Looking. Seeing

June 28, 2018June 29, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

All I wanted was a quiet place to sit and eat my burger with the Lovely Lady.

It was looking unlikely.

After a tiring day, filled with stress, heat, and hard physical labor, we stopped in for a fast-food fill-up. A burger and fries, with a coke, please. And a quiet place to sit.

It’s not too much to ask. Is it?

The little tyke had different ideas. He was not happy, that much was clear from the wailing. I wondered why his parents didn’t quiet him down. Surely, he could go play on the playground in a minute or two. Couldn’t they trade his silence for the promise of some time on the slide?

It seemed not. The noise level intensified.

It didn’t take me long to get unhappy, as well. I didn’t cry out loud. I did complain to the Lovely Lady. Out loud.

Then, I saw the boy as he ran past. Something—I couldn’t quite put my finger on what—caught my attention in the child’s face. A lady nearby was clearly interested in what was going on, as well. I assumed she might be related to the little fellow and would catch him up and calm him down.

Calm him down. . . That’s it! His eyes! The little boy was terrified of something. I said the words to the Lovely Lady, wondering what he had to be afraid of.

In a moment, the lady who had noticed his distress came carrying him up to the checkout counter and found his mother standing there. By this time, the child was so traumatized that he had no voice with which to express his emotion, only gasps of fear as he gulped air through his mouth. He was shaking, his eyes wild with alarm.

The little boy had been lost, separated from his mother! Everywhere he looked, he saw only strangers. Big, frightening adults who looked like no one he had ever seen.

As his mother gathered him into her arms, the gasping and whimpering subsided, but the trauma was still written on his face. Tears crept into my own eyes as I imagined what a horrible few minutes he had experienced.

“He was. He was terrified. You saw that,” the Lovely Lady said, smiling at me.

I sat, quieter than usual, and ate my food.

I had. I had seen him and his terror. But, it was the lady who also saw him and did something about it.

We saw him. Mostly, we had heard him, but there was—finally—a recognition that something more than a simple temper tantrum was happening.

And yet, my mind can’t move past the event.

The child will grow up. He will. The day will come when he no longer wanders, screaming, through the restaurant.

It doesn’t mean his terror will be any less.

Or ours, for that matter.

We eventually learn how to hide the fact that we need someone to hold us close. The part of us that is broken can be buried so deep we aren’t even aware of it ourselves, much less be able to express it verbally to those around us.

What if nobody sees us?

Really sees. Us.

What if nobody sees us? Really sees. Us. Share on X

A couple of nights ago, a note appeared on my phone’s screen. The lady on the other end, a former schoolmate of mine, had a message for me.

For some reason, she had been sitting and got to thinking about me and my “things”, she called them. She finished her message with a couple of thoughts.

“Everything will be good, Paul. Everything will be right.”

I haven’t told anyone I was unhappy. At no time in the last month have I wandered screaming through the local McDonalds.

It doesn’t mean I’m not broken.

She saw me.

You know there’s a difference between looking and seeing, right? They’re related, but definitely not the same.

For instance, I can look through the drawer in the kitchen, needing a spatula, but the Lovely Lady will open the same drawer minutes later and, in a second or two, see exactly what I couldn’t, picking up the spatula I was seeking all along.

I look.

She sees.

You know it’s true.

I like the phrase that made an appearance in our language—sort of a pidgin English—just over a hundred years ago, the two words that make it up seeming almost redundant.

Let’s go take a look-see.

Look-see. Important aspects, both of them, to the process.

We begin by looking. That’s where we start.

But, even if we do look, we won’t see if we aren’t aware of the necessary traits of what we’re looking for.

I wonder if we’re looking through the wrong eyes. Eyes of judgment. Eyes of selfishness. Eyes of arrogance and pride.

What if we actually looked at people to see the broken parts? What if we could look past the yelling and screaming, the cursing and criticizing, and see what really is going on?

What if we looked past the jokes and the songs and the smiles on faces to see the fear and terror that fills the hearts of people we encounter every day?

Our friends. Our family members. The bullies. The belligerents.

Could we see them through new eyes?

Would it make a difference?

Jesus saw the woman who had been caught in the act. He saw. Her.

He saw the woman at Jacob’s well, caught up in a vicious cycle of seeking love where it would not be found. And, looking through eyes colored with love, He changed her life.

Maybe I could do that. Maybe I could look through the eyes of love. The apostle, my namesake, suggested to the folks at Philippi that it was exactly what was needed.

Stop looking out of eyes that don’t see past the end of your noses. Start seeing—really seeing—others instead. And seeing, serve. (Philippians 2:4,5)

Ah. The miracle of a familiar face in a crowd of strangers! One who knows you! One who loves you, in spite of knowing you.

Look around.

See. People.

Look-see.

Change the world.

Everything will be good. Everything will be right.

“What use is care? What good is watching for that matter? People are forever watching things. They should be seeing. I see the things I look at. I am a see-er.”
(Patrick Rothfuss ~ American novelist)

The Lord looks from heaven;
He sees all the sons of men.
From the place of His dwelling He looks
On all the inhabitants of the earth;
He fashions their hearts individually;
He considers all their works.
(Psalm 33:13-15 ~ NKJV ~ New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

We Can’t All Walk on Water

June 1, 2018June 1, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I hoped the squelching sound of wet socks in my leather walking shoes wasn’t audible to Charlie as we found a table on which to set our cups.

I couldn’t believe I had been forced to ford a raging river of water in the alleyway outside the coffee shop. I was on a city sidewalk! I mean—who would have expected that?

But, as I seem to do frequently, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Let me see if I can do a better job of setting the scene for this uncomfortable event.

Ever have one of those days? I mean the good ones—the kind of day when nothing can go wrong. The sun is shining; there’s time for all the activities you have planned, and you have an appointment later with a good friend you haven’t seen for months.

What could possibly blemish such a shining day?

For most of the day, right up until just before the appointment with my young friend, nothing would have been the answer to that question. Nothing at all.

But then the sky, bright and sunny before, dimmed with clouds and the rain fell.

No. That’s not right.

The deluge descended. The skies opened up and the water poured out over us. The metal roof above us sounded as if it were a hailstorm, but it was nothing more than sheets of rain from above.

I had been awaiting a message from my friend to say he was headed to the coffee shop. And wouldn’t you know, in the midst of that deluge, his message arrived.

I laughed.

Oh, well. I wouldn’t melt. Grabbing an umbrella, I kissed the Lovely Lady and headed out to the car.

Looking out from under the edge of the little umbrella, I noticed the light. The sun was shining. Rain coming down in sheets, and the sun was shining! Well, at least that meant it would stop soon.

It meant something else, too.

From the front door, I heard her voice follow me out to the car.

“I bet there’ll be a rainbow.”

I wasn’t counting on it.

I want to be an optimist; really, I do. I want to think everything will work out for the best—all hunky-dory and A-Okay. I want to, but I can’t.

The day was headed downhill faster than a road bike down the Illinois River Hill. Neither is all that good a feeling.

Downtown, I couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere in the block the cafe is on. I circled the block, hoping someone would vacate one. No such luck. So I parked around the corner, more than a block away, with the heavy rain still coming straight down.

No. It wasn’t, was it? The wind had picked up a bit and the still-heavy rain was blowing from the west. I was protected on the east as I walked—no help at all.

And then, as if being cold and wet from the blowing rain weren’t enough, I reached the alleyway two doors down from the little shop where I was to meet my friend.

Only, it wasn’t. An alleyway, I mean.

It was a raging torrent of rainwater pouring down from the hill above town. The alley was the only unimpeded path the water could find into the valley, and it took advantage of the lack of impediment.

Six inches deep and eight feet wide, the current rushed, whitewater roiling on top, pebbles and debris tumbling underneath.

I can’t jump eight feet. I also don’t think that well when the wind is blowing rain sidewise against me.

I wanted a bridge. Failing that, I wanted to be able to walk on water.

Neither option was available.

I saw a large stone sticking out of the water, probably a piece of concrete washed out of a pothole further up the hill, and stepping onto it, assumed I could push off and jump the rest of the way over the current.

Did I say the day wasn’t going as I had hoped?

The stone rolled under my foot, submerging that shoe all the way to the bottom, ensuring I wouldn’t be jumping the rest of the way to the other side. I just plopped the other foot down and walked through the flood onto the sidewalk.

Squish, squelch. Squish, squelch.

My friend, when he arrived, was happy to inform me that there wasn’t a drop of rain falling half a mile away in the direction from which he had come. He also had found a parking spot right in front of the cafe.

I have since seen photos of the rainbow (you remember—predicted by the Lovely Lady), a double one to boot, that formed in the sunny/rainy sky to the east.

I didn’t see it.

I was busy looking at the rain soaking me. I was angry about the soggy walk through the current in the alley.

I’ve had time to dry out now. I have a few observations which hadn’t occurred to me before. Sometimes, it takes me awhile.

You see, I know I have a tendency to make more of things than I should. The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested it was a tempest in a teacup. Mr. Shakespeare might say it was much ado about nothing.

Neither would be wrong.

Still, I’m not alone in being overwhelmed by the storms which take me by surprise, am I? We all have things which are important to us and when we can’t achieve them in the manner we planned, we despair of reaching the goal.

Sometimes, our joy is stolen by the arrival of a letter that threatens to change our blueprint for the future completely.

Family members become ill and schedules are interrupted.

Friends drop out of our lives and we want them back.

The wrong politician won the election and we’re overwhelmed with apprehension for the future.

The list of potential sources of the rain falling on our parade is endless. We—all of us—fear the storm in varying degrees, and for very different reasons.

And, besides that, just when we’re learning to cope with the rain, we realize we have to go through the torrent.

Through it.

We can’t all walk on water, you know. As far as I know, only two men in history have done that. And, neither of them is named Jim Carrey.

And, bridges aren’t always conveniently located to trip across without getting our feet wet.

Why does God do that?

Why Peter but not me?

Why Moses and the Children of Israel but not us?

Funny thing.

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper. Share on X

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper.

Sometimes through is just as good as over.

Sometimes through is just as good as over. Share on X

We trust and we obey.

And, we get wet. But, we get where He wants us to go.

We will.

Because He promises we’ll not be overwhelmed by the flood. Or the fire. When we go through. (Isaiah 43:2)

Through. With Him.

The rainbow comes later. We may not see it at all. It doesn’t matter.

His strong arms hold us close. Still.

Even when we’re soaked. And, when we squelch with every step.

Storms won’t last forever. They won’t. (2 Corinthians 4:17,18)

Keep walking.

It might not hurt to wear your galoshes.

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.
(Helen Keller ~ Blind/deaf author ~ 1880-1968)

When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.
(Isaiah 43:2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Breathing is Good

May 23, 2018May 23, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’ve been reading a lot recently. Sitting in the comfortable old upholstered chair by the front window, I’ve leaned back, lost in the wonder and peril, and the hours have flown before I knew it.

I realized something the other night while reading, though. I’ve talked about it with the Lovely Lady and she’s not sure she agrees, but since she doesn’t disagree, I could be right.

I could be. Perhaps.

The world outside my window is a living, breathing organism. And somehow, we can choke it to death or lend it our breath.

Stick with me now.

What happened is this: Often, I don’t listen well when reading (just ask her about that), but I gradually became aware of the sound. As first, I thought someone in the next room was breathing rather loudly, but as I stopped to listen, it became clear. The world outside was actually breathing! It sounded like an asthmatic old man, but it was breathing.

Heee. Hooo.

Well, I said it became clear, but it wasn’t long before I realized the sound I was hearing was actually the tree frogs in the trees around our house. A chorus would start nearby—Heee—and the chorus up the road a bit would answer, the distance separating them making it seem as if there was a different pitch—Hooo.

Inhale, exhale.

The world is breathing.

I still think I could be right. Stick with me a little longer.

The Apostle told the amateur philosophers in Athens that everything in the earth had life and breath because of our Creator. (Acts 17:25)

To this day, we continue to live and move—and exist at all—because He sustains us. (Acts 17:28)

But I suppose it’s not the tree frogs that are evidence of the inhale and exhale of the world that lives around us. Not really.

Still, I contend that we have the power to choke or to replenish the breath of life to the world given us by our Creator.

I don’t just mean nature, either. Many have written and spoken about our responsibilities there and I don’t disagree. But, I have a more human aspect in mind.

On the Sunday afternoon just past, I heard the breathing again. I’m sure I did.

An invitation had come a week or so ago, suggesting that we might like to celebrate the ninetieth birthday of a friend with him and his family.

We thought we would, and so it was that we found ourselves in the social hall of a retirement village in a neighboring town. We had waited until the early arrivals cleared out a bit, so there wasn’t such a crush around our old friend.

I sat beside him and the memories came back with a rush. Forty years—give or take a couple of years—it has been that I’ve known him (much longer for the Lovely Lady, who grew up with his children).

All those years ago, he taught me how to breathe. Well, not really, but it seems so now.

In my teen years, I had developed a kind of stage fright that guaranteed I would never stand in front of a crowd and do anything by myself. Every time I attempted it, I could feel the heat rise from my neck, up into my face, as I turned a bright crimson red and became unable to continue. It had happened too many times. I would never—never— attempt it again.

He was patient. A little.

Planting the seed and encouraging me for a few weeks, he convinced me that all it would take to lead the singing in our little church was for me to stand there and sing along with the people. The only talking I needed to do was to call out a hymn number.

I was terrified and refused. Again and again.

He wouldn’t give up on me. Again and again, he asked. Just one more time than I refused, he asked.

I didn’t turn red. I didn’t freeze up. The people sang. I sang. I couldn’t believe it.

Since that time, I’ve been able to lead music many times. I’ve even preached numerous times.

Not once has the old fear returned. Not once.

Someone breathed encouragement into my lack of confidence, courage into my fear. He taught me how to breathe on my own.

I sat, last Sunday afternoon, remembering his kindness and was lost in the past for a moment or two before realizing that he was talking again.

I’ve written numerous times about the house the Lovely Lady and I moved into last year, the house in which she grew up. Her uncle built the structure, back in the nineteen-forties, and her family—first another aunt and uncle, then her mother and father—has lived here since.

I didn’t know that my old friend had helped to build the house, too.

“Oh yes, I helped to work on the foundation of that house. I remember taking the wire from the forms around the cement.”

I had no idea.

He laid the foundation to the house in which I live today.

I know now.

Need I go on? Would it be possible to miss a truth so obvious?

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying the foundation for a living breathing body which, in the next generation—or in the one after that, or the ten after that—will breathe its life into the world around it.

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying a foundation for a living breathing body which will breathe its life into the world around it. Share on X

What if we refuse?

Selfish, rude, ignorant kids! What a waste of space!

I was all of that and more. And still, they breathed into my life.

What if they hadn’t?

What if we won’t?

Outside, the frog chorus has begun again.

Inhale. Exhale.

Breathe.

It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise to You only

And all the earth will shout Your praise
Our hearts will cry, these bones will sing
Great are You, Lord
(from Great Are You, Lord ~ Leonard/Ingram/Jordan ~ © Essential Music Publishing, Capitol Christian Music Group)

Then he said to me, “Speak a prophetic message to the winds, son of man. Speak a prophetic message and say, ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Come, O breath, from the four winds! Breathe into these dead bodies so they may live again.'”
(Ezekiel 37:9 ~ NLT ~ New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

Finding the Vegetable Trees

April 25, 2018April 26, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Just head down there. The vegetable trees are all over that way.”

The Lovely Lady and I were on a mission to find a sapling or two to plant in the yard today, so we stopped by the local garden center. We thought we might find a couple of shade trees, but we especially wanted an apple tree to replace the ancient one which is not going to last much longer.

We weren’t really expecting to buy a vegetable tree.

Wandering through the sales area, we had passed a young lady sitting at a desk in the corner, but we knew the saplings were out back, so we continued outside.

The salesman met us on the sidewalk. All of three or four years old, he carried a thin metal rod about three feet long in his right hand which he swung this way and that as he talked.

“How can I help you?”

The Lovely Lady and I looked at each other, smiling, and then turning back his way, she told him we wanted to look at an apple tree. His response about the location of the vegetable trees made our day.

We headed in the general direction he had pointed with the rod. He followed closely, talking the whole time. We didn’t quite understand all he said, but we knew we’d find trees up that way.

“Well, like I said, this is where all the vegetable trees are. You folks look all you want. Bring anything you pick out back inside.”

He started away but abruptly turned back.

“Oh, here.” The boy handed me the dandelion stalk he had just pulled. “It’s a flower. If you blow on it, the white stuff goes all over the place. I guess some people call it a weed, really.”

He turned again to leave as a man walked up, wondering aloud if we needed help. Smiling broadly, I told the boy’s dad we had already been helped and wanted to wander around the vegetable trees for awhile and look around. Dad grimaced at the phrase and then grinned, taking us to the trees we needed to look at.

What a delightful experience!

What an extraordinary young man!

Okay. He needs to work on the details a little bit. But, he understood we needed help. He looked around and didn’t see anyone except himself to do the job. So, he did the job.

It was almost as if he understood what the letter-writing Apostle had said a couple thousand years ago: Don’t only do things for yourselves, but help others, as well. (Philippians 2:4)

In my mind, I hear the voice of God asking a barefooted Moses, “What’s that you’re holding in your hand, son?” (Exodus 4:2)

The boy showed us the way with the equipment he had been given.

If only we could all do as well.

If only.

There’s not time to be certain we know all the right answers. We never will.

There's not time to be certain we know all the right answers. We never will. Share on X

There’s not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We’ll stumble over the words. Every time.

There's not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We'll stumble over the words. Every time. Share on X

When He said to be ready to give an answer, He didn’t mean to wait until we were comfortable and skilled. (1 Peter 3:15)

And sometimes, when we don’t know what else to say, we might just hand them a flower and help to spread His love and beauty.

After all, our primary purpose in being here is to give glory to our Creator. (Isaiah 43:7)

The whole earth is filled—absolutely jam-packed—with His glory.

I think I might hand out a dandelion or two, as we walk through it together.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll find that vegetable tree along the road.

You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.
(Franklin P Jones ~ American humorist)

Praise his glorious name forever!
Let the whole earth be filled with his glory.
Amen and amen!
(Psalm 72:19 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Big Enough

April 20, 2018April 20, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lord, get me through this day.

It was the first thought I had when I awoke this morning. The first one.

My morning prayer.

No thank you for waking me up. Not a word about this being the day and my intent to spend it in enjoyment of its Maker. (Psalm 118:24)

Just a reminder that I need to get to tomorrow. And, a little more quickly wouldn’t hurt—if you don’t mind.

You’re nodding your head. You know what I mean, don’t you? Maybe you’ve even done it yourself a time or two.

How did I get in this condition? Why would I want to blow through the next twenty-four hours just to get to another twenty-four hours after that?

I’m not sure I’ll like the answer. You may not, either.

I could tell you about pressures of work, but they’re no worse than usual. I could suggest that more money in the bank account would help, but it wouldn’t. I could remind you of the concert I’m playing in tonight and suggest that the pressure is too much, but that’s not the problem either.

Here’s what I’ve figured out.

My God isn’t big enough.

Really. Not big enough.

God should fill the days, eclipsing all the puny activities and concerns, but in my mind, He’s only enough to tuck around the edges. The rest is full of fear, of frustration, of disappointment. And, when challenges come, when the days promise hardship and even loss, the emptiness looms larger than God’s ability to keep His word.

In my mind, anyway. Maybe, in yours, as well.

Perhaps, we need to talk about what we know. Truth is always better than speculation.

The thief is the one who comes to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. The Savior came to give us life, not just any old ho-hum life, but one that satisfies completely—a life full to capacity with all He wants to give us. (John 10:10)

We know that.

God wants good for us. Every good gift comes from Him. Always. (James 1:17)

We know that. I know that.

So why is my prayer when I awake only to get through? Why would I not ask Him to fill the day with what I need?

Today is a gift. Not a terrifying period of time I need to hurry through so I can get to another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by. . . Well, you get the picture.

It is a gift. Filled with exactly what is necessary to keep me—to sustain me—on my journey home.

I don’t want to get through it.

I want to live it. Fully. Abundantly. With passion.

The Psalmist understood that. For all the terror and fear he had lived through, all the doubt and guilt, he knew the fullness of a God who only wanted good for him.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life. Share on X

All. The. Days.

One day after another. Every one I wake up and pray to him.

He will fill the days, not just get me through them. He fills them with Himself. With goodness and love, He fills them.

Full.

Today.

How big is your God? The size of your God determines the size of everything.
(Howard G Hendricks ~ Theology professor ~ 1924-2013)

Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me
all the days of my life,
and I will live in the house of the Lord
forever.
(Psalm 23:6 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Alternate Routes

March 15, 2018March 15, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Paul!!! Help!!!!

The message from my friend wasted no empty words in letting me know his need was extreme. The power was out in part of his house and he was desperate. I’m no electrician, but I have a limited knowledge in the art of tracing down a circuit, so I get an SOS from friends and family from time to time.

It was Saturday. My day was planned out. The last thing I needed was a detour.

But, he is an old friend. We go back a lot of years.

I took the detour.

As I prepared to go help my friend, the Lovely Lady received a note from other friends. Would we have time to eat with them that evening?

Another detour. More old friends.

We took this detour as well.

Why is it we love the comfortable, the well-worn path? Why do we tense up when we see the familiar sign with an arrow above the word detour?

For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to benefit you and not to make things harder. Plans to give you vision and to ensure future blessings. (Jeremiah 29:11)

I think those words apply to the detours, too. Don’t they?

My friend with the electrical problem was waiting for me, anticipating the worst. Explaining the steps it had taken to get into the mess, he led me to the room where the sparks had flown.

Minutes later, the power was back on. I explained the problems to him.

You turned off the switch, but should have turned off the breaker. That box has live wires in it that aren’t connected to the wall switch.

Then I delivered my favorite truism regarding electricity. It is my go-to quote when I deal with friends who don’t understand and are fearful of working with the source of power.

Electricity always does what it is supposed to do. Always.

Hmmm. It does have a well-worn path through which it travels. Always the same. Always predictable. Maybe even comfortable.

It’s true. It is. Electricity is a lot like we are.

But, as I stood there, I couldn’t help but see in my memory a time—now nearly forty years in the past—when I stood on a ladder in a school hallway, my head and arms stuck up through the false ceiling.

I had a junction box open and was loosening the wire connector on a bundle of wires. They all had white-colored insulation, which indicated they were neutral wires.

Colored insulation warns of a hot wire; white signifies neutral. Hot wires carry power to devices, like lights or motors. Neutral wires complete the circuit, giving the expended current a path back to the breaker box.

I had been doing this for a few months. I knew what electricity did. Well, I thought I knew what electricity did.

I unscrewed the connector, exposing the wad of bare conductor wires. Reaching for the wad with my bare hand, I was stopped in mid-air by a shout from my supervisor.

What are you doing?

I explained how electricity worked to him. Funny, huh?

I was going to separate the wires and isolate the circuit to the room I was standing outside of. It was, after all, only carrying used-up electricity, going back to the power source.

The man laughed. I don’t think he intended it to indicate he was amused.

The instant you separate those wires with your bare hand, that used-up electricity is going to take a detour through your body to whatever ground it can find and you’ll find out how much it still bites.

Isn’t that odd?

Electricity loves detours. It loves them. Takes a detour in less time than it takes a man to blink.

And, in another blink, I was back at my friend’s house, flipping the main breaker back to the on position, restoring power to his dark rooms.

My little mental detour over, the time at my friend’s house passed quickly as I gave him some pointers on acceptable wiring practices for ceiling fans. I only hope his spins in the right direction when he gets done.

Instead of an objectionable experience, the detour to his house turned into a learning time—for me and for him.

Take the detour.

An hour or two later, we took the other detour with our friends. There were tasks we could have accomplished by staying home, things which still need to be done, but we rode to a nearby town with them and ate dinner.

We sat, throwing our peanut shells on the floor (truth be told, the Lovely Lady made a neat pile of hers on the table), and laughed until we cried. We talked about old people stuff—you know, doctors and prescriptions—and we talked about young people stuff—things we did thirty or forty years ago and things our children and grandchildren are doing today.

And, when we were done, we laughed some more and came home healed—for awhile—of the hurts and sorrows of life.

Take the detour.

Sometimes, detours offer a respite from the journey. A refreshing ride along a riverside on a two-lane road, when we had been hurtling down the freeway to exhaustion. A glance at an old house that reminds us of home, long ago and many miles away. A reminder of family, as we pass a park full of children chasing each other and going down the slides, or over the jungle-gym.

Sometimes the detours teach us a valuable lesson, giving us tools for the journey yet to come.

Not by coincidence, one of our fellow-travelers on the second detour that day was the very same man who had yelled—and laughed—at me in the school hallway all those years ago.

I reminded the electrician that, as I had helped my other friend earlier, I had only shared information he had taught me as a young man. He said he didn’t remember teaching me anything. Seriously. Not anything.

He did teach me. I can’t begin to count the folks with whom I have shared that knowledge in the years that have piled up since.

Sometimes, on our detours, we get the chance to remind other folks of how important they are in the lives of those around them.

Take the detour.

Take the detour. You might find your spirit renewed at the end. Share on X

As with electricity, there are paths laid out before us. Those paths stretch out into the future, a journey that must be taken, with a goal that can’t be missed.

Point A to Point B.

But sometimes, the alternate route opens up suddenly and He asks us to come aside with Him. The goal will still be there, in time. The road will still be traveled.

But, for now, we slow down and take the back lanes for a ways.

With Him.

I’m taking the detours.

You coming with?

Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit. (Man proposes, but God disposes.)
( from The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis ~ German cleric/author ~ 1380-1471)

The strength of patience hangs on our capacity to believe that God is up to something good for us in all our delays and detours.
(John Piper ~ Pastor/author)

You can make many plans,
but the Lord’s purpose will prevail.
(Proverbs 19:21 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

Equilibrium

March 1, 2018March 1, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

Lost.

I left her in the passenger seat of the car. I was only gone two minutes—perhaps three. How could I lose her so fast?

What will I do without her?

“I’ll only be a minute,” were my last words to her. No I love you; not even a kiss on the cheek.

The world spun. Really.

Off-kilter, out of control. Panic.

“Here I am.” The words came from the back seat. She had only moved to leave the front seat empty for my sister, whom we would pick up at the next stop.

I passed it off as nothing, but the feeling of loss persisted. I didn’t let her see the tears. Well, maybe she saw them. She was kind enough to not bring them up when she gently teased as my sister heard about the little episode.

The tears have clouded my sight off and on for the last couple of weeks, much like the rain which has been falling around me for about as long. It’s almost as if God is crying in sympathy.

I know that’s not how it works.

It’s just how it feels sometimes.

Some folks don’t think God cries at all. But, I’m not sure it makes sense to assume the things our Savior did while on earth would cease just because He isn’t walking among us in a human body anymore.

He wept. It means He cried real tears, trails running down His cheeks, as He felt the pain and sadness of loss and sympathy. His eyes got red and His nose ran. His voice broke as He talked.

This man-who-was-God-Who-was-man demonstrated the standard even before the apostle who followed Him wrote the words: Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

I suppose it seems a little over the top for me to be so upset by such a minor thing as getting into the car and finding the Lovely Lady not where I expected her. Perhaps, it is.

But, we were headed to visit one close to us who really is in the process of losing the one he’s spent his life with. The tiny vignette offered me in that split second brought the reality they are facing into focus.

In that moment, the emotions I felt—confusion, fear, loss—helped me to understand what others around me are experiencing and what is spilling over into my spirit.

Last week, I was reminded of the time, a decade ago, when I was out of control. A friend had missed a rehearsal and was asked what had kept him away. It only took one word.

Vertigo.

That was the cause of his absence. Just hearing the name is a trigger—a thought that brings with it really bad memories. I never want to go through that again.

Dizziness so bad, the world spun whenever my eyes were open. Nausea that wouldn’t stop. Unable to even walk, I had to be led, leaning on anyone who would help.

Complete helplessness and inability to function on my own.

Funny. Today my world is spinning again. No. I mean spinning, as in not stable.

I’m aware of the basics of how our planet functions, rotating on its axis and revolving around the sun. That’s not what I mean. The world I’m referring to is my world—the place where I walk, and sleep, and love.

On that occasion, ten years past, when I was struck with very real vertigo, my doctor told me it was all in my head. Oh, he was sympathetic. But, he knew things weren’t really spinning around me as it seemed. A malfunction in my inner ear was the problem, not the world around me.

“I’ll give you some medication. It will make your brain think everything is fine. That’s what you need.”

The medicine would give me some much-needed equilibrium, a sense of balance, until my inner ear righted itself.

It didn’t fix anything. It just made me think everything was right with the world.

I don’t need medicine like that right now.

I need to see the world as it is—as its Creator sees it. Through His eyes. With His heart.

I know He promised He would never leave us. He won’t. In the middle of the darkest night, if we call Him, He is there.

In the light of day, He pours out His love. In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls. (Psalm 42:8)

In the light of day, He pours out His love. In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls. Equilibrium. Share on X

When we need it, there is a strong arm to lean on. Maybe two, if we need both of them.

I’m leaning. And tears are still falling.

Many I know are in the grip of vertigo right now.

Maybe we could all lean together while we weep.

They’re really strong arms.

Strong arms attached to One who knows what it is to weep.

As the deer longs for streams of water,
    so I long for you, O God.
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?”

My heart is breaking
    as I remember how it used to be:
I walked among the crowds of worshipers,
    leading a great procession to the house of God,
singing for joy and giving thanks
    amid the sound of a great celebration!

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!

Now I am deeply discouraged,
    but I will remember you—
even from distant Mount Hermon, the source of the Jordan,
    from the land of Mount Mizar.
I hear the tumult of the raging seas
    as your waves and surging tides sweep over me.
But each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me,
    and through each night I sing his songs,
    praying to God who gives me life.

“O God my rock,” I cry,
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I wander around in grief,
    oppressed by my enemies?”
Their taunts break my bones.
    They scoff, “Where is this God of yours?”

Why am I discouraged?
    Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
    I will praise him again—
    my Savior and my God!
(Psalm 42 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

Not Woebegone

February 19, 2018February 20, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Music has charms to soothe a savage beast.

The words, written in verse centuries ago, are quoted frequently, even today.

I don’t disagree.

I’m remembering a weekend, some time ago, when I reveled in the harmonious, percussive notes of a skillfully played hammered dulcimer, listened in awe to the sweet, mellow tones of my favorite trumpet player, and wiped away tears at the conclusion of an amazing vocal duet rendition of an aria from an opera (you read that right, an opera).

In between those numbers that weekend, I played and sang a bit myself, as well as heard several other artists who were skillfully adept at their craft.

This savage beast’s heart was soothed. For awhile. But, for some reason, I hear something else in my head tonight.

Well, it’s been a busy week in Lake Wobegon.

I can even hear the quiet, smooth tonality of Garrison Keillor’s baritone voice as I write this, although I’m not quite sure why those words come to mind.

I suppose I may have been a little down in the mouth recently. You know—the worries of life are starting to pile up here and there; the things I usually can control have gotten away from me a bit.

Instead of a perpetual grin, the corners of the mouth are turned down somewhat, and it’s harder than usual to work up to a smile.

Thus, the descriptive phrase down in the mouth seems to cover my attitude most appropriately.

Every time I ever heard Mr. Keillor utter the opening sentence to the story-telling session on his radio program, I was struck anew by the name of his fictitious town.

He avers that the name comes from an old Native American word meaning the place where we waited all day in the rain for you. It is not exactly the correct origin for the word it sounds like, woebegone, but it comes awfully close.

The idea of waiting in the rain for someone who never arrives just about describes the depth of the feeling of being woebegone, a word that really comes from the Middle English meaning beset by woe. Either way, an apt description for someone who is down in the mouth.

As I sat and listened that weekend to the jaw-droppingly beautiful tones that emanated from the young lady’s silver trumpet, my inner being was touched. And then, as mother and daughter sang their operatic duet in a language I will never understand, I ached for more.

But more of what?

I know by experience that I soon tire of the same music, played or sung again and again. A recording would not suffice, nor would simply attending recitals day after day to hear the artists ply their craft.

I am convinced beauty on earth is given to remind us there is more. Something more satisfying is to come.

More.

What we have here, beautiful as it may be, is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day.

What we have here is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day. Share on X

Many centuries ago, the writer of psalms understood that, even as he struggled with his own inner sadness. He was woebegone, down in the mouth, but still, he wrote deep calls unto deep, and told of his Creator’s unspeakable love and glory, evidenced by the world around him.

Like Job, the afflicted one, he outlined his troubles and then reiterated, for I will yet praise Him. (Psalm 42:7-11)

Some of us drown our sorrows with alcohol, some with work, some with denial. I listen for hours to music, reveling in the intrinsic beauty of the chords, and the harmonies, and the melodies.

For all, it is the same. The time comes when reality must be faced.

The music ends, the fat lady sings, if you will.

We who believe have a promise that will still keep us on the path. The knowledge, the certainty, that there is more is enough to give us strength and perseverance to go on through what lies ahead.

Not around and not under. Through.

I don’t know about you, but I’m going on.

The oases along the way—the music, the fellowship, the joy—those only lend credence to the promise that we’re just nomads, travelers in this world, on our way to a better place.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m enjoying the soundtrack while I’m here.

Even waiting in the rain.

Not woebegone.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God?
(Psalm 42:1,2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(The Mourning Bride by William Congreve ~ English playwright and poet ~ 1670-1729)

Wind in the Oaks

February 16, 2018February 16, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I sit at my desk and listen to the wind.

Change is coming.

At the end of the street, the last leaves from an autumn, very nearly forgotten, whirl and take flight. The commotion is impressive to the casual witness—less so to one who has observed the scene from the vantage point of my window over the last couple of months.

From his play, Macbeth, Mr. Shakespeare’s description of life seems apropos:

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

The leaves go in circles. Now to the end of the road, now across to one yard to lie breathless for a time. With the next gust of wind, they revive, shoving each other aside in their hurry to rise on the current, only to scurry back around the cul-de-sac and alight once more. Right back where they started.

Probably, within feet of where they tumbled from the tall oak trees last fall.

Going nowhere fast.

But the wind roars still. Through limbs of trees, standing naked in the late winter sun, it shoves—and grabs—and pulls. Like so many windmills twirling in the sky, the giant oaks twist their extremities this way and that, almost it seems, trying to catch hold of the leaves spinning below.

I’m sure it may be only my imagination—it is my imagination, isn’t it?—but, for just a moment—the barest hint of a moment—I have the idea that they would—if they could—reattach themselves to the leaves that abandoned them mere weeks ago.

What a silly notion. Old dead leaves are of no use to the trees now, save possibly to nourish the ground around them as the natural process of decay and deterioration does its work.

I know this wind is blowing in another change in the weather. A warm day today, but cool again tomorrow with the front blowing in. Spring is coming. Rain will fall. Stronger winds than these will swirl and stream through the treetops.

Even now, the mostly sleeping giants are showing tiny dark nubs on the spindly ends of their gray branches, nubs that will become leaves. They will be new, green, living things—luxurious and lush—covering the entire tree with vitality and vigor.

And yet. . . And yet today, the towering trees are naked—bereft of their former glory.

The wind blows, and merely accentuates their lack—adding insult to injury, the red-headed lady who raised me would have said. Surely, there is something about which one could complain.

But, you know, as much as I prefer spring to winter, as much as I love a leaf-covered tree more than a bare one, I would never look at a tree in winter and suggest it would be better off with the old leaves back on it.

I complain frequently about winter, suggesting that everything is dead. I am reminded, as I sit in my chair and watch the empty branches wave, that the tree has never been dead. Never.

It is simply directing all its resources to the roots underground and getting ready for something spectacular to happen. A little rest before breaking out.

It seems to me that things are a little drab right now.

Am I the only one who thinks about the past and how good that life was? Am I the only one who wishes I could turn back the calendar a season?

Do you think we really could put the old dry leaves back on the trees? No, I suppose not.

But, here is what I know. Without worry of being proven wrong, I know it is true.

The earth turns and revolves around the sun; the wind blows and the rain falls. Suddenly, without warning—well, almost without warning—the explosion of color and life will be upon us.

To everything, there is a season; a time for every purpose under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

And, the Creator has made everything to be right in its season.

And, He puts eternity in our hearts so we know to look ahead and not behind.

He puts eternity in our hearts so we know to look ahead and not behind. Share on X

Seasons come. They go. Sometimes, we are so busy, we have no time to consider the work He is doing in us. But, we gain strength; and, we grow.

Sometimes, in the drab time, we sit and contemplate the reason for our very existence. That also, is a season through which He moves us and makes us stronger.

And, sometimes, as they have this week, tears come.

And the tears, like the rain which has just begun outside my window, fall to the ground and water the future, to ensure that it will be brighter.

Through tears, and even a little bit of dreariness, He will bring us, step by weary step—to spring once again.

There are indeed, Mr. Lewis, far better things that lie ahead than any we’ve left behind.

I wonder if the wind will still be blowing.

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
(J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring )

‘The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former house,’ says the Lord Almighty. ‘And in this place I will grant peace,’ declares the Lord Almighty.
(Haggai 2:9 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

And the Stars Sang Together

February 13, 2018February 13, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I suppose I may have actually gone for a year or two without looking at them. I really can’t remember. I may have.

It’s not that I ever stopped believing in them. I just never saw them, so they almost didn’t matter. To me, they didn’t matter.

It’s funny when I actually write the words. No, not funny. Stupid. And, sad. Mostly sad.

I looked at them tonight. The stars, I’m talking about. I walked out into the winter night, just as the temperature showed thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and simply stood there staring at the spectacular light show in the sky.

Do you think the light show was good at the last concert you attended? I don’t get to many rock concerts, but they’ve changed a little over the years. Besides the obvious increase in volume, I mean.

The light arrays on the stage are astonishing in their scope, utilizing everything from LEDs to old-style incandescent spotlights to pyrotechnics, all operated by one man sitting at a control board, or perhaps even pre-programmed and actuated by computer software at the proper time.

The lights move up and down or side-to-side, oscillating and flashing all the while. They don’t just highlight the musicians on stage, either. Some are aimed at the audience and, from time to time, shine so brilliantly in their eyes that the band members onstage are not even visible at all.

Still. The gaudiness and brilliance of those stage lights fade into a dim memory as the attentive human wanders under the night sky.

I stood in my shirt sleeves tonight, the glory of the heavens spread out above me, and, for a few moments, forgot how cold it was. The blue-black canopy of space overhead was overwhelmed by the constellations and galaxies, and the night sky was alive with light. Pure, brilliant, untouched Creator’s power.

For the better part of twenty years, the Lovely Lady and I lived in a house which was part of a commercial zone in our little town. We could often see the big orb of a moon as it rose on the eastern horizon, or hung like a giant smile overhead. And, the sun had no problem showing its face day after sweltering day through the long humid summers.

But, to walk out the door and look up at the stars in the sky was never as easy as that. The man-made lights shone garishly in our eyes like so many rock-concert LEDs obscuring the main act, the stars, if you will, overhead.

It’s easy, when you don’t often see the stars, to forget how spectacular that light show is. Over a period of years, one might be forgiven if it’s not on their top ten list of the most important things in creation to take time for.

It would be foolish, however, to decide that the stars are no longer shining in the sky. Just because we don’t take the time, or make the effort, no one would aver that they don’t exist anymore.

I wonder. Do you suppose any of those stars gave up on me in the years when I wasn’t able to walk out under the dome of the heavens in the middle of winter and be blown away by their splendor? Maybe just one called it quits.

No?

The faithful in northern Greece were encouraged to stay just that—faithful—in the letter written to them by the apostle Paul. He described them as stars that shone in the sky, in the midst of a damaged and deceived generation. (Philippians 2:15)

Nearly every day, I read of someone else who is advancing the claim that our time—those of us who follow Christ—is ended. We’re not needed anymore; not relevant to our culture.

I could have made the same claim during all those years of living under the halogen glare of parking lot and street lights on poles. Who needs stars when you have automatic lights that shine on demand?

Who needs stars when you have streetlights? Share on X

The stars are irrelevant!

And yet somehow, they’re still shining. Still in their constellations. Still wheeling across the cosmos in synchronization with every other ball of burning gas set into motion all those centuries ago by our Creator.

And our sun, dwarf star that it is in a galaxy of giants, ushers in each new day, and season, and year, just as if it is as relevant today as it was on the day when the stars sang together and the angels shouted for joy at the marvelous creative power of our God. (Job 38:7)

Somehow, I think I’ll keep shining too.

No one may be looking at the little light right now. There may never be a single voice that testifies to the power that makes my light visible.

It doesn’t matter. He made us to shine.

Not like the fake, gaudy light of the stage array, nor even like the brilliant, confusing glare of Gideon’s lamps in the enemy camp.

But, simply with the bright, steady light of His love and grace, we shine.

With the bright, steady light of His love and grace, we shine. Share on X

Lighting the way to Him. For a world blinded by too many lights that illuminate nothing at all, we are lighting the path to Him.

We shine.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars
Waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
(from The Peace of Wild Things ~ Wendell Berry ~ American farmer, author, and poet)

Look up into the heavens.
    Who created all the stars?
He brings them out like an army, one after another,
    calling each by its name.
Because of his great power and incomparable strength,
    not a single one is missing.
(Isaiah 40:26 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

faith