Stinking Up the Place

September 19, 2024September 19, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I have walked past the flattened carcass daily for more than a week now. And when I say flattened, I mean it’s thinner than the proverbial pancake. Hardly distinguishable from the pavement.

It still stinks.

I saw the skunk lying there one day early last week. Then, it looked almost like the cat you see in the photo accompanying this article. I thought it was a cat at first. Clearly, it was not.

That first day I walked past it, there was no odor at all. I knew that couldn’t last so I called the city and asked them to pick it up before the cars began the flattening process. I think they must have been too busy.

Thus, the aroma permeating the atmosphere.

On an earlier day this week, as I worked out in my yard, the shifting breeze periodically wafting the odor to my olfactory nerves, I wondered about the cat that turned into a skunk (only in my strange brain, you understand).

And, as often happens, my thoughts began to run to human nature and practice. Before I was finished with my task, I had formulated the question that follows:

“How is it that into our lungs we draw the sweet aroma of grace and mercy breathed upon us by our God, yet the atmosphere all about us is choked with the acrid fumes of our judgment and hate?”

I saved the words in a note on my smartphone, cogitating on the idea for a while and then, I moved on mentally. But, a conversation I read on social media last night brought it back to mind with a jolt.

As with many these days, the post was political/religious in nature. I agreed—mostly—with the premise, so I followed the conversation. That may have been a mistake.

Again and again, I am shocked at the vitriol coming from the mouths and keyboards of professing followers of our Savior. I shouldn’t be by now, but I am.

And then, there was this: “Christians are the worst!”

And, I find myself agreeing. We are. The worst.

The apostle, my namesake, said the words. I often feel them deeply, too.

“Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—and I am the worst of them all.” (1 Timothy 1:15a, NLT)

The thing is, we were never intended to continue being the worst of sinners.

Never.

When I’m flattened on the road of life, I want not to stink to high heaven.

Even if I’m flatter than that ubiquitous pancake when this world gets done with me, I’d like there to be a sweet aroma of grace and peace.

And hope. Especially, hope.

That’s my prayer for all of us.

Today and until Heaven.

“The Christian’s life is to be a thing of truth and also a thing of beauty in the midst of a lost and despairing world.”
(Francis Schaeffer)

“And so blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth. Surely, my brothers and sisters, this is not right! Does a spring of water bubble out with both fresh water and bitter water?”
(James 3:10-11, NLT)

Contrariwise

April 15, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I like it that you are sometimes a contrarian—me too!”

One of my favorite readers (anyone who reads my words is a favorite, you know) made the comment on a recent post. I’m still trying to work out if her statement makes me happy or sad.

My first inclination was to refute her statement outright, but as anyone could reason out for themselves, that would effectively prove the words instead, so I fought off that impulse and kept quiet.

I wonder if there is anything harder than keeping quiet when one feels a need to clear the air. Well—maybe not so much a need as a drive.

We want to be accepted.

In whatever group we function, we want to be accepted. I know I do. And, to a great extent, I craft my conversations and writing to fit the norm in my tribe, my support group. Seldom (at least in recent years) do I venture out and express a contrarian opinion. Because I want to be accepted.

We want our opinions to be agreed with. We want to be respected when we offer a viewpoint.

We have a maxim in the English language—vaguely humorous, implicitly serious—that has been used since the 1400s to express these feelings.

Love me, love my dog.

The logic extends to all I care for.

Love me, love my truck.

Love me, love my wife.

Love me, love my writing.

Love me, love my music.

The reader will have his or her own objects or activities to insert. Regardless of who we are, we have a need, a drive, to be accepted or agreed with.

We choose our companions—our tribe—accordingly.

And, instead of being contrarian to our tribe, we are typically contrarian to the rest of the world. Strangely enough, we argue against the current trend in our world for what we call “cancel culture”, yet we do exactly that.

As I age, I have attempted, without complete success, to become less combative. I believe there has been improvement, but still, I am not satisfied.

At least, I wouldn’t start an argument with a fencepost, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to accuse. And yet, just last week, I was shown just how apt I am still to argue and defend myself at the drop of a hat.

The Lord allowed me to post a silly photo and accompanying text to a group online that I believed was part of my tribe. They describe themselves as dull men. I thought the description might apply to me, too.

I said the Lord allowed me to do all this. I believe we are allowed to experience things that show us our need for repentance and redemption from sinful patterns. (See quote from James 1, below.)

The silly post I made in the group was quite popular, topping out at 36,000 responses in a week. It was the worst thing to happen to me in a while.

Really. The worst thing.

These folks are not really my tribe. While most responses were complimentary, many others were not. They disparaged my knowledge (or lack thereof) of tree nomenclature and my usage of the English language. They even picked out an unrelated item in the photo and railed on that. Over and over, the criticism rolled in.

Initially, I answered every one of them. I was kind and patient at first, then abrasive and cynical as the comments continued.

I knew something was wrong. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was. And then it hit me. These folks—while not my tribe—are still the neighbors I am called to love, to respect, to care for. They’re not my neighbors because they agree with me; they’re my neighbors because I’ve been given the opportunity to interact with them.

I quit replying and began to let the criticism roll off without comment. I even stopped reading comments to ensure I would not respond in kind.

I may be dull, but I can learn.

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
(Romans 12:18)

Tweedledee and Tweedledum (another quote below) in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland fought each other over a broken rattle. A broken rattle!

Somehow, the things we find to argue about—on the Internet and in person—seem to me to be almost as important as that rattle.

I told you my friend was wrong when she wrote that I was “sometimes a contrarian”. I meant she was wrong that it was only sometimes.

I’d like it to be never. I want to speak the truth in love. I want it never to be argumentative.

I may never achieve it.

But, I’d like to die trying.

“Convince a man against his will,
He’s of the same opinion still.”
(Mary Wollstonecraft, in 1792)

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”
(James 1:2-4, NIV)

“‘Contrariwise,’ continued Tweedledee, ‘if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.’”
(from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll)

Standing Out

December 18, 2018December 18, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was, I want to believe, a profound moment of joy in the season of the same.

I want to believe that. But, I’m the guy who looks on events and thinks he sees the truth when what’s really happening in the secret places is entirely the opposite. I look at the image in the mirror and see a mature sixty-something man who is comfortable in his skin, but all it takes is two seconds of looking into the depths of my heart and the nerdy, twitchy fifteen-year-old is staring at me again through the wild eyes of terror.

Still, it must have been a profound moment. It must have been.

We’ll see. Others will judge.

Sunday morning. This confident, mature man had played the instrumental prelude with the Lovely Lady and then taken his place on the stage to sing with the worship team. It was the second run-through, having already gone through it all in the early service that morning. There was no need to stay in the sanctuary for a sermon he’d already listened to, so out into the foyer he went after the last song of the set.

Oh, yes! I had really enjoyed the group who sang during the offertory during the first service, so I headed back in for another quick listen. Standing at the back entrance, as the ushers quietly made their way through the crowd, I was not disappointed the second time, either.

The modern setting of Longfellow’s I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day was very well done. The singers and instrumentalists were practiced and competent. Very nice.

There was a movement to my left and in front of me a few rows. I glanced over, watching the young man rise to his feet. Surrounded by folks sitting comfortably, he stood up straight and, moved by the music and the text, raised his hands and his face to the ceiling and he worshipped.

As the folks on stage sang of peace on earth, the teen-aged boy stood in the crowd all alone. As the rest of the people present sat watching and listening, he participated.

What a brave young man. I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t agree. He was oblivious of the people around him; he wasn’t standing for them. Still, I never would have had the courage. For all of my inability to fit in in other ways as a teenager, I never had what it took to stand up while they sat down. I was the nerdy, twitchy fifteen-year-old staring at you through the wild eyes of terror, remember?

I always just melted into the crowd. Always.

Perhaps, I’m making more of the event than I should. And yet, I know I was moved. Tears filled my eyes as the young man worshipped the Prince of Peace.

Peace on Earth.

Oh. I forgot to include one detail. It seems important to me, too.

I watched the boy standing alone, arms spread wide and wiped the tears. Then, I noticed one more person in the crowd, a couple of rows behind the boy. He is a friend of mine, the father of children of his own. I’m sure it was just my imagination, but I may have seen his son tugging at his shirt tail in embarrassment as he too stood to his feet.

He didn’t raise his arms, nor did he look to the ceiling. He just stood respectfully. That was all.

Then, when the song was over, the two fellows simply sat down.

I haven’t asked my friend why he stood. I may not ask him. It’s probably none of my business. But then, that never stopped me before.

Sometimes, we stand simply to let someone know they’re not alone. And, when one has had the courage to stand out, it’s no small thing to know someone has your back.

After all, Moses had Aaron. Aaron even helped Moses hold his tired arms up on one occasion when time needed to stand still.

Elijah had Elisha to carry his coat. David had Jonathan to plead with Saul for him. Paul had Silas to sing with him in jail.

I think I could carry the harmony—if I could get up the courage to go to jail with someone.

In my mind’s eye, I see those two fellows standing in church the other morning and a thought comes to me: It is a profound act of worship to support those who stand by themselves in faithfulness.

Paul, the apostle formerly known as Saul, said it this way: Love others—genuinely love them. Take delight in honoring each other. (Romans 12:10)

Sometimes, it’s important to be the one who stands with the guy who stands out in a crowd.

Sometimes, it's important to be the one who stands with the guy who stands out in a crowd. Share on X

And sometimes, it’s just as important to be the one who sits with the guy who’s sitting down when the rest of the crowd is standing.

That is so because we are called to stand with others who aren’t all that faithful, too. We’re even called to walk on the road with those who take advantage of us and mistreat us, as well. (Matthew 5:38-48)

Enemies, we call them. He called them, simply, neighbors. We will stand, and sit, and walk with them if we are to follow Him at all.

The One we call Prince of Peace was accused of being a friend of sinners. He was both.

Peace on earth comes when we love others enough to stand up with them. Or sit down with them.

And the bells are ringing.

Peace on Earth.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
(from Christmas Bells ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~ American Poet ~ 1807-1882)

Oh Jesus, friend of sinners
Open our eyes to the world at the end of our pointing fingers
Let our hearts be led by mercy
Help us reach with open hearts and open doors
Oh Jesus, friend of sinners, break our hearts for what breaks yours
(from Jesus, Friend of Sinners ~ Mark Hall/Matthew West ~ Jesus, Friend of Sinners lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Essential Music Publishing, Capitol Christian Music Group)

For the Birds

July 19, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Birdbrain!

It’s an insult, isn’t it?

It would be if I called you such a name. The implication would be that your brain is so small you can’t make good decisions, or think through problems, or make plans for the future.

I have a bunch of birdbrains at my house. No, really. Birdbrains. And, they don’t make good decisions or think through problems. I’m worried for their future.

My sister brought the feeder with her to work one morning.

“You can find instructions on the internet for making the nectar.”

Nectar. Really. That’s what they call it. I call it sugar water. In fact, that is all there is to it. Sugar. And, water.

But my friend, Jeff, who just passed away last spring, had loved the hummingbirds outside his patio doors. He even named one of them Grace. Why he named it that wasn’t really clear to me.

I thought we’d give it a try. We made up a batch of nectar. Four parts water, one part sugar—boiled to take out any impurities. Nothing else. Sugar water.

Hanging the feeder right outside our front window, we waited for the little hummers to find it. It took awhile. But then, one day as I sat reading in my chair, I heard the hum of wings outside, beating three or four thousand times a minute. It wasn’t quite the hum I had expected—more like a buzzing. You know, like a really loud bumblebee. Or, a wasp.

The little critter hovered over the nectar tip, never alighting on the perch, but it did dip its long beak into the hole for a few seconds and then flitted away, disappearing into the landscape.

It took awhile for many of the little birds to find the feeder, but I’ve been sitting in that chair for a lot of hours since that day. I’m learning about birds’ brains.

Did you know the manufacturer put four nectar tips on the feeder? Four. Ostensibly, it’s so you can observe four hummers at a time as they feed docilely, sharing the moment with each other and any onlookers.

They should have saved the money.

Hummingbirds hate—detest—eating beside each other. I haven’t read that anywhere, but my observations lead me to believe it to be a fact. At no time has there been a full complement of birds to take advantage of the available feeding tips. Never.

If two happen to alight, they perhaps will feed for a moment or two. Perhaps. That assumes they do not look up from their feeding. If one of the two ever lifts its eyes to look at the other, the feeding is over. Over.

Instantly, they fly at each other, not allowing a second’s more drinking of the sugar water. I’ve seen birds actually fall off the feeder, only to catch themselves in mid-air, flapping their wings to halt their tumble. Then, either they will fly away in retreat, or they will engage the aggressor in a mock-battle of sorts, with the disgraced loser zooming away and the victor returning to its feeding.

In the last few days, I have seen as many as seven of the little kamikazes zooming in arcs in the vicinity of the feeder, twittering madly. At times, one will alight, only to sit, its head tilting in all directions, body and mind on high alert to incoming attackers, yet never getting a single drink of the magic elixir.

They don’t eat. The birdbrains fight about eating.

They don't eat. The birdbrains fight about eating. Share on X

I am frustrated. As their provider, I want them to share. I want them to be fed. I want them to live in peace.

There is plenty of nectar for every one of them. Plenty.

There is room at the feeder for them to eat. Side by side.

Why would they fight when they could eat?

Oh.

I understand why Jeff named the hummingbird Grace.

Finally, I understand.

And, the Teacher looked out over His place, the place He wanted to feed His people and wept as He said the words: How often I have tried to bring you together, as a mother hen who gathers her chicks under her wing. But, you refused. (Luke 13:34)

And yet.

Grace.

Perhaps, it’s time for a meal together.

No RSVP needed.

Just come.

Grace.

How wonderful and pleasant it is when brothers live together in harmony.

(Psalm 133:1 ~ 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.)

Harmony makes small things grow. Lack of it makes great things decay.

(Gaius Sallustius Crispus ~ Roman historian/politician ~ 86 BC-35 BC)

Harmony makes small things grow. Share on X

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)

Justification

January 25, 2018January 25, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I am offended.

The note was polite, but to the point. The writer needed to express something that had been in her mind for awhile. To be fair, the words weren’t I am offended, but it seems offensive to me. There is little difference.

Something I have done—language I have used in my business for years—was offensive. I selected the language. I placed it in a prominent place in my advertising.

I offended.

I don’t know the person. Someone else in the church she attends has made numerous purchases from my company over the last few years. The writer of the note is not even my customer.

And yet, I read the words on my screen and my spirits sank. What would I say? How would I respond?

Do you know how easy it is to believe one has been attacked?

Is it not a simple thing to take offense at the one who has taken offense?

My mind, as it does, piled up the words with which to defend myself. I know how to use the English language. I am accomplished in the skill of bickering.

I want the chance to justify myself.

Why is that my first reaction? Is it true for everyone? When we sense that we have been admonished, do we all want to deflect the blame?

I wanted to look better than I did in that moment.

I knew I could come out on top. I knew it.

Sleep hardly came that night. I would present my argument to the imaginary jury I had collected in my head, letting loose with the big guns and obliterating the enemy. I win!

But, a quiet voice from deeper inside asked a one-word question. Just one.

Enemy?

With a mental shrug, I’d decide to think about it tomorrow, only to find myself, moments later, facing the imaginary jury once more.

Time after time I built up my defense against the enemy, only to face that one-word question again. And, again.

Enemy?

But he, seeking to justify himself, replied, “Who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:29)

Neighbor. That’s the word I wanted. Not enemy.

Neighbor.

And the second is like the first: Love your neighbor as you love yourself. (Mark 12:30-31) Jesus said it was the second most important commandment, essentially part of the first. The lawyer who wanted to justify himself (in Luke’s passage) knew it by heart.

I do, too. Yet, every time I am confronted with my own shortcomings, my reaction is the lawyer’s. Every time.

I want to justify myself. I want to make myself look better. And, more often than not, that is accomplished by making someone else look smaller.

Seeking to justify ourselves, we reply.

Seeking to justify ourselves, we reply. Share on X

We use words like snowflake, over-sensitive, entitled, and coddled.

Or, we use words like arrogant, insensitive, and bully.

Either way, the result is the same. We tear down our neighbors to build up ourselves.

Words were the cause of my offense. My next words would either increase the offense, possibly making me feel justified, or they would begin the healing process.

What to do?

Over forty years ago, a wise man wrote, in his beautiful script, in the front of a new Bible he and his wife were giving to their youngest son. He knew his son well, having spent nearly twenty years in close proximity to him.

The words, still quite legible today, were exactly what the argumentative, impatient youth needed. I can attest that he was more annoyed than overjoyed to read them the first one hundred times or so he saw them written there.

The Preacher said the words, thousands of years before. Their truth has not faded one iota.

A gentle answer turns aside wrath, but argumentative words only stir up more anger. (Proverbs 15:1)

I haven’t always lived by the exhortation. In truth, I haven’t lived by it even a majority of the time.

I’m learning. Finally.

Still—I want to know.

Why do we add offense to offense over and over?

Why is it so difficult for us to bind wounds instead of making them bleed more?

Why is it so hard for us to recognize our neighbors, instead, identifying them as enemies, almost without fail?

Why is it so hard for us to recognize our neighbors? Share on X

In a world filled with hate and vitriol, we—all who follow Christ—are called to bind up, and carry, and treat, with the same love we have for our God and Savior, all who walk the same ground we do.

It’s not optional.

It’s not.

I’m justified. By Him. I don’t do that myself at all; it’s what He does. (Ephesians 2:8)

How I respond to others is how I show them what’s really in my heart—in my very soul.

Gentle words.

Peace.

Be at War with your Vices, at Peace with your Neighbours, and let every New-Year find you a better Man.
(from Poor Richard’s Almanac ~ Benjamin Franklin ~ 1706-1790)

Do everything without complaining and arguing, so that no one can criticize you. Live clean, innocent lives as children of God, shining like bright lights in a world full of crooked and perverse people.
(Philippians 2:14,15 ~ 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.

Sugar Is Good For You

September 25, 2017September 25, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 10 Comments

It was just an overheard conversation.

Funny, how a few words directed at someone else can change the tenor of the day. A thought, tucked away in a vacant corner of the brain and carried through the afternoon unnoticed, gives a different perspective which can’t really be explained.

The earlier parts of the day hadn’t worked out at all as I had planned.

A trip into the attic to correct a simple problem had turned into three trips into the attic. I had planned to be up there only during the coolest hours of the morning.

When I finally tumbled out at noon, drenched in sweat and nearly choking on the dust from the rock wool insulation, the mood was set for the rest of the day.

That’s the way it seems to go, isn’t it? I’m not saying it has to; it’s just what we expect after a morning filled with disappointment.

I was gloomily mowing in the hot afternoon sun when my labor was interrupted by a message from the Lovely Lady.

He says we should come over now if we want it.

She had found a cabinet she wanted that someone in a town thirty miles away was selling. Did I mention it’s the weekend for one of the biggest motorcycle gatherings in the country?

The busiest weekend of the year as far as traffic goes, and we were going to be on the highway.

Great! Just great!

I told you it would only get worse. You just watch! We’ll get behind a bunch of those bikers out cruising and will be stuck for miles. Miles!

We stopped at the ATM to get some cash for the purchase. The machine only gives cash in twenty dollar increments. We would have to stop and break the bill to have the amount of the asking price.

Frustrated and ready to do something desperate, I suggested we just buy a couple of Cokes. It was, I suppose, my way of making a statement of protest while demonstrating my problem-solving abilities.

I do like to solve problems.

Well? It’s in my nature. I am a man, you know. This fit perfectly. I could break my self-imposed no-sugar rule while getting the correct change into my pocket.

It was a rotten day already. Why not just wallow in it?

Someone had different plans. I would like to say it was to show me that sugar is good for me. That’s probably not it.

Inside the convenience store, I walked back to the cooler and picked out a couple of twenty-ounce bottles, carrying them back to the counter. The two ladies behind it were just talking. With each other.

I wasn’t included in the conversation. Except, I was.

I was intended to hear every word. I’m certain of it.

“We were listening to the news last weekend and they reported that the boy with autism was missing.”

I set my items on the counter and she scanned them without missing a beat.

“My little boy wanted to pray for him to be found, so we did—right then. That’ll be three dollars and sixty-three cents, please. The next morning we heard he had been found. My son was so excited! So excited!”

I pocketed my change and walked out the door, a different person than I had been when I walked in.

It took us almost two hours to go over, pick up the cabinet, and come back. And, just as I had predicted, we did get behind a group of touring bikers on the way back. They rode about forty-five miles per hour on the winding two-lane road all the way home.

What a great afternoon! No. What a perfect afternoon!

There might still be some who would credit the sugar-high from the Cokes. They’d be wrong.

The apostle who loved to write letters said it this way as he closed his missive to the good folk at Philippi: Whatever is great news and worth talking about, that’s what you need to keep in your mind. (Philippians 4:8)

He wasn’t talking about the power of positive thinking. He never said you could name it and claim it.

The reality is this world is an unhappy place. We wrestle with things we don’t understand.

When we dwell on those things, we are overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed with fear.

Beaten by pessimism.

Conquered by worry.

But, I’m sure of this one thing: The truth we know is bigger than the doubt we feel.

The truth we know is bigger than the doubt we feel. Share on X

When we fill up the corners of our mind with the reminders of His love and power, His peace reigns.

Sometimes, it’s no more than the knowledge that He cares about little boys who pray, as well as the little boys who wander away.

Just in time, I stood at that counter to overhear, eavesdropping on a conversation I wasn’t part of.

I’m saving up those worthwhile stories, squirreling them away in the vacant corners of my memory.

It may be time to sweep out some other cluttered nooks and crevices to make room for more.

It has become so easy to collect darkness and gloom from almost every source we see. Our lives will be swept away in those currents if we allow them to take root.

Courage to walk on is born in the corners where excellence is stored.

Courage to walk on is born in the corners where excellence is stored. Share on X

Peace along the road is the product of true and honorable thoughts.

I do wish it had more to do with the sugar.

I’m fixing my mind.

Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.
(Romans 12:2 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up all those things – trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones.
(from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English novelist/theologian ~ 1898-1963)

Where is the Queue?

July 6, 2017July 6, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

Sunday night late—the stoop seems as good a place as any to ponder.
Big things, I always choose. Tonight, all I see is the moon, and it is big enough.
Full, bright, and orange it was when earlier I stood with my love, taken with wonder.
Now murky and circled with clouds, it only warns of rain to come in the soon dawning day. Monday with rain.

How does the joy and wonder turn so suddenly to foreboding?
Where does the elation go when I am overcome with dread?
It is not only the moon and not only the night that bring the sudden turnaround.
Still. The questions remain.
How so suddenly changed?
Where can I go to retrieve the joy?
Where is the queue to reclaim peace for my soul?

I wrote the words a year ago. They were never meant to share. Not with anyone.

Two nights ago, he called me—the man who is the rock. No, really. The Rock of Gibraltar. Or, so I have believed.

His close friends, two of them, have died in the last week. Another, even closer to him, is in the terrifying uncertainty of awaiting the doctor’s report.

He is shaken. Shaken.

We talked for some time and agreed on this certainty at the end of the conversation: We know the Peace-giver. In our prayers and gratitude, He gives His peace that we cannot understand.

The Prince of Peace gives Himself.

The Prince of Peace gives Himself. Share on X

His words, fear not, are not meant as a command to be followed religiously, in fear of offense. They are the assurance of a loving parent—a promise of safety, of wholeness, of perfect rest.

They are words to comfort and not to condemn.

And, as children are wont to do, we forget. We do.

And, like a Father, He reminds again. And again.

His words are fresh every time. His arms of protection cover—every time.

Peace. I am leaving it with you. Not the kind of peace the world offers, brokered by the powerful and ensured by weapons and threats. No, my peace is a gift to hold in your heart, where no man and no circumstance can plunder it. (John 14:27)

Where anger rules, peace dissolves. Where terror dwells, peace cannot live. Where worry spreads, peace is no more.

Does it mean our hearts will never be touched by these things? By no means.

Fear may pass through, anger may swell up, anxiety may worm its way in.

But His peace reigns. Just as Peter, when we begin to sink beneath the waves, we remember who rules those waves.

As we walk through the valley of the shadow, we recall who waits for us over there.

You know—over there. Where our home—our real home—is being made ready for us.

Here is the queue to reclaim peace—in exactly the same place it was the last time.

We’re next in line. Every time.

Peace.

Shalom.

God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/author ~ 1898-1963)

And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.
(Philippians 4:7 ~ KJV)

Smooth Sailing

January 17, 2017January 17, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Battered and beaten.

It’s the only way to describe them.

Every day, we see and hear from them—humanity so tired of swimming against the current and weary of struggling to overcome the storm. They are ready to surrender.

Surrender. I’m considering it myself. Well—I was.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the wind recently. It was especially true today, as I took a break from the struggle of everyday life to walk awhile with the Lovely Lady.

I love spending time with her, but it makes me tired sometimes. Oh, you know what I mean. We walked a couple of miles today, all of it uphill and against the wind.

That may be an exaggeration. I seem to remember a very short time when the wind was not blowing against us—a very short time.

Recently, I wrote of the goodness and mercy that would pursue us all our days—the expectation of the poet who penned Psalm 23. On that occasion, I came to the conclusion that it followed us as we pursued the prize set before us, the time when we will spend eternity with God.

I don’t want to make it sound as if all of life is hardship and trial. It’s not. But, if we are, as I believe to be true, on a pilgrimage, a journey, we are going to have to keep moving ahead.

And frequently, moving ahead means going straight into the wind. Straight into it.

I heard a blessing, of sorts, spoken the other day. I remember that when I heard it, I immediately decided it was exactly what I needed.

Fair winds, and following seas.

Peaceful, isn’t it? It’s meant to be.

A naval blessing, it is spoken often about a sailor who has died. A smooth passage, aided by gentle breezes and currents moving in the same direction. Difficulty past, ease lies ahead.

I want it now. Today.

But, here’s the thing. While there have been, and will be, times of relative quiet and calm, our calling isn’t to drift along on the current, carried to whatever destination the sea has picked out for us.

I realized something, as I contemplated that phrase earlier, along with the wind the Lovely Lady and I battled on our “relaxing” walk today.

For a few recent days, it seems I actually have had fair winds. The waves, so heavy and angry barely weeks ago, have flattened out and are almost gently rocking the boat on its passage.

At the risk of sounding like a pessimist, I am promising it won’t last. I hope you won’t misunderstand me. It’s a good thing.

Our path has already been charted. Through the waves and the wind, it lies. If, in our fear, we turn the rudder to run ahead of the storm, we will never reach the harbor. Never.

If, in our fear, we turn the rudder to run ahead of the storm, we will never reach the harbor. Share on X

It is only through the storm, braving the wind, that we will reach those fair winds and following seas.

As we enter the harbor, battles fought, storms past, we will finally rest from our labor.

I’m not in harbor yet; the voyage is not yet completed.

But, at least for right now, the current is flowing the same direction I am. For a little while.

The Teacher said the words to His exhausted friends. Come away with me. (Mark 6:31-34)

They, ready to drop, welcomed the promise of rest. Perhaps, they misunderstood. The rest they expected never happened. The following crowds caught up to them, needing to be healed and then to be fed. And then, their beloved Teacher stuck them on a boat in the middle of the lake with a storm blowing up.

Terrified. Tired. Confused.

They rowed frantically, making no headway against the storm.

He walked to them upon the wild waves and, clambering over the side of the boat, reminded them they needed to rest.

Okay. What He said was that they had no reason to fear.

It means the same thing.

The Savior who walks on the storm is in control. On dry land—on glassy smooth seas—in the wildest, stormiest night—He speaks peace. Still.

Fair winds, and following seas will be ours. They will.

The harbor lies up ahead. Really.

The waves and wind still know His voice.

Rest.

Are there no foes for me to face?
Must I not stem the flood?
Is this vile world a friend to grace,
To help me on to God?
(from Am I A Soldier Of The Cross by Isaac Watts ~ English hymnwriter ~ 1674-1748)

Thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds its rest in thee.
(Augustine of Hippo ~ Early Christian Theologian ~ 354-430)

A Voice Calls

September 7, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Ahhhh.

I lean back as I sink into in my comfortable chair, coffee cup in hand. The music that gently floats in the air quiets and pacifies the very soul.

Outside, it is raining, the drops gently drumming down onto the metal roof above me.

This is the life!

Only moments ago, I untied my shoes and kicked them under the desk, wiggling my toes in joy at being free of the constraints. I don’t know of many moments that feel better than that instant in which the shoes are kicked off.

I sit and soak in the mellowness. Here, I could stay forever.

But, something nags at the edges of my mood. Almost, I hear a voice calling me.

C’mon! There’s no time to waste! There are things to do. We have people to see. C’mon!

I shrug my shoulders, in a vain effort to quiet the badgering call. What is that emotion I’m starting to feel? It’s ruining the ambiance in the room.

I know what it is.

Guilt.

I am a believer in being up and about—in taking action. I am an advocate for achievement. A life spent in dissipation and indolence is a life wasted.

Perhaps, I should tackle the jobs I see waiting for me. I really should get busy, shouldn’t I?

And just like that, without even the benefit of an apology for offending my mellow frame of mind, I am instantaneously on edge.

Ready for action.

Like a bull in the rodeo pen right before the cowboy alights on his back, I mentally paw the dirt, achieving nothing, but giving the appearance of readiness.

Let me out of here!

I reach for my shoes.

But then, I remember. I worked today. I worked!

Customer after customer, problem after problem–all dealt with, and all served. Lunch was in stages, a bite here and another bite ten minutes after. People come first. I can always eat later. I can always relax later.

This is later.

The Teacher looked at His close friends. They were exhausted. He looked beyond them to the crowds which were following—always there, always needing something.

He said two words that echo down through the centuries since. The words yet speak to us in our busy-ness here and now.

Two words.

Come away.

Into our frantic lives He speaks peace. Come away. Share on X

Ah, I like that Voice better than the one in my head.

I believe I’ll leave the shoes on the floor. But, I may need to get another cup of coffee soon.

When I decide to get up from here. Or if.

Listen to the rain falling on the roof.

Come away.

Work is not always required. There is such a thing as sacred idleness.
(George MacDonald ~ Scottish author/minister ~ 1824-1905)

Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, He said to them, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.”
(Mark 6:31 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

peace