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

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

You can’t believe everything you read

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

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

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

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

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

What about the fortune cookies?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truth is essential

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truth doesn’t always hide in plain sight

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is truth?

Confusion reigns right now

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

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

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

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

Nothing has changed

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

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

Basics? Where can we find those?

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, here’s what I’m going to be doing

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

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

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

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

For the next month. And then some.

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

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

Headstrong

April 15, 2020April 15, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Image by Jose’ Alejandro Cuffia on Unsplash

Headstrong.

It’s not a complimentary word. There’s a reason for that.

It was a lifetime ago. The highlight of summer camp was always the time we spent riding horses. For this kid, anyway. Swimming was good; archery, too. But horseback riding? The pinnacle of every day was the time spent in the saddle.

Before we rode, we actually had to saddle the beasts. It was no small accomplishment to wrestle those heavy western-style leather saddles up above our heads, but the wranglers wouldn’t do it for us. Then there was the bridle—with a bit.

Some horses didn’t care much for that process. I’m remembering that, as a 10-year-old boy, I didn’t either. Those teeth were larger than I was comfortable with. A few of the beasts didn’t mind nipping with them, either.

I learned.

Well? It was either learn or go do leather-craft.

After the bit went into the mouth, the bridle had to go over the ears. And it had to fit. Not too tight. Not too loose. Too tight, and it could injure the horse. Too loose and it could injure the rider. That’s right. The rider.

I found that out the hard way. One day, as we were riding the trail—the one with the barbed-wire fence on one side, and the mesquite trees and prickly-pear cactus on the other—the wrangler noticed the straps of the bridle on my horse were slack over his head. He made a comment about it but decided we could wait until we were back at the corral to readjust the strap. In hindsight, it wasn’t a great decision.

Mere moments later, the skittish horse jerked his head and, chomping his teeth down on the bit that was hanging a little too low, took off running. At first, it was just a trot, but within a few feet, the gait turned into an all-out gallop.

I stuck in the saddle like a sand-burr on a sock, but the headstrong pony soon left the trail. Fortunately for me, he headed into the cactus and mesquite instead of the other direction. I’ve seen what happens when a horse runs his rider into a barbed-wire fence. Still, I was terrified.

Ducking below the low-hanging branches of the stunted trees and pulling my legs up as high above the cactus as I could, I sawed on the reins, but to no avail. With the bit lodged where my mount was in control of it, nothing I could do affected him in the slightest.

It might have been all of 20 seconds (it seemed much longer) before the wrangler caught up to us and, pulling his horse in front of mine, reached over and grabbed the cheek strap of the bridle, turning my horse gently in a circle and then to a stop.

I got off and tightened up the bridal strap.

Then I pulled some prickly-pear spines from my leg. The ones I could get to. There would be more pain later.

Headstrong. It’s a good word to describe a horse with the bit between its teeth. Somehow, it seems, the word might be used to characterize more than just horses.

But I don’t want to leave the horses just yet. I’m remembering another time when we were riding all those years ago.

It wasn’t all barbed-wire fences and cactus out there. At one point the trail led through a mowed field, with grass on either side. The wrangler who was with us suggested we might like to learn what it was like to sit astride a galloping horse.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Give him his head.”

It was beautiful. Beautiful and frightening. But mostly it was beautiful.

My mount, given permission to run, took the opportunity and stretched out. Like sitting in a rocking chair, it was. Sort of. Nothing like that wild dash through the bush and cactus had been, anyway.

As we neared the perimeter of the meadow, all it took was a gentle backward pressure on the reins in my hands, and the cooperative beast slowed to a trot and then to a walk.

It was the same horse. Both times.

No. They didn’t take the animal out and shoot him after he had run me through the cactus and mesquite, bit held firmly in teeth. They knew what he was capable of. Good and bad.

There was still hope for him.

For days, I’ve been thinking about the Scripture reading I did during Holy Week. Just last week, on Thursday night. It doesn’t seem to fit much with an old man’s memories of summer camp, but stick with me a little while longer.

I read about something Jesus said on the same night in which He was betrayed. (1 Corinthians 11:23 ~ KJV)

How many times have I heard the words? The pastor stands before his congregation, the communion table behind him and reads again the familiar passage.

But, did you know the Savior did—and said—other things on that fateful night besides eating the last supper?

On that same night, the night on which He was betrayed, He told Peter, the headstrong disciple, that he would deny his Teacher, not once, but three times.

He knew the man.

Knew how impetuous he was. How stubborn. How inclined to go his own way.

He had already prayed that Peter’s faith wouldn’t fail. And, these—these—are the words He says to Peter:

“When you have turned back to me, strengthen your brothers.”
(Luke 22:32 ~ NET)

Before Peter denied being His follower, He was assured of restoration.

Before!

Chew on that a minute.

Peter would turn around (repent). He would spend his last breath and his last reserve of strength serving and encouraging his brothers.

But I am just now digesting, just now getting the slightest glimmer of comprehension of the love of this Savior who came for us.

He will never let go of us!

Headstrong though we are—and that, we are—He restores us again and again.

What I am declaring is this: The One we serve, the One who holds us in His hand, is able to hold us until we stand before Him in Glory.

His forgiveness knows no limit, His mercy has no boundary.

I have been the headstrong horse, again and again, taking the bit between my teeth and going my own way. At a gallop, going my own way.

Still, He calls me back. From the brambles and from the desert, He restores me to the green pastures and cool waters.

Sometimes—in His good time—He even gives me my head.

I’d like to run along this path for a while. There’s room for more than one here.

It’ll be beautiful and frightening. Mostly, just beautiful.

Are you coming with?

I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee…
(Luke 15:18 ~ KJV)

I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.
(John 10:28 ~ NIV)

And does Jesus, our Messiah, hold forever those He loves? (He does)
(from Is He Worthy ~ Andrew Peterson/Ben Shive)

Do You Know I’m Doing the Best I Can?

March 16, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

No, but hum a few bars and I’ll catch up with you.

We never know when illumination will come, do we?

I find it’s often in the moments when I myself am not going to be presented in the best light.

It happened in the Chinese restaurant a night or two ago. Well, in the restroom of the Chinese restaurant, to be more precise.

In the present climate, with so-called social distancing being the order of the day, one might wonder why the Lovely Lady and I would wander out to eat with friends at all, but at least I had the presence of mind to wash my hands before I returned to the table.

I even remembered to sing the Happy Birthday song in my head while I did it. But it seems that may be where I went wrong.

I was doing fine until I got to the phrase, “Happy birthday, dear .” And then the wheels started to come off.

I couldn’t think of who I wanted to sing to. My hands stopped moving. Still, no name at all came to mind. In the absence of inspiration, the singing just trailed off. In my head, I mean.

I looked at the man in the mirror for help, but he just had a confused look on his face.

Finally, getting back on track, I washed my hands for a while longer and headed back out to join my dinner partners. Yes, I’m pretty sure I washed for at least twenty seconds. At least, I think I did. I hope I did.

Now, if you’re wondering how I’ve gotten along with washing my hands up till now without getting stuck, I’ll tell you. I’ve thought about this a good bit in the time since the unfortunate incident. Really, I have.

I never tried to sing the words before.

I just hummed.

You don’t have to remember the words when you hum. At all. You just have to know the melody.

You’ve heard the old joke, haven’t you?

Why do hummingbirds hum?
They don’t know the words.

I said it was an old joke; I didn’t say it was a funny one.

Back to the subject at hand, I’m thinking the singing and handwashing thing was a failure. Perhaps I’m not as intelligent as I’d like to believe.

I can’t even sing and wash my hands at the same time.

But, then I remember. This is where the illumination comes into play.

I can hum and wash my hands at the same time. I know I can. I’ve done it before. Successfully.

I’ll do that the next few times.

So, how is that illumination? Here is what I learned:

Frequently, the best we can do is not the best we’ll ever do.

That’s a good thing. But we don’t let it stop us from doing the best we can manage today.

Don’t let the embarrassment of yesterday keep you from stepping up again tomorrow.

A lady of my acquaintance told me about being asked to pray at a meeting the other day. She doesn’t pray in public — says her tongue won’t move the right way and the words come out wrong.

She did it anyway. When she was done, she said amen and the meeting went ahead. I’d call that a success. She’s not sure.

Now she wonders if she should sit in a less conspicuous place next time.

I think she should sit where she’ll be called on again. And again.

Sooner or later, if you keep trying to sing the song, you get the words right.

Joseph, he of the multi-colored coat, started out carrying food and water to his brothers in the field, moving to being a trustee in a prison, before becoming a ruler in Egypt and savior-of-sorts to his people.

My namesake, the Apostle, attempted to serve God by throwing His followers into jail. Paul eventually got it right, becoming one of the first missionaries in the early Church and the most prolific writer of the New Testament.

Thomas Edison had thousands of failures before getting a light bulb that would function. Albert Einstein failed his college entrance exam. Walt Disney was fired from his newspaper job because he lacked imagination and had no good ideas.

They all kept doing the best they could — and they got better.

I’m going to keep humming (and working up the suds). Someday the words will come. My hands will stay germ-free in the meantime.

I’m sure I heard a fellow come out of a restroom the other day singing the words, “And many more.”

I wanted to shake hands with him and congratulate him on finishing the task, but I didn’t.

The day is coming when I’ll be that good, too.

You just wait and see.

Hope means to keep living amid desperation and to keep humming in the darkness.
(Henri Nouwen ~ Dutch Catholic theologian ~ 1932–1996)

Draw near to God and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and make your hearts pure, you double-minded.
(James 4:8 ~ NET)

When Is It Too Late to Make a Comeback?

September 25, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Would you like to open a music store again?”

I asked the (mostly) rhetorical question of the Lovely Lady the other day as we drove past the building where we had operated such a store for many years. I didn’t expect a positive answer.

I got one anyway.

“Yes, in a lot of ways, I wish we could.”

Though driving down a busy street, my eyes were instantly glued to her face, attempting to read the real story there. Wistfulness, I thought. Perhaps even reminiscence of our youth and once vivid dreams for the future.

We both laughed. It won’t happen and we know it. There were valid reasons for closing the little store a few years ago and they haven’t changed. Still, it seems we often sense a yearning for days past.

No, we won’t own a music store again. That doesn’t mean we’re finished. We’re not ready to sit down and begin the long (or short) wait for God.

But I am realizing this important thing: We all, young or old, have a need to be of use to folks around us. It’s a desire built deep into the human spirit.

We need to be needed.

I talked with him tonight, the old preacher. Many years, he’s spent on this planet—most of them in one pulpit or another, teaching the Word of God.

Nearly two years ago, he said goodbye to his last permanent congregation. His family breathed a sigh of relief, thinking with him that the time had come for him to rest and enjoy life. But, that’s just it; he doesn’t enjoy life if he’s not preaching.

And, as we spoke on the phone tonight, he let me know he would be standing in the pulpit again starting next month.

“It’s not permanent,” he hastened to explain, as if what I thought mattered. “I’m just filling in for a few weeks.”

For some reason, hearing his words, I thought about the flowers. I know, it makes no sense, but it is the way my brain works.

You’ve seen them before—the surprise lilies. They go by other names, these oddities of nature. Resurrection lilies. Magic lilies. And yes, naked ladies.

It is August in Arkansas, so the surprise lilies are standing proudly in yards and fields all around me. There is a row of them in my front yard, even. They’re not so much of a surprise, after all. I knew right where to look for them.

In the spring, after the dreary, cold days of winter, all of the bulbs seemed to explode with greenery and color. The daffodils, the crocuses, and the irises too—all of them were working to outdo each other with colors and showy blossoms. All of them, that is, except the surprise lilies.

The only thing that pops up in the spring from the bulbs these lovelies keep hidden underground is greenery. Lots of broad, green leaves. They are beautiful in their own right, but not all that awe-inspiring. Still, I know by now to be patient. I protect the growth, allowing it to cover the ground, doing its work.

Making promises for the future.

And then, just like that—about the same time as the daffodils and the irises, the green leaves turn brown and die. Gone. Finished. Rotting into the ground. Or, so it seems.

Months pass. Nothing. Grass covers over the place where the bulbs cower under the dirt. Nothing to see here, folks. Move on.

But, the end of July comes. The hot sun beats down. The grass grows crunchy underfoot. And suddenly, in the last full month of the summer, the plants erupt from the ground.

There is not a leaf to be seen. A beautiful, thin stalk with multiple buds atop it grows within a couple of days to two feet tall. The buds cannot open fast enough into their brilliant pink blossoms.

They are glorious! Perhaps more so because of their delayed appearance. Every year, I wonder if this will be the year they fail. Every year, during the last week of July, they keep their promises made in the springtime.

People are not flowers. I know that. But, again and again, I see folks defying the odds—age, handicaps, illnesses—to keep the promises of youth.

It is a mistake for us to look at circumstances and count anyone, including ourselves, out of the game.

There are no has-beens. Every one of us who is still breathing is still becoming.

The disciple who spoke so often of love said it well, I think:

Loved ones, we are already children of God, but it is not clear yet what we will become. When we are with Christ, then it will be clear as crystal, and we will be just like Him. (1 John 3:2 ~ my paraphrase)

I may be covered up with dirt and hiding right now, but just wait! The glorious part is still to come. It won’t be because of my own abilities and cobbled-together plans, but because of the Creator and His master plan.

Do you think you’re finished? Does it look like no one needs you? Don’t count yourself out!

Did I tell you the preacher is eighty-nine years old? He says he’s got another thirty years in him. I’m not quite sure he’s joking.

Perhaps, we could all take a lesson from the old preacher’s favorite scripture as we anticipate the next step in our becoming:

‘For I know what I have planned for you,’ says the Lord. ‘I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future filled with hope.’
(Jeremiah 29:11, NET)

No, we can’t go back to the past again. But what comes next promises to be spectacular.

Spectacular.

And, maybe a little bit surprising.

______________________________

I’d like to think the best of me
Is still hiding up my sleeve.
(from No Such Thing ~ John Mayer ~ 2001)

So the Lord blessed Job in the second half of his life even more than in the beginning.
(Job 42:12a, NLT)

______________________________

Did You Just Call Me Stiff-Necked?

August 9, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

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

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

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

I turned him down.

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

I hear it already.

What a wimp!

Stiff neck? Is that all?

You call yourself a rider?

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

This is different.

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

What’s that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY…My malady.

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

Persistent.

Obstinate.

Intractable.

Tenacious.

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

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

Focused is good, isn’t it?

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

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

Follow your own path.

Seek your true purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New territory.

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

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

I’m going to do that.

When my neck is feeling better.

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

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