Hope Shines Bright

July 10, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

There were tears at the dinner table tonight. Some might have been my own.

I suppose in some families the occurrence is not all that rare. Arguments between siblings or even partners can end in tears. Lectures by mom or dad to children, too. Unkindness is no stranger to family assemblies. Tears flow. They just do.

That wasn’t the reason for these tears.

We sang a song—a blessing of sorts—before we ate. It wasn’t our usual dinner benediction. I’ve described for my readers in the past the lovely rendition of The Doxology which is frequently heard at our table. Often, just the singing of the beautiful lyrics with its well-known melody and harmonization is enough to make me feel I need no more food than that heavenly feast.

Tonight, my family—some might correct me and tell me it is her family, but I stand by my claim of them—sat around the table in their childhood home and one brother chose a different song to sing.

It has been a difficult day—a difficult few weeks, if it comes to that. It was a Friday night back a way that the phone rang and the hateful word was said again. After a year of feigned dormancy, the despicable thing has come back to life and is again a word on our tongues. Whispered. Spoken in quiet tones, as if the low volume might pacify its voracious appetite.

Cancer.

What an ugly word. A year ago, the major surgery to remove the diseased portion of a lung was pronounced a success. Then the word on the doctor’s lips was cancer-free.

Not now. This time the words are stage IV and chemotherapy.

Now, there’s a sneaky word. Chemotherapy. It sounds so benevolent, so peaceful. Almost like aromatherapy. Relax and drift away. Yeah, right!

Today was his first treatment. Five hours in the chair while his body was infused with numerous chemicals, the result of which no one can foretell with any level of certainty.

We expected to whisper the words. Tonight, of all nights, we would whisper.

Ah. But that was before. Before the benediction. Before the tears. Before the sermon.

Oh. I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

My brother named the benediction for us. We sang, my brothers, my sisters, the Lovely Lady, and others present. Yes, yes. They are her family. I know that. But they are also my family.

Ruth wasn’t wrong when she said the words to her mother-in-law Naomi all those millennia ago:

Your people shall be my people; your God shall be my God. (Ruth 1:16, NLT)

My family. My brothers. My sisters. My wife. I laugh with them. I worship with them. I weep with them. Ah, yes; I sing with them. Sometimes, all at the same time.

Tonight, my family sang. A song of who God was; who He is; who He always will be.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness. It’s not such an old song, as hymns are reckoned. Nearly one hundred years old now. But, the powerful words, the affirmation of the One we believe in—those are ancient. Ancient.

Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:22-23, NKJV)

Clear, youthful soprano tones spilled into my ears from the teenaged girls to either side of me. I heard strong alto notes from more mature voices nearby. One brother and I carried the tenor part (well, he carried it—I just helped a little), leaving the older brother to handle the bass.

I still say the music in heaven won’t be very much sweeter. I hope that’s not too presumptuous. We sang of a God who knows our pain and our sicknesses, our weaknesses and our strengths, yet remains steadfast, never turning away from His path, nor from the ones He loves.

From our hearts, we affirmed the character and attributes of the Creator of all we see and know. I closed my eyes as we sang, partially to concentrate on the words and the voices, but mostly to hide the moisture that seemed to be leaking (without my permission) from them.

It was a holy moment.

As we ended, I heard a voice at my side speak quietly, I thought, almost in disbelief. “Look. Mom’s crying.”

She wasn’t the only one.

And, in a voice just as quiet, my/her brother—the one facing the life and death ordeal—preached a sermon (a short one) as he told us he had adopted as his own the words from that same song.

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.

They were, I believe, the last quiet words spoken at the table this night. There was no more whispering, no more avoiding those ugly, hateful words.

Cancer. Chemotherapy. Prognosis.

God is bigger than any of those things.

Bigger!

He gives strength to face the burdens of the day.

He gives hope—yes, even bright hope—for what comes tomorrow, whatever it is.

It doesn’t make light of the serious situations we find ourselves in, doesn’t guarantee a life without trials, without pain. And yet, just to remember who He is reminds us of who we are in Him.

We walk today in His strength.

We face tomorrow with His hope.

His mercies are still new.

Every day.

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee,
Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not,
As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be.

Great is Thy faithfulness!
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me!

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today, and bright hope for tomorrow
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside.
(Great Is Thy Faithfulness ~ Thomas Chisholm ~ 1866-1960 ~ Public Domain)

Not Lightly

January 24, 2019January 24, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s one of the reasons I can’t always listen to music while I write. You’d think I would have to have music. It soothes the savage breast, they say. It washes away the layers of dust from the day’s travels.

It does those things. It does. But, it also shanghais the words on the page, rearranging them and forming ideas I never intended to lay out in cohesive concepts. Before I know it, I’ve ended up in a completely different locale than where I was headed when I began the journey.

I sat in front of a screen recently, clicking the keys as fast as my fumbling fingers would allow, and listened to a CD from one of my favorite singers. The CD has a handwritten title, scribbled right on the disc with a Sharpie, reminiscent of what we once did with what we called mix tapes.

Only, it wasn’t. Not anything like what we used to make.

The voice coming from the little computer speakers was a familiar one, that of a friend. She knows how to write a song. And, how to sing one.

Friends. Recently, my mind has been wandering more and more to the people in my life. It does that, you know.

My mind, I mean. Wandering.

I’ve written before of the great gift we’ve been given in those we can call by the name friend. I don’t repent the words.

On the night I’m thinking about, my mind was on other things, but the song she sang hijacked my train of thought. Held it at gunpoint, forcing a new direction.

I, like most men, have a one-track mind (one that can only focus on one thing at a time), so hijack is the right word to use here. And, as the train gathered momentum down the new track, the clacking keys of my keyboard fell silent.

One line. As I write, it’s all I remember from the song. It’s enough.

“You will not pass lightly through my years.”

I can’t write the words without feeling the presence of many people. The memories come non-stop. Some, I don’t want to consider beyond the first glimmer of recognition. Others, I hold tight and savor, reliving cherished moments again and again, like a CD on repeat.

Our lives, from earliest interactions, have been shaped by the people in them. Family, teachers, friends, bullies, attackers, employers, pastors, neighbors—people who have walked through our journey—and left footprints there.

Some have stayed and walked beside us for miles and miles. Others have only appeared and then disappeared, leaving barely a trace in our lives at all.

A few merely stay long enough to inflict intense pain—pain which will last for as long as we are on the journey.

And others, even fewer in number, stay to help ease the pain which has been left behind. These, we turn to over and over.

Gifts they are, from a loving Father above.

All of them. Gifts.

Wait. All of them?

Are the ones who inflict pain gifts, as well as the ones who ease it?

This is getting a little uncomfortable, isn’t it?

The words hit way too close to home for me, as well. Perhaps, I shouldn’t camp out on this for very long. I’ll just say this and move on:

God uses whatever tools He chooses to make us into the mature followers He needs.

God uses whatever tools He chooses to make us into the mature followers He needs. Share on X

Perhaps the words of Joseph, speaking to his murderous, jealous brothers, say it best: You meant to harm me beyond belief. God always intended that great good would come of it. (Genesis 50:20)

And Jesus laid out the expectation clearly: Love the haters. Bless them when they curse you. Pray for the hurtful. Give to the thief who steals from you. God did it. Follow His lead. (Luke 6:27-36)

Well. That standard’s not too high, is it?

Here’s the thing. I really want someone to say the words about me someday.

You did not pass lightly through my years.

I don’t want to be the fellow who made a cameo appearance, never making a difference to the scene whatsoever.

Friends make a difference. They make a lasting impression. A good one.

What we call the Golden Rule didn’t come from some do-gooder making up slogans. It came from the One who, walking through the lives of humanity, has left a clearer footprint than anyone else ever could.

Don’t treat people the way they deserve; treat them the way you’d like to be treated. (Matthew 7:12)

I don’t know about you, but my standard for how I think I should be treated is fairly high.

No. Higher than that.

Really. Higher.

So, my standard for how I treat my fellow travelers—every one of them—must be just as high. And still higher.

And someday, if the words do fall from someone else’s lips about me, those words about not passing lightly, I hope they know the reason.

It’s not because of the way I want to be treated. That’s not the why of our treatment of others, only the how.

The why is that we love, simply because He loved us. (1 John 4:19)

When we travel through the lives of others, passing (lightly or otherwise) with love, we leave behind the sweet aroma of the One we follow. (2 Corinthians 2:14b)

It’s better than the stench I know I’ve left more often than I care to discuss here. A lot better.

On we walk. Friends helping friends on the way home.

Really.

Home.

Leaving footprints that point the way to a Savior.

Not lightly.

We leave traces of ourselves wherever we go, on whatever we touch.
(Lewis Thomas ~ American physician/scientist/writer ~ 1913-1993)

I have friends in overalls whose friendship I would not swap for the favor of the kings of the world.
(Thomas A Edison ~ American inventor ~ 1847-1931)

Click below to listen to the song I mentioned in the article:

“Forever Friends” by Nancy Jesser-Halsey

Voices of the Oaks

March 6, 2018March 6, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Today is a day of rest.

Really. A weekday, but I’m resting.

Outside though, there is a whirl and a hurry, the wind bustling through in a tremendous rush to get somewhere—anywhere, it seems, but here. And, since I’m resting, I listen to the wind.

My friends in the backyard don’t want to listen. The black labs are terrified of the voices they hear in the air about them. For ten seconds, while I was out to care for their physical needs this morning, they came out to scramble for my attention. Ten seconds only, and then they dove for cover as the wind began to sound through the treetops again.

They’re not resting.

I am, though. The last weeks and days have been a whirlwind of busy-ness, caused by the illness and passing of a family member. Sadness and concern for her and those left behind have overwhelmed me. Our love for them demands the activity, but the body and soul are rebelling, making demands of their own.

And so, overwhelmed, I sit at my desk, listening to the voices of the wind outside my window. Almost, it seems to me, God’s creation sings a concert of glorious praise. The dogs would disagree, but what do they know?

The man-made attachments add their voices. I hear the neighbor’s ceiling fan on her porch, as it whirls—now wildly, now lazily—on its way. Whup, whup, whup, whup, whup. On and on, it provides a rhythm to the song.

The wind chimes crash crazily and then tinkle lazily, a tuned accent to the constant voices through the limbs of the trees. From the clang! clang! clang! to the almost indiscernible ting ting ting, their bell-like tones add depth to the various voices of creation.

The Rose of Sharon against the wall brushes noisily in rhythm, as its wire-thin stems almost whistle from the breath of the wind.

The apple tree, ancient though it may be, adds its airy voice. The bedraggled and crooked branches lend a whispering tone to the choir.

Over in the neighbor’s yard, the magnolia, evergreen that it is, claps its leaves in the gale, the great fronds clattering along as branches surrounding them wave and whirl about.

And the pines? They are the tenor voices, holding forth as only the self-assured tenors can. It is a wild chorus, held in check only by the waning of the wind at intervals, as if to keep their voices from overwhelming all the others.

But the oaks. . . Ah, the oaks—they are the basses, their voices booming along on the low pitches, a low, throbbing tone, giving a foundation to all of it.

I love the oaks in the neighborhood. Solid and strong, they are not afraid to sing out, standing firm, and yet, their heavy branches wave to the listening audience a little as they are buffeted.

I almost imagine a little vibrato in their song, as they shift about—only a little.

I understand the dogs. I too, am afraid of the wind at times—fearing all I possess will be blown away.

I remember the story of Job, thinking of all he lost, blown away seemingly in an instant. Everything and everyone. Gone.

Life is so fragile, so thin. We seem to hang, as a tiny spider, on a shredded web, waving in the tempest.

But, I have seen the strength of that web. The web of family and of friends. The web of faith in a God who holds both us and the storm in His hands.

The web of His mercy and His grace.

With the prophet, I affirm that it is because of His great mercy we are not blown away in the storm. We are sustained by His great and unfailing faithfulness. (Lamentations 3:22,23)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. Share on X

I am not saying a limb won’t tumble to the ground, nor even that a great oak might not someday be uprooted. There is pain and sorrow in the world.

There is.

But, the one who can silence the wind with a word from His mouth still offers peace in the midst of chaos.

Songs in the storm. Harmony in the turmoil.

Beautiful. Music.

It is a day of rest.

You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
    will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
    will clap their hands.
(Isaiah 55:12 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

When the wind blows through a wood, its mass is cut and closed by every leaf, forming a train of jittery vortices in the air.
(Alice Oswald ~ British poet)

Not Woebegone

February 19, 2018February 20, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Music has charms to soothe a savage beast.

The words, written in verse centuries ago, are quoted frequently, even today.

I don’t disagree.

I’m remembering a weekend, some time ago, when I reveled in the harmonious, percussive notes of a skillfully played hammered dulcimer, listened in awe to the sweet, mellow tones of my favorite trumpet player, and wiped away tears at the conclusion of an amazing vocal duet rendition of an aria from an opera (you read that right, an opera).

In between those numbers that weekend, I played and sang a bit myself, as well as heard several other artists who were skillfully adept at their craft.

This savage beast’s heart was soothed. For awhile. But, for some reason, I hear something else in my head tonight.

Well, it’s been a busy week in Lake Wobegon.

I can even hear the quiet, smooth tonality of Garrison Keillor’s baritone voice as I write this, although I’m not quite sure why those words come to mind.

I suppose I may have been a little down in the mouth recently. You know—the worries of life are starting to pile up here and there; the things I usually can control have gotten away from me a bit.

Instead of a perpetual grin, the corners of the mouth are turned down somewhat, and it’s harder than usual to work up to a smile.

Thus, the descriptive phrase down in the mouth seems to cover my attitude most appropriately.

Every time I ever heard Mr. Keillor utter the opening sentence to the story-telling session on his radio program, I was struck anew by the name of his fictitious town.

He avers that the name comes from an old Native American word meaning the place where we waited all day in the rain for you. It is not exactly the correct origin for the word it sounds like, woebegone, but it comes awfully close.

The idea of waiting in the rain for someone who never arrives just about describes the depth of the feeling of being woebegone, a word that really comes from the Middle English meaning beset by woe. Either way, an apt description for someone who is down in the mouth.

As I sat and listened that weekend to the jaw-droppingly beautiful tones that emanated from the young lady’s silver trumpet, my inner being was touched. And then, as mother and daughter sang their operatic duet in a language I will never understand, I ached for more.

But more of what?

I know by experience that I soon tire of the same music, played or sung again and again. A recording would not suffice, nor would simply attending recitals day after day to hear the artists ply their craft.

I am convinced beauty on earth is given to remind us there is more. Something more satisfying is to come.

More.

What we have here, beautiful as it may be, is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day.

What we have here is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day. Share on X

Many centuries ago, the writer of psalms understood that, even as he struggled with his own inner sadness. He was woebegone, down in the mouth, but still, he wrote deep calls unto deep, and told of his Creator’s unspeakable love and glory, evidenced by the world around him.

Like Job, the afflicted one, he outlined his troubles and then reiterated, for I will yet praise Him. (Psalm 42:7-11)

Some of us drown our sorrows with alcohol, some with work, some with denial. I listen for hours to music, reveling in the intrinsic beauty of the chords, and the harmonies, and the melodies.

For all, it is the same. The time comes when reality must be faced.

The music ends, the fat lady sings, if you will.

We who believe have a promise that will still keep us on the path. The knowledge, the certainty, that there is more is enough to give us strength and perseverance to go on through what lies ahead.

Not around and not under. Through.

I don’t know about you, but I’m going on.

The oases along the way—the music, the fellowship, the joy—those only lend credence to the promise that we’re just nomads, travelers in this world, on our way to a better place.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m enjoying the soundtrack while I’m here.

Even waiting in the rain.

Not woebegone.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God?
(Psalm 42:1,2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(The Mourning Bride by William Congreve ~ English playwright and poet ~ 1670-1729)

How Low Can You Go?

February 9, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I knew she’d listen to every note I played. I wished the professor had suggested she sit somewhere else. Somewhere she’d hear other musicians and their mistakes.

Instead of mine.

The young high school junior was visiting her university-going sister on campus. No doubt, it was an exciting time for her. I still remember that age.

Wide-eyed and inexperienced, the world held exhilaration at every turn. College years would be a chance to be out on your own—away from the careful direction of overprotective parents. A campus visit ahead of time offered a stimulating preview of the freedom that was to come.

Her sister is a member of the little chamber orchestra they are kind enough to allow me to participate in at the small liberal arts university. Since the visiting young lady is also a French horn player, the professor thought it would be nice for her to sit in the horn section.

On my right. Where the bell of my horn points.

I just knew she would hear every mistake and bobble proceeding out of the wayward instrument.

Well. There was nothing for it but to get through the hour. I started my warm-up.

I like to start with long tones—mid-range notes lasting several seconds each, descending down a scale before coming back up to finish on the original note. After a few moments of that, I play some arpeggios—open chords—mostly descending until I reach a point at least two octaves below the starting midrange note.

The low pitch I end on is quite low, somewhere in the vicinity of what a tuba player would call mid-range. Since my warm-ups always include that note and those leading down to it in the scale, I like to think I have developed a rather nice tone in that range, a range most horn players never attempt.

I end my warm-up by playing the arpeggios on up to the original mid-range and then up another octave before sliding back down to finish on the original note with which I began.

I saw her turn her head to look at me as I finished my warm-up. I thought perhaps she wanted to say something, but the professor was already talking, introducing the young lady to the whole group.

It wasn’t a relaxing rehearsal. We played a piece I only remember reading once before, so many of the passages were unfamiliar. I stumbled and muffed more notes than I care to count, acutely aware of the girl’s presence beside me through all of them.

She heard every note. Every one.

At the end of the rehearsal, I said a few polite words to her. I hoped her visit would be all she was hoping for. She was also polite. We talked for a few seconds and she asked one question.

“What kind of range do you have?”

Immediately, I jumped to the obvious conclusion. I supposed she meant: how high can you play?

I jokingly mentioned the highest note I’m comfortable playing is a high G, but pointed to the young lady on the other side of me, suggesting that she was the one who played the high C’s when necessary.

The girl wasn’t quite satisfied, starting another question.

“But, what’s the low. . .”

Before she could complete the question, her sister called her over to discuss what was next in their day’s schedule. She never got a chance to ask what was on her mind.

I went on about my day, not thinking again about the girl’s curiosity.

I’m thinking about it now.

She wanted to know about my low range, not my high range. She had heard my warm-up and knowing that most horn players avoid those low registers, wondered about how low I could go.

I’m wondering the same thing tonight.

Do you know I don’t have a very good high range when I play my horn? Most players with similar experience to mine are quite adept at playing the highest notes on the horn. Even many young players have a high range much superior to mine.

I wish it weren’t so.

I want to play the high notes. But, I can’t.

I’ve been thinking about this for a while now.

Why can I play the low notes (the ones most horn players eschew) with ease, but I can’t reach the high pitches? What’s the problem?

As Mr. Tolkien puts it in his description of the scatter-brained innkeeper in his famous tale, even though he thinks less than he talks, and slower; yet he can see through a brick wall in time. . .

I’m somewhat the same, thinking less than I talk (at times), but I believe I can see the answer to my problem.

You’ve probably already arrived at the solution, especially since it’s been explained at length up above.

I’m good at the low notes because those are what I concentrate on every time—every single time—I pick up my horn to play. My warm-up is a regimen I perform—without fail—before I look at a piece of music, before the conductor raises the baton for the first time, before even the first tuning note is sounded to be sure all the instruments are capable of playing the same pitch together.

I play low notes. Every time, I play low notes.

I’m good at low notes. Really.

But, I want to play high notes.

And, the Apostle said, the thing I want to do, I don’t do. But, the thing I don’t want to do, that’s the very thing I do. (Romans 7:19)

Of course, he’s talking about more important things than playing a horn, but then again, so am I.

The thing I practice is the thing I will perform. Share on X

The thing I practice is the thing I will perform. It is true in all walks of life.

If I practice complaining, one would never anticipate that I would rest patiently and with confidence.

If I practice arrogance and pride, I will never perform with humility.

If I live continually in defeat and expectation of loss, I can have no expectation of joy or fulfillment.

When the time comes to play the brilliant high notes in a concert performance, if I have resigned myself to practicing only the low and middle registers during every rehearsal, I will never—ever—shape my lips to sound the right notes.

I read today the words of a friend who is, by all earthly wisdom, fighting a losing battle. His battle is for his life. I was shocked to read of his laughter and joy as he fights the battle.

But tonight, I understand. He is practicing for the performance still to come. In anticipation of what he calls a joyful death, he’s decided to practice joy now—today, and for the rest of his days, however many he has.

I’ve been working on the low stuff for too long now. I’ve gotten much too accomplished at it.

I want to play the high notes. I want the folks who are doomed to sit and listen to me to hear the good stuff.

It’s time for a new warm-up routine.

Today’s as good a time to start as any.

For the things we have to learn before we can do them, we learn by doing them.
(Aristotle ~ Ancient Greek philosopher ~ 384 BC-322 BC)

Keep putting into practice all you learned and received from me—everything you heard from me and saw me doing. Then the God of peace will be with you.
(Philippians 4:9 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

Intervals

October 10, 2017October 10, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I love playing the horn. Really, I do.

If it sounds as if I’m trying to convince myself, perhaps I am. Of all the endeavors I have undertaken in my life, playing the horn has been the most mercurial.

By that, I mean to say it has been the most enjoyable and the most frustrating. I’ve had astounding successes and disastrous failures. Most days, I love playing with other musicians. Then again on others, I detest the very thought of it.

Mercurial.

Up. Down.

Hot. Cold.

I suppose my attitude toward the activity may be tethered to my commitment to preparation for it. For some odd reason, when I don’t take the horn out of its protective case and play it between rehearsals, the rehearsals themselves are less than satisfactory. Often, much less.

The lady is kind if nothing else. She is. Standing there on her podium, she has no intention of hurting anyone’s feelings. All she’s after is music—correct notes, played at the right time, and at the volume indicated in the dynamic marking.

It’s not much to ask.

Still, it requires more than just attempting it in the instant of need. Sometimes, a lot more.

She was frustrated on the last occasion. The violins may have been a few cents off pitch. The timpani player might have played that roll too loudly. The bass voices could have been dragging the beat a little.

None of those was the cause of her frustration. This time, anyway. No, it was something else.

The horns had blown their entrance.

Three notes. That’s all it was. Three. Play a G in the middle octave, then a jump to the G in the higher octave, then a little slur down to the F#.

Except, it didn’t happen. The first note was nowhere near to a G, nor was the next even close to the octave interval required. Perhaps, we shouldn’t even talk about the F#.

The exasperation was obvious as she motioned with her baton. A big circle in the air. That meant stop. No. It meant stop now!

She needn’t have bothered on my account. I wasn’t playing any more notes after that flub anyway.

She looked back at the horn section, the frown on her lips replaced quickly with a smile. If not one of confidence, it was at least one of hope.

You’re going to get that. I’m sure you will. Next time.

She didn’t insist we play it again in front of all the other musicians. She didn’t berate us for our second-rate performance. She extended mercy.

Mercy and grace.

A second chance.

An interval in which to work on our interval, you might say.

A wise man would spend the time judiciously, these minutes—and hours—and days—in that interval of grace.

I wonder if I fall into that category. I suppose time will tell.

But if you know me, you know I wonder about other things, as well. It’s impossible for me to consider that little ragtag group of musicians we like to call a chamber orchestra and not get a glimpse in my mind of this great, huge symphony in which all of us are participants.

Every single one of us plays a part. The phrase fits the subject perfectly—not by my design—but because it is true that all of us understand we play, at least in some capacity, a part of the music of life.

Everyone plays a part in the great symphony of mankind. Our Conductor has high expectations. Share on X

Even with the high expectations, we’ll all play a clinker at some point. Our Conductor understands.

He does.

He once played in the symphony, too. Is it too much to believe He’d be sympathetic with our weaknesses? (Hebrews 4:15)

He hasn’t forgotten the music; hasn’t lost the rhythm of creation. And, He knows how difficult it is to play those intervals sometimes.

Grace. Mercy.

Intervals.

I wonder. This might be one of those other intervals.

Maybe, we should use the time wisely. (Ephesians 5:15-16)

The Day is approaching—the day when the baton in our Conductor’s hand sweeps toward that down beat.

I’m not going to miss this interval.

In theory, there is no difference between practice and theory. In practice, there is.
(Yogi Berra ~American baseball player/manager ~ 1925-2015)

This High Priest of ours understands our weaknesses, for he faced all of the same testings we do, yet he did not sin. So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it most.
(Hebrews 4:15, 16 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

Live Boldly

September 14, 2017September 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m not sure when it stopped mattering to me. At some point in the last forty years, things changed drastically.

I don’t care what they think anymore.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Perhaps, a little explanation will aid in unravelling my boast.

It was during the last semester of the school year. The beloved director of the student orchestra, which graciously allows me to participate—I think, just to have the part covered—had handed out a new music piece.

We sight-read the piece. Sight-reading is the act of playing a piece of music through without having ever rehearsed—or even seen—it before.

I didn’t realize it was true of my playing, but it must have been. After the rehearsal session was over, as we were putting away our instruments, one of the students mentioned that he had heard my solo line clearly.

I don’t know how you dare do that—play it loud enough for everyone else to hear. And, on the first run-through, too!

I thought a minute before replying.

There’s no one here I’m afraid of. Why not play it out?

It hasn’t always been the case. My old horn teacher hammered the thought into my head. I’ve written the words before.

If you’re going to make a mistake, make it loud enough for me to hear!

The last time I wrote the phrase, someone responded with Martin Luther’s words, paraphrased a bit.

Sin boldly.

I cringe a little at the words. I don’t want to encourage anyone to live a life of debauchery, claiming the grace of God as their get-out-of-jail-free card. That’s not the way it works.

But, Mr. Luther knew and understood our lifelong tug of war with self and sin. He affirmed the grace of God to be more than adequate to the task of cleansing us from all sin.

Still. I will say it again. Play it out! Speak with authority! Belt out the tune!

I’ve not always followed that advice. For many years, what I wanted was to be loud enough that everyone would hear the good and compliment me for it, but soft enough that not one listener could detect the rotten inconsistencies that were bound to turn up sooner or later.

What changed?

What changed was the realization that there was nobody—either in the ensemble or in the audience—I was afraid of. There is nothing they can do to hurt me.

I’m just sorry it took me so many years to realize it.

All those wasted years spent sliding around wrong notes and playing out of tune—meekly and quietly—when I could have been making a difference.

Bold and certain of my sanction, I could have been a voice that made a difference, sounding with clarity and purpose.

Hmmm. I think we’re not just talking about playing in the orchestra anymore, are we?

And the Teacher told His disciples that they had been practicing in the dark and behind closed doors at low volumes for long enough. All that was about to change.

What you’ve been playing at the pianissimo level behind closed doors and in the dark will soon be played out in the town square at fortissimo. You’re afraid of the wrong people! Don’t fear them. Fear God. (Luke 12:3,4)

I’ll admit, I’ve taken a little liberty with the context. To my knowledge, that little band of men has no record of having played musical instruments, even though they did sing a time or two.

Still, the meaning is the same. Very nearly.

Don’t be afraid to be heard. Be loud! Be bold!

But, maybe you don’t play a musical instrument. Perhaps you simply answer a telephone. Or clean floors. Or write code. Or sell flowers.

Whatever you do, you can do it with boldness. You’re not doing it for anyone who has the power to harm you.

We perform for the One who has made it clear, unequivocally and emphatically that He will not allow us to be harmed. Under His direction, we find safety. (Psalm 46:1)

Does that imply that no one will laugh at us? Is it a promise of physical protection, that we will lead charmed lives?

You know the answer. Damage to the body is not damage to the soul.

He holds our souls in the palm of His hand. It is the only safe place—the only one.

So, we speak boldly. We act courageously. We love audaciously.

Speak boldly. Act courageously. Love audaciously. Share on X

There’s nothing to hurt us here.

There's nothing to hurt us here. We're held firmly in His grip. Share on X

Held firmly in His grip, we live life out loud.

Fortissimo.

ff!

Live well. Sing out, sing loud, and sing often. And God bless the child that’s got a song.
(Nanci Griffith ~ American singer/songwriter)

The wicked run away when no one is chasing them,
but the godly are as bold as lions.
(Proverbs 28:1 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

If It Ain’t Broke

August 11, 2017August 11, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The girls were visiting and the piano needed attention. Funny how that happens.

Months—absolutely months— can go by without a word to me about making repairs to the old thing, but let the girls come to visit and it’s time to see to what ails it.

I’ve done this many times before.

The G below Middle C is acting up! Not many songs in our repertoire can be played without that G.

She says the words and I know exactly what must be done. Not that anyone else cares besides me, but the jack flange has come loose from the wippen and the hammer isn’t returning quickly enough to its original position to be ready for the next repetition of the note.

It just needs a little spot of glue.

Applied to exactly the right place.

It’s always the jack flange. Always.

The old piano is a hundred and thirty-eight years old. It, perhaps, has earned a rest from its labors by now. Still, in between these little crises, beautiful music can be heard spilling from the exquisite burled walnut case of the ancient instrument.

But, the girls. . .

I get my tools and take the front off of the piano one more time.

Why, one might ask, do I continue to repair one jack flange at a time (or two, if I’ve waited long enough for a second one to let go, as was the case this time), instead of taking the plunge and re-gluing every single flange? All eighty-eight of them.

Ah. There’s the rub.

They’re not all loose. Yet.

One would assume the glue, nearly one hundred forty-years old, made from the hide of dead animals, would have deteriorated to the point that every joint would pop loose at the slightest touch.

It would be a wrong assumption.

The glue, for the most part, still holds the entire contrivance together admirably. For the most part.

To remove all the flanges would involve infinite patience and time-consuming labor. There would certainly be broken parts if they were forced apart.

The old adhesive, brittle though it may be, still holds tightly enough and yet, ready to pop loose at whatever precise moment the molecules in the mixture break down.

An attempt to repair the entire piano would be disastrous. And, foolish.

The smart piano technician waits until a repair is necessary to effect the remedy.

Or, in the everyday vernacular, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

I’m not sure how smart I am, but I know gluing a loose flange is much easier than repairing a broken one. Especially one I’ve broken myself.

I left all the tightly glued flanges alone and removed only the two troublemakers. Applying a spot of glue to the point of contact between the jack and the wippen, I matched the two parts together in precisely the same position they have held for the last century and just over a third.

They may hold for another century or more.

Time will tell.

You know, I’ve wondered why our Creator, omniscient and omnipotent as He is, wouldn’t notice all the problems we weak folk are going to have before they happen and simply take care of them for us.

All of us. All at once.

But, He doesn’t, does He? He leaves those of us who will fail right in among those who will carry on. And, we break and fail. Again and again.

We break and fail. Again and again. Share on X

He knows exactly what needs to be done—exactly which part needs repair.

Every time, His touch—His love—mends the hurts and restores the errant parts of the Body. Often, the restored members are stronger than they once were.

And, while the individual parts are getting the attention they need, the rest of the Body continues to function around its brokenness, making music for a listening world.

Beautiful music. From flawed, broken, and repaired pieces of the whole.

From flawed, broken, and restored people, He makes beautiful music. Share on X

The music is sweeter for it.

He uses broken flanges. And, hammers. And, center pins. And, back checks. And, dampers. And. . .well, you get the point. Even if you don’t recognize any of the parts, you get the point.

When it’s broken, He fixes it. (Jeremiah 30:17)

We make beautiful music together, don’t we? For all of our brokenness and distress, the music is heavenly.

It was when the girls sang, too.

Heavenly.

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
(Ernest Hemingway ~ American author ~ 1899-1961)

Dear brothers and sisters, if another believer is overcome by some sin, you who are Godly should gently and humbly help that person back onto the right path. And be careful not to fall into the same temptation yourself. Share each other’s burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ.
(Galatians 6: 1,2 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Jubal’s Tribe

June 28, 2017June 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Have you ever considered how music touches our souls?

The preacher sat toying with his coffee cup, now mostly empty. When we first sat down an hour before, it had been filled to the rim with the hot, black elixir.

We had talked of history and faith and friends, along with a sentence or two about the glory days of our youth. As our time together inched toward its termination, the conversation turned toward the philosophical.

My guitar-playing friend was there, as well. He, as was his habit, contributed to the direction of our discussion with a short narrative about a man and his wife of many years who had sung together at a recent music event the storyteller had headlined.

The thing is, the lady has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t know her husband anymore, nor is she able to comprehend even simple questions or enter into conversation. But, she sang.

She sang.

It’s not the first story told about music and how it is so deeply ingrained in our very being. Many others have their own anecdotes, family lore which lightens the darkness of sad periods in their memories. I have my own. too.

The last time I visited with the red-headed lady who raised me—my mom—before she left this life, she didn’t know me. Told me I was no good. Ordered me out of her house.

But, when I sat beside her in church that morning and held my hymnal in front of her, she nearly pulled it out of my hand as she tugged at it. And, she sang.

She sang.

Tears came to my eyes as I visited with my friends that morning, just a week or so ago. The three of us sat on the sidewalk at the cafe, conversations abuzz all around and cars passing by on the busy downtown street; all I heard was my Mama’s voice singing praise to her Creator.

Why does music touch our souls?

How is it that the words and melodies are written indelibly on our hearts when all else has gone dark?

From the depths of our being, when neither voices nor photos, nor even faces can bring familiar, well-worn paths and fellow-travelers back to mind, the introductory notes of an old hymn—or even a folk song or ballad—stir the synapses of the mostly unresponsive brain to recall the words and tune faultlessly.

Even my father-in-law, in the last years of his life almost completely unresponsive, would sit beside his wife as she played the piano, and his once strong voice would ring out the tenor part as if he had no impediment whatsoever.

Why does music touch our souls?

I attempted to interject my thoughts on the effect music has on our emotions, the right sequence of notes drawing tears in appropriate places during the course of a movie, or even the use of certain types of music to inspire courage and fidelity on the battlefield.

The preacher dismissed that as simply emotions, not actually the heart. I, not sure I agreed, ceded him the point, since it was clear that any argument would have been merely subjective, without any possibility of claiming definitive proof.

Perhaps that’s a discussion for another day. I’m not fully convinced. I’ll have to think on that awhile longer.

For today though, the question still demands an answer. Why does music touch the soul—or heart, if you prefer—and leave its mark stamped thereon?

Jabal had a brother, whose name was Jubal. He was the father of all who play the harp and pipe. (Genesis 4:21)

Jubilation and jubilees had arrived. Seven generations after Adam, the gift of music began to be ingrained in the human spirit. The birds in the trees no longer had any advantage over humanity, save that they could fly.

Henceforth, the human spirit would be moved, not only by words and emotions, but by music. Notes and chords, strung together and played or sung, would make their way inexorably and irretrievably into the hearts of men.

For those of us who hold a worldview shaped by Scripture, music would have the purpose of drawing men to God and glorifying Him. The Word is full of evidence. Read Psalm 95:1, Ephesians 5:19, 2 Chronicles 5:13, to only begin.

Scripture’s pages are full of the act of making music. Across the ages, hearts were drawn irresistibly to God in song.

What a gift!

The weekend after that coffee morning with my friends, I stood in the Sunday morning worship service where the Lovely Lady and I fellowship and, once again, the point was made as clear as a mountain spring to me.

Although, I am often privileged to be part of the worship team on-stage, on this day I stood in the midst of the main group on the floor level. My mind, as is too often the case, was on the more practical issues of my life—work, finances (or the lack thereof), uncertainties of the future—rather than focused on worship.

There was nothing spectacular about the music. Nothing.

And yet, as I stood and sang, as I had been taught to do early in life by that red-headed lady I spoke of earlier, the eyes of my soul were drawn irresistibly to higher things.

The God of all the universe has come to live within us. To walk with us. To put eternity in our hearts.

My voice broke. As the tears flowed, my voice fell silent.

My heart did not.

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us.

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us. Share on X

I wonder.

Music touches our souls because the God who is Love knew we would need to be reminded. Often.

What a gift! The gift that soothes, that inspires, that makes the heart to soar.

Jubilation!

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(William Congreve ~ English playwright ~ 1670-1729)

Sing a new song to the Lord,
    for he has done wonderful deeds.
His right hand has won a mighty victory;
    his holy arm has shown his saving power!
The Lord has announced his victory
    and has revealed his righteousness to every nation!
He has remembered his promise to love and be faithful to Israel.
    The ends of the earth have seen the victory of our God.
Shout to the Lord, all the earth;
  break out in praise and sing for joy!
Sing your praise to the Lord with the harp,
  with the harp and melodious song,
with trumpets and the sound of the ram’s horn.
  Make a joyful symphony before the Lord, the King!
Let the sea and everything in it shout his praise!
  Let the earth and all living things join in.
(Psalm 98: 1-7 ~ NLT)
Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Offerings

December 6, 2016December 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The young voices sing in tight harmony, the air surrounding us almost trembling with astonishment at the beauty of their song. We in the pews are in agreement with the atmosphere; to a person it seems, holding our breaths, not wanting to miss a note or a chord.

The carol began as a common Christmas song—with familiar words and melody—but it has become much more than that. The young artists, led by that genius with a stick in his hand, started with the simple familiar tune and turned it into a symphony, a masterpiece of beautiful music and brilliant poetry.

Quietly, scarcely louder than a whisper, the voices draw us upward until, with more volume than seems possible from those young throats and greater skill than seems imaginable from musicians so inexperienced, we are overcome with wonder and with awe.

We who sit in the hard seats and listen have been carried far beyond the restraints of our time and circumstances. For a moment which seemed an eternity, our spirits soared with the melodies and harmonies that have drawn us into the very presence of the King of Christmas.

It has always been so for me. This music has power—power to soothe the spirit—power to move the soul—power to draw the heart from its deepest, darkest hiding place and lay it open before the Creator of all the Universe.

I know it is not the same for all. My life has been full of music from the day I was born, until now in my waning years. Many have had different experiences and have also lived joyfully. I freely admit it.

Still—music moves me.

Can I go a step further and tell you what else moves me?

Just as much as the music.

It may come as a shock to the reader. It did to me.

You see, I sit in the beautiful cathedral and am moved to tears by nothing more than sound in the air—that and the Spirit of God—and somehow, it feels natural and right.

But just this week, in my place of business, I was also moved to tears. . .

The old man had been in before. He had The Look. You know, that look in his eyes—almost empty, but a little wild, a little confused, and perhaps even, dangerous. He shuffled in, shoulders slumped, a defeated shell of a man, without hope.

He is homeless, or nearly so. Drifting from one relative to another, living under the stars when the weather permits, he calls no place home, but any place he lies down his bedroom.

He had a guitar to sell. I’ve told his story before. Well, not his, but the same basic story anyway. No money, no food, the urge to find funds has led him to my door. The guitar would feed him for a few days anyway.

Or, so he thought.

I didn’t want his guitar.

It is damaged and worn now. It was not much better when it was new. If I had bought it, the guitar-shaped-object would have found a semi-permanent home in my back room, a room which is already packed full by too many cheap, broken guitar-shaped-objects.

I didn’t want the guitar. I told him so.

The wild eyes turned angry for a few seconds, and I worried that things might get ugly. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and looking dejected, turned to go.

I wasn’t done, though. I know, after years of sleepless nights and remorse-filled days, that it was not my place to turn him away without help. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple of bills which I laid on the counter for him. Immediately, the angry eyes were back and he waved away my offer disgustedly.

He didn’t want my hand-out. He wanted to sell his guitar.

Quickly, I explained my dilemma. Motioning with my arms at the guitars leaning against the back wall and the cases stacked in the aisles, I told him that I can’t—just can’t—acquire another guitar to repair. Without disparaging his instrument, I made it clear. I simply don’t need his guitar.

Again, I held out the money and begged—yes—I begged him to take it. I suggested he could still sell the guitar to someone else who needs it. For a moment, his demeanor brightened, as he saw a way to get more than he expected when he first came through my door.

Then another idea came to him.

“I’ll accept your gift. But, I’m not going to sell this guitar.” The old guy proudly gestured with the instrument. “I know this guy who’s staying down by the tracks. He says he plays, but he doesn’t have a guitar to use. I’ll give this one to him.”

He reached a gnarled hand across the counter, first to take the gift I offered, and then again to grip mine in that ancient symbol of equality and respect, a handshake.

I looked into his eyes.

That’s funny.

They were as clear as a bell. No anger. No confusion. No defeat.

Did I say they were clear? I meant to say that they were clear except for the tears that welled up in the corners of each one. As he let go of the firm grip he had on my hand, there were tears in my own eyes, as well.

He headed for the door. I’m pretty sure he was taller than when he came in. At least, his head was held up and the slump he had when he arrived was gone.

As he stepped outside, I heard his voice, “God bless you, friend.”

I can’t explain it, but I felt chills. Something like I felt when I listened to those young folks singing last night.

Something like it.

The apostle said that when we walk in love, our God smells a sweet aroma, as He did when His Son came for us.

When we walk in love, our God smells a sweet aroma Share on X

This Christmas, as I worship in the beauty and opulence of the cathedral, with its stained glass windows and high ceilings, and all of it trimmed in oak, I’m going to remember that somewhere, out there in the cold and dirty world, a man plays a guitar.

The music inside might be prettier and more skilled.

I don’t know.

Somehow, I think the Savior of the world—the One who came as a baby on that first Christmas—I think He might consider the sound of that guitar playing down by the railroad tracks just a little sweeter.

Just a little.

A sweet aroma.

A song will outlive all sermons in the memory.
(Henry Giles ~ American minister/author ~ 1809-1882)

And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.
(Ephesians 5:2 ~ ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

music