Waiting For Hope

December 15, 2018December 16, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Waiting. It’s not my strongest ability. It’s not even close to the top ten.

You’d think it should be.

For most of us, it is one of the activities in which we have the most experience. Hours. And hours. Waiting.

She said she needed to go see the Social Security folks. And, would I go with her? I agreed, so earlier this week, we set out for our destination.

We expected a really long wait. The full waiting room (don’t you just love that name?) didn’t allay our fears in any way. Rows and rows of folks. All waiting.

Everyone has been there. No, not necessarily at the Social Security office. I mean waiting. We’ve all been there. At the doctor’s. The hospital. The courthouse. The DMV.

I love how the waiting rooms are full of lively conversations, laughter, and joy. Oh, wait. They’re not, are they?

Silence. Dread. Expectation of failure. These are the emotions of the waiting room.

I sat, watching (in silence) the same people walk one by one out the door of the government office the other day. Not one was crying. Most were even smiling.

Still, the faces of those waiting were grim, with a host of feelings written in their eyes, on their mouths. Impatience. Disgust. Worry.

My companion and I sat, mostly in silence as well, our own emotions written to be read by other observers, I’m sure. We sat and awaited the adventure before us—the adventure of the interview.

Yes. I did say that. Adventure. What is to come. Anticipation.

They do come from the same place, you know—adventure & Advent.

The time before, when we wait. Waiting, in hope or in dread.

This time of year is tricky. With the rest of the world, we await the coming joyous event.

I look around me and I see a lot of emotions. Somehow, folks don’t all seem joyous. Many are downright sad. Others seem disillusioned, almost bitter.

Somehow, even the folks who have been all happy-clappy through this season in years past seem a bit more sober. Introspective, even.

I wonder.

Maybe I was the happy-clappy one. The one who couldn’t see through my own giddy expectation to notice others weren’t enjoying the waiting. Perhaps I, who awaited the coming day with wonder, couldn’t see that others just sat wondering when it would all be over.

I see them now.

Sometimes, I am them.

We drove along this evening, the Lovely Lady and I. It seemed they filled my vision, the Christmas lights spelling out the word HOPE in foot-high letters on the fence.

She didn’t see them. I motioned in the general direction and still, she didn’t see them. Frustrated, I stabbed my finger straight at them and her eyes followed it across the field ahead.

Oh! Now I see it!

I intended to take a photograph later, but I forgot. It was well past midnight again when I wandered over that way. This time I couldn’t see the letters. Pulling my light jacket tight against the frigid north wind, I walked right up to the fence, a quarter of a mile away. Then I saw that they were still there, just not lit up. In the middle of the cold, dark night, they were still there. Even though I couldn’t see them.

The letters are still there. They’ll shine again tomorrow.

They will.

HOPE.

In letters that reached to the sky, He wrote it. Some don’t see. Some can’t see. Not without help.

HOPE. In letters that reached to the sky, He wrote it. Some don’t see. Some can’t see. Not without our help. Share on X

While we’re waiting, perhaps we could talk amongst ourselves. It’s time to point to hope. To talk about hope. To live in hope.

We do. We live in hope. We live there.

The world is waiting in the dark night. (Isaiah 9:2)

Waiting for hope.

Hope will shine bright.

It’s time to point the way. Time to speak up in this waiting room. Time to walk out in joy and wonder.

While the world waits.

Hope will shine.

Hope looks forward to the Glory to come; in the weary interval of waiting, the Spirit supports our poor hearts and keeps grace alive within us.
(A.W. Pink ~ 1886-1952 ~ English theologian)

The people who sat in darkness
have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
a light has shined.
(Matthew 4:16 ~ NLT ~ New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

A Provocation

May 18, 2018May 21, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I’m not sure how to say this. Some of you will be mad. Or at least disappointed in me.

Well? I know you will.

You’ve read the poems since you were young; you sang the songs. You even watched Mary Poppins hold one on her finger as she sang A Spoonful of Sugar.

You love them. I know you do.

Well, it can’t be helped. I’m going to have to tell you.

I don’t really like robins.

I’ve tried. Really, I have.

The thing is, there’s nothing special about them. Oh sure, they have that orangey-red chest. They even give a little hope in the late winter that spring will soon be here. But, other than that, what’s so extraordinary about the storied birds?

What’s that? You think they’re the early bird that gets the worm? They’re always pictured as that. But, that’s strike one against them, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t do early mornings. I just don’t.

But, on the off chance that I am awakened at four or four-thirty some morning, you can be sure one will be chirping outside my window to beat the band. Try going back to sleep with that racket outside.

And, that’s another thing! They don’t even really have a song. Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! Plus, it gets worse when humans are around. They fuss and raise a ruckus, claiming territory they don’t really even want, simply to ensure quiet for their nest.

Give me the cardinals any day. What a beautiful and varied song they have! Their nests are in bushes and thickets no human would want to approach anyway, so they never fuss—at me, at least.

Then there are the wrens—or the finches—or even the white-throated sparrow that sings in the top of the sweet gum tree.

But those robins—they’re everywhere. Bob, bob, bobbin’ across the lawn, scratching for the worms, early or late. Trying to build nests where they absolutely cannot fit—under my eave, for instance. And, then after the wind blows the grass and paper away for the tenth time, they try again—in exactly the same spot.

There’s no love lost on my part for the fabled worm-catchers.

Well. That’s not completely true. Not anymore.

Our neighbor let a pair of the silly things build a nest near the top of the post on her front porch. I looked at the structure and told her it wouldn’t last through the first storm. Frank Lloyd Wright, they’re not.

I was wrong. Several storms later, the nest is still there. The female laid her eggs—four of them if Wikipedia is to be believed. She sat on her eggs. She hatched her little ones.

I would stop over to talk with my neighbor, being careful not to startle the fussy mama. No loud noises; no quick movements.

Shhhhh.

I would have told you I still didn’t care for robins. An event the other day put the lie to that belief.

My desk looks out a window toward the neighbor’s porch, so I have watched the comings and goings on that nest for several weeks. The other morning, my attention was on my computer screen when a strange movement caught my eye.

The mother robin was flying rapidly away from the nest, but there was still a bird standing over the nest. A big bird.

A hawk had discovered the babies! Without thinking, I shouted loudly and jumped up, racing out the door behind me to stop the mayhem on the porch. Evidently, the predator heard either my shout or the door and was already winging away from the nest with something—we can guess what—in his beak.

Oh well. It was just baby robins. Who cares?

Well, besides the obvious One who cares about every one of them that falls to the ground. (Matthew 10:29)

This old man cared, evidently. I sat back down at my desk, watching the frantic mother robin flying to the nest, sticking her head down inside, and then winging to the redbud tree nearby, before repeating the pattern over and over, and the tears came.

I don’t even like robins. But, I cried. Over baby robins.

I’ve thought a lot about that over the last couple of days, attempting to square the dichotomy.

I think I’m beginning to understand it a little better. I even have a word to explain how this happened.

Engagement.

Engagement involves investment. In this case, simply an investment of attention. Which led to a personal stake in the wellbeing of the little birds and the happiness of their parents.

Engagement costs.

I stood in a friend’s hallway the other day after I had helped him with a household problem, and he told me how sorry he had been about my friend I lost a few weeks ago.

He must have been a really close friend. Had you known him a long time?

It would be simpler to explain if it had been a long time. When a longtime friend passes, you expect to be emotionally devastated. Grief like that doesn’t come with short-term, social media friendships.

Or, does it?

Four months. It seems a lifetime ago, but it was only four or five months ago that another friend, a poet in New Zealand, suggested to Jeff and to me that we needed to know each other.

He was also a writer, much better at it than I, but we both treasured what words can accomplish when arranged carefully, lovingly, and set in place with a bit of grace.

I never got to meet Jeff in the flesh, but I knew him. He knew me. Out of the grace we both have known in our lives, a bond of love grew.

Now, he’s gone and there’s a hole in my world.

Engagement costs.

Oh, but it pays, too.

It is oh-so-easy for us to get caught up in the grief of loss, the feeling that the world will never again be right, and believe that disengagement is a better way to live life.

Many do. Many I know refuse to be hurt. The only way to keep from being hurt is to refuse to engage—to flee from love.

In such a vacuum, life is empty. When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy.

When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy. Share on X

I said my friend and I knew what words are capable of when used in the right way. Many others know it, too.

Our words, written (and said) at the right time, and offered from loving hearts, provoke.

That’s right. They provoke. They incite. They motivate. They move.

It’s why I write. When I am tempted to disengage—to lessen the pain and the frustration—I remember the words written to the Hebrews in the New Testament, reminding them to keep spending their lives with others, because in engagement we may provoke to love. In engagement, we provoke each other to good works.

There are no age-related waivers given, no limited-education exceptions written. And sometimes, our companions along the way are like those robins. Annoying. Loud and repetitive. Not nearly as intelligent as we are. Stubborn.

Engage anyway.

Provoke anyway.

Revel in the result. Sadness, mixed with joy. Love, combined with goodness.

But, I didn’t finish the story about the robin, did I?

My sorrow has turned to joy again, as I have observed, out my office window, the robins feeding their two surviving chicks the last couple of days. I assumed all was lost, but it was a lie. Even as I write this, the male is on the ground outside with food in his mouth and the babies have their necks stretched out, yellow beaks agape, waiting to be fed.

All is not so dark as it seems.

It rarely is.

For the darkness shall turn to dawning
And the dawning to noonday bright.
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
The kingdom of love and light.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H. Ernest Nichol)

And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ KJV)

Listening to Linus

December 20, 2016December 20, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It’s almost impossible for the words and thoughts to come together when the well has run dry.

The statement comes from the preacher’s mouth, weariness in his eyes. It is a reality he knows in his heart. He does. He just buried his wife’s father. There is more—for him, an avalanche of trials. He knows.

I nod my head in agreement. I too, have felt it. The drought. Pain—and sorrow—and loss—all have drained the well dry.

No joy. No words. No voice.

Mute.

And yet, I hear another voice in my mind tonight. Strangely, it is the voice of a cartoon character.

Linus, the blanket-hugging friend of Charlie Brown, has taken center stage and called for the lights. Simply and clearly, he quotes the Christmas story from Luke 2 (verses 8-14), and walks offstage to tell Charlie Brown that’s what Christmas is all about.

Good tidings of great joy. To all people.

I’m part of all people. My preacher friend is too. Probably, you are as well. Okay, not probably. You are.

All means all.

I’ve said it before: There is joy in the journey.

It’s the kind of thing you say when things are going well. The kind of thing one writes about when the heart is full.

And still, I promise that it is ever the truth, and I reiterate it even tonight.

In the middle of the darkest night, with the path in front barely lit to see the next step, I affirm that joy accompanies us in the dark.

Even when the well seems dry, the voice mute, joy endures.

Great joy.

Even when the well seems dry, the voice mute, joy endures. Great joy. Share on X

The Baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger was in for a rough ride. For years, there wouldn’t be much joy to be found, either for Him or for all people.

It didn’t make the proclamation of the angels a lie.

Oh, there were moments of triumph. He would teach the teachers; miracles would be performed, storms quieted. Crippled folks would walk and blind men see. There were brilliant moments of joy along the way to astounding darkness.

Funny. The only way to the great joy that would be to all people was through the worst thing that could happen.

For the great joy that was set before Him, he endured even the shame of the cursed crucifixion. (Hebrews 12:2)

We follow Him. It’s what we claim, isn’t it?

Great joy lies on that road—the road of following. Sadness, too. Perhaps even, a good bit of disappointment.

Mostly though, joy.

And, in the end—all joy.

Great joy.

Still, we follow.

Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.
(John 7:38 ~ NIV)

Sure on this shining night
Of star made shadows round,
Kindness must watch for me
This side the ground.
The late year lies down the north.
All is healed, all is health.
High summer holds the earth.
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night I weep for wonder wand’ring far
alone
Of shadows on the stars.
(Sure on this Shining Night ~ James Agee ~ American novelist/poet ~ 1909-1955)

Heaven Comes Nearer

November 15, 2016November 15, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I still don’t understand it. I have been a musician all my life. Not a good musician, but still—a musician.

A friend posted a link to a recording the other day. Eight people, mortals every one, sang music notes—notes I’m certain are in the normal twelve-note chromatic scale we use every day.

I can sing any of those notes. Really, I can. Perhaps not in the octave in which they sang, nor with the clarity, but I can sing them.

And yet, I sat listening and could do nothing but weep. Someone asked me the name of the song playing on my computer, but I could not answer for fear my voice would crack as I spoke.

It is not a rare occurrence for me. Perhaps, not for you either.

We are moved by great beauty, whether in nature or in art. It is not easy to explain. Maybe, it’s not meant to be.

There are things that are higher. There’s no than to follow that statement—no comparison to be made at all.

Higher things. It’s all that need be said.

My friend who posted the video is a student of the Celtic traditions and often speaks of the sites those ancient cultures described as thin places—places where it seems that heaven is just a bit closer to earth. I love the idea and would never argue that such places don’t exist (I’m sure they do); I just think thin places are to be found in more than only those remote physical locations.

My office desk is a thin place—sometimes. The metal bench in the city park is a thin place—occasionally. Anywhere heaven comes close and raises the hem of the curtain between us and it—just high enough to get a glimpse—is a thin place.

With a catch in my voice, I will admit I don’t understand any of it. I suspect many reading this feel just as confused right now. Today, the world around us is dark and we couldn’t find a thin place if our lives depended on it.

Higher things? Ha! The cacophony of anger and hurt is so all-encompassing that it almost seems we could never smile again, much less have tears of wonder and joy well up and cascade down our cheeks.

Still . . .

David, in an hour of deep unhappiness, reminded us that deep calls to deep. (Psalm 42:7-8) Even from the depths of despair, our souls recognize their Maker’s voice and echo it. Our spirits respond to His Spirit.

He will give us songs in the night.

He will give us songs in the night. Psalm 42:8 Share on X

Where no thin place is to be found, our Creator surprises and opens the curtain just enough—just barely enough—for a glimpse of glory.

It is no small thing.

Hope springs into flame again; resolve is rekindled.

There is work yet to be done. Our destination still lies ahead.

We journey to the place where no veil is between us and our Maker, the place where the only tears to be found will be of awe and wonder.

Higher things call us.

Higher.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright.
But, still I’ll pray till heaven I’ve found
“Lord, lead me on to higher ground.”
(Higher Ground by Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American pastor ~ 1856-1922)

Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.
(1 Corinthians 13:12 ~ NLT)

Thick and Thin

November 10, 2016November 10, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The sheaf is growing thin.

Thin.

Thirty-nine years ago, it was a mammoth binder filled with pages—one crisp, white leaf for every day which would pass in my chosen profession. There was not yet a mark on any one of them; the story could only be written second by second, minute by minute.

The minutes turned into hours, weeks, months, and now years. At first, even the minutes moved by like syrup on the coldest February morning. And now, at the end, they fly like sand through the fingers of a child at the seashore

Page after page has been filled—lines with their scrawled script, margins with scribbled abbreviations. Even the edges are covered with notes, reminders now of appointments never made, but still kept.

Funny. Such a historical document should be conserved for the future, a textbook of success and failure, methods to be passed on to generations not yet even contemplated. It has not been.

The pages lie at my feet in tatters. Each page—completed—has merely been torn from the binder and dropped wearily to the floor at the end of the days.

There are mornings when I stoop down and scan a scrap of the paper underfoot. Memory springs to mind and a smile might cross my face, itself a little more lined and aged than when the binder was first opened.

Frequently, a customer stirs through the debris and reminds me of a memory they have shared, as well. My customers are friends, not income streams, and the memories are mostly sweet. Mostly.

Bittersweet, these days.

Well?

The sheaf is growing thin.

The crisp, white leaves gripped in my fist are precious and few now. I am loath to fill them and let them drop to the worn carpet beneath my shoes.

Today was a day for the scraps of paper to be read. As if the stress of a national election and its surprising outcome were not enough for one twenty-four hour period, the queue of old friends waiting their turn to reminisce and then to embellish the scraps of years past wound through my door from before opening time to well after the sun dropped behind the western horizon.

Each brought a gift, the gift of listening and speaking. It is the way of friendship.

Iron sharpens iron, sometimes painfully, often by polishing gently. (Proverbs 27:17)

Iron sharpens iron, sometimes painfully, often by polishing gently. Share on X

I have been the recipient of such gifts many times over the years. Grateful is too insignificant a word to describe what I feel.

I glance at the scraps of paper they have each left behind, scraps bearing their names and experiences, and I remember that I am a rich man. How could I not be—with a life full of such amazing people?

Yet, I spoke with one friend today of my unhappiness with how thin the sheaf of papers is now. He reminded me (gently) that God is still leading into the future.

God is still leading into the future. Share on X

I said earlier it was my chosen profession, but it was never I who chose it. The path was chosen for me—each step of my young life leading me to it and then through it, until now, as I near old age, I find myself stepping away from it at last.

I could never, in my wildest childhood dreams, have planned out such a journey, but He did. Every step.

The days left in this little music store are flying. There are not many more pages yet to be filled here.

I want them to be filled with words such as I heard today. I want them to be filled with people whose faces I see in my memories tonight.

And, I think as I consider the thin sheaf of papers yet to be written in my business—I wonder how thick that other sheaf is?

The book was so thick on the day we entered this world. Crisp and white, each page awaiting the record that has now been written, it had an adequate supply to last our whole lives through.

It is thinner than when we began. The opportunities for achievements to be recorded, events to be heralded, dwindle everyday.

Sometimes, I pick up the scraps from those pages, too. I’ve shared some few of those memories with you. The ones I’m willing to bring to the light of day again.

Others of the scraps will never be seen or read by anyone else, except by Him. He reads every one of them. The thought makes me cringe, but not because I fear any punishment. No, I cringe because, as any child with his Father, I never want to disappoint.

And, I have. Again and again, I have disappointed.

Those pages are filled, never to be written on again. My Father’s disappointment is past, the sins and missteps erased by His astounding grace.

Still, there are more blank pages. How many? I don’t know.

Perhaps, the sheaf is growing thin. Possibly, it still contains years worth of crisp, white leaves to be filled with the record of tasks fulfilled, and a legacy left for many who will follow.

Either way, He guides my steps.

He always has.

Through thick, and now, through thin…

He knew how to lead then.

He knows how to lead now.

Be still my soul.

He has told you, O man, what is good;
And what does the Lord require of you
But to do justice, to love kindness,
And to walk humbly with your God?
(Micah 6:8 ~ NASB)

Be still my soul, thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
(from Be Still My Soul ~ Katharina von Schlegel ~ German poet ~ 1697-1768)

Good News. Bad News.

October 19, 2016October 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Rejoice with those who rejoice.

As I sat not writing at my keyboard a couple of nights ago, I received the message. The young man at the other end had just received good news. He had to tell someone.

It didn’t matter that it was after midnight. A light had blazed into his darkness and he needed to share the wonder.

I read the words and, even though I couldn’t actually see him, saw the smile that had spread across his face.

I messaged him back. I‘m smiling with you.

I’m smiling as I think about his news, even now.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled. Rejoice with those who rejoice. Share on X

I always want to rejoice with folks who are rejoicing. Except when I don’t.

Yeah. You know what I mean, don’t you?

I was in the middle of a good pout when the young man’s message arrived the other night. I’ve been in the middle of the pout for awhile now. Call it what you want—depressed, sad, unhappy, disappointed—it’s still a pout.

Things aren’t going the way I want. Perhaps more to the point, life isn’t working out the way I’d planned. It seems the road map I was following was a little flawed.

Sometimes, when your soul feels heavy and is burdened down, you simply want to be left alone with your misery. And yet, when that beam of light shines into your darkness, the reaction is automatic and instantaneous.

I stood in the light with the joyful young man and I smiled.

Joy spills over.

It does. But sometimes the beam of light is short-lived and the joy fades into the gloom of disappointment once more.

I sat with another young man this afternoon and unburdened my soul. I thought he needed to know—and oddly enough, he seemed to want to know—what I was feeling. Tears were in my eyes when I looked up again. Looking into his eyes, I saw tears in them, too.

Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

Do you understand the power in those words?

I do. Now.

I looked at his tears and was reminded that it hasn’t been many months since his tears were shed over the tiny body of a still-born baby. He (and his sweet wife) are grieving still and will for years to come. We spoke of that also and the tears came again.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened. Weep with those who weep. Share on X

The day will come when we will celebrate the end to all sorrows and disappointments. No more separation. No more loss. No more death.

The day will come. It’s not here yet.

Today, we walk this world of mixed joys and regrets, victories and defeats. Our celebrations are tempered with foreboding of dark times yet to come.

I wonder.

The Teacher instructed His followers to walk in love for each other and promised that, as a consequence, they would give witness of His great love to a watching world. (John 13:34,35)

Surely He intended that to be done in the center of the world’s marketplace and not only in their cloistered meeting places.

He never suggested it would be the rule in mortuaries, but not on the street corners.

If it is to be witnessed, it must be done in public places.

We rejoice. We grieve.

Fellowship along both paths touches our spirits with His love.

Tonight, I’m smiling.

Through tears.

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being.
(Albert Schweitzer ~ French-German theologian ~ 1875-1965)

For everything there is a season,
a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance.
(Ecclesiastes 3:1,4 ~ NLT)

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. Share on X

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. Share on X

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)

Message from a Hypocritical Fake

July 29, 2016July 31, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

It’s kind of hard for Mom to see the road when she has tears in her eyes.

Our house guests had been gone not even an hour when the text arrived on my phone. I laughed. And then, I wiped the tears from my own eyes.

As we hugged and said our goodbyes that morning, the girls’ mom mentioned how sad it had been for her to be packing. I understood. Their days had been full of old friends and swimming, of family gatherings and sleep-overs. They were leaving to go hundreds of miles away.

It is sad. But, I have to tell you—it’s also joyful.

It’s what happens when we love people.

The homecomings are all laughter and excitement, the separation, tears and sadness.

In between, the sweet times of fellowship are a delight; the distance of disagreement—heartbreak.

Love keeps us coming back. Again and again, the cycle is repeated.

Joy, sadness. Smiles, tears.

I know. It’s hokey. Sentimental slop.

But, that’s life.

Life is hokey. It’s mushy. It’s sloppy.

It’s horribly messy. Horribly.

But, I’ll say this: Better are tears wiped from the eyes while driving away than the voice of regret for never having come.

The memories of times, happy or sad, spent with loved ones are infinitely more to be treasured than the times passed in self-centered pursuits. When, in the passing years, we sit and speak of the good times, we will remember occasions filled with voices and faces, laughter and tears.

The time we share with people is precious; hours wasted in the dark and quiet are hardly remembered at all, save with regret.

One could read the words I’ve scattered on this page and nod his or her head in affirmation, agreeing completely about time spent with family. And yet, I stopped talking about family quite a way up the page.

The statement was: It’s what happens when we love people.

Sad. Joyful.

People.

Family. Neighbors. Strangers. Enemies.

People.

Being a writer, and working to make my articles more accessible has led me to visit and read more divergent views of faith and life than I once did. There is a recent theme that has disappointed me, even worried me.

Why I Ditched the Church Scene (and why you should, too).

Folks who have been hurt, or seen sin in the lives of others, or had disagreements with leaders, are leaving the church in droves. They are not going out to start a new fellowship. They are ditching church altogether.

I wonder.

I’ve said it before myself. I don’t want to go to church today.

And, I will admit here for the first time publicly, in my head I have said it differently. I don’t want to go to church ever again.

Not ever.

Do you know why I keep going to church, with all those hypocrites and fakes—with all those sinners?

They need me.

No, not because I’m so holy. Not because I’m so wise. They need me because I’ve got some rough edges that can bump against the rough edges they bring with them each week. (Hebrews 10:24-25)

This hypocritical fake, who still has a problem with sin, loving them can do what humanity is intended to do. Help them to be better people.

Help me to be a better person.

Is the church full of two-faced fakes?

Duh!

So is my music store. So is the restaurant where I break bread. So is the university where you got your degree. We interact with them in those places, as well.

We are all flawed. We all need help.

God gives it in the form of other flawed, helpless humans. If we abandon them, we serve only ourselves.

And, in the end, if we serve only ourselves, we harm everyone.

Will there be tears?

Will there be unhappiness?

It is a certainty.

What is also certain is that as we live in community, we learn to be the men and women God intended for us to be.

From each other. By being with each other.

I said there will be tears and unhappiness. There will also be great joy and celebration.

It’s what happens when we love people.

And God.

Some day, He’ll wipe those tears away Himself. (Revelation 21:4)

For now, I’ve got a sleeve I can wipe them on.

Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.
(Anonymous ~ attributed to Dr. Seuss ~ American author ~ 1904-1991)

Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works. And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of his return is drawing near.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ NLT)

He Still Hangs the Moon

July 22, 2016July 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The cares of this life are thieves. They rob from us while we watch, eyes trained on their every move.

I wish I could tell you I am too much a veteran of their schemes to be taken in anymore. At this time of life one would imagine experience has taught me its lessons, and all danger of being victimized is past.

One would be wrong.

For some time now, I have allowed those rascally cares to run amok in my soul, robbing me blind.

Really. Blind.

It is what they crave. The little creations of our tiny imaginations and self-centered natures are themselves blind to the reality of joy that fills our lives as humans made in the image of a loving God.

And, you know what they say.

Well, the red-headed lady who raised me said it all the time anyway, so I assume it must be true:

Misery loves company.

If the little monsters can’t see joy and truth, they are determined to steal the ability from anyone foolish enough to afford them shelter and sustenance.

And so, with my permission, they have been at work again in my own soul.

At times when they work their craft, the darkness is profound. The black of this night is, I think, made all the more encompassing by my willing participation in the malfeasance.

An evening or two ago, as light shone brightly—too brightly for me—in my house, I crept to my office to let the thieves practice. While the Lovely Lady and our guests worked and laughed and played happy music, I sat alone in the dark and pulled the misery over me like a blanket.

After the lights were finally extinguished at the house and all were asleep in their beds I left my office and, blindly walking hand in hand with the little unseeing pickpockets, headed toward home.

Three words. Really. Just three.

I know folks who hear a voice that speaks whole volumes. Entire poems. Sometimes, they carry on conversations with the voice.

Me? I get three words.

Lift your head.

I know. It seems a bit inadequate, doesn’t it? It’s kind of like saying chin up to a guy heading to the gas chamber.

Lift your head.

Then I noticed it. All around me, in what is normally a pitch black yard, the air fairly glowed with light. Long shadows were cast by the tree branches above me.

I lifted my head.

The brilliant and huge full moon hung almost directly above, washing the night time world in its reflected light. It was astoundingly beautiful.

He still hangs the moon. Every night.

He still wakes the sun every morning and sends it on its daily rounds.

I’ll admit it. The notion isn’t all that scientific, nor is it an accurate description of what actually takes place.

Still, it is His power that keeps all of creation doing what it was designed for. (Colossians 1: 6-17)

The realization struck me as powerfully as those beams of light had just seconds before.

His plan is still in place. I’m part of that plan.

His plan is still in place. I'm part of that plan. Share on X

I’m part of that plan!

Every one of us is.

I looked back down to check on my cares, but all the little felons had disappeared. They can’t stand to be in the company of light. Just as in nature, the darkness of doubt and despair flees at the coming of light.

I’m not naive. Darkness will come again. It always does.

Cares will crowd around to steal again. They always do.

But the truth is, light will come again as well.

It always does.

He still hangs the moon.

And, not just for me.

Lift your head.

But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
(Psalm 3:3 ~ NIV)

‘Now, lord,’ said Gandalf, ‘look out upon your land! Breathe the free air again!’

. . .Suddenly through a rent in the clouds behind them a shaft of sun stabbed down. The falling showers gleamed like silver, and far away the river glittered like a shimmering glass.

‘It is not so dark here,’ said Théoden.
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Saying When

May 6, 2016May 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Thirty miles. I can do this.

Cycling is not second nature to me. I still have to force myself into the clothes and out the door on each solo ride I make. After several years of self-discipline and more than a few dollars spent for equipment, I still argue like a three-year-old being made to eat his squash. Every time.

That said, I am learning a lot about myself—a lot more than I learn while sitting on the couch. The lessons help me to understand much about who I am and who I want to become.

Some would say I’ve left it a little late. I say, it is what it is.

Thirty miles was my goal as I left the house one afternoon last week. Almost two hours on the tiny, hard bicycle seat.

My friends do twice that every Saturday. And they’re older than I. I was going to do this!

That afternoon, the first twelve miles went by fairly quickly with a couple of minor, mostly inconvenient, events which rattled me a little. I was tired and thirsty already. Add to that the fact I hate riding along the state highway with traffic zipping past at sixty and seventy miles per hour, and you’ll understand why I was grateful for a quiet parking lot in which to grab a drink and put my foot down on the pavement for a moment.

I had flown down the last downhill section of the highway right before my rest stop. Freeing one of my two water bottles from its cage, I gulped enough of the ice-cold, clear liquid to irrigate the gritty desert in my throat.

I didn’t want to cool down too much, but I did want to quiet my spirit and forget the honking, motor-revving pickup on that narrow country lane earlier. The old guy pulling a stock trailer who sped up to get in front of me before making a right turn right across my way hadn’t helped things any, either.

And yet, it didn’t take long before I was ready to ride again.

Now, the busy highway was between me and my chosen route. I had to cross five lanes. That’s all I had to do to get back onto the quiet back road, along which I could speed—or lollygag—whichever.

Cross the highway. Easy, right? Wait for a break in traffic and, pushing both pedals, roll right across. Twelve miles down, eighteen to go.

Easy, peasy.

Checking traffic to my left and seeing none, I eased across the lane. To my right, a pickup truck crested the hill quite a distance away. Well, perhaps he was closer.

A lot closer!

It didn’t help that I was in the highest gear on the bicycle. Well I would be, after flying down that hill, wouldn’t I? I should have checked.

I should also have estimated the oncoming traffic’s speed better.

Pedal! Harder!

My left foot, not yet locked into the pedal, slipped off. The right foot was locked in. It would have to do.

I pedaled furiously—up, down, up. down—all with one foot. In the highest gear.

Safety! I made it! Moving quickly now, I coasted along the rural lane, lifting my left foot back onto the pedal to lock it into place. Ow!

Wow! That hurt! My lower back, evidently not up to the stress of one-footed pedaling, let me know I had strained a major muscle. What would I do?

The Lovely Lady was a phone call away—the pickup truck ready to haul my bicycle home. Or, I could simply head for home. It had been twelve miles out, but six or seven by the most direct route would soon have me home.

Thirty miles. I had promised myself I would ride thirty today.

I kept riding.

Thirty-three miles showed on my fitness program when I pulled back up to the storage barn in which I house my faithful steed.

I surpassed my goal. I climbed hills. I rolled through beautiful farmland. I passed the safari grounds with exotic breeds of animals everywhere. Camels, ostriches, and buffalo, along with a gazelle or two, gazed out at me as I stared in at them. It was a wonderful ride through the springtime countryside.

I want to be proud.

What I am, is embarrassed.

My friends who ride will read the description above and mutter the words under their breath. I know they will.

Rookie! Amateur!

They’re not wrong. I should have checked my gears. I should have been able to easily lock my left shoe into the pedal mount. Still. That’s not why I’m embarrassed. Not all of it anyway.

Goals are important, aren’t they? Sometimes, one must just work through the pain and finish what they started.

It’s true. Goals matter. But, there’s more to the story, isn’t there?

May I tell you the sentence I have uttered more times this week than I can count? (Well, besides Oh, my back hurts!)

“I’m sorry it’s not finished yet. I hurt my back and haven’t been able to work at my bench most of the week.”

I met my goal on Saturday. And because of that, I haven’t been able to meet one since.

I would have been disappointed to miss the mark that day.

Any number of people have been disappointed that I’ve missed the mark every day in this week.

My stubbornness has affected many more people than a little discretion would have.

Only one person would have been unhappy about that missed goal—Me.

I wonder. Folks all around me are telling me not to worry about tomorrow.

Live in the moment. You only live once. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today.

The same people are telling me not to live in the past, as well. But, it’s back in the past that I have experienced this before. My memories of the past should have aided me in preparing for the future.

We don’t live in the past, but we do learn from it.

We don’t worry about the future, but we do plan for it.

We live today, but not as if it were the only day.

There are times when we will need help, too. There is no shame in missing the goal when wisdom dictates a different course. There is no shame in saying, I need help.

I need help.

Do you know someone who is so focused on an individual goal they’ve set that everything and everybody else is invisible to them? Perhaps, it might even be you.

The job at hand takes so much attention that we forget it’s only a part of what we’ve been called to do.

We need to know when to say when.

Somehow, I can’t help but think about the prophet Elisha as he sat under the tree, his goals unmet, wanting to die. He had faced the prophets of the foreign god and conquered spectacularly. Achieving that goal, he forgot their defeat was only one step in another, greater purpose Then, when faced with reality, he shut down completely. (1 Kings 19:1-8)

God sent an angel to take care of him. The messenger from God fed him, suggesting that the journey was too hard without food and drink. Eating, he was refreshed and continued on his journey.

I’m always amazed at the messengers God sends my way. Some are lovely, some incredibly unkind. Some are gentle, while a number are rough and crude.

Still, accepting their aid, and as I am willing to refocus, I remember that each goal is not independent of the one before or after, but merely different.

And sometimes, when I am hurt and alone, He covers me with His own wings and protects from danger.

Unless, I keep pedaling.

I’m shooting for the mark, but I don’t want to miss a thing He has for me along the way.

There is still joy to be found in the journey.

Maybe, it’s time to say when.

I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;
    with singing lips my mouth will praise you.
On my bed I remember you;
  I think of you through the watches of the night.
Because you are my help,
  I sing in the shadow of your wings.
(Psalms 63:5-7 ~ NIV)

Be strong enough to stand alone, smart enough to know when you need help, and brave enough to ask for it.
(Ziad Abdelnour ~ American investment banker)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

joy

Waiting For Hope

A Provocation

Listening to Linus

Heaven Comes Nearer

Thick and Thin

Good News. Bad News.

Higher than That

Message from a Hypocritical Fake

He Still Hangs the Moon

Saying When