Like a River Glorious

I drove to downtown Estes the other day to meet a friend at Kind Coffee. The tourist have arrived for the season so I parked at the visitor center and started to walk toward Elkhorn Avenue. That's when I noticed all the city work trucks and skads of men in yellow swarming around the river.
The previous winter's unrelenting cold had prevented any snow melt until just recently, when we finally got some very warm temperatures.
Now the banks were barely holding the water back and the city workers scrambled to line the river with sand bags.
The workers wove yellow tape through the trees bordering the river, warning visitors to keep their distance from the churning water.
After my meeting, my friend and I walked along the Riverwalk, marvelling at the power of the water. Tourists gawked and took pictures. Parents held on to their toddlers. The roar of the river made conversation impossible.
I thought, how like water is God. At times, it is the soothing "quiet waters" of Psalm 23, or the life-giving water that feeds the tree in Jeremiah 17. Sometimes, it is the dark, swift and dangerous water of Isaiah 43 through which God promises to accompany us. It is the washing water that cleanses us with the Spirit in Ephesians 5:26, or the living water that God promises will flow out of us: John 7:38.
No one word can describe water.
Neither can one word describe God.
At times He is gentle, soothing, comforting, inspiring.
At others, just like the river in Estes, He is dangerous, majestic, glorious and awesome.
That river is nothing in comparison to the majesty of God. But it makes me think of God. . . and worship Him.

"Have you entered the storehouses of the snow or seen the storehouses of the hail. . . ? Who cuts a channel for the torrents of rain, and a path for the thunderstorm. . . ?" (Job 38:21,25)

Turn Back!

Years ago, as newbies to Colorado, Bruce and I took a May hike above Bear Lake. We should have waited at least until June. Till most of the snow melted and rushed down the mountains to fill the hundred of swollen streams and rivers that water the Front Range.
But you know how it is. After a winter and spring shut in, your senses ache to touch, feel, taste, smell the glory of the mountains.
We passed Bear Lake, took the right fork --the one that leads to Bierstadt --and trudged uphill.
At that point the snow wasn't too bad. Maybe about a foot. We wore good boots and an adventurous spirit.
As Bruce and I hiked to higher elevations the depth of the snow increased. (That should have been our first warning that we should turn around.)
At Bear Lake, we'd seen new spring undergrowth. Now, all was buried by snow. (Second warning.)
We confidently struck off down our "trail" between a corridor of spruce. At each step I sank up to my hips in the soft stuff. I tried to pull my leg out, lost my balance and fell over onto my back.
It didn't hurt and I lay there, laughing at how funny I must have looked with my leg still buried somewhere underneath me.
If you're a hiker, you know that these mountain trails are marked with little metal tabs nailed into tree trunks about fifteen feet up. That way, even when the trial is buried in snow, you can still stick to the trail.
Lying there, looking up, it dawned on me that I couldn't see any metal tabs. . . not for a long way.
I sat up, feeling the first little tinglings of panic in my stomach. "Bruce, I don't think we're on the trail anymore."
Visions of our frozen bodies being discovered weeks later by back-packers forced me onto my feet. Fear hammered in my chest.
Stupidly, for about fifty more yards, we surged forward, still looking for the trail.
"Stop. Let's retrace our tracks,"Bruce called out. "We can't have gotten too far off."
One hundred yards back, we spied a metal tab. Relief flooded my stomach. We would not die that day.
As we drove back home later that day. I remarked how that snowy trail was just like life: if you ignore the warning signs --in your marriage, your children, your spiritual life, your job, etc. -- and keep pushing on, pretty soon you're in trouble.

Stop! Retrace your tracks. Find out where you got off the trail and get back on the right path.

He Will Not Slumber

One fine and sunny April day a couple of years ago, my daughter and I took a hike into the Boulder hills. It was such a simple hike along the ridge of hills overlooking Hwy 36 that we didn't even bother to take a cell phone.
We had our dogs, Dudley and Sprite, and they strained at their leashes, eager to explore each new scent along the trail.
The trail rose steadily for about a mile, then turned north and gentled into a horsey-manure-soft path.
The only thing we feared running into was a mountain lion. So we kept alert, scanning the upper hillsides and the trees we walked under.
We passed a rocky bluff, half knocked down by wind and soil erosion. Then we heard it: the unmistakable rattle.
The snake perched on a rocky ledge about six feet off the trail, coiled into a tense, quivering ball.
Startled, but not frightened, we hurried past. I made a mental note of the spot so when we returned we could be extra vigilant.
We enjoyed the rest of our northward hike to the turn-around point.
Three miles back to the trailhead.
As we approached the bluff where we'd seen the rattlesnake I kept my eyes peeled on the rocks
above the trail. I held on to Sprite's leash with one hand and shaded my eyes with the other hand to see through the glare cast by the afternoon sun.
Phew! No snake.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something incredibly fast strike at Kiri's leg.
No warning rattle. No hiss. Just shoot to kill.
The snake missed Kiri's leg by a mere inch. Then it coiled into another shuddering, rattling ball right in the middle of the trail.
After several minutes, hoping the snake would slither off, we finally gave up and climbed over the jumbled rocks above the trail.
Once past, we hurried to reach the trail head, both thanking God that he'd kept Kiri safe and berating ourselves for being stupid enough not to bring a cell phone along.
I shuddered each time I thought what would have happened if my daughter had been bitten. I'd have had to run the two miles to the trail head and call 911, hoping that my daughter stayed calm and still and that the paramedics would reach her quickly.
No warning. Death struck at Kiri's heel without warning.
But we'd been alert, actively looking for the threat. Even that wasn't good enough.
I don't know how Kiri missed being bitten. Perhaps an angel placed his big hand between Kiri's leg and the snakes fangs.
God is an amazingly vigilant Father. Quick to see, quick to save.
Quicker even than the lightning strike of a rattlesnake.

". . . He who watches over you will not slumber. . . " (Psalm 121:3)

Storms: God's Gift

When I went to the Colorado Christian Writers' Conference mid-May, we had snow like you've never seen this time of year. I felt sorry for all of the conferees coming from out-of-state. They were probably looking forward to enjoying Colorado's high country: sapphire skies, intense sun, being able to sit outside with a good book, touring Rocky Mountain National Park.
The day that the conference ended, the sun finally peeked through the clouds.
Then we had a week of splendid weather.
I'm so glad my husband and I were able to get out and hike around Sprague Lake on Saturday morning before the weather turned again.
Good grief, doesn't Mother Nature know it's a few days shy of June?
What gives?

The weather provides such great metaphors for life:

"Blue skies, nothing but blues for me and my gal."
"Follow every rainbow, till you find your dream."
"Grey skies are gonna clear up. Put on a happy face."
"The sun'll come up tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow. . . "
"I've looked at clouds from both sides now. . . "
"Sunshine on my shoulder makes me happy."

As a singer, I could go on and on with the weather references in songs.
Blue skies and sunshine mean peace, security, and an end to our troubles.
But just as I whine when the snow and rain keep me inside, I also acknowledge that my trees and shrubs need that moisture.
I don't like emotional strife, insecure financial times or physical pain. But these inconveniences make me crave the presence of God.
Just as a sturdy roof, wind-proof walls and a warm fire in the hearth bring me physical comfort, so does God's loving presence provide peace in a time of turmoil.

I'm almost afraid to pray this because God does indeed answer prayer, but:
"God, may my storms be small, but if it takes a big storm to bring me to my knees,
Bring it on!

"Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him.
He will be like a tree, planted by the water, that send out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit." (Jer. 17: 7,8)

Ask the Animals

See that big guy there? He's just waiting to take his fill of my late spring flowers and shrubs.
The plants haven't come in yet. But by mid-June they'll make a tasty salad for my antlered bugler.
Last year I planted flowers in the front yard that elk and deer don't like: dianthus, marigolds and heather. And they usually leave the currant bushes and potentilla alone.
We have a high deck off the back side of our house. But the ground rises on the west side to surround and support the hot tub. The big bull will come right up that hill and peer through the banister at me.

When he's this close, his size awes me. I feel the stamp of his hoof on the soft earth, the huff of his breath as he blows dust from his nostrils. His long ears swivel and turn like miniature satellites, tuned to danger signals. But his liquid, brown eyes dismiss my five-foot presence as unworthy of concern.
The real-ness, the gritty-ness of his life:
the sloughing winter fur,
the scar on his brow from last fall's rut,
the rip and pull of the dried grass as he yanks a hunk from the dirt,
his need for sustenance,
his instinct to put on weight and grow bigger than the other bulls,
to pass on his genes to the next elk generation. . .

It touches the worshipper in me. What an amazing Creator is God. Both man and animal reflect His glory.

It's not like viewing a slice of the elk's life on some nature program on tv, or in a National Geographic magazine. His daily struggle for the life God has given him has become real to me.

This summer I've decided not to try to shoo him off my hill when he comes for my shrubs. The plants will grow back, but the chance to stand nose to nose with only a few cedar slats separating me from this eight hundred pound creature is a rare priviledge.

"But ask the animals and they will teach you. . . Which of all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In His hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind." (Job 12:7, 9-10)

Count to Ten

I always tell my music students, "Don't stop to fix your mistakes. Once they're out, they're out."
Yes, once a sound is 'out there" it can't be retrieved and stuck back inside your throat or the bowels of the piano or other musical instrument. The audience has heard the wrong note; you cannot pluck that back from their brains.
What's done is done.
Better never to have made the mistake at all. And so, my music student and I go back to the musical manuscript and work on the spot that is causing the performance mishap.

Isn't that just like our spoken words? It's so easy to let them pass through our lips, but once out, impossible to un-say them.
It's happened to me: words that have penetrated my ears and poured searing hurt right down onto my heart. And I, in turn, have dipped my verbal arrows in poison and sent them flying.
So much better to have restrained my tongue.
Wouldn't it be great if we had a "backspace" or "undo" tab that we could click each time we fail to stop our wounding words?
The problem with hurtful words is they always come back to hurt the speaker. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but sometime. Maybe the result is a relationship that isn't as open or loving or trusting.
You remember that old admonishment: "count to ten when you're angry."
I''ve decided to do that. I've noticed that when I get to ten, it gets way easier to keep the bad words from slipping out.

"He who guard his mouth and his tongue keeps himself from calamity." (Proverbs 21:23)

An Act of Worship

We took this shot of the turkey in our front yard, just outside my office. Funny how she's all alone. Usually I see turkeys in flocks.
I've had a very busy week, mostly involving activities with my flock at church.
I worked with a friend to organize and prepare a bridal shower for a lovely young lady at our church.
Had lunch with a couple of dear friends.
Rehearsed for a concert.
Performed the concert.
Facilitated a group of women at one of our many women's ministries.
Attended a play that had a couple of my voice students in it.
Sang for our church services.
Prepared the house for two guests who'll stay with me during the Colorado Christian Writer's Conference.
There are always lots of thanks and affirmations all around when we do all this social stuff.
But then I return to my quiet office for the work which I know God has also called me to.
There is very little "good job," "I appreciate your work," " thank you," during the hours I spend sequestered in my writing room.
I'll bet you've also got tons of quiet, solitary activities for which no one gives you praise.
It's easy to start feeling isolated and unappreciated. After all, who's there to see your work?
Are you really accomplishing something of lasting value?
We're tempted to feel that way when we do something that nobody sees.

I've placed an index card between my keyboard and the monitor. It says:
"My Writing is an Act of Worship."
No, it's not the clanging cymbals or trumpet blast kind of worship.
It's the quiet, focused work of a heart that adores Jesus Christ,
that wants to please Him with my written words.
It's hard to do that when I'm surrounded by a flock.
Perhaps that's what the turkey in my yard is doing: fulfilling some kind of God-programmed turkey activity that can only be done away from the trampling of other turkey toes and claws.

"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart,as working for the Lord, not for men." (Col. 3:23)