The Timberline Letter

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

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 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

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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

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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

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

My grandma Chinn probably had Alzheimer’s. But we didn’t have a name for it in those days. Her quirks were just… “Grandma.” We knew her, not a disease. By the time her son, my dad, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a decade later, we knew a lot about it. In fact, I grew to despise my knowledge of that disease. I found it too easy to relate to Alzheimer’s, not to Dad.The Bible says that knowledge “puffs up.” Sure does. Knowledge is like vodka; a little of it gives the bluster, the ignorance, and the permission to announce judgments about things we know zero about or things that are none of our business.David, the Psalmist, wrote of God, “Even the darkness is not dark to Thee, and the night is as bright as the day. Darkness and light are alike to Thee.” (Psalm 139:12)Maybe a life is a life. Do you think lives of one hour, those lived with severe spinal injuries, or those born in prison could be as beautiful and blessed as ones lived in great health, luxury, and longevity? Is it possible that God sees them alike and grants the special grace required to live where and as they do? Perhaps life needs to be lived straight ahead, without comparison to others or the imposition of human designs or alterations.Mary Clarke grew up in the wealth and splendor of Beverly Hills. Cary Grant, Spencer Tracy, and Dinah Shore were her neighbors. She was a member of the Beverly Hills Country Club, and she married and divorced twice.When she was 50, she gave away all her possessions, became a Roman Catholic nun and moved into—into, not near—a notorious Tijuana prison. As “Mother Antonia,” she lived in the same conditions as the prisoners; her home was a 10’ by 10’ cell (which she painted pink) and she ate what the prisoners ate. She lived in that cell for the last 36 years of her life (she died in October 2013).Prison was to her what a basketball court was to Michael Jordan. The Zone. In 1994, when a full-scale riot broke out in her prison, 5-foot-2 Mother Antonia walked through the blizzard of bullets. Eyewitnesses said she never stopped smiling and her face never stopped glowing. Armed only with love, she saw the riot come to a peaceful end.According to her New York Times obituary, she once said, “Happiness does not depend on where you are. I live in prison. And I have not had a day of depression in 25 years. I have been upset, angry. I have been sad. But never depressed. I have a reason for my being.”[1]Incredibly, this woman moved into the darkness and found that it became as bright as the day. 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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Once, in a race against famine in Mexico, and having no tractors or oxen, agronomist Norman Borlaug and his associates made harnesses for themselves in order to pull cultivators. They pulled them many miles, knowing they were racing against time to save a nation.Borlaug was not rich, entertaining, or charismatic. So, how did he become one of the most significant people in world history?Because of wheat. Most of the world’s wheat today comes from the disease-resistant, high-yield varieties that Borlaug and his colleagues developed. When he won the 1970 Nobel Peace Prize, the committee said it was because, “More than any other single person of this age, he has helped provide bread for a hungry world.”Never a celebrity, Dr. Borlaug has been called the greatest person nobody knows.His basic insight, formed as a child on an Iowa farm, was very simple: humans could push farm production beyond anything ever seen. Borlaug had lived during the dawn of Fordson tractors. As they spread to America’s farms, they released 75 million acres – previously required to feed horses and mules – for feeding people!Borlaug understood the dawn of a new age. Healthy seed and fertilizer could pull miracles out of soil.In 1944, at thirty years old and working as a scientist for E. I. du Pont in Wilmington, Delaware, Borlaug was invited into a dream. The Rockefeller Foundation wanted to help lift the people of Mexico out of poverty. They chose him to lead the project. Against all the professional and familial reasons he should not accept that challenge, he went. He stepped into a horror.Mexico was a scientific wasteland; Borlaug had no facilities, no staff, no equipment, no vehicle, and no budget. In fact, he slept on the floor of a room that had no water or electricity, but did have spiders, rats, and snakes. But the real horror was that Mexico’s crops teetered on the edge of collapse. Famine was a genuine possibility, and Borlaug was the only person in Mexico who could see it.Furthermore, he and his wife learned she was carrying a child with spina bifida. Because of transportation and financial constraints, she could not join her husband in Mexico, and he could not take a break to go home to her. So, besides trying to save a nation from famine, he was overwhelmed with worry, loneliness, and guilt. He came “perilously close to cracking” during that time.[1]Borlaug lived in Mexico for sixteen years. Working tirelessly to beat rust, increase yield, develop shorter stalks (because of high wind), and teach the nation to use fertilizer. By the time he left in 1960, he had increased the national wheat harvest by 600%! And 95% of Mexico’s wheat was from varieties he developed.He did so while enduring overwhelming adversity:* Floods. Because of a drenching flood, he and a helper worked around the clock harvesting wheat by hand – just as it was done 5,000 years ago – in order to save precious seed. They reaped 50 tons by hand!* Landslides. During a torrential rainstorm on a narrow and very slick mountain pass, two landslides cut him off from going forward or backward. His little truck (carrying the agricultural hope of a nation) came close to washing off the mountain.* Rejection. Throughout much of his Mexico service, the government tried to kick him out; they thought the “Gringo” made them look incompetent.* Isolation. For most of his Mexico years, Borlaug’s wife and family had to remain in the US. Despite their separation, they seemed to have a strong marriage. But loneliness remained a serious factor.* Hurricane. A freak hurricane destroyed his Mexico operations and killed two of his scientists who were trying to save the precious seeds. All the seeds were lost; he had to start over.Jesus said, “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain.”[2]Like that grain of wheat, Norman Borlaug released his own comforts and desires to fall into the ground and die. But his life also produced much grain. He changed the patterns of nutrition for the whole earth, and forever.We at The Timberline Letter care about focused living. Showing up, standing up. Living higher. Thinking clearly. Seeing further. Hearing deeper. Norman Borlaug lived an astounding life of high-altitude virtues, work, resilience, and wisdom. He endured; he remained in focus.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.[1] Noel Vietmeyer, Our Daily Bread (Bracing Books; Lorton, VA, 2011) p. 99[2] John 12:24 taken from taken from the NEW KING JAMES VERSION (NKJV):Copyright© 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved. Get full access to The Timberline Letter at 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

The smoke pits are the beating heart of Terry Black’s Barbecue Restaurant. The aroma, thick enough to chew, drifts up over the pits like a fog bank.After dinner, my natural curiosity pulled me to the smoke pits. I stood in the shadows, watching the pit-master, half-concealed by the smoky clouds, systematically lift the heavy pit lids, stoke the orange coals, and meticulously arrange the various meats. Like a conductor, he knew each subtle maneuver to bring each cut to perfection.Fearing I was interrupting a religious rite, I gained his attention with a guarded wave. When he gestured an invitation back to me, I cautiously tiptoed among the rows of black, belching barbecue furnaces.He introduced himself as Benjamin Behrends.His face was youthful for such a high calling. Lockhart is Holy Ground for Texas barbecue, and he was serving as its altar boy. What had brought him here? He chose his words as carefully as he managed the pits.“For nearly twenty-five years, I lived in San Diego with my mother, far from my roots in Austin. I started working when I was 14. I’ve never stopped.” He paused to gather his thoughts.“New Year’s Day, 2002, wrecked my world. That night, my brother, seven years and seven days older than me, was shot dead—murdered.”That New Year’s night also nearly took the life of his mother, who began a downward spiral. In her despair, she grew unable to care for Ben.“She didn’t handle it well. She couldn’t take care of me properly. There were suicide attempts, drug use,” Ben explained. “I decided I needed freedom. So, I left.”Then a pause, and a regret. “I now understand my reason for leaving was very selfish. I cared more about myself than I did about her.”His mother drifted homeless on the streets of Tijuana. After unknowingly drinking contaminated water, she contracted hepatitis C. Eventually, she lost a kidney.Her fast decline called for radical intervention, but Ben had already declared his independence.Eventually, Ben chose humility and compassion over self-interest, a choice that brought profound consequences.“I moved my mother in with me. I became her in-home support provider.” Her doctor told Ben she had to be on total bedrest for five months. “I gave her medical injections. I changed her bandages.“Her diet was horrid. She was addicted to the unhealthiest foods. So, I gradually changed her diet, removing all the unhealthy food she had grown dependent on.”“How did you do that?”“I found a cookbook with 30 gourmet recipes. That’s where I started. I prepared only the healthiest food for her. Gradually, I nursed her back to health. And you know, she’s become my biggest inspiration.” The pit-master paused, weighing his words.“She went through hell. But can you believe it? She has not only survived, but she trained to become an Iron Worker and a Journeyman. She’s doing things 20-year-olds can’t do.“I moved back to Texas, and I learned to work The Pit here at Terry Black’s Barbecue. I work 16-hour shifts, seeing my brisket from start to finish. I am only the fifth person—and the earliest—to achieve that. It’s like winning the Oscar for barbecue.“I couldn't be happier! But I don’t cook for the praise.“No, my secret ingredient is love and passion. It’s for that simple smile after hours of sweat and blood, just to make sure ‘Y’all come back now!’” I love it. It’s a service to be proud of.”Like the comforting aroma from a barbecue pit, the love of a willing heart remains. That kind of heart cares for family, encircles strangers, and reaches beyond our own tribe.“Why do I cook?” Ben grinned. “That’s easy. I cook to feed and heal the soul. And I cook for my mom.”The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to The Timberline Letter at 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

In 1988, Bieke Vandekerckhove, a 19-year-old university student in her native Belgium, was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease). At that time, the average life span with ALS after diagnoses was two to five years. She lived 27 years with it.Her only book, The Taste of Silence (English translation from Liturgical Press, 2015), is a beautiful, candid, sometimes searing, but wise view of her journey into ALS. Like so many others in history, she found a vast and pure view...in prison. But for Bieke, that prison was her body.What do you do when a lightning bolt explodes out of a clear sky, blowing your body, soul, and spirit apart? Do you collapse into a pile of smoking rubble? Escape into chemicals, fight to regain control? Or surrender to the largeness of your Creator?Vandekerckhove surrendered.In her submission, she tumbled into great silence. That’s what often happens when loss pushes us beyond the walls of language. Many readers will identify with Bieke as, in the silence, she found profound gratitude, even for her diagnosis and for “the collapse of all my beliefs.” ALS took her beyond what she knew and preferred, and into the beauty of “not-knowing.” In that place beyond thought, she “discovered the art of waiting in the dark.”In the dark, she found “the God of the Bible, and not the god who is … bound by the contours of logic and morality.” She also discovered that God meets those who live real life. Their habitat lies in a place beyond information. As I read this book, I thought of Hebrews 11:34, which speaks of those who “became powerful in battle.” They found success as it was forged in the heat of life, not through knowledge or credentials.What Do You See?She learned that so much of life boils down to what we see. The deeper she went into the illness, she realized she suffered “more from an eye problem than from a muscle disorder.” Bieke seems genuinely grateful for the “great powers of suffering, death, and mourning,” that “work a simplification in us that makes us see things differently. Perhaps making us really see for the first time.”Although she was certainly Christian, Vandekerckhove’s journey through ALS also gave her a deep appreciation for other religions and perspectives. She quotes the apocryphal Wisdom of Solomon 7:24: “Wisdom is more mobile than any motion; because of her pureness she pervades and penetrates all things.”Vandekerckhove discovered a God so large and pervasive that His word can move through anyone, anything, anytime, anywhere. Because He owns it all, any or all of it can carry His voice. Just as His voice once (at least once!) animated a donkey, so it “pervades and penetrates all things.”I deeply appreciate The Taste of Silence. It carries a ring of truth on every page. And I am moved by, and grateful for, a young woman who dared to tell her harrowing but hallowed journey into the God Who is larger.To summarize that journey, she wrote that when she surrendered to the mystery, and thought she lost everything, “remarkably my grip loosened and I rediscovered everything in a new way. Life was everywhere, in the midst of death, even as life slipped away from me … Everything became a gift.”The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to The Timberline Letter at 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

In my childhood home, it was common to hear my dad laugh until he cried. He inherited that laugh from my grandma. I remember my friend’s face lighting up as my dad’s laughter shook the house. “I love your daddy’s laugh,” she told me. I treasured this effect his joy had on others. I was proud of him, not only for the things he had accomplished, but also for the humor he carried with him. I still am proud of him, for the same reason.Please understand, we didn’t laugh all the time. I remember the crises, fears, bankruptcy, and prodigal children. But those episodes played out against a backdrop that never took life too seriously. I recall more laughter than sorrow around our dinner table, even when loss and pain pulled up a chair to join us.After becoming an adult, the pressures of marriage, child-rearing, military life, and navigating foster care often became so overpowering that it was hard to breathe. But often in the midst of those dark places, luminous memories of my parents laughing at the dinner table would break through.In the words of Chuck Swindoll, “Laughter is the most beautiful and beneficial therapy God ever granted humanity.”At some point, I realized we had to seek joy and laughter. We needed people and stories around us that recalled our legacy of laughter. Like my grandma sewing grandpa’s overalls shut at the feet so he’d have to jerk them up violently as he left for his work on the railroad.Our last duty station in South Carolina marked the end of a somewhat disillusioned era. David’s lofty dreams of becoming Chief of Staff of the Air Force had been deflated, and our focus had shifted from our glory to an open-handed, “What’s next, Lord?” That question took us down roads we never expected. They also granted us a higher view of life. We learned to let go of a lot of things.When the annual “jet photos” day came around, David and I donned leather jackets in 90-degree weather, and struck a “Top Gun” pose in front of an F-16. A friend shot the photo. Her husband photoshopped the background—complete with an orange sunset, a jet slicing the sky above, and the words “Top Three” showboating themselves across the bottom of the poster. “Top Three” is the name of the universally despised job given to pilots—“flying a desk.” No engines thrumming except those of your friends as they dogfight in the skies above you. The modified title was the crowning touch to our Oscar-worthy snapshot, given the fact that David had frequently flown that desk. As had all the other pilots.I marched into David’s office a few days later and victoriously hammered the masterpiece onto the wall. Most of the pilots gathered around and laughed accordingly. Those that didn’t laugh? Maybe they were planning to be the next Chief of Staff of the Air Force.I’ve heard it said that “expectation is just pre-meditated resentment.” While that may be true, we are also given repeated opportunities to let go of those expectations, not out of resentment or failure, but out of a maturity that says, “Ah. I see. I can’t steer this thing. Clenched fists accomplish nothing. Maybe I should try opening my hands.”It is imperative to “laugh at the days to come.”[1] The “foreseeable future” is, after-all, an illusion. I hope you’re having a wonderful day. If not, just go photoshop your disappointment. And let the healing laughter begin.[1] Proverbs 31:25, NIVThe Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to The Timberline Letter at 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

In the summer of 1992, while driving a dirt road near his Pratt, Kansas home, my dad saw a tractor—driverless—rolling across a field, pulling a land leveler.Dad felt a chill. He owned that equipment. His brother Harold had borrowed it and would have been driving it down that very road about that time. Dad soon found Harold lying beside the road. He was fully conscious, but Dad could see he was facing the worst day of his life.Harold’s death brought a hard freeze to our family landscape. But it blew a deep and ragged hole right through Dad’s heart. He never recovered.From that day it seemed Dad’s strong mind began to melt.Dad and Mom visited our home in Virginia soon after that. In planning for their visit, I tried to find something that would engage Dad again, some spark that would animate his wonderful and vivid personality.Two weeks before they arrived, I learned that Arleigh Burke, one of the last living admirals from World War 2, lived in nearby Fairfax. So, I found a phone number for his home.When Roberta “Bobbie” Burke answered the phone, I introduced myself and told her about Dad, and that he would be here in a few days. Then I asked if “the admiral would be open to a visit from another sailor.”“Oh, yes,” she replied gleefully, “He would so love that! Please come.” She gave me their address, and we agreed on a date and time.When my parents arrived, I told Dad we had an appointment with Admiral Arleigh Burke the next day. Dad’s uncertain smile revealed his anxiety; he’d never met an admiral. Even after 48 years of civilian life, he still thought like an enlisted man.The next morning, Dad asked too many questions about protocol and social courtesies as we drove from our home in Reston over to Fairfax. Then he grew stone silent as we entered the high-rise luxury condo. Finally, we stood at the Burke door. When I knocked, an elderly man, gripping a walker, jerked the door open and smiled.“Jack,” he barked, and grabbed Dad’s hand. Dad relaxed in the invitation to a safe place.We spent 90 minutes in the Burke living room. Bobbie gracefully vanished from the male gathering, as I’m sure she’d often done in 72 years of marriage to a Navy man.As the fly on the wall, I watched in astonishment as Arleigh Burke, a former Chief of Naval Operations, a major player in the Eisenhower and Kennedy administrations, an admiral who had a class of destroyers named after him, sat with an enlisted man, a Kansas railroader, a Sunday School teacher. But their eyes glistened at the same heartsounds of battle, victory, and loss. And they burst into riotous laughter at the same nuances of Navy culture.I’ll never forget Dad’s face as Admiral Burke described watching Dad’s ship, the USS Princeton, through binoculars as she exploded and sank. The 20th century had taken those two men to vastly different places, but they also shared enormous common ground. I saw them touch their bonds. Class distinctions blew away like dust; they were both just sailors.As we rose to leave, I saw sadness in Bobbie’s eyes. Admiral Burke, using his walker, escorted us to the elevator; he clearly wanted to extend the visit as long as possible. As we stepped onto the elevator, he softly said, “Come back anytime, Jack.” They both knew they’d never meet again.Arleigh Burke died six months later. Two thousand people attended his funeral; President Clinton delivered the eulogy. Dad lived more than 10 years from that day. Many came to his funeral.For me, that day of the old sailors has become a clear and enduring reminder that our value has little to do with the externals—possessions we acquire, the awards we win, or the accidents that cripple us.We’re all His children. He leads us in an everlasting way, even when that way passes through the cemetery on the way to higher ground. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to The Timberline Letter at 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

When 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. Get full access to The Timberline Letter at 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

My neurosurgeon declared my back a disaster zone. “You’ve got major problems in every part of your back, all the way down.” My MRI agreed; weird twists, turns and dead ends. Doc said it best, “Your back looks like a pack mule’s path down into the mine.”As the Los Angeles firestorm raged a few miles from my hospital room, needles had invaded veins in both my hands in preparation for my back surgery. Pain clawed my brain. The world around me—my body, other hospital patients, caregivers, and all those fighting flames—seemed to struggle against a rapidly darkening place.A newly arrived nursing assistant had just started her shift. She was a woman with a big presence and even bigger false eyelashes. Needing relief, I asked her to tell me something interesting about herself.“Honey,” she bellowed, “I just love people! I love helping people! I can’t help it! I just love people!”My “dark place” violently imploded. She was just the cure I needed. God had worked overtime to intersect our lives at this moment.But when the hospital shift changed, a different, more subdued and thoughtful nurse took charge of me. I soon discovered the reason for her demeanor. Because I asked, she showed me her family portrait—a handsome couple with their 3-year-old son. Last month, her husband’s father passed away from an inherited disorder causing glandular tumors. Then, just last week, she discovered her son had inherited the same incurable condition. He faces lifelong vigilance and surgeries. As she told me her story, her face was resolute, unblinking, stoic.As we talked, I began to think. How many people hold the cures for what ails others, if they would only reach out to them? And how many needy people have I passed by, never offering the help they needed and I could give?I turned to look at my roommate. Helpless and diapered, nurses had to occasionally assist him in his bedridden state. But that triggered fierce coughing, which induced long bouts of vomiting.Of course, I could hear through the privacy curtain when his daughter came to visit. He was confused, unable to connect the dots in their conversation. “What are your wishes?” she asked repeatedly and emphatically, like he was a child.That was easy. He wanted to go back home.“But that’s not a choice, Dad. I meant, which hospice facility do you prefer?”He did not answer.The next day, his wife visited him. She gushed with emotion. “Honey, I just love you so much!”After a long silence, he sighed and muttered, “Oh, I don’t know.”“You don’t know what?” she replied, confused.“I don’t know. This might be the end.” Although he was speaking of his own life, his voice contained no hint of desperation, no anxiety, not a touch of fear. His pain seemed to push his heart into a new orbit. Perhaps he saw more clearly than anyone else around him.Because of his suffering and commotion, the nurses offered to move me to a quieter room. I declined. Though we could no longer converse very much, we understood one another.But, as I was wheeled out of the hospital to go home, I paused at the foot of his bed. I stared into his face and gave both his big toes a squeeze; he nodded and smiled back at me.I know, and you know, that when our physical bodies reach the boundaries of their human capacity, hope can become stretched thin. But in that weakened place, those squeezes, nods, and smiles reach our deepest place. They carry the expressions of love, the best gift that God offers us. And they are the best we can offer to others.OK—Big Eyelashes, Brave Nurse, Distressed Roommate, the Firefighters –- you all carried the same message: The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to The Timberline Letter at 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