The Question

October 27, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

Hope you are doing well?

The question hangs in the air. No, really. It just hangs there, unanswered.

I guess it seems silly, doesn’t it?

Fine, thanks. And you?

That is what folks say, isn’t it?

A couple of days ago, I wrote a note expressing my thanks for yet another beautiful poem shared by my young friend on the other side of the world. The next morning when I awoke, I found her reply—first her thanks, and then—The Question.

Hope you are doing well?

We are friends because of our mutual love of language—words that communicate truth—words that hold open the front door in invitation to come in and sit awhile—words that move the soul just a little closer to our God.

She is a consummate wordsmith—the dance steps in her delicate turn-of-a-phrase achieved without a stumble—her adamant declaration of truth set down before her reader without spilling a drop from the cup.

I am not such a craftsman, my sentences cobbled together with too much punctuation, and my ideas propped up with a leveling shim here and an improvised story there. Still, the words are hammered together neatly enough—at times.

So, why have I still not answered her question, two days later? I have answered the same question aloud probably a hundred times since, while talking with folks right in front of me. I just haven’t been able to write the words in reply to her query.

I think it’s that I suddenly remembered words have meaning. Idle words spoken may seem harmless, but they will count in the grand sum of our communication. (Matthew 12:36,37)

When we lie—however harmless and commonplace the lie—we devalue the truth that comes from our mouth at other times.

When we lie, we devalue the truth that also comes from the same mouth. Click To Tweet

I am not doing well.

Oh, I’m well enough physically, my doctor having given his stamp of approval on my fitness results last week. But really, I’m not doing well.

In the depths of my soul, there’s a tiny child crying for his mother; there’s a young boy gasping at the unfairness of seeing the work of his hands dismantled before his eyes. The stress and confusion of walking through a world torn by dissension, and bitterness, and death are almost too much on any given day.

So, we learn to lie instead of telling the truth.

Because, to tell the truth is to live with an overwhelming flood of uncomfortable silence, followed by visits (virtual or otherwise) from the hand-patters, and then by the verse-quoters. These may lead to the get-a-grippers, and possibly, even a scold or two.

If you find yourself offended by the above paragraph, that is not my intention. It might be wise, though, if you see yourself in those words, to seek other ways of showing your love for those who are hurting.

But, I still want to talk about truth.

No. I want to begin to tell the truth. All of it.

I’m not doing well. But, there is more to it than what I feel right now. You see, along with that most famous of suffering humans, Job, I have one other thing to say. One more:

I know that my Redeemer lives!

I know it!

Instead of telling you that everything is all right, I declare that everything will one day be all right. And, I will see it. You can, too.

We will see Him.

Sadness? Done!

Disappointment? Gone!

Tears? None!

Troubles will pass. They always do. Until then, the truth is, He gives grace for the journey.

And, answers for the questions.

Truth.

I know not what of good or ill
May be reserved for me,
Of weary ways or golden days,
Before His face I see.

But I know Whom I have believed,
And am persuaded that He is able
To keep that which I’ve committed
Unto Him against that day.
(from I Know Whom I Have Believed ~ Daniel Whittle ~ American lyricist/evangelist ~ 1840-1901

But as for me, I know that my Redeemer lives,
and he will stand upon the earth at last.
And after my body has decayed,
yet in my body I will see God!
(Job 19:25-26 ~ NLT)

No More Mr. Nice Guy

April 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You realize you’re a legend in this town, don’t you?”

I think I may have snorted. I didn’t mean to. The thirty-something rocker was paying me a compliment. And, he was dead serious.

“I mean it. Whenever anybody I know needs something for their guitar, they don’t say, I’m going to the music store; they say, I’m going to see Paul.”

I’m pretty sure I didn’t snort this time. Still, I stared at the young man with a dumb look on my face as I tried to think of something brilliant to say.

You know, it’s hard to say just the right thing when someone compliments you like that. I always look for ways to deflect the praise—usually mumbling something that sounds grateful while at the same time denying any special merit.

The man in front of me today wasn’t having it. He charged into the subject, laying out personal praise mixed with a story or two he had heard. He had evidence and was going to be heard.

I was kind, even though embarrassed, and let him talk for a few moments more. Then, I closed the conversation with a lame comment about big fishes in little ponds, and waved him out the front door cheerfully.

What a disaster!

Why is it so hard to tell the truth to people like that? I know the words to stop the flow of praise and compliments. Cold.

I should say them.

I said them yesterday. He forced me to. The guitar player—you know—the one who was wandering through the streets of New Orleans in one of my recent tales.

We had been bemoaning the habits of certain customers and also discussing the merits of certain practices in the business world. He is in management at a local retail business, so he understands the dynamic of customer relations, too.

Offhandedly, I suggested that he already knew the reason I treat my customers the way I do. I merely said it to prove a point and move on in the conversation to fun things. He wasn’t taking the bait.

“Why do you treat them the way you do?” The mischievous grin on his face had just enough stubborn around the edges that I knew I would have to give an answer.

Trapped!

I said the words—the same words I should have said today—and he just nodded his head and smiled.

It’s not my gig. God is the one I represent. I follow His Son. How could it be any different?

And yet, today I had the opportunity to say those same words and I stuttered and nodded.

I want to be remembered as a nice guy.

The thing is, I’m not a nice guy.

On my own, I gripe and I complain; I nag and I fuss; I insist on my way and I say nasty things about people behind their backs.

So what I really want is for people to believe the lie that I’m a nice guy. Because, on my own, that’s all it is. A lie.

But, I’m not on my own. I haven’t been for a long time.

The truth of the matter is, God works in me both to want what He wants and to do it. (Philippians 2:13)

He’s the Nice Guy.

Not me.

The Apostle who was also known as The Rock, suggested to his readers that they always should be ready to give an answer for the faith living inside of them. (1 Peter 3:15)

You know, nice guys don’t steal.

And yet, I am a thief.

When I keep the glory that belongs to the One who lives within me, I steal from Him. When I lay claim to the brilliant planning it takes to run a successful business, I steal from the Giver of all good gifts.

Every single good thing comes from Him. (James 1:17)

Every single one.

He’s the Nice Guy. He’s the Gift-Giver—the Truth-Teller—the Master-Mind behind this outfit.

It’s not my gig.

My friend was right. I need to say the words. I intend to, again and again.

Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to do things right.

Grace is an astounding gift!

I might even introduce a few people to the real Nice Guy.

How hard can this be?

Every rascal is not a thief, but every thief is a rascal.
(Aristotle ~ Greek philosopher ~ 384 BC-322 BC)

…for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure. Do all things without grumbling or disputing, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world.
(Philippians 2:13-15 ~ ESV)

Cream and Sugar?

November 17, 2015November 17, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Did we save any room for dessert?

The young lady waiting on our table clears away the dishes, while asking the question. I wonder a moment if she is including herself in the query, but it is clear she uses the word we to avoid any hint of accusation that we would have stuffed ourselves while eating our meal.

We did, in fact, save room for dessert on this occasion and we tell her what we would like. To carry on the charade of not being gluttons, we will share the giant-sized portion of the brownie sundae.

I want a cup of coffee and tell the young lady so. She writes a note on her pad and asks if I’d like cream and sugar with it. I don’t.

I never did.

That is changing, though. I’m remembering that my mother always liked a little evaporated milk and a spoonful of sugar in hers. I have wondered why that was.

On a recent visit to the grocery store with the Lovely Lady, I suggested we buy a container of flavored creamer. Italian Cream. You know—for our daughter and her husband, when they came to visit. And to satisfy my curiosity.

Wow!

Can I tell you a secret? I drink coffee—the habit of many years, but it’s not my favorite flavor. Oh, the slightly bitter taste is palatable, but I can’t drink it very quickly. I sit and nurse a cup for an hour. By the time I’m ready for another, the dregs in my cup are cold and I toss the useless liquid into the sink before pouring my next cup.

On that fateful day we arrived home with the flavored creamer in our grocery box, I wasn’t all that hopeful. Cream was for wimps.

May I say it again? Wow!

I poured a little into the bottom my cup and filled it up with coffee. Ten minutes later, I was back for another cup.

Ten minutes.

She’s still buying the creamer at the grocery store. Two bottles last week. I refuse to look at the calorie count on the label.

I still get that old familiar coffee flavor in my cup. Only now, it’s a smooth, mellow flavor. The bitterness is not evident at all. And the sweetness? I love sweet things.

Now I can drink so much more!

What do you mean, I shouldn’t do that? It tastes great! Smooth and sweet—how could that be bad?

The realization was a real wake-up call. No. Literally.

A wake-up call.

On a recent night, as I sat and wrote into the wee hours of the morning, I consumed five cups. Five.

I lay on my bed and stared into the darkness until daylight.

Did you know that, even though the tan-colored liquid in my cup tastes so much better and goes down more smoothly, it’s still coffee?

It’s still coffee. With caffeine. And acid.

Did you also know that there is more to talk about here than just coffee?

I’m a little embarrassed to admit my little affair with the coffee creamer to you anyway. But, not nearly as embarrassed as I would be if I had to admit all the other lies I tell myself everyday.

I’m not gossiping. I’m sharing concerns. We can pray for them, too.

I’m not really a glutton. I’ll run an extra mile to make up for it later.

It’s not actually a lie. I’m really just bending the truth a little. It’s for his own good anyway.

It’s not really envy. I simply need to work a few extra hours each week, so I can have the same nice things my neighbor has.

These are only the tip of the iceberg. In so many ways, I twist the truth and present myself in just the light I want you to see me. The creamy brown sweetness is so much more appealing than the bitter, blackness of my heart.

Pour all the milk and sugar in you want. It’s still coffee in the cup.

Put pumpkin flavoring in it with the milk and call it pumpkin spice latté.

It’s still coffee.

And, it still keeps me awake at night.

The heart is more deceitful than all else
And is desperately sick;
Who can understand it?
(Jeremiah 17:9 ~ NASB)

For a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,
The medicine go down, the medicine go down—
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way.
(from Mary Poppins ~ Robert/Richard Sherman ~ American songwriters)

Plucking Thistles

June 30, 2015June 30, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Die when I may, I want it said by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. *

The boy had hope written across his smiling face.

Hope is a beautiful thing, especially in a child. It animates and motivates, forging dreams for the future. I love the beauty hope generates in young folks.

Hope is not something I enjoy dashing on the rocks of reality. The results can be ugly. I don’t love ugly.

This had all the earmarks of ugly.

His father, having told me he was trying to teach his son the trade of picking—of buying used objects for a small amount of money and flipping them for more money, asked me to advise the boy.

The hopeful young man handed me a clarinet-shaped object. By that, I mean the long black piece of plastic with metal keys attached had been a clarinet in another life. No longer.

It was unplayable, with bent keys and broken springs. The pads, the life source for a woodwind instrument, had long ago deteriorated and crumbled away to dust, leaving no way for the individual notes to sound.

A re-pad job on a clarinet would cost more than the price this sad instrument could ever bring. The other issues—bent keys and broken springs—would only drive the potential investment in the old horn up into the stratosphere.

As I examined the instrument, my dismay showing on my features, the hopeful face of the boy that peered into mine changed perceptibly. He steeled himself for the bad news he sensed was coming. I glanced into his eyes and saw the unhappiness there.

What a disaster!

I wondered—for a moment—if I should tell him a fib, a white lie. Just a little one—for his own good. I would save his pride and give him hope for another day.

“It’s a fine clarinet, but I’m not buying them right now. You might check at another store. They may need it worse than I do.”

Can’t you just hear me? For him. I would be saying the words to save him the pain of failure.

I didn’t say those words. That would have been the easy way out for me, too. But sooner or later, the boy would have to face two different truths: First, his investment was not going to bear fruit. Second, the hateful old shop owner lied to him.

I won’t lie.

Gently, I began to speak to him about what makes a clarinet play and what gives it value. Pointing out the catastrophic defects in his instrument, I explain why it would not make sense to repair the horn.

He is disappointed. Horribly disappointed.

But, he wants to learn. Asking questions, he probes my store of knowledge so he will make better choices the next time. I happily share what I know, taking time from my workday tasks to aid him. We make comparisons with functioning instruments. We talk about the need for knowledge about the brands of horns and of the importance of a good carrying case.

As he prepares to leave, he reaches out to shake my hand, his tiny one dwarfed by mine. His father follows suit, expressing his gratitude for my time and my willingness to share. He mentions a sacrifice on my part to help the young man, and I wave aside the thought. There is nothing to what I have done, I suggest.

Suddenly, I remember why I do this—why I have done it for a lifetime.

The opportunity to plant seeds far exceeds the objective of making a profit.

Oh, I need to make a profit to keep my doors open, but the reward of seeing the eyes of that young man when he left—no longer just full of hope, but also bright with the pride that comes from being treated with respect—no money in the world could ever purchase that.

Some would say the loving thing would have been to let him keep his dream alive—the dream of making money on that instrument. Some today even suggest that speaking hard truth in the face of error is hateful.

I wonder which is more loving: Is it to dash his immediate hope as his expectation for the future is built up and he is equipped to meet that future, or is it to keep quiet and let him believe a lie?

The boy will return, of that I am sure. The day may come when he has learned the lesson taught him today so well that he is a threat to my own livelihood. I smile at the thought, enjoying the expectation of his success.

Weeds are uprooted—seeds of hope planted in their place. What better task could I have? What more reward could I ask?

How does your garden grow?

These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another; render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace.
(Zechariah 8:16 ~ ESV)

Anyone who doesn’t take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either.
(Albert Einstein ~ German born theoretical scientist ~ 1879-1955)

* (Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

Hold This, Will You?

June 9, 2014April 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m angry tonight.

I’ve been tricked.

All day, the ideas have been tumbling about in my head. No—even longer than that.

Days ago, the rough draft of this post was written on the soft gray matter of my brain. It was filed away for future use.

I intended to write an exposé.

You know—I am by nature a tattle-tale. I like to show where people go wrong and then use them as cautionary tales.

Phil Everly did it in his song from the last century, When Will I Be Loved. Why shouldn’t I?

I’ve been made blue.
I’ve been lied to.
When will I be loved?

I intended to tell about the customer who threatened legal action against my business last week. We mailed him a package which was delivered on time. The problem is, an elderly person at the customer’s house received the package and then put it where it couldn’t be seen, and she forgot about it.

Suddenly, I’m going to be reported to the Attorney General’s office?

I wanted to make this an exposé of how customers don’t stop to consider that there are actually people on the other end of that email or telephone. It’s not just a business, there are human beings who operate the business for your benefit, as well as for their vocation.

Nope. Not going to happen.

The rant is canceled, put off to another day due to new evidence come to light.

I was going to include a few choice words about the fellow who lied to me about a certain occurrence.

I was stunned and disappointed beyond belief. The man is one whom I have reason to trust completely. Yet, the lie was so intricate—so calculated. There was premeditation and planning that went into its telling.

I wanted to express my anger and frustration at the violation of my trust. That also is not how this essay will come across.

Mitigating circumstances have been brought out of the shadows. It seems the person who told the lie is not the villain I desired to make him out to be.

Believe me, I don’t want to change the focus of my writing. I am more frustrated by this shift in direction than one would believe. I had the evidence and my summation completely formulated, ready to put down on the empty page.

I actually pounded the desk in front of me when I realized the trap which had been sprung.

My tantrum is over now, my emotions mostly under control, with the possible exception of a tear or two and perhaps, a sniffle into a tissue.

It was almost as if I had heard a voice in the room. I’m not actually claiming to have heard the voice, just that it might have been.

Here. Hold this a minute, will you?

I took the shiny, round object which was shoved into my hand.

Very soon, I realized my mistake.

Well, whose reflection do you expect to see in a mirror?

It wasn’t just me, standing there like an idiot, holding a mirror and looking back at myself. No, as I stared, the scene changed and I saw an angry—no strike that—a furious visage screaming into the telephone held in front of it.

I remembered the scene all too well.

The poor lady at the other end of the telephone had given me the only answer she was allowed to give by her manual of operations. She was paid to answer questions, but she had no latitude to change policy. It made no difference to me. Did she not realize who I was?

As I stood holding the mirror, I had a flash of near brilliance.

This was a human being!

I wasn’t screaming at a company; I was screaming my anger and threats at a fellow human being!

I wonder—was she a neighbor I was supposed to love? (Matthew 22:39)

Do you think she felt the presence of God while I was on the phone with her?

I shifted my gaze away from the scene, overcome with pain and guilt.

It didn’t matter; other scenes leapt out of the mirror at me. Again and again, I heard myself say things which are not true.

I was speaking to friends. I was answering a policeman at the side of the highway. I was explaining my failure to meet a deadline to a customer.

Lies. All lies.

I have told more lies than I could enumerate. I would be too ashamed to do so anyway.

I am a liar.

I wonder—is it still within my power to cast a stone at my friend who has shattered my trust? I hear the Teacher’s words as He wrote in the dirt. Let him who has never sinned cast the first one. (John 8:7)

I’ll pass.

The only one exposed here is the guy holding the mirror. The light I wanted to shine so brightly on the fault of others is merely shining full on my own sin.

I was tricked into it, but the truth blazes from the wall on which it was written. You have been weighed in the balance and found lacking. (Daniel 5:7)

I think it may be time for me to stop writing for today. I have some things to take care of.

I wonder though, before I go. . .

Hold this for a minute, will you?

For if someone merely listens to the message and does not live it out, he is like someone who gazes at his own face in a mirror. For he gazes at himself and then goes out and immediately forgets what sort of person he was.
(James 1:23,24 ~ NET)

An age is called Dark, not because the light fails to shine, but because people refuse to see it.
(James A Michener ~ American author ~ 1907-1997)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

lies

The Question

No More Mr. Nice Guy

Cream and Sugar?

Plucking Thistles

Hold This, Will You?