Prayers for a son

What a night!  I sang with Michael Card in concert... well, he sang but invited the audience to sing his chorus.  Immanuel, our God is with us....

But what brought tears for me was his wonderful tribute to the man who changed the course of his life. Michael went to college to study forestry and "count birds".  But when he first heard Dr. William Lane teach on the Old Testament, he said, "I just wanted to be that man when I grew up."  And he changed his major to Biblical Studies and over the last thirty years has written over three hundred songs, many very familiar to those who follow Jesus and contemporary music. And all informed by his extensive biblical study.

So it was a professor- at a then small state college in Kentucky, who by his example and love for his students, changed the life of a forester into a song writer.  Dr. Lane preached at Michael Card's Christmas wedding  and his inspiring thoughts became the song lyrics we sang tonight.  A song many know and sing at the holidays, all these years later.

Immanuel

A sign shall be given a virgin will conceive

A human baby bearing undiminished deity

The glory of the nations a light for all to see

That hope for all who will embrace His warm reality

Immanuel our God is with us

And if God is with us who could stand against us

Our God is with us

Immanuel

For all those who live in the shadow of death

A glorious light has dawned

For all those who stumble in the darkness

Behold your light has come

Immanuel our God is with us

And if God is with us who could stand against us

Our God is with us

Immanuel

So what will be Your answer? Will You hear the call?

Of Him who did not spare His son but gave Him for us all

On earth there is no power there is no depth or height

That could ever separate us from the love of God in Christ

Immanuel our God is with us

And if God is with us who could stand against us

Our God is with us

Immanuel

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoJHYgicA8M

So why the tears? 

Looking very... professorial, perhaps? 

Tomorrow my son will defend his doctor of philosophy dissertation, another step to his desired goal to be a college professor. He wants to speak into the lives of young people- those who think they have their lives planned out and to those who can't think beyond the lies their past would have them believe.  Scott wants to be a "Dr. William Lane" even though, most likely, he's never heard of him.  His heart is to teach students to think carefully and love deeply.  To be foresters who write music or musicians who remember when they wanted to count birds. To change lives. 

On social media, it seems to be acceptable to post adorable pictures of grandchildren or our babies. Somehow it feels unseemly to publicly celebrate the accomplishments of our adult children and I certainly appreciate that.  But Scott texted the family and we responded with,"We'll be praying!"

I am as proud as any parent of my children and the adults they are becoming, the spouses they have introduced to the circle and the knowledge that they will open their hands to whoever else God brings into our family. Especially the ones who come in tiny packages! And of course, now I will have to give the rest of the amazing kids their day in the sun. 

  

Scott's the tall one. The one who's about to be too cool for the rest of us.
How quickly those years flew by!

Today, I want to say to Scott, 

 Immanuel .....our God is with us- 

And if God is with us 

who could stand against us

Our God is with us

Immanuel !!!

God is with you. He is with you tomorrow as you defend your work. He is with you as you set out on the next stage of the journey. He is with you as you become, more and more, a man after his heart. 

And for the rest of us- pray for Scott tomorrow! 

God is with us- Immanuel! 

The Table of Remembrance

I took my mother to a Maundy Thursday service at a local church. It's a traditional time to remember the Last Supper but for us nonconformist Protestants, the service varies. Wildly. I started to say widely but I do think wildly is the better choice.

We went forward twelve at a time to share in a simple communion service. I wish I had a great story of a wild Maundy Thursday messy foot washing or living last supper where someone fell asleep.  It's fitting- if we are remembering the same night, the disciples fell asleep after their meal. That was after the last supper they would ever have with the teacher they adored.

Did they know it was their last supper?

Tonight this pastor had us close our eyes and think of a past meal. Where were we? Describe the room, the food, the conversation. All wonderful prompts to savor again a shared feast.  I wanted to remember a time that featured my mother's extraordinary pie crusts.  But as hard as I tried, it was the image of a picnic bench by a river that finally wrestled my attention into submission.

I remembered not the sound of family conversations but the noise of city traffic and our frantic silence.  I don't see a familiar dining room or well worn table but instead, a city picnic bench, along a sidewalk that winds along a wide river.  The dinner is from a local grocer with unusual and healthy raw salads and a soup without meat.  It is spring and once again, Washington D.C. has burst with cherry blossoms. They float down around us like pale pink feathers.  It's a warm April day, near Easter.  It is the day we have been given of the diagnosis of cancer. 

In her meditation, tonight's pastor referenced a quote by Kathleen Norris that I will have to paraphrase. Ms. Norris' thought was that any sharing of food points to the final meal. The sharing of bread and wine, or pizza and beer also can be a reminder of what we all can anticipate. Not the Last Supper but the wedding feast of the Lamb.  We gather around the table of remembrance over and over- to refresh the story in our minds, to ponder the sacrifice. And when we ponder our stories,  there is often a table, or a picnic bench, in those stories as well.

My mother remembered a particular Easter spread we shared with her extended family and if I thought long enough, I could probably reconstruct the foods in my head. Jello salad with shredded carrots or perhaps crushed pineapple- molded into fluted domes and perched on a single leaf of iceberg lettuce. Scalloped potatoes and the inevitable ham, which if served at this particular cousin's home, was festooned with maraschino cherries ringed with a pineapple slice.  There would be sweet potato casserole and green beans and my mother's glorious pies.

Just writing that brings back murmurs of conversation, the feel of hefty amber glasses with their fancy diamond pattern, the clink of company silverware, the nervous energy of our hostess, the snores of satisfied men an hour later.  I remember.  Those people come alive again and I am back in childhood- one of the sweet memories. A moment to savor.  

And another meal to anticipate. For it wasn't the disciples' last supper with Jesus after all.  And it wasn't the last time I will break bread with all the people I love, who no longer live in this reality. The glory of Easter is the remembrance that this life is temporary. These meals are over and done so quickly.  But we can remember.


And in that memory, we can look forward with joy.

Now we see things imperfectly,

like puzzling reflections in a mirror,

but then we will see everything with perfect clarity.

All I know now is partial and incomplete,

but then I will know everything completely,

just as God now knows me completely. 

I Corinthians 13:12

Walking in the light of his presence

I occasionally dip my toe into the identity of "writer".... and pray no one asks, "Have I read your work?"
"Probably not."
End of conversation.

So why is it that the Muse that often comes and smacks me in the head, holds a camera, not pen and paper?  I don't introduce myself as "photographer".

But when I wake and the South Dakota light is moody, overcast and sullen, I'm overcome by the urge to capture it. Perhaps because the sun is such a constant here, although I do jump in my car and chase sunset light of summer.  Whatever the cause, my Muse caused me to miss church and head for Pe Sla or Reynolds Prairie or the "place in between".

Many First Nations peoples consider the Black Hills to be the spiritual center of the universe. Various spiritual traditions reflect the belief that certain phenomena in the world, such as mist – which is neither air nor rain; dreams – which are not waking or sleeping; and mistletoe -which is neither tree nor plant, have special spiritual meaning. These are the "in between things" that are worthy of special reflection. 

http://www.borderlandsranch.org/about.htm

So I go to the place between sunshine and dark, between moody and reflective, between God and me. And I take photos.   I return home with freezing fingers and the hunger of creative anxiety; make a fire and warm oatmeal. It may be April but three inches of fresh moisture lays on the ground.

And I find a bookmark, given by a friend:

"Happy are those who hear the joyful call to worship,

for they will walk in the light of your presence, Lord."

Psalm 89:15

I drove around the lake....

By the cattails. Frozen in place, waiting for spring. 

The road to worship isn't always the super highway. 

An the journey isn't desired to be traveled alone.
This is Linda's place.

She lives on the edge of Pe Sla and fights to protect it from development. 

 I leave her home, snug in a small valley, and climb into the wind.

Timeless

Empty; and full of peace. 

Here a lone tree is noticed. 

My drive took me past the lake and Linda's house, then across the edge of the place in between.  Now the road follows a stream as it twists through a canyon.



Trees are abundant here.  The camera is unable to distinguish the fragile from the background. Do we see what is truly there in our images?

Then I am back on the smaller prairie on the other side of the canyon.  Here man has tamed the land and guards his own. But even a cattle guard is soft and thoughtful in white. 

I'm home. Refreshed and inspired to write, work on some poems, express myself. pray, worship. It doesn't always look like this but worship doesn't have to be what I always thought. What I expect and search for.  Somedays, it's enough to follow my heart and walk in his presence.  Or drive somewhere and imagine; capture images and ponder.

 Now a warmer wind softly brings promise of spring;  snow melts in a gurgle.  It is a sweet Sabbath.

Prairie art.

And this is just for fun!

Bonndocks or Blessing?

It was snowing at my house again.... it's April, who knows what the weather will be. But I was in no rush to return from Colorado so I wandered through Nebraska.

The plan was to see the great and grand migration of sandhill cranes.  As a child in Alaska, I remember stalking the cranes. Crawling on our bellies in hay stubble, over frozen ground to see how close we could get to these gangly but appealing birds. We just knew they were BIG and came each spring to feed on leftover grain in our fields.  Here's a nice visual of my childhood home with the birds.
http://www.solsticelight.com/aks/gallery/journal/alaska/0423/migratory_birds.htm

And in the spring flocks of these birds fly in from the south and stop for a grand feed in the Sandhills of Nebraska. The North Platte River has been hand dredged to keep it ankle deep on a three and a half foot crane. Farmers leave corn in the field.  Millions of cranes show up. Or so they say.  I saw a dozen. And couldn't get near the river.   So rather than making a sensible decision to drive another hour east to the Capital of the Crane World, Kearney, NE.; I drove north.  Look on a map- there's not much between North Platte (the town) and Valentine, Nebraska.  About halfway I said,"If You provide a hotel, I'll get off the road. It is way too dark and way to empty for me to be driving around late at night."  And He did. Thedford has a lovely Roadside Inn. With two phone books in my bedside stand.



These two phone books cover the same area- nineteen counties in northwestern Nebraska.  They are each about 1/2 inch thick.  This is a thinly populated part of the world!

So the next day I drove north and west toward South Dakota, through the heart of an area called the Sandhills.  These are giant sand dunes- not high, just flattened in rolls and humps and held together by a variety of grasses. I learned that 85% is "intact natural habitat"- it's never been farmed. Virgin territory.

We love virgin or old growth forests- they are cool and captivating with giant trees. Well, I'm captivated by big, open empty spaces.  I just follow my nose down open roads and feel small in a big world. It's lovely.

 A world where: Two lane highways turn into single lane blacktops, single lane blacktops turn into gravel, gravel turns into dirt trails, & dirt trails become cow trails. Oh, "The Good Life."

~Cherry County

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Nebraska-Sandhills-Lifestyle/230141917099855

Where does this road go?

 

It's nice not to be alone out here....

Tire tracks!  I'm not the only one.
This is a public road.
Really

Water-
revealed by cottonwood trees, captured by wind. 

There are some roads I don't follow.... a few.There's just not enough time!

Back to the main road.

See- here's the sign. 

And a sign of what's to come- a single yucca seed left behind from last fall. 

I left my car to check out....

This.......

When they cut a road in the hill, it shows it's true form.
Sand

A sign of life?
An egg, perhaps a potato?

No- rocks caught up in the sand,  tumbled into smooth organic forms.

And the every rolling land around me.
Empty?  I don't think so. 

The other wonder of wandering through the Sandhills is the trains. I'm becoming fascinated with trains and I found myself driving parallel to trains for several hours.

This is the old two lane road.
At some point in time, this was a very slow trip.

Why was it abandoned?
When?

But now, it's super highway!
Well, not really.
But it's a good reminder that someone did this trek really slow
....in a  Conestoga wagon. 

I will give some advice. Do not believe a map that shows twenty miles between lakes as a road with any straight sections. I maneuvered my car in large, lazy grand slalom course between shallows lakes covered with waterfowl.

And someone tried to plow up the land....
Now they carefully manage cattle and keep the surface intact.
Remember the Dustbowl. 

Beauty in the small details. 

I wandered into Chadron- pronounced Sha'dron and bought food at the first health food coop I'd seen since Colorado. And resisted the local library book sale.  Instead of turning north and going straight to Hot Springs, SD and home, I went the long, scenic route. Why not?

Nebraska has it's own Badlands! Who knew?

And railroad cars. 

Boxcars strung out like squared beads, gleam metallic against the curve, the throat of golden hills.
Double tracks twist through a valley.

Boxcars gleam gold against bronze interrupted by red, gold, red, red, gold as they click past in the afternoon sun.  Boxcars of coal meet me and race away; while I race with the empties. Another gulp of coal to move.

And engines trusting trestles. 

I cannot possibly take enough pictures to show how big and empty, yet fertile and life giving this place is. These are my thoughts as I wandered. Random yet connected.  Like the land. 

A solitary brown paper bag- trash? But also a graceful dance with the wind as the bag twirls like a ballerina. 

 Shallow ponds with ducks and geese pausing on their flights. 

Patches of white snow against golden grass.

Browned hills stand behind rows of cottonwoods. 

The prairie giants reveal the water flow beneath the surface, hidden but for the trees. 

Dead tress,

white limbs highlighted against blue sky.

Golden eagle glares at me from his perch, a sycamore branch jutting above my road.

Hawk soars motionless, waiting for movement below. 

Relentless wind erodes fence posts   

into driftwood soldiers, stalwart. 

Single swan floats on the surreal blue of a shallow pond, a glide of pure white. 

Hundreds of windmills silhouetted agains sky and hill. 

Cattle make the only breaks in the hills, paths  

as they abandon the windswept heights 

and retreat to water and shelter. 

 Rain follows the animal tracks, furrows dig deep into the pristine sides. 

Dips and turns of valley roads

Mailboxes, 

"Seven Miles to the Henn Ranch"

Do they care for one another well here or are you just expected to be tough?

Corrals with chutes, unused. 

How do they load cattle now?

Barns, nestled in valleys,

Red roofs. Why always red? 

Gray, warm- grandmother barns.

Cozy.

On the valley floor, 

coils of blue green netting enclose

 last year's hay into huge rolls, cut like a jelly roll. 

A prairie cinnamon roll, waiting for a smear of fresh butter. 

Rolls of hay rests, 

 nourishment for another winter. 

 Yucca spikes against the sky, 

betray lack of water,

Pods are open, empty,

Seeds are dropped and waiting for spring rains,

To start all over again. 

If you're still reading, I'm amazed.  I dictated much of those musings into my phone as I drove knowing if I stopped to capture each image, I'd still be out there.  All good things- and most blog posts do come to an end. And this is it.

Bless you. Slow down and see your world. It's far from empty.