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The Kitten Creek Gang and Trash Talk

I turn over and try to focus my eyes on the digital clock by my bed. It’s 6:30. As my sleep-drugged mind tries to get itself organized, adrenaline kicks in. It’s Thursday so we will be treated to a visit from four young men. I struggle to get my feet to the floor as quickly as this old body will allow. I have about thirty minutes until the boys (Josh will be first) come to check in.

Dubbed “Trash Talk,” Thursday mornings have been cherished by the boys. Thursday is the day the garbage trucks roll down Kitten Creek Road, giving the boys the opportunity to haul garbage cans in an ATV trailer from their homes to the road and have some quality time to chat. Seeing them gathered along the road, talking, laughing, and enjoying every precious minute is quite a sight.

Since they were old enough to push, drag, or haul the trash cans to the edge of Kitten Creek Road, these four boys have been serendipitously meeting every Thursday morning.

Cousins! Born within months of each other, they share a bond that combines laughter, quarrels, creativity, and healthy competition. They call themselves the Kitten Creek Gang.

As grandparents, Judd and I have been fortunate to witness the beautiful growth of our four grandchildren here on Kitten Creek. Caleb, the oldest of these four, and Josh, the youngest, live in the old farmhouse directly across from our home. Obadiah and Malachi, the middle two, live down the lane past our house and across the creek. Homeschooled, their times were controlled by diligent moms who insisted on school work before play, so time together was precious and had to be earned.

Judd and I would watch from the kitchen window as the boys stood along the side of the road and talked, laughed, gestured, and sometimes pushed and wrestled, obviously enjoying every minute. In the first few years, if they lingered too long, we would get a call from a mom saying, ” Can you tell the boys they must come home? It’s time to start school.” When we relayed the message, the boys would immediately scatter, and trash talk would be over for the week.

While some things have changed over the years, “Trash Talk” on Thursday mornings remains a beloved tradition. These days, the boys (14-16 years old) have acquired a bit more autonomy. We can count on all four gathering around our kitchen table for an Oreo and maybe a glass of milk while the “trash talk” continues, usually involving trucks, motors, or cars they are working on.

We realize this is a season. It won’t be long before the boys are grown and scattered, just as their older siblings have done. College, marriage, work, and life will take them far from Kitten Creek. They all have left indelible memories. The beauty of the generations and the creative gift of each individual always leave me almost speechless with thankfulness. Thank you, God, for this chapter of our blessed life!

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A Trip Around The Pasture

Walking in the pasture is a time for talking with God about my day, mulling over a scripture or song running around in my head, interceding for a loved one, or simply praising Him for who He is.

Yesterday was no exception.  As my eyes wandered around the pasture, I praised Him for His incredible gift of nature: this delightful landscape with its tall prairie grass waving in the soft breeze, the purple verbena,  the yellow primrose, the deep blue indigo, the tiny daisy-like flea-bane waving for my attention.

Walking in the pasture, I know I must closely attend to the path and my feet or I will stumble, and  I want to avoid the occasional sprawl I have made into the dust over the years. With my slow gait and focused attention on the path before me, I had time to ponder some of my daily reading. The focus had been on Jesus walking with His disciples on their way to Bethany,  and as I walked I couldn’t help but wonder what it might have been like to have walked with Jesus in His world.

I imagine they walked with purpose. Miles of purpose: to get from town to town, to a wedding.  to a friend’s house for dinner, to Jerusalem for the Passover. Sometimes the journey would have covered sixty to eighty miles to the final destination.

But they would not have been hurried.

Oh, how I would have loved to listen to those conversations. Probably very mundane at times, like, “Master, should we hurry a bit and try to catch up with Peter?” Or, “Master, I am sure you know where we will stay tonight.”

As I walked this Kansas trail, I watched my feet, listened to their shuffling through the low-cut grass, and I imagined Jesus was walking beside me, adjusting His gait to mine. Hesitantly, I talked. I talked a bit about my aches and pains, about the beautiful world He had created here; rambling talk about my world and my ponderings.

Finally, I was silent. And He was silent. But it was the kind of silence so comfortable I felt no more need to talk. It was the kind of silence that said, “Peace, I leave with you. My peace I give unto you. Not as the world gives.”

I was content to walk, quiet in the strength of His presence and promises.

I thought of the world outside of Kitten Creek. The world comes crashing into our lives through the media and bombards us as we step outside of our safe world. That world that is contorted by the forces of evil waging war.

In no hurry to leave His companionship in the pasture, I slowly made my way down the gravel drive to the world below.   Leaving the peaceful pasture, my steps were slow and reluctant. But, I encouraged myself by the Truth of what He had been telling me:

I  carry this peace back into the troubled world because this presence of Christ surrounds me, covers me, and goes before me. I take Jesus with me, not just in my imagination, but in the very real dimension of spiritual grace and presence.

And I can walk with purpose, for I am walking my way to my Heavenly destination.

As I go, hopefully, I won’t rush. I won’t be impatient with the difficult path or cower from the frightening disruptions. And if I sprawl in the dust as I lose focus, He will be there to pick me up and set me back on course.  Halleluja!

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“Come”

 

” Come.”

You are calling out to me, Jesus,

“Come.” How often I have heard it in the recesses of my mind.

“Come.”

But it doesn’t ring out above the other voices, those loud and demanding voices.  Yours is soft and gentle, and I have to stop and listen carefully to hear it:

“Come.”

Instead, I listen to the call that demands productivity: “Get it done, now.”

Rather than lying in bed and listening to that still, small voice first thing in the morning, I sleep in until Judd awakes, and then dash to get dressed, make the bed, and get the coffee pot going.

And you say “Come.”

 

Waiting for the coffee, I look out the kitchen window and see the chickens pacing in the coop waiting to be released, the donkey and goat standing at the gate expectantly watching the kitchen window for a glimpse of movement. And they say, “Come.”

I must do chores . . . now.

I also know that on the other side of the door to the garage there is a cat, sitting on his haunches, staring at the door and listening carefully to my footsteps inside the house. As I open the door to the garage, Tom jumps up and walks me to his dish. I give him a pat on the head, feed him, and go out to the pen.

And, instead of worshiping while I minister to these, my pets, my dear charges,  I am hurrying. Why? The next thing is waiting to be done. “Be productive” is the voice I hear.

And you, standing in the shadows, softly say, “Come.”

But now, Jesus, other voices drown out your sweet voice.

Because we are anxious to hear what is happening in the world., we eat our breakfast in front of the television.

I know you are in ultimate control of the world’s situation and I want to see what you are doing. That is my rationale for going back again and again to those voices.

But the news is delivered in anxiety-producing verbiage. A devastating, catastrophic storm is approaching the western coast of Florida. Russia is threatening nuclear war.  North Korea is sending up intercontinental ballistic missiles. The entire world is suffering and in turmoil: floods, fires, starvation, and civil unrest.

And godlessness. I hear the values You have tried to teach us being trampled by an ungodly culture.

While I listen to those voices, your voice is crowded out and I am a bit like Peter. You say to come, but I am watching the waves of this unsettled world. So I lose the comfort of your voice and your calming presence and the waves begin to flood over my soul.

And more voices are calling. Those voices hit my ears, invade my space, control my thoughts, compel me to listen.

I remember a dream I had years ago:

………………………………………………………………………………………………

There are two ways to reach the rocky road that leads to the pasture. One is through the barnyard which usually means going through several gates; the other is around the top of the barn, past the double sliding doors, along the roof of the old stable, through a wooded area, and upward to the open pasture.

At that time I had been busy and was stuck in the mundane existence of daily life. My world had become smaller, duller, and ordinary. No great inspiration compelled me to do my daily prayer walk or even expect my regular quiet time to inspire me. I was experiencing a gray world, one of those times when life was just Boring.

Then I took a walk.

I had decided to take the trail past the top of the barn.

The same old, gray world met my senses. I walked past the top of the barn, past the doors, and through the gate.

However, as I began the steep climb to the pasture, my gaze fell upon something I had never seen here before: A lush, ivy-covered hillside had replaced the rocky soil of the forest. Hidden in a crevice was a low, stone grotto. The air I breathed was soft and perfumed.

At the side of the trail, a white-robed figure emerged and quietly walked toward me, stretching out his hands. Though I had never seen him before, I instantly recognized him. He was loving, though somehow fierce; inviting, yet not safe; gentle, yet strong.

I stopped, amazed at what I saw. My eyes filled with tears, my heart with shame. His soft voice cut into my soul: “Yes, Nancy, I have been waiting here for you to come for a long time.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The shock woke me from my dream. I lay in the darkened bedroom in a mixture of awe and worship. “I wait,” he said, “sometimes in surprising places to remind you that I am always here. Always. . . if you open your eyes to see.”

To this day, as I walk past the bend in the path and look at the wooded hillside,I sometimes look for that grotto and that stranger. I remind myself that, even though I can’t see Him with my eyes, He is there. He is here. He is waiting and He calls “Come.”

Os Guinness uses the phrase a world without windows to describe today’s culture that has denied the supernatural. Only what we can see, taste, and feel with our senses is real. And when that world is harsh, gray, or painful, it is all we have.

My life was charged with Reality in the next few days, weeks, and months after that dream. I had had the kind of encounter that wakens the soul in expectation.

However, I also move and have my being in that world without windows, and it is easy to fall back into a dazed existence, one where I feel no need for God in any area of my life. I grow blind, once again, to the world that Gerard Manly Hopkins so aptly describes as “charged with the grandeur of God.”

Today, I am not suffering from dullness or boredom. Just the opposite. I am filled with creeping, lurking anxiety. I am burdened. My soul is burdened. I need rest.

Jesus, You say, “Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Yes, Jesus, I am weary. I need the rest only You can give. Rest for my soul.

The old song “Just as I am,” the one we used to sing for sinners, is ringing in my heart. Well, I am a sinner. And I come, just as I am. Weary, needing to learn more of You. And I won’t wait because I know You are patiently waiting to teach me, to fill me with the peace that only you can offer.

Just as I am and waiting not, I come.

”https://youtu.be/HZV5fwmqsI0

 

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“Wokeness” on Kitten Creek

The weather in Kansas can be fickle. Countless times this year, we have watched the threatening clouds bear down on Kitten Creek and then watch in amazement as the storm circles left or to the right and totally misses us. Sooner or later, though, we get the storms. So we prepare.

Presently, we are watching the threatening thunderstorms forming in our larger, cultural surroundings. We are not naive. Inevitable cultural pressure is coming (and presently seeping) into the area that surrounds our community. We are preparing.

One of the storms forming around us is a “woke” culture, filled with judgment for anyone who is not “woke.”

What does a “woke culture”  look like on the farm on Kitten Creek? In spite of the influences of a very invasive culture, somehow, at least for now, we continue to be grounded, secure, and strong.

Time for Reflection Grounds Us  

In December, Dan T. built a 6-foot-long rustic bench for Sara”s Christmas present. That bench is now a welcome invitation for everyone who walks in the pasture. It beckons walkers to take time to rest and reflect as they view Wildcat Valley.

Reflection on what God has done in our past, what He is doing in the present, and what He is going to do grounds us.  We must not simply be “woke,” but we must be awake to the Truth that is found in pondering the mighty God who created and is sovereign over this fallen yet Spirit-filled world. He, the God of the universe, is alive and working through the storm clouds that swirl about us.

That truth grounds us.

Reinforcing Foundations Secures Us

New rock wall for the manger scene The old stable that encloses Baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph during Bethlehem Revisited was threatening to crumble and fall. During the summer of COVID, Dan T., along with the other boys and men on the farm, pulled down the unstable rocks and rebuilt a beautiful solid wall, replacing the same rocks, rock-by-rock. The stable will be safe and secure for years to come as visitors come and gather around that little manger to remember and worship the birth two thousand years ago.

As we build our foundation on the Holy Scriptures, stone by stone and line upon within our families, we are building a secure and safe foundation for generations to come. We do not re-invent, nor do we reinterpret Scripture to be more relevant.

“A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.”

Working Together in Community Equals Strength

This past summer, the Kitten Creek Gang (i.e., KCG or Troyer/Swihart cousins, ages 10-15) decided to upgrade their building skills from a treehouse to a real cabin. All five of them were involved in choosing the “secret spot,” drawing up plans, gathering supplies, and building together. Even the wheel-chair bound cousin was an integral part of the planning and building. Gifts emerged. Strengths developed.

Parents and grandparents revel in watching harmony and ingenuity develop in the young lads. The cabin is now equipped with a wood stove, hand-built beds, windows, and doors that lock.

Our children have learned the secret of community and hard work. They have discovered that we thrive as we share our gifts, time, and knowledge.

We are strong.

Together as a community (grandparents, parents, children, neighbors, and friends), we face the storm clouds that are stirring in our culture.

 

 

 

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Hope and Peace

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.       Romans 15:13

I breathe in the clean, crisp air of a new morning. The rain has washed the landscape, my geraniums and petunias are bursting in their brilliant reds, purples, and whites. Familiar warbles and bird-songs in the trees above, a gentle baa from the barnyard, and I relax with my cup of coffee, content to know that this is my Father’s world.

He is the God of hope, and yes, he does fill me with all joy and peace . . . at this moment.

But what if I were in the middle of the fires that our neighbors are facing? What if I had been told last night that my loved one had been killed in an accident? What if I had listened to the news before I had my first cup of coffee?

Would God still be my source who fills me with joy and peace and hope?

 Joy. Peace. Hope. Is there any hope left in this fallen world threatened by extinction from virus, political upheaval, storms, fires, and violence? From where do joy and peace come when every newscast is brimming with the degradation of our culture?   Despair would be more natural.

Yet, I find hope, not by the world’s standards, nor because of my own optimistic soul. I find hope in a sovereign God. And I find joy and peace because I trust him to refill me again and again through the power of the Holy Spirit.

Yes, I am not alone, nor am I facing this world in my own power, with my own strength, with my own wisdom. This most comforting thought sustains my hope, peace, and yes, joy.

It is not optimism to trust all His promises. And I know those promises because I know Him.

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.

Romans 15:13 | NIV | faith Spirit Holy Spiri

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COVID Confusion?

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. Sunday morning and it is seven-fifteen. The alarm should have gone off. I jumped (or rolled) out of bed and quickly donned my clothes. Although we are now watching church on-line during the COVID era, Sunday is special.

Judd remained in bed. That should have been my first clue.

Hurrying to the kitchen, I turned on the coffee pot, grabbed some Panera bagels from the freezer (we always have some kind of sweet rolls on Sunday), and made my way to the garage to begin my daily chores: feed the cats, fill the grain canisters, and make my way to the barnyard.

It could not have been a more beautiful morning! My heart was full of joy, and I softly sang: “Good morning, Lord, it’s great to see the sun again . . . “

The chickens and ducks, happy to be released from the pen, ran quickly to their bowls of grain.

Since Donkey and Goat were visiting the Troyer’s front pasture, I made my way across the gravel road to drop them a little grain and say “good morning.”

On my way back to the house, I stopped to check for the Sunday paper. The box was empty.

That should have been my second clue.

Grace Baptist’s curch service was scheduled for 8:00, so after grabbing a cup of coffee and a bagel, I began trying to check in to Facebook for the service. I was having a difficult time getting it to come up.

That should have been my third clue.

When Judd emerged from the bedroom, he noticed breakfast on the table and questioned, “So we have bagels this morning?”

“Well, yeees,” I replied as I continued looking frantically for the church service, “at least I am.” Judd went out to the front porch to enjoy his coffee and bagel.

Fourth clue that I was missing.

I gave up. Frustrated from searching and not finding a live service by now, I figured that there must be a glitch in technology.

 

Fifth clue?

Looking out the kitchen window, I noticed the Troyers were still home. They had started going back to church once it had opened, but with the virus currently in pandemic mode, we older folks were not going.

Maybe someone in the Troyer family was sick and they decided to stay home. So, I called Sara to find out.

“Why didn’t you go to church this morning?” I wondered aloud as she answered the phone.

“Go to church? Why would I go to church this morning?” She sounded very puzzled.

“Well, isn’t it Sunday?” By now I was beginning to feel a little bewildered myself.

“Mom, it is Wednesday.”

Okay, this is not easy to admit, but I had lost my sense of time. Is this what being in a sort-of house arrest does to you? Was I “tetched” by COVID?

For several days after that, as Judd and I lay in bed in the morning, I would say jokingly, “Is it Sunday morning, yet?”

BUT, what if no one had corrected me? Since I thought I was living in Sunday, should anyone correct me? Wasn’t what I imagined or felt important?

Or was it better to be brought back to some sense of reality?

I prefer reality, and if it takes someone living in a rational world to reflect that reality to me, please, for the sake of my sense and soul, and regardless of what our culture says today, please tell me Truth.

 

 

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Freedom?

The Sad Tale of Phineas the Steer

The bell in our driveway sounded an alarm. Jumping out of bed, Judd hurried to the door and flipped on the porch lights. Beyond the edge of artificial light lay quiet darkness. No visitor at the door; no car in the drive.

“Must have been a deer,” Judd mumbled as he crawled back into the warm bed. After several more alarms from the bell (“Probably deer,” we assured ourselves), silence reigned, and we both fell blissfully into dreams.

The next morning as we filled our bowls with granola, Judd glanced out the kitchen window. “Hey! There’s a cow on the porch.” Setting his bowl on the counter, he grabbed the phone to call the Troyers who live across the road.

I ran to the front door to get another view. Sure enough, it was Phineas. The Troyer’s steer was greedily filling his mouth with some of my Creeping Jenny. Rushing out to say “Good morning,” I startled Phineas who quickly turned away and galavanted across the yard.

Stopping midway in our yard, he appeared torn between returning to his new-found friends, my donkey and goat, who were secured in their pen or going back home.

My two” captives,” Donqui and Buster, watched in awe and jealous curiosity at the spectacle Phineas had created.

By the time Phineas’ owners, Dan, Caleb, and Josh, had arrived, Phineas was ready to go back home. Cantering across the road, he followed them through their yard back to his own pen.

A short while later, when I went to do my morning chores. Buster the goat greeted me with more than usual enthusiasm. As I unlatched the gate, he lowered his head and pushed between my legs and the gate.

He was free now just like that naughty steer, he seemed to think. I watched as he mosied around, picking up bits and pieces of leaves, nibbling on the rose bush, tasting the tender grass just outside his pen. Ah! Freedom.

All night long Phineas had taunted them. They had witnessed freedom, and it was tantalizing.

If I left the gate open for Buster to come back while I poured grain into the feeders and tossed out some hay, I was not sure where Donqui’s heart would take him: off to freedom with Buster, or to the newly poured grain. I HAD to lock the gate and trust that Buster would soon tire of his freedom.

While Buster was nibbling grass and leaves in the yard, Donqui dined on new grain and fresh hay. It only took a little coaxing from me for Buster to finally make the decision to come back into the pen. Safe, content, fed, protected, Buster had made a wise decision.

Phineas’s decisions over the next week were not wise. After calls from various neighbors, Troyers came to the hard decision that no fence was going to keep the free-spirited steer from wandering around our little community. Phineas had become intoxicated with freedom.

Phineas’ fate was sealed because of his decision to be unshackled from the standard rules of farm-life: pens and fences have a purpose. Now he was headed to the sale barn, where many way-ward animals eventually find their demise.

Little decisions we make can create problems, sometimes fatal problems. The desire for freedom from rules that seem to restrict us can entice us away from the security of what may seem dull, old, or too restrictive, into an open, lawless, or forbidden field of opportunity.

Buster the goat chose well. Phineas the steer did not. Buster lives contentedly in his secure pen. Phineas is hamburger.

Freedom is not lawlessness; freedom is liberty under law. (quote from Teri Gasser)

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carpe diem

The beautiful bench that once adorned my cabin has been relocated to our new home.

 When it arrived here, its pink flowers, green ivy, cream backdrop looked foreign to the room in which it was placed. It did not belong there.

 For many years, the bench was the centerpiece in my little cabin across the road, a place that had hosted countless hours of deep discussions, friendship building, as well as solitary quiet for many souls. The cabin stood for hospitality as well as solitude and silence.

The bench was placed in the room that has replaced the cabin in the last few years. This room has taken on its own ambiance; it is a testimony to change: a new season and a new place. As much as I loved the old cabin, I was in the process of relinquishing the past the cabin represented . . . without realizing it.

I delight in the memory of what was.

I remember how God had inspired the idea of making the old dusty granary into a “cabin” where others could come, find rest, fellowship, solitude. That cabin was hallowed by God’s presence in His people who came, shared a cup of coffee/tea as they shared their lives, or in those who came to be silent, alone, and listen to God’s voice of comfort, direction, or restoration.

And, although I find comfort in the memory of the past, I am forced to deal with the present. By the time Sara called me last week and asked if she and Josh could use the cabin as a schoolroom, I was prepared, ready to relinquish my dream.

Despite our fondest dreams, time has a way of moving beyond what once was and is no longer. For days, the bench invaded my space. The bench that I loved sat in front of me demanding that I deal with it. Deal with the idea that what I once felt was my calling to offer a place for solitude and quiet may be different today.

The bench has found a home in the guest bedroom.

Change has a way of becoming either our friend or our enemy.  We are forced to either deal with it, deny it, fight it, or acquiesce to its force and become passively fatalistic.

I choose to deal with the idea that, despite changes in my life, God is still walking before me and inviting me to listen and watch for the next steps He may direct.

What comfort! God is in charge of time: my time as well as the time of our nation and the time of our world.

Footnote: The cabin will still be available for guests who want to spend some time in silence, prayer, and solitude. For scheduling call Troyers at 785-537-0828.

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PRAYER MEETING with the COWS

I skipped down the path to the old barn where Daddy was doing the evening milking chores. I loved that whole scene: the soft glow from the old ceiling lights, the lowing of cattle, the scent of fresh milk, and the very essence of what farming with animals is all about.

Born in Center County, Pennsylvania, I was four years old when my family bought a dairy farm in New York State.  On that farm, my life was magical. Fields to roam, barns to explore, and the tightly structured life of a dairy farm all fit together into a cocoon of beauty and pleasure for me.

 And then there were the animals: chickens, ducks, horses, cats, and a new puppy. And, of course, the main characters, the dairy cows.

Nothing is more beguiling to me than the gentle, expressive eyes of a cow. We somehow communicated when those gentle cow eyes gazed into mine.

At four, I discovered how to get a barn full of those beautiful eyes to focus on my little inconspicuous frame. 

I had invented a plan. After the ladies had been milked and were still in their stanchions nibbling on hay I would wait patiently for Daddy and our hired man to leave. I wanted to be the only human in the milking barn.

As soon as the barn was empty of other humans, I became the person in charge.

Grabbing an old scoop from an open feed sack by the back steps, I filled it with the sweet grain that was like candy to the cows. Walking up and down the aisle in front of those huge questioning eyes, I shook the familiar scoop of grain and handed out little samples of grain in each of their feeding troughs

Soon all those beautiful eyes were carefully watching me. I had captured a grand audience.

What next? According to my limited experience, this would be easy: when bodies are gathered together informally as this was, we could have a prayer meeting!

But, I needed a sermon.

Digging into my repertoire of learned homilies I came up with what I thought would be appropriate:

“Ladies, Jesus loves you and He died for your sins,” I explained in my loud preacherly voice. A row of innocent eyes peered back.

“Okay,” seeing no response I went on to the next agenda, “are there any prayer requests?” Again, no response. 

The day my little prayer meetings ended was the day I had an unwelcome intruder. I think we had just started the prayer time when, from somewhere in the middle of the barn came a loud, “Moo.”

Startled, my eyes opened wide. “Who said that?” I shouted accusingly looking down the line of unbowed heads.

From the shadows, my daddy stepped forward, chuckling.

Oh, the embarrassment! These little meetings had been a secret between me and the cows. Now the secret was out.

I was done.

Of course, my little escapade became a family story for years.

Seventy-some years later, I fondly remember my little “prayer meetings” with the cows. I still talk to animals as though they understand me.

But since then, my biblical education has grown beyond that of a four-year-old.

No, my cows did not/could not know this Jesus or the Truth my little four-year-old heart wanted them to know. But they knew me, and according to the charge from the Garden, I was/am the one standing in the gap.  

I long for that day when the Second Adam will return to set things right again, and when the creation (cows included) will no longer be under the curse brought by the First Adam.

I will save my salvation messages for the people for whom Christ died until one day the Curse under which this fallen world limps along will be broken.  

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“Here All the Time.”

There are two ways to reach the rocky road that leads to the pasture. One is through the barnyard which usually means going through several gates; the other is around the top of the barn, past the double sliding doors, along the roof of the old stable, through a wooded area, and upward to the open pasture.

I had been busy and was stuck in the mundane existence of daily life. My world had become smaller, duller, and ordinary. No great inspiration compelled me to do my daily prayer walk or even expect my regular quiet time to inspire me. I was experiencing a gray world, one of those times when life was just Boring.

Then I took a walk.

I had decided to take the trail past the top of the barn.

The same old, gray world met my senses.

However, rounding the stable walls, my gaze fell upon something I had never seen here before: A lush, ivy-covered hillside had replaced the rocky soil of the forest. Hidden in a crevice was a low, stone grotto. The air I breathed was soft and perfumed.

At the side of the trail, a white-robed figure emerged and quietly walked toward me, stretching out his hands. Though I had never seen him before, I instantly recognized him. He was loving, though somehow fierce; inviting, yet not safe; gentle, yet strong.

I stopped and dropped my head. My eyes filled with tears, my heart with shame. His soft voice cut into my soul: “Yes, Nancy, I have been waiting here for you for a long time.”

The shock woke me from my dream. I lay in the darkened bedroom in a mixture of awe and worship. “I wait,” he said, “sometimes in surprising places to remind you that I am always here. Always. . . if you open your eyes to see.”

Os Guinness uses the phrase a world without windows to describe today’s culture that has denied the supernatural. Only what we can see, taste, and feel with our senses is real. And when that world is harsh, gray, or painful, it is all we have.

My life was charged with Reality in the next few days, weeks, and months after that dream. I had had the kind of encounter that wakens the soul in expectation.

However, I also move and have my being in that world without windows, and it is easy to fall back into a dazed existence, one where I feel no need for God in any area of my life. I grow blind, once again, to the world that Gerard Manly Hopkins so aptly describes as “charged with the grandeur of God”! (see https://www.bartleby.com/122/7.html)

These days, as I walk past the bend in the path and look at the wooded hillside, I sometimes look for that grotto and that stranger. I remind myself that, even though I can’t see Him with my eyes, He is there. He is here. He is waiting for me to see.

God, show me the Real beyond the walls of this world. I want to know that you are here, invading my world with your Reality and power.