Not Woebegone

February 19, 2018February 20, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Music has charms to soothe a savage beast.

The words, written in verse centuries ago, are quoted frequently, even today.

I don’t disagree.

I’m remembering a weekend, some time ago, when I reveled in the harmonious, percussive notes of a skillfully played hammered dulcimer, listened in awe to the sweet, mellow tones of my favorite trumpet player, and wiped away tears at the conclusion of an amazing vocal duet rendition of an aria from an opera (you read that right, an opera).

In between those numbers that weekend, I played and sang a bit myself, as well as heard several other artists who were skillfully adept at their craft.

This savage beast’s heart was soothed. For awhile. But, for some reason, I hear something else in my head tonight.

Well, it’s been a busy week in Lake Wobegon.

I can even hear the quiet, smooth tonality of Garrison Keillor’s baritone voice as I write this, although I’m not quite sure why those words come to mind.

I suppose I may have been a little down in the mouth recently. You know—the worries of life are starting to pile up here and there; the things I usually can control have gotten away from me a bit.

Instead of a perpetual grin, the corners of the mouth are turned down somewhat, and it’s harder than usual to work up to a smile.

Thus, the descriptive phrase down in the mouth seems to cover my attitude most appropriately.

Every time I ever heard Mr. Keillor utter the opening sentence to the story-telling session on his radio program, I was struck anew by the name of his fictitious town.

He avers that the name comes from an old Native American word meaning the place where we waited all day in the rain for you. It is not exactly the correct origin for the word it sounds like, woebegone, but it comes awfully close.

The idea of waiting in the rain for someone who never arrives just about describes the depth of the feeling of being woebegone, a word that really comes from the Middle English meaning beset by woe. Either way, an apt description for someone who is down in the mouth.

As I sat and listened that weekend to the jaw-droppingly beautiful tones that emanated from the young lady’s silver trumpet, my inner being was touched. And then, as mother and daughter sang their operatic duet in a language I will never understand, I ached for more.

But more of what?

I know by experience that I soon tire of the same music, played or sung again and again. A recording would not suffice, nor would simply attending recitals day after day to hear the artists ply their craft.

I am convinced beauty on earth is given to remind us there is more. Something more satisfying is to come.

More.

What we have here, beautiful as it may be, is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day.

What we have here is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day. Click To Tweet

Many centuries ago, the writer of psalms understood that, even as he struggled with his own inner sadness. He was woebegone, down in the mouth, but still, he wrote deep calls unto deep, and told of his Creator’s unspeakable love and glory, evidenced by the world around him.

Like Job, the afflicted one, he outlined his troubles and then reiterated, for I will yet praise Him. (Psalm 42:7-11)

Some of us drown our sorrows with alcohol, some with work, some with denial. I listen for hours to music, reveling in the intrinsic beauty of the chords, and the harmonies, and the melodies.

For all, it is the same. The time comes when reality must be faced.

The music ends, the fat lady sings, if you will.

We who believe have a promise that will still keep us on the path. The knowledge, the certainty, that there is more is enough to give us strength and perseverance to go on through what lies ahead.

Not around and not under. Through.

I don’t know about you, but I’m going on.

The oases along the way—the music, the fellowship, the joy—those only lend credence to the promise that we’re just nomads, travelers in this world, on our way to a better place.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m enjoying the soundtrack while I’m here.

Even waiting in the rain.

Not woebegone.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God?
(Psalm 42:1,2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(The Mourning Bride by William Congreve ~ English playwright and poet ~ 1670-1729)

Ripples

November 22, 2016November 22, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We could go out and look at the leaves—or—you could stay there all afternoon and be unhappy.

Maybe it was the fact that we had just turned on the heat for the first time this fall. It could have been. The chill was creeping in from outside.

I’m not fond of the cold. Oh. I may have mentioned that before. I probably have.

I had sat, huddled under a blanket, as I watched the Lovely Lady leave to go grocery shopping that morning. I didn’t offer to accompany her. When she arrived back home an hour later I hadn’t moved.

She knows me well. A few well-placed inquiries, with a hint of concern, led me to the conclusion that I probably should take a drive with her through the countryside.

As I suspected, it was still chilly outside, but the sun was shining brightly. It was, as she had averred, a beautiful day. In the car.

Still. . .

I thought, as we drove out of town on the busy highway, that it didn’t seem the right way to experience God’s creation. In a car along with hundreds of other drivers speeding down the tarmac, the experience left much to be desired.

Then, I remembered the old bridge. The turnoff was only a couple of miles on up the road. She was all for it, even though she hadn’t worn her hiking shoes. We stopped.

There are some who would have you believe the world is a horrible cesspool of a place to live in, God’s creation marred beyond recognition by sin and degradation. They are partly right, but only partly.

On that brilliant afternoon, all I knew was I agreed with the Creator as He viewed the work of His hands in the beginning. (Genesis 1:31)

It was good. It was very good.

The Creator was right. It is good. It is very good. Click To Tweet

We tramped through the brambles and brushed beside the reddening poison ivy, laughing at the annoyance of thin branches that smacked us in our faces as we passed. The sun on our backs felt wonderful and the scent of autumn woods refreshed our spirits as we breathed deep.

We had visited the old steel bridge only once before, but the way was clear and we didn’t mind the walk. As we approached the old structure, it was reassuring to see that it hadn’t altered—an old friend almost, standing firm in spite of change and shifting conditions all around.

But, somehow the river drew us today. We paid our respects to the old bridge and headed to the rock-covered landing up the waterway a few hundred feet.

Glancing down as we neared the water’s edge, I noticed a number of flat stones, worn smooth by years of tumbling against others in the current of the mighty river.

They were there for only one reason, of course. Anyone who has spent any time at all at the river’s edge can tell you what that reason is.

I picked one up and, holding it with the flat side parallel to the water’s surface, spun it toward the other side of the river almost like a frisbee. Just the slightest lift of the leading edge of the flat rock as it left my hand guaranteed that aerodynamics would do the rest.

I wasn’t disappointed. The stone struck the water’s surface and instead of sinking—as we say, like a rock—skipped up to smack the water anew and to skip again, and again, and again.

One stone wasn’t enough. Others followed the first. They weren’t all perfect attempts. On a couple, I didn’t get the front edge up and they quickly sliced into the water, sinking immediately with barely a plop.

Inadvertently, I picked up one or two rocks which weren’t flat. For some reason, I didn’t just drop them to the strand on which we stood, but tossed them into the water. They disappeared with a solid plunk, sinking down to the bottom to be tumbled along on their journey. Perhaps, in another century or two, when they have worn flat, some other old man, or perhaps even a young one, will feel the joy of skipping one of those very rocks across the surface of the same river. Perhaps.

The Lovely Lady took a photo or two of the result of my rock-skipping. I’ve posted one above. It’s a beautiful thing, showing the old bridge, along with the pretty autumn colors.

But the part that catches my eye, again and again, is the series of circular ripples on the surface of the water.

In my memory, I rub my fingers across the smooth stone that made all those ripples. Thin and without sharp edges, it is perfect for slipping across the surface, leaving evidence of its passage, but slowing hardly at all as it spins quickly on to its next place of impact.

I remember, with amusement, the other stones I tossed into the water. They too made ripples. One ring. Plunk.

Do you know what makes some stones suitable for skipping across great expanses of water? They have tumbled and scraped and banged, for ages, against other stones going through the same process.

If I were to carry a huge stone, as big as my head, to the riverside and drop it in, there would be a tremendous splash, but it wouldn’t have as much impact, overall, as one of those small flat stones that spun out of my hand on that recent autumn day.

Oh, it would make an impression, the initial result being a single ring which would multiply and repeat itself into the distance. But, it would still be only one circle, limited in its reach.

I want to shift the world around me. Not in a spectacular way, but enough so that when I’m gone, folks will remember the impact. Not me, but the result.

There are days when I feel old and worn. I’m finally realizing that those days—the ones when I feel especially useless and weak—may be the days when I am finally ready to go spinning across the water. In the hands of the Master Stone-Skipper, the ripples might be felt forever.

It’s possible.

The woman who poured expensive perfume on Jesus’ feet was such a person. The impact of her act is still being felt today, as He promised it would be. (Matthew 26:13)

You know—those plain, smooth stones were completely unimpressive as we walked over them on that riverbank. But, in the right hands, they had a far-reaching effect.

We, who are being worn smooth by life and its hardships may be given the same opportunity one day.

Will today be the day we leave the ripples that will be felt forever? Click To Tweet

I wonder if today will be the day.

I’d like to make a few more ripples.

Success is more dangerous than failure; the ripples break over a wider coastline.
(Graham Greene ~ British novelist ~ 1904-1991)

Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is.
(Ephesians 3:17,18 ~ NLT)

Waiting for Dawn

October 11, 2016October 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The insistent tone of my smart-phone’s alarm clock pierced the fog of sleep this morning. My eyes fluttered open reluctantly.

Still dark.

I would have lain there and slept longer, but the alarm was only increasing in volume. It does that, you know. It gets louder.

I stood and, stumbling to the window sill where the offensive device awaited, touched the screen. As it finally relented, I breathed a sleepy sigh of relief.

Over the tops of the blinds, I gazed out to the eastern horizon. It was supposed to be daylight! Where was the sun?

I waited—and watched. There was a hint of light near the ground, but it did the world no good.

Still dark.

For all my waiting, the world was still in shadow.

I glanced down at the clock. Wow! I had to get moving!

Dressing quickly and going through my morning ritual, I forgot about the darkness outside. Well, I didn’t forget; I just ignored it.

Funny. I knew what was going to happen. Still, when I stepped out the back door to face the eastern sky again, it caught me by surprise.

It was anything but dark! The brilliance of the sunrise had me standing there blinking in its light.

Sunrise comes by itself. While I do the thing needed, its light explodes over the horizon in hues of fiery red and brilliant yellow and eye-popping orange.

While I do the thing needed.

In the dark, we do what is required of us.

In the dark, we do what is required of us. Click To Tweet

I will admit that it feels as if I’ve been laboring in the dark for some time now. To my dismay, it seems very much as if night has taken hold and is determined to maintain its grip on my world without ever letting go.

Nothing I do has made the night around me less dark.

I have prayed.

I have sung at the top of my lungs.

I have sat and cried.

I have raged.

Still dark.

Finally, it occurs to me. There is work to be done. The journey still lies ahead. Yes, even in the dark.

I remember that the Creator—the One who makes the sun to rise on the righteous and unrighteous—is still up to the task. (Matthew 5:45)

I will do the thing needed.

While He keeps His promises, I will keep mine.

While He keeps His promises, I will keep mine. Click To Tweet

Daylight will come. It will. With or without us, it will come.

We know it in our hearts.

We should be up and doing while we wait.

Shouldn’t we?

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing; Praise for the morning;-
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.
(from Morning has Broken ~ Eleanor Farjeon ~ English poet ~ 1881-1965)

But for you who fear My name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings; and you will go forth and skip about like calves from the stall.
(Malachi 4:2 ~ NASB)

Arise and Go

October 27, 2015October 27, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I will arise and go.

The words came to me as I sat among the mud and scattered corn husks tonight.

You laugh. Perhaps with good reason.

And yet…

And yet, I find it easy to drift away into the dark places of my mind these days. People are gone from my life and from the lives of friends. Some have gone beyond recall, never to be reunited this side of eternity. At times, the pain is nearly palpable, the sadness overwhelming.

Others are separated by events no less catastrophic, but perhaps less permanent. Perhaps.

The sadness of broken relationships has become more personal and more crushing with every passing year—indeed it seems—with every passing day. The hopeless feeling bewilders me and doubts grow that broken marriages can be salvaged, or that adult children estranged from parents and siblings
can ever put aside their petty feuds and be reconciled. Somehow, that feeling is hardly less devastating than what I feel for those separated in that final, irrevocable farewell of death.

On the heels of the abrupt loss of an old friend last week have come numerous reminders of other recent losses by friends and in my own family. I listened to a beautiful song by a young friend this evening and wept anew for the cruel scars left by the theft of once-bright minds in aging parents and grandparents. The never-ending stories of broken friendships and rifts in family relationships only add to the sadness.

No. The mud and corn husks of a pig wallow seem to be an apt description.

I may have even heard the startled grunt of a pig a moment ago, as I shifted my position in my seat. It is dark in here.

But, the words come to mind again.

I will arise…

I will arise and go.

Although the path leading here didn’t jibe with the story those words belong to, I’m thinking the cure may be the same.

Funny, isn’t it? Some places, you just arrive at by chance. Without even trying, I find myself frequently at the doughnut shop miles away, and once in awhile, at the ice cream parlor just down the street.

I don’t have to decide to go there. Why is it the places that are not healthy for us just seem to appear before us?

When we want to do healthy things, we have to struggle. We must force ourselves out of our easy chairs, or push away from the dinner table. We dress for the specific activity and select the correct shoes. Protective gear is carefully adjusted and equipment is checked again.

I never, never, just find myself exercising. You?

Come to think of it, we have to make an effort to do most everything which is profitable for us. But the dark places, the damaging activities, almost seem to find us on their own.

I certainly didn’t go looking for this place. I just found myself in here.

I am going to have to take action if I want to leave it behind, though.

I will arise. My Father has things so much better for me.

There might even be a party going on there.

You’ll come too, won’t you?

It might take some effort on your part, as well.

I will arise. And, go to the Father.

He’s already waiting.

He always has been.

But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.
(Luke 15:20 ~ KJV)

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British novelist/Christian apologist ~ 1898-1963)

Flee as a bird to your mountain,
Thou who art weary of sin;
Go to the clear-flowing fountain,
Where you may wash and be clean;
Fly, for temptation is near thee,
Call, and the Savior will hear thee;
He on His bosom will bear thee,
O thou who art weary of sin,
O thou who art weary of sin.

He will protect thee forever,
Wipe ev’ry falling tear;
He will forsake thee O never,
Sheltered so tenderly there!
Haste then, the hours are flying,
Spend not the moments in sighing,
Cease from your sorrow and crying,
The Savior will wipe ev’ry tear,
The Savior will wipe ev’ry tear.
(Flee as a Bird ~ Mary Dana Schindler ~ American hymn writer ~ 1810-1883)

Noonday Bright

August 5, 2015August 5, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The birthplace of Christianity was the tomb. The birthplace of splendor is desolation. Spring is conceived in the dark womb of Winter. And light is inevitably the offspring of darkness. All this present heaviness of night is surely but the prelude to a better dawn. The voice of God and the voice of Nature proclaim that the best is yet to be—always, the best is yet to be.
(Robert Cromie)

There is an unseen current of distress which I sense in much of my interaction with folks these days. From my friends who use their understanding of the Bible to prop up their dim view of the future of civilization, to those who see the changing political landscape in our country—indeed, in the world—as proof of our impending calamity, there is an air of certainty and of finality.

I myself, and no time more than when I sit down to write, have of late been overcome by the melancholy sense of things which have passed beyond recall. Friends are missing from my life—friends who were here just moments ago. Family members have disappeared—people I loved and who loved me—never to be encountered again while I breathe this air.

All is dark. The end will soon be upon us all.

But, is it? Will it?

I cannot begin to count the number of times in my lifetime I have heard folks predict the ending of this world. From the same Bible I read and believe, they have found proof of days and seasons, and some, even times. But, again and again, the day, the season, and yes, even the time has passed and life continues here on this spinning ball.

I do not wish to discount the prophecies cited, but I am skeptical of the ability of any living man to successfully render an accurate reading of passing events with hopes of naming the day or even the season in which the end will come.

It seems to me that it is not our purpose in this life to look to the ending of time, but to work while we still have it on our side.

But, I have a different purpose here, a purpose not tied up in prophecy or politics. The writer of Hebrews suggests we have a responsibility to encourage each other. He says it is even more imperative as we see the end approaching. Even more.

Encourage, verb: Give support, confidence, or hope, to (someone).

I’m ready to be done with the doom and gloom, to move out from under the cloud of defeat and into the light of victory. That said, it seems we start from a position of disadvantage. It is dark and cold here in the real world.

In this dark world, where is the light of day to be found?

If you noticed the painting above, you may have had the passing thought: how sweet—a little girl looking at a songbird.

You would be partially right. There is a little girl. There is even a songbird. You would also be partially wrong.

She is not looking at the bird. The artist’s daughter, the subject of this touching tableau, is completely blind.

The world in which the little girl grew up and lived was permanently dark. It didn’t stop her from hearing the song of the robin and knowing winter could not last forever. The barren ground would explode with grasses and flowers; the trees would burst forth into bloom, filling the air with the aroma of their buds. In the heart of that little girl, who would never see Spring, the glory of that blessed season was already bursting forth.

Spring is conceived in the dark womb of Winter.

I refuse to live in the dark of night, when all about me is the orange of the sunrise. I cannot remain in the black grip of sadness, when the joy promised in the morning is already at hand.

Do you hear the robin’s song too? Are you ready to head out in the early blush of dawn on a road that leads to a noonday bright?

It is not so dark here. Maybe we could travel together a while.

The voice of God and the voice of Nature proclaim that the best is yet to be—always, the best is yet to be.

For the darkness shall turn to dawning,
And the dawning to noonday bright.
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
The kingdom of love and light.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H Ernest Nichol ~1862-1928)

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.
(John 14:27 ~ NIV)

At the Edge

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

Do you know what fear looks like?

Of course, you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would one need fear up on that mountaintop?

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

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

It was an invitation not to be ignored.

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

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

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

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

Smiling.

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

Proud.

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

Terrified.

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

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

The face of fear smiles. It smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whisper

June 10, 2015June 10, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve been ill again. I don’t say that to evoke your sympathy. It’s not a life-threatening illness. At least, I don’t think it is. Asthmatic bronchitis is not uncommon and there are any number of effective treatments for it.

Feeling better today, I told the Lovely Lady I think I’ll live. Immediately, I remembered what the ultimate end of all mankind will be, and I added the phrase at least, until I die.

She was not amused. Of course, she needs me well, so she can get back to her regular work schedule of only sixty hours a week. I have left her in the lurch. She’s not amused–I’m not happy.

I’m going to admit something I may regret later. While I understand that my illness is quite treatable and am even now waiting for medication to effect its curative function, I confess that I get a little discouraged (and maybe a little angry) while I’m waiting.

In the dark and by myself, I feel helpless. You see, I’ve prayed that I’ll be free from this particular thorn in the flesh on numerous occasions over the years, but still it knocks me down periodically.

I wonder why God doesn’t hear me.

Where are you God?

I would have shouted the words, had I the breath to do so today, but satisfied myself with whimpering them plaintively toward the ceiling in the den.

There was no answer.

He’s not here, is He?

I asked myself the question and then shuddered at the implications.

Pushing up from my recliner, I went up the steps to the dining room. The result was the same there. Nothing. Living Room–Kitchen? Still nothing.

It’s a beautiful home, even if it is small. Surely, God would want to live in such an attractive abode. But, I’m pretty sure I never heard Him answer from the walls of any of those rooms.

I went back to my chair and flopped down, gasping a little.

Disappointed, I sat for a moment. Only a moment. It seemed to be just a little brighter in the room as I considered the glimmer of truth which was gradually coming to my consciousness.

Not too many years ago I went to an event, described as a house blessing, for some close friends. Their denomination allows for such things, reading scripture, then blessing each room in turn, before calling for God’s presence in the home. I expected to feel different when I left. I didn’t.

I remember thinking that’s not how it works.

I also remember some friends on the other end of the spectrum of faith who had someone come in and do a service to cast out the evil spirits from their home. The assumption was, again, that God would come and fill that space, recently vacated by the bad things.

I wasn’t there. I’m not going to get into an argument about exorcism, nor even about blessing houses.

I just know what is truth. Straight from Him.

Truth.

God doesn’t live in buildings. Why would he want to inhabit dead, inanimate things made of brick, and wood, and steel?

Ah. Now you know what that glimmer bursting into flame earlier was, don’t you?

God lives in His people. Weak–strong. Old–young. Women–men.

Inside this weak, sick man, gasping for breath on a warm, summer day, the Creator has taken up His abode.

Inside the old man down the street from me, overtaken by blindness, God sees clearly exactly what he needs.

In the soul of my friend, awaiting word from her oncologist giving her the bad/good news about the result of her latest PET scan, He is not surprised nor panicked. He sees all paths and knows all ends.

And, He lives inside of us.

Do you think He doesn’t feel the despair?

Do you assume He doesn’t understand my anger?

Do you suppose He doesn’t hear the frightened petitions?

Would you imagine He is unmoved by our cries?

He lives in us!

So. I’m done yelling at the ceiling.

Now, I begin to understand that song we used to sing when we were children. Maybe it’s time to whisper our prayers to Him again.

Just a whisper.

Inside voice will work just fine.

Give me yourself and in exchange I will give you Myself. My will, shall become your will. My heart, shall become your heart.
(from Mere Christianity ~ C.S. Lewis ~ Irish born teacher/author ~ 1898-1963)

Whisper a prayer in the morning.
Whisper a prayer at noon.
Whisper a prayer in the evening,
To keep your heart in tune.
(Anonymous)

Yet the Most High does not dwell in houses made by hands…
(Acts 7:48a ~ ESV)

Good Things

May 21, 2015May 22, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.
(Lord Byron)

Thousands? Millions? Hardly that, for all the words I will slather on this page like so much honey onto a slice of bread, but perhaps some will think anyway. A few.

I left her a few moments ago, sitting in her customary place under the lamp, patiently placing stitch after stitch of thread into the canvas on her lap. She looked into my face just before I turned away. What the Lovely Lady saw there, I don’t know, but she interpreted my emotions in that split second.

“Don’t be depressed.” The words came out more as a supplication for a favor than a demand.

She knows me.

My work day was a little tumultuous, emotionally. More than a little.

The day started with a visit from a young man with whom I’ve been acquainted for a number of years. I knew him when he was a middle-schooler, still in his early teens.

I still picture him–No, not just a picture, but a video–in my head, sitting on a stool over in the corner. There is an acoustic guitar in his hand, and he is singing. Clear and pure, the melody flows from his mouth, his vocal chords producing tones I could never dream of making myself. The ordinary guitar in his hands has become an instrument of magic, the chords and arpeggios flowing effortlessly to blend with the sonorous vocals of the song.

I have listened to hundreds, perhaps thousands, of individuals, both young and old, as they sit and play in my store. For almost forty years, they’ve come through. Many are just beginners, the chords they play halting and timid, the strumming patterns almost not patterns at all. Some, more experienced, are quite good, their playing pleasant to hear, the vocals (when they come) adequate. There are even a few who are accomplished musicians, confident in their skill, and comfortable with the few customers who make up their audience.

This young man though–I have never seen a more natural performer, nor listened to more raw talent. Never. He played flawlessly, his fingers flashing over the strings. And, when he sang? Ah, when he sang, he was in a world all his own, oblivious to anyone else in the room. From a beautiful broad baritone range, up to the powerful high tenor voice, and then on into a beautiful clear falsetto, he sang without fear and without imperfection.

I remember thinking, this one–this one is going to go places and do amazing things with his gifts. I had no doubts success would be his.

It was inevitable.

It was not.

I’m not sure where the young man’s experiences have taken him in the ten years since I first heard him, but those years have not been friendly to him. Gone is the genial, confident boy I knew. Gone too, is a large part of his raw talent, sacrificed on the altar of drugs.

I will not dwell on the sadness in my heart; it will come through on its own. As I looked into the chemical-clouded eyes of my young friend, I saw no sign of recognition, no smile of joy as in days past. His voice was flat and emotionless, his responses to my questions slow, sometimes not coming at all. Drug usage is a thief, stealing abilities and ambitions, leaving in their place detachment and resignation.

Don’t be depressed? Why should I not?

How could I not?

I said it was a tumultuous day, didn’t I? Tumultuous describes both highs and lows, a heady mixture of good and bad. Today was such a day.

As the workday drew to a close, another friend came in. A transplant from New Orleans, this middle-aged fellow has made his home in our small town for almost ten years now. A little hurricane named Katrina blew him our way and he decided to stay.

An avid jazz lover, he hasn’t always found fellow musicians to play with, since this part of the country is not exactly a hotbed of jazz music. Still, he slogs along, guitar in hand, making disciples where he can.

This afternoon, he and I were deep in conversation when another young man walked in. The young college graduate picked up a guitar and strummed a chord or two. Well-trained in a number of styles of music, he has developed a love for jazz recently. Talk about a coincidence!

The two men had met before, and they greeted each other as the older jazz lover from New Orleans seated himself on a stool near the younger man. Now both of them were holding guitars.

They had just begun to play together, when still another young friend pushed the door open. This fellow also has extensive training in various styles of music, having a few years of studio recording and touring with a popular Christian group under his belt.

Before I knew it, they were all holding guitars and playing, with some skill, the jazz chord progressions the older man called out to start with. A moment later, you might have thought they had played together for years, the sound was so smooth and clean. It wasn’t flawless, but it was good.

I left them to enjoy each other and the music, and I sat down at my desk.

Disappointment had been my companion from the start of the day. I wanted to hold that tight and wallow in the feeling. My sadness at the waste of such talent was palpable. The ten-year old video in my head was still playing, the once joyful vocals and accompaniment now solemn and tragic.

But, the music from around the corner intruded. Yes. That’s the word. It intruded, driving out the dark, lighting the place with hope. Joy, even.

A voice took up a melody–an old tune from the classic age of jazz. Oh the shark has–pretty teeth dear, and he shows them–pearly white. . .

I have a new video to play in my brain now. Mack the Knife is sitting ready to play and replay again when I need a good memory. Two young men, sitting beside their new friend, a street-singer from New Orleans, are playing along in fine form. His old voice, rough and soft all at once, is belting out the lyrics as he swipes at the strings of the old acoustic guitar.

This moment is one to add to my collection.

A tumultuous day. Just as it started with disappointment, so it ended with joy and satisfaction.

And, what of my disappointment? What of the wasted young man? Is that nothing? Is he nothing?

The answer is clear. I am still sad. And deeply concerned. I will do everything that is in my power to help him. But I cannot stay there.

I will speak of the sad and the unseemly. I will speak of it, but I won’t dwell there.

I will dwell on the beautiful and the good. There is, it seems, still a good bit of those left in this wide world which our Creator has given us to sojourn in. And, we are still just passing through it. Passing through on our way to a place where the beautiful and the good are all which will be seen and experienced.

So, Lord Byron, these words in figurative ink have fallen onto my thoughts, here in the middle of the night.

Let us see if perhaps, just perhaps, a small percentage of your thousands, or millions can be induced to think.

And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.
(Philippians 4:8 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

depression

Not Woebegone

Ripples

Waiting for Dawn

Arise and Go

Noonday Bright

At the Edge

Whisper

Good Things