Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted

March 27, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“How did you get close enough to take this picture?”

The question appeared last night below a photo of an old abandoned bridge I posted in an online group to which I belong. We all love old bridges and share photos and stories with each other.

I was confused.

I’m still not completely sure I understand the question. But, I think I might.

In the group, we’re encouraged not to trespass on private property. It’s also understood that we don’t ignore warning signs about dangerous structures. And, we shouldn’t breach fences or locked gates.

I had clambered through a couple of steel barriers at the end of this particular bridge to walk across. Could that be what the questioner was referring to?

Am I a lawbreaker?

I remember the conversation with the Lovely Lady as we had approached the old steel structure on that day and saw the bars across the lane. I was certain of my legal standing.

“Those are just there to keep vehicles off the bridge. They’re not for pedestrians.”

I said I was certain of the legality of my actions.

But still, I wonder.

Less than an hour later, a few miles away, I climbed to the top of a railroad embankment near an old trestle. Nearing the top, I saw the sign.

“Private Property,” it said. “Keep off the tracks.”

I stood near the sign, leaning over as close as I could get to the tracks to acquire my photo. My arm and upper body stretched well past the sign.

But, I didn’t set a foot on that track!

I kept the letter of the law. I did. But, last night I read a news story about a man and his companion who didn’t a few years ago. On that same trestle, one man died and the other was seriously injured as they walked the tracks.

The trains frequently travel over 50 miles per hour across the trestle there. It’s impossible to stop a train moving at that rate of speed—and they’d try—even if it was just for someone’s head or hand stretched out over the edge of the tracks.

Why is it, when I looked at that sign as I climbed the steep embankment, all I could think about was how ridiculous it was that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do? All I desired was to get a good photo across the trestle. That’s it.

But, that stupid sign!

So, obeying the letter of the law, I pushed the envelope, leaning over as far as possible.

But, the spirit of the law—what I couldn’t see in that moment—the spirit of the law was only for my good. To keep me from injury. Or even death.

I am a lawbreaker. I want what I want. And, I’ll stretch across the boundaries as far as necessary to get what I desire.

Across the spirit of the law.

I am a lawbreaker.

I can’t help but remember that this is the week we consider (more than any other time) the coming of a Savior. He is the one who took on Himself the penalty of my lawbreaking.

He took away the penalty for all of us lawbreakers.

He writes on our hearts what God requires. No longer will we look at that stupid sign, at the written rules, and wish we could stand in the path of destruction; we now can understand His heart, His love, and His purposes.

Lawbreakers?

Yes—every one of us. Every one. (see Romans 3:23)

But, He has put eternity in our hearts. Not rules. Not words. (see Romans 3:24!)

The events we commemorate this week make it possible for lawbreakers to become His heirs, His family, instead of His enemies.

“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.”
(John 1:12, NLT)

It may take me a while to work out the boundaries thing. There may be more bridges crossed before that happens.

Photos may follow.

I hope no one will be hurt in the process.

But, I think I’ll take some time this week to consider the Savior and His astounding gift of grace.

At least it’ll keep me off the railroad tracks.

“There is no man so good, who, were he to submit all his thoughts and actions to the laws, would not deserve hanging ten times in his life.”
(Michel de Montaigne)

“You show that you are a letter from Christ…written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts.”
(2 Corinthians 3:3, NIV)

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)

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)

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)

Chestnuts Roasting? No Thanks!

November 28, 2023November 28, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I stand at the kitchen window, glad of the warmth inside this old house. Out there, the clear, frigid night edges inexorably into the wee hours, lit by the cold, white light of the moon, only a day past the full.

I always love these bright wintry nights observed from my warm post. I can sense the chill but stay comfortable without the aid of a coat and gloves.

Out under the old mulberry tree, itself not likely to last the winter, the dark outstretched shadows cast by the bare limbs remind me (appropriately) of old bones, gangling and spindly, across the leaf-covered ground.

And just for a moment, practical matters take my thoughts, reminding me that my grandchildren promised to help me rake those leaves later this week. We’ll enjoy the time spent doing that. We always do—teasing and laughing as we work together.

There is something bothering me—I’m not quite sure what. Yes, I know I don’t laugh quite as much as I used to. I get tired more quickly; my back aches from the repetitive motion of raking. The kids step up and carry the load I once did. It will all work out.

But, that’s not it at all. What was it?

Oh, yes! Now, my old brain catches up. In the bright moonlight, I see the two nut trees. The walnut tree, for one. The ground underneath its slim, straight shadow was covered with fallen nuts, long before the leaves fell. We’ll have to rake those up too—a nuisance, at worst.

My eyes (and thoughts) are drawn to the chestnut tree next. The large, brown leaves from its branches are spread far and wide, blown by the cold wind that brought in the last blast of arctic air. It had dropped a few nuts before that, as well.

There will be pain. I’ll have to remember to have the kids wear gloves and be extra careful as they pick up the leaves under that tree. Suddenly, the job loses its appeal, the joyful anticipation turning almost to dread.

Chestnuts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be (if you’ll pardon the pun). In my head, as I write this, I hear the smooth, sweet tones of the man they called the Velvet Fog, Mel Tormé. The lyrics tell of the unusual nuts roasting near the fireplace, and of Jack Frost doing what he is tonight—making my nose cold once again.

Funny. I never think of that beautiful song while I’m bobbling the needle-sharp nuts in the fall, or when I’m sucking the blood from my fingers while muttering nearly bad words under my breath.

Chestnuts are more than a nuisance, waiting under the leaves in ambush for me and my helpers. They seem almost like a threat, a danger to avoid at all costs.

My poor brain, seemingly in ADHD mode tonight, begins to play other words (from a different Christmas carol) almost as quickly as the mellow sounds of Mel begin to fade.

“No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground.”
(from Joy to the World, by Isaac Watts)

Mr. Watts was a little premature in his banishment of thorns from the world. But, he did have the right idea about sins. And he was absolutely right about the eventual healing from the curse under which we labor.

We have entered the season of Advent, leading to Christmas. The media and the world around us are already alive with the tumult of their sales pitches for what is becoming known as “merch”. Voraciously, they pursue our purses and bank accounts.

It will likely be an unpopular opinion, but the “merch” they peddle is what I would describe as the thorns that infest the ground of Advent.

All around us lie the leaves of the season, awaiting our attention, our joyful gathering up, accompanied by people we love. The happy anticipation of celebrating the Child, born to bring light into the world—born to bring us back to His Father.

But the thorns! There will be pain—and stress. Angry words will be spoken to salespeople. Horns will be blown and gestures made at other drivers on the busy roads.

It has ever been so. The serpent present in the Garden yet seeks to subvert our Creator’s plan, hiding lies within half-truths and good intentions. And willingly we participate in his schemes.

Perhaps this Advent season will be the one when we finally push aside the thorns, leaving them to rot in the trash pile while we revel in the reality of God’s gifts.

The joy of the season is in the Gift from Heaven. Everything else is covered in thorns, awaiting redemption from above.

The Light of the World still bathes His creation in brightness like the full moon bursting from the black sky. The bonelike shadows and reminders of lurking thorns only increase our desire for His presence.

I’m waiting. With hope and joy, I’m waiting.

While I’m waiting, I’ll keep the gloves handy.

“The people who sat in darkness
have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
a light has shined.”
(Matthew 4:16, NLT)

“He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.”
(Henry David Thoreau)

One more tune for you—well, two really—to separate the thorns from the joy of the season. Take a few minutes to soak in the words.
https://youtu.be/IetPAANnhzQ?si=RFv_39qNgXUhtnbu

As a Mother Comforts

November 26, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Image by Jeannean Ryman. Used by permission.

“Weatherman says possibility of freezing precipitation tonight.”

The news actually came from a weather app on her smartphone, but I think the writer of the note (my sister) is secretly hopeful the invisible weather forecaster is right.

I’m not. But then, I’ve argued with the lady about various matters for over sixty years. We won’t break off our relationship over this tiny disagreement.

Still—her words had consequences. As I read them, I immediately thought of the cloth covering above my lovely little deck outside the back door. A sail, they call it—but it doesn’t move the deck an inch away from its foundations.

The sail is good for one purpose and one only. It keeps the sun off the heads and out of the faces of the denizens of said deck. For a period of time, it does. As I said, it doesn’t move the deck, while the sun itself runs its circuit daily, moving over and past the point where its rays are blocked.

One purpose. The sail doesn’t keep the rain off the deck; won’t stop the leaves from piling up on the furniture.

And, it certainly won’t hold the weight of any so-called freezing precipitation.

The consequence of my sister’s reminder? I had to loosen the ropes tying up the three corners of the sail and, folding it up (about as well as any of you would fold up a fitted sheet), stowed it in the backyard shed to await a promised spring.

My thoughts were a little sad as I untied the ropes from the eyebolts under the eave of the old house. I was remembering lovely afternoons and evenings spent with those I love. Family. Friends.

Seasons change.

The things that protected us in the bright, blasting heat of the long summer days are no longer protection for us.

We celebrated a family Thanksgiving at our home last week. The house was full and noisy with four generations represented at our table. There was music and a dinner blessing. There was discussion about whether pimiento was a good ingredient to have with celery sticks. There might even have been the haze of smoke from a new turkey recipe gone slightly amiss.

There was joy. And thanks.

And memories.

Their placement wasn’t purposefully planned. The ladies, I mean. We just suggested seats for folks where we thought they would be most comfortable.

But, I looked again today at the photographs of our gathering and the sadness hit anew. One entire side of the main table (the teenagers being allowed a little space to sit at a table of their own) was taken up by four ladies in our family.

Four widows.

I see their faces—the lovely men who once sat beside them at our table—and the memories bring tears. Well—not so much the memories as their absence from us now.

In many ways, they were shade from the hot, blasting sun of life. Brothers are like that. Fathers and grandfathers are too.

Seasons change.

The widows soldier on. I see great strength there. I see the heartache too. They all still grieve in their own ways.

And yet. . .

And yet, there is—still—bright hope for tomorrow.

His promises never dim; they never go amiss. The day is coming when we will be forever in His presence. Together.

But, what do we do with the changing seasons?

Here? Now?

Like the changing weather, our protection today may be gone with tomorrow’s storm.

Seasons change. But our Heavenly Father? He never changes. And, as he always has, like a mother, He will comfort us. (Isaiah 66:13)

I don’t know about your mother, but when my mom used to comfort me, she didn’t do it from across the room. She gathered me into her arms, pulling me onto her ample lap. I was held close. And tight.

You know what ample means, don’t you? It means big enough. And sometimes, more than big enough.

You know who else is big enough? The One who doesn’t change with the seasons. In every part of our lives, He gathers us in, close to His loving heart.

And, He is shade from the burning sun. Protection from the storms. A sure, strong wall of defense from everything that threatens.

He gathers us in, under his ample wings.

And, He holds us there.

Seasons change. They do.

There is nothing here to fear.

Even without a sail.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
(Edith Sitwell, British poet, 1887-1964)

“He will shelter you with his wings;
you will find safety under his wings.
His faithfulness is like a shield or a protective wall.”
(Psalms 91:4, NET)

Puzzled

November 13, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It had been a full day. Most of them are, but when the grandchildren visit, there’s always more conversation (and louder), more activity, and more eating.

I like the eating part. And all the others.

Dinner was over. One child was stretched out in my easy chair, so I sat on the loveseat next to his mother—my daughter.

She was working the ubiquitous jigsaw puzzle. Nearly always, one is lying in a thousand pieces (more or less) on the coffee table.

She worked on the puzzle; I watched the football game with the kid in the chair, and we talked. We talk all the time. About the weather. About their pets. About the house on the mountainside. About the grandkids.

This evening the conversation turned to more serious matters. Not life-and-death ones. Just deeper than the weather—or puppies.

Funny. We talked about talking to people—listening to people.

Did you know if you listen to people, they’ll talk to you?

I mean, talk—communicate. All it takes is a heart to hear what folks are saying and to show empathy.

I’m still not great at that.

But, then I don’t do puzzles either, do I? Somehow, I think they’re related—puzzles and people skills. And puzzles aren’t my thing.

Still, once in a while, as I sit there on the loveseat, a piece seems to leap out at me from the jumble on the table. And, picking it up, I can place it effortlessly into a spot just waiting for that particular piece.

Only once in a while.

But, people. . .

I’ve told the story before, but it bears repeating here. I repeat it in my mind often. Partly because the memory is of my father, but mostly because I need to remember.

I had owned the music store for only a year or two when the phone on the wall rang one afternoon. My dad was calling from his home in the Central Valley in California. He just wanted to talk. So we talked.

And then, as we were about to say goodbye and hang up, he asked if he could pray with me. Well, he was a preacher. That was what preachers did.

This prayer would change my life.

“. . .and Lord I ask that you’ll bless Paul in his ministry there in the music store. . .”

Did I say the prayer would change my life? What I meant is one phrase of the prayer would change my life.

I remember nothing else he prayed about before we said our goodbyes.

I was in shock.

Ministry? What was he thinking? This wasn’t my ministry! It was my vocation, my business; how I earned a living.

The light of the epiphany was blinding.

“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men.“
(Colossians 3:23, NKJV)

It wasn’t long after that phone call that the stool appeared. Right in front of the counter where customers checked out.

It wasn’t just a stool.

It was an invitation.

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many people accepted that invitation over the thirty-some years we operated the music store. Some just wanted to talk about their musical instrument. But, many just wanted to talk about life. About relationships. About death and loss.

Yes. All of life is ministry. Work—leisure. Daytime—nighttime. At home—miles down the highway. All of it. Everywhere. All of it ministry for God.

Unless we choose not to follow the words of our Teacher and Savior.

Love God with everything you’ve got. Love people with everything you’ve got.

Even when both seem like puzzle pieces that won’t go into place.

We don’t do them one at a time, either. Even if you’ve been led to believe that by folks who claim to love God but refuse to love people.

If our love for God doesn’t lead naturally to love for the folks around us and across the world, we’re missing the boat altogether.

The puzzle is beginning, just beginning, to make sense; the pieces to go into place. I still have a few pieces (well, more than a few) that I can’t yet make sense of.

I’ll keep trying.

I think I’ll sit down on that loveseat for a few more minutes this morning, too. I may be able to fit a piece or two into the big picture.

I wonder if the Lovely Lady will notice.

But then, I’m not doing it for her, am I?

“Loving God, loving each other,
And the story never ends.”
(from Loving God, Loving Each Other, by Alejandro Martinez, David Thomas, Ivan Martin)

“Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love.” (1 John 4:7-8, ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

God