The Timberline Letter

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

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

Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy

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

Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy

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

My grandma Chinn probably had Alzheimer’s. But we didn’t have a name for it in those days. Her quirks were just… “Grandma.” We knew her, not a disease. By the time her son, my dad, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a decade later, we knew a lot about it. In fact, I grew to despise my knowledge of that disease. I found it too easy to relate to Alzheimer’s, not to Dad.

The Bible says that knowledge “puffs up.” Sure does. Knowledge is like vodka; a little of it gives the bluster, the ignorance, and the permission to announce judgments about things we know zero about or things that are none of our business.

David, the Psalmist, wrote of God, “Even the darkness is not dark to Thee, and the night is as bright as the day. Darkness and light are alike to Thee.” (Psalm 139:12)

Maybe a life is a life. Do you think lives of one hour, those lived with severe spinal injuries, or those born in prison could be as beautiful and blessed as ones lived in great health, luxury, and longevity? Is it possible that God sees them alike and grants the special grace required to live where and as they do? Perhaps life needs to be lived straight ahead, without comparison to others or the imposition of human designs or alterations.

Mary Clarke grew up in the wealth and splendor of Beverly Hills. Cary Grant, Spencer Tracy, and Dinah Shore were her neighbors. She was a member of the Beverly Hills Country Club, and she married and divorced twice.

When she was 50, she gave away all her possessions, became a Roman Catholic nun and moved into—into, not near—a notorious Tijuana prison. As “Mother Antonia,” she lived in the same conditions as the prisoners; her home was a 10’ by 10’ cell (which she painted pink) and she ate what the prisoners ate. She lived in that cell for the last 36 years of her life (she died in October 2013).

Prison was to her what a basketball court was to Michael Jordan. The Zone. In 1994, when a full-scale riot broke out in her prison, 5-foot-2 Mother Antonia walked through the blizzard of bullets. Eyewitnesses said she never stopped smiling and her face never stopped glowing. Armed only with love, she saw the riot come to a peaceful end.

According to her New York Times obituary, she once said, “Happiness does not depend on where you are. I live in prison. And I have not had a day of depression in 25 years. I have been upset, angry. I have been sad. But never depressed. I have a reason for my being.”[1]

Incredibly, this woman moved into the darkness and found that it became as bright as the day.

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

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

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

Once, in a race against famine in Mexico, and having no tractors or oxen, agronomist Norman Borlaug and his associates made harnesses for themselves in order to pull cultivators. They pulled them many miles, knowing they were racing against time to save a nation.

Borlaug was not rich, entertaining, or charismatic. So, how did he become one of the most significant people in world history?

Because of wheat. Most of the world’s wheat today comes from the disease-resistant, high-yield varieties that Borlaug and his colleagues developed. When he won the 1970 Nobel Peace Prize, the committee said it was because, “More than any other single person of this age, he has helped provide bread for a hungry world.”

Never a celebrity, Dr. Borlaug has been called the greatest person nobody knows.

His basic insight, formed as a child on an Iowa farm, was very simple: humans could push farm production beyond anything ever seen. Borlaug had lived during the dawn of Fordson tractors. As they spread to America’s farms, they released 75 million acres – previously required to feed horses and mules – for feeding people!

Borlaug understood the dawn of a new age. Healthy seed and fertilizer could pull miracles out of soil.

In 1944, at thirty years old and working as a scientist for E. I. du Pont in Wilmington, Delaware, Borlaug was invited into a dream. The Rockefeller Foundation wanted to help lift the people of Mexico out of poverty. They chose him to lead the project. Against all the professional and familial reasons he should not accept that challenge, he went. He stepped into a horror.

Mexico was a scientific wasteland; Borlaug had no facilities, no staff, no equipment, no vehicle, and no budget. In fact, he slept on the floor of a room that had no water or electricity, but did have spiders, rats, and snakes. But the real horror was that Mexico’s crops teetered on the edge of collapse. Famine was a genuine possibility, and Borlaug was the only person in Mexico who could see it.

Furthermore, he and his wife learned she was carrying a child with spina bifida. Because of transportation and financial constraints, she could not join her husband in Mexico, and he could not take a break to go home to her. So, besides trying to save a nation from famine, he was overwhelmed with worry, loneliness, and guilt. He came “perilously close to cracking” during that time.[1]

Borlaug lived in Mexico for sixteen years. Working tirelessly to beat rust, increase yield, develop shorter stalks (because of high wind), and teach the nation to use fertilizer. By the time he left in 1960, he had increased the national wheat harvest by 600%! And 95% of Mexico’s wheat was from varieties he developed.

He did so while enduring overwhelming adversity:

* Floods. Because of a drenching flood, he and a helper worked around the clock harvesting wheat by hand – just as it was done 5,000 years ago – in order to save precious seed. They reaped 50 tons by hand!

* Landslides. During a torrential rainstorm on a narrow and very slick mountain pass, two landslides cut him off from going forward or backward. His little truck (carrying the agricultural hope of a nation) came close to washing off the mountain.

* Rejection. Throughout much of his Mexico service, the government tried to kick him out; they thought the “Gringo” made them look incompetent.

* Isolation. For most of his Mexico years, Borlaug’s wife and family had to remain in the US. Despite their separation, they seemed to have a strong marriage. But loneliness remained a serious factor.

* Hurricane. A freak hurricane destroyed his Mexico operations and killed two of his scientists who were trying to save the precious seeds. All the seeds were lost; he had to start over.

Jesus said, “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain.”[2]

Like that grain of wheat, Norman Borlaug released his own comforts and desires to fall into the ground and die. But his life also produced much grain. He changed the patterns of nutrition for the whole earth, and forever.

We at The Timberline Letter care about focused living. Showing up, standing up. Living higher. Thinking clearly. Seeing further. Hearing deeper. Norman Borlaug lived an astounding life of high-altitude virtues, work, resilience, and wisdom. He endured; he remained in focus.

The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

[1] Noel Vietmeyer, Our Daily Bread (Bracing Books; Lorton, VA, 2011) p. 99

[2] John 12:24 taken from taken from the NEW KING JAMES VERSION (NKJV):

Copyright© 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Get full access to The Timberline Letter at timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

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

The smoke pits are the beating heart of Terry Black’s Barbecue Restaurant. The aroma, thick enough to chew, drifts up over the pits like a fog bank.

After dinner, my natural curiosity pulled me to the smoke pits. I stood in the shadows, watching the pit-master, half-concealed by the smoky clouds, systematically lift the heavy pit lids, stoke the orange coals, and meticulously arrange the various meats. Like a conductor, he knew each subtle maneuver to bring each cut to perfection.

Fearing I was interrupting a religious rite, I gained his attention with a guarded wave. When he gestured an invitation back to me, I cautiously tiptoed among the rows of black, belching barbecue furnaces.

He introduced himself as Benjamin Behrends.

His face was youthful for such a high calling. Lockhart is Holy Ground for Texas barbecue, and he was serving as its altar boy. What had brought him here? He chose his words as carefully as he managed the pits.

“For nearly twenty-five years, I lived in San Diego with my mother, far from my roots in Austin. I started working when I was 14. I’ve never stopped.” He paused to gather his thoughts.

“New Year’s Day, 2002, wrecked my world. That night, my brother, seven years and seven days older than me, was shot dead—murdered.”

That New Year’s night also nearly took the life of his mother, who began a downward spiral. In her despair, she grew unable to care for Ben.

“She didn’t handle it well. She couldn’t take care of me properly. There were suicide attempts, drug use,” Ben explained. “I decided I needed freedom. So, I left.”

Then a pause, and a regret. “I now understand my reason for leaving was very selfish. I cared more about myself than I did about her.”

His mother drifted homeless on the streets of Tijuana. After unknowingly drinking contaminated water, she contracted hepatitis C. Eventually, she lost a kidney.

Her fast decline called for radical intervention, but Ben had already declared his independence.

Eventually, Ben chose humility and compassion over self-interest, a choice that brought profound consequences.

“I moved my mother in with me. I became her in-home support provider.” Her doctor told Ben she had to be on total bedrest for five months. “I gave her medical injections. I changed her bandages.

“Her diet was horrid. She was addicted to the unhealthiest foods. So, I gradually changed her diet, removing all the unhealthy food she had grown dependent on.”

“How did you do that?”

“I found a cookbook with 30 gourmet recipes. That’s where I started. I prepared only the healthiest food for her. Gradually, I nursed her back to health. And you know, she’s become my biggest inspiration.” The pit-master paused, weighing his words.

“She went through hell. But can you believe it? She has not only survived, but she trained to become an Iron Worker and a Journeyman. She’s doing things 20-year-olds can’t do.

“I moved back to Texas, and I learned to work The Pit here at Terry Black’s Barbecue. I work 16-hour shifts, seeing my brisket from start to finish. I am only the fifth person—and the earliest—to achieve that. It’s like winning the Oscar for barbecue.

“I couldn't be happier! But I don’t cook for the praise.

“No, my secret ingredient is love and passion. It’s for that simple smile after hours of sweat and blood, just to make sure ‘Y’all come back now!’” I love it. It’s a service to be proud of.”

Like the comforting aroma from a barbecue pit, the love of a willing heart remains. That kind of heart cares for family, encircles strangers, and reaches beyond our own tribe.

“Why do I cook?” Ben grinned. “That’s easy. I cook to feed and heal the soul. And I cook for my mom.”

The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Get full access to The Timberline Letter at timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

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

In 1988, Bieke Vandekerckhove, a 19-year-old university student in her native Belgium, was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease). At that time, the average life span with ALS after diagnoses was two to five years. She lived 27 years with it.

Her only book, The Taste of Silence (English translation from Liturgical Press, 2015), is a beautiful, candid, sometimes searing, but wise view of her journey into ALS. Like so many others in history, she found a vast and pure view...in prison. But for Bieke, that prison was her body.

What do you do when a lightning bolt explodes out of a clear sky, blowing your body, soul, and spirit apart? Do you collapse into a pile of smoking rubble? Escape into chemicals, fight to regain control? Or surrender to the largeness of your Creator?

Vandekerckhove surrendered.

In her submission, she tumbled into great silence. That’s what often happens when loss pushes us beyond the walls of language. Many readers will identify with Bieke as, in the silence, she found profound gratitude, even for her diagnosis and for “the collapse of all my beliefs.” ALS took her beyond what she knew and preferred, and into the beauty of “not-knowing.” In that place beyond thought, she “discovered the art of waiting in the dark.”

In the dark, she found “the God of the Bible, and not the god who is … bound by the contours of logic and morality.” She also discovered that God meets those who live real life. Their habitat lies in a place beyond information.

As I read this book, I thought of Hebrews 11:34, which speaks of those who “became powerful in battle.” They found success as it was forged in the heat of life, not through knowledge or credentials.

What Do You See?

She learned that so much of life boils down to what we see. The deeper she went into the illness, she realized she suffered “more from an eye problem than from a muscle disorder.” Bieke seems genuinely grateful for the “great powers of suffering, death, and mourning,” that “work a simplification in us that makes us see things differently. Perhaps making us really see for the first time.”

Although she was certainly Christian, Vandekerckhove’s journey through ALS also gave her a deep appreciation for other religions and perspectives. She quotes the apocryphal Wisdom of Solomon 7:24: “Wisdom is more mobile than any motion; because of her pureness she pervades and penetrates all things.”

Vandekerckhove discovered a God so large and pervasive that His word can move through anyone, anything, anytime, anywhere. Because He owns it all, any or all of it can carry His voice. Just as His voice once (at least once!) animated a donkey, so it “pervades and penetrates all things.”

I deeply appreciate The Taste of Silence. It carries a ring of truth on every page. And I am moved by, and grateful for, a young woman who dared to tell her harrowing but hallowed journey into the God Who is larger.

To summarize that journey, she wrote that when she surrendered to the mystery, and thought she lost everything, “remarkably my grip loosened and I rediscovered everything in a new way. Life was everywhere, in the midst of death, even as life slipped away from me … Everything became a gift.”

The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Get full access to The Timberline Letter at timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe

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