Written by: Ed Chinn

Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy

On the last day of our Kansas visit in 2019, I dropped by Mom’s assisted living room to tell her goodbye; we were driving back to Tennessee.

Her move from her home to assisted living had not gone well, and she decided this was the time to let me have it. Of course it was. She knew this might be the last time we would see each other.

As soon as I sat down, she asked me, her firstborn, “Why am I here?”

And I heard myself say, “Because your personal care needs have grown beyond what your family can provide.”

I instantly hated the way those words felt in my mouth. Like marbles—too smooth. Accurate, but too sleek. Cold, unreal, evasive. They gave me power and protection while leaving her little space or grace.

She kept going, her eyes like lasers. “Your daddy and I built our home. It’s right over there (she pointed). It’s paid for; it’s mine. Why can’t I just go home?”

I wanted to throw up. I could see that she had been suffocating under a blanket of reasonable, dehumanizing logic: What happened to my life? Why am I held captive so near my home? Why am I spending $5,000 a month for this 340-square-foot box when my home costs me nothing?

“Mom, I wish you could go home, but you can’t take care of yourself.”

“I know, Ed—” she broke. “BUT MY SONS … DON’T WANT ME!”

There it was.

I couldn’t imagine what it cost her to face that reality, much less say it aloud. Everything in me protested. Her three sons and daughters-in-law did want her. We deeply loved her. No one carried unresolved mommy stuff. Vernon and Betty had cared for her long and sacrificially from their home next door. Carl and Deana had invited Mom to live with them in Colorado.

And yet, in the way that mattered most to her in that moment, she was right.

Our lives, our homes, our patterns of living—our own aging selves—could not absorb the disruption of a 96-year-old woman with serious health needs.

Her wet, pleading eyes searched my face. Was she looking for some spark of hope, some evidence that the Christ lived in me?

Then, dreading the moment and feeling the pressure to get on the road, I stood.

“Mom, I love you so much. But we have to go.” As I hugged her, my own emotions seemed to give me permission to leave.

But she wouldn’t let go that easily. She escorted me out of her room, down the hall, down the elevator, and right out the front door. As I approached my car, she began to sob into my chest.

After holding her for a few minutes, I said, “Come on, Mom. We don’t live here. We have to go home.”

“I know,” she wept as she studied her feet.

And suddenly I saw the child she had once been in rural Missouri, frightened and crying because the road had washed out, the water kept rising, and Daddy was gone.

Now the road had washed out again. She had no path forward.

In the end, she seemed like a frightened citizen in an occupied country. She did not understand all the noises from the street, why strangers entered her room day and night, or why they sometimes spoke to her in the language of schedules, medications, rules, and routines. I know; they had work to do.

“The poor plead for mercy, but the rich answer harshly.”

(Proverbs 18:23)

Harsh answers are often the language of people who must make things work. They keep the schedule, enforce the rules, solve the problems, get everyone back on the road. Sometimes they are even correct.

But correct answers can so easily and so often wound.

Older, poorer, weaker, sadder, sicker people understand this. But when so much has already been taken from them, what they may need most is not another explanation of the way things must be, but a little tenderness in the midst of the way things are.

Isaiah imagined such tenderness when he wrote of One who “will not cry out or raise his voice, who will not break a bruised reed or extinguish a dimly burning wick, but will bring justice to those who have been wronged.”

In her death four months later, that was the world Mom entered, a world where bruised reeds are handled gently and no one has to plead for mercy.

As I get closer to the place where Mom once stood, the distance between the two of us has grown strangely short. Things I once understood from the fortress of the strong, I now glimpse from the camp of the aging.

Now I understand these famous words from George Washington Carver are not philosophical; they are a warning:

“How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life you will have been all of these.”

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No matter what you think of Los Angeles or San Francisco, the Sierra Nevada, the Central Coast, the Mojave Desert, and a few other places all carry a certain vibe—Kalifornia Kool.

But in the broad sweep of the Central Valley, where two rivers meet, sits Sacramento, the state capital.

There’s just not much Kool in Sacramento.

Flat as a tortilla, Sacramento is intensely hot in summer. Wildfires threaten the region year-round. And for such a vast state, its Capitol building seems undernourished and underwhelming—a California raisin instead of a plump, proud grape.

Drowsing on the banks of the Sacramento River, downtown Sacramento drifts toward its nighttime slumber. Thin trickles of departing shoppers abandon the outdoor mall.

As Sacramento pulls on its pajamas for the night, I head toward my hotel. Rounding a corner near a closing shop, I nearly collide with a street busker packing up. He wears a top hat, a long-tailed formal coat, a white frilled shirt, and a red cummerbund. He is stuffing his white clown mask into a blue Walmart shopping bag.

“Whoops! Sorry I missed your performance. Finished for the day?” I ask.

“Well, no, not if you want to hear me sing! Sure! I’ll stay!”

His hands tremble as he quickly reverses his packing-up routine. I wonder if I am the only audience he has had all day. He fumbles with a tiny amplifier, trying to switch it on.

In his left hand, he clutches a miniature cassette player. In his right, he holds a microphone pressed close to his mouth. The effort proves futile. His singing bears no discernible relationship to the cassette player’s tinny output. Is he three bars ahead, or four bars behind? Or perhaps, tone-deaf, he is simply guessing, tossing a note here, a note there—surely one of them will land.

He warbles through the lyrics, “What’s she doing now?”

The plaintive song reflects upon a precious, long-lost relationship, wondering where she is now and what has become of her.

How appropriate, I think. Where has this costumed busker been, and what will become of him?

Despite the cacophony and his lack of talent, some inner magnet draws me in and keeps me listening. His face is far kinder and brighter than his voice deserves. A hopeful expression elevates his presence. Somehow, his soul seems lifted above his circumstances.

He stares directly at me. Then, after his ten-minute caterwaul, I realize the obvious. He’s attempting to earn a tip from his audience—me.

I clandestinely dig through my wallet.

Nope. No one-dollar bills. No five-dollar bills. Only one solitary bill—a twenty.

I catch my breath. Too late now. He saw me digging.

A twenty? I can’t give that much to a stranger. Would my generous gift encourage this hopeless musical wannabe? Worse, what about the drugs he might buy? The booze? Would I be promoting a derelict lifestyle?

I do it. I swiftly fold a sharp crease across Andrew Jackson’s face and stuff the bill into the singer’s hand. Then I step back quickly, as if it never happened.

He steps uncomfortably close. The lines on his face seem to melt away, his anxiety thawing.

“Thank you!” he exclaims, stunned to be holding a twenty-dollar bill. He looks from the bill to me and grins, gap-toothed.

“This is all I’ve earned today—and nobody has ever given me twenty dollars! Now I’ll buy some food because, you know, a friend is letting me sleep on his couch for a few nights. I’m so happy. Thank you! God bless!”

I stand beside him as he packed up.

“I won’t forget this…” he declares.

Then he turns and walks away, dragging his amplifier and blue Walmart bag behind him.

Each time I hear that song, I still wonder “What’s he doing now?”

That evening, I gave away more than a twenty-dollar bill. My tight fist opened, and my hard heart opened with it.

Ever since, I carry an extra Andrew Jackson twenty-dollar bill in my wallet and gently turn up the volume of my heart.

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Growing up under the wide Colorado sky, our family often watched the sun set behind the Rockies, casting pinks, oranges, and reds through our living room window. And every morning, the sunrise announced a new day to our castle. From our seats in that cosmic theater, we also watched storms roll from the west to east across our north horizon. Thunderclouds built and rumbled, taunting us with the possibility of rain.

On one of those occasions, when my parents, my brother Christopher, and I stood marveling at a rainbow, Mom said, “Let’s go find the end of it!” We were old enough to know the pursuit would be in vain. But, with no voiced opposition, we loaded into the car and headed east.

I remember sensations of hope, wonder, and stubborn optimism that sparked through my head. What if?

What if C.S. Lewis was onto something, and we were about to enter another world? What if this turned out to be the grand adventure, the one that changed us in such a way that we would return from our journey as kings and queens? What if we found the pot of gold?

Eventually, the sun set and we returned home. A brief adventure that concluded with the mundane rhythms of brushing teeth and going to bed. That was okay. It was never really about the rainbow anyway, but about child-like faith and wonder. I rested in deep satisfaction, with no need to touch the spectrum in the sky. The light of possibility had been enough for my soul.

Years later, Mom and Dad drove me to California so I could chase another rainbow, an acting career. I had no degree and no guarantees. But I had parents who believed, smiled at the future, and sang old country songs through the arid lands of Utah, Nevada, and onto the Los Angeles freeways. They gave full support to my dream. For my brief California sojourn, I lived on two part-time jobs and the healthy dose of faith my parents deposited in me. But like the certainty of the setting sun, a low minimum wage and high gas prices brought an end to my time on the West Coast. Mom came and helped me drive back home. Just like the unsuccessful pursuit of the rainbow, my hopes didn’t die when the Hollywood sign shrank in my rearview mirror. It was fun while it lasted. But it was time to look towards something else.

As we drove, my heart sorted the details. Maybe life doesn’t have to be filled with awards and accomplishments. Attaining wealth, promotions, fame, new furniture…they are all things that happen ‘out there.’ I don’t have to touch every shiny thing. Can I walk through boring days without facing an existential crisis?

I’m still reaching for something greater, believing that one day I will be lifted into those arms that stretched rainbows across the sky and spun my dreams into existence. Meanwhile, I’d rather live on faith that sings through the dry places than give up on chasing possibilities.

I didn’t find the end of the rainbow, but I did find the role of a lifetime—right in my home. Rainbows and other illusions may pull our gaze “where the grass is greener.” But the real pot of gold is always right here, right now.

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I was a young lad when I first felt the rumble of a lion’s roar, heard an elephant’s shrill trumpeting, or felt the sudden plunge of a circus acrobat.

Yet every day now, I see acrobats. A woman stands atop her own head. A soccer team competes against an identical, mirrored team. Four dogs chase four tails—or is it two dogs chasing two tails? Body parts float away. Walls disassemble like Lego bricks.

Like the blind man before being healed by Jesus, I see “men as trees, walking.”

I have double vision.

A year ago, my befuddled brain quit deciphering my uncorrelated dual visual images. Double vision—diplopia—took over my world.

I close one eye to read a book or negotiate a computer screen. Navigating a Los Angeles freeway is harder than driving bumper cars blindfolded.

What is real? How do I know that what I perceive is trustworthy?

Only two surgeons in Los Angeles perform the corrective surgery I needed. But a year of fighting procedures, policies, schedules, and insurance left me weary. Hope stayed far from my house.

When I finally arrived at UCLA’s Stein Eye Institute, anxiety wrestled with joyful expectation. Several weeks earlier, my dry eye specialist—not my double vision specialist—had concocted a best-guess eyeglass prescription for my double vision.

“Do you want to try glasses?” she had asked me. “If they work, you might be able to avoid surgery. But if not…”

Knowing double vision was not her specialty, I dutifully, yet doubtfully, followed the dry eye specialist’s suggestion and ordered the glasses. I doubted they would help.

Weeks later, when I finally arrived at my appointment with the UCLA double vision specialist, the doctor’s young assistant took over.

“Okay, follow my finger with your eyes.”

I followed the assistant’s finger up, down, left, right, then into each quadrant. Next came goggles, prisms, and eventually a test using a machine built in the 1930s, one of only two in the country. Popsicle sticks moved the examination slides into their proper places. By then the examination itself was beginning to feel like another circus act.

At the end of my three-hour exam, bloodshot, bleary-eyed, and twisted with emotion, I awaited the pronouncement by my double vision doctor.

And what about that long-shot prescription I had been given by the dry eye specialist several weeks ago? Double vision was not her expertise. But could her guess at a prescription really have been a fix? Or was it only a tease?

My UCLA doctor’s pronouncement came in a thick Scottish brogue. What would he say about my double vision?

“Well, Craig, you’ve probably had this condition for several decades. Previously, your brain adjusted to it, but it has stopped cooperating. Fortunately for you, it is now stable and will not worsen.”

“And by the way, however she created it, that prescription you received from your dry eye specialist is perfect! Yes, you will need to wear glasses. And that’s the end of it. You don’t need surgery.” Then he smiled, “And you don’t need to see me anymore!”

I sat staring at him, trying to find the words.

Finally, my tightened throat gave way to words. “This is one of the best days of my life.”

He was clearly taken aback.

I continued, as I wiped tears from my eyes.

“It’s been a tough year. A year ago, I began battling for my eyesight. And then I lost my wife in February. But I feel like this is Christmas. I’ve received a wonderful gift. So that makes you Santa … minus the white hair and beard.”

The three-hour trip home through L.A. rush-hour traffic flew by. I barely noticed the accident in the lane beside me. I averaged twenty miles an hour. None of it mattered.

Now, when I remove my glasses at night, the circus still returns. Acrobats tumble. Images split apart. Words climb over one another. But in the morning, my new glasses end the performance. Calm prevails.

Double vision has proven to be a good teacher.

It has taught me that life itself can be illusory. What appears real may not be. What seems worth reaching for may leave me grasping at air.

So I keep on asking: Am I reaching toward what is real, or toward an illusion? Am I pursuing a misleading goal, or one of lasting value?

While the circus hasn’t fully left town, double vision no longer occupies the center ring. And what’s a circus without the main attraction?

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I joined the ranchers, farmers, and town folks who slowly gathered on a quiet Sunday morning in Bastrop, Texas. For several years, that “house church” had met in Bob and Sue Long’s home.

Although they invited me to speak, I quickly realized the real speaker that morning was Bob and Sue’s dog, “Whiskey.”

As soon as everyone sat in a circle, Whiskey wandered in and plopped down in the loop of boots and fell sound asleep. Totally relaxed, no concerns about religious etiquette or expectations. No fear of going to hell. She didn’t know or care that it was Sunday. The dog radiated the fullness of her dogness.

She was a portrait of Peace in the Presence. The people sang. Whiskey slept. And God saw that it was good.

One of the largest and oldest questions all humans face: How do creatures live in the presence of their Creator? Do I live from the fullness of God’s Fatherhood and design, or do I feel the need for continuous self-protection, affirmation, and cosmetic surgery?

For me, it all took me back to when my uncle Harold died in a tractor accident in 1992. His siblings all worried about the impact of his death on their father. That was perfectly logical and understandable; Grandpa had lost his wife, Harold’s mother, just 30 days earlier. So, on that day, everyone whispered, tiptoed, and avoided conversations or eye contact with Grandpa.

Finally, he nailed his daughter, “Vita, what’s going on around here?”

She broke. “Oh, Daddy, it’s really bad.”

“I know it’s bad. I just need a name.”

That moment revealed a 95-year-old man who was at rest in his home, the universe, and the awesome God he’d known for nearly a century. He could face anything because of the great arc of his life and faith. Like a holocaust survivor, that arc had carried him beyond all that was theologically starched and packaged.

Pascal wrote “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”[1] Grandpa had learned to be at rest in the Presence. Although he was a flawed man, he knew that whatever came from the hand of God would not injure him; it would not disturb his identity and security.

Whatever your beliefs, assumptions, fears, or doubts, you are surely aware of an Awesome Presence. He is always there, loving us, unsettling us, confirming us, confronting us, stopping us, sending us. He does not intend to destroy us. We are the works of His hand. What makes us think he produces junk?

We do not understand Him. But, as Whiskey would tell you, “Relax. The Presence is safe.”

[1] Blaise Pascal, Pensées, fragment 139 (Brunschvicg edition) / 136 (Lafuma edition)

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A tiny trespass onto a neighbor’s property can seem harmless. Nobody will notice. It is only a shortcut. But eventually, others follow that route. In time, a private intrusion becomes a well-worn path.

Recently, my neighbor introduced an intrusion into my life. His newly installed security lights poured bucketfuls of lumens through my bedroom window each night. So, I quickly planted tall bushes to block the light. When they proved ineffective, I erected a six-foot-high, finest-quality fence, finally blocking his solar blast.

When physical or psychological boundaries are crossed, we become intruders, taking what is not rightfully ours.

England’s invasion of Ireland in the fourteenth century had become a failing and regrettable trespass. Many of the English Norman invaders had “gone native,” assimilating into Irish life. The land still under English control had dwindled largely to the region surrounding Dublin.

To mark the boundary of that shrinking territory, the English erected fence posts, or “pales,” an old word for stakes or barriers. The territory outside English control was said to be “beyond the pale.”

Most incursions in our own lives do not resemble territorial warfare. They begin more quietly, subtly disrupting our routines and nudging the boundaries that make us comfortable.

A college student with little money once needed a place to stay while he searched for work. Sympathetic to his situation, I invited the charming and intelligent young man to use our extra bedroom. The act of welcoming strangers, according to a biblical text, could mean we’re unknowingly entertaining angels.

At first, we did seem to be hosting an angel. Our guest was kind and affable—and especially punctual at mealtimes, accepting every meal we placed before him.

As he became more comfortable in his new residence, however, the boundaries began to shift. He gradually displaced me from my favorite armchair. His music produced mini-tsunamis in our fish tank. Our once-tidy home began to resemble a thrift-store donation center.

When others place us on the wrong side of the pale, the neat fence separating what is ours from what is theirs has been breached. It can feel like discovering that someone has mixed the colored laundry with the whites.

Each incursion differs, and each kind calls for a different response. Did we create the intrusion? Are we its victim? Or did we invite it?

In the first instance, we are the trespassers. Like the pathway, we have entered, uninvited, into something that is not ours—another person’s property, privacy, belongings, or heart. Our intrusion carried us into a place where we had no claim and did not belong. Such trespasses often bring consequences.

In the second instance, like the unwanted glare from my neighbor’s security light, we are the victims of an intrusion. We are not the transgressors; someone else has crossed the boundary.

We have two choices: retaliate against the encroachment or pursue the more arduous path of understanding and reconciliation.

Finally, like my invitation to the college student, we may willingly allow an unexpected interruption into our lives. We take in a stranger, or welcome a socially displaced outsider, or offer shelter to an anxious immigrant. We gamble with our own comfort. We choose to cross conventional boundaries and venture beyond the pale, where the landscape is less certain, but the rewards are far greater.

And when we do, we may discover something unexpected just beyond that pale—perhaps even a visit from angels.

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Written and Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy

When my husband, David, was a pilot with the US Air Force, we had the privilege of moving to various airbases around the world. Back in 2016, we prepared for our move to an 800-square-foot apartment in South Korea. Naturally, we began whittling our belongings down to the necessities.

During that time of downsizing at our Arizona home, my mom came for a visit. Among her other insights, she saw that a collapsible mini crib for our baby would fit better in our tiny space than the modern monstrosities that filled most American nurseries. I agreed. She was also confident that we would easily find one at a garage sale. On that point, I disagreed—but I resisted the urge to throw out the statistical unlikelihood of that happening.

However, I was happy to have quality time with my mom, so we hit a few sales early on a Saturday morning. As we drove, she declared again that we were going to find a mini crib. My doubts began to suffocate under the weight of her faith. It was not a new feeling. My mother is a Miracle. That’s her maiden name. And Deana Lea Miracle Chinn carries that heritage with a confidence that doesn’t leave much room for doubt. So, I decided to practice a little faith rather than teach Mom (and my Creator) about improbabilities.

At the first sale, we found it--a beautiful mini-crib. Just sitting there. A delicate hitchhiker on the side of a dusty highway, it called out to me. It reminded me that even faith as small as a mustard seed can shift statistics and probabilities. Mom was unfazed, as if this were perfectly normal.

That’s when I noticed something I had seen before; there was something very ordinary about the whole thing.

Miracles can be like that. Living through one seldom feels like “The Ten Commandments,” with waters rushing up into the sky as Charlton Heston’s beard whips fiercely in the wind. Sometimes they just quietly roll across our day. Maybe it should be commonplace to live with miracles, and living a life without them (or without acknowledging them) is what’s unusual. Even bizarre, hollow, icy.

My friends and I were once called to pray for a Mongolian baby that had blue spots all over his body. As we prayed for his healing, he kept screaming. And then, he just … stopped. He had peace, joy, and perfect pink cheeks like all babies should. We thanked God and went home. It felt so normal that I wondered, were there ever any spots, or was that my imagination? I didn’t hear a rushing wind or the voice of God. That was that. Simple. Undramatic.

Webster’s Dictionary defines supernatural as being “beyond or exceeding the powers or laws of nature.”[1] But maybe “supernatural” and “natural” are worthless adjectives. Who are we to pronounce anything “miraculous,” “commonplace,” “raw,” “natural,” or “supernatural?” The smallest systems, even invisible ones, are full of complexity. Every atom, molecule, sunrise, and solar system reflects its Creator. As living wonders, they travel paths that require a miraculous touch. may not need to be designated as official “miracles.”

What do we mean when we speak about “concrete reality?” Concrete is a hardened mix of water, sand, cement, and gravel. Reality is an ever-shifting, pulsing dynamic of heartbeats, oxygen, blood, smiles, laughter, birdsong, tomatoes on the vine, and deep-sea illumination. We live in an astonishing world. Perhaps we should expect more miracles.

It would be only natural.

[1] Webster, Noah. “Definition.” An American Dictionary of the English Language, S. Converse, 1828.

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Written by: Ed Chinn

Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy

In the early fifties, my parents and a few other young couples came together to form a new Pentecostal church in Pratt, Kansas. They bought an old one-room school building and moved it onto a corner lot in Pratt. Then Dad led the way through the design, renovation, excavation, and construction phases.

When finished, we had suitable space for meetings, Sunday School, and a basement-level home for a pastor and family. My parents loved joining with others to help bring that church to reality. They poured themselves out for a dream, a call. And they did it with joy for a quarter century.

The End of the Road

But that golden season of church life came to a stop in the late 70s. I saw it when our family drove from our Texas home up to Pratt to spend a weekend with my parents. At some point during that weekend, Dad and I parked in front of that little church building and talked of the old days.

Then Dad opened his pickup door, “Okay, now I want to show you something.”

I followed him up the front steps. Dad pulled a tape measure from his overalls pocket and stretched it across the door. As he gazed at the tape, he kept shaking his head.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“A casket won’t fit through this door.”

The words delivered a gut punch to the old way I had seen my dad. He was now a man facing retirement and regrets, feeling the sand suck away from his feet as the tide went out. My heart broke to think of him driving to the mortuary, asking to see caskets, and measuring them as he slowly realized none would fit through the church’s narrow door.

I saw how disappointment entered his heart space. No sonic boom, just a slow-motion disintegration of a dream. This was serious. He and Mom had given so much. That place that had fostered the lives of farmers, ranchers, young families, the elderly, and other community members could not host a final celebration of those lives. The finish line had to be moved somewhere else. What did it all mean now? I watched as Dad asked one of life’s hardest questions.

Dis-appointed

Webster’s American Dictionary of the English Language (1828) breaks “disappoint” down to “dis-appoint.” [1] A better job or home may have been “appointed,” but when it collided with facts, it was “dis-appointed.” Evicted, rejected, defeated.

Disappointment doesn’t mean we calculated selfishly or foolishly. Sometimes it just reminds us that we are not the authors of life. We do our best, but our strength is limited; our vision is partial. In our incompleteness, we make choices, announce plans, and fill our calendars. Then life erases those “dates with destiny.”

But perhaps what we lost wasn’t real life, but our small views of it. We’ve all heard—even from our own lips—that embarrassing, sometimes tragic phrase, “But I thought...”

Disappointment can come to us as a gift, toppling small, unworthy, or lethal dreams. For example, it seems my biggest disappointments have involved damaged or dead relationships. But I can also see that if some of them had come to the result I preferred, I would not have met my Joanne ... or our kids or grandkids.

My parents eventually came to the same place. After walking through the narrow places of preferences, severances, and measuring doors, they walked into a larger faith, wider vision, and unexpected grace notes.

Life has a way of taking us beyond suffocating constrictions into the panorama of a new landscape.

[1] Noah Webster, American Dictionary of the English Language (Foundation for American Christian Education, San Francisco, CA, 1828)

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In 1957 my dad lost his job on the Rock Island Railroad. So did half a million other rail workers across the US. Since everyone expected a call-back of rail employees within a year, Dad wrote and phoned old friends, including other World War 2 vets, to ask if they knew of any temporary jobs.

One of Dad’s ship buddies invited Dad to move to the Monterey Bay area of California, where he was building homes. Work was steady; his company was hiring. So, we moved from Kansas to California. An apartment overlooking the beach in Seacliff became our new home.

For impressionable boys—I was ten and Vernon was seven (Carl had not been born yet)—Kansas was a suffocating 19th century monotone of dirt roads, grain elevators, barbed wire fences, sweltering summer heat, and blizzards in winter.

California was California, a stunning technicolor vision of life’s best. Breathtaking beaches, the vast blue Pacific, redwood and eucalyptus trees, and the lush beauty of flowers splashing down the banks of freeways and across residential areas. Santa Cruz, Watsonville, Monterey, Rio del Mar, Aptos, and La Selva Beach marked the boundaries of our gorgeous habitation.

Best of all, for the first time we had Dad really with us. In Kansas, when the Rock Island called, he vanished from our lives. But in California, he was home every evening and weekend. We liked this stranger; he took us places and played ball with Vernon and me in our own Field of Dreams.

When Dad and Mom began talking about the possibility of staying in California, Vernon and I jumped like basketballs dropped from a windmill. We even looked at a home for sale, a beautiful, large, bright white home on a golf fairway in Rio del Mar. Just $14,000. Dad, Mom, please; we can be Californians!

In the end, when the railroad called us all back to Kansas, we obeyed. The dream died. It was as it should be; we were not Californians; we were Kansas kids. California had just been a sweet dream.

But that California adventure became part of my wiring. The wild contrast between Kansas and the expanse of California beauty—The Golden Gate Bridge, Pebble Beach, Sequoia National Park—became a magical metaphor of the possibilities that can roll out of any moment, situation, or relationship.

Tomorrow can crash into now; the kingdom comes, health and wealth beautify people everyday, Heaven conquers hell. The new can pass through any portal—anytime, anywhere, anyone.

No matter how dark circumstances may be, we can always look up. Despite the claims of negative voices, a new world may float down into your life. Right now. Walk in expectancy. As railroad crossings remind us, Stop. Look. Listen.

Everywhere, every moment.

Our California experience also became a fountainhead of The Timberline Letter. Because life’s soundtrack can swell from a lone piccolo to a full orchestra, we invite everyone to expect change. Look beyond the present, the parochial, and the parched.

What do you have to lose? Do you think you will lie on your deathbed, wishing you had worked longer hours, obeyed more rules, conformed to more traditions, or tried to seize more control?

Einstein asked one of the great questions:

“Is the universe a friendly place?”

You have the power to live the answer. Deeply, faithfully, eternally.

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This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe