The Timberline Letter

Astronomers believe the universe is about 93 billion light years in diameter, and that it holds about ten trillion galaxies. That number is likely a big underestimation, but it doesn’t matter. My head cannot grasp that information. In fact, look into any detail, direction, or dimension of anything; the only thing we know is that we don’t know. We don’t even know what we think we know. Apart from certain matters of faith and the heart, we don’t know much about anything.

Yet, the great cultural mold of our time demands certitude. On everything. When’s the last time you heard or read these beautiful words—“I don’t know?” We humans strut around our porch or planet, boldly pronouncing scientific, political, historical, and moral pronouncements that have no connection to reality.

So, what makes us so cocksure of … anything? How did we get caught in the loop where what we know becomes the enemy of what we don’t know? When I consider the size and complexity of the universe, my opinions carry as much illumination as pointing a flashlight at the sun. Yet, we often think everyone waits for us to speak.

For example, as a publisher, I know stuff about moving stories and ideas from authors’ minds into published forms. But new skills, shapes, and technologies make me the dumbest guy in the room. My knowledge, training, traditions, preferences, emotions, and memories mean zero. If I lean on my knowledge, I will fail. Every time.

So, how can I turn that into strength? I must be vulnerable and ask questions. In fact, in all areas of life, I should listen more than speak, test more than theorize, and inquire more than proclaim.

And I’ve become very comfortable with not knowing. After all, I wake up in a new world every day. I know nothing. I can only proceed in the confidence that I and others can find the right path through vulnerability, collaboration, and trust.  

Here’s my quick “4H” reference guide for finding the best path forward:

Humility

Humus is the Latin word for “soil,” “human,” and “humility.” Genesis 2:7 says God formed humans from the soil. So, humility recognizes our earthly origins and our mortality (“dust to dust”). Biblically, life is modeled by a seed falling into the soil and dying before it can rise into real life.

Honor

Every person who ever lived was created by God. So, where do we find the right to revile anyone? We do not see, know, or love anyone as their Creator does. That may be why the Bible directs us to show honor. For example, the Apostle Paul told Timothy, “Do not rebuke an older man but encourage him as you would a father.” [1]

Does that apply to Donald Trump or Joe Biden? If not, why not?

We honor people, not because of their philosophical, religious, or cultural alignments, but because of our common Creator. Big question: can we treasure those who disagree with us? Must we delegitimize those who see things differently?

Home

Every marriage, every family is a lab where we work out the details of commitment, fidelity, respect, reconciliation, and intimacy—before we’re ready to join the larger society. Home is where we detect and absorb the truths about love, weakness, transgression, confession, forgiveness, and trust. When you hit the wall, go home. Confess. Cry like a Cat-5. Love your family. Recharge.

Humor

A sense of humor reflects confidence and trust. When we cannot laugh about politics, money, religion, health, sex, technology, and other arenas of life, we assign a power to them that is inappropriate and deceptive.  

Most people carry heavy loads, and they do the best they can. Where do I find permission, or authorization, to make their load heavier? How did politics, bias, and tribalism release me to invalidate anyone? Shouldn’t I try to encourage everyone I meet? If I find nothing encouraging to say, I can at least be silent.

First, do no harm.

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[1] 1 Timothy 5:1 taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, ENGLISH STANDARD VERSION, Copyright 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission.

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As a newlywed back in 2008, I had just made myself a luscious bowl of yogurt and apples, garnished with oatmeal and cinnamon. I headed through the kitchen in my robe, cradling my precious breakfast as though it came from Le Cordon Bleu. In my fervor, I nearly collided with my bleary-eyed husband. Rather than his customary “Good morning, beautiful,” he looked down at my bountiful bowl and grumbled, “Wow. That’s a veritable truckload of oatmeal.”

The death of a honeymoon.

It seems to be a rite of passage for all of us, whether it be in relationships, “dream jobs,” child-rearing, or owning a boat. At some point, that thing that looked like it was the answer to all our problems becomes rife with … flaws. What do we do then? When that glowing vision becomes marred with bits of shadow, is it time to find a new dream? Or is it time to start working?

A psychologist who specializes in neurofeedback therapy recently told me, “We don’t know why, but there is a honeymoon period with nearly every patient, regardless of their background. For the first three sessions, everything works great. After that, we start to get the REAL results. We can see where the left and right side of the brain have a breakdown in communication. Then, the good work begins, and life can get a lot more fun!”

Think of it. The “fun” begins when the work becomes visible. Work jolts us out of the useless rut of fantasy and into the deep joys of reality. It is to be faced, not avoided. It can even be our lifeline dropped from heavenly places.

As a missionary in China during the mid-1900’s, Gladys Aylward was asked to stop a murderous riot in a prison camp. After the inmates miraculously stopped their brawling, she asked one man what they had been doing that started the fight. “Doing?” he asked. “We were doing the same thing we do every day—sitting and waiting for the day to end.” In the months that followed, Aylward secured looms, yarn, and a grain mill. She taught the men to make their own clothes and food, and even bought rabbits for them to breed and sell. She brought light into the darkness through the dignity of work.

Two years ago, my husband, our kids, and I settled into a property that exuded a “dream come true.” Wide open fields, forests, and a huge pond in the backyard promised 9 acres of memory-building goodness. The prospect of owning land thrilled my heart. I could see myself writing and thinking, hidden in my woods, listening to the leaves falling. The clacking of my keyboard keys would deliver a fitting retort to the woodpecker tapping overhead.

Not that simple. Land demands “ruling and subduing” in order to be a habitable place. We burn fallen trees, swing sledgehammers, wrestle with rototillers and go “scorched earth” on any sign of poison ivy. We pull weeds the size of trees, hack at the hard Georgia clay, and rake a steady stream of cut fescue, pine straw, and leaves. These days of shovels and callouses, however, only sweeten the days of lemonade and sunshine. It’s a beautiful thing.

When the honeymoons end, what if our eyes adjusted to see that those shadows creeping in actually add depth to a picture that had been sterile and one-dimensional? We all must work to keep relationships, businesses, and families afloat. Can we see that work as a gift? As the tool used to carve lines of meaning into life?

My husband has now learned to give me a wide berth when I’m eating. And his statement that made a new bride cry? It has led to years of laughter, another artful brushstroke on the portrait of our marriage. Worth it.

“Gladys Aylward: The Adventure of a Lifetime”; Janet and Geoff Benge, YWAM Publishing, 1998.

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I tried to be invisible as I scoped out the restaurant, a future rendezvous spot with our son’s family. But, as I scanned the menu and the ambiance, the six-foot three, early-30s host spotted me, blowing my cover.

“How many, please?”

“Uh, none. I’m just checking out your restaurant.”

The host’s grin commanded his entire face. I returned an uncomfortable smile.

“So, what do you do when you’re not here?” I vainly tried to normalize my peculiar behavior.

“I work a lot. Fifty hours a week or more.”

The sunlight illuminated his sturdy face, engaging countenance, and a brown mole on his right cheek. His slight accent suggested more of his story. I worked hard to pull it out of him.

Philip of Montenegro

Two years ago, he left his home in Montenegro, a thumbnail of a country carved from the former Yugoslavia. A lead for a restaurant job landed him here, on California’s central coast.

“Philip,” my restaurant host explained, “my name is Philip.”

“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed, concocting a vague geographic connection to his part of the world. “Like Philip of Macedonia, the father of Alexander the Great!”

“I don’t know about that,” he replied, evidently not an ardent fan of historical trivia. “I’m Philip of Montenegro, not Macedonia.”

Because Philip of Montenegro and his wife work hard to cover their nearly $3,000 monthly rent, they plan to migrate into the hotel industry and move to a less expensive area—Phoenix, perhaps. Within fifteen years, he plans to own his own home along with some investment property.

“And then I’ll retire,” he added confidently.

“Whoa!” I gasped, amazed at his tenacity and idealism. “To where?”

“Montenegro, my home!”

“And you know the language!” I gratuitously chimed in.

He grinned broadly.

What is Home?

When Philip of Montenegro eventually retreats to his homeland, he will surrender America and his green card. And leave this gorgeous place in California? I thought to myself.

Like homing pigeons, and like Philip of Montenegro, we can find our way home over vast distances. But when we return to a former home, we carry another sense—the memory of the way things used to be.

What exactly is what we call “home”?

Yes, home can be, usually is, a geographical location. But after returning, we note the growth of vegetation and the altered hues of paint. Despite those changes, is it really what it used to be? Yes, and no. What’s missing?

Forty years later, I returned to the home where I grew up. To my astonishment, the new owner recognized me staring from the street. He invited me inside, proud of the refinements he had made. Freshly installed wooden floors replaced the soft area rugs where we wrestled with Dad. A Pueblo-styled kiva fireplace replaced the cozy nook where I listened to children’s programs on the Grundig vacuum tube radio. The kitchen countertop where I kneaded Swedish rye bread with my mother had disappeared, leaving no hint of the baking bread’s aroma. Things that carried force were antiseptically cleaned away.

Why do we miss home?

What we call “home” is the people rather than the place. I don’t miss the Grundig radio, but I miss the radio stories as marinated in the aroma of Mother’s bread and the taste of her Swedish meatballs. I no longer recall the area rug’s pattern, but I miss Dad’s scratchy stubble and him pinching my belly as we brawled on that floor.

But, if home is the people rather than the place, what is left to us when those dear ones go away? What, then, will become of “home”?

We do not become homeless. Home is not a static place. We don’t return to a place on the map. Rather, our home is moveable. The players have moved on, but we now fill the roles. The same care and love that made home for us, we can now provide for others. Where we now welcome, where we now cook, where we now provide peace to a stranger—that is the place we now call home. We are the caretakers of the caring and cozy places where, years later, others will recall, “Remember who? Remember when?”

“Montenegro!” Philip declared, “is an absolutely beautiful place!”

I’m sure it is. And the comfort we give to those in our own homes also makes them beautiful places.

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Written by: Craig Dahlberg

Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy

Have you ever met a human pilot light, one always ready to ignite the flame of kindness in others?

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When World War II ended, the U.S. Navy released Jack Chinn to return to Kansas and rejoin his own life. Like many veterans, Dad brought the war home. Inevitably, his fatherhood borrowed a military model.

I think that's why he was a stranger to me; it was impossible for a child to connect with a battle-scorched warrior. I needed but couldn’t find him; I later learned he looked for me too. But the circumstances of our lives simply booked us on trains bound for different places.

But in the late 50s, our trains happened to meet at a depot called Johnny Cash.

The rough-cut Arkansas baritone became our common ground. Dad was a Democrat, a child of the Depression, a patriot, a union man; he heard all that in Johnny’s boom-chicka-boom, rhythm-of-the-rails anthems. They had the same initials, and were both guitarists. Dad was a railroad brakeman; Johnny’s train songs ennobled his job (we took his release of Rock Island Line personally).

But Cash did something different for me. Maybe it was his might-be-dangerous eyes, that "get outta my way" growl, or the way he handled that big Martin guitar like it was a piece of farm machinery. He imparted a raw sense of manhood to me. Like an uncle or coach, Johnny provided a timeless function of fatherhood—helping a boy become a man—for a father locked away somewhere.

Dad and I could listen to Johnny and touch our bond, even though we were each hearing different sounds. The music was confirming him and waking me. Of course, we never just sat and listened to music. By the code of our prairie Calvinism, you had to be hauling stuff in a pickup, cleaning up the shop, or painting a barn in order to enjoy the radio.

Losing the Light

In time, Mom, my brothers, and I began to see something was wrong when Dad, the family historian, started forgetting names and faces and events and dates. Then, he began to worry the big cottonwood might fall into the house.

Dad continued to walk to his beloved shop, but gradually stopped making things. This man who always built picture frames, toolboxes, bookshelves, even houses with his bare hands, would just stand at his table saw and stare at the wall. Sometimes, he would cry and not know why.

After several months of tests, his doctor dropped a bag of bricks on us. “Alzheimer’s.”

At first, we couldn’t tell him. But we soon realized this man who rode an aircraft carrier into the sea, raised three sons, and wrestled trains for a living could handle Alzheimer’s.

So, a few days later, Joanne and I spent a weekend with Dad and Mom. Throughout that long, lazy Saturday afternoon, as Dad and I talked about the war, the Bible, and railroading, I noticed how his face was becoming so empty. His eyes were losing light, and the remaining embers seemed to say, “Help.” Finally, I asked if he’d like to go for a ride.

We drove all over town—oh, my father, if it be possible, let this cup pass. We were driving north on Main, just past Skaggs hardware, when I told him. We both stared straight ahead. The old sailor/brakeman/Sunday School teacher was silent for a while. Then, as we blump-blumped across the railroad tracks up by the Co-op, he asked, "Will I get violent?" Of course, his first concern was for Mom.

What Does “Walk the Line” Mean?

I remember the song that first galvanized Dad and me to Cash: "I Walk the Line." Although it’s a simple song about faithfulness, the lyrics reflect the assumptions that formed Dad’s generation.

Those guys really believed in "the line," a simple and certain standard, a plumb line, hanging from heaven. Since they didn’t hang it, they couldn’t take it down; they just had to deal with it. Dad and many other "greatest generation" guys chose to walk it. They fully accepted the "heavy lifting required" jobs the 20th century handed them.

To walk the line is to live the life that you’re handed. You don’t cut corners, and you don’t swap your relationships or responsibilities for others. You just walk them out. And, in the walking, you might connect with soaring graces you would have missed had you not lived your own life.

If I’ve learned that at all, it’s because I was shaped by one line walker and haunted by the hum of another. The life was Dad’s; the voice was Johnny’s.

The line is mine.

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You can't always control what's in the picture, but with the proper framing of a canvas, all else falls away.

Author: Craig Dahlberg

Narrator: Kara Lea Kennedy

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When I wrote for a conservative journal several years ago, one day my editor asked me to become more combative against “liberals.” When I told him I was not good at that, I heard myself say something I did not know before that moment: “God’s signature is written across every human heart; I’d rather speak to that signature.”

To my surprise, he said, “Well, we sure need someone around here who can do that!” The subject never came up again.

After a long estrangement from an old friend, I turned a corner one day and ran right into him. When he smiled, I suddenly remembered who he really was. Why did I forget he carried the signature? Because it’s so easy. We live in a thick fog of accusation that pulls us into believing the worst of anyone who might be other than we are.  

That’s not sane. As Michael Jordan explained about why he wasn’t an activist, “Republicans buy sneakers too!”

Our opponents are never as bad or as lost as we imagine. When people appear irredeemably dark or dangerous, it’s usually because we stumble into agreement with the accusations and anger that always swirl in the atmosphere. Rampant and furious dehumanization steals from our future.

Higher Ground

In 2009, during a trip to Jordan, I met a Palestinian Muslim. Ibrahim and I spent many hours together in restaurants, busses, and walking together throughout the country. At first, we spoke to each other from deep inside our own caves. But then, like Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird, we each slowly stepped from the shadows into the light.

One day, when Ibrahim told me about his son, who had lived with a chronic illness all his life, he recalled the night “Allah came to my house and healed my son.” My eyes burned as we walked back and forth across our common real estate. We found a heart connection within that signature, that too-good-to-be-true joy of God coming to your home.

We each found lift up above our religious, political, ethnic, and national borders. We stood together on higher ground.

How Do We Speak to the Signature?

When the Apostle Paul spoke at the Areopagus (in Acts 17), he did not react to their polytheism. He first recognized his and their common fatherhood in God. He also assured them God was near to them. He spoke words of life to everyone gathered there.

To live a life that is true we must get up above the mud rut labels so we can see God’s signature written across humanity. Everyone we meet carries it. Because God created and preceded us to that person, He already communes with him or her. We just need to see and love them as He does.  

As Goethe famously said, “Treat an individual as he is, and he will remain as he is. But if you treat him as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be.”

If you speak to the signature, you might call new life into existence; you may even create a path to higher ground for the one standing in front of you.

Finally, I do not believe everyone can or should “speak to the signature.” Some can; most can’t. I’m just suggesting the possibilities of getting up above earthbound prejudices and reactions. If we find that zone where we can think clearer, see further, and hear deeper, we might find a new way of viewing God’s marvelous creatures.

Including your cranky neighbor, boss, competitor, or your daughter’s boyfriend.  

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

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

When I wrote for a conservative journal several years ago, one day my editor asked me to become more combative against “liberals.” When I told him I was not good at that, I heard myself say something I did not know before that moment: “God’s signature is written across every human heart; I’d rather speak to that signature.”

To my surprise, he said, “Well, we sure need someone around here who can do that!” The subject never came up again.

After a long estrangement from an old friend, I turned a corner one day and ran right into him. When he smiled, I suddenly remembered who he really was. Why did I forget he carried the signature? Because it’s so easy. We live in a thick fog of accusation that pulls us into believing the worst of anyone who might be other than we are.  

That’s not sane. As Michael Jordan explained about why he wasn’t an activist, “Republicans buy sneakers too!”

Our opponents are never as bad or as lost as we imagine. When people appear irredeemably dark or dangerous, it’s usually because we stumble into agreement with the accusations and anger that always swirl in the atmosphere. Rampant and furious dehumanization steals from our future.

Higher Ground

In 2009, during a trip to Jordan, I met a Palestinian Muslim. Ibrahim and I spent many hours together in restaurants, busses, and walking together throughout the country. At first, we spoke to each other from deep inside our own caves. But then, like Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird, we each slowly stepped from the shadows into the light.

One day, when Ibrahim told me about his son, who had lived with a chronic illness all his life, he recalled the night “Allah came to my house and healed my son.” My eyes burned as we walked back and forth across our common real estate. We found a heart connection within that signature, that too-good-to-be-true joy of God coming to your home.

We each found lift up above our religious, political, ethnic, and national borders. We stood together on higher ground.

How Do We Speak to the Signature?

When the Apostle Paul spoke at the Areopagus (in Acts 17), he did not react to their polytheism. He first recognized his and their common fatherhood in God. He also assured them God was near to them. He spoke words of life to everyone gathered there.

To live a life that is true we must get up above the mud rut labels so we can see God’s signature written across humanity. Everyone we meet carries it. Because God created and preceded us to that person, He already communes with him or her. We just need to see and love them as He does.  

As Goethe famously said, “Treat an individual as he is, and he will remain as he is. But if you treat him as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be.”

If you speak to the signature, you might call new life into existence; you may even create a path to higher ground for the one standing in front of you.

Finally, I do not believe everyone can or should “speak to the signature.” Some can; most can’t. I’m just suggesting the possibilities of getting up above earthbound prejudices and reactions. If we find that zone where we can think clearer, see further, and hear deeper, we might find a new way of viewing God’s marvelous creatures.

Including your cranky neighbor, boss, competitor, or your daughter’s boyfriend.  

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

I tore across our field, maxing out the 24 horsepower, zero-turn mowing monster. A day of peaceful yard work quickly turned awry when my husband tromped through the grass, wearing his “I’m a man and I know machines” face. I knew he wasn’t approaching to tell me how pretty I was in my ball cap and tee shirt bearing the image of E.T., so I begrudgingly brought the mower to a stop. He yelled something, cranked the throttle from “happy-go-lucky turtle” to full “rabbit on methamphetamines,” and walked back to his beloved chainsaw.

Interpreting the world too literally almost always lands me in trouble. This case was no different.

I saw the rabbit silhouette as my signal to “give her all she’s got!” So, I bulldozed my way over the trembling fescue grass. Each hole, ridge, and ant pile lifted me violently out of my seat. Field mice ran in terror and crows circled overhead, anticipating the cadavers I was leaving behind. One hour later, finished, I killed the engine and hobbled over to my husband.

“I’m done. But I hurt. Everywhere.”

“Why were you in such a hurry?”

“Because you cranked it up to the rabbit!”

A mix of horror and amusement crossed his face. He grimaced, then told me the rabbit only showed how much power was going to the engine. It was not a “speed directive.”

One week later, the mower was crying out for help. After inspection, the diagnosis was clear: Every bolt that held the engine to the mower had been stripped. The engine clung to the mower like a man hugging a pier after swimming the English Channel.

Power or Speed?

Where might you be sacrificing power for speed? Sometimes this hunger for haste carries hidden costs.

While stationed in Germany, a friend watched with pride as her son zipped around on his tricycle. A German man stood watching. Finally, unable to contain his confusion, he asked my friend, “Is he in circus?” He then produced a balance bike, and, along with it, an education in power vs. speed. With no pedals, riders learn to kick their feet, Fred Flintstone style. They then lift their feet, using new muscles to keep them atop that rolling contraption. That’s how they learn balance. The transition to pedals will come after they master balance.

Slow Growth

A sign that hung in my grandma’s kitchen for years still speaks to me: “The hurrier I go, the behinder I get!” Doing puzzles at her kitchen table while waiting for noodles to dry on sheets of brown paper, I decided I didn’t want a life of speed.

But I did want power. Why? Power can carry people and things, giving a lift to those in need. Speed is usually solitary; it leaves others behind. That’s probably why I’ve always loved trains more than race cars.

We spend a lot of time racing to the next item on the list, despising the adage that “slow and steady wins the race.” I get it. “Slow and steady” is often painful. It makes you absorb and suffer things you prefer to skip. Proverbs 20:21 says, “An inheritance quickly gained will not be blessed in the end.” We often gain great power while moving at a slow and gentle pace. You have to let it overtake you.

Who are you supposed to take with you? Are you their ride to life’s higher ground?

Can they catch you? Or are they barely hanging on?

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

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

I tore across our field, maxing out the 24 horsepower, zero-turn mowing monster. A day of peaceful yard work quickly turned awry when my husband tromped through the grass, wearing his “I’m a man and I know machines” face. I knew he wasn’t approaching to tell me how pretty I was in my ball cap and tee shirt bearing the image of E.T., so I begrudgingly brought the mower to a stop. He yelled something, cranked the throttle from “happy-go-lucky turtle” to full “rabbit on methamphetamines,” and walked back to his beloved chainsaw.

Interpreting the world too literally almost always lands me in trouble. This case was no different.

I saw the rabbit silhouette as my signal to “give her all she’s got!” So, I bulldozed my way over the trembling fescue grass. Each hole, ridge, and ant pile lifted me violently out of my seat. Field mice ran in terror and crows circled overhead, anticipating the cadavers I was leaving behind. One hour later, finished, I killed the engine and hobbled over to my husband.

“I’m done. But I hurt. Everywhere.”

“Why were you in such a hurry?”

“Because you cranked it up to the rabbit!”

A mix of horror and amusement crossed his face. He grimaced, then told me the rabbit only showed how much power was going to the engine. It was not a “speed directive.”

One week later, the mower was crying out for help. After inspection, the diagnosis was clear: Every bolt that held the engine to the mower had been stripped. The engine clung to the mower like a man hugging a pier after swimming the English Channel.

Power or Speed?

Where might you be sacrificing power for speed? Sometimes this hunger for haste carries hidden costs.

While stationed in Germany, a friend watched with pride as her son zipped around on his tricycle. A German man stood watching. Finally, unable to contain his confusion, he asked my friend, “Is he in circus?” He then produced a balance bike, and, along with it, an education in power vs. speed. With no pedals, riders learn to kick their feet, Fred Flintstone style. They then lift their feet, using new muscles to keep them atop that rolling contraption. That’s how they learn balance. The transition to pedals will come after they master balance.

Slow Growth

A sign that hung in my grandma’s kitchen for years still speaks to me: “The hurrier I go, the behinder I get!” Doing puzzles at her kitchen table while waiting for noodles to dry on sheets of brown paper, I decided I didn’t want a life of speed.

But I did want power. Why? Power can carry people and things, giving a lift to those in need. Speed is usually solitary; it leaves others behind. That’s probably why I’ve always loved trains more than race cars.

We spend a lot of time racing to the next item on the list, despising the adage that “slow and steady wins the race.” I get it. “Slow and steady” is often painful. It makes you absorb and suffer things you prefer to skip. Proverbs 20:21 says, “An inheritance quickly gained will not be blessed in the end.” We often gain great power while moving at a slow and gentle pace. You have to let it overtake you.

Who are you supposed to take with you? Are you their ride to life’s higher ground?

Can they catch you? Or are they barely hanging on?

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