Voices of the Oaks

March 6, 2018March 6, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Today is a day of rest.

Really. A weekday, but I’m resting.

Outside though, there is a whirl and a hurry, the wind bustling through in a tremendous rush to get somewhere—anywhere, it seems, but here. And, since I’m resting, I listen to the wind.

My friends in the backyard don’t want to listen. The black labs are terrified of the voices they hear in the air about them. For ten seconds, while I was out to care for their physical needs this morning, they came out to scramble for my attention. Ten seconds only, and then they dove for cover as the wind began to sound through the treetops again.

They’re not resting.

I am, though. The last weeks and days have been a whirlwind of busy-ness, caused by the illness and passing of a family member. Sadness and concern for her and those left behind have overwhelmed me. Our love for them demands the activity, but the body and soul are rebelling, making demands of their own.

And so, overwhelmed, I sit at my desk, listening to the voices of the wind outside my window. Almost, it seems to me, God’s creation sings a concert of glorious praise. The dogs would disagree, but what do they know?

The man-made attachments add their voices. I hear the neighbor’s ceiling fan on her porch, as it whirls—now wildly, now lazily—on its way. Whup, whup, whup, whup, whup. On and on, it provides a rhythm to the song.

The wind chimes crash crazily and then tinkle lazily, a tuned accent to the constant voices through the limbs of the trees. From the clang! clang! clang! to the almost indiscernible ting ting ting, their bell-like tones add depth to the various voices of creation.

The Rose of Sharon against the wall brushes noisily in rhythm, as its wire-thin stems almost whistle from the breath of the wind.

The apple tree, ancient though it may be, adds its airy voice. The bedraggled and crooked branches lend a whispering tone to the choir.

Over in the neighbor’s yard, the magnolia, evergreen that it is, claps its leaves in the gale, the great fronds clattering along as branches surrounding them wave and whirl about.

And the pines? They are the tenor voices, holding forth as only the self-assured tenors can. It is a wild chorus, held in check only by the waning of the wind at intervals, as if to keep their voices from overwhelming all the others.

But the oaks. . . Ah, the oaks—they are the basses, their voices booming along on the low pitches, a low, throbbing tone, giving a foundation to all of it.

I love the oaks in the neighborhood. Solid and strong, they are not afraid to sing out, standing firm, and yet, their heavy branches wave to the listening audience a little as they are buffeted.

I almost imagine a little vibrato in their song, as they shift about—only a little.

I understand the dogs. I too, am afraid of the wind at times—fearing all I possess will be blown away.

I remember the story of Job, thinking of all he lost, blown away seemingly in an instant. Everything and everyone. Gone.

Life is so fragile, so thin. We seem to hang, as a tiny spider, on a shredded web, waving in the tempest.

But, I have seen the strength of that web. The web of family and of friends. The web of faith in a God who holds both us and the storm in His hands.

The web of His mercy and His grace.

With the prophet, I affirm that it is because of His great mercy we are not blown away in the storm. We are sustained by His great and unfailing faithfulness. (Lamentations 3:22,23)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

His grace is enough. In the storms of life, it is enough. Click To Tweet

I am not saying a limb won’t tumble to the ground, nor even that a great oak might not someday be uprooted. There is pain and sorrow in the world.

There is.

But, the one who can silence the wind with a word from His mouth still offers peace in the midst of chaos.

Songs in the storm. Harmony in the turmoil.

Beautiful. Music.

It is a day of rest.

You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
    will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
    will clap their hands.
(Isaiah 55:12 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

When the wind blows through a wood, its mass is cut and closed by every leaf, forming a train of jittery vortices in the air.
(Alice Oswald ~ British poet)

The Wind Blows

January 10, 2017January 10, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The wind roars, simply roars, through the leaves of the tall London plane tree outside my window. It is frightening enough that the dogs are afraid to stay outside for much longer than it takes to devour their food and lap their tongues in the water dish a time or two before ducking back into their house.

I sit in my easy chair and listen to it blow. And, just as the Teacher promised, I couldn’t tell you where it blew in from, nor where it will end up. (John 3:8)

I don’t know.

Funny. I’ve been saying that a lot recently. I said it to the nice lady from the local newspaper today.

She wanted to know what’s next.

I don’t know.

The leaves, blown around by the wind, scratch against the back door and I laugh.

She wanted to know where I came from. I wondered if she thought it would help to figure out where I’m to go from here.

It won’t.

I recited the familiar words to her earlier today and suddenly realized it’s the first time I’ve told the story and all of it—every sentence and every word—was in the past tense.

Over. Done.

The words I said seemed strangely altered from the dozens of times I have recited them in recent weeks. Then, I was still a part of the story. Now, my part in that story is history.

So, what about the wind? Would it help to know where it came from?

Would it be comforting to know where it is going?

Perhaps. But, I’m thinking the more important thing is to dwell in the place to which He has brought us, as we’re being prepared for the place He is moving us to.

Dwell. It’s an interesting word. We usually think of it as a sense of staying somewhere permanently.

Well, sure we do. The Psalmist averred that he would dwell in the house of the Lord. Forever. (Psalm 23:6)

See there? Dwell forever.

Dwell.

But, my eyes are drawn to the words preceding that in the poetry of the Psalmist. You know, the part where he says that goodness and unfailing love would pursue him all his life.

One has to be moving if they are to be pursued.

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I remember—years ago when I was young and loved old cars—I remember setting the ignition points on the old jalopies. Now, computers do such things for us, but then, we had to make the adjustments to keep the mechanical beasts functioning at the top of their potential. As I remember it, we used to set something in the ignition cycle that was called the dwell.

It was a momentary resting of one part on another. The time between movement—a rest with seemingly nothing happening—was in reality the instant that propelled the vehicle from one place to another. During the dwell, the spark was transferred from one contact to the other, where it could start the combustion that is necessary for the motor to have power.

The dwell was absolutely essential. Of course, so was the activity in between these resting places.

The power to go forward depends on both. Resting and acting.

Dwelling. And, moving on.

I’ve heard people describe the wind in the treetops in various ways—singing, whispering, laughing. I have no such gentle words with which to describe it. I guess I’d characterize the wind tonight as the lead singer in a heavy metal rock band.

You know, yelling and screaming at the top of its voice.

It’s what I feel like—a little—recently.

And yet, I’m learning to dwell in the quiet places. And, letting go in the windy ones.

I can’t tell you where the gusting wind came from, nor can I tell you where it will stop.

But, it’s okay.

Finally, it’s okay.

The Teacher—you know, the One who promised we would wonder—He knows where the wind comes from and where it is going.

He does.

And, He knows what’s next—as well as how I’m going to get there.

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Listen to the wind blow!

Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me
all the days of my life,
and I will live in the house of the Lord
forever.
(Psalm 23:6 ~ NLT)

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I.
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
(Christina Rossetti ~ English poet ~ 1830-1894)

Storm Warnings

April 27, 2016April 27, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

If the thunder comes, I’ll have to sleep in Mama’s bed.

The girl says the words matter-of-factly, without an inkling that they might possibly cause laughter. Her grandpa, with an effort, does not disappoint, realizing the little sweetie is merely stating the truth as she knows it.

Any child knows that Mama’s bed is a safer place to be than his or her own unprotected expanse of mattress. And yet… And yet…

And yet the boy, just a couple of years older, made certain to assure me he would not be seeking shelter in the safe haven of Mom’s bed. The bravado is comical in its own way, but I hold my laughter in, not wanting to hurt feelings.

The storm warnings are out tonight. Tornadoes, say the weathermen. Strong winds. Hail.

Take cover, they tell us.

Accordingly, some friends are spending the night in storm shelters, some in their bathrooms.

I will not fault them. It’s hard not to be afraid when the experts we trust say we should be.

A friend shared a little saying the other day. I don’t remember all of it, but I recall the core thought:

Fear is a lie.

I don’t disagree. But sometimes—even often—it feels more like the truth.

When the wind is ripping limbs off trees overhead, when the rain is blowing sideways and debris is careering crazily across highways, when hail is pounding rooftops, terror seems a reasonable response.

Mom’s bed may not be safe enough.

The bathroom may not be secure.

The storm cellar doesn’t seem quite as impervious as it once did.

In spite of it all, I like thunderstorms. The power, the beauty, the replenishment of the earth, all these and more inspire admiration.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand there is danger. I pray for those who don’t have adequate shelter. I feel empathy for folks (and a certain little girl) who are terrified by the potential for loss of life and property.

In truth, I realize that none of God’s creation is safe. All of it has the potential to wreak havoc on our lifestyle.

I also realize that all of His creation is fantastic! The mountains, the forests, the rivers, the sea—all are beautiful, dangerous evidences of His sustaining and yes, frightening, power.

I wonder though, on what or whom do we depend for safety?

The easy answer is that we put our trust in God. Even the psalmist said the words; When I am afraid, I put my trust in You. (Psalm 56:3)

You’re scratching your head, aren’t you?

Did he just say, “the easy answer”?

I did. It’s on the tip of our tongues. We may even claim that God is our very first recourse, every time we are afraid.

It’s an admirable thing.

He wants us to call on Him. One of the saddest moments I think of in our Savior’s ministry (beside His trial and death) is the moment when He looked over the beloved city, Jerusalem, and lamented their steadfast refusal to accept His protection. (Matthew 23:27)

But, what if we were willing to give our fears to Him, instead of insisting He save us from the object of our fears?

What if we simply trusted Him in the storm?

In it.

The Teacher’s followers, in that storied storm on the lake, believed they were showing faith in Him when they woke Him up to voice their fears.

Do you remember what He did?

He rebuked the wind and the waves. He scolded them. And then, turning to His followers, He did the same to them. (Mark 4: 35-41)

Have you no faith?

For so long, I have not understood. Certainly, they had faith! Why would they have awakened Him if they didn’t believe He could do something about the storm? Wasn’t that faith?

It’s the kind of faith I have.

The storms of life require a command from Him. Peace! Be still!

That is what I believe—or, at least what I have believed.

And, as I write, in my mind’s eye I see the little girl running to her Mama’s bed in the midst of the storm.

Ha! Do you know what she is going to do there?

Will she insist that Mama quiet the storm? Will she quiver and quake until the last lightning flash and the last rumble of thunder is past? No. She will sleep.

She will sleep.

Safe.

Why didn’t the Disciples think of that? Why didn’t they lie down on the deck beside Him and sleep?

More to the point—why don’t I?

What safer place could one want?

How much more protection could you ever have?

Safe. In the arms of Jesus.

The storm is passed.

For tonight.

The little girl sleeps in her Mama’s bed.

Childlike faith.

Safety.

I’ve anchored my soul in the Haven of Rest;
I’ll sail the wide seas no more.
The tempest may sweep o’er the wild stormy deep;
In Jesus I’m safe ever more.
(Haven of Rest ~ H L Gilmour ~ American choirmaster/poet ~ 1836-1920)

The waters are rising, but so am I. I am not going under, but over.
(Catherine Booth ~ Co-founder of the Salvation Army ~ 1829-1890)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

storms of life

Voices of the Oaks

The Wind Blows

Storm Warnings