Summer Storm

The sun had warmed our little valley to 80 degrees by the time I walked to work in the middle of the day yesterday. A few clouds floated above the mountains, and the air was muggy. Brittany and I were excited to be preparing dinner for a larger crowd -- about 65 -- and we kept busy in the kitchen putting away groceries from our weekly order and making salads, chicken parmesan, raspberry tarts, and fresh bread. Five thirty arrived and with it our first dinner guests. By 6:15 we had served about 65 guests and the dining room and deck were both full of happy diners. It seemed like an easy night.

About 6:30 I looked out the window and saw a frisky, skittish wind sending leaves sailing around the dinner bus parked in the driveway. The raft guides came in for dinner and said it looked like a storm was blowing in. About ten minutes later, we could look across the pasture and see the rain, coming. The guests outside felt the first drops and grabbed plates and silverware, heading for the cookhouse. And then we heard the song of the rain sheets hitting the tin roof, driving into the dirt, making rivers and puddles and pine needle dams and mud. We could hardly see across the field, and as I served pie I had to raise my voice to ask, "Would you like whipped cream?" so I could be heard above the pounding, pouring rain.

Then the bus driver called on the radio: a tree was down, and he needed someone with a chainsaw to clear the road. Bill arrived close to 7:00 with his bus, unable to go further down valley due to more trees down. Cliff, Nick, and Bethany mobilized to work on road clearing, and we spared Samantha from the dish room to take over the till for Cliff. Two damp hikers off the bus asked if there was any chance they could eat dinner while they waited to go down the road, so I turned the grill back on and Brittany grilled them a steak. Strangers often become friends at the three long tables in the casual dining room at the Ranch, but now everyone was talking to each other. "Look at that rain!" "Glad we made it off the trail before this started." Two little boys became friends in the sawdust under one of the tables as I ate my dinner.

At last Bill rounded up everyone who wanted to head down the valley, and they made a mad dash through the lessening rain to load onto his bus. As the rain continued to die down, the Ranch guests made their way to their cabins, and the cookhouse cleared. Two more rain-drenched souls, Logan and Reed, arrived from the barge with well-roused appetites. Brittany turned on the grill once again; our stragglers had polished off the chicken, so we made hamburgers and heated up leftover roasted potatoes for the boys. We cleaned up the kitchen, but we didn't have to put many leftovers away after serving 71 guests and 10 crew. By the time we were done, the dining room was empty except for Nick and Brandon, playing Cribbage. John and I joined them for a game and then walked across the damp grass under a clear sky. The storm had passed.

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This morning I woke to the same clear sky, and fresh cool air. On my run up to High Bridge I saw the evidence of the wind's frolic the night before, and smelled the sweet, fresh scent where the chain saw cut rounds had been heaved to the side of the road. Mark and Monica had been down the road when the storm hit, so they told stories of a mudslide at Frog Island, water over the road, more trees down. There is something awe-inspiring and incredible about seeing once again the wildness of the weather, of these mountains, of the God who holds them in His hand.

Summer Mornings

I don't set an alarm; I love to be up early but it is especially delightful to wake up to the brightening of the sky and the chattering of the birds instead of the beeping of my alarm clock. I lie in bed and check the sky to see if it is cloudy or clear, and watch the sun bathe the top of Sisi Ridge, across the valley from me. A waterfall rushes down a deep crevice in the steep side of the ridge, directly across from my bedroom windows. The screen door squeaks and thumps shut as Mark heads out to feed the chickens or Monica goes to the cold room to get breakfast makings. Red house finches land on the radio antennae wire that runs in front of my window, cocking their heads at me, still in bed, and flitting away.

I throw off my covers and slide my bare feet to the floor. My running clothes hang on a peg, easy to grab and pull on. I head to the door and pull on my running shoes, lacing them up snug. I throw my hair into a ponytail and am ready to go. Under the clothesline and through the wet grass, through the gate that hangs open, across the plank that bridges the tiny pelton wheel runoff stream, past John's tent in the woods, down a little hill and under low hanging tree branches where the Grosbeaks love to congregate, and then I am in the field. I tromp along the edge, tall plantain seed heads whacking my ankles. The buckwheat is flowering now, and the path is hard packed and barren from horseback riders daily making their way to the barn and back. I think of the seed that is sown along the path, and its small chance of fruitful survival. I reach the corral, usually empty because Bethany has already let the horses into the pasture for their morning feeding. When I reach the corner of the empty barn, my warm-up walk is over and I break into a run. I jog past Bemoo's corral, and she watches me, MOOOOOing impatiently when I go on without feeding her. At the corner of the dirt driveway, I turn onto a little path that cuts through to the road. As I feel the crunch of the gravel, I begin to hit my stride. The air is cool, and there is a barely perceptible breeze that almost gives me goosebumps -- I am not warmed up yet. The sky is so pale it is white, but I can tell it's going to be blue once the sun paints it. The mountains, the trees, are all standing up straight, stretching towards the coming sun. I push to get up the first hill, knowing that once I arrive at the top my legs and lungs will have adjusted to running and be ready for the rest of the journey.

And that's when my mind goes free, too. Sometimes I harness it to quote Scripture, other mornings I just let it be. I sing in my head, pounding the lyrics into my heart as I pound up the road. I pray for my family and my friends and coworkers and whatever comes to mind. I praise God for the day and lay before Him the things on my heart. He speaks to me. In the rush of the river I hear His promise to give peace to those who pursue His ways. In the golden gleam of sun on the clouds I hear his declaration of His own glory and radiance; I remember that He is the true, the only light. In the carefree tumble of a bear cub from a tree trunk I hear his promise to care for the sparrows, and for his own children. As I take the time to listen, He reminds me how temporary are the decisions and responsibilities that sometimes crowd my mind -- how much meat to cook for dinner, which recipes to try, how to speak words of correction or re-direction to my crew. He redirects the affections of my heart, so easily set on self or earthly desires, and fills me with new love for Himself.

I reach High Bridge, tramp across the bridge and back, and run back down the gravel road, reveling in the blueing of the sky and the pumping of healthy legs and heart. By the time I sprint past Bemoo and walk back along the edge of the field, I am warm and wide awake and eager for the day ahead, and for how the Maker of my heart will use me in it.