Home and Warm

January 4, 2017January 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I nearly tripped over her in the dark.

The coal-black Labrador was lopped across the back stoop when I stepped out a few moments ago. Her brother, almost as black, wasn’t far away.

It is twenty-four degrees outside. The wind-chill (if you believe in such things) is below twenty.

Their heated doghouse, with its cedar-mulch covered floor is thirty-five feet away.

Why in the world are they lying in this corner of the yard with the wind whistling around them?

I, being much more intelligent, scurried to take care of my errand and get back to my fire-side easy chair. Warm.

Home and warm.

But, I sit beside my warm fire and absently-mindedly pursue an elusive shadow through the dark and chilly pathways of my memory. Now, what was that?

Dogs lying outside the door waiting for their master. . .

Sleeping in the cold when they could have been home and warm. . .

David was a man after God’s own heart. Now, where did that come from? Ah! Now, I have it!

Uriah (who was a fighting man from a pagan tribe) refused to go home to his warm bed and his waiting wife. Uriah the Hittite waited outside the door of the king’s house—cold and sleepless. (2 Samuel 11:9-13)

But, honorable.

More honorable than the man who dwelled within, Uriah was certain that comfort was not his until all could live in comfort. He would wait until he had completed his task. An honorable man.

Almost like the dogs who lie outside my back door. Their allegiance is to their master. All they want is a word from his mouth and his hand gently scratching their chest.

It is enough. Payment in full for waiting in the cold.

I like being home and warm. You?

Stupid question, huh?

Comfort is what we want. But, we have no promise of comfort. Yet.

This world can be a cold place. Cold and dark.

Our destination is anything but those. If, as our lessons in science led us to believe, light produces heat, we’ll have no lack of either light or warmth there.

The One we serve is (unlike me—or King David) honorable far above our understanding. He won’t leave us out in the cold one moment past what is necessary.

One day—one day—the door will open and we’ll be home.

Home and warm.

One day—one day—the door will open and we'll be home. Home and warm. Click To Tweet

And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light.
(Revelation 21:23 ~ NLT)

Turn up the lights. I don’t want to go home in the dark.
(O. Henry ~ American author ~ 1862-1910)

Good News. Bad News.

October 19, 2016October 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Rejoice with those who rejoice.

As I sat not writing at my keyboard a couple of nights ago, I received the message. The young man at the other end had just received good news. He had to tell someone.

It didn’t matter that it was after midnight. A light had blazed into his darkness and he needed to share the wonder.

I read the words and, even though I couldn’t actually see him, saw the smile that had spread across his face.

I messaged him back. I‘m smiling with you.

I’m smiling as I think about his news, even now.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled.

Good news shared is a blessing doubled. Rejoice with those who rejoice. Click To Tweet

I always want to rejoice with folks who are rejoicing. Except when I don’t.

Yeah. You know what I mean, don’t you?

I was in the middle of a good pout when the young man’s message arrived the other night. I’ve been in the middle of the pout for awhile now. Call it what you want—depressed, sad, unhappy, disappointed—it’s still a pout.

Things aren’t going the way I want. Perhaps more to the point, life isn’t working out the way I’d planned. It seems the road map I was following was a little flawed.

Sometimes, when your soul feels heavy and is burdened down, you simply want to be left alone with your misery. And yet, when that beam of light shines into your darkness, the reaction is automatic and instantaneous.

I stood in the light with the joyful young man and I smiled.

Joy spills over.

It does. But sometimes the beam of light is short-lived and the joy fades into the gloom of disappointment once more.

I sat with another young man this afternoon and unburdened my soul. I thought he needed to know—and oddly enough, he seemed to want to know—what I was feeling. Tears were in my eyes when I looked up again. Looking into his eyes, I saw tears in them, too.

Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

Do you understand the power in those words?

I do. Now.

I looked at his tears and was reminded that it hasn’t been many months since his tears were shed over the tiny body of a still-born baby. He (and his sweet wife) are grieving still and will for years to come. We spoke of that also and the tears came again.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened.

Sorrow shared is a burden lightened. Weep with those who weep. Click To Tweet

The day will come when we will celebrate the end to all sorrows and disappointments. No more separation. No more loss. No more death.

The day will come. It’s not here yet.

Today, we walk this world of mixed joys and regrets, victories and defeats. Our celebrations are tempered with foreboding of dark times yet to come.

I wonder.

The Teacher instructed His followers to walk in love for each other and promised that, as a consequence, they would give witness of His great love to a watching world. (John 13:34,35)

Surely He intended that to be done in the center of the world’s marketplace and not only in their cloistered meeting places.

He never suggested it would be the rule in mortuaries, but not on the street corners.

If it is to be witnessed, it must be done in public places.

We rejoice. We grieve.

Fellowship along both paths touches our spirits with His love.

Tonight, I’m smiling.

Through tears.

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being.
(Albert Schweitzer ~ French-German theologian ~ 1875-1965)

For everything there is a season,
a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance.
(Ecclesiastes 3:1,4 ~ NLT)

New Things

February 29, 2016November 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Open your eyes. I am going to do a new thing.

The voice in my head was as clear as if someone in the room had spoken. The only problem was no one else was there. The Lovely Lady had already left for her morning of work at the library.

I was by myself. There was not a soul in the house besides me.

I’m not a dreams and visions type person. I’ve always believed that God gives us wisdom and intelligence to follow the path laid out before us. As we make educated decisions, His Spirit guides us. Gently.

I never wanted to hear a voice in my ear as I awake in the morning. Well, except for the Lovely Lady’s telling me there are doughnuts to go with the coffee. . .

I would understand it if I had just been reading that specific chapter in the Bible right before retiring. Isaiah 43 is a powerful chapter, with reminders of who our God is, and what He intends to do. I’ve read the passage several times since that morning.

But, I hadn’t read it in ages. I don’t think it was put in my head by anything I had heard or read with a similar message.

The words just hung in the air.

A new thing? Really?

I don’t like new things all that much.

My shoes, I like comfortable and broken in. I’m using the same cash register at my music store I was using in the 1990s. It’s not that it’s a great piece of machinery, but I understand how to make it work, and that’s enough.

I like to eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with fried tuna patties every Thursday evening. Don’t ask me out to eat on Thursday. Comfort food night is almost like going to church. If I have my mac and cheese, I can almost believe everything is right with the world.

I don’t really care for new places, or new experiences, or new flavors.

I bought a bicycle the other day. It sat for two weeks before I even threw a leg over the saddle. Another two weeks later, I actually wheeled it out of the front door.

On Saturday, I put air in the tires and did something I had never done. I locked my shoes into the clip-less pedals and took a turn around the parking lot out front. I wasn’t happy to see a couple of big, burly fellows sitting on the roof across the street, working on the sign hanging there. I certainly didn’t want to look foolish to them.

But then, I got started pedaling and it seemed to go well. At first.

I actually thought the words as I rounded the lot for the first time.

See! I am doing a new thing!

Not for long did I keep that foolish thought in my head. You see, I quickly discovered that I knew nothing about changing the gears on this particular setup. It was right about that time I realized I would have to unlock my shoes from the pedals soon, too. Without falling over.

Bicycles have only two tires, you know. They don’t balance when they’re not moving forward. This one would come to a stop very soon, and I couldn’t remember which foot I had decided it would be best to put down first. I started to unclip the right foot, just as I slowed to a near stop. It was right about then I remembered I had decided I should unclip the left foot first.

It was also right about then the seat tube decided to slide down about six inches. Whump!

Did I tell you I was worried about looking foolish?

I looked foolish.

I hate it when I look foolish. Hate it.

And perhaps, we have actually uncovered why I dislike new things so much. Unfamiliar territory is territory where I make mistakes. I don’t appear intelligent and wise. I don’t impress.

I am embarrassed. Frequently.

I want it to stop. I am approaching sixty years old, an age at which I believe it is my right to retain my dignity at all times.

I shouldn’t be expected to learn new skills, to venture out on untried bridges, to balance on two micro-thin rubber tires while remembering which foot is which and which shifter changes what gear.

But tonight, I’m wondering—I who have declared in my brashest voice that I am a follower of the Son of God—I’m wondering what it means to really follow Him.

Is it enough that I have followed Him for these few years, the decades of youth and middle-age?

Is that enough?

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there? What then? Click To Tweet

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there—across the bridge?

Would I take the chance—the adventure—and strike out to a new and unknown field?

I’ve never been over there.

What if there are strange people?

Is the bridge safe?

Will I have plenty to eat, a warm place to stay, a comfy bed in which to sleep when I reach the end of each day?

On the best day fishing Peter and his partners had ever had—the best day—the Teacher told them He had better things for them to accomplish. (Luke 5:9-11)

They abandoned their boats and nets—and fantastic catch—on the shore and followed.

They followed.

A new thing.

Maybe it was only learning to ride a different bicycle for me. Perhaps, that will be the end of the matter.

Perhaps not.

Probably not.

I wonder. Could I cross the bridge, abandoning the comfortable, familiar place I’m in? I want to believe that I could.

I might look ridiculous—foolish even.

Would you laugh?

Or, would you cross it with me?

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at.

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at. Click To Tweet

I don’t know where we’re going yet.

He does.

It will be enough.

Do not remember the former things,
Nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I will do a new thing,
Now it shall spring forth;
Shall you not know it?
I will even make a road in the wilderness
And rivers in the desert.
(Isaiah 43:18, 19 ~ NKJV)

“Doubtless,” said the Prince. “This signifies that Aslan will be our good lord, whether he means us to live or die. And all’s one, for that. Now, by my counsel, we shall . . . all shake hands one with another, as true friends that may shortly be parted. And then, let us descend into the City and take the adventure that is sent us.”
(From The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ British novelist ~ 1898-1963)

Not Far Now

September 25, 2015September 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The message from my fitness program caught my eye as I clicked it off after my run tonight.

“Paul ran 3.99 miles.”

I set out from home tonight with a goal of running four miles. I failed to meet that goal by one one-hundredth of a mile! Only fifty-three feet.

I failed.

It’s not a moral failing. The four-mile goal was an arbitrary distance, set by an ambitious energetic man, unburdened by the weight of fatigue. It hadn’t come down as an edict from Heaven, with grim repercussions to follow, should the course not be completed.

My decision to stop short was not a calculated one. The last two blocks of my run were spent alternating between gasping for breath, holding my side, and muttering a plea for the voice on my fitness program to announce the four miles already. The need for air and relief from discomfort won out over the desire to meet my arbitrary goal.

Still, I failed.

Tonight, from my comfortable office chair, rested and hydrated, I look at those numbers in the statistics. They mock me.

3.99 miles. Not 4 miles. Not 4.1. Three point nine-nine.

At the speed I was running tonight, it would only have taken six more seconds to reach the goal. Six seconds!

I’ll get over my disappointment with myself. I hope I can do better. That said, this is not the first time I’ve quit before reaching a goal. One would think a fellow would have learned his lesson.

My mind (and heart) has moved on to other things, even as I consider your disappointment in me, just now learning I’m a quitter. You’ll simply have to get used to the feeling. I have.

Tonight though, I’m wondering about how many people have spent a lifetime working toward a goal, only to give up within a stone’s throw of their objective. Tired and disheartened, uncertain of how much further their destination will be, their attention is stolen away by the attractions along the road.

Comfort could be theirs. They’ve never cared before, the reality of their mission imprinted indelibly in their hearts. But now? Now they’re tired—tired and lonely. Everyone around them is inside and warm, safe from the perils of the quest.

I know folks like this. Many glance at the roadside attractions and recognize them for what they are—nothing but bait in a trap. Focusing on their goal and the prize awaiting them, they turn away and go the extra distance, shunning the alternative. Be it fifty feet or fifty years, they will finish the course laid out before them.

But some—some no longer have their attention centered on the right thing. Somewhere, over the years, the focus has moved from the Author and shifted to the runner.

Look at me! I’m giving up everything to participate in this race. I’ve trained; I’ve sacrificed; I’ve put all I have into running.

And, they have. A lifetime of doing what is required of the athlete. A lifetime. But the focus is lost, the goal becomes fuzzy. The spirit begins to hope for other things, other prizes.

The race is lost. The runner is defeated—a failure.

So close. So close, but so far.

Years ago, I read a book called Watership Down. I thought it would be about adventures and battles at sea, but it turned out to be about rabbits. Rabbits. I went ahead and read it. I read it again. And again. You might want to do it someday yourself. It is a story of trial and triumph—a story of perseverance, and of finding home.

One of the long-eared creatures, Hazel, who has become the leader of the ragtag band of rabbits, is leading them to a place most aren’t sure even exists. Throughout the nightmarish journey, he keeps repeating the words not far now again and again. For hours he guides them through the dark, not sure himself of just where the goal will be found, but certain in his heart that the place for which they’re bound is very real.

When they reach their goal, they are ecstatic, admitting that even they weren’t absolutely certain the place to which he was leading them would be there.

They had followed anyway, trusting their leader, even when they weren’t sure of the destination.

How about it? Is the path growing dim, the road harder to make out? Do you have a catch in your side? Are you gasping for breath yet?

Sure, there’s a comfortable stop just over there—a place where others are relaxing and enjoying the evening. We could rest here.

But we haven’t reached our goal yet. That’s up ahead still.

Let’s keep going.

Not far now.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.
(Hebrews 12:1-3 ~ NIV)

I was so tired and confused, I actually began to wonder whether you knew where you were going. I could hear you in the heather saying ‘Not far now,” and it was annoying me. I thought you were making it up. I should have known better. Frithrah! You’re what I call a real Chief Rabbit!
(from Watership Down by Richard Adams ~ English novelist)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

comfort

Home and Warm

Good News. Bad News.

New Things

Not Far Now