Can You Carry Me?

February 8, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My writer friend posted one of those questions the other day. It asked something like, if you were invited to preach and the last text you wrote is the title of your sermon, what are you speaking about?

Just for fun, I copied the last text I had written and sent it.

“That’s fine. We should be able to get you there.”

She replied, saying those words “would preach,” but I was skeptical.

I’ve had a few wakeful nights since then and, having rolled the words around in my head a bit, have decided they just might. Preach, that is. Not that anyone wants me to do that.

I remember hearing an old timer say the words years ago: “My car isn’t running right now, so I asked my neighbor to carry me to town today.”

What an odd thing to say!

Carry me?

Why would you suggest that someone carry you? You’re just getting into their old pickup to ride a mile or two to the grocery store. I wonder.

But that’s just what it is, isn’t it? The weight of the friend rests entirely in the vehicle, being carried from the point of origin to the destination.

Carry me.

Some folks who read this will remember hearing the words. In a different lifetime, it was. A group called The Hollies sang the song.

“The road is longWith many a winding turnThat leads us to who knows where, who knows where.But I’m strong,Strong enough to carry him.He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”
(from He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother, by Bob Russell and Bobby Scott)

The title came from a slogan that Boys Town, the orphanage for boys in Omaha, Nebraska, has used for many years. The story goes that one of the older boys was lugging a younger, physically handicapped boy up a staircase when Father Flanagan suggested the load might be too much for him.

Somewhat exasperated, the young man is reputed to have retorted those exact words: “He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother.”

The words had been used before. And have been since.

But, in these troubled days we’re living through, I wonder if we’ve forgotten just what they mean. The boys knew their meaning. Implicitly.

And we should.

“And a certain man from Samaria, as he traveled, passed by and, seeing him lying there, felt compassion. He bound up his wounds, using wine and oil to clean them and, lifting him onto his mount physically, carried him to a nearby inn, caring for him there.” (Luke 10:33-34, my paraphrase)

He carried him.

Because he wasn’t heavy.

I am the son of a preacher, but not one myself. I can’t bring myself to tell others how to respond to these words. Not very preacherly, am I?

But, I have been carried myself.

I will doubtless need carrying again.

So what do we do when there is no one to carry us?

Our God will carry us when others fail us. And they have. And they will.

“I have cared for you since you were born. Yes, I carried you before you were born. I will be your God throughout your lifetime— until your hair is white with age. I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.” (Isaiah 46:3-4, NLT)

The words were written to the faithful in Israel, God’s Chosen People. But the principle applies to us as those who have been grafted into His family.

Not like those who worship idols that are only dead weight to be carried by their worshippers, our God, instead, carries us.

He carries me.

And when I stop to really consider that astonishing truth, I am convinced there is only one rational reaction.

How can I do less than carry my brother—my neighbor?

How can we do less?

“If He carried the weight of the world upon His shoulders,
I know, my brother, that He will carry you.”
(from He Will Carry You, by Scott Wesley Brown)

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
(Galatians 6:2, NIV)

Before the Storm

January 23, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I wore gloves to walk up to the university campus this afternoon. I’d be lying if I said they didn’t help. I’d also be lying if I said my hands felt good.

The wind from the north is piercing. And it promises worse to come. I would know that—even if the wannabe celebrity weather people weren’t shouting the news of the coming winter storm at the top of the Internet’s voice.

The volume of wind was shocking to the face and lungs as I walked toward my goal, struggling more for breath, perhaps, than most. It cut right through my thin gloves and coat with bone-chilling directness, leaving pain and immobility in its wake.

I didn’t think I’d play the piano this afternoon. My fingers were stiff, and a couple of the joints hurt long after I wrapped them around the bowl of warm soup prepared for my lunch.

But my mind has been working on a theme today—a theme of the Father’s love and provision. And, there’s a tune I know…

So I sat at the piano and worked my way—painfully at first—through the notes and chords. It’s a piece I’ve heard most of my life. I played this particular arrangement when I was twelve or thirteen years old, not knowing there were words that went with the tune.

You might know it as Londonderry Air. Or, as Danny Boy. Perhaps (if you were a member of a school band), you know it as Irish Tune from County Derry.

But me—I’m from a church-going background, the son of a (then) lay pastor. We learned church songs. Hymns. Maybe a new song or two from Bill Gaither, or a Southern Gospel Group.

I heard the first words that I knew went with this tune as a teenager. Dottie Rambo wrote them.

“Amazing grace shall always be my song of praise,
For it was grace that bought my liberty.
I do not know just how He came to love me so.
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.

I shall forever lift my eyes to Calvary
To view the cross where Jesus died for me.
How marvelous the grace that caught my falling soul!
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.” *

When my oldest brother and I played an instrumental version of Dottie’s song in a piano/organ duet in a morning worship service, I couldn’t understand why one man approached me after the service and wanted to know why we were playing a secular song like Danny Boy in church. In retrospect, I agree it is a bit difficult to make out what lyrics are intended to be communicated when just an old grand piano and a Hammond organ are playing the tune and harmony.

It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I learned the lyrics to Danny Boy, and even later, that I understood the words were from a father to his son, going off to war with little hope of his returning.

“Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling.
It’s you, it’s you must go, and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow.
Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy I love you so.”

If, while you listen to the little tune I’ve recorded, you want to consider either set of lyrics in your head, I have no objection. Truth be told, if you’re thinking about the lyrics, you won’t be listening closely to my stumbling, halting rendition. And that’s okay with me.

Either way, you’ll be thinking of the heart of a father who loves his child so very much and waits with open arms for his or her return.

It’s the heart of a Father who watches and protects us against that day when, all dangers passed and all journeys over, He’ll welcome us into His presence.

He watches and protects against even monster winter storms. And yes, against the occasional twinge of arthritic joints.

And we shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever.

“So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” (Luke 15:20, NIV)

Resistance is Futile

January 13, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t intend to post another piano video on Youtube today. I didn’t.

But my friend, Bob, posted a verse from Revelation 22, and I had to comment on it. Had to.

“And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.” (Revelation 22:1)

Water is life.

And mercy. And grace. Especially grace.

That would have been the end of it. Except, my friend, Lisa, from New Zealand (where they are enjoying summer while I run my heater), posted her beautiful poem, and I had to comment on it as well. Had to.
_____________________

BAPTISM

Live each breath as prayer,
carrying the mind,
a paper boat in the heart.

Do not be rushed,
but like the stream
flow steady and clear.

The stream,
with its pools for settling,
for reflecting Heaven’s gaze.

Live as though nothing worries,
is absorbed,
discharged in the current.

Walk in the flow
but sit in presence,
not hurrying,

But allowing the water of life,
with its ebbs and flow,
to minister in refreshment,

To collect
the full weight of things,
to sustain and lead.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
January 2026
____________________

That was it. I was done commenting. And reading. I sat down at the old grand piano, intent on playing. For the calm. For the emotional release. I picked up one of my mother-in-law’s books—the ones she published over 30 years ago, to give folks like me (and her) songs to play that wouldn’t hurt the fingers quite as much.

The first song I turned to was a lovely arrangement of an old, old hymn. About water. And peace. And grace.

I threw up my hands and played the song. Again and again. With tears flowing. And once, as I laughed out loud.

I can’t do the dear lady’s arrangement justice. She would have had a few things to say about my fingering. And the wrong notes. And the counting.

But, in my head, I heard her playing it with her crippled hands and then realized that she doesn’t need these simple arrangements anymore. Freed from their diseased prisons, her fingers flow over the keys (if they have pianos in heaven, and I hope they do) like the water these verses sing of.

Living water flows from the seat where God rules in love and grace, justice and mercy.

Perfect peace. Perfect rest.

Soak it in.

“Like a river, glorious
  Is God’s perfect peace,
Over all victorious
  In its bright increase;
Perfect, yet it floweth
  Fuller every day,
Perfect, yet it groweth
  Deeper all the way.

Stayed upon Jehovah,
Hearts are fully blest;
Finding, as He promised,
Perfect peace and rest.”

LIKE A RIVER GLORIOUS—1874
Music by James Mountain, Words by Frances Ridley Havergal
Piano arrangement: Viola Whitmore

Going On

January 2, 2026January 2, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s only the end of the first day of this new year, and already I’m a failure.

Only this week—albeit last year—I told a young relative that I had selected a word for the new year, which I hoped to make a key part of who I can be as the days go by.

The word is “listen”.

I told the Lovely Lady about my word for the year, and she laughed, wondering how that would work, knowing I am losing my hearing. My sister-in-law, listening nearby, reminded me of their late mother’s onetime quip to another, older family member, that he needed, not a hearing aid, but a listening aid. Apparently, I need both.

I still maintain my resolve to learn to listen. To friends. To family members. To folks I don’t know.

To God.

Instead of responding to what I think people are saying after hearing a few of their words, I want to allow them to share their thoughts in full, as I attempt to understand completely what they are telling me.

And yet, before the year was an hour old, I had ignored that resolve, blasting through a conversation with two young ladies I love with astonishing disregard for their contribution to our discussion.

I have apologized to both of them. I don’t feel a lot better about it.

Perhaps though, I should modify my first statement to say, not that I am a failure, but that already I have failed.

It seems it takes more than just failing to become a failure. It takes not trying again. Rooting around in the failure, deciding that one can do no better than the failed attempt.

Surprisingly enough, I have also decided to adopt an entire phrase, the origin of which I was unaware when I spoke it aloud to the Lovely Lady on that very night. (She was tempting me with sugary desserts, you see—and I resisted.)

Begin as you mean to go on.

If you had asked me, I would have told you that Nora Batty, a character in an old English comedy show, The Last of the Summer Wine, had uttered the words originally when talking about training a new husband. It turns out, the phrase wasn’t hers.

I used the tools I have at hand today and searched for the origin. I was surprised when Google informed me that a great preacher and evangelist from the 19th century was known to have used it first in a book he wrote in 1886.

Here’s the full quote from Charles Haddon Spurgeon in All of Grace: “Begin as you mean to go on, and go on as you began, and let the Lord be all in all to you.”

I think I like it better now than I did before.

Even after my initial failure in the new year.

There was no room for grace in the shortened version. Not even room for assistance from above.

Begin—I did that part.

Go on—I didn’t do that part.

Failure. Full stop.

Ah. But I have decided now to go on as I began. That is grace. Let’s see how that works out.

I’m nearly certain I will fail to go on as long as I need to. No matter. God is indeed all in all to me. If I let him be.

Still grace. Forever, grace.

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

You see, He goes on as He began. Always.

Without fail.

I am counting on Him to dust me off and send me on along the road of this new year. And the next one. And the next one.

The lady in the television show, Nora Batty, wasn’t all that great with her husband-training. I’d like to be better at my task.

I think I have better help than she did.

You could walk along with me on the road, too.

He’ll keep us all the way home—even if we’ve made a late start of it.

Let’s begin. And go on.

Failures and all.

“Indeed Christian, take heart in this revelation! The outcomes of your labors were never in your hands, but in God’s. You have but one task: to be faithful.”
(from A Liturgy for Those Fearing Failure, in Every Moment Holy Volume 1, by Douglas McKelvey, Rabbit Room publishers)

Suffer the Little Children

December 25, 2025December 25, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The Christmas Eve service at our church fellowship was packed tonight. The Lovely Lady and I sat near the front—by design, and not as punishment for a late arrival. She was the pianist for tonight’s carol singing, and needed a chair a short walk from the platform in which to rest for a few moments before returning to the bench facing the big grand piano again.

I arrived just before the beginning of the service, barely in time to hear the beautiful piano duet that served as a prelude to the hour-long service. There was a young couple beside me, with a 2-year-old tyke nearby, chewing on a Belvita cookie. He has learned to break the crunchy cookie crust into pieces, licking the chocolate icing in the center first, before munching the crust between his pearly white teeth.

Again and again, he grins mischievously at me as he takes another bite.

The service is filled with young families such as theirs—and with teenagers who sing out the carols boisterously (and, even a few who stand morosely, mouths closed stubbornly)—and with old gray-hairs who have never missed a Christmas Eve service and aren’t about to start now.

We sang carols. Old ones. Familiar tunes and words. It was beautiful.

The children came to the steps at the front of the auditorium to hear a story retold by a dear friend. There were thirty or forty of them. She told the story. I cried, with no handkerchief to dry my tears. The sleeve of my tee-shirt had to suffice for that.

I think it was about that same time I became aware of it—the noise, I mean. I thought back and realized it had been there the whole time. Through the piano duet, through the carols—even through the opening prayer.

There were “kid noises” sounding constantly throughout the entire service, from start to finish. Happy noises. Words being spoken to parents and grandparents. A bit of fussing might have been thrown in here and there. But it never stopped.

For the full hour, there were children making noise.

I told the pastor yesterday I would try to listen better to his message this Christmas. He seemed grateful for my willingness to try. I’m not sure he’d be as pleased now.

I really don’t know what he spoke about. I’m sure he mentioned a King who came as a baby. He talked about why that happened. I’m pretty sure that’s right.

But I didn’t hear most of it.

I looked down the row from me, and the little boy there had graduated from Belvita cookies to raisins. One at a time, he lifted them from the little box and popped them in his mouth. He wasn’t making the noise. Not this little angel. Well, maybe just a little of it.

I want to be able to blame my faulty hearing for missing the pastor’s words. It is often problematic to hear what I want to hear when there are competing sounds in the room.

But that wasn’t it.

The pastor isn’t likely to be sympathetic.

I wanted to hear the children. Wanted to.

I found myself listening for the individual sounds, the cooing of infants, the almost-words of babies on the verge of talking, even the sound effects of toddlers playing with toys.

As the hour dragged on a little and ran over a bit, I heard the sounds change from contented to impatient, and even downright crabby.

It was lovely. Every minute of it.

I think we do our Savior a disservice when we insist, “But Little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes,” in our version of Away in a Manger.

As if.

Babies cry. They gurgle, they laugh, they whine, they jabber. Sometimes, they even scream.

They’re babies, communicating with the tools they have. And He did, too.

“Children should be seen and not heard” is not a phrase spoken a single time in the Word. Not once.

I don’t always use the King James Version when sharing scripture in my writing, but I like the words Jesus uses when He’s unhappy with His disciples’ treatment of the children who wanted to see him.

“But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.'” (Mark 10:14, KJV)

Suffer. It means to tolerate. To control your natural response. To allow something you don’t enjoy.

I didn’t hear the words the pastor spoke tonight (not most of them, anyway). But I heard every word of the message I was supposed to hear.

In the non-verbal vocalization coming from almost every point of the compass in that auditorium, I heard the voice of God speak to me.

Emmanuel—God With Us—came for every single one of those little ones. The lovely, quiet ones, listening to the lady’s voice as she told the story on the steps. The sweet, compliant ones, eating their raisins in quiet enjoyment. The vocalizers, raising their joyous tones over the sound of the pastor’s voice. And yes, the crying ones who had had enough, their patience tried beyond its not-so-large capacity.

As a baby, He came. As a tween, He stood in the temple and taught. As a young adult, He wandered the length and breadth of the land, sharing the Good News that was to be.

Teaching, healing, weeping, and ultimately, dying, He showed us how to suffer the little ones, the children, who still seek life and love from Him.

Even when we can’t stand the tone of their voices. Or the language they speak. Or the way they dress.

He who came as a tiny, perhaps even annoying, child welcomes children of every tribe and nation.

We come as little children to His feet and worship again.

Suffer the little children.

To come.

To Jesus.

It’s what Christmas is all about.

“Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas, if you stop opening presents and listen.” (attributed to a 7-year-old named Bobby)

Jesus called a little child to him and put the child among them. Then he said, “I tell you the truth, unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven. So anyone who becomes as humble as this little child is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven. And anyone who welcomes a little child like this on my behalf is welcoming me.” (Matthew 18:2-5, NLT)

Music to His Ears

December 12, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It has been a month since I sat down to write. Oh, I’ve written short notes, and maybe a nugget or two of truth that have come to mind, but the act of writing has been well-nigh impossible (as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said) of late.

So tonight, I sit here in front of my monitor waiting. Just waiting. I have words inside me—I know I do. Why, just this week, I shouted words at the neighbor’s contractor in frustration. I apologized, too—a necessary evil when one shouts at a stranger.

I even talked with friends at our annual Christmas music party two nights ago. I didn’t shout at them. Still, I did use words.

But the words seem a precious commodity as I wait for them to flow now. Too precious to spend. Still, one can but try, I suppose.

Bogged down in the stuff of this earth, with inspiration in short supply, it’s easy to become disheartened. Of late, I’ve turned to the piano I mentioned in a recent post.

But part of the stuff of earth is physical limitation, and, my age creeping up on me, the fingers don’t always want to pull their weight in the piano playing process. I have a touch of osteoarthritis in my fingers, and nowadays it hurts a bit to play for longer than five or ten minutes at a time.

I’ve been somewhat vocal in my complaints to the Lovely Lady. Perhaps more than somewhat.

The other day, she handed me two books of hymn arrangements that I’ve seen before. They are arrangements her late mother published over 35 years ago, several years before her death.

A much-loved piano teacher in our little town, Viola was stricken with crippling rheumatoid arthritis when she was forty years old. Her fingers were drawn over painfully, at acute angles to the rest of her hands. Piano playing was torture for the dear lady.

Still, she continued playing until a week or two before she died at eighty-four years of age. For nearly forty-five years she suffered, mostly in silence, asking for help when she needed it, but almost never complaining about her lot.

I know better than to think there was a latent message in my Lovely Lady’s gift of those books to me, but I got the message, nonetheless. My malady is minuscule in comparison to my late mother-in-law’s burden.

I got the message; I also am enjoying the gift. In her disability, my mother-in-law determined to continue playing music worth listening to, but knew she would need music that fit her crippled hands better than that available in the marketplace.

She wrote her own arrangements that wouldn’t require her fingers to stretch out to the octaves most music is written with. Filling in with movement, instead of rich chords, the arpeggios supply the notes necessary to fill the air with beauty and strength.

I don’t suppose I need to hammer the point home. Many have already done so.

“I was sad that I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet…”

I like the Lovely Lady’s method of making the point better (even if she didn’t intend to make a point, which she avers she did not).

Help is better than a sermon most of the time. Perhaps, all of the time. My pastor may have a differing opinion.

The situation reminds me that our lives have been full of people who have taught us—by who they are and how they act—how to be the hands and feet of God here in this place. None of us has grown to any point in our lives without a few (or more likely, many) people like that.

Parents, teachers, companions, pastors, friends, even strangers on the street, show us how to walk—how to live. And, we have the opportunity to share that with the generations after us.

I’ve said many times, I hope to be such a person and not the type of man who is more easily used as a cautionary tale instead. You know—like for yelling at strangers.

The letter-writing apostle suggested that people could use him as an example of how to live. He told his protege, Timothy, that his grandmother and mother had been such people, as well; people who lived and demonstrated clearly what they believed, passing it on to their children.

I want to be known for that—not for complaining about the little inconveniences and minor hurts.

I’m going to keep working at the piano. It may never hurt less. I don’t know. But, I’m certain the sound filling the air will be more beautiful than the words of complaint could ever be.

I think Viola Whitmore might even have been pleased to hear it.

After she corrected my counting and fingering, of course.

“If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” (Sir Isaac Newton, in 1675)

“In the same way, let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father.” (Matthew 5:16, NLT)

I don’t often ask for responses from readers, but it strikes me that there are many of you who have someone who has inspired you along the way. Perhaps, they still do. Feel free to drop a note telling us about them.

Facade

November 5, 2025November 5, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Dealing with disappointment is hard.

I had plans last week. They were pretty specific. We would start the week out with a yellow house but, with the help of a crew of skilled men, would end it with a green one (or, if I win the argument about what that color actually is, a gray one).

It didn’t work out.

The job foreman told me, as they began on Thursday, that he was certain the work would be finished that week. That was before.

The men worked. The old siding came off. The new siding began to cover the walls.

On Saturday, it became evident they wouldn’t finish that week. Not because they failed in their efforts, but because the boxes of siding were empty, and the front of our home was still covered only in insulation and house wrap. The skilled men couldn’t put up materials they didn’t have.

What a disappointment!

We had guests coming to dinner on Sunday! The neighbors have to drive past the unsightly facade of our house, some of them several times a day.

I am not happy. The job foreman and his scheduler came to see me on Monday afternoon. It could have gotten ugly. I know how to make people understand how unhappy I am. I have words inside me to communicate that to them. I have facial expressions to help with that communication.

I didn’t say the words. I smiled at—and even laughed with—the men instead.

Dealing with disappointment is hard. It is. But this is simply an inconvenience. Those men are human beings who feel and care.

And that stack of wood, rocks, and glass is just that. Stuff.

More than that, the man I want to be can’t say those hurtful words without diminishing any opportunity I will ever have to show the love of God to those people whose steps were guided right to my door by Him.

Our guests came to dinner on Sunday. They walked right past the ugly facade of the house and into our home. We laughed. We prayed. We broke bread together. There was music. And joy.

Inside our homes, we share the grace and the love of Christ. The outside walls are just part of a structure, affecting the realities of life not at all, unless we let our disappointments change the course of our interactions with other souls who walk this dirt with us.

And I don’t think we want to know what chaos is caused when we mistake the facade for the heart and soul.

I was wrestling with whether to write about this tonight when an email was delivered to my smartphone. It was one of hundreds I receive in the course of any given week from other writers sharing their articles. I admit that often I simply delete these messages. I assume they do the same with mine.

But for some reason, tonight I hesitated as my finger hovered near the image of the trash can. I breathed a prayer.

“Make this something, God. Something I need.”

As I opened the email, the first words my eyes fell on were the familiar ones from Jeremiah that my father was so fond of. I had actually considered them as I wallowed in my disappointment this week.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'” (Jeremiah 29:11, NIV)

It was something. Yes, even something I needed. But not for the reason you might expect.

They’re not words to make us feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I know we use them that way. But they aren’t.

God had just directed Jeremiah, His prophet, to tell the nation of Israel that they were going to be torn from their homes and live for years in slavery and want in a foreign land. All because they needed to learn to trust Him.

The words of that verse are certainly words of promise. They are words of encouragement. But they would only come true in the middle of greater disappointment than most of us will ever experience.

In the midst of the wasteland we call failure, God promises success and blessing.

Our disappointments are not where hope ends, but where our future is assured!

I know many who read these words have other, more serious disappointments to deal with than my piddly little siding problem.

Jobs have been lost. Family members have walked away from them. The doctor hasn’t given them any hope for things to get better. Dreams have been altered or given up because of changing realities.

You need to know that even in this season of trial, our God is working out His plan for our lives.

In the midst of pain, grace and mercy abound.

It’s not the time to give up, not the time to attack innocent bystanders. Now is when we learn to walk with Him, in His strength, and in His love. Even if we walk in the dark, we are putting one foot in front of the other, as He lights the path ahead.

We want the beautiful facades.

He’s working on the astonishing home inside.

The day is coming when there will be no more disappointments; when we’ll really be home.

Just not yet.

And that’s okay. Because I trust the One who promises it.

Completely.

“Home is the best word there is.”
(Laura Ingalls Wilder)

“For it is God who works in you, both to will and to do of His good pleasure.”
(Philippians 2:13, KJV)

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)

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)

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Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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