What sweet joy in familiar roads That lead to paths unknown; In gathering with kindred friends To share how we have grown; In marveling at diamond waves Off water’s surface shone; In breathing in day’s end, Sun stately on its clouded throne.
What great delight awaits When shadowed forest fills with light. What intrigue is discovered Under clear and starry night. Felicity in symphony of Birds, wings taking flight. And breathlessness beholding Autumn’s start and summer’s plight.
What hope ignites when warmth of day Steeps deeply into heart. When wildflowers bloom from rain In wondrous work of art. What promise reigns in sunrise Heralding a brand new morn; When daybreak’s laughing colors Trounce the fog, The skies adorned.
What humble lessons flow In dancing with the season’s change. Like ocean’s tide or river’s bend, Our hearts do rearrange. The treasure of the present Ridding soul of fear or sorrow. The magic of today Eclipsing yesterday and morrow.
Two gorgeous treks unfolded before my feet over the past couple of weeks, and I would love to share them with you:
Forbidden Island: One of the many scenic hikes on the island, Forbidden is an adventurer’s favorite. Starting on the cliffside overlooking the Pacific to the east, you begin by hiking through jungle to breathtaking views of two separate coves. The first is a sheer drop-off where you can see the lush jungle rising up to your left side, the clear turquoise water below crashing on the reef, and a rocky cliff to the right. You then continue through tall and dense foliage to a somewhat gentler slope that you hike down to approach the island itself. From the shore, you can venture northeast along the beach to a junction with gorgeous views of both coves, forward into the channel between Saipan and Forbidden Island, or hike the cliffs and caves to the southeast. This particular day, we braved the channel, swollen with large waves and current as the tide changed, and spent a few minutes exploring the uninhabited, rugged, flat-topped Forbidden Island. Birds sung overhead, and would perch on the large boulders towering all around us. Gorgeous views of Saipan were seen from here. These moments were memorable and magical, even more so given I hiked here on the one year anniversary of my grandfather’s death. It proved to be a special place to heal and sit with the gratitude I feel for my grandfather and for his precious role in my life.
Hidden Beach: I parked my car at the end of a paved roadway, and walked along a palm-lined gravel path to a rugged stairway leading toward the ocean. A sweet sun shower sprinkled down from fluffy clouds above as I walked, refreshing my skin from the heat of the day. The clouds dispersed, and the sun shone on a tiny gem of a stretch of sand ahead. Hidden Beach boasts clear aquamarine waters, a crocodile-shaped rock formation, and a large stony shelf not far off shore where waves crash, causing immense ocean sprays. I came here after a 24-hour call shift, took photos, and marveled for hours at the rolling water, and at how I somehow had this stunning vista all to myself.
Sending love and hugs, smiles and sunshine. 💛 Have a beautiful week!
I’m sitting on secluded Tank Beach, nestled under a rocky overhang that shields me from the hot sun. This bay offers wide-angle views of the flora and fauna along the northern and eastern regions of Saipan – where the more rugged and sparsely-populated terrain is found. It has been a blessed Resurrection Sunday, starting with an early morning rainfall which gave way to a glorious daybreak during the sunrise service at church. Worship was followed by a hearty brunch with new friends – who sweetly treated me like family – and by celebrating a couple as they chose to be baptized in the calm lagoon this precious Easter day.
I rest in reflection now after the exciting morning, and redirect my attention to the masterpiece unfolding before me in this moment. Crashing waves display both thunderous strength and also a smooth, swaying rhythm as they approach the shore. Massive storm clouds roll lazily north along the curving heights of Mount Tapochau. Palm fronds rustle softly, tickled by the breeze. Tiny hermit crabs cautiously approach my beach towel and explore my toes, crawling onto my feet with their softly clicking limbs, hauling homes made of shells that seem far too large for their bodies. Seabirds hop energetically along the tide pools lining the water, tweeting away as they search for lunch. I can’t help but marvel at how all of these aspects of creation seem to direct my soul’s gaze heavenward, toward the One who I believe put it all into motion. A great natural symphony is taking place, and after some time sitting in awe, I eventually join along in voice and in some simple ukulele strums with a song that lives close to my heart every Easter:
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found; Was blind, but now I see.
Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come; ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, And grace will lead me home.
The Lord has promised good to me, His Word my hope secures; He will my Shield and Portion be, As long as life endures.
I am so thankful today – every day, really – for who Jesus is and what He has done. He has changed my life in ways that bring more joy than I ever knew was possible, and I will never be the same since meeting Him.
Wishing all who read this a sweet, safe, peaceful, joyful, and blessed Easter. And please, friends, let’s not forget to pray for and support our brothers and sisters in hurting parts of the world today who are enduring hardships we cannot fathom, and are doing so with immeasurable strength and hope.
Missing you all deeply, and sending love and enormous hugs from Saipan. 🤍
This is one of several questions that I’ve been reflecting on in my inner journey, especially over the last five or six years. There have been innumerable lessons in that time, born mostly of grief and pain, but ultimately giving way to joy and healing. One lesson in particular – which actually dates back to a wisdom passed on from one of my former middle school teachers – has been on my heart in this season of tropical living on Saipan.
Ms. Byram taught my 8th grade class. She was diagnosed with cancer midway through the school session, and was sadly unable to complete the year as our teacher because of the illness and the treatment it required. During one of her final days in the classroom, she ended the lesson with a message: You guys, I am still learning a lot about life. But one thing I want to try to share with you is that life is less about what happens to you and more about how you respond to it. And I want to encourage you to respond like palm trees and paper clips as you journey through.
She went on to explain:
Palm trees grow deep roots over time. Their roots are tested and deepened with any level of breeze or gust they face. From early on in their growth, this is the case. And though it may be difficult, it is good thatthey are tested, because when the truly high winds inevitably come, they will not stay standing without having learned first to anchor deeply into the ground. Meanwhile, above ground, these and all trees actually learn to bend with and accommodate the wind – also in order to stay upright. Many palm trees in particular have those long, curving stumps as evidence of this accommodation. Firm in the earth, a mature palm trunk is steady and immovable when typhoons rage, shaped by the unseen forces underground and the palpable ones above.
Ms. Byram’s point, in essence, was that life sends little tests and also big ones, most of which we cannot control. And to survive, to eventually thrive, we must choose to learn from each gust, great and small. To live deeply, we anchor down into our foundation – our faith and our loved ones – as the winds blow. And at the same time, we learn and bend with the gales that come above ground as we journey through life. Both this firm foundation and this flexibility are necessary in order to grow tall and strong.
Next, she held up a paper clip, noting how its purpose is to hold paper together. She told us that we each, too, had a purpose, and that life is an exciting adventure of finding that purpose. Taking one end of the paperclip, she folded it to make an S-shape. With this, she took the concept of flexibility one step further. When an external force is applied to a paper clip, if the clip is too rigid and does not have the capacity to adapt, it will snap and no longer be of any use in its purpose. Similarly, she encouraged us to stay true to who we were made to be, while also being adaptable and open to growing and evolving with the seasons, people, perspectives, and lessonsthat life would bring. To stay rigid and unchanging along the way, we would be liable to snap under the changes and pressures that inevitably come.
Saipan had a strong storm last night, with loud winds, heavy rains, and power outages. As I drove about the island today, I noted the palm trees standing tall – both along the road and as I set course into the jungle – and I smiled as Ms. Byram and her encouraging presence and message came to mind.
I now issue Ms. Byram’s challenge to you, friends, even as I continue working on it myself:
Words are hard to find this tender week. And as I lay in bed tonight, I cannot help but think about the women, men, children, families in Ukraine at this moment as they live – maybe barely survive – another day, hunkered in bunkers in an attempt to escape lethal intent. The prayers they are praying, I wish I could partner with and echo. What they must feel, what they are facing, I cannot begin to fathom.
Home is the one place you should never have to flee from. The one place in the whole world you should be able to feel safe, at ease, at peace, sheltered from any storm. A sacred ground where family gathers, memories are made, food and music and laughter are shared, and neighbors and strangers become friends. How anyone can justify threatening and destroying these spaces – bombarding and claiming a whole country, inciting fear, displacing families, massacring communities – cannot be grasped.
Abba, Father, This week’s events, we know, You see. We beseech you, God, That Your perfect peace would bring calm to chaos, That Your might and comfort would surround the mourning, the hurting, the suffering; Counteracting how their cities are surrounded by unjust armies and tanks and explosions. We pray that fear would be abolished, That evil would be extinguished. Our hearts cry out For deliverance for the oppressed. For rest for the weary. For strength for those who rise up in the face of darkness, Fighting for light. We pray for our world’s leaders, That they would have Your wisdom to navigate wisely This brutal war.
And during these painful days, As senseless brutality invades, May we be extra intentional – Wherever on earth we are – To be the sunshine, to be the peace To our neighbors, To our loved ones, To strangers, To anyone in our path. May we be extra willful To send our support and our prayers – In whatever form possible – To those affected, Near and far. May this become, In ever-increasing measure, Our normal rhythm and practice As we journey through this world, This life.
“We are alive, our skin is leaving these bones. Fire in the wind, we’re burning out of control. We are the children chasing wondrous thrills; chasing a vision, baby, like we’re running downhill.” – Needtobreathe
A familiar tone begins to sing me into consciousness, coaxing me awake after a four-hour nap. I look at my phone. 4:30 AM.
I had landed in Phoenix just six hours prior, with a skeleton of a plan for the week and a “what the heck am I doing here?“. I was able to quickly collect my baggage, find my way to the car rental shuttle bus, weave through the short car rental line, and hone in on a cute black 2019 Mitsubishi Eclipse. I then set course toward the budget-friendly Airbnb that I’d reserved a week earlier when I first decided to take this trip. After finding the guest house – (thank you, map apps) – I fell asleep faster than a lightning strike. And now it is time to wake up if I would like to get where I am going in good time. Breakfast is quick – a bagel slathered with honey cinnamon cream cheese and a clementine. I heat up some water in the microwave and add a packet of instant coffee that I brought from home, then load up the car.
I know what I’m going to. As in, I know the name of the landmark. But I don’t actually know where I am going. I have never been to Arizona before; I’ve only ever dreamed of it and heard rave reviews. So when I had margin to plan a weeklong healing retreat, ahead of a knee surgery that I was to undergo two weeks later, the Southwest was an exciting choice.
I plug in my destination – Cathedral Rock – and follow the route like a recipe. The air is warm, much warmer than the Minnesota breeze I left behind to come here, and the drive is smooth; highways, mostly. I drive for two hours, and as I take a couple of turns from the highway, the dark sky slowly starts to lighten, casting a pastel glow over a collection of towering structures not able to be seen before. I am arriving in Sedona.
I continue driving, and the structures only grow taller, the sky only grows more golden. Day breaks, and the sights are breathtaking. I clutch one hand to my heart and breathe: Is this even real?
A few more turns and some long scenic roads, and I am at the trailhead. The main parking lot is already full, but there is one spot remaining in the alternative lot just down the road. For how many cars are here, I see so few people; perhaps one of the underrated benefits of having such ample recreation space to spread out safely (especially with the pandemic) and drink in nature.
I fumble awkwardly and enthusiastically out of the car, eyes fixed on the scene and the trail before me, and lace up my hiking boots. It looks graded, then steep. Above all, it looks beyond beautiful. I have never seen anything like this before. I start climbing.
Stories of both heartbreak and resilience are rampant these days. It has been a long year for everyone. If I am honest, it has felt like a long three or more years. (I am sure I am not the only one who feels this way.) Beautiful in many ways – marrying who I thought I would spend my life with, beginning work in the field I have longed to practice in since I was a little girl, and beginning a healing journey that I never knew I needed. But long and hard and painful in other ways – finally confronting unresolved trauma from the past that I did not realize I had been carrying, unwittingly entering a story of domestic trauma which also needed healing, and acknowledging an emerging global pandemic and deep community grief.
Step. Step. Step. What the heck am I doing here? I look up, again in awe, awakened from my thoughts and centered on the moment. I encounter a twosome of friends who had road-tripped from Orange County, California. Together, we approach the segment of trail that increases from an approximate 20-degree steep to about 70 degrees. We laugh at how uneasy it feels to scramble upward over these rocks, however short the steep section is, but we make it and celebrate the triumph. Little victories are always worth celebrating.
We part ways along the trail and I keep climbing. It looks like around half of the hike upward remains. I pause on an overlook and turn around, to get a sense of how much trail lies behind me. I breathe deeply. The sun rises warmly over Sedona, lighting up its towers in a bright orange-gold. The blue sky contrasts in stunning fashion with the rocky columns. Greens look greener. Cactus spikes are well-defined. Cacti! We certainly don’t have these in Minnesota! I see my car in the trailhead lot, a speck. I feel content, at peace, alive.
The climb again steepens, the boulders and trees are leverage to stabilize my footwork. I am grateful they are there. A support system is a blessed gift. Huffing and puffing, I continue to scale, eyes on the ground in front of me so as not to misstep, and suddenly, the land beneath me evens out and I look up. My jaw drops, and I can barely breathe.
Eastward views from Cathedral Rock.
Before and behind me, extending seemingly beyond the horizon, a ground of dark green foliage blended with sands and structures of bright, rusted orange goes on for miles to meet a cerulean sky. On my left and on my right rise the rocky castles that seemed so far away when I observed them from the trailhead. A wedding ceremony with bride, groom, and four witnesses is unfolding to my left. Marriage is so beautiful. Unity. Tender promises.Two wildly unique hearts determined to join and adventure through life together – highs and lows, fun and tears.Learning to make harmony out of your differences. Learning forgiveness and intimacy and grace.
I am reminded that love is a freeing partnership between two beautifully different people. That forgiveness is necessary and exceedingly liberating, even in the absence of an apology. These principles used to come with tears of grief daily, but not anymore as healing has come. Now, I cherish them as simple truths and important lessons. Nuances of love to carry forward.
I stand in awe. Heart overflowing for this newlywed couple and the exciting journey ahead for them; heart beating wildly at the thought of what beauty the future will hold; heart grateful to God for His faithfulness and for His hand in the creation stretching out all around me. Tears fall, and I smile. Life is rich and so beautiful, albeit unpredictable and incomprehensible at times.
I take photos of the scenery, and a kind stranger offers to take photos for me on my phone. “I’ve traveled alone before; it’s nice to have photos of yourself in places like this.” I thank him, and he encourages me to walk along a path to the endpoint of a cliff for a wide view of the landscape. Not something I would normally do, especially with a bad knee and with historically unsteady footing the closer I get to any edge. But at the same time, I am here, and here I am. I walk to the edge, heart beating faster as I do, Lady Gaga’s Edge of Glory playing in my mind, and suddenly I am there. At the edge. I breathe. I smile. Little victories.
Sunrise at Cathedral Rock. Sedona, AZ.
I visit a while longer with the stranger and the two friends I had met earlier in the morning. I make my way down the trail, a few more stops for mental and photographic landscapes along the way. Midway down, I hear a loud cheer from above, signaling the end of the wedding ceremony. I smile, and a joyful tear falls. Grateful to be here; grateful to be party to this place and this moment. I finish the hike, taking one last look at the surroundings, and load into the car once again.
My final destination today is Grand Canyon National Park, but I have no set itinerary. I drive, unrushed, and take in the views along the wondrous Oak Creek Canyon and Coconino National Forest. Sedona and its environs appear every bit as charming and magical as I’ve heard them described, and then some, as if venturing through a modern country western movie. I stop at an overlook after driving switchbacks up the canyon-side, and I am met with the kinds of wind gusts that tousle the hair and cause you to pull your jacket in a little bit closer. A beautiful day, with rolling hills and treetops for days. Nature heals.
Lookout over Oak Creek Canyon.
The drive continues, and I make my way to the entrance of Grand Canyon National Park. Tom Petty, Queen, and Needtobreathe’s Alive are my soundtrack for the final stretch. I park at the Market, walk the short distance to the iconic Mather Point, and as I approach, I once again find myself short of breath. Not because of the altitude, at least not entirely. More so because of the carpet of layers and edges and shadows and highlights that ripple out before me like a real-life painting. The vastness is terrifying and awe-inspiring and more than beautiful, all at once. Clouds float daintily overhead, and the juxtaposition with the rugged canyon is striking. How is this real? I gaze, lost in the scene, delighting in how unbelievable this natural masterpiece is.
Looking at the time, I discover I have about 4 hours until I can check in to the hotel. Shuttle buses run like clockwork east and west from the Market to impactful viewpoints along the South Rim of the canyon, and I choose one heading eastward to the South Kaibab Trailhead, ready and excited to explore in closer detail.
South Kaibab Trail is a pathway from the rim to the river, with various beautiful rest points along the way. I start down the trail and find that the same gusting wind that met me at Oak Creek Canyon is present along the trail in kind. Cliffside switchbacks continue seemingly for days, and the views both frighten and astound. On one side, rocky neighbors loom vertically overhead, while on the other side, a steep drop-off descends from the edge of the trail. The Grand-ness is not subtle. Back and forth I weave until I reach Ooh-Aah Point, where the gusts of wind are so strong we hikers have to crouch to lower our center of gravity and remain steady on trail. One school-aged boy on the trail ducks all the way to the ground until the gusts ease. A fellow hiker notes that this is the worst of the wind, that it will get better further down-trail. The set of two hikers I encounter next – one of whom is braving the trail as rehabilitation on a prosthetic limb (can you say inspiring and amazing) – attest that the wind actually gets worse as you go. I continue on and, meeting a fresh new wind gust, brace myself against the solid side of the trail just as a mule train turns the corner ahead of me, ascending. They pass and I watch in awe as the wranglers lead the train with steady grace, despite the wind, despite the sheer cliff they ride along. They are practiced, assured, impressive. Strong winds make for skilled sailors. I continue on a new stretch of trail, exposed to gusts from all sides and with steep drop-offs to my left and my right. I check in with my energy level and my knees – This is my limit for today. This is where I turn around.
I climb the way I came, my steps more sure with each familiar inch of trail I retrace, and the views leading upward are every bit as spectacular as those on the descent. My fear begins to subside as a simple, deep respect for this very Grand Canyon grows. I reach the trailhead once again. At the same moment, a man completes his 10-mile out-and-back from the same trailhead – People are amazing in their strength and resilience of mind, heart and body.
I shuttle back to my car and am now due to check in. I drive the short way to Maswik Lodge, my rest-place for the next four nights. Charming, simple, cozy, and again friendly on the budget, the rustic units are organized motel-style and only a 2-3 minute walk from the South Rim. I find my unit – a second-floor space with a small, sweet balcony overlooking old pines and a railroad – bundle up anew, and route toward Shoshone Point Trailhead. It’s almost time for sunset.
I reach the quiet trailhead, where only two other cars are parked. The trail courses flatly through a quiet woods. The sun tickles the path between the shadows of the trees, and I am alone. Content. I cannot believe I get to be here. I have never taken a trip like this before. I have taken 2- to 3-day excursions on my own, but never a week. Today felt like an entire week in and of itself, and I am pleasantly exhausted. I still don’t quite know what I am doing here. But it feels right. I feel present, centered, whole, joyful. Like a giddy child who believes once again that anything is possible.
We lose our wonder sometimes, don’t we? We lose our faculties to dream and play and be light and wild. Something truly heartbreaking happens, or we are betrayed, or we are judged and told that we should be ashamed of our hearts. We entrust our story to someone, and they mistreat or manipulate it. Maybe we absorb the message that we are unworthy of love. Maybe it confirms a fear that we’ve carried with us much longer than we realize. And with each blow, our hearts grow progressively more numb. We start to live from a place of fear rather than faith, hypervigilant against anything that has the potential to hurt us more. The past two years for me have been a slow breaking open, an undoing of this process of succumbing to trauma. A regaining of that childlike wonder, of the belief that God works everything – even the most painful, rejection-packed, grief-filled, difficult circumstances we encounter – together for our good and His glory. I watch the sunset from Shoshone Point, meeting three precious people along the way who are doing the same, and I take a moment to celebrate wonder. The wonder of this canyon. The wonder of healing. The wonder of this journey. Little victories.
I went for a jaunt recently along the shores of the Mississippi, reflecting back on this year (and in many ways, this decade). It has been a wintery season of confronting wounds and traumas previously buried for years. A year of growth, of learning, of setting and understanding healthier boundaries, of being released from captivity to the past, of rediscovering passion and wonder that was lost nearly seven years ago. And as I look back, despite the painful moments, I feel my heart pounding with gratitude and an eager desire to keep evolving on this path. Winter seasons can be challenging, but they can also sustain growth – Just look at the evergreens.
May we move into the coming decade with hearts that long to continually GROW.
G – Gain perspective. Be compassionately curious about what is going on around us, about the hearts and souls we encounter, about who God made us to be, about how things work, and about how to make the world a better place.
R – Release the past. Process it, but don’t live in shame because of it. Forgive your own mistakes and the mistakes of others. Extend wild grace in every situation. Learn from and let go of the negative; appreciate and carry forward the good.
O – Own up and level up. Take responsibility for your own words and actions; you are not responsible for others. Do what you can to seek understanding and pursue peace. Remember problems can’t be solved at the level at which they were created.
W – Welcome change, and welcome God into every season. Things will happen that you cannot foresee or expect. And in the unknown of it all, there is joy and wonder to take hold of. Uncertainty is the fertile soil where adventure can bloom.
I was visiting with my mom recently about freedom. We were marveling at how God can take seasons of living in captivity to hurt, confusion, and insecurity and move us from that place to a place of solid ground, soul-deep freedom, and relentless joy. We talked about how long, stormy and painful seasons – if well-weathered – eventually give way to bright, flowered pastures where we can dance and be light and liberated. I expressed that by the sweet grace of God, despite ongoing heartache and grief, I find myself in this place lately, this blooming field, and I feel my heart dancing freely through it. I shared how humbled and grateful I am that God has brought me here. And then my mom said:
“You know, He is using those tears you cried to water the field.”
You guys, this blew my mind.
How often do we try to wish away the painful seasons of life when we’re in the middle of them? We get tired of crying and exhausted by caring. The days seem to get longer, the hurt only gets deeper, and we feel like the misery will never end.
Let’s trust God and remember, it will end, and new things will spring from it (see Isaiah 43:19 – what a sweet promise!). The storm may last longer than we think it should, but we can trust that God is good and He knows what He is doing. While we wait on Him, let’s wrestle wisely and well, and let’s give our stories and the pen used to write them over to the ultimate Author. Let’s cry our hearts out if we need to, seek the Lord intently, humble ourselves deeply, and forgive daily. Our tears and prayers, our choice to surrender to truth and refining fire, our pain and questioning and grappling – none of it will go to waste. It will be the substance God uses to water and bring color to a field of wildflowers for us to dance, twirl, and run barefoot through. We will eventually look back and be thankful for those seasons of tears. They are desperately painful, to be sure. But they set the stage for wild beauty and abundant life to bloom.
“After a day of cloud and wind and rain / Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again / And touching all the darksome woods with light / Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing.” – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Captivated Me 