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. 

That Summer Day

My workout was finished. Home was ten miles one direction, the beach forty miles the other direction. It was a for-sure-I-need-a-shower day, but the ocean beckoned. So I rushed into Kohl's and bought a floppy hat on clearance to cover my dirty hair and shade my face then drove to Santa Monica.

Traffic was a bit nasty as I inched my way toward the coast, but I paid it no mind. I observed cars, clouds, buildings, and mountains along the way. I played through my car stereo whatever was on my iPhone (unsure of how most of it got there). John Denver accompanied me on the journey, as well as the dad from Fiddler on the Roof, Taylor Swift, and some island-tune-singing person.

I parked in a structure on Second Street and walked to the pier—the packed-with-people-from-everywhere pier. My white woven hat provided protection from the sun but also a sense of anonymity (lest paparazzi were to recognize me!). From the shade of the hat, I peered at the inhabitants of the pier, but didn't give much attention to anyone I saw.  As I walked and noticed what was around me, my attention remained uncaptured by anything in particular. The two different vendors offering to write my name on rice, the seller of VW van magnets, the man offering to tell a joke if you gave him money, whose tattered sign read, “Come on, people! Give me a tip. It's my birthday,” the singing young woman, whose songs I neither liked nor disliked—none occupied much of my mind as the tide of people ushered me toward the pier's end.

Ah, at the end of the pier I stood. The breeze, so cool and strong enough to blow lingering thoughts away, refreshed me. The color of the water—that deep green—ministered to me in ways I didn't understand but in ways I knew I needed. The singer's voice faded to the background, as did the playful laughs of children, the families chatting in various languages. I heard the faint sound of a little girl's voice telling her mommy she saw a seal. I glanced around the teal water below, and there I saw it too. A sweet seal playing in, floating upon, and resting within the love of God—I mean, the ocean. My heart rose with each swell that carried the seal up then down. I sensed his playful, restful, trusting spirit and knew this is why I steered toward the beach that day.

I made my way back to my car, paid a dollar twenty-five for parking, then drove for over two and a half hours to get home. This time country music entertained me while again I noticed cars, buildings, clouds, and mountains. I arrived home and tossed the white hat onto a chair, where it remains. I'm not sure whether I will wear it again. But it served me well, to cover my hair and shade my face so I could go to the beach to see what Love wanted to show me, that summer day.

Diane Mann, 2017

Three

Glen Pass, Kings Canyon National Park

"That river is like God's grace.  It is abundantly flowing," or, "Look how God covered the ground with pine needles.  That's like grace cushioning a fall!"  These are a couple of tiny glimpses into my mind as I hike.  In fact the trail name I've given myself is "Grace Seeker."  I am on the lookout pretty constantly for how God is revealing Himself through what He has made.  My eager mind can translate anything into something filled with meaning and spiritual application, but sometimes I find myself on inspiration overload and my heart cannot quite catch up with my head and its racing thoughts.  Imagine a tree branch so hungry for snow to land on its branches it tries to reach further into the sky to grab flakes of snow.  That is how I am by nature, especially in nature.  The tendency in me is to strive to receive and respond rather than wait on God to turn my head, to show me what He wants me to notice then let it settle in and on me.

As Brent and I prepared to backpack at Rae Lakes Loop in Kings Canyon National Park one summer, I decided to approach the time traveling through the California wilderness differently.  I sensed God nudging me to be open to letting His Spirit point out what He wanted me to notice.  There was a new trust that said, okay, God.  You show me what You want me to see; You let me know what You want me to know.  I experienced a new freedom and playfulness in choosing to leave the inspiration totally up to God.  

There were three head-turning truths He revealed to me over the four-day journey -- truths I carried with me far beyond our summer vacation, the depths of which continue to unfold in me.  He showed me these truths in some creative ways.

1)  The power of the waterfall.  I've always been inspired by the strength of what rises from creation -- mountains, flowers, trees pointing to the heavens, a person having been beaten down by illness, hardship or depression who stands once again.  But what God turned my head with when I saw and sat with a waterfall was power rushing down.  Immediately I recognized what in my life needed to see this about God and His ability, quickness and willingness to extend grace.  Someone I loved deeply had much hurt at the time, and I had become fearful and worried.   The waterfall was a display of God's rushing-down-from-above power and love pouring onto His children. I wrestled with Him a bit during my break.  "If you can reach down this powerfully, surely, surely you can reach the one for whom I am praying.  Please, God, please reach her.  Reach me.  Pour over me, dislodging the fear and doubt in my heart."

2)  The bigness of the mountain.  Inclines have always been strenuous for me, and I imagine they always will be.  Yet each time I am climbing toward a peak or a pass, I am surprised by my struggle.  Springy, shiny-faced, eager hikers in magazine pictures look nothing like how I feel while ascending.  I walk with heavy steps and an even heavier-with-condemnation heart for how strong I think I should be.  As I slogged toward Glen Pass, the highest point on Rae Lakes Loop, a thought floated by I knew I needed to hang on to:  The mountain is much bigger than I.  Of course it's hard to climb!  The word "yield" was threaded into this new thought.  Hm.  What would it be like to yield to the truth that I am way smaller than the huge mountain?  Can I rest into and accept rather than reject my own limitations?  Something in me immediately flipped.  "Big mountain, little tiny me -- of course it's difficult!"  I said to myself.  I became more able to rely on God's strength somehow by embracing my own weakness.  

Post-hike as I navigate through illness, through seemingly impossible days at work, through relationships needing healing, I remember what was revealed during the steep mountain climb.  Yes, this problem, like the mountain, is much bigger than I. Of course it's hard; of course I'm tired and in need of rest and strength.   

3)  The kindness of my husband.  On night one we arrived at our first backpacking campsite with a greeting from a bare-bellied wet man who'd just come out of the river.  His name was Roy.  Roy and his two buddies, Lou and Brian, had hiked the loop every year for decades.  His grandfather used to ride a mule over the pass in the early 1900s.  We knew much about gregarious Roy before our tent was even set up.  Our journey intersected with this team of hikers many times after this first introduction.  Roy actually hiked slower than I did, and I stayed back with him while he took many rests while approaching the trail's highest point:  Glen Pass.  Remember, this is where I'd just learned to yield to the truth that I am so much smaller than the mountain.  He introduced me to some yummy energy chews as I sat with him while he caught his breath. 

Back to the kindness of my husband.  We stood in victory at almost 12,000 feet above sea level on a narrow, high, rocky pass taking turns photographing each other in this glorious moment, when Lou took a misstep and fell onto a sharp rock, splitting his knee open. Without pause Brent came to his aid, providing water, gauze, bandages.  Ignoring the expansive view of High Sierra ridges he'd worked so hard to see, setting down his binoculars and focusing on the need of another, he with tenderness and skill attended to Lou. In this act, I saw God's kindness and eagerness to care for me.  

I love thinking back to how God let me see this part of Him in my husband's actions.  When I am hurting or praying for someone who is hurting, He often brings to mind the picture He provided which expressed so clearly His kindness.

There have been situations following that summer hike where it was clear God had gone before me and had seen what I would need to get through what lay ahead -- times I specifically needed assurance of His reaching power, times I would need to accept a difficult, way-beyond-my-abilities situation and times I needed to depend on His attentive kindness.

Five days, forty-two miles, one bear (yes, really!)
and three truths
still changing me.

Diane Mann, 2015

Treasures from the Trail, Part 5 - A Word About Vanity

Morning Instant Oatmeal Feast

This whole backpacking-with-my-husband thing has been a gift on countless levels, really.  One of the treasures our times have contained is most surprising to me.  When Brent and I vacation staying in hotels, I can get caught up in what I look like.  Do I look cute? feel cute? am I cute?  Are my earrings matching (hopefully they're matching each other, but I mean are they matching my outfit)?  And I pack many shoes to wear just the right ones with each set of clothes.

He and I have discussed how backpacking is a fast in many ways:   a fast from our soft bed, running water, fresh food, appliances, icy cold drinks, electronics.  On the list goes.  For me it is also a fast, a retreat, from the need to look darling.

It's not that I haven't tried.  Sensing my desire to appear and feel more feminine on the trail, I ordered hiking skorts.   I researched to find a great price and read all 53 reviews about the item of clothing I ordered that promised to be functional and, well, frankly, adorable.  Next was the trail test, where I wore them on a local overnighter to see whether they'd make the cut to bring to our big hike in the Sierras.  Portrayed as feminine, functional, water resistant, bug proof, SPF 50 rated and great fitting,  how could this item of clothing be resisted?  However, In all 53 descriptions of how this skirt-short combination changed women's lives for the better, no one mentioned that with each step my thighs would be saying, "Pardon me, excuse me," to each other!  REI takes returns for any reason.  Reason?  Um, my thighs rubbed together?  "They didn't work for me," was my explanation to the sales associate as I slid the unwanted skorts across the counter towards her.

I share this to say that, while I still struggle some with vanity, I've experienced much freedom as well.  Farthest from my mind now is, what is Brent thinking of how I look or am I feeling pretty?  I get so bamboozled with the beauty around me, what God is doing in me and focus on the steps and the exertion, the life inside me that my eyes and attention are off of my appearance.  Early on in our trail adventures, what  became apparent to me is that much of the fun we enjoy together on these journeys is due to my not having room to pack my vanity.  I am traveling lighter!

Can anyone think of a caption for this picture?

Admittedly, I delete some pictures I see when we get home.  Sometimes I see one and let out a big, "Whoa!"  But I'm caring less.  The  bad pics don't sear their images on my mind or taunt me like they used to.  A friend was talking with me about what she was going to wear on a trip to the East Coast this fall, and she said she was feeling drawn to packing more simply and not being so caught up in what she wore.  I encouraged her and pulled out my phone and brought up these puffy-eyed photos I'm sharing,  telling her I was going to write about this subject, and she reacted with a sincerely concerned look, asking, "You're not going to show anyone those, are you?"

Well, yeah, I think I will!  Thanks for the idea.

I never realized just how self-occupied with my own looks I was until I fasted from my primping.  If my thoughts of how my own attractiveness or lack thereof are not on the front burner of my mind, there's more space to focus on enjoying my husband, together unwrapping this tremendous gift the Giver of all good things has presented to us.

Curious, Indeed!

"I found the cabinet I've been looking for!" my friend Sheryl exclaimed to me a few days ago." And guess what? It even has a light in it!" Today I rode with her to a furniture store to pick up her new curio cabinet, a place to display her Precious Moments figurines and various items of beauty and value that she owns.

What does a person display? That which he is wants to hide? Commonplace items? No. He displays that which is precious to him: pictures, heirlooms, objects of meaning, items of value. Look in a person's curio cabinet, and you can find out more about what he values.

In a jewelry store beautiful gems and metals are displayed on blackdrops of black velvet with just the right light shining on them so beautifully that their splendor is brilliantly displayed.

I read in Isaiah that as we trade our ashes for beauty, our mourning for gladness, and our despair for praise, we then display the splendor of God.

Somehow -- and I do mean somehow because it remains a mystery to me -- as we trade the ickiness of our lives for all that God offers us, we become a display of how amazing He is. God puts me on display to show the world His goodness, power, beauty and love. Against the backdrop of the darker times in my life but sitting in the light of Who He is, His glory is revealed.

As He shows Himself to me, He then shows Himself through me. His glory is a revealing of Himself. To me. Through me.

To be cherished by God. Precious to Him. Reflective of Him. Even a way to point others to Him. It's all so curious to me.

Lord, Thank you for the beautiful exchange you offer! My ashes for a crown of beauty, my mourning for Your gladness, my utter despair for Your praise! And the result of it all, bringing You glory. That You would bless me and use me in such a way is so beyond me. Nowhere-near-ordinary You, God, can take what is common and make it into something splendid. Keep doing that in my life as I keep seeking You. I will keep looking to You so that any beauty I display is a reflection of Your magnificence and not something I try to create on my own.

"... and provide for those who grieve in Zion-- to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendor." Isa 61:3(b), NIV