A Loaf of Bread

June 18, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It hasn’t been a relaxing day. It never is when I get up before seven in the morning. Even less, when I don’t sleep well through the night.

A couple of days ago, the nice lady on the phone told me when I needed to arrive at the medical facility today. The scheduled procedure will hopefully help relieve my confusion about what to do next so I won’t have so much pain when I walk. And, tie my shoes. Or, pick up that piece of ice I dropped in the kitchen.

So, I got up early. It’s not that I wanted to get up early. I just want to get rid of the pain more than I wanted to sleep later today.

I had been warned that it would be noisy inside the MRI machine. They say the sounds are often close to 120 decibels. That’s about as loud as a jet taking off.

Even with the earplugs, it was loud. In the weirdest way. Hums and buzzes and beeps—clanging and whirring and banging. But, it’s not random.

The processes required to produce the images also make the noises. High and low, long and short, they go on for the entire time one is in the tube (or tunnel, however you want to describe it). And, there is rhythm.

I suspect a percussionist might find interest in the sounds. But, I agree with my old friend, who, being told he had an “essential” tremor, uttered the words, “I think I could do without it.”

I could have done without them. The sounds, I mean. And, being in the tiny tunnel.

Still, I survived mostly unscathed. But, feeling overwhelmed, I drove home, opting to forego my stop at the coffee shop.

I eased down into my recliner. And, I just sat. For over an hour. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t watch television. I just sat staring at nothing.

I might still be sitting there if an angel hadn’t offered me some food.

No. Wait. I’m getting ahead of myself. That wasn’t exactly what happened.

What happened was, I got a phone call. From an old friend in my hometown. He had no agenda but just called to talk for a while.

We talked. About people. About tasks still to be finished. About the past (we go back nearly 60 years). Tears. Laughter. Hardships.

Blessings, all.

When our call ended, many long minutes later, the funk in which I had found myself was gone. All because a friend offered me bread to eat.

No. Wait. Where does that bread keep coming from?

Oh. I know.

Elijah. Elijah had a task he needed to accomplish. When it was done, and he was successful, he ran for his life. An angel made him some pita (or something like it) and sent him on to God.

It’s an oversimplification, I know. Still. The man of God defeated all the false prophets of Baal and brought an end to a long drought in the land. Then, he ran for his life and hid.

The angel didn’t come with any intent to fix Elijah. He simply ministered to him where he was. Food and rest.

God would take care of everything else. In a “narrow silence”, a quiet and small voice, He would speak.

But first, the man needed bread.

Isn’t that what we do for each other here?

In times of distress, we feed each other. After sleepless nights, we offer places of rest.

I’m still waiting for the answer to my medical questions.

But, the road I’m following is lined with people—other humans—who care for me, and then send me on, strengthened and rested, to God.

As several of my friends keep reminding me, we’re just walking each other home.

And sometimes, the daily bread He gives us comes straight from the hands (and hearts) of our fellow travelers.

I’ll do my best to share some naan when my turn comes.

“Bread. That this house may never know hunger.”
(from It’s a Wonderful Life)

“But he insisted so strongly that they did go with him and entered his house. He prepared a meal for them, baking bread without yeast, and they ate.” (Genesis 19:3, NIV)

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)

I’m Done With This

May 21, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m so done with this!”

I said the words aloud to the air above my head just a couple of weeks ago. I might have shouted them.

My frustration ran over as I worked in the shop room at home, the place where we ran an internet business for several years after closing our local retail business. Standing there, gazing at the incredible mess, I saw no way to ever have a usable space again.

I meant the words. I was ready to walk away, leaving the mayhem behind forever. Let the kids deal with it after I’m gone.

“So done!”

But, it wasn’t true.

I wasn’t done at all. I hadn’t accomplished anything I had come down here for. Oh, I had moved a few things from one side of the room to another. That stack under the window had started on the desk. Now, it might stay where it was for another couple of years. That would be okay with me!

I usually tell people I love words. I like to play with them, teasing out meanings and quirky uses. But, sometimes the words catch me at my own game.

Done means finished. It implies completion. Somehow though, when I use that phrase, “I’m so done with this,” it means, “I quit!”

“I quit!”

It doesn’t sound nearly as weighty as “I’m so done.” And, it certainly doesn’t imply that I’ve accomplished anything.

You’ll be happy to learn that I’ve worked out a plan. I’m setting a goal, not to tackle the entire space, but to move out at least one item a day until the task is complete.

No one else would know it to look at the room, but I’ve made (with a fair amount of help from the Lovely Lady and others) enough progress to be encouraged when I walk in now.

And, I’m looking forward to the day when I can turn the meaning of those words around and stand in the room saying, “I’m done with this!”

Done!

Finished!

Complete!

I spoke with a young friend today, realizing that she is struggling a bit right now and I said similar words.

“He’s not done with you yet!”

We say that about God sometimes. What we mean by the words is that He isn’t finished with what He’s doing. And, He’s not.

The apostle for whom I was named said similar words over two thousand years ago in his letter to the folks at Philippi.

“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.” (Philippians 1:6, NLT)

We somehow have an image, a dream really, of the process being once and done. Bam! God speaks and we’re a finished product.

That’s not how this life in Him works at all.

Step by step, day by day, with a long obedience in the same direction, we are being changed into the person He intended for us to become.

The phrase that comes so easily to our lips—”He’s not done with me yet.”—covers both meanings. First, He’s not finished with what He’s doing for and in us. And secondly, He will never—NEVER—say, “I’m so done with you!”

“He has said, ‘I will never leave you and I will never abandon you.’“
(Hebrews 13:5b, NET)

He’s going to stick with the project! Yes, it may take longer than we want; the process may be more painstaking than we anticipated. But, He will never quit and walk away from us.

We sat with our old friends around the table last night and I read words (you can read them for yourself down below) from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to them (I know, weird table conversation, huh?) from The Village Blacksmith. They’re good words for us to remember, but I think we may need to amend them a bit.

Mr. Longfellow suggested that each day should see the end of the job we began that morning. I have a feeling we simply need to see forward progress, perhaps a lot—maybe just a tiny step ahead, on the task at hand.

We keep moving toward the goal, toward the prize.

It’s up there—ahead of us.

And, we’re not done yet.

He isn’t either.

Oh. I’ll keep working on the shop room, too. Maybe the kids won’t have to deal with it after all.

“Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.”
(from The Village Blacksmith, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

“Dimidium facti qui coepit habet” (He who begins is half done.)
(from the Roman poet, Horace)

Can That Horse Run Faster?

April 23, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

No, it’s not one of the sayings I learned from the red-headed lady who raised me—she of the thousand-and-one adages. This one, I first heard from that other red-headed woman, the Lovely Lady, who lives at my house still today.

I understand the ladies with whom she does handwork (needlework, knitting, cross stitching, and the like) say it frequently when a project doesn’t turn out as perfectly as they’d like.

The words were spoken the other day as we finished up a job we’d agreed to help with at a relative’s house. We’d cut out the pieces we needed, drilled them, and driven an adequate number of screws to hold each one in place for the foreseeable future. Our relative, a recent widow, was happy with the work while admitting it wasn’t perfect.

“But,” she said, “You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

We all went out to eat a bite of supper before heading back home, the location of the restaurant requiring that we drive back by her house later. As we came up the hill toward the house, I couldn’t help remarking that this drive-by was remarkably like riding by on the back of that galloping horse.

We didn’t notice anything amiss as we sailed past.

Success.

Then, I sat in my chair and moped all evening. The Lovely Lady sat nearby, crocheting a lovely afghan, and looking over her glasses at me thoughtfully. She rarely misses noticing a good mope, that one.

I finally said it.

“It’s not good enough.”

Knowing exactly what I was thinking about, she immediately assured me that I had nothing to criticize myself for. Because that was what I had been doing. Not intentionally, but the result was the same. I was certain I hadn’t done enough.

Thinking she needed some clarification, I replied.

“But, it’s his house.”

There may or may not have been tears in my eyes as I said it. There are as I write this.

Grief is like that. One believes that time has done its work and the memories have become beneficent and pleasant, instead of painful. Then after an afternoon of working in the sun, here is sadness showing its unwelcome countenance once more. The pain is more than only the sore muscles I had anticipated.

Somehow, I feel I owe him more than just “good enough.” His carpentry and finish work was always remarkable—his work ethic, ever a pursuit of excellence. And he achieved it, again and again.

But, she is right. Those were his gifts. Comparisons are not helpful.

Mr. Shakespeare even suggested that comparisons are odorous. That was a century and a half after the writer, John Lydgate, said they were “odyous”. The words don’t mean quite the same thing. But, the result is inevitable. They stink.

It stinks for us to compare ourselves against others.

The Apostle Paul gave us the standard (which we ignore, it seems, time after time).

“Whatever work you do, do it with all your heart. Do it for the Lord and not for men.” (Colossians 3:23, NLV)

The folks in the Arts and Crafts movement in the twentieth century had a goal to do things better. Gustav Stickley, one of its major influences, stamped a phrase on all his pieces to remind folks of that.

“Als Ik Kan,” was what they said. The Flemish words for “all I can.” The words communicated that the maker had done the very best he/she could do.

The Lovely Lady reminded me on that recent day that we had done the best we were capable of.

And, it’s enough.

We walk in the light our Creator has given us in which to walk.

We reflect that light to the world around us.

Some of us will shine with a brilliance that dazzles. Overwhelming. Sensational.

Others of us will manage merely the flicker of a candle. Barely enough to see the pathway ahead.

Either way, it’s His light. His.

I promise to do all I can.

For Him. After all, it is His house we’re working on.

But, you may just want to keep that horse at a gallop for the time being.

“Everything comes from Him. His power keeps all things together. All things are made for Him. May He be honored forever. Let it be so.”
(Romans 11:36, NLV)

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
(Theodore Roosevelt)

Contrariwise

April 15, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I like it that you are sometimes a contrarian—me too!”

One of my favorite readers (anyone who reads my words is a favorite, you know) made the comment on a recent post. I’m still trying to work out if her statement makes me happy or sad.

My first inclination was to refute her statement outright, but as anyone could reason out for themselves, that would effectively prove the words instead, so I fought off that impulse and kept quiet.

I wonder if there is anything harder than keeping quiet when one feels a need to clear the air. Well—maybe not so much a need as a drive.

We want to be accepted.

In whatever group we function, we want to be accepted. I know I do. And, to a great extent, I craft my conversations and writing to fit the norm in my tribe, my support group. Seldom (at least in recent years) do I venture out and express a contrarian opinion. Because I want to be accepted.

We want our opinions to be agreed with. We want to be respected when we offer a viewpoint.

We have a maxim in the English language—vaguely humorous, implicitly serious—that has been used since the 1400s to express these feelings.

Love me, love my dog.

The logic extends to all I care for.

Love me, love my truck.

Love me, love my wife.

Love me, love my writing.

Love me, love my music.

The reader will have his or her own objects or activities to insert. Regardless of who we are, we have a need, a drive, to be accepted or agreed with.

We choose our companions—our tribe—accordingly.

And, instead of being contrarian to our tribe, we are typically contrarian to the rest of the world. Strangely enough, we argue against the current trend in our world for what we call “cancel culture”, yet we do exactly that.

As I age, I have attempted, without complete success, to become less combative. I believe there has been improvement, but still, I am not satisfied.

At least, I wouldn’t start an argument with a fencepost, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to accuse. And yet, just last week, I was shown just how apt I am still to argue and defend myself at the drop of a hat.

The Lord allowed me to post a silly photo and accompanying text to a group online that I believed was part of my tribe. They describe themselves as dull men. I thought the description might apply to me, too.

I said the Lord allowed me to do all this. I believe we are allowed to experience things that show us our need for repentance and redemption from sinful patterns. (See quote from James 1, below.)

The silly post I made in the group was quite popular, topping out at 36,000 responses in a week. It was the worst thing to happen to me in a while.

Really. The worst thing.

These folks are not really my tribe. While most responses were complimentary, many others were not. They disparaged my knowledge (or lack thereof) of tree nomenclature and my usage of the English language. They even picked out an unrelated item in the photo and railed on that. Over and over, the criticism rolled in.

Initially, I answered every one of them. I was kind and patient at first, then abrasive and cynical as the comments continued.

I knew something was wrong. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was. And then it hit me. These folks—while not my tribe—are still the neighbors I am called to love, to respect, to care for. They’re not my neighbors because they agree with me; they’re my neighbors because I’ve been given the opportunity to interact with them.

I quit replying and began to let the criticism roll off without comment. I even stopped reading comments to ensure I would not respond in kind.

I may be dull, but I can learn.

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
(Romans 12:18)

Tweedledee and Tweedledum (another quote below) in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland fought each other over a broken rattle. A broken rattle!

Somehow, the things we find to argue about—on the Internet and in person—seem to me to be almost as important as that rattle.

I told you my friend was wrong when she wrote that I was “sometimes a contrarian”. I meant she was wrong that it was only sometimes.

I’d like it to be never. I want to speak the truth in love. I want it never to be argumentative.

I may never achieve it.

But, I’d like to die trying.

“Convince a man against his will,
He’s of the same opinion still.”
(Mary Wollstonecraft, in 1792)

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”
(James 1:2-4, NIV)

“‘Contrariwise,’ continued Tweedledee, ‘if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.’”
(from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll)

Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted

March 27, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“How did you get close enough to take this picture?”

The question appeared last night below a photo of an old abandoned bridge I posted in an online group to which I belong. We all love old bridges and share photos and stories with each other.

I was confused.

I’m still not completely sure I understand the question. But, I think I might.

In the group, we’re encouraged not to trespass on private property. It’s also understood that we don’t ignore warning signs about dangerous structures. And, we shouldn’t breach fences or locked gates.

I had clambered through a couple of steel barriers at the end of this particular bridge to walk across. Could that be what the questioner was referring to?

Am I a lawbreaker?

I remember the conversation with the Lovely Lady as we had approached the old steel structure on that day and saw the bars across the lane. I was certain of my legal standing.

“Those are just there to keep vehicles off the bridge. They’re not for pedestrians.”

I said I was certain of the legality of my actions.

But still, I wonder.

Less than an hour later, a few miles away, I climbed to the top of a railroad embankment near an old trestle. Nearing the top, I saw the sign.

“Private Property,” it said. “Keep off the tracks.”

I stood near the sign, leaning over as close as I could get to the tracks to acquire my photo. My arm and upper body stretched well past the sign.

But, I didn’t set a foot on that track!

I kept the letter of the law. I did. But, last night I read a news story about a man and his companion who didn’t a few years ago. On that same trestle, one man died and the other was seriously injured as they walked the tracks.

The trains frequently travel over 50 miles per hour across the trestle there. It’s impossible to stop a train moving at that rate of speed—and they’d try—even if it was just for someone’s head or hand stretched out over the edge of the tracks.

Why is it, when I looked at that sign as I climbed the steep embankment, all I could think about was how ridiculous it was that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do? All I desired was to get a good photo across the trestle. That’s it.

But, that stupid sign!

So, obeying the letter of the law, I pushed the envelope, leaning over as far as possible.

But, the spirit of the law—what I couldn’t see in that moment—the spirit of the law was only for my good. To keep me from injury. Or even death.

I am a lawbreaker. I want what I want. And, I’ll stretch across the boundaries as far as necessary to get what I desire.

Across the spirit of the law.

I am a lawbreaker.

I can’t help but remember that this is the week we consider (more than any other time) the coming of a Savior. He is the one who took on Himself the penalty of my lawbreaking.

He took away the penalty for all of us lawbreakers.

He writes on our hearts what God requires. No longer will we look at that stupid sign, at the written rules, and wish we could stand in the path of destruction; we now can understand His heart, His love, and His purposes.

Lawbreakers?

Yes—every one of us. Every one. (see Romans 3:23)

But, He has put eternity in our hearts. Not rules. Not words. (see Romans 3:24!)

The events we commemorate this week make it possible for lawbreakers to become His heirs, His family, instead of His enemies.

“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.”
(John 1:12, NLT)

It may take me a while to work out the boundaries thing. There may be more bridges crossed before that happens.

Photos may follow.

I hope no one will be hurt in the process.

But, I think I’ll take some time this week to consider the Savior and His astounding gift of grace.

At least it’ll keep me off the railroad tracks.

“There is no man so good, who, were he to submit all his thoughts and actions to the laws, would not deserve hanging ten times in his life.”
(Michel de Montaigne)

“You show that you are a letter from Christ…written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts.”
(2 Corinthians 3:3, NIV)

Learning a New Language

March 14, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The visitor was worried that we might not find enough to talk about. My son, who knows me well, reassured them.

“Oh, you won’t need to worry about that. My dad always has things to talk about. It won’t be quiet at the table.”

I didn’t hear the conversation, but I learned of it later. With a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he related the words he had said.

I’m not sure whether I should be proud or embarrassed. Is he saying I’m a good conversationalist? Or is it just that I talk too much?

I didn’t ask him.

Recently I saw a quote, attributed to an obscure person I’ve been unable to pin down in my searches, that caught my attention. Actually, it grabbed my heart (and, to be honest, my guilty conscience).

“So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me, because I, too, am fluent in silence.”
(R. Arnold)

I guess it’s appropriate that this R. Arnold character can’t be found. It reinforces the veracity of the words—at least, to me it does.

No biography. No social footprint. No online following.

Just fluency in a language I don’t understand.

I could never make his claim. I don’t understand the inflections, the accents, the syllables, of silence. Because I fill the air with words. Thousands of them, perhaps, in the course of a day.

I’m less proud of my son’s words than I was when I heard them.

I want to be a person who can sit in silence with a friend who is hurting.

I don’t want to fill the air with empty noise. I don’t want to see friends’ eyes glaze over as I tell another story they’ve heard before—or worse—one they have no interest in, whatsoever.

And yet, the Lovely Lady and I often sit in silence, sometimes for hours at a time. The old preacher who married us would have laughed to see it.

He thought he could tell who the old married couples were in any setting. They were the ones who had nothing to say to each other. In a restaurant, he loved watching the young couples excitedly yapping to each other about every detail of their day—of every new sensation they had discovered—reporting every word their friends had said in an embarrassing situation.

Then, almost gleefully, he would point out the couple nearby who sat silently, drinking their water and eating their burgers.

“They’ve run out of things to say to each other!”

And often, he might be right. But, not always.

Not always.

Silence can bring us closer to each other than conversation. There is a bond in quietness.

As I write this, I’m sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by people. People talking. They are conversations about faith—about children’s activities—about professional matters.

There is nothing wrong with communication using words.

But, silence…

Silence is a language in itself, one learned by long practice; a language mastered by the heart and not the tongue.

I sit quietly (for once) and realize that I want to learn this language.

Perhaps, the dinner table is not the time to practice my mastery of it. But, I’m going to work on that, too. Others might want to (as the red-headed lady who raised me would have phrased it) get a word in edge-wise.

Mr. Carlyle was right in his assessment:

“Speech is of time; silence is of eternity.”
(from Sartor Resartus, by Thomas Carlyle)

It’s time to get started on eternity.

Silence, they say, is golden.

I wonder if there’s a Babbel course to help me learn faster.

“Here lies as silent clay Miss Arabella Young,
Who on the 21st of May 1771
First began to hold her tongue.”
(Epitaph on a grave marker in Hatfield, Massachusets)

“The words of the reckless pierce like swords,
but the tongue of the wise brings healing.”
(Proverbs 12:18, NIV)

Clattery Joy On The Journey

March 12, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I saw a beautiful thing this morning.

My friends—those who know me well—would say, “Of course you did! It’s Spring.”

They wouldn’t be wrong. I saw daffodils—and bluets—and crabapple trees—and quince bushes—and…the list could go on forever. Spring is beautiful; not only for what I see, but for what it represents.

New life. The awakening of things that have slept—almost the sleep of death—for all the months of a cold, dark winter.

I saw those, and felt them, on my walk this morning. But, that’s not the beautiful thing I saw.

The wind is blustery today—almost a gale at times—blasting from the south. At my back as I walked toward home, it picked up many things, traversing the schoolyard I was passing. The thing I thought beautiful caught my attention, not only by the sight of it, but because I heard it first.

Paketa, pak, pak, paketa, paketa, pak.

The clattery sound of aluminum on pavement went on and on.

A beer can, thrown from a passing car (or by a wandering pedestrian), had been rescued from its dirty, wet place of inactivity beside the sidewalk, perhaps even saved from the ignominious fate of being chopped up by a passing lawn mower as it made its rounds.

Freedom! Tumbled over and over by the fickle wind, the used-up can traveled a block or more up the road before I lost sight of it. For all I know, it’s still going.

Silently, I cheered it on. But, even before the can left my sight, my mind was freed, just like that aluminum container, from the fog that had overtaken it as I sat in the little coffee shop I haunt with some frequency.

The first thing I thought about was an old game we used to play, much like hide-and-seek, called Kick the Can. I don’t suppose many children nowadays play it.

In the game, as I remember it, one kid was IT, having to find the others who hid. But, when he espied them, he would have to run as fast as he could, attempting to beat them to the can, there to count them out.

“One, two, three, on David!”

But, if David, who was hiding, knew he had been sighted, he could run faster and, kicking the can as hard as possible, gain a new lease on life, taking off to hide in the landscape once more.

I use the pronoun, he, because in my personal experience, all the players were boys. As it happens, the Lovely Lady to whom I am married played the game a time or two in her childhood, too. Right in the neighborhood where we live today.

I look out my window as I type, the house across the street filling my vision. The Lovely Lady tells of the Wards, an older couple who lived there in those days.

Anyone can tell you the game needs to be played at twilight, and just past, as darkness settles over the landscape. But somehow, older people in those days tended to begin to think about heading to bed at dark, especially in the summertime, when the daylight doesn’t fade until nearly nine P.M.

The constant clatter of the can rolling down the street was annoying, but as the evening went on, the children would sometimes take advantage of the darkness to aim their kicks right at the garage door of the Ward’s house.

With some regularity, especially after the can had hit the metal door a time or two, old Mr. Ward would walk out the front door and, without a word, pick up the can, carrying it back into the house with him.

The kids would go home, disappointed, but kind of proud of themselves.

As I walked this morning, the smile had already reached my face before the little beer can rolled out of sight. I could still hear it (and that one in my mind), rolling on the pavement.

Paketa, paketa, pak, pak.

Did I really say the sight (and sound) of that old beer can scooting along the street was beautiful?

I did, didn’t I?

Somehow, it must be what it meant to me, much like the flowers that are awakening from their long winter’s sleep—almost the sleep of death, I think I described it—to new life, rather than just a beautiful sight. It wasn’t that beautiful to look at.

But, my mind didn’t only slip to the Lovely Lady’s old memory of summertime playtime as I considered.

I can’t avoid thoughts of new life. Life from death. The parallel is obvious to me.

The can was finished—no purpose and no intrinsic beauty.

Nowhere to go ever again. Ever.

As it tumbled up the street, it wasn’t just lively. It was exuberant!

Loud, even.

Well? The Teacher, soon to be Savior, did once tell the folks that the rocks would cry out in worship.

Aluminum’s not all that different, as far as inanimate objects go.

Maybe it’s my turn. And yours.

If clattery is the best we can manage, it’ll do just fine.

Joyful noise.

“God made us for joy. God is joy, and the joy of living reflects the original joy that God felt in creating us.”
(G K Chesterton)

“He jumped up, stood on his feet, and began to walk! Then, walking, leaping, and praising God, he went into the Temple with them.”
(Acts 3:8, NLT)

Home Again

March 7, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was another lovely Old Friends Evening, like countless others we’ve enjoyed over the years. The hosting couple (us, this time) had prepared a meat dish (I think, in other circles, known as an entree) for dinner and others had filled in with salads, veggies, and dessert.

We had thoroughly enjoyed the dinner and, deciding against the customary dominoes and other entertainments, settled in the living room simply to talk. After nearly fifty years of friendship, you’d think we would have run out of subject matter, but there is rarely a moment of silence unless to pause in empathy for a loss or hardship of someone in the group, or indeed, any of our acquaintances.

I had described one of my honey-do items which couldn’t be put off any longer, the mention of which must have triggered a memory in his mind, when one friend asked suddenly if I had ever finished my deck. I laughed and told him it had been completed last summer.

Then I wondered; haven’t I shown the deck to these dear friends already? Well, we would remedy that without delay.

We—all eight of us—trooped to the back door to walk out on the structure. It was dark outside, so I flipped on the outside light to be sure none of us tripped going out. (We are OLD friends, you know.)

On the ground in front of the door, illuminated by the intense light, stood a rather large (and confused) opossum. It was evident to me that the creature had just emerged from under the deck we were all intending to examine shortly. As I pushed open the door, the timid animal spun and rushed back into the sanctuary of the low structure.

We all laughed and stepped out onto the deck, our friends all complimenting us on the welcoming outdoor space that had been created in that previously vacant corner of the building. Still, I could see some of them looking around as if fearful the opossum might make another appearance at any moment.

We went back inside.

Then again last night, visitors to our home were on that deck enjoying a warming fire in the stainless steel firepit and roasting marshmallows over the lovely flame. These guests live out on a mountainside, accustomed to wildlife dwelling in the woods that surround them. They weren’t phased by the thought of an opossum under their feet, so the evening passed in laughter and joyful conversation around the blazing logs.

But, these visitors had been with me when the deck was being built, as well. Before that, they had helped to deconstruct the neighbor’s old deck from which the lumber would be repurposed for ours. They had even abetted me in piling up that old lumber into the massive stack at the back of my yard that awaited whatever impetus it would take to move forward on the project of building our deck.

Months later, when I decided I could delay no longer, those visitors came back and helped me arrange that lumber into a deck once more, using nails and screws to hold it together. In the process, we removed the “structure” of the stack, strangely enough, disturbing a young opossum sheltering underneath it.

One can’t help but wonder…It could be…Nobody can prove otherwise, so I’m going to assume it is.

The same opossum we disturbed from its repose under the stack of lumber last summer is now living under the reconfigured stack—my deck.

Can’t you just see it?

The young creature, having wandered—homeless—for a few months, happens upon the newly built deck next to the house. Approaching it, the odor is unmistakable.

This is my home! The same home that was destroyed by those giants making such a ruckus and commotion.

And, then it pokes its long nose underneath.

But, it’s better! Look at all these rooms! And the space! With carpet on the floor even! Not even any weeds to poke me while I sleep! I’m home!

Home again.

You laugh, but sometimes reality is stranger than made-up stories. We all look for the familiar, even in strange surroundings.

Earlier this week, I listened as a friend explained why he attended the church fellowship we’re members of. He spoke of hearing the Lovely Lady play the flute, along with another musician, during an early worship service he and his wife attended. His memory went back to family members who had played those same instruments in the past and, leaning over to his wife, he said, “I’m home.”

The Psalmist, David, depressed as he wandered far from his home and the comfort of God’s people, reminded us that we may sometimes have the opposite experience. He longed for the familiar and the home he knew and yet, he was certain—absolutely convinced—that God was with him, even as he hid from those who would be happy to kill him.

“By day the Lord decrees his loyal love,
and by night he gives me a song,
a prayer to the God of my life.”
(Psalm 42:8, NET)

A few years ago, as the Lovely Lady and I left behind the business we had invested ourselves in and the house we had labored to make into a lovely, welcoming home, it felt a lot like that. Leaving home, unhappy at being uprooted from the comfortable, the familiar.

Funny thing. Nearly every day now, years past that unhappy time, I walk into the neighborhood and the house in which we live and I think (sometimes saying out loud), “What a lovely place we live in!”

I’m not sure the opossum gets to stay where he is. We may need to find him a new home soon. Time will tell.

But, that’s true for us, too. We’re just here temporarily.

Soon, we’ll be going home.

Really. Home.

Something like what we have here. Only better. A lot better.

I’m pretty sure we’ll be more comfortable there.

“Abraham was confidently looking forward to a city with eternal foundations, a city designed and built by God.“
(Hebrews 11:10, NLT)

“I read within a poet’s book
A word that starred the page:
‘Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage! ‘

Yes, that is true; and something more
You’ll find, where’er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.”
(A Home Song by Henry Van Dyke)

Entertainment Value

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

“You’re not boring; you’re entertaining.”

I apologized to our teenage guest at the end of our visit. Even with those twinkling eyes smiling at me, the reply I got was a little unexpected.

Surrounded by aging adults, the youngster had endured the dinner with grace. And yet, the discussion of hospital visits and doctor’s appointments, along with a drawn out semi-argument about the location of long-defunct grocery stores and ancient history had to have been wearing to a member of this generation steeped in technology and media connectivity.

I will admit the high-schooler’s reaction to finding out that the old Piggly-Wiggly grocery store in our town had morphed into a current-day funeral home was delightful. I’ve always found it amusing, to say the least, and was happy to have that opinion shared by one so young.

The idea of a Piggly-Wiggly funeral home does set off the giggle reflex, doesn’t it?

I’m still wondering about the entertainment value of a group of old people sitting around a dinner table, though.

Perhaps, even more than that, I’m wondering if it’s important for us to be aware of how attractive (or, entertaining) we are to folks who are watching.

I’ve been in church all of my life. I’ve listened to thousands of sermons. When I was a kid, there were three to listen to every Sunday. And, one on Wednesday.

I’ve heard my share of boring preachers. Some of them would use the scripture that Paul the Apostle wrote about folks with “itching ears” as a rationalization for the dryness of the message.

“For a time is coming when people will no longer listen to sound and wholesome teaching. They will follow their own desires and will look for teachers who will tell them whatever their itching ears want to hear.“
(2 Timothy 4:3, NLT)

Except, that verse has nothing to do with instructing people to make their conversation (or sermon) dry and boring to avoid error. It’s talking about people who insist that their teachers and pastors teach them the things they want to hear. They want to hear their own opinions coming from the mouths of the people to whom they listen.

Sounds familiar, even in this age, doesn’t it?

It can apply to those who move to a new church every time a pastor expresses a thought they don’t agree with. Or, it can pertain to college students who protest against speakers they think they detest. It’s a common disease among humankind.

But if we insist our teachers teach with dry, lifeless words, we’ll lose our audience. Either they won’t come to our next dinner (or church service), or they’ll zone out while we speak.

Or, like that fellow Eutychus in the Bible, they may simply fall asleep. (Acts 20:7-12)

After supper, the Apostle (who may actually have believed in dry, boring talks) decided that since it was his last night in town, he’d preach a little longer sermon. Past midnight, he droned on!

Eutychus, poor boy, fell asleep long enough to be included in the text we still read today. While he napped, he slid off his window seat, falling to his death on the ground, three stories below.

Paul, hurrying down with the crowd, lifted him up, telling them the boy wasn’t dead, and they went back upstairs where, of all things, Paul continued to talk until the sun came up in the morning!

I like to imagine that, after the intermission, the folks there listened more closely. Whether the Apostle’s delivery was more lively and engaging, I don’t know. But, they were motivated to listen!

Talk about entertaining!

A boy had been brought back to life! Besides the joy and relief, it would be a living reminder to stay alert, one would think.

Clearly, the lines above about the Apostle Paul’s teaching were written a little tongue-in-cheek. We really don’t know if he was a boring speaker or an entertaining one.

Still, even my old Bible professor friend, the esteemed Dr Andrew Bowling, used to say to his students, “If you talk for half an hour and haven’t hit oil, quit boring.”

I may take his advice in another line or two.

Entertaining is better than boring, especially if people are paying attention to what we have to say. As long as what we’re saying is not just tickling their itchy ears.

And, if it keeps them awake.

“Just as it is written and forever remains written, ‘How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news of good things!’”
(Romans 10:15, AMP)

“Tell the stories! Use words that are accurate and attractive. Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm. Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone. Tell the stories!”
(from The Storyteller, by Paul Phillips)

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Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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