Looking Ahead—Looking Behind

March 7, 2023March 7, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It seems I’ve used up most of my available words in the last year writing about difficult things. As a consequence, for the last few months, my late-night writing sessions have been replaced by late-night reading sessions.

I want to believe the account of words I have to spend is being replenished in the process, but I’m not convinced. Time will tell.

And perhaps, that explains why I am turning loose of a few of those precious words tonight. Time is passing. Passing at a frightening pace.

As I read late into the small hours of the morning recently, I glanced down at my wrist to see the time. For several years the watch I’ve worn has been a so-called smartwatch, one that not only told me the exact time, but could relay messages from my phone, count the number of steps I have taken in a day, and even number the beats of my heart every minute of every day.

But not long ago I realized that I have tired of the over-abundance of personal information collected and shared by the device. I found my old analog watch on the bedside dresser, replaced the broken leather band, and shook it vigorously a few times to wake it up. It is ticking away on my wrist even as I share my hoarded words here.

But, in that early morning session, I glanced down at my new/old watch and remembered another reason I like it so much.

The hands of the watch indicated that it was 1:45 AM. Or, put another way, it was a quarter to two. In the morning. One might even say, it was only three-fourths of an hour past one.

My point is—the watch shows me more than just what the time is at this exact minute. I can see where I came from on it. I can also see where I am going.

The digital watch can only show me right now. If that had been the watch on my wrist, the numbers would have indicated the exact time and nothing else.

A well-known fiction writer addressed this exact issue in one of his books I remember reading a number of years ago.

Digital clocks…provide the precise time to the nanosecond, but no greater context; an infinite succession of you-are-here arrows with nary a map.
(from Song of Albion, by Stephen R Lawhead)

It’s one of my problems with the information age in which we live. Right now seems to be the only thing we’re concerned with. Our watches show the exact time. Right now. Our news reports are instant, telling us what is happening. Right now. Many of our interactions with friends are by electronic means, informing each other of our present status. Right now.

We live for today, eschewing the past, and barely considering the future. Our sages tell us to forget the past because we’re not going there and to live for today because we may never arrive at any point in the future.

Carpe Diem! Sieze the day!

Even those of us who follow Christ hear it from our teachers. The Apostle Paul said the words, so they must be a life text to hold to.

“Forgetting those things that lie behind, I press on…” (from Philippians 3:13,14)

In one way, they’re not wrong, but the apostle isn’t telling us to ignore the past as we look to the future. He’s telling us to let go of the baggage, the things we cling to as proof of our right to be followers of Christ. He doesn’t call the past garbage, just the deeds we mistakenly think have earned us a place here.

The past matters. It has shaped who we are today. Events—good and bad; interactions—kind and ugly; memories—delightful and horrendous; all have become a part of us. The real us, who we are at our core.

If the past were of no consequence, our Creator would never have inspired men to write the Scriptures. If the future were not for us to be concerned with, He would never have given us the hope of Heaven—would never have encouraged us to throw off the weights that impede our progress daily and to press on toward a certain goal.

Did I say earlier that I only glanced down at my watch in that early morning, not long ago? I meant to say that was my intention.

When I became aware again, that quarter-hour in front of two o’clock had slipped past, the minute hand easing past the top mark on the face.

Time is like that; whether day or night, it flees. Many of the old-time clocks had the Latin motto inscribed on their faces.

Tempus fugit.

I’ll never catch it. Never.

Still, a glance backward now and again gives me confidence to look to the future with hope.

And, strength to face today with purpose.

Press on.

“Where did you go to, if I may ask?” said Thorin to Gandalf as they rode along.
“To look ahead,” said he.
“And what brought you back in the nick of time?”
“Looking behind,” said he.
(from The Hobbit, by J. R .R. Tolkien)

Changing Keys

November 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

She’s my favorite pianist, by far. For forty years, I’ve been listening to her play.

I sat in my easy chair watching television yesterday as she practiced the songs she would play for the Sunday morning worship service. The longer I sat there, the more annoying the racket became.

I muted the television.

What? You thought I meant the piano was the unwanted racket? I did say she was my favorite pianist. Without the intrusive noise of the TV, I just sat and enjoyed the music.

Many times, as I have listened with my eyes closed, the music stops and she begins to play other notes—notes not in the melody of the current song. It is almost always between verses of a song and sometimes, it can become a little tedious. Again and again, she goes through the progression, trying different notes here—substituting a new chord there.

Why doesn’t she just go on to the next verse? What does she suppose she’s accomplishing?

But, I hold my tongue and bide my time. I’m sure it will happen in a moment or two. Just give her time to work it out. . .

There it is. She goes back and repeats the last phrase she had completed, along with a few notes—and a chord or two—between it and the first line of the next verse. The result is always a little surprising.

She has modulated to a different key. She’s simply changing keys, nothing more.

If all you did was listen to that part of the practice session, you might not be impressed at all. She stumbles sometimes while finding the right chord to go between the former key and the new one. Don’t tell anyone, but she might have to practice it a few times before she gets it in her head and plays it right consistently.

But, if you’re in the congregation the next morning? All you’ll know is the music is lighter— loftier—with more impact and piqued interest.

The change is worth the effort. It’s worth the trouble.

I’m changing keys, too. But, I should tell you—they’re a different kind of key.

The keys I’m referring to now are the ones in my pocket, on my key ring. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve replaced half of them with shiny new ones.

Thing is, I like the worn, slightly bent ones a little better. Maybe, a lot better.

The worn keys don’t have sharp edges. They slide into the locks they’re paired with smoothly and comfortably. No fumbling. No jiggling. No complaining under my breath.

But, the doors I used to open aren’t in use anymore—at least, not for me. Someone else will soon unlock those doors early in the morning, and later, turn the keys in the locks as they leave that evening.

I’m practicing with the new keys now. Fumbling in the dark for the right one, I feel for the lock, wishing for old comfortable doors to open in front of me.

Then again, as I consider my condition, the realization begins to dawn.

I don’t want to go back.

As I’ve walked through this world, with the companions God has generously provided for the road, there has never been a reward in going backward. Further up and Further in is where He leads.

He gives new keys to open new doors, because He wants me to trust Him and walk through them.

Whatever lies on the other side, if He gave the key, the lock will be worth opening.

Whatever lies on the other side, if He gave the key, the lock will be worth opening. Share on X

New doors. Leading to new adventures. The old doors no longer open for me, their keys passing to others who need to trust as I once did.

I still trust Him.

Time to change keys.

Better and brighter things lie ahead. (Jeremiah 29:11)

He promised.

A very little key will open a very heavy door.
(Hunted Down ~ Charles Dickens ~ English writer ~ 1812-1870)

I’m pressing on the upward way.
New heights I’m gaining every day.
Still praying as I onward bound;
Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.
(Higher Ground ~ Johnson Oatman Jr. ~ American hymn writer ~ 1856-1922)

Changing the Future

September 20, 2017September 20, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Our past meets our future in this place we call the present.

The words, I wrote a few years ago. They still rattle me every time I re-read them.

Well? Why wouldn’t they? The concept is enough to mess with anyone’s brain. Momentarily, at least.

We like to keep things in boxes. Neat. Logical. With labels to identify the contents.

Some of us are more interested in keeping things in boxes than others. I freely admit it.

“Go to the store with me, will you?”

The Lovely Lady stood at the door, notebook in hand and ready to buy groceries for the week. I, wise husband that I’ve become in nearly forty years of practice, quickly agreed. Cheerfully.

There is a hierarchy at the grocery store. It’s not complicated. She puts things in the cart and marks them off her list.

I push the cart. That’s it—just push the cart.

Oh, wait. There is one other thing I do.

I sort the items in the cart.

Don’t make that face! You’re rolling your eyes too, aren’t you?

That’s just what she does when I start sorting. Well—it’s what she used to do when I started. She’s come to expect it now.

If there were boxes in the cart, I’d use them. There aren’t, so imaginary quadrants must suffice.

Fresh veggies go at the back of the cart, heaviest on the bottom (potatoes will smash bananas). The Lovely Lady wants to keep me around (for sorting things, I suppose) as long as possible, so there are more fresh veggies than anything else.

From there, logic rules. Canned goods go in one section, boxed in another. All the refrigerated items stay together. It keeps them colder; I’m sure it does.

Fragile items, such as chips (not nearly as many of these as there should be) and eggs, go in the flip down compartment that once served to corral our children.

It’s a good system. I like it.

The problem comes when we get to the checkout counter. I am careful—fanatical, some might say—about keeping the items in the same quadrants as they progress to the checker. What would they think of me if I sent the milk down the conveyor belt beside the flour?

And, now we come to it. The fly in the ointment, so to speak. The bee in my bonnet, if you will.

The checker, somehow oblivious—utterly—to my care and prudence, callously snatches each item from the belt, swiping it past the scanner and tosses it, willy-nilly, into the empty, waiting cart beside her station.

Boxes are jumbled at angles with cans. Potatoes smother celery and toilet paper. The milk, heavy enough to be placed on the bottom of the cart instead of tossed, is at the front of the conveyance while the meat is at the back, both warming much too fast for my overloaded sense of order.

Maybe we should move on. Shall we?

Our past meets our future in this place we call the present.

Past meets future in this place called the present. Share on X

I’m not obsessive-compulsive about everything in life. Still, I have, for many years, considered what I would like to see when I look back over my life on that last day. To that end, I have attempted to keep a semblance of order in how I have lived.

What was it Mr. Shakespeare said? What’s past is prologue was the phrase, I believe. The meaning is clear.

What we have done in the past leads us, without fail, into the future. The nano-second of the present, a mere blink of the eye, will forever affect what is to come.

My trip through the grocery is the past. Plans, all laid carefully, were executed flawlessly.

All it took was just seconds—an instant in which I lost control—and the present had altered the future catastrophically.

Hmmm. I think perhaps—for this example anyway—one could call that hyperbole.

Regardless, the point is clear enough, is it not?

There’s an old maxim, not quite in line with Scripture, but still it comes to mind. It says the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I think, if the road to hell is paved with them, the road to heaven is, at least, littered with them.

We know what the road to heaven is paved with; it’s paved with the grace of our loving Savior.

It is specifically because of His great love for us that I want to be able to look back and know I have journeyed in a faithful way, leaving a clear record for those who walk the way after me.

But, in the most crucial moments, it all gets jumbled and messed up in a colossal manner.

My past is introduced to my future with moments I am ashamed of. Again and again.

Surrounded by that great cloud of witnesses (Hebrews 12:1), I’m chagrined. Mortified.

I’m a failure.

But then, I look into those faces, the witnesses I mean. For one or two who are named, there is no record of failure. The rest of them? Failures, every one!

Every one.

Failures who fell flat on their faces. Liars, con men, drunks, womanizers, bad parents, murderers even.

But, they got up (or were picked up). They took the next step. And the next one.

I can do that. I’m still breathing.

I think it’s time to be walking again.

That way. Following His lead.

The future is still waiting.

I can’t change the past.

The next moment will be the present.

Here it comes.

Ready?

Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.
(Sir Winston Churchill ~ British Prime Minister ~ 1974-1965)

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.
(Hebrews 12:1 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Another Bridge

March 29, 2016August 5, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

From my workbench in the back room of the music store, I heard her exclamation of dismay.

Just moments earlier, the Lovely Lady, knowing I had over-promised and was likely to underperform if I didn’t have some relief, had suggested that she would take care of any new business until I could complete the jobs due this afternoon. It was a good plan. My work was going well and it appeared that deadlines might actually be met.

Then I heard her unhappy outburst.

She would be calling me anyway, so I headed for the front. The sight that met my eyes was, to a lover of fine musical instruments, a sad and disastrous horror.

The young man wasn’t smiling either, as he stood beside the broken and splintered guitar. But, I remembered a few months before, when I had installed an electrical pickup system in the aging acoustic Martin, giving him a new facet to its usefulness.

He had had a smile on his face as he carried the instrument out on that day. He had been sure the beautiful guitar, one he had acquired while still in high school, would be the only one he would ever need.

It took a single moment—just a few seconds of forgetfulness—to dash that belief forever.

An afternoon at work, good intentions, a momentary distraction, and the guitar was under the wheels of the huge truck. Completely destroyed.

Lifetime plans dashed. Instantly.

As the young man spoke to me, he gently touched the fragments of wood. I could see the pain in his face—could feel it in his voice. But, there was something else in his voice—indeed, something different written on his face. He had come in for a purpose, and it was not to commiserate over the fate of the beloved instrument.

Purpose! That was what I heard in his voice. Purpose and resolve.

He would not dwell on the past. He was ready to move on.

“Let me show you my new guitar!”

The instrument he drew out of the new case was a beauty to behold. A custom guitar, handmade by an artisan from a nearby town, it simply begged to be played. The young guitarist gave in and sat for a few moments to demonstrate the capabilities of his new love. The crisp, clean lines of the instrument were matched by the music that poured out of it.

The clarity and warmth of tone that emanated from the polished spruce and rosewood box were surprising and expected, all at once.

When he finished playing, we spoke for a few moments about how happy he was with the new tool he held in his hands. He means to play this guitar for a lifetime, as well.

But, there was more. He is ready to leave the old broken guitar in the past, but he wanted a favor from me.

“Is it possible that the pickup system from the Martin will fit in this one?”

It made sense. He had spent hard-earned dollars on that system—quite a few of them. We might just as well salvage it and keep it in use. It would do the job just fine.

He was simply being practical. But, then again, perhaps there was a little sentiment in the request.

The need to move forward was clear. The old guitar would never, never play another note. But, part of it might be incorporated into the new one. The old would aid the new to achieve the vision the young man had always had for his future.

It would be a bridge, of sorts, between the past and the future.

I would help him cross the bridge.

I anticipated seeing the smile on his face again, just as I had the last time he carried a guitar out of my shop.

The future awaits.

As I sat thinking about what I would write tonight, my thoughts were naturally drawn to bridges. It really is almost unavoidable. You see, I am surrounded by paintings of bridges in the room in which I sit. I have given in to the urge to write about them often before.

I have written of the past and the future, using a bridge as a metaphor for the place where we stand, gazing first behind, and then ahead. Looking back, we see the events of the past clearly. Looking forward, we see an uncertain future.

I have insisted that I must cross boldly to the future, encouraging my readers to do the same. But, tonight I’m wondering.

What do we do when the things we must leave behind were what we loved most in life?

I know folks who have stood at the approach to the bridge for weeks, months, even years, never moving. Gazing back at what is, even now, lost in their past, they still see nothing across the bridge to coax them to set the first foot on the platform.

Like the Children of Israel in the desert, they receive the sustenance of their God who promises them a place far better than any they left behind, and yet they pine for the food they ate when they were slaves. (Numbers 11:4-6)

Too harsh?

I also have stood in cemeteries and looked at the pile of freshly-turned dirt, reluctant to turn my back. I’ve watched dreams disappear into the air, like the morning mist in sunlight.

The disappointments and tragedies pile up behind me, as they do for every human who has ever walked this earth.

We can cling to them, like so many splintered guitars, for everything we’re worth.

There will never—ever—be another note of music from that source. The voices of the past are forever mute—in this world, anyway.

The human spirit is, however, designed by its Creator to be resilient and nearly impossible to crush. Like my young guitar-playing friend, it hears the call from the future and must answer.

We’ve stood at the bridge for long enough, looking back. The past cannot be retrieved, but what we’ve learned in it may be incorporated into the future.

Our memories are woven—hopelessly intertwined—into the fabric of our lives; we will never lose them.

I like the young guitarist’s way of thinking.

True, there is great sadness in the past. There was great joy as well.

Both will be found again.

In front of us.

And one day—one glorious day—the last bridge will be before us. Nothing awaits on the other side, but great, great joy. No sadness. No pain.

Joy. Across the last bridge.

I’m still walking. Still feeling. Still trusting.

There will be sweet music again. Of that, I’m sure.

Sweet music.

I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.
(Philippians 3:13-14 ~ MSG)

Oh, my dear little librarian. You pile up enough tomorrows, and you’ll find you are left with nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to make today worth remembering.
(from The Music Man ~ Meredith Willson ~ American playwright ~ 1902-1984)

The Present

June 23, 2015June 23, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We sat down to dinner with the table almost creaking under the weight of the food. As is our habit, we prayed before we began to eat, realizing that all the blessings we enjoy are really gifts from a loving Creator. We held hands around the table, a chain of family and friends, from very young children all the way up to Great Grandma, showing our love for each other and thankfulness for the gifts.

Grandpa prayed, as usual.

By long experience, I have learned the attention span of the children is short. Dinnertime is not the time to engage in long-winded prayers, remembering all the sick and troubled, all those who have traveled afar, and those in the world less fortunate than we.

No, we are simply thankful for the food and a few other blessings, asking that we will be faithful stewards of the gifts. Short prayers are the best at the dinner table. My grandchildren would agree.

Some time ago, they learned that the words, in Jesus’ name, usually preceded Amen, which was the signal to eat. Accordingly, the older girl would begin saying Amen as soon as those other words were heard.

I’m not sure if I have gotten longer-winded with time, or if the girl has just learned the process can be hurried a bit, but recently, she has taken to saying the word earlier in my prayer, long before I’m ready to invoke our Savior’s name.

Amen, Amen, Amen, Amen, Amen, is what I heard at the table today as I started to wind up my prayer.

I hurried a bit faster to the real Amen! which echoed from several different points of the table. We all laughed and Grandma hugged the beautiful girl as the abbreviated prayer was ended.

These times are precious and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

It did make me think a bit, though. I wonder if deep down inside, we’re all still little children at heart. We are in such a hurry to get to the next part that we forget to enjoy where we are right now, today.

For some reason, we keep looking to the future and its promise, forgetting that the reality of the present is actually a gift given for us to savor and to carry us into that future.

I know I am often guilty. Just get me through this day—this job—this crisis, and I’ll be okay.

Then I get to the future and it’s not much different—simply more wishing for whatever comes next.

I’m not a lover of country music, but I can’t get the words of this song from the seventies out of my head: I…I’m driving my life away, looking for a better way, for me. I’m driving my life away, looking for a sunny day…

It’s not so much that we’re driving it away as we are working and eating and sleeping it away, but little by little it is speeding past, while we look for that time when we’re satisfied with where we are.

I’m pretty sure that time never arrives unless we learn to be satisfied with today, here and now.

As children, we learn to wait (and long) for future events—class bells to ring—big yellow buses to come—summer vacation to parole us. Back then, it seemed that those things took forever to arrive. From today’s perspective, they came and went with lightning speed.

But, still we wait for future events and thus waste today and its joy.

I hear a little voice out there saying, Amen, Amen, Amen, Amen, and realize that it’s time to stop blabbering on now.

I will oblige.

But I will say this before I stop: This is the day which the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it!

Take time to live, really live, on this spectacular day.

Today.

It is indeed a lavish gift not to be ignored, nor scorned.

Amen!

Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future.
(from Fly Like An Eagle ~ Steve Miller Band ~ 1976)

Godliness with contentment is great gain.
(I Timothy 6:6 ~ NIV)

Misdemeanors

May 14, 2015May 14, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She carried thousands of them. And by thousands, I mean more than twenty.

That big old suitcase of a purse had everything in it. Kleenex, on the off-chance a bloody nose should need immediate attention (hey–it had been known to happen) or even for the occasional tear that might dare to escape from the corner of a little boy’s eye. Band-aids for scraped knees–a virtual certainty–and pricked fingers. Scissors, nail clippers, maps, Bible, suntan lotion (no sunscreen back then), pens, pencils, notepad. . .Well, you get the idea.

The object she carried by the thousands though (or more than twenty–whichever), was a round silver thing with ridges around the circumference. That red-headed lady who raised me carried plenty of quarters for any eventuality.

Lunch money? Get a couple of quarters. Sunday School offering? Pull out a quarter. A stop at the gas station for a few gallons of gas? Four of them would put four gallons in the tank, enough to get around town for another week.

Mom carried quarters. The gargantuan purse’s weight without them? I have no idea. It would have felt feather-light to her if it had ever happened. It never did.

I knew better than to dig through Mom’s purse on my own. If a dig through was called for, she did it herself. I never took a quarter from Mom’s purse. Never.

Did I also mention she kept thousands of quarters on her dresser in her bedroom? No? She did. I think they were the reinforcements for the purse, should it ever feel lighter than normal.

Is it pretty clear where this is headed? Well, let me get right to the point.

I am a thief.

Was.

Am.

Again and again–I cringe as I write the words–and again, I crept into my parent’s bedroom at times when I was sure their attention was on other things–preparing dinner, hanging laundry on the line, changing the oil in the car–and I slipped a quarter into my pocket. A quarter bought a coke in those days. Or, even a play on the pinball machine in the convenience store. Important stuff.

Never more than one at a time did I steal. I convinced myself that it was not as bad as taking two. Or four. Or ten.

No mention was ever made of the missing money. None. But, the red-headed woman knew. She knew.

It was fifty years ago. And still I know myself to be a thief.

Was.

Am.

In the present day, I would never steal from anyone knowingly. Folks leave items at my business–nice things–and I find ways to contact them. I realize a customer has been overcharged and I make sure they get their money back. To a fault, I ensure unhappy folks are compensated. I never want to cheat or steal from a single person again.

I’m not sure how we manage to convince ourselves, but we can certainly fool ourselves, can’t we? I’m not a thief anymore! With Tolkien’s Faramir, I can say, “Not if I found it on the highway would I take it!”

Was.

Yeah.

Am.

You see, stealing is about recognizing who the proper owner of anything is and not taking that thing for ourselves.

Anything.

This is not the time for me to make a list of the things I have stolen just in the last 24 hours. The reader will probably find enough to make his or her own list. It may or may not be longer than mine.

The man limped out of the rain and into my store this morning. I had work to do and was already behind schedule. He needed to talk about important things. Needed to. I grudgingly gave him five minutes of my time and sent him on his way with my variation of go in peace; be warm and be fed.

Recently, I wrote boldly of knowing that nothing I have is my own. The opportunity to serve was not my own. The time was not my own. I am a thief.

Was.

Am.

My Creator has, in His bag, thousands of such opportunities. How many have I sneaked in and stolen, to waste on myself? How many minutes, one at a time, have I slipped into my own pocket?

Let me be clear. I am not legalistically suggesting we cannot have leisure time. It is clear we were created in such a way that rest and recreation is a prerequisite for physical and spiritual health.

The minutes and opportunities I am suggesting have been stolen and squandered do not, by any stretch of the imagination, fit into the category of leisure time.

I knew when I hurried the man out the door, I had not fulfilled my responsibility to him. I knew, and I sent him away. I am a thief.

Was.

Am.

Ah! But, grace. . .

Was.

“Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.'”
Luke 23: 42, 43 ~ NIV)

“Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.”
(J.K.Rowling ~ British novelist)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

past

Looking Ahead—Looking Behind

Changing Keys

Changing the Future

Another Bridge

The Present

Misdemeanors