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.

There are some days that stand out as lessons on the beauty and care that God provides us. Today was one of those days. We took a boat tour across Lake Havasu and up the Colorado River. I wasn’t sure what to expect or what we’d see, but there wasn’t anything disappointing in what we encountered.

The desert has a formidable, cautionary kind of beauty.  The mountains have strong, jagged angles with a hint of threat to them in shape and shadows, and the grey, powdery desert floor combines desolation, a lack of sympathy, and a surprise of shapes and colors. We took a 4-wheeler ride out to see a ghost town last week, riding nearly fifty miles (round trip) on a ‘main road’ which was really mostly a well-traveled path down a desert wash.

I’d been warned about the abundance of rattle snakes- though it’s still too cold for them to be a real threat. I keep my eyes out for scorpions and I hope NOT to see one, ever.  No one, however, bothered to warm me about aggressive, militant cacti that might jump out and attack. Nope.  Discovered that little peril of the desert entirely in my own.  A week later, I still have the mark where one of the cholla barbs pierced through the leather of my boot and into my foot. It took about 15 minutes, two men and two pairs of needle-nosed pliers before all the little cholla barbs were safely removed from my boots. Yikes. 

Even so, it was a grand and stunning day filled with blessings and wonderful encounters.  We marveled at ocotillos green from the recent rains, an unexpected arch, at the saguaros so stoic and brave, at more wild burros, and at the freedom of unencumbered sky and wind. Though thousands have come before us on this road, we had the joy and excitement of exploring and discovering this wild place for ourselves. Even the attack of jumping cacti came with blessings: I’m told many people have a bad reaction to this kind of attack that includes swelling and pain, I just have one little mark.  And, to tell the truth, I’m thankful I was set upon by the cholla when I was instead of just a few moments earlier when I was squatting….well suffice it to say that a barb in my ankle was preferable to other places!

Joy comes in all kinds of shapes and sizes. Here’s one example of my joy this week: Early Friday morning Karl and I drove out to the desert and found a spot on a ridge above a ‘wash’ to watch about a quarter of a mile section of a 425-mile race.  The racers were souped-up trucks and bugs – fitted to fly across sand and rocks at crazy speeds. These are dune buggies on steroids.  Very loud, very fast. I did a little math, the winner of the race averaged well over 82 miles per hour for over 5 hours.  While that sounds terrifying, given the chance, I’d like to take a ride  –  it looked like such fun. 

Anyway, for our part where we sat, it was kind of like watching a very odd parade. The race is a timed event and the vehicles all had a staggered start, with a vehicle starting every 30 seconds, so mostly we only saw one at a time. The track called for each racer to make three laps so we saw some (not all!) three times.  For long periods of time there would be nothing to see except the sky, the quiet desert, and the hills and rocks surrounding us on the horizon.  Then we’d hear a noise and get to watch a vehicle fly by for about 7-9 seconds. 

It was more fun than maybe it sounds.  In the interims, we enjoyed each other, we relished in surveying our surroundings, and we talked with fans around us.  Thankfully, most of the people nearby us were knowledgeable – this wasn’t their first desert race – so we learned a lot and asked a lot of questions.

How was this a joyous experience?  In many ways. First, the desert.  I’m not sure I’m ready to call the powdery dust and scrubby plants populating the area beautiful, but there is a lot to see and take in.  The expanse of it reinforced for me about how big God is. The variety and heart of living things holding tenaciously onto life despite the extremes of dryness, heat, and cold give me hope and new resolve to endure the hard places in my own life. Then there’s the race.  For a day I was away from politics and intrigue. Instead, we were immersed in simple and exhilarating man vs nature, man vs machine, and man vs himself contests that celebrated all that is good and creative and adventurous in humans. We met people who were friendly and excited about their lives for the day, and unafraid. We breathed fresh, though dusty, air and felt the sunshine on our skin. It was a good day.