I'm So Glad I Was Wrong

I thought it was alone. Each morning while I sat on the couch in our room at a mountain resort my husband and I rented, I gazed through the window at a ski chair. It hung alone facing downslope, suspended between seasons. No snow would arrive for a couple of months, and the summer mountain bikers and view seekers had all gone home.

Did the ski lift chair feel useless, unenjoyed, angry about how the life it previously led had ceased? This picture stirred something familiar inside of me, so I brought it to prayer, expressing to God my frustration with sometimes sensing I have no purpose, the impatience of waiting to be used by him, the loneliness of feeling unseen.

Do you see me waiting here?
Do you hear my prayer to find my purpose, to gain my footing when life as I knew it stopped?
Do you care?

Our last morning in the mountains, I brought my coffee over to the L-shaped couch, pulled a blanket over me to sink into some cozy quiet. This time, however, I sat in a different spot from where I'd been the previous mornings. From this small shift in position, my view out the window changed, and I gained a different perspective.

My heart leapt upon seeing what I saw. Across from the ski chair hung another chair suspended from the cable facing up the ski hill. They seemed to be looking at each other.

Relief washed over me as I realized the ski chair was not alone! Never, ever was it alone.

And neither am I.


Diane Carver Mann, 2020

What Frank Did, For Me

I took a walk one afternoon around the small mountain town I call home on the weekends. I passed cabins I recognized and cabins it seemed I was seeing for the very first time. I walked at a fast pace, trying to burn some anxious energy that left me feeling uneasy.

On the highest street in town, a cul-de-sac with homes perched on the mountain's edge offering vast views, I approached Frank, who, leaning on his walker, took slow, small, deliberate steps. Frank's memory is fading, I'm told, his knees are weakened, and at 90-plus years old, he appears fragile. 

I stopped just as I was about to pass by him. "Frank," I said, "I saw a video on Facebook of you singing 'Tomorrow,' and I enjoyed it so!"   

His face lit up at my remark, and he broke into song. He sang as though he were on stage with a riveted audience enjoying his talent. Such hope and confidence he exuded with each word. Frank took an eloquent bow at the end of his performance. "That's from the musical 'Annie,'" he said.  "I don't recall much of the musical, but I do remember the song."  I clapped and smiled and thanked Frank for his lovely offering. He continued down the street, while I raced up the street. On my way back down, I noticed Frank had advanced not much farther from where he was when he sang "Tomorrow" to me.

Again I stopped. "I remember your singing 'To Dream the Impossible Dream' at a gathering we had at the clubhouse years ago. That was lovely!" I said, hinting at the possibility of an encore performance. 

Of course he began to sing, "To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go." On he sang, bathing me in the music, while my heart sang along.

"This is my quest," he sang, "to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far." Again, an eloquent bow from Frank and my adoring applause.  

I suppose we both offered each other something that afternoon, something unexpected and unexplainable, a gift that now lives in me.

Normally I feel bad passing a person who can't walk fast, who has some kind of handicap slowing them down, and I'll tend to walk more slowly to not make them feel bad. But this was not the case that day. I continued on, trusting that Frank was finding all the good while going the speed he could go, and I was free to go my speed, to be where I am on life's journey. Sooner than I, more than likely, Frank will be walking and skipping on streets of gold, with no aid, no pain, and a clear mind. Meanwhile, here, my steps may become slower and my mind less sharp.

I desire as I age to emanate the hope Frank displayed and that, though I may not remember the details of all that's happened in the past, or the full "musical," I'll remember the song and the spirit of the song and pass it along to others, offering them a vast view of hope for tomorrow. 

Just like Frank did, for me.

 

Taste, and See

On a wintry Saturday, I baked cinnamon maple scones at our cabin, using a new-to-me recipe. They were so yummy, I was eager to share them at our church potluck breakfast the following morning. But I coughed through the night, and it became clear neither I nor my husband would be attending church that Sunday. I was disappointed to miss blessing my church friends with my flavorful scones.

Before driving down the mountain, we parked our car in town to take a short walk around the lake. Two ladies we recognized sat at a picnic table across the road. “Do you want some scones?” I yelled through my mask with my hoarse, raspy voice. 

“Absolutely, yes, we do!” Kathy and Donna replied.

My husband retrieved the container holding the scones from the car and carried the treats across the road to our excited friends. “Take two!” I called over.

“Can we have three each?” they hollered back.

We continued our walk around the lake, and upon arriving back to our car, our friends let us know how much they enjoyed the delicious pastries. I don't know whose joy was more full, Kathy and Donna's in savoring the scones, or mine, in getting to share them. 

There’s a taste-and-see simplicity I experience when I share what I’ve baked. I don’t have weighty expectations on myself to “be somebody” in the kitchen, to become known as “Diane the baker.”  It is as simple as, “Here’s something I’ve made that is good. I hope it blesses you.” 

I was due to deliver a set of six benedictions this week for the Black Barn, an online community I belong to. I’d written and rewritten many and could not decide which ones to submit. The angst I experienced squeezed the joy out of writing and anticipating blessing others with my offerings. I tell myself, oh, but this is not a scoop of dough; it’s a scoop of my heart. Of course it’s going to be painful.

Perhaps my “of course” is off course.

I learned recently the word "companion" is derived from Latin and, at its core, it denotes someone who is present to you "with bread." As we are present to each other on this journey, we offer life-giving nurture and enjoyment, friend to friend. We bring who we are and what God has given us to offer. How good it is to have someone fully present to you; how much better when together you “break bread,” when together you unwrap and savor the good gifts God has given you. Together, we celebrate the Giver of the gifts. 

Again and again my thoughts return to the simplicity of baking something then sharing it, with a spirit of, “Taste and see the goodness!” 

I wonder what it would be like to experience such freedom as I weave words together and then share them. I wonder what kind of companionship I could bring to others, free from self-judgment about what I bring to the table. And I wonder whether God is inviting me to taste this kind of freedom, and to see that it is good.

diane mann, 2022

A Beauty, All Its Own

 

“I just don't see it, Daddy,” I said. “It looks ugly to me.” I stood watching my dad gaze in adoration over the desert landscape, his eyes resting in reverence upon what stretched before him.

“The desert has a beauty all its own, Diana.” 

I was ten years old and enjoyed camping in the desert, scrambling over rock formations but saw nothing of beauty in the dusty landscape, cacti, and brittle shrubs. The view, in my eyes, was something to be tolerated, rather than enjoyed.

I never intended to become a student of the desert, but a decade ago my job as a court reporter led me to familiarize myself with all things desert as I took on an assignment to report public meetings held several times a year by the Desert Advisory Council, part of the Bureau of Land Management. The Council's duty is to gather information from the public to inform the Bureau of how their land-management decisions and plans affect people holding various interests in the desert.

Though many interests are represented among the positions on the Council – wildlife, renewable energy, recreation, off-highway vehicles, farming, mining, Native cultural interests, wildlife habitat and conservation – each person who is part of these meetings has a unique affection for the California desert. One of the hopes expressed by the Council is that people will not just see this vast landscape as a place to just drive through on their way to somewhere else, but to slow down and appreciate what the desert offers, to see up close what it is made of, its history, geology, resources, and ecologic systems.

The day before each meeting, I attend a field trip with the Council and the public, where we visit different sites that will be discussed at the next day's meeting. This affords me an opportunity to get to know the people who will be speaking the next day and familiarize myself with names of sites, projects, plants, and species that were previously foreign to me.

Just a gas tank to the north of where I live sits the loved-by-me Sierra Nevada Mountain Range, the area explored by John Muir, who wrote words of praise about the mountain range and its good effects on us.

But between my home and those glorious mountains sits a vast desert I previously saw as a wasteland.

As I look out the car window on my drive north to the Sierras, where towering pines and emerald glacial lakes await me, I now appreciate the harsh beauty of the vast desert, raw and exposed and not afraid to show me its not-so-pretty parts, somehow beckoning me to live more authentically. I see nuanced colors I’d previously ignored, and I wonder how I ever viewed the desert as devoid of beauty.

I see shrubs scattered over the landscape, with complex root systems that join with each other deep underground, forming their own internet! If one shrub becomes diseased, it sends out messages to the others so they can produce defenses against the threat they've been warned about.

I see solar plants that produce clean energy but are drawing upon groundwater deep below the earth's surface, water that's been flowing for tens of thousands of years and needs to be considered before too much development is planned on the surface.

I see Native American cultural resources, like the line in the sand I visited toward San Diego. An ancient tribe used to make a pilgrimage once a year to worship their god they saw as Creator. A while into their journey, a line was etched into the sand, now sun-baked and preserved for us to learn from. The story is passed down that, before the pilgrims would go any further on their journey, this was the space where unforgiveness was to be laid down. One could not make the journey with the extra weight on them so must leave behind the desire to retaliate against another before taking one more step.

I see rotting, vacant homes, weather beaten and barely standing. I now know that, if you find a piece of trash or abandoned property in the desert that has been there over 50 years, it is considered a historical artifact, and by law you are not allowed to move it! Rusted-out automobiles and tin cans tell a story.

I see dirt roads that lead to rockhounding sites, where those who collect rocks impress me with their passion and dedication to their hobby. While many of us look up in amazement – at the grandeur of mountains or the sky's expanse – rockhounds look down and are equally amazed at what they find. I've not seen a rockhound talk about their love of rocks without trying to hold back tears as they speak.

As I pay close attention to the people I listen to in this unique assignment, I'm reminded of my Dad with that look in his eye as he enjoyed the desert's beauty. Oh, if he were still here on earth, I'd love to tell him what I see now. When my father was 64, he suffered a fall and endured 19 months of being completely paralyzed and ventilator dependent, experiencing his own harsh desert journey through quadriplegia. After he died, I wrote a song about him. Here is the chorus: 

“The desert has a beauty all its own

It’s not the mountains we adore

No tall trees, no sandy shores

Just look closer, take some time

Feel the wind, hear the rhyme

Dry earth below, blue sky above

Clay-colored rocks to climb upon

Stop to see what I see, then you'll know what I know 

The desert has a beauty all its own.”

A beauty all its own. That is a refrain that is sometimes difficult to remember or believe. Lately, I've been dividing life into pre-pandemic time, pandemic time, and gratefully, post-pandemic time. The pandemic was something we endured (and for some are still enduring), a desert highway in many ways, a wasteland of space through which we traveled with visions of just getting through to the other side.

But if we stop to reflect, we will find it was more than a space of barren, dry land. There were people we connected with who sent encouragement from afar; ancient, life-giving springs below ground that made us dig deep to reach them; lines drawn, where we were challenged to let go of deep-seated unforgiveness, adopting understanding instead; gems we picked up along the way; and artifacts, stories of faith we left behind for Christ-followers in the future, who will look for signs of how we endured, believers we will one day surround as a cloud of witnesses.

May the Lord give us eyes to see what He sees, so we will know what He knows. 

I wonder, as the mountains open up before us and the long, dusty road of the pandemic is appearing in the rear-view mirror, what can you reflect on that magnifies your appreciation for beauty found in dry places? How does this noticing lead you to worship?

Last Image: "Desert in Rearview Mirror" by Vivian Chepourkoff Hayes.