Α Ω (Kid Stuff)

Or is it a dream?

This place where “warm waters halt”.  This place in the shadows of the Continental Divide.  This place that has awed and inspired, roused and stirred.  This place that’s been traveled and searched but never really known.  This time just beyond – as real as the here and now yet fog-like as is the past.

And so we approach the omega somewhere just over the horizon.  As our vision approaches the boundary, the details become less and less discernible until they drop from view completely and we’re left once again with pure speculation.  But that contemplation of the unknown is what captures the imagination - touches the soul.  It’s the stuff of dreams. 

Our arrival in this space is founded in American law - the instruments of titles and deeds of ownership.  Perhaps a shiny new key.  All possessed with the assistance of the United States Postal Service.  These events set in motion with fireworks and messages of congratulations along with an invitation to enter the name and address of the lucky contestant.  Yes, luck plays a major role, but the name and password (each 24 digits) and which trigger all this excitement require anything but chance.  Indeed, simply locating this obscure website somewhere in the vastness of the internet will demand a large degree of precision.  But the home page adorned with flowers and butterflies is a vision of fantasy.  A domain where childhood cartoon friends and Hollywood actors past spring to life kindles the imagination.  Yes, this is the province where the challenge of the impossible is overcome and illuminated.  Together, they bring a smile.

Someone once said “the devil is in the details”.  And with that we crash back to reality.  Here in the present hour is the time and place where dreams roll into theory.  And the cold reality of those 24 digit codes stare us in the face.  And as with life itself, one theory demands another and another again.  So, to make the story short, let’s just focus on three foundational theories and view them from the proverbial 30,000 feet: 

1)  Forrest Fenn’s book, The Thrill of the Chase, contains any number of “minor” clues as to where to find his treasure.  But the most “critical” clues are the last.  And those last few clues are encrypted amongst the writing.

2)  Find the specific text that holds the encrypted messages.  For that we need directions - a “map” so to speak.  The “minor” clues lead to all manner of things, i.e. national parks, the internet, The Bible, popular movies, artwork, novels, etc.  And from these we gather information from which to puzzle together the “map”.

3)  Decipher the encrypted messages.  And for this we need to build a “machine” based on a blueprint.  And again, we piece together the blueprint from information gathered by following the “minor” clues.  Now, what the final version of this “machine” looks like is anyone’s guess but here’s a hint:  one part Enigma Machine, two parts Mickey Mouse watch, three parts better mouse trap – with a splash of Antikythera Mechanism thrown in for spice and a pinch of sextant for a little pizzazz.

It reminds of another “machine”.  A machine dubbed the Stealth Treasure Arrest and Retrieval System - STARS IV for short.  Version four was perfect.  Designed to retrieve the chest of gold (11” x 11” x 6” and 42 pounds guesstimate) laying a few feet below the surface of slowly moving water without attracting the curiosity of every fisherman and tourist within eye shot.  Nonchalantly wade in as if angling for a prize Brown, casually attach the machine to the chest resting peacefully on the river bottom, and smoothly slide it all up onto a serene and secluded bank. 

Easy.  Peasy.  Done.

Sadly, STARS never made it off dry land.  Perhaps for the better.  The arresting part of the contraption might have worked.  The stealth part – maybe not so much.  The sight of its 60 year old inventor thrashing, entangled, and gasping profanities while going under in the cold mountain runoff might have raised an eyebrow or two.

But before STARS could ever be initiated, the theory that brought it to life fell apart in any number of ways.  Just a few short weeks into The Chase and the first of so many theories that have gone wanting came up snake eyes.                     

Nonetheless, the alpha began along the Firehole River as it meanders through the meadows and gathers the steaming waters from the numerous geothermal features of the Upper Geyser Basin in Yellowstone National Park.

“Begin it where warm waters halt”.

To start with a theory.

Wild Blackberry Pie (Kid Stuff)

One of the great mysteries of my aging process is that the vast majority of my body is trapped in a glacial-like transition into disrepair.  But not my taste buds.  Nor the mechanism, whatever that may be, that generates hunger.  Those two functions truly are getting stronger with each passing day.  Boy, do I like food.  Almost any food.  Although I’d still step away from that steamed spinach flavored with vinegar that my Mom (Esther Evelyn) used to put on the table every now and again when I was kid.  I think it was her not so subtle teaching method in regards to hardships and life trials. 

I’ve been thinking about that lately.  The food that is.  So, I decided to count down my top ten favorites:

17)    Barbecued baby back ribs

16)    Steamed asparagus

15)    Swedish rye bread (Made by my maternal grandmother, Esther Desideria Carlson Anderson.  The flavor, the texture, and the aroma are as real today as they were some sixty years ago.  Sadly, the recipe, the artistry, was buried along with my grandmother.)

14)    Pho soup

13)    Hostess chocolate cup cakes

12)    Salmon barbecued on a cedar plank

11)    Corned beef and cabbage

10)    Filet of sole with a lemon/caper sauce                 

9)      Dungeness crab with melted butter

8)      A Big Mac

7)      Fresh papaya with lime juice (although the addition of a veranda and tropical breeze will move this one up a couple notches)

6)      Spaghetti with marinara sauce and Italian sausage

5)      Steamed mussels in a chorizo and onion broth

4)      Fresh bread with raspberry jam       

3)      Lobster with melted butter

2)      Rib eye steak topped with melted Gorgonzola cheese

1)      Wild blackberry pie

Now, there is considerable internal debate as to where each of these foods should fall on that list.  And there are a good many items that might appear on another day, in a different mood.  But nothing challenges number one.  Numero uno it is.  Let’s look closer.    

The Patch

The hunt for a patch is a year round hobby.  And a prerequisite as each patch has a limited life span before the surrounding vegetation overruns the tract.  An area can seldom be spotted from a passing vehicle as the vines blend with the natural greenery.  So, a foot search is required.  But springtime brings little white flowers that stand out like stars on a moonless night.  Overconfidence is always lurking during this interval.  Too hot and the buds wither and die.  Too cold and the buds never develop.  But perfect weather is no guarantee either. On these occasions I suspect that bees, or lack thereof, are to blame.  But the reality of it all may simply reside with the fickle.  Hence, the best odds require a reconnoiter of multiple patches in hopes that at least one will prove fruitful.

The Pick

There is only a brief period when the picking can be done.  Just about the Fourth of July here in the Pacific Northwest – although weather and elevation have a say.  And nature has somehow determined that these little treasures will not be secured without cost.  Each and every berry deposited in the bottom of the bucket will require a toll.  The first fee is simply psychological.  Rule #1 - never look into the pail because discouragement is sure to be staring back.  The berries look really small when viewed under the hot summer sun and the floor of the container remains visible for oh so long.  But there are physical taxes as well.  The vines grow low on uneven ground and there is a certain irony within the ongoing battle between an aging, aching back and the  rejuvenated taste buds.  That should be charge enough.  But no.  The wee tiny berries nestle insidiously close to wee tiny thorns on the vines.  And the whole area is often home to stinging nettles and thistles as well.  Long sleeves and trousers are a must. 

Once home the cleaning process begins.  And a tedious chore it is.  Each little berry seems to have an even smaller piece of grass or seed attached to it.  But before long, all are washed.  And if lucky, not only will there be enough for a pie, but some will be frozen in anticipation of brightening a winter holiday to come.

The Prep

No doubt, this is the critical step.  And I’ve been blessed to have lived with two of the best cooks who have ever walked this planet.  Esther Evelyn used to call the whole process a “labor of love”.  And the standards she set have been carried forward in no small part by my wife, Jamie Lynne.  Jamie shares my “love of the labor”. 

My role here is simply one of nuisance – “Is it done yet?”  And eventually, when the answer comes back “yes”, there is still a wait.  A lesson in patience.  As a cold pie far out performs a warm one.  And true self-mortification may be experienced if one waits overnight.  Some sort of miraculous fermentation segue takes place. 

 

The Pie

Nuff said. 

The Evangelical (God Moments)

It’s all over but the shouting – that being the 2016 presidential election.  And shouting indeed.  I’ve been reading some of you on Facebook.  And the mood ranges from despondent to euphoric.  That troubles me – deeply.  And so I write.

Early on in life I came to know our Lord Jesus Christ.  Link: The Hallway (God Moments)  And throughout my teens and twenties I found happiness and contentment in pronouncing myself a Christian.  At least that’s how I held myself between my ears.  But I must confess that there were occasions, when the chips were down, that I denied my Savior much like the Apostle Peter did on the night of Christ’s arrest.  Not my proudest moments.  But the good news is that just as Peter before me, Jesus forgave my sins and we moved forward. 

Then came my thirties, forties, and fifties.  And these are the years that many of you who are now reading this came to know me.  Some of you profess your faith in Christ and if forced to pick a single word that would reflect your inner most being, perhaps you’d choose Christian or Evangelical.  Others of you might say Atheist or Agnostic.  Some might say homosexual or gay.  A few might say American.  And some of you might be laughing to yourself at the very absurdity of defining such an incredibly complex being with a single word.  Nonetheless, during these middling years of my life, I defined myself as Evangelical.  Simply put, I tried to live my life according to Christ’s teachings in the gospel.  Each of you probably has a better view of how well I achieved that goal than I do.  And depending on your line of sight, some of that might come as a surprise. 

And then something very unsettling began to happen during the more recent years of my life.  Within our culture, our media, our church, the word Evangelical began to roll into and become synonymous with the word Republican.  Some of you may disagree, but that’s how I see it.  And with a blink of an eye, the gospel that I love was seemingly turned upside down, polluted by the stench of politics.  One small example.  During this election cycle, I’ve read a couple of articles that made a favorable comparison between King David of Old Testament fame to Donald Trump.  Both sinned sexually.  God forgives both and therefore, we the people should forgive them as well.  Both are great leaders.  That was the basic thread of the logic.  Really?  Well, I understand the need to forgive part.  But it’s funny how the matter of repentance was never mentioned.  To my way of thinking King David was a great man and leader because of his humility before and his subservience to God the Almighty.  Sadly, I fail to find those qualities in Donald Trump.

All good lies contain a grain of truth. 

But it is indeed the question of sin where things get messy.  The sins that tempt me and that I all too often succumb – those being idolatry, envy, theft, adultery, lust, false witness, murder, greed, gossip, dishonor, and gluttony to name a few – have been replaced by two end-all, be-all sins, i.e. abortion and homosexuality.  I suppose I should be relieved – not many 64 year old, middle class males have to grapple one-on-one with God on the issue of abortion.  I should find that to be wonderfully convenient.  But no. There is no relief in that place because there’s a nasty little truth on the flip side of that coin – by harping on two sins as worse than all others, the Republican/Evangelical “leadership” has ignored and/or interpreted all other sins into the meaningless.  All other commandments into the hallow.   Indeed, the telling of a blatant lie is met with applause.  The plight of the disadvantaged cheered.  The consequence, perhaps unintended but very real nonetheless, is a toxic political environment and a government teetering on moral bankruptcy.  Both parties, one nation.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

So, to those of you who are despondent with the outcome of this election, I can only give the comfort that I myself find.  God is good.  And I see a God moment in evidence on election night in the manner that Donald Trump snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.  This election result has the fingerprints of God all over it.  But that should be of little surprise.  Romans 13:1 tells us that “the authorities that exist are appointed by God”. 

And to those of you who are euphoric with the outcome, I say cool.  Indeed, there was a God moment.  But I’m also mindful that God works in mysterious ways that are far beyond my pay grade.  Regardless, it occurs to me that perhaps the outcome of this election has less to do with a Supreme Court nomination leading to the abolishment of the blight that is abortion and more so with a tempering discipline directed towards His people, of whom I am one, resulting in the restoration of a fuller, more accurate interpretation and preaching of His gospel.

God will not allow His Word to be mocked. 

Who knows if God will give me many more minutes here on earth, much less decades?  No matter.  But the time has come for me to let go of that “Evangelical” label.  It’s much too confining.  Too prone to misunderstanding.  Oh, I know some of you take pride if not comfort in that term.  And I find you to truly live up to that moniker in so many ways - the right ways.  I’m still with you in spirit and in truth.  But for me, I think it is wiser to make a clear distinction between the name and my faith.  The faith is so simple and pure.  Love Jesus in everything. And love my neighbor as myself.         

Guilford Courthouse National Military Park (Kid Stuff – not really)

The words of Thomas Paine resounded through the tiny tavern on the edge of the vast frontier: 

• “Society in every state is a blessing”….
• ”The cause of America is in great measure the cause of all mankind”….
• ”It is not in numbers, but in unity, that our great strength lies”….
• ”the long habit of not thinking a thing WRONG, gives it superficial appearance of being RIGHT”….
• ”Of more worth is one honest man to society and in the sight of God, than all the crowned ruffians that ever lived”….
• ”Give me liberty or give me death”….

……..and on they came.  Sermon like.  Not just words – but concepts bordering on the abstract that had lain dormant for oh, so long.  Ideas that would take root in the fallow and harrowed hearts of those willing to listen.  And once planted, the theory and opinion soon transformed into conviction and belief.  Common Sense would fuel a revolution.

Shortly, a document of different tone was penned by Thomas Jefferson and its statement – a Declaration of Independence – was adopted by the Second Continental Congress on July 4, 1776.  It too came to be read aloud in the meeting places throughout our fledgling nation:

”We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

But not all chose to hear.  Britannia and her King were not moved, nor were continental loyalists.  And America’s revolutionary war, which had already seen shots fired in anger, settled in.

And so it came to pass that an unknown patriot found himself hunkered down behind a zigzag rail fence on the edge of a soggy cornfield. An unremarkable setting near a small, isolated farming community cut out from the hardwoods surrounding.  On either side of his position, the muskets of a thousand like-minded companions rested along the fence.  Waiting.  Anticipating.  These were North Carolina militiamen – untrained, citizen soldiers.  Pawns of war yet forever honored.   The first line of defense positioned here by Commanding Officer Nathanael Greene in hopes of taking some of the starch out of the well-trained, hardened English regiments – units that would surely approach in ranks across the cornfields.  Further back, Greene established two additional battle lines, the third line manned with the most seasoned troops of the Continent.

The date is March 15, 1781.  The morning sees a blanket of frost but as the battle approaches the warmth of the sun pulls moisture from the ground.  The wait continues as noon passes.  Then, General Cornwallis gives the order and calls to assembly echo over the fields as 2,500 of the King’s best troops form into columns of crimson.  Drums pounding, the British advance towards the fence line with purposeful precision.  At 150 yards, the militia open fire.  The approaching ranks stagger and briefly stop.  But the gaps fill quickly and the advance continues over the dead and wounded.  At 50 yards, the British unleash a volley of their own and their voices thunder as one as they rush forward with bayonets lowered.  Panic is sparked and spreads in the center of the colonist’s ranks.  Many turn.  But not all.  The unknown patriot vaults the split rails and charges towards the advancing Redcoats with a resolute fury of his own.  And for a moment frozen in time he peers into the unflinching, black eye of a British cannon……then a light. 

The battle continued for another hour and a linear mile of ground.  Onto the second line amongst the thicket and then the third.  The battle ebbed and flowed.  The aftereffect always unsure.  At one point, Cornwallis ordered his six-pounders be loaded with grapeshot and then fired upon his own positions as they were being overrun.  In the end, the Americans relinquished the field and simply disappeared into the bordering forest.  Cornwallis had won the ground but at a devastating price in terms of life and equipment.  Casualties from which he would not recover.  His fate sealed, Cornwallis surrendered his army at Yorktown, Virginia, in October of 1781.

A war that had started in 1775 had finally come to an end some six years later.  A span that had witnessed starvation and hypothermia at Valley Forge, bloody assaults on Bunker Hill and then Breed's, the siege of Charleston, the capture of Savannah.  A conflict for which the outcome was never certain until two armies locked in mortal combat near an obscure courthouse at Guilford, North Carolina.

Three lines.  Two hours.  A linear mile of ground

Soon thereafter followed a government and a new nation.  Both created within the framework of a Constitution and the Bill of Rights.

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

Pangs of birth – with the passage of time the mind tends to forget as a matter of defense.  But the abstractions are established forever in the hearts of all mankind, cemented by the sacrifices of countless unknown patriots.   

 

Joy (Psalms and Prayers)

Sands sifted by wind

Shadows cast in moonlight

Train whistles distant,

Whispering at night

Geese flying northward

Apple blossoms at dawn

Comb dripping honey

          A doe and her fawn

Thunder advancing

          Vapor after the rain

The journey back home

          Gold leaves on the wane

In these I find joy

          All delights to my heart

Still joy goes beyond

          God sets it apart 

 

With eight other fruit

Joy’s foundation is love

Grown of the Spirit

          Nine planted Thereof

In sickness and trials

          Joy abides in these too

Saved by God’s mercy

          All angst to subdue

A sense of well-being

          Finding peace in all things

Paired with thanksgiving

          Joy once again springs

Galatians 5:22-23 “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace,   longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.  Against such there is no law.”

 I Peter 1:6          “In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while, if need be, you have been grieved by various trials”

Ireland (Kid Stuff)

Do you know how many shades of green there are?  I do.  I know because a child, whom I love, once ventured into a forest deep.  And it was there that she picked those things of green and compared and sorted, counted and counted again.  And while she was counting a hue unlike all others made itself known.  This shade seemed magic, but oh, so much more.  For not only was it a delight to the eye but for the ear it sang the song of a princess - a song lovely and true.  All the while laying candy sweet on the tongue, placing the scent of bread baking under the nose, and tickling the skin with feathers of down.

Then the green said to the girl, “Hello.  I am the place where God sends His small parcels of joy when they’ve completed His task.”  Now the princess child giggled and then she decreed, “You, green of joy, I name you Gisella!”

Well, the count was determined and the number she shared.  So, now I’ll tell you and you’ll be the wiser as well.  Thirty three.  But the shade of Gisella, the child kept for her own.

All that to say that green holds intrigue, if not mystery, and green is where this story begins.  Or should I say ends?  No matter.  For this is a simple, whimsical tale with no real purpose other than to bring a smile to the mind and perhaps nudge those “small parcels of joy” that can so easily get lost in our travels to a time where fond memories reside somewhere in the future.  So come along.  The green is waiting.

Our saga is set in an ancient, mystical land – a land the Gaelic people call Inishmore.  A place where great cliffs at the end of the earth dive headlong into the icy depths of that great and fearsome sea.  That sea known to all as Atlantic.  Here, the stone pricks the deep and the wrath of the vastness is enraged.  And the age old conflict erupts anew.  The eye of the deep opens in anger – phosphorescent blue at its center with green at the edges along the gray.  The struggle explodes white and a din resounds from the depths. 

 

The froth of the battle rises up and over the mighty cliffs as if to warn mere mortals.  Yes, warn us of danger for the danger is real.   As this is a barren, windswept landscape where only the most tenacious gain a hold on a very tenuous survival.  Nonetheless, some three millennia past, brave souls built fortresses here – Dun Aengus and Dun Duchathair.  Meaning Fort of Aonghas and Black Fort to you and me.  Half moons of stone enclosed to the land.  The diameter clinging precariously to the precipices and defended by the sea far below.  History does not reveal the fate of these builders.  Vanquished by foe?  Surrender to the elements?  Only the remnant walls of stone remain – their testimonies both silent and haunting.

 

Hold quiet now…..there…..and again.  Did you hear it?  Notes set against the drone.  The harmony of bagpipes.  Sounds that for centuries have stirred countless souls towards battle while sparking fear in the hearts of foe.  But on this day the song is searching, forlorn, and with mood.  Lonely notes.  Looking for companionship.  Or is it rest?  They rise and fall with the wind.  Over the stony track and between the walls of time.  Rock walls that stitch plots of green pasture together in a quilt work of endless shapes and sizes.  And again the harmony comes - darting to and fro before racing out to sea towards the motherland. 

And we follow on ship – modern and sturdy of steel.  And good thing too.  For soon the waters gather up green before us and the fall to the trough shudders the keel.  Again and again and again.  But before long, small islets come into view, followed by rocky shoals with bank, and finally harbor, calm and safe.

Our journey continues on foot - the harmony always one step ahead.  Hushed back roads enveloped by greenery and punctuated with flowers – hydrangeas, fuchsia, heather, and wild roses.  The quiet lanes give way to more stony tracks before transforming into mere pathways engineered by generations of sheep more so than man.  But the sheep are wise.  They stop short as the bogs come into view while we venture forward despite the gray now falling with purpose.  Watch your step.  The green vegetation underfoot oozes water from the organic matter underneath that has been building for oh, so long. 

 
We learn that peat is cut from the bog using a two-sided spade called a slean.  Upon removal, the turf is dried by stacking the elongated bricks in various pyramidal structures, each unique to its architect, with air holes for ventilation.  And once dried, the “logs” are burned for heat.  The smell held captive for untold generations escapes up the chimney and lingers.  Sweet.  Wood-like.  Earthy – but no.  Herbal, yet musk.  A primitive and venerable aroma.  Be quick now.  Snatch it!  But it's not to be.  The fragrance, now free, evades our efforts to hold it.  One brief, final whiff to tease.  Then the fragrance joins hand in hand with the harmony and the wind moves both ahead of us once again.

But we must stop as the bog has poured water over the gunnels of our boots on many a step.  The innkeeper is pleasant and friendly - eager to please.  Her wit is quick and dry.  “We Irish never bother with shoes in the morning – our feet are gonna get wet no matter.”  She places our footwear in a “warming room” along with our other failed efforts at staying dry.  And soon our stomachs are warm and full with pork pie and Irish stew made of lamb.  Bedded down, warm and snug, our weary feet find rest while the harmony and the fragrance give sway over our dreams.

Awakened by a ruffle at the window and the prickle of drops on the pane, we are dared to continue our chase.  Along the shores of loughs (lakes) shrouded with fog we follow.  Ghost-like islands slowly appear, only to fade again into the gray.  Then we climb mountain passes that slowly transform from deep emerald in the river valleys to a pale mint further up where the ground is of rock and the sure footed sheep casually graze.  Down and on we go.   

 

  
Soon we reach the majesty of the Killary Fjord and find ourselves traversing a track along the southern brim, eye to eye with sea birds on a mission of their own.  The track is called Famine – a road built by starving farm workers in exchange for food when the potato crops failed in the mid 1800’s.  Back breaking work, but preferable to charity in those Victorian times.

 

  

And still we go.  Along deep, green rivers appearing black as they run and eddy.  Into deep forests – Lackavrea and Tawnyard by name.  Over the Irish uplands and the green, open moorland the path leads.  In the distance, lies a mountain concealed in cloud.  The gray hangs heavy like a blanket but swirls soft and delicate, with gentleness below.  Watch closely now.  For in the blink of an eye, the mist unites with the harmony and the fragrance.  And the three – the harmony, the fragrance, and the mist – continue their quest as one.

 

 

 

Not far on lays another mountain.  Silhouetted in black, the sun illuminates the front.  And almost as if ordained by God, a rainbow appears.  The three – the harmony, the fragrance, and the mist – quickly recognize a shade within that was once christened Gisella by a princess. And without hesitation, the three small parcels of joy dance gleefully to one end of the spectrum to be greeted by countless friends and peers that have made the journey before them.  Home at last.  And they invite us to take comfort there as well.  But at the opposite end, half a world removed, our own home awaits.  And it beckons with remembrances of security and family, love and warmth.

And this might be where our story ends.  But the three – the harmony, the fragrance, and the mist – continue to quietly call.  And perhaps we’ll meet them again.  Some time.  Some place.  In a different hue.  In a different band of color near the apex of the arc.  

 

Link:  Joy (Psalms and Prayers)

Other small parcels of joy: