We went on our second end-of-October “cabining” trip to Twelve Mile Arm this year, this time for two nights. Does that make it an annual tradition? That remains to be seen, but the fact that a pair of kayaks now come with the cabin is a pretty big draw. We enjoyed taking turns paddling around the estuary, followed by curious seals, and the two little girls were pretty excited when we let them paddle out to the nearby island (so shallow and close you can walk to it at low tide) by themselves.
There was snow on the mountains across the bay when we woke up one morning, but we did not get cold like we did the last time we came here. I guess that means we’ve learned a thing or two about 1) clothing and bedding choices, and 2) running a woodstove.
I read the cabin journal, in which guests talked about hearing wolves and being skunked at deer hunting (I think there’s a connection there), and feasting on crab. One guest left behind a game of Uno Flip on purpose, hoping others would enjoy it, too. (We did.) Another guest left a can opener, which I had forgotten. (I used it, gratefully.)
The utter stillness was achingly beautiful. Not even our phones could ding to spoil it.
“And he said to them, “Come away by yourselves to a desolate place and rest a while.” (Mark 6:31)
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.
If you walk out into the middle of the woods and stand very still for a while, a very delightful thing will happen.
You’ll note a tiny clump of British soldier lichen clinging to the edge of a mossy stump that would have only registered “green” in hurried passing.
You’ll tip your head up and see the beginning of the swelling red of the maple buds overhead, fanned against the sky.
You’ll notice the delicate lacy veins of last year’s leaves, splendidly illuminated in the morning sunlight, and also the way a certain flap of simple birch bark is catching the sun just right to make it glow.
Your eyes will follow the slant of a fallen log down to a hole and, well, look! The very culprit of the rustling himself appears.
There is no shortcut to the gifts that come from being still, but they are always incredibly, beautifully worth it. And, incidentally? The same is said for the soul and the best gift one could ever ask for.
Where do you look when you are hiking through the autumn forest?
Do you look straight ahead, at the path winding mysteriously out of sight and beckoning you on? At the receding layers of craggy barked tree trunks marching along its edges, with the occasional surprise mushroom accessory? Or at the jaunty straw hat and satisfyingly fall-ish plaid shirt of a walking companion ahead?
Or do you look down? Down at the dainty trailing vines between the tufts of orange pine needles, and the tidily capped wee mushrooms springing whimsically up along the damp mosses of aging stumps? At the calico of autumn leaves softly layering over the creeping cedar and wintergreen?
While I was hiking with relatives recently, we talked about this, and discovered that our answers differed. Some in our hiking party were more inclined toward one than the other, therefore each bringing their own unique perspective to the commentary that enlivened our exploration of the forest.
The Bible calls these things gifts, and they are. Sometimes, though, I think we can lose sight of this in the nitty-gritty of real life. It can be easy, for instance, to get annoyed with that other person who is always worried about mowing the grass (looking at mushrooms) when you’d rather be discussing the accuracy of the latest Bible translation (looking down the path)—or vice versa. However the fact is that each perspective is valuable and needed, and they’re all meant to weave together in harmonious balance, not at odds with each other.
“Just as each of us has one body with many members, and not all members have the same function, so in Christ we who are many are one body, and each member belongs to one another.
It took six hours of driving to get there.
The bad news, however, is that when we arrived at the much-anticipated first scenic viewpoint, all we could see was white.
Because sometimes, you just need to go higher and then everything becomes clear.
Rejoicing Hills 