If You Know How to Look

Today my husband and I spent the day outdoors. It’s the height of autumn here in the south, and this year has brought us a particularly fine one. The normally green beauty of the woods has flamed with color, and the lake bottom is rusty with orange and purple.

I revel in the crisper air and the brilliant color that coats the world for such a brief moment, but we didn’t go out to appreciate that today. Everyone with eyes can see that flamboyant display whether they try or not. We went in search of something a little less obvious.

There is perfection buried in the shade of those bright leaves, but not everyone can see it. Some are overwhelmed by the blatant beauty and are convinced it is enough. Others may realize there is more to see but don’t know how to find it.

What do you see in the picture? Leaves? Look closer. Now what do you see? Deep in a hole full of dead leaves, a hole I might have stepped in had I been focused on the canopy above, grew these tiny, fragile mushrooms. So small and delicate that a touch might break them, they clung to the side of the hole and peeked around the edges of the protective leaves.

Much about life, about people, is obvious. The way we look, the way we act, the things we say are all the blazing leaves on the trees, impossible to miss. But what is hiding on the floor of that brilliant forest? Do you know how to look? It doesn’t take special education. It doesn’t take titles or notoriety. It requires time taken to step slowly and gently. It requires leaning in to examine every inch of ground for what is hidden. It requires the gentlest of touches to shift protective leaves away from the fragile thoughts and feelings buried deep within.

There is so much unexpected beauty to be found. If you know how to look.

You Can Know Truth

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“What is truth?”

Pilate asked that question with apparent sarcasm when faced with the Source of all truth in His courtroom. It’s a question our society has taken up as a rallying cry, and one which many who claim the name of Christ have  joined in shouting. Some have even said to me about various events or issues that we just can’t know the truth so we just have to go along and do the best we can.

In a way, I understand why this has become such a popular idea. With the entire world on information overload, and every individual’s opinion spread around the world as fact, discerning truth is possibly more difficult now than at any other time in history. The effort required to wade through all of that to find nuggets of fact and put those nuggets together in a whole picture of even one event is more than most people can face, and no wonder. Most come to the conclusion that truth is unknowable out of frustration and despair at sorting through the chaos.

Fortunately for all of humanity, the scripture tells a different story.

John 8:31–32 (CSB): If you continue in my word,, you really are my disciples.
32 You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

We don’t need all the world’s information and opinions to discern the truth of anything. One overarching truth cuts through all of the noise. The truth that God created all things, that He provided for both the function of our physical bodies and our eternal life, rules our perception of every issue, every problem, every event. Acceptance of that truth leaves us free of doubt, free of confusion, free of chaos. There can be no more despair or frustration with knowledge of the One Truth. All that is left is to learn what He expects me to do with that Truth, and then devote my life to doing it.

The Gates

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Sasha loved the Gates. They were older than memory or record, if the old ones could be believed, though they showed no sign of age. Unlike the longhouse built around them, the burnished wood of which had grayed and rotted several times even in her short lifespan.

She ran a hand over the stone, soaking the warmth of it into her cold skin. That warmth was the reason her people had built the longhouse around the Gates; in a frigid landscape, warmth meant survival. The whole village lived in the shelter of the Gates, worshipping the impossible life they maintained.

The stone hummed beneath her fingers and she jerked away, eyes widening. The thrumm became visible vibration and Sasha stumbled backward, breath coming in ragged gasps as the arch of the Gate began to glow. Farther down the longhouse a second Gate followed suit, then a third.

Then the portion of the longhouse in front of her vanished, replaced by a view of shifting sand and barren red mountains. The sky above them terrified her most with hints of purple and orange streaking a dark blue horizon.

A strange figure stepped into view within the arch. Inhuman, insectile, it clicked with what seemed angry urgency and beckoned to something behind him. Sasha fled screaming as an unimaginable army streamed into the longhouse. She never saw the hosts streaming from the other Gates as one by one they activated.

Book Review: Bad Kitty Scaredy-Cat

Kitty is the boss of the house. At least, until a host of scary and unusual creatures show up at her door! But wait, those creatures have delicious candy! Kitty forgets to be scared, and decides to be very, very bad!

This fun story with its colorful pictures will capture children’s imaginations while teaching the alphabet. Bad kitty and her scary new friends will increase your child’s vocabulary with their silly alphabetical behavior as well! From daring and loopy to hideous and putrid to quashed and extinguished, there’s no end to the thrills.

Halloween may be over, but Bad Kitty and her antics are still a daily source of giggles at my house. Even my older kids forget to pay attention to their own tasks when Kitty and her friends show up to play. We’ll certainly be looking for more of her adventures by Nick Bruel.

Shadow

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She touched the red leaves, just a brush as light as breath that left them trembling in the reflection from the crystal. They were the only color in the pitch black tent, tiny sparks accentuating the crystal’s glow.

It was all an illusion, of course. The light absorbent black drapes lining the inside of the tent led to an all but invisible gap at the pinnacle, allowing a single shift of light that produced a seemingly innate glow in the crystal directly below it while leaving the rest of the tent in impenetrable darkness.

Including Jet. How long had it been since she had been seen by another human? How long since the shadow ring had claimed her for eternal darkness? The illusion that awed carnival patrons hid her secret that held her forever aloof from the world.

Already knowing what she would see, she cupped her hands around the crystal. The leaves vanished, but no hands were visible. Only empty darkness that threatened to overwhelm the solitary gleam of light. This tent, this single crystal with its trappings, remained her last link with humanity, the last reason for human speech to ever address her.

The flap lifted and an unidentifiable figure slipped inside, their rapid breathing loud in the black hole that was her existence. “You wish to speak to the Shadow?” she whispered from the shelter of the crystal. “What is your deepest desire?”

Work and Purpose

When people talk about parenting challenges, they usually talk about toddlers or teenagers. No one really addresses the middle years, the years of learning, discovery, and character shaping. My ten year old son is right smack in the middle of those years.

For several months now his behavior has been, well, challenging. We’ve been unable to curb a tendency to bully, and chores have been more miss than hit. We won’t even mention the lack of respect shown toward us as parents. Fortunately, my husband had a clue.

Last week he relinquished ownership of one ax to our son. Instead of taking a turn at things like dishes and laundry, our son is now responsible for making sure we don’t freeze this winter. We have wood heat, so my husband cuts and hauls all our wood himself. This year, he will run the chain saw and our ten year old will split and haul, as well as help keep the heater full.

The change in his attitude was immediate. No more bullying, no more disrespect. He is proud of that ax, and proud that he cuts a little deeper every time he swings as his strength grows. He even wakes up in the middle of the night to check the heater! He’s still a little boy with a lot to learn, and it will be a while before he can perform this job perfectly and without any help, but he stands taller already.

You see, every human being needs purpose. Not just any purpose, but the one God created for them to own. Skills like washing dishes or laundry, while necessary for all humans to know, chafe at a boy seeking to direct his developing testosterone and strength. He is made to work hard, to challenge his limits, to protect and provide for those upon whom he bestows emotional attachment. Keeping the fire going may seem like a small thing, but for a ten year old it becomes purpose.

We’ve talked often in our home about work, but as we have recently admitted, our culture has stripped much of our true purpose out of work. Women, who once spent their days keeping the family fed, clothed, and nurtured with the direct labor of her hands and heart now chafes with time on her hands and her labor replaced by technology and machines. Men, who once tested their endurance against the elements to house their families and prepare the ground to produce food, who once set their minds to outwitting the instincts of animals in order to harness their power or harvest their meat, now chafe at desks and try to bury their frustration in virtual combat. Children, who once filled critical roles as assistants in house and barn, now seek endless stimulation and chafe at chores artificially assigned by parents desperate to teach some semblance of responsibility in a world that requires none.

I appreciate so much of the convenience we experience in our modern culture. We have so many blessings that the denizens of yesteryear never imagined. But unless we in some way return immediate and created purpose to our work, for both ourselves and our children, those same blessings feed the endless misery of an empty life.

Tuned

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An old hymn from 1758 begins with the words: “O thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy praise.” These days we have all sorts of electronic gadgets and apps for instrument tuning, which takes some of the meaning out of the phrase. When I began taking music lessons, a few decades ago, I was given a simple tool called a tuning fork instead.

Instead of many notes, electronically replicated at the touch of a button, a tuning fork produces one. One clear, smooth, beautiful note from which all others can be discovered. Tuning requires much more work and a deeper understanding of music, but the process is actually quite simple. Strike the metal fork against a hard surface so that it vibrates with a perfect, pure, natural sound.

Similarly, God is the one note to which all others are tuned. There is nothing artificial about Him. Tuning our hearts to produce the same note requires work. Often it requires being struck again and again until we finally find the right note. Then when we have managed to match that first frequency, when the remaining cadence of our lives jars discordant against it, the even harder work begins to tune it all to a perfect scale from which the song of thanksgiving can be sung.

One day we will meet Him face to face, and all the voices of the faithful, tuned by trial, error, and dedication, will sing the new song of triumph and love.

The Edge

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They called it The Edge. In reality it was a dam, the greatest feat of engineering ever achieved. The power of the great glacier harnessed, tamed, to do man’s bidding. To him it was more.

The wars of the twenty-third century had left scars upon the fertile equator and stripped the temperate plains to desert. With water rationed and food scarce, desperation had created The Edge to warm and distribute the ice of the polar climates. Longing for what was lost had diverted a mere fraction of arctic power to pockets of living memory.

Like this mountain stream, tumbling rocks over and over in its tiny rapids, only to filter through the moss into infinitesimal falls. Like many, he came often to walk the swinging bridge, artificially propped above waters that could have been waded, hung at the edge of empty air like so much possibility. Unlike many, he came to grieve.

He knew what others would not acknowledge. The Edge, the last great hope, was doomed. A century, maybe, could be wrung from the glacier, but no more. If the scars were not healed, and soon, The Edge of the future would be its end. And with the insulation of memory become recreation, there would be no healing.

The Bells

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They rang out across the water, a symphony of sound in chiming echoes down the brick-lined canal. The bells of Bruges, incongruously peeling out disco music to peal against medieval facades, held me captive. Even the cafe goers across the canal left their sedate mugs and tables to dance with abandon.

Invisible behind those ancient brick buildings, the great Bruges Market bustled with life. I closed my eyes, memories of its timeless sights and aromas flooding my mind in rhythm with the bells. I could almost see colorfully robed guildmembers shouting over the chimes, haggling with the shoppers of yesteryear over the price of bread or the value of a bolt of fine fabric.

For a moment, in Isolda’s shop, I had entered that world. She had looked over her flowers, braids peeking from beneath a knit cap and voluminous dirt-streaked apron swallowing her slender frame, bells chiming a muted soundtrack through medieval walls. She had smiled when I introduced myself as Tristan.

The “Whatever It Is” Life

Yesterday my kids held their annual pumpkin carving session. Because buying a pumpkin for every family member in a household of seven puts something of a strain on the already holiday stretched budget, they team up. Boys get one pumpkin, girls get the other. As you can imagine, this is not a situation that leads to peace.

What pictures will we carve? Everyone has a different idea. Something scary! No, something silly. An elaborate design far too advanced for childish hands. Can’t we just use something from the book? And the squabbling begins. Who gets to carve which part? Who has to scoop out the seeds? Mom confiscates the knife and removes the stem herself to prevent accidental stabbings.

The results are… interesting. What is it? No one knows. No one cares. Destruction and creation went hand in hand, the dream come true of every kid. Whatever it is that was created, it is unique, holding a piece of each young participant in its creation.

Like life. There is no cookie cutter life. Each individual adds a piece of themselves to each day, a slice here, a scrape there. Sometimes the bits overlap, sometimes they fail to intersect at all. Sometimes the contributions seem to clash, making no sense together, because the contributors could not agree. Each wants a different design for life, and each sees a different outcome. The result cannot be identified with certainty, leaving an unbeautiful “whatever it is” to reveal the glow within its heart.

In the end it doesn’t matter. Despite the squabbling and the chaos, not one kid was disappointed with the end results. They couldn’t wait to light them up and show the world their delight. Our squabbles and our chaos bind us together, carving something out of this crazy “whatever it is” life we can only appreciate when we step away and let the light shine through.