Not Just Another Sunset

September 19, 2025September 20, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She left after supper. Just took her keys and walked out the door, leaving me in the dark. I usually wait for her here. But tonight, as she pulled out of the drive, I received a text from her.

I thought perhaps she was missing me already and was sending a little note with a heart emoji. You know—just because. But no. There was just one word in the text.

“Sunset?!!!”

I don’t suppose it’s any surprise to my readers that I love sunsets. Come to think of it, I’d love sunrises too, except they come too early in the morning for me to enjoy them much.

So, sunsets it is.

I got up from my easy chair and, taking a minute to get my equilibrium (I have to do that these days, you know), headed out of the dark into the twilight of a lovely, cloudy evening.

I walk about a block to the west of our home to get clear photos of the sunsets—because I know my friends really, really want to see every sunset I stop to admire. And, they don’t want to see a pic of the back door to Patty’s house.

There were lots of folks out in the not-dark. Walking, cycling, scootering (is that a word? Oh well, it is now.), it was the perfect time to be out. I really didn’t want company, though. Which was fine, because nobody but me ever stands at the edge of that field and snaps photos of an everyday occurrence like the sun going down.

Truthfully, the sunset itself wasn’t that beautiful tonight. I was a little late getting there; the clouds were too heavy over the westering sun. The few photos I snapped weren’t spectacular; just a pinky orange sky, almost hidden behind the trees.

Disappointed, I turned away from the field. Oh well, another day it would be more spectacular.

As I turned, I discovered that someone else was, indeed, standing at the edge of the field and snapping a photo of the sun!

The young lady, most likely a student at the nearby university, didn’t stay long. A couple of snaps, and she too pivoted away from the lowering light source.

“Great minds…,” I said. I’m nothing if not a great conversationalist.

She laughed, and we talked for a few seconds about the suitability of the field for our shared activity. I mentioned that I always go all the way to the edge of the alley to make sure there are no annoying power lines in the photos. She agreed that it was a necessity.

It was not a notable encounter. I couldn’t pick the young lady out of a lineup at the local jail, if it were necessary (why it would be is beyond me). We don’t know each other’s names, nor where the other resides.

But the connection we made is impossible to miss. To me, it is, anyway.

It’s a little thing, I know. Still, we old folks talk about the young adults of today as if they have no appreciation of the good things, the things that really matter. And yet, here was this young lady, no older than some of my grandchildren, standing at the edge of the same field this old man frequents and soaking in the glory of God’s creation.

And in a season when, to some of us, hope for the future seems to be an insubstantial commodity, I’m holding tightly on to whatever I can grasp between my gnarled, arthritic fingers.

She turned along the main road, and I walked across it and back toward home. But something else was tugging at the edges of my brain. Now, what was it? Oh well, it would come sooner or later.

I was back into the darkness of my house when I remembered the elusive thought. I had seen a lot of clouds in the southern sky, and they had a little orangey pink tinge to them. Maybe they were worth another look.

Back into the golden hour, I wandered, following the same steps across the busy street from the university. If I hadn’t broken into a trot, that four-wheel-drive pickup might have had to hit its brakes, and it was clear the driver had no such intention.

The sunset was still mediocre, at best. But, looking south, I gasped at the thunderheads piled high just above the horizon. Purple, orange, and indigo, they roiled in the fading light.

It’s always a surprise to me when I see the clouds that are not in the proximity of the declining sun sharing its glorious light and color. I suppose it’s because I think of clouds as dark and dense.

In truth, clouds naturally radiate the colors of the setting sun. If there is a long line of them along the horizon, with clear skies above, the overwhelming coloration travels as far as the eye can see, around the circumference of the circle of sight.

And somehow, as my mind is apt to do, the lesson of light passed by the transient clouds reminds me that we ourselves are light bearers.

The light we bear was never our own. We never produced it ourselves.

It was never ours to hold and hoard.

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, NKJV)

With a head full of these thoughts, I wandered across the street again, taking the overgrown track through the jungle behind my house and past the old barn, itself covered by a curtain of vines, all doing their best to help time and gravity bring it to the ground.

There are still sad things in this world.

It’s okay to grieve them.

But, grieving is “for a moment”. The light is eternal. And, we must share it—with our children and our children’s children—as well as with the world that is dying for those brilliant rays to pierce the darkness where they are waiting.

The Light has shined in the darkness. The darkness will never overcome it.

I’ll admit it. These were my thoughts as I went back into the darkness of my house to await the return of the Lovely Lady, who always makes its rooms brighter for me.

But, inside me, the light is blazing like noontime on a summer day. I think I’ll keep sharing it.

Even with these clouds piled high around, His beauty will shine through.

It’ll be brighter with you walking alongside.

Are you coming with?

“If I can put one touch of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman, I shall feel that I have worked with God.”
(G.K. Chesterton)

“…that you may become blameless and harmless, children of God without fault in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world.”
(Philippians 2:15, NKJV)

A Bright Spot

May 19, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My friend called me this afternoon. In the time between storms, he called because he was sure I would have some words of encouragement.

A surgery last week brought him excruciating pain, so much more than he imagined, and he is looking for brighter days.

I wrote that it was in the time between storms. Hail fell yesterday where I live—more hail than I have ever seen at one time. The car outside my window is covered in divots. Siding on my house has holes in it. Come to think of it, the two windows behind the love seat on which the Lovely Lady sits stitching have holes in them, and cracks across the width of them.

Another storm is roiling in the sky above as I write. Extremely dangerous, the weather surmisers tell us.

I told the Lovely Lady I was going to sit at my computer for a few minutes and dare the storm to stop me. The jury is still out. If I were a betting man, after the last week I’ve experienced, I would bet heavily on the storm.

And yet.

I sat in my armchair earlier, as I talked with my friend, some 800 miles away, and I told him my encouraging words.

In between the storms.

Last week? It was what most would call a disaster. Both of my vehicles, dependable to a fault for the last several years, required major work. Over a thousand dollars for each one of them, just so they could sit at the ready in the driveway once more—ready to roar into life at the turn of a key.

I had to have a root canal, too. Costing me closer to two thousand dollars than otherwise, it wasn’t an enjoyable experience, however you frame it.

My neighbor had a stroke last week, too. She’s in the hospital right now, awaiting a move to rehab, and from there, only her Creator knows what’s next.

And, moments before I went to the coffee shop yesterday to experience the hailstorm, with its machine-gun explosiveness on the metal roof and walls, punching divots in my just-repaired car, I got word that a long-time friend and business colleague had passed away. Tears flowed as I left my house to keep my appointment with a young friend in that place.

Oh.

This doesn’t seem very encouraging, does it? I said I gave my friend encouraging words as I spoke with him on the phone just a few moments ago, didn’t I?

I’m sure I did.

Surprisingly, I spent the last week thinking about good things—memories that will never fade, new experiences that meld with the unhappy junk and keep a light shining before my eyes on the dark days. I did.

I’ve got more important matters to consider than the foolishness of dental bills and checks written to mechanics.

Last week, as I learned of the cost for the repair to one of my vehicles, a young man whom I’ve known all of his forty-some years called me and offered to pay the bill for me.

I can’t help it. My mind immediately—instantly—heard those footsteps on the old stairs in that Victorian home in which my children grew up. They were the footsteps of a seven-year-old boy scuffing down the carpeted treads an hour-and-a-half after he had climbed them to go to bed.

We had told the kids at the dinner table that we had a tax payment to make and no money with which to pay it. We reassured them that we were trusting a God who provides.

The scuffing footsteps reached the ground level, and the cute little kid, carrying a metal bank in his hands, came to where I sat. Handing it to me, he told me he wanted me to have all the money he had been saving for a new skateboard.

Tears filled my eyes as I, returning to the present, told the boy, now a father himself, how much I appreciated it, but that there was no need.

Can you see the light shining?

Two days later, as I sat stranded in the dental specialist’s parking lot forty miles from home, with the darkness of worry lowering onto my head, I couldn’t help but wonder who would be able to come to my rescue, and I called my mechanic.

“Don’t bother with a tow truck, Paul. I’ll just pick your vehicle up with my car carrier. No, no need for you to wait for me. My wife is coming over right now to get you home. And, she’ll have the key to a car you can borrow until yours is repaired.”

Is it brighter out here yet?

I don’t want the reader to think I’m insensitive to danger, to sadness, to being overwhelmed with troubles. I feel them acutely. And, I don’t advocate ignoring them.

I don’t.

But, I know that above the clouds, the sun is still shining radiantly. I know that after the storm, we’re as likely to hear the birds singing sweetly.

And the darkness won’t ever defeat the light.

It won’t.

The tornado warning sirens have been sounding for the last twenty minutes, as I’ve been writing. The Lovely Lady has long since left her more exposed perch in the den and made her way down to my man cave to sit under the stairs and listen to the storm reports.

Even with the storm warning screaming outside, I won’t be persuaded to despair.

There is still light enough to see the road ahead clearly.

As the worship service at our local fellowship ended yesterday, the worship pastor read some words from the Psalmist to me.

“He who resides in the shade of the Most High will find rest in the shelter of the One who rules over all of creation.”

Yes, I’m certain they were specifically for me. The pastor might tell you differently.

But now, they’re specifically for you. Even in the storm.

Rest. And, be encouraged.

The storm will pass.

His love never will.

“Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
This I declare about the Lord:
He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
He is my God, and I trust him.”
(Psalm 91:1-2, NLT)

“The Lord says, ‘I will rescue those who love me.
    I will protect those who trust in my name.
When they call on me, I will answer;
    I will be with them in trouble.
    I will rescue and honor them.
I will reward them with a long life
    and give them my salvation.’”
(Psalm 91:14-16, NLT)

Still Sitting in the Dark

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

She left to go to choir rehearsal without me; the Lovely Lady did. As she gathered up her music, she asked the question.

“What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

It didn’t take long for my answer to come. I say it often, sometimes even in jest. Okay, mostly in jest.

“I’m going to do what I always do when you’re gone. I’ll sit in the dark and wait for you to come home.”

Pitiful, aren’t I? The thing is, I sometimes do just what I said I’d do.

It’s not always because I’m sad or down. Sometimes, I just need to think. And the dark is better for thinking. There are not as many distractions in the dark.

I was going to stay in my easy chair to sit in the dark while she was gone, but then I remembered that my sister had sent a note about the moon earlier. It, Ruler of the Night, decided to come out before sunset this evening. I suppose it decided that if we puny humans need to save the daylight by changing our silly clocks, it could help by shining an extra hour or two before its appointed time.

So, instead of sitting in the dark in our den, I went outside and sat in the dark there.

Except it wasn’t. Dark, that is.

I had been thinking I’d look up at the sky before I came back in. Then I could write my sister a nice little note to tell her the moon was okay.

The sun had gone down over an hour before. But the moon was doing its best to actually give us some daylight. The yard and field behind my house were illuminated like daytime, complete with shadows cast by the still-naked trees.

So, I couldn’t have sat in the dark, even though I wanted to.

“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall fall on me,’
Even the night shall be light about me.”
(Psalm 139:11, NKJV)

David, that shepherd boy who became king and poet, also thought he could sit in the dark and let it wash over him. He was wrong.

He was made to live in the light.

I was, too. I think we all may have been.

We don’t always understand what the light is, though. It doesn’t look like we expect it to. Just like the moon tonight, we are often surprised by the light around us and where it comes from.

Earlier in the day, I walked over to a neighbor’s house to talk with him for a minute. I was a little unsettled by the sound of his router. He had been working on another project under his carport for an hour or more.

I wanted to listen to the songbirds.

The cardinals were being all sociable, with half a dozen of them at a time gathering in the oak branches out front—flashes of red in the sunlight everywhere I looked. The finches and wrens fluttered in and out of the holly tree’s foliage, some carrying grass and leaves for the nests they are busily slapping together.

I did. I wanted to listen to the birdsong.

But that noisy router just kept screaming as it ripped into the pieces of wood on the neighbor’s workbench. So, I went to visit with John. I had no intention of grousing at him. I just figured the router would be quiet for at least as long as we visited, and I could hear the birds in that relative silence anyway.

He grinned as I approached, turning off the machinery as I anticipated. Reaching out, he gave me a hug, and then he showed me his project. He is making a container to hold antique serving dishes. Not for himself. A friend, whose grandmother passed away and left her the dishes, was worried they would get broken, so he designed and is making a container for them.

As we talked, he mentioned some things he is storing for another friend. Then, still motioning to the stack under his carport, he told me about a different project he is planning for an acquaintance using the scraps of lumber he has there. In passing, he made the offer to me to take anything I needed from his bounty.

I mentioned one of our widowed neighbors to him, and he told me of going over during a recent storm and bringing her to his house so she wouldn’t be alone while the wind and thunder were raging overhead. And then, as I prepared to head for home, I mentioned that his firewood pile had diminished since I last noticed it. He nonchalantly told about a fellow who had been walking down the street who needed wood for heat, and he had given him most of his supply.

I sit here, and realization hits me; my seventy-something-year-old neighbor isn’t sitting and moping in the dark.

He’s making light! Shining it on everybody he meets, the light of God blazes from his face and fingertips. I wonder if that’s what the apostle Paul meant when he said we were to be lights in the universe. (Philippians 2:15) I think it may have been.

We’re not made to sit in the dark, awaiting whatever or whoever comes next.

We walk in the light as our Savior does. And we have fellowship—communion, if you will—with all others who walk in that light. (1 John 1:7)

I admit it; I haven’t been as successful at shining His light as my neighbor has. I’m not quite as noisy as he is, either, but I’m thinking I should get busy and catch up.

So, no more sitting in the dark.

It’s time to walk in the light.

And maybe—to make a little noise.

“A little bit of light dispels a lot of darkness.”
(Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi)

Indeed, the darkness shall not hide from You,
But the night shines as the day;
The darkness and the light are both alike to You.”
(Psalm 139:12, NKJV)

A Good Taste

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

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

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

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

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

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

Covid.

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

How could I care for her?

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

It is not so dark here as I thought.

But, the Lovely Lady acquired a different virus.

Do you sense a pattern here?

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

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

Except…There’s this one thing that happened.

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

Perfection.

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

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

No taste whatsoever!

None.

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

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

Darkness comes in so many forms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, he wrote the timeless words.

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

Taste. See. Experience it fully.

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

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

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

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

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

I’m pretty sure it’s enough.

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

And, it’s good.

Really. Good.

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

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

Out of the Shadows

December 16, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I will never understand it. The Christmas season is one filled with light and hope, yet more people are feeling sad than at any other time of the year.

I checked to be sure I’m not spreading fake news. The National Alliance on Mental Illness tells us a 2021 survey shows that 3 in 5 people in America say the holidays make them sad.

A friend who has had a rough year posted her annual birthday note a couple of days ago to share her trials and joys with her tribe. I responded and suggested that sometimes the best we can do is stay in the vicinity of the light. In the shadows, but never far from the light.

But, I don’t really believe that. I don’t.

I wrote recently about preparations for the Christmas Candlelight Service at the local Christian university—one in which I have participated for well more than forty years. Nearly every time I have participated, I have found a new truth to enlighten my journey. I’ve shared many of those truths with my readers.

This year is no exception, even though my participation was in a very different capacity than those services for the past four decades.

When I played my horn with the brass group for the event, we always left the stage soon after the halfway point in the service. Sitting in pews reserved for us, we simply became audience members, enjoying the beautiful choral music the young folks (getting younger every year, seemingly) presented.

I was carried away. Every time.

This year as a vocalist, I stayed on the stage until, as my sweet mother-in-law would have put it, the last dog was hung. (I’m not sure what that means, but it seems to indicate staying until the entire event is finished, so I’ll go with it.)

Right up at the top of the risers, I and my compatriots stood or sat, depending on our part in the program. With a bird’s-eye view, one might say.

We were on display to the whole audience, but we also had a clear line of sight to every part of the cathedral. The view was eye-opening. Well, it took me until the last night to open my eyes, but I can’t unsee it in my mind now.

Forty-five times, I had seen it from the same perspective. Yet, it was always moving.

This is different.

I’m mostly thinking about the candlelighting ceremony at the end of the service.

Over the years, we would sit in the pews, with the student candle-lighters stopping at the ends of each row, lighting the candle of the person sitting there. Then that person would pass the flame to their neighbor, and they to theirs, until all the candles were aflame.

As we sang the words to the old Christmas carol, Silent Night, we held the candles close until the third verse. Then, as we began to sing about the radiant beams from His face, each of us would lift our candle high, flooding the huge building with brilliant light.

It was always moving. I know—I’m repeating myself. It’s still true. Again and again, I’ve been moved.

It all changed drastically this year, especially on the final night. I had always thought it was only that last verse—when we raised our candles—that was moving.

But, on this final night, I had tears in my eyes through every verse of the carol. The tears started before the music did.

I have known how it worked—the sharing of the flame, one person to the next. Yet I’ve never seen the big picture of how it occurred, except from my limited perspective amongst the folks right beside me.

I suppose it may be a bit like Job felt in the Old Testament. He had heard with his ears—he knew a little of what he was supposed to know—but seeing with his own eyes made all the difference. Now, he had experienced it. (Job 42:5)

Experiencing it is different than just having a head knowledge. I’m sure of it.

Throughout the entire service (all three nights) I had looked at the dim cathedral and knew there were individuals there—a number of them friends and acquaintances— but because of the darkness, I couldn’t see any individual faces, only a huge indistinct crowd of humanity.

And, as the ceremony began, from my bird’s-eye view, I watched the young folks carry their candles to the dark pews to spread the light. And finally, on the last night, I saw it clearly.

Through the whole room, looking completely random and without plan, the light spread. I could see flames shift from one person to the next, moving laterally along each pew. It wasn’t uniform. There was no pattern—or seemingly not. Row after row, I watched the lights flicker across from side to side.

Now, what was it that I was supposed to be seeing? Sure, the candles were lit in preparation for the holding forth of the light later on, but that wasn’t it.

There! I saw it!

Faces appeared behind the candles. Individual faces. On my left. In front of me, not far back. Then, way back to the right.

Faces.

No longer simply a mass of humanity, the bodies in the pews had faces—identities that could be clearly and individually seen.

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” (Isaiah 9:2, NIV)

How did I miss that?

We who have come to His light come as individuals out of profound darkness. And, His light shines on us.

It shines on us. You. Me.

Yes, we’re part of the great cloud of witnesses—like John the Baptist, bearing witness to The Light—but we come to our Savior and He knows each one of us.

He knows me.

He knows you.

And now, we have the great privilege of reflecting The Light.

Again, from that vantage point, I watched the flames—held close throughout the song—as they were thrust forward and upward to the ceiling. If I had been moved through all of those years when I was sitting in the audience, it was spectacular seeing it from above and in front of it!

Spectacular. An explosion of light!

We can spread the light—one to another. It’s in His plan that we do that. We can even hold our light close and have light for the journey.

He knows each one of us and loves us in our individuality.

But, it’s also in His plan that the world around us be overwhelmed by the brilliance of His Light, shared by His people collectively, walking in love for Him and for our neighbors, the people who dwell in the profound darkness.

Overwhelmed.

I’m not sure we’re doing that yet.

But, it’s not too late.

I’m pretty sure it will be spectacular.

Spectacular.

“I will make you a light to the nations, so you can bring my deliverance to the remote regions of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6b, NET)

^“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, KJV)

“Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God, love’s pure light
radiant beams from Thy holy face
with the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth!
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth!“
(from Silent Night by Joseph Mohr)

Dust in My Eyes

September 8, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I noticed the post on a friend’s social media page earlier:

“Getting hard to breathe as CA fires blow our way.”

She’s praying for rain, while smoke makes it hard to catch her breath. Many others are too.

I didn’t expect it, but I got a catch in my throat as I read her message.

There are no fires near me, but I had an inkling of her misery today as I mowed my lawn. There has been very little rain for a few weeks and the soil under the grass is parched. With more than a few mole tunnels pushed up across the width and length of the yard, I knew I was in for a dusty job when I headed out to begin the task.

I did borrow a face cowl from the Lovely Lady before venturing out. I had no idea how much I would need it. As it turned out, I should have found some swim goggles to go with it.

Dust billowed out from my mower—by the buckets full, it seemed to me—and yet I sped on across the yard. I soon found that, if I rode along in a straight line, I could stay ahead of the murky haze of flying dirt. But eventually, I had to turn, always back directly into the hazy cloud.

The face cowl helped considerably. I could breathe, at least. But again and again, I was overcome by the dirt in my eyes, burning and stinging. It would go dark as I was forced to close my eyelids against the irritating dust. Each time it happened, I released the grab bars that controlled my forward progress and, sitting atop the roaring machine in the diminishing fog, would wipe my eyes, either with my finger or with a handkerchief dampened from my water bottle.

I felt a little like Pigpen, the Peanuts character who raised dust wherever he walked in the comic strip. I’m certain the neighbors were almost as relieved as I was when the task was finished.

But, on a couple of the occasions I had to stop the mower today, I did so in the darkness, caused not only by the dust but also by panic. Momentarily, I would be confused as to where (and into what) the machine and its rider were headed.

Was I going to hit a tree? A gas meter or water faucet? Perhaps the flowerpot that held the Lovely Lady’s columbine plant was in my path! I’m not sure a little dirt in my eyes would have sufficed as an adequate excuse for that damage!

Do you know what it feels like to lose sight of reality? Of the straight road you’ve marked out in front of you?

It was only an inkling. Merely the tiniest glimpse of what hopelessness could feel like.

But, while I was in the midst of it, it seemed to me that I might never breathe easily, nor see clearly again. I knew I would, but it’s easy to be overwhelmed when in the grip of an uncomfortable turn of events.

As I contemplated later, clean and grit-free in my easy chair, my thoughts went back several decades and I finally began to understand.

I remember standing outside that hospital with tears in my eyes. I cried again later that evening as I attempted to understand the darkness one had to feel to attempt to end their own life.

It was years ago—in the last century—if you must know. We’ve moved more than once since then. The names have faded into obscurity; the faces almost so.

The couple, not young, lived near us in a small rental house. Their lives hadn’t been easy, but there had been no events that prepared me for hearing the ambulance outside our back door. And, I certainly didn’t anticipate following the paramedics to the hospital with an inebriated husband in my passenger seat.

The wife had taken a lot of pills. More than a handful. In her mind, it was the only alternative she had in a hopeless situation. Her husband, incapacitated as he was, was no help. But, eventually, he figured out she was in trouble and called 911.

Thus, the trip to the hospital. I offered to take him since it was clear he was in no condition to drive.

The team at the hospital was able to save her life. It didn’t fix her problems. Nor his. But, she lived. They moved away just weeks later, so I don’t know how their lives have gone, except that I heard their marriage ended soon after that.

I’m not sure the darkness ever lifted for them. I pray it has.

Did I say there were tears in my eyes? One might wonder why. They hadn’t been great neighbors. They argued loudly late at night. When he had had a little too much to drink (which was not infrequent), he sang country music at the top of his lungs from the front porch of the little house. They borrowed tools—and money—and my old bicycle, and didn’t always feel the need to return them.

And yet, I cried. For her, and her blind despair. And for him, and how he was treated by the doctor at the hospital. Rudely and with no respect nor regard for his terror that his wife might die. All the doctor saw was his drunkenness and poverty, and he had no time nor sympathy to be wasted on the man.

And so, I sat tonight and wondered anew at how we look at each other—at our neighbors and strangers on the street corners. At friends who have lost someone and can’t get over it. At people who look different, and act differently, than we do. Addicts and mentally ill. Politicians and the spectacularly wealthy (or even poverty-stricken). The list is endless.

And yet, they are neighbors. Every one of them.

We all get the dust in our eyes at some point. And, it’s easy to give up hope. For ourselves. For others.

Still, we’re all part of the human race. We share a common condition—that of being part of Adam’s fallen progeny. Our shared ancestor’s blindness has come over every one of us who walks this earth.

I know the tiniest thing about the blindness and fear that can overcome us.

And yet, hopelessness is not what has been promised to us. Not at all. We have hope. In Christ, our hope is certain. And, we walk in light.

We do. We walk in Light.

The Light that shines in every dark place. And we have the astounding privilege to share that light, carrying it within our very souls.

The smoke will clear. The rain will fall and settle the dust. It will.

And, the Light will never be overcome. Never.

That’s a promise. (John 1:5)

So for now, we get to shine. In this house, in this neighborhood—be it hillside or valley, and in this world.

You might want to bring your goggles along, too. There’s dust in the wind that’s blowing.

But, the Light shines still.

“Satan, who is the god of this world, has blinded the minds of those who don’t believe. They are unable to see the glorious light of the Good News. They don’t understand this message about the glory of Christ, who is the exact likeness of God.” (2 Corinthians 4:4, NLT)

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness.”
(Christopher M Rice)

Only One Candle

December 11, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I never intended to mention light again this soon. If one writes too often about the same subject, folks begin to whisper about obsessions. And, one-track minds.

That’s why I usually ignore little nudges to write about the things I’ve mentioned recently. Readers don’t need much of an excuse to poke each other and say, “I told you so. He’s taken leave of his. . .”

Well, you get the idea. Still, I did go to the Candlelight Service at the local university yesterday. And, the lights on the tree onstage at our local fellowship shorted out this morning. And, it’s Advent.

So, lights it is. Again.

Did I mention the Candlelight Service? I went to hear the brass. And the choir. I wasn’t disappointed.

But, they lit candles first. I watched the students carry their brass poles with the adjustable wicks down the aisles toward the platform which had scores of candles awaiting the flame at the ends of those wicks.

Just so you know, I really did want the brass poles to have a special name so I could impress you with my knowledge of said designation, but I’m informed by reliable sources they’re just called candlelighters.

Imagine my disappointment at learning that the candlelighters carry candlelighters to light the candles.

But, as they walked the long aisles to the front, at least 3 of the young folks had the misfortune to have the flame extinguished from their wicks.

I watched one young man whose lighter was burning healthily until he was halfway to the front, but it suddenly turned to a brightly glowing ember as he walked. The ember dimmed for a few steps, then disappeared into a stream of smoke which quickly thinned to a wisp and then, nothing.

The two young ladies striding down the opposite aisle had a similar experience, each arriving at the front with useless candlelighters in their hands, as well.

Do you suppose the young lady who found herself the only one with a flame took the opportunity to excoriate the others about the pace with which they had walked, causing their flames to blow out? Did she spend the next few minutes reminding them how precious that flame was, and how careless they had been with it?

Perhaps, she just went ahead and lit all the multitude of candles herself. Without any help. Clearly, it was all up to her.

She didn’t.

Stopping at the base of the steps, she motioned all three of them over and had them light the lifeless wicks of their candlelighters from her flame.

And for all the help she offered them, her flame was drawn down not the slightest bit. It blazed and shone as she ascended the steps, ready to light all the waiting candles on their stands.

They also mounted the steps, lending their aid in lighting the forest of candles, making short work of the task.

The candles were all set ablaze to the background of the violins, violas, and cellos. Then I heard the brass music. For over an hour, I reveled in the music of the choirs and even the organ pieces played by the Lovely Lady’s brother. All of it was lovely.

But the lesson of the candlelighters was what I carried from the Cathedral last night. It was a lesson reinforced by the traditional candle-lighting ceremony at the end of the evening.

From that one candlelighter—yes, every flame in the room that night could trace its origin to that single young lady—each person in the seats eventually held high a flaming candle as we sang the sweet words of “Silent Night.”

And, it cost her nothing.

Nothing except kindness. And generosity.

I want to preach. I want to hammer the message home, reminding all of us of those around who have not tended their flames as well, perhaps, as we have.

There would be hypocrisy in my words.

And, dishonesty in the telling.

It is, as I have said before, a season of lights—the time of remembering the coming of the One who is The Light that has, and will, shatter the darkness, sending it scuttling back into the emptiness from which it emerged eons ago.

His Light is ours to share.

It was never ours to hoard.

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness. . .
Take your candle, go light your world.”
(from Go Light Your World by Chris Rice)

“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too.” (Philippians 2:3-4, NLT)

This Little Light of Mine

December 7, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The light was almost blinding. Not like the super bright LED headlights that had been shining in my eyes for the last hundred miles or so. No. This brilliant light simply shone in the profound darkness of the Minnesota plains we were driving through.

For a moment, we could see nothing else but the tree, bare of any leaves, but budding forth with the bright light of thousands of bulbs wrapped around every single limb, from the ground to the sky. It stood on a slight knoll with long wild grass growing beneath it. We saw no house lights—no business sign—and no indication whatsoever of a power source or reason for the tree being there.

It just shone in the darkness.

I’ve thought about it for several days now—this lighted tree. The Lovely Lady and I took a trip from our home in Arkansas up to the big city of Minneapolis last week to listen to the beautiful music of the young voices in the St Olaf choirs.

Brighter lights were shining in the city. They lit up buildings. Some told us when to stop and when to go. Others shouted out messages to attract business.

They had purpose. They incited action.

The tree on the knoll by the highway just screamed, “Look at me!”

We looked and passed on, unchanged.

We’re entering the time of year when we celebrate the coming of the Light, the Son of God. He came to shine that light into the heart of every person who would recognize it.

“The one who is the true light, who gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.“ (John 1:9, NLT)

He came with a purpose. He came to draw all men to His Father.

“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.“ (John 1:12, NLT)

And, then He gave us the same purpose.

“You are the light of the world. . .In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16, NIV)

It is a season of lights. The little town we live in was having its annual Christmas parade the same weekend we were up north, the floats and vehicles all covered with lights. There were lights flung across the street corners and silhouetting the downtown buildings.

There is joy in light.

Our Creator made it so. Our hearts are lifted at the coming of dawn—at the brightness of light in a dark room—at the warmth of candlelight—even at the brilliant displays of lights on houses and trees in this season.

But the emotion fades. And, darkness returns to all of them eventually.

Our world today is full of a different kind of light—stars, we call them. They shine brilliantly, solely to draw our eyes toward themselves—to notice and revere them. Never before have there been so many crying out for us to look and be dazzled as there are right now.

But, they too fade. And, darkness reigns still.

The Light who came for us never fades—never dims. He turns our hearts to the Father of Lights.

Surely the light kindled in our hearts should do the same for those around us—for those who have never truly experienced light.

It won’t be some bulb-adorned tree growing on a grass-covered knoll along the way that is passed by in the night, leaving the traveler unchanged.

With purpose this Light shines, effecting everlasting change, pointing the way to that eternal day that can never be swallowed up in night.

It’s our time to shine.

“The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness
a light has dawned.“
(Isaiah 9:2, NIV)

“Jesus bids us shine with a clear pure light,
like a little candle burning in the night;
in this world of darkness we must shine –
you in your small corner, and I in mine.”
(Jesus Bids Us Shine, song by Susan Warner)

Still in the Tunnel

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

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

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

Sort of.

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

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

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

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

I’m not the only one.

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

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

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

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

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

I trust you won’t think me unkind.

Now. About that tunnel.

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

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

“That’s amazing! You have to see it!”

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

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

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

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

The moment has passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m asking the wrong questions.

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

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

Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?

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

Who put this tunnel here? And why?

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

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

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

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

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

More.

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

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

I’ve camped out here long enough. You?

Tunnels don’t make good campsites.

Time to move on ahead. That way.

Towards home.

This may take a while.

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

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

Joy Over One

June 22, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I think I saved a life last night. It may not seem like all that much when it’s written down in black and white, but I felt pretty good about it at the time.

Now that I think about it, it seemed like the night outside was a little brighter. Just a tiny bit.

Perhaps, I should just tell the story before I break my arm patting myself on the back. The red-headed lady who raised me used to worry about that. She said she did anyway. It could have been an exaggeration.

I don’t sleep as much at night as most folks I know. It’s a lifelong habit I’m not about to break now that I’ve entered what we once called the golden years. I’m not unhappy to have the quiet hours of the night to read and to think. Occasionally, I even put down a few rambling words to share with my friends.

Which brings me to last night. Not sleeping, at about 2:00 a.m., I wandered through the house, checking the doors and appliances one last time. Walking into the darkened family room, I was startled by a bright, momentary light shining up on the ceiling near the outside wall. I wasn’t sure what it could have come from, but I waited a few seconds to see if it reoccurred. It never did but, still curious, I found a light on my phone and aimed it at the spot.

My mind had, in the few seconds I stood waiting, settled on the light from a firefly, or lightning bug, as the probable cause, but I thought it should have reappeared somewhere in the vicinity again if that was the case. Still, it wasn’t much of a surprise when the light from the phone revealed a lightning bug as the culprit.

There at the conjunction of the ceiling and outside wall, the bug hung, swinging unnaturally just an inch below the ceiling. It didn’t take long to see that it had flown into a barely visible spider web and become ensnared.

Before things get out of hand, I should inform you that the Lovely Lady assures me it hasn’t been very long since the cobwebs were last displaced by her brush, but the tiny arachnids can be persistent, constructing new webs in a matter of minutes when the mood takes them.

Did I mention they were tiny? Indeed, I laughed when I first saw what was happening. The lightning bug was jiggling back and forth as it hung there, and right beside it was the web-building spider, hardly one-tenth the size of its captive, busily spinning more sticky silk as it sidled around the body of the comparatively gigantic-sized lightning bug.

I like lightning bugs better than I do spiders. Who doesn’t?

We—most of us—chased fireflies as children in the twilight hours of the summer evenings, catching them and tossing them at each other, perhaps keeping them captive in a mayonnaise jar to light up our bedrooms later that night. I still love looking out over the freshly mown fields at night and seeing their flickering bodies lighting up the June landscape, making me think it could as easily still be fifty years ago.

But it’s not fifty years ago. And I can no longer bear the thought of even that one little bug dying to feed the tiny spider on the ceiling.

Reaching up gently, I pulled the bug and the web, spider and all, down from the ceiling. The spider, not to be denied its trophy, dropped down a few inches on a strand of web and then, crawled up just as quickly toward the lightning bug, ready to begin weaving the web-prison around his body again.

I shook the belligerent little assailant to the floor, making sure the connecting web was broken so it couldn’t make another trip up to the lightning bug, and then I examined the poor victim.

Motionless, its head was bent down towards its thorax, pulled by the sticky, nearly invisible web that remained around it. It wasn’t moving so much as a single leg.

I was sure it was dead. In fact, I considered simply tossing it into the trash basket nearby.

Instead, I gently reached down with my fingertips and pulled at the sticky web, all the while seeing the unmoving legs and body lying in the palm of my hand. It was hopeless, but still, I pulled at the stubborn silk. Being careful not to pull a leg off as I worked, the task took longer than I anticipated, but it was probably not more than ten or fifteen seconds later when the lifeless body was free again.

Did I say it was hopeless? Lifeless?

I did, didn’t I?

We give up hope much too easily.

Where once there was light, we see darkness; where there was life, death. Even though we have experienced reprieves again and again ourselves, we give in so soon to dismay and dread.

The last of the web came away and the firefly instantly righted itself and started walking in my palm. Instantly!

Not dead, but alive!

I closed my fingers around it loosely and headed for the door (nobody wants a lightning bug flying in their house while they sleep!) to return him to his natural habitat. I stood on the concrete slab outside the back door and opened my hand, waiting to see what the little bug would do.

He got to the ends of my fingers but didn’t fly away. In my experience, they always fly when they reach the edge. Always.

Well, almost always.

This little fellow had had a bit of a shock. Death had him in its grip. The foregone conclusion had seemed inevitable. And now, life and freedom beckoned.

He needed a minute to clear his head. I would have, too.

I lowered my hand a bit and then, after raising it quickly, reversed the direction again. He took the hint, launching into the night air. A few feet out from where I stood, the light from the chemical reaction in his body showed clearly. Once—twice—I saw his light, and then he had joined the other late-night beacons in Dr. Weaver’s field, lighting up the night as they have for so many centuries going back to time immemorial.

Back from the dead.

Silly, isn’t it? All this attention and emotion wasted on a little lightning bug. Still, my heart swelled a bit as I thought about the joy of seeing one who is as good as dead joining the multitude of the living again.

It reminds me of something…

It’ll come to me. Maybe to you, too.

But I will admit to one thought that dims my joy a bit. Just a bit.

I can’t get that tiny spider and its puny, thin web out of my mind. How is it that such a minuscule thing, armed with no weapon to speak of, can take down an enemy many times its size? And so effortlessly, too.

The preacher in me wants to expound.

The grace-covered sinner I know myself to be is certain there is no need.

Today is a day to rejoice!

Where there was death, life has vanquished it altogether. Darkness threatened, but the light has not been overwhelmed.

Life. Light.

Great joy.

“‘They cannot conquer for ever!’ said Frodo. And then suddenly the brief glimpse was gone. The Sun dipped and vanished, and as if at the shuttering of a lamp, black night fell.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

“And when she finds it, she will call in her friends and neighbors and say, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found my lost coin.’ In the same way, there is joy in the presence of God’s angels when even one sinner repents.”
(Luke 15:9-10 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

light