Night watches

My soul shall be satisfied … when … I meditate on thee in the night watches. –Ps. 63:5-6

I stumbled through the dark pasture at 5:00 AM with only a single, green, night-vision LED showing the way. The quiet of the night was unbroken by the usual dog alarm. I was straining to hear the lumbering shifting of cows who were out there somewhere in the darkness. Suddenly they were there with at least 8 pairs of glowing eyes all trained on me the intruder into their grassy haven. Fumbling in the dark, I found my spot, trying not to crunch too loudly on those dried and fallen leaves I ordinarily love to rustle. Dried leaves, a crisp fall night, smells of autumn, and the silence of the dead of night all combined to provide a habitation that welcomed me into its dark bosom. The sky was ink black except for every star in the universe peeking through, wanting to be noticed. There, straight above me and standing proud on its handle, was the Big Dipper. I sat in admiration of how it guided southern, run-away slaves who followed their friend, “the drinkin’ gourd,” to safe haven in the north. It is an indelible sign post in the sky that even the most uneducated or simple can follow. Not long after settling in with branches and leaves around me in my freshly made nest, a thin ribbon of light started to dissolve the darkened sky; the hope of a new day.

As the light slowly grew to herald the coming sun, it was almost as if it came as an enemy or intruder to a hundred crows; birds of the day but dark as night. They took to the sky in steadily increasing numbers raising a cacophony of caws and cawing that had a raucous and almost angry sound. Perhaps it was their only way of showing their applause for the dawn raising its curtain after an intermission that had grown interminable. They were sure to spread the word winging their way either singly or in groups, never content to just fly through the air in quiet flight like any respectable bird.

The cows in the pasture were now clearly visible, some slowly rousing themselves, but most content to lie in their beds like any of us when faced with a new day. The grass was gently frosted, proudly showing a hardy claim to life in spite of winter’s warning shots. The burgeoning light occasionally threw sparks of light off a crystalled blade or leaf. The usual whispers of night sounds were suddenly trumped by a chattering squeal not too far off in the distance. It was too irregular for a bird; too high pitched for a dog or coyote. It played upon my imagination as it kept repeating itself in sharp alarm. It then grew silent and was no more. Suddenly my senses were raised to the awareness of living in a world where death stalks us all. Nature is cruel as well as beautiful, and I suspect I was listening to the death throes of some rabbit or small animal caught in the claws of an owl or other predator. And here I was, the ultimate predator, lying in deadly wait for fresh venison for my freezer.

The sun slowly pushed its way over the hill as our little spot joyfully received its warming rays sent out several minutes before from that gigantic nuclear furnace in the sky, some 92 million miles away. My senses were alert for my prey to make its appearance knowing full well how softly and unobtrusively they can insinuate themselves into a staid landscape. While the waiting continued, half-hour after half-hour, I occupied myself with some prayers for church, family, and school. Prayer and quiet, softly combined to fix an iron cord between the human and the divine, arching its way from woods to sky to eternity and beyond, a mystery far greater than all.

Then suddenly, my eye caught movement, and there in front of me was the sight I had longed to see. He had, of course, snuck up on me as if to say, “You need to be watching better than that.” I followed him carefully with excitement welling up within me. But then, as he cleared the brush, I could clearly see his button nubs where antlers will soon grow. “Next year, little fellah, next year.” But still it was a glorious sight to see this beautiful creature filling my sight with cross hairs laid across his heart. Admiration and yet the need to kill and eat; the beauty and the beast within us all.

As the morning spent itself without further success to the hunt, thoughts of success and failure chased each other across my mind. No trophy to take home and yet the time spent sitting, listening, watching, observing, had sharpened my senses to the sticking point. How I would love to drag my students out and sit them in the woods to watch the coming day and see how many wonders they could find, how many thoughts they could capture, and how wonderful a psalm they could write to describe it all. They might also find that time, spent in deliberate slow motion, is not quite so scary after all.

Ghostly Mountains

“As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people….” –Ps. 125:2

Yes, I continue to be amazed at the capability of good people, educated people, even good church people, to self-destruct. All we like sheep have gone astray. It is our nature to wander away from the flock and the good shepherd into places we ought not to go. Heedless of danger, we are drawn this way and that by seemingly small and inconsequential enticements that isolate us from our community and expose us to the merciless elements. In the full light of day the dangers are not apparent, but soon the darkness falls about us as compromise leads to habit and habit to fatal addiction. Then the howl of the night reveals our vulnerability as, alone, we face the predatory beasts who easily have their way with us. And to our naïve surprise we discover we are no match for them. Easy pickings for the prince of darkness. Family ties are no defense. Education of no use. Intelligence checkmated. Experience of years for naught. Sophistication and status irrelevant. We are lambs to the slaughter.

But this is a most dreary and morose theme. I dwell on it occasionally as a check to my pride. I am never so smart or wise that moral disaster cannot overtake me. When I think I stand I need to take heed lest I fall. Yet there is another side to this coin. It is one I need to keep before me as well, and it is nothing but good news. We have a shepherd who neither sleeps nor slumbers and knows each of his flock by name. Indeed, we have a keeper who joys over us with singing (Zeph. 3:17). And that keeper is none other than the Lord God who made heaven and earth. No Hollywood super hero or beneficent, powerful transformer can compare to this eternal force in the heavens who counts us as his own.

Besides my fixation with our own inherent human weakness this summer, I have also been pre-occupied with mountains as well. Being face to face with these giants of the earth inspires a sense of reverence and wonder. So when I read of God surrounding his people as the mountains surrounding Jerusalem, I have some very awesome pictures in my mind stemming from my experiences standing amidst the western range of the great Rocky Mountains. One has to pick one’s approach to these mountains carefully as they are formidable barriers to the traveler. We followed trails discovered years ago; trails that would grant access to the carefully secluded lakes and valleys that thrill the visitor with grand views and inviting landscapes. It is there, in these secluded valleys that campgrounds, inns, and even grand hotels love to make their home. These are dead end roads that proudly declare, “End of the line. No other way in or out.” There is something sweetly comforting about being nestled in one of those sheltered coves. Not even great storms have easy access to these havens ringed about with walls of stone thousands of feet above.

So, too, Scripture declares a haven to the soul. Those who trust in the Lord are as Mount Zion, which cannot be moved, but abide forever. And as the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people. I take great comfort in this as I walk a very narrow path. Yes, I see others falling by the wayside succumbing to a thousand follies. Yet, if I trust and abide in the Lord, I will not fear even if a thousand shall fall at my side, and ten thousand at my right hand. It shall not come near me (Ps. 91:7). My eternal soul is secure and safe. The souls of my children can be secure and safe. So long as I continue to trust in the Lord and dwell under the shadow of His wings, I will not be moved.

This world is hazardous beyond our imaginations or the scope of any government to fix. Yet through a life of faith, we can live surrounded by the most majestic of peaks of God’s care and provision. Oh, that we could catch a glimpse of them now and again.

Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe

Grasping the Moment

All thy works shall praise thee, O Lord; and thy saints shall bless thee. KJV Psalms 145:10

I paused for traffic on this golden day, and watched in wonder as a swarm of leaves showered over me in a sudden frolic. Once dead upon the ground they held little fascination, yet in flight they spilled themselves in utter abandon, giving the moment a sudden delight. Just for me. They held their place for a season of green but now, they danced with the wind in a blaze of color for this one brief bit of time, just for me, and were gone.

There are these rich days of autumn in which the sun breaks through and lights up a few glorious hours of our year in which one tree in fifty suddenly grips our sight with special beauty. It bids us stop and just behold the color yellow rippling through a blue sky in a demonstration only nature can provide. And there, on the ground, lay a perfectly reflective puddle of yellow flakes anchored to a blackened trunk; mute testimony that says this is no illusion.

And just when I think I have seen the perfect tree with the most vivid hue, another bids me on to come and drink in an even more impressive scene. Now, orange and green blend in marbled splendor and surpass the dead of yellow. I cannot but dread that I am not able to take it all in; that there are more and better views just around the corner. And then I must cope with a sun that will not stand still, though I command and command, and in a few brief turns of time changes everything.

That sun, the same early morning companion I witnessed setting the eastern sky afire in red just a few days hence, refused to do my bidding then. I searched in vain for someone to come to my precipice and share in the sky splitting display that came but once in time. I needed a witness to verify the absolute glory of it all, but it would not wait, impatient to get about its task, and so the moment was gone, the masterpiece dissolving like some passing mist.

I witnessed, too, this week, a father bending over his two sons with tender but manly embrace. He spoke words of blessing tinged with words of challenge; instruction that gave their little lives direction and purpose; rails of steel laid with unmistakable affection into the hearts and minds of two young boys that would not fail to guide them hence and return them safe again. I looked at young eyes that were open to receive these assurances of grace with a trust affirmed by love and deep respect. The beauty of that moment held me transfixed until it, too, passed by.

This same day bore witness to the magic of two, new born babies who pulled at deep passions within a mother’s breast. Not just ‘a’ mother, but all mothers who happened on the scene. For some brief days, these little ones have the power to command and compel complete attention and cause many to stand in line for just a chance to hold them. What fascination to see such quiet and mute forms evoke such tender joy. It is the cry to grasp this moment of time that passes all too quickly, echoing memories of children grown and gone before.

I want to cling to all these moments for their raw beauty, but they pass before me as live drama defying all efforts to freeze them in place. I am forced to live in awe of the now and practice gratitude for these passing moments of beauty and grace. May God give me eyes to see all such passing scenes of splendor that touch my sleeves each day and enough joy in my heart that is sufficient to pay the proper obeisance.

Work

“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him;” Genesis 1:27

Occasionally I will entertain myself by imagining odd uses for everyday implements. What would it be like to use an axe as a fly swatter, a tooth brush as a weed wacker, or a golf club for a windshield wiper? You get the idea: the more ridiculous, the greater the entertainment value. All these tools and implements that surround us and infest our closets and garages have specific tasks for which they are designed. And when we misapply them to inappropriate tasks, such as using a lawnmower as a hedge trimmer, we get in serious trouble or look awfully ridiculous at the very least.

Is it fair to think for a minute as to what we were designed for? Christians everywhere ascribe to the simple statement of faith that we are made in the image of God. That should give us some major clues as to what end we are intended. The first thing we learn about God is that in the beginning He created. No doubt about it. Our God is a creative God. A fresh look about us should be sufficient proof for anyone. From the ant to the elephant, we are surrounded by creatures that defy the imaginations of generations of the most gifted of artists or engineers to ever contemplate designing or building, even if they could do such a thing. Bees that turn pollen into honey, creatures (fish) who thrive only under water, and giraffes who seem almost made for the fun of it; all fill us with a sense of wonder, each in their own right. If that is not enough, just look at humankind. Each of us are so alike that modern medicine works consistently well around the world and yet each of us are so different as to make individual identification a fairly simple process. Identical twins are all the more marvelous because of their rarity yet their own mothers quickly become quite adept in telling them apart.

If we are made in the image of God, we are meant to be creative beings as well. God’s handiwork is a hard act to follow, but each of us, in our own unique way, I believe, is wired with an inbuilt need to be a creative being. Look at children. We dare not even think of locking them in a bare room with nothing to do, like cattle in a stall. Even they, as soon as they can crawl and walk, desperately need something to do with their hands and minds, and so we give them toys, books, and balls. Punishment in our society is to confine children to corners or to their rooms while adults are sent to jail cells. Each of these prohibit freedom of choice, movement, and action which we find horrendous. Animals are often treated this way every day and yet very few suffer any ill effects. But fiction and history are rich in stories of men and women who find themselves locked in cells and dungeons who manage to find creative things to do with their minds in a desperate effort to keep their sanity.

Creativity comes in many forms. We tend to think of creativity only in terms of the arts. I insist that it is much broader than that. To be creative is to be productive. Even the assembly line worker can take pride in a pile of any number of widgets created at days end. Plumbers, auto mechanics, coaches, tailors, housewives, all have one thing in common with the artist: they bring, or create, order out of chaos. God moved upon the face of an earth that was without form and void replacing chaos with order and beauty.

We, too, are meant for that end: to bring order out of chaos, to be productive. To seek a life of lottery-winning ease, to become enthralled by our culture of entertainment, to shun work at any opportunity is to thwart the very nature of our created being. It is to use the axe as a fly swatter, etc. Something will come out damaged in the process for sure. Work is our friend; idleness our enemy.

hike report 3/24/08

Hate to put it to you this way but you missed it.

Friend Caleb and I ventured up the Rich Mountain Loop Trail on Friday amidst glorious sunshine and balmy temperatures. There was sufficient exercise going the long way to #6 campsite and plenty of views of both Cades and Tuckaleechy (sp) Coves. We got in early enough to do some reading before dinner. Plenty of firewood and also some good company from Georgia. Some folks on the trail just shy of the campsite said a bobcat had just crossed the trail scowling at them. A pair of does wandered our campsite in the morning looking for salty tidbits. The night sky was gorgeous with a full moon bathing our site. Air was breezy but warm through the night. Sat. was perfection with warm and sunny weather all the way home. Only bummer was that the Lazy Daze Campground ice cream machine is not up and running until Apr. 15.

This trip was about next to perfection as it gets.

Hope to see you next trip.

dogs

“Correct your son, and he will give you rest…(and) delight to your soul.” - Pro. 29:17

I had the pleasure of making two new friends this last weekend. Completely friendly and entertaining, they accompanied me on a camping trip into the heart of the Big South Fork wilderness. As I got to know them, as one naturally soon does with spending a little trail time together, I came to have a deep admiration for the boundless joy that these two showed in embracing the outdoors but also their sense of restraint for the boundaries of others. They didn’t say a lot, but they were well mannered individuals that quickly warmed up to complete strangers. Their names were a bit odd, Sidney and Indy, but they shared the cold, the stream crossings, and the hard ground with not a word of complaint. It was all great fun to them, especially when the scent of a bird crossed their path or when told to fetch a branch or a pug thrown into the woods. They were dogs, after all; Sidney the black lab and Indy, the short-haired pointer.

The two had been carefully chosen as pups by my two separate friends and each reared with careful training for a specific purpose in mind. Sidney was becoming the skilled retriever that a duck hunter depends upon. Indy was being groomed as a bird-hunting dog. Each had been the object of countless hours of careful training by their masters. I was amazed to see them come on command, heel, and lay down at just a single word. Sidney would obediently watch as her pug was thrown into the woods beyond a stream. She waited until the word was given to retrieve. Then she bounded up and brought back her “prey” until told to sit on the other side of the stream. She sat picture-perfect still with the pug in her mouth. On command, she returned the rest of the way and “held” the pug gently in her mouth until given the command to “give.” In camp, each of the dogs would lay obediently on the ground in their assigned positions if they got too carried away by frisky play. At the word “kennel,” they would go back to their respective tents and await further instructions.

I was intrigued by the devotion, obedience, and joy which these man and dog teams exhibited. Questioning revealed the training involved. The effort was considerable. I, being the grandfather, immediately challenged them to exercise similar effort and care in raising their future children. They admitted that it was great preparation. Indeed. There were things to be learned here. They had done many of the right things. Sidney’s owner told of seeking out help from someone who had knowledge and experience in training. Ahh! Lesson number one. When raising sons and daughters, it is wise to not go-it-alone but to seek out the counsel of others who can speak from wisdom and experience. Smart.

What he was told was that there were three things to remember in any training program: care, calm, and consistency. Not bad words to remember in the raising of children, I thought. Care – that tangible and unqualified expression of love and concern for the child that is clearly expressed in countless ways. Calm – that disciplined sense of self-control that communicates order, steadiness, and self-assurance. Consistency – that day after day evenness that produces reliable expectations and uniformity of results.

I also saw these animals imbued with a sense of purpose and given the skills to accomplish these ends. We can’t order up children according to a desired propensity, but we can awake in them a sense of purpose in the grand scheme of the kingdom of God, help them discover their individual giftedness, and equip them for a productive life. The result: great teamwork of parent and child where each becomes a joy to the other and a pleasure to behold. The things you learn on camping trips!

Miracles

“For with God nothing shall be impossible.” - Luke 1:37

My friend, Ron, was surprised on his birthday this last week by myself and a bunch of men from his life. We had assembled to salute this good friend on turning 60, and after the initial commotion and hubbub, we all settled down for some reflective moments. Somewhat overwhelmed at this sudden gathering of male counterparts, Ron fought back his emotions by recounting the words of an old missionary. This missionary had seen numerous miraculous events in his day but recounted that as far as staying power was concerned, the emotions generated by miracles were only good enough to carry believers through for a day. Ron toyed with us and said that this unforeseen gathering and tribute would be good enough to carry him through at least a week.

As we enter the Christmas season, I once again revel in the miracles associated with the Christmas story. I love turning each one over again in my hands and heart like some highly polished and treasured stone. From the mute Zacharias emerging from the holy of holies to Gabriel’s startling words to an obscure, teen-aged girl; from the orchestrating of political timetables so that humble players appeared on the correct spot of age-old prophecies to the dealing with the troubled spirit of Mary’s suitor; from sending foreign star-gazers an unmistakable call to embark across a desert to the use of common shepherds as eyewitnesses; from miraculous deliverance from sure death to the startling pronouncement of Simeon when he sees an unknown babe of unknown parents: all of it warms and excites my imagination. Christmas is a celebration of a whole litany of miracles whose timing is so precise, whose imagery is so rich, and whose extravagance is cloaked in such humble terms that it pulls at the heart of even the most stolid of skeptics. If I were not a believer, and I read in earnest the Christmas story, I think that I would surely want it to be true even if I would not be able to admit it. There is no story ever written to compare.

But miracles do not wholesale believers make nor do old miracles hold us to the straight and narrow way. Jesus found greater faith in Samaritans and foreigners than among his own who witnessed his power. Peter, eye-witness to a host of miracles, so quickly denied his Lord when heat was applied. The word to the rich man was that even if one were to rise from the dead, his relatives would not believe.

The Jews sought a sign, a miracle, above all, while the Greeks hungered after rational thinking. In the end, neither are fully adequate to lead us home. Indeed, blessed are they that have not seen and yet believe. Nor can one think his way to God. The All-Wise has confounded the wisdom of the sages using the cursed cross, the instrument of death for the worst of sinners. But yet, I am thankful for the miracles. They may not be the sole means of sustaining faith, the irrefutable evidence of absolute truth, but yet they are like beautiful stars in an otherwise dark sky. They speak of mystery, other distant worlds, things beyond my comprehension; galaxies hung in space, far, far away just to provoke my sense of wonder. When life grows commonplace and anxieties overwhelm, I fly to a clear night sky to assure myself that my world is truly bigger than what I can touch and feel. There are great mysteries afoot, unseen forces orchestrated since the beginning of time, weaving patterns of infinite beauty and majesty. What we see are pinprick glimpses of the eternal speaking truth in flickers of ancient light.

The season of miracles has begun. Soak them up, revel in them, and celebrate their beauty, for all too soon we face the light of day when stars grow dim and work calls us to a world of care.

Cades Cove

Well, I tried to tempt all or some of you last weekend. No one could manage to break free plus the fact that they still are banning all back country fires in the Smokies turned me from going overnight solo to doing a "book tour" of Cades Cove. Fall is a great hiking time but I don't like the idea of going to bed at 7:30 unless I am really whipped. One needs a fire and some good company.

I enjoyed some great music going to and from the cove, got to bike leisurely through the Cove, stopped along the way and worked myself through a short book I wanted to read, and had a serendipitous moment at the Missionary Baptist Church. I attached a copy of that interlude which I wrote up for this week's Thurs. News. Not a bad day, all in all.

There are some great unexplored areas of the cove which offer sunny hillsides, tranquil pastures, and peaceful reflection. I aim to explore more of it over time as I can.

“I will sing unto the Lord as long as I live: I will sing praise to my God while I have my being.” –Ps. 104:33

My instructions to our teachers were explicit: come back to school after home study week with a fresh love for a new book, an old friend, or an eternal truth. To make sure I practiced what I preached, I set off last Sat. morning intending on a book tour of Cades Cove. I packed a lunch, a couple of books, and took off on my bike through the Cove looking for sunny hillsides and quiet nooks.

My first stop was at the off road Primitive Baptist Church. I could not help but notice the sweet sound of singing coming from inside and was instantly drawn in. There I found a dozen or so family members, young and old, singing the old hymns of the faith up in front in rich harmonies. I sat down and joined in. They had come in and discovered the wonderful acoustics of the old church in its delightful simplicity. Wooden floors, wooden walls, and wooden ceiling joined together to breathe a special magic into this little impromptu choir, much the way a well-made violin resonates the sound of the strings and spills it forth in rich fashion. They were rediscovering and reliving the musical heritage of its original occupants who knew full well the delight of acapella singing. Accompanying the thrill of hearing the sound of intermingling voices and old familiar tunes, I delighted in the instant bond of connection with these perfect strangers. They not only knew the old songs of Zion, they loved them. It made my heart sing to hear young people suggesting this song and then that one with the genuine zest that only comes in knowing the truth they proclaim.

Another couple wandered in and joined us. His voice was powerful and strong and full of zeal for the task at hand. It stoked our enthusiasm all the more. Someone suggested we gather in a circle to get a better blend. We did, and the songs continued to roll. Visitors piled in and many sat or joined in as well. We rejoiced with each new title that was pulled up from memory in which we again discovered common ground. I take credit for suggesting “It is well with my soul” which proved to be the highpoint as the inspired voices hurled themselves into its swelling words of praise. The place boomed. I couldn’t decide if I would rather be in the midst or be standing out in the parking lot to hear the praise ring from this historic structure against the beautiful backdrop of mountains and sky.

All total, we sang for well over an hour. We couldn’t pull ourselves away. No one wanted to leave. It was one of those serendipitous moments that becomes a treasured memory. Later, I joined these memories with the search I had made of the East Tennessee Rationalists Society website. They are a curiosity of mine and while visiting my children who are fully wireless, I took the time to wander through their comings and goings. They have a photo of Rodin’s “The Thinker” on their standard. Evidently they do not know that “The Thinker” is not engaged in secular, rational thought but is part of a larger frieze inspired by Dante’s “Inferno” where he is pondering his eternal fate between heaven and hell. For a society trying to explore alternatives to supernaturalism, I find it quite amusing. They are in earnest, however, and are steeped in intellectual skepticism of the highest order. Altogether, my week ended in sincere empathy for them. Theirs is a dry and barren faith. Atheism has no music that can stir the soul like a dozen voices in a simple, country church. There simply are no songs for unbelief. How truly sad. On the other hand, it is said that the early Methodists out sang their enemies. May we not neglect the power of song to propel the joy of the Kingdom deep within our souls and to a dry and thirsty generation.

No Child Left Inside

“But whereunto shall I liken this generation? It is like unto children sitting in the markets, and calling unto their fellows, and saying, We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you, and ye have not lamented.” - Matthew 11:16-17

In speaking to the people of his day, Jesus pulled up an image well known to every adult person: that of children role-playing in the streets, acting out and mimicking adult behaviors in group situations. Way before Fischer-Price or Sony Play Stations, child’s play involved other children and the great outdoors. It was the privilege and passion of children to run the neighborhood streets, walkways, yards, driveways, bushes, and vacant lots. Who would even want them in the house?

Not yet 5 years old in 1863, Theodore Roosevelt’s family moved to the countryside for the summer where this future president discovered “the ‘enthralling pleasures’ of building wigwams in the woods, gathering hickory nuts and apples, hunting frogs, haying and harvesting, and scampering barefoot down long, leafy lanes.” “Teedie,” as he was nicknamed, soon became the leader of the children’s play and improvised countless stories. His sister, Corinne recalled tales “about jungles and bold, mighty and imaginary fights with strange beasts . . . there was always a small boy in the stories . . . who understood the language of animals and would translate their opinions to us.” At the age of nine, ‘Teedie’ began the Roosevelt Museum of Natural History out of his bedroom and back hall. The washer-woman complained, “How can I do the laundry with a snapping turtle tied to the legs of the sink?” The good-natured cook declared, “Either I leave or the woodchuck does!” referring to a carcass she was ordered to boil for 24 hours.*

All of this child’s play has become an endangered species today and verges on extinction. Central heat and air brings blessed relief from the heat but imprisons us within our houses. Scenes of neighborhood children romping through backyards and playing under trees have all but disappeared. My memories of neighbors gathering in the cool of an outdoor shade tree around the ubiquitous back-yard swing are very distant. My congressman included a concern about “indoor children” in his newsletter. Seems that the Washington Post has run a lengthy article reporting both the physical and mental problems that come when young people spend too much time staring at TV screens or playing video games. “Concerns about long-term consequences affecting emotional well-being, physical health, learning disabilities, and environmental consequences—have spawned a national movement to ‘leave no child inside.’” This has even become the subject of some Capitol Hill and state legislative hearings.

Our children’s clubhouse sits idle now, a nesting place for spiders and junk. But our kids have many fond memories of tea parties downstairs, walnut wars fought from upstairs, trips down the fire pole, and campouts in the loft. It was a kid-magnet for the neighborhood, a launching pad for friendships and adventures, and headquarters for plots and counter-plots. Of course, the near-by overgrown lot was also a real plus. It became riddled with trails and foxholes where many a battle was waged against the forces of evil. All of this was horribly unsafe, of course. Who knows what creatures inhabited the woods though I think they all evacuated quickly at the sound of children. And the Nord-mobile was a 3 wheeled rattle trap that was guaranteed to scare both parent and child as it noisily careened down hills and across yards. Improvised from the front end of a small bicycle and the cast iron wheels of an old welding cart, it makes even me wonder today if I should have been arrested for child endangerment. But oh, what fun. “No child left inside.” I am not much one for crusades, but I kind of like the sound of this one. Think about it.

Colorado Adventure

Our team of six returned Thursday evening from a successful adventure into the high Rockies. Bruce, Phil, Evan, Wes, Jim, and I ventured some 35-40 miles over 7 days into the Eagle's Nest Wilderness Area just west of Denver. We encountered wildlife galore this trip as never before with sitings of mountain goat, mountain sheep, moose, mountain lion plus some smaller species including pica, leeches, and an unusually large species of salamander. The weather cooperated famously with light afternoon showers on only 3-4 days. The last night featured a mountain electrical storm in all its glory (ka boom, ka boom) with a real tent-floating downpour. One of our crew chilled to the warning level so we built a fire in spite of the ban because of the cold and wet made it possible, nay, necessary. That was our first campfire at 10,000 feet, and it inspired a precious sharing time together. Fishing closed out the week in famous form as we had a trout feast after the deluge. All who were up to it and wanted to summit had two experiences during the week. We all stayed well and strong, and we marvelled at God's provision both through the bounty of nature and the random acts of strangers who crossed our paths at the most opportune time.

Eskimo Run #4 report

There was some on-again, off-again hesitation about this weekend for fear of rain. But then there was the chance of snow so off we went. We ended up going to the Big South Fork area starting near Slave Falls and camping out in the vicinity of Jake's Place (actual location held secret). Sat. was gorgeous with everyone shedding clothing. 9 guys ended up making the trip and a good time was had by all. Most of the crew made it all the way up to the twin arches. Rock formations and views along the way were great. Fires were awesome with a well supplied stock of firewood in 20 minutes within 50 ft of fire pit. Evan's vegetable soup was a hit and all 1.5 gal. went to good use. The evening was fairly balmy and overnight temp. was around 30. Near midnight, a slight drizzle started up but then turned to light dusting of snow by morning. Around 9:00 AM, the snow started in again in more earnest with a total buildup in the back of my truck of about 1.5 " by 1:00 PM. Going out was gorgeous, hiking in the snow, seeing the mixture of green, grey, and white throughout the forest. Jim and I returned home by 3:30. The rest stayed on to do some repelling off of the cliffs near Slave Falls. They returned safely at 6:00.
This marks the 4th consecutive Eskimo Run where snow was encountered either on the ground or fresh falling. Not a bad record. Eat your heart out if you missed it. See you next year.