Bear Tooth Highway

The SHADOW knows what lurks

in the hearts of chipmunks ...

A Rodent off the road

of the Bear-tooth Highway ...

In Northeast region of Yellowstone NP

the Pronghorns run wild ...

Yellowstone can be very scary ...

this tree, for instance, was too Petrified to move!

Shards of Peace

When we believe in our right to happiness we will have happiness – Melody Beattie

I looked outside the other day and saw a foreign object lying on the grass in our front yard. Going out to investigate, I found someone had tossed a beer bottle against the line of rocks that separate our castle’s keep from the unbridled hoards who might wish to break our peace. Instead, they broke the bottle and the shards littered our lawn.

It was sad to see this little idyllic town of ours marred by the thoughtless act of some dunderhead who felt it proper to lighten his load by tossing his empty container into the quaint little lot with which God had seen fit to bless us. But, that’s what he did (referring to the dunderhead, not to God).

There was a side of me that wanted to gather up fragments, bag them up for evidence, and send them off to the finest crime labs in the country to be reassembled in CSI fashion, so that our town Constable could chase down the impudent creature and toss him/her off to the State Rock-pile for maybe a day or two shy of eternity.

But then again, I am a man of peace and know better than to think that way.

Oh sure, there are times I would like to stand fast like Gandalf the Gray on the Bridge of Moria, face the Balrog, staff in hand, and declare with thunderous power, “You shall not pass!” But those times are far and few between, and one really shouldn’t be doing that to the four and five-year-olds who ride up and down our street on their bikes. They could start to think me quite weird and, besides, are probably not the ones who desecrated my front yard.

It occurs to me that the desire to wreak mayhem upon those who do bad things isn’t always a healthy response. It’s a natural response, naturally, but it isn’t necessarily healthy. For one thing, I find it gets my blood pressure up. I can practically feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, raising my pulse and respiration and, frankly, it’s not a feeling I like (although it is better than no pulse, to be sure).

Now, some people enjoy an adrenaline rush, but I’m not one of them. It makes me irritable. When I’m watching a game on TV and my team is not doing well, I start to yell at the players, coaches, and referees. I start to take what’s happening personally, and the results aren’t always pretty. Even though purple is an appealing color for a flower, it doesn’t look that good when it is the primary shade of a television viewer, like me.

So while my initial response to an event or situation may be primal, I find it helpful to take a moment to actually … oh, what’s that word I’m looking for? Oh right … I find it helpful to actually “think” – to put some thought into what’s going on.

While there are some things for which digging a ditch and dying in it are appropriate, a broken beer bottle in the yard is probably not one of them.  Gathering stones and building an eight foot wall around my yard and topping it with razor wire is probably not the best response I could make. Digging a moat around the property and filling it with alligators or piranhas is probably a bit of over-kill, too. 

The point is, there are some things that are simply out of my control. Yes, a broken bottle is an irritation, but it does not call for a nuclear response. In fact, most of us can actually control how we respond to those petty annoyances in life (and by extension, the larger issues of life, as well).

I can choose to wish the person ill who tossed their garbage into my yard, or I can wish him well. That choice is mine to make. I find when I wish someone well, no matter what they’ve done, it is easier to forgive and forget. They will eventually suffer the consequences of their actions if they continue the path they’re treading, so I don’t need to fret over it.

Anyway, that’s been my week and, I think, this is more than enough trash talk for now here in this, our valley.

American Goldfinch

...

A small tiny bird came a'flappin' at the door

"Lemme in, lemme in," was his fervent implore

He pecked and he flapped and he raised quite a fuss

but no matter the song, he not once did cuss

When I asked him to enter, away he did fly

and went to the bush, where I'm sure he did cry.

Solving Life's Puzzles

The world is not dying for another book. But it is dying for the rest of God – Mark Buchanan

The story is told of a man who dies and finds himself in a foyer with two doors. Before each door stands an angel identical in every way. One door is a portal to the hot-house, while the other leads to God’s presence. The only aspect in which the angels differ is this: One always tells the truth, while the other only lies. What question must the man ask the angels if he is to enter paradise and avoid perdition?

I’m not fond of puzzles, but I like figuring things out.

Years ago I lived in Spokane and needed to contact a friend in Pullman. This was in the mid-1970s. I had some important information to pass along, but when I dialed the number I received an automated response: “We are sorry; due to technical difficulties, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please try again later.”

I tried a bit later, but received the same message as before, so I called the operator to see if she could put me through. The operator told me the lines between Spokane and Pullman were down, so the calls could not be completed.

“But I have to get through,” I insisted. “It’s not life or death, but it’s really important.”

She was sympathetic to my plight, but knew she couldn’t put my call through when the lines were down.

“Well,” I continued, “Can’t you go in through the back door?”

She asked what I meant, so I asked if she couldn’t route the call over to Coeur d’Alene, down to Moscow, and into Pullman that way.

Her voice brightened; she told me that was possible, and so that’s what she did. The connection was made, the message communicated, and all was right with the world!

I like problems that have solutions. Actually, I don’t like having a problem, but I like knowing that there are few things in life that happen for which we can’t find a way through. The best problems are those we tackle – not alone, but with companions, friends, associates, or others who care enough to help.

There is the old adage: A problem shared is a problem halved, or (as Shakespeare might have expressed it): To half or to half not; that is the question.

People sometimes complain they see no reason to go to church. “It’s full of hypocrites,” they often say.

Of course, they are correct. I’m in no position to debate the matter, for the fact is the church IS full of hypocrites, but there’s always room for more!

If one can have a conversation, I would not challenge the assertion, nor would I challenge the conclusion. One is certainly free to attend church or not as one sees fit. That decision is theirs to make, and not mine to challenge or correct.

If, on the other hand, one asks me why I go to church (and no, it’s not for the paycheck), I would tell them I go because it is a watering hole for the thirsty, a buffet for the hungry, a first aid station for those who hurt, and a house of hugs for those who are lonely.

I go to church because it is a place where people share their experience, strength, and hope with one another; where they find forgiveness for the wrongs they’ve done, and healing for the wrongs they’ve endured.

I go to church because it is the back door through which God’s message of eternal love for the other gets through, even when other lines are down or the power is out.

Oh sure, the pews are hard and the people are – oh, how shall we express it? The people are so human, but hey, that’s where God has called us; so we gather with all our little quirks, imperfections, and defects of character; we share our problems, we find them halved, and we see God in the process.

So, that’s why I go to church.

It is also where I learned the answer to the story with which I opened: “What door did you say this was to the last person who asked?”

Think about it, and have some fun with life’s puzzles in this, our valley.

What Color is your Apron?

Give a boy a horse, he’ll ride for a day; teach a boy to horse around, he’ll have friends for life – An old proverb I just made up.

My wife and I were at a megastore one day for a bit of shopping. There was one small item we needed, but weren’t quite sure where to find it, so we located a Customer Service Representative (CSR) to help us. You could tell she worked there by the apron she wore.

I asked her where I might find what we were looking for. She scrunched her eyes together for a moment and concluded that was a good question.

She seemed equally baffled by what it was exactly we were looking for, so we gave her the name of the product, the brand, and added the “as seen on TV” prompt the advertisement on television had used to direct us here to this establishment in the first place.

At that point her eyes widened a bit in near-recognition of what we were seeking, then went back into a deep-dive scrunch before concluding, as before, that it was a good question for which she had no answer.

Good soldier that she was, though, she stood her post and did not move. She suggested we try a spot in the exact opposite corner of the store from which she was located, and wished us well on our journey.

We departed for the far reaches of Wally’s World (name changed to protect the identity of the store; any similarities to establishments real or imagined is purely coincidental), but never did we find the gizmo that would have made our lives much more meaningful and complete. Sigh.

That’s quite different from what I experience when visiting a local establishment where I’m able to find true and genuine value in the world of, oh, let’s say “hardware” just for the sake of the story.

Whenever I drop in like “Tim ‘the Tool Man’ Taylor,” I am greeted by black-shirted CSRs who know me both by sight and (often) by name.

Knowing the skills and expertise with which I carry out life as a human being on planet earth, they immediately go into full blown blue-light-special-compassion mode and enquire as to how they might help me.

I generally assure them that all sorts of specialists and professionals have been trying to find the answer to that question for a number of years now, and yet the CSRs insist that this time things might just be different.

Having filled me with a sense of hope, I will confess what it is I’m looking for, and they will walk with me, and together we will look for what it is I seek. Not only that, but they will answer questions I have regarding the project I’m working on, and if that particular CSR doesn’t have the answer, they will find an in-house specialist who will pick up where they left off. That’s true customer service.

The best thing about that store is that being helpful seems to be a part of their culture. It doesn’t appear to be an affect or something they’re regurgitating out of a training manual or online course. When you pop into the store, they’re glad to see you and they want to help you find what you’re looking for.

Whether at home or out and about, I think it is important to be of service – to be ready to help. I think it is important to see a person – not a customer; to see a person and not a purse.

That’s something Jesus taught. “I came … to serve” and his followers suggest we “have this (same) attitude in us.”

He’s given each of us an apron - our smile - and any way you slice it, we are Christ’s Service Representative; we are expected to actively seek the face of Christ in everyone we meet.

Every person is walking around with a list of needs tucked away in a pocket, and as God’s CSRs, we have the privilege of asking them, “May I help?”

In time, we might even discover with joy that we’ve not been called to stand guard over some spot in some aisle, but to join hands with those who seek, and scratch items off our lists together as we journey with them here in this, our valley.

The Sacred Host

With weary hands, the priest lifts the host

Gazing upon that flattened disc – that unleavened mass

As it hovers over the paten, the chalice, and the sacred linens.

Priestly eyes are fixed thereupon,

Watching to see if God will swoop down to land

and change that bit of bread into flesh

into blood

into God’s very own self.

Every eye in God’s own House is upraised

In Holy Expectation

In Mystical Silence

In Sacred Reverence.

Soon, the weary arms begin to tire

And the bread is lowered once again

To the plate from which it was taken.

Jesus finds his rest upon that sacred space

As the hands of the old priest hover o’er it

Thumbs crossed, left on right.

In silence, God alights, and all is right

And the reverent crowd,

Saintly sinners all

Behold the grace of God in mercy broken.

Bluebirds in the Valley

Freedom shows the point of Christianity because it discloses the final goal of our lives, which is to share in God’s unspeakable freedom. Timothy Radcliffe, OP

A Mountain Bluebird swept down from the East and landed on the fence across the street. The air was warm and still, making the landing appear quite effortless.

The bird gazed across the yard. His back was to this observer, and he seemed to be surveying his realm with peace, grace, and serenity.

After a few moments he was joined by another of his species. She did not share his powder-blue coloring, but she was definitely “of a kind”.

The two stared at one another for a few moments and then departed. At first their journey took them briefly north. I wondered if they had to fly into the wind like planes off an aircraft carrier. What happens if there is no wind? I often ponder such matters when I am alone.

As I meditated on the world of my feathery friends, they circled back and made their way to the shelter of the trees outside my front window, disappearing into the needled greenery of the old spruce.

I say “old” but it is really just an adolescent in the world of trees. She has only seen about three decades come and go, but what are thirty years in relation to all eternity? The tree neither knows, nor cares. She simply rises from the ground, drawing her energy from sun, soil, and air.

“She neither spins nor sows, yet not even Solomon in all his glory was arrayed like her,” said the rabbi on the Mount, “so why fret? Why worry? Why be anxious?”

At that point a movement caught my eye and the birds flew out of the tree and onto the stone path beneath. They hopped to and fro for a moment, and then stood still.

“Why aren’t you standing watch over the nest,” asked the blue-feathered one (seemingly) as he glanced at his mate with unblinking purpose.

“Why aren’t you?” she shot back with an equally unblinking stare-down.

They stood motionless like that for a few seconds, glaring at one another with focused determination, and then … they smiled. I swear to all that is, they almost broke out into birdie laughter and went about checking the ground for food, grubs, seeds, worms, or whatever it is bluebirds find their nutritional delight in, and after they had found all there was to find in our sparse space, they flew away to points unknown.

Jesus said, “I have come that you might have an abundant life.” He did not say he came to give us an abundance of things, but an abundance of life.

Watching those birds for ten or fifteen minutes might have seemed wasteful to some, but not to me. They stuck around long enough I was able to retrieve my camera and even take a few photographs. That’s highly unusual as it has been my experience that birds (especially) don’t like to sit still to have their pictures taken.

Either that or I set a too leisurely pace as a photographer.

With digital photography, one can snap away and select the “perfect” picture out of a hundred (or thousand) taken, but I have always been of the “slow and steady wins the race” variety of shutterbug.

Some people are “whipper snappers” – whipping out their cameras and snapping away. I’m more of a “slugger-snapper” – sluggishly deciding … to … get … my … cam … era … and … zzz.

But that’s OK; that’s alright; that’s just the way I am, and I’m used to it. I really relate to a shirt I saw the other day. It said, “I’m a man of my word. I said I’d fix it. You don’t have to keep reminding me every six months!”

The birds of the air know enough to find what they need on the land and in the trees that surround them. They do not water their lawns; nor do they mow or trim. They haven’t got fingers or thumbs, yet they build exquisite nests. They haven’t got computers, and yet they know egg-zactly how to multiply.

That’s not a bad life all in all. They may be blue, but I confess I’m green with envy in this, our valley.