Because—Love

February 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Flowers for my heart with tender words
And a gentle touch that says so much
This is how I’ve heard that love should always be.*

Valentine’s Day.

Again, the commercialized and cloyingly cute messages are filling the in-boxes, mail boxes, and trash boxes across the country. More flowers, candy, and cheaply-made cards will be purchased than at any other time of year.

All to express a love that never was and never will be.

Love, that is. It will never be love.

Love isn’t flowers, isn’t a close embrace, isn’t sweet nothings whispered into an ear as you dance in the dark. And, it certainly isn’t the thousand dollar diamond necklace slipped around the throat of the picture-perfect beauty queen primping in the mirror before slinking out to a romantic dinner for two.

Our culture lies.

It lies every time an ad suggests all you need to keep your mate’s love is some pretty new bauble. It lies with each new revelation of ways to keep love fresh in some exotic destination or with an amazing new scent.

I want some new images to exemplify love.

How about a toilet seat? Either up or down will do. Love is him, putting it down for her. It’s her, ignoring the fact that it never gets put down.

Perhaps it could be black olives. He loves them, so she includes them in her recipes. She hates them, so he removes them from the frozen pizza before it goes in the oven.

The list could go on, including not a single item that Hallmark could market. The old toothbrush he used to clean up that ugly old vase that she bought at the second-hand store. The spool of thread she emptied to mend his favorite old work coveralls. The ice scraper he uses on frosty mornings, so she doesn’t have to stand out in the cold and do it herself.

In recent years, I have found some new items that illustrate love. You don’t want to hear about them. They are uncouth and will make you say the word gross as you see them in print.

And that’s a shame. Because, you see, the other lie that our culture tells is that your mate will always be attractive and will always be healthy.

He won’t. She won’t.

The bedpan and the urinal spring to mind. Bodily functions become the concern of the one who loves. Embarrassment and squeamishness are abandoned as love does, not what it wishes, but what it must.

Not so uncouth, but still not an attractive thought, the fork and spoon push their way into the symbolism, as one mate must feed another. The memory of feeding the cake to each other at the wedding comes back with a rush, and we realize that it is a promise we will keep.

I believe the one item I would chose to symbolize love most is nothing more than a simple handkerchief.

These cloth relics of the past have fallen out of fashion—replaced by the paper tissues we use and crumple into the trash by the thousands, but I like to have one in my back pocket. I would be lost without it.

With the handkerchief we dry the tears of children, and yes, wipe their noses too. I mop my forehead when the perspiration beads and threatens to run down my face. But, all through my life the one thing I have used that square bit of cloth for, more than any other use, has been to wipe away the tears that have come.

When puppy dogs died suddenly, the tears from the children’s eyes were soaked up; those from my own, as well. When the frustrations of financial want were too much, the handkerchief once again dabbed away the tears of fear for the future.

I have seen the tears of spouses as they turned away from the hospital bed their lover lay upon, perhaps for the last time. Other tears have been wiped away as elderly parents departed from this world to a better place; they were wiped away as conversations led to the realization that mental faculties were failing.

Tears fall. Sometimes, they are tears of happiness. More often as life progresses, they are tears of worry and of sorrow, but always, they are tears of love.

Tears fall. And we wipe them away. For each other.

And, there’s nothing cheap about that.

You can keep your cheap paper valentines. You can keep your sugary-sweet chocolates (well, maybe just one). You can even keep your diamonds and jewels. They’re cheap too, in a way.

Tears fall. And we stay.

Because—love.

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)

He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ NIV)

* from How Love Should Be by Jeremy Michael Lubbock ~ American singer/songwriter

Winding Paths

January 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve believed it for a long time. I’ve even used the illustration myself before.

I’m not so sure anymore.

The boy learning to plow tries his hand at running the tractor. Completing his first row, he turns back proudly to view the result of his effort only to see a wobbly, wandering furrow.

You’ve heard it before, of course. If you’ve read enough of my writing, you know how much I love a moral. There’s definitely a moral to this one.

Eyes on the prize.

Somehow, I’m not sure this one is as clear-cut as it used to be.

The old farmer takes the wheel of the tractor and turns it around, suggesting to the lad that he needs to keep his eye on the goal. Pick a landmark far ahead and steer a course straight toward that. Don’t look at the ground; focus on the target. He plows a straight furrow every time.

Long term goals.

We revere men of straight paths. Focused on their destination, they move steadily in the same direction, never faltering, ever resolute.

Is there such a man? Perhaps. I have thought I knew some, but I’ve been disappointed before. We live in a world of distractions. Even the most focused human is bound to falter, maybe even to veer off the path, given the right diversion.

We make idols of men, believing a lie.

Only one Man lived a faithful life of purpose, never faltering from His purpose.

True, He’s the one we follow. Still, we take wrong turns. We misplace our resolve.

I spoke with a friend today, sadly relating my experience of watching a life lived in a straight line for many years, only to see it veer off on a incredible tangent just as the person neared the goal. So close—close and yet so very far.

A long obedience in the same direction, only to disappoint as the prize was within their grasp.

I wonder. Is there something wrong with the assumption that a straight line is the only way this following thing works?

When the Teacher told them to follow Him, was He asking those men to pick a target way out in the future, at the very end of their life and aim for that? I somehow don’t think that was what He had in mind. He didn’t ask them to pledge their lifelong service

He just said, “Follow me.”

That’s it. Follow.

I don’t have to know where the end of the road is. I don’t have to worry about interchanges and alternate routes before I get there. I’m not a navigator.

A follower, that’s what I am. I’m not that good at it, but it’s all I’ve ever claimed to be.

It seems that we want to set our sights on the straight-liners, the ones who stride along, head held high, secure in the knowledge they are on the right road. If we do, we’ll be disappointed nearly every time.

We weren’t called to follow them.

We’re only called to follow the One who faithfully followed His Father. Every step. (John 15:10)

Probably, the furrow He plowed would not have appeared to be a straight one to any onlookers. Certainly, it wasn’t to the religious leaders of that day. They knew the right path. Knew it.

But, they didn’t recognize the one He walked. He stopped in at too many parties, got caught in too many storms at sea, and touched too many lepers. Surely, this one couldn’t be following God!

We can’t be sure how straight the road will be from here on out. I don’t think we need to be worried about it.

If we stick close, we’ll be able to make the sharp turns when He does.

We may not stride in with head held high. But stumbling in with head hanging, knowing we followed all the way will be enough.

Oh. We should probably be ready to make a detour or two to visit a sick friend—or check on that fellow in jail.

The path is not all that straight, after all.

Then Jesus said to His disciples, “If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me.
(Matthew 16:24 ~ NASB)

All the way my Savior leads me,
Cheers each winding path I tread,
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living bread.
(Fanny J Crosby ~ American hymn-writer ~ 1820-1915)

Dots—Again

December 7, 2015December 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

During the morning church service, the beautiful little girl sits on my leg and moves her crayon confidently from one point on the page in front of her to the next. As she slides the brown-colored wax stick from number to number, the outline of a picture appears, clearly depicting a shepherd with his sheep.

It hasn’t always been like this.

A year or two ago the little tyke, one of my four favorite grandchildren, would have asked, in her version of a whisper (meaning: loudly enough for all nearby to hear clearly), “What do I do here, Grandpa?”

Grandpa would have explained that she needed to start on the number 1 and draw a line to the number 2. A little squiggly line that wandered off to the side and then back again would have been drawn tentatively. At that point, the crayon would be lifted from the page and the question repeated, possibly even a little more loudly.

Eventually the picture would be visible, although not nearly as neat as today’s, nor with as straight of lines from number to number. Clearly, she has learned to connect the dots much more skillfully in the intervening time.

The services are notably quieter too, since she has learned to whisper a little better, as well.

I smile as I think about the beautiful little girl and how she is growing. And learning. But, as I think, my mind wanders. Those dots remind me of something else. They make me think a little about other types of connections.

Human connections.

They’re not so different from connecting the dots, are they?

It has been a year ago. It hardly seems possible, so little has changed.

My young friend, Grace, is studying photography at the local university. She takes photos of what she sees. It is what photographers do. One of her photographs stopped me in my tracks. Dead. In my tracks.

The photograph will likely need some explanation. Then again, perhaps not much.

The news was full of events in Ferguson, Missouri for months. Then, riots and looting broke out as the racial anger boiled over and the filters that, in ordinary circumstances, would prevent such action were lost or discarded.

Windows were broken. Fires were set. Property was destroyed. Guns were fired.

Many words have been spoken and written about the situation since then–words which were and are hurtful and angry. My own emotions have surged as I have seen the images and have heard the angry words from many different perspectives.

I have stood in despair and wondered why those people would be so angry and destructive in their actions. I have listened in horror and wondered why those other people would be so angry and hateful in their words.

Those people.

graceinferguson — Photo: Grace Nast Used by Permission

My young friend went to Ferguson. Herself. Standing in the place where the horrible violence occurred, she took a picture of her feet.

That’s right. Her feet.

On the ground. In Ferguson. In the middle of the bricks and the ashes.

I glanced at the photo and shrugged mentally. Big deal.

Then it hit me.

Those same feet, the ones in the blue sneakers, had walked into my music store one afternoon the week before.

Funny. Her feet–the ones in the blue sneakers, on the ground in Ferguson– they stood on the ground in front of me just days earlier.

It’s the same ground.

Connected.

Suddenly, the miles and the man-made divisions seem insignificant as I begin to grasp the reality. These are not someone else’s problems, occurring in a different world than the one in which I live and move.

These are my people. What happens to them, happens to me.

To me.

In my mind the arguments pile atop each other; the evidence of connections between me and those people is overwhelming. (Romans 10:12)

I want to convince with logic. Perhaps, if I can overwhelm the reader with scientific proof of our shared ancestry, of DNA, of common history–perhaps then we’ll embrace each other. Perhaps then the violence, the slurs, the hatred can stop.

It won’t happen.

The words I would say have all been said, the arguments made again and again. The human heart is turned to evil and deceit, and only God can change it. It has always been so.

But today, for me, sitting on the knee of the one true Artist, I see the connection. Like my granddaughter, the skill at recognizing those points of connection may increase with maturity and practice.

It may.

I want it to be true.

Maybe we can help each other.

We are connected, after all.

We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.
(Martin Luther King Jr ~ American pastor/civil rights leader ~ 1929-1968)

Be joyful. Grow to maturity. Encourage each other. Live in harmony and peace. Then the God of love and peace will be with you.
(2 Corinthians 13:11 ~ NLT)

A Scratch Behind the Ears

August 7, 2015August 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Good patient, Paul.”

The man in the mask had taken his hands out of my opened mouth for a moment, not because he was finished (as I hoped), but only to change the bit on the drill he held. It was, at least, a welcome change from the horrid grinding that had ensued each previous time he returned the drill to the wide-open aperture in my face.

Since the nice young lady manipulating the peripheral equipment necessary for the proceedings still had her hand in the opening through which I normally communicate, the only response I had to the dentist’s statement was a surprised, “Mumph?”

I suppose I might have been trying to find my happy place (no mean feat in that chamber of horrors) as the procedure wore on, but I must have missed a part of his statement. I was confused.

For all the world, it seemed to me the good doctor had just given me the equivalent of a good dog, Rover! I wouldn’t have been all that surprised if his next communication had been shake! To my relief, it wasn’t.

“I said, ‘You’re a good patient, Paul.’ Not everyone is as calm and responsive to instructions as you.”

The vision of Rover sitting up and shaking hands with the masked man faded, and the drill began its inexorable grinding inside of my mouth once more. I had something new to think about, anyway.

I’m a good patient! Better than average. Take that, you teenyboppers with your fake white smiles! How do you like them apples, Mr. Mid-life Crisis with your new teeth veneers?

Somehow, reality has a way of catching up eventually. My thoughts began to turn to the shallowness being exhibited by the aging man in the dentist’s chair at that exact moment. What kind of man, mature in age—if nothing else, takes a simple statement such as the dentist had just made and turns it into a reason for celebration?

Just how hungry for compliments would one have to be for those words to elicit a celebration of that magnitude?

I was ashamed.

Still, it didn’t keep me from bragging to the Lovely Lady when I saw her a few hours later.

“He told me I was a good patient!”

Her response was less than enthusiastic. “That’s nice.”

I remembered once again that it’s not a stellar accomplishment. Truth be told, I was ashamed anew for telling her about it, anyway. Sheesh! Still celebrating, in spite of my self-castigation while finishing my tenure in the dentist’s chair.

Perhaps, it’s time to let the curtain fall on that unfortunate performance. Often, the longer the production runs, the worse it gets.

But no. I don’t think I’ll do that. Sometimes, we learn.

Sometimes, we do better. You be the judge.

Later that same afternoon, after the Lidocaine had worn off and I could feel my cheek again, an old customer came to see me. I was busy with another patron, but as soon as I could get free, I headed over to see my old friend and his wife.

As I shook his hand, he told me that I would need to excuse him, because he couldn’t talk normally right then. That’s right. He had just come from the dentist.

The wheels started turning. I bet you think I bragged about being a better patient than he was. I didn’t.

The wheels in my head drove me to a conclusion that I don’t often reach, though. Believing that his having had an encounter with a dentist on the same day was no coincidence, I determined that (as my dentist had) I should compliment him on something.

I didn’t really know why.

Funny. I didn’t really even want to. I did it anyway.

Maybe I should explain something. I usually have a hard time giving compliments to folks I see as being in competition with me. I have to make myself compliment other writers. I don’t often say nice things about other French horn players. I think it may have something to do with the idea that in building them up, I will diminish myself.

Foolishness? Perhaps. It seems to be a common ailment, though. Within the society we live and move, it is more common to tear down those who are in the same field than it is to build them up.

On this day though—the Day of the Dentist—I was able to break that cycle. The man in front of me has recently begun to build and sell guitars. I had heard good things about them.

I told him so.

It meant a great deal to my friend. He was humble about it. His wife wasn’t, whipping out her cell phone to show me pictures. We talked for fifteen minutes about his instruments and building techniques.

The last thing I remember about his visit was that lop-sided grin as he turned to say goodbye one last time, going out the door. You know—the Lidocaine still hadn’t worn off for him.

I hope you’ll bear with me as I offer a couple of observations on human behavior. Maybe more than a couple.

When you compliment others, you diminish no one. A relationship is not a zero sum game, in which one party gains and the other loses. A compliment is not an expenditure; it is an investment. Everyone stands to gain from it. Even bystanders. My friend’s better half was affected positively as she heard her husband’s accomplishments touted.

When the shoe is on the other foot, and you are the one being complimented, don’t let it go to your head. A pat on the back is just that—a pat. It’s not a back rub, or an all-day spa treatment. Acknowledge it, file it away to remember, and move on. Being a good patient at the dentist isn’t a life accomplishment, nor does it merit a mention in the local newspaper.

Lastly—Compliment others because you love them. The Apostle who loved to write letters (he must have—he wrote so many!) suggested that we must treat folks as more important than we ourselves are. The result is that the whole body is made stronger—including ourselves.

Just so you know—I’m really not that good a patient at the dentist’s.

Still, it was nice of him to say so. I promise, I’ll not include it in a resumé, should I ever have the need to apply for a new position.

I am, however, quite accomplished at shaking hands.

Maybe that will earn me at least a scratch behind the ears.

My child, I can live on a good compliment two weeks with nothing else to eat.
(Mark Twain ~ American humorist/author ~ 1835-1910)

Do nothing out of rivalry or conceit, but in humility consider others as more important than yourselves.
(Philippians 2:3 ~ Holman Christian Standard Bible)

Bedpans and Handkerchiefs

July 17, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments

Flowers for my heart with tender words
And a gentle touch that says so much
This is how I’ve heard that love should always be. *

I’ve been thinking about love recently. You may be surprised at what I’ve decided.

Our culture lies.

It lies every time an ad suggests that all you need to keep your mate’s love is some pretty new bauble. It lies with each new revelation of ways to keep love fresh in some exotic destination or with an amazing new scent.

I want some new images to exemplify love.

How about a toilet seat? Either up or down will do. Love is him, putting it down for her. It’s her, ignoring the fact that it never gets put down.

Perhaps it could be black olives. He loves them, so she includes them in her recipes. She hates them, so he removes them from the frozen pizza before it goes in the oven.

In recent years, I have found some new items that illustrate love. You don’t want to hear about them. They are uncouth and will make you say the word gross as you see them in print. And that’s a shame. Because, you see, the other lie that our culture tells is that your mate will always be attractive and will always be healthy.

He won’t. She won’t.

The bedpan and the urinal spring to mind. Bodily functions become the concern of the one who loves. Embarrassment and squeamishness are abandoned as love does, not what it wishes, but what it must.

I believe that the one item I would chose to symbolize love most is nothing more than a simple handkerchief.

These cloth relics of the past have fallen out of fashion–replaced by the paper tissues we use and crumple into the trash by the thousands. I still like to have one in my back pocket and would be lost without it.

With the handkerchief we clean the hands of children, and yes, wipe their noses too. I mop my forehead when the perspiration beads and threatens to run down my face. But, all through my life the one thing I have used that square bit of cloth for, more than any other use, has been to wipe away the tears that have come.

When puppy dogs died suddenly, the tears from the children’s eyes were soaked up—those from my own, as well. When the frustrations of financial want were too much, the handkerchief once again dabbed away the tears of fear for the future.

I have seen the tears of spouses as they turned away from the hospital bed their lover lay upon, perhaps for the last time. Other tears have been wiped away as conversations led to the realization that mental faculties were failing, and then again as elderly parents departed from this world to a better place.

Tears fall. Sometimes, they are tears of happiness. More often, as life progresses, they are tears of worry and of sorrow, but always, they are tears of love.

Tears fall. And we wipe them away. For each other.

Tears fall. And we stay.

Because—love.

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)

He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ NIV)

* from How Love Should Be by Jeremy Michael Lubbock ~ American singer/songwriter

No Goodbyes

June 4, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m about done here. Gave my notice this week.”

My jazz-playing friend slipped the momentous news in between the discussion of his guitar amplifier’s deficiencies and a question about some sheet music.

I almost missed it.

“Let me check on that title and we’ll get it printed for… Wait! What?”

Ten years I’ve known the man. Ten years ago, he was temporarily relocated here with dozens of folks when Hurricane Katrina hit his little city in southern Louisiana. After a few months, most of the others went back home to New Orleans. He decided to stay.

Now, Atlanta calls. People like jazz there. Enough to pay a living wage to the musicians who love playing it.

He is leaving. By the end of the month. For good.

I didn’t take the news well. He wants me to be happy for him. I am.

It’s me I’m sad for.

I hate goodbye.

Funny. I knew his stay here was temporary from the start. We were always going to say goodbye.

Someday.

Just not today. Or this week. Or even this month.

It’s easy to get carried away by the weight of a word. This one just has so much packed into it.

Goodbye.

Goodbye is what we say when fathers and brothers (and not a few mothers and sisters) go off to war, many never to return. Goodbye is what we breathe as we watch the over-packed car pull out of the driveway with our child on his or her way to college. Goodbye is what we sob when the casket is closed on the face of someone we loved more than anyone else in this world.

Goodbye.

As a child, I once thought if I didn’t actually say the word goodbye, the separation wouldn’t happen. Voila! Problem solved!

Except, it didn’t work.

I missed the departure of my grandparents one Fall day when I tested my theory. Knowing it was the morning they would pull out dragging their gleaming, space-age Airstream trailer behind the old 1965 Pontiac Catalina, I simply went out to the field and hid.

Funny. Goodbye happens whether we say the word, or not. They were gone, and I missed it. I missed them.

Goodbye happens. We’re only here temporarily. Every one of us. One day, I’ll say my final goodbye, too.

That’s odd.

Final goodbye. The last one. For all of eternity.

If, like me, you believe there is more–and I’m sure there is–you’ll understand the impact of that statement.

Not one more goodbye. Not one.

All tears wiped away. No more death. No mourning, no crying, no pain.

But, not every person we know will be there. Unlike the pap being fed to this world by the deceiver, there is no hope that anyone could ever experience it without the grace our Savior purchased as He died for us. The free gift is offered, but it must be accepted.

I sometimes wonder if we’ll miss those who have chosen to follow a different path, rejecting the grace of a God who hates goodbyes just as much as we do. Perhaps those will be the tears–the last ones shed–He will wipe away from our eyes.

What a day! What a reunion. And what a multitude of hellos.

My friend is still leaving this month. I am still sad.

I hate goodbye.

…but if you have been – if you’ve been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you – you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing is ever going to happen again.
(from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ ESV)

Got an extra 3 minutes? You could do worse than to spend them listening to Selah’s version of God Be With You. Beautiful song with powerful imagery!

http://https://youtu.be/1fqu1ee5QNM

Why Would God Let This Happen To Me?

May 15, 2015July 23, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I said the words today. I’ve never said them before.

Never.

I’m mad at God.

Not what you expected, is it? Me either.

The preacher and I sat today—not my preacher, just a preacher—and we talked about things we don’t understand. Yes, the preacher has things he doesn’t understand, too. It is a difficult thing to remember sometimes, but they are on the same road as we—still stumbling, often taking wrong turns, and at times, falling into the very ditches from which we are attempting to climb out.

I told him about my troubled young friend who believed that he had run out of options, save one. My young friend took that option, the final act he would perform in this world. The alcohol to numb the fear and the pistol to end the pain were the only tools he needed to do the deed.

I have mourned the loss of my friend. The tears have flowed and been wiped away again and again. As I considered how to express my thoughts tonight, they came again. But, in a strange way, his death is not the reason for my anger.

I am still learning how to be a friend. I am still learning how to reach out to people who are unlovely and unloving—folks who are outcast and lonely.

I have written of my first meeting with the tormented young man. I was afraid to touch him, worried that he was a lost cause from the start. There seemed a good chance that my first encounter with him would also be my last. I thought he was a heartbeat away from doing what he took the next two years to work himself up to.

Two years.

Two years, during which he stopped by with some frequency. Two years, I picked up the phone any number of times to hear his voice. I thought he was doing much better.

He was better!

I said that, in a strange way, his death was not my reason for being angry. It actually was about his death, but I finally came to realize today that I am angry because I was dragged into a relationship that was always going to end the way it did.

God knew it. He knew it and yet, He brought the man into my life. For two years, I would believe the situation was getting better, and then, one day a simple phone call would tell me that it had been for nothing.

And today—today—as I talked with the preacher, I finally said the words right out loud.

No. I didn’t, did I?

I whispered them.

I’m mad at God.

The whispered words sounded like a shout in my ears. They still do, even as I sit in the quiet of my office and listen to peaceful music tonight.

The preacher knows better than to hand out pat answers to the big questions. He listened. I talked, spilling my disappointment with God out in plain sight.

And as I talked, what I had known all along became clear. That’s the way it often is, isn’t it? The truth lies mingled in among the lies. We just have to peel the lies—our lies—away and God’s truth remains.

Right there where it was all along.

The truth is that He faces the same disappointments with man’s failure, and has faced it from eternity past. He knows rejection of His love is right around the next bend and yet He reaches out His hand again and again.

The pain must be excruciating.

How should we expect any other result if we do His will? What He asks of us is not that we continue in obedience to Him as long as success is guaranteed. He wants us to walk in obedience. Period.

It seems an ugly truth.

I’m still a little mad. Better men than I have been in the same boat. Job, for instance. And, Jonah. Even Elijah had his moment of sulking.

But, here is what I know. God loves me. Even when I’m angry. Even when I’m wrong. He understands my pain because He has felt the same pain.

We’re talking about it, He and I.

I’ve got an idea that I’ll keep heading along the same road I’ve been on for more than a few years now. There is more work to be done; there are more people to be ministered to.

I wonder who will shove open my door tomorrow?

There was a man here last night—you needn’t be afraid that I shall mention his name—who said that his will was given up to God, and who got mad because the omnibus was full, and he had to walk a mile to his lodgings.
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist ~ 1837-1899)

The Lord said, “Do you have good reason to be angry?”
(Jonah 4:4 ~ NASB)

A Fake Holiday Observed—Once Again

February 14, 2013February 14, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m sure that today, of all days, I should wax eloquent regarding this date set aside for lovers, but I’m drawing a blank. I went back and read my post from Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago to see if I could glean any ideas for yet another treatise on our annual trek through the sentimental terrain of the day.

Nothing.

I had no idea of what to talk about the year before that, either. You see, for all my introspection, all my analytic brooding, I am still no good at the mushy stuff.

I am, after all, a mere man; not given to romantic gestures, save occasionally. I am also a cynic, believing this date is nothing more than a once relatively obscure holy day, dedicated to an equally obscure saint named Valentine.

Truth be told, there were two men by that name designated as saints by the early Catholic Church, neither of which originally had any connection whatsoever to romantic lore or history. It is only in the last century that stories have been fabricated to turn the day into one with connotations of romantic love.

The cynic in me believes the hype to be a conspiracy by the commercial concerns which stand to gain financially from the widespread celebration of the fake holiday.

And, do we spend money on the day!

I’m thinking of one Valentine’s Day, many years ago, when a young man, nervous and anxious to impress his young fiancee (she was only seventeen that year), went out and spent every dime he could scrape up to buy a piece of jewelry for her. Even though it meant there would be no romantic dinner (not even a Number 3 Burger with Tots at the local Sonic), he spent the extra couple of dollars it took to have her initial engraved on the gold-plated stickpin.

It wasn’t even real gold! Regardless, the gift was eminently successful. The young lady was duly impressed, or at least appeared to be, and the fact that there was no romantic candlelit dinner went by without comment.

After that, the stickpin could be seen frequently, pinned through the lapel of her jacket or on a scarf worn around her neck, to the lasting enjoyment of both the beautiful young lady and the bumbling young man.

I stole the stickpin out of the young lady’s jewelry box tonight so I could photograph it for you. She was not happy. It’s not a thing of beauty anymore. The shaft is slightly bent (from a too-thick jacket lapel), the edges are showing wear (gold-plated, not solid, you remember), and the clutch is not even the original one.

She doesn’t wear it much, since such trinkets have fallen out of fashion. But, the Lovely Lady is not through with it yet. The cheap little piece of costume jewelry has value to her still. Though no sane person would ever offer anything for it, she would not part with it for money.

I promised to return it before I go to bed, later. It’s a promise she will hold me to.

This not-so-young man is gratified to realize that the years have not tarnished the feelings a bit. There have been many months of February which have passed since that one so many years ago. Most of them have passed with little notice.

And, what of flowers, chocolates, or romantic meals at favorite restaurants? Those do come frequently, but mostly on other days of the year. The cynical resistance to the commercialism of the day is shared by both of us.

Yet, not a day goes by that each doesn’t verbally remind the other of our love for them. We show it in untold ways, too. As always, I get the better end of the deal. She doesn’t complain and even insists that she is content with her part of the bargain. I believe her, although I still can’t understand it.

You know, if you’ve read many of these posts, that I am unashamedly in love with that same young lady who received the cheap little stickpin all those many years ago.

It’s the way marriage is intended to be.

The world around us tells us differently. Even the celebration of romantic love on just one special day a year is at odds with the reality of what true love is.

Although we know deep down that love is a way of life, and not an emotion, we continue to live for ourselves, selfishly insisting on our own way and indulging in our own pleasure.

By our selfishness, we deny that love is exactly what God says it is. What we believe love to be is so far from the truth of genuine love that it resembles the original not at all.

Whew! For not having anything to say on the subject, I’ve dived in headfirst, haven’t I?

Okay. Discourse done, I’ll step down from the soapbox once more.

Besides, I’ve got to get that stickpin back in the jewelry box before morning…

Let love increase!

Love is patient, love is kind, it is not envious. Love does not brag, it is not puffed up. It is not rude, it is not self-serving, it is not easily angered or resentful. It is not glad about injustice, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.
(I Corinthians 13: 4-8 ~ NET)
Let the wife make the husband glad to come home and let him make her sorry to see him leave.
(Martin Luther~German theologian and church reformer~1483-1586)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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