Busy Work

I didn’t know what it was. It popped up on my screen. When I first saw it, I thought that it was a turn table that DJs used to host music parties. I stopped and looked at it more closely. It was not a turn table. I clicked on it and it took me to Amazon and then I saw the title. It was a mouse jiggler. 

That did not clear it up at all for me. I still did not know what it was. I clicked on the pictures and read the description. It said, The dual turntable undetectable mouse jiggler uses an exclusive design technology and pure physical principles to simulate the use of the mouse. . . it ensures that the cursor moves freely and randomly . . . keeping the computer awake at all times. I kept reading. The descriptions were clearly aimed at employees working from home. It was a way to make them look like they were doing something when they might not be engaged in work. 

The next set of links was for employers trying to detect if workers are using mouse jigglers. I read a long article that then recommended software that could be installed on computers. It uses sophisticated computer monitoring to detect the random movements of a jiggler. 

It was a shocking revelation to me. The battle between employees and their minders and the creation of a device to simulate activity. It seems like the definition of busy work. It's an activity with no purpose. 

Sometimes I hear people saying that some of the jobs at church feel like busy work. That makes me so sad. I believe that there are no insignificant jobs in the body of Christ. Jesus needs everyone. Next week we will be hosting Christmas.Land at our church. We are praying to have over 2000 people come to our campus. We don’t want anyone to believe that the work they will be doing is insignificant. Instead, we want to make sure that every person is equipped and empowered to represent Christ to our guests. The goal of Christmas.Land is to tell every participant that the reason Jesus came at Christmas is to reveal God’s love to them. We don’t want the true message of Christmas to get lost in the secularization of the holiday. Through meetings and strategy sessions, we have tried to identify the crucial places where we need people to serve. We are asking for people to serve sacrificially for the whole three hours. We are planning to have relief volunteers who will step into jobs to give brief breaks, but we need commitment. We want to make sure that our guests are safe. We want to make sure our guests are engaged. We want to make sure our guests have a great time. 

In the past people have said they want more training, vision and prayer. At 3:45 PM on Dec 3 we will meet in the worship Center then will have a run-through of Christmas.Land at 4:00 PM. Our volunteers will have a chance to see the other areas. We especially want you to see Starry Night and Journey to Narnia since they are new this year. 

We need you to be actively praying over the next week that God will be doing His work, he will be preparing peoples’ hearts so they can gladly hear the gospel. Ask God to prepare your heart so that every interaction you have will be an opportunity for God’s grace to flow through you. Ask God to give you a person that you can invite back to our faith community so that they can learn what you already know, that God loves you. 

Change

I walked into the bookstore and saw that these two sections met in a corner. I read the words. I think I even said them in a whisper. They perfectly summarize the problems facing the world. 

On the one hand is a model that says we must be the masters of ourselves, that we must change our lives through grit, determination, and action. It is the lonely pursuit of individual transformation. It is based on a view of humanity that at our core, at our base, is goodness. It believes that with the right amount of thinking and effort, then we can all be shining examples of humanity. Unfortunately, it is a fool’s errand. 

We cannot really change ourselves. Our nature is hard-baked into us. This is what so many people who rely on politics and power to try to control the world don’t understand. At the root of all self-transformation efforts is selfishness. It is all about us. It is about our goals, what we want, what we desire. That is why the people at the top of these transformation efforts fall into the same old traps. That is why so many grand efforts fail. 

The other perspective is that real change is not possible without the help of God. It is only through the intervention of God’s truth, presence, and love that we can really transform. The Bible makes it clear, There is a way that seems right to a man, But its end is the way of death (Proverbs 14:12). Our thinking is broken because of sin in our world. Psalm 51:5 says it plainly, Surely I was sinful at birth. 

Since the problem with transformation is sin, instead of wrong thinking or deficient effort, the solution to our problem is not more learning or more discipline, but more God. Romans 12:1-2 suggests the path, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship. Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing, and perfect will. Our hope is spiritual transformation through surrendering ourselves to Christ. Christ then transforms our minds so that we begin to think his thoughts. 

We can spend all our efforts trying to fix up our old selves or we can let Christ change us. If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here (2 Corinthians 5:17)!

Swales

I encountered a new word, “swales.” I stopped at the Lobanillo Swales historic site outside of St. Augustine. The interpretive signs informed me that the place I was standing was a trail that had been carved through the forest first by animals, then improved by the Native Americans (Caddo), and then traveled extensively by the early settlers. This trail was part of the 2500-mile Camino de Real de los Tejas. It was used by the Spanish to carry missionaries and military into the area and to protect it from the French.

The area on the righthand third of the picture shows a depression filled with trees. That was once the trail. It is 12 feet wide and 18 feet deep. The groove was carved by the repeated passage of horses, carts, and feet. I had to look up the word swale because I was still confused even after reading the signs. A swale is a shady spot or a sunken or marshy place. In this context a swale is usually a water-harvesting ditch on a contour, also called a contour bund (I love it when a word is defined by another more obscure word). It is a long, narrow, usually shallow troughs between ridges (wikipedia).

This particular place was excavated and pieces of pottery were found from 1773. Documents from the era identify the place as a resting area for people being evacuated from the Presidio Los Adaes. This is an old place.

I got out and walked the area looking down into the ravine and wondering about the people who have walked this way over such a long time. Nobody walks this way today. The road has been moved 70 feet to the north and paved. Once the sounds of horses and wagons jangled in the woods, now the whoosh of automobiles blast into the quiet forest. 

So many things are changing in the world. The paths that people have walked for a long time are being abandoned. Sometimes it is for the good, but at other times it seems to be diminishing our culture. Kindness seems to have been replaced by bluntness. Compassion is rejected in favor of indifference. Servanthood is sacrificed on the altar of selfishness. The trees in the swales gave clear evidence that this path had been abandoned long ago and would be nearly impossible to recreate. Maybe we should all check on our own pathways. If you see the weeds growing on the old paths, it might be time to get back to the old ways.

Worship Waves

I was working the sound board for the Alpha Weekend. There are so many dials, switches, and lights that it can be very intimidating. I have learned enough to turn a microphone up and down. That is about it. I try not to mess anything up when I am in charge. It's a low bar. 

In the middle of the board is a TV-like multi-colored screen. I have not spent much time looking at it, but when we were worshiping on Saturday it caught my attention. I had asked Wade to teach the group a new song. It is called “Come Holy Spirit.” I heard it this summer at the Baptist World Alliance meeting in Norway. At each of the worship sessions, leaders from around the world shared songs from their region. It was one of my favorite parts of the event. I know that it is not most people’s favorite thing, but I love learning new songs. I love singing them in new languages. I love worship that stretches me. 

The song I asked Wade to lead was from Nigeria. The text was Wa Wa Wa Emimimo (Come, Come, Come Holy Spirit), Wa Wa Wa A- Lag- Ba- Ra (Come, Come, Come Almighty Spirit), Wa-o, Wa-o, Wa-o (Come! Come! Come!). It is a simple chorus and the group picked up on it quickly. The tune is worming through my ears as I write this. Then we sang it in English, then in Spanish. I thought that it was a beautiful experience. 

One of the things I am looking forward to in heaven is that we will all worship together and understand each other. I love our church because we are attempting to create opportunities for people to worship in their heart language and encourage people to appreciate other people’s worship style. 

I loved looking at the graph. I have no idea what each of the colors means. Nor what the yellow wave means, but as the bars shot up and down along with the voices I knew God was pleased that his people were worshiping him. It was joyful. I love worship. 

Longing

The mist rose from the ground as I looked out the kitchen window. The recent rains had turned the atmosphere into a hot steamy mess. My eyes were focused on the outside and then slowly began to perceive the plants in the window. 

When our son moved out of his place in Bishop Arts, he did not have room for these terra cotta vessels so we adopted them, that is to say, Cindy adopted them. They are succulents and they remind us of him. What I noticed is that the plant on the left was relocating to the pot in the middle. In the same way, the middle plant was stretching out toward the right. It was as if each of the plants wanted to be somewhere else. When I see them I am almost always transported across the country and wishing I could be with our son and the shape of the plants was mimicking my feelings. 

Dissatisfaction is the engine of exploration and discovery. There is no reason for a better mouse trap if regular mousetrap is good enough. I recently stumbled onto a video of an inventor explaining the multiple stages of development for what it calls the “Dizzy Dunker” or “The World's Greatest Mouse Trap.” It touts its design as a humane catch-and-release system that is safe, reusable, and non-toxic. It might be a better mousetrap.

While we intended for the plants to stay in their own pots, I applaud their wanderlust. Sometimes we get spiritually stuck because we don’t think things can be different. The pot we are in, the place we are in, and "the way things are" overwhelm us and we give up. Instead of searching for a deeper place, we just hunker down and shrivel up. Jesus was dealing with lots of stuck people. They had defined God out of their lives and substituted a system of rules. They no longer had a relationship, but a “to-do” list. 

Jesus came to help people become dissatisfied with the status quo. “You have heard it said . . .but I say” was one of the phrases he used in his famous sermon on the Mount. He pointed out the blindness of the religious and how they were unable to see the possibilities of faith and love. Spiritual growth begins with desire. The Bible uses multiple phrases to describe this spiritual truth, “crave,” “long for,” “desire,” “set our hearts.” The plants in my window are right. Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; those who seek find; and to those who knock, the door will be opened (Matthew 7:7–8).

Maybe my plants can remind you today, that if you are feeling spiritually stuck, you don’t have to stay that way. If you have been in a deeper relationship with Jesus, then it's time to move back to that place. Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation, now that you have tasted that the Lord is good (1 Peter 2:2–3).

Pineapples

We were excited for the eclipse last week. It fell on the day we were helping to plan Lance and Kirsti’s wedding celebration. It meant they had flown in from California and we were meeting at her family home in the Woodlands. It was great to have our two families together and we were having a joyful time. 

We were busy looking at wedding venues and creating pro and con lists when a picture popped up on my screen from an Eclipse Watcher friend. It made me look up from my computer and look outside. It was not very noticeable, but I stood up and walked into the backyard. I cast a quick glance toward the sun, but that was not effective. After my eyes recovered I turned my attention to the shadows. I could see the funny little moon shapes associated with an eclipse. I called out to everyone that the eclipse was happening and they all came out to see.

We were two hours away from the area of totality and the ring of fire, but it was still an impressive transition. The temperature continued to drop. The birds grew eerily silent. The shadows got stranger. The light was different in a way that was hard to explain. Then we went on a hunt to “see” the eclipse. We made holes in paper, which made shapes like tiny crescent moons on the ground. That was so fun that we searched the house for other holy things. A wiffle ball was delightful as it was tossed in the air and spun around it was like a little planetarium. Some mesh shorts created a galaxy of crescent moons. While I was making a pinhole viewer Cindy discovered the colander. 

I came out hearing the oohs and aahs of those gathered. Then I said, “Wow, they look like little pineapples!” Proving that my mouth is faster than my brain. As the words blurted out of my lips my mind registered a couple of facts. This was not our colander. Our colander has a series of holes in it. This colander has a fancy design in it. The middle of the colander has round holes. The top edge of this colander has pineapple shapes cut into the metal. By the time the synapse in my brain connected the words were already in the air.

We all burst out laughing. For those of us in the backyard, it will always be the Great Pineapple Eclipse of 2023. 

We talked about mystery and what it must have been like to experience something like this before our current understanding of orbits, gravity, and the solar system. Pineapples were first encountered by Columbus in 1493 and Westerns gave it the name “Pineapple” mashing up “pine cone” and “apple” to create a hybrid word. They could just as easily have called it Hoyriri, which it had been called for over 2000 years. They did not bother to learn from the people who had cultivated it and spread it across what we call South America. It was all a good reminder to me to do my best to slow down my tongue, especially when I don’t understand. Sometimes I need to learn a lot more, watch a lot more, and listen a lot more before I formulate a judgment. We are all too quick to dismiss, to minimize, to frame the world through our own experience. The world could be a kinder place. It’s up to us.

Blocked

The dog show at the State Fair is one of my favorites. My dogs hate it when I go. I always come home and try to inspire them to new heights. I would love for them to play fetch with me, but they will not. The dog at the show will grab frisbees in mid-flight. They will leap up into the trainer's arms. Whenever I toss something for my dogs, they look at me with disbelief. They wonder why I would throw something so far away. They watch with amusement when I go and retrieve it myself. Then they lay back down exhausted from all my effort.

I have tried to get my dogs to jump over a barrier. One dog will do it. The other always falls into the pole. It’s never more than about 18 inches high. The dog at the State Fair could jump high - way over 40.” I wanted to get pictures of it. I had my phone set to slow motion. I was in the perfect spot.

Then the guy in the red shirt emerged. The area of the dog show was 150’ by 50.’ Hundreds of people were sitting in bleachers and sitting on the ground so that everyone could see the dog’s tricks. Right at this crucial moment, the guy in the red shirt came out of nowhere and stood right in front of me. He obscured the jumping pole. Twice for just a brief moment he stepped out of my shot and I was able to see the the dog clearly, but just as quickly he shifted back in front of me. He is in every one of my pictures. I wanted to scream, “Down in front!” I just needed him to take a knee, to crouch down a little. He was like a pine tree in a hurricane and did not bend even an inch.

He worked for the dog show. His job was to set the pole back up so that the dog could jump over it. He was necessary, even vital to the process, but it was not about him. It was as if the ball kid at a tennis match kept walking out into the middle of the court during the match. They are supposed to run out, get the ball, and then disappear. Mr Red Shirt blocked the view of 50 or 60 people.

Jesus is the center of our faith, but too often we make ourselves the center of attention. We make following Christ about our preferences, our opinions, and our ideas. When people we know come to see Christ, we stand in the way. The world is shouting, “Down in Front.” It needs us to tear down all of the man-centered things we have substituted for God. It needs us to get quiet and humble and point to Jesus who is the one person everyone needs to know.

Trash

I started backing down the driveway. It was early. It was dark. I was trying to avoid the trash can that was at the edge of the street. I looked in my review mirror, in my mid mirror, and in the backup camera and could not find it. I swiveled my head peering into the dark, but no trash can. I made it to the street shifted into drive and headed to my meeting. 

The neighbor's trash can was dutifully standing at attention at their house. All along the street, the silent sentinels awaited their turn to fly into the air and drop their trash into the truck patrolling our neighborhood. My first thought was that we had forgotten to put the trash can at the curb. The more I rehearsed the previous evening the more I rejected that thought. We had put the trash can into its on-deck circle. Where was my trash?

One of the last things I remember before falling asleep was the bedroom being illuminated by the flash of lightning. The rain had followed. As I drove down the street the evidence of fallen limbs, heaps of leaves in the gutters, and wet pavement told me we had gotten more than just a rain shower. 

My meeting ended and I went back home on a quest to find my trash can. I started to walk the way the water flows in the street during a rain storm. One blue box was still at attention about 150 feet away. It was not mine. At that spot, the water turns and flows down a short side street. Five cans lined the road. I felt awkward. One of these belonged at my house. I started at a house that had two cans. Since each home was issued one can, I initially assumed that mine must have cozied up next to a friend and was waiting there for retrieval. I looked in the cans. They were not mine. I don’t like looking into other people’s trash. It feels like an invasion. It did not make it easier that they were empty. It meant that I had to scrutinize the insides. 

Three cans remained on the south side of the street. I studied the situation. There were only two houses. All of the cans were some distance from the curb and had been pushed by the water down the street. One of these cans was an interloper. It had to be mine. I reasoned that the water had pushed them all at a similar rate. The first one had to be mine. I looked both ways as I lifted the lid. The trash bags were gone, but the remnants of our garbage were still detectable. It was our can. I measured it. It was 324’ from where it started. I pushed it home. I was thinking about the rot inside of me, the sin, the selfishness, the rebellion. I’m like everyone, I hope no one notices, but the exercise of putting the trash can at the curb for everyone to see is a reminder, that “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Rom 3:23). 

You can’t hide from your sin, you can’t shift the blame. It is yours. It has to be found and owned. I placed the tall blue reminder at the back of my house. I thought of it the rest of the day. It made me thankful that God is willing to collect my trash at any moment. And unlike my trash bin, he leaves no residue. As David prays, Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow (Ps 51:7).

Find

I was traveling light. It was just my carry-on bag and my briefcase. I got off the plane and headed toward the subway to make my way downtown. I made one stop on the way. I was trying to document the directions to share with others and got to a particularly tricky part of the process. I sat down on the train platform to type in the details. My train arrived and I got on the train while still attempting to clearly communicate.

Once I finished that task, I then responded to two other text messages. Then I decided to open up my laptop and do some work because the journey was going to take nearly an hour. I reached for my briefcase and realized that it was gone. I had just sat it down beside me. I stood up, sure it had slipped under the seat. Nope. People asked me what I had lost. I told them. They shook their heads in pity. It had been stolen. Someone had slipped next to me, grabbed the bag, and then gotten off the train.

I quickly consulted my phone. It has a function that allows me to see my other registered products. As I opened it up, we got to the next station. Should I stay on or get off? I decided to stay on the train. Maybe the thief was still on the train but in a different car. The doors closed and we slid out on the tracks. That is when I could tell that the briefcase was back at the airport. It was just sitting there. I must have left it in the men’s room.

It felt like an hour until the train stopped at the next station. I got off and then immediately got back on a different train and headed back to the airport. I kept watching my screen. The briefcase did not move. A century later the train arrived. I ran off the train and back to the airport. I went straight to the bathroom. Nothing. I went to the policeman. Nothing. I went to lost and found. Nothing. I consulted my phone. The little logo that I was following was not at the airport. It had never been at the airport. It was in the train station. I ran back again.

It looked like it was in front of the building so I started to search. I looked in the bushes. Maybe the thief got stuff out of it and then dumped the bag. I searched the trash can, but still nothing. I went to the train ticket attendant. She said no one had turned anything into her. I showed her the image on my phone. “It says it's right here!”

She was frustrated with me, but got up and listened to me again. She told me to stay put. In a few minutes, she came back and escorted me into a secure area. She pointed me to an empty window. A man walked up. What have you lost? I started with the whole story. I concluded, “I think it must have been stolen.”

“What was in it?” he asked.

“My laptop and my iPad.”

“What flavor Gatorade?”

“Orange!”

He went back and retrieved it.

“The janitor found it lying on a bench on the train platform.”

I had decided that it was a bad story about others, but it was a story about me. Be careful with blame. It probably says more about you than others.

Raccoons

We have a raccoon problem. Cindy drove into the parking lot to drop me off at my truck and a raccoon was sitting in the middle of the concrete just looking at me. The lights of the van did not seem to startle him at all. He continued to pick up bits of trash, searching them and then dropping them back on the ground. We watched him for a minute. Then I got out to walk to my vehicle and he finally decided to leave. He headed straight for the engine area of my truck. He disappeared.

By the time I got to my door, I could not see him anywhere. The area under the slide was dark, so I assumed he was hiding in the corner, but I shined my light around and could see nothing. All the way home I kept expecting him to come scrambling out onto my feet. When I got home, I checked outside the hood area and did not see any sign of him.

Over the last few months, Steve Gowan has trapped multiple raccoons in the church building. He takes them several miles away in the country to drop them off. I’m wondering if they are like homing pigeons and keep finding their way back to us. We keep searching the building trying to find their entry holes and blocking them. They keep finding ways in.

It feels like our lives. Trouble keeps coming back. It's hard to root it out. We confess the sin and then amazingly fall back into the same trap. We drop our guard and in that slight opening, disobedience finds a foothold. I’ve watched the videos of the traps Steve sets in the church. The raccoons always look so cute with their little bandit masks, but they bring fleas. They tear stuff to shreds. Too often we want to overlook our own sins; we just want to pass it off as unimportant. We cannot give up. We have to keep up the struggle to seek the presence of Christ that drives everything else away. Give no space to the evil one.

The first Bible memory verse I learned as a new Christian was John 10:10, I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly. The first part of the verse says, The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. Faith is believing that Jesus’ way is always better than the substitutes that the world offers.

Eyes

While in New York, we to the Museum of the Moving Image. It is connected to the historic Astoria Studios which for over 100 years has been a center for film and then television production. In the early silent era Rudolph Valentino, Gloria Swanson, and W. C. Fields were regulars at the production center. As the talkies began to sweep into theaters, The Marx Brothers, Claudette Colbert, and Burns and Allen were the talk of the town. Eventually, the lure of Hollywood was too much and the studio was sold to the Army to make training films during and after the war. It fell into disuse in the 70’s. The Studio was given new life in the 80s and has since hosted the productions of Martin Scorsese, Rod Howard, and since 1993 Sesame Street.

We went to see the the history section of the museum, one of the “nation’s largest and most comprehensive collection of artifacts relating to the art, history, and technology of the moving image.” It has exhibits of cameras, sound equipment, makeup, animation, and special effects. As a film buff, it was fantastic. I told Cindy and Logan that we were going to the museum, which was nothing new to them for a vacation stop.

It had taken about an hour of travel from near Herald Square to Astoria. I yanked the front door so excited to surprise them with this incredible museum. It was locked. Trash blew along the street. I thought maybe the museum had closed down for COVID and never reopened. It felt oddly abandoned. I pulled harder hoping that I was wrong, but it didn’t budge. Then I noticed a tiny sign whispering that the museum did not open until 2 PM. I was embarrassed and frustrated. We filled the next few hours with other New York adventures, but eventually found ourselves back at the museum.

After finishing the history section of the museum, we arrived at the crown jewels, the Jim Henson Exhibition. I was certain that Cindy and Logan would find out about the exhibit as we got near the museum, but there were no posters or advertising announcing its presence. We then had a couple of hours of meeting old friends and learning about their roots, their process, and their continuing work in television and theater. It was so much fun. As I got to look closely at each of the Muppets I was struck by how their eyes were so expressive and individual.

Jesus said, The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be full of light. (Mt 6:22). He connects physical seeing with Spiritual understanding and impact. The eye is a portal, an opening, a beginning. Do we see what Jesus saw? Do we look at people with the intensity that Jesus looked at people? Are we filled with light?

Watching

On available Saturday mornings we like to take the dogs for a long walk. It is their favorite thing and it is good for us. We think of it as an investment in all of our health. I read the studies that tell me that regular moderate walking is a key to longevity. I don’t have a step counter, but have been around lots of people who do, and they encourage me to keep moving.

In the summer we try to get up early to beat the worst part of the heat, but it is hard to get up early enough. We take water for the dogs and try to keep in the shade whenever possible. By the time we are finished, we are all usually panting and ready for air-conditioning.

Last Saturday, the morning started fairly cool as the sun was hidden behind clouds. It felt like summer was not going to kill us after all. We started our long circumnavigation of the Cain Center. The whole journey is about 1.7 miles. We go up and down and all around. About halfway through the journey, the brutal sun began to cook us. The helpful clouds fled and left us on the hot anvil. The problem with being halfway home is that there is no shortcut. There, however, was a route that we rarely take that hugs the southern edge of the ball fields. In that narrow band, some tall trees provide some shade. It's like walking at the bottom of a slot canyon.

One of the reasons we don’t normally go that way is the ticks. One of our dogs always manages to get ticks when we are in that area. We decided to keep an eye on him and risk it. It's about 1000 feet. At the end of the big field is a bridge and then lots of trees and shade. We were all eyeing the shade and hurrying. The first big tree drops some long brown sausage-sized seed pods on the ground. It’s very messy. When I saw the dogs jump over one it did not even register. Then I saw a flash of white. It was as if one of the seed pods had given birth to a cotton ball.

In the time it took for the white flash, to reach my eyes, then the signal to reach my mind, and then the emergency message to be sent to the rest of my body I had already taken one more step toward the white. Then all the muscles in my body exploded backward like a grasshopper. I bumped Cindy and stifled any sounds. I did not want the dogs to notice anything. They are obedient and responsive to me, always curious if they might get a treat. I tried to calmly point the snake out to Cindy and quickly move to safety. I was extremely aware that I was wearing sandals. After creating lots of space between us and the Water Moccasin, I went back to take a picture. Later, when I looked it up I realized that Cottonmouth was a better name.

The Bible tells us we are all in a Spiritual Battle. Sometimes we walk through the valley of the shadow of death (Ps 23), sometimes the sun tries to harm us by day (Ps 121), sometimes it is the criticism of people, “They make their tongues as sharp as a serpent’s (Ps 140). In all cases, in predictable trouble or in ones that suddenly arrive, we have to listen to God’s voice. It is our only protection. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:6-7.

Balance

We were headed to the Adirondacks (upper New York) to attempt to hike the highpoint of NY, Mt. Marcy and I was planning our trip. I was reading about the area and realized how many water activities are in the area. I had been focused on the mountains, but it is an area resplendent with lakes. We are not fishermen, but I thought it might be fun to do a multi-day trip on the water. The St. Regis Canoe Area is 19,000 acres of wild, motor-free lakes and ponds and the largest wilderness canoe area in the Northeast.

I looked at possible itineraries and chose a two-day trip called “The Seven Carries.” It was developed in the mid-1850s as a path between two different popular hotels. A “carry” is a portage, when you have to move the canoe from one lake to another via a short trail. In a funny quirk, there are only six of these portages on the “Seven Carries.” When I told people about my plan, many of them said there was no way they would do a trip like that, especially when I told them one of the carries was over half a mile. I still reserved canoes and arranged for a car transfer. It’s a one-way trip and you either have to be picked up or dropped off.

On our appointed day, we showed up at the canoe shop, rented some gear, loaded up our car, and headed to the launch point. Paul Smith’s College has replaced the lodge that once hosted the beginning of the trip. It meant that there were a bunch of college students watching us get ready and start our trip. We loaded our boats, buckled into our life jackets, and headed south. Cindy and I were in a boat and Logan was in his own. Within a few seconds, all our boats flipped. The wind was fierce, the lake had little white caps on it, and we were headed perpendicular to the force. It’s not a good equation.

The water was shallow, so we walked back to the shore and began to unload the boat. Our “audience” began to move our stuff away from the shore. We assured them that we were not quitting. They seemed confused but moved the bags back within our reach. We emptied the water from the canoes and made a new plan. We had to cross Lower St. Regis Lake to start the trip. I knew from studying the map that it would be the most difficult crossing with the wind direction, but that if we could enter the smaller channel at the end of the lake we would likely be protected from the wind.

I hiked up into the woods nearby and found the two “straightish” limbs, each about eight feet long. We then lashed our two boats together with my emergency rope and my camera straps. Each boat stabilizes the other boat and keeps them from tipping. After a long delay, our bags were repacked, and we were again paddling on the water. We stayed near to the shore and made steady progress and did eventually reach calmer waters. We saw pristine remote lakes, loons and shore birds, rare carnivorous plants, and beautiful water flowers. It rained and blew against us, but that just made completing the trip more fulfilling.

It would be easy to quit when things get difficult or challenging. It would be easy to quit when the people around you are critical and judgmental. It would be easy to quit when you are feeling discouraged and alone. It would be easy to quit when other people don’t seem to value what you value. Don’t quit. Find people that strengthen you. Find goals that motivate you. You can do more than you imagine.

Legacy

I walked into the Trinity Church graveyard looking for someone. Well, looking for a memorial to someone, Alexander Hamilton. Just 350 feet West of the New York Stock Exchange building in the graveyard attached to Trinity Church in Lower Manhattan can be found markers for Hamilton, his wife Eliza, and their son Phillip. We had been to the Statue of Liberty and wanted to make a brief stop at the church. Hamilton has made something of a comeback. The musical featuring his life rekindled interest in him and the founding of America.

The musical focuses on his legacy. How he came from nothing, rose in power and influenced, and especially how he was able to secure financial power and freedom for America. He established the building blocks of capitalism that made much of the economic wealth in the US possible. He was on track to being president. He wrote the majority of the Federalist Papers which defended and supported the Constitution. He was a brilliant lawyer, distinguished military leader, and assistant to George Washington. His face is on the ten-dollar bill. He was also the only founding father to have a plan to free the slaves without a Civil War. His plan mirrored those of European countries that purchased the freedom of all of the slaves.

He did not become president and his plan was never seriously considered, all because he was involved in a scandal in 1791. He betrayed the vows of his marriage. He tried to cover it up with bribes. When it was discovered, he was accused first of embezzling money. Hamilton cleared his name of financial crimes, but only by detailing his moral failures. His political career was over and the country careened on toward Civil War. It could have been different.

His marker is easy to find. In reality, his body was buried in the graveyard unmarked. He had died in a duel which was scandalous. The marker was added later. It has engraved on the side, “The Patriot of Incorruptible Integrity.” Everyone knew differently. He was genius, he was brave, he was flawed.

It was raining so we headed inside the church. We quietly walked around admiring the artwork, the stained glass, and the hush of a worshipful place. People sat in the pews. Some were praying. I took a picture out of a side door toward the graveyard. As I spun to reenter the church I saw two large bronze doors. Above them was a tympanum, “the triangular decorative wall surface over an entrance, door or window, which is bounded by a lintel and an arch.” It was dedicated to the memory of John Jacob Astor.

The name tickled my brain. “Didn’t he die on the Titanic?” I later read the story. It is true that John Jacob Astor died aboard the ship. He was returning from his honeymoon. It had been an extended trip because the circumstances of his second marriage were plagued by scandal. He had been hiding out in Europe and Egypt hoping that the talk would die down. It never did. He was returning to America with his new extremely young and now months pregnant wife. She survived and later gave birth to his son. This arch, however, was actually given by John Jacob Astor IV, the one who died on the ship. He had made a donation to the church in honor of his father, John Jacob Astor III.

None of us want to be remembered for the worst thing that we ever did, but sometimes it is what sticks. We all want the slate wiped clean, but sometimes the stain is deep. There is forgiveness, there is eternity, there is reunion with the Father in heaven There are also consequences, injury, betrayal and hurt that ripples in our world. If it were not for grace, we would be stuck in our sin. Grace shows us a way forward. It is not in ignoring or overlooking the evils of our lives, but in taking real account of them on the cross and in the person of Jesus. He took my sin that I might be saved. He bore the consequences of my betrayal not that I might ignore what I did, not that others might treat what I did lightly, but so that we would all see clearly that I have been rescued.

Mt Marcy

The Birth of an Idea

In 2009 we visited Arkansas. We were hiking in Petit Jean State Park. I saw on the map, Mt Magazine. We drove over to see it. We parked the car and took a short stroll through the trees and arrived at a huge sign announcing that we had arrived at the highest point in Arkansas.

A seed was planted in my mind. I began to think about highpoints. We had already made it to the top of Kilimanjaro and I was pondering other summits. I had promised Cindy before we got married that I would not climb Everest, but we had no such agreement about Denali. It was “The Summit” of North America, but it was also the highpoint of Alaska. Between Arkansas and Alaska, the decision to climb all the highpoints of the United States took full shape. I found the highpoint organization, bought some books, and began to make plans.

In 2011, I began the project in earnest. It so happened that a fad was sweeping across the world at the time - planking. Also called "extreme lying down," it involves lying face down on the ground a bit like a plank of wood. It's a bit like the yoga pose but without any of the effort. On a whim, I decided to be the first person to plank all the 50 highpoints. I’ve been pursuing that eccentric goal for more than a decade.

In July, we attempted our 43 highpoint, King’s Peak, Utah. We got within a 1/4 of mile to the summit, but safety concerns caused us to turn around and head back to camp. (That is another story). While on that trip, Cindy and I had been discussing our plans for Highpointing. We already had our trip planned for Mt Marcy in August. We mutually decided that it would be our last Highpoint trip. It was a sad realization, but we both knew that we had started about a decade too late to make it the remaining 6 highpoints. They are all very difficult, require some technical skill or lots of money.

Failure on Mt Marcy

This was our third attempt at Mt. Marcy and seemed like a fitting end to our quest. It would complete all of the highpoints East of the Mississippi. Our first attempt was aborted as we were heading to the trailhead when Cindy’s father was placed on life support. We started a harrowing adventure to get home that took us to New Jersey, repacking in the parking lot and barely making a flight home. We got to Tyler and Bob pulled through his brush with death and lived a number of years.

Our second attempt found us high on the mountain on August 21, 2019 (Lance’s birthday). Cindy, Logan, and I were about a mile and 1/2 from the top (having traveled about 7 miles at that point) when a rainstorm rolled into the mountains. We put on our rain gear, but it was insufficient. It was torrential rain. We kept hiking, once a person is soaked they cannot get any wetter. Then the lightning started. We stopped, took shelter, and waited. We were used to the Colorado storms that blow in and then out quickly. After more than an hour, we thought the storm was relenting. We stepped back on the trail and headed up when a lighting bolt erupted the sky above us and the thunder followed without any interruption. We turned and headed back down the trail.

Cheney says that Hoffman was the most disappointed and dejected man he had ever seen, when he realized it would be impossible for him to reach the summit of Marcy
— Donaldson, A History of the Adirondacks

We arrived back at the camping lodge where we had spent the previous night. We had bunks reserved for the night, but everything we had to wear was drenched. The thought of spending the night and then putting on the wet rags to hike the three miles back to our car was too depressing. Also, we wanted to call Lance on his birthday and so we gathered up our things and slogged back to the trailhead. It was three more miles of mud and sloppy mess. We had to hurry because the only way from the trailhead to our car was the hikers’ shuttle or an additional four-mile hike. By the time we got to the bottom, Cindy’s boot sole had delaminated and was flapping. The insides of our packs had degenerated over time and the waterproofing became like flecks of glue on everything inside the packs.

We made the shuttle, got to our car, and then drove to Lake Placid (about 15 miles). We looked like our dogs when I am trying to give them a bath. We were cold, wet, and defeated. We found a hotel, got showers, and then went to the laundromat. We tossed Cindy’s boots (that was traumatic as they had been to the top of Kilimanjaro). We left the area and headed home. It was not a good feeling.

Third Time is a Charm?

The plan was to preach on August 13, then head to New York. I had packed my bags early, one of my anxiety control methods, so we go home from church, made final arrangements at the house, and then head to DFW. We got to the airport in plenty of time, another of my anxiety control methods. We had lunch in the terminal and then got the alert our plane was delayed. We slowed down and finished eating and then were just relaxing when a second message told us that we had to change terminals.

We sprung into action and headed to the trains along with the other 200 people on our plane. The train dumped us out and the first hike of our trip began. We were at the last gate as far from the train station as possible. We arrived and boarding began soon after. The adventure had begun.

We arrived at LaGuardia (in the Queens section of NYC) and then headed to baggage claim. it took nearly an hour to get all our bags. We then shuttled to the rental car place and had another hour wait until they brought us the wrong car, which we then had to wait for another 20 minutes to get that fixed. So, we left NYC two hours later than we had planned for our two hour drive north. When we dropped into bed in a nondescript roadside motel it was after 2 AM.

We still had a long drive north, so it was a short night and then on the road. It is amazing how quickly the density of New York City turns into the beautiful open farmlands and woodlands of upper New York. As we approached Schroon Lake it was time to grab some lunch at a little shop - prepared artisan sandwiches. About 45 minutes later we arrived at the Garden Trailhead. The sign at the entrance said that the parking lot was full. If it was true it would mean adding 4 miles to the trip and parking backing in town. We crept into the lot with trepidation, but luckily a spot was open and we gratefully slid the car to a stop under a towering pine tree.

To the Johns Brook Lodge

We gathered our gear, checking it carefully and at about 2:45 PM we started the nearly 4-mile hike to the Johns Brook Lodge. Owned by the Adirondack Mountain Club, it is a backcountry lodge located in the heart of the Adirondack High Peaks outside of Keene Valley, NY. It can house 28 people in bunk beds and has a staff in the summer that cooks two meals and packs lunches for hikers. It opened in 1925.

The hike begins a slow ascent into an old-growth forest. We are quickly plunged into a twilight light from the cloud cover and the thick leaves. While the parking lot was full, we were alone on the trail. We were hiking with urgency. Dinner at the lodge is served at 6:30. We average hiking about 1 mph. We wish this could be a faster number, but I stop and take pictures, we look at trees and leaves, and we take breaks to breathe and drink. Sometimes we go faster, but on average it's 1 mph. That meant that we would be late for dinner, so we tried to cut out everything but straight hiking.

The trail was wet, slippery, and muddy. It was clear that they had received an incredible amount of rain. We could not initially see the brook of the trail’s name, but we could hear it. We frequently had to divert from the trial which was more like a stream. We crossed a dozen log bridges before descending a bit to the edge of the river. A long exposed rocky area filled us with hope and sound. We knew from previous experience that we were near the Lodge. At 5:30 PM we walked into the lodge. We were tired but proud of our speed.

We contacted the staff to find our bunk assignments. He flipped the papers on his clipboard. He asked my name again. He looked again. “I don’t see you here.” It was obvious that I in fact was “there” so I assumed that he meant on the clipboard. I pulled out a photo of my reservation confirmation. He looked at it. “You are at the wrong place.” I still have not sorted out that whole tangle - how did I make a reservation at the wrong hiking lodge when there is only one hiking lodge? (Another story to follow). He pointed out the mistake. His co-worker stepped up and looked at me in such a way that you know they have lots of pity in their hearts.

He looked back at the clipboard. “I’m sorry, we don’t have any room for you.” I thought about crying. How could this place be thrice cursed? Then the co-worker asked, “Is anyone in Peggy?” He turned to another page. “No, y’all could stay there.” He looked back up at me. “Great! Where is that?” “Oh, just across the creek. You can come back over here and do meals. We will take care of you.”

I was so grateful. I thanked them for fixing my mistake. We loaded up and took the 3-minute walk to the cabin. It was amazing. 12 People can stay in the cabin. It has a central propane lighting system, like built-in Coleman Lanterns. We had the whole cabin for the three of us. It was such a relief. I thought, “Maybe this is going to work.”

We cleaned up a bit, which means I wiped the mud off of my legs and then joined the other 20 or so people at long family-style tables. The chili was filled with onions, so they grilled me some tofu (weird, but filling). The chocolate cake dessert was amazing. All the food eaten at the Lodge is brought in by the camping staff. They each make a weekly run, more often if needed, and bring back huge packs of food. They carry the food and then cook the food. We headed back to Camp Peggy O’Brien and then the three of us played a board game I had hiked in for the occasion. We all slept well.

Toward the Summit?

The next morning dawned with an ominous weather forecast. 70% chance of rain. We asked the breakfast staff and they said, “It's going to rain all day.” We discussed it. Our plan involved spending three nights at the Lodge so that if the first day got rained out we would have a second chance. The weather forecast for Wednesday was better -a 50% chance of rain. We discussed hanging out at the Lodge, playing games and reading books, but ultimately decided to make a summit push. We ate French toast and pumpkin bread. We grabbed our sack lunches, stuffed them into our packs and headed out. Most people looked at us kind of sideways. Lots of people were hunkering down at the cabin. Logan decided not to make the summit run. He injured his knee several years ago and it was not feeling up to the climb. He had bought a good book and was sitting on the porch in an Adirondack chair happily engrossed in his book as we walked into the forest.

The trail from the Lodge to the summit is 5.5 miles. During that distance, it climbs to 5,333 feet, a gain of 2970 feet. That is 274 stories or three Empire State Buildings. These are not like trails in the Rocky Mountains or in the Sierras; these trails were built when trail building was not conceived of with the hiker in mind. It was straight to the top. There are no switchbacks. It's boulder scrambling, mud jumping, slick rocks. We pulled ourselves up. We held onto roots. We jumped across bogs. By our calculation, the trip would take 11 hours. We left at 7:30. We should arrive back at camp just in time for dinner.

Hours passed. We saw no one. The trail was in dreadful condition. No amount of effort could keep our feet dry. We splashed and slogged. It seemed like the trees were actively blocking our path. They aggressively grabbed my clothes, my hat, my pack, and the lanyard on the hiking poles. I felt like they were trying to undress me. I tore the elbow of my shirt. Still, we climbed. We could see nothing but trees. Occasionally, we could hear the river, but mostly the forest was silent. After about 4 hours, the climbing turned very steep. It was about then that the voices started. “It's ok. This is too hard. Turn back.” My lungs agreed. My feet agreed. The cuts, bruises, and bumps on my body all agreed. I didn’t answer the voices - that is a bad sign. We kept hiking and minute by minute the argument in my head kept on its relentless gnawing attack.

We consulted the map. We still had a long way to go. We were not making good time. It looked like it was going to take 12 or 13 hours. That was demoralizing. We would get in after dark and miss dinner. The voices got even louder. We drank some water and ate a snack. We kept hiking. Finally, the trees thinned and we could see the mountain above us. That was even worse. There was still so much height we had to gain. We, however, could see that we were making progress. That made a difference. The steps forward were steps upward and they all made a difference.

Then we saw some people coming down. They had either started way earlier than us, or come up a different trail, but they had been to the summit and were now headed down. They gave us renewed energy. We reached a trail junction which was 1/2 mile to the summit. The trail even leveled out and we were not having to climb so hard. It was a trick. We came out of the woods and could see the top of the mountain. It was still a climb, but we could almost see the top. The final section was now exposed rock. The trail was marked with yellow blazes (1-foot-long yellow painted strips). We had to climb carefully, but we were able to make progress.

Mount Marcy’s great gift to the climber is isolation —a difficult commodity to achieve these days. . . for a man to emerge from the racket of cities into the mile-high quiet of Tahawus’ top is the greatest luxury procurable.
— Donaldson, A History of the Adirondacks

Finally, at 1:33 PM we reached the summit. Six hours up. If it takes us six hours to get down we will just miss dinner, but it will still be light. On the summit was a trail steward. We overheard them talking to some other hikers and encouraging them to get off the summit and get going. We stayed just a few minutes, took some pictures, and then headed down.

There was still no rain, but the clouds were swirling around us. Some looked ominous. We wanted to get down and get down as fast as possible. At thirty minutes passed the summit we stopped to eat our lunch. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich was fantastic. They had packed a thick and luscious cookie. It was in a bag of excellent trail mix. I chugged some Gatorade and we were back to hiking in ten minutes. It was the only long break we took the whole day. It was the only time we sat down.

The trail we came up was discouraging and there was a different trail that went back down, so we decided to take it. We had tried to come up that trail the year we got rained out. It would feel good to beat that trail. After just a few minutes we came to a deep swampy area. A couple was standing in the middle of it. They had a map laid out on the back of their pack. They were lost. We stopped. We showed them the trail app on my phone, we helped them find themselves on their map. Then we started down the trail. It was so much easier to breathe, but somehow the trail was even more difficult. We kept coming to huge steps down. We used bushes and trees like gnarled ladders, lowering ourselves over boulders. In other places, the trail was steep, wet, and muddy. About an hour into the descent, I suddenly found myself flat on my back. It had happened in an instant. I was taking a step and then I was looking straight up at the tree above me. I took stock of my situation. I moved my feet and my arms. I was OK. I got up and looked at a long skidmark in the mud. It was like ice.

We needed to hurry, but the trail kept slowing us to a crawl. I did not dare look at the map. I was going as fast as possible and knowing how far we were away from camp was not going to help. We just had to keep moving for the next 4 hours. Then it happened again. I was on my back. As I increased my speed, I increase the chances of falling. At 5:30 PM we reached the trail junction. We were 1.3 miles from our destination. It looked like we might make it before dinner was over. The trail levels off a little and we were able to increase our speed. At 6:19 PM we stepped onto the porch of the lodge. Logan was there to greet us.

We took off our boots. We stepped into the building and sat at the dinner table. We had spaghetti and bread. The apple pie dessert was a great ending to the day. Cindy had a great idea. Instead of staying at the lodge the whole next day and then hiking out on Thursday morning, why not hike out the next morning and then head to the place where I had mistakenly made a reservation? We asked the staff. They made a radio call and it was quickly arranged. We played our table game (Wingspan) and then headed to bed. It was hard sleeping in a room with 12 people. Many were adding additional sounds into the room.

Morning Dawns

Finally, the next morning came. It was raining. It was raining hard. People who had started hiking from the trailhead arrived at the lodge soaking wet. None of us wanted to go out into the rain. Logan and Cindy decided to see if they could get a little more rest. I stayed in the main room and read some journals from the 1920s. I also find a 60 year old copy of “The Little Engine That Could.” It seems like it was waiting on that shelf for me.

Finally, the rain tapered off to a drizzle. If we were going to get out we should leave before the next front came rushing towards us.

We packed our bags, put on our wet clothes, bid the staff goodbye, and headed toward our car. At 11:50 we stepped off the porch. At about 1:30 PM, it suddenly got dark. The rain was coming. The rain arrived. We got our rain gear, covered our packs, and then started marching in the heavy downpour. It was miserable. It lasted about 20 minutes. We just kept hiking. At 2 PM we snapped a picture at the trailhead. We had traveled 3.72 miles. We had made good time.

We dropped our packs into the back of the car. I slid into the driver’s seat. We headed down to the Keene Valley. It felt good to say goodbye to the highpoint of New York.

Why Hike?

I was thinking of my internal arguments and answering the question, “Why do you hike?”

Hiking is one of the easiest ways to be close to nature. Literally, it is putting my feet on raw land. I can feel it through the souls of my boots. It is uneven. It is real. It is a way to feel grounded. To be on the trail is to be in a place and not anywhere else. We spend so much of our lives traveling between places, but not actually inhabiting a space. The speed of cars and planes creates a belief that we are actually not anywhere, but in transit. Unfortunately, it means that we live transitory lives. Too often, we are thinking about, “What is next?,” “Who is next?,” instead of asking, “How can I be right here and fully live in this moment?”

The long repetitive and relatively slowness of hiking helps focus the mind on being present. Time slows down. Our eyes have the ability to see more deeply. Instead of the normal blur, we see out of our peripheral vision.

The uneven surface often means that my head is down and I am looking and calculating my very next step. Not two or three steps, just the next 18 inches. Steps are choices. The thousands of calculations necessary to navigate such a treacherous path drive out almost every other thought. It is a way to put my mind at rest and step away from the many weighty things that often hang in my mind.

Hiking helps me focus on my body inhabiting an environment. As I walked, I created a list of what I was sensing.

What was I hearing?

Both the Algonquins and the Iroquois claimed the region as a hunting ground, but neither chose to settle there. For them it was Couchsachraga, the Dismal Wilderness.”
— The Adirondack Park

First, what was I hearing in the forest? One would expect to hear lots in the woods, but these woods were sanctuary quiet. During the three days of hiking, I can only remember hearing three distinctive birds, and those only for a few minutes in total. The woods were hushed.

I strained my ears to listen. A twig snapped, but we did not cause it. I spun my head, but could not find its source. Later, a large leaf fell from the sky and made the tiniest sound as it joined its cousins on the ground. Occasionally, the wind blew and the leaves rustled as if they were shedding their sleep away.

I listened to my sounds. I was one of the noisiest things in the forest. As I walked, my pack strained. The straps pulled taut groaned and popped on almost every step. The fabric of the pack bunched and crinkled. My breathing hissed as I exhaled or whistled as I inhaled. I hike with poles. I had removed their plastic tips revealing metal spikes. Sometimes they would slip into the mud almost silently. Frequently, they connected with rocks and made clacking sounds.

Then there was my boots. The ground was filled with water. Sometimes, when I pressed my foot down the compression created a squelching sound like worms crying out. When my feet stepped on patches of ground covered with moss the sound was like wrapping a baby in a blanket. Piles of leaves produce the sound of a librarian hushing a group of fourth graders.

The forest was filled with the sound of water. This hike is always near water, even when it cannot be seen. The water burbles in small rivulets. It drips from leaves and rocks into tiny pools. The hushed whisper turns into a chaotic tumbling conversation as we get nearer to the water. As it jumps and tumbles across the exposed rocks the sound changes from high to low tones. Approaching a waterfall, the expansive chamber under the fall creates a resonating cavity and the river speaks with ancient wisdom.

What was I seeing?

The most overwhelming visual stimulus is green. How can there be so many greens? The range is breathtaking. From the dark moss green near the ground to the luminous emerald green at the top of the forest canopy. Trees standing near each other, but as distinctive as if they were wearing uniforms: lime green, pea green, sea green, olive green. It is hard to see anything else but green. Slowly, my eyes begin to recognize tiny flecks of other colors.

Between the leaves, I catch glimpses of cotton white clouds, shafts of amber light, and rarely a daub of sky blue. I put my foot down and saw an apple-red mushroom. A yellow fungus clings to the trunk of a tree. I’m startled and stop to take a picture of a vibrant purple spongy mass. The path is carpeted by leaves. It is like sunlight has been spilled out on the ground. Other leaves have begun the wardrobe change of the autumn, showing hues of orange and red, Birch trees line the side of the trail. When a shaft of light reaches through the canopy of leaves and hits one, the reflection is like seeing a newly painted picket fence. The bark is bright white.

The feeling of the forest.

The grove of trees is resplendent with texture. I brush my hands against soft green leaves. My forearm pushes against twigs and branches which strain and snap while poking into my skin. Lichens and mosses form aging sagging skin enveloping the rocks. My feet feel the sharp edges of the stones embedded in the ground. We pass through acres of ferns: Oak ferns , Royal ferns, Maidenhair ferns, Bracken ferns, Sensitive ferns, Hay-Scented ferns, Interrupted ferns, New York ferns. They are all like platter-sized hands brushing against our shins.

At some moments we have to grab the rocks. They look smooth, but the tips of our fingers feel the rasping crystalline edges of the stone. I pull myself up using a pine root. it is supple in my hands and leaves behind a sticky residue.

I am frequently blazing the trail, which means I am covered with all the spider webs that have been spun since the last hiker came through that trail. I can think of it and my face reflexively twitches in response to the sticky tangles. It feels like I can never really get them off my face.

The forest smells.

I'm not good with the language of smells. Wade has helped give me some new vocabulary as he has been learning the coffee trade.

There are the sweet notes of flowers trying to attract pollinators. We smell wafts that remind me of herbs, but none that I can name. There are the crushed notes of cut grass. The heavy rotting aroma of mushrooms and fungus lingers everywhere in the air. The fresh resin of a pine excites my sinuses and I turn my head to see a blob of yellow goop clinging to a branch. There are pungent waves of rotting wood. Occasionally there is the smell of smoke from some long-forgotten fire. It’s a feast for the nose.

A tasty place

I have no idea how the forest tastes. I avoid gathering mushrooms. The leaves don’t look tasty. I have eaten my fair share of bugs, but they rarely have any distinctive flavor and I'm trying to spit them out. I do keep a roll of Butterscotch LifeSavers in my pocket. Hiking tastes like butterscotch to me. It is the right flavor. It fills me with warmth, sweetness, and nostalgia. Butterscotch is the flavor of my childhood.

A place to be

Step by step I become myself in the forest as I locate myself fully in its embrace. It's why I hike.

Why not quit?

This one is harder.

I am a goal-driven focused person and these self-imposed “finish lines” give me a way to measure a task. I can understand a summit. It feels less like a gerbil wheel running in place. I like knowing where the hike is headed. It’s not necessary, but it makes it more pleasurable. When the hiking gets hard, resisting the urge to quit is in part about pride. I don’t want to be a quitter. It is also about reward. I love the feeling of conquering my body. I love the flood of pleasure upon arriving at a summit, especially if it has been hard.

Many of the highpoints are reached with a few steps out of the car. I remember few of those with much emotional energy. The ones I had to work for are engraved upon my heart. It's why the New York highpoint failures continued to rest heavily upon me. Quitting because I was tired would have become an albatross around my neck. I was unwilling to wear that carcass.

The pain of finishing is more pleasurable than avoiding pain by quitting.

Baggage

I lined the bags up as we got out of the van. It was like a colorful parade. Soon enough they were on their way to the belly of the plane as we went off on our last remaining days of vacation before the long run to Christmas. Three people and too many bags. It was because we were going backpacking in the Adirondacks in search of a Highpoint (Mt, Marcy) and then canoeing on a route ominously called the Seven Carries in the St Regis area of New York. Then on to Niagara Falls and finally a couple of Broadway shows.

I love our colorful bags because it means that as they come up on the baggage conveyor belt, I can see them. So many bags are dark and bland. So often the bags are mirror images and I watch people pulling bags off and putting them back on when they realize their mistake.

When we got off the plane in New York, we made a long walk to baggage claim and then waited. Nearly an hour later four of our bags had arrived, but one blue one was AWOL. Occasionally, a bag would lumber out onto the silver sidewalk and spin away on the carrousel. People rushed away when they got their bags. Still, a few of us waited. Finally, I saw a flash of blue, it was a reflection down into the maw of the beast. The bag emerged. It was not mine. It was a similar color, but the wrong shape. Then my blue bag came sulking out. I think it has to have been the last bag off the plane.

After a long delay at the rental car place and over two hours past our hoped schedule, we finally headed north toward adventure. We got into a bed after 2AM. We were exhausted, but excited. I cherish every day I can spend in the woods and the mountains. I love the sound of a rushing stream and a crooning bird. We will see you next week, ready for the next adventure in Athens. Please sign-up for Alpha - I believe it is going to be an important movement in our church to help us evangelize Athens.

Patterns

Last week I told several stories about the remarkable Christian, Corrie Ten Boom. She and her family saved over 800 Jews as they hid them, protected them, fed them, and transported them to safety under the oppression of the Nazis. When the family was betrayed, all but Corrie paid for their service with their lives.

After the war, Corrie helped build shelters for the rejects of Europe. The collaborators and other "less-desirables" had nowhere to go. She helped transform former camps into care centers. She raised money to feed them. She planted flowers to make the places more beautiful. She took Jesus’ words, “Love your enemies” as her marching orders. Russell Moore recently remarked that pastors across America have reported multiple occasions of people saying that Jesus' words are too weak and impractical in our world. Corrie Ten Boom believed Jesus' words were to be followed. She knew they were incredibly difficult to follow. She still chose the path of Jesus when many did not.

She began to travel the world preaching about the power of forgiveness. She told how it had transformed her. When she left the camp in which she had been held, her heart was bitter. She held on to hurt and betrayal, but then with time and prayer, God did a miraculous work in her life. She was transformed by the power of forgiveness in her own life. She felt compelled to share it with others. I was taught her story as a young boy. She has always been a hero.

Several weeks ago, I was sitting in her dining room. The tour director was sharing Christ with the group. It was beautiful. We were a small group of about 12 people hearing about Corrie and her faith. The volunteers that operate the museum are committed to sharing the Gospel with every person who visits. Right next to her was a blue cloth with a tangle of threads. Near the end of her talk, she turned it around so that we could see the crown. She quoted the Scripture that Corrie used to quote, Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day (2 Tim 4:8). Corrie would say that we can only see our side of the tapestry. We see the tangles, the knots, the difficulty, and the troubles. God, however, sees a different side. God is creating beautiful work in our lives. One day, it will all be clear.

Today, we are called to be bold and brave for Christ.

Twitter

The crowds at the museum moved in a choreographed precision. There were too many people and too few works of art so the first thing to go is personal space. We were standing so close to each other. Like a glacier caving, viewers took their turn at the front and then peeled away. The watchers in the back slid into the front position. 

The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam houses the finest collection of the Dutch Masters (Rembrandt, Vermeer, Steen, Hals). Most work comes from the Dutch Golden Age of Painting (1600s). As international trade flourished (slaves, sugar, supplies), Amsterdam emerged as the most prosperous nation. The wealthy merchants had cash on hand and a desire to be seen. They hired painters to make them look good. The church had commissioned much of the art before this time, wanting to tell the stories of the Bible. Those old stories fell out of favor. These new patrons wanted to tell the tales of wealth, power, and prestige.

The crowds in the museum shuffled between images. Our eyes looked through the windows of the past and saw so much of the present. There are competing narratives in our world. There is the story of the self-made, the bootstrappers, and meteoric success. It is about effort, intelligence, and tenacity. There is another story. It's about blessing, God-giftedness, and humbleness. It's not a very popular story today. It's about how much we have been gifted, how much God has done for us, and how much we have received from others. Instead, we tell the story as if our success is of our own making.

There was one painting slipped into the exhibit that challenged the narrative. It was called The Merry Family. At first glance, it's a joyful glimpse of a family celebration. There is food on the table, smiles on faces, instruments around the table, and a song on their lips. The father raises a glass and fills the air with laughter. Upon further consideration, there is another layer. A young girl in the front is dressed as an adult and sucking from the wine pitcher. The young boys are smoking pipes. Their sly looks reveal that they are getting away with something. The eyes of the adults are averted from the children, it's as if they are not there.

A note is tacked to the mantle. It reads, “As the old sing, so shall the young twitter.” What are the lessons we are living? Those are the ones that will be passed on to others. A home full of joy and faith - that is the home God desires. A life full of gratitude and simplicity is what Jesus modeled. We certainly pass our morality to others, but we also pass on our attitudes and philosophies. If we live in such a way that we take credit for what God has done, then we cannot be surprised if our culture shifts further and further into narcissism. The toxic waste of social media is ground central for an obsessive fascination with selfishness. If you went digging for all the evidence you need, dig where 'X' marks the spot.

In the face of evil

We drove West, away from Amsterdam. We wound through smaller and smaller villages until we neared the coastline. Land shifted from urban blocks to undulating dunes. Weeds and shrubs resisted the force of the wind clinging to the sand. We drove for nearly a mile into an unoccupied expanse. Then we saw a break in the landscape. A small gate swung open onto a winding dirt lane. I turned down the road. The bushes and grass gave way to gnarled trees. It felt like driving into a small, confined, and dangerous trap. The tree branches reached out like hands trying to latch onto the car.

Finally, the vegetation thinned. A clearing emerged. We parked and began walking toward the sea. A kiosk was filled with information, all in Dutch. We vaguely knew what we were looking for, so we began to walk down a trail. In the distance, we could see a flag snapping in the crisp sea breeze. In just a few minutes, we came to a long set of stairs that led to an imposing rock gate.

We stepped inside to see a long narrow rectangle about the length of a football field, but not even half its width. It was surrounded by a raised walkway and panels filled with names. Within the inner rectangle was a patchwork of 40-50 smaller squares and rectangles. Each was filled with grasses and beautiful purple flowers. Butterflies and bees filled the air like a fine mist. The garden plots also held small flat stones. They were each engraved with names and dates. Many of them had photos or mementos resting on their tops. It was a quiet and holy place.

In the final days of WW2, the Germans executed over 400 Dutch citizens for their involvement in the resistance movement. Most were older teens and young adults. They hid Jews, stole ration cards, published the truth, and bombed bridges. The Nazis hid their bodies in these sand dunes. After the war, the mass graves were discovered. This memorial was created to honor the resistance movement. While in the Netherlands, we saw repeated evidence that the lesson they took from the war was the impossibility of neutrality in the face of evil. Their country is still grappling with guilt. So many people turned away from responsibility. Over time, these resistance fighters have grown in stature and importance as the moral conscience of the nation.

Overlooking the memorial is a pillar topped by a classically shaped urn. As I was photographing the scene, my camera paused on the handles. While looking through the zoom lens I saw that they were angels. Then I saw the cross on the overlooking hilltop. I tried to preserve the moment by pushing the shutter and taking a picture.

It is hard to look at sacrifice. It is hard because we want life to be easy. We want to find the path of least resistance. We want to get along and go along. We don’t want to have to suffer. It’s often easier to bury our heads in our hands. Sometimes we turn our gaze away from the difficulty acting as if it does not exist. But there on the hilltop is the cross and Jesus’ invitation, “Take up my cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23). In the face of evil, we cannot be neutral. Instead, we have to live out the life of a disciple, one who follows Jesus, through words and actions. We must stand up for the Gospel of love and truth in the face of a world that so easily sees division, criticism, hatred, and fear. It will cost us, but it is the way of our Lord.

Bunker Prayer

We visited the Freedom Museum near Arnhem. It tells the story of the liberation of the Netherlands from German control at the end of WW2. This area was the center of two campaigns by the Allied forces, Market Garden (a failed attempt to end the war quickly) and Veritable (the operation that eventually opened the northern route into Germany). The museum helps tell the story of the Dutch reticence to fight against the Nazis, their ultimate subjugation, and the rise of a resistance movement. The overarching message is that evil must be opposed and cannot be ignored. In front of the museum is a new exhibit, a captured and destroyed Russian tank from Kyiv. “It serves as a warning against Putin's relentless war, which poses a grave threat to freedom and democracy in Europe. At the same time it serves as a call to action to keep supporting Ukraine in its fight against the Russian invasion” (museum website). It's an amazing place with a profound message about actively fighting for freedom.

One of the interactive exhibits is an air raid bunker. After entering the bunker, audio begins to build to simulate explosions. The sound grows nearer and louder until it is overwhelming. The simulation is intense. The real thing must have been traumatic to endure. At the far end of the bunker was a brown poster from an actual local bomb shelter. The word “Jezus” caught my attention. Using the Google Translate function on my phone I read the words (see the picture above). In air raids. I am sorry for my sins, and pray out of love, not fear, to God: My Jesus, Mercy!

So many things about this prayer spoke to me. First, they knew trouble was coming and that they needed to help people survive in these isolated bunkers, not just physically, but spiritually. This was not a hand-painted sign, but typeset and printed. These flyers were in lots of places. Second, confession is at the heart of all our approaches to God. God’s holiness is real and our sinfulness is clear and it is often the hindrance to our relationship with God. Third, it is love not fear that draws us to God. One of the most common commands in the Bible is “Fear Not.” 1 John 4:18 says, “... perfect love casts out fear.” Fear is the tool of the enemy. Love is the provision of God. Fourth, is the word ‘My.’ The person who wrote and printed this prayer had a real and personal relationship with Jesus. Nothing can substitute for that intimacy. Fifth, we take all our requests to Jesus who walked this earth, faced the temptations we face, and prevailed. Jesus can take us through anything.

It’s a good prayer. We should pray it more often.