A Wee Little Man Standing Tall

June 4, 2024June 4, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A young friend posted a photo of one of her favorite trees a few weeks ago. It was a lovely sycamore tree near her house. I couldn’t help but respond when I saw it.

Since I moved with the Lovely Lady into her childhood home several years back, we’ve planted more than half a dozen trees on the property. Her dad loved the trees here, having planted many of them himself well more than half a century ago. The only problem is, most of those he planted are no longer living and we felt the need to repopulate the area a bit.

My favorite, by far (well, for right now, anyway), is the sycamore tree we planted 4 years ago in the backyard. The pretty sapling was just over seven feet tall when we dug the hole to set the root ball into on that early fall day. The gorgeous tree now measures about twenty-five feet to the tip of its crown.

I mentioned the tree to my young friend and told her sycamores were also my favorite. Now, she wants me to tell her what my top five favorite trees are. I’m cogitating on that question. Answering will take time.

But, the sycamore…

Do you know the sycamore tree grows to over one hundred feet tall? And, it can live to several hundred years old. Three to four hundred, I’m told.

Four hundred years! The mind boggles. I’m pretty sure this old house will be long gone by then. No. I’ve worked on the house for a few years now. It’ll be gone. I’m sure of it.

But, the tree we planted will still be living. I wish I could say the same about other parts of my legacy. Of course, some things I want you to forget even before I’m gone. But, not all of it.

We all want to be remembered. For the good things.

I’m sorry. This brain of mine—the part of me that is always wandering—seems to be headed to a conversation about a little man. A short man who, dead most of two thousand years, lives on in our stories and songs.

It must be the subject of the sycamore that has done it—made my mind wander here. Of course, the sycamore in this story is a sycamore fig, which is indigenous to the Holy Land. Unrelated to the sycamore (or London Plane) trees we know in the United States, they are more closely related to a mulberry tree.

I don’t know how short Zacchaeus was, just that he wasn’t tall enough to see over the crowd that followed the Teacher. And it was essential to him! He needed to see this Man. So, he climbed into the lower limbs of the sycamore tree, not a great feat even for a short man. The limbs of the sycamore fig tree are close to the ground.

He didn’t need to climb high, just higher than the heads of the crowd. It was enough. Not only could he see the Teacher—the Teacher saw him and invited himself to the little tax collector’s house.

Beyond the words that compelled him to climb back down from the tree and the insistence that Jesus would go to his house, we don’t know if Jesus directed any other words to Zacchaeus at all. None are reported.

That didn’t stop Zacchaeus from repenting of his sins and promising to make restitution—as much as four-fold what he had cheated people out of.

Think of it! There were no words of reproach; no bargaining for his confession. In the presence of the Son of God, Zacchaeus recognized who he had become and turned from his sin and greed.

And, over two thousand years later, we still remember that sycamore tree and the man who saw Jesus and was changed forever. Our kids still sing the song about the wee little man. But, he almost looms tall in our telling of the story.

Salvation comes when we recognize who we are, but more importantly, who He is. In His presence, we cannot remain unchanged.

Somehow, like the little man, I often can’t see the One I claim to follow over the heads of the people who clamor along the way.

It’s time for another long look, isn’t it? And maybe longer than just a look.

The prophet Jeremiah knew that we need to dwell—to settle in—in His presence. He described the people who trust in Him and have made Him their hope. And, he says such people will be like trees planted along the riverbanks, trees that have a ready source of water, enough to stem any extended drought or trial.

I read that passage again as I wrote today, and I laughed as I remembered the trees that grow down by the rivers and creeks near us. Everywhere, along the banks where the Lovely Lady and I wander, we see them—sycamores—growing beside the source of their sustenance, roots going deep.

I almost want to ask the question; Shall We Gather at The River? Maybe, we could stay there awhile with our Teacher.

I’m sure He’ll see us there.

I wonder if He’ll be coming to my house for tea. Maybe, we can sit in the shade of my sycamore tree and talk about that other one and the man who climbed into its branches all those years ago.

What a long shadow he’s cast—the little man and his tree.

Planted by the rivers of water, we’ll leave a legacy.

A long one, I hope. Maybe three or four hundred years.

Or longer.

“But blessed are those who trust in the Lord
    and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.
They are like trees planted along a riverbank,
    with roots that reach deep into the water.
Such trees are not bothered by the heat
    or worried by long months of drought.
Their leaves stay green,
    and they never stop producing fruit.”
(Jeremiah 17: 7-8, NLT)

“A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit.” (Old Greek Proverb)

Not My Tree

June 30, 2017June 30, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Look, Grandpa! The tree’s broken!

The sweet seven-year-old, disheveled blonde hair flying into her eyes, spoke the momentous words without any idea of the turmoil they would bring. Within seconds, she was standing on a stepladder pulling little green fruit from the branches she could reach. I almost didn’t remember to warn her of the impending stomachache. Almost.

I was the one who felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

The tree will die. It is inevitable.

I am sad.

It’s really not my tree. It doesn’t change how I feel about it.

The Lovely Lady and I are returning to her roots. For nearly seventy years, the old house and surrounding property have been part of her family, her parents having moved in the house within a few years of being married.

We’ve spent several months breathing new life into the house, with the property needing as much resuscitation as the building. Days, we’ve spent clearing overgrowth and dead limbs, along with more than a few saplings which had poked their branches up where they weren’t wanted.

But the old apple tree, with its gnarled limbs and bowed trunk—looking for all the world like an ancient fellow bent by years of backbreaking work—the old apple tree was meant to stay forever.

Forty years ago, it was. Four decades back, this summer, I first tasted the fruit from that tree. Sitting at the table, long hair to my shoulders and skinny as one of the branches of the tree, I ate—gobbled down, really—the serving of apple crisp set before me by the Lovely Young Lady’s mother.

Before the meal was done, I asked for another serving, and then another. Slightly tart, yet pleasingly sweet, the crunch of the crumbly crust almost a surprise as one chewed, it was a treat to be savored and assigned to the memory banks for a lifetime.

I expected a repeat performance later this summer when the little green apples—the ones the neighborhood deer herd can’t reach from their hind legs—have turned to shades of yellows and reds.

My granddaughter is right. The tree is broken. An errant wind, whipped up in a rainstorm a week or so ago, has twisted the gnarled, bowed trunk and opened a crack that, as an old friend used to say, you could sling a cat through.

I feel as if an old friend has been told he has mere weeks to live. The thought of losing this old companion is more than I want to contemplate, but still, my mind mulls over the future.

That night, my daughter assures me, the children went to bed with nary a sign of a bellyache. I’m the one who is sick to his stomach.

I suppose it’s laughable. I could understand an uninvolved individual chortling at the idea.

It’s a ratty old tree! Who cares if it dies? Plant another one there. Or—better yet—build a fire circle with a pit. Parties are better than apple crisp any day!

It’s not even my tree.

Well, in a way, I suppose it is. You might call it the family tree.

I know. Puns aren’t universally loved. I love them, though.

You see, the Lovely Lady can’t remember a day when that apple tree wasn’t there. I don’t know if her dad planted it or not, but he certainly tended it for decades, ensuring it would bear fruit and be there for the foreseeable future. In a way, you might say, it was his legacy.

A legacy.

Better than money or belongings, this thing left behind, this family tree, carries with it special powers. I look at it and am carried back forty years to apple crisp and fresh applesauce, straight from the Foley Food Mill. The Lovely Lady goes back another decade and remembers climbing the old tree with her siblings, each in their own quadrant, to pick and eat the not-so-sweet fruit to their heart’s content.

Years of family history have gone by, and the tree that is not mine has seen every minute of those years.

But, this I remember and take heart: The legacy will not die with the old tree.

Memories live in our hearts. Long after that old tree is gone, I will, in my mind, taste the delicious desserts made from its fruit.

The legacy left behind is so much more important than trees that perish in the storm or money that is soon exhausted in the marketplace.

I was grafted into her family tree decades ago; although once a stranger, I was never treated as anything but a son and brother. Her legacy is mine, and vice versa.

Funny. Suddenly, I’m thinking of that other family tree I’ve been grafted into.

You know the one I mean.

We’ve been grafted into God’s tree, to be a part of His family forever. (Romans 11:17)

Wild, unproductive branches, we.

Once, we were.

No longer. With roots that go deep, this tree’s legacy is ours forever.

Even though it was never our tree, to begin with.

What a gift!

How would we not carry on the legacy and share it freely?

Carry on His legacy. Share it freely. Share on X

I’m still sad about the apple tree. Perhaps, I’ll plant another one.

Future generations may need to taste that apple crisp again.

I know I can still taste it.

And, it’s still good.

The great use of life is to spend it for something that will outlast it.
(William James ~ American philosopher ~ 1842-1910)

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
(Psalm 1:3 ~ KJV)

Ripples

November 22, 2016November 22, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We could go out and look at the leaves—or—you could stay there all afternoon and be unhappy.

Maybe it was the fact that we had just turned on the heat for the first time this fall. It could have been. The chill was creeping in from outside.

I’m not fond of the cold. Oh. I may have mentioned that before. I probably have.

I had sat, huddled under a blanket, as I watched the Lovely Lady leave to go grocery shopping that morning. I didn’t offer to accompany her. When she arrived back home an hour later I hadn’t moved.

She knows me well. A few well-placed inquiries, with a hint of concern, led me to the conclusion that I probably should take a drive with her through the countryside.

As I suspected, it was still chilly outside, but the sun was shining brightly. It was, as she had averred, a beautiful day. In the car.

Still. . .

I thought, as we drove out of town on the busy highway, that it didn’t seem the right way to experience God’s creation. In a car along with hundreds of other drivers speeding down the tarmac, the experience left much to be desired.

Then, I remembered the old bridge. The turnoff was only a couple of miles on up the road. She was all for it, even though she hadn’t worn her hiking shoes. We stopped.

There are some who would have you believe the world is a horrible cesspool of a place to live in, God’s creation marred beyond recognition by sin and degradation. They are partly right, but only partly.

On that brilliant afternoon, all I knew was I agreed with the Creator as He viewed the work of His hands in the beginning. (Genesis 1:31)

It was good. It was very good.

The Creator was right. It is good. It is very good. Share on X

We tramped through the brambles and brushed beside the reddening poison ivy, laughing at the annoyance of thin branches that smacked us in our faces as we passed. The sun on our backs felt wonderful and the scent of autumn woods refreshed our spirits as we breathed deep.

We had visited the old steel bridge only once before, but the way was clear and we didn’t mind the walk. As we approached the old structure, it was reassuring to see that it hadn’t altered—an old friend almost, standing firm in spite of change and shifting conditions all around.

But, somehow the river drew us today. We paid our respects to the old bridge and headed to the rock-covered landing up the waterway a few hundred feet.

Glancing down as we neared the water’s edge, I noticed a number of flat stones, worn smooth by years of tumbling against others in the current of the mighty river.

They were there for only one reason, of course. Anyone who has spent any time at all at the river’s edge can tell you what that reason is.

I picked one up and, holding it with the flat side parallel to the water’s surface, spun it toward the other side of the river almost like a frisbee. Just the slightest lift of the leading edge of the flat rock as it left my hand guaranteed that aerodynamics would do the rest.

I wasn’t disappointed. The stone struck the water’s surface and instead of sinking—as we say, like a rock—skipped up to smack the water anew and to skip again, and again, and again.

One stone wasn’t enough. Others followed the first. They weren’t all perfect attempts. On a couple, I didn’t get the front edge up and they quickly sliced into the water, sinking immediately with barely a plop.

Inadvertently, I picked up one or two rocks which weren’t flat. For some reason, I didn’t just drop them to the strand on which we stood, but tossed them into the water. They disappeared with a solid plunk, sinking down to the bottom to be tumbled along on their journey. Perhaps, in another century or two, when they have worn flat, some other old man, or perhaps even a young one, will feel the joy of skipping one of those very rocks across the surface of the same river. Perhaps.

The Lovely Lady took a photo or two of the result of my rock-skipping. I’ve posted one above. It’s a beautiful thing, showing the old bridge, along with the pretty autumn colors.

But the part that catches my eye, again and again, is the series of circular ripples on the surface of the water.

In my memory, I rub my fingers across the smooth stone that made all those ripples. Thin and without sharp edges, it is perfect for slipping across the surface, leaving evidence of its passage, but slowing hardly at all as it spins quickly on to its next place of impact.

I remember, with amusement, the other stones I tossed into the water. They too made ripples. One ring. Plunk.

Do you know what makes some stones suitable for skipping across great expanses of water? They have tumbled and scraped and banged, for ages, against other stones going through the same process.

If I were to carry a huge stone, as big as my head, to the riverside and drop it in, there would be a tremendous splash, but it wouldn’t have as much impact, overall, as one of those small flat stones that spun out of my hand on that recent autumn day.

Oh, it would make an impression, the initial result being a single ring which would multiply and repeat itself into the distance. But, it would still be only one circle, limited in its reach.

I want to shift the world around me. Not in a spectacular way, but enough so that when I’m gone, folks will remember the impact. Not me, but the result.

There are days when I feel old and worn. I’m finally realizing that those days—the ones when I feel especially useless and weak—may be the days when I am finally ready to go spinning across the water. In the hands of the Master Stone-Skipper, the ripples might be felt forever.

It’s possible.

The woman who poured expensive perfume on Jesus’ feet was such a person. The impact of her act is still being felt today, as He promised it would be. (Matthew 26:13)

You know—those plain, smooth stones were completely unimpressive as we walked over them on that riverbank. But, in the right hands, they had a far-reaching effect.

We, who are being worn smooth by life and its hardships may be given the same opportunity one day.

Will today be the day we leave the ripples that will be felt forever? Share on X

I wonder if today will be the day.

I’d like to make a few more ripples.

Success is more dangerous than failure; the ripples break over a wider coastline.
(Graham Greene ~ British novelist ~ 1904-1991)

Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is.
(Ephesians 3:17,18 ~ NLT)

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)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

legacy

A Wee Little Man Standing Tall

Not My Tree

Ripples

Perhaps, More Than a Dream