by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

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The last few weeks I’ve spent the better part of my days out at the family farm near where my parents live. It’s deer season until the end of January, and I grew up hunting with my Dad, so that’s what’s on my mind lately. Honestly, I didn’t exactly relish deer hunting as a kid. I wanted to be with my Dad, but as a wriggling eight-year-old boy, I didn’t get particularly excited about being set in the woods and expected to sit there alone and perfectly still for, on average, three hours. Also, my Dad was pretty gung-ho about hunting back then, and so we were usually up and in the woods well before sunrise.

And it was usually very cold. I could never get warm enough. Now, as you can imagine, that made sitting still that much harder. Shivering and wiggling were means of survival in the midst of a long, chilly morning, I reasoned. Being just a young’un, I didn’t yet partake of a morning cup of coffee, so I’d also get really sleepy on the deer stand a lot of mornings.  

One of the only times growing up that I actually saw a buck of any size, was when it woke me up from a nap. I had climbed down from the twelve foot high ladder stand to sleep a while on the ground. Better to interrupt a hunt with a nap, than snooze your way off the side of a high platform and wake up dead. At any rate, I woke up on the ground eventually, with a big eight-point buck just a few feet away inspecting the strange creature he’d discovered laid out at the base of a tree. I gasped upon waking and startled the big fella, and we both froze for a moment. I don’t know what he was thinking. I was thinking, “can I get to my gun?” But it was a few feet away leaned against a tree. No chance. As soon as I moved, the buck darted away. I don’t remember if I told anybody about that until much later. I’d fallen asleep on the job, and, almost to rub it in, a prize buck had stopped by to make sure I knew it.  

You may think, if you’ve played any deer-themed video games or watched a hunting show, that deer hunting is action-packed. You may be under the impression that the woods are positively crammed with the critters. The truth of deer-hunting is that it is wonderfully boring. It mostly consists of sitting incredibly still, totally silent, for a very long time, while nothing much happens. You begin to memorize the trees. Your eyes catalogue every twig that looked like a deer for a few seconds, but wasn’t. Your mind marks every twitch of a leaf that wasn’t, in fact, a deer’s ear or tail, and learns, over time, to disregard the sound of all two-hundred deer footsteps that wound up just being squirrels dashing through leaves or birds hopping across the forest floor. It takes a long time to learn that you almost never hear a deer coming. In fact, you almost never see the coming either. Deer don’t walk up, they materialize. They are silent forest shadows creeping warily across tree trunks, just darkening the world around them enough to graze the eye.  

I hunted for six-and-a-half hours in one day. I saw one bobcat. I memorized a lot of trees. But every hunter knows that most deer encounters last a few seconds. It’s like waiting hours in line for the rollercoaster, and, when those few seconds finally arrive, I’m not exaggerating when I say that the feeling is the same. I cannot explain why the human heart beats like it does when shadow-buck materializes out of nowhere in the woods, like this creature slipped through some fairy-portal that happened at that moment to criss-cross our dimension. I can’t explain how impossible it is to slow your breathing, keep your hands from shaking (even twenty minutes after the deer has vanished again). I also can’t quite explain why you want to kill something so clearly majestic and gentle. But, for whatever reason, you do. You feel like, if I could just stop that thing in its tracks, I could get at that beautiful magic—hold onto it somehow.  

They call it buck-fever. It’s enough of a rush to keep you coming back to sit painfully still for ridiculously long amounts of time, in extreme discomfort. You go hunting for that. You go hunting for the pulse-pound so loud only the crash of a gun can out-boom it.  

But, truth is, you also go for the stillness and the quiet, which is 99.9% of what hunting is. For instance, I’ve hunted entire seasons and not killed anything. In fact, seen almost nothing. And, I have grown to love the very things that, as a child, frustrated me. Sometimes I actually enjoy getting up that early and climbing a tree stand before the sun is even up. It can be kind of game to slip through the woods as quietly as you can. And I have developed a taste for sitting as still as I can and memorizing trees for three hours at a time. I never would have thought that could be the case. 

It’s only been in the last year or two that I decided to buy a few trail cameras to leave out at the farm. They’ve got fancy ones that’ll send instant videos to your cell phone anytime a deer passes by, but I bought a couple of the cheapest, simplest ones I could find. Now, it’s part of my schedule to go switch out the SD cards on the trail cams, come home, and check for deer videos. It’s like Christmas morning, y’all. You never know what may have walked past in the last week or two! A pair of racoons waddling by? A coyote startled by the infrared lights? A big buck? A brand new fawn barely getting his legs under him? There is a whole world going on that would otherwise go unseen, but there’s a tiny portion of the forest where the goings-on of that secret world are whispered. 

Your whole life your own two eyes may only be able to see a tiny portion of the good that’s going on in this world. Buechner famously said that, “what’s lost is nothing to what’s found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.”  

From the deer stand I can hear the jets overhead and some big motor rumble down the gravel road not far off. There are horrible things going on in the world. Things that keep me from sleeping some nights. But they won’t amount to anything in the end. I am hunting for the things that will. I am out in the long stillness picking out the slender trail of the quiet, enduring things. Up before daylight, keeping watch in the cold for the dawn that may bring a longed-for glimpse of the Forest King with his spreading crown, as he steps from another world into this one. 

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by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

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I’ve been trying to get the grease out from under my fingernails for a few days. There have been hours spent researching to find just the right parts, scouring youtube for videos on how to fix this or that axle carrier, install a new carburetor, or what size spark plug socket to use on this 1986 Honda four-wheeler. It surprises me sometimes, but I can get delightfully lost in these details. My brother called it detective work. Restoring an old machine takes some sleuthing to see if you can puzzle out all the components to bring a rusty old farm implement back to life after years and years of neglect. 

I was telling my sister, Angela, a few days ago that I have a very specific memory of clinging to her as she drove this four wheeler around a pasture when my Dad and Uncle first purchased it. I wanted to drive it so badly, but I wasn’t allowed. I was only six. However, my older sister was eleven and I could ride behind her as long as my Dad could see us. This past week, as I’ve been working on the old rust-bucket, I can see that field where Angela and I rode the gleaming new vehicle back then, except, it’s not a field at all. No, not anymore. It’s a stand of pine trees, nearly fully grown now. I can see the tall, golden grasses waving in my memory, where now pines stand straight and tall. Back then, I dreamed of the day when I’d finally be old enough to ride this thing all by myself. 

About this time last year, I saw the old four wheeler languishing in the pole barn out at the farm. I’m not sure when it had last been cranked. The airless tires drooped like melted wax, mud and rust mingled to cover the frame, and the seat cracked and peeled like gray paint curling on an abandoned shack. The red plastic body had faded to dullness over the years. I felt sorry for it. But more than that, I felt like it was some piece of my childhood, some old joy and combustion that no one had tended to for such a long time that it was slowly decaying into nothing. If something weren’t done about it, it would be irretrievable before much longer. The question arose in my mind, was it already too late?  

That set me to researching. I discovered that this particular model of fourwheeler (A 1986 Honda Fourtrax 250) had, in its day, been a fine machine. I was surprised to find more than a few folks on youtube excited to get their hands on one in order to fix it up. Could it be that this old thing was somewhat prized? I hadn’t expected that. So far so good. I had a good machine — good material to work with, it seemed. I guess that, because of that, I was able to find a good bit of information on it, and, what’s better, it wouldn’t be too difficult to find parts for the repairs. 

But then, I got busy with other projects. The last book of the Well Trilogy was wrapping up, and the launch process needed attention. I put a bookmark in the story of reclaiming the old fourwheeler, and set it aside, where a stack of other books inevitably piled on top of it. On went the year, I was away from home for most of the second half, gone all of July overseas, home for three weeks in August, before spending the rest of the Fall on the road touring with the songs and stories of The Well Trilogy. When this December rolled around, I was out at the farm again, and there it was: the lifeless old thing—tired and forgotten. 

It would feel so good to hear that thing crank up again after all these years. How fun would it be to ride the old paths through these woods again? The ones that I haven’t even ventured upon since this thing broke down? To crash through some mud-puddle like a rain-tromping toddler, to weave through the acres, get to know this place better. It was just a week ago as I was pulling the old, gummed-up carburetor from the heart of the machine to transplant a new one, that the word reclamation popped into my mind. Entropy is always groping at our hearts. The long lazy slump of decay, disregard, and carelessness seems to never tire of letting the air seep slowly from the tires. Here’s this old thing that used to boom with ignition, spin out on the turf with a kind of eager combustion, like a horse eager to run the race.  

Is it too late to pay attention to that old liveliness? To see where the rust has crept into the bones, and to fight back with a little axle grease, and TLC? For me, working on this fourwheeler feels like a way of practicing another kind of regard, another kind of healing maintenance. It’s a work of hands-on reclamation. A choice to be a present, deliberate participant in not giving up to the easy deflation of life through the pin-holes evil quietly pokes through the tires. To keep caring. To keep believing that life, hope, joy, and love are ultimate and indestructible realities. However, they are not automatic or passive realities. They are living, relational realities that depend on patience, trust, and persevering in the ongoing and vulnerable work of repair and maintenance. 

Ultimately though, it is God’s regard, his hands-on care that will accomplish the grand work of reclamation in us and in this world. He has not forgotten us like old farm implements crumbling in the corner of some derelict barn. He has big plans for this little plot of earth, and there is a plot to earth—a story, a frame, under all this rust and decay.  

When the long-exiled Israelites returned to their homeland under the leadership of Ezra and Nehemiah, the whole place was a hopeless ruin, and the state of the land mirrored the people’s broken down hearts. I’ve always thought it was interesting that the way to reclaim the people was to fix up the place. They got to work, stacked the stones, patched up the walls, put a fresh coat of paint here and there. For me, it’s been changing the oil, putting fresh tires on, a new carburetor, greasing the joints. It’s messy work, but, strange as it may sound, it sparks something deep in me to work at it. And, it’s hard to explain how good it felt, after years and years of absence, to hear the raucous old joy of the engine’s rumble when it finally cranked again a few days ago. I was a little boy out on his daddy’s farm, eager to hit the trail. 

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by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

Jonathan Koefoed is Associate Professor of History and Director of the Honors Program at Belhaven University, where he teaches courses in American history and the history of thought. He is particularly interested in the dynamic relationship between ideas, their historical context, and the way that any historical idea or author can illuminate the ubiquitous human quest for a good life. His previous intellectual journey involved postdoctoral work at the University of Texas at Austin, a PhD in History from Boston University, an MA in Historical Theology from Saint Louis University, and a BA in Philosophy and History from Arizona State University. His scholarly research focuses on transatlantic intellectual history, particularly the romantic movement and its influence on US thought and culture. His articles have appeared in Symbiosis: A Journal of Anglo-American Literary Relations and Religions, and his reviews have appeared in such journals as the Journal of Transatlantic Studies and American Nineteenth Century History.

By The Rivers of Babylon

by Matthew Clark

The endless voices whisper,

all our hopes are only dreams

No Deliverer is coming,

that we are blind in our belief 

but in the land where we all sojourn,

with its beauty and its ash

I will sing still for the Kingdom

and a King who’s coming back 

CHORUS

by the rivers of Babylon 

we will sing a gospel song in a foreign land

While the nations all are raging,

hear the Lord in heaven laugh 

we will stand upon his promise,

the ways of men will never last, 

and like a seed is to a tree,

in the twinkling of an eye 

we will see the heavens open,

we will meet him in the sky

CHORUS

BRIDGE

there will be no word for lonely

In the Kingdom Jesus brings

Every fear shall be forgotten 

and all will be made clean

all the merciful will know him 

The pure will touch his face

See the children bear his banner 

and the slandered share his name

Soon the river of our exile 

Will become a holy spring 

While the bent tree with its bitter fruit 

It will never grow again 

Now, the face that showed us kindness 

Met our thirst by Jacob’s well 

He will clothe us in his garments 

He will marry us himself

©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP)

The post S5:E17 – A Tale of Two Trees: Jonathan Koefoed, “Moonlight in the Desert: Singing the Sojourner’s Song” appeared first on Matthew Clark.

by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

Susan Cowger is the author of a poetry collection, Slender Warble (Wipf & Stock/Cascade, 2020), and a chapbook, Scarab Hiding (Finishing Line Press, year 2006). Founder and editor emeritus of Rock & Sling, her most recent publications include Ekphrastic Review, Windhover, Perspectives, Crux, McGuffin, Presence, and In A Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (2019). She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Eastern Washington University and her BA in Art with teaching credentials from Montana State University. Married to Dana for forty-seven years, she has four children and twenty-two grandchildren. (I know, she finds this rather shocking too.) Contact her on Facebook and at susancowger.com.

In the Waters

by Matthew Clark

I was scared for my life 

Saw the ship was capsizing 

And the Lord lay asleep while the storm raged 

I was losing my mind 

All the darkness was blinding 

Till the Lord with a word stilled the chaos 

In the waters, in the waters 

I’ve seen life go so wrong 

Seen the best sink in sadness 

Till the dark seemed their only companion

But I’ve seen Jesus come save

Walking out upon the waves 

With his feet planted firm in the madness  

In the waters, in the waters 

Interlude 

And some days nothing makes sense  

Lord, the still place is spinning 

And the center can’t hold for much longer 

So won’t you bring us your song 

As the howling grows stronger 

Your voice is an anchor, Your voice is an anchor, Your voice is an anchor to me

In the waters, in the waters 

BRIDGE

I can hear it, I can hear it, I can hear it coming through 

Through the storm, through the darkness (I can hear it coming through)

In the places I was sure your love had left me 

Every night I was sleepless 

But the beauty of the moonlight was you singing 

When the flames tore the house down

There were friends who became my home and family 

So I know you will not fail 

That your love, my God, endures forever 

©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP)

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by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

Anita K. Palmer has always turned to pen and paper to figure out what she thinks, feels, and believes. That propensity launched a career when she fell into editing a Christian publication, which—unrelated to her hiring—soon went to magazine heaven. The experience failed to squelch an appetite for editorial work that included thirteen years in daily newspapers and five as a university media relations officer. For two decades she has worked with publishers and individuals on upward of 125 nonfiction books, and has written more web content, blog posts, newsletters and marketing materials than she cares to count. Born and reared in Southern California, she now lives in Colorado. She is blessed with many dear friends and one kind and brilliant adult son.

Take to the Fields 

by Matthew Clark

I saw a man with a bleeding heart 

A bleeding heart 

Ragged as the wind, eager to begin 

Oh, his eyes they were clear as gold 

Searching out the crags  

Tender, strong and sad 

Gave up all he had, left his home behind him 

Gone a-seeking 

CHORUS

If you got eyes to see

Come keep watch with me 

If you got ears to hear 

I pray you know 

The Lord is near

I saw a house full of shepherds in repose 

Moths ate off their clothes 

All naked emperors, wrapped in soothing words 

But you skinned your knees when you slid to break my fall 

I howled up at the moon 

When the salt got in the wound, the fire licked my tomb 

And fire rolled like water there to cleanse me 

So take to the fields, oh take to the roads 

Wonder at the thorns that bite into the rose 

Cut down to the bones

Take your pail and gather where you can 

The field is ripe with grain, and scattered sheep like sand 

Too little callous on my hands, there is mercy on the wind 

If you can hear it 

©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP)

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by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

Amber Salladin is a conductor, pianist, worship leader, singer, organist, and educator based in Manhattan, New York. Amber has worked in churches and for professional choruses in Vancouver, Canada, and London, UK. She is the Music Director at Emmanuel Anglican Church, Arts and Ministry Director for the C. S. Lewis Foundation, Music Teacher at Geneva School of Manhattan, conductor of the Academy for Teachers Chorus, Online Leader for United Adoration, and Principal Pianist and Board Member of the New York Session Symphony. She lives in Manhattan with her husband, Jim and their two boys Caleb (boy soprano) and Peter (future electric guitarist).

The Word Became Flesh

by Matthew Clark

Driving up to Memphis 

A bitter winter night it was 

When my engine froze to death 

And I called you from the roadside 

You left your bed and drove the miles to find me

The frozen street turned into home with family

CHORUS

The Word, the word, the word … became flesh 

I sat down at your table 

And the plate you set before me 

In your small apartment kitchen 

Was a simple meal you made 

But the bread we broke flung wide the palace doors 

And I tasted of the goodness of the Lord

BRIDGE

What you’ve got to give is what he gave to you 

Like a still small voice, it may not seem like it’s enough 

But you can let the song ring out in a wilderness of doubt

Ever since the word became flesh  

God he opened up his mouth 

The sun rose bright as a golden ring 

When he knelt to say ‘I love you’ 

A bride awoke to sing  

Don’t think your voice too poor to join the song 

The smallest touch moves symphonies along

©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP)

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by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

Lancia E. Smith is an author, photographer, teacher, and business owner. She’s the Founder and Executive Director of Cultivating Magazine and its discipleship and creative team, The Cultivating Project. She has served in executive management, church leadership, school boards, and art and faith organizations for over thirty years. A recovering addict herself with more than forty years of sobriety, Lancia has done extensive support counseling. Her defining life focus is discipleship, expressed through mentoring, nurturing, and teaching. Lancia and her husband Peter make their home in the Black Forest of Colorado Springs. 

Let your roots go deep

Sit with me and talk awhile,

Here while there’s a quiet hour 

We’ll whisper with these witnesses,

These steady stars 

Who shine out in the universe,

Marking out this path of ours 

That only faith has eyes to see,

That ends in joy

CHORUS 

Oh, let your roots grow deep

Is the word of truth you heard

beginning to grow faint? 

Let your roots grow deep,

Let your roots grow deep 

Don’t give up the fight just yet,

Fix your eyes on Christ and 

Let your roots grow deep,

Let your roots grow deep  

Drink deep from the Holy Fount,

Whom angels praise and heaven crowns

He washes weary pilgrim feet

with Riversong 

And even though this riverbed

does not bear a river yet 

These trees that grow know underground,

Deep waters wait 

CHORUS 

The Kingdom that we see ahead, t

he joy of our inheritance 

Is built upon a Cornerstone

the world rejects

So, if today you hear his voice,

Still and small amidst the noise 

Don’t miss the call to fall into,

His open arms

BRIDGE 

Oh, let your roots go deep

©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP)

The post S5:E13 – A Tale of Two Trees: Lancia E. Smith, “Reaching for the Unseen” appeared first on Matthew Clark.

by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

John Barnts wishes he could spend all his time reading, writing, and talking about interesting things. Unfortunately, books cost money, and words are hard to sell, so he spends most of his time playing piano for schools and churches, and working as a case manager in a local Drug Court program in Madison, Mississippi. John and his family moved to Mississippi in 2011 to attend seminary, which led to five glorious years of teaching the Bible at the college level. Before Mississippi, he spent twelve years at a private K-12 in Los Angeles as a music teacher and administrator. He is currently working on a non-fiction book project, teaches a couple of home Bible studies, and makes short theological videos with his son on YouTube called Barnts in the Belfry.    

Follow You Down

by Matthew Clark

Whoever would lose their life 

They will save it 

CHORUS 

I wanna be in your story, Jesus

I wanna follow you down, down, down

Whoever would save their life 

They will lose it 

BRIDGE
Your love is teaching me a new story 

©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP)

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by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

Jason Smith serves on the board of An Unexpected Journal, as a strategist for the C. S. Lewis Foundation, and as the senior editor for acquisitions and development at Wootton Major Publishing. In his spare time, he works a day job as a marketing director for a medical device engineering firm, where he writes about fun things like FDA regulations and embedded cybersecurity. As J. Aleksandr Wootton, he is the pseudonymous author of the much-loved young adult fantasy series Fayborn and reviews every book he reads at www.goodreads.com/mrwootton.

When I Cried Out (Psalm 40)

by Matthew Clark

When I cried out from the pit that I had dug

His song burst past the dead end grave

Isaiah’s burning ember came and kissed me on the mouth

And I knew there was still music to be made

CHORUS

After all that I’ve seen, I cannot seal my lips

Even when my heart fails within me, 

For the Lord did not hide, no, he listened in his mercy

And his song of lovingkindness still persists 

Though I do not understand it, I am standing on this 

All my troubles when they swelled into a crowd 

The shame of failures too many to count 

Then I whispered through the tangle, and you looked me in the eyes

I found quiet that sang louder than those lies 

CHORUS

BRIDGE

I thought I had to climb that holy hill to twist your arm 

But when you bent to wash my feet,  I knew that I’d been wrong 

CHORUS 

© 2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP)

The post S5:E11 – A Tale of Two Trees: Jason Smith, “The Power and the Pit” appeared first on Matthew Clark.

by Matthew Clark | One Thousand Words

Steven Elmore is the President of the C.S. Lewis Foundation. He has over 20 years of experience working at nonprofit organizations and educational institutions, including serving as a community college adjunct professor (English composition), software instructor (basic to advanced MS Office), GED instructor (science, history), test preparation tutor, and in a wide range of office management and administration roles. His specific skill sets include event management, teaching/training, team leadership, program management, writing, communications strategy, strategic planning, and computer technology. He is also a writer for Cultivating Magazine.

Like A Lamb

by Matthew Clark

Fear and pride are just two sides, friend 

Of Caesar’s tarnished penny 

Quietness and rest belong to God 

But who hasn’t studied warfare 

On the battlefield of life here 

Perfecting self-defense just to survive? 

You know how good it feels, love 

To scratch the itch of anger 

But complaining only chains us up inside

Feels like safety and power 

In a world so full of danger 

It feels like danger to be grateful, small, and quiet 

CHORUS

But Oh, I see the Mighty Word of God

Go silent to the slaughter like a Lamb

Oh, I hear the voices of the crowd 

Grow louder as the buried kernel’s roots descend  

Cause the roots beneath the surface 

Search and listen for a music 

That is and was and will be evermore 

Like an acorn to an oak tree 

Who would ever think it could be 

That those little lambs might ever rule the world 

But the meek will spread their branches 

Above the clamour of the nations 

The sons of God will rest beneath their shade 

And the politics of power  

That seemed so strong until that hour 

Will fall into the traps their power laid  

CHORUS 

BRIDGE

Nobody’s free from hardship 

And the briers in the garden 

Can push their way so deeply down inside 

Till what started out so tender 

Is choked out by the winter 

And gentleness don’t have a chance to flower 

But don’t let your love grow cold, dear 

or buy the lies they’ve sold here 

For the fools of God will fiddle on the roof 

All their lives they were the punchline 

Now their laughing faces outshine 

Every image Caesar thought would get him through 

©2023 Matthew Clark, Path in the Pines Music (ASCAP)

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