Into the Dark

September 18, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The teenage boy was not going to buy anything. I can tell sometimes. Well really, I can’t. But, I think I can, so I pigeonhole customers as they come in. It’s not purposeful, but is simply a habit I’ve acquired from being behind the counter at this music store for a lot of years, perhaps too many.

This kid, however, I knew wasn’t buying. He told me so himself. That didn’t stop him from asking questions about at least five different instruments and their accoutrements. From ukuleles to drumsticks, he needed to see and touch, and discuss. I like discussing. That may come as a surprise to a few readers. Very few.

The last thing he asked about–right about closing time–was the sheet music for a song. It was, not surprisingly, a song I had never heard, but I looked it up for him in the online listing. The title was “I Will Follow You Into the Dark”, performed by a group known as Death Cab For Cutie.

He didn’t buy it. I knew he wouldn’t.

He did leave the words of that title spinning in my head all evening. I don’t know the song at all. I listened to it just moments ago, but still don’t really know what it was about, except it was a love song with some pretty convoluted theology. It doesn’t matter. The actual song had no effect on the thoughts already spinning about my brain.

I will follow you into the dark.

The words followed me as I visited my sister in her hospital room where she is recuperating from a serious surgery, the same room where she sits and considers the days which are coming. They are uncertain days, because she is walking a path she has never been down. Home health care, the need for medical supplies, the necessity of having others to help her do the things she has always done for herself.

Into the dark.

The words were still in my head as I spent a few minutes at the dinner table with my grandchildren. There is no shadow over them, no frightening future to face, unless you count the entire world with its terrorists and predators, its disasters and wars, along with a thousand other perils. No, not much darkness here–or is there?

Into the dark.

I got in my exercise after the sun went down again. The well lighted trail gives courage to run as fast as I am able and I take advantage, turning out times at which a young man would scoff, but of which I am proud. As I ran toward the hill where I had a nighttime accident a couple of years ago, I pulled up. The lamp which should light the sharpest turn in the trail was burned out, leaving the pavement in pitch darkness. The rays from the lamp just before and just after didn’t reach this place at all. I trotted forward again slowly, almost feeling my way with my feet as I ascended the fateful hill and rounded that sharp turn.

I will follow…

Who? Who would I follow into the darkness?
_____

I see, in my memory, a young boy and his father standing in the doorway of the huge store. The flashes of lightning in the sky have tripped the sensors, causing the lights in the parking lot to go off. The darkness is profound. Well, except for the brilliant lightning that spreads across the sky like fingers reaching out to snatch anything in its path. The young boy balks at going out and tugs at his father’s hand.

“It’s too dark! Let’s stay here!” he cajoles, almost hysterically.

His father, knowing that a downpour is imminent, pulls him along impatiently.

“No!” cries the boy. “I’m scared!”

With new inspiration, the father leans down and asks the little tyke, “Who’s holding your hand? Who am I?”

The boy, holding back the tears, replies, “You’re my Daddy.”

With a smile of triumph and encouragement, the man booms out, “That’s right! I’m the Daddy! And, I’ll protect you from whatever is out there. You’re safe with me! C’mon!”

Laughing together, they run into the dark.
_____

I won’t follow just anyone into the dark. Left on my own, I would turn tail and run away from the darkness, never moving forward, never growing.

Truth be known, these last few days have been a bit dark for me, and I haven’t wanted to walk through it at all. I talked about that with a friend from another state today, a man who has walked through the very shadow of death himself quite recently. He knows the right One with whom to walk into the dark.

“Paul, if we knew what the next minute held, we wouldn’t want to walk into it. We’re not asked to know, just to trust the One who walks with us.”

And, once again, I get it. The One we follow? He’s the Daddy!

I will follow Him into the dark.

It’s time to get moving again. You coming with?

If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me, and the light around me will be night,” Even the darkness is not dark to You, and the night is as bright as the day. Darkness and light are alike to You.
(Psalm 139:12,13 ~ NASB)

No, like a child in doubt and fear:
But that blind clamour made me wise;
Then was I as a child that cries,
But crying, knows his father near;

And what I am beheld again
What is, and no man understands;
And out of darkness came the hands
That reach thro’ nature, moulding men.
(From “In Memoriam” ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ English poet ~ 1809-1892)

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Shush!

September 10, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You lot are making so much noise, I can’t even hear myself think! Shush!”

The redheaded lady who raised me had had all of the chatter, all of the bickering, all of the bragging she could stand for one day. Her voice was raised above the hullabaloo of the five children in the house and the silence that ensued was deafening–in a strange sort of way. It was only a momentary respite, but in that short time period, I remember thinking about the strange words she has just uttered.

“…I can’t even hear myself think!”

What does that mean? Thoughts were inside your head. How could anything from outside drown out thoughts?

Moving a few years past the redheaded lady’s cry for mercy, I hear the voice of another person of influence in my life. The silver-haired man stood in front of our little class of five or six college-aged students. We all thought that we wanted to learn the skill of tuning and maintaining the piano. Expecting to begin with learning how to manipulate the tuning hammer on the strings, an obvious step in learning to tune, we were instead listening to a lecture as the diminutive man spoke of the theory of sound.

“What is the most important element in making music with the piano?” he began. “The strings? The soundboard? Perhaps, the hammers?”

With a mischievous little grin, he gave the answer in the form of a riddle. It was one which scientists (and philosophers, for that matter) have been asking for centuries.

“If a tree falls in the forest, and there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?”

Oh! I knew this! Raising my hand, I blurted out, “Of course it does!” In that instant, I was caught in his trap. He wasted no time in springing it, either.

“Wrong! Sound occurs only when there is both a transmitter (in this case, the tree falling) and a receiver (the missing person to hear it). It is a scientific fact.”

Of course, I argued. I still do. But, there was no retreat in the teacher. Soon the whole class was offering individual opinions. The noise level continued to rise, until he quieted us down.

“The point I want to make is that music only occurs when there is an instrument from which the tone emanates and a person or persons to hear said music. Transmitter–receiver; both necessary and important parts of the music.”

I didn’t go on to be a piano technician. I hate tuning pianos. The drudgery I experienced when sitting at the keyboard plinking at fourths and thirds, listening to the beats in the tones and manipulating the tuning hammer, cannot be overstated. I would never be a piano tuner.

That doesn’t mean that I didn’t understand what the teacher, my father-in-law, was driving at, though.

And now, we speed past a number of years to the night I sat in an auditorium listening to an accomplished concert pianist as he filled the atmosphere of the room with beautiful music. The system was working. The transmitter (pianist with piano) was fulfilling its function admirably and the receiver (audience) had no complaints.

Suddenly, something went very wrong. A moment before, the arpeggios and the chords had been well behaved and organized, but now they were all askew. Where crisp notes had flowed in a pleasant manner from the instrument previously, now garbled and roaring conglomerations of tones blasted the eardrums of those listening. The roaring grew louder by the second. Momentarily, I looked at the pianist, assuming that he had forgotten his music, perhaps shifting his hands up on the keyboard a half-step instead of continuing in the correct position. In that moment, though, the realization of what had happened became clear.

The pianist was doing everything right; it was the piano which was at fault. The dampers–those pieces of felt which silence each vibrating string when its part is ended, to await the next time the artist presses a key and causes the hammer to strike that string once more–the dampers weren’t functioning. All akimbo, they were hung up above all the strings. Every string on the piano was free to vibrate, without constraint. The result was musical pandemonium.

Tonight, as I remember that hideous din, my mind is drawn back to the five children and their suffering mother. I wonder if malfunctioning dampers played a part in that situation, too.

I certainly don’t want to afflict anyone with a sophomoric explanation of the need for restraint in our communication. It is likely to be all too evident as we look at the world in which we live.

The din is increasing, the unrestricted voices beginning to roar. Some days, the cacophony is so loud I despair of it ever returning to a level at which any sense can be made of it at all.

All of which makes me realize that we seem to have come full circle tonight.

Last week, this aging grandfather sat in the living room at his own home, surrounded by the noise of four young children at play. I was almost astounded to hear the words, seemingly called forth from my mouth without any intent on my part.

“You guys are making so much noise, I can’t hear myself think! Shush!”

I can hear the red-headed lady chuckling from here.

Even in the case of lifeless things that make sounds, such as the pipe or harp, how will anyone know what tune is being played unless there is a distinction in the notes?
(I Corinthians 14:7 ~ NIV)

We have entered an era vibrating with the din of small voices.
(Matt Drudge ~ American political commentator/author)

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Time For A Nap

September 4, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A Sunday afternoon nap punctuates a morning of Worship, a good meal and the woes of the week past.

The statement was made by a reader quite some time ago, but it left an impression on me. I love my Sunday naps (and the ones that come on any other day, truth be known).

I remember my brain was jolted into activity by the wonderful comment. I still have no idea who the author was, and I’d kind of like to keep it that way. I imagined some wise person perusing my daily nonsense, finally finding a post worth commenting on and making an intellectual statement which may one day be in all the lists of quotes by famous writers, motivational speakers, and anonymous sources. Only time will tell.

I read the comment aloud to the Lovely Lady back then, finding that hearing the words brought a completely different perspective to the statement. What roused me was the use of one word in the sentence. The verb in the sentence brought me to a screeching halt. Yep, just like a period.

“A Sunday afternoon nap punctuates…”

The word nerd in me was all a-tingle instantly. The picture drawn by the sentence was vivid. Yes! They get it! The Sunday nap is the period on what is past. A full Stop. No more. And just like that, I wanted to believe that it was true. The hard week, the busy days, the weariness, all were banished with the period of the nap. This far and no further. Gandalf the wizard was on the bridge in Moria standing against the evil Balrog. “You shall not pass!”

But, just as quickly as it appeared, the vision dissolved into nothing. That’s not right, I thought. There’s no disconnection from one day to the next. There’s no full stop and restart. Perhaps, the punctuation intended was a comma. I like commas, simply because they give me a chance to catch my breath. We take a very brief rest, and we’re on to the next phrase. Yes, maybe the comma. But as I considered it some more, I don’t think that fits either. The comma doesn’t give any sense of renewal, but simply separates parts of the same idea. Just a pause, and a continuation of the same old, same old. Not much refreshment in that. No, not the comma.

We could keep going. We haven’t talked about the exclamation point! Excitement! Surprise! Shock! They’re all rolled up into one little straight line with a period below. Nope, not quite the description of a nap. At least, not a good nap.

How about the question mark? Why? How? When? It still misses the target by a good bit. I scratched my head for a moment more, and then I had it.

The semicolon.

I think the Sunday nap, or one on any other day, is best described as a semicolon. This little mark, part period and part comma (including both in its form), gives a chance to place two sentences next to each other. The sentences continue from the first into the second, both aiding each other, but each able to stand alone if need be. I’m exhausted from the events of this week; the semicolon allows me to be refreshed for the new one to come. It doesn’t force us to a full stop, nor is it merely a momentary pause; it is a chance to regenerate, to be ready to go forward. This must be what was intended in the pithy statement!

As I start to think outside the lines a bit, I’ve come to realize this thing we call time is more than a little arbitrary. We make the day start and stop at midnight, but the moments keep marching past, oblivious to our false milestones. Time pays no attention to weekends, nor to Mondays; only we humans are foolish enough to mark those anniversaries. What is true is that our past leads continuously to our future; the lessons of yesterday become the practices of tomorrow. The times of refreshment we crave and even require, simply give us a chance to regroup and move on through the days appointed to us.

Even having acknowledged the foolishness of our shortsightedness, living from work week to work week, I’m grateful for the rest along the way. I will happily admit that the nap isn’t the only thing which accomplishes this. I love the fellowship of friends and family, the joy of music, and even reading; all these and more bring about revival and rejuvenation. May we enjoy these times throughout our lives, with the real goal in sight, the goal of serving our Maker daily. Every new moment is an opportunity for service and being agents of change in the world; every encounter, a chance to show God at work in us.

The sentences are long; the semicolons between them are short and blessed. They’re not intended to stop the action; they only get us ready for what comes next. As the Bard so aptly wrote centuries ago, “What’s past is prologue.”

I’m not sure if Mr. Shakespeare also wrote the old ad copy for Lee Nails, but it speaks to us too.

“Press On!”

But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:31)

Sometimes you get a glimpse of a semicolon coming, a few lines further on, and it is like climbing a steep path through woods and seeing a wooden bench just at a bend in the road ahead, a place where you can expect to sit for a moment, catching your breath.
(Lewis Thomas~American physician, poet, and etymologist)

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In Irons

September 3, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

When life takes the wind out of your sails, it is to test you at the oars.*

I was reminded again this evening of the old cartoon that has one of the characters standing on the deck of a sailboat which is dead in the water. As he stands at the helm, waiting for the wind to come up again, he takes matters into his own hands and begins to blow into the sail of the little craft.

It is an endeavor with no possibility of success.

There is, of course, a scientific explanation for the spectacular failure of such self propulsion. The laws of nature declare that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. If both the action and the reaction originate on the deck of the same craft, each is canceled out by the other. The wind expelled from the lungs of the captain blows forward and, striking the sails, is reflected back at the same rate, to achieve precisely nothing.

The boat remains dead in the water, despite the tremendous effort of its captain.

It may already be obvious that I am speaking metaphorically when I write of boats and ships. I don’t much like being on boats. I even get a little queasy as I contemplate what Mr. Redding saw as he was sittin’ on the dock of the bay, watching the tide roll away. No. I’m thinking about these little boats in which we are sailing along through life.

There have been a few times over the course of my years when I believed that my boat was dead in the water. There was no wind from above and no current from below. And, the oars certainly make for slow going, despite what Mr. Brault may think (see quote above). Additionally, I have recently discovered another reason that a boat might be powerless while at sea.

We would probably call it pilot error nowadays. It seems, of the many mishaps which can befall our little crafts, most of them are self-inflicted. They come from hesitation, from mismanagement, even from panic. There is one maneuver which I have performed many times that causes my boat to founder and usually leads me to blame someone else, or even God on occasion.

It’s my own fault.

The nautical minded will know this little trick as being in irons. All it entails is turning the boat directly into the wind, with no chance of the sails catching its beneficial gusts, either from the sides or from the rear. The wind is still blowing, yet the craft is becalmed. Blowing directly into the bow, the wind holds the boat straight, allowing it to turn neither port nor starboard, left nor right. Trapped! In irons. It is not a position in which one wants to be caught.

It is also a position which is almost always avoidable.

I like to go in the direction I choose. I do not wish to be controlled by anyone or anything. Call it inflexibility or obstinance, or any other descriptive word that aids in rationalizing my attitude, but it remains nothing more nor less than simple stubbornness.

I want what I want––whether or not it is the best thing for me or those around me. And when I’m sitting in the boat which is caught fast in the iron grip of the wind, actually being pushed backwards, I finally realize that better choices were available.

We can’t control which way the wind blows. We can’t control if the wind blows.

We can trust the Master of the Wind.

We should probably also keep the oars handy. There is still work to be done and time in which to do it.

We’ll do it better if we’re not in irons.

“Gotta serve somebody.”
(Bob Dylan ~ American singer/songwriter)

“The answer is blowin’ in the wind.”
(see above)

*Quote from Robert Brault ~ American free-lance writer

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No Lesser Things

August 30, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Jerk!”

Sitting at my desk this afternoon, I started at the exclamation. My first thought was to wonder who uttered the crude epithet. Immediately, I realized that the word had come from my mouth. Mine!

I don’t call my customers names. Well, not out loud anyway. But the man who had just walked out the door of my music store had pushed all the wrong buttons before his exit, and I was fed up. I hadn’t even been the one to wait on him. Come to think of it, he hadn’t actually been rude to the Lovely Lady, who was. So, why was I so upset?

I was angry because of the way he treated his daughter, making snide comments about her recently acquired interest in music. As he sarcastically replied to her obvious exuberance, it was clear that he thought he was being witty. But this went deeper than a little smart mouthing. He was belittling his own little girl in front of other people. How does a father do that to his baby?

“Jerk!” I said it again, almost enjoying the way it popped from my lips as my clenched teeth parted and my jaw moved downward. But before I had a chance to say it again, memories of my own crowded my head.

I fell silent. I’m not even sure that I’m ready to talk again now.

No, I’m not going to share a little morality tale from my past. Some memories are best left as memories, and not changed to narratives. That doesn’t mean that they don’t rear their ugly heads to teach an unwelcome personal lesson now and again. These particular ones will stay personal, thanks.

I have quite a few of those unsightly reminders of my past stored away in my old hard noggin. It really doesn’t take all that much to get the replay tape rolling, and this insensitive customer wasn’t the first person to bring them to the forefront of my thoughts today.

I awoke this morning to a message from a friend. I don’t think I could exaggerate my respect for this lady, a creative and thoughtful soul. Her words were meant to encourage–and they did that–but they also dredged up a me I would rather leave buried deep in my yesterdays.

As I looked reluctantly at the me her note brought to mind, I may or may not have shed a tear or two. Nobody likes to see themselves through the unkind lens of reality and time. But the present was calling, so I girded up my loins–I mean, I got dressed, washed my face and my hair, and I went to work, thinking all the while about this process of being made into the people that our Creator intended for us to be.

The process is painful, and not easy. In the easy times, the fat times, we grow complacent and smug. By fat times, I mean the times when things come without effort and it seems that we are in control. It is easy then to believe that we are the captain of our vessel, the king of the mountain. We learn almost nothing in these times, because we see no need of anything beyond ourselves.

But, then come the hungry times, the hard times, and we realize that we are weak and needy. Why is it that God works with such power in these times? And why do they have to come so very often?

The day seemed determined to make sure that I learned this lesson. Late this evening, I headed out for my walk with a smile on my face, telling the Lovely Lady that I would return soon.

The Internet radio playing in my headphones wiped the smile off my face with the first song.

The voice I heard was Laura Story’s, her clear youthful tones seemingly belying the words, singing “Blessings.” You will find a very short excerpt of the lyrics quoted below.

The reminder that we want good things, but that we grow the most in the absence of those very things, was almost too much for me today. I was glad that it was nighttime, because the darkness compassionately hid my face from public view as once again a tear or two may have come. It certainly wouldn’t do to be seen crying on the street, would it?

I still don’t like it. But, I am starting to get it.

And what about my buddy, the jerk? I trust that the day will come, sooner rather than later, when his actions are those unwelcome memories reminding him of what he once was. Perhaps, these are the hard and hungry times for him. Time will tell.

And, what of the other jerk in this little tale? Am I on easy street from here on out? Lessons learned, smooth sailing all the way to the horizon?

Hardly. I stand here, on a downhill slide to old age, but just now beginning–that’s right–beginning to grasp the most remedial of lessons the Teacher has for me. I see a bumpy few years ahead.

I wonder if there are any other jerks out there who might be willing to tag along with me.

It seems that I might need a shoulder to cry on once in awhile.

Love is way too much to give us lesser things.
What if Your blessings come through raindrops?
What if Your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near?
(from “Blessings” ~ Laura Story ~ American singer/songwriter)

When life takes the wind out of your sails, it is to test you at the oars.
(Robert Brault ~ American free-lance writer)

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Holding Back

August 28, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The sign sits at the entrance to the old dilapidated dressing room behind the stadium. You can’t help but see it as you leave the playing field and head in to the showers.

“Did you leave it all on the field today?”

I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the words leave it all on the field used in any context other than a sporting event. The coach stands surrounded by sweaty, discouraged athletes who have just played a disastrous first half in the championship game. They are so far behind that no sane person could ever foresee a possibility of them leaving the arena with a W added to their record. The last thing the desperate coach begs of them, before they go back through that tunnel leading to the playing surface, is to leave it all on the field. The only chance they have–if there is a chance at all–is to give everything they have for every second that remains in the game.

Nothing can be held back.

I’ve never played in a championship game. I’m not an athlete. Oh, I do work at keeping fit. I set artificial goals, personal targets, at which any real athlete would scoff. There are times when I finish a five mile run and think that I left it all on the trail behind me. But the next time I go out, I find that I could have done just a little bit more, could have run a few steps faster or further if I had only tried.

I have never left it all on the field.

It is true of my physical endeavors and, to my continuing shame, equally true in the intellectual and spiritual realm.

I am embarrassed to say that I have held back nearly every time I have begun any project. I am especially loath to reveal that, in my writing, I have guarded my dragon’s hoard of ideas, my treasure trove of feelings. I have finally come to understand why that is. I finally realize why I am hesitant to lay everything out in clear view for my readers.

I’m terrified of you. Yes, you.

I want desperately to please you. I want you to read the words I toss down on the blank page and respond with wonder and awe at my erudition, my intellectual capability. And, nothing else. I want you never to disagree with me; never to argue with me; certainly never to become angry with me.

Some time ago, I joined a Christian blog site, but I eventually realized that the folks there judged my posts by their own standard of doctrinal orthodoxy. They actually wanted to argue about ideology and theology! The nerve!

Of course, you know what I did. That’s right. I changed my style of writing to fit their standards. Like the chameleon that blends into whatever environment it is placed into, I faded into the background. Posting only those items which I knew would inspire absolutely no controversy, I fit in.

I never left it all on the field there.

Tiring of the constant strain to please, I thought that I might try a different site, one where the participants would let me write honestly (so I thought). The current marketplace in which I participate is the polar opposite to the Christian site I first tried. Religion there is often met with skepticism and outright derision. A number of writers apologize before they quote a scripture verse, sometimes even inserting warnings in the description of the posts to give people the chance to move past ideas at which they might be offended.

Once again, like the chameleon blending into the background, I am qualifying my essays before posting them there.

I won’t leave it all on the field there, either. I want to be loved, not argued with.

Please love me!

I have ideas inside of my head which would shock you. I believe some things which would make you angry. Yes, I’m talking to you. You think you know me, think you understand what makes me tick. But, I’ve never left it all on the field. How do you know what I really have to say?

The Lovely Lady frequently (albeit gently) reminds me that my use of the word honestly in conversation might make people think that I actually wasn’t that–honest–all the time. She (and the people) would be correct. There is more to say, more to get into the open.

I’m trying to decide if it is time to do that; wondering when I will actually leave it all on this field.

Will you still love me tomorrow?

“Those who follow the crowd usually get lost in it.”
(Rick Warren ~ American pastor/author)

“Give of your best to the Master;
Give of the strength of your youth.
Throw your soul’s fresh, glowing ardor
Into the battle for truth.”
(Howard Benjamin Grose ~ Baptist minister ~ 1851-1939)

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The Lump

August 27, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Robert Frost, one of our most beloved poets, once said, “A poem begins as a lump in the throat…”

I don’t have any poems tonight. I do have a lump in my throat. There may or may not also be a tear in the corner of my eye.

The world is atwitter with the latest scandal; shameful actions by a young star. I refuse to look at either photos or video of the event, but I remember with a lump in my throat that she has parents who are looking on.

I received news of the death of an old friend, a dear lady who served her God all of her long life. Her passing removed her from days filled with pain and distress to a better place. But, again I remember with a lump in my throat that she has children and siblings who are left to mourn and miss her.

A number of other friends have shared news of events which are crushing them under an unbearable load–sickness, family issues, loss of homes. They cope, but still they are devastated, and this lump in my throat won’t go away.

I have no rhyming words, no iambic pentameter, not even a haiku, with which to ease the lump.

Mr. Frost went on to suggest where the lump was likely to originate. He suggested homesickness or lovesickness. I was thinking that there might be other causes, but now that I consider it, he is probably right.

We hurt because we love. Oh, I’m not speaking about the sappy, mushy stuff of novels and chick-flick movies. There are times when the lump may come because of that, but we usually get over those events quickly enough. The love that really hurts is the love that cares so deeply that it won’t give up when all else seems hopeless; the love that stays even though the heart is ripped out of those who care so deeply.

I have also felt the lump in the throat which was caused by homesickness. But, almost certainly, that lump came from the same source as the other one already described. We are homesick because we love. We love the people; we love the familiar scenes and smells and noises; we love the place we came from more than the place in which we find ourselves stranded.

Often these days, when I feel the lump, I am homesick.

Oh, I’m not homesick for any street address, and not for any place or event in my past. When this homesickness hits, I remember that I’m not home yet.

Mr. Frost may have been remembering this also as he stopped by the woods on that snowy evening. I often think of his words as I go through my days; “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

No, we’re not home yet, but we are on the road home.

Lumps in the throats and all.

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.”
(From “An Essay on Man” by Alexander Pope ~ English poet ~ 1688-1744)

Be still, my soul; the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul; thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know
His voice, who ruled them while He dwelt below.
(Katherina von Schlegel ~ German Pietist songwriter ~ 1697-1768)

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People in My Way

August 23, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m tired of walking circumspectly.

There. I said it. It may be grounds for being called before the church board. The red-headed lady who raised me might not be as proud of me right now as she usually is. But, I’ve just had it with being careful. I want to stretch my legs and run full-out. No more of this worrying about who’s in front of or behind me.

I’d like to be a road hog, taking my half out of the middle and going whatever speed I choose.

I imagine more than a couple of you are scratching your heads right now. Somebody will probably even turn to the person next to them and say, “I told you he was going nuts. He’s finally cracked.” You might not be far wrong in the assessment.

Let me see if I can explain.

The beautiful little town I live in erected an outside gym recently. It’s a wonderful affair with exercise equipment which is located out in the open air, right near the walking/biking trail I haunt. Did I say near the trail? I meant to say right smack-dab in the middle of the trail. Well, more accurately, the parks department had the gym built in the middle of the old trail and then built a bypass trail next to it for those of us who eschew the weight-lifting side of physical fitness. (That’s just for show-offs anyway.)

The problem is the outdoor gym attracts people. People who like to stand and watch other people exercising. Maybe, they’re just waiting for them to get done. Perhaps, they want to see a demonstration of the technique necessary to get ripped abs. Regardless, they stand right in the middle of the bypass trail on which those of us who really want to work out need to be riding or running. Right in the middle. When it happens, there is almost the feeling of an obstacle course.

The outdoor gym has had another effect on my exercise as well. For some reason, it has attracted many more walkers to the trail nearby, with the result being a glut of people sauntering along the trail I’d like to fly through, either biking or running. To avoid running over the little children–yes, they even bring their families out to the trail to exercise–I actually have to slow down and sometimes even move over onto the grass on the side of the trail.

Imagine my frustration as I speed up to try and meet my target time for a section of trail, only to have to slow down and work my way around all the people in my way.

Fast. Slow.

I am tired of it.

I am reminded of a phrase I read a lifetime ago in one of the James Herriot books. That’s the pen name of the British Veterinarian who wrote of his life in the Yorkshire Dales of northern England. Mr. Herriot tells of an old farmer who was complaining of his experience in a large city, a place the farmer said he’d never go again. The tall man was used to striding across the countryside with a wide gait, stretching his legs to their limit to get to his destination as rapidly as he could. When he was in the city, he was on much more level ground with sidewalks and streets everywhere, but he was greatly hampered by all the people who got in his way. He never could find his stride.

“Big steps and little ‘uns,” was how the long-legged farmer described the experience.

Big steps and little ‘uns. I know just how he felt. Oh, how I long to stretch out and go full-speed!

Ah, but there’s more to be said, isn’t there? We don’t live life by ourselves, out on the hillside. We live life in community. There are people all around.

Pesky people. People who get in the way. People who slow us down.

People who need us to slow down and pay attention. To them. And there we come to the crux of the matter, don’t we?

When we get right down to it, life is not about us.

I have yet to see a tombstone that declares proudly, “He took care of himself.” There is nothing to praise in the self-centered life; nothing to applaud about the egoist who demands his own way.

I have been such a person. I don’t want to come to the end of my life in the same condition.

The legacy I want to leave is one of having been aware of who the folks around me were. I want to understand what they need and help to fulfill it. I would like for my eyes to be on a different goal than the bank balance, or the clock on the wall.

I want that to be true even if it means I have to take a few little steps (or a lot of them). Even if it means I have to slow down or take a detour.

So–I don’t get to live life in the fast lane. I will walk circumspectly. All the word means, literally, is to look around as we go. That’s it. Look around–take care.

I can do that. And, I’ll even take a few little steps along with the big ones.

How about it? You up for looking around with me?

“Let us not look back in anger, nor forward in fear, but around in awareness.”
(James Thurber ~ American author ~ 1894-1961)

“See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.”
(Ephesians 5:15,16 ~ KJV)

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Filling the Blank Page

August 21, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I sit and stare at the blank screen. Maybe this is the way it ends…just as it began. Three years ago, I sat down one night in front of a blank screen and began to write. The next thing I knew, five hundred posts had made their way to my computer screen and thence, to the Internet. Perhaps a few have landed on your screen in the process. But, no more. I sit and blink at the stark white surface, willing ideas and words to come. The elusive characters are not cooperative.

Panic hits. Perhaps the well has gone dry. There will be no more stories, no more applications.

No.

I have been here before. There is more somewhere; I just have to dig a little deeper this time.

My mind wanders, as I contemplate the blank display in front of me . . .

My concentration is broken by a frantic skritch-skritch-skritching noise nearby. I turn my eyes away from the preacher on the stage and glance over at the young man with the buzz-cut hair. All of five years old, he is sitting with his feet tucked under his legs and a composition notebook open across his lap. The ball-point pen in his right hand is nothing more than a blur. A noisy blur, but nevertheless . . . I reach over and put my hand over his, stopping the progression of rapidly appearing lines across the blank page.

I whisper in his ear, “You know, that’s a little noisy. You can draw better if you slow down.”

The boy, who reminds me a lot of someone I once knew (I can’t quite remember who now), smiles that big impish grin and replies, not so quietly, “But Grandpa, I don’t want to draw. I want to fill up the page fast!”

The people nearby glance over, annoyed by the sudden laugh which the young artist’s grandfather is unable to stifle.

Tonight, I can’t stop my mind from pausing on that scene for a moment or two. The impatience of youth is an amusement to me from my vantage point, many years on, but it was nothing to laugh at once upon a time. There was not a moment to be lost! Adventure was waiting and every day was filled to the limit with excitement. I couldn’t wait for church to be over, or school to be out, or even for nap time to be completed. Why, I remember the time I . . .

Painting by Margaret Kirkpatrick

My reverie is interrupted by the intrusion of a voice that cracks as it fusses at me,

“Can you stop that racket? I declare, you kids don’t know the meaning of quiet!”

Grandma and Grandpa had parked their little Airstream trailer in our side yard a few days before and now she needed some time to create. Having five little imps around wasn’t helping. Well, quite possibly, it was only a couple of the imps who were causing the problem, but she took care of that with her authoritative manner. As she set up her easel, we watched with anticipation. Grandma was an award winning artist and we just knew there would be a completed painting within the next few moments.

Alas, it was not to be. As we watched, she began to cover the artist’s board with a layer of light-colored paint. Then, painstakingly, she began to draw, first one stroke, then another. After half an hour, there was still nothing to be seen on the board but a few lines. What a let down!

We took off to find some other pastime, something exciting like tossing rotten oranges at the passing cars. Tiring of that, we wandered back. Still nothing we could identify. It was frustrating, so eventually we gave up completely. When the tiny Airstream trailer left a week later, there was no completed painting left behind. I don’t know if she ever finished it.

A year or two after my Grandma passed away, I spent a couple of hours exploring the garage at her house in California. There were piles and piles of paintings, all in various stages of completion. Some were still in the condition which the little imp I had once been saw that week, many years previous. Others were almost complete. My mind finally began to grasp the frustration she must have felt at our lack of vision.

Good work takes time. A stroke here, a line there, and a dash of color over there. Little by little, the painting would begin to look more and more like the image she had envisaged. Patience and vision are essential attributes of the artist’s nature.

As I consider the incredible task of starting with the blank canvas and, after many hours of painstaking labor, completing a beautiful work of art which compels those viewing it to marvel, my mind is drawn to a particular painting I possess. It is one which my grandmother did finish and then gave to my family many years ago. The painting of my grandfather’s mandolin has almost no monetary value to anyone outside my family, but we wouldn’t part with it for any amount. For one thing, my Grandpa’s instrument is immortalized in it, even though the mandolin itself has deteriorated beyond recall, many years ago. But more importantly, the care, the patience, and the vision my grandmother invested into this one project allows me to keep her alive and close in my thoughts. After all, she as the artist is immortalized in this painting also.

Wow! Would you look at this? A page full of words. Just a few moments ago, it was blank; with not a thought in this writer’s mind.

I have to say that I am gratified to know that this never was the case for the blank page with which each of us started. The Artist has always had a vision for the finished painting; the patience He has shown as each line and shade has been added has been unending. There have been times, well more than once or twice, when I have grabbed the brush and, like my grandson in his haste to fill the page, scribbled indiscriminately. Perhaps you also have a stray line or two you have added in your impatience. Not to worry.

In the big picture–and it is a big, big picture–those lines will be blended in, if we yield the brush back to its proper master, the genuine Artist. From blank page to finished work of art, He has never wavered in the vision and scope of the entire composition.

Perhaps my namesake, the Apostle, said it best when he wrote, “I am confident of this one thing. He who began the good work in you will carry it through to completion.“

I don’t always understand the next sketched out lines; can’t always see the scene which is being filled in with variegated colors and shades of dark and light. I will just have to trust the Artist.

And, looking at the painting which is slowly taking shape on the canvas of my life, I will pray that the Artist is clearly visible to those who bother to look. Maybe that is your hope also.

We will have to follow Grandpa’s rule for drawing in church, though.

No scribbling allowed!

“Please be patient. God’s not finished with me yet.”

(Anonymous)

“Let nothing disturb thee;

Let nothing dismay thee;

All things pass;

God never changes.

Patience attains

All that it strives for.

He who has God

Finds that he lacks nothing;

God alone suffices.”

(“Poem IX”~St. Teresa of Avila~Spanish philosopher/mystic~1515-1582)

The Moon and Pizza Pie

August 19, 2013March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Hey Daddy! I’m pretty sure that the moon is blue.”

The two urchins were holding open the front screen door and looking up hopefully at the sky.

“Please be blue–Please be blue,” the younger one whispered again and again, under his breath.

Dad crossed the concrete floor of the porch and gazed up at the brilliant full moon. He stood for a moment in thoughtful consideration, aware that the two lads were considering his face with the same rapt attention he was feigning as he looked upward.

“I think…” he stopped and looked down at the boys. “I think…that it might just be blue!”

A grin crossed his face, just about the time that the same grin split the faces of both boys. There was even a sound of joy that came from someone inside the house at the pronouncement. A blue moon was something to celebrate at the house in which they grew up!

Photo by halfrain

Moments later, they were all stuffed into the old 1957 Ford station wagon and were headed to the local pizza parlor for a rare treat. Unlike the age in which we live, there was not a franchised pizza place on every corner. The people of our parent’s generation didn’t care much for pizza and it was certainly not high up on this father’s list of favorite places to dine. Thus, the concern for the blue moon among the children. A chance statement, taken too literally and turned into family lore, became the decisive factor on every occasion when someone asked for pizza.

“I’m only going to eat pizza once in a blue moon,” was what the dad had uttered on that fateful day in the distant past.

It was slim, but it was hope and the kids latched onto it, nurtured it, and played it for all it was worth, watching the sky for just such a moon as had appeared on that night. The pizza was wonderful!

My thoughts went back to that era in life earlier today as I realized that we actually have a genuine blue moon to celebrate this month. Although the term blue moon is commonly understood today to describe the second full moon in one month, that is a relatively recent definition for the term. It originally meant the extra full moon in a season (e.g., spring or summer), which should normally have just three of them. When there is an extra “third” full moon, it was called a blue moon. Today (August 20th) is the day we will see that phenomenon occur.

I looked out as I was writing this and the moon is already nearly full and very bright–so bright that, were my eyes a bit younger, I believe I could read outside by its light. As I walked into the rays of the brilliant light I cast a shadow, distinct and dark, upon the sidewalk. What a beautiful sight as the moon revolves in the sky around this huge orb and reflects the sun’s rays back to us throughout the dim night. It’s not a world-shaking event, but I’m enjoying having a second “third” full moon up in the night sky above.

I could even go for pizza.

The description of this extra full moon, the “blue moon”, is actually a little obscure in its origins. It is speculated that the name comes from a time when the clergymen in the Catholic church were responsible for determining if the new moon in the Spring was the “Easter moon”, which meant that the people could conclude their Lenten fasting, or if the moon was a “belewe”, or betrayer, moon which would force them to fast for another month. The phrase first came to light in the sixteenth century as one author bemoaned the fact that they had to depend on the clergy to tell them if the moon were “belewe”. Only in the last century has the title come to mean the second full moon in a month. And, of course, we use the entire phrase, once in a blue moon to mean any event which is rare in its occurrence.

I pause for a moment and consider that I have done it to you again.

I have spent way too much time following a rabbit trail up which few of you will want to venture with me. I love word origins and want to illuminate the meaning of common phrases, but I realize that many of you do not share that curiosity. But, if you’re still tagging along anyway, why not go just a bit further?

The young boys, just as the medieval masses, were dependent upon the judgement of someone in authority to determine the moment at which they could end their fast and enjoy the food they desired. Five hundred years after the priests declared that the correct moon was in the sky, their father did much the same thing.

As all of them gazed up at the moon, hope rose in their hearts.

Those boys don’t depend on the moon to tell them when it’s time to eat pizza anymore. Most folks in the church don’t depend on the moon to end their fasting, either. That said, we all have something upon which we are pinning our hopes. I know people who hope in their chances at winning the lottery or even the games of chance at the casino for financial security. Some trust in their own intellect or physical prowess for success, others in presidents and legislatures for peace and well-being.

Every one of those finite entities is unreliable and will disappoint eventually. What a disheartening thing it is to have your hopes dashed again and again by trusting in the wrong thing.

I see that it’s time to step down from my soap box and let you take it from here. Consider though, that there is One in whom hope may be placed, an unmovable Rock, who brings an unshakable kingdom.

There’s no guesswork about blue moons with Him, but simply a place you can rest and trust.

Oh! Just to clarify–I don’t wait for the changing moon to eat pizza, either. Once in a blue moon? That’s when we eat asparagus around here.

“When the moon hits your eye
Like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.”
(“That’s Amore”~Harry Warren/Jack Brooks)

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
(Psalm 20:7~NIV)

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He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Into the Dark

Shush!

Time For A Nap

In Irons

No Lesser Things

Holding Back

The Lump

People in My Way

Filling the Blank Page

The Moon and Pizza Pie