His Real Father

June 15, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve heard it said in church and Bible studies more times than I can count. There was even a hit Christmas song written about it a few years ago.

Joseph wasn’t the father of Jesus.

I’m not going to argue theology with anyone. Not that it would do any good.

But I’m going to say it anyway. He was.

I’ve read the chapters and verses. I know Jesus was the son of God. But Joseph was His father. Here on earth, he was His father. You don’t pay the price that man paid to marry a young lady, knowing there was a baby in the deal, and not understand that you would raise the boy as your son.

The folks around him never knew the man as anything but the father of Jesus. Not a stepfather. Not an adoptive father. There wasn’t any question in their minds.

“Isn’t this the carpenter’s son?” (Matthew 13:55)

He gave the boy His name. He fed Him. I’m fairly sure he taught the young man his trade, even though the boy would never become known as a carpenter himself. Along with His brothers and sisters, Joseph raised the child who would become our Savior.

Wait. This isn’t about Christmas, is it? How mixed up is the guy who writes these things anyway?

Funny. I was reading another writer’s piece today, and while writing about King David, he mentioned the lineage of the Messiah, all the way from David to Joseph.

And, I said (to myself) the words I mentioned above. Joseph wasn’t His father!

But it’s nearly Father’s Day in our country. And, I know something about being a father.

I’m not saying I’m an expert. Even at my advanced age, I’m still learning what it takes to be a father to my children. I’m not talking about that.

I am learning new things as I watch my offspring raise their own children. I’m even becoming aware that I wasn’t the perfect father to my kids. I’m sure that’s not news to you. And certainly not to them!

But, more to the point, the change in perspective has made me aware of something that most of you probably already know: you can be a father—a good father—a real father—to a child who is not your biological offspring.

Certainly, I’ve noticed it before. I know a number of young men who, with their spouses, have adopted children. I know a larger number who have taken on the responsibility of being what we so cavalierly call a step-father to the children of their wife. But, my eyes have been opened in a much more personal way in the past year

Adoptive father. Step-father. As if the task doesn’t require the skill of a father, the perseverance of a father, the love of a father.

A man who willingly takes on the mantle of caring teacher, able provider, and loving role model to a child, without looking back, is a father. Period.

Without modifiers.

A father.

If you, like I, are a follower of Joseph’s Son, who Himself was, without question, also the Son of God, you already know what it’s like to have such a Father.

“God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure.” (Ephesians 1:5, NLT)

Father. To the incredible Family being gathered into His arms.

We worship Him and love Him. Not as interlopers and imposters, but as His daughters and sons.

Somehow then, I think it’s appropriate for us to give honor and love to the fathers He’s given us here, while we continue on our long journey toward the real home being prepared for us.

Mine has already gone to that home, so I honor him by honoring all the fathers who chance to read these words today.

Keep up the good work, Dad! You’re doing just fine!

“It’s not flesh and blood, but the heart which makes us fathers and sons.” (Friedrich Schiller)

^“So you have not received a spirit that makes you fearful slaves. Instead, you received God’s Spirit when he adopted you as his own children. Now we call him, ‘Abba, Father.’” (Romans 8:15, NLT)

It’s Just Stuff. Really. Stuff.

June 11, 2025June 11, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“He thinks less than he talks, and slower; yet he can see through a brick wall in time (as they say in Bree).” *

Mr. Tolkien didn’t know me; really, he didn’t. But he described me fairly accurately in the quote above.

I do talk more than I think. Sometimes.

And, fortunately, I can see through the brick wall in front of me. Eventually.

I’ve been in a funk recently. I should mention that I looked up the phrase “in a funk” online to be sure it was still in common enough use for most of my readers to know what it means. The obliging AI response suggests I’ll not have to explain it to very many of you.

I also wondered if I should use the term “woebegone” to describe my state of mind. But then, I’d need to explain the word’s origin from Old English. I might even have to use the definition that Garrison Keillor (a well-known storyteller and humorist) frequently gave for the fictional community he told about. He said the name Lake Wobegon was the native American word for “the place where we waited all day for you in the rain.”

But I’m not sure the description of my state is all that important. I just needed to know why I was in that state, be it in a funk or woebegone, or both of them at once.

Finally, the light has begun to dawn. It took a while, but after a few weeks of wandering in the fog, I think I finally understand why I’ve been unhappy.

The Lovely Lady who lives at my house helped me along the way the other day when she expressed amazement that I’m keeping up with my schedule pretty well. I usually get overwhelmed when there are too many events in a week for me to remember (usually, more than three will do it for me).

What she didn’t realize is that it’s been busy enough lately that this old man has actually learned how to use the calendar app on my smartphone for something other than keeping track of the birthdays of people I love.

As she talked about my schedule, and I thumbed through the past couple of weeks of events, I think I noticed that brick wall becoming a little translucent. I could almost—but not quite—see through it.

The things in my calendar are almost exclusively about possessions—things over which I claim ownership. Some of them are about money and insurance for the things I think I own.

And, with that thought, the bricks become completely transparent.

Why did Jesus say that it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven? (Matthew 19:24)

Why is it so hard for me to give up my claim to the stuff of earth? The rich man in the reference above was scrupulous and unswerving in his obedience to God. With the rules and legal requirements, he was.

He just couldn’t turn loose of the things he held.

The storms of a few weeks ago have damaged our house, as well as our vehicles. The unexpected mechanical failure of both vehicles right before has already required a fair outlay of money to remedy. And now, dealing with contractors, insurance adjusters, and repair shops causes stress—a lot of it.

It’s not that the resources haven’t been provided. They have. But somehow, I’ve taken ownership of those resources. And, I don’t want to let go of any of them.

And God said to Moses, “What’s that in your hand?” And when Moses answered that it was a tool of his trade, his staff, God said, “Well, throw it on the ground.” (Exodus 4:2)

I sympathize with Moses. I hear the voice in his head arguing (the same voice is in mine).

“This is all I have for my livelihood. I was counting on this to keep me alive. Why would you want me to let go of it?”

Easy, isn’t it?

Just open your fingers.

Let go.

It was never mine. Never.

Freedom isn’t only about not being under the thumb of someone else. Chains are too often of the invisible sort, and just as likely to be of our own making.

When the stuff of this earth holds us more tightly than the bonds of His love, we are truly in captivity—carrying a burden He never meant for us to shoulder.

I’m better now.

Letting go. Again.

But, I’m realizing there will be more brick walls to see through along the road I’m walking. I could use some help with the next one. And the one after that.

I hope you’ll be willing to help. But could you, maybe, not talk as much as I do?

And, think a little faster?

“One who cannot cast aside a treasure at need is in fetters.”
(Aragorn in The Two Towers, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

“Take my silver and my gold;
Not a mite would I withhold.”
(from the hymn, Take My Life and Let It Be, by Frances Ridley Havergal)

*from The Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Sleep In Peace

June 1, 2025June 1, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s unexpected. That the plight (already resolved) of a wild baby animal should hold my thoughts captive for two days was not something I would have thought possible.

But, there it is.

Friday, being sunny, was mowing day. The rainy weather of the last couple of weeks here in northwest Arkansas made it inescapable for me. So, I did what had to be done.

The storms have dropped myriad small branches from the oaks and maples that dot the property, so that was the first item of business. Pick up the limbs. The Lovely Lady assisted me, wandering over the half-acre plot of weeds and grass in an undisciplined manner, bending occasionally to lift up the errant twigs and switches.

She avers that she had passed through the same area herself just minutes before I did. I’m sure she did. Camouflage is a wondrous thing.

As I leaned under the shade of the chestnut tree to snag a dead branch, I started back. A little fawn lay there, white speckles on a field of brown, its black nose nestled between tiny front hooves.

I took the flexible branch I had just picked up and tapped the beautiful tiny deer on the haunches. Eyes open, it moved its head and front leg an inch or so, but no more. It didn’t even seem to be aware of me.

Oh, no! It must be injured. Or sick. The thought took hold, and sadness grabbed my spirit.

I tried to think what to do. Perhaps a wild animal rescue organization could help. Maybe animal services for the city.

I stood for at least two or three minutes, just watching the fawn. Wait! I was missing something.

What about the mother? Surely, there was a doe around somewhere. Why would it abandon its baby?

I looked around, but saw no other wildlife. There was no doe to be seen.

Abandoned.

The poor baby must be a hopeless case, and the mama knew it.

I knew I would have to do something. I could call someone to come and help. But before I did that, I did one other thing. Just to be sure.

Taking the flexible branch I held in my hand, I reached down and tapped the poor baby solidly. Not enough to hurt it, but sufficient that it would definitely feel it.

Oh! The squeal that came from its open mouth would have awakened the dead! I jumped back.

The fawn leapt to its tiny feet clumsily, terror written in its beautiful brown eyes.

Two things happened in quick succession. The tiny thing dashed across the neighbor’s yard, running into the chain link fence on the other side. But, before it could get even that far, a smallish, light brown doe appeared in the field behind me.

Not abandoned!

Watched over.

Within seconds, the sweet fawn was reunited with its mother, trotting back into the trees that line the back of the meadow that abuts our property.

I said that my thoughts have occupied me for the two days since. I’m conflicted. Two things strike me about the event.

The first is my unhappiness at being the thing that terrified the sweet baby. That squeal fills my memory, playing again and again in my head.

It’s almost like the feeling I had the morning years ago in the music store as I showed a sweet young girl the various instruments she had learned about from listening to a recording of Peter and the Wolf.

I demonstrated the different instruments that signified well-loved creatures and people in the story. Then proudly, I told her I was a French horn player, only to see the shock and worry jump to her eyes as she digested the reality that I was the wolf.

No! I am not the wolf. I am not the villain!. I’m the good guy—the one who wants to help, who wants to fix things.

But, imagine being that little fawn and waking up with a monster standing over you, holding a stick.

You went to sleep, knowing your mom was watching over you. In safety and comfort, you lay down and, trusting the one you had always found to be trustworthy, you slept.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep,
for you alone, O Lord, will keep me safe.”
(Psalm 4:8, NLT)

And yet, there is that monster…

I’m not going to dwell on that. It’s a reality that I live with, the knowledge that I’m not the good guy.

Not yet.

Even now, He is making me in His Image spiritually, just as He did physically in the beginning.

“And the Lord—who is the Spirit—makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image.” (2 Corinthians 3:18b, NLT)

But, that second thing my brain is considering—sleeping in peace and being watched over—that has been working, not only in my brain, but in my heart for the last couple of days.

I watched that doe materialize instantly as the fawn screamed its prayer to the sky, and there was no mistaking the meaning.

We can sleep in peace.

The monsters, even the well-meaning ones, who think they know better than our Creator, who believe we are gods ourselves, cannot harm us as we rest in Him.

Our Father watches over us. Even as he does the sparrows—and the fawns, He stands guard.

And He is faithful. Every morning, His mercies are renewed to us.

Every morning.

Strength for today.

Bright hope for tomorrow.

It’s time for sleep.

Rest.

“Have peace now… until the morning! Heed no nightly noises! For nothing passes door and window here save moonlight and starlight and the wind off the hill-top. Good night!”
(Goldberry in The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien)

“You can go to bed without fear;
    you will lie down and sleep soundly.
You need not be afraid of sudden disaster
    or the destruction that comes upon the wicked,
for the Lord is your security.
    He will keep your foot from being caught in a trap.”
(Proverbs 3:24-26, NLT)

What If It’s My Fault?

May 25, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I heard the little crunch as I chewed my food in the lovely little restaurant. I felt it too, right between my teeth.

But I was eating pasta. There wasn’t supposed to be a crunch. Not even if it was, indeed, al dente. My tongue snaked over to the tooth I suspected of being the culprit.

Ow!

That was sharp! As the dental specialist had warned me, the filling he put in last week was only temporary. I just expected it to be a bit less temporary than that.

I called the emergency number for the clinic. It’s possible I shouldn’t have started the message I left them with the words, “I’m not sure you could call this an emergency…”

Twenty-four hours went by before they returned my call. It’s not an emergency. It must not be. The kind young lady told me it wasn’t.

I’ll be just fine. But the 24 hours gave me time to think.

In that 24-hour interlude, my mind went back 40 years. Really. I saw it the first time I walked into his instrument repair shop. The sign over Bill’s workbench left no room for argument.

“Failure to plan on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.”

It only stands to reason. I was in the music business for over 40 years myself. I saw it again and again. Customers would wait until the day before a performance or playing test, and decide to bring in their instrument to be repaired. An emergency.

I never had a sign to which I could point. On several occasions, I wished I had.

It was their own doing. No one would have faulted me for putting up the sign.

But, back to the present, I called the emergency phone number. On a holiday weekend, I expected the unseen folks on the other end of the line to consider it an emergency for themselves.

They don’t.

My brain has been worrying at a question for longer than the 24 hours of waiting; really for over a week. Like a Labrador puppy with an old bone, I’ve been chewing at the puzzle.

I sat with my esteemed coffee group one day a week ago, and I put the problem to their collective wisdom. They each, after all, possess a college degree which grants them the privilege of being addressed as doctor by their students and peers. (My old friend reminds me that none of them is the kind of doctor who can do you any good, but still…)

I had told them previously of my experience with the lady who had a flat tire and had no one to drive her to work. One of them, in passing, had wondered about helping folks who are experiencing trouble because of their own neglect or bad choices.

On that day, we had talked at length about our responsibilities and what real help entailed. The discussion ranged from neighbors who shirk their duty of upkeep for their homes to the folks standing on the street corners with begging signs that invoke God’s blessing on those who help.

We came to no firm conclusion, but simply tossed around opinions until it seemed prudent to move to other matters.

I might have forgotten the conversation, but it was just the next morning when I found myself stranded in a nearby town, with a non-functioning auto myself.

It’s hard to admit this. My car stopped working because I did something stupid. The computer failed because I hadn’t read the owner’s manual.

Can I say this? At that moment, sitting in a parking lot thirty miles from home and without any evident resources to arrive home in a timely manner, I wasn’t thinking about whether it was my fault or not.

I needed to be rescued.

I was desperate to be rescued. And, someone did.

They never once reminded me that it was my own fault I was in that predicament. Not once. Even though I deserved it.

Kindness and grace.

Where I had earned desertion and judgment.

Mercy is a spectacular thing.

Spectacular.

Somehow, I’m not sure I need write many more lines here.

My young friend, who, each day, posts the words we call the Lord’s Prayer, already has the only conclusion needed for this little essay. Simple words we speak so glibly.

“And, forgive us our transgressions, as we forgive those who transgress against us.”

Hmmm. Perhaps, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Maybe it needs to be a bit more basic.

“So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.” (John 13:34, NLT)

While we were still without excuse, by our own deeds excluded, He died for us. Where we could have had no expectation of kindness or mercy, that’s exactly what He showered on us.

And, He commands us—yes, commands—to treat each other as He has treated us.

Grace. Not just amazing, but astonishing grace!

I’m not done chewing on it yet. I may never be.

Maybe you can help.

There’s plenty here for all of us.

But, be careful with the dental work, won’t you?

“Teach me to feel another’s woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me.” (Alexander Pope)

“When we were utterly helpless, Christ came at just the right time and died for us sinners. Now, most people would not be willing to die for an upright person, though someone might perhaps be willing to die for a person who is especially good. But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.” (Romans 5:6-8, NLT)

A Bright Spot

May 19, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My friend called me this afternoon. In the time between storms, he called because he was sure I would have some words of encouragement.

A surgery last week brought him excruciating pain, so much more than he imagined, and he is looking for brighter days.

I wrote that it was in the time between storms. Hail fell yesterday where I live—more hail than I have ever seen at one time. The car outside my window is covered in divots. Siding on my house has holes in it. Come to think of it, the two windows behind the love seat on which the Lovely Lady sits stitching have holes in them, and cracks across the width of them.

Another storm is roiling in the sky above as I write. Extremely dangerous, the weather surmisers tell us.

I told the Lovely Lady I was going to sit at my computer for a few minutes and dare the storm to stop me. The jury is still out. If I were a betting man, after the last week I’ve experienced, I would bet heavily on the storm.

And yet.

I sat in my armchair earlier, as I talked with my friend, some 800 miles away, and I told him my encouraging words.

In between the storms.

Last week? It was what most would call a disaster. Both of my vehicles, dependable to a fault for the last several years, required major work. Over a thousand dollars for each one of them, just so they could sit at the ready in the driveway once more—ready to roar into life at the turn of a key.

I had to have a root canal, too. Costing me closer to two thousand dollars than otherwise, it wasn’t an enjoyable experience, however you frame it.

My neighbor had a stroke last week, too. She’s in the hospital right now, awaiting a move to rehab, and from there, only her Creator knows what’s next.

And, moments before I went to the coffee shop yesterday to experience the hailstorm, with its machine-gun explosiveness on the metal roof and walls, punching divots in my just-repaired car, I got word that a long-time friend and business colleague had passed away. Tears flowed as I left my house to keep my appointment with a young friend in that place.

Oh.

This doesn’t seem very encouraging, does it? I said I gave my friend encouraging words as I spoke with him on the phone just a few moments ago, didn’t I?

I’m sure I did.

Surprisingly, I spent the last week thinking about good things—memories that will never fade, new experiences that meld with the unhappy junk and keep a light shining before my eyes on the dark days. I did.

I’ve got more important matters to consider than the foolishness of dental bills and checks written to mechanics.

Last week, as I learned of the cost for the repair to one of my vehicles, a young man whom I’ve known all of his forty-some years called me and offered to pay the bill for me.

I can’t help it. My mind immediately—instantly—heard those footsteps on the old stairs in that Victorian home in which my children grew up. They were the footsteps of a seven-year-old boy scuffing down the carpeted treads an hour-and-a-half after he had climbed them to go to bed.

We had told the kids at the dinner table that we had a tax payment to make and no money with which to pay it. We reassured them that we were trusting a God who provides.

The scuffing footsteps reached the ground level, and the cute little kid, carrying a metal bank in his hands, came to where I sat. Handing it to me, he told me he wanted me to have all the money he had been saving for a new skateboard.

Tears filled my eyes as I, returning to the present, told the boy, now a father himself, how much I appreciated it, but that there was no need.

Can you see the light shining?

Two days later, as I sat stranded in the dental specialist’s parking lot forty miles from home, with the darkness of worry lowering onto my head, I couldn’t help but wonder who would be able to come to my rescue, and I called my mechanic.

“Don’t bother with a tow truck, Paul. I’ll just pick your vehicle up with my car carrier. No, no need for you to wait for me. My wife is coming over right now to get you home. And, she’ll have the key to a car you can borrow until yours is repaired.”

Is it brighter out here yet?

I don’t want the reader to think I’m insensitive to danger, to sadness, to being overwhelmed with troubles. I feel them acutely. And, I don’t advocate ignoring them.

I don’t.

But, I know that above the clouds, the sun is still shining radiantly. I know that after the storm, we’re as likely to hear the birds singing sweetly.

And the darkness won’t ever defeat the light.

It won’t.

The tornado warning sirens have been sounding for the last twenty minutes, as I’ve been writing. The Lovely Lady has long since left her more exposed perch in the den and made her way down to my man cave to sit under the stairs and listen to the storm reports.

Even with the storm warning screaming outside, I won’t be persuaded to despair.

There is still light enough to see the road ahead clearly.

As the worship service at our local fellowship ended yesterday, the worship pastor read some words from the Psalmist to me.

“He who resides in the shade of the Most High will find rest in the shelter of the One who rules over all of creation.”

Yes, I’m certain they were specifically for me. The pastor might tell you differently.

But now, they’re specifically for you. Even in the storm.

Rest. And, be encouraged.

The storm will pass.

His love never will.

“Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
This I declare about the Lord:
He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
He is my God, and I trust him.”
(Psalm 91:1-2, NLT)

“The Lord says, ‘I will rescue those who love me.
    I will protect those who trust in my name.
When they call on me, I will answer;
    I will be with them in trouble.
    I will rescue and honor them.
I will reward them with a long life
    and give them my salvation.’”
(Psalm 91:14-16, NLT)

Imposter Syndrome

May 17, 2025May 18, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The note came a few days ago. I haven’t answered it yet. I’m not quite certain I was really the intended recipient.

Oh—okay. It was written to me. Addressed to me. Delivered to me.

The kind lady who wrote it clearly knows the basics about me. Mostly, that I write things once in a while. And, that a few folks seem to enjoy reading my little articles.

She wondered if I would mind sharing a few pointers to help some folks who participate in a group endeavor to improve their writing skills.

I’m stumped.

I want to share my wisdom with my friend and her group. I do. It’s simply that I don’t know of any I have to spare.

I talked about it with another friend, who is a professor at the local university. She teaches young folks to write better and is a very good author in her own right.

For some reason, my professor friend thinks I know how to write, too. She gave me an idea or two about helpful hints. And, she told me (again) that I’m a good writer and would know how to share that elusive wisdom I’m not sure I can spare.

Perhaps I can clarify this a bit. I don’t need anyone to think I’m fishing for compliments. I certainly don’t want a comment section filled with back-patting encouragement intended to reassure me.

But I have a problem. I’m not the only one with this problem.

I don’t think I belong here. I haven’t paid my dues. There aren’t any creative writing classes in my resumé. None.

I’ve never had a manuscript rejected. I’ve been led to understand I have to have manuscripts rejected to know what it’s like to be a writer. I’ve never had one rejected because I’ve never submitted any to be accepted.

I’m an interloper. A fake. An imposter.

Or not. It’s not always easy to tell.

I have a drive to share the lessons God is teaching me. I have the tools—computer, vocabulary (and a thesaurus, when that fails me), editor (the Lovely Lady, most days), and an imagination/creative ability.

I’ve trusted my Creator for those things. I can trust Him for anything else necessary.

So, I’ve been thinking. If my friend and her group members are willing to consider the things I believe work in my writing, I’m certainly willing to share them.

Others may want to sneak a look at my secrets, too.

Even if you, too, wonder if I’m qualified at all. And perhaps, even a complete imposter.

So, here goes:

Write about what you know. Or are learning right now. (Most of what I write falls into the latter category.)
As much as possible, write on subjects you are passionate about. Many don’t, and their readers know it.
If you don’t have a reason for the words you’re writing when you begin, you should certainly acquire one before you finish. Many of my essays have been started with just the barest of concepts (like a snippet of a real-life story). Sometimes, nothing significant develops. When this happens, I put the rough draft on the shelf and let it simmer for a while. Don’t publish something simply because you’ve worked hard on it.
Leave room for your readers to digest the words you’ve put on the page. I do this with short paragraphs (often, of only one sentence), sentence fragments where appropriate, and quotes from other sources. Leave plenty of white space on each page. In art, this is called negative space, and is more necessity than preference if you want to keep your readers engaged.
Be creative. Break rules when you need to (but only if you can still communicate clearly to your target group).
Excellence is essential. The suggestion directly above gives no excuse for poor grammar, wrong spellings, and misplaced punctuation. Use an editor, read every article aloud, and re-read it two or three times before you click the publish button. I have a competent editor in the Lovely Lady who lives with me, but you’ll need to find your own. I have also installed a good online editor on all the devices I use. Grammarly is free in its basic form and has more comprehensive levels available for the cost of a subscription.
Know your target audience. Write for them, but don’t be so worried about what they think of your writing that you hold back on your content. As a follower of Christ, I often think of the instruction to seek to please God and not men.

That’s my list for now. I know there is more to be said, but those basics should give enough to chew on. I hope they’ll be helpful, even knowing they come from an interloper.

I’m still becoming.

Perhaps, we all are.

“Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it.” (Albert Einstein)

“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.” (Philippians 1:6, NLT)

How Far Will I Go?

May 13, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Hey Brian! Give me a pump!”

I’m aging myself to admit the words came from my mouth. Seven years old, just a skinny tow-headed scruff, I slouched along the side of the street, hoping for a ride home.

My buddy looked over as he stood on his bicycle pedals to engage the coaster brakes. Coming to a stop beside me, he admitted he wasn’t that sure he could do it, but nonetheless agreed to let me ride on the handlebars of the little red single-speed bike.

I hopped up, and he pushed off. We didn’t make it even a block down the road toward my house before the two-wheeler began to wobble dangerously. I launched myself forward onto the grass beside the street as he tumbled to the ground, tangled up in his pretty little ride.

When he stood up, the right knee of his jeans was ripped, and blood dripped slowly from the scrape on his skin. There was even a scratch or two on the bicycle. He wasn’t happy.

I walked home. He went home on his less-than-pristine steed, grumbling about the pain. And the scratches.

Somehow, I blame that event for the decline of our friendship. There could have been other factors, but this one, I remember vividly.

I wonder sometimes if he remembers that event. It came to my mind again as I considered something that happened earlier today.

I was walking to collect the Lovely Lady from work this afternoon when I saw the car in one of the driveways. It was backing out, so I waited until the SUV was on the road. The lady driving it hadn’t seen me and gave a little “so-sorry” wave as she drove away.

I heard the whomp-whomp-whomp of a flat tire as she accelerated. She didn’t drive far, pulling into a nearby parking lot to back into a vacant spot as I approached on foot.

My daddy taught me that one never assumes people are okay, so I veered across the grass to ask if she needed help. She told me she had no spare, but her daughter was coming to get her, and then waved me off.

Ten minutes later, as the Lovely Lady and I walked back the other way, I saw her sitting there still. I had already checked, so was certain it was just a matter of a few minutes before she was rescued.

But (my daddy, you know), we both stopped to check on her again.

Her daughter wasn’t coming.

“It’s complicated.”

I wondered aloud if we could go get our car (a block or so away at home) and take her where she needed to be. She said she needed to be at work, but it was nearly 20 miles away.

Twenty miles! I wasn’t taking her twenty miles!

She saw my reaction and told me it was okay. She’d get there somehow.

Well?? It was twenty miles. One way. A forty-mile trip.

I needed lunch. And a nap. Needed them.

“Who is my neighbor?”

How far is far enough? Or, too far?

Is in town the limit? Five miles? Ten?

Almost every time I pray these days, I ask for wisdom to see the folks God brings across my path—folks He intends for me to love with His heart, to touch with His compassion. Those neighbors Jesus was talking about when He told us we were to love them in the same way we love ourselves. (Mark 12:30-31)

I pray the words, but when He answers with live candidates, I want the option to set limitations.

Can I say this? The ride to and from her work was a joy. I mean it. Ask the Lovely Lady who rode beside me.

A joy.

We learned about how it’s complicated with her daughter. We learned how God is answering prayer for her in other areas of her life. We were blessed by her genuine gratitude for a simple kindness.

This world is a hard place.

Our Creator gives us ways to make it softer. Brighter. More lovely.

And, to point others to Him.

I still got my nap. And my lunch.

The nap was sweeter. My turkey sandwich tasted better.

How far will we go for Love?

What if He wants us to go farther than that?

“Erecting walls around themselves, instead of bridges into the lives of others; shutting out life.”
(Joseph Fort Newton)

“The man answered, ‘You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your strength, and all your mind.’ And, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’
‘Right!’ Jesus told him. ‘Do this and you will live!’
The man wanted to justify his actions, so he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?'”
(Luke 10:27-29, NLT)

Parts is Parts

May 7, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was only mowing the lawn. There was no intent on my part to be an object lesson. I suppose there usually isn’t. Intent, that is.

It just seems to happen.

Over the years, the equipment I use on the lawns (did I say I mow three of them these days?) has gotten much louder. The mower, the trimmer, the leaf blower—all of them—louder.

I don’t hear well anymore. I blame my high school marching band. From fifty years ago. It might also have something to do with other, more recent things. I’m not sure.

I have been to the audiologist. She says I need protection for my ears. I think it’s like latching the barn doors after the cows have escaped, but there is a possibility I could lose still more of my hearing.

So, I have bought some ear protection. Headphones. Bluetooth, they’re called—or some such word. I don’t know how it works. I just know I can play music from the phone in my pocket, and it comes out of the insulated, cushioned flaps over my ears.

I suppose some would argue it’s not much of a solution, because I’ve still got noise going to my ears, but since my days of listening to heavy metal music are a thing of the dim, distant past, there’s not much danger of blowing out an eardrum.

I like to listen to quieter music these days. Praise and Worship, sometimes. Choir music, even. Perhaps, with a few familiar hymns thrown in here and there. I sing along with the dulcet tones coming out of the headphones.

In my own not-so-dulcet tones, I sing—often at the top of my lungs. The little horse I wrote about not long ago is mostly gone, so I’m taking advantage of the opportunities I have.

I don’t sing the lead part, what we usually call the melody. I sing tenor. Or sometimes, alto. I suppose now and again I sing the bass part, as well.

It hit me, as I was riding along on my mower last week. When I’m working outside, singing loudly, people probably can hear me. Not well, but they can hear me.

Have you ever listened to someone singing a harmony part when no one else can hear the accompaniment music or the lead part? It doesn’t sound like anything recognizable at all.

Even if you’ve sung the song all your life, the harmony parts are not what you think of when the song comes to mind.

When I’m out there singing at the top of my lungs, anyone who hears me would likely tell you that the guy on the lawnmower can’t carry a tune in a bucket.

Tone deaf.

But I’m not. Not mostly, anyway.

There’s a point to the words I’m writing. Besides the silliness of the guy riding around his weed patch on the mower, singing loudly.

There’s a point.

Why is it so hard for us to see the big picture?

Why are we so quick to criticize the folks who actually can hear the lead part and sing along with it? Even if we can’t hear the melody ourselves?

The day is coming when the guy mowing the grass is going to blend his part with the lady singing as loudly as she can while driving down the Interstate highway. And the fellows sitting on the corner banging the plastic buckets are going to add their rhythms to the quiet humming of the girl in the subway car.

My part isn’t the same as yours. Even when the parts touch each other in unison during certain passages, we have different strengths—different accents. Some notes will sound dissonant. To some ears, they might even seem to be wrong.

I didn’t write the parts, nor did any human.

Our Heavenly Father wrote the entire work—every part, every note of it. And, like the living, functioning body He intends us to be, we are all necessary—all irreplaceable.

“The human body has many parts, but the many parts make up one whole body. So it is with the body of Christ.” (1 Corinthians 12:12, NLT)

There are some weird parts of this body. I am one of them. I freely admit it.

You, too?

Well, this weird guy is going to keep singing at the top of his lungs (and sometimes under his breath), practicing with the melody part sounding in his ears.

I hope you will, too.

Just wait until that day when we will hear all the parts together! Heavenly music!

What a day that will be.

Even so…

“I’ve always thought people would find a lot more pleasure in their routines if they burst into song at significant moments.”
(John Barrowman)

“And we will sing out,
‘Hallelujah.’And we will cry out,‘Hallelujah.’We will sing out, ‘Hallelujah.’

Shout it!Go on and scream it from the mountains.Go on and tell it to the masses,That He is God.”
(from All the Poor and Powerless, by David Leonard/Leslie Jordan)

I Ain’t Afraid

April 29, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It feels like I spend a good bit of time in the cemetery these days. And, to be honest, I don’t mind it at all.

The town’s cemetery is only a block or so away from where the Lovely Lady and I have taken up residence for the last few years. It’s convenient for our walks, with paved lanes crisscrossing the large greenspace and tall shade trees scattered throughout.

There are days when I speed through the property, scarcely glancing at the standing stones beside the byways I traverse. I often think there are more important things to do at the end of the walk, rather than wasting precious moments while being reminded of the past.

Those days are becoming uncommon—my practice more days than not, to meander among the stones, marveling at how familiar are so many of the names I espy.

Does this seem a little ghoulish? I suppose it might. But if, as I do, you believe that so much of what makes up our present reality is contained in our past, it doesn’t seem nearly as odd.

Most days, as I leave the cemetery’s boundaries, there is a smile on my face—a smile put there by pleasant memories and gratitude for fellow travelers who have lived life well, and for those lives that give testimony to the power of their faith in God.

A few weeks ago, as the Lovely Lady and I were recovering from a tiring road trip to my home state, I received a message from a friend who has lived for some time in a big city, hours away. I don’t know her as well as I do many I call friend, but it makes no difference. She had a request of me.

She had been in town that weekend to pay what may be a last visit to the places she remembers from her childhood and to stop at the graves of her parents and grandparents.

She had been disappointed in the condition of her grandparents’ stone, the years having covered it with lichen and grime. Scraping a bit off, she realized it was a bigger task than she had time for before she had to depart.

Her disappointment was significant. She didn’t want to leave the stone in that state, but there was nothing more to be done. Still, she knew it would bother her.

When her request came, it wasn’t for me to do any work, but simply to recommend someone who could see to the task of cleaning the stone for her. I don’t know anyone who does that, but I was sure that, with a little research, I could put her in touch with a prospective organization that could accomplish it.

It had been a stressful few days for me, and surprisingly, I thought this might be something that could help me get my spirits back to normal. I suggested it to the Lovely Lady, and she agreed it was a task within our capabilities. Maybe.

The next afternoon, we made our way over to find the grave with buckets, brushes, and rags under our arms. The stone was certainly in a sad state, but there seemed to be a strong possibility of success. It took most of an hour, but we were pleased with the result, as was our friend.

More than that, the memories unleashed by thoughts of the folks whose names were on the stone we cleaned genuinely did bring us a refreshing in our spirits.

What’s that?

Did we know the people?

No. Not exactly. But, as it happens, the old couple had been the previous residents of the little bungalow the Lovely Lady and I lived in when we first married. It’s close to fifty years now since we moved into that little house. But, thinking about the couple who had made a home there before we did brought to life many memories.

We talked as we worked, the ghosts of the past hovering about us. Memories awakened. Remembering the old wallpaper on the living room walls, resplendent in its silver and maroon designs. The stark little bathroom with a naked hot water tank inside the door. The joy of youthful marriage, of babies, of everyday life together. Frozen water pipes in the winter. Sweltering nights in summer. Hardships. Laughter with each other. And tears.

Did I say there were ghosts? I’m sure I must have. But, I don’t believe in ghosts.

And, somehow, just like that, I hear the Cowardly Lion in Judy Garland’s “Wizard of Oz” chanting his frightened mantra.

“I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do, I do, I do, I do, I do!”

I’ve written before that the ghosts I believe in are the memories of folks now absent—the memories, mind you—not actual spirits in the air around us. Those memories live in our minds, often inspiring us to be better people than we now are, and sometimes reminding us to do better than the folks who came before, when their memory is more cautionary tale than inspirational anecdote.

Funny. I chased a photograph into the cemetery a day ago. And by that, I mean I couldn’t get the picture I wanted from the field I usually stand in to capture sunsets, so I hurried past a few hundred graves to stand and snap the photo I wanted.

As I looked at the pic later, I saw a beautiful, ethereal wispiness in the sky above. And, just for a moment, I heard the voice of the Cowardly Lion again.

But no. Not spooks. And not even ghosts.

Just our Creator and His delicate hand on the paintbrush, reminding me that He brings people and events to mind.

To encourage.

To give us a shove when we need it.

Some folks tell me they don’t think about the past, but simply look to the future.

But, our Heavenly Father’s way is to inspire us to move forward while remembering His faithfulness in the past. And to remind us of the pitfalls along the way by telling the cautionary tales.

It’s a beautiful picture, isn’t it?

Well, yes; the photograph, but I’m actually thinking more about how our Creator understands us and meets us right where we are. Not just to be maudlin and melodramatic, but to move us to the depths of our spirits.

We are emotional creatures, designed by our Creator to feel the joy and the pain, the disappointments and the mountaintop celebrations.

We gain strength from remembering past joys, as well as from giving thanks for struggles overcome and battles won.

I think I’ll keep wandering past the resting places of my old friends’ earthly remains. Perhaps I’ll stop occasionally and maybe even talk to their stones a bit.

I’m not suggesting anyone else needs to do that. But, I also hope you won’t call anyone to bring a straitjacket. Not just yet.

Memories are good. Good memories are even better.

Still, we keep looking to the future. Home is somewhere up that way.

Up ahead.

“These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but…they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.”
(from The Weight of Glory, by C.S. Lewis)

“But then I recall all you have done, O Lord;
I remember your wonderful deeds of long ago.
They are constantly in my thoughts.
I cannot stop thinking about your mighty works.”
(Psalm 77:11-12, NLT)

Let It Rain Down

April 22, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The preacher said the words on Sunday morning. It was the day we celebrate the resurrection of our Savior from the grave where He was laid.

He said other words, but I got stuck on these. It happens. I apologize to him for it sometimes. Other times, I simply figure it was what I needed to remember from the thought that captivated my brain. I hope he’ll understand.

“God proclaims that Jesus will reign forever.”

I nodded my head. I knew this. It’s not new ground—prophecies spoken to the Messiah’s ancestor, centuries ago. But, reminders spoken on this memorable day—pointing out the truth of who He is—are necessary and helpful.

The row of chairs we had chosen to sit in was behind a lovely young family. The sweet girls directly in front of me were taking notes. They always do. As the words filled the page, there was a little doodling going on, as well. I couldn’t help but see the page of one of the youngsters’ notes.

The words weren’t exactly what the pastor had shared in his outline on the platform. She had, however, added a lovely illustration which drove the point home quite nicely. I think I’ll suggest to him that he might add some personal artwork in the slides next week. I don’t know if he’ll think it essential. Time will tell.

“Jesus will rain forever.”

Those were the words she had written.

I chuckled. Quietly. But, it almost didn’t stay that way, as the heavy rainfall beat down anew on the roof above us. It had rained for 3 days, something over five inches locally, and would continue until after lunch that day.

The young lady could be forgiven if she wondered if it would rain forever. Rainy days are a hardship for kids, especially when they’re used to being outside a lot. Okay. They’re even hard for old men like me sometimes.

Along with the words, the sweet girl had sketched a scene of raindrops, falling incessantly from the darkened clouds drawn above them.

Rain. Forever.

The pastor meant us to understand the reign of the Conquering King was, quite literally, forever.

But, as a metaphor, the eternal rain is what occupied my mind for the rest of the sermon—and beyond.

“You heavens above, rain down my righteousness;
    let the clouds shower it down.
Let the earth open wide,
    let salvation spring up,
let righteousness flourish with it;
    I, the Lord, have created it.“
(Isaiah 45:8, NLT)

The red-headed lady who raised me, she with her maxims and truisms, said it again and again (usually when she was overwhelmed):

“It never rains, but it pours.”

I had to live a few years before I understood that wasn’t an EITHER/OR statement, but one of IF/AND. She believed that whenever a trickle of rain started, the gully-washer was close behind. Troubles, she always thought.

I’d like to think that the maxim is true. In the positive aspect, I want to believe it.

Blessings fall in drops around us, plopping to earth, creating puffs of dust in the thirsty soil—in anticipation of the soaking that is coming.

“Mercy-drops ’round us are falling,
But for the showers we plead.”
(from Showers of Blessings, hymn by Daniel Webster Whittle)

Most of what I hear from folks these days is the negative, the certainty that worse is to come. I could be wrong, but I think there are still better things ahead.

Call me a dreamer if you want; I still believe our Creator gives good gifts.

Falling from Above. Good gifts. From the Father of Lights.

He will rain. Forever.

I want to be standing outside waiting in the downpour.

Come stand with me.

You can even bring your umbrella if you want.

“It is the Lord who created the stars,
    the Pleiades and Orion.
He turns darkness into morning
    and day into night.
He draws up water from the oceans
    and pours it down as rain on the land.
    The Lord is his name!”
(Amos 5:8, NLT)

“But you remain;
your years do not come to an end.
The children of your servants will settle down here,
and their descendants will live securely in your presence.”
(Psalm 102:27, NET)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips