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)
Perhaps the best thing about winter is that you don’t have to wake up in the wee hours to watch the sun rise. For instance, you can roll out of bed at the usual time, spend half an hour bundling yourself up, stumble your way around the pre-dawn perimeter of an unfamiliar hotel building, risk life and limb to bump your way in sitting position down the steep bouldered bank to the shore—and still make it in time to watch the entire show at leisure.
The wind off the big lake was so surprisingly mild for December, and the sound of the rhythmic waves so pleasant, I found a non-icy log to perch on and paused from my photography long enough to pull out my phone and find my Bible reading plan for the day. And this, totally unplanned by me, was what popped up:
It was like God whispering into the stillness of the dawn that these photos I was taking were really pictures of Him.
As I picked my way back along the sun-kissed shore, pondering this, I looked up and spotted a different trail up the bank. It was a safer, gentler route, one that I couldn’t see in the unfamiliar, un-mapped darkness, the way I should have taken on my way down. I headed up, the sun warm on my back, relieved to walk confidently and upright instead of clambering awkwardly.
I clearly remember the first time I saw a mosaic portrait in real life.
Of course, I’ve long been familiar with simple mosaics. There were the tile floors I helped my dad grout, and the bathroom walls of a favorite coffee shop studded with bits of broken china. I had sewn colored squares of fabric into the mosaic of a quilt or stitched a myriad tiny x’s to make a cross-stitch pattern. I once taught an overview class on mosaics to 7th and 8th graders, which concluded with making our own of tiny pieces of colored paper on black poster board to line the school cafeteria walls. But on this day, I knew that I had previously known next to nothing about mosaics in comparison to the piece of art before my eyes.
I was drawn to the portrait because, unlike the oil paintings around it, it shimmered with light. That was the only difference from any distance. I actually thought it was a painting until I walked up to it and read the placard beneath, which identified it as a mosaic—and it was only then that I looked closely and realized that what had appeared to be a painting was really a myriad tiny pieces of glass painstakingly composed into the tender likeness of a mother and her child. 
It was Mary, cradling the baby Jesus, of course; a truly breathtaking masterpiece.
Hundreds of prophecies over thousands of years, each piece coming together flawlessly in the grand unveiling of God’s masterpiece plan to save mankind.
So many intricate pieces. Such flawless, artful and epic execution. But the thing that really floors me is this:
“But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ
Photos: beneath the Ghost Bridge, Lake Superior, December 2018
When you hear the word “golden”, what do you think of?
I think of lamplight on aged pine walls, and candle flames dancing above brass candlesticks, and the color of faces gathered companionably around a fire.
I think of the warmly lit hour right around sunset that a photographer lives for, that has been universally dubbed “the golden hour” for it’s unparalleled quality of light.
I think of honey drizzled on cornbread,
And I think of the splendid way that autumn ends up here in the northwoods, all the tamaracks ablaze with glory, making even the murky swamp waters glimmer with unaccustomed splendor. If the sun is shining on it all, then it truly is a tiny glimpse of heaven on earth.
This little taste of “heaven on earth” is my favorite of all, then, because it’s one fleeting golden moment reminding me of a golden eternity.
I’ve been a bit missing in action for the last month or two, and for those of you who haven’t guessed, it’s all due to a bit of a recent career shift. From here on out, if my posts start to sounding to you like those of a kindergarten teacher, you will be correct. It’s an exciting new chapter for us, but a busy one, with lots of adjustments to new schedules and more time spent researching literature and art projects for unit studies than composing blog posts. I hope to get back to posting more often eventually, but we’ll see!
It makes sense: who else in the whole world cares more about her success than I do?
I sensed, going into the retreat, that my ideas were good but jumbled. If you know anything about the world of home education, you know that the amount of resources available are both incredible and rather overwhelming. I needed some vision to narrow my focus down from all those fabulous options to what would work best for us—and I always think most clearly while walking. And if the walk winds through sun-dappled woodlands around the edge of a sparkling blue lake? If there’s not a sound to be heard but the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and the wind in the oak tree tops? All the better.
Little by little, each day it grew;
“Little by little,” said a thoughtful boy,
“Little by little, I’ll learn to know
“Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” (Proverbs 22:6)
It all began with a few simple needs that could be easily taken care of at a Walmart. It would be a quick errand, I thought. The only (small) problem? I didn’t know where Walmart was in this unfamiliar city.
“After 50 feet take a left turn onto 8th Street,” the confident feminine voice instructed. Still rattled from the close call with street signage, I sailed right past, missing my very first turn.
But we eventually got there, that big truck and I, surprisingly all in one piece. We went around the block to get back on track instead of making the U-turn. We survived the road construction. The voice from my phone carried me through, calm and unruffled through all my missed turns and second-guesses.
Sometimes, the right way to go in life is a little like that, too. You know, not quite as direct and smooth as we’d like? And sometimes, even if you’re asking the right One for directions, it’s easy to mistrust and question whether He really knows where He’s taking you. Sometimes we even go so far as to strike out on our own, hoping He’ll change his mind to suit our preferences
Meet my borrowed kayak!
I slipped along past the water lilies, and brushed gently through the wild rice. The water was like glass except for the artful zigzags of water bugs. The mosquitoes stayed away, and I could hear a blue heron croaking in the distance. Water dripped down to my elbows as I dipped the paddle up and down, and for a few minutes, the looming to-do list for the upcoming weeks faded away to the back of my mind.
The quiet of the water was a peaceful place for thinking, and as I floated airily along in my orange pod, it occurred to me that the gift of life is a lot like a borrowed kayak.
My encouragement for the day? If there’s a kayak sitting neglected in your yard, go use it. It’s good for the soul. And if your life feels a bit like a neglected kayak, go use that, too. Spend it well–and when time is up and it’s time to give an account, you’ll have no regrets.
…my camera gave to me,
…my camera brought to me,
Rejoicing Hills 