Breathing Between the Heartbeats

September 25, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t want you to miss this.

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

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

Again and again, they come down.

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

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

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

Are you reading between the lines still?

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

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

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

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

But ahead of us is joy. Pure joy.

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

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

We’ll all sing in the choir again.

Beautiful music.

You can almost hear it from here.

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

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

Not Just Another Sunset

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

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

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

“Sunset?!!!”

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

So, sunsets it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was never ours to hold and hoard.

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

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

There are still sad things in this world.

It’s okay to grieve them.

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

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

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

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

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

It’ll be brighter with you walking alongside.

Are you coming with?

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

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

Stand and Fight

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

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

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

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

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

I may have offended.

I’ll not be apologizing.

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

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

But the books…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scarred and bent, but not broken.

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

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

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

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

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

But I’m still standing.

I think I can stand here a little longer.

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

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

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

Stand here with me awhile anyway—would you?

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

Tracing the Rainbow

August 27, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

Perhaps an explanation is in order.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Him, the King of Creation, it matters.

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

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

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

He cares. About you. About me.

I figure that’s the real wealth.

And, I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

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

Thru-Hiking

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

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

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

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

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

A gift never to be forgotten.

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

I ruined his life.

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

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

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

But can I admit something to you?

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

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

But, about being old…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faithful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walking home.

With our family.

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

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

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

Even with tears in our eyes.

Home.

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

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

Living in Luxury

August 7, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A dollar! One hundred pennies!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gone. Squandered like water onto sand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luxury of holy things!

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

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

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

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

Every one of them.

Perhaps it’s time to look for them ourselves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only we treasured it as much as He does.

Peace.

What a luxurious gift!

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

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

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

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

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

How rich we are in the only things that matter.

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

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

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

One Man’s Trash

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

I love nature. Because I believe in a Creator who started it all and who keeps it in motion by His power, I am constantly astounded by the complexity of the smallest parts of His creation.

Yesterday was no different. What was different was the location in which I found the piece of creation that amazed me.

It was outside my front door. Before my feet even touched the grass or the dirt, my eyes and imagination were captured by the tiniest of creatures—one I had never seen before. At least, so I thought.

I saw a pile of trash walking. With a total length of half an inch, it was a minuscule pile, but a pile nonetheless. I almost had to rub my eyes to be sure it wasn’t a trick of my aging eyesight.

No. I’m sure that little blob walked down the rail along my front steps. I reached down and put my hand on the rail, and it stopped. Then with just the barest touch of my index finger, I nudged it.

Down to the ground beside the steps, it tumbled. I could no longer see it in the mass of vegetation and dirt, so I just walked on to my destination up the street. But, when I returned a half-hour or so later, it was back up on the rail.

I didn’t put it there. It couldn’t have blown up there in the wind.

It must have climbed back up.

I took a photo.

It seemed to be in a hurry and didn’t want to stay still for me to get a good shot.

So, I took a video. Right along the edge of the handrail, it zipped along, stopping only when I put a hand in front of it. It had experienced that before and didn’t want to tempt fate, it seemed.

Inquiring minds want to know. They do.

What is it, this pile of trash that walks?

I did some searching and found a couple of options, but in comparing the photos I took and the ones in the scientific articles about the little camouflaged creatures, I found that this is nothing more than the larva of the common green lacewing, using the debris of its victim’s bodies for camouflage.

The beautiful, delicate creature in the main photo that accompanies this article is a mature green lacewing. Created by its Maker to destroy aphids and ants (and many other varieties of plant-killing pests), the lovely creature moves in beauty and grace to fulfill its purpose.

Just not at first.

I posted the photo and video—along with an explanation of what was pictured—on an online nature page of which I’m a member. It has inspired wonder (and dread for some) in several hundred members who pay attention to such things. Most members accepted the explanation without arguing.

One fellow in the group, though, posted two or three times, insisting it was a “trashbug”, despite my clarification. I can only assume that’s what his family and possibly his friends have always called it.

But the green lacewing goes through several stages in its life, in every stage taking on a different form. We call it metamorphosis. The word means to make a complete change from the shape and behavior of the previous stage.

The example of metamorphosis most familiar to us is that of the caterpillar, which changes from the original worm-like form to that of a beautiful butterfly.

I sat in a coffee shop this morning and bantered with my learned friends. Bob had ordered his coffee in a to-go cup today. I only mention that because the disposable cup had a zarf around it to keep his hand from being burned. Yes, it’s called a zarf. I don’t know why. Ask your AI friend online.

The lovely folks at the coffee shop write Bible references on the zarfs to encourage their customers. I’m not good enough to have thousands of verses at my mental disposal simply from seeing a reference, but Google helped me find the message. I have memorized this particular verse in the dim, distant past, but I need help some days now.

“This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!” (2 Corinthians 5:17, NLT)

It was an aha! moment for me. Not that I haven’t thought about this before. I know that our Savior is making all things new for those of us who have experienced His grace.

But, I can’t stop thinking about that guy who will never think about my insect friend as anything other than a trashbug. Even though the ugly little larva stays in that form for no more than two or three weeks of its entire life cycle.

Two or three weeks as an ugly stack of animal carcasses, and it will never, ever, be accepted as anything else. Even when it has become the spectacular and lovely creature you see in the main photo.

Trashbug!

My learned friends looked at me with disbelief when I said we can never change enough for some people. So, I asked them about a very familiar television evangelist who died recently.

“What do you think about when I say his name?”

They admitted to thinking about an adulterer and a perverted man.

Even though he repented. Even though for the decades since his public humiliation and subsequent public confession, there has been no hint of his returning to that sin.

Trashbug.

I am not my past. I’m not.

As far as the east is from the west (do the measurement yourself, if you can), my sinful past has been removed from me. Yours too, if you’ve given Him your life to make new. (Psalm 103:12)

He who has begun that work will continue it until the day when there is no more temptation left to be resisted—no more sin to turn away from. (Philippians 1:6)

You are not your past.

We are who God says we are. Not the loser people remember when they look at us.

We have become the lovely, useful children of a Loving Father. Flying on the sleek, transparent wings of His grace and mercy, we touch the world with beauty and purpose.

But, it’s easy to let the world around us draw us back. I felt the draw just recently when, in casual conversation, someone mentioned the name that bullies in elementary and junior high school once used to embarrass me.

No one uses the name in reference to me now, nor have they for many years. And yet, in an instant, I was that boy again. In my mind, I was.

But, I’m not.

He says I’m not.

The ugly duckling I was once is gone. The trashbug is gone.

Forever gone.

Now is the time to fly.

I won’t wallow in the trash again. Won’t carry it on my back. Nobody is going to knock me to the dirt and make me cry “Uncle.”

I’m going to let these wings dry in the sun for a few minutes. You’ll do a trial flight or two with me soon, won’t you?

Mount up on wings.

Leave the trash behind.

Metamorphosis.

“You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage, but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.” (C.S. Lewis)

“He raised us up together with him and seated us together with Him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus…” (Ephesians 2:6, NET)

Bless You!

July 10, 2025July 17, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

All I did was sneeze.

Seriously. I sneezed. It was a traumatic event. I may never forget it. This particular sneeze, I mean.

It happens often enough. A bit of pet fur floats past, and the microscopic dander is inhaled. The body knows what to do. Foreign bodies are persona non grata and must be expelled ASAP.

I checked with WebMD to be sure I was being accurate: “The abdominal and chest muscles activate, compressing your lungs and producing a blast of air.”

It happens most days for many. The Lovely Lady, upon arising each morning, greets the sun with several such explosions. They call it a photic sneeze reflex, and it almost always guarantees she’ll not be sleeping in on any sunny morning.

Just a sneeze.

They stuck a needle in the vein between my right thumb and index finger a week ago. “Nothing to worry about,” said the surgeon as he stood beside the gurney, a smile splitting his face. “You’ll go to sleep for a little while. During your nap, I’ll make two or three small incisions in your side. I’ll slap a piece of mesh against your abdominal wall and you’ll never have to worry about this problem again.”

He didn’t tell me he was going to put half a hundred polypropylene tacks into my belly to keep the mesh there.

I wasn’t warned about the pain level those little sharp things would induce. As I write this, a week later, it’s still difficult for me to walk without feeling them.

But, three days after my little anesthesia-induced nap, I was thinking I had at least found an even keel, a neutral ground between extreme pain and drug-induced daze. The prescription narcotic pain-reliever had been abandoned for a normal over-the-counter analgesic, which functioned nominally—as long as I didn’t try any acrobatics or even semi-swift sitting up movements.

That was before The Sneeze. There was no warning. Relaxing in my recliner, with pillows and comfort blankets piled around me, I inhaled, and the aforementioned compression of abdominal and chest muscles occurred instantly.

Simultaneously, I felt a ripping pain—almost like a knife tearing me open across my stomach. I think I screamed. You’ll have to ask her, she of the half-hearted morning sneezes that greet the sun. She was sitting nearby, stitching on a project. I’m certain she had to recount threads to find her place again.

The pain didn’t subside with the dying away of the original blast, but kept coming in waves for some time. I said I might have screamed. I might have cried like a child who has smashed his finger in the car door, too.

Might have.

Regardless, I have determined that I don’t want to sneeze again for a good long while and am taking measures to ensure that. Time will tell.

You’re laughing, aren’t you? It’s okay. I would be laughing if it hadn’t happened to me.

But, there is more to say. About the hurts of this life. About the terrifying suddenness of its excruciating trauma.

We go through life dealing with the little hurts. Over time, there is reason to believe we have succeeded in balancing the pain with joy, the sorrows with celebration.

But the little hurts accumulate. The massive hurts seem to hide, unseen, around innocent turns in the road.

And one day, unanticipated (because we are coping, you see), there is nothing to do but live with the pain—to walk through the massive hurts.

One late night, the phone rings and a relative says, “He’s had a stroke.”

One afternoon, the police knock on the door and inquire if you are the parents of a young man who went kayaking that morning.

One morning, you awake to find a note on the pillow beside your head, informing you that your marriage is over.

There are so many of them. The small hurts. The traumatic surges and waves of paralyzing pain.

And, telling ourselves we are prepared is not the same as being exempt.

“Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall.”
(1 Corinthians 10:12, NKJV)

With tricks and trite sayings, we fool ourselves into a false hope of security. Psychology, spirituality, and ideologies are borrowed to prop up the hope.

The walls are built high. We are convinced they must be strong because we can’t see the danger through them anymore.

We’ll be okay.

Until someone sneezes. Then the silly, inane, everyday things bring the wall of protection tumbling down in an instant.

I felt it fall as the videos of the roaring river in the Texas Hill Country, and the reports of children and adults being swept to their deaths in the torrent, began to multiply in the media recently. So did many of us. Nothing can protect against this pain.

It takes our breath away. There are screams. And tears. So many tears.

But, just as I know the pain I felt sitting in that chair a few days ago will be short-lived, I am sure that there will come a day when this trauma will be a shadow, a memory of things that are gone, never to be repeated.

He promises it. Tears wiped away. No more crying. No more death. No more pain. (Revelation 21:4)

But, until then?

Pain lingers. It does. From cuts and injuries long forgotten, the pain endures, far past its due.

From losses and mistakes, cruelty and acts of nature, it persists.

And our Creator, our Savior, encourages us. He gives us hope. Not the kind of empty hope the world offers, but the kind that shines with truth and promise.

“Weeping may last through the night,
but joy comes with the morning.” (Psalm 30:5b, NLT)

One of my favorite lines from the old hymn has wormed its way into my soul in recent years. I like it dwelling there.

“Strength for today, and bright hope for tomorrow…”

It’s never been a practice of mine, but as I consider the silly sneeze that started me down this road, I remember that many folks reply to that paroxysm of the body with a hearty, “Bless you!”

I think a blessing wouldn’t go amiss right now.

For all of us, living with the pain.

Bless you!

“The Lord bless you, and keep you;
The Lord cause His face to shine on you,
And be gracious to you;
The Lord lift up His face to you,
And give you peace.”
(Numbers 6:24-26, NASB)

Hungry. And Thirsty

June 26, 2025June 26, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I woke up hungry and thirsty early this morning. That’s unusual for me.

Yes. The early part is unusual, as many of my readers already know. I don’t do mornings well. But the alarm clock in my head (which is about 10 minutes faster than the one in my smartphone) went off about 6:20.

Something else was not normal about the first statement above, as well.

After I showered and shaved, I told the Lovely Lady that I had been dreaming of bacon and eggs right before waking up. And I never eat breakfast; not the conventional breakfast menu, anyway.

Why would I dream of breakfast? Or, be thirsty when I awoke?

Perhaps it has something to do with the reason my alarm was set for 6:30 this morning. The nice lady who called me yesterday from the hospital told me I had to arrive there by 7:30. My appointment for a diagnostic procedure was set for an hour later, but they needed me there early to prepare.

I thought I had been preparing.

I have dreaded the day before this since I found out the event was scheduled. The day before meant no food. All day. Nothing but clear liquids. And, other unsavory preparations I won’t describe here.

Then the nice lady informed me that after midnight, nothing at all was to go into my mouth. Nothing means nothing.

I know. I asked her. No food, no drink, period.

I was hungry and thirsty as I neared the end of my preparation period.

Ravenous, even.

Did I say my internal alarm clock roused me early? I’m thinking that, more likely, it was the beep of the message app on my phone—the arrival of the daily verse, which a friend in Texas shares. He sends it before 6:30.

I read it about 9:00 on every other day. Not today.

I laughed when I saw the words at the break of day this morning.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” (Matthew 5:6)

What a perfect thought for the day I was headed into! I had time to consider it as I lay on the gurney, awaiting my visit with the surgeon and his team. The nurses and anesthetist teased as I whined plaintively. Cokes and hamburgers, they suggested, were waiting for me at the end of my ordeal.

Do you know what it’s like to be hungry and thirsty? I mean, really hungry and thirsty?

Not just one day without food and then a night without water, but starving and parched. Absolutely parched.

The psalmist knew what it felt like. I won’t print the whole thing here, but his thoughts are found in Psalm 42. You might recall the most familiar words with which he begins: “As the deer pants for the water, Lord, so my soul pants for you…” (Click the reference when you have time to really think about it. The entire psalm is the prayer of one who knows extreme starvation and thirst, but wants nothing more than to eat and drink without end at God’s table again.)

We don’t want that, though.

Like me and my physical appetite, we’re satisfied with the imitations nearby. Hamburgers and pop, when the table is overflowing with delicious and life-giving food, prepared by loving hands.

Money and power, selfishness and depravity, when our Creator made us to walk with Him in righteousness.

We will never be satisfied with the placebos of the world. Pale parodies of the eternal wealth He offers, they can never begin to approach it.

And yet, we who claim to be His followers chase the world. Still.

He says to come and eat food that satisfies. To come and drink of living water from a source that will never run dry.

I don’t need bacon and eggs. Or hamburgers and cola.

There is more.

More.

It was always there.

Who’s ready to eat?

“First we eat, then we do everything else.” (M.F.K. Fisher, American food writer)

“I thirst for God, the living God.
    When can I go and stand before him?
Day and night I have only tears for food,
    while my enemies continually taunt me, saying,
    “Where is this God of yours?”
(Psalm 42:2-3, NLT)

I Have Ears

June 22, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I heard him say it. I just wasn’t listening. Well, I was listening, but I wasn’t hearing.

Wait! That’s not right, is it? How would I hear, but not be listening, and at the same time have the inverse of that be true?

Maybe I could simply tell you what occurred and let you decide. If you’re listening, that is.

My friends and I had talked about many things that day. I really don’t remember what we were discussing at the moment the statement was made. It doesn’t matter. Not really.

“This is the reason I don’t go to Bible studies anymore.”

Not one of us caught it. It was probably because a couple of other voices said words simultaneously.

We said goodbye soon thereafter. Nobody said a word about what he had blurted out.

I was in the car driving home when the words came back to me, and I caught myself thinking, “I wonder what he meant by that?”

I played back the words a hundred times in my head over the next week. I wondered if I had reverted to my old argumentative ways and was the reason for his unhappiness.

When I saw him again, I asked him. And, I listened to his answer. I did.

I think we may say things a little differently from now on. We don’t ever want that sentiment to grow from the scope of bygone Bible studies to include get-togethers with friends. I don’t think it would with this friend, but why would we take the chance?

Friends listen to each other. And sometimes, they change how they interact with each other.

He’s not mad at anyone. We didn’t do irreparable harm.

This time.

Again and again, the Teacher ended His little life-lessons with the words, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” (Matthew 11:15, Mark 4:9, 23)

I have ears. Arguably, they don’t function as well as they once did, but I have ears to hear.

And yet, I miss the message. Again and again, I miss it.

In recent years, we’ve begun to use the phrase “tone deaf”, meaning that someone is insensitive to the undercurrents in a conversation. Hearing the words, but not understanding what is actually being said.

Guilty.

I am. Tone deaf.

Again and again.

I want to hear the people in my life. It may be that relationships depend on it. Perhaps, even someone’s life.

I want to hear the voice of the Teacher, too. Even more depends upon that.

I’m listening. Again.

Maybe we could all do that.

All ears.

Hearing.

“Maybe I was absent, or was listening too fast.
Catching all the words, but then the meaning going past.”
(from Aubrey, by David Gates & Bread)

So he said to Samuel, “Go and lie down again, and if someone calls again, say, ‘Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.’” So Samuel went back to bed.
(1 Samuel 3:9, NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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