Reaching Through The Thorns

June 21, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s blackberry season. Where I live, anyway, it’s blackberry season. Maybe it is where you live, too.

The experts in such matters tell us blackberries are not actually berries but are fruit. Nobody really cares.

When one tastes the sweet, slightly tart fruits made up of seeds and juicy ovules, the immediate impulse has nothing to do with discussing their nomenclature or species, but only with devouring as many as possible.

However, I do have a problem with blackberries. They say the best ones you’ll eat are the ones you pick yourself. They say. And, that’s why I’m not happy today.

Did you know the word bramble is used specifically to describe blackberries? You know what a bramble is, don’t you? It’s an impenetrable thicket.

Yeah. Impenetrable.

There’s a reason they use the terms bramble and impenetrable when talking about blackberries. Blackberries have thorns. Oh, those experts (the same ones who tell you it’s not really a berry) will tell you they’re not really thorns but are prickles. Never mind that those prickles can cut through even denim material with ease. They’re thorns.

Thorns. Berries.

Berries. Thorns.

Thorns. That’s what I see.

I know the berries are there. I know they’re good. I’ve tasted them. I’ve poured them like candy over my ice cream. I’ve eaten the cobbler and the pie.

Pure delight.

But I’ve sucked the blood from the cuts on my hand, too.

Pain.

I see thorns.

I don’t think I’ll pick blackberries today.

So, here I stand in the middle of the briar patch—you know, that’s what a bramble is, don’t you? Here I stand in the middle of the briar patch, looking at the thorns, and I’m hungry. Oh sure, there are blackberries all around, but oh—the thorns!

You’re laughing at me again, aren’t you? Here I stand, all dejected, and you’re laughing at me. Or, perhaps not.

Perhaps, the thorns have caught your attention, as well. You’ve been pricked more than a few times. The delectable blackberries you knew were yours for the picking surround you, but all you see are the hateful thorns.

May I say two words? Just two?

Br’er Rabbit.

Yes, you read that right. Br’er Rabbit. That long-eared scoundrel from the pages of Uncle Remus. Or, if you prefer, from the frames of Disney’s Song of the South.

Br’er Rabbit. Born and bred in the briar patch.

Me, too. Br’er Paul. Born and bred. In the briar patch.

Perhaps, you too.

Our old friend, Job, it was who said the words: Every human born of a woman lives a short life, and even that will be full of trouble. (Job 14:1 ~ my paraphrase)

If that’s not enough, our Savior said it this way: While you walk around this spinning ball of dirt and water, you will have problems. Don’t let it get you down; I have already contended with the thorns and come out on top. (John 16:33 ~ my paraphrase)

We were all, every one of us, born and bred in the briar patch. There are no exceptions. For all of us, there are successes and failures, joys and sorrows, mountaintops and valleys.

We pick the delicious fruit. We lick our wounds.

We rejoice. We weep.

We give thanks to a good and generous God, as we walk toward our destination.

And, when we stumble in the brambles and the dark of night, we remember the light He promised would light our way. Again and again, we test its power against the darkness. Again and again, there is no contest.

Your words are a lamp to walk by, a bright light to illuminate the path ahead. (Psalm 119:105 ~ my paraphrase)

Together, we walk. Through the briar patch.

Eating the fruit along the way.

And, it’s good. In spite of the thorns, it’s good.

Even when I walk
through the darkest valley,
I will not be afraid,
for you are close beside me.
Your rod and your staff
protect and comfort me.
(Psalm 23:4 ~ NLT)

From this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.
(from Henry IV ~ William Shakespeare)

We Can’t All Walk on Water

June 1, 2018June 1, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I hoped the squelching sound of wet socks in my leather walking shoes wasn’t audible to Charlie as we found a table on which to set our cups.

I couldn’t believe I had been forced to ford a raging river of water in the alleyway outside the coffee shop. I was on a city sidewalk! I mean—who would have expected that?

But, as I seem to do frequently, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Let me see if I can do a better job of setting the scene for this uncomfortable event.

Ever have one of those days? I mean the good ones—the kind of day when nothing can go wrong. The sun is shining; there’s time for all the activities you have planned, and you have an appointment later with a good friend you haven’t seen for months.

What could possibly blemish such a shining day?

For most of the day, right up until just before the appointment with my young friend, nothing would have been the answer to that question. Nothing at all.

But then the sky, bright and sunny before, dimmed with clouds and the rain fell.

No. That’s not right.

The deluge descended. The skies opened up and the water poured out over us. The metal roof above us sounded as if it were a hailstorm, but it was nothing more than sheets of rain from above.

I had been awaiting a message from my friend to say he was headed to the coffee shop. And wouldn’t you know, in the midst of that deluge, his message arrived.

I laughed.

Oh, well. I wouldn’t melt. Grabbing an umbrella, I kissed the Lovely Lady and headed out to the car.

Looking out from under the edge of the little umbrella, I noticed the light. The sun was shining. Rain coming down in sheets, and the sun was shining! Well, at least that meant it would stop soon.

It meant something else, too.

From the front door, I heard her voice follow me out to the car.

“I bet there’ll be a rainbow.”

I wasn’t counting on it.

I want to be an optimist; really, I do. I want to think everything will work out for the best—all hunky-dory and A-Okay. I want to, but I can’t.

The day was headed downhill faster than a road bike down the Illinois River Hill. Neither is all that good a feeling.

Downtown, I couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere in the block the cafe is on. I circled the block, hoping someone would vacate one. No such luck. So I parked around the corner, more than a block away, with the heavy rain still coming straight down.

No. It wasn’t, was it? The wind had picked up a bit and the still-heavy rain was blowing from the west. I was protected on the east as I walked—no help at all.

And then, as if being cold and wet from the blowing rain weren’t enough, I reached the alleyway two doors down from the little shop where I was to meet my friend.

Only, it wasn’t. An alleyway, I mean.

It was a raging torrent of rainwater pouring down from the hill above town. The alley was the only unimpeded path the water could find into the valley, and it took advantage of the lack of impediment.

Six inches deep and eight feet wide, the current rushed, whitewater roiling on top, pebbles and debris tumbling underneath.

I can’t jump eight feet. I also don’t think that well when the wind is blowing rain sidewise against me.

I wanted a bridge. Failing that, I wanted to be able to walk on water.

Neither option was available.

I saw a large stone sticking out of the water, probably a piece of concrete washed out of a pothole further up the hill, and stepping onto it, assumed I could push off and jump the rest of the way over the current.

Did I say the day wasn’t going as I had hoped?

The stone rolled under my foot, submerging that shoe all the way to the bottom, ensuring I wouldn’t be jumping the rest of the way to the other side. I just plopped the other foot down and walked through the flood onto the sidewalk.

Squish, squelch. Squish, squelch.

My friend, when he arrived, was happy to inform me that there wasn’t a drop of rain falling half a mile away in the direction from which he had come. He also had found a parking spot right in front of the cafe.

I have since seen photos of the rainbow (you remember—predicted by the Lovely Lady), a double one to boot, that formed in the sunny/rainy sky to the east.

I didn’t see it.

I was busy looking at the rain soaking me. I was angry about the soggy walk through the current in the alley.

I’ve had time to dry out now. I have a few observations which hadn’t occurred to me before. Sometimes, it takes me awhile.

You see, I know I have a tendency to make more of things than I should. The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested it was a tempest in a teacup. Mr. Shakespeare might say it was much ado about nothing.

Neither would be wrong.

Still, I’m not alone in being overwhelmed by the storms which take me by surprise, am I? We all have things which are important to us and when we can’t achieve them in the manner we planned, we despair of reaching the goal.

Sometimes, our joy is stolen by the arrival of a letter that threatens to change our blueprint for the future completely.

Family members become ill and schedules are interrupted.

Friends drop out of our lives and we want them back.

The wrong politician won the election and we’re overwhelmed with apprehension for the future.

The list of potential sources of the rain falling on our parade is endless. We—all of us—fear the storm in varying degrees, and for very different reasons.

And, besides that, just when we’re learning to cope with the rain, we realize we have to go through the torrent.

Through it.

We can’t all walk on water, you know. As far as I know, only two men in history have done that. And, neither of them is named Jim Carrey.

And, bridges aren’t always conveniently located to trip across without getting our feet wet.

Why does God do that?

Why Peter but not me?

Why Moses and the Children of Israel but not us?

Funny thing.

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper. Click To Tweet

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper.

Sometimes through is just as good as over.

Sometimes through is just as good as over. Click To Tweet

We trust and we obey.

And, we get wet. But, we get where He wants us to go.

We will.

Because He promises we’ll not be overwhelmed by the flood. Or the fire. When we go through. (Isaiah 43:2)

Through. With Him.

The rainbow comes later. We may not see it at all. It doesn’t matter.

His strong arms hold us close. Still.

Even when we’re soaked. And, when we squelch with every step.

Storms won’t last forever. They won’t. (2 Corinthians 4:17,18)

Keep walking.

It might not hurt to wear your galoshes.

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.
(Helen Keller ~ Blind/deaf author ~ 1880-1968)

When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.
(Isaiah 43:2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

Finishing the Job

July 13, 2017July 13, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The Lovely Lady isn’t talking to me.

No, it’s not for the reason you might suspect. She’s not upset—not with me anyway.

I am frustrated. I have been for weeks. Tasks which have been set before me have been tackled with purpose and intent. As uncomfortable as I am with those tasks, I want to complete them.

Wanting to is not the same as doing.

Trying is not the same as succeeding.

For a variety of reasons, I have been forced to move from several of the tasks to other ones before the first jobs were completed. It doesn’t set well in my spirit.

Today, I spent a few hours measuring and visualizing a solution while considering a task I never wanted to begin in the first place.

What I really mean is I stood in one place and, staring at the impossible mess, racked my brain to come up with a way out of the predicament I find myself in. Dinnertime interrupted the aggravation—which only made me more aggravated.

I came home, having accomplished not a single task. Not one.

I said she’s not talking to me. She just knows I need a little space. I’m not much for consoling platitudes. They only frustrate me more. She knows that.

She knows me.

I like that she knows me.

Later this evening, I needed to retrieve something I had left at the site of my earlier frustration, so I told her I would be right back, explaining what I was doing.

It would take a little longer than that.

As I walked in the door, the frustration of the day landed on me again like an unbearable weight on my chest. It was hard for me to breathe for a moment. But, as I walked back where the item I needed was stored, I noticed another task I had left undone days ago.

A thought hit me. Why not just finish that little project? I had been putting it off for days, feeling guilty every time I walked past, but never stopping to complete the work.

Tonight, I picked up the necessary tools and I finished one task. Just one.

I walked out of there with my head held high. When I got home, the Lovely Lady talked to me.

She talked to me.

I like that she knows me.

I read her part of a poem, one I remember from my childhood days. You’ve likely heard it before. A single verse from Longfellow’s The Village Blacksmith:

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

My voice cracked as I read the words. It does that. More and more, these days.

It was only a small thing I completed.

No. It was a very small thing.

It doesn’t matter. I needed to feel the success of completion—of working at something that mattered, and finishing it.

I have often felt that way about life itself—about living my faith. I need to do something that matters. More than that, I need to complete the job.

Perhaps I won’t finish it today, as Mr. Longfellow’s blacksmith did. But still, the goal is not to start a plethora of tasks. The goal is to finish what’s been begun, be it one enterprise or a dozen.

I want to be able to say with the Apostle who wrote so many letters, that I have fought a good fight and have completed the race. (2 Timothy 4:7)

It will only be true through perseverance. It will only be true if the race is run in His strength and not my own.

I lose interest when the going gets hard. Zeal turns to disappointment; the heat of good intentions cools until there is barely a spark of dedication.

But, He knows me.

My frustrations, my sadness, my disappointments, He knows all of them. And, in all of them, He never wavers in His faithfulness.

I waver. I gripe. I lash out.

There is no limit to His persistent love. Click To Tweet

But, there is no limit to His persistent love. His mercies have no end. Really. In His faithfulness, His mercies are renewed every morning. (Lamentations 3:22, 23)

Every morning.

Just when I need them to face the new day, with its frustrations and its challenges. Mercies.

I like that He knows me.

I’ve got more tasks to complete.

I think I’ll see what I can finish today.

I might even start something new.

My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far today, I have finished two bags of M&Ms and a chocolate cake. I feel better already.
(Dave Barry ~ American author/humorist)

Work willingly at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people. Remember that the Lord will give you an inheritance as your reward, and that the Master you are serving is Christ.
(Colossians 3:23,24 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

The Ladder

May 5, 2017May 5, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Let’s just put in a new window.

She had a point. The old single-hung window was pathetic, the lower pane broken, with a piece of plywood covering the missing glass. The combination of dirty, scratched glass and the not-so-efficient plywood patch made it seem that the natural light outside had to squeeze its way in, rather than streaming in from the sky, as one would expect. The paint on the window frame is peeling and it is easy to see that water has been leaking onto the wood for years. Perhaps it really is finished.

One might have thought that—before today.

Today, I made what seemed like fifteen trips up a ladder with the sole intent of proving the old window still had some life left in it. Fifteen trips up to a window twelve feet off the ground. Fifteen trips back down.

I carried tools up to remove the old glass, tools to clean out the old glazing compound and glazier’s points, tools to scrape peeling paint, and even a tool to make sure the window won’t keep sliding open on its own. I brought broken panes down. I carried new panes up.

In between, I stood near the top of the ladder and labored.

Tomorrow, I’ll make a few more trips up and down.

The window is going to be fine. Really. The building contractor working on the new house next door to my old one looked over at it this afternoon and told me so. He says it’s looking great.

The window is going to be fine.

I’m not so sure about me. The old legs are shaky tonight. Muscles ache and I have a slight cramp in the arch of my foot, where it rested on the rung—when it wasn’t climbing up or down the rest of the rungs.

I had a different scenario in mind when I insisted we save the old window. It involved one trip up the ladder. It involved one trip down the ladder.

No one wants to cover ground they’ve already covered. Like Longfellow’s blacksmith, we want to see something attempted and something done. Just like that—all on the same day.

Try. Do. Wipe your hands.

Tomorrow, I’ll go up the ladder again. And very possibly, the next day, I’ll go up the ladder again.

And, in that realization, I see before me the analogy of my existence these days.

Each morning finds me in the same valley, looking up at the job I know must be done. The mountain must be climbed, tasks will be attempted, but it seems certain the goal won’t be reached.

Weary and frustrated, I’ll slide down the mountainside one more time, only to tackle it again tomorrow. The words Mr. Shakespeare put into the mouth of Macbeth centuries ago make their way even now into my own: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Hmmm. One might get the idea I’m discouraged. Perhaps, even angry.

I have been. Both of them.

As I did today when I descended the ladder for the last time, I have looked up and have seen, not the progress which has been made, but the great amount of the task yet to be accomplished.

Standing on the ground, looking up this afternoon, even after hearing my contractor friend praise my attempts, it was easy to wonder why I even considered reviving that old window.

What an astonishing waste of time! How do I justify the effort and expense?

And yet…

As I put away the tools and my ladder, a thought hit me. They do that, you know.

I wonder what it looks like from inside the room?

Wearily, but with just a hint of anticipation, I clomped up the rough staircase inside.

I won’t say I was awestruck. I wasn’t. Still, as I stepped off the top step into the room, the difference was surprising. Light, from the sunny Spring sky, filled the room. All the dingy impediment of the old panes was a thing of memory.

Now, we’re getting somewhere!

Sometimes, all it takes is to look at the thing from a different perspective. We’ve been looking at it from the same side for so long, we can’t see how close we are to reaching the goal.

Tomorrow will be another day. The journey still beckons, in all of its unromantic tedium.

I’ll climb the ladder again. And again.

It’s how the light gets inside.

Climb the ladder again tomorrow. It's how the light gets in. Click To Tweet

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
(from The Village Blacksmith ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~ American poet ~ 1807-1882)

Patient endurance is what you need now, so that you will continue to do God’s will. Then you will receive all that he has promised.
“For in just a little while,
the Coming One will come and not delay.
And my righteous ones will live by faith…”
(Hebrews 10: 36-38 ~ NLT)

Bite Sized Chunks

October 24, 2016October 24, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I remember, long years ago, riding along with my father as he visited the grocery stores where we normally purchased our provisions for each week. At each stop, he was disappointed. The butchers in the meat markets could not provide what he needed.

“Beef skirts? Why would you want those? They’re way too tough for cooking. Sausage—that’s what those are turned into. It’s all they’re good for.”

He didn’t give up. We finally found what we needed in the carniceria, the butcher shop in the hispanic barrio just to the south of where we lived. When he described what he wanted, they knew immediately what he was seeking.

“Fajitas! You want fajitas!”

It was a word we had never heard. Even though the word had been used for forty years among the cattle workers who ate the undesirable cuts of meat around their campfires in South Texas, it had never been spoken in a restaurant anywhere.

Dad bought the meat, wrapped in brown butcher paper, and we went home victorious—successful hunters home from the chase.

I have no idea how much work it was to prepare the meat for eating. The butchers in the grocery stores weren’t lying. It was tough, so tough it was nearly inedible. But Dad knew what would happen if he prepared the meat correctly. Hours, he worked to tenderize, season, and barbecue the meat. Hours.

He was willing to put in the time and to sacrifice his hard work for the result he was certain of. Absolutely certain.

He was not disappointed.

Everyone who ate Dad’s beef skirts raved. Raved. It was the best tasting beef anyone had ever eaten. Sure, it was chewy. But, it was fantastic!

It would be nearly twenty years before the trendy restaurants began to offer fajitas. Around our scuffed and battered dining room table, we ate like rich folks. Fine dining? Who cared about fine dining? We had beef skirts! Fajitas!

I’m not trying to tell you my father invented fajitas. He did not. He just heard about them from some of the old-timers in South Texas and determined that his family wouldn’t miss out on the culinary experience.

His perseverance and hard work paid off. We had no idea we were eating food that would one day grace the menus of many eateries across the country. It was simple, poor man’s food, but we knew its cost. And, we liked what we were tasting.

I’m realizing that life almost never comes in bite-sized chunks—cut fastidiously and arranged neatly on our plates by a doting parent (or simpering chef)—but it usually arrives in great slabs of meat with the gristle and tough membranes laced throughout. We have to deal with all of it.

Life almost never comes in bite-sized chunks. Click To Tweet

And something tells me the most important part of what we do with our lives is not in how we deal with the tender, delicious stuff, but in how we dispatch the tough, unpleasant parts.

Character is built, not in the great hall of feasting, but in the sculleries and around the cook fires.

Character is built, not in a feasting hall, but in the sculleries and around the cook fires. Click To Tweet

Or, if you like, joy and wonder are to be found at the table as knife and fork are plied, but it is in the kitchen that the hard work takes place which makes the wonder possible. If no one does the labor there, there will never be a finished meal to rave about.

King David spoke of a feast prepared for us by our Creator, our Shepherd. In front of those who hate us, the meal is served and we are designated as favored sons and daughters. (Psalm 23:5)

Favored? Well, of course we are! He feeds us. By His own hand. And, pours oil on our heads.

And, we shake those anointed heads and look down on those who hate us and who abuse us. It’s our right, is it not?

Odd, isn’t it? The Shepherd who feeds us, tells us to feed the hungry. He tells us to clothe the naked. He tells us to comfort the oppressed. (Matthew 25:31-46)

Early one morning, on the shore next to a fire where He cooked fish, he told Peter what his task would be.

“Feed my sheep.”

The work in His kitchen is not always comfortable. It isn’t always easy. The food is often thrown back in our faces.

But, when they do eat? When they will taste what He offers?

As good as those fajitas were, they are nothing when compared to the feast prepared for those who will accept the invitation!

Nothing.

Favored and blessed? Only as we share the bounty of the Creator who owns the cattle on thousands of hills. (Psalm 50:10)

All those cattle?

Can’t you just taste the fajitas now?

O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in him.
(Psalm 34:8 ~ KJV)

He Rides Upon the Storm

October 20, 2016October 20, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A dark and stormy night, it was.

I had intended to ask Snoopy for help with my opening sentence, but he is nowhere to be found, probably hiding from the frightening flashes and booms himself. It was indeed, a dark and stormy night.

Was. A shockingly short, but powerfully reassuring, word.

Was. Past tense. Over. Done with.

Right now, there is not a creature to be seen anywhere. All of them took shelter from the noise and commotion. But, come morning, the skies will be alive with birds and flying insects. The air will fairly ring with the celebration of re-creation.

The dogs in my backyard, cowering now between the floor joists of the storage building (their sturdy house seems not to be substantial enough for their reassurance during a thunderstorm), will cover their owner with muddy paw and nose prints as they leap and cavort at his appearing.

For now, the rain falls, a steady cascade of water from the heavens.

A gentle rumble of thunder bullies its way across the sky above, bringing to mind the assault of powers from on high against these earth-bound edifices only moments past.

I sit in the quiet and give thanks for the calm, life-giving draught that enriches the earth below. Mankind has done it from time immemorial. Water gives life. When it is withheld, death will follow. How would we not be grateful?

But, as I sit, listening thankfully to the gentle and rhythmic thump of rain on the metal roof above me, I am uneasy. I have a sense of restlessness, as if I’ve forgotten something important.

Now, what was it?

Perhaps, I want to forget.

The thunder grumbles across the wide expanse above again and I remember. I might want to forget, but the question will not be silenced that easily.

If God is in the rain, that peaceful, life-giving source of fresh hope, where is He when the storms blow in?

As does all of nature, we cower from the raging lightning and wind-whipped raindrops. The explosions of thunder do no real harm, save to terrify and remind us of the potential for death and destruction that awaits right outside our hiding place.

Why don’t we give thanks for the storms?

Why don't we give thanks for the storms? Click To Tweet

I don’t love storms. Once, I thought I did. I was younger then.

Now, I know their potential for destruction. I realize the repairs that will need to be effected after they have had their way. Insurance adjusters will be called; shingles will be tacked down; broken branches will be hauled away.

I can’t help it. I’m humming with the Fab Four as they declare whimsically, “I’m fixing the hole where the rain gets in, and stops my mind from wandering.”

When we are made aware of an issue, failure to address it only guarantees we’ll be able to accomplish nothing else until it is repaired. Water dripping into a bucket is a distraction that will not be ignored.

The realization is profound. Perhaps, you already see it.

The result of the storm is that we work to make things better. Stronger. More able to withstand the next storm. Regardless of the hardship in between, the storm leaves us better off.

Storms motivate us to become better than we were.

Gentle rains merely make us more comfortable.

Thankful, but comfortable with what we have grown accustomed to.

Somehow, better seems to be preferable to comfortable.

Better is preferable to comfortable. Click To Tweet

The brother of our Savior, assured us that the result of these storms will not only be better. He claims the result will, in the end, be perfection. (James 1:2-3)

Perfection. We’re not there yet. Well, I’m not, anyway.

The storms keep pounding.

I’m trying to be grateful for them, too. In everything, be thankful. (1 Thessalonians 5:18)

God is in the storm.

Perfection is around the corner. Or, perhaps the one after that.

Oh. I’ll keep fixing the holes, too.

You know—my mind still needs to wander.

You lay out the rafters of your home in the rain clouds.
You make the clouds your chariot;
you ride upon the wings of the wind.
The winds are your messengers;
flames of fire are your servants.
(Psalm 104:3,4 ~ NLT)

At your rebuke the waters fled,
    at the sound of your thunder they took to flight;
they flowed over the mountains,
    they went down into the valleys,
    to the place you assigned for them.
(Psalm 104:7,8 ~ NIV)

There shall be showers of blessing,
Precious reviving again;
Over the hills and the valleys,
Sound of abundance of rain.

Showers of blessing,
Showers of blessing we need:
Mercy-drops round us are falling,
But for the showers we plead.
(Showers of Blessing ~ Daniel W Whittle ~ American evangelist ~ 1840-1901)

It Comes Back

August 2, 2016August 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m standing on the roof, plumber’s snake jammed down the vent pipe. Again and again I shove the flat wire down and drag it back up. With each repetitive cycle, the stench of sewer escapes the pipe, to lodge in my nostrils and throat.

I’m not happy.

The trip up to the roof is a familiar one, this particular job needing to be repeated two or three times a year. The century-old house has pipes under it that date back nearly to its original construction.

I’ve resigned myself to doing the task; clearly, the job itself is not responsible for my unhappiness.

I wonder why I’m unhappy.

No. I don’t wonder; actually, I know.

I’m unhappy because I’m going to be happy in a minute, but unhappy again after that.

There. That’s made it perfectly clear, hasn’t it?

All right. Quick, before it happens, let me explain it.

In a minute, maybe five, there is going to be a loud gurgle, I’ll hear water sucking downward, and the whoosh of every sewer pipe in the house dumping all the dirty water it contains into the line that leads under the yard to the alley where the city system will carry it to be treated and released again.

It is exactly what I mean to accomplish.

And, almost on cue, there it goes. The rush of water is even louder than I remember it. The sweet sound of success echoes from under ground, up through the cast iron pipes to reverberate in my ears. It’s done.

The elation is almost indescribable.

I am sweating and tired, worn out from standing and laboring on the slanted shingle rooftop, but it is the moment I have been working toward from the instant I began climbing the aluminum ladder up from the ground.

What genuine joy! What relief!

The job is done! Hallelujah!

But. . .

I stand on the roof, gloved hands wrapping the twenty feet of metal snake back around the coil, and I have this nagging thought.

I’ve done exactly this before.

I slide my hand around one wrap after another, and my foul mood is back just like that. I have. I’ve done this many times before, without variation.

I’ve conquered the sewer demon over and over.

I’ll have to do it again. Someday. I’ll have to do it again.

I am unhappy.

The filthy stuff comes back. As long as we live in this old house, I’ll have to drag out the tools and send the vile stuff back where it belongs.

There is good stuff in the old house too—stuff that needs to be protected from the filthy junk. It’s worth saving. Again and again, it’s worth saving.

I’ll do it again.

I wonder. The one sheep out of the one hundred who wandered away—after he was found and returned—did he wander away again? Did he have to be found again? (Luke 15)

The woman’s lost coin—after the house had been cleaned and it turned up—did she ever lose a coin again in that house?

What about the arrogant son, the one we call the prodigal? After he came back and his dad threw a party for him—did he fall back into his old ways again? Did they throw another party for him when he returned the second time?

What about the fifth time? Or the tenth?

The filth of this fallen world encroaches time after time. I don’t know about anyone else, but I have to stand up to the dirt again and again. Some times are worse than others.

There are certain sins which are only just defeated to return and tempt again in an instant. I stand firm, only to be tested in exactly the same way. Or perhaps, in a subtly different way.

Every time—every time—I rejoice and do a little victory dance inside, only to be reminded that winning the battle is not the same thing as winning the ultimate victory.

Some will say the sin nature is dead and I shouldn’t have to fight the battles again. I tell you, that never was promised to us.

We were promised that sin doesn’t rule us anymore, for we’ve been made alive to God. Temptation comes, but we have the tools to defeat the temptation. (Romans 6:14)

I don’t allow the filth to fill my house. I never will.

It doesn’t always feel that much like living in victory, but it’ll do.

It’ll do until there’s no need to use the tools anymore.

Maybe, a new house. . .

Yes. I think a new house would be nice. One with no sewer problems.

That’s coming someday, too.

He promised.

In My Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also.
(John 14:2-3 ~ NASB)

Opportunity may knock only once, but temptation leans on the doorbell.
(Anonymous)

I Did That

June 17, 2016June 17, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m rethinking the events of my day.

No. Really, I’m wondering about the events of my life. They’re all related, you know.

It was a good day. Well, I mean it was a good day until I spent an hour or so in the dentist’s chair, panicking like a waterboarding victim at Gitmo. Before that, though…

Before that, though, I got to do what I’ve done most work days for the last thirty-plus years.

I got to assist folks in making purchases which will help them make music. I helped some teachers make purchases which will aid them in helping people learn how to make music.

I even worked on several instruments to improve their ability to be used in making music.

It doesn’t sound like much, does it? I simply help people make music.

A couple of different people today referred to me as the music man. But, except for sporadically, I don’t actually make music myself.

Still, the enjoyment I receive from sitting in a concert, listening to students play instruments I either procured for them, or repaired for them, cannot be overstated.

Watching a guitarist in the park play a gig on an instrument which was lying on my work bench that morning brings a thrill I’m not sure I can describe.

At times like that, it’s hard to keep from looking at the person sitting beside me and nudging them before whispering in their ear:

I did that!

Funny thing, every time I start to think like that—every time—I get a nudge from the Spirit that lives inside of me. And I hear a voice, a voice audible only to me, saying;

No. I did that. (1 Corinthians 4:7)

Can I tell you a secret?

There is no less joy—no smaller personal reward—in acknowledging God’s hand in my life, than in pridefully claiming the credit myself. There is even more than a little relief in making the admission.

If I am responsible for yesterday’s conquests, the pressure to perform the same feats tomorrow is squarely on my shoulders.

They’re not strong shoulders.

His are.

The longer I live, the more clear it becomes that any legacy I hope to leave behind will not last more than a few days past my departure from this life.

Unless—unless the legacy is not dependent on my activities, not attributed to me alone. The things I do that shine a spotlight on myself are nothing, simply the emperor’s clothes. I might as well stand in plain sight without a stitch of clothing on.

A legacy comes from living a life with purpose. It comes from giving everything you’ve got for something bigger than fame, or reputation, or wealth.

One of the instruments I laid on my work bench today was a fine electric guitar, if not an expensive one. The owner wanted me to put new pickups in it, so he could achieve a different sound than the originals were capable of.

He has been working on the appearance of the guitar. By that I don’t mean he has been polishing it up, or touching up the finish.

What I mean is that the owner has been abusing the finish on the body of the instrument. He wants people to think he’s playing an old, vintage guitar. Sandpaper and a screwdriver are among the tools he has used to lovingly deface the glossy paint and to scar the wood.

More than one person stopped by my work bench today and saw the poor guitar lying there. The work the owner has done paid off.

Guitarists have a soft spot in their hearts for an instrument that has paid its dues. A vintage instrument, worn and beaten, but still in service, has (and rightfully so) earned their respect.

I saw the respect and reverence in the eyes of the onlookers today. Immediately, I invited them to touch the instrument.

Within a second of touching the so-called wear on the guitar, the respect and reverence was gone from the faces of every single one who tried it. In the same faces, I saw chagrin and derision. Chagrin at being fooled. Derision at the idea that such an instrument was worthy of respect.

The guitar, although very much a real and worthwhile instrument, is a fake.

A fake. However useful, it is trying to gain respect not due it. Honor comes with service. And perseverance.

Good honest wear comes from years of being held in the hands of the music man. The hands of the person who knows how to squeeze the tonality and volume from the depths of the instrument.

The wear that comes from a lifetime of service will leave scars. It will leave bare spots and faded places.

All smooth as silk. The rough edges are rubbed away, the raw crevices of accidental gouges worn down to a gentle slope.

Touchable. Comfortable.

Beautiful.

And somehow, we’re not talking about guitars anymore, are we?

In the hands of the Music Maker, service becomes legacy. (James 1:12)

Hardship becomes blessing.

Disaster becomes opportunity.

Good. Honest. Wear.

The day is coming when I will stand before the real Music Man. I think I’d like to hear His voice say—just His, and no one else’s:

I did that.

Scars, gouges, and thin spots.

His legacy.

Not mine.

His.

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.
(The Velveteen Rabbit ~ Margery Williams ~ English/American author ~ 1881-1944)

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
(Romans 8:38-39 ~ NASB)

World Without End

May 13, 2016May 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The waves crash without any sign they will ever let up. Again and again, they pound the brown sand on the beach.

Will they never stop?

I couldn’t count the times I’ve visited the beach. The draw for some is irresistible. Not so for me.

I suppose my first encounter with the Atlantic Ocean at the tender age of three may have had some effect, however subconsciously. Soon after my father was stationed in Florida with the Navy, the whole family went down to the sands to bask in the sun. I don’t remember it well, but the pictures still lurk on the edges of my memories.

The ocean stole my beach ball.

What use it could have had for it, I don’t know. Still, there it is; tossed and swirled by the receding waters, the beach ball—the first one I had ever seen, much less played with—was gone beyond reach.

Other disasters have awaited—severe sunburns, cuts from broken glass, a terrifying experience in a riptide—these and other accumulated memories have led to my disregard for the beach.

Those memories came back with a rush this evening while I was with my grandchildren. We tagged along with them to watch a soccer game in which their brother was playing, but a couple of them wandered off, bored with the action on the field.

I found the two children playing in the sandbox a little later. The sand was all over them. Hands, arms, legs, clothes—I think it was in their hair too.

When it was time to go, I suggested that they should make sure they got all the sand off they could so they wouldn’t get my truck too dirty.

As I turned away, I muttered under my breath, “We wouldn’t want to take the whole beach home, would we?”

With those chance words, I was sitting on the damp sands of South Padre Island again, a place I’d sat for many hours growing up.

Did you know when you swim in the ocean, or gulf in this case, that there is never any relief from the waves that smack against you?

Never.

You wade in and then, as the depth drops down far enough, you swim for awhile. It’s never deep enough that you can’t stand up if you want. Which is a comforting thought—until you spend a little time in the surf.

Again and again, the waves slap against your belly, or chest, or shoulders, knocking you down into the water. If you stand up, it happens again. If you work at it, you can almost dodge the waves by jumping over them. After awhile, you might even be able to play a game of frisbee or toss around a kickball.

But, from time to time the big waves come in, and there’s nothing you can do. Every time you stand up, you get knocked down.

I don’t swim at the beach anymore. I get my feet wet and wade at the water’s edge. Sometimes, I just walk along the wet sand, dodging the incoming wash that is losing momentum before returning to the deep. Then I sit on the sand well beyond the reach of the water until I can stand it no more.

Some folks find the beach restful. I just find myself wishing someone, somewhere, would find the off switch for the incessant waves and let me have some peace and rest.

It has never happened. I think they may keep coming, world without end. Time will tell.

We fall down. We get up.

I understand the importance of perseverance. Really, I do.

The thing is, life is so much like being at the beach, I probably don’t even need to point it out. The parallels are obvious—to me, anyway. Yet, the beach remains one of the most popular vacation destinations there is. Where is the logic in that?

We fall down. We get up.

Do you know, if you go further out from the shore, you’ll reach a point at which the waves no longer break? It’s true. The water just rises and falls gently, one lazy slope after another for you to float upon. Smoothly, up one side and down the other, you can just drift easily.

No stress. No effort.

Go out past the waves! How simple is that? Why don’t we all do it?

Imagine. No waves smacking at your chest to knock you over. No powerful, curling breakers smashing down on your head from up above.

Oh. I forgot to mention one thing:

You can’t touch the bottom there.

There are no breakers because there is no tension between water current and land mass. The lack of friction allows the currents to move the water smoothly. It seems the perfect place to be until you tire of floating and need to really relax. Suddenly, it’s not all that great a place to be.

You can’t stand up.

Yeah, you can’t get knocked down. But, you can’t stand up.

Am I the only one who feels like life keeps knocking me down?

Am I the only one who is tired of it?

I’m ready to go out beyond the breakers and rest. Just drift along.

The Lifeguard tells me I can’t do that. He also assures me of the safety of remaining under His care.

I get annoyed more than I want to admit. I hate the constant battering. I want it to stop.

I want an easy life. All around, I see folks who don’t struggle as I do. They have everything they want. All they do is float along on the current, never struggling, never being knocked down.

They float along on the current. Maybe that’s not such a good thing.

I realize I need something solid under my feet. That way I can’t be blown along with the crowd to places I don’t need to be (Ephesians 4:14)

What good is it to drown in a crowd? You still drown.

The waves keep coming. Jesus said they would. He also said we need not worry about it. He has overcome them. We can too. (John 16:33)

Let the waves roll.

We are waiting for answers, but we’re not discouraged.

They knock us down.

And yet . . And yet, we are not defeated. (2 Corinthians 4:8-9)

Still standing.

Again.

Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us,
Unto him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus throughout all ages, world without end. Amen.
(Ephesians 3:20-21 ~ KJV)

The bravest sight in the world is to see a great man struggling against adversity.
Seneca the Younger ~ Roman philosopher ~ 4 BC-65 AD)

The Story of My Life

May 5, 2016May 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

There’s not enough! The story of my life.

The red-headed lady who raised me was disgusted. A new baby was due soon to a young couple in our church and she was on a deadline to finish the little crocheted blanket.

The baby shower had come and gone without a gift to offer, but she remained confident the project would be completed before the little tyke’s arrival.

Stymied!

Just inches short of the intended size, she had run out of the variegated yarn she loved to use on such projects. There was no way she had time to order more. Alas, the child might actually come into this world without the blanket. From her perspective, it would be a disaster.

“The story of my life!” She repeated the plaintive phrase.

She threw up her hands in disgust and, sticking the crochet needle through the loosely-knit material, tossed the blanket into the wicker basket beside her chair.

She was done, it seemed.

Giving up.

Ah! But we knew better. It was only a matter of time.

She sat, moping, in the easy chair.

Any time now…

There it was.

The index finger on her right hand went to her mouth. She tapped her lips, muttering.

“I wonder. . .”

The change was abrupt when it came. Her left hand plunged into the basket and pulled the good-for-nothing blanket back onto her lap. She began to yank on the single tendril of yarn hanging out of the edge at the place she had ceased her labor only moments before.

Like a mad-woman, she worked—ripping out the stitches she had put in laboriously in the hours preceding. We wondered if she had gone mad. The thought didn’t last long.

She soon stopped and examined the blanket to see where she was. Then, more slowly than at first, she continued to pull at the yarn. There was a sizable pile at her feet when she finally stopped.

Talking to herself, she said, “That should do it. I hope this works.”

Grabbing a full skein of contrasting colored yarn from the shelf beside her, she began to work once more. The stitch pattern was different than the main body of the blanket, but she was no longer making the blanket. This was a border. Before it was done, it would be two inches wide around all four sides of the little blanket.

A two-inch border of ingenuity and flexibility.

The finished blanket was beautiful—a perfect wrapping for the tiny baby who would arrive that week. And, every time she saw the baby in its carrier, swaddled in the little blanket, the red-headed lady would stop and admire him.

I wonder if anyone else noticed that she always took hold of the border of the little guy’s blanket and rubbed it between her fingers. Perhaps they thought the smile on her face was because of the baby.

I wonder.

I will always be sad to remember her initial reaction.

She seemed to truly believe that unhappy events were her personal due in life. Like her mother before her, Mom wasn’t much of an optimist.

Frequently, she used phrases like the story of my life and par for the course, as if she thought it was simply what she had coming to her.

And, that makes me sad.

What doesn’t make me sad is the realization that she never let that expectation stop her from both starting, and seeing projects through to completion, even when interrupted by the frequent checks that momentarily discouraged her.

Like a dog worrying a particularly tough bone, her surrender was nearly always short-lived. Even if it took hours of concentration and exploration of alternatives, she would eventually crack the problem open to savor the sweet taste of success.

Funny. We all experience the momentary setbacks. The disappointment of plans gone awry is common to every one of us.

Every one of us. Our Savior promised us trouble in this world. (John 16:33)

It’s not personal.

Maybe, it’s time to get past the par for the course thinking and get on with finishing the blanket.

Or whatever task God has put in front of us.

We’ll take pride in the result. Even if it’s not what we envisioned to begin with.

We tackle our problems head-on and finish the job.

And, that is the story of our lives.

A bend in the road is not the end of the road. Unless you fail to make the turn.
(Helen Keller ~ Deaf & blind American author/lecturer ~ 1880-1968)

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
(John 16:33 ~ NIV)

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
(Psalm 23:6a ~ KJV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

perseverance