Listening to Linus

December 20, 2016December 20, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It’s almost impossible for the words and thoughts to come together when the well has run dry.

The statement comes from the preacher’s mouth, weariness in his eyes. It is a reality he knows in his heart. He does. He just buried his wife’s father. There is more—for him, an avalanche of trials. He knows.

I nod my head in agreement. I too, have felt it. The drought. Pain—and sorrow—and loss—all have drained the well dry.

No joy. No words. No voice.

Mute.

And yet, I hear another voice in my mind tonight. Strangely, it is the voice of a cartoon character.

Linus, the blanket-hugging friend of Charlie Brown, has taken center stage and called for the lights. Simply and clearly, he quotes the Christmas story from Luke 2 (verses 8-14), and walks offstage to tell Charlie Brown that’s what Christmas is all about.

Good tidings of great joy. To all people.

I’m part of all people. My preacher friend is too. Probably, you are as well. Okay, not probably. You are.

All means all.

I’ve said it before: There is joy in the journey.

It’s the kind of thing you say when things are going well. The kind of thing one writes about when the heart is full.

And still, I promise that it is ever the truth, and I reiterate it even tonight.

In the middle of the darkest night, with the path in front barely lit to see the next step, I affirm that joy accompanies us in the dark.

Even when the well seems dry, the voice mute, joy endures.

Great joy.

Even when the well seems dry, the voice mute, joy endures. Great joy. Share on X

The Baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger was in for a rough ride. For years, there wouldn’t be much joy to be found, either for Him or for all people.

It didn’t make the proclamation of the angels a lie.

Oh, there were moments of triumph. He would teach the teachers; miracles would be performed, storms quieted. Crippled folks would walk and blind men see. There were brilliant moments of joy along the way to astounding darkness.

Funny. The only way to the great joy that would be to all people was through the worst thing that could happen.

For the great joy that was set before Him, he endured even the shame of the cursed crucifixion. (Hebrews 12:2)

We follow Him. It’s what we claim, isn’t it?

Great joy lies on that road—the road of following. Sadness, too. Perhaps even, a good bit of disappointment.

Mostly though, joy.

And, in the end—all joy.

Great joy.

Still, we follow.

Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.
(John 7:38 ~ NIV)

Sure on this shining night
Of star made shadows round,
Kindness must watch for me
This side the ground.
The late year lies down the north.
All is healed, all is health.
High summer holds the earth.
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night I weep for wonder wand’ring far
alone
Of shadows on the stars.
(Sure on this Shining Night ~ James Agee ~ American novelist/poet ~ 1909-1955)

Heaven Comes Nearer

November 15, 2016November 15, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I still don’t understand it. I have been a musician all my life. Not a good musician, but still—a musician.

A friend posted a link to a recording the other day. Eight people, mortals every one, sang music notes—notes I’m certain are in the normal twelve-note chromatic scale we use every day.

I can sing any of those notes. Really, I can. Perhaps not in the octave in which they sang, nor with the clarity, but I can sing them.

And yet, I sat listening and could do nothing but weep. Someone asked me the name of the song playing on my computer, but I could not answer for fear my voice would crack as I spoke.

It is not a rare occurrence for me. Perhaps, not for you either.

We are moved by great beauty, whether in nature or in art. It is not easy to explain. Maybe, it’s not meant to be.

There are things that are higher. There’s no than to follow that statement—no comparison to be made at all.

Higher things. It’s all that need be said.

My friend who posted the video is a student of the Celtic traditions and often speaks of the sites those ancient cultures described as thin places—places where it seems that heaven is just a bit closer to earth. I love the idea and would never argue that such places don’t exist (I’m sure they do); I just think thin places are to be found in more than only those remote physical locations.

My office desk is a thin place—sometimes. The metal bench in the city park is a thin place—occasionally. Anywhere heaven comes close and raises the hem of the curtain between us and it—just high enough to get a glimpse—is a thin place.

With a catch in my voice, I will admit I don’t understand any of it. I suspect many reading this feel just as confused right now. Today, the world around us is dark and we couldn’t find a thin place if our lives depended on it.

Higher things? Ha! The cacophony of anger and hurt is so all-encompassing that it almost seems we could never smile again, much less have tears of wonder and joy well up and cascade down our cheeks.

Still . . .

David, in an hour of deep unhappiness, reminded us that deep calls to deep. (Psalm 42:7-8) Even from the depths of despair, our souls recognize their Maker’s voice and echo it. Our spirits respond to His Spirit.

He will give us songs in the night.

He will give us songs in the night. Psalm 42:8 Share on X

Where no thin place is to be found, our Creator surprises and opens the curtain just enough—just barely enough—for a glimpse of glory.

It is no small thing.

Hope springs into flame again; resolve is rekindled.

There is work yet to be done. Our destination still lies ahead.

We journey to the place where no veil is between us and our Maker, the place where the only tears to be found will be of awe and wonder.

Higher things call us.

Higher.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright.
But, still I’ll pray till heaven I’ve found
“Lord, lead me on to higher ground.”
(Higher Ground by Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American pastor ~ 1856-1922)

Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.
(1 Corinthians 13:12 ~ NLT)

Thick and Thin

November 10, 2016November 10, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The sheaf is growing thin.

Thin.

Thirty-nine years ago, it was a mammoth binder filled with pages—one crisp, white leaf for every day which would pass in my chosen profession. There was not yet a mark on any one of them; the story could only be written second by second, minute by minute.

The minutes turned into hours, weeks, months, and now years. At first, even the minutes moved by like syrup on the coldest February morning. And now, at the end, they fly like sand through the fingers of a child at the seashore

Page after page has been filled—lines with their scrawled script, margins with scribbled abbreviations. Even the edges are covered with notes, reminders now of appointments never made, but still kept.

Funny. Such a historical document should be conserved for the future, a textbook of success and failure, methods to be passed on to generations not yet even contemplated. It has not been.

The pages lie at my feet in tatters. Each page—completed—has merely been torn from the binder and dropped wearily to the floor at the end of the days.

There are mornings when I stoop down and scan a scrap of the paper underfoot. Memory springs to mind and a smile might cross my face, itself a little more lined and aged than when the binder was first opened.

Frequently, a customer stirs through the debris and reminds me of a memory they have shared, as well. My customers are friends, not income streams, and the memories are mostly sweet. Mostly.

Bittersweet, these days.

Well?

The sheaf is growing thin.

The crisp, white leaves gripped in my fist are precious and few now. I am loath to fill them and let them drop to the worn carpet beneath my shoes.

Today was a day for the scraps of paper to be read. As if the stress of a national election and its surprising outcome were not enough for one twenty-four hour period, the queue of old friends waiting their turn to reminisce and then to embellish the scraps of years past wound through my door from before opening time to well after the sun dropped behind the western horizon.

Each brought a gift, the gift of listening and speaking. It is the way of friendship.

Iron sharpens iron, sometimes painfully, often by polishing gently. (Proverbs 27:17)

Iron sharpens iron, sometimes painfully, often by polishing gently. Share on X

I have been the recipient of such gifts many times over the years. Grateful is too insignificant a word to describe what I feel.

I glance at the scraps of paper they have each left behind, scraps bearing their names and experiences, and I remember that I am a rich man. How could I not be—with a life full of such amazing people?

Yet, I spoke with one friend today of my unhappiness with how thin the sheaf of papers is now. He reminded me (gently) that God is still leading into the future.

God is still leading into the future. Share on X

I said earlier it was my chosen profession, but it was never I who chose it. The path was chosen for me—each step of my young life leading me to it and then through it, until now, as I near old age, I find myself stepping away from it at last.

I could never, in my wildest childhood dreams, have planned out such a journey, but He did. Every step.

The days left in this little music store are flying. There are not many more pages yet to be filled here.

I want them to be filled with words such as I heard today. I want them to be filled with people whose faces I see in my memories tonight.

And, I think as I consider the thin sheaf of papers yet to be written in my business—I wonder how thick that other sheaf is?

The book was so thick on the day we entered this world. Crisp and white, each page awaiting the record that has now been written, it had an adequate supply to last our whole lives through.

It is thinner than when we began. The opportunities for achievements to be recorded, events to be heralded, dwindle everyday.

Sometimes, I pick up the scraps from those pages, too. I’ve shared some few of those memories with you. The ones I’m willing to bring to the light of day again.

Others of the scraps will never be seen or read by anyone else, except by Him. He reads every one of them. The thought makes me cringe, but not because I fear any punishment. No, I cringe because, as any child with his Father, I never want to disappoint.

And, I have. Again and again, I have disappointed.

Those pages are filled, never to be written on again. My Father’s disappointment is past, the sins and missteps erased by His astounding grace.

Still, there are more blank pages. How many? I don’t know.

Perhaps, the sheaf is growing thin. Possibly, it still contains years worth of crisp, white leaves to be filled with the record of tasks fulfilled, and a legacy left for many who will follow.

Either way, He guides my steps.

He always has.

Through thick, and now, through thin…

He knew how to lead then.

He knows how to lead now.

Be still my soul.

He has told you, O man, what is good;
And what does the Lord require of you
But to do justice, to love kindness,
And to walk humbly with your God?
(Micah 6:8 ~ NASB)

Be still my soul, thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
(from Be Still My Soul ~ Katharina von Schlegel ~ German poet ~ 1697-1768)

Good News. Bad News.

October 19, 2016October 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Rejoice with those who rejoice.

As I sat not writing at my keyboard a couple of nights ago, I received the message. The young man at the other end had just received good news. He had to tell someone.

It didn’t matter that it was after midnight. A light had blazed into his darkness and he needed to share the wonder.

I read the words and, even though I couldn’t actually see him, saw the smile that had spread across his face.

I messaged him back. I‘m smiling with you.

I’m smiling as I think about his news, even now.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled. Rejoice with those who rejoice. Share on X

I always want to rejoice with folks who are rejoicing. Except when I don’t.

Yeah. You know what I mean, don’t you?

I was in the middle of a good pout when the young man’s message arrived the other night. I’ve been in the middle of the pout for awhile now. Call it what you want—depressed, sad, unhappy, disappointed—it’s still a pout.

Things aren’t going the way I want. Perhaps more to the point, life isn’t working out the way I’d planned. It seems the road map I was following was a little flawed.

Sometimes, when your soul feels heavy and is burdened down, you simply want to be left alone with your misery. And yet, when that beam of light shines into your darkness, the reaction is automatic and instantaneous.

I stood in the light with the joyful young man and I smiled.

Joy spills over.

It does. But sometimes the beam of light is short-lived and the joy fades into the gloom of disappointment once more.

I sat with another young man this afternoon and unburdened my soul. I thought he needed to know—and oddly enough, he seemed to want to know—what I was feeling. Tears were in my eyes when I looked up again. Looking into his eyes, I saw tears in them, too.

Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

Do you understand the power in those words?

I do. Now.

I looked at his tears and was reminded that it hasn’t been many months since his tears were shed over the tiny body of a still-born baby. He (and his sweet wife) are grieving still and will for years to come. We spoke of that also and the tears came again.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened. Weep with those who weep. Share on X

The day will come when we will celebrate the end to all sorrows and disappointments. No more separation. No more loss. No more death.

The day will come. It’s not here yet.

Today, we walk this world of mixed joys and regrets, victories and defeats. Our celebrations are tempered with foreboding of dark times yet to come.

I wonder.

The Teacher instructed His followers to walk in love for each other and promised that, as a consequence, they would give witness of His great love to a watching world. (John 13:34,35)

Surely He intended that to be done in the center of the world’s marketplace and not only in their cloistered meeting places.

He never suggested it would be the rule in mortuaries, but not on the street corners.

If it is to be witnessed, it must be done in public places.

We rejoice. We grieve.

Fellowship along both paths touches our spirits with His love.

Tonight, I’m smiling.

Through tears.

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being.
(Albert Schweitzer ~ French-German theologian ~ 1875-1965)

For everything there is a season,
a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance.
(Ecclesiastes 3:1,4 ~ NLT)

Higher than That

September 29, 2016September 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

As if all of creation is following the calendar hanging on the wall, the temperatures are dropping to suit the season. The north wind already blusters, tugging on the leaves of the trees in my yard, urging them to fly.

Soon. Soon, they’ll fly.

I sat on the porch with a warm cup of coffee a few moments past and wondered why the melancholy mood seems to be descending like a cloud. It does every year now, when the seasons make the turn toward colder temperatures and bare limbs on trees.

It hasn’t always been so.

I listen absent-mindedly to the wind chimes at the northern backside of the house and then to the ones beside me on the southern porch as they take their turn to spin and shimmy in the chilly breeze. The progression of the blowing wind reminds me that the years have come and gone in just the same way. The waning year reminds me that life too, wanes.

With the years have come so many life events. Joyous and sad, they also take their turns, blowing in and then out again. I might as well try to stop the north wind as to hold back the memories.

I have seen babies born and old folks die. Before my eyes, both have happened. I didn’t turn away from either. Both have brought tears. Tears of heartache and joy.

Children have grown; friendships, too. The children left, but came back with others of their own. Friends have come and gone, and then come again, some of them. Life has had its sadness, but also, in great measure, its joy.

And yet, among my memories, especially now, the melancholy shoves aside the joy.

For some reason I see, in my mind’s eye, a scene from a Greek myth I read as a child. Most will remember it, the story of Pandora and the box she was forbidden to open.

The pain and evil she loosed on the earth changed it forever. Only a weak and ineffective hope was left behind as a salve, a bandage for the open, bleeding wound.

The Greeks and Romans offered, in their attempts at explaining humanity and deity, a weak copy of the reality of a Creator who actually gave hope, real hope to His children, His creation.

How easy it is for us, like the ancients, to let our eyes fall to man and the created world, expecting salvation, but finding only weakness and death. We begin to attempt to explain all we see and experience, framed in our human frailty and knowledge.

Weakly, we grasp at the wisps of hope the world offers, thinking it will stave off our unhappiness and certainty of what follows the coming of Autumn.

We build empires, which merely crumble and dissolve beneath our feet. We follow political leaders who make promises with their mouths, but then take action from their base, evil hearts.

Wealth bellows its virtues, only to disappoint. Youth begins to slip from our grasp and hope flees. We chase health with every gym membership and dietary supplement we can find, only to discover ourselves trapped in ever weakening frames.

Magazines are read; books purchased. Surely someone will find the secret before it’s too late for us!

We set our sight too low. Far too low.

Did you ever stand in the dark of early morning, out in a valley, awaiting the dawn? I remember mornings—brisk Autumn mornings, not unlike those I’m waking up to now—when I sat awaiting the sun, and the beauty that would follow its rising.

Looking out across the valley, I could see only pitch blackness. They say it’s always darkest before dawn and then, I could believe it. But perhaps, I was looking too low. I should look up—up on the rise of the surrounding hillsides. Surely, from that height, light would ascend and creation would shine.

The hillsides disappointed. Every time.

Even the hilltops themselves were of little help. Possibly, I could make them out, silhouetted against the sky as they were. But, the light didn’t emanate from them.

I had to lift my eyes even higher—up to the sky, where the sun would rise.

There! Even before the sun arrived, the light shone upward from behind the dark horizon. Above the valley—above the hillsides—towering even above the hilltops—the sun began its daily circuit above.

The Psalmist knew it. As he sat in the valley of despair, he lifted his eyes up to the hills, but found no help there. Where—where would his help come from? Only from God. (Psalm 121:1,2)

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own.

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. Share on X

We would wander in the darkness forever, chasing a weak and futile hope. In our foolishness, we believe that the evil loosed in the world cannot ever be defeated. Or worse, we think we can unseat it with our New-Age we-are-gods-ourselves mantra.

Death will follow. As surely as winter follows Autumn, death follows evil and error.

He gives us a Hope that is far better than any we could ever fabricate or imagine.

A Savior who makes all things new.

The power of Pandora’s box is broken in Him. Our Hope has the power to give us new life.

He promises us heaven.

Soon. Soon, we’ll fly.

He promises us heaven. Soon. Soon, we'll fly. Share on X

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
(Autumn ~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~ Bohemian-Austrian poet ~ 1875-1926)

“The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” “How are these things possible?” Nicodemus asked.
Jesus replied, “You are a respected Jewish teacher, and yet you don’t understand these things? I assure you, we tell you what we know and have seen, and yet you won’t believe our testimony. But if you don’t believe me when I tell you about earthly things, how can you possibly believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ever gone to heaven and returned. But the Son of Man has come down from heaven. And as Moses lifted up the bronze snake on a pole in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him will have eternal life.”
(John 3:8-15 ~ NLT)

Message from a Hypocritical Fake

July 29, 2016July 31, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

It’s kind of hard for Mom to see the road when she has tears in her eyes.

Our house guests had been gone not even an hour when the text arrived on my phone. I laughed. And then, I wiped the tears from my own eyes.

As we hugged and said our goodbyes that morning, the girls’ mom mentioned how sad it had been for her to be packing. I understood. Their days had been full of old friends and swimming, of family gatherings and sleep-overs. They were leaving to go hundreds of miles away.

It is sad. But, I have to tell you—it’s also joyful.

It’s what happens when we love people.

The homecomings are all laughter and excitement, the separation, tears and sadness.

In between, the sweet times of fellowship are a delight; the distance of disagreement—heartbreak.

Love keeps us coming back. Again and again, the cycle is repeated.

Joy, sadness. Smiles, tears.

I know. It’s hokey. Sentimental slop.

But, that’s life.

Life is hokey. It’s mushy. It’s sloppy.

It’s horribly messy. Horribly.

But, I’ll say this: Better are tears wiped from the eyes while driving away than the voice of regret for never having come.

The memories of times, happy or sad, spent with loved ones are infinitely more to be treasured than the times passed in self-centered pursuits. When, in the passing years, we sit and speak of the good times, we will remember occasions filled with voices and faces, laughter and tears.

The time we share with people is precious; hours wasted in the dark and quiet are hardly remembered at all, save with regret.

One could read the words I’ve scattered on this page and nod his or her head in affirmation, agreeing completely about time spent with family. And yet, I stopped talking about family quite a way up the page.

The statement was: It’s what happens when we love people.

Sad. Joyful.

People.

Family. Neighbors. Strangers. Enemies.

People.

Being a writer, and working to make my articles more accessible has led me to visit and read more divergent views of faith and life than I once did. There is a recent theme that has disappointed me, even worried me.

Why I Ditched the Church Scene (and why you should, too).

Folks who have been hurt, or seen sin in the lives of others, or had disagreements with leaders, are leaving the church in droves. They are not going out to start a new fellowship. They are ditching church altogether.

I wonder.

I’ve said it before myself. I don’t want to go to church today.

And, I will admit here for the first time publicly, in my head I have said it differently. I don’t want to go to church ever again.

Not ever.

Do you know why I keep going to church, with all those hypocrites and fakes—with all those sinners?

They need me.

No, not because I’m so holy. Not because I’m so wise. They need me because I’ve got some rough edges that can bump against the rough edges they bring with them each week. (Hebrews 10:24-25)

This hypocritical fake, who still has a problem with sin, loving them can do what humanity is intended to do. Help them to be better people.

Help me to be a better person.

Is the church full of two-faced fakes?

Duh!

So is my music store. So is the restaurant where I break bread. So is the university where you got your degree. We interact with them in those places, as well.

We are all flawed. We all need help.

God gives it in the form of other flawed, helpless humans. If we abandon them, we serve only ourselves.

And, in the end, if we serve only ourselves, we harm everyone.

Will there be tears?

Will there be unhappiness?

It is a certainty.

What is also certain is that as we live in community, we learn to be the men and women God intended for us to be.

From each other. By being with each other.

I said there will be tears and unhappiness. There will also be great joy and celebration.

It’s what happens when we love people.

And God.

Some day, He’ll wipe those tears away Himself. (Revelation 21:4)

For now, I’ve got a sleeve I can wipe them on.

Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.
(Anonymous ~ attributed to Dr. Seuss ~ American author ~ 1904-1991)

Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works. And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of his return is drawing near.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ NLT)

He Still Hangs the Moon

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

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

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

One would be wrong.

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

Really. Blind.

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

And, you know what they say.

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

Misery loves company.

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

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

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

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

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

Three words. Really. Just three.

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

Me? I get three words.

Lift your head.

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

Lift your head.

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

I lifted my head.

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

He still hangs the moon. Every night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m part of that plan!

Every one of us is.

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

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

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

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

It always does.

He still hangs the moon.

And, not just for me.

Lift your head.

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

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

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

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

Saying When

May 6, 2016May 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Thirty miles. I can do this.

Cycling is not second nature to me. I still have to force myself into the clothes and out the door on each solo ride I make. After several years of self-discipline and more than a few dollars spent for equipment, I still argue like a three-year-old being made to eat his squash. Every time.

That said, I am learning a lot about myself—a lot more than I learn while sitting on the couch. The lessons help me to understand much about who I am and who I want to become.

Some would say I’ve left it a little late. I say, it is what it is.

Thirty miles was my goal as I left the house one afternoon last week. Almost two hours on the tiny, hard bicycle seat.

My friends do twice that every Saturday. And they’re older than I. I was going to do this!

That afternoon, the first twelve miles went by fairly quickly with a couple of minor, mostly inconvenient, events which rattled me a little. I was tired and thirsty already. Add to that the fact I hate riding along the state highway with traffic zipping past at sixty and seventy miles per hour, and you’ll understand why I was grateful for a quiet parking lot in which to grab a drink and put my foot down on the pavement for a moment.

I had flown down the last downhill section of the highway right before my rest stop. Freeing one of my two water bottles from its cage, I gulped enough of the ice-cold, clear liquid to irrigate the gritty desert in my throat.

I didn’t want to cool down too much, but I did want to quiet my spirit and forget the honking, motor-revving pickup on that narrow country lane earlier. The old guy pulling a stock trailer who sped up to get in front of me before making a right turn right across my way hadn’t helped things any, either.

And yet, it didn’t take long before I was ready to ride again.

Now, the busy highway was between me and my chosen route. I had to cross five lanes. That’s all I had to do to get back onto the quiet back road, along which I could speed—or lollygag—whichever.

Cross the highway. Easy, right? Wait for a break in traffic and, pushing both pedals, roll right across. Twelve miles down, eighteen to go.

Easy, peasy.

Checking traffic to my left and seeing none, I eased across the lane. To my right, a pickup truck crested the hill quite a distance away. Well, perhaps he was closer.

A lot closer!

It didn’t help that I was in the highest gear on the bicycle. Well I would be, after flying down that hill, wouldn’t I? I should have checked.

I should also have estimated the oncoming traffic’s speed better.

Pedal! Harder!

My left foot, not yet locked into the pedal, slipped off. The right foot was locked in. It would have to do.

I pedaled furiously—up, down, up. down—all with one foot. In the highest gear.

Safety! I made it! Moving quickly now, I coasted along the rural lane, lifting my left foot back onto the pedal to lock it into place. Ow!

Wow! That hurt! My lower back, evidently not up to the stress of one-footed pedaling, let me know I had strained a major muscle. What would I do?

The Lovely Lady was a phone call away—the pickup truck ready to haul my bicycle home. Or, I could simply head for home. It had been twelve miles out, but six or seven by the most direct route would soon have me home.

Thirty miles. I had promised myself I would ride thirty today.

I kept riding.

Thirty-three miles showed on my fitness program when I pulled back up to the storage barn in which I house my faithful steed.

I surpassed my goal. I climbed hills. I rolled through beautiful farmland. I passed the safari grounds with exotic breeds of animals everywhere. Camels, ostriches, and buffalo, along with a gazelle or two, gazed out at me as I stared in at them. It was a wonderful ride through the springtime countryside.

I want to be proud.

What I am, is embarrassed.

My friends who ride will read the description above and mutter the words under their breath. I know they will.

Rookie! Amateur!

They’re not wrong. I should have checked my gears. I should have been able to easily lock my left shoe into the pedal mount. Still. That’s not why I’m embarrassed. Not all of it anyway.

Goals are important, aren’t they? Sometimes, one must just work through the pain and finish what they started.

It’s true. Goals matter. But, there’s more to the story, isn’t there?

May I tell you the sentence I have uttered more times this week than I can count? (Well, besides Oh, my back hurts!)

“I’m sorry it’s not finished yet. I hurt my back and haven’t been able to work at my bench most of the week.”

I met my goal on Saturday. And because of that, I haven’t been able to meet one since.

I would have been disappointed to miss the mark that day.

Any number of people have been disappointed that I’ve missed the mark every day in this week.

My stubbornness has affected many more people than a little discretion would have.

Only one person would have been unhappy about that missed goal—Me.

I wonder. Folks all around me are telling me not to worry about tomorrow.

Live in the moment. You only live once. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today.

The same people are telling me not to live in the past, as well. But, it’s back in the past that I have experienced this before. My memories of the past should have aided me in preparing for the future.

We don’t live in the past, but we do learn from it.

We don’t worry about the future, but we do plan for it.

We live today, but not as if it were the only day.

There are times when we will need help, too. There is no shame in missing the goal when wisdom dictates a different course. There is no shame in saying, I need help.

I need help.

Do you know someone who is so focused on an individual goal they’ve set that everything and everybody else is invisible to them? Perhaps, it might even be you.

The job at hand takes so much attention that we forget it’s only a part of what we’ve been called to do.

We need to know when to say when.

Somehow, I can’t help but think about the prophet Elisha as he sat under the tree, his goals unmet, wanting to die. He had faced the prophets of the foreign god and conquered spectacularly. Achieving that goal, he forgot their defeat was only one step in another, greater purpose Then, when faced with reality, he shut down completely. (1 Kings 19:1-8)

God sent an angel to take care of him. The messenger from God fed him, suggesting that the journey was too hard without food and drink. Eating, he was refreshed and continued on his journey.

I’m always amazed at the messengers God sends my way. Some are lovely, some incredibly unkind. Some are gentle, while a number are rough and crude.

Still, accepting their aid, and as I am willing to refocus, I remember that each goal is not independent of the one before or after, but merely different.

And sometimes, when I am hurt and alone, He covers me with His own wings and protects from danger.

Unless, I keep pedaling.

I’m shooting for the mark, but I don’t want to miss a thing He has for me along the way.

There is still joy to be found in the journey.

Maybe, it’s time to say when.

I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;
    with singing lips my mouth will praise you.
On my bed I remember you;
  I think of you through the watches of the night.
Because you are my help,
  I sing in the shadow of your wings.
(Psalms 63:5-7 ~ NIV)

Be strong enough to stand alone, smart enough to know when you need help, and brave enough to ask for it.
(Ziad Abdelnour ~ American investment banker)

Why?

April 18, 2016April 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

She sits and stabs the needle through the material, first down and out of sight, then right back up beside the spot it disappeared. For hours, she does this.

Intricacy. Detail. Painstaking industry. All are parts of what go into the task—the unmitigated drudgery—that is counted cross stitch.

For a few moments tonight, we discussed philosophy. The Lovely Lady doesn’t discuss philosophy—or politics. But tonight, I trapped her. For just a moment or two, I had her talking about why.

It’s a big subject—Why.

I’ve been reading a two-hundred-year-old book. What I mean is, the author penned the words two hundred years ago. The actual volume in my hand is only one century old.

Washington Irving, he of Rip Van Winkle fame, suggests in his Sketch Book (ca. 1819) that writing books is a futile endeavor. The sacrifice of a lifetime for authors, only to slide the fruit of their labors onto an “inch of dusty shelf…and in another age be lost even to remembrance.”

His words started the why bother wheels into motion for me. What is the use of writing? Why would I ever want to publish a book, much less a single essay?

With those heavy thoughts running rampant in my head, I baited the Lovely Lady. She is a fan of mine—perhaps the only one—and has been gently nudging me toward publishing a book of my material.

“I’m rethinking this book idea.”

She listened to my words with disbelief. Then, for a few moments, she did what she doesn’t do; she discussed philosophy with me—the philosophy of useless deeds.

It didn’t take long. After a little give and take, she looked down at her lap and, shaking her handwork in my direction, finished the discussion.

“Why do you think I do this? Some things you do simply for the joy of doing them. If writing doesn’t give you joy, then stop.”

With that, she went back to the tiny stitches again, the needle moving like clockwork, first one way and then the other.

The red-headed lady has a point. But, there is more to it, isn’t there?

I think about the can of worms she has just opened. She sits for hour after hour of what should be her leisure time, and she turns thread and cloth into art. Sometimes, she uses a different needle and turns yarn into blankets—or shawls—or scarves.

Hours, she invests into each item.

She gives them away. Every single one.

Suddenly, in my memory, I am standing in a large plot of plowed dirt watching an old man with a hoe. He is making a small furrow in the dark, damp soil. Reaching into a pocket, he pulls out some tiny black particles, dropping them into the furrow before pulling the dirt right back over them. Tamping them down a little, he smiles and nods as he reaches the end of the row.

Hours, the old man spent in that garden. My father-in-law loved the garden. I guess I should say he loved working in the garden. It was true of him even as a little boy.

He loved thinking about working in the garden. In the middle of the winter, he was poring through seed catalogs, scheming about how he could change the layout next year to include this certain green bean, or that special cabbage type.

As I let the thoughts float in my head, memory mixed with present realities, a truth comes to mind—one I have never considered.

The old man and the Lovely Lady love the same thing. They love planting seeds. Their joy is not in the crop (though they desire that it become reality), but simply in the promise of the seed.

Sowers. That’s what they are. I suppose the bad pun of suggesting the lady is a sew-er would be inexcusable, so we’ll just stick with sower, shall we?

Well, one might say, the old man certainly is that, but how is it true of the Lovely Lady?

It’s easy to see. She spends her hours in preparing the blankets, the scarves, the shawls, and then she buries them in the ground. Well, not literally, but certainly figuratively. She gives them away and her part in their journey is done. What happens next depends on the recipient.

The joy of the sower is in the anticipation. Anticipation of growth, of longevity, of usefulness. He or she is not responsible to ensure these happen, but simply to give them an opportunity.

And with that, I realize that our Creator, benevolent Provider we know Him to be, puts in our hands the things He wishes us to sow.

Music, art, communication, mechanical ability, wealth—all of these and more, He invites us to sow.

We sow, not for the harvest we will reap, but simply for the joy of doing what He has made us to do.

He tells us to work industriously at whatever we put our hand to—not for our own reward or to reap the harvest for ourselves, but in His name and for His glory. (Colossians 3:17)

I can’t skip over the hard truths, along with the pleasant ones, though. The seeds don’t always take root. They often meet misfortunes along the way.

It is hard not to take it personally when that happens.

When you see an item over which you labored long hours selling in a garage sale for a few cents, it’s easy to lose heart. I’ve stood with the Lovely Lady in flea markets, as she sadly fingers the work of others, now languishing in a strange place, awaiting some stranger who will see the beauty and appreciate the love that went into its creation.

I wonder; do you suppose the One who sows His love and grace in our hearts, stands and weeps as He sees how far astray we’ve gone? It is what we are wont to do with His gifts, devaluing them and disregarding the Giver.

Still, He plants and cultivates—and sows again.

I will be a sower. It is my calling.

It is our calling.

It’s a difficult undertaking. We want the compensation. We want the glory. We want the fame.

He calls us to sing songs that never make the top lists—or any list at all. He calls us to invest in others with no chance of a profit for ourselves. He calls us to cook meals that others will eat—and perhaps complain about.

He calls us to write books that will sit on the shelf awaiting that one person who will open the aging tome and be changed forever—even if it doesn’t happen until we’ve been gone a year, or a hundred years.

He calls us to give cups of cool water—even if we’re the ones who are thirsty.

The joy is in doing what He has put in our hands and hearts to do.

The beauty is in giving the gift.

The reward is in obedience.

Seeds are made to be planted.

It’s time to work in the garden.

My point is this: The person who sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and the person who sows generously will also reap generously.
(2 Corinthians 9:6 ~ NET)

Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment, lingering transiently in echo, and then passing away like a thing that was not!
(from The Sketch Book ~ Washington Irving ~ American author ~ 1783-1859)

Still Ringing In My Head

December 18, 2015December 15, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Bells!

I can’t get them out of my head. Mr. Longfellow heard them. I thought I was listening too.

Joy to all people. All is well.

Lesson learned. Can we move on now?
__________

My young friend blew in from the dreary, damp world recently. I asked her cheerfully how her day was going. The anguished look in her eyes was enough to let me know I had touched a sore spot with those few words.

“Oh. Please don’t ask me to answer that question.”

She always smiles. Not that day. It was as if the door was slammed shut on her feelings. I have learned to leave those doors alone.

I apologized and helped her find what she needed. As she headed for the exit, briefly, a window opened up to her emotions and she mentioned how hard Christmas will be this year with her mom gone. Tears glistened in her eyes as she turned to go out the door. Mine too.

The bells hanging on the door knob jangled rudely as the door shut behind her.

Bells! What is it with the bells?

Addison came with her mom the next day. Her mom washes our windows once a month to make sure we can see out and customers can see in. Five years ago, we became good friends, Addison and I. She came every time her mom did and we visited. A lot. She brought me flowers. I gave her candy.

But, little girls grow up and go to school.

“I’m too busy to come most times now. You’ll just have to get used to seeing me once in a while. Okay?”

That day, while her mom washed windows, Addison and I talked. Well, Addison talked. I listened. After awhile, she asked her mom to unlock the car so she could get something to show me.

I wondered what it could be. You already know what it was.

Yep. A bell.

A single little brass bell to hang on her Christmas tree. She shook it proudly. Again and again.

And again.

I like Addison. I was glad when she left with her bell.

I wonder. Did I really learn the lesson of the bells?

What was I missing?

Ah well. It would come to me. Or not.

I sat in my easy chair the same evening and dozed off by the fire. Warm and comfortable, nothing would bother me in my cozy den.

My sleep was filled with the sound of–yeah, you knew it was coming–bells. While I slept, the antiques program the Lovely Lady was watching on the television had ended and a holiday concert by a bell choir began.

I slept as long as I could and finally brought myself to wakefulness, grumpy and almost angry. Stupid bells!

Stupid bells!

I reached for the remote, but something stopped me.

The music was beautiful.

Bell choirs are amazing cooperative efforts in which no one takes a front seat and every single ringer is absolutely essential to the process. From the tiniest of tinkly high notes, all the way down to the huge bass bell, nearly two feet across at the throat of the brass dome, each one plays its part.

At exactly the right time, the different bells sound, manipulated by different people, both male and female. Entrances have to be perfect; cutoffs, precise. No one carries the entire melody; no individual person is relegated to the rhythm part. Every single bell counts.

I overcame my grumpiness and frustration to listen to the astounding music. Beautiful songs.

Old familiar carols.

Bells. Playing old familiar carols. Who knew?

You’re humming the song aren’t you? (I heard the bells on Christmas day, their old familiar carols play…)

I listened to the breathtaking music and my uneasiness grew again. Something was wrong. Unfinished business. No, that wasn’t it. You know how it is when you know you’re missing something, but you can’t quite put your finger on it?

And then I saw her. Playing the bells. There!

No. Not on the television. In my mind.

My Mom. She loved the bells. She wasn’t all that good at them; coming in on the wrong beat here; letting the tone ring in the air too long there. No matter. She loved playing with the bell choir.

I can see her now, sitting with the bells on the table in front of her, watching the music and the director like a hawk ready to attack, counting the beats. She is desperately hoping that she comes in at the right place, but laughing at herself when she doesn’t.

Beautiful bells.

The tears come again as I write. I listened to that bell choir and wiped the tears then too.

I miss my Mom.
__________

And still the bells ring–of peace on earth and good will to man. (Luke 2:14)

Their tones pure and clear, they ring out. Oblivious to our moods, our battles, our disasters, they ring out. Parents die or are lost to us. Children grow up and away from us. Still, the bells ring their message.

Peace on earth. Good will to man.

Joy.

I thought I had learned the lesson.

Perhaps this is why Christmas comes around again every year. Lessons are forgotten. Situations change. Old habits are taken up again.

We need to be reminded.

A Savior came to earth. To save us. To teach us. To change our hearts.

Is there still sadness? Death? Poverty? War? The answer is still yes.

But the day is coming. . . (Isaiah 9:5-6)

I’ll wait. And while I wait?

I’ll keep listening to the bells, Mr. Longfellow.

I’ll keep listening to the bells, Mr. Longfellow. Share on X

He will swallow up death forever! The Sovereign Lord will wipe away all tears.
(Isaiah 25:8a ~ 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.)

The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.
(from The Eve of Christmas ~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson ~ English poet ~ 1809-1892)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

joy

Listening to Linus

Heaven Comes Nearer

Thick and Thin

Good News. Bad News.

Higher than That

Message from a Hypocritical Fake

He Still Hangs the Moon

Saying When

Why?

Still Ringing In My Head