To Walk and Not to Fall (It Isn’t as Easy as It Looks)

November 8, 2023November 8, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I told the Lovely Lady that I probably would never write again.

“I think the well’s run dry. I’ve been struggling to find something to write about and there is no more. Nothing.”

She laughed and went back to her reading. She knows me.

I’ve been here before.

Still. . .

As I sat, head in hands, a thought hit me. I should search on my phone. Occasionally I write notes there to be ready for times such as these.

I would check there.

Nothing. Well, nothing I had saved recently.

I went back further; way back to the year of Covid. You remember. No school. Working from home. No toilet paper.

I saved two thoughts on the same day in March of 2020, the month the lockdown started in the USA.

They make no sense—there on the screen without any context. Like raw dough lying on a table before it is shaped into what it is to become, it’s difficult to visualize a purpose.

“Walking isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“Stingy with the rotten notes, but generous to a fault with the beautiful, sonorous ones.”

I have no memory of writing either sentence. In an attempt to remember the reason for the words, I cast my mind back a few years.

I remember those long walks. There wasn’t much else to do, so I walked. Often by myself—sometimes with her. Every day. Miles, one foot in front of the other.

Easy. Walking was easy.

Well, maybe the other one, then. Rotten notes. Beautiful and sonorous ones. Stingy and generous.

Oh yes! I remember hours of playing my horn. The French horn, that ill wind that nobody blows good.

There were lots of rotten notes. Not so many beautiful, sonorous ones.

Somehow, as I looked at the words on the little screen before me, the two statements began to coalesce, two separate thoughts becoming one theme.

Maybe walking isn’t all that easy. I don’t remember learning to do it. I have watched many babies who are in the process, though.

No; it’s not as easy as it looks. Not nearly. Babies fall, over and over. They get up to try again. Sometimes after falling, they stay where they are, crying. Parents and grandparents lift them up, comforting them as well as coaxing them to try again.

It’s hard work, this walking thing! And somehow, although there are a few years in between when we don’t worry about our walking ability, many aging humans will experience times when the difficulty of staying upright hits hard again (pun not intended).

A friend wrote today of a fall induced by a necessary medication. She is in pain now.

Walking isn’t as easy as it looks.

But then, not much we do is. Practice and experience lend themselves to a certain level of skill.

I spoke about the music notes, remembering my own difficulty. During that same time period, a famous cellist named Yo-Yo Ma began, in his own isolation, to offer video recordings of himself playing solos on his beautiful instrument. Just him. And his cello.

Now, there’s a man who is stingy with rotten notes—who is generous with the beautiful, sonorous ones. What lovely recordings he produced for the world during those difficult days!

Effortlessly, he would draw the bow across the strings, evoking a tonality with no hint of discord. Without difficulty, his fingers found the exact placement for each note to sound precisely on pitch. Every single note.

He made it seem so easy.

Inspired by his example, I played my horn at home, albeit generous with the sour notes and giving freely of bobbled attacks. In fairness, there were some beautiful, sonorous notes to be heard. Just not as often as I could have wished.

It is not only walking that’s not as easy as it appears. Skilled production of anything worthwhile takes practice—diligent application of ourselves to the thing we want to accomplish.

We know that. With every new thing, we know that.

Coloring inside the lines was once impossible for most of us. Holding a pencil to write our letters—nearly unthinkable.

The list is unending. Riding a bicycle. Learning to whistle. Combing our own hair. Baking a cake. Those don’t even begin to scratch the surface.

And yet, knowing nothing comes easily, we still look enviously at others in their areas of expertise and wonder why we can’t do what they make appear so elementary.

We become discouraged when we fall short, seldom remembering that practice and repetition are what made them better at it.

And we forget that we are not performers, showing off for an adoring public, but servants of a Loving Creator who knows us and our frailties.

He knows us.
He knew us before we were born.
He knows how many hairs are on our heads.
He has counted the tears we’ve shed while on our journey.

We walk for Him.
We play our music for Him.
We complete our tasks at work for Him.
We love our neighbor for Him.

None of it is as easy as it looks.

But the music is sweet. It is stingy on the clinkers. It is generous beyond belief in its beauty and fullness.

And, as we journey here, there are others who walk alongside us and help us to stay upright.

Not easy, but rewarding beyond any compensation this world could ever offer.

There may be more to write about, after all.

But, don’t tell that to the Lovely Lady.

Whatever you do, do your work heartily, as for the Lord and not for people. (Colossians 3:23, NASB)

Make music to the Lord with the harp,
with the harp and the sound of singing,
with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn—
shout for joy before the Lord, the King.
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it.
(Psalm 98: 5-7, 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)

Christmas Bells (and a few clunkers)

December 25, 2021December 25, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Late Christmas Eve.

I want to tell you the neighborhood is quiet, but it’s not. The wind is blowing in from the south. It’s not a gentle breeze either.

Even inside the house with the windows closed, I hear it howl. On Christmas Eve, the wind shouts through the oaks that line the neighborhood road. A single step outside the front door reminds me of the temperature.

Nearly sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, says the outside thermometer, even as the mechanism in the old mantle clock readies the energy to strike twelve times on the spring that passes for a chime in the ancient timepiece. I hear it striking faintly as I wander away from the house. There will be no white Christmas here.

Bells. I do hear bells out here. Wind chimes on my house, front and back. I check the ones in the front where I am and they are swinging energetically. The D6th chord the circular pipes make as the clapper makes its rounds is reassuring.

All is well.

Still, I’m not sure.

So, I wander down the street a few feet. There are more bells at a neighbor’s house, and I stop to listen for a minute. When I was in their yard earlier this week, I admired them and found that they have square pipes, not round as mine are.

No matter. They make as beautiful a chord as the one I just left at my place, a G7th, if my ear is to be trusted. But, amongst the dong, dong, dong of the square chimes, I hear a periodic clunk.

I don’t have to trespass in the neighbor’s yard to find the cause. It’s pretty clear that the whole affair, buffeted by the gusting wind, is hitting the porch’s wooden support beam once in a while as it repeats the beautiful chord.

I laugh. I know the feeling. For the last three or four weeks, my life has been wrapped up in playing Christmas music on my horn at various events with other instrumentalists. I just played earlier this evening with a wonderful collection of humans at our church’s Christmas Eve service.

I do. I play some beautiful notes. I don’t think I’m bragging when I say that. But then, the wind (or something else) goes through the horn wrong and a clunker comes out the bell. Some nights, a lot more of them than can be explained away by bad vision, or sticky valves, or even not getting enough sleep last night.

There are some reading this who understand what I mean. Come to think about it, it may be most of you who understand it, even if you don’t play a musical instrument.

Clunkers happen. All our life, they happen.

I used to wonder if God kept track of all my clunkers. In life, I mean; not my horn playing. Even today, in my dark moments, I still do.

He has a lot of those to tally. For me, anyway.

But suddenly, I remember what night it is. And yes, I’m perfectly aware that December the twenty-fifth is almost certainly not the day our Savior came to us as a baby in a smelly stable. But, it is the day we commemorate the event. In the season we consider the great love our Creator God showed for every human in the world by sending His Son.

And, the realization stops me where I stand, listening to the beautiful, tuned chimes as they whirl and gyrate in the unbridled wind.

God Incarnate, Emmanuel, our God With Us, came to earth and was born a baby, not because of our beauty and attractiveness.

He came because He loved us and wanted us to be with Him.

Period.

Or, if you prefer the term our British cousins use—Full Stop.

It is worth a moment or two of consideration. Perhaps, even an hour or—and, I know this is extreme—a lifetime. It might just take that long to take it in.

Clunkers and all, His grace reached down into our midst and gave us—Himself.

Love and Light come down to dwell with us. To die for us. To give us life.

With Him.

Even when things don’t go as we planned. When we fall on our face. When we stand in front of the crowd and let fly a clunker to beat all clunkers.

He wants us to be with Him. Forever.

So, let the wild bells chime! Let the trumpets blast! Let the loud voices rise!

A Child is born.

Clunkers will be remembered no more.

Beautiful music to my ears.

To His, too.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.
(from the poem Ring Out Wild Bells, by Alfred Lord Tennyson)

God showed how much he loved us by sending his one and only Son into the world so that we might have eternal life through him. This is real love—not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.
(1 John 4:9-10, NLT)

Every One a Child

December 15, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

My life for the last couple of weeks has been overshadowed by the Big Event. Playing brass music for the local university’s Christmas service is still cause for nervousness and stress in this veteran of almost forty years of the program. But, that’s all over now.

I expected to write about it today. I sat down to do just that, but it seems the story doesn’t want to be the subject of my mental wanderings just yet.

Instead, I want to talk with you about children. Babies. Toddlers. Teenagers. Ninety-year-olds.

All children.

Why are you wrinkling up your forehead like that?

Oh. Ninety-year-old children. I know. We’ll get to that soon enough.

Sunday night, a day after the Big Event was over, the old guys (and one young lady) in the brass ensemble played one last time, this event—my church’s annual Christmas program. Everyone was welcome to share what they had prepared. No pressure. Encouragement and approval for every performer, young and old, was guaranteed.

I had my worst outing of the whole season, missing more than my share of notes, but heard not one word of criticism. I expected nothing less from this joyful crowd. But what my ensemble did really wasn’t noteworthy on this night.

The beautiful little girl whose sisters were singing a duet was. She added to the music with her lovely dancing on the stage. Mama was worried she’d jostle the guitar-playing sister’s arm, but she was careful not to, pirouetting and flouncing in her own space. Her face beamed as she offered her talent to the Baby King.

There were so many others; there is not enough room here and you don’t have the patience for me to mention them all. The stage filled with kids in the pageant; a few shy beyond showing their faces, others standing on the steps and waving to the crowd. One after another, they brought their gifts, some flawed, some nearly perfect. All were met with approval from the folks who listened and watched.

Piano duets and solos soared—or limped—through all the notes. Vocal offerings followed the same pattern. Joyous applause was the inevitable result.

Ah, but look! The red-headed young man mounts the steps to the stage and, brushing the shock of hair from his forehead, begins a difficult arrangement of Rise Up Shepherds and Follow at the piano.

The jazz-voiced chords are difficult to shape the hands to and the arpeggios from bass to treble and back again require exact positioning of the fingers. There are some starts and stops along the way, but it is all brought to a triumphant ending, and with a flourish, the last note rings out from the big concert grand piano.

With a joyful thumbs-up to the whistling and cheering crowd, the young man strides to the steps, a grin affixed, permanently it would seem, to his lips.

His friend would follow a few moments later, as he and his dad offered up their version of Little Drummer Boy. Dad, with his guitar, sang each verse from the stage, while his son, smiling broadly the entire time, marched up and down each aisle tapping his sticks on a small drum hanging by a cord around his neck. As the song neared an end, the young man mounted the steps and stood, still striking the drum, behind his dad.

It might have been just a little bit of laughter in his dad’s voice that caused his voice to break (but I think there was more to it) when the words “then He smiled at me” came from his mouth. The young man was beaming from ear to ear himself. He didn’t stop beaming as he bowed from the waist, not once, but three times to the thunderous applause.

The two young men are friends and peers. Both have Down syndrome but are ever anxious to learn and share new things. Their joy is contagious; our desire to encourage them in it, completely understandable.

Christmas is for children. I’ve heard it again and again. I have always—in the past, anyway—disagreed.

Well? Surely, it’s obvious. The Christmas story is for all the world. The Gospel of Grace is freely offered to all who come to the God-who-became-a-baby.

Adults. Children. Teenagers.

Christmas is for all. It’s more than presents and carols; more than candy canes and decorations; more than tales of Santa Claus and of talking snowmen. It is.

So much more.

But—and I can’t get past this—our God began His rescue mission as a baby in a manger. He was helpless and dependent. Our Savior.

God came as a child.

And, when the child became a man, He shocked His followers by telling them the only way they could come to His Father was as children. Helpless and dependent. Lost.

Lost.

I’ve forgotten something.

Oh yes. Her. I didn’t really. Forget her, I mean. It’s just that there is pain. And tears.

But there is joy too. So much.

She climbed the steps carrying a violin. Helped by an older man, she ambled over to the piano where the Lovely Lady who lives at my house waited. Leaning over, clearly confused, she handed the violin and bow to the beautiful redhead. A bit confused herself, the pianist talked to her for a moment to reassure her, then handed the violin back to her.

There were notes from the piano and a tone drawn timorously from the violin. Then, as the piano began to play the first notes of Joy to the World, the melody also flowed from the violin. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter.

When the last notes faded down to nothingness, the crowd cheered and applauded louder than ever. I wiped the tears and smiled at the Lovely Lady as she returned to her seat beside me.

Christmas is for children.

The violinist has lived nine decades. She was recognized for many years in our fellowship as a wise woman, a source of advice and wisdom for many young mothers and middle-aged empty nesters. The love and respect she knew from all were well deserved. And she reciprocated those qualities many times over.

For the last several years, we’ve watched her change as an illness has robbed her of memory and wisdom. She still beams as I greet her, but my name is not on her lips anymore. That kind nature has not been lost, but there is no gleam of recognition in her eyes, nor personal bits of conversation when we speak. And therein lies my sadness.

Ah, but the joy is there, too. I heard it in the voices and applause when she finished playing. I feel it when I realize that even in this time of the dear saint’s life, a second childhood if you will, she knows her God and Savior.

Her husband, constantly at her side, related that as my brass group played the instrumental prelude earlier in the evening, she sang every carol. It wasn’t just humming; she sang the words and the tunes.

She does. She still knows her Savior and He knows His dear child.

Christmas is for children. Old and young.

It’s for the Infant, weak and helpless, who was laid in a manger all those years ago.

It’s for the little girl, dancing, carefree, on the stage beside her sisters.

It’s for the young men, adult in age but children in spirit, who will need the care of others their whole life, but who will always have more to give than they ever take.

It’s for folks like you and like me, sometimes arrogant in our certainty, but more often, childlike, coming before a God who knows us. He knows us and still, He loves us.

It’s for the old ones, who have lost the ability to remember and to function as they once did. The Creator of all that is has never forgotten them. Ever.

He won’t forget us either, as we come weak, helpless, and lost.

He became like us, that we might become, one day, like Him.

Christmas is for children.

I pray I’ll be one all my days.

I pray the same for you.

For unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given…
(Isaiah 9:6a, NKJV)

But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.”
(Matthew 19:14, NLT)

No Strangers Here

November 12, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m sitting in a church sanctuary, waiting for the Lovely Lady to finish a rehearsal. It’s a place of worship we’ve never been in, but somehow, we’re not feeling out of place.

The beautiful redhead is perched, with perfect posture, at the Steinway on the stage, taking instructions from a choir director she had never met before fifteen minutes ago. The folks in the choir loft are singing as she plays, while the director waves his hand in the air. She doesn’t know any of the singers, either.

It’s baffling. As if they have known her for years, they sing in tune—and in time—with the music that comes from her hands. Beautiful music, from both choir and piano—from strangers amalgamating their abilities and knowledge to achieve a goal.

Music, in circumstances that would cause us to anticipate chaos.

I have seen this more times than I can remember. Complete strangers, from all walks of life, come together with a common bond. A love of music, combined with an intimate understanding of the rules for making it—what we call theory—is all it takes.

I’ve played in orchestras, in quintets, in brass choirs, and in community bands. I’ve sung in church choirs, in small ensembles, and in mass choirs.

In each situation, we read the notes on the page, we hear the voices and instruments around us, and we follow our conductor.

No one asks about how much money we make. What our political beliefs are. What our cultural background is.

Together, we just make the music. Beautiful music.

I’ll admit it. I’m confused. No, not about the music. I’m confused about other situations in this world we live in.

There, the music is not so beautiful. Not beautiful at all.

And yet, the solution seems so obvious.

It does.

Maybe, we need another rehearsal or two.

A little practice at home wouldn’t hurt, either.

There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus.
(Galations 3:28, NLT)

So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.
(John 13: 34-35, NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Benedictus—Sometimes Louder is Better

July 29, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Some evenings I sink down in my easy chair and marvel.

Behind closed eyes—and sometimes tear-filled ones—I wonder at the gift of music. Music that quiets. Music that ushers in memories of days long gone. Music that washes away the years, and sadness, and pain.

Some evenings I sink down in my easy chair and do that. On others, I sit in that same chair and expect to do that, but there are different influences at work in the sequence of selections I hear. Perhaps, I should say, another Influence (with a capital I). At least, it seems so to me.

On a recent weekend evening, as I sat, prepared to be calmed and moved, the Influence was at work. I have a group of songs I enjoy. The service I use to bring them up simply would not cooperate that night. Neither the songs nor the artists I have preselected could be found, so I just gave up and clicked the control to play random songs.

I didn’t know the artist. Who is Hauser, anyway? And what was this Benedictus? It was neither a piece nor an artist I’ve ever encountered.

Solo cello with an orchestra.

So simple. So beautiful. So moving.

It began with a statement of the theme by the cello, followed by a restatement or two, and an echo from individual orchestra members (the horn was especially nice). Then with a wave of the conductor’s hand, a chorus—a lovely choir filled with children’s voices—took up the theme.

Quietly, with soft harmonies almost quavering under the pure, clear melody, the soul was lulled to sleep by the haunting music.

The last thing one expected was the pounding of the percussion. And yet, it came.

Instantaneously. Suddenly. Ferociously.

The voices in the choir and the instruments in the orchestra responded as well, leaping to a sudden fortissimo. It was almost frightening. Almost.

The listener in his easy chair—yours truly—was no longer calm or relaxed. The quiet glory of the moment before had become all sound and fury (sorry, Mr. Shakespeare) and there seemed little hope that the previous state would be attained again.

And yet, to my pleasure, it soon was—the bombastic section lasting only a moment before dropping back to the beautiful and simple melody that so enchanted in the beginning.

I was carried away once more. The surprise past, my joy at the beauty was restored. I was comfortable again. Was.

Still, this piece goes in my permanent list to be listened to again and again. I even shared it with my friends on social media. What a singular experience!

I said I was comfortable again, didn’t I? I’m not anymore.

I wish I could leave the matter there. I do wish that. But I never could. The red-headed lady who raised me often reminded me of it.

“Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”

Why, indeed?

But I can’t. And this is bothering me.

Why did the composer have to make that section so jarring? After the loveliness of the theme, why assault the unsuspecting listener with an onslaught of noise and activity?

Perhaps the lyrics will help. No, I won’t be violating any copyrights here. The words are straight from The Book. In the choral text, they’re in Latin, so I’ve made it a bit easier for our purposes, quoting the English translation.

“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Matthew 21:9, NKJV)

Lovely words. They are.

Calming words. Reassuring words. Words of comfort.

Sort of like settling down into that easy chair again, aren’t they? The phrase was originally spoken about our Savior one day, as He entered the city riding on a donkey.

Benedictus.

Blessing.

I write the word multiple times a day, expressing my desire for good things for my friends and loved ones.

Blessings!

May you be blessed.

Like a prayer, the word is, asking for action from our Heavenly Father above. I sit comfortably in my easy chair, and He does the rest.

But there’s more to this, isn’t there?

Life, especially life as a follower of Christ, is not all easy chairs and quiet words. Despite the proclivities of the modern church to be turned inward and feel good about the One who comes in the name of Yahweh and His love toward us personally, our mission—our task—has never changed.

We are to proclaim Him to the world around us. Sometimes, it will be loud. Sometimes, it will be clashing. Sometimes, it will be shocking to the listener.

Always, our intent should be to glorify our Creator and Savior.

The overwhelming drums I heard? The surprising section of music? The words are from the same place in the Gospels.

“Hosanna in the highest!” (Matthew 21:9, NKJV)

A shout of praise going up to heaven!

It’s difficult to do that from my easy chair. I need to act. I need to stand up. Quiet, peaceful me—I need to shout the news.

Cymbals may crash.

I’m not comfortable with that.

The Followers, those twelve men who trailed Him everywhere, had been invited to a quiet place, a place of rest. Yet, instead of comfort, they found themselves at the lake’s edge surrounded by more than 5000 people. And it was time for supper.

“Send them home, Master,” they pleaded with Him. They were missing their rest, the quiet moments, the harmony of shared hymns.

“Show them My glory,” the Teacher replied. “You feed them.”

And they did.

They did.

I don’t suppose it was a quiet affair; nor could it have been all that comfortable, either.

Can you imagine the shouts? The exclamations? The babble of amazement?

I wonder. When did I decide it was time to sit quietly and listen to the music?

Now is the time to be loud. It’s time to make the trumpet call loud and clear.

Really loud.

Especially clear.

It won’t be all that comfortable.

It will be beautiful.

Benedictus. Blessings.

Q: What is the chief end of man?
A: Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever.
(Westminster Shorter Catechism)

Sing a new song to the Lord!
Let the whole earth sing to the Lord!
Sing to the Lord; praise his name.
Each day proclaim the good news that he saves.
Publish his glorious deeds among the nations.
Tell everyone about the amazing things he does.
(Psalm 96:1-3, NLT)

High and Holy

June 2, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

On a recent late spring evening, not long enough ago for the memory to have faded, eight friends gathered in a home for dinner. Dinner and dominoes. And laughter. Perhaps, a few tears. It happens.

We’ve known each other for forty years plus a few. There have been tears. Some of them have come from the laughter. Laughter that starts with a giggle—perhaps a shriek—erupting into full-body fits (you know the kind), and eventually calming down into gasps of amusement with eyes being wiped on sleeves and spare napkins.

Of course, many of the tears never started with laughter. We’ve all raised children; heartbreak was inevitable. Parents and siblings have left this life and we’ve comforted and mourned. All of us are carrying heavy loads of one sort or another by now. We usually share the loads with each other, and we pray about them.

And still, we sit and eat, and laugh. And cry.

And sometimes, we play a game of chicken-foot with the dominoes.

On this Monday evening though, it seemed that something was missing. Something more than a game of dominoes was called for. As we played a second (or was it a third?) round, someone suggested we just needed to sing a little.

So, we sang. A little.

Sometime during the hour and a half we sang, in between songs I wondered aloud if we could keep our friends beside us when we sing in that great multitude of saints in Heaven someday. It only seems logical to me. We’ve sung and harmonized together for over forty years here; surely, we’ll be able to hear these lovely voices when we get up there.

Someone suggested that the singing would be so much better there. I didn’t argue, but I’m pretty sure it can’t be all that much better.

We sang praises. We sang scripture songs. We even sang a kid’s song or two.

There weren’t any spare napkins close to the piano, but I saw some eyes wiped on sleeves a time or two. And, when we finally stopped, hoarse and sung-out, there were smiles on every face.

Somehow, while we sang together, the atmosphere was brighter—the air we breathed in just a little sweeter.

And as we said our goodbyes, all agreed that the time of singing was exactly what we needed to lift our spirits and turn our eyes away from our problems.

No. The children and grandchildren trapped in a foreign country at the epicenter of the pandemic hadn’t suddenly been flown out (that miracle would wait a day or two), siblings facing surgery weren’t instantly healed, and a grandchild dealing with the prospect of a lifelong disease hadn’t been given a reprieve while we sang.

And yet, our burdens were distinctly lighter. All of them.

The storm still raged, but there was joy in spite of it. And peace.

I thought about the evening throughout the week. And I struggled to explain it. I couldn’t.

Then today, on Sunday afternoon, the Lovely Lady and I made our way to the band room at the local middle school for a rehearsal. It was the first rehearsal I had been a part of since the start of the Covid pandemic, nearly a year and a half ago.

The entire group would practice six or seven songs. We (the Lovely Lady and I) had one to play for. The music parts called for a horn and a flute on one song. Only one. I wasn’t sure it would be worth going for.

We went anyway.

We sat, listening to the saxes, trombones, and trumpets as they worked out their parts. I can’t speak for the Lovely Lady, but for me, it was delightful. Yes, there were wrong notes. Perhaps, there might have been some intonation problems. It didn’t matter.

It was wonderful.

And, when it came time for us to play our song, we became part of that community of music makers. We contributed to the wrong notes, at least I did. I may have made an entrance on the wrong beat, or even in the wrong measure. It didn’t matter.

Together, we made music.

There is joy in shared music, a satisfaction beyond the act of combining tonal qualities and counting beats. The process of creating harmonies and countermelodies out of the silence moves well past what the scientific method can explain.

As the music ended and the Lovely Lady and I made our exit, my mind drifted back to that evening of music making with our old friends, wanting to make comparisons. But somehow, the comparisons seemed to fail.

I want to say that the experience with our friends was a high and holy moment.

And it was.

Praises offered to God in a time of storm are repaid with the certain knowledge, the reassurance, of His loving arms holding us tightly through the raging waters. A faith offering, if you will, affirming that our God is faithful.

Paul and Silas knew it as they lay imprisoned in the jail in Philippi. At midnight, they sang hymns. Locked behind bars, with their feet in shackles, they sang and prayed loudly. Knowing it was likely to earn them extra stripes on their backs, they still praised the One they trusted with their lives. (Acts 16:16-40)

We are encouraged, as followers of God, to let His songs fill our hearts and the air around us. Throughout life, whatever our circumstances, we sing, bearing witness to His faithfulness.

And what of the other experience, playing with the folks in the band room? If the singing was high and holy, how do I describe that?

Odd. I think it, too, is high and holy, albeit from a little more earthy starting point. We are God’s creation, designed by Him to live in community. Music is a gift from Him, as is all art, meant to raise our sights from the sweat and pain of everyday existence.

Mere survival was never his plan for humanity. We were designed to thrive and, moreover, to thrive with joy. From Jubal in the early pages of Genesis until modern-day prodigies, music has been a constant in history, a vehicle for faith, for history (storytelling), for entertainment.

As with all of God’s good gifts, many have used it for base, profane ends. And still, music and art have the ability to raise our spirits, to lift our hearts from the burdens of pain and lost love, to bring to mind things higher than our ofttimes drab and difficult circumstances.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights… (James 1:17 ~ NKJV)

Bill Gaither wrote the words I sang years ago in a men’s quartet. More than once, I’ve wondered if it was proper to add the part about making music with friends. I’m coming to believe it’s completely appropriate.

“Loving God, loving each other,
Making music with my friends.”

As often as not these days, the music I make with others of kindred spirits could best be described as joyful noise. Contrary to our human comparisons and judgmental spirits, God doesn’t ask us to offer Him perfection.

Rather, He asks us to come to Him with open hearts and hands, giving our sincere offerings freely. Joyful noise is a sweet offering to His ears.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the lands! (Psalm 100:1)

High. And holy.

Making music with my friends.

It is in the process of being worshipped that God communicates His presence to men.
(C.S. Lewis)

My heart, O God, is steadfast,
my heart is steadfast;
I will sing and make music.
(Psalm 57:7 ~ NIV)

A Bridge to be Crossed. Again.

August 5, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

From my workbench in the back room of the music store, I heard her exclamation of dismay.

Just moments earlier, the Lovely Lady, knowing I had over-promised and was likely to underperform if I didn’t have some relief, had suggested that she would take care of any new business until I could complete the jobs due that afternoon. It was a good plan. My work was going well and it appeared deadlines might actually be met.

Then I heard her unhappy outburst.

She would be calling me anyway, so I headed for the front. The sight that met my eyes was, to a lover of fine musical instruments, a sad and disastrous horror.

The young man wasn’t smiling either, as he stood beside the broken and splintered guitar. But, I remembered a few months before, when I had installed an electrical pickup system in the aging acoustic Martin, giving him a new facet to its usefulness.

He had had a smile on his face as he carried the instrument out on that day. He had been sure the beautiful guitar, one he had acquired while still in high school, would be the only one he would ever need.

It took a single moment—just a few seconds of forgetfulness—to dash that belief forever.

An afternoon at work, good intentions, a momentary distraction, and the guitar was under the wheels of the huge truck. Completely destroyed.

Lifetime plans dashed. Instantly.

As the young man spoke to me, he gently touched the fragments of wood. I could see the pain in his face—could feel it in his voice. But, there was something else in his voice—indeed, something different written on his face. He had come in for a purpose, and it was not to commiserate over the fate of the beloved instrument.

Purpose! That was what I heard in his voice. Purpose and resolve.

He would not dwell on the past. He was ready to move on.

“Let me show you my new guitar!”

The instrument he drew out of the new case was a beauty to behold. A custom guitar, handmade by an artisan from a nearby town, it simply begged to be played. The young guitarist gave in and sat for a few moments to demonstrate the capabilities of his new love. The crisp, clean lines of the instrument were matched by the music that poured out of it.

The clarity and warmth of tone that emanated from the polished spruce and rosewood box were surprising and anticipated, all at once.

When he finished playing, we spoke for a few moments about how happy he was with the new tool he held in his hands. He means to play this guitar for a lifetime, as well.

There was more. He was ready to leave the old broken guitar in the past, but he wanted a favor from me.

“Is it possible that the pickup system from the Martin will fit in this one?”

It made sense. He had spent hard-earned dollars on that system—quite a few of them. We might just as well salvage it and keep it in use. It would do the job just fine.

He was simply being practical. But, then again, perhaps there was a little sentiment in the request.

The need to move forward was clear. The old guitar would never, never play another note. But, part of it might be incorporated into the new one. The old would aid the new to achieve the vision the young man had always had for his future.

It would be a bridge, of sorts, between the past and the future.

I could help him cross the bridge.

I anticipated seeing the smile on his face again, just as I had the last time he carried a guitar out of my shop.

The future awaits. Up ahead.

As I sat thinking about what I would write tonight, my thoughts were naturally drawn to bridges. It really is almost unavoidable. You see, I am surrounded by paintings of bridges in the room in which I sit. I have given in to the urge to write about them often before.

I have written of the past and the future, using a bridge as a metaphor for the place where we stand, gazing first behind, and then ahead. Looking back, we see the events of the past clearly. Looking forward, we can just make out an uncertain future.

I have insisted that I must cross boldly to the future, encouraging my readers to do the same. But, tonight I’m wondering.

What do we do when the things we must leave behind were what we loved most in life?

I know folks who have stood at the approach to the bridge for weeks, months, even years, never moving. Gazing back at what is, even now, lost in their past, they still see nothing across the bridge to coax them to set the first foot on the platform.

Like the Children of Israel in the desert, they receive the sustenance of their God who promises them a place far better than any they left behind, and yet they pine for the food they ate when they were slaves. (Numbers 11:4-6)

Too harsh?

I also have stood in cemeteries and looked at the piles of freshly-turned dirt, reluctant to turn my back. I’ve watched dreams disappear into the air, like the morning mist in sunlight.

The disappointments and tragedies pile up behind me, as they do for every human who has ever walked this earth.

We can cling to them, like so many splintered guitars, for everything we’re worth.

There will never—ever—be another note of music from that source. The voices of the past are forever mute—in this world, anyway.

The human spirit is, however, designed by its Creator to be resilient and nearly impossible to crush. Like my young guitar-playing friend, it hears the call from the future and must answer.

We’ve stood at the bridge for long enough, looking back. The past cannot be retrieved, but what we’ve learned in it may be incorporated into the future.

Our memories are woven—hopelessly intertwined—into the fabric of our lives; we will never lose them.

I like the young guitarist’s way of thinking.

True, there is great sadness in the past. There was great joy as well.

Both will be found again.

In front of us.

And one day—one glorious day—the last bridge will be before us. Nothing awaits on the other side, but great, great joy. No sadness. No pain.

Joy. Across the last bridge.

I’m still walking. Still feeling. Still trusting.

There will be sweet music again. Of that, I’m sure.

Sweet music.

I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.
(Philippians 3:13-14 ~ MSG)

Oh, my dear little librarian. You pile up enough tomorrows, and you’ll find you are left with nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to make today worth remembering.
(from The Music Man ~ Meredith Willson ~ American playwright ~ 1902-1984)

Hope Shines Bright

July 10, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

There were tears at the dinner table tonight. Some might have been my own.

I suppose in some families the occurrence is not all that rare. Arguments between siblings or even partners can end in tears. Lectures by mom or dad to children, too. Unkindness is no stranger to family assemblies. Tears flow. They just do.

That wasn’t the reason for these tears.

We sang a song—a blessing of sorts—before we ate. It wasn’t our usual dinner benediction. I’ve described for my readers in the past the lovely rendition of The Doxology which is frequently heard at our table. Often, just the singing of the beautiful lyrics with its well-known melody and harmonization is enough to make me feel I need no more food than that heavenly feast.

Tonight, my family—some might correct me and tell me it is her family, but I stand by my claim of them—sat around the table in their childhood home and one brother chose a different song to sing.

It has been a difficult day—a difficult few weeks, if it comes to that. It was a Friday night back a way that the phone rang and the hateful word was said again. After a year of feigned dormancy, the despicable thing has come back to life and is again a word on our tongues. Whispered. Spoken in quiet tones, as if the low volume might pacify its voracious appetite.

Cancer.

What an ugly word. A year ago, the major surgery to remove the diseased portion of a lung was pronounced a success. Then the word on the doctor’s lips was cancer-free.

Not now. This time the words are stage IV and chemotherapy.

Now, there’s a sneaky word. Chemotherapy. It sounds so benevolent, so peaceful. Almost like aromatherapy. Relax and drift away. Yeah, right!

Today was his first treatment. Five hours in the chair while his body was infused with numerous chemicals, the result of which no one can foretell with any level of certainty.

We expected to whisper the words. Tonight, of all nights, we would whisper.

Ah. But that was before. Before the benediction. Before the tears. Before the sermon.

Oh. I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

My brother named the benediction for us. We sang, my brothers, my sisters, the Lovely Lady, and others present. Yes, yes. They are her family. I know that. But they are also my family.

Ruth wasn’t wrong when she said the words to her mother-in-law Naomi all those millennia ago:

Your people shall be my people; your God shall be my God. (Ruth 1:16, NLT)

My family. My brothers. My sisters. My wife. I laugh with them. I worship with them. I weep with them. Ah, yes; I sing with them. Sometimes, all at the same time.

Tonight, my family sang. A song of who God was; who He is; who He always will be.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness. It’s not such an old song, as hymns are reckoned. Nearly one hundred years old now. But, the powerful words, the affirmation of the One we believe in—those are ancient. Ancient.

Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:22-23, NKJV)

Clear, youthful soprano tones spilled into my ears from the teenaged girls to either side of me. I heard strong alto notes from more mature voices nearby. One brother and I carried the tenor part (well, he carried it—I just helped a little), leaving the older brother to handle the bass.

I still say the music in heaven won’t be very much sweeter. I hope that’s not too presumptuous. We sang of a God who knows our pain and our sicknesses, our weaknesses and our strengths, yet remains steadfast, never turning away from His path, nor from the ones He loves.

From our hearts, we affirmed the character and attributes of the Creator of all we see and know. I closed my eyes as we sang, partially to concentrate on the words and the voices, but mostly to hide the moisture that seemed to be leaking (without my permission) from them.

It was a holy moment.

As we ended, I heard a voice at my side speak quietly, I thought, almost in disbelief. “Look. Mom’s crying.”

She wasn’t the only one.

And, in a voice just as quiet, my/her brother—the one facing the life and death ordeal—preached a sermon (a short one) as he told us he had adopted as his own the words from that same song.

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.

They were, I believe, the last quiet words spoken at the table this night. There was no more whispering, no more avoiding those ugly, hateful words.

Cancer. Chemotherapy. Prognosis.

God is bigger than any of those things.

Bigger!

He gives strength to face the burdens of the day.

He gives hope—yes, even bright hope—for what comes tomorrow, whatever it is.

It doesn’t make light of the serious situations we find ourselves in, doesn’t guarantee a life without trials, without pain. And yet, just to remember who He is reminds us of who we are in Him.

We walk today in His strength.

We face tomorrow with His hope.

His mercies are still new.

Every day.

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee,
Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not,
As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be.

Great is Thy faithfulness!
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me!

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today, and bright hope for tomorrow
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside.
(Great Is Thy Faithfulness ~ Thomas Chisholm ~ 1866-1960 ~ Public Domain)

Not Lightly

January 24, 2019January 24, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s one of the reasons I can’t always listen to music while I write. You’d think I would have to have music. It soothes the savage breast, they say. It washes away the layers of dust from the day’s travels.

It does those things. It does. But, it also shanghais the words on the page, rearranging them and forming ideas I never intended to lay out in cohesive concepts. Before I know it, I’ve ended up in a completely different locale than where I was headed when I began the journey.

I sat in front of a screen recently, clicking the keys as fast as my fumbling fingers would allow, and listened to a CD from one of my favorite singers. The CD has a handwritten title, scribbled right on the disc with a Sharpie, reminiscent of what we once did with what we called mix tapes.

Only, it wasn’t. Not anything like what we used to make.

The voice coming from the little computer speakers was a familiar one, that of a friend. She knows how to write a song. And, how to sing one.

Friends. Recently, my mind has been wandering more and more to the people in my life. It does that, you know.

My mind, I mean. Wandering.

I’ve written before of the great gift we’ve been given in those we can call by the name friend. I don’t repent the words.

On the night I’m thinking about, my mind was on other things, but the song she sang hijacked my train of thought. Held it at gunpoint, forcing a new direction.

I, like most men, have a one-track mind (one that can only focus on one thing at a time), so hijack is the right word to use here. And, as the train gathered momentum down the new track, the clacking keys of my keyboard fell silent.

One line. As I write, it’s all I remember from the song. It’s enough.

“You will not pass lightly through my years.”

I can’t write the words without feeling the presence of many people. The memories come non-stop. Some, I don’t want to consider beyond the first glimmer of recognition. Others, I hold tight and savor, reliving cherished moments again and again, like a CD on repeat.

Our lives, from earliest interactions, have been shaped by the people in them. Family, teachers, friends, bullies, attackers, employers, pastors, neighbors—people who have walked through our journey—and left footprints there.

Some have stayed and walked beside us for miles and miles. Others have only appeared and then disappeared, leaving barely a trace in our lives at all.

A few merely stay long enough to inflict intense pain—pain which will last for as long as we are on the journey.

And others, even fewer in number, stay to help ease the pain which has been left behind. These, we turn to over and over.

Gifts they are, from a loving Father above.

All of them. Gifts.

Wait. All of them?

Are the ones who inflict pain gifts, as well as the ones who ease it?

This is getting a little uncomfortable, isn’t it?

The words hit way too close to home for me, as well. Perhaps, I shouldn’t camp out on this for very long. I’ll just say this and move on:

God uses whatever tools He chooses to make us into the mature followers He needs.

God uses whatever tools He chooses to make us into the mature followers He needs. Click To Tweet

Perhaps the words of Joseph, speaking to his murderous, jealous brothers, say it best: You meant to harm me beyond belief. God always intended that great good would come of it. (Genesis 50:20)

And Jesus laid out the expectation clearly: Love the haters. Bless them when they curse you. Pray for the hurtful. Give to the thief who steals from you. God did it. Follow His lead. (Luke 6:27-36)

Well. That standard’s not too high, is it?

Here’s the thing. I really want someone to say the words about me someday.

You did not pass lightly through my years.

I don’t want to be the fellow who made a cameo appearance, never making a difference to the scene whatsoever.

Friends make a difference. They make a lasting impression. A good one.

What we call the Golden Rule didn’t come from some do-gooder making up slogans. It came from the One who, walking through the lives of humanity, has left a clearer footprint than anyone else ever could.

Don’t treat people the way they deserve; treat them the way you’d like to be treated. (Matthew 7:12)

I don’t know about you, but my standard for how I think I should be treated is fairly high.

No. Higher than that.

Really. Higher.

So, my standard for how I treat my fellow travelers—every one of them—must be just as high. And still higher.

And someday, if the words do fall from someone else’s lips about me, those words about not passing lightly, I hope they know the reason.

It’s not because of the way I want to be treated. That’s not the why of our treatment of others, only the how.

The why is that we love, simply because He loved us. (1 John 4:19)

When we travel through the lives of others, passing (lightly or otherwise) with love, we leave behind the sweet aroma of the One we follow. (2 Corinthians 2:14b)

It’s better than the stench I know I’ve left more often than I care to discuss here. A lot better.

On we walk. Friends helping friends on the way home.

Really.

Home.

Leaving footprints that point the way to a Savior.

Not lightly.

We leave traces of ourselves wherever we go, on whatever we touch.
(Lewis Thomas ~ American physician/scientist/writer ~ 1913-1993)

I have friends in overalls whose friendship I would not swap for the favor of the kings of the world.
(Thomas A Edison ~ American inventor ~ 1847-1931)

Click below to listen to the song I mentioned in the article:

“Forever Friends” by Nancy Jesser-Halsey

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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