One Man’s Trash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It must have climbed back up.

I took a photo.

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

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

Inquiring minds want to know. They do.

What is it, this pile of trash that walks?

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

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

Just not at first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trashbug!

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

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

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

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

Trashbug.

I am not my past. I’m not.

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

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

You are not your past.

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

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

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

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

But, I’m not.

He says I’m not.

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

Forever gone.

Now is the time to fly.

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

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

Mount up on wings.

Leave the trash behind.

Metamorphosis.

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

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

Bless You!

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

All I did was sneeze.

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

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

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

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

Just a sneeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Might have.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’ll be okay.

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

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

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

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

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

But, until then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For all of us, living with the pain.

Bless you!

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

Hungry. And Thirsty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought I had been preparing.

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

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

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

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

Ravenous, even.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We don’t want that, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is more.

More.

It was always there.

Who’s ready to eat?

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

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

I Have Ears

June 22, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time.

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

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

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

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

Guilty.

I am. Tone deaf.

Again and again.

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

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

I’m listening. Again.

Maybe we could all do that.

All ears.

Hearing.

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

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

His Real Father

June 15, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve heard it said in church and Bible studies more times than I can count. There was even a hit Christmas song written about it a few years ago.

Joseph wasn’t the father of Jesus.

I’m not going to argue theology with anyone. Not that it would do any good.

But I’m going to say it anyway. He was.

I’ve read the chapters and verses. I know Jesus was the son of God. But Joseph was His father. Here on earth, he was His father. You don’t pay the price that man paid to marry a young lady, knowing there was a baby in the deal, and not understand that you would raise the boy as your son.

The folks around him never knew the man as anything but the father of Jesus. Not a stepfather. Not an adoptive father. There wasn’t any question in their minds.

“Isn’t this the carpenter’s son?” (Matthew 13:55)

He gave the boy His name. He fed Him. I’m fairly sure he taught the young man his trade, even though the boy would never become known as a carpenter himself. Along with His brothers and sisters, Joseph raised the child who would become our Savior.

Wait. This isn’t about Christmas, is it? How mixed up is the guy who writes these things anyway?

Funny. I was reading another writer’s piece today, and while writing about King David, he mentioned the lineage of the Messiah, all the way from David to Joseph.

And, I said (to myself) the words I mentioned above. Joseph wasn’t His father!

But it’s nearly Father’s Day in our country. And, I know something about being a father.

I’m not saying I’m an expert. Even at my advanced age, I’m still learning what it takes to be a father to my children. I’m not talking about that.

I am learning new things as I watch my offspring raise their own children. I’m even becoming aware that I wasn’t the perfect father to my kids. I’m sure that’s not news to you. And certainly not to them!

But, more to the point, the change in perspective has made me aware of something that most of you probably already know: you can be a father—a good father—a real father—to a child who is not your biological offspring.

Certainly, I’ve noticed it before. I know a number of young men who, with their spouses, have adopted children. I know a larger number who have taken on the responsibility of being what we so cavalierly call a step-father to the children of their wife. But, my eyes have been opened in a much more personal way in the past year

Adoptive father. Step-father. As if the task doesn’t require the skill of a father, the perseverance of a father, the love of a father.

A man who willingly takes on the mantle of caring teacher, able provider, and loving role model to a child, without looking back, is a father. Period.

Without modifiers.

A father.

If you, like I, are a follower of Joseph’s Son, who Himself was, without question, also the Son of God, you already know what it’s like to have such a Father.

“God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure.” (Ephesians 1:5, NLT)

Father. To the incredible Family being gathered into His arms.

We worship Him and love Him. Not as interlopers and imposters, but as His daughters and sons.

Somehow then, I think it’s appropriate for us to give honor and love to the fathers He’s given us here, while we continue on our long journey toward the real home being prepared for us.

Mine has already gone to that home, so I honor him by honoring all the fathers who chance to read these words today.

Keep up the good work, Dad! You’re doing just fine!

“It’s not flesh and blood, but the heart which makes us fathers and sons.” (Friedrich Schiller)

^“So you have not received a spirit that makes you fearful slaves. Instead, you received God’s Spirit when he adopted you as his own children. Now we call him, ‘Abba, Father.’” (Romans 8:15, NLT)

It’s Just Stuff. Really. Stuff.

June 11, 2025June 11, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“He thinks less than he talks, and slower; yet he can see through a brick wall in time (as they say in Bree).” *

Mr. Tolkien didn’t know me; really, he didn’t. But he described me fairly accurately in the quote above.

I do talk more than I think. Sometimes.

And, fortunately, I can see through the brick wall in front of me. Eventually.

I’ve been in a funk recently. I should mention that I looked up the phrase “in a funk” online to be sure it was still in common enough use for most of my readers to know what it means. The obliging AI response suggests I’ll not have to explain it to very many of you.

I also wondered if I should use the term “woebegone” to describe my state of mind. But then, I’d need to explain the word’s origin from Old English. I might even have to use the definition that Garrison Keillor (a well-known storyteller and humorist) frequently gave for the fictional community he told about. He said the name Lake Wobegon was the native American word for “the place where we waited all day for you in the rain.”

But I’m not sure the description of my state is all that important. I just needed to know why I was in that state, be it in a funk or woebegone, or both of them at once.

Finally, the light has begun to dawn. It took a while, but after a few weeks of wandering in the fog, I think I finally understand why I’ve been unhappy.

The Lovely Lady who lives at my house helped me along the way the other day when she expressed amazement that I’m keeping up with my schedule pretty well. I usually get overwhelmed when there are too many events in a week for me to remember (usually, more than three will do it for me).

What she didn’t realize is that it’s been busy enough lately that this old man has actually learned how to use the calendar app on my smartphone for something other than keeping track of the birthdays of people I love.

As she talked about my schedule, and I thumbed through the past couple of weeks of events, I think I noticed that brick wall becoming a little translucent. I could almost—but not quite—see through it.

The things in my calendar are almost exclusively about possessions—things over which I claim ownership. Some of them are about money and insurance for the things I think I own.

And, with that thought, the bricks become completely transparent.

Why did Jesus say that it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven? (Matthew 19:24)

Why is it so hard for me to give up my claim to the stuff of earth? The rich man in the reference above was scrupulous and unswerving in his obedience to God. With the rules and legal requirements, he was.

He just couldn’t turn loose of the things he held.

The storms of a few weeks ago have damaged our house, as well as our vehicles. The unexpected mechanical failure of both vehicles right before has already required a fair outlay of money to remedy. And now, dealing with contractors, insurance adjusters, and repair shops causes stress—a lot of it.

It’s not that the resources haven’t been provided. They have. But somehow, I’ve taken ownership of those resources. And, I don’t want to let go of any of them.

And God said to Moses, “What’s that in your hand?” And when Moses answered that it was a tool of his trade, his staff, God said, “Well, throw it on the ground.” (Exodus 4:2)

I sympathize with Moses. I hear the voice in his head arguing (the same voice is in mine).

“This is all I have for my livelihood. I was counting on this to keep me alive. Why would you want me to let go of it?”

Easy, isn’t it?

Just open your fingers.

Let go.

It was never mine. Never.

Freedom isn’t only about not being under the thumb of someone else. Chains are too often of the invisible sort, and just as likely to be of our own making.

When the stuff of this earth holds us more tightly than the bonds of His love, we are truly in captivity—carrying a burden He never meant for us to shoulder.

I’m better now.

Letting go. Again.

But, I’m realizing there will be more brick walls to see through along the road I’m walking. I could use some help with the next one. And the one after that.

I hope you’ll be willing to help. But could you, maybe, not talk as much as I do?

And, think a little faster?

“One who cannot cast aside a treasure at need is in fetters.”
(Aragorn in The Two Towers, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

“Take my silver and my gold;
Not a mite would I withhold.”
(from the hymn, Take My Life and Let It Be, by Frances Ridley Havergal)

*from The Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Sleep In Peace

June 1, 2025June 1, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s unexpected. That the plight (already resolved) of a wild baby animal should hold my thoughts captive for two days was not something I would have thought possible.

But, there it is.

Friday, being sunny, was mowing day. The rainy weather of the last couple of weeks here in northwest Arkansas made it inescapable for me. So, I did what had to be done.

The storms have dropped myriad small branches from the oaks and maples that dot the property, so that was the first item of business. Pick up the limbs. The Lovely Lady assisted me, wandering over the half-acre plot of weeds and grass in an undisciplined manner, bending occasionally to lift up the errant twigs and switches.

She avers that she had passed through the same area herself just minutes before I did. I’m sure she did. Camouflage is a wondrous thing.

As I leaned under the shade of the chestnut tree to snag a dead branch, I started back. A little fawn lay there, white speckles on a field of brown, its black nose nestled between tiny front hooves.

I took the flexible branch I had just picked up and tapped the beautiful tiny deer on the haunches. Eyes open, it moved its head and front leg an inch or so, but no more. It didn’t even seem to be aware of me.

Oh, no! It must be injured. Or sick. The thought took hold, and sadness grabbed my spirit.

I tried to think what to do. Perhaps a wild animal rescue organization could help. Maybe animal services for the city.

I stood for at least two or three minutes, just watching the fawn. Wait! I was missing something.

What about the mother? Surely, there was a doe around somewhere. Why would it abandon its baby?

I looked around, but saw no other wildlife. There was no doe to be seen.

Abandoned.

The poor baby must be a hopeless case, and the mama knew it.

I knew I would have to do something. I could call someone to come and help. But before I did that, I did one other thing. Just to be sure.

Taking the flexible branch I held in my hand, I reached down and tapped the poor baby solidly. Not enough to hurt it, but sufficient that it would definitely feel it.

Oh! The squeal that came from its open mouth would have awakened the dead! I jumped back.

The fawn leapt to its tiny feet clumsily, terror written in its beautiful brown eyes.

Two things happened in quick succession. The tiny thing dashed across the neighbor’s yard, running into the chain link fence on the other side. But, before it could get even that far, a smallish, light brown doe appeared in the field behind me.

Not abandoned!

Watched over.

Within seconds, the sweet fawn was reunited with its mother, trotting back into the trees that line the back of the meadow that abuts our property.

I said that my thoughts have occupied me for the two days since. I’m conflicted. Two things strike me about the event.

The first is my unhappiness at being the thing that terrified the sweet baby. That squeal fills my memory, playing again and again in my head.

It’s almost like the feeling I had the morning years ago in the music store as I showed a sweet young girl the various instruments she had learned about from listening to a recording of Peter and the Wolf.

I demonstrated the different instruments that signified well-loved creatures and people in the story. Then proudly, I told her I was a French horn player, only to see the shock and worry jump to her eyes as she digested the reality that I was the wolf.

No! I am not the wolf. I am not the villain!. I’m the good guy—the one who wants to help, who wants to fix things.

But, imagine being that little fawn and waking up with a monster standing over you, holding a stick.

You went to sleep, knowing your mom was watching over you. In safety and comfort, you lay down and, trusting the one you had always found to be trustworthy, you slept.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep,
for you alone, O Lord, will keep me safe.”
(Psalm 4:8, NLT)

And yet, there is that monster…

I’m not going to dwell on that. It’s a reality that I live with, the knowledge that I’m not the good guy.

Not yet.

Even now, He is making me in His Image spiritually, just as He did physically in the beginning.

“And the Lord—who is the Spirit—makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image.” (2 Corinthians 3:18b, NLT)

But, that second thing my brain is considering—sleeping in peace and being watched over—that has been working, not only in my brain, but in my heart for the last couple of days.

I watched that doe materialize instantly as the fawn screamed its prayer to the sky, and there was no mistaking the meaning.

We can sleep in peace.

The monsters, even the well-meaning ones, who think they know better than our Creator, who believe we are gods ourselves, cannot harm us as we rest in Him.

Our Father watches over us. Even as he does the sparrows—and the fawns, He stands guard.

And He is faithful. Every morning, His mercies are renewed to us.

Every morning.

Strength for today.

Bright hope for tomorrow.

It’s time for sleep.

Rest.

“Have peace now… until the morning! Heed no nightly noises! For nothing passes door and window here save moonlight and starlight and the wind off the hill-top. Good night!”
(Goldberry in The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien)

“You can go to bed without fear;
    you will lie down and sleep soundly.
You need not be afraid of sudden disaster
    or the destruction that comes upon the wicked,
for the Lord is your security.
    He will keep your foot from being caught in a trap.”
(Proverbs 3:24-26, NLT)

What If It’s My Fault?

May 25, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I heard the little crunch as I chewed my food in the lovely little restaurant. I felt it too, right between my teeth.

But I was eating pasta. There wasn’t supposed to be a crunch. Not even if it was, indeed, al dente. My tongue snaked over to the tooth I suspected of being the culprit.

Ow!

That was sharp! As the dental specialist had warned me, the filling he put in last week was only temporary. I just expected it to be a bit less temporary than that.

I called the emergency number for the clinic. It’s possible I shouldn’t have started the message I left them with the words, “I’m not sure you could call this an emergency…”

Twenty-four hours went by before they returned my call. It’s not an emergency. It must not be. The kind young lady told me it wasn’t.

I’ll be just fine. But the 24 hours gave me time to think.

In that 24-hour interlude, my mind went back 40 years. Really. I saw it the first time I walked into his instrument repair shop. The sign over Bill’s workbench left no room for argument.

“Failure to plan on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.”

It only stands to reason. I was in the music business for over 40 years myself. I saw it again and again. Customers would wait until the day before a performance or playing test, and decide to bring in their instrument to be repaired. An emergency.

I never had a sign to which I could point. On several occasions, I wished I had.

It was their own doing. No one would have faulted me for putting up the sign.

But, back to the present, I called the emergency phone number. On a holiday weekend, I expected the unseen folks on the other end of the line to consider it an emergency for themselves.

They don’t.

My brain has been worrying at a question for longer than the 24 hours of waiting; really for over a week. Like a Labrador puppy with an old bone, I’ve been chewing at the puzzle.

I sat with my esteemed coffee group one day a week ago, and I put the problem to their collective wisdom. They each, after all, possess a college degree which grants them the privilege of being addressed as doctor by their students and peers. (My old friend reminds me that none of them is the kind of doctor who can do you any good, but still…)

I had told them previously of my experience with the lady who had a flat tire and had no one to drive her to work. One of them, in passing, had wondered about helping folks who are experiencing trouble because of their own neglect or bad choices.

On that day, we had talked at length about our responsibilities and what real help entailed. The discussion ranged from neighbors who shirk their duty of upkeep for their homes to the folks standing on the street corners with begging signs that invoke God’s blessing on those who help.

We came to no firm conclusion, but simply tossed around opinions until it seemed prudent to move to other matters.

I might have forgotten the conversation, but it was just the next morning when I found myself stranded in a nearby town, with a non-functioning auto myself.

It’s hard to admit this. My car stopped working because I did something stupid. The computer failed because I hadn’t read the owner’s manual.

Can I say this? At that moment, sitting in a parking lot thirty miles from home and without any evident resources to arrive home in a timely manner, I wasn’t thinking about whether it was my fault or not.

I needed to be rescued.

I was desperate to be rescued. And, someone did.

They never once reminded me that it was my own fault I was in that predicament. Not once. Even though I deserved it.

Kindness and grace.

Where I had earned desertion and judgment.

Mercy is a spectacular thing.

Spectacular.

Somehow, I’m not sure I need write many more lines here.

My young friend, who, each day, posts the words we call the Lord’s Prayer, already has the only conclusion needed for this little essay. Simple words we speak so glibly.

“And, forgive us our transgressions, as we forgive those who transgress against us.”

Hmmm. Perhaps, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Maybe it needs to be a bit more basic.

“So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.” (John 13:34, NLT)

While we were still without excuse, by our own deeds excluded, He died for us. Where we could have had no expectation of kindness or mercy, that’s exactly what He showered on us.

And, He commands us—yes, commands—to treat each other as He has treated us.

Grace. Not just amazing, but astonishing grace!

I’m not done chewing on it yet. I may never be.

Maybe you can help.

There’s plenty here for all of us.

But, be careful with the dental work, won’t you?

“Teach me to feel another’s woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me.” (Alexander Pope)

“When we were utterly helpless, Christ came at just the right time and died for us sinners. Now, most people would not be willing to die for an upright person, though someone might perhaps be willing to die for a person who is especially good. But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.” (Romans 5:6-8, NLT)

Imposter Syndrome

May 17, 2025May 18, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The note came a few days ago. I haven’t answered it yet. I’m not quite certain I was really the intended recipient.

Oh—okay. It was written to me. Addressed to me. Delivered to me.

The kind lady who wrote it clearly knows the basics about me. Mostly, that I write things once in a while. And, that a few folks seem to enjoy reading my little articles.

She wondered if I would mind sharing a few pointers to help some folks who participate in a group endeavor to improve their writing skills.

I’m stumped.

I want to share my wisdom with my friend and her group. I do. It’s simply that I don’t know of any I have to spare.

I talked about it with another friend, who is a professor at the local university. She teaches young folks to write better and is a very good author in her own right.

For some reason, my professor friend thinks I know how to write, too. She gave me an idea or two about helpful hints. And, she told me (again) that I’m a good writer and would know how to share that elusive wisdom I’m not sure I can spare.

Perhaps I can clarify this a bit. I don’t need anyone to think I’m fishing for compliments. I certainly don’t want a comment section filled with back-patting encouragement intended to reassure me.

But I have a problem. I’m not the only one with this problem.

I don’t think I belong here. I haven’t paid my dues. There aren’t any creative writing classes in my resumé. None.

I’ve never had a manuscript rejected. I’ve been led to understand I have to have manuscripts rejected to know what it’s like to be a writer. I’ve never had one rejected because I’ve never submitted any to be accepted.

I’m an interloper. A fake. An imposter.

Or not. It’s not always easy to tell.

I have a drive to share the lessons God is teaching me. I have the tools—computer, vocabulary (and a thesaurus, when that fails me), editor (the Lovely Lady, most days), and an imagination/creative ability.

I’ve trusted my Creator for those things. I can trust Him for anything else necessary.

So, I’ve been thinking. If my friend and her group members are willing to consider the things I believe work in my writing, I’m certainly willing to share them.

Others may want to sneak a look at my secrets, too.

Even if you, too, wonder if I’m qualified at all. And perhaps, even a complete imposter.

So, here goes:

Write about what you know. Or are learning right now. (Most of what I write falls into the latter category.)
As much as possible, write on subjects you are passionate about. Many don’t, and their readers know it.
If you don’t have a reason for the words you’re writing when you begin, you should certainly acquire one before you finish. Many of my essays have been started with just the barest of concepts (like a snippet of a real-life story). Sometimes, nothing significant develops. When this happens, I put the rough draft on the shelf and let it simmer for a while. Don’t publish something simply because you’ve worked hard on it.
Leave room for your readers to digest the words you’ve put on the page. I do this with short paragraphs (often, of only one sentence), sentence fragments where appropriate, and quotes from other sources. Leave plenty of white space on each page. In art, this is called negative space, and is more necessity than preference if you want to keep your readers engaged.
Be creative. Break rules when you need to (but only if you can still communicate clearly to your target group).
Excellence is essential. The suggestion directly above gives no excuse for poor grammar, wrong spellings, and misplaced punctuation. Use an editor, read every article aloud, and re-read it two or three times before you click the publish button. I have a competent editor in the Lovely Lady who lives with me, but you’ll need to find your own. I have also installed a good online editor on all the devices I use. Grammarly is free in its basic form and has more comprehensive levels available for the cost of a subscription.
Know your target audience. Write for them, but don’t be so worried about what they think of your writing that you hold back on your content. As a follower of Christ, I often think of the instruction to seek to please God and not men.

That’s my list for now. I know there is more to be said, but those basics should give enough to chew on. I hope they’ll be helpful, even knowing they come from an interloper.

I’m still becoming.

Perhaps, we all are.

“Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it.” (Albert Einstein)

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

How Far Will I Go?

May 13, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Hey Brian! Give me a pump!”

I’m aging myself to admit the words came from my mouth. Seven years old, just a skinny tow-headed scruff, I slouched along the side of the street, hoping for a ride home.

My buddy looked over as he stood on his bicycle pedals to engage the coaster brakes. Coming to a stop beside me, he admitted he wasn’t that sure he could do it, but nonetheless agreed to let me ride on the handlebars of the little red single-speed bike.

I hopped up, and he pushed off. We didn’t make it even a block down the road toward my house before the two-wheeler began to wobble dangerously. I launched myself forward onto the grass beside the street as he tumbled to the ground, tangled up in his pretty little ride.

When he stood up, the right knee of his jeans was ripped, and blood dripped slowly from the scrape on his skin. There was even a scratch or two on the bicycle. He wasn’t happy.

I walked home. He went home on his less-than-pristine steed, grumbling about the pain. And the scratches.

Somehow, I blame that event for the decline of our friendship. There could have been other factors, but this one, I remember vividly.

I wonder sometimes if he remembers that event. It came to my mind again as I considered something that happened earlier today.

I was walking to collect the Lovely Lady from work this afternoon when I saw the car in one of the driveways. It was backing out, so I waited until the SUV was on the road. The lady driving it hadn’t seen me and gave a little “so-sorry” wave as she drove away.

I heard the whomp-whomp-whomp of a flat tire as she accelerated. She didn’t drive far, pulling into a nearby parking lot to back into a vacant spot as I approached on foot.

My daddy taught me that one never assumes people are okay, so I veered across the grass to ask if she needed help. She told me she had no spare, but her daughter was coming to get her, and then waved me off.

Ten minutes later, as the Lovely Lady and I walked back the other way, I saw her sitting there still. I had already checked, so was certain it was just a matter of a few minutes before she was rescued.

But (my daddy, you know), we both stopped to check on her again.

Her daughter wasn’t coming.

“It’s complicated.”

I wondered aloud if we could go get our car (a block or so away at home) and take her where she needed to be. She said she needed to be at work, but it was nearly 20 miles away.

Twenty miles! I wasn’t taking her twenty miles!

She saw my reaction and told me it was okay. She’d get there somehow.

Well?? It was twenty miles. One way. A forty-mile trip.

I needed lunch. And a nap. Needed them.

“Who is my neighbor?”

How far is far enough? Or, too far?

Is in town the limit? Five miles? Ten?

Almost every time I pray these days, I ask for wisdom to see the folks God brings across my path—folks He intends for me to love with His heart, to touch with His compassion. Those neighbors Jesus was talking about when He told us we were to love them in the same way we love ourselves. (Mark 12:30-31)

I pray the words, but when He answers with live candidates, I want the option to set limitations.

Can I say this? The ride to and from her work was a joy. I mean it. Ask the Lovely Lady who rode beside me.

A joy.

We learned about how it’s complicated with her daughter. We learned how God is answering prayer for her in other areas of her life. We were blessed by her genuine gratitude for a simple kindness.

This world is a hard place.

Our Creator gives us ways to make it softer. Brighter. More lovely.

And, to point others to Him.

I still got my nap. And my lunch.

The nap was sweeter. My turkey sandwich tasted better.

How far will we go for Love?

What if He wants us to go farther than that?

“Erecting walls around themselves, instead of bridges into the lives of others; shutting out life.”
(Joseph Fort Newton)

“The man answered, ‘You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your strength, and all your mind.’ And, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’
‘Right!’ Jesus told him. ‘Do this and you will live!’
The man wanted to justify his actions, so he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?'”
(Luke 10:27-29, NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

faith