Say the Words

November 17, 2016November 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

How was I supposed to know?

Perhaps they could wear signs. Cautionary words are always helpful.

Warning! Traumatic life event in progress!

That should do it. Now, there’ll be no untimely jests—no teasing sales pitches—no words to regret, as my friend walks away minutes from now. Give me a heads up; I’ll take it from there.

But, life’s not like that, is it?

No signs. No colored lights—green, yellow, and red—to keep us out of the danger zone. We’re on our own.

Or, are we? On our own, I mean. We’re not really. Those of us who are students of the Word, followers of Jesus, have already spent a lifetime in training.

Everything—every single thing—we have learned of following Him, has been to prepare us for the relational interactions we will have on every day of the time we have on this earth.

Love God. Love people.

Doing the first teaches us to do the second. More than that, choosing to fulfill the former gives us no option but to fulfill the latter.

Loving God gives us no option but to love people. All people. Click To Tweet

Love is kind. (1 Corinthians 13:4)

Always.

Always—Love is kind.

The young man came in a few days ago, with his sweet wife and well-mannered children. I have known him for many years now, a relationship developed through his pursuit of becoming a musician. He was a boy when first I sold him a guitar.

That was several instruments and many additional accessories ago. On this day, I would break the news that our business relationship of many years is about to end. I didn’t like doing it, but I owed it to him.

As others have done, he reacted strongly, but perhaps, a bit more emotionally than I expected. The face that turned to me suddenly was covered with sadness, his eyes almost grief-stricken.

Almost without thinking, I reminded him that, as with all of my life, I trusted a God who had proven Himself trustworthy. For some reason, it seemed important to me to reiterate this truth I am convinced of.

“God didn’t bring us here just to walk away from us. He’s still got good things ahead. Good things.”

A short time later, as he and his family walked out the door, he stuck out his big, strong hand and held my slender one in that familiar strong, almost painful, grip. It’s happened many times before. Then, smiling at me, he walked out with his family, not saying another word.

If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was afraid to say anything else because he didn’t want tears to come. No. That couldn’t have been it.

I was busy with another customer when he came back the next day. Maybe, it was a good thing. He asked the Lovely Lady to give me a message.

It seems he had received news on the previous day, right before I had seen him, that a young friend had died a horrible death. He was overwhelmed.

He told the Lovely Lady to relay to me the message that the words I had said on that afternoon had been exactly what he and his wife needed. Exactly the message that would give comfort and hope, not regarding my temporary inconvenience, but for the very real pain they were already experiencing. They had left my store that day with renewed hope—renewed courage.

Even since that day, the number of folks who have shared their pain at losing loved ones has multiplied. A lady whose father died and left her with no opportunity to attain closure of a tragic situation. A man who doesn’t know how to comfort his teenage daughter after the death of his wife, her mother, less than a month ago. The father whose son died suddenly. The grandfather who will never go horseback riding with his grandson again.

The list goes on. And on. And on.

And suddenly it occurs to me—we don’t need the warning signs I wished for. No words of explanation are ever necessary for us to know who needs help.

We are all members of a fallen race. Every one of us carries our pain around inside. No one escapes the pain. It is our birthright.

We all need help. And, kind words.

And yet, we who carry this pain and horror inside have been called to be ministers of healing and ministers of grace. It is who we must be.

We, who carry this pain, are called to be ministers of healing to others who carry pain. It is who we must be. Click To Tweet

Comfort ye. Comfort ye my people. (Isaiah 40:1) God said the words to Isaiah centuries before our Savior came. The message he carried was of comfort and hope.

And, what a hope!

At the end of your waiting on God, you will regain your strength and your resolve. You who are now weary and defeated will rise up on wings of eagles. (Isaiah 40:30,31)

We who follow Jesus carry the same message.

Perhaps, it’s time for us to deliver it.

We already know who the message is for.

Say the words.

He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.
(2 Corinthians 1:4 ~ NLT)

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.
O, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; it is in dying that we are born again to eternal life.
(Francis of Assisi ~ Catholic Friar ~ 1181-1226)

Higher than That

September 29, 2016September 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

As if all of creation is following the calendar hanging on the wall, the temperatures are dropping to suit the season. The north wind already blusters, tugging on the leaves of the trees in my yard, urging them to fly.

Soon. Soon, they’ll fly.

I sat on the porch with a warm cup of coffee a few moments past and wondered why the melancholy mood seems to be descending like a cloud. It does every year now, when the seasons make the turn toward colder temperatures and bare limbs on trees.

It hasn’t always been so.

I listen absent-mindedly to the wind chimes at the northern backside of the house and then to the ones beside me on the southern porch as they take their turn to spin and shimmy in the chilly breeze. The progression of the blowing wind reminds me that the years have come and gone in just the same way. The waning year reminds me that life too, wanes.

With the years have come so many life events. Joyous and sad, they also take their turns, blowing in and then out again. I might as well try to stop the north wind as to hold back the memories.

I have seen babies born and old folks die. Before my eyes, both have happened. I didn’t turn away from either. Both have brought tears. Tears of heartache and joy.

Children have grown; friendships, too. The children left, but came back with others of their own. Friends have come and gone, and then come again, some of them. Life has had its sadness, but also, in great measure, its joy.

And yet, among my memories, especially now, the melancholy shoves aside the joy.

For some reason I see, in my mind’s eye, a scene from a Greek myth I read as a child. Most will remember it, the story of Pandora and the box she was forbidden to open.

The pain and evil she loosed on the earth changed it forever. Only a weak and ineffective hope was left behind as a salve, a bandage for the open, bleeding wound.

The Greeks and Romans offered, in their attempts at explaining humanity and deity, a weak copy of the reality of a Creator who actually gave hope, real hope to His children, His creation.

How easy it is for us, like the ancients, to let our eyes fall to man and the created world, expecting salvation, but finding only weakness and death. We begin to attempt to explain all we see and experience, framed in our human frailty and knowledge.

Weakly, we grasp at the wisps of hope the world offers, thinking it will stave off our unhappiness and certainty of what follows the coming of Autumn.

We build empires, which merely crumble and dissolve beneath our feet. We follow political leaders who make promises with their mouths, but then take action from their base, evil hearts.

Wealth bellows its virtues, only to disappoint. Youth begins to slip from our grasp and hope flees. We chase health with every gym membership and dietary supplement we can find, only to discover ourselves trapped in ever weakening frames.

Magazines are read; books purchased. Surely someone will find the secret before it’s too late for us!

We set our sight too low. Far too low.

Did you ever stand in the dark of early morning, out in a valley, awaiting the dawn? I remember mornings—brisk Autumn mornings, not unlike those I’m waking up to now—when I sat awaiting the sun, and the beauty that would follow its rising.

Looking out across the valley, I could see only pitch blackness. They say it’s always darkest before dawn and then, I could believe it. But perhaps, I was looking too low. I should look up—up on the rise of the surrounding hillsides. Surely, from that height, light would ascend and creation would shine.

The hillsides disappointed. Every time.

Even the hilltops themselves were of little help. Possibly, I could make them out, silhouetted against the sky as they were. But, the light didn’t emanate from them.

I had to lift my eyes even higher—up to the sky, where the sun would rise.

There! Even before the sun arrived, the light shone upward from behind the dark horizon. Above the valley—above the hillsides—towering even above the hilltops—the sun began its daily circuit above.

The Psalmist knew it. As he sat in the valley of despair, he lifted his eyes up to the hills, but found no help there. Where—where would his help come from? Only from God. (Psalm 121:1,2)

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own.

High above the valley—from a dizzy height above the mountains—God reaches down to aid His own. Click To Tweet

We would wander in the darkness forever, chasing a weak and futile hope. In our foolishness, we believe that the evil loosed in the world cannot ever be defeated. Or worse, we think we can unseat it with our New-Age we-are-gods-ourselves mantra.

Death will follow. As surely as winter follows Autumn, death follows evil and error.

He gives us a Hope that is far better than any we could ever fabricate or imagine.

A Savior who makes all things new.

The power of Pandora’s box is broken in Him. Our Hope has the power to give us new life.

He promises us heaven.

Soon. Soon, we’ll fly.

He promises us heaven. Soon. Soon, we'll fly. Click To Tweet

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
(Autumn ~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~ Bohemian-Austrian poet ~ 1875-1926)

“The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” “How are these things possible?” Nicodemus asked.
Jesus replied, “You are a respected Jewish teacher, and yet you don’t understand these things? I assure you, we tell you what we know and have seen, and yet you won’t believe our testimony. But if you don’t believe me when I tell you about earthly things, how can you possibly believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ever gone to heaven and returned. But the Son of Man has come down from heaven. And as Moses lifted up the bronze snake on a pole in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him will have eternal life.”
(John 3:8-15 ~ NLT)

Never Much Hope

June 28, 2016June 28, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was a hot Saturday afternoon in the Rio Grande Valley. That, of course, could have described almost every one of the fifty-some Saturdays which occurred in any given year, but this one, I remember.

I remember it because it was the day the band geeks were going to show up the jocks in a game of two-below football. I was one of the geeks. Still am, truth be told.

You never saw such a group of unlikely athletes. Oh, there were a few who had the physique for it, but the coordination hadn’t come along with the build. On this day, we weren’t worried about that.

We were a team. A group of guys focused on the same goal. All for one and one for all. We had heart.

The jocks showed up, jeering and making predictions. Seventy to nothing, one big muscle-bound fellow taunted. Others foresaw pain in our collective future.

We weren’t afraid—much.

The game began. For a little while, we held our own and it seemed that the predictions were very much flawed. Then, little by little, our confidence faded.

Two-below football is a minimum contact form of the sport which allows blocking, but not much other hitting of body on body. The person carrying the ball should expect nothing more than the slapping of two hands below the waist to bring the play to a halt.

Somehow, the jocks had the idea that it meant you simply tackled with two hands below the belt-line. It turned out that one of the predictions had been right: There was pain in our future. A good bit of it.

I played for the entire first half. A fair portion of the second half was spent on the ground along the sideline biting back the groans that a knee to the groin had elicited. I was not alone on the sideline. But still, I did get back out and play, however hampered I was by the discomfort, to end the game.

Heart or no heart, confidence or not, we lost—big time. I don’t think the score was seventy to nothing, but it might as well have been.

There had never been a chance. We were beaten before it began.

What’s that?

You thought the story would end better? Perhaps a miracle finish? Maybe a secret weapon to unleash upon the callous football players?

It didn’t happen.

It wasn’t a Hollywood story, you know. It wasn’t even an epic fairy tale.

Happily ever after didn’t happen.

We lost. Utterly and completely.

That’s life. No, really. It’s what life is. Reality isn’t all parties and happiness. Nobody wins every time. Nobody.

Some of my friends will be unhappy with me as they read this. Many voices have spoken different words into their lives.

I will respectfully and (hopefully) gently insist that our Creator has a different path for us.

For the last few years, the muttering has been growing. Folks are unhappy with the thought that many good things are coming to an end. We expected, as followers of Jesus, to live peacefully and unharmed in a bounty-filled land.

Wealth and plenty have been ours. Our voices have been the only ones we heard, as we have grown fat and selfish.

Perhaps, I should speak for myself. I have heard my own voice as I spoke words I believed to be true. Speaking and not acting, I have grown fat. In the absence of opposition, I have grown selfish beyond belief.

And now, in a way my grandparents and my parents never experienced, the world just outside my front door has grown increasingly unfriendly to my comfort and ease.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not claiming persecution. I’ve seen—from afar—what happens to believers when they are persecuted. I haven’t experienced even a fraction of that, nor have most folks I’m acquainted with.

But, it may come to that. Being neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet, I cannot say.

Still, we are promised, not comfort, but discomfort. We are promised, not open arms from the world around us, but reproach. Folks we call our neighbors will turn on us.

I’m not talking about end-times prophecy. I’m simply averring that this is what life will be for us if we truly follow Jesus.

After all, He is the One who promised hardship. Promised it. (John 16:33)

He never asked us to win the battle for men’s hearts for Him. That’s His job. He simply asked us to stand firm to the end.

He never suggested that we would be happy and trouble-free because we serve Him faithfully, but He did promise that we will inherit His kingdom. (Matthew 5:10)

And, that brings us to the one other thing He did promise: The day is coming.

The day is coming when all of this will fade into nothingness. All the pain. All the sadness. All the jeering. All the hardships we’ve ever faced.

All of it. Nothing. Nothing at all.

The Apostle Paul wrote down the words he was given by the Spirit:

There is no comparison in any way between the passing inconveniences of this world and the unbelievable glory which will be ours in the next. (Romans 8:18)

There are days when I am overcome with weariness—with sorrow—with despair. This mountain I am facing can never be scaled, can never be conquered.

A friend reminded me tonight of that great fortress called Doubting Castle, kept by the Giant Despair. John Bunyan wrote of it hundreds of years past.

Many I know have been held captive there. Many I know are still chained in its dungeon.

Still, it’s as true today as it was in the days when Mr. Bunyan sat in prison for his faith—still as true as in the early days of the Church: The world has been overcome by the One we follow. The outcome has never been in doubt.

Our day is coming.

Hope’s spark still burns deep within each one who follows Him.

Our enemy doesn’t play by the rules. He never has. He seems so much more powerful than we are. That hasn’t changed, either.

We seem so easily injured and tired out.

But, the game is not over yet.

And, he has been fooled before.

And, defeated.

As it turns out, he’s the one who never had any hope of winning.

I’m going to stick it out.

You?

And if our hope in Christ is only for this life, we are more to be pitied than anyone in the world.
(1 Corinthians 15:19 ~ NLT)

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times, But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist ~ 1892-1973)

No More Mr. Nice Guy

April 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You realize you’re a legend in this town, don’t you?”

I think I may have snorted. I didn’t mean to. The thirty-something rocker was paying me a compliment. And, he was dead serious.

“I mean it. Whenever anybody I know needs something for their guitar, they don’t say, I’m going to the music store; they say, I’m going to see Paul.”

I’m pretty sure I didn’t snort this time. Still, I stared at the young man with a dumb look on my face as I tried to think of something brilliant to say.

You know, it’s hard to say just the right thing when someone compliments you like that. I always look for ways to deflect the praise—usually mumbling something that sounds grateful while at the same time denying any special merit.

The man in front of me today wasn’t having it. He charged into the subject, laying out personal praise mixed with a story or two he had heard. He had evidence and was going to be heard.

I was kind, even though embarrassed, and let him talk for a few moments more. Then, I closed the conversation with a lame comment about big fishes in little ponds, and waved him out the front door cheerfully.

What a disaster!

Why is it so hard to tell the truth to people like that? I know the words to stop the flow of praise and compliments. Cold.

I should say them.

I said them yesterday. He forced me to. The guitar player—you know—the one who was wandering through the streets of New Orleans in one of my recent tales.

We had been bemoaning the habits of certain customers and also discussing the merits of certain practices in the business world. He is in management at a local retail business, so he understands the dynamic of customer relations, too.

Offhandedly, I suggested that he already knew the reason I treat my customers the way I do. I merely said it to prove a point and move on in the conversation to fun things. He wasn’t taking the bait.

“Why do you treat them the way you do?” The mischievous grin on his face had just enough stubborn around the edges that I knew I would have to give an answer.

Trapped!

I said the words—the same words I should have said today—and he just nodded his head and smiled.

It’s not my gig. God is the one I represent. I follow His Son. How could it be any different?

And yet, today I had the opportunity to say those same words and I stuttered and nodded.

I want to be remembered as a nice guy.

The thing is, I’m not a nice guy.

On my own, I gripe and I complain; I nag and I fuss; I insist on my way and I say nasty things about people behind their backs.

So what I really want is for people to believe the lie that I’m a nice guy. Because, on my own, that’s all it is. A lie.

But, I’m not on my own. I haven’t been for a long time.

The truth of the matter is, God works in me both to want what He wants and to do it. (Philippians 2:13)

He’s the Nice Guy.

Not me.

The Apostle who was also known as The Rock, suggested to his readers that they always should be ready to give an answer for the faith living inside of them. (1 Peter 3:15)

You know, nice guys don’t steal.

And yet, I am a thief.

When I keep the glory that belongs to the One who lives within me, I steal from Him. When I lay claim to the brilliant planning it takes to run a successful business, I steal from the Giver of all good gifts.

Every single good thing comes from Him. (James 1:17)

Every single one.

He’s the Nice Guy. He’s the Gift-Giver—the Truth-Teller—the Master-Mind behind this outfit.

It’s not my gig.

My friend was right. I need to say the words. I intend to, again and again.

Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to do things right.

Grace is an astounding gift!

I might even introduce a few people to the real Nice Guy.

How hard can this be?

Every rascal is not a thief, but every thief is a rascal.
(Aristotle ~ Greek philosopher ~ 384 BC-322 BC)

…for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure. Do all things without grumbling or disputing, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world.
(Philippians 2:13-15 ~ ESV)

Side By Side

March 10, 2016April 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Today, he seemed smaller somehow.

He was never a big man. Still, the wizened little fellow who had wandered inside from the gray day wasn’t the man I remembered. Something was missing.

As we talked, I remembered what it was that had made him bigger.

She was always with him. Always.

I asked him how he was doing, really wanting to know. It seemed he could tell that, so he answered as honestly as he knew how.

I’m lonely. Just—lonely.

Fifty-seven years, she had been at his side. The farmer’s wife works harder than the farmer, and is concerned over twice as much. Still, they raised a family, side by side. They went to church, side by side. They slept in the same bed, side by side.

He took her hand as they sat, side by side, one day a couple of months ago and told her he loved her, and she just went to sleep.

Just like that—gone.

His days are still full of people and activity, but as the daylight ebbs and evening approaches, the sense of coming night takes hold in his spirit. He returns to his empty house—alone—and prepares to lie down in an empty bed and it envelops him, leaving him again in black darkness.

He is alone for the first time in nearly sixty years.

Alone and small.

And God said, It is not good for man to be alone. (Genesis 2:18)

I will make a companion who complements him.

He was bigger when she was with him. I’m sure of it.

He knows where she is. The hope is in his eyes when he speaks of her being well and whole now. Still, as he starts for the front door, I see the wistfulness that lingers. He had plans for more time with her—side by side.

He knows she is side by side with another whom she loves now. He wouldn’t take that from her for the world. And, tonight when the loneliness begins to settle into his spirit once more, he will remember it.

Side by side, we labor through the brightest days of our lives. Still side by side, we lean on each other through the darkest times, as well.

And, for a time—in the grand scheme, merely a moment—we may walk alone again to complete our task here in what some call a vale of sorrows.

But, know this: The day will come.

The day will come when we stand side by side once more and rejoice. There will be music, and shouting, and worship.

Side by side, we’ll see Him face to face.

Ah, sweet hope!

Somehow, I don’t expect my friend will be small in that place. Every person there will stand tall.

Side by side.

The days of our lives add up to seventy years,
or eighty, if one is especially strong.
But even one’s best years are marred by trouble and oppression.
Yes, they pass quickly and we fly away.
(Psalm 90:10 ~ NET)

But life will call with daffodils and morning glorious blue skies.
You’ll think of me—some memory, and softly smile to your surprise.
(from When I’m Gone by Joey & Rory ~ Sandy Lawrence songwriter)

Still Ringing In My Head

December 18, 2015December 15, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Bells!

I can’t get them out of my head. Mr. Longfellow heard them. I thought I was listening too.

Joy to all people. All is well.

Lesson learned. Can we move on now?
__________

My young friend blew in from the dreary, damp world recently. I asked her cheerfully how her day was going. The anguished look in her eyes was enough to let me know I had touched a sore spot with those few words.

“Oh. Please don’t ask me to answer that question.”

She always smiles. Not that day. It was as if the door was slammed shut on her feelings. I have learned to leave those doors alone.

I apologized and helped her find what she needed. As she headed for the exit, briefly, a window opened up to her emotions and she mentioned how hard Christmas will be this year with her mom gone. Tears glistened in her eyes as she turned to go out the door. Mine too.

The bells hanging on the door knob jangled rudely as the door shut behind her.

Bells! What is it with the bells?

Addison came with her mom the next day. Her mom washes our windows once a month to make sure we can see out and customers can see in. Five years ago, we became good friends, Addison and I. She came every time her mom did and we visited. A lot. She brought me flowers. I gave her candy.

But, little girls grow up and go to school.

“I’m too busy to come most times now. You’ll just have to get used to seeing me once in a while. Okay?”

That day, while her mom washed windows, Addison and I talked. Well, Addison talked. I listened. After awhile, she asked her mom to unlock the car so she could get something to show me.

I wondered what it could be. You already know what it was.

Yep. A bell.

A single little brass bell to hang on her Christmas tree. She shook it proudly. Again and again.

And again.

I like Addison. I was glad when she left with her bell.

I wonder. Did I really learn the lesson of the bells?

What was I missing?

Ah well. It would come to me. Or not.

I sat in my easy chair the same evening and dozed off by the fire. Warm and comfortable, nothing would bother me in my cozy den.

My sleep was filled with the sound of–yeah, you knew it was coming–bells. While I slept, the antiques program the Lovely Lady was watching on the television had ended and a holiday concert by a bell choir began.

I slept as long as I could and finally brought myself to wakefulness, grumpy and almost angry. Stupid bells!

Stupid bells!

I reached for the remote, but something stopped me.

The music was beautiful.

Bell choirs are amazing cooperative efforts in which no one takes a front seat and every single ringer is absolutely essential to the process. From the tiniest of tinkly high notes, all the way down to the huge bass bell, nearly two feet across at the throat of the brass dome, each one plays its part.

At exactly the right time, the different bells sound, manipulated by different people, both male and female. Entrances have to be perfect; cutoffs, precise. No one carries the entire melody; no individual person is relegated to the rhythm part. Every single bell counts.

I overcame my grumpiness and frustration to listen to the astounding music. Beautiful songs.

Old familiar carols.

Bells. Playing old familiar carols. Who knew?

You’re humming the song aren’t you? (I heard the bells on Christmas day, their old familiar carols play…)

I listened to the breathtaking music and my uneasiness grew again. Something was wrong. Unfinished business. No, that wasn’t it. You know how it is when you know you’re missing something, but you can’t quite put your finger on it?

And then I saw her. Playing the bells. There!

No. Not on the television. In my mind.

My Mom. She loved the bells. She wasn’t all that good at them; coming in on the wrong beat here; letting the tone ring in the air too long there. No matter. She loved playing with the bell choir.

I can see her now, sitting with the bells on the table in front of her, watching the music and the director like a hawk ready to attack, counting the beats. She is desperately hoping that she comes in at the right place, but laughing at herself when she doesn’t.

Beautiful bells.

The tears come again as I write. I listened to that bell choir and wiped the tears then too.

I miss my Mom.
__________

And still the bells ring–of peace on earth and good will to man. (Luke 2:14)

Their tones pure and clear, they ring out. Oblivious to our moods, our battles, our disasters, they ring out. Parents die or are lost to us. Children grow up and away from us. Still, the bells ring their message.

Peace on earth. Good will to man.

Joy.

I thought I had learned the lesson.

Perhaps this is why Christmas comes around again every year. Lessons are forgotten. Situations change. Old habits are taken up again.

We need to be reminded.

A Savior came to earth. To save us. To teach us. To change our hearts.

Is there still sadness? Death? Poverty? War? The answer is still yes.

But the day is coming. . . (Isaiah 9:5-6)

I’ll wait. And while I wait?

I’ll keep listening to the bells, Mr. Longfellow.

I’ll keep listening to the bells, Mr. Longfellow. Click To Tweet

He will swallow up death forever! The Sovereign Lord will wipe away all tears.
(Isaiah 25:8a ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.
(from The Eve of Christmas ~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson ~ English poet ~ 1809-1892)

Frosted Glass

November 24, 2015November 24, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I woke up this morning and, looking out the window, wondered about the fog.

Didn’t the weather man say it would be sunny this morning?

Mere seconds later, the fog cleared. No, not the fog I was seeing through the window. The fog in my brain.

Looking at the window again, I remembered that the exterior storm windows, set at a distance of a few inches from the original single-pane glass, hold in the moisture of the night. On cold mornings, the view through the windows is dim and foggy, regardless of the weather outside.

Sunny. There was no fog—no mist.

A beautiful morning.

It would not be many more hours before the fog was back. The fog in my head, I mean.

I read the words once. “Saying goodbye to my father…”

I read them again, this time through tears. His father is a friend, an encourager, a tease. One of my favorite people.

It’s not true. He can’t be dead.

I don’t know what happened to the sun. Perhaps the tears that came unbidden fogged up the view, but it was dim even after I wiped them away.

The rest of my day was viewed through a dark lens. Tears, sarcasm, anger—all of them were close to the surface and likely to be unleashed without provocation.

I argued with two young men on separate occasions this afternoon. They needed to know how dark the world is.

I took care of that task.

One of them, a man in his late twenties, now clearly understands that his days of carefree happiness are numbered. The reality of death, which will close in to take scores of his friends as he ages, has been explained thoroughly to him.

The second, a slightly older father of two, now grasps fully the ugliness of sin hidden inside every person he respects and loves. I did my best to explain to him that it would be every person who would disappoint. Every person.

The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested at this juncture that misery loves company.

I wasn’t done yet.

Late this afternoon a longtime friend about my own age related his enjoyment at watching a documentary of a famous singer who, though struggling with Alzheimer’s, still finished his farewell concert tour. It seemed, to my friend, a triumph in the face of overwhelming odds.

Astounded that anyone should see even one ray of sunshine on such an obviously dark day, I set him straight, citing my mother’s experience with the horrible disease before her death last summer. I wasn’t gentle, helping him to understand with graphic descriptions of the horror.

I have apologies to make.

More than that, I need to learn to trust a loving God, who sees the beginning and the end. When events overwhelm, He sends messengers to offer words of comfort, but I, drowning in the dark waves, attempt to pull them down as well.

I will make my apologies.

Learning to trust will take longer—perhaps a lifetime.

Tonight, I’m in agreement with the Psalmist, who suggested that he had some complaints to make and asked that they be heard. (Psalm 64:1)

Funny thing. He got to the end of his complaining and found there was light at the end of the darkness. (Psalm 64:10)

Light. And hope.

It is not so dark here as I thought.

I’m hearing from lots of my friends who believe the entire world is dark and without hope. Events and fears have colored the glass through which they view all of God’s creation.

This morning, as I walked out of my house, the sunshine was brilliant beyond description. The storm windows, designed to protect, had given an illusion of a world covered in cloud.

Beyond the illusion, the sun is still shining.

The light has shined into darkness and has not been overcome by it.

It is not so dark out here.

Following the light of the sun, we left the Old World.
(Christopher Columbus ~ Italian explorer ~ ca. 1451-1506)

Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
And lean not on your own understanding;
In all your ways acknowledge Him,
And He shall make smooth your paths.
(Proverbs 3:5-6 ~ NKJV)

One Clear Call

September 14, 2015September 14, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I’m looking for Ivanhoe by Egghead. I know you’ve got it, Mark!”

The rag-tag children were scattered around the old scarred-up dining room table. There was a huge bowl, now nearly empty, on the wood surface between them. The smell of popcorn hung in the air, but there was nothing to be seen in the bottom of the bowl, except old-maids—the unpopped kernels—and none of the kids wanted to try chewing on them.

The scruffy boy who had spoken held a number of dog-eared cards in his hand, as did all the children. Their father had an unqualified contempt for gambling games, so the family didn’t own a deck of standard playing cards—the type with suits and numbers, along with royalty designations.

No. They were playing Authors, already an old game, even in the 1960s. With cards bearing pictures of classic authors and a list of four of their most famous works, each player would struggle to remember who had called for which author and work, and then attempt to amass complete sets of all the cards bearing that particular author’s writings.

I was the scruffy boy calling for Egghead’s Ivanhoe. Well, the author’s name was really Sir Walter Scott, but his depiction on the card looked for all the world like the shape of an egg. The man shall, unfortunately, forever remain so in my brain.

I hadn’t thought about the game for many a year, although the names of those classic works have come up in my collection of books and in my reading list numerous times in my adult life. Yet, tonight, as I sat at my desk and thumbed through a book of English poems (copyright 1902), my eye fell on the poem entitled, Crossing the Bar by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

You guessed it. Another of the denizens of that old card game.

You’ll find the poem below.

Funny. Life back then was full of teasing and laughter. Our poetry consisted of John and Debbie sitting in a tree; K-I-S-S-I-N-G, and the like.

We had no idea that the classic works, whose names we memorized simply for the sake of winning a game, consisted of deep, thought-provoking material which spoke of death and of meeting God. Unbeknownst to us, in the works inventoried on that tattered card stock, there were monsters, Muslims, and ragamuffin boys traveling the Mississippi, along with many other wonders.

I have read many of those works over the years, loving some, disappointed in others.

But tonight—tonight—I read the poem.

Tonight, I am remembering people who were part of my life back then, folks who have already crossed the bar. People who have seen their Pilot face to face.

It is a long list—a list growing longer all the time.

Lord Tennyson expressed his desire to choose how he would depart this world. We don’t get to do that. I’m not sure we really would want that anyway.

I know by long experience that my timing stinks. I leap when I should wait, and stand still when I should fly.

But, my Pilot knows exactly when to embark. And, precisely where to steer the ship. I can’t see Him, but I know He is there at the rudder, just as surely as I know my own name.

Come to think of it, even if I forget my own name, He will still be there.

Even if I forget my own name, He will still be there. Click To Tweet

Earlier this year, my cousin passed away suddenly. There was no warning; there were no days of preparation for the journey. Just a call for her from the other side of the bar.

Just like that, she was gone.

Others I love have taken years to complete their time here—years of suffering—years of moaning as the long days and nights dragged on.

My experience is not unique. All suffer the losses. All look forward to the day themselves.

For all the sorrow and sadness, for all the emptiness and loss, we have a promise—we who are believers.

I’m going to get the house ready for you. I wouldn’t make the promise if I didn’t intend to make it so. And, if I go and prepare the home for you, I’ll be there to welcome you. (John 14:2,3)

Face to face.

The day is coming.

Perhaps we shouldn’t be sitting around playing games while we wait.

There is business to attend to.

I think I’ll clock in again in the morning. You?

CROSSING THE BAR

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ Poet Laureate/Great Britain & Ireland ~ 1809-1892)

Not Broken

September 2, 2015September 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The world is broken. lens-755539_1280

Broken.

A friend mentioned that his close friend died yesterday. There was a torrent of sympathetic responses, mine among them. Then, as the torrent subsided, he added one fact: She had been killed by her husband—shot three times.

Broken.

In Arizona this week, a mother drowned her two-year-old twin sons and tried to drown another boy, because she thinks no one loves them—or her. This happened the same week a court case began in California to try a mother who also drowned her son. That woman says she acted out of love—to protect the boy from a horrible life.

Broken.

The list could go on for page after page—people of one religion killing people of other religions, folks of one race killing and torturing folks of another race, ethnic groups with power abusing others without power—There seems no end of examples.

Closer to home, we live in a society of brokenness. Broken families, broken friendships, broken children, broken health, broken promises, broken computer programs—even broken pencils.

All broken.

To the minutest detail, all of creation is susceptible to the brokenness inherent in every part. The Preacher, in the Old Testament, added his endorsement when he told us that all is useless.

Broken and useless.

I will admit it. I am overwhelmed by the broken world in which we live. I suspect, when you take time to consider it, you are as overwhelmed as I.

And then I realize we too are broken. Overwhelmed and battered, as is all the world, our brokenness cries out for someone who can set things right.

And it turns out there is Someone who has already done the deed. We simply have to put ourselves in His hands. They are, after all, the hands of a Creator—a Potter who knows His craft, and His material. (Jeremiah 18:3,4)

He knows that we are dust. He knows that we shatter too easily. And, He already knows what the vessel we will one day become is to look like.

He already knows what the vessel we will one day become is to look like. Click To Tweet

From the broken shards, a thing of beauty. Or perhaps simply, a thing of usefulness. I think that might be better.

Broken, made useful. Efficient. Filled with purpose.

In a broken world, we can serve His purpose.

May we be no longer broken. That was the way we came to Him. Not the condition in which we are to leave His wheel and kiln.

Useful.

In a still-broken world.

All of God’s people are ordinary people who have been made extraordinary by the purpose He has given them.
(Oswald Chambers ~ Scottish evangelist/teacher ~ 1874-1917)

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
(Psalm 34:18 ~ NIV)

Plucking Thistles

June 30, 2015June 30, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Die when I may, I want it said by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. *

The boy had hope written across his smiling face.

Hope is a beautiful thing, especially in a child. It animates and motivates, forging dreams for the future. I love the beauty hope generates in young folks.

Hope is not something I enjoy dashing on the rocks of reality. The results can be ugly. I don’t love ugly.

This had all the earmarks of ugly.

His father, having told me he was trying to teach his son the trade of picking—of buying used objects for a small amount of money and flipping them for more money, asked me to advise the boy.

The hopeful young man handed me a clarinet-shaped object. By that, I mean the long black piece of plastic with metal keys attached had been a clarinet in another life. No longer.

It was unplayable, with bent keys and broken springs. The pads, the life source for a woodwind instrument, had long ago deteriorated and crumbled away to dust, leaving no way for the individual notes to sound.

A re-pad job on a clarinet would cost more than the price this sad instrument could ever bring. The other issues—bent keys and broken springs—would only drive the potential investment in the old horn up into the stratosphere.

As I examined the instrument, my dismay showing on my features, the hopeful face of the boy that peered into mine changed perceptibly. He steeled himself for the bad news he sensed was coming. I glanced into his eyes and saw the unhappiness there.

What a disaster!

I wondered—for a moment—if I should tell him a fib, a white lie. Just a little one—for his own good. I would save his pride and give him hope for another day.

“It’s a fine clarinet, but I’m not buying them right now. You might check at another store. They may need it worse than I do.”

Can’t you just hear me? For him. I would be saying the words to save him the pain of failure.

I didn’t say those words. That would have been the easy way out for me, too. But sooner or later, the boy would have to face two different truths: First, his investment was not going to bear fruit. Second, the hateful old shop owner lied to him.

I won’t lie.

Gently, I began to speak to him about what makes a clarinet play and what gives it value. Pointing out the catastrophic defects in his instrument, I explain why it would not make sense to repair the horn.

He is disappointed. Horribly disappointed.

But, he wants to learn. Asking questions, he probes my store of knowledge so he will make better choices the next time. I happily share what I know, taking time from my workday tasks to aid him. We make comparisons with functioning instruments. We talk about the need for knowledge about the brands of horns and of the importance of a good carrying case.

As he prepares to leave, he reaches out to shake my hand, his tiny one dwarfed by mine. His father follows suit, expressing his gratitude for my time and my willingness to share. He mentions a sacrifice on my part to help the young man, and I wave aside the thought. There is nothing to what I have done, I suggest.

Suddenly, I remember why I do this—why I have done it for a lifetime.

The opportunity to plant seeds far exceeds the objective of making a profit.

Oh, I need to make a profit to keep my doors open, but the reward of seeing the eyes of that young man when he left—no longer just full of hope, but also bright with the pride that comes from being treated with respect—no money in the world could ever purchase that.

Some would say the loving thing would have been to let him keep his dream alive—the dream of making money on that instrument. Some today even suggest that speaking hard truth in the face of error is hateful.

I wonder which is more loving: Is it to dash his immediate hope as his expectation for the future is built up and he is equipped to meet that future, or is it to keep quiet and let him believe a lie?

The boy will return, of that I am sure. The day may come when he has learned the lesson taught him today so well that he is a threat to my own livelihood. I smile at the thought, enjoying the expectation of his success.

Weeds are uprooted—seeds of hope planted in their place. What better task could I have? What more reward could I ask?

How does your garden grow?

These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another; render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace.
(Zechariah 8:16 ~ ESV)

Anyone who doesn’t take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either.
(Albert Einstein ~ German born theoretical scientist ~ 1879-1955)

* (Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

hope

Say the Words

Higher than That

Never Much Hope

No More Mr. Nice Guy

Side By Side

Still Ringing In My Head

Frosted Glass

One Clear Call

Not Broken

Plucking Thistles