A New Pony

March 21, 2025March 21, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The elephant is gone. For now, it’s gone.

These days, I’m breathing more easily. I haven’t felt the weight of breathlessness on my chest for several weeks. I haven’t had to reach for my rescue inhaler for most of that time, either.

I should be happy. Ecstatic, even.

But, I’m not.

My general practitioner’s nurse called a few weeks ago to tell me the good news. After checking with the formulary my insurance company provided, they had a long-term medication I could use to get relief.

Finally!

I had the prescription filled immediately. Within days, I was better, even confident enough to leave the inhaler at home when I went out.

I can sleep at night again. There is no longer any need to discuss the elephant in the room—the one sitting on my chest at intervals.

The elephant is gone.

So why am I not happy? Well, it seems I’ve traded one animal for another. Like the Pony Express riders, I’ve just gotten off one giant mount and thrown my leg over another.

What’s the new animal? A horse.

No wait. I meant to put that “a” into the animal’s name. Hoarse.

That’s it. No elephant; just hoarse. The medication my doctor found for me makes me hoarse. As in, “I’m a little hoarse.” All the time.

I sat in the coffee shop this morning, having been served my usual cup of drip java by the kind shop owner, and I got lost in the words on my laptop’s screen. You see, a little horse (without the a) is a pony, and the thought of changing mounts (elephant to pony) led me to visions of the Pony Express riders.

So I actually read more than I wrote this morning. Wikipedia is a wonderful thing. Or not.

I wonder if you know the Pony Express only existed for a short while? And it mostly hired teenage boys? Skinny teenage boys at that. The top weight for the riders was 125 pounds. They were in danger most of the time, with many of them dying or being wounded on the trails. The company went bankrupt and closed down only a year and a half after its inception.

I’m sorry. I’m not sure how we got here. Let me reload.

I’m hoarse. A little. It’s a side-effect of my medication. When I talk, my voice sounds gravelly. Rough.

Worse than that, I can’t sing. Well, not so much can’t as shouldn’t. I cough a lot while trying. And the sound of my voice is not as pleasing as it once was.

This isn’t the outcome I was expecting. Or wanting.

I love to sing.

But, I’ve figured out something else as I’ve considered my circumstances.

I need to breathe. Breathing is essential. And, that function is being facilitated much more completely these days. It’s a good thing.

I’m not complaining. Well, maybe just a little. But, I’m grateful for the big blessing. And, I’m attempting to be circumspect about the small inconvenience.

I did say I’ve been considering my situation. It hasn’t escaped me that my hoarseness could be considered in the same light as the thorn in the flesh the apostle for whom I’m named wrote about in 2 Corinthians 12.

“Each time he said, ‘My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.’ So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.”
(2 Corinthians 12:9, NLT)

When I last wrote, I mentioned an epiphany of sorts, experienced in the middle of singing at church last week. It actually occurred during one of my silences—as I waited for my voice to recover so I could be loud again.

Perhaps being silent isn’t such a bad thing, after all.

I want to sing out in the worship service. I want to be strong. It makes me feel good about myself when I am.

Oh. That’s a definition of pride, isn’t it?

Selah.

I’m not going to have to use the medication forever. I’ll sing again. But, even if I don’t, I’m grateful to have breath.

Absolutely full of thanks.

And, full of His grace, which is enough—despite my weakness.

I’ll keep the pony for now. I’m pretty sure it hurts less than the elephant when it sits down.

And besides that, the red-headed lady who raised me always told me, “Silence is golden.”

I wonder if she was right.

“Suffering is often the crucible in which our faith is tested. Those who successfully come through the furnace of affliction are the ones who emerge like gold tried in the fire.”
(from “Unto the Hills”, Billy Graham)

“Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
(Romans 8:39, KJV)

How Did Those Snakes Get There?

March 18, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I know it’s not the right way to begin an article. NCIS Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs would have said it’s a sign of weakness.

But I want to apologize anyway.

I’m sorry for the photo that accompanies these words. I know the subject matter is triggering for some. Childhood memories. Terrifying stories told by uncaring siblings. Nightmares that can’t be erased from the mind.

I hope the reader will give me a chance to explain.

My grandchildren came to help me in my yard a few days ago. I never raked the leaves from my lawn last fall—never cleaned up the mess from the dying of the year. They knew I was embarrassed by my failure. So they came to help me make it better.

Several hours, they labored with me that day. The monumental stack of black bags full of oak, maple, and pear leaves they left behind bore testament to their hard work. The monumental back-ache I had that afternoon also bore testament to mine.

At some point during the early afternoon, one of my grandsons noticed the snake. It wasn’t huge, just an ordinary garter snake. The harmless reptile was stretched out near a hollow in the ground left when our lilac bush died a couple of years back.

My grandson, brave young man that he is, picked the snake up by its tail and, swinging it back and forth, carried it to the back fence and let it go into the wooded area behind our house.

As I examined the hollow in the ground, I noticed movement near a hole in the center. Our activities had shifted all the leaves that had been providing cover for the den. It soon became clear to us that it was home to more than just the one snake.

The two curious creatures in the photo were wondering what happened to their roof, and perhaps, to their brother (or mother, or sister). We helped them relocate over the next couple of hours, as well.

Later that evening, when I showed the photo to the Lovely Lady, she drew in her breath sharply. She then suggested that it might be best if I kept the photo to myself.

A wise husband follows the advice of his spouse in such matters. I’ve never considered myself especially wise.

I had a reason to share the photo. In my mind, it was a good reason.

Knowing that I have my own terrors about snakes and that I am frequently awakened by dreams (not the good kind) about them, I wondered about the things we give power to.

I wanted to drive home the idea that it is our own foolishness that leads us to give fear a place in our everyday lives. I had a number of examples to add to the snakes. Storms. Wildfires. Financial disasters. War. There are any number of things of which we are afraid.

Things we give power over us.

And, along with the photo, I wanted to write words of condemnation, words of derision. A put-down of the foolishness of heeding the utterings from the terror merchants among us—the doomcasting news media, the fearmongering meteorologists, the pulpit-pounding fire-and-brimstone preachers.

I repent.

I stood in a church building this morning and wept. It wasn’t the first time I had done that in the last day or two. But, it was merely a line of a song that pushed me over the edge today.

“Our call to war, to love the captive soul,But to rage against the captor.”
(from “O Church Arise”, by Townend/Getty)

I wonder if anyone else sees it. And then, I think that probably I’m the only one in my tribe who couldn’t see it before.

And that’s okay. I see it now.

Jesus came to free the captives and to heal the sick. He came to set the oppressed free from their oppression. He clearly declared that was who He was.

I have been comfortable showing them their captivity and their oppression and then have blamed them for their situation.

Why do we rage against the captives—against the oppressed?

Everywhere I look today, I see it. I hear it.

I do it.

I said that worship service wasn’t the only time I had cried recently. I had a conversation with a friend who was frightened by an approaching weather system last week.

My friend’s admission of fear was the only trigger I needed to set me off. I began to rant about the folks who are responsible for building up that fear and about folks who hide in their fraidy holes at the mention of a storm coming.

My rant was cut short as my friend’s eyes were lifted up to mine.

Words fail.

I made my way home, seeing through tears.

Do you know what it’s like to be alone? To be impaired? To feel helpless in the face of danger? To not know if anyone will remember you as they evacuate?

God, make my heart soft. Where it is hard as adamant, make it as tender as Yours.

I’m not a newbie at this following Jesus thing. It’s been a lifetime. And still, I repent. And will need to again.

But, His declaration to the folks in His hometown—the prophetic words from Isaiah, the ones that nearly got him thrown off a cliff by his neighbors—is still true.

For me, it’s true.

And for anyone who comes to Him.

He still sets the captives free.

That Gibbs fellow was wrong, he of television fame; it is not a sign of weakness to apologize. It’s a sign of strength—of resolve.

And I’m still sorry for the snakes.

I think the Lovely Lady will let it slide. This time.

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
    for he has anointed me to bring Good News to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim that captives will be released,
    that the blind will see,
that the oppressed will be set free,
   and that the time of the Lord’s favor has come.”
(Luke 4:18-19, NLT [from Isaiah 61:1-2])

“I’m unfinished. I’m unfixed. And the reality is that’s where God meets me, is in the mess of my life, in the unfixedness, in the brokenness. I thought he did the opposite, he got rid of all that stuff. But if you read the Bible, if you look at it at all, constantly he was showing up in people’s lives at the worst possible time of their life.” (Mike Yaconelli)

Just a Little Proud

November 12, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“That trim board is just a little proud. We’ll have to hit it with the sandpaper to get it flush before we finish it.”

My brother-in-law was installing the new bookshelves in our living room. As he set them in place, he noticed the errant piece and was unhappy to see it.

I didn’t care about the piece of wood; but being a certifiable word nerd, I did want to know about the terminology he had used to describe it.

“Proud?”

Patiently, as he sanded the offending wood to match the surrounding cabinet, he explained that the word described the position of the wood in relationship to the rest of the bookshelf.

“It just needs to be flush with the rest of the edge. If we leave it standing out like that, you’ll catch on it every time you walk past and could actually damage the rest of the bookcase.”

With a flourish, he finished sanding. I looked to get a glimpse of this proud board, but it was now impossible to see what he had been working on.

Proud no more, the trim piece blended in with the entire unit.

Integrity. All the individual pieces working together achieved beauty and functionality, so our books were safe and protected.

But, I didn’t intend to write about books or even shelves today. I want to talk about something else that happened just this week.

It seems to me I should make this clear from the get-go; I won’t move your piano, even if you’re desperate to have it done.

I’m just saying…

Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, perhaps we can go ahead with the story that inspired this little essay. It does, in fact, involve moving a piano. And, I don’t do that anymore—right?

The Lovely Lady’s daughter and son-in-law (okay—mine, too) have moved into a larger house, one that will accommodate a grand piano. They were able to locate a good instrument at a fair price and asked if I could come along, “…purely in a consulting capacity, you understand?” (Because I don’t move pianos.)

We gathered up the equipment and, hooking the little trailer up behind my pickup truck, drove to the outskirts of town to collect the piano. There was plenty of help, with muscles galore—enough of them that I wouldn’t need to lift even a corner of the heavy instrument.

After disassembling the piano enough to stand it on edge, we put it on a dolly and rolled it outside and into the trailer we brought for the task. We covered it well with pads and strapped it against the side of the trailer.

We should have been ready to load the sundry pieces into the truck and drive away to deliver the piano to its new domicile. We weren’t.

I looked at it sitting there against the side of the trailer and thought that something was off. Gripping the side of the instrument, I pushed and pulled, first away and then back toward the trailer’s side. As I had suspected, it moved an excessive amount.

I wasn’t at all sure the weight of the piano wouldn’t make it tip over as we traveled down the road. Tipping over isn’t good for a piano. Not at all.

I discussed the problem with the moving crew and we agreed that more than half of the piano’s body was sitting above the side of the trailer.

It was just a little proud.

We traded ideas about how to remedy the problem. I was even ready to attach another strap to the opposite side of the trailer to counterbalance the weight.

Then my son-in-law had the bright idea.

“Why don’t we just take it off the dolly and make it sit down lower in the trailer?”

The man is a genius.

We tipped the piano up a bit and removed the moving dolly, letting the board under the piano sit back down on the trailer’s floor. Reattaching the straps, I shook the instrument again.

Rock solid. There would be no tipping.

The reader might be excused for thinking someone uttered the words, “That’s not going anywhere,” but no one did. I thought it but resisted saying it.

That piano had been proud. Sitting up where it was exposed to the vagaries of gravity and my erratic driving, it was a prime candidate for a fall.

But, there were no calamities in the piano move.

Because we cut it down to size. Okay—we didn’t actually use a saw blade; we just lowered its center of gravity. For safety and efficiency.

Is it the right time for this reminder?

“So, if you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don’t fall!“
(1 Corinthians 10:12, NIV)

It strikes me that standing proud has never been the way our Creator intended for us to approach life. While our culture differs dramatically, telling us to stand tall, to be proud, and to make sure we’re seen and honored above our peers, it seems clear that we were never designed to operate apart from the support of others.

A friend I was talking with this morning said it this way:

“We want to work from the top down. God actually works from the bottom up.”

His creation shows the principle again and again. A strong foundation supports the structure that rises from it. Take away the foundation—stone, roots, or terra firma—and the structure is headed for a rapid unscheduled disassembly (to borrow a term from today’s vernacular).

The Word of God describes pride as sinful, in addition to its pitfalls. In some ways, it seems the original sin of mankind was bound up in pride—contempt for obedience, along with a desire to show independence, driving the act. It is certain that pride drove Lucifer’s rebellion and casting down from heaven.

And somehow, ages later, every one of us is just a little proud. Or, more than just a little.

Proud.

But, God’s plans for us are for our benefit and to build us up. Together.

In the big picture, humility builds all of us up taller and stronger than pride.

I have seen the result of pianos that were allowed to stand tall in their conveyance. The last one I saw was scattered across the farmer’s field that abutted the curve in the highway.

It couldn’t have been a proud moment. Despite any pride the owner might have felt as they loaded that piano.

Maybe it’s time to get our feet on the ground again.

He gives grace to the humble. (James 4:6)

And the sandpaper He uses on the proud doesn’t always feel that nice.

I’ve learned that from experience. And I’m not too proud to admit it.

Grace is better.

“A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken.” (Ecclesiastes 4:12, NLT)

“Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility.”
(from Confessions by Augustine of Hippo)

I’m Not That! Whatever He Said, I’m Not!

October 1, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The mind is a funny thing.

One minute you’re sitting calmly, living in the present, enjoying God’s blessings, and the next, you’re thirty years in the past. Not only remembering conversations, but feeling the same emotions you felt in the moment—all those years ago!

Many of my friends know that, with the help of my kids and grandkids, we built an outside deck in the last few months. It’s a lovely space, leaving scope for the imagination, as Anne Shirley would have said. (You folks who read about Anne with an “e” as a child will remember.)

We built the deck from reclaimed lumber, having torn down a much larger deck at a neighbor’s house (at her request, of course!) and salvaged the still-usable boards.

The labor was free. Well, except for a few meals, prepared by the Lovely Lady and eaten around our old dining table, it was free. And, now that I consider, even those worked out to my advantage. What a joy, to achieve a shared goal with one’s extended family!

It is, as I mentioned, a lovely space.

A sister-in-law gave us wicker furniture which she no longer used. Our sweet neighbor snuck in a couple of pillows while we were at church one morning. Our generous-hearted son and his lovely wife even donated a beautiful fire pit, which we’ve enjoyed together several times.

I’ve spent many hours there lately, my mind and heart full, considering our Father’s blessings as I look out to the old barn behind us, past the overgrown fence, with its honeysuckle and poison-ivy vines intertwined.

And yes, just like the intermingling of beauty and danger those vines remind me of, my mind has often gone to the darker places as I’ve meditated on the bright, lovely ones.

Such was the case when, on this day, the whole process came to a screeching halt as the words of the old man came to my mind.

We were leaning against the bed of his old beat-up truck in the parking lot in front of my music store. I had just pointed out my latest purchase, a twelve-year-old Chevy conversion van. It was the perfect vehicle for my growing family. The paint was a little faded and it had lots of miles on the odometer, but I was so proud of it.

I might have laid it on a little thick. The shag carpet could have gone to my head. Or, was it the dark maroon crushed-velvet upholstery that was to blame?

I really don’t remember, but it could have sounded a little boastful. A little.

Soon, he had heard enough.

“You’re nothing but a plutocrat, Paul!” The old man was blunt and opinionated, yet I was surprised. I never expected to be the target of his sarcasm.

And truthfully, I didn’t know exactly what a plutocrat was, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment. Besides, I was sure I wasn’t that!

Whatever it was, I wasn’t that!

I told him so, lamely. He laughed and drove out of the parking lot. I was offended.

I know what a plutocrat is now. Funny thing; I’m still offended.

A plutocrat is a person whose power is derived from their wealth. The title is most often used to describe politicians, people who achieve status and authority because they are rich.

I’m not.

Rich. Or powerful.

How is it that those words, spoken in jest, reach out over the decades to rile me up again?

Perhaps, there was a grain of truth in the accusation. We were standing next to his old beater of a pickup truck, while I extolled the advantages of my plush, customized van.

I may have been proud of my purchase. He may have taken it as an indirect slight. A putdown, even.

Those of us who are not politicians have a different type of power. Don’t tell me we don’t.

We use our advantages, however slight, to pull ahead of our peers. We look down on them from our privileged position, all the while knowing that the next wind that blows may leave them in that elevated place and us standing beside the beater.

How easy it is to forget, as we sit on our lovely deck looking down on the passersby, that nothing we have is ours to keep. Nothing.

Job knew it. He, having lost all he had amassed over a lifetime, told his friends that he had come into this world naked and that he would depart into eternity in the same condition.

It’s not mine!

This deck is not mine. The house beside the deck is not mine. The clothes I wear are not mine. The property, the cars, the art, the musical instruments? Not mine.

None of it.

How could I ever achieve any real power using borrowed wealth?

Pride is a falsehood. It will ultimately lead to desolation.

The Preacher knew it—he who was considered the wisest of the wise.

“Everything is meaningless,” says the Teacher. “Completely meaningless.” (Proverbs 1:2, NLT)

We work for more than wealth or power. We must!

As it turns out, I have been a plutocrat. Just not in the way the world around us understands it. They’ve never recognized any power, nor any wealth in my hands.

Not much of what is really important will ever make sense to anyone else. And that’s how it goes on this walk we’re taking with our Savior and each other.

We’re not the blind following the blind. But, only because of His gift of sight.

I don’t always get it right. Sometimes, I’m confused by what I’m supposed to do and why I don’t do that.

And still, He gives grace for the journey. No matter how many times I have to be reminded.

You, too?

Maybe you could come by and sit on the deck sometime to talk about it with me.

It’s not mine anyway. And, that’s okay with me.

We could even roast a marshmallow or two over the firepit and share some s’mores.

Now—does that sound like something a plutocrat would do?

It ain’t the heat; It’s the humility.
(Yogi Berra)

Before a downfall the heart is haughty, but humility comes before honor. (Proverbs 18:12, NIV)

Is Grandpa Crying?

September 28, 2017September 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I stood silently for a moment, looking at the young man kneeling on the floor. I needed time to let my bruised ego heal.

I know. It’s a pretty fragile ego that can’t stand up to a boy’s question, but there it was.

He had asked the question several times. That could have been it.

No. It was just the idea that I wasn’t enough. I wanted to be enough.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Let’s see if we can sort this out.

The lad’s father had dropped him off earlier, telling me he’d be happy to pick him up if there was any trouble. I didn’t expect any and told the young man’s father so.

He is my grandson, after all. Grandpas and their grandsons can do a job together without falling out, can’t they?

I wonder if the last time had anything to do with his offer. It was a month or more ago.

I have this vision of a man on his knees in the kitchen struggling with the tile he is laying down. The old guy is clearly an amateur, unsure of his next move, but determined to make one anyway.

Oblivious to his grandfather’s quandary, the fair-haired boy at his side has a tape measure in his hand and is talking a mile a minute.

“Look, Grandpa! Six inches! Is that long enough? Hey, what does that rubber roller do? What are you going to do now? Can I help you cut the next piece? Do you think I could pound on it with that hammer thingy like you did? Are you ever going to finish this job?”

I don’t remember what happened next. Well, in truth, I don’t want to remember it, so we’ll just say I’m ashamed and move on, okay?

That memory, or lack thereof, is the reason I invited the boy back for another shot at laying vinyl tile—in the bathroom this time. I reasoned that I was now a pro at the task, having successfully (mostly) completed the original job in the kitchen.

I wanted another chance at being a better Grandpa as much as I wanted him to have another chance at laying the flooring with me.

What could go wrong?

We were using the left-over material from the kitchen job. We had enough to cover the bathroom floor with nothing to spare.

We couldn’t make a mistake. Not one.

The first cut I made was on the wrong end of the directional vinyl. The very first cut.

I did the only thing I could do.

I yelled for the Lovely Lady.

The boy’s grandma quickly came in from the front bedroom where she had been painting the walls. I showed her my error and enlisted her puzzle-solving skills to help us determine where we could work in the pieces I had cut wrong.

I think it may have gotten us off on the wrong foot. Every time after that, when we came to a moment of indecision or panic (on my part—not his), the young man looked up and asked if I wanted him to go get Grandma.

Well? Every kid knows if Grandma can’t fix it, it can’t be fixed.

It’s only logical. Grandma fixes boo-boos with Wonder Woman bandages. She can thread a needle in three seconds. She can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich like nobody else. She knows just when to get out the chocolate chip cookies. She mends the ripped dollies.

Grandma can fix it.

I get it. Still, it hurt. After the third time he asked the question, I stood for a moment considering. I didn’t want a repeat of the event we’re not talking about, so I took my time.

Finally, in a calm, unhurried manner, I told him the only time he’d need to call Grandma for help on this job was if Grandpa was crying.

I had no intention of crying.

The handsome young lad gazed at my face, a smile playing around his mouth. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or simply to nod seriously and wait for my next move.

He didn’t suggest we call Grandma again. Grandpa never cried. Well, there was that time the trim board fell on my head, but I suppose rubbing your skull and yelling Ow! isn’t crying, is it?

Nobody cried. This time. But, I’ve been doing some thinking.

Why are we experienced humans (old people) so slow to ask for help?

Our kids have no such reticence. Yet we, in our great wisdom (or ignorance) keep muddling through, making mistake after mistake, swinging the hammer thingy when we ought to be operating the roller, smashing thumbs and sucking the blood.

All we need to do is call. Aid is ours, simply for the asking. Share on X

The writer of the Psalms knew it. The reason I call on you is that I know You will answer me. Listen now, and hear my request. (Psalm 17:6)

And, it is a fact that even David wept before God as he prayed. But, most of the time he asked long before that. Long before.

Why does somebody have to cry before we will accept help?

I said earlier I wanted to be enough in my grandson’s eyes. It is the desire all of us have. I read over and over these days, in the self-help, self-image propaganda that we need to know we are enough.

I don’t want to offend, but it’s a lie.

I am not enough. I never have been. On my own, I stumble along in the dark, feeling my way and frequently, falling apart.

I am not enough, but He is. Again and again, He is enough.

I am not enough, but He is. Again and again, He is enough. Share on X

More than enough.

I can’t tell you if we need to call Grandma.

I do know that before the trouble starts, prayer works.

In the hardest days of our lives, God is there.

When the tears fall, He is enough.

And, He doesn’t need second chances to be a good Father.

But, I’m kind of glad He gives second chances for this old man to be a good Grandpa.

I need lots of practice.

If nothing is going well, call your grandmother.
(Old Italian proverb)

So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask him.
(Matthew 7:11 ~ 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.

Grace Comes Quietly

June 1, 2017June 1, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

I can’t remember when I’ve been more frustrated.

I like things to be done in a logical manner. When rules are followed, all is right with the world.

Or, is it?

My morning—as truth be told, have many other mornings over the last couple of months—was spent in dealing with one single company. The company promises to make life easier for me as the owner of a website.

The frustrating thing is, they aren’t. Making life easier for me, that is.

From the beginning, the hoops have been held in front of me and I have dutifully jumped through them. I like order and calm, you see. My assumption, when this journey started, was that by jumping through the hoops, I would achieve the goal.

Rules followed? Goal achieved. That’s the way it’s supposed to work.

The only thing jumping through the hoops has achieved in my case is the presentation of more hoops. Today, I would jump through what I believe to be the last hoop.

Well, really, the last hoops.

Muttering the entire time, I collected all the information the company required, and driving the well-traveled road to my bank, found a helpful young lady who was in possession of a legal stamp which proclaimed her to be a notary public.

I sat at her desk, proffering document after document to prove to the company that I am who I say I am. She dutifully stamped the copies and, watching me sign the final affidavit required, asked me if I was sure I was done.

I want to be done. I wish this were the end of this particular journey.

I’m not convinced it is. There will be more hoops to be jumped through—more rules with which to comply.

There always are.

While sitting at the nice young lady’s desk, I needed to separate a couple of pages of a document which were held together with a tiny staple. I pulled it out with my fingernail. She quietly mentioned that she had a staple remover, but I persisted in my quest without her help.

The tiny staple sat on her desk for a few seconds, only to find its way into my hand as I waited for her to make copies. I bent it back into the shape it had been in the paper. Then I bent it in half from that. Fidgeting still, I bent it again.

By the time my visit to the bank was completed, the staple was just a dot of crumpled metal in my hands. I would have thrown it away, but the trash can was behind the nice lady’s desk. I didn’t reach past her to toss it in.

I carried the tiny thing out with me. I could toss it into the dirt under a tree outside.

I didn’t.

Good people don’t throw trash on the ground. I would toss it into the tray in my pickup.

I didn’t.

The same thought came to me as I considered the deed. Someone would have to pick that up.

All the way home I held the tiny piece of metal between my fingers, its sharp ends and bent edges uncomfortable on my skin. Not until I walked through my door and into the kitchen, did I release the minuscule dot from my hand into the trash can under the sink.

Even then, I wondered if it could have been put in the recycle bin.

I hear the words now.

What a strange thing to write about!

What a stupid thing to do!

What a ridiculous amount of energy wasted for nothing!

Nothing!

Did I forget to tell about the lady who followed me out the door? I did, didn’t I?

I walked out the door of the bank, carrying my final (or not) hoop to be jumped through in one hand and the pesky little staple in the other. Focused on the little inconveniences of the day, I didn’t realize that a lady carrying her young child was close behind me.

Yep. I let the door close right in her face.

And the Teacher said to the religious leaders gathered there, calling them blind guides: You strain the gnats out of your drink, and satisfied with the result, swallow a camel instead. (Matthew 23:24)

I left the lady and her child to deal with the door on their own. I had more important things on my mind.

I carried my little staple all the way home. All the way.

Later this afternoon, as I sat at a traffic signal, I felt that old familiar surge of pride as I watched the driver of the car ahead toss the still-smoking filter end of a cigarette out on the pavement.

I’m better than that one!

No. I’m not.

I’m not.

If I could (which I can’t) follow the law in every facet, save one—if I only mess up one tiny rule—I have still broken the law. (James 2:10)

Two things I know about the law. Two things.

One, it is not possible for me to jump through every hoop without getting something wrong.

Two, pride and comparisons are always—without fail—the result of my little successes in keeping the rules. When I succeed, I think I am better than those who fall short in the same attempt.

Did I say there were two things I knew? I should have said there were three. The third is the most important.

Grace trumps law. Every time.

The nice lady at the bank offered me grace today. Quietly she said the words.

I have a staple remover.

Such a simple offer.

I just needed to give up my claim to the tiny metal staple.

Grace comes quietly.

Quietly.

Grace comes quietly. Quietly. And, it waits for us to respond. Share on X

It waits for us to respond.

I think I don’t want to carry around the little staples anymore.

I’m not all that good at hoops either.

Grace waits.

For us, it waits.

Grace puts its hand on the boasting mouth and shuts it once for all.
(Charles Haddon Spurgeon ~ English evangelist ~ 1834-1892)

Sin is no longer your master, for you no longer live under the requirements of the law. Instead, you live under the freedom of God’s grace.
(Romans 6:14 ~ NLT)

Good for the Soul

January 31, 2017January 31, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I wrote about this the other night. Really, I did.

Paragraph after paragraph to explain how I’m still a man of my word, in spite of my circumstances. I even included scripture verses to encourage the reader to do the same.

It was good. Do you remember?

What! You never read that article?

Well, yeah. I knew that.

It’s not true anyway.

The part about me being a man of my word isn’t, that is. I did write it. I just couldn’t bring myself to publish it. It still sits as a draft in my computer program.

Tonight though, I sat at my desk and, almost angrily, said the words to the ceiling in my office.

You’re going to make me write about this instead, aren’t you?

The circumstances of the two events are nearly identical; the actors in the little stageplay are the only real difference. Oh. Then, there’s my failure to live up to the claim this time.

The details aren’t all that important. An email arrived both times. I had sold products, back when I ran a music store, and made promises about the products. Both of the email writers wanted me to live up to my promise.

The first time, I passed. With flying colors, I passed the test. I wanted to boast about that. I wanted to make sure my readers knew how important it was to me to be a man of my word. Even when it wasn’t convenient to do that.

Tonight? It wasn’t such a rousing success. When called on to make good on my promise, I simply made an excuse and said I couldn’t.

Well?

I don’t operate the music store anymore. Money is tight. Bills have to be paid. No one could expect me to stand behind promises—now that the business is defunct. No one.

Except the One who called me. The One who sustains me with His own hand.

He expects it.

David, the psalmist knew it. He suggested that those who want to live in God’s presence needed, among other things, to do what they had promised, even when it hurts. (Psalm 15:4)

This was going to hurt. So, I said sorry, I won’t.

I don’t want to tell you this. I want you to think I’m a man of my word. I do.

But then, I guess I should actually be a man of my word. Shouldn’t I?

The red-headed lady who raised me had a saying for this (you knew she would): Confession is good for the soul.

Her sayings weren’t always right. This one is.

James said it in a little more round-about way. Confess your sins to each other and you will be healed. (James 5:16)

I suppose you might say that being healed is good for the soul.

I suppose you might say that being healed is good for the soul. Share on X

I’m confessing.

The realization has grown in me more and more in these last days that we have become an arrogant people.

More inclined to boast than to confess, our spiritual leaders and teachers tussle and vie for the places of honor, only to be shocked when they are showered with disrespect and hateful words from other leaders and teachers.

We follow their example. I have seen more vile speech from believers, aimed at other believers, in the last short period of time than I have in my lifetime.

I wonder. We refuse to let anyone see our weakness for fear that they will respect us less, and then when the facade falls (as it surely will) our weaknesses and sins are exposed anyway, to the chagrin of some and the glee of others.

If we exalt ourselves, it is inevitable that we will be humbled. Inevitable.

Among all the shouting and self-promotion, somehow, I think our Lord would propose only seven words for us to say.

They are words of humility and penitence. Words that remind us who we really are.

I’m saying them tonight.

God be merciful to me, a sinner.

A proud man is always looking down on things and people, and of course, as long as you’re looking down, you can’t see something that’s above you.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British scholar/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

Then Jesus told this story to some who had great confidence in their own righteousness and scorned everyone else: “Two men went to the Temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, and the other was a despised tax collector.The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed this prayer: ‘I thank you, God, that I am not like other people—cheaters, sinners, adulterers. I’m certainly not like that tax collector!I fast twice a week, and I give you a tenth of my income.’
“But the tax collector stood at a distance and dared not even lift his eyes to heaven as he prayed. Instead, he beat his chest in sorrow, saying, ‘O God, be merciful to me, for I am a sinner.’ I tell you, this sinner, not the Pharisee, returned home justified before God. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
(Luke 18:9-14 ~ NLT)

Holding Loosely

August 23, 2016August 23, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Go, bid the hero who has run
Thro’ fields of death to gather fame,
Go, bid him lay his laurels down,
And all his well-earn’d praise disclaim.
(from The Captive Ribband ~ Robert Burns ~Scottish poet ~ 1759-1796)

Late one recent night, fallen prey to a short-lived spasm of conscience brought on by too much time spent in front of one screen or another, I took up a volume of Robert Burns’ poetry and determined to wade through it. Or, at least a portion of it.

My resolve—along with my guilty conscience—was in the final stages of relenting when I came across the jewel which contains the passage quoted above. I had slogged through too many lines of the bewildering Scots dialect, but it took only a line or two for me to grasp the poet’s meaning here.

Mr. Burns speaks of a single ribbon he has saved from the woman he loved, a ribbon he prizes as much as love itself. Thus the comparison to a hero’s fame and acclaim. He will never surrender it.

It is a familiar concept.

Some men can struggle through a lifetime and never be acclaimed a hero or even have their fabled fifteen minutes of fame. But, many people, given just one such opportunity, will hold tight to their proof of superiority for the rest of their lives.

I have to admit, I don’t know many old war heroes. I do know a fair number of old musicians. Young ones, too.

You wouldn’t believe the stories I hear.

I played with .

My band opened for .

I wrote music for .

Fill in the blanks. Big names. Huge stars. Crowds cheering and screaming for more. All in the past.

All of it, in the past.

A memory only, except for those who have mementos. Photographs, recordings (vinyl and otherwise), signed napkins, all are saved and clutched tightly as if they are more precious than gold.

And I, listening to the tale, may be accorded a quick glance at the talisman, as if a pilgrim at a holy shrine.

I find myself both fascinated and saddened by the stories—and the souvenirs. The joy—the pride—is all in the past, with none left for the future. Success achieved, aspiration is shed like a suit of clothes, never to be worn again.

Consider the words of the humbug Wizard to the Tin Woodman:

They are called phil. . .er. . .phil. . .er. . .er. . .good-deed-doers, and their hearts are no bigger than yours, but they have one thing you haven’t got! A testimonial!
(The Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum ~ American author ~ 1856-1919)

Without diminishing the importance of heroic acts—and they are not to be passed over lightly—I want to suggest that if we must look only behind us to see the deeds worth celebrating, we are a sad and hopeless lot.

The Apostle who loved to write long letters (he shares more than just a name with me) had a mountain of mementos and testimonials. A mountain. (Philippians 3)

He called the mountain garbage. No. He called it. . .well, I won’t write out the word here, but in the dialect of his day, it was a coarse word for dung.

Some folks have used that passage of Paul’s letter to the church at Philippi to prove that God has no use for our good works. It’s not what He was saying.

In the journey to our real home, the things we do will not earn us safe passage. They won’t earn us entrance into Heaven. There is only one thing that guarantees eternity with God. Only one.

We rely on what Jesus has done for us, having no confidence whatsoever in our flesh. (verse 3) Salvation is complete, without one iota of effort on our part.

The high calling is just that, a call to come up higher. Share on X

Still, we are called to better things than what is in our past. The high calling is just that, a call to come up higher.

The goal still lies ahead.

The trophies and accolades of the past are nothing to what lies ahead.

If. . .

We must finish the course with integrity and with courage if we aim to win the prize.

If we must grip honor in a clenched fist to retain it, we have not yet earned it. Share on X

If we must grip honor in a clenched fist to retain it, we have not yet earned it.

Let the past go. Nothing in it is anything compared to the trophies and testimonials that are to come.

Nothing.

Better things lie ahead.

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it someday for a crown.
(The Old Rugged Cross ~ George Bennard)

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.
(From Collected Letters ~ C.S. Lewis)

God Eavesdrops

August 11, 2016August 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I wonder sometimes if God listens in more to our normal conversations than He does to our prayers.

You too?

It happened tonight.

Twenty minutes prior, as the Lovely Lady and I worked together on a late-night project at the music store, I had—albeit, unknowingly—laid down the challenge. We were discussing a transaction which had taken place earlier in the day.

I told her about a minor mix-up in the terms of a trade I was making and then mentioned to her that I had compensated the customer with some free merchandise.

She looked at me, a little surprised. We are in our traditional summer slowdown—the calm before the storm, you might say—and the finances are a little tighter than usual. We don’t normally give away a lot of products during such times.

I explained that I felt the customer had been offered something he hadn’t received, so I wanted to make up for it. My next words are the ones I probably should have kept to myself.

“I’m not going to let circumstances determine who I am. “

I admit it; I was tired, and possibly not thinking at my best. That said, I never expected anyone was listening besides the two of us.

She went home, leaving me to toil on a different project, one which has been on my to-do list for weeks, maybe even months. I had already spent a fair amount of time replacing the head on the banjo during the afternoon. New strings had followed the head, along with a good bit of set-up.

The old banjo, one my father-in-law had sold way back in the nineteen-seventies, was once again playing as it did when it was new. All that remained was for me to replace the resonator, the round, wooden back-piece, on the instrument and I would be done.

A missing nut for one of the mounting studs was searched for (at length) and finally located before I completed the job. Then, picking the banjo up from the cradle upon which it rested, I strummed the strings a time or two.

Proudly, I should have said, I strummed the strings. Man! I’m good!

That’s funny. I heard a little vibration. That wouldn’t do.

I realized the resonator was shifting its position when I handled it, but I knew what to do about that. I simply needed to tighten up the four nuts that held it in place. So, one after the other, I tightened them up.

Until I got to the last one. That one, I went overboard on, tightening too much and twisted the mounting loose. The mounting is inside the resonator.

I would have to remove it completely, and make a repair. Then, I would have to put the instrument together again.

Again!

It was the proverbial straw and I snapped. I had had all I could take.

I wonder if this was the moment God had been waiting for. Perhaps, not. Regardless, it wasn’t pretty.

I shouted the words to the ceiling. Shouted them!

What gives you the right? Leave me alone!

The words had no sooner left my tongue than I clapped my hands—both of them—over my mouth.

What am I saying?

I could hardly believe the words came from me. Worse than that, I remembered my statement to the Lovely Lady, just moments before.

It had been a promise—a covenant if you will.

Circumstances will never change who I am.

And yet, all it took was one tiny Phillips-head screw to make me go back on my word.

I accused God!

I—proud and boastful—opened my mouth and questioned His authority, implying that He not only caused my misery, but He was overstepping the boundaries of His authority.

From somewhere in my head, I hear the voice of another man saying something similar. Job, as he sits in his misery, utters the exact sentiments. God is oppressing me. Without cause. (Job 10:3)

Worse, I told Him to leave me alone.

And somehow, again, there is the voice of Job speaking the same words, only to repent later. (Job 10:20-21)

I tell you, it is not a proud and boastful man who writes these words tonight. I trust it will not be a proud and boastful man who places that instrument in the hands of the lady when she calls for it in the next day or two.

Job knew enough to repent. I do so, as well.

I, too often, speak of things as if I have grasped the truth, only to realize that I merely know the truth in my head, but have not taken hold of it in my heart.

Whatever I am becoming inside is because of His presence.

When I boast of my resolve, He shows me how long that will last.

When I believe I have become something, He uses life’s tests to show me clearly what I would be without Him.

Did God break the banjo?

No. I make mistakes all the time. All the time. He just uses my mistakes to teach the lessons I need to learn.

I failed a test tonight. Standing there by myself in front of my workbench, I failed.

Circumstances do change who I am inside. I don’t want them to, but they do anyway.

Still, I repent.

There will be other days—other tests.

I wonder sometimes if I’m the only one who has these failures along the way. I really hope not.

My words in the moment notwithstanding, I am not estranged from my God. I have not abandoned my pursuit of Him, nor He His of me.

But, I did speak the words. I did think the thoughts.

And yet, the God who listens still calls.

Mercy still beckons.

I will follow.

Again.

Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts.
Point out anything in me that offends you,
and lead me along the path of everlasting life.
(Psalm 139:23-24 ~ NLT)

We fall down, we get up.
We fall down, we get up.
We fall down, we get up.
And the saints Are just the sinners
Who fall down and get up.
(from We Fall Down ~ Kyle Matthews ~ American singer/songwriter)

Disruption

May 22, 2016May 24, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She’s no better than she ought to be.

The proper English lady sniffed pompously as she said the words. Quite obviously, she considered the woman about whom she was speaking beneath herself. I don’t have many British friends, so I’ve never heard the phrase used in conversation.

I am happy to say the BBC comedy program the Lovely Lady and I were watching has provided the impetus for many trips to the dictionary of origins for me.

I suppose I may be a little odd (perhaps, more than a little).

I have always loved words. Big words. Little words. Obscure words. I want to know where our language came from. If it comes to that, I want to know where it is going. Still, I didn’t have to do much research to figure this one out.

The female person about whom the words were spoken was quite clearly poor and uneducated. Her morality was also suspect. Somehow, for quite a few people, the two states are inseparable.

They believe poor and uneducated leads to immoral, every time.

Apparently, if you get a bad start, you aren’t expected to rise any higher in the years which follow.

If you are born disadvantaged, you’ll never be any better than you ought to be.

And, that might be a true statement.

Except. . .

Did you know that every one of us was born disadvantaged?

Did you know that not one of us has the ability to become good?

We can never be any better than we ought to be. None of us.

All of us have sinned. All of us fall short. It is the norm—the common condition of man. (Romans 3:23)

Except. . .

Except, the Disruptor came along. He made us better than we ought to be.

You know what a disruptor is, don’t you? In the jargon of today’s marketplace, a disruptor is someone or something which has the ability to change forever the item or entity with which it intersects.

It’s not that things are done in a different way; things actually are different.

For all of history before the Disruptor’s coming, our Creator, knowing that we were disadvantaged, and understanding where we came from (He fashioned us, after all), overlooked our sin.

Oh, it had to be covered; that’s what the sacrifices were for—a covering for sin—but God, understanding we were made from dirt and would always act like dirt, loved us anyway. (Psalm 103:8-14)

He loved us anyway.

And, in His time—at the perfect juncture in history—He sent the Disruptor. Because He loves us, things would be different forever.

We will be better than we ought to be.

Will be!

No more will we be able to point to our heritage and suggest that we are just as good as they were. Never again will we know the limitation of being only as good as our past allows.

He makes all things new! Disruption means that nothing will ever be the same again.

We have been re-created. And, not out of dirt! (2 Corinthians 5:17)

The very thought of it makes me sit up straighter. This new reality changes everything. I don’t have to go through life trapped in the same state as when I was born.

But still, the lie intrudes.

You’ll never be any better. Never.

Somehow, even in the truth of newness, and in the reality of not-dirt, we begin to believe the lie that we are worthless. And, being human, we find ways to build our own worth.

Bolstering our own worth always involves diminishing the worth of others. Always.

She’s no better than she ought to be.

Still, we say the words. The lie prevails. Pride rules in our hearts. And, as we take aim at others, we hurt ourselves.

He changes the rules. It’s what He came for.

Go ahead then; stone her. But the first stone must be thrown by one who has never sinned. (John 8:7)

Do you think He came to leave us in the same condition in which He found us? Without question, the most disruptive person in all of history is the Son of God.

He calls us to follow Him in his disruptive ways.

He calls us to love each other anyway.

We are the hands and feet—and heart— of the Disruptor here on earth.

Where we walk and serve, nothing should ever be the same again.

Perhaps, it’s time for us to get started.

Dust are our frames, and, gilded dust our pride.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ English poet ~ 1809-1892)

The Lord is like a father to his children,
    tender and compassionate to those who fear him.
For he knows how weak we are;
    he remembers we are only dust.
Our days on earth are like grass;
    like wildflowers, we bloom and die
The wind blows, and we are gone—
    as though we had never been here.
But the love of the Lord remains forever
    with those who fear him.
(Psalm 103:13-17 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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