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)

The First Step

June 15, 2015June 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I don’t believe that dreams are prophecies.

Well, now that I’ve ostracized a good number of folks, let me qualify the statement. When I say dreams, I mean the normal sort. You know–the ones we have when we lie down to sleep at night. The ones made more vivid by that extra round of extra spicy Buffalo wings you had at dinner. Or, the scary movie which was splashed across the television screen as you sat and dozed in your easy chair.

It doesn’t mean dreams aren’t meaningful. They often are. When we sleep, our minds go where they will, no longer guided and controlled by our discipline and resolve. Things we already know about ourselves, but aren’t willing to think or talk about when awake, somehow can be revealed as images in our sleep.

I usually can’t remember what I dream about.

Usually. But, not last night.

Even before I was completely asleep, in the wee hours of this morning, I lay in bed and saw myself standing on the edge. No, not the edge of a cliff, although I have seen that image in my head before, both in real life and in dreams.

The edge I stood upon was that of a circular hole in the floor beneath me. The hole was large enough for a body to fit through comfortably. Funny thing, I could look down the hole and see that it was lined with a white pipe, almost like PVC.

I could only see about ten feet down the pipe and then it curved out of sight. Even in my half-awake state, I could feel my heart racing. In my dream, I backed away from the pipe. Then, drawn by some irresistible urge, I eased forward step by terrified step to peer downward once more.

I really dislike heights. Heights without handrails, that is. Give me a good grip on a handrail and I’ll look down from the highest cliff or the highest tower you could imagine. There was no handrail here.

It was just a hole. A hole that led somewhere–I couldn’t tell you where.

I knew it was a dream. I knew it. You know how your mind works. It seems real, but you know it can’t be. And besides, you’re lying in bed with the fan blowing on you.

It’s only a dream. Jump! What could happen?

No. Wait! What’s down around that curve? You have no idea what’s down there!

What if there’s no more to it than what you can see and it drops you into a bottomless pit (I hear those are real common in dreams)? You’ll fall screaming forever. All because you jumped into a hole you knew nothing about.

I considered the issues. Really.

In my dream.

I wondered–Is this the only way I’ll ever really make the transition from restless dreams to deep sleep? I have to trust myself to this tube that goes who-knows-where without any more information. If you think about it, we do it every night.

Mr. Tolkien talks about roads that sweep you off your feet to foreign lands. Sleep can do that too. Really.

Perhaps the mystery slide is representative of a major decision which I need to make. Life goals stand ready to be grasped, if only I’ll trust myself to the unknown depths. I’ll never get there if I don’t take the plunge.

Decision time. What will I do?

I take one last downward look and–I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go downstairs to get a drink. When I return ten minutes later, the slide is no longer to be found and I sleep.

Ah, wonderful sleep.

After attending church this morning, I came home to help the Lovely Lady prepare our traditional Sunday Dinner. The feast for family and friends has come to be a high point of our week. Food, discussions–escalating to disputes and then diminishing back to agreeable differences, jokes, and lovely memory-making are the stuff these times are made of.

There is a shadow over my memory of today’s feast.

As I helped prepare the table, my brother sent me a text. I wasn’t ready to read it yet.

“He doesn’t feel like she has a lot of time left.”

He is my Dad. She is my Mom.

Tears came to my eyes without warning. Even as I write these words, they come again.

Through my tears, I see that hole from my dream again.

I’m beginning to grasp it now.

You’ve seen them before, haven’t you? Extreme water slides. Thrill seekers flock to them every summer. The drop in altitude is what they love–that quick plunge, setting them free from gravity for just a fraction of a moment, long enough to wonder if they’ll ever stop in time to avoid disaster.

They know they will. It’s been safety tested. Why, they even climbed the tower right beside the tube, exclaiming all the while about where each twist and turn will take place. Pointing to the plastic pipe right beside them soaring up into the sky above, they know just where it starts and where it will end.

They know. And they’re happy to take the plunge.

Because they know.

The red-headed lady who raised me has been climbing for a good many years now. She’s had lots of company along the way, but there is just One who has always been there. Always.

The day is coming. Soon, it seems. No one can know for sure.

I can just see Him standing there smiling, asking her if she’s ready. I don’t know if she’ll be frightened, like I was in my dream. But, I do know her answer will be in the affirmative.

She’s ready.

He’ll wrap His strong arms close around her and they’ll take the first step together. She’s never done this before.

But, He has.

And, He knows.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
(1 Timothy 1:7 ~ KJV)

I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
Jesus died for my sins to atone
In the darkness I see he’ll be waiting for me
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone…
(I Won’t Have To Cross Jordan Alone ~ Thomas Ramsey ~ American songwriter)

Eye Opening

June 2, 2015June 2, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Brother 1: “What did the man say when the clock struck thirteen?”
Brother 2: “I don’t know. What did he say?”
Brother 1: “‘I’ve got to get up! It’s later than it’s ever been before!'”

I sat this evening in my easy chair. Ah, sweet peace!

Leaning the recliner back toward the wall, my eyes closed of their own accord, just like one of those dolls with the weighted eyelids. My busy day had gotten the best of me and a nap seemed appropriate. Okay–at that moment appropriate had nothing to do with it. I fell asleep without even thinking about the implications at all.

We have four striking clocks in the house, all of which are audible from that easy chair. I’ve never been able to synchronize them to strike at the same time.

The sound as they announce the hour, one after another and intermingled with each other, is enough to wake the dead.

Perhaps that’s a bad metaphor, but it’ll do for this situation.

If lying down was reminiscent of the action of those doll’s eyes, waking was that also. In reverse. As I jerked up from my reclining position, the clocks tolling the hour, my eyes flew open.

I had things to do! What was I doing, sleeping away the evening?

It’s late! I’ve got to get busy!

The clocks didn’t strike thirteen, although a stranger in the house might be excused for thinking it was more times than that. The cacophony when they all get in on the act is a little unsettling.

You know, the man with the defective clock was right.

It is later than it’s ever been.

If that seems a Captain Obvious type statement, I apologize. For some reason, I’m always the last one to become aware of the conspicuous facts.

You see, I’ve never been fifty-eight before, an age I’ll attain later this month. I’ve never been married for thirty-six years before. It’s never been 2015 before.

It’s later than it’s ever been.

Oh, I’ve heard the warnings. All about us, people are shouting that the sky is falling. They are scurrying about blaming others, buying guns, and storing up emergency rations to be sure they survive the disasters, both natural and man-made, which are coming.

I will admit to my ignorance.

I will also admit to my lack of interest.

Please don’t misunderstand. I don’t deny that there is change coming–perhaps soon. I just don’t believe that it makes one iota of difference in our mission. And what I see from many who believe the change is upon us is anger, and confusion, and selfishness.

But, the One we follow–those of us who claim to be Christians–the One we follow has given us our instructions long ago.

Love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that a man lay down his life for another.

And, just in case we misunderstood and thought that it was only those who believe as we do whom we are called to love, God reminded us that it was while we were still His enemies that His Son came for us. To die.

Not friends. Enemies.

The cacophony of the voices I hear raised in cursing–yes, cursing–at the world (and those raised in return) is not unlike the clanging of those clocks, reminding us that it is late.

Not too late, I hope. Later than it’s ever been, without doubt, but not too late.

Are you frightened? Upset by recent events? Disappointed with people and situations? Me, too. It gives us no excuse. None of us.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or next week, or next year, for that matter. The government and the courts may turn on us. Our accustomed way of life may vanish from the face of the earth. It changes nothing.

Nothing.

We love. Perhaps enough to die, but we love.

Because He first loved us.

It’s later than it’s ever been.

My eyes are open now.

Yours?

This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters.
(1 John 3:16 ~ NIV)

Q: What time is it when the clock strikes thirteen?
A: Time to get a new clock!

A Fake Holiday Observed—Once Again

February 14, 2013February 14, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m sure that today, of all days, I should wax eloquent regarding this date set aside for lovers, but I’m drawing a blank. I went back and read my post from Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago to see if I could glean any ideas for yet another treatise on our annual trek through the sentimental terrain of the day.

Nothing.

I had no idea of what to talk about the year before that, either. You see, for all my introspection, all my analytic brooding, I am still no good at the mushy stuff.

I am, after all, a mere man; not given to romantic gestures, save occasionally. I am also a cynic, believing this date is nothing more than a once relatively obscure holy day, dedicated to an equally obscure saint named Valentine.

Truth be told, there were two men by that name designated as saints by the early Catholic Church, neither of which originally had any connection whatsoever to romantic lore or history. It is only in the last century that stories have been fabricated to turn the day into one with connotations of romantic love.

The cynic in me believes the hype to be a conspiracy by the commercial concerns which stand to gain financially from the widespread celebration of the fake holiday.

And, do we spend money on the day!

I’m thinking of one Valentine’s Day, many years ago, when a young man, nervous and anxious to impress his young fiancee (she was only seventeen that year), went out and spent every dime he could scrape up to buy a piece of jewelry for her. Even though it meant there would be no romantic dinner (not even a Number 3 Burger with Tots at the local Sonic), he spent the extra couple of dollars it took to have her initial engraved on the gold-plated stickpin.

It wasn’t even real gold! Regardless, the gift was eminently successful. The young lady was duly impressed, or at least appeared to be, and the fact that there was no romantic candlelit dinner went by without comment.

After that, the stickpin could be seen frequently, pinned through the lapel of her jacket or on a scarf worn around her neck, to the lasting enjoyment of both the beautiful young lady and the bumbling young man.

I stole the stickpin out of the young lady’s jewelry box tonight so I could photograph it for you. She was not happy. It’s not a thing of beauty anymore. The shaft is slightly bent (from a too-thick jacket lapel), the edges are showing wear (gold-plated, not solid, you remember), and the clutch is not even the original one.

She doesn’t wear it much, since such trinkets have fallen out of fashion. But, the Lovely Lady is not through with it yet. The cheap little piece of costume jewelry has value to her still. Though no sane person would ever offer anything for it, she would not part with it for money.

I promised to return it before I go to bed, later. It’s a promise she will hold me to.

This not-so-young man is gratified to realize that the years have not tarnished the feelings a bit. There have been many months of February which have passed since that one so many years ago. Most of them have passed with little notice.

And, what of flowers, chocolates, or romantic meals at favorite restaurants? Those do come frequently, but mostly on other days of the year. The cynical resistance to the commercialism of the day is shared by both of us.

Yet, not a day goes by that each doesn’t verbally remind the other of our love for them. We show it in untold ways, too. As always, I get the better end of the deal. She doesn’t complain and even insists that she is content with her part of the bargain. I believe her, although I still can’t understand it.

You know, if you’ve read many of these posts, that I am unashamedly in love with that same young lady who received the cheap little stickpin all those many years ago.

It’s the way marriage is intended to be.

The world around us tells us differently. Even the celebration of romantic love on just one special day a year is at odds with the reality of what true love is.

Although we know deep down that love is a way of life, and not an emotion, we continue to live for ourselves, selfishly insisting on our own way and indulging in our own pleasure.

By our selfishness, we deny that love is exactly what God says it is. What we believe love to be is so far from the truth of genuine love that it resembles the original not at all.

Whew! For not having anything to say on the subject, I’ve dived in headfirst, haven’t I?

Okay. Discourse done, I’ll step down from the soapbox once more.

Besides, I’ve got to get that stickpin back in the jewelry box before morning…

Let love increase!

Love is patient, love is kind, it is not envious. Love does not brag, it is not puffed up. It is not rude, it is not self-serving, it is not easily angered or resentful. It is not glad about injustice, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.
(I Corinthians 13: 4-8 ~ NET)
Let the wife make the husband glad to come home and let him make her sorry to see him leave.
(Martin Luther~German theologian and church reformer~1483-1586)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

God

Dots—Again

Wonder

The First Step

Eye Opening

A Fake Holiday Observed—Once Again