I'm going to get me a 'venture

Monday morning came at last, and with it the familiar last minute hiking preparations. I chopped new potatoes and formed meatballs for three foil packets; Mark ground coffee and gathered clothes and studied the map. Colter showed up in the yard a little before our appointed hour of seven o'clock, and we buckled our packs closed and laced up our boots as he sat and drank his coffee. I think it was still before seven when we swung our packs into the back of the truck, and Colter loaded himself into the bed too, leaving the cab for Mark and me. We drove down the road, across Harlequin bridge, and up to the Company Creek trailhead; the sun still hadn't hit down in the valley. We were all glad to be getting out; it was the first trip of the summer for Mark and me and we were chomping at the bit to get into the high country.

The plan was to head up the Company Creek trail, cut off to head up to Bird Lake, and then contour across the hillside to Blackberry Creek and come back down to the valley floor along that drainage. Mark hadn't done the entire route from Bird Lake to Blackberry Creek, but he had done parts of it and thought it seemed doable.

Though Colter's optimistic weather forecast was rain and snow, with a bit of drought thrown in, the morning was clear. We made steady progress up the trail and crossed the creek at 5 mile on a log (which looked more slippery than it was) before lunch. Though we did find some of the brush we had expected along the trail, it wasn't bad and even the occasional stinging nettle didn't dampen our spirits. Mark shared stories of cabins, trappers, and mining claims, drawing from his memory and reading the signs of the valley's history in a flat campsite or a crumbling rock wall. He also whistled; the song of the day was "Ten Thousand Reasons," and soon Colter and I were humming along too.

We plunked ourselves down along the trail for a lunch break, savoring chicken and bacon sandwiches (well, some of us savored them. Others made quick work of packing them away). Then we filled our water bottles and left the trail behind, heading up towards the pass leading to Bird Lake. Mark led, and the brush seemed to give way as he picked our route up the hillside. It was steep and he stopped for short breathers fairly often, but the pace was doable for all of us and we stayed together, me in between the boys. Light cloud cover kept us out of the eye of the burning sun. Every time we turned around to look back, we could see further down into the valley or a new line of mountains would appear on the horizon. Ahead, the ridgeline steadily approached.

And then, we entered an area of lovely streams and gentle grassy basins. When we reached one such place, Mark said, "I think we should camp here!" Colter and I didn't argue, but slipped off our packs and took in the beauty of the spot. After a rest, snacks, and a coffee break, we were ready to leave our packs behind and see what lay beyond the ridge above. There was still one more steep pull to get up the hill, but beyond that was an expanse of meadow and stream that delighted all of us. Then we reached the top of the ridge, and beyond that lay Bird Lake, tucked under the shelter of the rugged Devore Peak.

To the other side lay White Goat, and beyond that, Tupshin; across the valley we could see the Sawtooth range.

Behind us, over our gentle ridge, we could see Bonanza, McGregor, Agnes. We talked about not going down to the lake, but then kept going, down the gentle slope, around the lake, out on various little viewpoints. It was hard to leave, but the sun was hiding behind Devore's jagged ridgeline and there was a cooling breeze in the exposed areas. Our foil packets began to sound quite tempting, so we turned towards camp. It was easy going across the basin, and though the steep stretch on the other side seemed longer than it had on the way up, we did reach camp with plenty of daylight left for cooking dinner.

While the packets sizzled on the coals, Mark set up a tarp for shelter -- though the sky was clearing again, he decided it would be better to set it up before bed than in the middle of the night. But he set up his bed in the open, for better star gazing. I found another little grove of trees for my bedroom, and Colter decided to set up under the tarp. The foil packets were satisfying and delicious, and it was also satisfying to remove that much weight from our packs.

We talked around the fire a bit, but as the first stars came out we made our way to our nests and settled in for the night. I had one visitor -- a buck who apparently wasn't expecting to find me, judging by the quick crashing escape he made when he discovered me. But we all slept well, and the night was quite mild.

The next morning dawned clear, glorious. Morning camp routines of fire, coffee and tea, breakfast, washing up, and packing were completed. The day was upon us and we were eager for the adventures it would bring! We began by heading back up the hillside towards Bird Lake, leaving our packs in camp.

Once at the top, there was talk of bagging a peak. Devore and White Goat looked a bit rugged, but perhaps we could travel along the ridge to Tupshin? We headed that way, stopping to savor the new views that peeked out from behind each rocky outcropping.

In front of Tupshin

Colter did a little scouting and found that there was a fairly impassable vertical stretch along our ridge, so we decided to leave Tupshin for another day and headed back to summit a hump on the shoulder of White Goat.

 Mt Baker

 Bonanza

 Devore & Bird Lake

The views it provided were not too shabby, either, and we headed back to camp happy. We reached our packs about 10:30, and puttered about camp for a bit, packing up, snacking, resting. Then it was time to load up again and strike out to blaze our new trail.

From above, Mark had looked down at parts of the route he thought we would travel and planned our course, through that strip of timber around the nose of that ridge right over to Blackberry Creek. We encountered a bit of brush, but the boys were still joking about impending blizzards, stinging nettles 10 feet high, bugs, darkness, and other disasters, so I knew all was well. The brush thickened, and it was hard to see the bigger picture of where we were headed and what the best route was. We would come to a sort of lookout, and look out to see timbered hillsides descending steeply to one side, and thick brush to the other. "Another drainage -- do you think we should go high, along that timber, or cut across here?" Down we went, then it would look more promising farther up the hillside, so we'd climb up till we reached some impassable bluff, then down again through brush that seemed to thicken the farther we went. We would lower ourselves down while clinging to fir branches and brush, scrambling over logs and rocks. At one point I asked Colter what one particular bush was that we had encountered quite a bit of; it grew out horizontally from the hillside so that some of its strong, pliable branches could trip your feet while others slapped you in the face. "I don't know; I bet you could come up with a choice name for it right about now!"

I lost track of how many times we rounded the nose of a ridge only to see there was another gulf to cross before we reached the elusive Blackberry Creek. There was talk of going back the way we had come and heading down to Company Creek, but none of us really wanted to recover all the ground we'd crossed so far. After lowering ourselves down one slightly sketchy section of rock, Mark said, "Well, we're not turning back now!" Instead of joking about how terrible everything was (or was about to become), the boys began to point out the good things about where we were -- at least it was cool deep in the brush, and we were making progress, and there's always a way, even when it looks like there isn't.

Once again we came to a decision point; the contour line we were following would take us deep into another gully before bringing us around to the point of the next ridge, and we didn't have enough hours of daylight to add those miles to our trip. So the options were to head up to the top of the ridge and follow it, or to plunge straight down (loosing the altitude we had only just gained) through a steep sea of brush, hit Company Creek, camp along the trail there, and head home on the trail in the morning. I didn't cast a vote; I trusted Mark and Colter to make a good decision for us. But I was getting tired. I noticed my thighs and ankles weren't quite as ready to steadily hold my weight when I headed steeply down, and I wondered how long before they gave out. Mark noticed I was getting tired (probably because I wasn't right on his heels anymore), and asked me if I wanted to use his poles. "I don't know," I said, meaning "would they help at this point?" and "I don't want to take them from you!" But then I suggested that maybe we could each use one, and that did help. The next time Mark looked over his shoulder he noticed the tipsy way I was walking and asked if my feet were sore. "No," I answered, "My muscles are just tired!" (To put it mildly.)

"I can take some of the weight from your pack," he said, and suddenly he and Colter were both standing there with their packs open wide, taking whatever I handed them. "I can take your sleeping bag." "I can take your water bottle, too, Julie." I had been close to tears, and their gentle kindness brought the mist to my eyes.

With my pack considerably lightened, we set out again. The skies were clear -- it truly was a glorious day -- and the sun burned hot. We drank thirstily at our breaks, and filled up our bottles when we crossed little creeks. My muscles were still wearing out, but I told them there was no option to quit here, and prayed for the mental strength to continue. At last the sun left the valley, but the evening was warm and we were still glistening with sweat. When we would take off our packs, I would always find a deposit of fir needles on the back of my neck from the branches we had plowed through.

When we had decided to head straight down the ridge to the creek, we were probably about 3000 feet from the valley floor. Our progress wasn't fast, but it was steady, and when we would get a peek through the trees, we could see the bed of Company Creek approaching. Then we began to hear its roar. The brush continued, and Mark seemed weary too, slipping more often on the steep terrain. Colter was steady behind me, moving a branch out of my way when he could, always close on my heels but never complaining that I was slow, quietly cheerful. We were almost to the creek when Mark suggested that we could camp there, instead of fighting the last of the brush and crossing the creek that night. The choice was mine, and I wanted to go on. We ducked and squinted and climbed and slid through the alders, cedars and devil's club at the creek's edge, and then I saw the water through the leaves. Lovely sight!

Mark investigated a log upstream, but deemed it unsuitable and came back to where Colter and I were waiting and where we would wade across. The boys just plunged in in their boots, but I took mine off to go barefoot. Colt took my boots, and Mark stood in the current waiting for me so we could go through together. It was just shy of waist high, and in the thick of the current it was a good thing he was hanging on to me, or I wouldn't have kept my footing. Colter followed behind, so that when I slipped on the slick rocks in the shallow water he and Mark were both close at hand to reach out and steady me, keeping me upright. We had made it across! A little revived by the refreshing water, and the knowledge that a trail was close at hand, I patted my feet dry and put my boots back on, first emptying out pine needles and leaves. Then we charged into the brush once again, but it wasn't long before Mark gave a triumphant cry and we were tramping along the trail. Our pace smoothed and quickened, and we skimmed along the trail as dusk fell on Company Creek valley. I think it wasn't more than a mile when Mark called to us again and we knew that we had reached Cedar Camp, our home for the night. All of us were quite ready to call it a day. Colter was dreaming of his Backpacker's Pantry Beef Stroganaff; I said I was dreaming of a bench. "Good luck with that," he said. "I'm not picky!" I responded.

As we poked around the camp, we found, towards the creek, a lovely area under a vine maple and alder ceiling with a fire pit at the center and, just as I had requested, three benches. Mark got a fire started; Colter gathered wood; I filled the can with water and then headed back to the creek to wash up and change into dry clothes (the bottom half was wet from our wade; the top half was at least as wet with sweat). Mark and I laughed when Colter pulled out his fresh clothes and said with dismay, "I put my clean socks and underwear on the wrong side of my pad -- they were against my back and now they are just as sweaty as the ones I have on!" How delicious those freeze dried dinners tasted! We finished off with cookies and Cliff bars and then, as the fire was dying down, the boys headed back towards the trail where they planned to throw down their sleeping bags. I cozied up there by the dregs of the fire. The night was quite mild, and I sat and journaled for a few minutes to capture some of the day and to wind down for bed. Then I turned out my flashlight and slipped into my sleeping bag. I could see stars winking between the leaves of my roof, and the ground was soft under me. One mouse came dashing by as I was drifting to sleep, but he moved on and I was soon deep into dreamland. I woke a few times to turn over, but slept deep and sweet.

In the morning, I watched the last stars die out, dozed, and then watched the sky turn pale. I turned on my light so I could read Psalm 138, and gave thanks to the Lord along with the writer of this ancient song. "My strength of soul you increased," the Psalmist said. That's what He had done for me the day before, too. "The LORD will fulfill his purposes for me. Your steadfast love, O LORD, endures forever; do not forsake the work of your hands." Part of His provision for me had been in the kind, gentle care and happy companionship of the two men on the trip with me. Soon I heard cracking in the woods and first Mark, then Colter appeared with an armload of firewood. "You even have a fireplace in your bedroom!" Mark told me. Then I had tea and breakfast in bed, too. Quite deluxe! We enjoyed the morning but didn't linger around camp; soon we were all tucking wet clothes and our sleeping gear back into our packs. At 7:03 Mark was hoisting the last pack onto his back as we stood in the trail. It wasn't hot yet, but the morning was certainly mild, and the clear skies promised that soon the day would be toasty.

We limbered up our well-worked muscles and Mark set a steady pace down the trail, under and over occasional logs and between gentle arms of brush. But it was easy traveling after the day before. There were a few songs, jokes, and words between us, but mostly quiet camaraderie as we tromped the final descent to the Stehekin valley. We passed Jonathan and his dogs out for their morning hike. The trail flattened out, and I knew the road was close at hand. And then, we could see the red truck, and Logan, driving by. Civilization had returned. Though none of us were sorry to offload our packs and take a seat, neither were we sorry for the trip we had set out on, or the adventures we had found.

What will you do with a moment or two?

It's easy to take care of those free, empty, in-between, too-tired-for-anything-else moments by opening the lid of my Pandora's Apple and chasing one rabbit trail after another, whittling down my email inbox, checking Facebook, reading an article or two, browsing recipes, updating my Etsy shop, skimming blogs, importing photos from my camera... I'm never "done" on my computer, and most things I do there require little creative energy or serious thought.

Most of these things are useful, and I don't think it's necessary or wise to give them all up, but if I keep the lid open for less time, I can still accomplish all that is important, and then what can I do with the time that is suddenly on my hands?

I can read -- right now, "Amazing Grace," a biography of William Wilberforce by Eric Metaxes. I'm inspired by the way his conversion to Christianity in his twenties completely reshaped his priorities and the way he spent his time. He thought it mattered how a Christian filled the hours in his day, and mourned the days he had wasted in parties, concerts, dinners, and idle sparring with his friends.

I can make music -- not only does it sharpen my mind and muscles to practice the mandolin, but I can be creative (a trait I received from my Maker) and I can use music to worship Him, on my own and with others.

I can write letters -- I can give someone the gift of taking time to nourish our relationship.

I can spend time in the Word and in prayer -- why is this not where I automatically turn with the in-between, discretionary moments of my day?

I can run -- this keeps my body healthy and also refreshes my mind, giving me time to take in the beauty of the day, pray over and release whatever is on my heart, fix my eyes on Jesus.

I can create -- I can sew or paint or dye scarves or make a card. Besides producing something that is often both beautiful and useful, creativity strengthens my mental abilities and satisfies and grows my soul.

I can look someone in the eye -- I can be present with others in the room, converse with them, ask a question or share an insight or just show that I am available. 

I am glad for the change of surrounding and schedule this summer that makes me newly aware of the time I've been given. I am faced with a clean slate upon which to etch fresh daily habits and routines. I still think my computer has its place. But right now I think I'll close the lid and spend some time reading my book!

Everyday Adventure

The sun was friendly that morning, with a melting warmth that didn't scorch, so welcome and freeing after the months of sweaters and boots. Midday Mom and I set out to cross Lake Washington, skirt around Lake Union, rumble across the Ballard Bridge over the Lake Washington ship canal, and tool up Market Street to Portage Bay Cafe. We found a booth across from the open kitchen where we could watch the chefs chop and stir, and slid into our seats. The menu tempted us with the berry filled breakfast bar, shallot jam, rustic toast, and house-smoked salmon. At last we made our choices and were soon served aromatic plates full of hearty brunch fare, a scrambled egg, shallot, & tomato grilled cheese sandwich for me and a sweet potato Brussels sprout frittata for Mom, both heaped with fresh peppery arugula. As we ate we talked about our coming summer apart and our plans and goals for the months ahead, memories of Mom's childhood, recent insights, and random girl chatter.

Appetites satiated, we went back out into the sun and decided to walk to the Ballard Locks, which we thought were close by. After a short meander we found they were indeed just around the corner from the cafe, and entered the English gardens on the grounds of the Locks. Trees and shrubs were in full May glory, and our pores were open to absorb the beauty of the moment. We trip-trapped across the walkways over the canal: large lock, small lock, dam with smelt slides (where the gushing water sent up a cool cloud of mist), fish ladder. A cruise boat entered the small lock while we watched; the gate closed behind it and the boat gracefully sank deep into the cement cage, then the gate on the other end opened and the boat motored out into Puget Sound. We walked back through the gardens on a different path, then returned to our car. But the day still beckoned to us, and we didn't drive home yet.

We drove slowly along Market Street, looking for what might catch our eye; then Mom said we were close to the church where she and Dad were married, so we turned up the hill and she followed a hazy instinct that led us off the busy thoroughfare and into a thicket of residential streets, right to a stone building with wide steps leading up to the front doors. We stopped and looked and I tried to see them as they were almost thirty-eight years ago; she texted Dad a picture of the church.

Back on Market Street we circled, looking for a place to park so we could peek into some of the shops and side streets. We slid into a shady spot and headed down an angled street lined with brick buildings filled with curious combinations of pubs and boutiques. The first store to lure us in was a new-and-used outdoor gear shop, where a rack of discounted sample garments yielded a new dress. I couldn't pass by the Fresh Flours Bakery, either, so we went in to let our eyes linger over the case, nod appreciatively when the counter help informed us of the great skill involved in making French macarons, and order iced tea, Jasmine green and a house brewed chai latte.

We were still crunching our melting ice as we made our way back over the Ballard Bridge, along the edge of downtown, and onto the freeway in the thickening afternoon traffic. As we picked up speed, we rolled up the windows and switched on the AC. We returned home where the lists and routines we had left behind were waiting for us, but our timeless day nourished souls that rightly long for something beyond schedules and duties. 

Making Music

When we had gone back for seconds, and our plates were emptied again, and conversation was easy, and the children were getting restless, we pulled out our instruments, right where we were on the covered patio, with the lavishly blooming lilacs for walls. There was a general twanging and humming as strings were stretched to the perfect pitch. Snatches of song from fiddle, mandolin, and banjo vied for preeminence as the children's voices had done a moment before, until the mother announced a title and strummed the first chords on her guitar, drawing the others into her song.

The only sister among a passel of boys sat beside me, both of us playing the mandolin, she with skill and grace, me a beginner, my fingers still learning the frets and chords. "G," she would say, looking and me and smiling, letting me know the key of the song. I watched her easy fingers with delight, and did what I could with my surprised and recalcitrant digits.

I'll Fly Away, Amazing Grace, When the Roll is Called up Yonder, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Turn Your Radio On, Come Thou Fount -- we rolled from one song to the next, the interludes often filled with "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" from the mandolin while the banjo was still hammering away at "I'll Fly Away" and the fiddle was racing off with a bluegrass tune. At last we would decide on something, and the singers would find it in their hymnals, and once more the disparate notes would slide into unity.

After we sang a few verses, often the fiddle would take a turn, flying over the melody with a touch of whimsy, a wash of grace. Sometimes the banjo would come in for a solo, leading in with a flourish and shining at every opportunity to ornament. The mandolin beside me only broke loose under cover of one of her brothers, when she thought she could blend in.

The two little boys, not yet ready to join the jam sessions, wandered in and out among the instruments and singers, one quiet and unobtrusive, the other walking where he pleased with a swagger and making up for it by bestowing his sparkling smile liberally on all.

We sang "In the Garden" for the children's grandma, and put our instruments back in their cases as the colors of the sunset faded over the lake. The gift of the music lingered with us, but for the children, the evening was not complete without a rousing game of "monkey in the middle," played with a foursquare ball and much laughter in a narrow courtyard. "Julie, do you want to play?" asked my fellow mandolin player. How could I refuse?

Summer Foretaste

It's still April, but yesterday felt like summer. Mom's ladies' group was meeting in our home in the evening, so Dad, John, and I were expected to keep a low profile. I was in the kitchen when the ladies arrived, finishing cilantro rice, venison stew seasoned with lime and chilies, and avocado slaw for the boys and me. Mom had a pot of soup on the stove, too, for the women. They entered to savory smells and the clatter of pot lids and girl chatter, dressed in sandals and a bouquet of eager summer colors: peach, mint green, turquoise, pink. There were hugs and greetings while one lady unpacked her warm berry crisp and vanilla ice cream, tucking them into the oven and freezer to hold them at the perfect temperature. Another brought calla lilies to Mom and her sister, a token of thanks and of summer. They noticed John's starts, bending eager stems towards the big dining room window to soak up the light, and we talked about his farm plans and how they could get in line to buy his produce.

As the ladies dished up their soup and settled around the table, I checked my rice one more time and decided the boys and I could eat, too. I found them setting up the electric fence around the beehive, in preparation for protecting the inhabitants that would arrive on the morrow, and asked them to ready the picnic table. They carried it to a discreet location, away from the dining room window, and wiped the pollen from table and benches. Then we ferried the food and place settings out to the table from my staging area in the laundry room and dug spoons into our steaming bowls.

The chickens hemmed and hawed in their run behind the garden, wild with garlic and miner's lettuce and happy spring weeds. The grass, freshly mown, was bright and soft under our feet. The boys talked of farming equipment and bees and baseball; I listened in (they were talking about the Yankees vs. Mariners game, and Cano, who recently moved from the former team to the latter) and contemplated the robust rhubarb plant and what occasion was coming up that would require the baking of some kind of pie or tart or cake or muffin.

I remarked that ice cream would be an ideal finish to the spicy venison stew, and John reminded me that we had some in the freezer left from Tim's birthday celebration. But the ladies had now started their evening, and how could we retrieve the ice cream without disturbing them? The boys agreed that on the basis of my gender, I was the one for the job, and I began looking for an opportunity. When we heard the clink of dishes inside indicating that the women were in transition between table and living room, I made my move. I slipped into the kitchen in the midst of dishwasher loading and food clean up, fetched the ice cream, and returned to our quiet picnic. It was the perfect finale to our meal, and we savored it, lingered a bit more. But the sun, while still lighting the sky, was long gone from our tree-guarded yard, and the ice cream accentuated the cool of the evening. So, we filed quietly into the laundry room with our stacks of dishes, and the boys returned outside to finish their fencing while I slipped upstairs to put away things from the day, and to prepare for the next day and the night of rest. 

Curious

Early on in the Good Friday service Annie pattered down the pew to me. We didn't need to exchange words; I knew she was coming to sit in my lap, and she knew I would scoop her up in my arms. But the silence didn't last long.

She wanted to know where Papa was? I told her he was sitting in one of the front pews so he could get up when it was his turn to read. But then she wanted to know where are the front pews? Where IS Papa? She looked through the bulletin. "Which part are we on right now? Which part is Papa reading?" I told her we would have to wait and see.

So she turned her mind to other questions. Why are there candles? I told her the candles bring light, which is something that reminds us of who God is. "But God is not in the light," Annie told me, eyebrows peaked in confusion. "He is in the mountains!" I wasn't sure where this idea was sprouting from, but it wasn't really the right time to delve into a long explanation.

She wanted something to play with, but I had nothing. She was feeling chatty but I told her it was time to listen to Pastor Irwin, who was going to talk to us for a little bit. She was quiet for a moment, then thought of another burning question: "What is an Irwin?"

Pastor Irwin finished his short homily, and Annie was listening to the readings now. "What is 'guilty'?" she asked, picking up on a word she heard. "What is a vow?" And then, "Why did she say, 'eating body and blood'? We don't eat blood!" I told her that Jesus told us to eat His body and drink His blood. "But we don't like blood!" she protested. Well, no, but we need Jesus' body and blood to feed us. "But we don't eat his whole body, do we? We don't eat his tummy, right?" I explained that it was like a picture -- we don't eat His actual body, but He gives Himself for us and we need Him to survive. "Oh, Nana showed me a picture of Jesus dying on the cross," said Annie, at last finding a word in my mysterious whispers that she could relate to. "But we don't eat blood. We don't like blood, because blood is too spicy."

During the songs, Annie's hearty whisper disappeared, and her volume climbed. I asked her to be quiet, and she seemed shocked at this request. "Why do I have to have a quiet voice? I want to sing with you!" After all, everyone else was allowed to make noise. So I began telling her the next phrase of the song so she could sing it along with me. Then she would announce after she sang a phrase, "I sang 'mingled down' with you! I sang 'rich a crown' with you!"

She also noticed the ways people around her were participating in the song. "What does it mean when we close our eyes?" she asked me. I told her it meant we were thinking about the words of the song. Her follow-on question was, "Why are mama's eyes closed?" 

As the evening went on, the lights dimmed till we were sitting in darkness, apart from the light shining on the cross and the candles, which were being extinguished one by one. Annie was interested in this, and took note that we could still see cracks of light coming in through the blinds, the last bits of daylight and the shining of the streetlight in the parking lot.

Then, we came to the point in the readings when Jesus died. We sat in darkness, and a drum began to beat a wild, accelerating song, evoking the earthquake that shook the world at the death of its Maker. All the people were silent, except for Annie. "What is that noise?" she whispered to me, and I told her it was a drum, reminding us of the earthquake after Jesus died. I wondered if she would be scared of the unfamiliar noise in the darkness, but a grin began to form on her face. "That is a silly noise!" she said. And as the drum faded into silence, a giggle began to bubble from little Annie, which I quickly hushed, not wanting to disrupt the story, the mood, the remembering we were all partaking of together.

Easter Sunday morning found Annie and me together again in the pew, this time as the church was filled with light. Annie was still filled with questions. "I want to see Jesus dying on that cross," she told me, looking to the front of the church. She was apparently aware that the cross was somehow central to the celebration, and she kept returning to it. "When will Jesus die on the cross?" she asked. I told her He already did! "But when will Jesus die on the cross again?" Never, Annie, never again. "Is that the cross that Jesus died on? Why did Jesus die on the cross? What is that lellow thing on the cross?" No it isn't the cross Jesus died on, and He died so that we could live, and that lellow thing is a white cloth representing Jesus' grave clothes that he left behind.

Her curiosity also extended to God. "Why can't we see God?" Because He is a Spirit, and just because we can't see Him doesn't mean He isn't here. "But I can't SEE Him!" She kept repeating this, working it over in her mind, and then a few minutes later I saw an opportunity. The door was open, and a breeze slipped in. Annie said, "I feel the wind blowing my hair." I asked her if she could see the wind. "Yes," she answered. "I see the wind blowing in the trees." Well, maybe it takes time to understand the idea of a spiritual world. But she did ask me if God was a man, so perhaps she has an inkling that there are real beings who aren't men.

And, when she was not fixed on the cross, she was watching Daddy. "Look! Daddy is playing his trumpet!" I told her it was a trombone. "No! It is a trumpet!" she insisted. Well, I told her, it's actually a trombone. "Oh, a trumpetbone," she said. When I smiled at her she got a twinkle in her eye and said by way of explanation, "I call it a trumpetbone." Okay, I agreed. Later when she was pointing out that Daddy was taking a break, she said, "Why is Daddy not playing his bonetrumpet?"

May I be as bold and earnest in my curiosity, in my observation of the world around me, in my quest for truth. And Annie, may you know the truth and be set free by it.

Looking for Something to See

We watched a photography lecture last night, in which the instructor told us there were three important elements in an iconic photograph: great light, good composition, and an interesting subject. To put these together in a photograph, he told us, you have to learn to see.

This is what it means to be a writer, too. The subject has to be interesting; you have to have something to say. The composition or structure must be sound, fitting to the subject, creative, not distracting from what you are trying to say. And light -- what is a writer's equivalent to light? It is that which enables us to see, and the way it falls on our subject affects how we see it, and determines the voice with which we tell our story. The dawn of a new day allows for one kind of vision; midnight starlight quite another. In the bright and busy light of noon all is visible, but distraction abounds; twilight cloaks many details in shadow, narrowing our focus.

The photographer and the writer both find their best fodder not when they travel to exotic destinations and participate in extreme adventures, but when they learn to see what is going on in the every day. Each time the sun rises, there is something unique and fresh about the way its light falls on the earth; this is what makes art, what makes what I see different from what everyone else has seen, what gives me something to say.

Each morning when I am running in the woods and I round the corner into the clearing and climb to the rise where I can look past the forest to the west, I am eager to see what is there. Is the moon being swallowed up by the mountains? Is Seattle gleaming like the celestial city, throwing back the rays of the rising sun? Are the mountains blushing rosy under the steadfast gaze of the sun, who is like a bridegroom coming forth from his pavilion? Are the clouds tucked in close and grey over the mountain range, or hanging low and fleecy white in the valley? What colors and clouds are painted on the living canvas of sky, sometimes displayed only for the blink of an eye? Like the mercy of God that is new every morning, so there is something new for our eyes to take in with each new day.

I wonder if this is part of what it means to live in hope. Paul says "the creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed," which says to me that these sons have not been revealed yet, that there is something yet coming, something to wait for. Paul also tells us that God "chose us in [Jesus] before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight.... In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace that he lavished on us with all wisdom and understanding." We are already chosen, redeemed, lavished upon. Yet still we wait.

The cycles of waiting and fulfillment that we live with on earth -- waiting for sunrise, for the birth of a child, for the coming of a desired event -- echo the way we wait for perfection as God's children.
The fulfillment we receive now, the mercy that is new every morning, is a foretaste of the time when all the promises will be completely fulfilled.

So I will wait in eager expectation for that final day, and in the meantime I will keep looking for pictures to take, for stories to tell, for the new way that light dawns each morning. 

"O Israel, put your hope in the LORD, both now and forever." Now, today, even while I am waiting. Forever, when that hope will be sated. 

Scriptures from Romans 8, Ephesians 1, & Psalm 131

One Quiet Moment

The children have been with us for a few days, and yesterday was a busy day with them. Get everyone dressed, convince them that they really do have to go potty so I'm not cleaning up accidents later, take the girls for a piggy back run in the yard to pacify them when they learn they can't come with me on my run, get everyone to the breakfast table, try to make Lucy eat her eggs before her banana bread and police Annie so she doesn't eat the entire basket of oranges, clean the house while arbitrating Lego play, explain to Peter that I can't help him set up a tightrope for his Lego car right now, join Mom in the hall to deal with a lying episode, extract Annie from the older kids when she gets fussy and set her up playing in the living room while I vacuum downstairs, answer her when she asks which cup goes next on her tower, get everyone fed again, tuck everyone in for a nap or quiet time, convince Peter that Lucy doesn't need a container of water for her nose bleed, convince Lucy that her nose is not bleeding anymore and there is no emergency, answer Lucy when she yells down the stairs to see if she can get up, tell the kids they can get up, arbitrate and answer questions as necessary, help Peter deal with his disappointment when he is banned from Legos after wrecking Lucy's creation, get dinner on the table while Mom reads to the kids, feed Annie her soup while eating my own, laugh with the kids while we eat pear slices with homemade chocolate and caramel sauce spooned on top, do the dishes with Dad while Mom bathes the girls, answer Peter's bellows from the shower by telling him where his towel is and that he will have to run upstairs to get his pajamas, join everyone in the living room for end of the day devotions, grease up the chests and feet of the three coughing children with a little menthol rub while they wiggle and laugh hilariously at the tickle.

And then, it is quiet. Lucy and Annie both want to sit in my lap, so we sprawl on the couch, damp heads resting in the crook of my neck. They are quiet while Dad reads the Word. When it is time to pray, I fold my left hand with Lucy's right and my right hand with Annie's left. They settle, even livewire Annie, and we pray. Annie is thankful for building a tower with cups; Lucy is thankful for playing with Legos; Peter is thankful for dessert. I am thankful for many things, especially this fleeting moment with my dear ones.

The prayer is over; Annie is proclaiming her desire for a drink and what color of cup she wants; suddenly everyone else wants a drink too. Their hair has dried after their bath, and Annie's hair rises like a lion's mane, matching her rising voice. The moment has passed, so I treasure it away and look for what this moment has in store.

What the Dawn Reveals

Yesterday when I woke I opened the curtains in my room to see what the morning was like. I am housesitting this week, so the view out this window is not part of my daily routine. It was dark, but I left the curtains open so that as I read the Word and journaled, I could watch the coming of the day.

The sky began to lighten, revealing the dark hulk of Mount Si. The more the sky glowed, the blacker the mountain looked. From milky pale at the horizon, where it gave sharp definition to each crag of the big rock, the sky faded into brilliant glowing blue and then to midnight navy.

No sooner had the sky flattened to winter white then the sun reached up and brushed the undersides of all the stippled clouds with pink, now highlighting the snowy peaks of the farther, higher mountains.

Today the coming of the sun could not reveal the mountain, lost as it was in a sea of fog. In the fog I went for a run; still, at midday, I look out the window at a grey that erases all I know is there. Only the spiny branches of the naked winter trees close at hand are sharp, the fog a backdrop for their lacy limbs.

Eyes to See

It's not that some days there are no needy people in my life. It's just that some days I have eyes to see.

On Sunday I asked a girl if she would be heading back to college soon. It was classic small talk; she said, "Tuesday," and I said, "Are you looking forward to it?" and she said, "Yes," but it was just a facade, and her mom said, "It's a lot of hard work," to fill in the conversational gap and help express what her daughter wasn't saying. I asked if there were some things she was enjoying about school, and then I looked up and her beautiful brown eyes were shimmering with tears, her smile apologetic, as if to say, "I didn't mean to fall apart right here, right now." Of course she didn't; no one wants to fall apart, and she doesn't know me well, so why would she want to bare her soul to me? But we are all falling apart sometimes, and the veneer wears thin. We fight to keep it in place, but it is when the veneer is thin that relationship happens. I touched her arm, grateful for the connection, aching for her. "I will pray for you."

She's always chatty and smiling, buoyant. But when she walked up to me on Sunday and was asked how she was doing, she told of being sick in bed all week with no symptoms other than a rash and utter weariness, a complete inability to get up and care for her family. When she went to the doctor and checked out fine physically, the doctor's diagnosis was depression. "But I don't believe in depression!" she told us. "I'm not a depressed person." Yet, at the intersection of leaving her longtime home, wrenching family troubles, and the end of a sweet season of Christmas togetherness, she was left feeling rootless and lethargic. What is the point of going on, she wondered. She is battling against it, but the pain and the apathy are real and present for her in this season.

"I hope I'll be able to get a nap in," another woman confided as she discussed the Sunday afternoon schedule. Her health is fragile and her energy carefully rationed, but she was going from church to lunch at a friend's house to hosting a group in her home that evening. The day before she uncovered serious behavioral issues in her daughter, revealing serious heart issues. She shared gratefully about receiving wise counsel and encouragement from unexpected sources that morning, but still, the enormity of the task before her -- shaping this broken girl's heart -- looms larger than her strength or resources.

Each Sunday at church, each day I go to the grocery store or to a friend's house, the real, needy people are there. I am so quick to be smart and superior, to categorize and criticize and even make a joke about the shortcomings of someone else. But sometimes, God gives me eyes to see and I cannot forget the beautiful, excruciating sight of these hearts. May I live humbly that I may see more often.