The Storm Before the Calm

September 22, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments

I sit, listening to the quiet of the morning. The morning after, perhaps I should say.

Last night a cold front moved through our region, the coolness of the northern air pushing under the stubborn heat of our lingering southern summer. As usually happens with this situation, the leading edge of that troublesome, change-seeking cold front roiled up a thunderstorm from the hot air, blowing through with noise and light, keeping normal folks awake and on edge for hours.

This morning brought temperatures in the sixties, instead of the eighties, and a quiet that seems almost eerie after the high energy of the night we experienced. A few limbs had to be moved out of streets and the yards are covered with leaves and slender branches that gave up their fight during the storm, but over it all, a hush and calm has descended. Even the songbirds seem a little muted as they wing from tree to bush today.

The calm after the storm.

Wait. That’s not right.

The red-headed lady who raised me said it enough times the words are embedded in my brain.

The calm before the storm. That was how she would say it.

We would comment about how things seemed to be going smoothly, and she would say the words, injecting her usual pessimism—her expectation of trouble to come—into the quiet.

I may have acquired some of her fretting spirit. I’m certain the world around me, my tribe of Christ-followers included, has appropriated it these days.

Everywhere I turn, the expectation is of more disaster, of more pain.

I’m here to say the old trite saying my mother remembered from her mother (and perhaps, hers before that) is the wrong way around. Almost inside out.

The truth is, or so it seems to me, the storm precedes the calm.

In the midst of the wind and the crashing thunder, along with the devastating lightning, there is a hope—no, a certainty—that calm will descend anew. The noise will stop, the catastrophic power of the storm will fade, and we’ll bind up the wounds as we weep for our losses and move forward.

Headed home—again.

There is hope. I don’t know how long the storm will last. I do know our Creator, our God, has plans for good for us, not destruction.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
(Jeremiah 29:11, NIV)

I do know our Savior acknowledged the storms of life, but told us not to give in to terror and hopelessness.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
(John 16:33, NIV)

I am not a Pollyanna, quoting only “rejoicing texts.” Nor, am I a Little Orphan Annie insisting “the sun’ll come out tomorrow.” No, I am simply a pragmatist with Faith. Faith with a capital F.

I know better than to trust to the devices of men, or the machinations of politics, or even the beneficence of a sympathetic universe. Simply put, I believe in the words of a trustworthy Creator and the experience of having spent a lifetime invested in following Him.

I wish I could insert the word “fully” in the previous sentence, right before “invested.” I’m sorry to say I have only been heavily invested for short periods of time. Before that, I was partially invested. Perhaps, it was merely slightly invested.

Have I made it clear that I’m not all that good at this “following Christ” gig? My lack of enthusiastic participation doesn’t change His investment in the slightest.

He’s all in.

And not just for me. He’s all in for every single person who believes in Him. Every one.

Calm follows a storm. It always has. I see no reason to believe that’s going to change.

I’m not telling you the red-headed lady was wrong. I just think she might have put the cart before the horse. She told me that happened a lot, too.

For many, the storm is still raging. All around, events are out of control and all appears to be lost.

It’s not. Calm will come again. It will.

The wind and the waves still know His voice.

Your heart will too.

Rest.

I have both the violent turbulence of the storm and the quiet promises of God in the storm. And what I must work to remember is that something is not necessarily stronger simply because it’s louder.
(Craig Lounsbrough ~ Pastor/Counselor)

Then He arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace, be still!” And the wind ceased and there was a great calm.
(Mark 4:39, NKJV)

Higher than That

September 29, 2016September 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

As if all of creation is following the calendar hanging on the wall, the temperatures are dropping to suit the season. The north wind already blusters, tugging on the leaves of the trees in my yard, urging them to fly.

Soon. Soon, they’ll fly.

I sat on the porch with a warm cup of coffee a few moments past and wondered why the melancholy mood seems to be descending like a cloud. It does every year now, when the seasons make the turn toward colder temperatures and bare limbs on trees.

It hasn’t always been so.

I listen absent-mindedly to the wind chimes at the northern backside of the house and then to the ones beside me on the southern porch as they take their turn to spin and shimmy in the chilly breeze. The progression of the blowing wind reminds me that the years have come and gone in just the same way. The waning year reminds me that life too, wanes.

With the years have come so many life events. Joyous and sad, they also take their turns, blowing in and then out again. I might as well try to stop the north wind as to hold back the memories.

I have seen babies born and old folks die. Before my eyes, both have happened. I didn’t turn away from either. Both have brought tears. Tears of heartache and joy.

Children have grown; friendships, too. The children left, but came back with others of their own. Friends have come and gone, and then come again, some of them. Life has had its sadness, but also, in great measure, its joy.

And yet, among my memories, especially now, the melancholy shoves aside the joy.

For some reason I see, in my mind’s eye, a scene from a Greek myth I read as a child. Most will remember it, the story of Pandora and the box she was forbidden to open.

The pain and evil she loosed on the earth changed it forever. Only a weak and ineffective hope was left behind as a salve, a bandage for the open, bleeding wound.

The Greeks and Romans offered, in their attempts at explaining humanity and deity, a weak copy of the reality of a Creator who actually gave hope, real hope to His children, His creation.

How easy it is for us, like the ancients, to let our eyes fall to man and the created world, expecting salvation, but finding only weakness and death. We begin to attempt to explain all we see and experience, framed in our human frailty and knowledge.

Weakly, we grasp at the wisps of hope the world offers, thinking it will stave off our unhappiness and certainty of what follows the coming of Autumn.

We build empires, which merely crumble and dissolve beneath our feet. We follow political leaders who make promises with their mouths, but then take action from their base, evil hearts.

Wealth bellows its virtues, only to disappoint. Youth begins to slip from our grasp and hope flees. We chase health with every gym membership and dietary supplement we can find, only to discover ourselves trapped in ever weakening frames.

Magazines are read; books purchased. Surely someone will find the secret before it’s too late for us!

We set our sight too low. Far too low.

Did you ever stand in the dark of early morning, out in a valley, awaiting the dawn? I remember mornings—brisk Autumn mornings, not unlike those I’m waking up to now—when I sat awaiting the sun, and the beauty that would follow its rising.

Looking out across the valley, I could see only pitch blackness. They say it’s always darkest before dawn and then, I could believe it. But perhaps, I was looking too low. I should look up—up on the rise of the surrounding hillsides. Surely, from that height, light would ascend and creation would shine.

The hillsides disappointed. Every time.

Even the hilltops themselves were of little help. Possibly, I could make them out, silhouetted against the sky as they were. But, the light didn’t emanate from them.

I had to lift my eyes even higher—up to the sky, where the sun would rise.

There! Even before the sun arrived, the light shone upward from behind the dark horizon. Above the valley—above the hillsides—towering even above the hilltops—the sun began its daily circuit above.

The Psalmist knew it. As he sat in the valley of despair, he lifted his eyes up to the hills, but found no help there. Where—where would his help come from? Only from God. (Psalm 121:1,2)

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own.

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. Share on X

We would wander in the darkness forever, chasing a weak and futile hope. In our foolishness, we believe that the evil loosed in the world cannot ever be defeated. Or worse, we think we can unseat it with our New-Age we-are-gods-ourselves mantra.

Death will follow. As surely as winter follows Autumn, death follows evil and error.

He gives us a Hope that is far better than any we could ever fabricate or imagine.

A Savior who makes all things new.

The power of Pandora’s box is broken in Him. Our Hope has the power to give us new life.

He promises us heaven.

Soon. Soon, we’ll fly.

He promises us heaven. Soon. Soon, we'll fly. Share on X

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
(Autumn ~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~ Bohemian-Austrian poet ~ 1875-1926)

“The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” “How are these things possible?” Nicodemus asked.
Jesus replied, “You are a respected Jewish teacher, and yet you don’t understand these things? I assure you, we tell you what we know and have seen, and yet you won’t believe our testimony. But if you don’t believe me when I tell you about earthly things, how can you possibly believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ever gone to heaven and returned. But the Son of Man has come down from heaven. And as Moses lifted up the bronze snake on a pole in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him will have eternal life.”
(John 3:8-15 ~ NLT)

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)

Unlikely Heroes

August 9, 2016August 9, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

In the cover of darkest night, the old man weeps. Alone, he cries until no more tears will come, and still the sobs torment his body.

The time was when he couldn’t shed a single tear. When very little seemed to touch his heart. Except harsh reality. Retribution and reward. Hard work.

That was before.

So many who walked beside him have gone on ahead now.

Still he walks. Nearly alone now.

Once, he saw the road ahead clearly. Almost, it seems, the light of their presence helped to make the way plain for miles ahead.

Bereft of that light, he hasn’t abandoned the way.

And yet, almost as if their presence in his life still yields a flickering beam of candlelight, his dimming eyes can make out the road ahead. Just barely.

Heroic acts can do that, you know. Something of their aura clings to the hero.

And yes, I called him a hero. Many who are never acknowledged as such perform the acts of heroes daily.

No. Not the type of hero feats performed on the battlefield, nor even those accomplished in lifesaving acts on mountainsides or in the depths of dark waters.

The acts of a hero are sometimes simply to live as one promises to live, to act as one has sworn to act, to stay when one has given his word to stay.

The old man has done all that, and more. Ofttimes, the hero is a wife, or a mother, or a brother.

We don’t talk about it. Perhaps it is part of our contract with the young and energetic, but we don’t speak of the ultimate cost.

Maybe we should.

The young home health specialist was obviously uncomfortable as I spoke with him about it the other day. But then again, he may not be all that young—simply younger than I. Still, he was reluctant to speak the words.

I asked him if the situations in which he found himself daily were surprising or uncomfortable for him. He chose his words carefully.

“I love home health work. Still, there are things that go on in those homes that you wouldn’t believe. Horrible, painful things. And, beautiful things.“

Refusing to name the horrible, painful things, he instead described folks who take care of their loved ones from daybreak to nighttime and, many times, on through the night. Their tasks are dirty and uncomfortable. The regularity with which they are called upon to perform the tasks is constant, with no end in sight.

The years stretch out ahead. Still, they stay.

I marvel. In part, I marvel at the hardships that await at the end of our lives, or sometimes surprisingly, early in them. More than that, I marvel at the audacity of someone who would willingly attend such events.

Still, we don’t speak aloud of the hardships, especially to the young.

I was present at a wedding the other evening. It was beautiful—the bride, gorgeous and so happy. The groom, a young man I have known since he was a small boy, beamed from ear to ear with his beautiful young wife hanging on his arm. And, so he should.

Youth is a heady time of life. Indestructible and self-confident, no hint of hardship fazes us. Bring it on! We can handle anything! Anything.

The Lovely Lady and I hugged the beautiful young bride and her handsome husband, as I joked that the wedding had gone perfectly.

“That was the easy part. Now comes the hard stuff.”

The words came from my mouth lightly. The pair acknowledged the veracity of my statement, perhaps a little more seriously than I intended. But, the innocence in their beaming faces gave evidence that their young minds had not yet imagined the path their promises on that night will lead them upon.

And, perhaps that’s the way it should be. Love, if it is indeed love, is a journey beside one another—a growing together, a gathering consciousness of shared joys and pains; of approaching illnesses that will change life for both.

Still, I wonder. When the young begin their journey together, we throw huge, extravagant parties—celebrations of good intentions, of great hopes.

And when, after years of walking with those one loves and interminable nights of performing unspeakable tasks because of that love, the shared journey comes to an end, there is no celebration whatsoever.

The hero is unsung. The herculean task of caring for the person one loves is passed over as if it never happened.

It happened.

It happened.

Somehow though, it seems incongruous to celebrate in the face of sorrow and pain. I wonder if it’s a stretch to think that perhaps, there’ll be a special place of honor for these heroes at the wedding feast of the Lamb. (Revelation 19:8-9) After all, who understands marriage better among mankind than those who have fulfilled their oaths to the last breath?

But then again, I think the words of praise from the Lord as he’s welcomed into heaven will be celebration enough.

Well done! You’ve been a good, faithful servant. It’s time for you to rest. (Matthew 25:21)

Promises kept build the character of a man. Debts paid strengthen the integrity of the person.

The old man stood on my porch last weekend and, barely holding back the tears, told me she was gone. After sixty-six years, he is alone.

I reminded him of her love for him and his care for her, and he brightened, if only for a moment. It hadn’t been a storybook marriage, but both had fulfilled their promises. And then some.

I wish it were time for celebration.

But, in his room alone, he weeps.

The day is coming. It is.

The celebration is still ahead. Crowns will be distributed to the heroes. And then, offered again to the Hero of Heroes.

Tears—those evidences of present sorrows that our God counts precious—will by His own hand, be wiped from our eyes.

The old man is waiting for the day.

So am I.

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.
(1 Corinthians 9:24-25 ~ NIV)

You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor.
(Aristotle ~ Greek philosopher ~ 384 BC-322 BC)

Dead Trees and Broken Promises

April 15, 2016April 15, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The tree is dead. Dead.

To say I am unhappy would be truthful. But, I think it goes even deeper than that.

I feel betrayed.

Twelve years ago, the Lovely Lady and I put a sapling in the ground. We were careful to follow all the recommendations of the nursery from which we purchased the beautiful little promise of a tree.

Well? That’s what it was—was it not?

It was a promise of shady spaces and wind rustling through green leaves. The promise of branches for grandchildren (not yet born) to climb upon in summertime and of brilliant purples of autumn splendor.

A promise—that’s what it was.

A broken promise. Now.

Day after day I look out to see if anything has changed. Every other plant in the neighborhood has burst out in green celebration of the new life Spring entices to accompany itself.

Already, I’ve had to trim a foot of new growth from the hedge on the opposite end of the front yard, so rapid has been its exuberant development.

I’ve told you about the magnificent scarlet maple around the corner in the backyard and its fantastic enterprise of repopulating the world. Since its emissaries of choice, the spinning jennies floating on the spring breezes, have already done their part, the stately tree has simply covered itself in greenery and is content.

But, what of the twenty-foot-tall ash tree in the front yard?

Nothing. No buds. No leaves.

Nothing.

It’s dead.

As often as I walk past it, I break off a little twig and test for life. The dead wood snaps like a match stick. Every time.

There will be no shade this year. Not long from now, if my grandson grabs a limb and pulls himself up onto it, as he did only last week, the limb will give way under his weight.

Broken limb. Broken promise.

I feel betrayed. Angry even.

I know, I know—it’s just a tree. But, I’m not the first to feel this way. Others have been angry at the loss of their shade, too.

Take Jonah, for instance. He sat on the hillside, ready to watch a spectacle (though fairly certain it wouldn’t happen) and enjoyed the shade of the plant under which he rested. When it shriveled the next day, he was angry. (Jonah 4:6-8)

He wanted to die. Angry at God for taking his shade, he begged to be allowed to die.

I’m not that mad, but the message of Jonah is starting to get through my thick skull anyway.

There was never a promise made to me with regard to this tree. The Creator of all we know allows us to enjoy His gifts. And, sometimes He takes one away.

In my experience, when He takes away, He gives something better. I don’t think there’s any promise of that, but it seems to be the way He works.

Often, I think we miss this message when we blame God for the loss of other things which are precious to us. We forget that He is God. We forget that He is looking at all of time and history as His plan unfolds.

Still, the losses hurt. We wonder if we’ve been betrayed. Anger rises.

But, the tree was never mine. The things we have lost were always His.

There is a promise I remember about trees. The promise, spoken beautifully by the psalmist in one of my favorite pieces of poetry, is clear. (The entire Psalm will be found below, in the old English as I first heard it, years ago.)

The upright person, one who loves God and wants nothing or no one else, is going to be like a tree planted by the river, with roots going down deep into the fertile soil.

No withered greenery here—no brittle limbs that snap under the fingers—no barren branches. In every season, this tree will produce its prescribed crop. Every time.

A promise, not of immense wealth, nor of fame and renown, but of faithfulness and a legacy.

I don’t have to remind you of the rest of the promise, do I? The psalmist spent no more time on it than will I:

Reject Him and what little impact you have on your world will fade and disappear with a strong wind.

A sobering thought. Both parts of the promise, I mean.

Sobering.

I think I like the idea of trees with roots that go down deep.

Maybe the next one I plant will be like that. No promises.

But, that other tree?

Our Creator keeps His promises.

Green leaves. Fruit, in season. Bounty.

I like trees.

You?

God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars.
(Martin Luther ~ German theologian/reformer ~ 1483-1546)

Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.
But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.
And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

The ungodly are not so: but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.
Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.
For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish.
(Psalm 1 ~ KJV)

Dance With Who Brung You

November 3, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The red-headed lady that raised me is at work once more. Oh, I know she’ll never actually say the words again, but still I hear her voice in my head.

Don’t change horses in the middle of the stream.

The old adage has been passed through several generations since Abraham Lincoln popularized it as a campaign slogan in 1864. He used the word picture to convince a divided nation to keep him as president during the Civil War. It still means basically the same thing today as it did back then.

Don’t make drastic changes in the way you are achieving a goal while in the middle of that activity.

Have you seen the movies where they show the driver and a passenger in a vehicle trading places as it careens down the highway at high speed? The result is usually a little scary, and somewhat humorous, but almost never disastrous.

I wonder if anyone reading this has attempted such a maneuver in real life? No, I don’t mean on an empty stretch of highway. I’m thinking about during rush hour, on the busiest freeway in Los Angeles—or Dallas—or Atlanta.

Anyone? Anyone at all?

I didn’t think so.

No one in their right mind would try that foolish shenanigan under those conditions. No one.

It has been on my mind for a few months, so I mentioned it to a few select friends the other day. Well, it was actually a few friends and acquaintances on Facebook. I realized the Lovely Lady and I have owned and operated our music store for thirty years this week. It’s a long time to do one thing.

I mentioned it and my friends rose to the occasion, sending notes of congratulations and praise.

I may have taken the praise too much to heart.

Today was the first day of my thirty-first year of owning and operating a music store. I don’t know what I expected. From the congratulatory notes I read about the first thirty years, I suppose I wanted to think the hard days were behind me. Everybody loves us and will do what is necessary to insure our lives will be easy from here on out.

There would be no more fussy customers to make happy. No more sticky problems would arise. I’ll never have another unpaid bill to be concerned about.

None of those was true today. It was a day of struggle and of problem-solving. Exactly as nearly every day of the previous thirty years has been. Customers didn’t receive their orders as expected. I had to take back a guitar a customer had changed his mind about. There is a large payment due to a vendor tomorrow, and no surplus of funds in my bank account today.

Nothing has changed. We face the same challenges, the same necessities. It would be easy to despair.

I won’t.

Reality continues on apace. We will deal with that reality in precisely the same way we have always attempted to do so.

I said the words to a young man as I tied strings on his classical guitar today. He is wondering what comes next for him, hoping to achieve dreams and plans for his family. I’ve said the words before to my readers, relating my conversation with a wise man many years past.

This is my place of ministry. These are the people I am called to minister to.

It’s not a church. It’s not a foreign country. It is where God has placed me. For now. The interactions arrive as they will, sometimes at the lazy speed of a country lane, sometimes at the frenzied pace of a crowded freeway at rush hour.

I am resolved that I will not change horses in the middle of this stream.

With that reminder, I hear the voice of the red-headed lady once more.

You got to dance with who brung you.

She wasn’t much for dancing, my Mom. It was frowned upon in my family and church in those days. That said, she grasped fully the concept of being faithful and committed. She wanted her children to do the same.

I understand how I got to the place I am today. As I look back over many years of life, I see many influences. I do.

But, I know beyond any question Who brought me to this point.

I’m planning to keep dancing with Him.

There are numerous other tempting companions here at the Dance. I see many I know who are changing partners, not necessarily suddenly. Little by little, over time, they have been drawn by promises of other rewards—other pleasures.

The end of the Dance is not going to be a happy time for them. Their new partners will never satisfy the expectations they have. The disappointment will be profound.

The dance of life continues. The steps are sometimes intricate and complicated, taking every bit of concentration I can muster. At other times, all I have to do is follow the lead of my Partner.

If I step on His feet and of those around me, patiently the steps are explained again. Never, not once, have I been sent to sit against the wall and wait until I can do it better.

The dance is not over. There’s still time and room for as many more as will come. The invitation is open. The Host still says come. (Revelation 22:17)

The music is starting again.

I know who my Partner is.

Yep.

The same One who brung me…

Nothing shapes your life more than the commitments you choose to make.
(Rick Warren ~ American pastor/author)

The Spirit and the Bride say, “Come.” And let the one who hears say, “Come.” And let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who desires take the water of life without price.
(Revelation 22:17 ~ ESV)

Nevertheless I have this against you, that you have left your first love.
(Revelation 2:4 ~ NKJV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

promises