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)

Big, Strong Hands

June 13, 2024June 13, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

“My PT said I could ride my bike again if I want.”

My old friend sat near me in the coffee shop as our conversation wandered far afield last week. There was purpose in our visit, but it has been a while since we sat and spoke.

We used to sit for hours on our bicycle seats (what little there is of them) and talk as our magic machines ate up the miles, the twenty-nine-inch wheels spinning at approximately 185.6 RPM. Perhaps fewer, sometimes. And more, less often. I hope that’s not too confusing.

What I’m saying is that we rode long distances—usually slowly. And sometimes fast, but only for shorter distances.

Just over three months ago my friend had an accident and hasn’t been able to ride at all since then. Until this week. It’s been hard for him. The pain was constant and, at times, unbearable. And, when you can’t do what you love, it’s not only the pain that wreaks havoc on your mind and emotions.

Then, on that day last week, his physical therapist had given him a glimmer of promise, of expectation.

I rejoiced with him in his hope.

We stayed. Much longer than we had planned, sitting in that one spot, offering (and perceiving) insights into our faith—our intellect—even our hearts. Three hours after we dropped into the comfortable chairs, we finally stood again.

As I stood, I felt a twinge in my lower back. It’s not unusual. I am aging. I’ve not been kind to my body over the years and, if a twinge is the price for a few hours of communion with an old friend, I’ll pay the price.

I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d stand easily for at least a week, perhaps longer. The doctor I visited with this afternoon didn’t seem all that optimistic for a quick and easy solution to the crippling pain I’ve lived with since that day. Perhaps, I’m reading more into his words than he intended. Still, I’m not wearing any rose-colored glasses.

A phrase from a children’s movie in the 1980s comes to my mind as I write tonight. I see the Rockbiter character from The Neverending Story as he sits gazing at his hands which have failed him miserably. His somber, almost despairing voice repeats the words;

“They look like good, strong hands, don’t they?”

It’s not the first time I’ve faced this truth. And, I’m not sure it ever gets easier. It should, but I’m not sure it does.

I’m not invincible. I have no guarantee that I’ll be able to continue as I’ve begun. No one does.

The treasure (Grace and Light, given as a gift) followers of Jesus hold is held in hands and bodies of clay. They may appear strong. They could even stay intact for most of a lifetime, seeming to prove the strength of the holders, the pilgrims themselves.

They’re not. Strong, that is.

Strength is loaned—a stewardship to be used as long as we can wield it. But, it was never ours.

Never.

“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”
(2 Corinthians 4: 7, NLT)

Vessels of clay. It doesn’t seem all that hopeful, does it?

Still, there is a glimmer—promises made to us many years ago.

We may be pressed, but we are not crushed.
We are sometimes perplexed, but we are not in despair.
We might seem to be prey for the hunter, but we haven’t been left defenseless;
Ah! And when we are knocked down, it is never a permanent condition.
(My paraphrase of the verses that follow the verse just above)

I stood yesterday and held back the tears as my neighbor consoled me, averring it was okay that I couldn’t help her with a task I’d done for several years. I don’t know how long it will be before I can help her with it again.

For some reason, last night, I watched a video clip of that scene from the movie mentioned above and almost felt the creature’s despair. Almost.

But, moments later, I went to sleep with words from the Psalm writer, the warrior musician, in my head. They are well-known words that he wrote to remind his victorious army that the strength they had been loaned was different from that of the world around them.

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
(Psalm 20:7, NIV)

God’s hands are big, strong hands!

Today, some folks I love pulled into my driveway and asked if I would unlock my storage barn so they could get to my lawnmowers and other lawn tools. One asked for a short tutorial on using my riding mower. The others filled tanks with gasoline and checked the oil.

My lawn was going to be mowed. I couldn’t do it for myself, so they did.

But, before they started, they asked about my neighbor. Splitting up, they mowed mine and hers. In the hot sun, the strong young folks labored in the strength they’ve been loaned. Then they asked if they could take care of the neighbor on the other side of me, who usually can count on me to work in her yard, too.

I’m not crying. You are.

Okay. I am. A little.

Every good gift—every perfect gift—comes from Above.

I’m not invincible. I know that. I won’t ever be.

I may be capable again. Time will tell. Still, I’ll never be invincible.

But, I am indomitable. At least, I’m working at it.

Steadfast. Unyielding.

They are Good, Strong Hands.

And, they’re holding us.

My heart is steadfast, O God,
my heart is steadfast!
I will sing and make melody!
Awake, my whole being!
Awake, O harp and lyre!
I will awake the dawn!
I will give thanks to you, O Lord, among the peoples;
I will sing praises to you among the nations.
For your steadfast love is great to the heavens,
your faithfulness to the clouds.
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!
Let your glory be over all the earth!
(Psalm 57:7-11, ESV)

Rain Pouring on my Newly Mowed Weeds

May 1, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s raining again.

Not that we’ve had enough rain yet this spring, but I did mow the lawn just today. It could have waited at least another day or two before taking another growth spurt.

I’m not always careful when I mow. By that, I mean I don’t look at what I’m cutting down. Grass is grass when you’re not a connoisseur of fine fescue—or Bermuda—or Augustine.

Today, I noticed. What I was mowing—I noticed.

Thousands of maple trees. The helicopters that crowded the branches of the silver and red maples in early spring (and before that) have gyrated and spun their way down from the heights to be planted in the soil and now have germinated. The scions of the giant trees in the neighborhood showed great promise.

Alas. Their promise will never come to fruition.

Many oaks met the same fate. Cut down in their infancy. Never to spring from the ground again.

All the labor of the myriad squirrels who have scrabbled and dug their tiny paws into the soil will come to nought.

My sister, who lives nearby, mentioned that she cautioned the fellow who mowed her lawn today to mow around the patches of clover. It was a nod on her part to the needs of the buzzing little honey bees who are busy gathering nectar and pollen to turn into honey.

I admit I didn’t think of that. The little white puffy balls and the 3-leaf patterns below them joined the maple and oak trees under the spinning blades. Probably some 4-leafed clumps kept them company, depriving me of the temporary joy of thinking about good luck they might bring.

There were more—dandelions and wood sorrel, perhaps even a bit of speedwell and some bluets—all fodder for the spinning blades of the big mower as it made mulch of them.

I looked over the expanse of the yard this afternoon and, as if it were my own doing, declared it good. I do love a neat lawn, even if I don’t worry much about what kind of plant springs up to cover the dirt.

And now, it’s raining again. If the pouring precipitation weren’t making such a racket on the metal roof just inches above me, and if the thunder would stop rolling across the black skies, I think I might just be able to hear the lawn growing again.

Perhaps, I could even hear the little wildflowers laughing in tiny little tittering voices. Laughing at the victory they will win again and again over the old fellow who attempts every year to keep up with their indefatigable spirits.

I’ll try again next week.

Maybe it’ll be more than 12 hours after I finish the job when they get reinforcements from above. It won’t matter.

In the end, they will win.

When they grow over whatever little patch of ground my body, sans the soul now inhabiting it, will be lowered into—they will win.

Right now, the pounding rain begins anew, reminding me of how short life is and how God’s creation will keep spinning, long after I’m no longer able to police this little half-acre corner of it.

And somehow, the thought makes me smile.

God gave instructions to Adam and Eve, telling them to, “Be fertile and multiply; fill the earth and master it.” (Genesis 1:28, CEV)) It might be a stretch to think that He meant for us to do what I did today with my silly power mower, but it might be what He intended. It could be.

But, it’s good also to be reminded that He still rules the creation He lent to us way back then. The rain still accomplishes what He intends, fulfilling the cycle He designed to replenish and re-create gardens, fields, and forests.

And regardless of all the little wildflowers, weeds, and saplings mankind chooses to annihilate as we progress through life, His promise to us is certain.

He will finish what He has started in me—and you—until the day when He takes us to our real home. (Philippians 1:6)

Until then, the rain will fall and the grass and trees will grow. And sometimes, in between, we’ll mow and labor.

John, who wrote the book of Revelation, echoed the words of Isaiah when He said God will wipe away every tear from our eyes when we’re finally home.

I’m thinking He’ll do away with all the lawnmowers, too.

And, I’m all for that.

“Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.”
(A.A. Milne)

“The rain and snow fall from the sky
and do not return,
but instead water the earth
and make it produce and yield crops,
and provide seed for the planter and food for those who must eat.”
(Isaiah 55:11, NET)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

God