There Was Even a Snake in the Garden

June 28, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was an almost perfect afternoon. Almost.

We had wandered, the Lovely Lady and I, along the trail, exclaiming about this rock formation and those beautiful wildflowers as we went. Everything was perfect—the sunny but cool weather, the scenery—even the best hiking companion I could ask for.

It couldn’t have been any better. And then, we headed up the hill along the rushing creek and the falls came into sight. It could be better.

Above those falls were more falls, with water tumbling from the higher rocks down into a pool shaped by years of the descending cascade. We leaned against the boulders and felt the spray hitting our faces.

Perfection. What beauty!

Later, as we trekked back down the hill, a side path diverged near the creek again and we followed along beside rapids rushing over a huge, barely submerged rock that was forty or fifty feet long. The sound of the water was enchanting as we stepped down the natural limestone staircase to the water’s edge, sitting down just above the flow to rest. The hypnotic sound of tumbling water and songbirds surrounded us in the woods.

Cares were washed away with the rushing water; troubles nearly forgotten and stresses began fading. It was as if the world had disappeared, and paradise had taken its place.

It almost sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? Perhaps, it was.

“What’s that awful stench?”

The words grated, ripping away the mirage of paradise, quickly returning us to the world we thought had been left behind. There was a definite odor lurking in the atmosphere around us. It smelled a bit like a sewer, or perhaps, rotten food.

I sat where I was, hoping the euphoria from the previous few moments might return. It didn’t. The moment was gone, and my mind had no intention of regaining the peace it had known for that short time.

After a few more minutes, we stood and, climbing the limestone steps, headed on down the trail. The folks who maintain the nature park had painstakingly installed markers along the way, labeling trees and natural habitat, describing the history of the place, and we took the time to read most of them. One stood out, as we headed back toward our vehicle and the world of reality beyond this oasis.

“Sulfur water. When the flow of the creek diminishes, one may smell a slight smell like rotten eggs, which comes from the natural spring that also feeds the creek from underneath the limestone and shale formations.”

It was the answer to the question asked as we sat along the water’s edge, lost in the beauty around us. The intruding stench was merely sulfur in the rushing water, itself a part of the natural environment.

If one explores the online comments about the nature park we were in that day, they will find a number of reviewers who dwell on the odor, as if it were one of the dominant features of the place.

It’s not.

The overwhelming beauty, the marvel of a Creator’s hand, the peaceful oasis mere moments away from one of the fastest-growing urban areas in the United States—those are the dominant features of the place. The smell is nothing more than an appendix, a single imperfection on the periphery of a stunning object of art.

And yet, it is what many choose to remember—and proclaim publicly—as the major attribute of the entire experience.

Why is that?

Why do we choose to discount the overwhelming beauty of life as we focus and amplify the negative, insignificant as it may be? We do it with places and things, forgetting the joy of visiting and touching and holding as we recall the times we were disappointed by them.

We do it with the people in our lives, as well. A lifetime of love and service may be wiped away by one single action they have taken or a word they have spoken, as we follow the sad and timeworn practice of the world, canceling them without an iota of grace or forgiveness.

People, broken and flawed just as we ourselves are, tossed on the burn pile awaiting their just reward. All because we can’t see past the fault to recognize the beauty and the need.

You know there was a snake in the first garden, don’t you?

The serpent was created by God, too.

Oh, I’m not going to argue any kind of doctrine about the devil here; I have no dogma to impress upon you. Many before me have already done that. It’s not my intent to convince you one way or another.

What I do know is that there was a fabulous garden, gifted by the Creator to His creatures, a place for them to explore and exclaim over, and to enjoy forever. Compared to Eden, the nature park the Lovely Lady and I visited the other day was a desert wasteland.

And yet, the pair in the Garden of Eden focused their full attention on the snake. All of God’s creation surrounded them, and they listened to the hissing snake blithering on about the one tree that wasn’t theirs to partake of.

We know how that story turned out, don’t we?

There are still snakes, and stenches, and steep climbs, and wide ravines here. We can focus on them if we want.

We can.

But look around at the glorious world He has given us to walk through! And the lovely humans He has given us for companions along the road!

The Teacher said the words, not to draw our attention to the negative, but to lift our eyes to the joy and the spectacular opportunities He puts before us:

In this world you will have troubles. But be full of joy and great gladness! I have overcome the world! (John 16:33 ~ my paraphrase)

We travel this foreign land beset with sorrows, but not overwhelmed by them. We are battered by fears, but they have no power to knock us to the ground.

Our Creator gives us songs in the darkest night. He provides light for the path ahead and good company to cheer the heart.

Our old friend, the Apostle, reminds us to keep things in perspective as he draws a word picture of a scale, each side of the balance beam bearing a bowl filled with items. One side is incredibly light, the other overwhelmingly heavy.

For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory… (2 Corinthians 4:17 ~ NKJV)

Not that we ignore the suffering of those around us—not that we bottle up the feelings and reactions we ourselves have when those sufferings visit us. We are to bear each other’s burdens, to weep with those who weep. But we don’t let the things that trouble us control who we are and how we live.

Strength, and peace, and joy are ours. For life. While we are in this world.

He’s given us incredible blessings—unbelievable beauty—as we travel His way. Those are what He intends us to be attentive to.

I do have to wonder, though. His Word tells us of a river that runs through that new garden He’s preparing for us. Will there be sulfur water flowing into it, as well?

If there is, who would notice it anyway?

There are far, far better things that lie ahead than any we leave behind. (C.S. Lewis)

And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise. (Philippians 4:8 ~ NLT)

Joy Over One

June 22, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I think I saved a life last night. It may not seem like all that much when it’s written down in black and white, but I felt pretty good about it at the time.

Now that I think about it, it seemed like the night outside was a little brighter. Just a tiny bit.

Perhaps, I should just tell the story before I break my arm patting myself on the back. The red-headed lady who raised me used to worry about that. She said she did anyway. It could have been an exaggeration.

I don’t sleep as much at night as most folks I know. It’s a lifelong habit I’m not about to break now that I’ve entered what we once called the golden years. I’m not unhappy to have the quiet hours of the night to read and to think. Occasionally, I even put down a few rambling words to share with my friends.

Which brings me to last night. Not sleeping, at about 2:00 a.m., I wandered through the house, checking the doors and appliances one last time. Walking into the darkened family room, I was startled by a bright, momentary light shining up on the ceiling near the outside wall. I wasn’t sure what it could have come from, but I waited a few seconds to see if it reoccurred. It never did but, still curious, I found a light on my phone and aimed it at the spot.

My mind had, in the few seconds I stood waiting, settled on the light from a firefly, or lightning bug, as the probable cause, but I thought it should have reappeared somewhere in the vicinity again if that was the case. Still, it wasn’t much of a surprise when the light from the phone revealed a lightning bug as the culprit.

There at the conjunction of the ceiling and outside wall, the bug hung, swinging unnaturally just an inch below the ceiling. It didn’t take long to see that it had flown into a barely visible spider web and become ensnared.

Before things get out of hand, I should inform you that the Lovely Lady assures me it hasn’t been very long since the cobwebs were last displaced by her brush, but the tiny arachnids can be persistent, constructing new webs in a matter of minutes when the mood takes them.

Did I mention they were tiny? Indeed, I laughed when I first saw what was happening. The lightning bug was jiggling back and forth as it hung there, and right beside it was the web-building spider, hardly one-tenth the size of its captive, busily spinning more sticky silk as it sidled around the body of the comparatively gigantic-sized lightning bug.

I like lightning bugs better than I do spiders. Who doesn’t?

We—most of us—chased fireflies as children in the twilight hours of the summer evenings, catching them and tossing them at each other, perhaps keeping them captive in a mayonnaise jar to light up our bedrooms later that night. I still love looking out over the freshly mown fields at night and seeing their flickering bodies lighting up the June landscape, making me think it could as easily still be fifty years ago.

But it’s not fifty years ago. And I can no longer bear the thought of even that one little bug dying to feed the tiny spider on the ceiling.

Reaching up gently, I pulled the bug and the web, spider and all, down from the ceiling. The spider, not to be denied its trophy, dropped down a few inches on a strand of web and then, crawled up just as quickly toward the lightning bug, ready to begin weaving the web-prison around his body again.

I shook the belligerent little assailant to the floor, making sure the connecting web was broken so it couldn’t make another trip up to the lightning bug, and then I examined the poor victim.

Motionless, its head was bent down towards its thorax, pulled by the sticky, nearly invisible web that remained around it. It wasn’t moving so much as a single leg.

I was sure it was dead. In fact, I considered simply tossing it into the trash basket nearby.

Instead, I gently reached down with my fingertips and pulled at the sticky web, all the while seeing the unmoving legs and body lying in the palm of my hand. It was hopeless, but still, I pulled at the stubborn silk. Being careful not to pull a leg off as I worked, the task took longer than I anticipated, but it was probably not more than ten or fifteen seconds later when the lifeless body was free again.

Did I say it was hopeless? Lifeless?

I did, didn’t I?

We give up hope much too easily.

Where once there was light, we see darkness; where there was life, death. Even though we have experienced reprieves again and again ourselves, we give in so soon to dismay and dread.

The last of the web came away and the firefly instantly righted itself and started walking in my palm. Instantly!

Not dead, but alive!

I closed my fingers around it loosely and headed for the door (nobody wants a lightning bug flying in their house while they sleep!) to return him to his natural habitat. I stood on the concrete slab outside the back door and opened my hand, waiting to see what the little bug would do.

He got to the ends of my fingers but didn’t fly away. In my experience, they always fly when they reach the edge. Always.

Well, almost always.

This little fellow had had a bit of a shock. Death had him in its grip. The foregone conclusion had seemed inevitable. And now, life and freedom beckoned.

He needed a minute to clear his head. I would have, too.

I lowered my hand a bit and then, after raising it quickly, reversed the direction again. He took the hint, launching into the night air. A few feet out from where I stood, the light from the chemical reaction in his body showed clearly. Once—twice—I saw his light, and then he had joined the other late-night beacons in Dr. Weaver’s field, lighting up the night as they have for so many centuries going back to time immemorial.

Back from the dead.

Silly, isn’t it? All this attention and emotion wasted on a little lightning bug. Still, my heart swelled a bit as I thought about the joy of seeing one who is as good as dead joining the multitude of the living again.

It reminds me of something…

It’ll come to me. Maybe to you, too.

But I will admit to one thought that dims my joy a bit. Just a bit.

I can’t get that tiny spider and its puny, thin web out of my mind. How is it that such a minuscule thing, armed with no weapon to speak of, can take down an enemy many times its size? And so effortlessly, too.

The preacher in me wants to expound.

The grace-covered sinner I know myself to be is certain there is no need.

Today is a day to rejoice!

Where there was death, life has vanquished it altogether. Darkness threatened, but the light has not been overwhelmed.

Life. Light.

Great joy.

“‘They cannot conquer for ever!’ said Frodo. And then suddenly the brief glimpse was gone. The Sun dipped and vanished, and as if at the shuttering of a lamp, black night fell.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

“And when she finds it, she will call in her friends and neighbors and say, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found my lost coin.’ In the same way, there is joy in the presence of God’s angels when even one sinner repents.”
(Luke 15:9-10 ~ NLT)

Heroes Know How to Hug

May 21, 2021May 21, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There was another school shooting the other day.

I know. You don’t want to read about that here.

You see the news every day. I do, too. It’s all there—school shootings, police shootings, gang shootings—but I think you want to know about this one.

It was at a middle school in Idaho, what we used to call an elementary school. A little girl in the sixth grade brought a handgun in her backpack and opened fire, shooting two schoolmates and a custodian.

Just so you don’t bail on me too quickly, I’ll tell you now that no one died. All three individuals have been released from the hospital, having been struck by the bullets in their limbs, rather than in the torso or head.

But it could have been worse. Except for the quick thinking and big heart of one teacher, it could have been a lot worse.

When she heard the shooting start, she did what her training taught her to do; she got the students under her immediate care to a safe place. But then she went to see if she could help in another way.

She tried to help the shooting victims.

While she was with one of them, she looked up and saw the shooter with the gun still in her hands. She didn’t hesitate; she didn’t duck and cover. She walked to the girl and, ignoring the danger to herself, put her hand on her arm and slid it down to the girl’s hand, covering the pistol. Then, calmly and gently, she simply took the gun from the girl’s hand.

You think that was heroic? Wait until you read what she did next.

She hugged the little girl to her chest until the authorities came to take her away. Hugged her. Because the teacher knew that somewhere, there were parents who didn’t know their little child was hurting people and needed help calming down. She hugged her and talked to her and loved on her until others came and calmly took her away.

I read the story and I wept.

I do that a lot these days—weeping, I mean. It’s just not usually when I read the news. I’m used to stories of tragic events—bad people doing bad things and getting what they deserve, or disasters overtaking folks who, through no fault of their own, are in the wrong place at the wrong time (as we would put it, perhaps wrongly).

I—we—get jaded and hardened. We hardly feel it, unless it’s someone we know or someone we identify with.

Somehow, try as I might, I can’t keep my mind from wandering. It goes where it wants these days. Perhaps it always has.

I remember like it was yesterday (well, the main points, at least). My parents had come for a week’s visit, and one evening as we sat talking, the conversation veered to a current event in our area of the country. A group of teenage boys had been involved in a violent crime and their trial had recently come to an end with a guilty verdict.

“Good! They got what they deserved! Too bad that doesn’t happen more often!”

The words came from the cocky young father’s mouth with all the assurance of one who knew right from wrong and believed that justice was of the utmost importance. Others in the room agreed.

But then a voice, from the person in the room least likely (in my mind, at least) to be soft on crime, spoke up quietly.

“I’m glad there was a time, not too many years ago, when that wasn’t true.”

My dad didn’t need to repeat the words. This cocky young father looked at the floor, hanging his head just a little, and nodded.

“Oh, yeah.”

I haven’t always been the principled, upright person I should have been. An incident in my teenage years haunts my memories with images of mischief and destruction, along with a visit to the local police station and an interview session with a gruff old sergeant.

Guilty!

I was.

There had been thousands of dollars in damages and lost labor for a contractor whose employees had to wait, idle, for repairs to be effected to his property before resuming their tasks.

The contractor refused to press charges. He didn’t even ask for repayment of his lost labor expenses. I worked that summer to repay only the actual cost of physical repairs, a matter of a couple hundred dollars.

Mercy. Where I expected justice.

Grace. When my debt was beyond my puny ability to pay it back.

Love. When I intended harm to him.

And yet, in a matter of a few years, here was the guilty one calling out for a pound of flesh, for the stiff punishment of his fellow miscreants, without a thought for the debt which had been forgiven him.

Still, the years have passed, thirty or more of them since that day of remembrance and repentance.

The years have passed, and my heart again grows hard, driving forgiveness and mercy into the shadows. But, not so far into the darkness that the light of love can’t illuminate them.

Today, I remember again.

And again, I repent.

The Teacher, He who came with no other purpose but to shine that light, the light of Love (by His teaching, certainly, but ultimately by His sacrifice), into the darkness, made it clear to us.

“If you won’t forgive your brother when he sins against you, my Heavenly Father won’t forgive your sins against Him.” (Matthew 18:35 ~ my paraphrase)

I am without excuse.

I forget that, like the teacher holding that scared, guilty little girl in the school hallway the other day, our Heavenly Father pulls us to his breast, speaking peace and grace into our darkness while He loves us as only a Father can.

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”
(1 Corinthians 13:7 ~ CSB)

We will, in life, be disappointed in our trust in others again and again. Still, we trust and we hope. When we are hurt, we forgive. And we go forward in the company of other selfish, self-serving people who are just like us. We go forward knowing that Love is not weak but more powerful than guilt and shame.

A friend wrote the words on her social media page not so long ago, “I believe that love still conquers all.”

I don’t disagree. But, as I consider, I’m certain there is more.

Sometimes love simply wraps up the erring party in its arms and holds them close until they have no strength left to resist.

“Love never fails.”

Never.

God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
(Henry Ward Beecher ~ American clergyman ~ 1813-1887)

But God demonstrates his own love for us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:8 ~ NET)

I’m Going to Tell the Truth for the Next Month

July 9, 2020July 9, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

You can’t believe everything you read

The red-headed lady who raised me was the first person I heard say those words. I suppose it’s not unusual to learn truth from your mother. Her truths came mostly in short, easy-to-remember maxims and sometimes, in long run-on sentences with Bible verses thrown in for good measure.

Those truths, I remember. Some, I even still live by. Especially these days, I remember often that you can’t believe everything you read.

I never expected to learn anything from a fortune cookie. It’s probably a good thing.

We’d been cooped up in the house for weeks on end, waiting out the virus. Restaurants were closed; drive-through lanes, the only way to get food we didn’t have to cook ourselves. We finally gave in one evening and bought Chinese.

The meal was wonderful, the flavors a nice departure from the familiar menu of the kitchen at our place (not that I’m complaining about home-cooking at all). It didn’t take long for the Lovely Lady and me to clear our plates of the rice and various chicken recipes that accompanied it.

What about the fortune cookies?

Oh yes, all that was left were the fortune cookies. One for her. One for me. I don’t have any inkling of what hers said. I suppose that’s normal.

For some reason, we think the little pre-printed piece of paper inserted into the fold of the hard, crunchy cookie material is only meant for the one who happens to crack it open and pull it out.

I suspect, if we’re silly enough to think the phrase or sentence contained on the paper is of any importance, we might as well believe it was specifically intended for the person who opens it. It is, after all, a fortune cookie, is it not?

Still, the fateful words in my cookie were a little shocking.

“The truth will be important to you for the next month.”

The first thought in my head was, and what about the day after the month is over? I want to be sure of my options, you understand.

Right about then though, another thought took my brain captive: The truth hurts! No, literally! It hurts!

As I read the fortune, I had bitten the cookie, expecting it to crunch into little crumbs on my tongue. Instead, the sharp edge sliced into the roof of my mouth, drawing blood immediately. Every time I ate solid food for the next couple of days, I remembered that the truth hurts, because of the very real pain I felt.

Yes. It was another of that red-headed lady’s truths. Short and not-so-sweet. The truth hurts. Once again, she was right.

Truth is essential

Okay, I’m over the pain now and I want to talk about that fortune. I’d like to know why the truth is going to be important for me, but only for the next 30 days.

I’m certain the truth is always essential. Full-stop.

To a follower of Christ, truth is not an on-again, off-again option but is an ever-present tenet of our faith. His Word is filled with instructions that are clear and unmistakable. For example:

The Lord detests lying lips,
but he delights in people who are trustworthy. (Proverbs 12:22, NIV)

Why then, do His followers so often deal dishonestly? Why do we lie to those we love? To those we barely know?

On a recent afternoon, as the Lovely Lady and I sat around the table with friends and family, the conversation turned to lies told us by our parents. Several at the table told of untruths they learned about either late in their parents’ lives or after they had died. I don’t exaggerate when I tell you there was emotional devastation for those left to deal with the consequences of some of those lies.

When we tell a lie, we bind ourselves to that lie. Until the day we confess it and finally tell the truth, we are shackled to it. Again and again, lies are required to prop up the original untruth. Lie upon lie, compounded until the guilt must be unbearable.

And yet, Jesus told his followers (in front of His detractors) that there is freedom in the truth.

To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31–32, NIV)

Truth is freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from shame. Freedom from a dishonest past that ties us up in knots of failure and terror of discovery.

Truth doesn’t always hide in plain sight

Boy, that’s an understatement! We live in a day of truth-twisting like none before, public officials who build cases from half-truths and generalities, people groups who purposely blend lies with myth and call it truth, individuals who spread information they know to be inaccurate, defending their actions with excuses and slander. More than a few on that list above claim the title of Christian.

Did I say it’s a day of truth-twisting like none before? I’m sorry. That wasn’t quite accurate.

We complain today that we no longer know what is truth and what isn’t. An influential man, in about 33 AD, said the same thing.

“What is truth?” retorted Pilate. With this he went out again to the Jews gathered there and said, “I find no basis for a charge against him.” (John 18:38, NIV)

Sound familiar? The political/religious leaders had fabricated a case against Jesus, using witnesses who actually reported words He had said, twisting them to make Him appear treasonous. Then, when the entire group was in agreement, they took that information to the Roman governor.

After speaking with the accused, Pilate tried to square the “truth” from the priests with what he heard from Jesus. His response to the confusing dichotomy was that phrase we hear repeated again and again today. Two thousand years later, we still are seeking the answer.

What is truth?

Confusion reigns right now

We have a virus that won’t be pinned down to any recognizable modus operandi, with no response that can be agreed upon. There is massive racial unrest that has fractured even the most conservative and liberal organizations in our country, with slogans and accusations hurled in the name of truth from all directions. Our government is in disarray — every voice claiming the high ground of truth, with no sign of any resolution.

When we employ the truth for our own ends, we almost always wrap it in exaggeration and innuendo, the final result being something that resembles the truth not at all.

And yet, we must strive for the truth, searching it out, stripping away the falsehoods and non-essentials. If we don’t, we will be bound in this confusion indefinitely.

I’m reminded of a conversation between two characters in The Lord of the Rings story. Eomer, confused by events beyond his comprehension, wonders how one should decide what is right in such a time. Aragorn tells him nothing has changed. Nothing.

Nothing has changed

Truth is still essential. We are still called to be ambassadors of truth. It can still be found. Though not easily, I’ll grant you. And, when it is found, it will not be our servant, lending itself to our selfish causes. But it will be found.

I wonder if we don’t search in all the wrong places for truth. Perhaps, if we focused on the basics, we might find a way to walk in truth, to live the truth in our lives.

Basics? Where can we find those?

For us, who claim to follow Christ, we simply need to start there — following Christ. His claim is to be the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

If we’re following Truth, really following it in the spiritual sense, I have a strong suspicion that truth, in the practical, physical sense, will become clear to us.

When we participate in the truth-twisting, divisive conversations of the world, we are not following truth.

The basics are that we are to love God (who is truth) with everything we have in us.

The basics are that we must then love people, wanting the same good things, the same advantages, we claim for ourselves. Our truth-telling is to be done in that same love, building them up and not making them less.

The basics are that we are to focus on good things, truthful things, things that are honorable, and worthy of admiration. It’s a focus I’m not seeing all that much these days, even in myself.

So, here’s what I’m going to be doing

For the next month, I’m going to stop listening to the lies. For the next month, I’m going to stop telling the lies. For the next month, I’m going to focus on the good and true things that are all around me.

Then, after next month, I’m going to do the same thing for the month after that, and the month after that, and the… Well, you get the idea.

I could use some company. Then, if the truth hurts, we’ll be able to comfort each other.

Truth does that sometimes. Literally and figuratively. It’s still better than the alternative.

For the next month. And then some.

Eomer said, “How is a man to judge what to do in such times?”
“As he has ever judged,” said Aragorn. “Good and evil have not changed since yesteryear, nor are they one thing among Elves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.” (from The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien)

Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ. (Ephesians 4:15, NIV)

The Pear Tree is Buzzing

March 4, 2020March 4, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

It’s not my favorite chore. But then, none of them is. I’d just as soon take a long walk with the Lovely Lady, or sit and nap in my easy chair. Still, time spent outside with the two black labs is never dull.

One friend reminds me that this is hero’s work, cleaning up after the family pets. His little girl says it is, so it must be true.

Hero’s work. Yeah, right.

Well, someone’s got to do it. I had made my rounds and was just finishing up on this beautiful early March afternoon when I heard it. The traffic noises had dwindled down to nothing and the dogs were off dozing in the sun, so there were no other distractions besides the cardinals and the finches.

I stood for a moment and listened. The tall pear tree above my head was buzzing. It’s not normal for trees to buzz, I know. Trees creak. They howl as the wind blows past their branches. Once in a while, they crash down as the storms toss and tear at them.

Trees don’t buzz.

But this one was. The ancient tree, most of it past the age when it will ever bear any edible fruit, already is covered — absolutely covered — with beautiful white blossoms. Even though the subfreezing nights will return again before the calendar says spring is really here, today there are buds everywhere.

The bees don’t know any better. They are swarming the blossoms, virtually swimming in pollen, some of which they will share with other trees, and some of which they will selfishly keep for their own purposes.

It’s a fair trade.

Can I tell you something? I just stood and listened to the bees today with joy in my soul.

Why joy, you wonder? Well yes. It could be that I love spring, while I do not love the season which precedes it. That could have something to do with it. But the real reason, at the heart of things, is Winnie.

You know. Pooh.

Winnie-the-Pooh.

That buzzing-noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there’s a buzzing-noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you’re a bee.
(from Winnie the Pooh, by A. A. Milne)

Child-like joy.

The reminder of kinder, quieter days — when one stood under trees to listen to bees, or gazed over fences at the cattle on the other side, or skipped rocks across ponds just for the pure delight of it.

It has been a hard winter. Oh, I’m not talking about the weather. By that standard, the winter has been mild.

But, I will attest that winter has gripped my heart in its cold, gray grasp for too many months. The deaths of family members and illnesses that wouldn’t relent for anything have frozen me in place for much too long.

The bees tell me the world is turning to a new spring. My walk this afternoon did too, in a different sense.

I happened past the school nearby as the students were released for the day. Striding along the sidewalks, I was soon shoulder-to-shoulder with several of the rowdy eleven and twelve-year-olds. Talking with and shoving each other as they headed home, they moved a bit slower than this sixty-something-year-old man.

Until I tried to pass them.

One boy had squeezed through a gap between two others as he tried to catch up with his friends, so I attempted to do the same, saying, “I’ll just slide between you, too.”

“Oh, no you won’t!” one of them retorted.

The boys didn’t really even look at me as I moved between them, but they both sped up immediately, matching my pace. Side-by-side for the rest of the way through the housing complex and past the Boys and Girls Club, we walk-raced.

I was ahead for a second or two, and then one or both of them would push past me, laughing and talking smack all the while. We reached the point at which we would part company at about the same time, but I conceded the race to them.

The smaller boy left me with these words of wisdom:

“Yeah. I think we really blew you away.”

Joy. Spring is coming. It is.

Old men get older. Young folks blow them away, in so many ways. And that’s as it should be.

Returning home a little later, I invited the Lovely Lady to come stand under the pear tree with me. I wonder if the neighbors were laughing at us. It doesn’t matter. We stood there with smiles on our faces as we listened to the sound of spring approaching.

After supper, I was sitting wrapped in thought when I heard a message come in on my phone. A young man I’ve known since he was three or four had sent a note to thank me for things I don’t remember doing. He talked of example and friendship and teaching, mentioning attributes I wouldn’t have assigned to myself. As I read, I again felt new life being breathed into my spirit.

Some days, when we least expect it, joy explodes again and again, painting the backdrops in greens, yellows, and bright blues.

For a moment, I thought I heard buzzing again. Spring is about new life, blossoming fresh and clean.

It seems I always feel the need to find a spiritual application to these little experiences I write about. There is always something to learn.

God is faithful to keep His promises. Spring will always come.

But, you already know that.

The joy of His extras, though — That’s just fuel enough to get us through the cold, gray days still to come.

Time to store up some honey.

Or, something even sweeter.

Pleasant words are like a honeycomb,
sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.
(Proverbs 16:24, NET Bible)

The year‘s at the spring,
And day‘s at the morn;
Morning‘s at seven;
The hill-side‘s dew-pearl’d;
The lark‘s on the wing;
The snail‘s on the thorn;
God‘s in His heaven —
All‘s right with the world!
(from Pippa’s Song, by Robert Browning)

Shade and Shadow

November 1, 2019November 1, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments

He’s gone. Dead. Passed away.

Gone.

Just yesterday, it seems, the call came. They found him in his recliner, laid back, as if asleep. I can’t count the times I came into the living room to find him like that. It was his place to rest; it was his place to think; it was his place to commune with God.

How would he have gone any other way?

The old man (I use the term with the greatest of respect) has been on my mind a lot lately. Independent, stubborn—in a loving kind of way, and determined to follow his God into eternity, he refused to be taken care of. A thousand and a half miles from any of his children, he lived on his own terms.

The shadow he cast over the lives of his family may never fade. Perhaps, in time, we may notice it less. Now in our sixties, all of his children will attest to the influence he wielded, frequently purposefully, but mostly without that intent at all.

Parents are like that, if we let them be. I was happy to stay in the shade of this man; grateful for the protection from the heat of the long summer days.

And, shade there was. He offered guidance—when asked, and correction—sometimes without being asked. Over the years, he and I developed the kind of relationship that was comfortable enough to endure the inevitable disputes. He corrected me; I corrected him. Neither of us actually complied with the correction, we simply moved on, leaving the disagreements behind.

I have come to realize that the shade had thinned in the last few years.

Mere weeks ago, my siblings and I sat at the table in my dining room, drinking coffee and talking about our lives and about life in general. I gazed out the front window at the old maple tree near the street and commented on its imminent demise.

The old tree is nearing seventy years old, the only one remaining of the original five planted by my late father-in-law. Like the other four, it will come down soon. There are few full limbs left, the scraggly arms jutting out from the huge trunk offering just the barest growth of leaves now. The limbs that have been removed have left hollows, places for water to stand and further rot the heart of the tree. Now, when it rains, the water that enters the open heart fifty or so feet above the ground drains out a knothole only a couple of feet up on the trunk.

Even now, in its last stages, the old tree casts a long shadow. It may do so for several more years. Not much shade to be found, but the shadow of the skeletal old trunk stretches for many feet more than its actual height.

As I gazed at the tree and pointed out its defects to my siblings, my mind jumped to my father, not knowing his body was even then lying in the recliner, his soul having begun his journey into eternity.

As I write, my thoughts—like a movie camera—dissolve from the old maple tree to the words of David’s First Psalm.

Like a tree planted by water flowing down to the sea, is the righteous man; his delight, in the Law of the Lord. Day and night, his mind is taken up with the meditation of what God desires. The leaves of that tree shall not shrivel up, will never lose their green coloration and fall to the ground. Fruit shall he bear in the right season, and he will have success in all his labors. (Psalm 1: 2,3 ~ my paraphrase)

Reality hits, and through tears, I realize the shade is gone. I will not again call him seeking wisdom, will never hear his voice quoting his favorite scripture reminding me of God’s thoughts towards me and His promise of blessing.

The shade is gone.

Ah, but the shadow is not.

Perhaps there will never be a time in my life when I don’t feel that shadow, the reminder of what we knew for years. The shadow stretches long from the past, and yet, reaches far into the future.

Shade is good when one needs protection and comfort. But, it takes the sunlight to grow to the full measure of who our Creator wants us to be. And shadows to remind us once in awhile of how we got here and where we’re headed.

I can’t tell you he was perfect. No man has ever been, save one. This one was definitely human. There are stories which will never be told and, then again, some that may never stop being told giving proof of that.

Still, he leaned back in that easy chair day after day, and considered the words of the Lord, letting them seep thoroughly into his very being.

Roots, sunk deep.

I’m thinking there will be shade trees again in eternity. What beauty and grandeur those stately groves must display in that blessed home!

I know there’s a river that runs there.

Shade.

By the river.

The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade, you do not expect to sit.
(Nelson Henderson ~ Canadian farmer)

But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night. And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
(Psalm 1:2-3 ~ KJV)

Did You Just Call Me Stiff-Necked?

August 9, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The phone jangled in my pocket signaling—well, I didn’t know what. That smartphone (much smarter than I—obviously) is always signaling one thing or another. Since I can’t always identify the different tones, I had to pull it out to see if I was missing something important.

The message was from one of my cycling buddies. “I am going to ride around 10:30.”

Even though it didn’t sound much like an invitation, it was. I like riding my bike. I like riding it with friends. I don’t even mind getting time away from my desk in the middle of the morning.

I turned him down.

“Not today. I woke up with a stiff neck.”

I hear it already.

What a wimp!

Stiff neck? Is that all?

You call yourself a rider?

I will readily agree with the criticism. I am a wimp. I let too much interfere with my riding. My commitment is definitely not on a level with many of my friends.

This is different.

Besides the pain (a secondary consideration, to be sure), there is the problem with my vision. If I can’t see my surroundings clearly, I won’t be able…

What’s that?

My vision? Well, no my eyes aren’t affected.

It’s just that I can really only see what’s straight ahead of me if I can’t turn my head. You have to be able to view everything around you with a full range of vision when you’re riding. Otherwise, you’re just asking for disaster to strike.

I didn’t ride today. Sitting at my desk seemed a safer option.

No one ran into me at all while I was sitting here. It didn’t help my stiff neck any, but I was safe.

I didn’t get any exercise. Neither am I lying in a ditch.

Safety first. I suppose it’s a decent enough consideration. Still, I get the feeling I’m missing something.

Can we go back to the stiff neck for a minute? While I was sitting at my computer earlier, holding my neck with whichever hand was free, I began to wonder about that description of our malady.

MY…My malady.

I’ve known for a long time when someone calls you stiff-necked it means you’re stubborn.

Persistent.

Obstinate.

Intractable.

Tenacious.

There are other words we often use in place of stiff-necked. The red-headed lady who raised me—always with an old saw at the ready for any situation—simply said I was stubborn as an old mule. Except for when she described me as pigheaded.

But then, I always like to put things (at least my own actions) in a positive light. I think the word I would choose is focused.

Focused is good, isn’t it?

I have a goal in mind and I travel, unwavering in my single-minded attention to the objective.

I listen to the voices around me and I am encouraged.

Follow your own path.

Seek your true purpose.

Don’t let anyone or anything convince you to abandon your dream.

We love comfort, don’t we? We long for safety.

Like this humble cyclist, we shun any hint of imprudence. Avoiding danger at all cost, we seek old, well-worn paths already known to us.

Then, when our Creator gives us new directions to follow, new roads to travel, we are reluctant to turn aside. Our intransigence, our single-mindedness comes from our stiff necks.

We have a limited field of vision. And, we like it that way.

Is it any wonder He used the exact words—stiff-necked— to describe His own followers again and again?

God wants us to open our eyes and be aware of our surroundings. All of our surroundings. He wants us to see, not only the blessings He has for us, but also the difficulties and the tasks that await us.

When He has new things for us, we may have to shift our focus from what we’ve done previously to the new roads ahead.

I don’t know what those roads will be like. I’d like to think I’m past all the difficulties. I want to believe I’ve learned all the hard lessons.

We desire the pleasant, the comfortable. And, it’s possible that’s where He may lead us. David spoke of that path, of that lot in life:

The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;
Yes, I have a good inheritance.
(Psalm 16:6, NKJV)

Somehow, I think it just as likely our road will take us through difficult and dangerous locales. It is where our God likes to make his new roads, the roads only people with open eyes and flexible necks will be able to follow:

See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:19, NIV)

The wilderness is new and strange. Wasteland seems uncomfortable, perhaps even dangerous.

New territory.

Often, when I ride my bicycle, I ride familiar, well-traveled roads. They always take me to the same places I’ve been to before. Every time.

I’d like to try a new road or two before I’m done.

I’m going to do that.

When my neck is feeling better.

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
(from The Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

Joy Is Right In Front Of Us

July 26, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

The pallet of pavers sits right outside my office window. It is a reminder of joy.

Hmmm. I suppose that’s not something you hear every day.

How could a stack of red brick-like pavers symbolize joy?

That, I suppose, would depend on your perspective. It’s not really the pavers themselves that turn my thoughts to joy, but merely my recent experience with them. It’s possible by the time I’ve done the labor necessary to utilize the rectangular chunks of concrete, I may have a completely different frame of reference for them.

Life is like that. Today, joy. Tomorrow, toil. After that, who knows? Joy again. Or, pain. Perhaps, even sadness.

But, what about the pavers?

And, the joy?

Not my joy—well, not exclusively mine—but I was there to get a taste of it.

Perhaps, I should explain.

A friend, who lives next door to my grandchildren (yes, to my daughter and her husband too, if it comes to that), offered to sell me the pavers a couple of weeks ago, so we made a deal. I would need to pick them up myself, no small feat, since there were more than three hundred of the heavy little bricks.

By myself didn’t sound like such a good idea.

I recruited my grandchildren to help me load and count them. Since they live next door to the fellow with the pavers. And, since there are four of them and only one of me. You know—by myself.

So it was that on a recent afternoon we found ourselves in the mid-July heat counting and stacking. Ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit sounded less furnace-like when I was in my air-conditioned living room than it did at the tailgate of that pickup truck.

The sun beat down and the sweat poured from our faces and various other locales. Still, there was nothing but good-natured teasing and joyful banter from the kids and their mom. Black widow spiders and crickets galore did nothing to change the mindset.

Perhaps it was the hundred-dollar bill I offered beforehand that set the mood. No, it couldn’t have been that; there was no such offer.

Maybe, it was the ice cream and pizza I had promised them. Again, no. All I promised them was the chance to help an old man move heavy, dirty pavers from one place to another, all while keeping track of how many they had each moved.

They worked with joy! With no promise of any payment whatsoever, they labored in the blasting sun for over an hour. Joyfully. And then, they offered to come to my house and help me unload every single one of the despicable things.

I don’t understand it. Whatever happened to the carrot or the stick? Shouldn’t they have been either offered a reward for their work, or conversely, a punishment should they refuse to comply? Isn’t that how children learn?

Joy. Simply in achieving a task and spending time with people they love. This is a mystery to me. Really. A mystery.

Perhaps we can work this out.

I am a follower of Christ, also known by the title Christian. We Christians talk a lot about joy, sometimes scolding folks who are unfortunate enough to call it happiness instead of by its proper title. I wonder if that’s the right way to go about demystifying joy.

Possibly not.

Still. What about this thing called joy?

Maybe we could start with, since I am a Christ-follower, well—Christ. You know—the author (the initiator) and editor (perfecter) of our faith. Come to think of it, there’s a passage that says just that. And here’s a surprise; the verse talks about joy, too.

We look to Him, the author and the finisher of our faith, who, for nothing more than the joy of completing the thing, gave His life on the cross, discounting the shame, and sat down beside God in heaven, at the right hand of His throne. (Hebrews 12:2 ~ my paraphrase)

Our Savior, the One who set us on the road of our faith and who will bring it all to completion, came for the joy of doing just that!

I’ve heard it suggested that the joy which was set before Him was being able to sit down beside His Father in Heaven. But He already had that before He came. If that was the joy talked about here, He needn’t have come at all (Philippians 2:5-8)

Yes, He was elevated to that position again, but He wasn’t working for that as a reward. Simply for the joy of accomplishing the task before Him, He came in love for the whole world.

I don’t need to tell you His work conditions weren’t the easiest. Early in life, His parents had to flee their homeland to find safety for Him. As an adult, His people rejected Him. The religious leaders hated Him, persecuting Him and His followers endlessly. He had no place to sleep. He was hungry. He knew the sorrow of losing loved ones. And finally, one dark day, the humans He came to save killed Him.

Joy? It’s still a mystery to me.

And yet, there is something…

Oh, yes! The children. My grandchildren. They did that. For the joy right in front of them, they endured.

And, there it is.

He said to them, unless you become like this little child, you’ll not see heaven. (Matthew 18:3 ~ my paraphrase)

As a little child, with joy and humility, we are to serve. In heat, sweating and thirsty. In cold and rain and floods and sickness and poverty and turmoil and…

He calls us to joy. Always.

Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ…

Joy. In the journey.

And, while we move the bricks.

A joyful heart is the inevitable result of a heart burning with love.
(Mother Teresa)

I pray that God, the source of hope, will fill you completely with joy and peace because you trust in him. Then you will overflow with confident hope through the power of the Holy Spirit.
(Romans 15:13, NLT)

God Didn’t Make Little Green Apples

May 31, 2019May 31, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The apple tree is gone. Really.

Or, as the Munchkin coroner read from the death certificate of the wicked witch: …not only merely dead but really most sincerely dead.

I know you’ll be as sad as Dorothy was. It is just an apple tree, after all. Other trees were destroyed in the storm that blew through recently, some of much more import than my sad little apple tree. Century-old oaks, stately scarlet maples, huge sweet gums, all destroyed by the same careless gale that blasted past us as if none of it would matter in a year or so anyway.

It will. To me, it will.

I’ve written of the old tree before. I intended to do it in myself last fall but thought better of it. The eleventh-hour reprieve did it little good. My last written thoughts on the matter left me with hope (read about it here). Now seemingly, it was merely wishful thinking.

An old friend came this afternoon and helped me cut up the broken-off trunk. Right down to the ground, we cut it. As we drove away from the house later, the Lovely Lady suggested it was almost as if it had never been there.

I’ve walked around this evening with words in my head. I know they’re not true, but that doesn’t get them out of my head.

God didn’t make little green apples.

The words are part of a song written in the nineteen-sixties, sung by a number of country music stars. I realize there’s a phrase that comes before the one rattling around in my head, but it doesn’t matter to me right now.

I’m unhappy; can you tell?

As I write these words, I realize something else is making me unhappy. Something I don’t want to talk about. I’d rather go on about the sad little apple tree, lying in the scrap pile, awaiting transport to its final resting place.

I’d rather talk about missing the fresh apple pie and the homemade applesauce. But clearly, that’s not what’s going to happen here, so I might as well move on.

I’ve struggled with it for two weeks. I know—I’ve wrestled with it before and will again. Many of my readers will understand.

Two weeks ago, I got word that he was gone. My friend, too young to be old, sat at home in his chair and went away. I’ll never see him again in this lifetime. I’ll never again hear one of his corny jokes; never sit and listen to him play his beautiful Martin acoustic guitar and sing of the Savior he loved.

While I was trying to come to grips with the sadness Jack’s passing has brought on, I was reminded of another young friend who died unexpectedly eight years ago this week. The reminder hit me harder than I thought possible. I miss the kid more today than the day he died. He too was a guitarist who loved playing music that turned his listener’s hearts to worship.

I want to hear the music again.

Anything besides this little ditty going through my brain right now.

God didn’t make little green apples.

But, He did, you know. Every single one of them.

Our Creator conceived and produced those little things from the nothingness of eternity. From the dirt He made, he caused the trees and other vegetation to spring up, guaranteeing that they would perpetuate themselves through their seeds. (Genesis 1: 11, 12)

While creation remains, the apples will come again. Oh, the trees will outlive their season, but the fruit will never fail. Season follows season, harvest after planting, as He planned it. (Genesis 8:22)

And, wouldn’t you know it, the myth of death for those who know Christ is as false as the little ditty in my head. Eternal life belongs to all who believe in Him. (John 3:36)

My friends haven’t been carried off to any final resting place, even if their earthly packages were.

The music has never stopped, even if temporarily we don’t hear it. I’m confident the Heavenly Luthier builds a much better product than CF Martin ever constructed here. I may even get to play with them someday.

But no, I think I’ll sing in the choir with that red-headed lady who raised me. We’ll sing as loudly as we can there, too—just like the last I sang with her.

God did make little green apples.

You can almost smell the blossoms from here.

Still Blaming The Dog

April 5, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s the dog’s fault.

They were the first words I muttered to the optician as I approached her work station earlier this week. I was wearing an old pair of wire-rimmed glasses from the last decade—or was it the last century?—as I pulled the stainless steel and fabric chair out from beneath the mirrored desk.

The dog’s fault. You would have thought I was an abashed student in sixth grade slouching in front of the entire class, rubbing the toe of my Converse sneaker across the linoleum tile floor.

Why no, Mrs. Dunham; I don’t have my English paper. It was all ready to bring this morning but my dog ate it.

In truth, I don’t think I ever used that excuse for missing homework, but you can bet, if the homework was missing, it wasn’t my fault. Ever.

Not my fault!

My glasses were broken. Just a few months ago, the optometrist had handed me the prescription for my glasses while telling me he didn’t think I needed to have it filled.

You don’t need new glasses at all right now. Keep the prescription, though. You know—just in case.

This is just in case. I played fetch with the big black lab last week, hurling the chunk of wood to the fence again and again. The big guy never tires of the game. Not before I do, anyway.

This day, he had dropped the stick to the ground in front of me. I bent over him to pick it up at exactly the instant he chose to jump up and playfully lick me.

Thwack!

The top of his big flat skull smacked my glasses frame, jamming it against my left eye. I yelped and grabbed my falling glasses, feeling the frame give as I caught them.

Broken! Stupid Tip!

Hand over my eye, I turned to scold the tenderhearted fellow. I opened my mouth to shout, but thought better of it. He was just being a dog—still a big puppy despite his advancing age.

I’m the one who should have known better. He always jumps when I’m near. I’ve finally convinced him not to put his huge muddy feet on me, but still he jumps constantly. If my face is bent over him when he jumps, it’s not his fault.

I know that. My fault.

Still, the excuse is easy.

The optician laughed as she fitted the temple pieces over my ears. She gets paid, no matter whose fault it is.

And, we all know whose fault it is, don’t we?

And, we all know whose fault it is, don't we? Share on X

Why is it so hard to admit when we’re wrong?

Why must we find a scapegoat?

What’s so hard about taking responsibility?

I know I’m a hard-headed slow learner—okay, not as hard-headed as the dog, but you get the picture—who has to learn lessons again and again, but I also have a very short memory. Really short.

Moments after I sat at the optician’s table, I sat, horn on lap and new glasses on my face, in an afternoon orchestra rehearsal. One of the youngsters nearby said something about my new eye-wear.

They are good looking, aren’t they? I think they’re a nice gray color. The Lovely Lady says they’re more blue. (Don’t tell her they say “blue” right on the frames. We still need to discuss this a bit more.)

Imagine my surprise when I heard the words come from my mouth.

Yeah, I’m glad I decided to get them. I’ve needed new glasses for awhile.

Oh. So now I’m going to take responsibility? A few minutes ago it was the dog’s fault.

You know, this isn’t going at all in the manner I envisioned it. I was going to draw your attention to the way we humans refuse to take responsibility. Then, I was going to quote some Bible verses at you to drive home the reality of how prideful we are.

It was going to be a beautiful sermon—I mean—lesson. A beautiful lesson.

I never expected to be the one who needed the Bible verses. I certainly didn’t expect to be the one who needed to break Leroy Jethro Gibbs’ Rule Number Six. You know, the one about never apologizing, because it’s a sign of weakness.

In retrospect, I think perhaps you should know that the dog ate my first draft of this article. That’s the reason it’s not going the way I wanted. I hope you’ll give me more time to finish it.

The dog did it.

Really.

Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall.
(1 Corinthians 10:12 ~ NKJV ~Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

The man who complains about the way the ball bounces is likely to be the one who dropped it.
(Lou Holtz ~ American football coach/motivational speaker)

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