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Steve West
I'm a writer, walker, and nature lover
Interests: walking, nature, and writing, reading (both good fiction and non-fiction), listening to music (particularly power-pop and alt-country), travel (particularly in the west)
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As much as we know of animals, like humans, they retain significant mystery. In an article in The New Atlantis, Stephen Talbott challenges the idea that there is no purpose or meaning behind what animals do, that they are just acting instinctively, reflexively or, even, mechanically. Rather, he says that animals’ behavior is both intelligent and end-directed, even if we cannot conclude that their actions are the result of conscious deliberation. In some way, they know what to do, and they do it. In The Hidden Life of Trees, Peter Wohlleben makes the same point about trees. For example, scientists have discovered that when giraffes started feeding on umbrella thorn acacias in the African Savannah, it took the trees only minutes to begin pumping toxic substances into their leaves to rid themselves of the the large herbivores. They moved on. Not only that, but a tree "attacked" in this way gave off a warning gas, ethylene, that signaled neighboring trees who then began pumping toxics into their leaves to ward off the giraffes. The behavior is both purposeful and adaptive. And yet significant mysteries remain. We know, for example, that water moves up the trunk of a tree, into branches, and then to leaves, and yet our traditional explanations, capillary action (the way water can defy gravity because of constricted vessels in the trees) and transpiration (the suction effect created when leaves and needles breathe out water into the air, drawing more water up the trunk) explains only some of the movement. The conclusion: We don't know. Wohlleben concludes that "[s]o many questions remain unanswered. Perhaps we are poorer for having lost a possible explanation or richer for having gained a mystery." We have little warrant from Scripture for concluding that animals (or trees, for that matter) know their Creator in the sense that we might know Him, or that they are conscious of His Providence. The Psalms give us rich poetic language that animates Creation in God’s praise, as when the Psalmist says Let the sea roar, and all that fills it; the world and those who dwell in it! Let the rivers clap their hands; let the hills sing for joy together before the Lord, for he comes to judge the earth. (Ps. 7-9a). We rightly read these verses not literally but figuratively, and yet as Scripture often is multi-layered in meaning, these verses are open to an even richer meaning, one where Nature purposely, intelligently, and consciously (as befits their kind) praises its Creator. Indeed, in Psalm 104 we read that animals look to God for their food and that when he withdraws his spirit, they return to the dust. Or Jesus reminds us that God marks the dropping of every sparrow. Our fate and that of animals and other non-human life is intertwined. Wohlleben errs in attributing human qualities to the non-human creation. There is no warrant for that, even if we cannot preclude some type of non-human consciousness or reflection. And yet Jesus died for all Creation. John 3:16 remind us that His love is cosmic in scope, that it is for the love of the cosmos that Jesus came. The Great Reversal wrought by his death and resurrection has meaning not just for humankind but also for the oak and fir, the sparrow and bluebird. The Cross is the place where the curse is undone, where Creation is set free from bondage to decay, where Jesus begins making all things new. The salvation animals know may not be of the kind we experience, where our moral guilt is cleansed by Jesus’ death, yet not only man but lion and lamb will make it into the new Creation. When next you see some non-human life - whether your cat, dog, or the tree you rest against - know this: It's not a machine but a living thing with purpose. Let your gratefulness and kindness to it mix with wonder and awe. It too is being saved. Continue reading
Posted 4 days ago at Out Walking
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The finch has returned. A fern that hangs outside our side porch has annually furnished a Spring home for mother finches. The small, near-perfectly circular nest of pine straw is nestled in the middle of the greenery, and this morning the mother sat atop it, watching me warily as I moved past the window. Yesterday, my wife removed the fern while the mother was away, no doubt foraging, revealing five small, light blue eggs. She smiled broadly. Returning it, we watched from inside. She worried that the mother would not return. "You're not their mother, you know," I said. Maybe not. Yet she is their protector. Finches are "gregarious" birds, I read, gathering at feeders with other birds, twittering on about who and what and where. Social gadflies. Their flight is described as "bouncy" which is probably a reflection of their gregarious nature, like driving and talking at the same time, speed modulated with the rise and fall of their voice. Beware a finch in the air. Give it a wide berth. The chickadees have also nested in our bluebird house. Maybe once in the many years we have let the house rent-free, the intended tenants actually checked in, yet ever since, the chickadees lay first claim, squatters' rights. We peer in now and then to check on the progress, our curiosity the price they pay for free digs. I read that other birds flock around chickadees as chickadees call out whenever they find a good source of food. Less astute or blinder foragers appreciate this, no doubt, making chickadees a popular bird. They also mind humans less than other birds. So, in general they seem to be irenic birds, congenial though not gregarious. And then, just yesterday, a turtle larger than a boxer waddled up our sidewalk, making for our fountain. My wife went in to get a bowl of water for him and somehow, in a matter of minutes, he walked away. Who knew a turtle could move so quickly? She looked everywhere for him. Or her. She looked in the mondo grass, under shrubs, around the house, and in the natural areas, pollen dusting her. But no turtle. When she told her sister about the turtle, she said, "Well, they know where to come, don't they?" And she's right. My wife is an animal-magnet. The needy animal is drawn to her. Be it special needs or emotionally disturbed cats, cantankerous horses, or fence-jumping bird-seed eating deer, they know where to come. Soon, the finch and chickadee chicks will hatch and, then, always when we aren’t watching, fly, packing up and leaving under cover of darkness, eschewing long goodbyes. Feathers and fuzz is what remains. My wife, the unpaid landlady, eventually cleans behind them, readies their lodgings for next year. The “vacant” sign goes up, but we don’t generally get any new tenants in late Spring. That ship has sailed. We don’t know where they go. Yet, we’ll see them again. They know where to come. Today, my wife looked up at an awkwardly leaning pine tree with browning pine needles that sheltered the bluebird house. Pine trees don’t look like much anyway; this one, even less. “I’d remove that tree,” she said, “ only that’s the tree the birds land in before entering the bird house.” That tree owes her its life. Continue reading
Posted Apr 15, 2017 at Out Walking
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A few days ago - days which seem a long time ago now - we were walking in the desert foothills of the Rincon Mountains east of Tucson, Arizona. Our ambition was modest: we traversed a 3.4 mile loop, beginning on the Loma Verde trail, connecting with the Pink Hill trail, and finishing with the Squeeze Pen trail. With an elevation gain of only 60 feet, we weren't taxed; our pace was the stop again - start again of observers and not runners, so we made poor time but were richer for it. Dispel from your mind all images of desolate, windswept sand dunes. Unlike the Mojave of Southern California or Sahara of North Africa, the Sonoran Desert of southern Arizona is Edenic in comparison, lush in vegetation, so much so that some biologists want to reclassify the Arizona Uplands portion of the Sonoran that we are walking as thorn-scrub, not desert, yet that would rob it of rich literary associations, of its deployment as metaphor. Loma Verde is apt, as "Loma" is Spanish for a hill or ridge having a broad top, and "Verde" means green. And a green hill it is. The well-trod path winds through a forest of mature mesquite trees, their nearly black trunks in sharp contrast with feathered green leaves and azure blue sky. Nursed by the shade of the mesquites, young sahuaro cacti grow, a few splitting into two trunks like co-joined twins, others overtaking their nursery trees and, ultimately, forcing their way to the sky, slipping from their nurses' coddling branches. Below, creosote bushes in full yellow bloom grow and, further below them, the yellow blooms of brittle-bush brush the desert floor, adding even more color, mixing with prickly-pear cactus, an occasional hedgehog cactus, and an unidentifiable purple flowering vine. Surveying the swath of brittle-bush and creosote blooms that stretch to the horizon, I recall reading earlier in the week that the color yellow is supposed to make people angry, but I don't think so. I feel happy, like a legion of benign suns has come to earth, incarnate in a sea of green and brown. Crossing over the sandy bottom of Montezuma wash, we pause, silent, to watch for animals. Seeing none, we press on, but my wife casts a glance backwards. "I just know that when we turn our backs the animals come out. They see us." She is confident, recounting times in the past when that has been the case, and so as we leave and for some time thereafter I glance back occasionally, hoping to catch a bobcat, coyote, or javelina peering shyly at us, a feral face in a rear view mirror, but I see nothing but absence and hope behind me. After the wash, we climb a bluff onto the bajada, a gravel plain at the base of the mountain, bear right to follow the Pink Hill trail, and begin climbing. Rose-tinted soil marks our footfalls, and we look upward into the Rincons, hoping to catch a mountain goat circumnavigating a ridge or rocky outcrop. A cool breeze suddenly rushes through the space between Pink Hill and the mountain. I raise my arms to catch it, see a human-like great sahuaro with two arms similarly raised, leaning back facing the sky as if to shout "Praise." Soon, we turn left on the Squeeze Pen trail. We ponder the name. She says a squeeze pen is a holding pen that cowboys drove cattle into for branding. Perhaps the natural topography - a depression between hill and mountain - reminded someone of a squeeze pen, or perhaps the area was once a cattle ranch and the natural topography made it a suitable place to locate an actual squeeze pen. We don't know. Our questions hang in the air. We look down, and a horned lizard looks up at us from a rock where he perches, unafraid. He allows a photo before moving on. Patrick Henry Reardon says that "the Bible itself points to a prior book, the testimony of the created world." We're walking in that creation book now, our utterances full of wonder. Reardon says that ”the rationality and iconic quality of the universe. . . is the sustaining subtext of the human narrative and the fundamental context of poetry." That's a mouthful, yet here's the sum: "In other words, the world is a whole, not a scribble." A poem, story, and icon. A testimony to something Other. Yet it's tempting to look at the world and see only a scribble, a John Cage splash of random pieces, noise and not song, to think of our tiny footprints on the earth as ephemeral, vanquished by the next monsoon rain or the accumulated desert winds. Mostly we pass in silence. A sahuaro grows at best an inch and a half each year, an infinitesimally small contribution to the universe. And what of the lizard’s tiny life? How along before he lays down, absorbed by the desert floor? Or a digger bee or tiger swallowtail butterfly, moth or magpie, or tiny elf owl? And yet if they don't matter, if the excruciatingly slow progress of the sahuaro doesn't matter, then neither do I. Yet God says otherwise. Just before trail end, I looked back over my shoulder again, hopeful, but there was nothing. Yet they are there. He is there and not silent, in the world that is not a scribble but whole. Continue reading
Posted Mar 30, 2017 at Out Walking
Thanks Terry. The girls left me behind for part of today. I slept a little, then sat and listened and watched, and write this. Beats shopping!
Toggle Commented Mar 21, 2017 on In the Heat of the Day at Out Walking
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"And the Lord appeared to him by the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the door of his tent in the heat of the day.” ‭‭(Gen.‬ ‭18:1‬ ‭ESV‬‬) In the desert the doves are the first birds to wake. Before a pre-dawn glow lights the mountains, their coos can be heard coaxing life back to their somnolent brethren, heads tucked beneath their feathers, a light breeze lifting their feathery down. Off our balcony a mesquite tree shades. For approximately ten feet from the ground its trunk leans at a 25-degree angle before, at some point years ago, it reconsidered, took heart, and righted itself. "Be lifted up," God said, and it was so. Green, wispy leaves contrast with the blue sky, make a mottled, swaying, and hypnotic pattern across the balcony floor. At twilight yesterday, the doves were also the house matrons shushing other birds as they bedded down for the night. Upwards of 50 birds settled into the tree, jumping from branch to branch, twittering and fussing at each other as the stolid doves tried to maintain order. Some sort of parasitic vine had hold of the tree, and where it clumped the birds nested. Some lodged alone on high branches, introverts seeking solitude; others, craving conversation, gossiped away the last light. Soon all the campers were ensconced, and by nightfall - devotion read, song sung, prayer offered (by the dove, of course) - all was quiet. This morning they were gone, at work, or play, or perhaps both at once, their twittering constant. At breakfast, a lone wren watched us eat from a perch no more than three feet away. Though small, it drew its breath and fluffed its feathers more than once. We were impressed but not afraid or provoked, if that were its point. It grew impatient of our leavings and left, lighting on the hot tile of a rooftop and, from there, flew on into the blue. Some bird calls sound like questions; others, like nervous laughter; and yet others, like lullabies. One sounds like a rapid-fire ray gun. A small one. One even says, "I told you," one whose mate likely expelled him from hearth and home for a day, at least, until he changed his tune, stopped dredging up an old misstep. But he's still at it: "I told you." A pause. Then, "I told you." She's not having it. The sun is high in the sky and bakes the sand, and I am siting here under Room 337's tree, under the tent flap or, if you will, the eave of the roof. Anything could happen. Last year at this time as I sat here a bobcat nonchalantly walked past me, no more than ten feet away and below. Yet I offered it nothing but the indignity of a photo of its hind parts. Yet today, on top of the twitter and twatter of the birds, all I have seen is the restless beating wings and bright heads of hummingbirds, yellow blooms of brittle-bush, green-branched palo verde trees, agave, cholla, and saguaro, butterflies in a dance, and the darkened peaks of the Catalina's, the paint of birch and fir. That's all. But you never know. The Lord might show up, might walk right up, and after I fall down and spill a few words might speak to me as to a friend. And what He says might change the world a little or a lot, whether I live to see it, or not. You never know. Continue reading
Posted Mar 20, 2017 at Out Walking
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"[F]airy tales give us some hope of victory. The world is not to be understood in merely domestic categories, as though nothing existed that lay beyond our local and parochial concerns. Nor is it an unmeaning chaos, from which, to preserve our sanity, we need to avert our eyes. Fairyland is. . . the hint of a wilder and wider world than the domestic, from which the bolder of us might bring treasures if we can avoid its perils; a reminder of a world unconstrained by any of our familiar values, and threatening therefore to alienate us from our own; the dream of a world where everything can speak and everything contribute its own beauty to the growing whole." (Stephen R.L. Clark, "Why We Believe in Fairies," in First Things, March 2017) When I was a child and, along with my parents and younger sister making our way home from visiting relatives in Arlington, Virginia, my sister and I saw a billboard along the interstate advertising Story Book Land. My parents, though no doubt tired and longing for home, heeded our backseat pleas. From the front seat, there was a muted discussion and nods; our fate hung on gesture and tone, our hope faint. To our surprise, we turned off the highway and, in what seemed a few miles, reached the billboarded park, full of storybook characters set among a wood. I don't remember much of it, just the joy of what we might see, of characters we had read of coming to life. What I do remember is a giant Mother Goose beckoning at the entrance, a castle wall lining the car park, Humpty-Dumpty on a wall, the house of the three bears, a bridge across a stream, an old woman in a shoe. They were all there, all the ones I had read of, rhyme and story come alive. Story Book Land is a forgotten and neglected place. When Washington City Paper writer Eddie Dean wrote about it in 1995, likely 30 years after I visited, it had already been closed for more than ten years. Dean wrote that "When the park closed . . . the bucolic site—which boasted more than 100 life-size figures and two dozen storybook buildings—was left virtually intact, as if the owners meant to open it again someday." They never did. Mother Goose lay on the ground. Graffiti covered the buildings. Snow White's house had been used by the homeless. Vandals had beheaded some figures; one building was burnt. Less than one mile from Potomac Mills outlet, along US1, the site had been spared in part due to its status as wetlands. But then, by 2007, the whole area had been absorbed by a housing development, and the magic was really gone. But this is not a tale of nostalgic longing but about what fired our imaginations. As children, we had not yet become materialists. We still believed that the worlds we read about in fairy tales were real or, at least, possibly real, that there was a "wilder and wider world than the domestic," the one parents and adults seemed to live in, the brick and mortar world of work and school and bills and taxes, a world bereft of magic. And yet as my parents shepherded us through that wood of fantasy, I suspect that somewhere deep down they hoped it or something like it was all true as well. That was long ago, and far away. For most of us, our "magic forest of make-believe" (as Story Book Land heralded) has been clearcut. Life is not enchanted but simply what it is: asphalt and concrete and steel; bird and bear; a windswept prairie; atoms and quarks and lasers. Stuff. Things. Death and taxes. We long ago lost our wonder. Christians profess a belief in the supernatural, in an unseen reality, yet we don't often act like it. In reading scripture, we spiritualize what we can't imagine is literal, pray to an unseen God and acknowledge an invisible heaven peopled by those who have gone on from here, and yet we mostly live our days not enraptured by what is behind what we see but stupefied by surface realities. A tree is only wood, a rock the mere leftover of some geological process, a mountain rising only to fall. What they are is what they are; nothing more. But what if we took a different reading of scripture? Maybe we need to read Scripture as fairy tale, as a magical, astounding story of giants felled by little boys, of great armies put to run by angelic troops, of dead people coming back to life. A wood where rocks cry out, trees clap their hands, and mountains sing. And where, in the end, a magical, shining city comes down from the sky and heaven and earth become one. And no one dies. And no one cries. "It is the mark of a good fairy-story, of the higher or more complete kind," said the great imagineer J.R.R. Tolkien, "that however wild its events, however fantastic or terrible the adventures, it can give to child or man that hears it, when the 'turn' comes, a catch of the breath, a beat and lifting of the heart, near to (or indeed accompanied by) tears, as keen as that given by any form of literary art, and having a peculiar quality." "The Gospels contain a fairystory," said Tolkien, "or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories. . . .There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many sceptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath." I confess that often when I read the great narrative of Scripture, the words lie on the page, two-dimensional and flat. But on occasion, on the days when I am best seeking and best seeing, the golden book of stories becomes a Story Book Land and I walk in the wood of words come to life, where I marvel at our visitation by extra-terrestrial Life, where I am struck in wonder at the word or touch that heals and revives from a Being that deigns to take our form and walk among us, Spirit his way in and among us, unseen. “How can a merely material world ever accommodate our own experience of life?,” says philosopher Stephen Clark. It can’t, says the Bible, which is full of non-human angelic and demonic beings, a world behind the world, “fairies gone away,” as the the materialists say, always going away. Only they haven’t. If we can’t believe in fairies, in an unseen world, says Clark, then there’s no believing Scripture, no room for anything but the material, nothing but the “motion of material parts.” Rather, “banishing the little people from our lives was only a prelude to dispensing with the notions of God and the soul of man. If we can’t believe in fairies, we cannot properly believe in anything at all.” That day in Story Book Land, my sister and I knew better. Snow White and Little Red Riding Hood were real, somewhere. That place may be gone, ploughed under by progress, yet we still walk in that Land. The Big Bad Wolf lurks, and Humpty Dumpty has fallen and we still can’t put him back together. But Someone can. Someone who hasn’t gone away. Someone from a wilder and wider world who beckons us “come.” Continue reading
Posted Mar 13, 2017 at Out Walking
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My favorite puzzles are the kind other people “work,” because that’s what it is to me: work. When I look at a tabletop of 1000 ragged, zig-zaggedy colored cardboard cutouts, I am lost. My wife is happy, though, enchanted by the thought of a new puzzle to pore over. During the holidays she set up a table by the windows in the penumbra of our Christmas tree and opened up shop. Leave her alone for minute, take your eye off of her, and there she is bent over the table, puzzling her way to a completed picture --- a print of blooming flowers, cityscape, or animals. All the interstices of her day are filled with puzzling. It’s a silent activity. There’s no humming satisfaction that attends it, no singing, no sighing of frustration, no exclamations of glee at finding the missing piece. Just a quiet joy, a dogged determination, a resilient spirit, a patient trying, trying, trying and succeeding, god mending the fabric of creation, disorder to order, chaos to creation. I ask her what she likes about puzzles, about the pointless waste of time and unending frustration of it (the latter I keep to myself). “I like the satisfaction of finding the right piece,” she says, “working with my hands.” In saying this, she doesn’t even look up, the task before her. I look down at the 1000-plus puzzle pieces mottled before me, all various shades of sky, “subtle variations of dark to pale,” and shake my head. In their cardboard perplexity, they mock me. I try to appreciate this past time , and yet there are a thousand other things I would rather do, and they all start with “read.” If it were up to me, I’d scoop their unfitted and machine-hewn bodies back into the box and put them far way in some dark cabinet behind the Monopoly board. Let them cry for Mommy. And yet she loves this. I know what part of it is for her. Part of it is that the disassembled puzzle on the table is a problem a little god can fix; most of the big ones require a bigger God, the God. Despite the fact that utopian schemes abound, humankind is not evolving to perfect peace and happiness and bliss; we may find a cure for the common cold, cancer, and Alzheimers, and yet something else will take us. We can’t fix the people around us, remedy human imperfectability. We can’t fix ourselves. That requires a better puzzler. “Two forward and one back, sings Bruce Cockburn, “blind fingers groping for the right track.” That, or a puzzle piece. “It’s an escape. I’m not worrying about any other problems when I’m working a puzzle.” I believe that. She’s puzzling away while squirrels chatter a window pane away, while blow hards fill the airwaves and people wander in the streets. Civilization and its discontents. The puzzle writ large right outside our windows. “The world is a puzzle,” says none other than Lemony Snicket, “and we cannot solve it alone.” I look outside, squint at the sunlight streaming in. “Where’s Mom?” I say to my son later that day. “She’s working a puzzle.” I nod knowingly. I watched her begin this latest puzzle. She spread all the pieces out on the table, brooding over the deep, over the chaos, and yet a little light came. She pulled back her hair so she could concentrate, put her placid yet serious puzzling face on. Her hands moved over the pieces, trying one, then another, until there was the subtle click of a fit and the world sighed just a bit. A strand of hair broke free and traced her face, but she ignored it in her deliberation. In a process that must be inductive and innate, she discerned patterns of color and began grouping like colors together. Starting wth the periphery, she built a frame of the world, finding the edges and corners. Over time, it began to take shape. Even in its negative space, I discern what will come. I sense hope and promise, a time when all things fit. And then, a few days later, she finishes. Leaning back, resting, I can almost hear her say, “It is good. It is very good.” I admire her work, my hand resting on her shoulder, and smile at her pleasure. Well, it’s a start on the world. Continue reading
Posted Mar 1, 2017 at Out Walking
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I don't think anyone knows the difference between a mountain and a hill. According to the U.S. Geological Survey, "The British Ordnance Survey once defined a mountain as having 1,000 feet of elevation and less was a hill, but the distinction was abandoned sometime in the 1920's." It goes on to say that "The U.S. Board on Geographic Names once stated that the difference between a hill and a mountain in the U.S. was 1,000 feet of local relief, but even this was abandoned in the early 1970's." So, no one knows. But perhaps it is fair to say that a mountain is bigger than a hill, generally. Last weekend my wife and I circumvented Oconeechee Mountain in Orange County. While the summit is the highest point in Orange County, the total rise in elevation from its low at the Eno River is only 350 feet, the summit topping out at a mere 867 feet. Consider this: the tallest building in Raleigh is the PNC Plaza building at 538 feet, so from Eno River to Summit, you've only climbed two-thirds way up the stairs of the PNC Building - which, by the way, is less scenic, from what I have seen. Still, it is enough. From the summit they say you can see the gray and balding heads or dreadlocks of every liberal in Orange County, which is no greater hyperbole than saying Oconeechee is a mountain. I can't verify that. If you don't like that joke, try this one: From the summit look north and you can see the trucks and guns and dogs of every conservative in Caswell County. I can't verify that either. In my notebook from that day I wrote " burl - mountain laurel? - variegated green ground leaf - rock wall - white, sandy top soil," as reminders to summon up memories days later. Waking one night, in the quiet hours, the words helped me return. I lay in bed retracing my steps through the forest. I put my hand on the tree trunk's burl, a deformation, like a tumor, yet one that wood sculptors prize. Burls are the result of some stress - disease or fungus or injury - and yet become a beautiful metaphor for God's putting to good some suffering or other hardship we may endure. There's more. Many burls are hidden, attached to roots, and so like many hardships their possibility is uncovered later, after death, when all is exposed to light and the craftsmanship of God is known. Heady thoughts for wee hours. Even in the night I hear the annoying hum of the traffic on Interstate 85, which runs surprisingly close to the south side of the mountain. But it's my dream, and I will it away and imagine the forest spreading south, with nothing but bear and bird between me and the nearest community. Where we turn to circumnavigate the mountain, heading north, I stoop to touch the forest floor, topped by a thin sprinkling of white sand. At first I think it must be that spread by trail maintenance crews, but it is smattered across the sloping, leaf-strewn ground, a mystery, yet perhaps a part of the more xeric (dry) soils of the south-facing slopes. Reaching the north side, the flora changes. Mountain laurel, rhododendron, and evergreens thrive. The highway sounds subside. The river song invites. A cool breeze wafts through the trees, and if you sit on one of the boulder outcrops there you might think yourself in a cove in the Blue Ridge. The understory is covered in places with ferns, and a rock wall exposed by a quarry abandoned decades ago looms above us. She looks for a rock to throw in the river water, an impulse, a depth-sounding. She settles for a stick which, lightly touching the water, floats away, east, toward the Atlantic. And then, I went back to sleep, my reverie ending before the long slog uphill - that is, up-mountain - back to our car. I went to find a mountain as I thought it might help me visualize a passage of scripture that is astounding. Consider it alone, even in context, and it's a stiff drink of liquor, undiluted by tonic or water or juice. The Gospel passage recounts how returning from the country to Jerusalem one morning, the disciples are astonished to see a fig tree from the day before that Jesus had cursed, now withered. Here's the bracing draught given by Jesus: "Have faith in God. Truly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, 'Be taken up and thrown into the sea,' and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he says will come to pass, it will be done for him. Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours" (Mk. 11: 22-24). Now wait. Before you qualify these words of Jesus, before you empty them of meaning by explaining them away and saying what Jesus could not have meant, let the power of the words wash over you. Decline commentary. Consider how they might have been heard by first-century disciples who had nothing but Law and Prophet for context and yet who had just seen Jesus command nature with His word to the fig tree. The message: God is powerful enough to move mountains of doubt, unbelief, suffering, sickness, unemployment, mental illness, and even death. The world bows to His word. Reading it, I can only pray, "Lord, I believe you can move mountains; yet help my flatlander's unbelief. Grow my faith." Once, after that day, I was praying about a mountain in my life. Instinctively, reflexively, I reached out and pushed it away with my hands. I said "Be taken up and thrown into the sea." I'm waiting to hear the splash, to watch it slide away down the Eno to the sea, thrown down at His word. Continue reading
Posted Feb 18, 2017 at Out Walking
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Sometimes writing is like trying to push an oversized pencil across the page. My fingers won’t cooperate. The instrument is too blunt. The letters are misshapen and, if I am not careful, smudged. A mess. Like in third grade when I was tasked with helping a classmate who had fallen behind in his writing. I sidled up to him as he bent over the lined page, his pencil thick and unwieldy in his hand. Great tears welled up and dropped on the letters which wobbled on the lines, pooling there, and with a careless movement of his palm, smeared a leaden stew across the instrument of his torture. We began again. But I’m not sad, just cloudy. I woke today lethargic, sluggish. I told a friend at church that I blamed the excess of chocolate consumed the prior evening, the nearest to a hangover I’d ever had. During communion I took grape juice, not wine, for the least profound of reasons: the juice was closer and took less effort to reach. Home, I stared at the computer screen for ten minutes before I realized what I was doing --- that is, nothing. I rested my head in my hands for a time, for it felt too heavy to hold up. Mustering all my residual energy, I put on a coat and scooped bird seed into a bucket from the tin in the garage and walked to the feeders in the backyard and dropped it in. Looking up, exhausted, I saw the birds watching me from the uppermost branches, twittering in green boughs against blue sky, waiting. Returning, I lay crossways over the bed, prone, my arms dangling over the side like a lion in the midday heat flung over a branch. “I am the vine; you are the branches,” says Jesus. “If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing” (Jn. 15:5). A few days ago I posted this verse on a yellow sticky note on the edge of my computer screen, letting it hang there, the meaning elusive. Maybe lethargy, a wasted day, a day when you can’t get your life in motion, is a day that you can be reminded that it is God who works in us to bear fruit, not us. In his classic work, Abide in Christ, Andrew Murray says that the “connection between the vine and the branch is a living one. No external, temporary union will suffice; no work of man can effect it: the branch, whether an original or an engrafted one, is such only by the Creator's own work, in virtue of which the life, the sap, the fatness, and the fruitfulness of the vine communicate themselves to the branch. And just so it is with the believer, too. His union with his Lord is no work of human wisdom or human will, but an act of God, by which the closest and most complete life-union is effected between the Son of God and the believer.” The point of these long and fat sentences: the fruit of life in Christ is God-produced, not human-engineered. A day of barrenness is to be expected, the winter in a day, the spring to follow. My copy of Abide in Christ is a dog-eared one, inherited from my late mother, a paperback with a faded rendering of a clump of grapes on its cover. An insomniac, I imagine my mother awake in the wee hours reading, thankful, perhaps, for the quiet hours within which to rest in words, her mind perhaps stirred awake by the hope of reading. Her days had little time for reading, with four children, a house to clean, and three meals to prepare every day. So, the night, I suspect, became a refuge. Abide. To wait for, one dictionary definition says. To sit alone in the quiet. To get busy, at nothing. To lay down in the deep rest of the Father and let Him do the deep and hidden work of change. Murray says that we can “abandon all anxiety about your growth and progress to the God who has undertaken to establish you in the Vine, and feel what a joy it is to know that God alone has charge.” All of which means I can go back to bed, lay my pencil down, crumple the paper and throw it in the waste bin, and rest. Rest in Christ. Abide in Him. And that’s not nothing. Continue reading
Posted Feb 5, 2017 at Out Walking
Profound, Gary. Thank you. And we know from Psalm 19, that the heavens are speaking to us, and God is a "full" stay against confusion.
Toggle Commented Jan 29, 2017 on Walking in Otherness at Out Walking
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“And this is what I learned: that the world’s otherness is antidote to confusion, that standing within this otherness -- the beauty and mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books -- can re-dignify the worst-stung heart.” (Mary Oliver, in “Staying Alive,” from Upstream) Outside, it is a balmy 26 degrees -- balmy in Minnesota, that is. A two-inch mix of snow and ice lays on the ground, and at this late time of day, splintered sunlight runs longwise across the forest floor. Day is waning. The sparrows and towhees are oblivious to cold, apparently, their thin legs pattering about the base of the feeder. Yesterday, we saw three deer grazing behind the fence, in gray winter coats. Even at 100 paces from us and behind windows, one knew of our presence, alert to our movements. This morning my wife saw their plot: overnight, they scaled our slight fence, stole unhindered to our feeders, and purloined the birds’ Sunday rations. In two places just inside the fence, a confusion of hoof prints marked their point of entry, one where they sailed easily over a pile of unused slate, a daunting span. And now the sun has slipped low on the horizon, the backyard in shadow but my westward facing window ablaze, momentarily -- all of this, a few minutes reflection, an “antidote to confusion.” I am no different from you; I have too much to do, too many things jumbled in my mind, too much left undone. Creation is a calming balm. The sun comes up and then goes down, and the next day God says, with the smile of a child, “Do it again.” I haven’t really been outside in now two days, what with all the ice and frigid temperatures. So, I am limited to what I can see out my window and what I can see through my books. I finished Alexander McCall Smith’s Precious and Grace, the latest installment of his No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series. In it Mma Ramotswe, the traditionally built woman detective of Gaborone, Botswana, solves a mystery with her usual grace, and as does all the books in the series this tale does not ignore the fact that evil exists in the world but lays great stress on that which is good, true, and beautiful --- and, in this one, gives a mighty lesson about the healing power of forgiveness for a wrong done in the distant past, one unredressed. When a sometimes employee, Mr. Polopetsi is helped out of a serious, even criminal dilemma, he says “I do not deserve such a good friend, Mma. You are like Jesus Christ himself.” Or, as he said upon her denial, “Maybe you are like his sister, Mma.” Reading that book I was for a time in a better Africa. But finishing it, I picked up a book I bought six years ago but which has lain unread under my nightstand, the place where books go that you intend to read but never get to and, in the end, may be forgotten. Not this time. Peter Godwin’s The Fear: Robert Mugabe and the Martyrdom of Zimbabwe, is a sad contrast to the peaceable society of Precious and Grace. Godwin is a white Rhodesian, a journalist, and I had previously read his memoir of the fall of Zimbabwe into dictatorial hands, entitled When a Crocodile Eats the Sun. I’m not through it. It is a chronicle of the destruction of a beautiful, productive country at the hands of one man, Robert Mugabe, who (I checked) remains in power at the age of 92. But reading these books end to end is also an antidote to confusion: in them I have a fresh sense of the stark difference between good and evil, which is also an “antidote to confusion.” Behind the fence two squirrels chase each other in circles in what to my eyes looks like play. One sparrow tittered at another, who flitted off, for now, in what looks like a spat over food or turf. The sun, far on the horizon, flirts with descent yet, in moments while I watch, drops from sight, like an over-zealous actor pulled from the stage. I might just take a walk, in the otherness of book or field. If it’s cold, I’ll wrap myself in a coat of wool or memory and be off, returning numbed by mystery. Continue reading
Posted Jan 8, 2017 at Out Walking
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It's not too late to obtain tickets for tonights concert - truly a special event. Go ahead and purchase tickets online, as they are $5 more at the door. The Alathea girls are in town and ready to go! They'll be sound checking this afternoon and we'll start on time at 7:00. Please be sure and join us for a reception afterwards with some cider and other refreshments. Meet Mandy and Cristi at that time as well. We hope to see you this evening! Continue reading
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I cannot imagine a better way to close out the year than by hearing the acoustic folk-pop and Appalachian melodies of the female duo that make up Alathea. It's fusion music that they make: Using traditional bluzegrass instruments in a modern way, prinicipal singer/songwriter Mandee Radford and band mate Christi Johnson mix it up with guitar, banjo, mandolin, harmonica, and dulcimer, but never in a strictly traditional way. Add Mandee's clear-as-a-bell vocals and Christi's smoky harmonies, and the sound is infectious --- not slick but rootsy. Deep. That depth extends to the lyrics which are rooted in a spiritual perspective that is always pecolating underground. The title of their fourth album, My Roots Grow Deeper, about says it all. It's no wonder that one of the songs off that album, "Hurricane," was a winner in the John Lennon Songwriting Contest. The duo will be sharing songs from their latest Christmas EP (and the former one), new stories of parenthood and otherwise, and their winning humor and smiles. So, avoid the crowds of First Night, pry yourself off the sofa or recliner in front of yet another mix up of pop divas from far away cities, and join us. (You'll still be home way before the ball drops at midnight.) Bring some friends. Close out the year on a good, harmonious note. Purchase tickets here. And, if you are not familiar with Alathea, check them out in the Appalachian Service projects video here. See you on New Years Eve! Continue reading
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I cannot imagine a better way to close out the year than by hearing the acoustic folk-pop and Appalachian melodies of the female duo that make up Alathea. It's fusion music that they make: Using traditional bluzegrass instruments in a modern way, prinicipal singer/songwriter Mandee Radford and band mate Christi Johnson mix it up with guitar, banjo, mandolin, harmonica, and dulcimer, but never in a strictly traditional way. Add Mandee's clear-as-a-bell vocals and Christi's smoky harmonies, and the sound is infectious --- not slick but rootsy. Deep. Alathea.PosterThat depth extends to the lyrics which are rooted in a spiritual perspective that is always pecolating underground. The title of their fourth album, My Roots Grow Deeper, about says it all. It's no wonder that one of the songs off that album, "Hurricane," was a winner in the John Lennon Songwriting Contest. This concert will not be in the house this time but at Peace Presbyterian Church in Cary. We'll be able to stretch out a bit more, and there will still be time to mingle over refreshments in a festive setting. The duo will be sharing songs from their latest Christmas EP (and the former one), new stories of parenthood and otherwise, and their winning humor and smiles. So, avoid the crowds of First Night, pry yourself off the sofa or recliner in front of yet another mix up of pop divas from far away cities, and join us. (You'll still be home way before the ball drops at midnight.) Bring some friends. Close out the year on a good, harmonious note. Purchase tickets here. And, if you are not familiar with Alathea, check them out in the Appalachian Service project video here. Continue reading
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'Twas the night before Christmas and I am suddenly wide awake, my company only the furnace hum. 3:29 am. "I'm going to get up for a bit," I say to my wife. "What?" "I'm going to get up. I need to write something down, a dream. It's funny." It wasn't. "Won't you remember it?" I can barely remember the children's names at this time of night. "No, I'll forget." I add, "I won't be long." "Ok." My wife sleeps cat-sleep. I can wake her, tell her something, and then she will return to sleep immediately, like there is an on-off switch. Once I woke her three times in six minutes, just to ask her what dream she had, and each time she described a different dream. It's a gift. I shuffle down the hallway, lit by my awakened cell phone, and settle into the chair by the window overlooking the drive. I prop the phone on the edge of the desk, take a pad of paper and pen, and scratch out a few words to capture my dream. This is what I wrote: I was standing in front of the congregation of my church. I had volunteered for a reading of a portion of the Gospel of Luke, the Magnificat to be exact, and I had practiced reading it aloud to myself earlier in the day. I printed it in 16 point font to make sure I could see it. I looked out over a church body swelled by Chreasters, those folks that come only on Christmas and Easter. I began well enough but then stumble over a word, began again, and then the words blurred. Phrases seemed to be missing. "I'm sorry," I said, and I was aware that I had begun to ad lib, to fill in the gaps, at one point waxing on about the virgin birth. I looked up, noticed the pastor looking at me, quizzically. I was horrified. Worse, Rhett, one-half of the YouTube sensation of Rhett and Link, was in the audience, his stack of hair sailing over the congregation. I looked down. "I'm sorry," I said, and I turned to walk off the stage. A few muffled claps followed. I gathered my wife and and we made a hasty exit as the next hymn began. "Hey, that was great. Thanks." It was Gerald. "What?" "That was great. Really." "Gerald, that was terrible. It was like I fell down on the way here, lost half the printed text, bumped my head, and lost my mind." "Happens to me all the time." "I doubt that." Then I woke up. And that's it. I got up just to write that down. The literary community will thank me one day for my discipline, for suffering for art and all that. I looked out the window. Every house was dark but one, the one with small children, the one where a weary dad was likely assembling a bicycle, or some other toy with obtuse, 9-point font instructions. Not a creature was stirring in the circle of light cast by the streetlight. I put the pen down, and stood to return to bed. Then, I heard a guffaw from the downstairs. I listened, heard some shuffling about. I walked to the landing of the back stairs and cocked my head, listening again. It sounded like someone was down there. I started down the stairs, paused and grabbed a hand weight for protection. Protection from what, I wondered. I started down, carefully so as not to make the step creak. Half way down I heard a creak behind me, turned, and saw my traditionally built cat two steps behind me, her eyes lit by the moonlight. I leaned down, whispered, "What part of 'not a creature was stirring' did you not get?" She had that hurt expression. "Ok, you can come, but put a lid on it." A sense of deja vu swept over me. Rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs, I said, "You go that way, through the playroom, and I'll go the other." She did the opposite, heading for the food bowl, seeking sustenance before taking on the intruder. I continued on, muttering something about "dog next time." Rounding the corner of the playroom, I saw him. Santa. Seriously. Again. He was smoking a cigar. We don't allow smoking in the house, but I let it go. It was Santa. He was just humming to himself, satisfied, pulling presents out of a bag. Finishing, he glanced around, hands on hips. I had a few questions. "Hey Santa, how's it going?" Lame. "Couldn't be better. Left a few things for you. You've been good, right?" "Well, you see. . ." "Santa believes in grace. Don't sweat it." "That's a relief." He seemed harmless. I put the hand weight down, my hand sweaty from gripping it. "Santa, I got a few questions." "Shoot." "Well, for one, how do you get all those presents in that bag?" "Elementary physics. Ask your son." "Right. Well, and how do you make it to all the houses you need to get to, I mean, excluding those of non-believers, all in one night?" "Time is malleable." "I thought you'd say that." "Ever had to wait a long time for something when you had nothing else to do? Feels like time stands still, right? "Yeah." My mind floated back to fourth grade and Mrs. Hedrick's class, me watching the second hand on the big clock on the wall ticking down the seconds, like eternity, until the 3:30 bell. "Yeah, I know what you mean." "I thought you would." That summed up my inquiries. But I didn't want him to leave. He took a long drag on the cigar. "Uh, how's Mrs. Claus?" "Better than ever. A looker, that one." "Right. I mean. . ." "Don't worry about it. She's my type, rotund and sassy." "Well look, you don't have to leave via the chimney. I haven't had it cleaned lately." "Don't need it. We've modernized. Teleportation. But look, give my best to your family. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night, you know, and all that." And with that, he vanished. I turned and made my way through the kitchen, turned the corner, and began up the stairs, aware of the cat dogging my steps. I leaned down, whispered, "Did you see that?" She nodded. "I hope you've been good." She nodded. At the landing I heard the sleepy voice of my 24-year old son: "Dad, did Santa come?" "He said he was." "Leave anything?" "Yep. I have some questions for you in the morning." "I've been good, mostly." "No, not about that. About quantum physics, time, stuff like that." "You ok?" "Sure. Go back to sleep." I settled back into bed. "Did you see Santa? My wife. On. "Yep." "That's what you said last year." "I know. Except this time we were talking about quantum physics, time, and stuff like that." All was silent. Off. She was asleep. I lay there. The furnace came on, humming. 'Twas the night before Christmas, I thought, all through the house, and no one believes me. I don't even know if I believe me. I'm going to stop reading at lessons and carols services. It messes you up. Continue reading
Posted Dec 25, 2016 at Out Walking
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Light of lights! All gloom dispelling, Thou didst come to make thy dwelling Here within our world of sight. Lord, in pity and in power, Thou Didst in our darkest hour Rend the clouds and show thy light. (St. Thomas of Aquinas) Waking today I heard rain on the roof, a light drizzle, a muted light filtering through a gray sky and shades. Good, I thought, no walk today, no layers of clothing to fend off cold, no forcing myself out of bed. I lay on my stomach, my head turned toward the edge of the bed, my arm trailing the floor. Opening one uncovered eye, my lesser cat stared at me from the shadows, an inchoate question in her expression. “Yes,” I said. She skittered away at my slight movement, satisfied. Rising, I decided to turn all the indoor and outdoor Christmas lights on, as a rebel act against dark and dank and gift to Duke Power. This is no small thing. I shuffled from one window candle to another, an occasional floorboard creaking under my presence. Seven bulbs must be turned in their casings, a church light plugged in, tree lights lit, garland lights plugged in (behind the piano, where I must bend awkwardly to reach). Kitchen candle, click, and it lights. And then there is outside. Out the front door I step, bend over the porch rail, plug in the porch lights and tree lights. I walk to the natural area, aware that I may be an unwelcome sight to my just-awoken neighbors in my lounging clothes, bend and press the button that illuminates the never-amounted-to-much-of-anything dogwoods that live in the yard, and turn for the door, my little rogue war over. “The light shines in the darkness,” I think, “and the darkness has not overcome it.” The first Christmas lights, of course, were candles on trees. (No, I wasn’t alive then, children.) A bucket of water and blankets were kept nearby. It began in Germany, some say with Martin Luther. Walking in the woods one night, Luther saw the starlight filtered through the evergreens. Ace Collins writes that Luther “felt as if the hand of God had touched his soul and had allowed him to see the world in a much different way,” that it brought him a great sense of peace. He strapped candleholders to his family’s Christmas tree and lit the candles, a practice soon duplicated, and fire departments grew in importance and business. We unplug our tree lights when we leave the house, fearing fire, but it’s likely that this practice is an unnecessary vestige of our parents’ 1920’s practice of dousing tree candles before bed or leaving home, the danger likely no more than that from any other electric light left on. And yet the practice summons up my parents’ cautionary admonitions to “unplug the tree lights” and apocalyptic stories of house fires from tree lights left on, stories that rank right up their with those scary evening church showings of the countdown to Rapture. Oh, I forgot the star. I walk to the garage, step down two steps in the dim light, and flip the switch. A Moravian star, not too common in these parts, illumines our side porch, at a safe height to all but our six-foot-seven neighbor who may leave it swinging. In it lives my childhood home, the star above our front porch, and my mother, Moravian. I’ve read that they originated in the Moravian boarding schools in Germany in the nineteenth century as an exercise in geometry. They are an exercise in patience as well, if you have tried to assemble one. There are 26 points and the fickle ties that hold them together often break. But then, they are a symbol of hope and once together together, if you are lucky, a hope that will endure. I consider the lights on the trees in our back yard, the multi-colored ones safely shielded from my white-bulb neighbors, and turn for the back door, but reconsider. Rain. When it rains, plugging in both front and back lights causes an electrical disturbance (my word), and Duke Power shuts them both down. The plugs are not properly grounded, my son tells me. Instead, I decide to feed the birds, peckish this morning at empty feeders. “Don’t give them much,” my wife says, “as the deer just come and eat it,” then reconsiders: “Well, it is Christmas, after all.” I carry a bucket of seed around the garage, through the sticking gate, and fill them both. I imagine caramel deer eyes watching and feel, for a moment, like Santa. Imbued by good cheer, I let fall more than a few seed to the ground, for the rascal squirrels who no doubt haven’t been good this year. I look back through the windows, see the lit tree, the kitchen tree, the bright candle above the sink. The rain has stopped. Yesterday, on the eve of Christmas Eve, Mr. Lassiter went up on the rooftop and slay the leaves and pine straw that clogged my gutters. What a thing to do on the eve of Christmas Eve, I think, so matter-of-factly, as if it was just any other day, and I wonder if he is up on a roof today, like any day. It’s not any other day. It’s Christmas Eve. Burn the lights. Watch for the Light. Be ready. Continue reading
Posted Dec 24, 2016 at Out Walking
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In little over a week, Mandee and Cristi will load the truck, bid farewell to the family, and make their way down the mountain to the flatlands (relatively speaking) of Raleigh and Cary, but what they carry is more than instruments and equipment. The best part is the new songs they're humming, and the new stories they tell, the poems and prayers and promises (thank you, John Denver) of life experiences --- ones borne out of walking the mountains, raising children, and traveling around. They're the kind of songs that are "tested and approved for all ages," the kind that make you "tremble. . . in the face of what we can't explain." Listening, they make me want to "keep on the sunny side," or feel like I've climbed into the very "lap of God." But enough ripping song lyrics: you need to hear them sing and tell stories. You need to come. Get a ticket, or two. Right here. Bring the family. Bring the neighbors. Blow up the tv and get a little country (thank you John Prine). See you on December 31st! Continue reading
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Do you have tickets for the new Years Eve concert with Alathea yet? I cannot imagine a better way to close out the year than by hearing the acoustic folk-pop and Appalachian melodies of the female duo that make up Alathea. It's fusion music that they make: Using traditional bluegrass instruments in a modern way, prinicipal singer/songwriter Mandee Radford and band mate Christi Johnson mix it up with guitar, banjo, mandolin, harmonica, and dulcimer, but never in a strictly traditional way. Add Mandee's clear-as-a-bell vocals and Christi's smoky harmonies, and the sound is infectious --- not slick but rootsy. Deep. That depth extends to the lyrics which are rooted in a spiritual perspective that is always pecolating underground. The title of their fourth album, My Roots Grow Deeper, about says it all. It's no wonder that one of the songs off that album, "Hurricane," was a winner in the John Lennon Songwriting Contest. This concert will not be in the house this time but at Peace Presbyterian Church in Cary. We'll be able to stretch out a bit more, and there will still be time to mingle over refreshments in a festive setting. The duo will be sharing songs from their latest Christmas EP (and the former one), new stories of parenthood and otherwise, and their winning humor and smiles. So, avoid the crowds of First Night, pry yourself off the sofa or recliner in front of yet another mix up of pop divas from far away cities, and join us. (You'll still be home way before the ball drops at midnight.) Bring some friends. Close out the year on a good, harmonious note. Purchase tickets here. And, if you are not familiar with Alathea, check out the official video here: Continue reading
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if you're in town on New Years Eve, come to an evening of enjoying music and refreshments with new and old friends. Peace Presbyterian Church is pleased to host the female duo, Alathea, at 7:00-9:00 on December 31, 2016. Who is Alathea? I like what biographer Dave Palmer said about them in conjunction with the release of one of their past albums: The real substance of Alathea comes from the unexpected, the underground and the out of sight. The duo’s fourth full-length recording, My Roots Grow Deeper, conveys a depth of thought, insight and care that is rare in a surface age, and which puts on display the reason for their continually expanding community of supporters. And that’s what Alathea has developed: community, not fans. My Roots Grow Deeper is a full and textured record, thoroughly modern yet absent of any cliché, studio trickery or gimmicky hybrids. Led by Radford’s clear-as-a-bell vocals, and complemented by Johnson’s smoky harmonies, the song cycle delivers an emotional and atmospheric ride as dynamic as the mountain view they glimpse from their East Tennessee cabin. That spirit allows Alathea to connect to anyone, anywhere, simply by being invitational in the way they approach their craft and their lives. And while their lyrics display a sharp intellect and grounding in the work of influential artists, it is the unresolved honesty of how the songs are conveyed that marks Alathea’s work. Doesn't that sound like a sound worth experiencing? Please join us. Get your ticket here And here is a bit of that signature Alathea sound Continue reading
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"For God so loved the world. . ." (Jn. 3:16a) It's not mere sentiment to observe that God loves everything, not just generally but particularly. Walking on the beach today, I stooped to look at shells broken and misshapen, most of dull luster and none extraordinary, and it dawned on me that if God so loves the world (cosmos) then he loves each particular shell, every grain of sand, every atom, and even the infinitesimally small particles or waves of sub-atomic matter and vast reaches of outer space. Even an unlovely, craggy, orphan asteroid careening through the cold and barren dark matter of space. But what does it mean to say that God loves particularly? In many of Flannery O'Connor's short stories the characters are the grotesque, ugly in appearance or manner, and in O'Connor's lucid if starkly honest prose they shock or repel us in the god-forsakenness of their particularity. A Temple of the Holy Ghost sounds a promising short story, for example, yet not quite in the way you might imagine, unless you know O'Connor's work. An unnamed 12-year old child is the main character, but we don't like her. She is very intelligent and yet disrespectful, spiteful, mocking, and cruel in her behavior, and O'Connor describes her as unattractive not only in manner but in outward appearance, a fat child with braces. Her two 14-year old cousins come for a weekend visit from the convent school and she sets about belittling them, regarding them as "practically morons." They go to the fair with two neighbor boys, Wendell and Cory, one of whom she describes as a "big dumb Church of God ox," both of them as "stupid idiots." Out of the emptiness of her obligatory bedside prayer all she could muster was "Lord, Lord, thank you that I'm not in the Church of God." And then there's the bald-headed Mr. Chetham with the protruding stomach and the sweaty, 250-pound, cigar-smoking Alonzo Myers. The cousins call each other Temple of the Holy Ghost One and Temple of the Holy Ghost Two, a joke at the expense of the nuns at the convent, and yet the child takes it to heart. In a line at the heart of the story's meaning, O'Connor writes of the child's inner dialog: "I am a Temple of the Holy Ghost, she said to herself, and was pleased with the phrase. It made her feel as if somebody had given her a present." Though she didn't go with the cousins to the fair, again for spite, she drew on her over-wrought imagination, one provoked by the cousins' telling of what they saw, attending a "freak show" where a person came on stage and revealed that God made him or her both male and female, saying to the hushed crowd attending, "God done this to me and I praise Him," and "Raise yourself up. A temple of the Holy Ghost. You! You are God's temple, don't you know? God's Spirit has a dwelling in you, don't you know?" We don't want to look at the characters that take shape on the pages of O'Connor's story. Perhaps because what she shows us is ourself. The ugliness of the child, the triviality of the cousins, the homely appearance of other characters, and even the freakish appearance of the hermaphrodite at the fair (which we temper by calling "inter-sexed" nowadays), are ourselves writ large. She's saying that the Kingdom of God is for the misshapen and grotesque, for the non-beautiful people of the world, the ones that offend and shock. She is saying that the Kingdom is for people like us who, though perhaps more shapely in appearance, have equally misshapen hearts, people who need a Savior. Even ugly, dull, and broken shells matter to God. We are not crushed underfoot but loved. In Tim Keller's Hidden Christmas: The Surprising Truth Behind the Birth of Christ, he draws our attention to the genealogy of Jesus, to, again, its particularity. In stark contrast to other ancient genealogies, that of Jesus lists five women, three of whom were Gentiles (Tamar, Rahab, and Ruth) and,therefore, to ancient Jews, unclean. Not only that but attention is drawn to immorality: Perez and Zerah were the result of an incestuous relationship between Judah and Tamar; Rahab was a prostitute; and Bathsheba, who is mentioned only as the one who "had been Uriah's wife," engaged in an adulterous affair with David, the latter the murderer of Uriah, a man who had been loyal to him. A freak show. A grotesque family line. Broken shells. Temples of the Holy Ghost. A story worthy of O'Connor's telling, peopled with the sin-soaked, Christ-haunted human ancestors of the One to come. In Keller's telling, they were "cultural outsiders, racial outsiders, and gender outsiders," as well as moral failures. Their inclusion in the line of Jesus is, he says, a reminder that the culturally excluded can be included in Jesus' family. That's us: washed up, beaten by the waves of life, dull and unlovely, and yet greatly loved, particularly loved. "God done this to me and I praise Him," said the freak. He allowed us to be afflicted by sin, whatever his purposes, and yet He came into the line of our sordid race and died a particular death for a particular person. Me. You. And He made us Temples of the Holy Ghost, all of which feels like a present. Because it is. Christmas is especially for the misfit, misshapen, and malformed, for bent and unlovely people. Jesus comes to us as a present, by grace, the Holy Ghost in tow, and because of His gift everything is different. If He has that love for the world, so can we. O'Connor suggests that great gift in her conclusion, pointing to the great sacrifice He made for the unlovely. Looking pensively out over the fields, the child sees the sun setting: "The sun was a huge red ball like an elevated Host drenched in blood and when it sank out of sight, it left a line in the sky like a red clay road hanging over the trees." Follow that road and we"ll get Home. Continue reading
Posted Dec 10, 2016 at Out Walking
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Do you have tickets for the new Years Eve concert with Alathea yet? I cannot imagine a better way to close out the year than by hearing the acoustic folk-pop and Appalachian melodies of the female duo that make up Alathea. It's fusion music that they make: Using traditional bluegrass instruments in a modern way, prinicipal singer/songwriter Mandee Radford and band mate Christi Johnson mix it up with guitar, banjo, mandolin, harmonica, and dulcimer, but never in a strictly traditional way. Add Mandee's clear-as-a-bell vocals and Christi's smoky harmonies, and the sound is infectious --- not slick but rootsy. Deep. That depth extends to the lyrics which are rooted in a spiritual perspective that is always pecolating underground. This concert will not be in the house this time but at Peace Presbyterian Church in Cary. We'll be able to stretch out a bit more, and there will still be time to mingle over refreshments in a festive setting. The duo will be sharing songs from their latest Christmas EP (and the former one), new stories of parenthood and otherwise, and their winning humor and smiles. So, avoid the crowds of New Years Eve, pry yourself off the sofa or recliner in front of yet another mix up of pop divas from far away cities, and join us. (You'll still be home way before the ball drops at midnight.) Bring some friends. Close out the year on a good, harmonious note. Purchase tickets here. And, if you are not familiar with Alathea, check out their "Rescue" here: Continue reading
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On a one acre tract behind my grandmother's house, she planted turnips and cabbage, corn and cucumbers, pumpkins and watermelons, and more. Each Spring she tilled the field, turning over the hardened ground, plowing under old growth and unsettling the compacted soil. Black earth yielded under her plow. From my viewpoint behind the fence, peering between the wires, she seemed invincible, a sturdy master of the field. While I only remember her hitched to a bobbing gasoline-powered tiller, I recall being told she earlier plowed behind a horse, the stirrups thrown over each shoulder. Most of us have no experience with tilling fields, so when we read in Genesis of that primary task of the newly created man, we don't fully appreciate it. "God placed the man in the garden to till it and keep it," says the writer of Genesis. (2:18), and it that one pregnant sentence humankind's mandate is subsumed: break up, up end, turnover, and expose --- disintegration wth the end of integration, breaking apart to make whole. Yet if in fact we are made in God's image, then we image Him in his own tilling and keeping, in his own creative destruction. Psychologists speak of cognitive dissonance, a kind of mental stress produced when we hold two different ideas or when our beliefs don't match our behavior. God can be its agent. The unsettling conviction that we are hypocrites, that our actions don't align with our beliefs, is disintegrating: we lack integrity. God take s a tiller to our complacency, upends our sense that we are OK, and shows us just how sinful we are. Yet he disintegrates us only to assist us in reintegrating word and deed. He is interested in the integrity of our soil, that we have fruit, a good yield. Hearkening back to Genesis 1:28, another portion of the creation account, humankind is instructed to "subdue" the earth. The Hebrew for subdue is a very strong word. The Westminster Shorter Catechism says that "Christ executeth the office of a King, in subduing us to himself." So, God is at work subduing our hearts, upending our lives in order to make us fruitful. Denis Haack says that what God is really up to is creating disequilibrium, a "state of unease, sometimes severe, that occurs when a person experiences or learns something that does not fit into their preconceived view of life and reality." Like cognitive dissonance, few can live with the dis-ease, and so, as he notes, we seek equilibrium, either by changing or transforming our worldview to accommodate the new information or by rejecting the new information and clinging to our old framework. Cognitive dissonance. Disequilibrium. Dis-integration. A mismatch between who we think or say we are and who in reality we are, between word and deed. It's what leads even the Apostle Paul to cry out "For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing. . . . Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?" (Rom. 7:19, 24). There is only One. The One who destroys our petty idols, who shatters our tidy compaction and turns over our lives, is the same one who gives us life, who produces fruit, who reaches down into the soil of our hearts and does a tiller's work. There is more to do than ploughing a field. After, my grandmother walked the rows, stooped over, and planted seeds by hand. It was dirty work, her hands in black earth, breaking up resistant clods and smoothing over holes filled with seeds. I watched her stand, hands on hips, and (I now imagine) sigh a long exhalation over her work and think, "It is good." Through the fence where I watched then, she was just an old lady in a field, bonnet to the sky, yet through the field of time, she is God brooding over the field of our souls. Continue reading
Posted Dec 3, 2016 at Out Walking
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When I began lighting trees for Christmas in the lawn surrounding my home, I was a young man. There was a certain excitement about sinuous cords and electricity, star lights in a winter chill. And for the lights, foreign born and cheap, it was their month of glory, or so I liked to imagine. No longer mute, they sang from the trees with their humming electrical hearts. Yet, I confess, I did not know the trajectory of my passion. What began with three trees expanded to a drapery of lights over the azaleas, to the Osthmantus trees in the backyard, to the large and unknown tree that brushes against the playroom wall, to all the shrubbery and plantings that hugged the back wall. I confess a tiny bit of resentment grew in my heart. A few years ago, I was at work in mid-November with, of course, the tree lights. I woke them from their hibernation under the eaves of the house where they lay coiled and cabined, untangled them from their long sleep, and juiced them to see if they lived on, lit for another year. Those that didn't, that were either dark or significantly dark, I consigned to hell which, for such tawdry baubles, means the rubbish bin. I show mercy on whom I will show mercy and have not the power to redeem nor repair their darkened souls. Once the wheat is separated from the chaff, I drug the bin in which they rested down the stairs, or hefted them, depending on my mood, and sat them at the top of the driveway, abuzz in gathering anticipation. I gathered electrical cords, laid the infrastructure in the beds of pine straw, and plotted my work of creation. Using a perhaps six foot orange pole of unknown origin, I began carefully, like an artist at canvas, hoisting the strands and laying them carefully around the tree. And yet, I tire and soon revert to more abstract art, throwing handfuls of lights over the tallish upper branches of the trees, randomly, like the musical compositions of John Cage or the "paintings" of monkeys and elephants. My method is rude, but effective. Viewed from a distance, through squinted eyes, it is an impressionist painting, I think. Yet back to that tiny bit of resentment. In throwing handfuls of lights a few years ago, I apparently injured my rotator cuff, producing pain and leading to surgery. No more abstract act. No more throwing lights. It's just not the same. I have suffered for my art. This year I said to my wife, just on the eve of winter, "Maybe we can just not put up the lights this year." And she said, "But the children would be disappointed." Oh yes, the children. For a moment I imagined our laconic cats watching from the windows, noses pressed to glass, dispassionately observing, not a single thought of Christmas lights in their heads or, for that matter, any thought in their noggins. Yet perhaps even such as these desire to look into such things. But, the children. Their disappointment. About that she is probably right, so I reconsidered. Last Sunday afternoon, after a nap, near twilight, on the eve of dinner, after the consolations of church, we tackled the first tree. Last year she had taken down the lights, which is my least favorite part of the job, separating them by tree, coiling them carefully, and storing them away not under the eaves but in the garage. It is a more appropriate place, and she was good to them, and yet, as you will see, the new lodgings bred some resentment. All out, we took to the lower tree. She climbed to the top of a teetering ladder, as I comforted myself by the fact that a fall would be into a soft pine straw bed. Or on me. She wrapped an unlit cord around the treetop, a beginning. Then, done, we plugged it in. Nearly one-half the strand was dark. A resentful strand. She looked at me. I looked at her. A small, silent curse -- no, a pre-curse -- passed between our faces. "Don't cuss," I said. But of course she wouldn't. We smiled slight smiles and let go the curse. "Let's jiggle it," I said, a remedy for most mechanical malfunctions, and we did, and yet we failed to revive it. Reprobate, I thought. We ripped it down. I consigned it to, where else, but eternal damnation. In the end, 90 minutes later, in the dark, we finished one tree. She stood back, smiling. "It looks wonderful, the best ever," she said, unfailingly cheerful. Stepping back to look, I felt a crunch underfoot. Oh, the faulty light string. Sorry, I thought, as I looked down. But I wasn’t. Who started all this anyway? And don’t say Tim Allen. But, the children. In the end, it will all be worth it, I think, their lit faces basking in the window candles, the buzz of electricity humming in their ears, and the starry cheer of a lit lawn lifting their hearts on a cold and rainy day. In the light of it, even the melancholy brighten. Christmas is coming. Continue reading
Posted Nov 24, 2016 at Out Walking
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Happy Thanksgiving everyone! After the meal, after time with family, after time to thank God, it's a great time to plan ahead for attending the upcoming Alathea Concert on New Year's Eve! I've previewed their new Christmas EP, Comfort & Joy, and you can too, right here. I'll be adding it to my Christmas rotation. . . tomorrow! I cannot imagine a better way to close out the year than by hearing the acoustic folk-pop and Appalachian melodies of the female duo that make up Alathea. It's fusion music that they make: Using traditional bluegrass instruments in a modern way, prinicipal singer/songwriter Mandee Radford and band mate Christi Johnson mix it up with guitar, banjo, mandolin, harmonica, and dulcimer, but never in a strictly traditional way. Add Mandee's clear-as-a-bell vocals and Christi's smoky harmonies, and the sound is infectious --- not slick but rootsy. Deep. Alathea.PosterThat depth extends to the lyrics which are rooted in a spiritual perspective that is always pecolating underground. The title of their fourth album, My Roots Grow Deeper, about says it all. It's no wonder that one of the songs off that album, "Hurricane," was a winner in the John Lennon Songwriting Contest. This concert will not be in the house this time but at Peace Presbyterian Church in Cary. We'll be able to stretch out a bit more, and there will still be time to mingle over refreshments in a festive setting. The duo (along with Caedmon's Call drummer Garret Buell) will be sharing songs from their latest Christmas EP (and the former one), new stories of parenthood and otherwise, and their winning humor and smiles. So, avoid the crowds of First Night, pry yourself off the sofa or recliner in front of yet another mix up of pop divas from far away cities, and join us. (You'll still be home way before the ball drops at midnight.) Bring some friends. Close out the year on a good, harmonious note. Purchase tickets here. And, if you are not familiar with Alathea, check them out in the Appalachian Service project video below. Continue reading
The desk at which I sit is in a room at the edge of the continent, suspended over a spit of land that but for intervention might just as easily not have been. Orin Pilkey, a geologist who taught at Duke University, argued passionately over the years that barrier islands should be allowed to move, to erode on the seaward side and accrete on the sound side, God shuffling sand in the sandbox of time. But, thanks to the Army Corp of Engineers, it was not to be. And so, here I am. On one corner of the desk is the slightly askew biography of E.B. White which I just completed in the car today, waiting while my wife shopped. I love to shop with my wife, in the car, or on a bench, with a book, moving in interstate commerce like a man in a dream. There are snippets of conversation and lunch and public displays of affection (hand-holding) interspersed with the threads of Andy and Katherine White's long lives together which I cannot dispel but which float in and out of the stores, like wispy contrails of the past. In the boutiques I am welcome, and yet my eyes glaze over in the face of choices, like the 150 different kinds of tea that a buoyant clerk told us about. I fixate on text - a greeting card, a cookbook, a plaque, a sign - until awakened by my wife's bright smile and movement toward the door. Like Andy and Katherine, we make a wonderful waste of time together until, my 30 minutes up, "I'll feed the meter," I say, and I retreat to the car on a cobblestone side street after sliding a quarter in the slit of the sentry's metallic face, its hiss its only acknowledgement of my ransom. Captive, I read. Otherwise, my desk holds one too-thin billfold which, in Millennial fashion, has barely any cash, as well as a coupon for ten dollars off at the dry cleaners, ragged from where I tore it, but the sight of which and the thought of its slight savings bringing an inner smile. Sad, isn't it, this frugal delight? But, to continue, there are spare rings from our just-hung curtains, hoisted by Paul from New Jersey who has lived here for 23 years and is remodeling his own home and who loves to talk. And there is a dish of quarters and pennies, for laundry or parking meters or just to hold so to enjoy the tactile feel of saving, a Bible, unmarked, because I dislike writing in my books, a devotional, My Utmost for His Highest, in which today Oswald Chambers exhorted me across the corridors of time to "stop listening to the tyranny of [my] individual natural life and win freedom into the spiritual life," and, sideways, buried under E.B. White, a book that I mean to read, entitled Befriend, commanding by its presence, and, awaiting a new home, a bookmark holding the word "ruminate," which, I suppose, is what I do: ruminate. Mull. Ponder. Essay. At the far-right corner of the desk, underneath a dish, which is underneath a pair of reading glasses which someone lately needs, is a copy of William Strunk and E.B. White's The Elements of Style, a masterpiece of brevity, clarity, and wit. (I have four copies, in different places, for backup upon backup.) Though commanding in tone, White once wrote that in writing the book he felt like he was "posing as an expert on rhetoric" when the truth was that he did his own writing "by ear. . .and seldom with any exact notion of what was going on under the hood." And yet somehow the pistons fired in his writing and he drove on, leaving us in the wake of his pure exhaust. Who can ever forget the memorable beginning of Charlotte's Web: "Where's Papa going with that ax?, says Fern to his mother, and with that we see the open road of both peril and promise. It's sad to me that the last book on the desk, Edith Schaeffer's A Way of Seeing, has long been out of print, but then it came out in 1977, nearly 40 years ago. In every circumstance Edith saw the hand of God, and the short ruminations here are, in her words, "seeds for you to plant and watch grow in your own mind" --- a beginning, embryonic and not yet grown. My desk measures three by four feet, a small piece of real estate in a vast universe. Yet the few items here contain worlds. "Where are we going tomorrow?," I say, and we conclude: nowhere. Why should we? I cannot even plumb the depths of twelve square feet of desk. Continue reading
Posted Nov 19, 2016 at Out Walking