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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538138/waiting-for-trains">Waiting for trains</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_66633e9c239d4e3082055395f39258db~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Only a few hardy souls venture out at dawn to walk the DeAnza Trail at Canoa Historic Ranch, especially this time of year. For sun lovers and cravers of warmth, the 49 degree starting temperature requires walking gear more common in a Northwest fall.  Thus, we have this become accustomed to walking this trail alone.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But there is another hardy soul, a transplant from Alaska, who comes a little later dressed in little but shorts and a light jacket.  For her, this weather is “balmy”, and having clothing that allows freedom of movement is important because of her job as a dog trainer and dog walker.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We can always spot her on the trail as she usually has 2-4 leashes with various dogs tied to them.  The leashes tangle and untangle as each, at their own speed, revels in the smells of the desert trail.  She calls them to her, always her voice encouraging and filled with gentle humor.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And then there is Ginger.  Walking free alongside her.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>When we first met Ginger, a rescued pit bull, she was afraid to even get out of the car of her new owner.  Greeting anyone was impossible, so scared or scarred she was from her previous experience.  Over the year we have been encountering her, we have seen her transform into a friendly, adventurous, confident dog.  
</p>
<p><em>Being loved well will have that effect.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Ginger’s confidence shone today as we approached the dog pack.  Her entire wide face exploded in a dog grin, tongue flopping out one side.  We thought she was happy to see us, but her owner, when she approached, drew attention to the clacking of rail cars cutting through the desert in the distance.  Ginger was staring transfixed across the desert landscape.
</p>
<p><em>It’s the train, she says.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Her owner, ever the dog whisperer, has been writing emails to the train company with a simple request.  When you pass by the desert alongside Canoa Ranch, will you blow your train horn for my dog.  Today, for the first time, the whistle blows, and we watch as Ginger’s grin explodes further.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Because Ginger loves trains more than anything, her owner says she often sits with Ginger by the wash in the distance  for up to an hour waiting for a train to pass.  Ginger will stare into the distance with an anticipation that is palpable.  And she always knows when one is about to appear.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_fb67912d7e9247498af182b0fd0530dd~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><em>Ginger feels the vibrations of the coming train, she says.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I think about Ginger’s anticipation…her ability to sense when joy is inching closer.  I think about her absolute trust that what she craves will be supplied.  And I think about her singular focus on what matters most as she walks this trail: </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>The train is coming.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Sadly, my focus is often on the dangers in the desert <em>and</em> in life. I am constantly being struck by the venomous behaviors of human beings towards each other.  My heart is stabbed by the needles and spikes of human cruelty.  There is so much I do not understand.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And sometimes, I lose my capacity to register hope.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But this morning, I thought about Ginger, who like Jay Gatsby,  seems to have an “extraordinary gift for hope.”  Her hope is not deterred by circumstance or challenged by experience.  She knows the train is coming, and she is willing to wait for how ever long it takes until her heart is filled to overflowing with its sound and motion.   She is in the moment, feet firmly planted on the ground, eyes ever scanning the landscape beyond her vision.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And so it should become with me.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I need to attune my senses to what thrives in an unseen world and yet is  ever present and ever available to me here on the ground on which I walk.  I need to remember that the dangers around me are temporal and will never outlast what lives just beyond the horizon.   And I need to focus my vision on that which I can not see but which is more real than the needle ridden landscape before me.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I need to attune my heart to the vibrations of hope in the distance.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And in these troubled times, I imagine you do too.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_ce5a089ec20f4841a6760e290a5f6109~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-11-07T07:34:52-07:00" title="November 07, 2023 07:34">11/07/2023</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538139/the-woman-who-talks-with-god">The Woman Who Talks with God</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<p>“People are meant to live in an ongoing conversation with God, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">speaking and being spoken to.”   Dallas Willard</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>One of my dearest friends is a Woman Who Talks with God.  She is not necessarily on her knees in a closet or screaming prayers from a corner sidewalk. She is conversational, I believe, in a way of someone who loves another with all her heart, soul, mind, and strength.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And more importantly, she knows she is loved passionately and without judgement by the One she loves.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Being soaked in this knowledge infuses her with an innate ability to love lavishly.  Her metaphorical table is constantly being set with her best plates and drink glasses whenever she meets a new person.  She wraps the stranger and the friend in a warm embrace and she listens deeply and comforts richly.  To know her is to know love.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>When she says in conversation, “I was talking to God,” you can trust she was, in that constant casual way of friends who, because they know each other so well, seek constant communion.  The fact that God speaks back should surprise no one.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>It never surprises me. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>What does surprise me at times, though, is the depth of insight that she receives from the Creator of all things.  There are times that the word spoken “just for her” is so profound that it transcends just her own life circumstances.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And I am still reeling from her last communication received in her life of prayer conversation.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My friend has been going through a relational situation for years with someone she loves with all her heart…someone whose life is characterized by  issues beyond his own control in many ways.  Someone for whom she would willingly give up her life. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Someone for whom she has literally endangered her own health and safety.</em></p>
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<p>Because she has felt so helpless to know what the “right thing” is to do, she has been sharing her heart with God for a decade or more, wanting so badly to discern the best way through.  She has not asked for the struggle to be lifted, because she is a woman who never gives up on anyone. A woman of great courage.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>But she has sought counsel and direction from an omnipotent Creator.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A few days ago she shared that in her latest time of conversation, she kept asking for help in knowing how to proceed and kept listening for a answer that would help her best serve her commitment to love no matter what the circumstances.  And God, as always came through.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>You need to let him go, or he will never find his way to Me.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That was it.  And that was all that was needed.  Because this woman, whose capacity to love is limitless, would never have enough love to equal the love that was waiting in God’s embrace.  Because sometimes human love is not enough.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And sometimes, the greatest act of love is to let go.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Ever since our phone call, I have been haunted by that Sacred  voice speaking into my own life. Who are the people in my life that I love too much to release to a greater, more redemptive love? What are the situations that I seek to control out of the best intentioned love that need to be released to a universal source whose wisdom has no boundaries? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And what is it in me that is drifting in uncertain, treacherous waters that needs to be released to the One who calls the sea to be still.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As Rilke always reminds me, it is going to have to be enough for right now to love the questions…to let them permeate my heart and cleanse my soul.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But in my wondering, I was reminded of a conversation with an elderly woman of great wisdom years ago who had endured so much in her family.  She shared openly of her struggles with various children and a less than perfect husband.  I asked her how she handled all of her concerns.  Her answer was immediate.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I put ‘em in a box and give ‘em to Jesus.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My friend has been given this insight.  And since she shared her wisdom, </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I am out searching for a large enough box.</em></p>
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</article>  <article class="post blog-article full-item post-full" data-controller="zoogle-video" data-action="message@window-&gt;zoogle-video#handleVimeoPostMessage">
    
<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538140/an-unillustrated-life">An unillustrated life.</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_4547112714d147399702f536e1e3f4c0~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>My daughters were grown, their rooms were vacated,  and the possibilities of developing a creative life again inspired me to consider how I might decorate one of the rooms to make a dedicated space for writing.  Seeking inspiration for my newly acquired home office, I had scoured old boxes and files and crudely stapled and pinned evidence of my former life as a musician and songwriter on an entire wall of the room.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But I was still deep into my real life of teaching, and rather than encouragement, staring at that wall haunted me with a pressure to create I could not muster.  I remember standing in front of that wall of memories and having a “Come to Jesus” moment with myself.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>That life was my past.  </em>
</p>
<p>Those memories were too raw for me.  To move forward and not live in a constant state of discontent, I had to exorcise that former life from my heart.  I stared at the images and letters on the wall one last time. Then, one by one, I slowly ripped every memory from that wall, shredding them as I did, leaving a blank wall dotted with the tiny remnants of push pin holes and staples. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And I said goodbye to my old life.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But somewhere in the back of my brain, I took comfort in knowing that there were keepers </p>
<p>of those shared memories living their lives in places throughout the country.  Perhaps, they, like I, had moments in their mundane lives where they recalled those days of life filled with with creativity and laughter.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Perhaps they, like I, recalled days filled with the dark shadows of lives lived without common sense and boundaries, which often left a trail of human misery in its wake.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>But you know how it is. </em>
</p>
<p>Mostly the memory of misery dilutes with time, and so, over the years, I had been sporadically trying to locate old band mates through social media, usually in moments of boredom or discontent with the daily grind of life.  I wanted to reconnect to those memories…to find someone to relive the stories with.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Of all the musicians I had worked with, there was one whose image loomed large.  He was inordinately talented and sadly addicted, a flaw that had kept him from true greatness.  He was charismatic on stage, unless the alcohol took over. His passion ran deep for music, for drugs, for alcohol, and for just about any other vice.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>But I loved that guy.  </em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_3de29deb632a4b67900c027b8b96dbff~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Over the years, Tim and I talked about how cool it would be for them to meet.  My husband had heard some of his work on recordings and came to view him with the same admiration I did.  I envisioned our getting together, playing music, and getting caught up on decades of lives apart.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My research was sporadic over the years as work consumed all my energy.  But one Saturday in my fifties, I decided to actively pursue finding him so Tim and I could plan a reunion trip.  The rabbit trail I followed was time consuming, hitting dead end after dead end until I saw one article with his name in the headline.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>The headline, dated three years prior, announced to the world that he had died at 58.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My heart exploded.  A chasm opened up and into it dropped all the corroborating evidence of that old life, the life that floated in a sea of possibilities and the life lived outside the lines.  Gone was the corroboration of nights of music in biker bars and drinking vats of cigarette flavored coffee at the local IHOP while the sun rose over the plains of Colorado.  Gone was the corroboration of long drives with a car crammed full of sleepy musicians and instruments, just me and the moon awake and a trucker's radio station blaring to cover the sound of their snores. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Gone the corroboration that there was a time when the music was all that mattered and being broke for the love of the muse was a badge of honor.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It's a bit like going to your high school reunion and finding out you are the last one standing.  With whom do you swap tales of memorable moments?   With whom will you muse, "remember when” and then share the tears and laughter such reminiscing brings? With whom will you imagine that you still have what it takes to do that again?</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>At the time, I wished I could go back and piece together those torn photographs and memorabilia ripped from the walls of my home office.  The pictures told the tale of a life lived passionately and, sometimes, recklessly in the pursuit of creativity.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But, as Thomas Wolfe stated, you can’t go home again.  That was a home that lived its purpose.  And my life now is lived not in the memories of what was, but in moments of what is… </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A quieter creativity floods my life now, free of the tyranny of schedules and unembumbered by the weight of bad decisions. It is soaked in a desert landscape that fills my life with inescapable beauty and inspiration.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And for that, I need no pictures on the walls.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_ed1869419ba541c69e79d1c14400f7f6~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p></div>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-10-24T04:51:02-07:00" title="October 24, 2023 04:51">10/24/2023</span></p>

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  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538141/the-addiction-of-adventure">The addiction of adventure.  </a>&nbsp;
</h2>

<div class="post">
  <div class="message"><p style="text-align: center;"><em>My friend is 82. She’s travelled the world already. For her, a rich internal life characterized </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>by a deep curiosity is adventure enough. It made me wonder when she started </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>to recognize her own contentment with smaller things.    Nadia Boltz Weber</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_80472f78a8444736b194a7957265c9cb~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_436,h_655,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Adventuring has been an avoidance strategy I have used my whole life.  Perhaps it was born with me in my life as a military brat…the moves, the having to get comfortable with being unsettled, the never knowing when the school would change or new friends would have to be made.
</p>
<p>Friends I made along the way shared rich memories of mom at home, pre-school, church… all American things.  In my youngest memories swirled the smell of tatami mats and sliding rice paper walls, art deco fish flags and dancing dragons whose movements were punctuated by Taiko drums.  My friends had memories of trikes and car rides.  My three year old brain stored memories of the U.S.S. Gaffey and the deck chairs as we crossed the Pacific from Japan to San Francisco, in calm and in storm.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Other kids’ moms cooked and cleaned and welcomed them home from school.  Mine started her own business and set us out into the world unsupervised. Other families had friends for dinner, or for cards or for barbecues in the backyard.  In eighteen years in our family home, we never had a visitor, except for the day my dad was killed by a drunk driver and the lady next door brought over a foul smelling casserole to comfort us in our grief.  It was literally the first time we had exchanged words.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That is not to say mom was not social.  While my dad did his soldier thing and then went off to run a theatre at night, she reveled in collecting characters at work, eventually making them part of “our work life”.  I say <em>our</em>, because she made child labor a major part of her children’s existence when we were old enough to help.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>While our friends played games with neighborhood kids, my younger brother and I would be collating some mimeograph job having contests to see who could do it faster. And there were stuffing envelopes contests and licking envelopes contests, being careful to not have the sharp thin edge cut into our tongues.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The adults in our lives were introduced to us at her place of work and most had recently stepped off the greyhound bus from a station across the street, a street once walked by John Steinbeck in our shared home town.  
</p>
<p>There was the older man named John, who was a Watcher from Mars, here only to observe those of us on Planet Earth.  His stories about outer space were shared as I stood carefully watching the mimeograph barrel circle rhythmically, hoping for no jams.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And there was Erickson, the  escapee from a mental institution who lived with Lilly the bird lady in a Miss Haversham style home.  The curtains were always drawn against the light and her parakeets fluttered in the dusty light from curtain rod to curtain rod.  In a short amount of exposure, I came to learn he saw dead people and had conversations with spirits no one could see.  He haunts me still.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_16ca3d0a28ef47439e58b31d34d9bbbe~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>It seemed for most of my life I was trapped in situations that wrapped me in a state of dis-ease and from which I could not escape, only disappear.  Except for family adventures in nature.  On those occasions, I could escape because the first thing my parents would do once we arrived was disappear, leaving four children to be free of any expectations.  Only then did my life seem safe.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I couldn’t run from my life then.  But set free as an adult I could, and I did.  Whenever some growth opportunity reared its painful head.  Whenever I felt like I couldn’t breathe.  Whenever I felt my life on the edge of conflict, I moved.  I called it adventure. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And thus, adventure  became a distraction.  From the reality of my circumstance. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But these days, the siren’s call lands on ears damaged by time.  The lure of dotted white lines has disappeared in the rear view mirror.  Everything I ever have wanted to see, I think I have seen. Everything I wanted to do, I have done.  And as the landscape of my heart has undergone exploration and renovation, I have grown weary of my addiction.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And so, I begin a new journey…to stay rooted in one place…</em></p>
<p><em>to find contentment in the small things</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Because it is in the small things that hope lives... the sun in the morning appearing with its <em>Ta Dah</em> rays over the Santa Rita mountains….a drop of dew clinging delicately on a tiny flower in a jungle of cactus…a sunflower with its face turned towards the morning reflected in a small lake.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Here, in this desert place, I find adventure in turning over stones as prehistoric creatures with frantic legs flee from the light.  I move agave plants from one location to another one I have deemed more suitable.  But I take great care to keep the siblings together, as I feel they have become accustomed to one another’s sharp embrace, and I cannot bear to separate them.  I move gravel from one place to another and back again reveling in the sound of its sharp stone edges hitting the the metal blade of the shovel.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>So, like Nadia’s 82 year old friend, I am making friends with small moments. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Around me, war swirls across the globe, and here, in our own borderlands, the dance of hope and the finality of death weave in and out of the dry, sharp landscape of the desert.  Sirens scream in the night, and though I hunger for a sense of peace, it eludes me in the onslaught of cruelty that pervades our human landscape.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I feel helpless.  I have no where to turn.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And so, in my inadequacy and the paralysis of my heart, I turn to these stones, these pebbles, these plants.  I dig in the dirt in the morning heat, and I stand under the night sky and soak in the stars.  I cry out to God in the darkness and beg for release of the suffering of this world.  For healing.  For peace.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And then in the morning light, like Sisyphus of ancient lore, I begin again, finding small things to love and to move again, from one place to another.  
</p>
<p>In the face of such tragedy bombarding our hearts in the world today, one might find this work of little value or consolation.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But like Camus, I believe that in this never ending task I am learning that “the struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart…and… imagine Sisyphus happy…”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And in these small moments, so it is with me.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_dc63b33108dc4d0b92b6ee45012dd9ff~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-10-17T05:00:36-07:00" title="October 17, 2023 05:00">10/17/2023</span></p>

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  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538142/not-my-story-to-tell">Not my story to tell</a>&nbsp;
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<p>When a car runs a red light or a stop sign and crashes into the side of an unsuspecting driver, the term often used to describe the event is “t-boned”. After such an event, the victim is often left not just with physical trauma, but mental and emotional as well.  The world becomes an unsafe place and danger can seem to be lurking in every shadow.  </p>
<p>
In our family, we used the term universally, especially when it came to relational and emotional areas.  When a distant family member’s response to another’s vulnerability and honesty was unexpected and cruel, we would say, “That was a  t-bone.”  When a social issue came up where we assumed everyone was on the same page and something cruel and expected came out of somebody’s mouth instead, that was a  “t-bone”.  If instead of expected love, we received intentional harm, it was a t-bone.</p>
<p>
<em>And lately, I feel like a walking car crash. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It is not because people are cruel, though they can be.  It is not because anything is going on in my social relationships, though sometimes there can be.  No, it is because, though I should expect no different, our culture has been crashing into my recent new vehicle, and I am always unprepared.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>This new car is different from my old one.  My old car was safe and unnoticeable.  I drove around in it and had conversations with myself about the state of the world, and then I drove to the mountains or to the vast sea and walked and talked with God and everything was good,because my world revolved around the thoughts in my head and my perceived notions about the world and its occupants.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But this new vehicle was built on confronting reality and not safety and escape. This new vehicle has four wheel drive, with the top down in the heat and the wind and the dust.  Its views of the desert are not of sunrises and sunsets over a manicured path, but of rocky ravines and desiccated river beds.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>This new vehicle does not just read headlines and plaster bandaids and frolick off into an interior life of peace and security in solitude on well marked roads.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_c554ce3eac37411aae236138368e1f37~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>My old car touted the value of social justice.  But it only received dings in the parking lot.  Here, every time I get into the new vehicle, the side of it gets destroyed.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I cannot drive down a road without encountering a cross where hope died crossing the desert, often steps away from civilization…more often in remote places, unforgiving places…inhumane places to die.  I cannot unsee the images that surround us here in the borderlands.  Nor can I unhear the despicable responses to the sufferings of others.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>T-boned.  Every day.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As hard as this is, I have lived here less than two years.  Others have been driving their battered vehicles through these deserts for decades, tending to the lost, the thirsty, and the bruised and never giving up hope for a more just world until it becomes one.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I had breakfast with a road warrior like that.  Decades of driving through these desert roads, tending to the broken hearted, building bridges where others build walls. I felt the warmth of her spirit and sang baby shark to her granddaughter.  She shared her vision for the work she does for a more just world.  She promised to send a public documentary video of her life story. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I would never want anyone to be experience being t-boned in reality, but today, I am inviting you to be t-boned in your spirit and watch the short documentary at the end of this post.  Hear the story, her story, and let it wash over you into any dry places you might have when it comes to issues around the border and immigrants.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Hear the story of someone who lived the headlines, and now, even knowing the dangers, has been cruising through the intersections anyway, because being on the road matters.  No matter the cost.
</p>
<p><em>It is her story to tell.  I could never do it justice.</em></p>
<a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=p0-5161vn9U"><img src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/p0-5161vn9U/maxresdefault.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" height="720" width="1280" /></a>
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</article>  <article class="post blog-article full-item post-full" data-controller="zoogle-video" data-action="message@window-&gt;zoogle-video#handleVimeoPostMessage">
    
<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538143/the-man-who-said-yes">The man who said yes.</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

<div class="post">
  <div class="message"><p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_17ef220653b846cd8c3dc96ae91b14c0~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>My husband Tim described his dad as a “no” machine.  Only one opinion in the family mattered: His.  Anything he didn’t like himself was branded unworthy of exploration.  So deeply ingrained were his parameters for life that to go against his way of thinking was, well, unthinkable.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But I loved his dad.  He was all gracious Texan charm to me and to his acquired grandchildren.  Even after the unimaginable happened.  One day at a family gathering, he expressed a less than favorable opinion of teachers.  Since I was one, I felt the need to challenge him on the subject.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I literally remember a collective gasp from the rest of the family, who awaited the punishment for my crime of having an opinion, but, as I recall, he merely smiled his gracious smile, a twinkle in his eye, and moved on. Apparently, I may have been the only one who did not fear the paper tiger that had ruled this family.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_74deb023a9bf4194abaed22154ffc336~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_302,h_201,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>But Tim had ingested a wealth of “must held”opinions, one of which was that outdoor adventures, especially camping, were stupid.  Our family, on the other hand, only went on camping adventures, being too poor to do anything else.  And every weekend we seemed to be doing something in the outdoors.  As someone who only found peace from conflict on family camping trips, his anti-camping stance presented a conundrum for me.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It took years before I began to devise a plan and then to feel safe suggesting it. Knowing that his version of camping was a motel, I first broached the subject of a “cushy” camping week, all meals provided, tents set up and a week to kayak with the orcas off the northern end of Vancouver Island.  And the “hook” was this:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>We would stay at a hotel on each end of the trip.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>He agreed, to my surprise. When we arrived at the dock with our gear bags, a small cruiser awaited to boat us to a remote location with eight other participants all, we learned quickly, from foreign countries.  After about 45 minutes, we turned the corner into a small cove, and the engines were shut off as we coasted to about ten or so yards off shore.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>One of the crew member threw a park bench over the side as our “step ladder” and reminded us to carry our gear over our heads to keep it dry, sending us one by one into the icy water.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And, yes, it was a portent of things to come.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_d7f76247569d4a54bacd816cf9eb972a~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Once on shore, we were assigned to one of the permanent tents scattered around the hillsides.  We were directed up a root tangled trail into an overgrown, rank forest.  In the afternoon air, a rotting smell filled the air, which I chalked up to the hot midday sun.  Throwing our gear inside, we hurried back to the main camp for dinner.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As the light faded, we clambered back to our awaiting tent after dinner with our insufficient flashlight, noting the smell had intensified.  But sleep eluded us both.  With the odor and the sound of a small stream nearby, the only antidote to the effects of intense nausea we were feeling was to drag our sleeping bags down to the beach in the dark to spend the night.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Stretching our bags on to the rocky sand, we lay there under the stars fighting the downhill tilt of the beach.  In the distance, we spotted a cruise ship lit up like a Christmas tree and fantasized about swimming out to sea and pretending we had fallen overboard.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But finally sleep overtook us both.  At least until I was awoken by the beautiful sound of waves crashing on shore.  Getting nearer.  And nearer.  I wrenched my eyes open to note flashes of white near my feet.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>The tide was coming in and we were below the tide line.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That was the beginning of the worst “cushy” camping trip in the history of mankind.  Within two days, we had also discovered that Tim’s legs were too long to fit in a kayak without pain, and I had panic attacks when they tried to button down the skirt on my kayak to be in open ocean.  We were land bound for the remainder of the trip.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_61ed0d3cb42e40cf92b0a4b69b049084~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Without kayaking as an activity, we became the guardians of someone else who found kayaking not to be to his liking: one of the twin teenage boys from Germany whose only English was the F word.  At least that’s what he and his brother had convinced the group to believe, but I saw the twinkle in their eyes, and decided my contribution to their language study would be to add the sign language for “loser” to their vocabulary. Not our finest moment, but we somehow bonded with him over this sign language, and the three of us applied it far more than was appropriate.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Being the adventurer I was, I begged Tim to bail and go home early.  We were covered in bites from an active sand flea invasion every night..  Sleep eluded us, and we woke up every morning to soaked sleeping bags.  And our leaders expressed incredulity that anyone would book a kayak trip who did not, in fact, kayak. But we did kayak. Once. In an ocean kayak on Maui.  True, we flipped it the moment we put our paddles in, but I was so sure this would be different.
</p>
<p><em>Tim held the line.  It was only a week.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Yes, a week.  The longest weeks of our lives.  Finally set back down on the dock, we limped to our car and drove to our hotel room. Once inside, we both literally looked at each other and started to weep.  Uncontrollably. I looked at his slightly swollen, bug bite covered face and caught a glimpse of my own in the mirror.  We had never looked so beaten up.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>You would think that would have ended Tim’s adventures in the wilderness, but I continued to come up with wild ideas for “cushy” wilderness experiences, and, unlike his father, he continued to say yes.  Yes to car camping, yes to tent camping, yes to camping on a river trip.  Yes. Yes. Yes.  In none of these trips did he ever have what I would call a positive experience.  But he has hung in there.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>When I read him my take on this adventure and asked him if it was accurate, he replied that it was all totally true.  As we processed our less than stellar record with outdoor adventure, I shared that I marveled at his unfailing good humor when presented with yet another crazy idea, given his family DNA. .  He looked me in the eye.
</p>
<p><em>You know why I would do that?  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Because I love you.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And so friends, we are headed on an another adventure this week to New Mexico to run in the White Sands and whatever else comes our way. Just another crazy idea.  But because love is reciprocal, I booked a casita for us.  Someplace with hot running water and fresh baked bread for incoming guests and a pool and a hot tub.  Someplace where toilets flush and the yard is fenced.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Somewhere fit for a man who turned his back on “no” and, because of love, embraced the adventure of a spontaneous, sometimes uncomfortable life.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_a5c7628c130d46198184a16a63f946ba~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
<p>
</p>
<p><br></p></div>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-10-03T04:00:06-07:00" title="October 03, 2023 04:00">10/03/2023</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538144/soundbites-and-slogans-at-the-wall">Soundbites and slogans at The Wall</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<p>My high school Honors English teacher, Ms. Nancy Roach, was an intimidating presence. But what she seemed to lack in “warm fuzziness” she more than made up for by her unbridled passion for language.  She savored well written sentences like a food critic savoring an excellent recipe.   Even more so, she had a love of words- beautiful words- words that had nuanced meanings and rolled off the tongue like a foreign language. 
</p>
<p>Introducing us to new vocabulary every week, she would sound out the words and then read a sentence from which the meaning could be inferred.  It has been fifty plus years since I have sat devouring new words in her classroom, and yet I still remember even the context sentences like this:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>The coonskin cap was an </em><u><em>anomaly</em></u><em> in the Senate cloakroom.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Years later, as an English teacher myself trying to pass on that same passion for language, I remember commenting towards the end of my career, that at the rate we were going, our written language would be back to pictures and grunts in no time.  Sadly, I fear we are closer than ever.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>We have become a culture of soundbites and slogans.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Here’s the thing about sound bites and slogans. They fit easily into a tweet on X, or a post on Instagram, or a 20 second video on TikTok, or on one of the other numerous social media apps currently available.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Here’s the other thing about sound bites and slogans. They require no thinking, and they require no context.  They can be easily passed on without investigation.  They fit nicely on a scroll at the bottom of a TV screen, and many can be crammed into a speech without any connection to reality.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And never has this been more true than in sound bites and slogans directed at The Wall.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_d56f81941152498bbb7068bafb879bf4~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>“Finish the wall and keep out the criminals,” has been a theme of a constant thumping on campaign trails and in the halls of Congress.  Bumper stickers, memes, signs on street corners all carrying some version of this story.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But I have been wondering these days how many people who have strong opinions about The Wall have actually ever been there?  How many have driven the bordering roads that run up and down hills and arroyos in the desert sun? How many have studied the cost to human life, the environment, and our own long held but often rarely practiced spiritual beliefs?  Having spent even just one day traveling along this wall, my overall reaction, using some words I learned from Ms. Nancy Roach, is simply this:
</p>
<p><em>The Wall is an abomination, and it is epitome of lunacy and hypocrisy.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The Wall, at a cost of billions of dollars, can never be finished. To do so would require it continue on to sovereign land of the Tohono O’Odom nation, which is not allowed. The Wall, at a cost of billions of dollars, is already in a state of disrepair, causing sections to be dismantled and repaired at added cost of millions per year.  The Wall, at a cost of billions, cannot be completed because to do so interferes with the natural paths of water and animals, which is an environmental disaster.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And the Wall will never keep out people hungering for hope and for freedom in a land that promises both for all who seek asylum, but fails to deliver</em>.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>If you were to actually travel along The Wall on any given day, you might find vigilantes who travel from in and out of state because of the soundbites and slogans they digest from media sources. Because they are “law abiding citizens” they destroy water stations and they harass migrants, often passing on information gained to other “patriots” who then harass the sponsors.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And if you were to travel along The Wall, you might find armed members of conspiracy groups basically hunting for migrants in the desert to turn them over for deportation, which they believe is their legal obligation as “law abiding citizens” because of the information they get from, you know, soundbites and slogans.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>You know what else you might find?  On some days, you may find a small group of teens who have been traveling for fifteen days, the last three without food, like our pastor did on one of his humanitarian aid runs. And in the middle of that group, you might find, as he did, a three or four year old little girl who the group found wandering in the desert alone and adopted to keep her safe and alive. 
</p>
<p>And you might find yourself imagining, as I do every day now, how long that little girl walked by herself, and how long she might have stood in observance of whatever happened to her parents in that unforgiving desert. A toddler in the desert. Frightened.  Lost.  Confused. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Alone.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_efce896d8eae4a48a245b2aa4c43738d~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_846,h_512,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>You know what else you might find?  Someone like the Samaritan next to me who regularly hikes the desert not far from us outside Tumacacori.  He goes there because it is a level area migrants encounter after crossing two mountain ranges.  He and others with him hope to find travelers in need of aid.  Often they do, and are able to give food and water.  Other times, he has found dead bodies lying exposed in the desert sun.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Alone.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>None of these stories of The Wall fit in a soundbite or a slogan. But they happen around us every hour of every day while men and women in “hallowed halls” throw around terms like “invaders” and “rapists” and “drug dealers” and create policies that do nothing more than stoke the flames of violence and prejudice.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>So, with apologies to Ms Nancy Roach, I can offer this slogan of my own.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>If you want to know what inhumanity and insanity look like, visit The Wall.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I may never visit it again, but the images are seared into my mind.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And I cannot close my eyes now without thinking of a little girl wandering in the desert and the bodies left lying under a scorching desert sun.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Alone.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>There is no soundbite to convey that inhumanity.  </p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_8b9451949f4c43e6a3cfcf0bb1557571~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-09-26T04:00:04-07:00" title="September 26, 2023 04:00">09/26/2023</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538145/sitting-with-mom">Sitting with mom</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<p>The retreat leader shared with us that countless people had mastered Biblical passages and done all of the right religious things, but had never fully experienced the deep, deep love offered to us extravagantly by the Creator. Our work that day would be simple, she told us: construct a place in our mind’s imagination to meet with God.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>She asked us to imagine a place where we had felt the Creator’s presence…a place so real to us that we could creatively place ourselves there in our minds and settle into a Holy presence.  We were encouraged, as we sat with eyes closed, to picture that scene and begin to prepare our hearts for a Divine encounter.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A prayer ended her instructions.  The room was filled with a sacred silence.  For some, this would be a first time experience.  A one-on-one encounter driven by the Spirit and not by ordered steps.  She spoke once more before sending us out to a spot of our choosing on the retreat grounds.  We  were given this task:  Go to your created space and sit with God.  Listen to Him tell you this:  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>You are my beloved.  In you I am well pleased.</em></p>
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<p>Stepping outside into the brilliant sunshine uncommon in the Pacific Northwest, I was drawn to a small wooden pier which extended out into a large pond lined with lily pads.  No one else was there, and so I stretched out on the warm boards and felt my bones sink into the hard surface as the sun shone on my face.  Taking deep breaths, I settled into my sacred place to await an encounter.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I took myself to The Pipeline on the North Shore of Oahu.  It derives its name from the fact that if you sit on the sandy bluffs above the surfline, when winter swells come, a wall of water completely fills the horizon and moves as a single entity to crash on shore at the same time.  When the swells reach 20 to 30 feet, which is what I pictured, the sound of this single wave hitting the shore is thunderous, and the sand shakes underneath your body.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In my imagination, I crested the hill slowly working my way through the warm sand, and stood and looked at the ocean before me.  The cry of sea birds filled the salt air, wrapped in the smell of tropical blossoms. Gripping the sand between my toes, I watched the giant swells come ashore and began to try and picture God sitting next to me.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>What would God look like?</em>  </p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_311f3ba432ee4f92a2b04bd89339ec8f~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_275,h_183,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>I watched as a wave began to crest, its spindrift lifting into the air as it started to come ashore.  Maybe I would picture Him as the powerful wave. But God was not the wave.  The wave was created by Him, but it was not Him. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Not to be deterred, I tried to picture Jesus sitting in the sand next to me.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But I knew I did not want to picture a Jesus of European descent, all whitewashed and blue eyed and perfectly dressed with a halo on His head.  He would have looked more like a Syrian refugee, and because my mind had been saturated with a North American picture of Him, it felt like betrayal to conjure up anything from my Eurocentric experience. So I remained in the sand with an empty place next to me, waiting to hear of my belovedness in God’s eyes.
</p>
<p>I sat as the waves continued to pound and felt the weight of the empty place next to me in the sand. My last vestige of hope was The Holy Spirit.  <em> </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>What would the Holy Spirit look like?</em>  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I tried to conjure a vision of the Spirit’s presence to fill the empty space next to me.  I thought of the saints who had been part of my journey and asked each to come sit next to me, but the memory of their love and care did not conjure their presence.  After many failed attempts, I took a few more deep breaths to settle and open my heart.  It was then that I heard a gentle voice speak into my heart.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Who do you need Me to be?</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>“I don’t’ know,” I answered as I continued to rotate images unsuccessfully into the empty space beside me in almost a desperate way.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Who do you need Me to be?</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I don’t know.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>All of a sudden I felt a Spirit presence come and sit next to me in the sand.  For a few moments, I sat holding my breath soaking in the presence next to me, not wanting to lose this moment.  Finally, I turned to see its face:  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>It was my 95 year old mom who had died several years earlier.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_3c974e54e69c40b79233594f86a66750~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>I felt her put her arm around my shoulders softly as she stared at the sea.  We sat together that way in silence as wave after wave crashed on the shore.   And then, without warning, she said quietly, </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>You are my beloved.  In you I am well pleased. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Then I felt the Spirit’s presence gently leave us, and she just became my mom sitting beside  me in the sand.  <em>How is it there</em>? I asked.  She turned her face to me, and her blue eyes were clear and filled with a light of joy.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>It is so beautiful….It is so beautiful.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I wept<em>.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We sat together wordless after that, as the shuttering thunder of waves meeting sand filled the air.  I looked at her again, and I told her over and over again, “I miss you so much… I miss you so much…” She sat with a quiet radiant joy.  The waves filled the horizon and came ashore. And I continued to weep.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>But there was joy in that sorrow.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I had been given the gift of knowing she walked in beauty now, a place where I would one day hold her again and kiss her face. A place where every tear would be wiped away.  She had journeyed to the Creator’s heart, and now rested on His eternal, distant shore.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But God had sent her to  me, in that place of His undeniable presence, to speak to me of what I had not ever fully grasped in the deep reaches of my heart.
</p>
<p>Until now.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I was His beloved.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=uTQFuX3fqwc"><img src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/uTQFuX3fqwc/maxresdefault.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" height="720" width="1280" /></a>
<p><br></p>
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  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538146/the-downhill-view">The downhill view</a>&nbsp;
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<p>The mountains near Peña Blanca Lake west of Rio Rico are refreshingly cool before sunrise, and this holiday Monday we flipped our plans and headed there for a hike with Zuni in the early dawn.  I had noticed a dirt road up from the lake when I visited by myself last week, a road navigable by four wheel drive vehicles and seemingly deserted.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Parking the car a short way up the road, we began a climb upward on a ragged road filled with gullies and loose rocks.  The sun was just appearing over the mountains to the east and it cast a golden glow on the rocky hillsides as we hiked up the road.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Such beauty awaited us.  The hillsides were carpeted in velvet in the aftermath of monsoon rains. Flowers bloomed along the roadside, some we had never yet seen in this high desert landscape.  Along the way mesquite trees provided shady escape from the rising sun, and save for the sound of our footsteps and a few birds, the air was still and silent.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Looking ahead, we saw the road blocked off by a wire fence, but the forbidding sign simply requested, in both English and Spanish, to close the gate after entering.  The fact that the sign was posted in these languages made perfect sense.  We were, after all, less than fifteen miles from the border.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And less than fifteen miles from The Wall.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Half an hour into the gentle climb, we turned around as the sun’s more direct rays heated up the once cool air.  And, after all, we generally tire after an hour or so of hiking and had little water. The view downhill always seems so different.  The flowers lining the roadside viewed from a different light seemed less dramatic.  The once sun kissed rock now lost its shadows and became almost indistinguishable from the hillside. </p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_b77ca1a3b0634d41bb234d9b7f7c87a0~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Drawn to the view of that same rock, I noticed something I had not seen in the early morning light. In the meadow, a white cross caught the sun’s light hidden from our view on the way up.  As I rounded the corner, distant details came into closer focus. Rocks had been piled near the base of the cross, perhaps to stabilize it in monsoon winds.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Someone wanted this death in the desert remembered.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>How could we now pass, going on our recreational hike when we realized we were now passing sacred ground?  How could we pass without acknowledging the life that had been lost here? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And how could we pass and not weep at the tragic loss of a life and the death of a dream?</em>
</p>
<p>I wanted to sing a memorial song as I stood there, but though I had thousands in my head, I had no heart for song.  So I took my husband’s hand as we stood in the road and prayed over the rudimentary cross pondering what I feared must have been a slow death in the relentless heat of a desert journey.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I prayed to God for protection for all those who would cross this desert landscape in search of hope.  I prayed that sustenance would miraculously be supplied in this inhospitable landscape. I prayed for safety and divine guidance on the treacherous journey</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And then I prayed for the man or the woman or the child who had died here in this beautiful, desolate, unforgiving landscape.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And then I wept.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>From our lofty places of government, from our lofty places of privilege, from the lofty perches of our hard hearts, the road uphill is the only one we ever travel.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But just down the mountain, just down the road, steps away from the comfort of convenience and sustenance, life drains into the desert sand while coyotes roam the hillsides and carrion birds stand as sentinels awaiting a last gasp, a final cry, a dried tear.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And a dream dies without notice.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I went to the mountains today as the sun rose to wrap myself in the beauty of God creation. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And I came home wrapped in His sorrow.</em></p>
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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538147/accidental-adventure-epilogue">Accidental adventure: Epilogue</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_ae258cbe79d04920839f4437832d46ba~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Mountain top experiences, no matter how valuable, are not where we live our daily lives, and so in the wilderness, as in life, the most important lessons are often learned in the daily grind.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And so it was with us.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That next day, an exhausted group rose for another push, this time towards home. No wilderness lectures could have prepared us for what would become the real challenge.  In short…</p>
<p><br></p>
<ul>
  <li><p>One of the leaders with a severe bee allergy was stung and had no epipen. Because there was no phone service, the other leader ran with the satellite phone to a clearing to contact rangers for an emergency boat evacuation.</p></li>
  <li><p>A nurse participant administered what antihistamine was available in our medical kit to provide short term stabilization.</p></li>
  <li><p>All of the items in the injured leader’s backpack, which were considerable, were split up and given to all of us to now carry in our already burdensome packs.</p></li>
  <li><p>We did a forced high speed hike while the nurse and healthy leader half carried the injured instructor to the boat ramp several miles ahead.</p></li>
</ul>
<p><br></p>
<p>When we finally rounded a corner to a dock, rangers were there to boat her to an ambulance and then gave us permission to sleep out on a spit a small distance away in our sleeping bags, as the hike-in campsites were full.  Our much anticipated solo overnight journey would not happen this trip.  With only one leader to complete the trip, no more risks could be taken. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As the sky darkened, it became apparent that the “uninhabited” spit where we lay our sleeping bags on the highest ground was actually home to another large group of established occupants awaiting the night sky.  First one solitary croak and then another and then a full watery chorus of frogs began their questioning, and the air exploded in sound for what seemed like hours.  I hid my head inside the sleeping bag in an attempt to drown out the cacophony.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_2700b632fc3e4a999c4f2ab21b459bce~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><em>If the Milky Way lit up the sky that night I didn’t notice. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The next morning was to be our last push out.  Putting my newly learned lesson about “self” sufficiency to work, I asked one of the elders to walk with me and tell me her story.  Every step had become so painful that I feared I would collapse, and I hoped listening to her life’s journey would take my mind off my own.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>It did. Mile after mile after mile.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Arriving exhausted, sitting at our last campfire as we contemplated making dinner, we heard a familiar hello and were shocked to find our injured leader had hiked in a considerable distance with spaghetti take out dinners, having been released from the hospital after spending the night.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As we sat around the fire savoring our first “real food” in a week, she asked each person to think about their greatest lesson on the trail.  Flames from the fire lit the exhausted faces huddled there.  One by one we shared our struggles and our epiphanies.  The last to speak was She Who Needs to be First.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Honestly, I did not expect a self-reflective answer from her.  I think none of us did.  Her distain for her teammates had been palpable, and I, in particular, expected another attack. When she finally spoke she simply said,</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I learned about the strength of older women.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And then she explained how, returning from the peak climb, she had been too exhausted to hardly even breathe, and how she could think of nothing but her own exhaustion.  And then she had looked up at a group of women much older and more more exhausted than she and watched as they set up camp and cooked and took care of everyone. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I couldn’t believe it, she said.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The surprise at the statement was evident in the silent eye contact that went around the elders in the circle.  <em>Ah, grasshopper…you learned something.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But we had all learned something.  And the next morning, with only yards to completion of our hike out, we came to a bridge that crossed Ruby Creek which would lead us to an awaiting bus.  Before crossing, our leaders took out ten Outward Bound pins.  They would wait in the center of the bridge while each of us contemplated why we deserved our pin.  Then we would meet them in the center of the bridge when ready, and declare to them, the world, but most importantly to ourselves, why we were worthy of wearing it.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I collapsed under a tree by the side of the trail, a week of memories flooding over me.  I began to weep and could not stop.  One by one my trail mates crossed the bridge as I contemplated my place among them. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I had been the weakest link.  </em></p>
<p><em>I lengthened every physical task by my lack of preparation and lack of stamina.  </em></p>
<p><em>I seriously underestimated my ability to lead, </em></p>
<p><em>and I was a never ending source of frustration to She Who Needs to be First.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_5542748f0a304ecf8e62d17a0ea46aa0~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Finally I rose and walked to the center of the bridge. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I deserve this because I never gave up.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Many times since then I have been in a difficult place, feeling hopeless and struggling to make sense of my circumstances.  Many times since then, I have found myself confused by the culture around me.  And many times since then, I have overestimated my abilities and focused simply on my need for adventure, consequences be damned. 
</p>
<p>But in every one of those circumstances, at my lowest point, I have remembered the lessons of Desolation Peak.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I can do hard things.</em></p>
<p><em>I can weather the storm.</em></p>
<p><em>And both are only possible if I ask for help.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_f7b9677c5f3e45aca702458a31932ce3~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-09-05T05:05:09-07:00" title="September 05, 2023 05:05">09/05/2023</span></p>

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