Dust in My Eyes

September 8, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I noticed the post on a friend’s social media page earlier:

“Getting hard to breathe as CA fires blow our way.”

She’s praying for rain, while smoke makes it hard to catch her breath. Many others are too.

I didn’t expect it, but I got a catch in my throat as I read her message.

There are no fires near me, but I had an inkling of her misery today as I mowed my lawn. There has been very little rain for a few weeks and the soil under the grass is parched. With more than a few mole tunnels pushed up across the width and length of the yard, I knew I was in for a dusty job when I headed out to begin the task.

I did borrow a face cowl from the Lovely Lady before venturing out. I had no idea how much I would need it. As it turned out, I should have found some swim goggles to go with it.

Dust billowed out from my mower—by the buckets full, it seemed to me—and yet I sped on across the yard. I soon found that, if I rode along in a straight line, I could stay ahead of the murky haze of flying dirt. But eventually, I had to turn, always back directly into the hazy cloud.

The face cowl helped considerably. I could breathe, at least. But again and again, I was overcome by the dirt in my eyes, burning and stinging. It would go dark as I was forced to close my eyelids against the irritating dust. Each time it happened, I released the grab bars that controlled my forward progress and, sitting atop the roaring machine in the diminishing fog, would wipe my eyes, either with my finger or with a handkerchief dampened from my water bottle.

I felt a little like Pigpen, the Peanuts character who raised dust wherever he walked in the comic strip. I’m certain the neighbors were almost as relieved as I was when the task was finished.

But, on a couple of the occasions I had to stop the mower today, I did so in the darkness, caused not only by the dust but also by panic. Momentarily, I would be confused as to where (and into what) the machine and its rider were headed.

Was I going to hit a tree? A gas meter or water faucet? Perhaps the flowerpot that held the Lovely Lady’s columbine plant was in my path! I’m not sure a little dirt in my eyes would have sufficed as an adequate excuse for that damage!

Do you know what it feels like to lose sight of reality? Of the straight road you’ve marked out in front of you?

It was only an inkling. Merely the tiniest glimpse of what hopelessness could feel like.

But, while I was in the midst of it, it seemed to me that I might never breathe easily, nor see clearly again. I knew I would, but it’s easy to be overwhelmed when in the grip of an uncomfortable turn of events.

As I contemplated later, clean and grit-free in my easy chair, my thoughts went back several decades and I finally began to understand.

I remember standing outside that hospital with tears in my eyes. I cried again later that evening as I attempted to understand the darkness one had to feel to attempt to end their own life.

It was years ago—in the last century—if you must know. We’ve moved more than once since then. The names have faded into obscurity; the faces almost so.

The couple, not young, lived near us in a small rental house. Their lives hadn’t been easy, but there had been no events that prepared me for hearing the ambulance outside our back door. And, I certainly didn’t anticipate following the paramedics to the hospital with an inebriated husband in my passenger seat.

The wife had taken a lot of pills. More than a handful. In her mind, it was the only alternative she had in a hopeless situation. Her husband, incapacitated as he was, was no help. But, eventually, he figured out she was in trouble and called 911.

Thus, the trip to the hospital. I offered to take him since it was clear he was in no condition to drive.

The team at the hospital was able to save her life. It didn’t fix her problems. Nor his. But, she lived. They moved away just weeks later, so I don’t know how their lives have gone, except that I heard their marriage ended soon after that.

I’m not sure the darkness ever lifted for them. I pray it has.

Did I say there were tears in my eyes? One might wonder why. They hadn’t been great neighbors. They argued loudly late at night. When he had had a little too much to drink (which was not infrequent), he sang country music at the top of his lungs from the front porch of the little house. They borrowed tools—and money—and my old bicycle, and didn’t always feel the need to return them.

And yet, I cried. For her, and her blind despair. And for him, and how he was treated by the doctor at the hospital. Rudely and with no respect nor regard for his terror that his wife might die. All the doctor saw was his drunkenness and poverty, and he had no time nor sympathy to be wasted on the man.

And so, I sat tonight and wondered anew at how we look at each other—at our neighbors and strangers on the street corners. At friends who have lost someone and can’t get over it. At people who look different, and act differently, than we do. Addicts and mentally ill. Politicians and the spectacularly wealthy (or even poverty-stricken). The list is endless.

And yet, they are neighbors. Every one of them.

We all get the dust in our eyes at some point. And, it’s easy to give up hope. For ourselves. For others.

Still, we’re all part of the human race. We share a common condition—that of being part of Adam’s fallen progeny. Our shared ancestor’s blindness has come over every one of us who walks this earth.

I know the tiniest thing about the blindness and fear that can overcome us.

And yet, hopelessness is not what has been promised to us. Not at all. We have hope. In Christ, our hope is certain. And, we walk in light.

We do. We walk in Light.

The Light that shines in every dark place. And we have the astounding privilege to share that light, carrying it within our very souls.

The smoke will clear. The rain will fall and settle the dust. It will.

And, the Light will never be overcome. Never.

That’s a promise. (John 1:5)

So for now, we get to shine. In this house, in this neighborhood—be it hillside or valley, and in this world.

You might want to bring your goggles along, too. There’s dust in the wind that’s blowing.

But, the Light shines still.

“Satan, who is the god of this world, has blinded the minds of those who don’t believe. They are unable to see the glorious light of the Good News. They don’t understand this message about the glory of Christ, who is the exact likeness of God.” (2 Corinthians 4:4, NLT)

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness.”
(Christopher M Rice)

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)

Still in the Tunnel

September 12, 2022September 12, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.

It was just a bit of whimsy, a slogan to print on a magnet shaped like an old steam engine. My dad slapped it on the old Frigidaire over fifty years ago. It still makes me laugh.

Sort of.

Nowadays, it’s more likely to make me think of the other phrase we use commonly, the origin of which is also most likely in the dim history of the railroads.

I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Except, I’m not. Seeing the light yet.

It’s been a dark season. Sadness piled upon dread; covered up in anticipation of worse to come.

I’m not the only one.

Our old friends sat around the table the other night and one of the ladies said the words.

“There are a lot of people dying, aren’t there?”

Nobody really answered her, but I heard a collective hmmm and the table went silent. Each of us, lost in our thoughts, was seeing the faces of absent friends and hearing the voices of people we loved, voices we’ll never hear again this side of heaven.

It’s why I’ve not shared many of my current writings with my friends and social media followers for the last several months. I’ve been seeing some of those faces and hearing many of those voices nearly constantly for a while. And, when one is in dark places, it doesn’t seem the kindest thing to usher others into the darkness.

I’m going to chance it, though. That moment with my old friends made me realize that perhaps we need to talk about it. For a little while, anyway.

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now. About that tunnel.

I’ll admit it; what got me thinking about tunnels was actually a bright spot in a little trip I took with the Lovely Lady recently. We stopped by to visit one of our favorite bridges a few hours away from where we live.

She’s the one who saw it. I was driving, so I would have never seen the conjunction of lovely points of light if it hadn’t been for her keen eye.

“That’s amazing! You have to see it!”

She is not given to flights of fancy, this companion. She’s the one who helps me see reality when I drift away from it (as I frequently do). I’d hold onto all the balloons and float into the sky to oblivion, but she knows to use her trusty BB gun to bring me back down before I hurt myself. I need her.

But on this day, she could hardly wait for the truck to get parked so she could hurry me up the hill and point out the scene. It’s in the photo on this page.

At precisely this spot, one may view the most beautiful highway bridge in the state, under which runs the Missouri Northern Arkansas Railroad, leading over a lovely trestle (above a rushing river), and straight through a thousand-foot tunnel cut through the nearby hillside. That’s the tunnel, there through the railroad bridge, that tiny arched blob of shadow before brilliant light.

The photo doesn’t do the view credit. And yet, we were giddy as we stood there, with the richness of sunlight playing with shade and the drawing together of the individual points of beauty into one single vista.

The moment has passed.

I have spent hours with the photo open on my computer monitor since then. And, as has happened so often over the last few months, the shadows eventually return, even to this place of light and beauty.

I know there is sunshine on the other side of that tunnel. I see it clearly. Still, that blob of shadow fills my vision.

I bet it’s dark in there—there in that tunnel. Even with the end in view, it’s dark and gloomy.

It’s dark in here, too—here in this tunnel I’m making my way through. But, I sense I’m not alone in here.

Even though it can seem so lonely, many of us have brought our tattered pieces of cardboard in and have built little makeshift shelters for ourselves under which we huddle, shivering and shaking, as the trains pass noisily by.

I won’t dwell on the darkness, on the loneliness, on the fear that this passage will be beyond our strength. If you’ve been in here, you already know. Probably better than I.

I find myself asking if the tunnel ever ends—if the darkness ever gives way to sunshine again.

I’m not the brightest crayon in the box; I readily admit it. But, like Mr. Tolkien’s innkeeper, Butterbur, I think I can see through a brick wall in time. And I think I may be seeing a glimmer of that light, finally.

I’m asking the wrong questions.

The apostle, my namesake, suggested in his day that his troubles were temporary and light. More than once, he wrote the words. His point was that we’re aimed for better things, things that will make the events filling our sight today seem minor in comparison.

It doesn’t trivialize our life experiences. The pain, the fear, and the losses can’t be dismissed with the snap of our fingers. We still must endure them; still must make our way forward through the darkness. But, something is waiting at the end, something that will make all the dreadful things we’ve struggled through fade in importance.

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

I stood, here in this dark tunnel, the other day, and I think I finally saw through that brick wall. Momentarily, at least. New questions came to my mind.

Who put this tunnel here? And why?

Perhaps, I’m being simplistic. I don’t think I am.

Tunnels are not made to create hardship, but to alleviate it. They are placed to facilitate progress to the goal, in locations where the conveyance could never—never!—make any headway without them.

And, in my head—and heart—the words resound. Words I’ve mentioned here before.

“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'” (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT)

They are words to encourage us. In the midst of hurting and paralyzing fear, they remind us that there is more.

More.

I’m reminded that the Word is light for our pathway and our feet. I trust Him. I’ll walk in that light.

Traveling to the Light at the end of the tunnel. Step by step, walking in the light He gives for today.

I’ve camped out here long enough. You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead. That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’
(from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

But forget all that—
    it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.
For I am about to do something new.
    See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
    I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:18-19, 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)

The World Changers are Living Just Next Door to Me

September 12, 2019September 12, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are evenings when the Lovely Lady and I retreat to our den, huddled or sprawled—whichever—in our comfortable corners, and chew bubble gum. Well, it’s not real bubble gum; that stuff wreaks havoc on the dental work at our time of life.

The bubble gum we chew is of a more enigmatic character. Mental bubble gum, I like to call it. Time-wasting programs on the television; game shows or travelogues, sometimes a murder mystery.

Why the term bubble gum? The similarity must be evident to even the most unconcerned of observers; something to occupy the facilities, but not to overtax their abilities. No actual tasting and swallowing (and certainly, no nutrition), simply a repetition of motion and result, until finally, there is no desire left for the tasteless pap.

On this evening, however, I sat up and listened. Virtually speaking, we had traveled with the host of a certain travelogue to the islands of Scotland. Being of Scots-Irish descent, I thought perhaps I might learn something of interest. And, strangely enough, I did.

You may have heard the story before, of the struggles of a Scotsman named Calum MacLeod, living out his life on the island of Raasay, just to the east of the more well-known Isle of Skye. A crofter (one who makes a living off the land, usually as a tenant farmer) and a lighthouse keeper by trade, he and his neighbors saw the government build good roads on the more populous southern end of the island while they still had to walk the final two miles to their homes and farms from the northern end of the road.

In the mid-1960s, at the age of 56, Calum decided one day that, in the absence of help from the government, he would remedy the inequity himself. For most of the next 10 years, he single-handedly built a road for the last mile and three-quarters to the settlement where he and his wife, among others, lived and farmed.

With no better tools than his pick, shovel, and wheelbarrow, and aided by the knowledge gained from an engineering manual he purchased, Calum (when he wasn’t working at his other jobs) dug, and carried, and laid a roadway that could be traveled by car to an area hitherto inaccessible to most vehicles.

Today, Calum’s Road stands, a testimony to one man’s desire to have a positive impact on his world. A mile and three-quarters of single-lane roadway leading to a place where, when it was completed, only he and his wife still lived.

A world changer, I call old Calum. Claims of empty conquest aside, his indomitable resolve and plodding triumph will etch his name indelibly into the list of those who leave this world better than they found it.

Recently, I read an article written by a friend about another world changer, Percy Spencer. You too can read about Mr. Spencer here: 5 Lessons from a World-Changer.

It’s a story about a man who had a chocolate bar melt in his pocket. Now he’s a world changer. Strange, that.

The thing is, Mr. Spencer’s reaction to the melted chocolate bar was to develop a device now present in most homes in our country, and indeed, many around the world. Yesterday’s coffee—the eye-opening potion I drink from my mug while I wait for a fresh pot to brew each morning—is steaming hot in seconds because of the microwave oven. My lunch of last night’s leftovers is a snap to prepare inside this electronic box. No muss, no fuss. Set the time, wait a few seconds, and eat the hot food.

World changer. He is that. Because of a melted chocolate bar, and his response to it. Read the article.

World changer. It’s a strange term.

We both love and hate world changers.

They are our heroes and our villains, our ideal and our reproach. They are always people who do big things in a big way that transform the pattern of life on this planet.

Or, are they?

We have been programmed in our day and age to accept the fact that some humans—a very small number of us—are world changers, stars if you will, while most are only extras, wandering the movie set in search of our opportunity to get an autograph or a selfie with one of these celebrities.

The programming is a lie.

I would suggest that I know no one who is not a world changer. Every one of the people I see as I walk downtown, through the park, around the university, and on the country roads is a world changer in their own right. And yes, all the people of Walmart are world changers.

I am a world changer.

You are, too.

I hope it makes you feel good. It did me—for a few seconds.

The reality is that none of us lives in a vacuum, a sterile environment where others are unaffected by our actions and our words. We change the world around us by reacting and responding, by speaking and acting, by turning away or by our involvement.

Every single word. Every single action. Potential world changing events.

Dramatic, isn’t it? I don’t intend it to be. Over the top, I mean.

But, if you will stop and think, all of history is an amalgamation of the results of words and actions, most of which the author thought insignificant as they were initiated, but some of which were premeditated to bring about the desired result.

Regardless of the intent, the world is constantly being changed by insignificant (and significant) choices, leading to action and to communication.

Oh. Now, I don’t feel so good.

I’m remembering some of the horrible words I’ve said. And, some of the despicable deeds I have committed.

What if those are the world changing footprints I am going to leave behind? What if they—or even, just one of them—become the thing for which I will be remembered?

Or worse, what if those vile actions and words convince just one person to abandon his or her search for God’s truth for their life? And that person convinces just one. And that person…

This being a world changer isn’t at all what I had hoped it would be! What a burden!

I wonder though.

He—the One we claim to follow—promised a light burden and an easy harness (Matthew 11:28-30). Perhaps, I make the task more difficult than it really is.

Are we not all then, world changers?

We are! Of this, there can be no doubt.

The reality is we are changed to bring change.

We reflect what has shined into us. The Light of the World cannot be overcome by the darkness. And, He has shined into our hearts, we who come to Him in faith.

Light, we are.

And salt.

World changers.

Using whatever tools He has placed in our hands, and whatever words He has put into our mouths, we are called to change forever the flavor and the beauty of the world through which we walk.

It’s okay to feel good about it.

Even if we’re only pushing a wheelbarrow filled with tools.

They will serve. To build roads.

To change the world.

We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why. Not until the future eats the present, anyway. We know when it’s too late.
(Stephen King)

You are the salt of the earth. But what good is salt if it has lost its flavor? Can you make it salty again? It will be thrown out and trampled underfoot as worthless. You are the light of the world—like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and then puts it under a basket. Instead, a lamp is placed on a stand, where it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father.
(Matthew 5:13-16, NLT)

Summer is Passing

August 7, 2017August 7, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Church was full this morning. Everyone sat a little closer together. Everyone sang a little louder. There were more hugs, and more laughter afterward.

It all makes me a little sad.

That didn’t come out right. Maybe, I should explain.

The church is full because the teachers and professors are returning from their summer travels, their mission trips, their expeditions to expand horizons in their own minds so they can do the same for their students.

Hmmm. I seem to be making it worse instead of better.

I want to be very clear. I like the teachers and professors. I really do. It’s just that if they’re coming back, the students can’t be far behind.

Oh. That’s no better either, is it?

I love the students coming back, too. Really, I do. They fill the place with life and joy—optimism, even.

Let me give this one more shot, okay?

Their return (both teachers and students) means summer is almost over. Even the weather this week belies the calendar. Temperate days and cool nights have descended and rain has come back.

Oh, I know the summer weather will return with a vengeance. It always does in late August and September.

But, the thought is planted in my head and I can’t shake it. Summer is passing; already it’s nearly past.

And somehow, I feel like Alice’s White Rabbit clutching a pocket watch and muttering, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late.”

I never did find out exactly what the nervous hare was worried about being tardy for, but still, I can’t help thinking I haven’t accomplished everything I should have.

I mentioned it to the Lovely Lady a few days ago and she reminded me of all we’ve done this summer. I listened to her list and I had to smile. We covered some ground—we did. But, I wanted to do more.

I suppose it will always be that way. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, as Mr. Browning explained so well. But, I fall short so often.

I wanted to do more—and better.

I think of all the time wasted believing it couldn’t be done. You know—it. Whatever the new thing in front of me was.

I’ve never done this before. What if I mess it up?

I stood underneath the new ceiling fan with my son-in-law this afternoon and I had to laugh. He was bemoaning the fact that he has no confidence in working with electrical wiring. If he did, he would have a fan hanging from his ceiling as quickly as you could say downdraft.

I did. I laughed.

Man, electricity is easy! That over there—that’s what frightens me silly.

I jabbed a finger at the kitchen floor I am currently trying to cover with vinyl tile.

I’m not exaggerating, nor am I bragging. We purchased the materials for the job weeks ago. I stood for hours staring at the bare sub-floor before I could bring myself to even open the first box of tile.

Hanging the ceiling fan took half an hour. Less.

Yeah, but that stuff won’t kill you. The electricity could.

I laugh at his logic. He is right.

I like being in control. I enjoy doing things which make me look good to the folks around me. The problem is God doesn’t always give me assignments with which I’m comfortable.

When I want to stand in front of folks and speak of things with which I’m familiar, He tells me to climb under the house and repair the plumbing.

When I would rather repair a guitar with buzzing strings, He assigns me to pray with the man who’s just lost his wife of sixty years.

We waste a lot of time wishing He’d give us something else to do. I know I do.

I spend my breath—the breath He put in my lungs—attempting to convince Him I could be so much more use to Him doing the same things I’ve always done.

Moses said, What if they don’t listen to me? And God replied, Who do you think determines if people listen? Or see? Or speak? I will give you the tools! Just go! (Exodus 4:10-13)

Here we are again at the small end of the year. The hours of daylight are getting shorter.

And still, I stand and argue my case.

How much time I’ve wasted.

Is there still time? Yes. With Sam Gamgee’s old dad, I’ve said it many times—where there’s life, there’s hope.

It’s just time to quit stalling.

Or, as we used to say in those ball games we played in empty fields at the end of days full of activity:

Get a move on! The light’s going!

With the thought that summer might be running out comes a renewed urgency. Not much time now. Falling leaves are just around the corner. Hot cocoa and all things pumpkin flavored.

To everything, there is a season.

I want to use the breath He gave me for the purposes He intended it for. Today.

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What’s that in your hand?

It’s time to use it. You might want to get a move on.

The light’s going.

We are not as strong as we think we are.
We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.
And, with these our hells and our heavens
So few inches apart,
We must be awfully small
And not as strong as we think we are.
(Rich Mullins ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1955-1997)

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.
(Ecclesiastes 9:10 ~ KJV)

Sometimes, I Like Surprises

August 4, 2017August 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The Lovely Lady saw it first. She usually does.

Look! A surprise lily!

By and large, it is not the season in our part of the country for brilliant blossoms on plants, the bountiful spring rains having mostly deserted us in this sweltering summertime heat. The ground is parched and crunchy—the latter being the sound the vegetation makes underfoot when one takes a shortcut through the yard.

But, sure enough, right near the driveway, where once there was a flower garden, the bare stem towers above the crunchy grass, gorgeous purple blooms standing proudly on top.

It is properly called a lycoris. We just call them surprise lilies, when we don’t call them naked ladies, the latter a description, not of anything risqué, but of the way the stem shoots up from the ground bare of any leaves whatsoever.

Every year they surprise me, although I can’t think why. Well, perhaps a reason or two will occur to me in time, but by now you’d think I’d simply mark my calendar. Late July and early August—like clockwork, you might say—the various-colored trumpets poke their heads out. Every year.

I would have told you it couldn’t happen this year.

Besides the dried up vegetation from the heat of the last few weeks and the lack of precipitation, which should have been enough to discourage their appearance, I did my part to guarantee this particular stand of lilies would never surprise me or anyone else, ever again.

I said they grew from the spot where once a garden grew. Twenty years ago the flower garden held a prominent place in that yard. It was tended by my father-in-law, who kept the encroaching weeds and volunteer trees— pin oaks, maples, and sweetgum, to name a sampling—from taking root where the roses and lilies resided.

Over the intervening years, the garden had become a tangled mess of weeds, vines, and trees, so we mowed them down. Not only that, the volunteer trees were lopped off at ground level to make it possible to keep them under control for the foreseeable future.

The flower garden was erased from the face of the earth. Literally. We thought.

To further ensure that the sneaky lilies never popped up unexpectedly again, although that wasn’t my express motivation, this past spring I spent hours with a mattock chopping out roots and stumps. The ground around was pulverized—torn up like a war zone.

No surprise lilies this year!

Boy, was I in for a surprise!

The exclamation was no sooner out of the Lovely Lady’s mouth than I headed over to see this miracle for myself. True, no more than a solitary array of blooms was visible, but I’ll wager tomorrow there will be three.

Out of the parched ground, covered in crunchy grass and weeds, the beauty from the hand of the Creator stands, proudly exclaiming its victory.

Victory over me. Well, victory over my doubt, anyway.

When all is dark and hopeless, light creeps in and taps us on the shoulder.

When all is dark and hopeless, light creeps in and taps us on the shoulder. Share on X

Surprise!

I’m remembering a road trip many years ago through the Gila National Forest in New Mexico. With the Lovely Lady and our youngsters, we had taken the scenic route after visiting Carlsbad Caverns on our trip west. I had hoped to be off of the winding two-lane road before dark, but we had lollygagged along for too many miles, as we admired and exclaimed about the beauty of creation.

With foreboding thoughts, I watched the hot summer sun dip toward the western horizon. We’d never reach the interstate highway before dark. Never.

Sure enough. We dipped into a valley as the sun dropped down on the western edge of the mountains. Dark.

Then, we started up the other side of the valley. I had no hope of seeing the sun again. Still, there it was—shining brightly—until we dropped down into another valley.

Each time we topped the next incline, the sun was there as if it had been in view all along. Broad daylight.

Every time we started down into another valley, it disappeared completely from view. Darkness surrounded us, just like night time.

Finally, we came onto a sort of plateau, up on top. In daylight, we saw the marking for the interstate highway up ahead. In daylight—still—we turned onto the four-lane and drove off into the sunset.

It was a surprise every time the sun appeared again, a pleasant one. I had been convinced we were staying in the dark for the rest of the curvy, two-lane road. Every time, I was convinced. I was wrong.

I like surprises. That kind of surprise, anyway.

But, here’s the thing. In very much the same way as I know the lilies in the front yard will pop up at the same time next year, I knew the sun was still there. I knew it.

Why was it such a surprise when the light shone on us again?

We let our dread overshadow the hope, the reality we know to be true.

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Time and again, we descend into the darkness, believing we’ll never rise above it, ever again.

Can I make you a promise? It’s not me standing behind the promise, but the Creator of all that is.

We who once lived in darkness are assured that the light—His light—will shine upon us. (Isaiah 9:2) It is a certainty.

He is our sun as well as our protection from danger and is giving us every good thing constantly. (Psalm 84:11)

Why so surprised?

It’s almost as if we’ve come to expect darkness and gloom.

But, in the darkest night, with the storm raging, His light guides and He gives peace. Still.

With a word, He calms the storms. Still.

He who was before time began hasn’t lost any of His power. He still holds all of creation together. (Colossians 1:17)

Right down to those surprise lilies.

Right down to surprising us with light—precisely when we need it.

I like surprises.

You?

Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord, who rises
With healing in His wings:
When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
to cheer it after rain.
(William Cowper ~ English poet ~ 1731-1800)

Living in the Light

August 2, 2017August 2, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The ghosts in the old house have been disturbed and are keeping me awake.

No, not like the ghosts of movie fame—nor even poltergeists or apparitions in chains. I mean those people who once were part of my life, but who only live here now in my memory.

Sometimes I wonder if I have awakened them, causing them, in turn, to interrupt my own sleep. It’s only a thought, of course, not borne out by facts.

Still. Here I am—awake.

I wrote of old light fixtures being made new to shine brightly the last time I shared my thoughts here. Since then, something’s been niggling at the edges of my mind. And, it’s not just the ghosts—although they have a good deal to do with it, truth be told.

I sat at a table in a restaurant with my children tonight, both adults, long since. Showing them photos of the light fixtures we are putting back up in the house their grandparents lived in for most of their lives, I expected my offspring to exclaim about their memories of the fixtures.

They didn’t. Not at all.

I couldn’t have told you that was on the ceiling in that house, Dad.

The other one nodded his head.

Never saw it.

How is that possible?

Many hours of their childhood were spent in that house. They played. They worked. They ate. Surely, in all that time, those light fixtures were powered up and the light shone from them. Surely.

I know it was so. On any number of occasions, as we pulled into the drive to visit, the light blazed out from the windows, welcoming us in from the dark.

How could they not have noticed the fixtures?

As I consider the issue, a light begins to glimmer in my own brain. In a moment, the notion is blazing as brightly as any of those ceiling lights ever did.

You see, on the first few occasions the light switch is turned on, if a fixture is particularly attractive, folks might notice and, perhaps, even be overwhelmed with the beauty. But, after the process is repeated day after day, night after night—for weeks, months, years even—we forget about the light fixture on the ceiling and simply live in the light.

We simply live in the light.

We don’t see the implement anymore.

We see only what is produced. The thing necessary for life—light—fills the house. Absolutely fills it.

And, that’s as should be.

It is true in more than just our physical, everyday needs. The light we require for our faith life is very much the same in the way it works.

We are, indeed called to shine. But, the purpose is that the watching world will see (and praise), not us, but the God who shines through us. (Matthew 5:16)

John—the one also called the Baptist, said it succinctly: He must increase and I must decrease. (John 3:30)

In the old house we’re taking the light fixtures which have kept the shadows at bay for the generation past, and are doing what is necessary to keep the shadows away for the generations in the future.

The same is true for the spirit life of our families and fellowships. Saints of old, faithful in walking with the Savior, have lit the way for successive generations. We can do no less than take up the same light and share it into the future.

Light from the past, shining into the future.

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We’ll leave the light on for you.

It’s not an original thought, and others before us have actually made the promise and kept it. To do the same will take a lifetime of faithfulness from us.

A lifetime.

It’s time we were started.

Flip the light switch!

Live in the light.

Lighthouses don’t fire cannons to call attention to their shining—they just shine.
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist ~ 1837-1899)

And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light. The nations will walk in its light, and the kings of the world will enter the city in all their glory.
(Revelation 21:23-24 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Of Advent—and Spit

December 5, 2016December 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Oh, that’s just gross! Why do you guys have to do that on the floor?

It was about this time of year, a few years past.

My little brass group had just finished practicing and were quickly moving our chairs and stands off the stage. The choir had a rehearsal scheduled right after us and we wanted to be out of their way. The young man speaking was one of several moving equipment back into the space we were vacating.

I looked at the floor, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Quizzically, I looked at the young man.

He gestured in a wide circle, indicating spots of liquid standing in close proximity to where the chairs had been moments ago.

“This—this—spit! What is it with brass players?”

He shuddered once for effect and turned away without waiting for an answer. The instrumentalists around me who had heard the exchange laughed, a condescending dismissal of the young vocalist’s squeamishness.

Yes. I want to talk about spit.

It’s a conversation I’ve been waiting to have for many years.

No one has ever wanted to discuss the matter with me. I wonder why that is.

Perhaps, I should begin by explaining the liquid which is left on the stage when wind players complete their performances or rehearsals. The liquid is not spit.

That’s right. Not spit.

It’s merely condensation. It’s what occurs when you blow warm, moist air into a cold metal tube. Almost exactly what happens when you enter a cold automobile on a winter’s evening. The windows fog up. Do you call that moisture on the windshield spit? Of course not.

So. The irate young man was wrong. Only condensation—not spit.

But still, I would like to talk about spit.

On a day in the music store not long ago, a mother stood with her brood of children, awaiting her turn at the checkout. She looked down at the oldest of the four urchins and noticed a black mark on his cheek.

Without hesitation, she licked her thumb and rubbed his skin. The black mark didn’t disappear, but it was less noticeable than before.

The same couldn’t be said for the young man’s indignation.

“Did you just put spit on my face?” He sputtered in his frustration. “Why would you do that?”

The mother’s attempt at an explanation was only met with more disgust, and the young man stalked out to the parking lot to await his family in solitude. He turned his face to glare back at the group as he exited. The black mark was still there—smudged, but very much in evidence.

My mind goes back again.

I remember hearing the story when I was a child, not much older than that indignant young man. You may find it in the book of John in the Bible. (John 9)

The blind man stood, as he always had, waiting for something. Something. But, he didn’t know what it was he awaited.

He had always been blind. From the day he had arrived, squalling and screaming, light had never passed from his eyes to his brain. Never.

He didn’t ask for anything. He just waited.

The Teacher let His followers argue the existential questions for a moment or two. Why? Who? How?

They were the wrong questions.

Jesus had been sent to bring light to the world. Here was His big opportunity.

Time to impress with big words and ostentatious prayers. He would wave His hands in the air and—Wait! What is He doing?

He spit in the dirt.

Spit. In the dirt.

Then He mixed up some mud and, hands filled with the gross mixture, stood and slathered the slimy stuff on the blind man’s unseeing eyes.

“Did you just spit in my eyes?”

The words aren’t recorded, but one wonders. Did the man hear the Teacher spit on the ground? His ears, acutely trained to be his guide since he had no eyes, must have heard. They must have detected the sound of dirt being mixed with the spit, and then recognized the rustle of robes, as the Master stood again.

Did he back away, putting his hand up to keep the ghastly stuff off of him?

No. He stood, listening to the Man speak, giving His instructions. He went, still blind, and washed the mud from his eyes.

What an astounding result!

Light, pure and clear, streamed through the once useless orbs. Familiar voices spoke to him and, for the first time in his life, he put faces with the voices.

He saw his home! And his family!

Light shone in darkness—just not in the way anyone would ever have anticipated.

Spit. What a gross thing!

Why would Jesus have used spit, of all things?

I have no answer.

I do know this. We who believe are even now in the time of year we call Advent.

Waiting.

Waiting for the Salvation of God to appear.

Just a warning. It won’t be pretty.

Or sanitary.

Not even a little sanitary.

A baby will be born in a barn, among the filth and stench. Dirty shepherds will come, not clean and freshly bathed, but straight from the dust and filth of caring for their livestock. Stinking and crusted with grime.

The end of the story won’t be any more sanitary. Bloody and sweat-covered, nailed to a cross of wood, He will die.

It won’t be pretty. It won’t be romantic. It won’t smell good, with aromatic candles fluttering in the breeze.

The little boy in my store didn’t understand that his mom wanted only for him to be clean. All he saw was the spit.

I wonder. We’re waiting.

With the blind man, we’re waiting—for light.

It might not be as pretty as we’d like. Perhaps not as dramatic, either.

A baby who is born in a barn can’t be all that powerful, can He?

His light comes softly, and in unexpected ways.

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I think I’ll stand here and wait.

You?

We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

…but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong, and the base things of the world and the despised God has chosen,the things that are not, so that He may nullify the things that are, so that no man may boast before God. But by His doing you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, and righteousness and sanctification, and redemption, so that, just as it is written, “Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord.”
(1 Corinthians 1:27-31 ~ NASB)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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