The Timberline Letter

Just as swallows return to Capistrano, salmon swim upstream, and turtles march to the sea, our family has, for decades, traveled to an annual reunion at the Chinn farm in Pratt County, Kansas. We can measure the pull of that migration by how many other family members we encounter at McDonalds, convenience stores, and ice cream parlors during the seven-hour trek from Colorado to the farm. It’s as if winds blow down the eastern slope of the Rockies, whisking pickups, SUVs, 18-wheelers, and Chinns along I-70 and various other roads to Kansas.Years ago, after making ourselves at home in the Pine Cone Inn—which we always dubbed The Happiness Hotel—we ran into my aunts Mary, Maggie, and Jean, the garage sale queens. My daughter Nichole and I made plans to caravan with them to Pratt’s garage sales the next morning. But, driving off with fresh coffee that morning, we took a zig to their zag and found ourselves far from town. Surprisingly, we discovered a huge yard full of treasures. As we combed over the collection of overpriced and overused goods, I learned Nichole needed a sewing machine. She spotted one but was unsure of its value.We needed to find someone with wisdom, experience, and good judgement. Who better than my aunts who had sewn their own clothes on the farm, then mastered drapes, upholstery, and their own children’s and grandchildren’s clothes? I called them, gave them directions to where we were, and described their mission. Their arrival brought a flurry of love, activity, and voices. They pronounced the sewing machine a good buy, so we loaded it up and returned to our lodgings.That afternoon’s reunion activities included an auction of donated family items as a fundraiser. Nichole’s contribution to the auction was to be two denim jackets revamped in her own style. But, as she blissfully sewed vintage handkerchiefs to the jacket with her new machine, a tornado of thread piled up, preventing the cloth from moving forward. The Happiness Hotel suddenly became The Mangled Motel.Once again, we called the aunts to seek their wisdom. Although they were already on their way to the farm, they quickly spun around and came roaring back to our rescue. Swiftly and nimbly, they disassembled the sewing machine, cleaning each piece as it was removed. Newly oiled and reassembled, they gave it a trial run. We heard success in the hum of the stitches, as colorful vintage hankies were added along the cuffs and trim, and our family name was sewn on the back.That afternoon, Nichole entered those stylish items into the auction. Though the proceeds from her items increased the family fund, the aunt’s display of trans-generational love captured the real treasure of families. Just as that sewing machine pulled threads together for a higher purpose, so did my aunts. They pulled the colorful human fabrics into the dance. They made us want to bring our best selves to every meal, every activity, every injury, and every task at hand.Reunions on the Chinn farm continue, but that “greatest generation” of aunts has now passed. Here amid the sunflowers, hayrack rides, and squeals of new babies, we hold deep gratitude for those farm women who weren’t afraid of work and were so happy to pass along their skills, talents and love to many others.Sandra Salankey is a Denver native who loves the mountains. She and her husband, Gary, have 3 children and 5 grandchildren. A former flight attendant and Jazzercise instructor, she loves traveling, dancing, and organizing pictures into photo albums. She believes every picture tells a story.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written by: Ed ChinnNarrated by: Kara Lea KennedyOn the last day of our Kansas visit in 2019, I dropped by Mom’s assisted living room to tell her goodbye; we were driving back to Tennessee.Her move from her home to assisted living had not gone well, and she decided this was the time to let me have it. Of course it was. She knew this might be the last time we would see each other.As soon as I sat down, she asked me, her firstborn, “Why am I here?”And I heard myself say, “Because your personal care needs have grown beyond what your family can provide.”I instantly hated the way those words felt in my mouth. Like marbles—too smooth. Accurate, but too sleek. Cold, unreal, evasive. They gave me power and protection while leaving her little space or grace.She kept going, her eyes like lasers. “Your daddy and I built our home. It’s right over there (she pointed). It’s paid for; it’s mine. Why can’t I just go home?”I wanted to throw up. I could see that she had been suffocating under a blanket of reasonable, dehumanizing logic: What happened to my life? Why am I held captive so near my home? Why am I spending $5,000 a month for this 340-square-foot box when my home costs me nothing?“Mom, I wish you could go home, but you can’t take care of yourself.”“I know, Ed—” she broke. “BUT MY SONS … DON’T WANT ME!”There it was.I couldn’t imagine what it cost her to face that reality, much less say it aloud. Everything in me protested. Her three sons and daughters-in-law did want her. We deeply loved her. No one carried unresolved mommy stuff. Vernon and Betty had cared for her long and sacrificially from their home next door. Carl and Deana had invited Mom to live with them in Colorado.And yet, in the way that mattered most to her in that moment, she was right.Our lives, our homes, our patterns of living—our own aging selves—could not absorb the disruption of a 96-year-old woman with serious health needs.Her wet, pleading eyes searched my face. Was she looking for some spark of hope, some evidence that the Christ lived in me?Then, dreading the moment and feeling the pressure to get on the road, I stood.“Mom, I love you so much. But we have to go.” As I hugged her, my own emotions seemed to give me permission to leave.But she wouldn’t let go that easily. She escorted me out of her room, down the hall, down the elevator, and right out the front door. As I approached my car, she began to sob into my chest.After holding her for a few minutes, I said, “Come on, Mom. We don’t live here. We have to go home.”“I know,” she wept as she studied her feet.And suddenly I saw the child she had once been in rural Missouri, frightened and crying because the road had washed out, the water kept rising, and Daddy was gone.Now the road had washed out again. She had no path forward.In the end, she seemed like a frightened citizen in an occupied country. She did not understand all the noises from the street, why strangers entered her room day and night, or why they sometimes spoke to her in the language of schedules, medications, rules, and routines. I know; they had work to do.“The poor plead for mercy, but the rich answer harshly.”(Proverbs 18:23)Harsh answers are often the language of people who must make things work. They keep the schedule, enforce the rules, solve the problems, get everyone back on the road. Sometimes they are even correct.But correct answers can so easily and so often wound.Older, poorer, weaker, sadder, sicker people understand this. But when so much has already been taken from them, what they may need most is not another explanation of the way things must be, but a little tenderness in the midst of the way things are.Isaiah imagined such tenderness when he wrote of One who “will not cry out or raise his voice, who will not break a bruised reed or extinguish a dimly burning wick, but will bring justice to those who have been wronged.”In her death four months later, that was the world Mom entered, a world where bruised reeds are handled gently and no one has to plead for mercy.As I get closer to the place where Mom once stood, the distance between the two of us has grown strangely short. Things I once understood from the fortress of the strong, I now glimpse from the camp of the aging.Now I understand these famous words from George Washington Carver are not philosophical; they are a warning:“How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life you will have been all of these.”The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

No matter what you think of Los Angeles or San Francisco, the Sierra Nevada, the Central Coast, the Mojave Desert, and a few other places all carry a certain vibe—Kalifornia Kool.But in the broad sweep of the Central Valley, where two rivers meet, sits Sacramento, the state capital.There’s just not much Kool in Sacramento.Flat as a tortilla, Sacramento is intensely hot in summer. Wildfires threaten the region year-round. And for such a vast state, its Capitol building seems undernourished and underwhelming—a California raisin instead of a plump, proud grape.Drowsing on the banks of the Sacramento River, downtown Sacramento drifts toward its nighttime slumber. Thin trickles of departing shoppers abandon the outdoor mall.As Sacramento pulls on its pajamas for the night, I head toward my hotel. Rounding a corner near a closing shop, I nearly collide with a street busker packing up. He wears a top hat, a long-tailed formal coat, a white frilled shirt, and a red cummerbund. He is stuffing his white clown mask into a blue Walmart shopping bag.“Whoops! Sorry I missed your performance. Finished for the day?” I ask.“Well, no, not if you want to hear me sing! Sure! I’ll stay!”His hands tremble as he quickly reverses his packing-up routine. I wonder if I am the only audience he has had all day. He fumbles with a tiny amplifier, trying to switch it on.In his left hand, he clutches a miniature cassette player. In his right, he holds a microphone pressed close to his mouth. The effort proves futile. His singing bears no discernible relationship to the cassette player’s tinny output. Is he three bars ahead, or four bars behind? Or perhaps, tone-deaf, he is simply guessing, tossing a note here, a note there—surely one of them will land.He warbles through the lyrics, “What’s she doing now?”The plaintive song reflects upon a precious, long-lost relationship, wondering where she is now and what has become of her.How appropriate, I think. Where has this costumed busker been, and what will become of him?Despite the cacophony and his lack of talent, some inner magnet draws me in and keeps me listening. His face is far kinder and brighter than his voice deserves. A hopeful expression elevates his presence. Somehow, his soul seems lifted above his circumstances.He stares directly at me. Then, after his ten-minute caterwaul, I realize the obvious. He’s attempting to earn a tip from his audience—me.I clandestinely dig through my wallet.Nope. No one-dollar bills. No five-dollar bills. Only one solitary bill—a twenty.I catch my breath. Too late now. He saw me digging.A twenty? I can’t give that much to a stranger. Would my generous gift encourage this hopeless musical wannabe? Worse, what about the drugs he might buy? The booze? Would I be promoting a derelict lifestyle?I do it. I swiftly fold a sharp crease across Andrew Jackson’s face and stuff the bill into the singer’s hand. Then I step back quickly, as if it never happened.He steps uncomfortably close. The lines on his face seem to melt away, his anxiety thawing.“Thank you!” he exclaims, stunned to be holding a twenty-dollar bill. He looks from the bill to me and grins, gap-toothed.“This is all I’ve earned today—and nobody has ever given me twenty dollars! Now I’ll buy some food because, you know, a friend is letting me sleep on his couch for a few nights. I’m so happy. Thank you! God bless!”I stand beside him as he packed up.“I won’t forget this…” he declares.Then he turns and walks away, dragging his amplifier and blue Walmart bag behind him.Each time I hear that song, I still wonder “What’s he doing now?”That evening, I gave away more than a twenty-dollar bill. My tight fist opened, and my hard heart opened with it.Ever since, I carry an extra Andrew Jackson twenty-dollar bill in my wallet and gently turn up the volume of my heart.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Growing up under the wide Colorado sky, our family often watched the sun set behind the Rockies, casting pinks, oranges, and reds through our living room window. And every morning, the sunrise announced a new day to our castle. From our seats in that cosmic theater, we also watched storms roll from the west to east across our north horizon. Thunderclouds built and rumbled, taunting us with the possibility of rain.On one of those occasions, when my parents, my brother Christopher, and I stood marveling at a rainbow, Mom said, “Let’s go find the end of it!” We were old enough to know the pursuit would be in vain. But, with no voiced opposition, we loaded into the car and headed east.I remember sensations of hope, wonder, and stubborn optimism that sparked through my head. What if?What if C.S. Lewis was onto something, and we were about to enter another world? What if this turned out to be the grand adventure, the one that changed us in such a way that we would return from our journey as kings and queens? What if we found the pot of gold?Eventually, the sun set and we returned home. A brief adventure that concluded with the mundane rhythms of brushing teeth and going to bed. That was okay. It was never really about the rainbow anyway, but about child-like faith and wonder. I rested in deep satisfaction, with no need to touch the spectrum in the sky. The light of possibility had been enough for my soul.Years later, Mom and Dad drove me to California so I could chase another rainbow, an acting career. I had no degree and no guarantees. But I had parents who believed, smiled at the future, and sang old country songs through the arid lands of Utah, Nevada, and onto the Los Angeles freeways. They gave full support to my dream. For my brief California sojourn, I lived on two part-time jobs and the healthy dose of faith my parents deposited in me. But like the certainty of the setting sun, a low minimum wage and high gas prices brought an end to my time on the West Coast. Mom came and helped me drive back home. Just like the unsuccessful pursuit of the rainbow, my hopes didn’t die when the Hollywood sign shrank in my rearview mirror. It was fun while it lasted. But it was time to look towards something else.As we drove, my heart sorted the details. Maybe life doesn’t have to be filled with awards and accomplishments. Attaining wealth, promotions, fame, new furniture…they are all things that happen ‘out there.’ I don’t have to touch every shiny thing. Can I walk through boring days without facing an existential crisis?I’m still reaching for something greater, believing that one day I will be lifted into those arms that stretched rainbows across the sky and spun my dreams into existence. Meanwhile, I’d rather live on faith that sings through the dry places than give up on chasing possibilities.I didn’t find the end of the rainbow, but I did find the role of a lifetime—right in my home. Rainbows and other illusions may pull our gaze “where the grass is greener.” But the real pot of gold is always right here, right now.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

I was a young lad when I first felt the rumble of a lion’s roar, heard an elephant’s shrill trumpeting, or felt the sudden plunge of a circus acrobat.Yet every day now, I see acrobats. A woman stands atop her own head. A soccer team competes against an identical, mirrored team. Four dogs chase four tails—or is it two dogs chasing two tails? Body parts float away. Walls disassemble like Lego bricks.Like the blind man before being healed by Jesus, I see “men as trees, walking.”I have double vision.A year ago, my befuddled brain quit deciphering my uncorrelated dual visual images. Double vision—diplopia—took over my world.I close one eye to read a book or negotiate a computer screen. Navigating a Los Angeles freeway is harder than driving bumper cars blindfolded.What is real? How do I know that what I perceive is trustworthy?Only two surgeons in Los Angeles perform the corrective surgery I needed. But a year of fighting procedures, policies, schedules, and insurance left me weary. Hope stayed far from my house.When I finally arrived at UCLA’s Stein Eye Institute, anxiety wrestled with joyful expectation. Several weeks earlier, my dry eye specialist—not my double vision specialist—had concocted a best-guess eyeglass prescription for my double vision.“Do you want to try glasses?” she had asked me. “If they work, you might be able to avoid surgery. But if not…”Knowing double vision was not her specialty, I dutifully, yet doubtfully, followed the dry eye specialist’s suggestion and ordered the glasses. I doubted they would help.Weeks later, when I finally arrived at my appointment with the UCLA double vision specialist, the doctor’s young assistant took over.“Okay, follow my finger with your eyes.”I followed the assistant’s finger up, down, left, right, then into each quadrant. Next came goggles, prisms, and eventually a test using a machine built in the 1930s, one of only two in the country. Popsicle sticks moved the examination slides into their proper places. By then the examination itself was beginning to feel like another circus act.At the end of my three-hour exam, bloodshot, bleary-eyed, and twisted with emotion, I awaited the pronouncement by my double vision doctor.And what about that long-shot prescription I had been given by the dry eye specialist several weeks ago? Double vision was not her expertise. But could her guess at a prescription really have been a fix? Or was it only a tease?My UCLA doctor’s pronouncement came in a thick Scottish brogue. What would he say about my double vision?“Well, Craig, you’ve probably had this condition for several decades. Previously, your brain adjusted to it, but it has stopped cooperating. Fortunately for you, it is now stable and will not worsen.”“And by the way, however she created it, that prescription you received from your dry eye specialist is perfect! Yes, you will need to wear glasses. And that’s the end of it. You don’t need surgery.” Then he smiled, “And you don’t need to see me anymore!”I sat staring at him, trying to find the words.Finally, my tightened throat gave way to words. “This is one of the best days of my life.”He was clearly taken aback.I continued, as I wiped tears from my eyes.“It’s been a tough year. A year ago, I began battling for my eyesight. And then I lost my wife in February. But I feel like this is Christmas. I’ve received a wonderful gift. So that makes you Santa … minus the white hair and beard.”The three-hour trip home through L.A. rush-hour traffic flew by. I barely noticed the accident in the lane beside me. I averaged twenty miles an hour. None of it mattered.Now, when I remove my glasses at night, the circus still returns. Acrobats tumble. Images split apart. Words climb over one another. But in the morning, my new glasses end the performance. Calm prevails.Double vision has proven to be a good teacher.It has taught me that life itself can be illusory. What appears real may not be. What seems worth reaching for may leave me grasping at air.So I keep on asking: Am I reaching toward what is real, or toward an illusion? Am I pursuing a misleading goal, or one of lasting value?While the circus hasn’t fully left town, double vision no longer occupies the center ring. And what’s a circus without the main attraction?The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

I joined the ranchers, farmers, and town folks who slowly gathered on a quiet Sunday morning in Bastrop, Texas. For several years, that “house church” had met in Bob and Sue Long’s home.Although they invited me to speak, I quickly realized the real speaker that morning was Bob and Sue’s dog, “Whiskey.”As soon as everyone sat in a circle, Whiskey wandered in and plopped down in the loop of boots and fell sound asleep. Totally relaxed, no concerns about religious etiquette or expectations. No fear of going to hell. She didn’t know or care that it was Sunday. The dog radiated the fullness of her dogness.She was a portrait of Peace in the Presence. The people sang. Whiskey slept. And God saw that it was good.One of the largest and oldest questions all humans face: How do creatures live in the presence of their Creator? Do I live from the fullness of God’s Fatherhood and design, or do I feel the need for continuous self-protection, affirmation, and cosmetic surgery?For me, it all took me back to when my uncle Harold died in a tractor accident in 1992. His siblings all worried about the impact of his death on their father. That was perfectly logical and understandable; Grandpa had lost his wife, Harold’s mother, just 30 days earlier. So, on that day, everyone whispered, tiptoed, and avoided conversations or eye contact with Grandpa.Finally, he nailed his daughter, “Vita, what’s going on around here?”She broke. “Oh, Daddy, it’s really bad.”“I know it’s bad. I just need a name.”That moment revealed a 95-year-old man who was at rest in his home, the universe, and the awesome God he’d known for nearly a century. He could face anything because of the great arc of his life and faith. Like a holocaust survivor, that arc had carried him beyond all that was theologically starched and packaged.Pascal wrote “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”[1] Grandpa had learned to be at rest in the Presence. Although he was a flawed man, he knew that whatever came from the hand of God would not injure him; it would not disturb his identity and security.Whatever your beliefs, assumptions, fears, or doubts, you are surely aware of an Awesome Presence. He is always there, loving us, unsettling us, confirming us, confronting us, stopping us, sending us. He does not intend to destroy us. We are the works of His hand. What makes us think he produces junk?We do not understand Him. But, as Whiskey would tell you, “Relax. The Presence is safe.”[1] Blaise Pascal, Pensées, fragment 139 (Brunschvicg edition) / 136 (Lafuma edition)The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

A tiny trespass onto a neighbor’s property can seem harmless. Nobody will notice. It is only a shortcut. But eventually, others follow that route. In time, a private intrusion becomes a well-worn path.Recently, my neighbor introduced an intrusion into my life. His newly installed security lights poured bucketfuls of lumens through my bedroom window each night. So, I quickly planted tall bushes to block the light. When they proved ineffective, I erected a six-foot-high, finest-quality fence, finally blocking his solar blast.When physical or psychological boundaries are crossed, we become intruders, taking what is not rightfully ours.England’s invasion of Ireland in the fourteenth century had become a failing and regrettable trespass. Many of the English Norman invaders had “gone native,” assimilating into Irish life. The land still under English control had dwindled largely to the region surrounding Dublin.To mark the boundary of that shrinking territory, the English erected fence posts, or “pales,” an old word for stakes or barriers. The territory outside English control was said to be “beyond the pale.”Most incursions in our own lives do not resemble territorial warfare. They begin more quietly, subtly disrupting our routines and nudging the boundaries that make us comfortable.A college student with little money once needed a place to stay while he searched for work. Sympathetic to his situation, I invited the charming and intelligent young man to use our extra bedroom. The act of welcoming strangers, according to a biblical text, could mean we’re unknowingly entertaining angels.At first, we did seem to be hosting an angel. Our guest was kind and affable—and especially punctual at mealtimes, accepting every meal we placed before him.As he became more comfortable in his new residence, however, the boundaries began to shift. He gradually displaced me from my favorite armchair. His music produced mini-tsunamis in our fish tank. Our once-tidy home began to resemble a thrift-store donation center.When others place us on the wrong side of the pale, the neat fence separating what is ours from what is theirs has been breached. It can feel like discovering that someone has mixed the colored laundry with the whites.Each incursion differs, and each kind calls for a different response. Did we create the intrusion? Are we its victim? Or did we invite it?In the first instance, we are the trespassers. Like the pathway, we have entered, uninvited, into something that is not ours—another person’s property, privacy, belongings, or heart. Our intrusion carried us into a place where we had no claim and did not belong. Such trespasses often bring consequences.In the second instance, like the unwanted glare from my neighbor’s security light, we are the victims of an intrusion. We are not the transgressors; someone else has crossed the boundary.We have two choices: retaliate against the encroachment or pursue the more arduous path of understanding and reconciliation.Finally, like my invitation to the college student, we may willingly allow an unexpected interruption into our lives. We take in a stranger, or welcome a socially displaced outsider, or offer shelter to an anxious immigrant. We gamble with our own comfort. We choose to cross conventional boundaries and venture beyond the pale, where the landscape is less certain, but the rewards are far greater.And when we do, we may discover something unexpected just beyond that pale—perhaps even a visit from angels.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written and Narrated by: Kara Lea KennedyWhen my husband, David, was a pilot with the US Air Force, we had the privilege of moving to various airbases around the world. Back in 2016, we prepared for our move to an 800-square-foot apartment in South Korea. Naturally, we began whittling our belongings down to the necessities.During that time of downsizing at our Arizona home, my mom came for a visit. Among her other insights, she saw that a collapsible mini crib for our baby would fit better in our tiny space than the modern monstrosities that filled most American nurseries. I agreed. She was also confident that we would easily find one at a garage sale. On that point, I disagreed—but I resisted the urge to throw out the statistical unlikelihood of that happening.However, I was happy to have quality time with my mom, so we hit a few sales early on a Saturday morning. As we drove, she declared again that we were going to find a mini crib. My doubts began to suffocate under the weight of her faith. It was not a new feeling. My mother is a Miracle. That’s her maiden name. And Deana Lea Miracle Chinn carries that heritage with a confidence that doesn’t leave much room for doubt. So, I decided to practice a little faith rather than teach Mom (and my Creator) about improbabilities.At the first sale, we found it--a beautiful mini-crib. Just sitting there. A delicate hitchhiker on the side of a dusty highway, it called out to me. It reminded me that even faith as small as a mustard seed can shift statistics and probabilities. Mom was unfazed, as if this were perfectly normal.That’s when I noticed something I had seen before; there was something very ordinary about the whole thing.Miracles can be like that. Living through one seldom feels like “The Ten Commandments,” with waters rushing up into the sky as Charlton Heston’s beard whips fiercely in the wind. Sometimes they just quietly roll across our day. Maybe it should be commonplace to live with miracles, and living a life without them (or without acknowledging them) is what’s unusual. Even bizarre, hollow, icy.My friends and I were once called to pray for a Mongolian baby that had blue spots all over his body. As we prayed for his healing, he kept screaming. And then, he just … stopped. He had peace, joy, and perfect pink cheeks like all babies should. We thanked God and went home. It felt so normal that I wondered, were there ever any spots, or was that my imagination? I didn’t hear a rushing wind or the voice of God. That was that. Simple. Undramatic.Webster’s Dictionary defines supernatural as being “beyond or exceeding the powers or laws of nature.”[1] But maybe “supernatural” and “natural” are worthless adjectives. Who are we to pronounce anything “miraculous,” “commonplace,” “raw,” “natural,” or “supernatural?” The smallest systems, even invisible ones, are full of complexity. Every atom, molecule, sunrise, and solar system reflects its Creator. As living wonders, they travel paths that require a miraculous touch. may not need to be designated as official “miracles.”What do we mean when we speak about “concrete reality?” Concrete is a hardened mix of water, sand, cement, and gravel. Reality is an ever-shifting, pulsing dynamic of heartbeats, oxygen, blood, smiles, laughter, birdsong, tomatoes on the vine, and deep-sea illumination. We live in an astonishing world. Perhaps we should expect more miracles.It would be only natural.[1] Webster, Noah. “Definition.” An American Dictionary of the English Language, S. Converse, 1828.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written by: Ed ChinnNarrated by: Kara Lea KennedyIn the early fifties, my parents and a few other young couples came together to form a new Pentecostal church in Pratt, Kansas. They bought an old one-room school building and moved it onto a corner lot in Pratt. Then Dad led the way through the design, renovation, excavation, and construction phases.When finished, we had suitable space for meetings, Sunday School, and a basement-level home for a pastor and family. My parents loved joining with others to help bring that church to reality. They poured themselves out for a dream, a call. And they did it with joy for a quarter century.The End of the RoadBut that golden season of church life came to a stop in the late 70s. I saw it when our family drove from our Texas home up to Pratt to spend a weekend with my parents. At some point during that weekend, Dad and I parked in front of that little church building and talked of the old days.Then Dad opened his pickup door, “Okay, now I want to show you something.”I followed him up the front steps. Dad pulled a tape measure from his overalls pocket and stretched it across the door. As he gazed at the tape, he kept shaking his head.“What’s wrong, Dad?”“A casket won’t fit through this door.”The words delivered a gut punch to the old way I had seen my dad. He was now a man facing retirement and regrets, feeling the sand suck away from his feet as the tide went out. My heart broke to think of him driving to the mortuary, asking to see caskets, and measuring them as he slowly realized none would fit through the church’s narrow door.I saw how disappointment entered his heart space. No sonic boom, just a slow-motion disintegration of a dream. This was serious. He and Mom had given so much. That place that had fostered the lives of farmers, ranchers, young families, the elderly, and other community members could not host a final celebration of those lives. The finish line had to be moved somewhere else. What did it all mean now? I watched as Dad asked one of life’s hardest questions.Dis-appointedWebster’s American Dictionary of the English Language (1828) breaks “disappoint” down to “dis-appoint.” [1] A better job or home may have been “appointed,” but when it collided with facts, it was “dis-appointed.” Evicted, rejected, defeated.Disappointment doesn’t mean we calculated selfishly or foolishly. Sometimes it just reminds us that we are not the authors of life. We do our best, but our strength is limited; our vision is partial. In our incompleteness, we make choices, announce plans, and fill our calendars. Then life erases those “dates with destiny.”But perhaps what we lost wasn’t real life, but our small views of it. We’ve all heard—even from our own lips—that embarrassing, sometimes tragic phrase, “But I thought...”Disappointment can come to us as a gift, toppling small, unworthy, or lethal dreams. For example, it seems my biggest disappointments have involved damaged or dead relationships. But I can also see that if some of them had come to the result I preferred, I would not have met my Joanne ... or our kids or grandkids.My parents eventually came to the same place. After walking through the narrow places of preferences, severances, and measuring doors, they walked into a larger faith, wider vision, and unexpected grace notes.Life has a way of taking us beyond suffocating constrictions into the panorama of a new landscape.[1] Noah Webster, American Dictionary of the English Language (Foundation for American Christian Education, San Francisco, CA, 1828)The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

In 1957 my dad lost his job on the Rock Island Railroad. So did half a million other rail workers across the US. Since everyone expected a call-back of rail employees within a year, Dad wrote and phoned old friends, including other World War 2 vets, to ask if they knew of any temporary jobs.One of Dad’s ship buddies invited Dad to move to the Monterey Bay area of California, where he was building homes. Work was steady; his company was hiring. So, we moved from Kansas to California. An apartment overlooking the beach in Seacliff became our new home.For impressionable boys—I was ten and Vernon was seven (Carl had not been born yet)—Kansas was a suffocating 19th century monotone of dirt roads, grain elevators, barbed wire fences, sweltering summer heat, and blizzards in winter.California was California, a stunning technicolor vision of life’s best. Breathtaking beaches, the vast blue Pacific, redwood and eucalyptus trees, and the lush beauty of flowers splashing down the banks of freeways and across residential areas. Santa Cruz, Watsonville, Monterey, Rio del Mar, Aptos, and La Selva Beach marked the boundaries of our gorgeous habitation.Best of all, for the first time we had Dad really with us. In Kansas, when the Rock Island called, he vanished from our lives. But in California, he was home every evening and weekend. We liked this stranger; he took us places and played ball with Vernon and me in our own Field of Dreams.When Dad and Mom began talking about the possibility of staying in California, Vernon and I jumped like basketballs dropped from a windmill. We even looked at a home for sale, a beautiful, large, bright white home on a golf fairway in Rio del Mar. Just $14,000. Dad, Mom, please; we can be Californians!In the end, when the railroad called us all back to Kansas, we obeyed. The dream died. It was as it should be; we were not Californians; we were Kansas kids. California had just been a sweet dream.But that California adventure became part of my wiring. The wild contrast between Kansas and the expanse of California beauty—The Golden Gate Bridge, Pebble Beach, Sequoia National Park—became a magical metaphor of the possibilities that can roll out of any moment, situation, or relationship.Tomorrow can crash into now; the kingdom comes, health and wealth beautify people everyday, Heaven conquers hell. The new can pass through any portal—anytime, anywhere, anyone.No matter how dark circumstances may be, we can always look up. Despite the claims of negative voices, a new world may float down into your life. Right now. Walk in expectancy. As railroad crossings remind us, Stop. Look. Listen.Everywhere, every moment.Our California experience also became a fountainhead of The Timberline Letter. Because life’s soundtrack can swell from a lone piccolo to a full orchestra, we invite everyone to expect change. Look beyond the present, the parochial, and the parched.What do you have to lose? Do you think you will lie on your deathbed, wishing you had worked longer hours, obeyed more rules, conformed to more traditions, or tried to seize more control?Einstein asked one of the great questions: “Is the universe a friendly place?” You have the power to live the answer. Deeply, faithfully, eternally.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written and Narrated by Kara Lea KennedyOur family cautiously approached the battle-scarred property. Giant oaks leaned precariously close to the house. The forest of longleaf pines had been ripped apart and scattered like a box of toothpicks. But the awe I felt for Mother Nature paled in comparison to the fear I had for Ron, the owner of this house. I knew the towering Vietnam veteran would never hurt me, but I also knew he could go scorched earth toward anyone he thought might be a looter. And he didn’t know who we might be; he had not seen me since I was a child.We rapped on the screen door. Ron doesn’t hide behind an iron gate—he is the iron gate. The door opened to two of my favorite people on the planet. Not my aunt and uncle, technically, but so closely tied through blood and belief that our families had bonded years ago. The last time they saw me, I was a kid. Now I came bearing a husband, four kids, chainsaws and loppers.Hurricane Helene had dealt a violent blow to south Georgia. Our task was not an easy one. Cutting down trees and building up burn piles were the least of my concerns. What concerned me was the knowledge that Ron, at 78, would not stop working unless my husband David did. How were we going to clear timber and brush without Ron working harder than his health could tolerate?Less than two weeks prior, Jeannette had gone through knee replacement surgery, but she still woke early, determined to cook breakfast. It was hard to gift them with a full work crew. On Sunday morning, they insisted on taking us out for a meal. Not a minor cost for a family of six. I was uncomfortable, but I feared declining their generosity more than I feared straining their fixed income.Back at the house that night, all the kids slept with bellies full of banana pudding and the bounty from the all-you-can-eat buffet. Us four adults sat around the kitchen table, silently negotiating how much giving and kindness we could live with. We wanted to complete another day of work; David couldn’t stand to return home with so much undone. I also knew Ron and Jeannette didn’t want to accept more help.So, I tapped the table and declared, “Look; we are all uncomfortable. We didn’t want you paying for our meal, and you didn’t want us working on your yard. So, I think we all just need to be okay with being uncomfortable.” A group chuckle revealed surrender by both sides.The next day, after working for several hours, we began loading our van. Ron and Jeannette gathered our kids and thanked each by name. The tears in Ron’s eyes added to his heroic stature.As we drove home, I told the kids the story of how, when I was an infant and my family of seven had no money for food, Ron and Jeannette filled our refrigerator and counters while we were away from our house.What goes around comes around.A life lived around our loved ones has a way of repeating itself. Within that framework, reciprocity is not a duty, but a natural result of loving relationships.As the Bible explains that cycle of blessing,“... give according to what you have, not what you don’t have. Of course, I don’t mean your giving should make life easy for others and hard for yourselves. I only mean that there should be some equality. Right now you have plenty and can help those who are in need. Later, they will have plenty and can share with you when you need it. In this way, things will be equal.”– 2 Corinthians 8:12-14 (NLT).The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Why would anyone write a note on paper, seal it in a bottle, and drop it into the ocean?Is it a romantic Hail Mary? A plea for rescue? A gesture of grief? Human ashes have been found in bottles washed up on distant shores.According to Guinness World Records, the oldest known message in a bottle drifted across the seas over 131 years before someone finally opened it.[1]In one way or another, they are all messages from isolated souls cast toward the vastness of existence—a whisper, a groan, a cry of triumph from one small voice in the cosmos.A recent article in The New Yorker explored the enduring fascination of messages in a bottle:A pen pal writes to someone. The sender of a message in a bottle writes to anyone. The wish, sometimes granted, is that the trajectory of the note is as ineluctable as the tides that carry it; that sucked into currents and pounded by the surf and tossed onto rocks and scorched by the sun, the message ends up exactly where it ought to be.[2]Most of us only encounter messages in bottles through popular culture—Nicholas Sparks’s novel (and movie), Message in a Bottle, or songs like Message in a Bottle or Time in a Bottle.But why do they linger in the imagination?Consider all the forces required to deliver one: currents, tides, buoyancy, storms, rocks, chance, timing, and the sharp eyes of beachcombers. Maybe that’s part of the enchantment. A message in a bottle feels both accidental and guided at the same time.So, why does all this matter?The Theater of God’s GloryFor centuries, theologians, poets, and philosophers have wondered if human beings live inside a reality that is larger and more layered than we normally think. John Calvin called creation “the theater of God’s glory.” Many others see creation as a kind of language, something not merely existing, but listening and speaking.Perhaps that is why messages in bottles move us so deeply. They hint that unseen currents may shape more of life than we realize. So, why do so many miss that?I once heard Charles Simpson say, “There is seeing, and there is seeing.”What does that mean?Over time, Western cultures have increasingly viewed human beings as mere physical creatures moving through a material world. Yes, that perspective has brought some gains in science and technology. But it also flattened mystery, wonder, and largeness of spirit.Are We All Messages in a Bottle?Maybe we are more multidimensional than we appear.Do consciousness, memory, love, longing, imagination, intuition, hope spill beyond the physical edges of the self? Like a murmuration of starlings shifting shape across the evening sky, perhaps human beings are more fluid, connected, and mysterious than we know.Could that be why the image of a bottle bobbing in the sea feels so strangely personal and enchanted?Maybe every life is, in some sense, a message in a bottle.The book of Exodus shows the infant Moses being placed by his mother into a handmade basket and released to the river. From that moment forward, she controlled nothing—not the current, not the timing, not the destination.She simply entrusted her son to One larger than herself.Perhaps we all do something similar.We release our words, our work, our love, our wounds, our small acts of kindness into a future we cannot control. And somehow, some of them arrive where they were meant to go. Maybe we each carry seeds of eternal purposes, destined for people and regions far beyond ourselves. If so, maybe we should all walk more carefully, selflessly, and boldly.[1] https://www.guinnessworldrecords.com/world-records/oldest-message-in-a-bottle[2] Lauren Collins, “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.” The New Yorker, May 4, 2026. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2026/05/04/signed-sealed-delivered#rid=570a63de-51fb-41a2-b9cc-66771768506d&q=lauren+collinsThe Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written By: Darrell A. HarrisNarrated By: Kara Lea KennedyIn my earliest days as a music industry executive, our contracts were four-finger, hunt-&-peck documents, hammered out on a primitive, portable typewriter.But that manual typewriter gave me a mystical quickening . . . Feeling the velocity of the keys as they traveled from machine to paper; the uneven rhythm of their sound was somehow deeply satisfying.I have also owned fine fountain pens—like Mont Blanc and Lamy—that carried their own quiet pleasure in the way ink flowed from the pen onto the paper. It confirmed that I was actually creating something.Come to think of it, that little love affair between heart and paper probably started in 1st grade with my red Big Chief writing tablet and my No.1 pencil.In my self-absorbed little boy reverie, I would finish some letters with a kind of snail-like, curlicue filigree. My 1st grade teacher, unable to dissuade me from my embellishments, enlisted the help of my mom to get me “in line.” She must have succeeded because that’s all I remember of that moment.Today’s keypads do not deliver the same pleasures of the soft lead of a beginner’s pencil, the flow of a fountain pen, or the staccato mechanics of a typewriter. Perhaps it’s just as well that for many years I was more drawn to music and cinema than to writing.But somewhere along the rise of the keypad, I stumbled into poetry.It all started one day when, at fifty, I revisited a jazz composition I first heard at ten and had not heard since: Blue Rondo à la Turk by The Dave Brubeck Quartet. After forty years, I was transfixed all over again—captured by the prestissimo propulsion of the piano, the spritely movement and lilting legato mews of the saxophone, the pizzicato bass, the splish-splash of the cymbals, the peculiarly phrased, riveting pulse of the 9/8 time signature.As I began it drink it all in, I had to write. I was compelled, called by the music, to describe both the piece itself and the visceral response it stirred in me.Something like lightning struck. I could feel the impact of poets I had read over the years—Milton, Vachel Lindsay. James Weldon Johnson. Gabriela Mistral. Alan Ginsberg. I felt their love of language pulsing through my veins.And my humble keypad became a kind of accomplice. It gave me the ability to cut and paste, to rearrange phrases with precision, to work with words the way a sculptor works with stone.Blue Rondo à la Turk, and the poets who had formed me, begat my own Blue Rondo . . . though as a Texas kid, mine was probably closer to Blue Rondo à la Big Gulp.I often think of Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, who wrote, “Some history-making is intentional; much of it is accidental,” and Woody Allen, who said, “Eighty percent of success is showing up.”So I keep showing up, following my nose in pursuit of my Creator’s beat.Like jazz, I adapt as I go, moving through the swirl and improvisation of constant change. The universe still hums with possibility. And every so often, if I’m paying attention, another small happy accident appears—like a phrase of music I didn’t know I was waiting to hear.A husband, a father to two and grandfather of six, Darrell A. Harris enjoyed twenty-five years in the music business and nearly another twenty-five in chaplaincy ministry. He is now retired and writes poetry, essays on various subjects and the occasional song lyric.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written By: John SommersNarrated By: Kara Lea KennedyWhen I was nine years old, I wanted a bicycle more than anything. If you had a bike, the world was yours. Anything was possible. But bikes were expensive, and you could outgrow one so quickly.In 1961, my parents bought me a J.C. Higgins 26” Flightliner Bicycle for Christmas. Sears’ top of the line bike was red with whitewall tires, dual headlights, rear luggage rack, and chrome fenders. It was one of the most impressive things I had ever seen.The problem was that even with the seat set in its lowest position, I still could not reach the peddles. Apparently, I would just have to grow into it (as I did with jeans, shirts, and baseball caps). Therefore, my sister Judy, eight years older than me, told me she would ‘give me a pump’ (when one person pedals and steers while the passenger sits on the handlebars). She would take me wherever I wanted to go.Problem solved.So, on Christmas morning, she and I pushed the Flightliner to the top of the 11th Street Hill. From there, with me on the handlebars and Judy peddling, we began our descent. Life was beautiful. Face to the wind, screaming my delight, and the sun shining so brightly.However, as we came down the hill, it became quickly apparent Judy did not know how coaster brakes worked. We picked up speed much too quickly.Then, as we rocketed down the hill, the bike began to vibrate uncontrollably. That’s when Judy, who had a strong sense of self-preservation, dove off the bike into a neighbor’s front lawn. I continued on, precariously perched on the handlebars and moving faster and faster. With no one driving, suddenly, the bike veered to the right, throwing me headfirst into a thorny rose garden.I had no broken bones, but I did have abrasions, cuts, and scrapes beyond belief. I looked like I’d been attacked by a mountain lion. Back at my grandmother’s house, shrieks of horror greeted me as they saw the blood and my torn clothes.I learned two valuable lessons that day.First, never (and I mean never) let Judy drive. Second, we gain all kinds of skills, insights, romantic relationships, marriage, family, cars, and other treasures as we pass through life.And we are simply not capable of managing them.That’s not a bug; it’s a feature. God delivers relationships, visions, and things that are too big for us, even dangerous for that stage of our growth. Our shoes don’t reach the bike pedals. Our levels of maturity do not prepare us to marry at 14. And our big ideas require wisdom, leadership, and funding.What’s the secret? We must grow into them, and you can’t delegate the “growing into” process to a teacher, sibling, contractor, or cop. Those gifts and talents must be mastered by you!The fine old biblical phrase—“The fullness of time”—is part of the magic. It takes time and patience to build majestic structures, thoughts, songs, and families.So, if the bike is too big or if the novel in your heart won’t flow, be patient. Great purposes are at work. Give them room and time.Timing can be everything.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Following our recent essay, A Place in the World, about the Chinn family farm, here is Part 2—Pratt, Kansas.There was something about the way Jack Chinn said “Pratt;” as crisp as a bite of celery. The very sound of the word carried expectancy.Pratt was Dad’s place in the world. It was also that for my brothers, Vernon and Carl, our mom, and for me. Our place was an anvil; there Heaven’s hammer forged our Chinn identity.Like much of Kansas, Pratt County is a latticework of section roads engraved across America’s heartland prairie. One mile apart and running north and south, east and west, that grid contains over a thousand miles of dirt roads.As a teenager, I mowed the sides of those roads. Day after day, summer after summer, I crisscrossed the county on a John Deere tractor and mower rig. Is it merely coincidence that I now see life on a grid of issues, relationships, and propositions? Would my mental software be different if I had been born in Brooklyn or raised in the Rockies?The streets in Pratt ran on that same east, west, north, and south grid; graceful canyons, rivers of red brick streets flowing between the walls of stately oak and locust and maple trees. Not many towns could claim a Main Street over two thousand miles long. But Pratt could. Main was part of a highway which ran from the Rio Grande to Canada. As a boy, my imagination flowed up and down that line, US 281, across Dad’s folding maps. My fingers moved over the map’s ridges, taking my mind past the rivers and state lines into exotic places called Aberdeen and Mineral Wells and George West.First Street, which crossed Main in the middle of Pratt, was about twelve hundred miles long. That line, US 54, ran west across Kansas, the Oklahoma and Texas Panhandles, and New Mexico. To the east, it reached all the way to Illinois.The north side of town was bordered by the Rock Island (now Union Pacific) tracks, and the south side at the Santa Fe (now BNSF) crossing. Each line ran beside a depot and a gleaming white grain elevator. Pratt supported a hospital, high school, movie theater, library, two banks, two mortuaries, and a thriving downtown. There were nearly thirty churches.Somewhat famously, Pratt also includes twin water towers. As a 1950s prank, high school boys climbed the towers and marked one COLD, the other HOT. Instead of treating it like graffiti, the people of Pratt embraced it—something funny, something worth keeping.In those days, life’s borders barely reached the city limits. Family, school, and church produced a strong local culture, one that thrived and largely eclipsed any larger identity. Television had not yet opened the door to a national life. We knew little about life in New York City, or even Kansas City.Pratt was an island of trees, homes, parks, grain elevators, and church steeples rising from an immense sea of farms and ranches. Life on the land pulled men and women close to embrace them, whisper promises, and sometimes to cripple or kill them.I remember prairie compounds, great wood barns, tractor widows, and the way the wind so elegantly raked its fingers through wheat fields. Agricultural life asked people to throw steel blades into the soil, wrestle with banks and merchants, and call on the mercy of God; all in order to pull daily bread (and maybe an estate) out of the ground.For ag people, the scent of rain was the kiss of God; they had to have it and could do nothing about it but pray. So, their lives bent around that Big Sky, its beauty and bounty, as well as its destruction and death.I recall the way men and women stood firm in their place in the world, accepting the limits and losses that came to them. Over time, the lines between themselves and their place fused—soil and soul, horizon and hope. In that long submission to land, seasons, and God, something took hold: a steadiness, a gravity, as the same hand that shaped the landscape quietly set them in place as well.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written and Narrated By: Kara Lea KennedyI hoisted a waterlogged lily sideways onto the potting bench, compressing each side forcefully like a paramedic performing CPR. I threw a sharp trowel into the mass of roots, muscling them apart before plopping the divided plants into various pots. I was working for a pond nursery, a dream summer job. The heat and humidity of the greenhouses were a welcome change to the harsh, dry winds of the Colorado plains howling just outside the glass doors.Most of the gardening around my childhood home was a frantic race against a short growing season—three months for vegetables and annuals. Working in a greenhouse opened up a new world to me. Here, plants thrived, protected from drought, gophers, and adolescent boys who didn’t check their rearview mirrors. Lush lilies rapidly outgrew their pots; frogs hopped into large tubs, and the air pulsed with life—sometimes, too much life. Which is what led to plants being so ruthlessly divided, and a potting bench that resembled the sacrificial altars I’d read about in Leviticus.Years later, I planted dozens of snapdragon seeds on a tray under indoor lights. Slowly, my tender care was rewarded as the tray filled with tiny sprouts. Looking closer, I saw that each “pod” had grown multiple seedlings. My heart sank, knowing that gardening wisdom demanded I “thin” them. To the drought-scarred Colorado girl who had carried buckets of water out to languishing pines while the wind sucked all the moisture from my eyes, the idea of cutting any plant felt like sacrilege.“Why must this be the way?”Finally, reason, research, and faith overtook emotion. When I snipped away dozens of seedlings, I was shocked to see mildew had been lurking under the façade of abundance. The nefarious hairs had spread over the soil, suffocating the roots. I carefully scraped it out, exposing the soil to air and light. Weeks later, my garden was filled with sunset-colored blooms. Had I not cut away the “good stuff,” they would have died.Ralph Waldo Emerson wisely said,“As the gardener, by severe pruning, forces the sap of the tree into one or two vigorous limbs, so should you stop off your miscellaneous activity and concentrate your force on one or a few points.”As a mom, it is my job to regularly and diligently analyze what needs to be cut away. Are my children’s critical virtues, connections, or conversations being suffocated by distractions?I once heard a commander’s wife, someone I greatly respected, say that as a mom she hadn’t been attending all the squadron’s “mandatory fun,” and she made no apology for it.As a new mom myself, with a baby on my hip and obligations on my calendar, her statement broke shackles off my mind. Here was our fearless leader’s wife—the one who should be hosting, organizing, and fundraising—saying those things weren’t her priority. I was never the same again. If I couldn’t make it to something, I didn’t. Throughout those years, my family and I had room to breathe and connect.I hate that life can so quickly mutate from nurturing a few worthy endeavors into constant management. I want my family to feel like a place of connection, not a corporation. That requires looking at the full, green seed tray of our lives and determining what must be meticulously, even ruthlessly, removed. If our heart rates are constantly elevated, our hair is falling out, and our patience is thin, can it mean that there are too many “good things” inhaling a limited supply of oxygen? Can we eliminate unnecessary stuff, breathe deep, and open up spaces in our lives?My “baby” is now 15 years old. Last night, after a trying day at school, she said, “Mama, will you hold me?” She knows I have margin. She knows she can ask. That’s the kind of growth she—and we—need.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written By: Amy McArthyNarrated By: Kara Lea KennedyAfter years of foot problems, I found custom orthotics that became gold to me. I could slip them into any closed-heel shoe and wear them for hours without pain.Then, one day, they simply vanished.For months, I checked every pair of shoes I owned, multiple times. I cleaned out my closet. I looked under my bed. Finally, I resigned myself to wearing only my boring, “sensible” shoes— the ones that promised feelings of “walking on a cloud.”One evening, my daughters and I walked through a local department store. Near closing time, the place was deserted. Drawn by the rows of clearance tables, I decided to take a quick look at the footwear; I am a magnet for a good deal. I was immediately drawn to a cute pair of boots. The price was perfect, so I hurried to slip them on before the store shut its doors.But I noticed something peculiar inside the boots. I didn’t really want to stick my hand in to retrieve whatever was “lurking,” but gathering my courage, I reached in and pulled out—my orthotics! What? How was that possible? In that surreal moment, it all rushed back: I had bought these very boots online months prior and returned them, apparently with my inserts still nestled inside.We want so much to control our environment. When we lose something—or lose our way—we come face-to-face with the reality that we aren’t in charge. But really, were we ever?Whether it’s driving on unfamiliar roads at night, absorbing the reeling loss of a loved one, or even the disappearance of a cherished item like a wedding ring or shoe inserts, loss leaves us unsettled. It reminds us we are not in control. We have lost something or someone precious.The Bible tells of a father who brought his son to Jesus, seeking healing. Jesus asked, “Do you believe?” The father replied, “I believe; help my unbelief.” This may be the most honest prayer ever modeled. In that same spirit, we can also pray, “I trust, help me to trust.” Perhaps the next time we face a loss, we can let that feeling of helplessness push us towards the only One who ordains our steps and brings order to our world.From that place of trusting God, maybe we can allow our loss to help us really see those we pass in a different light. What if we stopped and took the time to hear stories? Might we learn what they’ve lost? Like the cashier at a local grocery store who lost her child and the use of her arm when she suffered a stroke during pregnancy. Or my neighbor who lives alone, surrounded by darkness and clutter, because he has lost the ones he loved the most. Connection is the best way to rediscover peace after loss.Connection can come through the caring touch on the shoulder, fellowship over a cup of coffee, or just listening to a story. That connection may allow the one overwhelmed by loss to emerge into a newly discovered safe place.Losing shoe inserts doesn’t compare to the pain many have known. However, the connection after my inserts were found is what I still remember from that mysterious event in a deserted department store. My daughters saw that what was lost had finally found its way home. They also saw what that loss—and recovery—did in and for me.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

I once heard the great preacher, Ern Baxter, talk about why we have such powerful language symbols. He said:“God has ransacked all of nature, all of history, all events, all of creatures, relationships, and situations ... to come up with metaphors and similes and symbols and likenesses that He could use to communicate to us the various aspects of divine truth.”No wonder the Bible, Aesop’s Fables, Virgil, C. S. Lewis, and others used ants, eagles, snakes, lions, horses, donkeys, and bees as models of behavior and wisdom for humans. Sometimes, we need to see examples from other species in order to detect our Creator’s signature.Consider the sandfish, a small reptile that lives in the Sahara Desert and other parts of North Africa—places of deadly heat, predators, and drought.Yet the sandfish is superbly suited to that environment. Its name reflects its way of pulling its legs close to its body to “swim” through sand, slipping beneath the surface to escape predators and find relief from the heat. Its wedge-shaped head allows it to dive quickly below the surface, while specialized eyelids and nostrils let it move through sand without damage or suffocation.What it needs is always nearby. Perhaps the central lesson the sandfish teaches is the wonder of adaptation. They don’t curse the sun, the sand, aridity, or predators; they adapt to reality. As ancient nautical wisdom says, “We can’t direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails.”The anger and polarization of the current age try to persuade us that crowds will save us. If we can just convince enough people to march in the streets, hang scripted messages on social media, or give enough money, we can change the course of wind and water.That is profoundly false.Tides, light, seeds, fire, migratory patterns, survival instincts, the hidden movements of weather and history—these are the forces that carry real change. If so, humility, patience, and flexibility may serve us better than anger and conflict.Human nature will always try to convince us that this place is just not right, that it needs fixing. It’s too hot, cold, wet, dry, Republican, liberal, indifferent, etc. And so, we organize, resist, and fight.But thinking that way can be like buying lumber at Home Depot to build a tree. Planting a seed is better, but slower. That requires patience. But as James Carville said, “The best time to plant an oak tree was twenty-five years ago. The second best time is today.”Perhaps the sandfish points us toward quieter truths: we have been given a place we did not choose; we are shaped by forces we do not control; we live in the wide open spaces of our constraints.Within that ecosystem, we find new traction.As we learn its rhythms.As we move with its grain.As we adapt rather than harden.In doing so, we may—like the sandfish—discover our limitations have become portals of wisdom.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written and Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

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I don’t spend a lot of time stumbling around in my past. Land mines lie scattered just below the surface, threatening to blow up my psyche if triggered.But I’m smart enough to know I wouldn’t be here had I not first been there. The giants who helped shape, mold, sand, and color my being over the past three quarters of a century include characters whose stamp left an indelible imprint. One of those was a force of nature who taught my high school English classes.Mary Robel liked her Camels unfiltered, her Coca-Cola chilled in the 6.5-ounce green glass bottles God intended, and her races segregated. Arriving on this planet 47 years after the end of the Civil War, she grew up in a community where wounds from that conflict still festered. The South might not rise again, but I never knew her to stand for the playing of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”Maybe the best way I can describe her presence is to say she filled her space. Her classroom was in the “new” wing, and she moved from the teachers’ lounge in the wooden-floored older building with a strong sense of purpose when it was time, bright-red lipstick freshly applied. Her deliberate stride called to mind that of a general approaching the parade ground, always firmly gripping the double handles of her soft-bottomed tapestry satchel; to call it a purse would have been an insult.I never saw her thick gray hair worn any way other than upswept in a French twist. It suited her somehow: all business, nothing left astray. Gray glasses defining her steel-blue eyes took the color theme further.My classmates and I knew little about her personal life, though we were always intensely curious. Once someone brought in a high school yearbook with a photo of her as a student. We stared in awe at her youth and beauty, feeling as if we were trespassing on forbidden ground. It was hard to make the connection between the decades-old photo and the teacher we encountered every day. Time, tobacco, and something rumored stronger than Mississippi sweet tea had left their impact.In my 10th-grade year, this maven gave me an understanding of English grammar that ensured my later studies in that arena were mostly reminders. She fanned whatever spark of potential she saw in me, pulling me aside quietly as a junior and telling me it was time to start working on college scholarships.As our class of 40 began our senior year, Mary Robel rolled out what became her biggest gift. In addition to her general lesson plans, she expected us to turn in a 3-page essay each Monday and recite before the class an assigned poem each Friday. In this environment I learned to get comfortable with words and to rewrite a piece until it flowed without a hitch across a reader’s comprehension. If my leading thesis wasn’t clear, I learned to recognize that quickly and fix it. If my paper headed toward sappy, I could reframe or choose a more appropriate topic. In short, I learned to write by writing.The gift of editing my own work, and later the work of colleagues and clients, became as natural as breathing. And the recitation thing? Speaking before classmates continually as a 17-year-old set the stage for presentations to workshop and convention audiences years later.People move in and out of our lives as purpose dictates. Some plant, some water, some weed, some bring to fruition. Today I hear in my memory the firm clack of no-nonsense heels tapping out a determined cadence on the concrete, and I nod and smile and silently give thanks.After receiving a PhD in English at Ole Miss in 1977, Faye moved to Texas, where she met and married Walt, her IT guru, cruise partner, and barista. She is the mother of four children – Aimee, Carla, Steven, and Caryn – and the grandmother of Lexi, Sarah, William, and Rahel.After serving as a copy editor at “American Way” and “Southwest Spirit” magazines while her children were young, she began a 20-year career with United Way of Tarrant County, planning and implementing community projects, while serving 26 years as a local school board member.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

For more than a decade, I’ve had the growing sense that we’re all missing something.Not a policy or a program, but a social coherence; a warm, metaphysical essence that is quietly being displaced by something colder, more rigid, something unforgiving.I’m not suggesting we need to do something. It’s not that simple. The usual suspects in this conversation—politics, gender, religion, technology, AI, etc.—are not the issue and are not helpful.There is a light we simply do not see.Birds and ButterfliesLately, that thought has taken me back to a conversation I had thirty years ago with my dear, and now deceased, friend, Lee Earl. As we talked over lunch one day, his heart seemed to groan as he said,“White people are obsessed with understanding black people. But as a black man, I don’t care if you understand me or not. I want your respect.”Later, as we drove away, he continued: “Birds fly in a straight line. Butterflies don’t. But birds don’t try to teach butterflies how to fly.”In that moment, I sensed something universal. Beneath all our affiliations and arguments, people want respect—not for their qualifications, conformity, connections, or status—but for something older than all that. For reasons that reach back to that holy moment when they were “... formed in utter seclusion... woven together in the dark of the womb.” (Psalm 139:15 NLT)From Community to CentrifugeFrom birth, sparks of destiny began glowing into our times and spaces. We tasted, touched, reached, and retreated. We found our voices, encountered virtues and vices, fell in love, raised barns, and served on school boards. Through it all, we discovered the treasure in others, that mysterious green sprout of life rooted in the moment they were “formed in utter seclusion.” All that formed our own ecosystem, our community.This was called normal life. Then, somehow, our age became a centrifuge.It spun faster and faster until it pulled us apart. Minds, bodies, personalities, and beliefs were sliced and stratified. Apparently, we were not acceptable as whole persons; markets preferred us reduced to particles, easier to sort and sell.What Matters Most?I first caught sight of what we are missing when my friend, Rex Miller, a speaker and author, convened specialists in architecture, education, commercial construction, and other disciplines for a collaborative approach to writing books. I served as the project editor.Day after day, city after city, we worked with those leaders as they grappled with serious issues facing Western societies. Because of their education and careers, most were likely left of center politically (others surely were not). But politics never walked into our deliberations. Even when we met on November 8, 2016, the day Donald Trump was first elected—politics never grabbed the microphone.The relationships in that room represented timeless examples of teamwork. People checked their stuff at the door, joined their minds and hearts, worked for a larger good, and kept their eyes on the ball. To paraphrase Goethe, they refused to let things that matter most to be at the mercy of things that matter least.And no one tried to teach anyone how to fly.The Possibilities...Jesus once said of a generation “It is like children sitting in the marketplaces, who call out to the other children, and say, ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn.’” (Matthew 11:16-17 NASB)His words seem to reflect this present age. Culture bombards us with pulsating signals, directions to think, be, or do as it suggests. But real life does not allow external pings to jerk us into conformity with trends or experts. Beneath all the noise, we remain who we were when we were first formed.For now, the best we can do may be to just get still and quiet. To become comfortable within our own limitations. Step away from the noise and fragmentation of daily life. Practice humility. Recognize and honor the wholeness in those around you, not for their skills or marketability, but for their internal and eternal value.Perhaps what we’re missing is not light, but the eyes to see it.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

John Goldsberry, my maternal grandfather, expected little from life and received less. But he did all he could to feed his wife and their seven children in southwest Missouri during the Great Depression. He farmed, worked odd jobs, and made moonshine—a long path of futility that marked much of his life.In 1936, he worked as part of a road gang blacktopping roads around Buffalo, Missouri. He was paid fifteen cents per hour. One hot evening, he stood with the other workers at the end of a long, hard day, listening to their foreman lay out the plan for the next day’s work.Then, from across the road and about a hundred yards away, hymns began flowing out the open windows of a country church. As night fell, the work meeting ended and Grandpa walked down to the church, squatted beneath an open window, and listened to the stirring music. The next morning, his children woke to the sound of their father singing hymns he heard in the dark.That moment marked the beginning of a Pentecostal pull on the family. They all walked the six-mile round trip twice every Sunday (they couldn’t afford the eleven-cents-per-gallon gasoline). But Grandpa would not enter the building with them. He didn’t feel worthy to enter a holy place, so he continued to crouch beneath the windows.In April 1937, the family loaded up their old pickup and moved to Ford County, Kansas. Two years later, sixteen-year-old Mary traveled with other teenagers from their church in Dodge City to attend a “youth rally” at a church in Sun City. There, she met a family of eleven kids named Chinn. One of the Chinn boys was the good-looking, adventurous, face-to-the-wind Jack.Love sparked—but Jack had already pledged himself to the U.S. Navy.Five years later, on October 24, 1944, Jack was aboard the aircraft carrier USS Princeton when she was destroyed by a Japanese bomb in the Battle of Leyte Gulf. He survived. Two months later, he married Mary. I am their firstborn. Vernon and Carl followed.When, as a child, my mind finally connected the details of this story, I became obsessed with its hinge moments—the what-ifs:What if the road foreman had not called for the work crew meeting?What if cool air had forced the church to close the windows?What if Mary had not attended the youth rally?What if Jack had died in the waters of Leyte Gulf?Each hinge carried the call of destiny. Grandpa wasn’t the only one crouched beneath that church window in the dark; my brothers and I—and all our children and grandchildren—were there too. And my dad wasn’t the only one struggling to survive a naval battle; all his descendants were also fighting for their lives.Our story began when an eternal sound—a wind chime from Heaven—rode the breeze into the ears and heart of a poor man living in life’s shadows.Grace found him. In the dark.It was a night when “...for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined.” (Matthew 4:16, NLT)The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Written and Narrated By: Kara Lea KennedyThe hospital lights were dimmed to create a “peaceful” atmosphere, but the chaos of pain I was experiencing sucked all serenity from the room. I yelled in the disoriented agony that can only come from childbirth. Thirty minutes earlier, I could breathe and talk through each contraction, loudly telling myself I could do this. Now, the jaws of pain clamped around my midsection, with no sign of release. The dreaded “transition phase.”In desperation I screamed, “Help me! Help me!” I was floundering, knowing there was no escape but hoping relief would come. Breaking through the turmoil, a nurse appeared angelic and took center stage in my tunnel vision. Grasping my right hand with hers and looking into my eyes, she said, “I am helping you.”In the writhing and agony, I held onto her words like they were life itself. I wanted a tranquilizer, but her hand and eyes would have to do. I cried and pleaded some more. She remained, urged me to look at her, and repeated, “I am helping you.”Minutes later, I held my precious, perfect baby. In the midst of the holy hush that descended on the room, the nurse gently adjusted my pillows, grinned, and said, “See? I helped you!” I laughed, cried, and agreed with all my heart.In the hours that followed, I cried whenever I remembered the pain. But I also thanked God for the nurse who helped bear my burden with four simple words and one unflinching gaze.What does “help” actually look like, and is it possible that we spend so much time worrying about what we cannot do that we don’t offer what we can? How hopeless would I have felt if that nurse had recoiled from my misery rather than boldly stepping into it?We can learn the definition of “help” by reflecting on what brought relief in our moments of need. I remember when I was once lonely; a neighbor gave me a bouquet of hydrangeas from her garden. When I was scared, my husband kissed me on the forehead. When I was sick as a child, my dad would get down on my level and say, “I wish I could take it away.”“Help” rarely looks like winning the lottery, receiving a miracle fix for my problems, or even being fully understood by a friend. More often than not, help comes in the form of a willing presence. It ignores its own shortcomings to just reach out. The best help almost always carries an air of childlike confidence.What if we could get back to that uncomplicated eagerness to audaciously “pitch in” on projects we have no business touching? As a toddler clumsily stirs batter with a wooden spoon and shamelessly declares, “I helped,” are there purposes and people that would benefit from our joyous, and perhaps unsophisticated help?It is too easy to disqualify ourselves from service. Easy. And arrogant. Who are we to measure the value of our contributions?So, what can we do? Chaperone a field trip, even if you’re a “stick in the mud.” Visit your aging relative, even if they can’t hear a word you say. Stop assuming you understand the impact you have on others. Hold the hand of the one who is fighting a fight that only they can face.Deliberately drop your “widow’s mite” into one of those slots of need in your community. Be glad you could help. Then, watch what happens next. You could find yourself ushering new life into a hurting world.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

Imagine you’re riding a passenger train as it rolls across rural America. You stare out your window at the blur of gravel, grass, roads, and rails. Although your view takes in billions of bits of information, it’s all just a streak, a smudge of colors and shapes. It moves too swiftly to give a perspective on what you see.In order to get a better viewpoint, you would have to walk to the rear of the train and step out onto the (now virtually extinct) observation platform. From there, your view would instantly widen to give you the sweep of a larger landscape.Many years ago, I heard a reporter (whose name I’ve long forgotten) use that metaphor to contrast journalism with history. Journalism records the near, but incoherent rush of current events. History, on the other hand, gives a depth of field, a wide panorama of context and clarity.Today, we seem to live in the age of speed and blur. Our search for information—often useless but quick and addicting—creates the illusion of significance. Sitting in a porch rocker with a good book creates the illusion of laziness. But, as Dwight Eisenhower famously said, “What is important is seldom urgent and what is urgent is seldom important.” When people press their faces against the windows, drawn to the kaleidoscope of fractured images, what they see moves very fast, but it does not enlighten. For that, we have to cultivate a serene center, an eternal secret place of the heart. From there, we can practice the mystery of living in a higher realm.It’s called “normal life,” a spiritual dimension that spills into our earthly seasons and places. That’s where we find the freedom to slow down, breathe deep, get quiet, sit still, think, meditate, pray. That place allows us to step away from the noise to watch the surf, walk through a redwood forest, gaze at the night sky.Life in the lower realm disrupts those slow and graceful rhythms, prodding us to react, to move quickly ... now!That may be why many scholars recognize the need for distance between themselves and the issues, personalities, and ideas of their own time. Because emotional, philosophical, and moral entanglements distort judgment, they need the passing of time—like 30 years—before they can more clearly understand and present historical events and people.That sets up a struggle between the careful, thoughtful, and undisturbed approach to life and the centrifuge that spins us away from it. That’s why I am naturally guarded against any force, agenda, proposal, or crisis that tries to provoke me to do something. I know there are times when we must fight. And die. But that’s different from seeking conflict. Until we learn to live in the secret place, we will carry our own conflict and anger around with us all the time.I owe it to my wife, family (blood and spiritual), friends, work, neighborhood, society, and nation to see broadly and deeply and to live generously. But I cannot do that if I allow this age to place electrodes on my spine, jerking me into compliance with its whims and flavors. Nuanced and multilayered thinking sees further and hears deeper; it catches distinctions, tones, and possibilities that just don’t seem to find traction with frantic souls and societies. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

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Written By: Beverly OxleyNarrated By: Kara Lea KennedyWhen I walked into Mrs. Sauer’s classroom midway through 5th grade, it was the third one I had attended so far that year. I didn’t expect to stay long, so I didn’t even try to make new friends.Because I entered so many schools, I was the perpetual “new kid.” Adapting quickly was essential. As the merry-go-round spun, I had to just run in, grab the bar, and hang on.I hated being watched and judged as I entered each new classroom. But within a couple of days, I could usually spot the kids who might join me at lunch or for jacks at recess. I was pretty good at jacks, though sometimes I’d lose just to win a new friend. Reading the social landscape accurately was crucial in a new school.Mrs. Sauer was a petite, professional woman who saw beyond outward appearances. When she looked at me, I don’t think she saw a transient or even a lanky child. She saw someone in need of care. She seemed to look deep into my soul. I began to feel she saw my potential. That’s what dream makers do—they look past the surface and imagine a new future for certain ones in their paths. Through her words of inspiration, Mrs. Sauer changed the course of my life.My father was a true dreamer; he seized job opportunities that required rapid relocation. My siblings and I learned to stash our keepsakes in a cardboard box, always prepared to move at a moment’s notice.Dreamers are rarely dream makers. They get so caught up in their own dreams that they cannot see the budding dreams in those around them, even their own children.In A Muppet Christmas Carol, Jim Henson gives us a glimpse into Ebenezer Scrooge’s childhood schoolteacher. He saw potential in him. As it turned out, Ebenezer was a math prodigy, bound for success in the world of finance. He could become wealthy if he played his cards right. Ebenezer bought into the dream, staying in at recess to get ahead instead of playing with the other kids.Years later, Scrooge faced his fiancée, Belle. He had postponed their marriage for five years as he pursued his dream of amassing more and more wealth. Belle sings a mournful, heartbreaking song as she breaks off the engagement, “The Love is Gone.” Scrooge chose money over love. The dream planted by his teacher came at a cost. The love of money was more precious to Scrooge than the love of a woman.When Mrs. Sauer looked inside me, she saw a rudderless child in need of hope and purpose. So, she planted two dreams. First, she saw potential for modeling. She often kept me in at recess, teaching me posture, poise, and confidence—strengths that would build my self-assurance and contribute to my direction. I learned to walk in a straight line with a book on my head.Before summer break, Mrs. Sauer gave me another dream: she told me I could go to college. That seed, though possibly shared with every student she taught, was transformative for me. No one in my family had ever attended college; her words took root in my heart. From that moment on, I held onto the dream of higher education, quietly believing it was possible for me. That’s when I began to hear a future calling me.When the time was right, as a high school senior, I shared my college aspirations with my mother. Naturally, her response was practical: “You’ll have to find a way to pay for it.” But the financial uncertainty and other challenges could not extinguish the dream Mrs. Sauer lit in me.Now, years later, when I look back over my career as a special education teacher, college professor, and psychologist, I see I was able to influence the younger generation. I try to approach that responsibility thoughtfully, taking time to understand each student’s motivations and abilities before offering words that inspire a vision for a productive future.Every one of us holds the power to be a dream maker or dream breaker. Our words can linger for a lifetime, either inspiring confidence or creating barriers that block pathways. By choosing to encourage and boost young dreamers, we may even help them make choices they won’t live to regret.Words can create encouragement or discouragement. That’s why speaking or writing words that heal, lift, and bless represent a high calling.Perhaps my father needed a dream maker in his life.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

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Written By: Marianne PaulusNarrated By: Kara Lea KennedyAs I do every year, I recently decorated our home for Christmas. I’ve always done so with great anticipation of our lovely house after I am finished. But this year, nostalgia and sadness also came over me in the process.In years past, Christmas decorating was a family affair. My husband, Bob, would help me get the tree set up and untangle the web of Christmas lights (as he still does). But then the three boys and I would decorate the tree while listening to the same vinyl records that recalled and celebrated the Christmas story each year in our home. The task also included hot chocolate, laughter, and tripping over one another as we did what needed to be done.But seasons change. Sons grow up, leave, and buy homes of their own to decorate. So, the job of decorating falls on Bob and me. And we now have a “decorator” tree instead of the cherished collection of homemade ornaments, craft fair treasures and other assorted Christmas baubles. Some of the same songs wash over me, but now they come from Pandora. When I’m done, it still looks beautiful, but then I have to shake off the tinge of melancholy from remembering Christmases past.One recent morning, I read Isaiah 43:18-19:“Do not call to mind the former things. Or ponder things of the past. Behold, I will do something new. Now it will spring forth: Will you not be aware of it?”As I read that passage, I wondered if looking back through the lens of loss caused me to miss out on the new thing. Was I overlooking the joy and the richness of the present because I was so locked into the memories of what was? Could I perhaps create and broaden new circles of Christmas celebration and fellowship? Could we enjoy the delight of beautiful new things?These questions brought new levels of gratitude for the now of my life, but also caused me to look for the new—in relationships, opportunities, and other new things that could be added to it. Perhaps by letting go of the former things, I can enjoy each moment that comes to our home from the new things.Marianne Paulus is the mother of three sons and grandmother to nine. She has two college degrees she has never been paid to use. You can read about that story and others in her memoir, Intersections: Stories of Faith When God Intersected a Life. She and her husband Bob work together with their church’s marriage and family ministry from their home in Bedford, Texas.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

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