Homeward Bound

January 27, 2024January 27, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I want it to be true.

She said she had learned recently that the name common for homeless wanderers in the last century meant something almost romantic. We were talking about hobos, those bindle-toting fellows who rode the rails during the Great Depression, knocking on doors in small towns across the country as they looked for handouts—mostly food, sometimes money.

My guest told me the article she read suggested the word hobo was short for homeward bound.

I’ve done a bit of reading on the subject and find that explanation surfaced rather recently, extrapolated by a writer or two, coming from the soldiers who were traveling after the Civil War in the 19th century, saying they were homeward bound, only to realize when they got there that their homes had been destroyed in the conflict.

It seems more likely that the term came from the name given to the farmer boys who left their farms to look for a better life. Hoe-boys, they were called.

There was a day when I answered my grandmother’s inevitable question of what I intended to do with my life with the suggestion that I wanted to be a hobo. What I really meant was I wanted to live the life of a bum, but have the assurance of a home to return to and the promise of financial support, should I get hungry and cold.

I grew up and out of that mindset, thankfully. I did leave home, striking out to new horizons, but I put down roots and got a job immediately. The wandering life wasn’t for me, much to my grandmother’s relief.

Still, I like the idea of being homeward bound. Even after all the years of living nearly a thousand miles away, the reminders of my hometown I see almost daily induce a sort of homesickness in me.

I wonder. Why do we look for a place to call home?

Several years ago I wrote of my friend, Miss Peggy. She, in her ninety-first year of life, fussed at me one day because her friend had died. The friend was younger, probably in her late eighties.

“It wasn’t her turn!” Miss Peggy was adamant—almost angry.

I held back the laugh that threatened to burst out. I had never considered this concept of standing in line, waiting to get into Heaven. In my mind’s eye, I could visualize her friend, an old spinster just like Miss Peggy, cutting the line up ahead of those waiting impatiently.

The impulse to laugh died suddenly as Peggy tilted her head wistfully, letting the words spill out.

“I want to go home.”

Surrounded by her belongings, in her own cozy house, she wanted to be home. Really home.

I guess that’s what it’s like when you’ve been on the road so long. You just want to be home.

Not many of us are hobos, but all of us—if we’re God’s children—are homeward bound.

Just like Abraham and his offspring—like Moses and his wandering, grumbling tagalongs—we’re looking for the place of promised rest.

And, it’s not the place we came from. No, we’re going home.

Homeward bound.

And, in the meantime, our Creator’s got some green pastures and quiet waters for us to travel past. And, yeah. A dark valley or two.

But, there’s goodness. And mercy. All the days of our lives.

Until we’re finally home.

Looks like we’re headed the same direction. Maybe we could jump a freight train together sometime.

Homeward bound.

“They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth. Obviously people who say such things are looking forward to a country they can call their own. If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.”
(Hebrews 11:13-16, NLT)

“Would you welcome going home
If you’d never been away?
I don’t think so.
I don’t think so.
I really don’t think so.”
(from Would You by Evie Tornquist Karllson)

The Old Barn in Spring

March 26, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My father told of walking in the early 1950s across the yard beside what is now my home to reach Dr. Wills’ barn and pick up a gallon of fresh milk from his Jersey cows. As he told me the story, I could almost see him and his brother, my Uncle Edward, striding across this very field and then my yard.

I stood in the field this afternoon, soaking in the spring warmth and letting the memories wash over me.

I never knew, until the last years of his life, that Dad had ever been to this little town before my brothers and I settled here after leaving South Texas in the seventies.

I think I understand, a little, why it felt so much like coming home when I first visited here. It has never felt different in the nearly half-century since.

But, I wonder sometimes if that’s a little how it will feel to walk into our forever home.

I think it might.

Home. Where we belong.

I hope it’ll be springtime. With two brothers carrying bottles of fresh milk home for breakfast.

And wildflowers everywhere.

Endings Become Beginnings

March 22, 2023March 24, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Abnormal.

That was the one-word description I read when I checked the medical app a couple of weeks ago. I had received an email informing me the doctor had posted the result of my recent procedure, so I thumbed my way through the sign-in process to get the good news.

It was what I was expecting. Good news. I’d like to believe I’m not a perpetual pessimist, expecting the worst all the time. Still, I wasn’t shocked to read the word I found there.

Abnormal.

There was nothing else, except a reminder of an appointment with the surgeon in a week. On the day of the Vernal Equinox.

It seemed appropriate. The end of a season. The beginning of another. Both on the same day.

One, I have grown to detest. The other, I love. The reader will no doubt draw their own conclusion as to which is which.

I waited. Concentrating on the word, abnormal, I waited.

I had an inkling of the meaning. Last year, a similar procedure yielded the word precancerous. Now, this follow-up procedure had yielded a new word.

It’s funny, the things one’s brain will jump to, given time. And, I had plenty of time on my hands.

Abnormal is the opposite of normal. Somehow, we prefer the latter to the former. It seems odd, because we don’t really care for average, which is surprisingly similar to normal.

Next, my mind landed on the word I may have been searching for in the first place: peculiar. It is a word which twins abnormal rather well, don’t you think?

We think of peculiar as meaning odd, or strange. That’s the same as abnormal, is it not?

But then, there’s another definition that says peculiar means belonging exclusively to one genre, area, or person.

And, that’s me. Perhaps, you too.

The Fisherman who came to be known as The Rock gave us the description a couple of thousand years ago.

“But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light.” (1 Peter 2:9, KJV)

This kind of abnormal, we can lay claim to. If we follow Jesus, we belong!

Forever, we belong.

And, in spite of seasons that end and change, there will always be new beginnings. We have the bright hope of life with our Creator that goes on forever.

Which brings me back to my opening thoughts.

On the day of the year when darkness holds sway for an equal amount of time with daylight, the Vernal Equinox, I went to see my doctor again.

I had prepared for the day. I trust in a God who heals as well as saves.

I had left the abnormal in His hands. I freely admit, I wanted it to be normal but I was ready to accept what came next either way.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t sit in the parking lot and let the tears flow as I communicated with the Lovely Lady afterward.

Normal. He said I was normal.

I’m grateful for the changing seasons. For darkness that turns to light.

Endings always lead to beginnings. Always. I don’t know why I continue to be surprised by it but yet, once again, I am.

And, I do know I’m still peculiar. I hope you are, too.

“And you He made alive, who were dead in trespasses and sins.”
(Ephesians 2:1, NKJV)

“(Spring) is a natural resurrection, an experience of immortality.”
(H D Thoreau)

Breathing in the Shadows

January 31, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

The moon is blue. Super blue.

Yes, there are scientific reasons for the terminology. You may seek them out for yourself. For tonight, I am just happy to sit on a stump and watch the shadows.

I watched the moon for a while, beautiful thing that it is, but as it approached its zenith, my neck objected, so I bent down to relieve the tension. That’s when I noticed the shadows.

The world is awash in shadows. At midnight.

The old mulberry tree, its spindly limbs bereft of leaves, stretches bony fingers this way and that across the cold sleeping grass. There’s a ghost story waiting to be told there, were the world not so brilliant in the moon’s glare.

I glance at the two Labrador retrievers cavorting nearby, and can’t help noticing their shadows mirroring their every leap and crouch.

Shadows in the moonlight. Creator’s handwork.

Basking in the beauty of the late night, I smile. For a moment.

Then I feel it.

I knew I would. There is a high-pitched whistle as I breathe in. And out. I struggle a bit to hold down the cough that is inevitable.

Time to go in. I bid goodnight to the dogs, with a warning for them to behave themselves until morning, and I head indoors. Indoors, where it’s warm.

I bring my shadows with me. Shadows of resentment. Shadows of doubt.

Shadows of negativity.

Wait. That’s a bit redundant, isn’t it? A shadow is already a negative, of sorts. If the object is the real thing—the positive, the shadow must be its negative. The un-thing, one might say.

So, here I sit, my un-thing weighing on my chest, and I watch the two dogs still cavorting outside—two black shadows dancing with their black shadows.

Not a care in the world.

I watch them and I am envious. Nighttime is the worst when bronchitis hits. The asthmatic aspect makes it difficult to breathe; the cough that follows makes it nearly impossible to sleep.

In the darkened house I lie watching the shadows. Shadows on my soul because of the shadow creeping into my lungs.

Do you feel sorry for me yet? You shouldn’t. I have come to realize that some shadows are darker than others.

Just tonight I read the words of a new friend, one I’ll probably never meet in the flesh, who is in his sixth year of suffering with cancer. His lungs and other organs are full of tumors, some even visible through his skin. Four surgeries, multiple courses of chemo, and still the shadows persist.

He sits in his chair, receiving the infusion of chemicals which will bring waves of nausea and pain, along with rashes, and he prays for those sitting in chairs around him.

He prays. For them.

I breathe as deeply as I dare, trying to keep from coughing and waking the Lovely Lady, but my mind is already on another friend who has a constant shadow, as well. Her lungs are working at a fraction of their capacity, the only cure, a transplant.

She’s not a candidate for a transplant. And yet, her cheerful encouragement comes as an almost daily occurrence—to friends, to strangers—she points out the bright spots rather than the shadows.

If we walk in light (as He is in light), we walk in community with each other, and in fellowship of His saving grace. (1 John 1:7)

We walk this road with heroes. Heroes of faith who show us the light rather than point out the shadows.

When we are in light, there will invariably be a shadow. But, you knew that already, didn’t you?

When we walk in light, there is always a shadow. Always. Share on X

The shadow is strongest in the brightest light. Sunlight—moonlight—streetlight—you name it.

We can focus on the un-thing, the shadow, that comes from walking in His light, or we can keep our eyes on the things that are.

Life. Love. Heaven.

Things that are.

The Apostle (my namesake) was adamant when he spoke of it. The temporary things we are suffering here are nothing (un-things) compared to the glory we shall one day know. (Romans 8:18)

Some, like my bronchitis, are more temporary than any of them, likely to disappear within days. Others may last a lifetime. Or, they may claim that life even. It’s still true.

The shadow is not the real thing. It never will be the real thing.

The shadow is not the real thing. Share on X

Breathe easy. The day will come when the shadows will flee forever, the light in our eternal home, our God, Himself.

No more tears.

No more shadows.

Only Light.

Breathe deep.

Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe
And to love you.
All I need is the air that I breathe.
(from The Air That I Breathe ~ Albert Hammond)

Even though I walk
    through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
    for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.
(Psalm 23:4 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Not Home Anymore

August 9, 2017August 9, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

It’s not really our home, you know.

I said the words jokingly—actually, only half jokingly—to a guest in our house the other day.

The visitor was visibly surprised. We’ve lived in the house for a decade and a half, filling the walls with artwork we’ve chosen to fit our taste, and the bookcases with volumes to feed our souls.

The walls still seem to echo with the voices of our grandchildren and college students around the table. If I listen carefully, I can almost hear the Lovely Lady’s mother’s musical laugh, her idiosyncrasies and stories far outlasting her years on this earth.

The Doxology still rings in the air, sung by voices young and old scattered around the little dining room. And, before the strains of that beautiful old hymn of praise die down, one may be able to make out the joyful carols sung so many times over the years inside these thick brick walls.

Many whom we love have crossed the threshold of this wonderful old house while we’ve resided here, a better home than I ever imagined it would be. The welcome here was always warm, the food delicious, the fellowship all one could ask for.

That was then.

Home is the place where even the host feels welcome, the retreat where the world is left behind at the door, even if only for a little while.

And God said to Paul and his Lovely Lady, leave behind this beautiful and welcoming home, along with the music store, your vocation and place of ministry for the last thirty years, and go to a place I will show you. But, not yet.

But, not yet.

Am I comparing my circumstances to Abraham’s? Really? I tell you, there have been times over the last few months when I would have told you he had it easy compared to me.

All Abraham had to do was to obey and walk. God showed him the rest. Under the great oak tree at Shechem, God waved an arm around and declared that everything he saw was his. Home.

I hope there is little need for me to reassure the reader I have no illusions about my importance in the grand scheme. I’m well aware of the part Father Abraham had yet to play in the history of mankind.

I understand the great faith it took for Abram to leave his family and country and travel, not knowing where he would end up. I only make the comparison because this Hero of faith had merely to take one step after another until the Lord told him to stop.

A pilgrim no more, he would be home. Home.

But, I’m sure many can identify with this unsettled feeling I have deep down when I look around me in this old house. It’s not my home anymore. Oh, my name (and the Lovely Lady’s) is on the title, but my home is somewhere else.

Or, it would be if I could leave here. There are still a number of things that have to happen before I walk out the door for the last time.

So, I keep walking back in every evening. I keep sleeping in (what will be) someone else’s bedroom. I work in an office that will never truly be mine again.

I’ve got one foot firmly planted in the present, and the other poised to take the next step—to a different place entirely.

It should be time to close one chapter and move to the next. Only, I keep reading the last paragraph again and again.

I don’t write these words to get sympathy. Not at all. I do wonder though, if anyone else can identify with how I’m feeling.

Anyone?

This unsettled feeling—this impatience and restlessness—I wonder, did our Savior ever feel it?

Earth was never His home. He left His home to live here temporarily, before returning to His rightful home. (Philippians 2:6-8)

He wasn’t welcome, didn’t get settled in. He came to His people and they didn’t accept Him. (John 1:11)

He didn’t even have a place he wanted to call His own. The birds and animals had homes, but the Son of Man didn’t even have a place to lay His head. (Matthew 8:20)

He didn’t settle in. He never got comfortable. He was Creator of all that is and there was no place here for Him to call home.

The task for which He came still lay ahead of Him. And, after that—home.

Really. Home.

And, after that—home. Really. Home. Share on X

I’m realizing something, these days as I miss the home that was and look forward to the home that will be. I’m realizing I’ll never really be settled-in there either. It may be the place I reside for the rest of my life—or not. Regardless, it won’t really be home, either.

Just as now, when I gaze across the bridge to the next place, in my heart, I’ll someday be looking across the river to that place, my last and final destination and feel the need to go home.

I may even wonder, as I do now, why I have to wait—why I have to keep one foot in the present and have the other ready to take that step into eternity.

For right now, I’d settle for simply taking the next step.

Just one will do.

For a start.

Leaving home—to go home.

And then it happens all at once and unexpectedly. That is how things happen, I suppose. You pack your bags and find yourself walking yourself home.
(Shannon L Alder ~ American author)

Abraham was confidently looking forward to a city with eternal foundations, a city designed and built by God.
(Hebrews 11:10 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Living in the Light

August 2, 2017August 2, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The ghosts in the old house have been disturbed and are keeping me awake.

No, not like the ghosts of movie fame—nor even poltergeists or apparitions in chains. I mean those people who once were part of my life, but who only live here now in my memory.

Sometimes I wonder if I have awakened them, causing them, in turn, to interrupt my own sleep. It’s only a thought, of course, not borne out by facts.

Still. Here I am—awake.

I wrote of old light fixtures being made new to shine brightly the last time I shared my thoughts here. Since then, something’s been niggling at the edges of my mind. And, it’s not just the ghosts—although they have a good deal to do with it, truth be told.

I sat at a table in a restaurant with my children tonight, both adults, long since. Showing them photos of the light fixtures we are putting back up in the house their grandparents lived in for most of their lives, I expected my offspring to exclaim about their memories of the fixtures.

They didn’t. Not at all.

I couldn’t have told you that was on the ceiling in that house, Dad.

The other one nodded his head.

Never saw it.

How is that possible?

Many hours of their childhood were spent in that house. They played. They worked. They ate. Surely, in all that time, those light fixtures were powered up and the light shone from them. Surely.

I know it was so. On any number of occasions, as we pulled into the drive to visit, the light blazed out from the windows, welcoming us in from the dark.

How could they not have noticed the fixtures?

As I consider the issue, a light begins to glimmer in my own brain. In a moment, the notion is blazing as brightly as any of those ceiling lights ever did.

You see, on the first few occasions the light switch is turned on, if a fixture is particularly attractive, folks might notice and, perhaps, even be overwhelmed with the beauty. But, after the process is repeated day after day, night after night—for weeks, months, years even—we forget about the light fixture on the ceiling and simply live in the light.

We simply live in the light.

We don’t see the implement anymore.

We see only what is produced. The thing necessary for life—light—fills the house. Absolutely fills it.

And, that’s as should be.

It is true in more than just our physical, everyday needs. The light we require for our faith life is very much the same in the way it works.

We are, indeed called to shine. But, the purpose is that the watching world will see (and praise), not us, but the God who shines through us. (Matthew 5:16)

John—the one also called the Baptist, said it succinctly: He must increase and I must decrease. (John 3:30)

In the old house we’re taking the light fixtures which have kept the shadows at bay for the generation past, and are doing what is necessary to keep the shadows away for the generations in the future.

The same is true for the spirit life of our families and fellowships. Saints of old, faithful in walking with the Savior, have lit the way for successive generations. We can do no less than take up the same light and share it into the future.

Light from the past, shining into the future.

The light from the past is shining into the future. Share on X

We’ll leave the light on for you.

It’s not an original thought, and others before us have actually made the promise and kept it. To do the same will take a lifetime of faithfulness from us.

A lifetime.

It’s time we were started.

Flip the light switch!

Live in the light.

Lighthouses don’t fire cannons to call attention to their shining—they just shine.
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist ~ 1837-1899)

And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light. The nations will walk in its light, and the kings of the world will enter the city in all their glory.
(Revelation 21:23-24 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Never Much Hope

June 28, 2016June 28, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was a hot Saturday afternoon in the Rio Grande Valley. That, of course, could have described almost every one of the fifty-some Saturdays which occurred in any given year, but this one, I remember.

I remember it because it was the day the band geeks were going to show up the jocks in a game of two-below football. I was one of the geeks. Still am, truth be told.

You never saw such a group of unlikely athletes. Oh, there were a few who had the physique for it, but the coordination hadn’t come along with the build. On this day, we weren’t worried about that.

We were a team. A group of guys focused on the same goal. All for one and one for all. We had heart.

The jocks showed up, jeering and making predictions. Seventy to nothing, one big muscle-bound fellow taunted. Others foresaw pain in our collective future.

We weren’t afraid—much.

The game began. For a little while, we held our own and it seemed that the predictions were very much flawed. Then, little by little, our confidence faded.

Two-below football is a minimum contact form of the sport which allows blocking, but not much other hitting of body on body. The person carrying the ball should expect nothing more than the slapping of two hands below the waist to bring the play to a halt.

Somehow, the jocks had the idea that it meant you simply tackled with two hands below the belt-line. It turned out that one of the predictions had been right: There was pain in our future. A good bit of it.

I played for the entire first half. A fair portion of the second half was spent on the ground along the sideline biting back the groans that a knee to the groin had elicited. I was not alone on the sideline. But still, I did get back out and play, however hampered I was by the discomfort, to end the game.

Heart or no heart, confidence or not, we lost—big time. I don’t think the score was seventy to nothing, but it might as well have been.

There had never been a chance. We were beaten before it began.

What’s that?

You thought the story would end better? Perhaps a miracle finish? Maybe a secret weapon to unleash upon the callous football players?

It didn’t happen.

It wasn’t a Hollywood story, you know. It wasn’t even an epic fairy tale.

Happily ever after didn’t happen.

We lost. Utterly and completely.

That’s life. No, really. It’s what life is. Reality isn’t all parties and happiness. Nobody wins every time. Nobody.

Some of my friends will be unhappy with me as they read this. Many voices have spoken different words into their lives.

I will respectfully and (hopefully) gently insist that our Creator has a different path for us.

For the last few years, the muttering has been growing. Folks are unhappy with the thought that many good things are coming to an end. We expected, as followers of Jesus, to live peacefully and unharmed in a bounty-filled land.

Wealth and plenty have been ours. Our voices have been the only ones we heard, as we have grown fat and selfish.

Perhaps, I should speak for myself. I have heard my own voice as I spoke words I believed to be true. Speaking and not acting, I have grown fat. In the absence of opposition, I have grown selfish beyond belief.

And now, in a way my grandparents and my parents never experienced, the world just outside my front door has grown increasingly unfriendly to my comfort and ease.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not claiming persecution. I’ve seen—from afar—what happens to believers when they are persecuted. I haven’t experienced even a fraction of that, nor have most folks I’m acquainted with.

But, it may come to that. Being neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet, I cannot say.

Still, we are promised, not comfort, but discomfort. We are promised, not open arms from the world around us, but reproach. Folks we call our neighbors will turn on us.

I’m not talking about end-times prophecy. I’m simply averring that this is what life will be for us if we truly follow Jesus.

After all, He is the One who promised hardship. Promised it. (John 16:33)

He never asked us to win the battle for men’s hearts for Him. That’s His job. He simply asked us to stand firm to the end.

He never suggested that we would be happy and trouble-free because we serve Him faithfully, but He did promise that we will inherit His kingdom. (Matthew 5:10)

And, that brings us to the one other thing He did promise: The day is coming.

The day is coming when all of this will fade into nothingness. All the pain. All the sadness. All the jeering. All the hardships we’ve ever faced.

All of it. Nothing. Nothing at all.

The Apostle Paul wrote down the words he was given by the Spirit:

There is no comparison in any way between the passing inconveniences of this world and the unbelievable glory which will be ours in the next. (Romans 8:18)

There are days when I am overcome with weariness—with sorrow—with despair. This mountain I am facing can never be scaled, can never be conquered.

A friend reminded me tonight of that great fortress called Doubting Castle, kept by the Giant Despair. John Bunyan wrote of it hundreds of years past.

Many I know have been held captive there. Many I know are still chained in its dungeon.

Still, it’s as true today as it was in the days when Mr. Bunyan sat in prison for his faith—still as true as in the early days of the Church: The world has been overcome by the One we follow. The outcome has never been in doubt.

Our day is coming.

Hope’s spark still burns deep within each one who follows Him.

Our enemy doesn’t play by the rules. He never has. He seems so much more powerful than we are. That hasn’t changed, either.

We seem so easily injured and tired out.

But, the game is not over yet.

And, he has been fooled before.

And, defeated.

As it turns out, he’s the one who never had any hope of winning.

I’m going to stick it out.

You?

And if our hope in Christ is only for this life, we are more to be pitied than anyone in the world.
(1 Corinthians 15:19 ~ NLT)

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times, But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist ~ 1892-1973)

Perhaps, More Than a Dream

April 28, 2016April 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.

I was once again contemplating the idea of eternity tonight when suddenly, I became aware the notes of this song were wafting through the air in my office.

I had to laugh.

Already, I see the heads nodding.

No, not in agreement with the humor I found in the juxtaposition of the old folk song alongside thoughts of eternity. Heads are nodding in the realization that it has finally happened. The idiot has finally snapped. Gone over the edge completely.

Why would one be contemplating eternity?

And, what in the world is funny about hearing a children’s song while contemplating such a peculiar subject?

Perhaps, we’ll consider just one thought at a time, okay?

I was an odd child, I will admit. At a very young age, I struggled internally with big ideas, while the everyday things went unnoticed. Perhaps all of us did, but I really can’t speak for anyone else. I know eternity was one concept with which I wrestled many times.

I would sit in church and sing the words of that last verse of John Newton’s Amazing Grace and I would be AWOL for the rest of the church service–lost deep in thought.

…Ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun…We’ve no less days…than when we’ve first begun.

How does that not mess with a kid’s head?

The idea of eternity terrified me. No, not the idea of Hell or Heaven—just the thought of a period of time that went on and on without ever ending.

To a child of seven or eight, the concept was as foreign as having all the ice cream you could ever consume and no one ever making you stop eating it.

Everything came to an end.

Church services ended with Amen. Cowboy movies ended with the hero riding off into the sunset. Trips in the car ended with us pulling up to Grandma’s house and piling out of the old station wagon. The school year ended with all the kids walking out and throwing their papers in the wind to cover the playground.

Everything came to an end. Everything.

I never thought to talk about it with a grown-up. This was too big, too–I don’t know–sacred. You didn’t talk about such things; you just grappled with them until you could move on. I think eventually, I just decided if the grown-ups in my life could face that terrifying endless and timeless uncertainty, so could I.

Besides, Jesus would be there. I wanted to be where He was.

As an adult, I still want to be there.

I have come to realize though, eternity is not only on the other side of that door we don’t want to talk about.

Eternity doesn’t begin with death. It didn’t even begin with our entry into this world at birth.

Funny thing–if I had known it back then, my mind might have been boggled even more than it was. The reality is, eternity works both ways–both backward and forward. How’s that for an enigma?

We live smack-dab in the middle of eternity! We’re not waiting for it. We’re not looking forward to it.

Eternity is now!

I’m not a kid anymore.

Today, I look to the future and I want to be sure I’ve done everything I can do with this little piece of eternity I’ve been given to work with, here in this place and time.

I’ll relocate to another neighborhood for the next part of it. But, right here–right now–I have things that must be accomplished before this part of the eternal timetable moves on and I am no longer able to do what needs to be done.

In some ways, I feel like Alice’s White Rabbit as he rushes about, terrified that he is late and will miss the very important date. Eternity is passing at a frighteningly rapid pace.

Those were the thoughts in my mind tonight as the little bit of doggerel we began our conversation with made its way into my consciousness. Talk about a dichotomy!

Life is but a dream.

The old children’s song lulls us to sleep, convincing us our lot in life is nothing more than a summer afternoon’s outing on the quiet stream. All work together, rowing in cadence with those around, and everything will come out just fine.

It almost seems apropos that the song is a round, the endless cycle sung repeatedly by all the voices, each one carrying on the hypnotic mantra, urging the boat’s occupants to move gently.

Don’t rock the boat! Don’t, for heaven’s sake, attempt to go upstream!

Happy, Happy, Happy!

I can just hear Phil Robertson’s (of Duck Dynasty) voice, calling out the words to keep the natives calm.

Life is but a dream?

Okay, perhaps I wasn’t really amused. It wasn’t funny ha-ha, just wildly inappropriate that the two ideas should occupy my brain at the same time.

I have noted recently that a number of my friends are attempting to slow down the pace of their lives. Don’t worry, be happy, say their notes. Jettison the things that stress you; do only the things which make you feel good; friends who make demands on you aren’t really friends, so dump them.

How can we live the dream when rude people keep waking us up?

But, you see–that’s just the trouble with dreams. You always wake up. Reality intrudes. They end. Just like everything in that seven year old’s world a lifetime ago.

Life isn’t a dream.

I’m kind of happy to know that it isn’t. I want to row upstream. I want to blaze paths where the placid stream doesn’t flow. And, eternity won’t wait; it just keeps moving through our lives, as it has for everyone else in all of recorded history.

Eternity won't wait. Time to wake up and get busy! Share on X

Time to wake up and get busy!

I’ll take eternity, thanks.

As if you could kill time without wounding eternity!
(Henry David Thoreau ~ American philosopher/author ~ 1817-1862)

Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.
(Ecclesiastes 3:11 ~ NLT)

Side By Side

March 10, 2016April 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Today, he seemed smaller somehow.

He was never a big man. Still, the wizened little fellow who had wandered inside from the gray day wasn’t the man I remembered. Something was missing.

As we talked, I remembered what it was that had made him bigger.

She was always with him. Always.

I asked him how he was doing, really wanting to know. It seemed he could tell that, so he answered as honestly as he knew how.

I’m lonely. Just—lonely.

Fifty-seven years, she had been at his side. The farmer’s wife works harder than the farmer, and is concerned over twice as much. Still, they raised a family, side by side. They went to church, side by side. They slept in the same bed, side by side.

He took her hand as they sat, side by side, one day a couple of months ago and told her he loved her, and she just went to sleep.

Just like that—gone.

His days are still full of people and activity, but as the daylight ebbs and evening approaches, the sense of coming night takes hold in his spirit. He returns to his empty house—alone—and prepares to lie down in an empty bed and it envelops him, leaving him again in black darkness.

He is alone for the first time in nearly sixty years.

Alone and small.

And God said, It is not good for man to be alone. (Genesis 2:18)

I will make a companion who complements him.

He was bigger when she was with him. I’m sure of it.

He knows where she is. The hope is in his eyes when he speaks of her being well and whole now. Still, as he starts for the front door, I see the wistfulness that lingers. He had plans for more time with her—side by side.

He knows she is side by side with another whom she loves now. He wouldn’t take that from her for the world. And, tonight when the loneliness begins to settle into his spirit once more, he will remember it.

Side by side, we labor through the brightest days of our lives. Still side by side, we lean on each other through the darkest times, as well.

And, for a time—in the grand scheme, merely a moment—we may walk alone again to complete our task here in what some call a vale of sorrows.

But, know this: The day will come.

The day will come when we stand side by side once more and rejoice. There will be music, and shouting, and worship.

Side by side, we’ll see Him face to face.

Ah, sweet hope!

Somehow, I don’t expect my friend will be small in that place. Every person there will stand tall.

Side by side.

The days of our lives add up to seventy years,
or eighty, if one is especially strong.
But even one’s best years are marred by trouble and oppression.
Yes, they pass quickly and we fly away.
(Psalm 90:10 ~ NET)

But life will call with daffodils and morning glorious blue skies.
You’ll think of me—some memory, and softly smile to your surprise.
(from When I’m Gone by Joey & Rory ~ Sandy Lawrence songwriter)

In Quiet Places

January 13, 2016January 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

A giant in the world of rock music died yesterday.

The tributes to David Bowie have filled the pages of social media. Videos have been shared, stories told, organ solos have even been performed in cathedrals. And now, the questions are being raised.

Is David Bowie in heaven? Did he become a believer in the waning days of his life?

I’m not going to talk about him. Not exactly, anyway.

You will find the discussion of his final destination in the days to come upon the sensational pages of other blogs. Anger and name-calling will follow—both by believers and non-believers alike. I choose not to participate.

Still, in the quiet of this night, I consider the possibilities. For him—and for all of us.

I wonder—what about these quiet hours, the lonely time between times, when no one else is stirring? They are some of the most soul-searching intervals I have experienced. Surely, there’s a chance?

I’m aware that I’m a man of strange habits—late-night writing sessions, followed by wandering through the house speaking to shadows and arguing with the walls. Not everyone spends their nights in the same fashion.

But, many who are creatures of habit, making their way to bed at regular hours and planning for early morning arising, sometimes find themselves at the mercy of the night.

For some, when life is proceeding smoothly and all is well in their world, the nights are blissful oblivion. No questions are whispered into the dark; no prayers are addressed to the ceiling (and beyond).

But life is not all smooth lanes and well-oiled machinery.

Trouble will come. Sleep will flee. Rest will escape.

Pleas will be delivered to Heaven and promises made. Tears will be shed.

I don’t suppose it’s true for all, but I suspect it happens to more than will admit it.

And finally, in the receding years of my life, I have discovered a truth I never imagined.

Those times in the quiet hours are precious. They are life-changing. They are priceless.

When all is as we imagine it should be, we have no time for God. We have no need for God. Rich in things, we fill the days with noise and commotion, and exhausted, fall into our beds, never giving a thought to the poverty of our souls.

Yet, in our darkest night, He will be found. It seems it’s always, finally, in our darkness that we seek His light.

He’s there waiting, too. (Psalm 139:11-12)

When the one who slept beside you in your bed all those years never will again and you cry for them in the night, He will be found.

When disease tears at the body of your child and you scream silently into the dark, He hears.

When the emptiness of life on your own drives you, at last, to give it all to Him, He’s waiting.

He’s always been waiting. (Revelation 3:20)

Did David Bowie find Him in the darkness of his night? Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

I don’t know.

But you can.

I have.

Again and again.

You, Lord, keep my lamp burning;
my God turns my darkness into light.
(Psalm 18:28 ~ NIV)

But something tells me that you hide
When all the world is warm and tired
You cry a little in the dark, well so do I.
(from Letter to Hermione ~ David Bowie ~ English singer/actor ~ 1947-2016)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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