Friday Tidings

My husband Tom suggested an impromptu picnic lunch atop Hurricane Ridge—a fairly quick drive from our home. With lunches stowed in our backpacks, we hiked to an overlook of the Bailey Ridge—a group of snow-capped mountains in the Olympics. We had everything we needed—a view, privacy (except for a couple of curious deer), and sunshine. We also had everything we didn’t need—a cellular signal. No emails. No phone calls. No text messages or news feeds to follow. Nothing grabbing my attention—except the beauty around me. We followed a quiet path, outside the boundaries of 21st-century connections. I breathed in the alpine air and enjoyed my untethered freedom. My media over-attachment often challenges my resolve to focus on what's right in front of me. I absorb concerns that I’m not equipped to do anything about. Nature—and the absence of a cell signal—was mindful medicine. More impromptu lunch dates in the wilderness and less screen time? That’s a win-win.

While on school playground duty, I observed a new game: Chaos versus Peace . The first team to capture the top of the play structure wins. No pushing or shoving is allowed. Chaos relies on incessant noise to confuse Peace. Peace can only use their regular voices—no yelling. Chaos was clearly winning, time after time. Peace couldn’t hear one another over the constant screaming of Chaos. But then, Peace called a strategy huddle. They couldn’t yell, but they could use hand signals. Without making a sound, they tried to outwit Chaos. I stood in amazement as their quiet strategy began to work. Chaos screamed louder and louder. And then—I watched as Peace captured the top. The formerly undefeated Chaos realized that yelling louder didn’t help them win anymore. Recess ended before another battle could begin, but as everyone filed back to class, I realized something: Peace and quiet can win in a noisy world.

Late in my dad’s life, he shared the following homecoming story. He had been stationed at an Air Force base in Okinawa, Japan, and was finally returning home. Alongside him on the ship were his wife and their blond-haired toddler, who had been born overseas.  Waiting among the throngs of people welcoming returning troops were this little girl's grandparents—who had never met the striking, blue-eyed child. But someone else was waiting too—a father who hadn’t seen his son since a divorce had severed contact when he was just a boy. While overseas, my father had begun writing to his father that he hadn't seen. He wrote about being a pudgy kid suddenly uprooted from the sunny streets of Chico, California, and moved to a rural farm in Washington.  He described being bullied by the stronger, leaner farm boys—and how he found the courage to face the bullies and learn how to make friends. His letters told of college, marrying his sweetheart, and being sent to Okinawa in the afterma...

  On one of my walks, I noticed a small sign that had blown to the side of the running trail. You Got This It was clearly meant to encourage runners to keep going. But in that moment, it was exactly the message I needed—because my thoughts were racing in circles, and my worries were winning. I wasn’t feeling the “You Got This” vibe at all. Jesus once asked, “Can all your worries add a single moment to your life?” (Matthew 6:27) I know better. But honestly? I’ve perfected the art of worrying. And here’s what worry does to me: it steals my peace, it kills my hope, and then it comes for my joy. I picked up the fallen sign, took a deep breath, and whispered, “You got this.” Then I fastened it back to a tree—so someone else could see it, just when they might need it most. Give all your worries to him, because he cares about you. 1 Peter 5:7