Hope Still Keeps Its Promises

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

I wrote recently that I was learning to play the piano again, implying by my words that I wasn’t completely certain the outcome would be successful. The jury is still out on that question.

I have found some fodder for thought in the process, though. Just tonight, as I sat at the still out-of-tune grand piano, I played a few notes of an old song I first heard in my teen years. It wasn’t in any hymnal I ever sang from, but had been recorded a decade or two before then by a country singer of some renown.

The song is titled “Whispering Hope.”

I didn’t like the song so much. In retrospect, I think I never really considered the message.

Who needed hope, especially the kind that whispered, when you had the dreams of youth? I was going to live forever!

The future was bright, with no clouds to dim the sun.

There are clouds now. And winter seems about to set in. I know I’m not the only one who feels it—the darkness and the bitter, biting wind.

And yet, there is still a voice that whispers hope in my ears—every day.

Perhaps you’ve heard it.

Perhaps, you’re still waiting.

But there’s no need to wait. If you belong to God, hope—bright hope—has always been His promise.

“Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.” (Romans 5:5, NKJV)

In the bright glare of the sunlight, hope will be our shade.

In the dim shadow of gathering night, hope lights the narrow path ahead.

In the frigid cold of the deepest winter, hope lends warmth to the despairing soul.

It’s a promise.

And, He keeps His promises.

Still.

“If in the dusk of the twilight,
Dim be the region afar,
Will not the deepening darkness
Brighten the glimmering star?
Then when the night is upon us,
Why should the heart sink away?
When the dark midnight is over,
Watch for the breaking of day.

Whispering Hope
O how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.”
(from Whispering Hope by Septimus Winner [1868])

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops—at all.”
(from Hope is the Thing With Feathers, by Emily Dickinson)

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)

It’s Dark Here. For Now.

April 19, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Thunder grumbles all around. The storm’s fury is drained, lightning trails dragging their bedraggled tails through the sodden sky above.

The dragon has flown away. For now. Moments ago, it blazed through the sky, dropping stones of ice and frightening the earthbound denizens of the tiny communities below with screaming winds and threats of rotating clouds.

But, even as I write, the wind moans around the doors and windows anew, a reminder that the dragon is not dead, but only gathering strength—this being the season of rain and wind.

I used to love the storms. I still do, but don’t tell my friends.

It is a guilty pleasure of mine, standing and watching the lowering clouds blowing in from the west, listening to the raucous downpour against the metal roof while anticipating the greens of the fields and the wildly variegated colors of the wildflowers on the wooded hillsides, all dependent upon the moisture the dragons leave behind for us.

But there is terror still. And danger. I feel the collective fear from those awaiting the warning siren’s call to seek refuge and shelter.

I care about that, too. But mostly, about them.

Shall we always be torn between the two? Safety and danger? Drought and ample rainfall? Famine and plenty?

Sadness and great joy.

It’s the week we remember that in a much more fundamental way. At least for those of us who claim to follow Jesus, it is a week of remembering overwhelming joy and elation. And a week of remembering breathtaking loss and defeat.

And, come the new week, it will be a time of celebrating unimaginable jubilation and great wonder.

Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem; Joy and anticipation!

The Last Supper and the Garden, and the trials followed by the crucifixion: Crippling anguish and the loss of dreams of conquest.

Resurrection dawning: Awe and splendor without end!

When the dragon is rampant, we believe that our hardships will never stop. A dark, unending tunnel that winds into ever-deepening blackness.

We’ve all been there. Oh, not like His followers experienced in this week in history. But we’ve been in the black hole with the dragon raging overhead.

The older I grow, the more I am aware of the dichotomy—ever-present and ever-looming. Great joy and great sadness, one after the other, a seeming never-ending parade.

But, if this week in history reminds us of nothing else, it is that dragons will be defeated. Perhaps only temporarily in this lifetime.

But, the day is coming…

No more night. Never again will the dragon fly.

I’ll wait. With you, I’ll wait.

Even if the rain is pounding on the roof again.

“Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?”
(from Were You There?, African-American spiritual)

“Nature is mortal; we shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each one of you will still be alive…We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendour which she fitfully reflects.
And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life.”
(from The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis)

I’m Not Just The Guy With His Right Shoe Untied

March 4, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The guy with his right shoe untied.

I know I accepted the label when she used it. I almost embraced it. It does describe me.

Sometimes.

But more often than not, both of my shoes are tied—tied in neat square-knot bows. I often walk down the sidewalk without the tell-tale skritch-skritch-skritch of shoelace aglets dragging along the concrete.

My identity is not found exclusively in my untied right shoe.

Sometimes, my identity is found in the angry words that flood from my mouth when the person in front of me demonstrates an insufficiency in driving skills. I’m confident if I asked the question again of the Lovely Lady at those times, she would answer it differently than she did the other night. There would be no mention of the condition of my right shoe.

“Sure. I know who you are! You’re the man who has never learned to control his temper in traffic.“

She has not said those words to me. But, she could. I know they would be accurate sometimes.

I’m not proud of it. I even told her the other day (without her prodding me whatsoever) how sorry I am not to have conquered that bad habit.

Sin.

I should call it what it is.

“People can tame all kinds of animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue. It is restless and evil, full of deadly poison.” (James 3:7-8, NLT)

So sometimes, I am the guy with his mouth full of poison. Spitting it with great accuracy like a cobra.

Then again, I can often be found speaking gently to folks and even offering a helping hand if they have need of it. I have days when not a single angry or disparaging word leaves the vicinity of my mouth.

I have admitted, repeatedly, that I am not the man I had hoped to be by now. Daily, I see ways in which I could make improvements.

“Please be patient with me; God isn’t finished with me yet.”

I remember hearing the phrase when I was a teenager. It has become a bit trite now, as if an excuse for actions and attitudes. But it’s not.

Both confession and prayer—the words admit fault while looking to a future and a loving Father from which improvement will come.

The apostle, my namesake, said it this way:

“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)

If that doesn’t give one hope, I don’t know what will.

And, that’s an identity I’ll claim. If you need words to describe me, say this:

“I know you! You’re the guy with hope for what’s still ahead!”

Hopeful.

Because He’s not done with me yet.

And, never will be.

My right shoe won’t come untied forever. The poison will be gone from my mouth one day. I’ll not struggle with sexual thoughts, or hateful attitudes, or doubts and frustration.

It’s a promise to all He draws to Himself.

So it belongs to you as much as it does to me.

Patience. And hope.

Mostly, hope.

“Numbers and photographs do not a person make.
I’m more than what a page can say of me.
My identity is not in my history.
All the best of me is in my dreams.”
(from A Voice, by Kat Edmonson)

“But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against these things!” (Galatians 5:23-24, NLT)

A Good Taste

December 30, 2024December 30, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I almost feel I owe the good folks who find time to read my little essays an explanation. I always write something the week of Christmas. But, it didn’t happen this year.

So somehow, in this week of in-between—between that joyous celebration and the new year—I wonder if this will do.

My loved one in the hospital was released to go home two days before Christmas, the occasion one for rejoicing. It did mean there would be some vigilance necessary on my part—making sure there was food, and walks, and incision care until the surgeon could release her.

But, it meant there was a light ahead—the end of the tunnel in sight.

Until the next day—Christmas Eve—when symptoms led me to take a home test.

Covid.

Not the dread diagnosis it once was, I was certain I would weather it just fine. But, there were house guests to protect. And, our patient.

How could I care for her?

You know, there is always light. The Lovely Lady was not positive for the pesky virus. She agreed to take my place as caregiver for a few days.

It is not so dark here as I thought.

But, the Lovely Lady acquired a different virus.

Do you sense a pattern here?

Ah, but the Lovely Lady has a daughter—herself a Lovely Lady in her own right. She stepped in and care continued.

Light conquers. It does. Sometimes, it seems dim, but it’s still there—winning out.

Except…There’s this one thing that happened.

Near the end of last week, feeling better, I decided it was time to eat a cinnamon roll from a big batch one of our houseguests had made for the celebrations. It was beautiful! Blonde colored with brown sprinkles of cinnamon all over. Just the right amount of browning from the oven. Even a perfect quantity of glaze covering the entire roll. Gooey, but not soggy.

Perfection.

I bit into the lovely concoction and waited for the explosion of flavors—light dough, spicy cinnamon, and sugar. Especially sugar.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

No taste whatsoever!

None.

I can’t taste my food. My coffee. My cough medicine. Well, that last one might be counted a blessing. But, still.

I’m sitting here in the dark again. Poor, poor pitiful me. I’m not sure life is worth living if I can’t taste my food.

Darkness comes in so many forms.

Some of you are laughing. Others of you are nodding your heads. You know what it’s like to be beset from every side, with every possible disaster or semi-disaster. And, then there is the one that breaks your spirit—the straw that breaks the metaphorical camel’s back.

I’ve been thinking about tasting a lot the last few days. Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ll taste my food again. Although, I may never get over the memory that someone quipped this week that I have no taste.

But, I’m wondering how many of us have lost our sense of taste when it comes to the goodness and blessing of our God.

Church leaves a bad taste in our mouths sometimes. Someone said something cruel. The committee overlooked us in their list of volunteers to thank publicly. The worship team didn’t sing the Christmas carol we wanted to sing more than any of the other junk—sorry, I mean songs—they prepared.

We prayed, but the prayer wasn’t answered. There’s not enough money for the things we want. Our relationship is damaged beyond salvaging. You didn’t get that promotion you were promised.

For the last couple of days, I haven’t been able to get King David’s words out of my head. David, the man who had just barely escaped with his life from an enemy king—and then only by pretending to be insane.

And still, he wrote the timeless words.

“Oh, taste that the Lord is good.. And, see that the Lord is good.” (from Psalm 34:8, my paraphrase)

Taste. See. Experience it fully.

I sat down to a meal last night with our house guests, the serving dishes full of food prepared for us by my sister-in-law. I was sure it was a wasted effort on her part—for me, anyway. I wouldn’t taste a thing.

But, as I bit into the first delicious-looking forkful of beef stroganoff, I felt the giving texture of the pasta, cooked to perfection. Then I noticed the just-right, almost squeaky, crunch of the onions. And I couldn’t taste it, but the salt in the dish—just right, most there agreed—gave off a tiny bit of physical heat to the top of my tongue.

It was good! I promise you, it was good.

I wonder if that’s the reason the former shepherd-turned-king told us to taste, as well as to see. So we would experience our God fully.

Sometimes in the black of night, when it’s too dark to see, we perhaps can only feel—or hear—or reach out and touch Him.

I’m pretty sure it’s enough.

I may not have any taste, I mean, I may not be able to taste my food, but I still know that, in the middle of the darkest night, His Word is still a light for my path, a lamp I can hold near my feet to see the road just ahead.

And, it’s good.

Really. Good.

“I like reality. It tastes like bread.”
(Jean Anouilh)

“Your words were found, and I ate them, And Your word was to me the joy and rejoicing of my heart; For I am called by Your name, O Lord God of hosts.” (Jeremiah 15:16, NJKV)

Time to Wake Up

August 7, 2024August 7, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I woke up this morning.

And, with that one sentence, you may know all you need to know about my day.

“The steadfast and resolute love of the Lord never wavers. There is no end to His mercies. Every morning we awake, they are fresh and new. What astounding faithfulness!” (Lamentations 3:22-23, my paraphrase)

I awoke this morning and got out of bed. There were clothes for my body and shoes for my feet. Food was available to keep up my strength—although that would wait until after I drank my first (and maybe, my second) cup of coffee.

My house is still standing and my children—and grandchildren—can still put their arms around my neck and tell me they love me.

But the words in those verses above have nothing to do with all those things. Well, except for the “every morning we awake” part.

We glibly speak (and sing) the words of Lamentations, yet rarely think of the weight of the words to the people who first heard the words of the weeping prophet, Jeremiah.

They are heavy words. Words to give a foundation when all around turns to quicksand. Words to offer food and drink when all about has become a barren and desolate desert.

The people for whom the words were originally intended were under an aggressive physical attack. They were being starved and their homes destroyed. There was rape and cannibalism among them. Life was horrible.

Things are not that bad here. Not yet.

Still, everywhere I look, folks are using hyperbole to tell us it can’t get any worse. You’ve seen—and read—and heard what I’m talking about. It doesn’t seem to matter what one’s faith tradition is, nor even their political leaning.

“Disaster!”, they all cry.

And yet, in the midst of a real (not imagined) disaster, Jeremiah wrote the words that would stand for a thousand generations. And for many more.

Those words have the same weight today as they did the day he took up quill, ink, and scroll to write them down.

Maybe it’s time to quit doom-scrolling. I’m certain the words appearing on your phone’s screen today won’t be remembered at all a thousand years from now. Perhaps, not even a week from now.

All those Chicken Little folks who think the sky is falling won’t change the resolute will of our Creator one iota. And, He is for us!

He is for us!

In our corner.

On our side.

And, I woke up this morning. You too, I bet.

I’m going on. Today, at least.

Are you coming with?

“But let all who take refuge in you rejoice;
let them sing joyful praises forever.
Spread your protection over them,
that all who love your name may be filled with joy.”
(Psalm 5:11, NLT)

“One day Henny-penny was picking up corn in the corn yard when—whack!—something hit her upon the head. ‘Goodness gracious me!’ said Henny-penny; ‘the sky’s a-going to fall; I must go and tell the king.'”
(from the English fairy tale, Henny-Penny)

Still Not Afraid

August 2, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The Lovely Lady and I made a trek to Lowe’s today, in hopes of buying some sixteen-penny nails for our current project (the associate in the hardware aisle didn’t know what those were—seriously!)

I was disappointed and a little frightened by the Halloween display (yes, you read that right!) inside the front doors. Really. Halloween. Another thief trying to steal my summer.

But, being frightened is nothing new to you this summer, is it?

The news media has done its best to convince you that you must be frightened that cool weather will never return, and the world is falling apart politically, along with the certainty that financial disaster is right around the corner.

I watched a 4-minute video last night in which a young lady did her best to excoriate all you fools ignorant enough to not be terrified that the world is melting. Melting.

And, the drug cartels—no, no—the pharmaceutical companies, are spending millions to convince you that every disease imaginable is hiding under your bed, so you must ask your doctor to prescribe their latest chemical concoction if you want to have any chance to live out the year.

I have a suggestion.

Put that iPhone in your pocket, turn off the idiot box, and go outside.

Yes, it’s hot. So, take some water with you. Carry a towel to wipe the sweat out of your eyes (or, if you’ve still got a stretchy terry headband from the 1970s, you can wear that).

The grass is green. The trees are covered with leaves (read: shade in which to rest). For the most part, water is flowing down the creeks and rivers.

Remember when you were a kid? Nobody could have forced you inside on hot summer days. Now, voices from an electronic box have you convinced you’re done.

You’re not.

Not by a long shot.

I’m not trying to tell you what to believe. This is not a political statement—pro this—anti that.

I’m merely suggesting that we take back our lives. Live each day as if it’s a gift from our Creator.

Because it is. An amazing gift.

Fear is a thief. Don’t let it steal another minute of your life.

Oh, just so you know… The sweat washes off. Really, it does. And, the A/C feels a lot cooler after an hour or two under the summer sun.

To every thing there is a season. And, seasons pass.

They pass.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33, NIV)

Still in the Tunnel

September 12, 2022September 12, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.

It was just a bit of whimsy, a slogan to print on a magnet shaped like an old steam engine. My dad slapped it on the old Frigidaire over fifty years ago. It still makes me laugh.

Sort of.

Nowadays, it’s more likely to make me think of the other phrase we use commonly, the origin of which is also most likely in the dim history of the railroads.

I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Except, I’m not. Seeing the light yet.

It’s been a dark season. Sadness piled upon dread; covered up in anticipation of worse to come.

I’m not the only one.

Our old friends sat around the table the other night and one of the ladies said the words.

“There are a lot of people dying, aren’t there?”

Nobody really answered her, but I heard a collective hmmm and the table went silent. Each of us, lost in our thoughts, was seeing the faces of absent friends and hearing the voices of people we loved, voices we’ll never hear again this side of heaven.

It’s why I’ve not shared many of my current writings with my friends and social media followers for the last several months. I’ve been seeing some of those faces and hearing many of those voices nearly constantly for a while. And, when one is in dark places, it doesn’t seem the kindest thing to usher others into the darkness.

I’m going to chance it, though. That moment with my old friends made me realize that perhaps we need to talk about it. For a little while, anyway.

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now. About that tunnel.

I’ll admit it; what got me thinking about tunnels was actually a bright spot in a little trip I took with the Lovely Lady recently. We stopped by to visit one of our favorite bridges a few hours away from where we live.

She’s the one who saw it. I was driving, so I would have never seen the conjunction of lovely points of light if it hadn’t been for her keen eye.

“That’s amazing! You have to see it!”

She is not given to flights of fancy, this companion. She’s the one who helps me see reality when I drift away from it (as I frequently do). I’d hold onto all the balloons and float into the sky to oblivion, but she knows to use her trusty BB gun to bring me back down before I hurt myself. I need her.

But on this day, she could hardly wait for the truck to get parked so she could hurry me up the hill and point out the scene. It’s in the photo on this page.

At precisely this spot, one may view the most beautiful highway bridge in the state, under which runs the Missouri Northern Arkansas Railroad, leading over a lovely trestle (above a rushing river), and straight through a thousand-foot tunnel cut through the nearby hillside. That’s the tunnel, there through the railroad bridge, that tiny arched blob of shadow before brilliant light.

The photo doesn’t do the view credit. And yet, we were giddy as we stood there, with the richness of sunlight playing with shade and the drawing together of the individual points of beauty into one single vista.

The moment has passed.

I have spent hours with the photo open on my computer monitor since then. And, as has happened so often over the last few months, the shadows eventually return, even to this place of light and beauty.

I know there is sunshine on the other side of that tunnel. I see it clearly. Still, that blob of shadow fills my vision.

I bet it’s dark in there—there in that tunnel. Even with the end in view, it’s dark and gloomy.

It’s dark in here, too—here in this tunnel I’m making my way through. But, I sense I’m not alone in here.

Even though it can seem so lonely, many of us have brought our tattered pieces of cardboard in and have built little makeshift shelters for ourselves under which we huddle, shivering and shaking, as the trains pass noisily by.

I won’t dwell on the darkness, on the loneliness, on the fear that this passage will be beyond our strength. If you’ve been in here, you already know. Probably better than I.

I find myself asking if the tunnel ever ends—if the darkness ever gives way to sunshine again.

I’m not the brightest crayon in the box; I readily admit it. But, like Mr. Tolkien’s innkeeper, Butterbur, I think I can see through a brick wall in time. And I think I may be seeing a glimmer of that light, finally.

I’m asking the wrong questions.

The apostle, my namesake, suggested in his day that his troubles were temporary and light. More than once, he wrote the words. His point was that we’re aimed for better things, things that will make the events filling our sight today seem minor in comparison.

It doesn’t trivialize our life experiences. The pain, the fear, and the losses can’t be dismissed with the snap of our fingers. We still must endure them; still must make our way forward through the darkness. But, something is waiting at the end, something that will make all the dreadful things we’ve struggled through fade in importance.

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

I stood, here in this dark tunnel, the other day, and I think I finally saw through that brick wall. Momentarily, at least. New questions came to my mind.

Who put this tunnel here? And why?

Perhaps, I’m being simplistic. I don’t think I am.

Tunnels are not made to create hardship, but to alleviate it. They are placed to facilitate progress to the goal, in locations where the conveyance could never—never!—make any headway without them.

And, in my head—and heart—the words resound. Words I’ve mentioned here before.

“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'” (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT)

They are words to encourage us. In the midst of hurting and paralyzing fear, they remind us that there is more.

More.

I’m reminded that the Word is light for our pathway and our feet. I trust Him. I’ll walk in that light.

Traveling to the Light at the end of the tunnel. Step by step, walking in the light He gives for today.

I’ve camped out here long enough. You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead. That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’
(from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

But forget all that—
    it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.
For I am about to do something new.
    See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
    I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:18-19, NLT)

The Storm Before the Calm

September 22, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments

I sit, listening to the quiet of the morning. The morning after, perhaps I should say.

Last night a cold front moved through our region, the coolness of the northern air pushing under the stubborn heat of our lingering southern summer. As usually happens with this situation, the leading edge of that troublesome, change-seeking cold front roiled up a thunderstorm from the hot air, blowing through with noise and light, keeping normal folks awake and on edge for hours.

This morning brought temperatures in the sixties, instead of the eighties, and a quiet that seems almost eerie after the high energy of the night we experienced. A few limbs had to be moved out of streets and the yards are covered with leaves and slender branches that gave up their fight during the storm, but over it all, a hush and calm has descended. Even the songbirds seem a little muted as they wing from tree to bush today.

The calm after the storm.

Wait. That’s not right.

The red-headed lady who raised me said it enough times the words are embedded in my brain.

The calm before the storm. That was how she would say it.

We would comment about how things seemed to be going smoothly, and she would say the words, injecting her usual pessimism—her expectation of trouble to come—into the quiet.

I may have acquired some of her fretting spirit. I’m certain the world around me, my tribe of Christ-followers included, has appropriated it these days.

Everywhere I turn, the expectation is of more disaster, of more pain.

I’m here to say the old trite saying my mother remembered from her mother (and perhaps, hers before that) is the wrong way around. Almost inside out.

The truth is, or so it seems to me, the storm precedes the calm.

In the midst of the wind and the crashing thunder, along with the devastating lightning, there is a hope—no, a certainty—that calm will descend anew. The noise will stop, the catastrophic power of the storm will fade, and we’ll bind up the wounds as we weep for our losses and move forward.

Headed home—again.

There is hope. I don’t know how long the storm will last. I do know our Creator, our God, has plans for good for us, not destruction.

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

I do know our Savior acknowledged the storms of life, but told us not to give in to terror and hopelessness.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
(John 16:33, NIV)

I am not a Pollyanna, quoting only “rejoicing texts.” Nor, am I a Little Orphan Annie insisting “the sun’ll come out tomorrow.” No, I am simply a pragmatist with Faith. Faith with a capital F.

I know better than to trust to the devices of men, or the machinations of politics, or even the beneficence of a sympathetic universe. Simply put, I believe in the words of a trustworthy Creator and the experience of having spent a lifetime invested in following Him.

I wish I could insert the word “fully” in the previous sentence, right before “invested.” I’m sorry to say I have only been heavily invested for short periods of time. Before that, I was partially invested. Perhaps, it was merely slightly invested.

Have I made it clear that I’m not all that good at this “following Christ” gig? My lack of enthusiastic participation doesn’t change His investment in the slightest.

He’s all in.

And not just for me. He’s all in for every single person who believes in Him. Every one.

Calm follows a storm. It always has. I see no reason to believe that’s going to change.

I’m not telling you the red-headed lady was wrong. I just think she might have put the cart before the horse. She told me that happened a lot, too.

For many, the storm is still raging. All around, events are out of control and all appears to be lost.

It’s not. Calm will come again. It will.

The wind and the waves still know His voice.

Your heart will too.

Rest.

I have both the violent turbulence of the storm and the quiet promises of God in the storm. And what I must work to remember is that something is not necessarily stronger simply because it’s louder.
(Craig Lounsbrough ~ Pastor/Counselor)

Then He arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace, be still!” And the wind ceased and there was a great calm.
(Mark 4:39, NKJV)

The Better to See You With, My Dear

August 2, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“I’m not letting you out of my sight!”

The Lovely Lady needed a few things from the grocery store. No, she wasn’t sending me for them. With more than forty years of hands-on experience, she knows better than to chance that near-certain fiasco. Instead, she had graciously offered to let me sit in my easy chair and nap for a few minutes before the grandchildren descended upon us for the evening.

My facetious reply would come back to haunt me (but perhaps, not in the way one would expect).

Did I say we’ve been attached for more than forty years? I know the common perception is that the individuals who are half of an old married couple would almost always prefer some “alone time”, some space between them given the opportunity.

I’m happy to report it to be a misconception in our case. I know quite a number of those old married couples. Many of them would take issue with the stereotype, as well.

I like being with her. She’ll have to speak for herself as to her preference in the matter, but she seems to enjoy my company—most of the time.

I went to the grocery store with her.

On our way out of the store, having made our purchases, we saw the wife of my preacher friend (she’s an employee there) and stopped to greet her.

She looked at the Lovely Lady and smiled. Reaching out to touch her hair with the back of her hand, there was an impish gleam in her eye as she mentioned how pretty the red-headed lady was that day. She even suggested that I needed to hold on to this one.

I mentioned my comment to her, jokingly assuring her that I had no intention of ever letting the Lovely Lady out of my sight.

It’s not a promise I intend to keep. Seriously. I don’t.

Of course, she’ll be out of my sight.

She goes to work most weekdays and I don’t go with her. Many evenings, she works in the kitchen while I watch television or work outside. Right now, she’s in bed as I write.

Out of my sight.

I guess I’m not all that good at keeping promises.

But I know Someone who is. He’s even made the same promise I intend to break.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

He fully intends to keep His promise. He’s been at it since long before I was born.

“You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.”
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

Every day since then, as I come and go, He fulfills the promise.

“You see me when I travel
and when I rest at home.
You know everything I do.
You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord.”
(Psalm 139: 3-4, NLT)

No matter how hard I try, and how far I run—and I’ve tried, and I’ve run—He’ll be there to keep His promise.

“If I were to ascend to heaven, you would be there.
If I were to sprawl out in Sheol, there you would be.
If I were to fly away on the wings of the dawn,
and settle down on the other side of the sea,
even there your hand would guide me,
your right hand would grab hold of me.”
(Psalm 139:8-10, NET)

His promises aren’t made in jest. They’re not made (as mine was) to win brownie points.

His promises are made to assure us of His love—His overwhelming love—for each one of us.

The Son, when He walked and lived down here in the dirt with us, reiterated the promise, assuring us that, in the midst of trouble and cares, His Father sees us.

And, when He sees us, He knows us. He has no intention of leaving us bereft of His love and provision. None.

“What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it…So don’t be afraid. You are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.”
(Matthew 10:29,31, NLT)

He is El Roi. The God who sees me.

Me.

That doesn’t only mean me, personally. For anyone who says the words, they mean exactly what they say.

The God who sees me.

The old friend who shared that his wife of many years has moved out. The brother who sat at our table today talking about his battle with cancer. The friend I talked with after church who reminded me so gently that she doesn’t have anyone to carry in her groceries from the car, having lost her husband suddenly only months ago.

Every one of them seen. Every one of them loved. Every one of them safe in His care.

Right where we are—doing exactly what we’re doing—we are seen and known. Loved and cherished.

Never alone.

Never not seen.

Not even if you don’t have a dorky old man to follow you around the grocery store pushing your cart.

Because He’s not letting me out of His sight.

He won’t let you out of it, either.

It’s a promise He’ll keep.

“And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.”
(from In the Garden, by C. Austin Miles)

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