These Eyes Must Be Defective

July 30, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve mentioned it before. Perhaps more than once.

I even asked my eye surgeon, a few years ago, if the procedure he was about to undertake on my eyes would help alleviate the issue. Alas, he said it wouldn’t, and it didn’t.

The problem is, I cry too easily these days. When family comes to visit. When they leave. When someone cries in a video clip or a movie I’m watching. When friends pass away. When my grandson skins his knee. When the Lovely Lady is in pain.

The list goes on and on. Last Sunday, I even cried when we read the passage in the Bible that would be the speaker’s text for the day.

I don’t even understand that. The passage was Psalm 23—an ubiquitous section of scripture if there has ever been one.

The person who read the day’s scripture asked the gathered folks if we would all read aloud whatever version of the Bible we held—or had memorized. I quoted the King James—just because. It’s what I memorized many passages from in my younger years. I still like it, not because I believe it to be superior to all other English versions (I don’t), but because I love the poetic flow and the old English phrases that stick in the mind long after the reading is done.

I was just fine until we reached verse 6. I had noticed the minor disparity between versions through all of the first five verses, but somehow in that last verse, the differences seemed to disappear. I don’t know if they really did; it just seemed so to me.

My eyes filled with tears, and my voice, usually loud and firm, faded to nothing. Even so, the words echoed in my head.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.” (Psalm 23:6, KJV)

They are echoing still, even as I write the words.

Heaven seems so near. One could almost reach out and touch it.

I’ve been working on a song for piano for the last couple of weeks. It’s not getting that much better as far as the technical details—including too many sixteenth notes and more than a few tricky chords—go. But there are pictures in my head as I play it that go right along with that last verse of the ubiquitous Psalm we read.

It seems like I haven’t heard the story since my Sunday School days in that little red brick church in McAllen, Texas, sixty years ago. My mind probably forgets recent mentions of the story. It does that these days. I remember events that occurred in childhood better than those that transpired ten years ago.

You remember the story of what we call Jacob’s Ladder. It’s found in Genesis 28. You should read it for yourself. Later. Stick with me for now—okay?

Jacob was running from his brother Esau, whom he had tricked out of his birthright. But he was exhausted, so he found a place off the beaten path and, taking a large stone for a pillow, fell asleep. It wasn’t to be a dreamless sleep.

In his dream, he saw stairs coming down to earth from heaven, with angels making the trip back and forth. God stood at the top, in heaven, and He stated again to Jacob the promises He had made to Jacob’s grandfather, Abraham.

When Jacob awoke, he realized that he had chosen a holy place to lay his head upon that stone, so he set the stone upright there, and consecrated it as an altar, giving the place a new name.

Beth-el.

It means the House of the LORD.

I want to write the word David used often in the Psalms when he thought his readers needed to stop and let a thought sink in. So I shall.

Selah.

People speak of “thin places” in the world, meaning places where God seems especially near to us. I can’t think of a thinner place than this Beth-el.

The House of the Lord. The place where the bridge (or stairs) stands between earth and heaven.

There is a good bit of doctrine that wants to be examined and discussed here. I shall studiously avoid doing that. Many others have covered the subject before me.

But I’d love it if you, should you choose to listen to the piano piece linked below, would think about its lyrics, and consider the One who actually is our bridge to heaven and eternal life with God.

He said the words Himself;

“I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No man comes to the Father, but by me.” (John 14:6)

And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord.

Forever.

Even if your eyes—like mine—are defective and the tears flow. There will come a day when He Himself will wipe them all away.

In the House of the Lord.

“Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!
E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me.
Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
Darkness be over me, my rest a stone,
Yet in my dreams I’d be, nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

There let the way appear, steps unto heav’n;
All that thou sendest me, in mercy giv’n;
Angels to beckon me, nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

(Nearer My God to Thee, words by Sarah Flower Adams, 1841)

Rocking Chairs, Neighbors, and Heaven

July 27, 2026July 27, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“Do you want to go inside? It’s hot out here.”

I asked the question of the little tyke sitting in the rocking chair next to the nearly identical one in which I rocked. My grandson had required a little aid climbing up into the big black chair, but it seemed likely I would need his aid when it was time to stand up again.

“No. I like it here,” was all he said in reply, keeping the motion of the chair going with only his arms—his legs being much too short to let his feet push off the concrete below us.

I like this kid. I do.

He takes to new things like most folks gravitate to the old and familiar. Give him a moment to consider a new food, and he’s likely to say, “Why not?” He may reject it just as quickly after the trial, but he’s game to give it a shot.

Me? I like the old paths—worn smooth by years of use, and leading to destinations I’ve visited many times before.

But here I go again, chasing rabbits when I’ve not even begun to follow the path I started out upon.

I want to talk about those rocking chairs.

Well, to be honest, I already did talk about them. At the memorial service for my sweet neighbor yesterday, I talked about them. But I want to talk about them a little more here.

I’ve written a number of times, over the last few years, of the delightful neighborhood the Lovely Lady and I have the privilege of calling home. Many of the folks who dwell around us have lived here for 30 or 40 years, and some for close to 60. It is the neighborhood in which the Lovely Lady grew up.

The thing about folks having lived here for as long as they have is that it means many of us are what we call senior citizens. And, it seems, time is growing short for some of us. In reality, it is growing shorter for all of us.

The house on the corner was home, for nearly sixty years, to two lovely people, who had a better view of the neighborhood than anyone on the street. Sitting on their back deck, they could view every foot of the cul-de-sac street (and most of the homes thereupon).

On many days, as I walked out of the neighborhood to stretch my legs a bit, the aging couple would be sitting in the same rocking chairs you see in the photo that accompanies these words. I usually wandered over to the four-foot-high chain-link fence around their backyard and, leaning on the top rail, would engage the couple in conversation. Often, at a break in the discussion, he would make a suggestion.

“Why don’t you come on up here and sit with us, young man?”

Never mind that I have not at any point in my residence in this neighborhood been a young man. I would usually declare a mental hiatus in my exercise program for the day, and wander onto the covered deck to sit, and to speak and be spoken to.

I cannot express what those conversations meant to me. I learned more about the history of the Christian university a couple of blocks up the street from me on that porch than I had in forty years of living in this town. I learned about the people—many of them, faculty at that university—who used to live in different houses on the street. I learned about—well, you’re not interested in all the different people and things we talked about, but what I actually learned about, sitting on that deck, across from that dear couple, was how to be a neighbor and a friend.

But night after night, those rocking chairs welcomed their occupants, ready to undulate gently, forward and back, as they sat, watching and listening to the microcosm of our little neighborhood.

A few years ago, Skip passed away. The sadness lingers. In truth, I think it always will.

Still, watching Patty carrying on without her life’s companion, I noticed that she came out on that deck most evenings and sat in her rocking chair—watching over the neighborhood as she had with Skip for many years before.

But, as always happens when enough time passes, the years of her life here on earth came to an end. And both rocking chairs were stilled and empty.

C.S. Lewis suggested, in The Last Battle from The Chronicles of Narnia, that the things here on earth are merely a shadow of what will be in heaven. I don’t in any way give doctrinal weight to his words, but it leads me to consider the meaning of the New Earth mentioned along with the New Heaven in Revelation 21:1. And momentarily, for me to see the image in my mind’s eye.

Jesus told His followers in John 14: 2-3 that in His Father’s house, there were many houses (mansions, if you prefer the King James) and that He was going there to prepare a place for us. It’s not clear if the houses have already been built, or if they have yet to be completed.

But my friend, Skip, was a builder for a number of his years on earth. And, knowing him, he may have had a suggestion or two for his and Patty’s place up there. I wonder if those suggestions included a covered deck with rockers in which they can sit and enjoy the music and sounds of worship for all of eternity.

Almost as when they lived here, next to the music-filled house in which I now reside. For all of the last seventy-five years, piano and brass, viola and flute music has wafted across the grass-covered, maple and oak-shaded ground between this house and theirs. There is no way they sat on that deck and didn’t hear that music (not all of it heavenly).

If his request for the deck and rockers was honored, perhaps the two of them sit once more listening and watching.

And, I’m a little jealous. What a joyous day that will be, when we get to make music in praise of our astonishing Creator up there together!

And perhaps, simply to sit and drink it all in, on the back porch of our house He built for us.

I made the observation, as I prepared to lead that old hymn, Amazing Grace, at the service Patty’s family had to honor her, that they’re not really getting a head-start on us.

Mr Newton understood the math.

“When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright-shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’d first begun.”

It’ll be our turn soon enough.

We were honored to receive the gift of those rocking chairs to sit on our front porch a day ago. They’ve already received the stamp of approval from our youngest grandson. Others may approve in time, as well.

I think we can spend an hour or two loving our neighbors there.

And maybe even humming a verse or two of some lovely old hymns.

Forever is still in front of us.

But we can rest at times on the way there.

“This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this…. Come further up, come further in!” (from The Last Battle in The Chronicles of Narnia, by C.S. Lewis)

“The righteous man walks in his integrity; his children are blessed after him.” (Proverbs 10:7, KJV)

We Gotta Get Out Of This Place

June 30, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It’s been bugging me for a couple of weeks now. I asked the Lovely Lady who lives with me how long it had been there. She lived on this street growing up, and she tells me she can’t remember.

I don’t really like it, but there’s nothing I can do about it. They say you can’t fight city hall, and they’re the ones who put the sign there, however long ago.

What I’m really struggling with isn’t that there’s a sign there, at the end of our road. It’s just that I don’t really like the message. We used to have signs like “Dead End” at the end of roads that went nowhere, but I think that may be offensive now. It may have been triggering to some drivers, so we say the same thing with different words instead.

Yeah. Like this one isn’t. Triggering, that is.

The big yellow sign at the entrance to our neighborhood says the words I’m wrestling with.

NO OUTLET.

I can’t think long about it without hearing the words to an old rock anthem from my teenage years in my head: “You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave.” (Never mind that I couldn’t begin to explain what Hotel California was about, I still have the words catalogued in my old Boomer brain.)

I sat and talked with my professor friends last week about it (the sign, not the rock song). As is common, our conversation veered away from the subject too soon to come to any solid conclusion, so I’m still worried about the connotations. I’ll ask them again today, but I’m not counting on any conclusions this time, either.

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? What a doofus, worried about a traffic sign! There’s no hidden message, old man!

Ah. But there is. And it doesn’t have much to do with the traffic on our little one-block-long road. I do console myself with the thought that, since the road is actually a cul-de-sac, there is a circle at the end of that single block for cars to turn around and, looking chagrined, make their way back to the stop sign and go on their way to find a road that really does lead somewhere.

I guess what I’m saying is, I usually think words have more meaning than what the casual bystander applies to them.

I wrote, years ago, about a pond a few miles down the highway from the lovely little burg I live in. The first time I ever saw it, in the late summer of 1975, the pond was a lovely shade of green. Almost electric green.

I’ve seen the pond many times since that day. It’s almost always green. Nobody would ever drink the water from it. They wouldn’t even dip their toes in for a “paddle”(as our island-dwelling cousins across the Atlantic would call it), much less swim in it.

But sometimes, the water is clear. Beautiful, sparkling. Clean. It’s almost always in the spring when I notice it like that. I have seen people swimming in it then. They sit on benches near its edge and read books as they soak up the sun.

You know the difference between the lovely clear water and the ugly green stuff, don’t you?

Yep.

NO OUTLET.

In the springtime, the rains raise the level so it overflows its banks, and all the grotesque green algae is washed away as if it had never existed.

I remember seeing a poster in the youth room of the little brick church I was raised in down in the Rio Grande Valley, back in the last century. It asked, “Do you know why the Dead Sea is dead?” And then it answered its own query with the words, “Everything flows into it, and nothing flows out.”

NO OUTLET

I’ll admit it. Once in a while, I think the sign just might accurately describe the lovely little neighborhood in which I dwell with the Lovely Lady.

You know, like that phrase from the Hotel California song.

Most of my neighbors have lived here for a lifetime. It’s what one might call “an aging neighborhood.” And I like that. They are good neighbors. And they’re like me. Aging.

It is good to grow old together. I’m coming to realize that with new clarity over the last several years.

But we’re not stuck. It we want, we can check out AND we can leave.

I still think there’s more to learn from the sign.

And suddenly, my brain is trying to recall another old song. You won’t have heard it on the Top 40 station your transistor radio was tuned to back in the 1970s, since I remember it from church, but I can only hear the tune and a few disconnected words echoing in the back of my gray matter.

And now you begin to understand the disadvantages of growing old. In the absence of any real lyrics, I’ll tell you the one phrase I remember distinctly:

“I want to bloom, bloom, bloom where I’m planted.”

I’m not going to preach at anyone. We all know where we live. Where we work. Where we serve.

Sometimes, all of those can feel like a dead end.

Sorry—like no outlet.

I hear younger friends talk about dead-end jobs. I know what they’re talking about—a job that won’t take them anywhere.

But I also know that there are so many opportunities in those situations to serve and to demonstrate the love that God puts in our hearts. Those jobs are almost certainly the best place for us to be the hands and feet of God to other folks who, perhaps, are even more discouraged than we are at our circumstances.

The same is true of any other situation you could describe as having no way out.

The apostle whose name I bear was dragged to another country, thrown into a room, and chained to his bed. And there, he did some of his best ministry. He spoke truth to his captors. His friends in the faith were encouraged to do the same.

“I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that my situation has actually turned out to advance the gospel.” (Philippians 1:12, NET)

No outlet?

More like a garden just waiting to be tended and to reap the harvest.

He has poured an unending stream of living water into us, expecting it to become a river of blessing and service for those around us.

Regardless of our inability to see how we move on from here, there is blessing to be had, and blessing to be shared.

I’m going to ignore that sign.

Mr. Tolkien was right.

The road does go ever, ever on.

On the last day, the climax of the festival, Jesus stood and shouted to the crowds, “Anyone who is thirsty may come to me! Anyone who believes in me may come and drink! For the Scriptures declare, ‘Rivers of living water will flow from his heart.’” (John 17:37-38, NLT)

We gotta get out of this place
If it’s the last thing we ever do
We gotta get out of this place
Girl, there’s a better life for me and you.
(from We Gotta Get Out Of This Place, by Cynthia Weil and Barry Mann)

Telling Stories

May 3, 2026May 3, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes I write what I want here—words that illuminate the path for me, or that I think might be of interest to my friends. I like doing that. I can look at what I’ve written and feel good about it.

I don’t think this is that.

Once in a while, things simply jump out at me, and I can’t stop the words (and miscellaneous accoutrements).

I have a story. Perhaps it’s two stories. Maybe even more.

I hope you have time to read them.

A couple of days ago, in our little town, two young men vandalized a bathroom in the oldest restaurant in town, a little burger joint that opened the year I was born. The owners posted a couple of photos taken from their security camera on social media and asked if anyone could help them find the boys, or report it to the police, since they were aware of the event.

Dozens of folks responded with varying messages. I didn’t.

I wish that were strictly true. I should have said, I didn’t put my response into print. My brain thought it, though. Perhaps even shouted it internally.

“I hope they throw the book at them! Nobody should get away with stuff like that!”

And that should have been the end of it. From my perspective, anyway. But, I think Someone had a message to deliver. Again.

The next day, there was another post from the restaurant. A thoughtful one about the dad who saw his son’s photo in that post and accompanied his boy to the police station. Next, he called the restaurant’s owner to talk with him. The situation is in hand. No charges will be filed, although restitution will be made.

I read the post, which largely praised the dad for helping his boy take responsibility, to the Lovely Lady sitting nearby (you know she eschews social media of all ilks) and was inexplicably weeping as I read.

Did I say inexplicably? That suggests I had no idea why the story triggered that response. I did.

I do. But I need to tell another story to help you get there with me.

The year was 1968. The two young boys looked up from their argument about who did and who did not. They heard heavy equipment at work somewhere in the neighborhood. Their neighborhood!

Their parents owned three and a half acres, just inside the city limits. But all the land around was theirs, too. Their playground. Their hiking trails. Their hidden forts and battlefields. And someone was destroying their space!

The barefoot boys watched the bulldozers and the backhoes at work, toppling orange trees and pushing over palm trees, until they had to go home for supper. Then, after they ate, they wandered back to where the equipment had been parked for the evening—surely to resume the destruction in the morning.

There was no intent to begin with, but the frustration and anger at the intrusion on their territory drove them to do some damage to various pieces of the big yellow earthmovers—some of it much more significant than they dreamed.

They were seen. Authorities were notified. And the next day after school, the two delinquents were picked up by their father in the old 1957 Ford station wagon, instead of waiting for the bus.

I won’t make you sit through the description of what followed. Suffice it to say, the worst punishment I ever received from my father was knowing I had disappointed him so extremely. His silence was far worse than any spanking I ever received at his hand.

No charges were filed by the owners. It took two years for my brother and me to pay the damages.

But apparently, I hadn’t learned my lesson—at least not the one lesson I really needed to learn from that experience. Oh, I have never purposely destroyed anyone else’s property again—just because.

But I was probably thirty years old the year my dad visited in my home. One evening, we heard a local news report about some kids who had destroyed property in a nearby town. I said the words out loud that time. Out loud, in front of my father.

“I hope they throw the book at them! They need to pay!”

My dad, ordinarily a law-and-order man to the core, looked at me with a gentle gaze and said the words:

“I remember a time 20 years ago when I was really happy they didn’t.”

Oh.

He didn’t have to say another thing.

I learned my lesson that day. Finally.

But, it seems I didn’t.

Tears come again.

I didn’t deserve grace. Or mercy. But I grabbed hold of it and held on for dear life.

Still, again and again (even now, as an old man), I want to see others pay the full price for their transgression.

I repent. Again.

As I was still contemplating this lesson I need to learn anew, I sat down at my piano to look for a new hymn to share with the folks who are kind enough to encourage me in my musical journey these days.

It doesn’t happen often, but one song seemed to call my name as I sight-read through it. I mentioned it to the Lovely Lady, and she was patient enough to stand and listen to me stumble to the end of it.

“It’s beautiful. But the tempo marking is a good bit slower than you are playing it. Maybe you should try it at sixty beats per minute, as it calls for.”

I laughed. And agreed.

And it all began to come together—the lesson I need to begin to apply again, and the words of the new piece I was playing. You quite possibly know it.

“We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations”

I’ve always sung that song fast, in a martial style. Driving. Pushing on. Like soldiers getting to the task.

Not this time.

The stories will take a lifetime to tell. And longer to learn the morals of said stories (it seems).

Grace takes its time, moving in the manner we describe it—gracefully.

Mercy is a slow waltz, shared with all the others on the dance floor.

When we shove them down each other’s throats, with threats and judgments, their merits are diminished, even for us.

And, if the story we share with the nations is flavored with our sense of hard justice, rather than the tenderness of God’s love, how will they have any desire to hear it, much less accept it?

I can’t be the unmerciful servant, having been forgiven a debt I could never, never have paid—only to grab my fellow debtors by the throats and demand payment for their insignificant offense.

I have been him, though.

Change has been slow. Perhaps too slow.

But the music’s still playing.

I’d still like to tell you a story.

This could take a while.

“We’ve a story to tell to the nations,
that shall turn their hearts to the right,
a story of truth and mercy,
a story of peace and light,
a story of peace and light.

Refrain:
For the darkness shall turn to dawning,
and the dawning to noonday bright;
and Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
the kingdom of love and light.

We’ve a Savior to show to the nations,
who the path of sorrow hath trod,
that all of the world’s great peoples
might come to the truth of God,
might come to the truth of God.”
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations, by H Ernest Nichol, 1896)

“Then the king called in the man he had forgiven and said, ‘You evil servant! I forgave you that tremendous debt because you pleaded with me. Shouldn’t you have mercy on your fellow servant, just as I had mercy on you?’”
(Matthew 18:32-33, NLT)

Anticipation

April 10, 2026April 10, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

We didn’t plan it. To be clear, it was my stubbornness that put us there. On that steep road. With switchbacks where the pavement beneath us disappeared from view and we prayed we wouldn’t meet another vehicle.

The Lovely Lady and I took a short break a week or two ago. And truthfully, she is the one who needed a break (since I don’t do enough to earn time off), but she was kind enough to let me tag along.

With her trusty Rand-McNally road atlas on her lap, we drove a couple of hours south to the highest point in our state and took a room at the top of the lodge on Mount Magazine.

It was great. Relaxing and awe-inspiring at the same time.

But we wanted more. So we drove a few miles east to visit more mountains. The state park is named for the man they called Little John. Except he was actually a woman named Adrienne who disguised herself to travel from France to the United States in the 1700s.

And, in French, the language they speak where she came from, her fellow travellers actually called her Petit Jean. Her grave is there in that beautiful state park.

After we left that mountaintop, we headed back toward the lodge. I asked the disembodied voice we call Siri to map our route back to the other mountain, where we could rest before more adventures the next day.

The route the voice suggested wasn’t to my liking. I was sure I knew better and turned the opposite direction. The Lovely Lady still had her atlas handy and quickly suggested the voice was correct. I turned on a side road to get back to the prescribed route.

I don’t often ignore or argue with the voice that’s connected to that red-headed lady who rides with me.

The side road I turned on had a large sign just ahead of us.

“Mount Nebo State Park 4 Miles Ahead,” it said.

We’ve never been there. And it was only 4 miles.

We went straight.

I should say, for about 3 miles we went straight. Then we went straight up. Well, that’s what it felt like. The road was an 18% grade! With 11 switchbacks. And no place to turn around, should one change their mind about being adventurous.

Finally at the top, we stood on the edge of the mountain and viewed the River Valley below. The huge manmade lake in the distance gleamed in the sunshine. On its banks, the cooling tower of the power plant called Nuclear One looked like a little kitchen funnel turned upside down.

As we stood on the edge of that precipice, a name came to mind. Marvin Eck. It took me a minute to get the synapses charged and connecting, but it came eventually.

Marvin Eck was the old pastor at the church we attend. It is the church the Lovely Lady grew up in. The church where I met her. The church in which we were married. Quite possibly, the church where our funerals will take place. We’re boring like that.

Marvin Eck wasn’t boring. He lived on a rocky hillside in Oklahoma, where he and his wife, Wanda (who he lovingly called Baby Doll—to her feigned embarrassment), scratched out a flat space for a lovely home built with their own hands and then a few more square feet for a garden that yielded copious crops of vegetables and even more lovely flowers.

When I first knew him, he called the hillside Beulah Land. We understood completely. Beulah, when mentioned in Isaiah 62:4, is a prophetic name for the Promised Land. The name means “marriage”, signifying the fellowship of God with His people. It’s a lovely picture of heaven. And to us, the Eck’s place seemed like a little bit of heaven on earth.

But suddenly, one day, he started calling the hillside Mount Nebo. I don’t remember the exact explanation, but in effect, he told us he wasn’t in heaven yet.

I hadn’t thought much about it, either back all those years ago, or in the years that have intervened. I thought about it on that mountaintop, looking over that beautiful valley to the other mountains nearby.

Do you know that Moses stood on the original Mount Nebo (which is in modern-day Jordan) and looked over into the Promised Land? Deuteronomy 34 tells the story.

So close. So close and yet, so very far.

He would never enter the land while he lived. But, although I’ve never heard any sermons on it, I can point to a time when Moses stood in the “land flowing with milk and honey”.

If popular belief in the Holy Land today is correct, Mount Tabor in northern Israel was the Mount of Transfiguration, spoken of in the Gospels. There, on a mountain that would have been visible to Moses standing in disappointment with his God on Mount Nebo, he and the prophet Elijah stood in triumph with the Glorified Messiah and a few of His chosen followers. I’m not sure if there is all that much to learn from this fact, but it makes me happy to think about it.

So, there it is; Mount Nebo looks over to the Promised Land. Just like Marvin Eck did symbolically on his hillside before he and his Baby Doll actually made the move there some years ago.

It’s a strange thing to think about while standing on a precipice overlooking the River Valley of Arkansas. I do that. Think about strange things. At strange times.

But the memories of Marvin Eck are pleasant. And the thought that we are standing on this mountain (wherever you or I may find ourselves now), looking over into Beulah Land, and knowing we will be there one day ourselves, is a little overwhelming.

I’ve talked before about home being, not the place we come from, but the place we really belong. On more than one occasion, I’ve written about Margaret Campbell, an old saint who the kids around here called simply Miss Peggy.

I can never forget the day I sat with her in her home when she, all of 91 or 92 years old, looked through me with her unseeing eyes and told me, “I want to go home.” I understand her better than ever now.

Home, where we belong.

The road up Mount Nebo is hard and steep, but the view of eternity is spectacular from those heights.

And be careful coming back down to the valley below. There are still a few miles to go before we’re home.

And perhaps, a few more switchbacks to navigate along the way.

“Walking along life’s road one day,
I heard a voice so sweetly say,
‘A place up in heav’n I am building thee,
A beautiful, beautiful home.’

Home, sweet home—home, sweet home,
Where I’ll never roam.
I see the light of that city so bright,
My home, sweet home.”
(from My Home Sweet Home, by N B Vandall, 1926)

“You shall no more be termed Forsaken, and your land shall no more be termed Desolate, but you shall be called My Delight Is in Her, and your land Married; for the Lord delights in you, and your land shall be married.” (Isaiah 62:4, ESV)

Strangely Dim

March 3, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

She stopped to talk with us for a moment in the yard where we stood. We knew it was time for them to leave, but he wasn’t with her yet.

I glanced around, noticing the little tyke, his back to the big double doors at the top of the wide ramp leading into our storage building. He seemed to be enjoying a moment of independence, having actually walked up the ramp backwards just minutes before.

But staring at us and, more specifically, at her, his countenance changed as he noticed her starting to walk toward him. Holding his right hand high up in the air, palm outward, his stubborn face told us all we needed to know.

Whatever her plans were for him, he intended to stay at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s for a while longer. His outstretched hand made that doubly clear.

It was inevitable; Over the vociferous objections of the youngster, Mom soon had the little fellow bundled into his car seat and headed for home and an overdue naptime.

Mamas know best.

They do.

I smile, thinking about the tableau in my head. I feel a kinship to the young tyke—and more than the familial one.

I have raised my hand so often over the years of my life.

Many times, like him, it was to my mother. And to siblings. Teachers. Employers. Wife. Even to my own children, as my strength wanes and their wisdom grows.

We want what we want.

Oh. I forgot one.

I raise my hand to my God. Again and again. And not in a good way. Not in worship. Not in the sense of recognition of His love and wisdom.

I raise my hand in rejection, in rebellion, in resistance.

I want what I want.

But I’m thinking tonight about a verse I learned many years ago that seems important to me.

“Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desires of thy heart.” (Psalm 34:4, KJV)

I won’t yield to the temptation to lay out a 3-point sermon on the verse. I feel certain that others can comprehend words they read as well or better than I.

I’ll just say this: I have been a follower of Christ for most of my life, and I’m not sure I am yet “delighting myself in the Lord” completely. Still, I want nothing more than that.

And, when I do delight myself, giving my full attention to who He is and what He has done for me, I find my desires beginning to fall in line with what He knows (and frequently shows me) is His best for me.

But I still hold my hand up at times. I still ask for just a few more minutes of doing what has caught my attention. A few more days of seeking my own good pleasure.

But, more and more as I travel this way, I find myself realizing the good that He has always desired for me.

Always.

And, I think that’s what the journey has always been intended to bring about in us.

As we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with each other, and His blood cleanses us from sin. I think the disciple named John wrote about that in his later years.

Why do we continue to act like little children, even into our old age?

I’ve been practicing on another song at Mr. Kimball’s old grand piano recently. Well, I’m working on more than one, but this one is special to me.

Called “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus,” it was written just over a hundred years ago. The hymn is still a favorite for many, although in recent years, it has largely been reduced to a chorus, the lovely verses having been abandoned by most in this modern day.

As I write this, I’m not quite ready to share a piano performance of the song, although it may not be much longer. Time will tell.

But the lyrics to the old hymn have been whirling around in my head. The little boy’s outstretched hand, indelibly imprinted on my memory, reminds me again tonight of the words.

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus;
Look full in His wonderful face
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace.”

I’m looking. And delighting.

The road is long. But there’s room for more along the way. You could look and delight with me.

And, if going home to take a nap is part of the schedule, that’s certainly okay with me.

“Oh soul, are you weary and troubled?
No light in the darkness you see?
There’s light for a look at the Savior,
And life more abundant and free.”
(from Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus, by Helen Howarth Lemmel)

Fixing the Broken Glass

February 26, 2026February 26, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was only a fly. A dead fly at that.

It’s not the kind of thing I’d ordinarily choose for a subject. Although I did write about the “trash bug” not all that long ago. That was small (but not dead).

Still…

I lay on that table again, the one they strap me to, and then stretch my lower spine for ten or fifteen minutes. Decompression, they call it. I wondered the first few times if I would walk out a few inches taller than when I limped in.

I didn’t. But I did feel better.

Now, where was I? Oh yes. The dead fly. It had been there all those times before. I’d just never concentrated on it. This time was different.

Lying on that padded table awaiting the strapping-in process, I thought it pertinent to mention the creature in the light fixture above me. The physical therapist glanced up and laughed. I suppose she didn’t think it pertinent.

It was only a small thing. No. A tiny thing.

And she’s right. It’s not important at all. But now it’s stuck in my brain. So, perhaps the reader will excuse me if I talk about it for a while—this tiny thing.

Come to think about it, I don’t really want to discuss the dead fly at length. My mind has already leapt past that and is considering another tiny thing.

Do you know that the part of my spine that is defective is only three vertebrae in the lumbar section? Just over three inches of my over six-foot total body height.

A tiny thing. Compared to all the rest of me, anyway.

And yet, this tiny thing has brought the physical activities of my entire body to a screeching halt on several occasions recently. Bending, squatting, lifting, and tying my shoes—all are undertakings nearly impossible during a flare-up.

I talked with a different therapist there this week, complaining that I am not improving as quickly as I did the last go-round. He listened to my grievances, writing down notes as I whined. When I finished, he raised his head and, looking into my eyes, asked the question:

“I suggested you should be taking an anti-inflammatory a few weeks ago. Have you been doing that?”

I haven’t. You see, I have read somewhere that these miracle drugs actually raise the incidence of dementia in older patients, if taken for too long. Somehow, things seem to be slipping away at a worrisome pace without speeding up the process any. And, I’ve certainly seen the catastrophic result for people who graduated to opioids when the body stopped responding to the weaker medications.

I like to look at the big picture. The end game. So I refused the recommendation to do that one little thing.

I could have been better already. It was such a small thing that I needed to do for a very short time.

Small things.

A few decades ago, the policing community started talking about the Broken Windows theory. It was the belief that small problems left unaddressed (like broken windows in an abandoned house) would breed more and, likely, larger problems.

Whether or not you agree with the criminologist’s theory, there is a truism at work here: small problems left unaddressed do breed larger and more serious issues to be dealt with later.

Lest you think I’m hung up on the negative, let me reassure you. Just as the hurtful small things breed bigger problems, the beneficial small things that we do and practice habitually are certain to turn into significant blessings, either for us or for the recipients of our attention.

Jesus taught us the theory of small things—Replaced Windows, if you will. The shepherd who left his 99 sheep safe in the sheep pen to search for the one who was lost in the wilderness. The woman who searched and searched because one of her ten coins had been misplaced.

Drinks of water for the thirsty. Clothes for the destitute. Food for the hungry. Visits to the prisoners.

He didn’t stop with suggesting we practice the small gifts to those who would appreciate it, but commanded that we bless those with whom we are angry—perhaps even hate in our own strength.

“Carry their burden twice as far as required. If they demand your coat, give them the shirt off your back.”

“As much as you did it to the least of these, you did it to Me.” (Matthew 25:40)

You who are musicians will understand when I say that all of music-making is small stuff. From the length of notes to the tone and the intonation (tuning), from the speed and the rhythm, along with the key signature, the touch of fingers on a piano’s keys or the weight of the bow drawn across a violin’s strings and the velocity of breath directed across the tonehole of the flute, the tiniest of details accumulate to become the massive production of a symphony.

Or the quiet worship in a dark room at midnight.

Small things. Minuscule.

In more ways than one, music is life.

And similarly, life is a massive work of art painted one stroke at a time.

His love can turn our childish art project into an astonishing masterpiece. And our banging on the keys into lovely harmony.

If we will only yield the small things to Him.

I have a broken window or two that need attention. And that other tiny part of my body, my tongue, has been at work too, making a wreckage of relationships.

It’s time to tend to the small things. Again.

My back, along with a few other things, will surely be better soon.

“Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” (Robert Brault)

“The master was full of praise. ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant. You have been faithful in handling this small amount, so now I will give you many more responsibilities. Let’s celebrate together!'” (Matthew 25:21, NLT)

Try Again. Every New Day.

February 15, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It’s midnight again. It often is as I begin to write. I’m not sure why that fact should be of any importance at all.

Midnight is, after all, just a position of the hands on a clock (at least it was on the clocks I grew up with). Oh, I’m sure there are scientific reasons for midnight being the beginning of another day—a rational “mile marker” for each new time period. I’m just not sure it deserves the gravitas we ascribe to the hour.

Having said that, I was already thinking about the ends of some days and the beginnings of others before I sat down to write in the moments just before another 24-hour period begins. There is, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, “a method to my madness”. She, perhaps, borrowed the words from the Bard of Avon. Perhaps.

I’m not sure if folks know this, but I don’t always think about the words I type into this device on my desk. That’s too often true of the words that proceed from my mouth, as well. But we’ll talk about that later.

I often snap photos of nature in progress, intending to share them with my friends and acquaintances online. Then, as I post them on social media, I feel the need for words to accompany the sometimes lovely scenes.

The words come from somewhere—I’m not always certain where. But sometimes they mean more than I intend to communicate. You might say more is revealed about the person sharing than the photo itself could ever uncover.

It was a gorgeous sunset a couple of evenings ago. The clouds cooperated with the lowering light-that-rules-the-day, and the resulting glory was moving, to say the least. And for a few moments, as I stood on the edge of a nearby field, I saw the colors of the rainbow in the cloud, a sundog, some call it. I was too slow to capture that with my camera, but it lives in my memory as part of the sunset.

“Glory at the dying of the day. I think I’ll try again tomorrow. You?”

Those were the words I wrote. I should have stopped with the initial sentence. It would have sufficed. More than sufficed.

What did that next part mean? I’ll try again tomorrow?

Really?

I left the words. They stayed in my head all through that night.

They were there when I opened my eyes in the morning.

Why? I think I know.

Are you ever disappointed with your actions at the end of a day? Your words? Your thoughts?

I am. Frequently.

I let myself be led into an argument the other day. I’ve said it wouldn’t happen anymore, but there I was—insisting that I was right and he was wrong. And not long before that, I made a joke that hurt a friend. I apologized, but I can’t take back the words. Or the hurt.

And my physical limitations these days make it so I am afraid even to attempt some normal activities. Things I want to do. Things I need to do.

So, I arrive at the end of some days, looking back and wishing I could get a do-over.

I didn’t mean to tell my friends and family that I was disappointed with myself. I would rather hide that. Let me work on it in private. They’ll get to see the finished product.

But somehow, my secret is out.

I want a do-over.

I think the words on the screen needed to be said. And, even though I often blabber away much more than I should, they were meant for me to write and share.

I’m not the only one who needs a do-over tomorrow, am I?

I’m not the only person I know who sometimes feels like a failure at the end of the day. I’m sure I’m not.

We need a do-over.

We can have one.

Our Creator and Savior is the God of redemption—of second chances. Of do-overs.

I’ve used the verses repeatedly when I write. I will again in the future. God said these words through His prophet.

I’m counting on them being His promise to me—and to us.

“Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.” (Lamentations 21-23, NLT)

I still dare. To hope.

Those mercies that begin anew every morning don’t have to wait until the sun cracks the horizon between earth and sky. He ordained the day and night. He knows when the new day starts.

I’m believing in those new mercies now—after midnight.

It is, after all, morning.

Time for a do-over.

“Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again.” (from Pick Yourself Up, by Dorothy Fields)

“And if the day passes and our efforts were stunted by the bane of our insecurities or blunted by the challenges of life, does not a sunset invite us to rest before it whispers the same message the next morning?” (Craig D. Lounsbrough)

Can You Carry Me?

February 8, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My writer friend posted one of those questions the other day. It asked something like, if you were invited to preach and the last text you wrote is the title of your sermon, what are you speaking about?

Just for fun, I copied the last text I had written and sent it.

“That’s fine. We should be able to get you there.”

She replied, saying those words “would preach,” but I was skeptical.

I’ve had a few wakeful nights since then and, having rolled the words around in my head a bit, have decided they just might. Preach, that is. Not that anyone wants me to do that.

I remember hearing an old timer say the words years ago: “My car isn’t running right now, so I asked my neighbor to carry me to town today.”

What an odd thing to say!

Carry me?

Why would you suggest that someone carry you? You’re just getting into their old pickup to ride a mile or two to the grocery store. I wonder.

But that’s just what it is, isn’t it? The weight of the friend rests entirely in the vehicle, being carried from the point of origin to the destination.

Carry me.

Some folks who read this will remember hearing the words. In a different lifetime, it was. A group called The Hollies sang the song.

“The road is longWith many a winding turnThat leads us to who knows where, who knows where.But I’m strong,Strong enough to carry him.He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”
(from He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother, by Bob Russell and Bobby Scott)

The title came from a slogan that Boys Town, the orphanage for boys in Omaha, Nebraska, has used for many years. The story goes that one of the older boys was lugging a younger, physically handicapped boy up a staircase when Father Flanagan suggested the load might be too much for him.

Somewhat exasperated, the young man is reputed to have retorted those exact words: “He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother.”

The words had been used before. And have been since.

But, in these troubled days we’re living through, I wonder if we’ve forgotten just what they mean. The boys knew their meaning. Implicitly.

And we should.

“And a certain man from Samaria, as he traveled, passed by and, seeing him lying there, felt compassion. He bound up his wounds, using wine and oil to clean them and, lifting him onto his mount physically, carried him to a nearby inn, caring for him there.” (Luke 10:33-34, my paraphrase)

He carried him.

Because he wasn’t heavy.

I am the son of a preacher, but not one myself. I can’t bring myself to tell others how to respond to these words. Not very preacherly, am I?

But, I have been carried myself.

I will doubtless need carrying again.

So what do we do when there is no one to carry us?

Our God will carry us when others fail us. And they have. And they will.

“I have cared for you since you were born. Yes, I carried you before you were born. I will be your God throughout your lifetime— until your hair is white with age. I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.” (Isaiah 46:3-4, NLT)

The words were written to the faithful in Israel, God’s Chosen People. But the principle applies to us as those who have been grafted into His family.

Not like those who worship idols that are only dead weight to be carried by their worshippers, our God, instead, carries us.

He carries me.

And when I stop to really consider that astonishing truth, I am convinced there is only one rational reaction.

How can I do less than carry my brother—my neighbor?

How can we do less?

“If He carried the weight of the world upon His shoulders,
I know, my brother, that He will carry you.”
(from He Will Carry You, by Scott Wesley Brown)

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
(Galatians 6:2, NIV)

Before the Storm

January 23, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I wore gloves to walk up to the university campus this afternoon. I’d be lying if I said they didn’t help. I’d also be lying if I said my hands felt good.

The wind from the north is piercing. And it promises worse to come. I would know that—even if the wannabe celebrity weather people weren’t shouting the news of the coming winter storm at the top of the Internet’s voice.

The volume of wind was shocking to the face and lungs as I walked toward my goal, struggling more for breath, perhaps, than most. It cut right through my thin gloves and coat with bone-chilling directness, leaving pain and immobility in its wake.

I didn’t think I’d play the piano this afternoon. My fingers were stiff, and a couple of the joints hurt long after I wrapped them around the bowl of warm soup prepared for my lunch.

But my mind has been working on a theme today—a theme of the Father’s love and provision. And, there’s a tune I know…

So I sat at the piano and worked my way—painfully at first—through the notes and chords. It’s a piece I’ve heard most of my life. I played this particular arrangement when I was twelve or thirteen years old, not knowing there were words that went with the tune.

You might know it as Londonderry Air. Or, as Danny Boy. Perhaps (if you were a member of a school band), you know it as Irish Tune from County Derry.

But me—I’m from a church-going background, the son of a (then) lay pastor. We learned church songs. Hymns. Maybe a new song or two from Bill Gaither, or a Southern Gospel Group.

I heard the first words that I knew went with this tune as a teenager. Dottie Rambo wrote them.

“Amazing grace shall always be my song of praise,
For it was grace that bought my liberty.
I do not know just how He came to love me so.
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.

I shall forever lift my eyes to Calvary
To view the cross where Jesus died for me.
How marvelous the grace that caught my falling soul!
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need.” *

When my oldest brother and I played an instrumental version of Dottie’s song in a piano/organ duet in a morning worship service, I couldn’t understand why one man approached me after the service and wanted to know why we were playing a secular song like Danny Boy in church. In retrospect, I agree it is a bit difficult to make out what lyrics are intended to be communicated when just an old grand piano and a Hammond organ are playing the tune and harmony.

It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I learned the lyrics to Danny Boy, and even later, that I understood the words were from a father to his son, going off to war with little hope of his returning.

“Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling.
It’s you, it’s you must go, and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow.
Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy I love you so.”

If, while you listen to the little tune I’ve recorded, you want to consider either set of lyrics in your head, I have no objection. Truth be told, if you’re thinking about the lyrics, you won’t be listening closely to my stumbling, halting rendition. And that’s okay with me.

Either way, you’ll be thinking of the heart of a father who loves his child so very much and waits with open arms for his or her return.

It’s the heart of a Father who watches and protects us against that day when, all dangers passed and all journeys over, He’ll welcome us into His presence.

He watches and protects against even monster winter storms. And yes, against the occasional twinge of arthritic joints.

And we shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever.

“So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” (Luke 15:20, NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips