Regrets

October 15, 2024October 15, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was over thirty years ago, but I still remember my brother-in-law’s words:

“Your grandma’s covered, Paul. The preacher is the one who messed up.”

A famous television evangelist had been exposed for the charlatan he was. His diamond rings—the ones that had been air-brushed out in his publicity photos—had been reported to the world, along with his mansions and luxury cars. It was finally clear that he was fleecing the little old ladies who had faithfully sent him their five and ten-dollar bills for decades.

I was angry. I could only air my unhappiness to the family member standing beside me that day, but I was pulled up short by my brother-in-law’s declaration.

I had wondered aloud what the little old ladies (and anyone else who had supported the man) were feeling knowing their money was supporting a lavish lifestyle for a very wealthy man and his family but had not gone to the ministries they intended to help at all.

We’ve all done it—given to help someone, only to find they didn’t really need it, or they used our gift for some other purpose altogether. We are hurt and angry, deciding to never help that person again.

Then there is the person we’ve helped again and again in their need, giving money or furniture or time, only to realize that they will never be there to help us when we need something.

I read the statement on social media the other day. My first thought was to agree. I’ve been there. Giving and not receiving.

“I regret the good things I did for the wrong people.“

Perhaps your response is the same as mine was initially.

I simply sat nodding my head. Remembering the hurt—the resentment.

Then, the words came to my mind. Quietly, but with purpose. I don’t know where they came from; they were just there.

“I wonder if God ever feels like that.”

Oh.

That hits home.

I don’t think He feels like that.

But, I do know what He did. And what He does.

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
(Romans 5:8, NIV)

That’s what Love does.

But the world lies. It lies.

All around us, the catchphrases and memes fly.

“You deserve to be loved!”
“Don’t waste your time on people who don’t reciprocate.”
“Don’t give to people who don’t deserve your gift.”
“Stay away from negative people.”

We’re not the world! We’re not.

In His prayer for His followers, Jesus said, “They do not belong to this world any more than I do.” And yes, He was talking about His followers throughout the ages to come as well. He went on to pray, “I am praying not only for these disciples but also for all who will ever believe in me through their message.“
(John 17: 16,20—NLT)

That’s us! Not of this world.

So why do we adopt their philosophies? Their slogans? Their lifestyles?

If I refuse to give to anyone who can’t or won’t give back, I’m nothing but a businessman, making a transaction. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo.

Here’s the thing: The one transaction that matters has already been made in the gift given to each of us who claim to be followers of Christ. The only thing required of us, who have freely received, is to give freely.

Freely. No encumbrances.

No anticipation of reimbursement.

Open hands, giving from open hearts.

We are responsible for our responses to God’s instruction. Others will answer for how they responded, but that’s none of our affair.

One of my favorite moments in the Narnia series of books by C.S. Lewis is in The Horse and His Boy. The protagonist, Shasta, is introduced to Aslan the Lion in a terrifying manner. Even in his fear, he asks several questions—one of them about an injury that happened to his companion.

The Lion answers back clearly.

“Child, I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”

In modern terminology, the instructions are to stay in our lane. God has given each of us a road to walk, with our own tasks to accomplish. What others do should not determine how we respond to Him.

But, along the way, our road will intersect with others who have needs—needs we are equipped to help fulfill. We need to be obedient in aiding them, regardless of what they do afterward.

There is no regret to be felt when we do good, especially the good our Creator has asked us to do.

Don’t let someone else’s actions turn you away from the journey, or its destination.

Don’t regret what you failed to do, worrying about how they would respond.

Open hands. Open heart.

No regrets.

It seems a good way to honor our Savior who somehow I doubt feels regret for what he did to help us at all.

“Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words, and slander, as well as all types of evil behavior. Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.”
(Ephesians 4:31-32, NLT)

“’Then it was you who wounded Aravis?’
‘It was I.’
‘But what for?’
‘Child,’ said the Voice, ‘I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Shasta.
‘Myself,’ said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again, ‘Myself,’ loud and clear and gay: and then the third time, ‘Myself,’ whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all around you as if the leaves rustled with it.”
(from The Horse and His Boy, by C.S. Lewis)

Grace and the Wolf

February 12, 2016February 12, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My morning at the music store was all planned out.

I always come in an hour ahead of time to get an early start. Product to be sent to customers has to be pulled and moved to the shipping room. Emails must be checked and answered. Repaired items needing to be picked up are checked again and moved to the proper section.

When the doors are unlocked, the objects to be worked with are no longer inanimate, but human. Somehow, planning goes out the window. Phone calls are answered, problems addressed, and merchandise is sold.

Still, I hadn’t counted on the Peter and the Wolf kids. Mom wondered if I would mind too very much giving them a demonstration of the musical instruments they had heard in the orchestral composition by Mr. Prokofiev.

She had a set of picture cards, but the children wanted to see the real instruments if they could, please. That is, if you don’t mind.

I didn’t mind. I’m a good guy who loves helping children.

The first card showed a bassoon. We dragged one out of the back room and assembled it, taking care to show the two tykes the double reed which gives the instrument its distinctive tone. The little girl was surprised to see that the strange instrument was much taller than she.

The next card showed an image of an oboe, so an oboe came out of its case and the smaller pieces were shoved together to make an instrument a little smaller than a clarinet. Again, the double reed made an appearance.

As each instrument came into view, the character in the musical story was named. The bassoon had been the low, naggy sound of a fussing grandfather, the oboe—Peter’s quacky duck.

One by one, we located the characters the children had met in the recording. The pretty silver flute was the little bird, and the clarinet, long, black, and sinister, was the cat that stalked the bird. The drums, such as we could find—I’m sorry ma’am; we don’t sell many timpani—were the hunters, come to help Peter in his time of need.

Of course, we had to find as many of the stringed instruments as we could, making do without a double bass viol. Peter was represented in the musical tale by the entire violin family, regardless of size.

But, we forgot one, didn’t we? Oh yes! The French horn. What shall we say about the horn?

I’m a horn player. It was a proud moment. Surely the children would be impressed.

I’ve played it nearly all my life.

The little girl, friendly and twinkly for most of the tour of instruments, stared at me, her mouth open and eyes wide. Disbelief was written all over her face.

You’re the wolf?

Why, yes. No!

Wait a minute! I’m not the wolf! I just play the instrument that represents him in the symphony. I’m not really the wolf.

The children are gone. That was hours ago.

I’m still a little shaken.

Am I the wolf?

Am I?

Thoughts swirl in my head. The horn is forgotten for the time being, but other things are not. Memories of acts committed, never to be undone, are mixed with the cacophony of voices that have filled my ears.

All have sinned—there is not one righteous person—whoever breaks one law is guilty of breaking all—those who live like this will not see God. (Romans 3:23, Ecclesiastes 7:20, James 2:10, Galatians 5:19-21)

There are times—perhaps only for a moment, but often for days—when the memories of what I have been and done haunt my waking hours. They even stretch my waking hours, leaving me restless in my bed, denying sleep.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always. Share on X

Do the voices not speak truthfully, then? Am I not a sinful man?

They do. I am.

I was the wolf. Was.

And, just like the wolf in Peter’s tale, I deserved death but found instead life.

While I was still doing damage to Him, grace was offered. To an enemy, He offered comfort and safety. (Romans 5:8)

Grace is stronger than the wolf.

I am not who I was.

I’ll play my horn again in the morning. I know I’ll smile as I remember my little friend, mouth agape and eyes opened wide.

No, my dear. I am not the wolf.

Not anymore.

Grace is stronger.

Such were some of you; but you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6:11 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid.
(Katharine Hepburn ~ American actress ~ 1907-2003)

Dreams Die

January 7, 2015January 27, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m still sad.

I got the note on New Years morning. The note said he had died just hours before.

I guess you could say New Years Day wasn’t that good of a day for me.

I would have just breezed past the three-quarters of an hour I had to stand on the roof in the cold, running a plumber’s snake through the waste water system of the house. The hours I spent counting merchandise in the music store, as awful a fate as that is, I could have overlooked.

But, my friend died.

Before I go too far here, I want to be clear; I hadn’t seen or communicated with him in over forty years.

It doesn’t seem to matter.

But I have to ask myself the question: Why does this news hurt more than others who have also passed? There have been many over the years. I have felt each one, but none like this one.

All morning on that day, as I called out prices to the Lovely Lady, sitting with her pencil poised to tabulate, my mind wandered.

Over dusty paths long since paved over, along drainage ditches filled in decades ago, I rambled again with my friend. Cold summer nights—colder than ever I had imagined closed up in my sweltering bedroom—we spent in the tent in his backyard. Pool games in the den, sneaking out from the back yard in the dead of the night to wander the neighborhood, milk and cereal at the dining room table the next morning—grinning at each other over the milk glasses when his Mom or Dad asked how we had slept.

All the scenes played through my head as I struggled to focus on the job with the Lovely Lady. After so many times of my voice cracking as I called out the price of one music book after another, I suggested we might as well go home as soon as we got to the end of the row.

She, wise companion that she is, agreed. We went home, she to visit with her sister and nieces, and I to sit by the fire and follow my memories all that cloudy, gloomy day.

He was a friend when I didn’t have any.

I’ll admit it; I was a strange kid. Skinny—no social skills—acne covered face. It was a horribly awkward time. Junior High School is like that. If you weren’t an athlete or a brainiac, life was hard. We were neither.

He was my friend when I desperately needed one.

Oh, we fought—wars of words, and even a time or two with fists. We always got over it and were ready to go sit at the ball game the next week and make trouble together.

Except that once.

I read over the words I’ve written and wonder if anyone else will want to read them. I wonder why I can’t say what I really want to say.

Maybe I’m afraid to admit that I’ve thought about my friend many times over the years. I wanted to see him again, but not just to visit with an old buddy.

It has been nearly forty-five years.

I always thought I’d get to apologize. I recall clearly the words I said to hurt him, words I have wanted to take back.

I always thought there would be another chance.

In my mind, as I have remembered him over the years, I always dreamed we’d get another chance to sit in Shakey’s Pizza, around the corner from his folk’s house, and drink a coke together and laugh about the stupid things we did and said. I’d tell him I was sorry, and he’d say he didn’t even remember the words I had said.

Sometimes, dreams die.

And suddenly, in a rush, it comes to me. The sadness I feel isn’t just for my friend’s passing. Not just for him.

Dreams don’t always come to fruition. We hold them close and tell no one about them. They are seldom written, but never forgotten. And then, the day comes when there is no chance they will be realized.

No chance.

This one hurts. I’ll admit it. It’s going to take some time to get over it.

Funny. I don’t think I want to get over it. Some lessons are too important to forget the pain involved in the learning.

This is one of those.

In relationships, sometimes tomorrow won’t come.

Say what you need to say today.

I still believe that I love you are the three most important words in the English language, but I’m absolutely positive there are two more which are very close runners-up:

I’m sorry.

Don’t know where the person is you need to say either of those two phrases to? Find them.

Do it today.

And, keep dreaming.

It’s how we fly. Or run. Or crawl along.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
(Matthew 5:4 ~ NASB)

Hold onto dreams
For when dreams die
Life is like a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
(Dreams ~ Langston Hughes ~ American poet ~ 1902-1967)

Hang on to your hat. Hang onto your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
(E.B. White ~ American author ~ 1899-1985)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

regrets

Regrets

Grace and the Wolf

Dreams Die