Close Encounters of the Wilderness Kind

There were better things I probably could have been doing than running on that sultry Tennessee-humid afternoon.  But I don't know what that would be. Cars inched past me on a paved nature loop, windows rolled up to keep the cool inside, the occupants comfortable and wide-eyed, looking for usual sightings that invite tourists and snarl traffic for miles.

I could have been one of them.  But I preferred being outside, running through the wilderness instead. 

There would be bears, I was sure of it. There always are. I see at least one almost every time I run that winding road. But what I witnessed while running that day was something I didn't expect. Something I will never forget.

One of my all-time favorite places to run is the 11-mile Cades Cove nature loop in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  Weaving its way through a small valley surrounded by a ring of mountains, this narrow one-way ribbon of asphalt is known for wildlife sightings.  Or what our grandchildren call "rarely seen wildlife creature moments."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you want to see a black bear in the wild, Cades Cove is the place to be. You may also see deer, wild turkeys, an occasional coyote, and for sure, the continuous splendor of trees.  

Several years ago on a steamy summer day, it was not the wildlife that was so unforgettable. Hovering in the upper 80s, the day was far warmer than the forecast had promised. Running that hilly road around the Cove in that late July heat, I rejoiced in every bit of shade that decorated the pavement, short promised patches of coolness, moving from strength to strength.

The daunting hills seemed to rise even steeper than ever before.  As I lumbered along, I was reminded of the ancient psalms of ascent that the pilgrims sang on their way up to Jerusalem.  I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth. Psalm 121. 1-2

They sang through the hard stuff.  When they worshiped, they were sustained and strengthened by something more. As are we.

When I run, my unhurried pace urges reluctant thoughts to the surface. Going slow sharpens my eyes to what is hidden along the way, grasping the sight of a shy doe, a red-tailed hawk soaring, or a blanket of trillium in full bloom.  The mere act of running on long lonely roads dredges up prayers I would have never prayed otherwise, each pounding step shaking things up inside, and changing me a little bit more.  Running is not just a physical endeavor.

I think about stuff when I run. I write stories in my head. I compose essays. I pray differently in the fellowship of really big trees. And sometimes I sing out loud like the pilgrims.  Because in those moments, only God can hear me.

Just halfway around the loop that afternoon, I was already dragging, my tank top saturated, glued to my skin, and sweat smearing my sun glasses.  And there were many more hills ahead and miles to go before I was done.

Discouragement whispered to me like naysayers along the sidelines, stop, stop, stop, matching the rhythmic pattern of my feet and labored breathing. But I know from previous runs that to stop running on an uphill is a sure defeat. To get started again takes more than physical strength. To keep on running, I knew to keep my head down, looking only at the next step. And then the next. And occasionally, like the pilgrims, lifting my eyes to the trees surrounding me like so many sentries standing at attention on a parade route. Keep on, keep on, keep on, they urged.

I knew this familiar slope. I had run it many times before.  There was indeed an end to this hill.   But it was still hard.  Rented jeeps, SUV's packed with kids, and Dodge Rams with beer drinkers in the back rumbled past me up the hill, over and out of sight, racing past to see the sights.  Most never even noticed as they squeezed me over to the crumbling edges of the asphalt. No shoulders here, no margins.  At times, I stepped into the shallow rocky ditch to accommodate the vehicles.

As I approached the top of that particular hill, running on empty, I noticed a large black SUV pulled over on the side of the narrow road.  I was curious about what the driver saw, perhaps a bear lazily rambling across the road or climbing a tree, or maybe he was awestruck by the tabernacle of the forest,  taking in the glory instead of rushing past the wonder of this sacred place. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But this driver saw something entirely different.  

I slowly reached the ridge, ready to pass him by, when I stopped short.  His window slid down. A hand reached out holding an icy dripping bottle of water right out of a cooler.  He didn't say anything.  He just smiled.  I did not know him.  He was a stranger, as I was to him.  And he had been waiting for me.

I almost cried. 

He saw me struggling.  And he did what he could do.  Kind people live hilariously like that.

Kind hearts always look differently at the scenery around them.  They see others with new eyes and a fresh heart, recognizing and responding to outward needs or inward struggles that others don’t even see. 

In his devotional My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers points out:  Readiness for God means that we are ready to do the tiniest little thing or the great big thing, it makes no difference. 

Not out of any kind of obligation, but compelled by a hidden joy.

The kindhearted don’t contemplate if they should help, but think about how they can help.  Even the smallest acts of kindness shift the tectonic plates of the universe.  They may offer something to fill a momentary physical gap, come alongside to walk or run or listen, sometimes to encourage in word or deed, but always giving what is more tangible and eternal than we can ever comprehend.

And whoever gives one of these little ones even a cup of cold water because he is a disciple, truly, I say to you, he will by no means lose his reward.  Matthew 10. 42

It was only a disposable bottle of water.  But not in God’s sight – nor in my own present need. Instead, it manifested the profound ministry of the cup of cold water, revealed by Jesus in scripture and played out through the ages, transforming ordinary moments into extraordinary ones, full of the recognizable grace of God.

Doing something kind every day for a long time makes it really hard not to do it. 

I don’t know if this man was able to observe the black bear he had driven to see in the national park. But he changed the course of my day by his selfless vision of what he did see.  My cup runneth over with the compassion I was given, an act of mercy and grace, a profound and rare moment never soon forgotten. 

I doubt it was the first time he stopped to help a stranger or a friend. Nor his last. 

Just because he could. 

Just because we can.

The One That Didn't Get Away

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a long slow morning. No fish in sight, although we knew they were there.  No bites. No hits.

But in the most unexpected places and ordinary days, God surprises us in unsuspecting ways. Perhaps a fish in an unlikely stream. Sometimes a lot more astonishing than that.

God may not give us that big trophy fish we want, but He is generous in what we need ....or what someone else desperately needs.  Even if we may not realize it in that moment.

We go into a situation -- or even this day ahead of us -- with a lot of expectations, or none at all -- of what we will find, what we will do, or even what we think God should do.  But we have only to be faithful in following Him.

God does not call us to abandon our ordinary work or occupations, where He has strategically positioned us, but to see it differently.  God enlarges our vision.  He has rooted us in these places and postures not just for doing something to fill up our time, but by being responsive to the people around us -- ministering, blessing, encouraging, lifting up, bring the name of Jesus to this hard and barren patch of ground, and giving grace the space to grow there.  It is an exercise in "Trust Me in this."

Just an ordinary, mundane day at work, school, or wherever we find ourselves today?  Never.  See it differently:   the care of souls.  

And He said to them, "Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men."  Matthew 4. 19

We may not catch anything we can take a picture of.  But stay at it.  And carry a big net.  God is giving us a bigger story. God is blessing people through us -- and for the most part, we are unaware of it.

The fish are there.  We just don't often recognize those opportunities scurrying through the deep.

I can never seem to see fish swimming in the streams.  But one time when my husband was fishing, I meandered over an old bridge, enjoying the view. I looked down below the surface of the water.  "Boy, that is weird how those rocks are all lined up like that," I thought.  And then I realized, those were not rocks, but huge trout lined up like planes on the runway at O'Hare airport. Oh, wow, was all I could say.

At the end of the day, fishing is not just about how many fish we catch, because if it was, there would never be enough. But surrounding us is what God brings into this day.  And that is always more than we can imagine.  Look up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enlarge our vision in this day, O LORD.

Keep us faithful even in the ordinary, even in the drought.

May we embrace deeper things in this day.

And be responsive to You.

Where the Wild Things Are

A few days ago, my husband and I sought out the wonders of spring in the mountains.  A trail, historically a pilgrimage for wildflowers, was recommended to us.  We hiked all the way to the end of the trail and saw nothing green other than some winter-weary rhododendrons and some scraggly pines that were barely holding on.  It was a pleasant hike, but nothing shouted out of the ordinary.  Other than the mild temperature, the woods around us appeared to be stuck in the monotones of January.

On the way back to the trailhead and our truck, we spotted a small side trail that did not even appear on the map.  We hiked about a mile in, again a nice path, but where were the flowers?  A wildflower pilgrimage planned for next week might need to be rescheduled.

We returned home.  In the remaining afternoon daylight, Bill washed the vestiges of winter off our old truck.  And I headed into our barren yard, littered with branches and sticks from howling winter winds.  Time for spring cleanup.

And there, I saw them.

Under disintegrating leaves blown like snowdrifts against the large rocks and amidst large tree limbs crisscrossing the hill, wrestled down by icy storms, in the most unexpected places, I found wildflowers scattered all over the hillside.  I assumed there was nothing there.  And I almost missed them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wonders were already there, and I was just now discovering them.

In our comings and goings, our doings and done, the familiar and ordinary, God sometimes ignites a burning bush on our path to get our attention.  He reveals Himself in unexpected ways and in unlikely places.  And calls our names.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our grumbling and complaining blind us not just to the possibilities of so many wonders all around us but the actualities of which we are so unaware.  God has given each of us a patch of ground.  What do we find there?  Not so much wild flowers, but what God has already planted, nurturing throughout the seasons.  He surprises us with the evidence of His Presence and faithfulness all around us.  

These tiny unexpected flowers manifest hope.  Not the wishful thinking of the world, "Oh, everything will be ok." But the steadfast hope of God on whom we can stake our lives. This world is not so barren at all, but thriving and ready to burst forth.  Right down to details underfoot and often ignored, God reminds us are not alone.

Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God.  I will strengthen you.  I will help you. I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.  Isaiah 41.10

God guides us on trails not on any map. But we do not aimlessly wander. Our paths are not unknown territory to Him. This place where we are is not a wilderness at all, but where the wild things are. Who or what has He put on our trail today? How is He trying to get our attention?

And then, how do we respond?   All of creation rejoices. The trees hold up their arms in praise. The birds sing among the branches. In ancient times, flowers were even carved into the columns of the tabernacle. As God renews the face of the ground, the wonders comprise His manifold witness. The awe we feel is a call to worship.  And a reminder of His steadfast love.

 

 

Because Of The Yet In It

It is in those long fallow periods of time when nothing seems to happen, God brings to the surface His mighty work.  We just haven't quite gotten to the yet.

Just a week or so ago, emerging from a patch of dirt and old mulch on the side of the house, a little bit of green began to appear.  And each day, just a little bit more.   The irises are coming back, I said out loud. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sent the picture to our former neighbor up north, a nurturer of flowers of every kind.  But as she responded, "Ours look nothing like that!"  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She is still abiding in the yet of things.  Hers will emerge when the weather warms up, but not yet. We live in different parts of the country, and it appears, different seasons. 

It is coming, perhaps still not visible, His goodness growing under the surface, but it is coming.  Redemption comes in unexpected moments and seasons different for each of us.  God's favor appears in unlikely ways, not to surprise us, but for us to learn to trust Him.

Yet is not a word of wishful thinking, but of hope. Yet appears in the Bible 424 times --what is coming, what is waited for, and in Whom we can stake our lives.  No matter what is on the surface, God goes deeper than that.

I may see only barren ground, but God sees a garden still in the yet -- already growing, forming something new and strong and beautiful in us for His glory.  Even in the hard stuff, His favor covers us, even multiplying what is yet invisible to us.

That patch of dirt conveys not His absence, but His deeper Presence.

Plants that are called annuals last only for a few months.  But the perennials keep reappearing. In the deep of winter when the ground is hard as a rock, and it seems all color has disappeared, we can have hope, because of the yet in it.  Even then, God appoints His steadfast love to watch over us. Every day is a story of His faithfulness.  And as I heard an archeologist gleefully reply the other day, "Every day, a surprise." She knows the profound is still hidden.

Because of the yet in it, the flowers bloom every spring. The delight and suddenness should not take me by surprise. Because almost a hundred years ago in 1929, an elderly aunt on a fluke or by intention, transplanted a clump of mature irises from her garden to my mother's house when my mom was just ten years old. It is possible that was all this old woman had to share -- a gift of hope at the beginning of what would become widespread economic hardship. But a simple kindness is never a wasted effort.  We can never know how God will powerfully use those acts of grace.  Nor how it may encourage someone in time of hidden need.  Even a hundred years hence.

Those transplanted irises took root, spreading by growing thick underground stems called rhizomes, each shoot and root all connected, and forming new plants.  These plants increase so rapidly that the key to flourishing is to divide and share.

From that time on as my mom grew up, every time she moved, she dug up a clump of those irises out of her garden bed and transplanted them into a new location.  When my mom and dad grew old and finally moved to a condo, we dug up some of those thick roots. And in all of our moves, we too left behind a gift of ancient irises and planted anew. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And when they flower every year, no matter the storms, rocky soil, or drought, they remind me of the yet in our own lives.  Even when things look bleak, God is doing a mighty work, a thousand blossoms ready to burst into view.  Even then. Even in this. 

The blossoms don't last but a few weeks.  But they leave behind a promise of yet again.

What is God forming in me right now?  Maybe it is not yet a time of revealing.  Not just waiting. Not just watching.  But of growing in relationship with Him.  

Though the fig tree should not blossom,

nor fruit be on the vines,

the produce of the olive fail

   and the fields yield no food,

the flock be cut off from the fold

   and there be no herd in the stalls,

yet

     I will rejoice in the LORD.

I will take joy in the God of my salvation.

GOD, the Lord, is my strength.

He makes my feet like the deer's.

He makes me tread on my high places.

                Habakkuk 3. 17-19

 

Be That Leaf

We were hiking last week through a forest that appeared to be dying.  The branches were bare against a sad steel-gray sky that seemed to shroud the world.  The trail was scattered with decaying leaves that once adorned these majestic trees.  The dirt, rocks and dead leaves created a monotone landscape of the ordinary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then suddenly, standing out from the rest, a bright red maple leaf appeared right in the middle of our path like a glimpse of hope and joy.  I know people like that.  They radiate in the most unusual circumstances, not drawing attention to themselves, but taking every opportunity to bless others.

In this world of griping, complaining and brokenness, these people are like bright leaves strategically placed to give us a little bit of courage.  Not just a bright spot trampled in the impending darkness, but a vibrant reminder that all is not lost.  It will not always be this way. These woods surrounding each one of us are not dying after all, but preparing deep roots for the festivities of spring.

No matter if there is mud up to our shins, or rocks threatening to bring us down, or grumbling as a dissonant roar around us, we can walk differently into this day, into that difficult relationship, into this season when it gets dark so early.  Because God hikes with us on that trail.

In these seemingly uninhabited, barren, dried up places, God transforms our hearts, not to make-do or survive, but to thrive in the reality of His Presence. Not in a sequined, sparkling, phony kind of way, but a deep resounding that is real and true and deep. And can't help but being shared.

...among whom you shine as lights in the world.  Philippians 2. 15

God empowers us to see circumstances with new eyes and a fresh heart, walk faithfully with Him in the ordinary or the strange, and be different in this impossible place. We can see our surroundings differently because we see God differently. What does this situation make possible? What is God forming in me through this? What leaf is not like the others?

In these strange and sacred encounters, God strengthens us to stop asking why and to start asking what.

When we hit those difficult dreary spots, we can lean on God even more. We are not lost, nor randomly scattered, but divinely appointed and strategically placed for His glory all over it.

Be that leaf.

 

Gonna Be Epic -- Inktober 31 #landmark

It was not what I expected, because frankly, I had no idea what I was getting into.  And that was probably a really good thing.

A few years ago, with just days to spare, my brother-in-law Jon called to offer us two vacant spots on a three-day mountain biking trip to Canyonlands National Park in Utah.  Like next weekend. Were we interested?  

My husband started packing within minutes of the call.  I was invited to come, not as a cyclist -- which I am not-- but to ride shotgun in the support vehicle, run parts of the infamous 100-mile White Rim Trail, and enjoy the camaraderie of wilderness camping and speechless views.  

When I hesitated. my husband encouraged me.  "It's gonna be epic."

Within days, we were on the road, some 1520 miles each way.  We left Friday evening, drove straight through the night and staked our tent in Moab on Saturday night.  

On Monday morning, we convened at the dirt road entrance to the White Rim.  Looking down at the incredibly steep switchbacks of a extremely narrow gravel two-way "road," I realized it was only wide enough for one vehicle.  Yikes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few minutes later, the ten cyclists decided that the group really needed more than one support vehicle.  They handed me the keys to a small 4 wheel drive pick-up.  I've never driven a truck before.  Keep your eyes ahead and don't look down. 

The Bible says to pray without ceasing.  There was no problem with that.  I vacillated between "O LORD, have mercy" and "Thank You, LORD" for getting me through.  I learned that trusting God involves facing sheer fear.

The route could have been adequately named the White Knuckle Trail.  There was rarely an indication of a defined road.  It was more like guess where it goes, avoid the abyss three feet from your wheels, and try not to scrape the side of the vehicle as it ascends the narrow squeak of a rock-hugging cliff.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Who led you through the great and terrifying wilderness, with its fiery serpents and scorpions, and thirsty ground, where there was no water...? Deuteronomy 8:15

All ten cyclists, both trucks, and the drivers survived.  And epic was not big enough to describe it.  When we returned home, everyone responded, "You did what?!?"

A landmark is not what we have done or endured, but what this endeavor does to us.  We cannot but be changed by it.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

               T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Outstanding In The Field Inktober 25 #scarecrow

This week we embraced October by taking my mother-in-law to visit the botanical gardens.  It was like attending a grand gala, the trees and flowers dressed to the hilt against an azure sky.

Each year around Halloween, the gardens sponsor an exhibit of scarecrows, created by various organizations in town, everyone from third grade public school classrooms and girl scout troops to garden clubs.

 

Scattered around the gardens, these large fabrications were not scary at all but provided amusing artwork amidst the colorful foliage.

But scarecrows were not initially fabricated as Halloween decorations or even as autumn decor, but created out of desperation.  Farmers had to find the means of keeping birds from eating and destroying their crops.  This practice goes back as far as ancient Egypt.  Originally workers shooed away the fowls, sometimes even employing children to throw rocks at the birds, but to keep everyone working the land, they discovered that erecting a large human-like presence stuffed with hay in the middle of the field made the birds think twice about scavenging the produce.  These creations literally scared the crows.

It was the presence that changed everything. 

As it still does in our lives, recognizing God's Presence wherever we may be.  He will cover you with His pinions, and under His wings you will find refuge.  His faithfulness is a shield and buckler.  Psalm 91. 4 

We are not alone.  Do not fear. I am with you. How many times does God have to remind us of the promise of His Presence?

How differently would we walk into our days knowing He is right here with us?  God does not just show up.  He is already here.  We are the ones just now acknowledging His Presence...and not just in time of need.

Seek the LORD and His strength .

Seek His Presence continually.

                1 Chronicles 16. 11 

And that changes everything.

Because No One Can Put Words On It --Inktober 22 #camp

The first time I went backpacking with my husband, I thought I was going to die.  We had been camping many times before, but in campgrounds with bathrooms, and within steps of our car.  But this was different.  We hiked about three miles down a trail in the national park to a tranquil grassy campsite near a babbling brook, and set up Bill's little two-person backpacking tent.  He promptly caught and released a gorgeous brook trout. So far, magnificent.

We ate dehydrated, pre-packaged soup for supper, not so great, but a tolerable part of roughing it. As the evening became chilly, we crawled into our tent.  The sounds of the forest surrounded us like a symphony.  My husband was asleep in about 30 seconds.  I lay there in my sleeping bag, thinking about what I heard and trying not to think about what I thought I heard.  Bill slumbered on.  The sound of tree frogs was comforting to me.  I figured if there were any carnivores out there, they would go after the frogs.  And then there was silence.

I turned one way and then another, scooching as close as I could to my sleeping husband. I prayed, O Lord, have mercy. I reminded myself that Bill had been backpacking since he was five or six years old and had never been eaten by a bear. I lay awake, my imagination on steroids, until suddenly, I woke up, and it was morning.  I was alive.  And I could smell coffee.

We have camped many times since that inaugural event.   A few inconveniences endured, even hail at one point, but not missing anything at all.  In the woods, mountains, and time just being together, we have discovered treasure.  In our culture, we have insulated ourselves not just from the uncomfortable, but from creation, living as if God is not even around.  Camping unveils the majesty of this world which we so routinely ignore. And reveals the astonishing beauty God has woven into our lives.  

When we camp, life is different.  We carry only what we need, leaving behind unnecessary baggage, rejoicing in the simplicity, and awed by the sky.  And grasping that one of the requirements of camping is to waste time just sitting and soaking in the wonder.

 

 

The word camp is a Biblical one, appearing some 214 times, mostly in the Old Testament.  The Hebrew word means to park.  And that is what we do, for a night or an appointed time on this sacred ground.

In the process, we have learned the intricacies of God's ordered world, to be watchful for the unexpected, to trust Him even more, and to breathe in the beauty God has made.  Indeed, the awe we feel is just a call to worship.

...at the works of Your hands, I sing for joy.  Psalm 92.4

We end the day in beauty just as it began. His glory and faithfulness brilliantly cover all the earth. Our vocabulary is simply not big enough for it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies,
for the love which from our birth
over and around us lies;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.

For the beauty of each hour
of the day and of the night,
hill and vale, and tree and flower,
sun and moon, and stars of light;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.
 

What Lies Beyond The Ridgeline -- Inktober 19 #ridge

 

A few years ago while hiking in the Tetons, my husband and I drove down a largely-rutted dirt road to a trailhead where we had not hiked before.  The road was not what I expected, but well, I chose to see it as part of the adventure.  Surprisingly, there were a few other cars and trucks parked at the rather abandoned-looking trailhead that led to a small lake. 

As we began hiking, Bill realized that there were two different routes to this lake, and he had downloaded the other trail in his hiking app.  So we could see where we were, but we could not see where we were going. There was a trail before us, be it not what we intended, ascending to a ridge, and it was a beautiful day for a hike.  We chose to hike on.

After a mile or so of upward trekking, we reached the ridgeline, and a beautiful lake appeared below us.  The trail continued, now steeply descending. I was not at all sure that I wanted to go down this now-rough trail. As we descended, all I could think about was that we were going to have to climb back up.  It was not an easy path, and at parts we had to pick our way through rock slides.

 

A few small snakes skittered across the trail.  And downward we continued, now through a fellowship of shade-giving trees, and then a winding path through large unidentifiable bushes.  The destination continued to be a mystery as the trail was sometimes invisible beyond just a few feet ahead.  I was really unsure about finishing this hike, where we were going, how we were going to get there, if the trail was just going to dead-end, and what we would encounter on the way.  Is this hard trail going anywhere?

The trail leveled off, still surrounded by scrubland, heading now into a deep dark woods.  Within about a quarter of a mile on this now-pine scented trail, an opening appeared, leading to the water's edge.  A young woman was standing there, who had been camping close-by with her brother.  She said nothing at first, but pointed to the beach.  Two shy deer, oblivious to us, were tiptoeing along the strip of sand and gravel.  

As we emerged from the woods, God surprised us with His glory.  Now, I was the speechless one.  It was like coming into the Presence of God.

My fear and trepidation evaporated into thin air.  The trail had been difficult.  But it was not random.  It did not just lead somewhere.  It led to this.  Just because something is hard does not mean we are on the wrong path.

What I thought was ominous turned out to be glorious.  It was not a fairy-tale happy ending but part of the journey right in the middle.  God filled my heart with the strength to keep on keeping on.

It was not what I expected.  It was even better.

The trail was the same, but I was changed.  We still had a steep climb back up, but my heart was overflowing.  I felt like God was saying to me, "Look beyond the rocks."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We cannot see what is ahead.  It may be unknown to us, but it is not unknown to God.  God brings His faithfulness to what transcends our imagination and transforms what is before us into a sacred encounter.

Even today. Even in this.

And He whispers, "Do not be afraid.  I am with you."

I saw an afternoon's outing, but God meant it for something much more.

 

And I will lead the blind

    in a way that they do not know,

in paths that they have not known

              I will guide them.

I will turn the darkness before them

                      into light,

the rough places into level ground.

These are the things I do,

    and I do not forsake them.

                      Isaiah 42. 16

A Tub of Legos and the Order of God -- Inktober 16 #Grungy

Walking into the playroom, we were greeted by another huge mess. On this particular occasion, an entire tub of Legos was dumped and scattered across the floor. It appeared as a total disarray, but somehow, our grandson saw something different.  Not grungy and disordered, but responding to it with "Just watch what I'm making."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We just couldn't see it yet.  Neither did he, until he started working, assembling, taking apart, adding a new shape or two, forming new ideas in the very work itself.

The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the [mess.]  Genesis 1.2 

Something was about to happen.  Something is still about to happen.  God says, "Now watch this." He pours His order over it.  What is beautiful is about to spring out of the barren ground. 

For by Him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible... Colossians 1. 16

May we not shy away from chaos, but instead like a child with a tub of Legos, see the messiness and confusion before us as an opportunity full of great and impossible designs and creations.  In the process of moving the pieces around, connecting them, first one way and then another, we bring some kind of order to it.

And sometimes in that free-for-all, we discover a pattern we never saw before, a way through, two or a thousand unrelated items that go together after all, or something we thought was forever lost, that rolled a long time ago under the dresser.  It was there the whole time.

As we draw closer to Him, God changes our eyesight. How can we view this with a fresh heart?   In the book Every Moment Holy, two liturgies were written even for the sacred work of changing a diaper. Even the grungiest task can be redeemed into something new.

My grandmother was a master in handling a drastic need or huge mess. "Well, what can we do with this?"  She navigated through the most difficult and grungy situations differently not just because she approached it differently.  But, I think, because she actually saw it otherwise.  Not as an untouchable mess, but something new coming to the surface, connecting the unrelated pieces buried in the disorder.

She knew from personal experience that God redeems, even the grungy stuff.

 But when I thought how to understand this, it seemed to me a wearisome task, until I went into the sanctuary of God... Psalm 73. 16

The Things We Miss --- Inktober 15 #guidebook

 

My husband and I love to explore our favorite trails, over and over, where cathedrals of trees rise up around us, and rushing creeks sing endless ancient choruses. But even on those familiar trails, something new always emerges, the seniority of an old growth tree towering overhead, or suddenly, the sun's rays slicing through the thick canopy like a prophetic vision of God.  And we return to civilization with a story or two, and sometimes the resounding silence of the woods even follows us inside.

A few years ago, we hiked a trail we did not know, realizing that the beginning of a familiar trail is in hiking a new one. Our now-preferred routes were once strangers too.

This trail was on our way to see some herds of elk, gathering at Cataloochee for a little autumn party. A little side hike was a welcome break after navigating fifteen miles of potholes on a lonely gravel road. 

The carved wooden sign at the trail head stated in bold print:  Mount Sterling Trail 2.3 miles, a morning's journey, not daunting at all. Another trail would intersect in a half mile.  All I knew from my limited experience was that when the trail name includes the word "mount," count on it being steep.

Immediately, the path started upward. We were on our way.  "Do I need a heavier long sleeve shirt?"  I asked Bill, as I shivered in the early morning coolness.  "Not likely," he said. I was still skeptical.

In the first quarter mile of the ascent, I was down to a tank top.

When we reached the other trail branching off, the sign repeated:  Mount Sterling Trail 2.3 miles.  The same as a half mile ago.  Hmmmm. Not what our map said.  What else don't we know?

The path became even steeper.  Sometimes a little ignorance is a grace, I justified. But the truth was  we hadn't read the guide book.  We hadn't asked anyone about it.  We didn't know the "story" about this trail. It was another mile longer than expected, not unbearably steep, but it was a continuous climb. Each switchback vaguely promised a break, but as we climbed and approached yet another turn, the path was relentless.  It will flatten out at the next bend, I lied to myself   But no rest area was to be found.

Just keep on, I said to myself. Think about the view from the top!  That is always worth it. The rocks and the roots threatened to trip me on every step, but gradually I began to see them as footholds, at times almost like steps carved into the side of the mountain. 

We came around yet another bend, and quite suddenly, that was it, the end of the trail.  We looked around us, and then, at each other.  There was no view.  There was nothing but some scrub trees and another trail sign that pointed down the mountain in two opposite directions.

A mountaintop experience without a view?  We climbed all this way, and there was nothing here.  "I can see why this is not a popular trail," I said to Bill.

"Well, it was a nice hike on a beautiful day," he said.  And indeed it was, view or not.

On the way down, back to the car, we passed quite a few hikers on the way up.  "Should I tell them there is nothing there?" I whispered to myself.  They looked so excited.  I hated to discourage them.

And of course, as we hiked down, my mind began to find a story in this journey.  Don't climb for just a view.  There may be some other purpose in it.  It may just be about the conversation, the being together, the just getting out and trying new paths in life.

That could have been the tale on this hike, the purpose for this trek.  But I should know better than to guess how the story turns out when I'm still in the middle of a saga.

A young high schooler was coming up the trail towards us, keeping quite a pace as she ascended.  She obviously didn't know about how her hike was going to end.  About twenty yards behind her was a man with two teenage boys, evidently her father and brothers.  As we passed them, the father asked us excitedly, "Was it so amazing at the top?"

Ummmm.  "Well," Bill said.  "There really wasn't anything there."

"Isn't this the Mt. Sterling Trail?"  Yes.

"There is an historic 60-foot fire tower at the top," the man said with great anticipation in his voice, sweeping his arm upward, "the tallest fire tower east of the Mississippi."  Like, didn't you see it? They proceeded in their excitement upward and onward.

We shook our heads. There was nothing there.  Boy, are they going to be disappointed.

But later,we discovered that indeed there is a 60-foot historic tower, standing tall less than a quarter mile from where we lingered at the top. If it had been alive, it would have bopped us on the head.  If we had read the guidebook, if we had explored the summit even a few dozen yards, if we had even looked up, we would have had a much different experience.  No doubt about it.  We missed out.



There was more than a view at the top, but a panorama. God designs the awe.  I can look at the images on my computer screen, but that is nothing compared to what is real.  We missed out on the poetic view.  We missed out on the wonder.


It was a gentle reminder that there is an incredibly strong connection between what I know and what I see, what I read and discover in God's Word, what I pray, and what I end up doing that day.  Over and over, Scripture profoundly influences my vision and orders my day-- what I see around me, who I notice, how I respond, and Who I'm walking with.  It matters.  It matters a lot.  Read the Guidebook.

What else don't I know?  That which God has placed right before me. 

God's faithfulness helps me know that the wilderness is a place of flourishing, not despair.  Silence is a place of His fathomless Presence, not His absence.  And that reality takes my breath away.

Same trail, different outcome. Ordinary day, extraordinary day.  His Word does not just influence my expectations, but helps me watch for the unexpected that God Almighty always brings.

Thus says the LORD:
"Stand by the roads,
             and look,
and ask for the ancient paths,
where the good way is,
and walk in it,
and find rest for your souls."

                  Jeremiah 6. 16

Wherever You Go, There You Are --- Inktober 13 #horizon

 I am mesmerized by sunrises and sunsets, the spectacular bookends of the day.  When we are camping or taking a long road trip, I stay attentive as the sun creeps closer and closer to the horizon, the point when the earth meets the sky. Each moment reveals even more beauty than the moment before.

The horizon is also the point just outside our field of vision, beyond what we know and have experienced yet.  And that is where faith fits in.  Trusting God is going toward what or where we cannot yet see, the cusp of what was, and is, and is to be.  Wherever we go, there we are.

It is not for us to just gaze at the horizon from where we are right now and hope that things will work out (future tense with a smiley face).  But knowing God is already working all things out, past, present and way out there.

Because when we are walking with God, we stand right now where was once the horizon.  His glory extends on both sides, before and behind, His faithfulness visible even to the naked eye.

As we navigate through this present moment, God is preparing us for that horizon where He is bringing us, beckoning us to come, sowing His Word, and being faithful even on this little patch of ground beneath our feet.  Even in this desert place, this miry bog, these unrelenting hills.

And what we discover along the way is that God is not far off after all.  Wherever we are, there He is. 

 

...as we look not to the things that are seen

but to the things that are unseen.

For the things that are seen are transient,

but the things that are unseen are eternal.

                  2 Corinthians 4. 18

In Case We Aren't Looking---- Inktober 9 #sun

 One of our daughters was out running this morning

 and witnessed the glory of God.

The sunrise is God's daily reminder 

that no matter what is ahead in this day, 

and every day,

     "I'm here and walking with you through it."

Every morning, every evening, the bookends of our days

reveal our Redeemer.

The Mighty One, God the LORD,

speaks and summons the earth

from the rising of the sun

to its setting.

Out of the perfection of beauty,

God shines forth.

                         Psalm 50. 1-2

 Trusting God is not just a worldview,

        but a way of seeing reality

that changes the course of our days

    and radically alters our journeys in life.

How we see God impacts 

    how we love others,

how we respond to circumstances,

    and how we see ourselves.

As author C. S. Lewis notes:  "I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen:  not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."    

We take for granted 

that every morning sneaks in

 with the spectacular,

and we have forgotten

                to celebrate.

Our lives should be marked

by His light and hope

that cannot be extinguished. 

There are no ordinary days

on God's calendar

without His glory 

all over us.

Hike Like A Three Year Old -- Inktober 8 #hike

God invented hiking so that we would not miss the wonders of His creation, a truth I have learned about hiking from our grandchildren.  They do not allow the end point, or pace, or mileage distract them from what is out there.  Every step -- even at a painfully slow pace -- is an adventure and sacred time of discovery.

Hike like a three year old.  Wow!  Look at that!  

How in the world did Drew see the tiny bug, or Rose spot a bear cub way up in that tree that I blindly passed, or Lu observe that interesting crawdad in the creek?  Because they are looking expectantly.  In an impenetrable forest or seemingly endless desert, God reveals Himself in a milliondy ways.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A worldview is not just a philosophical stance, but how we see the world.  God makes Himself known in the grandeur of the mountains, but also in that tiny millipede in the city park. And a child's delight in Look at this, Mom!

A trail always leads somewhere, even if it is right back where we started.  But we cannot help but be changed by the experience, what we see, what we do, how we respond. 

The point is not just where we are heading, but how we get there?  What is embedded along the way that makes the best discoveries and even better stories?  On the side of the trail. Or right beneath our feet.  Sometimes the end point becomes only an afterthought.  Looking back on it as adults, the children may remember a praying mantis and totally forget that thunderous waterfall.

Are we so focused on the destination that we miss where we are in this moment, the wonders beneath our feet, or the view from the ridge that we have no words to describe?

Just a few weeks ago, 31 year old Tara Dower broke both the men's and women's record for hiking the 2189 miles of the Appalachian Trail.  She completed the hike in an incredible 40 days, 18 hours, and five minutes, raising the bar and establishing a new Fastest Known Time, averaging a blistering 54 miles a day on this rugged terrain.   Most hikers take at least five to seven month to tackle that daunting trail that stretches from southern Georgia to northern Maine, not for the faint of heart.

She achieved her respectable goal.  But what did she miss along the way?

And do we hike through our days like that and totally miss the point?  It's not a competition but a walk with God, step by step through His faithfulness, seeing God differently, ourselves, others and our circumstances.  And He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together. Colossians 1. 17

May we say out loud, I never saw that before, even right in our own backyard. No day nor trail is just an ordinary one, nothing inconsequential in His creation.

Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction. Practice resurrection.  (last few sentences from Wendell Berry's poem, Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front)

Go differently into this day.

Hike like a three year old.

Because We Don't See So Good -- Inktober 5 #binoculars

Cades Cove is an 11-mile nature loop in Great Smoky Mountains National Park, known for abundant wildlife viewing.  It is rare that my husband and I don't see black bears, deer, wild turkeys, coyotes and other creatures in the wooded areas and meadows.

It is even more rare that we remember to bring our binoculars.  We just forget.

One time when we did remember, I was casually scanning a thicket on the other side of a field, trying to adjust the focus, not really expecting to see anything at all.  What appeared from a distance as a large lopsided tree was literally crawling with a mama bear and her cubs.

We observe a lot of wildlife on that loop, but how much more do we miss? Just because we don't see these wonders doesn't mean they aren't there.  The bears may be having a rollicking party just beyond our field of vision.  And yet we are taken back every time when one suddenly comes sauntering out of the forest.

God is here too.  Why are we surprised at His Presence?  How much more are we missing?

We see the dirt beneath our feet, an ordinary day ahead of us, a desert as far as we can see, and God says "Lift up your eyes."  God has a bigger vision in this vista, this difficult situation, the wildness of this place that we wouldn't believe if told.

What is that dark spot way out there on the horizon?  Not just a random clump of trees.  But full of life.

Bring the binoculars.  

Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? Isaiah 43. 19

 

The Way We Walk --Inktober 3 #Boots

A few years ago, my husband and I returned from a long hiking trip, where day after day, we struggled with the steep ascents before us, one step after another.  Sometimes that is all any of us can do. Even now, back in real life.

This extended journey called for far more than I was capable, beyond what I could ever conceive, or attempt, or actually do, one step, one day at a time.  Every night when my feet ached and blisters throbbed, still speechless from what I had seen, dropping exhausted into bed, I knew very well that I could not stop, because simply of what I would miss.  Not one day, not even one hour gone, missing what could prove to be the most important, the most spectacular piece of a real life 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle. There were passes through the mountains, passages trod from ancient times, vistas that were so majestic I wanted to stand and applaud, simply because I had no words.  And then, after another rough and rocky section of the trail for a couple more hours, we would emerge again from the dark forest or difficult paths into another dimension of impossible beauty.

One clear blue day, after a particularly rocky ascent, we rested by a clear glacial lake as if we were painted into a story.  It seemed almost irreverent to eat lunch in such a sacred space.

Each day became a deeply engraved memory, all significant moments, each piece, each catching of my breath as we traveled through the glory of God.  Before us, an overwhelming face of sheer rock would appear, the steepest of ascents I could ever imagine, and somehow in the face of the impossible, I would see just one doable toe hold, an intersection of broken rocks, a root, a crack, pulling myself up, before another emerges, trusting for the next.  Everyone struggles with something impossible.  We all do.   And  sometimes even more so traveling downward, looking for a tiny level spot, a spiky rock to keep me from sliding or falling.  I hiked in the same careful words of the ancient psalmist, a divine place for my steps, and my feet did not slip.

Don't look down.  Definitely don't trip now.

I had the wrong shoes to hike this far, but my boots had betrayed me.  And so, I dealt with what I had,  I got up every morning with aching feet and blisters hidden by big patches, raw places covered by adhesive and praying please God, heal my feet so that I can finish this strong, that I can finish what we have started.  I found respite in the laughter and conversation of strangers turning into friends, and following each other, one by one, those whose hiking boots I came to memorize, knowing their shoes, their crazy hiking socks, and their unfolding stories, bits of our lives floating like the clouds.  Even then, we knew full well these moments were fleeting, even with so many pictures taken in an effort to freeze our lives in this time and place, even with the awe of creation so thick we were often without words or limited by vocabularies in any language.  We were lost in the music, a song, a verse, a chorus still resounding through our dreams at night,  still walking in my sleep weeks later, beyond the frames of our photographs, the bigger picture still.

We returned home.  We could not but be changed by this, what we now know, what we have seen and felt and struggled through, what we still cannot grasp, a strength that is not our own, and boots left behind that no longer fit.

Where Stories Go To Die

Every writer has a file (or a hundred) full of second, third or fiftieth drafts, tales that ran out of gas, amputated poems, stories with a title but no ending, postings never posted, assignments not completed, and great ideas suspended in outer space.

I was recently intrigued by the title of Julia Alvarez’s latest novel, The Cemetery of Untold Stories.  What happens when a story isn’t told, when a narrative is hidden, or a chronicle never shared?  Her protagonist had boxes and boxes of untold stories which she attempted to bury or burn. 

It’s a cemetery for stories, the woman replies.  Con su permiso, how does one bury a story?  If a story is never told, where does it go?

Well, I personally know that they exist pretty much in broken down boxes in the upstairs closet and in the subterranean world of my laptop.  The other evening, I found an entire cache of blogs I wrote but never posted, notebooks of poems scratched down in college and train stations, and cartons of paper-clipped short stories silently waiting for a someday that has yet to come. I hadn’t thought of it as a cemetery. But I stand convicted as charged. Is there still life in those words?

If a story is never told, where does it go? 

Many writers get paralyzed by whether it really matters whether we write this story or that, a journal entry, blog posting, a song, an essay, poem, letter, memoir, or novel.  But if we don’t write it or share it, where does it go?

One does not have to be a poet or author to tell one’s story.  We all have stories, and so many languish untold.  We are packed with stories, not just of incidents and adventures but personal chronicles of God’s faithfulness.  The other day my cousin shared a story about a casual conversation that changed the course of her career.  “I never knew that about you.”

How impoverished we would be if David had not written down his psalms, totally unaware that thousands and thousands of years later, we would still cherish and even memorize his heartfelt words.  JRR Tolkien did not have an idea, character, or story, but a language he invented that no one else spoke or understood.  But he took great joy in writing down his great trilogy of stories, treasured, read and reread now for seventy years.

If a story is never told, where does it go?  If we bury those words as in The Cemetery of Untold Stories, if we hide in the ground the coins we have been given, it is more than just a shame.  (Matthew 25. 25)  Because no story is one dimensional, but multiplies exponentially in the lives of those with whom it has been shared, one generation after another. 

What coins have we been given?

What if no one reads it anyway?  But what if they do?

What if no one cares?  But what if it changes someone’s life?

We can never know how our words impact others.   The poet Malcolm Guite recently recounted an incident when someone was deeply touched by a poem of his.  He chuckled, “The poem meant more than I did.”

Whether others read it or not, we can be faithful.  Because even in the midst of writing it down, God changes us through it.  Every time.

We sit.  We write.  The page is not really blank, but waiting.  The late Irish poet Seamus Heaney once encouraged writers to “listen to the music of what happens.”  And by writing it down, we make room for something new to abide in that space, without which we would be so much poorer, so unaware of the music of the spheres that we do not even know to listen for.

God is the master creator of stories.  He started the world with the grandest story of them all:   In the beginning…..  He is the Word.  He connects our lives in such a way that stories couldn’t help but be invented.  We learn about the world. We learn about Him.  We get a better grasp of who we are.

What really matters is responding to God’s nudges, not to be a famous or mediocre writer.  But a faithful one.

And those are the stories that endure, not to be passed over, or die anonymously in a dusty forgotten sepulcher, but to bear even more fruit beyond our imagination. But not beyond His.

Whatever your hand finds to do,

   do it with your might.

             Ecclesiastes 9. 10