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)

One Bad Apple

February 29, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been a little under the weather the last few days. That means staying in bed a lot later than normal and sitting around the house the rest of the day.

The natural result is that I have been feeling a bit down this week.

In an effort to budge myself from my easy chair yesterday (and, coincidentally, out of my moodiness), I suggested to the Lovely Lady that I might go write a line or two. Her response surprised me a little.

“Are you going to write about sad stuff and make everybody else feel the same as you’re feeling?”

Misery loves company.

It was a favorite maxim for the red-headed lady who raised me. Chiefly, it was her favorite go-to to remind her children that peer pressure would bring them to an unhappy end. Troublemakers attract troublemakers. Abusers of substances do their best to draw others into their addictions.

Even the Apostle, my namesake, quoted a Greek playwright in 1 Corinthians 15, suggesting peer pressure can be damaging.

“Communion with the bad corrupts good character.” (from Thais, by Menander)

I wonder.

What if I’m the bad? What if the one bad apple that spoils the whole barrel is me?

Perhaps I’m being a bit extreme in applying the truisms. I only started out to remind myself not to make people around me miserable. I never intended to accuse myself of being rotten to the core.

I’ve always thought of myself as the influenced. What if I’m really the influencer?

And yet, today, as I started down to the coffee shop, I couldn’t help myself. I gazed at the tulip tree on the corner, remembering it a mere two days ago. Brilliant in its blazing purple and pink decorations, it was the gleaming harbinger of spring. My heart had almost sung at its appearance just hours before.

Now?

It stands—dejected and brown—savaged by the cold front that howled through the day before yesterday. What kind of song can be heard when the petals hang sagging and rotting on the branches?

I did the only thing that could be done.

I took a photo to share with my friends and acquaintances. Surely, you will want to share in my disappointment.

Misery loves company.

Peer pressure. Do you feel miserable yet?

This afternoon, I walked up to the nearby university to collect the Lovely Lady from work. As we walked back home (along the very same sidewalk near which the tulip tree stands), she pointed out the green and growing flowers along the way. She mentioned the warmer temperature today and we talked about the happy interactions we each had this morning.

That’s odd. I felt joyful, almost grateful, as we neared our home. The bright daffodils in the yard, most of them planted decades ago by a wonderful man who had a big influence in both our lives, finished the job as we wandered up the cul-de-sac.

As it turns out, joy and gratitude love company, too. Just as much as misery does. Maybe more.

Peer pressure.

The daffodils planted by my father-in-law over fifty years ago still have the power to lift the spirit. Especially when viewed in the company of one who knows and loves me.

It works with friends. And, siblings. And, maybe even dogs.

I took the photo of the daffodils because I just had to show you. Fabulous, aren’t they? So much better than misery.

His promises are still sure. Springtime and Harvest still roll around at His behest.

One day, He will wipe away our tears and we’ll live in the light.

Encourage one another.

Peer pressure.

“We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”
(Albert Schweitzer)

“So encourage each other and build each other up, just as you are already doing.”
(1 Thessalonians 5:11, NLT)

Out of Control

February 26, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m not a daredevil. Well—not anymore, I’m not. When I was a kid, I was up for almost any stupidity anyone could suggest.

And yet, when the grandkids arrived one day last week with a slackline to stretch out between two trees in my yard, I had to try it. Had to.

I’m not a young man. I’ve been trying to do the math in my head and as close as I can figure it, I passed two-thirds of a century old sometime in the last week or so. I wasn’t going to let that stop me.

The Lovely Lady was worried about me, assuming I would be falling off the line at some point. She was right to be worried. I did fall off. I was only a foot and a half off the ground, but…well—see the paragraph above about my age.

Still, she wasn’t so worried that she didn’t come out to snap a photo or two of the event. I’m thinking that perhaps she wanted it for a talking point with the grandchildren later on in life.

“You see…this is the moment before your grandpa broke his hip and never walked again. I told him he was too old for that kind of shenanigans.”

I didn’t break my hip, nor did I die. I do have an observation or two about my first attempt at balancing on the slackline.

The first surprise for me was that my legs began to shake almost uncontrollably as I got further away from the anchor point (at the tree) and closer to the untethered center of the line. The shaking was so violent it seemed that it might knock me off the line.

I kept moving my feet and went on a yard or so before losing my balance and dropping to the ground below. As I let the kids take a turn while I recuperated from the initial experience, I asked them about the shaking and how to stop it.

“Oh, you can’t stop it,” they answered. “It just goes away little by little.”

As I climbed on another time or two to embarrass myself further, I realized that the shaking did indeed lessen as I got used to walking on the strap. I won’t say it went away altogether, but at least I didn’t feel like I was going to be dumped onto the ground below by it.

I found with a search online that the shaking is what is called a monosynaptic reflex. The nerves going to my spinal cord register that my legs are not controlled in their movements as they would be on solid ground, so the nervous system moves the leg rapidly in the opposite direction. This direction is quickly reversed again and again, resulting in an uncontrollable shaking that feels more like spasms than anything else.

Here’s the thing: The brain really isn’t involved in this response. One can’t control it by thinking about it, or by trying to move the legs differently. While it’s true that eventually, the body figures out it’s not falling and slows down the reaction itself, for a while (an eternity, it seemed to me) my body was completely out of my control.

I don’t like being out of control. I like to keep a firm grip on how I react to things.

I want to be in charge. And, not only on the slackline.

We all want to believe that we can be the captain of our ship, directing its prow across the waters—choosing the destination and speed at which we travel. It has never been the case, but we like the pretense of being in charge anyway.

I’m reminded of the words the newly risen Savior said to the man whom He called The Rock (no—not that imposter from Hollywood) as they talked on the shore by the sea.

“I tell you the truth, when you were young, you were able to do as you liked; you dressed yourself and went wherever you wanted to go. But when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and others will dress you and take you where you don’t want to go.” (John 21:18, NLT)

We’re told the words were intended to let Peter know how he would die, but they also remind all of us that we are not in control of the things we once imagined we were.

It’s a sobering thought.

But, I learned another thing, there on that slackline the other day. I learned that if I just kept working toward the goal—kept walking toward the other tree the line was tethered to, eventually I reached the point where I was no longer shaking and out of control.

As we move toward solid footing, our body recognizes the familiar sense of safety and the monosynaptic reflex action ceases.

Through.

We go on through. To solid ground.

If it feels to you like the shaking will never stop, don’t lose heart.

One foot ahead of the other, holding on to the safety line, we keep moving to solid ground.

And yes, illness and advancing years can mean the shaking and loss of control will last for what feels like a very long time. And it can be terrifying.

We’re not home yet.

And this rope we’re balancing on here isn’t the end of our journey.

Solid ground is where our hope lies.

Rock solid.

Keep walking. You’re not alone.

The grandkids are coming to visit again tomorrow. I kind of hope they leave that slackline at home this trip.

I do like the solid ground, after all.

“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head —
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”
(from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll)

“He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
    out of the mud and the mire.
He set my feet on solid ground
    and steadied me as I walked along.
He has given me a new song to sing,
    a hymn of praise to our God.”
(Psalm 40: 2-3a, NLT)

Is It Clean Yet?

February 21, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

She left me a note on the kitchen table.

“Turn the oven on to 385 degrees at eleven o’clock. I really want it at 375, but that should get it there. Check the inside thermometer before you put the meatloaf in and adjust accordingly. Thanks! Love you!”

I know how to follow directions. The problem is, when I checked the inside thermometer fifteen minutes after starting it, the temperature was 425 degrees! The setting said 385—I was aiming for 375—but I got 425 instead.

There were no instructions for this!

I turned the oven setting down to 325. In a few more minutes I checked the thermometer again. It said 350.

Eventually, the meatloaf was cooked, but not without 2 smoke detectors going off, first one then the other filling the air with its obnoxious screeching.

She wondered if it was time to buy a new stove. That’s not the way I do things.

I wonder sometimes if she understands me.

I like new things. I do. It’s just that I take it as a personal affront if an appliance won’t fulfill its unspoken promise to function until it’s earned its keep. A stove should last twenty years, not six. That’s my expectation, anyway.

I did some research, finding that we merely needed to replace the temperature sensor in the oven. It was a fifteen-dollar part.

I ordered the part.

After it arrived yesterday, knowing I’d have to get to the back of the oven compartment, I began the repair by removing the door of the oven. Carrying the door into the living room I laid it carefully on the sofa, making an offhand comment about the greasy residue on the front glass.

By the time I made it back to the kitchen, she was laying old towels over the table there, asking me to bring the door back in so she could clean it.

The entire time I worked at replacing the sensor, she cleaned.

Eventually, I needed to slide the stove itself away from the wall to access the wiring under the back panel. As I moved the heavy beast, I noticed the debris around the edges of the flooring where the stove had been sitting. I made the mistake of mentioning it to the Lovely Lady, as she was finishing up on the oven door.

I swept the floor with a broom, thinking it would be good enough. I even picked up the meat fork that had dropped down there a few years ago.

Finishing up the wiring connection (and groaning loudly about the discomfort of squatting there for too long), I closed up the panel on the back. Coming back around to the front, I leaned back into the oven compartment to tighten up the screws that held the part fast to the back wall inside.

When I looked up again, the Lovely Lady was nowhere to be found. I was about to shove the stove back into its space when I realized she was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor I had just swept.

I’m not sure I always understand her.

“No one is ever going to see that. Why are you wasting your time and effort?”

Even as I said the words, I remembered the ladies. Ladies in homes (and sometimes a man) where I had been called to move pianos in years past. For various reasons—perhaps they were moving, or redecoration required a temporary relocation, or I was buying the piano to resell—I often moved pianos for folks over the forty years I was in the music business.

Without fail, when my helpers and I moved the ultra-heavy pieces of furniture away from the wall, the lady of the house would gasp in embarrassment. When something sits in one place for years, dirt and debris tend to build up under and around it.

“No one expects you to clean under your piano,” I would always say, hoping to lessen their shame. It never helped.

Often, they would still be swiping at the back of the piano with a broom as we moved it out the doorway.

All that went through my mind in a flash after the words left my mouth. I shut up; then I went and sat down for a few moments to give her time to finish.

The oven works. For now. The day is coming when it won’t and we’ll pull it out of the little cubicle it’s sitting in to repair it again. Maybe, we’ll have to replace it the next time.

But for now, it works. And, it’s clean inside and out. And underneath it.

It’s clean.

Despite my nonchalance—my carelessness—it’s clean.

Why am I like that? Why do I think it doesn’t matter what kind of crud is there—out of sight? If it looks good, it must be good.

And yet, I hear the voice of The Teacher as he calls the religious leaders of His generation “whitewashed tombs”. (Matthew 23:27)

Clean and beautiful to the eyes of those passing by, but hidden inside, the stink and filth of death. Or maybe, like the kitchen, sparking clean to the eye, but with debris and crud—and a meat fork or two—lurking in the shadows.

He promises to make us clean. All clean. Inside and out.

But we can’t shove the stove back into place before it’s clean under there.

I’ve got to make a repair to the washing machine today, too.

I wonder what we’ll find under there.

“I don’t mind dying; I’d gladly do that. But, not right now. I need to clean the house first.”
(Astrid Lindgren)

Don’t you realize that those who do wrong will not inherit the Kingdom of God? Don’t fool yourselves. . .Some of you were once like that. But you were cleansed; you were made holy; you were made right with God by calling on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6: 9, 11 — NLT)

Conduct Unbecoming

December 21, 2023December 21, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I can’t be the only one who does it. Then again, perhaps I am. I’ve always been a little strange.

Still. I spend at least a few moments every day thinking about where I came from. And, where I’m headed. And sometimes even, where I’ve been along the way.

Sometimes, I get my words mixed up while I think about all these confusing things.

One of my brothers was fond of reminding me (when I was still a youngster, mind you) that we start dying the day we’re born. Just something extra for the weird sibling to chew on, you know?

For some reason, my mind wanders (as it often does), and I hear the words of the Skin Horse as he explains to the Velveteen Rabbit how to become real.

“‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.'”
(from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams Bianco)

It’s just a child’s story, but I remember the thought from many years ago when I first read it. I especially remember those powerful two words, “You become.” It seemed to that much younger (but already strange) me that those two words encapsulated what happens to us along the road of life.

For most of my life, I’ve been becoming.

A long obedience in the same direction is the way Eugene Peterson described it. Well, he borrowed the words from Nietzsche, but the thought was that one should continue as one had begun, headed for the goal.

Step by step, day by day. Becoming.

It doesn’t mean there haven’t been missteps. Nor does it mean that there haven’t been falls along the way. But, again and again, we stand up, shake ourselves off, and head again for the goal.

Becoming.

The disciple who was loved by our Savior, and who later taught so powerfully about love, muddies the waters a bit for us:

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become.” (1 John 3:2a, Good News Translation)

I laugh to myself as I read the words of John again. The uncertainty is not what I want. I’m not even sure I need it.

And, in a way, the uncertainty about what I am becoming is what got me tangled up in this subject in the first place.

As I consider the past (while looking to the future), it seems there is a disconnect of sorts, an interruption in the long obedience in the same direction.

For many years, the becoming was easy, the path ahead clear. A profession that allowed me to minister—to share, to care—was mine for many years. I had grown into it, seeing more clearly than ever as the opportunities and the years unfolded.

Then, a few years ago, my world became smaller. Or so it seemed to me. My business closed and my daily contact with all those folks ended. With COVID and changing circumstances at the university where I had played music with the young folks for years, my practical interaction with performing musicians came to a screeching halt.

And as I contemplated, a surprising thought came to mind:

I’m not becoming. I’m unbecoming!

It is, of course, untrue. That doesn’t stop the wheels from turning.

Did I say my mind wanders? It does.

I’m seeing a white-haired old gentleman, one hand on the scarred-up black steering wheel of the old blue 1967 Dodge van, the other waving in the general direction of a 30-ish young man sitting in the passenger seat as they careen down a dirt road in rural Arkansas. The dust flies behind them.

As they always did when delivering pianos, travel time is spent in discussion. The old man wasn’t happy this day.

“There’s no place for me at our church anymore. I’m thinking about finding a little country church where I can be of some use again.”

The young man, paying more attention to the unattached seat he’s attempting to stay upright in than to the old man, grabs tightly to the door handle and chokes out what he thinks is a wise answer.

“I thought you’d be happy to let younger folks take over and just enjoy the ride. You’ve earned some rest.”

Did I call him an old man? My father-in-law was younger than I am now when he said the words.

And, I answered him back with foolishness. The foolishness of youth.

Unbecoming, did I say it was? It would be easy to sit back and get comfortable with the thought of throwing in the towel. The old man never did, but I might.

But, unbecoming is not fitting or appropriate—unseemly.

No, really. That’s the definition the Oxford Dictionary gives for the word.

I don’t want to be any of those things.

The mind wanders even further back, and I see an old man standing in an ancient Jewish temple. The young couple has brought their tiny baby to be consecrated to God as the Law of Moses decreed.

They brought the child; God brought the old man. He wasn’t a priest—was not a religious official at all. But God had given him something to do before he died.

And, he was doing what God had told him to do. He wasn’t unbecoming at all.

He was becoming. What a moment!

Luke 2 says the Holy Spirit directed him to the temple at the exact time Jesus was brought in. Simeon’s words have always been one of my favorite passages from what we call the Christmas story.

“Now let your servant depart in peace, for I have seen the salvation of the Lord.”

My hair’s not white yet. I can still walk a few miles without faltering and push a lawnmower around the yard with no sign of fainting. I forget names, but I remember faces.

And, God doesn’t throw His servants into the trash heap when He’s done with them.

He just keeps changing us. From glory to glory, we’re told in 2 Corinthians 3:18.

Becoming.

I’m going on.

You’re coming with, aren’t you?

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he really is.”
(1 John 3:2, GNT)

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
(Dylan Thomas – Welsh Poet – 1914-1953)

“Simeon took him in his arms and blessed God, saying,
‘Now, according to your word, Sovereign Lord, permit your servant to depart in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation
that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples:
a light,
for revelation to the Gentiles,
and for glory to your people Israel.'”
(Luke 2:25-32, NET)

Smarter Than the Average Dog

December 19, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Some people think dogs are smarter than humans. I don’t argue with those folks. Their dogs may actually be smarter than they are.

Still, I don’t know. . .

I sat at my desk this afternoon, watching the world outside my window. I like to imagine that I’m being creative at times like this. Reality is probably not as impressive as that.

Still, I saw the little dog run out of the neighbor’s yard and around the end of the gulley. The little fellow headed down the lane toward another neighbor’s house, mostly hidden in the woods.

“Uh-oh. Ollie’s out. I wonder if they know.” I got up from my chair to walk down that direction, but sat down again immediately.

They knew.

The pup’s owner came into view, walking calmly toward the little lane. This guy is always calm. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him ruffled.

Moments later, I saw him coming back toward the end of the gulley, the pup running ahead of him. The dog wasn’t running in a straight line, but then, Ollie never does.

Wait. He wasn’t running in a straight line because he was running in a circle. Right back down the lane where he had been a moment before. His owner simply turned around and walked back there, too.

When this happened another couple of times, I decided to amble down that way and see if there was anything I could do to help.

Well? There wasn’t anything creative happening where I was sitting; I might as well get some sun and fresh air!

Ollie’s other owner came out of the front door as I started down the road. I don’t think Ollie was all that happy to see her. She was calm too, though.

Still, he continued to run. They both called to him, but the little pup had other fish to fry. So to speak.

I walked to the end of the dirt lane and squatted down. Slapping the inside of my leg, I called out. “C’mere, Ollie!”

The curly-haired bundle of energy stopped dead. Then, turning toward me, he ran in a straight line to where I waited, haunches on heels, and stopped right in from of me, letting me grasp his harness.

I turned him over to his owners after petting him an appropriate amount. The leash snapped in place on his harness and it was as if the event had never happened.

“He found the cat feces. They’re scattered all along the lane and he’s fascinated with them.” Ollie’s unflappable owner shook his head, almost in disbelief.

Well? It’s not something a human would do. Why would material like that be so attractive to a dog?

I had a fleeting thought, there in the dirt lane. Why would the little dog come to me and not to his owners? I was just a poser. I wasn’t going to walk him—never going to give him a bath—certainly not going to pay his veterinary bills.

I was only a distraction for a few moments, nothing more.

I’m back at my desk again, looking out over the sunlit landscape. And, something creative may be happening now.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t really have control over my memories, haven’t I? Out of nowhere, things I haven’t thought of for years—decades, even—just pop up, screaming to be noticed again.

Surely there is no connection at all to the episode with Ollie, but in my mind, I’m sitting on a shop stool in a dusty, greasy garage. There is a wood stove, fashioned from a 55-gallon drum near me. The smoke that chokes the air around me is not only from the stove, but also from several of the men in the vicinity who hold lit cigarettes in their hands.

You’ve seen similar scenes—the shop where several men are sitting or standing while one man works, lying on a mechanic’s creeper under an old jalopy, asking for tools to be passed to him occasionally. Not much is being accomplished, but there is lots of talk.

The phone on the wall rings (cell phones wouldn’t appear for twenty more years), and the guy on the creeper pushes out from under the car, complaining as he goes to answer it. He yells for one of the guys standing in the cloud of smoke and pushes the receiver into his hands, telling him it’s his wife.

After talking for a few minutes, the guy hangs the receiver up and, walking back across the garage, shakes his head as he explains his wife has sent the kids over to their grandparents and is making his favorite meal in expectation of a romantic evening at home with him.

The guys laugh a bit and tease him, expecting him to head for the door very soon.

Two hours later, the fellow is still in the shop, drinking coffee and telling jokes with the guys sitting/standing around the stove. While his wife waits at home.

Maybe dogs are smarter than humans. Or, just as smart, anyway.

The fellows in the shop are the posers; the stories and jokes, simply attractive nuisances (not in legal terms, but still. . .) of sorts—a lot like the cat feces in little Ollie’s adventure.

Perhaps, there is a connection between my memory of that shop and Ollie’s amusing attempted breakout to freedom.

Do I need to say the words? To wonder why we follow the posers and sniff the trash along the road when we are meant to be following the God of Creation and eating at His table?

He waits, standing with the door flung open for us. Inside, the table is filled with life-giving and delicious food.

But aimlessly we wander, sniffing the garbage piles and following fakers who have no intention of providing for even the slightest of our needs.

And yet, He awaits—unflappable and infinitely patient. He knows us; knows that we are weak, coming from dust and yet He loved us enough to send His Son to save us from a life of shame and waste.

We say we follow Him.

It’s time to walk away from the garbage and back into His arms.

“It is common for those that have called themselves His servants, after awhile to give Him the slip, and return again to me.”
(from The Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan)

“Your words were found, and I ate them,
    and your words became to me a joy
    and the delight of my heart,
for I am called by your name,
    O Lord, God of hosts.”
(Jeremiah 15:16, ESV)

Only One Candle

December 11, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I never intended to mention light again this soon. If one writes too often about the same subject, folks begin to whisper about obsessions. And, one-track minds.

That’s why I usually ignore little nudges to write about the things I’ve mentioned recently. Readers don’t need much of an excuse to poke each other and say, “I told you so. He’s taken leave of his. . .”

Well, you get the idea. Still, I did go to the Candlelight Service at the local university yesterday. And, the lights on the tree onstage at our local fellowship shorted out this morning. And, it’s Advent.

So, lights it is. Again.

Did I mention the Candlelight Service? I went to hear the brass. And the choir. I wasn’t disappointed.

But, they lit candles first. I watched the students carry their brass poles with the adjustable wicks down the aisles toward the platform which had scores of candles awaiting the flame at the ends of those wicks.

Just so you know, I really did want the brass poles to have a special name so I could impress you with my knowledge of said designation, but I’m informed by reliable sources they’re just called candlelighters.

Imagine my disappointment at learning that the candlelighters carry candlelighters to light the candles.

But, as they walked the long aisles to the front, at least 3 of the young folks had the misfortune to have the flame extinguished from their wicks.

I watched one young man whose lighter was burning healthily until he was halfway to the front, but it suddenly turned to a brightly glowing ember as he walked. The ember dimmed for a few steps, then disappeared into a stream of smoke which quickly thinned to a wisp and then, nothing.

The two young ladies striding down the opposite aisle had a similar experience, each arriving at the front with useless candlelighters in their hands, as well.

Do you suppose the young lady who found herself the only one with a flame took the opportunity to excoriate the others about the pace with which they had walked, causing their flames to blow out? Did she spend the next few minutes reminding them how precious that flame was, and how careless they had been with it?

Perhaps, she just went ahead and lit all the multitude of candles herself. Without any help. Clearly, it was all up to her.

She didn’t.

Stopping at the base of the steps, she motioned all three of them over and had them light the lifeless wicks of their candlelighters from her flame.

And for all the help she offered them, her flame was drawn down not the slightest bit. It blazed and shone as she ascended the steps, ready to light all the waiting candles on their stands.

They also mounted the steps, lending their aid in lighting the forest of candles, making short work of the task.

The candles were all set ablaze to the background of the violins, violas, and cellos. Then I heard the brass music. For over an hour, I reveled in the music of the choirs and even the organ pieces played by the Lovely Lady’s brother. All of it was lovely.

But the lesson of the candlelighters was what I carried from the Cathedral last night. It was a lesson reinforced by the traditional candle-lighting ceremony at the end of the evening.

From that one candlelighter—yes, every flame in the room that night could trace its origin to that single young lady—each person in the seats eventually held high a flaming candle as we sang the sweet words of “Silent Night.”

And, it cost her nothing.

Nothing except kindness. And generosity.

I want to preach. I want to hammer the message home, reminding all of us of those around who have not tended their flames as well, perhaps, as we have.

There would be hypocrisy in my words.

And, dishonesty in the telling.

It is, as I have said before, a season of lights—the time of remembering the coming of the One who is The Light that has, and will, shatter the darkness, sending it scuttling back into the emptiness from which it emerged eons ago.

His Light is ours to share.

It was never ours to hoard.

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness. . .
Take your candle, go light your world.”
(from Go Light Your World by Chris Rice)

“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too.” (Philippians 2:3-4, NLT)

This Little Light of Mine

December 7, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The light was almost blinding. Not like the super bright LED headlights that had been shining in my eyes for the last hundred miles or so. No. This brilliant light simply shone in the profound darkness of the Minnesota plains we were driving through.

For a moment, we could see nothing else but the tree, bare of any leaves, but budding forth with the bright light of thousands of bulbs wrapped around every single limb, from the ground to the sky. It stood on a slight knoll with long wild grass growing beneath it. We saw no house lights—no business sign—and no indication whatsoever of a power source or reason for the tree being there.

It just shone in the darkness.

I’ve thought about it for several days now—this lighted tree. The Lovely Lady and I took a trip from our home in Arkansas up to the big city of Minneapolis last week to listen to the beautiful music of the young voices in the St Olaf choirs.

Brighter lights were shining in the city. They lit up buildings. Some told us when to stop and when to go. Others shouted out messages to attract business.

They had purpose. They incited action.

The tree on the knoll by the highway just screamed, “Look at me!”

We looked and passed on, unchanged.

We’re entering the time of year when we celebrate the coming of the Light, the Son of God. He came to shine that light into the heart of every person who would recognize it.

“The one who is the true light, who gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.“ (John 1:9, NLT)

He came with a purpose. He came to draw all men to His Father.

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

And, then He gave us the same purpose.

“You are the light of the world. . .In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16, NIV)

It is a season of lights. The little town we live in was having its annual Christmas parade the same weekend we were up north, the floats and vehicles all covered with lights. There were lights flung across the street corners and silhouetting the downtown buildings.

There is joy in light.

Our Creator made it so. Our hearts are lifted at the coming of dawn—at the brightness of light in a dark room—at the warmth of candlelight—even at the brilliant displays of lights on houses and trees in this season.

But the emotion fades. And, darkness returns to all of them eventually.

Our world today is full of a different kind of light—stars, we call them. They shine brilliantly, solely to draw our eyes toward themselves—to notice and revere them. Never before have there been so many crying out for us to look and be dazzled as there are right now.

But, they too fade. And, darkness reigns still.

The Light who came for us never fades—never dims. He turns our hearts to the Father of Lights.

Surely the light kindled in our hearts should do the same for those around us—for those who have never truly experienced light.

It won’t be some bulb-adorned tree growing on a grass-covered knoll along the way that is passed by in the night, leaving the traveler unchanged.

With purpose this Light shines, effecting everlasting change, pointing the way to that eternal day that can never be swallowed up in night.

It’s our time to shine.

“The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness
a light has dawned.“
(Isaiah 9:2, NIV)

“Jesus bids us shine with a clear pure light,
like a little candle burning in the night;
in this world of darkness we must shine –
you in your small corner, and I in mine.”
(Jesus Bids Us Shine, song by Susan Warner)

As a Mother Comforts

November 26, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Image by Jeannean Ryman. Used by permission.

“Weatherman says possibility of freezing precipitation tonight.”

The news actually came from a weather app on her smartphone, but I think the writer of the note (my sister) is secretly hopeful the invisible weather forecaster is right.

I’m not. But then, I’ve argued with the lady about various matters for over sixty years. We won’t break off our relationship over this tiny disagreement.

Still—her words had consequences. As I read them, I immediately thought of the cloth covering above my lovely little deck outside the back door. A sail, they call it—but it doesn’t move the deck an inch away from its foundations.

The sail is good for one purpose and one only. It keeps the sun off the heads and out of the faces of the denizens of said deck. For a period of time, it does. As I said, it doesn’t move the deck, while the sun itself runs its circuit daily, moving over and past the point where its rays are blocked.

One purpose. The sail doesn’t keep the rain off the deck; won’t stop the leaves from piling up on the furniture.

And, it certainly won’t hold the weight of any so-called freezing precipitation.

The consequence of my sister’s reminder? I had to loosen the ropes tying up the three corners of the sail and, folding it up (about as well as any of you would fold up a fitted sheet), stowed it in the backyard shed to await a promised spring.

My thoughts were a little sad as I untied the ropes from the eyebolts under the eave of the old house. I was remembering lovely afternoons and evenings spent with those I love. Family. Friends.

Seasons change.

The things that protected us in the bright, blasting heat of the long summer days are no longer protection for us.

We celebrated a family Thanksgiving at our home last week. The house was full and noisy with four generations represented at our table. There was music and a dinner blessing. There was discussion about whether pimiento was a good ingredient to have with celery sticks. There might even have been the haze of smoke from a new turkey recipe gone slightly amiss.

There was joy. And thanks.

And memories.

Their placement wasn’t purposefully planned. The ladies, I mean. We just suggested seats for folks where we thought they would be most comfortable.

But, I looked again today at the photographs of our gathering and the sadness hit anew. One entire side of the main table (the teenagers being allowed a little space to sit at a table of their own) was taken up by four ladies in our family.

Four widows.

I see their faces—the lovely men who once sat beside them at our table—and the memories bring tears. Well—not so much the memories as their absence from us now.

In many ways, they were shade from the hot, blasting sun of life. Brothers are like that. Fathers and grandfathers are too.

Seasons change.

The widows soldier on. I see great strength there. I see the heartache too. They all still grieve in their own ways.

And yet. . .

And yet, there is—still—bright hope for tomorrow.

His promises never dim; they never go amiss. The day is coming when we will be forever in His presence. Together.

But, what do we do with the changing seasons?

Here? Now?

Like the changing weather, our protection today may be gone with tomorrow’s storm.

Seasons change. But our Heavenly Father? He never changes. And, as he always has, like a mother, He will comfort us. (Isaiah 66:13)

I don’t know about your mother, but when my mom used to comfort me, she didn’t do it from across the room. She gathered me into her arms, pulling me onto her ample lap. I was held close. And tight.

You know what ample means, don’t you? It means big enough. And sometimes, more than big enough.

You know who else is big enough? The One who doesn’t change with the seasons. In every part of our lives, He gathers us in, close to His loving heart.

And, He is shade from the burning sun. Protection from the storms. A sure, strong wall of defense from everything that threatens.

He gathers us in, under his ample wings.

And, He holds us there.

Seasons change. They do.

There is nothing here to fear.

Even without a sail.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
(Edith Sitwell, British poet, 1887-1964)

“He will shelter you with his wings;
you will find safety under his wings.
His faithfulness is like a shield or a protective wall.”
(Psalms 91:4, NET)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

life lessons