Treasure in the Dumpster

July 4, 2017July 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I usually punch the snooze button on my alarm once—maybe twice. Okay. Three times.

Not today.

The noises outside my second-story window had been going for awhile. You know how sounds creep into your slumber, disturbing your dreams, especially in the moments just before the alarm begins to sound.

As I reached for the alarm button, a clatter from the dumpster reached my ear.

I got up.

I stood at my upstairs bedroom window and watched the shirtless man for some time. The dumpster had been almost full—or so I had thought.

He had stirred through the entire container, moving the larger items from the top to the bottom and around the sides. By the time I was aware of his presence, he was standing on the bottom of the dumpster, just like Moses in the middle of the Red Sea, with the mountains of debris piled up on either side.

Items (my trash!) he wanted to keep were carefully balanced around the edges of the steel container.

I decided I wouldn’t interfere with the man’s treasure hunt. I hadn’t wanted the items. Why should I keep him from taking whatever he thought he could use or profit from?

Treasures from trash.

The concept hasn’t left my head all day.

Trash. Treasures.

It’s nothing new. We don’t even have to say the entire maxim and most will finish the thought. One man’s trash. . .

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

The underlying premise is that one is no better than the other.

I have no intention of demeaning the homeless man foraging in my dumpster. He is doing what he knows to do to provide for himself.

Additionally, I have no desire to point a finger at any person, comparing them to others for the reader to make a judgment of character.

It’s just that I know something of dumpster diving.

I don’t know quite how to put it. Well, yes, I do. It won’t make some people happy.

The truth is like that.

I know two things about looking for treasures in the trash bin:

1. Even if useful items may sometimes be found in the trash, most of the time, there’s nothing but trash to be found.

2. If one digs for treasures in the trash long enough, eventually that person begins to forget that it’s trash they’re digging through.

It will most likely become evident soon—if it hasn’t already occurred to the reader—that I’m not really that concerned with dumpsters and the practice of digging through the ubiquitous receptacles.

There are some who spend their lives dredging through the garbage. Their lives and hearts are filled with the stench.

And still, they dive in.

A friend, many years ago, regaled me with the story of his sister-in-law and her experience at the local casino.

The first time—the very first time—she entered the casino, against her better judgment and at the urging of her friends, she won a large sum of money while gambling.

Willingly, eagerly, she returned to the gaudy, glitzy place again and again, certain she would find treasure once more at its tables. She never did. Even if she had, the losses could never have been surpassed by her gains.

There was never treasure to be found there—never more than false promises and empty hopes.

Still trash.

As to the second point, I can’t help but think of the Tolkien character of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings. He had lived in the dark and stinking places of the world for so long that when he, starving and weak, was offered the delicate cake of the elves’ lembas, he choked on it and called it ashes.

Ashes.

As I write this, in the wee hours of the night, the sun will be rising soon on another Independence Day in the United States. I’m saddened by what I see in the hearts of many in our country, even in my little town, and I have to wonder, what do we have to celebrate this July 4th?

We, and I include most folks I know—Christians and otherwise, liberals and conservatives, politically active and indifferent—seem to revel in the trash pile. We delight in all that is negative and hateful, dredging it up again and again, in whatever form we find it in the garbage container, only to throw it in the faces of our used-to-be friends and acquaintances.

It almost seems we believe this is how we were meant to live.

It wasn’t.

It isn’t.

In our interactions with others, we must—absolutely must—rise above the garbage and restore community. If we don’t, our country is lost, I fear.

And yet, there is an even more essential element to this conversation.

The Teacher, imploring His followers to set their affections on more important things, warned against the garbage.

Where the source of your treasure is located, your heart by nature will turn to. (Matthew 6:21)

If we do things the way we’ve always done them, the result will always be the same.

Every time.

Soon after that astounding Day of Pentecost, the disciples Peter and John were going to the temple to worship. A lame man sat there, in the place he had sat every day for as long as he could remember. It was all he knew, this detestable begging for his living. And yet, as the two men passed him, he looked at them, expecting nothing more than a few pennies to extend his unhappy misery an hour or two more.

Peter looked at him and said, “It’s time you stopped dumpster diving.”

Well, that’s not really what he said. What he told the lame man was that they had no money. I assume the disappointed man would have turned his eyes toward the next party approaching. Well? He wasn’t going to get what he needed here. Why shouldn’t he?

We have no silver, nor do we have any gold. Here’s the thing: What we do have, we’re going to give to you. Get up. Walk with us into the temple to worship. (Acts 3:6)

You know, there’s no treasure in any dumpster worth more than what God offers every single one of us.

His Grace and mercy will lift us out of whatever garbage receptacle we’ve been digging through to find our worth.

His love reaches down right where we’re searching, whether ankle deep or neck deep in refuse.

He sets us in higher places.

He sets us in higher places. Share on X

Higher.

It’s time to stop hoarding trash that looks like treasure to us.

It’s time to begin storing away the real thing.

In a place it will be safe.

In a place where we’ll be safe.

It’s time.

I lived through the garbage. I might as well dine on caviar.
(Beverly Sills ~ American opera singer ~ 1929-2007)

Why spend your money on food that does not give you strength?
Why pay for food that does you no good?
Listen to me, and you will eat what is good.
You will enjoy the finest food.

“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord.
    “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.
For just as the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so my ways are higher than your ways
    and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.
(Isaiah 55:2, 8-9 ~ NLT)

On the Mezzanine

February 14, 2017February 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I remember that mezzanine.

Tears do that, you know. Remind you.

And they fall, unbidden. We don’t want them to; they just come.

So, with the salty liquid running down my cheeks I remember that day, now over thirty-five years ago.

Visiting my folks in my childhood home, I agreed to ride along with my old friend as he made his sales rounds one summer afternoon.

We stopped by a produce warehouse, a corrugated metal structure where they prepared vegetables for shipment to various marketplaces. The building my friend entered was the onion operation. Right outside the metal building—by the truckloads—the dirty yellowish bulbs had been hauled from the fields and were dumped onto the conveyor lines that would carry them though the process.

The process would change them dramatically. On that summer afternoon long ago, it would change me, too.

From a filthy orb with roots hanging off one end and stem jutting out of the other, to a beautiful shiny sphere just waiting to be sliced, battered, and deep fried—turning out the most delicious tasting snack you could ask for—the transformation was radical.

But, you ask, what about the mezzanine? Where are the tears?

I’m getting there. Soon, there would more than enough tears to last a man a lifetime.

I hung back in the factory while my friend talked with his contact there. In just a moment though, he was beckoning with his hand for me to follow him on into the plant. He explained that he needed to check the stock levels for the products he provided to the company.

As I prepared to follow him up a steel staircase, he gave me a hint—just a hint—about what was to come.

You’ll want to stay close. Don’t worry, I won’t walk away from you.

Stay close? Why would I need him near? I snickered. As if I needed someone to hold my hand climbing up some stairs.

As if.

That was before the tears.

The stairs led to a mezzanine made of steel beams covered by a steel grate that served as a floor surface.

Right. Above. The. Production. Line.

Let it sink in for a moment. We walked above the line where the onions were washed. Where the roots were sliced off. Where the stems were removed. The round veggies banged and battered each other as they collided all along the conveyor.

Think about the strongest onion you ever sliced into and multiply it a few thousand times.

I couldn’t see a thing. It was a good thing my friend stayed near. It was as if I had been struck blind in seconds. The terror was nearly instantaneous. There is no other word to describe what I felt.

Shaking, I held onto his shoulder all the way across the mezzanine and back down the stairs.

Did you know the chemical in onions that makes you cry is the very same component that lends the edgy flavor which livens up so many dishes?

This seems a strange thing to write about on a day when we talk about love, doesn’t it?

Be my valentine.

Roses and chocolates.

Diamonds and gold.

Love is more than the fluff.

Not less. More.

Spicy and playful. Stinking and bitter.

Laughing. Crying.

To get through it, we have to stay close.

Love is more than the fluff. To get through it, we have to stay close Share on X

Standing on the mezzanine of life, we stay close to the ones we love.

And, they are there.

He promised that, too—the One who gave His lifeblood to show us the way.

I’ll be with you always. Even though the world around you disintegrates, I’ll be there. (Matthew 28:20)

He’s a Promise-keeper.

You’ll want to stay close. He won’t walk away.

He won’t.

Life is like an onion; you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.
(Carl Sandburg ~ American writer/poet ~ 1878-1967)

Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.
Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you.
I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.
(Isaiah 41:10 ~ NLT)

Parenthesis Closed

February 7, 2017February 7, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

Three of these things belong together.
Three of these things are kind of the same.

From childhood, we learn it. Things that are similar belong together. Even educational television programs teach the concept. Things that do their own thing don’t belong.

From our youth, we have followed the theory.

Somehow, we misunderstood the idea. With disastrous results, we misunderstood, thinking it could mean people, when it only meant things.

A subset.

That was the word he used. Subset.

It was the night of the Super Bowl. I don’t live for sports, but it seemed to be the thing to do, so I watched the game. Exciting action. Really.

I didn’t watch the halftime of the game. I had work that needed to be done before I went to bed that night. I said as much. But, I also made the mistake of posting a comment that seemed to denigrate the halftime entertainment. It was intended to be a comment about the hype leading up to the act, but several took it as criticism of the entertainer herself. And, as could be expected, there were a few folk who echoed the inferred slight.

Then one friend, who held a different viewpoint, entered the conversation. Not understanding, nor agreeing with, the direction the comments had taken, he suggested that I and my other friends were an interesting subset of our society.

We’re still friends. He didn’t mean it to be an insult and said so, apologizing. I believe him. He is my friend.

And yet, I’m concerned.

A subset?

Really?

What if he’s right?

The big thing in our culture right now is to find your tribe. Writers. Artists. Musicians. Professionals. Gamers.

Like the folks in the television bar, Cheers, we want to be where everybody knows our name.

So we really are subsets. We gather in groups where we have things in common. We don’t waste time on those who don’t fit the pattern.

Oh, I know the gurus insisting we need a tribe add the thought that we need diversity, but what they mean is we’ll accept diversity in non-essential aspects. Just as long as folks pass the litmus tests for the really important things we stand for.

Tribes. Subsets.

I remember learning a concept when I was very young. It was one of the most effective principles in winning any game.

Centuries old, the phrase was known before the time of Christ.

Divide et impera. Divide and rule. Commonly, we quote it as Divide and conquer.

The concept assumes the invading enemy, the power that intends to rule, will divide those it has come to war against.

In our day, we who claim to be followers of Christ, have made it our duty—yes, our duty—to do the deed for the enemy ourselves.

Subsets. Closed.

Liberal believers write oceans of words condemning the evangelical church to hell for abandoning the poor and downtrodden. Conservative believers publish scathing papers trashing anyone who could consider homosexuals as part of the Body, and denying the possibility of salvation to anyone who would support abortion.

Tribes. Locked in battle.

I have asked the question before, thinking about a different situation, but I ask it again now: Does God cry?

Do you suppose this would be enough to bring tears to His eyes? Is He weeping over us today, as His Son did over Jerusalem? (Luke 19:41)

I’m no mathematician. I don’t understand sets and subsets.

This I do know: God never closed the equation.

If X = (Recipient of God’s grace), then X = (Anyone

Let anyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who desires drink freely from the water of life. (Revel ation 22:17b)

It may be bad mathematics, but it is seriously good grace.

It may be bad mathematics, but it is seriously good grace. Share on X

Every tribe. Every nation. Every language. Every people group. (Revelation 7:9)

All of these things belong together…

What a gathering!

It’s time to break out of our subsets.

Who’s going over the wall with me?

I am in them and You are in me. May they experience such perfect unity that the world will know that You sent me and that You love them as much as You love me.
(John 17:23 ~ NLT)

In real life, I assure, there is no such thing as algebra.
(Fran Lebowitz ~ American author/public speaker)

Lightly Tread

February 3, 2017February 3, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Ahhh! I slide my sore feet out of the leather shoes—the best moment in my day. As I revel in the relief, a rhyme flashes through my thoughts, and I laugh.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free.

What? You don’t think that’s funny?

I suppose, in the poisoned political climate of the last several days and weeks in our once-great country, it might be a private joke I should keep to myself—my daily introduction of my feet to freedom from their leather prisons.

But, as I sit in the old oak office chair and gaze at my stocking feet and the shoes on the floor beside them, I hear other words.

Take off your shoes, Moses. You’re standing on holy ground. (Exodus 3:5)

I wonder where that came from.

No, I know where it came from originally. Few of us have not heard the story of Moses and his burning bush at Mount Sinai. Well, I call it his, but there is no question the bush belonged to God—as did the flame that engulfed it and yet didn’t burn it up.

Still, I don’t know what that ancient story has to do with me—or you—today. All I did was take off my shoes.

Taking off our shoes doesn’t make the ground holy. There, in that desolate place, that mountain in the solitary desert, it wasn’t even the bush afire that made the ground holy.

There was one thing that made that place holy. One thing.

God was there.

Where God is, the expectation is that we will act in a different manner. Pride, arrogance, wickedness—all are shed and left behind.

We tread lightly on holy ground.

We tread lightly on holy ground. Share on X

Some friends of mine wrote a song a few years ago that is sung across the world today. It speaks of the air in our lungs and where it comes from.

It’s Your breath in our lungs,
So we pour out our praise.

The realization that we are dependent on our Creator for even the air that we breathe requires that we must offer it back to Him in praise.

How is it any different with the earth we stand upon? The food we eat? The clothes on our backs?

I claim to be a follower of Emmanuel. His Spirit lives in all who believe in Him.

God With Us.

Holy Ground. Everywhere you can see. Holy Ground.

It is clear we don’t believe that. Crystal clear.

We seem more like adherents to the Church of Nancy Sinatra.

These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do.
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.

Don’t believe it? Read a newspaper. Turn on the television news. Click on the so-called social media. I know; it seems more like anti-social media these days.

I could cite example after example of friends and acquaintances—believers, every one—who think nothing of tearing down fellow believers, demeaning and questioning their relationship with God because their understanding of the Word is different.

Ah. But, let me say this:

All we have to do is turn our faces away from the ugliness of mankind and look into the face of God.

And, take our shoes off.

It’s His dirt under our feet.

His.

I think I’ll walk barefoot for awhile.

Maybe, you’d like to walk beside me.

Turn your face away from the ugliness of mankind and look into the face of God. Share on X

It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
To You only

All the earth will shout
Your praise
Our hearts will cry
These bones will sing
Great are You, Lord
(from Great Are You Lord ~ Ingram/Leonard/Jordan ~ American songwriters)

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” Cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breath free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”
(From The New Collossus by Emma Lazurus ~ American poet ~ 1849-1887)

We’ll Say We Did

January 24, 2017January 24, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Let’s not and say we did.

It was just the other day. Someone suggested he and I should run in a long race a few months from now. I didn’t take to the suggestion all that well.

Still, I’d like for folks to think I could.

The words came from my mouth without thought.

Let’s not and say we did.

I’m thinking about the words tonight. Truth be told, I thought about them last night, too.

For most of the night.

With one of the Elders of my fellowship, I sat in the church library during the late morning service on Sunday. As a member of the worship team, I had already attended the early service, listening attentively to the pastor’s words. This time, as he preached again, I would relax in comfort and await my cue to go back in for the final song.

I thought that is what I would do. Relaxing isn’t how I would describe the next half hour.

She didn’t look like she belonged in church.

We don’t have a dress code—no one expects what we used to call our Sunday best, but her clothes were different in other ways. Mismatched and fitting her badly, it had been a long time since they had been on the rack in a department store. There were other physical attributes that reinforced the idea that she hadn’t come to sit with the other worshipers in the service.

“I need to get some help. Are you guys the deacons?”

She sat down and filled the air with words and the smell of stale tobacco. We asked a question or two, but she did most of the talking. No home. Living in a motel with her children. Poor health. Bad luck. No money.

I was happy to notice the pastor was on his last point in the sermon. It was my get-out-of-jail-free card.

“I’ve got to go sing.”

Done. Free.

She’s somebody else’s problem now. I’m so happy our church will help her in some way. So happy.

But. . .

I say I follow God.

Let’s not and say we did.

When I take the easy way out, I make my testimony of following God a lie.

When we take the easy way out, we make our claim of following God a lie. Share on X

I know I should tread lightly here. That’s what my head tells me. It would be more comfortable that way. For me, as well as for those reading this.

Comfortable isn’t how God always works. Jesus, as He addressed His followers, didn’t ease up to give them a way of escape.

They didn’t get a pass because they were in the choir.

Paying their taxes to the government didn’t offer any relief for His command.

Putting their money in the offering plate at church didn’t alleviate one scintilla of their responsibility.

He didn’t give instructions to the church leaders lurking nearby to start a food pantry.

He didn’t direct words to the government officials in the area to offer a relief program financed with taxes.

With the clarity and plain words of a teacher in the guise of a practiced storyteller, He made it clear that every person has a responsibility to those in need around us. Every single person.

He looked down through the centuries, straight at us and told us to care for their needs as we would if visited by God Himself. (Matthew 25: 40, 45)

Let’s not and say we did.

Oh! I would never!

But, we do.

Every time we suggest that government programs fulfill God’s command, we say it.

Every time we breathe a sigh of relief that the benevolence fund at our church fellowship is available for just such people, we tell the lie.

You know—running thirteen miles would be uncomfortable for me. I’m not going to tell you I did it if I didn’t.

In the same way, I don’t want to claim to be a follower of Jesus, yet refuse to do what He asks me to do to even the least of His sisters and brothers.

But, I have done it before. You?

It’s time to stop lying.

To ourselves and to each other.

And, to Him.

Charity never humiliated him who profited from it, nor ever bound him by the chains of gratitude, since it was not to him but to God that the gift was made.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupery ~ French pilot/author ~ 1900-1944)

Those who say they live in God should live their lives as Jesus did.
(1 John 2:6 ~ NLT)

Only What’s Mine

November 30, 2016November 30, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

The preacher came to check on me today. His brother passed away last week, but he came to check on me.

He’s not my pastor. Well, what I mean is, he’s not the man who is the pastor of the fellowship where I attend services. My pastor checks on me too, but I’m not writing about him today.

The preacher came to visit me because he owes me. That’s the way he sees it anyway. It’s his way of paying a debt.

Did you know that on the worst day of his life, Jesus stopped to help a fellow who was just doing his job—and also having a bad day?

Jesus was being arrested, said arrest to be followed by a mock trial and, soon after, a very real execution. Yet, He stopped everything to make life easier for a man He had likely never even seen. (Luke 22:50,51)

He, who was about to die, stopped to heal a slave’s ear.

I marvel at the capacity to love. But, I have seen it again and again. The human heart, pummeled and battered by loss and sorrow, beats the stronger for those around who also hurt.

Did I say the preacher is paying a debt?

It’s a debt we all owe, one that will not go unsettled.

The Apostle, in giving instructions about temporal matters, gave us the words we must live by. The one debt we will carry throughout our whole lives is the debt to each other—to love one another. (Romans 13:8)

We love—because He loved us first.

And yet, I had other things to speak of with my friend. You see, I am struggling with many things right now, things I don’t want to accept.

There are people I love making choices I would change for them if I could. I’m sure if I could just lend them a bit of my brilliance, they’d understand and repent of their error.

And, as I suggest that to him, I suddenly remember that I don’t have a mandate to change people.

Lamely, I say the words: I guess that isn’t mine to fix, is it?

He smiles. But, as he smiles, he remembers why he stopped by. I’ve gotten him off track. He knows I’m still unhappy—perhaps even a little angry—at God for the changes which are being made in my life right now.

Looking around the music store where he sits, he waves his hand in a circle and asks a question I really don’t like.

Is this yours?

I don’t like the question because I know the answer. You do too, don’t you?

I smile, a faux-smile if ever there was one. I give him the right answer, the answer I know he wants to hear. I don’t grit my teeth as I say it, even though it is all I can do not to.

No. Not mine.

And then he is gone. He leaves me standing in the doorway of a music store that soon won’t be.

Worse than that, he leaves me with a revelation I didn’t want and never asked him for.

I only want what’s mine!

I’ve sulked all day.

I cleaned my French horn in preparation for upcoming events and the pride I have taken in the beautiful instrument dimmed as I realized it’s not mine.

After I closed the music store (still not mine) for the day, I climbed up into the driver’s seat of my pickup truck and thought, as I turned the key, this isn’t mine.

I helped the Lovely Lady clean up after supper and as a sparkling kitchen reappeared, I realized that none of the beautiful little home is mine.

I only want what’s mine.

I’ve been sitting here moping about what I’ve lost on this day of revelation, thanks to the preacher. I’ve come to a conclusion.

If I can lose it, it was never mine. Never.

If I can lose it, it was never mine. Never. Share on X

You might think it would be a sad realization. It’s not.

The freedom that comes from knowing what is mine and what isn’t is life changing. If my treasure is bound up in things which can be taken from me, I am the poorest man you’ll ever meet.

I’m not a poor man.

I only want what is mine.

Faith is mine.

Hope is mine.

Love is mine.

There are more things to add to the list. Gifts, every one of them—given by the Giver of all good things. They are things that can never be taken from us. And, in the words of that great theologian, Casey Stengel, you could look it up. (1 Corinthians 12)

We’re told that the greatest of these gifts is love. The more I consider it, the more certain I am it is true.

Funny, isn’t it? If we can lose it, it isn’t ours, and yet we’re told we must give away love.

So, is love ours or not?

Most decidedly, love is ours. You know what makes love the greatest gift? The more you give it away, the more there is to give away.

The more we give love away, the more of it there is to give away. Share on X

God has poured His love into our hearts in a never-ending stream. It should be pouring out in the same manner. (Romans 5:5)

I’m thinking that wealth which can’t be stolen or misplaced is worth more than any treasure trove to be found on this planet.

And, we get to give it away and keep it, too.

Funny. I still only want what’s mine.

And, like my preacher friend, I want to give it away.

Again and again.

Give it away.

Spread love everywhere you go; let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier.
(Mother Teresa ~ Albanian/Indian nun & missionary ~ 1910-1997)

Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.
(1 Corinthians 13:13 ~ NLT)

Say the Words

November 17, 2016November 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

How was I supposed to know?

Perhaps they could wear signs. Cautionary words are always helpful.

Warning! Traumatic life event in progress!

That should do it. Now, there’ll be no untimely jests—no teasing sales pitches—no words to regret, as my friend walks away minutes from now. Give me a heads up; I’ll take it from there.

But, life’s not like that, is it?

No signs. No colored lights—green, yellow, and red—to keep us out of the danger zone. We’re on our own.

Or, are we? On our own, I mean. We’re not really. Those of us who are students of the Word, followers of Jesus, have already spent a lifetime in training.

Everything—every single thing—we have learned of following Him, has been to prepare us for the relational interactions we will have on every day of the time we have on this earth.

Love God. Love people.

Doing the first teaches us to do the second. More than that, choosing to fulfill the former gives us no option but to fulfill the latter.

Loving God gives us no option but to love people. All people. Share on X

Love is kind. (1 Corinthians 13:4)

Always.

Always—Love is kind.

The young man came in a few days ago, with his sweet wife and well-mannered children. I have known him for many years now, a relationship developed through his pursuit of becoming a musician. He was a boy when first I sold him a guitar.

That was several instruments and many additional accessories ago. On this day, I would break the news that our business relationship of many years is about to end. I didn’t like doing it, but I owed it to him.

As others have done, he reacted strongly, but perhaps, a bit more emotionally than I expected. The face that turned to me suddenly was covered with sadness, his eyes almost grief-stricken.

Almost without thinking, I reminded him that, as with all of my life, I trusted a God who had proven Himself trustworthy. For some reason, it seemed important to me to reiterate this truth I am convinced of.

“God didn’t bring us here just to walk away from us. He’s still got good things ahead. Good things.”

A short time later, as he and his family walked out the door, he stuck out his big, strong hand and held my slender one in that familiar strong, almost painful, grip. It’s happened many times before. Then, smiling at me, he walked out with his family, not saying another word.

If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was afraid to say anything else because he didn’t want tears to come. No. That couldn’t have been it.

I was busy with another customer when he came back the next day. Maybe, it was a good thing. He asked the Lovely Lady to give me a message.

It seems he had received news on the previous day, right before I had seen him, that a young friend had died a horrible death. He was overwhelmed.

He told the Lovely Lady to relay to me the message that the words I had said on that afternoon had been exactly what he and his wife needed. Exactly the message that would give comfort and hope, not regarding my temporary inconvenience, but for the very real pain they were already experiencing. They had left my store that day with renewed hope—renewed courage.

Even since that day, the number of folks who have shared their pain at losing loved ones has multiplied. A lady whose father died and left her with no opportunity to attain closure of a tragic situation. A man who doesn’t know how to comfort his teenage daughter after the death of his wife, her mother, less than a month ago. The father whose son died suddenly. The grandfather who will never go horseback riding with his grandson again.

The list goes on. And on. And on.

And suddenly it occurs to me—we don’t need the warning signs I wished for. No words of explanation are ever necessary for us to know who needs help.

We are all members of a fallen race. Every one of us carries our pain around inside. No one escapes the pain. It is our birthright.

We all need help. And, kind words.

And yet, we who carry this pain and horror inside have been called to be ministers of healing and ministers of grace. It is who we must be.

We, who carry this pain, are called to be ministers of healing to others who carry pain. It is who we must be. Share on X

Comfort ye. Comfort ye my people. (Isaiah 40:1) God said the words to Isaiah centuries before our Savior came. The message he carried was of comfort and hope.

And, what a hope!

At the end of your waiting on God, you will regain your strength and your resolve. You who are now weary and defeated will rise up on wings of eagles. (Isaiah 40:30,31)

We who follow Jesus carry the same message.

Perhaps, it’s time for us to deliver it.

We already know who the message is for.

Say the words.

He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.
(2 Corinthians 1:4 ~ NLT)

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.
O, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; it is in dying that we are born again to eternal life.
(Francis of Assisi ~ Catholic Friar ~ 1181-1226)

Good News. Bad News.

October 19, 2016October 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Rejoice with those who rejoice.

As I sat not writing at my keyboard a couple of nights ago, I received the message. The young man at the other end had just received good news. He had to tell someone.

It didn’t matter that it was after midnight. A light had blazed into his darkness and he needed to share the wonder.

I read the words and, even though I couldn’t actually see him, saw the smile that had spread across his face.

I messaged him back. I‘m smiling with you.

I’m smiling as I think about his news, even now.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled. Rejoice with those who rejoice. Share on X

I always want to rejoice with folks who are rejoicing. Except when I don’t.

Yeah. You know what I mean, don’t you?

I was in the middle of a good pout when the young man’s message arrived the other night. I’ve been in the middle of the pout for awhile now. Call it what you want—depressed, sad, unhappy, disappointed—it’s still a pout.

Things aren’t going the way I want. Perhaps more to the point, life isn’t working out the way I’d planned. It seems the road map I was following was a little flawed.

Sometimes, when your soul feels heavy and is burdened down, you simply want to be left alone with your misery. And yet, when that beam of light shines into your darkness, the reaction is automatic and instantaneous.

I stood in the light with the joyful young man and I smiled.

Joy spills over.

It does. But sometimes the beam of light is short-lived and the joy fades into the gloom of disappointment once more.

I sat with another young man this afternoon and unburdened my soul. I thought he needed to know—and oddly enough, he seemed to want to know—what I was feeling. Tears were in my eyes when I looked up again. Looking into his eyes, I saw tears in them, too.

Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

Do you understand the power in those words?

I do. Now.

I looked at his tears and was reminded that it hasn’t been many months since his tears were shed over the tiny body of a still-born baby. He (and his sweet wife) are grieving still and will for years to come. We spoke of that also and the tears came again.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened. Weep with those who weep. Share on X

The day will come when we will celebrate the end to all sorrows and disappointments. No more separation. No more loss. No more death.

The day will come. It’s not here yet.

Today, we walk this world of mixed joys and regrets, victories and defeats. Our celebrations are tempered with foreboding of dark times yet to come.

I wonder.

The Teacher instructed His followers to walk in love for each other and promised that, as a consequence, they would give witness of His great love to a watching world. (John 13:34,35)

Surely He intended that to be done in the center of the world’s marketplace and not only in their cloistered meeting places.

He never suggested it would be the rule in mortuaries, but not on the street corners.

If it is to be witnessed, it must be done in public places.

We rejoice. We grieve.

Fellowship along both paths touches our spirits with His love.

Tonight, I’m smiling.

Through tears.

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being.
(Albert Schweitzer ~ French-German theologian ~ 1875-1965)

For everything there is a season,
a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance.
(Ecclesiastes 3:1,4 ~ NLT)

Wanderlust

August 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’ll admit it. I was a little jealous as the old sandy-haired fellow said the words. Just a little.

“Both she and I have a little of the gypsy in us, you know.”

I nodded my head thoughtfully, as if I did know, but I didn’t.

I still don’t.

Explaining why he was standing at my sales counter attempting to interest me in several pieces of musical equipment, the fellow had described selling the family’s home and moving into a very nice travel trailer—a rolling palace, really—with all the luxuries of home, but none of the responsibilities of being a homeowner.

I was. I listened to him speak, and I was becoming more jealous by the minute.

There are days when the shackles of responsibility become heavy and irksome. The hardship and realities of life are brought into sharp focus. When that happens, the picture isn’t pleasant to consider.

It was one of those days.

The grass was greener on the other side of the counter. Too soon, the sandy-haired man walked out of my front door, taking the verdant vision with him. Behind him, he left the drab, gray reality.

The freedom he had described beckoned from the world outside. In my world, the cares and promises left to be fulfilled only mocked me.

Don’t I have a right to be happy, too?

The words had no sooner formed in my consciousness than I recoiled from them. There are two times in my memory when I have heard those words from the mouths of men for whom I had great love and respect.

On both occasions, the question was prelude to the most selfish act either man would ever perform. Many who loved them are still paying the price.

When I demand my right to happiness, I declare that I am the most important human being I know.

I’m not.

My sandy-haired friend declared his desire to be footloose and fancy-free. It’s a familiar phrase. I wonder if we really know what it means.

Footloose, of course, means there is nothing restricting our feet from going where we want them to take us. The popular movie by that name from a few decades ago used the word as a clever play on words to include freedom from the restrictions of religion and freedom to dance. No chains, no hobbles, no heavy ball to inhibit movement. Footloose.

Fancy-free is a little more complicated. The word fancy was once used to describe love. The statement, I fancy him, coming from a young girl declared her love for her heartthrob. Thus, fancy-free became the description of one who had no love in his or her heart, giving them the freedom to act as they wished. Free of encumbrances, free of the emotional bonds that bind one to another. Fancy-free.

I am not footloose.

The leg irons clamped around my ankles, I placed there myself. Willingly and with forethought, I clicked them closed, joyfully choosing a life of service rather than one of irresponsibility. Nothing has changed to alter that choice.

The shackles stay.

The love in my heart, on the other hand, was not put there by me. I have been reminded a thousand times in recent years that God’s love is lent to us, not to be hoarded for selfish reasons, nor even to be cast away when we grow weary of walking with Him, but to be shared again and again. And again.

God's love is lent, not to be hoarded, nor cast away, but to be shared again and again. Share on X

Every hour of every day, His love is ours as long as we share it freely.

I am definitely not fancy-free.

The love stays, as well.

Footloose and fancy-free? Hardly.

Funny. That carefree life I was jealous of only moments ago—that vagabond journey empty of all responsibility—turns out to be neither carefree nor devoid of troubles. Many who choose it wish before much time has passed that they had never walked away from the life they had.

Still, there is a bit of the gypsy in me as well. I’m sure of it.

The journey of the spirit is not bound by our physical location, nor does it depend on leaving behind those we love and care for.

We who follow Christ are still looking for that city that Abraham wandered in search of—that city built by God Himself. Others who came after him sought also for a place of refuge, the place of rest promised to those who seek after God. (Hebrews 11)

In faith, we walk the same road, nomads on a pilgrimage to a better place.

We walk it together. With joy-filled hearts—and often tear-filled eyes—we follow our God.

Together, we follow.

The road goes ever, ever on.

Until, one day. . .

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 Lord of the Rings ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.
(Hebrews 11:16 ~ NLT)

Unlikely Heroes

August 9, 2016August 9, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

In the cover of darkest night, the old man weeps. Alone, he cries until no more tears will come, and still the sobs torment his body.

The time was when he couldn’t shed a single tear. When very little seemed to touch his heart. Except harsh reality. Retribution and reward. Hard work.

That was before.

So many who walked beside him have gone on ahead now.

Still he walks. Nearly alone now.

Once, he saw the road ahead clearly. Almost, it seems, the light of their presence helped to make the way plain for miles ahead.

Bereft of that light, he hasn’t abandoned the way.

And yet, almost as if their presence in his life still yields a flickering beam of candlelight, his dimming eyes can make out the road ahead. Just barely.

Heroic acts can do that, you know. Something of their aura clings to the hero.

And yes, I called him a hero. Many who are never acknowledged as such perform the acts of heroes daily.

No. Not the type of hero feats performed on the battlefield, nor even those accomplished in lifesaving acts on mountainsides or in the depths of dark waters.

The acts of a hero are sometimes simply to live as one promises to live, to act as one has sworn to act, to stay when one has given his word to stay.

The old man has done all that, and more. Ofttimes, the hero is a wife, or a mother, or a brother.

We don’t talk about it. Perhaps it is part of our contract with the young and energetic, but we don’t speak of the ultimate cost.

Maybe we should.

The young home health specialist was obviously uncomfortable as I spoke with him about it the other day. But then again, he may not be all that young—simply younger than I. Still, he was reluctant to speak the words.

I asked him if the situations in which he found himself daily were surprising or uncomfortable for him. He chose his words carefully.

“I love home health work. Still, there are things that go on in those homes that you wouldn’t believe. Horrible, painful things. And, beautiful things.“

Refusing to name the horrible, painful things, he instead described folks who take care of their loved ones from daybreak to nighttime and, many times, on through the night. Their tasks are dirty and uncomfortable. The regularity with which they are called upon to perform the tasks is constant, with no end in sight.

The years stretch out ahead. Still, they stay.

I marvel. In part, I marvel at the hardships that await at the end of our lives, or sometimes surprisingly, early in them. More than that, I marvel at the audacity of someone who would willingly attend such events.

Still, we don’t speak aloud of the hardships, especially to the young.

I was present at a wedding the other evening. It was beautiful—the bride, gorgeous and so happy. The groom, a young man I have known since he was a small boy, beamed from ear to ear with his beautiful young wife hanging on his arm. And, so he should.

Youth is a heady time of life. Indestructible and self-confident, no hint of hardship fazes us. Bring it on! We can handle anything! Anything.

The Lovely Lady and I hugged the beautiful young bride and her handsome husband, as I joked that the wedding had gone perfectly.

“That was the easy part. Now comes the hard stuff.”

The words came from my mouth lightly. The pair acknowledged the veracity of my statement, perhaps a little more seriously than I intended. But, the innocence in their beaming faces gave evidence that their young minds had not yet imagined the path their promises on that night will lead them upon.

And, perhaps that’s the way it should be. Love, if it is indeed love, is a journey beside one another—a growing together, a gathering consciousness of shared joys and pains; of approaching illnesses that will change life for both.

Still, I wonder. When the young begin their journey together, we throw huge, extravagant parties—celebrations of good intentions, of great hopes.

And when, after years of walking with those one loves and interminable nights of performing unspeakable tasks because of that love, the shared journey comes to an end, there is no celebration whatsoever.

The hero is unsung. The herculean task of caring for the person one loves is passed over as if it never happened.

It happened.

It happened.

Somehow though, it seems incongruous to celebrate in the face of sorrow and pain. I wonder if it’s a stretch to think that perhaps, there’ll be a special place of honor for these heroes at the wedding feast of the Lamb. (Revelation 19:8-9) After all, who understands marriage better among mankind than those who have fulfilled their oaths to the last breath?

But then again, I think the words of praise from the Lord as he’s welcomed into heaven will be celebration enough.

Well done! You’ve been a good, faithful servant. It’s time for you to rest. (Matthew 25:21)

Promises kept build the character of a man. Debts paid strengthen the integrity of the person.

The old man stood on my porch last weekend and, barely holding back the tears, told me she was gone. After sixty-six years, he is alone.

I reminded him of her love for him and his care for her, and he brightened, if only for a moment. It hadn’t been a storybook marriage, but both had fulfilled their promises. And then some.

I wish it were time for celebration.

But, in his room alone, he weeps.

The day is coming. It is.

The celebration is still ahead. Crowns will be distributed to the heroes. And then, offered again to the Hero of Heroes.

Tears—those evidences of present sorrows that our God counts precious—will by His own hand, be wiped from our eyes.

The old man is waiting for the day.

So am I.

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.
(1 Corinthians 9:24-25 ~ NIV)

You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor.
(Aristotle ~ Greek philosopher ~ 384 BC-322 BC)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

love

Treasure in the Dumpster

On the Mezzanine

Parenthesis Closed

Lightly Tread

We’ll Say We Did

Only What’s Mine

Say the Words

Good News. Bad News.

Wanderlust

Unlikely Heroes