Storm Warnings

April 27, 2016April 27, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

If the thunder comes, I’ll have to sleep in Mama’s bed.

The girl says the words matter-of-factly, without an inkling that they might possibly cause laughter. Her grandpa, with an effort, does not disappoint, realizing the little sweetie is merely stating the truth as she knows it.

Any child knows that Mama’s bed is a safer place to be than his or her own unprotected expanse of mattress. And yet… And yet…

And yet the boy, just a couple of years older, made certain to assure me he would not be seeking shelter in the safe haven of Mom’s bed. The bravado is comical in its own way, but I hold my laughter in, not wanting to hurt feelings.

The storm warnings are out tonight. Tornadoes, say the weathermen. Strong winds. Hail.

Take cover, they tell us.

Accordingly, some friends are spending the night in storm shelters, some in their bathrooms.

I will not fault them. It’s hard not to be afraid when the experts we trust say we should be.

A friend shared a little saying the other day. I don’t remember all of it, but I recall the core thought:

Fear is a lie.

I don’t disagree. But sometimes—even often—it feels more like the truth.

When the wind is ripping limbs off trees overhead, when the rain is blowing sideways and debris is careering crazily across highways, when hail is pounding rooftops, terror seems a reasonable response.

Mom’s bed may not be safe enough.

The bathroom may not be secure.

The storm cellar doesn’t seem quite as impervious as it once did.

In spite of it all, I like thunderstorms. The power, the beauty, the replenishment of the earth, all these and more inspire admiration.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand there is danger. I pray for those who don’t have adequate shelter. I feel empathy for folks (and a certain little girl) who are terrified by the potential for loss of life and property.

In truth, I realize that none of God’s creation is safe. All of it has the potential to wreak havoc on our lifestyle.

I also realize that all of His creation is fantastic! The mountains, the forests, the rivers, the sea—all are beautiful, dangerous evidences of His sustaining and yes, frightening, power.

I wonder though, on what or whom do we depend for safety?

The easy answer is that we put our trust in God. Even the psalmist said the words; When I am afraid, I put my trust in You. (Psalm 56:3)

You’re scratching your head, aren’t you?

Did he just say, “the easy answer”?

I did. It’s on the tip of our tongues. We may even claim that God is our very first recourse, every time we are afraid.

It’s an admirable thing.

He wants us to call on Him. One of the saddest moments I think of in our Savior’s ministry (beside His trial and death) is the moment when He looked over the beloved city, Jerusalem, and lamented their steadfast refusal to accept His protection. (Matthew 23:27)

But, what if we were willing to give our fears to Him, instead of insisting He save us from the object of our fears?

What if we simply trusted Him in the storm?

In it.

The Teacher’s followers, in that storied storm on the lake, believed they were showing faith in Him when they woke Him up to voice their fears.

Do you remember what He did?

He rebuked the wind and the waves. He scolded them. And then, turning to His followers, He did the same to them. (Mark 4: 35-41)

Have you no faith?

For so long, I have not understood. Certainly, they had faith! Why would they have awakened Him if they didn’t believe He could do something about the storm? Wasn’t that faith?

It’s the kind of faith I have.

The storms of life require a command from Him. Peace! Be still!

That is what I believe—or, at least what I have believed.

And, as I write, in my mind’s eye I see the little girl running to her Mama’s bed in the midst of the storm.

Ha! Do you know what she is going to do there?

Will she insist that Mama quiet the storm? Will she quiver and quake until the last lightning flash and the last rumble of thunder is past? No. She will sleep.

She will sleep.

Safe.

Why didn’t the Disciples think of that? Why didn’t they lie down on the deck beside Him and sleep?

More to the point—why don’t I?

What safer place could one want?

How much more protection could you ever have?

Safe. In the arms of Jesus.

The storm is passed.

For tonight.

The little girl sleeps in her Mama’s bed.

Childlike faith.

Safety.

I’ve anchored my soul in the Haven of Rest;
I’ll sail the wide seas no more.
The tempest may sweep o’er the wild stormy deep;
In Jesus I’m safe ever more.
(Haven of Rest ~ H L Gilmour ~ American choirmaster/poet ~ 1836-1920)

The waters are rising, but so am I. I am not going under, but over.
(Catherine Booth ~ Co-founder of the Salvation Army ~ 1829-1890)

I’ve Got All Day

April 1, 2016April 1, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Ten o’clock sharp. Every weekday morning. The door is unlocked and the music store is open for business.

It says so on the door in black and white: Business hours: 10:00 AM to 6:00 PM

Right on the door. In black and white.

I actually arrive most mornings an hour early. Preparations need to be made. Loose ends are tied up from the previous day’s business. Orders have to be assembled. Repairs sometimes need to be completed. I want to be ready for the customers who will walk through the door each day.

I see them in the parking lot. Nearly every morning, vehicles pull off the street and pause before the front door. They’re reading that business hours sign. They always leave—well, nearly always.

Earlier this week, as I readied the cash register at about a quarter to ten, I noticed a nondescript economy car pulling up to the store. I ignored it, certain they would back out and leave, to return after I opened up. I was wrong.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

The door rattled with the force of the blows. I wasn’t ready to open up yet, besides which, I tend to be a little obstinate when rushed before hours. I didn’t open the door. A car door slammed outside and I heard a tiny bit of tire-rubber being deposited on the asphalt as the driver left.

I think he was unhappy.

And yet, at 10:05 when he returned (the door then being unlocked), there was no indication of any residual discontent. Our conversation was cordial—friendly, even. It was interesting to hear him talk about his day. He said it more than once, so I’m fairly certain it was so:

“I’ve got the whole day off. I’m just going to take my time and do whatever I want.”

I’m confused.

The door pounding? The tire squealing? Something’s not right here. The sign clearly gives perspective on what one would expect. Experience with other retail establishments would discourage such actions.

And, he’s got all day. No hurry at all.

Why is virtue so hard? You know—patience is a virtue, good things come to those who wait—things like that.

Why is it so difficult, then?

I don’t have the answer to that. But, I do find myself thinking about the impetuous man. In quiet hours, I wonder.

I’ve got a whole lifetime. He had only one day. A whole lifetime, to live my life. Yet constantly, I am impatient—antsy to get on with things.

You too?

It’s funny. We have the signs that tell us what to expect. Springtime and harvest. Day follows night. One man plants, another harvests. To everything there is a season. All written in black and white for us to read.

But, we stand at the door, not being able to see what’s happening behind it, and we pound with our fists, perhaps even kicking it with our feet.

We know the truth. Our times are in His hands. For all our uncertainty and stumbling in the darkness, we believe He controls all that happens to us. (Psalm 31:15)

Or, do we?

He says wait, and we fidget—be patient, and we worry.

We’ve got all our lives. And, we can’t add one millisecond to those lives by worrying. He says that, too.

His plan is being worked out in us. He began the work; He’ll complete it. (Philippians 1:6)

Wait.

He knows how much time we’ve got. Pounding on the door won’t change His plan. Laying rubber in the parking lot will have no effect whatsoever.

Do you know that waiting builds us into the people we were intended to be? I hope I’m not stretching here.

They that wait upon the Lord will renew their strength. They shall mount up on wings as the eagles do. They’ll run and not grow tired. They’ll walk and not become faint. (Isaiah 40:31)

Patience, my friends.

The doors will open at exactly the right time and we’ll be welcomed in.

It says so right there in black and white.

Wait. Patiently.

Wait.

Have patience. Have patience.
Don’t be in such a hurry.
When you get impatient,
You only start to worry.
Remember. Remember,
That God is patient, too.
And think of all the times
When others have to wait for you.
(from Music Machine ~ Hernandez/Powell ~ Singer/Songwriters)

For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all.Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.
(Romans 8:24-25 ~ NIV)

Another Bridge

March 29, 2016August 5, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

From my workbench in the back room of the music store, I heard her exclamation of dismay.

Just moments earlier, the Lovely Lady, knowing I had over-promised and was likely to underperform if I didn’t have some relief, had suggested that she would take care of any new business until I could complete the jobs due this afternoon. It was a good plan. My work was going well and it appeared that deadlines might actually be met.

Then I heard her unhappy outburst.

She would be calling me anyway, so I headed for the front. The sight that met my eyes was, to a lover of fine musical instruments, a sad and disastrous horror.

The young man wasn’t smiling either, as he stood beside the broken and splintered guitar. But, I remembered a few months before, when I had installed an electrical pickup system in the aging acoustic Martin, giving him a new facet to its usefulness.

He had had a smile on his face as he carried the instrument out on that day. He had been sure the beautiful guitar, one he had acquired while still in high school, would be the only one he would ever need.

It took a single moment—just a few seconds of forgetfulness—to dash that belief forever.

An afternoon at work, good intentions, a momentary distraction, and the guitar was under the wheels of the huge truck. Completely destroyed.

Lifetime plans dashed. Instantly.

As the young man spoke to me, he gently touched the fragments of wood. I could see the pain in his face—could feel it in his voice. But, there was something else in his voice—indeed, something different written on his face. He had come in for a purpose, and it was not to commiserate over the fate of the beloved instrument.

Purpose! That was what I heard in his voice. Purpose and resolve.

He would not dwell on the past. He was ready to move on.

“Let me show you my new guitar!”

The instrument he drew out of the new case was a beauty to behold. A custom guitar, handmade by an artisan from a nearby town, it simply begged to be played. The young guitarist gave in and sat for a few moments to demonstrate the capabilities of his new love. The crisp, clean lines of the instrument were matched by the music that poured out of it.

The clarity and warmth of tone that emanated from the polished spruce and rosewood box were surprising and expected, all at once.

When he finished playing, we spoke for a few moments about how happy he was with the new tool he held in his hands. He means to play this guitar for a lifetime, as well.

But, there was more. He is ready to leave the old broken guitar in the past, but he wanted a favor from me.

“Is it possible that the pickup system from the Martin will fit in this one?”

It made sense. He had spent hard-earned dollars on that system—quite a few of them. We might just as well salvage it and keep it in use. It would do the job just fine.

He was simply being practical. But, then again, perhaps there was a little sentiment in the request.

The need to move forward was clear. The old guitar would never, never play another note. But, part of it might be incorporated into the new one. The old would aid the new to achieve the vision the young man had always had for his future.

It would be a bridge, of sorts, between the past and the future.

I would help him cross the bridge.

I anticipated seeing the smile on his face again, just as I had the last time he carried a guitar out of my shop.

The future awaits.

As I sat thinking about what I would write tonight, my thoughts were naturally drawn to bridges. It really is almost unavoidable. You see, I am surrounded by paintings of bridges in the room in which I sit. I have given in to the urge to write about them often before.

I have written of the past and the future, using a bridge as a metaphor for the place where we stand, gazing first behind, and then ahead. Looking back, we see the events of the past clearly. Looking forward, we see an uncertain future.

I have insisted that I must cross boldly to the future, encouraging my readers to do the same. But, tonight I’m wondering.

What do we do when the things we must leave behind were what we loved most in life?

I know folks who have stood at the approach to the bridge for weeks, months, even years, never moving. Gazing back at what is, even now, lost in their past, they still see nothing across the bridge to coax them to set the first foot on the platform.

Like the Children of Israel in the desert, they receive the sustenance of their God who promises them a place far better than any they left behind, and yet they pine for the food they ate when they were slaves. (Numbers 11:4-6)

Too harsh?

I also have stood in cemeteries and looked at the pile of freshly-turned dirt, reluctant to turn my back. I’ve watched dreams disappear into the air, like the morning mist in sunlight.

The disappointments and tragedies pile up behind me, as they do for every human who has ever walked this earth.

We can cling to them, like so many splintered guitars, for everything we’re worth.

There will never—ever—be another note of music from that source. The voices of the past are forever mute—in this world, anyway.

The human spirit is, however, designed by its Creator to be resilient and nearly impossible to crush. Like my young guitar-playing friend, it hears the call from the future and must answer.

We’ve stood at the bridge for long enough, looking back. The past cannot be retrieved, but what we’ve learned in it may be incorporated into the future.

Our memories are woven—hopelessly intertwined—into the fabric of our lives; we will never lose them.

I like the young guitarist’s way of thinking.

True, there is great sadness in the past. There was great joy as well.

Both will be found again.

In front of us.

And one day—one glorious day—the last bridge will be before us. Nothing awaits on the other side, but great, great joy. No sadness. No pain.

Joy. Across the last bridge.

I’m still walking. Still feeling. Still trusting.

There will be sweet music again. Of that, I’m sure.

Sweet music.

I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.
(Philippians 3:13-14 ~ MSG)

Oh, my dear little librarian. You pile up enough tomorrows, and you’ll find you are left with nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to make today worth remembering.
(from The Music Man ~ Meredith Willson ~ American playwright ~ 1902-1984)

Better Things

January 21, 2016January 21, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired!

The red-headed woman who raised me was at it again. I have told you before that my mother had an almost endless supply of catchy sayings, many of them almost silly in their logic. This one was different. It actually made sense to me.

It makes more sense to me now. And, that’s a problem.

You see, I know what having a negative outlook on life does to you. Read the original words again.

Do you see the circle they create? When you’re sick and tired of being just that, the cycle repeats itself. Again. And again. And again. It may be exactly what the person who coined the phrase vicious cycle had in mind.

I have come to realize in recent days how easy it is to become a part of that cycle. Oh, I’m not sick–not physically. Perhaps I’m a little tired, but not sick. But it is easy to think about the sad things in life and let myself sink down into sadness myself. The sad things don’t even have to be happening to me.

Still–all of the sudden I realize I’m repeating the phrase in my own head. It’s not just a memory of my Mom’s voice saying the words anymore.

I hear it, not in her voice, but in my own as my spirit takes on the burdens of life.

Any day, I expect the words to actually come from my mouth as I speak to the Lovely Lady, or to my friends, or to a customer.

There is hardship all around me. With our instant communication, I know about more of it than ever before. To be fair, it may also be my time of life. I’m not sure. That said, I don’t ever want to expect bad from this amazing world which the Creator has made for us and placed us into.

Friends tell me things will only get worse–that this is just prophecy coming to pass–almost as if that justifies negativity and depression.

It doesn’t.

Right before the start of this new year–it only began three weeks ago, you know–I made a list of things I intend to revisit over the course of the year. They are thoughts which have occurred to me as I consider the future, a future which I contend is bright, not dark.

The first words in my list are these:

I refuse to believe our future is not at least as bright as our past. No! Brighter!

I know some of you who read these words are in the throes of disaster at this very moment. My heart tells me that in the next months I will experience some of those same woes.

The statement stands.

Circumstances, no matter how dark, do not determine the condition of our spirits, unless we allow them to. If we take the sadness, the sorrow, the worry to our hearts, we may find ourselves, like the red-headed lady, in the cycle of being sick and tired of life as we know it.

But, I want to affirm that the sadness, the sorrow, and the worry do not belong to us at all, and it is theft for us to keep them for ourselves.

I see those eyebrows going up as you read the word theft. You wonder who the victim of the crime is, don’t you? I believe we steal from God Himself when we selfishly hold those cares closely. Our instructions are clear. We are told to cast all of our cares on Him in light of His care for us. (1 Peter 5:7)

They are not ours to keep, not ours to cling to, not ours to add to our collection like so many grisly reminders of battles lost or omens of a dark future.

Not ours. His.

There is life yet to be lived. It will not be lived in the dark.

Brighter, I say!

I’m ready to walk in the sunlight, but I wouldn’t mind some company along the road.

You coming along?

“It is not so dark here,” said Theoden.
“No,” said Gandalf. “Nor does age lie so heavily on your shoulders as some would have you think.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English educator/novelist ~ 1892-1973)

For in the day of trouble He will conceal me in His tabernacle;
In the secret place of His tent He will hide me;
He will lift me up on a rock.
(Psalm 27:5 ~ NASB)

“What day is it?”
“It’s today!” squeaked Piglet.
“My favorite day,” said Pooh.
(A.A. Milne ~ English children’s author ~ 1882-1956)

Keep Walking

November 13, 2015November 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Yesterday was Windsday. I know, I know—that’s not how it’s spelled, but it is what happened yesterday.

My late father-in-law would have shoved the door open, leaves floating around his white hair, and announced that it was a bit air-ish out. He would have been right, too.

Throughout the whole day, the wind blew at least fifteen miles an hour, sometimes with sustained winds of over thirty. There were even a number of gusts blowing at almost fifty miles an hour.

Trash cans flew over, canvas signs flapped noisily, and the black walnuts falling on the tin roof made a racket like a kid throwing rocks at a stop-sign.

The black monsters in the back yard eventually got so tired of disengaging themselves from the debris and struggling to stay upright that they spent most of the day inside their doghouse.

I wasn’t as bright as the dogs. Needing to conduct business with one of my instrument technicians, I headed out into the blowing night after work. Flying in the same direction as the wind in my pickup truck, I hardly noticed it at all. It would be an uneventful evening ride.

That was before.

Before I turned the other direction to head for home. Before I felt the buffeting wind lifting the body of my truck.

Before I began to see things.

In the wind. I saw things in the wind. Coming right at me.

It is fall in the Ozarks and the leaves are barely clinging to the branches as it is. The blustery wind needed to do little persuading to convince the trembling foliage to turn loose. The problem is, I was driving into that gusting blast.

It wasn’t only leaves that attacked me. Plastic shopping bags of all sizes danced on the wind, spinning and diving madly. In front of me and beside me, they tore past, along with other unidentifiable objects.

It was, to say the least, disconcerting. I didn’t know whether to brake the truck and creep into the wind, or dodge the debris, swerving right and left, hoping against hope that there wasn’t something solid about to crash through my windshield.

I wasn’t the only one. The scariest moment on the twenty-five-mile drive home came on a busy four-lane highway, as all of us motorists scooted for our destinations at sixty or seventy miles an hour.

In the lane beside and just ahead of me, the car suddenly swerved toward the shoulder. Looking at the road right in front of where he had been, I saw a huge mound of some sort of reflective material. Relieved that he hadn’t hit it, I continued on.

Suddenly, I realized the mound was moving quickly into my lane, shoved over in his wake. Worried about the cars in the lane beside me and riding my bumper, I held my ground, heading straight for the object as I steeled myself for an impact.

Swish! The air-filled mass of flexible plastic sucked under my truck and blew up and over the cars following me.

Only a huge plastic bag blowing on the wind! Nothing more.

Say the word. Say the word and I’ll come.

The man nicknamed The Rock was speaking to his Teacher. Impetuous and not a little blustery himself, he was sure it would be safe.

The Teacher waved a hand. Come on, then.

You know the story. Peter walked on the water. Until he noticed something. No, it wasn’t the water. He was fine with that.

Walk on water? Pssssssh! Easy stuff!

No. He saw something else. It was there when he set out. It had been there when he blurted out his challenge to the Teacher to let him walk with Him. But, now it worried him.

The wind was blowing. Hard.

What if the Teacher hadn’t figured on that when He called him? What if the wind made him lose his balance? What if he got salt water in his eyes and couldn’t see where he was going?

What if?

The wind outside has stopped blowing. The weather system moved on to the east during the dark hours last night. It was sunny and warm by this afternoon.

Not so in my soul.

Inside there a storm was brewing. Events and conversations this morning stirred up the storm to an intense blast within a small amount of time. A hurricane of epic proportions.

It’s not my imagination. The storm is real.

I’m seeing things in the wind—Coming right at me.

Do I stop going the way I’m headed? Swerve off on a tangent? Go back?

You know what I’m going through, don’t you? You’ve been here, too. I suspect every one of us has been in the storm.

So—what of the options? Do we stop? Should we go a different direction? Maybe it’s time to just turn around.

No. None of those are any good.

The place we need to get to—Home—is out there, ahead of us.

I’ve thought of that old story I learned in Sunday School years ago a lot. Do you realize that the guys back there in the boat were in the storm, too? The wind was blowing stuff at them just as hard as at Peter.

They just weren’t out there with Jesus. They were still in the storm—still on their own.

Who was safer?

I think I’ll keep walking. Against the wind.

You, too?

WIND
Voiceless it cries,
Wingless flutters,
Toothless bites,
Mouthless mutters.
(J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English poet/author ~ 1892-1973)

“Goodbye,” said Eeyore. “Mind you don’t get blown away, little Piglet. You’d be missed. People would say, ‘Where’s little Piglet been blown to?’—really wanting to know.”
(from The House at Pooh Corner ~ A.A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

“Come,” he said.Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”
(Matthew 14:29-31 ~ NIV)

The Dark Inches

November 11, 2015November 11, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The young man sat on a stool in my music store the other day, strumming a guitar. As I had already done earlier, I simply looked over momentarily to check on him, and turned back to my work. The music continued.

He wasn’t the best guitar player to sit on that stool. Some incredibly difficult and flashy pieces have been played by other musicians there. Still, he was certainly competent. And, he was happy. He smiled the whole time he sat there, fingering the chords and lead lines to the songs, as he hummed along.

I had been on the telephone when he and his brother had walked in the door, so I hadn’t really seen them come in. Glancing up, I had waved a quick greeting before focusing again on the items I was entering in the computer program open before me.

If I had been free, I might not have been as surprised later when the happy young man finished playing. Instead of replacing the guitar on its hanger against the wall, he just sat there with it dangling from his hand.

His smile was gone. While he had been playing, his brother had moved around the corner in the shop and was looking at something against the far back wall.

After sitting uncomfortably for a moment, the young guitarist called out to his brother, “Hey! I’m ready to move!”

Immediately, the other man turned and, walking rapidly, came to his brother’s side, touching him on the shoulder. The guitarist held the guitar up and the fellow hung it with the others on the wall.

Then I saw it. The young man was sightless.

I understood now. His brother was his eyes in a strange environment. As he stood, the brother moved close, standing right in front of him. From there, with a hand on his brother’s shoulder, the young blind man moved easily through the store, back to the guitar strings hanging on the slat-wall display.

If you’ve been in my store, you will understand this is not as simple a journey as it sounds. Amplifiers jut out from the wall and instrument cases clutter the aisles. The stack of instruments awaiting repairs is formidable even to sighted folks.

Still, the sight-impaired young man, smiling again, navigated his way easily to and from the back of the store. His hand never left his guide’s shoulder and the guide didn’t fail him.

The young guitarist trusted his brother.

He trusted him and the brother lived up to his expectation. Not once did the duo run into anything. Never did the blind man get hung up on the corner of a counter, nor did he trip over any unseen obstacle in his way.

He trusted his guide.

What is it like to have to trust someone else completely?

Some who read or hear these words already have an intimate knowledge of the experience. The absence of physical abilities have made laughable the claim of being captain of their own ship. Without any act of their own will, they must depend upon others for their well-being. Every day.

I consider that circumstance and I marvel, not only at the courage to face every day of their lives, but also at the helpers who have come alongside these folks and have said by their actions, count on me; I’ll be here for you through think or thin.

Put your faith in me.

But, you know there is more to it than the physical, don’t you? Before the brothers had walked out my door, my mind was racing.

I trust the God who sees all.

I do.

When I can see it, too.

The disciple named Thomas, the one we have dubbed Doubting Thomas, had nothing on me.

I want to see it. I’ll believe it, sure—after I see it. (John 20:25)

Thomas was the same man who had suggested they needed a better roadmap earlier. The Teacher suggested they already knew the way to where He was going and Thomas objected.

We don’t even know where You’re going. How do you suppose we’d know the way? (John 14:5)

I like the practical way Thomas’ mind thought. I’m all for this trust and faith stuff, but first, give me a GPS and let me see the evidence.

We call it blind faith for a reason.

Mostly, it’s that we can’t see more than a step ahead, but we trust that our Guide will lead us well. Without seeing the obstacles, nor even the dangers in the dark, we know He won’t run us into anything that will hurt us.

Funny, isn’t it? I stood on the edge of a life with Him and looked out into the distance and told Him I would trust Him to get me there. It was a glorious future. Relationships and family, jobs and ministry—even physical well being—I trusted Him with all of it. For years ahead, I would walk the road with Him.

I just didn’t expect I’d have to trust Him in the dark.

Surely, He needs my help and advice. Surely.

As if.

Faith demands that we trust the same for the dark inches as we are willing to trust for the brilliant miles. Either we trust Him or we don’t. It’s that simple.

So, here I am with my hand on His shoulder, putting one foot in front of the other.

Trusting.

And hopefully, smiling as I go.

I’ll work on that, too.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
(Hebrews 11:1 ~ NRSV)

Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
(Civilla D Martin ~ Canadian-American hymnwriter ~ 1866-1948)

Wonder

October 20, 2015October 20, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The old rust-colored 1953 Ford pickup truck slowed to a stop as the traffic light cycled from yellow to red. The three year old on the bench seat beside me rattled on a mile a minute about his Sunday School class the day before.

“Our teacher says that God knows what we need before we even ask Him. Why do we need to pray, anyhow?”

I mulled that one over for a few minutes and mumbled something about God wanting us to talk with Him, just like parents and children normally do. It’s a question I still wonder about sometimes.

Without pursuing the subject any further, the little tyke moved on to other things. Big Wheels and swing sets were more up his alley than the more weighty philosophical questions. He did notice that we weren’t moving and wondered aloud about that.

“When will that light turn green, Daddy?”

I was sure it would be soon and told him so. When it didn’t happen in a few seconds, he asked again. I could see the light for the cross-traffic from my vantage point, so I told him maybe I could make it change in a minute.

“Why not now, Daddy?”

A second later, I noticed that the light for the cross-traffic had actually turned yellow. Immediately, I called out an order in authoritative tones.

“One-two-three, change green!”

Obediently, the signal in front of us changed to the designated color and, revving the engine, I engaged the clutch and we eased through the intersection. The boy gazed at me in admiration. Amazement, really.

“Wow! How did you do that, Daddy?”

It would be several years before the little guy noticed the correlation between the other lights and the one directly in front of us. Until that time, he was in awe of his Daddy. He would have more reasons than traffic lights to tarnish that awe before his years at home were done.

Remember what it was like to be a kid? Remember the amazement? The joy of life? The gratitude for simple gifts?

I sit, and I remember, and my eyes fill with tears.

How did I lose that?

When did my heart get so hard?

Last week again, I sat and watched the Father turn a red light to green for me, as a huge tax bill, which had hung over my head for months, was paid without fanfare.

It was huge.

I should be amazed. I should be immensely grateful.

What I am, is demanding.

How did you do that?

Where did all that money come from?

Why did I not know about it?

If I don’t understand it, I don’t trust it. If I can’t explain it, I don’t want it.

I have become like the guy who goes to a magic show and demands to know how each illusion is accomplished. Loud and obnoxious, from the cheap seats, he pushes the magician to reveal every secret, every trick.

It’s as if I believe I could duplicate the result if I knew each step of the routine.

A few weeks ago, I was blessed to visit with a friend who came to town for his university homecoming. I knew he hadn’t planned to come, so I inquired about his change of mind.

He told me that God had done it. My friend had dared God, in a sense, to reveal His will by sending him five hundred dollars in the mail—specifically in the mail—before time for his family to make the trip down from Iowa.

That week, three envelopes arrived for him via the Postal Service. Three different checks, totaling five hundred and six dollars.

That’s what I want! Specifics. Money from this person, and from that company, and from a government refund.

Show me how it’s done!

But last week, I wrote my check for the taxes, and the money was simply there. Where it came from, I don’t know.

I am frustrated. The taxes are paid. I should be in awe, because the amount we needed was insurmountable, but I’m not even sure how I got to here from there.

How do I duplicate this next year? What’s the procedure to insure its repetition? What steps do I take to guarantee an encore performance?

I don’t know any of those things. And, I need to know them.

But then, there’s this:

By faith, Abraham was called to go to the land he would receive as his inheritance. And, obediently he went—get this!—not knowing where he was going. (Hebrews 11:8-10)

The truth sinks in and again, I see the little boy on the truck seat next to me. In awe of a trickster.

In awe. And, I can’t even trust the God of the Universe with the secrets of a tiny part of what He has created.

When am I going to get the hang of this? How long before I unlearn my cynicism and distrust, and live in expectation of greater than I can hope or imagine?

We walk by faith. If we have to see it, it’s not faith.

I want to see the world through childlike eyes again, in faith trusting a God who tells me He wants nothing but the best for me.

I wonder if anybody else reading this has succumbed to the dark and cynical viewpoint the world has pawned off on us? My guess is, if I’ve fallen for it, so have others. Maybe we could help each other to feel the wonder again. We might even encourage each other to trust the visible creation to an unseen God.

Imagine!

What if we really could walk by faith and not by sight? (2 Corinthians 5:7)

Every good gift comes down from Him. Every one—whether I can explain it or not.

And He i traffic-lights-77320_1920 s the One, after all, who really does know (and control) when the light
is going to change to green again.

One-two-three, change green!

Even so . . .

People like you and me never grow old. We never cease to stand like curious children before the great mystery into which we were born.
(Albert Einstein ~ German-American physicist ~ 1879-1955)

The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.
(Galatians 2:20b ~ NIV)

The First Step

June 15, 2015June 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I don’t believe that dreams are prophecies.

Well, now that I’ve ostracized a good number of folks, let me qualify the statement. When I say dreams, I mean the normal sort. You know–the ones we have when we lie down to sleep at night. The ones made more vivid by that extra round of extra spicy Buffalo wings you had at dinner. Or, the scary movie which was splashed across the television screen as you sat and dozed in your easy chair.

It doesn’t mean dreams aren’t meaningful. They often are. When we sleep, our minds go where they will, no longer guided and controlled by our discipline and resolve. Things we already know about ourselves, but aren’t willing to think or talk about when awake, somehow can be revealed as images in our sleep.

I usually can’t remember what I dream about.

Usually. But, not last night.

Even before I was completely asleep, in the wee hours of this morning, I lay in bed and saw myself standing on the edge. No, not the edge of a cliff, although I have seen that image in my head before, both in real life and in dreams.

The edge I stood upon was that of a circular hole in the floor beneath me. The hole was large enough for a body to fit through comfortably. Funny thing, I could look down the hole and see that it was lined with a white pipe, almost like PVC.

I could only see about ten feet down the pipe and then it curved out of sight. Even in my half-awake state, I could feel my heart racing. In my dream, I backed away from the pipe. Then, drawn by some irresistible urge, I eased forward step by terrified step to peer downward once more.

I really dislike heights. Heights without handrails, that is. Give me a good grip on a handrail and I’ll look down from the highest cliff or the highest tower you could imagine. There was no handrail here.

It was just a hole. A hole that led somewhere–I couldn’t tell you where.

I knew it was a dream. I knew it. You know how your mind works. It seems real, but you know it can’t be. And besides, you’re lying in bed with the fan blowing on you.

It’s only a dream. Jump! What could happen?

No. Wait! What’s down around that curve? You have no idea what’s down there!

What if there’s no more to it than what you can see and it drops you into a bottomless pit (I hear those are real common in dreams)? You’ll fall screaming forever. All because you jumped into a hole you knew nothing about.

I considered the issues. Really.

In my dream.

I wondered–Is this the only way I’ll ever really make the transition from restless dreams to deep sleep? I have to trust myself to this tube that goes who-knows-where without any more information. If you think about it, we do it every night.

Mr. Tolkien talks about roads that sweep you off your feet to foreign lands. Sleep can do that too. Really.

Perhaps the mystery slide is representative of a major decision which I need to make. Life goals stand ready to be grasped, if only I’ll trust myself to the unknown depths. I’ll never get there if I don’t take the plunge.

Decision time. What will I do?

I take one last downward look and–I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go downstairs to get a drink. When I return ten minutes later, the slide is no longer to be found and I sleep.

Ah, wonderful sleep.

After attending church this morning, I came home to help the Lovely Lady prepare our traditional Sunday Dinner. The feast for family and friends has come to be a high point of our week. Food, discussions–escalating to disputes and then diminishing back to agreeable differences, jokes, and lovely memory-making are the stuff these times are made of.

There is a shadow over my memory of today’s feast.

As I helped prepare the table, my brother sent me a text. I wasn’t ready to read it yet.

“He doesn’t feel like she has a lot of time left.”

He is my Dad. She is my Mom.

Tears came to my eyes without warning. Even as I write these words, they come again.

Through my tears, I see that hole from my dream again.

I’m beginning to grasp it now.

You’ve seen them before, haven’t you? Extreme water slides. Thrill seekers flock to them every summer. The drop in altitude is what they love–that quick plunge, setting them free from gravity for just a fraction of a moment, long enough to wonder if they’ll ever stop in time to avoid disaster.

They know they will. It’s been safety tested. Why, they even climbed the tower right beside the tube, exclaiming all the while about where each twist and turn will take place. Pointing to the plastic pipe right beside them soaring up into the sky above, they know just where it starts and where it will end.

They know. And they’re happy to take the plunge.

Because they know.

The red-headed lady who raised me has been climbing for a good many years now. She’s had lots of company along the way, but there is just One who has always been there. Always.

The day is coming. Soon, it seems. No one can know for sure.

I can just see Him standing there smiling, asking her if she’s ready. I don’t know if she’ll be frightened, like I was in my dream. But, I do know her answer will be in the affirmative.

She’s ready.

He’ll wrap His strong arms close around her and they’ll take the first step together. She’s never done this before.

But, He has.

And, He knows.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
(1 Timothy 1:7 ~ KJV)

I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
Jesus died for my sins to atone
In the darkness I see he’ll be waiting for me
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone…
(I Won’t Have To Cross Jordan Alone ~ Thomas Ramsey ~ American songwriter)

Essentials

May 27, 2015May 27, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The thunder reverberates in waves outside. Again.

I have been here before.

Usually, the sound gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside and I smile and breathe a prayer of thanks to the Creator.

It is, after all, Springtime in the foothills of the Ozarks, and time for the thunderstorms and the rain that replenish the many rivers and lakes. The farmers count on the rainfall for a good year, some needing plentiful hay crops for livestock, while others await the yield of fruit on trees and vines, come Fall.

Rain is essential to all life.

There is no smile on my face tonight. The prayers I’m breathing to the Creator are for relief from the torrential downpours which have caused incredible hardship for many and even loss of life for some. The floods have carried away people and property alike. To some, it must appear that rain is to be hated, an evil thing intent on their destruction.

Rain is essential to all life.

It’s still true, isn’t it?

He makes the rain to fall on the just and the unjust equally. He sends the rain to fulfill His purpose and it will not return to the heavens without accomplishing what it was sent out for. Rain waters the earth, and the earth give forth its harvest. Again and again. One season follows another, the cycle uninterrupted.

Still, I’m not smiling. I don’t even know what to say in my prayers now.

I agree that we require rain for life. I dare not ask for the cycle to be broken. And yet. . .

My friend and his family spent last night in one end of his home, waiting for the old oak trees to topple onto the roof at the other end. Two had already fallen and crushed cars in the driveway and these were leaning, their roots pulling loose from the wet soil.

Others I know have spent dark, damp nights waiting for the break of day to see where the water line is on their walls and furniture. Still others have prayed and cried as the waters rose and then receded.

Their homes were untouched, but not their spirits.

And suddenly I know how to pray.

Why do we focus on the physical, when God clearly places a premium on our spiritual well being? Are we really that short sighted?

“Please God, take this away from me! I don’t want to suffer.”

It’s the prayer I have prayed again and again. The same prayer I have heard from loved ones.

I’m still not smiling. I am filled with hope, though.

I will sit, here in the comfort and safety (for now) of my home, and pray for the protection of the spirits and souls of my friends and all those affected by the disasters they are suffering.

God has not promised ease and comfort, nor has He guaranteed physical immunity from disaster. What He has vowed is that the uncomfortable and dangerous times will not touch the real us–the center of our being which is of infinite value to Him.

When you walk through the floods, they will not overwhelm you! When you walk through the flame, you won’t be burned. Have no fear; I have redeemed you; I have called you by name. You are mine!

Is the physical suffering real? Does He care about that? Yes and yes! But, He cares so much more about who we are beyond the physical and the temporal.

He intends to spend eternity with us! How would He not keep us from harm?

It doesn’t mean I’m about to start smiling yet. People I know are still frightened and sad. He made us to care about that. But, deep down, I know that God’s got this.

He’s got this!

The waters will recede. The trees will be cut up to use as firewood next winter. Life goes on.

The cycle is unbroken.

Here comes the rain again.

God is good.

“When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don’t throw away the ticket and jump off. You sit still and trust the engineer.”
(Corrie Ten Boom ~ Dutch author/Nazi Holocaust survivor ~ 1892-1983)

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.
(Isaiah 43:2 ~ ESV)

Alone

May 1, 2015May 1, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Alone again. Naturally.

I sit here in the wee hours and, as I often do, contemplate the big questions. Oh, sometimes the little questions pop up too–such as: I wonder if I burned enough calories on my bike ride earlier that I could eat some chips. (The answer is always yes, no matter how far I rode.)

But more often than not, I think about life and death, or turmoil in the world, perhaps even about social change and justice. I argue with myself about my faith, questioning those things I am dogmatic about in public. I reflect on the path my life has taken.

Funny. I love being with people. I really do. But, I don’t do much contemplating while I’m with people. Surrounded by others who think much the same as I, I agree with them and commiserate about folks who disagree with the truth we know.

We know.

By myself, I wonder. I pray. I consider.

In the dark and alone, I find the courage to take my faith out and examine it. It’s not always a pretty picture.
____________________

“This roast beef is amazing, Mom!”

The young man was talking with his mouth full, but the Lovely Lady didn’t mind. She smiled and thanked him, as she passed the platter on around the table.

Hmmm. I guess what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I have heard that ignorance is bliss. I’m referring to what happened earlier that day, when no one else was around but the Lovely Lady and me.

The day before, while we were wandering the aisles of the local supermarket together, she handed the package to me. It was huge.

Huge. Enough to feed twenty people.

But earlier on the day of the dinner, she stood in her robe at the kitchen counter, butcher knife in hand. She wasn’t gentle. Slicing here, cutting there, she removed the chunks of fat and inedible gristle from the beautiful, huge roast.

It was not a pretty picture. But, the result? Perfection.

Absolute perfection. Ask the young man. Just don’t tell him about the lady in her robe.
____________________

Alone. I examine what I believe and who I am becoming. With friends earlier, I was almost proud of my accomplishments and how my faith in God has lead my steps to this point.

Perhaps proud is not the right word. Maybe, I should say satisfied, or even content.

It is a pretty package. I’ve wrapped it rather neatly, I must say. And yet, I get the sense that what’s inside isn’t quite ready for consumption.

Not quite…

He would never do it unless I invited Him.

I can’t be trusted with the knife myself, you know. It is an attribute I share with King David of old. He recognized it, too. That’s why he invited the inspection and the cutting.

Search me, O God. See if there be any sinful way in me.

It is a process that must be repeated. Over. And over.

I think it seldom takes place in the company of others. At least, that is true for me.

So, I sit alone and contemplate. Well, not completely alone.

He’s here too, you know.

Somebody will have to use the knife.

“They only babble, who practise not reflection.”
(Edward Young ~ English poet ~ 1683-1765)

“Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”
(Psalm 139: 23, 24 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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