12-05-09
Deanna's cousin, Jerry, works for the Oakland Raiders. Both are only children. Makes them more like siblings, than merely kin. Jerry live in California. The two don't get to see each other often. Jerry tries to set Deanna up with tickets to games when he's going to be on this coast. For the Raiders v/ Steelers game, the timing worked out. And I was asked to tag along.
The problem for me started about a week prior to the weekend trip. Headed to Pittsburgh in December. I've watched football on TV since I was 18 years old. (Wasn't always a sports fan. Long story. Meant for a different blog, I suppose). I knew weather at games in Pittsburgh in December would be brutal.
Oddly enough, this game was going to be the first NFL game I ever attended. Never had a problem not going. Watching a game from home just seemed easier. Got to run to the bathroom, do it on a commercial. Make something to eat, commercial. Get a drink, commercial. Always heard at games if you have to go to the bathroom, plan on missing an entire quarter. (Which may still be true. Don't know. Didn't want to risk testing the theory. So didn't go. At all). Stopped at Burlington Coat Factory last week. Bought some Thinsolate gloves, a scarf and a Carthart hat. No one would ever mistake me for the outdoors-ie type. Never. However, last weekend my sister got my kids Dolphins v. Bills tickets. We went to Buffalo--as Dolphins fans. Again, meant for another blog. So this would be my second NFL game in as many weeks. Not bad. Getting to be a pro at this.
Felt good being armed with some winter wear. Parents bought me a ski jacket that Christmas before. It hung in the basement, waiting to be used. (Generally wear my long leather. It blocks wind. Retains heat. Looks good). Brought the suitcase to my room on Thursday. Thing was, what else do I pack? I knew there was a chance we'd dine with some of the Raiders team and staff. Found out bringing a set of dress clothes wouldn't be a bad idea. Slacks, dress shirt, shoes, belt. Ok. Also packed snowflake jammers that the kids bought me. Jeans for the game, socks, wool socks. Three T-shirts. Flannel shirt. NYPD hoodie. Couple movies. And bathroom stuff. Toothpaste, shaving cream, hair gel, razor, Dental floss picks, Q-tips ... you get the idea).
Deanna dropped her dog off for her parents to watch. Sammy's a good dog, if a bit hyper-active. She sent me a text. Sammy had gotton into a box of Chocolate chip cookies she'd packed for the road trip. Ate four. Left three. We laughed. Kinda. Then she picked me up. From Rochester, NY to Pittsburg, PA is just over 300 miles. Roughly a 4 1/2 hour trip.
Halfway to Pitt, we grew hungry. Talked about pulling into a rest area to get a little something to eat. We were making good time. Kept driving past exits. The box of remaining cookies was in arms reach in the back seat. I fumbled with the box. Cookies looked good. Dry, at least. Untouched, for the most part. Did we eat them? Ah-yeah. We did. And renamed them. Chocolate Chip Retriever Cookies. Mmmm-mmm good!
Lucy came with us. Who's Lucy? The van's built-in GPS. She was in one of her moods. Insisted on showing us directions upside down. The arrow that represented us pointed down. Right was left. Left, right. It worked fine if you drove while sitting on your head and watching the GPS. She also insisted on picking a non-toll route. So the entire time we drove she called off every exit, letting us know we were not using her route, and in her way, letting us know we'd never make it if we refused to follow her directions. So, not a problem. For the most part.
Although while passing through southern New York we'd seen some areas where it had snowed, there was no clear sign of winter anywhere in PA.
Never been to Pittsburgh. Drove through once or twice on the way to Florida. Didn't realize just how beautiful the city is. Enveloped by rivers, it was littered with tall buildings both modern and full of old architecture. One building housed a giant bottle of ketchup that poured out and filled large block letters of it's name in red, HEINZ.
Lucy, still in her mood, seemed late out of spite in sharing information about exactly when and where to turn once in the heart of downtown. The Marriott had to be close, we realized, while stopped at a red light. I looked out the passenger window. Saw the hotel sign and said, "Isn't this what we're looking for?" It was literally right next to us.
We checked in. Called Jerry, to let him know we'd arrived. Left out Lucy's conspiracy to keep us in endless circles and trapped on one-way streets. Figured we'd deal with her appropriately on the way home. For now, we were here. Safe.
Jerry, who'd just walked back from having lunch, met us in the hotel lobby. Must have known we were hungry. We took the shuttle across one of the rivers to Station Square--a small shopping strip, just outside of downtown and decided to have an early dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe. Six hours later, or close to 1:00 AM, we made it back to the hotel.
Raiders needed to catch a bus from the hotel to the stadium the next morning. Last bus ran at 9:30 AM. Jerry wanted to meet with his cousin for coffee. The hotel lobby was roped off. Kept fans to one side. Team and staff on the other. Deanna met many of the players after a long elevator ride down to the lobby. From the 16th floor, they stopped on each and every floor on the way down. Ca-razy!
Sunday morning in Pittsburg is tough if you have breakfast on your mind. There is nowhere to go to eat. Only place we knew was Station Square. Only thing we didn't know was how to get there. Asking the parking attendant for directions was somewhat helpful. He gave me a bunch of lefts and rights to make, and what lanes to stay in. After about fifteen minutes of directions (to travel less than two miles), I knew I was in trouble, and wished I'd written things down. I thought I had the main lefts and rights memorized, thanked him and we were off.
Off to where, I'm still not sure. I guess off to sight see. Because, even though I got some of the turns correct, I messed up on which lanes to be in. Lots of expressways. Apparently, next to Venice, Italy, Pittsburg is home to the most bridges. Surrounded by rivers, under and over passes, I began to feel as if we were actually navagating through a convaluted system of water pipes.
Grant Street was key to finding the right bridge to get to the right road to make it to Station Square. Kinda. By 11:00 PM we'd made it to Station Square and parked. A shuttle ferry was set up, running fans across the river to Heinz stadium. We decided we'd eat and head over to the game on the ferry, rather than risk staying endlessly lost in the maze that was Pittsburgh's roads.
Houlihans was the least packed place in the strip. They don't serve breakfast. The table behind us was set up for a small party. Someone was turning 13. Only people showing up were older ladies. Much older. The ladies whined and worked setting up the cake and placemats for the party. Tough not to listen to them talk. So we didn't fight it. When I came back from a bathroom break, one of the older women sat across from Deanna at our table.
I said hello. She asked if I was the Pittsburgh weather man. Gave me a name. I explained I was not. That I was from Rochester. She didn't seem to believe this. So I did my best to talk in a newscaster voice while she refused to join her party. Seems the place she wanted to sit at their pushed-together tables, someone had draped a purse over the chair. Feeling unwanted and cast aside, I guess she prefered sitting with us. Was all right, we were done.
The ferry filled with passengers fast. There's always that one person who insists on talking loud. Wants everyone around to hear every word they say. We had such a woman on our ride across the rivers. I prayed she didn't have stadium tickets next to us at the game. Boat rides don't bother me. Her voice was nausiating my gut. I know I was turning green. Stayed near the rail incase lunch decided to come back and show itself. (Didn't happen. Thankfully.)
Heinz stadium is beautiful. huge. Might not hold as many people as Ralph Wilson, but looked two times bigger than where the Bills call home. The main floor houses a museum of talented showcases. And everywhere we looked people wore Pittsburgh Steeler colors, jerseys and face paint. A few of us Raider fans did our best to blend. (Thankfully we wore neutral, non-threatening attire. Nothing that would say for sure we weren't there to see the Steelers win. The fact we weren't in black and gold might have been tip-off enough, but we did not encounter trouble).
The seats were complimentary. Nose bleed, we were told. Took a day and a half to walk the ramps to the top level. And a tank of oxygen to climb the remaining set of stairs up to our seats. Section 519, Row JJ, seats 25 and 26. Three rows down from the top. they were aisle seats, thankfully. Claustrophobia is one of the ailments I suffer from. (You got it, another blog).
Fortunately, amid the Steeler fans were chunks of Raider fans in this section. While Dea and I did little to draw unwanted attention. The guys next to her, enjoyed the taunts and teases both dished out, and fed back. It was all in good fun, best I could tell. Guys next to us had traveled to three Raider games. To Kansas City, to Buffalo, and now to Pittsburg. Not bad. They bled black and silver. No doubt.
Thankfully, the guy sitting behind us must have been a sports announcecr at one time. He could very well have been related to the lady on the ferry over. He wanted to call the game, play-by-play, with interjected commentary between plays and during commercials. Annoying, yes. Right most of the time, yes. So at least he wasn't a complete babbling ... idiot. Not a complete one, that is.
Game was back and forth. Steelers were up in the fourth. Just scored a touchdown. Just over a minute left for the Raiders to do something. With 80 yards to cover, and just 9 seconds left, the Raiders got the ball in the endzone, winning the game!
62,000 people cleared out of the stadium in an organized hurry. We took the ferry back to the car. And started for home.
Long road trips often make for interesting conversation. Poor Deanna, who by now had to be tired, but refused to admit it, did claim that: "Long trips I speak no sense."
Hmmm. Sounded Native American to me. For the record, she's not. Of course, I helped with the translation. I became Chief Sitting In Passenger Seat, and said--for strictly clarification purposes; "Ah. Long trips. Me no speak sense. Uggh."
Thankfully, she wasn'tsipping coffee. That would have been a gusher. No doubt. Nose spray, at the least.
And then pronun-ski-ations. Hard not to cover this topic as we made our way down I-90 East toward Rochester. Is LeRoy pronounced Leroy--like the name, or La-Roy. Lucy refused to lend credit one way or the other. The battle over correct pronouncement of the small town on the western outskirts of Rochester was not decided.
But we did have a good time. We went to Pittsburgh in December. No snow on the way down. None on the way back. And it wasn't too cold during the game. Can't beat that. Good times, I tell ya, good times.
Well, I hope you enjoyed the recap of my weekend. I did. Sure I left some things out. Maybe on purpose, or maybe because they were so outrageous, I had to. Either way, I did my best to recall as much as possible. It's time for a second cup of coffee and a Chocolate Chip Retriever Cookie! Anyone want a bite?
Thomas Phillips,
Author of The Molech Prophecy
And the soon to be released, Convicted
Monday, December 7, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is ... Spiders?
Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Matthew 10:28-31
Back in 1990 when my (now ex) wife and I were dating, I took her to see one of the scariest movies of all times, Arachnophobia. Actually, the movie is classified under the genre comedy/horror. Believe me, there was nothing funny about the movie. Not then. Not now. Jeff Daniels and John Goodman are two of the big stars in the picture, which might lead you to believe that the movie was indeed a comedy, but let me assure you once again, it was not a funny film.
My wife, who was not impressed at all with the movie, found other ways to amuse herself. For example, during one especially terrifying scene when what seemed like millions of half-dollar sized spiders came scurrying up from the bottom of a sink drain, my wife dropped a handful of popcorn on my head. I jumped out of my seat, screaming and slapping at my scalp, certain that spiders were all over my body. (I know that my wife reads these devotionals, so . . . very funny, dear. Don’t think I’ve forgotten).
Arachnophobia. What is it? According to Wikipedia.org it is the abnormal fear of spiders and is the most common of all phobias. Did you know most spiders are venomous? They are. Usually, and especially with the smaller buggers, the venom they inject is in such small amounts that there is not enough in the dosage to kill a human, or to even make a person sick. And did you know if I wanted, I could crush most spiders with my shoe, or a wadded up roll of newspaper? I could. But what you probably don’t realize is that I don’t care if spiders are venomous or not, or that even if I could crush a spider, I won’t---I would prefer to call (scream at the top of my lungs) for my someone, even my eleven year old daughter, to come and kill the little demons for me.
God says He knows every hair on our head. We have value in God’s eyes. He loves us. God does not want us living in fear from things that can harm the flesh, but have no means of harming the soul. I can’t explain why my fear of spiders is so overpowering, but it is, even knowing the fear is irrational. What God is saying, however, is that I should not be scared of spiders. They can’t touch my soul. Not the Black Widow, or the Brown Recluse, or the Wolf Spider, or the Garden Spider, or the Assassin Spider, or the Daddy Long Legs … but I digress.
Obviously there are other, more legitimate things in life that can harm us physically, and/or emotionally. Some examples might be car accidents, sickness, downsizings, divorce . . . the list can really goes on and on, but God essentially tells us that we need only fear Satan. This is the one real threat worth fearing. How do we put elements of fear into perspective? Have faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Concentrate more time focusing on Him and you will spend less time worrying about Satan.
Leonard Ravenhill, the great revivalist, once said, “ The two prerequisites to successful Christian living are vision and passion, both of which are born in and maintained by prayer.” God tells us we’re His, and that if we are born again, if we are saved, then God promises a home for us in Heaven. There is nothing scary about that promise. In fact, the thought makes me a little homesick.
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
Back in 1990 when my (now ex) wife and I were dating, I took her to see one of the scariest movies of all times, Arachnophobia. Actually, the movie is classified under the genre comedy/horror. Believe me, there was nothing funny about the movie. Not then. Not now. Jeff Daniels and John Goodman are two of the big stars in the picture, which might lead you to believe that the movie was indeed a comedy, but let me assure you once again, it was not a funny film.
My wife, who was not impressed at all with the movie, found other ways to amuse herself. For example, during one especially terrifying scene when what seemed like millions of half-dollar sized spiders came scurrying up from the bottom of a sink drain, my wife dropped a handful of popcorn on my head. I jumped out of my seat, screaming and slapping at my scalp, certain that spiders were all over my body. (I know that my wife reads these devotionals, so . . . very funny, dear. Don’t think I’ve forgotten).
Arachnophobia. What is it? According to Wikipedia.org it is the abnormal fear of spiders and is the most common of all phobias. Did you know most spiders are venomous? They are. Usually, and especially with the smaller buggers, the venom they inject is in such small amounts that there is not enough in the dosage to kill a human, or to even make a person sick. And did you know if I wanted, I could crush most spiders with my shoe, or a wadded up roll of newspaper? I could. But what you probably don’t realize is that I don’t care if spiders are venomous or not, or that even if I could crush a spider, I won’t---I would prefer to call (scream at the top of my lungs) for my someone, even my eleven year old daughter, to come and kill the little demons for me.
God says He knows every hair on our head. We have value in God’s eyes. He loves us. God does not want us living in fear from things that can harm the flesh, but have no means of harming the soul. I can’t explain why my fear of spiders is so overpowering, but it is, even knowing the fear is irrational. What God is saying, however, is that I should not be scared of spiders. They can’t touch my soul. Not the Black Widow, or the Brown Recluse, or the Wolf Spider, or the Garden Spider, or the Assassin Spider, or the Daddy Long Legs … but I digress.
Obviously there are other, more legitimate things in life that can harm us physically, and/or emotionally. Some examples might be car accidents, sickness, downsizings, divorce . . . the list can really goes on and on, but God essentially tells us that we need only fear Satan. This is the one real threat worth fearing. How do we put elements of fear into perspective? Have faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Concentrate more time focusing on Him and you will spend less time worrying about Satan.
Leonard Ravenhill, the great revivalist, once said, “ The two prerequisites to successful Christian living are vision and passion, both of which are born in and maintained by prayer.” God tells us we’re His, and that if we are born again, if we are saved, then God promises a home for us in Heaven. There is nothing scary about that promise. In fact, the thought makes me a little homesick.
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
I Don’t Have Time for Patience
This particular blog seems entirely relevant as I impatiently wait to hear from the City of Rochester on a potential new position working as a 911 Dispatch Operator...
“But when the Holy Spirit controls our lives, he will produce this kind of fruit in us: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,” Galatians 5:22 NIV
Having patience is easier said than done. I don’t know how many times I’ve become impatient waiting for a bag of popcorn to pop in the microwave. Or during the times when I’ve pulled up to order at a drive-thru only to become impatient sitting for at least a full minute at the pick-up window waiting to pay for and collect up my food.
Ever feel impatient while driving? I get that way all the time. There’s been a few times (ah-hmm), when I’ve felt almost trapped behind some car traveling at some speed that has to be below the limit. So what do I do? I pass him. Then while stopped at the next red light what do I see in my rear view mirror? It’s the guy I just passed pulling up behind me. He looks calm (and smug), while I have a white knuckle-grip on the steering wheel waiting for the horrendously long lasting red light to turn green.
I love all aspects of the life of David. As a young, lowly shepherd, Samuel told David that he would be the next King. Over the years he became best friend’s with the king’s son, and was welcomed into the king’s home as if he were family. Of course as the Lord blessed David, the young shepherd continually did amazing things. As he earned the respect and love of the people, Saul, the king, became increasingly jealous. Eventually Saul decided that he had to kill David, despite the fact that David had been nothing but loyal to Saul and the people.
When David realized he was a marked man, he and a handful of allied troops fled the land and hid, holed up in a cave. One day, Saul, tracking David with an entire army, came to rest just outside the particular cave where David and his men were hiding.
Needing to use the “facilities” (go to the bathroom), Saul entered the cave alone. David’s troops told him that God had brought Saul, and placed him in a most vulnerable position, and that David should take advantage of the situation and kill Saul.
Obviously killing Saul would solve David’s immediate problem of being hunted down by the king and his army, but instead, David let Saul go. David knew that when God’s time was right, even though years had passed, he would one day be king as God promised. He just needed to be patient. And patient he was. And eventually, David became king.
The Bible says that as Christians we are to be patient (2 Timothy 2:24; 1 Thessalonians 5:14; James 5:7-8; Romans 2:7). Why do you think learning to have patience is so important? I think one reason might be because God works using His own timetable. Not mine. (2 Peter 3:8-9). And if I really think about it, it’s only fair considering how patient God has been with me.
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
“But when the Holy Spirit controls our lives, he will produce this kind of fruit in us: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,” Galatians 5:22 NIV
Having patience is easier said than done. I don’t know how many times I’ve become impatient waiting for a bag of popcorn to pop in the microwave. Or during the times when I’ve pulled up to order at a drive-thru only to become impatient sitting for at least a full minute at the pick-up window waiting to pay for and collect up my food.
Ever feel impatient while driving? I get that way all the time. There’s been a few times (ah-hmm), when I’ve felt almost trapped behind some car traveling at some speed that has to be below the limit. So what do I do? I pass him. Then while stopped at the next red light what do I see in my rear view mirror? It’s the guy I just passed pulling up behind me. He looks calm (and smug), while I have a white knuckle-grip on the steering wheel waiting for the horrendously long lasting red light to turn green.
I love all aspects of the life of David. As a young, lowly shepherd, Samuel told David that he would be the next King. Over the years he became best friend’s with the king’s son, and was welcomed into the king’s home as if he were family. Of course as the Lord blessed David, the young shepherd continually did amazing things. As he earned the respect and love of the people, Saul, the king, became increasingly jealous. Eventually Saul decided that he had to kill David, despite the fact that David had been nothing but loyal to Saul and the people.
When David realized he was a marked man, he and a handful of allied troops fled the land and hid, holed up in a cave. One day, Saul, tracking David with an entire army, came to rest just outside the particular cave where David and his men were hiding.
Needing to use the “facilities” (go to the bathroom), Saul entered the cave alone. David’s troops told him that God had brought Saul, and placed him in a most vulnerable position, and that David should take advantage of the situation and kill Saul.
Obviously killing Saul would solve David’s immediate problem of being hunted down by the king and his army, but instead, David let Saul go. David knew that when God’s time was right, even though years had passed, he would one day be king as God promised. He just needed to be patient. And patient he was. And eventually, David became king.
The Bible says that as Christians we are to be patient (2 Timothy 2:24; 1 Thessalonians 5:14; James 5:7-8; Romans 2:7). Why do you think learning to have patience is so important? I think one reason might be because God works using His own timetable. Not mine. (2 Peter 3:8-9). And if I really think about it, it’s only fair considering how patient God has been with me.
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Is The Payoff Worth The Gamble
“If you try to keep your life for yourself, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake and for the sake of the Good News, you will find true life.” Mark 8:35
If we played the word-association game, what would your first thought be if I said, “Gamble?”
I admit, more than a single-associated thought pops into my mind.
When I see or hear the word gamble, my head fills with a flood of images—very defined images. I see shiny red and white dotted dice bouncing along a decorated green felt table. I hear the clickity-clack of a spinning, checkered black and red roulette wheel. I see a deck of playing cards being expertly cut and shuffled. I can feel the growing sound of thunder as the pounding hoofs of horses round the last leg of a race, as kicked up clouds of dirt linger along the trail. To top it off, all these images I visualize behind flashing Vegas-style neon lights.
Okay, I have a bit of an over-active imagination, but I’d be willing to bet (no pun intended) many of the things I described above are similar to thoughts that pop into your mind when you hear and see the word, “Gamble.”
Believe it or not, whether we realize it or not, we gamble every day. We gamble with our lives when we get into a car; we gamble with our health when deciding what food to eat; and we gamble with our spirituality when we choose a certain way to live our lives.
Many years back I worked as a freelance writer for a local paper. I covered human-interest stories throughout Rochester. I loved meeting and interviewing interesting and intriguing people.
One night I covered an event at a party house where volunteer firefighters were being specially recognized for achievements throughout that year. I listened to one particular captain talk about a fireman under his command. Without using a lot of adjectives to try and make his story more interesting, he spoke in a simple, matter-of-fact way, which I believe had an effect bringing the rendition to life.
Goosebumps scaled my arms as I listened to the details of a dangerous rescue. That winter a child had fallen into a body of icy water and went under. The first volunteer fireman on the scene dove into the water, searching for the child. The temperature outside was frigid, but the temperature of the water was deadly. The fireman was in just as much danger of drowning as the boy he hoped to recover. After a seemingly impossible amount of time had passed, the fireman swam to the surface, the unconscious boy in his arms. After performing CPR and other life-saving techniques, the boy regained consciousness and lived.
When the captain called front-and-center the fireman up for this courageous award, I was a taken aback because I not only knew the man, but worked with him as well. He was an attorney-by-day at Kodak. Never in all of our dealings together did he once mention that he was a volunteer fireman. Never once did he mention that he had saved a child from drowning.
Mark 8:35 talks about the risk of only living for oneself. The rewards from God come when we deny self, pick up our cross and follow Him. Living for others, serving others, helping others is clearly Jesus’ reoccurring theme throughout the Gospels and the New Testament. Don’t misunderstand me, good works will not get you into heaven, if that were the case, then Jesus’ death on the cross was pointless. (Salvation is a free gift to those who accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior and invite Him in to their hearts, to be the center of their life). But as a Christian we should want to live our lives doing for the benefit of others.
I am not a volunteer fireman, but metaphorically speaking, I do know many people who are drowning in some pretty icy water. The question I often ask myself is, will I just stand where it is safe with the rest of the onlookers—hoping help will arrive in time, or like my friend the attorney/fireman, will I dive in and attempt to make a difference . . . one person at a time?
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
If we played the word-association game, what would your first thought be if I said, “Gamble?”
I admit, more than a single-associated thought pops into my mind.
When I see or hear the word gamble, my head fills with a flood of images—very defined images. I see shiny red and white dotted dice bouncing along a decorated green felt table. I hear the clickity-clack of a spinning, checkered black and red roulette wheel. I see a deck of playing cards being expertly cut and shuffled. I can feel the growing sound of thunder as the pounding hoofs of horses round the last leg of a race, as kicked up clouds of dirt linger along the trail. To top it off, all these images I visualize behind flashing Vegas-style neon lights.
Okay, I have a bit of an over-active imagination, but I’d be willing to bet (no pun intended) many of the things I described above are similar to thoughts that pop into your mind when you hear and see the word, “Gamble.”
Believe it or not, whether we realize it or not, we gamble every day. We gamble with our lives when we get into a car; we gamble with our health when deciding what food to eat; and we gamble with our spirituality when we choose a certain way to live our lives.
Many years back I worked as a freelance writer for a local paper. I covered human-interest stories throughout Rochester. I loved meeting and interviewing interesting and intriguing people.
One night I covered an event at a party house where volunteer firefighters were being specially recognized for achievements throughout that year. I listened to one particular captain talk about a fireman under his command. Without using a lot of adjectives to try and make his story more interesting, he spoke in a simple, matter-of-fact way, which I believe had an effect bringing the rendition to life.
Goosebumps scaled my arms as I listened to the details of a dangerous rescue. That winter a child had fallen into a body of icy water and went under. The first volunteer fireman on the scene dove into the water, searching for the child. The temperature outside was frigid, but the temperature of the water was deadly. The fireman was in just as much danger of drowning as the boy he hoped to recover. After a seemingly impossible amount of time had passed, the fireman swam to the surface, the unconscious boy in his arms. After performing CPR and other life-saving techniques, the boy regained consciousness and lived.
When the captain called front-and-center the fireman up for this courageous award, I was a taken aback because I not only knew the man, but worked with him as well. He was an attorney-by-day at Kodak. Never in all of our dealings together did he once mention that he was a volunteer fireman. Never once did he mention that he had saved a child from drowning.
Mark 8:35 talks about the risk of only living for oneself. The rewards from God come when we deny self, pick up our cross and follow Him. Living for others, serving others, helping others is clearly Jesus’ reoccurring theme throughout the Gospels and the New Testament. Don’t misunderstand me, good works will not get you into heaven, if that were the case, then Jesus’ death on the cross was pointless. (Salvation is a free gift to those who accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior and invite Him in to their hearts, to be the center of their life). But as a Christian we should want to live our lives doing for the benefit of others.
I am not a volunteer fireman, but metaphorically speaking, I do know many people who are drowning in some pretty icy water. The question I often ask myself is, will I just stand where it is safe with the rest of the onlookers—hoping help will arrive in time, or like my friend the attorney/fireman, will I dive in and attempt to make a difference . . . one person at a time?
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
Monday, September 28, 2009
Monday Tidbit: Do Rivers Run ... Up?
One day when my father and I were walking the pier at Charlotte Beach, where the Genesee River dumps into Lake Ontario, he looked at me and said, “Isn’t it amazing that this river flows into the lake?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “What’s so amazing?”
“The river,” he pointed out. “It runs south to north.”
South to north? How was that possible? Rivers can’t run ... upwards.
Standing on the pier, knowing that Lake Ontario was north of Rochester, and that the Genesee River was indeed flowing from Rochester up into the lake, I couldn’t rightly disagree.
Still, I didn’t believe my father. Instead, when I got home, I did research on the Internet.
Know what I found? My father was right. Additionally, the Genesee River is one of many rivers running south to north.
I learned that the Niagara River is another south to north running river.
Imagine that, one of the Seven Wonders of the World---Niagara Falls--is a waterfall that actually falls south to north. It falls, if you will, up.
Now I’m just being silly, but it is true that both the Genesee River and Niagara River, including Niagara Falls, are rivers that run south to north. But this is all based on perception.
North, south, east, west . . . these are directions.
North isn’t really up.
South isn’t really down.
The earth is spherical. It is a ball. There is no up or down when it comes to north and south.
The simple scientific fact is that water only flows from a higher point to a lower point, regardless of if the water is traveling in a northern, southern, eastern or western direction.
Makes you wonder though, how many things in life do we miss out on because we perceive things incorrectly, without getting all of the facts?
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
I had no idea what he was talking about. “What’s so amazing?”
“The river,” he pointed out. “It runs south to north.”
South to north? How was that possible? Rivers can’t run ... upwards.
Standing on the pier, knowing that Lake Ontario was north of Rochester, and that the Genesee River was indeed flowing from Rochester up into the lake, I couldn’t rightly disagree.
Still, I didn’t believe my father. Instead, when I got home, I did research on the Internet.
Know what I found? My father was right. Additionally, the Genesee River is one of many rivers running south to north.
I learned that the Niagara River is another south to north running river.
Imagine that, one of the Seven Wonders of the World---Niagara Falls--is a waterfall that actually falls south to north. It falls, if you will, up.
Now I’m just being silly, but it is true that both the Genesee River and Niagara River, including Niagara Falls, are rivers that run south to north. But this is all based on perception.
North, south, east, west . . . these are directions.
North isn’t really up.
South isn’t really down.
The earth is spherical. It is a ball. There is no up or down when it comes to north and south.
The simple scientific fact is that water only flows from a higher point to a lower point, regardless of if the water is traveling in a northern, southern, eastern or western direction.
Makes you wonder though, how many things in life do we miss out on because we perceive things incorrectly, without getting all of the facts?
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Good And Faithful Servant
In Matthew 25:14-30, Jesus tells his disciples the parable of the three servants.
In this parable, a master is about to go on a long trip. He calls together his three servants and gives them his money to hold onto while he’s away. One gets five bags of silver, one receives two bags, and the third is entrusted with one bag.
When their master finally returns, he once again calls for his three servants. He wants to know what has happened to his silver. The first, who had five bags, informs the master that he’s worked hard, invested the five bags and doubled the amount of silver. The second servant has a similar story, giving back to his master four bags of silver. The third servant did absolutely nothing with his bag of silver except bury it somewhere safe. And now he returned to his master the same bag of silver that had been entrusted to him in the first place.
The master is furious. He can’t understand why his servant didn’t at least deposit the money in the bank where it would earn interest. The master takes the one bag of silver away from the third servant and gives it to the servant with the ten bags. He then has the lazy servant thrown and locked out of his kingdom forever.
This particular parable always troubled me. For years, I just didn’t get why the master was so angry. The third servant didn’t lose any of his master’s money. In fact, in keeping it hidden he protected the silver. But then I realized that the bags of silver could represent silver, but they could also represent many other things. Like talent, for example. Or time. Or Love.
Everything we have been given is God’s. He has allowed us the opportunity to be blessed with whatever it is that we posses. When He finally returns He’s going to want to know what we have done with what He has given us.
I believe God has given me the gift of writing. When He returns He may want to know what I’ve done to further His kingdom with the gift He’s given me. (I often pray that writing brings deserving honor and glory to God and helps to further His Kingdom).
In the parable, when the master saw that the first two servants had doubled their bags of silver, it wasn’t the fact that he was now richer that excited him. It was the fact that his servants used their talents in a way that honored him. For this he said to them, “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.”
There are promises in this statement. Obviously, the master in this parable is God and we are the servants. God has clearly entrusted us with plenty of blessings and gifts—especially living here in America, the land of the free. When He returns—and He will return--are we going to be able to give an account for what we’ve done with all that we’ve been given? Or will we be like that third servant who did nothing with all that he had been given? Will we get to hear the glorious words, “Well done good and faithful servant?”
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
In this parable, a master is about to go on a long trip. He calls together his three servants and gives them his money to hold onto while he’s away. One gets five bags of silver, one receives two bags, and the third is entrusted with one bag.
When their master finally returns, he once again calls for his three servants. He wants to know what has happened to his silver. The first, who had five bags, informs the master that he’s worked hard, invested the five bags and doubled the amount of silver. The second servant has a similar story, giving back to his master four bags of silver. The third servant did absolutely nothing with his bag of silver except bury it somewhere safe. And now he returned to his master the same bag of silver that had been entrusted to him in the first place.
The master is furious. He can’t understand why his servant didn’t at least deposit the money in the bank where it would earn interest. The master takes the one bag of silver away from the third servant and gives it to the servant with the ten bags. He then has the lazy servant thrown and locked out of his kingdom forever.
This particular parable always troubled me. For years, I just didn’t get why the master was so angry. The third servant didn’t lose any of his master’s money. In fact, in keeping it hidden he protected the silver. But then I realized that the bags of silver could represent silver, but they could also represent many other things. Like talent, for example. Or time. Or Love.
Everything we have been given is God’s. He has allowed us the opportunity to be blessed with whatever it is that we posses. When He finally returns He’s going to want to know what we have done with what He has given us.
I believe God has given me the gift of writing. When He returns He may want to know what I’ve done to further His kingdom with the gift He’s given me. (I often pray that writing brings deserving honor and glory to God and helps to further His Kingdom).
In the parable, when the master saw that the first two servants had doubled their bags of silver, it wasn’t the fact that he was now richer that excited him. It was the fact that his servants used their talents in a way that honored him. For this he said to them, “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.”
There are promises in this statement. Obviously, the master in this parable is God and we are the servants. God has clearly entrusted us with plenty of blessings and gifts—especially living here in America, the land of the free. When He returns—and He will return--are we going to be able to give an account for what we’ve done with all that we’ve been given? Or will we be like that third servant who did nothing with all that he had been given? Will we get to hear the glorious words, “Well done good and faithful servant?”
Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Inspitation III: Daddy's Little Girl
I'm one of those people who hates birthdays. Not celebrating birthdays for others, love that, but when it comes to my own, not so much. Is it that I fear, or loathe getting older? Could be. If I had to pin down a reason why birthdays bother me, I'd have to say it has more to do with attention. I don't like the attention. I don't want gifts. Don't want people spending money on me. I don't like cake (prefer a hot slab of homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, if you must know. And now you do. So make note of it...)
As I re-read the above paragraph, I sound like the Grinch. Or Scrooge. Or my great-great grandmother on my father's side. Either way, I speak the truth. Not a birthday person at all.
There's one reason why when that time of year rolls around I celebrate. My kids. I do it for them. No other reason.
A friend of mine, Abs, has a different reason for not liking her birthday. Eleven years ago her father, Sanford, passed away on her birthday. She was the classic, stereotypical "Daddy's Little Girl." Losing her dad was, as one can imagine, is still difficult. Sanford's ashes were taken out on a boat and poured into Lake Ontario. And then Abs jumped into the water and swam with her father one last time.
On her birthday, the anniversary of Sanford's death, Abs goes down to the lake. It's not her birthday she celebrates, not anymore, but her father's life. The man drank Beefeater's with Lime. Armed with alcohol, she either walks the shoreline, or the pier, and pours the drink into the water as the two spend time together.
This year, as I'd said, Sanford's 11th anniversary, a few of us joined our friend for the evening. We toasted Sanford's memory at The Pelican. Listened to stories. And took pictures as our friend poured her father's drink into the water.
Where are the pictures?
Well. Abs' daughter, Danielle, and her daughter's friend, Dre, joined the rest of us. Dre is a mountain of a person. Too much muscle for one person's skin to hold. We grouped together for a photo. Dre picked up the camera. It looked like a Matchbox car in his beefy hands. And then the camera fell. The protruding lens bent trapping photos inside the camera.
Anyway. We decided to head down to Durand. Abs wanted to swim. Mid-September. But understandable.
Durand was far from deserted. It being only 9:00 PM. A warm evening, with few clouds in the sky, it was not that dark. The stars were out. Shining. The moon set high. Bright. A gentle breeze came in from the North, but did not cause a single ripple on the placid lake. The water resembled glass.
Maybe for only ten minutes, Abs went into the water. Alone. And walked around. Her legs and feet disturbing the calm.
When the night ended, Abs was grateful. Where she normally spent most of her birthday alone, this year she was surrounded by family and friends who refused to let the birthday pass unnoticed.
I do, at times, ponder my own immanent demise. Suppose we all do. And as a father of three amazing kids, one of which is clearly, and undeniably "Daddy's Little Girl," I would hope that when I go, my kids will carry on. I would want them to remember me. I like how Abs honors the memory of her father. But I also hope that my death would not take away from the joys my kids can still extract from their life. As their father, I would not want them to be sad after I am gone. Maybe it's easier said than done. My parents are both still alive. Sadness may be inevitable, is inevitable. But as a father, I would not want my kids to mourn forever. Abs celebrates the life her father lived. And that is exactly what I would want my kids to do, too.
As I spend more time around more people, I am touched by the stories that make-up a person's life. Naturally curious, I find that non-fiction is far more profound than fiction. Guess I've always known that. For far too long I've lived life mostly inside my own head. Rarely venturing outside my family to see what life is really about.
The more I do this, the more people I meet, the more I learn.
Maybe because I married young, started a family immediately, and then spent most of my time working, I missed out on things going on around me? I do not regret those choices, getting married and starting a family. Things may have not turned out the way I planned. Life rarely does. If I'd not of met and married my ex-wife, I would not have the three wonderful kids I have. So no, no regrets.
What I take away from this experience, is what I have always known--but, again, on a larger scale. Life is about family and friends. About being there for each other. And about moving forward. One day at a time.
Thomas Phillips
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
(Click on the above link to order your copy today)
As I re-read the above paragraph, I sound like the Grinch. Or Scrooge. Or my great-great grandmother on my father's side. Either way, I speak the truth. Not a birthday person at all.
There's one reason why when that time of year rolls around I celebrate. My kids. I do it for them. No other reason.
A friend of mine, Abs, has a different reason for not liking her birthday. Eleven years ago her father, Sanford, passed away on her birthday. She was the classic, stereotypical "Daddy's Little Girl." Losing her dad was, as one can imagine, is still difficult. Sanford's ashes were taken out on a boat and poured into Lake Ontario. And then Abs jumped into the water and swam with her father one last time.
On her birthday, the anniversary of Sanford's death, Abs goes down to the lake. It's not her birthday she celebrates, not anymore, but her father's life. The man drank Beefeater's with Lime. Armed with alcohol, she either walks the shoreline, or the pier, and pours the drink into the water as the two spend time together.
This year, as I'd said, Sanford's 11th anniversary, a few of us joined our friend for the evening. We toasted Sanford's memory at The Pelican. Listened to stories. And took pictures as our friend poured her father's drink into the water.
Where are the pictures?
Well. Abs' daughter, Danielle, and her daughter's friend, Dre, joined the rest of us. Dre is a mountain of a person. Too much muscle for one person's skin to hold. We grouped together for a photo. Dre picked up the camera. It looked like a Matchbox car in his beefy hands. And then the camera fell. The protruding lens bent trapping photos inside the camera.
Anyway. We decided to head down to Durand. Abs wanted to swim. Mid-September. But understandable.
Durand was far from deserted. It being only 9:00 PM. A warm evening, with few clouds in the sky, it was not that dark. The stars were out. Shining. The moon set high. Bright. A gentle breeze came in from the North, but did not cause a single ripple on the placid lake. The water resembled glass.
Maybe for only ten minutes, Abs went into the water. Alone. And walked around. Her legs and feet disturbing the calm.
When the night ended, Abs was grateful. Where she normally spent most of her birthday alone, this year she was surrounded by family and friends who refused to let the birthday pass unnoticed.
I do, at times, ponder my own immanent demise. Suppose we all do. And as a father of three amazing kids, one of which is clearly, and undeniably "Daddy's Little Girl," I would hope that when I go, my kids will carry on. I would want them to remember me. I like how Abs honors the memory of her father. But I also hope that my death would not take away from the joys my kids can still extract from their life. As their father, I would not want them to be sad after I am gone. Maybe it's easier said than done. My parents are both still alive. Sadness may be inevitable, is inevitable. But as a father, I would not want my kids to mourn forever. Abs celebrates the life her father lived. And that is exactly what I would want my kids to do, too.
As I spend more time around more people, I am touched by the stories that make-up a person's life. Naturally curious, I find that non-fiction is far more profound than fiction. Guess I've always known that. For far too long I've lived life mostly inside my own head. Rarely venturing outside my family to see what life is really about.
The more I do this, the more people I meet, the more I learn.
Maybe because I married young, started a family immediately, and then spent most of my time working, I missed out on things going on around me? I do not regret those choices, getting married and starting a family. Things may have not turned out the way I planned. Life rarely does. If I'd not of met and married my ex-wife, I would not have the three wonderful kids I have. So no, no regrets.
What I take away from this experience, is what I have always known--but, again, on a larger scale. Life is about family and friends. About being there for each other. And about moving forward. One day at a time.
Thomas Phillips
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
(Click on the above link to order your copy today)
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