Telling Stories

May 3, 2026May 3, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes I write what I want here—words that illuminate the path for me, or that I think might be of interest to my friends. I like doing that. I can look at what I’ve written and feel good about it.

I don’t think this is that.

Once in a while, things simply jump out at me, and I can’t stop the words (and miscellaneous accoutrements).

I have a story. Perhaps it’s two stories. Maybe even more.

I hope you have time to read them.

A couple of days ago, in our little town, two young men vandalized a bathroom in the oldest restaurant in town, a little burger joint that opened the year I was born. The owners posted a couple of photos taken from their security camera on social media and asked if anyone could help them find the boys, or report it to the police, since they were aware of the event.

Dozens of folks responded with varying messages. I didn’t.

I wish that were strictly true. I should have said, I didn’t put my response into print. My brain thought it, though. Perhaps even shouted it internally.

“I hope they throw the book at them! Nobody should get away with stuff like that!”

And that should have been the end of it. From my perspective, anyway. But, I think Someone had a message to deliver. Again.

The next day, there was another post from the restaurant. A thoughtful one about the dad who saw his son’s photo in that post and accompanied his boy to the police station. Next, he called the restaurant’s owner to talk with him. The situation is in hand. No charges will be filed, although restitution will be made.

I read the post, which largely praised the dad for helping his boy take responsibility, to the Lovely Lady sitting nearby (you know she eschews social media of all ilks) and was inexplicably weeping as I read.

Did I say inexplicably? That suggests I had no idea why the story triggered that response. I did.

I do. But I need to tell another story to help you get there with me.

The year was 1968. The two young boys looked up from their argument about who did and who did not. They heard heavy equipment at work somewhere in the neighborhood. Their neighborhood!

Their parents owned three and a half acres, just inside the city limits. But all the land around was theirs, too. Their playground. Their hiking trails. Their hidden forts and battlefields. And someone was destroying their space!

The barefoot boys watched the bulldozers and the backhoes at work, toppling orange trees and pushing over palm trees, until they had to go home for supper. Then, after they ate, they wandered back to where the equipment had been parked for the evening—surely to resume the destruction in the morning.

There was no intent to begin with, but the frustration and anger at the intrusion on their territory drove them to do some damage to various pieces of the big yellow earthmovers—some of it much more significant than they dreamed.

They were seen. Authorities were notified. And the next day after school, the two delinquents were picked up by their father in the old 1957 Ford station wagon, instead of waiting for the bus.

I won’t make you sit through the description of what followed. Suffice it to say, the worst punishment I ever received from my father was knowing I had disappointed him so extremely. His silence was far worse than any spanking I ever received at his hand.

No charges were filed by the owners. It took two years for my brother and me to pay the damages.

But apparently, I hadn’t learned my lesson—at least not the one lesson I really needed to learn from that experience. Oh, I have never purposely destroyed anyone else’s property again—just because.

But I was probably thirty years old the year my dad visited in my home. One evening, we heard a local news report about some kids who had destroyed property in a nearby town. I said the words out loud that time. Out loud, in front of my father.

“I hope they throw the book at them! They need to pay!”

My dad, ordinarily a law-and-order man to the core, looked at me with a gentle gaze and said the words:

“I remember a time 20 years ago when I was really happy they didn’t.”

Oh.

He didn’t have to say another thing.

I learned my lesson that day. Finally.

But, it seems I didn’t.

Tears come again.

I didn’t deserve grace. Or mercy. But I grabbed hold of it and held on for dear life.

Still, again and again (even now, as an old man), I want to see others pay the full price for their transgression.

I repent. Again.

As I was still contemplating this lesson I need to learn anew, I sat down at my piano to look for a new hymn to share with the folks who are kind enough to encourage me in my musical journey these days.

It doesn’t happen often, but one song seemed to call my name as I sight-read through it. I mentioned it to the Lovely Lady, and she was patient enough to stand and listen to me stumble to the end of it.

“It’s beautiful. But the tempo marking is a good bit slower than you are playing it. Maybe you should try it at sixty beats per minute, as it calls for.”

I laughed. And agreed.

And it all began to come together—the lesson I need to begin to apply again, and the words of the new piece I was playing. You quite possibly know it.

“We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations”

I’ve always sung that song fast, in a martial style. Driving. Pushing on. Like soldiers getting to the task.

Not this time.

The stories will take a lifetime to tell. And longer to learn the morals of said stories (it seems).

Grace takes its time, moving in the manner we describe it—gracefully.

Mercy is a slow waltz, shared with all the others on the dance floor.

When we shove them down each other’s throats, with threats and judgments, their merits are diminished, even for us.

And, if the story we share with the nations is flavored with our sense of hard justice, rather than the tenderness of God’s love, how will they have any desire to hear it, much less accept it?

I can’t be the unmerciful servant, having been forgiven a debt I could never, never have paid—only to grab my fellow debtors by the throats and demand payment for their insignificant offense.

I have been him, though.

Change has been slow. Perhaps too slow.

But the music’s still playing.

I’d still like to tell you a story.

This could take a while.

“We’ve a story to tell to the nations,
that shall turn their hearts to the right,
a story of truth and mercy,
a story of peace and light,
a story of peace and light.

Refrain:
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.

We’ve a Savior to show to the nations,
who the path of sorrow hath trod,
that all of the world’s great peoples
might come to the truth of God,
might come to the truth of God.”
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations, by H Ernest Nichol, 1896)

“Then the king called in the man he had forgiven and said, ‘You evil servant! I forgave you that tremendous debt because you pleaded with me. Shouldn’t you have mercy on your fellow servant, just as I had mercy on you?’”
(Matthew 18:32-33, NLT)

Humble Beginnings

October 28, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

“Humble beginnings.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus simply replies, “Come and see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He showed them where He lived!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come and see.

Ven a ver.

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

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

Living in Luxury

August 7, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Nineteen sixty-one. It was a year of change for my family. Most wouldn’t have thought the changes all that beneficial.

We weren’t living in luxury. Dad had intended to support his family with a career in the U.S. Navy. For thirteen years, he had done just fine, advancing to the rank of a Petty Officer Radioman. Then one day in 1961, he was out, purportedly with a chronic illness from which he had never suffered.

Returning to the Rio Grande Valley, where he had been stationed for a time, Dad, along with his red-headed wife and five children ranging from ten down to four years old, were living in their small mobile home parked in an orange grove, thanks to the kindness of the old farmer who owned it. The erstwhile radioman became a ditch digger with the local natural gas supplier.

You can imagine that the five urchins living in that little mobile home understood rather rapidly what it was like to survive on a tight budget. I don’t remember hearing much complaining, but it’s never easy to cut back on extras, especially for a 4-year-old who already had a sweet tooth, loving Butternut candy bars and Dr. Pepper.

One day, all the little waifs were delighted to receive a surprise gift from our grandfather. The old man (he was never anything but old to me) was in no way blessed with a surplus of luxuries in his own life, but he knew his grandchildren would enjoy the shiny silver coins he shared. Each child got a coin of their very own.

What a treasure! The Liberty silver dollars, minted forty years before in the follow-up to the Great War (commonly known to us now as World War I), featured the head of Lady Liberty on one side and a victorious eagle on the reverse, clutching an olive branch in its claw.

The little stair-step ragamuffins gathered around our parents, silver dollars clutched in dirty hands, begging to go to the grocery store immediately. Can you blame us?

A dollar! One hundred pennies!

Images of bubble gum (with Bazooka Joe comics wrapped around them!) and candy bars, along with a toy whistle or a rubber ball, flew through my tiny brain like wealth so vast, it couldn’t be grasped. A dollar to this tiny, poor tyke was luxury beyond his dreams.

We went to town. But not to the grocery store. Not at first anyway.

All stuffed into the 1957 Ford station wagon, we sat and waited for Dad at the bank. It wasn’t clear why our patience needed to be tried by such a delay, but it just gave us more time to jabber to each other about what we would buy at the HEB store down the highway.

Before we knew it, here came Dad with a small stack of dollar bills in his hand. A crisp, new one-dollar bill for each of the siblings. Even this little chubby four-year-old got one.

“Now, you can spend your dollars at the grocery store,” Dad said, taking the shiny silver coins from each of us in turn.

We thought it was a strange thing to do. A dollar is a dollar, isn’t it? But it didn’t matter to us. We were on our way to heaven-on-earth!

Over the years, we would catch sight of the silver dollars in the little box in Dad’s closet. Each time, one of us would exclaim, “Oh! There are our silver dollars from Grandpa!”

And Dad would quietly reply, “No. These are my silver dollars from Grandpa. I bought them from you.”

It took me a lot of years to understand what had happened back when my siblings and I sold our grandfather’s precious gifts to us.

Like Esau with his birthright, we happily sold our gifts from Grandpa to assuage the temporary desires that drove us. And, like Esau, the desire returned again and again. The birthright never did.

Gone. Squandered like water onto sand.

Fortunately, for the siblings in this story, that wasn’t the case. A wise father, as he approached the end of his lifetime, came for a visit with us.

He had a box with him. And, reaching into that box, he brought out silver dollar after silver dollar, one of which he handed to each of the siblings who were present.

“They were a gift from your grandfather. Now, they’re a gift from me.”

It was always his plan. For over forty years, he kept them. To give to us.

In our naivety, childish and undisciplined, we only saw the monetary value of the gift. He knew the gift was worth much more than that. He knew we would come to understand that some day.

As my mind turns over the story (I’ve had a lot of years to think about it, you know), I begin to wonder if we ever outgrow our naivety. Or our childishness.

So much wealth, we are surrounded by. So much.

And we miss it. Snatching at the useless, temporal pleasures of this world, we cannot see the great treasure we’ve been given. Gifts from above, sent from a loving Father.

One of my poet friends wrote the words recently. Her words arrested me. I mean that. Stopped me in my tracks. They are still shocking.

I hope she won’t mind me sharing a few of them here:

“I live in luxury of holy things
They are the sweet possessions of my soul.
My life is filled with all His Spirit brings.”
(from Luxury, by April Petz)

Luxury of holy things!

We are surrounded by them, covered by them, and undergirded with them. Not just enough, but a surfeit of gifts from our Creator.

It’s not my intention to make a list of these holy things. I’d never be able to enumerate them. Besides, there are books and articles written by many others more well-equipped to describe them.

I will say that there are more things on the list of holy things than ever those writings could contain. And, it doesn’t hurt to let our minds run freely over them frequently.

James says that every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights. (James 1:17)

Every one of them.

Perhaps it’s time to look for them ourselves.

I’m not going to tell you my silver dollar is one of the holy things. But it symbolizes one of them to me.

Every time I look at it—even if it’s only to see it in my mind’s eye and turn it over in my thoughts once again—I consider the holy gift of the love of a family; Love passed down from an old man to his grandchildren; Love from a father who helped his children to understand the importance of treasuring the gift.

Oh! Do you know what the numismatists (that’s a coin collector to you and me) call that silver dollar?

It’s the Peace Dollar, designed with a message of peace to a war-weary world after the horrible carnage of the Great War, one many hoped would be the war that brought an end to all wars. The word is inscribed right down at the victorious eagle’s feet on the reverse side of the coin.

World peace wasn’t to be. Peace doesn’t come at the bidding of politicians and economic manipulations of the supply of coins.

It’s a luxury, given by a loving Heavenly Father to His children.

If only we treasured it as much as He does.

Peace.

What a luxurious gift!

Another one of His invaluable holy things. A gift to us in the chaos and the strife, in the terror and the agonizing pain.

And, it’s ours—a gift from the heart of our Loving Father.

And somehow, I know, His holy things are made more holy as they are shared with others.

And the more we give them away, the wealthier we become in holy things.

Peace. Hope. Joy. Love. Grace. Mercy. I start the list again in my mind, but am overwhelmed by the wealth.

How rich we are in the only things that matter.

But, I’d still take a Butternut candy bar, too.

“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.“
(John 14:27, KJV)

“Not he who has much is rich, but he who gives much.”
(Erich Fromm)

Sleep In Peace

June 1, 2025June 1, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s unexpected. That the plight (already resolved) of a wild baby animal should hold my thoughts captive for two days was not something I would have thought possible.

But, there it is.

Friday, being sunny, was mowing day. The rainy weather of the last couple of weeks here in northwest Arkansas made it inescapable for me. So, I did what had to be done.

The storms have dropped myriad small branches from the oaks and maples that dot the property, so that was the first item of business. Pick up the limbs. The Lovely Lady assisted me, wandering over the half-acre plot of weeds and grass in an undisciplined manner, bending occasionally to lift up the errant twigs and switches.

She avers that she had passed through the same area herself just minutes before I did. I’m sure she did. Camouflage is a wondrous thing.

As I leaned under the shade of the chestnut tree to snag a dead branch, I started back. A little fawn lay there, white speckles on a field of brown, its black nose nestled between tiny front hooves.

I took the flexible branch I had just picked up and tapped the beautiful tiny deer on the haunches. Eyes open, it moved its head and front leg an inch or so, but no more. It didn’t even seem to be aware of me.

Oh, no! It must be injured. Or sick. The thought took hold, and sadness grabbed my spirit.

I tried to think what to do. Perhaps a wild animal rescue organization could help. Maybe animal services for the city.

I stood for at least two or three minutes, just watching the fawn. Wait! I was missing something.

What about the mother? Surely, there was a doe around somewhere. Why would it abandon its baby?

I looked around, but saw no other wildlife. There was no doe to be seen.

Abandoned.

The poor baby must be a hopeless case, and the mama knew it.

I knew I would have to do something. I could call someone to come and help. But before I did that, I did one other thing. Just to be sure.

Taking the flexible branch I held in my hand, I reached down and tapped the poor baby solidly. Not enough to hurt it, but sufficient that it would definitely feel it.

Oh! The squeal that came from its open mouth would have awakened the dead! I jumped back.

The fawn leapt to its tiny feet clumsily, terror written in its beautiful brown eyes.

Two things happened in quick succession. The tiny thing dashed across the neighbor’s yard, running into the chain link fence on the other side. But, before it could get even that far, a smallish, light brown doe appeared in the field behind me.

Not abandoned!

Watched over.

Within seconds, the sweet fawn was reunited with its mother, trotting back into the trees that line the back of the meadow that abuts our property.

I said that my thoughts have occupied me for the two days since. I’m conflicted. Two things strike me about the event.

The first is my unhappiness at being the thing that terrified the sweet baby. That squeal fills my memory, playing again and again in my head.

It’s almost like the feeling I had the morning years ago in the music store as I showed a sweet young girl the various instruments she had learned about from listening to a recording of Peter and the Wolf.

I demonstrated the different instruments that signified well-loved creatures and people in the story. Then proudly, I told her I was a French horn player, only to see the shock and worry jump to her eyes as she digested the reality that I was the wolf.

No! I am not the wolf. I am not the villain!. I’m the good guy—the one who wants to help, who wants to fix things.

But, imagine being that little fawn and waking up with a monster standing over you, holding a stick.

You went to sleep, knowing your mom was watching over you. In safety and comfort, you lay down and, trusting the one you had always found to be trustworthy, you slept.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep,
for you alone, O Lord, will keep me safe.”
(Psalm 4:8, NLT)

And yet, there is that monster…

I’m not going to dwell on that. It’s a reality that I live with, the knowledge that I’m not the good guy.

Not yet.

Even now, He is making me in His Image spiritually, just as He did physically in the beginning.

“And the Lord—who is the Spirit—makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image.” (2 Corinthians 3:18b, NLT)

But, that second thing my brain is considering—sleeping in peace and being watched over—that has been working, not only in my brain, but in my heart for the last couple of days.

I watched that doe materialize instantly as the fawn screamed its prayer to the sky, and there was no mistaking the meaning.

We can sleep in peace.

The monsters, even the well-meaning ones, who think they know better than our Creator, who believe we are gods ourselves, cannot harm us as we rest in Him.

Our Father watches over us. Even as he does the sparrows—and the fawns, He stands guard.

And He is faithful. Every morning, His mercies are renewed to us.

Every morning.

Strength for today.

Bright hope for tomorrow.

It’s time for sleep.

Rest.

“Have peace now… until the morning! Heed no nightly noises! For nothing passes door and window here save moonlight and starlight and the wind off the hill-top. Good night!”
(Goldberry in The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien)

“You can go to bed without fear;
    you will lie down and sleep soundly.
You need not be afraid of sudden disaster
    or the destruction that comes upon the wicked,
for the Lord is your security.
    He will keep your foot from being caught in a trap.”
(Proverbs 3:24-26, NLT)

What If It’s My Fault?

May 25, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I heard the little crunch as I chewed my food in the lovely little restaurant. I felt it too, right between my teeth.

But I was eating pasta. There wasn’t supposed to be a crunch. Not even if it was, indeed, al dente. My tongue snaked over to the tooth I suspected of being the culprit.

Ow!

That was sharp! As the dental specialist had warned me, the filling he put in last week was only temporary. I just expected it to be a bit less temporary than that.

I called the emergency number for the clinic. It’s possible I shouldn’t have started the message I left them with the words, “I’m not sure you could call this an emergency…”

Twenty-four hours went by before they returned my call. It’s not an emergency. It must not be. The kind young lady told me it wasn’t.

I’ll be just fine. But the 24 hours gave me time to think.

In that 24-hour interlude, my mind went back 40 years. Really. I saw it the first time I walked into his instrument repair shop. The sign over Bill’s workbench left no room for argument.

“Failure to plan on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.”

It only stands to reason. I was in the music business for over 40 years myself. I saw it again and again. Customers would wait until the day before a performance or playing test, and decide to bring in their instrument to be repaired. An emergency.

I never had a sign to which I could point. On several occasions, I wished I had.

It was their own doing. No one would have faulted me for putting up the sign.

But, back to the present, I called the emergency phone number. On a holiday weekend, I expected the unseen folks on the other end of the line to consider it an emergency for themselves.

They don’t.

My brain has been worrying at a question for longer than the 24 hours of waiting; really for over a week. Like a Labrador puppy with an old bone, I’ve been chewing at the puzzle.

I sat with my esteemed coffee group one day a week ago, and I put the problem to their collective wisdom. They each, after all, possess a college degree which grants them the privilege of being addressed as doctor by their students and peers. (My old friend reminds me that none of them is the kind of doctor who can do you any good, but still…)

I had told them previously of my experience with the lady who had a flat tire and had no one to drive her to work. One of them, in passing, had wondered about helping folks who are experiencing trouble because of their own neglect or bad choices.

On that day, we had talked at length about our responsibilities and what real help entailed. The discussion ranged from neighbors who shirk their duty of upkeep for their homes to the folks standing on the street corners with begging signs that invoke God’s blessing on those who help.

We came to no firm conclusion, but simply tossed around opinions until it seemed prudent to move to other matters.

I might have forgotten the conversation, but it was just the next morning when I found myself stranded in a nearby town, with a non-functioning auto myself.

It’s hard to admit this. My car stopped working because I did something stupid. The computer failed because I hadn’t read the owner’s manual.

Can I say this? At that moment, sitting in a parking lot thirty miles from home and without any evident resources to arrive home in a timely manner, I wasn’t thinking about whether it was my fault or not.

I needed to be rescued.

I was desperate to be rescued. And, someone did.

They never once reminded me that it was my own fault I was in that predicament. Not once. Even though I deserved it.

Kindness and grace.

Where I had earned desertion and judgment.

Mercy is a spectacular thing.

Spectacular.

Somehow, I’m not sure I need write many more lines here.

My young friend, who, each day, posts the words we call the Lord’s Prayer, already has the only conclusion needed for this little essay. Simple words we speak so glibly.

“And, forgive us our transgressions, as we forgive those who transgress against us.”

Hmmm. Perhaps, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Maybe it needs to be a bit more basic.

“So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.” (John 13:34, NLT)

While we were still without excuse, by our own deeds excluded, He died for us. Where we could have had no expectation of kindness or mercy, that’s exactly what He showered on us.

And, He commands us—yes, commands—to treat each other as He has treated us.

Grace. Not just amazing, but astonishing grace!

I’m not done chewing on it yet. I may never be.

Maybe you can help.

There’s plenty here for all of us.

But, be careful with the dental work, won’t you?

“Teach me to feel another’s woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me.” (Alexander Pope)

“When we were utterly helpless, Christ came at just the right time and died for us sinners. Now, most people would not be willing to die for an upright person, though someone might perhaps be willing to die for a person who is especially good. But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.” (Romans 5:6-8, NLT)

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)

How Did Those Snakes Get There?

March 18, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I know it’s not the right way to begin an article. NCIS Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs would have said it’s a sign of weakness.

But I want to apologize anyway.

I’m sorry for the photo that accompanies these words. I know the subject matter is triggering for some. Childhood memories. Terrifying stories told by uncaring siblings. Nightmares that can’t be erased from the mind.

I hope the reader will give me a chance to explain.

My grandchildren came to help me in my yard a few days ago. I never raked the leaves from my lawn last fall—never cleaned up the mess from the dying of the year. They knew I was embarrassed by my failure. So they came to help me make it better.

Several hours, they labored with me that day. The monumental stack of black bags full of oak, maple, and pear leaves they left behind bore testament to their hard work. The monumental back-ache I had that afternoon also bore testament to mine.

At some point during the early afternoon, one of my grandsons noticed the snake. It wasn’t huge, just an ordinary garter snake. The harmless reptile was stretched out near a hollow in the ground left when our lilac bush died a couple of years back.

My grandson, brave young man that he is, picked the snake up by its tail and, swinging it back and forth, carried it to the back fence and let it go into the wooded area behind our house.

As I examined the hollow in the ground, I noticed movement near a hole in the center. Our activities had shifted all the leaves that had been providing cover for the den. It soon became clear to us that it was home to more than just the one snake.

The two curious creatures in the photo were wondering what happened to their roof, and perhaps, to their brother (or mother, or sister). We helped them relocate over the next couple of hours, as well.

Later that evening, when I showed the photo to the Lovely Lady, she drew in her breath sharply. She then suggested that it might be best if I kept the photo to myself.

A wise husband follows the advice of his spouse in such matters. I’ve never considered myself especially wise.

I had a reason to share the photo. In my mind, it was a good reason.

Knowing that I have my own terrors about snakes and that I am frequently awakened by dreams (not the good kind) about them, I wondered about the things we give power to.

I wanted to drive home the idea that it is our own foolishness that leads us to give fear a place in our everyday lives. I had a number of examples to add to the snakes. Storms. Wildfires. Financial disasters. War. There are any number of things of which we are afraid.

Things we give power over us.

And, along with the photo, I wanted to write words of condemnation, words of derision. A put-down of the foolishness of heeding the utterings from the terror merchants among us—the doomcasting news media, the fearmongering meteorologists, the pulpit-pounding fire-and-brimstone preachers.

I repent.

I stood in a church building this morning and wept. It wasn’t the first time I had done that in the last day or two. But, it was merely a line of a song that pushed me over the edge today.

“Our call to war, to love the captive soul,But to rage against the captor.”
(from “O Church Arise”, by Townend/Getty)

I wonder if anyone else sees it. And then, I think that probably I’m the only one in my tribe who couldn’t see it before.

And that’s okay. I see it now.

Jesus came to free the captives and to heal the sick. He came to set the oppressed free from their oppression. He clearly declared that was who He was.

I have been comfortable showing them their captivity and their oppression and then have blamed them for their situation.

Why do we rage against the captives—against the oppressed?

Everywhere I look today, I see it. I hear it.

I do it.

I said that worship service wasn’t the only time I had cried recently. I had a conversation with a friend who was frightened by an approaching weather system last week.

My friend’s admission of fear was the only trigger I needed to set me off. I began to rant about the folks who are responsible for building up that fear and about folks who hide in their fraidy holes at the mention of a storm coming.

My rant was cut short as my friend’s eyes were lifted up to mine.

Words fail.

I made my way home, seeing through tears.

Do you know what it’s like to be alone? To be impaired? To feel helpless in the face of danger? To not know if anyone will remember you as they evacuate?

God, make my heart soft. Where it is hard as adamant, make it as tender as Yours.

I’m not a newbie at this following Jesus thing. It’s been a lifetime. And still, I repent. And will need to again.

But, His declaration to the folks in His hometown—the prophetic words from Isaiah, the ones that nearly got him thrown off a cliff by his neighbors—is still true.

For me, it’s true.

And for anyone who comes to Him.

He still sets the captives free.

That Gibbs fellow was wrong, he of television fame; it is not a sign of weakness to apologize. It’s a sign of strength—of resolve.

And I’m still sorry for the snakes.

I think the Lovely Lady will let it slide. This time.

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
    for he has anointed me to bring Good News to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim that captives will be released,
    that the blind will see,
that the oppressed will be set free,
   and that the time of the Lord’s favor has come.”
(Luke 4:18-19, NLT [from Isaiah 61:1-2])

“I’m unfinished. I’m unfixed. And the reality is that’s where God meets me, is in the mess of my life, in the unfixedness, in the brokenness. I thought he did the opposite, he got rid of all that stuff. But if you read the Bible, if you look at it at all, constantly he was showing up in people’s lives at the worst possible time of their life.” (Mike Yaconelli)

Change in All Around, I See

October 29, 2024October 31, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I don’t like change. Well—sometimes, I do. And then—I wish things hadn’t changed after they do.

I’m not explaining this very clearly, am I?

Let’s see if I can do better.

I like trees—especially old ones. Old trees exude comfort and reassurance that all is well with the world. They are a constant—a connection from former generations to the future.

They’ve seen it all, lasting through the storms and the seasons, standing firm.

It makes me sad when old trees are cut down. Except when it doesn’t.

Oh. Here I go again—talking in circles.

Give me another chance, will you?

The old mulberry tree stood outside the kitchen window. For well more than sixty years, it gave shade from the sun blasting down in summer. There were berries in the spring. Berries that fed the birds by the thousands and provided the residents of the old house with flavorful complements to their cereal and, perhaps, even filling a pie or two.

The tree has been a constant throughout the life of the Lovely Lady who lives in the old house with me. She was brought to this home from the maternity ward in the hospital and doesn’t remember a day when it wasn’t there.

Even I, as a relative newcomer (not yet fifty years) to the family, have walked under it on many spring days, pulling down a handful of the purple fruit to munch on, tossing the stems to the ground under the lovely old tree. I have stood under its shade on many a sweltering summer afternoon, grateful for the protection from the sun.

The twisted, gnarled old tree always brings a smile to my face when I think of it. I loved it and thought I would never want it gone.

I don’t like change.

But, it has been evident over the last three years that the funny little tree was reaching the end of its life. The branches at the top began to lose their leaves, drooping lifelessly toward the ground below. And this year, there were almost no leaves to be seen anywhere on the tree, except the few that popped from the trunk itself. Not a single branch bore any sign of green.

I hate to cut down trees. Especially old friends such as this lovely little mulberry. And, it could have stayed right where it was, limbs drooping to the ground, for several more years. Except for one thing; those drooping limbs (and a large part of the upper trunk) hung right over the power line dropping down to the house.

Winter is coming. It is. We live in a relatively temperate area, but in most winters we get at least one or two storms coming through that drop what the meteorologists like to call freezing rain. Simply put, water falls from the sky into the extremely cold air near the ground and freezes solid on every surface upon which it lands.

Water is heavy. Freezing water coating the limbs is a disaster waiting to happen.

I wanted the problem taken care of before winter comes. My heater won’t work if the electricity is interrupted, and I need heat in the winter. Most folks do.

My old friend, Isaac, came by last week to remove the old oak tree across the street (a story for another day) and I asked him if he could extend his stay in the neighborhood long enough to take care of my problem.

He wondered if I could wait for a few weeks. I couldn’t. Even the few days I had to wait for him to finish the other job was a few days too many. The tree needed to come down ASAP!

You see? Sometimes, I do like change.

Yesterday, Isaac took the tree down. Limb by limb, section by section, it came to the ground. I was happy to see the limbs on the grass. Especially that section that hung over the power line.

Soon, all that remained was the twisted and gnarled old trunk. My friend knows what he is doing. He left enough weight above the trunk on the side to which he wanted it to fall.

He didn’t even have to cut a notch near the ground like you see most of the lumberjacks doing in the movies. Just a straight cut right above the level of the dirt. A push, and it was done.

The mulberry tree lay on the ground waiting to be cut into smaller pieces the tractor would lift into the trailer.

I wish it hadn’t.

You see, I don’t like change.

Most of us don’t. We hold on to the things that make us comfortable. Even when it’s clear that they are rotting and decaying, we hold on to them. And then, when they are finally wrenched from our grasping, clinging hands, we bemoan their loss.

As if those things could ever last forever.

Years ago, I played the old portable pump organ (and sometimes a real piano) for my Dad at the nursing homes where he preached on Sunday afternoons. He would let the old folks pick the songs they wanted us to sing. One we sang again and again was “Abide With Me”. It was far from my favorite then.

I like it now. I think it’s because I understand it better.

“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away.
Change and decay in all around I see.
O thou who changest not, abide with me.”
(from Abide With Me, by Henry Francis Lyte)

Come to think of it, part of the change we’ve lived through is the moving away from common use of the old hymns. It’s part of the natural ebb and flow of life, but we don’t like that change, either.

All things move on. They always have.

My young friend, who writes songs for followers of Christ today, wrote a line in one of his songs a few years ago. It’s as powerful as the last line in the old hymn above.

“You cannot change, yet you change everything.”
(from Rest in You, by Leonard/Jordan/Fox)

It’s true—there is decay in everything around us. Science tells us that everything is decaying. And yet, there is new life. And growth.

And, these places of discomfort we move into become places of comfort. Places we’ll eventually move on from again. And again.

Change and decay in all around I see.

But God—He never changes.

A Rock. A Fortress. The place we run into and find rest. Before change comes—again.

More trees will grow. And fall.

We have a certain anchor in every storm.

In a world of change and decay, a Solid Rock.

I still miss the old tree.

“Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.”
(John F Kennedy)

“Long ago you laid the foundation of the earth
    and made the heavens with your hands.
They will perish, but you remain forever;
    they will wear out like old clothing.
You will change them like a garment
    and discard them.
But you are always the same;
    you will live forever.”
(Psalm 102: 25-27, NLT)

To Walk and Not to Fall (It Isn’t as Easy as It Looks)

November 8, 2023November 8, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I told the Lovely Lady that I probably would never write again.

“I think the well’s run dry. I’ve been struggling to find something to write about and there is no more. Nothing.”

She laughed and went back to her reading. She knows me.

I’ve been here before.

Still. . .

As I sat, head in hands, a thought hit me. I should search on my phone. Occasionally I write notes there to be ready for times such as these.

I would check there.

Nothing. Well, nothing I had saved recently.

I went back further; way back to the year of Covid. You remember. No school. Working from home. No toilet paper.

I saved two thoughts on the same day in March of 2020, the month the lockdown started in the USA.

They make no sense—there on the screen without any context. Like raw dough lying on a table before it is shaped into what it is to become, it’s difficult to visualize a purpose.

“Walking isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“Stingy with the rotten notes, but generous to a fault with the beautiful, sonorous ones.”

I have no memory of writing either sentence. In an attempt to remember the reason for the words, I cast my mind back a few years.

I remember those long walks. There wasn’t much else to do, so I walked. Often by myself—sometimes with her. Every day. Miles, one foot in front of the other.

Easy. Walking was easy.

Well, maybe the other one, then. Rotten notes. Beautiful and sonorous ones. Stingy and generous.

Oh yes! I remember hours of playing my horn. The French horn, that ill wind that nobody blows good.

There were lots of rotten notes. Not so many beautiful, sonorous ones.

Somehow, as I looked at the words on the little screen before me, the two statements began to coalesce, two separate thoughts becoming one theme.

Maybe walking isn’t all that easy. I don’t remember learning to do it. I have watched many babies who are in the process, though.

No; it’s not as easy as it looks. Not nearly. Babies fall, over and over. They get up to try again. Sometimes after falling, they stay where they are, crying. Parents and grandparents lift them up, comforting them as well as coaxing them to try again.

It’s hard work, this walking thing! And somehow, although there are a few years in between when we don’t worry about our walking ability, many aging humans will experience times when the difficulty of staying upright hits hard again (pun not intended).

A friend wrote today of a fall induced by a necessary medication. She is in pain now.

Walking isn’t as easy as it looks.

But then, not much we do is. Practice and experience lend themselves to a certain level of skill.

I spoke about the music notes, remembering my own difficulty. During that same time period, a famous cellist named Yo-Yo Ma began, in his own isolation, to offer video recordings of himself playing solos on his beautiful instrument. Just him. And his cello.

Now, there’s a man who is stingy with rotten notes—who is generous with the beautiful, sonorous ones. What lovely recordings he produced for the world during those difficult days!

Effortlessly, he would draw the bow across the strings, evoking a tonality with no hint of discord. Without difficulty, his fingers found the exact placement for each note to sound precisely on pitch. Every single note.

He made it seem so easy.

Inspired by his example, I played my horn at home, albeit generous with the sour notes and giving freely of bobbled attacks. In fairness, there were some beautiful, sonorous notes to be heard. Just not as often as I could have wished.

It is not only walking that’s not as easy as it appears. Skilled production of anything worthwhile takes practice—diligent application of ourselves to the thing we want to accomplish.

We know that. With every new thing, we know that.

Coloring inside the lines was once impossible for most of us. Holding a pencil to write our letters—nearly unthinkable.

The list is unending. Riding a bicycle. Learning to whistle. Combing our own hair. Baking a cake. Those don’t even begin to scratch the surface.

And yet, knowing nothing comes easily, we still look enviously at others in their areas of expertise and wonder why we can’t do what they make appear so elementary.

We become discouraged when we fall short, seldom remembering that practice and repetition are what made them better at it.

And we forget that we are not performers, showing off for an adoring public, but servants of a Loving Creator who knows us and our frailties.

He knows us.
He knew us before we were born.
He knows how many hairs are on our heads.
He has counted the tears we’ve shed while on our journey.

We walk for Him.
We play our music for Him.
We complete our tasks at work for Him.
We love our neighbor for Him.

None of it is as easy as it looks.

But the music is sweet. It is stingy on the clinkers. It is generous beyond belief in its beauty and fullness.

And, as we journey here, there are others who walk alongside us and help us to stay upright.

Not easy, but rewarding beyond any compensation this world could ever offer.

There may be more to write about, after all.

But, don’t tell that to the Lovely Lady.

Whatever you do, do your work heartily, as for the Lord and not for people. (Colossians 3:23, NASB)

Make music to the Lord with the harp,
with the harp and the sound of singing,
with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn—
shout for joy before the Lord, the King.
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it.
(Psalm 98: 5-7, NIV)

Benedictus—Sometimes Louder is Better

July 29, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Some evenings I sink down in my easy chair and marvel.

Behind closed eyes—and sometimes tear-filled ones—I wonder at the gift of music. Music that quiets. Music that ushers in memories of days long gone. Music that washes away the years, and sadness, and pain.

Some evenings I sink down in my easy chair and do that. On others, I sit in that same chair and expect to do that, but there are different influences at work in the sequence of selections I hear. Perhaps, I should say, another Influence (with a capital I). At least, it seems so to me.

On a recent weekend evening, as I sat, prepared to be calmed and moved, the Influence was at work. I have a group of songs I enjoy. The service I use to bring them up simply would not cooperate that night. Neither the songs nor the artists I have preselected could be found, so I just gave up and clicked the control to play random songs.

I didn’t know the artist. Who is Hauser, anyway? And what was this Benedictus? It was neither a piece nor an artist I’ve ever encountered.

Solo cello with an orchestra.

So simple. So beautiful. So moving.

It began with a statement of the theme by the cello, followed by a restatement or two, and an echo from individual orchestra members (the horn was especially nice). Then with a wave of the conductor’s hand, a chorus—a lovely choir filled with children’s voices—took up the theme.

Quietly, with soft harmonies almost quavering under the pure, clear melody, the soul was lulled to sleep by the haunting music.

The last thing one expected was the pounding of the percussion. And yet, it came.

Instantaneously. Suddenly. Ferociously.

The voices in the choir and the instruments in the orchestra responded as well, leaping to a sudden fortissimo. It was almost frightening. Almost.

The listener in his easy chair—yours truly—was no longer calm or relaxed. The quiet glory of the moment before had become all sound and fury (sorry, Mr. Shakespeare) and there seemed little hope that the previous state would be attained again.

And yet, to my pleasure, it soon was—the bombastic section lasting only a moment before dropping back to the beautiful and simple melody that so enchanted in the beginning.

I was carried away once more. The surprise past, my joy at the beauty was restored. I was comfortable again. Was.

Still, this piece goes in my permanent list to be listened to again and again. I even shared it with my friends on social media. What a singular experience!

I said I was comfortable again, didn’t I? I’m not anymore.

I wish I could leave the matter there. I do wish that. But I never could. The red-headed lady who raised me often reminded me of it.

“Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”

Why, indeed?

But I can’t. And this is bothering me.

Why did the composer have to make that section so jarring? After the loveliness of the theme, why assault the unsuspecting listener with an onslaught of noise and activity?

Perhaps the lyrics will help. No, I won’t be violating any copyrights here. The words are straight from The Book. In the choral text, they’re in Latin, so I’ve made it a bit easier for our purposes, quoting the English translation.

“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Matthew 21:9, NKJV)

Lovely words. They are.

Calming words. Reassuring words. Words of comfort.

Sort of like settling down into that easy chair again, aren’t they? The phrase was originally spoken about our Savior one day, as He entered the city riding on a donkey.

Benedictus.

Blessing.

I write the word multiple times a day, expressing my desire for good things for my friends and loved ones.

Blessings!

May you be blessed.

Like a prayer, the word is, asking for action from our Heavenly Father above. I sit comfortably in my easy chair, and He does the rest.

But there’s more to this, isn’t there?

Life, especially life as a follower of Christ, is not all easy chairs and quiet words. Despite the proclivities of the modern church to be turned inward and feel good about the One who comes in the name of Yahweh and His love toward us personally, our mission—our task—has never changed.

We are to proclaim Him to the world around us. Sometimes, it will be loud. Sometimes, it will be clashing. Sometimes, it will be shocking to the listener.

Always, our intent should be to glorify our Creator and Savior.

The overwhelming drums I heard? The surprising section of music? The words are from the same place in the Gospels.

“Hosanna in the highest!” (Matthew 21:9, NKJV)

A shout of praise going up to heaven!

It’s difficult to do that from my easy chair. I need to act. I need to stand up. Quiet, peaceful me—I need to shout the news.

Cymbals may crash.

I’m not comfortable with that.

The Followers, those twelve men who trailed Him everywhere, had been invited to a quiet place, a place of rest. Yet, instead of comfort, they found themselves at the lake’s edge surrounded by more than 5000 people. And it was time for supper.

“Send them home, Master,” they pleaded with Him. They were missing their rest, the quiet moments, the harmony of shared hymns.

“Show them My glory,” the Teacher replied. “You feed them.”

And they did.

They did.

I don’t suppose it was a quiet affair; nor could it have been all that comfortable, either.

Can you imagine the shouts? The exclamations? The babble of amazement?

I wonder. When did I decide it was time to sit quietly and listen to the music?

Now is the time to be loud. It’s time to make the trumpet call loud and clear.

Really loud.

Especially clear.

It won’t be all that comfortable.

It will be beautiful.

Benedictus. Blessings.

Q: What is the chief end of man?
A: Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever.
(Westminster Shorter Catechism)

Sing a new song to the Lord!
Let the whole earth sing to the Lord!
Sing to the Lord; praise his name.
Each day proclaim the good news that he saves.
Publish his glorious deeds among the nations.
Tell everyone about the amazing things he does.
(Psalm 96:1-3, NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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