They are one of those last American frontiers of wilderness, these mysterious places that have triumphantly resisted many a pioneer effort to tame them. We drive north, and great stretches of land spiked with the craggy silhouettes of stunted spruce and feathery tamarack are all that meet the eye for miles. From the speed of the car window, it would seem that these trees are the only flora that manage to monotonously thrive amidst the swamp grasses. And inaccessible as they are, it can be a misconception difficult to prove otherwise.
If you’re fortunate enough to traverse a bog walk, however, you will find out that beneath the feathery tamarack branches there are wonderful, amazing plants that thrive in the water-logged, acidic soil, plants that you will see nowhere else but here. There are strangely beautiful carnivorous plants…
…and rare exotic orchids named after legendary reptiles and dainty foot wear.
There are humps of moss so lush and thick it looks like shag carpet, and delicate grasses that are growing cotton balls.
There are cranberries, bunchberries and labrador tea.
There are secret lakes of unknown depth, and pine cones in purple casings.
It’s a whole new world of wonders, where even the more familiar flowers and berries manage to feel exotic if only for their tenacity to survive and thrive here.
And who knows what else might lie beyond? The view a state park board walk lends is only a glimpse into this mysterious damp world of peat moss and uncertain footing. I like the intrigue of this, imagining the rare orchids hidden away in the vast reaches of the bogs, never to be discovered.
I like to think of the Word of God as something like a bog walk into the otherwise unfathomable mysteries of who God is. A walkway that doesn’t end like the ones in the parks do, but keeps going, on and on and on, as far as you’re willing to travel, with new and wonderful discoveries around every bend. It’s an invitation to explore, to understand, to fully appreciate who He really is…not just what He might appear to look like when you’re speeding past a church building along the freeway.
We can have many impressions of and ideas about God. Perhaps they’re based on how you were raised, or the way a certain church-goer you once knew acted. They might even be based on what you hear at church or what a good Christian friend of yours says or thinks about Him. But imagining that you understand God based purely on these “drive-by” experiences of life is like me imagining that a bog is completely boring because the only thing that grows there is weird looking pine trees, based purely on the view from my car window. For all you know, your personal experiences may have given you a faulty view of what God is like. At best, it’s only a partial view, just the tiniest incomplete glimpse into a God “who does great and unsearchable things, wonders without number” (Job 5:9), who causes the apostle Paul to exclaim: “Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God!” (Romans 11:33)
The only way to find out how beautiful He really is? To get out of the car or off your seat on the sidelines, so to speak, and find out for yourself. Don’t go slogging through in the hip waders of a self-made path, either, which can leave you lost and sinking fast into the mire of false ideas. No, take the board walk He built just with you in mind, the one that is solidly built for sure footing, that skillfully curves along to bring you right to the rarest treasures of His wisdom and knowledge.
Read His Word. Don’t think of it as something you have to do or should do; think of it as a treasure hunt into mysterious and wonderful places, because that’s what it really is. There is no other way to truly “know the mystery of God, namely Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.” (Colossians 2:2-3)
“Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.” (Psalm 119:105)
We’ve seen them other years, stopping very briefly on their way to other destinations or merely flying over—but this year, two (and sometimes three) lingered for weeks. The deep-throated trombone of their voices was an exotic addition to our usual local symphony, putting the normally dominate swan trumpeting to shame, and for awhile, they would even sound off like clockwork around 5 AM every morning. Who needs an alarm clock, my husband and I would mumble groggily to each other, when you have sandhill cranes in your back yard?
Frustrating as it was to have my designs foiled time after time, I had to begrudgingly admire these giant fowl’s sense of awareness though. It reminded me of the sobering topic we’ve been studying on Wednesday nights at church, and in particular, this verse:
As the coral sun sets in a sea of softly apricot sky, I drive down the familiar bumps and curve of our own driveway after a long day in town. Three small girls, happily sticky with the residue of free Dumdum suckers from the bank, tumble out of the car and I herd them inside to put on pajamas, brush teeth and crawl into bed. We kill all the mosquitoes in their room, say prayers together, turn out the lights. And then, I go back out to unload the groceries, a flat of plants from the greenhouse, and a newly repaired bicycle that’s ready for a six-year-old to learn to pedal. It’s late and I’m tired, but suddenly I pause in the midst of my trips up and down the porch steps, because—
Have you ever made a judgement of something or someone, only to find out later that you were entirely wrong? I’m going tell you one of my own such errors, the tale of me and a bank of moss.
There is the judgement between right and wrong, truth and lie, meted out by courts of law, mothers weighing out eye-witness accounts and facts to determine who actually took the cookies, and by God at the end of the world. This kind of judgement is good, righteous and necessary for order and justice.
I’ll never forget the time my wise father encouraged me as a young person to reach out to another new young lady at church. Without having ever spoken to her, I had already decided, in all my youthful “wisdom”, that we probably wouldn’t have much in common and had foolishly written off the idea of friendship. Out of respect for him, however, I agreed to make the effort to introduce myself, though I expected little to come of it. And what do you suppose happened? You guessed it: we not only met but became good friends, and a relationship blossomed that would be a tremendous blessing to me in upcoming times of unexpected loneliness. I often think about how much I would have missed if I had followed my foolish inclination to write her off instead of stepping outside of my comfort zone. It’s a lesson with a happy ending that I will never forget.
Winter is well suited for contemplation. Spring, I’m reminded lately, is not. Spring is, rather, for living in the moment, moving constantly from the enjoyment of one beautiful, wonderful thing to the next, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re probably still missing something wonderful. Nothing sits still, lingers or waits for you. There is a great tension of panic and excitement that wells up inside of me at the recognition of this. I feel a little like my children, oh so impatient to be done with phonics and math, oh so eager to run outside and not miss a single glorious day of this fleeting season.
“How good it is to sing praises to our God, 
how pleasant and lovely to praise Him!
Great is our Lord, and mighty in power;
His understanding has no limit.
Sing to the LORD with thanksgiving; 
make music on the harp to our God, 
who covers the sky with clouds,
who prepares rain for the earth,
who makes grass to grow on the hills.
He sends forth His command to the earth; His word runs swiftly.
He provides food for the animals,
and for the young ravens when they call.
Hallelujah!”
Life didn’t begin when the crocus burst open to the sunshine early this week, purple pinstriped petals unfolding to reveal delicate saffron orange stamen.
Scientists have found that when this occurs in a human womb, 
“For You formed my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb.
Everyone around here seems to have spent the last couple months and weeks waiting eagerly for the ice to break up. And by “everyone around here”, I mean us and our feathered neighbors.
“After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb.
Down in a garden in a rich man’s tomb,
Rejoicing Hills 