Home Again

March 7, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was another lovely Old Friends Evening, like countless others we’ve enjoyed over the years. The hosting couple (us, this time) had prepared a meat dish (I think, in other circles, known as an entree) for dinner and others had filled in with salads, veggies, and dessert.

We had thoroughly enjoyed the dinner and, deciding against the customary dominoes and other entertainments, settled in the living room simply to talk. After nearly fifty years of friendship, you’d think we would have run out of subject matter, but there is rarely a moment of silence unless to pause in empathy for a loss or hardship of someone in the group, or indeed, any of our acquaintances.

I had described one of my honey-do items which couldn’t be put off any longer, the mention of which must have triggered a memory in his mind, when one friend asked suddenly if I had ever finished my deck. I laughed and told him it had been completed last summer.

Then I wondered; haven’t I shown the deck to these dear friends already? Well, we would remedy that without delay.

We—all eight of us—trooped to the back door to walk out on the structure. It was dark outside, so I flipped on the outside light to be sure none of us tripped going out. (We are OLD friends, you know.)

On the ground in front of the door, illuminated by the intense light, stood a rather large (and confused) opossum. It was evident to me that the creature had just emerged from under the deck we were all intending to examine shortly. As I pushed open the door, the timid animal spun and rushed back into the sanctuary of the low structure.

We all laughed and stepped out onto the deck, our friends all complimenting us on the welcoming outdoor space that had been created in that previously vacant corner of the building. Still, I could see some of them looking around as if fearful the opossum might make another appearance at any moment.

We went back inside.

Then again last night, visitors to our home were on that deck enjoying a warming fire in the stainless steel firepit and roasting marshmallows over the lovely flame. These guests live out on a mountainside, accustomed to wildlife dwelling in the woods that surround them. They weren’t phased by the thought of an opossum under their feet, so the evening passed in laughter and joyful conversation around the blazing logs.

But, these visitors had been with me when the deck was being built, as well. Before that, they had helped to deconstruct the neighbor’s old deck from which the lumber would be repurposed for ours. They had even abetted me in piling up that old lumber into the massive stack at the back of my yard that awaited whatever impetus it would take to move forward on the project of building our deck.

Months later, when I decided I could delay no longer, those visitors came back and helped me arrange that lumber into a deck once more, using nails and screws to hold it together. In the process, we removed the “structure” of the stack, strangely enough, disturbing a young opossum sheltering underneath it.

One can’t help but wonder…It could be…Nobody can prove otherwise, so I’m going to assume it is.

The same opossum we disturbed from its repose under the stack of lumber last summer is now living under the reconfigured stack—my deck.

Can’t you just see it?

The young creature, having wandered—homeless—for a few months, happens upon the newly built deck next to the house. Approaching it, the odor is unmistakable.

This is my home! The same home that was destroyed by those giants making such a ruckus and commotion.

And, then it pokes its long nose underneath.

But, it’s better! Look at all these rooms! And the space! With carpet on the floor even! Not even any weeds to poke me while I sleep! I’m home!

Home again.

You laugh, but sometimes reality is stranger than made-up stories. We all look for the familiar, even in strange surroundings.

Earlier this week, I listened as a friend explained why he attended the church fellowship we’re members of. He spoke of hearing the Lovely Lady play the flute, along with another musician, during an early worship service he and his wife attended. His memory went back to family members who had played those same instruments in the past and, leaning over to his wife, he said, “I’m home.”

The Psalmist, David, depressed as he wandered far from his home and the comfort of God’s people, reminded us that we may sometimes have the opposite experience. He longed for the familiar and the home he knew and yet, he was certain—absolutely convinced—that God was with him, even as he hid from those who would be happy to kill him.

“By day the Lord decrees his loyal love,
and by night he gives me a song,
a prayer to the God of my life.”
(Psalm 42:8, NET)

A few years ago, as the Lovely Lady and I left behind the business we had invested ourselves in and the house we had labored to make into a lovely, welcoming home, it felt a lot like that. Leaving home, unhappy at being uprooted from the comfortable, the familiar.

Funny thing. Nearly every day now, years past that unhappy time, I walk into the neighborhood and the house in which we live and I think (sometimes saying out loud), “What a lovely place we live in!”

I’m not sure the opossum gets to stay where he is. We may need to find him a new home soon. Time will tell.

But, that’s true for us, too. We’re just here temporarily.

Soon, we’ll be going home.

Really. Home.

Something like what we have here. Only better. A lot better.

I’m pretty sure we’ll be more comfortable there.

“Abraham was confidently looking forward to a city with eternal foundations, a city designed and built by God.“
(Hebrews 11:10, NLT)

“I read within a poet’s book
A word that starred the page:
‘Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage! ‘

Yes, that is true; and something more
You’ll find, where’er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.”
(A Home Song by Henry Van Dyke)

As a Mother Comforts

November 26, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Image by Jeannean Ryman. Used by permission.

“Weatherman says possibility of freezing precipitation tonight.”

The news actually came from a weather app on her smartphone, but I think the writer of the note (my sister) is secretly hopeful the invisible weather forecaster is right.

I’m not. But then, I’ve argued with the lady about various matters for over sixty years. We won’t break off our relationship over this tiny disagreement.

Still—her words had consequences. As I read them, I immediately thought of the cloth covering above my lovely little deck outside the back door. A sail, they call it—but it doesn’t move the deck an inch away from its foundations.

The sail is good for one purpose and one only. It keeps the sun off the heads and out of the faces of the denizens of said deck. For a period of time, it does. As I said, it doesn’t move the deck, while the sun itself runs its circuit daily, moving over and past the point where its rays are blocked.

One purpose. The sail doesn’t keep the rain off the deck; won’t stop the leaves from piling up on the furniture.

And, it certainly won’t hold the weight of any so-called freezing precipitation.

The consequence of my sister’s reminder? I had to loosen the ropes tying up the three corners of the sail and, folding it up (about as well as any of you would fold up a fitted sheet), stowed it in the backyard shed to await a promised spring.

My thoughts were a little sad as I untied the ropes from the eyebolts under the eave of the old house. I was remembering lovely afternoons and evenings spent with those I love. Family. Friends.

Seasons change.

The things that protected us in the bright, blasting heat of the long summer days are no longer protection for us.

We celebrated a family Thanksgiving at our home last week. The house was full and noisy with four generations represented at our table. There was music and a dinner blessing. There was discussion about whether pimiento was a good ingredient to have with celery sticks. There might even have been the haze of smoke from a new turkey recipe gone slightly amiss.

There was joy. And thanks.

And memories.

Their placement wasn’t purposefully planned. The ladies, I mean. We just suggested seats for folks where we thought they would be most comfortable.

But, I looked again today at the photographs of our gathering and the sadness hit anew. One entire side of the main table (the teenagers being allowed a little space to sit at a table of their own) was taken up by four ladies in our family.

Four widows.

I see their faces—the lovely men who once sat beside them at our table—and the memories bring tears. Well—not so much the memories as their absence from us now.

In many ways, they were shade from the hot, blasting sun of life. Brothers are like that. Fathers and grandfathers are too.

Seasons change.

The widows soldier on. I see great strength there. I see the heartache too. They all still grieve in their own ways.

And yet. . .

And yet, there is—still—bright hope for tomorrow.

His promises never dim; they never go amiss. The day is coming when we will be forever in His presence. Together.

But, what do we do with the changing seasons?

Here? Now?

Like the changing weather, our protection today may be gone with tomorrow’s storm.

Seasons change. But our Heavenly Father? He never changes. And, as he always has, like a mother, He will comfort us. (Isaiah 66:13)

I don’t know about your mother, but when my mom used to comfort me, she didn’t do it from across the room. She gathered me into her arms, pulling me onto her ample lap. I was held close. And tight.

You know what ample means, don’t you? It means big enough. And sometimes, more than big enough.

You know who else is big enough? The One who doesn’t change with the seasons. In every part of our lives, He gathers us in, close to His loving heart.

And, He is shade from the burning sun. Protection from the storms. A sure, strong wall of defense from everything that threatens.

He gathers us in, under his ample wings.

And, He holds us there.

Seasons change. They do.

There is nothing here to fear.

Even without a sail.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
(Edith Sitwell, British poet, 1887-1964)

“He will shelter you with his wings;
you will find safety under his wings.
His faithfulness is like a shield or a protective wall.”
(Psalms 91:4, NET)

The Son of a Do-It-Yourselfer

October 26, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I did something new last week. Solomon may have thought there was nothing new under the sun, but this was new to me.

You’ll be underwhelmed when you learn what the accomplishment was. It’s not something most folks would trumpet to just anyone whose attention they could snag. Still, for a man well into his sixth decade, the completion of the task for the first time seems to me to be somewhat significant.

The house in which the Lovely Lady and I live has stood for one more decade than have I. For all those years, the front entrance has been a wooden hollow-core door. It has not fared well over a lifetime, providing only a nominal level of security. I would guess that any person so inclined, and equipped with a decent pair of boots, could have kicked it down at any time in the last few years.

So, when a neighbor offered to donate a perfectly good steel entry door she had replaced recently, I thought it might be time to replace the sad old thing on the front of our home. I won’t bore you with the tedious details but, after several hours of labor—and, I’m delighted to report, with no blood being shed—the new/old door functions reasonably well as a barrier to unwanted salesmen and wandering children. Yes, I know it still needs to have the ratty threshold replaced, but that’s a job for another day.

A new thing.

I’ve never hung a door in my life. I’d been led to believe it was an extremely difficult task, one at which seasoned carpenters had been known to blanch and walk off many a job site without a backward glance.

That last may have been a slight exaggeration on my part, but the hyperbole makes it seem more like a worthy accomplishment, does it not?

I don’t mean to sound like I need a pat on the back.

I don’t. Not today.

It’s just that when I was out in the storage shed looking for a replacement part for the deadbolt that needed to be installed on the new door, I noticed something on the workbench that awoke an old realization.

Seeing that red spring sitting there (nearly forty years after I’ve needed one) caused a week full of memories to explode across my tired old brain.

The year was 1984. The Lovely Lady and I, along with a two-year-old toddler (who was going on thirteen) and a nearly one-year-old baby, were traveling back home (for me) to South Texas in a 1965 Chevrolet Biscayne sedan. Sixty miles from our destination, the car’s motor began to act up. For me, the week of vacation was to become a week of tribulation and frustration. And triumph.

I was about to do new things—things I had never done before. I was also about to realize that my image of my father was a little skewed. Or not.

Two days after we arrived at my childhood home, I was elbows deep in two hundred thirty cubic inches of the six-cylinder motor in the crippled Chevy when my dad came out to check on me. The carburetor was on one fender, the valve cover on another, and the oil-covered valve lifters and springs sat exposed on top of the motor in front of me.

“I can’t believe you’ve torn up your car like that!” My dad was incredulous.

I was confused. I was certain my father was a do-it-yourselfer from way back, tackling jobs himself instead of paying to have them done. As a young adult, I believed I had followed his example when trying to do repair and improvement jobs myself rather than spending my hard-earned cash for the expertise of others.

I was baffled. And, I said so to him.

“I don’t know what you remember about me, but I’d never tackle a job like that,” he replied.

I put the valve cover back on and replaced the carburetor. Closing the hood, I called a local mechanic and made an appointment for the next day.

My world was shaken. My dad wasn’t who I thought he was. I needed to consider this. But, over the next two days, as we waited on the mechanic, whose expertise I was relying on, I thought about my memories of my youth at home.

I remembered, years before, the man tearing down an old house to make his just purchased property a safe place for his kids to play. My mind had images of his ancient Ford station wagon straddling an irrigation ditch while he lay under it draining the oil and replacing the filter. And I had only to walk into the living room at the old house to see the louvered room divider between the living and dining room he and Mom had built from pieces of raw lumber and dowels purchased at the local lumberyard.

I breathed a little easier. And I regretted the hundred fifty dollar invoice I paid to the mechanic in a day or two. He had replaced a broken valve spring. That’s all.

A little red spring that sat under the valve lifters. The valve lifters I had been looking at when I abandoned my efforts. I was inches from success when I had surrendered. Inches.

I spent a few more hours during that vacation week reading about the process of replacing valve springs. You know. Just in case.

At the end of that week, we waved and hugged goodbye as we loaded our luggage and kids in the big old boat of a car and headed back north.

Three hours later, we sat at the side of the road with another broken valve spring.

We limped to a garage beside the highway a few miles on, but they couldn’t offer any help except to sell me a couple of used valve springs. That was after they told me it would be three days before the repair could be effected.

But I’m a do-it-yourselfer, the son of a do-it-yourselfer!

Borrowing a bit of rope to keep the pushrod from dropping into the motor’s cylinder, I did the repair myself as the mechanics sat nearby and drank their beer, speculating on how long it would take me to surrender.

I didn’t surrender. They were amazed.

A new thing. That day, I did a new thing.

I have kept the extra valve spring all these years, never believing I’d need it again. I can’t bring myself to dispose of it. Symbols of victories won are precious, however small their monetary value might be.

I’m not advocating that everyone needs to become a DIYer. That’s not wise.

What I do believe is that we should never stop learning. Never.

And never stop doing new things.

What I also believe is that we should pass on our wisdom, the memories of our triumphs—along with our failures, to the generations that come after us. Dads, moms, grandparents, neighbors—we share who we are and what we hope to become with young ones desperately looking for examples. Good examples.

At twenty-seven years old, remembering my roots, I repaired a motor by the side of the road for the first time. Last week, nearly forty years later, I hung a door for the first time.

I wonder what I’ll be doing in twenty years. I hope I’ll still be learning. And doing.

I’d like to think there still are a few young ones who might learn something worth passing on to others yet to be born.

I hope they’ll learn more than just about front doors and old Chevys.

It’s the way our Creator designed things.

Parents, teach your children.

Tell your children about it,
Let your children tell their children,
And their children another generation.
(Joel 1:3, NKJV)

Life needs Structure, After All

September 28, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The message arrived at 4:53 yesterday morning. Through the haze of slumber, I heard the chime announcing it and rolled over, assuming it could wait.

It did.

When I had brushed my hair and finished a cup or two of coffee (a few hours later), my brain caught up and I read it again. The message had come from one of the Lovely Lady’s relatives back East.

She wanted a picture or two of a barn. I knew which one she meant without need of explanation. Of course, she meant the barn behind my house.

She had told some friends in the big city of her small-town roots and of chucking rotten potatoes at the old structure when she was a kid. I suppose she needed photographic proof that it was undamaged by her malfeasance and still standing after all these years. She’s no kid anymore.

Back then, her dad would hand her a few potatoes he had dug from the garden. Perhaps they had rotted in the ground or, as likely, they had sat on the shelf in the utility room for too long. Either way, the only thing they were good for was fodder for the cows in the field. As she saw it, she could practice her throwing skills at the same time.

The cows would get the benefit either way. And the thwack of the spuds on the tin roof was so satisfying. It wasn’t as much fun if they only splatted against the pine siding. One way or the other, they ended up on the ground for the cows.

The old barn is a constant in my life. Even though I never saw it until I was nearly two decades old, its presence in my history goes back quite a few years before that. But we’ll get back to that later.

One of my favorite photographs was taken by the Lovely Lady in the mid-nineteen-eighties behind the house where we now live (the same one in which she grew up). My young daughter and I had wandered back to look at Dr. Weaver’s cows, the marvelous creatures being a wonder to the little tyke.

As the sweet little girl and her daddy gazed out at the cows, we couldn’t help but see the old barn back behind. Dr. Weaver’s old tractor was parked in a bay on one side, the hay and feed the cattle would need to see them through the coming winter on the other side.

Tonight, as I contemplate the photo again, I wonder if there could have been just the barest hint, perhaps even a faint aura, of the children who would be born to that little girl decades later hanging in the air that evening, as we gazed unknowingly into the future together.

But no. It was probably just the cows getting a little too close to the barbed-wire fence. No sense in getting all sappy about it.

I’ve been happy to take a photo or two with the little girl’s children beside the old barn in the last year or two. They seem to be as attached to the old thing as I am.

I watched the city crew put in a new utility line underground along the edge of the field over the last week or so. Somehow, to me, it seems a foreshadowing of what is to come. The big machines pound and torture the earth, the vibrations shaking the ground underfoot. The old barn seems just a little more fragile than it was only days ago.

Change comes. We can’t hold it back.

But, not yet. The barn is still standing. Right where it was seventy years ago when my father first set foot in it.

Oh. Didn’t I tell that part yet?

Years before I was born—before my parents had even met—that young man came to this small town to visit his brother and sister-in-law, who were attending the local Christian college. They were simpler times, vegetables shared from nearby gardens, meat from the college farm, and milk coming from a college professor who had a couple of Jersey cows that he milked in his barn.

In the sturdy wood and tin barn—yes, the very one—back behind his native-stone house, the professor of science milked the cows and sold the bounty they provided to the married college students. My father and his brother stood one evening waiting for their share.

Taking the full glass jug Dr. Wills handed them, they turned to make the trip back to the married student housing, their feet carrying them right across the front yard of the house the Lovely Lady and I live in today.

Some things in our lives are constants, even if we haven’t always been able to see them.

The physical, tangible objects change over time, aging and deteriorating as the years and the elements wear on them. Eventually, they will fall. All of them will fall.

Yes, the old barn, too. It has been a bit neglected for some years. The cows are only a memory; the garden in which the potatoes grew has sprouted a beautiful little house in recent years. Time passes and many treasures are lost along the way.

There are other things, not so temporal, we leave to our loved ones. The list is long.

Some items on it are not the kind of things we like to think of; prejudice, bad habits, the inability to control anger come to mind immediately. Others will come to mind as memories take over. These can take a lifetime to erase or, possibly, only to bring under control.

But among the lifelong gifts we give to our children, our families, and our loved ones is one I remember the best from a young age in my own life. It’s one I hope I passed on as a legacy—hope I’m passing on still.

My father and the red-headed lady he loved gave me the gift of knowing their God. They passed on to those who were close to them not only their faith, but also the certainty that theirs was a God who cared for them in a real and personal way.

Beyond the astonishing grace that provided a way to be reconciled with Him, He loves us and wants good things for us. He knows us better than we know ourselves.

They were certain of it and helped us to find it out for ourselves. Our conversations were full of a God who was part of our everyday lives.

I’m no longer surprised by the “coincidences”, the unexplainable, the unseen hand of this God. If you look, the evidence is all around.

You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

I won’t argue free will and predestination with anyone. I don’t know enough about the subject to have a dogma attached to it, save this:

For those who follow Him, there is a path prepared.

I have no great insights into finding His will, except to run hard after Him. That said, even when I have run hard away from Him during a few periods in my life, He has continued to work out His plan.

So when, at age nineteen, inexplicably drawn away from my home in south Texas to a little town in northwest Arkansas that I had never heard of until a year or so before, I packed up everything I owned in my Chevy Nova and took (as Mr. Lewis would have said) the adventure that came to me.

In the shadow of the old barn my father had visited thirty years prior, I wooed and won the Lovely Lady’s hand. Still in its shadow, we began to raise our children and made lifelong friends.

And now, again in its shadow, life slows, the path still before us. God never stops drawing us, one step at a time, until that day we’ll stop wandering.

And we’ll be home.

We need constants.

It turns out that there is, indeed, a thread, a continuous presence in my life.

It’s not the old barn. Much as I enjoy that old structure, it has only been a part of the landscape.

From my father’s steps into the barn seventy years ago, up to today, when I stand at the useless old barbed-wire fence and gaze across the field at the dilapidated old shed, the only true and lasting constant in life has been the hand of God.

Leading, protecting, pushing, but most of all, holding.

Safe.

I want to leave a legacy, something for folks to remember me by.

I hope it’s Him.

Just Him.

And if—at the end of it all— there’s an old barn somewhere nearby, I’ll be just fine with that, too.

Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.
(Matthew 6:33, NLT)

And then, let us descend into the city and take the adventure that is sent to us.
(C.S. Lewis ~ The Silver Chair)

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, he leadeth me;
By his own hand he leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by his hand he leadeth me.
(from He Leadeth Me, by Joseph Gilmore ~ Public Domain)

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)

Chocolate Fried Memories

April 11, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“Grandpa, these are perfect!”

They’re not. The little half-circle pies have imperfection written all over them, from the re-rolled pastry dough right down to the non-symmetrical pleats on the edges. The gooey chocolate filling is nothing more than cocoa, sugar, and butter—mixed in an indeterminate ratio.

Still, the young lady sitting beside me with a grin spread across her face isn’t wrong.

This is perfect.

It is.

The kids have been bugging the Lovely Lady and me for weeks.

“Are we ever going to have chocolate fried pies again?”

On the designated afternoon, they entered the house boisterously, every one of them anxious to help, either with mixing and rolling out dough, or filling and sealing up the little pockets. Their mama made sure the finished product was done to a golden brown.

Pie in hand, I sit at the table with my children and grandchildren, but my thoughts are far away—fifty-some years and eight hundred miles away, if you must know.

The smile on my face then might have been just as big as the one plastered there now. The setting was certainly different. The family of seven was crammed into a beat-up mobile home with barely room for three or four. There was no nice artwork on the walls, no beautiful dishes in a hutch, no antique secretary in the corner. But, there was family. And there was love.

And, anything with chocolate in it was bound to be good!

Eagerly, the five kids awaited the result of the last hour’s labor. Oh, it hadn’t been that much labor for them, but they had helped—a little.

Mom and Dad mixed and blended, rolled and folded, and the result was going to be every bit as spectacular as those my grandchildren experienced just the other day. We were never disappointed with the little half-round pies that landed on our Mel-mac plates. Fried pie-crust, perfectly browned (even if one or two did get a little overdone), filled with gooey, chocolaty filling.

“More, please!”

With the same words we shouted all those years ago, I become aware that another round of the little desserts is needed—yes, needed. One doesn’t normally think of sweets as necessary, but these small pieces of family history are as important as any ancient dish in the cupboard, or painting on the wall, could be.

It’s only flour and water mixed with shortening, and chocolate and sugar blended with butter. There is nothing to invoke the image of gourmet food here. Pennies were spent for each serving. Pennies. And yet, the value to me (and, I hope, to them) is more than that of any pricey restaurant I’ve ever been foolish enough to walk into.

Children need to know they’re part of the story. In the stories we tell and help them experience, they need to be able to connect the dots and know that the lines lead to them. The things we experienced as children, things our parents experienced, and their parents before them, need to be a part of their lives.

We don’t lecture them with the stories; we live them together—and then re-live them again.

Thirty years ago, I asked my father where the recipe was for the chocolate fried pies.

“Recipe? There is none. A little cocoa powder, a little more sugar. Maybe some butter to hold it together. I don’t know. Mix it together, tasting as you go. You’ll know when you get it right.”

Mix it together, tasting as you go. You'll know when you get it right. Share on X

We made them for our children, long since moved into adulthood. They too, asked for more, please.

I guess we got the recipe right.

Tell your children the stories. Make the recipes. Play catch. Hike. Fish. Go to the library. Take long rides down the country lanes. You know what you love to do with them.

Do it. With them.

And, as you go, tell them the stories. Sing the songs. Laugh. Cry. But, let them know they’re part of a story. Let them know they’re part of The Story.

Each one of us is part of this wonderful ongoing adventure. Don’t let them think otherwise. Don’t let that smart-phone in your pocket get in the way. Don’t believe that a made-up story on a screen or in a printed book is more important than the story they, and you, are part of.

The folks at the church where the Lovely Lady and I fellowship asked me a few weeks ago if I could speak one recent Sunday morning. As I prepared, thinking about how our lives and stories are intertwined, I realized something. The folks back in Bible times didn’t have to be reminded they were part of the story. They grew up with the stories. They could read the genealogies and point to their great-grandparents, to their aunts and uncles, and know they were part of the story. The dots were already connected.

Still, the way it happens today, many centuries removed from those days, is much the same. Moses it was who reminded them with these words:

Teach my words to your children, when you sit at home, when you walk down the street. Talk about them when you go to bed at night, and then again, when you get up in the morning. (Deuteronomy 11:19)

Tell the stories. Illustrate them. Act them out. Sing them. Our children deserve our best efforts. Boring facts and meaningless figures won’t cut it.

What’s that?

Where’s the recipe?

There is none. A pinch of humor added to some history, held together with a lot of love. Or, is it a pinch of history added to some love, held together with a lot of humor? I don’t know. Mix it together, tasting as you go.

You’ll know when you get it right.

The eyes light up, the smile spreads, and the voices all ask for—well, you know what they ask for, don’t you?

More please.

Family history. Faith’s journey. It’s all part of the story.

Connecting the dots. And, eating chocolate fried pies while we do it.

Who knew making memories would taste so good?

This is perfect!

And did they tell you stories ’bout the saints of old
Stories about their faith
They say stories like that make a boy grow bold
Stories like that make a man walk straight

And I really may just grow up
And be like you someday.
(from Boy Like Me, Man Like You ~ Rich Mullins/David Strasser ~ lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Capitol Christian Music Group)

My Father’s House

October 6, 2015October 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I joked with the Lovely Lady as I headed for my office tonight.

“I’m not sure there are any words left in me, but the morning light will tell the tale.”

“Ha!” The humorless laugh burst from her lips. “You said that awhile back, and I’ve had to proof thousands of your words since then.”

She has a point. Only days ago, I felt the well was bone dry, and my efforts at pumping the handle utterly futile. I had said all I had to say, shared all the wisdom I have gathered over my lifetime. Hopelessly, I gave the handle one more push. One final, desperate attempt. I don’t know from whence the words came (I never have anyway), but suddenly they gushed out. Like water on the parched earth, they washed away the dust and debris, leaving fertile ground in their tracks.

For awhile. You may have read some of them. They may even have made sense to you.

I hope you enjoyed the experience.

The well has dried up again. Or, so it seems to me.

I remember when all I had to do was to walk up to the warehouse where the nouns, the adjectives, the adverbs, and the verbs were stored, and yell at the building. Immediately, they all piled out the door in a long conga-line of letters and punctuation, ready to swing into action. I could always find a few conjunctions to hold them all together, as well.

Tonight, I stood outside and yelled, but nothing stirred. Then, like the police SWAT team, I even walked through the building clearing each room, but only turned up two or three words in my search. They’re lined up outside now, after I ordered them out of the building.

I wonder if they’ll be any help to me. I’ll hit them with the spotlight just in case.

father. house.

That’s it? No wait. There’s something hiding behind the first one. Yes, I see it. An apostrophe and the letter s.

Father’s house? Oh. I know what this is about. I don’t want you guys. You can go.

What’s that? You want to know what it’s about?

I warn you. It won’t be pretty. They’re only a couple of scrawny little words right now, but as soon as I use them, they’re going to be joined by a lot of other words you don’t want to hear—words like memories, the past, sadness, moving on, maybe even death.

I’ll tell it, but it won’t be a pretty picture, I can assure you. I know I don’t want to see it. In fact, that’s the reason the words were hiding. I stashed them there in the dark myself and told them to stay out of my sight.

I was going to say the story started just a few days ago, but suddenly I am aware that it really began over fifty years in the past.

That’s when we moved into that home. Seven of us moved in, fresh from a tiny mobile home on the two-acre lot across the street. Seven. We thought the place was a mansion. Well? After cramming seven people in that little two bedroom trailer, it was a mansion.

Fifty-two years of living, loving, arguing, yelling, crying, singing, eating, playing, talking, listening, sewing, writing, hair-cutting, nursing, reading, sleeping, cleaning fish, plucking chickens, and—well, you get the idea.

It all happened there, and a lot more. A lot more. Cousins came to visit, along with grandparents, aunts and uncles, friends, preachers, missionaries, and tattooed men riding motorcycles.

Mostly, it was the seven of us. Making memories to last a lifetime, some warm and fuzzy, some not so nice. We’ve all got the good with the bad. For many of us, time rubs the rough edges off and the good memories shine brightly, while the bad ones fade into the background.

And, what’s so bad about all that, one might ask? I told you it wouldn’t be pretty, didn’t I?

The not pretty thing is that it’s all coming to an end. I mentioned the story begins a few days ago. That’s when the letter arrived.

The place is going to be sold. It sounded so calm and businesslike. Clean. Painless. My intellect agrees. I told the man so.

“It’s a great idea, Dad. You should have done it years ago.”

My intellect doesn’t rule my heart. My heart wants to know how you sell your memories. My heart wonders if perhaps it would be less painless to cut off a hand.

I sit and look over all the words which have trooped out to join the original two and the truth dawns.

I haven’t set foot on that property for nearly ten years. Except for sporadic periods of time, no one has lived in it for nearly twenty years. Yet somehow, my memories of my time there are still intact and clear as they ever were. The loving feelings for my parents and siblings, nurtured and tended to there in that two-story residence, remain to this day.

The old ramshackle frame building is in need of someone else to inhabit it. Perhaps it will, one day soon, be home to another young family who will abuse and test its structural limitations, much like the Phillips brats did.

It’s time. Still, the act of selling it is so final. We can never go back. Never.

Except in our memories.

It’s time.

Those two words are still slouching against the warehouse, though. They haven’t been used yet. Perhaps, I can put them back away for another day. But then again, maybe not.

Father’s house.

Funny. The words never described the building I’ve been writing of. That was my family’s residence. Sure, it was a home, as far as homes go here. It was a great place to live and love and share.

It was always temporary.

You see, my mom has already moved on to the Father’s house. My dad is recognizing that it won’t be many years and he’ll be changing his address permanently, as well. Going to his Father’s house.

My intellect knows that it is a better residence than what they’ve had here. Absent from the body. Present with the Lord. (2 Cor 5:8)

My head knows this.

Still, my heart aches to think of it. It is so for all of us.

And again, I look at those words and contemplate others I also believe, and I know the memories will have to do.

For now.

We’re all just here temporarily—pilgrims—nomads—headed for our Father’s house.

We're all just here temporarily—pilgrims—nomads—headed for our Father's house. Share on X

It’s not for sale.

But there are mansions to live in there.

My Father’s house.

Good words.

There are many dwelling places in my Father’s house. Otherwise, I would have told you, because I am going away to make ready a place for you.
(John 14:12 ~ NET)

Where we love is home—home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
(Oliver Wendell Homes, Sr. ~ American physician/poet ~ 1809-1894)

Turning

July 21, 2015July 21, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve begun to map out my bicycle rides a little more carefully.

Oh, I remember how I used to laugh at my riding friends who would explain how that highway has too many patches, or there are a few too many hills to follow this road.

Wimps! Why do you ride if you’re afraid? What’s a little hill to a rider? Who’s concerned about a bump or two?

Odd. I’m still not much worried about the bumps or the hills. No. I can dodge potholes with the best of them. And, I’m learning how to trim the gears on the forty-year-old ten-speed well enough to climb most of the hills I encounter along the way. Most of them.

So why would I be careful about planning my rides? You’ll laugh.

I hate hand signals.

It’s the lane changes and turns that get me now. Turning left? Left arm straight out, fingers together, warning approaching traffic (both front and rear) that the lightweight bicycle is about to brave the crossing of a lane or two of oncoming cars. Right turn? No, not the right arm, but again the left—this time straight out from the shoulder with a right angle at the elbow aiming upwards, still with the fingers together, pointing to the sky.

I hear the laughter already. What could be hard about that?

If you had seen the number of people who wave back at my right-hand turn signal, thinking I’m just being friendly, you’d laugh even more. But the icing on the cake—the epitome of turn-signal blunders—was a left turn I made recently across a busy four-lane highway which has a turn lane in the center.

I rode north about half a mile along the heavily traveled state highway, staying as close to the right hand side of the shoulder as possible. Carefully, glancing over my left shoulder repeatedly as I neared the intersection at which I was turning to the west, I stuck my left arm straight out and crossed both lanes of northbound traffic. Riding on in the center lane to my turning point, I kept my arm out at the ninety-degree angle to my body to warn the oncoming traffic of my intentions. It worked beyond my wildest dreams.

I was twenty feet away from the corner when I realized the next car coming toward me was a sheriff’s deputy. He saw my arm stuck straight out and stood on his brakes, stopping short in the southbound lane, turning on the blue flashing lights in the light bar atop his vehicle.

He thought I was waving him down!

The traffic behind him, as well as the cars coming up behind me, all stopped as I flew across the lanes and around the corner. How embarrassing! When the officer saw I was merely turning, he sheepishly turned off the lights and went on his way.

I didn’t look back either, but pedaled on down the little country road as fast as my tired legs could spin the wheels.

I am realizing something as I grow older. I don’t enjoy changing directions. For one thing, I have to take a hand off the handlebars, a decidedly tricky feat for me as my balance erodes and confidence fades.

I must also turn off the road on which I’m riding, usually a familiar route. I like familiar routes, roads mostly chosen for ease of travel and lack of traffic.

Who knows what lies around the corner?

Often a new route leads steeply uphill—then again, sometimes just as steeply downhill, reminding me that another hill to climb will be in my path on the road back home. Just when I’ll be tired and running out of enthusiasm.

Around curves, dodging stray dogs and potholes, the thought of unfamiliar terrain overwhelms and yes, sometimes frightens.

I don’t like transitions.

Besides how poorly I execute the maneuvers, I abhor the unknown.

During this last week, I’ve been approaching one of those turns. As it does eventually, life has progressed to the point at which I’ve lost the first member of my nuclear family. Things are going to change. Again.

The status quo, the reality I have lived with for nearly sixty years, has come to an end, and my arm is out—signalling a change in direction. I don’t want to make this turn.

We all, without exception, face these transitions. Some are more adept at making the turn—even better at signalling their intention. No one will mistake their turn signal for a plea for help.

Change is coming. But then, it always has done that. The difference is that there will be no turning around from these changes.

Realization hits and I see clearly that I actually don’t want to turn around. This is not some bicycle ride—out a few miles and then back home.

No. I’m headed on the home lap right now.

Home is out there ahead of me.

Around one of those corners.

I’ve been signaling this turn long enough.

Time to move on through the intersection.

I can’t get home just sitting here.

Hear my prayer, O Lord! Listen to my cries for help! Don’t ignore my tears. For I am your guest—a traveler passing through, as my ancestors were before me.
(Psalm 39:12 ~NLT)

This world is not my home, I’m just a’passin’ through.
My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.
The angels beckon me from heaven’s open door,
And I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.
(Albert Brumley ~ American songwriter ~ 1905-1977)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

family