When I was a child, adulthood was defined for me as tall people who went to work (or in the case of my mother, cleaned and cooked and worked at home), did the shopping, and watched the news and weather for half an hour every evening.  Consequently, as an adult, ingrained in my mind is that watching the news and being well informed about current events is expected, essential, and responsible. 

Except.  When Walter Cronkite was talking to America, citizens trusted that what he was saying was fact without too much of his own opinion mixed in (usually).  Responsible citizens read the opinion pages to get someone else’s point of view while they trusted the rest of the paper or news anchors to give them some facsimile of unbiased news. Then, when the news was over or the paper read, people lived their lives. How far we’ve come since then!  Using Walter as the standard, news doesn’t exist anymore in America.  News online and on TV is currently designed as entertainment.  We have been conditioned to need the drama and outrage supplied by these ‘news’ sources and we’ve been taught that the rush of that adrenaline can and should be accessed many, many times during the day.  It keeps us anxious, nervous, angry.

Not one of those emotions is helpful or edifying. Each one of those emotions keeps us from what we are actually called by God to do: Rejoice in the Lord always, Trust and obey. What is the solution when that ingrained voice deep inside me says that I need to be informed? I’m not sure, but what I do know is that now that I’ve recognized the information programs available to me for what they are – titillating suckers of my time and feelings of well-being, I’m going to view them with a much more distant eye.

There’s a trail up in the snowy range that I call Waterfall Road. Karl and I like to ride our four-wheelers up to the end of the way, then sit for a moment or many, enjoying the view of Medicine Bow peak off in the distance and relishing life at the top, literally. Last week when we were there enjoying the moment, a small buck deer walked out into the clearing and checked us out before bounding off.  It’s great at the top, but it’s even better (in my view) to make the descent back down the road slowly, looking for each gift this mountain has to offer. You see, the reason I’ve named this two-track path Waterfall Road is because along the three-mile entirety of this dirt and rock jeep trail there are probably a hundred springs and waterfalls.  By July, you can be assured that the water doesn’t originate in a snowbank above, because at the road ends at nearly the crest, and it’s easy to see that the snow is melted and gone. The road meanders circuitously as it climbs along the northwest side of some unnamed mountain in the Snowy Range at somewhere near the 9,500 foot elevation mark. My guess is that deep beneath the surface of this behemoth is a huge, happy lake that can’t help but bubble out the top of the mountain in its own joy at existence.

We begin our trek down and very soon the surprises begin. Water appears straight from the dusty forest floor, beginning as a tiny percolation of sparkly moisture, dampening the rocks and dirt nearby and heralded with a patch of green moss. Humble and shy, these diminutive springs draw little attention to themselves while their small issues wander downhill to join with others, or else to sink back into the dusty ground at the base of a thirsty pine or a small stand of willow bushes.   In other places, without warning, a large section of hillside is verdant with flowers and alive with the tinkling sound of a hundred little springs. Here, the water fairly dances out of the earth in jubilation and it’s impossible to miss the spongy ground and the quickly growing stream as individual rivulets join forces.

Clearly, this process – water bubbling up and joining forces to create laughing streams and brooks racing down the steep mountainside – repeats itself countless times, both near the road so that I can stop and watch in wonder and also above me in the space between the road and the sky.  It’s clear as I continue to explore the mountain trail, as waterfalls of many sizes and exuberance show themselves at nearly every bend and wrinkle in the path.  My soul laughs as I watch the water cavort along streambeds filled with shiny pebbles and polished boulders.  Fallen tree branches add to the melee as a hundred different shades of green ferns and foliage and colonies of flowers line the route as if they were revelers enjoying a parade.

One waterfall winds through the trees higher than I can see. It trips over granite boulders and drops into deep pools, creating a deep resonant song that would make bassoons and oboes jealous. Only fifty feet later down the path, a smaller brook bounds across a fall of shale and slate rock and its sound reminds me of flutes and clarinets with percussion provided by a percussionist’s triangle.

Mostly up here, the water itself is crystal clear and breathtakingly cold. On Waterfall Road there are two exceptions, two springs that announce themselves with burnt orange. If you look closely, you see the water itself is clear but carries with it tiny specks. These two springs must have decided to come to the surface through deposits of iron ore. The resultant surprise of color is caused when the iron flakes carried to the surface rust.   

Eventually, we reach the bottom, and realize that the water magic is all behind us. Like a child at an amusement park, I long to race back up to the top and enjoy each spring, each waterfall again.  “Maybe tomorrow,” Karl tells me, and we return to camp.

For the last ten days we’ve been in the camper, most of the time sitting at the end of a powdery-dirt road in the middle of the forest. Except for rare occasions when we were on the four-wheelers at the top of the mountain and we took a minute to check emails (mostly spam) and read the headlines (nothing new, same old ugliness), we’ve been without cell service and free of society, unmarred by the distractions of the outside world.  It has been wonderful to be able to turn off the noise of the World.

Out there in the forest God’s voice is easy to hear. Thunder echoes against the pine-filled canyons and the wind hums through needles and makes the two-toned aspen leaves sparkle. The hollow rapping of a woodpecker resonates while squirrels scold and larks call. God’s glory is easy to see here as well.  How many hues of green can I count? Look at the variety of color and design in the flowers lining the forest floor. The zipping whir of a hummingbird gets my attention.  How great is a Creator who can imagine such a creature then speak it into being with such acute attention to each minute detail, from its tiny, translucent wings to the variety of iridescent greens, oranges and browns shimmer as it plays its aerobatic games at the feeder.

Evening begins falling and I look up from my book as I sit near our small fire. A gawky, leggy cow moose ambles by. I grab the camera and she stops chewing to give me an irreverent look, then she continues on her evening stroll. Book forgotten, I’m still smiling several minutes later at the encounter when I look up again and freeze. Another moose.  This one a large bull with wide shoulders and an impressive set of velvet-covered antlers.  He’s looking at me too, and I’m nervous this time as I aim my camera his way. (My pictures prove this, they aren’t in clear focus. Karl ends up getting the better shot of him.)  Karl and I move back, retreating next to the trailer both so that we can gain quick shelter if he charges and to assure him he’s respected.  His dignity, his power carry with them a confident threat and we are happy to submit.

That night, tucked into bed with Karl’s warmth beside me, I think about that moose.  I compare his magnificent strength and presence with the playful antics of the hummingbird and I can’t help but be in awe of the God that created them both.  I also can’t help but be reassured that such a Creator, such a God, can’t be bested by the shenanigans and evil mere humans do. For the second time I recognize power greater than my own and that I’m in His capable hands. I’m happy to submit.

Let me start by saying that if fairies exist, they do so because our wonderfully artistic God created them.  I know fairies often get a bad rep and are associated with things not Christian, but I am of the wholehearted opinion that if such creatures exist, it would be by God’s grace and imagination. That being said, I’ve been having such a fun time this summer creating a fairy garden.

Perhaps you can relate: there’s one side of your house that gets the least sun, is the least in view, and is the most abandoned. When we bought our house, every part of the yard was neglected, and we began working right away on the back and front yards.  Even the west side yard, where the back door is, got attention.  The east side of the house, though, out of sight and out of mind, was a garbage and weed filled wreck.  Except. Well, I claimed it. I spent all winter drawing sketches and visualizing. I made fairy houses and plans.  When the weather began to warm, I went to work. Karl helped a little, but I wanted this to be my project, so he stayed mostly hands-off.  (His best contribution is the bench he built!)

Now, we have a relaxing nook to enjoy. So far, I haven’t seen any fairies, but who knows? Maybe, since I built it, they will come!

I read in the news this weekend that with Disneyland’s reopening they have premiered a new ride featuring the story of Sleeping Beauty.  According to Disney, the intent was to celebrate the ‘rich history’ of the story and ‘beautiful scenic work’ of the old Sleeping Beauty movie. Good for them. But wait! A San Francisco newspaper is having a conniption about the last scene – claiming that since Sleeping Beauty was unresponsive, Prince Charming’s kiss to save her from unending sleep was wrong since Sleeping Beauty didn’t consent.  The argument is that kiss is a form of unwanted sexual advance that should not be portrayed.

Really.

Really?

Just for the record, I want to make my wishes known as an advance directive: If I am ever put under an endless sleep spell by a wicked witch queen, Karl (or any other well-meaning Prince Charming for that matter) who happens by and sees me lying there looking lovely in a beautiful gown, has my permission to kiss me (yes, on the lips!) in order to break the spell.  I am not a snowflake. I have a good ability to think rationally and I WILL understand that said Prince’s efforts were done with an innocent, fairy tale desire to help, and I pledge that I will not immediately press charges, nor will I wait twenty years then go to the press claiming unwanted sexual advances.

Sheesh.

The other day at a store I saw a man who made me sad. He was covered in clothing from head to foot, only his hands and his face were visible. That isn’t what saddened me. Every inch of his face and hands that I could see, except small circles at his eyes and his fingernails, were covered in black tattoos. My real-life encounter with him, merely eye contact as we stood in proximity with each other, left me profoundly sad.  I carried it with me all day, days later, I still feel it.

Our culture is filled right now with people dissatisfied with themselves.  We hate our hair, we fight our weight. The fashion industry claims millions and millions of our dollars each year. From a new ‘do’ to Botox and plastic surgery to gender reassignment, dissatisfied people uncomfortable in their own skins seek to change who they are in order to feel more acceptable and complete to themselves and others.

I realize that I don’t know the tattooed man. I don’t know his heart at all. I’ve never heard his voice, I don’t know if he likes peanut butter or reading poetry. I know nothing about him, and I own that my conclusions about our brief connection come from ignorance of him. But. I can conclude that the desire and willingness to effect such drastic, permanent changes and completely obscure one’s face and hands with thick, roiling ink indicates some sort of well-depth dissatisfaction. Does he think himself ugly? Does he crave love and attention he didn’t get with rosy cheeks? Whatever his motivation, I wish that instead of the weak smile I managed before looking away and concentrating on my own business, I had smiled and greeted him.  I wish that I would have had the courage and love to approach him. I wish I could have found the words to assure him that he was perfectly created, and that Jesus not only loves him, but died for his salvation.  

We’ve just returned from three months in Arizona.  The last 10 days there, we ‘boondocked out’ in the desert.  In Wyoming we always boondock, and we wanted the benefit of being out and away from everyone so that we could see the night sky and hear the silence of the desert.  And it was wonderful.

The moon was at about half full when we arrived, so the first night we sat out watching the stars and enjoying seeing our moon-shadows. I woke up about 3 am on the second night, and since the moon had set by then, I decided to go out and get a bit of star-gazing in.

Dressed in robe and slippers and armed with a flashlight, I left the trailer to the sounds of Karl sleeping soundly.  I checked the ground for scorpions and rattlers, pulled my chaise lounge out about ten feet from the trailer, turned off the light, and settled in to stare upwards.  Majestic.  Beautiful. Silent stars speak loudly of the power and creativity of our Creator God.

I lay there for quite a while, praying without words. Once, I heard a little flutter by the trailer and absently thought that a moth, or maybe a bat had flown by. A few minutes later I heard another little noise and fleetingly thought maybe it was the slight breeze had moved the American Flag we had flying.

I was floating in the velvety night above me when something disturbed the gravel RIGHT beside me. I sat up quickly, not exactly alarmed and not really scared, just unsure what made the noise. I flicked on the flashlight and met a new friend. He was certainly as surprised as I to meet and stood still, checking me out as I returned the favor. A desert fox, not much bigger than my housecat (who was sleeping beside Karl safe and sound in the trailer), stood no more than ten feet away.  We stared at each other for several seconds before he turned slowly and melted into the dark desert. What a gift.

The next few nights, before he went to bed, Karl set up our game camera. We didn’t get a good shot of the little fella until the fourth night.  And, I share it here with you! 

We’ve taken three rides on the desert in this past week.  Two were joyful, terrific and one was a bit of a trial, since we were in a wash filled with deep sand and gravel that made the going a bit hard, and we happened to get ourselves kinda-sorta lost for a little while (yes, we had a map AND a compass!). All three rides, though, were wonderful adventures filled with discovery and exploring, seeing places and things we’ve never seen before. Encountering new is one of the things I love most about riding our four-wheelers whether we are in the Wyoming mountains or the Arizona desert. Pioneering to new places satisfies a curiosity that is ever-present inside me.

I love to absorb the feeling and demeanor of a place.  The desert intrigues me.  From the big perspective, the desert is so very beautiful.  We’ve seen panoramic vistas that completely surround us and some of the biggest skies I’ve ever seen.  We’ve seen steep and rugged canyons lying in silent mist that epitomize beauty and serenity.  But close up, the desert is different.  Still beautiful, maybe.  Threatening and suspicious, unwelcoming and inhospitable, certainly.  Every plant has thorns or barbs, rocks are sharp and jagged-edged.

So much in the desert landscape points upwards — ancient saguaros, ocotillo stems, rock spires and spindles.  Sometimes I look at these and think they are pointing upwards to God, their Creator, giving Him credit for their life and each day.  In other moments, however, when the sun is beating down and the dust is in my eyes and throat, I wonder if the desert isn’t trying to send a message to me instead – letting me know that here I am an outsider and this world has no actual need or desire for my presence.  Those are the moments I think maybe those spires and cacti are, perhaps, flipping me off.