Alternate Routes

March 15, 2018March 15, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Paul!!! Help!!!!

The message from my friend wasted no empty words in letting me know his need was extreme. The power was out in part of his house and he was desperate. I’m no electrician, but I have a limited knowledge in the art of tracing down a circuit, so I get an SOS from friends and family from time to time.

It was Saturday. My day was planned out. The last thing I needed was a detour.

But, he is an old friend. We go back a lot of years.

I took the detour.

As I prepared to go help my friend, the Lovely Lady received a note from other friends. Would we have time to eat with them that evening?

Another detour. More old friends.

We took this detour as well.

Why is it we love the comfortable, the well-worn path? Why do we tense up when we see the familiar sign with an arrow above the word detour?

For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to benefit you and not to make things harder. Plans to give you vision and to ensure future blessings. (Jeremiah 29:11)

I think those words apply to the detours, too. Don’t they?

My friend with the electrical problem was waiting for me, anticipating the worst. Explaining the steps it had taken to get into the mess, he led me to the room where the sparks had flown.

Minutes later, the power was back on. I explained the problems to him.

You turned off the switch, but should have turned off the breaker. That box has live wires in it that aren’t connected to the wall switch.

Then I delivered my favorite truism regarding electricity. It is my go-to quote when I deal with friends who don’t understand and are fearful of working with the source of power.

Electricity always does what it is supposed to do. Always.

Hmmm. It does have a well-worn path through which it travels. Always the same. Always predictable. Maybe even comfortable.

It’s true. It is. Electricity is a lot like we are.

But, as I stood there, I couldn’t help but see in my memory a time—now nearly forty years in the past—when I stood on a ladder in a school hallway, my head and arms stuck up through the false ceiling.

I had a junction box open and was loosening the wire connector on a bundle of wires. They all had white-colored insulation, which indicated they were neutral wires.

Colored insulation warns of a hot wire; white signifies neutral. Hot wires carry power to devices, like lights or motors. Neutral wires complete the circuit, giving the expended current a path back to the breaker box.

I had been doing this for a few months. I knew what electricity did. Well, I thought I knew what electricity did.

I unscrewed the connector, exposing the wad of bare conductor wires. Reaching for the wad with my bare hand, I was stopped in mid-air by a shout from my supervisor.

What are you doing?

I explained how electricity worked to him. Funny, huh?

I was going to separate the wires and isolate the circuit to the room I was standing outside of. It was, after all, only carrying used-up electricity, going back to the power source.

The man laughed. I don’t think he intended it to indicate he was amused.

The instant you separate those wires with your bare hand, that used-up electricity is going to take a detour through your body to whatever ground it can find and you’ll find out how much it still bites.

Isn’t that odd?

Electricity loves detours. It loves them. Takes a detour in less time than it takes a man to blink.

And, in another blink, I was back at my friend’s house, flipping the main breaker back to the on position, restoring power to his dark rooms.

My little mental detour over, the time at my friend’s house passed quickly as I gave him some pointers on acceptable wiring practices for ceiling fans. I only hope his spins in the right direction when he gets done.

Instead of an objectionable experience, the detour to his house turned into a learning time—for me and for him.

Take the detour.

An hour or two later, we took the other detour with our friends. There were tasks we could have accomplished by staying home, things which still need to be done, but we rode to a nearby town with them and ate dinner.

We sat, throwing our peanut shells on the floor (truth be told, the Lovely Lady made a neat pile of hers on the table), and laughed until we cried. We talked about old people stuff—you know, doctors and prescriptions—and we talked about young people stuff—things we did thirty or forty years ago and things our children and grandchildren are doing today.

And, when we were done, we laughed some more and came home healed—for awhile—of the hurts and sorrows of life.

Take the detour.

Sometimes, detours offer a respite from the journey. A refreshing ride along a riverside on a two-lane road, when we had been hurtling down the freeway to exhaustion. A glance at an old house that reminds us of home, long ago and many miles away. A reminder of family, as we pass a park full of children chasing each other and going down the slides, or over the jungle-gym.

Sometimes the detours teach us a valuable lesson, giving us tools for the journey yet to come.

Not by coincidence, one of our fellow-travelers on the second detour that day was the very same man who had yelled—and laughed—at me in the school hallway all those years ago.

I reminded the electrician that, as I had helped my other friend earlier, I had only shared information he had taught me as a young man. He said he didn’t remember teaching me anything. Seriously. Not anything.

He did teach me. I can’t begin to count the folks with whom I have shared that knowledge in the years that have piled up since.

Sometimes, on our detours, we get the chance to remind other folks of how important they are in the lives of those around them.

Take the detour.

Take the detour. You might find your spirit renewed at the end. Share on X

As with electricity, there are paths laid out before us. Those paths stretch out into the future, a journey that must be taken, with a goal that can’t be missed.

Point A to Point B.

But sometimes, the alternate route opens up suddenly and He asks us to come aside with Him. The goal will still be there, in time. The road will still be traveled.

But, for now, we slow down and take the back lanes for a ways.

With Him.

I’m taking the detours.

You coming with?

Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit. (Man proposes, but God disposes.)
( from The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis ~ German cleric/author ~ 1380-1471)

The strength of patience hangs on our capacity to believe that God is up to something good for us in all our delays and detours.
(John Piper ~ Pastor/author)

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

Proofreaders

August 1, 2016August 1, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She reads them all. Every single one of them.

It seems a cruel punishment, doesn’t it? I sit at my computer for a few hours, pecking out the words, sorting through the verbs, nouns, and modifiers (dangling or not) and then she has to endure the torture of sorting through the olio that results.

Each morning after I arrive at the music store, I check my email. It is a common task for most of us in this era of digital communication. But, I am looking for something different than most office workers.

As I open the mail folder, I quickly scan down the list of unopened entries. If her name is not present, I breathe a sigh of relief and move on to other pursuits.

That may seem strange to you. She is my wife, after all–the Lovely Lady, whom I love.

Why shouldn’t I want to see an email from her when I get to my desk? Is something awry in paradise? Are there problems I haven’t shared with my readers?

No, you may rest easy on that point. The email I dread from her is the one with the stark single-word subject line that says simply, Blog. Its presence in the mail queue can only indicate one thing. I have made an error in my latest post.

It does happen.

I don’t like making mistakes, but contrary to what you may have been led to believe, it does happen. Frequently.

Gingerly, I open such emails, dreading what I will find. Gently–always gently–she mentions that I might want to check the comma in the first paragraph or the tense of that dependent clause near the end of the essay.

I breathe a sigh of relief when it is such minor problems that are pointed out. The issues I dread are actually more commonplace than that, but I detest to have them pointed out.

“You have one typo here. Instead of out, you wrote our.”

Such a revelation can spoil my entire morning; my self-confidence is shattered. Too many commas, I can handle. Commas are almost a matter of personal choice. There is no definitively correct way to handle them.

Typographical errors, on the other hand, show carelessness and are indicative of slipshod performance. They reflect on my work ethic. I am mortified to have missed such common errors.

I exaggerate, of course.

I do, however, feel bad about my personal failure to offer the best product possible to my readers.

I smile as I think about the patience of the Lovely Lady, who really does read and reread each essay because she wants to. There is no expectation on my part and she knows it. I welcome the criticism, even when it brings with it the embarrassment of learning my shortcomings.

But as I think, my mind (as it is wont to do) slips on past this era of morning email and back to a time in the distant past, and my smile disappears.

My friend and I are talking about a class I teach at our church. I am proudly expounding on the excellent discussion we had the last time the class met. He hesitates and I await his response, assuming he will have nothing but praise to offer for my mastery of the situation.

“Paul, do you realize several people wanted to say something that day, but didn’t?”

The words come quietly and slowly—as if he hates having to say any one of them.

I am surprised, but immediately fling back my response.

“Well, why didn’t they speak? Everyone knows they can talk freely there.”

“They didn’t speak because they knew you would just blast them out of the water,” he says firmly. “You hardly give anyone time to finish their thought before you unload on them with your arguments and opinions. They’re afraid of you.”

This time, I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I am devastated.

I sit and think back on the session we are discussing. The way I remember it, there was nothing but smiles and goodwill. But clearly, I had failed to feel the undercurrents; failed to hear the whispers of dissent.

I had failed.

It was one of the hardest weeks of my young life. I think that’s how it is when you’re forced to come face-to-face with the person you really have become.

That same night I called one of my mentors and talked through what I was feeling, suggesting I should immediately resign from teaching the class. He helped me to see I would only be running from the issues, not dealing with them.

The next Sunday, a rather tearful apology and promises to do better in the future were met with the forgiveness and acceptance I didn’t deserve, but for which I was grateful.

If you have stuck with me thus far, I should point out something which may already be obvious. I’m really hoping you see the people in the above narrative more clearly than the events.

You see, I am unashamedly grateful for people in my life who are willing to proofread, to make correction, to help me to be a better me.

Without question, life would be easier without their meddling. I could go along without a care in the world, confident in my intellectual and moral superiority.

And, conspicuously wrong.

When I undertake to walk the road before me without aid, I falter on the way. Assuming that my sense of direction is impeccable, I make a wrong turn.

Every time.

Friends and wise counselors are, without doubt, one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind.

We should cherish them; we should certainly heed them. Chances are good that, if they’ve stuck with us through years of our immaturity, they want only good for us and not otherwise.

And, when we come finally to the years of wisdom, those we call the golden years, each of us needs at least one such friend.

If nothing else, they may keep us from making really stupid old-person mistakes.

If history means anything, it seems to be a distinct possibility!

Wounds from a sincere friend are better than many kisses from an enemy.
(Proverbs 27:6 ~ NLT)

Let no man under value the price of a virtuous woman’s counsel.
(George Chapman ~ English poet/dramatist ~ 1559-1634)

Good Company

June 8, 2016June 8, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I left him at the coffee shop. He’ll be by in a minute or two.

My old guitar playing friend, Panama hat on head, had just burst through the front door bringing with him a blast of June heat. Frequently, he is accompanied by our preacher buddy, but that one was missing today.

I didn’t ask the question, but he felt the need to explain his absence. Smiling, I told him we’d just have to make do with each other’s company until he got there.

We did just fine, settling most of the world’s problems in the next half hour. It took that long for the preacher to arrive. When he wandered in sheepishly, he looked at the guitar player with a hurt look. Quietly, he asked a question.

“Where did you go? I was just sitting there finishing my coffee, and it occurred to me that you were gone.”

The guitar player, as he is wont to do, laughed uproariously. No apology was forthcoming, just a verbal jab about paying more attention, and it was forgotten.

Sweet fellowship comes in strange places, and with strange companions.

The preacher ministers in an organization not known for a big tent doctrine, yet he calls us his brothers. The guitar player earns spending money playing in pubs and bar rooms, but calls my God his.

I’m not even sure how I came to be included in the circle, but included I am, never feeling the uneasiness of an outsider—not even for a moment.

As I write, I remember—just an evening ago it was—sitting at a table for hours with our old friends. The Lovely Lady and I, along with two other couples, sat as we do every month sharing a meal. We shared much more than food, as the laughter poured out, and then the tears were wiped away.

And God said, it is not good for the man to be alone. (Genesis 2:18)

The companion He gave His friend—what else would you call a person you walk with in the cool of the evening?—was not only to ease the loneliness for the one man, but also to lend companionship to the millions who would come after.

What an astounding gift!

Companionship. What an astounding gift! Share on X

Think of it. Of all the innovations which would come into existence over the centuries ahead, God decided the most important thing He could do for mankind was to give him companionship.

I have experienced the companionship of a wife. It is indeed extraordinary. Life-changing, even. I wouldn’t trade a minute of the nearly forty years I’ve had with the Lovely Lady. Still. . .

Still, friendship looms in my mind as one of the best things in life. Better than fine cars; better than a wonderful house; better still than a huge bank account.

Friendship looms in my mind as one of the best things in life. Share on X

Sometimes friendships end in disaster. It happened to the early followers of the Christ, you know.

The Apostle who wrote so many letters, my namesake, had a few friends who traveled with him on his early trips to establish churches. The young man named John Mark was part of that group.

But.

Friendships go that way, you know. The buts come into play. Human nature being what it is, people disagree. Some get hurt and take their toys to go home.

John Mark did just that, deserting his friends. Later, when his uncle wanted to give him another chance, the Apostle suggested that his uncle might be better off somewhere else, too. (Acts 15:37-39)

Friendships are broken. How sad. The sweet gift of companionship turns bitter and feels more like a punishment than a joy.

The end.

Ah. But, it’s not, is it?

Broken bridges can be rebuilt. Lines of communication may be reopened.

Somehow though, in our culture, we teach folks to wash their hands and hearts of friends who have deserted us. Don’t let them hurt you again, we admonish.

Good riddance!

And the Apostle sent word: Bring my young friend, John Mark back with you. I need him. He is useful to me in my ministry. (2 Timothy 4:11)

Reconciliation.

I need him.

There are no throw-away friendships. How do we toss away a gift from the Creator of all the universe?

Ah. Our friendship with the people who sat around that table last night is a sacred thing. Forty years or more, we go back.

But, I’ll tell you something else: My friendship with those two who sat with me in my music store today is just as sacred. We joke and we tell stories. We get on each others’ nerves as we sharpen the rough edges away.

Gifts.

Let’s sing something.

The preacher suggested it today, as the guitar player sat in his tee-shirt strumming the shiny new acoustic. The button-up shirt had been removed (without embarrassment) to avoid scratching the glossy finish on the back.

After a few false starts to get in the right key, the rich baritone voice of the preacher took the lead. The guitar player, his full bass voice booming and his fingers flying, was right there with him.

I managed to harmonize on the tenor part a bit as the song progressed.

O come, angel band.
Come and around me stand.
Oh bear me away on your snow white wings, to my immortal home.
Oh, bear me away on your snow white wings, to my immortal home.

There are moments when the light shines so brilliantly from above that I’m a little blinded.

It wasn’t beautiful music.

It was beautiful.

Every good gift—Every perfect gift—comes down from above, coming down from the Father of Lights. (James 1:17)

No argument tonight from this scribe.

Friendship.

It’ll do until something better comes along.

Yes’m, old friends is always best, ‘less you can catch a new one that’s fit to make an old one out of.
(Sarah Orne Jewett ~ American novelist/poet ~ 1849-1909

Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. But someone who falls alone is in real trouble.
(Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 ~ NLT)

Recreation

January 26, 2016January 26, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Normal for me isn’t normal for everyone.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did.

An old friend had dropped by the music store. Just to buy some strings and shoot the breeze. His words—not mine..

I wonder at how cavalierly we describe God’s appointments. We come and go by choice—so we think—and, in our arrogance we discount the value of interactions with our fellow-travelers.

Some of them are life-changing. All are opportunities for learning, scheduled in His timetable.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

I told my friend of the salt shaker. It was simply a recounting of an ordinary Sunday dinner, with a mention of the addition of that seventy-year-old relic to our table. I never intended it to be more than a memory from my childhood of sitting at a table, much like the one at which I sit every Sunday after spending the morning with some of the finest people I know.

It is the reality I have known for all of my life. Oh, the cast has changed, the faces around the table much younger now in comparison to mine, but nothing much has changed otherwise.

It’s just Sunday dinner with family and friends—God’s chosen recreation for a Lord’s Day afternoon. How could it be otherwise?

I sit in the dim light as I write this and I cringe, my face fallen. The arrogance! The presumption!

God’s chosen recreation? Really?

My old friend listened to my retelling of the joyful occasion with a smile spread across his countenance. Finally, he spoke.

We never did that. I don’t ever remember sitting around the table with my family when I was a kid. It still almost never happens.

The story unfolded. As my friend spoke, I could see the emotions in his eyes, but the smile never left his face. He has learned to be thankful. I’m not sure I could.

It was a story of a childhood spent knowing neither parent cared enough to be there for him and his siblings. The telling of the story involved a father who abandoned them outright and a mother who dealt them out to friends and relatives, like so many belongings she didn’t need anymore.

He was raised by his mother’s boss. Not even a family member. Seeing his siblings only sporadically in his childhood, there were never any opportunities for family dinners. He was thankful for the occasional contact with them at all.

I said there was a smile on his face as he spoke. I’m sure there was none on mine. How could there be?

Such a sad childhood. Surely no good could come of that. The story would continue in addiction and broken relationships. Perhaps, even a stay in prison would round out the sad history.

Not so. Today, normal for my friend is a healthy relationship with the woman he has been married to for many years. Time spent with children and grandchildren are his routine now. He makes music with others in his church fellowship every week and then teaches a Bible study.

All without Sunday dinners. Among other things.

I am confused. No, not really confused.

I am sad for the loving family my friend missed out on as a child. Every child should have the shelter of his or her father’s strong arms to protect and the warm embrace of a mother to comfort and console. It doesn’t always happen.

Did I say I was sad? I admit it; I grieve for all who have hard times, whether children or adult.

That said, I am filled with joy that, in spite of the difficult road he has negotiated to get here, my friend is now a fellow traveler with me and many others. I marvel at the thought.

We are not all drawn from the same material. Somehow though, we have been woven into the same cloth.

The fabric of our lives is stronger for the weaving together.

I love the discipline of tradition, comfort like that of a well-worn pair of shoes, and the reassurance of routine. That doesn’t mean it is what every person needs—or receives—in this life.

The realization that my friend has had none of those and is able to live a life of integrity—and joy—is humbling and eye-opening at the same time.

My life is richer for having him (and many like him) in it.

Perhaps it’s time to recognize God’s recreation is not exactly as we would prescribe it.

God’s chosen recreation is that we spend time communicating and sharing His love with people. Family. Strangers. Enemies. Old friends.

Does it happen at the Sunday dinner table? Sure, it does. It also happens around campfires in the woods and leaning against the car at the local Sonic restaurant.

God’s chosen recreation isn’t what we say it is, but what He says it is. (Isaiah 55:9)

His classroom isn’t in the education wing of your church, but in music stores, and parks, and bars. Yes, I said bars.

His appointments. Scheduled when He determines.

I’m still learning to recognize them.

As He chooses, He is making one Body out of many parts. In many ways, we are as dissimilar as it is possible to be. (1 Corinthians 12:12)

But the companionship we share as we are being made into who He needs us to be is pure joy. (Romans 12:10)

Heaven won’t be much better. Okay, a little better.

Still. A taste.

His recreation.

It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn’t use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like “What about lunch?”
(Winnie-the-Pooh ~ A.A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

There’s not a word yet, for old friends who’ve just met.
(Jim Henson ~ American puppeteer/screenwriter ~ 1936-1990)

Simon Says

September 24, 2015September 24, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Take one step forward.

I loved rainy days. As a kid in third grade, any change from the monotonous routine was welcomed. Recess in the hot sun consisted of games of tether ball or freeze-tag. One might get a turn on the swings, but that was for the little kids. And, it was always hot. Always.

No. Rainy days were great. We took our recess in the combined cafeteria/auditorium. The long dining tables were shoved to the walls and the concrete floor between them was our playground. Instead of the usual every-kid-for-himself chaos, we played organized games there.

On the day my old brain is reliving tonight we were all playing the game called Simon Says.

Sixty-some participants stood side by side, awaiting instructions. The teacher called out the order.

“Take one step forward.”

From one end of the cafeteria to the other, no one moved. Except me. One step forward.

Well? That’s what she said to do.

“No. I didn’t say ‘Simon says.’ You’re out, Paul. Go sit on the edge of the stage.”

One step. Just one and I was disqualified. The game lasted the whole period.

“Simon says, ‘Jump on one leg.’ Simon says, ‘Stop.'”

I sat, joined eventually by others who were also foolish enough to make a move without the authority of the mysterious Simon. For the whole hour, I sat.

I remember now.

I hate rainy days.

That was many years ago. A lot has happened since those days—some good, some bad. I’ve done some things I am proud of, and more than a few of which I am not.

Sometimes we get chances to make amends. I have learned that most of those chances have to be approached purposefully. Still, I don’t always know if I should make those moves or not. Often, I wish there were someone standing to the side, saying stupid words like Simon says to give me the nudge I need—perhaps, even permission, or at least, someone to blame.

Just a couple of months ago, I had one of those times.

While wandering through the never-never-world of Facebook one evening, I happened to look up the name of an old friend. I say he is an old friend, but I only knew him for a bit over a year’s time, nearly forty years ago. We were in a bible study together during that year.

I was a know-it-all kid, certain I had all the answers. I had a concordance and I wasn’t afraid to use it! When my friend and I disagreed in our group about a certain passage in the Bible (and there were many such disagreements), I wasn’t adverse to attacking the character of the man, rather than sticking to a rational discussion of the meaning and context.

I’ve spent most of the forty years since wishing I had treated him better. I wondered if I would ever get a chance to apologize for my arrogance and insensitivity. Our Teacher told us if we knew of anything another person had against us, we were not even to offer our gifts to God, before we went and made things right. (Matthew 5: 23, 24)

I have placed my offering in the basket many times since that day.

But, on that evening when I found my friend’s name on Facebook, suddenly the never-never-land turned into a haunted house, with ghosts and scary memories galore. It is easy to be petrified in such a place and simply do nothing.

I could just close the browser window on my computer and get on with my life. No blood visible, no foul committed. Keep playing!

It was my move. And, wouldn’t you know it, there was no teacher around to say Simon says, ‘Move one step forward.’

I never was all that good at waiting for the Simon says instructions, anyway.

I took the step. Friend request sent.

The next morning, there was an answer. Friend request approved.

And then—nothing happened.

Nothing. Until this morning. I received a personal message that said in effect, Who are you? Do I know you?

He didn’t remember me! He’s not angry. He can’t even remember sitting with me in that living room.

I sent a reply. Sorry. Request sent in error. Then I clicked the unfriend function.

That’s the end of that. I’m washing my hands and moving on.

You know that’s not how this works, right? Obviously, I didn’t do any of that.

But, here was my problem: Where was the person who would tell me Simon says to take another step? When would I get some clarification? My old friend wasn’t angry at me. Did I still need to make things right?

I took the step. Hard as it was, I jogged his memory and accepted the responsibility for my actions.

Can I let you in on a little secret? Obedience is always the correct response to God’s prompting. Always.

Does it always turn out with a storybook ending?

No.

But today, I have gained back a brother. We’re going to get together the next time either of us is anywhere in the vicinity of the other. We’ll eat a meal together. We’ll shake hands. We may argue over something, but it will be over something and not about the other person in the discussion.

Values are important for us to hold onto. They don’t require that we beat people over the head with them. Speaking the truth in love will never look any different. If a personal attack is involved, love is not.

I have gained back a brother. It took a step on my part. And, one on his. And, another on mine. That’s the way it works.

Do you have something you know needs to be accomplished? Resolved? Repaired?

Take one step forward.

Oh, sorry.

Simon says, “Take one step forward.”

Rather, speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and knit together by every joint with which it is supplied, when each part is working properly, makes bodily growth and upbuilds itself in love.
(Ephesians 4:15,16 ~ RSV)

What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step. It is always the same step, but you have to take it.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ~ French author/poet ~ 1900-1944)

Jangling Bells

July 9, 2015July 9, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Forty years. Gone in a moment’s time.

The door of the music store opened with a jangle of bells, the ones hanging from the knob, and I looked up from printing orders to see who it was. The face looking back at me smiled broadly and instantly the years disappeared.

No, it hasn’t been forty years since I saw the face, but it was forty years ago that I began a new job with the man as my supervisor. I would learn more in that single fleeting year than in many long ones that came after it.

His lovely wife was at his side on this day and we stood and talked as old friends will. The present time flew by, but our conversation carried us back several decades as we told old stories and laughed about events nearly forgotten in the tumultuous progression of years since.

It was sheer pleasure.

As we spoke, he remembered how long we have actually known each other and our conversation went back, far beyond the forty years, to the first time he laid eyes on me.

The young family had walked into the old brick church—a dark-haired man and his red-headed wife, both about thirty years old. Trying unsuccessfully to be unobtrusive, four urchins—well, three noisy boys and their silent, shy sister—trailed their parents. Oh. There was one more, a baby—a big baby—held in the arms of the red-headed lady.

Yep. I was the baby. This man, the one who would seventeen years later teach me a number of life skills, has known me since I was that young.

And still, he likes me enough to stop by on his nearly 1,500 mile trip and spend an hour or two just reminiscing and catching up. Oh, the stories he could tell if he wanted to. Perhaps he has forgotten them. Let’s hope so.

As we spoke, I realized how our lives have been tied together. As a preschooler, I remember his father used to wave broadly at us each day as he passed our trailer house in his Tom’s Peanuts truck on the way to restock vending machines at the country club. Once in awhile, he would toss out a package or two of peanuts to us, standing barefoot at the edge of the road, and we’d marvel at how the wealthy man could be so generous. Later, father and mother both would be my Sunday-school teachers, and his aunt would play the piano while his uncle waved his arms, leading us in singing the old hymns.

In a thousand ways, it seems we grew up together, even though he is twelve years older than I. We have certainly grown old together, although the miles have gotten in the way a bit.

Old friends are the best.

But, I wonder . . .

My old friends and I had begun to say our goodbyes, when the door of the music store opened again, the bells jangling as they did before. Two men wandered in, faces smiling broadly.

They are friends I have met in my adult life. It has only been in recent years that I would even call them friends, knowing them before that merely as acquaintances. But, friends they are.

I introduced them, my old friends and new. For a moment, I felt the strange feeling of witnessing two worlds colliding. A meeting of folks with one thing in common: me. Then my old friend began telling my new friends a story and we were all just friends, neither new nor old.

I went that night and sank down into a comfortable chair at the local coffee-shop. With coffee cup in hand I would listen to one of my new friends play his guitar and sing a few songs.

It was sheer pleasure.

I sat listening, but also pondering the mystery of friendship. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the music, but I knew my friend would take care of his part. He’s an old pro. I was too overwhelmed just then with the realization of what it means for a man to have friends, both old and new.

Did I say friendship was a mystery? So it is, but more than that, it is a gift. And, not just any gift, like a tie on Father’s Day, or even a new toy on Christmas.

Friendship is one of the greatest gifts entrusted to us by a loving Father who gives only good gifts. I wonder that we don’t treasure it more. I lament that we don’t care for it better, allowing it to lie untended for years while the weeds of neglect take it over.

The Creator thought it important enough that He cultivated an intimate friendship with man in the garden, walking with him in the cool of the day. His Son selected twelve who would spend their years with him, walking and eating, and learning from Him. Others, He would grow close to as well—Mary, Martha, along with their brother Lazarus.

The red-headed lady who carried me into that church fifty-seven years ago taught me the principle, her words coming in the form of a platitude (that doesn’t make it any less relevant).

If you want to have friends, you have to be a friend.

I’m not all that good a friend. I am thankful for folks who have overlooked that and have been a friend to me anyway. I’m trying to do better.

Old friends. New friends.

They’re basically the same, with new friends eventually becoming old friends. I’m not sure when the transition is made, but I sat with people the other evening who I distinctly remember being new friends not all that long ago (if you can call nearly forty years not all that long). Definitely old friends now.

You know, I don’t really have anything I want to teach tonight.

I just needed to remind myself that sometimes a gift is given when we least expect it. I need to remember to be grateful to the Giver and to show my gratitude in the way I care for His gifts.

New becomes old, gaining value as it ages. More like a fine musical instrument, I think, than the drink with which it is usually compared. The wine is consumed and gone so soon, but a fine guitar or violin makes sweeter music the longer and more often it is played.

Gifts.

Care for them well, but utilize them often.

Sweet music will come, probably just like the dulcet tones I heard that night in my comfortable chair at the coffee shop.

Or, perhaps more like the jangling of the bells as the door opens to welcome another one in.

Sweet music.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down:
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maim’d among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.
(from The Old, Old Song ~ Charles Kingsley ~ English cleric/poet ~ 1819-1875)

Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!
(Ecclesiastes 4:9,10 ~ ESV)

No Such Word

July 1, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Actions speak louder than words.

I want that to be true. I want all the caring deeds which were accomplished today to make more of a difference in the world than all the angry, ugly words which were spoken and written.

I want friends to not be angry with their friends who happen to see things differently in at least one aspect of our corporate life. I want all the stupid, thoughtless statements that have been made in the last week to matter less than a lifetime of doing the things friends do. I want friends to remember the visits, the meals shared, the work accomplished together, more than any hurtful words that ever came out of that same friend’s mouth.

I fear it will not be so.

I have always believed the original thought above was true. In the world in which we used to live, it was. Few men or women put their thoughts into words and fewer wrote those words down to be a record used against them for all of their days. We talked face to face. We argued; we discussed; we shook our fingers under each other’s noses.

And then, when we parted, as friends, we shook hands and promised to do it again someday.

Today, we argue with little snippets of written information. No one listens, no one considers carefully the other’s point of view–we just regurgitate our talking points. If we need reinforcements, we copy and paste a link to an article a professional writer crafted carefully–for a handsome price.

And we call that communication?

In a time such as this, when our world is abuzz with the latest idiocy from Washington, many have crowded the most popular social website to put in their two cents’ worth. I wonder, at the end of the day, do we believe we have accomplished anything?

I believe the most unanimity has been achieved recently in the answer to one question on that website. It is a question asked by the computer program and not by any participant in the discussion.

“Unfriend?”

Even my spell check program doesn’t think it is a real word, underscoring it with an angry red line. Yet right now it is a verb, an action word if you will, which has been agreed to by untold number of indignant people who think they know now who that person really is, and they no longer like him or her. Not because of anything the person has done, but because of words they repeated in the heat of a long-distance argument.

I have almost clicked that button recently myself. I am sick of the constant barrage of opinions, based on other opinions, based on–well, you get the idea. More than once, I have been poised to unfriend someone I know and care about, simply because of their hurtful or thoughtless words.

I will not.

I spent a little time a few moments ago, going through my list of friends on that social website. There is not one–not one–I wish to cut off from contact with me; not one with whom I wish to part company.

Do I wish they would stop leaking their arrogant and spiteful words all over my computer screen?

Of course, I do!

Do I think those words which are being spoken in a time of stress and social upheaval are the sum of who that person is?

Not at all!

A friend, with whom I have a normal relationship–normal meaning that we usually speak face to face–walked into my store recently and we discussed much of what is happening in our culture today.

No. We argued about it.

I raised my voice and spoke my mind. He raised his voice and gave me a piece of his. I shook my finger at him and he held up his hand in protest. Half an hour later, as he headed out the door to get back to work, we shook hands, and he promised that he would be back. We’ll argue again.

I’m looking forward to it.

We have been friends for over thirty years. I know who he is. I’ve watched him raise his children and love his wife, and I’ve watched him touch people’s lives.

So, we have a difference of opinion now and then. What of it? What idiot throws away a lifetime relationship because of a few words that hang in the wind and then are gone?

The more I think about it, the more I’m coming down on the same side as my spell checker. There is no such word as unfriend. If it’s all the same to you, I believe I’ll be keeping all of you around, thanks.

I hope you feel the same way.

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson ~ American philosopher/writer ~ 1803-1882)

Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.
(1 Peter 4:8 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

friendship