Parts is Parts

May 7, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was only mowing the lawn. There was no intent on my part to be an object lesson. I suppose there usually isn’t. Intent, that is.

It just seems to happen.

Over the years, the equipment I use on the lawns (did I say I mow three of them these days?) has gotten much louder. The mower, the trimmer, the leaf blower—all of them—louder.

I don’t hear well anymore. I blame my high school marching band. From fifty years ago. It might also have something to do with other, more recent things. I’m not sure.

I have been to the audiologist. She says I need protection for my ears. I think it’s like latching the barn doors after the cows have escaped, but there is a possibility I could lose still more of my hearing.

So, I have bought some ear protection. Headphones. Bluetooth, they’re called—or some such word. I don’t know how it works. I just know I can play music from the phone in my pocket, and it comes out of the insulated, cushioned flaps over my ears.

I suppose some would argue it’s not much of a solution, because I’ve still got noise going to my ears, but since my days of listening to heavy metal music are a thing of the dim, distant past, there’s not much danger of blowing out an eardrum.

I like to listen to quieter music these days. Praise and Worship, sometimes. Choir music, even. Perhaps, with a few familiar hymns thrown in here and there. I sing along with the dulcet tones coming out of the headphones.

In my own not-so-dulcet tones, I sing—often at the top of my lungs. The little horse I wrote about not long ago is mostly gone, so I’m taking advantage of the opportunities I have.

I don’t sing the lead part, what we usually call the melody. I sing tenor. Or sometimes, alto. I suppose now and again I sing the bass part, as well.

It hit me, as I was riding along on my mower last week. When I’m working outside, singing loudly, people probably can hear me. Not well, but they can hear me.

Have you ever listened to someone singing a harmony part when no one else can hear the accompaniment music or the lead part? It doesn’t sound like anything recognizable at all.

Even if you’ve sung the song all your life, the harmony parts are not what you think of when the song comes to mind.

When I’m out there singing at the top of my lungs, anyone who hears me would likely tell you that the guy on the lawnmower can’t carry a tune in a bucket.

Tone deaf.

But I’m not. Not mostly, anyway.

There’s a point to the words I’m writing. Besides the silliness of the guy riding around his weed patch on the mower, singing loudly.

There’s a point.

Why is it so hard for us to see the big picture?

Why are we so quick to criticize the folks who actually can hear the lead part and sing along with it? Even if we can’t hear the melody ourselves?

The day is coming when the guy mowing the grass is going to blend his part with the lady singing as loudly as she can while driving down the Interstate highway. And the fellows sitting on the corner banging the plastic buckets are going to add their rhythms to the quiet humming of the girl in the subway car.

My part isn’t the same as yours. Even when the parts touch each other in unison during certain passages, we have different strengths—different accents. Some notes will sound dissonant. To some ears, they might even seem to be wrong.

I didn’t write the parts, nor did any human.

Our Heavenly Father wrote the entire work—every part, every note of it. And, like the living, functioning body He intends us to be, we are all necessary—all irreplaceable.

“The human body has many parts, but the many parts make up one whole body. So it is with the body of Christ.” (1 Corinthians 12:12, NLT)

There are some weird parts of this body. I am one of them. I freely admit it.

You, too?

Well, this weird guy is going to keep singing at the top of his lungs (and sometimes under his breath), practicing with the melody part sounding in his ears.

I hope you will, too.

Just wait until that day when we will hear all the parts together! Heavenly music!

What a day that will be.

Even so…

“I’ve always thought people would find a lot more pleasure in their routines if they burst into song at significant moments.”
(John Barrowman)

“And we will sing out,
‘Hallelujah.’And we will cry out,‘Hallelujah.’We will sing out, ‘Hallelujah.’

Shout it!Go on and scream it from the mountains.Go on and tell it to the masses,That He is God.”
(from All the Poor and Powerless, by David Leonard/Leslie Jordan)

I Ain’t Afraid

April 29, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It feels like I spend a good bit of time in the cemetery these days. And, to be honest, I don’t mind it at all.

The town’s cemetery is only a block or so away from where the Lovely Lady and I have taken up residence for the last few years. It’s convenient for our walks, with paved lanes crisscrossing the large greenspace and tall shade trees scattered throughout.

There are days when I speed through the property, scarcely glancing at the standing stones beside the byways I traverse. I often think there are more important things to do at the end of the walk, rather than wasting precious moments while being reminded of the past.

Those days are becoming uncommon—my practice more days than not, to meander among the stones, marveling at how familiar are so many of the names I espy.

Does this seem a little ghoulish? I suppose it might. But if, as I do, you believe that so much of what makes up our present reality is contained in our past, it doesn’t seem nearly as odd.

Most days, as I leave the cemetery’s boundaries, there is a smile on my face—a smile put there by pleasant memories and gratitude for fellow travelers who have lived life well, and for those lives that give testimony to the power of their faith in God.

A few weeks ago, as the Lovely Lady and I were recovering from a tiring road trip to my home state, I received a message from a friend who has lived for some time in a big city, hours away. I don’t know her as well as I do many I call friend, but it makes no difference. She had a request of me.

She had been in town that weekend to pay what may be a last visit to the places she remembers from her childhood and to stop at the graves of her parents and grandparents.

She had been disappointed in the condition of her grandparents’ stone, the years having covered it with lichen and grime. Scraping a bit off, she realized it was a bigger task than she had time for before she had to depart.

Her disappointment was significant. She didn’t want to leave the stone in that state, but there was nothing more to be done. Still, she knew it would bother her.

When her request came, it wasn’t for me to do any work, but simply to recommend someone who could see to the task of cleaning the stone for her. I don’t know anyone who does that, but I was sure that, with a little research, I could put her in touch with a prospective organization that could accomplish it.

It had been a stressful few days for me, and surprisingly, I thought this might be something that could help me get my spirits back to normal. I suggested it to the Lovely Lady, and she agreed it was a task within our capabilities. Maybe.

The next afternoon, we made our way over to find the grave with buckets, brushes, and rags under our arms. The stone was certainly in a sad state, but there seemed to be a strong possibility of success. It took most of an hour, but we were pleased with the result, as was our friend.

More than that, the memories unleashed by thoughts of the folks whose names were on the stone we cleaned genuinely did bring us a refreshing in our spirits.

What’s that?

Did we know the people?

No. Not exactly. But, as it happens, the old couple had been the previous residents of the little bungalow the Lovely Lady and I lived in when we first married. It’s close to fifty years now since we moved into that little house. But, thinking about the couple who had made a home there before we did brought to life many memories.

We talked as we worked, the ghosts of the past hovering about us. Memories awakened. Remembering the old wallpaper on the living room walls, resplendent in its silver and maroon designs. The stark little bathroom with a naked hot water tank inside the door. The joy of youthful marriage, of babies, of everyday life together. Frozen water pipes in the winter. Sweltering nights in summer. Hardships. Laughter with each other. And tears.

Did I say there were ghosts? I’m sure I must have. But, I don’t believe in ghosts.

And, somehow, just like that, I hear the Cowardly Lion in Judy Garland’s “Wizard of Oz” chanting his frightened mantra.

“I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do, I do, I do, I do, I do!”

I’ve written before that the ghosts I believe in are the memories of folks now absent—the memories, mind you—not actual spirits in the air around us. Those memories live in our minds, often inspiring us to be better people than we now are, and sometimes reminding us to do better than the folks who came before, when their memory is more cautionary tale than inspirational anecdote.

Funny. I chased a photograph into the cemetery a day ago. And by that, I mean I couldn’t get the picture I wanted from the field I usually stand in to capture sunsets, so I hurried past a few hundred graves to stand and snap the photo I wanted.

As I looked at the pic later, I saw a beautiful, ethereal wispiness in the sky above. And, just for a moment, I heard the voice of the Cowardly Lion again.

But no. Not spooks. And not even ghosts.

Just our Creator and His delicate hand on the paintbrush, reminding me that He brings people and events to mind.

To encourage.

To give us a shove when we need it.

Some folks tell me they don’t think about the past, but simply look to the future.

But, our Heavenly Father’s way is to inspire us to move forward while remembering His faithfulness in the past. And to remind us of the pitfalls along the way by telling the cautionary tales.

It’s a beautiful picture, isn’t it?

Well, yes; the photograph, but I’m actually thinking more about how our Creator understands us and meets us right where we are. Not just to be maudlin and melodramatic, but to move us to the depths of our spirits.

We are emotional creatures, designed by our Creator to feel the joy and the pain, the disappointments and the mountaintop celebrations.

We gain strength from remembering past joys, as well as from giving thanks for struggles overcome and battles won.

I think I’ll keep wandering past the resting places of my old friends’ earthly remains. Perhaps I’ll stop occasionally and maybe even talk to their stones a bit.

I’m not suggesting anyone else needs to do that. But, I also hope you won’t call anyone to bring a straitjacket. Not just yet.

Memories are good. Good memories are even better.

Still, we keep looking to the future. Home is somewhere up that way.

Up ahead.

“These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but…they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.”
(from The Weight of Glory, by C.S. Lewis)

“But then I recall all you have done, O Lord;
I remember your wonderful deeds of long ago.
They are constantly in my thoughts.
I cannot stop thinking about your mighty works.”
(Psalm 77:11-12, NLT)

Let It Rain Down

April 22, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The preacher said the words on Sunday morning. It was the day we celebrate the resurrection of our Savior from the grave where He was laid.

He said other words, but I got stuck on these. It happens. I apologize to him for it sometimes. Other times, I simply figure it was what I needed to remember from the thought that captivated my brain. I hope he’ll understand.

“God proclaims that Jesus will reign forever.”

I nodded my head. I knew this. It’s not new ground—prophecies spoken to the Messiah’s ancestor, centuries ago. But, reminders spoken on this memorable day—pointing out the truth of who He is—are necessary and helpful.

The row of chairs we had chosen to sit in was behind a lovely young family. The sweet girls directly in front of me were taking notes. They always do. As the words filled the page, there was a little doodling going on, as well. I couldn’t help but see the page of one of the youngsters’ notes.

The words weren’t exactly what the pastor had shared in his outline on the platform. She had, however, added a lovely illustration which drove the point home quite nicely. I think I’ll suggest to him that he might add some personal artwork in the slides next week. I don’t know if he’ll think it essential. Time will tell.

“Jesus will rain forever.”

Those were the words she had written.

I chuckled. Quietly. But, it almost didn’t stay that way, as the heavy rainfall beat down anew on the roof above us. It had rained for 3 days, something over five inches locally, and would continue until after lunch that day.

The young lady could be forgiven if she wondered if it would rain forever. Rainy days are a hardship for kids, especially when they’re used to being outside a lot. Okay. They’re even hard for old men like me sometimes.

Along with the words, the sweet girl had sketched a scene of raindrops, falling incessantly from the darkened clouds drawn above them.

Rain. Forever.

The pastor meant us to understand the reign of the Conquering King was, quite literally, forever.

But, as a metaphor, the eternal rain is what occupied my mind for the rest of the sermon—and beyond.

“You heavens above, rain down my righteousness;
    let the clouds shower it down.
Let the earth open wide,
    let salvation spring up,
let righteousness flourish with it;
    I, the Lord, have created it.“
(Isaiah 45:8, NLT)

The red-headed lady who raised me, she with her maxims and truisms, said it again and again (usually when she was overwhelmed):

“It never rains, but it pours.”

I had to live a few years before I understood that wasn’t an EITHER/OR statement, but one of IF/AND. She believed that whenever a trickle of rain started, the gully-washer was close behind. Troubles, she always thought.

I’d like to think that the maxim is true. In the positive aspect, I want to believe it.

Blessings fall in drops around us, plopping to earth, creating puffs of dust in the thirsty soil—in anticipation of the soaking that is coming.

“Mercy-drops ’round us are falling,
But for the showers we plead.”
(from Showers of Blessings, hymn by Daniel Webster Whittle)

Most of what I hear from folks these days is the negative, the certainty that worse is to come. I could be wrong, but I think there are still better things ahead.

Call me a dreamer if you want; I still believe our Creator gives good gifts.

Falling from Above. Good gifts. From the Father of Lights.

He will rain. Forever.

I want to be standing outside waiting in the downpour.

Come stand with me.

You can even bring your umbrella if you want.

“It is the Lord who created the stars,
    the Pleiades and Orion.
He turns darkness into morning
    and day into night.
He draws up water from the oceans
    and pours it down as rain on the land.
    The Lord is his name!”
(Amos 5:8, NLT)

“But you remain;
your years do not come to an end.
The children of your servants will settle down here,
and their descendants will live securely in your presence.”
(Psalm 102:27, NET)

It’s Dark Here. For Now.

April 19, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Thunder grumbles all around. The storm’s fury is drained, lightning trails dragging their bedraggled tails through the sodden sky above.

The dragon has flown away. For now. Moments ago, it blazed through the sky, dropping stones of ice and frightening the earthbound denizens of the tiny communities below with screaming winds and threats of rotating clouds.

But, even as I write, the wind moans around the doors and windows anew, a reminder that the dragon is not dead, but only gathering strength—this being the season of rain and wind.

I used to love the storms. I still do, but don’t tell my friends.

It is a guilty pleasure of mine, standing and watching the lowering clouds blowing in from the west, listening to the raucous downpour against the metal roof while anticipating the greens of the fields and the wildly variegated colors of the wildflowers on the wooded hillsides, all dependent upon the moisture the dragons leave behind for us.

But there is terror still. And danger. I feel the collective fear from those awaiting the warning siren’s call to seek refuge and shelter.

I care about that, too. But mostly, about them.

Shall we always be torn between the two? Safety and danger? Drought and ample rainfall? Famine and plenty?

Sadness and great joy.

It’s the week we remember that in a much more fundamental way. At least for those of us who claim to follow Jesus, it is a week of remembering overwhelming joy and elation. And a week of remembering breathtaking loss and defeat.

And, come the new week, it will be a time of celebrating unimaginable jubilation and great wonder.

Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem; Joy and anticipation!

The Last Supper and the Garden, and the trials followed by the crucifixion: Crippling anguish and the loss of dreams of conquest.

Resurrection dawning: Awe and splendor without end!

When the dragon is rampant, we believe that our hardships will never stop. A dark, unending tunnel that winds into ever-deepening blackness.

We’ve all been there. Oh, not like His followers experienced in this week in history. But we’ve been in the black hole with the dragon raging overhead.

The older I grow, the more I am aware of the dichotomy—ever-present and ever-looming. Great joy and great sadness, one after the other, a seeming never-ending parade.

But, if this week in history reminds us of nothing else, it is that dragons will be defeated. Perhaps only temporarily in this lifetime.

But, the day is coming…

No more night. Never again will the dragon fly.

I’ll wait. With you, I’ll wait.

Even if the rain is pounding on the roof again.

“Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?”
(from Were You There?, African-American spiritual)

“Nature is mortal; we shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each one of you will still be alive…We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendour which she fitfully reflects.
And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life.”
(from The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis)

Weeds

April 13, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I prayed as I walked today. I usually do.

This was different.

I’ve had a rough week. My grandchildren came over earlier and spent most of a day helping me empty the shed out back. There were things that had been stored in there “temporarily” nearly eight years ago.

No. It wasn’t the grandkids helping that made it a rough week. It’s just the reminder that I can’t do the things I used to be able to. I helped when they would let me and a few times when they didn’t want me to. Finally, I got out a deck chair and watched. And, felt sorry for myself.

I love that they want to help me. Love it.

I hate that they need to.

I’m a do-it-yourselfer from way back. For all the jobs I need done. And for all the jobs others around me need done.

The next day, another family member asked me if I could help with a job they had. As we spoke on the phone, I saw myself lying in bed the night before, back spasms denying me sleep, and realized that saying yes would just lead to more endless nights.

I said no.

It makes me sad—saying no.

So, today as I walked, instead of praying for family members and neighbors, world events and physical needs, I prayed for a sign. A sign that God is still listening to me. That there is still more ahead—more than just sitting in the deck chair and watching.

I got an answer. Dandelions.

I think it was His answer to my prayer. I’m not sure.

As I walked along the sidewalk next to the local university, I saw hundreds of the little yellow flowers scattered across the otherwise well-manicured lawns. I don’t remember seeing them there before.

I’ve written before of loving the little weeds. I love them for their tenacity. In the face of overwhelming hatred and bigotry, they thrive. Most of my neighbors hate them. Perhaps, most of my readers do too.

Still, they grow. I mow them down and they’re poking their fluffy heads above my grass almost before I can park my mower. I’ve never done it, but I’m told folks spend good money to spray herbicide on their yards to kill them.

And yet, they come back again.

I said the little flowers I saw today were an answer to my prayer. Actually, they reminded me of the photo I shared with my friends last week.

For the last few years, a little stand of tulips has popped up in my yard. Some years, they’re beautiful. This year is one of those years. You can see that in the photo that accompanies these words.

But, I have to coddle the plants. I have to remember to let the foliage grow undisturbed for a couple of months every year. They didn’t bloom at all last year, because the deer that roam my neighborhood thought the plants looked tasty and disturbed them considerably.

If you look at that photo again, can you see the little yellow blossom to the left of the showy tulips?

I have never—never—coddled one of those yellow flowers. Yet, there it is, proud and growing right next to the tulips—just as if it has a right to be there. And, in a few days, there will be a white, fluffy head standing tall right above where you see that little bloom today.

Every kid in the world knows what you do with that little fluffy ball. You hold it up next to your mouth and you blow it as hard as you can.

Have you ever watched a kid doing that? Pure joy! Unsullied, unadulterated, joy!

“And he said: ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.'” (Matthew 18:3, NIV)

Well, perhaps that’s a bit of a departure from the context of that verse, but it speaks to the truth that children recognize instinctively, and our aging, hardened spirits have long ago forgotten.

The lessons of our Creator’s world are hard to miss—if we look for them.

In hardship and plenty, His blessings abound. Whether we’re coddled or trampled down, His promise is sure.

We will accomplish what He has for us if we persevere.

“He, who began the good work in you, will complete it…” (Philippians 1:6)

I want to offer tulips. And azaleas. Roses and lilies.

What I’ve got to offer these days is dandelions. And a few wild onions.

Mankind has always had its vision of how the world should function. But, our mortal thoughts are not how our Creator has ever brought about His vision for us.

I write this as what we call Holy Week is about to commence. If this week teaches us nothing more, it is that His ways are not ours. No Hollywood writer could have ever conceived of this plot twist. Ever.

He still works in ways that confound our wisdom—our agendas. Where we would plant roses and rhododendrons, He scatters dandelions.

I’m content with that.

Even if it means I get to sit in the deck chair while the youngsters do the heavy lifting.

There is still more. Up ahead.

Better things than ever I imagined or planned for.

Come plant some dandelions with me.

“When life is not coming up roses
Look to the weeds
and find the beauty hidden within them.”
(L.F. Young)

“Yet true godliness with contentment is itself great wealth. After all, we brought nothing with us when we came into the world, and we can’t take anything with us when we leave it.” (1 Timothy 6:6-7, NLT)

Already Part of the Family

April 2, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I went to court recently. It wasn’t for me. A couple of family members asked me to go to the proceeding.

I talked with the Lovely Lady about it again tonight. I was nervous at the courthouse. What if it didn’t go well for my loved ones? What if legal orders were made that affected them negatively?

I don’t like stress. Like many, I don’t respond well, either emotionally or physically, to it. I do my best to avoid it as much as possible. But, it was important for us to be there for this stress.

The young man spoke, answering questions put to him by individuals sitting at one of the desks. He was clear in his answers. They seemed satisfied with them.

Then he spoke on his own for a few moments. Again, his words were clear and communicated what he wanted the court to understand easily.

Next, it was her turn. The young lady also spoke clearly. But then, her voice broke as she said the words I’ve been thinking about for a while.

“You asked why I wanted him to become my son. The thing is, he’s already my son.”

Yes, it was an adoption proceeding. And yes, the decision by the court was favorable for these young folks. There was applause. And photographs. And more tears.

And lots of laughter. It was a happier occasion than I’ve ever experienced in a courtroom.

But the words won’t let me go.

“…he’s already my son.”

She wasn’t wrong. Oh, the judge might have had something to say about that. Legally, he still had a pronouncement to make, his words making it so.

Still, that child was hers—was theirs—long ago. We all knew it. From the first time we saw them together, it was clear. He loved and trusted them. They adored him. It couldn’t have been a better match.

But, I think about her words and I’m struggling to avoid the obvious parallel to our situation. And by ours, I mean all of ours.

Yours and mine.

I talked with my friend at the coffee shop about it this morning. It’s a tough predicament for me. As much as I don’t want to, I have to talk about it.

I hope you’ll extend a little grace, in spite of it.

Another friend of mine who is a retired Methodist pastor (meaning, he’s still preaching and ministering—the paychecks just aren’t as regular as they once were) said it after reading one of my articles recently.

“I’m not as much of a Calvinist as you are…”

Calvinist? Me? You mean, like, predestination?

Well, okay. My parents were both raised in the Presbyterian church. On my mother’s side, we trace our roots back to Scotland, where our ancestors fled persecution in the 17th century because of their faith. To Ireland first, then across the ocean to the colonies in the New World, they escaped, establishing a Presbyterian church in New Jersey, which is still meeting today, two hundred plus years later.

So, there’s that. But, I believe God has given us the ability to choose, to use free will and go our own way, or to come to Him.

That said, I also believe He guides events and creation. And, I believe He knows our paths. Before we set out on them, He knows.

It’s hard to argue with the Word. For me, it is.

The songwriter put it into words for us, centuries ago.

“You see me when I travel
    and when I rest at home.
    You know everything I do.
You know what I am going to say
    even before I say it, Lord.”
(Psalm 139:3-4, NLT)

As I talked with my friend today, he mentioned the story about the man we call the prodigal son. He suggested that he was always intended to come home. Else, why would the father have waited on the road day after day, ready to run to him when he appeared?

But, it was the errant son’s choice. And it is mine.

And it’s yours.

Home where I belong. I’ve used the words to mean my home in heaven, after I leave this world behind, but the reality is that, for right now, right where I am is home.

Home. Where I belong.

Here. Doing this.

What I’m doing. With you.

Following Him.

You belong, too. You always have.

With your Father. And your family.

For always.

Always.

“Not of my flesh, nor of my bone,
But still, miraculously, my own.”
(Fleur Conkling Heyliger)

“You saw me before I was born.
    Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
    before a single day had passed.
How precious are your thoughts about me, O God.
    They cannot be numbered!
I can’t even count them;
    they outnumber the grains of sand!
And when I wake up,
    you are still with me!
(Psalm 139:16-18, NLT)

A New Pony

March 21, 2025March 21, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The elephant is gone. For now, it’s gone.

These days, I’m breathing more easily. I haven’t felt the weight of breathlessness on my chest for several weeks. I haven’t had to reach for my rescue inhaler for most of that time, either.

I should be happy. Ecstatic, even.

But, I’m not.

My general practitioner’s nurse called a few weeks ago to tell me the good news. After checking with the formulary my insurance company provided, they had a long-term medication I could use to get relief.

Finally!

I had the prescription filled immediately. Within days, I was better, even confident enough to leave the inhaler at home when I went out.

I can sleep at night again. There is no longer any need to discuss the elephant in the room—the one sitting on my chest at intervals.

The elephant is gone.

So why am I not happy? Well, it seems I’ve traded one animal for another. Like the Pony Express riders, I’ve just gotten off one giant mount and thrown my leg over another.

What’s the new animal? A horse.

No wait. I meant to put that “a” into the animal’s name. Hoarse.

That’s it. No elephant; just hoarse. The medication my doctor found for me makes me hoarse. As in, “I’m a little hoarse.” All the time.

I sat in the coffee shop this morning, having been served my usual cup of drip java by the kind shop owner, and I got lost in the words on my laptop’s screen. You see, a little horse (without the a) is a pony, and the thought of changing mounts (elephant to pony) led me to visions of the Pony Express riders.

So I actually read more than I wrote this morning. Wikipedia is a wonderful thing. Or not.

I wonder if you know the Pony Express only existed for a short while? And it mostly hired teenage boys? Skinny teenage boys at that. The top weight for the riders was 125 pounds. They were in danger most of the time, with many of them dying or being wounded on the trails. The company went bankrupt and closed down only a year and a half after its inception.

I’m sorry. I’m not sure how we got here. Let me reload.

I’m hoarse. A little. It’s a side-effect of my medication. When I talk, my voice sounds gravelly. Rough.

Worse than that, I can’t sing. Well, not so much can’t as shouldn’t. I cough a lot while trying. And the sound of my voice is not as pleasing as it once was.

This isn’t the outcome I was expecting. Or wanting.

I love to sing.

But, I’ve figured out something else as I’ve considered my circumstances.

I need to breathe. Breathing is essential. And, that function is being facilitated much more completely these days. It’s a good thing.

I’m not complaining. Well, maybe just a little. But, I’m grateful for the big blessing. And, I’m attempting to be circumspect about the small inconvenience.

I did say I’ve been considering my situation. It hasn’t escaped me that my hoarseness could be considered in the same light as the thorn in the flesh the apostle for whom I’m named wrote about in 2 Corinthians 12.

“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.”
(2 Corinthians 12:9, NLT)

When I last wrote, I mentioned an epiphany of sorts, experienced in the middle of singing at church last week. It actually occurred during one of my silences—as I waited for my voice to recover so I could be loud again.

Perhaps being silent isn’t such a bad thing, after all.

I want to sing out in the worship service. I want to be strong. It makes me feel good about myself when I am.

Oh. That’s a definition of pride, isn’t it?

Selah.

I’m not going to have to use the medication forever. I’ll sing again. But, even if I don’t, I’m grateful to have breath.

Absolutely full of thanks.

And, full of His grace, which is enough—despite my weakness.

I’ll keep the pony for now. I’m pretty sure it hurts less than the elephant when it sits down.

And besides that, the red-headed lady who raised me always told me, “Silence is golden.”

I wonder if she was right.

“Suffering is often the crucible in which our faith is tested. Those who successfully come through the furnace of affliction are the ones who emerge like gold tried in the fire.”
(from “Unto the Hills”, Billy Graham)

“Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
(Romans 8:39, KJV)

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)

Still Sitting in the Dark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it wasn’t. Dark, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

He was made to live in the light.

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

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

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

I wanted to listen to the songbirds.

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

I did. I wanted to listen to the birdsong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, no more sitting in the dark.

It’s time to walk in the light.

And maybe—to make a little noise.

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

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

I’m Not Just The Guy With His Right Shoe Untied

March 4, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The guy with his right shoe untied.

I know I accepted the label when she used it. I almost embraced it. It does describe me.

Sometimes.

But more often than not, both of my shoes are tied—tied in neat square-knot bows. I often walk down the sidewalk without the tell-tale skritch-skritch-skritch of shoelace aglets dragging along the concrete.

My identity is not found exclusively in my untied right shoe.

Sometimes, my identity is found in the angry words that flood from my mouth when the person in front of me demonstrates an insufficiency in driving skills. I’m confident if I asked the question again of the Lovely Lady at those times, she would answer it differently than she did the other night. There would be no mention of the condition of my right shoe.

“Sure. I know who you are! You’re the man who has never learned to control his temper in traffic.“

She has not said those words to me. But, she could. I know they would be accurate sometimes.

I’m not proud of it. I even told her the other day (without her prodding me whatsoever) how sorry I am not to have conquered that bad habit.

Sin.

I should call it what it is.

“People can tame all kinds of animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue. It is restless and evil, full of deadly poison.” (James 3:7-8, NLT)

So sometimes, I am the guy with his mouth full of poison. Spitting it with great accuracy like a cobra.

Then again, I can often be found speaking gently to folks and even offering a helping hand if they have need of it. I have days when not a single angry or disparaging word leaves the vicinity of my mouth.

I have admitted, repeatedly, that I am not the man I had hoped to be by now. Daily, I see ways in which I could make improvements.

“Please be patient with me; God isn’t finished with me yet.”

I remember hearing the phrase when I was a teenager. It has become a bit trite now, as if an excuse for actions and attitudes. But it’s not.

Both confession and prayer—the words admit fault while looking to a future and a loving Father from which improvement will come.

The apostle, my namesake, said it this way:

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

If that doesn’t give one hope, I don’t know what will.

And, that’s an identity I’ll claim. If you need words to describe me, say this:

“I know you! You’re the guy with hope for what’s still ahead!”

Hopeful.

Because He’s not done with me yet.

And, never will be.

My right shoe won’t come untied forever. The poison will be gone from my mouth one day. I’ll not struggle with sexual thoughts, or hateful attitudes, or doubts and frustration.

It’s a promise to all He draws to Himself.

So it belongs to you as much as it does to me.

Patience. And hope.

Mostly, hope.

“Numbers and photographs do not a person make.
I’m more than what a page can say of me.
My identity is not in my history.
All the best of me is in my dreams.”
(from A Voice, by Kat Edmonson)

“But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against these things!” (Galatians 5:23-24, NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips