Just a Little Proud

November 12, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“That trim board is just a little proud. We’ll have to hit it with the sandpaper to get it flush before we finish it.”

My brother-in-law was installing the new bookshelves in our living room. As he set them in place, he noticed the errant piece and was unhappy to see it.

I didn’t care about the piece of wood; but being a certifiable word nerd, I did want to know about the terminology he had used to describe it.

“Proud?”

Patiently, as he sanded the offending wood to match the surrounding cabinet, he explained that the word described the position of the wood in relationship to the rest of the bookshelf.

“It just needs to be flush with the rest of the edge. If we leave it standing out like that, you’ll catch on it every time you walk past and could actually damage the rest of the bookcase.”

With a flourish, he finished sanding. I looked to get a glimpse of this proud board, but it was now impossible to see what he had been working on.

Proud no more, the trim piece blended in with the entire unit.

Integrity. All the individual pieces working together achieved beauty and functionality, so our books were safe and protected.

But, I didn’t intend to write about books or even shelves today. I want to talk about something else that happened just this week.

It seems to me I should make this clear from the get-go; I won’t move your piano, even if you’re desperate to have it done.

I’m just saying…

Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, perhaps we can go ahead with the story that inspired this little essay. It does, in fact, involve moving a piano. And, I don’t do that anymore—right?

The Lovely Lady’s daughter and son-in-law (okay—mine, too) have moved into a larger house, one that will accommodate a grand piano. They were able to locate a good instrument at a fair price and asked if I could come along, “…purely in a consulting capacity, you understand?” (Because I don’t move pianos.)

We gathered up the equipment and, hooking the little trailer up behind my pickup truck, drove to the outskirts of town to collect the piano. There was plenty of help, with muscles galore—enough of them that I wouldn’t need to lift even a corner of the heavy instrument.

After disassembling the piano enough to stand it on edge, we put it on a dolly and rolled it outside and into the trailer we brought for the task. We covered it well with pads and strapped it against the side of the trailer.

We should have been ready to load the sundry pieces into the truck and drive away to deliver the piano to its new domicile. We weren’t.

I looked at it sitting there against the side of the trailer and thought that something was off. Gripping the side of the instrument, I pushed and pulled, first away and then back toward the trailer’s side. As I had suspected, it moved an excessive amount.

I wasn’t at all sure the weight of the piano wouldn’t make it tip over as we traveled down the road. Tipping over isn’t good for a piano. Not at all.

I discussed the problem with the moving crew and we agreed that more than half of the piano’s body was sitting above the side of the trailer.

It was just a little proud.

We traded ideas about how to remedy the problem. I was even ready to attach another strap to the opposite side of the trailer to counterbalance the weight.

Then my son-in-law had the bright idea.

“Why don’t we just take it off the dolly and make it sit down lower in the trailer?”

The man is a genius.

We tipped the piano up a bit and removed the moving dolly, letting the board under the piano sit back down on the trailer’s floor. Reattaching the straps, I shook the instrument again.

Rock solid. There would be no tipping.

The reader might be excused for thinking someone uttered the words, “That’s not going anywhere,” but no one did. I thought it but resisted saying it.

That piano had been proud. Sitting up where it was exposed to the vagaries of gravity and my erratic driving, it was a prime candidate for a fall.

But, there were no calamities in the piano move.

Because we cut it down to size. Okay—we didn’t actually use a saw blade; we just lowered its center of gravity. For safety and efficiency.

Is it the right time for this reminder?

“So, if you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don’t fall!“
(1 Corinthians 10:12, NIV)

It strikes me that standing proud has never been the way our Creator intended for us to approach life. While our culture differs dramatically, telling us to stand tall, to be proud, and to make sure we’re seen and honored above our peers, it seems clear that we were never designed to operate apart from the support of others.

A friend I was talking with this morning said it this way:

“We want to work from the top down. God actually works from the bottom up.”

His creation shows the principle again and again. A strong foundation supports the structure that rises from it. Take away the foundation—stone, roots, or terra firma—and the structure is headed for a rapid unscheduled disassembly (to borrow a term from today’s vernacular).

The Word of God describes pride as sinful, in addition to its pitfalls. In some ways, it seems the original sin of mankind was bound up in pride—contempt for obedience, along with a desire to show independence, driving the act. It is certain that pride drove Lucifer’s rebellion and casting down from heaven.

And somehow, ages later, every one of us is just a little proud. Or, more than just a little.

Proud.

But, God’s plans for us are for our benefit and to build us up. Together.

In the big picture, humility builds all of us up taller and stronger than pride.

I have seen the result of pianos that were allowed to stand tall in their conveyance. The last one I saw was scattered across the farmer’s field that abutted the curve in the highway.

It couldn’t have been a proud moment. Despite any pride the owner might have felt as they loaded that piano.

Maybe it’s time to get our feet on the ground again.

He gives grace to the humble. (James 4:6)

And the sandpaper He uses on the proud doesn’t always feel that nice.

I’ve learned that from experience. And I’m not too proud to admit it.

Grace is better.

“A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken.” (Ecclesiastes 4:12, NLT)

“Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility.”
(from Confessions by Augustine of Hippo)

Stinking Up the Place

September 19, 2024September 19, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I have walked past the flattened carcass daily for more than a week now. And when I say flattened, I mean it’s thinner than the proverbial pancake. Hardly distinguishable from the pavement.

It still stinks.

I saw the skunk lying there one day early last week. Then, it looked almost like the cat you see in the photo accompanying this article. I thought it was a cat at first. Clearly, it was not.

That first day I walked past it, there was no odor at all. I knew that couldn’t last so I called the city and asked them to pick it up before the cars began the flattening process. I think they must have been too busy.

Thus, the aroma permeating the atmosphere.

On an earlier day this week, as I worked out in my yard, the shifting breeze periodically wafting the odor to my olfactory nerves, I wondered about the cat that turned into a skunk (only in my strange brain, you understand).

And, as often happens, my thoughts began to run to human nature and practice. Before I was finished with my task, I had formulated the question that follows:

“How is it that into our lungs we draw the sweet aroma of grace and mercy breathed upon us by our God, yet the atmosphere all about us is choked with the acrid fumes of our judgment and hate?”

I saved the words in a note on my smartphone, cogitating on the idea for a while and then, I moved on mentally. But, a conversation I read on social media last night brought it back to mind with a jolt.

As with many these days, the post was political/religious in nature. I agreed—mostly—with the premise, so I followed the conversation. That may have been a mistake.

Again and again, I am shocked at the vitriol coming from the mouths and keyboards of professing followers of our Savior. I shouldn’t be by now, but I am.

And then, there was this: “Christians are the worst!”

And, I find myself agreeing. We are. The worst.

The apostle, my namesake, said the words. I often feel them deeply, too.

“Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—and I am the worst of them all.” (1 Timothy 1:15a, NLT)

The thing is, we were never intended to continue being the worst of sinners.

Never.

When I’m flattened on the road of life, I want not to stink to high heaven.

Even if I’m flatter than that ubiquitous pancake when this world gets done with me, I’d like there to be a sweet aroma of grace and peace.

And hope. Especially, hope.

That’s my prayer for all of us.

Today and until Heaven.

“The Christian’s life is to be a thing of truth and also a thing of beauty in the midst of a lost and despairing world.”
(Francis Schaeffer)

“And so blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth. Surely, my brothers and sisters, this is not right! Does a spring of water bubble out with both fresh water and bitter water?”
(James 3:10-11, NLT)

Message in a Mailbox

September 2, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve spent more than enough time the last few days living inside my head. The passing of a friend—whose loss looms larger all the while I consider our experiences together—has darkened my thoughts more than a little.

Still, contemplation of life and its losses—along with its great gifts—is never time wasted. Never wasted that is, unless the time doesn’t come to an end with a declaration of resolve and renewed direction. If that doesn’t happen, we simply remain where we are, frozen in place. I don’t think I can be content to stay in the past, or even in this place of quiet reflection.

All of life is movement, isn’t it? Or, it should be.

Movement and change.

So, onward!

I sat, in my melancholy mood, this evening and listened to music as I contemplated the week past. Quiet classical music played on my Spotify station. It helps me relax without intruding. On most nights.

Tonight though, I suddenly found myself thinking about the house I grew up in. The red-headed lady who raised me was there, sitting in her easy chair wielding a crochet hook while she pulled yarn from a skein in the basket beside her. The Christian station played on the radio sitting nearby. A man’s resonant baritone voice emanated from the speaker.

Nightsounds. That was the name of the program. Mom listened to it most nights from 11:30 to midnight. I know; your mom didn’t stay up that late, but mine did. Nearly every night. So did I.

So do I.

Nightsounds? Now, where did that come from? Oh yes! I looked at my monitor and saw that the song playing was Beau Soir by Claude Debussy (published in 1891). For many years, Beau Soir was Bill Pierce’s theme music for the late-night program of contemplative music and quiet wisdom.

I haven’t listened to or thought about that radio program since the late 1970s—almost fifty years ago now. But on this night, just a few measures into the music, my mind was transported to those days, to the time spent and lessons learned at my mother’s side.

She was a woman who lived her faith, never wavering, not even when her mind was stolen away in her last years by dementia. I have written before of one of my last memories of her—sharing a hymnal and singing songs of God’s love.

I’ve done my best to stay true to the faith of my mother, following the tenets of the Word of God. I even still treasure much of the music I learned to love as a child—classical, choral, songs of faith.

But, that brings me back to earlier today. Something that happened, seemingly not connected, yet perhaps connected, after all.

I got the note from my neighbor while I was at the grocery store.

“Your mailbox is on the ground. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

It was. On the ground. When I left to go shopping with the Lovely Lady, it had been on the post, as sturdy as you please.

When I got home, I could plainly see the tire marks in the mud leading directly toward the post that stood there, sans mailbox, which was lying in the grass.

I knew who the tracks belonged to. I even took photos of the damage and of the tire marks. That driver was going to hear from me! The driver’s boss was going to hear from me!

It’s important to take responsibility for our actions. It is.

My mother taught me that, as did my father. They would have contacted the company and reported the transgression. The wrongdoer should be made to answer for his actions. He needs to do better!

I looked at the photos I had taken. I looked at the mailbox lying on the ground before me. Resentment grew rapidly. As I thought about the effort and resources I had expended a couple of years ago when I replaced the post, cementing it into place, and affixing the mailbox atop it, my indignation mounted almost exponentially moment by moment.

Do the right thing!

It was what I was taught. I would only be honoring my mother and father.

Do you know what I did?

No. Not that.

I put my phone away and, going to my workbench, gathered up the tools necessary to return the mailbox to its perch. Finding a scrap piece of one-by-six, I cut it to length and, removing the old screws and broken mount, fastened it into place before setting the mailbox in position. Four more screws were all it took to finish the job. It didn’t cost me a penny.

The entire job took half an hour. Well, three-quarters of an hour if you count the lovely conversation I had with my neighbors across the street, an opportunity I don’t have as often as I’d like.

Then, I deleted the photos from my phone.

Even now, as I sit at my desk, I can look out the window and see the mailbox. There is a sense of accomplishment, of satisfaction at a job well done. The animosity, the annoyance toward that faceless driver is gone—completely disappeared.

And, as I sat tonight listening to the beautiful music, I thought of another way in which I honor my mother and father. Even though they are gone from this life, years past.

I certainly honor them by remembering the tenets they taught me. I even honor them by following their example in putting those lessons into practice.

But more than that, I honor them when I see ways those tenets can be applied more appropriately—and then do that in love and grace.

I hope you don’t think that I imagine I have earned any praise for this. What I’ve described is nothing more than an old man, nearly seven decades old, finally—finally—beginning to grasp the idea of “forgiving those who trespass against us.” (Matthew 6:12)

Finally learning to sit with the Teacher as He writes in the dust and says quietly, “Let him who is without sin throw the first stone.” (John 8:7)

Finally listening—and actually hearing—as the Apostle asks, “Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be cheated?” (1 Corinthians 6:7)

And, I’m only beginning. When it’s nearly too late. But, not too late yet.

I’m still alive. And, as Sam Gamgee’s old Gaffer used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

I reminded my son earlier that it is every parent’s dream for his children to learn from him/her and then do better than they did. Because the right thing is what Jesus would do. Not what your parents do, or did.

I wish I could be like my namesake, the Apostle, who suggested that his readers could confidently follow his example, as he followed Christ’s. I wish.

But, we learn. And grow. Together.

Walking each other home. Honoring each other as we go.

Spreading grace and mercy freely along the way.

It is what He would do.

“I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.”
(Abraham Lincoln)

“God blesses those who are merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.”
(Matthew 5:7, NLT)

I Didn’t Earn This

July 29, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The visit to the specialist was going well until he asked the question. Now I’m wondering about lots of things in my life.

I have struggled with back pain for years, but the weeks before my appointment had been especially difficult, with a flare-up that left me mostly housebound. A visit with my family doctor led to a few tests and a follow-up with the neurologist.

Eyes on the computer screen where the MRI images showed, he asked the question that kept me awake most of that night.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

After a short reply about 35 years of moving pianos, he clarified the question. He wanted to know if there was one thing I could point to that had brought on the current crisis.

I couldn’t.

It doesn’t mean I didn’t earn it.

I’m going to be a little circumspect here. Meaning—I think I may creep around the edges of this discussion rather than engaging aggressively. You’ll understand better as we proceed.

I have never—until now—made decisions regarding actions I would take based on whether they might damage my spine or not. If I wanted to play soccer with the kids, I did. If I needed to dig out a stump in the yard, I did. When the opportunity to help move furniture for friends was presented, I showed up.

And, I really did move pianos for thirty-five years. Knowing full well that there could be a price to pay, I agreed every time a customer asked.

Did I earn the back pain—the inability to function normally for the last few weeks?

I did.

Not with one action, but with a plethora of them. A lifetime of insignificant choices, seemingly. One by one, the transgressions color the injured area with hurt—with unnoticed harm, followed by unnoticed harm, until all at once the body feels nothing else.

I earned this.

Why am I so reluctant to accept responsibility for the situations I find myself in when I have led my life as if I want to be exactly where I am?

The preacher’s son in me wants to hammer this point home and, moving past the tangible world of physicality, would like to discuss consequences of all kinds. Relationship problems. Legal entanglements. Most any type of abstract ailment you might care to argue about.

I want to.

But, as I said—circumspection is key here. I know there are many different perspectives and many different situations. Not all have a villain at whom we can point a finger. Perhaps, I’ll simply leave the reader to work out the ways in which my doctor’s question might apply to them and their own milieu, physical or otherwise.

Besides, my wandering mind has another question that captures me more completely today. It did during my recent sleepless night, too.

No, that’s not correct. It’s not another question.

It’s the same one. Precisely, the same one.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

But, it seems to be applied to a different scenario.

This time, instead of awful pain and the dread and sadness that accompany loss of function, I look at the beautiful family, at the lovely home, at the nice vehicles I have and I wonder.

“Did you do something to earn this?”

Of course, in my head, the immediate answer is yes. I worked all my life to make a living, to build a legacy. I labored with my wife to raise our children. I earned this!

And then, my memory is drawn to the fellow with a sign, standing on the street corner near the grocery store. Or the folks last winter in the parking lot with two flat tires on the car in which they live. Or the lady I know who works two full-time jobs just to pay her rent and keep the lights on for her children.

One after the other, they are drawn to mind and I wonder how I have the audacity to say I have earned my ease and comfort when they live in such straits.

My mind is drawn to the phrase traditionally attributed to the English martyr, John Bradford, who is reputed to have said, as he sat in Newgate Prison awaiting his own execution: “There but for the grace of God goes John Bradford.”

He was speaking of murderers being taken to the gallows to be punished for their sins. I remember wondering, years ago, when I first heard the story, if he was speaking of the execution, or the crime the men had committed to be punished so.

Since my visit with the radiologist, now weeks ago, I have asked again and again (about numerous things), “Did you do anything to earn this?”

There are so many things—and people—in my life that I can only point to grace and mercy as an explanation for their presence. I could never have earned them myself.

Not if I had worked for an entire lifetime. Or ten lifetimes.

And again, my mind jumps ahead of itself. But, this time, I don’t wonder at all.

I think about my relationship with my Creator and all my pride seeps out completely. If anything, all I’ve earned here is sorrow. And separation.

But sorrow and separation are not what I have. Thanks to nothing I have done—not one thing—I have assurance of walking with Him and being followed by His goodness and mercy for all of the days of my life. And, into eternity.

I am no better than any of the millions taunting God and His followers today. Not even a little bit better. I have nothing for which I may stand tall and say, “This is mine and you can’t have it unless you earn it.”

Our Creator’s grace and mercy reach. They just do.

I earned my back problems. Perhaps, I even earned that look from the Lovely Lady when I took a second plate of food at lunch yesterday.

But, God’s gifts to me, I could never even begin to earn.

I didn’t do anything to earn this.

But, it’s good. Really good.

And, it’s yours too—if you want it.

“For by grace you are saved through faith, and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God; it is not from works, so that no one can boast.” (Ephesians 2:8-9, NET)

“Your worst days are never so bad that you are beyond the reach of God’s grace. And your best days are never so good that you are beyond the need of God’s grace.” (Anonymous)

What Are You Looking At?

September 20, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The jaunty little runabout pulled by a chestnut mare sped along at a good clip, its spoked wheels flashing in the evening sun. The bench seat, with room for only two, bounced a little on leaf springs designed to smooth the ride in places where the road wasn’t always so even.

The two occupants of the seat, listening to the rapid clippity-clip of the horse’s hooves on the stony lane, didn’t much care why the ride was smooth; they simply enjoyed the sense of unimpeded speed and the proximity of their seatmate as the miles toward home disappeared behind them.

As they approached the river crossing ahead, the pretty young lady spoke to the young man beside her. Immediately, he gave a tug on the leather reins and was rewarded by a reduction in speed almost as quickly as it had taken to pull the reins. The chestnut was no newcomer to this route, realizing that she never sped across the covered bridge. A walk was all that was ever allowed across the wooden platform.

Who knows? She might even get a break from moving at all if the young fellow took advantage of the enclosed bridge to sneak a kiss or two from his young sweetheart. It had happened before. Folks did call them kissing bridges. Regardless, the mare knew to walk across the bridge.

It was the law and her owner always followed the law. Always.

Click here to read the rest of the article. . .

How Close is Close?

September 5, 2018September 5, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

We were tired. And, almost grumpy. Almost.

It’s not a recipe for joy, that mix of airport spaces and flight delays. The Lovely Lady and I, having spent a few days breathing the clear Vermont air into our lungs and the essence of God’s astounding creation into our hearts, were waiting for a flight home.

On that day, things weren’t going as well as the ones previous.

Our ride home never arrived. We missed our connection in Chicago. Perhaps, I should say connections—plural. Both the original one and the rescheduled one.

While we waited, folks came in for other flights. With several of the outgoing flights being delayed, the small airport’s waiting area was beginning to fill up.

A group of young people from Africa were among those awaiting a late departure time to Washington, D.C. They had spent several weeks in a cultural exchange program and were headed for one last event before scattering to their individual countries.

I had nothing better to do, so I watched the group (and assorted individuals) with interest and amusement. The Lovely Lady, sitting next to me, had planned better than I (or so she told me), so the book she was reading kept her attention.

Before long, one young man from Uganda took a seat across from us, followed by a young woman, who took the empty space right next to me. They talked a little, then turned their attention to the cell phones in their hands, much as you would expect of any teenager in our own country today.

The row of seats we occupied, three divided plastic surfaces connected by a metal structure underneath, had no arm supports to separate them, but with an adult in each seat, it was easy to see there was no room for anyone else. Three. No more.

Except, on this day, there was. Sort of.

A few moments after the first young lady took her seat next to me, another walked up and, pushing her friend’s knee to get her moving the other direction, proceeded to sit between her and me.

To avoid being sat upon, I quickly slid toward the Lovely Lady—she, still engrossed in her historical novel. Tucking my shoulder behind hers, my sitting-down parts spanning the space between the seats, it wasn’t that uncomfortable. (I may have a little extra padding there, anyway. Possibly.) I think she may not have been aware of the reason for my chumminess, but she snuggled her arm against mine anyway and we sat that way until it was time to leave.

The girl on the other side of me sat almost as close. Almost. I think you could have slid an index card between us, but only just. She seemed as unaware of the proximity as the Lovely Lady. She didn’t snuggle any. Really, she didn’t.

But, can we talk about personal space for a minute or two? Now’s as good a time as any.

I know folks who are obsessed, really—obsessed, by their desire/need to maintain distance between themselves and the masses.

Others seem to have a clear delineation in their minds of how close is too close.

Some of them would have come right out and told the interloper of her encroachment, asking her to move elsewhere.

I know several who would have stood up and gone to lean against the wall.

I might have agreed with that group. Once.

I’m not so sure now.

Does it seem strange to you that there was joy in squeezing over to make room for that young soul?

Do you think it even more unlikely, as we made changes to our travel plans later, giving up our adjacent seats near the front of one airplane, to be separated (an aisle and a row apart) and crammed between two strangers on another flight, that it seemed good to have a chance to sit calmly and to be kind, while being bumped and shaken and, ultimately, having a seatmate’s vodka and soda poured over my shoe?

It seems strange to me.

But perhaps, it’s supposed to seem strange.

Maybe, following the One who gave up unlimited personal space to walk in a strange place—to be crowded and touched, mauled and shoved by dirty, stinking people who were oblivious and uncaring of who He was and why He came—maybe, it should feel a little strange. A little other-worldly, even.

He invited His weary friends to come away and rest, and they thought it was a good idea.

Personal space, at last!

Then the crowds found them. “Send them home!” the friends sputtered.

Their space disappeared. Completely. Utterly. Instantly. But He, seeing the people instead of the frustration, welcomed them into His space. (Mark 6:31-34)

His personal space.

Strange.

Come close, He says. And, I’ll come close to you. (James 4:8)

David the songwriter asked to live with God in His house. No. David asked to live in God’s house with His protecting arms around him. (Psalm 61:4)

Is that close enough?

What’s that you say about personal space?

I wish I could leave it there. Really, I do. God gave up His personal space for us. How wonderful.

There’s more.

I want to direct your attention to a few words an enigmatic Old Testament fellow named Jabez said to God some centuries ago. He’s the one who asked God to enlarge his territory. And, God did it.

Somehow, I don’t think the lesson for us in this age is how to get more stuff. Or more land. Or more power.

I don’t.

What if He simply wants us to fit one more person in our heart? Just one.

Or, maybe a hundred. Or, only fourteen. Whatever.

More, anyway.

The Teacher, when tested, made clear what was important: Love God with every bit of territory in your hearts. And, after it has stretched to contain that love, reach out and draw the world into that love. (Matthew 22:37-39)

The place we live with our God is the space we share with our world.

The place we live with our God is the space we share with our world. Share on X

More than that—the love we experience in our God is the same love with which we must love.

Our neighbors.

Our fellow travelers.

Our world.

Let your love—your gentleness—be in evidence to all. God is near. (Philippians 4:5)

As His space grows inside us, our personal space outside may shrink. And, that’s good.

Strange.

But, good.

God’s mercy and grace give me hope—for myself, and for our world.
(Billy Graham ~ American evangelist ~ 1918-2018)

Heaven’s eyes, Heaven’s eyes.
What I need while I’m down here
Down in the dirt and the hurt of earth.
Heaven’s eyes, Heaven’s Eyes.
Father, I need Heaven’s eyes.
(Heaven’s Eyes ~ Nancy Jesser-Halsey ~ © 2001 ~ Used by permission)

Listen to the entire song here:

For the Birds

July 19, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Birdbrain!

It’s an insult, isn’t it?

It would be if I called you such a name. The implication would be that your brain is so small you can’t make good decisions, or think through problems, or make plans for the future.

I have a bunch of birdbrains at my house. No, really. Birdbrains. And, they don’t make good decisions or think through problems. I’m worried for their future.

My sister brought the feeder with her to work one morning.

“You can find instructions on the internet for making the nectar.”

Nectar. Really. That’s what they call it. I call it sugar water. In fact, that is all there is to it. Sugar. And, water.

But my friend, Jeff, who just passed away last spring, had loved the hummingbirds outside his patio doors. He even named one of them Grace. Why he named it that wasn’t really clear to me.

I thought we’d give it a try. We made up a batch of nectar. Four parts water, one part sugar—boiled to take out any impurities. Nothing else. Sugar water.

Hanging the feeder right outside our front window, we waited for the little hummers to find it. It took awhile. But then, one day as I sat reading in my chair, I heard the hum of wings outside, beating three or four thousand times a minute. It wasn’t quite the hum I had expected—more like a buzzing. You know, like a really loud bumblebee. Or, a wasp.

The little critter hovered over the nectar tip, never alighting on the perch, but it did dip its long beak into the hole for a few seconds and then flitted away, disappearing into the landscape.

It took awhile for many of the little birds to find the feeder, but I’ve been sitting in that chair for a lot of hours since that day. I’m learning about birds’ brains.

Did you know the manufacturer put four nectar tips on the feeder? Four. Ostensibly, it’s so you can observe four hummers at a time as they feed docilely, sharing the moment with each other and any onlookers.

They should have saved the money.

Hummingbirds hate—detest—eating beside each other. I haven’t read that anywhere, but my observations lead me to believe it to be a fact. At no time has there been a full complement of birds to take advantage of the available feeding tips. Never.

If two happen to alight, they perhaps will feed for a moment or two. Perhaps. That assumes they do not look up from their feeding. If one of the two ever lifts its eyes to look at the other, the feeding is over. Over.

Instantly, they fly at each other, not allowing a second’s more drinking of the sugar water. I’ve seen birds actually fall off the feeder, only to catch themselves in mid-air, flapping their wings to halt their tumble. Then, either they will fly away in retreat, or they will engage the aggressor in a mock-battle of sorts, with the disgraced loser zooming away and the victor returning to its feeding.

In the last few days, I have seen as many as seven of the little kamikazes zooming in arcs in the vicinity of the feeder, twittering madly. At times, one will alight, only to sit, its head tilting in all directions, body and mind on high alert to incoming attackers, yet never getting a single drink of the magic elixir.

They don’t eat. The birdbrains fight about eating.

They don't eat. The birdbrains fight about eating. Share on X

I am frustrated. As their provider, I want them to share. I want them to be fed. I want them to live in peace.

There is plenty of nectar for every one of them. Plenty.

There is room at the feeder for them to eat. Side by side.

Why would they fight when they could eat?

Oh.

I understand why Jeff named the hummingbird Grace.

Finally, I understand.

And, the Teacher looked out over His place, the place He wanted to feed His people and wept as He said the words: How often I have tried to bring you together, as a mother hen who gathers her chicks under her wing. But, you refused. (Luke 13:34)

And yet.

Grace.

Perhaps, it’s time for a meal together.

No RSVP needed.

Just come.

Grace.

How wonderful and pleasant it is when brothers live together in harmony.

(Psalm 133:1 ~ 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.)

Harmony makes small things grow. Lack of it makes great things decay.

(Gaius Sallustius Crispus ~ Roman historian/politician ~ 86 BC-35 BC)

Harmony makes small things grow. Share on X

A Provocation

May 18, 2018May 21, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I’m not sure how to say this. Some of you will be mad. Or at least disappointed in me.

Well? I know you will.

You’ve read the poems since you were young; you sang the songs. You even watched Mary Poppins hold one on her finger as she sang A Spoonful of Sugar.

You love them. I know you do.

Well, it can’t be helped. I’m going to have to tell you.

I don’t really like robins.

I’ve tried. Really, I have.

The thing is, there’s nothing special about them. Oh sure, they have that orangey-red chest. They even give a little hope in the late winter that spring will soon be here. But, other than that, what’s so extraordinary about the storied birds?

What’s that? You think they’re the early bird that gets the worm? They’re always pictured as that. But, that’s strike one against them, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t do early mornings. I just don’t.

But, on the off chance that I am awakened at four or four-thirty some morning, you can be sure one will be chirping outside my window to beat the band. Try going back to sleep with that racket outside.

And, that’s another thing! They don’t even really have a song. Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! Plus, it gets worse when humans are around. They fuss and raise a ruckus, claiming territory they don’t really even want, simply to ensure quiet for their nest.

Give me the cardinals any day. What a beautiful and varied song they have! Their nests are in bushes and thickets no human would want to approach anyway, so they never fuss—at me, at least.

Then there are the wrens—or the finches—or even the white-throated sparrow that sings in the top of the sweet gum tree.

But those robins—they’re everywhere. Bob, bob, bobbin’ across the lawn, scratching for the worms, early or late. Trying to build nests where they absolutely cannot fit—under my eave, for instance. And, then after the wind blows the grass and paper away for the tenth time, they try again—in exactly the same spot.

There’s no love lost on my part for the fabled worm-catchers.

Well. That’s not completely true. Not anymore.

Our neighbor let a pair of the silly things build a nest near the top of the post on her front porch. I looked at the structure and told her it wouldn’t last through the first storm. Frank Lloyd Wright, they’re not.

I was wrong. Several storms later, the nest is still there. The female laid her eggs—four of them if Wikipedia is to be believed. She sat on her eggs. She hatched her little ones.

I would stop over to talk with my neighbor, being careful not to startle the fussy mama. No loud noises; no quick movements.

Shhhhh.

I would have told you I still didn’t care for robins. An event the other day put the lie to that belief.

My desk looks out a window toward the neighbor’s porch, so I have watched the comings and goings on that nest for several weeks. The other morning, my attention was on my computer screen when a strange movement caught my eye.

The mother robin was flying rapidly away from the nest, but there was still a bird standing over the nest. A big bird.

A hawk had discovered the babies! Without thinking, I shouted loudly and jumped up, racing out the door behind me to stop the mayhem on the porch. Evidently, the predator heard either my shout or the door and was already winging away from the nest with something—we can guess what—in his beak.

Oh well. It was just baby robins. Who cares?

Well, besides the obvious One who cares about every one of them that falls to the ground. (Matthew 10:29)

This old man cared, evidently. I sat back down at my desk, watching the frantic mother robin flying to the nest, sticking her head down inside, and then winging to the redbud tree nearby, before repeating the pattern over and over, and the tears came.

I don’t even like robins. But, I cried. Over baby robins.

I’ve thought a lot about that over the last couple of days, attempting to square the dichotomy.

I think I’m beginning to understand it a little better. I even have a word to explain how this happened.

Engagement.

Engagement involves investment. In this case, simply an investment of attention. Which led to a personal stake in the wellbeing of the little birds and the happiness of their parents.

Engagement costs.

I stood in a friend’s hallway the other day after I had helped him with a household problem, and he told me how sorry he had been about my friend I lost a few weeks ago.

He must have been a really close friend. Had you known him a long time?

It would be simpler to explain if it had been a long time. When a longtime friend passes, you expect to be emotionally devastated. Grief like that doesn’t come with short-term, social media friendships.

Or, does it?

Four months. It seems a lifetime ago, but it was only four or five months ago that another friend, a poet in New Zealand, suggested to Jeff and to me that we needed to know each other.

He was also a writer, much better at it than I, but we both treasured what words can accomplish when arranged carefully, lovingly, and set in place with a bit of grace.

I never got to meet Jeff in the flesh, but I knew him. He knew me. Out of the grace we both have known in our lives, a bond of love grew.

Now, he’s gone and there’s a hole in my world.

Engagement costs.

Oh, but it pays, too.

It is oh-so-easy for us to get caught up in the grief of loss, the feeling that the world will never again be right, and believe that disengagement is a better way to live life.

Many do. Many I know refuse to be hurt. The only way to keep from being hurt is to refuse to engage—to flee from love.

In such a vacuum, life is empty. When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy.

When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy. Share on X

I said my friend and I knew what words are capable of when used in the right way. Many others know it, too.

Our words, written (and said) at the right time, and offered from loving hearts, provoke.

That’s right. They provoke. They incite. They motivate. They move.

It’s why I write. When I am tempted to disengage—to lessen the pain and the frustration—I remember the words written to the Hebrews in the New Testament, reminding them to keep spending their lives with others, because in engagement we may provoke to love. In engagement, we provoke each other to good works.

There are no age-related waivers given, no limited-education exceptions written. And sometimes, our companions along the way are like those robins. Annoying. Loud and repetitive. Not nearly as intelligent as we are. Stubborn.

Engage anyway.

Provoke anyway.

Revel in the result. Sadness, mixed with joy. Love, combined with goodness.

But, I didn’t finish the story about the robin, did I?

My sorrow has turned to joy again, as I have observed, out my office window, the robins feeding their two surviving chicks the last couple of days. I assumed all was lost, but it was a lie. Even as I write this, the male is on the ground outside with food in his mouth and the babies have their necks stretched out, yellow beaks agape, waiting to be fed.

All is not so dark as it seems.

It rarely is.

For the darkness shall turn to dawning
And the dawning to noonday bright.
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
The kingdom of love and light.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H. Ernest Nichol)

And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ KJV)

Calloused

October 27, 2017October 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

My hands hurt. Most of the time, these days, they hurt.

I’m not complaining, really I’m not. Well, maybe just a little. And, I certainly don’t think it’s my fault. But then, if I stop to think a moment, it could be.

A quick search of Google shows that I need to have soft hands for them to be considered beautiful. Or, is that just women? I really can’t tell, but I’m pretty sure gnarled and scarred hands aren’t all that attractive, regardless of which gender they belong to.

I’ve never worried much about the appearance of my hands, but recently I’m a little more aware of it. Having worked with my hands all my life (and talked with them, too), the osteoarthritis now settling in my joints is beginning to mar the symmetry of my once-straight fingers.

Other things are conspiring to make them less physically attractive, as well.

In just the last week, I’ve pinched them with pliers (twice), cut them with a saw blade, with the sharp edge of an air conditioner duct, and the corner of a file. While I was at it, I smashed a knuckle using a power sander, and sliced the tip of my thumb with a utility knife (just tonight). I even have a jammed thumb on one hand, although I have no recollection of how that one happened.

The mind wanders—as it does—and I recall my last day of working for an electrician in another life, decades ago. I was leaving that job to return to the music business full-time, and the electrician I worked with mentioned he’d be calling Johnson & Johnson to warn them they might need to make some adjustments to their business plan. The puzzled look on my face led to his tongue-in-cheek explanation.

Since you won’t be working for us anymore, we won’t be purchasing all those bandages. They’re likely to face bankruptcy soon, I’d think.

When I work with my hands, I bleed. It’s a given. And yet, I keep working with my hands. Blood washes off. Cuts and scrapes heal.

Even now, as I sit and write, my hands hurt again. I rub them gently, feeling a few new callouses ,and again my mind wanders—further back, this time.

I was in my twenties. With young children, money was scarce, but we took the trip to South Texas anyway. Babies need to see their grandparents, and vice versa.

The car didn’t make it all the way to my childhood home in the Rio Grande Valley. Well, it did, but we could only drive 30 miles per hour the last sixty miles of the trip.

I spent my vacation under the hood of that old car. By the time it was running right again, my callouses had callouses, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have described it.

One afternoon after the problem was sorted out, my dad introduced me to a friend of his. As I shook his hand, he looked down at mine, then back up at me and smiled.

It’s nice to meet a young man these days who knows how to work with his hands.

Callouses. On callouses. I was embarrassed. And proud—if you understand how that could be true as well.

Lend me a hand.
Get your grubby hands off!
I’ve got to hand it to you.
He knows this town like the back of his hand.
We’re just living hand to mouth these days.
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
Give your hand in marriage.
My right-hand man.

These are only a small sampling of the phrases in our language in which the word hand plays a major part. Hands are important to us.

They are important to our God, as well.

His Word is full of hands.

Hands that took the fruit and put it to the mouth—original sin. (Genesis 3:6)

Hands that blessed a young man who was wearing animal skin on his own hands, to deceive—the father of the Children of Israel. (Genesis 27)

Hands that stretched over the sea, parting the waters—a journey begun to freedom. (Exodus 14:21,22)

Hands that built a tabernacle—a place for God to dwell among men. (Exodus 25:8)

Hands that played a harp to calm the soul—and later, to compose psalms of worship which endure until this day—a sacrifice of praise. (1 Samuel 16:23)

A hand that wrote on a wall—a warning to God’s enemies. (Daniel 5:5)

Hands that were stretched wide in love. Hands through which spikes were driven—the blessing of God’s saving grace to all mankind. (Isaiah 53:5)

There are more.

Thousands of them. Hands. Doing good.

And yes, thousands doing evil.

I’ve heard the words of God to Moses innumerable times. (Exodus 4:2)

What do you have in your hands?

I’ve always thought the important thing was the answer to that question. Moses had a staff. I have other things. But, here’s the deal.

God doesn’t need my things.

He needs my hands.

My hands.

To be willing to be open. For Him.

Or, holding on. For Him.

My beaten up, scarred, stiff, sore hands.

With our hands, yours and mine, He will touch the world—perhaps one person at a time—perhaps thousands.

On second thought, I’m certain that hands don’t have to be soft to be beautiful.

Hands don't have to be soft to be beautiful. Share on X

Hearts. Hearts have to be soft.

The hands—cracked, calloused, gnarled, and stiff—are beautiful simply because they serve. Wiping away a child’s tears, touching the cheek of a newborn baby or a nervous bride, stroking the hair of a frightened mate, reaching out in love to serve.

And sometimes, they hurt. His did, too.

His did, too.

Oh, be careful little hands what you do,
For the Father up above is looking down in love.
Oh, be careful little hands what you do.
(from Oh Be Careful ~ American children’s song ~ Anonymous)

Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
And confirm for us the work of our hands;
Yes, confirm the work of our hands.
(Psalm 90:17 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

Intervals

October 10, 2017October 10, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I love playing the horn. Really, I do.

If it sounds as if I’m trying to convince myself, perhaps I am. Of all the endeavors I have undertaken in my life, playing the horn has been the most mercurial.

By that, I mean to say it has been the most enjoyable and the most frustrating. I’ve had astounding successes and disastrous failures. Most days, I love playing with other musicians. Then again on others, I detest the very thought of it.

Mercurial.

Up. Down.

Hot. Cold.

I suppose my attitude toward the activity may be tethered to my commitment to preparation for it. For some odd reason, when I don’t take the horn out of its protective case and play it between rehearsals, the rehearsals themselves are less than satisfactory. Often, much less.

The lady is kind if nothing else. She is. Standing there on her podium, she has no intention of hurting anyone’s feelings. All she’s after is music—correct notes, played at the right time, and at the volume indicated in the dynamic marking.

It’s not much to ask.

Still, it requires more than just attempting it in the instant of need. Sometimes, a lot more.

She was frustrated on the last occasion. The violins may have been a few cents off pitch. The timpani player might have played that roll too loudly. The bass voices could have been dragging the beat a little.

None of those was the cause of her frustration. This time, anyway. No, it was something else.

The horns had blown their entrance.

Three notes. That’s all it was. Three. Play a G in the middle octave, then a jump to the G in the higher octave, then a little slur down to the F#.

Except, it didn’t happen. The first note was nowhere near to a G, nor was the next even close to the octave interval required. Perhaps, we shouldn’t even talk about the F#.

The exasperation was obvious as she motioned with her baton. A big circle in the air. That meant stop. No. It meant stop now!

She needn’t have bothered on my account. I wasn’t playing any more notes after that flub anyway.

She looked back at the horn section, the frown on her lips replaced quickly with a smile. If not one of confidence, it was at least one of hope.

You’re going to get that. I’m sure you will. Next time.

She didn’t insist we play it again in front of all the other musicians. She didn’t berate us for our second-rate performance. She extended mercy.

Mercy and grace.

A second chance.

An interval in which to work on our interval, you might say.

A wise man would spend the time judiciously, these minutes—and hours—and days—in that interval of grace.

I wonder if I fall into that category. I suppose time will tell.

But if you know me, you know I wonder about other things, as well. It’s impossible for me to consider that little ragtag group of musicians we like to call a chamber orchestra and not get a glimpse in my mind of this great, huge symphony in which all of us are participants.

Every single one of us plays a part. The phrase fits the subject perfectly—not by my design—but because it is true that all of us understand we play, at least in some capacity, a part of the music of life.

Everyone plays a part in the great symphony of mankind. Our Conductor has high expectations. Share on X

Even with the high expectations, we’ll all play a clinker at some point. Our Conductor understands.

He does.

He once played in the symphony, too. Is it too much to believe He’d be sympathetic with our weaknesses? (Hebrews 4:15)

He hasn’t forgotten the music; hasn’t lost the rhythm of creation. And, He knows how difficult it is to play those intervals sometimes.

Grace. Mercy.

Intervals.

I wonder. This might be one of those other intervals.

Maybe, we should use the time wisely. (Ephesians 5:15-16)

The Day is approaching—the day when the baton in our Conductor’s hand sweeps toward that down beat.

I’m not going to miss this interval.

In theory, there is no difference between practice and theory. In practice, there is.
(Yogi Berra ~American baseball player/manager ~ 1925-2015)

This High Priest of ours understands our weaknesses, for he faced all of the same testings we do, yet he did not sin. So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it most.
(Hebrews 4:15, 16 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

grace

Just a Little Proud

Stinking Up the Place

Message in a Mailbox

I Didn’t Earn This

What Are You Looking At?

How Close is Close?

For the Birds

A Provocation

Calloused

Intervals