Humble Beginnings

October 28, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was ten years ago. I remember it as if it were yesterday.

I had taken one last trip back home with my siblings, returning with a U-Haul trailer full of memories—rife with laughter and tears.

From the treasure hoard I brought back, I shared an ancient photo with my friends. The image showed five little urchins posing in front of a battered little trailer house. I see a single tricycle to be shared between the five, along with a “swamp cooler” in front of the abode—the closest we ever came to having an air conditioner there in the tropical heat of the Rio Grande Valley.

When I shared the photo on social media, one friend who had grown up with me wrote words that felt like a slap in the face. He was merely stating a fact and certainly didn’t intend the words to dredge up the feelings they did.

“Humble beginnings.”

I admit it, I’m easily distracted. It doesn’t take much to stir up old memories and sometimes, the unpleasant feelings that can accompany them.

Did I say I remember it as if it were yesterday? The strange thing is that the episode with the photo occurred ten years ago, but the pain (which I remember no less clearly) originated over six decades ago.

Back then, an older boy, probably the ripe old age of 9, ridiculed 7-year-old me on the school bus, deriding me for being poor enough to have to live in that trailer house.

I remember blubbering that I didn’t live in the trailer anymore. My parents had purchased the old house across the street just 6 months before that bus ride.

He didn’t believe me. But when we arrived at the stop where my siblings and I were to alight, I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. Dragging him toward the bus window, I crowed in triumph.

“Come here! See! That’s where I live!”

I don’t know why my mind holds onto some events and not to others. Nor why those episodes pop into my head at the oddest of times.

We had a special service at our fellowship a day or two ago. The kids led worship, both in English and Spanish. Then the youth pastor spoke, his words being translated into Spanish as well.

I’ve told you before that I sometimes have trouble following the trail the preacher lays down in his sermon, haven’t I? A thought arrests my brain, and I can’t really move past it.

I couldn’t help it. The scripture for the young man’s sermon was from John 1, verses 35 to 39. In the text, John the Baptist tells his followers again that Jesus, who is passing, is the Lamb of God.

Two of them desert John and follow after Jesus. When He saw them following Him, He asked them what they wanted. They replied that they just wanted to see where He lived.

Jesus simply replies, “Come and see.”

Wait. All they wanted was to see where He lived? How odd!

But then I got to thinking. John the Baptist lived in the desert. He ate grasshoppers and wild honey. Wore camel hair shirts.

I can just hear them when they get to the house where Jesus is staying.

“Wow! This is better than that trailer house—I mean—desert cave, any day! Let’s follow Him for a while.”

For a minute, I even thought I might have heard a strain or two of the theme song from The Jeffersons (a TV sitcom from the ’70s and ’80s).

“Movin’ on up, to the East Side…” (You sang that in your head, didn’t you?)

He showed them where He lived!

But, I think there was more to it than that.

Humble beginnings don’t preclude moving to better surroundings. We were never intended to finish in the place in which we began.

It should be evident that I’m not talking about a physical location. I know people who have lived at the same address all their lives. I also know, beyond doubt, that they have grown and become different people from who they were at the outset.

The apostle, for whom I am named, reminded the folks in Philippi that their Redeemer would continue the work He had begun in them until they moved on to their permanent home. (Philippians 1:6)

He wants us to be content with what we have physically, but never with where we are spiritually.

The folks who followed Jesus while He walked the earth saw where He lived. Not the place, but the Person.

The place He lived changed again and again. The Person never did, walking constantly in grace and love. And in service.

The pastor reminded us the other day (I did hear other things he said!) that Jesus still says, “Come and see.”

And we, growing into the people of grace, should be saying with Him, “Come and see.”

Saying it, not in pride and triumph, but in love and humility. To all whose paths we cross, taking them by the sleeve and showing them.

Come and see.

Ven a ver.

“You are the only Bible some unbelievers will ever read.”
(John McArthur)

“He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
    out of the mud and the mire.
He set my feet on solid ground
    and steadied me as I walked along.
He has given me a new song to sing,
    a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see what he has done and be amazed.
    They will put their trust in the Lord.”
(Psalm 40:2-3, NLT)

Hope Still Keeps Its Promises

October 22, 2025October 22, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I wrote recently that I was learning to play the piano again, implying by my words that I wasn’t completely certain the outcome would be successful. The jury is still out on that question.

I have found some fodder for thought in the process, though. Just tonight, as I sat at the still out-of-tune grand piano, I played a few notes of an old song I first heard in my teen years. It wasn’t in any hymnal I ever sang from, but had been recorded a decade or two before then by a country singer of some renown.

The song is titled “Whispering Hope.”

I didn’t like the song so much. In retrospect, I think I never really considered the message.

Who needed hope, especially the kind that whispered, when you had the dreams of youth? I was going to live forever!

The future was bright, with no clouds to dim the sun.

There are clouds now. And winter seems about to set in. I know I’m not the only one who feels it—the darkness and the bitter, biting wind.

And yet, there is still a voice that whispers hope in my ears—every day.

Perhaps you’ve heard it.

Perhaps, you’re still waiting.

But there’s no need to wait. If you belong to God, hope—bright hope—has always been His promise.

“Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.” (Romans 5:5, NKJV)

In the bright glare of the sunlight, hope will be our shade.

In the dim shadow of gathering night, hope lights the narrow path ahead.

In the frigid cold of the deepest winter, hope lends warmth to the despairing soul.

It’s a promise.

And, He keeps His promises.

Still.

“If in the dusk of the twilight,
Dim be the region afar,
Will not the deepening darkness
Brighten the glimmering star?
Then when the night is upon us,
Why should the heart sink away?
When the dark midnight is over,
Watch for the breaking of day.

Whispering Hope
O how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.”
(from Whispering Hope by Septimus Winner [1868])

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops—at all.”
(from Hope is the Thing With Feathers, by Emily Dickinson)

A Piano in the Path

October 12, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m thinking about learning to play the piano.

I’m told I won’t have much learning to do, since I once called myself a pianist. It’s just like riding a bicycle, they say. Or perhaps, as easy as falling off a log.

More likely, it’s a combination of the two and will be like falling off a bicycle.

I’ve done that before, thank you. Repeating the experience isn’t on my bucket list.

But there’s a piano sitting next to my desk as I write this. It calls my name a few times a day.

Some things are meant to be. Not that I wanted another piano in the house. Or even that I thought I should play the piano again.

“Come and look at Dad’s piano,” the fellow said. I used to have some expertise regarding these instruments, so I went. After a surprising (to me) conversation about the old piano coming to our house to live, it actually happened.

A couple of weeks ago, the piano came to my late father-in-law’s old piano shop to stay. In the very room where the white-haired old man rebuilt and repaired similar instruments, the ninety-five-year-old grand piano awaits a player—and before that, a minor repair or two. I couldn’t help feeling, as I touched up the tuning on one of the bass notes earlier, that he would be proud of me.

The gentleman who passed on the ownership of the old piano to the Lovely Lady and me sat at his dining room table while I examined it on that day, a few weeks ago. His mother and father bought the piano new a couple of years before he was born. It has been his piano to play for all of his life. But he and his dear wife have decided it’s time to live where they can have some extra help, so they are downsizing.

Downsizing. It’s a strange word. Many these days are choosing to do it simply because they don’t want to be burdened by so many belongings.

But others, like my old friend, are making the journey because, as our British cousins were once fond of saying, needs must.

Needs must. A shortening of a quote from a fifteenth-century writing that said (in modern English), “Needs must when the devil drives.”

I like the shortened version of it better. It certainly sounds better than the words I say when faced with an inevitable (and unwanted) option.

“It is what it is.”

He and his wife are dispersing their mementos of a long life shared. They’re not shedding their memories, just the physical reminders of them.

It’s hard. But more folks we know are doing similar things around us every day.

I’m happy to be the recipient of the old piano. It has been a lifelong memory for my friend of his parents and his childhood. For me, it will be a memento of him for as long as I sit down to play music on it.

I wrote recently of roads I remember. This is not so much a road as a path I’m wandering these days. The difference is that paths tend to meander a bit into the future in front of us. And they’re not as well marked.

I can’t remember how many years ago it was—but I’m sure it was more than twenty—that this same friend told me my mother-in-law was teaching him to play the piano. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. She was teaching him to play the piano better.

In this house, the same house in which his old piano now resides, he was picking up the path again, the path to being a pianist.

I should mention that, over the last few years, some of my favorite music to listen to at the fellowship we attend has come from the hands of this particular old friend as he sat at the piano on the platform there. He always laughs at me when I tell him that, as if he can’t believe it. It’s still true.

I know, this is just more sappy stuff. That doesn’t make it trivial or inconsequential.

The paths and the roads we walk today have been traveled by folks whose examples we would do well to emulate. As I remember it, my friend was about my age, advanced in years as I already am, when he decided to learn more than he already knew about playing the piano.

So, I’m the perfect age to be learning to play the piano. Again.

Paths to follow. Who knows where they’ll lead?

Maybe you can think of one you need to walk down again, too.

The old piano is calling my name. I wonder if my neighbors will object too much to my answering the call at this hour of the night.

But no.

Perhaps I’ll just practice during the daytime hours for the time being.

“May you live all the days of your life.”
(Jonathan Swift)

“And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.”
(Colossians 3:17, NIV)

The Road

October 2, 2025October 2, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t sit down to write anything profound tonight. I really need to head for bed soon. The Lovely Lady says I do. She thinks when I’m not feeling great, sleep is the cure.

But, for some reason, sleep doesn’t come easily these nights. It could be the noises from my breathing and the periodic coughing bouts. It could be the aches and pains that come with growing older.

Could be.

I think sometimes I just need to remember things, and nighttime is a good time to do that.

Tonight, for some reason, I remember roads.

I remember straight-as-an-arrow roads in the Rio Grande Valley that ran out in front of the old green 1957 Ford station wagon as far as my young eyes could see. I was seven or eight then.

The future seemed as far away as that horizon did, and I was sure the road to that future was just as straight, too.

I remember roads that twisted and turned into the Sierra Nevada mountains above my grandparents’ house in the Central Valley of California. Mostly, I watched them from the back seat of the 1971 Ford station wagon with fake, plastic woodgrain on the side. I was fifteen.

The teen years didn’t feel all that happy, but I was sure the future was closer, like that next curve. Then too, I just knew the road I was on wasn’t quite as straight and narrow as I had once thought. And, as we climbed the steep mountains up to where the giant sequoias stood, it was clear there was danger along the way, bringing fear. Side by side, fear grew along with awe at the astonishing beauty of the steep slopes and abrupt precipices.

At nineteen, I remember a highway that carried me out of Texas one winter’s night and into a future I couldn’t yet see. I pulled over into the roadside park just across the state line in Oklahoma, and threw up beside the car.

The future was still up ahead, but that night, I wondered if it was too late to turn back to the safety of the past.

So many roads. A road to a church. A road where, at a stop sign, I leaned over and kissed the red-headed girl beside me for the first time, returning to that spot nearly a year later to put a ring on her finger. A road to a hospital. That one I’ve traveled more times than I care to remember. And, lots of different roads across and under old bridges the Lovely Lady and I have searched out in our leisure.

But tonight, I’m really thinking about two specific roads in recent memory.

A couple of weeks ago, not so far from our town, the Lovely Lady and I stood on a dirt road out in the country, along with our adult children and their spouses, as well as their children. The nice man pointed his camera, with its long lens, at us and recorded some memories.

We kicked up some dust, and the two-year-old grandson sat playing in the dirt and rocks to get his picture taken. I wandered over to the barbed-wire fence and let the black angus mama cow lick my fingers, leaving slobber dripping from them.

I haven’t seen the photos yet, but they’ll only be the icing on the cake after the joy of being on that road with this particular group of people.

And then, there was the gathering last Sunday afternoon in the turnaround (educated folks call it a cul-de-sac, I think) of the little road we live on now. Neighbors actually sat in chairs on the pavement around tables and shared our food, along with our friendship.

In the middle of the road, we broke bread and told our stories to each other, laughing and remembering the past.

Remembering the past; imagining the future.

Sappy stuff, isn’t it?

But somehow, I think we need more of the sappy today. Our daily lives are inundated with bad news from every source possible. And inexplicably, we’ve bought into the notion that we must digest and regurgitate as much of the bad news as possible, imposing our opinions on everyone who will stop to listen or read.

Can I say this? Most of life is lived on backroads and dirt lanes, regardless of how much time we spend speeding down the limited-access highways. Even in the big cities, most of the hours of one’s life are lived in relative solitude, surrounded by friends and family. And sometimes, alone.

Those familiar with my writing will know I’m a fan of Mr. Tolkien and will have read one or another of his “road poems” at the bottom of my essays in the past. I think I won’t disappoint when one is included below.

Some roads are of vital importance to the direction of our lives. The road we choose to walk in our faith is the most crucial.

“You can enter God’s Kingdom only through the narrow gate. The highway to hell is broad, and its gate is wide for the many who choose that way. But the gateway to life is very narrow and the road is difficult, and only a few ever find it.”
(Matthew 7:13-14, NLT)

And often, we walk that road of faith together. While the choice to walk it is made by each of us individually, company along the way is essential to our staying on the road.

We need each other as we travel. Otherwise, how will we get up when we fall?

I’m grateful for the company on the road. These folks are some of God’s best gifts, in my mind.

I think it may be time for sleep now. She could actually be right, you know. She’s been my company along the road for nearly five decades now.

Help, when we fall.

And someone to make us laugh once in a while.

Good gifts.

“Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.”
(from The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

“Remember the days of old;
consider the generations long past.
Ask your father and he will tell you,
your elders, and they will explain to you.”
(Deuteronomy 32:7 NIV)

Breathing Between the Heartbeats

September 25, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I had to write a note to Dr Cho earlier this week. In it, I apologized to him for missing the Monday night choir rehearsal.

I didn’t want to write the note. I didn’t want to miss the rehearsal he was leading. But it’s hard to sing when you can’t catch your breath. Or when the quietness after releasing your breath is just as often punctuated by coughing as not.

On Sunday, as I recognized the breathing patterns and the familiar wheeze in my chest, my first reaction was to blame my Creator.

Why, God? Things were going so well. You could have kept this from happening.

Before I go any further, I’d like to give some instructions to the reader. I’m not usually as bossy as all that, but you folks seem to feel sorry for me when I write about these little episodes that come along periodically. You may even worry about my well-being.

But, this time, I want you to read between the lines—and maybe between the words.

Just that morning, our pastor had spoken on the passage in John where Lazarus, a good friend of the Teacher, had died. His sisters had sent for Jesus days before, but He took His sweet time coming.

Martha wasn’t happy, exclaiming, “If you had been here, he wouldn’t have died!”

I hear my own words in hers. As if we (she or I) knew better than the Creator of all that is.

I came down to my little man-cave to write these few words tonight, but I find that, even now, my malady is likely to cut the words short.

I don’t want you to miss this.

God works through our lives—our challenges and our victories—to bring glory to His name and to draw those who are seeing and hearing to Himself. And, we can either be willing participants with Him, or moan and complain the whole way.

He wants good for us. I’ve said it before (and probably will again). His good gifts really do come down from above.

Again and again, they come down.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. In those days when you pray, I will listen. If you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.’“
(Jeremiah 29:11-13, NLT)

My young friend, who had a birthday today, wrote that the past year was his “Jesus year” because he was 33 years old. He told of actions he took to make it memorable as just that. It makes me happy to know men like him who are committed to living like Jesus.

But it also made me sad to remember that in that 33rd year on earth, our Savior gave His life for us. And, I was a little ashamed as I thought of my words when the first little wheeze reached my ears earlier this week.

Are you reading between the lines still?

The Bible says that for the joy that was set before Him, Jesus endured the cross.

There is great joy in the journey. There are moments of trial and near-defeat, too. During the time it’s taken me to write this, I learned of an old saint, my friend, who made his way to his eternal home tonight.

The sadness, the hardship—they’re real. Palpable, at times. I’ll stand up in a minute and make my way into the house to take a puff or two from my inhaler. Later, I’ll awake in the night when I can’t keep from coughing.

It’s what we—all of us—deal with. Life. With its astonishingly beautiful blossoms and its dreadfully painful thorns.

But ahead of us is joy. Pure joy.

With no inhalers or pills. With no tears and hurts. With no separations and no more disappointments.

We’re surrounded by a crowd of witnesses. And we’ve got each other to lean on along the way.

We’ll all sing in the choir again.

Beautiful music.

You can almost hear it from here.

“Sometimes the clearest evidence that God has not deserted you is not that you are successfully past your trial but that you are still on your feet in the middle of it.”
(Dale Ralph Davis)

“Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”
(Hebrews 12: 1-2, NKJV)

Not Just Another Sunset

September 19, 2025September 20, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She left after supper. Just took her keys and walked out the door, leaving me in the dark. I usually wait for her here. But tonight, as she pulled out of the drive, I received a text from her.

I thought perhaps she was missing me already and was sending a little note with a heart emoji. You know—just because. But no. There was just one word in the text.

“Sunset?!!!”

I don’t suppose it’s any surprise to my readers that I love sunsets. Come to think of it, I’d love sunrises too, except they come too early in the morning for me to enjoy them much.

So, sunsets it is.

I got up from my easy chair and, taking a minute to get my equilibrium (I have to do that these days, you know), headed out of the dark into the twilight of a lovely, cloudy evening.

I walk about a block to the west of our home to get clear photos of the sunsets—because I know my friends really, really want to see every sunset I stop to admire. And, they don’t want to see a pic of the back door to Patty’s house.

There were lots of folks out in the not-dark. Walking, cycling, scootering (is that a word? Oh well, it is now.), it was the perfect time to be out. I really didn’t want company, though. Which was fine, because nobody but me ever stands at the edge of that field and snaps photos of an everyday occurrence like the sun going down.

Truthfully, the sunset itself wasn’t that beautiful tonight. I was a little late getting there; the clouds were too heavy over the westering sun. The few photos I snapped weren’t spectacular; just a pinky orange sky, almost hidden behind the trees.

Disappointed, I turned away from the field. Oh well, another day it would be more spectacular.

As I turned, I discovered that someone else was, indeed, standing at the edge of the field and snapping a photo of the sun!

The young lady, most likely a student at the nearby university, didn’t stay long. A couple of snaps, and she too pivoted away from the lowering light source.

“Great minds…,” I said. I’m nothing if not a great conversationalist.

She laughed, and we talked for a few seconds about the suitability of the field for our shared activity. I mentioned that I always go all the way to the edge of the alley to make sure there are no annoying power lines in the photos. She agreed that it was a necessity.

It was not a notable encounter. I couldn’t pick the young lady out of a lineup at the local jail, if it were necessary (why it would be is beyond me). We don’t know each other’s names, nor where the other resides.

But the connection we made is impossible to miss. To me, it is, anyway.

It’s a little thing, I know. Still, we old folks talk about the young adults of today as if they have no appreciation of the good things, the things that really matter. And yet, here was this young lady, no older than some of my grandchildren, standing at the edge of the same field this old man frequents and soaking in the glory of God’s creation.

And in a season when, to some of us, hope for the future seems to be an insubstantial commodity, I’m holding tightly on to whatever I can grasp between my gnarled, arthritic fingers.

She turned along the main road, and I walked across it and back toward home. But something else was tugging at the edges of my brain. Now, what was it? Oh well, it would come sooner or later.

I was back into the darkness of my house when I remembered the elusive thought. I had seen a lot of clouds in the southern sky, and they had a little orangey pink tinge to them. Maybe they were worth another look.

Back into the golden hour, I wandered, following the same steps across the busy street from the university. If I hadn’t broken into a trot, that four-wheel-drive pickup might have had to hit its brakes, and it was clear the driver had no such intention.

The sunset was still mediocre, at best. But, looking south, I gasped at the thunderheads piled high just above the horizon. Purple, orange, and indigo, they roiled in the fading light.

It’s always a surprise to me when I see the clouds that are not in the proximity of the declining sun sharing its glorious light and color. I suppose it’s because I think of clouds as dark and dense.

In truth, clouds naturally radiate the colors of the setting sun. If there is a long line of them along the horizon, with clear skies above, the overwhelming coloration travels as far as the eye can see, around the circumference of the circle of sight.

And somehow, as my mind is apt to do, the lesson of light passed by the transient clouds reminds me that we ourselves are light bearers.

The light we bear was never our own. We never produced it ourselves.

It was never ours to hold and hoard.

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, NKJV)

With a head full of these thoughts, I wandered across the street again, taking the overgrown track through the jungle behind my house and past the old barn, itself covered by a curtain of vines, all doing their best to help time and gravity bring it to the ground.

There are still sad things in this world.

It’s okay to grieve them.

But, grieving is “for a moment”. The light is eternal. And, we must share it—with our children and our children’s children—as well as with the world that is dying for those brilliant rays to pierce the darkness where they are waiting.

The Light has shined in the darkness. The darkness will never overcome it.

I’ll admit it. These were my thoughts as I went back into the darkness of my house to await the return of the Lovely Lady, who always makes its rooms brighter for me.

But, inside me, the light is blazing like noontime on a summer day. I think I’ll keep sharing it.

Even with these clouds piled high around, His beauty will shine through.

It’ll be brighter with you walking alongside.

Are you coming with?

“If I can put one touch of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman, I shall feel that I have worked with God.”
(G.K. Chesterton)

“…that you may become blameless and harmless, children of God without fault in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world.”
(Philippians 2:15, NKJV)

Stand and Fight

September 7, 2025September 18, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I asked them a question the last time I sat with them. I have no idea why it came to mind. Perhaps it was only to remind myself.

“Do you guys have a favorite book, or series of books? You know, books you can read again and again, that still hold your interest?”

They seemed surprised, but we discussed their favorites—and mine—for a few minutes, and then moved on to other subjects. I wished later that we hadn’t. Moved on, that is.

I did it again. Argued vociferously for something I don’t really care about. Just because.

I may have offended.

I’ll not be apologizing.

Well, I probably won’t. They asked me not to the last time I did. It’s not like anyone is still upset with anyone else. We had a discussion, and it came to an end.

I simply need to remember not to bring up the same points the next time we discuss the subject.

But the books…

I was reminded that I haven’t picked up any of my old friends from the shelves for a while. The siren call of the screens is so much louder. So much more insistent. And, I’m not sure I like that.

So, I’m reading about the rabbits again. I don’t know which time it is. The seventh or eighth, I think. It doesn’t matter.

They are headed for Watership Down once more. Actually, have already arrived in the book I’m reading. But, the journey—the struggle—is never-ending. The task, the conflict, lasts a lifetime.

My mind has already jumped ahead in the story. It seemed important to me tonight. The reader may decide if it is or not.

Without giving away any spoilers, I’ll tell you that the main character, Hazel, is a rabbit who is steadfast and wise, leading the ragtag troop of rabbits on their adventures. But, in the particular conflict I’m thinking about (a real fight, by the way), he departs from the pitched battle, leaving his strong friend, Bigwig, to fight a war there seems no hope of winning.

Not explaining his plan, he tells Bigwig, “Don’t give in to them on any account.”

And then, he is gone without any explanation of why. Leaving them to defend themselves on their own. Knowing there will be pain.

I’m not a rabbit. I’m fairly certain no one reading this is one, either.

But sometimes, I wonder. Like those few beasts left behind in this story, I wonder if it’s worth the fight. If it’s worth the cost.

But then, I remember I’ve been given a charge to keep. Each of us who follows Jesus has.

“Therefore, put on every piece of God’s armor so you will be able to resist the enemy in the time of evil. Then after the battle you will still be standing firm.” (Ephesians 6:13, NLT)

“Don’t give in to them on any account.”

In the book I’m reading, the enemies, stronger and greater in number than our heroes, break through their defenses and are met in a narrow place by the one scarred and wounded warrior who was given the directive from the Chief Rabbit.

When Bigwig, bleeding and horribly wounded, is cajoled and bribed with promises of better circumstances, he only replies, “My Chief Rabbit has told me to defend this run, and until he says otherwise, I shall stay here.”

Scarred and bent, but not broken.

I’m not certain if the author of the book intended for there to be a deeper message. It’s there, anyway.

“We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed.”
(2 Corinthians 4:8-9, NLT)

Surely, I’m not the only one who’s feeling this way today.

The battle is too hard. The warriors standing side-by-side with us seem to be wounding us with their weapons almost as much as the ones on the other side of the battle line. It’s almost as if we think we are in a battle with other humans, rather than with beliefs, spiritual kingdoms, and ideological wickedness in high places. (Ephesians 6:12)

I may have made one of the errant swipes with a weapon myself. Or more than one.

But I’m still standing.

I think I can stand here a little longer.

He’s coming back soon. He said He would.

We could stand together while we wait, you and I. I promise, I’ll be a little more careful with my sharp weapons.

And, I may even apologize one more time. Or, more than once.

Stand here with me awhile anyway—would you?

“Thank you, O my God,
for loving me enough
that you would rouse
my deepest desires again through story,
appointing these longings as true signposts
planted in a war-torn and cratered landscape,
reminding me that all of history is leading at last
to a King and a kingdom,
and pointing me ever onward toward
His righteous and eternal city.”
(from Lament Upon the Finishing of a Beloved Book, in Every Moment Holy, by Douglas McKelvey)

Tracing the Rainbow

August 27, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“…Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
(from Sonnet 29, by William Shakespeare)

I have realized, throughout my life, but only in increments, how very rich I am.

Perhaps an explanation is in order.

We wandered through a gentle drizzle—the Lovely Lady and I—up to the university’s performing arts center last night. It seems likely we’ll do that a few more times in the coming weeks, since we’ve foolishly agreed to sing with the community choir again this school year.

There was no expectation of embarrassment for either of us. We’re not star vocalists, but more what you might call utility singers, covering our parts reasonably on pitch and mostly in rhythm. Mostly.

Still, I would be embarrassed before the evening’s end. Probably not for the reason you’d expect.

It was our first rehearsal, so a good bit of time was taken up with what I’d call minutiae. Expectations for attendance and the absence of cell phones were discussed, along with event dates and dress codes. And, we introduced ourselves to each other. That’s always a little unnerving. Did I say too much? Too little? Am I really that weird?

Then, as our esteemed conductor passed out the first piece of music, I was surprised to see a title I had requested several months ago. It’s a song with words long familiar from the old hymnals to many of us, but with a gorgeous, new tune. Fleshed out with beautiful harmonies in every vocal part, it may be one of my favorite choral pieces. For now, anyway.

The conductor, after all the choir members had their parts in hand, spoke in a quiet voice.

“Paul, before we sing, would you read the text for us?”

I never expected that. But it wasn’t as if he had asked me to sing a solo. I didn’t think I could be embarrassed just reading words from the page.

The new version of the song is copyrighted, so I’ve rendered a few of the more archaic (public domain) words here. It won’t matter.

“O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be.”
(from O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go, by George Matheson)

These are only a few of the words I read from the text, but they are the ones that embarrassed me. You see, I have a hard time speaking when the emotion clamps my throat closed and threatens to send tears rolling. I struggled, but read on and finished the text.

The Lovely Lady told me later that I recovered handily, but I’m sure she says things just to make me feel better sometimes. It usually works, too.

Less than a week ago, in the heat of a summer’s eve, a little thunderstorm blew up outside our door. We were happy to have the rain. The drops poured down for a few minutes, during which our grandson stood at the door with his Grandma and smiled at the commotion. As grandparents are wont to do, we smiled at him as much as at the commotion.

Moments later, I noticed the sun shining through the clouds, even though the rain continued to pepper down.

“There’ll be a rainbow,” I exclaimed, heading for the back door with my camera.

The Lovely Lady, ever the practical one, suggested that I’d get wet.

Don’t tell her, but I didn’t. Get wet, that is. Opening the door on the east side of my shop, I stood inside and peered out through the raindrops.

Barely, just barely, I saw it. Almost like someone was drawing merely the faintest outline of a faded-out rainbow that reached down and touched the ground in the Weaver’s field behind us, I could just make it out.

Waiting only a minute or two more, I no longer had to trace it through the rain, but could see it plainly. Even though the fat drops continued to pelt down, the rainbow stood out in vivid glory, its bottom clearly touching the ground just beyond the barbed wire fence.

I snapped a pic or two, one of which is posted with these words, sharing it online for my friends to enjoy. One of my buddies wittily asked the question:

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense. How much money did you rake in?”

He wasn’t the only one to mention, facetiously, the storied pot of gold we think about when we see a rainbow’s end. I laughed it off, as did he (and others).

But, after last night’s reading of that verse, I’m not laughing about it.

I wonder if we have any idea how very rich we are. We don’t need an imaginary pot of money at the elusive end of a tenuous prism in the sky to count, either. Real wealth isn’t counted in dollars and cents—or pesos and centavos—or pounds and pence.

We have a Creator, a Savior, who is concerned enough about our well-being that He puts rainbows in the sky to help us conquer our fear of the storm. And He tells us in the Psalms that He keeps a ledger of our tears. Then He promises there is coming a morning when every tear will be wiped away, every fear conquered, and every trial gone.

He cares when the throat tightens and the liquid escapes from the lacrimal glands, through the ducts, and down our faces. It matters.

To Him, the King of Creation, it matters.

He sends rainbows. Without the pots of gold, but with infinitely more wealth for us to gather in. We have to be ready to grab hold of it, though.

Sometimes, the rainbows are not up in the sky, either, but simply reminders in our hearts that He is walking beside us. Every step of the way, He walks with us.

He cares. About our spiritual state. About our emotional state. About our families and our friends. About the tears we shed.

He cares. About you. About me.

I figure that’s the real wealth.

And, I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

“I have placed my rainbow in the clouds. It is the sign of my covenant with you and with all the earth.”
(Genesis 9:13, NLT)

Thru-Hiking

August 17, 2025August 17, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The tears come more easily these days; I freely admit it. Still, more than three times in one day used to mean that something was fundamentally wrong. Trauma, illness, pain, or some such ordeal must have been experienced to cause such a flood of emotion.

None of those is in evidence right now. But, there have been tears today—several times.

I saw her in the parking lot at the grocery store we sometimes call Smallmart—the lady I once compared to Jesus as He washed His disciples’ feet. She, weak and uncertain of her own future, had taken the time to help my sister in a terrifying situation in life. And with her aid to my sister, I was helped as well.

But today, she thanked me for what I wrote about her over a decade ago. Tears came as I reminded her of how precious her gift was. Precious to a woman coming to grips with the physical realities of cancer. And, precious to a man who needed to learn a lesson in having a servant’s heart.

A gift never to be forgotten.

Home again this afternoon, I pulled the mail from the box at the street. There was a package I hadn’t expected. The handwritten note inside brought the tears once more. My old friend thanked me for my tactfulness in a recent situation and for my friendship.

I ruined his life.

Okay, that’s a little over the top. I was present at a poignant moment a few weeks ago when my friend realized that he had come to the end of a longtime calling in life. Physical changes are making it impossible for him to do his work effectively.

I tried to be gentle. It’s not my best attribute, but I did try. And, he thanked me. For that, and for an earlier time in our history when we worked through a difficult issue together.

I will treasure his letter. More than he could know.

But can I admit something to you?

I don’t know what I’m doing. I didn’t then. I don’t now.

I’m just now learning how to be an old friend. (Emphasis on the word “old”.) I have no expertise in being old. And, I’m not always that good at being a friend, old or otherwise.

But, about being old…

Nothing has prepared me for the losses. Or the pain. Or the silences.

As often as not, I feel as if I’ve lost my way. I started, in my youth, with dreams and plans. Some of them were met and exceeded. But now?

I’m not always that sure of my directional skills.

My friends, a young couple who love to walk the wooded trails, the rock-covered pathways, crossing rivers and traversing mountains (I’ve written about them before, you know), are doing a “thru-hike” of the Appalachian Trail this summer.

They started in Georgia a few months ago. Today in Maine, they passed the 2000-mile mark of the 2190-mile effort. I am in awe.

I call them a young couple, but in truth, they are deep into middle adulthood, and I’m amazed at their bravery and strength. And yet, I see the vulnerability in her writing as she sends reports to their cheering section, back home. Tears have come to my eyes more than once as I’ve read the description of their soon-to-be-completed attempt.

The closing words of her report today had the same effect again. For the third time on this day, I had to wipe the bothersome fluid from my eyes upon reading the sentiment there.

“The AT is going north, but in my heart, I’m walking home.”

I understand. Oh, I’d never attempt the Appalachian Trail myself. But I get it.

I’m making a thru-hike of my own, you see. So is everyone I know.

And, it doesn’t always seem I’m going in the right direction when I’m only trying to get Home.

There’s a map, but sometimes I think the road signs aren’t written in a language I understand. I took to the road, so certain of my route, but along the way, I’ve become a touch insecure in my sense of direction.

I sat with my PhD buddies at coffee last week and we talked about the changing topography—the shifting landscape. We agreed it’s not so easy to read the signs anymore. And, I’m not just talking about failing eyesight.

But, as worried as I am about my companions who think I can be trusted to write the correct words here, or to treat them with the respect due to old friends on the road, I am still certain that the One who began this work in us will see it through to completion. (Philippians 1:6)

He won’t leave us at mile 2000 when we’ve got just 190 more to go. Even if we’re headed in the other direction, He is faithful.

Faithful.

There’s a reason I’ve mentioned friends and companions so many times in this little essay. It may be obvious to some of you already.

We are intended to walk the road home with folks who can be depended upon to love us, to correct us, and even to carry us if need be.

“Two are better than one,
Because they have a good reward for their labor.
For if they fall, one will lift up his companion.
But woe to him who is alone when he falls,
For he has no one to help him up.”
(Ecclesiastes 4:9-10, NKJV)

We need each other. It is our Creator’s design and even His delight.

We sharpen each other, as one piece of iron sharpens another. We keep each other out of the ditches alongside the lane.

And, we just love each other. Year after year, day after day, minute after minute, we care for each other as He does for us.

And, we walk each other home. Sometimes in pain. Often, through sadness or sickness. Trembling in fear, we throw our arms around the shoulders of our companions and just walk beside them.

Walking home.

With our family.

My mother-in-law used to get a little mixed up in her directions. When telling a story, the dear lady would want to indicate the direction in which a building or other such place lay to her listeners, but she couldn’t remember it easily, so she’d just include every point of the compass in her description.

“It was north-south-east-west. Oh, you know!”

We do know. And, we can help each other get where we’re going.

Even with tears in our eyes.

Home.

“Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.”
(from The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

“Most important of all, continue to show deep love for each other, for love covers a multitude of sins.”
(1 Peter 4:8, NLT)

Living in Luxury

August 7, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Nineteen sixty-one. It was a year of change for my family. Most wouldn’t have thought the changes all that beneficial.

We weren’t living in luxury. Dad had intended to support his family with a career in the U.S. Navy. For thirteen years, he had done just fine, advancing to the rank of a Petty Officer Radioman. Then one day in 1961, he was out, purportedly with a chronic illness from which he had never suffered.

Returning to the Rio Grande Valley, where he had been stationed for a time, Dad, along with his red-headed wife and five children ranging from ten down to four years old, were living in their small mobile home parked in an orange grove, thanks to the kindness of the old farmer who owned it. The erstwhile radioman became a ditch digger with the local natural gas supplier.

You can imagine that the five urchins living in that little mobile home understood rather rapidly what it was like to survive on a tight budget. I don’t remember hearing much complaining, but it’s never easy to cut back on extras, especially for a 4-year-old who already had a sweet tooth, loving Butternut candy bars and Dr. Pepper.

One day, all the little waifs were delighted to receive a surprise gift from our grandfather. The old man (he was never anything but old to me) was in no way blessed with a surplus of luxuries in his own life, but he knew his grandchildren would enjoy the shiny silver coins he shared. Each child got a coin of their very own.

What a treasure! The Liberty silver dollars, minted forty years before in the follow-up to the Great War (commonly known to us now as World War I), featured the head of Lady Liberty on one side and a victorious eagle on the reverse, clutching an olive branch in its claw.

The little stair-step ragamuffins gathered around our parents, silver dollars clutched in dirty hands, begging to go to the grocery store immediately. Can you blame us?

A dollar! One hundred pennies!

Images of bubble gum (with Bazooka Joe comics wrapped around them!) and candy bars, along with a toy whistle or a rubber ball, flew through my tiny brain like wealth so vast, it couldn’t be grasped. A dollar to this tiny, poor tyke was luxury beyond his dreams.

We went to town. But not to the grocery store. Not at first anyway.

All stuffed into the 1957 Ford station wagon, we sat and waited for Dad at the bank. It wasn’t clear why our patience needed to be tried by such a delay, but it just gave us more time to jabber to each other about what we would buy at the HEB store down the highway.

Before we knew it, here came Dad with a small stack of dollar bills in his hand. A crisp, new one-dollar bill for each of the siblings. Even this little chubby four-year-old got one.

“Now, you can spend your dollars at the grocery store,” Dad said, taking the shiny silver coins from each of us in turn.

We thought it was a strange thing to do. A dollar is a dollar, isn’t it? But it didn’t matter to us. We were on our way to heaven-on-earth!

Over the years, we would catch sight of the silver dollars in the little box in Dad’s closet. Each time, one of us would exclaim, “Oh! There are our silver dollars from Grandpa!”

And Dad would quietly reply, “No. These are my silver dollars from Grandpa. I bought them from you.”

It took me a lot of years to understand what had happened back when my siblings and I sold our grandfather’s precious gifts to us.

Like Esau with his birthright, we happily sold our gifts from Grandpa to assuage the temporary desires that drove us. And, like Esau, the desire returned again and again. The birthright never did.

Gone. Squandered like water onto sand.

Fortunately, for the siblings in this story, that wasn’t the case. A wise father, as he approached the end of his lifetime, came for a visit with us.

He had a box with him. And, reaching into that box, he brought out silver dollar after silver dollar, one of which he handed to each of the siblings who were present.

“They were a gift from your grandfather. Now, they’re a gift from me.”

It was always his plan. For over forty years, he kept them. To give to us.

In our naivety, childish and undisciplined, we only saw the monetary value of the gift. He knew the gift was worth much more than that. He knew we would come to understand that some day.

As my mind turns over the story (I’ve had a lot of years to think about it, you know), I begin to wonder if we ever outgrow our naivety. Or our childishness.

So much wealth, we are surrounded by. So much.

And we miss it. Snatching at the useless, temporal pleasures of this world, we cannot see the great treasure we’ve been given. Gifts from above, sent from a loving Father.

One of my poet friends wrote the words recently. Her words arrested me. I mean that. Stopped me in my tracks. They are still shocking.

I hope she won’t mind me sharing a few of them here:

“I live in luxury of holy things
They are the sweet possessions of my soul.
My life is filled with all His Spirit brings.”
(from Luxury, by April Petz)

Luxury of holy things!

We are surrounded by them, covered by them, and undergirded with them. Not just enough, but a surfeit of gifts from our Creator.

It’s not my intention to make a list of these holy things. I’d never be able to enumerate them. Besides, there are books and articles written by many others more well-equipped to describe them.

I will say that there are more things on the list of holy things than ever those writings could contain. And, it doesn’t hurt to let our minds run freely over them frequently.

James says that every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights. (James 1:17)

Every one of them.

Perhaps it’s time to look for them ourselves.

I’m not going to tell you my silver dollar is one of the holy things. But it symbolizes one of them to me.

Every time I look at it—even if it’s only to see it in my mind’s eye and turn it over in my thoughts once again—I consider the holy gift of the love of a family; Love passed down from an old man to his grandchildren; Love from a father who helped his children to understand the importance of treasuring the gift.

Oh! Do you know what the numismatists (that’s a coin collector to you and me) call that silver dollar?

It’s the Peace Dollar, designed with a message of peace to a war-weary world after the horrible carnage of the Great War, one many hoped would be the war that brought an end to all wars. The word is inscribed right down at the victorious eagle’s feet on the reverse side of the coin.

World peace wasn’t to be. Peace doesn’t come at the bidding of politicians and economic manipulations of the supply of coins.

It’s a luxury, given by a loving Heavenly Father to His children.

If only we treasured it as much as He does.

Peace.

What a luxurious gift!

Another one of His invaluable holy things. A gift to us in the chaos and the strife, in the terror and the agonizing pain.

And, it’s ours—a gift from the heart of our Loving Father.

And somehow, I know, His holy things are made more holy as they are shared with others.

And the more we give them away, the wealthier we become in holy things.

Peace. Hope. Joy. Love. Grace. Mercy. I start the list again in my mind, but am overwhelmed by the wealth.

How rich we are in the only things that matter.

But, I’d still take a Butternut candy bar, too.

“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.“
(John 14:27, KJV)

“Not he who has much is rich, but he who gives much.”
(Erich Fromm)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips