Bless You!

July 10, 2025July 17, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

All I did was sneeze.

Seriously. I sneezed. It was a traumatic event. I may never forget it. This particular sneeze, I mean.

It happens often enough. A bit of pet fur floats past, and the microscopic dander is inhaled. The body knows what to do. Foreign bodies are persona non grata and must be expelled ASAP.

I checked with WebMD to be sure I was being accurate: “The abdominal and chest muscles activate, compressing your lungs and producing a blast of air.”

It happens most days for many. The Lovely Lady, upon arising each morning, greets the sun with several such explosions. They call it a photic sneeze reflex, and it almost always guarantees she’ll not be sleeping in on any sunny morning.

Just a sneeze.

They stuck a needle in the vein between my right thumb and index finger a week ago. “Nothing to worry about,” said the surgeon as he stood beside the gurney, a smile splitting his face. “You’ll go to sleep for a little while. During your nap, I’ll make two or three small incisions in your side. I’ll slap a piece of mesh against your abdominal wall and you’ll never have to worry about this problem again.”

He didn’t tell me he was going to put half a hundred polypropylene tacks into my belly to keep the mesh there.

I wasn’t warned about the pain level those little sharp things would induce. As I write this, a week later, it’s still difficult for me to walk without feeling them.

But, three days after my little anesthesia-induced nap, I was thinking I had at least found an even keel, a neutral ground between extreme pain and drug-induced daze. The prescription narcotic pain-reliever had been abandoned for a normal over-the-counter analgesic, which functioned nominally—as long as I didn’t try any acrobatics or even semi-swift sitting up movements.

That was before The Sneeze. There was no warning. Relaxing in my recliner, with pillows and comfort blankets piled around me, I inhaled, and the aforementioned compression of abdominal and chest muscles occurred instantly.

Simultaneously, I felt a ripping pain—almost like a knife tearing me open across my stomach. I think I screamed. You’ll have to ask her, she of the half-hearted morning sneezes that greet the sun. She was sitting nearby, stitching on a project. I’m certain she had to recount threads to find her place again.

The pain didn’t subside with the dying away of the original blast, but kept coming in waves for some time. I said I might have screamed. I might have cried like a child who has smashed his finger in the car door, too.

Might have.

Regardless, I have determined that I don’t want to sneeze again for a good long while and am taking measures to ensure that. Time will tell.

You’re laughing, aren’t you? It’s okay. I would be laughing if it hadn’t happened to me.

But, there is more to say. About the hurts of this life. About the terrifying suddenness of its excruciating trauma.

We go through life dealing with the little hurts. Over time, there is reason to believe we have succeeded in balancing the pain with joy, the sorrows with celebration.

But the little hurts accumulate. The massive hurts seem to hide, unseen, around innocent turns in the road.

And one day, unanticipated (because we are coping, you see), there is nothing to do but live with the pain—to walk through the massive hurts.

One late night, the phone rings and a relative says, “He’s had a stroke.”

One afternoon, the police knock on the door and inquire if you are the parents of a young man who went kayaking that morning.

One morning, you awake to find a note on the pillow beside your head, informing you that your marriage is over.

There are so many of them. The small hurts. The traumatic surges and waves of paralyzing pain.

And, telling ourselves we are prepared is not the same as being exempt.

“Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall.”
(1 Corinthians 10:12, NKJV)

With tricks and trite sayings, we fool ourselves into a false hope of security. Psychology, spirituality, and ideologies are borrowed to prop up the hope.

The walls are built high. We are convinced they must be strong because we can’t see the danger through them anymore.

We’ll be okay.

Until someone sneezes. Then the silly, inane, everyday things bring the wall of protection tumbling down in an instant.

I felt it fall as the videos of the roaring river in the Texas Hill Country, and the reports of children and adults being swept to their deaths in the torrent, began to multiply in the media recently. So did many of us. Nothing can protect against this pain.

It takes our breath away. There are screams. And tears. So many tears.

But, just as I know the pain I felt sitting in that chair a few days ago will be short-lived, I am sure that there will come a day when this trauma will be a shadow, a memory of things that are gone, never to be repeated.

He promises it. Tears wiped away. No more crying. No more death. No more pain. (Revelation 21:4)

But, until then?

Pain lingers. It does. From cuts and injuries long forgotten, the pain endures, far past its due.

From losses and mistakes, cruelty and acts of nature, it persists.

And our Creator, our Savior, encourages us. He gives us hope. Not the kind of empty hope the world offers, but the kind that shines with truth and promise.

“Weeping may last through the night,
but joy comes with the morning.” (Psalm 30:5b, NLT)

One of my favorite lines from the old hymn has wormed its way into my soul in recent years. I like it dwelling there.

“Strength for today, and bright hope for tomorrow…”

It’s never been a practice of mine, but as I consider the silly sneeze that started me down this road, I remember that many folks reply to that paroxysm of the body with a hearty, “Bless you!”

I think a blessing wouldn’t go amiss right now.

For all of us, living with the pain.

Bless you!

“The Lord bless you, and keep you;
The Lord cause His face to shine on you,
And be gracious to you;
The Lord lift up His face to you,
And give you peace.”
(Numbers 6:24-26, NASB)

Mansplaining (and Hiding the Pain)

October 23, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Fear and trepidation. And, some pain.

It’s what I feel right now. At the dinner table yesterday (with witnesses present) mentioning the title, I suggested I would be writing this piece soon. A couple of the individuals at the table had no idea what the first word in the title meant.

So, I did it. I tried not to, but when you know things, it just happens without you wanting it to. The words come out and, intended or not, they sound condescending.

I won’t give you the definition of the word. If you don’t know you’ll want to look it up. Try Google. You can find a lot of information there.

Oh. I did it anyway, didn’t I?

As I said. Fear and trepidation. For good reason.

I want to talk about the pain today. Specifically (at least to begin with), men’s pain.

I know. Again and again, I see the snippy remarks that men can’t handle pain. I get it. Compared to the pain of childbirth that women experience, most men will never feel real pain.

And, we can be crybabies. We can. At home, at least. But, that’s our safe place, the haven where we can admit what hurts and expect some sympathy from the person standing in front of us.

Somehow, our significant others seem (to us anyway) specially equipped to care and make us feel better. Softly and gently, they have ways to ease the pain, whatever it is.

I wonder if that’s why it’s widely believed (especially by our partners) that men can’t handle pain. Again and again, we prove it to them. At home.

But—and here’s where more mansplaining comes in—in public we’re famous for biting the bullet, for gritting our teeth and working through the pain.

Don’t believe it? I can attest to the facts myself.

I have a little pain to endure myself, a spinal issue brought on by too many years of moving pianos and lifting with my back instead of my knees. I’ve been going through a flare-up for the last few weeks.

There is pain.

At home, I have no compunction about showing the result of the pain—groaning loudly when turning over in bed, yelping when a spasm surprises me without warning. I stand from my easy chair like an old man, straightening my back by degrees before walking to my destination, complaining the while.

In public, I walk the half mile to the coffee shop or to the nearby university, upright and without limping. No one would know the pain the effort costs. I can carry your box or mow your lawn. Ask me. You’ll see. I’ll not have folks thinking I’m a cripple or a wimp.

Hiding the pain; putting on a happy face.

The other day, we headed to our daughter’s place for a visit with our grandchildren. (Oh, and with her and our son-in-law.)

The trip was also so we could enjoy creation in its Autumnal glory. We were not disappointed in either of our purposes

Our kids live on a mountainside in the beautiful Ozark mountains. We parked down in the valley and made the trek up the steep incline to their home, nesting far up above in the woods, ablaze in color.

“Let us bring the side-by-side down for you, Grandpa!” The kids would have been happy to haul me up effortlessly in the four-wheel-drive vehicle.

But, I was having none of it. I inched my way up, stopping frequently and picking my steps gingerly, stooping as I walked on the rocky ground to ease the pain. But, as soon as any of the kids came into view, I straightened up and walked firmly up the rest of the way, leaving no hint that I was experiencing any pain.

Heroic, aren’t I?

You wouldn’t have thought so, the day before. I spent that day in my easy chair. The Lovely Lady scurried past me again and again, intent on completing goals she had set for herself.

Normally I have a few goals, too. Yet, they were forgotten until I noticed she was sweeping the floor in the dining room.

“That’s my job! Why are you doing that?” I’m sure I sounded pitiful when I said it. I actually intended to sound stern.

Her answer came as she moved out of view, continuing to sweep the broom across the hardwood floor.

“I’m not having you hurting your back more. If you do, I’ll never get you up that mountain at the kids’ place!”

She’s right.

I would do it.

I’d stay home before I would let the grandchildren put me in that SxS and haul me up the mountain like an old man.

So, I sat back in my easy chair, letting her sweep the floor, vacuum the carpet, and fold laundry. I’m sure I moaned a little once in a while to let her know I didn’t want to be there but had no choice.

The reader has, no doubt, realized that a good bit of what I’ve written above has been somewhat tongue-in-cheek. And I’m sure I am also fluent in mansplaining—never meaning to but practiced nonetheless.

Perhaps I can take a moment to be serious here. I do have a question or two.

Why are we so foolish?

Why can we not admit to any but our closest confidants that we are in pain and need help?

I spoke with a new friend in the coffee shop this morning and wondered about this aloud.

She suggested it may be that we’ve been hurt by those we should be able to trust. She also suggested that we have One we know we can trust with our pain.

Something sounds familiar here, doesn’t it?

He sees us. He sees our pain. He also hears our groaning and crying.

I’m reminded that Hagar experienced them both. In her story in the book of Genesis, she’s been abused by her mistress Sarai, for whom she underwent the ordeal of surrogate childbearing, so she flees into the wilderness. Weeping over her plight, God comes to her.

He hears her! Her son will be named Ismael, which means God Hears.

Not only that, He sees her! In her despair and pain, He sees.

Her.

“So Hagar named the Lord who spoke to her, ‘You are the God who sees me,’ for she said, ‘Here I have seen one who sees me!'”
(Genesis 16:13, NET)

El Roi, she called Him.

God Sees.

Me. You. Us.

Masks come off. Hearts laid bare. Sickness, pain, and sins exposed.

He doesn’t leave us that way, though.

Abraham knew. He experienced it. And, he named the place he experienced it Jehovah Jireh. (Genesis 22)

God Provides.

What we need, He provides. When we need it.

It’s hard for us to be transparent with people we don’t know. So we hide our pain.

I’m wondering if it’s time to come clean. Time to ride up the hill in the side-by-side.

Maybe even time to limp when it hurts. Or to shed a tear when the pain overcomes.

No more mansplaining. No more play-acting.

Oh. The view from the mountaintop is spectacular, too.

Even with an aching back.

Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.
(James Baldwin)

‘Cause deep inside this armorThe Warrior is a Child
(Twila Paris)

Reaching Through The Thorns

June 21, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s blackberry season. Where I live, anyway, it’s blackberry season. Maybe it is where you live, too.

The experts in such matters tell us blackberries are not actually berries but are fruit. Nobody really cares.

When one tastes the sweet, slightly tart fruits made up of seeds and juicy ovules, the immediate impulse has nothing to do with discussing their nomenclature or species, but only with devouring as many as possible.

However, I do have a problem with blackberries. They say the best ones you’ll eat are the ones you pick yourself. They say. And, that’s why I’m not happy today.

Did you know the word bramble is used specifically to describe blackberries? You know what a bramble is, don’t you? It’s an impenetrable thicket.

Yeah. Impenetrable.

There’s a reason they use the terms bramble and impenetrable when talking about blackberries. Blackberries have thorns. Oh, those experts (the same ones who tell you it’s not really a berry) will tell you they’re not really thorns but are prickles. Never mind that those prickles can cut through even denim material with ease. They’re thorns.

Thorns. Berries.

Berries. Thorns.

Thorns. That’s what I see.

I know the berries are there. I know they’re good. I’ve tasted them. I’ve poured them like candy over my ice cream. I’ve eaten the cobbler and the pie.

Pure delight.

But I’ve sucked the blood from the cuts on my hand, too.

Pain.

I see thorns.

I don’t think I’ll pick blackberries today.

So, here I stand in the middle of the briar patch—you know, that’s what a bramble is, don’t you? Here I stand in the middle of the briar patch, looking at the thorns, and I’m hungry. Oh sure, there are blackberries all around, but oh—the thorns!

You’re laughing at me again, aren’t you? Here I stand, all dejected, and you’re laughing at me. Or, perhaps not.

Perhaps, the thorns have caught your attention, as well. You’ve been pricked more than a few times. The delectable blackberries you knew were yours for the picking surround you, but all you see are the hateful thorns.

May I say two words? Just two?

Br’er Rabbit.

Yes, you read that right. Br’er Rabbit. That long-eared scoundrel from the pages of Uncle Remus. Or, if you prefer, from the frames of Disney’s Song of the South.

Br’er Rabbit. Born and bred in the briar patch.

Me, too. Br’er Paul. Born and bred. In the briar patch.

Perhaps, you too.

Our old friend, Job, it was who said the words: Every human born of a woman lives a short life, and even that will be full of trouble. (Job 14:1 ~ my paraphrase)

If that’s not enough, our Savior said it this way: While you walk around this spinning ball of dirt and water, you will have problems. Don’t let it get you down; I have already contended with the thorns and come out on top. (John 16:33 ~ my paraphrase)

We were all, every one of us, born and bred in the briar patch. There are no exceptions. For all of us, there are successes and failures, joys and sorrows, mountaintops and valleys.

We pick the delicious fruit. We lick our wounds.

We rejoice. We weep.

We give thanks to a good and generous God, as we walk toward our destination.

And, when we stumble in the brambles and the dark of night, we remember the light He promised would light our way. Again and again, we test its power against the darkness. Again and again, there is no contest.

Your words are a lamp to walk by, a bright light to illuminate the path ahead. (Psalm 119:105 ~ my paraphrase)

Together, we walk. Through the briar patch.

Eating the fruit along the way.

And, it’s good. In spite of the thorns, it’s good.

Even when I walk
through the darkest valley,
I will not be afraid,
for you are close beside me.
Your rod and your staff
protect and comfort me.
(Psalm 23:4 ~ NLT)

From this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.
(from Henry IV ~ William Shakespeare)

Fragile

October 18, 2018October 18, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He asked me if I would serve. It was an honor to be asked.

I told him no. Thanks, but no. I also thanked him for the honor. Not that I deserve it.

I didn’t tell him the whole reason I said no. Well, how could I? Imagine! Going back to the committee and telling them the guy they named to the position didn’t have all his pieces in the right places!

It’s true though. I’ve been broken. (I think we all have been at some time or another.) And, I don’t think all the pieces are back in place yet.

I've been broken. And, I don't think all the pieces are back in place yet. Share on X

The Lovely Lady explained it differently. A one-word description. I’m not sure I like her word. Yet. Time will tell.

She says the word is fragile.

On second thought, I think perhaps the word is perfect. It describes all of us in a way, doesn’t it?

Hang on there. Don’t go off in a huff. Let me see if I can do a little better at explaining.

I was in a hurry the day before yesterday and missed a step as I headed into my house. Falling headlong to the landing atop the short flight of steps, I noted only that I might have bruised my hand as I put it down to break the fall.

I was all in one piece! There was no damage at all.

Fragile? Hah!

Except I am. And, I’m not all in one piece.

I awoke the next morning with a knee that hurt. It seems I may have twisted it when I fell.

Well, maybe just a little fragile.

And then I got up this morning with a good bit of pain in my lower back. It’s hard to stand up straight—hard even to walk across the yard. And, bending over to pet the dogs or pick something up from the floor? Forget about it!

Fragile. She’s right.

Just so you know, I’m not going to quit moving altogether. That would be foolishness. I’m up and walking, even though it hurts to do it. If we stop using our body, we eventually lose the use of it completely.

We—judiciously—work through the pain, walking, bending, stretching, until the damaged parts heal. At times, we wonder if the tightrope act—not too much, not too little—is worth the time and discipline.

Some time ago, I asked a good friend of mine if his leg was hurting him again. When he wondered why I asked, I mentioned the limp. Laughing, he talked about a serious accident he had several years ago, and the pain that had ensued.

“But, it doesn’t hurt at all anymore. I just got used to limping to avoid the pain.”

I wonder how many of us are walking with limps we don’t need, avoiding pain that is merely a memory.

We are fragile. We’re not necessarily frail.

There is a difference. Fragility shows itself in use. Broken pieces are indicative of purpose thwarted, but they are caused by action.

Frailty comes from disuse. It is a sign of weakness brought on by inactivity or long illness.

That’s odd. Come to think of it, we may be both fragile and frail, both breakable and weak.

But He understands. His Son lived among us and sympathizes with our frailty. (Hebrews 4:15)

He made us. He knows how fragile, how breakable, we are. (Psalm 103:14)

I still don’t understand how we’re of any use for His purposes. But, we are.

He puts His treasure, the grace and mercy He gives freely, in vessels made of clay. (2 Corinthians 4:7)

Fragile.

Frail.

I wonder if we need to be broken every once in a while because we’ve filled the jar up with ourselves, instead of letting Him fill it.

It’s one of the things I remembering hearing the red-headed lady who raised me say: “Oh, she’s so full of herself. . .”

I get full of myself sometimes. I do. It’s not much like treasure. Not much at all.

God wants us to be His treasure houses, pouring out His goodness for all to experience and give Him glory.

He’s the one who’s putting me back together. The day will come when all the pieces will be in the right place.

Today, I’m walking. Slowly.

But, I’m going to run again.

Soon.

Broken! Busted! Everybody has something to repair. Before buying new, let Mighty Putty fix it for you!
(Billy Mays ~ American television salesperson ~ 1958-2009)

Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
(2 Corinthians 12:9,10 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

A Provocation

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

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

Well? I know you will.

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

You love them. I know you do.

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

I don’t really like robins.

I’ve tried. Really, I have.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shhhhh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Engagement.

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

Engagement costs.

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

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

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

Or, does it?

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

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

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

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

Engagement costs.

Oh, but it pays, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Engage anyway.

Provoke anyway.

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

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

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

All is not so dark as it seems.

It rarely is.

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

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

Calloused

October 27, 2017October 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

My hands hurt. Most of the time, these days, they hurt.

I’m not complaining, really I’m not. Well, maybe just a little. And, I certainly don’t think it’s my fault. But then, if I stop to think a moment, it could be.

A quick search of Google shows that I need to have soft hands for them to be considered beautiful. Or, is that just women? I really can’t tell, but I’m pretty sure gnarled and scarred hands aren’t all that attractive, regardless of which gender they belong to.

I’ve never worried much about the appearance of my hands, but recently I’m a little more aware of it. Having worked with my hands all my life (and talked with them, too), the osteoarthritis now settling in my joints is beginning to mar the symmetry of my once-straight fingers.

Other things are conspiring to make them less physically attractive, as well.

In just the last week, I’ve pinched them with pliers (twice), cut them with a saw blade, with the sharp edge of an air conditioner duct, and the corner of a file. While I was at it, I smashed a knuckle using a power sander, and sliced the tip of my thumb with a utility knife (just tonight). I even have a jammed thumb on one hand, although I have no recollection of how that one happened.

The mind wanders—as it does—and I recall my last day of working for an electrician in another life, decades ago. I was leaving that job to return to the music business full-time, and the electrician I worked with mentioned he’d be calling Johnson & Johnson to warn them they might need to make some adjustments to their business plan. The puzzled look on my face led to his tongue-in-cheek explanation.

Since you won’t be working for us anymore, we won’t be purchasing all those bandages. They’re likely to face bankruptcy soon, I’d think.

When I work with my hands, I bleed. It’s a given. And yet, I keep working with my hands. Blood washes off. Cuts and scrapes heal.

Even now, as I sit and write, my hands hurt again. I rub them gently, feeling a few new callouses ,and again my mind wanders—further back, this time.

I was in my twenties. With young children, money was scarce, but we took the trip to South Texas anyway. Babies need to see their grandparents, and vice versa.

The car didn’t make it all the way to my childhood home in the Rio Grande Valley. Well, it did, but we could only drive 30 miles per hour the last sixty miles of the trip.

I spent my vacation under the hood of that old car. By the time it was running right again, my callouses had callouses, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have described it.

One afternoon after the problem was sorted out, my dad introduced me to a friend of his. As I shook his hand, he looked down at mine, then back up at me and smiled.

It’s nice to meet a young man these days who knows how to work with his hands.

Callouses. On callouses. I was embarrassed. And proud—if you understand how that could be true as well.

Lend me a hand.
Get your grubby hands off!
I’ve got to hand it to you.
He knows this town like the back of his hand.
We’re just living hand to mouth these days.
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
Give your hand in marriage.
My right-hand man.

These are only a small sampling of the phrases in our language in which the word hand plays a major part. Hands are important to us.

They are important to our God, as well.

His Word is full of hands.

Hands that took the fruit and put it to the mouth—original sin. (Genesis 3:6)

Hands that blessed a young man who was wearing animal skin on his own hands, to deceive—the father of the Children of Israel. (Genesis 27)

Hands that stretched over the sea, parting the waters—a journey begun to freedom. (Exodus 14:21,22)

Hands that built a tabernacle—a place for God to dwell among men. (Exodus 25:8)

Hands that played a harp to calm the soul—and later, to compose psalms of worship which endure until this day—a sacrifice of praise. (1 Samuel 16:23)

A hand that wrote on a wall—a warning to God’s enemies. (Daniel 5:5)

Hands that were stretched wide in love. Hands through which spikes were driven—the blessing of God’s saving grace to all mankind. (Isaiah 53:5)

There are more.

Thousands of them. Hands. Doing good.

And yes, thousands doing evil.

I’ve heard the words of God to Moses innumerable times. (Exodus 4:2)

What do you have in your hands?

I’ve always thought the important thing was the answer to that question. Moses had a staff. I have other things. But, here’s the deal.

God doesn’t need my things.

He needs my hands.

My hands.

To be willing to be open. For Him.

Or, holding on. For Him.

My beaten up, scarred, stiff, sore hands.

With our hands, yours and mine, He will touch the world—perhaps one person at a time—perhaps thousands.

On second thought, I’m certain that hands don’t have to be soft to be beautiful.

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Hearts. Hearts have to be soft.

The hands—cracked, calloused, gnarled, and stiff—are beautiful simply because they serve. Wiping away a child’s tears, touching the cheek of a newborn baby or a nervous bride, stroking the hair of a frightened mate, reaching out in love to serve.

And sometimes, they hurt. His did, too.

His did, too.

Oh, be careful little hands what you do,
For the Father up above is looking down in love.
Oh, be careful little hands what you do.
(from Oh Be Careful ~ American children’s song ~ Anonymous)

Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
And confirm for us the work of our hands;
Yes, confirm the work of our hands.
(Psalm 90:17 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

Undressing in Public

September 1, 2017September 1, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

My pocket was vibrating. We were most of the way through Eternal Father, Strong to Save when the distraction began. Ignoring the momentary buzzing, I bumbled my way through the end of the piece.

I don’t use my phone during orchestra rehearsal. Usually, I don’t. But you know—my house could have been burning or an intercontinental ballistic missile might have been heading our way— so, as soon as our conductor turned her attention to the violins, helping them to find the pitch which they seemed to have lost during the last piece, I checked my messages.

One was a reminder that I had promised to go to coffee with another member of the orchestra at nine o’clock, right after we finished the rehearsal. The other was from another friend, inviting me to join him and a third friend at ten o’clock at a different coffee shop.

It was cutting it close (and there was a danger of caffeine overdose), but I snuck my phone onto the music stand and surreptitiously sent a return message saying I would try to be there.

I hope no one will squeal on me to the director.

Friends in this world are hard to come by. Friends who will take the time to invite a grumpy old guy such as I to coffee are even harder to find.

Time spent among such friends is never wasted. Never.

I met with my red-headed tuba-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more.

Then I met with the preacher and his/my guitar-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more.

All in all, the two encounters were probably the most important two hours I spent in the whole day. They were completely uneventful. By that I mean there were no important decisions made, no actions taken, not even any subjects of any great significance discussed.

Did I say they were completely uneventful? That’s not quite accurate. There were two things that happened, which have had me thinking for two days. The first occurred near the end of my time with my friend from the orchestra.

An acquaintance, who knew both of us, wandered by on his way out of the restaurant and took a moment to stop and talk with us. As we wondered aloud how he was doing, he began to unbutton his shirt.

“Let me show you something.”

My friend and I exchanged quizzical glances. I can’t speak for my friend, but people don’t normally undress in public while I’m talking with them.

We needn’t have worried.

He just wanted to show us the scar.

The scar from his open-heart surgery a few months ago went from just below his ribs up to the top of his chest. He told us (in colorful terms) about his previous symptoms and the surgery, as well as its aftermath. It was good that we had finished our coffee and buns already.

I only mention the event because the other thing that happened was very much like it.

I arrived at the second venue for coffee consumption just a few minutes after the agreed-upon time and grabbed my third cup of coffee in the morning before sitting down with my two friends.

Within minutes, the guitar player was unbuttoning his shirt. Seriously.

“Let me show you something.”

His scar was horizontal, not vertical. Just below his collarbone, the three-inch incision was not completely healed and it looked tender.

The pacemaker/defibrillator has only been in his body for a short time, but he joked and dismissed it as lightly as if it were of no consequence at all. We knew better but didn’t dwell on it.

Two men, within a quarter-hour of each other, had unbuttoned their shirts to show me something I would never have seen otherwise.

What a curious thing!

It was almost as if there was a message I needed not to miss.

There was.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

How many people do I see in a day? Ten? Fifty? A thousand? I suppose it depends on the day and the places to which I go.

Still, if inside of fifteen minutes, two men had shown me their scars, how many do you suppose I pass every day—every single day—who have scars they don’t show me?

How many people are walking around hiding scars? Scars too ugly, too fresh, too painful to reveal to anyone.

You know we’re not talking about physical scars, right? Well, maybe some of them.

Some physical scars work their way right down into the soul of the person wearing them.

Scars put there by hatred.

Scars dealt out by people who were supposed to show love instead.

Scars carved into their body by their own hand.

And yet, those scars are, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said, only the tip of the iceberg.

We carry, in our bodies and souls, scars innumerable. Scars we wouldn’t dare to show to anyone.

Not to anyone.

There is not one human being who is unscathed. Not one. We all have scars.

Words said. Pain remembered. War. Old age.

Every part of our lives has its anguish. Scars come from all types of injuries.

And, we walk around with the scars hidden from sight. Walking wounded, many of them yet unhealed. Oozing, scabby things—they threaten to drain the life from us.

Tears come as I contemplate it. So much pain. So much hopelessness. All concealed and festering.

Some of it is mine. Perhaps, yours as well.

Our Savior came to bind up the broken hearts. (Isaiah 61:1)

More than that, He came to heal the scars and take away the pain. Because of His scars, healing is ours. (Isaiah 53:5)

There are some who take those words to mean physical healing. I won’t argue His power to do that. It seems clear though, that the words are intended to give us an unequivocal promise of healing for our souls.

Our scars need no longer be hidden! We need conceal our pain and our shame no more.

Thomas—the one we ridicule as the doubter—asked Him to unbutton His shirt and show him. Right in front of a houseful of His followers.

The scars of a common criminal—revealed for everyone in the room to see. The stripes upon His back, laid on by the Roman soldier. The holes in his wrists and feet, torn open by spikes hammered through (not gently).

All uncovered without embarrassment.

For us, His flesh was laid open.

My heart breaks as I consider all who walk in shame and fear—fear of the exposure of their scars and fear of carrying them to their graves.

I wonder. Maybe it’s time to show our scars to each other.

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Maybe it’s time to tell the Good News, to do a little binding up of wounded hearts ourselves.

Maybe, it’s time to undress.

In public.

Let me show you something.

It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
(Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy ~ American philanthropist ~ 1890-1995)

Beautiful. Really?

May 31, 2016June 1, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I didn’t expect my feet to hurt quite so much.

When we awoke in the morning, the day stretched ahead with only the promise of leisure and enjoyment. A relaxing weekend of driving through the countryside seeking old bridges had prepared us for nothing like the actual ordeal.

One of the bridges we sought, the Lovely Lady and I, had eluded us up till then. It occurred to us that we might need to leave the comfort of the pickup truck to find this one. We were up to the challenge.

I thought we were up to the challenge.

I never figured on wading across the river. I never intended to take off my good shoes, much less my socks.

Still, once the decision was made, there was no question in my mind it could be done easily. In hindsight, the arrogance of ignorance is laughable.

Only, I wasn’t laughing.

It was done, but it was touch and go for a moment or two.

You never heard such moaning and complaining in your life. The pain could still be felt more than twelve hours later. Fifteen feet across the waterway on the jagged flint rocks was more than enough to leave bruises on the bottoms of my tender soles, the like of which I’ve never experienced.

I used to go barefoot everywhere I went. Hot pavement, rock driveways, wild overgrown fields? All could be run across with no effects to be felt at all. I’ll grant you it was fifty years ago. Still, in retrospect, I’m ashamed of my performance.

My feet let me down. For those few moments, they were the most important thing in my life. Nothing mattered more than getting to the dry strand on the opposite shore, where I could sit down and replace my socks and shoes. Nothing.

Feet! How is it that something so unattractive and so mundane could demand the attention of every other part of my being?

For those seconds, I didn’t think about how hungry I was. I stopped worrying about the horseflies that buzzed about, ready to sting. The little seed ticks which would torment later were not even a blip on the radar screen.

My feet were in extreme pain! They needed relief. Immediately.

The promotion from lowest on the priority list to extremely urgent came as quite a surprise.

I was still mulling that over later as, fully shod and with walking sticks in hand, we made our way down into the little hollow in which the lost bridge was to be found.

There was a day when the structure was the most important part of someone’s life. The craftsmanship and unimaginable hours of toil necessary to build the little stone arch took all the attention of the men who built it, nearly one hundred and seventy years ago.

Every stone had to be cut by hand, chipped and formed by hammer and chisel, before being laid in place. Each one rested, without mortar, between neighboring stones which eventually would reach up to form the arch that wagons would drive across, horses and mules would gallop over, and even in later years, automobiles would ease up and over to avoid the rushing water below.

At one time, the bridge was a necessity, as well as a thing of beauty. Almost certainly, the folk who used it praised the forethought of those who had planned and carried out its construction. That day is long past.

The celebrated structure is nothing more than a dim memory to most. Not even that to many others. The folks living on the farms around about are as likely as not to be unaware of its very existence. I know, because I asked them.

There is no road that leads to it today. No one maintains the integrity of the bridge at all and it is likely to collapse completely very soon.

Yet, it once stood as a proud testimony to craftsmanship and hard work. No one who passed that way failed to recognize the importance of the little bridge to their freedom to travel east and west across the waterway with ease.

What once was essential is now irrelevant.

My aching feet, however, are a different story.

You know, I normally pay little attention to my feet. But oh, how important those two ugly things at the ends of my legs seemed to me in the middle of that river.

The Savior thought feet were important. He spent some of His last moments on earth with his followers making sure their feet were clean. (John 13:1-17)

Taking on the role of a servant, He reminded them that even those seemingly unimportant things were of great import to Him.

He washed their dirty feet. Their stinking, road-worn feet.

It should be so for us today, also. Our Savior turned the world upside down. He did it so we would turn the world upside down.

The first shall be last, and the last shall be first. (Matthew 20:16)

If we want to be great, we must learn to be servants. (Matthew 20:26-27)

Feet, for all their disadvantages and dishonor, perform an essential function. We count on them to get us from Point A to Point B. When they fail to answer the call to duty, we instantly understand their significance.

Did you know the prophet describes them as beautiful when they are carrying the Good News? Somehow, I think I might have chosen a different description, but there it is—How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of them that bring good news. (Isaiah 52:7)

Beautiful. Feet. Beautiful.

Bridges are nice. They make life easier.

But, bridges crumble and decay. People forget they ever existed.

Our service is a legacy that will last far beyond our years on this earth.

Perhaps, it’s time to take care of the things that really matter.

When we bend to serve, we lend aid to the King of all Creation.

Feet might be a good place to start.

He bent to serve us.

How can we do less?

What does love look like? It has the hands to help others. It has the feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men. That is what love looks like.

(Augustine of Hippo ~ Roman theologian ~ 354-430)

But how can they call on him to save them unless they believe in him? And how can they believe in him if they have never heard about him? And how can they hear about him unless someone tells them? And how will anyone go and tell them without being sent? That is why the Scriptures say, “How beautiful are the feet of messengers who bring good news!”
(Romans 10:14-15 ~ NLT)

Saying When

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

Thirty miles. I can do this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Easy, peasy.

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

A lot closer!

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

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

Pedal! Harder!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I kept riding.

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

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

I want to be proud.

What I am, is embarrassed.

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

Rookie! Amateur!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need help.

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

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

We need to know when to say when.

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

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

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

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

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

Unless, I keep pedaling.

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

There is still joy to be found in the journey.

Maybe, it’s time to say when.

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

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

At the Edge

July 7, 2015July 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Do you know what fear looks like?

Of course, you do.

You’ve seen frightened children, so scared they don’t believe that even Mommy can save them from the monsters in the closet. You’ve even seen fear exhibited again and again on the movie screen and on television, as actors open their eyes wide and let their mouths stand agape in terror at the appearance of some malevolent creature, extracted from the dark corners of a writer’s imagination.

I know all about that kind of fear, either the honest reaction from an innocent, untaught yet in the arts of deception, or the feigned emotion of a hardened pretender.

The fear I wonder about tonight is the fear all around us. I’m wondering what the terror of disasters imagined, or the memory of catastrophes which really occurred in the past looks like.

Do you know? Can you describe the face of fear—real fear?

I am coming to realize that I cannot, because I don’t know what it really looks like. All the stereotypes of the looks of fear I know are false—or at least lacking in understanding.

On a recent day, a couple hiked along the ridge on a mountaintop. The beauty of the morning was so real, you could almost have grasped it between your fingers. Swallowtail butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom of the wildflowers beside the trail, along with a buzzing honey bee or two. Every so often, a clumsy bumblebee would come humming by, intent on claiming his portion of the sweet nectar in the blossoms.

The air was cool and a gentle breeze carried the chant of songbirds, oft repeated and frequently elaborated upon, to their ears. The deep greens of the leaves and the azure blue of the skies, which could be seen almost below their feet, were brilliant.

What would one need fear up on that mountaintop?

The trail led to a lookout point, an outcropping of boulders solidly set upon the side of the ridge. They stood beside each other and marveled at creation and also at a Creator who could imagine such a place and then speak it into existence. Just then though, something caught the eye of the man.

Fifty or sixty feet to the north of the lookout upon which they stood, a promontory jutted out, the sheer fall below it dropping down many feet to the valley floor.

It was an invitation not to be ignored.

“Stay here,” he suggested to the woman. “I’ll go out there and you can take my picture.”

She wasn’t happy about it, but agreed to be his photographer, waiting patiently as he made his way over to the point. There was no trail to it but, slipping and sliding a little here, creeping down a boulder there, and in between steps, keeping an eye out for snakes, he eventually arrived at the destination.

Feet spread far apart, he stood atop the pile of rocks with hands on hips and arms akimbo, looking for all the world as if he had just discovered a new land. In that stance, he waited to ensure that photographic proof existed of his courage and daring. She snapped the picture.

It’s not possible to see his face in the photograph. It doesn’t matter. He is smiling.

Smiling.

With a quick glance down to the bottom of the chasm before him, he turned and climbed back to the marked trail, laughing as he rejoined his lovely wife. He shrugged off her repeated objection to his foolish insistence of making the risky tramp out onto the rocks. He was proud of himself.

Proud.

Until that night. In the dark, he closed his eyes to sleep, falling instead to his death again and again in the visions that filled his mind. Behind closed eyelids he could see nothing but the edge of the abyss, and the ground coming up to meet him as he tumbled through the air.

Terrified.

He was terrified. No, not just as he lay sleepless in his bed. He had been terrified as he slid and stepped clumsily to the edge of the precipice in the light of day.

Standing arrogantly and smiling, his spirit was, in truth, melting into jelly inside of him.

The face of fear smiles. It smiles.

I wonder then—what about the other emotions we feel so deeply? What does sadness look like? Or depression?

I stood and talked with a woman today about her two-year long bout with depression, still ongoing. I have seen her often in the last two years, but never had an inkling—not an inkling.

Sickness, abuse, stress at work, cruelty of friends—all have surrounded her spirit and informed her very soul that she is of little worth and that nothing will ever change.

Still she smiles and jests, the facial expression and jokes a thin covering over a festering wound that will one day destroy her and those around her.

The face of depression doesn’t just mope, doesn’t only frown—it also smiles broadly.

Is it any wonder we think we are alone? If fear smiles and depression tells jokes, surely pain shows a false face to the world as well. The hurts of a lifetime are penned up behind the facade of impenetrability. And, we believe we are alone in this world.

Surely no one feels as badly as I. Certainly no normal person deals with my pain, my sadness, my fears. How easy it is to believe the lie which deception tells.

I sat with friends tonight and admitted for the first time my fear of the edge, of the heights above which I stood on that recent excursion onto the mountain. As we talked I found, to my surprise, that I was not alone in that fear, even in that small group of people.

The magnitude of the truth hits me where I live tonight.

How many smiling faces I see every day are hiding terror? How many happy-go-lucky folks are concealing their deep sadness behind the jocularity? How much pain have I missed in folks with whom I shake hands and exchange light-hearted greetings daily?

Do you suppose ten percent of the people I see are hiding feelings such as these? Thirty percent? Fifty?

It’s time for us to stop lying to each other. Time for us to stop hiding behind faces frozen into smiles and laughs which tell a different story than the truth of what lies within. Time for fear and sadness and pain to be brought to the light of day.

Jesus stood at the pinnacle of the temple looking down and the tempter told Him not to be afraid of falling from that great height. He stood at the tomb of His close friend and wept tears of sadness. He knew the pains of the heart—friends who abandoned Him and a people who refused to listen, and the pain of physical torture—yet He conquered both.

We’re not alone. Even if no one in the world is ever honest enough to admit their fellowship in our condition, we have a Savior who walked where we walk, and who felt the things we feel. He hasn’t forgotten who we are, nor has He lost His ability to touch us where we live.

And, He has given us the ability to help each other. Even the empathy we feel for others comes from His great love for us.

It all starts with the truth of who we are. Facades will have to tumble before changes are made. Truth doesn’t imprison us, nor allow us to stay in that state.

We will know the truth, and freedom will be ours.

Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.
(James Baldwin ~ American writer ~ 1924-1987)

Therefore, having put away falsehood, let each one of you speak the truth with his neighbor, for we are members one of another.
(Ephesians 4:25 ~ ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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