Daddy's Story

To Dad . . .

On this Father's Day, I finger your name on the front cover of your story.

Leafing through the pages, I discover early sketches in black and white,

later scenes in faded color, and current prints, vivid and bright.

Each chapter shares your story. Yet tucked between the lines,

a mystery echoes with silent, secret spaces.

You are a blend of caraway and oregano.

You are the haunting melody of a trombone.

You are a smiling bridegroom in the pouring rain.

You carry red, white, and blue in your heart, an anchor in your soul.

You are a rainbow of pigment on canvas.

A wooden bookcase brushed with silk.

A building project in a foreign land.

You are a little girl's playmate, a father of the bride,
"Poppy" who comes for dinner.

You read meters, the morning paper, your Bible, and my rough drafts.

You are shaving cream and Old Spice.

You are hands that fix what's broken, serve church dinners, 

vacuum the living room carpet, and color with Crayola crayons.

You are an honest day's work.

You are a tall, white steeple against clouds of charcoal gray.

You mirror my smile yet feel my tears running down your cheeks.

You build an altar on my behalf.

Every story leaves its impression.

Yours has left a indelible mark, deep and unmistakable . . .

Thank you for being a wonderful dad.
 I love you!

Dad and Mom - December 2007

A Date to Remember

June 8, 1940.  

Seventy-four years have passed since the day Max and Katherine Phillips exchanged wedding vows. In 1997, she slipped away into eternity. He followed in 2003. But today, on their anniversary date, we lovingly remember them and all they contributed to each member of our family.

They were, after all, my husband's parents and our children's grandparents. Twice a year we packed up the girls and made the long twelve hour pilgrimage back to the farm, back to their welcoming hugs, and back to the ever-present stories of days gone by. It seemed to me they knew the dates of every birth and death of every relative. Even the names intrigued me, names like Opal, Mildred, and Zella. 

During our summer visits we ate our meals on the porch and sought out a fan in the breathless humidity. Mom's green thumb lured us out into the yard to admire the array of colorful perennials. One time I went to pull a weed, only to hear her cry of alarm. "Don't pull that. It's Globe Thistle." I now have some of those "weeds" in my own garden beds, along with others she shared over the years. Dad's vegetable garden boasted perfect rows, rock-less soil, and not a weed to be seen. During those summertime visits, we also meandered in and out of rows of grape vines, where my husband and his siblings had learned to work side by side with migrant workers who came to pick the grapes before they used machines.

At Thanksgiving or Christmas, we worried about icy roads and weather conditions, but somehow the family managed to converge in one place. Mom loved Christmas. She had the cousins putting bows on every package. She played games, did puzzles, and read stories with each child in turn. She encouraged them to play the little organ in the back room and sing the songs she loved so well. Dad kept his eye on the forecast and recorded the daily temperature on a calendar that hung behind the kitchen door while rosy-cheeked cousins and uncles slid down the snowy bank. Whoosh!

I miss them. We all do. When the family gets together every year, I find myself wishing they were here to enjoy all their great-grandchildren. How they would have loved the little ones. The farm and the grape vineyard have sold, but the memories and the heritage Dad and Mom left to us live on. I'm grateful to have known and loved them.

if you're a member of the Phillips Family, what stories can you add to round out this day to remember them? And if you're not, I invite you to add a few memories of your own! 

Yes, You Can!

"Chug, chug, chug. Puff, puff, puff. Ding-dong, ding-dong. The little train rumbled over the tracks." Before bedtime this past weekend, our little grandson asked me to read The Little Engine That Could! Written by Watty Piper in 1930, it's a delightful story with a positive timeless message that somehow appeals to the kid in all of us. 

An engine breaks down pulling a train loaded with dolls, toys, and good food for all the boys and girls on the other side of the mountain The little toy clown flags down passing engines to ask for help. The new passenger engine insists he's too important. The strong freight engine can't be bothered to help such a little train. The old rusty engine sighs, "I must rest my weary wheels." 

Finally, a perky little blue engine rolls up, and although she's never been over the mountain, she's eager to help and give it a try. As she slowly begins to tug the toy-laden train up the mountain, she chants the famous lines, "I think I can. I think I can. I think I can." She finally crests the top and coasts down the other side with a smile. "I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could."

Makes you feel like maybe you, too, can conquer mountains for the benefit of others, even when you feel small and inadequate.

Piper's tale reminds me of the story of The Good Samaritan in Luke 10. When several religious leaders encounter a man who's been robbed and beaten on the roadside, they pass on by without a second look. The most unlikely candidate takes the risk and makes the effort. He doesn't think about all the reasons he can't help: race, time, inconvenience, fear, financial sacrifice, etc. His "I think I can" attitude brings hope and healing - and makes all the difference in the story.

It's all about attitude. When we think we can't, it affects our performance negatively. When we think we can, we often accomplish far more than expected. We may even find ourselves encouraging others over their mountains of difficulty and distress. I want to be like the little engine that could, don't you? Positive, kind, helpful, hardworking, willing to take a risk. A first century writer put it this way, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me . . ." (Philippians 4:13).

Yes, you can!

Reflections From a Button Box

Last week, my dad noticed one of his shirt buttons missing, one belonging to his button-down collar. "I dug around and found Mom's button jar," he told me. "And I think I found two that match pretty well."

Dear Dad. Nine months ago now, Mom slipped into a better world, leaving behind her husband of over 56 years. She'd be proud of him. When I go over to the house, I notice that he's kept up their cleaning routine along with all the other housekeeping chores they did together. He's learning to cook a little, and he even irons his shirts. Thus, the missing button discovery.

The next day, when he came for dinner, he brought his shirt and two buttons. My button box did not reveal anything better, but as I threaded a needle my mind flooded with memories.

"Do you know where this tin box came from?" I asked Dad. The next few minutes found us chatting about our next door neighbor, a dear sweet lady who always spoke a kind word. She'd given my sister and I Peanut Butter Puffs for Christmas one year - and I kept the tin. A perfect place to collect buttons. Then I shared this story:

During sixth grade

when the bus stopped at the corner for the first time

and locker-lined hallways stretched on like railroad tracks

and first period swimming lessons became mandatory . . .

During sixth grade

when boys and girls found themselves caught between

sunny days of kickball and clouded contests of relationship and SATs,

when girls went back and forth between sneakers and high heels . . .

Mr. Heaton taught science.

It seemed a day like any other

except he tore a piece of paper into square bits

and sprinkled them like white confetti on the floor.

"So the cleaning lady has something to do."

As my eyes followed the last of the fluttering cascade,

I thought of the only cleaning lady I knew, the lady who lived next door.
With snowy hair, too-thick glasses, and a smile

that warmed you like hot cocoa on a chilly day,

she walked to the neighborhood elementary school every afternoon.

Mom said she worked hard.

During sixth grade, 
a shadow fell.

I took off my sneakers. 

"I'll never forget that day," I told my dad. "I guess part of growing up is realizing that people don't always live up to our expectations. Even people who are supposed to be role models."

I finished the sewing job, then added, "Every time I get out my button box, I think of Mrs. B. and that day in my sixth grade science class."

Expectations. They're tricky, I think. Shouldn't we have some expectations, especially of people in responsible positions? Yet, we're all human . . . very human. We often find ourselves disappointed in each other - and even in ourselves. Would you agree?

Perhaps the writer of Psalm 62 grappled with expectations when he wrote, "My soul, wait only upon God . . . for my hope and expectation are from Him. He only is my Rock and my Salvation; He is my Defense and my Fortress, I shall not be moved" (verses 5, 6, The Amplified Bible).  

Reflections from a button box . . . What comes to your mind when you think of expectations?

Peace in the Midst of Brokenness

Every once in a while I run into something that not only catches my attention, but I find myself going back to - to reread, to think about, to try to remember. Last week, a wonderful friend emailed me a post I've returned to multiple times (below). She and her husband have faced some serious health challenges lately. It has not been easy for them. Yet I sense a peaceful spirit in her correspondence. It blesses me.

Peace. Isn't this something we long for?

The following post by Scotty Smith is a prayer about peace based on Isaiah 26:3, 4. "You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you. Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord God is an everlasting rock." 

A Prayer for Peace in the Midst of Broken Stuff

"Most kind and trustworthy Father, you haven’t promised us a storm-less, hassle-free, disappointment-empty life. You offer us no formulas for decreasing the probability of sad things happening around us, or disruptive things happening to us. But you have promised something that transcends the predictable uncertainty of life—your peace." READ MORE.

When It's Okay to be Different

How do you feel about being different?

We can get by with being a little different, but anything too extreme is . . . well, different. Different infers a minority. And the majority usually wins. Or so it seems. In Beth Moore's words, we derive "a strange sense of security from sameness."*

This past week I read about a man who had "a different spirit in him." Why? Because he rose above the fears of the majority.

The man's name? Caleb. His assignment? To spy out enemy territory. He and eleven others spent forty days on a secret mission. Hiding. Watching. Listening. When they crept back to their base camp, people gathered around, curious to hear what they had to say about this "land flowing with milk and honey."

The majority of the spies, ten of them, focused on the large fortified cities they saw. They told of "a land that devours its inhabitants" and how they felt "like grasshoppers" because of the "men of great stature." Their report stirred up an uprising. Fear gripped the people. They cried and complained. They schemed to find a leader to take them back to the land of slavery.

Caleb and his friend, Joshua, brought a different point of view. They spoke of this "exceedingly good land" with confidence that the Lord would be with them and bring them into it. "Do not fear," they begged the people. But the voice of the minority remained unheeded. 

This story, found in Numbers 13 and 14, brings to light a lot about attitude, don't you think? All twelve of the spies witnessed the same thing. But their perspectives couldn't have been more opposite.

One of our daughters teases me about being "sunny," one who sees the positive side of things. Actually, I wish it was true more of the time. Sometimes we all feel overwhelmed by giant circumstances and walled cities of insurmountable odds. Putting our fears in perspective and placing our confidence in  the Lord's presence may seem a little different, a minority viewpoint perhaps, or even "sunny." Yet He promises to help in time of need and give us peace. 



*Whispers of Hope: 10 Weeks of Devotional Prayer, page 5.

Alive in Christ Forever

They all came.

Children, siblings, grandchildren, nieces and nephews came to Northeastern Pennsylvania from as far away as Illinois, Indiana, Missouri, and Michigan. They came to say goodbye. I’ll always remember the day we gathered under a blue August sky to say our final farewells to my mom. With the pastor’s closing prayer, we filed by, one by one, carefully placing a flower on her casket. In the still and almost reverent moments that followed, someone began to sing. Soon, we all joined in.     

   Amazing grace! how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me!
   I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.

   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.

                           (John Newton, 1725-1807)

Tears slipped down my cheeks as the familiar melody drifted up to heaven. Here on a quiet hillside stood a family. A family bound by grief. A family united in hope. That day’s memory of the family I love and to whom I belong has a hallowed place in my heart. I have drawn on this remembrance for strength many times over the last months.

Then they all returned home. But they didn’t forget. 

One day my sister called. In the course of our conversation, she said, “I’ve been thinking. Mom is in heaven because of the resurrection of Jesus.” What a wonderful truth! I found myself thinking about another funeral, one Jesus attended when He proclaimed Himself the resurrection and the life. Not long after, He proved it. With the empty tomb, Christ conquered death forever (I Corinthians 15).

The Easter season holds a special significance for me this year. The resurrection of Jesus means eternal life for my mom, and someday for me. And for all those who have placed their complete trust in Christ who died so they could live. I think of my sister’s words each time my dad and I visit the quiet hillside cemetery, where I picture my family singing “Amazing Grace.” And where Mom’s tombstone reads, “Alive in Christ Forever.” 

May this Easter season breathe hope into our hearts. He is risen! And that makes all the difference for us – both now and for eternity.

I am the resurrection and the life.

 He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live.

And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die.

John 11:25, 26