Is It Clean Yet?

February 21, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

She left me a note on the kitchen table.

“Turn the oven on to 385 degrees at eleven o’clock. I really want it at 375, but that should get it there. Check the inside thermometer before you put the meatloaf in and adjust accordingly. Thanks! Love you!”

I know how to follow directions. The problem is, when I checked the inside thermometer fifteen minutes after starting it, the temperature was 425 degrees! The setting said 385—I was aiming for 375—but I got 425 instead.

There were no instructions for this!

I turned the oven setting down to 325. In a few more minutes I checked the thermometer again. It said 350.

Eventually, the meatloaf was cooked, but not without 2 smoke detectors going off, first one then the other filling the air with its obnoxious screeching.

She wondered if it was time to buy a new stove. That’s not the way I do things.

I wonder sometimes if she understands me.

I like new things. I do. It’s just that I take it as a personal affront if an appliance won’t fulfill its unspoken promise to function until it’s earned its keep. A stove should last twenty years, not six. That’s my expectation, anyway.

I did some research, finding that we merely needed to replace the temperature sensor in the oven. It was a fifteen-dollar part.

I ordered the part.

After it arrived yesterday, knowing I’d have to get to the back of the oven compartment, I began the repair by removing the door of the oven. Carrying the door into the living room I laid it carefully on the sofa, making an offhand comment about the greasy residue on the front glass.

By the time I made it back to the kitchen, she was laying old towels over the table there, asking me to bring the door back in so she could clean it.

The entire time I worked at replacing the sensor, she cleaned.

Eventually, I needed to slide the stove itself away from the wall to access the wiring under the back panel. As I moved the heavy beast, I noticed the debris around the edges of the flooring where the stove had been sitting. I made the mistake of mentioning it to the Lovely Lady, as she was finishing up on the oven door.

I swept the floor with a broom, thinking it would be good enough. I even picked up the meat fork that had dropped down there a few years ago.

Finishing up the wiring connection (and groaning loudly about the discomfort of squatting there for too long), I closed up the panel on the back. Coming back around to the front, I leaned back into the oven compartment to tighten up the screws that held the part fast to the back wall inside.

When I looked up again, the Lovely Lady was nowhere to be found. I was about to shove the stove back into its space when I realized she was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor I had just swept.

I’m not sure I always understand her.

“No one is ever going to see that. Why are you wasting your time and effort?”

Even as I said the words, I remembered the ladies. Ladies in homes (and sometimes a man) where I had been called to move pianos in years past. For various reasons—perhaps they were moving, or redecoration required a temporary relocation, or I was buying the piano to resell—I often moved pianos for folks over the forty years I was in the music business.

Without fail, when my helpers and I moved the ultra-heavy pieces of furniture away from the wall, the lady of the house would gasp in embarrassment. When something sits in one place for years, dirt and debris tend to build up under and around it.

“No one expects you to clean under your piano,” I would always say, hoping to lessen their shame. It never helped.

Often, they would still be swiping at the back of the piano with a broom as we moved it out the doorway.

All that went through my mind in a flash after the words left my mouth. I shut up; then I went and sat down for a few moments to give her time to finish.

The oven works. For now. The day is coming when it won’t and we’ll pull it out of the little cubicle it’s sitting in to repair it again. Maybe, we’ll have to replace it the next time.

But for now, it works. And, it’s clean inside and out. And underneath it.

It’s clean.

Despite my nonchalance—my carelessness—it’s clean.

Why am I like that? Why do I think it doesn’t matter what kind of crud is there—out of sight? If it looks good, it must be good.

And yet, I hear the voice of The Teacher as he calls the religious leaders of His generation “whitewashed tombs”. (Matthew 23:27)

Clean and beautiful to the eyes of those passing by, but hidden inside, the stink and filth of death. Or maybe, like the kitchen, sparking clean to the eye, but with debris and crud—and a meat fork or two—lurking in the shadows.

He promises to make us clean. All clean. Inside and out.

But we can’t shove the stove back into place before it’s clean under there.

I’ve got to make a repair to the washing machine today, too.

I wonder what we’ll find under there.

“I don’t mind dying; I’d gladly do that. But, not right now. I need to clean the house first.”
(Astrid Lindgren)

Don’t you realize that those who do wrong will not inherit the Kingdom of God? Don’t fool yourselves. . .Some of you were once like that. But you were cleansed; you were made holy; you were made right with God by calling on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6: 9, 11 — NLT)

Squirrels Know Where Home Is

February 14, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

There is a ladder against my neighbor’s house. It’s a tall extension ladder that has been leaning there for a couple of months.

Frequently this winter, I have stood at my back door with a cup of coffee in hand and wondered about the ladder. My neighbor is close to three-quarters of a century old. I’m not sure he should be climbing up onto his roof.

As I finished a walk the other day, I noticed my friend was outside doing some work (on the ground), so I stopped to ask him about the ladder. His reply surprised me.

“Oh, those pesky squirrels!”

I wondered for a moment if the squirrels had gotten a team together to move the ladder themselves. You know, to make it easier to get up into the pine trees nearby. Can’t you see them standing on each other’s shoulders, the top of that tall ladder wobbling around as they stagger to and fro toward the overhanging roof?

It’s not as if there aren’t enough of them around to accomplish the task. At any given time, I can walk outside and frighten half a dozen of them. Often, I can see more than double that number cavorting and chasing each other as I gaze out the living room window.

But, no. My neighbor told me he’s had to set a trap inside the eave of his attic—one he can’t reach from inside the house. Thus, the ladder. He’s already trapped six or seven of the cute little varmints and says they’re not all gone yet.

I nodded sagely, remembering the old Victorian house in which we raised our children, years ago. The attic of that house was home to a plethora of the bushy-tailed rodents.

I remember a visit to our family doctor during those years. We made a last-minute run out to the country to release a squirrel we had trapped in the attic, so I was a little late for my appointment. When I explained what happened to the kind old medic, he laughed.

“That squirrel will get back home before you do!”

I didn’t believe him then, but after doing a little research, I’ve found that the little critters do have a strong homing instinct, returning home sometimes from as far away as fifteen miles.

Most squirrels never go more than a few hundred yards away from their home in an entire lifetime, we’re told by some experts. And yet, in dire necessity, they can find their way home from up to fifteen miles away!

The squirrels know where home is.

On a recent visit to a big city in a neighboring state, we turned into the parking lot of a church where we were to meet up with some family members and saw a car stop near the entrance to the parking lot.

The church was surrounded by trees—maples, oaks, and sweet gums—making a verdant wall of protection around the campus. There, at the entry from the city highway, the paved drive in front of him, the man opened the hatchback of his SUV. Taking out a live trap, he set it on the ground and opened the spring-loaded door. Immediately, a terrified squirrel darted out, making a beeline for the trees nearby.

As the man placed the trap back into his car and drove away, I thought of our old doctor and couldn’t stop the words:

“That squirrel will get back home before he does!”

We laughed, but there’s a niggling truth that my brain keeps worrying at.

The squirrel’s world has been turned upside down—nothing around him is familiar or recognizable. And yet, he knows how to find his home again.

And, he’ll be back as soon as he can get there.

It seems to me that the world around us is all topsy-turvy right now. Nothing is as it was—when we were growing up—when we were settling down with the one we love—when we were making plans for the still far-distant future.

And yet, we who trust in the Living God have always had a home. Wherever we have been—no matter how far away from the familiar, the comfortable—we’ve been promised a hiding place.

“For you are my hiding place;
you protect me from trouble.
You surround me with songs of victory.”
(Psalm 32:7, NLT)

Our home is where He is. And, where He is, we are safe.

I’ve watched the squirrels scatter for their hiding places. They head for the distant oak tree, with its nest of leaves and sticks high up in the branches, and they are safe. I suppose they may head for my neighbor’s attic, too.

Our home is much closer. You see, He lives in us.

In us.

It’s safer, too.

Maybe it’s time to head there now.

Dr. Moose was wrong.

I think we can get home before that squirrel does.

“The name of the Lord is a strong tower;
The righteous runs into it and is safe.”
(Proverbs 18:10, NASB)

“In the gentle evening breeze
By the whispering shady trees
I will find my sanctuary in the Lord.”
(from Full Force Gale by Van Morrison)

Always On Time

February 6, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We celebrated the boy’s birthday yesterday. It wasn’t the actual day on the calendar, but he had a day off and the rest of us were free, so we scheduled the dinner.

It was only a few days ago we decided on the date. The Lovely Lady and I had a short trip to Tennessee that took a couple of those days. Before we knew it, we were almost upon the date and we hadn’t ordered a present.

But, you know there’s this online service (the name sounds a bit like a piece of beef you’d order in an upscale restaurant) that promises delivery in two days.

We were sure it would be on time.

The day came and I checked my email for tracking. All seemed okay, with the package having arrived at the local distribution center early that morning.

It would be on time.

Further checks throughout the day told a different story. At noon, the package was still in the distribution center. I checked at four o’clock, with the same story.

It wouldn’t be on time.

At five, we sat down to dinner with the family, including the boy. Dinner proceeded, finishing in about half an hour.

Time to open presents.

Ours wasn’t there.

With great disappointment, we told him we’d have to get it to him the next time we saw him. He’s a strong independent young man, who had no intention of making his grandparents sad.

“No problem at all! I’ll just have my birthday longer!”

We laughed. I checked my phone again.

“Out for Delivery,” read the screen!

Ten minutes later, the delivery vehicle was in the street in front of the house. Eagerly, he tore open the package we handed him.

On time!

Our best efforts seemed to be thwarted, but instead, the package was right on time.

Right. On. Time.

I’m not good at the patience thing. I watch the clock, clicking the refresh button on my screen, disappointed every time.

The Preacher said there was a time and season for everything. Everything.

“To everything there is a season,
And a time to every purpose under the heaven.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:1, KJV)

I don’t want to wait. I want the answer now! Well before the deadline, I want to hold it in my hand, certain that I am prepared for whatever comes.

And yet, our Father up above created time, and the seasons, and the answers we crave. He’s the one who knew exactly when to send His Son.

“But when the fullness of the time came, God sent His Son. . .that we might receive the adoption as sons and daughters.”
(Galatians 4: 4-5, NASB)

His gifts are good. They are perfect.

They are on time.

There are a number of those gifts I’m still waiting on. (Patience, for one.)

I wasn’t sure about the online service. I’m confident—absolutely certain—about His timing.

He’s always on time. Always.

I’ll wait. You?

“God’s timing is always perfect. Trust His delays. He’s got you.”
(Tony Evans)

“Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.”
(James 1:17, NASB)

Redeeming the Time

January 29, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“We get more time!”

My friend smiled joyfully as she said the words. Her mom, who has cancer, had surgery last week and is healing nicely.

But, I wonder. . .

I’ve experienced the same thing in recent years. The Lovely Lady’s brother received his original diagnosis four years before the disease took him. At several points throughout that journey, we realized anew that we had more time, albeit limited, with him.

It changed our relationship; making us more purposeful. We valued the times around the table—the visits on the backyard deck. We knew our days together were numbered.

We made the most of them. We invested in them.

Does that make sense?

The Apostle, my namesake, used the term (at least in the version in which I learned it): Redeeming the time.

In the book of Colossians (chapter 4, verse 5), he uses it with respect to unbelievers and sharing the Good News with them. But, in Ephesians (chapter 5, verses 16 and 17), he’s clearly talking about our relationships with those of the faith.

Either way, we’re to invest our hours and days wisely. It’s nothing like the spending time we refer to so often in our culture. Redeeming means buying back; reclaiming every minute.

But, here’s what I wonder:

Why do we wait until we have a pretty clear picture of the time frame? Until we can almost see the limit of our days on earth with those we love?

Our days were numbered from the moment of our conception.

“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.”
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

He knows how long we have. He always has.

And He wants us to redeem every minute. For Him, and for those He’s blessed us to walk this journey with.

He knows our days without the need for a surgeon’s prognosis—without the calculation of life expectancy from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—without our wide-eyed expectations.

He knows. And, He wants us to invest ourselves into every bit of it.

I remember a song that was popular in my youth—an awful song (at least they were awful lyrics). But, there was a grain of truth in it.

The lyrics said, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.” The author of those lyrics intended them to mean that we love them physically—carnally.

Still, my mind has always traveled by its own strange paths.

And, I’m absolutely certain we’re intended to love the one we’re with. With the love that God put in our hearts, we are to invest ourselves every day into others He brings into our lives. In spiritual ways, and in practical ways.

Fill your days with manifestations of love for those around you. Words are good. Actions are better. Gifts are optional.

Don’t wait.

Today needs redemption already.

“We get more time.”

“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.”
(Walt Whitman)

“See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
Therefore do not be unwise, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”
(Ephesians 5:15-17, NKJV)

Homeward Bound

January 27, 2024January 27, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I want it to be true.

She said she had learned recently that the name common for homeless wanderers in the last century meant something almost romantic. We were talking about hobos, those bindle-toting fellows who rode the rails during the Great Depression, knocking on doors in small towns across the country as they looked for handouts—mostly food, sometimes money.

My guest told me the article she read suggested the word hobo was short for homeward bound.

I’ve done a bit of reading on the subject and find that explanation surfaced rather recently, extrapolated by a writer or two, coming from the soldiers who were traveling after the Civil War in the 19th century, saying they were homeward bound, only to realize when they got there that their homes had been destroyed in the conflict.

It seems more likely that the term came from the name given to the farmer boys who left their farms to look for a better life. Hoe-boys, they were called.

There was a day when I answered my grandmother’s inevitable question of what I intended to do with my life with the suggestion that I wanted to be a hobo. What I really meant was I wanted to live the life of a bum, but have the assurance of a home to return to and the promise of financial support, should I get hungry and cold.

I grew up and out of that mindset, thankfully. I did leave home, striking out to new horizons, but I put down roots and got a job immediately. The wandering life wasn’t for me, much to my grandmother’s relief.

Still, I like the idea of being homeward bound. Even after all the years of living nearly a thousand miles away, the reminders of my hometown I see almost daily induce a sort of homesickness in me.

I wonder. Why do we look for a place to call home?

Several years ago I wrote of my friend, Miss Peggy. She, in her ninety-first year of life, fussed at me one day because her friend had died. The friend was younger, probably in her late eighties.

“It wasn’t her turn!” Miss Peggy was adamant—almost angry.

I held back the laugh that threatened to burst out. I had never considered this concept of standing in line, waiting to get into Heaven. In my mind’s eye, I could visualize her friend, an old spinster just like Miss Peggy, cutting the line up ahead of those waiting impatiently.

The impulse to laugh died suddenly as Peggy tilted her head wistfully, letting the words spill out.

“I want to go home.”

Surrounded by her belongings, in her own cozy house, she wanted to be home. Really home.

I guess that’s what it’s like when you’ve been on the road so long. You just want to be home.

Not many of us are hobos, but all of us—if we’re God’s children—are homeward bound.

Just like Abraham and his offspring—like Moses and his wandering, grumbling tagalongs—we’re looking for the place of promised rest.

And, it’s not the place we came from. No, we’re going home.

Homeward bound.

And, in the meantime, our Creator’s got some green pastures and quiet waters for us to travel past. And, yeah. A dark valley or two.

But, there’s goodness. And mercy. All the days of our lives.

Until we’re finally home.

Looks like we’re headed the same direction. Maybe we could jump a freight train together sometime.

Homeward bound.

“They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth. Obviously people who say such things are looking forward to a country they can call their own. If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.”
(Hebrews 11:13-16, NLT)

“Would you welcome going home
If you’d never been away?
I don’t think so.
I don’t think so.
I really don’t think so.”
(from Would You by Evie Tornquist Karllson)

Friend to Grace?

January 19, 2024January 19, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It may come as a surprise, but I’m not all that big a fan of winter. However, I like snow.

I should clarify. When I look at it from the warmth of my living room, I like it. On my car’s windshield when I need to drive it—not so much. On the ramp out front when guests are arriving—certainly not!

I am becoming aware of something that seems a vital truth, though. This truth dawned on me today as I walked to the coffee shop I’m sitting in now. Yes, just like the rising sun’s light waking me from sleep, it hit me.

We need hardship—uncomfortable things—in our lives.

I know; it seems so antithetical to everything our society tells us. Every new technology seems aimed at making life easier—at reducing labor. Smartphones, self-driving cars, and domotics (automated homes) are only the latest in a long line of devices, perhaps starting millennia ago with the inception of the wheel.

When we become accustomed to the ease of living, it is difficult if not impossible for us to move out of the comfort zone in which we buffer ourselves.

I walked on the sidewalk covered in the remnants of this week’s snowfall today and I found myself grousing about the uneven and sometimes slick surface. It wasn’t the first time I’ve done it recently.

Each frigid day this week I’ve walked to the university where the Lovely Lady is employed, to collect her at the end of her workday. The university staff has cleared their sidewalks of snow and ice rather nicely. It’s easy to stroll along the concrete surfaces, without the need to watch our steps. We walk comfortably and easily across most of the campus, free of stress and effort.

Until that is, we come to the end of their property and the cleared sidewalks. The roughness of icy spots and the deeper snow mean we have to choose our steps carefully. We’re getting to the age where falls are more than just a quick trip to the ground and getting up dusting the snow off our seats. The pain lasts.

If we don’t choose our steps wisely, it hurts.

But, we don’t walk where the sidewalks are always cleared. We must walk circumspectly—cautiously and with care—in every situation.

Does it seem we’re not talking just about snowy sidewalks anymore? Perhaps we’re not.

If the shoe fits. . .

I had the words to the old Isaac Watts hymn, Am I a Soldier of the Cross, in my head this morning as I walked.

Are there no foes for me to face?
Must I not stem the flood?
Is this vile world a friend to grace,
To help me on to God?

I know, I know. It’s odd to be singing words written three hundred years ago while crunching through the snow. But, that’s me. Odd.

The clear answer to Mr. Watts’ question is that the world is not a friend to grace and it will, without fail, attempt to thwart our every effort to be with God.

We who follow Christ get to make the journey one precarious step at a time. The path, we’re told, is narrow and often lonely. We will stumble a time or two. Or more.

It’s easier on the other path—the one that’s been cleared and leveled. There’s more company there, too.

But, in the end, the easy path is infinitely more dangerous. The destination won’t be pleasant, I’m told.

Besides, there’s always Someone on the rough path with our best interest in mind. The Psalmist knew it.

The Lord directs the steps of the godly.
He delights in every detail of their lives.
Though they stumble, they will never fall,
for the Lord holds them by the hand.
(Psalm 37: 23-24, NLT)

Our friends, the hikers, have walked the Appalachian Trail in the eastern United States from Georgia to Maine. Over two thousand miles, they trekked, often holding on to each other, choosing every step with care lest they twist an ankle or break a bone.

The Trail is not smooth. Not at all. The hikers talk about the hardships, of the mental discipline necessary to keep going despite the obstacles.

But mostly, they talk about the incredible sights along the way and the amazing friends they made as they struggled along.

You don’t hike the Appalachian Trail on smooth, paved surfaces.

The road we have in front of us isn’t all that smooth, either. But, there are astounding people and beauty along the way. Besides, the finish—our goal—lies at the end of this sometimes icy, or rocky, or muddy, path.

The world is not a friend to grace. It wants us to be fooled by the smooth, wide pathways that eventually lead to hopelessness.

Meantime, on the inconvenient path, there will be friends along the way to lean on. And strong hands to keep us from falling when we stumble.

I’ll try to hold my grumbling down to a dull roar.

Still, I’ll be happy when that snow is melted.

See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
(Ephesians 5:15-16, NKJV)

“Careful!” he whispered. “Steps. Lots of steps. Must be careful!”
(Gollum, from The Two Towers, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

Potluck

January 8, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I grew up with potluck dinners. Most of my readers who grew up in church have experienced these events myriad times and will testify that they are lovely meals, albeit leading to many bouts of heartburn and indigestion.

Oh. Not because of eating bad food! No, the discomfort is simply because of the quantity of food one tends to ingest when sampling the output of so many wonderful cooks.

That’s not what you should expect to find here today.

I have in mind the definition of potluck from the sixteenth century—when eating potluck meant one had dropped in on an unsuspecting homemaker after the dinner hour and was offered whatever leftovers happened to have been thrown in the pot over the fire, being kept warm to prevent them from spoiling.

Often the resulting mélange was not appetizing in the slightest, but a hodgepodge of textures and materials, along with flavors (and perhaps even freshness, or the lack thereof).

This is like that, not the best from the recipe box; just whatever I’ve not been able to use in my last few outings, but don’t really want to throw it out just yet.

Bon appétit!

I intended to write again recently, but have been under the weather. If you didn’t already know that, it’s only because you haven’t been around to hear me complain about it. The Lovely Lady has endured well more than her share, taking it all in with incredible patience.

I looked at her earlier as she arose from her position on the loveseat near me and, realizing that she was moving slowly (which made me think about how weak I was feeling), I said—quite romantically, I thought, “I wish we could go back and live life together all over again.”

She frowned for a minute and, suggesting that she didn’t have the energy to go through all that again, went into the kitchen to work on dinner, leaving me to my disconnected thoughts once more.

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve had a visit from my annual guest, the boisterous asthmatic bronchitis. It’s been mostly calm during the days, but spends the night causing nothing but commotion and sleeplessness.

During several of those nights (and now, even in the daylight), I have bemoaned the pain caused by the continuous coughing fits. Holding my sides to lessen the ache of stressed muscles, I think I could die from this (a slight exaggeration, possibly).

And then this afternoon, as the Lovely Lady got into our car in the hospital parking lot—we weren’t there for me; she was visiting a friend—I was taken down a peg (again) to learn that when our friend coughs, she has to hug a pillow tightly to her chest to avoid doing actual damage to the incision and closures that her surgeon carefully worked on a couple of days ago.

This was after he split her chest open to do open-heart surgery.

I repent. I hear the red-headed lady who raised me saying the words—Tempest in a teapot—or something like that.

And, speaking of bridges—oh no, we weren’t, were we? Well, just another bit of the potluck, isn’t it?

Bridges. We stopped at the side of one of the state highways a few days ago, so I could sneak onto the verge of the pavement to photograph an old dry-laid stone culvert that a friend mentioned recently. I hasten to add that I did not walk where the “no trespassing” sign was posted but remained on the right-of-way instead.

I marvel at the industry of anyone who, seeing a stream or river in their way, determines to make a way over it, regardless of the labor involved, instead of simply fording the water when it’s low enough and finding a way around it when it’s not. That’s what I’d do.

The red-headed lady who raised me would have said. . . No, I don’t remember any maxims she had for idleness, except to remind us that the Bible says if you don’t work, you don’t eat.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, the bridge. A beautiful old rock arch bridge, hand-laid without mortar. I was reminded of why I love the structures, be they covered wooden affairs, metal pieces bolted and welded together, or even ornate concrete spans with rainbow arches thrown up across the entire span.

I love them because of the vision that wrought them. The people who stood on one bank of a mighty river—or even a trickling stream—and said, “Let’s make this better.”

There are still people doing just this in countries where the populace is not as blessed as we are with infrastructure maintained by our government. These visionaries are driven by a desire to make things better for folks they may never see or know. Folks whose lives may actually be saved because they don’t have to traverse a ravine to get to the hospital when they are having an emergency. Or, they may just be able to save a couple of hours a day by going over instead of around.

Sometimes we get tired and vision fades. Sometimes we need a day or two of sitting to be reminded that there is still more to be done. Maybe even a lesson in perspective to see people who really are hurting and not just sorry for themselves.

Well, it looks like that’s all there is in the pot tonight. I hope it wasn’t too unpalatable. If you can get to the dinner table earlier next time, you might get a better concoction. Something you can sink your teeth into a little easier. Maybe even some pie for dessert.

I’m reminded that Elisha the prophet just threw some flour into a pot of nasty stew centuries ago and it got all better. I’ll try to find some of that flour before the next go-round.

For now, I think I’ll go find the Lovely Lady and suggest a trip to Sonic for a Number 3 burger (do they still make those?). Maybe she’ll be more inclined to think about going on all the adventures again after a generous offer like that.

Then again, perhaps I should simply give thanks for what I’ve got.

But, Sonic’s not a bad idea anyway.

“Where there is no vision, there is no hope.”
(George Washington Carver)

“Elisha said, ‘Get some flour.’ He put it into the pot and said, ‘Serve it to the people to eat.’ And there was nothing harmful in the pot.”
(2 Kings 4:41, NIV)

A Puppy Would Be Good

January 2, 2024January 2, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I learned one final life lesson from last year a few days ago. Well, perhaps there were others after that too.

But still—one lesson I never expected.

You’re never too old to fall in love with a puppy that you can’t take home.

Yeah, I know. I was surprised, too. I suppose I shouldn’t be. I’ve mentioned to you about the second childhood thing. And the getting more sensitive thing.

But, one day last week, the Lovely Lady and I got into my truck with a few extra passengers to visit the mountaintop where our grandchildren live. It takes over an hour to travel to their house, so I figured we’d have time to talk with our passengers on the way.

It turns out that, unlike me, they’re seasoned travelers who are better at planning their travel time than am I, so there were noise-canceling headphones and smartphones, along with a 900-page biography to be read, and instead of talking, my driving time was divided between counting skunk carcasses on the roadside and wondering why it is that all the churches in the little town of Sonora, Arkansas seem to be built right next to each other along the highway.

I might have thought about a few other things along the way. But, I promise you, I wasn’t thinking I’d be sad on the trip home because I had to leave a sweet little girl pup I’d already named Cyclone (in my head, anyway) on top of that mountain.

She wasn’t the only cute pup there. Others were bigger—or more playful—and perhaps, even more lovable. But, this little girl just caught my eye. And, my heart.

I looked at the Lovely Lady. You know, with puppy-dog-eyes. She knows me. Before I opened my mouth, she knew what I was going to say.

“She is beautiful. But, you know what we decided. Still, it’s up to you.”

It’s not like that time when I was a boy and wanted my own dog. Then, the red-headed lady who raised me was kind about it, but closed the door completely on the idea.

“No. It would be your dog, but I’d be the one feeding and watering it. I’d have to bathe the beast and get the annual vaccinations. Sorry. The family dog will have to do.”

This wasn’t like that. I’ve proved myself to this red-haired lady. She knows I can be trusted to take care of the pup.

But, we’ve decided—mutually—that it’s not in our best interest to have pets anymore. It wasn’t a decision we came to lightly.

The little girl stayed on the mountain with her litter-mates. She’ll certainly find a home with a loving family before long. Who could resist those eyes and that tornado-shaped coloration on her forehead?

Yet, all the way home I kept asking, “What if we tried . . .?”

And she didn’t say no to any of my ideas. . . well yeah—to a couple, she did. I’m not always that logical when I want something I shouldn’t have.

I might be happier if she had said no outright. Then I could blame her for my disappointment, instead of just being an adult and responsibly doing what I know is right in this situation.

But, I am going to do that. Be responsible, I mean.

Somehow, I think my choice of a name for the puppy wasn’t just a coincidence, either.

Storms come by themselves in nature. Sometimes, in our personal lives, we stir up the elements that cause the storms to gather strength and assail us.

I’m not saying little Cyclone would do that. I’m saying we make decisions and set boundaries in life for valid reasons and often, overstepping those boundaries brings grief into our lives. Even if we find ways to justify doing away with the limits we originally set.

Good is sometimes the enemy of excellent.

And sometimes, I forget how a team works and decide to do what I believe is good for me—to the team’s detriment.

Words come to my mind, a hippie mantra from the 1960s, that influenced many of my generation and more of those that have followed.

The free spirits back then said, “If it feels good, do it.” As I think, I realize they’re still saying it today.

I won’t.

I’m a believer in another mantra, one I’d like to carry into the new year and the foreseeable future.

Excellence is worth pursuing.

Not as catchy as the hippies’, is it?

The Apostle, my namesake, was even more wordy in his exhortation.

“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)

Earlier in the missive, he suggested that we think of others as better than ourselves. Before that, in one of his letters to the people at Corinth, he made it clear that we’re not to do good solely for ourselves, but constantly for others around us.

But, it was only a puppy. Which would have been a good thing, wouldn’t it? I would never say opening your heart and home to a puppy was bad.

And yet. . .

Better—and more excellent—things await just ahead. Maybe even over the next mountaintop.

Oh. So you know—I’m going to keep petting the puppies.

I just can’t take them home.

“Don’t accept your dog’s admiration as conclusive evidence that you are wonderful.” (Ann Landers)

“You say, ‘I am allowed to do anything’—but not everything is good for you. You say, ‘I am allowed to do anything’—but not everything is beneficial. Don’t be concerned for your own good but for the good of others.” (1 Corinthians 10:23-24, NLT)

Come to the Manger

December 24, 2023December 24, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I remember hearing about a family who visited a live nativity production a few years ago. They had seen Mary and Joseph with the Baby Jesus, the shepherds had come, and the production was over. Some of the kids were going over where the animals were kept so they could pet them.

One little girl’s mom suggested that she might want to go to pet the sheep, but she had a different idea.

“No, Mom. I just want to stay at the manger for a while, okay?”

It’s a simple story; sounding perhaps a bit too contrived. But, I’m wondering why we couldn’t do that.

This morning at our church, the hymns and carols finished, a bearded man mounted the steps to the platform. He almost looked like Santa Claus himself, with his full white beard and twinkling eyes.

He wasn’t. It was simply one of our elders, preparing for prayer time. He started out with a friendly, “Merry Christmas,” to the congregation (which we responded to in kind) and then began to pray.

“Lord, what more can we say?” He had hardly started to pray when a youngster’s voice piped up from somewhere near the front.

“Happy New Year!”

Of course, a ripple of laughter ran through the entire auditorium. We were amused that the child had responded so vocally.

The thing is, others thought the phrase. We’ve been taught that the two go together. Merry Christmas is followed by a Happy New Year. In the calendar, as well as in our greetings to each other.

But, I’m wondering if we could just slow down a bit and stay at the manger awhile.

We’re always in such a hurry to get to what comes next. Through all of our lives, we find it hard to live in the moment because other things, perhaps bigger and better, are coming.

I’m guilty of it, too. I know I’ve written before at Christmastime, assuring readers that we don’t worship a mere baby in a manger, but we worship a Savior who died and rose again for us.

As if the Baby in the manger wasn’t already the Savior of the world.

You think I’m wrong?

What did the angel say to the shepherds?

“For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2: 11, KJV)

At no time in His time on earth was He any more the Savior than when He was born and laid in that manger.

Or, when He taught the teachers in the Temple. Or, when He turned the water into wine. Or, when he wept at the tomb of His friend, Lazarus. Or, when he washed His disciples’ feet. Or, when he healed the ear of the servant in the garden.

Or indeed, when He died on the cross for the sins of the world.

Our friend, Simeon, whom I referenced the last time I wrote, made it clear. He had heard, had known all his life, of the salvation of the Lord. But, as he held the Child in his arms, he saw it.

“For my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke 2: 30, NET)

He saw the baby and he saw in that moment—he held in his own arms—the salvation promised for all of human history.

I’m reminded of the story of Job in the Old Testament when he saw the power of God. Job said:

“My ears have heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and I repent in dust and ashes.” (Job 42:5-6, NIV)

In the manger, for the first time, humans could see the salvation for which provision had been made before time began.

“…the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world.” (from Revelation 13:8, KJV)

I have a hunch that when our eyes are on Him, they can’t be focused on ourselves, our plans, or our silly little time schedules.

So, I’d like to stay at the manger a little longer, if you don’t mind.

The shepherds will visit and return to their fields and the magi will bring their gifts and depart again to their countries. Here and now, the new year will come and go—the parties will go past in a dizzying flash—the demands of the world around us will go on and on.

The Savior—our Salvation, our Light—remains.

You’ve got time.

Stay awhile.

Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road,
and hear the angels sing!
(from It Came Upon The Midnight Clear, by Edmund H Sears)

Conduct Unbecoming

December 21, 2023December 21, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I can’t be the only one who does it. Then again, perhaps I am. I’ve always been a little strange.

Still. I spend at least a few moments every day thinking about where I came from. And, where I’m headed. And sometimes even, where I’ve been along the way.

Sometimes, I get my words mixed up while I think about all these confusing things.

One of my brothers was fond of reminding me (when I was still a youngster, mind you) that we start dying the day we’re born. Just something extra for the weird sibling to chew on, you know?

For some reason, my mind wanders (as it often does), and I hear the words of the Skin Horse as he explains to the Velveteen Rabbit how to become real.

“‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.'”
(from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams Bianco)

It’s just a child’s story, but I remember the thought from many years ago when I first read it. I especially remember those powerful two words, “You become.” It seemed to that much younger (but already strange) me that those two words encapsulated what happens to us along the road of life.

For most of my life, I’ve been becoming.

A long obedience in the same direction is the way Eugene Peterson described it. Well, he borrowed the words from Nietzsche, but the thought was that one should continue as one had begun, headed for the goal.

Step by step, day by day. Becoming.

It doesn’t mean there haven’t been missteps. Nor does it mean that there haven’t been falls along the way. But, again and again, we stand up, shake ourselves off, and head again for the goal.

Becoming.

The disciple who was loved by our Savior, and who later taught so powerfully about love, muddies the waters a bit for us:

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become.” (1 John 3:2a, Good News Translation)

I laugh to myself as I read the words of John again. The uncertainty is not what I want. I’m not even sure I need it.

And, in a way, the uncertainty about what I am becoming is what got me tangled up in this subject in the first place.

As I consider the past (while looking to the future), it seems there is a disconnect of sorts, an interruption in the long obedience in the same direction.

For many years, the becoming was easy, the path ahead clear. A profession that allowed me to minister—to share, to care—was mine for many years. I had grown into it, seeing more clearly than ever as the opportunities and the years unfolded.

Then, a few years ago, my world became smaller. Or so it seemed to me. My business closed and my daily contact with all those folks ended. With COVID and changing circumstances at the university where I had played music with the young folks for years, my practical interaction with performing musicians came to a screeching halt.

And as I contemplated, a surprising thought came to mind:

I’m not becoming. I’m unbecoming!

It is, of course, untrue. That doesn’t stop the wheels from turning.

Did I say my mind wanders? It does.

I’m seeing a white-haired old gentleman, one hand on the scarred-up black steering wheel of the old blue 1967 Dodge van, the other waving in the general direction of a 30-ish young man sitting in the passenger seat as they careen down a dirt road in rural Arkansas. The dust flies behind them.

As they always did when delivering pianos, travel time is spent in discussion. The old man wasn’t happy this day.

“There’s no place for me at our church anymore. I’m thinking about finding a little country church where I can be of some use again.”

The young man, paying more attention to the unattached seat he’s attempting to stay upright in than to the old man, grabs tightly to the door handle and chokes out what he thinks is a wise answer.

“I thought you’d be happy to let younger folks take over and just enjoy the ride. You’ve earned some rest.”

Did I call him an old man? My father-in-law was younger than I am now when he said the words.

And, I answered him back with foolishness. The foolishness of youth.

Unbecoming, did I say it was? It would be easy to sit back and get comfortable with the thought of throwing in the towel. The old man never did, but I might.

But, unbecoming is not fitting or appropriate—unseemly.

No, really. That’s the definition the Oxford Dictionary gives for the word.

I don’t want to be any of those things.

The mind wanders even further back, and I see an old man standing in an ancient Jewish temple. The young couple has brought their tiny baby to be consecrated to God as the Law of Moses decreed.

They brought the child; God brought the old man. He wasn’t a priest—was not a religious official at all. But God had given him something to do before he died.

And, he was doing what God had told him to do. He wasn’t unbecoming at all.

He was becoming. What a moment!

Luke 2 says the Holy Spirit directed him to the temple at the exact time Jesus was brought in. Simeon’s words have always been one of my favorite passages from what we call the Christmas story.

“Now let your servant depart in peace, for I have seen the salvation of the Lord.”

My hair’s not white yet. I can still walk a few miles without faltering and push a lawnmower around the yard with no sign of fainting. I forget names, but I remember faces.

And, God doesn’t throw His servants into the trash heap when He’s done with them.

He just keeps changing us. From glory to glory, we’re told in 2 Corinthians 3:18.

Becoming.

I’m going on.

You’re coming with, aren’t you?

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he really is.”
(1 John 3:2, GNT)

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
(Dylan Thomas – Welsh Poet – 1914-1953)

“Simeon took him in his arms and blessed God, saying,
‘Now, according to your word, Sovereign Lord, permit your servant to depart in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation
that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples:
a light,
for revelation to the Gentiles,
and for glory to your people Israel.'”
(Luke 2:25-32, NET)

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