Breathing is Good

May 23, 2018May 23, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’ve been reading a lot recently. Sitting in the comfortable old upholstered chair by the front window, I’ve leaned back, lost in the wonder and peril, and the hours have flown before I knew it.

I realized something the other night while reading, though. I’ve talked about it with the Lovely Lady and she’s not sure she agrees, but since she doesn’t disagree, I could be right.

I could be. Perhaps.

The world outside my window is a living, breathing organism. And somehow, we can choke it to death or lend it our breath.

Stick with me now.

What happened is this: Often, I don’t listen well when reading (just ask her about that), but I gradually became aware of the sound. As first, I thought someone in the next room was breathing rather loudly, but as I stopped to listen, it became clear. The world outside was actually breathing! It sounded like an asthmatic old man, but it was breathing.

Heee. Hooo.

Well, I said it became clear, but it wasn’t long before I realized the sound I was hearing was actually the tree frogs in the trees around our house. A chorus would start nearby—Heee—and the chorus up the road a bit would answer, the distance separating them making it seem as if there was a different pitch—Hooo.

Inhale, exhale.

The world is breathing.

I still think I could be right. Stick with me a little longer.

The Apostle told the amateur philosophers in Athens that everything in the earth had life and breath because of our Creator. (Acts 17:25)

To this day, we continue to live and move—and exist at all—because He sustains us. (Acts 17:28)

But I suppose it’s not the tree frogs that are evidence of the inhale and exhale of the world that lives around us. Not really.

Still, I contend that we have the power to choke or to replenish the breath of life to the world given us by our Creator.

I don’t just mean nature, either. Many have written and spoken about our responsibilities there and I don’t disagree. But, I have a more human aspect in mind.

On the Sunday afternoon just past, I heard the breathing again. I’m sure I did.

An invitation had come a week or so ago, suggesting that we might like to celebrate the ninetieth birthday of a friend with him and his family.

We thought we would, and so it was that we found ourselves in the social hall of a retirement village in a neighboring town. We had waited until the early arrivals cleared out a bit, so there wasn’t such a crush around our old friend.

I sat beside him and the memories came back with a rush. Forty years—give or take a couple of years—it has been that I’ve known him (much longer for the Lovely Lady, who grew up with his children).

All those years ago, he taught me how to breathe. Well, not really, but it seems so now.

In my teen years, I had developed a kind of stage fright that guaranteed I would never stand in front of a crowd and do anything by myself. Every time I attempted it, I could feel the heat rise from my neck, up into my face, as I turned a bright crimson red and became unable to continue. It had happened too many times. I would never—never— attempt it again.

He was patient. A little.

Planting the seed and encouraging me for a few weeks, he convinced me that all it would take to lead the singing in our little church was for me to stand there and sing along with the people. The only talking I needed to do was to call out a hymn number.

I was terrified and refused. Again and again.

He wouldn’t give up on me. Again and again, he asked. Just one more time than I refused, he asked.

I didn’t turn red. I didn’t freeze up. The people sang. I sang. I couldn’t believe it.

Since that time, I’ve been able to lead music many times. I’ve even preached numerous times.

Not once has the old fear returned. Not once.

Someone breathed encouragement into my lack of confidence, courage into my fear. He taught me how to breathe on my own.

I sat, last Sunday afternoon, remembering his kindness and was lost in the past for a moment or two before realizing that he was talking again.

I’ve written numerous times about the house the Lovely Lady and I moved into last year, the house in which she grew up. Her uncle built the structure, back in the nineteen-forties, and her family—first another aunt and uncle, then her mother and father—has lived here since.

I didn’t know that my old friend had helped to build the house, too.

“Oh yes, I helped to work on the foundation of that house. I remember taking the wire from the forms around the cement.”

I had no idea.

He laid the foundation to the house in which I live today.

I know now.

Need I go on? Would it be possible to miss a truth so obvious?

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying the foundation for a living breathing body which, in the next generation—or in the one after that, or the ten after that—will breathe its life into the world around it.

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying a foundation for a living breathing body which will breathe its life into the world around it. Share on X

What if we refuse?

Selfish, rude, ignorant kids! What a waste of space!

I was all of that and more. And still, they breathed into my life.

What if they hadn’t?

What if we won’t?

Outside, the frog chorus has begun again.

Inhale. Exhale.

Breathe.

It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise to You only

And all the earth will shout Your praise
Our hearts will cry, these bones will sing
Great are You, Lord
(from Great Are You, Lord ~ Leonard/Ingram/Jordan ~ © Essential Music Publishing, Capitol Christian Music Group)

Then he said to me, “Speak a prophetic message to the winds, son of man. Speak a prophetic message and say, ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Come, O breath, from the four winds! Breathe into these dead bodies so they may live again.'”
(Ezekiel 37:9 ~ NLT ~ New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

Finding the Vegetable Trees

April 25, 2018April 26, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Just head down there. The vegetable trees are all over that way.”

The Lovely Lady and I were on a mission to find a sapling or two to plant in the yard today, so we stopped by the local garden center. We thought we might find a couple of shade trees, but we especially wanted an apple tree to replace the ancient one which is not going to last much longer.

We weren’t really expecting to buy a vegetable tree.

Wandering through the sales area, we had passed a young lady sitting at a desk in the corner, but we knew the saplings were out back, so we continued outside.

The salesman met us on the sidewalk. All of three or four years old, he carried a thin metal rod about three feet long in his right hand which he swung this way and that as he talked.

“How can I help you?”

The Lovely Lady and I looked at each other, smiling, and then turning back his way, she told him we wanted to look at an apple tree. His response about the location of the vegetable trees made our day.

We headed in the general direction he had pointed with the rod. He followed closely, talking the whole time. We didn’t quite understand all he said, but we knew we’d find trees up that way.

“Well, like I said, this is where all the vegetable trees are. You folks look all you want. Bring anything you pick out back inside.”

He started away but abruptly turned back.

“Oh, here.” The boy handed me the dandelion stalk he had just pulled. “It’s a flower. If you blow on it, the white stuff goes all over the place. I guess some people call it a weed, really.”

He turned again to leave as a man walked up, wondering aloud if we needed help. Smiling broadly, I told the boy’s dad we had already been helped and wanted to wander around the vegetable trees for awhile and look around. Dad grimaced at the phrase and then grinned, taking us to the trees we needed to look at.

What a delightful experience!

What an extraordinary young man!

Okay. He needs to work on the details a little bit. But, he understood we needed help. He looked around and didn’t see anyone except himself to do the job. So, he did the job.

It was almost as if he understood what the letter-writing Apostle had said a couple thousand years ago: Don’t only do things for yourselves, but help others, as well. (Philippians 2:4)

In my mind, I hear the voice of God asking a barefooted Moses, “What’s that you’re holding in your hand, son?” (Exodus 4:2)

The boy showed us the way with the equipment he had been given.

If only we could all do as well.

If only.

There’s not time to be certain we know all the right answers. We never will.

There's not time to be certain we know all the right answers. We never will. Share on X

There’s not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We’ll stumble over the words. Every time.

There's not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We'll stumble over the words. Every time. Share on X

When He said to be ready to give an answer, He didn’t mean to wait until we were comfortable and skilled. (1 Peter 3:15)

And sometimes, when we don’t know what else to say, we might just hand them a flower and help to spread His love and beauty.

After all, our primary purpose in being here is to give glory to our Creator. (Isaiah 43:7)

The whole earth is filled—absolutely jam-packed—with His glory.

I think I might hand out a dandelion or two, as we walk through it together.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll find that vegetable tree along the road.

You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.
(Franklin P Jones ~ American humorist)

Praise his glorious name forever!
Let the whole earth be filled with his glory.
Amen and amen!
(Psalm 72:19 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Borrowing Words

August 30, 2017August 30, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I thought it was a book only nerds would ever use. I’m not certain I have ever bought a copy of my own to this day.

Lamar Junior High School. That’s where I first saw a copy of this mysterious book. Usually, it was a small paperback, stacked on top of whatever miscellaneous textbooks the brainiacs were carrying, clamped tightly under the arm and against the body as they scooted down the drafty hallways.

I wasn’t a brainiac.

Roget’s Thesaurus.

Oh. A foreign language book. I was already enrolled in a Spanish class and had no interest in taking up an additional language.

Except it wasn’t. A foreign language book. Still, it would take an awfully long time for me to care about what it really was.

And then, it would be years before I felt the need to consult such a volume. Years before I actually understood the importance of what lay in the pages of the little publication.

It was all I could do to learn the English language. Why would I need a book which gave me alternatives to perfectly good words?

My native language was quite difficult enough, thank you. But then I think back. I did learn another language. Many of my friends were fluent in it long before I began to pick it up.

It wasn’t spoken in my home. How would I have come by it naturally?

I call the language crudish. Today, I do. Back then, I called it cool. I do also seem to remember a friend who called it cursive, a term that some might think cute, but mostly, it’s just sad.

I know many who practice the language today. Its usage is on the rise, even among the very young. When I operated a music store, we would frequently have folks come in who spoke little else. It’s popular nowadays on the street and in the department stores.

Some languages give you an air of mystery; some are romantic. Some can make us sound more intelligent than we are; others seem almost comedic.

Crudish is one of those languages which seems to deduct points from the speaker’s intelligence quotient right in front of our eyes. Or ears—whichever.

Regardless, during the years when I spoke that demeaning language, I found one very curious thing.

There were no words in that vocabulary with which I could describe my faith—my Savior—my God.

No words.

Some things are simply too high, too precious, for gutter language to even make a start in describing them.

Growing in my faith, the realization took root that crudish would never be a language I could use on my journey to becoming the man God needed me to be.

There are scriptures which could be quoted in support of my assumption. Somehow though, we know without being told that some language is inappropriate to use as we come before the King of all that is.

I know many who are followers of Christ, as I am, yet still retain much of that language. They respond differently when the words slip into conversation, from embarrassment to defiance. I have no judgment to offer, simply my perspective.

I want to communicate clearly to the world around me. I want there to be no uncertainty about what drives me and Who I follow.

That crude language has no words to explain those things. None.

But, there is more. Again and again, I find the words I have in my limited vocabulary to be inadequate to the task, as well.

So, I use a thesaurus. Really, I do. Nearly every day.

I constantly seek new ways to express ancient truths.

If all of life is not a chasing after God, attempting to know Him better, we’ve squandered the days.

If each day is not spent in learning how to give a clear reason to those not yet in the chase, we’ve wasted the hours and minutes. (1 Peter 3:15)

There’s a quotation attributed (erroneously) to Francis of Assisi that tells us to preach the Gospel and if necessary, to use words. It’s not a bad thing to make the point that we should live out our faith. Not a bad thing at all.

However, words are how we communicate truth. King David, a man never at loss for innovative ways to communicate the truth of God’s love and power—and glory—was clear in his prayer: I want the words coming out of my mouth, and even the feelings in my heart to be acceptable to You, God. (Psalm 19:14)

It’s not enough to feel it; the words must be said.

It's not enough to feel it; the words must be said. Share on X

Yes, I use that nerd book. Well, it’s not actually Mr. Roget’s thesaurus I use. There are tools at our disposal today that junior high school kid I used to be never could have dreamed of. But, just because I never dreamed of them back then doesn’t mean I can’t avail myself of them now.

I want to use whatever language communicates in no uncertain terms the hope, the anticipation, the joy that lie ahead. Like young Timothy, I want to study, so I can gain my Creator’s approval.

In the process, I can’t help but become more like him. The process is slow, painfully so, but certain.

Daily, He shows us in new and varied ways His love for us.

How could we do any less, as we reflect His light to a world desperate for its brilliance?

What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine forever, and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to Thee.
(from O Sacred Head, Now Wounded ~ Bernard of Clairvaux ~ French monk/theologian ~ 1090-1153)

Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.
(2 Timothy 2:15 ~ KJV)

The Storyteller

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

So I says to him—I says—that’ll never go through this door.

My grandfather died the year I graduated from high school, but still, I hear his voice, telling another of his stories. Always—always, they were punctuated with spaces.

They were spaces in which he caught his breath.

When he walked from the front porch to the kitchen, he always stopped at the desk behind his easy chair. Every time. Leaning with his big hands on the edge of the desktop, he breathed deep, his powerful chest muscles expelling the bad air and drawing in good.

I felt the tell-tale tightening in my chest earlier today, a sign that my own bronchial issues may soon overtake me again. I couldn’t help but think of the old man.

Experience tells me that, even should I succumb to the malady completely, I will breathe freely again very soon. But, these moments remind me of folks who’ve gone before—people I have loved and who have loved me.

They remind me of other things, as well.

My grandfather, he of the interrupted sentences, was a storyteller. He loved a good story. More than that, he loved being surrounded by people who listened to the stories he told. The gaps for breathing, at first an annoyance to both the teller and the listener, soon became room for thought and reason for suspense.

A good storyteller uses the tools with which he is provided.

Grandpa was a good storyteller. Health impediment or not, he was going to tell his stories.

I’m a storyteller too. You might say, it’s in my blood. Kind of like the lung issues. From my grandfather to my son, the males in my family have experienced similar problems of varying degrees. Without a say in the inheritance, we have each passed down the frailty to the succeeding generation.

May I talk about the storytelling and passing things down for a moment? I promise to be nearly succinct. The reader will have to be the judge of whether the time is well spent.

Did you know our Creator commanded us to be storytellers? And, He expected us to pass the love of telling stories down through the generations? His instructions—oddly enough, passed through another storyteller—were clear.

Parents tell your children. Tell them in your home, as you’re hiking on a trail, and when you’re in the shopping centers. Through all the ages, tell them. Give them reason to believe and to trust in a God who provides and protects. (Deuteronomy 11:18-20)

The testimony of previous generations is a bridge over which we cross the raging floods of cultural deception and shifting doctrine. If we fail to provide those bridges for our children, our progeny will be washed away in the roiling currents and howling rapids.

Tell the stories! Use words that are accurate and attractive. Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm. Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone.

Tell the stories!

The Lovely Lady—my favorite walking companion—and I wandered along an abandoned roadbed just a few days hence. We had a goal in mind, a century-old bridge, now abandoned, but still standing. It has not carried traffic for a number of years.

A monument to the past, the framework stands. There is even a roadway across, but a few steps onto it and one soon realizes that it will never support the weight of a vehicle again.

A monument—nothing more.

Bridges are meant to be more than monuments. Properly maintained and kept, they smoothly move traffic from the place left behind to the destination. Abandoned, they serve no purpose, but rust and rot into the landscape, forcing the traveler to choose a different route or be carried away in the flood.

I will build bridges.

With my last breath, I will tell the stories.

With my last breath, I will tell the stories. Share on X

As my lovely companion and I wandered, almost sadly, away from the beautiful old span, I realized that my faulty lungs might make the half-mile trek back to the road difficult and wondered about the wisdom of making the trip.

I needn’t have worried. Companions are made to help each other on the road.

We don’t walk the road alone—don’t build the bridges alone—don’t cross them alone.

Surrounded by a great cloud of storytellers, we press on.

To our last breath.

Tell the Story.

Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we’d better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit!
(Hebrews 12:1,2 ~ The Message)

For in Calormen, story-telling (whether the stories are true or made up) is a thing you’re taught, just as English boys and girls are taught essay-writing. The difference is that people want to hear the stories, whereas I never heard of anyone who wanted to read the essays.
(from A Horse and His Boy ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

Away From the Light

July 25, 2016July 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The choral professor sat on the stool in the music store, one afternoon decades ago, choosing his words with care.

“I teach on a campus filled with light. Where is the darkness into which I’m to shine?”

I didn’t know the answer. I did know one thing:

I didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

I like the light. It’s where I’m most comfortable. I can rest easy; cares and worries don’t touch me there.

Dark is dismal. It’s frightening. There are unknown creatures in the dark—terrors I can feel, but cannot see.

And yet, the dark is where we’re called to minister.

The music professor didn’t stop with asking the question. I was sure he wouldn’t.

He packed up his family and found a dark place in which to shine his light many miles away from the comfort and clarity of his former life. Instead of the city of light at which he had served, he was forced to shine his lonely light on the pathway in a place where almost no one carried any light at all.

It has been many years since the conversation. The professor has long since passed over into that place where light is ever shining.

Can you imagine how brightly his light shined in that dark place? Think how dramatic the distinction must have been! A match lit in pitch-black darkness can seem almost blinding.

His words still haunt my thoughts.

No great quest is ever played out in the light of day. Darkness—that’s where fierce battles are waged.

The blackest holes imaginable are the delivery rooms for the most brilliant of all victories.

And yet, we don’t begin our journey from those black pits. No. From homes blazing in light and meeting places shining with the brilliance of the sun at its apex, we must set out.

With conscious forethought we turn our backs on the light places and stride into the darkness, carrying only the light we’ve been given.

It’s a frightening journey—no part more terrifying than the first step we take.

And yet, the path through the darkness is of utmost importance.

Our destination has never been on this side of the darkness, but always on the other. We are bound for a better place, but there is ground to be covered before we arrive there.

The inhabitants of this dark world will never know the meaning of God’s light if not for us in their presence. Those who stumble through the darkness will never see light if we never walk beside them.

We are the lamps set on the lamp stand, not under the basket. (Matthew 5:15)

We are the stars that shine in the universe. (Philippians 2:15)

We know that darkness and evil are the hallmarks of existence in a fallen world. Yet somehow, our spirits quell at the prospect of leaving these places of light our Creator has privileged us to experience.

In a sense, you might say light is dangerous. We humans are gluttons, never satisfied with what we need, but demanding what we want.

We would stay in the light, soaking it all up ourselves for a lifetime, if we could. Indeed, some of us never set foot outside our fortresses of illumination.

The day will come—it will—when all is light. Until that day, we shine as His lights in the blackness of an ever-darkening world.

If we don’t, who will?

Backs to the light, we carry the light into a world that cries out without any clue of what it needs. In desperation—and darkness—they seek first one way, then another, for that which we hold in our hands.

It’s not our light. There is enough of it to illuminate the pathway ahead, but it shines to draw those around us.

To Him. The light draws them to Him.

A borrowed light. And yet, it shines through us.

We, who have been brought into the light of day, are sent back into the darkest, deepest night.

Dare the quest!

Take the leap!

By far, more is lost in basking comfortably in the sanctuary of light and warmth than by venturing forth into the dark unknown.

The world around us is getting darker. We can see it happening.

The light will be the brighter for it.

It’s time to turn our backs to the light.

It’s time for us to journey toward the light.

And, yet for all the leaving from and journeying toward, we walk in the light.

Still.

…if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.
(1 John 1:7 ~ NASB)

Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would have never come, had I known the danger of light and joy.
(The Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist ~ 1892-1973)

So carry your candle, run to the darkness
Seek out the helpless, confused and torn
Hold out your candle for all to see it
Take your candle, and go light your world.
Take your candle, and go light your world.
(Go Light Your World ~ Chris Rice ~ American singer/songwriter)

All You Can Eat

June 2, 2016June 3, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

What a shame! Would you look at all we’ve got left?

My daughter had just finished slathering the whipped cream onto the tres leches cake which was for dessert.

A glance into the glass container she held showed that indeed there was almost half as much whipped cream remaining as she had spread on top of the decadent cake, already saturated with heavy cream, sweetened condensed milk, and whole milk. She couldn’t have put any more atop the cake without even my sugar-craving brain thinking it was overkill.

It was Sunday afternoon, the time when we get the family together for a time of sacred learning. Okay, so we eat a little too, but we teach each other and we glean information from the freshly plowed fields of a full week.

It is still one of the most blessed times in each week—at least to this old man’s mind anyway.

We learn in the noisiest study hall you’ve ever set foot in, the walls ringing with shouts and laughter, music and conversation. Today, the stereo in the next room was pouring forth classical music–stuffy by most standards, but heavenly by others (the ones that count).

On any given Sunday, the conversation at the table ranges from mundane discussion of the week past, to instructions for operating a smart phone. We tell jokes, funny or otherwise (the preponderance of them falling into the latter category) and we trade stories of our experiences which not only entertain, but instruct.

Common subjects, such as how to communicate with our spouse, or the secrets to living in accord with our fellow man, are the simple fare for our souls, alongside astounding food for our palates.

On this Sunday, however, the learning began long before we sat down to the table. Come to think of it, that is true on many days.

The children are beginning to help in the kitchen, cramming that small space in eager anticipation of helping Grandma finish the salad, or even to make the coffee with Grandpa. It’s a wonder we don’t end up in the emergency room every other week, but somehow we usually manage to escape relatively unscathed.

What’s that?

Oh. You want me to talk about what we learned. Well, as I said, there was too much whipping cream.

I just showed the kids how to run it down the garbage disposal.

Oh, yeah. I guess that’s not really likely, is it?

What I actually did was to invite the kids to share in the bounty of too-much-cream.

There was one rule.

Each child only got one spoonful.

Well, what else was I to do? There were adults who might want a taste, and not many grownups I know want to finish a communal bowl of gooey stuff after children have stuck spoons, which have just made the journey to and from their mouths, into it again and again.

One spoonful.

I opened the silverware drawer, which was directly under the bowl containing the delectable treat, and told them each to take a spoon. Reiterating that they could only have one spoonful (No double dipping, you hear?), I stood aside and awaited their response.

Not one of them complained about the one spoonful rule, but they each reached into the drawer, one at a time, and took out a spoon.

I chuckled as I watched the next to the oldest select his. The Lovely Lady laughed outright when she saw it. Each child dipped his or her spoon into the bowl and came up with a heaping pile of pale sugary enjoyment.

One of them enjoyed his longer than any of the others.

Three of the children licked their spoons with smiles on their faces, but the next to the oldest still had cream on his as they placed theirs on the counter top and went off to do other things.

Was he just a slow eater? Maybe he just licked it a little at a time.

No. This young man looked into the drawer that his grandfather had opened while telling him to take a spoon and get just one spoonful, and he had realized that there was more than one size of spoon in that drawer. Grandpa didn’t say what kind of spoon to take, so he selected the largest one in the drawer.

The other three took regular size spoons, while he selected a serving spoon.

His reward was to acquire significantly more of the coveted whipped cream than any of his siblings.

I can hear the naysayers, even as I write the words:

That wasn’t fair at all! Surely, you didn’t allow this travesty to go on! You made him get a smaller spoon, didn’t you?

No. I didn’t.

For one thing, none of the other children seemed to care. But secondly, and more importantly, this young man had followed my instructions to the letter.

How was I to punish him for doing what was completely within the parameters I had given him?

The Lovely Lady and I were still chuckling about it as we cleared up and rinsed the dishes after the meal. There had been other instructive things that day, as there always are, but this event stuck in our heads more than any of them.

Sometimes the instruction doesn’t come through any verbal exchange, but through actions instead.

But. . .

Still, I hear the fairness advocates muttering under their breath.

You know who you are.

I have been among your number. I suppose, if it comes to that, I still am.

He got more than they did! That’s not right!

I consider the sense of fair play, and I hear the words of Martha, the sister of Lazarus, as she makes her case to the Teacher:

It’s not right! I’m slaving away in here and she sits and listens to you talk! Make her help me!

The Teacher reminds Martha that she has the ability to make exactly the same choice that Mary did.

Martha determined her path, prioritizing her choices, just as her sister had done. (Luke 10:38-42)

I’m not sure how much further to wander up this trail.

Surely, before I get to the end, I’m going to step on some toes—or perhaps, more toes than I already have. The toes I step on are just as likely to be my own as they are to be yours.

Perhaps, I should simply close with a reminder that the silverware drawer is standing open in front of each of us. Every single one of us has the opportunity to select the utensil we are to use for the task before us.

If you only want a little bit, pick up the small spoon. You may be satisfied.

May be.

It’s going to take a little longer, but the enormous spoon will yield much more in the end.

How much more fair can it get?

I still like how that six-year-old boy thinks! Now, if I can just be as wise.

Go on! Pick up the big spoon and take a bite.

It’s good, isn’t it?

How sweet your words taste to me;
they are sweeter than honey.
(Psalm 119:103 ~ NLT)

When making your choice in life, do not forget to live.
(Samuel Johnson ~ English author/lexicographer ~ 1709-1784)

Pay attention now! I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. So be as cunning as serpents and as innocent as doves.
(Matthew 10:16 ~ ISV)

Spinning Jenny

April 7, 2016April 7, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I actually felt bad as I accelerated away from the stop sign. It was only a momentary thing.

I had noticed a number of the distinctive seed pods from the maple tree on the windshield of my truck as I left home, but didn’t take the time to brush them off. The cause of my short-lived remorse was simply the thought of removing the seeds so far from their parent tree, a gorgeous scarlet maple that stands in my backyard, not twenty feet from where I write tonight.

It was a foolish thing, but I can’t help it. I seem to have foolish tendencies sometimes. It may run in my family.

Then again, it may run in the entire human race.

I smiled as I shoved down on the accelerator, imagining how it appeared from behind the truck. The helicoptering seed pods were caught by the wind and brushed up and over the cab of the truck, to spin in the blustery gale.

I planted maple trees all the way to my destination.

I have been fascinated with the fantastic little helicopters all of my adult life.

To me, the magic of Spring is encapsulated in those wonderful winged vehicles. Oh yes—they are indeed vehicles of mass transportation, moving hundreds of thousands of seeds from the parent tree to a resting place on the ground.

Some of them fall immediately under the tree, where they will languish, perhaps springing up temporarily, but perishing for lack of sunlight and virgin earth in which to sink their roots.

Others will be shanghaied, as were those I planted during my morning outing in the truck, and will be carried to places far away. They’ll never be reunited with their sires, but they perhaps, will grow to prodigious heights themselves and populate a different corner of their world.

The great majority of them will spin and blow from the limbs of the stately tree to nearby destinations, sailing as far as the limitations of their physical design will allow. If the circumstances are right, a single maple sapling will arise from the spot in which each of them alights.

If.

Imagine, if you will, the feeling of hanging from the parent tree in Spring. By the thousands, the little pods develop over the course of a few weeks as the days lengthen and become warmer. The seasonal rains do their part, as well.

What a sensation! Not a thing in the world to be feared, with food whenever it’s needed. Clinging tightly to the limb, there is protection from the elements close to the warmth and strength of the great structure with its roots going down deep into the soil below.

The wind blows and the pod simply swings, secure in its place. It spins a bit and wonders about the odd sensation, but is calmed quickly with the reassurance of security and safety.

But today—today—the wind blew thousands of the little helicopters off of the tree. Imagine that feeling!

I can’t help but think the first reaction would be one of pure panic. No more safety. No more comfortable assurance of things going on as they always have. Questions rush to mind.

Where will I stop?

What if I get sick on the way to where I’m going?

What will I find there?

How will I get on?

Who will care for me?

Somehow, I envision the sensations changing as the spinning continues.

This isn’t so bad!

I could do this for awhile.

Why was I so afraid?

Did I call these little life conveyances an example of the magic of Spring? I think magic may be too fanciful a word, although for some, the reality may stretch the boundaries of faith even more than the thought of magic.

The master design by the Creator of everything is far beyond the ken of our puny intellect. From the largest of intelligent beings to the smallest of plants, He has planned the perpetuation of each species in ways we could never have imagined possible.

I gazed in wonder at the maple tree earlier this evening, my inferior brain attempting to take in the scope of all the samaras hanging under the tender leaf shoots which have only this week begun to appear.

Samara is the scientific term for the spectacular seed conveyances which are now spinning into the air everywhere. I prefer the name the children in Northern England use for the mysterious devices.

Spinning Jenny, they call the helicopter-like seedpod, as they toss it again and again into the air.

Spinning Jennies. I may always call them that, until the day I turn loose from the tree I hang from myself.

Ah. At last we come to it.

Our Creator did not forget humans in His design for perpetuating the species. And no, as incredible as is the process of procreation in mankind, I’m not referring to how we keep the species going physically.

I’m considering a more spiritual thought as I make the comparison. And, I assume that most who read these words are followers of Christ—believers—as I am.

He called us to leave the place of comfort. He called us to minister to all the world. He called us to die daily—to take up our cross and follow Him. (Luke 9:23)

And, just as quickly as that idea blows the winds of change over us, we feel ourselves spinning and falling, borne away from comfort, and ease, and all that is familiar.

I smiled earlier at the thought of the cute Spinning Jennies flying through the air.

I’m not smiling anymore.

They are falling to their death. To their death.

It is a sobering thought.

And the Teacher said, “Except a grain of wheat fall to the ground and die, it remains alone.”

It’s a steep price to pay for a fantastic, exciting, scary journey.

But, think of it my friends! The ultimate payoff is life itself.

Life itself.

For ourselves and for those we bring with us.

The trees know.

Is it time to let go yet?

A price will be paid.

It will.

Oh. But, what a ride!

Time to let go.

Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.
(John 12:24 ~ NASB)

Oh! The places you’ll go!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers!
who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’t.
Because sometimes, you won’t.
(from Oh The Places You’ll Go ~ Theodor Seuss Geisel ~ American children’s author ~ 1904-1991)

Own the Music

March 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He taught me more about playing the French horn than any other teacher I had. That said, I can remember clearly only two things he taught me.

Funny isn’t it? All that instruction and all I recall can be summarized in two sentences. What can I say? These gems of wisdom came from Mr. Marlar when I was in my early twenties.

It was a time in my life when I already knew everything.

I wish I had been a little more ignorant. That wouldn’t come until later.

Mr. M’s wise words:

“You will make mistakes; play them loudly so everyone can hear them.”

“If you can hear the pitch in your head, you can play it on your horn.”

The first statement made me laugh—then. It’s not as amusing now as it once was. Perhaps we’ll talk more about it another time.

But the second thing Mr. M taught me—that bit of brilliance has been more useful than even he could have thought. Again and again in my work and personal life, I have proved the truth of the idea.

I was still his student when I played horn for the local university production of the musical, Brigadoon.

I’ve related the story before of my disastrous introduction to the tenor lead’s solo—the too-high pitch I played leading the vocalist astray and causing him to start his solo in the wrong key.

He started on the wrong note! Because of me!

What a catastrophe! A few measures into his solo, he had to stop and restart on the correct note.

If looks could kill, the Lovely Lady would have been a widow that very night.

My solution to that disaster was to show up the next evening with a pitch generator connected to an earphone so that I could indeed hear the pitch in my head and then play it on my horn.

It was, I believed, an ingenious solution, and worked splendidly.

For every subsequent night of our performances, my entrance on the opening phrase was impeccable and the tenor followed suit.

I heard the pitch. I played it.

I was proud of myself.

I am less proud than I once was.

You see, in the years since, I have matured a little (only a little). I have also become a better musician, understanding some of the foundational principles which escaped my youthful brain back then.

The electronic pitch in the ear missed the point of Mr. M’s statement completely.

If one is to be a successful musician, the sense of pitch, the center of the tone, must be in one’s head, not in their ear. When I listened to the tone and then played it, the pitch wasn’t mine; I just borrowed it.

I have to own the music! It has to come from inside of me. It has to be a part of me.

The principle works in all of life.

Don’t believe that? Watch what happens when kids leave home to go to college or into the work place.

For too many, the principles and beliefs they learned at their parents’ feet are shed left and right as they realize that such things have always come from somewhere outside of themselves.

They have heard the whispering (and perhaps shouting) of morals and creeds in their ears and believe them only as long as it takes to get out of range of their parents’ voices.

Instantly, there is silence where those things are concerned. If they hear the echo at all, it is easy to ignore as the clamor around them grows in support of different ideologies and moralities.

Suddenly, they have to make decisions themselves, have to determine the appropriateness of choices in what amounts to a vacuum.

Unless we ourselves own our values and our faith, unless they speak from deep inside of us, we will never hit the mark when it comes time for the performance which will occur in the public eye.

If, deep down, all we hear in the moment of our engagement is silence, any mark will do, and we’ll hit exactly what we aim for.

Nothing. Or anything.

Either way, the result will be the same. We will miss the mark.

The wrong note will sound and those who take their cue from us will also miss their mark.

Suddenly, I realize that anything else I write here will just be a sound coming into your ear through a head phone.

The manufactured pitch may aid temporarily, but it will have no permanent effect. I also realize that most who are reading this already have the pitch solidly in mind and are hitting the mark on a daily basis.

It’s high time that I turn off the tone generator and get down off this soapbox.

Come to think of it, it’s time to go home and practice the horn for awhile before heading for bed. I think I hear a high G coming on.

I only hope the neighbors won’t mind.

Pursue one great decisive aim with force and determination.
(Carl Von Clausewitz ~ German military leader/theorist ~ 1780-1831)

For if the bugle produces an indistinct sound, who will prepare himself for battle?
(1 Corinthians 14:8 ~ NASB)

Plucking Thistles

June 30, 2015June 30, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Die when I may, I want it said by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. *

The boy had hope written across his smiling face.

Hope is a beautiful thing, especially in a child. It animates and motivates, forging dreams for the future. I love the beauty hope generates in young folks.

Hope is not something I enjoy dashing on the rocks of reality. The results can be ugly. I don’t love ugly.

This had all the earmarks of ugly.

His father, having told me he was trying to teach his son the trade of picking—of buying used objects for a small amount of money and flipping them for more money, asked me to advise the boy.

The hopeful young man handed me a clarinet-shaped object. By that, I mean the long black piece of plastic with metal keys attached had been a clarinet in another life. No longer.

It was unplayable, with bent keys and broken springs. The pads, the life source for a woodwind instrument, had long ago deteriorated and crumbled away to dust, leaving no way for the individual notes to sound.

A re-pad job on a clarinet would cost more than the price this sad instrument could ever bring. The other issues—bent keys and broken springs—would only drive the potential investment in the old horn up into the stratosphere.

As I examined the instrument, my dismay showing on my features, the hopeful face of the boy that peered into mine changed perceptibly. He steeled himself for the bad news he sensed was coming. I glanced into his eyes and saw the unhappiness there.

What a disaster!

I wondered—for a moment—if I should tell him a fib, a white lie. Just a little one—for his own good. I would save his pride and give him hope for another day.

“It’s a fine clarinet, but I’m not buying them right now. You might check at another store. They may need it worse than I do.”

Can’t you just hear me? For him. I would be saying the words to save him the pain of failure.

I didn’t say those words. That would have been the easy way out for me, too. But sooner or later, the boy would have to face two different truths: First, his investment was not going to bear fruit. Second, the hateful old shop owner lied to him.

I won’t lie.

Gently, I began to speak to him about what makes a clarinet play and what gives it value. Pointing out the catastrophic defects in his instrument, I explain why it would not make sense to repair the horn.

He is disappointed. Horribly disappointed.

But, he wants to learn. Asking questions, he probes my store of knowledge so he will make better choices the next time. I happily share what I know, taking time from my workday tasks to aid him. We make comparisons with functioning instruments. We talk about the need for knowledge about the brands of horns and of the importance of a good carrying case.

As he prepares to leave, he reaches out to shake my hand, his tiny one dwarfed by mine. His father follows suit, expressing his gratitude for my time and my willingness to share. He mentions a sacrifice on my part to help the young man, and I wave aside the thought. There is nothing to what I have done, I suggest.

Suddenly, I remember why I do this—why I have done it for a lifetime.

The opportunity to plant seeds far exceeds the objective of making a profit.

Oh, I need to make a profit to keep my doors open, but the reward of seeing the eyes of that young man when he left—no longer just full of hope, but also bright with the pride that comes from being treated with respect—no money in the world could ever purchase that.

Some would say the loving thing would have been to let him keep his dream alive—the dream of making money on that instrument. Some today even suggest that speaking hard truth in the face of error is hateful.

I wonder which is more loving: Is it to dash his immediate hope as his expectation for the future is built up and he is equipped to meet that future, or is it to keep quiet and let him believe a lie?

The boy will return, of that I am sure. The day may come when he has learned the lesson taught him today so well that he is a threat to my own livelihood. I smile at the thought, enjoying the expectation of his success.

Weeds are uprooted—seeds of hope planted in their place. What better task could I have? What more reward could I ask?

How does your garden grow?

These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another; render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace.
(Zechariah 8:16 ~ ESV)

Anyone who doesn’t take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either.
(Albert Einstein ~ German born theoretical scientist ~ 1879-1955)

* (Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

Picking My Brain

May 13, 2015May 13, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Say! You’re a great teacher! Thanks for helping me understand all that!”

I had never seen the slender young man before, but we had spent the last hour in my music store discussing a myriad of subjects. Banjos, violins, vintage guitars–you name it, if there was one of them in the store, we talked about it.

The twenty-something fellow was like a sponge, soaking up every bit of information I laid out for him. After we had talked about the construction of the century-old violin he brought in for an appraisal, we also discussed its accessories and value. By the time I had exhausted my knowledge of the violin family, he was profuse in his praise.

“How can you know so much about this?”

A little embarrassed, I gently brushed aside the compliment, and he wandered through the store for awhile, stopping to admire a vintage acoustic guitar on display. Before we finished our conversation about that subject, we had widened the field of the discussion to include several other old instruments hanging in the place. Again, he was amazed.

“Really! I’ve never had anyone who could tell me so much about musical instruments.”

He continued to pump me about the various instruments, asking questions that made me reach back into my memory of the basics and methodology of each one. I must have passed his test, because at the end of the hour, he concluded his comments with the above statement about teaching.

I’m laughing.

I tried teaching one time.

Tried. Failed.

Really.

I didn’t have the patience. Seriously, when I told a student something a single time at a lesson, I expected them to retain that information as long as they were studying the subject. Why else would I have told them?

I taught you this last week! Why do I need to tell you again?

Now you’re laughing. I’m not a teacher. The nice young man is wrong.

May I tell you what I do know?

What I do know is that not one idea in my brain belongs to me. Not one.

What I do know is that there is no knowledge which I retain about any subject that I acquired without the assistance of someone else. None.

Everything I have has been given me. Everything. Some may wish to argue the point, but I contend that none of us has acquired anything of ourselves. Oh, I don’t mean that we haven’t worked to attain it, but we cannot even claim the credit for the strength to do that work, much less the intellect to understand the subject in which we claim expertise.

Captain of my own ship? What a fraud!

Many who have affirmed that status find, to their chagrin, that it is a complete falsehood. Physical strength may be gone in a moment’s time. So too, the intellect is as likely to be snatched away as it is to remain at our beck and call throughout our lives.

I must share my meager store of information because it was never mine to hoard. It was never mine to dole out. It has never been mine to sell to the highest bidder.

I may not be able to teach skillfully, but I can talk endlessly. That will come as no surprise to those who know me well, nor to quite a few folks who know me hardly at all, but nonetheless have endured my oral ramblings at length.

The Lovely Lady and I sneaked out to eat at a fast food restaurant tonight. The girl at the cash register called out the total for our meals and then added a phrase I’ve never heard before. I don’t even think it’s a real thing.

“With your Wise Person Discount, your total will be eleven dollars and seventy-nine cents.”

Huh? Wise Person Discount? Are you kidding me? Just because I’m getting old?

I took the discount. I’m grateful for the compliment.

Still, I’m not sure she really understands the concept of wisdom. Wrinkles and gray hair aren’t equivalent to wisdom. Some of the most foolish folks I know are much older than I. That said, it is to be hoped that the passage of years has brought with it a tiny bit, perhaps just an iota, of wisdom. But that too will be a gift, unearned, unmerited.

I still believe that every good thing comes from the Giver of all good gifts.

Freely we have received; freely we must give.

It’s not much, but I’m going to keep dispensing the knowledge contained in my head. Perhaps a bit of wisdom will be thrown in here and there.

Hey. It’s possible.

Come see me and pick my brain. We’ll see.

“True wisdom exists in knowing that you know nothing.”
(Socrates ~ Classical Greek philosopher ~ ca. 469 BC-399 BC)

“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.”
(James 1:5 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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