Nothing to See

I went for a run at Esquimalt Lagoon, and I've been going there pretty often lately. Apart from some traffic and the obvious looming development, it's a breathtaking spot. Roughly to the east, you can see the Victoria lights dance and shimmer along the Juan de Fuca Strait. South is Washington and the wildly rugged Olympics. To the west, the setting sun. I love to come here on my way home from the office and try to time it so that I finish my run for the sunset. There is a great high spot nearby. Though it looks over a rock quarry's scraped landscape, the sun descends over distant, wooded rolling hills. This resting sun envelops the Olympics with pinks and reds. Most impressive are the partly cloudy nights. As the light from the sun passes through and around the shapes and forms of these cotton clusters, a spectacular abstract water color is displayed in the sky.

As I finished this most recent run, I grabbed my camera and tripod to catch this night's picture show. While walking to my overlook (Ok, it's not mine), I passed an older couple. Seeing my gear, one said with a smile, "Looks like someone is going to take some pictures." The other added, "You're not going to get much of a picture tonight. There are too many clouds, it's too late, and the sun is basically down."

"We'll see about that," I thought.

In part, they were right. For many, it would not have been a spectacular sunset. Yet, it was still another sky-show not worth missing. Muted, more subtle and harder to see, the colors were still there.

This couple's response reminded me of the many times I assume and subsequently avoid something. Something that could have been profound and beautiful. All it takes in life to experience beauty and something new is openness and expectation. I guess you could call that hope. Not hope in something specific. That's expectation, and expectation can disappoint. Yet, hope is stepping into life's ups, downs, and run-of-the-mills assuming that something of beauty will be found. We make no qualification, but hope with eyes wide open. And there is God all along.

"So, we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."

The Potter

I was talking to my friend and colleague, John, today about Lent. One of his upcoming messages will be about God as our potter, the One who is working to shape and mold us into new creations. Much work and effort has been spent in acquiring a pottery wheel to use as a visual reminder during the Lent season. This got me thinking about my brief stint as a potter back at University.

First, a little background to my days with clay-mucked hands. During my freshman year, I pledged a fraternity. As was the custom during the 3 or 4 month initiation, we pledges were required to wear a suit and carry our fraternity paddles (another story) once each week. The joy and pride I felt walking around the campus in a suit as a newbie at universtiy was something I have never felt since. I hope I never will. There was a certain and very cool look on campus, and suits were not part of the wardrobe. This, in part, was why we were made to wear them. Pledging was mostly a time to humilate and create insecurity of those wishing to join a fraternity. There was no reason for the "abuse", other than it made the full-fledged, once pledged brothers to feel good about themselves. At some point following enough humilation through this and other creative venues, we pledges were sworn into the fraternity.

During this season of pledging I had a class in pottery. I saw it as an easy class to take amid my many other challenging ones. It met once a week and was held in a little art studio on the far side of campus. The very far side of campus. Can you guess what day of the week pottery was? Suit day for the fledgling pledges. With my tie swaying in the wind and my paddle in tow, I would make the trek to class. There was one true art student enrolled. The rest? Football players. Their football season was so intense that they tended to pick easy classes like pottery. I smiled and secretly thought, "I hope there are enough pottery wheels for these guys. I don't want to be one."

The fraternity's goal of insecurity, fear, and humiliation was working in fine form.

In spite of this, I loved the class. It was one of the most natural and enjoyable times of my life. The creative process brought joy I can still feel.

I remember the clay. It was moist, moldable earth. It held fast in one piece, yet every touch of the finger created change and new form. It became a part of your hands. The clay had no life of its own other than what you offered.

At the wheel, it was like being lost in another world. I huddled over it, and my legs surrounded it. My hands, wet with moist and runny clay, formed this spinning lump of grey matter. Once the shape took life, you could barely take your hands from it until it was completed, lest it fall. My thumb pressed into center and index finger on outside. Together, they were brought upwards, in and out.

My suit meant nothing to me at this point. So what if I was fit for a formal party? Let the world around me drift away as I enfolded myself in this creative process.

I delighted in my little works of art. Each piece was different, yet lovely and beautiful. Creating was joy and the result, even moreso.

I wonder how much I am like that piece of clay...limp, pliable, and moldable? How much do I recognize the direct, personal and intimate connection the Potter has in shaping me? How much do I recieve the Potter's delight in me, his created work of art? Or, in others as different, yet equally lovely works of art?

Those little works of art I made are gone. I'm not sure where they ended up. Yet, my joy in creating them caused a treasure to be stored in my heart until I die. We are like those jars, and we will fade away or crumble. God's joy in us will not, and that joy is stored in our hearts as a treasure now and always.

Mt Cain - The SUV

I've always wanted an SUV, some kind of 4x4. As a kid it was a jeep, and I routinely begged and pleaded Dad for one. He never bit, something about Mom's neck and back not being able to take the bumpy ride. So, I attempted to look cool in a light blue VW Beetle during high school.

The desire for an SUV has never left me. I must confess envy for every time I have sat in a friend's off-road vehicle. I came really close to buying one recently. It was my dream, an old Wagoneer. I checked the book value against my current car, and it was a near match. I could sell my little green car for this thing and break even. Yet, realizing the gas guzzling capacity of the thing, not to mention the potential for hidden mechanical problems, common sense won out.

I'm not sure why I haven't bought one, yet. I've had the cash and jobs that could support one. Good deals on cars have always come my way. There just never has been one that would look cool and perform well down those abandoned roads. Bottom line, it usually has come down to not feeling good about using all that gas.

When my environmental ethics are low and tempted, I still dream. They seem to get real low and tempted when I'm on the back roads looking for a good fly fishing spot. As I carefully meander and barely manage my four wheels around the numerous pot holes and ruts, the 4x4's drive by me with a sneer and a trail of dusty debris. "Someday...someday," I say to myself.

That dream became a reality for me this past weekend, if only for the weekend. Along with a few other adults, we took a number of youth to Mt Cain for a ski trip. I rented a van to carry some of the kids. With all the paper work filled out, I waited for the van. While I sat, the clerk came out. "Hey, would you mind if we gave you an Expedition instead of the van? It would really help us out. We could quickly redo your paperwork."

"Ok." Not much thought needed on that one. We really did need it given the roads we were to travel, and I saw this as a real gift from God. I wondered and prayed how we were going to go up the Mt Cain dirt, snow and ice road in a loaded-down family van. Carefully, I assumed. Would we even make it?

What a blast. Not only did I sit at the level of long-haul truckers, we had every technical nicety in the thing. Plush, roomy, comfy, and able to defy any road or environmental condition on our journey. The best of all worlds combined in one fine looking vehicle. I was even tempted to scratch off the rental car sticker on the bumper just so it would look MINE.

There was barely a worry as we powered our way up the hills, over the rocks, and through the snow. Back home, I couldn't leave the mountains behind and hit nearly every curb and hole in every road. Ok, maybe not every curb. Actually, very few. Well, maybe just one by accident given its enormous size. Yes, I was exceedingly safe given that I'm a dad and had with me the kids of other dad's and mom's.

We unloaded and got ready to return it. As I put it into drive and left the side walk, my friend and co-pilot for much of the trip reminded me of the commercials for these things: Mom's driving over curbs in mall parking lots in a mad dash to get the best parking spaces. Surely, he was not implying I had become one of them.

Surely, not. Yet, it got me thinking. I really believed that this was God's provision for the trip, but was it also a tool to teach me something? As I carefully travel the backroads on my weekend outings, always hungry for the vehicle to take me there faster, have I in fact been experiencing something profound and good? If I had always had my dream of owning a back-road beast, my enjoyment would only have been in the conquering, the speed, and the lack of a care.

I dropped the thing off. It was fun, but it was just for once. I look forward to going back to the gravel and forest roads with a vehicle not quite made for them. I think I'll enjoy the experience just a little more. I won't be pining away for that 4x4 any longer. I think I'll enjoy that it is a gift to go on those roads at a pace that is mindful of my shocks. I will see more and won't be tempted to conquer but rather to experience. I'll certainly have time to pray and be present with God in this style of travel.

Let the others pass me and sneer as they do it. I'll be smiling at the gift it is to slowly see and feel more intimately what God has made.

Michelle and I once drove from Wisconsin to Chicago. I don't even remember what kind of car it was. The skies had just released a deep blanket of snow. We drove with care, and we got to our destination in one piece. During the 3 hour drive, we counted 25 or so vehicles that slid off the road and into the ditch.

All were SUV's.

Leaving the Boat

The storm blew like a freight train building speed on loose tracks. Inside the shelter of our home, you could feel it vibrating through the walls. Through our bedroom window, you could see this wind-train on the tops of the firs as they huddled, bent and occasionally broke. You couldn't help but go outside to see if this was just a winter rain or if there was something greater and more profound happening.

Falling asleep, you knew that by the time you woke, the power would be cut somewhere on the south end of the Highlands. The trees down there must be of the same mind as they prepare to sacrifice their limbs. A storm rolls through, and you know exactly where you will wait in your car while the workers attempt to raise the poles and install new lines.

It wasn't me who made the first flush. Oops, no more water for that toilet. Er, and no more water anywhere. First task, get some firewood and restore warmth to the house.

Warmth came quickly through our woodstove. Our light-weight propane stove made it feel like we finally moved up in the world as we heated water by "gas" and not electricity. Hot tea, cold cereal and milk, a few pieces of fruit. Even without the ability to make our typical hot and big breakfast, we had enough resources for a solid meal.

The morning air outside was full of glory. A light mist came from some distant and unseen cloud though the sky reflected deep blue. The sun occasionally broke through empty wooded spaces to light and raise steam from the road as we walked and explored.

This power outage brought some unique and clever twists to an otherwise regular morning. Yet, the pleasure it brought lasted only three hours, and the memory of the previous night's storm in all her majesty had faded. I needed to get ready to go to the office. Enough of this fun and simplicity.

How much do I take for granted? I couldn't wash my hands. My hair looked like Don King's and needed a little water taming. Wiping the counter or any cleaning was out of the question. Vacuuming the dog-hair-clusters in preparation for evening guests was not likely. More importanly, we were down to our last few logs, enough heat for about 3 more hours. "Just how fast are the BC Hydro guys working?"

I gathered myself and my things, and I left for the office. No personal preparation. I would get by and so would others standing in my presence.

The outside of me is filled, taken care of and accounted for. The smallest and most insiginificant details have become requirements, expectations, and necessities. Too much to do and too many things gathered around me leaves space and loss on the inside. Maybe that was what I was feeling when the novelty of the outage wore off.

I can stop and be thankful for what I normally have. Better, I can stop in my awareness of what I perceive is missing. Then, allow my desires of life turn me to the One who satisfies the inner hunger and asks me to leave those things behind.

Thank God for the storm, the morning, and for finding a little light.

Mathew 4: 18-20