Love, or Nothing. (Erosion, part 3)

If God is, inherently and essentially, Love - the eternal community of self-giving love that is the Father, Son and Holy Spirit - and the essential, defining nature of humanity is that we have been created and called as image-bearers of this God, then it would seem to follow that the ability and longing to give and receive love is perhaps the most fundamental, defining element of what it means to be genuinely human. Which is perhaps what so emboldened the Apostle Paul to declare:

“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.  And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. ”

— 1 Corinthians 13

Altogether, as a disciple of Christ in pursuit of Christ-likeness, it is possible that we might achieve a life of MIRACLES: of prophetic, powerful words and world-shaping faith; a life of radical self-emptying generosity and Kingdom witness. (Could it be imagined that any of US might live to know such heights!) But, if these be LOVELESS pursuits, in the end they cannot but become forces and vehicles of our own condemnation. 

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. On that day many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ And then will I declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.”

— Jesus

“...people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, heartless, unappeasable, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not loving good, treacherous, reckless, swollen with conceit, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power. Avoid such people.”

— The Apostle Paul

Suddenly, it is brought into sharp relief: for the follower of Jesus it is Love, or nothing!

Ghost River (Erosion, part 2)

Lord, have mercy. In your refining work, be gentle? The soul always fears and resists the fire.

The waters of the Ghost River numb the fingers to touch, here in this valley. In the Winter and early Spring, the forces of gravity and motion defy the physics of freezing. At water temperatures where lakes have long since succumbed to solidity, the river remains in motion. In the shallows, clear as cold, liquid glass. In the deep bends and pools, glacial blue. Purity and opacity conflated in the depths, the color hardly seems possible in the natural world. Where the river cuts its freestone path through the valley, the motion and cold scrubs the rocks clean of any sign of plant life. The same river that brings life to the valley, too pure and cold to sustain it, itself.

Storm clouds traverse the sky overhead, settling in the pathway the valley provides. Thus, the river sustains itself; the river cuts the valley, the valley feeds and forms the river. This, the seemingly effortless orchestration of the millennia, borne out in the immeasurable patience of Creation.

The rocks of the river, worn beautifully soft and smooth to the touch in the discipline of endless submission to the waters which pour over them. The waters patiently, eternally carrying pieces of each away until the fullness of the Creator's intent for them is realized. Will the waters one day wear these stones to nothingness? Only time will tell. 

The human heart is like - and unlike - this, it seems to me. In submission to the Creator's gracious, refining love, we too will one day be worn, smaller and smoother, by his purposes. And we will fear that in such surrender we might in fact disappear; we are tempted, in fear, to resist. Tempted to fight to preserve ourselves in all our cragged brokenness. But the human heart is a work of flesh and of Spirit, not stone! Crafted for eternity in God's own image, we need not fear the refining erosion of grace upon the heart. In time, God will make us MORE like ourselves, not less. To actively trust that this is true is the substance and form of faith itself.

From the distance, watching the clouds break upon the seemingly immoveable mountains with sheets of rain, it appears to one a gentle, even tickling thing. Thin veils of water, casting themselves in slow motion against the unfeeling rock. Small birds dance in the updrafts of the valley, safely at a distance of miles from the unfolding weather, at eye level with me here on the cliff's edge, yet hundreds of feet off the ground. One knows that to stand on those mountains in the midst of the collapsing clouds is not the same, gentle experience produced by observing the proceedings from afar. In the midst, there is cold, and wet; discomfort and perhaps even danger. And the immoveable mountains themselves must know: with every drop of rain that falls upon them, some small piece of themselves is lost forever to the valley and river below.

What is it that the Spirit of God would seek to take away from me, by the patient eroding of grace? What refining fires would God stoke and sustain beneath me through the persistent friction of marriage and ministry if I would indeed submit to that refining work?

A passing burst of rainfall and the forest around the lodge explodes, now, with the scent of evergreen. The wet trees warming again in the re-emerging sunshine.

Erosion is, typically, a slow and patient work. Rocks in a riverbed worn smooth by thousands of years and millions of gallons of overrunning water. But sometimes, in a storm of particular violence or longevity, floodwaters may exert their will over and against a given landscape in an instant. Trees unearthed and moved miles downstream, riverbanks surrendering tons of sodden earth to the force of the groundswell and carried off to the next bend or stillwater. 

This is the sensation of my heart, in this moment. The sudden, sucking collapse of previously well-defined riverbanks, lost and gone to the floodwaters. The edges of my heart feel uncomfortably soft, vulnerable to further loss. Could this, too, be grace? Is it acceptable, commendable even, to see one's strength lost when the infiltrating and weakening agent is... love?

The answer to this question is not as straightforward, for me, as it perhaps ought to be. When hardness has been your heart's crutch and defense against the risk and pain of vulnerability for so many years, to suddenly find oneself without it constitutes something of a personal crisis.

Is it possible for a softened heart to survive the daily violence of vocational, pastoral ministry for any length of time? To consider the converse, is it possible for a hardened, guarded heart to truly know the love (and therefore the power) of God, upon which of course any genuine work of ministry depends? In the furthermost depths of my soul there is a yearning that persists for a touch of tactile, supernatural immanence; to experience the nearness of the Lord in conspicuous POWER. But I now wonder: if the posture of my heart has long been such that it - and I - have been effectively unable to receive love well - of spouse, friends, and others - is it possible that I have made myself essentially immune to receiving the EFFECTIVE love of God, as well? And if the impenetrable hardness of my heart has left the freely outpoured love of God to cascade off and around me, but not infiltrate and saturate my very soul, is it any wonder that power and immanence seem lacking?

Lord, forgive me.

Lord, have mercy.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Journey. (Erosion, part 1)

4am, Logan Airport. Today is our anniversary.

Twelve years ago, today, we would wake up preparing to begin the journey of marriage. This morning, my alarm was set for 1:45am in preparation for a journey of a different sort: catching the 2:30am bus and then several planes on my way to Cochrane, AB for a week-long retreat that will bring this brief sabbatical season to a close. 

Airport lobby. Grabbing a breakfast burrito from an Asian food court restaurant. This is the epitome of globalized non-place.

Arrived. Some 20 hours of bus, airports, airplanes and rental car later, here I am. Those labored hours of non-place, in order to arrive at THIS place. To what purpose, word or end will I have found myself here?

Draw near, Lord Jesus.

Staring into the heart of the mountainous northern West, storm clouds pile up against and cascade over the immoveable peaks, sheets of rain and lightning fall upon the foothills, visible from miles away as I approach. The storm is made small by the boundless horizon of its chosen backdrop. Evergreen forests pile into the fertile valleys carved by the rivers, draining the hill country and cutting the landscape; scars of green, worked deep into the plains by virtue of time and the persistent force of gravity.

Who or what is it that I seek in coming to this big, striking country so many miles from home? The Lord knows the purposes of my opaque heart better than I. My prayer is that whatever my purposes may be, that HIS purposes will govern and direct the days ahead.

Lord, teach me to pray?

The Calculus of Compost.

It's June.

Cautiously working our way clear of the children's 24 hour bout with sickness following our weekend away, yesterday was spent tackling some projects around the house. A quick trip was arranged to the Rollinsford homestead to fill the bed of the pickup with a load of well-seasoned manure compost for Becca's use in the garden beds. Some lilacs were removed to make room in the yard for a long-requested play structure of some kind. And, a new compost box was constructed so that the existing site could be relocated.

Considering the old compost box over the past couple of days, I find that it has become an indictment and shame to me, indicative of a hard heart-posture that I have for too long allowed to define my marriage. Strange to say, perhaps, but it's true.

The first box was built in anger, out of pure spite some years ago, and looked every inch like it. In the mad dash of purchasing, gutting, rebuilding a 150 year-old home, and moving - while, not to mention, church planting - in the Spring of 2014, crafting a receptacle for our family's meager composting efforts simply did not register within my field of concern. This was not a project that I cared to be troubled with. With everything else in the mix at the time, if and when I EVER got around to that job would be soon enough. As far as I was concerned, this disregard was simply an act of triage; so small a thing, reasonable to ignore.

But what was missed in this particular calculus was any appreciation or deference to the fact that this was a project which DID, in fact, matter to my wife. According to a lens and value structure foreign to my own, in her economy of house and home and the task of establishing ourselves in this new place, it was of importance to her that the question of composting receptacle be addressed. A silly thing, perhaps. I certainly thought so, at the time. But the thing that was NOT silly or inconsequential was the way in which I allowed my own biases and values in the matter to justify the disregard, and even disdain, with which I treated my wife's request. 

Suffice it to say, it should surprise no one that she brought the matter up a number of times over some weeks, because it mattered to her. And I, each time, would proceed to mock, ignore or disparage the request, because it did NOT matter to me. My values and concerns would not yield to consider - or even truly HEAR - the request my wife was making. I was rational. I was right. SHE was unreasonable, and needed to repent of badgering me so.

Oh, to fail to have shown love, in so simple a thing!

In the end, I acquiesced to her plea in a work of loveless spite; a piece of construction without care, effort, or genuine consideration of any kind. No consideration, that is, apart from the desire to cast its completion in her face as an act of vengeful frustration. The end result was as ugly as one might expect; ugly, even, for a receptacle for decaying food scraps.

As we pondered and prepared for its replacement yesterday, looking upon that old box shamed me. The words of our recent torrent echoed in its ugliness, forcing me to hear and consider them even yet more deeply. But yesterday, that old compost box was torn down and thrown to the fire. Yesterday, we built something new. Just a compost box, but born as a work of redemption and healing, bearing forth in the smallest of things.

Back Lake, Memorial Day.

Thin, low clouds hang mottled grey over the lake, painting the horizon in expectation of tomorrow's rain. Midday sun burns through the gaps and thin places; where it does, the air is warm. This is the persistent dynamic of north country life, the starkly different climates that exist between sun and shade.

Abel's up from his afternoon nap. Standing on the small deck of the cabin overlooking the water, he shouts in announcement of the passing pontoon boats.

We closed out our arrival yesterday with an evening expedition to Coon Brook Bog, a favorite remote trout pond. Thick with brook trout, it's a place I've known to be volcanic with surface activity at dusk. As this is a family endeavor, including three kids under eight in the small lodge-rented rowboat, the attempt is one born of sheer, stubborn ambition. The quiet, remote beauty of the place at constant risk from the inevitable emotional decay of over-tired children, kept out too late by the willful naïveté of fatherhood.

It went well, altogether. By which I mean absolute chaos was more or less kept at bay for the 35 minutes we spent on the water; the girls coaxed into general cordiality as they shared the small bow seat, and Abel prevented from throwing himself or the oars overboard. Incidentally, a fish was caught, too. A small, dark brookie so common to that pond, and a pure gift of mercy, given the circumstances.

Abel was, inexplicably, at wide-open throttle at 5am the next day. However, the early morning rousting did make the prospect of venturing out to an 11am worship service a fairly easy one.

We found a small, formerly and historically Methodist church to visit, just over the river in Canaan, Vermont. 30-40 people gathered in a century-old sanctuary built to seat 60. Every church here is small, by simple virtue of population if not the struggles of mission and momentum. Apparently, the pastor and his family moved to this area from Baltimore a few years back to take this pastorate. As average attendance had been about a half-dozen at that time, the present gathering represents something approaching exponential growth since then.

The building is small and cluttered, though charming in its age. Mirrored staircases lead left and right up from the entryway to the second floor sanctuary. At the base of the stairs stands a fundraising thermometer for capital improvements; $20,000 for a new roof. Progress seems slow.

The welcome is warm, the preaching is poor; it is Memorial Day weekend and the worship and teaching are, in genre, as much American as anything truly Christian. A warm blanket of American civil religion, scripturally and theologically cringe-worthy while at the same time nostalgically comforting. Such is the tortured legacy and life of the American church.

The shades of the space, the service, and the community were thick with echoes of the small town Methodist church of Becca's childhood. She was moved to tears by the taste of home. An imperfect vessel, conveying a gift of grace; I receive it from the hand of the Lord as such, today.

Light.

The clouds thin overhead. Even in the persistent drizzle, one finds themselves squinting against a brightness unbecoming the seemingly sunless sky. The great, life-giving star remains, of course; no manner of cloudiness could hold back its power for long. In the end, we need sun and rain in measure, don't we? Verdant life depends upon it, so the light allows the cloud's obscuring - drives it, in fact - only to reclaim its primacy in due course, redeeming the storm. Powerful brightness, catalyzing growth and life within the sodden earth.

It may be that this sabbatical season has been given for no other reason then to give space for this fight. A storm, brewed of a decade of life and ministry. Twelve years of marriage, eight years of child rearing, all within the context of thirteen years of vocational mission. Thirteen years of frustrations, scars, unaddressed miscues and persistent injury, erupting into the rare, available quiet of these weeks.

The frightening power of a sudden downpour, aggressive and blinding. Threatening to wash away all that we hold dear. Thick clouds, darkness and thunder in the heart. But yet, by grace, passing. The landscape, purged by flood. Will the in-breaking rays of sun prove these floodplains fruitful in time? To survive the cleansing, and to know the season of sunlight's redeeming power in and over the rain-soaked ground; a miracle of grace, worked by the sustaining power of the very hand of God.

Surrendered to the rains, hoping upon the victorious light.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Crucible.

Beware the hippies, friends.

Oh, I know they seem harmless enough, at this point; cute cultural artifacts of our not-so-distant American history, with their long hair, hallucinogenics, rock & roll music, tie-dyed t-shirts, and questionable personal hygiene. Most of them eventually grew up and and went on to become the bankers and lawyers and such that they so colorfully railed against as young adults; comfortably greying and nearing retirement, now. But the spectre and legacy of that increasingly distant, youthful revolution yet lives on in our own day, and I need to tell you: the hippies are lying to you.

Now, let me be clear: I myself am pretty fond of rock & roll music, I once sported shoulder-length hair and, though it’s not my bag, personally, I have nothing in particular against tie-dye. But, at the heart of that youth movement in the 60’s and 70’s that became the sound and substance of what we now know as the “sexual revolution” was and is the notion that 1.) Love can be an individualized commodity and 2.) that it is free. But love, if it is TRULY love (and not just a euphemism) - as it is with every other good and precious thing - is anything BUT free. Love is not free; it is profoundly costly. In truth, to aspire to love completely will, more likely than not COST you, completely. If that sounds hard, it’s because it is. But it is also GOOD; worth every ounce of costliness, and more!

Truth be told, marriage is a crucible; wrought in longsuffering, and sustained in God's own grace. Why, one may ask, must it be that marriage hinges upon such miraculous means (and not to mention, eternal ends)? 

Because love is patient. And I am not patient.

Because love is kind. And I am not kind.

Because love does not envy. But I do.

Because love is not proud. But I am.

Because love is not rude. But I am.

Because love does not insist on its own way. But I do.

Because love is not irritable or resentful. But, Lord, I am.

Because love bears, believes, hopes and endures all things. And, in the fires of conflict, every fiber in my being wants to cut and run.

There's a profound difference, I find,  between parental love and spousal love. There is something almost physiological, biological about the love of a father for his children There is something about the bare, pure existence of the child that COMPELS forth love from the heart of a father. This is a love beyond will, beyond choice. Not so, with spousal love. Spousal love must be CHOSEN, day in and day out; a way of the cross, from which we are consistently tempted to depart. 

I’ll tell you the truth: it is in those days and seasons when God has purposed, by his love, or by means of my wife’s love for me, to do the most meaningful, significant work in my heart, that I have been MOST tempted to run. Because when you begin to feel your pride, your selfishness, your impatience or laziness saturate, crumble, and begin to slide off the edge of your heart into the flow of that great river which is love, in the moment it does not FEEL like the gift of freedom and life that it truly is: it feels like death. But isn’t this precisely the miracle of the Gospel of Jesus which we claim? That it is in passing through death, under the wings and in the grace of Jesus - by virtue of the victory and hope of his resurrection - that we find true, abundant, eternal life and blessing, on the other side? Married folks: there are undeniably days when the the costliness of love - both giving and receiving - makes one want to run; to remove yourself from this flow and force that is softening and shaping you, day by day. But it is in the STAYING - the abiding, submission and surrender to the purposes of God, in Love, for you - that we discover the miracle of sanctifying grace that the Lord intends us to be, one to the other.

In binding ourselves to one another in love; as we surrender our simple independence in order to lay down our life for this other person, and to accept from them the gift of their life laid down for you, we are caught up in something as deep and wide and beautiful as eternity itself. Caught up, in fact, into the flow of the very life and love of God himself; for our blessing and for His glory. Always remember this, on the days when the fires of conflict burn hot in your marriage: that God has given you to each other, and the covenant you have entered, as means of this work of holy erosion; refining, softening and shaping you to look ever more like Him, day by day, for as long as your journey of life together may last. To love and look more like Jesus. 

The hippies got it wrong: love isn’t free. It will cost you all that you are and all that you have. But the miracle of grace is this: that it is WORTH it! And it is in that spirit and that truth that we have made these promises to one another.

The Wood River, May 2017

Headed to Rhode Island on Wednesday to check on the rental property and conspire a bit about what it might take to get it sold in the next year or so. If we can manage to do it, it'd be a relief to be free of that albatross.

That house is perhaps the signature example of my poor track record in interpreting the long-term intentions of God for my life. Think you'll be in a place for a decade, end up called away after a year. Bought a house at peak market, and it's subsequently crashed? Looks like you'll be riding out the next ten years as a long-distance landlord.

A good excuse to reconnect with Curtis, though, and keep apprised of the goings-on in the life of his family. We've got a bit of a track record of his receiving major life news whilst we are sharing a truck cab en route to one place or another, which was reinforced yesterday; a job offer, this time. A good, and needed, development. 

Also a good excuse to spend a couple of hours chasing some Wood River trout, too. As thin as the results of my early season north country endeavors have been, I figure it couldn't hurt to see what was popping just a couple of hours closer to the equator. The theory paid off reasonably well.

Hit the water just in time for the evening hatch. In the waning sunlight, mayflies dancing in the air above the water. There's no comparison or substitute for casting dry flies to rising trout; no clearer articulation of the purpose for which the discipline was invented, and no greater joy in the culmination of the right fly with the right cast and timing, to the splash of the take and a trout in the net. Watching the tip of the light fiberglass rod bend and shake under the weight of conflict, feeling the energy of life press against the palm and wrist through the reel seat, the electricity of unfiltered, instinctual gratitude that every hunter feels with the nearness of quarry and the promise of hunger satisfied. Of course, the hunger in this case is purely experiential - if not spiritual - rather than physical. But the instinct, and need, runs deep in the human heart, regardless. We're a people born for a fight; in the water, the hunt, the puzzling, the waiting, the explosion, the pressure and, finally, the netted foe, we find an existential and metaphysical release.

There is memory, and nostalgia here, too. It was in RI that I first stumbled in to fly fishing, and here on the Wood that I first put those fledgling disciplines to the test. First casting lessons on the small suburban street in front of Curt's place, nestled in the sprawling ugliness of Coventry-West Warwick. First fish caught on the fly, a tiny hormonal blue gill on a South County pond. But it was here on the Wood River that I was introduced to the fumbling beauty of the art; as a river it retains a special place in my heart for that gift of grace.

In the pre-dusk softness, mosquitos buzzing and mayflies dancing, I am puzzling over a rising trout. Not more than ten feet away, in the shelter of an overgrown bank. Thrashing, consuming, breaking the water in regular intervals; immune to my nearness, uncompelled by my offerings. One fly, then another. Worse casts, better casts, perfect drifts... nothing. Then, the one. The splash, the hit, the pressure and energy of the fight. Fat, strong rainbow in the net.

I am grateful.

Of "Grapes", Hell, and "The Broken Way"

Fatalism, and subsequent despair, are never distant temptations.

The way in which Steinbeck ends his "Grapes of Wrath" is so unsettlingly inconclusive; there is no tidy resolution or victory in sight. The central characters begin with the suffering and displacement of the Oklahoma "dust bowl", and end in the midst of the suffering and displacement of California floods. Along the way, the old die, the young suffer, the family unit erodes, babies are stillborn; poverty, uncertainty and hunger define each passing day. The only enduring lesson, it seems, is that those who survive and remain simply continue in their resolution to do what must be done, in the struggle of the present.

The unsettling greatness of this novel lies in this unblinking testimony to the truth of the human condition: there is no great victory to be expected, no final hill to be climbed and conquered; the life we are given to live in this present age consists of travail in perpetuity, from generation to generation. Those few who do achieve "success" and security in their lifetimes, as the world conceives of such things (conspicuous wealth, fame, etc.) more often than not seem doomed to Solomon's despair; the loss of purpose to one's life and days.

While most, given the choice, would choose death by ennui before starvation, it remains clear that humankind is born for a fight and suffers in the absence of one. Of course, we suffer in the MIDST of one, too! It would seem that the Dread Pirate Roberts tapped into something enduringly true when he said, famously, "Life IS pain, princess..."

Ann Voskamp puts it this way: "This is the deal we all get: guaranteed suffering. We all get it. It is coming, unstoppable, like time."

There is no victory in this life that is not, ultimately, fleeting. We are foot soldiers in battles too close to the ground for us to truly know - personally and experientially - the true scope and trajectory of the war. A battle won, a battle lost; there will always be another, just ahead. The great lie of the Enlightenment and its myth of "progress" is that we would one day, inevitably, progressively, find ourselves in a place where this would no longer be true. Hence, the great, existential disappointment of post-modernity. The toys may be better, but the suffering remains.

Of course, faith is the belief and trust that there IS an ultimate victory at work in the world: the victory of Christ over death, darkness and suffering. This victory which offers to claim us and one day to lay all battles to rest; swords, beaten into plowshares. But I have to wonder, can this tormented paradox which is humanity - born for a fight, while hating it all the while - ever content itself to breathe the air of eternal peace, SHALOM, again? Can it be true that there is an ultimate victory that truly, eternally, satisfies?

Perhaps that is why Hell must be real; there must exist a realm where those who cannot abide to breathe the atmosphere of shalom and eternal satisfaction might find refuge from that light. It seems to me that many might choose tears and pain and suffering, given the option. The alternative simply seems so inconceivably foreign, it's hard to know how the heart might respond.

Lord, help my unbelief!

New England Frontier Camp (May 2017)

Sunday morning, here at camp. Work weekend. Spent the last couple of days digging in the dirt, here; preparing to lay some new electrical conduit for main camp. As it is the sort of thing that always happens on endeavors such as these, on Friday I managed to clip a shallow sewer line with the excavator. Spent most of the morning yesterday shoveling foul-smelling sand in order to find and repair the junction that had torn free beneath the gravel dooryard.

One cannot help but be impressed - taken aback, even - by the heart of these camp-friends and colleagues, here to share in all manner of pre-season work that comes with this time of year. Taking each challenge and minor catastrophe in stride; standing in the sun, ankle-deep in sewage, laughing about the experience. These men humble and convict me. Camp doesn't have a dime to its name, heading into the summer ministry season on fumes and grace. But it is the spirit of these people - their presence, sweat and generosity - that sustains this place, year-by-year. Sooner than later, we'll need a better plan, but in the end I hope that really never changes.

Becca and the kids have been up, too. It's nourishing to my heart to watch the girls run wild in the confines and healthy, outdoor dangers of this world. There is something good and true about witnessing an exercise of freedom, devoid of fear. Something, dare one say, Edenic?

The lake is beautiful, deep and clear. The far shore, pale green with spring; pale green newness mottled with the experienced darkness of the evergreens. The air is cool, this morning.

There's something about this place and the people who love it, and sustain it by their love. Something that can take and redeem even days spent shoveling human waste from a hole in the ground in search of one's sins, and leave you feeling that these have been days well spent. For all its foibles and failings - and there are many - there is a miracle in that. A miracle of the Spirit. A miracle wrought in love and grace.

These have been good days, spent in this peculiar, miraculous place. Good days, spent with these people. In the days of work, the healthy dangers of free-ranging children, in the shared meals and stories and close quarters, in the out-of-tune hymns and Sunday morning devotions, I feel that I have found something in my relationship here that I have not known since my teenage years: I have found myself inside. Inside, as C.S. Lewis opines, the beating heart of something beautiful and true. And in this moment, I am grateful.

Girls (Spring 2017)

Strapping the canoe to the top of the Jeep, setting off with the girls for some early season bass-and-bluegill reconnaissance. Too early, still, as the fish haven't found their motivation, yet. When the sap gets running and the spawn gets rolling, those panfish will bite out of pure territorial aggression.

Waiting for that moment. Shiloh's got a fly rod to call her own this year. I'm eager to get her on to some enthusiastic fish. But, no fish tonight.

Plenty of black flies, though they were kept down reasonably enough by the occasional light breeze. A pretty spot. Drove away as the sun set over the valley and water behind us. Windows down, hit the gas to usher out the lingering flies.

Girls in the back seat, sun-kissed and sweaty. Hit the gas; strawberry blonde hair, blowing in the wind.

One day, they'll be women. But tonight, they are girls; sun-kissed and sweaty, smelling of bug spray and pond water. Strawberry blonde hair, blowing in strands over their slowly closing eyes in the back seat of the jeep.

Oh, how I do love them, terribly!

Pittsburg, NH. May 2017

"O Lord, let my soul rise up to meet you. / As the day rises to meet the sun, / Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. / As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever, Amen. "

Too early in the season for the fishing to be much good, it seems. A cold, overcast April and May has kept the water temperatures too low. But, we'll see. We have a guide booked for tomorrow; we'll enjoy the quiet and space, in any case. Sometimes COMMITTING to a couple of days of predictably poor fishing is just good for the character and, thereby, the soul.

The ride north seemed to foretell our fate. I was surprised by how dramatically the Spring foliage dropped off as we passed through the White Mountains. Here in the Great North Woods, the whole landscape looks 6-8 weeks behind where our trees are at even just a few hours south. Patches of snow still cling to the notches and hollows, here.

In the Spring and Fall, Route 16 is like a time machine, that way.

Foggy and cool, this morning; Curtis is at the propane stove, and bacon's sizzling in the pan. It's a day that promises peace.

---

"Women and children knew deep in themselves that no misfortune was too great to bear if their men were whole... The men sat still - thinking - figuring." - Grapes of Wrath

It is quiet here; the campground nearly deserted, the grounds staff cleaning up the remnants of winter, preparing the way for the Memorial Day rush. The woods still seem wrapped in slumber. The forested shoreline not yet green, but hazy pink with the early season buds of the deciduous trees.

All of our forests here are young. It's hard to imagine that, 100 years ago, New Hampshire was 90% deforested. The uniform youth of our trees betray the fact, however. Whether that should make one sad, or encouraged - by the resilience of creation to reclaim wild spaces once laid bare by our consumption - I can't say. It would be something, to see a truly old-growth forest, someday.

The water is high, and breathtakingly cold. Liquid, I would say, on principle alone. No fish from the river today; too cold and fast for enthusiastic feeding, I'm afraid. We'll see how our guide approaches the puzzle, tomorrow.

Time for a fire, and supper.

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Sunday morning. Headed home.

Spent the day floating the Upper Connecticut River with Greg the guide. Eight hours on the water, one fish was caught; a feisty little 8-10" brown, gently kissed by Maggie the fishing dog and released. For the relative futility of our efforts, it was a beautiful day, well spent.

Today is Mother's Day, and it's snowing in Berlin. Fat, wet flakes the size of silver dollars, falling as fast as rain.

Passing over the roots of Mount Washington, the snow frosts the evergreen trees and coats the wet earth. For these miles, in the mountains, it is winter, again.