Bread. Today.

January 6, 2019January 6, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

The sun shone today. After a week of rain, wind, and gloom, the sun shone and warmed the earth.

I sat in my easy chair most of the day. Finally, about half an hour before the sun dropped from the western sky, I moved.

“I’m going to take a walk.”

I expected her to say, “About time, too!” She didn’t. A simple, “Be careful,” was all I heard as I headed out the door for a three-mile walk.

About time, too. It is what she should have said. What kind of bonehead sits inside on a sixty-degree sunlit day in early January?

I wrote the words for any foolish enough to read them on New Year’s Day.

“I will walk. Into the new year, I’ll walk.”

I said it, knowing there were sorrows still to come; certain that a day wouldn’t make the old sadness disappear. And yet, when it came down to it, and the first steps into the new year were little different than the last out of the old one, my feet faltered. Time spent with a loved one in the hospital did little to encourage my spirit.

And the sun wouldn’t shine. So, I waited. It would be better to wait, wouldn’t it? When the sun shines, I’ll walk. Let the clouds pass first. The wind blows so cold. It wouldn’t do to get sick, would it?

You’ll see. When the sun shines—I’ll walk then.

Some things, you just need to do while the sun shines. I’m sure of it. The red-headed lady who raised me taught me that. Make hay while the sun shines. She said it again and again.

She wasn’t wrong. Hay put into bales on a rainy day is guaranteed to rot in the barn. You absolutely have to have sunshine to make hay.

But, living isn’t making hay. Life happens in the sunshine and in the shadow. We journey through whatever circumstance comes. To sit and mope is to admit failure.

Today, I walked. In more ways than one, I walked, forcing myself out of my dreary retreat and into the sunshine. Even as I walked the trail along the beautiful little creek, the light faded and the sun dropped behind the hills to the west.

I want to keep walking. I want to remember that, even in the shadows, the road awaits. And, our Father knows we sometimes need some help remembering.

After we ate, I told the Lovely Lady I needed to write. I don’t remember what it was I thought I needed to say, but I trudged up the stairs to my little writing room anyway. Before I had a chance to write it, I sent a response to a friend who had been kind enough to share a song with me today. She does that on occasion, gracing friends with music that moves her. I was moved myself and wanted to thank her.

I wrote only a short note, telling her I hoped she was doing well. I’m not sure what I expected. I guess I expected the shadows to come again if she replied honestly. My friend is in the middle of a fight with cancer. The outcome is not certain for her.

She replied honestly.

The voice message that arrived within moments was nothing like what I expected. In a matter-of-fact manner, she told me of upcoming appointments with the cancer specialists. She doesn’t know what will happen.

And then, with laughter and joy in her voice, she said the most surprising thing: “I made bread today. Paul, I made homemade bread!” Telling me about the neighbors’ response to the aroma filling the air, her message ended with joy. Pure joy.

Where are the shadows I expected? And, why am I suddenly thinking about the red-headed lady who raised me again?

It is one of my happiest memories of my mother. It didn’t happen often, but I remember the feeling as if it were yesterday.

“Today,” she said, “Today, we make bread.”

And, we did. Well, she did. She made the bread; we ate it. But before that—before that—the delightful aroma of homemade bread filled the house. To this day, I cannot smell bread baking without thinking of those mornings in South Texas—always mornings (with no air conditioning, it was too hot to do it in the afternoon)—when, for a few minutes, we were the richest kids in town.

It was the most basic item in the diet for our predecessors, and therefore, baking it was the most common of activities for those who laid food on the tables. When strangers came, they broke bread. Dad came home from his job and the breadwinner was in the house. We knew which side our bread was buttered on. The upper crust had it easy.

She was the one who told us to make hay while the sun was shining, but as I remember it, the sun always shone when she made bread.

I’m sure it wasn’t true. Storms were a way of life for us. With five children in the house, what else would one expect? But such a simple thing could drive all thought of unhappy events from our heads as we gobbled up those spectacular homemade rolls, not even waiting to spread a knife full of margarine on them.

I wipe the crumbs from the edges of my mouth mentally, my mind returning to my friend and the amazing lesson I am learning.

When the sun refuses to shine on us, we do the foundational things, the things that sustain, the things that bring joy. For us, and for those we love.

When the sun refuses to shine, we do the foundational things, the things that sustain, the things that bring joy. For us, and for those we love. Share on X

I think it’s no coincidence that Jesus, when he taught His disciples to pray, included the request that our Heavenly Father would give us this day our daily bread. (Matthew 6:11)

I have another friend who each day posts either that entire prayer or a phrase from it on social media, for her friends to read and to be encouraged. It was less than a year ago that her daughter suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Yet, every day, she encourages her friends to be fed by that daily bread from heaven. Every day.

In the darkness, the light shines. It will not be extinguished. (John 1:5)

I worry. I do. About the future, I worry. About those I love, I worry. I sit in the dark and mull over what might happen.

He says to leave tomorrow alone. Today, we have bread. From His ovens, from His own hand, we have bread.

Can you smell it?

Bread.

Today.

If you have extraordinary bread and extraordinary butter, it’s hard to beat bread and butter.
(Jacques Pepin ~ French-born American chef)

The true bread of God is the one who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world. “Sir,” they said, “give us that bread every day.”
(John 6:33,34 ~ 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.)

He Still Hangs the Moon

July 22, 2016July 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The cares of this life are thieves. They rob from us while we watch, eyes trained on their every move.

I wish I could tell you I am too much a veteran of their schemes to be taken in anymore. At this time of life one would imagine experience has taught me its lessons, and all danger of being victimized is past.

One would be wrong.

For some time now, I have allowed those rascally cares to run amok in my soul, robbing me blind.

Really. Blind.

It is what they crave. The little creations of our tiny imaginations and self-centered natures are themselves blind to the reality of joy that fills our lives as humans made in the image of a loving God.

And, you know what they say.

Well, the red-headed lady who raised me said it all the time anyway, so I assume it must be true:

Misery loves company.

If the little monsters can’t see joy and truth, they are determined to steal the ability from anyone foolish enough to afford them shelter and sustenance.

And so, with my permission, they have been at work again in my own soul.

At times when they work their craft, the darkness is profound. The black of this night is, I think, made all the more encompassing by my willing participation in the malfeasance.

An evening or two ago, as light shone brightly—too brightly for me—in my house, I crept to my office to let the thieves practice. While the Lovely Lady and our guests worked and laughed and played happy music, I sat alone in the dark and pulled the misery over me like a blanket.

After the lights were finally extinguished at the house and all were asleep in their beds I left my office and, blindly walking hand in hand with the little unseeing pickpockets, headed toward home.

Three words. Really. Just three.

I know folks who hear a voice that speaks whole volumes. Entire poems. Sometimes, they carry on conversations with the voice.

Me? I get three words.

Lift your head.

I know. It seems a bit inadequate, doesn’t it? It’s kind of like saying chin up to a guy heading to the gas chamber.

Lift your head.

Then I noticed it. All around me, in what is normally a pitch black yard, the air fairly glowed with light. Long shadows were cast by the tree branches above me.

I lifted my head.

The brilliant and huge full moon hung almost directly above, washing the night time world in its reflected light. It was astoundingly beautiful.

He still hangs the moon. Every night.

He still wakes the sun every morning and sends it on its daily rounds.

I’ll admit it. The notion isn’t all that scientific, nor is it an accurate description of what actually takes place.

Still, it is His power that keeps all of creation doing what it was designed for. (Colossians 1: 6-17)

The realization struck me as powerfully as those beams of light had just seconds before.

His plan is still in place. I’m part of that plan.

His plan is still in place. I'm part of that plan. Share on X

I’m part of that plan!

Every one of us is.

I looked back down to check on my cares, but all the little felons had disappeared. They can’t stand to be in the company of light. Just as in nature, the darkness of doubt and despair flees at the coming of light.

I’m not naive. Darkness will come again. It always does.

Cares will crowd around to steal again. They always do.

But the truth is, light will come again as well.

It always does.

He still hangs the moon.

And, not just for me.

Lift your head.

But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
(Psalm 3:3 ~ NIV)

‘Now, lord,’ said Gandalf, ‘look out upon your land! Breathe the free air again!’

. . .Suddenly through a rent in the clouds behind them a shaft of sun stabbed down. The falling showers gleamed like silver, and far away the river glittered like a shimmering glass.

‘It is not so dark here,’ said Théoden.
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Already Safe

February 3, 2016February 3, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are two black labs in my backyard.

They’re not all that smart.

I would like to believe I’m much more intelligent than they. Some days (or nights), I think I could even prove the point.

Somehow though, that assumption is not always accurate. Oh, it’s not as if they are as intelligent as I; just that I am as ignorant as they are. Yes, I realize it might be a fine line, but there is a difference. I think. Or is it, I hope?

It was a dark and stormy night—no, really—a dark and stormy night. I was heading to bed after a frustrating non-writing session at the computer when I noticed a noise from the backyard.

The two large dogs, brother and sister, were out in the gale, staring up into the huge mulberry tree. I’ve seen that stance before. They have chased a critter up the tree.

This could take awhile.

There are a few things you should know about this situation. The first is these dogs are stubborn—tenacious—adamant, even.

Bull-headed, the red haired lady who raised me would call it.

I shone my light into the branches of the tree and found the object of their attentiveness. The critter was hiding his face, but as I moved around the storage building in my way, I was rewarded with a glance at his black robber’s mask.

The black monsters had treed a raccoon. The little fellow was lodged in the fork of the branch. He wasn’t budging.

Down on the ground, the black beasts weren’t going anywhere, either.

Stalemate.

This didn’t look encouraging.

I asked myself a couple of questions:

The dogs have a really nice, heated dog house in which to pass cold windy nights. Do you suppose they might just get cold and retire to their comfy home?

The trunk of the tree up which the raccoon had clambered is actually outside the fenced yard in which the big black dogs run. Is it possible he would just shinny down the rough bole and scamper across the ground to his lair?

Neither was likely. I did the only thing that made any sense.

I locked the dogs in the storage building. There is a carpet on the floor, laid there for just such eventualities, and I had the foresight to put their water bowl in with them—in case they had worked up a thirst in the commotion.

I locked them in and went to bed. Slept like a baby.

Very early in the morning, I did go outside again. Just for a few seconds. I shone the flashlight up into the tree to be sure, but I knew what I would find. There was no raccoon to be seen.

I opened the door to the storage building. My two best friends lay side by side on the carpet, asleep. It took them a moment to realize I was at the door, but they slowly got to their feet and stretching, ambled outside. It was as if none of the frenetic activity in the wee hours of the morning had happened at all.

As if nothing had happened.

They slept as well as I did. Five feet above the roof of the building in which they slept, the raccoon was lodged in the crook of the tree branch. Yet, they slept as if the critter were ten miles away.

As for the raccoon, his situation was not much different either. Ten feet below him, the great hunters were as close as they had ever been. Maybe closer.

When he could see them, he wasn’t budging. Not an inch. I didn’t stay out to watch, but I don’t imagine it was long after the door closed on the shed that he began his trek down to safety.

May I point out something? It may come as a surprise to you, but the raccoon was never in any danger.

Never.

Dogs don’t climb trees. Can’t. Won’t. They weren’t coming up to get him. So, the little fella just waited. Once they were gone, he would move, but not one second before.

But, he could have left the tree at any time he wanted! The tree in which he cowered was planted in a safe place. He never had to cower. Not one moment.

He was always safe.

I wonder. How many days—weeks—years have we cowered here when all we needed to do was walk to freedom?

While we eye the terrifying circumstances circling around us, safety lies as close as a few steps in the right direction.

But first, we have to tear our eyes away from the dreadful creatures below.

Perhaps, we have the need for a loving Creator to make the creatures get out of our sight. But, I’m not sure He needs to make them go away—not even sure if He will make them go away while we live in this world.

What if all that is necessary is for us to see that safety is already ours?

The prophet Elisha’s servant certainly needed that. It was one of my favorite stories in Sunday School many years ago. It still is. The servant rose up early in the morning and saw a terrifying enemy surrounding them. It was all he could see. Chariots and soldiers. Spears and clubs. Arrows and swords. Just imagine the terror. Imagine.

Surely, the prophet could have prayed for escape. A chariot from heaven perhaps? He had seen that chariot before. But no—he prayed that his servant would be able to see. That’s it. Open his eyes, Lord. He needs to see. (2 Kings 6:15-17)

Personally, I still find it hard to say the words. I want the easy escape. I want the miracle rescue.

Open my eyes.

Do the miracles come? They do. But, why pray for a miracle when He’s already made the way?

Sometimes the snarling savage beasts below just close their eyes and go to sleep.

Sometimes, we just need to get up and walk right out of the prison we’ve made for ourselves.

Open our eyes, Lord. We need to see.

You. We need to see You.

Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.
(from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author/educator ~ 1898-1963)

For I am the Lord your God
who takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do not fear;
I will help you.
(Isaiah 41:13 ~ NIV)

Better Things

January 21, 2016January 21, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired!

The red-headed woman who raised me was at it again. I have told you before that my mother had an almost endless supply of catchy sayings, many of them almost silly in their logic. This one was different. It actually made sense to me.

It makes more sense to me now. And, that’s a problem.

You see, I know what having a negative outlook on life does to you. Read the original words again.

Do you see the circle they create? When you’re sick and tired of being just that, the cycle repeats itself. Again. And again. And again. It may be exactly what the person who coined the phrase vicious cycle had in mind.

I have come to realize in recent days how easy it is to become a part of that cycle. Oh, I’m not sick–not physically. Perhaps I’m a little tired, but not sick. But it is easy to think about the sad things in life and let myself sink down into sadness myself. The sad things don’t even have to be happening to me.

Still–all of the sudden I realize I’m repeating the phrase in my own head. It’s not just a memory of my Mom’s voice saying the words anymore.

I hear it, not in her voice, but in my own as my spirit takes on the burdens of life.

Any day, I expect the words to actually come from my mouth as I speak to the Lovely Lady, or to my friends, or to a customer.

There is hardship all around me. With our instant communication, I know about more of it than ever before. To be fair, it may also be my time of life. I’m not sure. That said, I don’t ever want to expect bad from this amazing world which the Creator has made for us and placed us into.

Friends tell me things will only get worse–that this is just prophecy coming to pass–almost as if that justifies negativity and depression.

It doesn’t.

Right before the start of this new year–it only began three weeks ago, you know–I made a list of things I intend to revisit over the course of the year. They are thoughts which have occurred to me as I consider the future, a future which I contend is bright, not dark.

The first words in my list are these:

I refuse to believe our future is not at least as bright as our past. No! Brighter!

I know some of you who read these words are in the throes of disaster at this very moment. My heart tells me that in the next months I will experience some of those same woes.

The statement stands.

Circumstances, no matter how dark, do not determine the condition of our spirits, unless we allow them to. If we take the sadness, the sorrow, the worry to our hearts, we may find ourselves, like the red-headed lady, in the cycle of being sick and tired of life as we know it.

But, I want to affirm that the sadness, the sorrow, and the worry do not belong to us at all, and it is theft for us to keep them for ourselves.

I see those eyebrows going up as you read the word theft. You wonder who the victim of the crime is, don’t you? I believe we steal from God Himself when we selfishly hold those cares closely. Our instructions are clear. We are told to cast all of our cares on Him in light of His care for us. (1 Peter 5:7)

They are not ours to keep, not ours to cling to, not ours to add to our collection like so many grisly reminders of battles lost or omens of a dark future.

Not ours. His.

There is life yet to be lived. It will not be lived in the dark.

Brighter, I say!

I’m ready to walk in the sunlight, but I wouldn’t mind some company along the road.

You coming along?

“It is not so dark here,” said Theoden.
“No,” said Gandalf. “Nor does age lie so heavily on your shoulders as some would have you think.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English educator/novelist ~ 1892-1973)

For in the day of trouble He will conceal me in His tabernacle;
In the secret place of His tent He will hide me;
He will lift me up on a rock.
(Psalm 27:5 ~ NASB)

“What day is it?”
“It’s today!” squeaked Piglet.
“My favorite day,” said Pooh.
(A.A. Milne ~ English children’s author ~ 1882-1956)

Physician, Heal Thyself

October 12, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I sat at the dinner table earlier today and let my tongue explore the new sensation in my mouth. A sharp edge that very definitely had not been there a few moments before caught the side of the exploring organ and let me know there was something very different. Painfully so.

I have broken the side off of one of my molars.

It is not a happy discovery. And, as my mind considers the possibilities—indeed, the probabilities—for the future, I sink rapidly in an almost depressed state.

At least, I would sink into that state if it were not for a thought that strikes me at about the same time as the inclination to be unhappy. The thought actually makes me laugh now.

No, my tooth still hurts a bit. My tongue is still rubbed raw where the jagged edge of the tooth abrades it at every opportunity.

Yet, the thought remains.

A young man sat at that same table with me less than a week ago and had a similar experience. A crust of his pizza chipped a tooth in his mouth. His reaction was much the same as mine, albeit a little more visible to the others in the room.

Frightened at what the near future would hold, he shed a few tears and let out a few moans. His mom attempted to allay his fears, but still, he wondered about what would happen.

Before my company left that evening, I wrapped my arms around the young man’s shoulder and encouraged him that most things we face are not nearly as bad as we imagine.

God takes care of us. In a week or two, you won’t even remember this happened.

Even as my memory of the event sharpens into focus, I find myself arguing. I have other problems, too. There are schedules to meet and expenses to pay. Appointments must be kept. This is too much!

It’s too much.

I’m chuckling to myself as I write. As if my problems are any worse than that young man’s. What arrogance!

Do I believe my words to him or not?

Does God take care of us or not?

The young man and I will both make trips to our dentist this week. I firmly believe my words to him. Still, I wonder why my first thought at the sign of a problem was to fret about it. It’s not like this is my first time around this particular block.

And, as my mind calms regarding my dental problems, the eyes of my heart begin to see other things more clearly: Things which have taken over my thoughts and my life over the last few days and weeks.

They are disastrous problems, to my mind anyway. I want nothing more than to turn back the clock and undo the process by which they appeared in my life.

Schemes and plans and worries consume me as I attempt to see a way through the troubles.

Somehow, I have to figure this out!

I sit here thinking, and with my tongue I worry the sharp edge of my broken tooth absent-mindedly.

Ow! That’s painful!

And stupid.

I don’t have to worry the tooth at all; it’s just a natural reaction to things not being as they should be in my mouth.

Do I need to write any more words here? Even though I have a multitude of thoughts to share on this subject, I’m nearly certain I’ve said enough.

Nearly certain.

The Teacher asked, “And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life?” (Matthew 6:27 ~ NASB)

Maybe it’s time for me to take my own advice to the youngster. It was, after all, passed on to me many years ago by folks much wiser than I.

God takes care of us. He’s got this. And me.

He’ll do the same for you.

In a week or two, we won’t even remember this happened.

Not half the storms that threatened me
     E’er broke upon my head,
Not half the pains I’ve waited for
     E’er racked me on my bed.
Not half the clouds that drifted by
     Have overshadowed me
Nor half the dangers ever came
     I fancied I could see.
(Anonymous~circa 1900)

Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.
(John 14:27 ~ NASB)

Bars Made of String

September 16, 2015September 16, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was busy when he left the guitar.

“Give me a few weeks. I’ll see if I can figure out what’s causing that vibration.”

He nodded, but he was frowning gloomily. “It’s going to be bad. Probably a loose brace.”

The gloomy clouds didn’t follow him out the door as I hoped they would, but simply hung in the air over that guitar case. Or, so it seemed to me.

My few weeks passed. Then a few more went by. Every time I walked past the instruments waiting to be repaired, I could feel the gloom.

What if it’s a loose brace?

I shrugged off the gloom and continued on to other tasks. Again and again, I ignored the guitar case sitting there.

I didn’t open the case once. Not once.

He came in last week. “It’s been over two months. Have you fixed my guitar?”

The gloomy clouds came to hang over my own head—the one I was shaking in embarrassment.

“Sorry. Give me another week.”

Out the door he went again. I turned back to my work, worrying still.

What if it’s a loose brace? It might even be broken.

The week has passed. He called today. The instrument must be ready to pick up tomorrow. Tomorrow!

Tonight, the guitar lies on my work bench. Dreading what I will find, I reach down to loosen the strings. I can’t work inside the instrument until I get room to put my hands through the sound hole.

Like bars of steel, the strings guard the entrance. Perhaps I should just leave them alone.

What if it’s a loose brace?

Then a new thought strikes me. What if it’s not?

What if it’s something really simple? Easy to fix?

By now, I have loosened up the strings and, like a caged strong man in the movies, have spread them apart, bending them like—well—like string. I insert my mirror and, shining a light on it, begin my inspection.

Two months, I’ve waited. And worried.

Five minutes—no, less than that—three minutes later, I have found the problem. A broken string, fallen into the body of the guitar, has been trapped by the magnetic force of the electric pickup. Trapped against the sound board which magnifies every sound ten-fold.

The tiny buzz-buzz-buzz of the metallic string against the spruce sounded for all the world like a disastrous structural failure.

I whisk away the one-inch piece of bronze and stainless steel, breathing a sigh of relief as I do. Pulling my tools and my hand from the dungeon of my almost-failure, I let the bars—I mean, strings—spring back into place and I re-tune them.

Sitting on a nearby stool, I run my fingers over the strings, hitting a few familiar chords. What an astounding result! The tones radiating from the soundboard of the instrument are perfection itself.

Perfection. And, I waited over two months to experience it.

Afraid.

What if?

Two months—wasted.

All of my life, I have worried about what is behind those doors I have never passed through. All of my life.

Twelve years old. I was with my family in southern Kansas visiting my great-aunt and uncle. They had a farm in the gently rolling hills near the place my mother had grown up.

Uncle Paul was old, but he hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be a kid. While the old folks were visiting, he warned us to beware of snakes and sent us out to explore anywhere we wanted to wander.

That was how we came to be standing in front of the doorway into the hillside. Anywhere we wanted, he had said. This door looked interesting. And scary.

“What if there are snakes?” The shaky voice was mine.

My oldest brother laughed. “What if there aren’t?”

His optimism notwithstanding, he was holding a stick in his hand as he pulled the door open. We stayed well behind him, but eventually, we all trooped through the open entrance to the vegetable cellar. It was not much more than a hollow in the side of the hill, excavated here and there to make room for shelves, upon which sat the bounty of my old relatives’ garden. It would feed them through the winter.

There were no snakes.

I would never have known that on my own. The door would have remained closed. Funny. Nearly fifty years on, I’m still afraid to open doors.

What’s behind the door in front of you right now? Why aren’t you turning the knob instead of standing there, petrified?

If God brought you to the door, there is nothing behind it that has any power to harm you.

He has given us the key to open every lock and will make provision for every obstacle we meet, once inside. Just a note of warning—if you have to slip the lock with your credit card, He didn’t want you in there. Some doors were never intended for us to open.

Too many times though, I have stood in front of a door to which He has given access and failed to go through it. What if I fail?

We fail because we fear to try.

Many more times than we meet insurmountable obstacles, we simply don’t attempt the deed at all.

Open the door!

Go through it!

You might still want to carry that stick.

I will keep you and will make you…to open eyes that are blind,
to free captives from prison and to release from the dungeon those who sit in darkness.
(Isaiah 42: 6,7 ~ NIV)

There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky;
And you ask, “What if I fall?”
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly?
(Erin Hanson ~ Australian poet)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

worry

Bread. Today.

He Still Hangs the Moon

Already Safe

Better Things

Physician, Heal Thyself

Bars Made of String