Friday Tidings

We had offered to run this errand since it was just a side trip on our way home. We set the GPS to find a rural farm. I’ve lived on the Olympic Peninsula for over thirty years, yet I had never seen this area before. The land was beautiful—fertile fields of grain and hay, with cows grazing in lush pastures. We turned into a dusty driveway, the mailbox number matching the directions we’d been given. A smiling young man and a lively toddler soon approached. He shook our hands warmly and introduced himself and his son—Jake and Trig. We marveled at the setting, surrounded by the evidence of hard work, investment, and production. Jake grinned. “I’m the fifth generation to live here, and this little guy is the sixth.” It was clear he didn’t mind the long hours, or even our after-dinner intrusion to pick up a quarter beef he’d raised and processed. This was his life’s calling. “I get to the end of the year and if I make zero, that’s okay,” he said, “as long as I can pay my bills and keep...

I’d seen the invasion, but decided it didn’t matter. My forest manager set me straight. If left unchecked, the invading plant would eventually cover the entire forest floor and climb every tree.  It had already killed the natural plant habitat, and as the manager said, the wildlife would soon suffer. This invasion had occurred along the border with my next-door neighbor—an older couple who’d retired to this place a couple decades ago. When they couldn’t keep their barking dachshunds on their property, Mr. K constructed a hog wire fence the full length of the property line. Then they had created a well-landscaped yard and had subsequently planted yellow archangel—the invasive beast. I never went to his fence line, not wanting to set-off the barking dogs. So, I was unaware of how much the yellow archangel had spread. It had moved comfortably through the fence onto our acreage—in a huge blanket.  I’m not the best neighbor, because I tend to keep to myself and not be very social, ...

Many know what it’s like to lose a mother.   When she’s gone, it feels as if a piece of us is missing—the piece that brought us into the world. And so, we look for ways to hold on to all that we shared with her. Mom was courageous and bold. Two things I am not. She was artistic and extroverted. Two more things I am not. But we shared one thing deeply: a love for nature, especially the forest and the beach. Maybe that’s why I came to live in the place where Mom had lived in the woods. When she passed on, her little log cabin stood empty, weathered, and decaying.  Somehow, I convinced my family to leave our beautiful, spacious home and move into that small cabin in the woods. We filled it with our love and repaired it with our own hands. But the best part will never be the cabin, but the forest around it and the beach far below. I wish Mom knew we are here, enjoying this place for her. I wish she could see her great-granddaughter running through the same fores...

As you can see, I was horrible at telling time. My elementary school peers figured out those clock hands, but it took me longer. Much longer. So, every August, when I see all the back-to-school signs, I get that familiar pit in my stomach. That pit is for all the kids like me, who struggle in school. I remember one day when the classroom door opened and a smiling lady called my name. We walked hand in hand to a small room and sat together. She had a big cardboard clock and she took my hands and placed them on the plastic clock hands. There were no red ink pens with angry check marks. Just her smile and patient, “Try again.” We went to our special room and worked side by side for weeks. I doubt I thanked her. It was just part of school to me. But it made all the difference. As kids head back to classrooms, I feel for you.  Learning isn’t always easy. So, I pray for you and your teachers. Especially the teachers who show up with a smile, encouragement, and, like it was for...

Typically, the church choir would file in from the entrance behind the pipe organ, along the side of the sanctuary. But today, they were marching in two by two down the front aisle. Their voices were raised in bold song as they began the morning service with a joyous flair. We all sat in our pews—listening, watching, and waiting for them to reach their seats in the choir loft. I was probably ten, and listening to the music was the best part of church for me. I looked at those around me. Dad had let me sit next to him on the aisle, so I had a view of all the choir robes swishing past me. Then I saw little KB. He was only three, but he’d never spoken a word. For a little boy, his silence was something we all noticed. This was long before any extensive autism research, or much understanding of what KB’s mind was capable of. To me, he was just a quiet boy with thick eyeglasses. He stayed close to his parents. But on this morning, he had somehow escaped his father’s pew and followed ...

You know how it goes… You’re thumbing through an old photo album, searching for a certain picture, and then another one stops you. This photo dates back to 2011, taken at a gathering in our amazing Joyce community. At first, it was just a simple idea—a kid’s party to celebrate the end of the school year. But then we decided to invite the whole community. We asked musicians to entertain, grilled burgers and hot dogs, and packed huge ice chests full of pop. Everyone brought something to share—salads and scrumptious desserts. Even the sunshine showed up—which, around here, can be iffy. As busy as we all were back then (and still are), we took an afternoon to set up, enjoy, and clean up. Everyone pitched in. It was worth it—for this photo of us all together, and for a heart full of memories. As I look at these familiar, younger faces, I smile back—because this is what community looks like. We may be older now, but the heart of who we are is still the same.