Strangely Dim

March 3, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

She stopped to talk with us for a moment in the yard where we stood. We knew it was time for them to leave, but he wasn’t with her yet.

I glanced around, noticing the little tyke, his back to the big double doors at the top of the wide ramp leading into our storage building. He seemed to be enjoying a moment of independence, having actually walked up the ramp backwards just minutes before.

But staring at us and, more specifically, at her, his countenance changed as he noticed her starting to walk toward him. Holding his right hand high up in the air, palm outward, his stubborn face told us all we needed to know.

Whatever her plans were for him, he intended to stay at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s for a while longer. His outstretched hand made that doubly clear.

It was inevitable; Over the vociferous objections of the youngster, Mom soon had the little fellow bundled into his car seat and headed for home and an overdue naptime.

Mamas know best.

They do.

I smile, thinking about the tableau in my head. I feel a kinship to the young tyke—and more than the familial one.

I have raised my hand so often over the years of my life.

Many times, like him, it was to my mother. And to siblings. Teachers. Employers. Wife. Even to my own children, as my strength wanes and their wisdom grows.

We want what we want.

Oh. I forgot one.

I raise my hand to my God. Again and again. And not in a good way. Not in worship. Not in the sense of recognition of His love and wisdom.

I raise my hand in rejection, in rebellion, in resistance.

I want what I want.

But I’m thinking tonight about a verse I learned many years ago that seems important to me.

“Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desires of thy heart.” (Psalm 34:4, KJV)

I won’t yield to the temptation to lay out a 3-point sermon on the verse. I feel certain that others can comprehend words they read as well or better than I.

I’ll just say this: I have been a follower of Christ for most of my life, and I’m not sure I am yet “delighting myself in the Lord” completely. Still, I want nothing more than that.

And, when I do delight myself, giving my full attention to who He is and what He has done for me, I find my desires beginning to fall in line with what He knows (and frequently shows me) is His best for me.

But I still hold my hand up at times. I still ask for just a few more minutes of doing what has caught my attention. A few more days of seeking my own good pleasure.

But, more and more as I travel this way, I find myself realizing the good that He has always desired for me.

Always.

And, I think that’s what the journey has always been intended to bring about in us.

As we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with each other, and His blood cleanses us from sin. I think the disciple named John wrote about that in his later years.

Why do we continue to act like little children, even into our old age?

I’ve been practicing on another song at Mr. Kimball’s old grand piano recently. Well, I’m working on more than one, but this one is special to me.

Called “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus,” it was written just over a hundred years ago. The hymn is still a favorite for many, although in recent years, it has largely been reduced to a chorus, the lovely verses having been abandoned by most in this modern day.

As I write this, I’m not quite ready to share a piano performance of the song, although it may not be much longer. Time will tell.

But the lyrics to the old hymn have been whirling around in my head. The little boy’s outstretched hand, indelibly imprinted on my memory, reminds me again tonight of the words.

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus;
Look full in His wonderful face
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace.”

I’m looking. And delighting.

The road is long. But there’s room for more along the way. You could look and delight with me.

And, if going home to take a nap is part of the schedule, that’s certainly okay with me.

“Oh soul, are you weary and troubled?
No light in the darkness you see?
There’s light for a look at the Savior,
And life more abundant and free.”
(from Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus, by Helen Howarth Lemmel)

Fixing the Broken Glass

February 26, 2026February 26, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was only a fly. A dead fly at that.

It’s not the kind of thing I’d ordinarily choose for a subject. Although I did write about the “trash bug” not all that long ago. That was small (but not dead).

Still…

I lay on that table again, the one they strap me to, and then stretch my lower spine for ten or fifteen minutes. Decompression, they call it. I wondered the first few times if I would walk out a few inches taller than when I limped in.

I didn’t. But I did feel better.

Now, where was I? Oh yes. The dead fly. It had been there all those times before. I’d just never concentrated on it. This time was different.

Lying on that padded table awaiting the strapping-in process, I thought it pertinent to mention the creature in the light fixture above me. The physical therapist glanced up and laughed. I suppose she didn’t think it pertinent.

It was only a small thing. No. A tiny thing.

And she’s right. It’s not important at all. But now it’s stuck in my brain. So, perhaps the reader will excuse me if I talk about it for a while—this tiny thing.

Come to think about it, I don’t really want to discuss the dead fly at length. My mind has already leapt past that and is considering another tiny thing.

Do you know that the part of my spine that is defective is only three vertebrae in the lumbar section? Just over three inches of my over six-foot total body height.

A tiny thing. Compared to all the rest of me, anyway.

And yet, this tiny thing has brought the physical activities of my entire body to a screeching halt on several occasions recently. Bending, squatting, lifting, and tying my shoes—all are undertakings nearly impossible during a flare-up.

I talked with a different therapist there this week, complaining that I am not improving as quickly as I did the last go-round. He listened to my grievances, writing down notes as I whined. When I finished, he raised his head and, looking into my eyes, asked the question:

“I suggested you should be taking an anti-inflammatory a few weeks ago. Have you been doing that?”

I haven’t. You see, I have read somewhere that these miracle drugs actually raise the incidence of dementia in older patients, if taken for too long. Somehow, things seem to be slipping away at a worrisome pace without speeding up the process any. And, I’ve certainly seen the catastrophic result for people who graduated to opioids when the body stopped responding to the weaker medications.

I like to look at the big picture. The end game. So I refused the recommendation to do that one little thing.

I could have been better already. It was such a small thing that I needed to do for a very short time.

Small things.

A few decades ago, the policing community started talking about the Broken Windows theory. It was the belief that small problems left unaddressed (like broken windows in an abandoned house) would breed more and, likely, larger problems.

Whether or not you agree with the criminologist’s theory, there is a truism at work here: small problems left unaddressed do breed larger and more serious issues to be dealt with later.

Lest you think I’m hung up on the negative, let me reassure you. Just as the hurtful small things breed bigger problems, the beneficial small things that we do and practice habitually are certain to turn into significant blessings, either for us or for the recipients of our attention.

Jesus taught us the theory of small things—Replaced Windows, if you will. The shepherd who left his 99 sheep safe in the sheep pen to search for the one who was lost in the wilderness. The woman who searched and searched because one of her ten coins had been misplaced.

Drinks of water for the thirsty. Clothes for the destitute. Food for the hungry. Visits to the prisoners.

He didn’t stop with suggesting we practice the small gifts to those who would appreciate it, but commanded that we bless those with whom we are angry—perhaps even hate in our own strength.

“Carry their burden twice as far as required. If they demand your coat, give them the shirt off your back.”

“As much as you did it to the least of these, you did it to Me.” (Matthew 25:40)

You who are musicians will understand when I say that all of music-making is small stuff. From the length of notes to the tone and the intonation (tuning), from the speed and the rhythm, along with the key signature, the touch of fingers on a piano’s keys or the weight of the bow drawn across a violin’s strings and the velocity of breath directed across the tonehole of the flute, the tiniest of details accumulate to become the massive production of a symphony.

Or the quiet worship in a dark room at midnight.

Small things. Minuscule.

In more ways than one, music is life.

And similarly, life is a massive work of art painted one stroke at a time.

His love can turn our childish art project into an astonishing masterpiece. And our banging on the keys into lovely harmony.

If we will only yield the small things to Him.

I have a broken window or two that need attention. And that other tiny part of my body, my tongue, has been at work too, making a wreckage of relationships.

It’s time to tend to the small things. Again.

My back, along with a few other things, will surely be better soon.

“Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” (Robert Brault)

“The master was full of praise. ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant. You have been faithful in handling this small amount, so now I will give you many more responsibilities. Let’s celebrate together!'” (Matthew 25:21, NLT)

Try Again. Every New Day.

February 15, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s midnight again. It often is as I begin to write. I’m not sure why that fact should be of any importance at all.

Midnight is, after all, just a position of the hands on a clock (at least it was on the clocks I grew up with). Oh, I’m sure there are scientific reasons for midnight being the beginning of another day—a rational “mile marker” for each new time period. I’m just not sure it deserves the gravitas we ascribe to the hour.

Having said that, I was already thinking about the ends of some days and the beginnings of others before I sat down to write in the moments just before another 24-hour period begins. There is, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, “a method to my madness”. She, perhaps, borrowed the words from the Bard of Avon. Perhaps.

I’m not sure if folks know this, but I don’t always think about the words I type into this device on my desk. That’s too often true of the words that proceed from my mouth, as well. But we’ll talk about that later.

I often snap photos of nature in progress, intending to share them with my friends and acquaintances online. Then, as I post them on social media, I feel the need for words to accompany the sometimes lovely scenes.

The words come from somewhere—I’m not always certain where. But sometimes they mean more than I intend to communicate. You might say more is revealed about the person sharing than the photo itself could ever uncover.

It was a gorgeous sunset a couple of evenings ago. The clouds cooperated with the lowering light-that-rules-the-day, and the resulting glory was moving, to say the least. And for a few moments, as I stood on the edge of a nearby field, I saw the colors of the rainbow in the cloud, a sundog, some call it. I was too slow to capture that with my camera, but it lives in my memory as part of the sunset.

“Glory at the dying of the day. I think I’ll try again tomorrow. You?”

Those were the words I wrote. I should have stopped with the initial sentence. It would have sufficed. More than sufficed.

What did that next part mean? I’ll try again tomorrow?

Really?

I left the words. They stayed in my head all through that night.

They were there when I opened my eyes in the morning.

Why? I think I know.

Are you ever disappointed with your actions at the end of a day? Your words? Your thoughts?

I am. Frequently.

I let myself be led into an argument the other day. I’ve said it wouldn’t happen anymore, but there I was—insisting that I was right and he was wrong. And not long before that, I made a joke that hurt a friend. I apologized, but I can’t take back the words. Or the hurt.

And my physical limitations these days make it so I am afraid even to attempt some normal activities. Things I want to do. Things I need to do.

So, I arrive at the end of some days, looking back and wishing I could get a do-over.

I didn’t mean to tell my friends and family that I was disappointed with myself. I would rather hide that. Let me work on it in private. They’ll get to see the finished product.

But somehow, my secret is out.

I want a do-over.

I think the words on the screen needed to be said. And, even though I often blabber away much more than I should, they were meant for me to write and share.

I’m not the only one who needs a do-over tomorrow, am I?

I’m not the only person I know who sometimes feels like a failure at the end of the day. I’m sure I’m not.

We need a do-over.

We can have one.

Our Creator and Savior is the God of redemption—of second chances. Of do-overs.

I’ve used the verses repeatedly when I write. I will again in the future. God said these words through His prophet.

I’m counting on them being His promise to me—and to us.

“Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.” (Lamentations 21-23, NLT)

I still dare. To hope.

Those mercies that begin anew every morning don’t have to wait until the sun cracks the horizon between earth and sky. He ordained the day and night. He knows when the new day starts.

I’m believing in those new mercies now—after midnight.

It is, after all, morning.

Time for a do-over.

“Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again.” (from Pick Yourself Up, by Dorothy Fields)

“And if the day passes and our efforts were stunted by the bane of our insecurities or blunted by the challenges of life, does not a sunset invite us to rest before it whispers the same message the next morning?” (Craig D. Lounsbrough)

Can You Carry Me?

February 8, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My writer friend posted one of those questions the other day. It asked something like, if you were invited to preach and the last text you wrote is the title of your sermon, what are you speaking about?

Just for fun, I copied the last text I had written and sent it.

“That’s fine. We should be able to get you there.”

She replied, saying those words “would preach,” but I was skeptical.

I’ve had a few wakeful nights since then and, having rolled the words around in my head a bit, have decided they just might. Preach, that is. Not that anyone wants me to do that.

I remember hearing an old timer say the words years ago: “My car isn’t running right now, so I asked my neighbor to carry me to town today.”

What an odd thing to say!

Carry me?

Why would you suggest that someone carry you? You’re just getting into their old pickup to ride a mile or two to the grocery store. I wonder.

But that’s just what it is, isn’t it? The weight of the friend rests entirely in the vehicle, being carried from the point of origin to the destination.

Carry me.

Some folks who read this will remember hearing the words. In a different lifetime, it was. A group called The Hollies sang the song.

“The road is longWith many a winding turnThat leads us to who knows where, who knows where.But I’m strong,Strong enough to carry him.He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”
(from He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother, by Bob Russell and Bobby Scott)

The title came from a slogan that Boys Town, the orphanage for boys in Omaha, Nebraska, has used for many years. The story goes that one of the older boys was lugging a younger, physically handicapped boy up a staircase when Father Flanagan suggested the load might be too much for him.

Somewhat exasperated, the young man is reputed to have retorted those exact words: “He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother.”

The words had been used before. And have been since.

But, in these troubled days we’re living through, I wonder if we’ve forgotten just what they mean. The boys knew their meaning. Implicitly.

And we should.

“And a certain man from Samaria, as he traveled, passed by and, seeing him lying there, felt compassion. He bound up his wounds, using wine and oil to clean them and, lifting him onto his mount physically, carried him to a nearby inn, caring for him there.” (Luke 10:33-34, my paraphrase)

He carried him.

Because he wasn’t heavy.

I am the son of a preacher, but not one myself. I can’t bring myself to tell others how to respond to these words. Not very preacherly, am I?

But, I have been carried myself.

I will doubtless need carrying again.

So what do we do when there is no one to carry us?

Our God will carry us when others fail us. And they have. And they will.

“I have cared for you since you were born. Yes, I carried you before you were born. I will be your God throughout your lifetime— until your hair is white with age. I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.” (Isaiah 46:3-4, NLT)

The words were written to the faithful in Israel, God’s Chosen People. But the principle applies to us as those who have been grafted into His family.

Not like those who worship idols that are only dead weight to be carried by their worshippers, our God, instead, carries us.

He carries me.

And when I stop to really consider that astonishing truth, I am convinced there is only one rational reaction.

How can I do less than carry my brother—my neighbor?

How can we do less?

“If He carried the weight of the world upon His shoulders,
I know, my brother, that He will carry you.”
(from He Will Carry You, by Scott Wesley Brown)

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
(Galatians 6:2, NIV)

Before the Storm

January 23, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I wore gloves to walk up to the university campus this afternoon. I’d be lying if I said they didn’t help. I’d also be lying if I said my hands felt good.

The wind from the north is piercing. And it promises worse to come. I would know that—even if the wannabe celebrity weather people weren’t shouting the news of the coming winter storm at the top of the Internet’s voice.

The volume of wind was shocking to the face and lungs as I walked toward my goal, struggling more for breath, perhaps, than most. It cut right through my thin gloves and coat with bone-chilling directness, leaving pain and immobility in its wake.

I didn’t think I’d play the piano this afternoon. My fingers were stiff, and a couple of the joints hurt long after I wrapped them around the bowl of warm soup prepared for my lunch.

But my mind has been working on a theme today—a theme of the Father’s love and provision. And, there’s a tune I know…

So I sat at the piano and worked my way—painfully at first—through the notes and chords. It’s a piece I’ve heard most of my life. I played this particular arrangement when I was twelve or thirteen years old, not knowing there were words that went with the tune.

You might know it as Londonderry Air. Or, as Danny Boy. Perhaps (if you were a member of a school band), you know it as Irish Tune from County Derry.

But me—I’m from a church-going background, the son of a (then) lay pastor. We learned church songs. Hymns. Maybe a new song or two from Bill Gaither, or a Southern Gospel Group.

I heard the first words that I knew went with this tune as a teenager. Dottie Rambo wrote them.

“Amazing grace shall always be my song of praise,
For it was grace that bought my liberty.
I do not know just how He came to love me so.
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.

I shall forever lift my eyes to Calvary
To view the cross where Jesus died for me.
How marvelous the grace that caught my falling soul!
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.” *

When my oldest brother and I played an instrumental version of Dottie’s song in a piano/organ duet in a morning worship service, I couldn’t understand why one man approached me after the service and wanted to know why we were playing a secular song like Danny Boy in church. In retrospect, I agree it is a bit difficult to make out what lyrics are intended to be communicated when just an old grand piano and a Hammond organ are playing the tune and harmony.

It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I learned the lyrics to Danny Boy, and even later, that I understood the words were from a father to his son, going off to war with little hope of his returning.

“Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling.
It’s you, it’s you must go, and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow.
Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy I love you so.”

If, while you listen to the little tune I’ve recorded, you want to consider either set of lyrics in your head, I have no objection. Truth be told, if you’re thinking about the lyrics, you won’t be listening closely to my stumbling, halting rendition. And that’s okay with me.

Either way, you’ll be thinking of the heart of a father who loves his child so very much and waits with open arms for his or her return.

It’s the heart of a Father who watches and protects us against that day when, all dangers passed and all journeys over, He’ll welcome us into His presence.

He watches and protects against even monster winter storms. And yes, against the occasional twinge of arthritic joints.

And we shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever.

“So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” (Luke 15:20, NIV)

Going On

January 2, 2026January 2, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s only the end of the first day of this new year, and already I’m a failure.

Only this week—albeit last year—I told a young relative that I had selected a word for the new year, which I hoped to make a key part of who I can be as the days go by.

The word is “listen”.

I told the Lovely Lady about my word for the year, and she laughed, wondering how that would work, knowing I am losing my hearing. My sister-in-law, listening nearby, reminded me of their late mother’s onetime quip to another, older family member, that he needed, not a hearing aid, but a listening aid. Apparently, I need both.

I still maintain my resolve to learn to listen. To friends. To family members. To folks I don’t know.

To God.

Instead of responding to what I think people are saying after hearing a few of their words, I want to allow them to share their thoughts in full, as I attempt to understand completely what they are telling me.

And yet, before the year was an hour old, I had ignored that resolve, blasting through a conversation with two young ladies I love with astonishing disregard for their contribution to our discussion.

I have apologized to both of them. I don’t feel a lot better about it.

Perhaps though, I should modify my first statement to say, not that I am a failure, but that already I have failed.

It seems it takes more than just failing to become a failure. It takes not trying again. Rooting around in the failure, deciding that one can do no better than the failed attempt.

Surprisingly enough, I have also decided to adopt an entire phrase, the origin of which I was unaware when I spoke it aloud to the Lovely Lady on that very night. (She was tempting me with sugary desserts, you see—and I resisted.)

Begin as you mean to go on.

If you had asked me, I would have told you that Nora Batty, a character in an old English comedy show, The Last of the Summer Wine, had uttered the words originally when talking about training a new husband. It turns out, the phrase wasn’t hers.

I used the tools I have at hand today and searched for the origin. I was surprised when Google informed me that a great preacher and evangelist from the 19th century was known to have used it first in a book he wrote in 1886.

Here’s the full quote from Charles Haddon Spurgeon in All of Grace: “Begin as you mean to go on, and go on as you began, and let the Lord be all in all to you.”

I think I like it better now than I did before.

Even after my initial failure in the new year.

There was no room for grace in the shortened version. Not even room for assistance from above.

Begin—I did that part.

Go on—I didn’t do that part.

Failure. Full stop.

Ah. But I have decided now to go on as I began. That is grace. Let’s see how that works out.

I’m nearly certain I will fail to go on as long as I need to. No matter. God is indeed all in all to me. If I let him be.

Still grace. Forever, grace.

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

You see, He goes on as He began. Always.

Without fail.

I am counting on Him to dust me off and send me on along the road of this new year. And the next one. And the next one.

The lady in the television show, Nora Batty, wasn’t all that great with her husband-training. I’d like to be better at my task.

I think I have better help than she did.

You could walk along with me on the road, too.

He’ll keep us all the way home—even if we’ve made a late start of it.

Let’s begin. And go on.

Failures and all.

“Indeed Christian, take heart in this revelation! The outcomes of your labors were never in your hands, but in God’s. You have but one task: to be faithful.”
(from A Liturgy for Those Fearing Failure, in Every Moment Holy Volume 1, by Douglas McKelvey, Rabbit Room publishers)

Suffer the Little Children

December 25, 2025December 25, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The Christmas Eve service at our church fellowship was packed tonight. The Lovely Lady and I sat near the front—by design, and not as punishment for a late arrival. She was the pianist for tonight’s carol singing, and needed a chair a short walk from the platform in which to rest for a few moments before returning to the bench facing the big grand piano again.

I arrived just before the beginning of the service, barely in time to hear the beautiful piano duet that served as a prelude to the hour-long service. There was a young couple beside me, with a 2-year-old tyke nearby, chewing on a Belvita cookie. He has learned to break the crunchy cookie crust into pieces, licking the chocolate icing in the center first, before munching the crust between his pearly white teeth.

Again and again, he grins mischievously at me as he takes another bite.

The service is filled with young families such as theirs—and with teenagers who sing out the carols boisterously (and, even a few who stand morosely, mouths closed stubbornly)—and with old gray-hairs who have never missed a Christmas Eve service and aren’t about to start now.

We sang carols. Old ones. Familiar tunes and words. It was beautiful.

The children came to the steps at the front of the auditorium to hear a story retold by a dear friend. There were thirty or forty of them. She told the story. I cried, with no handkerchief to dry my tears. The sleeve of my tee-shirt had to suffice for that.

I think it was about that same time I became aware of it—the noise, I mean. I thought back and realized it had been there the whole time. Through the piano duet, through the carols—even through the opening prayer.

There were “kid noises” sounding constantly throughout the entire service, from start to finish. Happy noises. Words being spoken to parents and grandparents. A bit of fussing might have been thrown in here and there. But it never stopped.

For the full hour, there were children making noise.

I told the pastor yesterday I would try to listen better to his message this Christmas. He seemed grateful for my willingness to try. I’m not sure he’d be as pleased now.

I really don’t know what he spoke about. I’m sure he mentioned a King who came as a baby. He talked about why that happened. I’m pretty sure that’s right.

But I didn’t hear most of it.

I looked down the row from me, and the little boy there had graduated from Belvita cookies to raisins. One at a time, he lifted them from the little box and popped them in his mouth. He wasn’t making the noise. Not this little angel. Well, maybe just a little of it.

I want to be able to blame my faulty hearing for missing the pastor’s words. It is often problematic to hear what I want to hear when there are competing sounds in the room.

But that wasn’t it.

The pastor isn’t likely to be sympathetic.

I wanted to hear the children. Wanted to.

I found myself listening for the individual sounds, the cooing of infants, the almost-words of babies on the verge of talking, even the sound effects of toddlers playing with toys.

As the hour dragged on a little and ran over a bit, I heard the sounds change from contented to impatient, and even downright crabby.

It was lovely. Every minute of it.

I think we do our Savior a disservice when we insist, “But Little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes,” in our version of Away in a Manger.

As if.

Babies cry. They gurgle, they laugh, they whine, they jabber. Sometimes, they even scream.

They’re babies, communicating with the tools they have. And He did, too.

“Children should be seen and not heard” is not a phrase spoken a single time in the Word. Not once.

I don’t always use the King James Version when sharing scripture in my writing, but I like the words Jesus uses when He’s unhappy with His disciples’ treatment of the children who wanted to see him.

“But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.'” (Mark 10:14, KJV)

Suffer. It means to tolerate. To control your natural response. To allow something you don’t enjoy.

I didn’t hear the words the pastor spoke tonight (not most of them, anyway). But I heard every word of the message I was supposed to hear.

In the non-verbal vocalization coming from almost every point of the compass in that auditorium, I heard the voice of God speak to me.

Emmanuel—God With Us—came for every single one of those little ones. The lovely, quiet ones, listening to the lady’s voice as she told the story on the steps. The sweet, compliant ones, eating their raisins in quiet enjoyment. The vocalizers, raising their joyous tones over the sound of the pastor’s voice. And yes, the crying ones who had had enough, their patience tried beyond its not-so-large capacity.

As a baby, He came. As a tween, He stood in the temple and taught. As a young adult, He wandered the length and breadth of the land, sharing the Good News that was to be.

Teaching, healing, weeping, and ultimately, dying, He showed us how to suffer the little ones, the children, who still seek life and love from Him.

Even when we can’t stand the tone of their voices. Or the language they speak. Or the way they dress.

He who came as a tiny, perhaps even annoying, child welcomes children of every tribe and nation.

We come as little children to His feet and worship again.

Suffer the little children.

To come.

To Jesus.

It’s what Christmas is all about.

“Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas, if you stop opening presents and listen.” (attributed to a 7-year-old named Bobby)

Jesus called a little child to him and put the child among them. Then he said, “I tell you the truth, unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven. So anyone who becomes as humble as this little child is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven. And anyone who welcomes a little child like this on my behalf is welcoming me.” (Matthew 18:2-5, NLT)

Music to His Ears

December 12, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It has been a month since I sat down to write. Oh, I’ve written short notes, and maybe a nugget or two of truth that have come to mind, but the act of writing has been well-nigh impossible (as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said) of late.

So tonight, I sit here in front of my monitor waiting. Just waiting. I have words inside me—I know I do. Why, just this week, I shouted words at the neighbor’s contractor in frustration. I apologized, too—a necessary evil when one shouts at a stranger.

I even talked with friends at our annual Christmas music party two nights ago. I didn’t shout at them. Still, I did use words.

But the words seem a precious commodity as I wait for them to flow now. Too precious to spend. Still, one can but try, I suppose.

Bogged down in the stuff of this earth, with inspiration in short supply, it’s easy to become disheartened. Of late, I’ve turned to the piano I mentioned in a recent post.

But part of the stuff of earth is physical limitation, and, my age creeping up on me, the fingers don’t always want to pull their weight in the piano playing process. I have a touch of osteoarthritis in my fingers, and nowadays it hurts a bit to play for longer than five or ten minutes at a time.

I’ve been somewhat vocal in my complaints to the Lovely Lady. Perhaps more than somewhat.

The other day, she handed me two books of hymn arrangements that I’ve seen before. They are arrangements her late mother published over 35 years ago, several years before her death.

A much-loved piano teacher in our little town, Viola was stricken with crippling rheumatoid arthritis when she was forty years old. Her fingers were drawn over painfully, at acute angles to the rest of her hands. Piano playing was torture for the dear lady.

Still, she continued playing until a week or two before she died at eighty-four years of age. For nearly forty-five years she suffered, mostly in silence, asking for help when she needed it, but almost never complaining about her lot.

I know better than to think there was a latent message in my Lovely Lady’s gift of those books to me, but I got the message, nonetheless. My malady is minuscule in comparison to my late mother-in-law’s burden.

I got the message; I also am enjoying the gift. In her disability, my mother-in-law determined to continue playing music worth listening to, but knew she would need music that fit her crippled hands better than that available in the marketplace.

She wrote her own arrangements that wouldn’t require her fingers to stretch out to the octaves most music is written with. Filling in with movement, instead of rich chords, the arpeggios supply the notes necessary to fill the air with beauty and strength.

I don’t suppose I need to hammer the point home. Many have already done so.

“I was sad that I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet…”

I like the Lovely Lady’s method of making the point better (even if she didn’t intend to make a point, which she avers she did not).

Help is better than a sermon most of the time. Perhaps, all of the time. My pastor may have a differing opinion.

The situation reminds me that our lives have been full of people who have taught us—by who they are and how they act—how to be the hands and feet of God here in this place. None of us has grown to any point in our lives without a few (or more likely, many) people like that.

Parents, teachers, companions, pastors, friends, even strangers on the street, show us how to walk—how to live. And, we have the opportunity to share that with the generations after us.

I’ve said many times, I hope to be such a person and not the type of man who is more easily used as a cautionary tale instead. You know—like for yelling at strangers.

The letter-writing apostle suggested that people could use him as an example of how to live. He told his protege, Timothy, that his grandmother and mother had been such people, as well; people who lived and demonstrated clearly what they believed, passing it on to their children.

I want to be known for that—not for complaining about the little inconveniences and minor hurts.

I’m going to keep working at the piano. It may never hurt less. I don’t know. But, I’m certain the sound filling the air will be more beautiful than the words of complaint could ever be.

I think Viola Whitmore might even have been pleased to hear it.

After she corrected my counting and fingering, of course.

“If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” (Sir Isaac Newton, in 1675)

“In the same way, let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father.” (Matthew 5:16, NLT)

I don’t often ask for responses from readers, but it strikes me that there are many of you who have someone who has inspired you along the way. Perhaps, they still do. Feel free to drop a note telling us about them.

Facade

November 5, 2025November 5, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Dealing with disappointment is hard.

I had plans last week. They were pretty specific. We would start the week out with a yellow house but, with the help of a crew of skilled men, would end it with a green one (or, if I win the argument about what that color actually is, a gray one).

It didn’t work out.

The job foreman told me, as they began on Thursday, that he was certain the work would be finished that week. That was before.

The men worked. The old siding came off. The new siding began to cover the walls.

On Saturday, it became evident they wouldn’t finish that week. Not because they failed in their efforts, but because the boxes of siding were empty, and the front of our home was still covered only in insulation and house wrap. The skilled men couldn’t put up materials they didn’t have.

What a disappointment!

We had guests coming to dinner on Sunday! The neighbors have to drive past the unsightly facade of our house, some of them several times a day.

I am not happy. The job foreman and his scheduler came to see me on Monday afternoon. It could have gotten ugly. I know how to make people understand how unhappy I am. I have words inside me to communicate that to them. I have facial expressions to help with that communication.

I didn’t say the words. I smiled at—and even laughed with—the men instead.

Dealing with disappointment is hard. It is. But this is simply an inconvenience. Those men are human beings who feel and care.

And that stack of wood, rocks, and glass is just that. Stuff.

More than that, the man I want to be can’t say those hurtful words without diminishing any opportunity I will ever have to show the love of God to those people whose steps were guided right to my door by Him.

Our guests came to dinner on Sunday. They walked right past the ugly facade of the house and into our home. We laughed. We prayed. We broke bread together. There was music. And joy.

Inside our homes, we share the grace and the love of Christ. The outside walls are just part of a structure, affecting the realities of life not at all, unless we let our disappointments change the course of our interactions with other souls who walk this dirt with us.

And I don’t think we want to know what chaos is caused when we mistake the facade for the heart and soul.

I was wrestling with whether to write about this tonight when an email was delivered to my smartphone. It was one of hundreds I receive in the course of any given week from other writers sharing their articles. I admit that often I simply delete these messages. I assume they do the same with mine.

But for some reason, tonight I hesitated as my finger hovered near the image of the trash can. I breathed a prayer.

“Make this something, God. Something I need.”

As I opened the email, the first words my eyes fell on were the familiar ones from Jeremiah that my father was so fond of. I had actually considered them as I wallowed in my disappointment this week.

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

It was something. Yes, even something I needed. But not for the reason you might expect.

They’re not words to make us feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I know we use them that way. But they aren’t.

God had just directed Jeremiah, His prophet, to tell the nation of Israel that they were going to be torn from their homes and live for years in slavery and want in a foreign land. All because they needed to learn to trust Him.

The words of that verse are certainly words of promise. They are words of encouragement. But they would only come true in the middle of greater disappointment than most of us will ever experience.

In the midst of the wasteland we call failure, God promises success and blessing.

Our disappointments are not where hope ends, but where our future is assured!

I know many who read these words have other, more serious disappointments to deal with than my piddly little siding problem.

Jobs have been lost. Family members have walked away from them. The doctor hasn’t given them any hope for things to get better. Dreams have been altered or given up because of changing realities.

You need to know that even in this season of trial, our God is working out His plan for our lives.

In the midst of pain, grace and mercy abound.

It’s not the time to give up, not the time to attack innocent bystanders. Now is when we learn to walk with Him, in His strength, and in His love. Even if we walk in the dark, we are putting one foot in front of the other, as He lights the path ahead.

We want the beautiful facades.

He’s working on the astonishing home inside.

The day is coming when there will be no more disappointments; when we’ll really be home.

Just not yet.

And that’s okay. Because I trust the One who promises it.

Completely.

“Home is the best word there is.”
(Laura Ingalls Wilder)

“For it is God who works in you, both to will and to do of His good pleasure.”
(Philippians 2:13, KJV)

Humble Beginnings

October 28, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was ten years ago. I remember it as if it were yesterday.

I had taken one last trip back home with my siblings, returning with a U-Haul trailer full of memories—rife with laughter and tears.

From the treasure hoard I brought back, I shared an ancient photo with my friends. The image showed five little urchins posing in front of a battered little trailer house. I see a single tricycle to be shared between the five, along with a “swamp cooler” in front of the abode—the closest we ever came to having an air conditioner there in the tropical heat of the Rio Grande Valley.

When I shared the photo on social media, one friend who had grown up with me wrote words that felt like a slap in the face. He was merely stating a fact and certainly didn’t intend the words to dredge up the feelings they did.

“Humble beginnings.”

I admit it, I’m easily distracted. It doesn’t take much to stir up old memories and sometimes, the unpleasant feelings that can accompany them.

Did I say I remember it as if it were yesterday? The strange thing is that the episode with the photo occurred ten years ago, but the pain (which I remember no less clearly) originated over six decades ago.

Back then, an older boy, probably the ripe old age of 9, ridiculed 7-year-old me on the school bus, deriding me for being poor enough to have to live in that trailer house.

I remember blubbering that I didn’t live in the trailer anymore. My parents had purchased the old house across the street just 6 months before that bus ride.

He didn’t believe me. But when we arrived at the stop where my siblings and I were to alight, I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. Dragging him toward the bus window, I crowed in triumph.

“Come here! See! That’s where I live!”

I don’t know why my mind holds onto some events and not to others. Nor why those episodes pop into my head at the oddest of times.

We had a special service at our fellowship a day or two ago. The kids led worship, both in English and Spanish. Then the youth pastor spoke, his words being translated into Spanish as well.

I’ve told you before that I sometimes have trouble following the trail the preacher lays down in his sermon, haven’t I? A thought arrests my brain, and I can’t really move past it.

I couldn’t help it. The scripture for the young man’s sermon was from John 1, verses 35 to 39. In the text, John the Baptist tells his followers again that Jesus, who is passing, is the Lamb of God.

Two of them desert John and follow after Jesus. When He saw them following Him, He asked them what they wanted. They replied that they just wanted to see where He lived.

Jesus simply replies, “Come and see.”

Wait. All they wanted was to see where He lived? How odd!

But then I got to thinking. John the Baptist lived in the desert. He ate grasshoppers and wild honey. Wore camel hair shirts.

I can just hear them when they get to the house where Jesus is staying.

“Wow! This is better than that trailer house—I mean—desert cave, any day! Let’s follow Him for a while.”

For a minute, I even thought I might have heard a strain or two of the theme song from The Jeffersons (a TV sitcom from the ’70s and ’80s).

“Movin’ on up, to the East Side…” (You sang that in your head, didn’t you?)

He showed them where He lived!

But, I think there was more to it than that.

Humble beginnings don’t preclude moving to better surroundings. We were never intended to finish in the place in which we began.

It should be evident that I’m not talking about a physical location. I know people who have lived at the same address all their lives. I also know, beyond doubt, that they have grown and become different people from who they were at the outset.

The apostle, for whom I am named, reminded the folks in Philippi that their Redeemer would continue the work He had begun in them until they moved on to their permanent home. (Philippians 1:6)

He wants us to be content with what we have physically, but never with where we are spiritually.

The folks who followed Jesus while He walked the earth saw where He lived. Not the place, but the Person.

The place He lived changed again and again. The Person never did, walking constantly in grace and love. And in service.

The pastor reminded us the other day (I did hear other things he said!) that Jesus still says, “Come and see.”

And we, growing into the people of grace, should be saying with Him, “Come and see.”

Saying it, not in pride and triumph, but in love and humility. To all whose paths we cross, taking them by the sleeve and showing them.

Come and see.

Ven a ver.

“You are the only Bible some unbelievers will ever read.”
(John McArthur)

“He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
    out of the mud and the mire.
He set my feet on solid ground
    and steadied me as I walked along.
He has given me a new song to sing,
    a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see what he has done and be amazed.
    They will put their trust in the Lord.”
(Psalm 40:2-3, NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

life lessons