Away From the Valley

Your throne, O God, endures forever. Psalm 45

Barb and I are finally home from our summer vacation. We’d gone over to the Seattle area to visit our kids and family, see the sights, and enjoy a little R&R from the daily grind of living in paradise.

Despite the fires in the state of Washington, our trip west hadn’t been too bad. The air was a bit hazy, but the fires hadn’t reached their peak yet. The weather was typically hot as we began our excursion in the heady dog days of summer. We spent the first night in Wenatchee, taking a break from the drive and wanting to enjoy the glorious trip through Stevens Pass during the cooler, prettier hours of morning.

It was late afternoon when we found a motel in which to spend the night, but the room wasn’t ready. The desk clerk suggested we could go get a bite to eat and come back, if we were hungry. Since being hungry is my normal state of being (the chief means of determining at any time whether or not I am alive and/or awake) we decided we could do that. The hotelier suggested a couple of options a “block or two away”, so we decided to hoof it (and give my fitness tracker something to count).

Well, I hate to complain or suggest the folks in Wenatchee have a wicked sense of humor or lack of understanding of what entails a block or two, but we walked for a while and never came close to the suggested eateries, whereupon we turned around, hiked back to the hotel, got into the car, and made the journey the old fashioned way (by horseless carriage). Did I mention we were near triple digits and Amazonian Rain Forest levels of humidity?

Well, we finally got our meal (which was served at a glacially slow pace), returned once again to the hotel where we secured our room, and melted into a puddle of goo that was eventually restored to human form the next morning around dawn. We ate the rubber-egg and smelly-foot sausage breakfast they had prepared for their guests, then checked out and hit the road. To borrow a line from my good friend Bill over in Virginia City, we decided the best view of Wenatchee is from the rear view mirror of the car.

Anyway, we continued our journey traveling across the Cascade Mountains through Stevens Pass, which is one of the prettiest drives one can imagine. Highway 2 is a cute little two-lane blacktop that winds though the forested hills along the Wenatchee River and passing though such quaint villages as Cashmere and Leavenworth on the up-drive, and then down the west side of the pass through Monroe and on into Everett.

One of the things that makes the route so delightful, beyond the sheer beauty and majesty of the Alpine-like peaks and valleys, is the fact that so few people travel the old highway. Most folks cross the state down along Interstate 90, and why not? It’s a lot faster, there are more lanes to choose from, and it is easier to get around all the big rigs and campers that clog the roads in summertime.

While speed is nice, and lord knows my foot gets heavier on the accelerator the closer I get to my destination, the plain fact of the matter is I enjoy the more leisurely pace of the old highways; I enjoy passing through the small towns and villages that dot the landscape, providing victuals for the weary traveler, places to gas up the car, and shops in which one can while away the time checking out locally grown or crafted goodies.

I like a road that actually requires a driver to actually “drive” – accelerating, decelerating, and steering around bends, curves, and blind spots; watching for wildlife and hikers alike; climbing up into the bright sunlight on the hills, and down into the valleys with their dark shadows. Now THAT is driving!

At the end of the highway, of course, was our destination. Our trip didn’t end there, naturally; it had really only just begun. And that is a parable of life, isn’t it? We are always on a journey, and even when we arrive, there is still more that lies before us, and that’s when the fun really begins in this, our valley – and beyond.

Zen in the Valley

You (O Lord) are justified when you speak and upright in your judgment. Psalm 51:5

The deer have been mostly absent from our yard this summer. During the winter we see them at least three times a day; they seem to come grazing through for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In early summer we don’t see them nearly as often as they must have better places to go, have their babies, and eat. Now that summer is two thirds over and the fawns are a bit larger and stronger, the deer are back to their old grazing habits.

Our back yard seems to serve three primary purposes for the local deer-herd. First, they enjoy eating the grass, which must be quite satisfying to them, as we do everything we can to keep it lush and green.

They use our lawn upon which to bed down for their afternoon siestas – again, because they must find it soft, cool, and comfortable in the mid-day heat of summer. And why not? We keep it well watered, so the ground is soft, and I set the mower blades a bit higher than I prefer, because it is better for the grass not to be chopped as low as I would do it if I wanted it to look well-manicured.

Finally, they use our lawn as their own personal litter box, which is unsightly (and seems quite unsanitary). I’m not overly fond of having to clean up after them, but it is what it is, so we each do our part and life goes on.

Meanwhile, I am happy to report that my Valley Girl tomatoes are doing better than they were the last time I spoke of them. A month or so ago I had written of my disappointment with her woeful lack of production of tomatoes. At that time there had only been three tomatoes that had bothered to show themselves to this novice gardener. Today there are at least eight, and a few are beginning to show signs of some color other than green.

Of course, they will no doubt ripen while I am away on vacation. Fortunately, I have asked a couple to babysit Valley Girl for us, so they will be free to take advantage of these locally grown and harvested delights. I am hoping production will continue past our return, at which time I shall hope to provide you with a full and complete update on their health status and taste.

On another note, it seems traffic has been much heavier than in my previous summers here in the Madison and Ruby Valleys (and points in between). I am wondering if our Fisherman triangle in Ennis shouldn’t be converted into a traffic circle.

I know people complain about such circles as being confusing, but that is simply because we don’t have enough of them in this area for drivers to “get used to” them. They are really much more efficient at enhancing traffic flow than intersections with traffic signals (and does anyone REALLY want signal-lights in Ennis at the Y?).

If you have been reading this column thus far, you’re probably wondering what deer, tomatoes, and traffic lights have to do with life and faith – the raison d’etre of This, Our Valley.

The answer is a simple: Nothing!

While I generally try to have a reason or focus behind each column I write, every now and then I just like to go with the flow, and see where the flow takes me. I am not very Zenful, and yet every now and then a bit of the Zen universe will touch me – or tackle me – and what can I do but live in the now and confess that not everything that happens has a purpose upon which to propound.

In some ways, life for the sake of life is its own purpose. There is no higher calling than to live in the here and now, for there really is no other time. There is no future / there is only now / there is no past / just our memories, holy cow!

The point is: the deer, tomatoes, and traffic do their thing, and there is nothing intrinsically moral or immoral – good or bad – evil or holy about any of it. They simply “are” – and I enjoy keeping an eye on them in this, our valley.

A Curious Sight in the Valley

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle ... – Jesus

One morning Barb and I were sitting in our living room enjoying a cup of coffee when we looked outside and saw a car slow down to a crawl in front of our house. The occupants were chattering excitedly and pointing at the house and I wondered if they were staring at us, as we were not exactly dressed for company.

I knew from experience that was not the case as our windows have a reflective quality about them that makes it difficult to peer inside from outside during daylight hours. Still, their staring made me a bit self-conscious and curious, so I stepped over to the window and glanced outside, but I could see nothing noteworthy in our yard making a slow-drive-by necessary.

The car moved on and as it did so I stepped closer to the window and noted a fawn resting peaceably right below our window. THAT’s what the folks were looking at! Now it made sense.

I was correct thinking it couldn’t be us; I knew it couldn’t be our landscaping (if you can call what we have out front “landscaping” to begin with); and I was pretty sure it wasn’t our log-sided house which, while nice, is nothing to write home about. There was simply something out of our view that was attracting attention, and until we were willing to either step closer to the window or actually go outside, we would never have known it was there.

I wonder what we can learn about ourselves and about life in general from this. What leapt to mind for me was the matter of racism about which we’ve been hearing so much lately. Most of us live within the context of our own skin, and so it is hard to imagine life within the realm of someone else’s experience.

I am a white man, but I never think about being white, nor about being a man. I’m simply me. I am the only person I’ve known as well as I know me (and I confuse myself a lot, even at that).

I would love to think I haven’t got a racist bone in my body and yet I know that when I speak, I inevitably display all sorts of ignorance and stupidity with regards to other people. That’s normal, so one shouldn’t be afraid to admit it.

I know it irritates me when I read or see in the news that “a black man was shot by …” I wonder why they can’t simply report that a man was shot. Is there an ulterior motive in identifying the race?

No; I do not think that identifying race is part of some liberal agenda or storyline the media are trying to perpetuate. Like it or not, statistics help identify trends or issues that might otherwise be lost in the cloud – allowing injustices to continue unexamined and unabated.

One key to getting along better with one another is to avoid denying that we are different – all of us. “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor your thoughts mine,” says the Lord, so maybe we ought to be honest enough to admit it.

Not all cultures are the same, whether at home or abroad.

I grew up in the north, but I love grits. Many people don’t know what grits are, and so are reluctant to give them a try or, having tried them decided they aren’t their cup of tea. That’s fine. Having good taste doesn’t make me better than you (tongue placed firmly in cheek) – just different.

One day some years ago I made reference to “Orientals” in a sermon. I was told afterwards that the proper term is “Asians.” I am not big on political correctness, but I do strive to be sensitive and inoffensive. My friend corrected me gently, not harshly, and I found that helpful.

When challenged to respect the dignity of every person, it is helpful to be gentle, for upon the foundation of gentleness we can build relationships that improve life for all. Being aware that others often see, feel, and experience what we ourselves cannot or do not, perhaps we can be humble enough to step up to the window with less judgment in this, our valley.

Soaring in the Valley

Behold the birds of the air; they do not sow, reap, or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? – Jesus

I was driving over the Norris Hill with a friend and looking high above the hill we saw a flock of large, white birds flying around quite aimlessly. Manny gazed at them for a moment and said, “There’s a flock of pelicans up there.” He paused and added, “… they just seem to love to fly, don’t they?”

I peered up at the aerialists and had to agree. They were not flying south for the winter or north for the summer; they didn’t appear to be looking for the river or lake, nor did they seem to be on the hunt for food. They were in a formation of sorts. That is, they were flying loosely together in one direction and then another, but their turns were slow and lazy, and not quite in sync with one another if one was expecting the military precision of the Blue Angels, but certainly their aerial choreography had a sweet rhythm to it.

As we climbed the hill heading home toward Ennis I could see they were enjoying the thermal drafts carrying them up; when they got as high as they felt appropriate they turned and began their slow spiral back to a lower altitude and then, once again, they would find a draft to carry them high aloft for another ride into the wild blue yonder.

Looking back on that trip, I couldn’t help but recall Jesus’ remark about birds. They do not plant, nor do they reap, nor do they store up in barns or fruit cellars, and yet God takes care of them just fine.

That doesn’t mean birds don’t have to work for their supper, of course. Pelicans have to go fishing, robins have to go worming, and hummingbirds seek nectar. All creatures, including sloths and nematodes have to take care of themselves for the sake of survival. The point is they don’t seem to fret over it.

Out on my deck I have a Valley Girl tomato plant I bought at the Farmer’s Market in town one recent Saturday. She had some nice flowers in June and today has three tomatoes. I was disappointed in the numbers as I was hoping for more. I wondered if I should have gotten several plants; maybe she craves company. She has a wonderful home and, when I caught a deer trying to make a meal of her I chased it off the deck and blocked the stairway. I have become quite maternal over my baby (and her babies).

I keep an eye on her soil and see to it she has the water she needs; I protect her from predators and the wind; I chat with her each day to see how she is doing. I have also gone online to research tomato basics to ensure I am meeting her needs.

Growing up I was taught to remove suckers from tomato plants but learned it is better to leave them alone. They do not steal nutrients but will produce fruit of their own – I did not know that!

So, if I – the poster child for Brown-Thumb-Gardeners – can figure how to take care of a silly little tomato plant, how much more is God – the Author-and-Giver-of-Life – able to take care of the silly little creatures we are?

Like the birds, we each need to do our part to make sure there is food on the table and a roof over our heads. I believe God created us to be creative and productive; I also know that not all “fear and anxiety” is created equal – some of us suffer from mental health disorders of which fear and anxiety is a part.

Jesus was not addressing mental illness, but the sin of avarice – greed – which steals our joy because we fear losing what we have and believe we need to have even more in order to “be” happy.

To we avaricious types (and that afflicts most of us, I suspect) Jesus says, “Look at the Pelicans. With their wings they rise on thermals and return safely to the earth. They let go, and they let God.”

I want to fill my wings with God in this, our valley.

Bullets in the Valley

The kingdom suffers violence, and the violent take it by force. Jesus

For the past few weeks I have been in beautiful downtown Salt Lake City for our church’s national convention. We meet every three years to see where we are, look to where we’re headed, and discerning what we need to do to get there.

I have been impressed with a number of things about both the convention, which was being held at the Salt Palace Convention Center, and the city. Our motel was only four blocks from the Palace, but the blocks here are humungous. Apparently they are each an acre as the city founders wanted everyone to have space for a garden.

The streets are also very wide as the city planners, led by Brigham Young, did not want drivers to be tempted to curse while turning or maneuvering their horse drawn wagons. The best part of all this was that I really got to put my new fitness trainer to work counting steps and stairs as I chose to walk rather than availing myself of the shuttle. There were a few days in which that seemed less than wise as temperatures hit triple digits, but I survived and felt pretty good in the process.

One of the non-convention events I participated in was a march against gun-violence. There were about 1,500 to 2,000 people gathered for the march; we were led by the bishop of Utah, Scott Hayashi (who was nearly killed as a young man when he was shot by a robber while working the counter at a convenience store), and marched from the Salt Palace to Pioneer Park and back.

The point of the march was not to promote the end of gun ownership, but to encourage folks to seek solutions to the epidemic of gun violence. Simple laws requiring universal back-ground checks, cooling-off periods, gun registrations, and the like have been shown to be effective in reducing gun-violence in states that enact those laws. They don’t eliminate gun violence, but they do reduce the number of deaths and injuries.

If all life matters, and I believe it does, then doesn’t it make sense to work together to address the problems directly and find solutions?

I have never been shot, but I have been shot at. I stood on the fire escape of an old flea-bag motel in Spokane – I was a cop back then – and watched the muzzle blast of a handgun fired through the window while the bullet went whizzing past me. The gunman was a fellow with mental health problems; he then turned the gun on himself, ending the standoff.

Winston Churchill once confessed that there is nothing as exhilarating as being shot at and missed, and I agree.

Another time I stepped into the back yard of a home where a counselor was asking for help with a troubled client. As I passed through a low opening in the hedge surrounding the yard, I found myself standing twenty feet from a young man holding a 30-30 lever action rifle. If he had wanted to, he could easily have taken me out. Instead, he chose to end his own life right then and there (and I am still haunted by the memories of that most tragic event).

No one believes laws will prevent firearms from getting into the hands of criminals, but criminals aren’t the only people using guns in acts of violence. Of the 30,000 gun-related deaths each year, about a third are homicides, while two thirds are suicides (with a smattering of accidents and unintentional fatalities recorded each year). That coincided with my experience.

I know that gun ownership does save lives occasionally. I saw a report just the other day of a former CNN reporter and her husband being robbed at gun-point in their motel room. The couple were armed, a gun-fight broke out in which the robber was killed. The husband suffered a gun-shot wound in the melee, but he (and his wife) survived.

Jesus recognized the human propensity to solve problems with violence and power. Human history shows us just how ineffective that route can be to bringing about peace.

If life matters, and I think it does, perhaps it is time to turn down the rhetoric and lower our voices, and to start talking with one another here in this, God’s Valley. There has simply GOT to be another way.

Chirps in the Valley

Keep, O Lord, your household the Church in your steadfast faith and love … Book of Common Prayer

I woke up this morning just before dawn; I was awakened by the cheerful chirping of a local bird. Not being an ornithologist, I don’t know what it was, but it was making me an ornery-thologist. I really wasn’t in a mood to open my peepers at four o’clock in the a.m.

Why on earth would a bird be singing at that hour of the morning? Is she singing praises to Brother Sun for his rising, and Sister Moon for her bedding down? Is she screaming at the chicks to get a move on (to catch the proverbial worm), or warning the aforementioned worms to head for shelter? Or is it simply a matter of instinct and tradition – chirping away at the break of day because that’s what all her feathery ancestors have done from time immemorial?

The reasons probably don’t matter. What’s interesting, though, is that I heard the bird at all. I have discovered that my hearing is no longer all it was cracked up to be (good egg that I am), and was never all that good to begin with. I depend on people speaking to me clearly, with good enunciation, pronunciation, pace and volume.

For those who’ve grown up in the Valley Girl era, enunciation has become a lost art (and I’m not just being a cranky old coot when I say that). People slur their words, drop syllables and consonants, and end sentences on an uptalk, so statements often sound like questions. They also tend to over-use the word “like” so that everything, like, becomes metaphorical if taken, like, literally.

I complain, but it isn’t because of the dialect. I think dialects are cool. The issue for me isn’t what they say or how they say it, but rather that I have trouble understanding what is being said. The problem is mine; the frustration is mine; the lack of skillful hearing is mine; the presbyotic ears are mine (and yes, presbyotic is a word – it means old ears, referring to the decline of hearing that occurs with advancing age).

The solution, of course, would be to run into the local hearing center, have my ears tested, and perhaps being fitted for hearing aids. To do that, however, would require several things. First would be a desire to hear something. Those “somethings” might include things like my spouse or the television. Well believe me; they’ve both got lots of unused volume left, so I am not sure that’s an issue.

Second would be a decision to spend money fixing my problem when it would be so much easier if the mumbling world would only learn to SPEAK UP!

I mean, if our computers and typewriters have Caps-Locks, why can’t we just ask people to use their vocal Caps-Locks when talking to one another? Oh sure, it might sound like we’re all mad and it could lead to disagreements and fights, but isn’t that better than being bored by a case of the incomprehensibles?

Maybe I should just admit I am getting older, but I’m not sure I am ready to take the leap into hearing aids, even if they might help me to hear and understand the world around me better – just as eyeglasses keep me from walking into poles, driving into tourists (I would never think of running over most of the locals), or mistaking inanimate object for people a la Mr. Magoo.

I will confess that not everything I fail to hear is caused by a hearing loss; sometimes it is caused by hearing too much. I occasionally suffer from an auditory overload. When I am writing, for instance, I need quiet. I cannot write with music playing or the television on in the background. I know there are folks who are the complete opposite – who need the background noise if they are going to concentrate, but I am not one of them.

For me, Silence truly IS golden; I treasure it with all my heart; a Miranda warning’s unnecessary, for I’ve turned silence into an art!

As long as the chirps of the birds continue to wake me up at the crack of the dawn, I think I’ve still got time to be cheap in this, our presbyotic valley. 

Parking in the Valley

I don’t much like God when he gets under a roof. John Wayne

My wife and I were driving into Bozeman the other day to take care of some errands. I needed to stop at a shop downtown and was fretting over whether or not there would be parking close by. I don’t know why that would worry me so; I’ve lived in and around towns like Seattle, Detroit, and San Francisco and, believe me, parking anywhere in Bozeman is a snap.

Never-the-less, I fret over such simple matters for little or no reason. It isn’t rational; it’s just the way I am wired.

So it was very much to my delight and surprise that God answered my unasked prayer and provided a parking spot right in front of the business into which I was going to pop. I swung my little beater into the spacious slot – didn’t even have to do any parallel parking maneuvers – and was quite pleased with myself and with God (who had anticipated my need and desire with exquisite timing and precision).

As I was straightening the car out, however, my better half pointed out a car on the street had her backup lights on and, apparently, had intended to back into the spot I had just filled.

Without thinking (well, that’s not true; I did go through about a nanosecond of contemplation) I put on my signal and began to vacate the parking space.

At that exact moment I saw the car door fly open like the escape hatch to an F-1 fighter. The driver’s eyes were aflame and riveted on me like a mongoose on a cobra. We locked peepers long enough for the smooth second hand action of a Swiss watch to move half a hair’s breadth, at which point she looked down and saw something for which she was completely unprepared.

I swept my right hand in a grand arc, inviting her to take the space I was in the process of vacating. You see, I don’t steal spaces. It wasn’t a matter of first-come-first-serve, or you-snooze-you-lose; I had simply focused on grabbing a spot and when I realized I had unintentionally outmaneuvered a competitor, I chose the more gallant, noble course and let her have it (only noting later she was ready to let ME have it – and I don’t mean the space).

As she parked her car, I crossed the road (about fifty more feet in all) and grabbed a spot that was nearly as close and no less convenient in the larger scheme of things. Furthermore, it meant I could add some steps to my day, inching closer to my “ten thousand steps per day” goal. So it turned out to be a win-win for everyone.

I’m not sure why people get upset about things like parking places. I find it better, overall, to yield to the needs of others (real or imagined) and less so to the gratification of my own ego or desires.

It is nice to park close when one is in a hurry, I admit, but the difference between one spot and another is generally pretty miniscule.

As I thought about the incident, it occurred to me that I was being judged, not by my intentions, but by my actions. And isn’t that always the way? No one cares what a person’s intentions are; what matters is what we do. If we make a mistake, do we own it and apologize for it, or do we make excuses?

I would like to think my intentions are always pretty good, but I know my actions are sometimes less so. That can come from fatigue, inattention, or just plain stupidity.

Rather than compound the problem by denying one has done something wrong, it seems better to own up to it and make whatever amends are possible. In this case, it meant recognizing I had taken someone’s parking space, vacating it as quickly and as safely as possible, and signaling my apology as gracefully as I could.

I don’t know what she thought about it – if anything at all. I just know that as I crossed the street she and her friends went about their business without so much as a wave or a by-your-leave, and that’s OK.

The smallest kindness can work wonders in this, God’s valley, even if no one notices.