Outside the Camp

January 18, 2022January 18, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The black monsters in the backyard had been jumpy all morning. The city crews in their noisy trucks were way too close for comfort and the mean man inside the house had already called the two dogs down for their rowdy behavior a time or two.

This was different. The yelping and barking from the black labs had increased from a nervous bark or two to a cacophony.

I stuck my head out the door to shout at them, but saw it was only my neighbor and his sweet granddaughter walking along the border of my yard, so I just spoke to the dogs this time. They ignored me. They often do.

I walked out the front door to say hi to John and his little 4-year-old companion. She immediately let go of the doll stroller she was pushing to run toward me. Her arms were already outstretched in anticipation of the hug she would receive from Mr. Paul.

“I’m sorry, Sweetie. I can’t hug you today.”

She pulled up, her face crestfallen. With disappointment in her voice, she asked her one-word question.

“Why?”

It’s a question I’ve been asking repeatedly in the last few weeks. I think I’m not the only one.

Why?

Our holiday plans were interrupted by the disease. Houseguests did their best to avoid contact with me while canceling their own interactions with the folks they had anticipated visiting for months.

I sat, as is my custom, in the upholstered chair near the front window on one of those mornings. Wanting a different angle for my view across the yard, I scooted the chair back an inch or two.

Crack!

Suddenly, I was tipping toward the window, as the back leg gave way under the old chair. I caught myself on the windowsill and yelped in surprise. Before I could recover, the non-infected residents of the house rushed out from the room they were gathered in.

Struggling to my feet, I laughed, trying to cover up my embarrassment. One of the younger onlookers wasn’t so lackadaisical in her response. My accident with the chair was just one too many in a series of disappointments she wasn’t prepared for.

“Why is everything bad happening to us?” She asked the rhetorical question almost angrily.

There it was again.

Why?

I reassured her (from a distance) that it was only a chair, an inanimate object that could be replaced easily. But it was clear the chair wasn’t the issue. Not the most important one to her, anyway.

I didn’t (and don’t) have an answer to her question. I don’t think anyone does.

I do know this: Disappointment is a recurring facet of this life. How we respond to that disappointment is essential to who we are, and perhaps as important, to who we are becoming.

In trying times, we can choose to retreat inside ourselves, allowing unhappiness and doubt to wash over and paralyze us. Or we can stand firm, perhaps even pushing onward through our adversity.

In some ways, our current quagmire reminds me of a particular class of people in Bible times. From ancient days, folks with diseases assumed to be highly contagious were separated from society. Those with the visible skin condition they called leprosy had to live apart from family and friends.

They were forced to stay outside the encampment or town, separated from everyone they knew and loved. And when they had no option but to pass close to anyone healthy, they were required to call out a word of warning. Just one word.

Unclean.

I felt kind of like a leper when the sweet little girl headed toward me the other day.

Unclean.

But I remember Jesus touched lepers.

He touched them. Not because He had to but because He wanted to.

On one occasion when He came across such a person, the man had the audacity to suggest it himself.

“If you wanted to, you could.”

Jesus did want to. And He did touch him. The unclean one. Touched by the One who had never been anything but clean.

Imagine it!

No more isolation. No more shame.

Outcast no more.

We need touch. We need hugs. We need love.

I don’t know why the bad things happen. Perhaps, I never will.

And yet, it’s okay.

Because we have a Savior who’s not afraid to touch us where we live. In all our sickness and sin, and our ugly realities, He reaches down and embraces us.

And He holds us close.

I’m going to get hugs from the little girl again. Hopefully soon.

No longer outside the camp.

Clean is good.

Suddenly, a man with leprosy approached him and knelt before him. “Lord,” the man said, “if you are willing, you can heal me and make me clean.” Jesus reached out and touched him. “I am willing,” he said. “Be healed!” And instantly the leprosy disappeared.
(Matthew 8: 2-3, NLT)

God will meet you where you are in order to take you where He wants you to go.
(Tony Evans)

Breathing in the Shadows

January 31, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

The moon is blue. Super blue.

Yes, there are scientific reasons for the terminology. You may seek them out for yourself. For tonight, I am just happy to sit on a stump and watch the shadows.

I watched the moon for a while, beautiful thing that it is, but as it approached its zenith, my neck objected, so I bent down to relieve the tension. That’s when I noticed the shadows.

The world is awash in shadows. At midnight.

The old mulberry tree, its spindly limbs bereft of leaves, stretches bony fingers this way and that across the cold sleeping grass. There’s a ghost story waiting to be told there, were the world not so brilliant in the moon’s glare.

I glance at the two Labrador retrievers cavorting nearby, and can’t help noticing their shadows mirroring their every leap and crouch.

Shadows in the moonlight. Creator’s handwork.

Basking in the beauty of the late night, I smile. For a moment.

Then I feel it.

I knew I would. There is a high-pitched whistle as I breathe in. And out. I struggle a bit to hold down the cough that is inevitable.

Time to go in. I bid goodnight to the dogs, with a warning for them to behave themselves until morning, and I head indoors. Indoors, where it’s warm.

I bring my shadows with me. Shadows of resentment. Shadows of doubt.

Shadows of negativity.

Wait. That’s a bit redundant, isn’t it? A shadow is already a negative, of sorts. If the object is the real thing—the positive, the shadow must be its negative. The un-thing, one might say.

So, here I sit, my un-thing weighing on my chest, and I watch the two dogs still cavorting outside—two black shadows dancing with their black shadows.

Not a care in the world.

I watch them and I am envious. Nighttime is the worst when bronchitis hits. The asthmatic aspect makes it difficult to breathe; the cough that follows makes it nearly impossible to sleep.

In the darkened house I lie watching the shadows. Shadows on my soul because of the shadow creeping into my lungs.

Do you feel sorry for me yet? You shouldn’t. I have come to realize that some shadows are darker than others.

Just tonight I read the words of a new friend, one I’ll probably never meet in the flesh, who is in his sixth year of suffering with cancer. His lungs and other organs are full of tumors, some even visible through his skin. Four surgeries, multiple courses of chemo, and still the shadows persist.

He sits in his chair, receiving the infusion of chemicals which will bring waves of nausea and pain, along with rashes, and he prays for those sitting in chairs around him.

He prays. For them.

I breathe as deeply as I dare, trying to keep from coughing and waking the Lovely Lady, but my mind is already on another friend who has a constant shadow, as well. Her lungs are working at a fraction of their capacity, the only cure, a transplant.

She’s not a candidate for a transplant. And yet, her cheerful encouragement comes as an almost daily occurrence—to friends, to strangers—she points out the bright spots rather than the shadows.

If we walk in light (as He is in light), we walk in community with each other, and in fellowship of His saving grace. (1 John 1:7)

We walk this road with heroes. Heroes of faith who show us the light rather than point out the shadows.

When we are in light, there will invariably be a shadow. But, you knew that already, didn’t you?

When we walk in light, there is always a shadow. Always. Share on X

The shadow is strongest in the brightest light. Sunlight—moonlight—streetlight—you name it.

We can focus on the un-thing, the shadow, that comes from walking in His light, or we can keep our eyes on the things that are.

Life. Love. Heaven.

Things that are.

The Apostle (my namesake) was adamant when he spoke of it. The temporary things we are suffering here are nothing (un-things) compared to the glory we shall one day know. (Romans 8:18)

Some, like my bronchitis, are more temporary than any of them, likely to disappear within days. Others may last a lifetime. Or, they may claim that life even. It’s still true.

The shadow is not the real thing. It never will be the real thing.

The shadow is not the real thing. Share on X

Breathe easy. The day will come when the shadows will flee forever, the light in our eternal home, our God, Himself.

No more tears.

No more shadows.

Only Light.

Breathe deep.

Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe
And to love you.
All I need is the air that I breathe.
(from The Air That I Breathe ~ Albert Hammond)

Even though I walk
    through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
    for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.
(Psalm 23:4 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Whisper

June 10, 2015June 10, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve been ill again. I don’t say that to evoke your sympathy. It’s not a life-threatening illness. At least, I don’t think it is. Asthmatic bronchitis is not uncommon and there are any number of effective treatments for it.

Feeling better today, I told the Lovely Lady I think I’ll live. Immediately, I remembered what the ultimate end of all mankind will be, and I added the phrase at least, until I die.

She was not amused. Of course, she needs me well, so she can get back to her regular work schedule of only sixty hours a week. I have left her in the lurch. She’s not amused–I’m not happy.

I’m going to admit something I may regret later. While I understand that my illness is quite treatable and am even now waiting for medication to effect its curative function, I confess that I get a little discouraged (and maybe a little angry) while I’m waiting.

In the dark and by myself, I feel helpless. You see, I’ve prayed that I’ll be free from this particular thorn in the flesh on numerous occasions over the years, but still it knocks me down periodically.

I wonder why God doesn’t hear me.

Where are you God?

I would have shouted the words, had I the breath to do so today, but satisfied myself with whimpering them plaintively toward the ceiling in the den.

There was no answer.

He’s not here, is He?

I asked myself the question and then shuddered at the implications.

Pushing up from my recliner, I went up the steps to the dining room. The result was the same there. Nothing. Living Room–Kitchen? Still nothing.

It’s a beautiful home, even if it is small. Surely, God would want to live in such an attractive abode. But, I’m pretty sure I never heard Him answer from the walls of any of those rooms.

I went back to my chair and flopped down, gasping a little.

Disappointed, I sat for a moment. Only a moment. It seemed to be just a little brighter in the room as I considered the glimmer of truth which was gradually coming to my consciousness.

Not too many years ago I went to an event, described as a house blessing, for some close friends. Their denomination allows for such things, reading scripture, then blessing each room in turn, before calling for God’s presence in the home. I expected to feel different when I left. I didn’t.

I remember thinking that’s not how it works.

I also remember some friends on the other end of the spectrum of faith who had someone come in and do a service to cast out the evil spirits from their home. The assumption was, again, that God would come and fill that space, recently vacated by the bad things.

I wasn’t there. I’m not going to get into an argument about exorcism, nor even about blessing houses.

I just know what is truth. Straight from Him.

Truth.

God doesn’t live in buildings. Why would he want to inhabit dead, inanimate things made of brick, and wood, and steel?

Ah. Now you know what that glimmer bursting into flame earlier was, don’t you?

God lives in His people. Weak–strong. Old–young. Women–men.

Inside this weak, sick man, gasping for breath on a warm, summer day, the Creator has taken up His abode.

Inside the old man down the street from me, overtaken by blindness, God sees clearly exactly what he needs.

In the soul of my friend, awaiting word from her oncologist giving her the bad/good news about the result of her latest PET scan, He is not surprised nor panicked. He sees all paths and knows all ends.

And, He lives inside of us.

Do you think He doesn’t feel the despair?

Do you assume He doesn’t understand my anger?

Do you suppose He doesn’t hear the frightened petitions?

Would you imagine He is unmoved by our cries?

He lives in us!

So. I’m done yelling at the ceiling.

Now, I begin to understand that song we used to sing when we were children. Maybe it’s time to whisper our prayers to Him again.

Just a whisper.

Inside voice will work just fine.

Give me yourself and in exchange I will give you Myself. My will, shall become your will. My heart, shall become your heart.
(from Mere Christianity ~ C.S. Lewis ~ Irish born teacher/author ~ 1898-1963)

Whisper a prayer in the morning.
Whisper a prayer at noon.
Whisper a prayer in the evening,
To keep your heart in tune.
(Anonymous)

Yet the Most High does not dwell in houses made by hands…
(Acts 7:48a ~ ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

sickness

Outside the Camp

Breathing in the Shadows

Whisper