Big Picture

Rob Jirucha photo

The Highlands where we live is dark at night. There are no street lamps and few people have lights on their driveways. The city lights are distant and hidden by the hills allowing for the display of night. When you arrive home late at night, it's hard to miss the stars sparkling as jewels. The moon, anytime larger than half, is enough to light the way on an evening walk. During night walks we take a flashlight, but it comes on only for an oncoming car.

A friend and neighbor was recently lining his short driveway with lights. There were five posts, and each contained four lights. I was impressed by his electrical abilities and even more impressed by his reason for this project. He told me that when his friends come to visit, they might need to park at the top of the driveway. At night, the new lights will guide their way. It was a lot of effort for a few friends to have an easier walk down the hill.

On one hand, I wish I had that type of sacrificial spirit to work so hard for a few folks. He's truly a thoughtful guy and wants to genuinely help others. Yet, on the other hand, I felt some frustration and thought about Edward Abbey.

Abbey was a park ranger at Arches National Monument near Moab, Utah. He spent a number of summers there in the 60's when the park was still primitive, and he wrote about it in Desert Solitaire. He recounted how he rarely used his flashlight at night unless there was some animal life to see. His eyes adjusted to the road well enough without it.

While we often think of a flashlight as something that enlarges our vision and guides our way at night, he believed it had the opposite effect. Like all mechanical objects, it tends to separate us from the world around us. With the flashlight on, eyes become adjusted to the pool of light separating us from the greater world. He saw this as isolation, a limitation of the machine.

He felt this way about most mechanical devices. They serve to isolate us. Our focus becomes on them, and the rest of the world becomes lost. Not that he would have abandoned all things mechanical, but he was cautious to not allow gadgets to separate him from the greater world. Not bad insight for 40 years ago when gadgets and mechanics were fewer.

So, it's only a few lights next door. Going with the thoughts of Abbey, I can become angry to see that the great space around me is becoming harder to see as it becomes lighted. I could feel frustrated that more don't see and appreciate this great night wonderland above.

Yet, those lights might be needed for someone who truly needs them. Maybe one of his friends has poor vision or is elderly. So, I hold my frustration for now and take a look at myself. When I see his driveway lights, they will be a reminder for me. I have my own gadgets that isolate me from friends, family, and the world around me. There are responses to conflict or life when it doesn't go my way, responses that separate me from others and birth isolation. You could call them my personal mechanics. That's where I'll put my attention for now so I can see bigger and wider at all times.

Maybe when I get all those things in order, I'll allow myself just a little frustration for the driveway lamps.

Ice Tea

As a boy growing up, Mom and Dad often entertained guests for dinner. This usually started with Dad cleaning the house a couple of days in advance. Often, he would wax and polish the hardwood floors. Not that things were normally a mess, but guests meant extra special attention that all things were neat and clean. Off limits most of the time, the dining and living rooms would come out of hibernation to host the guests. People didn't randomly drop over too often. It wouldn't be polite, I guess. So the dinner parties, socials, and get-togethers were usually planned and somewhat formal. I always enjoyed the various food items and buzz of activity. Even more, I was free to play without supervision and occasionally make mischief.

Mom's good friend, Mrs. Coleman was polished, proper, and full of etiquette. She was over for tea one day. The house would have been spotless for her arrival. A brilliant summer afternoon, the woods shaded our deck allowing speckled views through the oak leaves to the blue sky above. The two were casually enjoying some social time under this outdoor canopy. A pitcher of tea was being chilled in the fridge.

It may have been childhood summer boredom, but I needed some adventure. I chose a slightly bad but humorous option. Ok, only humorous to me. I grabbed every tea-colored liquid from the cupboards. Bitters, Worcester Sauce, soy sauce, and others were added to the ice tea. When Mom retrieved the tea, I watched through the windows as they took a drink of this cool refreshing concoction. Together they sipped, grimaced and swallowed, and then feigned satisfaction. Conversation continued as if nothing happened. Is that all? My creative work led to nothing other than polite smiles? The punishment I knew would be coming was not worth this lack of response.

From Mrs. Coleman's perspective, etiquette meant silence. Don't offend. Pretend satisfaction, though I am certain she never did taste anything as awful as this. For Mom, it may have been embarrassment that kept her from commenting on the tea. Both were somewhat caught in the trap of keeping up appearances. All is well though the tea tastes like bathroom cleaner. Smile. Etiquette ice tea.

I have not been the butt end of a joke like this. Surprisingly. Yet, I certainly have kept up appearances and feigned enjoyment in other circumstances. "All is well with me. How about you?" Though my emotions and spirit have felt as if they have been tainted by various negative life events, I have smiled and politely feigned satisfaction. Maybe this comes from embarrassment or pride that I look polished and together. Yet, the result is always the same. Conversation and relationship continue though we each sit knowing something isn't quite right. We depart, say this was lovely, and that we should do it again. Yet, I have left feeling empty and lonely.

It would have taken some steps of faith for Mom to say, "This tea is really bad. Oops, sorry. Must be that little Robbie at it again!" There would have been some admission that her son was a prankster, not altogether wholesome. It would have meant some honesty and a willingness to laugh at life. "Oh, well. Such happens in life, Mrs. Coleman." Mrs. Coleman may still have not said anything. Mom may have more openly lost face in that case, and that was the risk. Yet, there was opportunity. A few spoken words could have created a more intimate relationship between the two. Maybe it could have been a pathway to discussion about kids, family life, and so on.

Life seems to pour tainted ice tea, at times. Events, circumstances, and relationships can turn sour. When we drink that cup, we can keep silent and feign satisfaction. Or, we can talk openly to others. The other person may sit politely, smile, and do nothing. Yet, some time and patience will always lead to someone honest and real enough to receive our messy, not-altogether selves.

Even better is open dialogue with God. For a season, we may sense that God sits silently while we drink in life's taintings. Yet, I've found that it's not been God. It's been me not taking the time to sit and be real with him. When I do take that time, I find a trusted Confidant who will carry my load, clear up the murky waters and provide a clear, refreshing drink.

Carry each other's burden's...Gal 6: 2

Everyone who drinks this water [from the well] will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become a spring in him welling up to eternal life. Jn 4: 13

Even Rocks

Rob Jirucha Photo

Our son, Parker, was baptized in the morning, and we had an open house at an old school-house just down the road from us. The property is a historic spot, an old homestead. About 100 people celebrated with us on this beautiful blue-sky day. Food and fellowship were shared in the school house and the surrounding grounds. Many took hikes to the nearby Gowlland Tod provincial park and enjoyed the views of the Malahat and the peninsula. Everyone had a great time and commented that they would love to come together again.

There was one slight glitch...er, injury during the day. While many ate and talked outside, two young boys enjoyed the simple, childhood pleasure of throwing rocks. Living and breathing targets were chosen. Maybe they were bored and found this as a suitable hobby to pass the time. A rock connected with one boy's forehead and their game ended at this point. Even if they wanted to continue, the referees...I mean, parents...stopped the play.

There was no concussion, and though the blood flowed, no stitches were needed. I called his mom later at night, and all was well. It was more of a scare than a permanent scar.

This got me thinking about my encounters with rocks. I wasn't quite so lucky when I was his age. I'm not sure what I was thinking, but summer boredom took over my occasionally rational mind. I was longing for winter and snow. Particularly, I was hungry for a snowball fight. This is pretty hard to do in July. Ah, rocks, they would be a fine substitute. I convinced a few of my friends to have an organized, team effort rock fight. "You guys hide behind that huge boulder. That will be your defensive fort. We'll take this boulder and section of the woods for our side." I'm not sure if there was an objective. Who would be the winner in this sort of game? Do you stop once someone is hurt? How are points scored? There was no plan other than hide and throw rocks toward the other team.

If you have ever seen those tragic and scary moments in movies where the action is slowed, it really does happen that way. The rock game, having just begun, ended on the first throw. Just as I got behind my rock-outcrop fortress, a baseball-size piece of granite was moving through the sky. As I looked up to make ready my first throw, someone's soaring summer snowball made its move toward my forehead. A quick-witted person would have dodged to the side. Yet, I stood transfixed like a deer in headlights. We're not sure why they stand dazed, are we?

Nine stitches, if memory serves me. There is still a very visible scar on my forehead. It's the one off to the side, not the one in the center. That one is from pretending to be a ghost when I was three. With a sheet over my head, I ran into a wall. Also nine stitches. That's another story.

My behind has slid down long stretches of pavement on numerous occasions. I've accidentally dangled off a merry-go-round, had a leg caught, and been dragged over the surrounding gravel. Countless bruises, abrasions, and wounds have come from rocks in one form or another.

I've often thought of rocks as eternal, unchanging, and unalterable except by heavy machinery. Yet, solid as they are, even rocks break down, develop their own deteriorating scars. Wind, rain, and the growth of various plants in the cracks of rocks all contribute to an unseen, gradual process of decomposition. Like the picture above, you catch a glimpse of it where moss and lichen grow. Pieces of a once solid wall begin to crack and crumble here and there.

My body will continue to be injured over the years from rocks, various objects, projectiles and time. It will go on like this until some final day when my life passes into the next one. Solid rocks are going through the same process, only without the "passes from this life to the next" part. How much more will all the things I invest in, hope in, work toward and create also fade away? I wonder how my time is being spent. Is it with something that will last or is it a fleeting object that will crack and crumble in time?

These thoughts are what help me as a parent, husband, and youth pastor. For all I love to do - the hobbies and interests - they are short-lived. The temporary side of me wants to put all things before the lives of those closest to me. Yet, the investment in a life is something that will really last, I believe. There is an eternal side in me that knows this. It keeps breaking through the dim light of my brain. Over and over, it beckons me to return to things more solid than the rocks around us. Family, friends, those in need, and the One in whom I have faith.

you gotta leave it behind, leave it behind

all that you fashion, all that you make

all that you build and all that you break

all that you measure, all that you deal

all you count on two fingers and all that you steal

leave it behind, you gotta leave it behind, leave it behind

alleluia, allelu - u - u - ia, alleluia, allelu - u - u - ia

U2, words live from Slane Castle

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

Dead Ends

Hungry for more, we went back to the Koksilah. The water had dropped over the past week, and we chose to not get our canoe wet. We would have been walking long, shallow, and rocky stretches. No doubt, we would have returned with barely a shell from all the rocks we would have hit.

Abandoning the river, we set out to find Grant Lake. With our topo map in hand, we wanted to locate this hidden and seemingly remote jewel for a future adventure in canoe exploration. We found the two trail entrances that would take us there. Our map did not indicate it, but the barbed wire, saw-mill blades, and jagged iron shards that were formed into a fence gave evidence that this area was off-limits. So much for that option.

On to amateur photography. Cameras always help when your outdoor adventure options hit dead-ends. We drove from from Mr. Hospitality's Retreat Center and came to some trails meandering along a tributary to the Koksilah. Where we parked, there were a few pick-ups having carried ATV's and motocross bikes. My friend was the first to notice all of the trash in the back of the pick-ups. I was first to notice the trash... everywhere. Crystal flowing streams, sweet-dew air, soft-white morning sky, moist and deep green moss-covered firs, and the sight of death in the form of personal, consumed waste.

No worries, the trail we began to venture was immediately clean and clear of the reminders of the careless few. The trail was wide, seemingly used often, and well-maintained. Within 100 meters, it stopped. No narrower overgrown trail continuing on, just a dead end. Going back to the start, we trekked on the opposite side of the stream on a similar trail. It ended just as quickly.

Ah well, we made our own trail up a steep embankment and came to another trail. This one was wider, most clearly a long backcountry route to explore. Not so. One more dead end. We had enough dead ends for the day and headed back to our car. Yet, death followed us, or we followed it. As we made our way back, we must have seen eight or ten dead deer. Shot? Hit by a large car while they were all crossing the road at the same time? Who knows? After we had seen a few, I commented, "Man, I wonder how many more we're going to see?" Within about 90 seconds, I saw more.

Crazy, weird sort of experience. A trip. Looking ahead or looking down, we saw or came upon dead ends, death.

Yet, there was this one bright spot looking up. My friend was the first to notice it. Through the trees, the sun was rising. It lighted the rising fog and danced between the white birches and mossy evergreens. The contrast of colors between the trees was hard to miss. I had, though. My eyes, mind and heart were stuck and focused on the stuff on the ground. He nudged me. Looking up, I saw light, complexity, and depth of life. A fire glowed and brought a birth to my heart and senses. A few left the trash, and one or two ended the lives of the deer. Many who came this way saw those reminders. No one but my friend and me saw the ember of grace that blazed. Well, God, too. He put it there.

"And we have the word of the prophets made more certain, and you will do well to pay attention to it, as to a light shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts" 2 Peter 1:19.

"You who share in the heavenly calling, fix your thoughts on Jesus..." Heb 3:1a

Good Books

Amazing Grace - Kathleen Norris
Befriending the Stranger - Jean Vanier
Big Fish - Daniel Wallace
Can You Drink the Cup? - Henri Nouwen
Cloister Walk - Kathleen Norris
Collapse - Jared Diamond
Desert Solitaire - Edward Abbey
Divine Conspiracy - Dallas Willard
Education of Little Tree - Forrest Carter
Enigma of Anger: Essays on a Sometimes Deadly Sin - Garret Keyzer
Father Joe - Tony Hendra
Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain
I Heard the Owl Call My Name - Margaret Craven
Monkey Wrench Gang - Edward Abbey
Peace Like a River - Leif Enger
Poisonwood Bible - Barbara Kingsolver
Prodigal Son - Henri Nouwen
Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver
Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy and Women’s Work - Kathleen Norris
River Why - David James Duncan
Running to the Mountain - Jon Katz
Seven Story Mountain - Thomas Merton
Simplicity - Martin Marty
'Til We Have Faces - C.S. Lewis
Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain
Traveling Mercies - Anne Lamott
Walk to Remember - Bill Bryson
With Open Hands - Henri Nouwen

Whitewater

I went canoeing on the Koksilah with a friend on Sunday. The water was high and fast, but we began in a gentle stretch. Aproaching a rough section, we got out, walked the shore, and scouted. We felt we could get through it, and went back to our canoe. We went through it well, bumping a few rocks along the way. Yet, we soon hit a bigger, badder section. Beyond that, we could see really rough waters. I was in the back, the driver, and wanted to get to shore fast. "Left paddle, forward! Dig! Dig! Dig!" Ah, land. Walking the shore to scout these new rapids, we knew there was no way we could go through it safely. So, we portaged our canoe on a path downstream until we reached our destination. Our faithful friend waited with a warm car.

A lot in life feels like those rough waters. All we can do is paddle left or right, dig, dig, dig. It's nice to know that an end to our difficulties is on its way. Calm waters await.

Yet, even thinking about finding peaceful waters or the shore is hard to imagine. Doesn't it feel like those are the moments where we have the hardest time finding God? The rough water of our situation creates fear and uncertainty. It overwhelms the thoughts of God and the changes that will hopefully come. Maybe, God is a little like the guy in the back end of the canoe saying, "Forward left, backward right paddle, etc." We just have to do that one little step at a time. Drop the hope for the calm waters for the moment and just take care of the immediate turns needed.

What is the most immediate turn God is asking? What will be the next?

God waits at the end. He's in the present turns, as well.

"Do not worry about tomorrow. It has enough trouble of it's own. Seek first the Kingdom of God, and all these things will be given to you." Mt 6: 33-34

Simplicity

Rob Jirucha Photo

New Life

Spending time in Goldstream. Buds were just barely visible on this and a few other trees. Birth and movement is beginning following the short season of rest. During the period of dormancy, so much was happening. Not visibly. Yet, the stillness and silence was setting the stage for the Spring Show to come.

How much change and renewal would we experience if there was more rest in our lives? Escape and fun provide some renewal. Yet, true rest comes from those quiet, intimate and even lonely times in the presence of God.

"I'm alone here. What I am doing by myself without plans for the moment? Is anything happening as I am sitting, praying and being quiet with God?"

Like the tree, strength is being found in the those resting, quiet times of prayer. Maybe there will be the same kind of Spring Show in us?

For a Friend

Don't forget how much God loves you! When someone is unkind or angry for no reason, is that a reflection of the love that God has for you? You don’t need to convince anyone of your place, worth, and value. In Jesus you have value as an adopted child. Michelle and I adopted two boys. They were born of our marriage. Birthed by the Spirit. Yet, we love them intimately. Deeper than words. Pain and struggle was ours to become a family. It is the same with you and God. He adopted you into his family through a huge struggle and heart-felt pain when Jesus hung high. You don't need to be so concerned with being loved by all those around you. It is Jesus that likes you, thinks you are cool and special. He is your closest friend. Don't keep looking for it everywhere else. What you seek is in your heart where Jesus dwells.

"My dear children, you come from God and belong to God." Eph 4 (The Message)

"You can tell for sure that you are now fully adopted as his own children because God sent the Spirit of the Son into our lives crying, "Papa, Father!" Galations 4 (The Message)