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)

Music Interrupted

September 25, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The old Steinway piano isn’t well. Not at all. I’m thinking about putting it out on the curb in a couple of weeks when the next community clean-up comes around.

Well, that’s grabbed the attention of at least one of my readers! My most faithful editor and resident pianist comes to mind instantly. Perhaps others may be shocked to read of my piano-disposal fantasy, but the Lovely Lady would be most unhappy.

But, it is just that—a fantasy. I have labored too long and often on the old instrument, as have others (some no longer living) who I know and love. Still, I don’t savor the times when the case parts are lying on the nearby couches, and the action, held securely in a purpose-designed cradle, rests on the dining room table awaiting my periodic repairs.

The old piano is nearing one hundred fifty years old now. I sometimes wonder if Steinway of the nineteenth century had a scheme similar to the auto industry in the late twentieth century (and cell phone manufacturers of the twenty-first, seemingly) in place. The popular name for it a few years ago was built-in obsolescence—a scenario designed to sell future models when the current model quits working after a year or two.

We’re not participating. I’m sure the folks at Steinway haven’t noticed at all, but we are still proudly utilizing the cutting-edge technology of 1879 in our living room on a daily basis.

Just not this week.

It’s happened before. I told you it was sick, didn’t I? I believe this old piano has what we call a chronic illness or condition.

The dictionary defines chronic as persistent or recurring often.

The definition fits this old thing to a T. Several times a year (more often than my chronic asthmatic bronchitis rears its ugly head), I have to pull the action, setting it on the old dining room table (stretched out a bit to accommodate the length), prepared to reglue flanges and make adjustments to the action’s action (if you will), adding spacers and bending damper wires—sometimes even replacing worn out and broken jack springs.

Chronically sick.

We don’t tend to keep things that are chronically defective in our homes anymore, do we?

Come to think of it, chronic defects are the reason our little town offers its residents the semi-annual clean-up week I mentioned in the first paragraph above. We have too many items lying around that don’t perform up to their original capability and we replace them without much more than a moment’s consideration. Washing machines, microwaves, computers, furniture—you name it, we will throw it away and replace it in a heartbeat if it fails to meet our expectations.

This is not a diatribe against our contemporary society; more than that, it’s a statement on our human nature. We don’t have the patience to deal with deficiencies. We want dependability. Anything that doesn’t conform has no place in our day-to-day realities.

I wonder if the reader is aware that we’re not just talking about our stuff anymore. It is the way these conversations seem to go, is it not?

One minute we’re clearly talking about an old piece of furniture and suddenly, we seem to be caught up in a deeper discussion than we ever considered.

Perhaps we’ll just go with the current for a moment or two.

May I make a bold statement?

Our Creator doesn’t believe in built-in obsolescence. He never has.

From the beginning, His plan was for redemption. For renewal. For lifting up.

We seem to be advocates of the Nancy Sinatra school of deportment, promising that one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you. All the while, our loving Father promises to seek the lost, bring back the strayed, bind up the injured, and strengthen the weak (Ezekiel 34:16, ESV).

We, who follow Christ, are specifically told to follow suit. It’s not a suggestion, although we often treat it as such.

Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted; forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you. (Ephesians 4:32, NLT)

And, Peter came to his Master, asking Him how many times he had to repair that old Steinway piano before he could toss it out. (Matthew 18:21, NLT)

And, the Teacher replied that he should do it as many times as the notes wouldn’t play in tune or refused to make any sound at all (or even if it was only the sustain pedal that was malfunctioning).

Okay. That’s not actually the way the conversation went, but the reader will get the general meaning.

God didn’t make any trash.

While we were broken and refusing to make His music, He sent His Son to die for us. To redeem us. To lift us up. To fix what was broken.

When that Steinway is repaired and tuned, it makes lovely music. Music that will bring tears of joy and previews of Glory.

I’ll be here again sometime soon. Making repairs. You can count on it.

The issues are chronic. But the response to treatment is glorious.

Music will be heard. Again.

Beautiful music.

Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter,
Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;
Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness,
Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.
(from Rescue the Perishing by Fanny J Crosby, 1869)

I’m Fixing My Eyes

November 15, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I had eye surgery last week.

I suppose it’s the ultimate indicator of age creeping up on me. Though sometimes it seems as if old age is bashing the door down, rather than creeping.

The surgeon removed the lens of my right eye, it having been covered with a cataract that was affecting my eyesight. In its place, a sparkling new lens was inserted, one that is clear and shaped correctly.

I now have measurably better vision in that eye, as well as being able to see colors and light more realistically.

I’m not sure I like it all that much.

I close the right eye, seeing only through my left, and I become almost nostalgic. The difference is striking—nearly dramatic. Immediately, I feel warmth and comfort.

Let me see if I can explain what I mean.

Over time, a cataract on the lens of the eye changes the hue of what one sees. It can eventually become so dark that a person can’t see much at all. That was not the case with my eyes yet.

The change in my eyesight essentially just added a browny-yellow hue to everything I saw. Not enough to obscure anything, but enough to make the view through my eyes more warm and comforting.

Here’s another way to think about it: I take a lot of photos of nature (and bridges). It seems to me that the camera actually changes the images I capture a bit from what my eye sees. Over the last few years, as I process them, I have grown to rely on an app that has the ability to filter the color and light of the photos. I use filters to make the final photo more realistic.

To me. It’s more realistic to my eyes.

One of the filters is called “warmth”. Raising the value of this filter turns the scene slightly more yellow. Maybe even a little browny-yellow.

I like that.

Do you see my problem?

Now, I close my left eye (with its cataract) and open the newly repaired right one. The world changes from warm and comfortable to brilliant and stark.

In another week, I will go back to the surgery center and the surgeon will replace the lens of my left eye, too. I’m not sure that makes me all that happy.

I want to continue to look at the world through my warm and comfortable filters. Brilliant starkness doesn’t appeal to me that much.

That said, I understand that I need to see clearly. And, as I write the words, I remember that our physical eyes are not the only ones in which we need 20/20 sight. We need to see clearly, not just in the physical world around us, but in the spiritual as well.

Am I the only one? Does no one else go through life believing they’re seeing the world as it is, only to be rudely awakened by a different perspective offered by way of a crisis, a conversation, or an overheard comment?

Again and again, we’re sad as we learn of previously hidden illnesses. A beautiful day can turn black in seconds as we hear of tragedy and loss. Folks we thought were doing fine may actually be in the throes of financial disaster.

It would be easy to think all the eye-opening revelations are of sadness and distress. That’s not always the case. Frequently we learn of good news while we’re expecting the worst.

There’s a story in the Old Testament about that. The prophet Elisha and his servant opened their eyes one morning to find themselves surrounded by enemy forces, intent on harming them. The servant, expecting his own annihilation at any moment, was terrified.

Elisha, seeing the world as it really was, prayed for his servant’s eyes to be opened—really opened.

Then Elisha prayed, “O Lord, open his eyes and let him see!” The Lord opened the young man’s eyes, and when he looked up, he saw that the hillside around Elisha was filled with horses and chariots of fire.
(2 Kings 6:17, NLT)

Looking up, the servant saw the armies of heaven, prepared to fight for God’s people. Before, he had seen what he knew to be truth, an army bent on his destruction. Eyes fully opened, he now saw the protection of God’s hand poised to save.

I’m ready for that; ready to see the world around me as God sees it.

How about it? Are we ready to love it as He does, ready to weep when He does, ready to stand firm where He says to stand?

To do all of those, we have to see with His eyes.

For my part, if it takes some mud and spit, as it did for the blind man in Jesus’ day, I’ll take that. Or even letting the surgeon replace the lenses in my eyes.

It’s time to fix our eyes.

I’m still going to use the warmth filter on my photos, though.

Even if they do look a little browny-yellow to everyone else.

I can see, and that is why I can be happy, in what you call the dark, but which to me is golden. I can see a God-made world, not a manmade world.
(Helen Keller)

Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:2, NASB1995)

Not Just Another Still Life

April 10, 2020April 10, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We call this Holy Week. The reasons are clear; I won’t argue against it. Still, it hasn’t felt all that set apart.

I wrote earlier today that the edges of these days have felt much the same as the middles. The Lovely Lady asked me the date a while ago and I had no answer for her.

It’s hard to observe Maundy Thursday when you don’t remember if Tuesday or Wednesday preceded it.

And yet, the calendar said it was Maundy Thursday. The day many followers of Jesus remember His servant heart as He washed the feet of His disciples. They read the scripture over again and perhaps even celebrated His Last Supper with wine and bread.

Me? I looked at a painting on my wall. That’s it up above. A still life, they call it.

As if.

I shared the painting with a few online friends today, along with a poem about still life paintings a poet friend had pointed out a day or two ago. I thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, the painting won’t keep still. Not in my mind, anyway.

I first saw this particular piece of art hanging on the wall of an old saint. I’ve written of her before. Miss Peggy was a faithful servant of her God all the days of her life. But, this story isn’t about her, although she did leave the painting to me after her passing.

The artist is also a friend, another faithful servant of God. Sam is a native of China, having come to this country in the 1980s as a student. There were other reasons for him to leave his native land, but I’d just get the details wrong if I told it, since it’s not my story.

Besides, this story isn’t really about him either.

In a way, it’s about me, stuck here in still life. You know, the life prescribed for me by the medical experts of the day, along with the political powers, who are endeavoring to fight an invisible enemy by dividing and conquering.

Still life. Perhaps, the story is about a reader or two, as well. You’ll know if it is.

Most artists choose their subjects based on aesthetics. Do the colors coordinate; do they clash just enough to draw the eye? Are the objects balanced in their placement? Do the items demonstrate the ability of the artist to capture light and shadow, or texture?

This painting ticks those boxes. It appeals to the eye. It even causes me to admire the talent of the artist.

But, I know Sam. He’s not interested in my praise. Or, yours.

This still life is meant to capture the heart of the observer, to squeeze the soul, and to cause us to walk away with a new vision of who we are.

The bowl is not for food, but for water. A basin, intended to wash away the dust and grime of the world. Perhaps, something like the basin our Savior used as He washed the feet of those who would use those same feet to walk away from Him that very night. (John 13:5)

The kettle and teacup represent comfort and calm. From a culture that views tea as much more than a drink to start the day, but as a celebration of life, the pouring out of this precious liquid quiets the turbulent spirit and brings peace.

Like cups of cold water that meet much more than a physical need, we share the necessities of spiritual comfort with our fellow travelers. (Matthew 10:42)

The meaning of the medicine bottle, along with the mortar and pestle, is clear. Healing comes as we minister and are ministered to. Using the tools at hand, gifts from our Great Healer, we help to heal the hurts and ease the pain of this world.

The crying prophet is assured that there is medicine enough, and there is a Physician, but wonders why they haven’t been applied. (Jeremiah 8:22)

It’s still a good question today.

Washing. Comfort. Healing. How well we know the necessity of all three in this time of sickness and separation.

As I write, Good Friday is upon us. It is the day when we remember the incredible sacrifice made for us. A sacrifice made to heal our great sickness.

His torment was the result of our rebellion; our deeds caused Him to be crushed. His pain was to heal our hurt; His wounds have made us whole. (Isaiah 53.5 ~ my paraphrase)

Perhaps, especially on this day, our contemplation in this still life we’ve become part of could be a place to begin. Before we walk away, will our hearts be captured, our souls squeezed, and that new vision be ours?

It is, after all, not just another still life.

“Comfort, comfort my people,”
Says your God.
(Isaiah 40:1 ~ NET)

For weeks now I have been meditating on still lifes,
The tumble of plums and pears, the overturned goblets
And the sundry bouquets of flowers, the skulls and flutes.
I have grown bored with their quaintness and simplicity
And, well, their stillness, which lacks the narrative power
Of Christ’s agony in the garden or the sublime
Force of Turner’s slave ship, and alp or a starry night.
I tire of the repetitions of subject matter,
The endless spill of quinces, grapes, and pomegranates—
Though, child of time that I am, caught up in the thunder
And motion of history, I sometimes find comfort
In the calm seductions of pitcher and vase, shadow
And light, the modest raptures of the ordinary.
(Morri Creech ~ American poet)

Fragile

October 18, 2018October 18, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He asked me if I would serve. It was an honor to be asked.

I told him no. Thanks, but no. I also thanked him for the honor. Not that I deserve it.

I didn’t tell him the whole reason I said no. Well, how could I? Imagine! Going back to the committee and telling them the guy they named to the position didn’t have all his pieces in the right places!

It’s true though. I’ve been broken. (I think we all have been at some time or another.) And, I don’t think all the pieces are back in place yet.

I've been broken. And, I don't think all the pieces are back in place yet. Click To Tweet

The Lovely Lady explained it differently. A one-word description. I’m not sure I like her word. Yet. Time will tell.

She says the word is fragile.

On second thought, I think perhaps the word is perfect. It describes all of us in a way, doesn’t it?

Hang on there. Don’t go off in a huff. Let me see if I can do a little better at explaining.

I was in a hurry the day before yesterday and missed a step as I headed into my house. Falling headlong to the landing atop the short flight of steps, I noted only that I might have bruised my hand as I put it down to break the fall.

I was all in one piece! There was no damage at all.

Fragile? Hah!

Except I am. And, I’m not all in one piece.

I awoke the next morning with a knee that hurt. It seems I may have twisted it when I fell.

Well, maybe just a little fragile.

And then I got up this morning with a good bit of pain in my lower back. It’s hard to stand up straight—hard even to walk across the yard. And, bending over to pet the dogs or pick something up from the floor? Forget about it!

Fragile. She’s right.

Just so you know, I’m not going to quit moving altogether. That would be foolishness. I’m up and walking, even though it hurts to do it. If we stop using our body, we eventually lose the use of it completely.

We—judiciously—work through the pain, walking, bending, stretching, until the damaged parts heal. At times, we wonder if the tightrope act—not too much, not too little—is worth the time and discipline.

Some time ago, I asked a good friend of mine if his leg was hurting him again. When he wondered why I asked, I mentioned the limp. Laughing, he talked about a serious accident he had several years ago, and the pain that had ensued.

“But, it doesn’t hurt at all anymore. I just got used to limping to avoid the pain.”

I wonder how many of us are walking with limps we don’t need, avoiding pain that is merely a memory.

We are fragile. We’re not necessarily frail.

There is a difference. Fragility shows itself in use. Broken pieces are indicative of purpose thwarted, but they are caused by action.

Frailty comes from disuse. It is a sign of weakness brought on by inactivity or long illness.

That’s odd. Come to think of it, we may be both fragile and frail, both breakable and weak.

But He understands. His Son lived among us and sympathizes with our frailty. (Hebrews 4:15)

He made us. He knows how fragile, how breakable, we are. (Psalm 103:14)

I still don’t understand how we’re of any use for His purposes. But, we are.

He puts His treasure, the grace and mercy He gives freely, in vessels made of clay. (2 Corinthians 4:7)

Fragile.

Frail.

I wonder if we need to be broken every once in a while because we’ve filled the jar up with ourselves, instead of letting Him fill it.

It’s one of the things I remembering hearing the red-headed lady who raised me say: “Oh, she’s so full of herself. . .”

I get full of myself sometimes. I do. It’s not much like treasure. Not much at all.

God wants us to be His treasure houses, pouring out His goodness for all to experience and give Him glory.

He’s the one who’s putting me back together. The day will come when all the pieces will be in the right place.

Today, I’m walking. Slowly.

But, I’m going to run again.

Soon.

Broken! Busted! Everybody has something to repair. Before buying new, let Mighty Putty fix it for you!
(Billy Mays ~ American television salesperson ~ 1958-2009)

Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
(2 Corinthians 12:9,10 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

Retreat Sounds

September 12, 2017September 13, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

They called them retreats.

We couldn’t have told you what the word meant. Not when used in that context.

Usually, a group of teenagers was loaded into cars to ride to unfamiliar surroundings, mostly campgrounds in the middle of nowhere.

For two or three days, we engaged in ambitious activities—games, hikes, group discussions, and the like. Since we were usually thrown in with other teenagers we didn’t know, the stress level was high as we vied for the pretty girls’ attention and did our best to mark our territory and establish superiority over the other boys.

It wasn’t a relaxing time.

I am older now. Much older. The need to impress pretty females has faded into a dim memory (except for one particular Lovely Lady). Mostly, I leave the butting heads process to younger men anxious to leave their marks on their corner of the world.

I have a much better comprehension of how to retreat now. In a world filled with the imagery of battles and strife, the time to turn away from the fray and find a place in which to tend to wounds and basic emotional and spiritual needs is well within my power of discernment.

Quite obviously, the term is of military origin, although not necessarily in the sense in which we normally view it.

Somehow, we have been taught to believe retreat is the same as a rout, a defeat in battle. Although that might sometimes be the case, on many occasions a retreat is called simply to give the combatants a chance to rest and get ready to re-engage.

The wise leader always knew when his command was at the breaking point, the place where casualties would begin to mount catastrophically. Sounding the retreat was a way of living to fight another day—on full stomachs and well rested.

Retreat is rightfully a tool of battle, not an admission of defeat.

Retreat is rightfully a tool of battle, not an admission of defeat. Click To Tweet

The warrior king who wrote many of the Psalms understood the value of the retreat. In the worst time imaginable, a time when he was fighting battles with his own son, he writes of sleeping soundly and once again arising to courage and faith. (Psalm 3:5,6)

In the most popular of all his writings, he speaks of lying down in green fields and of being led by still waters to be restored in soul and spirit. (Psalm 23:2,3)

David writes of the soul of the warrior at rest in the Prince of Peace.

The soul of the warrior is at rest in the Prince of Peace. Click To Tweet

I need that. Exactly that.

Perhaps, I’m not the only one.

Our lives, to the uninvolved bystander, are completely unlike the one this man-after-God’s-own-heart saw unfold before him thousands of years ago. And yet, for all that, our battles aren’t any less hard-fought, nor any less important.

My battles don’t look anything like those of folks around me, either. Still, battles they are, with casualties to be counted and wounds to be dressed.

Retreat must come. It must.

And Jesus told His followers it was time for them to retreat. (Mark 6:31) Well no, not in so many words. But, the meaning was exactly that. They had so much more ahead of them, and they needed to be rested and healed.

Come aside. Rest. Recover.

Prepare.

Wait! What?

If our retreat is not preparation to re-enter the field of the battle, it is nothing more than admission of defeat. Complete and utter. Defeat.

Yes, it’s time—perhaps, past time—for a retreat, a time of healing. But, if that time isn’t used wisely, in preparation for what is yet to come, we could just as well have stayed out there swinging in exhaustion without stopping.

The man on the sidelines who is never coming back into the game is no longer a competitor.

If we’re called aside, it’s only for a short season.

A soldier fights. A servant serves. A teacher teaches.

Out there is where we fulfill our purpose. If the trumpet has sounded retreat, it is to get us ready to go back out there.

Armor on.

It’s time to stand.

Again.

They don’t know that
I go running home when I fall down
They don’t know Who picks me
Up when no one is around
I drop my sword and cry for just a while
‘Cause deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child.
(The Warrior is a Child ~ Twila Paris ~ © Universal Music Publishing Group ~ All rights reserved)

Integrity. Again.

September 5, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was embarrassing. To me, anyway.

I don’t suppose anyone else noticed it. Even if they had, they wouldn’t have mentioned it.

The pastor was talking. Something about things the disciples misunderstood about Jesus.

I think that’s what it was. I was paying attention. I was.

But, looking down as he spoke, I noticed them. The threads. The ones hanging from the hem on the right sleeve of my shirt. It wasn’t just one or two, either.

The whole edge of the sleeve was frayed, with white strings dangling like the fringe around the shade of grandma’s old table lamp.

I don’t remember what the pastor said now. I do remember looking quickly from my right arm to the left, only to find more frayed edges.

It is one of my favorite short-sleeved shirts, but I will never be seen in it again. Years of wear, of putting on and taking off, of raising my hands in joyful triumph and of shaking my fists in angry frustration, have taken their toll on the woven cloth and left it weak and fragile.

It has lost its integrity.

No longer do the crisscrossed threads, woven over and under, keep their place. No longer is there a sharp crease at the edge of the sleeve, a clear boundary between fabric and skin.

It has lost its integrity.

I stealthily ran my finger around the circumference of each sleeve, to try and hide the errant threads. Pulling the sleeves tight against my biceps, I hoped no one would notice.

They may have. Or not. It doesn’t matter.

The Lovely Lady will remove the buttons, tossing them into a jar—why, I’m not sure— and the once-favored garment will find itself in the trash bin, come trash pickup day.

Well? I can’t very well go around in a shirt with no integrity, now can I?

When last I wrote, it was scars. Today, a lack of integrity. Both hidden. Both needing to be exposed to the light of day.

They are not the same—scars and lost integrity. Somehow though, we punish folks for both, blaming the injured as much as we do the dishonest.

But, I want to make this clear—crystal clear: Grace suffices for both.

Grace heals our scars, restoring our damaged spirits and renewing our joy.

Grace makes new the fabric of our broken lives, restoring integrity and revitalizing our resolve.

Because of grace, we can journey on. In His redemption, we are made new, neither wounded nor dishonorable.

His offer is for a garment with integrity and without stain. Ours—the price paid completely by our Redeemer. (Revelation 3:18)

No more embarrassment.

No more being tossed aside.

He doesn’t cut off the buttons and throw away the worn out fabric.

He doesn't cut off the buttons and throw away the worn out fabric. Click To Tweet

Grace makes new.

Integrity.

Again.

In great matters, men show themselves as they wish to be seen; in small matters, as they are.
(Gamaliel Bradford ~ American biographer ~ 1863-1932)

May integrity and honesty protect me,
for I put my hope in you.
(Psalm 25:21 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Undressing in Public

September 1, 2017September 1, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

My pocket was vibrating. We were most of the way through Eternal Father, Strong to Save when the distraction began. Ignoring the momentary buzzing, I bumbled my way through the end of the piece.

I don’t use my phone during orchestra rehearsal. Usually, I don’t. But you know—my house could have been burning or an intercontinental ballistic missile might have been heading our way— so, as soon as our conductor turned her attention to the violins, helping them to find the pitch which they seemed to have lost during the last piece, I checked my messages.

One was a reminder that I had promised to go to coffee with another member of the orchestra at nine o’clock, right after we finished the rehearsal. The other was from another friend, inviting me to join him and a third friend at ten o’clock at a different coffee shop.

It was cutting it close (and there was a danger of caffeine overdose), but I snuck my phone onto the music stand and surreptitiously sent a return message saying I would try to be there.

I hope no one will squeal on me to the director.

Friends in this world are hard to come by. Friends who will take the time to invite a grumpy old guy such as I to coffee are even harder to find.

Time spent among such friends is never wasted. Never.

I met with my red-headed tuba-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more.

Then I met with the preacher and his/my guitar-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more.

All in all, the two encounters were probably the most important two hours I spent in the whole day. They were completely uneventful. By that I mean there were no important decisions made, no actions taken, not even any subjects of any great significance discussed.

Did I say they were completely uneventful? That’s not quite accurate. There were two things that happened, which have had me thinking for two days. The first occurred near the end of my time with my friend from the orchestra.

An acquaintance, who knew both of us, wandered by on his way out of the restaurant and took a moment to stop and talk with us. As we wondered aloud how he was doing, he began to unbutton his shirt.

“Let me show you something.”

My friend and I exchanged quizzical glances. I can’t speak for my friend, but people don’t normally undress in public while I’m talking with them.

We needn’t have worried.

He just wanted to show us the scar.

The scar from his open-heart surgery a few months ago went from just below his ribs up to the top of his chest. He told us (in colorful terms) about his previous symptoms and the surgery, as well as its aftermath. It was good that we had finished our coffee and buns already.

I only mention the event because the other thing that happened was very much like it.

I arrived at the second venue for coffee consumption just a few minutes after the agreed-upon time and grabbed my third cup of coffee in the morning before sitting down with my two friends.

Within minutes, the guitar player was unbuttoning his shirt. Seriously.

“Let me show you something.”

His scar was horizontal, not vertical. Just below his collarbone, the three-inch incision was not completely healed and it looked tender.

The pacemaker/defibrillator has only been in his body for a short time, but he joked and dismissed it as lightly as if it were of no consequence at all. We knew better but didn’t dwell on it.

Two men, within a quarter-hour of each other, had unbuttoned their shirts to show me something I would never have seen otherwise.

What a curious thing!

It was almost as if there was a message I needed not to miss.

There was.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

How many people do I see in a day? Ten? Fifty? A thousand? I suppose it depends on the day and the places to which I go.

Still, if inside of fifteen minutes, two men had shown me their scars, how many do you suppose I pass every day—every single day—who have scars they don’t show me?

How many people are walking around hiding scars? Scars too ugly, too fresh, too painful to reveal to anyone.

You know we’re not talking about physical scars, right? Well, maybe some of them.

Some physical scars work their way right down into the soul of the person wearing them.

Scars put there by hatred.

Scars dealt out by people who were supposed to show love instead.

Scars carved into their body by their own hand.

And yet, those scars are, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said, only the tip of the iceberg.

We carry, in our bodies and souls, scars innumerable. Scars we wouldn’t dare to show to anyone.

Not to anyone.

There is not one human being who is unscathed. Not one. We all have scars.

Words said. Pain remembered. War. Old age.

Every part of our lives has its anguish. Scars come from all types of injuries.

And, we walk around with the scars hidden from sight. Walking wounded, many of them yet unhealed. Oozing, scabby things—they threaten to drain the life from us.

Tears come as I contemplate it. So much pain. So much hopelessness. All concealed and festering.

Some of it is mine. Perhaps, yours as well.

Our Savior came to bind up the broken hearts. (Isaiah 61:1)

More than that, He came to heal the scars and take away the pain. Because of His scars, healing is ours. (Isaiah 53:5)

There are some who take those words to mean physical healing. I won’t argue His power to do that. It seems clear though, that the words are intended to give us an unequivocal promise of healing for our souls.

Our scars need no longer be hidden! We need conceal our pain and our shame no more.

Thomas—the one we ridicule as the doubter—asked Him to unbutton His shirt and show him. Right in front of a houseful of His followers.

The scars of a common criminal—revealed for everyone in the room to see. The stripes upon His back, laid on by the Roman soldier. The holes in his wrists and feet, torn open by spikes hammered through (not gently).

All uncovered without embarrassment.

For us, His flesh was laid open.

My heart breaks as I consider all who walk in shame and fear—fear of the exposure of their scars and fear of carrying them to their graves.

I wonder. Maybe it’s time to show our scars to each other.

Maybe it's time to show our scars to each other. Click To Tweet

Maybe it’s time to tell the Good News, to do a little binding up of wounded hearts ourselves.

Maybe, it’s time to undress.

In public.

Let me show you something.

It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
(Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy ~ American philanthropist ~ 1890-1995)

Fuzzy Reality

May 12, 2015May 12, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Cataracts.

It almost seemed as if the nice young lady said the word with a question mark after it. You have cataracts?

I did say it with a question mark. A big one.

Cataracts? Me? Old people get those. I’m not old.

The nice young lady, who happens to be an optometrist, was kind at least. She agreed with me. Sort of.

“Why yes, Mr. Phillips, most people are much older than–what are you? Let me see. . . Oh. Well, fifty-seven isn’t that unusual for them to start.”

I’m still trying to work it out in my head. Did she just call me old? Ah, well. No sense in beating around the bush, I suppose.

The years are passing.

I don’t heal up as well as I once did. Arthritis is creeping into my hands, especially in the cold winter days, and even in these damp spring evenings I feel a few twinges in the joints. Age does that to a fellow. I’m doing what I can to fend off the evidence of aging, but it will inevitably be a losing battle.

Still, I stand here in relatively good condition and consider the young lady’s diagnosis. Cataracts in both eyes means that the lens are gradually clouding over, beginning (just beginning) to block the light rays necessary to see well. Over time, the cloudiness will grow thicker, blurring the sight and possibly robbing the ability to distinguish certain colors.

At last, I may actually have an excuse for wearing non-coordinated pants and shirts, or possibly even mismatched socks. That could work to my advantage.

But, it seems to me that this is something of a paradox–perhaps even a bit ironic. At a time of life when I believe I finally see things more clearly than I ever have, I find that I have a few years of clouded vision and blurry views to look forward to.

Oh, I’m sorry. I seem to have mixed the applications up a bit, haven’t I? We were talking about the physical issues of growing old and I injected a bit of the spiritual into the conversation. Well, since we’re here already, perhaps we’ll spend a minute or two more on the spiritual, shall we?

You see, I’m struck–and when I say struck, I mean hard–with the sneaky way these things creep up on us. We pride ourselves in having our eyes wide open, in seeing all the aspects of the life we live. All the while, our vision is becoming cloudy, the details of reality becoming fuzzy.

Do we really see things as clearly as we think?

I wonder. When the Teacher suggested that there were blind men leading blind men in the days when He walked this earth, do you suppose that those blind leaders got that way in an instant?

Wouldn’t it rather be true that they once strove to see God’s way clearly? They hadn’t always been old men, blinded by the result of years of failing sight. I have to believe that at one time, they too were wide-eyed idealists, hoping to change their world for the better.

Years–and bad decisions–have a way of altering dreams and vision. It’s as true with our spiritual vision as it is with our physical sight.

The young lady tells me that I’ll need to wait a few years for the right time to remove my cataracts. A simple and highly effective surgery will make things right again. Until then, I’ll find ways to deal with the inconveniences of the disease.

I wonder if the other sight will be quite as easy to set right?

Perhaps. The Teacher once used spit and mud to do the job.

I’d like to see things the way He wants me to again.

You?

“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight, but no vision.”
(Helen Keller ~ Blind/deaf author/lecturer ~ 1880-1968)

“And your life will be brighter than the noonday; its darkness will be like the morning.
(Job 11: 17 ~ ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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