The Grandeur of God

Everyone, at some point in their life, should walk door-to-door. Should stick their head into a hundred other lives for just a moment, just a glimpse. To enter a hundred different stories. To listen to the patter of little feet, see a little face peer through the window, and hear a little voice: “Mama, it’s someone with a book!” It’s intimidating until the first rude response. Something like “---girl, you must be delusional!!” and the door slams. That over, there’s nothing left to worry about. Just knock on doors. Hundreds ---thousands--- of doors. The sky cries big drops from time to time. Then the sun glowers. But the trees are kind, carpeting the path with red and yellow. The trees. That’s what caught my attention the second day of this fascinating experiment. Rivers of asphalt with cement tributaries. And houses. “There’s a green one and a blue one, a yellow one and a purple one, and they’re all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same.” But that tree, the vibrant living tree. There it stood to weather all seasons. In the spring time, it laughed green life and, here in the autumn, it was a flame of yellow and red. And everyone just walks by. I began looking around. Sure enough, there were signs of life. Wind swept loudly between the corrugated houses, demanding attention. Everyone just pulled their hoods on tighter. Some trees clapped their hands. Others were bold enough to throw chestnuts and apples at passers by, who kicked them out of their way and hurried on. “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.” The sun stared brightly. “It will flame out like shining from shook foil. It gathers to a greatness” and gushes between the clouds. Crooked sidewalk lay tired, chipped and uneven. “Generations have trod, have trod, have trod.” Garage doors left open, with old men welding or tinkering on their cars. “All is seared with trade, bleared, smeared with toil.” Oil spills seeping into driveways. “And wears man’s smudge.” Cigarette butts littered the porches. “And shares man’s smell: the soil is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.” Shod. One aching foot in front of the other. “And for all this, nature is never spent.” An alyssum sneaking through a wire fence and, failing to catch anyone’s attention, let loose a honey like perfume. “There lives the dearest, freshest, deep down things.” Thin green spears of grass poked up through dark soil where a new lawn was brightly beginning. The sun was sinking low in the sky. Finally, the trek back to the car. But “though the last lights off the black West went, Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs. Because the Holy Ghost over the bent world broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”

rye bread

Jewish rye. I slid one, two pieces into the toaster before cracking a couple of brown eggs onto the sizzling griddle. Rye -- as much a part of my identity as my shoe size. Or the scar beside my lip. I can still see her pulling that long loaf out of her brown paper shopping bag (so much like a magician's hat), "For Nay, because she loves rye bread." And there in my little hands lay a fragrant brown loaf, that-morning-fresh from Gale's bakery. She had breezed through the door only 2 minutes before. Very much, come to think of it, like a rabbit popping unexpectedly out of a magician's hat. And suddenly a dozen wild little arms had surrounded her, and half as many shrill voices screamed "Grandma!" (I have my suspicions that she lived for those greetings). Then we'd all turn to the brown paper sac that had been dropped, or confiscated, or thrown to a chair in the fury of wild hugging. Out came the inevitable candy for James, a necklace for Sarah, a book for Rebekah, and always, there was rye bread for Nay. I can't even recall how the little tradition started. I suppose I must have enjoyed a piece one time, and she remembered. What I remember is the dignity of owning an entire loaf all by myself. That, and the dozen or so slices forgotten, dried up in the back of the bread drawer two weeks after she'd flown. The toaster dings. Two crusty slices of Jewish rye pop up. Very much, now that I think about it, like a rabbit popping out of a magician's hat.

people

I probably should have phoned in sick and dropped my drowsy head back onto my pillow. But I didn’t. I crawled out of bed, made myself look alive and drove to the restaurant. It was a busy Saturday. I hurried around coffeeing cups and seating people. A long line of costumers were adding up at the counter, so I ran to the register and turned to the first customer
“How was everything?”
“Do you really want to know?” he threatened.
I knew I didn‘t. but I couldn’t think of a proper stall. So I reluctantly answered,
“Well….Yes.”
He leaned over the counter and snarled,
“Well, my wife wanted to do a simple substitution and the waitress wouldn’t let her. Then the waitress got my order wrong. And she didn’t even come back to fill our water glasses even once.”
Usually I let it roll off my back. But just then my emotional stamina was thinner than tissue paper. My mind felt thick and heavy like mud. I was exhausted. I ached. At his words, my heart just sank and shriveled. I didn’t have the energy to respond, so I mumbled something about being sorry and it’s busy this morning. And he turned away muttering something about leaving reviews on internet sights.

Feeling like a fly zinged by an electric zapper, I cautiously glanced up into the eyes of the next customer. Before I could even open my mouth, he blurted out:
“Everything was fine!”
Something revived. I counted out his change and from the very bottom of my heart replied, “Thank you!”
And the next customer stepped up and answered, grinning:
“It was perfect.”

A well written antidote should stand on it’s own feet, unhampered by a sappy moral at the end. But if I were going to add anything, I’d merely comment on how nice it is when a whole line of open-eyed people see beyond the job someone is working and recognize a real person. And I’d probably remark on what a happy difference observant people can make in an ordinary somebody’s day.

peace

What could I,

But press my palm against my trembling lip?

And clench my tongue between my teeth lest slip

Accusing words, and angry whys

Hiccupped between hot tears.

Why beat a brick

Wall, as if my fist could break it?

Back of my tears I could not shake

Knowledge of a gentle Builder,

Who lays harsh stones with

Careful mercy.

If not beat,

Then yield, thought I. Let another

Reap from my sorrow. Let some boon

Seep from my tears - what though

The gain be His who pressed, not mine

Who bore?

Though tears,

My heart ached still to live and longed

To give to Him. To Him who had begun

All that was receding from my grasping. And I cried,

“Then break me!

Only let your glory shine through my breaking!

The fruit that swells and blushes on the bush

Watered by my tears; the years spent bent

Above the whistling flame; the first-fruits of my pain

Are Yours.”

So said I.

And struggle done, and thinking the gain from each

Pin-poke of my pain His, I turned to live a hundred

Long tomorrows. I didn’t know that I had wrestled out

My peace. While weeping, hot tears had cleansed. Pressed beneath

His thumb, I could not wriggle from His gaze. Prayer, wrung

From my reluctant soul, wove a ladder to the face of

God Himself.

His, perhaps, the glory-harvest.

But through spring’s slow season, no fruit shows. Yet

My soul breathes in fragrance oozing from sweet,

Fresh-burst blossom. My eyes drink the pink and white

Sight of bloom.

My peace has sprung.

monotony

“Shall I say this morning, yet again, The prayer I prayed through last night’s falling rain?

The first ‘I love You so’

-said some hundred million words ago-

Said again, silent and slow,

Because You already know.

I wonder if, dim and dull from use, You tire of hearing

the chant - predictable; a plod

Of well-worn boots that beat the clod

Of well-worn, time-worn paths.”

…………………………..

I walked at sun’s rising: another clear, fair dawn.

And heard again the sweet, the familiar,

The ruddy-breasted robin call

To a bird in birches, white and tall,

Clean in the young summer sun.

A bold, warm, climbing sun,

Dazzling the dew drops, each one

A diamond. And grass, green and bright

Catching soft, yellow light.

I walked a midnight-path, the hundredth time,

Bewitched by the moon-trance,

Gaze at the star dance,

Brushed by a cool, dry breeze

That rustled through trees

Which cast dark lines

Across the grey ground.

And like each midnight, every hundred misted-midnights that I’d walked before,

I sighed. Delighted.

glory

Why the center?
Why the very core?
Where all the fibers of my being thread to a crossing;
Where hopes meet joys, meet abilities, meet heart.
Where I set my soul’s finger when pointing to very me -
Why strike there?

Why strike there,
Yet still so gently?
Not a gushing wound or stab of knife,
But a pluck of pain, an ache, a tear drop, a sigh.
Constant, no flee from, no fly from, no dream away.
A steady sorrow.

Could, could it be
You go beyond?
Beyond my satisfaction, my sanctifying, beyond my soul?
Could it be that mirrored off me, my tears, Your glory glows brighter?
Your glory?

Why? Why glory
Through broken pieces?
Does not an artist make a new, a noble, a whole, a bright?
Does not a maker create, combine, protect, let live?
Then why do You tear down?

Through broke down wall,
Of stacked stone,
Sun streams, bright beams, bright gleams, and warmth.
Does Your Light shine through my brokenness clearer than me whole?
Then break me.

But only if in breaking,
You keep.
Not like flame quenched, shattered glass, discarded toy.
But like pink bud burst from pruned branches,
Or sun shone sweeter through cut-glass window.
Let Your glory shine
Through my breaking.

Grey

Pitter-patter, gloomy-grey,

Wiling-wind, wet-dreary day,

But why, my Heart, why the dismay?

Wind-tug tree-twigs tumble toss

Scatter leaves the road across,

But Heart, why pressed at so light loss?

Worry, wonder-wishing-why,

Weakens soul with sagging sigh,

Be strong, my Heart, make no reply.

World washed clear by winter rain

Springs up fresh-green grass again.

So faith unfolds in flinch of pain.

Earth and Heaven yield rich boon:

Plod white path plum-blossom strewn;

Hold silent-sleeping, silk cocoon;

Finger sea-shell, wave-whipped-hewn;

Trace bright silver ring ‘round moon;

Warm summer sun, my Heart, dawns soon.

Sea

Have you seen the mirth of the raucous surf pounding out a salty sting?

Or glimpsed the sight of the pelican flight on the air in graceful wing?

Have you heard the breeze on a seagull tease it’s call to a faint, wisp string?

Or the wind as it bends the brown sea-grass ends, to a murmuring, gentle sing?

Rain

Rain drops caught on tips of twigs

where yester-summer's leaves grew.

The harmonious havoc of a hundred green things:

Green ferns, and green stream and

Green moss - drooping, tumbling down tree trunks

And falling loose from slippery branches.

A dozen worlds staring out of a dozen puddle mirrors.

Freckled mirrors, when the rain’s falling.

I see music when it’s raining in the woods.

Jimmy's Here!

Jimmy’s here! It’s delightful to introduce him to my world. It’s good to catch up on the last few months and any other issue we choose. After church we went to the coffee shop and debated the benefits/disadvantages of technology on our society. Then we walked along the river and talked about his job. I love to see him here. And watch him interacting with the people who have come to mean so much to me. Yesterday night, though, at dinner a gloom settled over me. Jim’s coming means the beginning of the end.

Dr. Bauman’s last class has come and gone. I’ve said hundreds of goodbyes to good friends. But it’s different with Dr. Bauman. Very different. How do I express my gratitude to someone who has challenged and shaped me so much? Who has invested so much into influencing me. And not only me. But thirty other people. That’s the problem. I feel like just one more person saying the same thing. And it seems so routine and inadequate. In the end all I can say is “Thanks, you’ve made a big impact on me.” I think he understands. But I wish I could say more.

With Thanksgiving on Thursday and graduation on Friday it’s a full, full week. Looking forward to it, I’m already exhausted. This last week was full of meeting with girls and organizing the arrivals and guest rooms for the 60+ extra people descending upon us for the festivities. My desk and my mind have been chaotically full of mentoring, guest rooms and arrival dates.

And all the other goodbyes are looming up. I’m sad to see the end of good times with people who have become so dear. I always figure that the tougher the goodbye, the better the friendship was. So I can’t help but consider what a unique privilege these few months have been. I am very, very grateful.

i like my girls.

With each small group, each conversations, each interaction, I’m realizing that I just love these beautiful young women. As relationships deepen, I wish this were the beginning and not the end.

There’s something so gutsy and idealistic in the way a young person begins to wrestle with God. Trying to figure out how to trust Him, how to see life in His light. I’m glad for the experiences that bring me to the present. But I almost envy the energy, the hope, the life of those first battles. I find myself trying to catch up to my girls. Instead of being a step ahead, I am encouraging them with all the things I’m presently telling myself. In speaking of the greatness of God, I look at Him again.

conversations

We started with John 18:36. Russell couldn’t get further than the word ‘now’; I was stuck at ‘if’. The conversation was animated. We worked ourselves across the room to the book shelf for resource (and leaning against). He waving the entirety of the Bible in front of my face every time I demanded a definition for love; periodically thumbing through the dictionary or the book of I John; then cheering whenever he scored a point in the conversation -which happened often. We didn't just travel across the room, we traveled from pacifism, to authority of government, to love as the basis for every ethical decision, to the relationship between truth and love. His biggest beef is how utilitarianism has crept into Christian thinking (or shall we properly say un-Christian thinking). Greatest good for the most people vs. love, justice, truth, hope, faith….

My mind is mulling on the conversation -

Where is the place for making decisions based on the greatest good for the greatest amount of people?

How is it different to be a citizen of God’s Kingdom and a citizen of the U.S.A.? Have we loyalties to both, or only one? Are there are different sets of morals and standards for the government than there are for people? For example, I’ve always believed that the government held a right to terminate the life of a murderer, but that individuals do not. Is that inconsistent?

Has modern Christendom thrown open the doors to reason-without-faith, allowing the wolf of ‘ends justify the means’ to creep through clothed in the fleece of ‘for the sake of love’?

Is Christ’s message counter cultural because it calls us, not to a different approach or shifting of the rules, but because he calls us to a new way of life altogether?

Ought we weigh our decisions in light of consequences, or by how they measure to the example of a new life and new spirit in Christ?

Have we lost the power of the Spirit, by relegating him to the realm of the Church and worship, adopting secular ideas for the realm of government, job, and ‘real life’?

snow fun

Wednesday morning I peeked through the curtains, and yes! It had snowed! More than two inches of beautiful, cold, sparkly, clean, cold, wet, invigorating, cold snow! I ran outside - I love the powdery freshness of early morning snow, with only a set or two of tracks in it. Wendy and I were the only ones out for a while. Then I had to go wake Evelyn - she’s never seen snow in her life. And then Mike and Sam and Dano came out and we sledded until breakfast.

Snow was still falling in the afternoon when the cooks went shopping. The most fearless [insane?] of us trekked out to play volleyball. Until we saw Shelly and Amanda done with shopping, trudging back up the hill without the van. We all ran (slid) down the hill and formed a brigade to transfer groceries from the van to the jeep. Then a dozen students loaded into the van, while the rest of us firmly positioned ourselves against the back door and heaved. Pushing a fifteen passenger van up hill, while your feet are slipping on the ice is no joke. But in fine company, it’s good fun. The van fought back mercilessly. It fishtailed back and forth trying to pitch us into the ditch. The tires spewed mud, rubber fumes, and slush. Thirty feet - and about as many minutes - later, we got it to a wide spot in the road where other vehicles could get past. We trudged back up hill. Good humor, good snowball fight, good times.

Tomorrow we leave for an ‘art’ weekend in Santa Fe. We’ll explore Canyon Road - art gallery after art gallery after art gallery. And we’ll tour the Site Santa Fe - a museum dedicated to post modern art and pushing the limits - should stimulate some opinionated conversations.

let it snow!

First thing every morning I peek through the curtains to see if the hillside is white with snow. Every morning it’s still brown. Today, though, the clouds were pink, and I smiled to myself, thinking: “Red sky in the morning, the sailors take warning.”

When I checked the weather report, it declared eighty percent chance of snow tomorrow. I know that snow means mud, and cold feet. But I love to see powder sugar white on all the mountains, and I can’t wait until the ponderosa pines are capped with snow. And I’m looking forward to watching Evelyn - she’s from Louisiana - go crazy with delight. And I can’t wait to pitch a snow ball at Rob - I owe him one.

Life has been full, and mostly uneventful. But I’m enjoying the little pleasures that brighten ordinary moments. Like this weekend, good friends from last semester came to laugh and reminisce and visit. And last Thursday was the great and long anticipated Staff vs. Students volley ball competition (we won). And I finally beat Russell at a game of ping pong - I’ve been working at that for almost a month. Class picture on Friday - little baby Elijah routinely spit up all over me for the hour proceeding the shot. And I experimented with small group by squishing everyone into my room instead of meeting in the class room. We loved it and laughed over the highlights of our week. And I love how conversations become more straightforward and comfortable after building for two months.

I love to call my family. When I hang up, I usually sigh. I miss home. But when I stop to reflect, I can’t help smiling at the good memories that are being built. God is very good to me.

welcome, dr.williams

Since they happen to be such a big part of my life at the moment, I thought I'd add a picture of the amazing staff I'm working with. Nate and Russell, on the left, are the guy's mentors. Suzanne and I are sandwiched in the middle and our increda-cooks, Amanda and Shelly, are on the right. It's an awesome group. I love how the friendships between us deepen and grow.

Dr. Don Williams is here for the week. He is such a one of a kind... I despair even trying to describe him. He's what an English Professor ought to be. White beard, big glasses, and constantly switching between Old English, Elvish and quotations. He lives in old literature. I drove van number three to Church this morning. He rode shot gun. Looking back over his shoulder he conversed with the students.

Rosey: "You might be interested in knowing, Dr. Williams, that we're going to do a Lord of the Rings movie Marathon."

I can't repeat Dr. Williams emphatic response. But it made me laugh and comment on his strong opinion. He almost glared at me.

"Opinion?! I never have opinions. I speak facts! ...opinions? as if I ever gave an opinion!"

I laughed and he added:

"-William Kirkpatrick."

In between his recitations about stars and fair ladies' white faces, Rosey and Emily warned him about Slavish, who likes to wear a sarong to class - just to see what the teachers will do. Dr. Williams asked how they recommend he respond:

"Shall I skirt the issue... or give him a dressing down?"

People who do or tell are common enough. It is rare to find people who are . Perhaps that is why he is so engaging. He so thoroughly loves literature, and stories. He delights in English as a channel to glorify God. His verbal encouragement to love these is weak compared to his obvious revel in them. It makes you curious. Curious and eager to find what secret treasure he has unearthed. And you wonder if you've missed something wonderful.

half way

I don’t think I’ll ever get reconciled to the speed of time. We’re half way through the semester already. Is it possible that the days are passing quicker this year than they did last? Or maybe I’ve just forgotten.

And life has been full. The inevitably drama of 19 females living under one roof provides plenty to keep Suzanne and I busy. I feel pulled in nine different directions as I get to know these women better, and wish there was two of me just so I could spend more time with them.

Last weekend, Charissa came for the weekend. We worked together in the kitchen last year and I haven’t seen her since. Russell (her boyfriend) and I have been eagerly anticipating her visit since the Semester began. She and I laughed all weekend remembering the good moments from last Semester. Last year we kept a score board running on pieces of masking tape above the kitchen door. They’re still there: the biscuit-head competition, lighting self on fire, oversleeping, throwing pies…. Our cooks this year are doing a fabulous job. But I confided to Charissa that I don’t think they’re having nearly as much fun as we had. The students listened curiously as we spun colorful stories about the bread wars and potato tosses of last year.

And life isn’t very fair. Life can be full to the brim and still it mercilessly piles on more. Beyond Summit, other relationships, and personal questions and decisions seem to be stacking themselves higher and higher. Chars' visit was perfect timing. I hadn’t realized that I’d been wanting an ear until we went for a long walk. It was delightful to speak freely with her.

culture questions

Over the past week the hills have flamed out in vibrant orange and gold and rust. The aspen leaves are quivering like sheets of pressed golden. I think the mountains are dressing up to celebrate my birthday. A few years ago I tried to persuade myself that as an adult, there’s really no need to get worked up over a birthday. I failed. This year I’m just looking forward to it. When the package from home came, I stacked the parcels up on my little shelf. And every few days, when Post Office Box 3787 benevolently bestows another little package, I add it to the stash. That little shelf, laden down with thoughts and good wishes from people who love me makes me smile.

I’m a bit nostalgic, too. This time of year always makes me pensive. Six crazy, long years ago I left home for the first time. Perhaps It’s even more in my face as I watch so many other young people at that point in life. It makes me remember where I’ve been.

Speaking of where I’ve been, culture class at BBTI is front on my mind. We have a guest speaker this week, John Stonestreet. He’s been assaulting us with questions about a Christian’s place in culture: how we should respond to it; influence it; create it. He keeps saying, “Write this question down…” And so I keep writing and the list gets longer:

If we are concerned about the next world, than what difference does this world make?

How should we be involved in this world?

Is Christianity this-worldly or is Christianity other-worldly? What’s the difference?

Are we to be good Christians or are we to be good humans? What’s the difference?

Do we learn to have faith so that we can live in the world? Or do we learn faith by living in the world?

Biblically what is the goal of human culture?

How should reconciliation and redemption impact human cultures?

Lot’s of new thoughts. Lot’s of old thoughts. And good conversations. Jonathan -a student with a similar background and a head full of brilliant red hair - and I have been hashing out what it means to rightly live out counter-cultural convictions. Especially in Christian circles. When is it good to fight hard for high principles? When do you hold your peace? How do you choose which battles to fight? What hills to die on? I love the accountability that stems from such conversations. I love the provocation of other’s thoughts and convictions. I love to live with people, learn from them, and be challenged with them.

just pondering

They say that mothers run where angels fear to trod. My role here is certainly not mother. So I sometimes wonder what kind of a fool I am.

It’s fun to watch our community take shape and personality. When you slap together a group of random people, from random places, with random experiences, the community that evolves is very individual. The first week, you see faces and hear names and associate people with the color or their sweater or glasses they wear. But time and conversation reveals history. And you realize that people aren’t products of the moment, but came from somewhere. And you learn their stories.

Last Wednesday evening I drove back from town with Evelyn, listening to her story. To her dreams and ideas and dramas and opinions. I find myself suddenly a character in her story. I’m supposed to say something. To come along side. To be involved. But who is equal to answer REAL questions? To give answers that could influence the course of someone’s life? What kind of a fool am I to leap right into the middle and trudge beside someone for a mere three months?

More than once, though, I’ve been amazed at how God is using my own experiences. Even up to the recent heartaches of this past summer. Several of my girls mirror parts of my own story. And I can’t help but remember God’s guidance through those seasons. And when I share pieces of my life with them, I marvel to watch -again- how He wrings purpose out of my experiences.

Love is a funny thing, isn’t it? Where you have no right to enter, it opens doors. When you should tremble to speak it sets you on a soapbox. And where you ought to hesitate, you plunge forward like a fool.

back to the bottom

As I insinuated, the six-hour drive to the Sand Dunes last weekend was fairly uneventful. Our day was exhilarating, tiring, awesome, but uneventful. For me anyhow. One of the other drivers had his own little adventure. From the driver’s seat of Van 1, I merely laughed and murmured to Jonathan-riding-shotgun, “Oh good. now I’m not the driver at the bottom of the totem pole anymore!”

We decided to keep this last weekend low key. So yesterday we loaded up into a couple of vans and went on a gentle hike - just over a mile - to Opal Lake. After 30 minutes of wash-board gravel roads, we piled out at the trail head.

“You want to lead?” Eric looked at me.

“I wasn’t here when we went last year. I was sick. …but I guess can anyway. Is the trail well marked?”

He nodded. And assigned Shelly (the cook) to the front with me.

“I’ve never been here before,” she echoed. But she was game. And we struck out. How hard is it to follow a trail?

And what a fabulous mountain side! The aspens grew so straight and white and close together. And I don’t often see grass growing in a forest. But in between the trees, it was green. A very different kind of lushness than in Oregon. It had rained the day before, so the mud was slick and slurpy and beautiful. We wandered through meadows, stopped to climb up fallen trees, laughed and slid up and down the trail. For about an hour. Until Mae finally piped up “How long is it to the lake?” Shelly and I looked at each other and shrugged. There had been only one real fork in the road. The trail sign had fallen down. But we’d followed the arrow pointing to “Opal lake”. A group of us had gotten pretty far ahead. Why turn back now? So we plodded on. Finally a ridge grew up in front of us. We could see the trees ended.

“I don’t want to get anyone’s hope up, but that’s probably it.” Rob remarked quietly. Expectantly we scrambled up the hill and looked down. Not a bit of water in sight. But valley. And more mountain. Then we glanced behind us. Eric and Jonathan came jogging up the trail trying to catch us.

“You missed the trail head about a mile and a half back.”

“Oh.”

Shelly and I looked at each other. And then out over the valley in front of us. We had a hearty laugh at ourselves.

“It’s a beautiful view from here, though.”

“Of course,” grinned Michael-who’d-been-in-the-run-out-of-gas-van, “It’s always an adventure when I go anywhere with Naomi.”

“I’d say you’re back at the bottom of the totem pole!” Jonathan teased me.

Oh well. We retraced our steps and got back to the right trail in time to meet the wiser ones already on their way back to the vans. Hurrying past them, we ran the few hundred yards to Opal lake and scarfed down our sandwiches on it’s shore.

It was a lovely excursion. After all, what’s a three mile detour? Especially in such beautiful country side. Seriously, it was gorgeous. If anyone doesn’t believe me, feel free to come see for yourselves. I’d be more than happy to lead you up to the lake. It’s a short hike, I hear. Pretty easy. We could get there and back in an hour, honest….

two weeks down

I feel much more settled at the beginning of this week than I did at the beginning of last. Last Sunday I led our first small group. Nine girls watching me. And then throughout the week I tried to pull each of them aside to get a little one on one. Nine seemed like a lot. But now that I’ve gotten a chance to connect individually I’m excited. I love to observe different personalities. I love to ask questions and try to understand how someone thinks. And it’s pretty cool to be able to pull out the “I’m your mentor” line and ask any question I want to. Including: “What are you REALLY thinking?” I feel so privileged to walk along side them as they ask questions and build foundations for beliefs. Privileged and sometimes very small. I love the challenge and pray for wisdom.

Last night Libby and I walked down the driveway. (side note: I’m finally getting used to the dreadful lack of oxygen at 7,000 feet. So trudging up the hill isn’t quite as breathtaking an experience as it was last week.) The sun was just setting through the aspens. We had to stop and just marvel. The leaves were almost translucent with the sunbeams shining through them. I wonder if that was the inspiration behind the very first stain glass. The mountains around us are turning gold and red. So subtly that you hardly notice what’s happening until the color has already changed.

And for those of you interested in round two, it was a six hour drive. I won.