We Can’t All Walk on Water

June 1, 2018June 1, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I hoped the squelching sound of wet socks in my leather walking shoes wasn’t audible to Charlie as we found a table on which to set our cups.

I couldn’t believe I had been forced to ford a raging river of water in the alleyway outside the coffee shop. I was on a city sidewalk! I mean—who would have expected that?

But, as I seem to do frequently, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Let me see if I can do a better job of setting the scene for this uncomfortable event.

Ever have one of those days? I mean the good ones—the kind of day when nothing can go wrong. The sun is shining; there’s time for all the activities you have planned, and you have an appointment later with a good friend you haven’t seen for months.

What could possibly blemish such a shining day?

For most of the day, right up until just before the appointment with my young friend, nothing would have been the answer to that question. Nothing at all.

But then the sky, bright and sunny before, dimmed with clouds and the rain fell.

No. That’s not right.

The deluge descended. The skies opened up and the water poured out over us. The metal roof above us sounded as if it were a hailstorm, but it was nothing more than sheets of rain from above.

I had been awaiting a message from my friend to say he was headed to the coffee shop. And wouldn’t you know, in the midst of that deluge, his message arrived.

I laughed.

Oh, well. I wouldn’t melt. Grabbing an umbrella, I kissed the Lovely Lady and headed out to the car.

Looking out from under the edge of the little umbrella, I noticed the light. The sun was shining. Rain coming down in sheets, and the sun was shining! Well, at least that meant it would stop soon.

It meant something else, too.

From the front door, I heard her voice follow me out to the car.

“I bet there’ll be a rainbow.”

I wasn’t counting on it.

I want to be an optimist; really, I do. I want to think everything will work out for the best—all hunky-dory and A-Okay. I want to, but I can’t.

The day was headed downhill faster than a road bike down the Illinois River Hill. Neither is all that good a feeling.

Downtown, I couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere in the block the cafe is on. I circled the block, hoping someone would vacate one. No such luck. So I parked around the corner, more than a block away, with the heavy rain still coming straight down.

No. It wasn’t, was it? The wind had picked up a bit and the still-heavy rain was blowing from the west. I was protected on the east as I walked—no help at all.

And then, as if being cold and wet from the blowing rain weren’t enough, I reached the alleyway two doors down from the little shop where I was to meet my friend.

Only, it wasn’t. An alleyway, I mean.

It was a raging torrent of rainwater pouring down from the hill above town. The alley was the only unimpeded path the water could find into the valley, and it took advantage of the lack of impediment.

Six inches deep and eight feet wide, the current rushed, whitewater roiling on top, pebbles and debris tumbling underneath.

I can’t jump eight feet. I also don’t think that well when the wind is blowing rain sidewise against me.

I wanted a bridge. Failing that, I wanted to be able to walk on water.

Neither option was available.

I saw a large stone sticking out of the water, probably a piece of concrete washed out of a pothole further up the hill, and stepping onto it, assumed I could push off and jump the rest of the way over the current.

Did I say the day wasn’t going as I had hoped?

The stone rolled under my foot, submerging that shoe all the way to the bottom, ensuring I wouldn’t be jumping the rest of the way to the other side. I just plopped the other foot down and walked through the flood onto the sidewalk.

Squish, squelch. Squish, squelch.

My friend, when he arrived, was happy to inform me that there wasn’t a drop of rain falling half a mile away in the direction from which he had come. He also had found a parking spot right in front of the cafe.

I have since seen photos of the rainbow (you remember—predicted by the Lovely Lady), a double one to boot, that formed in the sunny/rainy sky to the east.

I didn’t see it.

I was busy looking at the rain soaking me. I was angry about the soggy walk through the current in the alley.

I’ve had time to dry out now. I have a few observations which hadn’t occurred to me before. Sometimes, it takes me awhile.

You see, I know I have a tendency to make more of things than I should. The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested it was a tempest in a teacup. Mr. Shakespeare might say it was much ado about nothing.

Neither would be wrong.

Still, I’m not alone in being overwhelmed by the storms which take me by surprise, am I? We all have things which are important to us and when we can’t achieve them in the manner we planned, we despair of reaching the goal.

Sometimes, our joy is stolen by the arrival of a letter that threatens to change our blueprint for the future completely.

Family members become ill and schedules are interrupted.

Friends drop out of our lives and we want them back.

The wrong politician won the election and we’re overwhelmed with apprehension for the future.

The list of potential sources of the rain falling on our parade is endless. We—all of us—fear the storm in varying degrees, and for very different reasons.

And, besides that, just when we’re learning to cope with the rain, we realize we have to go through the torrent.

Through it.

We can’t all walk on water, you know. As far as I know, only two men in history have done that. And, neither of them is named Jim Carrey.

And, bridges aren’t always conveniently located to trip across without getting our feet wet.

Why does God do that?

Why Peter but not me?

Why Moses and the Children of Israel but not us?

Funny thing.

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper. Share on X

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper.

Sometimes through is just as good as over.

Sometimes through is just as good as over. Share on X

We trust and we obey.

And, we get wet. But, we get where He wants us to go.

We will.

Because He promises we’ll not be overwhelmed by the flood. Or the fire. When we go through. (Isaiah 43:2)

Through. With Him.

The rainbow comes later. We may not see it at all. It doesn’t matter.

His strong arms hold us close. Still.

Even when we’re soaked. And, when we squelch with every step.

Storms won’t last forever. They won’t. (2 Corinthians 4:17,18)

Keep walking.

It might not hurt to wear your galoshes.

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.
(Helen Keller ~ Blind/deaf author ~ 1880-1968)

When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.
(Isaiah 43:2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Getting Wet

March 27, 2018March 27, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The storm threatens.

Not for the first time.

Earlier today, I heard the muttering of the thunder up in the clouds. Fifteen miles away, my brother (with whom I was texting) heard it and wondered if the rain was really on its way.

It was, but only a little. A nice Spring shower to wash off the daffodils and redbuds. Just a lick and a promise, as the red-headed lady who raised me would describe it.

The muttering is back. Ten hours have passed and, again, the thunder is threatening.

The promise is that the storm will break soon. For all the delay and lack of delivery up ’til now, the promise will be kept tonight. I’m sure of it.

Mr. Adams—that wise Englishman who wrote about the rabbits in Watership Down—suggests that folks who claim to love cold weather actually love feeling proof against it; they love that they have outsmarted winter. The reader may agree or disagree, but I believe it to be true about more than just the cold of winter.

We love listening to the breaking storm from the safety of our four walls, with a good roof overhead to keep the deluge from affecting us personally and intimately.

We love walking in the rain because the umbrella is spread above to keep us from the discomfort of its all-encompassing soaking. Or, if we happen to run uncovered, carefree and dripping for a time, we love the thought that at the end of our gambol, we will find a warm shower to wash off the residue of the event and, wrapping ourselves in a clean, fluffy towel or robe, will relax in the luxury of warmth and comfort inside our four walls with a watertight roof.

But, what if the walls we’ve constructed so carefully, and the shelter we’ve thrown up simply aren’t enough to keep the storm from breaking on our heads anymore?

The noise of the rain which has arrived outside my window reminds me that the thunder’s earlier muttering was no empty threat. I believe this is what the folks in my home state would call a Texas frog-strangler, the downpour is so heavy.

Sooner or later, the rumblings lead to a torrent.

They always do. Sooner or later.

Mostly, sooner.

Somehow, someone is going to get wet. Soaked through.

Do you suppose the followers of Jesus didn’t get wet? In the storm that overtook their boat and threatened to sink it, do you think they stayed dry? (Mark 4:37)

When Peter walked across the waves—even before he took his eyes off the Teacher—do you think he wasn’t drenched clear through? (Matthew 14:29-30)

Can’t you just see it? Impetuous Peter, anxious to show the Master (and his peers) he was up to the challenge, jumps out of the boat to meet Him in the waves.

Walking on the water! On. The. Water.

What a moment of triumph! But, only a moment.

The waves slapped at his ankles, then at his knees. Before he knew it, one soaked him from head to toe. This wasn’t anything like he had imagined. Robe hanging down, hair streaming into his face, water in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, it was horrendous!

Where was the protection he expected from the waves? Why was his Rabbi—his Teacher—allowing this misery?

Soaked, disappointed, and distressed beyond belief, he begins to worry about the next wave. And the next. We know the rest of the story.

Life is like that, isn’t it? We have expectations—plans. Then the walk turns out to be so much harder than we envisioned it at the beginning.

Our faith wanes. If God wanted us to get out of that boat, why didn’t He clean up the pathway to get to Him? Why would He let us be miserable when we’re doing what we’re supposed to do?

Sometimes, in the storms of life, it’s hard to see the pathway with the rain streaming down our faces. And sometimes, it’s not only the rain that’s streaming down our faces.

Sometimes, it's not only the rain that's streaming down our faces. Share on X

I sat in a restaurant with dear friends earlier this evening, minding my own business, and the storm broke. Old hurts, not with them but with others I love, came pouring to the surface.

I had heard the rumbling for a while before this. The downpour was sure to come sooner or later, so I have huddled under whatever shelter I could raise to keep from getting wet.

But, part of the walk is sharing it with companions. Our life of serving Him is not a mission for a hero, but a pilgrimage for a band of fellow travelers.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet.

Sometimes, the Man-Who-Walks-On-Water says everybody in the boat gets wet. Share on X

Together, we all get wet. As we walk each other home, we get drenched together.

And, it’s miserable. And magnificent.

And, then He says, “Peace. Be still.”

I’m going to keep walking. With the friends who’ll walk beside me.

You coming with?

Bring your towel.

It’s going to be a damp walk.

The men were amazed and asked, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!”
(Matthew 8:27 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And, I feel soaked to the skin.
(Leonard Cohen ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1934-2016)

Voices of the Oaks

March 6, 2018March 6, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Today is a day of rest.

Really. A weekday, but I’m resting.

Outside though, there is a whirl and a hurry, the wind bustling through in a tremendous rush to get somewhere—anywhere, it seems, but here. And, since I’m resting, I listen to the wind.

My friends in the backyard don’t want to listen. The black labs are terrified of the voices they hear in the air about them. For ten seconds, while I was out to care for their physical needs this morning, they came out to scramble for my attention. Ten seconds only, and then they dove for cover as the wind began to sound through the treetops again.

They’re not resting.

I am, though. The last weeks and days have been a whirlwind of busy-ness, caused by the illness and passing of a family member. Sadness and concern for her and those left behind have overwhelmed me. Our love for them demands the activity, but the body and soul are rebelling, making demands of their own.

And so, overwhelmed, I sit at my desk, listening to the voices of the wind outside my window. Almost, it seems to me, God’s creation sings a concert of glorious praise. The dogs would disagree, but what do they know?

The man-made attachments add their voices. I hear the neighbor’s ceiling fan on her porch, as it whirls—now wildly, now lazily—on its way. Whup, whup, whup, whup, whup. On and on, it provides a rhythm to the song.

The wind chimes crash crazily and then tinkle lazily, a tuned accent to the constant voices through the limbs of the trees. From the clang! clang! clang! to the almost indiscernible ting ting ting, their bell-like tones add depth to the various voices of creation.

The Rose of Sharon against the wall brushes noisily in rhythm, as its wire-thin stems almost whistle from the breath of the wind.

The apple tree, ancient though it may be, adds its airy voice. The bedraggled and crooked branches lend a whispering tone to the choir.

Over in the neighbor’s yard, the magnolia, evergreen that it is, claps its leaves in the gale, the great fronds clattering along as branches surrounding them wave and whirl about.

And the pines? They are the tenor voices, holding forth as only the self-assured tenors can. It is a wild chorus, held in check only by the waning of the wind at intervals, as if to keep their voices from overwhelming all the others.

But the oaks. . . Ah, the oaks—they are the basses, their voices booming along on the low pitches, a low, throbbing tone, giving a foundation to all of it.

I love the oaks in the neighborhood. Solid and strong, they are not afraid to sing out, standing firm, and yet, their heavy branches wave to the listening audience a little as they are buffeted.

I almost imagine a little vibrato in their song, as they shift about—only a little.

I understand the dogs. I too, am afraid of the wind at times—fearing all I possess will be blown away.

I remember the story of Job, thinking of all he lost, blown away seemingly in an instant. Everything and everyone. Gone.

Life is so fragile, so thin. We seem to hang, as a tiny spider, on a shredded web, waving in the tempest.

But, I have seen the strength of that web. The web of family and of friends. The web of faith in a God who holds both us and the storm in His hands.

The web of His mercy and His grace.

With the prophet, I affirm that it is because of His great mercy we are not blown away in the storm. We are sustained by His great and unfailing faithfulness. (Lamentations 3:22,23)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. Share on X

I am not saying a limb won’t tumble to the ground, nor even that a great oak might not someday be uprooted. There is pain and sorrow in the world.

There is.

But, the one who can silence the wind with a word from His mouth still offers peace in the midst of chaos.

Songs in the storm. Harmony in the turmoil.

Beautiful. Music.

It is a day of rest.

You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
    will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
    will clap their hands.
(Isaiah 55:12 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

When the wind blows through a wood, its mass is cut and closed by every leaf, forming a train of jittery vortices in the air.
(Alice Oswald ~ British poet)

Out There, He Walks

August 25, 2017August 25, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It’s not like I carry treats in my pocket. But, you never would have known it, the way the rotund black lab kept her head against my leg as I walked.

She always has done that—kept her head against my leg when she walks beside me. It’s just that she’s never done it while I was mowing the yard.

Every pass—every step of the way. Back and forth we went, the black dog and I, almost as if I had her on a leash.

She could have left any time she wanted. The only thing keeping her there was her fear. And her trust.

It’s funny I should mention fear and trust together like that, isn’t it?

Perhaps, we should go back a few steps, before the terrified—and trusting—canine began to stroll with me on my accustomed pattern through the grass.

The August rains have arrived within the last week or two. I love these times. The summer, mild as it has been, has taken its toll on the verdant vegetation here in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains.

The trees have begun to shed extraneous leaves. The grass, still mostly green, had grown a little crunchy underfoot. Another week or so of the summertime heat, and it would have been brown.

Brown is not a happy color.

But, the August rains have come. Unpredictable—even for the folks who make a living predicting them—they arrive, unannounced except for the occasional rumble of thunder across the hills.

Still, the property is for sale and it must look as presentable as possible at all times. When one is dodging rain storms and still needing to mow the grass, you tend to slip the task in between showers and pray for the rain to hold off a few more moments.

I had completed the front yard and, looking up at the darkening sky, determined that I would have just enough time to complete the task in the fenced back yard. The rolling thunder in the distance gave warning, but I was confident.

Most folks who have pets will understand the dilemma my best friends found themselves in. Thunder means it’s time to head for the fraidy-hole under the storage shed.

But. . . The man who feeds us! He’s in the backyard. We must be with him.

But. . . The big booming noise in the sky! Something is going to fall on us any minute now! We have to stay here!

The need to be with their master won out. Covered with dust, they emerged from their hiding place to greet me. I took a moment to play with them, but soon returned to the chore of knocking down the crabgrass and weeds threatening to turn my backyard into a habitat which might soon have to be protected by the EPA.

We’re sorry, Mr. Phillips. You’ll need to move. We’ve discovered a colony of red-and-green spotted toads in your grass. No. They can’t be relocated. You’ll have to go.

So I mowed. And, the chubby black lab, who is one of the most vocal dogs that’s ever owned me, stayed with me every step of the way, whimpering and whining all the while.

She is terrified of storms. Terrified.

But, she trusts me. She knows she is safe when I’m around. On that day, terror was all around, but she knew where safety lay.

She walked, nose glued to my thigh, every step I took. Every lap around the perimeter—every row I mowed down and back—she followed, snout to leg.

The big, brave alpha-male stood aloof, watching her actions. Clearly, he wasn’t going to lower himself to such a place, groveling at my side. But, when I stopped for a moment to reassure the timid girl, his bravado dissolved like sugar in water and he was by my side in a matter of seconds, looking for his dose of reassurance.

I laugh as I watch the memory in my mind unfold again. But then again, my heart sees, in the memory, a picture of myself and the smile is wiped from my face.

Why do we hide from the storms in our life? What makes us retreat to our safe places—our fraidy-holes—to get out of the wind’s grasp and the crashing fury of the world’s turmoil?

Why do we hide?

He’s not hiding from the storm.

He's not hiding from the storm. He never has. Share on X

He never has. Never.

In the storm, as steadfast as He has ever been, He works. Promises are fulfilled, His plans unaltered.

He walks in the storm. Still.

Not in spite of the storm. In it. On it.

I’ve been hiding. For a long time.

I don’t like the sound of that thunder.

Earlier this evening, as I practiced with the worship team at the church where we fellowship, I was already considering the words I would write tonight.

Preoccupied, I was surprised to see these words on the page before me as I sang:

Your sovereign hand will be my guide
Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me.

Out there, the storm is raging, absolutely raging. Out there, the lightning flashes and the thunder booms.

It is where He is. And, we get to walk beside him.

Leaning against Him. Fear overcome by trust.

Out there, He walks.

Why are we still hiding?

Your grace abounds in deepest waters
Your sovereign hand will be my guide
Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me
You’ve never failed and You won’t start now.

So I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise, my soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine.
(from Oceans (Where Feet May Fail) ~ Crocker, Houston, Ligthelm ~ © Capitol Music Group ~ All rights reserved.)

Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.
Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you.
I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.
(Isaiah 41:10 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Smooth Sailing

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

Battered and beaten.

It’s the only way to describe them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fair winds, and following seas.

Peaceful, isn’t it? It’s meant to be.

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

I want it now. Today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Terrified. Tired. Confused.

They rowed frantically, making no headway against the storm.

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

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

It means the same thing.

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

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

The harbor lies up ahead. Really.

The waves and wind still know His voice.

Rest.

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

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

He Rides Upon the Storm

October 20, 2016October 20, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A dark and stormy night, it was.

I had intended to ask Snoopy for help with my opening sentence, but he is nowhere to be found, probably hiding from the frightening flashes and booms himself. It was indeed, a dark and stormy night.

Was. A shockingly short, but powerfully reassuring, word.

Was. Past tense. Over. Done with.

Right now, there is not a creature to be seen anywhere. All of them took shelter from the noise and commotion. But, come morning, the skies will be alive with birds and flying insects. The air will fairly ring with the celebration of re-creation.

The dogs in my backyard, cowering now between the floor joists of the storage building (their sturdy house seems not to be substantial enough for their reassurance during a thunderstorm), will cover their owner with muddy paw and nose prints as they leap and cavort at his appearing.

For now, the rain falls, a steady cascade of water from the heavens.

A gentle rumble of thunder bullies its way across the sky above, bringing to mind the assault of powers from on high against these earth-bound edifices only moments past.

I sit in the quiet and give thanks for the calm, life-giving draught that enriches the earth below. Mankind has done it from time immemorial. Water gives life. When it is withheld, death will follow. How would we not be grateful?

But, as I sit, listening thankfully to the gentle and rhythmic thump of rain on the metal roof above me, I am uneasy. I have a sense of restlessness, as if I’ve forgotten something important.

Now, what was it?

Perhaps, I want to forget.

The thunder grumbles across the wide expanse above again and I remember. I might want to forget, but the question will not be silenced that easily.

If God is in the rain, that peaceful, life-giving source of fresh hope, where is He when the storms blow in?

As does all of nature, we cower from the raging lightning and wind-whipped raindrops. The explosions of thunder do no real harm, save to terrify and remind us of the potential for death and destruction that awaits right outside our hiding place.

Why don’t we give thanks for the storms?

Why don't we give thanks for the storms? Share on X

I don’t love storms. Once, I thought I did. I was younger then.

Now, I know their potential for destruction. I realize the repairs that will need to be effected after they have had their way. Insurance adjusters will be called; shingles will be tacked down; broken branches will be hauled away.

I can’t help it. I’m humming with the Fab Four as they declare whimsically, “I’m fixing the hole where the rain gets in, and stops my mind from wandering.”

When we are made aware of an issue, failure to address it only guarantees we’ll be able to accomplish nothing else until it is repaired. Water dripping into a bucket is a distraction that will not be ignored.

The realization is profound. Perhaps, you already see it.

The result of the storm is that we work to make things better. Stronger. More able to withstand the next storm. Regardless of the hardship in between, the storm leaves us better off.

Storms motivate us to become better than we were.

Gentle rains merely make us more comfortable.

Thankful, but comfortable with what we have grown accustomed to.

Somehow, better seems to be preferable to comfortable.

Better is preferable to comfortable. Share on X

The brother of our Savior, assured us that the result of these storms will not only be better. He claims the result will, in the end, be perfection. (James 1:2-3)

Perfection. We’re not there yet. Well, I’m not, anyway.

The storms keep pounding.

I’m trying to be grateful for them, too. In everything, be thankful. (1 Thessalonians 5:18)

God is in the storm.

Perfection is around the corner. Or, perhaps the one after that.

Oh. I’ll keep fixing the holes, too.

You know—my mind still needs to wander.

You lay out the rafters of your home in the rain clouds.
You make the clouds your chariot;
you ride upon the wings of the wind.
The winds are your messengers;
flames of fire are your servants.
(Psalm 104:3,4 ~ NLT)

At your rebuke the waters fled,
    at the sound of your thunder they took to flight;
they flowed over the mountains,
    they went down into the valleys,
    to the place you assigned for them.
(Psalm 104:7,8 ~ NIV)

There shall be showers of blessing,
Precious reviving again;
Over the hills and the valleys,
Sound of abundance of rain.

Showers of blessing,
Showers of blessing we need:
Mercy-drops round us are falling,
But for the showers we plead.
(Showers of Blessing ~ Daniel W Whittle ~ American evangelist ~ 1840-1901)

Haven

May 25, 2016May 25, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The other side of the storm.

I stepped out the back door a few moments ago and felt as if I had wandered into a different world. When I had come home a couple of hours before, the trees stood quietly, blissfully content that their only activity was the gentle casting of long shadows in the evening sunlight.

Not so on my later visit. The sun had tumbled from the sky, the abdication of its position giving leave to black clouds and high winds in their takeover of the landscape.

And take over, they had.

The formerly passive trees could only be described as boisterous, their limbs twisting and waving in the gale. The wind churned and reeled, first from one direction, and then from the other. I glanced at the lighted sign near the road waving dangerously back and forth, the wildly undulating shadows thrown by its powerful bulbs looking nothing like the shadows I had admired earlier under the trees.

I stood, frozen. Seriously. Frozen.

I had sensed nothing of the power of the storm front from my cozy seat in the house. I never intended to step into the middle of a tempest. Inside, the sound of the wind was minimal, its power unnoticeable.

Here, in the center of the maelstrom, I feared—however briefly—for my safety. My heart pounded. My skin crawled with the realization of how small and powerless I was, confronted by the strength of creation’s fury.

I said I was frozen. It was only for a moment, perhaps all of ten seconds.

Then, I remembered.

There was a door right behind me—not locked. I had only to turn the knob and step into safety.

In an instant, the sound of the wind was muted, the wonder at its fury a memory.

Hidden from the storm, the brick house seemed a fortress, a haven where I could relax.

The storm raged for a few moments more, having nothing but threats to make tonight.

The little tree frogs knew it even before the wind began to calm, their croaky little voices blending in a hymn to the Creator who brings both sunshine and storm, sustaining all of His creatures.

I didn’t sing. I’m still not singing.

I sit in my comfortable chair and all I can think about is the reality that more storms are on their way.

On the other side of the storm, my memory of safety and protection intact, I am already worrying about the next one, and the one after that. For, surely they will come again—and again—and yet again.

The other side of the storm is still a place where more storms will come.

The Teacher’s followers sat in that boat after He had calmed the storm on the lake and they knew, they just knew, more storms were yet to break upon their bow.

Death would soon take their Master. It would eventually take all of them, and in between His death and theirs, chaos would reign in the world.

And yet, they put their trust in Him.

Their Haven from the storms, they would rest in Him. They would trust Him while the storm yet raged, as well as when calm overtook them.

Oh, there were a few moments when panic seized their spirits. They ran and hid, but they knew where safety lay. Never did they stray far.

Still, I’m waiting for that next storm.

It’s calm here now. Outside.

Not so much, in my soul.

We live our lives on the other side of the storm. Few are those who can claim a life free of conflict and trouble. For most, the respite between the storms is temporary and brief.

I wonder. Am I looking at the wrong thing?

I think about the stubborn disciple, the one also called The Rock. We tend to ridicule him for his experience in walking on the water. We might even suggest that he should have stayed in the boat. (Matthew 14:22-33)

The rational men did just that. They stayed in the boat. They didn’t get their names recorded as doubters who took their eyes off their Master. Sensible men, they weren’t making any rash moves.

It didn’t make sense to get out of the boat. At least not from their perspective. I can almost see the others, grabbing at the impetuous one’s sleeves.

No, Peter! Stay here. It’s certain death out there! You’ll drown!

Oh, the silliness of our disbelief. We call safe places dangerous, and dangerous places safe.

In our disbelief, we call safe places dangerous, and dangerous places safe. Share on X

Safety lies in the arms of the Master. The Creator-of-all-that-is comes walking on His water and all other places except at His side teem with peril.

A little wooden boat on the sea—safe? What a joke!

Peter took his eyes off the Master and contemplated the storm. He saw the wind whipping the waves up around him and he realized how dangerous his world was at that instant.

If only he had recognized who held his world in the palm of His hand. Ah, but he did soon enough. Safety was his in the arms of his Master.

I say it again: I wonder if I’m looking at the wrong thing

Why does the fury of the tempest fill my sight when the One who rules all storms is right there, in plain view?

I hear the thunder in the distance and lightning is flashing in my window. The storm approaches again.

He doesn’t only rule the weather, my friends.

In the shadow of His protection, we may safely shelter through every storm of life.

The door is still unlocked.

Time for rest.

We’ll be on the other side of this storm soon enough.

Peace. Be still.

Perhaps, there may even be a song, a hymn of gratitude.

The frogs aren’t the only creatures that can sing.

But let all who take refuge in you rejoice;
let them sing joyful praises forever.
Spread your protection over them,
that all who love your name may be filled with joy.
(Psalm 5:11 ~ NLT)

Living is strife and torment, disappointment and love and sacrifice, golden sunsets and black storms. I said that some time ago, and today I do not think I would add one word.
(Sir Laurence Olivier ~ English actor ~ 1907-1989)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

storms