’t the reason for these tears.

We sang a song—a blessing of sorts—before we ate. It wasn’t our usual dinner benediction. I’ve described for my readers in the past the lovely rendition of The Doxology which is frequently heard at our table. Often, just the singing of the beautiful lyrics with its well-known melody and harmonization is enough to make me feel I need no more food than that heavenly feast.

Tonight, my family—some might correct me and tell me it is her family, but I stand by my claim of them—sat around the table in their childhood home and one brother chose a different song to sing.

It has been a difficult day—a difficult few weeks, if it comes to that. It was a Friday night back a way that the phone rang and the hateful word was said again. After a year of feigned dormancy, the despicable thing has come back to life and is again a word on our tongues. Whispered. Spoken in quiet tones, as if the low volume might pacify its voracious appetite.

Cancer.

What an ugly word. A year ago, the major surgery to remove the diseased portion of a lung was pronounced a success. Then the word on the doctor’s lips was cancer-free.

Not now. This time the words are stage IV and chemotherapy.

Now, there’s a sneaky word. Chemotherapy. It sounds so benevolent, so peaceful. Almost like aromatherapy. Relax and drift away. Yeah, right!

Today was his first treatment. Five hours in the chair while his body was infused with numerous chemicals, the result of which no one can foretell with any level of certainty.

We expected to whisper the words. Tonight, of all nights, we would whisper.

Ah. But that was before. Before the benediction. Before the tears. Before the sermon.

Oh. I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

My brother named the benediction for us. We sang, my brothers, my sisters, the Lovely Lady, and others present. Yes, yes. They are her family. I know that. But they are also my family.

Ruth wasn’t wrong when she said the words to her mother-in-law Naomi all those millennia ago:

Your people shall be my people; your God shall be my God. (Ruth 1:16, NLT)

My family. My brothers. My sisters. My wife. I laugh with them. I worship with them. I weep with them. Ah, yes; I sing with them. Sometimes, all at the same time.

Tonight, my family sang. A song of who God was; who He is; who He always will be.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness. It’s not such an old song, as hymns are reckoned. Nearly one hundred years old now. But, the powerful words, the affirmation of the One we believe in—those are ancient. Ancient.

Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:22-23, NKJV)

Clear, youthful soprano tones spilled into my ears from the teenaged girls to either side of me. I heard strong alto notes from more mature voices nearby. One brother and I carried the tenor part (well, he carried it—I just helped a little), leaving the older brother to handle the bass.

I still say the music in heaven won’t be very much sweeter. I hope that’s not too presumptuous. We sang of a God who knows our pain and our sicknesses, our weaknesses and our strengths, yet remains steadfast, never turning away from His path, nor from the ones He loves.

From our hearts, we affirmed the character and attributes of the Creator of all we see and know. I closed my eyes as we sang, partially to concentrate on the words and the voices, but mostly to hide the moisture that seemed to be leaking (without my permission) from them.

It was a holy moment.

As we ended, I heard a voice at my side speak quietly, I thought, almost in disbelief. “Look. Mom’s crying.”

She wasn’t the only one.

And, in a voice just as quiet, my/her brother—the one facing the life and death ordeal—preached a sermon (a short one) as he told us he had adopted as his own the words from that same song.

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.

They were, I believe, the last quiet words spoken at the table this night. There was no more whispering, no more avoiding those ugly, hateful words.

Cancer. Chemotherapy. Prognosis.

God is bigger than any of those things.

Bigger!

He gives strength to face the burdens of the day.

He gives hope—yes, even bright hope—for what comes tomorrow, whatever it is.

It doesn’t make light of the serious situations we find ourselves in, doesn’t guarantee a life without trials, without pain. And yet, just to remember who He is reminds us of who we are in Him.

We walk today in His strength.

We face tomorrow with His hope.

His mercies are still new.

Every day.

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee,
Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not,
As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be.

Great is Thy faithfulness!
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me!

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today, and bright hope for tomorrow
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside.
(Great Is Thy Faithfulness ~ Thomas Chisholm ~ 1866-1960 ~ Public Domain)

Are We Having Fun Yet?

August 10, 2018August 10, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

The man said, “I’m planning to go…if the weather looks like it will be okay.”

I have proof he said it.

I would have just gone on Wednesday. I should have just gone on Wednesday.

Instead, I put on my gear, my gloves, my helmet, my shoes—yes, even my lycra shorts—and went to the old Post Office to await the start of the group bike ride.

The weather didn’t look like it would be okay. If Christopher Robin had been there with an umbrella saying, “Tut. Tut. It looks like rain,” I would have believed him. It did look like rain.

We rode anyway. Five miles we rode north, thinking we’d skirt the precipitation, which looked to be heading south. It didn’t work.

We rode in the rain. A total of thirty miles. Eight of us rode. Side by side. Stretched out in a line. Scattered a quarter of a mile apart. We rode in the rain.

I had a reason for being there. I don’t know about the rest of the idiots.

My friend—the one who sent that text—is going halfway around the world for a year. He’s leaving next week. I wanted to have a last ride with him.

So, we rode. In the rain. For a reason.

Do you ever wonder why? Why am I doing this now? Here? In this dismal circumstance? Is it worth it?

I wondered. I did.

As I struggled to see through the moisture-laden lenses of my glasses, each one covered with a hundred little kaleidoscopes of water beads, I counted the cost.

When the water splattering up from the tires of the seven other cyclists in the group drenched my socks and soaked my cleated leather and cloth shoes, I considered the foundational reason for my current circumstances.

And then, as I rode close behind the cyclist ahead of me, my front tire just inches away from his rear one, attempting that all-important labor-saving maneuver—drafting—I got a faceful of dirty water. The rooster-tail of moisture splattering up from that tire hit me full in the face, turning the kaleidoscopes on my glasses into chocolate mud I could barely see through.

Still, as I backed off from the airborne cataract, my straining eyes peered at the back of the fellow whose bicycle was the source of the annoyance. I could read—just barely—the words printed on his cycling jersey:

If it’s not fun, why do it?

I couldn’t help it. The laugh just came out; from somewhere down near my belly, it erupted.

Why, indeed?

But now, a few days on, and a shower or two having helped to rid all the wrinkles in this old body of the residual mud, I’m not laughing.

I don’t know about anyone else, but somehow this road I started down under blue skies and with gentle breezes has turned downright uncomfortable. The gear I pulled on before the ride began protects me not at all from the elements—neither the driving rain nor the blazing hot midday sun.

Somewhere along the way, the gentle rolling slopes bordered by pleasant meadows became a mountain climb with sheer dropoffs on either side.

I’m not having fun anymore.

Maybe it’s time to turn back.

But, something tells me it was never about fun.

Somehow, I get the feeling it was never about comfort.

And the Teacher told His followers that they would have trouble along the way. Understanding their concern at that prospect, He went on to remind them that He had been all along the way and they needn’t be fearful since He had finished the entire course. Not only finished it but had been victorious. (John 16:23)

There are things in this world worth suffering through.

There are.

There are things in this world worth suffering through. There are. Share on X

Friends (and people in general) are worth getting wet for. Telling the truth is worth being laughed at for. Being generous to a neighbor is worth doing without ourselves.

Standing firm in the storm, when that’s all we can do, is worth the toil and danger.

We’ll finish the ride up ahead. In front of us. Through the rain and grime. And the heat and sweat. And the climbing and weariness.

Ahead.

As we approached the end of our ride the other day, my friend who is headed overseas rode beside me into town. At a corner not far from his home I made a left turn. He went straight. Several blocks on, me having made a right turn and he having made a left turn, we met up again.

Strange, how that happens.

He’ll leave next week for the other side of the world and I’ll stay here. Both of us, still on the journey.

The same journey.

Headed for the same goal. It’s where he always says he wants to end up when we start out on a bike ride.

Home.

You could ride with us, too, you know. Side by side. Or in single file, drafting. Except when it rains.

Headed home.

Soon.

It is said that as many days as there are in the whole journey, so many are the men and horses that stand along the road, each horse and man at the interval of a day’s journey; and these are stayed neither by snow nor rain nor heat nor darkness from accomplishing their appointed course with all speed.
(Herodotus ~ Greek historian ~ 5th century BC)

I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us.
(Philippians 3:14 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Summer is Passing

August 7, 2017August 7, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Church was full this morning. Everyone sat a little closer together. Everyone sang a little louder. There were more hugs, and more laughter afterward.

It all makes me a little sad.

That didn’t come out right. Maybe, I should explain.

The church is full because the teachers and professors are returning from their summer travels, their mission trips, their expeditions to expand horizons in their own minds so they can do the same for their students.

Hmmm. I seem to be making it worse instead of better.

I want to be very clear. I like the teachers and professors. I really do. It’s just that if they’re coming back, the students can’t be far behind.

Oh. That’s no better either, is it?

I love the students coming back, too. Really, I do. They fill the place with life and joy—optimism, even.

Let me give this one more shot, okay?

Their return (both teachers and students) means summer is almost over. Even the weather this week belies the calendar. Temperate days and cool nights have descended and rain has come back.

Oh, I know the summer weather will return with a vengeance. It always does in late August and September.

But, the thought is planted in my head and I can’t shake it. Summer is passing; already it’s nearly past.

And somehow, I feel like Alice’s White Rabbit clutching a pocket watch and muttering, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late.”

I never did find out exactly what the nervous hare was worried about being tardy for, but still, I can’t help thinking I haven’t accomplished everything I should have.

I mentioned it to the Lovely Lady a few days ago and she reminded me of all we’ve done this summer. I listened to her list and I had to smile. We covered some ground—we did. But, I wanted to do more.

I suppose it will always be that way. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, as Mr. Browning explained so well. But, I fall short so often.

I wanted to do more—and better.

I think of all the time wasted believing it couldn’t be done. You know—it. Whatever the new thing in front of me was.

I’ve never done this before. What if I mess it up?

I stood underneath the new ceiling fan with my son-in-law this afternoon and I had to laugh. He was bemoaning the fact that he has no confidence in working with electrical wiring. If he did, he would have a fan hanging from his ceiling as quickly as you could say downdraft.

I did. I laughed.

Man, electricity is easy! That over there—that’s what frightens me silly.

I jabbed a finger at the kitchen floor I am currently trying to cover with vinyl tile.

I’m not exaggerating, nor am I bragging. We purchased the materials for the job weeks ago. I stood for hours staring at the bare sub-floor before I could bring myself to even open the first box of tile.

Hanging the ceiling fan took half an hour. Less.

Yeah, but that stuff won’t kill you. The electricity could.

I laugh at his logic. He is right.

I like being in control. I enjoy doing things which make me look good to the folks around me. The problem is God doesn’t always give me assignments with which I’m comfortable.

When I want to stand in front of folks and speak of things with which I’m familiar, He tells me to climb under the house and repair the plumbing.

When I would rather repair a guitar with buzzing strings, He assigns me to pray with the man who’s just lost his wife of sixty years.

We waste a lot of time wishing He’d give us something else to do. I know I do.

I spend my breath—the breath He put in my lungs—attempting to convince Him I could be so much more use to Him doing the same things I’ve always done.

Moses said, What if they don’t listen to me? And God replied, Who do you think determines if people listen? Or see? Or speak? I will give you the tools! Just go! (Exodus 4:10-13)

Here we are again at the small end of the year. The hours of daylight are getting shorter.

And still, I stand and argue my case.

How much time I’ve wasted.

Is there still time? Yes. With Sam Gamgee’s old dad, I’ve said it many times—where there’s life, there’s hope.

It’s just time to quit stalling.

Or, as we used to say in those ball games we played in empty fields at the end of days full of activity:

Get a move on! The light’s going!

With the thought that summer might be running out comes a renewed urgency. Not much time now. Falling leaves are just around the corner. Hot cocoa and all things pumpkin flavored.

To everything, there is a season.

I want to use the breath He gave me for the purposes He intended it for. Today.

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What’s that in your hand?

It’s time to use it. You might want to get a move on.

The light’s going.

We are not as strong as we think we are.
We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.
And, with these our hells and our heavens
So few inches apart,
We must be awfully small
And not as strong as we think we are.
(Rich Mullins ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1955-1997)

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.
(Ecclesiastes 9:10 ~ KJV)

Living in the Light

August 2, 2017August 2, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The ghosts in the old house have been disturbed and are keeping me awake.

No, not like the ghosts of movie fame—nor even poltergeists or apparitions in chains. I mean those people who once were part of my life, but who only live here now in my memory.

Sometimes I wonder if I have awakened them, causing them, in turn, to interrupt my own sleep. It’s only a thought, of course, not borne out by facts.

Still. Here I am—awake.

I wrote of old light fixtures being made new to shine brightly the last time I shared my thoughts here. Since then, something’s been niggling at the edges of my mind. And, it’s not just the ghosts—although they have a good deal to do with it, truth be told.

I sat at a table in a restaurant with my children tonight, both adults, long since. Showing them photos of the light fixtures we are putting back up in the house their grandparents lived in for most of their lives, I expected my offspring to exclaim about their memories of the fixtures.

They didn’t. Not at all.

I couldn’t have told you that was on the ceiling in that house, Dad.

The other one nodded his head.

Never saw it.

How is that possible?

Many hours of their childhood were spent in that house. They played. They worked. They ate. Surely, in all that time, those light fixtures were powered up and the light shone from them. Surely.

I know it was so. On any number of occasions, as we pulled into the drive to visit, the light blazed out from the windows, welcoming us in from the dark.

How could they not have noticed the fixtures?

As I consider the issue, a light begins to glimmer in my own brain. In a moment, the notion is blazing as brightly as any of those ceiling lights ever did.

You see, on the first few occasions the light switch is turned on, if a fixture is particularly attractive, folks might notice and, perhaps, even be overwhelmed with the beauty. But, after the process is repeated day after day, night after night—for weeks, months, years even—we forget about the light fixture on the ceiling and simply live in the light.

We simply live in the light.

We don’t see the implement anymore.

We see only what is produced. The thing necessary for life—light—fills the house. Absolutely fills it.

And, that’s as should be.

It is true in more than just our physical, everyday needs. The light we require for our faith life is very much the same in the way it works.

We are, indeed called to shine. But, the purpose is that the watching world will see (and praise), not us, but the God who shines through us. (Matthew 5:16)

John—the one also called the Baptist, said it succinctly: He must increase and I must decrease. (John 3:30)

In the old house we’re taking the light fixtures which have kept the shadows at bay for the generation past, and are doing what is necessary to keep the shadows away for the generations in the future.

The same is true for the spirit life of our families and fellowships. Saints of old, faithful in walking with the Savior, have lit the way for successive generations. We can do no less than take up the same light and share it into the future.

Light from the past, shining into the future.

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We’ll leave the light on for you.

It’s not an original thought, and others before us have actually made the promise and kept it. To do the same will take a lifetime of faithfulness from us.

A lifetime.

It’s time we were started.

Flip the light switch!

Live in the light.

Lighthouses don’t fire cannons to call attention to their shining—they just shine.
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist ~ 1837-1899)

And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light. The nations will walk in its light, and the kings of the world will enter the city in all their glory.
(Revelation 21:23-24 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Finishing the Job

July 13, 2017July 13, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The Lovely Lady isn’t talking to me.

No, it’s not for the reason you might suspect. She’s not upset—not with me anyway.

I am frustrated. I have been for weeks. Tasks which have been set before me have been tackled with purpose and intent. As uncomfortable as I am with those tasks, I want to complete them.

Wanting to is not the same as doing.

Trying is not the same as succeeding.

For a variety of reasons, I have been forced to move from several of the tasks to other ones before the first jobs were completed. It doesn’t set well in my spirit.

Today, I spent a few hours measuring and visualizing a solution while considering a task I never wanted to begin in the first place.

What I really mean is I stood in one place and, staring at the impossible mess, racked my brain to come up with a way out of the predicament I find myself in. Dinnertime interrupted the aggravation—which only made me more aggravated.

I came home, having accomplished not a single task. Not one.

I said she’s not talking to me. She just knows I need a little space. I’m not much for consoling platitudes. They only frustrate me more. She knows that.

She knows me.

I like that she knows me.

Later this evening, I needed to retrieve something I had left at the site of my earlier frustration, so I told her I would be right back, explaining what I was doing.

It would take a little longer than that.

As I walked in the door, the frustration of the day landed on me again like an unbearable weight on my chest. It was hard for me to breathe for a moment. But, as I walked back where the item I needed was stored, I noticed another task I had left undone days ago.

A thought hit me. Why not just finish that little project? I had been putting it off for days, feeling guilty every time I walked past, but never stopping to complete the work.

Tonight, I picked up the necessary tools and I finished one task. Just one.

I walked out of there with my head held high. When I got home, the Lovely Lady talked to me.

She talked to me.

I like that she knows me.

I read her part of a poem, one I remember from my childhood days. You’ve likely heard it before. A single verse from Longfellow’s The Village Blacksmith:

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

My voice cracked as I read the words. It does that. More and more, these days.

It was only a small thing I completed.

No. It was a very small thing.

It doesn’t matter. I needed to feel the success of completion—of working at something that mattered, and finishing it.

I have often felt that way about life itself—about living my faith. I need to do something that matters. More than that, I need to complete the job.

Perhaps I won’t finish it today, as Mr. Longfellow’s blacksmith did. But still, the goal is not to start a plethora of tasks. The goal is to finish what’s been begun, be it one enterprise or a dozen.

I want to be able to say with the Apostle who wrote so many letters, that I have fought a good fight and have completed the race. (2 Timothy 4:7)

It will only be true through perseverance. It will only be true if the race is run in His strength and not my own.

I lose interest when the going gets hard. Zeal turns to disappointment; the heat of good intentions cools until there is barely a spark of dedication.

But, He knows me.

My frustrations, my sadness, my disappointments, He knows all of them. And, in all of them, He never wavers in His faithfulness.

I waver. I gripe. I lash out.

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But, there is no limit to His persistent love. His mercies have no end. Really. In His faithfulness, His mercies are renewed every morning. (Lamentations 3:22, 23)

Every morning.

Just when I need them to face the new day, with its frustrations and its challenges. Mercies.

I like that He knows me.

I’ve got more tasks to complete.

I think I’ll see what I can finish today.

I might even start something new.

My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far today, I have finished two bags of M&Ms and a chocolate cake. I feel better already.
(Dave Barry ~ American author/humorist)

Work willingly at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people. Remember that the Lord will give you an inheritance as your reward, and that the Master you are serving is Christ.
(Colossians 3:23,24 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Never Satisfied

June 26, 2017June 26, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I wish I knew how it happened. Maybe I’m just too competitive. Someday, I’ll learn.

Nearing the end of a bicycle ride today, I noticed an athletically-built young man on his bike some distance ahead of me. Going the same direction as I, but with the interval between us lessening steadily, it appeared I would be ahead of him fairly soon.

He rounded a curve in the road and glanced back to see me a couple hundred feet behind. Immediately, he stood up on his pedals and began to pump away, swinging the bike wildly from side to side with his muscular grip on the handlebars.

It was hard to misinterpret his intent. There was no way this old man was going to pass him!

Oh, man! Challenge accepted!

I didn’t stand up. I didn’t throw the bicycle from side to side. I simply spun the pedals faster, exerting myself where I had been on autopilot a moment before. As I reached a higher speed, I flipped the right-hand brake lever (also the shifter) to the side and the derailleur on the back wheel dropped the chain over one sprocket, sending more of my expended energy to the wheel propelling the lightweight machine of metal and rubber.

Within a quarter mile, I had overtaken the young man and, acting the part of the gracious winner (merely acting, mind you), greeted him in passing, only to hear his backdoor criticism of my feat.

“That’s an awesome bike, man!”

I sputtered out a comment about it being a great day for a ride and pedaled on past. He turned a corner moments later and was lost from the view of my little rearview mirror.

I pedaled on at the same speed for awhile, but slowed gradually as the short, odd interaction took over my mind.

He’s not wrong.

It is a wonderful bicycle.

It’s a lot more bicycle than a rider like myself deserves. It was offered to me for a very reasonable price by an old friend just over a year ago. Since the Lord had recently blessed me with an extra sum of money earned playing my horn, I had the wherewithal to afford it and I purchased it.

I understand how nice the bike is. That’s not my problem.

The thing is, the bicycle didn’t overtake the fellow on the road today.

I did.

Lest you think I’m getting a size or two too large for my lycra shorts, let me assure you I understand very clearly my limitations as a cyclist.

I’m not that good a rider.

But, here is what I know, mostly from long periods of time spent doing just the opposite: If one rides regularly, one develops the ability to ride faster and farther.

You have to ride your bike.

A month ago, the young athlete would have pulled away from me easily, showing up this old man on his awesome bike.

That beautiful bicycle sitting in the storage barn could never have passed anyone by itself. And, ridden by a cyclist on the road for his first outing in a year, the result would certainly have been a losing effort.

As often happens, while my mind was still chewing on the remnants of this earlier event, a seemingly unrelated activity later in the day gave me something new to contemplate.

I was glancing at my smartphone, and decided it was past time to clear out the notes reminding me I need to pick up eight-penny finishing nails (the 8d nails are in the pine window jamb already), or that I couldn’t forget to buy a new battery for my truck’s key fob (I did that six months ago). There were lots more, but most are just as mundane—and outdated—as these, so I won’t bore you with a recitation of them all.

One note caught my attention as I flipped past though, so I quickly scrolled back up to it. It was a little blurb I wrote months ago, thinking about who-knows-what? at the time.

Be content with what you have, but never with where you are.

Somehow tonight, the words jumped off the screen at me. I’ll delete those other notes later. This is important stuff!

The apostle who once was called Saul made the statement. Well, he actually made two different statements, but both are rolled up in this one.

Thanking his friends for sending a gift to him, the letter-writing apostle hastened to let them know he had no problem functioning with whatever God provided. I have learned, in whatever condition I find myself—with that, to be content. (Philippians 4:11)

Earlier in the same letter, he had encouraged them to keep moving—leaving the past and its accomplishments behind—to the goal, never staying in the same place. (Philippians 3:12-14)

The two statements stand, seemingly in opposition to each other. When combined though, they form a principle with the capability of radically changing the way we live our lives.

Be content.

Never be satisfied.

It messes with the brain a bit, doesn’t it?

Be content with what you have, but never with where you are.

Never.

I have a very nice French horn which sits in its case on my floor. Well sure, I have the horn, but why didn’t our Creator make me a prodigy so I could play it effortlessly and flawlessly (and even earn money for more nice cycling equipment)?

I wonder. I have the horn. Perhaps, I could practice and then possibly, I might someday be able to play it adequately.

Some may wish they could execute beautiful counted cross stitch projects, having needle and thread already in their possession, but lacking the ability and the training to immediately achieve their dream. I wonder if such a person might start by sewing buttons on shirtsleeves and then see what comes next.

If I gaze longingly out toward the storage barn, remembering the awesome bicycle out there, but wishing for the strength and understanding to operate such a conveyance, I’ll never have more than that bicycle—sitting idle in storage.

It takes time and dedication to be able to use His gifts properly.

And somehow, when we commit ourselves to moving forward, He seems to give better gifts with which to make the journey.

Be content with what you have, but never with where you are. Share on X

It’s time to take what He’s blessed us with and move in the direction He points us.

Towards Him.

Closer to home.

It is an awesome bike.

Time to get in the race.

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
(On the Road ~ Jack Kerouac ~ American novelist ~1922-1969)

The Ladder

May 5, 2017May 5, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Let’s just put in a new window.

She had a point. The old single-hung window was pathetic, the lower pane broken, with a piece of plywood covering the missing glass. The combination of dirty, scratched glass and the not-so-efficient plywood patch made it seem that the natural light outside had to squeeze its way in, rather than streaming in from the sky, as one would expect. The paint on the window frame is peeling and it is easy to see that water has been leaking onto the wood for years. Perhaps it really is finished.

One might have thought that—before today.

Today, I made what seemed like fifteen trips up a ladder with the sole intent of proving the old window still had some life left in it. Fifteen trips up to a window twelve feet off the ground. Fifteen trips back down.

I carried tools up to remove the old glass, tools to clean out the old glazing compound and glazier’s points, tools to scrape peeling paint, and even a tool to make sure the window won’t keep sliding open on its own. I brought broken panes down. I carried new panes up.

In between, I stood near the top of the ladder and labored.

Tomorrow, I’ll make a few more trips up and down.

The window is going to be fine. Really. The building contractor working on the new house next door to my old one looked over at it this afternoon and told me so. He says it’s looking great.

The window is going to be fine.

I’m not so sure about me. The old legs are shaky tonight. Muscles ache and I have a slight cramp in the arch of my foot, where it rested on the rung—when it wasn’t climbing up or down the rest of the rungs.

I had a different scenario in mind when I insisted we save the old window. It involved one trip up the ladder. It involved one trip down the ladder.

No one wants to cover ground they’ve already covered. Like Longfellow’s blacksmith, we want to see something attempted and something done. Just like that—all on the same day.

Try. Do. Wipe your hands.

Tomorrow, I’ll go up the ladder again. And very possibly, the next day, I’ll go up the ladder again.

And, in that realization, I see before me the analogy of my existence these days.

Each morning finds me in the same valley, looking up at the job I know must be done. The mountain must be climbed, tasks will be attempted, but it seems certain the goal won’t be reached.

Weary and frustrated, I’ll slide down the mountainside one more time, only to tackle it again tomorrow. The words Mr. Shakespeare put into the mouth of Macbeth centuries ago make their way even now into my own: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Hmmm. One might get the idea I’m discouraged. Perhaps, even angry.

I have been. Both of them.

As I did today when I descended the ladder for the last time, I have looked up and have seen, not the progress which has been made, but the great amount of the task yet to be accomplished.

Standing on the ground, looking up this afternoon, even after hearing my contractor friend praise my attempts, it was easy to wonder why I even considered reviving that old window.

What an astonishing waste of time! How do I justify the effort and expense?

And yet…

As I put away the tools and my ladder, a thought hit me. They do that, you know.

I wonder what it looks like from inside the room?

Wearily, but with just a hint of anticipation, I clomped up the rough staircase inside.

I won’t say I was awestruck. I wasn’t. Still, as I stepped off the top step into the room, the difference was surprising. Light, from the sunny Spring sky, filled the room. All the dingy impediment of the old panes was a thing of memory.

Now, we’re getting somewhere!

Sometimes, all it takes is to look at the thing from a different perspective. We’ve been looking at it from the same side for so long, we can’t see how close we are to reaching the goal.

Tomorrow will be another day. The journey still beckons, in all of its unromantic tedium.

I’ll climb the ladder again. And again.

It’s how the light gets inside.

Climb the ladder again tomorrow. It's how the light gets in. Share on X

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
(from The Village Blacksmith ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~ American poet ~ 1807-1882)

Patient endurance is what you need now, so that you will continue to do God’s will. Then you will receive all that he has promised.
“For in just a little while,
the Coming One will come and not delay.
And my righteous ones will live by faith…”
(Hebrews 10: 36-38 ~ NLT)

Leaning Forward

April 27, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I never realized I ran that way. I don’t think I ever thought about it. Still, she didn’t have any uncertainty as she said the words.

He can’t really see, but he’s sure that was you he noticed running by last night. Nobody else we know runs like that—leaning forward.

Leaning forward? I run leaning forward?

I checked, the next time I went running, sneaking a glance at my image in a shop window as I passed. I run leaning forward. Try as I might, I can’t change that.

I lean forward as I run.

I know it’s not the best way to run. I could use my core and back muscles better if I ran with an upright posture. When I think about it, I do that.

Mostly, I simply lean forward and run.

I want to get to the goal. Quickly. Leaning forward, erroneous though the concept may be, seems to get me there more quickly.

I’m beginning to wonder though, if that will always be true. I have leaned forward all of my life.

But, things change.

Years pass.

I am tired. I’m not the only one.

In more areas than just that of physical exercise, I have begun to plod more than to run. The energy, the zeal of youth, has begun to wane.

I sat on an uncomfortable table this morning and listened to my new friend’s instructions.

You’ll want to quit before the test is finished. Don’t do it! Push on through! It may seem that you can’t go any further, but don’t give in. We won’t let you get into any trouble.

I nodded my head sagely and with confidence. In retrospect, I feel like one of the sturdy dreamers in the old hymn when the Savior asks if they are able to be crucified with him. They told Him they’d follow Him to the death.

Well, we know how that worked out for them. The day of the test came and they scattered, terrified. At least one of them swore he didn’t even know the Man who had trained him for the day of testing. (John 18:17, 25-27)

Anyway, earlier today, this sturdy dreamer got on the treadmill for the stress test—really, I get stressed just thinking about it—and my new friend Dawn started the belt moving under my feet.

I didn’t do so well—just walking. Dawn told me as much.

Why are you marching? Just widen your stride and relax. You know how to walk.

I don’t stroll much. But still, I heeded her advice and relaxed, stretching out the length of my stride and kept up with the speed and elevation changes. It was uphill all the way. Every step.

And, just when I began to think I was almost finished, the final stage kicked in. I had to run to keep up. But, I know how to run, even if I don’t walk so well.

Finally! Something I could do!

I ran.

Wow! You’re a lot better at running than you are at walking, aren’t you?

My taskmaster laughed, and I laughed with her—as much as I could with my parched mouth and heaving lungs. I was in my element now.

Except, I wasn’t.

Panic isn’t a word I like to use when describing my own state of mind. It’s the only word that fits for what followed.

I wasn’t going to quit. I wasn’t. But, there were points when I wanted to beg Dawn to slow the treadmill down to a walk again. It was irrational, I know. Sometimes you can’t control how you react to circumstances. I wasn’t in control.

But, I did finish the test and, shaky legs, heaving chest, and all, stumbled back over to the uncomfortable examination table. I sat there, grateful for a place to sit and settle my emotions, as well as get my lungs functioning normally again.

I didn’t quit! I ran to the very end. Leaning forward, hands on the bars, I had finished all of the stages.

I finished the test!

But, as I sit late at night, here in my easy chair, I wonder.

Can I keep leaning forward?

Am I going to finish strong?

Shaky legs and all, will I finish strong?

You know I can’t run the race in my own strength, don’t you? I never started it on my own either.

The Apostle—my namesake—wrote the words that echo down from centuries past and reassure just as much today as when he first penned them.

He who started the work in you has no intention of leaving you on your own. You won’t drop out. He will finish what He started. Count on it. (Philippians 1:6)

I will freely admit, there have been a few moments of panic in the last few months. More than a few.

Still, for all that, I’m going to keep running. Leaning forward, I’m going to run.

Even if it’s uphill for the rest of the way.

There’s a prize for the winner. It’ll be better than a gold medal, or even a crown of leaves. Much better.

I know I’m already in good company, but there’s always room for more on the road. Maybe you’ve been walking a ways, but it’s time to start running again. Why don’t you come along with me?

Run the race in front of you.

Lean forward.

Run the race in front of you. Run. And lean forward. Share on X

The finish line is up there somewhere.

Up ahead.

Are ye able, said the Master,
To be crucified with Me?
Yea, the sturdy dreamers answered,
To the death we follow Thee.
(from Are Ye Able ~ American theologian/poet ~ 1892-1976)

Crossing the starting line may be an act of courage, but crossing the finish line is an act of faith.
(John Bingham ~ American marathon runner/author)

I’m Not That Man

April 14, 2017April 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

I want to be that man.

You know—the person they think I am.

I want to spend my hours and minutes considering ways to help folks around me. I’d like to be confident that all things work for good—confident enough that stress couldn’t ever color the edges of my emotions—confident enough that I would never give in to worry and despair.

I want to be the guy who knows exactly what action a true follower of Jesus would take in any given situation. And, I’d like to take that action. Every time, I’d like to do that.

I’m not that man.

I’m not.

Are you disappointed in me? I am.

I wanted to spend these last few days, the period of time we call Holy Week, in contemplation of the cost of grace. I thought I could perhaps offer some deep insights into the substitutionary atonement made for us on the cross during this week so many centuries ago.

I haven’t. I can’t.

You see, I’ve spent the entire week—every single day—in activities that resemble the sacred arts not at all. I’ve dug up roots from the ground. I’ve hung drywall. I’ve spread topsoil. I’ve carried desks to storage, and brush to the street, and a load of poison to the recycle center.

Nearly sixty thousand steps this week, over twenty thousand of them just yesterday—that’s how far I’ve walked. There are more steps to be walked tomorrow.

It doesn’t sound very holy, does it?

But, as I took off my socks yesterday to prepare for the shower which would wash the sweat and filth off of me, I saw a shadowy picture in my mind.

A nearly naked Man leaned over a basin of water, wearing nothing but a towel around His waist, and he washed the dirty feet of every single man in the room. (John 13:4)

I looked at my feet and wondered how many steps those men had taken since last their feet were washed? How filthy would the water in that basin have been?

But the Man completed his job, dressed again, and sat down to eat His final meal with them—the only one at the table with unwashed feet.

It was but a fleeting, fuzzy vision, washed away like dirt down that drain long before I wiped the steam from my mirror.

Today, my writing friends plied the tools of their trade and committed thousands of contemplative words to their pages and hard drives.

Not me. I walked more steps.

I am not that man.

I wonder.

Is it just as holy this week to walk on along the road He has set before us? Share on X

Is it just as holy this week—just as holy—to walk on along the road He has set before us?

Steadfastly?

Stubbornly?

With purpose?

The Man who suffered—the Man who died—the Man who lives again that we may live—He made us to walk, and work, and weep, and worship on this road.

He made us to walk, and work, and weep, and worship on this road. Share on X

Every week. Every day. Every hour. Every moment.

They’re all holy because He made them so.

I’m not that man. Really, I’m not.

But, He is.

The point of your life is to point to Him. Whatever you are doing, God wants to be glorified, because this whole thing is His.
(Francis Chan ~ American pastor/author)

Work willingly at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people.
(Colossians 3:23 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

faithfulness