Of Miracles and Magic

February 26, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A week ago, I left my house early in the morning, headed to see my doctor. They called it a wellness visit. We don’t usually talk about how well I am.

This visit was no different since I wanted to fuss about the elephant I told you of a week or two ago. Being a man blessed with wisdom, my doctor reminded me of how healthy I really am in light of my advancing years. I didn’t need him to tell me how old I am, but he did anyway. Nicely. Gently.

He’s not wrong. But I was thinking about the sleepless nights I had spent in the last couple of months—nights when I prayed again and again to be well, or at least well enough to be sleeping beside the Lovely Lady in our warm bed.

I have realized over a lifetime of being sick and becoming well that sometimes the real miracle is that of a body functioning exactly as its Creator intended, fighting off infection and disease and healing itself.

And yet, I need to be reminded—occasionally. Or perhaps even—frequently.

After my appointment, I walked outside into the beginnings of a snowstorm. It would drop seven inches of beautiful powdery snow before the day was over. But, I hadn’t been to the coffee shop for over a month. A little snow wasn’t going to stop me.

Blowing in from the gusty world, I stepped into the quiet. There were three humans besides me in the place; one who had to be there—the owner—and two others. I smiled when I saw my old friend sitting against the wall, coffee cup in his hand.

It was the day he and a couple of others usually gather, but I expected none of them to be there on this blustery day. We are all aging men, you know. Next to a warm heater seems a better place on such a day, even if it means giving up the camaraderie of fellowship.

I have a friend who visits Scotland and Ireland often. When she mentions those visits, she likes to talk about “thin places” (places where God seems especially near).

That coffee house was a thin place on that Tuesday morning. There were only three humans there (well, four if you count me as a human), but God was near.

I sat with my friend, who is retired—as am I—and we drank a little coffee and we talked about the One who was near. My friend is a recent widower and has more reason than most to be angry with God, but he is not angry. He is sad. And, he still has questions.

As we talked, about praying for healing and other things we’re certain we need, I remembered the old quote from Thomas a’ Kempis, whose writing (“The Imitation of Christ”) my friend had actually been reading before I arrived.

“Man proposes. God disposes.“

The man who raised me was fond of quoting those words in his waning years. I always laughed uneasily when he said them to me. I wanted him to be wrong. I wanted to be the one in charge—the captain of my own ship, if you will.

He wasn’t wrong.

While we sat, my friend and I, at that table, he shared his thoughts on prayer. And miracles.

“I think we’ve misunderstood what miracles are. We want magic. I don’t think God does magic.”

He told me of a recent time when he needed to mail a check to a business, but could find no blank checks in his house. He had ordered replacement checks from his bank, but they had said it would be another week. He needed a check that day.

So he prayed. And, even though it was a Sunday and the mail wouldn’t be delivered that day, he went to the mailbox, asking God to make the checks be there.

They weren’t.

Disappointed, he mentally said the words (or maybe he spoke them aloud) to God; “Okay God. You’re 0 and 1 today!“

He walked back inside. Resignation taking over, he abandoned his search and began another activity.

Less than fifteen minutes after returning to the house, his eye alit on a blank check, lying on the desk where he had already searched.

He’s not sure most folks would call that a miracle. He did think that he might have heard God chuckle and say, “Make that 1 and 0!“

But here’s the thing; he had no check and prayed for one. Now, he had one.

It sounds like a miracle to me. But it’s not magic.

Why do we want magic when we pray to our God for what we need?

Can we not see by now that He’s not a showman? Not a sleight-of-hand artist? Not a rabbit-from-a-hat trickster?

Fourteen years ago, as I wrote about one of those everyday miracles in my life, I shared words that come back to me now. They haven’t lost any of their veracity.

“In the quiet, plain paths His miracles are inconspicuously bestowed. Not with the commotion of a dog-and-pony show, not in the glare of the spotlights and television cameras, but in factories, and shops, and homes, He cares for His own.“

I told you, I need to be reminded once in a while.

As my friend and I sat at that table last week, I mentioned my pesky right shoe that keeps coming untied (the one I wrote about recently) and he leaned down to the floor to look at the knot I had tied. He got right down to my shoe and examined the knot, offering his observations about my technique.

I couldn’t help it; the smile came to my lips without any thought.

Well, some thoughts, I admit.

Thoughts about thin places and a God who bends near. Thoughts about friends who care enough to bend down themselves to check my shoelaces.

Thoughts about everyday miracles that we don’t deserve, yet receive regularly from the strong and loving hands of a God who does nothing that is not a miracle.

Even down to the miracle of providing a way for us to reach Him. Yes—us. While we still wanted nothing to do with Him.

Except to see magic done by Him.

And yet, He offers grace.

Grace.

And still, He does all the other miracles we need throughout our lives. Even the ones we think we don’t want.

Not magic.

Miracles.

“Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.”
(from God in the Dock, by C.S. Lewis)

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

My Right Shoe

February 18, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Of course, I know who you are!”

I sit near the Lovely Lady in my easy chair watching television. She says she likes to listen to the programs because she has her eyes on her stitching and doesn’t want to lose her place. So, when I teasingly echo the evil politician in the cop show who has asked the inevitable question of the patrolman who pulled him over, she replies without looking up.

“Do you know who I am?” (That’s me, you know.)

“Of course, I know who you are! You’re the guy with his right shoe untied!”

She’s not wrong. It is untied. It may be untied again now as I sit at my desk and peck away at the keys, late into the night.

It’s a phenomenon I cannot explain. At least once a day—for the last several months—my right shoe comes untied. It might be while I’m taking a walk outside, or walking into the kitchen for another cup of coffee, or even heading to my desk to write a line or two.

It’s always my right shoe. Every time.

I asked that mysterious being in my smartphone about it the other day.

“Hey, ◼◼◼◼! Why is my right shoe untied?”

The disembodied voice tries, but I don’t think she understands the question. No help at all.

I could do some research on my own, but I really can’t be bothered. I’ve gotten used to it and am more amused than annoyed by the errant string. I usually just re-tie the shoe. Or take both of them off, left and right. That feels better anyway.

And sometimes, like the evening in question, I simply let the shoelace flop around wherever I walk. It bothers her.

I guess I knew it did. Still, I was surprised when she mentioned it the afternoon after that little conversation. Evidently, she doesn’t want to be married to the guy with his right shoe untied.

She had been awakened during the night by a foot cramp and, trying to get her mind off the pain, lay in bed beside me trying to think of ideas that might help with my problem.

“Do you tie the right shoe differently than the left?”
“Maybe you could take the laces out and put them back in, but in the other shoe.”
“Would it help to put something on the laces—like wax or something like that?”

I didn’t really know I had a problem. I wasn’t working on eliminating said problem. And, I’m not going to put wax on the laces.

I’m fine tying my right shoelace again and again. I am.

But, I heard a line in a television show recently about a man who is disappointed that he never became the man he wanted to be. Something in his life held him back.

And now, I’m wondering if my right shoe is holding me back.

Worse, I’m wondering now if there are other things I haven’t thought of that could be holding me back.

I’m not the man I wanted to become. I’m not.

Oh, I never wanted to be rich, so there’s no disappointment there. I never wanted to be famous. Or powerful.

But, I do want to be the man God wants me to be. I consider the words of The Teacher to the religious leaders who were trying to trap Him in error. You can read them in Matthew 22.

I’ve spent years working on the most important part. Most of my life. I’m trying hard to love God with everything I’ve got. Everything. I haven’t completed the quest, since it’s a lifetime commitment. And, I’m still working on it.

But, the second part—the loving my neighbor in the same way I love myself part—that’s not coming along as well as it could.

And now, I’m wondering if there’s something similar to having my right shoe come untied every day that’s holding me back from achieving that goal. Something insignificant. Something I’ve decided I can just live with.

It’s always the little things that trip us up, isn’t it? We take care of the big stuff, but we’re careless—literally, without care—about the little, peripheral things that will lay us out, making it so we can’t accomplish the big ones.

Little things, like shoelaces.

The writer of Hebrews in the Bible warned us:

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

I’ve got some work to do—finding the little things that keep me from the bigger goal.

I bet I’m not the only one.

I may even find out why my right shoe won’t stay tied. She’ll be happy if I do.

It’s time to run. Again.

“Sometimes, when I consider what tremendous consequences come from little things, I am tempted to believe there are no little things.” (Bruce Barton)

“He will call for them from the ends of the earth, and they will hurry to come. Not one of them is tired or falls. No one sleeps. Not a belt is loosened at the waist, or a shoe string broken. Their arrows are sharp, and their bows are ready.” (Isaiah 5:26-28, NLV)

Warm

December 12, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’m sitting at my desk in the converted garage. There’s a space heater beside me blowing warm air directly at my legs and feet.

I’m not shivering. It’s a good thing.

I wouldn’t expect the reader to know it, but I don’t love the cold. I blame my father. He would be happy to accept the blame. When he was discharged from the Navy in the early 1960s, he took his red-headed wife and five youngsters to the Rio Grande Valley of Texas to make their home.

Saying, “I want to live somewhere where I can sweat twelve months of the year,” the man settled in for the foreseeable future, there in that place with two seasons—Hot and Hotter.

My resulting thin blood has never thickened, in spite of nearly fifty years in a climate with four seasons per annum.

I realized something recently. It was never taught in Sunday School, back when I was learning about King David—he with the harp, and the sling for which he took five smooth stones once upon a time.

In the book of First Kings, David is old. Well, okay, he is about the age I am now. The book’s first verse says, “King David was very old; even when they covered him with blankets, he could not get warm.” (1 King 1:1, NET)

I’m reasonably certain that, if one were to ask her, the Lovely Lady would tell them that this verse describes me to a T.

I don’t like to shiver.

It is the week in which our local university’s choirs present their Candlelight Service. I have had the pleasure of having a small part in the service for many years, all of them before this while playing my horn with the brass ensemble that you might describe as the “warm-up band.”

Now. There’s a good word!

Warm.

I like that.

Oh—where was I? Oh yes, the Candlelight Service.

This year, I am enjoying singing with one of the choirs, as part of a community group, combined with the University Chorus. I’m certain I was not selected for my great skill. More probably it was just to have a warm body sitting in the bass section.

Oh. There it is again. That word.

Warm.

It is nice, isn’t it?

We arrived, the Lovely Lady and I, for the dress rehearsal last night in the beautiful Cathedral of the Ozarks—having walked the few blocks from our home to the campus. It seemed the huge room was almost as chilly inside as the exterior temperature had been, but I took my coat off anyway.

I wished I hadn’t. Several times during the rehearsal.

When they turned the spotlights on, the young man next to me (knowing I was cold) leaned close and stage-whispered (Well? We were on a stage!) in the general direction of my ear, “Now you’ll get warm!”

Light that makes you warm. Now, there’s a thought.

I have been on stages before when the lights were so hot I soaked the shirt I was wearing. Sweat running down one’s spine is not all that much more comfortable than shivering in the cold. Not much, but some.

The spotlights didn’t make me warm. I think they may have been LEDs. I understand the reasons for using LEDs, but the old incandescent bulbs made better heaters.

But, at one point, the choir director had our group sit while the Cathedral Choir (the first-string, you know) ran through one of their pieces. I thought it might be my imagination, but it seemed that I was less cold.

Then, when they sat down later, I was certain of it. It was warmer when they were standing in front of us. Definitely warmer.

I guess the reader understands by now that I like the warmth. But, I also like it when a concept breaks through the chill and warms my brain, too. Maybe, it’s just the light going on in there that does that.

The young folks standing near us warmed us up.

It’s a time-honored concept. I’m not going to belabor the point, but we warm each other up. By our proximity.

Do you know what the wise men who were advisors to King David suggested for his problem all those centuries ago? They selected a young woman to be his nurse and to lie beside him in the bed to warm him up. And, before your mind can explore that road down toward the gutter, the text is very specific; he was not intimate with her. She simply shared her body warmth to make him less cold. (1 Kings 1:4)

We’re warmer when we are close to folks we love. Or, even just like.

It’s odd; I’ve never thought of the Christmas season as a cold time. I, who have disrespected winter again and again, both in real life and in my writing, always think of Christmas as being a warm time.

Perhaps it’s the closeness of our family at this time of year. And of our friends. And our acquaintances at church—and the coffeeshop—and the Christmas parade.

We share warmth.

With music. And love.

And Joy that shall be to all people.

I’m aware that many don’t have family to get together with. But, the concept works with people in general—getting together to share the joy of the coming of a Savior all those years ago.

Share the warmth.

I’m going to do that with close to a thousand people for each of the next three nights.

I’m already feeling warmer.

You?

“Music brings a warm glow to my vision; thawing mind and muscle from their endless wintering.” (Haruki Murakami)

“Furthermore, if two lie down together, they can keep each other warm,
but how can one person keep warm by himself?” (Ecclesiastes 4:11, NET)

The Day Before Thanksgiving

November 27, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The day before Thanksgiving.

That doesn’t sound right to me. I wonder if it bothers anyone else.

The Lovely Lady tells me I don’t need to overthink things. She knows I will anyway. I come by it honestly. It’s in the genes, you might say.

My father is the one I blame for this trait. Logic was his domain. Every year on what most of us would call his birthday, he’d inform us he was celebrating the anniversary of his birthday. Clearly, you can’t literally revisit your birthday—it being in the dim, distant past.

Then, he would go even further and explain that, in reality, one was beginning the next year in the sequence of years. If you turned thirty, that was the day you entered your thirty-first year—having completed the thirtieth already. Then, if he was really feeling curmudgeonly, he’d remind you that technically you needed to add nine months to the age anyway since the gestation period was arguably a season of your life.

I’d like to tell you I’m not quite as pedantic as that, but in my overthinking brain, it bothers me a bit to think that only one day in the year should be recognized as Thanksgiving.

And, now that I let my eyes drift to the words I’ve written above, I realize I’ve departed so far from my original intention for this little essay that I may have already lost the plot. It’s a common problem for me.

Now, where was I?

Oh yes. The day before Thanksgiving.

Somehow, I think it’s no mistake that a close family member is scheduled to have a consultation with her surgeon on this day to discuss the timetable for removal of a mass in her abdomen.

I was to go to the appointment with her until my doctor added an appointment at another hospital for an MRI for me. Yes. On the day before Thanksgiving. He says we need confirmation that I actually have a brain in my head. There’s never been any convincing proof of the fact, to my knowledge.

And, the other family member who stepped in to take the family member to her doctor’s visit is already dealing with bad news for others in his own circle.

But, give it one more day and then we’re going to be thankful. We’ll gather the rest of the family around the loaded table and get in the spirit of things—being thankful.

Just not today.

Somehow, that doesn’t seem right.

Is the day before the official holiday going to be hard? It does seem likely. Biopsy reports and anticipation of surgery and, possibly a chemo regimen are hard. Hard.

Lying with one’s head in a cage listening to the clicks, the whirs, and the bangs of the machine surrounding you can’t be comfortable. It might be considered hard, too.

I talked with at least three friends today who told me of family members dealing with the “hard”. Many I know (and you do, too) are anticipating a holiday with empty chairs at the table—chairs that had someone they love sitting in them a year ago—three years ago—a decade ago. It doesn’t matter.

Grief is hard.

None of what I write here is going to make the hard any easier. None of these words are intended to diminish, and certainly, not to make light of the pain.

I know this about being thankful: It allows us to see a way through the hard to the future. But, when all we can see is the hard and the pain, we can’t see past it to anything but the now.

The hard now. Today.

But, today is not all there is. It’s not.

His mercies are new every morning. Every one of them.

“Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.” (1 Thessalonians 5:18, NLT)

I’ve never been quite sure I like these words penned by the apostle for whom I am named. But, they give me hope. They tell me I belong.

To Him. The One who has planned good things for me. And for you. Things to help us, not to hurt us.

I will live in that hope—will walk in that hope.

It’s not the day before Thanksgiving.

It is a day of thanksgiving. Another one.

Like yesterday was. And, like tomorrow will be.

I’m giving thanks.

Today.

I hope you will, too.

“And now let the weak say ‘I am strong’;
Let the poor say ‘I am rich’,
Because of what the Lord has done for us.
Give thanks.”
(from Give Thanks, by Henry Smith)

“I will thank the Lord with all my heart!
I will tell about all your amazing deeds.
I will be happy and rejoice in you.
I will sing praises to you, O Most High.”
(Psalm 9: 1-2, NET)

Regrets

October 15, 2024October 15, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was over thirty years ago, but I still remember my brother-in-law’s words:

“Your grandma’s covered, Paul. The preacher is the one who messed up.”

A famous television evangelist had been exposed for the charlatan he was. His diamond rings—the ones that had been air-brushed out in his publicity photos—had been reported to the world, along with his mansions and luxury cars. It was finally clear that he was fleecing the little old ladies who had faithfully sent him their five and ten-dollar bills for decades.

I was angry. I could only air my unhappiness to the family member standing beside me that day, but I was pulled up short by my brother-in-law’s declaration.

I had wondered aloud what the little old ladies (and anyone else who had supported the man) were feeling knowing their money was supporting a lavish lifestyle for a very wealthy man and his family but had not gone to the ministries they intended to help at all.

We’ve all done it—given to help someone, only to find they didn’t really need it, or they used our gift for some other purpose altogether. We are hurt and angry, deciding to never help that person again.

Then there is the person we’ve helped again and again in their need, giving money or furniture or time, only to realize that they will never be there to help us when we need something.

I read the statement on social media the other day. My first thought was to agree. I’ve been there. Giving and not receiving.

“I regret the good things I did for the wrong people.“

Perhaps your response is the same as mine was initially.

I simply sat nodding my head. Remembering the hurt—the resentment.

Then, the words came to my mind. Quietly, but with purpose. I don’t know where they came from; they were just there.

“I wonder if God ever feels like that.”

Oh.

That hits home.

I don’t think He feels like that.

But, I do know what He did. And what He does.

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
(Romans 5:8, NIV)

That’s what Love does.

But the world lies. It lies.

All around us, the catchphrases and memes fly.

“You deserve to be loved!”
“Don’t waste your time on people who don’t reciprocate.”
“Don’t give to people who don’t deserve your gift.”
“Stay away from negative people.”

We’re not the world! We’re not.

In His prayer for His followers, Jesus said, “They do not belong to this world any more than I do.” And yes, He was talking about His followers throughout the ages to come as well. He went on to pray, “I am praying not only for these disciples but also for all who will ever believe in me through their message.“
(John 17: 16,20—NLT)

That’s us! Not of this world.

So why do we adopt their philosophies? Their slogans? Their lifestyles?

If I refuse to give to anyone who can’t or won’t give back, I’m nothing but a businessman, making a transaction. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo.

Here’s the thing: The one transaction that matters has already been made in the gift given to each of us who claim to be followers of Christ. The only thing required of us, who have freely received, is to give freely.

Freely. No encumbrances.

No anticipation of reimbursement.

Open hands, giving from open hearts.

We are responsible for our responses to God’s instruction. Others will answer for how they responded, but that’s none of our affair.

One of my favorite moments in the Narnia series of books by C.S. Lewis is in The Horse and His Boy. The protagonist, Shasta, is introduced to Aslan the Lion in a terrifying manner. Even in his fear, he asks several questions—one of them about an injury that happened to his companion.

The Lion answers back clearly.

“Child, I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”

In modern terminology, the instructions are to stay in our lane. God has given each of us a road to walk, with our own tasks to accomplish. What others do should not determine how we respond to Him.

But, along the way, our road will intersect with others who have needs—needs we are equipped to help fulfill. We need to be obedient in aiding them, regardless of what they do afterward.

There is no regret to be felt when we do good, especially the good our Creator has asked us to do.

Don’t let someone else’s actions turn you away from the journey, or its destination.

Don’t regret what you failed to do, worrying about how they would respond.

Open hands. Open heart.

No regrets.

It seems a good way to honor our Savior who somehow I doubt feels regret for what he did to help us at all.

“Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words, and slander, as well as all types of evil behavior. Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.”
(Ephesians 4:31-32, NLT)

“’Then it was you who wounded Aravis?’
‘It was I.’
‘But what for?’
‘Child,’ said the Voice, ‘I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Shasta.
‘Myself,’ said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again, ‘Myself,’ loud and clear and gay: and then the third time, ‘Myself,’ whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all around you as if the leaves rustled with it.”
(from The Horse and His Boy, by C.S. Lewis)

Behind this Fence

September 27, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The little dog is an escape artist. Well, not so much an artist as a fanatic.

She has a good-sized yard in which to roam; it having ample grass to roll in, dirt to dig in, and room to stretch out. Plus, there’s always food and water waiting for her. And yet, she is not content.

I have watched the little dachshund-mix canine run back and forth along the fence line with no other intent but to find a weakness, just the beginning of an opening to widen—first with her nose, then with her head—and slip out of. She has all that big yard to run, but she wants the whole world instead.

Several times recently, I have called to her as she streaked away from our neighbor’s yard to freedom and she, friendly beast that she is, has come to my call, allowing me to pick her up and drop her down gently back into her assigned domain.

And then immediately, she has headed for the hole through which she squeezed earlier or has run for the incline she used as a launching ramp onto the stump next to the fence, jumping from there to freedom again.

She is not content.

In the midst of plenty, she wants more. Surrounded by all she needs, including the loving attention of her owners, she would sacrifice it all for a few minutes of running free.

Foolish dog! Danger awaits out there; hunger and terror from other animals.

I laugh at the silly thing, but then I remember. Last week, I offered to help the dog’s owner with one problem area, next to the stump. As I worked with the fencing to be anchored around the area, he, temporarily crippled with sciatica, hobbled up, leaning on his cane. Gasping in pain, he bent over to help.

He couldn’t stand to have someone working in his yard and not be involved. Even with his physical limitations, he just had to participate in the labor.

There was no need. I had it handled. He helped me to his physical detriment.

In my mind, I can’t help but compare the man and his dog. Both are cared for and have no need of more, but both feel the need to do more, to push farther.

To their distinct disadvantage, they push the boundaries.

And, still laughing, I wonder at the foolishness of not resting in what has been provided. Why are we—both animals and humans—like that?

But, my laughing is quieted as another memory pushes aside the scenes of the man and his dog.

Just last week, it was. My grandchildren had come to visit, parents in tow (they will come along), and having an hour or so before a scheduled event, asked if they could have another go at the stump in the front yard.

“But, you can’t do any of the work, Grandpa! We don’t want you to hurt your back again.”

I agreed to oversee the job and stay out of their way. With my mouth, I agreed. My brain and heart didn’t follow suit, apparently. After several minutes of standing and making suggestions of locations for chopping and prying, I could take it no longer.

“Let me take a whack or two at that!”

I swung the mattock a number of times (I don’t remember if it was three or twenty) and soon we had most of the above-ground part of the stump out.

I haven’t had many pain-free moments since.

There was no reason for me to swing that tool—not even once! The labor was freely provided; the task would have been finished handily without me.

My grandchildren were there, not only to provide labor; they were there to be a wall of protection.

And, I stepped out from behind that wall. Because of my pride. Stubbornness, too. But, mostly pride.

What is it the Proverb says? “Pride goes before excruciating pain and a haughty spirit before the need to lean on a cane for support.”

No. That’s not quite right, but the result seems to be the same. The man who says I don’t need help—or, I know better than anyone else—is asking for pain and suffering. (Read Proverbs 16:18, for the true version)

Our Creator gives us boundaries—and He provides us with safe places and helpers—for our benefit. It’s not to punish us. The fences are there to give us safety.

One might expect the shenanigans from the little dog. While they can be smart for the animal kingdom, they’re mostly no match for humans in the logic department. Mostly. Sometimes, I’m not so sure.

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be able to say with the Apostle who loved to write letters, “I am content. Whatever condition and wherever it is that God has me, I am content.” (Philippians 4:11, my paraphrase)

Like the little dog, the fences gall me. They mock me, almost.

But, I’m learning to rest. And, to trust.

He wants good for us. Really.

Good.

With Him, we are safe. In His strong and loving arms, we can rest.

I may finally be learning my lesson. My neighbor, too. Time will tell.

I’m remembering the days when I used to call my father and let him know I was concerned for his well-being. He would often quote Psalm 16:6 to me to reassure me.

Perhaps, I need to claim it for myself in these days of learning to be content behind the fence.

“The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.“

I’m not sure about the little dog, but I’ve got an idea she’s going to be all right, as well.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep,
for you alone, Lord,
make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8, NIV)

“We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we’re wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.” (C.S. Lewis)

Hidden

August 23, 2024August 23, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The tree is gone now, with not even a stump remaining where it stood, to bear witness to its existence.

For years, the Lovely Lady and I walked, rode, and drove past the old oak tree. It was just one oak in a grove of twenty or more bordering our local cemetery, with nothing to make it stand out.

You know by now (if you read my articles often) that I love trees. Their beauty is not only in the aesthetic qualities they have—the sturdy trunk, the spreading canopy, the soaring height—but is also in the functional part of them, the part that shades the earth from the sun and helps to fill the atmosphere with the oxygen that is necessary for life.

One day, a few weeks ago, we noticed that several limbs on the beautiful oak were dead. Completely dead. I can’t be sure, but they may have been dead for some time before that.

Still, it wasn’t long before a crew was there to trim off those dead limbs. The tree was near a very busy street and the city couldn’t risk having a limb fall into traffic and potentially injure someone. So, the lifeless limbs with their brown leaves were removed and hauled off.

All was well again. We thought.

Then last week, the crew came back. They downed the entire tree, much to our dismay. Sure, it was one of many, hardly to be missed. But, I hate it when trees are chopped down, especially trees that are alive and healthy.

However, even looking at the stump from across the street (before they brought the machine to grind it out), we could tell something was amiss. Perhaps, it hadn’t been a healthy tree after all. We walked over, exclaiming about what we found there.

The oak had been completely hollow. Rotten to the core. There was even evidence that, through a void near the ground, a wild animal of some sort had crept in and made a den inside the huge shell of a tree.

What a shock! Living, but filled with death.

The words of a prayer in The Book of Common Prayer come to mind. They were first written in Latin, way back in the 1300s.

“Media vita in morte sumus“

“In the midst of life, we are in death.”

The common usage today is for funeral services. It was not so when the words were written. They were written as a reminder to man that we ourselves are sinners, full of decay and degeneration. Alive on the outside, but inside full of nasty things.

I sat in my local coffee shop this morning, a lovely establishment, owned by a believer. As I sat sipping the delicious brew and enjoying my yogurt parfait, I listened to the quiet worship music playing. A delightful and reassuring start to my morning.

Then, I noticed writing on the edge of my yogurt cup.

Why is there always something to disturb the satisfaction of life as we’ve made it? I want to sit and enjoy the knowledge that all is well, that I’m doing just fine, yet thoughts and words intrude.

The writing on the cup was a scripture reference from Colossians 3. It included a specific verse, but I looked up the entire chapter on my laptop. It wasn’t all stuff I wanted to read.

I read it anyway.

“So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you.“ (Colossians 3: 5a, NLT)

Then there is a list of the things that live inside us, but shouldn’t. Impure thoughts—immorality—lust—even greed.

And now, I can’t get the picture of that tree out of my head. And the words of the Teacher, as He castigated the religious leaders of His time for their double-mindedness. White-washed tombs, He called them.

Our thoughts matter. What’s inside of us will eventually come out. In actions. In words.

I don’t want to rot from the inside.

I’d rather stand tall, like those trees in the first Psalm. Planted on the banks of a river flowing with pure, life-giving water.

Shade for the weary traveler. Fruit for the hungry.

Alive.

Completely alive.

Put away that chainsaw, would you?

^“Let the message about Christ, in all its richness, fill your lives. Teach and counsel each other with all the wisdom he gives. Sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs to God with thankful hearts. And whatever you do or say, do it as a representative of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through him to God the Father.” (Colossians 3:16-17, NLT)

“I wish not only to be called Christian, but also to be Christian.” (Saint Ignatius)

All Things New

August 21, 2024August 21, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“The house seems to be falling apart.”

It was only seven years ago that the Lovely Lady and I purchased her childhood home and, leaving our comfort zone far behind, labored for several months to make sure the house was ready to be lived in. We installed new appliances, replaced floors and ceilings, and generally spiffed up the inside spaces.

Set for life. I’m pretty sure those were the words I used when we moved our furniture, artwork, and books into the beautiful space. I was certain we had done good work, purchasing quality materials, and planning for future needs.

Now, it’s falling apart.

Oh, it’s not really falling apart. But, the sprayer in the kitchen sink gave up the ghost a couple of weeks ago, prompting me to order a new one from an online superstore (which shall remain nameless). The replacement arrived and was duly installed, only to fail within five days. I sent it back and went to visit the local building supply. We’ll see how long this replacement lasts.

Then, last week, our kids and grandkids came for a visit (as they do most weeks). Having eaten a little too much for supper, I suggested to the Lovely Lady that we take a walk right after bidding the rowdy bunch a loving goodbye. We returned to a house that was much warmer than the outside temperature.

With help from YouTube, I figured out what was wrong with the air conditioner compressor and effected a repair, but not before an encounter with a mathematically challenged sales rep at the local home repair center. He was kind enough to accept a return of the part he recommended in error and, still shaking his head in confusion, sent me on my way.

It’s cool inside again, but some part of me—the non-logical part—tells me the house is falling apart.

I keep installing new parts in old gadgets. The refrigerator, the stove, the storm doors.

It’s the only way I know to keep them functioning.

The Teacher had something to say about new parts in old things.

“Besides, who would patch old clothing with new cloth? For the new patch would shrink and rip away from the old cloth, leaving an even bigger tear than before.“ (Matthew 9:16, NLT)

I know—it’s not the same thing; I’m not comparing apples to apples, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said. Still, it seems incongruous—putting new parts in old machinery.

Sooner or later, the old parts remaining in the device will fail and I’ll throw away the entire affair, new parts and old alike.

It will all fall apart eventually.

And, without invitation, the fatalism that has eaten at my core for years shows up anew. I’ve said the words before. To my shame, I’ve said them.

“What’s the use?”

I want to blame that red-headed lady, the one who raised me. She had so many catchphrases to prove her point.

“It’s just par for the course.”
“It is what it is.”
“Why would I expect anything better?”
“The story of my life!”

I want to blame her, but it’s not her fault. It’s not. The human reaction to change and challenges is to believe the worst—to foresee failure. Even when we’ve experienced triumphs again and again we somehow seem to expect that the next time, we may not rise from the ashes victorious.

Change is hard. It pushes us to the edge of our abilities and even the limits of our hopefulness.

And sometimes, we do fail. Or, we experience losses. Despite all our blessings, we begin to anticipate the rough times.

Just last week, as I talked with a younger friend entering his middle years, I realized the pattern starts early. He spoke of difficulties, of challenges ahead, and even of losses behind. I tried to reassure him that good things still lie ahead, but in retrospect, I think my private doubts might have made my words a little dubious.

I’m not alone. Many I know are uncertain in these tempestuous days. Almost without exception, we wonder where our world, our country, and our communities are headed. And, then there are the personal issues: our families, our neighborhoods, our work, even our faith communities.

Can I say this? I may not have been resolute enough in my affirmation of good things ahead with my young friend, but I am absolutely certain of one thing.

Our Creator is making all things new. Even now, it is happening. It’s what He does.

“For I am about to do something new.
See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.”
(Isaiah 43:19, NLT)

New.

Not refurbished. Not repaired. Not mended.

New.

If we are truly followers of Christ, we have already been made new in Him. But, the day is coming when all around us will be made new.

He promised.

All new.

I’m ready for that.

Until then, I’ll keep repairing the things that break.

And counting my blessings.

“And the one sitting on the throne said, ‘Look, I am making everything new!” And then he said to me, “Write this down, for what I tell you is trustworthy and true.'”
(Revelation 21:5, NLT)

“A man builds a fine house, and now he has a master and a task for life: he is to furnish, watch, show it, and keep it in repair the rest of his days.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Time to Wake Up

August 7, 2024August 7, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I woke up this morning.

And, with that one sentence, you may know all you need to know about my day.

“The steadfast and resolute love of the Lord never wavers. There is no end to His mercies. Every morning we awake, they are fresh and new. What astounding faithfulness!” (Lamentations 3:22-23, my paraphrase)

I awoke this morning and got out of bed. There were clothes for my body and shoes for my feet. Food was available to keep up my strength—although that would wait until after I drank my first (and maybe, my second) cup of coffee.

My house is still standing and my children—and grandchildren—can still put their arms around my neck and tell me they love me.

But the words in those verses above have nothing to do with all those things. Well, except for the “every morning we awake” part.

We glibly speak (and sing) the words of Lamentations, yet rarely think of the weight of the words to the people who first heard the words of the weeping prophet, Jeremiah.

They are heavy words. Words to give a foundation when all around turns to quicksand. Words to offer food and drink when all about has become a barren and desolate desert.

The people for whom the words were originally intended were under an aggressive physical attack. They were being starved and their homes destroyed. There was rape and cannibalism among them. Life was horrible.

Things are not that bad here. Not yet.

Still, everywhere I look, folks are using hyperbole to tell us it can’t get any worse. You’ve seen—and read—and heard what I’m talking about. It doesn’t seem to matter what one’s faith tradition is, nor even their political leaning.

“Disaster!”, they all cry.

And yet, in the midst of a real (not imagined) disaster, Jeremiah wrote the words that would stand for a thousand generations. And for many more.

Those words have the same weight today as they did the day he took up quill, ink, and scroll to write them down.

Maybe it’s time to quit doom-scrolling. I’m certain the words appearing on your phone’s screen today won’t be remembered at all a thousand years from now. Perhaps, not even a week from now.

All those Chicken Little folks who think the sky is falling won’t change the resolute will of our Creator one iota. And, He is for us!

He is for us!

In our corner.

On our side.

And, I woke up this morning. You too, I bet.

I’m going on. Today, at least.

Are you coming with?

“But let all who take refuge in you rejoice;
let them sing joyful praises forever.
Spread your protection over them,
that all who love your name may be filled with joy.”
(Psalm 5:11, NLT)

“One day Henny-penny was picking up corn in the corn yard when—whack!—something hit her upon the head. ‘Goodness gracious me!’ said Henny-penny; ‘the sky’s a-going to fall; I must go and tell the king.'”
(from the English fairy tale, Henny-Penny)

A Loaf of Bread

June 18, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It hasn’t been a relaxing day. It never is when I get up before seven in the morning. Even less, when I don’t sleep well through the night.

A couple of days ago, the nice lady on the phone told me when I needed to arrive at the medical facility today. The scheduled procedure will hopefully help relieve my confusion about what to do next so I won’t have so much pain when I walk. And, tie my shoes. Or, pick up that piece of ice I dropped in the kitchen.

So, I got up early. It’s not that I wanted to get up early. I just want to get rid of the pain more than I wanted to sleep later today.

I had been warned that it would be noisy inside the MRI machine. They say the sounds are often close to 120 decibels. That’s about as loud as a jet taking off.

Even with the earplugs, it was loud. In the weirdest way. Hums and buzzes and beeps—clanging and whirring and banging. But, it’s not random.

The processes required to produce the images also make the noises. High and low, long and short, they go on for the entire time one is in the tube (or tunnel, however you want to describe it). And, there is rhythm.

I suspect a percussionist might find interest in the sounds. But, I agree with my old friend, who, being told he had an “essential” tremor, uttered the words, “I think I could do without it.”

I could have done without them. The sounds, I mean. And, being in the tiny tunnel.

Still, I survived mostly unscathed. But, feeling overwhelmed, I drove home, opting to forego my stop at the coffee shop.

I eased down into my recliner. And, I just sat. For over an hour. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t watch television. I just sat staring at nothing.

I might still be sitting there if an angel hadn’t offered me some food.

No. Wait. I’m getting ahead of myself. That wasn’t exactly what happened.

What happened was, I got a phone call. From an old friend in my hometown. He had no agenda but just called to talk for a while.

We talked. About people. About tasks still to be finished. About the past (we go back nearly 60 years). Tears. Laughter. Hardships.

Blessings, all.

When our call ended, many long minutes later, the funk in which I had found myself was gone. All because a friend offered me bread to eat.

No. Wait. Where does that bread keep coming from?

Oh. I know.

Elijah. Elijah had a task he needed to accomplish. When it was done, and he was successful, he ran for his life. An angel made him some pita (or something like it) and sent him on to God.

It’s an oversimplification, I know. Still. The man of God defeated all the false prophets of Baal and brought an end to a long drought in the land. Then, he ran for his life and hid.

The angel didn’t come with any intent to fix Elijah. He simply ministered to him where he was. Food and rest.

God would take care of everything else. In a “narrow silence”, a quiet and small voice, He would speak.

But first, the man needed bread.

Isn’t that what we do for each other here?

In times of distress, we feed each other. After sleepless nights, we offer places of rest.

I’m still waiting for the answer to my medical questions.

But, the road I’m following is lined with people—other humans—who care for me, and then send me on, strengthened and rested, to God.

As several of my friends keep reminding me, we’re just walking each other home.

And sometimes, the daily bread He gives us comes straight from the hands (and hearts) of our fellow travelers.

I’ll do my best to share some naan when my turn comes.

“Bread. That this house may never know hunger.”
(from It’s a Wonderful Life)

“But he insisted so strongly that they did go with him and entered his house. He prepared a meal for them, baking bread without yeast, and they ate.” (Genesis 19:3, NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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