Seeing Clearly Through the Tears

April 19, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are moments when time slows and I see life with a clarity I never thought possible this side of heaven. And by life, I mean in the overall sense of our existence here on earth, not just my life or yours.

I had one of those poignant moments recently. In a season that has been chock-full of poignant moments, not one of which I wanted to live through, for that instant I saw it all a little more clearly than I ever have.

It was a moment that should have been a private one but wasn’t. So many of our vulnerable times happen like that. I wish it weren’t so, but it is.

A man cried. His circumstances were too difficult for him at that moment, and he wept. With his wife there and friends standing nearby, the tears flowed.

Did I say I didn’t want to live through any of those poignant moments? I don’t repent of the words but I do admit that, having lived through them, I wouldn’t trade away a single one of them, not least this one.

I watched his wife’s loving response to his emotion, gently pulling his head to her shoulder; I noted that not one of his friends turned away or expressed disapproval or discomfort.

There may even have been tears in my own eyes as I stood nearby.

The moment passed, but the lesson I am learning is still fresh.

We have believed—mistakenly—that it is impossible to see clearly when our eyes are full of tears.

Those of us who care about such things seem to think the Bible teaches that tears are bad, that they are so horrid God will eventually do away with them forever. (Revelation 21:4)

I have come to believe instead that tears are a gift from above, straight from the heart of a Loving Father who Himself cries.

In times of great sadness, tears are a way for the body to release extreme stress, communicate our sorrow, or even take away pain. It’s a scientific fact; crying releases endorphins, chemicals that actually reduce physical and emotional pain.

A precious gift from a wise Creator who knew we would need relief in our times of sadness.

So, tell me again—Why it is we shame folks as too emotional when the tears fall?

Why is it we tell our children the lie that crying is for weaklings?

The poet, ancestor to our Savior and a man after God’s own heart, made the claim eons ago that his God so valued the tears of His people that He kept a written record of them and even collected the tears in a bottle.

There is, without question, poetic license in the imagery.

It doesn’t change the truth, one I firmly believe, that God values our tears, our laments.

He values them.

In the month since my brother died, I have cried as many tears as at any time in my life. I cried them knowing that my brother is in the arms of the God he loved, but also overwhelmingly aware of his absence from mine.

We all know them—the tears that come with loss. Every one of us has cried tears of disappointment, tears of frustration, even tears of joy. And yet, we are embarrassed by them still.

Jesus wasn’t.

He came to the people who were mourning His friend, Lazarus, and he was deeply moved. After He came to the grave, He wept. It wasn’t a little sniffle, with a tear or two wiped from the corner of His eye. He sobbed out His own loss and the loss of those around Him. (John 11: 1-45)

You know the story. But, may I point out one thing?

Our Teacher—our Savior—our God, was surrounded by His friends in his grief.

I don’t believe for one moment He stood alone at that grave and wept to the air. He was with His followers, His closest companions.

His tears flowed into their shoulders and onto their robes as they gathered around Him. It was the nature of their culture to uphold each other in grief.

I hope we don’t turn away from our friends when the emotion of their sorrow, their disappointments, their loss has them in its grip.

I hope we won’t suggest to them that their tears are displeasing in any way to their God.

Some do.

And yet, others stay close. I received a note just this morning, on the one-month anniversary of my brother’s death, from one I’ve known for many, many years. She lost her own brother just a few months ago and she is painfully aware of the loss of a one-time playmate, co-conspirator, and strong supporter.

Because of the distance between us, there was no shoulder to cry on, no offer of a handkerchief with which to wipe away the tears, but I felt her presence and her love as my tears flowed again.

Weep with those who weep.

Real tears. Shared emotions. Yes, we’ll cry alone in the dark at times. But, not always.

We’ll get through this as we walk each other along the road home.

And, we will undoubtedly have the opportunity to rejoice with those who are rejoicing along the way, too.

Gifts, bestowed by a loving Creator who knows our frame and our innermost thoughts.

And still, He loves us.

Always.

Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.
(Romans 12:15, NKJV)

You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.
(Psalm 56:8, NLT)

Big Enough

April 20, 2018April 20, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lord, get me through this day.

It was the first thought I had when I awoke this morning. The first one.

My morning prayer.

No thank you for waking me up. Not a word about this being the day and my intent to spend it in enjoyment of its Maker. (Psalm 118:24)

Just a reminder that I need to get to tomorrow. And, a little more quickly wouldn’t hurt—if you don’t mind.

You’re nodding your head. You know what I mean, don’t you? Maybe you’ve even done it yourself a time or two.

How did I get in this condition? Why would I want to blow through the next twenty-four hours just to get to another twenty-four hours after that?

I’m not sure I’ll like the answer. You may not, either.

I could tell you about pressures of work, but they’re no worse than usual. I could suggest that more money in the bank account would help, but it wouldn’t. I could remind you of the concert I’m playing in tonight and suggest that the pressure is too much, but that’s not the problem either.

Here’s what I’ve figured out.

My God isn’t big enough.

Really. Not big enough.

God should fill the days, eclipsing all the puny activities and concerns, but in my mind, He’s only enough to tuck around the edges. The rest is full of fear, of frustration, of disappointment. And, when challenges come, when the days promise hardship and even loss, the emptiness looms larger than God’s ability to keep His word.

In my mind, anyway. Maybe, in yours, as well.

Perhaps, we need to talk about what we know. Truth is always better than speculation.

The thief is the one who comes to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. The Savior came to give us life, not just any old ho-hum life, but one that satisfies completely—a life full to capacity with all He wants to give us. (John 10:10)

We know that.

God wants good for us. Every good gift comes from Him. Always. (James 1:17)

We know that. I know that.

So why is my prayer when I awake only to get through? Why would I not ask Him to fill the day with what I need?

Today is a gift. Not a terrifying period of time I need to hurry through so I can get to another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by. . . Well, you get the picture.

It is a gift. Filled with exactly what is necessary to keep me—to sustain me—on my journey home.

I don’t want to get through it.

I want to live it. Fully. Abundantly. With passion.

The Psalmist understood that. For all the terror and fear he had lived through, all the doubt and guilt, he knew the fullness of a God who only wanted good for him.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life. Share on X

All. The. Days.

One day after another. Every one I wake up and pray to him.

He will fill the days, not just get me through them. He fills them with Himself. With goodness and love, He fills them.

Full.

Today.

How big is your God? The size of your God determines the size of everything.
(Howard G Hendricks ~ Theology professor ~ 1924-2013)

Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me
all the days of my life,
and I will live in the house of the Lord
forever.
(Psalm 23:6 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

He Still Hangs the Moon

July 22, 2016July 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The cares of this life are thieves. They rob from us while we watch, eyes trained on their every move.

I wish I could tell you I am too much a veteran of their schemes to be taken in anymore. At this time of life one would imagine experience has taught me its lessons, and all danger of being victimized is past.

One would be wrong.

For some time now, I have allowed those rascally cares to run amok in my soul, robbing me blind.

Really. Blind.

It is what they crave. The little creations of our tiny imaginations and self-centered natures are themselves blind to the reality of joy that fills our lives as humans made in the image of a loving God.

And, you know what they say.

Well, the red-headed lady who raised me said it all the time anyway, so I assume it must be true:

Misery loves company.

If the little monsters can’t see joy and truth, they are determined to steal the ability from anyone foolish enough to afford them shelter and sustenance.

And so, with my permission, they have been at work again in my own soul.

At times when they work their craft, the darkness is profound. The black of this night is, I think, made all the more encompassing by my willing participation in the malfeasance.

An evening or two ago, as light shone brightly—too brightly for me—in my house, I crept to my office to let the thieves practice. While the Lovely Lady and our guests worked and laughed and played happy music, I sat alone in the dark and pulled the misery over me like a blanket.

After the lights were finally extinguished at the house and all were asleep in their beds I left my office and, blindly walking hand in hand with the little unseeing pickpockets, headed toward home.

Three words. Really. Just three.

I know folks who hear a voice that speaks whole volumes. Entire poems. Sometimes, they carry on conversations with the voice.

Me? I get three words.

Lift your head.

I know. It seems a bit inadequate, doesn’t it? It’s kind of like saying chin up to a guy heading to the gas chamber.

Lift your head.

Then I noticed it. All around me, in what is normally a pitch black yard, the air fairly glowed with light. Long shadows were cast by the tree branches above me.

I lifted my head.

The brilliant and huge full moon hung almost directly above, washing the night time world in its reflected light. It was astoundingly beautiful.

He still hangs the moon. Every night.

He still wakes the sun every morning and sends it on its daily rounds.

I’ll admit it. The notion isn’t all that scientific, nor is it an accurate description of what actually takes place.

Still, it is His power that keeps all of creation doing what it was designed for. (Colossians 1: 6-17)

The realization struck me as powerfully as those beams of light had just seconds before.

His plan is still in place. I’m part of that plan.

His plan is still in place. I'm part of that plan. Share on X

I’m part of that plan!

Every one of us is.

I looked back down to check on my cares, but all the little felons had disappeared. They can’t stand to be in the company of light. Just as in nature, the darkness of doubt and despair flees at the coming of light.

I’m not naive. Darkness will come again. It always does.

Cares will crowd around to steal again. They always do.

But the truth is, light will come again as well.

It always does.

He still hangs the moon.

And, not just for me.

Lift your head.

But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
(Psalm 3:3 ~ NIV)

‘Now, lord,’ said Gandalf, ‘look out upon your land! Breathe the free air again!’

. . .Suddenly through a rent in the clouds behind them a shaft of sun stabbed down. The falling showers gleamed like silver, and far away the river glittered like a shimmering glass.

‘It is not so dark here,’ said Théoden.
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist/poet ~ 1892-1973)

No More Mr. Nice Guy

April 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You realize you’re a legend in this town, don’t you?”

I think I may have snorted. I didn’t mean to. The thirty-something rocker was paying me a compliment. And, he was dead serious.

“I mean it. Whenever anybody I know needs something for their guitar, they don’t say, I’m going to the music store; they say, I’m going to see Paul.”

I’m pretty sure I didn’t snort this time. Still, I stared at the young man with a dumb look on my face as I tried to think of something brilliant to say.

You know, it’s hard to say just the right thing when someone compliments you like that. I always look for ways to deflect the praise—usually mumbling something that sounds grateful while at the same time denying any special merit.

The man in front of me today wasn’t having it. He charged into the subject, laying out personal praise mixed with a story or two he had heard. He had evidence and was going to be heard.

I was kind, even though embarrassed, and let him talk for a few moments more. Then, I closed the conversation with a lame comment about big fishes in little ponds, and waved him out the front door cheerfully.

What a disaster!

Why is it so hard to tell the truth to people like that? I know the words to stop the flow of praise and compliments. Cold.

I should say them.

I said them yesterday. He forced me to. The guitar player—you know—the one who was wandering through the streets of New Orleans in one of my recent tales.

We had been bemoaning the habits of certain customers and also discussing the merits of certain practices in the business world. He is in management at a local retail business, so he understands the dynamic of customer relations, too.

Offhandedly, I suggested that he already knew the reason I treat my customers the way I do. I merely said it to prove a point and move on in the conversation to fun things. He wasn’t taking the bait.

“Why do you treat them the way you do?” The mischievous grin on his face had just enough stubborn around the edges that I knew I would have to give an answer.

Trapped!

I said the words—the same words I should have said today—and he just nodded his head and smiled.

It’s not my gig. God is the one I represent. I follow His Son. How could it be any different?

And yet, today I had the opportunity to say those same words and I stuttered and nodded.

I want to be remembered as a nice guy.

The thing is, I’m not a nice guy.

On my own, I gripe and I complain; I nag and I fuss; I insist on my way and I say nasty things about people behind their backs.

So what I really want is for people to believe the lie that I’m a nice guy. Because, on my own, that’s all it is. A lie.

But, I’m not on my own. I haven’t been for a long time.

The truth of the matter is, God works in me both to want what He wants and to do it. (Philippians 2:13)

He’s the Nice Guy.

Not me.

The Apostle who was also known as The Rock, suggested to his readers that they always should be ready to give an answer for the faith living inside of them. (1 Peter 3:15)

You know, nice guys don’t steal.

And yet, I am a thief.

When I keep the glory that belongs to the One who lives within me, I steal from Him. When I lay claim to the brilliant planning it takes to run a successful business, I steal from the Giver of all good gifts.

Every single good thing comes from Him. (James 1:17)

Every single one.

He’s the Nice Guy. He’s the Gift-Giver—the Truth-Teller—the Master-Mind behind this outfit.

It’s not my gig.

My friend was right. I need to say the words. I intend to, again and again.

Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to do things right.

Grace is an astounding gift!

I might even introduce a few people to the real Nice Guy.

How hard can this be?

Every rascal is not a thief, but every thief is a rascal.
(Aristotle ~ Greek philosopher ~ 384 BC-322 BC)

…for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure. Do all things without grumbling or disputing, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world.
(Philippians 2:13-15 ~ ESV)

When the Music Stops

April 12, 2016April 12, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I can’t see you.

I was out on a run this evening when her message arrived. Having nearly completed the first mile of a gentle three-mile run, I was feeling pretty good.

The music in my headphones suddenly stopped and the harsh clang of the message indicator hammered my eardrums. I glanced down at my phone, held tightly in the plastic-and-velcro carrier on my arm. The Lovely Lady had words for me.

I stopped. When she talks, I listen. Well, most of the time, I listen. Sometimes, I just appear to be listening. Perhaps, we’ll leave that subject for another day.

She couldn’t see my progress along the route on which I was running. The fitness program I use not only tells me how far and fast I’ve run, it sends a GPS signal to other interested parties, showing where I am.

She’s interested. I’m only half-teasing when I say she needs to know where to send the ambulance.

But tonight, she couldn’t see me.

I made a change or two to the phone while standing alongside the road, sending a message back right before trotting on my way.

“Can you see me now?”

It took a few moments for her negative reply to arrive, but I was already back to full speed, and didn’t want to stop again. I sent a curt, almost insensitive message.

“I’m just going to keep running. Sorry.”

The problem is fixed now, so there shouldn’t be a repeat of her trepidation the next time I head out to feed the fitness bug.

She needs to see me.

I know the feeling.

There are days, a lot like today—no, just like today—when I stop in the midst of all the commotion and overpowering sense of futility, and say the words. Sometimes, I say them right out loud—sometimes I shout them in the vacuum of my spirit.

Where are you, God? In all of this—this pointless exertion—are You here?

I can’t see Him.

On top of the commotion, a longtime friend’s mother was laid to rest today; and a young lady, whose acquaintance I made a few years back when she attended the local university, sent news that her father passed away early this morning. Another friend is grieving the loss of her granddaughter, only a year old.

I can’t speak for them. I simply know it is at times like these when I want most to know that God is near. And it is, for some strange reason, at times like these when I can’t see Him.

I can’t see Him.

And the music, which is the joy of life, has stopped. Either that, or I just can’t hear the sweet melodies and harmonies in my ears like I could before. Regardless, the silence is unbearable.

Blind and deaf, I stand—wondering if I’ll ever see Him again—uncertain if the sweet music will ever begin again.

It’s funny. If you stand in darkness and silence for awhile, the senses are sharpened.

Even now, I can almost hear the whisper—if I try.

I will never leave you or forsake you. (Deuteronomy 31:6)

I won’t leave you as orphans. The world won’t see me, but you will. (John 14:18-19)

Even when you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, nothing evil will touch you. (Psalm 23:4)

The longer we listen to the whisper of His voice, the easier it is to hear. In the quiet, He speaks to our spirits.

We only have to listen.

Still. I want to see Him.

I’m remembering today that we’re not home yet. Here, we see dimly.

There? Face to face. Clearly.

On that day, with our loved ones (if they were His followers), we’ll see Him.

What a glorious thought!

We’ll see Him.

That’s funny. I think I can hear music again, too. You know, there’ll be music in that place, as well. The thought brings joy.

I want to see Him. He does give glimpses here at times. Enough to give us courage. And strength.

So, I’ll keep walking.

You too?

We could walk together.

I’d like that.

So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord,for we walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him.
(2 Corinthians 5:6-9 ~ ESV)

Open our eyes Lord
We want to see Jesus,
To reach out and touch Him
And say that we love Him.
(from Open Our Eyes, Lord ~ Robert Cull ~ American pastor/songwriter)

I’ve Got All Day

April 1, 2016April 1, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Ten o’clock sharp. Every weekday morning. The door is unlocked and the music store is open for business.

It says so on the door in black and white: Business hours: 10:00 AM to 6:00 PM

Right on the door. In black and white.

I actually arrive most mornings an hour early. Preparations need to be made. Loose ends are tied up from the previous day’s business. Orders have to be assembled. Repairs sometimes need to be completed. I want to be ready for the customers who will walk through the door each day.

I see them in the parking lot. Nearly every morning, vehicles pull off the street and pause before the front door. They’re reading that business hours sign. They always leave—well, nearly always.

Earlier this week, as I readied the cash register at about a quarter to ten, I noticed a nondescript economy car pulling up to the store. I ignored it, certain they would back out and leave, to return after I opened up. I was wrong.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

The door rattled with the force of the blows. I wasn’t ready to open up yet, besides which, I tend to be a little obstinate when rushed before hours. I didn’t open the door. A car door slammed outside and I heard a tiny bit of tire-rubber being deposited on the asphalt as the driver left.

I think he was unhappy.

And yet, at 10:05 when he returned (the door then being unlocked), there was no indication of any residual discontent. Our conversation was cordial—friendly, even. It was interesting to hear him talk about his day. He said it more than once, so I’m fairly certain it was so:

“I’ve got the whole day off. I’m just going to take my time and do whatever I want.”

I’m confused.

The door pounding? The tire squealing? Something’s not right here. The sign clearly gives perspective on what one would expect. Experience with other retail establishments would discourage such actions.

And, he’s got all day. No hurry at all.

Why is virtue so hard? You know—patience is a virtue, good things come to those who wait—things like that.

Why is it so difficult, then?

I don’t have the answer to that. But, I do find myself thinking about the impetuous man. In quiet hours, I wonder.

I’ve got a whole lifetime. He had only one day. A whole lifetime, to live my life. Yet constantly, I am impatient—antsy to get on with things.

You too?

It’s funny. We have the signs that tell us what to expect. Springtime and harvest. Day follows night. One man plants, another harvests. To everything there is a season. All written in black and white for us to read.

But, we stand at the door, not being able to see what’s happening behind it, and we pound with our fists, perhaps even kicking it with our feet.

We know the truth. Our times are in His hands. For all our uncertainty and stumbling in the darkness, we believe He controls all that happens to us. (Psalm 31:15)

Or, do we?

He says wait, and we fidget—be patient, and we worry.

We’ve got all our lives. And, we can’t add one millisecond to those lives by worrying. He says that, too.

His plan is being worked out in us. He began the work; He’ll complete it. (Philippians 1:6)

Wait.

He knows how much time we’ve got. Pounding on the door won’t change His plan. Laying rubber in the parking lot will have no effect whatsoever.

Do you know that waiting builds us into the people we were intended to be? I hope I’m not stretching here.

They that wait upon the Lord will renew their strength. They shall mount up on wings as the eagles do. They’ll run and not grow tired. They’ll walk and not become faint. (Isaiah 40:31)

Patience, my friends.

The doors will open at exactly the right time and we’ll be welcomed in.

It says so right there in black and white.

Wait. Patiently.

Wait.

Have patience. Have patience.
Don’t be in such a hurry.
When you get impatient,
You only start to worry.
Remember. Remember,
That God is patient, too.
And think of all the times
When others have to wait for you.
(from Music Machine ~ Hernandez/Powell ~ Singer/Songwriters)

For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all.Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.
(Romans 8:24-25 ~ NIV)

New Things

February 29, 2016November 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Open your eyes. I am going to do a new thing.

The voice in my head was as clear as if someone in the room had spoken. The only problem was no one else was there. The Lovely Lady had already left for her morning of work at the library.

I was by myself. There was not a soul in the house besides me.

I’m not a dreams and visions type person. I’ve always believed that God gives us wisdom and intelligence to follow the path laid out before us. As we make educated decisions, His Spirit guides us. Gently.

I never wanted to hear a voice in my ear as I awake in the morning. Well, except for the Lovely Lady’s telling me there are doughnuts to go with the coffee. . .

I would understand it if I had just been reading that specific chapter in the Bible right before retiring. Isaiah 43 is a powerful chapter, with reminders of who our God is, and what He intends to do. I’ve read the passage several times since that morning.

But, I hadn’t read it in ages. I don’t think it was put in my head by anything I had heard or read with a similar message.

The words just hung in the air.

A new thing? Really?

I don’t like new things all that much.

My shoes, I like comfortable and broken in. I’m using the same cash register at my music store I was using in the 1990s. It’s not that it’s a great piece of machinery, but I understand how to make it work, and that’s enough.

I like to eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with fried tuna patties every Thursday evening. Don’t ask me out to eat on Thursday. Comfort food night is almost like going to church. If I have my mac and cheese, I can almost believe everything is right with the world.

I don’t really care for new places, or new experiences, or new flavors.

I bought a bicycle the other day. It sat for two weeks before I even threw a leg over the saddle. Another two weeks later, I actually wheeled it out of the front door.

On Saturday, I put air in the tires and did something I had never done. I locked my shoes into the clip-less pedals and took a turn around the parking lot out front. I wasn’t happy to see a couple of big, burly fellows sitting on the roof across the street, working on the sign hanging there. I certainly didn’t want to look foolish to them.

But then, I got started pedaling and it seemed to go well. At first.

I actually thought the words as I rounded the lot for the first time.

See! I am doing a new thing!

Not for long did I keep that foolish thought in my head. You see, I quickly discovered that I knew nothing about changing the gears on this particular setup. It was right about that time I realized I would have to unlock my shoes from the pedals soon, too. Without falling over.

Bicycles have only two tires, you know. They don’t balance when they’re not moving forward. This one would come to a stop very soon, and I couldn’t remember which foot I had decided it would be best to put down first. I started to unclip the right foot, just as I slowed to a near stop. It was right about then I remembered I had decided I should unclip the left foot first.

It was also right about then the seat tube decided to slide down about six inches. Whump!

Did I tell you I was worried about looking foolish?

I looked foolish.

I hate it when I look foolish. Hate it.

And perhaps, we have actually uncovered why I dislike new things so much. Unfamiliar territory is territory where I make mistakes. I don’t appear intelligent and wise. I don’t impress.

I am embarrassed. Frequently.

I want it to stop. I am approaching sixty years old, an age at which I believe it is my right to retain my dignity at all times.

I shouldn’t be expected to learn new skills, to venture out on untried bridges, to balance on two micro-thin rubber tires while remembering which foot is which and which shifter changes what gear.

But tonight, I’m wondering—I who have declared in my brashest voice that I am a follower of the Son of God—I’m wondering what it means to really follow Him.

Is it enough that I have followed Him for these few years, the decades of youth and middle-age?

Is that enough?

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there? What then? Share on X

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there—across the bridge?

Would I take the chance—the adventure—and strike out to a new and unknown field?

I’ve never been over there.

What if there are strange people?

Is the bridge safe?

Will I have plenty to eat, a warm place to stay, a comfy bed in which to sleep when I reach the end of each day?

On the best day fishing Peter and his partners had ever had—the best day—the Teacher told them He had better things for them to accomplish. (Luke 5:9-11)

They abandoned their boats and nets—and fantastic catch—on the shore and followed.

They followed.

A new thing.

Maybe it was only learning to ride a different bicycle for me. Perhaps, that will be the end of the matter.

Perhaps not.

Probably not.

I wonder. Could I cross the bridge, abandoning the comfortable, familiar place I’m in? I want to believe that I could.

I might look ridiculous—foolish even.

Would you laugh?

Or, would you cross it with me?

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at.

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at. Share on X

I don’t know where we’re going yet.

He does.

It will be enough.

Do not remember the former things,
Nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I will do a new thing,
Now it shall spring forth;
Shall you not know it?
I will even make a road in the wilderness
And rivers in the desert.
(Isaiah 43:18, 19 ~ NKJV)

“Doubtless,” said the Prince. “This signifies that Aslan will be our good lord, whether he means us to live or die. And all’s one, for that. Now, by my counsel, we shall . . . all shake hands one with another, as true friends that may shortly be parted. And then, let us descend into the City and take the adventure that is sent us.”
(From The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ British novelist ~ 1898-1963)

From the Inside Out

January 4, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Of all the gifts, I’m thinking that I’m most thankful for the blank page of the moment just ahead, awaiting our first step into it, our first words coloring the empty space. Here is where the past and the future meet. This is the place where we set the memories, about which we’ll reminisce in years to come, into the history books of our minds.

Those words are especially apropos as we have just begun a new year. I have shared them before. But, as I consider that many will take those steps thoughtlessly and foolishly, I am almost tempted to repent of saying the words.

They were written as words of reassurance, drawing a picture of delight as the reader stands poised to make memories worth recording and celebrating far into the future.

I can’t help but realize they are no less true for those who step into the future with bitterness and rancor, writing their impending history with the uncaring destruction of bridges which can never again be traversed.

Then again, as I write (and think) tonight, I am reminded that it has ever been so. What is in the heart of men will make its way, however slow and inexorably, to the surface. Selfishness in the heart begets selfishness in words and in actions. Pettiness produces a like result.

The Teacher Himself said it clearly: Out of the contents of your heart, you will communicate. (Luke 6:45)

Later, one who had walked with Jesus repeated it when he suggested that a spring of salt water could not produce fresh water. (James 3:12)

We make our own choices about the history which will fill the empty page of the future when it is no longer the future.

I will not repent of the words. I’ll not wallow in despair.

Here is what I know:

The grace which has been extended to us is able to reach to the depths of our hearts. We have only to grasp hold of it and allow its work of renewal and refreshing to be completed.

No, we can’t go back and undo the past. The failures of those days still lie behind. But, they no longer have to be ahead of us, too.

The previous page is covered with yesterday’s actions and words, whether kind and constructive, or harsh and devastating. Ahead, still lies the future, clean as the artists canvas.

Our choice…More of the same, or a new direction.

Each moment, each action will determine the history which will one day be retold.

Choose well.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–I took the one less traveled by…
(from The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost ~ American poet ~ 1874-1963)

Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future…
(from Fly Like An Eagle by the Steve Miller Band ~ ca. 1976)

Dots—Again

December 7, 2015December 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

During the morning church service, the beautiful little girl sits on my leg and moves her crayon confidently from one point on the page in front of her to the next. As she slides the brown-colored wax stick from number to number, the outline of a picture appears, clearly depicting a shepherd with his sheep.

It hasn’t always been like this.

A year or two ago the little tyke, one of my four favorite grandchildren, would have asked, in her version of a whisper (meaning: loudly enough for all nearby to hear clearly), “What do I do here, Grandpa?”

Grandpa would have explained that she needed to start on the number 1 and draw a line to the number 2. A little squiggly line that wandered off to the side and then back again would have been drawn tentatively. At that point, the crayon would be lifted from the page and the question repeated, possibly even a little more loudly.

Eventually the picture would be visible, although not nearly as neat as today’s, nor with as straight of lines from number to number. Clearly, she has learned to connect the dots much more skillfully in the intervening time.

The services are notably quieter too, since she has learned to whisper a little better, as well.

I smile as I think about the beautiful little girl and how she is growing. And learning. But, as I think, my mind wanders. Those dots remind me of something else. They make me think a little about other types of connections.

Human connections.

They’re not so different from connecting the dots, are they?

It has been a year ago. It hardly seems possible, so little has changed.

My young friend, Grace, is studying photography at the local university. She takes photos of what she sees. It is what photographers do. One of her photographs stopped me in my tracks. Dead. In my tracks.

The photograph will likely need some explanation. Then again, perhaps not much.

The news was full of events in Ferguson, Missouri for months. Then, riots and looting broke out as the racial anger boiled over and the filters that, in ordinary circumstances, would prevent such action were lost or discarded.

Windows were broken. Fires were set. Property was destroyed. Guns were fired.

Many words have been spoken and written about the situation since then–words which were and are hurtful and angry. My own emotions have surged as I have seen the images and have heard the angry words from many different perspectives.

I have stood in despair and wondered why those people would be so angry and destructive in their actions. I have listened in horror and wondered why those other people would be so angry and hateful in their words.

Those people.

graceinferguson — Photo: Grace Nast Used by Permission

My young friend went to Ferguson. Herself. Standing in the place where the horrible violence occurred, she took a picture of her feet.

That’s right. Her feet.

On the ground. In Ferguson. In the middle of the bricks and the ashes.

I glanced at the photo and shrugged mentally. Big deal.

Then it hit me.

Those same feet, the ones in the blue sneakers, had walked into my music store one afternoon the week before.

Funny. Her feet–the ones in the blue sneakers, on the ground in Ferguson– they stood on the ground in front of me just days earlier.

It’s the same ground.

Connected.

Suddenly, the miles and the man-made divisions seem insignificant as I begin to grasp the reality. These are not someone else’s problems, occurring in a different world than the one in which I live and move.

These are my people. What happens to them, happens to me.

To me.

In my mind the arguments pile atop each other; the evidence of connections between me and those people is overwhelming. (Romans 10:12)

I want to convince with logic. Perhaps, if I can overwhelm the reader with scientific proof of our shared ancestry, of DNA, of common history–perhaps then we’ll embrace each other. Perhaps then the violence, the slurs, the hatred can stop.

It won’t happen.

The words I would say have all been said, the arguments made again and again. The human heart is turned to evil and deceit, and only God can change it. It has always been so.

But today, for me, sitting on the knee of the one true Artist, I see the connection. Like my granddaughter, the skill at recognizing those points of connection may increase with maturity and practice.

It may.

I want it to be true.

Maybe we can help each other.

We are connected, after all.

We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.
(Martin Luther King Jr ~ American pastor/civil rights leader ~ 1929-1968)

Be joyful. Grow to maturity. Encourage each other. Live in harmony and peace. Then the God of love and peace will be with you.
(2 Corinthians 13:11 ~ NLT)

Wonder

October 20, 2015October 20, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The old rust-colored 1953 Ford pickup truck slowed to a stop as the traffic light cycled from yellow to red. The three year old on the bench seat beside me rattled on a mile a minute about his Sunday School class the day before.

“Our teacher says that God knows what we need before we even ask Him. Why do we need to pray, anyhow?”

I mulled that one over for a few minutes and mumbled something about God wanting us to talk with Him, just like parents and children normally do. It’s a question I still wonder about sometimes.

Without pursuing the subject any further, the little tyke moved on to other things. Big Wheels and swing sets were more up his alley than the more weighty philosophical questions. He did notice that we weren’t moving and wondered aloud about that.

“When will that light turn green, Daddy?”

I was sure it would be soon and told him so. When it didn’t happen in a few seconds, he asked again. I could see the light for the cross-traffic from my vantage point, so I told him maybe I could make it change in a minute.

“Why not now, Daddy?”

A second later, I noticed that the light for the cross-traffic had actually turned yellow. Immediately, I called out an order in authoritative tones.

“One-two-three, change green!”

Obediently, the signal in front of us changed to the designated color and, revving the engine, I engaged the clutch and we eased through the intersection. The boy gazed at me in admiration. Amazement, really.

“Wow! How did you do that, Daddy?”

It would be several years before the little guy noticed the correlation between the other lights and the one directly in front of us. Until that time, he was in awe of his Daddy. He would have more reasons than traffic lights to tarnish that awe before his years at home were done.

Remember what it was like to be a kid? Remember the amazement? The joy of life? The gratitude for simple gifts?

I sit, and I remember, and my eyes fill with tears.

How did I lose that?

When did my heart get so hard?

Last week again, I sat and watched the Father turn a red light to green for me, as a huge tax bill, which had hung over my head for months, was paid without fanfare.

It was huge.

I should be amazed. I should be immensely grateful.

What I am, is demanding.

How did you do that?

Where did all that money come from?

Why did I not know about it?

If I don’t understand it, I don’t trust it. If I can’t explain it, I don’t want it.

I have become like the guy who goes to a magic show and demands to know how each illusion is accomplished. Loud and obnoxious, from the cheap seats, he pushes the magician to reveal every secret, every trick.

It’s as if I believe I could duplicate the result if I knew each step of the routine.

A few weeks ago, I was blessed to visit with a friend who came to town for his university homecoming. I knew he hadn’t planned to come, so I inquired about his change of mind.

He told me that God had done it. My friend had dared God, in a sense, to reveal His will by sending him five hundred dollars in the mail—specifically in the mail—before time for his family to make the trip down from Iowa.

That week, three envelopes arrived for him via the Postal Service. Three different checks, totaling five hundred and six dollars.

That’s what I want! Specifics. Money from this person, and from that company, and from a government refund.

Show me how it’s done!

But last week, I wrote my check for the taxes, and the money was simply there. Where it came from, I don’t know.

I am frustrated. The taxes are paid. I should be in awe, because the amount we needed was insurmountable, but I’m not even sure how I got to here from there.

How do I duplicate this next year? What’s the procedure to insure its repetition? What steps do I take to guarantee an encore performance?

I don’t know any of those things. And, I need to know them.

But then, there’s this:

By faith, Abraham was called to go to the land he would receive as his inheritance. And, obediently he went—get this!—not knowing where he was going. (Hebrews 11:8-10)

The truth sinks in and again, I see the little boy on the truck seat next to me. In awe of a trickster.

In awe. And, I can’t even trust the God of the Universe with the secrets of a tiny part of what He has created.

When am I going to get the hang of this? How long before I unlearn my cynicism and distrust, and live in expectation of greater than I can hope or imagine?

We walk by faith. If we have to see it, it’s not faith.

I want to see the world through childlike eyes again, in faith trusting a God who tells me He wants nothing but the best for me.

I wonder if anybody else reading this has succumbed to the dark and cynical viewpoint the world has pawned off on us? My guess is, if I’ve fallen for it, so have others. Maybe we could help each other to feel the wonder again. We might even encourage each other to trust the visible creation to an unseen God.

Imagine!

What if we really could walk by faith and not by sight? (2 Corinthians 5:7)

Every good gift comes down from Him. Every one—whether I can explain it or not.

And He i traffic-lights-77320_1920 s the One, after all, who really does know (and control) when the light
is going to change to green again.

One-two-three, change green!

Even so . . .

People like you and me never grow old. We never cease to stand like curious children before the great mystery into which we were born.
(Albert Einstein ~ German-American physicist ~ 1879-1955)

The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.
(Galatians 2:20b ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

God

Seeing Clearly Through the Tears

Big Enough

He Still Hangs the Moon

No More Mr. Nice Guy

When the Music Stops

I’ve Got All Day

New Things

From the Inside Out

Dots—Again

Wonder